It was on the afternoon of October 17, 1923, that a large Ford motor car passed through the village of Madderdown. Its passengers were men of distinction: a scientist and an artist. They could afford to smile at one another, as such men often do, though neither understood what the other one really did; both enjoyed a full measure of society's approbation and confidence in the value of their own proceedings, without needing to interest themselves in those of other men’.
These gentlemen, by rights, ought to have driven through Madderdown and never seen it again, if indeed they saw it at all as they hurtled along. But now fate, chance, statistical probability, or some other such imp, intervened: a small child called Molly Rule ran into the road, in pursuit of her spinning-top; she stood up with it in her grasp, just in time to see the Ford speeding towards her.
The chauffeur yanked hard on the steering wheel, and Molly disappeared from view. In her place rose up the tremendous trunk of an unyielding oak . . .
Good Farmer Braine and his philosophical friend Mr Redding, the sage of Madderdown, were crossing the field that ran down to the road. They saw Molly running home, the proudly unmoved oak tree and, pouring from its foot, a column of smoke. A man crawled to one side of the oak. A second man rolled into view on the other.
The farmer, a rifle slung over his shoulder, and the philosopher, continued to walk slowly down the field.
When they came to the oak, they saw that something metal and glass had nestled itself up against the tree, as if frantic to become one with it. The lifeless body of an unsmiling man lay across the bonnet of the mangled car. Most of him being on the bonnet, part of him – his boots – yet maintained a hopeless, residual connection with the vehicle's steering wheel.
The philosopher sighed. "Let us look", he said solemnly, "to the living."
Mr Braine approached what was very obviously the body of a great artist, lying on the ground and looking – after the manner of Oscar Wilde's lucky few – up to the sky in the hope of seeing stars. Instead, through a bloody haze, he saw a face. It had a moustache and small, sharp eyes, and a cap on it that pronounced the face to be that of a farmer. Over the farmer's shoulder, the artist could make out the shape of a rifle. The artist coughed.
On hearing this cough, the scientist jerked his head sharply to one side – his first movement for several moments. By doing so, he revealed to himself the presence of a pair of boots – philosophical boots. They shuffled briefly in the short roadside grass, and gave way to a pair of philosophical knees, covered by a pair of truly philosophical trousers. Then a hand dropped into view, much closer to the scientist's face than the knees, and waved itself inquisitively. Mr Redding was checking for signs of life. The scientist duly groaned.
When life does not treat us kindly, some people have been heard to suggest that it would be much better for the sufferer were he – or she or it – to be done with life altogether. Death may promise the unhappy liver much in the way of kindness, tending to regard all men equally as impassioned clay, and no more, and their bodies as food for fire or waves or worms. Depending on how one is dispatched – to the crematorium, the sea or the grave – one might expect to be consumed, extinguished and in general removed from the reach of malignant, intemperate life. Death's kindliness is a kingdom compared to which no earthly realm might be thought of as anything more or other than a prison.
Once the farmer had studied the artist, and the philosopher had examined the scientist, the two men who could walk, did so, in order to meet one another on the field side of the giant tree. Here, they could still be heard by the unlucky strangers, but not seen.
"When I said", said the philosopher, "that we should look to the living, I did not know that they were so close to death."
"But 'tis dying", replied the farmer, "and bain't death that do tarry 'em beside thik wold tree."
A lark was heard to rise from high up in the oak, singing a questioning song. Mr Redding looked at the sky, following the artist's example.
"The hospital is many miles away", he said. "And neither man is likely to survive the long journey in one of our village carts."
"'Ee do speak a-right", said Farmer Braine. He removed the rifle from his shoulder, and showed it to his friend. He was a practical man, and had arrived at a terrible thought, one that Mr Redding did not need to hear spoken out loud to understand. For would it not be better for a person to die suddenly, and without pain, rather than live for some minutes, or hours, in agony? As a horse that has failed its owner by breaking a leg attempting one of Epsom's more difficult jumps, must be speedily removed from life? "'Tis no more murder than mercy with men than 'tis with animals", said Mr Braine.
Distantly, the sea could now be heard, smashing against the cliffs that lay beyond the hills. The church bell did not ring, nor did the lark renew its melodious enquiry. But a movement caught Mr Redding's eye as he considered the dilemma: it was another leaf falling from the great oak, and swaying softly as it came to rejoin the company of its fellow leaves on the ground.
Mr Redding looked at the farmer, and nodded.
While the artist groaned and the scientist sighed, Mr Braine examined the instrument that would dispatch them both. Mr Redding looked down the road to see if Molly Rule was coming back from the village with any friend who might help them – the vicar, perhaps. Human noises were coming from somewhere, but no person came into view. Mr Redding returned to the oak.
There, he found his friend looking into the barrel of his rifle. Then he laid the weapon on the ground, stood up again and felt around in his pockets. Finally, he turned and fumbled through the grass. Whatever he was looking for, he did not find it there. Without meeting Mr Redding's eye, he spoke at last.
"'Tis very like I did drop rest in wood", he said.
"The rest?", said Mr Redding.
"Of 'ese", said the Farmer – and he held up a single bullet. His cheeks discernibly reddened.
At this, Mr Redding understood himself and the farmer to be but the faulty instruments of God's mercy. They had a single rifle and a single bullet – and two people to shoot. They had found suffering and determined to end it as best they could; but only half the suffering would end with their assistance. The villagers were both embarrassed.
Then Mr Redding shrugged. "We will just have to choose which of them to shoot", he said. "Which man, the artist or the scientist, should die without pain?"
Some people dislike the prospect of being shot dead, whatever their current living conditions. Thus far, the bodies lying on the ground had simply listened to their rescuers' deliberations with interested attention; at this latest declaration, however, both of them, with a surprising turn of speed, found their voices.
Until now, they had avoided speaking to one another about one another. The artist knew what the scientist did; and the scientist knew that the artist did something. Now, with the farmer's gun glinting nearby, each finally spoke of the other.
"I have always admired the 'Alpine' series of canvasses", said the scientist. "Please do my friend the honour of ending his life."
"My life would be as nothing", said the artist, "without what we all now certainly know about the time of the next lunar eclipse."
"Sir!" exclaimed the scientist, "are you not a Fellow of the Royal Academy? I bow to your superior claim to be executed forthwith."
"I have never", replied the artist, "threatened to be remembered by posterity, as a Professor at University College certainly shall be."
"Your portrait of Lord Portland's niece is without doubt the finest piece of modern oil painting in England", said the scientist. "Shoot him!"
"I could never accept such an honour in the place of the author of A Handbook of Meteors and Meteorites, the standard work of reference on the subject!"
"I think I would survive the journey to hospital. Let us set out at once!"
"Sir, your leg is broken in three places, and without your right eye, how are you to peer through a telescope ever again? No, I will risk the long and arduous journey in your place!"
"No, no, sir! Go you to Saint Peter and tell him forthwith that art's loss is heaven's gain!"
"No, sir, I insist! No rationalist should have to suffer as much as you do now. Assert your right as a genius to be liberated first from the petty concerns of the flesh. Farewell, my dear friend!"
By now, Molly Rule had returned, bringing with her Father Ashby, who turned pale at the sight of so much red blood outside its owners' bodies. Molly had also thought to stop at the post office, where Mr Lowry had been about to propose to the postmistress – only the report of two such distinguished gentlemen in a state of distress proved to be far more interesting, and so they followed Molly, and deferred their negotiations until evening.
After that came the rest of the Rule family, including the drunken father and the invalid son; rumour spread still further, and soon brought to the scene of the crash various labourers, the sexton and a tramp – also, two young lovers who had been talking in the lane nearby. All listened to what the great men had to say for themselves – and for one another – while Farmer Braine hesitated with the loaded rifle. The broken Ford was much admired under the quietly darkening sky; and the debate continued freely, albeit weakening as it went.
Mr Redding, who had at first wished to send a man to the farmhouse to fetch a second bullet – a box of bullets, if necessary – had by now become completely engrossed in the argument. Between the compelling claims of, on the one hand, the artist speaking up for the value of science, and, on the other hand, the scientist singing the praises of art, he found that there was little to choose. He had also completely forgotten why they were arguing.
Despite the bleeding, the scientist had succeeded in propping himself on his elbow, and was now gesticulating with his free (though damaged) arm, as if to a lecture hall. The artist continued to lie on his back, admiring the drift of the clouds; he rasped as his lungs struggled against the broken canopy of his ribs.
"Whatever its merits", whispered the artist, "visual art can never come close to the unarguable centrality of scientific investigations to human progress. Die, my dear friend, die!"
"The dignity of my death is as nothing", cried the scientist, "before the immediate need for your own!"
Both coughed in the dusk. Now the church bell rang, though nobody had gone to the church to ring it – and the debate had lasted an hour when Farmer Braine suddenly remembered why he was holding a rifle.
He turned away from the crowd – which was by now the entire village bar the innkeeper – and ran his hand sadly over the barrel of the gun. It had only ever, in its entire existence, sent bullets flying at rabbits, sometimes hitting and sometimes missing them as they frolicked in the Madderdown grass.
Now it would shoot a man – Mr Braine did not know which one, and he did not know, and would never know, whether it was the artist or the scientist who more truly deserved the gift of a quick and painless death – but the deed would have be done somehow, that he knew.
He turned to the oak, with the rifle raised.
"Which be gentleman that do wish to 'ave thik wold bullet?", he said.
But in that small circle of witnesses, there was only silence to answer him; the debate was over. The two men had argued one another to an eternal standstill; now neither breathed nor spoke a word more.
It was agreed, however, by all who had heard it, that it was only thanks to the disagreement between them, on the subject of art and science, those equally glorious pursuits, that they had been able to endure the final, shared hour of their lives together without a single thought of present bodily pain.
Night poured down its darkness. The dead men stared sightlessly up at the stars.
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