The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3(9)
burning desire to fix that breeding spot. They were toying now with the idea of descent from Neanderthal man, but he felt it wouldn’t do. When specialization had reached a stage so definite as that disclosed by those brutish specimens, it did not swerve to type so different. As well expect development of red-deer from elk! He turned to that huge globe whereon were marked all discoveries of moment concerning the origin of modern Man, annotated in his own neat handwriting with notes on geological changes, time and climate. Where – where to look? It was a detective problem, soluble only in the French fashion by instinctive appreciation of the inherently probable locality, ratified by research at the selected spot – the greatest detective problem in the world. The foothills of the Himalayas, the Fayoum, or somewhere now submerged beneath the sea? If, indeed, it were under the sea, then it would never be established to certainty. Academic – the whole thing? Not quite, for with it was conjoined the question of man’s essence, the real primitive nature of the human being, on which social philosophy might and should be founded – a question nicely revived of late: Whether, indeed, man was fundamentally decent and peaceful, as examination into the lives of animals and some so-called savage peoples seemed to suggest, or fundamentally aggressive and restless, as that lugubrious record, History, seemed to assert? Find the breeding nest of Homo Sapiens, and there would emerge perhaps some evidence to decide whether he was devil-angel or angel-devil. To one with Adrian’s instincts there was great attraction in this revived thesis of the inherent gentleness of man, but his habit of mind refused to subscribe easily or wholesale to any kind of thesis. Even gentle beasts and birds lived by the law of self-preservation; so did primitive man; the devilries of sophisticated man began naturally with the extension of his activities and the increase of his competitions – in other words, with the ramifications of self-preservation induced by so-called civilized life. The uncomplicated existence of uncivilized man might well afford less chance to the instinct of self-preservation to be sinister in its manifestations, but you could hardly argue anything from that. Better to accept modern man as he was and try to
curb his opportunities for mischief. Nor would it do to bank too much on the natural gentleness of primitive peoples. Only last night he had read of an elephant hunt in Central Africa, wherein the primitive negroes, men and women, who were beating for the white hunters, had fallen upon the carcasses of the slain elephants, torn them limb from limb, flesh from flesh, eaten it all dripping and raw, then vanished into the woods, couple by couple, to complete their orgy. After all, there was something in civilization! But at this moment his janitor announced:
‘A Professor’ Allorsen to see you, sir. He wants to look at the Peruvian skulls.’
‘Hallorsen!’ said Adrian, startled. ‘Are you sure? I thought he was in America, James.’
‘’Allorsen was the name, sir; tall gentleman, speaks like an American. Here’s his card.’
‘H’m! I’ll see him, James.’ And he thought: ‘Shade of Dinny! What am I going to say?’
The very tall and very good-looking man who entered seemed about thirty-eight years old. His clean-shaven face was full of health, his eyes full of light, his dark hair had a fleck or two of premature grey in it. A breeze seemed to come in with him. He spoke at once:
‘Mr Curator?’
Adrian bowed.
‘Why! Surely we’ve met; up a mountain, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Adrian.
‘Well, well! My name’s Hallorsen – Bolivian expedition. I’m told your Peruvian skulls are bully. I brought my little Bolivian lot along; thought I’d like to compare them with your Peruvians right here. There’s such a lot of bunk written about skulls by people who haven’t seen the originals.’
‘Very true, Professor. I shall be delighted to see your Bolivians. By the way, you never knew my name, I think. This is it.’
Adrian handed him a card. Hallorsen took it.
‘Gee! Are you related to the Captain Charwell who’s got his knife into me?’
‘His uncle. But I was under the impression that it was your knife that was into him.’
‘Well, he let me down.’
‘I understand he thinks you let him down.’
‘See here, Mr Charwell – ’
‘We pronounce the name, Cherrell, if you don’t mind.’
‘Cherrell – yes, I remember now. But if you hire a man to do a job, Mr Curator, and that job’s too much for him, and because it’s too much for him you get left, what do you do – pass him a gold medal?’