The Billiard Match
A short story
Some weeks ago, whilst sat quietly scrutinising some scientific correspondence in the midnight hour, I was interrupted by the most singular experience of my life. My scribbling must be excused, for the quill trembles in my hand as I hunch over that very same desk at Down House to write of how nefarious tricks were played on my senses that night.
I still beg to comprehend these happenings, & so wish to put to paper what occurred, perhaps in a fool’s attempt to exorcise myself of the quakes. I know that I risk ridicule if this passage is ever to be printed, & I have sought assurances that the following text will never see the light of day. I must exercise due caution, for the manuscript of On the Origin of Species will presently be ready for Mr John Murray & his inexorable presses — indeed, the public eye is about to turn upon me with its fullest gaze.
Nevertheless, I write. That evening, Emma & I had taken our meal of roasted beef accompanied by a small measure of claret — quite a hearty supper for a fragile constitution such as mine, but all prepared on the advice of Dr Lane, in his latest attempt to counter my divers nervous afflictions. We had in that preceding afternoon returned from the Spa, where I had indulged in a course of Hydro-therapy to only modest effect. A complete convalescence continued to elude me.
I had been distracted at the dinner table, I concede, by thoughts of my Theory of transmutations, which, I felt, once opened to the world like the box of Pandora, would bring me hatred from those who would not believe it, & so it bore my search for empirical proofs beyond the doubt of even the staunchest of opponents. I was wracked with familiar hesitancies about my piece, my stomach churning with fretfulness at the thought of publication. How was I to discern when the weight of evidence would be sufficient to quell those intellectual enemies who I was sure would soon begin barking at my door?
Post-feast, I retired to the study, where, after a pleasant few rounds of billiards with the butler Parslow, I bade him a good-night & took to my chair to continue annotations on the Cirripedia correspondence. Oft in these hours I might have partaken a small measure of snuff — but not that eve, for I had presently commenced a period of abstention. It was a habit that I regret ever having acquired, & my good Physician had commanded me to desist.
If it was through this lack of habitual tobacco, or perhaps digestive troubles from our sanguineous meal, I do not know, but as I sat & squeezed my fore-head I felt the familiar disquieting symptoms of my distempers take hold. I attempted to divert my attention, examining the abstract I was preparing for Mr Gray, scribbling some remembered observations from the pigeon fanciers & reading a letter from my dear cousin the Rev. Fox in Cheshire, whom, with his characteristic sympathy, advised that I should avoid overworking my Book, & that I should take some time in the relaxed air of his beautiful County to recover my health.
At some late hour, Emma entered to inform me that she had put the children to their beds, & was to settle for the night herself. She bade me come upstairs to kiss their foreheads, but I replied with the half-truth that I was busy with my study, not wishing to burden her with my health any further. She implored that I not exert myself too strenuously, for the mental exhaustion of preparing my Treatise was not good for my sensitive soul. She informed that she would pray for me, & I gently nodded in thanks so as not to offend. I wished her good-night & sat back in the chair, rubbing my eyes which strained under the candle-light.
I must then have fallen asleep & slipped into some fitful dream caused by indigestion or some other nervous exhaustion, as I was quite suddenly met with the impressions of some kind of nightmarish reverie, quite outside of my comprehending rational faculties. Indeed, & I baulk even as I write this now, what I experienced was naught like any usual dream. That night, I was visited by an Apparition; an airy Phantom which took form in front of my seeing eyes.
The Spectre who entered was a portly man, clad in old-fashioned garments befitting of a Century past, with a powdered wig atop his head. At the sight of him I tried to shrink back into the chair, but the Spirit seemed to have a hold on me, & I could not move without substantial effort, nor, though I willed to cry out for the assistance of Parslow, was I able to emit any cry of note from my mouth, which lay agape.
“Leave, get gone, intruder of the night—” I eventually whispered through heavy lips to the ghostly vision.
The Creature, who appeared dimly fainter than his surroundings, threw back his head & laughed with a gayety incongruent with my own dread. His smile was ethereal, & even in that fearful hour I was cognisant that his countenance matched that of a kindly Gentleman
“Pray, Mr Darwin, do you trust your senses?” He spoke, strangely, with a soft Scotchman’s accent.
I grappled with Reason, for he in front of me had an uncanny transparency, but nonetheless appeared as real as Emma & Parslow had to me those hours ago. My cognitive faculties slowly re-materialised, & it dawned upon me that I recognised the Apparition’s likeness from a portrait I had viewed some years ago by a Mr Ramsey. I slowly unhid this fact from myself as my senses accustomed to the singular episode.
I was, incredibly, conversing with the ghost of David Hume.
“Mr Hume, Sir, I do not know what or whom to trust…” I replied, breathlessly, my whole Being suffused with incredulity.
“Shall we play?” he asked as he held out a cue, & I was pleased, as I find billiards does me a deal of good & drives horrid thoughts out of my head. I took it into my hand — it felt real, sturdy, familiar from the countless games with Parslow. Then — I do not record this with any facility, — but without the Ghost seeming move but an inch, the balls were racked up on the table, & he had spun a shilling for the break.
I was entrusted to take the first play, but given the state of my nerves & trembling I endeavoured to strike quite hard, & the ivory cue ball cannoned off the red which left at such an angle as to end up careering off several cushions & meandering hither & thither, landing in a spot which was favourable to my nocturnal visitor.
“Tough luck, Mr Darwin, I daresay you do not quite seem yourself.”
What this traveller from a bygone era knew of my habits & constitution I could not begin to phantasise, nevertheless the wisdom of my guest was quite well-known, & he did not err in his assertion on the aberrance in my state of mind. Perhaps I was amidst some fever dream, or a complex hallucination caused by the ingestion of some unidentified poison from my botanical studies. Or perhaps it was the Great Man indeed.
He summarily took his own shot, which he judged precisely, the impulse of the cue ball perfectly attended with motion in the second. My competitive impulse rose, quite despite my bafflement, & I leaned on the cushion to take my next, which was this time well-placed — although the advantage, & indeed score, remained firmly in favour of my visitor.
My thoughts intentioned on the game, I quickly regained my composure, & retorted with a jest of which I was quite proud.
“Perchance, Mr Hume, it was not in fact my own shot which caused my predicament, & it wasn’t my striking of the balls which led to your advantage — because in fact it can never be said with certainty that one thing causes another!”
He emitted a laugh of contagious vivacity, & I could not help but smile back at the stranger — I admit that I was pleased to have pressed the Humour of a man of such distinction.
“Good Sir, I cannot tell you of the pleasure that your remark has brought to my ears, that my literature is known by men in this contemporary age, & quite, the happenstance of events which precede & succeed each other cannot be said to have a cause in anything but the imagination of the persons observing, & there is no proof of necessary connexion in our observations. Nevertheless, my fellow, that surmise does not excuse one from an unsatisfying attempt at billiards.”
He steadied his hand on the baize, & took his next shot, before continuing his colloquy.
“Mr Darwin, you apply yourself to some great project of Natural Philosophy, that is the cause of your distemper?”
I strode over to play my next, this time the white ball sweetly struck the red, the latter careering off into the far corner, missing the pocket by a whisker.
“I work furiously on the latter stages of my theory of Transmutation of the Species, a life’s ambition that has accumulated to this point, I call it evolution by natural selection. My mind is alive with connexions & I correspond with gentlemen throughout the Country who impart their findings to me — I will not be stilled until I have amassed sufficient examples of my Theory so that even the most disbelieving of doubting Thomases can have no means by which to discredit it.”
He nodded in silent reply, & so I pressed ahead, my curiosity gathering force.
“Mr Hume, sir, may I inquire as to the foundations of your sympathy to my ills?”
He looked me over with a gaze of compassion, & I felt as though he had embraced my shoulders in a gesture of companionableness, though his hands remained on the table.
“Lo! Mr Darwin, I have too laboured under distempers which arose from the burden of overwork. In my case it was a great weight of melancholy, Vapours passing through my body which afflicted me with all manner of somatic ills. My ardour was extinguished, & I became listless, unable to countenance myself to the idea of further exertion. I consulted the greatest Physicians of my age, & I was pronounced to have the Disease of the Learned, a condition which seems to be affecting you too, my good sir.”
I replied with some haste, for he had a prescience of mind which excited me.
“Quite! There is a certain fretfulness I experience at the thought of the effect my project may have on the Minds of those who would not hear my words. Perhaps there is Truth in what you say, Mr Hume. Pray, do divulge the facts of how you recovered from your malady?”
“It was quite simple, dear Darwin, I ceased all application to work for a period, & instead joined in the company of men to eat, drink, & be merry,” he took a swig from a glass of brandy, which had materialised magickly in his hands.
I was, despite myself, impertinent. “A great man such as you, I cannot adjudge to speak anything but the whole Truth, but you must understand that I am quite simply unable to countenance the notion that I would cease to finesse my Treatise. My dissertation must abound with empirical proofs such that the most sceptical of men will find no fault in the logic, & they will be unable to reason away from the conclusions.”
“Dear Darwin, no doubt you will not be surprised to learn that I heartily commend your empiricism, but as an abundantly learned man you must appreciate that it is quite simply impossible to prove anything beyond all rational doubt?”
Young Charles Darwin, portrait by George Richmod, 1840.
A hollow, painful sensation gripped my innards, & this ghoul whom had seemed quite genial once again was some monstrous Mephistopheles sent to harangue me.
“Then what use do we have for Science, what of human Progress?” I retorted. I will concede that there was a degree of Passion in my tone, but my visitor stayed calm & kindly. In order to quell my nerves, I strode around the table & removed his potted billiard-ball from its pocket, replacing it in its rightful position with the intention of him continuing the game.
Quiet for a while, Hume took his shot, perfectly placed again, & then looked up from his cue.
“Good Sir, I do not dare challenge your intellect, your devotion to your subject, I make no attempt to pull the rug out from under your life’s work. You wish to make a general principle of your observations, which are divers & numerous, I am correct in my assumption?”
“You are quite correct, it has been my focus since the idea sprang to me after reading the Malthus essay on Population. In fact, as I speak I half-remember your own shrewd speculations. Forgive me if I relay your writings crudely, but you wrote of the Reason of animals, that beasts are endowed by degrees with the same thought & logic as man?”
I took my shot, this time with no small degree of aplomb, & the ball landed firmly in the nominated pocket. I hid a small grin from Mr Hume.
“Quite so, although it is many years since I penned those thoughts, & my Ideas may have faded in the wash of Time.”
“You were quite prescient, if I do recall, although your thoughts on the matter were not elaborated to a great degree at the time. I was suitably taken, too, by the notion that in both beasts & man the impressions of experience become Ideas, which direct behaviour through the ordering of muscles to perform purposeful actions, which in turn become habits. Over time this leads to the animals better suited to their environment persisting, & those who are not, perishing.”
My companion leant his cue against the table, took a hold of his brandy glass, & strode over to the window.
“How are we to know with certainty that the sun will rise this coming dawn?” he asked, quite unexpectedly, with a good-natured scepticism that was characteristic of the ghostly thinker.
“I know it will because it has done so every morn of my life & that of all other lives thus far,” I rejoindered.
“But can you say with absolute certainty that it will?”
“I can only say that I strongly suspect it will, & that any man who says otherwise may have lost his poor wits.”
“If what we observe is simply the conjunction of events, & that causes do not exist anywhere but within our minds, then we cannot say with any certainty that the future will resemble the past. We can only assign it some probability based on our experiences, & the only way we can know for sure is to live forever & experience every sunrise, but by this point our little experiment on Induction would have proved quite futile.”
“I cannot disagree, Mr Hume.”
His figure was bathed in the magnesium-white glow of the moon, which cast weak shadows across the room.
“Therefore, my good man, it is quite impossible to prove anything, including your Theory, through observation & the application of Rationality, beyond any doubt. Simply impossible.”
I lay my cue across the table, aghast & wracked by thoughts which thrashed around like a great tempest. Perhaps my empirical work meant nothing? My great Theory was to be washed away, like the sands on a beach, for if I could not even know that the sun would rise after this dreadful night, then what could I know at all? It was grounds to cease all striving, to abandon hope of ever knowing anything at all.
I felt as if I were at sea. Clasping the table, I steadied myself from a faint. I would have to throw my Scientific papers in to the fire — all was futile.
I turned to plead my case with Mr Hume, for I could not countenance this state of mind. To my surprise, wore a devilishly cheerful expression, & a knowing look began to spread across his fulsome face. I righted myself & my negative cogitations began to steer towards a less stormy course. Futile? What a bunch of Poppycock! — this dastardly genius Hume was naught but a provocation sent to cure me from my distempers!
“You cannot expect me to abandon my efforts, & you do not expect that I will?” I asked him, with playful provocation.
He walked over to the table, pocketing his ball nonchalantly, which took him to a frankly insurmountable score.
“I would not dream of such a terrible conclusion, dear fellow! I too devoted my life to the love of study &, although I am vain in stating, was satisfied with some degree of fame from my work. I only state that we are creatures who cannot know by pure Reason, which is an insufficient guide to our world. All is Tentative, but only by Degrees, — I do not know if the sun will rise tomorrow, but, to concord, I would be a strange creature indeed if I was not driven to act on my strong inclinations that it will.”
“Here, we agree.”
“I cannot say I possess the means of understanding your Theory, Mr Darwin, but I know it has been the product of countless hours of labour. You devote yourself to a greater understanding of the world. Though it may never be proven in entirety, lest you live forever, & the doubts of others will never be fully ridden, let your Sentiments guide you in the publication of your life’s work.”
“I express a deep gratitude at your suggestions.”
“These doubters you speak of, are naught but zealots who believe in things beyond the capacity of their senses — Miracles & such —, & I would not venture that they will be turned by even the most stringent of reasoning. They will be glad to invent & propagate any story to your disadvantage, with no attention paid to the Truth of the matter.”
“I only wish to avoid the gigantic blunder I committed with my Glen Roy paper,” I sighed “the shame of that scientific inaccuracy still haunts me to this day. Hence the overwork…”
He walked over to me, & this time he did clasp my shoulders in his broad hands. “Indeed, show the world what you have done when your sentiments dictate, & do not find yourself guilty of my own indiscretion of going to the press too early. Moderate study, regular diet & frequent exercise, my good man, & your health will return to its prior satisfying state. Of utmost importance, refrain from overworking yourself & worsening the Disease of the Learned, remember that Reason is & ought only to be the slave of the Passions.”
I restocked my cue, satisfied at the turn of our interlocution, if not the general standard of my billiards play, but when I turned around to continue to converse, I was met by the sight of an empty room. Without so much as a whisper, he had disappeared, back to whence it was that he came.
I felt a little giddy, & sat back on the chair, resting my head in my hands. I must have fallen asleep for a while, for in the next moment dawn’s rosy light streamed in through the windows which looked out upon the gardens. From the open sash drifted the faint scent of dewy grasses, & the soft chatter of sparrows in the hedgerow. The sun had risen upon another day.
I sat for a moment composing myself, perplexed at the experience of the night. Despite the hours of seeming wakefulness, the distempers of the evening had resolved, & I felt rested, invigorated, my mental fortitude returned. I looked down at the scribbles on the papers in front of me, on the Cirripedia correspondence I had left myself a note which simply read “D.H?”
I was infused with a wondrous clarity of thought. I would send my final drafts to Mr Murray & his printers as soon as the opportunity would allow. It was high time for me to relax my grip on my big book, to set it free into the world, such as parents must do once their progeny come of age. Perhaps it was incomplete, but only by degrees, like the great Mr Hume had said.
I stretched out my out arms, hearing the pitter-patter of the children’s feet upstairs — soon they would run excitedly into the room with Emma in tow, begging their father for a frame or two of billiards. Perhaps I should have sent them off to break their fast, allowing me some time to start preparing the manuscript of On the Origin of Species, but I found my immediate desire for work was greatly surpassed by an urge for the company of my dear family.
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Matt Butler on Daily Philosophy:
