‘We are looking for Mr Thomas Pride Ferguson. I think there must have been some mistake …’
‘Here I am,’ said Pridey from the hearthrug. ‘Was named after a great-uncle who owned a farm and lost his sheep in a blizzard and shot himself, but that wasn’t until afterwards.’
‘Mr Thomas Pride Ferguson? Author of Habits and Heredity in Mice, with Some Observations on the Anatomy of the Common Shrew?’
‘And Behaviour. Anatomy and Behaviour. It’s no good talking about the bones unless you say what they do with ’em.’
‘My dear sir, may I introduce myself? My name is Simon. Professor Simon, Principal of the London School of Biological Research. This is Mr Crabtree Pearson, who, as you know, contributes to the best scientific magazines.’
The handkerchief was still draped round his right fist, so Pridey offered the other. It was warmly shaken.
‘A-den!’ said Ian. ‘Do it a-den!’
‘Sit down if you like,’ said Uncle Pridey vaguely. ‘I’ve dropped one of the shoe buttons. This is my niece. Tish will complain if I don’t give her them back.’
‘Let me take him, Uncle Pridey.’
‘No, no. Fair’s fair. He was here first. I’ll do it a-den. They can wait.’
Professor Simon said: ‘ May I congratulate you, madam, on your brilliant uncle. His book has created quite a sensation – quite a sensation.’
‘Sensation,’ said Pridey, when Ian’s gurgling laughter had stopped. ‘It’s been out eighteen months and no one’s taken any notice of it.’
‘That, if I may say so, has been an oversight. All that will be altered now. Mr Crabtree Pearson is devoting two complete articles to it–’
‘One article,’ said Mr Pearson, adjusting his pince-nez, ‘ will be so extensive that it will appear in three monthly parts–’
‘And it is hoped that we shall be able to persuade you to lecture at our next quarterly meeting …’
‘Lecture,’ said Uncle Pridey, the eyes falling out of the old woman’s face. ‘Here, don’t you eat that. Naughty, ah! Stick in your gullet.’
‘I’ll take him, Uncle Pridey.’
The old man got up, the bones in his knees creaking. ‘Dangerous,’ he said. ‘At least with most people. But I’ve a friend called Cornelius who as a young man used regularly to swallow a safety-pin for a wager. I remember he was very indignant when it was suggested he always used the same pin.’ Pridey looked sidelong at his visitors. ‘Is this a joke, eh?’
‘Do we give you that impression? I firmly believe that your chapters on the anatomy of the common shrew will be accepted as a classic contribution to the biology of our time–’
‘Ah, hum.’
‘I may say, your publisher is not a well-known man, and the book did not circulate as it should. It was quite by chance that a copy–’
‘Common shrew, yes. And what about the heredity of mice?’
‘An interesting and stimulating essay. Meriting anyone’s perusal. But your chapters on the shrew, proving beyond doubt that it has a common phylogeny with man–’
‘It’s an invaluable contribution to the new theories of evolution,’ interrupted Mr Pearson, taking off his pince-nez. ‘ I have taken the liberty of sending a copy of your book to Mr Huxley, with whom I may say I have more than a passing acquaintance–’
‘Mr Huxley,’ said Uncle Pridey, knotting and unknotting his eyebrows. ‘How very peculiar. No, don’t go, young woman. Where did I put my sweets? Ah. Am I to understand that you’re serious in this matter? Say it all again please. Have one of these. Didn’t understand you the first time.’
They said it all again, while Uncle Pridey plucked at his imperial and fumbled in his paper bag. Occasionally he glanced sidelong at Cordelia to see if she was deceived too.
‘I’d like,’ said Mr Crabtree Pearson, putting on his pince-nez, ‘if you’d allow me, sir, to take down a few biographical details so that I might mention them in the course of my articles. Also perhaps I might be allowed just a glimpse of your laboratory, so that I could describe it–’
‘Laboratory,’ said Pridey. ‘Haven’t got one.’
‘Well, perhaps you don’t call it that, but wherever you do your work. How do you approach your dissecting?’
Pridey took out a huge clasp-knife. ‘ I keep it sharp on a piece of common corundum stone. Handy thing, y’know; saw, corkscrew, gimlet, screwdriver. Only thing I don’t use it for is carving names on the mantelpiece. My niece has the tools for that.’
‘And do you work in this house, sir?’
‘My bedroom. Cosy enough. When one of my little friends dies I put him on the washstand and carve him up. You ever seen a stuffed rat? Tried my hand at a grey muzzled old fellow called Lord Palmerston. When I’d finished he looked perfect, lifelike; put him on the mantelpiece; began to smell. Had to throw him out. Don’t know what I’d done wrong. D’you say you came from London?’
‘Yes, this morning. We got your address from your publishers. We are staying overnight in your town and shall travel back tomorrow. Mr Ferguson, I wonder if you happen to have a photograph of yourself which would be suitable for reproduction?’
‘Only been to London once, when I was twenty-odd; had a few days there; wasn’t impressed. All the people looked as if they owed money – afraid of being spoken to.’
‘A photograph, Uncle Pridey. Have you got one of yourself?’
‘No, I haven’t, young woman, or I should have said so. But why should they want a photo of me? It’s not me that’s important, it’s the mice.’
Cordelia ordered tea, and they all sat round, Professor Simon and Mr Pearson in deferential politeness, Uncle Pridey in a sort of distracted dream, eating cakes very rapidly and casting crinkly side-glances at Cordelia. Aunt Tish came in and was annoyed that she hadn’t been told there were visitors so that she could have changed her blouse.
Cordelia pressed them to stay to supper and would take no excuse. She wanted Mr Ferguson and Brook to meet them. And tonight, she realized, was Thursday.
The door of the drawing-room was open when Mr Ferguson and Brook arrived, and the two visitors could be seen talking to someone out of view. Mr Ferguson at once put his hat down for the approaching Hallows to pick up and walked into the drawing-room.
‘This is my brother,’ said Pridey. ‘Professor Simon of the London something of Biology, Mr Pearson Crabtree. They’ve–’
‘Professor Simon,’ said Mr Ferguson. ‘I seem to know the name.’ He shook hands. ‘Mr–’
‘Crabtree Pearson,’ said Crabtree Pearson.
‘Of course. Yes, yes. I know your name too. It was good of you to call. Did Madam Vaughan suggest it? You didn’t write me, did you?’
‘No, it was rather on the impulse of the moment–’
‘Cordelia, I hope you have given these gentlemen our hospitality. I was delayed tonight: the calls of business. Have you been here long?’
‘About two hours. Your daughter-in-law, is it – has kindly invited us to an evening meal, and in view of the fact–’
‘Exactly what I should have wished. Are you staying in the city long?’
‘No, only one night, we expect.’
‘I’m very flattered by your call. Oh, this is my son, Mr Brook Ferguson. The poet, you know. I’m more than gratified that you should have decided to spend your one evening in the city with us. It’s in fact a very fortunate circumstance that this is Thursday. My most intimate friend is a prominent biologist and he will be coming to supper tonight. I expect him any time.’
‘Are you a biologist too, Mr Ferguson? A talent has been known to run–’
‘Well, only in the way that every common man is a biologist these days.’ Mr Ferguson flicked a speck of dust off his coat. ‘We follow the discoveries and deductions of scientists like yourselves with the greatest attention, since what you deduce sometimes calls in question our pre-conceived beliefs. By trade I am a calico-printer and velveteen dyer, as you will probably have heard. I also have an interest in the Waverley Cotton
Mills.’
‘Oh?’ said Professor Simon politely. He turned and bowed slightly to Uncle Pridey. ‘I suspect that you are over-modest as a family. It has given us great pleasure this afternoon to have the privilege–’
‘That’s Mr Slaney-Smith now, I believe,’ said Mr Ferguson. ‘Mr Slaney-Smith is the biologist I was speaking of.’
‘I don’t recall the name. Has he–’
‘Quite a brilliant man though a confirmed atheist. Indeed, one would go further–’
‘I’m afraid many of us are being driven into a corner these days,’ said Mr Crabtree Pearson, adjusting his pince-nez. ‘Agnosticism is the natural retreat of the scientist. In my article of the twentieth of June last–’
Mr Slaney-Smith was shown in. Neat, aggressive, square-shouldered and shiny, he was introduced, and his nasal voice mingled with and slightly dominated the others. The scientists, having been in the house two hours, seemed to conclude that the newcomers knew why they had come, and Mr Slaney-Smith was so used to meeting strangers at Grove Hall that he took the situation for granted. Uncle Pridey mixed in the company and talked rather more than Mr Ferguson thought necessary, but it was merely a passing irritation and hardly worth a rebuke.
After a few minutes they all moved out into the hall for prayers, and when these were said they went in to supper. Uncle Pridey sat between Cordelia and Aunt Tish as usual, and Mr Ferguson had a guest on either side of him.
‘My friend, Mr Slaney-Smith …’
‘Oh, yes, you’re a biologist, sir. Are you attached to the university here, or are your researches private?’
‘Private,’ said Mr Slaney-Smith through his nose, ‘I lecture – hum – twice weekly to adult classes at the Carpenter’s Hall. The title of my Tuesday evening course, which begins in a month’s time, will be entitled ‘‘Whence Man’’, and the Thursday course will be called ‘‘Natural Selection and Free Thought’’. The latter series is a development of the main theme I have been pursuing for some years.’
‘Ah,’ said Professor Simon. ‘Does Mr Ferguson assist you or do you consult with him on the practical side at all?’
‘Mr Ferguson? Well, I can hardly say–’
‘I think,’ said Mr Ferguson, not displeased, ‘ that you do me too much honour. It may of course well be that the frequent stimulating discussions I have with–’
‘No, no, I’m sorry, I meant the other Mr Ferguson, of course; Mr Thomas Pride Ferguson.’
There was a moment’s silence. They looked curiously at Uncle Pridey, who was busy with the fried sole.
Mr Slaney-Smith said: ‘No, I’m afraid Mr Tom Ferguson’s researches are too deep for me to follow, what?’ and went on talking. He was so sure of his own joke that it didn’t occur to him that the visitors took him at his word. And Mr Ferguson thought that Uncle Pridey had been boasting in his absence and that a rebuke would be necessary after all.
‘Atheism,’ said Mr Slaney-Smith, ‘is a necessary condition in civilized man. It’s not until one clears one’s mind of all the religious cant … A student said to me at the last session: ‘‘ Sir, do you disbelieve in the human soul?’’ and I replied, ‘‘Sir, I am prepared to believe in the human soul when you show me one on the operating table.’’ I fancy he had not looked at it like that before.’
‘Talking of operating tables,’ said Pridey with his mouth full, ‘ I remember a shrew I had once—’
‘Your reasoning’s a little arbitrary,’ Mr Ferguson said benevolently, ignoring his brother. ‘If you rule out everything you can’t see, then you must rule out half the attributes of civilized life: conscience, humour, memory …’
They wrangled amiably for some moments and then, seeing that their guests were not joining in, Mr Ferguson steered round to their own subject. Here again the scientists were reserved and Mr Slaney-Smith was left to do most of the talking. He was not at all abashed by his audience.
At length Mr Ferguson said: ‘But perhaps you don’t agree with either of us, Professor Simon?’
‘You’re both well versed in the theories of modern biology,’ Simon said. ‘A theoretical acquaintance, of course, is not everything. But I believe Mr Thomas Ferguson was about to say something.’
‘To my way of looking at it,’ said Pridey, ‘it’s simple enough. We’re all agnostics, eh? Aren’t we? Aren’t we? That’s humility for you. You can’t believe anythin’ till you confess you know nothing. But atheism’s not just a step on; it’s a mile away. Because atheism’s intellectual pride, and pride and humility are not partners, they’re opposites. That’s it in a nutshell. All the rest, all this dibbling and dabbling, is just poppycock. Can’t get away from it. Pass the bread, Tish.’
‘D’you mind,’ said Crabtree Pearson, adjusting his pince-nez, ‘would you very much mind if I put that down while it’s fresh in my memory? I should be very grateful. I have a pad here.’
Mr Ferguson and Mr Slaney-Smith stared at the scribbling man. Mr Slaney-Smith took out a snowy silk handkerchief and dabbed his moustache.
‘I should like you,’ Professor Simon said to Pridey, ‘I should like you to meet Mr Huxley. If you came to London I think perhaps–’
‘The Mr Huxley?’ Slaney-Smith said. ‘ You know him?’
‘Yes, we were at school together. If you came to London perhaps we could arrange a meeting, Mr Ferguson.’
‘Ah,’ said Pridey. ‘Don’t know. It might not do. Shall have to think it over.’
‘It’s unlikely,’ said Mr Ferguson in his Olympian manner, ‘that my brother will ever go to London; but I shall have occasion to be there this autumn. I should like to meet Mr Huxley.’
Professor Simon looked at his host without much favour. ‘I don’t know if that would be possible.’
‘Naturally I’ve no wish to push myself. It was you who put the suggestion forward.’
‘I put the suggestion to your brother, sir. Forgive me if I am blunt, but Mr Huxley is not easily accessible to the ordinary public.’
There was a dreadful silence. It felt as if the dinner-party might suddenly blow up.
Mr Ferguson said: ‘And by what curious reasoning do you suppose that my brother could be more welcome in such a select circle?’
‘I should have thought it plain. Unless you have written a book of the same calibre.’
Another silence. Cordelia kept her head down, nervous now that she had let it go so far.
‘A book?’ Slaney-Smith stared incredulously. ‘D’you mean his book?’
Mr Ferguson said: ‘Do we owe this visit to my friend, Madame Vaughan?’
‘We came to see your brother. I thought you understood that.’
Brook, speaking almost for the first time, with a flushed face, said: ‘ Well, I’ll be hanged!’
‘There has been a slight misunderstanding,’ Mr Ferguson said with a lisp. ‘Why are you interested in my brother’s book?’
‘We believe it to be the most important contribution to biology published for some years. We believe it will soon be generally regarded as such.’
Mr Slaney-Smith’s face looked as if someone had been drawing the inner threads too tight.
‘If someone,’ said Mr Ferguson, ‘had been good enough to tell me earlier, if someone had been able to spare the time to inform me … Naturally in one’s own house one expects to be kept informed of events which have occurred before one comes home. I would not have thought that asking too much.’
Everyone waited for everyone else to speak. Cordelia knew she had to say something.
‘I’m sorry. I should have …’
Mr Crabtree Pearson glanced at Mr Ferguson’s face. ‘Perhaps,’ he said pacifically, ‘the misunderstanding was our fault. Sometimes these little misconceptions arise. We must apologize. And – I think it might be possible for us to arrange the meeting Mr Ferguson desires. Don’t you think so, Professor Simon? Mr Ferguson might be able to see Mr Huxley provided he went with his brother.’
This concession seemed to have the opposite of the intended
effect.
‘I should never think of putting you to the trouble,’ said their host, with icy politeness.
Uncle Pridey was chopping the meat off a juicy lamb cutlet. After a minute he put his knife and fork down.
‘This Mr Huxley now. Appreciate your offer. Great man, no doubt. Capital fellow and all that. But misguided. If I met him I should have to tell him so. D’you think he’d mind that? D’you think he’d mind? Could I tell him I’ve been saying rude things about him for years?’
Chapter Five
So it began, and, snowball-like, it gathered weight with every roll. Blinking like a hoary old rat, Uncle Pridey emerged from the obscurity of sixty-nine years to find himself famous. The town itself, or that part of it which took account of scientific developments, became aware of him. After the publication of Mr Crabtree Pearson’s first article, which spoke of ‘the investigations and brilliant deductions of this distinguished Mancunian, who, working in solitude and with the barest technical equipment, has added so much to our knowledge of the phylum of human ancestry’, fame came in a flood. He was invited out to dinner, to lecture, to give prizes, to write articles, to subscribe to charities, to become a patron of this and a vice-president of that, to join a modern laboratory, to write another book, to go to London, to go to Liverpool, to go to the Antarctic. It was all rather exciting for his friends and trying for his relatives.
Mr Ferguson and Mr Slaney-Smith were very worried about it. Naturally they welcomed and rejoiced in Pridey’s sudden triumph, but Mr Ferguson was afraid that the excitement and the continual strain of meeting new people would have a bad effect on his brother’s health and always unstable nerves. Mr Slaney-Smith said these cases of sudden notoriety were dangerous because one went up like a rocket and came down like the stick. When all one’s prestige depended on a single book – three chapters of a book – it was terrifyingly easy to get exaggerated ideas of one’s importance. The public was fickle. When the newness wore off people would drop him as quickly as they had taken him up.
While exploring his delight in Pridey’s success, Mr Ferguson found cause for criticism in almost everyone else. For weeks nothing pleased him, and the first and most obvious thorn was his own mistake in assuming that the first visitors had come to see him. Everyone suffered for this, Cordelia most of all.
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