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Evening descended as Tudor’s carriage
passed over the drawbridge to his castle and parked inside its dark grey walls.
Within his walls, as without, there was considerable evidence of the Mouse’s
wealth in the form of fishponds, ornate hedges and enormous rosebushes. Several
of Tudor’s servants, all hares in livery, gathered to greet us when we arrived.
One hare in dark clothes, a ruff about his neck only slightly less magnificent
than Tudor’s own, came directly to the carriage to welcome his master.
“I hope ’twas
a day of great success for thee, sire,” he asked obsequiously.
“Indeed, ’twas. Only a malign election result
shalt deprive me of mine just reward. I have with me another guest,” Tudor
indicated me, “so I shalt expect a chamber prepared and a place ready for him
at mine table.”
“’Twill be
done, sire,” the hare replied, conducting us through a giant oak doorway into
the main hallway of the castle. “’Tis salmon and trout on the
menu this evening.”
“And much mead
I trust?” Tudor asked while his servant removed the belt holding his sheathed
sword and held it respectfully in his paws.
“As ever,
sire.”
I was
impressed by the expansive hallway lit by great wax candles in a giant
chandelier above our heads. All around were portraits of illustrious looking
Mice posing with swords and horses framed by extensive estates populated by all
kinds of livestock. Two suits of armour stood to
attention at the foot of a wide oak staircase. Even through the soles of my
shoes, however, the stone floor felt very cold, and although it was not a cold
day the air was distinctly chilly inside the castle’s walls.
“Thou hast
another guest, sire,” the hare continued, one of his long ears foppishly
drooping. “’Tis Hubert. He arrived unannounced this morn, and when I saidst
that thou wert abroad he declared he wouldst await thee.”
“Hubert! ’Tis
many a morrow sin last we met. Thou didst well to let him stay. But sooth didst
he perchance relate why he hath come?”
“Nay, sire.
But I woot ’tis as ever in his quest for the Great Bard.”
“As
incorrigible as e’er!” laughed the Mouse. He gestured to me. “Come, ’tis time
to dine. Mine modest banqueting hall awaits.”
It might
well have been modest compared to the opulent surroundings in which we’d met
earlier in the afternoon, but it was still a very large room compared to any to
be found in a Suburban house. A long oak table extended the length of it, on
which was a comprehensive collection of crockery, cutlery and unopened bottles
of wine and mead.
In a large
leather chair below another portrait of a proud Mouse, sat the figure of an
enormous teddy bear more than seven foot tall, wearing a long green waistcoat,
a frock coat through the sleeves of which protruded the lace cuffs of his shirt
and grey silk tights which just about squeezed around his tubular legs. His
paws held a large green tri-cornered hat on his lap. He gazed at us through
bright button eyes and as he twitched his nose I could see the stitching in his
fur.
“Good
evening, Tudor. I hope you don’t mind me intruding on your hospitality like
this,” he announced, lifting himself up and strolling
towards us.
“Not at all, Hubert. Nay, the
pleasure, ’tis indeed mine to receive thee once more. Thy quest for perfect
poetry hath brought thee here once more?”
“It has
indeed! I seem to ever gravitate towards your castle in my quest for the works
of the Great Bard. But who is your charming friend?”
“He hath
come from the Suburbs. I met him on a train yesterday, and again today at the
Party...”
“On a
train! I would never imagine you’d ever contemplate such an uncomfortable means
of travel! And, you, young man. You come from the Suburbs. Why! I was there
just two days ago! From what I saw of that place, I am extremely surprised to
see someone from there in such a place as Tudor’s castle.”
“Thou wert
in the Suburbs? Thou dost greatly amaze me! Trowest thou that the Great Bard abided
there?”
“I have so
heard,” Hubert admitted. “But there is naught for me there I confess. The
relics of the Poet have been greatly obscured by municipal statues and
supermarkets. But let’s speak no more of that for I see that the first course
is arriving.”
Two hares
dressed in tights, breeches and modest ruffs carried in large platters of fish.
They were placed on the end of the table, where we were to sit, with Tudor at
the head in a splendid high-backed chair, and Hubert and I on chairs to either side and facing each other. My chair was quite hard
and rather too large, while Hubert must have found his chair uncomfortably
small for his substantial bulk. The servants placed carved portions of salmon
on our platters with the fishes’ eyes staring reprovingly up.
“It’s not
at all long ’til the General Election,” began the large teddy bear, choosing
this topic as a means of stimulating conversation. “The day after next, I
think.”
“I’sooth! ’Tis
so,” replied Tudor carving his salmon with expert ease, while I was having
great difficulty in separating the bones from the flesh. “’Twill be momentous,
I trow, howsoe’er ’tis resolved.”
“I’m sure
you don’t agree with me, Tudor, because I know what an old reactionary you are,
but my hopes are on the White Party winning this Election.”
“The White
Party!” snorted the Mouse disdainfully. “Thou hast stayed too long in the
Suburbs, i’truth! Thou wouldst advocate a government of no principles, no
ideology, and no beliefs. The Party of compromise and dithering.”
“‘That’s
exactly why the White Party wins my vote,” Hubert said pushing a forkful of
fish into the dark lines of his mouth. “What this country needs is a government
of consensus. Not one which pursues an agenda of its own design and oppresses
the interests of others. Not a party like the Black Party who’d lynch Cats and
other foreigners. Not one like the Red Party who’d increase our taxes. Nor one such as the Blue Party which would neglect the interests of
the poor. No. What is needed is a party which pursues the golden mean.
Neither right nor left. Neither capitalist nor communist.
Neither catholic nor Protestant. Neither religious nor
irreligious....”
“In short,
Hubert, thou advocatest a government of pusillanimity and uncertainty. Thou
wouldst desire government more for short term convenience than long term
strategy. A government that doth naught that might ere disconsole the smooth
order of life.”
“You’re
quite right, Tudor, if a bit facetious. A White government is a government that
by driving in the middle of the road will avoid the tragedies that befall those
who veer towards the extremes.”
“Then,
Hubert, answer me this. Why ’tis thought needful for this General Election which
shalt result in but one Party governing our great nation, when thou believest
that government shouldst continue to be run by the consensus, dithering and
delay that hath so long characterised it? Wouldst it better be ’twere all to
stay as ’tis?”
“You may
scoff, Hubert, but I do think that would be somewhat preferable to government
by any of the other five Parties contesting the Election. If you consider the
Suburbs, where the White Party has been in effective power from the beginning,
you must confess that there is order, contentment, prosperity and peace. It is
there that you will see the nearest to perfect government that currently exists
in this land.”
Before
Tudor could rebut Hubert’s reply, the servants breezed in, cleared away what
was left of the first course, and lay another meat dish on the table that
appeared to be rabbit or some other lagomorph. One hare, somewhat larger than
the others, took slices from the carcass and placed them on new plates along
with roast turnips, swede and parsnips. Hubert smiled appreciatively at his
host while he took a forkful of white meat into his mouth.
“Tell me,”
pursued Tudor directing the conversation into uncontroversial territory. “How
doth thy quest for the Great Bard for which thou hast travelled to such exotic
boroughs as the Suburbs?”
“It
continues, as ever, to exhume more of the legacy this great man has left. I
have yet to find an authenticated tombstone nor indeed
proof positive of his birth-place but I seek still and will persevere...”
“Until when? What
is’t thou seekest?”
“If I
didn’t know you better, Tudor, I would have thought you a philistine. The quest
for Great Art is an end in itself. Its discovery is a mere trophy of one’s
endeavours.”
“Great Art ist worth but three farthings if ’twere for the sole
pleasure of the ćsthete.”
“Now, you
are being facetious. Art is necessarily for all, though there are those of
undoubtedly greater ćsthetic sensibilities than others. This is just and
fitting. The poet evokes images of great profundity in daffodils, roses, fish
and wedding parties. He informs us of our condition and advises how best to
advance on it. And so it follows that the greatest of poets must be the
greatest of all creation, and that man is incontrovertibly the Great Bard.”
“Thou must needs forgive me, Hubert, for the very ignorance that
thou dost deride, but I little grasp the greatness of poetry. Thou canst not
live in it. Thou canst not eat it. And thou dost not become rich by possessing
it.”
“Again I
must beg to disagree. One most certainly does become rich in the possession of
poetry.”
“And I woot
a very conceited lot these poets art! Why, Hubert, shouldst I heed these petty
scholars who hath lived little and gained but little wealth?”
“Are you
never affected by the wit and wisdom of poets who take any issue, however
improbable, and in a few apt words persuade us to behold it anew?”
Before
Tudor could challenge Hubert, the hares returned to remove
what was left of the main course and to replace it with a selection of
cakes, fruit, biscuits and cheese. They also brought in a bottle of brandy from
which Tudor took great pleasure in pouring us all a drink. He picked up a glass
in his claw and sniffed it with his long nose while his whiskers twitched
agitatedly. As if satisfied by the smell he swallowed the contents entire and
poured himself another glass.
“How was
the Party, Tudor?” wondered Hubert, decorously brushing the crumbs of cake from
the corner of his mouth with a serviette.
“As ever,”
sniffed the Mouse absently. “’Twouldst be better an ’twere
not for the presence of the Cat Ambassador. That the host canst be so persuaded
to invite a Cat to his Party illustrateth, wert demonstration required, the
malign influence of the Cat in our society.”
“I’m sure
he was present more on account of his being an Ambassador than of being a Cat,”
commented the teddy bear diplomatically.
“Thou’rt
too liberal in thy views!” exclaimed the Mouse. “A Cat ist
a Cat, and as such ist innately damned. This Ambassador was disseminating his
malign propaganda at the Party, and was dressed in such immodest and vulgar
opulence that shouldst excite repugnance in all good Christian souls.”
“You really
don’t like Cats, do you?”
“Wouldst
thou, wert thou a Mouse? Mine kind hath been attended shamefully by Cats. I
feel naught but sympathy for the Mouse Liberation Organisation and Canine
Freedom Fighters who struggle against Feline oppression. ’Tis oft claimed by
the Cats that they art the victims of racism and intolerance, but ’tis a hollow
claim when thou knowest the discrimination practised against Mice in the Cat
Kingdom who art denied expression in their own language and the rights of plebiscite
and representation, and whose land ist oft stolen by so-called Feline Settlers.
How canst the Cat deserve respect when he depriveth other species of theirs?”
“So you
approve of the extreme behaviour of Rodent and Canine terrorists
who blow up aeroplanes, hijack buses, gun down civilians, explode monuments and
bandstands, and consign their own districts to a constant atmosphere of fear
and distrust.”
“Is’t unlike the terrorism executed by Cats by which they acquired the
ancestral homes of millions of Mice and Dogs? Plainly, I wouldst defend those who by active or passive means art
employed in reversing the wrongs the Cat hath wrought. And thou’rt mistaken - a
thousand times so - when thou sayest that the struggle ist
entirely engaged by the terrorist. In the
“I don’t
believe that it’s at all inconsistent for me to be sympathetic to that kind of
protest and somewhat less so to the terrorism of more militant individuals,”
argued Hubert. “And furthermore I am a little disquieted by the notion of the
Dogs becoming a greater influence in the region. Some of the
“Necessity
maketh strange bed-fellows,” agreed the Mouse. “I wouldst not wish the
independent nation of Mice when it ariseth from the ashes of the
“I’m sure
you’re right,” commented Hubert diplomatically, poking at the inside of his
mouth with a tooth-pick. “I was merely expressing reservation about the use of
violence to attain the ends you believe in.”
“’Tis immaterial. The struggle ist one which shalt continue by fair means or foul. And one
in which my bank account ist much committed. However,
my friends, shalt we retire to the smoking room?”
“A splendid
suggestion, my good Mouse!” agreed the teddy bear, heaving up his immense
weight and then, clearly familiar with the layout of Tudor’s castle, leading
the way through the immense oak doors to the adjoining room, in which the
servants had already prepared a fire. As we left the dining room, the servants
bound in and began tidying up the remains of our meal.
The smoking
room was aptly named, as it possessed a very strong smell of tobacco which
clung to the leather furniture and wallpaper, and had discoloured the ceiling
with a pronounced yellowish stain. We reclined in comfortable upholstered
chairs and sofas set around the fire which emitted most of the light in the
otherwise gloomy room. Portraits of Tudor’s ancestors lined the wall beyond the
shadows cast by the fire. In front of us stood a low oaken table on which there
was more mead and wine, and, appropriately for the room, a collection of long
clay pipes, loose tobacco and spills. Tudor and Hubert went through the rituals
of piling tobacco into the pipes and puffing away at them to keep them alight.
In no time the room was full of a thick sweet-smelling odour that saturated my
eyes and throat and made me feel distinctly unwell.
Tudor took
a long draw from his pipe and exhaled a long twisting cloud of smoke. “Tell me,
young man,” he asked. “Why is’t thou hast departed the Suburbs and voyaged
here?”
“My
impression from my stay in the Suburbs,” Hubert added, “is that for the natives
to venture anywhere beyond the borough’s confines is considered hazardous. The
people I spoke to had very disapproving opinions about the rest of the country,
or indeed the rest of the world. It was almost as if they’d never seen a seven
foot tall teddy bear in a tri-corned hat before.”
I explained
to Tudor that I had left the Suburbs on a quest for the Truth which I believed
could only be found elsewhere. “It seemed well worth the effort of leaving
home.”
“I’sooth, in comparison to Hubert’s quest for the Great Poet ’tis
incontestable that thy quest seems a nobler thing by far. Few who wouldst question the need to seek out and peruse all the Great
Poet hath writ, spake or thought wouldst quibble at the relative nobility of
the Truth. But I wouldst disagree with thee that thy search is the wiser or
more advisable. The very nature of thy quest suggesteth that the Truth canst be
found in a material or physical form. I wouldst avow that the Truth ist of a spiritual nature that canst be attained only by
total immersion in philosophy, religion and contemplation. Moreo’er, thy quest
conflicteth with the Truth revealed in the person of Our Lord Jesus Christ who
hath suffered, died and been resurrected to spare us the need of similar
discomfort to save our souls.”
“Religious
objections like that are most untypical of you, Tudor,” laughed Hubert. “I
don’t doubt the sincerity of your Christian beliefs, but surely you wouldn’t
deny our young Suburbanite credit in an equally sincere search for the Truth.
Perhaps it will lead him eventually to conclude that the Truth does in fact lie
in the Christian religion.”
“I ken thee
too well, Hubert, to accept that thou affordest the Word of the Lord with the
least respect. ’Tis known that thou’rt a damnable atheist and thou no more
think our young man shalt find the Truth in the Christian faith than in a
tureen of sushi.”
“Tudor! You
misrepresent me most cruelly! I am no atheist, as you claim. I am a doubter. A skeptic. I believe that the Truth cannot be known and that
the best that one can hope for is a greater approximation of knowledge of the
Truth. Who am I to say that the Truth won’t after all be substantiated as
manifest in the Holy Gospels? I hope that I am not too arrogant to immediately
doubt such a proposition. I would just say that I entertain great doubts as to
whether this will be the case.”
“Thou
mayest not know the Truth, Hubert, but I trow that thou hast thy own opinions
as to what the Truth mightst be.”
“It’s true
that I have opinions, but I wouldn’t be a skeptic if I didn’t say that they are
mere speculation. It could well be that your views, or the views of Cats, or
the views of your lapin servants, are the ones which are in actual fact a
closer representation of the Truth. My belief is that the Truth is the insight
that one sees in just a flash of recognition in the expression of great Poetry.
It is in the wit, wisdom, conceits, epiphanies and revelations that Poetry
delivers. The Truth is in the most perfect Haiku, the most devastating Sonnet,
the most expressive pentameter and the most scathing of dismissive satire. The
pursuit of Truth is not a pursuit of a thing that can be held, examined or
dissected; but is in fact to be found in the greater and more exact expression
and statement of itself.”
Tudor
puffed silently at his clay pipe. His whiskers twitched with their usual
agitation and he blinked his massive eyes to avoid the smoke. “From what thou
sayest, I wouldst deem that thou believest that the Truth hath been already
found, with which I wouldst agree, and that the Truth ist
to be revealed by great insights made by the properly qualified. In this we art
agreed. Howe’er, I trow that the Truth ist revealed not by Poets who but claim
to spiritual, moral and ćsthetic wisdom, but in those who at the pulpit of the
church hath truer claims than any poet to wisdom and knowledge which hath the
affirmation of the Truth, and that which hath come on high from God, the
Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.”
“I would
never dream of being as specific as that,” Hubert contended, putting down the
glass of mead he’d been drinking. “The Truth I’m sure is a single monistic
thing of many aspects, of which the Poets have illuminated just some. Poetry
constantly strives towards a greater and more accurate expression of that
simple undoubted Truth. When it has finally expressed the Truth in all of its
potential manifestations then it could be said that it has been found.”
“Thou hast
indeed a very grand notion of the profession of Poetry,” laughed the Mouse. “I
wouldst agree with thee, if ’twere not commonly known that the majority of
Poetry, e’en that scribbled by thy Great Bard, hath
no content of Truth in’t at all. ’Tis but humour, scurrility, conversation,
digression and indulgence...”
“But these
too are aspects of the Truth!” insisted the teddy bear.
“’Tis all
frivolity!” concluded the Mouse, tapping out the ashes of his clay pipe into
the open fire. “Now ’tis time for ye to be shown your rooms
for the night.”
Tudor then
escorted us around the castle, which was very dark and quite cool in the late
evening. It was difficult to be sure of my tread as I followed Hubert and he up the dark shadows of the oak stair-case and along
wooden corridors that creaked ominously under the heavy weight of the giant
teddy bear’s footsteps.
My bedroom was
a room somewhat larger than the one I had in the Suburbs and in many ways very
luxurious. There was a large log fire blazing in the room which a hare was
diligently priming when we put our heads through the door. There were some very
expensive furnishings, some very valuable paintings, beautiful oriental
wallpaper featuring fishermen and fish, and the most ornate wood panelling. But
there was no electric light switch and I had to snuff out a candle with a
curious metal spoon. The four-poster bed had a very hard mattress and was evidently
designed for people that at their very tallest would have been Tudor’s size
(and was most certainly not designed for people of Hubert’s dimensions). And
despite the fire which undoubtedly heated one seventh of the room, the
remaining six-sevenths of the room remained inexplicably cold. But I was very
tired and after I’d crawled under the several heavy woollen blankets that
weighed down the bed I was soon able to escape to my own dream
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