The man’s erudition was profound. He had wracked his brains energetically on every department of thought, from religion to geology, and back again several dozens of times, looking for just one peep-hole of light and hope. The tragedy was that not one peep-hole had been found. Philosophy, logic, ethics, comparative theology, political economy, history of all kinds, literatures of all nationalities—he had dissected them all, pruned them all, reduced them all to their elemental fallacies, and there the matter stood.
“Mauney,” he had said during one of their discussions, “you can’t be sure of anything. You can prove nothing. Why? Simply because, in any conclusion at which you arrive, you can never be sure of your premises.”
Just why the uncertainty of one’s premises should so rob life of its many enthusiasms, Mauney could not understand. At heart he never enjoyed talking with Freeman, for, although he admired his adroit intellect, the professor always left him temporarily transfixed on the horns of a logical dilemma, or else temporarily treed by a savage, snarling premise. But as a mental exercise it was great fun, and its depressing effects yielded to fresh air as an antidote.
At any rate Robert Freeman was a great man. His opinion on historical questions was a high court of appeal. His monumental work on the constitutional history of France was on the shelf of every self-respecting library in the country. It was an honor to have access to the great man’s home. “Freeman on Constitutional History” was a familiar marginal reference in text books. Freeman, alone in his library, with a big pipe and a huge, red can of tobacco beside him on the table, was a privilege. With almost reverent eyes Mauney looked upon the man who held the chair of history in the renowned University of Merlton—Merlton, that light set upon the summit of the world for the world’s illumination, that arch-planter of wisdom’s germs, that spring of the river of knowledge. And Freeman, that inextinguishable flame, whose brilliant radiance shone abroad—here he sat, smiling, smoking, conversing.
“I hope I’m not taking your time, Professor,” he apologized.
“No, I’m just reading a light thing,” he said, indicating his book. “You know I read everything, Mauney. I’m like a butterfly—taking a little honey from this flower and a little from that!” His long fingers turned lightly through the pages. Mauney observed them—those long fingers, those restless hands of Freeman’s, those long, thin hands like a woman’s, that were always twining themselves about some object. If they were ever still it must have been during sleep, but even then Mauney could more easily fancy them moving sinuously about the folds of his counterpane. They were like his mind. If they held a book before his eyes they kept feeling the covers, as if his brain, in its intent of complete mastery, took cognizance even of the texture of the binding.
“And I find,” continued Freeman, “that it’s wise to read light, little things like this. You know, enjoyment is everything.”
“But is it?” ventured Mauney, consciously drifting into the familiar channel of their arguments. “Is enjoyment really everything?”
Freeman’s face became delicately ethereal as he considered the question.