The Senior Common Room was unusually quiet. Professor Quillibrace had placed a printed essay on the table beside his teacup. Mr Blottisham, who had been reading it with an expression of mounting satisfaction, finally put it down.
“I must say,” he announced, “that I find the argument rather one-sided.”
Professor Quillibrace looked up.
“Which argument?”
“The argument that we should examine our own assumptions when criticising other people. A very worthy sentiment, no doubt. But it seems to me that the people who most need to hear it are precisely those who are least likely to do so.”
Miss Elowen Stray smiled faintly.
“And how did you arrive at that conclusion, Mr Blottisham?”
“By observing human nature, Miss Stray. I have spent a considerable time studying it.”
“Have you included yourself in your observations?”
“Certainly. I am a human being.”
“Then you must have discovered some assumptions of your own that you find difficult to recognise.”
Blottisham looked mildly offended.
“I don't see why. I am generally quite aware of what I think.”
Professor Quillibrace removed his spectacles.
“Being aware of what one thinks is not necessarily the same as being aware of what makes one think it.”
“Surely,” said Blottisham, “if I have good reasons for an opinion, those reasons explain it.”
“They may justify it,” said Quillibrace. “That is not quite the same thing.”
Blottisham considered this.
“I don't see the difference.”
“Then perhaps,” said Miss Stray, “we have found our first example.”
There was a short silence.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You have just dismissed a distinction because you don't see its relevance. But the essay asks whether the things we find irrelevant might sometimes be precisely the things we most need to examine.”
Blottisham sat back.
“I see. You are suggesting that my failure to understand the distinction proves the distinction.”
“No,” said Miss Stray. “I am suggesting that your response might be worth examining.”
“Which is exactly what I am doing.”
Professor Quillibrace replaced his spectacles.
“We appear to have arrived at a difficulty.”
“We appear,” said Blottisham, “to have arrived at the sort of difficulty that arises when people make simple things unnecessarily complicated.”
“An interesting assessment,” said Quillibrace.
“Thank you.”
“I was not offering a compliment.”
“Ah.”
Miss Stray turned to the essay.
“I think there is something else here. We seem to be treating self-examination as though it were a means of discovering whether we are right or wrong. But perhaps its first purpose is to discover why a particular question matters to us in the first place.”
“Surely it matters because it is important,” Blottisham replied.
“And how do you recognise its importance?”
“Because it matters.”
Professor Quillibrace gazed at him for a moment.
“Your reasoning has achieved a remarkable economy, Blottisham. It has eliminated the need for an explanation.”
“Which is not always a bad thing, Professor.”
“No. But it can be inconvenient when an explanation is what one requires.”
Miss Stray was still looking at the essay.
“I wonder whether we are making another assumption. We are talking about the mirror as though it were something that interferes with our view of the world. But the mirror is also what allows us to see certain things. Our expectations aren't merely obstacles. Without them, we might not recognise anything at all.”
Quillibrace nodded.
“Quite so. The question is not how to eliminate one's assumptions, but how to recognise their usefulness without supposing that they are adequate for every purpose.”
Blottisham brightened.
“Then we agree that assumptions are necessary.”
“We do.”
“And that criticism is necessary.”
“Yes.”
“And that people who criticise others should examine their own assumptions.”
“Certainly.”
“Excellent. I see no difficulty.”
Miss Stray looked at him.
“Do you think your agreement might itself be worth examining?”
Blottisham's expression changed.
“I should prefer to examine somebody else's.”
“An understandable preference,” said Quillibrace.
“Thank you, Professor.”
“Again, not a compliment.”
Blottisham reached for his teacup.
“Then I shall have to learn to recognise when you are complimenting me.”
“That,” said Miss Stray, “might be an excellent place to begin.”
For a while, the three of them drank their tea.
Then Quillibrace picked up the essay again.
“There is a further question. If we cannot escape our assumptions, and our attempts to examine them are themselves governed by assumptions, how can we ever know whether we have made progress?”
Miss Stray considered this.
“Perhaps progress doesn't require us to escape our assumptions. Perhaps it is enough that we discover something we could not previously see.”
“An encouraging thought,” said Quillibrace. “Though it leaves open the question of how we distinguish a genuine discovery from a new illusion.”
Blottisham put down his cup.
“I have a suggestion.”
Both of them turned towards him.
“We should ask someone who has no assumptions.”
Quillibrace closed his eyes.
Miss Stray looked towards the window.
Outside, a cloud passed in front of the sun, and the garden changed its appearance.
“I wonder,” she said, “whether the garden has changed, or whether we have simply begun to see it differently.”
“Both, perhaps,” said Quillibrace.
Blottisham glanced outside.
“I can settle that. I shall go and inspect it.”
He rose, walked to the window, and looked out.
After a moment, he turned back.
“The garden is exactly as it was.”
“Are you certain?” Miss Stray asked.
“Perfectly. I have examined it.”
“And what did you look for?”
Blottisham paused.
“Why, the garden, of course.”
Professor Quillibrace picked up his teacup.
Miss Stray returned to her essay.
And Mr Blottisham, having established the facts to his satisfaction, sat down again.
For the remainder of the afternoon, he was unusually reluctant to criticise anyone.
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