“The proceedings opened this afternoon, sir,” Boswell continued, “with a speech from Tolstoi. And very nice, too, sir; perhaps a little sloppy in places, but very good in its way. I should like you to have heard it, sir.”
“I should like to have done so.” The doctor’s tone was half pride, half amused indulgence.
“Universal brotherhood was his ticket, sir. Rights of man. Nonresistance to evil and so on. Of course it doesn’t quite work out, but it was a very creditable effort, very creditable indeed—especially for an old man who can’t button his own collar.”
“Quite so,” said the doctor.
“And I think you’ll like to know, sir”—a note of pride entered the head attendant’s voice—“that we also had a speech from the brother who came here the other day from Broad Hill. It was his first attempt, and to my mind one of the best yet.”
“That’s interesting,” said the doctor, smiling at Brandon. “What’s his name, by the way?”
“The Master introduced him as Spinoza.”
“I hope he was well received.”
“He was, sir, and yet not altogether as you might say. Both Plato and Aristotle seemed inclined to criticize him, and they were dead set against his proposal that Germany should be more fully represented. Spinoza seemed to think that she was entitled to more friends than Goethe and himself and Beethoven.”
“I wonder, I wonder,” Brandon interposed in a soft, far-away voice.