Chapter 8
The following morning I was awakened by a hare who offered to dress me before I joined his master and companions for breakfast. As I had great doubts that an animal substantially shorter than I and significantly less dextrous would dress me quite as well as I could, I declined the offer and waited until he had left the bedroom until I pulled my feet free from the confines of the sheets onto the floor several feet below. I grimaced at the sudden cold pang of the stone floor and got dressed on the luxurious carpet in front of the fire.
I then stole out of the bedroom tried to find where breakfast was served. I looked up and down the long passageways at the suits of armour, the portraits of illustrious rodents and the odd sheep-skin rug, but could see no sign guiding me to the breakfast room or indeed anywhere else. Consequently it was after several minutes of wandering around the ill-lit hallways and through several unpromising rooms that I located my host in a room where chairs were arranged in front of a fire on which some hares were toasting some rolls and buns. Tudor saw me enter the room and greeted me with a gloved paw while munching on a bread roll.
“Good morrow! Thou hast slept well, I trust?”
“Very well,” I answered, as indeed I had when I’d finally got used to the hardness of the mattress.
Tudor was accompanied by Hubert, who was sitting down with his columnar legs stretched out in front of him wedged into boots which just about accommodated them, and a Scottish Terrier about the same height as Tudor wearing black clothes ornamented only by a grey lace collar. He had placed a tall black hat like a stove pipe on the arms of his chair and his paws were clasping a mug of tea. “Thou hast not met mine friend, the Philosopher,” Tudor remarked. “He hath travelled many leagues from his distant land and ist once again honouring our fair nation with his presence.”
“You’re very kind, Tudor,” the dog barked. “I always enjoy my visits to your pleasant land. And surely there is no pleasure greater than that found in travel and good company. A weary foot and a glad heart are the best comrades a soul can have.”
“Are you also on a quest like Hubert?” I wondered.
“Goodness no, young man. No amount of travel could reach the object of my pursuit. Philosophical insights are gained only by contemplation and analysis. The deeper you search the more you uncover.”
I nodded, pretending to understand what he was saying, and let my eyes wander about the breakfast room. In the corner were two hares in conversation and a young man in ragged clothes crouched on the floor wolfing down the relics of the meal we had been eating the evening before. He glanced up at me with a sheepish grin and then resumed his chewing on the cold meat on a bone. I scanned my companions in the hope that they might introduce me to this eccentric guest, but they were deep in conversation.
“...And the moral is that just as in any infinite series of numbers there is an incongruity, so too in any ethical practice there is an element of immorality...” The Philosopher noticed me while licking his tea-stained chops with his long flat tongue. “Are you troubled, young man? Perhaps you are not accustomed to ethical discourse. Be assured that the pursuit of knowledge is not achieved by conversation alone. A bird in the tree may in a flash of inspiration see what has eluded the greatest thinker.”
“No, it’s not that,” I commented, slightly puzzled. “I was just wondering who that fellow is.” I pointed at the young man who was scooping at the insides of a soiled bowl with the crust of a stale roll.
The Philosopher suddenly burst into laughter, which was frighteningly like barking. Tudor tittered, but explained my faux pas. “An thou thinkst that wert a guest thou couldst ne’er be further from the truth. Nay, ’tis the Philosopher’s slave thou cravest know.”
“The Philosopher’s slave?”
“Slave. What could be simpler?” smiled the Philosopher. “Perhaps you don’t have such things where you come from?”
“No,” I admitted. “There are no slaves in the Suburbs.”
“‘Tis verily true,” agreed Tudor. “’Tis rare in this land to encounter a slave. ’Tis forbid in many districts, and I woot the Suburbs ist a borough where ’tis so proscribed.”
“So what is seemly to the elephant is unseemly to the mastodon,” commented the Philosopher. “No, young man. In my country it is quite normal for those of means to purchase as good a slave or set of slaves as they can. This slave cost me a few crowns I can tell you. He is now my property and I am free to dispose of him exactly as I would any other property. This is a rôle equally sanctioned by my slave and he would no doubt not wish it otherwise.”
“Wouldn’t he prefer not to be a slave at all?” I wondered.
“That is a most naïve and simplistic view. Wouldn’t we all wish to have a different life than we have? The man on the other side of the hill is always on the better side. But we are always best off as we are. My slave benefits from his working relationship with me because I provide him with security, safety, lodgings and food for as long as his work continues to be acceptable. His rôle in life is to serve, just as mine is to be served. The master needs the slave, just as the slave needs the master.”
“Why’s that, Philosopher?” wondered Hubert who was chewing some toast.
“Because without the one then the other has no existence at all. How can a master be a master if he has nothing to be master of? And for that matter how can a slave be a slave without a master to serve? It is all as it should be. The hare bounds in the field, while the sheep safely graze.”
“I may just be acting as the Devil’s Advocate here, Philosopher,” continued the giant teddy bear, “but have there not been many arguments postulated quite to the contrary. That rather than being natural, slavery is wholly unnatural and indeed unjust. This slave may look like just a ragged wretch, but given different chances in life might he not deserve a better lot? And wouldn’t it be better to be wretched and free, than well-fed and enslaved?”
“I don’t really understand why so many people in your country believe that liberty is prima facie a good thing. You wouldn’t want dragons or demons to wander free in this country. As free as the wind, but also as free as the raft adrift from its moorings. Nevertheless, I recognise the wisdom in such assertions, Hubert, and I would not advocate slavery if I didn’t accept its economic necessity. How could the economy of my nation, or of the world, prosper without the very valuable contribution made by slaves? How could we pursue philosophy and poetry, without the wealth creation of this invaluable underclass? Even the worm is needed to aerate the soil so that we can eat. For some to have plenty it is necessary for others to have less than nothing at all.”
I wasn’t at all persuaded by the Philosopher’s arguments but I had no counter to them. I chose a line where I hoped I could get Hubert’s support. “I didn’t realise that Poetry needed slavery to exist. I thought Poetry was above the economic order.”
“Poetry is the expression of Philosophy by elegant language,” the Philosopher replied, not really addressing my objection. “And language is the means of all thought and expression. It is through a precise understanding of language and how it is used that we understand all subjects of discourse. But if a sheep wrote Poetry would we understand what it was saying?”
“Or even want to,” commented Hubert. “Poetry isn’t really Philosophy at all. It may express great insights, but not all these are of a philosophical nature. Some Cat poetry is noted by its absence of philosophical speculation and more by its unquestioning acceptance of what they consider to be the truth.”
“Isn’t that fatalistic acceptance itself a concern of Philosophy? Great thought is expressed through its absence as much as in its presence. But I am sorry to hear you speak even indirectly of any virtue in Feline practice or poetry. Their despicable behaviour in the war with my nation has shown Cats to be wholly unpossessing of the finer sensitivities, and they are certainly not eminent opponents of slavery. They are, after all, a species who have allowed themselves to be governed by an absolute hereditary
ruler. It is true that I would no more advocate the rule of the anarchic mob any more than does the Cat. Good government by a tyrant is better than bad government by the people. I would say, however, that government is practised best by those selected and trained for their skills in the art than either the unschooled mob or those born to luxury. Indeed, luxury is as foreign to the skill of government as it is to logical discourse. A greenhouse is not the best place to grow a turnip.”
“I dare say you are right, Philosopher,” smiled Hubert. He stood up from the chair and towered above his company. “But I must be on my way. I fear I have business elsewhere.”
“Where goest thou? Dost return to the Suburbs?”
“No. I doubt I shall ever return to the Suburbs. I go to the City. There are some archives I wish to examine.”
He then made his farewells and strode out of the breakfast room followed by a hare Tudor had detailed to see to his needs.
“Have ye both eaten well?” Tudor inquired as a servant closed the large oak door behind the teddy bear.
“Very well, thank you, Tudor. When the stomach is full, the heart is glad. As always your servants have prepared a sterling breakfast.”
“If ’tis so, then ’tis meet we promenade the gardens before ye leave on your travels. Where goest thou, Philosopher? Mayhap ’tis the same course as our Suburbanite friend.”
“The young man is quite welcome to accompany me if he so wishes. The tread is merry when the tongue does the walking. I shall be heading to the town of Iota, which I believe has been renamed recently, but I’m not sure to what. But a town by any other name must be the same.”
“‘Tis also said that a change of title ist a change in nature.”
“Exactly, Tudor,” agreed the Philosopher, putting on his tall black hat. “But lead on, dear sir; let us see your gardens. There is no beauty greater than that of a well-tended garden. A rose brings joy to the eye and relief to the weary thinker.”
Tudor led us through a series of doors and eventually out into the early morning sunlight. We were trailed by a retinue of hares and by the slave who kept his head bowed as he followed. The light was radiant compared to the relative gloom of Tudor’s castle and I had difficulty in focusing my eyes on what was around, but I was impressed by the its orderliness. The rose bushes and herbaceous borders, the hedges and small statues, were all distinguished by well-defined orthogony. Tudor commented that the garden had been designed on the principle of the octagon, which he explained was a square with its corners halved. I soon lost track of his account, but it appeared to be of great interest to the Philosopher who had much to say about the number eight, which he remarked was very much like the symbol of infinity. “And who can tell what significance that may portend?”
“I trow but little,” Tudor replied. “’Tis just a symbol. The power of the number lieth in its universality, not in its expression.”
“Exactly so,” agreed the Terrier, as if this was what he had just said. “If one were two and two were one, their sum would remain the same.”
I reasoned this out, and it was indeed true. But I couldn’t really understand what the Philosopher was trying to say. My attention returned to the garden where some sheep were grazing in the fields, tended by a hare with a crook, and near a herd of grazing fallow deer. Tudor’s grounds stretched on with no apparent end, but this was partly because any enclosing wall was obscured by the small copses of oak and birch trees that scattered his estate.
My attention wandered back to the conversation between the Philosopher and Tudor as we strolled along the well-paved paths of the garden, with the servants just a few yards behind. They were discussing the coming General Election which enthralled the Philosopher.
“Democracy has its merits, Tudor, but it appears to be a political system intrinsically marred by its very openness. Only a fool leaves his door open to all comers. Who can say with certainty who will come in?”
“’Tis so. The Election doth trouble me greatly. ’Tis possible that the Red Party couldst gain the greatest number of seats and ’twere so ’twill be great suffering in our land. I and many others would wish to forsake the land of our birth. And where wouldst a Mouse be welcome?”
“Democracy is only one system of government. It is often justified as a safeguard against the rule of a single person, as is the case in my country. And as it is in the Kingdom of the Cats. Autocracy is a system even more fraught as its good governance relies overmuch on the wisdom and goodness of that leader. If that ruler is truly virtuous, wise and far-seeing then that nation is truly a happy land. A firm hand at the tiller and the boat sails fair. But too often the monarch, despot or tyrant is flawed. By whatever means the power of the state is invested in a single ruler, by fair means or foul, by inheritance or coup d’état, there is so great a threat that he will be attentive not to the welfare of the people he represents but to that of himself and his family. Self-interest is not the greatest motive for altruism.
“Here in your country, there is a Democracy which pretends to represent the interests of the people and not of the rulers, but power is weakened as it serves so many disparate interests. How can a boat be steered if it is dragged both forward and back, sideways, and up and down? The boat will just sink, or, as in your country, remain still as the holes in its hulk are patched when they become too conspicuous. There is a clear failure of democracy as your six main political parties fight and squabble over the direction of policy and resolve nothing. It is a boat adrift on a sea of troubles constantly threatening to overwhelm it, and in which many volumes of discussion have served not at all to calm the waves. This is why your Coition government has chosen to abandon its policy of compromise and consensus.”
“’Tis so, but I fear ’tis better far so as ’tis, than a government of communists, socialists or anarchists.” Tudor’s ears twitched in agitation as he surveyed his gardens. “Mine estate which I hath the great responsibility to tend wouldst be wrest from me. The labour of mine ancestors wouldst be for naught, and peasants wouldst wander unfettered through my gardens and castle rooms admiring not the legacy of a majestic tradition but its remnants. They would leave their sweet-wrappers and cigarette-ends on my garden paths. They would sneer at the portraits of my noble forbears. ’Tis a nightmare which I hope and I pray shalt ne’er be.”
“What you fear, Tudor, is not democracy, which has left you and your wealth intact, but the rule of the mobus populis. The anarchy of no government at all, but a state in which no one can say to another: you mustn’t do that! You fear that your servants will arise, forget your generosity and kindness, and snatch the wealth your family has accumulated over the centuries. Furthermore, the rule of the mob leads always and inevitably to the assertion of dictatorship. That which the anarchists most detest arises from the chaos, like a phoenix from the ashes.”
“’Twere best then that the nation be governed by a single ruler. ’Twould obviate the chaos in which mine inheritance wouldst be seized, the portraits slashed, the garden razed, the castle defaced and mine wealth scattered fruitlessly to the winds.”
It was clear that these images troubled Tudor considerably, as he paused, surveying his estate, a claw grasping the handle of his sword and his servants trembling at the possibility that the violence of his feelings might be expressed more physically. He regarded us.
“The way to the town known formerly as Iota ist beyond mine estate and along the road. ’Tis less than eight furlongs distant. Dost wish to walk? Or dost wish to travel by carriage?”
“It’s a lovely morning, Tudor,” the Philosopher replied. “I would prefer to relish it on foot. Moreover the business I have in the woollen trade will occupy many hours of unpleasant haggling, and I fancy a brisk walk will set me well.”
With that the Philosopher and I sauntered off along the path Tudor indicated, with the Philosopher’s slave trailing us by several yards. Whilst the Philosopher strode along briskly and easily, pointing out with a staff the various flowers and fungi that lined
our walk, his slave was burdened down under the weight of a heavy bag carried on his shoulders and another which was strapped to his chest. He didn’t appear to relish the morning sunshine nearly as much as his master. After a furlong or so we finally quit Tudor’s estate by a gate where a hare standing on guard with a musket was idly admiring the lambs frolicking amongst the daisies. He saluted us as we passed, but relaxed quite visibly when the slave staggered by behind.
The countryside was very green and pleasant. The fields were open, there were the occasional copses of trees and a stream babbled along the side of the path, sometimes near and sometimes winding away. The sun brightened the sky and cotton-wool clouds floated harmlessly by. Lambs and leverets were bounding about together in the fields, savouring the innocence of their tender years. The Philosopher revelled in the landscape which he described as an earthly paradise, a model of beauty and good order, and a great source of obscure metaphor. He was very much in good spirits, unlike his servant struggling under the weight of the baggage. When I commented to the Philosopher on this, he merely commented that it was his slave’s duty to serve and not his right to complain.
The Philosopher’s good humour somewhat lessened when we were greeted by a modestly dressed Cat by a milestone that had lost all legibility with age. He was sitting down with a small bag on the end of a stick, a coat that came to below his waist, below which he wore green jerkins and buckled shoes. He wore a small hat on his head which fell between his ears and shaded his eyes from the sun.
“Good morning, sirs. Are you heading this way?”
The Philosopher was clearly discomfited to be addressed in such a familiar way, but he grasped his staff and replied in the affirmative with a voice struggling to retain its previous air of jollity.
“You don’t mind if I join you?” the Cat asked, jumping up and walking alongside us before the Terrier could find a reason to decline. “It is so much better to stroll with convivial company, don’t you think?”
“Good company finds its own stride,” replied the Philosopher cryptically. “Where are you heading?”
“Oh nowhere in particular,” the Cat replied. “I’m on holiday from the Kingdom and enjoy looking at everything. I’ve had quite a jolly time so far; and I’ve met some very interesting people. I thought I’d go to the next town and perhaps catch a coach or train to the City or somewhere else. I don’t mind where I go as long as I am with friendly company.”
“And do you meet much friendly company?” I wondered, reflecting on some of the distinctly unfriendly comments Tudor had made regarding Cats.
“Oh, most people are very pleasant,” the Cat purred, “although there’s an awful lot of prejudice towards foreigners from some. Some of the sheep round here, for instance, have been awfully rude to me. They gathered around me bleating in a very abusive manner until I moved on. I really don’t understand it at all! Still, I just hope the people in the next town are friendlier.”
“Perhaps the reason the sheep abused you was that you’re a Cat,” commented the Philosopher.
The Cat seemed somewhat puzzled by this comment, and his stride became less confident, while his tail wagged in apparent disconsolation. Then he mewed good-humouredly. “Oh, you would say that, because you’re a Dog. No offence, but I’d absolutely forgotten. In this country there are so many different types of people that you just completely disregard things like that. I mean, look at all the sheep and hares round here. In the Kingdom there are mostly only Cats. And a few Mice and Dogs, but you hardly ever get to meet many of them. I suppose a lot of you Dogs aren’t particularly keen on Cats. Not that I can blame you. The King and his ministers have some pretty bizarre views on Dogs and Mice, haven’t they? You’d have thought they’d learnt something from the way history has treated the Feline species, wouldn’t you?”
“Indeed,” remarked the Philosopher without humour. “History is a lesson in the school of life the Cats have definitely not attended. And without knowledge of History, the Cat is like a tree detached from its roots.”
The Cat laughed indulgently. “I say! That’s jolly good! Where do you get all these sayings from? You don’t make them up do you?”
The Philosopher didn’t reply nearly as amiably. “I am a Philosopher. It is my duty to observe, comment, cogitate and deliberate, and then to disseminate the wisdom I have gained by my efforts.”
“Well, the very best to you! As I say, I don’t blame you Dogs for feeling so sore, but I hope you don’t think that all Cats feel the same way as the King about things. I mean, quite a lot of Cats, and I’m one of them, really think the Mice get a really raw deal. It’s not their fault they happened to have settled on our ancestral lands. And the same goes for the Dogs in the occupied territories. It must be bad enough to lose a war: it must add insult to injury to then be treated as second class citizens in their own country. Mind you! It’s not as if your Dog Republics treat even Dogs very much better than the Kingdom does.”
“What do you mean?” growled the Philosopher.
If the Cat suspected that his companion was less than delighted by his company he didn’t show it. “Well, look at the appalling way the Greyhounds were treated in the tiny Spaniel Republic. Not to mention how the Irish Terriers are being persecuted by the Dalmatians. And if you were a Daschund, are you really better treated in the Canine Republics than you would be as a subject of the Kingdom?”
“The Dog Republics are at least governed for Dogs by Dogs; not by foreigners trawled in from all over the globe and planted on soil cultivated for centuries by other species. They don’t practise a heathen religion that attributes a Divine Right to Rule on a Cat by mere good fortune of his parentage. They haven’t plundered their neighbours nor been the author of the atrocities that Cats have visited upon us. And the Canine Republics don’t administer foreign countries as if they were their own nor disregard the sovereignty of their neighbours when searching for so-called terrorists.”
“Oh dear! You really don’t like Cats at all do you!”
“I’m not prejudiced,” snarled the dog viciously. “I would never declare that one species of animal is necessarily superior to another. We all share the same basic design. But the practice of the Kingdom of Cats demonstrates to me that the Cat is as yet unready to govern, as has the Cat been wholly unworthy throughout History. The Kingdom of Cats is nothing more than a bastard state, a political abomination and a threat to regional stability.”
“I see,” mused the Cat thoughtfully. He looked around nervously, and then spotted the slave stooped down under his load behind us, sweat dripping from his forehead and leaving drops along the dusty path behind him. “And what about your friend? Don’t you think he might do with some help with that awfully heavy luggage he’s carrying? I could help him, don’t you think?”
“I think not!” snarled the Philosopher. “He is my slave and I don’t wish to have my property violated by feigned Feline kindness.”
“Oh! Is that what you think?” the Cat commented rather unhappily, his tail wagging agitatedly and his whiskers sagging. He looked around him. “Well! Goodness me! An inn!” he announced pointing at one down a small lane to the left. “What I fancy is a nice glass of milk! Would you care to join me?”
“No, I would not!” barked the Scottish Terrier, turning his head away. He strode faster and I had to increase my stride to keep up with him, while his slave almost had to break into a trot. The Cat, meanwhile, stood alone at the corner of the lane clearly rather unsettled by the Philosopher’s sentiments. My companion remained uncharacteristically silent for a furlong or so more, not slackening his pace and his paws gripping his staff so determinedly that his claws left distinct marks on it.
“Well, young man,” ventured the Philosopher at last, “what brings you so far from your borough of the Suburbs? Is it merely a desire to travel?”
“Well, not just that.” I told him about my quest for the Truth.
“The Truth!” exclaimed the Philosopher. “That’s exactly what my quest i
n life has been, but not by travelling. I would be very surprised to find the Truth in such an aimless way. The Truth can only be discovered by intense ceaseless philosophical enquiry. With enough time and effort even a worm can find its way to the end of a maze. With a powerful enough microscope even a mole can see the atoms of fundamental creation. With sufficient philosophical enquiry the Truth will surely be revealed.”
“Do you have a hypothesis of what the Truth may be?”
“The pursuit of such metaphysical enquiry has not been my speciality, but I have read widely and debated long with many of the finest minds of our time. My opinion is that the Truth is such that when it has been demonstrated as found, by rigorous logic, then the end of all philosophical enquiry will have been achieved. The Truth will shine out from the predicate calculus of its expression. Indeed it could be said that some of the Truth is already known.”
“Is that so?” I asked, speculating that I might be nearer the object of my search than I’d anticipated.
“Indeed it is! It is undeniable, for instance, when I say that if all birds fly, then if that is a bird then it must fly. This is true by virtue of its expression and is what the Truth must partake of.”
“But not all birds do fly,” I objected. “Penguins don’t fly. Kiwis don’t fly. Ostriches, diatrymas and rheas don’t fly. And if a bird damages its wing or if the wing is clipped then it can’t fly.”
The Philosopher smiled. “You are clearly not a logician. It matters not whether a proposition is true. The Truth lies in the expression of that proposition. It follows that if the reasoning is correct, then if the propositions express the Truth then the Truth is revealed: however amazing and unbelievable that Truth may be.”
“Then the Truth must lie in the fundamental propositions,” I commented.
“Exactly so. A house made of straw will surely fall, but one built on firm foundations will weather any storm.”
“Isn’t the question then to find what these firm foundations are, rather than in what they can be used to build?” I speculated, using the Philosopher’s metaphor.
“Philosophers have said that what we see in the world are just shadows of the Truth. Our lives and our experiences are nothing more than the most modest reflection of the Truth. And it has been said that it is impossible to directly gaze at it, as we would be blinded like one staring at the sun. We are just silhouettes of our real polydimensional selves. Scientists have concluded that at the smallest quantum level of the universe the rules governing the universe are totally unlike those we perceive. We see just the crudest outline of what the Truth may be.”
“So the Truth is something that can’t be directly experienced?”
“I didn’t say that. But there are those who would say so. And there are those who say that the Truth is not a physical thing that could be experienced at all. It is just a proper reasoned expression of what the universe may be, arrived at only from the most fundamental of axioms. Cogito ergo sum. By being sure of what we know by rigorous logical enquiry then we can be certain that what we know is truly what we know. We can be certain that the universe is so and not such.”
“The Truth doesn’t appear to be a particularly exciting thing in that case,” I commented with disappointment.
“Indeed why should it be? Others profess that the Truth is nothing more nor less than God. They argue that the proper pursuit of the Truth is merely to know God, in all His glory and magnificence. Some have sought to prove the existence of God from the workings of the universe; asserting that the Truth is nothing more than another name for the Great Mover, the Original Being and the Creator of all things. I have my doubts, because it would not answer the question as to why there is a God. The deeper you plunge, the deeper still there is to descend.” The Scottish Terrier looked at my puzzled expression. “I hope I have illuminated your ignorance,” he remarked. “Philosophical enquiry is like a torch shone in the darkness, but like a torch it is painful to look directly into its beam.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” I mused. “Perhaps I’m searching for the Truth in totally the wrong way. Maybe I should spend my time in thought and meditation.”
“Thought should be adequate, young man. But I see that we have arrived at the town. Where’s my slave?” He looked around him irritatedly, and could see the slave quite a long distance behind us bowed further down by the weight of the luggage and walking towards us rather slower than we’d managed. “Pah! The lazy peasant. I’ll be late for my appointment if he doesn’t hurry!”
He barked urgently at the slave who stood visibly more upright and hastened a little faster.
I left the Philosopher waiting impatiently for his slave by the roadside, angrily muttering to himself, and proceeded towards the town which I only knew by its former name of Iota.