The New Paul and Virginia Part 3

'I,' said the curate, 'think the belief in G.o.d a degrading superst.i.tion; I think every one an imbecile who believes a miracle possible. And yet I do not care two straws about the highest good. What you call my lower nature is far the strongest; I mean to follow it to the best of my ability; and I prefer calling it my higher, for the sake of the a.s.sociations.'

This plunged the Professor in deeper grief than ever. He knew not what to do. He paced up and down the verandah, or about the rooms, and moaned and groaned as if he had a violent toothache. Virginia and the curate asked what was amiss with him. 'I am agonising,' he said, 'for the sake of holy, solemn, unspeakably dignified Humanity.'

The curate, seeing the Professor thus dejected, by degrees took heart again, and as Virginia still continued her fascinating behaviour to him, he resolved to try and prove to her that, the test of morality being happiness, the most moral thing she could do would be to allow him to kiss her. No sooner had he begun to propound these views, than the Professor gave over his groaning, seized the curate by the collar, and dragged him out of the room with a roughness that nearly throttled him.

'I was but propounding a theory--an opinion,' gasped the curate. 'Surely thought is free. You will not persecute me for my opinions?'

'It is not for your opinions,' said the Professor, 'but for the horrible effect they might have. Opinions,' he roared, 'can only be tolerated which have no possible consequences. You may promulgate any of those as much as you like; because to do that would be a self-regarding action.'

CHAPTER XII.

'Well,' said the curate, 'if I may not kiss Virginia, I will drink brandy instead. That will make me happy enough; and then we shall all be radiant.'

He soon put his resolve into practice. He got a bottle of brandy, he sat himself down under a palm-tree, and told the Professor he was going to make an afternoon of it.

'Foolish man!' said the Professor; 'I was never drunk myself, it is true; but I know that to get drunk makes one's head ache horribly. To get drunk is, therefore, horribly immoral; and therefore I cannot permit it.'

'Excuse me,' said the curate; 'it is a self-regarding action. n.o.body's head will ache but mine; so that is my own look-out. I have been expelled from school, from college, and from my first curacy for drinking. So I know well enough the balance of pains and pleasures.'

Here he pulled out his brandy bottle, and applied his lips to it.

'Oh, Humanity!' he exclaimed, 'how solemn this brandy tastes!'

Matters went on like this for several days. The curate was too much frightened to again approach Virginia. Virginia at last became convinced that he did not care about kissing her. Her vanity was wounded, and she became sullen; and this made the Professor sullen also. In fact, two thirds of Humanity were overcast with gloom. The only happy section of it was the curate, who alternately smoked and drank all day long.

'The nasty little beast!' said Virginia to the Professor, 'he is nearly always drunk. I am beginning quite to like you, Paul, by comparison with him. Let us turn him out, and not let him live in the cottage.'

'No,' said the Professor; 'for he is one third of Humanity. You do not properly appreciate the solidarity of mankind. His existence, however, I admit is a great difficulty.'

One day at dinner-time, shortly afterwards, Paul came in radiant.

'Oh holy, oh happy event!' he exclaimed; 'all will go right at last.'

Virginia inquired anxiously what had happened, and Paul informed her that the curate, who had got more drunk than usual that afternoon, had fallen over a cliff, and been dashed to pieces.

'What event,' he asked, 'could be more charming more unspeakably holy?

It bears about it every mark of sanct.i.ty. It is for the greatest happiness of the greatest number. Come,' he continued, 'let you and me together, purged of sin, and purged of sorrow as we are--let us begin our love-feast. Let us each seek the happiness of the other. Let us instantly be sublime and happy.'

CHAPTER XIII.

'The supreme moment is come,' said Paul solemnly, as they sat down to dinner. 'Let us prepare ourselves for realising to the full the essential dignity of Humanity--that _grand etre_, which has come, in the course of progress, to consist of you and me. Virginia, consider this.

Every condition of happiness that modern thinkers have dreamed of is now fulfilled. We have but to seek each the happiness of the other, and we shall both be in a solemn, a significant, and unspeakable state of rapture. See, here is an exquisite leg of mutton. I,' said Paul, who liked the fat best, 'I will give up all the fat to you.'

'And I,' said Virginia, resignedly, 'will give up all the lean to you,'

A few mouthfuls made Virginia feel sick. 'I confess,' said she, 'I can't get on with this fat.'

'I confess,' the Professor answered, 'I don't exactly like this lean.'

'Then let us,' said Virginia, 'be like Jack Sprat and his wife.'

'No,' said the Professor, meditatively, 'that is quite inadmissible. For in that case we should be egoistic hedonists. However, for to-day it shall be as you say. I will think of something better to-morrow.'

Next day he and Virginia had a chicken apiece; only Virginia's was put before Paul, and Paul's before Virginia; and they each walked round the table to supply each other with the slightest necessaries.

'Ah!' cried Paul, 'this is altruism indeed. I think already I can feel the sublimity beginning.'

Virginia liked this rather better. But soon she committed the sin of taking for herself the liver of Paul's chicken. As soon as she had eaten the whole of it her conscience began to smite her. She confessed her sin to Paul, and inquired, with some anxiety, if he thought she would go to h.e.l.l for it? 'Metaphorically,' said Paul, 'you have already done so.

You are punished by the loss of the pleasure you would have had in giving that liver to me, and also by your knowledge of my knowledge of your folly in foregoing the pleasure.'

Virginia was much relieved by this answer; she at once took several more of the Professor's choicest bits, and was happy in the thought that her sins were expiated in the very act of their commission, by the latent pain she felt persuaded they were attended by. Feeling that this was sufficient, she took care not to add Paul's disapproval to her punishment, so she never told him again.

For a short time this practice of altruism seemed to Virginia to have many advantages. But though the Professor was always exclaiming, 'How significant is human life by the very nature of its const.i.tution!' she very soon found it a trifle dull. Luckily, however, she hit upon a new method of exercising morality, and, as the Professor fully admitted, of giving it a yet more solemn significance.

The Professor having by some accident lost his razors, his moustaches had begun to grow profusely, and Virginia had watched them with a deep but half-conscious admiration. At last, in a happy moment, she exclaimed, 'Oh, Paul, do let me wax the ends for you,' Paul at first giggled, blushed, and protested, but, as Virginia a.s.sured him it would make her happy, he consented. 'Then,' she said, 'you will know that I am happy, and that in return will make you happy also. Ah!' she exclaimed when the operation was over, 'do go and examine yourself in the gla.s.s. I declare you look exactly like Jack Barley--Barley-Sugar, as we used to call him--of the Blues.'

Virginia smiled; suddenly she blushed; the Professor blushed also. To cover the blushes she begged to be allowed to do his hair. 'It will make me so much happier, Paul,' she said. The Professor again a.s.sented, that he might make Virginia happy, and that she might be happy in knowing that he was happy in promoting her happiness. At last the Professor, shy and awkward as he was, was emboldened to offer to do Virginia's hair in return. She allowed him to arrange her fringe, and, as she found he did no great harm to it, she let him repeat the operation as often as he liked.

A week thus pa.s.sed, full, as the Professor said, of infinite solemnity.

'I admit, Paul,' sighed Virginia, 'that this altruism, as you call it, is very touching. I like it very much. But,' she added, sinking her voice to a whisper, 'are you quite sure, Paul, that it is perfectly moral?'

'Moral!' echoed the Professor, 'moral! Why, exact thought shows us that it is the very essence of all morality!'

CHAPTER XIV.

Matters now went on charmingly. All existence seemed to take a richer colouring, and there was something, Paul said, which, in Professor Tyndall's words, 'gave fulness and tone to it, but which he could neither a.n.a.lyse nor comprehend.' But at last a change came. One morning, whilst Virginia was arranging Paul's moustaches, she was frightened almost into a fit by a sudden apparition at the window. It was a hideous hairy figure, perfectly naked but for a band of silver which it wore about its neck. For a moment it did nothing but grin and stare; then, uttering a discordant scream, it flung into Virginia's lap a filthy piece of carrion, and in an instant it had bounded away with an almost miraculous activity.

Virginia shrieked with disgust and terror, and clung to Paul's knees for protection. He, however, in some strange way, seemed unmoved and preoccupied. All at once, to her intense surprise, she saw his face light up with an expression of triumphant eagerness. 'The missing link!'

he exclaimed, 'the missing link at last! Thank G.o.d.--I beg pardon for my unspeakable blasphemy--I mean, thank circ.u.mstances over which I have no control. I must this instant go out and hunt for it. Give me some provisions in a knapsack, for I will not come back till I have caught it.'

This was a fearful blow to Virginia. She fell at Paul's feet weeping, and besought him in piteous accents that he would not thus abandon her.

'I must,' said the Professor solemnly, 'for I am going in pursuit of Truth. To arrive at Truth is man's perfect and most rapturous happiness.

You must surely know that, even if I have forgotten to tell it to you.

To pursue truth--holy truth for holy truth's sake--is a more solemn pleasure than even frizzling your hair.'