Mary longed to ask Mrs. Ritchie “if Captain Templeton would be attending the dinner, though he is not a member of the Society?” but she dare not speak his name in front of Mrs. Malcolm. She feared she detected a change in Mrs. Malcolm’s manner toward her, a new coldness.
The Ritchies intended to depart for Dublin soon after the Linen Hall dinner, and Mary congratulated herself on successfully evading the captain, with the precious assurance he would be gone within the week.
The annual meeting of the Society for Promoting Knowledge—for this was the august body which had convened the event—preceded the annual dinner. During the election of the officers, the report of the treasurer and the librarian, et cetera, Captain Templeton had little to do besides motion to the waiter to refill his wine glass. He was seated at the table next to Edmund Bertram’s, but they had barely acknowledged each other upon taking their seats, and ignored each other subsequently.
The waiters strode out carrying the dishes for the first course as soon as the president’s gavel hit the table. The talk at Edmund’s table during dinner turned into something of a dispute, as to whether the Society’s library ought to be reserved for works of morality, science, philosophy and so forth, or if novels should be admitted to the collection. Mr. Malcolm was strongly opposed, and Edmund agreed that while most of the novels published to-day had little to recommend them, certain works contained much that was edifying.
“I could not say,” said Mr. Malcolm dismissively, “for I never read novels,” and he looked around the table as though to say, he did not expect any of his friends to admit to such a weakness.
“Have you not read Steam & Sagacity, sir?” Dr. Ritchie asked him. “I would be happy to lend you my copy. The novel is set one hundred years in the future, and makes a number of bold predictions concerning the advancement of the sciences, to say nothing of changes in the modes of social intercourse. Such speculations, and the discussions they might engender, are not at all out of keeping with the aims of our Society.”
“I have heard something of this book. It predicts that steam-machines will liberate the working class from toil, and mankind will be free to pursue knowledge and the arts? Look at the numbers of idle men in existence today—I speak of men of our own class, doctor, and look how they occupy themselves. You will not find one man in twenty who passes his time in rational or benevolent pursuits.”
“This seems a queer argument for leaving the rest of mankind to labour like brutes,” Dr. Ritchie replied, but mildly enough. “Adam was condemned to dig the earth and Eve to spin, but we are not at the same level as the beasts of the field. Every day brings news of some ingenious new contrivance, some fresh scientific revelation, and it behooves us, as men of learning, to consider the possible repercussions for society.”
“Yes, but a novel is mere speculation. I am informed Mr. Gibson predicts that in the future, there will be a tunnel excavated beneath the English channel,” said Mr. Malcolm, “and people will travel by steam locomotive from England to France.”
“Who is to say this will not occur in the distant future?”
“Science says not,” said Mr. Malcolm with finality. “Persons in a carriage pulled by a locomotive engine travelling at, say, a speed of more than fifteen miles per hour, would be unable to breathe, obviously. And going into a tunnel under the sea is out of the question.”
The men continued to canvass Mr. Gibson’s novel, while Edmund became aware of feeling uncomfortable, as he always did when Mr. Gibson was mentioned in his presence. He had met the man, three years ago, and thought him to be in love with his cousin Fanny. Later came the news of Mr. Gibson’s arrest, and a letter from his father congratulating himself on having successfully dissuaded Fanny from marrying the writer. He had hailed the news at the time with satisfaction.
Now he wondered if he had been unfair. He had clearly underestimated both Mr. Gibson’s talents and his capacity for acquiring sufficient funds to support a wife. He wondered how Fanny felt about it, now that several years had gone by.
Edmund was lost in thought and Mr. Malcolm was still asserting that novels had a pernicious influence, when the tapping of a fork upon a crystal glass drew everyone’s attention to the head table. The waiters removed the last covers in preparation for the president’s after-dinner address. Everyone shuffled their feet and refilled their glasses, readying themselves for an interval of speech-making by half-a-dozen gentlemen who did not subscribe to the axiom that brevity is the soul of wit. Indeed, it was an oratorical contest, with all the speakers vying for eminence with their well-chosen historical and literary allusions, their apt quotes, their snippets of Greek and Latin and their encomiums on the contributions of the Society for Promoting Knowledge to the cultural and intellectual life of Belfast.
“But no novels,” muttered Mr. Malcolm under his breath.
At the close of the last speech, the president rose again and added he thought it “not inappropriate to conclude the evening with an humble tribute of praise and thanksgiving for the recent magnificent victory at Waterloo, and to send up a prayer of thanksgiving for the gallantry of Commander Wellington, whose name and reputation must rouse in the hearts of the assembly every sentiment of manly honour and patriotic devotion. However feeble the hand that strikes the chord of tribute, these notes of loyal harmony will vibrate.”
Every reference to
