The Philosopher

“The rain is a dreary thing,” Althemus spoke aloud. His pen rubbed the rough paper. He paused, and walked towards the window. Sunlight flew through the windows, splashing the small room with a radiance of glorious white. “Strange. The sun shines and I write of dreary rain. A philosopher grows stupid in his old age, and writes of things he knows naught of. Even Socrates spoke, saying, “My advice to you is to get married.” What did he know? Though he was very right, Socrates could not have been one to judge; he had no wife.” Althemus quickly returned to his table and scribbled the words,

An old man speaks naught from what he knows,
Yet he will press his false suit on the seed of his body.

Yes, that was right. It was true, and Althemus had drawn it from his own knowledge. It was indeed a true philosophy.
Althemus was readying his third collection of philosophies for publishing, and he had needed just five more to make it complete. Now he needed four. The first volume collected the philosophies of childhood, and spoke of the ease of each passing day. The second volume encompassed all his philosophies of adulthood, and the trials of life as man struggled to earn his bread. Then this, the third and final volume, would seal it all and speak of old age, and the passing of another grey head.
Then, entering through the door, the man servant came with another pot of tea for him. “Your tea, sir.”
“Thank you, Martin. Tell me, what is it that keeps you in my service?”
“I am not sure. Evidently there’s something, else I should not be here. My wage, I suppose, keeps me here. You provide both food and shelter for me, in addition to my monetary wage.”
“Thank you Martin, that is all.” Althemus returned to his desk and wrote:

An old man is willing to give the lesser much of his money,
For he knows that in the winter of his life, his financial gains
Will do more for a poorer soul than it will afford him in his final days.

And also:

Food and home are a better wage for the man
Than much money.

Althemus sighed. Another inspiration must come if he was to finish today. Throwing his pen on the desk, he took his tea, and mused over the sunlight still coming in. But his meditation was interrupted by the entrance of Martin.
“Excuse me sir, a visitor to see you, sir.”
“Who is it Martin? Come now, show him in.”
“A Dr. Benedict, sir.”
“Ah, Althemus,” in strode Valerian Benedict, a professor at the institute, “what has you in this solitude, and so chained to your desk? I say, it is a wonderful day. Leave your pen, come, and let us walk.”
“Not this time, Valerian. No, I am quite undone. I have yet two scholarly things I must say, yet nothing to write. You should know that scholarly pursuits are of far greater importance than a beautiful day.”
“A beautiful day is rare, and your study affords no air to breathe. I say, you shall suffocate if you do not quit this lonely hermitage. All things, even scholarly things, must find their place. None should trespass on another.”
“This hermitage, as you call it, is not so lonely and dreary as you would have it. It rather comforts me,” Althemus replied.
“It is a sorry comfort that is ruled by a drafty cell.”
“And a sorrier one that is ruled by ill desires of a poorly manifested spirit.”
“I will not bicker with you philosopher, or waste my time with your banter, only know that I would have you leave this place and hie for a greener place. Good day to you.”
“And good day to you.” Valerian left. “I would not have you waste your precious time with me.” Althemus wrote again, and, satisfied, read it aloud to himself:

False hopes and fears will lead a man
Where he wishes not to go.
Let wisdom’s suit and knowledge
Lend a hand to lead him aright.

Althemus drank deep from the tea. “Martin,” he called, “I would have some of my brandy brought to me.” He turned, and looked at the water clock. The day grew late.
Martin entered with the brandy, and, mixing it with the tea, offered it to Althemus, who drank deep of the draught. “Martin, man does not love philosophy or philosophers as he ought. Modern man has become wise in his own folly, and now begins to forget what wiser men have said. In the philosophers stead comes such unworthy gossip as is unfit to crowd the columns of a journal.”
“There are indeed, sir,” responded Martin, “Few people who understand philosophy as I. I take it, as you say, that man has traded the wisdom of men for the folly of women. Gossip is a terrible thing.”
“Aye. And it is we who must bear the burden of another’s folly.”
Martin took his leave. But silence did not last long. In came Eldemore Hewitt, the deacon of the abbey.
“Althemus, I am told by Dr. Benedict that you refuse to quit your room. Is it so? Really I thought it not of you, trading the joy and wonder of God’s creation for your pen. Are you so wanting for reason that you cannot go a full hour without writing such foolish neologisms as you do?
“I write that what small amount of true wisdom that I have might be passed on that another may by my word become wiser than I. It would then be my earnest hope that he too, like me, would record this wisdom for yet another. Through this, man would be enlightened. Here writ is just such writings as I see fit to complete this task.”
“And what fool,” retorted Eldemore, “would trade his worthwhile enjoyment of true pleasure derived from God for a cell such as this? Who would quit a good life to write what another man hath already said?”
“The object of philosophy is not to reiterate some words already imagined by another, but to remake them, and to better them, so that another might learn a more valuable lesson than first was taught by the original writer. Also a philosopher would hope that he might come up with such a word as will be remembered and remade; that he might start the process of achieving the object of which I spoke.”
“You can’t seriously believe that hogwash. Philosophy is the work for old men who have given up on life. Unless you also have forsaken your life as others have, then you can’t seriously meditate your motive of staying inside today. Come, at least take a turn in your garden.”
“No, Eldemore! Unless you quit this infernal speech, I shall have no choice but to remove you from my cell, if a cell it be. Perhaps you are right; perhaps I have given up on life. Perhaps by my mistake another might learn and correct his self, am I right? Now, go therefore, one last word is all I need before I quit this place.”
“Goodbye, Althemus. Perhaps God will have pity on you and see fit to remove you from the earth to a place where philosophy is yet a good thing.”
Althemus sank into his chair. If he had the strength, he would weep, but as he did not possess in his frame the shred of might he required, he scratched the last word:

The world hates a man it cannot understand,
As it hates all the words it cannot comprehend,
Even though words wield a power which is wholly beyond them.

Philosophy is dead.

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