It is all the
same to him, he takes his philosophy with him. You can suddenly tell
him he is an emperor, or give him penal servitude for life. He goes
on being a philosopher just as if nothing had happened. We have an
old tom-cat. The children lead it an awful life. It does not seem
to matter to the cat. They shut it up in the piano: their idea is
that it will make a noise and frighten someone. It doesn't make a
noise; it goes to sleep. When an hour later someone opens the piano,
the poor thing is lying there stretched out upon the keyboard purring
to itself. They dress it up in the baby's clothes and take it out in
the perambulator: it lies there perfectly contented looking round at
the scenery--takes in the fresh air. They haul it about by its tail.
You would think, to watch it swinging gently to and fro head
downwards, that it was grateful to them for giving it a new
sensation. Apparently it looks on everything that comes its way as
helpful experience. It lost a leg last winter in a trap: it goes
about quite cheerfully on three. Seems to be rather pleased, if
anything, at having lost the fourth--saves washing. Now, he is your
true philosopher, that cat; never minds what happens to him, and is
equally contented if it doesn't."
I found myself becoming fretful. I know a man with whom it is
impossible to disagree. Men at the Club--new-comers--have been lured
into taking bets that they could on any topic under the sun find
themselves out of sympathy with him.
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