state, he bade him go and condense it; in twenty years the sage returned and his history now was in no more than fifty volumes, but the King, too old then to read so many ponderous tomes, bade him go and shorten it once more; twenty years passed again and the sage, old and gray, brought a single book in which was the knowledge the King had sought; but the King lay on his death-bed, and he had no time to read even that; and then the sage gave him the history of man in a single line; it was this:  he was born, he suffered, and he died.  There was no meaning in life, and man by living served no end.  It was immaterial whether he was born or not born, whether he lived or ceased to live.  Life was insignificant and death without consequence.  Philip exulted, as he had exulted in his boyhood when the weight of a belief in God was lifted from his shoulders:  it seemed to him that the last burden of responsibility was taken from him; and for the first time he was utterly free.  His insignificance was turned to power, and he felt himself suddenly equal with the cruel fate which had seemed to persecute him; for, if life was meaningless, the world was robbed of its cruelty.  What he did or left undone did not matter.  Failure was unimportant and success amounted to nothing.  He was the most inconsiderate creature in that swarming mass of mankind which for a brief space occupied the surface of the earth; and he was almighty because he had wrenched from chaos the secret of its nothingness.  Thoughts came tumbling over one another in Philip’s eager fancy, and he took long breaths of joyous satisfaction.  He felt inclined to leap and sing.  He had not been so happy for months.

“Oh, life,” he cried in his heart, “Oh life, where is thy sting?”

For the same uprush of fancy which had shown him with all the force of mathematical demonstration that life had no meaning, brought with it another idea; and that was why Cronshaw, he imagined, had given him the Persian rug.  As the weaver elaborated his pattern for no end but the pleasure of his aesthetic sense, so might a man live his life, or if one was forced to believe that his actions were outside his choosing, so might a man look at his life, that it made a pattern.  There was as little need to do this as there was use.  It was merely something he did for his own pleasure.  Out of the manifold events of his life, his deeds, his feelings, his thoughts, he might make a design, regular, elaborate, complicated, or beautiful; and though it might be no more than an illusion that he had the power of selection, though it might be no more than a fantastic legerdemain in which appearances were interwoven with moonbeams, that did not matter:  it seemed, and so to him it was.  In the vast warp of life (a river arising from no spring and flowing endlessly to no sea), with the background to his fancies that there was no meaning and that nothing was important, a man might get a personal satisfaction in selecting