Waiter, There is Fate in my Soup

The Webster stories, "Webster's Diction" , are best read in order.

This story is lecture #5, part of a series of lectures given by Professor Webster. The lectures are ordered as follows:
#1 is "The Color of God" 
#2 is "Silence in G Minor" 
#3 is "Three Hats, a Blind Man and a Dime" 
#4 is "Aristotle’s Pigeons" 

Waiter, There is Fate in my Soup

“Order!”

“Alright, I’ll have humble soup and a small salad,” Carlisle chimes in, as everyone knew he would.

“Order!” Webster repeats, choosing to ignore Carlisle, though most assuredly not for long.

“A sunflower seed will never be a rose, and a scorpion will drown before it abandons its nature. Isn’t that right Mr. Carlisle?” Webster slides one in for fun.

Carlisle appears a little concerned about the ‘drowning’ comment. “I’m sorry sir, I couldn’t help it, but, what’s with the scorpion?”

“There is a tale, Mr. Carlisle, of a scorpion who needed badly to cross a river - yes, Mr. Carlisle, to get to the other side.” Webster says sarcastically, knowing Carlisle all too well. “The scorpion beckoned a frog for a ride upon his back, to which the frog did not take kindly, proclaiming, ‘you must think me mad to allow a murderous creature upon my back. Surely you would kill me before I got to the other side.’ ” Webster says in his best frog voice, which was not a frog voice at all, but more like an Italian asking for directions in Paris. He broke up the guarded laughter by continuing undaunted.

“The scorpion, of course, explains that he would surely be the more mad of the two, to kill the frog mid-stream, for undoubtedly he, too, would drown and die. Having convinced the frog of his sincere intention, the frog allowed the scorpion upon his back. As the two reached the mid-point of their voyage, the scorpion poisoned the frog. With a look of confusion, the frog exclaims, before he dies, ‘why? Now you will die too!’ ” Webster says, like the daunted tourist asking for the Louvre.

“Because it’s in my nature, the scorpion said matter-of-factly, because it’s in my nature.” Webster says, resignedly.

“A sunflower seed will never be a rose.” Webster decrees while shaking his head for added effect. “And the twinkle in your father’s eye, Mr. Carlisle, the twinkle in your father’s eye was naught, if not you.”

Gupta licks his finger, while eyeing Cole, and posts yet another Carlisle incarnation in the air before him. ‘He’s Vishnu,’ he mouths to Cole, and then proceeds to turn a darker shade of olive thinking she may have understood, ‘I Love You.’

“Freedom!” Webster holds his fists in front of him, as if jailed behind bars.

“Free will!” His jailer appears to have no interest in his pleas.

“If a stone, while rolling down a hill, is granted consciousness, it may very well believe it can do anything. Perhaps roll up hill, or stop and enjoy the sunshine.” Webster closes his eyes and looks to the sky, “but it will decide, undoubtedly, that its most reasonable choice is to roll downhill and thus it will choose.”

“A sunflower seed cannot be a rose, and a scorpion cannot betray its stinger.”

“Freedom! Is freedom the ability to act randomly? Certainly not!” Webster uncharacteristically decides to answer his own question.

“What is freedom? Are you free Mr. Gupta?” Webster peers at Gupta over the top of his glasses.

Gupta ponders the possibilities, ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ ‘maybe,’ but he assumes the question to be rhetorical, which has worked for him in the past.

“You’re inclination not to answer is indeed your best option, Mr. Gupta. You have chosen to stay uncommitted,” Webster holds his closed fists closer to his face, as if peering out from an uncomfortable cell, “don’t imprison yourself with forgone conclusion. Don’t stick your tongue out in faux victory. Be free, Mr. Gupta, be free and swallow your fate.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but do you have a tale to help me with this one?” Carlisle asks, assuming Webster has exhausted his tales, and hoping, also, for a giggle or two.

“There once was a peasant,” Webster chimes right in, pausing only to remove his glasses, “who asked the all-powerful king for his daughter’s hand. They were in love after all,” Webster holds both hands to his heart, his thin-rimmed glasses nearly slipping from his hands. “But the king would not endure such shame, though the Princess was visibly in love.”

Webster remembers meeting Major O’Connor that first time, his hand squeezed firmly in the Major’s fist, though the major showed no ill intent. Muriel held his other hand, with much greater purpose. The blood rushed to his head. Muriel broke the ice with a proclamation of fact, ‘dad, this is Samuel Webster, soon to be Professor Webster.’ Professor Webster, Webster liked the ring of that, ‘Professor Webster.’

“Professor Webster, sir, Professor Webster.” Cole brought him back to the here and now.

“I’m sorry,” Webster had slipped into the past unintentionally, “I was just trying to remember how it went.” A little white lie to bridge the gap.

“Well, the king would have none of it, but he could not directly disappoint his lovely daughter. So he advised the peasant of the requisite tradition - after all, traditions must start sometime.” Webster continued somewhat nostalgically.

“He advised the peasant that he would place two pieces of paper in a hat, from which the peasant would choose one. Both the king and the peasant were to be bound by the choice. One piece of paper would say, ‘you may marry the Princess,’ and the other, ‘you are banished from the kingdom.’ ” Webster throws his arm forward, his glasses destined to fall.

Webster catches his glasses with reflexes he didn’t know he had, and continues unscathed. “The king, certainly smarter than any peasant, would scribe, ‘you are banished from the kingdom’ on both pieces of paper, thus sealing the peasant’s fate.”

“The peasant, however, was secretly advised of the king’s unfair tactic, though he was forbidden to openly challenge the king. How would he control his own fate, without disclosing the king’s deceit?” Webster props up his shoulders in resignation.

Webster remembers Muriel propping him up in font of the Major, ‘he’s brilliant daddy, he always makes me think.’ Webster recalls the loosening grip and the flow of stale blood rushing for oxygen. The Major looked somewhat relieved, surely a man who goes in through the brain, will take his time to conquer that which the Major most wants to protect.

“The following day, before the king’s court, the peasant approached the throne. He reached into the hat, pulling the first piece of paper he touched. He bows to the king and says, ‘your Highness, I am your subject and by your hand shall my fate be determined. My duty to my king be so strong that I shall swallow my fate in humility.’ Without reading or disclosing its contents, the peasant eats the piece of paper, and, upon a deep swallow to ensure its decisiveness, the peasant declares, ‘your Highness shall have the pleasure, as is due only a king, to read to the court that which I did not swallow, and I shall, thereby, dutifully abide by that which runs through my blood.’ ”

“Well, we all know what happened. The peasant married Muriel – the Princess, I mean.” Webster looks a little embarrassed, the blood rushing to his head, pausing long enough to give color to his face.

Webster continues, “there is harmony in captivity. There is compulsion in nature. But there is freedom in logic, there is freedom in reason. Leibniz says, ‘to act in accordance with judgement and reason is to act freely.’ Otherwise you are compelled by your nature, bound by your fate.”

A faint beep from a ten dollar watch chimes near the back of the room, signaling reveille to the weary. Webster adds his own final chime, “it’s always now on the clock of God,” leaving many wondering if they should stay or go.


Gupta’s Notes:

Gupta’s excitement is contained only by the tightness in his belly. He’s not sure if it’s love, or something he ate. He’s somewhat embarrassed too, unsure of what Cole understood, when he mouthed something about Vishnu in Webster’s class. Can she be thinking he’s going too fast, but he was only trying to be funny. He should probably leave the funny stuff to Carlisle. The knot in his stomach has expanded to his intertwined fingers.

Cole relieves the pressure with one simple phrase, “that was funny what you said about Vishnu.”

This is the second time this week that Cole has stopped by for sweet Pongal and tea. She called, quite unexpectedly, on Wednesday evening, looking for her favorite pen, as she eyed it uncomfortably, as it patiently held her place, on page 283 of Copleston’s, ‘A History of Philosophy,’ book two, volume IV.

Knowing its exact placement made her uncomfortable, and she quickly turns the topic to her craving for Pongal. Gupta is excited for, as he explains, his mother keeps willing more Pongal on him than he has capacity to freeze. Truth-be-told, his mother had lectured him on the importance of proper diet, as he negotiated enough Pongal to start a pastry shop. Ah, those little white lies that assure no end, and guarantee all scorpions a tasty wet frog.

“Have you read Leibniz?” Cole asks, feeling most certain that Gupta did not, and being well prepared to help him across.

“Actually, I did.” Gupta is visibly excited as he pulls open his notes.

“Oh, wonderful.” Cole expounds, with some deliberate effort at holding a smile.

“But there are a couple of things I need help with.” Gupta offers weightlessness to her smile. “I understand how Leibniz believes that all things are connected, that God sets the world in motion, with each thing being bound by its own nature, in harmony. I also understand that each being’s nature is a type of prison, limiting its freedom. But I am really unable to reconcile determinism, a pre-established order, with free will. But Leibniz claims there is free will. This is what I’m having trouble with.”

“You’re right,” Cole finds occasion to chime in, “Leibniz struggles with this issue, but Webster gave us the answer. Freedom has its boundaries, like he said, ‘freedom is not randomness, and a sunflower seed will never be a rose.’ You know, he means, that freedom requires choices and choices are made in a universe limited by nature, by necessary harmony. Although a sunflower, blowing in the wind, or a stone rolling down a hill, may appear to be the epitome of freedom, they are both bound by their nature, they cannot be otherwise.”

“Right,” Gupta is seeing it all unfold before his eyes, “we make choices based on what we believe is best for us, but all along, what’s best for us is predetermined in the order of nature and we could not have chosen otherwise. Like the stone rolling down the hill.” The tea is getting cold, but there is electricity in the room, and he does not care to sip while rolling towards Cole. “But what about the scorpion, if he chose what was best for him, he would not have killed the frog. What about the scorpion?”

“Well, I think Webster helps us here as well. You see, sometimes the power of nature is so strong that we can’t help our choices. This may affect one scorpion, but not the role of the scorpion in the harmony of things. You know what I mean? The scorpion must use its stinger to maintain its role in nature, even if it backfires from time to time. The nature of the scorpion is so compelling it will die to observe it.” Cole rolls her palm upwards as if to declare defeat.

Her poison warms Gupta’s heart and he drowns in the sweetness of her voice. With his final breath he swallows revelation. “The scorpion imprisoned himself by his nature. But the peasant, the peasant used his intellect, used logic to escape his fate. That’s why Webster told me not to imprison myself. He wanted me to ponder the truth and not to jump to conclusions, as by our nature we all do. He wanted me to swallow my fate, and not to stick my tongue out in faux victory. I read a poem once that said freedom is an unspoken word. It’s kinda like that, isn’t it Cole?”

“Hey Gupta,” Cole for once looked somewhat confused, “what did Webster mean by, ‘it’s always now on the clock of God?’”

“Horologium Dei,” Gupta looked as surprised as Cole with what came out of his mouth, “its Latin for ‘the clock of God.’ Leibniz uses the analogy of God setting a clock in motion, you know, the harmony of nature. I think Webster is just setting up the next lecture, probably on time and space and infinity, I think.” He sipped his cold tea, somewhat sure of himself, because, unadmittedly, he did read ahead last night. After all, fate alone does not make a man.


The poem Gupta refers to is, "Freedom is an Unspoken Word" 


If you enjoy this type of story, please read professor Webster's other stories, which I will add to from time to time, in "Webster's Diction" .The Next Story is "Is There a Problem Here" .