ON the following morning Amphion and Simo breakfasted alone. There was an air of lethargy about the palace; neither Circé nor her stupendous guest had risen; so boy and snake emerged into the sweet air together and set about their quest faithfully and diligently.
In a glade, sitting on his hams with his front paws joined upon his knee, they met a kangaroo who had been an elementary schoolmaster. He brightened at the spectacle of Amphion, engaged them in conversation and proved of a volatile and capricious mind. His gifts were not those of the pedant, and he confessed that accident rather than conviction had led him to enter a profession he never adorned.
“My real forte is dancing,” he explained; “but I broke my leg in attempting a saltatorial feat which was really impossible without divine assistance; and thereafter, in order to earn my living, retired to an easier and less distinguished way of life. I can, however, teach, and have spent many years in that occupation. And if this pleasing child understands me, and desires instruction in the rudiments, it will be a pleasure to devote my time to him. I have nothing whatever to do here.”
But Simo explained how Amphion was learning fast enough for the moment, and the reason of his visit to Aea. The kangaroo implored them to interest Circé on his behalf if possible. His thoughts wandered from one subject to another. He appeared to be quite undisciplined. He had never heard of Dolius. Then, seeing a friend, he hopped off airily. He was slightly lame, but his amazing agility appeared in no degree lessened.
“Thus we see why the great business of education still gropes,” said Simo to Amphion, “and why its progress continues to be fettered, for the reason that as yet we apprehend only a dim shadow of its meaning. The best teachers are not in our schools, and until we realise that upon education the future of civilisation depends, and that the schoolmaster is the most vital figure in every genuine scheme of progress, we shall tarry by the way. That flighty fool, of course, is no fair type, though many little better than he enter this sacred profession, merely for lack of brains to determine their own careers. Knowing not how to order their own lives, they seek to guide those of others, and into their empty hands that sacred thing, the child, is given. But a far more dangerous order of man is he who, himself crammed with learning, assumes, for that reason, he is fitted to hand it on. We augment our training staffs upon a basis wholly unsound and irrational. We appoint to this pre-eminent task of drawing out incipient intellect and budding mind, men and women who have, indeed, proved their knowledge, but never thought upon that far more important matter: their power to impart it. The gift of teaching is infinitely rarer than the gift of learning, and bad teaching is none at all. I have known monsters of erudition who, thanks to their attributes of character, could neither awaken interest, excite attention, nor command a shadow of respect in the normal boy or girl. Such admirable men may shine everywhere but in the classroom; and from that chamber should be excluded. In a word, the art of teaching is not taught, and until it shall be — until the potential teacher has proved himself qualified for this paramount trust — he must not be permitted to maul and muddle the tender mind of youth.”
Simo proceeded for his own edification alone, because Amphion heeded not these sayings.
“Another peril grows,” continued the serpent, “and many a guide adapted in every way to this supreme business of instructing the children is required to advance principles and inculcate opinions not seldom clean contrary to his own beliefs. Thus precious teachers are deprived of doing priceless work in the world, for the reason that they are bidden to mix nonsense with the little children’s food and muddy their growing reason at the fount. Some seek to evade the difficulty, but their sincerity suffers; and above all is sincerity vital in approaching the empty mind of boy or girl. Sincerity is, however, denied to these persons, and while themselves convinced at heart, for example, that divine Zeus never changed into a white bull and conveyed Europa upon his flank through the surging sea, are yet ordered, upon pain of dismissal, to drive this legend into the budding brain of their scholars.”
“And didn’t Zeus?” asked Amphion, interested in the concrete picture.
“He may have done so,” replied Simo, “and many devout and learned men feel positive about it; but the point appears to be — that if you do not feel positive at all, then it is little less than infamous that you should be commanded to report the incident as a fact beyond any question.
“This problem of religion in the schools becomes a very serious disability and hindrance to the minds of many honest men and women, who would be otherwise inspired to teach and help the world along. You see the difficulty? What is a little child to think if that absurd kangaroo assures him, to-day, that Athene leapt from the head of Zeus all perfect and complete, while, to-morrow, he is made clearly to understand that nobody ever came into being after that manner, or ever will do so? The little brain is addled from the start. Its fibre, instead of being fortified with the tonic of truth, is relaxed by silly contradictions in terms. One cannot explain these mysteries metaphysically, or reconcile opposite statements for a babe, because the machinery to appreciate this juggling is not in the infant. His clean little intellect is not degraded to this sort of use as yet, and he does not understand how to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, as so many of us have learned to do. The child must choose what he is going to believe; and he has to judge, when old enough, of what value to him was the teaching that declared twice two are four between eleven and twelve of the clock, but assured him that twice two are six an hour later.”
Amphion, however, had wandered away again and was talking to a ring-tailed racoon with eyes like little patines of gold.
The day proved as fruitless as those which had gone before. Once they saw bubbles beading on a muddy pool, and Amphion wanted to wait until they saw what manner of beast it was that blew them; but Simo believed it to be a crocodile, or other vast newt. He now argued that Dolius had turned into something of an amphibious character; while Amphion thought not. One huge and flat-backed crab they had spoken with; but the surly monster would reveal nothing of his former life, or tell them if he had met with Dolius. His evil eyes waved on their stalks and he snapped his claws at them in an insulting and highly offensive manner, then crawled sideways into the sea.
“I’m afraid he has been rather a bad lot,” said Amphion.
“He has,” replied the serpent — “a very bad lot indeed.”
They ate their midday meal in the dingle by Circé’s bathing-place, and having rested awhile proceeded with their search. Failure and disappointment were beginning to leave a mark on the boy, but Simo reasoned with him and supported his young spirit. The day brought no light and the son of Dolius feared that they had now seen and spoken with all the animals; while his friend explained that not one half of them had yet been approached.
“We shall find him if we only persevere and are patient and keep observant and wide awake,” he promised.
They supped with Circé and the many-minded Odysseus, who had doffed his greaves and breastplate and now wore a rainbow robe which mightily became his athletic figure. The hero was in a talkative mood, and all listened with becoming reverence to his opinions, though they proved not very original.
“The difference between a wise man and a fool,” said he, “is simply that the one draws correct conclusions, while the other draws none, or if he attempts them, he gets them wrong. Life presents much the same phenomena to wise and foolish alike, and what they make of it is solely a matter of what they bring to it. A man may go round the world and behold its wonders, yet return as empty as he set forth; another walks down a wayside hedge and discovers things hidden that nobody has ever seen before he came. I myself am such a man; and when poets in future time shall tune their lyres to sing my amazing life and adventures, they will, if they are just and possess adequate vision, grant me the possession of a thousand unusual gifts and original accomplishments.”
“It is quite true,” admitted Circé, “that one can put into nobody what there is not room to hold; but who shall determine the secret hiding-places and hidden possibilities of a man’s mind? Heredity, while often a dangerous wild beast, lurking unsuspected and only waiting upon circumstance to spring, may also be of a gracious and friendly aspect; and while some startle, shock and horrify their neighbours upon occasion, others will agreeably surprise them. Chance alone holds the key of many subconscious gifts, or perilous endowments, and a man may go to his grave without revealing their bale or boon. Inspiration, like temptation, may depend upon objective events, but oftener is wakened by subjective challenges. My own enchantments open the door to these mysteries of nature and reveal wherein true character is founded.”
“In my case,” declared divine Odysseus, “I combine two mental qualities rarely — if ever — recorded in one hero until I came into the world. There are, as we know, many people ready and willing to save you from the trouble of thinking, just as there are slaves ready and willing to save you the trouble of anything else that one may do for another. Our guardian deities warn the idiot from putting any strain upon his weakest part. So, indeed, it is with most folk — their heads are the point of least resistance — and the few wise must always think for the many duffers. But there is a sort of parasitic man — no fool by any means — who suffers the thinker to do the hard work and then reveals an art to step in himself and take the wages. For it happens that the thinker is often himself a fool in the business of applying his fine thought, being but a child where practical matters are concerned. Yet the sparks from his workshop, disregarded by himself, are really the valuable product which the shrewd, parasitic man fastens upon, much to his own advantage. The exploiter, rather than the inventor, is the gainer, and these jackals of greatness get what should be the lion’s share. Therefore, since the rarer gift is denied most of us, we should strive at least to cultivate the power of yoking genius to the plough of business, and thus play our part in the company of the worthy and useful and prosperous jackals. Now I combine these qualities in a high degree: I am lion and jackal in one, and, when presently at leisure, I shall plan divers ways in which my amazing gifts and ever-mounting wisdom will be applied to the practical purpose of making all men happy and increasing the general well-being of Ithaca.”
They listened with due respect, and Circé looked up at sagacious Odysseus from beneath the fringes of her wondrous and sea-deep eyes.
“How little a thing is even a great man,” she whispered aside to Simo, while the hero was emptying a crystal goblet of Pramnian wine.
“And how great a thing is even a little man,” replied the serpent.
Then the honoured guest set down his glass and proceeded:
“To be before the times and a head and shoulders above all your fellow-men is, however, a situation that carries with it many responsibilities.”
“To be in front is not always to be upon the true path of progress; you must remember that,” replied Circé, after she had delicately yawned behind her fan. “You may be a pioneer on some path of your own false reasoning that will never make a beaten road for your neighbours, because the ground you tread is hollow and barren and without substance in reality and promise of truth. In that case you will not presently be discovered and proclaimed, but merely lost and forgotten. No statues are lifted to explorers merely because they are such. It depends upon whether they discover a land that shall prove of service to mankind.”
“The line that divides the immortal genius and the futile crank is often fine, but always quite definite,” said Simo, and the hero of many counsels showed a touch of annoyance.
“A craven opinion,” he replied. “Honest endeavour is worthy of the triumphal arch and everlasting memorial, even though the gods will not to crown it with success. Success is ever an accident, and the failure of to-day may be the triumph of to-morrow. You said,” he proceeded, turning to Circé — “you remarked a moment ago to this ruby-eyed serpent — that even a great man was but a little thing. I was drinking your excellent Pramnian at the time, but I heard you, and I am the last to deny that what you said was true — up to a point. To a goddess it may so appear; but in another and a far deeper sense I take leave to assert that a man, little or great, is a more notable and wonderful achievement than the whole caravanserai of Olympus put together. You know it, Circé; you know it! ”
“I do,” she said, rising and pressing a kiss upon his forehead. “You alone are worth the whole pack of us, dear one. Men are all exceedingly wonderful, as Simo truly said, and when they gather wisdom, compare notes a little oftener, cease destroying each other and making their short lives shorter — when they employ their priceless gift of reason and get some vague general idea of their limitations and prodigious powers, then they, too, will begin to realise how wonderful they are. You already perceive this dimly, but you must go back into the world, my precious Odysseus, not only with the intention of telling people how wonderful you are, but with a fixed purpose to proclaim that they too, from the least to the greatest, are also very wonderful indeed.”
“Never waste time patting yourself on the back, unparalleled master of men,” said Simo; “but always look out for somebody better to pat. You can easily find him.”
The august wanderer calmed down slowly.
“Then let the high gods set us an example,” he said. “It is idle to cast our poverty of judgment, lack of good will and clash of opinions against us, while in the celestial mansions disagreement persists. Why should men pull together if the gods do otherwise? Why, when I demand of you that my unhappy soldiers and sailors should be restored to their rightful shapes, do you put me off and continue in a most unfriendly action? I want to love you, Circé; I am quite prepared to love you gloriously for the space of twelve months, and my word is my bond; but concerning your promise?”
“No politics to-night,” she answered, stroking his magnificent curls. “To-morrow it shall be as you wish and your faithful pigs become men again.”
“This child and the serpent are witnesses of that assurance,” replied Odysseus shortly. But soon he thawed, with the arms of the enchantress about his brawny neck, and all of them passed into a spirit of peace and friendship, save Amphion, who had long since gone to sleep and was dreaming unhappy dreams of his dear father. In a hundred shapes he saw him, yet never the right one.