I turned to Baron Tilling.
“And what say you? have you heard of Darwin, and do you reckon yourself among his followers or opponents?”
“I have heard a good deal about the matter, countess, but I have formed no judgment on it; for as to the work under discussion, The Origin of Species, I have not read it.”
“I must confess,” said the doctor, “that I have not either.”
“Read it? Well, to be sure, I have not either,” said the Minister.
“Nor I—nor I—nor I,” came from the rest.
“But,” the Minister proceeded, “the subject has been so much spoken of, the cant words of the system ‘fight for existence,’ ‘natural selection,’ ‘evolution,’ etc., are in everybody’s mouth, so that one can form a clear conception of the whole matter and select a side decidedly with its supporters or opponents, to which first class, to be sure, belong only some Hotspurs who love violent changes and are always grasping after effect, while the cool, strictly critical people, who demand proof positive, cannot possibly choose any other than the position of opponents—shared by so many specialists of consideration—a position which, to be sure—”
“That can hardly be positively asserted,” said Tilling, reviewing the whole matter, “unless one knows the position of its supporters. In order to know what the strength of the opposing arguments is, which, as soon as a new idea comes up, are heard shouting in chorus all round it, one must oneself have penetrated into the idea. It is generally the worst and weakest reasons which are repeated by the masses with such unanimity; and on such grounds I do not choose to pass a judgment. When the theory of Copernicus came up, only those who had gone through the labour of following the calculations of Copernicus could see that they were correct: the others, who guided their judgment by the anathemas which were thundered against the new system from Rome—”
“In our century,” interrupted the Minister, “as I observed before, scientific hypotheses, if incorrect, are no longer rejected on the grounds of orthodoxy but of science.”
“Not only if incorrect,” answered Tilling, “but even when they are going afterwards to be established, new hypotheses are always at first controverted by the old fogeys of science. This set does not like even in our day to be shaken in their long-accustomed views and dogmas—just as at that time it was not only the fathers of the Church but the astronomers also who were zealous in attacking Copernicus.”
“Do you mean by this,” broke in the rough-speaking general, “that this ape-notion of our eccentric Englishman is as correct as that the earth goes round the sun?”
“I will make no assertion at all about it, because, as I said, I do not know the book. But I will make a point of reading it. Perhaps (but only perhaps, for my knowledge of such matters is only slight) I shall then be able to form a judgment. Up to the present time I must confine myself to supporting my opinion on the fact that this theory meets with widespread and passionate opposition—a fact, ‘to be sure,’ which, to my mind, speaks rather for than against its truth.”
“You brave, straightforward, clear spirit,” said I to myself, apostrophising the speaker.
About eight o’clock the guests in general broke up. My father wanted to detain them all longer, and I also murmured mechanically a few hospitable phrases, e.g., “At least you will stay for a cup of tea”—but in vain. Each produced some excuse: one had an engagement at the casino; another at a party; one of the ladies had her box at the opera and wanted to see the fourth act of the Huguenots; another expected some friends at her house; in short, we were obliged to let them go, and not so unwillingly as we pretended. Tilling and Dr. Bresser, who had risen at the same time as the others, were the last to take their leave.
“And what have you two so important to do?” asked my father.
“I myself, nothing,” answered Tilling smiling; “but as the other guests are going, it would be indiscreet—”
“That is my case too,” said the doctor.
“Well, then, I will not let either of you go.”
A few minutes later my father and the doctor had seated themselves at a card table, and were deep in a game of piquet, while Baron Tilling kept close to the fire by my side. “A sleepy business,” this dinner? “No, truly no evening could have passed in a more pleasant and more awakening manner,” was the thought that passed through my mind. Then I said aloud:—
“Really, I have to scold you, Baron Tilling. Why, after your first visit, have you forgotten the way to my house?”
“You did not ask me to come again.”
“But I told you that on Saturdays—”
“Oh, yes; between two and four. But, frankly, you must not expect that from me, countess. Honestly, I know of nothing more horrible than these official reception days. To enter a drawing-room full of strangers, bow to the hostess, take your seat on the outer edge of a semicircle, listen to remarks about the weather—and if one manages to sit next to an acquaintance, venture on a remark of one’s own; to be distinguished by the lady of the house, in spite of every difficulty, with a question which you answer in all possible haste, in the hope that it may originate a conversation with her whom you came to see; but in vain. At that moment comes in another guest, who has to be received, and who then takes the nearest empty place in the semicircle, and, under the impression that the subject has not yet been touched, propounds a new observation about the weather; and then, ten minutes after, perhaps a new reinforcement of visitors comes—say a mamma with four marriageable daughters, for whom there are not chairs enough—and so you have to get up along with some others, take leave
