Not that it Matters | Page 7

I should like to
believe that the heavenly bodies sort themselves into certain positions
in order that Zadkiel may be kept in touch with the future; the idea of a
star whizzing a million miles out of its path by way of indicating a
"sensational divorce case in high life" is extraordinarily massive. But,
candidly, I do not believe the stars bother. What the stars are for, what
they are like when you get there, I do not know; but a starry night
would not be so beautiful if it were simply meant as a warning to some
unpleasant financier that Kaffirs were going up. The ordinary man

looks at the heavens and thinks what an insignificant atom he is
beneath them; the believer in astrology looks up and realizes afresh his
overwhelming importance. Perhaps, after all, I am glad I do not believe.
Life must be a very tricky thing for the superstitious. At dinner a night
or two ago I happened to say that I had never been in danger of
drowning. I am not sure now that it was true, but I still think that it was
harmless. However, before I had time to elaborate my theme (whatever
it was) I was peremptorily ordered to touch wood. I protested that both
my feet were on the polished oak and both my elbows on the polished
mahogany (one always knew that some good instinct inspired the
pleasant habit of elbows on the table) and that anyhow I did not see the
need. However, because one must not argue at dinner I tapped the table
two or three times... and now I suppose I am immune. At the same time
I should like to know exactly whom I have appeased.
For this must be the idea of the wood-touching superstition, that a
malignant spirit dogs one's conversational footsteps, listening eagerly
for the complacent word. "I have never had the mumps," you say airily.
"Ha, ha!" says the spirit, "haven't you? Just you wait till next Tuesday,
my boy." Unconsciously we are crediting Fate with our own human
weaknesses. If a man standing on the edge of a pond said aloud, "I have
never fallen into a pond in my life," and we happened to be just behind
him, the temptation to push him in would be irresistible. Irresistible,
that is by us; but it is charitable to assume that Providence can control
itself by now.
Of course, nobody really thinks that our good or evil spirits have any
particular feeling about wood, that they like it stroked; nobody, I
suppose, not even the most superstitious, really thinks that Fate is
especially touchy in the matter of salt and ladders. Equally, of course,
many people who throw spilt salt over their left shoulders are not
superstitious in the least, and are only concerned to display that
readiness in the face of any social emergency which is said to be the
mark of good manners. But there are certainly many who feel that it is
the part of a wise man to propitiate the unknown, to bend before the
forces which work for harm; and they pay tribute to Fate by means of
these little customs in the hope that they will secure in return an
immunity from evil. The tribute is nominal, but it is an
acknowledgment all the same.

A proper sense of proportion leaves no room for superstition. A man
says, "I have never been in a shipwreck," and becoming nervous
touches wood. Why is he nervous? He has this paragraph before his
eyes: "Among the deceased was Mr. ----. By a remarkable coincidence
this gentleman had been saying only a few days before that he had
never been in a shipwreck. Little did he think that his next voyage
would falsify his words so tragically." It occurs to him that he has read
paragraphs like that again and again. Perhaps he has. Certainly he has
never read a paragraph like this: "Among the deceased was Mr. ----. By
a remarkable coincidence this gentleman had never made the remark
that he had not yet been in a shipwreck." Yet that paragraph could have
been written truthfully thousands of times. A sense of proportion would
tell you that, if only one side of a case is ever recorded, that side
acquires an undue importance. The truth is that Fate does not go out of
its way to be dramatic. If you or I had the power of life and death in our
hands, we should no doubt arrange some remarkably bright and telling
effects. A man who spilt the salt callously would be drowned next
week in the Dead Sea, and a couple who married in May would expire
simultaneously in the May following. But Fate cannot worry to think
out