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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/76991-0.txt b/76991-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f22540 --- /dev/null +++ b/76991-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10864 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76991 *** + + + + + +EPISODES BEFORE THIRTY + + + + + EPISODES BEFORE + THIRTY + + By + ALGERNON BLACKWOOD + + CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD + London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne + 1923 + + + + +_Printed in Great Britain_ + + + + + To + ALFRED H. LOUIS + + + + +EPISODES BEFORE THIRTY + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +A strong emotion, especially if experienced for the first time, leaves +a vivid memory of the scene where it occurred. I see a room in a New +York boarding-house. I can touch the wooden bed, the two gas-brackets +beside the looking-glass, the white door of the cupboard, the iron +“register” in the wall that let in heated air, the broken sofa. The +view from the dirty windows towards the high roof of Tony Pastor’s +music hall in 14th Street, with a side glimpse of the trees in Irving +Place, show clearly. The rattle of the Broadway cable cars, the clang +of their bells, still come to me through that stifling August air, when +the shade thermometer stood at a hundred, with humidity somewhere about +95 per cent. Thoughts of the sea and mountains, vainly indulged within +those walls, are easily remembered too. + +The room I am writing in now seems less actual than the one in the +East 19th Street boarding-house, kept by Mrs. Bernstein, a German +Jewess, whose husband conducted his own orchestra in a Second Avenue +restaurant. Though thirty years ago, it is more clearly defined for +me than Lady X’s dining-room where I dined last night, and where the +lady I took in said graciously, “I simply loved your _Blue Lagoon_,” +which, naturally, I was able to praise unreservedly, while leaving her +with the illusion as long as possible that she had made friends with +its gifted author. And this detailed clarity is due, I am sure, to the +fact that in that New York room I had my first experience of three new +emotions, each of which, separately, held horror. + +Horror draws its lines deep; its pictures stand out in high relief. +In my case the horrors were, perhaps minor ones, but at the age of +twenty-one--an exceptionally inexperienced twenty-one--they seemed +important; and the fact that they were combined entitles them to be +considered major. They were three in number: the horror of loathsome +vermin running over my body night after night, the horror of hunger, +and the horror of living at close quarters with a criminal and degraded +mind. + +All, as I said, came together; all were entirely new sensations. “Close +quarters,” too, is used advisedly, for not only was the room a small +one, the cheapest in a cheap house, but it was occupied by three of +us--three Englishmen “on their uppers,” three big Englishmen into the +bargain, two of us standing 6 feet 2 inches, the other 6 feet 3 inches +in his socks. We shared that room for many weeks, taking our turn at +sleeping two in the bed, and one on the mattress we pulled off and kept +hidden in the cupboard during the day. Mrs. Bernstein, denying her +blood, won our affection by charging eight dollars only, the price for +two, morning coffee included; and Mrs. Bernstein’s face, fat, kindly, +perspiring, dirty, is more vivid in my memory after all these years +than that of the lady last night who so generously mistook me for De +Vere Stacpoole. Her voice even rings clear, with its Jewish lisp, its +guttural German, its nasal twang thrown in: + +“I ask my hospand. Berhaps he let you stay anozzer week.” + +What the husband said we never knew. He was usually too drunk to say +anything coherent. What mattered to us was that we were not turned +out at the moment, and that, in the long run, the good-hearted woman +received her money. + +Certain objects in that room retain exceptional clarity in my mind. If +thought-pictures could be photographed, a perfect print of the bed and +gas-bracket could be printed from my memory. With the former especially +I associate the vermin, the hunger, and the rather tawdry criminal. I +could describe that bed down to the smallest detail; I could draw it +accurately, even to the carving; were I a carpenter I could make it. +All that I suffered in it, of physical and mental anguish, the vain +longings and despair, the hopes and fears, the loneliness, the feverish +dreams--the entire dread panorama still hangs in the air between its +stained brown foot and the broken sofa, as though of yesterday. I can +see a tall man pass the end of it, one eye on me and another on the +door, opening a razor slowly as he went. I see the blue eyes narrowing +in his white face, the treachery of the coward twisting his lip into +a smirk. I can see him sleeping like a child beside me, touching me. +Moving stealthily about the room in the darkness too, as, thinking me +asleep, he stole on bare feet to recover the confession of forgery I +had forced him to sign, I can still see his dim outline, and even hear +his tread--a petty scoundrel unwittingly on his way to gaol. + +The bed, thus, is vividly present in my memory. By contrast with it, +not quite so sharp, perhaps, and a pleasanter feeling associated +with it, another New York sleeping-place rises in the mind--a bench +in Central Park. Here, however, the humour of adventure softens the +picture, though at the time it did not soften the transverse iron arms +which made it impossible to stretch out in comfort. Nor is there any +touch of horror in it. Precise and detailed recollection fades. The +hoboes who shared it with me were companions, even comrades of a sort, +and one did not feel them necessarily criminal or degraded. They were +“on their uppers” much as I was, and far quicker than I was at the +trick of suddenly sitting upright when the night policeman’s tread +was coming our way. What thoughts they indulged in I had no means of +knowing, but I credited them with flitting backwards to a clean room +somewhere and a soft white bed, possibly to that ridiculous figure of +immense authority, a nurse, just as my own flashed back to a night +nursery in the Manor House, Crayford, Kent. That the seats I favoured +were near the Swings lent possibly another touch to the childhood’s +picture. + +The memory, anyhow, is a sweeter one than that of the bed in East 19th +Street, if less sharply defined. The cool fresh air, the dew, the +stars, the smell of earth and leaves, were all of them clean, and no +price asked at dawn. Yet the two--the bed and the bench--are somehow +linked together in my mind, the one invariably calling up the other; +and, thanks to them probably, no bed bothers me now, lumpy or sloping +though it be, in train, hotel, or lodging. I have slept in strange +places since--high in the Caucasus, on the shores of the Black Sea, on +the Egyptian desert, on the banks of the Danube, in the Black Forest +and Hungary--but each time the effort to get comfortable brought back +the bed and the bench, and sleep soon followed to smother both. + +The gas-brackets, similarly, rise vividly before my eyes, associated +with the pain, the weariness of hunger; not of true starvation, but +of weeks and months of under-nourishment, caused by one meal a day. +The relation between hunger and gas-brackets may seem remote. It was +on the latter, however, that we learned to fix the metal top which +made the flame spread in a circle round a light tin cooking-pot. We +boiled water for milkless tea in this way, cooked porridge, and when +porridge was not to be had we heated water with dried apples in it. I +remember the day we discovered that it was more economical to eat the +strips of dried apple first, then drink the hot water that made them +swell so comfortingly inside us. They proved more filling that way, the +false repletion lasted longer, the sense of bulk was more satisfying, +the gnawing ceased, and the results, if temporary, at least made it +possible to fall asleep. + +There are other details of that sordid New York room which still +retain their first disagreeable vividness, each with the ghost--a very +sturdy ghost--of the emotion that printed it indelibly in the mind. +These details are best mentioned, however, in their proper place and +sequence. It should first be told how we came to be there. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +We arrived in New York towards the end of October, coming straight +from five months in the Canadian backwoods. Before that, to mention +myself first, there had been a year in Canada, where, even before +the age of twenty-one, I had made a living of sorts by teaching the +violin, French, German, and shorthand. Showing no special talent for +any profession in particular, and having no tastes that could be +held to indicate a definite career, I had come to Canada three years +before for a few weeks’ trip. My father, in an official capacity, had +passes from Liverpool to Vancouver, and we crossed in the _Etruria_, a +Cunarder which my mother had launched. He was much fêted and banqueted, +and the C.P.R. bigwigs, from Lord Strathcona and Sir William van Horne +downwards, showed him all attention, placing an observation car at his +disposal. General James, the New York postmaster, gave a dinner in +his honour at the Union League Club, where I made my first and last +speech--consisting of nine words of horrified thanks for coupling “a +chip of the old block,” as the proposer called me, with the “Chief of +the British Postal Service.” + +A ludicrous wound to vanity helps it to stick in the mind--my father +wore no braces, and I copied him, but--well, in his case no belt +was necessary, whereas I was slim. It suddenly dawned on me, as I +spluttered my brief words, that a line of white was showing between +my waistcoat and the top of my trousers. The close of my speech was +hurried, my bow was cautious; I was extremely relieved to sit down +again. + +In the lovely autumn weather, we saw Canada at its best, and the trip +decided my future. My father welcomed it as a happy solution. I came, +therefore, to Toronto at the age of twenty, with £100 a year allowance, +and a small capital to follow when I should have found some safe +and profitable chance of starting life. With me came--in the order +of their importance--a fiddle, the “Bhagavad Gita,” Shelley, “Sartor +Resartus,” Berkeley’s “Dialogues,” Patanjali’s “Yoga Aphorisms,” de +Quincey’s “Confessions,” and--a unique ignorance of life.... I served +my first literary apprenticeship on the _Methodist Magazine_, a monthly +periodical published in Toronto, and before that licked stamps in the +back office of the Temperance and General Life Assurance Company, at +nothing a week, but with the idea of learning the business, so that +later I might bring out some English insurance company to Canada. + +The first taught me that, just as I had no ambition to write, so, +likewise, I possessed no talent; the second merely made articulate +the dislike I felt for anything to do with Business. It was the three +months in the insurance office that caused me to accept eagerly the job +on the _Methodist Magazine_ at four dollars a week, and the reaction +helped to make the work congenial if not stimulating. + +The allowance of ten dollars a week was difficult to live on, and I +had been looking everywhere for employment. It was through a daughter +of Sir Thomas Galt, a friend of my father’s on our previous trip to +Canada, that I obtained this job--sixteen shillings a week, hours ten +to four. + +Dr. Withrow, editor of the leading Methodist magazine, and of various +Christian Endeavour periodicals for children and young people, was a +pleasant old gentleman, who went about in a frock coat and slippers, +had a real sense of humour and a nice wife and daughter. His editorial +den was in his own little house, and my duties were to write an article +every month for the magazine, which was illustrated, and also to write +a few descriptive lines of letterpress to accompany the full-page +illustrations for the numerous Christian Endeavour and Methodist +periodicals for young people and children. He taught me the typewriter, +and with my shorthand I took most of his letters at dictation, and +certainly earned my money. My monthly articles in the magazine were on +such subjects as Christmas in England, Life at a Moravian School, The +Black Forest, Travel in the Alps--anything that my limited experience +enabled me to describe at first-hand, and on the whole the old +gentleman seemed satisfied. The description of the children’s pictures, +however, always made him chuckle, though he never said why, and I wrote +dozens of these a day, describing the picture of “King Canute and the +Sea,” “Elijah in a Chariot of Fire,” “A Child Blowing Bubbles,” “The +Wood-boring Beetle,” etc. etc. + +He would dictate some of his articles of travel to me, and I would take +them down in shorthand, and he often made such grotesque mistakes in +facts that I quietly corrected these as I wrote, and when I read out +the sentence to him he would notice the alteration and look at me over +his spectacles and say: + +“Thank you. Yes, I was wrong there. The fact is, I have so many +articles to write that I compose two at a time in my mind, and they +get muddled up. An editor should always be accurate, and Methodist +readers are cranky and hard to please.” He was a Methodist parson +himself, which did not prevent him saying exactly what he thought. He +lunched off dates and bananas, which he kept in a bag beside his desk, +and that same desk was in such disorder that he never could find what +he wanted, and I was not surprised to learn that, before I came, the +printers got the wrong papers, and that many of the children’s pictures +got descriptions underneath that did not belong to them--for instance, +a boy blowing a bubble was published over a few lines describing the +habits of snakes, “as seen in our illustration,” and so forth. + +I got on so well with the little Methodist that he wanted to come to +the evening French classes I was giving at fifty cents a lesson to some +of the clerks in the insurance office, and to bring his daughter with +him. He said a little more knowledge of French would be very good +for him when he took his conducted tours of Canadian Methodists to +Switzerland; but I did not rise to this, and persuaded him to wait till +I could get a more select class to meet, perhaps, at his own house, +where a girl could more suitably attend. For, to tell the truth, some +of my pupils had a habit of coming slightly drunk--or, as they called +it, “with a jag on.” He, however, would not wait, so I lost two good +pupils!... Dr. Withrow, patient little man of kindly disposition! His +faded black frock-coat, his spectacles high on his puckered forehead, +his carpet slippers, his tobacco-stained white beard, his sincere +beliefs and his striped trousers of a pattern I have always since +labelled mentally as “Methodist trousers”--it is a gentle little memory +tucked away among unkinder ones, and I still hear him giving me my +first and only lesson how to write. His paraphrase of “fatal facility” +stays with me: “Fluency means dullness, unless the mind is packed with +thought.” It stays with me because the conversation led to my asking if +I might write an article for the monthly on the subject of Buddhism. +Behind it lay an ever keener desire to write something on Hegel, whose +philosophy I felt certain was based on some personal experience of +genuine mystical kind. + +“From what point of view?” he asked, his forehead puckering with +amazement. + +“That of belief,” I said, my mind bursting with an eager desire to +impart information, if not also to convert. + +He passed his hand across his forehead, knocking the spectacles +off. Then, catching them with a fumbling motion which betrayed his +perturbation, he inquired: “But, of course, Mr. Blackwood, not your +_own_?” + +The voice, the eyes, the whole attitude of the body made me realize he +was prepared to be shocked, if not already shocked. + +“Yes,” I replied truthfully, “my own. I’ve been a Buddhist for a long +time.” + +He stared for some time at me without a word, then smiled a kindly, +indulgent, rather sceptical smile. “It would be hardly suitable,” +he mentioned, as I felt his whole being draw away from me as from +something dangerous and unclean. Possibly, of course, he did not +believe me; I am sure he prayed for me. Our relations seemed less +cordial after that; he read most carefully every word I wrote in his +magazine and children’s pages, but he never referred to the matter +again. + +My Methodist job, none the less, was a happy one; this first regular +wage I had yet received in life gave me the pleasant sensation that I +was launched. My connexion with Methodism ceased, not because I was +dismissed or had failed to give satisfaction (indeed, the editor had +just told me my salary was to be raised!), but because all the capital +I should ever have was sent to me about that time from England--about +£2,000--and I went into partnership with a farmer outside Toronto and +bought some forty head of pedigree Jersey cattle. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +The Islington Jersey Dairy, Messrs. Cooper and Blackwood, started +business with a retail office in College Street, a number of milk +carts bearing our names in black lettering upon a yellow background, +and the supply farm at Islington, a lovely little hamlet on the shores +of Lake Ontario, some six miles west of the city. We sold rich Jersey +milk, we sold eggs and butter too. I gave picnics at our pretty little +farm for customers I knew socially. The upper floors of the building +in College Street we furnished, letting bedrooms at a dollar a week +to young Englishmen, clerks in offices, and others. I engaged an old, +motherly Englishwoman, Mrs. ’Iggins, with a face like a rosy apple, +to “do” for us--she made the beds and cooked the breakfast--while her +pretty daughter, in cap and apron, was our dairymaid. The plan did not +work smoothly--the dairymaid was too pretty, perhaps; Mrs. Higgins too +voluble. Complaints came from all sides; the lodgers, wildish young +fellows in a free and easy country, made more promises than payments. +One wanted a stove, another a carpet in his bedroom, another complained +about his bed. I had my first experience of drink and immorality +going on under my very eyes.... Trouble--though mercifully of another +kind--spread then to the customers. The milk began to go sour; it was +too rich; it wouldn’t keep; the telephone rang all day long. Cooper, +an experienced dairy-farmer, was at his wits’ end; every device for +scouring the bottles, for cooling the milk before bringing it twice +a day to the city, failed. At dinner parties my hostess would draw +me tactfully aside. “The milk, I’m afraid, Mr. Blackwood,” she would +murmur softly, “was sour again this morning. Will you speak about it?” + +I spoke about it--daily--but Alfred Cooper’s only comment was, “Say, +have you got a bit more capital? That’s what we really want.” + +That sour milk became a veritable nightmare that never left me. I had +enough of milk. Yet, later in life, I found myself “in milk” again, +but that time it was dried milk, a profitable business to the owners, +though it brought me nothing. I worked six years at it for a bare +living wage. But, at any rate, it couldn’t turn sour. It was a powder. + +Alfred Cooper was a delightful fellow. I think some detail of how our +partnership came to be may bear the telling. It points a moral if it +does not adorn a tale. It may, again, prove useful to other young +Englishmen in Canada similarly waiting with money to invest; but on the +other hand it may not, since there can be few, I imagine, as green as +I was then, owing to a strange upbringing, or as ignorant of even the +simplest worldly practices. Of the evangelical training responsible for +this criminal ignorance I will speak later. + +Cooper, then, was a delightful fellow, fitting my ideal of a type I +had read about--the fearless, iron-muscled colonial white man who +fought Indians. The way we met was quite simply calculated--by a clerk +in the bank where my English allowance of £100 a year was paid by my +father. The clerk and I made friends--naturally; and one day--also +naturally--he suggested a Sunday walk to Islington, some six miles +down the lake shore. We could get tea at a farm he knew. We did. The +praises of the Cooper family, who owned it, had already been sung. I +was enchanted. So, doubtless, was the clerk. + +The farm was a small one--perhaps eight acres; and Cooper lived on it +in poverty with his aged mother and unmarried sister. It was charmingly +situated, the fields running down to the water, pine copses dotting +the meadows to the north, and the little village church standing at +one corner near the road. Mrs. Cooper, in cap and apron, dropping +every “h” that came her way, described to me how she and her husband +had emigrated from England sixty years before, in the days of sailing +ships. Her husband’s grave in the churchyard we could see from +the window while we sat at tea--an unusually sumptuous tea for a +farmhouse--and it was evident that she was more alive to the memories +of half a century ago in the “old country,” than to the plans of her +ambitious son in the new colony. + +The son came to tea too, but a little late, having obviously brushed +himself up a bit for his visitor from England. He was about forty +years of age, tall, well-built, keen-faced, with steel-blue eyes and +a hatchet nose, and his body was just that combination of leanness, +strength and nervous alertness which made one think of a wolf. He +was extremely polite, not to say flattering, to me. I thought him +delightful, his idyllic farm still more delightful; he was so eager, +vigorous and hardy, a typical pioneer, slaving from dawn to sunset to +win a living from the soil in order to support the family. I trusted +him, admired him immensely. Having been duly prepared for the picture +on our walk out, I was not disappointed. He spoke very frankly of the +desperate work he and his sister were forced to do; also of what he +might do, and what could be made of the farm, if only he had a little +capital. I liked him; he liked me; the clerk liked us both. + +He showed me round the farm after tea, and his few Jersey cows came up +and nosed his hand. The elderly sister, a weaker repetition of himself, +joined us. She, too, slaved from morning till night. The old mother, +diminutive, quiet, brave, devoted to her children yet with her heart in +the old country she would never see again, completed a charming picture +in my mind. I was invited to come again. + +Another picture, still more alluring, was set before me during the walk +back, the picture of what a “little capital” could do with that tiny +farm. The dairy business that could be worked up made me feel a rich +man before the Toronto spires became visible. The desire to put capital +into the Islington Jersey Dairy became the one hope of my life. Would +Cooper agree? Would he accept me as a partner? The suggestion came +from myself. The clerk, of course, had never dreamed of such a thing. +They _might_ welcome me, the clerk thought. Very kindly, he said he +would sound Cooper about it and let me know.... + +The scheme seemed such a perfect solution of my problem of earning a +living, that I was afraid up to the last moment something must happen +to prevent it. Cooper would die, or change his mind, or one of my +influential business friends would warn me not to do it. I was so +jealous of interference that I sought no advice. Without so much as a +scratch of the pen between us the enterprise started. So heartily did +I like and trust my partner that when, later, wiser friends inquired +about my contract with him, it infuriated me. “Contract! A contract +with Alfred Cooper!” + +We did a roaring trade at first. Our Jersey milk was beyond all +question the best in the town. It was honest, unwatered milk, and our +cream, without any preservative added, was so prized that we soon +had more orders than we could fill. Why our milk and cream soured so +readily, losing us trade rapidly later, is a mystery to me to this day. + +Within a few weeks of our starting business, Cooper convinced me that +a model dairy building on the farm would be a desirable improvement; +it would save labour in various ways; it was built. The farm belonged +to his mother, not to him; he kept the building when our collapse +followed. Next, his sister really must have someone to help her, and +that someone was provided at high wages. Business was good, so good +in fact that we could not supply orders. Extra milk must therefore be +bought from neighbouring farmers. This was done, the contracts being +made by Cooper. I never asked to see them. The bills were paid every +month without question on my part. More grazing fields, with enough +artificial food to feed at least a hundred cows in addition, these +too had to be paid for. As for the appetites of our forty animals, I +marvelled at them long before I became suspicious. Yet when, after +much insisting, I saw one of the farmer’s bills for extra milk, it left +me, naturally, no wiser than before, and certainly not a whit more +comforted, for the less our trade became, the more milk, apparently, +those farmers sold us! + +Six months later the firm of Cooper and Blackwood dissolved +partnership, Blackwood having got the experience and Cooper having +got--something quite as useful, but more marketable. Cooper’s I.O.U. +for five hundred dollars, now stuck in an old scrap-book somewhere, +made me realize a little later how lucky it was that I had only a +limited amount to lose. + +Yet, though it seemed the end of the world to me, my capital lost, my +enterprise a failure, I recall the curious sense of relief with which I +saw the last cow knocked down to some bidder from up-country. From the +very beginning I had hated the entire business. I did not know a Jersey +from a Shorthorn, so to speak. I knew nothing about farming, still +less about dairy-farming. The year spent at Edinburgh University to +learn the agricultural trade had been wasted, for, instead, I attended +what interested me far more--the post-mortems, operations, lectures on +pathology, and the dissecting room. My notebooks of Professor Wallace’s +lectures, crammed as they were, with entries about soil, rotation of +crops, and drainage, represented no genuine practical knowledge. I knew +nothing. My father sent me out to Canada to farm. I went. I farmed. +Cooper and Blackwood is carved upon the gravestone. But the gravestone +cost £2,000, my share of the forced sale being about £600. My Canadian +experience, anyhow, can be summed up in advice, which is, of course, a +bromide now: let any emigrant young Englishman earn his own living for +at least five years in any colony before a penny of capital is given +him to invest. + +It was with this £600 I soon after went into partnership with another +man, but this time an honest one. We bought a small hotel in the heart +of Toronto. It also lasted about six months. When the crash came we +lived together from May to October on a small island in a thirty-mile +lake of the Ontario hinterland; we shared a long slice of difficult +life together subsequently in New York; we shared the horrors of East +19th Street together. He failed me only once, missing a train a few +years later by a couple of minutes. It was the Emigrant Sleeper to +Duluth on Lake Superior, _en route_ for the Rainy River Gold Fields, +where four of us had made sudden plans to try our fortunes. I was on +a New York paper at the time, and had secured passes over the first +fifteen hundred miles. As the train drew out of the Central Station I +saw my friend racing down the platform, a minute too late! From that +day to this I have never set eyes on him again. It was an abrupt end to +a friendship cemented by hard times, and my disappointment at losing +his companionship was rather bitter at the time. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +At the time we met, this friend of mine had been out from Oxford--New +College, I think--a year or so, and with a Cambridge man about his +own age, had been running a sporting goods shop in King Street. They +sold the paraphernalia of cricket, tennis, boxing and the like, but +with no marked success. The considerable money invested by the pair +of them earned no interest. John Kay was impatient and dissatisfied; +the other had leanings towards the brokering trade, as offering better +opportunities. Both were ready to cut their losses, realize, and get +out. They did so, remaining the best of friends. And it was one day, +while these preliminary negotiations were being discussed in the back +office, where they muddled away the day between rare sales, that Kay +said to me mysteriously: “Look here, I say--I’ve got a wonderful +scheme. Have you got any money left?” + +I mentioned the £600. + +“I call it a rotten shame,” he went on. “Of course, you’ve been +swindled. These people look upon us as their natural prey”--and he +proceeded to describe his “scheme”--to buy a small hotel which, owing +to its bad name, was going cheap; to work up a respectable business and +a valuable goodwill; then to sell out at a top price and retire with a +comfortable fortune. Kay was twenty-three, two years my senior; to me, +then, he seemed an experienced man of business, almost elderly. The +scheme took my breath away. It was very tempting. The failure of the +dairy farm had left me despondent; I felt disgraced; the end of life, +it seemed, had come. I was ready to grasp at anything that held out +hopes of a recovery of fortune. But an hotel! I hesitated. + +“I know nothing about running an hotel,” I objected. + +“Neither do I--yet,” was the sanguine answer, “but we can learn. It’s +only common sense and hard work. We can hire a good manager and engage +a first-class cook.” + +“How many rooms are there?” + +“Only thirteen. It’s the bar where we shall make the money.” + +“The bar----!” + +“There are two bars, one on the main street and another on the back. +Billy Bingham has made the place too hot to hold him. His licence is to +be withdrawn. He’s got to get out. We can get his licence transferred +to us all right, if we promise to make the place respectable. We’ll +have good food, a first-rate lunch counter for the business men, we can +let the big rooms for club dinners and society banquets, and there’s +a 100 per cent. profit, you know, on liquor. We’ll make the _Hub_ the +best ‘joint’ in the town. All the fellows will come. A year will do it. +Then we’ll sell out....” + +I was not listening. The word “liquor”--I had never touched alcohol in +my life--made such a noise in my mind that I could hear nothing else. + +“My father,” I mentioned in a faint voice, “is a public man at home. +He’s a great temperance reformer. He speaks and writes against drink. +He’s brought me up that way. It would be a terrible shock to him if his +son made money out of a bar.” The hotel scheme, indeed, seemed to me an +impossibility. A picture of the Temperance meetings held in our country +house flashed through my mind. I glanced down at my coat, on whose +lapel, until recently, there had been a little strip of blue ribbon, +signifying that I was a member of the Band of Hope which included +several million avowed teetotallers. “Don’t you see, old chap?” I +explained further. “It would simply break his heart, and my mother’s +too.” + +“He need never know anything about it,” came the answer at once. “Why +should he? Our names needn’t appear at all. We’ll call ourselves the +‘Hub Wine Company, Limited.’” My head was swimming, my mind buzzing +with conflicting voices as we walked down King Street to inspect the +premises. I ached to re-establish my position. The prospect of a quick +recovery of fortune was as sweet a prize as ever tempted a green youth +like myself. My partner, too, this time would be a “gentleman,” a +fellow my father might have invited to dine and play tennis; it was my +appalling ignorance of life that gave to his two years’ seniority some +imagined quality of being a man much older than myself, and one who +knew what he was about. + +The character of the proposed enterprise, of course, had no effect at +all upon the judgment. To be known as a successful hotel proprietor was +a legitimate ambition. My father’s stern judgment of philanthropists +who preached temperance while owning distilleries or holding brewery +shares--I knew it word for word--was quite forgotten. Only the little +personal point of view was present: “I’ve been an ass. I must make +good. Here’s a chance, a certainty, of getting money. I must take it. +It’s my Karma.” + +We strode down King Street together, past the corner of Yonge Street, +below the windows of the hated Temperance and General Life Assurance +Company where I had licked stamps, and on towards the Hub Hotel. The +Toronto air was fresh and sweet, the lake lay blue beyond, the sunlight +sparkled. Something exhilarating and optimistic in the atmosphere gave +thought a happy and sanguine twist. It was a day of Indian summer, a +faint perfume of far-distant forest fires adding a pleasant touch to +the familiar smell of the cedar-wood sidewalks. A mood of freedom, +liberty, great spaces, fine big enterprises in a free country where +everything was possible, of opportunities seized and waves of fortune +taken on their crest--I remember this mood as sharply still, and the +scent of a wood-fire or a cedar pencil recalls it as vividly still, as +though I had experienced it last week. + +I glanced at my companion. I liked him, trusted him. There was a happy +light in his frank blue eyes. He was a good heavy-weight boxer too. +The very man, I felt, for a bold enterprise of this sort. He talked +the whole way. He was describing how we might increase the fortune we +should draw out of our successful venture in a year’s time, when we +passed Tim Sullivan, standing at the door of his, a rival, saloon, and +exchanged a nod with him. The Irishman had a shadow on his face. “He’s +heard about it,” whispered Kay, with a chuckle. “He’ll look glummer +still when he sees all his customers coming across the way to us!” + +Turning down a narrow side street, the Hub blocked the way, a +three-story building with a little tower, clean windows, and two big +swinging doors. It ran through to a back street where there was another +entrance. + +“Here it is,” said Kay, in the eager, happy voice of a man who has just +inherited a family mansion and come to inspect it. “This is the Hub +where we shall make our fortune.” + +It seemed to me I had entered an entirely new world. Everything was +spotless. The rows of bottles and glasses, the cash-register and brass +taps glittered in the sunlight that fell through coloured windows. The +perfume of stale liquor was not as disagreeable as it sounds. In one +sense the whole place looked as harmless as the aisle of some deserted +church. I stood just inside those swing-doors, which had closed behind +me, with a strange feeling of gazing at some den of vice reconstructed +in the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s. Empty and innocent as +the bar might appear, however, there was a thrill of adventure, even of +danger, about it that reached my mind, with a definite shock of dread. + +“Nice, airy premises, with plenty of room,” Kay’s cheery voice came to +me from a distance. “This is the principal bar. Twenty men could line +up easily. It’ll want four bar-tenders.... There’s another bar at the +end. There’ll be a few fights there before we’ve done. The dining-room +lies through that archway just between the two.” + +He walked away, passing along the length of the room and down three +steps into a narrower, darker bar beyond, where the shadows hid him. +But his voice still reached me: “It’s on the back street, this bar,” he +called. “This is for the _hoi polloi_. We shall want a chucker out.... +Here’s the private door leading to the upstairs dining-room we’ll let +out for banquets. We’ll have our own bedrooms and sitting-room on the +first floor too....” + +His voice roared on; I heard, but did not answer; I had not moved an +inch from my place against the swing-doors. He had not, of course, the +faintest idea what was passing through my mind at the moment; and, had +I told him, he would only have laughed good-naturedly and talked of the +money we should make. The fact was, however, that the whole of my early +up-bringing just then came at me with a concentrated driving-force +which made the venture seem absolutely impossible. + +“We’ll call this one the House of Commons,” he bawled delightedly; “and +that one--the front bar--the House of Lords. We shall take 250 dollars +a day easily!” + +The shock, the contrast, the exaggerated effect of entering a saloon +for the first time in my life, especially with the added possibility of +shortly becoming its proprietor, were natural enough. My unworldliness, +even at twenty-one, was abnormal. Not only had I never smoked tobacco +nor touched alcohol of any description, but I had never yet set foot +inside a theatre; a race-course I had never seen, nor held a billiard +cue, nor touched a card. I did not know one card from another. Any game +that might involve betting or gambling was anathema. In other ways, +too, I had been sheltered to the point of ignorance. I had never even +danced. To hold a young woman round the waist was not alone immodest +but worse than immodest. + +This peculiarly sheltered up-bringing, this protected hot-house of +boyhood and early youth to which a drinking bar was the vestibule of +hell, and a music-hall an invention of a personal devil, are necessary +to understand the reaction produced in me as I stood in Billy Bingham’s +“joint.” I stood, literally, on the brink of “the downward path.” I +heard my father’s voice, I saw my mother’s eyes.... In very definite +form I now faced “worldly temptation” they had so often warned me +against. Accompanying an almost audible memory of “Get thee behind +me, Satan,” drove a crowded kaleidoscope of vivid pictures from those +sheltered years. + +My parents were both people of marked character, with intense +convictions; my mother, especially, being a woman of great +individuality, of iron restraint, grim humour, yet with a love and +tenderness, and a spirit of uncommon sacrifice, that never touched +weakness. She possessed powers of mind and judgment, at the same time, +of which my father, a public servant--financial secretary to the Post +Office--availed himself to the full. She had great personal beauty. A +young widow, her first husband having been the 6th Duke of Manchester, +also of the evangelical persuasion, she met my father at Kimbolton soon +after his return from the Crimean War, where he had undergone that +religious change of heart known to the movement as “conversion.” From +a man of fashion, a leader in the social life to which he was born, +he changed with sudden completeness to a leader in the evangelical +movement, then approaching its height. He renounced the world, the +flesh, the devil and all their works. The case of “Beauty Blackwood,” +to use the nickname his unusual handsomeness gained for him, was, in +its way, notorious. He became a teetotaller and non-smoker, wrote +devotional books, spoke in public, and held drawing-room prayer +meetings, the Bible always in his pocket, communion with God always +in his heart. His religion was genuine, unfaltering, consistent and +sincere. He carried the war into his own late world of fashion. He +never once looked back. He knew a vivid joy, a wondrous peace, his pain +being for others only, for those who were not “saved.” The natural, +instinctive type he was, asserted its claim. He became a genuine +saint. Also, to the very end, he remained that other delightful thing, +possible only to simple hearts, a boy. + +Both my parents, thus, believed in Jesus, with a faith of that simple, +unshakable order that could feel no doubts. Their lives were consistent +and, as must always be the case when fine characters are possessed of a +perfectly sincere faith, they stood out in the world of men and women +as something strong and beautiful. Edmund Gosse, in “Father and Son,” +has described the mental attitude of the type; William James might, +equally, have included my father’s case as a typical “conversion” in +his “Varieties of Religious Experience.” + +The effect upon the children--there were five of us--followed +naturally. My father, apart from incurring much public odium owing to +his official position, found himself, and us with him, cut off from the +amenities of the social life to which we were otherwise born. Ordinary +people, “worldly” as he called them, left us alone. A house where no +wine was served at dinner, where morning and evening prayers were +_de rigueur_, a guest even being asked to “lead in prayer” perhaps, +and where at any suitable moment you might be drawn aside and asked +“Have _you_ given your soul to Jesus?” was not an attractive house to +stay in. We were ostracized. The effect of such disabilities upon us +in later life was not considered, for it was hoped each and all of +us would consecrate ourselves to God. We were, thus, kept out of the +“world” in every possible sense and brought up, though with lavish +love and kindness, yet in the narrowest imaginable evangelical path +which scents danger in knowledge of any kind not positively helpful +to the soul. I, personally, at that time, regarded the temptations +of the world with a remote pity, and with a certainty that I should +never have the least difficulty in resisting them. Men who smoked and +drank and were immoral, who gambled, went to theatres and music-halls +and race-meetings, belonged to the submerged and unworthy portion of +mankind. I, in this respect at least, was of the elect, quite sure that +the weakness of their world could never stain me personally. + +Yet I never shared the beliefs of my parents with anything like genuine +pleasure. I was _afraid_ they were true, not glad. + +Without wholeheartedly sharing my father’s faith, however, his +religious and emotional temperament, with its imperious need of +believing _something_, he certainly bequeathed to me.... The +evangelical and revivalist movement, at any rate, was the dominant +influence in my boyhood’s years. People were sharply divided into souls +that were saved and those that were--not saved. Moody and Sankey, the +American Revivalists, stayed in our house. + +I was particularly influenced in this direction by a group of young +’Varsity men who worked with Moody, and who were manly fellows, good +cricketers, like the Studd brothers, or Stanley Smith and Montague +Beauchamp, men who had rowed in their University boats, and who were +far removed from anything effeminate. Of course I thought that what +these men did could not be otherwise than fine and worth copying, +and I lost no time in attacking everyone I met and asking the most +impertinent questions about their souls and fallen natures. By some +lucky chance no one kicked me to death--probably because most of my +evangelizing work was done at home! + +My old nurse I implored to yield herself up to the Saviour, and I felt +my results were very poor in her case because I only got affectionate +caresses and smiles, and even observations about the holes in my +clothes, in return. The fat butler (I assured him) was going headlong +down the kitchen stairs to everlasting fire because he showed no +symptoms of ecstasy when he met my pleadings with “O, I’m sure ’E died +for me all right, Master Algie. I don’t feel a bit afraid!” + +But all this was genuine so far as I was concerned, and it lasted a +considerable time, to my father’s great joy, though not so much, I +think, to my mother’s. She read far deeper into things.... + +In a short time I came to look upon the whole phenomena of +“conversion,” so far as my type of mind and character was concerned, +with distrust and weariness. Only the very topmost layer of my +personality was affected; evidently, there was no peace or happiness +for me that way! + +None the less, I had one or two terrible moments; one (I was reading +with a private tutor in Somerset for Edinburgh University) when I woke +in the very early morning with a choking sensation in my throat, and +thought I was going to die. It must have been merely acute indigestion, +but I was convinced my last moment had come, and fell into a sweating +agony of fear and weakness. I prayed as hard as ever I could, swearing +to consecrate myself to God if He would pull me through. I even vowed +I would become a missionary and work among the heathen, than which, +I was always told, there was no higher type of manhood. But the pain +and choking did not pass, and in despair I got up and swallowed half a +bottle of pilules of aconite which my mother, an ardent homœopathist, +always advised me to take after sneezing or cold shivers. They were +sweet and very nice, and the pain certainly began to pass away, but +only to leave me with a remorse that I had allowed a mere human +medicine to accomplish naturally what God wished to accomplish by His +grace. He had been so slow about it, however, that I felt also a kind +of anger that He could torture me so long, and as it was the aconite +that cured me, and not His grace, I was certainly released from my +promise to become a missionary and work among the heathen. And for this +small mercy I was duly thankful, though the escape had been a rather +narrow one. + +A year and a half in a school of the Moravian Brotherhood in the +Black Forest, though it showed me another aspect of the same general +line of belief, did not wholly obliterate my fear of hell, with its +correlated desire for salvation. The poetry of the semi-religious +life in that remote village set among ancient haunted forests, gave +to natural idealistic tendencies another turn. The masters, whom +we termed Brother, were strenuous, devoted, self-sacrificing men, +all later to go forth as Missionaries to Labrador. Humbug, comfort, +personal ambition played no part in their lives. The _Liebesmahl_ in +their little wooden church, for all its odd simplicity, was a genuine +and impressive ceremony that touched something in me no church service +at home, with Sankey’s hymns on a bad harmonium, had ever reached. At +this Communion Service, or Love Feast, sweet, weak tea in big white +thick cups, followed by a clothes-basket filled with rolls, were handed +round, first to the women, who sat on one side of the building, and +then to the men and boys on the other side. There was a collective +reality about the little ceremony that touched its sincerity with +beauty. Similarly was Easter morning beautiful, when we marched in the +early twilight towards the little cemetery among the larch trees and +stood with our hats off round an open grave, waiting in silence for the +sunrise. The air was cool and scented, our mood devotional and solemn. +There was a sense of wonder among us. Then, as the sun slipped up above +the leagues of forest, the Eight Brothers, singing in parts, led the +ninety boys in the great German hymn, “_Christus ist auferstanden_....” + +The surroundings, too, of the school influenced me greatly. +Those leagues of Black Forest rolling over distant mountains, +velvet-coloured, leaping to the sky in grey cliffs, or passing quietly +like the sea in immense waves, always singing in the winds, haunted by +elves and dwarfs and peopled by charming legends--those forest glades, +deep in moss and covered in springtime with wild lily-of-the-valley; +those tumbling streams that ran for miles unseen, then emerged to serve +the peasants by splashing noisily over the clumsy water-wheel of a +brown old sawmill before they again lost themselves among the mossy +pine roots; those pools where water-pixies dwelt, and those little red +and brown villages where we slept in our long walks--the whole setting +of this Moravian school was so beautifully simple that it lent just the +proper atmosphere for lives consecrated without flourish of trumpets +to God. It all left upon me an impression of grandeur, of loftiness, +and of real religion ... and of a Deity not specially active on Sundays +only. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +These notes aim at describing merely certain surface episodes, and +would leave unmentioned of set purpose those inner activities which +pertain to the intimate struggles of a growing soul. There is a veil +of privacy which only in rarest cases of exceptional value should be +lifted. That honesty, moreover, which is an essential of such value, +seems almost unattainable. Only a diary, written at the actual time and +intended for no one’s eye, can hope to achieve the naked sincerity, +which could make it useful to lift that veil. + +Yet, even with these surface episodes, something of the background +against which they danced and vanished must be sketched; to understand +them, something of the individual who experienced them must be known. +This apology for so much use of the personal pronoun is made once for +all. + +The failure of the evangelical Christian teaching either to attract +deeply or to convince, has been indicated. An eager, impressionable +mind lay empty and unstimulated. It fed upon insipid stuff, such +as Longfellow, Mrs. Hemans, goody-goody stories, and thousands of +religious tracts. It was the days of yellow-backs in three volumes, +of Ouida especially, of Miss Braddon, and Wilkie Collins; but novels +were strictly forbidden in the house. Lewis Carroll, which my father +often read aloud, and Foxe’s “Book of Martyrs,” which made every Roman +Catholic priest seem ominous, were our imaginative fiction. But my +chief personal delight was Hebrew poetry, the Psalms, the Song of +Solomon, above all the Book of Job (which I devoured alone)--these +moved me in a different way and far more deeply. + +The mind, meanwhile, without being consciously aware of it, was +searching with eager if unrewarded zeal, until one day Fate threw a +strange book in its way--Patanjali’s “Yoga Aphorisms,” a translation +from the Sanskrit. I was about seventeen then, just home from a year +and a half in the Moravian Brotherhood School in the Black Forest. + +I shall never forget that golden September day when the slight volume, +bound in blue, first caught my eye. It was lying beside a shiny black +bag on the hall table, and the bag belonged, I knew, to a Mr. Scott, +who had come to spend a week with us and to hold a series of meetings +under my father’s auspices in the village hall. Mr. Scott was an ardent +revivalist. He was also--this I grasped even at the time--a cadaverous +mass of religious affectations. He was writing a brochure, I learned +later, to warn England that Satan was bringing dangerous Eastern +teachings to the West, and this book was a first proof of the Fiend’s +diabolical purpose. + +I opened it and read a few paragraphs in the hall. I did not understand +them, though they somehow held my mind and produced a curious sense of +familiarity, half of wonder, half of satisfaction. A deeper feeling +than I had yet known woke in me. I was fascinated.... My father’s voice +calling me to tennis interrupted my reading, and I dropped the book, +noticing that it fell behind the table. Hours later, though the bag was +gone, the book lay where it had fallen. I stole it. I took it to bed +with me and read it through from cover to cover. I read it twice, three +times; bits of it I copied out; I did not understand a word of it, but +a shutter rushed up in my mind, interest and joy were in me, a big +troubling emotion, a conviction that I had found something I had been +seeking hungrily for a long time, something I needed, something that, +in an odd way, almost seemed familiar. + +I repeat--I did not understand a word of it, while yet the meaningless +phrases caught me with a revolutionary power. As I read and re-read +till my candles guttered, there rose in me a dim consciousness, +becoming more and more a growing certainty, that what I read was not +entirely new. So strong was this that it demanded audible expression. +In that silent bedroom, dawn not far away, I can hear myself saying +aloud: “But I’ve known all this before--only I’ve forgotten it.” Even +the Sanskrit words, given phonetically in brackets, had a familiar look. + +Shutter after shutter rose, “lifting a veil and a darkness,” letting +in glimpses of a radiant and exciting light. Though the mind was too +untaught to grasp the full significance of these electric flashes, +too unformed to be even intelligently articulate about them, there +certainly rushed over my being a singular conviction of the unity of +life everywhere and in everything--of its _one-ness_. That objects, +the shifting appearance of phenomena, were but a veil concealing some +intensely beautiful reality--the beauty shining and divine, the reality +bitingly, terrifically actual--this poured over me with a sense of +being not so much dis-covered as re-covered. Ignorant as I was, without +facts or arguments or reason to support me, this I _knew_. + +It is possible the awakening consciousness fringed some state of +ecstasy during that long communing with ancient things.... The house, +at any rate, was still dark, but sunrise not long to come, when at +length I stole down into the deserted hall and replaced the little book +upon the table. + +Those Yoga aphorisms of a long-dead Hindu sage, set between a golden +September evening and a guttering candle, marked probably the opening +of my mind.... The entire paraphernalia of my evangelical teaching +thenceforth began to withdraw. Though my father’s beliefs had cut +deep enough to influence me for many years to come, their dread, +with the terror of a personal Satan and an actual Hell, grew less +from that moment. The reality of the dogmas was impaired. Here was +another outlook upon life, another explanation of the world; caprice +was eliminated and justice entered; the present was the result of the +past, the future determined by the present; I must reap what I had +sown, but, also, I could sow what I wished to reap. Hope was born. +Apart from this was that curious deep sense of familiarity with these +Eastern teachings, as with something I understood and in which I felt +at home.... + +Cautiously, I put indirect questions to my father, who at once--the +clumsy questions betraying me--detected Satan’s subtle handiwork. +He was grave and troubled. With affectionate solicitude he told me, +finally, a story of naïve horror, intended to point the warning. A +young man, who suffered from repeated epileptic fits, had tried every +doctor and specialist in vain, when, as a last resort, he followed some +friend’s counsel of despair, and consulted a medium. The medium, having +conferred with his familiar, handed the patient a little locket which +he was to wear day and night about his neck, but never on any account +to open. The spell that would save him from a repetition of his fits +lay inside, but he must resist to the death the curiosity to read it. +To the subsequent delight and amazement of everybody, the fits abruptly +ceased; the man was cured; until one day, after years of obedience, +curiosity overcame him; he opened the brief inscription, and fell +down in a fit--dead. The wording, minutely written in red ink, ran as +follows: “Let him alone till he drop into Hell!” + +The warning, above all the story, acted as a stimulus instead of the +reverse. Yet another strange door was set ajar; my eyes, big with +wonder and questions, peered through. “Earth’s Earliest Ages,” by +G. H. Pember, an evangelical, but an imaginative evangelical, was +placed in my hands, accompanied by further solemn warnings. Pember, a +writer of the prophetic school, had style, imagination, a sense of the +marvellous, a touch of genuine drama too; he used suggestion admirably, +his English was good, he had proportion, he knew where to stop. As +a novelist of fantastic kind--an evangelical Wells, a “converted” +Dunsany--he might have become a best-seller. He had, moreover, a theme +of high imaginative possibilities, based upon a sentence in Genesis +(vi. 2)--“The Sons of God saw the Daughters of men that they were fair +... and took to themselves wives from among them ... and there were +giants in the earth in those days....” These Sons of God were some +kind of higher beings, mighty spirits, angels of a sort; but rather +fallen angels; their progeny formed a race apart from humans; for some +reason, now slipped from my memory, Pember was convinced that this +unlawful procreation was being resumed in modern days. The Nephilim, +as he called them, were aiming at control of the world, Anti-Christ, a +gorgeous but appalling figure, naturally, at their head. + +It was a magnificent theme; he treated it, within the limits he set +himself, with ingenious conviction. The danger was imminent; the human +race, while shuddering, must be on its guard. In the night, in the +twinkling of an eye, the catastrophe might come. Signs the Nephilim +brought with them were spiritualism, theosophy, the development of +secret powers latent in man, a new and awful type of consciousness, +magic, and all the rest of the “occult” movement that was beginning to +show its hydra head about this time. + +In a moment Moody went to the bottom of the class, and Pember reigned +in his stead. By hook or by crook I obtained the books that Pember +signalled as so dangerously subversive of the truth: “Magic Black and +White” by Dr. Franz Hartmann; “The Perfect Way,” by Anna Kingsford and +Edward Maitland; “Esoteric Buddhism,” by A. P. Sinnett; “Voice of the +Silence,” by Mabel Collins; “The Bhagavad Gita,” from the Upanishads; +and Emma Hardinge Britten’s “History of American Spiritualism.” My +first delicious alarm lest the sky might fall any moment, and Satan +appear with the great and terrible Nephilim princes to rule the world, +became less threatening.... Soon afterwards, too, I happened upon my +first novel, Laurence Oliphant’s “Massollam,” followed, a good deal +later, by his “Scientific Religion” and his “Sympneumata.” This history +of his amazing subservience to Thomas Luke Harris helped to peel +another thin skin from my eyes; Oliphant seemed a hero, but Harris a +vile humbug. By this time other books had brought grist to the mill +as well: Amiel’s “Journal Intime”; Drummond’s “Natural Law in the +Spiritual World”--I knew Professor Drummond later, when he came to +stay with us, and also when he lectured to the students at Edinburgh +on Sunday nights, coming from his Glasgow Chair for the purpose: I can +still see his large, glowing, far-seeing eyes--Cahagnet’s “Arcanes +de la Vie Future”; and “Animal Magnetism,” by Binet and Féré. The +experiments of Braid, and Dr. Esdaille in India, had also come my way. + +Such one-sided reading, of course, fed the growing sense of wonder, +naturally strong in any case; Shelley coloured it; and nothing offered +itself at the time to curb, shape or qualify it. Spiritualism, apart +from the exciting phenomena it promised with such confident volubility, +left me rather unstirred, but theosophy, of course, I swallowed whole, +with its Mahatmas, development of latent powers, memory of past lives, +astral consciousness, and description of other beings both superior +and inferior to man. It was some years before scientific reading came +to check and guide a too exuberant imagination; but, even so I have +always taken ideas where I found them, regardless of their propounders; +if Tibet and its shining Mahatmas faded, the theories of Karma and +reincarnation were older than any modern movement, and the belief in +extension of consciousness to some _n_th degree, with its correlative +of greater powers and new faculties, have not only remained with me, +but have justified themselves. The “Gita,” too, remains the profoundest +world-scripture I have ever read. + +An immediate, happy result of this odd reading, at any rate, I recall +with pleasure: my father’s Christianity became splendid in my eyes. I +realized, even then, that it satisfied his particular and individual +vision of truth, while the fact that he lived up to his beliefs nobly +and consistently woke a new respect and admiration in me.... + +By far the strongest influence in my life, however, was Nature; it +betrayed itself early, growing in intensity with every year. Bringing +comfort, companionship, inspiration, joy, the spell of Nature has +remained dominant, a truly magical spell. Always immense and potent, +the years have strengthened it. The early feeling that everything was +alive, a dim sense that some kind of consciousness struggled through +every form, even that a sort of inarticulate communication with this +“other life” was possible, could I but discover the way--these moods +coloured its opening wonder. Nature, at any rate, produced effects +in me that only something living could produce; though not till I +read Fechner’s “Zend-Avesta,” and, later still, James’s “Pluralistic +Universe,” and Dr. R. M. Bucke’s “Cosmic Consciousness” did a possible +meaning come to shape my emotional disorder. Fairy tales, in the +meanwhile bored me. Real facts were what I sought. That these existed, +that I had once known them but had now forgotten them, was thus an +early imaginative conviction. + + * * * * * + +This tendency showed itself even in childhood. We had left the +Manor House, Crayford, and now lived in a delightful house at +Shortlands, in those days semi-country. It was the time of my horrible +private schools--I went to four or five--but the holidays afforded +opportunities.... + +I was a dreamy boy, frequently in tears about nothing except a vague +horror of the practical world, full of wild fancies and imagination and +a great believer in ghosts, communings with spirits and dealings with +charms and amulets, which latter I invented and consecrated myself by +the dozen. This was long before I had read a single book. + +I loved to climb out of the windows at night with a ladder, and creep +among the shadows of the kitchen garden, past the rose trees and under +the fruit-tree wall, and so on to the pond where I could launch the +boat and practise my incantations in the very middle among the floating +weeds that covered the surface in great yellow-green patches. Trees +grew closely round the banks, and even on clear nights the stars could +hardly pierce through, and all sorts of beings watched me silently from +the shore, crowding among the tree stems, and whispering to themselves +about what I was doing. + +I cannot say I ever believed actually that my spells would produce +any results, but it pleased and thrilled me to think that they might +do so; that the scum of weeds might slowly part to show the face of a +water-nixie, or that the forms hovering on the banks might flit across +to me and let me see their outline against the stars. + +Everything I did and felt in this way was evolved out of my inner +consciousness, and even after I had passed into long trousers I loved +the night, the shadows, empty rooms and haunted woods. + +On returning from these nightly expeditions to the pond, the sight of +the old country-house against the sky always excited me strangely. +Three cedars of Lebanon flanked it on the side I climbed out, towering +aloft with their great funereal branches, and I thought of all the +people asleep in their silent rooms, and wondered how they could be so +dull and unenterprising, when out here they could see these sweeping +branches and hear the wind sighing so beautifully among the needles. +These people, it seemed to me at such moments, belonged to a different +race. I had nothing in common with them. Night and stars and trees and +wind and rain were the things I had to do with and wanted. They were +alive and personal, stirring my depths within, full of messages and +meanings, whereas my parents and sisters and brother, all indoors and +asleep, were mere accidents, and apart from my real life and self. My +friend the under-gardener always took the ladder away early in the +morning. + +Sometimes an elder sister accompanied me on these excursions. She, too, +loved mystery, and the peopled darkness, but she was also practical. On +returning to her room in the early morning we always found eggs ready +to boil, cake and cold plum-pudding perhaps, or some such satisfying +morsels to fill the void. She was always wonderful to me in those days. +Very handsome, dark, with glowing eyes and a keen interest in the +undertaking, she came down the ladder and stepped along the garden +paths more like a fairy being than a mortal, and I always enjoyed +the event twice as much when she accompanied me. In the day-time she +faded back into the dull elder sister and seemed a different person +altogether. I never reconcile the two. + +This childish manifestation of an overpowering passion changed later, +in form, of course, but not essentially much in spirit. Forests, +mountains, desolate places, especially perhaps open spaces like the +prairies or the desert, but even, too, the simple fields, the lanes, +and little hills, offered an actual sense of companionship no human +intercourse could possibly provide. In times of trouble, as equally +in times of joy, it was to Nature I ever turned instinctively. In +those moments of deepest feeling when individuals must necessarily be +alone, yet stand at the same time in most urgent need of understanding +companionship, it was Nature and Nature only that could comfort me. +When the cable came, suddenly announcing my father’s death, I ran +straight into the woods.... This call sounded above all other calls, +music coming so far behind it as to seem an “also ran.” Even in those +few, rare times of later life, when I fancied myself in love, this +spell would operate--a sound of rain, a certain touch of colour in the +sky, the scent of a wood-fire smoke, the lovely cry of some singing +wind against the walls or window--and the human appeal would fade in +me, or, at least, its transitory character become pitifully revealed. +The strange sense of a oneness with Nature was an imperious and royal +spell that over-mastered all other spells, nor can the hint of comedy +lessen its reality. Its religious origin appears, perhaps, in the fact +that sometimes, during its fullest manifestation, a desire stirred in +me to leave a practical, utilitarian world I loathed and become--a monk! + +Another effect, in troubled later years especially, was noticeable; +its dwarfing effect upon the events, whatever they might be, of daily +life. So intense, so flooding, was the elation of joy Nature brought, +that after such moments even the gravest worldly matters, as well as +the people concerned in these, seemed trivial and insignificant. +Nature introduced a vaster scale of perspective against which a truer +proportion appeared. There lay in the experience some cosmic touch of +glory that, by contrast, left all else commonplace and unimportant. The +great gods of wind and fire and earth and water swept by on flaming +stars, and the ordinary life of the little planet seemed very small, +man with his tiny passions and few years of struggle and vain longings, +almost futile. One’s own troubles, seen in this new perspective, +disappeared, while, at the same time, the heart filled with an immense +understanding love and charity towards all the world--which, alas, also +soon disappeared. + +It is difficult to put into intelligible, convincing words the +irresistible character of this Nature-spell that invades heart and +brain like a drenching sea, and produces a sense of rapture, of +ecstasy, compared to which the highest conceivable worldly joy becomes +merely insipid.... Heat from this magical source was always more or +less present in my mind from a very early age, though, of course, no +attempt to analyse or explain it was then possible; but, in bitter +years to come, the joy and comfort Nature gave became a real and only +solace. When possession was at its full height, the ordinary world, +and my particular little troubles with it, fell away like so much +dust; the whole fabric of men and women, commerce and politics, even +the destinies of nations, became a passing show of shadows, while the +visible and tangible world showed itself as but a temporary and limited +representation of a real world elsewhere whose threshold I had for a +moment touched. + +Others, of course, have known similar experiences, but, being +better equipped, have understood how to correlate them to ordinary +life. Richard Jefferies explained them. Whitman tasted expansion of +consciousness in many ways; Fechner made a grandiose system of them; +Edward Carpenter deliberately welcomed them; Jacob Boehme, Plotinus, +and many others have tried to fix their nature and essence in terms, +respectively, of religion and philosophy; and William James has +reviewed them with an insight as though he had had experienced them +himself. Whatever their value, they remain authentic, the sense of +oneness of life their common denominator, a conviction of consciousness +pervading all forms everywhere their inseparable characteristic. + +If Kentish gardens saw the birth of this delight, the Black Forest +offered further opportunities for its enjoyment, and a year in a +village of the Swiss Jura Mountains to learn French--I often wandered +all night in the big pine forests without my tutor, a bee-keeping +pasteur, at Bôle, near Neuchâtel, discovering my absence--intensified +it. Without it something starved in me. It was a persistent craving, +often a wasting _nostalgia_, that cried for satisfaction as the whole +body cries for covering when cold, and Nature provided a companionship, +a joy, a bliss, that no human intercourse has ever approached, much +less equalled. It remains the keenest, deepest sensation of its kind I +have known.... + +Here, in Toronto, opportunities multiplied, and just when they were +needed: in times of difficulty and trouble the call of Nature became +paramount; during the vicissitudes of dairy and hotel the wild +hinterland behind the town, with its lakes and forests, were a haven +often sought. Among my friends were many, of course, who enjoyed a +day “in the country,” but one man only who understood a little the +feelings I have tried to describe, even if he did not wholly share +them. This was Arnold Haultain, a married man, tied to an office all +day long, private secretary to Goldwin Smith (whose life, I think, he +subsequently wrote), and editor of a weekly periodical called _The +Week_. He was my senior by many years.... At three in the morning, +sometimes, he would call for me at the dairy in College Street, and we +would tramp out miles to enjoy the magic of sunrise in a wood north of +the city. And such an effort was only possible to a soul to whom it was +a necessity.... The intensity of early dreams and aspirations, what +energy lies in them! In later life, though they may have solidified +and become part of the character, that original fiery energy is gone. +A dreadful doggerel I wrote at this time, Haultain used in his paper, +and its revealing betrayal of inner tendencies is the excuse for its +reproduction here. It appeared the same week its author bought the Hub +Hotel and started business with Kay, as “The Hub Wine Company.” + + +LINES TO A DREAMER + + O change all this thinking, imagining, hoping to be; + Change dreaming to action and work; there’s a God in your will. + Self-mastery and courage and confidence make a man free, + And doing is stronger than dreaming for good or for ill. + + Then make a beginning; don’t lie like an infant and weep. + Begin with the dearest and crush some delight-giving sin + Right out of your life, with a purpose of death before sleep; + A passion controlled is an index of power within. + + Some hard self-denial; let no one suspect it at all. + With ruthless self-torture continue, nor half an inch yield, + Step fearless and bravely; hold on and believe--you won’t fall; + Companions you’ve none but the best on this grim battlefield. + + Stagnation means death. If you cannot advance you retreat; + Steel purpose maintain; let it be the first aim of your life; + Beware of those mushroom resolves as impulsive as fleet, + And remember, the nobler the end the more deadly the strife. + + For the hope that another may save you is coward and vain, + And the ladder, by which you must climb to yon far starry height, + Is of cast-iron rungs from the furnace of suffering and pain. + Then forward; and courage! from darkness to truth’s golden light. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +The pictures that have occupied two chapters, flashed and vanished, +lasting a few moments only. It was Kay’s voice that interrupted them: + +“This is my partner, Mr. Blackwood,” he was saying, as he came from the +dining-room door, accompanied by an undersized little man with sharp, +beady eyes set in a face like a rat’s, with deep lines upon a skin as +white as paper. I shook hands with Billy Bingham, proprietor of the +Hub, the man whose disreputable character had made it a disgrace to the +City of Churches. + +Of the conversation that followed, though I heard every word of it, +only a blurred memory remained when we left the building half an hour +later. I was in two worlds--innocent Kent and up-to-date Toronto--while +Kay and Bingham talked. Mysterious phrases chased pregnant business +terms in quick succession: Goodwill, stock in hand, buying liquor at +thirty days, cash value of the licence, and heaven knows what else +besides. Kay was marvellous, I thought. The sporting goods business had +apparently taught him everything. Two hundred per cent. profit, rapid +turn over, sell out at top price, were other vivid sentences I caught +in part, while I stared and listened, feigning no doubt a comprehension +that was not mine. The glow of immense success to come, at any rate, +shone somehow about the nasty face of that cunning little Billy +Bingham, as he painted our future in radiant colours. Kay was beaming. + +“A short period of horror,” I remember thinking, for the sanguine fires +lit me too, “and we shall be independent men! It’s probably worth it. +Canada’s a free country. What’s impossible at home is possible here. +Opportunities must be seized...!” + +Then Bingham’s white face retreated, his beady eyes became twin points +of glittering light, and another picture slid noiselessly before +them. Euston Station a few short months ago, myself tightly wedged in +a crowded third-class carriage, the train to Liverpool slowly moving +out, and my father’s tall figure standing on the platform--this picture +hid the Hub and Bingham and John Kay. The serious blue eyes, fixed +on mine with love and tenderness, could not conceal the deep anxiety +they betrayed for my future. Behind them, though actually at the Manor +House, Crayford, fixed on a page of the Bible, or perhaps closed in +earnest prayer, the eyes of my mother rose up too.... The train moved +faster, the upright figure and the grave, sad face, though lit by a +momentary smile of encouragement, were hidden slowly by the edge of the +carriage window. I was too shy to wave my hand, and far too sensitive +of what the carriage-full of men would think if I moved to the window +and spoke, or worse, gave the good-bye kiss I burned to give. So the +straight line of that implacable wooden sash slid across both face and +figure, cutting our stare cruelly in the middle. + +It was the last time I saw my father; a year later he was dead; and ten +years were to pass before I saw my mother again. Before this--to look +ahead for a second--some enterprising Toronto friend, with evangelical +tact, wrote to my father ... “your son is keeping a tavern,” and my +father, calling my brother into his study where he laid all problems +before his God with prayer, told him in a broken voice and with tears +in his eyes: “He is lost; his soul is lost. Algie has gone to--Hell!”... + +My vision faded. My broad-shouldered friend and his little rat-faced +companion stood with their elbows on the bar. I saw six small glasses +and a big dark bottle. Three of the former were filled to the brim with +neat rye whisky, the other three, “the chasers” as they were called, +held soda-water. + +“Drink hearty,” rasped Bingham’s grating voice, as he tossed down his +liquor at a gulp, Kay doing the same, then swallowing the soda-water. + +I moved to the swing-doors. I had never touched spirits, and loathed +the mere smell of them. I cannot pretend that any principle was +involved; it was simply that the mere idea of swallowing raw whisky +gave me nausea. I saw Kay give me a quick look. “He’ll be offended if +you don’t take something,” it said plainly. I was, besides, familiar +with the customs of the country, at any rate in theory. + +“Have something else,” invited Bingham, “if you don’t like it straight.” + +I shook my head, mumbling something about it’s being too early in the +day, and I shall never forget the look that came into that cunning +little face. But he was not offended. He put his hand on Kay’s arm. +“Now, see here,” he said with seriousness, “that’s dead right. That’s +good business every time. Never drink yourselves, and you’ll make it a +success. Your partner’s got the right idea, and I tell you straight: +never touch a drop of liquor till after closing hours. You’ll be +asked to drink all day long. Everybody will want to drink with the +new management. Every customer that walks in will say ‘What’s yours?’ +before you even know his name. Now, see here, boys, listen to me--you +_can’t_ do it! You’ll be blind to the world before eleven o’clock. _I_ +tell you, and I _know_!” + +“How are you to refuse?” asked Kay. + +“I’ll give you a tip: drink tea!” + +“Tea!” + +“Have your bottle of tea. Tell your bar-tenders. It’s the same colour +as rye whisky. No one’ll ever know. The boss can always have his own +private bottle. Well, yours is tea. See?” And he winked with a leer +like some intelligent reptile. + +We shook hands, as he saw us into the street. + +“You’ll take a cheque, I suppose?” I heard Kay say just before we moved +off. + +“A marked cheque, yes,” was the reply. The phrase meant that the bank +marked the cheque as good for the amount. + +“It’s all fixed then,” returned Kay. + +“All fixed,” said Bingham, and the swing-doors closed upon his +unpleasant face as we went out into the street. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +The influences that decided the purchase of the Hub were emotional, at +any rate, not rational; there lay some reaction in me, as of revolt. +“You can do things out here you could not do at home,” ran like a song +through the heart all day long, and life seemed to hold its arms wide +open. Fortunes were quickly made. Speculation was rife. Pork went up +and wheat went down, and thousands were made or lost in a few hours. +No enterprise was despised, provided it succeeded. All this had its +effect upon an impressionable and ignorant youth whose mind now touched +so-called real life for the first time. The example of others had its +influence, too. The town was sprinkled with young Englishmen, but +untrained Englishmen the country did not need, though it needed their +money; and this money they speedily exchanged, just as I had done, for +experience--and then tried to find work. + +The pathos of it all was, though, that for an average young Englishman +to find a decent job was impossible. I was among the unsuccessful ones. +Kay was another, but Kay and myself were now--we thought--to prove the +exception. + +“We’ll show ’em!” was the way Kay’s sanguine twenty-three years phrased +it. We both knew men of splendid education and real ability, earning +precarious livings in positions that would have been ludicrous if +they were not so pathetic. Men from Oxford and Cambridge, with first +rate classical training, were slinging drinks behind bars, or running +about the country persuading the farmers to insure their stacks and +outhouses; others with knowledge of languages and pronounced literary +talent were adding figures in subordinate positions in brokers’ +offices. But by far the greater number were working as common labourers +for small farmers all over the country. + +“They missed their chance when it came,” Kay repeated. “We won’t miss +ours. A chance like the Hub won’t come twice.” A year of disagreeable, +uncongenial work and then--success! Retire! Off to the primeval woods, +canoes, Indians, camp fires, books ... a dozen dreams flamed up. + +Within a month we had completed the purchase, and the Hub opened +with flying colours and high hopes; the newspapers gave us what they +called a “send off”; both “House of Lords” and “House of Commons” +were packed; the cash-registers clicked and rang all day, and the +Hub, swept and garnished, fairly sparkled with the atmosphere of +success, congratulations, and promise of good business. Billy Bingham’s +association with it was a thing of the past; it became the most +respectable place of its kind in the whole town. + +All day long the shoal of customers flocked in and rattled their +money across the busy counters. Each individual wanted a word with +the proprietors. Buyers and brewery agents poured in too, asking for +orders, and newspaper reporters took notes for descriptive articles +which duly appeared next morning. The dining-room did a roaring trade +and every stool at the long lunch counter had its occupant. How easy +it all seemed! And no one the worse for liquor! Everybody was beaming, +and, as a partner in the Hub Wine Company, I already felt that my +failure in the dairy farm was forgotten, an unlucky incident at most; a +boyish episode due to inexperience, but now atoned for. + +Lord Dufferin, a few years before, had been Governor-General of Canada, +and a huge framed photograph of him hung above the cold meat, game +pies and salads of the lunch counter. A connexion of my father’s, the +newspapers had insisted upon a closer relationship, and while some +thought he would do better as a first cousin, others preferred him as +my uncle. As an exceedingly popular Governor-General, his place above +the good Canadian food seemed appropriate at any rate, and the number +of customers, both known and unknown, who congratulated me upon our +distinguished framed patron, gave me the odd feeling that somehow the +shock to my father was thereby lessened. The stories of what Dufferin +and his wife had done for Tom, Dick and Harry, for their wives and +their children or their dogs, told to me beside our House of Lords’ bar +that opening day proved good for business. I had come to the colony +somewhat overburdened with distinguished relations of heavy calibre +who, to extend the simile a little, neither now nor later, ever fired +a single shot on my behalf. The mere inertia of their names, indeed, +weighed down my subsequent New York days with the natural suspicion +that a young man so well born must have done something dreadful at +home to be forced to pose to artists for a living. Why, otherwise, +should he suffer exile in the underworld of a city across the seas? +Lord Dufferin’s photograph augustly throned above the Hub luncheon +counter, certainly, however, fired a shot on my behalf, making +the cash-registers clink frequently. His effect on our bar-trade, +innocently uncalculated, deserves this word of gratitude. + +There were three white-coated bar-tenders in the House of Lords, Jimmy +Martin, their principal, in charge of it; a couple managed the House +of Commons trade in the lower bar, down a step and through an arch; +and here, too, were tables and chairs, rooms curtained off, and other +facilities for back-street customers who wanted to sit and talk over +their beer. Between the two, a door in the wall led to my own quarters +upstairs by means of a private staircase. Sharp on eleven we closed +our doors that first night, and proceeded, with Jimmy Martin’s aid, to +open the cash-registers and count up our takings. There was just under +250 dollars, or £50 in English money. Then, having said good night to +our chief bar-tender, we spent a happy hour making calculations for the +future. The first day, of course, could not be taken as an average, +but prospects, we assured ourselves, were brilliant. Later we were to +discover things that were to prove a source of endless trouble and +vexation of spirit to us both--daily worries we both learned to dread. +At the moment, however, it was in sanguine mood that I went to bed +that night of our opening day. The money was locked away, ready for me +to take to the bank next morning--our first deposit. Before that I must +be at the market to buy provisions--six o’clock--and Kay was to be in +attendance in the bars at nine-thirty. + +“It’s a go all right,” were his good-night words, as he thumped down my +private staircase and let himself into the street with his latch-key. + +Lucky beggar! He hadn’t got to write home and explain to evangelical +and teetotal parents what he was doing! + +Some customers, I discovered, arrived early. That a man should want +to swallow raw spirits at 9 A.M. amazed me. Some of these were men +we knew socially; with one of them, who arrived regularly at 9.15, I +often dined in his cosy little bungalow beside the lake. His wife was +charming, I played with his children. He was a lawyer. He came for +what he called an “eye-opener.” Another of this early brigade was a +stockbroker, who later made a fortune speculating in wheat on margin, +lost it again, and disappeared mysteriously across the border into the +States. His manner of taking his “eye-opener” was peculiar, puzzling me +for a long time. I had never seen it before. It made me laugh heartily +the first morning, for I thought he was doing it to amuse me--till his +injured expression corrected me. Producing a long silk handkerchief, he +flung it round his neck, one end held by the hand that also held his +brimming glass. With the free hand he then pulled the other end very +slowly round his collar, levering thus the shaking glass to his lips. +Unless he used this pulley, the glass shook and rattled so violently +against his teeth that its contents would be spilt before he could +get it into his mouth. The horror of it suddenly dawned on me. I was +appalled. The stuff that poisoned this nervous wreck was sold by myself +and partner at 100 per cent. profit! + +“If he doesn’t get it here,” said Kay, “he’ll go to Tim Sullivan’s +across the way, and get bad liquor. Ours at least is pure.” + +During the long twelve hours that the Hub was open either Kay or myself +was always on duty, talking to customers, keeping an eye (as we hoped!) +on the bar-tenders, showing ourselves with an air of authority in the +House of Commons when, as usually, it became too rowdy--Kay enjoying +the occasional “chucking out.” At lunch time and from four to half-past +six or seven o’clock, the bars were invariably crowded. The amount of +milkless tea we drank ought to have poisoned us both, but we never +fell from grace in this respect, and we kept faithfully, too, to Jimmy +Martin’s advice never to “put ’em up” for others. + +Days were long and arduous. Though we soon closed the dining room after +lunch, doing no supper trade, there were public dinners once or twice a +week for Masonic societies, football clubs and the like, and at these +one or other of the proprietors was expected to show himself. To my +great relief, Kay rather enjoyed this light duty. His talent for acting +was often in demand too; he would don his Henry Irving wig and give the +company an imitation of the great actor in “The Bells.” + +Kay was very successful at these “banquets,” and sometimes a Society +would engage the room on the condition that he performed for them +after dinner. What annoyed him was that “the silly idiots always order +champagne!” There was no profit worth mentioning in “wine,” as it was +called. The profit was in beer and “liquor.” The histrionic talent, +at any rate, was an accomplishment that proved useful later in our +difficult New York days, when Kay not only got a job on the stage +himself, but provided me with a part as well. + +The shadow of that East 19th Street boarding-house was already drawing +nearer ... and another customer of the Hub who was to share it with +us was Louis B----, a voluble, high-strung fat little Frenchman, of +mercurial temperament and great musical gifts. When a Hub banquet had +seen enough of the Irving wig, and expressed a wish to hear the other +proprietor, it was always Louis B---- who accompanied my fiddle on the +piano. Raff’s “Cavatina” was tolerated, the “Berçeuse” from “Jocelyn” +enjoyed, but the popular songs of the day, Louis extemporizing all +accompaniments with his perfect touch, it was these that were good for +“business.” The fat, good-natured little man, with his bright dark +eyes and crisp curly black hair, demanded several absinthes before he +would play. He was a born musician. He loved, in the order mentioned, +music, horses, his wife, and from the last he always had to obtain +permission to “play at the Hub.” Towards midnight he would dash to the +telephone and say pleadingly to his wife: “They want me to play one +more piece--only one. Do you mind? I shan’t be long!” + +The Hub Wine Company, camouflaging the saloon business of two foolish +young idiots, passed through its phases towards the inevitable +collapse. Business declined; credit grew difficult; prompt payment +for supplies more difficult still. We closed the Dining Room, then +the House of Commons. The Banquets ceased. Selling out at “top price” +became a dream, loss of all my capital a fact. Those were funereal +days. To me it was a six months’ horror. The impulsive purchase +was paid for dearly. It was not only the declining business, the +approaching loss of my small capital, the prospect of presently working +for some farmer at a dollar a day and green tea--it was not these +things I chiefly felt. It was, rather, the fact that I had taken a step +downhill, betrayed some imagined ideal in me, shown myself willing to +“sell my soul” for filthy lucre. The price, though not paid in lucre, +was certainly paid in mental anguish, and the letters from home, though +patient, generously forgiving, even understanding, increased this +tenfold.... + +My own nature, meanwhile, wholly apart from any other influence, sought +what relief it could. My heart had never really been in the venture, my +body now kept out of it as much as possible. The loathing I had felt +for the place from the very beginning was quite apart from any question +of success or failure. I hated the very atmosphere, the faces of the +staff, the sound of voices as I approached the swinging doors. While +attending strictly to business, never shortening my hours on duty by +five minutes, and eagerly helping Kay in our efforts to get in another +partner with money, my relief when once outside the actual building was +immense. We had engaged a new manager, whose popularity in the town--he +was a great cricketer--brought considerable fresh custom, but whose +chief value in my eyes lay in the fact that I need not be present quite +as much as before. Collins, who weighed twenty stone, was a character. +Known for some reason as “the Duke,” he had no other title to nobility. +He helped trade for a few brief weeks, but also helped himself at the +same time, and his exit, not unlike that of Jimmy--who was “fired” for +the same reason--was attended by threats of a slander suit, which also, +like Jimmy’s, was set down in the Greek kalends. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +One effect of these long, unhappy months, anyhow, was to emphasize +another, and that the principal side, of my nature. The daily effort +of forcing myself to do what I hated so intensely, was succeeded by +the equal and opposite reaction of enjoying tremendously my free hours +of relaxation. When the swing-doors closed behind me, my mind closed +too upon all memory of the hated Hub. It was shut out, forgotten, +non-existent. I flew instinctively to what comforted and made me happy. +Gorged with the reading of poetry and of idealistic, mystical books, +an insatiable sense of wonder with a childish love of the marvellous +added to it, my disappointing experience of practical realities +demanded compensation as a safety-valve, if as nothing more. I found +these in Nature, music, and in the companionship of a few people I will +presently describe. Out of those prison-like swing-doors I invariably +went, either with the fiddle-case in my hand, or with food in my pocket +and a light cloak as blanket for sleeping out. Concerts and organ +recitals were not enough; more than to listen, I wanted to play myself; +and Louis B---- was usually as enthusiastic as I. The music was a deep +delight to me, but the sleeping under the stars I enjoyed most. + +Those lonely little camp fires have left vivid pictures in the mind. +An East-bound tram soon took one beyond the city, where the shores of +Lake Ontario stretched their deserted sands for miles. There was always +fresh water to be found for boiling tea, lots of driftwood lying about, +and the sand made a comfortable bed. Many a night of that sweet Indian +summer I saw the moon rise or set over the water, and lay watching the +stars until the sunrise came. One spot in particular was a favourite +with me, because, just over the high loam cliffs that lined the shore, +there was an enormous field of tomatoes, and while Jimmy was helping +himself to the Hub cash under Kay’s eyes in the city, I helped myself +to half a dozen of the farmer’s ripe tomatoes. The Hub, however, of set +purpose, formed no part of my thoughts, my reveries and dreams being of +a very different, and far more interesting, kind.... + +A night in the woods, though distance made it more difficult, comforted +me even more than the Lake expeditions. I kept the woods usually for +Saturday night, when the next day left me free as well. + +A pine forest beyond Rosedale was my favourite haunt, for it was (in +those days) quite deserted and several miles from the nearest farm, +and in the heart of it lay a secluded little lake with reedy shores +and deep blue water. Here I lay and communed, the world of hotels, +insurance, even of Methodists, very far away. The hum of the city +could not reach me, though its glare was faintly visible in the sky. +There were no signs of men; no sounds of human life; not even a dog’s +bark--nothing but a sighing wind and lapping water and a sort of +earth-murmur under the trees, and I used to think that God, whatever +He was, or the great spiritual forces that I believed lay behind all +phenomena, and perhaps were the moving life of the elements themselves, +must be nearer to one’s consciousness in places like this than among +the bustling of men in the towns and houses. As the material world +faded away among the shadows, I felt dimly the real spiritual world +behind shining through ... I meditated on the meaning of these dreams +till the veil over outer things seemed very thin; diving down into my +inner consciousness as deeply as I could till a stream of tremendous +yearning for the realities that lay beyond appearances poured out of +me into the night.... The hours passed with magical swiftness, and +my dreaming usually ended in sleep, for I often woke in the chilly +time just before the dawn, lying sideways on the pine needles, and +saw the trees outlined sharply against the Eastern sky, and the lake +water still and clear, and heard the dawn-wind just beginning to sing +overhead. The laughter of a loon would sound, the call of an owl, the +cry of a whip-poor-will; and then--the sun was up. + +Thought ran, on these lonely nights, to everything except to present +or recent happenings. Life, already half over as, at twenty-one, it +then seemed to me, had proved a failure; my few trivial experiences +appeared gigantic and oppressive. I felt very old. Present conditions, +being unhappy and promising to become more unhappy still, I left aside. +I had “accepted” them as Karma, I must go through with them, but there +was no need to intensify or prolong unhappiness by dwelling on them. +I therefore dismissed them, thought wandering to other things. All +was coloured, shaped, directed by those Eastern teachings in which I +was then entirely absorbed ... and the chief problem in my mind at +the time, was to master the method of accepting, facing, exhausting, +whatever life might bring, while being, as the Bhagavad Gita described, +“indifferent to results,” unaffected, that is, by the “fruits of +action.” Detachment, yet without shirking, was the nearest equivalent +phrase I could find; a state, anyhow, stronger than the Christian +“resignation,” which woke contempt in me.... + +Unhappiness, though it may seem trivial now, both as to cause +and quality, was very deep in me at the time. It had wakened an +understanding of certain things I had read--as in the stolen +“Patanjali” years before--without then grasping what they meant. These +things I now was beginning to reach by an inner experience of them, +rather than by an intellectual comprehension merely.... And, as thought +ran backwards, escaping the unpleasant Hub and Dairy, to earlier days +in the Black Forest School, to the Jura Mountains village, to family +holidays among the Alps or on the west coast of Scotland, it reached in +due course the year spent at Edinburgh University just before I left +for Canada, and so to individuals there who had strongly influenced me: + +I recalled Dr. H----, who used hypnotism in his practice, taught +me various methods of using it, and often admitted me to private +experiments in his study. He explained many a text-book for me. He had +urged me to give up the idea of farming in Canada, and to read for +medicine and become a doctor. “Specialize,” he said (in 1883). “By the +time you are qualified Suggestion will be a recognized therapeutic +agent, accepted by all, and accomplishing marvellous results. Become a +mental specialist.” + +I lay under my pine trees, wondering if it were still too late ... +but speculating, further and chiefly, about those other states of +consciousness, since called “subliminal,” which his experiments had +convinced me were of untold importance, both to the individual and to +the race. Any lawful method of extending the field of consciousness, +of increasing its scope, of developing latent faculties, with its +corollary of greater knowledge and greater powers, excited and +interested me more than the immediate prospect of making a million.... + +This doctor’s family were sincere and convinced spiritualists. He let +them be, paying no attention to them, yet pointing out to me privately +the “secondary” state into which his wife, as the medium, could throw +herself at will. His son had an Amati violin; we played together; I +was invited to many séances. The power of reading a “sitter’s” mind I +often witnessed, my own unuttered thoughts often being announced as +the communication from some “guide” or “spirit friend.” But for the +doctor’s private exposition, I might doubtless have been otherwise +persuaded and shared my hostess’s convictions. + +Some of the “communications” came back in memory, none the less, as I +lay beside the little lake and watched the firelight reflected with +the stars: “There is an Indian here; he says he comes for you. He is a +medicine man. He says you are one, too. You have great healing power. +He keeps repeating the word ‘scratch.’” The dubious word meant “write”; +I was to become a writer, a prophesy that woke no interest in me at +all.... Another communication delved into the past: “You have been an +Indian in a recent life, and you will go back to their country to +work off certain painful Karma. You were Aztec, Inca, Egyptian, and, +before that again, Atlantean. With the world to-day you have nothing +in common, for none of the souls you knew have come back with you. +Nature means more to you than human beings. Beware!” The last word +alarmed me a good deal until the doctor’s humorous exposition killed +any malefic suggestion. The horoscope his wife cast and read for me, +however, he refused to be bothered with; he could not, therefore, +comfort me by explaining away a disturbing sentence: “All your planets +are beneficent, but were just below the horizon at the hour of your +birth. This means that you will come very near to success in all you +undertake, yet never quite achieve it.” + +These memories slipped in their series across my mind, as the embers +of my fire faded and the night drew on. Swiftly they came and passed, +each leaving its little trail of dust, its faint emotion, yet leading +always to a stronger ghost whose memory still bulked largely in my +mind--the ghost of a Hindu student. He was a fourth-year man, about +to become a qualified doctor, and I met him first in the dissecting +room, where occasionally I played at studying anatomy. We first became +intimate friends over the dissection of a leg. It was he who explained +“Patanjali” to me. He was a very gifted and unusual being. He showed +me strange methods of breathing, of concentration, of meditation. He +made clear a thousand half-conscious dreams and memories in me. He +was mysterious but sincere, living his theories in practice. We went +for great walks along the Forth, watching the Forth Bridge then being +built; down the coast to St. Abb’s Head and Coldingham; deep into the +recesses of the Pentlands, where, more than once, we slept in the +open. We made curious and interesting experiments together.... Years +later--he is still alive--I drew upon a fraction of his personality in +two books, “John Silence” and “Julius Le Vallon.”... + +Much that he explained and taught me, much that he believed and +practised, came back vividly during these nightly vigils in the woods, +while I listened to the weird laughter of the loons like the voices of +women far away, and watched the Northern Lights flash in their strange +majesty from the horizon to mid-heaven. Unhappiness was making my real +life sink deeper. No boy, I am sure, sought for what he believed would +prove the realities with more passionate intensity than I did. It is +curious now to look back upon those grave experiments first taught me +by my Hindu friend, who assured me that the way to rob emotions of +their power was to refuse to identify one’s “self” with them, this real +“self” merely looking on as a spectator, apart, detached; and that the +outer events of life had small importance, what mattered being solely +one’s inner attitude to them, one’s interpretation of them.... + +From these hours spent alone with Nature, as also from the hours +of music with Louis B---- I returned, at any rate, refreshed and +invigorated to my loathsome bars. Personal troubles seemed less +important, less oppressive; they were, after all, but brief episodes +in a single life; as Karma, they had to be faced, gone through with; +they had something to teach, and I must learn the lesson, or else miss +one of the objects of my being. Watching the starry heavens through +hours of imaginative reflection brought a bigger perspective in which +individual worries found reduced proportion. My thoughts introduced a +yet vaster perspective still. The difficulty was to keep the point of +view when the mood that encouraged it was gone. After a few hours in +the House of Lords perspective was apt to dwindle again.... + +When the winter months made sleeping out impossible, and Louis B---- +was not available, my precious hours of freedom would be spent with +a young agnostic doctor dying of consumption; with the Professor of +History in Toronto University--a sterling, sympathetic man, a true +Christian of intellectual type, and a big, genuine soul who never +thought of himself in the real help he gave me unfailingly with both +hands; or, lastly, with an enthusiast who shared my quest for what +we called “the Realities.” With all three I had made close friends +during the first prosperous days of the Dairy; the Professor’s family +had been customers for milk and eggs; the young doctor, living in my +boarding-house, had been a pupil in my French and German class. + +The third was a Scotsman, fairly well educated, about thirty years +of age, who, while fully in sympathy with my line of thinking, had +succeeded in reducing his dreams to some sort of order so that they +did not interfere with his ordinary, practical career and yet were the +guiding rule of his life. + +He was in the cement business, and his clothes, even on Sunday, were +always covered with a fine white dust, for he was unmarried and lived +alone in a single room. He made a bare living at his work, but was +thoroughly conscientious and devoted to the interests of his employer, +and all he asked was steady work and fair remuneration for the rest +of his life. He was a real mystic by temperament, though he belonged +to no particular tradition. The world for him was but a show of false +appearances that the senses gathered; the realities behind were +spiritual. He believed that his soul had existed for ever and would +never cease to exist, and that his ego would continue to expand and +develop according to the life he led, and shaped by his thoughts and +acts (but especially by his thoughts) to all eternity. This world for +him was a schoolroom, a place of difficult discipline and learning, +and the lessons he was learning were determined logically and justly +by his previous living and previous mistakes. Talents or disabilities, +equally, were the results of former action.... + +But to the ordinary man he appeared simply as a rather dull everyday +worker, without any worldly ambition, absolutely honest and +trustworthy, and always occupying a subordinate position in practical +affairs. + +In the “old country” he had belonged to some sort of society that kept +alive traditions of teaching methods of spiritual development, and he +told me much concerning their theories that immense latent powers lay +in the depths of one’s being and could be educed by suitable living, +and the period in the “schoolroom of this world,” as he called it, +could be shortened and the progress of one’s real development hastened. +It all lay, with him, in learning how to concentrate the faculties on +this inner life, without neglecting the duties of the position one +held to family or employer, and thus reducing the life of the body and +the senses to the minimum that was consistent with health and ordinary +duty. In this way he believed new forces would awaken to life, and new +parts of one’s being be stimulated into activity, and in due course one +would become conscious of a new spiritual region with the spiritual +senses adapted to it. It amounted, of course, to an expansion of +consciousness. + +All this, naturally, interested me very much indeed, and I spent hours +talking with this cement maker, and many more hours reading the books +he lent me and thinking about them. My friend helped in this extension. +Carl du Prel’s “Philosophy of Mysticism” was a book to injure no one. + +He had published one or two volumes of minor poetry, and his verse, +though poor in form, caught all through it the elusive quality of +genuine mystical poetry, unearthly, touching the stars, and wakening in +the reader the note of yearning for the highest things. I took him with +me several times to my little private grove, and he would recite these +verses to me in a way that made them sound very different from my own +reading of them. And as he lay beside the lake and I heard his reedy +voice mingling with the wind in the trees, and watched his watery blue +eyes shine across the smoke of our fire, I realized that the value of +his poems lay in the fact that they were a perfectly true expression +of his self--of his small, mystical, unselfish and oddly elemental +soul searching after the God that should finally absorb him up into +something greater. I do not wish to criticize him, but only to picture +what I saw. His attenuated body, and long thin fingers, his shabby +clothes covered with white dust lying by my side under the stars, his +eyes looking beyond the world, and the sound of his thin voice that +lost half its words somewhere in the wind--the picture is complete in +every detail in my mind to this day. His reasoning powers were slight, +for like all true mystics he believed in the intuitive perception +of truth; but, coming into my life just at this time, he came with +influence and a good deal of stimulus too. From the “House of Commons” +to his dream-laden atmosphere provided a contrast that brought relief, +at any rate. + +This mystical minor poet in the cement business had several friends +like himself, but no one of them possessed his value, because no one of +them practised their beliefs. They talked well and were sincere up to +a point, but not to the point of making sacrifices for their faith. It +was always with them a future hope. One, however, must be excepted--a +woman. She was over sixty and always dressed in black, with crêpe +scattered all over her, and a large white face, and shining eyes, and +great bags under them. She had been a vegetarian for years. In spite of +her size she looked so ethereal that a puff of wind might have blown +her across the street. All her friends and relations had “passed over,” +and her thoughts were evidently centred in the beyond, so far as she +herself was concerned. She had means of her own, but spent most of them +in helping others. There was no humbug about her. She claimed to have +what she called “continuous consciousness,” and at night, when her body +lay down and the brain slept, she focused her Self in some spiritual +region of her being, and never lost consciousness. She saw her body +lying there, and knew the brain was asleep, but she meanwhile became +active elsewhere, for she declared a spirit could never sleep, and it +was only the body that became too weary at the end of the day to answer +to the spirit’s requirements. In sleep the body, left empty by the +spirit, slept, and memory, being in the brain, became inactive. But as +soon as one had learned to realize one’s spirit, sleep involved no loss +of consciousness and memory was continuous. + +Her accounts of her experiences in the night thrilled me.... While +she talked her face grew so white that it almost shone. It was a +beaming, good, loving face, and the woman was honest, even if deluded. +She radiated kindness and sympathy from her person. She had a way of +screwing up her eyes when speaking, stepping back a few paces, and then +coming suddenly forward again as though she meant to jump across the +room, her voice ringing, and her eyes opened so wide that I thought the +bags underneath them must burst with a pop. + +The young doctor living in the boarding-house also interested me, +reviving indeed my desire to follow his own profession myself. He +was about twenty-six years old and very poor; the exact antithesis +of myself, being clear-minded, practical, cynical and a thorough +sceptic on the existence of a soul and God and immortality. He was +well-read and had the true scientific temperament, spending hours +with his microscope and books. The fact of his being at the opposite +pole to myself attracted me to him, and we had long talks in his +consulting-room on the ground floor back--where everything was prepared +for the reception of patients, but where no patient ever came. Our +worlds were so far apart, and it was so hard to establish a mutual +coinage of words that our talks were somewhat futile. He was logical, +absorbed in his dream of original research; he used words in their +exact meaning and jumped to no conclusions rashly, and never allowed +his judgment to be influenced by his emotions; whereas I talked, no +doubt, like a child, building vast erections upon inadequate premises, +indulging in my religious dreams about God and the soul, speculative +and visionary. He argued me out of my boots every time, and towards the +end of our talks grew impatient and almost angry with my vague mind and +“transcendental tommy-rot,” as he called it; but at the same time he +liked me, and was always glad to talk and discuss with me. + +Nothing he said, though much of it was cogent and unanswerable, ever +influenced my opinions in the least degree, because I felt he was +fundamentally wrong, and was trying to find by scalpel and microscope +the things of the spirit. I felt a profound pity for him, and he felt +a contemptuous pity for me. But one night my pity almost changed to +love, and after this particular conversation, in the course of which he +made me deep confidences of his early privations in order that he might +study for his profession, and of his unquenchable desire for knowledge +for its own sake, I felt so tenderly towards him, that I never tried to +argue again, but only urged him to believe in a soul and in a future +life. For he told me that he was already so far gone in consumption +that at most he had but a year or two to live, and he knew that in the +time at his disposal he could not accomplish the very smallest part of +his great dream. I then understood why his eyes were so burning bright +and why he had always glowing red spots in his cheeks, and looked so +terribly thin and emaciated. + +The hours spent with him did not refresh or invigorate me as the woods +and music did; I re-entered the swing doors of my prison--as I came to +regard the Hub--with no new stimulus. His example impressed me, but +his atmosphere and outlook both depressed. Only my admiration for his +courage, strong will, and consistent attitude remained, while I drank +“tea” with my unpleasant customers, or listened to complaints from +the staff. Before the swing-doors closed for the last time, however, +the thin, keen-faced doctor with the hectic flush and the bright +burning eyes had succumbed to his terrible malady. His end made a +great impression on me. For several months he went about like a living +skeleton. His cough was ghastly. He had less and less money, and I +seemed to be the only friend he turned to, or indeed possessed at all, +for I was the only person he allowed to help him, and the little help +I could give was barely enough to prevent the landlady turning him out +for rent and board unpaid. + +To the last his will burned in him like a flame. He talked and studied, +and dreamed his long dream of scientific achievement even when he knew +his time was measured by weeks, and he was utterly scornful of death +and a Deity that could devise such a poor scheme of existence, so full +of failure, pain, and abortive effort. But I was full of admiration +for the way he kept going full speed to the very end, starting new +books and fresh experiments even when he knew he would not have time +to get half-way through with them, and discussing high schemes just as +though he expected years in which to carry them out--instead of days. + +Here was a man absolutely without faith, or any belief in God or +future life, who walked straight up to a miserable death under full +steam, with nothing to console or buoy him up, and without friends to +sympathize, and who never for a single instant flinched or whimpered. +There burned in his heart the fire of a really strong will. It was +the first time I had realized at close quarters what this meant, and +when I went to his funeral I felt full of real sorrow, and have never +forgotten the scene at his death-bed when the keen set face relaxed +nothing of its decision to the very last. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +At length the bitter, sparkling winter was over, the sleigh-bells +silent, the covered skating-rinks all closed. The last remnants +of the piled-up snow had melted, and the sweet spring winds were +blowing freshly down the cedar-paved streets. On the lake shores the +boat-houses were being opened; canoes, skiffs and cat-boats being +repainted. Tents and camping kit were being overhauled. The talk +everywhere was of picnics, expeditions, trips into the backwoods, and +plans for summer holidays. Crystal sunlight flooded the world. The +Canadian spring intoxicated the brain and sent the blood dancing to +wild, happy measures. + +The Hub was now in the hands of a Receiver; Adams and Burns, the +wholesale house, controlled it. Kay and I had to pay cash for +everything--the Hub Wine Company was “bust.” + +Yielding to my father’s impatient surprise that after all these months +I was still a partner, I had assigned my interest a short time before +to Kay, and had sent home the printed announcement in the newspapers. +It was a nominal assignment only, for I had nothing to assign. My last +penny of capital was lost. Kay, for his part, had lost everything too. +Vultures, in the form of bailiffs with blue writs in their claws, +haunted our last week; by good luck rather than good management I owed +nothing, but Kay had small outstanding accounts all over the town. + +It was a hectic last week. Our friends came in crowds to sympathize, +to offer advice, to suggest new plans, and all considered a liquid +farewell necessary. This etiquette was strict. A private word with +the Receiver brought back our tea bottle. The Upper House did a fair +business again, while Louis B---- bursting with new schemes, new +enterprises, that should restore our fortunes, was for ever at the +piano in the upstairs room. We played together while our little Rome +was burning--Tchaikowsky, Chopin, Wagner, and the latest songs with +choruses. Kay donned his Irving wig from time to time and roared his +“Bells” and “Suicide.” Our last days rattled by. + +The pain of the failure was mitigated for me personally by the intense +relief I felt to be free of the nightmare at last. Whatever might +be in store, nothing could be worse than that six months’ horror. +Besides, failure in Canada was never final. It held the seeds of +success to follow. From its ashes new life rose with wings and singing. +The electric air of spring encouraged brave hopes of a thousand +possibilities, and while I felt the disaster overwhelmingly, our brains +at the same time already hummed with every imaginable fresh scheme. +What these schemes were it is difficult now to recall, beyond that they +included all possibilities of enterprise that a vast young country +could suggest to penniless adventurous youth. + +What memory still holds sharply, however, is the face of a young lawyer +of our acquaintance, as he looked at me across the fiddle and said +casually: “You can live on my island in Lake Rosseau if you like!” +Without a moment’s hesitation we accepted the lawyer’s offer of his +ten-acre island in the northern lakes. The idea of immediate new +enterprise faded. Kay was easily persuaded into a plan that promised a +few weeks’ pleasant leisure to think things over, living meanwhile for +next to nothing. “I shall go to New York later,” he announced, “and get +on the stage. I’ll take Shakespeare up to the island and study it.” +He packed his Irving wig. It was the camping-out which caught me with +irresistible attraction: the big woods, an open air life, sun, wind +and water.... “I’ll come up and join you later,” promised the sanguine +Louis B----. “I’ll come with some new plan we can talk over round your +camp-fire.” He agreed to pack up our few belongings and keep them for +us till we went later to New York. “We’ll all go to the States,” he +urged. “Canada is a one-horse place. There are far more chances across +the line.” + +We kept secret our date of leaving, only Louis knowing it. On the +morning of May 24th, the Queen’s birthday, he came to fetch us and our +luggage, the latter reduced to a minimum. There were no good-byes. But +this excitable little Frenchman, who loved a touch of the picturesque, +did not come quite as we expected. He arrived two hours before his +time, with a wagonette and two prancing horses, his fat figure on the +box, flicking his long whip and shouting up at our windows. His idea, +he explained as we climbed in, was to avoid the main station, where we +should be bound to see a dozen people we knew. He proposed, instead, to +drive us twenty miles to a small station, where the train stopped on +its way north. There was no time to argue. I sat beside him on the box +with the precious fiddle, Kay got behind with our two bags, and Louis +drove us and his spanking pair along King Street and then up Yonge +Street. Scores recognized us, wondering what it meant, for these were +the principal streets of the town, but Louis flourished his whip, gave +the horses their head, and raced along the interminable Yonge Street +till at length the houses disappeared, and the empty reaches of the +hinterland took their place. He saw us into the train with our luggage +and our few dollars, waving his whip in farewell as the engine started. +We did not see him again till he arrived, thin, worried, anxious and +gabbling, in the East 19th Street boarding-house the following autumn. + +My Toronto episodes were over. I had been eighteen months in the +country and was close upon twenty-two; my capital I had lost, but I had +gained at least a little experience in exchange. I no longer trusted +every one at sight. The green paint had worn thin in patches, if not +all over. The collapse of the Dairy made me feel old, the Hub disaster +made me a Methuselah. My home life seemed more and more remote, I had +broken with it finally, I could never return to the old country, nor +show my face in the family circle again. Thus I felt, at least. The +pain and unhappiness in me seemed incurably deep, and my shame was +very real. In my heart was a secret wish to live in the backwoods for +evermore, a broken man, feeding on lost illusions and vanished dreams. +The lighthearted plans that Louis B---- and Kay so airily discussed I +could not understand. My heart sank each time I recognized my father’s +handwriting on an envelope. I felt a kind of final misery that only my +belief in Karma mitigated. + +This mood of exaggerated intensity soon passed, of course, but for +a time life was very bitter. It was hard at first to “accept” these +fruits of former lives, this harvest of misfortune whose seeds I +assuredly had sown myself long, long ago. The “detachment” I was trying +to learn, with its attitude of somehow being “indifferent to the fruits +of action,” was not acquired in a day. + +Yet it interests me now to look back down the vista of thirty years, +and to realize that this first test of my line of thought--whether it +was a pretty fancy merely, or whether a real conviction--did not find +me wanting. It was, I found, a genuine belief; neither then, nor in the +severer tests that followed, did it ever fail me for a single moment. I +understood, similarly, how my father’s faith, equally sincere though in +such different guise to mine, could give him strength and comfort, no +matter what life might bring.... + +As our train went northwards through the hinterland towards Gravenhurst +and the enchanted island where we were to spend five months of a +fairyland existence, I grasped that a chapter of my life was closed, +and a new one opening. The mind looked back, of course. Toronto, whose +Indian name means Place of Meeting, I saw only once or twice again. +I never stayed there. At the end of our happy island-life, we rushed +through it on our way to fresh adventures in New York, Kay hiding his +face in an overcoat lest some creditor catch a glimpse of him and serve +a blue writ before the train’s few minutes’ pause in the station ended. +The following winter, indeed, this happened, though in a theatre and +not in a railway carriage. The travelling company, of which he formed +a member, was giving its Toronto week, and a creditor in the audience +recognized him on the stage, though not this time in his Irving wig. +The blue writ was served, the bailiff standing in the wings until the +amount was paid. + +In the mood of reflection a train journey engenders, a sense of +perspective slipped behind the eighteen months just over. Shot forth +from my evangelical hot-house into colonial life, it now seemed to +me rather wonderful that my utter ignorance had not landed me in yet +worse muddles ... even in gaol.... One incident, oddly enough, stood +out more clearly than the rest. But for my ridiculous inexperience of +the common conditions of living, my complete want of _savoir faire_, +my unacquaintance even with the ways of normal social behaviour, I +might have now been in very different circumstances. A quite different +career might easily have opened for me, a career in a railway, in the +Canadian Pacific Railway, in fact, on one of whose trains we were then +travelling. + +But for my stupid ignorance, an opening in the C.P.R. would certainly +have been found for me, whether it led to a future or not. The +incident, slight and trivial though it was, throws a characteristic +light on the results of my upbringing. It happened in this way: + +Among my father’s acquaintance were the bigwigs of the Canadian Pacific +Railway, who had shown him much courtesy on our earlier visit. The +relationship this time was not of a religious kind; he was Financial +Secretary to the Post Office; the C.P.R. carried the mails. Sir +George Stephen and Sir Donald Stewart had not at that time received +their peerages as My Lords Mount-Stephen and Strathcona; Sir William +van Horne was still alive. To all of these I bore letters, though +I delivered--by post to Montreal--only the one to Sir George, as +President of the line. It met with the kindest possible response, and +for several weeks I had been awaiting the return of T., an important +official in Toronto, to whom my case had been explained, but who was +away at the time, touring the west in his special car. The moment I +returned, I felt reasonably sure that he would find me a place of some +sort or other where I could at least make a start. He had, in fact, +been asked to do so. With influence, too, in high quarters behind me, +I had every reason to hope. The return of Mr. T. I awaited eagerly. He +was a young man, I learned, of undoubted ability, but was at the same +time a petty fellow, very pushing, very conceited, and a social snob +of the most flagrant type. I was rather frightened, indeed, by what I +heard, for a colonial social snob can be a very terrible creature, as I +had already discovered. + +Mr. T.’s return chanced to coincide with a big race meeting, to be +followed by a ball at Government House. Sir Alexander Campbell was +Governor of Ontario at the time. It was the event of the season, and of +course Mr. T. came back in time to attend it and be in evidence. With a +party of friends I drove to my first race meeting (oh, how the clothes, +the talk, the rushing horses, all looking exactly alike, bored me!) +with an invitation to the grand stand box of the Governor General, Lord +Aberdeen, also a friend of my father’s, and was thus introduced to the +railway official under the best possible auspices. My heart beat high +when I saw how he took trouble to be nice to me and begged me to call +upon him next day at his office, saying that “something could no doubt +be arranged for me _at once_.” I was so delighted that I felt inclined +to cable home at once “Got work”; but I resisted this temptation and +simply let my imagination play round the nature of the position I +should soon be holding in a very big company, with excellent chances +of promotion and salary. I was too young to be bothered by the man’s +patronizing manner and did not care a straw about his condescension and +self-importance, because I thought only of getting work and a start. + +The ball filled me with intense shyness and alarm, however, for I had +never learned to dance, or been inside a ballroom, and it was merely by +chance I found out that white gloves and a white tie (not a black one +as I had always worn at home for dinner) were the proper things. In a +colony, too, an Englishman, who pretends to any standing, cannot be +too careful about social details; for everything, and more besides, is +expected of him. + +The ball was even worse than I had anticipated. I was nervous and +uncomfortable. Ignorant of the little observances that would have been +known to any man brought up differently, I found nothing to say to the +numerous pretty Canadian girls, unconventional and natural, who were +introduced to me, and I had not the slightest idea that the correct and +polite thing to do was to ask each young lady for the “pleasure of a +dance.” + +What people must have thought of my manners I cannot imagine, but the +climax was undoubtedly reached when the railway official swaggered up +to me in the middle of the room and said he wished to introduce me to +his sister. This was duly accomplished, but--I could think of nothing +to say. We stood side by side, with the official beaming upon us, I +fingering my empty programme and the girl waiting to be asked for a +dance. But the request was not forthcoming, and after a few minutes +of terrible awkwardness and half silence, the purple-faced official +marched his sister off again, highly insulted, to introduce her to men +who would appreciate their luck better than I had done. + +To him, of course, my manners must have seemed hopelessly rude. He +felt angry that I had not thought his sister worth even the ordinary +politeness of a dance; and to a Canadian, who learns dancing with his +bottle, and dances indoors and out on every possible occasion, the +omission must have seemed incredibly ill-mannered, and the snub an +unforgivable one. I cannot blame him. I remained in complete ignorance +however of my crime, and, beyond feeling nervously foolish, out of +place, and generally not much of a success, I had no idea I had given +cause for offence until, long afterwards, I heard stories about myself +and my behaviour which made me realize that I had done unpardonable +things and left undone all that was best and correct. + +At the time, however, I had no realization that I had offended at all; +and in the morning I went down according to appointment to call upon +the railway official in his fine offices and hear the joyful news of my +appointment to a lucrative and honourable position in the Company. + +It seemed a little strange to me that I was kept waiting exactly an +hour in the outer office, but I was so sure of a pleasant interview +with a practical result that when at last the clerk summoned me to the +official’s sanctum, I went in with a smiling face and goodwill and +happiness in my heart. + +The general manager, as I will call him, though this title disguises +his actual position, greeted me, however, without a word. He was +talking to a man who stood beside his desk, and though he must have +heard my name announced, he did not so much as turn his head. I stood +looking at the framed photographs on the wall for several moments +before the man went out, and then, when the door was closed, I advanced +with outstretched hand and cordial manner across the room to greet my +future employer. + +He glanced at me frigidly, and, without even rising from his chair, +gave me a stiff bow and said in a voice of the utmost formality: + +“Well, sir, and what can I do for you?” + +The words fell into my brain like so many particles of ice, and froze +my tongue. Such a reception I had never dreamed of receiving. What +had I done wrong? How in the world had I offended? Not even a word of +apology for keeping me waiting an hour; and not even a seat offered me. +I stood there foolishly for a moment, completely puzzled. Surely there +must be a mistake. The man had forgotten me, or took me for somebody +else. + +“I had an appointment with you at eleven o’clock, Mr. T.,” I said +nervously, but trying to smile pleasantly. “You remember you were kind +enough to say yesterday you thought you might find work for me to do +in--in the railway offices.” + +The man’s eyes flashed, just as though he were angry, his face turned +red, and I could not help suddenly noticing what a bad, weak chin he +had and how common and coarse the lines of his face were. The flush +seemed to emphasize all its bad points. + +“Oh, you want work?” he said with a distinct sneer, looking me up and +down as if I were an animal to be judged. “You want work, do you?” + +My nervousness began to melt away before his offensive manner, and I +felt the blood mounting, but trying to keep my temper and to believe +still there must be some mistake, I again reminded him of our previous +interview at the races and in the ballroom. + +“Oh, to be sure, yes, now I remember,” he said casually, and turned to +take up pencil and paper on his desk. I looked about for a chair, but +there was none near, so I remained standing, feeling something like a +suspected man about to be examined by a magistrate. + +“What can you do?” he asked abruptly. + +“Well,” I stammered, utterly surprised at his rudeness and manner, +“I’ve not had much experience yet, of course, but I’m willing to begin +at the bottom and work up. I’ll do anything for a beginning.” + +“That’s what everyone says. ‘Doing anything’ is no good to me. I want +to know what you _can_ do. All my clerks here write shorthand----” + +“I can write shorthand accurately and fast,” I hastened to interrupt, +evidently to his surprise, as though he had not expected to find me +thus equipped. + +“But at present,” he hastened to add, “there are no vacancies on my +staff, and I fear I can offer you nothing unless----” he hesitated a +moment and then looked me full in the face. This time there could be no +mistake. I saw blood in his eye and I realized he was savagely angry +with me for some reason, and was determined to make the interview as +unpleasant for me as possible. + +“----unless you care to sling baggage on a side station up the line,” +he finished sneeringly. + +The blood rushed to my face, and I understood in a flash that the +interview was a farce and his only object to humiliate me. I had so far +swallowed my temper on the chance of getting a position, but I knew +that a post under such a man, who evidently hated me, would be worse +than nothing. So I gave him one look from head to foot and turned to +leave the room. I could have struck him in the jaw with the greatest +pleasure in the world. + +“Then I understand you have no vacancies,” I said quietly as soon as I +got to the door. “I will write and thank Sir George Stephen and tell +him about your kindness to me.” + +I said this because it was the only thing that occurred to me to say, +and not with the object of making him uncomfortable. I had no intention +of putting my words into effect, I had no idea my stray shot would hit +the mark. + +Yet it did. The official, purple, and dismayed, got up hastily, and +called me to stay a moment and he would see if something was not +possible. Hurried sentences followed me to the passage, but I merely +bowed and went out, knowing perfectly well that nothing could come of +further conversation. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +Gradually, thus, contact with ordinary people and experiences with +certain facets, at least, of practical life had begun to give me what +is called a knowledge of the world. The hot-house upbringing made +this acquisition difficult as well as painful; there still remained a +feeling that I was “peculiar”; ignorance of things that to other youths +of twenty-one were commonplaces still gave me little shocks. Knowledge +that comes at the wrong time is apt to produce exaggerated effects; and +only those who have shared the childlike shelter afforded by a strict +evangelical enclosure in early years can appreciate the absurd want +of proportion which is one of these effects. Knowledge of “natural” +human kinds, withheld at the right moment, and acquired later, has its +dangers.... + +Two things, moreover, about people astonished me in particular, +I remember; they astonish me even more to-day. Being, in both +cases, merely individual reactions, to the herd, they are easily +understandable, and are mentioned here because, being entirely +personal, they reveal the individual whose adventures are described. + +The first--it astonished me daily, hourly--was the indifference of +almost everybody to the great questions Whence, Why, Whither. The few +who asked these questions seemed cranks of one sort or another; the +immense majority of people showed no interest whatever. Creatures of +extraordinary complexity, powers, faculties, set down for a given +period, without being consulted apparently, upon a little planet amid +countless numbers of majestic, terrifying suns ... few showed even the +faintest interest in the purpose, origin and goal of their existence. +Of these few, again, by far the majority were eager to prove that +soul and spirit were chemical reactions, results of some fortuitous +concourse of dead atoms, to rob life, in a word, of all its wonder. +These problems of paramount, if insoluble, interest, were taken as a +matter of course. There was, indeed, no sense of wonder. + +It astonished me, doubtless, because in my own case this was the only +kind of knowledge I desired, and desired passionately. To me it was +the only real knowledge, the only thing worth knowing.... And I was +ever getting little shocks on discovering gradually that not only +was such knowledge not wanted, but that to talk of its possibility +constituted one a dreamer, if not a bore. How anybody in possession +of ordinary faculties could look, say, at the night sky of stars, +and not know the wondrous flood of divine curiosity about his own +personal relation to the universe drench his being--this never ceased +to perplex me. Yet with almost everybody, the few exceptions being +usually “odd,” conversation rapidly flattened out as though such things +were of no importance, while stocks and shares, some kind of practical +“market-value,” at any rate, quickly became again the topic of real +value. Not only, however, did this puzzle me; it emphasized at this +time one’s sense of being peculiar; it sketched a growing loneliness +in more definite outline. No one wanted to make some money more than +I did, but these other things--one reason, doubtless, why I never did +make money--came indubitably first. + +The second big and daily astonishment of those awakening years, which +also has persisted, if not actually intensified, concerned the blank +irresponsiveness to beauty of almost everybody I had to do with. +Exceptions, again, were either cranks or useless, unpractical people, +failures to a man. Many liked “scenery,” either perceiving it for +themselves, or on having it pointed out to them; but very few, as +with myself, knew their dominant mood of the day influenced--well, +by a gleam of light upon the lake at dawn, a faint sound of music in +the pines, a sudden strip of blue on a day of storm, the great piled +coloured clouds at evening--“such clouds as flit, like splendour-winged +moths about a taper, round the red west when the sun dies in it.” +These things had an effect of intoxication upon me, for it was the +wonder and beauty of Nature that touched me most; something like the +delight of ecstasy swept over me when I read of sunrise in the Indian +Caucasus.... “The point of one white star is quivering still, deep in +the orange light of widening morn beyond the purple mountains ...” and +it was a genuine astonishment to me that so few, so very few, felt the +slightest response, or even noticed, a thousand and one details in sky +and earth that delighted me with haunting joy for hours at a stretch. + +With Kay, my late “partner in booze,” as I had heard him called, +there was sufficient response in these two particulars to make him a +sympathetic companion. If these things were not of dominant importance +to him, they were at least important. Humour and courage being likewise +his, he proved a delightful comrade during our five months of lonely +island life. What his view of myself may have been is hard to say; +luckily perhaps, Kay was not a scribbler.... He will agree, I think, +that we were certainly very happy in our fairyland of peace and +loveliness amid the Muskoka Lakes of Northern Ontario. + +Our island, one of many in Lake Rosseau, was about ten acres in extent, +irregularly shaped, overgrown with pines, its western end running out +to a sharp ridge we called Sunset Point, its eastern end facing the +dawn in a high rocky bluff. It rose in the centre to perhaps a hundred +feet, it had little secret bays, pools of deep water beneath the rocky +bluff for high diving, sandy nooks, and a sheltered cove where a boat +could ride at anchor in all weathers. Close to the shore, but hidden +by the pines, was a one-roomed hut with two camp-beds, a big table, +a wide balcony, and a tiny kitchen in a shack adjoining. A canoe and +rowing-boat went with the island, a diminutive wharf as well. On the +mainland, a mile and a half to the north, was an English settler named +Woods who had cleared the forest some twenty-five years before, and +turned the wilderness into a more or less productive farm. Milk, eggs +and vegetables we obtained from time to time. To the south and east +and west lay open water for several miles, dotted by similar islands +with summer camps and bungalows on them. The three big lakes--Rosseau, +Muskoka and Joseph--form the letter Y, our island being where the three +strokes joined. + +To me it was paradise, the nearest approach to a dream come true I had +yet known. The climate was dry, sunny and bracing, the air clear as +crystal, the nights cool. In moonlight the islands seemed to float upon +the water, and when there was no moon the reflection of the stars had +an effect of phosphorescence in some southern sea. Dawns and sunsets, +too, were a constant delight, and before we left in late September +we had watched through half the night the strange spectacle of the +Northern Lights in all their rather awful splendour. + +The day we arrived--May 24th--a Scotch mist veiled all distant views, +the island had a lonely and deserted air, a touch of melancholy about +its sombre pines; and when the small steamer had deposited us with our +luggage on the slippery wharf and vanished into the mist, I remember +Kay’s disconsolate expression as he remarked gravely: “We shan’t stay +_here_ long!” Our first supper deepened his conviction, for, though +there were lamps, we had forgotten to bring oil, and we devoured bread +and porridge quickly before night set in. It was certainly a contrast +to the brilliantly lit corner of the Hub dining-room where we had eaten +our last dinner.... But the following morning at six o’clock, after a +bathe in the cool blue water, while a dazzling sun shone in a cloudless +sky, he had already changed his mind. Our immediate past seemed hardly +credible now. Jimmy Martin, the “Duke,” the Methodist woodcuts, the +life insurance offices, to say nothing of the sporting goods emporium, +red-bearded bailiffs, Alfred Cooper, and a furious half-intoxicated +Irish cook--all faded into the atmosphere of some half-forgotten, ugly +dream. + +We at once set our house in order. We had saved a small sum in cash +from the general wreck; a little went a long way; pickerel were to +be caught for the trouble of trolling a spoon-bait round the coast, +and we soon discovered where the black bass hid under rocky ledges of +certain pools. In a few weeks, too, we had learned to manage a canoe +to the point of upsetting it far from shore, shaking it half-empty +while treading water, then climbing in again--the point where safety, +according to the Canadians, is attained. Even in these big lakes, it +was rare that the water was too rough for going out, once the craft was +mastered; a “Rice Lake” or “Peterborough,” as they were called, could +face anything; a turn of the wrist could “lift” them; they answered the +paddle like a living thing; a chief secret of control being that the +kneeling occupant should feel himself actually a part of his canoe. +This trifling knowledge, gained during our idle holiday, came in useful +years later when taking a canoe down the Danube, from its source in the +Black Forest, to Budapest. + +Time certainly never hung heavy on our hands. Before July, when the +Canadians came up to their summer camps, we had explored every bay and +inlet of the lakes, had camped out on many an enchanted island, and had +made longer expeditions of several days at a time into the great region +of backwoods that began due north. These trips, westward to Georgian +Bay with its thousand islands, on Lake Huron, or northward beyond +French River, where the primeval backwoods begin their unbroken stretch +to James Bay and the Arctic, were a source of keen joy. Our cooking +was perhaps primitive, but we kept well on it. With books, a fiddle, +expeditions, to say nothing of laundry and commissariat work, the days +passed rapidly. Kay was very busy, too, “preparing for the stage,” as +he called it, and Shakespeare was always in his hand or pocket. The +eastern end of the island was reserved for these rehearsals, while +the Sunset Point end was my especial part, and while I was practising +the fiddle or deep in my Eastern books, Kay, at the other point of +the island, high on his rocky bluff, could be heard sometimes booming +“The world is out of joint. Oh cursed fate that I was born to set it +right,” and I was convinced that he wore his Irving wig, no matter what +lines he spouted. In the evenings, as we lay after supper at Sunset +Point, watching the colours fade and the stars appear, it was the +exception if he did not murmur to himself “... the stars came out, over +that summer sea,” and then declaim in his great voice the whole of “The +_Revenge_” which ends “I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!”--his tall figure +silhouetted against the sunset, his voice echoing among the pines +behind him. + +Considerations for the future were deliberately shelved; we lived +in the present, as wise men should; New York, we knew, lay waiting +for us, but we agreed to let it wait. My father’s suggestion--“your +right course is to return to Toronto, find work, and live down your +past”--was a counsel of perfection I disregarded. New York, the busy, +strenuous, go-ahead United States, offered the irresistible lure of +a promised land, and we both meant to try our fortunes there. How +we should reach it, or what we should do when we did reach it, were +problems whose solution was postponed. + +On looking back I can only marvel at the patience with which neither +tired of the other. Perhaps it was perfect health that made squabbles +so impossible. Nor was there any hint of monotony, strange to say. We +had many an escape, upsetting in wild weather, losing our way in the +trackless forests of the mainland, climbing or felling trees, but some +Pan-like deity looked after us.... The spirit of Shelley, of course, +haunted me day and night; “Prometheus Unbound,” pages of which I knew +by heart, lit earth and sky, peopled the forests, turned stream and +lake alive, and made every glade and sandy bay a floor for dancing +silvery feet: “Oh, follow, follow, through the caverns hollow; As the +song floats thou pursue, Where the wild bee never flew....” I still +hear Kay’s heavy voice, a little out of tune, singing to my fiddle the +melody I made for it. And how he used to laugh! Always at himself, but +also at and with most other things, an infectious, jolly wholesome +laughter, inspired by details of our care-free island life, from his +beard and Shakespeare rehearsals to my own whiskers and uncut hair, my +Shelley moods and my intense Yoga experiments.... + +Much of the charm of our lonely life vanished when, with high summer, +the people came up to their camps and houses on the other islands. The +solitude was then disturbed by canoes, sailing-boats, steam-launches; +singing and shouting broke the deep silences; camp-fires in a dozen +directions blazed at night. Many of these people we had known well in +Toronto, but no one called on us. Sometimes we would paddle to some +distant camp-fire, lying on the water just outside the circle of light, +and recognizing acquaintances, even former customers of Hub and Dairy +and the Sporting Goods Emporium, but never letting ourselves be seen. +Everybody knew we were living on the island; yet avoidance was mutual. +We were in disgrace, it seemed, and chiefly because of the Hub--not +because of our conduct with regard to it, but, apparently, because we +had left the town suddenly without saying good-bye to all and sundry. +This abrupt disappearance had argued something wrong, something we +were ashamed of. All manner of wild tales reached us, most of them +astonishingly remote from the truth. + +This capacity for invention and imaginative detail of most ingenious +sort, using the tiniest insignificant item of truth as starting point, +suggests that even the dullest people must have high artistic faculties +tucked away somewhere in them. Many of these tales we traced to +their source--usually a person the world considered devoid of fancy, +even dull. Here, evidently, possessing genuine creative power, were +unpublished novelists with distinct gifts of romance and fantasy who +had missed their real vocation. The truth about us was, indeed, far +from glorious, but these wild tales made us feel almost supermen. Many +years later I met other instances of this power that dull, even stupid +people could keep carefully hidden till the right opportunity for +production offers--I was credited, to name the best, with superhuman +powers of Black Magic, whatever that may be, and of sorcery. It was +soon after a book of mine, “John Silence,” had appeared. A story +reached my ears, the name of its author boldly given, to the effect +that, for the purposes of this Black Magic, I had stolen the vases from +the communion altar of St. Paul’s Cathedral and used their consecrated +content in some terrible orgy called the Black Mass. Young children, +too, were somehow involved in this ceremony of sacrilegious sorcery, +and I was going to be arrested. The author of this novelette was well +known to me, connected even by blood ties, a person I had always +conceived to be without the faintest of imaginative gifts, though a +credulous reader, evidently, of the mediæval tales concerning the +monstrous Gilles de Rais. Absurd as it sounds, a solicitor’s letter +was necessary finally to limit the author’s prolific output, although +pirated editions continued to sell for a considerable time. There is a +poet hidden, as Stevenson observed, in most of us! + +Meanwhile, summer began to wane; we considered plans for attacking +New York; hope rose strongly in us both; disappointments and failures +were forgotten. In so big a city we were certain to find work. We +had a hundred dollars laid aside for the journey and to tide us over +the first few days until employment came. We could not hide for ever +in fairyland. Life called to us.... Late in September, just when the +lakes were beginning to recover their first solitude again, we packed +up to leave. Though the sun was still hot at midday, the mornings and +evenings were chill, and cold winds had begun to blow. The famous fall +colouring had set fire to the woods; the sumach blazed a gorgeous red, +the maples were crimson and gold, half of the mainland seemed in flame. +Sorrowfully, yet with eager anticipation in our hearts, we poured water +on our camp-fire that had served us for five months without relighting, +locked the door of the shanty, handed over to Woods the canoe and boat, +and caught the little steamer on one of its last trips to Gravenhurst +where the train would take us, _via_ Toronto, to New York. + +It had been a delightful experience; I had seen and known at last the +primeval woods; I had even seen Red Indians by the dozen in their +pathetic Reservations, and if they did not, like the spirit of the +Medicine Man in Edinburgh, advise me to “scratch,” they certainly made +up for the omission by constantly scratching themselves. It seems +curious to me now that, during those months of happy leisure, the +desire to write never once declared itself. It never occurred to me +to write even a description of our picturesque way of living, much +less to attempt an essay or a story. Nor did plans for finding work in +New York--we discussed them by the score--include in their wonderful +variety any suggestion of a pen and paper. At the age of twenty-two, +literary ambition did not exist at all. + +The Muskoka interlude remained for me a sparkling, radiant memory, +alight with the sunshine of unclouded skies, with the gleam of stars +in a blue-black heaven, swept by forest winds, and set against a +background of primeval forests that stretched without a break for six +hundred miles of lonely and untrodden beauty. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +Kay and I arrived in New York on a crisp, sunny afternoon with sixty +dollars in hand out of the original hundred set by for the purpose, +and took a room in the Imperial Hotel, Broadway, which someone had +recommended. We knew no one, had no letters of introduction. We were +tanned the colour of Red Indians, in perfect physical condition, but +with a very scanty wardrobe. + +The furious turmoil of the noisy city, boiling with irrepressible +energies, formed an odd contrast to the peace and stillness of the +forests. There was indifference in both cases, but whereas there it +was tolerant and kindly, here it seemed intolerant and aggressive. +“Get a hustle on, or get out,” was the note. Nature welcomed, while +human nature resented, the intrusion of two new atoms. Nostalgia for +the woods swept over me vehemently, but at the same time an eager +anticipation to get work. We studied the papers at once for rooms, +choosing a boarding house in East 19th Street, between Broadway and +4th Avenue. Something in the wording caught us. An hour after our +arrival we interviewed Mrs. Bernstein and engaged the third floor +back, breakfast included, for eight dollars a week. It was cheap. The +slovenly, emotional, fat Jewess, with her greasy locks, jewellery, and +tawdry finery, had something motherly about her that appealed. She +smiled. She did not ask for payment in advance. + +“What’s your work,” she inquired, gazing up at me. + +“Oh, I’m going on the newspapers,” I said offhand, taking the first +idea that offered, but little dreaming it was to prove true. + +“I shall be on the stage,” Kay promptly added, “as soon as my +arrangements are made.” + +Mrs. Bernstein smiled. She knew the power of the Press and favoured +reporters. “My hospand,” she informed Kay sympathetically, “is an +artist too, a moosician. He has his own orghestra.” + +While Kay studied the theatrical papers, I took the elevated railway +down-town. I wanted to stand on Brooklyn Bridge again. Since first +seeing it with my father a few years before, and again on my arrival +eighteen months ago, _en route_ for Toronto, the place had held my +imagination. Something sentimental lay in this third journey, for I +wanted to go alone. + +Halfway across, at the highest point, I stood looking down upon the +great waterway between the two cities of the new world, and the feeling +of a fresh chapter in life, with its inevitable comparisons, rose in +me.... The sun was sinking behind the hills of New Jersey, and the +crowded bay lay a sheet of golden shimmer. Huge, double-ended ferry +boats, plying between the wooded shores of Staten and Manhattan Islands +and Brooklyn, rushed to and fro with great snortings and hootings; +little tugs dashed in every direction with vast importance; sailboats, +yachts, schooners and cat-boats dotted the water like a thousand living +things; and threading majestically through them all steamed one or two +impressive Atlantic liners, immense and castle-like, towering above all +else, as they moved slowly out toward the open sea. The deep poetry +which ever frames the most prosaic things, lending them their real +significance, came over me with the wind from that open sea. + +I stood watching the fading lights beyond the bay, while behind me the +crowded trains, at the rate of one a minute, passed thundering across +the bridge, and thousands upon thousands of tired workers thronged to +their Brooklyn homes after their day in the bigger city. The great +bridge swayed and throbbed as the dense masses of pedestrians climbed +uphill to the centre, then swarmed in a thick black river down the +nether slope. I had never seen such numbers, or such speed of nervous +movement, and the eager, tense faces, usually strained, white, drawn +as well, touched an unpleasant note. New York, I felt, was not to be +trifled with; the human element was strenuously keen; no loafing +or dreaming here; work to the last ounce, or the city would make +cat’s meat of one! Whereupon, by contrast, stole back again the deep +enchantment of the silent woods, and the longing for the great, still +places rose; I saw our little island floating beneath glittering stars; +a loon was laughing farther out; the Northern Lights went flashing +to mid-heaven; there was a sound of wind among the pines. The huge +structure that reared above me seemed unreal; the river of men and +women slipped past like silent shadows; the trains and boats became +remote and hushed; and the ugly outer world about me merged in the +substance of a dream and was forgotten.... + +I turned and looked out over New York. I saw its lofty spires, its +massed buildings, gigantic in the sky; I saw the opening of the great +Hudson River, and the darkening water of the bay; I heard, like a +sinister multiple voice out of the future, the strident cry of this +wonderful and terrible capital of the New World, and the deep pulsings +of its engines of frantic haste and untiring energy. The general +note, I remember, was alarming rather; a touch of loneliness, of my +own stupid incompetence to deal with its aggressive spirit, in which +gleamed something merciless, almost cruel--this was the response it +stirred in me. I suddenly realized I had no trade, no talents to sell, +no weapons with which to fight. My heart sank a little. Among these +teeming millions, with their tearing speed, their frenzied energy, +their appalling practical knowledge, I possessed but one friend, Kay, +and some sixty dollars between us. New York would eat me up unless I +“got a hustle on.” + +Next morning, our capital much reduced, we moved into the lodging +house. The idea of sharing a bed, in view of our size and the +narrowness of the bed, amused us, but without enthusiasm. The sofa was +too small to sleep on. “We’ll move,” announced Kay, “as soon as we get +jobs.” A telegram was sent to Toronto giving our address, and a few +days later a packing case arrived with our Toronto possessions, and +ten dollars to pay out of our small total. We found close at hand, in +20th Street, a cheap clean German restaurant--Krisch’s--where a meal of +sorts could be had for 30 cents, tip 5 cents; it had a sanded floor and +was half _bier-stube_, and one of its smiling waiters, Otto--he came +from the Black Forest where I had been to school--proved a true friend +later, allowing us occasional credit at his own risk; a Chinese laundry +was looked up in Fourth Avenue; I spent one of our precious dollars in +a small store of fiddle strings against a possible evil day--a string +meant more to me than a steak--and we were then ready for our campaign. + +Not a minute was lost. Kay, in very sanguine mood, the Irving wig, I +shrewdly suspected, in his pocket, went out to interview managers; +while I took a train down-town to interview Harper’s, as being the +most important publishing house I knew. This step was the result of +many discussions with Kay, who said he was sure I could write. The Red +Indian advice of the Edinburgh “spirit” had impressed him. “That’s +your line,” he assured me. “Try the magazines.” I felt no similar +assurance, no desire to write was in me; we had worked ourselves up to +a conviction that bold, immediate action was the first essential of +our position; to get pupils for my two languages or shorthand seemed +impossible in a city like New York; therefore I hurried down, with +vague intentions but a high heart, to Harper’s. + +There was the _Magazine_, the _Weekly_, and _Harper’s Young People_. +One of them surely would listen to my tale. I chose the _Weekly_ for +some unknown reason. For some equally unknown reason I was admitted to +the editor’s sanctum, and, still more strange, Richard Harding Davis +listened to my tale. His success as a novelist had just begun; he had +left the _Evening Sun_, where his “Van Bibber” stories had made him +first known; his popularity was rising fast, though I had never heard +of him. + +My tale was brief, having been rehearsed in the train. It took, +perhaps, three minutes at most to rattle it off--my parentage, my farm +and hotel, my interest in Eastern Thought, my present destitution, and +I remember adding, “You see, I cannot possibly go home to England +again until I have made good somehow.” + +“Have you written anything?” he asked, after listening patiently with +raised eyebrows. + +“Well--no, I haven’t, not yet, I’m afraid.” I explained that I wanted +to begin, though what I really wanted was only paid employment. + +The author of “Van Bibber” and “A Soldier of Fortune” looked me up and +down and then chuckled. After a moment’s silence, he got up, led me +across the hall to another door, opened it without knocking and said to +a man who was seated at a table smothered in papers: + +“This is Mr. Blackwood, an Englishman, who wants to write something for +you. He is prepared to write anything--from Eastern philosophy to ‘How +to run a hotel in Canada.’” + +The door closed behind me, with no word of farewell, and I learned +that the man facing me was the editor of _Harper’s Young People_. His +name, if I remember rightly, was Storey, and he was an Englishman, +who, curiously enough, almost at once mentioned my father. He had been +an employé of the G.P.O. in London. He was unpleasant, supercilious, +patronizing and off-hand, proud of his editorial power. He gave me, +however, my first assignment--to write a short, descriptive article +about a cargo of wild animals that had just arrived for the New York +“Zoo.” I hurried off to the steamer, bought some paper, wrote the +article in a pew of Trinity Church in Lower Broadway, and returned +three hours later to submit it. Storey read it and said without +enthusiasm it would do, but when I asked “Is it good?” he shook his +head with the comment “Well--some men would have made more of it +perhaps.” It was printed, however, and in due course I got ten dollars +for it. I inquired if I could do something else. He took my address. +No further results followed. Evidently, I realized, writing was not my +line, and both Kay and the Red Indian Medicine Man were mistaken. + +Kay’s report of his luck, when we met again that evening was meagre; +he had met an English Shakespearean actor, Bob Mantell, and a Toronto +acquaintance, the “Duke.” The actor, however, had given him an +introduction or two, and the Duke had asked us to play next day in a +cricket match on Staten Island. It was an eleven of Actors _v._ the +Staten Island Club, and Kay would meet useful people. In sanguine mood +we agreed to go. It proved a momentous match for me. + +Before it came off, however, something else had happened that may seem +very small beer, but that provided me with a recurrent horror for many +months to come, a horror perhaps disproportionate to its cause. It +filled me, at any rate, with a peculiar loathing as of some hideous +nightmare. I had never seen the things before; their shape, their +ungainly yet rapid movement, their uncanny power of disappearing in a +second, their number, their dirty colour, above all their smell, now +gave me the sensations of acute nausea. Kay’s laughter, though he too +felt disgust and indignation, brought no comfort. We eventually got +up and lit the gas. We caught it. I had my first view of the beast. +We stared at each other in horror. Then Kay sniffed the air. “That +explains it,” he said, referring to a faint odour of oil we had both +noticed when engaging the room. “They put it in the woodwork to kill +them,” he added. “It’s the only thing. But it never really gets rid of +them, I’m afraid.” + +The anger of Mrs. Bernstein when we accused her in the morning, her +indignant denials, her bluster about “insoults,” and that “never had +sooch a t’ing been said of her house pefore,” were not half as comic as +her expression when I suddenly produced the soap-dish with its damning +evidence--17 all told. + +She stared, held her breath a second, then very quietly said “Ach, Ach! +If you stay, chentelmen, I take von tollar off the price.” + +It was impossible not to laugh with her; there was something kind +and motherly, something good and honest and decent about her we both +liked; she would do her best, we believed; possibly she really would +exterminate the other tenants. We stayed on. + +Of the cricket match on Staten Island, beyond the pretty ground with +its big trees, and that we got a good lunch without paying for it, +no memory remains. What stands out vividly is the tall figure of +Arthur Glyn Boyde, a fast bowler and a good bat, and one of the most +entertaining and sympathetic companions I had ever met. His clothes +were shabby, but his graceful manners, his voice, his smile, everything +about him, in fact, betrayed the English gentleman. He was about thirty +years of age, of the most frank and engaging appearance, with kindly, +honest blue eyes, in one of which he wore an eyeglass. I remember the +little fact that he, Kay and myself were measured for a bet after the +match, and that he, like Kay, was six feet two inches, being one inch +shorter than myself. + +I took to him at once, and he to me. His real name was a distinguished +one which he shared, it turned out, with some cousins of my own. We +were, therefore, related. The bond was deepened. Times had gone hard +with him, it seemed, but at the moment he was on the stage, being +understudy to Morton Selton as Merivale in “Captain Lettarblair,” which +E. H. Sothern’s company was then playing. In “The Disreputable Mr. +Reagen,” by, I think, Richard Harding Davis he had also played the rôle +of the detective. He was waiting, however, for a much better post, as +huntsman to the Rockaway Hunt, a Long Island fashionable club, and this +post, oddly enough, was in the gift, he told me, of Davis. It had been +practically promised to him, he might hear any day.... The story of his +many jobs and wanderings interested us, and his theatre work promised +to be helpful in many ways to what was called my “room-mate.” Boyde’s +experience of New York generally was invaluable to us both, and the +fact that he had nowhere to sleep that night (having been turned out +by his landlady) gave us the opportunity to invite him to our humble +quarters. We mentioned the other tenants, but he said that made no +difference, he would sleep on the sofa. He dined with us at Krisch’s; +he was extremely hard up; luckily, we still had enough to invite a +friend. His only luggage was a small bag, for he told us, with a rueful +smile, that his clothes were all in pawn. I had an extra suit or two +which, being of about my size, he was able to wear. + +I felt immensely drawn to him, and his story touched my pity as well +as stirred my admiration. It was a happy evening we all spent in the +little bedroom, for he was not only well-read--he knew my various +“Eastern books” and could talk about them interestingly--but had a +fine tenor voice into the bargain. My fiddle came out of its case, and +if the other lodgers disliked our duets, they did not, at any rate, +complain. Boyde sang, he further told us, in the choir of the 2nd +Avenue Baptist Church, and was assistant organist there as well, but +made little out of this latter job, as he was only called upon when the +other man was unable to attend. He even taught sometimes in the Sunday +School--“to keep in the pastor’s good books,” as he explained with a +laugh. But the chief thing he told us that night was the heartening +information that, when all other chances failed, there was always a +fair living to be earned by posing to artists at 50 cents an hour, or a +dollar and a half for a full sitting of three hours. It was easy work +and not difficult to get. He would gladly introduce us to the various +studios, as soon as they opened, most of the artists being still in the +country. + +The search for work was a distressing business, when to the inevitable +question “What can you do?” the only possible, but quite futile, reply +was, “I’ll do anything.” I had collected the ten dollars from _Harper’s +Young People_, but a letter to Storey for more work brought no reply. +The payment for the Toronto packing-case and for a week’s rent of the +rooms had reduced the exchequer so seriously that in a few days there +was only the _Harper’s_ money in hand. Boyde, who stayed on at our +urgent invitation, shared all he earned, and taught us, besides, the +trick of using the free lunch-counters in hotels and saloons. For a +glass of beer at five cents, a customer could eat such snacks as salted +chip-potatoes, strips of spiced liver sausage, small squares of bread, +and pungent almonds, all calculated to stimulate unnatural thirst. The +hotels provided more sumptuous dishes, though the price of drink was +higher, and the calm way Boyde would help himself deliberately to a +plate and fork, with an ample supply of the best food he could find, +then carry it all back to his glass of lager under the bar-tender’s +very nose, was an ideal we could only hope to achieve by practice as +long as his own. It was a question of nerve. Our midday meal was now +invariably of this kind. The free lunch brigade, to which we belonged, +was tolerantly treated by the majority of bar-tenders. A thirty cents +dinner at Krisch’s in the evening, choosing the most bulky dishes, +ended the long tiring day of disappointing search. Boyde also made us +buy oatmeal, with tin pot and fixture for cooking over the gas-jet. He +was invaluable in a dozen ways, always cheery, already on the right +side of Mrs. Bernstein, and turning up every evening with a dollar or +two he had earned during the day. + +He further taught us--the moment had come, he thought--to pawn. The +packing-case in the basement was opened and rummaged through (a +half-used cheque-book from Toronto days was a pathetic relic!) for +things on which Ikey of 3rd Avenue might offer a few dollars. The +tennis cups, won at little Canadian tournaments, seemed attractive, he +thought, but our English overcoats would fetch most money. The weather +was still comfortable ... we sallied forth, hoping Mrs. Bernstein would +not see us, carrying two tennis cups and a couple of good overcoats. +Everybody stared and grinned, it seemed, though actually of course, +no one gave us a glance. Boyde, humming Lohengrin, was absolutely +nonchalant. For me, the pawnbroker’s door provided sensations similar +to those I knew when first entering the Hub just a year before. + +“I want ten dollars on these,” said Boyde, in a firm voice. “What’ll +you give? I shall take ’em out next week.” + +The Jew behind the counter gave one glance at the tennis cups, then +pushed them contemptuously aside; the overcoats he examined carefully, +holding them up to the light for holes or threadbare patches, feeling +the linings, turning the sleeves inside out. + +“Good English cloth,” mentioned Boyde. “Hardly used at all.” + +“A dollar each,” said the man, laying them down as though the deal was +finished. He turned to make out the tickets. He had not looked at us +once yet. + +Boyde picked them up and turned to go. “Two dollars,” he said flatly, +“I can get five in 4th Avenue.” + +“Go ged it,” was the reply, the man’s back still turned on us. + +Boyde gave a cheery laugh. “Make it three dollars for the two,” he +suggested in an off-hand manner, “with another couple for the cups. +They’re prizes. We wouldn’t lose them for worlds.” + +The man looked at us for the first time; we were fairly well dressed, +obviously English, three hulking customers of a type he was not used +to. Perhaps he really believed we might redeem the cups one day. “Worth +less than nozzing,” he said in his Yiddish accent. The keen, appraising +look he gave us made me feel even less than that. + +“Worth a lot to us, though,” came Boyde’s quick comment. + +“Name?” queried the man, bending over a table with his back turned +again. + +“John Doe,” came promptly, and a moment later, with the ticket, the +Jew handed out four dirty dollar bills and fifty cents in coin. The +interest was twelve per cent. per month, and the articles could be +redeemed any time up to the end of a year. + +“Never ask more than you really need at the moment,” was Boyde’s advice +as we came out into the street. “I could have raised him a few dollars +probably, but, remember, you’ll have to get the coats out again before +long.” + +When we got back to the room a Western Union telegram lay on the table +for him; it was from Davis: “Please call to-morrow 3 o’clock without +fail _re_ Rockaway,” it read. And hope ran high. That night we spent +half of our new money at Krisch’s, giving a tip of thirty cents to +Otto.... + +Some ten days to a fortnight had passed, and October with its cooler +winds had come, though life was still possible without overcoats. Our +dress-clothes were now in Ikey’s, moth-balls beside them. The Chinese +laundry had been paid, but not the second week’s rent, for money was +very low and dinners of the smallest. Practice at the free lunch +counters had improved our methods of strolling up absent-mindedly, +perceiving the food apparently for the first time, then picking up with +quick fingers the maximum quantity. Kay, meanwhile, had secured a part +in a touring company which was to start out for a series of one-night +stands in about three weeks, his salary of fifteen dollars to begin +with the first night. He was already rehearsing. My own efforts had +produced nothing. Boyde, too, had not yet landed his huntsman job, +which was to include comfortable quarters as well as a good salary. I +had been down with him when he went to see Davis, waiting in the street +till he came out, and the interview, though reassuring, he told me, +involved a little further delay still. He, therefore, continued his odd +jobs, calling at the theatre every night and matinée to see if he was +wanted, playing the organ in church occasionally, and getting a small +fee for singing in the choir. He shared with us as we shared with him; +he slept on the sofa in our room; he was welcome to wear my extra suits +of clothes--until Ikey might care to see them. + +Then, quite suddenly, fate played a luckier card. + +Kay and I were at the free lunch counter of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, +Boyde having been called away to do something at his Baptist church, +when Bob Mantell strolled up, bringing a tall, grey-haired man with +him. The next minute he was introducing me to Cecil Clay, with a +remark to the effect that he must surely have known my father, and +that I surely must know Mr. Clay’s famous book on whist. Cecil Clay, +anyhow, was a kindly old Englishman, and evidently was aware how the +land lay with us, for a few minutes later he had given me a card to +Laffan, manager of the _New York Sun_. “Go and see him the day after +to-morrow,” he said. “Meanwhile I’ll write him a line about you.” + +Had it been possible to go then and there I should have felt more +confidence and less nervousness than when I called at the appointed +hour. The interval, with its hopeful anticipation and alternate dread, +was a bad preparation for appearing at my best. After a few questions, +however, Mr. Laffan, a man of very powerful position in the newspaper +world, a great art collector and connoisseur, head, too, of the Laffan +News Bureau, said that Mr. McCloy, managing editor of the _Evening +Sun_, would give me a trial as a reporter, and I could start next +Monday--four days away--at fifteen dollars a week. I had mentioned that +I knew French and German, and could write shorthand. He spoke to me in +both languages, but, luckily, he did not think of testing the speed and +accuracy of my self-taught Pitman. + +On the staff of a great New York newspaper! That it was anti-British +and pro-Tammany did not bother me. A reporter! A starting salary of +£3 a week that might grow! I wrote the news to my father that very +afternoon, and that night Kay, Boyde and I had almost a festive dinner +at Krisch’s restaurant--that is, we ended with sweets and coffee. The +following day I spent practising my rusty shorthand, about 90 words +a minute being my best speed consistent with legibility. Would it +be fast enough? I might have spared myself the trouble for all the +use shorthand was to me on the _Evening Sun_ during the two years I +remained with it. Only once--much later, when I was with the _New +York Times_, did it prove of value, securing for me on that occasion +an increase of salary.... The slogan of the _Sun_, printed on each +copy was, “If you See it in the _Sun_ it is so!” accuracy the strong +point. The _Times_ preferred a moral tinge: “All the News that’s Fit to +Print.” Both mottoes were faithfully observed and rigidly practised. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +If any young man learning values wants to know the quickest way to +study the seamy side of life, to understand the darkest aspects of +human nature, and incidentally, to risk the loss of every illusion +he ever had, let him become a reporter on an up-to-date New York +newspaper. Within six months he will be apt to believe that every man +has his price; he will become acquainted with vice, crime, horror, +terror, and every kind of human degradation; theft, murder, arson will +seem commonplaces, forgery a very ordinary affair; men and women, +it may even seem to him, “go straight,” not because of any inherent +principle of goodness in them, but because that degree of temptation +which constitutes their particular “price” has not yet offered itself. + +Passion of every type, abnormal, often incredible, will be his daily +study; if he reflects a little he will probably reach the conclusion +that either jealousy in some form, or greed for money, lie at the +root of every crime that is ever committed. The overwhelming power of +these two passions will startle him, at any rate, and his constant +association with only one aspect of life, and that the worst and +lowest, will probably produce the conviction that, given only the +opportunity, everybody is bad. His conception of women may suffer in +particular. The experience, contrariwise, may widen his tolerance and +deepen his charity; also, it may leave him as it left me, with an +ineradicable contempt for those who, born in ease, protected from the +temptations due to poverty and misery, so carelessly condemn the weak, +the criminal and the outcast. + +With bigger experience may come, in time, a better view; equally, it +may never come. Proportion is not so easily recovered, for the mind, +at an impressionable age, has been deeply marked. The good, the +beautiful, the lovely, in a New York paper, is very rarely “news”; it +is considered as fake, bunkum, humbug, a pose; it is looked at askance, +regarded with suspicion, as assumed by someone for the purpose of a +“deal”; it is rarely worth its space, at any rate. A reporter finds +himself in a cynical school; he is lucky if he escape in the end with a +single rag of illusion to his back. If he has believed, up to the age +of twenty-one, as I did, that the large majority of people are decent, +kindly, honest folk, he will probably lose even that last single rag. +On the _Evening Sun_, certainly, it was not the good, the beautiful, +the clean, that constituted the most interesting news and got scare +headlines and extra editions. I give, of course, merely the impression +made upon my own mind and type, coloured as these were, some thirty +years ago, by a characteristically ignorant and innocent upbringing.... + +The important newspapers, in those days, were all “down town,” grouped +about Park Row, and the shabby, tumble-down building of the _Sun_ +was not imposing. The World and Times towered above it; the _Morning +Advertiser_, the _Evening Telegram_, even the _Recorder_ were better +housed; the _Journal_ had not yet brought W. R. Hearst’s methods from +San Francisco. For all its humble offices, the _Sun_ was, perhaps, the +greatest power in the city. It was openly Tammany; it had a grand, +courageous editor, Charles A. Dana. “Charles A.” was an imposing +figure, a man of immense ability, a “crank” perhaps in certain ways, +but a respected chief of outstanding character and fearless policy.... +My own chief, however, was W. C. McCloy, and the offices where he +reigned as managing editor were housed on the top floor of the rickety +building, with the machinery making such a din and roar and clatter +that we had to shout to make ourselves heard at all. Metal sheets +that clanged and pinged as we walked on them covered the floors. It +was amid this pandemonium I had my first interview with him. An iron +spiral staircase led from the quiet workrooms of the _Morning Sun_, on +the first floor, to the dark, low-ceilinged space, where the whirring +printing presses were not even partitioned off from the tables of +editorial departments or reporters. It was like a factory going at full +speed. Hours were 8.30 A.M. to 6.30 P.M., or later if an extra--a 6th +or 7th--edition was called for. I arrived at 8.15. + +In a dark corner of this machinery shop I introduced myself with +trepidation to McCloy, mentioning Mr. Laffan’s name, and saw the blank +look come and go, as he stared at me with “Blackwood, Blackwood?... +Oh, yes, I remember! You’re fifteen dollars a week. A Britisher from +Canada.... Well, you’ll have to look lively here!” He seemed so +intensely busy and preoccupied, his mind so charged with a sort of +electric activity, that I wondered he had time to open and shut his +mouth. A small, thin man, with the slightest of frail bodies, nervous, +delicately shaped hands, gimlet eyes that pierced, a big head with +protruding forehead, a high-pitched, twanging voice that penetrated +easily above the roar of the machinery, and a general air of such +lightning speed and such popping, spitting energy that I felt he might +any moment flash into flame or burst with a cracking report into a +thousand pieces--this was the man on whom my living depended for many +months to come. The phrase “New York hustler,” darted across my mind; +it stood in the flesh before me; he lived on wires. Buried among this +mechanic perfection, however, I caught, odd to relate, an incongruous +touch--of kindness, even of tenderness. There were gentle lines in that +electric face. He had a smile I liked. + +“What are you out here for? Where have you come from? What have +you been doing? What d’you know?” he asked with the rapidity of a +machine-gun. The shorthand rate must have been 400 words per minute. + +I never talked so quickly in my life as in my brief reply. I watched +the smile come and go. While he listened, he was shouting instructions +to reporters then streaming in, to office boys, to printers, to +sub-editors; but his eyes never left my face, and when I had finished +my lightning sketch, the machine-gun crackled with its deadliest aim +again: “Only _one_ thing counts here; get the news and get it _quick_; +method of no consequence. Get the news and get it _first_!” He darted +off, for the first edition went to press at 10.30. As he went, however, +he turned his head a moment. “Write a story,” he backfired at me. +“Write your experiences--From Methodism to Running a Saloon,”--and he +vanished amid the whirling machinery in the back of the great room. + +I have the pleasantest recollections of W. C. McCloy; he was just, +fair, sympathetic, too, when time permitted; he showed me many +little kindnesses; he was Presbyterian, his parents Scotch; he was +also--sober. I proved a poor reporter, and my salary remained at +fifteen dollars all the time I was with the paper, yet once he kept +a place open for me for many weeks; he even took me back when the +consideration was hardly deserved. + +That first day, however, I spent on tenterhooks, fully expecting to be +“fired” at its end. I found a corner at the big reporters’ table, and, +having seized some “copy” paper from the general pile, I sat down to +write “From Methodism to Running a Saloon,” without the faintest idea +of how to do it. A dozen reporters sat scribbling near me, but no one +paid me the smallest attention. They came and went; at another table +Cooper, the City Editor (anglice news-editor) issued the assignments; +the editorial writers arrived and sat at their little desks apart; the +roar and pandemonium were indescribable; the first edition was going +to press, with McCloy in a dozen places at once, but chiefly watching +the make-up over the shoulders of the type-setters in the back of the +room.... I wrote on and on; I believed it was rather good; no one came +to stop me, no one looked at my “copy” or told me what length was +wanted; once or twice, McCloy, flashing by, caught my eye, but with +a glance that suggested he didn’t know who I was, why I was there at +all, or what I was writing.... The hours passed; the first edition +was already out; the reporters were reading hurriedly their own work +in print, delighted if it was on the front page; the space-men were +measuring the columns to see how much they had earned; and the make-up +for the second edition, out at noon, was being hastened on behind the +buzzing machinery in the rear. + +By this time I must have written two columns at least, and I began to +wonder. Perhaps I was to appear in the principal final edition at six +o’clock! On the front page! The article, evidently, was considered +important! The notion that I was making a fool of myself, being made +a fool of, rather, also occurred to me. I wrote on and on ... it was +hunger finally that stopped me. I was famished. I turned to an albino +reporter next me, a mere boy, whose peculiarity had earned him the +nickname “Whitey.” Was I allowed to go out for lunch? “Just tell Cooper +you’re going,” he replied. “Come out with me,” he added, “if you’ve +finished your story. I’m going in a moment.” I finished my “story” +then and there, putting the circle with three dots in it which, he +explained, meant _finis_ to the printers. “Just hand it in to Cooper, +and we’ll get right out,” he said. I obeyed, Cooper taking my pile of +“copy” with a grin, and merely nodding his head when I mentioned lunch. +He was a young man with thick curly black hair, big spectacles that +magnified his good-natured eyes, only slightly less rapid and electric +than McCloy, but yet so unsure of himself that the reporters soon found +him out--and treated him accordingly. I saw my precious “copy” shoved +to one side of his desk, but I never saw it again, either in print +or elsewhere. No mention was ever made of it. It was, doubtless, two +columns of the dullest rubbish ever scribbled in that office. + +“I guess Mac only wanted to see what you could do,” explained the +albino, as we swallowed “sinkers” (heavy dough scones) and gulped down +coffee at Childs’ Cheap Lunch Counter round the corner. Whitey had +invited me to lunch; he “put me wise” about a thousand things; showed +me how to make a bit on my weekly expense-account, if I wanted to; +how one could “sneak off” about five o’clock, if one knew the way; +and, most useful of all, warned me as to accuracy in my facts and +the right way to present them. A “story” whether it was the weather +story or a murder story, should give in a brief first paragraph the +essential facts--this satisfied the busy man who had no time to read +more; the second paragraph should amplify these facts--for those who +wanted to know more; afterwards--for those interested personally in the +story--should come “any stuff you can pick up.” An item that seemed +exclusive--a “scoop” or “beat” he called it--should come in the very +beginning, so as to justify the headlines. + +“Whitey” was always a good friend to me. “Make friends with the +reporters on other papers,” he advised, “then you won’t get badly left +on the story you’re all ‘covering.’ Most of ’em give up all right.” He +gave me names of sundry who never “gave up,” skunks he called them. + +As we hurried back to the office half an hour later, he dived into +a drug store on the ground floor. The way most of the reporters +frequented this drug store puzzled me for a time, till I learned +that whisky was to be had there in a little back room. The chemist +had no license, but by paying a monthly sum to the ward man of the +district--part of immense revenues paid to Tammany by every form of +law-breaking, from gambling-halls and disorderly houses to far graver +things--he was allowed to dispense liquor. It was a pretty system, +marvellously organized down to the lowest detail; cash to the ward +man opened most doors; a policeman paid $300 before he even got a +nomination on the force; vice paid gigantic tribute; but the people +liked a Tammany Government because “they knew where they were” with it, +though the _Sun_, my paper, was the only journal that boldly supported +it--for which Charles A. Dana was forever being attacked. I acquired +much inside experience of the secret workings of Tammany Hall before my +newspaper days came to an end.... It appalled me. + +That afternoon, I had two assignments, and failed badly in both. The +first was to find a company promoter who had got into trouble, and to +ask him “all about it.” I could not find him; his house, his office, +his club knew him not. After two hours’ frantic search, I returned +crestfallen, expecting to be dismissed there and then. Cooper, however, +cut short my lengthy explanations with a shrug of the shoulders, and +sent me up to the Fort Lee woods, across the Hudson River, to find out +“all about” a suicide whose body had just been discovered under the +trees. “Get his name right, why he did it, and what the relatives have +to say,” were his parting words. The Fort Lee woods were miles away, I +saw the body--an old man with a bullet hole in his temple, I found his +son at the police station, and asked him what his tears and grief made +permissible, the answer being that “he had no troubles and we can’t +think what made him do it.” Then I telephoned these few facts to the +office. On getting back myself at half-past six when the last edition +was already on the streets, Cooper showed me the final edition of the +_Evening World_. It had a column on the front page with big head-lines. +The suicide was a defaulter, and the reporter gave a complete story +of his gambling life. Cooper offered no comment. The _Evening World_ +had got “a beat”; and I had failed badly. I sat down at the reporters’ +table and wondered what would happen, and then saw, lying before +me, our own last edition with exactly the same story, similar big +headlines, and all the important facts complete. An interview with the +company promoter was also in print. I was at a loss to understand what +had happened until Whitey, on the way into the drug-store a little +later, explained things: the United Press, a news agency that “covered” +everything, had sent the story. The “flimsy” men, so called because +they wrote on thin paper that made six copies at once, were very +valuable. “Make friends with them,” said Whitey, “and no one will ever +get a beat on you. They’re paid a salary and don’t care. It’s only the +space-men, as a rule, who won’t give up.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +As a new “bum reporter,” however, I had a hectic life, but rapidly made +friends with the other men, and a mutual loathing of the work brought +us easily together. Friday was pay-day; by Wednesday everybody was +trying to borrow money--one dollar, usually--from everybody else, the +debts being always faithfully repaid when the little envelopes were +collected at the cashier’s office downstairs. + +My first week’s reporting passed in a whirl of feverish excitement. +Assignments of every possible kind were hurled at me. I raced and +flew about. The “Britisher,” the “English accent,” were a source of +amusement to the staff, but there was no ill-nature. Cooper seemed to +like me; he chuckled; he even gave me hints. “Well, Mr. Britisher, did +you get it this time?” Few of my first efforts were used, the flimsy +report being printed instead, but a divorce case in special sessions, +and interviews with the principals in it, brought me into notice, the +story being put in the front page of the first edition. When I came +down on the following Monday, McCloy whipped up to me like a steel +spring released. “You can cover the Tombs this morning,” he rattled. +“Anything big must be in by ten at the latest. Use judgment and pick +out the best stories. Don’t let anyone get a beat on you.” He flashed +away, and I tore down to the Tombs Police Court. + +The Tombs--I can smell to-day its peculiar mixture of extremely dirty +humanity, cheap scent, very old clothes, Chinese opium, stale liquor, +iodoform, and a tinge of nameless disinfectant. In winter the hot-air +which was the means of heating the court whose windows were never +opened, and in summer the stifling, humid atmosphere, to say nothing of +the added flavour of acid perspiration, were equally abominable. The +building, with its copy of Egyptian architecture, vies in gloom with +the prison in Venice, though the former takes unpleasant precedence--a +veritable Hall of Eblis, with thick walls, impressive portals, a +general air of hopeless and portentous doom about even its exterior. +There was a grimness in its dark passages that made the heart sink, +truly an awe-ful building. The interior was spick and span and clean +as a hospital ward, but the horror of that repellent outside leaked +through somehow. Both inside and outside, the Tombs Prison became +as familiar to me as my room in East 19th Street; many a prisoner +I interviewed in his cell, many a wretch I talked with through the +bars of his last earthly cage in Murderers’ Row; I never entered the +forbidding place without a shudder, nor stepped into the open air again +without relief. + +The routine of the police court, too, became mechanical as the months +went by. The various reporters acted in concert; we agreed which +stories we would use, and in this way no paper got a “beat” on the +others. The man on duty stood beside the Tammany magistrate, making +his notes as each case came up. It was a depressing, often a painful, +business. + +The cases rattled by very quickly--arson, burglary, forgery, gambling, +opium dens, street women, all came up, but it was from assaults that we +usually culled our morning assortment for the first edition. Negroes +used a razor, Italians a stiletto, white men a knife, a pistol, a club +or a sandbag. Women used hatpins mostly. + +It was, of course, some particular feature, either picturesque or +horrible, that lent value to a case. Gradually my “nose for news” was +sharpened. It was a friendly little German Jew, named Freytag, who +taught me how to make the commonest police story readable. I had just +“given up” the facts about a Syrian girl who had been stabbed by a +jealous lover, and the reporters all round me were jotting down the +details. Freytag, who worked for Hermann Ridder’s _Staatszeitung_, +looked over my shoulder. “That’s no good,” he said. “Don’t begin +‘Miriam so-and-so, living at such a place, was stabbed at two o’clock +this morning by Whatshisname....’ That’s not interesting. Begin like +this: ‘A mysterious crime with an exotic touch about it was committed +in the early hours this morning when all worthy New Yorkers were +enjoying their beauty sleep.... Far away, where the snows of the Taurus +Mountains gleam to heaven, the victim, a lovely Syrian maid, once had +her home....’” I followed his advice, though my version was severely +blue-pencilled, but his point--selecting a picturesque angle of +attack--was sound and useful. + +The police court work was over by half-past ten, and I was then +generally sent on to report the trials in Special or General Sessions. +These, naturally, were of every sort and kind. Divorce, alienation +of affection and poison trials were usually the best news. My hair +often stood on end, and some of the people were very unpleasant to +interview. The final talk before a man went to the Chair was worst +of all. If the case was an important one, I had to get an interview +in the Tombs Prison cell before the day’s trial--there was no _sub +judice_ prohibition in New York. Inevitably, I formed my own opinion as +to a man’s innocence or guilt; the faces, gazing at me through bars, +would often haunt me for days. Carlyle Harris, calm, indifferent, cold +as ice, I still see, as he peered past the iron in Murderers’ Row, +protesting his innocence with his steely blue eyes fixed on mine; he +was a young medical student accused of poisoning his wife with morphia; +he was electrocuted ... and Lizzie Borden ... though this was in +Providence, Rhode Island--who took all her clothes off, lest the stains +of blood betray her, before killing her father and mother in their +sleep.... + +Some of the cases made a lasting and horrible impression; some even +terrified. The behaviour of individuals, especially of different races, +when sentence was given also left vivid memories; negroes, appealing +hysterically to God and using the most extraordinary, invented words, +the longer the better; the stolid, unemotional Chinamen; the voluble +Italian; the white man, as a rule, quiet, controlled, insisting merely +in a brief sentence that he was innocent. In a story, years later (_Max +Hensig, Bacteriologist and Murderer_), the facts were taken direct from +life. It needed more than fifteen years to dim their memory. I remained +the Tombs reporter for the best part of a loathed, distressing, +horror-laden year. + +There were pleasanter intervals, of course. The French paper, _Le +Courier des Etats Unis_, published a short story every Monday, and +one day I translated an exceptionally clever one, and submitted it to +McCloy. It was printed; subsequently, I was allowed an afternoon off +weekly, provided I translated a story each time, and though no money +was paid for these, I secured a good many free hours to myself. These +hours I spent in the free library in Lafayette Place, devouring the +Russians, as well as every kind of book I could find on psychology; or +else in going out to Bronx Park, a long tram journey, where I found +trees and lovely glades and water. Bronx Park, not yet the home of +the New York “Zoo,” was a paradise to me, the nearest approach to the +woods that I could find. Every Sunday, wet or fine, I went there. In a +_cache_ I hid a teapot, and would make a tiny fire and drink milkless +tea. I could hear the wind and see the stars and taste the smell of +earth and leaves, the clean, sweet things.... + +One morning in the second week of my apprenticeship, I interviewed a +lion. + +“Afraid of wild animals, Mr. Britisher?” inquired Cooper, looking at me +quizzically. I stared, wondering what he meant. It was my duty to have +read the morning paper thoroughly, but there had been no mention of any +wild animal. I replied that I thought I didn’t mind wild animals. + +“Take your gun,” said Cooper, “and get up to East 20th Street, between +Third and Fourth Avenues. Bostock’s Circus came to town last night +late. Their lion’s escaped. They’ve chased it into a stable. Killed +a valuable horse. Neighbourhood’s paralysed with terror. It’s a +man-eater. Send down bulletins about it. Now, better get a move on!” + +On leaving the elevated train at East 18th Street, the streets were +black with people, they even pressed up the front steps of the houses. +The word “lion” was in everybody’s mouth. Something about Cooper’s +voice and eyes had made me suspect a “fake.” As I forced my way through +towards 20th Street, there came a roar that set the air trembling even +above the din of voices. It was certainly no fake. + +On reaching 20th Street, the cordon of police, with pistols ready, +keeping the crowd in order, showed plainly where the stable was. +Gradually I bored a way through. The stable stood back from the road, +a courtyard in front of it. A ladder, crowded already with reporters +climbing up, led to a hayloft just above. I met the _Evening Telegram_ +man, whom I knew, half-way up this ladder. “Got a messenger boy? No! +Then you can share mine,” he offered good-naturedly. The only occupants +of the yard were a dozen of these messenger boys, waiting to take the +“copy” to the various newspaper offices. It was 8.30 A.M. + +I noticed to my surprise that the _Evening Telegram_ man was a star +reporter; three rungs above him, to my still greater surprise, climbed +Richard Harding Davis. My vanity was stirred. This was a big story, yet +Cooper had chosen me! As I squeezed up the ladder, my hands stuffed +with paper, the lion below gave forth an awe-inspiring roar; it was a +dreadful sound. The great doors of wood seemed matchwood easily burst +through. The crowd swayed back a moment, then, with a cheer, swayed +forward again. + +In the loft I found some twenty reporters; each time the brute gave its +terrible roar they scuttled into corners, behind the hay, even up into +the rafters of the darkened loft. Pistol shots accompanied every roar, +and the added terror lest a bullet from below might pierce the boards +on which we stood, made us all jump about like dervishes. One man wrote +his story, perched in the dark on the highest rafter, from which he +never once moved. I scribbled away, and threw down my “stuff” to the +boy below. + +Meanwhile the circus officials were doing their best to force the great +beast into a cage. This cage stood ready against the outside doors in +the yard, and at the right moment these doors would be swiftly opened. +On being driven into the stable, the animal had found, and quickly +killed, a trotting horse, valued at $2,000, standing in its stall. This +detail I at first disbelieved, but when my turn came to kneel and peer +through the trap-door for feeding the hay down into the dark stable +below, I found it was all true. In the centre of the floor the great +lion was plainly visible, not six feet below my own face, lying with +two paws stretched upon the carcass of a torn, dead horse. The smell +of flesh and blood rose to my nostrils. In a dim corner perched on a +refrigerator, sat one of the trainers, a pistol in his hand. In another +corner, but invisible from my peephole, crouched another circus man, +also with his pistol, and each time the lion made an ugly move, both +men fired off their weapons.... I wrote more “bulletins,” and dropped +them down to a messenger boy in the yard. He hurried off, then returned +to fetch more “copy”; I sent at least a column for the first edition. I +felt a very proud reporter. + +After two hours of thrills and scares, the news spread that the Strong +Man of the circus was on his way down, a fearless Samson of a fellow +who lifted great weights. The news proved true. A prolonged cheer +greeted him. He acknowledged it with a sweeping bow. He wore diamonds +and a top hat. Swaggering up among the reporters, he announced in a +loud voice: “Boys! I’m going to fix that lion, and I’m going to fix it +right away!” + +The boastful bluff received no believing cheer in response, but to my +amazement, the fellow proved as good as his talk. He said no further +word, he just lifted the trap-door in the floor and began to squeeze +himself through--straight down onto the very spot where the lion lay, +crouching below on the dead horse. He dropped. We heard the thud. We +also heard the appalling roar that followed, the quick pistol shots, +the shouts, the excited cries--then silence. The reporter at the +trap-door called out to us what was happening.... That Strong Man was a +hero. + +Ten or fifteen minutes later, the big stable-doors swung open, and +the cage, with the lion safely inside it, emerged on a high-wheeled +truck into full view of the cheering crowd. On the top of the cage, +sweeping his shiny top hat about, bowing, waving his free hand with +modest dignity to the admiring thousands, the Strong Man sat enthroned, +cross-legged, proud and smiling. The procession through the streets of +the city was a triumphal progress that lasted most of the day. That +night Bostock’s Circus opened to the public. + +I hurried back to the office, and had the joy of seeing the first +edition hawked and cried about the streets, even before I got there. +Big head-lines about a “Man-eating Lion,” a “Two Thousand Dollar +Trotting Horse,” “Heroic Rescuer,” and the rest, met my eye everywhere. +Cooper, however, made no remark or comment, sending me on at once to +report a murder trial at special sessions, and in half an hour the +gruesome thrills of a horrible poison case made the lion and the strong +man fade away. + +“Read your morning paper?” Cooper asked, when I appeared next morning. +I nodded. The lion story, I had noticed, filled only half a stick of +print. “Read the advertisements?” he asked next. I saw a twinkle in his +eye, and quickly scanned the circus advertisements about the man-eating +lion that had killed a trotting horse, and a strong man whose courage +had done this and that, saving numerous lives ... but I was still +puzzled by Cooper’s twinkling eye. He offered no word of explanation; +I learned the truth from someone else later. The toothless, aged +lion, gorged with food and doped as well, had been pushed into the +stable overnight, the carcass of a horse, valued at $10, had been +dragged in after it. The newspapers had been notified, and the long +advertisements, of course, were paid for in the ordinary way, but the +free advertisement obtained was of a kind that mere dollars could not +buy. + +Occasional interludes of this sort certainly brightened the sordid +daily routine, but they were rare. A big fire was a thrilling +experience, a metal badge pinned to the coat allowing the reporter to +go as near as he liked and to run what risks he pleased. Such work +became, with time, mechanical in a sense, it occurred so often, arson, +too, being very frequent, especially among the Jews of the East side. +Even in those days the story of the two Jews was a “chestnut”: “I’m +thorry your blace of business got burnt down last Tuesday,” says Ikey. +To which Moses replies: “Hush! It’s next Tuesday!” + +The rôle of the reporter in New York, of course, was an accepted one; +publicity and advertisement were admittedly desirable; the reporter +as a rule was welcomed; privacy was very rare; a reporter could, +and was expected to, intrude into personal family affairs where, in +England, he would be flung into the street.... Other interviews were +of a pleasanter kind; I remember Henry Irving and Ellen Terry in their +special train, Sarah Bernhardt, at the Hoffman House hotel, and many a +distinguished foreigner I was sent to interview because I could speak +their languages. The trip to meet the Atlantic steamer at Quarantine I +regarded as a day off: it could be made to last for hours. I saw the +coast, moreover, and smelt the sea.... + +Most of my work on the _Evening Sun_, at any rate, took me among the +criminal and outcast sections of the underworld. In those days the +police, as a whole, were corrupt, brutal, heartless; I saw innocent +men against whom they had a grudge, or whom they wanted out of the way +for some reason, “railroaded to gaol” on cooked-up evidence; sickening +and dreadful scenes I witnessed.... The valueless character of human +evidence I learned daily in the trials I reported, so that even a man +who was trying to tell the truth seemed unable to achieve it. Tammany +had its slimy tentacles everywhere and graft was the essence of success +in every branch of public life. A police captain had his town and +country house, perhaps his yacht as well.... The story of Tammany +has been told again and again. It is too well known for repetition. +I watched its vile methods from the inside with a vengeance; its +loathsome soul I saw face to face. The city, too, I soon knew inside +out, especially its darker, unclean quarters. Chinatown, Little Africa, +where, after dark, it was best to walk in the middle of the street, +“Italy,” the tenement life of the overcrowded, reeking East side.... +I made friends with strange people, feeling myself even in touch with +them, something of an outcast like themselves. My former life became +more and more remote, it seemed unreal; the world I now lived in seemed +the only world; these evil, depraved, tempted, unhappy devils were +not only the majority, but the real, ordinary humanity that stocked +the world. More and more the under-dog appealed to me. The rich, the +luxurious, the easily-placed, the untempted and inexperienced, these +I was beginning to find it in me to look down on, even to despise. +_Mutatis mutandis_, I thought to myself, daily, hourly, where would +_they_ be?... Where would _I_ myself be...? + +Bronx Park, Shelley, the violin, the free library, organ recitals in +churches, my Eastern books, and meetings of the Theosophical Society, +provided meanwhile the few beauty hours to which I turned by way +of relief and relaxation. One and all fed my inner dreams, gave me +intense happiness, offered a way of escape from a daily atmosphere I +loathed like poison. Sometimes, sitting in court, reporting a trial +of absorbing interest, my eye would catch through the dirty window +a patch of blue between the clouds ... and instantly would sweep up +the power of the woods, the strange joy of clean solitary places in +the wilderness, the glamour of a secret little lake where loons were +calling and waves splashing on deserted, lonely shores. I heard the +pines, saw the silvery moonlight, felt the keen wind of open and +untainted spaces, I smelt the very earth and the perfume of the +forests.... A serious gap would follow in my report, so that I would +have to borrow from the flimsy man, or from another reporter, what had +happened in the interval. In this connexion there comes back to me a +picture of a _World_ man whose work constituted him a star reporter, +but who could write nothing unless he was really drunk. With glazed +eyes he would catch the witness and listen to question and answer, +while with a pencil he could scarcely direct, he scribbled in immense +writing three or four sloping lines to each page of “copy” paper. It +always astonished me that such work could be any good, but once I +made a shorthand note of several of his pages, and found them printed +verbatim in the next edition, without a single blue-pencil alteration. +When this man sat next me, my intervals of absent-mindedness did not +matter. His big writing enabled me to crib easily all I had missed. + +Other compensating influences, too, I found with my “room-mates,” +especially with Boyde, to whom I had become devotedly attached. I was +uncommonly lucky to have such friends, I thought. Talking with Boyde, +playing the fiddle to his singing, sharing my troubles with his subtle, +sympathetic, well-read mind, was an unfailing pleasure, that made me +look forward intensely to our evenings together, and helped me to get +through many a day of repulsive and distasteful work. Compared with +the charm and variety of Boyde, Kay seemed stolid, even unresponsive +sometimes. + +To live consciously is to register impressions; some receive many more +of these per second than others, and thus enjoy an intenser and more +varied life. The two-per-second mind finds the two-per-minute one slow, +dull and stupid. Kay, anyhow, didn’t “mind” things much, circumstances +never troubled him, whereas Boyde and I minded them acutely. I envied +Kay’s power of sleeping calmly in that bed, careless of night-attacks +until they actually came. The horror of New York, similarly, that was +creeping into my blood had hardly touched him, though it certainly +had infected Boyde. In my own make-up lay something ultra-sensitive +that took impressions far too easily. Not only did it vibrate with +unnecessary eagerness to every change in sky and sea, but to every +shade of attitude and manner in my fellows as well. I seemed covered +with sore and tender places into which New York rubbed salt and acid +every hour of the day. It wounded, not alone because I felt unhappy, +but of itself. It hit me where it pleased. The awful city, with its +torrential, headlong life, held for me something of the monstrous. +Everything about it was exaggerated. Its racing speed, its roofs amid +the clouds with the canyon gulfs below, its gaudy avenues dripping +gold that ran almost arm in arm with streets little better than +sewers of human decay and misery, its frantic noise, both of voices +and mechanism, its lavishly organized charity and boastful splendour, +and its deep corruption in the grip of a heartless and degraded +Tammany--it was all this that painted the horror into my imagination +as of something monstrous, non-human, almost unearthly. It became, for +me, a scab on the skin of the planet, brilliant with the hues of fever, +moving all over with its teeming microbes. I felt it, indeed, but half +civilized. + +This note of how I felt in these--my early years--rose up again the +other day, as I read what O. Henry wrote to his outlaw friend from the +Ohio Penitentiary about it. Al Jennings had just been pardoned. O. +Henry had finished his terms some years before. They met again in a +West 26th Street hotel, not far from my own room in Mrs. Bernstein’s +house. They talked of their terrible prison days. + +“It’s good you’ve been there,” said O. Henry. “It’s the proper +vestibule to this city of Damned Souls. The crooks there are straight +compared with the business thieves here. If you’ve got $2 on you, +invest it now or they’ll take it away from you before morning.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +In the East 19th Street room, meanwhile, things were going from bad to +worse. Kay’s touring company delayed its starting, and consequently +his salary. Boyde’s huntsman’s job, equally, was postponed for various +reasons, while his income from posing, from churchly activities, from +the theatre as well, was reduced to a very few dollars a week. These he +shared faithfully, but my $15 every Friday (usually $13 net when office +loans had been repaid) were our only certain source of revenue. + +After paying something on the room, the laundry in full, and buying +oatmeal, dried apples, and condensed milk for the week to come, there +remained barely enough for one man’s meals, much less for the food of +three, during the ensuing seven days. Boyde’s contribution brought the +budget to, perhaps, twenty dollars all told. Something, too, had to be +allowed daily to car-fares for Kay, while my own expenses in getting +about after assignments, only recoverable at the end of the week, were +considerable. The weather was turning colder at the same time, for it +was now past mid-October. Our overcoats had to be redeemed. Boyde’s +wisdom in obtaining only the strictly necessary became evident. We +redeemed the overcoats out of my second week’s pay. Boyde himself had +no overcoat at all. As we were all about the same height and build, +clothes were interchangeable. There was a discussion every morning, +when I left the other two, in bed and on the sofa respectively, as to +who should wear what. + +We had now pawned with Ikey various items: a Gladstone bag, two top +hats, some underwear, and two pairs of boots. These were on separate +tickets, by Boyde’s advice. Tennis trousers, and several summer shirts +were together on another ticket. All that winter Kay and I wore no +underwear but a vest. The bag and top hats were taken out and put in +again regularly every week for many months. There was only one article +that, selfishly, I could never pawn or sell--the fiddle. + +Dried apples and hot water--with expensive oatmeal we had to be very +sparing--constituted our dinner for four nights out of the week; coffee +and bread and butter for breakfast, coffee and “sinkers” for lunch +completed my dietary. Occasionally Boyde or Kay, having been invited to +a meal, brought home something in their pockets, but not often. We felt +hunger every day, only the evening dried apples and hot water giving a +sense of repletion that yet did not really allay the pangs of appetite, +though it stopped the dull gnawing until sleep finally obliterated it. +Kay and I, but never Boyde, oddly enough, had vivid and amusing dreams +of food, and one invariable topic of conversation every night as we +dined at Krisch’s, or gobbled apples and oatmeal, was the menu we would +order when things improved.... But Krisch’s, after a time, we found +too difficult and tempting, with the good smells, the sight of people +eating at other tables, the lager beer, the perfume of cigars; and many +a time, with the price of a dinner in our pockets, we preferred to eat +in our room. + +Another topic of conversation was our plan, myself its enthusiastic +creator, to take up land in Canada and lead the life of settlers in +the backwoods, which by contrast to our present conditions seemed to +promise a paradise. Occasionally Kay spouted bits of Shakespeare, or +rehearsed a rôle in one of the plays his touring company was to give. +But it was the talks with Boyde about Eastern ideas and philosophy +that were my keenest pleasure, for his appreciation and sympathetic +understanding were a delight I thought about with anticipatory +eagerness even during the day. My attachment to him deepened into +affection. + +The weeks went by; we scraped along somehow; Mrs. Bernstein was kept +quiet--a relative term--by cajoling, promises and bluff. We bullied +her. When Kay’s lordly talk of free seats at theatres failed to +materialize, and Boyde’s trick of leaving about telegrams received +from Davis and others, especially one from August Belmont, the great +banker, inviting him to lunch at a fashionable club--when these devices +lost their “pull,” I resorted to the power of the Press. Her husband’s +position, his orchestra, offered vulnerable points of attack; the +vermin-infested room, for instance, might be unpleasantly described.... + +For weeks we had paid nothing, everything worth fifty cents was +pawned, Boyde’s contribution had grown smaller and smaller, and the +only addition to my salary had been a few dollars Kay had earned by +posing to Smedley, one of Harper’s illustrators. Things looked pretty +dark, when luck turned suddenly; Kay received word from Gilmour, the +organizer of his company, that he was to start touring on November +15th, and Boyde had a telegram from Davis--“Appointment confirmed, +duties begin December 1st.” This did not increase our cash in hand, +but it increased our hope and raised our spirits. Kay and Boyde would +both soon repay their share of past expenses. We should all three be in +jobs a few weeks later. Early in November Kay actually left on his tour +of one night stands in New York State, and Boyde left the mattress on +the floor for the bed. A week after Kay sent us half his first salary, +$7.50, which we gave to Mrs. Bernstein forthwith. The letter containing +it was opened by Boyde, and dealt with while I was out. + +It was a few days later, when I was alone one evening, that an +Englishman who had played with us in the cricket match called to +see me. I hardly remembered him, he had to introduce himself, the +apologies to explain his sudden call were very voluble. He was well +dressed and well fed, I noticed, a singer and concert accompanist; he +annoyed me from the start by his hesitations, his endless humming and +hawing. It was, he kept telling me, rather an intrusion; it was, he +felt, of course, no concern of his; but “New York was a strange place, +and--and--er--er--well, after much reflection, I really felt it my +duty--I decided to take the risk, that is, to--er----” + +“To what?” I asked bluntly at last. “For heaven’s sake, tell me.” + +I was beginning to feel uneasy. My threats to Mrs. Bernstein, perhaps, +had gone too far. Besides, the effect of the apples was passing and I +longed for bed. + +He took a gulp. “To warn you,” he said, with a grave and ominous +expression. + +It was a long-winded business before I got him to the point, and even +then the point was not really explicit. New York, he kept repeating, +was a dangerous place for inexperience, there were strange and +desperate characters in it. In the end, I think, my manners exasperated +him as much as his vagueness exasperated me, for when he told me he +came about “someone very close to you,” and I asked point-blank, “Is it +someone sharing this room with me?” his final word was a most decided +“Yes”--with nothing more. This “someone,” I gathered, at any rate, was +fooling me, was up to all sorts of tricks, was even “dangerous.” + +I was infuriated, though I felt a certain sinking of the heart as well. +He was attacking either Kay or Boyde, my only friends, both of whom I +trusted to the last cent, for both of whom I had sincere affection. If +he knew anything definite or really important, why couldn’t he say it +and be done with it? I put this to him. + +“I prefer not to be more explicit,” he replied with an air. He was +offended. His patronizing offer of advice and sympathy, his pride, were +wounded. “I would rather not mention names. It’s true all the same,” +he added. And my patience then gave way. I got up and opened the door. +He went without a word, but just as I was about to slam the door after +him, he turned. + +“Remember,” he said, half angrily, half gravely, “I’ve warned you. He’s +a real crook. He’s already been in gaol.” + +I banged the door behind him. I felt angry but uncomfortable, and as +the anger subsided my uneasiness increased. The horrible feeling +that there was truth in the warning harassed me. When Boyde came in +an hour or so later, I pretended to be asleep. I told him nothing of +my visitor, but through half-closed eyes I watched him as he moved +about the room very quietly, lest he disturb my sleep. His delightful, +kind expression, his frank blue eyes, the refinement and gentleness +of his gestures, I noted them all for the hundredth time. His acts, +too, I remembered; how he always shared his earnings, gave his help +unstintingly, advice, a thousand hints, the value of his own sad and +bitter experience. My heart ached a little. No, I reflected, it was +certainly not Boyde who was the crook. My thoughts turned to Kay, who +had just sent us half his salary. It was equally incredible. I wished +I had treated my visitor differently. I wished I had kicked him out, +instead of telling him to go. Sneak! A sneak with some evil motive into +the bargain! + +Things began to move now with a strange rapidity. It was as though +someone who had been winding up machinery suddenly released the spring. +Item by item, preparations had been completed--then, let her go! She +went.... + +The weeks that followed seemed as many months. I was alone with Boyde +in a filthy, verminous room, food and money scarce, rent owing, Kay +away, clothes negligible, my single asset being a job. I lost that job +owing to illness that kept me for weeks in bed--in that bed.... And as +“she went” I had the curious feeling that someone watched her going, +someone other than myself. It was an odd obsession. Someone looked on +and smiled. Certain practices, gathered from my “Eastern” reading, were +no doubt responsible for this uncanny feeling, for with it ran also a +parallel idea: that only a portion of my being suffered while another +portion, untouched, serene and confident, accepting all that came with +a kind of indifferent resignation, stood entirely apart, playing, +equally, the rôle of a spectator. This detached spectator watched “her +going” with close attention, even with something of satisfaction. +“Take it all,” was its attitude; “avoid nothing; it is your due; for +it is merely reaping what you sowed long ago. Face it to the very +dregs. Only in this way shall you pay a just debt and exhaust it.” So +vital was this attitude in all that followed that it must be honestly +mentioned. + +A stabbing in the side had been bothering me for some days, making +walking difficult and painful. A blow received while diving from our +island--I hit a rock--began to ache and throb. I came home in the +evenings, weary to the bone. There were headaches, and a touch of +fever. The pain increased. There was a swelling. I went to bed. Boyde +took down a letter to McCloy, asking for a day off, which was granted. +The next day I turned up at 8.30, but had to come back to bed after the +midday coffee and sinkers. “See a doctor,” snapped McCloy, in his best +maxim-firing manner, “and come back when you’re fixed up again.” + +But there wasn’t enough money for a doctor’s fee of from two to five +dollars. I lay up for three days, hoping for improvement which did +not come. The pain and fever grew. Mrs. Bernstein, upset and even +disagreeable, sent me bread and soup in the evening as well as the +morning coffee. Boyde brought a few extras late at night. He was +chasing a new post just then--organist to a church in Patterson, +N.J.--and rarely got home before eleven, sometimes later. He brought +long rolls of Vienna bread, a few white Spanish grapes, a tin of +condensed milk. He slept peaceably beside me. His manner, once or +twice, seemed different. I smelt liquor. “Someone stood me a drink,” +he explained, “and by God, I needed it. I’m fagged out.” He was kind +and sympathetic, doing all he could, all that his position allowed. He +was very much in love at the moment with the daughter of the pastor of +the Second Avenue Baptist Church, where he sang in the choir, and he +confided his hopes and troubles about the affair to me.... It all gave +me a queer feeling of unreality somewhere. In my feverish state I knew +an occasional unaccustomed shiver. The long day in bed, alone with my +thoughts, waiting for Boyde’s return, was wearisome to endlessness, +by no means free from new, unpleasant reflections, yet when at last +the door opened softly, and he came back, his arms full of the little +extras mentioned, there was disappointment in me somewhere. It was not +quite as I expected. Accompanying the disappointment were these new, +faint twinges of uneasiness as well. I kept the gas burning all night. +I watched Boyde’s face, as he slept calmly beside me in that narrow +bed, his expression of innocence and kindliness increased my feelings +of gratitude, even of tenderness, towards him. There were deep lines, +however, that sleep did not smooth out. “Poor devil, he’s been through +the mill!” This habit of watching him grew. + +There was delay and trouble about the Rockaway Hunt post; studio +sittings were scarce; the Baptist church organist was never unable +to officiate; Morton Selton never missed a performance; and Boyde, +as a result, though he still contributed what he could, earned next +to nothing. If I was puzzled by his late hours, his explanations +invariably cleared away my wonder. He always had a plausible excuse, +one, too, that woke my sympathy. It was just at this time, moreover, +that Kay wrote. The Canadian tour was such a failure that Gilmour was +taking his troupe to the States, where they anticipated better houses. +No salaries had been paid. They were now off to Pittsburg. Kay hoped to +send some money before long. + +I spent the weary hours reading.... On the third day, my symptoms +worse, the door opened suddenly without a knock, and I saw an old man +with a white moustache and spectacles peering round the edge at me. I +laid down my “Gita” and stared back at him. + +“Are you Mr. Blackwood?” he asked, with a marked German accent. + +“Yes.” I had not the faintest idea who he was. + +He closed the door, took off his slouch hat, crossed the room, laid his +small black bag on the sofa, then came and stood beside my bed. He was +extremely deliberate. I watched him anxiously. He said no word for some +time, while we stared at one another. + +He was of medium height, about sixty-five years old, with white hair, +dark eyes behind magnifying spectacles, the strong face deeply lined, +voice and manner stern to the point of being forbidding--but when I saw +it rarely--a most winning smile. Except for the spectacles, he was like +a small edition of Bismarck. + +“I am a doctor,” he said, after a prolonged silent inspection, “and I +live down the street. Your friend, an Englishman, asked me to call. +Are _you_ English?” I told him I was a reporter on the _Evening Sun_, +adding that I had no money at the moment. The suspicion his manner had +not attempted to hide at once showed itself plainly. His manner and +voice were brusque to offensiveness, as he said flatly: “I expect to be +paid. I have a wife and child.” He stood there, staring at me, hard and +cold. I repeated that I had nothing to pay him with, and I lay back in +bed, wishing he would go, for I felt uncomfortable and ashamed, annoyed +as well by his unsympathetic attitude. “Humph!” he grunted, still +staring without moving. There was an awkward silence I thought would +never end. “Humph!” he grunted again presently. “I egsamine you anyhow. +How old are you?” + +“Twenty-two,” I said, “and a bit.” + +“Humph!” he repeated, as he examined me rather roughly. “You’re very +thin. Too thin!” + +He hurt me, and I did not answer. + +“Not eating enough,” he added, and then gave his verdict. It was an +abscess, I must keep my bed for a month or six weeks, an operation +might be necessary.... + +I asked how much I owed him. “Two dollars,” he said. He gave me his +address, and I replied that I would bring the money to him as soon as I +could, but that he need not call again. He stared severely at me with +those magnified eyes. + +“Haven’t you got two dollars even?” he asked curtly. + +“I’ve told you the truth. And, anyhow, I didn’t send for you. I didn’t +ask my friend to fetch you either.” + +I could think of nothing else to say. His verdict had flattened me out. +I was angry, besides, with Boyde, for not consulting me first, though +I knew he had done the right thing. Another period of awkward silence +followed, during which the doctor never moved, but stood gazing down at +me. Suddenly his eye rested on the book I had been reading. He put out +a hand and picked it up. He glanced through the pages of the “Gita,” +then began to read more carefully. A few minutes passed. He became +absorbed. + +“_You_ read this?” he asked presently. “_Ach was!_” There was a look of +keen astonishment in his eyes; his gaze searched me as though I were +some strange animal. I told him enough by way of reply to explain my +interest. He listened, without a word, then presently picked up his bag +and hat and moved away. At the door he turned a moment. “I come again +to-morrow,” he said gruffly, and he was gone. + +In this way Otto Huebner, with his poignant tragedy, came into my life. + +That evening, with the bread and soup, there was a plate of chicken; +it was not repeated often, but he had spoken to Mrs. Bernstein, I +discovered, for her attitude, too, became slightly pleasanter. I spent +the long evening composing a letter to McCloy, which Boyde could take +down next day.... I lay thinking of that curious gruff, rude old +German, whose brusqueness, I felt sure, covered a big good heart. There +was mystery about him, something unusual, something pathetic and very +lovable. There was power in his quietness. Despite his bluntness, there +was in his atmosphere a warm kindness, a sincerity that drew me to him. +Also there was a darkness, a sense of tragedy somewhere that intrigued +me because I could not explain it. + +It was after he was gone that I felt all this. While he was in the room +I had been too troubled and upset by his manner to feel anything but +annoyance. Now that he was gone his face and eyes and voice haunted +me. His bleak honesty, I think, showed me, without my recognizing it, +another standard. + +Was it this, I wonder, that made me start a little when, about two in +the morning, I heard a stealthy tread coming upstairs, and presently +saw Boyde enter the room--carrying his boots in his hand? Was it this, +again, that made me feign to be asleep, and a couple of hours later +still, when I woke with a shiver, notice, for the first time, a new +expression in the face that lay so calmly asleep beside me? + +Behind the kindly innocence, I thought, there lay a darker look. It was +like a shadow on the features. It increased my feelings of uneasiness, +though as yet no definite thought had formulated itself in my mind. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +Next day there was a racing west wind that sent the clouds scudding +across a bright blue sky. The doctor was to come at 3 o’clock. Boyde, +in very optimistic mood, had gone out early, taking my letter to +McCloy. He had a studio sitting; he was going to Patterson too; he +would return as early as he could. The shadow of the night before +had vanished; I no longer believed in it; I ascribed it to fever and +nerves. He sang cheerily while he dressed in my thick brown suit, the +only one not in pawn (everything else, now that I was in bed, had gone +to Ikey), and his voice sounded delightful. In the afternoon he came +back with the news that McCloy had read my letter and said “That’s +right. Tell him to be good to himself. He can come back.” Also he had +agreed to use translations of the French stories at five dollars each. +Boyde brought a _Courier_ in with him. Two letters from home arrived +too. Both my father and mother, though having no idea what was going +on, never missed a single week. My own letters were difficult to write. +I had come to New York against my father’s advice. I wrote home what I +thought best. + +At 3 o’clock the doctor came. My heart sank as I heard his step. I +was in considerable pain. What would he be like? Would an operation +be necessary? Would he speak about money again? Mrs. Bernstein, oily +and respectful, a little awed as well, announced him. Without a +word, without a glance in my direction, he walked over in his slow, +deliberate way, and laid hat and bag upon the sofa. Then he turned and +looked steadily at himself in the mirror for a period I thought would +never end. After that he turned and looked at me. + +He was an angel. His face was wreathed in smiles. It beamed with +good-nature, kindness, sympathy. He at once said something that was +gentle, soothing, like music to me. My heart suddenly expanded in a +most uncomfortable way. I believe a lump came up in my throat. This +was all so contrary to what I had expected. He was not only an angel, +he was a womanly angel. I must have been in a very weak state, for it +was all I could do to keep my tears back. The same instant his eye fell +on my fiddle case. He looked at it, then at me, then back again at the +fiddle. + +“You play?” he asked, with a twinkle in his big eyes. + +“I ought to pawn it,” I said, “but----” + +“Don’t,” he answered with decision. He added an odd sentence: “It’s +an esgape from self.” I remember that I couldn’t say a word to this. +His kindness melted me. The struggle to keep my eyes from betraying +me seemed the most idiotic yet bitter I had ever known. I could have +kissed the old man’s hand, when he examined me then at once, but with +a gentleness, even a tenderness, that both astonished me, yet did not +astonish me at all. I felt, too, already the support of his mind and +character, of his whole personality, of a rugged power in him, of +generosity, true goodness, above all, of sympathy. I think he had made +up his mind to treat me for nothing. No reference, in any case, was +made to money; nor did I dare even to mention it myself. An operation, +moreover, of any big kind, was not necessary; he thought he could save +me that; he performed a small one then and there, for he had brought +all that was required for it. The pain seemed nothing, his kindness +made me indifferent to it. “You are brave,” he said, with a smile that +seemed to me really beautiful, when it was over. “That hurt, I know.” +He promised to come daily to drain the wound and so forth; he bandaged +me up; a month to six weeks would see me out of bed, he hoped; he +packed up his bag, but, instead of leaving the room, he then sat down +deliberately and began to talk. + +I was too surprised, too happy, to wonder why he stayed. His talk +was food and drink to me. He picked up my few books, and sat reading +quietly to himself when he saw I was getting tired. De Quincey’s +“Confessions” interested him especially, and he asked if he might +borrow it. He took also “Sartor Resartus.” I slipped into German, to +his keen delight, and told him about the Moravian Brotherhood School +in the Black Forest. A sketch of the recent past I gave him too. He +listened with great attention, asking occasional questions, but always +with real tact, and never allowing me to tire myself. + +Though it was obvious, even to my stupidity, that he regarded me rather +as a “specimen” of some sort, there was heart in all he said and did. +Otto Huebner poured balm into all my little wounds that afternoon, but +about himself he told me hardly anything. While he drew me out, with +skill and sympathy, he hid himself behind that impenetrable mystery I +had already noted the previous day. I say purposely that of himself +he told me “hardly anything,” because one detail did escape him +inadvertently. An hour later, as he was leaving, he turned his smile +on me from the door. “I send you something,” he said shortly. “My vife +makes goot broth. I cannot do much. I have not got it.” + +One other thing I noticed about his visit, when towards the end, Boyde +came in unexpectedly, bringing a small bunch of the yellow Spanish +grapes. In his best, most charming manner he spoke with the doctor. The +doctor’s face, however, darkened instantly. His features, it seemed to +me, froze. His manner was curt. He scarcely replied. And when he left a +little later he did not include my friend in his good-bye. It puzzled +me. It added to my uneasiness as well. + +Boyde, who apparently had noticed nothing, explained that he had to go +out again to an appointment with Davis about the Rockaway Hunt post; he +did not return that night at all. + +I listened to the city clocks striking midnight, one, two, three ... +he did not come. I listened to the howling wind as well. Imagination +tried feebly to construct a happier state, lovelier conditions, a world +nearer to the heart’s desire. While waiting for midnight to strike, I +said to myself, thinking of yesterday and to-morrow, with all the one +had meant and the other might mean to me: + +“Yesterday is now twenty-four hours away, but in a minute it will be +only one minute away.” + +I treated the hidden to-morrow similarly. I imagined, the world being +old and creaky, ill-fitting too, that a crack existed between the two +days. Anyone who was thin enough might slip through! I, certainly, was +thin enough. I slipped through.... I entered a region out of time, a +region where everything came true. And the first thing I saw was a +wondrous streaming vision of the wind, the wind that howled outside +my filthy windows.... I saw the winds, changing colours as they rose +and fell, attached to the trees, in tenuous ribands of gold and blue +and scarlet as they swept to and fro.... I little dreamed that these +fancies would appear fifteen years later in a book of my own, “The +Education of Uncle Paul.” That crack, at any rate, became for me, like +the fiddle, a means of escape from unkind reality into a state of inner +bliss and wonder “where everything came true.”... + +It was after twelve o’clock next day when Boyde returned--with a +black eye, my one thick suit stained and soiled, and a long involved +story that utterly confused me. There had been a fight; he had +protected a woman; a false charge had been laid against him owing to +misunderstanding, owing also to the fact that he had no money to tip +the policeman, and he had spent the night in a cell at Jefferson Market +police station. In the morning the magistrate had discharged him with +many compliments upon his “gallantry and courage.” It did not ring +true. I knew the Tammany magistrates better than that. He contradicted +himself too, in saying that a Mr. Beattie, a friend of his mother’s, +who occasionally gave him a little money she sent from England, had +bailed him out. He had been bailed out, discharged with compliments, +had slept in a cell, and not been fined! I smelt spirits too. It all +made me miserable. + +“You’ve been drunk and they locked you up,” I reproached him. “Why +do you lie to me?” The copious explanations that followed I hardly +listened to. I lay in bed, saying nothing, but the warning of my +visitor came back. + +“I went down to the _Evening Sun_,” Boyde said presently, when my +silence made his explanations end of their own accord. “I’ve just come +back with this. McCloy asked after you and sent it on account of the +French stories.” He handed me five dollars, in single bills, which we +divided equally then and there. + +He had been gone hardly ten minutes when the door opened again, and +another visitor came in, an actor out of a job, Grant, an Englishman +of perhaps twenty-five, one of the cricket team I had met in Staten +Island a few weeks before. He had run across Boyde, he explained, +and had heard I was ill. As one Englishman to another “in this awful +city” he wanted to see if he could help in any way. He did then a +wonderful thing. We had met but once, he scarcely knew me, he might +never see me again, but when he realized the state of affairs he said +he thought he could get a little money for me, and before I could +say a word he vanished from the room. His shyness, his lame manner +of speech, something hesitating and awkward about him generally, had +embarrassed me as much as, evidently, he was embarrassed himself; +and I was convinced his plea of getting money was only an excuse to +disappear quickly. I rather hoped it was; certainly I thought it +unlikely he would come back--which, nevertheless, he did, in about a +quarter of an hour. He came in breathlessly, a shamefaced air about +him; flung down some dollar bills on the bed, and vanished the second +time. Three dollars lay on the counterpane. It was only a little later, +as reflection brought up details, that I remembered he had worn an +overcoat when he first came in, and that on his second visit he wore +none. He had pawned it. Another detail rose to the surface: that he +had called, really, upon quite another errand, and that there was +something he wanted to tell me that he had not the courage to put into +words. Later he admitted it was true.... + +Anticipating Otto Huebner’s visits was now a keen pleasure; the one +event of a long weary day. + +During the next fortnight or so, he missed no single afternoon. His +moods varied amazingly. One day he seemed an angel, the next a devil. I +was completely puzzled. + +The talks we had on his good days were an enjoyment I can hardly +describe. I realized how much I depended on them, as well as on the man +who made them possible. I realized also how much I depended on my other +friend--on Boyde. The latter’s curious and unsatisfactory behaviour, +mysterious still to my blind ignorant eyes, made no difference to +my feelings for him, but, if anything, tended to strengthen the +attachment. My affection deepened. There lay now a certain pity in +me too, an odd feeling that he was in my charge, and that, for all +his greater knowledge and experience of life, his seniority as well, +I could--I must--somehow help him. Upon the German doctor and Boyde, +at any rate, Kay being far away, my mind rested with security, if of +different degrees. To lose either of them in my lonely situation would +have been catastrophic. + +The old German would settle himself on the sofa, drawn up close to the +bed, and talk. He was saturated in his native philosophy, but Hegel was +his king.... “Sartor Resartus” enthralled him. Of De Quincey’s struggle +against opium he was never tired. Of Vedantic and Hindu philosophy, +too, he was understanding and tolerant, though not enamoured. Regarding +me still as a “specimen” evidently, he also treated me as though I were +a boy, discerning of course at once my emptiness of mind and experience. + +How patiently he listened to my eager exposition of life’s mysteries, +my chaotic theories, my fanciful speculations.... + +“We _know_--nothing, you must remember. _Nothing_,” he would say with +emphasis. “Nor can we know anything, _ever_. We label, classify, +examine certain _results_--that’s all. Of causes we remain completely +ignorant. Speculation is not proof. The fact that a theory fits all the +facts gets us no further.” + +He smiled, but with close attention, while I plunged again into a +description of my beliefs. The tobacco smoke curled up about his genial +face. I had no fear of him in this mood. I could say all my thoughts +without shyness. I made full confession. + +“Interesting, logical, possibly true,” he replied, “and most certainly +as good an explanation as any other, better even than most, but”--he +shrugged his shoulders--“always a theory only, and nothing else. There +is no proof of anything. The higher states of consciousness you mention +are nebulous, probably pathogenic. Those who experience them cannot, +in any case, report their content intelligibly to us who have not +experienced them--because no words exist. They are of no value to the +race, and that condemns them. Men of action, not dreamers, are what the +world needs.” + +“Men of action only carry out what has first been dreamed,” I ventured. + +“True,” replied the old man, “true very often. Men of action rarely +have much vision. The poet is the highest type.... I am with you in +this too--that the only _real_ knowledge is the knowledge of man, +the study of consciousness. _Gnothi seauton_ is still the shortest, +as well as the most pregnant, sermon in the world. Before we can +get new knowledge, _different_ knowledge--yes, there I am with +you--consciousness itself must change and become different first +... _but_ ... the people who get that _different_ knowledge cannot +describe it to us because there is no language.” Wise, thoughtful +things the old man said, while I listened eagerly. “One thing is +certain,” he declared with his usual emphasis: “If there is another +state after the destruction of the body, it cannot be merely an +extension, an idealization, of the one we know. _That_ is excluded. +Without senses, without brain or nerves, without physical reactions +of any kind--since there is no body--how shall we be aware of things +about us? Another state can only be--_different_, yet so different +that it is useless to talk of it. The Heaven of the spiritualists, +the elaborate constructions of a Swedenborg, are nothing but +coloured idealizations of the state we already know ...”--he snorted +contemptuously--“obviously self-created. A different state of +consciousness would show us a universe so totally different from +anything we know that it must be--indescribable.” + +Of my own future, too, he liked to talk. The newspaper reporting he +disapproved; it could lead to little; it was “_unersprechlich gemein_”; +the New York press was a cesspool; it might serve a temporary purpose, +but no self-respecting man should stay too long in it. He urged me +to become a doctor, saying I should be a success, advising me to +specialize in nerves and mental cases. Being an Englishman would help +very much; in time I should have an enormous practice; he would assist +me in all manner of ways, so that my course need not be longer than two +years, or three at the most. He would coach me, rush me through in half +the normal time. Later I could get a foreign degree, which would be an +additional asset.... He never tired of this topic, and his enthusiasm +was certainly sincere. + +Of stars, too, he loved to talk, of space, of possible other dimensions +even. His exposition of a fourth dimension always delighted me. That +the universe, indeed, was really four-dimensional, and that all we +perceived of it was that sectional aspect, a portion as it were, +that is projected into our three-dimensional world, was a theme that +positively made him red in the face, as his big eyes focused on me, +his concentrated mind working vehemently behind them.... Certainly, my +knowledge of German improved considerably. + +Then, as Boyde came in, the light would die out of his eyes, his face +would harden and grow dark--he had a way of making it seem frozen--and +with a stiff bow to Boyde that only just acknowledged his presence, he +would get up and leave the room. + +Meanwhile, I sold two more French stories, and Boyde bought back the +ten dollars paid for them; three others were “not suitable,” according +to McCloy. I told the doctor all I earned. “Later,” he said, “you pay +me, if you want to. I take nothing--now.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +The days passed; I grew slowly better; the wound still had to be +drained and bandaged, and the doctor kept me to my bed. Kay, writing +from Toronto, had contrived to send us ten dollars. More French +translations had gone to McCloy, but only one or two had been used. + +If the loneliness of the long days was dismal, the feverish nights were +worse. I knew my few books by heart; Shelley and the “Gita” were indeed +inexhaustible, but I longed for something new. To play the fiddle +was too tiring. There was endless time for reflection ... and, thank +heaven, through the two dirty windows I could watch the sky. Many a +story I published fifteen years later had its germ in the apparently +dead moments of those wearisome hours, although at the time it never +once occurred to me to try and write, not even the desire being in me. + +It was the interminable nights that were most haunted. In the daylight +there was colour in the changing clouds and sky, a touch of pink, a +flame of sunset gold that opened the narrow crack through which I +slipped into some strange interior state of happiness. There were +the visits of the beloved, mysterious doctor, too. But the night was +otherwise. The gas I left burning till Boyde woke and turned it out in +the morning, made it impossible to see the stars. I could never settle +down until he was comfortably asleep beside me. He kept late hours +always. I reproached and scolded, yet in the end I always forgave. It +was a comfort to know him within reach of my hand, while at the same +time I dreaded his coming. My mixed feelings had reached that stage--I +feared his coming and yet longed for it. + +I lay waiting, listening for his step. Far below I would hear it, down +in the well of the sleeping house, even on the first flight of stairs. +It mounted, mounted, stealthy, cautious, coming nearer and nearer, but +always at the same steady pace. It never hastened. As it approached, +rising through the stillness of the night, my heart would begin to +beat; I dreaded the moment when our landing would be reached, still +more the actual opening of our door. I listened, smothering my breath, +trying to lessen the loud thumping against my ribs. The steps _might_ +not be his, after all; it might be someone else; that stealthy tread +might pass my door without opening it and go upstairs. Then, when at +last the handle rattled faintly, the door opened, and I saw him slowly +enter, carrying his boots in his hand, my first instinct always was +to--scream. Then he would smile, the eye-glass would drop from his +eye, he would begin his explanations and excuses, and my dread soon +evaporated in the friendliest of intimate talk. + +So well, at last, did I learn to recognize his approach, that I knew +the moment he opened the front door three flights below. The sound of +the handle with its clink of metal, the dull thud as the big thing +closed--I was never once mistaken. In my fitful snatches of sleep these +sounds stole in, shaping my dreams, determining both cause and climax +of incessant nightmares which, drawing upon present things and recent +memories, and invariably including the personality of Boyde, made those +waiting hours a recurrent horror. I would fight in vain to keep awake. +Only when he was safely asleep at my side did the nightmares cease. + +I had once seen Dixon, a Toronto photographer, walk across the Niagara +river, just below the Falls; he used Blondin’s old tight-rope; he lay +down on his back half way over, turned round, knelt, hovered on one +foot, using an immense balancing pole. Thousands watched him from both +shores on a day of baking sunshine; his background was the massive main +waterfall, slowly rolling down and over; below him swirled and boiled +the awful rapids. Dixon now came walking, walking in my dream again. I +could hear his soft tread as his stockinged feet gripped the cable that +swayed slightly as it sagged to the centre half way across. The sound, +the figure came nearer; it came at me; it--was not Dixon after all. +It was Boyde.... Then, as he moved with slow, creeping tread, nearer, +ever nearer, I perceived suddenly that the rope was gone. There was no +rope. He walked on empty air towards me--towards--_me_. I was appalled, +speechless, paralyzed. That figure walking on space, walking towards +me, walking remorselessly nearer was terrible.... The next second the +door opened and Boyde stood peering at me round the edge, his boots in +his hands. + +One morning, tired of learning the “Witch of Islam” by heart, I leaned +over the bed, and something in the waste-paper basket close beside it +caught my eye; a scrap of coloured paper--several scraps--pink. Looking +nearer, I saw it was a torn-up cheque. Without any particular interest +at first I stared at the unfamiliar thing, wondering vaguely how it +came to be there. Only after this casual inspection did it occur to me +as being rather odd. A cheque! What was it? Whose was it? How did it +come to be there, torn up in _my_ waste-paper basket? It was a long +time since I had seen such a thing as a cheque; and idly, with no more +curiosity than this, I lay gazing at the scraps of coloured paper. + +The basket lay within easy reach; I stretched out an arm and picked it +up; I emptied the contents on the white counterpane; I sorted out the +coloured scraps from among the general litter. The scraps were small, +and the puzzle amused me. It was a long business. Bit by bit the cheque +took shape. The word “Toronto” was the first detail that caught my +attention closer. Presently, fitting three tiny scraps together, I saw +to my surprise a name in full--Arthur Glyn Boyde. Another little group +made “Kay.” A third read “Seventy Five Dollars.” My interest increased +with every moment, till at last the complete cheque lay pieced together +before my eyes. + +It was drawn by Kay on my old Toronto bank for the sum mentioned, and +it was payable to Boyde. The date was--three days before. + +I lay and stared at it in blank bewilderment. Fitting the scraps +together on the counterpane was nothing compared to my difficulty in +fitting the pieces together in my mind. I could make neither head nor +tail of it. Kay had, indeed, been acting in Toronto on the date given, +but--a bank account...! And why was the cheque torn up? It must have +been delivered with a letter--yesterday. Boyde had not mentioned it. +I felt as confused as though it were a problem in arithmetic; but a +problem in arithmetic would not have stirred the feeling of pain and +dread that rose in me. Something I had long feared and hated, had +deliberately hidden from myself, had cloaked and draped so that I need +not recognize it, now at last stared me in the face. + +The chief item in the puzzle, however, remained. That it was not +Kay’s real signature, I saw plainly, it was a reasonably good copy; +but why was the cheque torn up? It had been taken from my old book in +the packing-case downstairs, of course; but why was it destroyed? A +forgery! The word terrified me. + +It was while trying to find the meaning that my fingers played with the +rest of the littered paper ... and presently pieced together a letter +in the same writing as the signature; a letter, written from Toronto, +with Islington Jersey Dairy as address, and bearing the same date as +the cheque--a letter from Kay to Boyde. It had been also torn into +little bits. + +“Dear B.,” it ran, “I am awfully sorry to hear poor Blackwood is so +ill still, and that he has no money. I enclose my cheque for $75 to +help him out, but, for God’s sake, see that he doesn’t waste it in +dissipation, as he did the last I sent. I know I can trust you in +this”.... A page and a half of news followed. A postscript came at the +end: “Better not let him know how much I’ve sent. I’ll send another +cheque later if you let me know it’s really needed.” + +With these two documents spread on the counterpane before me, I lay +back thinking, thinking, while an icy feeling spread slowly over +me that for a long time made clear thought impossible. The word +“dissipation” made me smile, but all I knew in those first moments was +an aching, dull emotion, shot through from time to time by stabs of +keenest pain. There was horror too, there was anger, pity ... as, one +by one, recent events dropped the masks I had so deliberately pinned on +them. These thin disguises that too sanguine self-deception had helped +me to lay over a hideousness that hurt and frightened me, fell one by +one. My anger passed; horror and pity remained. I cannot explain it +quite; an intense sorrow, an equally intense desire to help and save, +were in me. Affection, no doubt, was deep and real.... + +At the same time, the shock numbed something in me; the abrupt collapse +of a friendship that meant so much to my loneliness bowled me over. +What exactly had happened I did not know, I could not understand; +treachery, falsity, double-dealing, lies--these were obvious, but the +_modus operandi_ was not clear. Why was the cheque torn up and so +carelessly flung away? There was a mist of confusion over my mind. +I thought over my police court experience, the criminal tricks and +practices I already knew, but these threw no helpful light. Was Kay, +too, involved? Did the warning of a few weeks ago include him as well? +There had been forgery, yet again--why was the cheque torn up? The +mystery of it all increased the growing sense of dread, of fear, of +creeping horror. My newspaper work had given me the general feeling +that everyone had his price ... but between friends in adversity, +Englishmen, gentlemen as well ... was it then true literally of +_everybody_? + +After a time I collected the two documents and pieced them together +again between the pages of a book, lest someone might enter and +discover them. The doctor was not coming that day, but there might be +other visitors. Then it suddenly dawned on me--why hadn’t this occurred +to me before?--that the whole thing must be a joke after all. Of course +... why not? It might even have something to do with the rôle of +understudy in the Sothern Play. It could easily be--oh, surely!--a bit +of stupid fun on Kay’s part. The carelessness too! Throwing the scraps +in the basket under my very nose, where anybody could easily see them, +where Mrs. Bernstein might find them, or the woman who came in twice a +week to do the room. This was certainly against criminal intent. + +The most far-fetched explanations poured through my mind, invited by +hope, dressed up by eager desire, then left hanging in mid-air, with +not the faintest probability to support them. I deliberately recalled +the kind actions, the solicitude, the sharing of receipts, a thousand +favourable details, even to the innocent expression and the frank blue +eyes, only to find these routed utterly by two other details; one +negative, one vague, yet both insistent; the doctor’s silence and the +shadow noticed recently on the sleeping face. + +It was eleven o’clock; Boyde had said he would return about four; I +expected him, for the doctor, whom he avoided, was not coming. There +were five hours of waiting to endure first. + +The situation which another might have tossed aside with a wry laugh at +himself for having been a guileless fool, to me seemed portentous with +pain and horror. + +I had no plan, however, when the door opened at half-past three, long +before I expected it. There was in me no faintest idea of what I +was going to say or do. The book lay on my knee, with the documents +concealed between the pages. I had heard no footstep, the rattle +of the handle was the first sound I caught. Yet the door opened +differently--not quite as Boyde opened it. There was hesitation in +the movement. In that hesitation of a mere second there again flashed +across my mind a sudden happy certainty; the documents could be +explained, it was all a joke somewhere. He had done nothing wrong, he +would clear up the whole thing in a moment! Of course! It was my weak, +feverish condition that had raised a bogey. A few words from him were +now going to destroy it. + +Then, instead of Boyde, I saw Grant standing shyly on the threshold, +the young actor who had pawned his overcoat. This time he wore it. + +The relief I felt at seeing him betrayed me to myself. + +I welcomed him so heartily that his shyness disappeared. He had dropped +in by chance, he told me. I gave him an account of my discovery, and he +bent over me to see the cheque and letter, asking if the writing was +really Kay’s. He looked very grave. + +“It’s not unlike it, but it isn’t his,” I replied. “What do you make of +it? Why are they torn up?” I was burning to hear what he thought. + +He did not answer for a moment. He asked instead a number of questions +about Boyde, listening closely to my account of him, which mentioned +the good with the bad. He went down to examine the packing-case and +returned with the report that my cheque-book was not there. I asked +him again what he made of it all, waiting with nervous anxiety for his +verdict, but again he put me off. He wanted to know when I last heard +from Kay. Eight days ago, I told him, from Toronto. He asked numerous +questions. He seemed as puzzled as I was. + +“What do you think it means?” I begged. “What’s he been doing?” + +“Are you _quite_ positive it’s not Kay’s writing,” he urged, “even, for +instance, if he was--” he hesitated--“a bit tight at the time?” + +I clung to the faint hope. “Well, of course--I really couldn’t say. +I’ve never seen his writing when he was tight. I suppose----” + +“Because if it isn’t,” interrupted Grant decisively, “it means that +Boyde has been getting money from him and using it for himself.” + +I realized then that he was trying to make things less grave than they +really were, trying to make it easier for me in the best way he could. +The torn-up cheque proved his suggestion foolish. + +“Do you think he’s an absolute scoundrel?” I asked point blank, unable +to bear the suspense any longer. “Really a criminal--is he?” + +“I wanted to tell you the other day,” he said quickly. “Only you were +too ill. I thought it would upset you.” + +“Criminal? Tell me at once. He may be in any minute. I must know.” + +“His reputation is bad,” was the reply, “as bad as it could be. I’ve +heard things about him. He’s already been in gaol. He’s supposed to be +a bit dangerous.” + +I was listening for the sound of a step on the stairs. I lowered my +voice a little. It was clear to me that Grant did not want to tell me +all he knew. + +“So--what do you make, then, of this?” I asked in a half whisper, +pointing to the documents. + +He looked at me hard a moment, then gave his reply, also in an +undertone: + +“Practising--I think.” + +I did not understand him. The uncertainty of his meaning, the queer +suggestion in the word he used, gave my imagination a horrid twist. I +asked again, my heart banging against my ribs: + +“Practising--what?” + +“He didn’t think it a successful--copy--so he tore it up,” Grant +explained. + +“You mean--forgery?” + +“I think so. That is--I’m afraid so.” + +I think the universe changed for me in that moment; something I had +been standing on for years collapsed; I was left hanging in space +without a platform, without a rudder. An odd helplessness came over me. +Grant, of course, had only confirmed my own suspicions, had merely put +into words what, actually, I had known for a long time; but it was just +this hearing the verdict spoken by another that hurt so abominably. +Grant had quietly torn off me the last veil of self-deception. I could +no longer pretend to myself. It seems absurdly out of proportion now on +looking back; at the time the shock was appalling. + +We talked together, we tried to devise some plan of action, we reached +no settled conclusion. The minutes passed. I never ceased listening for +the familiar footstep on the stairs. Of one thing only was I perfectly +sure: whatever happened, I intended to take charge of it all myself. +I would deal with Boyde in my own way. The principle lay clear and +decided in me; I meant to frighten Boyde as severely as I possibly +could, then to give him another chance. Anticipation made the minutes +crawl. Grant talked a good deal. + +“He spotted you and Kay from the start,” I heard Grant saying. “He saw +your ignorance of the town, your inexperience, your generosity. He felt +sure of free lodging anyhow, perhaps a good deal more----” + +A faint thud sounded from downstairs. + +“There he is,” I said instantly. “That’s the front door banging. He’s +coming. Keep quiet.” + +I told Grant to get into the cupboard and hide. He was only just +concealed in the deep cupboard and the door drawn to, when the other +door opened quietly and Boyde came in. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +Boyde was in cheerful, smiling mood. He put some grapes on the bed, +asked how I felt, and told me about his trip to Patterson and his +failure to get the organist job. “It’s bitterly cold,” he said. “I +_was_ glad of your overcoat. You _have_ been a brick,” he added, “but +I’ll make it all up to you when my luck turns.” He crossed over to the +sofa and sat down, stretching himself, obviously tired out. + +“Never mind, old chap; we shall get along somehow. Probably Kay will +send us something more before long. He’s always faithful. Let’s see,” I +went on casually, “when was it we heard from him last?” + +“A week ago,” said Boyde quite naturally. “Toronto, wasn’t it? Or +Buffalo--no, no, Toronto.” + +We laughed together. “So it was,” I agreed carelessly. Then I pretended +to hesitate. “But that was nearly a fortnight ago,” I suddenly +corrected my memory; “surely we’ve heard since that. Only the other +day--or did I dream it?” + +Boyde stared at me lazily through the cigarette smoke. “No, I think +not,” he said quietly. “There was only the one letter.” He showed no +sign of disturbance. + +I lay still, pretending to think back a bit, then heaved myself slowly +up in bed. + +“But, Boyde, I remember the letter,” I exclaimed with conviction, +staring into his face, “I’m certain I do--another letter. Why, of +course! I remember your showing it to me. There was a cheque in it--a +cheque for seventy-five dollars!” + +His easy laugh, his voice and manner, the perfect naturalness of his +reply made me feel sure that I was in the wrong. He knew absolutely +nothing of the cheque and letter. He was innocent. It was not _his_ +doing, at any rate. + +“You must have been dreaming,” he said, looking me full in the face +with his big, honest blue eyes. “It’s too good to be true.” He gave +a wry little chuckle that only a clear conscience could have made +possible. + +I lay back in bed and laughed with him, partly from weakness, partly +to hide my shaking, which I was terrified he would notice. I changed +the subject a moment later, as he said nothing more; then, still acting +on impulse and with no preconceived plan or idea of my next move, I +sat bolt upright in bed and fixed him with my eyes. I assumed a very +convinced and serious tone. I felt serious and convinced. The mood of +horror had rushed suddenly up in me: + +“Boyde, I remember it all now.” I spoke with great emphasis. “It was +not a dream at all. You came to this bedside and showed me the letter. +You held it out for me to read. It was dated from my old Toronto Dairy +three days ago. _You showed me the cheque too._ It was for seventy-five +dollars, signed by Kay, and made out to your order. I remember every +single detail of it suddenly. And--_so do you_.” + +He gazed at me as a little child might gaze. He made no movement. His +eyes neither dropped nor flinched. He merely gazed--with a puzzled, +innocent, guileless stare. A pained expression then stole across his +face. + +“Blackwood, what on earth do you mean? It’s not likely I should forget +it if seventy-five dollars came, is it?” he went on quickly in his +most sympathetic voice, an aggrieved note in it that stirred all my +affection instantly. “The most he has sent so far is ten dollars. I +should have given you the money at once. And _you know it_, Blackwood.” +He got up and walked quietly to and fro. + +It was the way he uttered those last four words that sent ice down my +spine and brought the mood of horror back. Why this was so, I cannot +explain. Perhaps the phrase rang false; perhaps its over-emphasis +failed. I only know that my hesitation vanished. That prepared plan so +strangely matured, yet hidden so deeply that it emerged only step by +step as it was needed, pushed up another move into my upper mind. + +I got slowly out of bed. Perspiration broke out all over me. I felt +very weak. The wound stretched. Straight before me, a long way off it +seemed, was the sofa. Boyde stood watching my every move. He stood like +a statue. + +Before I had taken a couple of slow, small steps, crawling round the +edge of the bed, he did two quick things that in a flash brought final +conviction to me, so that I knew beyond any doubt the hideous thing +was true: he moved suddenly across the room, passing in front of me, +though not near enough to touch; three rapid strides and he was against +the window--with his back to the light. It was dusk. He wished to +conceal his face from me. His left arm hung at his side, the hand on a +level with the dressing-table, and I saw his fingers feeling along its +surface, though his eyes never left my own. I saw them find, then grip, +the white-handled razor, and pull it slowly towards him. These were +the two things that betrayed him, but chiefly, I think, the first of +them--concealing his face. + +At the same instant there was a faint sound on my left. I had +completely forgotten the existence of my visitor; I now remembered him, +for that sound came from inside the cupboard, and Grant, evidently, +was ready to leap out. But I did not want Grant. I intended the whole +matter to be between Boyde and myself. A flash of understanding had +given me complete assurance. Boyde, I now knew, was a coward, a +sneak, a cheat, a liar, and worse besides. In spite of my physical +weakness I had the upper hand. I was about to give him the fright of +his life, though still with no clear idea exactly how this was to +be accomplished. All I knew was that I meant to terrify him, then +forgive--and save him from himself. + +“Not yet!” I called out, yet so quickly, and with so little apparent +meaning, that Boyde, I think, hardly heard me, and certainly did not +understand. Grant, however, understood. He told me later it was just in +time to prevent his coming out. + +With one hand supporting me on the edge of the dressing-table, I was +now close to Boyde, bent double in front of him, staring up into his +eyes. + +“Give me that razor,” I said, and he obeyed, as I felt sure he would. +That is, his fingers moved away from it, and I quickly pushed it out of +his reach. With my other hand I seized his arm. I raised my face to his +as much as my wound allowed. + +“Boyde,” I said, “I know _everything_!” + +If I expected a collapse, as I think was the case, I was disappointed. +Nothing happened. He did not move. Not a muscle, not even an eyelash +flickered. He stared down into my upturned face without a word, waiting +for what was coming; control of the features, of mouth and eyes in +particular, was absolute. And it was this silence, this calm assurance, +giving me no help, even making it more difficult for me, that, I think, +combined to set me going. I was fairly wound up; I saw red. The words +poured out, hot, bitter, scathing. + +The moment I ended, he smiled, as he said very quietly: + +“I don’t know _what_ you’re talking about. You are fearfully excited +and you will regret your words. I do wish you would get back into bed. +All this is awfully bad for you in your weak condition.” + +I was flabbergasted. All the wind had been taken from my sails. A touch +would have sent me to the floor, but he did not touch me. He merely +gazed into my face with an air of calm patience that had pity in it, a +hint even of contempt. + +There was a little silence after he had spoken. For a moment I had no +notion what to do or say. Then, quite suddenly, up flashed my plan. I +was less excited now, my voice was well under control. + +“Boyde,” I said, “now, at last, I’ve caught you in a worse thing still. +You have forged a letter and a signature. You have forged a cheque as +well. And you will have to go to prison for it. There is a headquarters +detective outside waiting for me to call him in. You are going to be +arrested.” + +There was a moment of taut suspense I can never forget. He stared down +at me, obviously at first incredulous. A slight twitch ran across his +face, nothing more; beyond a trifling extra bend of the head, he made +no movement. He was judging me, weighing my words, wondering if they +were true. The next second I saw that he believed me. + +What happened then to his face I had never seen before, though I +was often to see it afterwards in other faces during my criminal +experience. The skin slowly blanched to the hue of flour; the cheeks +sagged; the mouth opened; the look in his eyes was dreadful. The whole +face disintegrated, as it were. He had the air of a hunted animal at +bay. At the same time there was a convulsive movement of his entire +body that frightened me. I did not know what he was going to do. It +was really made up of several movements, one starting after another. +First, his knees gave way and he nearly collapsed. Then, evidently, he +considered the possibility of knocking me down and dashing out of the +room. His eyes ran swiftly over everything at once, it seemed, noticing +the razor certainly, but finding me awkwardly between him and the end +of the table where it lay. He half turned in the direction of the +window behind him, thinking doubtless of escape by the leads outside. +He gave finally a sort of lurch towards me, but this I did not actually +see, for I had turned away and was crawling painfully over to the door. +It was Grant who supplied this detail of description later. His idea, +probably, was to knock me down and make a bolt for it. But, whatever it +was he really intended to do, in the end he did nothing, for at this +second Grant emerged suddenly from his cupboard. + +I was already leaning with my back against the door and caught the +look of terror and blank amazement that came into Boyde’s face, as he +saw another man whom he certainly took at first for the detective. +He stood stock still like a petrified figure. A moment later he +recognized him as the Englishman he had met at the cricket match. He +subsided backwards, half on to the window-sill and half against the +dressing-table. The drama of the scene suddenly occurred to me for +the first time, as I watched Grant walk over and put the razor in his +pocket, and then sit down quietly on the sofa. He spoke no single word. +He merely sat and watched. + +With my back against the door I then went on talking quickly. Yet +behind my anger and disgust, I felt the old pity surge up; already I +was sorry for him; I would presently forgive him. But, first, there was +something else to be done. The plan lay quite clear in my mind. + +Closely watched by Grant and myself, Boyde had meanwhile moved out into +the room, still without speaking a single word, and flung himself on +the bed where he began to cry like a child. He sobbed convulsively, +though whether the tears were of sorrow or of fear, I could not tell. +We watched him for some time in silence. It was some minutes later that +he sat up, still shaking with sobs, and tried to speak. In an utterly +broken voice he begged for mercy, not for himself--he swore he didn’t +“care a damn” about his “worthless self”--but for his mother’s sake. +It would break her heart, if she heard about it; it would kill her. He +implored me for another chance. His flow of words never ceased. If I +would let him off this time, he begged, he would do anything I wished, +anything, anything in the world. He would leave New York, he would go +home and enlist ... but forgery meant years in gaol. “I am only thirty, +and the sentence would mean the end of my life....” + +Perhaps instinct warned me he was lying, perhaps he over-acted, I +cannot say; but the entire scene, the sobs, the impassioned language, +the anguish in the broken voice, the ruin of the face I had once +thought innocent, all left me without emotion. I was exhausted too. I +had witnessed similar scenes between detectives and their prisoners, +the former not only unmoved, but bored and even angry. I understood now +how they felt. But there was the balance of my plan to be carried out; +my original principle had never wavered; I believed the terror he had +felt would make him run straight in future; the moment had now come, I +thought, to tell him he was forgiven. So I left the door--he screamed, +thinking I was going to open it--and crawled slowly over to him. +Putting my hand on his shoulder, and using the gentlest, kindest voice +I could find, I told him he should have another chance, but only one. +All excitement had died out of me, I felt real pity, the old affection +rose, I urged and begged him to “run straight” from this moment.... + +“But--there is a condition,” I finished my sermon. + +“Anything, Blackwood. I’ll do anything you say.” The tears were still +hanging on his cheeks. + +“You will sit down and write what I dictate.” + +We found a sheet of foolscap, and he sat down at the little desk, +while I stood over him and dictated the words of a full confession. In +writing it, Boyde’s hand was as steady as that of a clerk making an +unimportant entry in an office book. He came to the end and looked up +at me enquiringly. + +“Now write a duplicate,” I said, “in your other handwriting, the one +you meant to be a copy of Kay’s.” + +He did this too; to an inexperienced eye the difference was +extraordinary. I asked Grant to witness it with me, and when this was +finished I waved the document in the other’s face. “I shall keep this,” +I told him gravely, “and if ever you go wrong again, it will mean +twenty years in prison.” I do not think he knew what I knew at that +moment; _viz._ that a confession signed “under duress” was not evidence +in a court of law. He said very simply, gazing into my eyes: “You’ve +saved my life, Blackwood. I shall never forget this day. My temptations +have been awful, but from this moment I mean to run straight, perfectly +straight.” Words of gratitude followed in a flood. He shook my hand, +begging to be allowed to help me back into bed. + +“I must first tell the detective I’ve withdrawn the charge,” I said. +“I must send him away. He doesn’t know your name.” Boyde thanked me +volubly again, as I crawled to the door, closed it again, and stood in +the cold passage a minute or two. “The man’s gone,” I said, when I came +back. + +“When--when am I to leave this room?” he asked quietly. I told him he +could stay. The matter was forgiven and forgotten. He began to cry +again.... + +For some time after Grant had gone, we were alone. Boyde talked a +little, repeating his gratitude. I asked him one question only: had +he been in gaol before? “I would rather not answer that, if you don’t +mind,” he said. I did not press him, for he had answered it. “I shall +never, never go wrong again,” he kept repeating. And all the time he +talked--I learned this later--there lay in his coat pocket, that was my +coat pocket, the sum of ten dollars which belonged to me. He had sold +two of my translations to McCloy, telling me McCloy had refused them. + +I have a vague recollection of that evening and of our talk, for +complete exhaustion had come over me from the moment I got back into +bed. It was not unconsciousness, but probably half unconsciousness. I +was only dimly aware of what was going on. I remember Boyde going out +to eat something at Krisch’s, then coming back. I woke in darkness with +a sudden start. The gas was out, and I wondered why. There was a noise +close beside me--something swishing. My mind cleared in a flash. + +“Put it back, Boyde,” I called out. “Put it back at once.” + +A thin summer coat hung on the door, too thin and shabby to wear, too +ragged to pawn. I had placed the confession in the inside pocket, and +it was this coat I now heard swishing faintly against the wood. + +No answer came, but I plainly heard the soft tread of bare feet along +the carpet. I got up and lit the gas. Boyde lay apparently sleeping +soundly on the floor. I noticed how well-nourished his body looked. +_He_, at any rate, had not been starving. Then I moved to the door, +found the confession, took it out, and crawled back into bed. From that +moment the paper never left me; it was with me when later the doctor +allowed me out, and at night it lay under my pillow while I slept. I +kept the torn scraps of the cheque and letter with it, and I hid the +razor. Boyde never shaved himself in that room again. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +The episode, though far from being finished, had a shattering effect +upon me. If a friend, so close to me by ties of affection and +gratitude, could act like this, how would others, less intimately +related, behave? My trust in people was killed. A sense of deep +loneliness was added to the other miseries of that bed. + +Only my books comforted and helped ... they did not fail ... their +teachings stood stiff and firm like a steel rod that never bent or +shifted, much less broke. Since these notes tell merely the superficial +episodes of my early years, further mention of what the books meant to +me is unnecessary; enough--more than enough, probably--has already been +told to show the background which explains motive and conduct. The main +stream of my life, at any rate, ran deeper and ever deeper, its centre +of gravity far below anything that could possibly come to me in the +ordinary world or outward happenings. Big dreams were in me at white +heat, burning, burning ... and all external events were coloured by +them. + +There followed now a more peaceful though short period, during which +Boyde behaved well, with kindness and signs of true penitence. Grant +warned me this was acting, and that I had been a fool to forgive and +let him stay on, but I would not listen, and followed my own principle. +I did not trust him, but never let him know it, showing him full +confidence, with all the former intimacy and affection. I felt sure +this was the right and only way. His attitude to me had something of a +dog’s devotion in it. I fully believed he was “running straight” again. +I watched him closely, while hiding suspicion carefully away. + +November drew to a close; Kay sent no more money; the debt to Mrs. +Bernstein grew; income became smaller and smaller. I wrote to McCloy, +who replied with a brief word that I could come back when I was well +again. + +Before leaving my bed, however, at the end of the month, another +incident occurred that shocked me far more than the first. + +One afternoon about a week after the confession, there came a knock +at the door, and to my complete surprise, in walked a banker, who had +often stayed in our house in England. I was startled and annoyed, for +I feared he would write home and tell the truth that my letters so +carefully concealed. It was a couple of years since I had seen him. How +had he found me out? His first sentence told me: “But this is dreadful. +I knew nothing about your being ill. I didn’t know you were in New York +even. An Englishman named Boyde came to my office yesterday and told +me.” He looked me over with anxiety. “But your bones are showing! Have +you been very bad? Why on earth didn’t you let me know, my dear fellow?” + +I had spoken of this acquaintance in Boyde’s presence, and he had +evidently made a note of name and address. I explained quickly that +I had not been seriously ill, that I was nearly well and had a good +doctor, and that I was on the staff of the _Evening Sun_ and doing +well. I told him briefly about my Canadian career as well. The banker +was a very decent fellow. His visit was brief, but he was very kind, +well-meaning and sympathetic--only--I did not want him! He promised, +anyhow, he would not write to my father--was glad, I think, to be +relieved of the necessity--and before going he absolutely insisted +on leaving some money with me. I refused and refused again. But my +own exhaustion and his persistence resulted in his leaving all he had +on him at the moment--$32. Months later I discovered that Boyde had +obtained other sums from him on the plea that I needed a specialist, +and there may have been yet further amounts of similar kind for all I +knew. + +On coming in, Boyde took his scolding with a smile; he had “acted for +the best....” We discussed how the money should be spent, agreeing +upon $10 to Mrs. Bernstein, $10 to the doctor next day, $3 to redeem +Kay’s overcoat, which we would send to him, and the balance in hand, +after laying in a store of dried apples, oatmeal and condensed milk, as +our supplies were now exhausted. Next morning, when he left at eight +o’clock for a studio appointment and choir rehearsal, I gave him the +money for the landlady and a dollar he asked for himself. The balance +he put back in the drawer of the little desk beside my bed. + +It was a happier morning than I had known for long; the feeling that +I had something to give to the doctor made the hours pass quickly, +and when he arrived at three, in his very best mood, he was obviously +pleased on hearing that I could easily spare $10. The relief was +written on his beaming face. He thanked me warmly. “I do really need +it,” he said with emphasis, “or I couldn’t take it from you.” We passed +a delightful hour or two; I was strong enough to play the fiddle to +him; we talked ... the happiest afternoon I had yet known in that room +came to an end; he prepared to go. Pointing to the drawer, I asked him +to take the money out. He did so. At least he opened the drawer. He +opened all four drawers. The money was not there. + +The most painful part of it, I think, was the look on his face as he +presently went out. He did not believe me. I had found it impossible +to mention Boyde. I had been speechless. I had no explanation to give. +By the expression on the old German’s face as he left the room I could +see he thought I was lying to him. His disappointment in me was greater +than his disappointment over the money. It was a bitter moment--even +more bitter than the further treachery of my companion.... + +I was alone with my thoughts and feelings. I was alone for four +days--and four nights. Boyde, that is, did not return till four +days had passed, while the doctor stayed away three days. Whether +either of them had said anything to Mrs. Bernstein on their way out, +Boyde promising payment perhaps, the doctor letting fall something +derogatory, I did not know. Mrs. Bernstein, anyhow, was very +unpleasant during those four awful days. Boyde had not even given her +the $10. She paid me dreadful visits, she threatened to sell my things +(what? I wondered), to turn me out; she sent up hardly any food.... + +Waiting for Boyde’s step, listening all day, all night ... I needed my +books, my dreams, my inner crack, as I had never needed them before +during those horrible four days. They seemed an eternity. The long +nights, of course, were by far the worse; the dreams, the expectancy, +for ever anticipating the familiar tread of stockinged feet on the +stairs, wondering what in the world had happened, how things would +end.... Had he been arrested, perhaps for something terrible? They were +haunted nights that made me dread the first sign of coming dusk. It +seemed like weeks, an incalculable time altogether had passed since I +had seen him.... Then the spider took the place of the other vermin. +I have always particularly disliked spiders, and this one was the +father of them all; though it was the horror of him, not the physical +presence, that haunted my nights so persistently. He was, I am sure, +the Spider Idea. He originated in a room in Toronto, where a friend +foolishly let his prototype, a tarantula, escape, and where it hid all +night. It was my room. He came from Florida with a case of bananas. He +was very big, if sluggish, his swollen body and hairy black legs the +nastiest I had ever seen. I spent the night with this monster on the +loose, and the first thing in the morning I saw him, low down on the +wall, quite close to me. He had crept for warmth to a pipe near the hot +air register. + +This spider now came at me, stirred into life by the chance activity +of some memory cell. He came crawling across the leads, dragging his +bulging body slowly, then feeling over the smooth glass with his legs +that were like black brushes a chimney sweep might use. Up the stairs +he came too, but sideways there, being too large to move in his usual +way; first three legs on one side, then three legs on the other, +heaving himself along, the mass of his body between them sloping like +a boat at sea. The fat body was derived, I’m sure, from the shock +of noticing Boyde’s well-fed appearance.... There were other things +besides the spider, the mind, doubtless, being a little overwrought. + +One of these “other things” was real--a yellow-haired woman who aired +what the papers called her “shapely legs” in silk tights for a living. +Pauline M---- was her name, and she was leading lady in the “Night Owls +Company,” then playing at Tony Pastor’s Music Hall in 14th Street, +or, perhaps, it was at Koster and Biel’s Hall further up town. I have +forgotten. In any case, Boyde had mentioned the Company to me in some +connexion or other. He knew her. + +Her visit to me has always seemed vague and hazy; shrouded in mist +of some kind, the mist of my suffering mind, I imagine. There lies a +feverish touch of fantasy all over it. It was on the evening of the +second day since Boyde had disappeared, though I could have sworn that +at least a week’s loneliness had intervened. It _was_ the second day, +I know, because the doctor came on the fourth. During the afternoon +an unintelligible telegram had come, sent from a Broadway office: +“_Don’t be anxious--have surprising news for you--no drinking--home +this afternoon.----B._” There was not much comfort in it, though at +least I knew then he had not been arrested, but an hour or so later a +second telegram had arrived, sent from an office above 42nd Street: +“_Married Pauline this afternoon.----B._” It all mystified, confused +and troubled me extremely, and the strain on nerves and emotions had +been so prolonged that, I think, I was half stupefied with it all, half +stupid certainly. + +At any rate, the visit always seemed a sort of unreal visit, veiled +as it were, and shadowy. Two thoughts were in my mind when the knock +sounded on the door: food and Boyde. I was always listening intently +for his tread, but I was also listening for Mrs. Bernstein’s footstep +with a possible tray. It was after six o’clock; since coffee and bread +at 8.30 in the morning I had eaten nothing, for our own supplies +were finished. Instead of Boyde or the tray, however, in walked the +woman with yellow hair and statuesque figure. She wore furs, she was +over-dressed and painted, she reeked of scent. To me it was a kind of +nightmare vision. + +Details of her long visit I remember but very few. She at once +announced herself--“I am Pauline M----” and asked excitedly, “Are +you Blackwood?” She was in a “state.” Her great figure filled the +little room. She poured out a torrent of words in a cockney voice. +Her face was flaming red beneath the paint. Occasionally she swept +about. The name of Boyde recurred frequently. She was attacking me, +I gathered. Boyde had said this and that about me. I understood less +than nothing. I remember asking her to sit down, and that she refused, +and that presently I asked something else: “Has he married you?” and +that she suddenly caught sight of the telegrams lying on my bed--I had +pointed--then picked them up and read them. She came closer to me while +she did this, so that I caught the stink of spirits. + +It was all very muddled and confused to me, and I made no attempt to +talk. I heard her begging me to “give him back” to her, that she loved +him, that I had “poisoned his mind” against her--threats and beseeching +oddly mingled. But the telegrams seemed to sober her a little, for I +remember her becoming abruptly more quiet, almost maudlin, and pouring +out an endless story about Boyde who was, apparently, “full of money +... full of liquor” ... and full of anger against me because _he_ had +been “supporting” me and I had shown “base ingratitude.”... I was too +bewildered to feel much. It numbed me. I couldn’t make sense of it. +I couldn’t realize how Boyde had deliberately left me alone so long. +Something monstrous and inhuman touched it all. + +She went away eventually in a calmer state, though leaving me in +a condition that was far from calm. She went, begging me to “send +him back” to her when he came home, but half realizing, I gathered, +that the boot was on the other leg, so far as Boyde and myself were +concerned. She was still angry with me in a vague unjust sort of way, +not knowing whom to believe probably, nor exactly what had happened. +She flounced out of the room in a whirl of excitement and cockney +sentences, and I never saw her again. My tray arrived within a few +minutes of her welcome departure.... I spent an appalling night. Boyde, +the yellow-haired woman, Mrs. Bernstein, the old German, the spider, +steps on the stairs a hundred times that came to nothing.... I wished +once or twice that I were dead.... The door did not open.... + +It never rains but it pours. Two days later the doctor came in the +afternoon, in the blackest mood I had yet encountered. I rather +expected his visit, and though dreading it, I also longed for it, +longed to see someone--a human being. He came sharp at three, attended +to me, and left again. The visit lasted perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, +and during the whole time he spoke no single word, not even greeting +me when he entered, or saying good-bye when he went out. His face was +black, aged, terrible in the suffering it wore. I had meant to tell +him at last about Boyde, unable any longer to keep it to myself. I +simply _must_ tell someone. But not a syllable could I get out. When +the old German had gone, however, I felt sure it was his own mysterious +suffering, and not any feeling against myself, that caused his strange +behaviour. I knew, too, that he would come again, and thus I got some +comfort from his silent, rapid visit. This was on the fourth day since +Boyde deserted; it was the day on which he came back. + +He came back; his money had given out; he had nowhere to sleep. + +It was night, somewhere about ten o’clock. I was falling into an uneasy +doze, the kind of doze that introduced the spider, when the door opened +softly. There was no knock. I had heard no footstep. The door just +opened and he came in. + +Every nerve in me became alert. Truth to tell, there was no emotion +in me of any sort or kind. I was numb, exhausted to the bone. I lay +still and stared at him. He looked sleek and even prosperous. He looked +gorged with food. His face was a little swollen. The big blue eyes were +clear. He let the eyeglass fall, gazing at me, while a smile broke over +his face. I was so glad to see him, so relieved to have him back, that, +though no emotion beyond that of suspense ended was in me, I felt, as +once before with the doctor, a lump rise in my throat. His bloated +expression distressed me vaguely. At first he said nothing, but walked +across the room on tiptoe, as though pretending I was asleep and he +feared to wake me. + +My tongue loosened suddenly. The very words I have not forgotten. A +matter that had not lain in my mind for days came uppermost: + +“Did you send off the overcoat to Kay?” + +He nodded, but without looking at me. It was a lie, I knew. My eyes +followed him round, as he began to undress. For several minutes I said +nothing. Then other words came to me: + +“I’ve been alone four days and nights.” + +Silence. + +“Without food--or anybody.” + +Silence, but he turned his back to me. + +“Without money.” + +Silence. He stood quite motionless. + +“I might have died. I might have gone crazy.” + +Silence. + +“It’s been awful--the loneliness and wondering----” + +He half turned, but instantly turned back again. No sound escaped him. + +“I’ve been thinking about you--and wondering day and night. Are you +really married? Pauline’s been here--this afternoon.” + +His silence was broken by a sort of gulp, and he bent over. My mistake +about the date of the woman’s visit was intentional--I thought it might +open his lips; I did not correct it. He half turned to look at me, but +again instantly hid his face as before. Then he abruptly sat down on +the sofa, leaning against the back, his head in his hands. I raised +myself in bed, never taking my eyes off him. + +“I got your telegrams. Have you nothing to say? No explanation? Have +you brought any food, any money? You have had money--all this time.” + +Silence, broken only by another gulp. + +“I saw you take the money out of the drawer. I said nothing because I +thought you were going to get me things. I _trusted_ you.” + +He turned all at once and faced me, though keeping his eyes always +steadily on the floor. The tears were streaming down his face like rain. + +“Are you tired?” I asked. “You’d better lie down and go to sleep. You +can talk to-morrow.” + +It was this that finished him. He had reached the breaking point. + +There is no heroism in me; it was simply that I needed him, rotten as +he was, heartless, cruel, vile as well; I funked another spell of that +awful loneliness; I knew him now for a coward and a beast, but I could +not face another night alone. That complete loneliness had been too +horrible. A wild animal was better than that. Boyde was of the hyena +type, but a hyena was better than a spider. It was neither generosity +nor nobility that made me listen to his ridiculous and lying story of +an “awful and terrible temptation,” of a “fearful experience with a +woman” who had drugged him.... The tale spun itself far into the night, +the razor and the confession were under my pillow, I fell asleep, dead +with exhaustion, while he was still explaining something about a “woman +named Pauline M----” who had “deceived me in a most extraordinary +way....” + +The following day, in the morning--Dr. Huebner came unexpectedly. Boyde +had gone out before I woke. This time he was a radiant Dr. Jekyll, and +I told him the whole story. His only comment, looking severely at me +through the big spectacles, was: “I expected it. He is a confidence +man. I knew it the first time I saw him. You have kicked the devil out, +of course?” + +A violent disagreement that was almost a quarrel followed. + +“I simply do not understand you,” he said at last, in complete disgust. +It was only the wondrous, beaming happy mood he was in that prevented +his being really angry. He threw his hands up and snorted. “You are +either a fool or a saint, and--I’m sure you’re not a saint.” He was +very much upset. + +I did not yield. There was something in me that persuaded me to forgive +Boyde and to give him yet another chance. I told Boyde this in very +plain language. I claim no credit--I have never felt the smallest +credit--for what I did. It was simply that somehow it seemed impossible +_not_ to forgive him--anything. But the time was near, though the +feeling of forgiveness still held true in me, when my forgiveness took +another form. Thirty years ago these little incidents occurred. It +seems like thirty days. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +It is a mercy one cannot see the future. In that New York misery, +present and to follow, had I known that some fifteen years later I +should be my own master, living more or less “like a gentleman,” +earning my livelihood, though a very bare one, by writing, I could +never have faced what I did face. Any value that may have lain in the +experiences would certainly have been missed, at any rate. If one +knew that the future promised better things, there is no patience in +human beings that could hold and wait for it; if, on the other hand, +it promised worse, I have met no courage that could bear the present. +Those who preach “live in the present only” have common sense on their +side. + +With the memory of the past, similarly, such folk show wisdom. +Reincarnation is an interesting theory to many; yet to recall past +lives could have but one effect--to render one ineffective now. To +recall the failures of a mere forty years is bad enough; to look back +over a hundred lives would be disastrous: one could only sit down and +cry. + +December had come with its cold and bitter winds, and the doctor, ever +faithful, had let me up. I went for my first little walk, leaning +on Boyde’s arm. Round Gramercy Park we crawled slowly, and that +first taste of fresh air, the sound of wind in the leafless trees, +a faint hint of the sea that reaches even the city streets, gave me +an unforgettable happiness and yearning. The plan to settle in the +backwoods again obsessed me. A little later I had almost persuaded +the doctor, and Kay in my letters, to take up a claim north of the +Muskoka Lakes where we had spent such a happy summer. Boyde was to come +too--“as a sort of excitement, I suppose!” was the doctor’s bitter +comment. + +I grew gradually stronger. Reporting was still impossible, but, +introduced by Boyde, I earned something by posing in the studios. A +“sitting” was three hours. Some artists paid by the hour, but Charles +Dana Gibson, then drawing his weekly cartoons in _Life_, always paid +for a full sitting, though he might use his model for an hour only. +He was a rapid worker, and a good fellow; he never forgot to ask +if one was tired of any particular attitude; my first pose to him +was for a broken-down actor leaning against a hoarding covered with +advertisements, the joke being something about a bill-board and a +board-bill. I was thrilled when it appeared in _Life_. There was always +a great rush among the models for Gibson’s studio. The only other poses +I remember are swinging a golf club and sitting for a bishop’s arms and +hands. I wore big sleeves. These, however, were not in Gibson’s studio. + +My memory of this work is dim; it was not unpleasant; only its +uncertainty against it, though a good week might bring in as much as +fifteen dollars. Smedley, who illustrated for _Harper’s Magazine_, was +the painter we all disliked most; Cox, son of Bishop Cox, Cleveland +Cox being his full name, I think, was a favourite: he was a gentleman. +There was Zogbaum too, another illustrator, and there was Lynwood +Palmer, the horse-painter, and leading artist on _The Rider and +Driver_, a first-class weekly of that day. “Artist Palmer,” as the +papers called him later, was a character. His kindness to me stands +out. He had very great talent--for getting the likeness of a horse. +We called him “The Horse.” He made a success at his work, painted +the “King’s Horses and Men” in subsequent years, and settled down +eventually--he was an Englishman--I believe, at Heston, Hounslow. His +New York studio was in Fifth Avenue. Many a time he gave me food there. + +“Artist Palmer” was self-taught. I forget the whole story, but he +had known his hard times. Looking at my dirty boots the first time I +called, he said: “When I drove a cab here, my boots were better cleaned +than any man’s on the rank.” I was not partial to Dr. Smiles’ “Self +Help.” A “shine” moreover, cost 5 cents, and 5 cents meant a glass of +beer and a meal at a free lunch counter--our invariable lunch at that +time. + +Artist Palmer knew Boyde as a bad lot, and told me that Boyde was lying +about me behind my back everywhere, saying that he was supporting me, +paying for my illness, and while borrowing money in my name, explaining +that I spent all he gave me in dissipation! His method was to present a +forged cheque to some good-natured friend after banking hours, obtain +the money, and spend it on himself. A tale of woe, with crocodile +tears, saved him from subsequent arrest. No one ever prosecuted him. + +All this I kept to myself, though I watched Boyde more and more +closely. I knew his studio appointments and made him hand over what +he earned. I did also an idiotic thing: I went down and warned the +pastor’s daughter about him. Palmer’s words and my own feeling +persuaded me to this fatal action. She was a beautiful girl. I received +from her the same kind of treatment that I had shown to the man who +first warned me. Boyde, of course, soon knew about it. We had a scene. +I saw for the first time anger in his face, black hatred too. He never +forgave me my stupid indiscretion.... The way he explained my action to +the girl herself was characteristic of him, but I only learned later +how he managed it. In a voluntary confession he wrote a few weeks +afterwards, a confession he judged might convince me he was genuinely +repentant, and at the same time save him from a grave impending fate, +he described it--honestly: “I told her,” he said, “she was to pay no +attention to your warnings, because you wanted me to marry one of your +sisters.” + +The way I lost Boyde temporarily comes a little later in his story, +but may be told here because it marked the close of a definite little +chapter in his career with me. + +It was the first week in December. I came home--from the doctor’s +house--at two in the morning. The gas was burning, but the room was not +too well lit by the single burner. Boyde lay asleep on the floor as +usual. I moved softly so as not to wake him. I glanced down. What I saw +startled me; more, it gave me a horrid turn. The figure on the mattress +was another man. It was not Boyde. Then, as I cautiously looked closer, +I discovered my mistake. It _was_ Boyde after all, but without his +moustache. + +I stared for some minutes in amazement, for the face was completely +altered. The drooping, rather heavy moustache had always hidden his +lips and mouth. I now saw that mouth. And it was a cruel, brutal mouth, +hard, sensual, with ugly thickish lips, contradicting the kindly +blue eyes completely. A sentence of detective-sergeant Heidelberg, a +headquarters man, came back to me, himself a brutal, heartless type, if +ever there was one, but with years of criminal experience behind him: +“Watch the mouth and hands and feet,” he told me once in court. “They +can fake the eyes dead easy, but they can’t fake the mouth hell give +’em. They forgit their hands and feet. Watch their mouth and hands and +feet--the way these fidgit. That give ’em away every time.” + +Why had Boyde done this thing? He was a handsome man, the light +graceful moustache was a distinct asset in his appearance. Why had he +shaved suddenly? I stared at the new horrid face for a long time. He +lay sleeping like a child. + +I turned to examine the room, as changes might be there too. All seemed +as usual, I saw no difference anywhere. Then my eyes fell on the +cupboard with its half-opened door. Boyde’s coat, that was my own coat, +the only thick one we had between us, hung down from the hook. And, for +the first time, the sight of that coat stirred a dim, painful memory +of the place where I had first worn it. Naturally it was old, but it +was also English. The house in Kent rose up--the lime trees on the +lawn, the tennis courts, my father’s study, his face, my mother’s face, +their voices even, the very smell and atmosphere and feelings of happy +days that now seemed for ever lost. The whole machinery of association +worked suddenly at full pressure. It was like a blow. I realized +vividly the awful gap between those days and these, between myself as I +had been and as I was. A whiff of perfume, a smell, produces this kind +of evocation in most cases; with me, just then, it was my old English +coat. + +I remember the strong emotion in me, and that, while still held and +gripped by it, my eye caught sight of an envelope sticking out of +the inside breast pocket. The coat hung by chance in a way that made +it visible. It might easily fall out altogether. I moved over and +stretched out a hand to put it safely back and then saw that the +writing on the envelope was my own. It was a letter. I took it out. The +address was the house in Kent, whose atmosphere still hung about my +thoughts. The name was my mother’s name. There were other letters, all +my own; one to my father; two to my brother, the one being in the world +I really loved, the only one of the family to whom I had given vague +hints of the real state of affairs. + +Some of the letters were two weeks, three weeks old. In each case the +five-cent stamp had been torn off. Five cents meant a glass of lager +and a meal at a free lunch counter. + +There was no reflection. Holding the letters in my hand, I moved +across to the mattress. There was an anger in me that made me afraid, +afraid of myself. I wanted to kill, I thought I was going to kill, I +understood easily how a man _can_ kill. In my mind was a vivid picture +of my brother’s face--it was he, not my parents, who moved with me. +But I was not excited; ice was in me, not fire. Something else, too, +at that moment was in my veins, a drug ... a strong dose, too! Five +minutes before my entire being had been in a state of utter bliss, of +radiant kindness, of tolerance, of charity to everybody in the world. +I would have given away my last cent, I would have forgiven anybody +anything. All this was swept away in an instant. I felt a cold, white +anger that wanted to kill. + +Boyde had not heard my footstep; he lay sound asleep. I tore the +blanket off. He lay half naked before me, sleek, well-nourished, +over-fed, loathsome, horrible beyond anything I had known. He turned +with a jump and sat up. I held the letters against his face, but he was +still dazed with sleep and only stared stupidly, first at the letters, +then into my face. + +I kicked him; I had my boots on. + +“Get up!” I said. And, as he got up, rather heavily, trying to protect +himself, I kicked him again and again, till at last he stood upright, +but at some distance from me, over towards the window. He understood +by this time; he saw the letters in my hand. The terror in his face +sickened me even in my anger. I saw the evil almost visibly leap out. +The unfamiliarity, now that the moustache was gone, the cruelty of the +naked lips and mouth, the shrinking of the coward in him, these made an +unforgettable picture. He did not utter a syllable. + +My own utterance, what words I used, I cannot remember. I did not +remember them even ten minutes afterwards, certainly not the next day, +when I told the doctor what had happened. Two sentences only remain +accurate: “Come close to me. I’m going to kill you,” and the other: +“Get ready! I’m going to beat you like an animal!” + +He stood before me, wearing his short day-shirt without a collar, his +hair untidy, his face white, his half-naked body shaking. He dropped +to his knees, he got up again and tried to hide, he cringed and whined +like a terrified dog, his blue eyes were ghastly. In myself were +feelings I had never dreamed I possessed, but whose evidence Boyde +must, plainly, have read in my expression. What he could not read, nor +ever knew of course, was the fight, the fight of terror, I was having +with myself. I felt that once I touched him I should not stop till I +had gone too far. + +I did not touch him once. Instead, I told him to put on his clothes, +his own clothes, and go. He had no clothes of his own. He did not +go.... I eventually let him wait till morning, when he could find +enough rags of sorts to wear in the street.... He explained that he had +shaved his moustache because the Rockaway Hunt demanded it. + +He had said hardly a word during the entire scene. Half an hour after +it was over he was sleeping soundly again. I, too, thanks to the drug, +slept deeply. I woke in the morning to find the mattress on the floor +unoccupied. Boyde had gone. With him had gone, too, my one thick suit +and, in addition, every possible article of pawnable or other value +that had been in the room or in the packing-case downstairs. Only the +razor and the confession had he left behind because they were beneath +my pillow. + +The next time we met was in even more painful and dramatic +circumstances. I decided it was time to act. + +I went down that same morning to police headquarters in Mulberry +Street, and swore out a warrant for his arrest on two charges; forgery +and petit larceny. A theft of more than $25 was grand larceny, a +conviction, of course, carrying heavier punishment. I reduced his +theft of my $32, therefore, by seven dollars, so that, if caught and +convicted, his sentence might be as short as possible. + +But for the fact that I was a reporter on a Tammany newspaper, +nothing would have happened. As it was, no bribe being available, the +police refused to take any steps in the matter. The confession, they +knew, was worthless; it was a small case; no praise in the press, no +advertisement, lay in it. “Find out where he is,” Detective Lawler +said, “and let us know. Just telephone and I’ll come up and take him. +But _you_ do the huntin’. See? _I_ don’t.” + +This was Detective Lawler, who, under another name came into a story +years later--“Max Hensig,” in “The Listener.” + +The determination to put Boyde where he could no longer harm himself or +others held as firm in me as, formerly, the determination to forgive +had held. The hunt, however, comes a little later in the story. There +was first the explanation of the doctor’s secret. The doctor was my +companion in the dreadful hunt. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +It was, perhaps, the undigested horror of those days, as also their +unsatisfied yearnings after beauty, that tried to find expression +fifteen years later in writing. Once they were over I hid them away, +those dreadful weeks, trying to forget them. But nothing is ever +forgotten, nor is anything finally suppressed in the sense that it +is done with. Expression, sooner or later, in one form or another, +inevitably crops up. + +“Writing,” declared the old doctor, after a talk about De Quincey, “is +functional.” He had many pet theories or hobbies on which he loved to +expatiate. “Writing is as much a function of the system as breathing +or excretion. What the body takes in and cannot use, it discards. +What the mind takes in and cannot use, it, similarly, excretes. A +sensitive, impressionable mind receives an incessant bombardment, often +an intense, terrific bombardment of impressions. Two-thirds of such +impressions are never digested, much less used. The artist-temperament +whose sensitiveness accumulates a vast store, uses them; the real +artist, of course, shapes them at the same time. The ordinary man, the +_Dutzend Mensch_, made in bundles by the dozen, gets few impressions, +and needs, naturally, no outlet.... Writing is purely functional....” +It was one of his numerous pet theories. + +I went to his house now every night; he gave me his professional care, +he gave me sympathy, he gave me food. Pathetic, wonderful old German! +His tenderness was a woman’s, his temper a demon’s. I felt a giant in +him somewhere. At close daily quarters his alternate moods perplexed me +utterly. He had an Irish wife, a kind, motherly, but quite uneducated +woman of about forty-five, and a little girl of eight or nine, whose +white face looked as old as her mother’s, and whose diminutive figure +seemed to me unusual somewhere. Was it not stunted? Her intelligence, +her odd ways, her brilliant eyes captivated me. She called me “Uncle +Diedel.” She talked, like her mother, broken German. Supper, an +extremely simple meal, but a feast to me, was always in the basement +kitchen. + +The tiny wooden house, owning something akin to squatter’s rights +which prevented its demolition, stood in the next block to my own, +hemmed in by “brownstone fronts,” but with a miniature garden. New +York, that burns anthracite coal, has no blacks and smuts; the trees +and shrubs were really green; the earth smelt sweet. The little house, +standing back from the road, was a paradise to me. Its one ground-floor +apartment was divided by folding doors into consulting- and +waiting-rooms. But no patients came, or came so rarely that it was an +event when the door-bell rang. The doctor had the greatest difficulty +in keeping himself and family alive. At supper I used to eat as little +as possible. He seemed a competent physician. I wondered greatly. As +well as real human kindness, there was courage in that little building; +there was also a great tragedy I sensed long before I discovered its +solution. The strange innocence and ignorance of my up-bringing still +clung to me. + +The establishment, the poverty, the alternating moods, as I said, +puzzled me; I was aware of a whole life hidden away from my +observation. They were so poor that dinner was the meal of a workman, +they could not even keep a servant. There were worrying debts as well. +Often the doctor was so bearish and irritable that I dared not say a +word, his wife got curses and abuse, he would almost kick the child, +finding fault with such sneers and rudeness that I vowed to myself I +would never eat his food again. Then, after a momentary absence in his +workshop upstairs, where he kept a lathe and made beautiful chessmen, +he would come slowly stumbling down again, and the door would open to a +wholly different being. Bent, as always, but well poised and vigorous, +with bright smiling eyes, benevolent yet rugged face, every gesture +full of gentle kindness, he would pat his old wife on the shoulder and +take the child upon his knee, and beg me to play the fiddle to him or +to draw my chair up for an intimate talk. He would light his great +meerschaum pipe and beam upon the world through the blue smoke like +some old jolly idol. The change seemed miraculous. + +His talk seemed, at the time, wonderful to me. He would discourse +on Kant, Novalis, Heine, on music, science, astronomy--“when your +troubles seem at their worst,” he would say, “look up at the stars +for half an hour, _with imagination_, and you’ll see your troubles +in a new perspective”--on religion, literature and life, on anything +and everything, while downstairs his kindly old wife prepared the +Frankfurters and sauerkraut and coffee. + +Neither mother nor child, I noticed, paid much attention to his +attacks. The little girl, who called her father “Otto,” sat up with +us night after night till two in the morning, and hated going to bed. +She listened spellbound to the stream of talk. I still see the dingy, +lamp-lit room in the heart of the roaring city, the white-haired old +doctor, pipe in mouth, the operating chair in the middle of the floor, +the little pale-faced child with her odd expression of maturity as she +looked from him to me, then led me by the hand to our late meal in the +gloomy basement. I often waited achingly for that meal, having eaten +nothing since breakfast. Would he never stop talking...? + +We talked of Boyde--his face. The doctor’s reading of Boyde’s face was +that it was a bad, deceitful, clever face, evil, brutal and cruel. I +mentioned the man’s various acts of kindness. “Bait,” he exclaimed, +with a scornful snort, “mere bait! He wanted a free lodging. He had +plenty of money all along, but the free bed gave him more--to spend on +himself while you starved.” + +He talked on about faces.... Handsome ones he either disliked or +distrusted, handsome features like Boyde’s were too often a cloak that +helped to hide and deceive. Behind such faces, as a rule, lay either +badness or vacuity; good looks were the most misleading thing in the +world. Expression rarely accompanied good looks, good features. He was +off on a pet hobby, he waxed eloquent. Beautiful women--he spoke of +good features chiefly--were almost invariably wicked, or else empty. Of +“Society Beauties” he was particularly contemptuous. “Regular features, +fine eyes, perfect skin, but no expression--no soul within. The +deer-like eyes, the calm, proud loveliness people rave about is mere +vacancy. Pfui!” + +His habit of staring into the mirror came back to me, and I ventured a +question. He hesitated a moment, then got up and led me to the glass, +where, without a word, he began to gaze at his own reflection, making +the familiar grimaces, smiling, screwing up his eyes, stretching his +lips, raising his eyebrows, pulling his moustache about until, at last, +I burst into laughter I could control no longer. + +He turned in astonishment. He examined my own face closely for some +time. “You are too young still,” he said. “You have no lines. In my +face, you see, lies all my past, layer below layer, skin behind skin, +my face of middle age, of early manhood, of youth, of childhood. It +carries me right back.” + +He began showing me again, pointing to his reflection as he did so. +“That’s middle age ... that’s youth.... Ach! and there’s the boy’s +face, look!” + +I did not dare to look, for explosions of laughter were in my throat, +and I should have hurt his feelings dreadfully. I understood what he +meant, however. + +“With the face of each period,” he explained, “rise the memories, +feelings and emotions of that particular period, its point of view, its +fears, ambitions--_hopes_. I live again momentarily in it. I am a young +man again, a boy, a child. I am, at any rate, no longer myself--_as +I now am_.” The way he spoke these four words was very grave and +sad. “Now,” he went on with a sigh, “you understand the charm of the +mirror. It means escape from self. This is the ultimate teaching of +all religion--to escape from Self.” He chuckled. “The mirror is my +Religion.” + +During this odd little scene I felt closer to his secret than ever +before. There was something fine and lovely in him, something big, +but it lay in ruins. Had my attitude been a little different, had I +not laughed for instance, I think he would have taken me into his +confidence there and then. But the opportunity was lost this time. +He asked, instead, for music, old, simple German songs being what he +liked most. He would lean back in his big chair, puff his great pipe, +close his eyes, and hum the melodies softly to himself while I played. +It was easy to vamp a sort of accompaniment with double stopping. +He dreamed of old days, I suppose; it was a variant of the mirror +game. Tschaikowsky, Meyer-Helmund, Massenet he also liked, but it was +Schubert, Schumann, even Mendelssohn he always hummed to. Of “_Ich +grolle-nicht, auch wenn das Herz mir bricht_,” he never tired. The +little child would dart up from the basement at the first sound of the +fiddle, show her old, white face at the door, then creep in, sit in a +corner, and never take her eyes from “the orchestra.” When it stopped +playing, she was off again in a second. + +One item, while speaking of the music, stands out--chanting to the +fiddle a certain passage from De Quincey. The “Confessions” fascinated +him; the description of the privations in London, the scenes with +Anne when she first brought him out of her scanty money the reviving +glass of port, her abrupt disappearance finally and his pathetic +faithful search, the lonely hours in the empty house in Greek Street, +but particularly his prolonged fight against the drug. It was the +Invocation to Opium, a passage of haunting beauty, however, he loved +so much that he chanted it over and over to himself. The first time he +did this I invented a soft running accompaniment on the lower strings, +using double stopping. The mute was on. My voice added the bass. It +was a curious composition of which he never tired; it moved him very +deeply; I have even seen tears trickling down his cheeks when it was +over. He always left his chair for this performance, walking slowly to +and fro while he chanted the rhythmical, sonorous sentences: + + “O just, subtle and mighty opium! that, to the hearts of rich and + poor alike, for the wounds that will never heal, and for the pangs + of grief that tempt the spirit to rebel, bringest an assuaging + balm;--eloquent opium! that with thy potent rhetoric stealest away + the purposes of wrath.... Thou buildest upon the bosom of darkness, + out of the fantastic imagery of the brain, cities and temples, + beyond the art of Phidias and Praxiteles, beyond the splendours + of Babylon and Hekatompylos; ... and hast the keys of Paradise, O + just, subtle and mighty opium...!” + +“_Ach! wie prachtvoll!_” he would cry a moment later, “_wie +wunderschoen!_” and then would recite a translation he had made into +his own tongue, and a very fine one too. Quite delighted, he would +repeat the passage over and over again, pausing to compare the two +versions, fixing me with his big eyes in order to increase his own +pleasure in the music by witnessing the evidence of my own. + +Truly he was a Jekyll and Hyde. + +It was only during the Jekyll mood this kind of scene took place; in +the Jekyll happy humour, too, that I had told him about my strange +up-bringing. “Now I understand better,” he said, “why you are still so +young and know so little of life, and why you are so foolishly good to +Boyde”--which annoyed me, because I considered myself now quite old and +a thorough man of the world as well. + +It was in this mood, too, that we discussed my own theories and beliefs +... a life in the woods as well. Kay, himself and his family, Boyde +and I were to settle in the backwoods ... perhaps I was as eloquent +as I was earnest; he listened attentively; sometimes he seemed almost +ready to consent; he understood, at any rate, the deep spell that +Nature had for me. But he only smiled when I said I was a failure and +an outcast. My life had hardly begun yet! No man was a failure who had +an object and worked for it, even though he never got within miles of +accomplishment. “A life for a man is a life _among_ men,” he would say +with emphasis. “The woods are all right as an interlude, but not as a +career.” He was very sympathetic, but he shook his head violently. “In +action lies a man’s safety in life,” he growled at me. “The world needs +men of action, not dreamers,” he repeated and repeated, “and Buddhism +has never yet produced a man of action. Do _something_, even if it +prove the wrong thing. Dreaming, without action, is the quickest way +of self-corruption I know.” And he would then urge me again to become +a doctor, after which he would proceed to dream himself for an hour or +two ... showing that all his life he had been far more of a dreamer +than a man of action.... + +It was chance that suddenly led me into the doctor’s secret. He became +for me, from that moment, the most pathetic and tragic of human beings. +My own troubles seemed insignificant. + +One afternoon early in December, gloomy, very cold, a studio +appointment failed, and I decided to go to the wooden house. It was +that or the public library, but I wanted a talk, I wanted also to get +really warm. I had no overcoat; the doctor’s room was always like an +oven. The vermin I had grown accustomed to and hardly noticed them. An +idea of food, too, was in my mind, for the free lunch glass of beer and +salt chip-potatoes was all I had eaten since breakfast. Seven o’clock, +however, was my usual hour of visit, I had never been in the afternoon +before. A memorable visit; we were alone; he told me his secret very +quietly. + +I found him in his most awful mood, rude, his nerves unbearably on +edge. He said he had not expected me, but when I tried to go, he became +angry and begged me to stay, saying that I helped him more than I could +ever know. Had I brought the fiddle? I said I would run up the street +and get it. “No,” he implored, “don’t go now. You can go later--before +supper. _Please_ do not leave me--_please_!” He then said he would tell +me something no one else knew, no one except his wife. I wondered +what was coming, and felt strangely touched and moved at his treating +me with such confidence. His manner was so pathetic, and he seemed +suddenly to have become weak and helpless, and somehow or other it was +in my power to do him a service. I was thrilled and full of expectation. + +But, before he began to tell me, he went up to a little cabinet with a +glass door and took out a small bottle full of a white powder, bearing +the word, the magical word “Majendie”--a word I can never forget as +long as I live--and took some of the powder and made a solution and +then sucked some of it up with a needle and turned to me. His face was +swollen and looked terrible, for the eyes glowed so hotly, and the skin +was so red and white in patches. Then he began to open his waistcoat +and shirt till his chest was bare. “Look,” he said, for I half moved +aside, and when I looked I saw he was covered with hundreds of small +red sores. + +Evidently my face betrayed shrinking and horror, for the old man +laughed and said “Oh, I’m not a leper. They’re only blisters,” and then +finding a little clear space on his skin, put the needle of his syringe +through the flesh and injected the fluid into his body. He next quickly +put his finger over the spot and rubbed to and fro for about a minute, +staring steadily at me while he did so. + +“That’s morphine,” he said in a dead voice, “and the rubbing is +necessary to prevent a blister forming.” + +I knew nothing about morphine except the name, and I was disappointed +rather than thrilled, but the next minute he gave me all the thrill I +wanted, and more besides: + +“I’ve been fighting it for two years,” he said quietly in German, still +rubbing the spot and staring hard at me, “and I am slowly getting the +better of it. If I don’t succeed, it means I die.” A cold grim smile +that made me shudder stole over his swollen face. “_Death_,” he added. + +I felt his despair, the despair of doubt, as he said this, and in his +eyes blazed suddenly all the suppressed depths of suffering and emotion +that he usually kept hidden. Such a flood of sympathy for the old man +rose in me that I did not know what to say. Of drugs and their power I +knew nothing. I stood and stared in silence, but his voice and manner +made me realize one thing: that here was an awful battle, a struggle +between human courage, will and endurance, on the one hand, and some +tremendous power on the other--a struggle to the death. The word +“morphine” seemed to me some sort of demon. + +He sat down in his armchair, lit his pipe, pulled up the operating +chair for me to lie on beside him, and then told me very quietly why he +took it. Already his face looked different, as the morphine circulated +through the blood, and he smiled and wore a genial happy air of +benevolence that made him at once a different man. + +“I shall have peace now for several hours,” he said, “but I don’t take +morphine for pleasure. I take it because it is the only way to keep +myself alive and to keep my wife and child from starving. If I can +gradually wean myself from it I shall live for years. If not, and I +cannot make the dose less and less, it will kill me very soon. I am +old, you see.” + +He told me very simply, but very graphically, speaking in German +as he loved to do, that three years ago he had enjoyed a good and +lucrative practice. But he had embarked upon some experiments in his +leg--I never understood exactly what and did not dare to ask--and to +observe these properly he was obliged to use the knife without taking +any anæsthetic. His wife stood beside him and staunched the blood, +but the pain and shock proved more than he was equal to, being an old +man, and a collapse followed. All his patients left him, for he could +not attend to them, and in order to be in a fit condition to see even +chance callers he had to inject morphine. Thus the habit began, and +before he knew where he was the thing had him by the throat. He was a +man of great natural strength of will and he began to stop it, but the +fight was far harder than he had imagined, and his nerves seemed to +have gone to pieces. Unless he had the support of a dose, he was so +brutal, irritable and rude that no one could stay in his presence, and +no patient would come near him. He never got his practice back again, +and whenever a stray patient called now he had to take an injection, or +he would be sure to behave in such a way that the man or woman would +never return. He used atropine to mix with his morphine, and thus tried +gradually to cure himself, and lately had succeeded in reducing the +quantity very considerably, but it was an awful fight, and he admitted +the end was uncertain. He said I helped him to bear the strain. My +presence, he said, the music too, gave him some sort of comfort and +strength, and he was always glad to see me. When I was there he could +hold out longer than when he was alone, and one reason he was telling +me all this intimate history--telling it to a comparative stranger--was +because he wished me to try and help him more. + +I stammered some words in broken German about being eager and willing +to help, and he smiled and said he thanked me and “we would make the +fight together.” + +“The charm is very powerful,” he went on, “especially to a nature like +mine, for when I take this stuff the world becomes full of wonder +and mystery again, just as it was for me sixty years ago when I was +a boy with burning hopes and high dreams. But far more than that, I +_believe in people_ again. That makes more difference in your life than +anything else, for to lose faith in men makes life unbearable. Bitter +experiences have shaken my trust and belief in my fellow creatures. But +with this stuff in me I find it again and feel at peace with the world.” + +“That is why you sometimes approve and at other times disapprove of my +attitude towards Boyde?” + +“Yes,” he said, with a most benign and delightful expression in his +eyes. “Give him every chance. There’s lots of good in him. He feels, no +doubt, that everyone who knows about him distrusts him. Weak men will +always try more or less to live up to what is expected of them, for +they are easily hypnotised. If they feel every one expects only evil +from them their chief incentive is lost.” + +“Then I ought never to let him think I’ve lost belief in him?” + +“Never. Frighten him, kick him, urge him along with violence, anything +to make him move of himself towards being decent; but never suggest he +_cannot_ be, and _is not_, decent and straight.” + +How we talked that night--and how I suffered from hunger, for when +morphine was in him the old doctor ate little, and this time he was +full of ideas and ideals, and had so sympathetic a listener, that he +forgot I might want food, and it was not till after one in the morning +that he began to flag and thought of coffee. We went down into the +kitchen, and there we found the patient wife dozing on the wooden +chair, and the child reading a book--“Undine”--on the deal table, with +her eyes so bright I thought they were going to shoot out flame. She +looked up and stared at us for a long time before she got herself back +from that enchanted region of woods and pools and moonlight.... Strange +supper parties they were, in that quiet, basement-kitchen between one +and two of the winter mornings of December, 1892.... + +Otto Huebner, having broken the ice, told me much of his own life then. +Owing to family disputes he left the manufacturing town in Northern +Germany where he was born and brought up, and came to New York as a +young man. He never saw his parents again, and took out naturalization +papers at once. For years he was employed by Steinway’s piano factory, +as a common workman at first, then as a skilled man. He was unmarried, +he saved money, he began to study at night; the passion for medicine +was so strong in him that he made up his mind to become a doctor. He +attended lectures when he could. It was a life of slavery, of incessant +toil both day and night. He was over forty when he began studying for +the examinations, and it took him seven years to attain his end. His +health had suffered during this strenuous time. He had married well +after fifty.... + +Dear, lovable, much-to-be-pitied old man, my heart went out to him; I +was determined to do everything I could to help. I owed him much for +counsel, sympathy and kindness, to say nothing of medical attendance +and food besides, at a time, too, when I believed myself a complete +failure and thought my life was ruined. England, my family, all that I +had been accustomed to seemed utterly remote; I had cut myself off; I +had tumbled into quite another world, and the only friend I had, the +only being I trusted, even loved as well, was the old German morphine +victim. + +Meanwhile, it had been very wonderful to me to see an irritable, savage +old man change in a few minutes into a kindly, genial, tender-hearted +being, and I began to feel an absorbing curiosity about this fine +white powder labelled “Majendie.” I invariably now rubbed in the dose, +finding with increasing difficulty a clear space of skin in the poor +worn old body. I watched the change steal over him. It seemed to me +pure magic. It began more and more to fascinate me. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +A few days after the doctor’s secret had been laid bare I received a +brief, curt letter from McCloy to say he could not keep my place open +for ever; how soon was I coming back? Six weeks had passed already. The +doctor convinced me I was not yet in a condition to face ten hours’ +hard reporting a day. I answered McCloy as best I could, thanking him, +and telling the facts. Dr. Huebner also wrote him a line. + +I was distressed and anxious, none the less, and that evening I was +certainly not at my best. I gave the old man but little help. His +method of using me was simple: if I could manage to interest him, +by talk, by music, by books, by anything at all, it enabled him to +postpone the hour of injection. Each time we tried to make this +interval longer; each time, he told me, he took a smaller quantity. + +On this particular evening, hungry and depressed as I was, I failed +to be “interesting,” and no forced attempt could make me so. My own +condition, in any case, was pretty low; my friend’s dejection and +excessive irritability proved the last straw. We disagreed, we hurt +each other’s feelings a little, I relapsed into silence finally, the +gloom was dreadful. My own troubles just then were uppermost in my +mind. If I lost my job, I kept thinking, what on earth would happen to +me?... + +The old man presently, and long before his time, got up in silence +and went to the glass cabinet where now the Majendie bottle stood. He +no longer kept it in his workshop out of sight. His face was black as +thunder. Conscience pricked me; I roused myself, saying something by +way of trying to prevent, whereupon he turned and said savagely: “Do +you want to see me die? Or lose my reason?” + +As already mentioned, I was totally ignorant of drugs and their effect. +His words, which I took literally, frightened me. I watched him mix the +solution, fill his syringe slowly with shaking hands, then unfasten his +clothes. I found the place and rubbed the skin as usual, while he sat +back in his big chair, in sullen silence. He drew the needle out; his +face was awful; he sighed and groaned; I really thought he was going to +collapse before my eyes, perhaps to die. I rubbed and rubbed ... while +the magical change stole slowly over him. His face cleared, his smile +came back, he looked younger, his very voice became mellow instead of +harsh and rough, his eyes lit up with happiness. + +The contrast was astonishing, the effect so rapid. And, for the first +time, a longing rose in me: if only _I_ could have some of this +bewitching panacea! My troubles would all melt away. I should feel +happy. Hunger also would disappear. Was it so terrible and dangerous +after all? + +The thought went through me like a burning flame. + +It was a thought, merely. I had no intention of asking, not even of +suggesting, such a thing. I would not have dared to; the old man, I +knew, besides, would never, never consent; his obstinacy was beyond any +power of mine to modify. None the less, the thought and desire were +distinctly in me at that moment. It even crossed my mind that he was +selfish, inconsiderate, unkind, not to realize that a little, oh, just +a tiny dose, would help me and make me happy too. + +The change in him was now complete, he settled back in his deep chair. +I heard him asking for the fiddle. I remember the effort it cost me to +say something about being ready to try, and how I concealed my sulky +face as I crossed the room to open my case. I felt disappointed, rather +sore, a trifle angry too; he could so easily open the gates of heaven +for me. I fumbled with the case, delaying on purpose, for no music lay +in me, and I did not want to play, I felt miserable all over. My back +was turned to him. And then I heard my name softly spoken close behind +me. + +I turned with a start, it was the doctor’s voice, its peculiar softness +struck me. He was coming slowly across the room, a curious smile on his +face, peering at me over the top of his spectacles, the shoulders bent +forward a little, his gait slouching, his slippers dragging along the +carpet, his white hair tumbling about his forehead, moving slowly at +me--and in his raised right hand was a needle poised to strike. + +I knew what it meant: he was going to give me morphia without even +being asked. A queer revulsion of feeling came over me. He was saying +something, but I did not hear the words properly, nor understand +them, at any rate; his voice, too, was so low and soft. My brain was +in a whirl. Something in the old man’s appearance frightened me. The +idea of the drug now also frightened me. Then, suddenly, a complete +recklessness rushed over me. + +“Take off your coat,” I heard him say. “And now roll +your sleeve up. _So! Nun, jetzt_”--he gazed hard into my +eyes--“_aber--nur--ausnahmsweise!_” With slow earnest emphasis he +repeated the words: “As an exception--only!” + +I watched him choose the place on my arm, I watched the needle go in +with its little prick, I watched him slowly press the small piston +that injected the poison into my blood. He, for his part, never +once moved his eyes from mine till the operation was ended, and +my coat was on again. He wore that curious smile the whole time. +“You needed it to-night,” he said, “just a little, a very weak +dose--_aber--nur--ausnahmsweise_!” He walked over and put the little +Majendie phial back upon the shelf. Then he filled his pipe and drew up +the operating chair for me to lie on. His eye was constantly on me. The +music was forgotten. He wanted to talk. + +Whether he had done this thing really to give me a little happiness, or +whether his idea was to make me “interesting” for his own sake, I do +not know. The fact is that within three minutes of the needle’s prick I +was in a state of absolute bliss. + +A little warm sensation, accompanied by the faintest possible +suggestion of nausea which was probably my own imagination, passed up +the spine into the head. Something cleared in my brain, then burst. A +sense of thawing followed, the melting away of all the things that had +been making me unhappy. I began to glow all over. Hope, happiness and a +gorgeous confidence flowed in; benevolence, enthusiasm, charity flooded +me to the brim. I wanted to forgive Boyde _everything_ to the end of +time, sacrifice my entire life to cure my old German friend; everything +base, unworthy, sordid in me, it seemed, had dropped away.... + +The experience is too well-known to bear another description; it +varies, of course, with individuals; varies, too, according to the +state of health or sickness, according to whether it is needed or not +really needed; and while some feel what I felt, others merely sleep, +or, on the contrary, cannot sleep at all. The strength of the dose, +naturally, is also an important item. Individual reactions, anyhow, are +very different, and with Kay, to whom later the doctor gave it too, +three doses produced no effect whatever, while the fourth brought on +the cumulative result of all four at once, so that we had to walk him +up and down, pouring strong black coffee down his unwilling throat, +urging him violently not to sleep--the only thing he wanted to do--or +he would, old Huebner assured him--never wake again.... In my case, at +any rate, wasted physically as I was, empty of food, under-nourished +for many weeks, below par being a mild description of my body, the +result seemed a radiance that touched ecstasy. It was, of course, an +intensification of consciousness. + +Such intensification, I well knew, could be produced by better if more +difficult ways, ways that caused no reaction, ways that constructed +instead of destroyed ... and the first pleasure I derived from my +experience, the interest that first stirred flashingly and at once +through my cleared mind, was the absolute conviction that the teaching +and theories in my books were true.... + +The doctor sat, smiling at me from his chair. + +“I would not do this for many,” he said in German, “but for you it +has no danger. _You_ could stop anything. You have real will.” After +a pause he added: “Now we are happy; we are both happy. Let us dream +without thinking. Let us _realize_ our happiness!...” + +The hours passed while we talked, and my hunger was forgotten. I only +wanted one thing to complete my happiness--I wanted Kay, I wanted +Boyde, and I wanted one figure from across the sea, my brother. Had +these three come to join the circle in that dingy consulting-room, my +heaven, it seemed to me, would have been made perfect.... + +The passing of time was not marked. I played the fiddle, and we chanted +the old man’s favourite passage: “O just, subtle and mighty opium!” ... +its full meaning, with the appeal it held, now all explained to me at +last. As I laid the instrument down, I saw the white face of the little +girl just inside the half-opened door. She caught my eye, ran up to me, +and climbed upon my knee. + +“Oh, Uncle Diedel,” she cried, “how big your eyes are! I do believe +Otto has given you some of his Majendie medicine. Are you going to die, +too, unless you have it?” + +Nothing, it seemed, was hidden from the clear vision that lay in me +then; the appalling truth flashed into me on the instant. The little, +stunted figure, the old expression in the pallid child-face, the +whiteness of the skin, the brilliant eyes, all were due to the same one +thing. Did the doctor, her own father, give _her_ the needle too? + +It was on this occasion, this night of my first experience with +morphine, that I found my letters with the stamps torn off. I reached +home, as described, about two in the morning, still in a state of +bliss, although the effect of the drug was waning a little then. +But there was happiness, affection, forgiveness and charity in my +heart, I thought. This describes my feelings of the moment certainly. +How they were swept away has been already told. So much for the +pseudo-exaltation of the drug! And, while on this subject, the part +played by the drug in this particular little scrap of history may as +well be told briefly at once and done with. + +The suggestion that I could “stop anything,” combined with my own +desire, was potent. There was another way in which the insidious +poisoning also worked: I became so “interesting,” and entertained the +old doctor so successfully, that he found himself able to do without +his own dose. The stern injunction “_nur ausnahmsweise_” was forgotten. +Without the stuff in my blood I was gloomy, stupid, dull; with it, +I became alive and helped him. But the headache and depression, the +nausea, the black ultimate dejection of the “day after” could be +removed by one thing only. Nothing else had the slightest effect, and +only another dose could banish these after-effects--a stronger dose. +While the old man was soon able to reduce not only the quantity he +took, but the number of injections as well, my own dose, to produce the +desired effect, had to be doubled. + +Every night for four weeks that needle pricked me. In my next +incarnation--if it takes place--I shall still see the German doctor +slouching across the room at me with the loaded syringe in his poised +hand, and the strange look in his eyes. It seems an ineradicable +memory.... By the end of the four weeks, I was working again on the +newspaper; my visits to the wooden house I cut down to two a week, then +one a week. It was a poignant business. He needed me. Desire for the +“balm that assuaged,” desire to help the friend who was slowly dying, +desire to save myself from obvious destruction, these tugged and tore +me different ways. For the full story I should have to write another +book.... Three things saved me, I think--in the order of their value: +my books and beliefs; Nature--my Sundays in Bronx Park or the woods of +the Palisades in New Jersey; and, lastly, the power of the doctor’s own +suggestion, “_you_ could stop anything!”... + +When May came, with her wonder and her magic, I was free again, so free +that I could play the fiddle and talk to the old man by the hour, and +feel even no desire for the drug. Nor has the desire ever returned to +me from that day to this. An experiment with haschisch, a good deal +later, an account of which I wrote for my paper at the time, had no +“desire” in it. Foolish and dangerous though the experiment was, of +course, the _cannabis indica_ was not taken for indulgence, nor to +bring a false temporary happiness into a life I loathed. I did it to +earn a little extra money; Kay did it with me; three times in all we +took it. Some of the effects I tried to describe years later in the +first story of a book, “John Silence.” + +My decision, with the steps I had taken, to arrest Boyde, I told to the +doctor on the afternoon following the discovery of his treachery with +my letters. He approved. This time even his Jekyll personality approved. + +“You’ll never catch him though,” he growled. “He’s too clever for you. +He’ll hear about the warrant and be out of the State in a day, if not +out of the country. In Canada they can’t touch him. Besides, the police +won’t stir a finger. Oh, you’ll never catch him.” + +I felt otherwise, however, I meant to catch him, while at the same time +I did not want to. The horrible man-hunt began that very night. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + +The search for Boyde was a prolonged nightmare: used several times +already, this phrase alone describes it. It lasted over a fortnight. +Every night, from nine o’clock till two, or even later in the morning, +it continued. The old doctor almost invariably came with me. It was +mid-winter and bitter cold, I still had no overcoat, a thin summer +vest being my only underwear. The disreputable haunts we searched were +heated to at least 70° F., whereas the street air was commonly not far +from zero, with biting winds or icy moisture that cut like a knife. +It must have been the drug that saved me from pneumonia, for I was +in and out of a dozen haunts each night.... I was a prey to contrary +and alternating emotions--the desire to let the fellow go free, the +conviction that it was my duty to save him from himself, to save others +from him as well. The distress, unhappiness and doubt I experienced +made that prolonged man-hunt indeed a nightmare. + +Plans were laid with care and knowledge. Boyde, we argued, had money, +or he would have returned to East 19th Street. Had he enough to bribe +the police, or to go to Canada? We decided that his contempt for me +would outweigh any fear he felt that I might take action. The “Night +Owls” were now away on tour; he would hardly go after Pauline M----. +We concluded he was “doing the town,” as it was called, and was not +very far from East 19th Street. With his outstanding figure and +appearance, it ought not to be difficult to find some trace of him in +the disreputable places. The “Tenderloin”--a region about Broadway and +30th Street, so packed with illegal “joints” that their tribute to the +police was the richest and juiciest of the whole city--was sure to be +his hunting ground. To the Tenderloin haunts, accordingly, we went +that first night of the chase. + +As a reporter I knew the various places well already, and felt quite +equal to making my search alone, but the doctor, though in no condition +to traipse about the icy street after dark, insisted on accompanying +me. Nothing I said could prevent him coming. Truth to tell, I was not +sorry to have him with me--in some of the saloons; besides which I had +no money, and something--lager beer cost only five cents a glass--had +to be ordered in each place. We hurried from one saloon to another, +looking in at various gambling hells, opium joints, dancing places and +music-halls of the poorer kind where men and women met on easy terms, +and we stayed at each one just long enough to make inquiries, and +to benefit by the warmth and comfort, without being pestered by the +habitual frequenters. + +I had in my possession a small photograph of Boyde; it was on tin, +showing the head and shoulders; it had been taken one day earlier in +our acquaintance when we went together to a Dime Museum in 14th Street. +It now proved very useful. It showed his full face, big eyes, drooping +moustaches and eyeglass. The absence of the moustache altered him a +great deal, but the eyeglass and the six feet two inches in height +counterbalanced this. + +At every “joint” I produced this photograph, asking the attendants, +bar-tenders, and any women I judged to be frequenters of the place, +whether they had seen the original recently, or anyone like him. Some +laughed and said they had, others said the opposite, but the majority +refused to say anything, showed insolently their suspicion of me and +my purpose, and, more than once, made it advisable for us to get out +before we were put out. At such places customers are chary about +information of each other. Among the women, however, were some who knew +clearly who it was we “wanted,” though saying nothing useful, and soon +the doctor decided it was a mistake to show the photograph too much, +for Boyde would be warned by these women, while many, fearful that +they themselves were “wanted,” would merely lie in self protection, +and set us upon false trails. Any woman who had not paid her weekly +blackmail money to the ward man was in danger, and few, to judge by +their appearance, were not involved in robbery, knock-out drops, or +the ubiquitous “badger-game.” Yet these, I knew, were the places Boyde +would feel at home in. My being a newspaper man proved of value to us +more than once, at any rate. My thoughts, as we sat in a curtained +corner of some “hell,” whose overheated atmosphere of smoke, scent, +alcohol and dope was thick enough to cut with a knife, watching, +waiting, listening, must be imagined. I watched every arrival. The +tension on nerves already overstrained was almost unbearable. A habit +of the doctor’s intensified this strain. He did not, I think, remember +Boyde very well, and was constantly imagining that he saw him. The +street door would open; he would nudge me and whisper “_Sehen Sie, da +kommt der Kerl nun endlich...!_” He pointed, my heart leapt into my +mouth; nothing could induce me to arrest him, it seemed, and my relief +on seeing it was a stranger was always genuine--at the moment. + +One night--or early morning, rather--the doctor, who had been silent +for a long time, turned to me with a grey, exhausted face. The morphine +was beginning to fail him, and he must inject another dose. This +happened several times.... Behind a curtain, or in a place aside where +we were not even alone, he opened his clothes, found a clear space of +skin, and applied the needle, while I rubbed the spot with my finger +for about a minute to prevent a blister forming. No one, except perhaps +a very drunken man or woman occasionally, paid the smallest attention +to the operation; to them it was evidently a familiar and commonplace +occurrence.... “You must not stay up any longer,” he would say another +time, after a sudden examination of my face. “You look dreadful. Come, +we will go home.” + +I was only too glad to be marched off. We paced the icy streets arm +in arm, numerous people still about on various errands, tramcars and +elevated trains still roaring, saloons and joints blazing with light, +wide open till dawn, while the old man, rejuvenated and stimulated by +the drug, discoursed eloquently the whole way, I dragging by his side, +silent, depressed, weary with pains that seemed more poignant then than +hunger or mere physical fatigue. + +The next night it would be the same, and the one after that, and the +next one after that too--the search continued. It wore me down. I saw +the eyeglass staring furtively at me from behind every corner, even in +the day-time. His footstep sounded behind me often. At night I locked +my door, for fear he might steal back into the room.... Once or twice I +reported to headquarters that I was on the trail, but the detective had +lost interest in the case; a conviction was doubtful, anyhow; he was +not “going to sit around catching flies”; only the fact that I was a +reporter on the _Sun_ made him pause. “Telephone when you get him,” he +said, “and I’ll come up and do the rest.” Much fresh information about +Boyde had also come my way; he had even stolen the vases from a Church +communion table--though he denied this in his confession later--and +pawned them. In every direction, and this he did not deny, he had +borrowed money in my name, giving me the worst possible character while +doing so. Probably indeed, I never lived down _all_ he said about me.... + +It was a bitter, and apparently, an endless search. From the West Side +joints, we visited the East Side haunts of vice and dissipation. I now +knew Boyde too well to think he would “fly high”; his tastes were of +the lowest. The ache it all gave me I can never describe.... + +We went from place to place as hour after hour passed. We found +his trail, and each time we found it my heart failed me. A woman, +gorgeously painted, showing her silk stockings above the knee, her +atmosphere reeking of bad scent and drink, came sidling up, murmuring +this and that.... The Doctor’s eye was on me, though he said no word, +made no single gesture.... The tin-type photograph was produced.... +“Yep, I seen dat fellar,” grinned the woman in her “tough” bowery +talk they all affected in the Tenderloin. “A high flier ... raining +in London, too”--a gibe at the “English” habit of turning up one’s +trousers--with a stream of local slang, oaths, filthy hints and +repeated demands to “put ’em up,” meaning drinks. Then a whispered +growl from the old German “_Nichts! ... sie luegt ... los mit ihr!_” +A further stream of lurid insults ... and she was gone, while another +sidled up a little later. They all knew German, these women. Was not +New York the third biggest German city, qua population, in the Empire? +Few, as a matter of fact, were American. Barring the mulattos and +quadroon girls, to say nothing of the negresses, the majority were +French, Hungarian, Spanish, Italian, Dutch or some polyglot mixture not +even the British Museum could define.... + +Never did the old German’s kindness prove itself as in these hideous +night-watches. Apart from all questions of trouble and expense, he was +obliged to take extra doses of morphine to meet the charge upon his +system, at a time, too, when he was struggling to reduce the quantity. +Compared to what he did, even the fact that he gave the poison to +others, possibly to his own child among them, seemed negligible. +Not only did he accompany me during the chase, spending hours in +low, suffocating dens of beastliness, walking the wind-swept streets +in mid-winter, suffering insults and acute discomfort, but also he +bestowed practical care and kindness on me during the day, providing +me with food (I was in no state even to pose in the studios at the +time), and even suggesting that I should fit up a bed in his workshop +where he kept the lathe and made the chessmen. All this, too, from an +old man, himself in deep misery, and on the losing side of a fight far +more terrible than I ever knew or imagined, a fight, _he_ then realized +already, was to end before very long in failure, which meant death. The +strange, broken old being, twisted and distorted though his nervous +system was by a drug, showed--to me, at any rate--that rare thing +which experience of life proves greater than intellect, than success, +than power, or brilliance may achieve--a heart. If reincarnation, with +its karmic law, be true, either he owed me a heavy debt from some +forgotten past, or I owe to him a debt some future life will enable, +and enforce me, to repay. + +It was at the end of the first ten days that, quite by chance, we +stumbled upon the trail of Boyde. He had been seen in a “swell dive” +on the West Side--with a woman. He was spending money like water. +How had he come by it? Whom had he swindled now? We were in the East +Side, following a false clue, when this information was given to +us--under conditions impossible to describe--and we hurried across +to the neighbourhood indicated. An hour later we were only a short +thirty minutes behind his glittering path. He was visiting expensive +joints. Champagne flowed. The woman wore furs. He wore a light coloured +box-cloth overcoat. Both were “high fliers.” And he was drinking hard. + +The information, I confess, had the effect of stiffening me. It was +impossible not to wonder, as we sat in the cross-town tram of East 23rd +Street, whether in his gay career he gave a single thought to the room +in East 19th Street, where he shared my bed, wore my suit, ate my food, +such as it was, and where he had left me ill, alone and starving. The +old doctor was grim and silent, but a repressed fury, I could see, bit +into him. Was there, perhaps, vengeance, in the old, crumpled man? “No +weakness, remember,” he growled from time to time. “I hold him, while +you telephone to Mulberry Street. _Pflicht, pflicht!_ It is your duty +to--to everybody...!” + +The trail led us to Mouquin’s, where he had undoubtedly been shortly +before, then on to a place in 34th Street ... and there we lost it +hopelessly. It was not a false alarm, but the trail ran up a tree and +vanished. He had gone home with the woman, but who she was or where she +lived, not even the ward man--whom I knew by chance, and, equally by +chance, met at the door--could tell us. I telephoned to headquarters +to warn Detective Lawler to be in readiness. Lawler was out on a “big +story” elsewhere, but another man would come up with the warrant the +moment I sent word. I had, however, no occasion to telephone again that +night, nor even the next night, though we must evidently have been +within an ace of catching him. It was like searching for a needle in a +haystack, or for a rabbit in a warren. The neighbourhood, this joint in +particular, was alive with similar characters; all the women wore furs; +all the men were tall, many of them had “glass-eyes,” the majority +seemed English with “their trousers turned up.” We sat for hours in one +den after another, but we caught no further indication of the trail. It +had vanished into thin air. And after these two exciting and exhausting +nights, the old doctor collapsed; he could do no more; he told me he +felt unequal to the strain and could not accompany me even one more +time. The old man was done. + +The day after the search stopped temporarily, Kay arrived in the city, +to my great delight. It was a keen relief to have him back. The tour +had been a failure, and the company had become stranded in Port Hope, +Ontario. Salaries were never paid; he had received hotel board, railway +ticket, laundry, but rarely any cash. What luggage he possessed was in +the Port Hope hotel, held in lieu of payment. It remained there. + +We talked things over, and the news about Boyde, heard now for the +first time in detail, shocked him. There was no doubt or hesitation in +Kay’s mind. “Of course you must arrest him; we’ll go out to-night and +look.” We did so, but with no result. Kay had the remains of a borrowed +$10, we dined at Krisch’s; he had cigarettes, too.... We passed a +happy evening, coming home early from the chase. Like myself, he had +no overcoat, but the money did not reach to getting it from Ikey where +Boyde had pawned it. We sat indoors, and talked.... Only a short three +months before we had sat talking round a camp-fire on our island. It +seemed incredible. We discussed my plan for settling in the woods, to +which he was very favourably inclined. Meanwhile, he explained, his +Company was preparing another tour with better plays and better cast. +They hoped to start out after Christmas, now only a week away. The word +“Christmas” made us laugh. I still had the Christmas menu of our Hub +dinner, and we pinned it upon the wall. It might suggest something to +the long-suffering Mrs. Bernstein, Kay thought. + +But instead we ate our oatmeal and dried apples.... + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + +It was on the Tuesday before Christmas that I caught Boyde; the day +also before the White Star steamers sailed. The cold was Arctic, a +biting east wind swept the streets. There was no sun. If ever there was +a Black Tuesday for me it was that 18th of December, 1892. + +Towards evening, the doctor, I knew, would expect me as usual; there +was nothing to prevent my going; and yet each time the thought cropped +up automatically in my mind I was aware of a vague, indeterminate +feeling that somehow or other I should not go. This dim feeling also +was automatic. There was nothing I knew of to induce, much less to +support it. I did not mention it to Kay. I could not understand whence +it came nor what caused it, but it did not leave me, it kept tugging +at my nerves. “You’re not going to the doctor’s to-night,” it said, +“you’re going elsewhere.” + +After dark this odd feeling became more and more insistent, and +then all at once it connected itself with Boyde. Quite suddenly +this happened. I had not been thinking of Boyde at the moment; now, +abruptly, up cropped his name and personality. I was to go out and +catch him. + +My mind resisted this idea. Several things, besides, were against it. +In the first place, we had voluntarily given up the hunt and I was +resigned to his escape; secondly and thirdly, I dreaded being out +in the bitter cold, and I badly needed the “assuaging balm” of old +Huebner’s needle. If the first two were negative inhibitions, the third +was decidedly positive. All three had to be conquered if I was to obey +the strange prompting which whispered, and kept on whispering: “Go out +and look. You’ll find him.” + +There was, in addition, the usual minor conflict to which I had grown +quite accustomed, the conflict between my desire to be relieved of +an unpleasant “duty,” yet the conviction that it was a duty I had no +right to shirk. In spite of my resistance, at any rate, the prompting +strengthened; as night fell I grew more and more restless and uneasy; +until at last the touch of inevitability that lay behind it all +declared itself--and the breaking point was reached. + +I could resist no longer; it was impossible to contain myself. I sprang +out of my chair and told Kay I was going out to catch Boyde. + +“Don’t go,” he said. “Waste of time. He’s skipped long ago--been +warned.” He muttered something more about the intense cold. “You’ll +kill yourself.” + +But the impulsion I felt was irresistible. It was as though some inner +power drove and guided me. As a matter of fact, I went straight to the +exact spot where, among the teeming millions of the great city, Boyde +was. Fifteen minutes earlier or later, I should have missed him. Also, +but for a chance hesitation later--lasting sixty seconds at most--he +would have seen me and escaped. The calculation, whether due to +intelligence or to coincidence, was amazingly precise. I left our room +at nine o’clock; at a quarter to ten I stood face to face with Boyde. + +The wind was driving a fine dry dust of snow before it, and all who +could remained indoors. The streets were deserted; despite the nearness +of Christmas, signs of bustle and the usual holiday crowd were absent. +I walked very quickly to keep warm, an odd subconscious excitement in +me. I seemed to know exactly where I was going, though, had anybody +asked me, I could not have told them. Up 4th Avenue to 23rd Street, +then west across Broadway, I passed 6th and 7th Avenues, with only one +pause of a moment. At the corner of 7th Avenue I hesitated, uncertain +whether to turn north, or to continue west towards 8th Avenue. A +policeman was standing outside a saloon side-door, a man I had known +in the Tombs police court; an Irishman, of course. I recognized him, +He was friendly to me because I had used his name in a story; he +remembered me now. I produced the tin-type photograph. He inspected it +under the nearest electric light. + +“Yep,” he said, “I seen that feller only a few minutes back--half an +hour maybe--only he’s lifted his mustache.” + +“Shaved his moustache--yes?” + +“That’s what I said,” as he handed back the tin-type. “Got a story?” he +inquired the same instant. “Anything big doing?” + +“Which way did he go?” + +“Up-town,” said the policeman, jerking his thumb in the direction +north. “Up 8th Avenoo. And he was travellin’ with a partner, a big +feller, same size as yerself, I guess.” He moved off to show he had +no more to say. Any story that might result would be out of his beat. +There was nothing in it for him. His interest vanished. I hurried on to +the corner of 8th Avenue, the edge of a bad neighbourhood leading down +through the negro quarter towards the haunts of the river-front, and +there I paused again for a second or two. + +I was still in 23rd Street, but I now turned up the Avenue. It was +practically deserted, the street cars empty, few people on the +pavements. The side-streets crossed it at right angles, poorly lit, +running right and left into a world of shadows, but at almost every +corner stood a brilliant saloon whose windows and glass doors poured +out great shafts of light. Sometimes there were four saloons, one at +each corner, and the blaze was dazzling. I passed 24th, 25th, 26th and +27th streets. There were little flurries of dry snow; I saw no one, +nothing but empty silent sidewalks swept by the icy wind. + +At 28th Street there were four saloons, one at each corner, and the +blaze of light had a warm, enticing look. Through the blurred windows +of the one nearest to me, the heads of the packed crowd inside as they +lined up to the bar were just visible, and while I stood a moment, +shivering in the icy wind, the comforting idea of a hot whisky came +to me. For the wind cut like glass and neither my excitement nor the +exercise had warmed me. I hesitated, standing against a huge electric +light pole, in whose black shadow I was quite invisible. A hot whisky, +I reflected, in this neighbourhood would cost 20 or 25 cents; I had +30 cents in my pocket; I needed the stimulant; I was very weak; I +felt cold to the bone. But 25 cents was a lot of money, I might want +a car-fare home besides ... and I was still hesitating when two tall +figures emerged suddenly out of the dark side-street into the flood of +light, swung sharp round the corner, and passed through the glass doors +into the saloon. The figures were two men, and the first of them was +Boyde. + +For a second my heart seemed to stop, then began immediately racing and +beating violently. In that brilliant light I saw every detail sharply, +Boyde and his companion, both mercilessly visible. The man I wanted +wore a big horsy overcoat of light-coloured box-cloth with large white +buttons, the velvet collar turned up about his ears. The other man I +did not know; he was taller than Boyde and wore no overcoat; he was the +“partner travellin’ with him” mentioned by the policeman. His gait was +unsteady, he reeled a little. + +The clamour of noisy voices blared out a moment into the street before +the doors swung to again, and I stood quite still for an appreciable +time, blotted out of sight in my black shadow. Had I not hesitated a +moment to reflect about that hot whisky I should have passed, my figure +full in the blaze, just in front of the two men, who would have waited +in the dark side-street till I was safely out of sight. + +The state of my nerves, I suppose, was pretty bad, and the lack of my +customary evening dose accentuated it. I know, anyhow, that at first I +realized one thing only--that I could never have the heart to arrest +the fellow. This quickly passed, however; the racing of my blood passed +too; determination grew fixed; I decided to act at once. But should I +go in, or should I wait till they came out again? If I went in there +would probably be a fight; Boyde’s hulking companion would certainly +take his side; the lightest blow in my weak state and I should be down +and out. On the other hand, there was a side door, there were several +side doors, and the couple might easily slip out, for I could not watch +all the doors at once. + +I decided to go in. And the moment the decision was taken, complete +calmness came over me, so that I felt myself merely an instrument +of fate. It was horrible, but it had to be. Boyde was to get the +punishment he deserved. I could not fail. + +The way the little scene was stage-managed seemed curious to me when it +was all over, for as I moved out into the light, a couple of policemen +came across the broad avenue behind and looked inquisitively at what +must have seemed my queer behaviour. I immediately crossed to meet +them, while never taking my eye off the swing-doors. A man who had just +gone into that saloon, I told them, was to be arrested. + +“That so?” they asked with a grin, thinking me drunk, of course. “And +what’s he done to get all that?” + +I told them I was a reporter on the _Sun_, that I was the complainant +in the case, and that Detective Lawler of the 9th District had the +warrant at headquarters. They could telephone to him if they liked. +They listened, but they would not do anything. I could telephone to +Lawler myself; _they_ weren’t going to act without a warrant. They +finally agreed to wait outside and “see fair play,” if I would go in +and fetch “the guy” out into the street. “We’ll stop any trouble,” they +said, “and take him to the station if _you_ make a complaint.” I agreed +to this and walked in through the swing-doors. + +The saloon was crowded, the heat wonderful, the bars thronged with men +in all stages of intoxication; bar-tenders in white jackets flew to and +fro; business was booming, and at the least sign of a row, everybody, +more or less, would have joined in. This general impression, however, +was only in the background of my mind. What filled it was the fact that +Boyde was looking at me, staring straight into my eyes, but in the +mirror. The instant the doors swung to I had caught his reflection +in the long glass behind the bar. Across this bar, a little space on +either side of him, he was leaning on both elbows, his face resting in +one hand. The eye-glass--it was asking for trouble to wear it in such +a place--had been discarded. He was alone. His back, of course, was +towards me. + +For a few seconds we stared at one another in this way, and then, as I +walked down the long room, pushing between the noisy crowd, he slowly +turned. I reached him. A faint smile appeared on his face. He evidently +did not know quite what to do, but a hand began to move towards me. He +thought, it seemed, I was going to shake hands, whereas I thought he +was probably going to hit me. Instead my hand went to his shoulder. + +“Boyde,” I said, keeping my voice low, “I want you. You’re going to +be--arrested.” + +The smile died out, and an awful look rushed into his eyes. His face +turned the colour of chalk. At first I felt sure he was going to land +me a blow in the face, but the abrupt movement of his body was merely +that he tried to steady himself against the bar, for I saw his hand +grip the rail and cling to it. The same second his features began to +work. + +“I’ve got to arrest you,” I repeated. “It’s Karma. You had better come +quietly.” + +“Karma----” he repeated in a dazed way and stared. He was bewildered, +incredulous still. + +The same second, however, he grasped that it was serious, my face and +voice and manner doubtless warned him. This, at last, was real; he +suddenly knew it. The expression of appeal poured up instantly into +his eyes, those big, innocent, blue eyes where I had so often seen it +before. Only now there was no moustache, and the brutal cunning mouth +was bare. He began to speak at once, keeping his voice low, for several +people were already interested in us. He used his softest and most +pleading tone. With that, too, I was thoroughly familiar. + +“Blackwood--for God’s sake let me go. I’m off to England to-morrow on a +White Star boat. I’m working my passage over. For the love of God--for +my mother’s sake----!” + +I cut him short. The falseness, the cowardice, the treachery all +working in his face at once, sickened me. At the same time an aching +pity rose. I felt miserable. + +“You must come out with me. At once.” + +He turned quickly and looked about him, his eyes taking in everything. +Some men beside us had heard our talk and were ready to interfere. +“What’s your trouble?” one of them asked thickly. I realized we must +get away at once, out into the street, though the scene had barely +lasted two minutes yet. + +“There’s a policeman waiting outside,” I went on. “You’d better come +quietly. A row won’t help you.” But I said it louder than I thought, +for several heads turned towards the swing-doors. The effect on Boyde, +however, was hardly what I expected, and seemed strange. He wilted +suddenly. I believe all thought of resistance or escape went out of him +when he heard the word “police.” His jaw dropped, there was suddenly +no expression in his eyes at all. A complete blankness came into his +features. It was horrible. He’s got no soul, I thought. He merely +stared at me. + +“Whose is that overcoat?” I asked, feeling sure it was not his own. I +already had him by the arm. + +“Roper’s,” he said quietly, his voice gone quite dead. “Here he is.” +His face was still like a ghost’s. It was blank as stone. + +I had quite forgotten the companion, but at that same moment I saw +Roper hovering up beside me. His attitude was threatening, he was +three-parts drunk; a glance showed me he was an Englishman, and +obviously, by birth, a gentleman. + +“Roper, if you want your coat, you’d better take it. Boyde is under +arrest.” + +“Arrest be damned!” Roper cried in a loud voice that everybody heard. +There was already a crowd about us, but this increased it. Roper was +looking me over. He glared with anger. “You’re that cad Blackwood, +I suppose, are you? I’ve heard about you. I know your whole damned +rotten story and the way you’ve treated Boyde. But Boyde’s a friend of +mine. No one can do anything to him while _I’m_ here...!” + +He roared and shouted in that crowded bar-room, while the whole place +looked on and listened, ready to interfere at the first sign of “a +fuss.” A blow, a little push even, would have laid me out, and in +the general scuffle or free fight that was bound to follow, Boyde +could have got clear away--but neither he nor Roper thought of this +apparently. Roper went on pouring out his drunken abuse, lurching +forward but never actually touching me, while Boyde stood perfectly +still and listened in silence. He made no attempt to shake off my hand +even. I suddenly then leaned over and spoke into his ear: + +“If you come quietly at once it’s only petit larceny--stealing the +money. Otherwise it’s forgery.” + +It acted like magic. An expression darted back into his face. He +turned, told Roper to shut up, said something to the crowd about its +being only a little misunderstanding, and walked without another word +towards the doors. I walked beside him, the men made a way; a few +seconds later we were in the street. Roper, who had waited to finish +his drink, and was puzzled besides by the quick manœuvre, lurched at +some distance after us. The two policemen, who had watched the scene +through the windows, stood waiting. Boyde swayed against me when he saw +them. I marched him up to the nearest one. “I make a charge of larceny +against this man, and the warrant is at Mulberry Street with Detective +Lawler. I am the complainant.” They told him he was under arrest, and +we began our horrible little procession to the station in West 21st +Street. + +Boyde was between the two policemen, I was next to the outside one, on +the kerb, Roper came reeling in the rear, shouting abuse and threats +into my face. The next time I saw Roper was in the court of General +Sessions, weeks later, when Boyde was brought up for trial. By that +time he had learned the truth; he came up and apologized. Boyde, he +told me, had swindled him even more completely than he had swindled me. + +The search in the station made me sick at heart; every pocket was +turned out; there was 80 dollars in cash; the sergeant used filthy +language. Boyde was taken down to a cell, and I, as a newspaper +reporter, was allowed to go down with him. I stayed for two hours, +talking through the bars. + +It was two in the morning when the sergeant turned me out after a +dreadful conversation, and when I reached home, to find Kay sitting up +anxiously still, I was too exhausted, from cold, excitement and hunger, +to tell him more than a bare outline of it all. I had to appear at +eight o’clock next morning and make my formal charge against Boyde, +in the Tombs Police Court--the Tombs, of all places!--and with that +thought in my mind I fell asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + +Boyde came up with the first batch of prisoners. The portentous shadow +of the Tombs prison, with its forbidding architecture, hung over the +whole scene. + +My first sight of him was sitting among the rows of prisoners, waiting +to be called. He looked ill and broken, he made a pleading sign to me. +As a reporter I had the right to interview anybody and everybody, and +I made my way along the serried wooden benches. Lawler sat next him, +looking very pleased to have secured his prisoner, and a good story +into the bargain, without any trouble to himself; but when I tried to +shake hands with Boyde, I found to my horror that he was handcuffed. + +“Say, boss, be sure and git me name spelled right, and tell the +reporters that _I_ effected the arrest,” was the first thing that +Lawler said, using the phrase the detectives always used. + +By promising the man all he wanted and more besides, I managed to +get us all three into a corner where we could talk without everybody +else hearing; also I got the handcuffs taken off, for they were quite +unnecessary inside the building. The first thing Boyde said was to +beg for a drink; he had taken a lot the night before, his throat was +parched, his nerves were bad. At the moment this was quite impossible, +but I got one for him in the reporters’ room after his case had been +called. The second thing he said was to beg me to “keep it out of the +papers,” though this, of course, lay quite beyond my powers. Apart +from this he said very little except to repeat and repeat that he was +repentant, and to beg me to withdraw the charge, though this was now +impossible, the matter being out of my hands. Also, he wondered what +the sentence would be--he meant to plead guilty--and implored me to +leave out the forgery. He was very badly frightened. + +That early morning hour in the stinking atmosphere of the over-heated +police court was too ghastly ever to be forgotten, but there were +particular moments when pain and pity, to say nothing of other +strangely mixed emotions, stabbed me with peculiar ferocity. When the +reporters flocked round him like vultures after prey was one of these; +another was when Boyde stood in front of the Tammany magistrate, Ryan +by name, and pleaded guilty. A mistake, though not actually wrong, had +crept into the charge sheet. In my excitement of the night before the +amount stolen had been entered as $32, and though this was the truth, +I had meant to make it only $25. I was unintentionally to blame for +this--it was now Grand Larceny instead of Petit Larceny. A magistrate +could only deal with the lesser offence, and Boyde therefore was held +for trial in General Sessions, instead of being sentenced then and +there. The look he gave me as Ryan spoke the words was like a knife. He +believed I had done this purposely. A third unforgettable moment was +when he was being roughly pushed downstairs on his way to a cell in the +Tombs: he looked back forlornly over his shoulder at me. + +In the reporters’ room it was decided to print the “Boyde story.” +I knew all the men; Acton Davies was there for the _Evening Sun_, +specially sent down by McCloy. The reporters dragged and tore at me. +I realized what “interviewed” victims felt when they wished to hide +everything away inside themselves. Yet the facts had to be told; it was +best I should give them accurately, if as briefly, as leniently, as +possible. The sight of all those vultures (of whom, incidentally, I was +one) scribbling down busily the details of my intimate life with Boyde, +to be hawked later in the streets as news, was likewise a picture not +easily forgotten. + +Before the ordeal was over, Lawler returned from the cell. He insisted, +with a wink at me, that he had made the arrest; the credit of the chase +he also claimed; he had, too, additional facts about Boyde’s past +criminal career of which I was quite ignorant, supplied by records at +headquarters. Lawler intended to get all the advertisement for himself +he could. I let his lying pass. On the whole it seemed best to let him +be responsible for the arrest; it made the story more commonplace, and, +luckily, so far, I had not described this scene. + +An hour later I was talking with Boyde between the bars of his cell +in the Tombs prison, while, two hours later, every evening paper in +New York had a column or a column and a half about us printed on its +front page. There were scare headlines of atrocious sort. There were +posters, too, showing our names in big letters. News that day happened +to be scarce, and the Boyde story was “good stuff” apparently. The talk +with him in the cell was one of many; he was there six weeks before the +trial came on. + +The papers finished him; the case was too notorious for him ever to +swindle again unless he changed his name. They scarified him, they left +out no detail, they hunted up a thousand new ones, he had “cut a wide +swath” (_sic_) all over New York State, as one of them printed. I had +not mentioned Pauline M---- or the pastor’s daughter, yet both were +included. To see my own name in print for the first time, the names of +my parents, and of half the peerage as well, was bad enough; to find +myself classed with bad company generally, with crooks and rogues, with +shady actresses, with criminals, was decidedly unpleasant. Paragraphs +my brother wrote to me appeared in London papers too. Copies of the +New York ones were sent to my father. “Too foxy for Algernon” was a +headline he read out to my brother in his library. Boyde had even +written to him, signing himself “your cousin,” to ask for money for +“your poor son,” but had received no reply. There is no need now to +mention names, but any distinguished connexion either of us possessed +appeared in the headlines or the article itself. “Nephew of an earl +held in $1,000 bail,” “Cousin of Lord X,” “Scion of British Aristocracy +a Sneak-thief,” were some of the descriptions. “Son of a duchess +in the Soup,” was another. The _Staatszeitung_ had a phrase which +threw a momentary light on an aspect of lower life in the city, when +Freytag, the German reporter who had taught me how to write a court +story, described me as “Sohn einer _sogennanten_ Herzogin.” He only +laughed when I spoke to him about it. “How should _I_ know,” he said +sceptically.... + +Boyde came up in due course before Recorder Smythe in general sessions, +the most severe and most dreaded of all the judges. He still wore +my thick suit, he wore also a pair of Harding Davis’s boots, and, I +believe, something else of Sothern’s. His sentence was two years in +the Penitentiary on Blackwell Island. A group of other people he had +swindled, including “Artist Palmer,” were in court; so was an assistant +of Ikey’s, with _all_ our pawned articles. Every single thing, whether +stolen goods or not, was returned to me. The doctor and Kay were also +there. Some of his letters are a human document: + + _Tombs_, + December, 1892. + + Oh, Blackwood, what black treachery I returned you for your many + kindnesses, base lying for all your straightforward dealing with + me! You freely forgave me what ninety-nine men out of every hundred + would, if not imprisoned me for, certainly never have forgiven me. + I returned evil for good, and you still bore with me. You said--I + shall never forget it, for it was when you found the stamp torn + off your letter--and even at that moment I had money in my pocket + belonging to you, just as I had when you shared your last 50 cent. + piece that night at Krisches, for I _must_ say this, though I could + tear myself to pieces when I think of it--You said, ‘B. how you + must _hate_ me!’ + + No, Blackwood, it seems a paradox, but I could not hate you if I + tried to. I don’t say this because I am in prison, or with any + desire to flatter. I am sincere in everything I say and it comes + from my heart. You have every reason to think from my former + actions that I am not sincere above reward, but I am. + + Oh, the old, but nevertheless true remark, TOO LATE! It comes + home to me with striking and horrible vividness. Too Late! I + have forfeited the respect of every good and honest man, have + disgraced my English name and my family. But, let me go. Five + years of service will be the best thing for me. I can enlist under + another name and may perhaps get a commission in time. Give me the + chance of redeeming myself, please. If ever any man was sincerely + repentant for the past I am that man. + ARTHUR B. + + Please excuse mistakes and alterations. I am so fearfully shaky. + + + _The Tombs City Prison, + Centre Street, N. Y._ + + Please read through before destroying it. + + I have begged another sheet of paper and stamp in order to make one + final appeal. + + Will you not come down again on receipt of this? Please do, for + God’s sake. No visitors are allowed on New Year’s Day, or on + Sunday. New Year’s Day! What a new year’s day for me! Let me + begin it afresh. I have a favour to ask you which I must ask you + verbally; I cannot put it on paper. It is getting dark; so once + more I ask you, I implore you, to have mercy on me for my mother’s + sake. For her sake spare + ARTHUR B. + + Visiting hours 10-2. I am speaking the truth and nothing but the + truth when I say that I am sincerely sorry for all that I have done + and implore your pardon. This is not an insincere expression, but + one from my heart. Come down again, please, even to speak to me, + for you don’t know the mental agony I am suffering. + A. B. + + + _Tombs City Prison_, + New Year’s Day. + + It was more than kind of you to come all the way down here and then + after all not be able to see me; not much loss to you, it is true, + but a bitter disappointment to me. Palmer came down and talked + _very_ kindly to me and instilled a little hope in me. But this is + a wretched New Year’s Day. + + I was talking to an old convict this morning, a man who in his life + has been about sixteen years in jail, and he said that if he had + only been let off in the first instance with a few days in here, he + would have been a different man to-day, but after serving one term + he became reckless and has now become a notorious thief. As I said + to you, think of me after 20 years’ penal servitude. + + Blackwood, won’t you and Palmer stay your hands once more? I will + leave the country, and if ever I should return you could always + have me arrested. I will never trouble you again. Let me make a + fresh start once more. + + Should you decide not to press the charge you can go to the + District Attorney’s Office and inform them of the fact. + + I once more _implore_ you and Palmer to have pity on me, and please + come and see me! May I wish you and Palmer a bright and happy New + Year, brighter and happier than the past one. + ARTHUR B. + + Many thanks for the paper and envelopes. Bless you! + + + _The Tombs._ + + Very many thanks for your visit yesterday. It is the only pleasure + I have. I believe what you say is true--that I am reaping the + result of evil done in the past and that the only real way to atone + is to meet it squarely and accept my punishment without grumbling. + If Karma is true, it is just, and I shall get what I deserve, and + not an iota more. + + I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for being so lenient to + me and even writing to the District Attorney on my behalf. I am + truly grateful, Blackwood. Please do not think I am not sorry for + what I have done, or that I am not really penitent, for I am indeed. + + It was bitterly cold last night and I was awfully glad to have my + overcoat, and blessed you for sending it. I know you got it out of + pawn for me, and that is another kindness. + + Again, for the last time probably, I thank you for your many acts + of kindness. I bitterly regret and earnestly repent for the manner + I treated you, returning evil for good, and I shall think much of + you when serving my time under a blazing sun or in my cramped and + chilly cell. + ARTHUR B. + + + _Tombs Prison._ + + I have just been to the Court House and pleaded guilty. My sentence + is remanded till Friday week. If I could only get that lawyer I + might get the sentence reduced a little. But Judge Smythe is a very + hard man. My small hopes were dashed away on hearing that you had + been subpœnaed to go before the Grand Jury this morning. + + Now all hope is gone; only blank, blank despair; no hope, all is + dark. I wish I could die--much rather that than suffer this awful + remorse. Do you know I sometimes think I am going mad? When I come + out I shall be too old for the army, and what else can a felon, + a criminal, a convict do? Is crime the only refuge? Shall I sink + lower and lower? Will what small sense of decency and honour I have + left be utterly destroyed and made callous by propinquity with + other criminals? + + What a frightful nightmare to conjure up! Nightmare? No, it is only + too true; it is stern, inexorable reality. Thank you for sending + the clothes. I had no change before. Bless you! + + A. B. + + + _Tombs City Prison._ + + What follows I wish to write voluntarily. It is a Confession and + relieves me-- + + I certainly wish to convey to you the fact of my sincere and deep + sorrow for the shameful manner I treated you and abused your + confidence and kindness. I fear that one of my letters cannot + have reached you, as I am sure I wrote at length on this subject. + You mistake and misjudge me when you think it is only fear that + prompts me to write as I do. My eyes are opened to the enormity of + my past crimes, opened by thinking and seeing things in the proper + light. I have been alone with my thought for days now, and God + knows how many more days will pass over my head before I again face + the world. It will relieve me to give you a full confession of my + treachery, for I believe there is no real repentance without real + confession. + + To begin with the editor. I never had a chance of the position at + Rockaway, although the editor once said casually that he would + try and find me some similar position. I lied to you all through + in that, for I wished you to think I had prospects of paying work + in view. When you used to come down with me to Franklin Street + (Harper’s) I waited about upstairs and looked at books, etc., and + then came down and concocted some lies about what I had said and + done. I once borrowed $15 from him (Richard Harding Davis, Editor + “Harper’s Weekly”) and said they were for you. My dealings with + Sothern were that he from time to time lent me money, some $50 in + all, and gave me a position at ten dollars a week. I told him when + borrowing that the money was for your doctor, and when borrowing + more I said you had wasted it in drink. I asked him to cash several + of the cheques I forged, but he would never do this. I was paid + up in full by the manager and also for the extra performances + of the “Disreputable Mr. Reagen.” I little thought when I was + playing Merivale’s part that I should act it true to life. With + Mr. Beattie I lied all through. He never had any money of mine or + knew my mother or ever heard from her. He never bailed me out, and + I never used to see him as I said I did. You and Palmer thought + that I spent some time in jail this summer, but I would rather not + say anything in writing about that. My dealings with Palmer were + that I borrowed money from him and said it was for you. I also + went to your banker acquaintance and borrowed twenty-five dollars + for a specialist, saying it was at your request. I did pawn the + overcoat you gave me to post to Kay, and that time you forgave me + for stealing your money I had in my pocket the proceeds of three + stories of yours I had given the _Sun_, and they had paid for. But, + even in the face of your forgiveness, I wanted this money so much + for my indulgences that I could not face the privation of handing + it over to you. I lied in the face of your kindness and generosity, + and when you even needed food I was going about drinking and + womanizing and spending freely. When my funds were exhausted I came + back to you, for I knew you would always forgive me. It is awful. + No wonder you want to see me go to prison. I am as wicked a man as + ever lived, I believe. I wonder what caused me to tell such lies. + Am I a natural born liar? It seems like it. You wrong me in one + thing--in thinking my sorrow is sham and prompted by fear and the + hope of getting off. I cannot find words to express my contrition. + Believe me, I would do anything in my power, and will do, when + my term is up, to make reparation. I submit to the inevitable. I + can imagine something now of what you must have suffered when I + left you alone without food or money those four days and nights. + I think, however, the worst thing I did was telling the pastor’s + daughter that you tried to prevent our meeting because you wished + me to marry one of your sisters, though I do not know, of course, + whether you have any even. That, and the taking the stamps off + your letters so that I could get beer, seem to weigh most heavily + with me now in my darkness and loneliness. I do not know what my + sentence will be--heavy, I suspect, unless I can get someone to + plead for me, and I have not a single solitary friend to do that. + I am utterly alone. I have been in this cell now twenty-one days, + and have a week more before sentence is given. It seems like six + months. No one can realize what prison is like till they have tried + it. + + Believe me, I am deeply and truly sorry. I speak from my heart. + Think of me as kindly as you can when I am in the Penitentiary. I + hope I shall see you once more. + ARTHUR B. + +I saw Boyde twice in my life afterwards; I heard, indirectly, from him +once: the prison chaplain wrote to ask for “his things” which, Boyde +told him, I “insisted upon keeping.” He never had any “things” at all +while I knew him; the letter was indignant and offensive. Boyde had +evidently “told a tale” to the chaplain. + +The first time I saw him was some eighteen months after he had been +sent up, good behaviour evidently having shortened his term. I was +walking up Irving Place and saw him suddenly about fifty yards in front +of me. It was my own thick suit I recognized first, then its wearer. I +instinctively called out his name. He turned, looked at me, hurried on, +and went round the corner into 21st Street. Once round the corner, he +must have run like a hare, for when I entered the street too, he had +disappeared. + +The second, and last, time I saw him was in London ten years later--at +a bookstall in Charing Cross station. He saw me, however, first, or +before I could come close enough to speak, and he melted away into the +crowd with swift and accomplished ease. I was near enough, though, +to note that he had grown his heavy moustache again, still wore his +eyeglass, and was smartly, even prosperously, dressed. He looked very +little older. From Lynwood Palmer, whom I met soon afterwards in +Piccadilly, I heard that my old employer, the Horse, had seen him at +Tattersalls not long before, and that he, Boyde, had come and begged +Palmer not to give him away as he was “after some Jews only”! Artist +Palmer took no action. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + +McCloy took me back on the _Evening Sun_, according to his promise, +about mid-January, and about the same time Mrs. Bernstein sold her +house and moved to another lower down the street, almost opposite to +the doctor’s. There were no insects, all our things were out of pawn, +we had overcoats again, but we had to find a new Ikey, for the old +Ikey, of course, would have nothing more to do with our trousers, +gladstone bag, top hat and tennis cups. + +The East 19th Street chapter was closed when Boyde went to Blackwell +Island; another in the same street had begun: Mrs. Bernstein begged +us to move with her: we owed her big arrears of rent; also, for some +odd reason, she really liked us. In her odd way she even tried to +mother me, as though her interest, somewhere perhaps her pity too, +were touched. “You haf had drouble in England, I subbose?” she hinted +sympathetically. She had read the newspapers carefully, and could not +understand why I should be exiled in poverty in this way unless I had +done something shady at home. It followed that I had been sent out +to America for my country’s good. She shared, that is, the view most +people took of my position in New York. + +Only three months had passed since we arrived, but it seemed years. I +had never lived anywhere else. The sheltered English life, the Canadian +adventures, above all the months upon our happy island, lay far away +down the wrong end of a telescope, small, distant patches, brightly +coloured, lit by a radiant sun, remote, incredible. It was not myself +but another person I watched moving across these miniature maps of +memory. Those happy days, states, places, those careless, sanguine +moods, those former points of view so bright with hope, seemed gone for +ever. I now lived in a world where I belonged. I should never climb +out again. + +The intensity of emotion at the time is difficult to realize now, and +quite impossible to recapture. I only know that my feelings burned +like fire, all the fiercer, of course, for being inarticulate. The +exaggeration was natural enough; everything was out of proportion in +me: Boyde had destroyed my faith in people. I believed in no one. The +doctor had said that to lose belief in others made life insupportable. +I found that statement true. There was a deep bitterness in my heart +that for a time was more than I could manage, and this distrust and +bitterness led me into an act of cruelty that shames me to this day. + +Into the roar and thunder of that frenzied newspaper office stole a +hesitating figure one afternoon, a shy youth with rosy cheeks and +curly hair, dressed in shabby but well-cut clothes, and obviously an +Englishman. He wore gloves and carried a “cane”; these marked him +as a “Britisher” at once. He was asking for someone; fingers were +pointed at me; he was faintly familiar; I had seen the face before--but +where? He came over and introduced himself as Calder, son of a Midland +coach-builder; we had met at some place or other--outside a studio +door, I think--and he knew Kay. I forget what he was doing in New +York---idling, I think, or travelling. He had outlived his cash, at any +rate. He was in difficulties. I distrusted him instantly. He was, of +course, another Boyde. I gave him the curtest possible greeting. He, in +turn, found the greatest possible difficulty in telling me his story. + +I was sitting at the reporters’ table in shirt-sleeves (owing to the +suffocating temperature of the over-heated office), scribbling at +top speed the details of some lurid “story,” while Calder told me +his tale. He wanted to whisper, but the noise forced him to shout, +and this disconcerted him. No one listened, however; he had merely +brought a “story” in. He had--but it was his own story. I have quite +forgotten what it was, or what had happened to him; only the main point +I remember: he had nowhere to sleep. Of his story I did not believe +a single word, though I did believe that he had no bed. “Can I bunk +with you to-night?” he came finally to the point. I told him he most +certainly could not. He refused to believe me. I assured him I meant +it. I was his last hope, he said, with a nervous grin. I told him to +try a doss-house. He grinned and giggled and flushed--then thanked me! +It would only be for a night or two, he urged. “You can’t possibly +let me walk the streets all night!” I replied that one Boyde had been +enough for me. I had learnt my lesson, he could walk the streets for +the rest of his life for all I cared. He giggled, still refusing to +believe I meant it. His father was sending money. He would repay me. +He went on pleading. I again repeated that I could not take him in. He +left, still thanking me and blushing. + +Visions of another Boyde were in my mind. At the time, moreover, our +poverty was worse than it ever had been. Boyde, I found, had sold six +of my French stories to McCloy at $5 each, and had pocketed the money. +My salary was now being docked five dollars each week till this $30 +was paid off. We had, therefore, only ten dollars a week between the +two of us. Everything was in pawn again, and times were extra hard. To +have Calder living on us was out of the question, for once he got in we +should never get him out. I was tired of criminal parasites. + +It was my head that argued thus; in my heart I knew perfectly well that +Calder was guileless, innocent as milk, an honest, feckless, stupid +fellow who was in genuine difficulty for the moment, but who would +never sponge on us, and certainly do nothing mean. Conscience pricked +me--for half an hour perhaps; in the stress and excitement of the day +I then forgot him. That evening Acton Davis, the dramatic critic, gave +me a theatre seat, on condition that I wrote the notice for him. It was +after eleven when I reached home. Curled up in my bed, sound asleep, +his clothes neatly folded on the chair, lay Calder. + +It was February and freezing cold. Kay was away for the week, trying +a new play at Mount Vernon, where he slept. There was no reason why I +should not have let Calder spend at least one warm night in the room. +But, apart from the shock of annoyance at finding him asleep in my +own bed, and apart from a moment’s anger at his cool impudence, the +startling parallel with Boyde was vividly unpleasant. It was Boyde No. +2 I saw sleeping in my bed. If I let him stay one night I should never +get rid of him at all. $10 a week among three! Calder must take up his +bed and walk. + +I woke him and told him to dress and leave the room. I watched him +dress, heard him plead, heard him describe the freezing weather, +describe his walking the streets all night without a cent in his +pockets. He blushed and giggled all the time. It was some minutes +before he believed I was in earnest, before he crawled out of bed; it +was much longer before he was dressed and ready to go.... I saw him +down the stairs and through the front door and out into the bitter +street. I gave him a dollar, which represented two days’ meals for +me, and would pay a bed in a doss-house for him. When he was gone I +spent a wretched night, ashamed of myself through and through. It +really was Boyde who turned him out, but the excuse had no comfort in +it. The little incident remains unkindly vivid; I still see it; it +happens over again; the foolish, good-natured face, the blushes and +shyness, the implicit belief in my own kindness, the red cheeks and +curly hair--going through the front door into the bitter streets. It +all stands out. Shame and remorse go up and down in me while I write it +now, a belated confession.... I never saw Calder again. + +Another thing that still shames me is our treatment of old greasy +Mother Bernstein. Though a little thing, this likewise keeps vividly +alive. A “little” thing! The big things, invariably with extenuating +circumstances that furnish modifying excuses and comforting +explanations, are less stinging in the memory. It is the little things +that pierce and burn and prick for years to come. In my treatment of +Mrs. Bernstein, at any rate, lay an alleviating touch of comedy. In +the end, too, the debt was paid. Twelve months later--it seemed a +period of years--Kay got suddenly from a brother £100--an enormous sum; +while I had twice received from my brother, God bless him! post-office +orders for £10. This was a long time ahead yet, but Mrs. Bernstein +eventually received her due with our sincerest thanks. She had moved to +another house in Lafayette Place by then. We paid up and left her, Kay +going to one boarding-house, I to another. + +The payment in full, at any rate, relieved my conscience, for the way +we bullied that poor old Jewess was inexcusable. The excuse I found +seemed adequate at the time, however--we must frighten her or be turned +out. Each time she pressed for payment, out came my heavy artillery; +imaginary insects, threats of newspaper articles, bluster, bluff and +bullying of every description, often reducing her to tears, and a final +indignant volley to the effect that “If you don’t trust us, we had +better go; in fact, if this occurs again, we _shall_ go!” More than +once we pretended to pack up; more than once I announced that we had +found other rooms; “Next Monday I shall pay you the few dollars we owe, +and leave your house, and you will read an account of your conduct in +the _Evening Sun_, Mrs. Bernstein.” She invariably came to heel. “I ask +my hospand” had no sequel. By frightening and bullying her, I stayed +on and on and on, owing months’ and months’ rent and breakfast; our +ascendancy over her was complete. It was, none the less, a shameful +business, for at the time it seemed doubtful if we should ever be in a +position to pay the kind old woman anything at all.... + +The fifteen months I now spent reporting for the _Evening Sun_ at +fifteen dollars a week lie in the mind like a smudged blur of dreary +wretchedness, a few incidents only standing out.... The desire for +the drug was conquered, the old doctor was dead, Kay had obtained +a position with a firm in Exchange Place, where he made a small, +uncertain income in a business that was an absolute mystery to me, the +buying and selling of exchange between banks. Louis B---- had meanwhile +arrived, without a cent to his name. It was a long and bitter period, +three of us in a small room again, but at least an honest three. +Louis’s French temperament ran to absinthe--when he could get it. He +used the mattress on the floor, while Kay and I shared the bed between +us. Our clothes were useless to the short, rotund little Frenchman; +as the weeks passed he looked more and more like a pantomime figure +in the streets, and when he went to give his rare French and Spanish +lessons he never dared to take off his overcoat (which he had managed +to keep) even in the hottest room, nor during the most torrid of summer +days. Often he dared not unbutton the collar he turned up about his +neck, affirming with much affected coughing that he had a “dreadful +throat.” He was, by nature and habit, an inveterate cigarette smoker; +a cigarette, indeed, meant more to him than a meal, and I can still +see him crawling about the floor of the room on all fours in the early +morning, “hunting snipe,” as he called it--in other words, looking for +fag-ends. He was either extremely sanguine or extremely depressed; in +the former mood he planned the most alluring and marvellous schemes, in +the latter he talked of suicide. His wife, whom he dearly loved, had a +baby soon after his arrival. He suffered a good deal.... + +He was a great addition to our party, if at the same time a great +drain on our purse. His keen, materialistic French mind was very +eager, logical, well-informed, and critical in a destructive sense, an +iconoclast if ever there was one. All forms of belief were idols it +was his great delight to destroy; faith was superstition; cosmogonies +were inventions of men whose natural feebleness forced them to seek +something bigger and more wonderful than themselves; creeds, from +primitive animism to Buddhism and Christianity, were, similarly, +man-made, with a dose of pretentious ethics thrown in; while soul, +spirit, survival after death, were creations of human vanity and +egoism, and had not a single atom of evidence to support them from the +beginning of the world to date. Naturally, he disbelieved everything +that I believed, and, naturally, too, our arguments left us both +precisely where we started. But they helped the evenings, often hungry +evenings, to pass without monotony; and when, as sometimes though but +rarely happened, Louis had come by a drop of absinthe, monotony was +entirely forgotten. He would sit crossed-legged on his mattress, his +brown eyes sparkling in the round little face, his thick curly black +hair looking like stiff wire, his podgy hands gesticulating, his +language voluble in French and English mixed, his infectious laughter +ringing and bubbling out from time to time--and the evening would pass +like magic. He was charged with poetry and music too. On absinthe +evenings, indeed, it was difficult to get any sleep at all ... and +the first thing in the morning he would be hunting for “snipe” on all +fours, cursing life and fate, in a black depression which made him +think of suicide, and looking like a yellow Chinese God of Luck that +had come to life. + +Hunger was agony to him, but, oddly enough, he never grew less rotund. +He particularly enjoyed singing what he called _la messe noire_ with +astonishing variations in his high falsetto. This “mass” was performed +by all three of us to a plaster-cast faun an artist had given me in +Toronto. It had come in the packing-case with our other things, this +Donatello, and we set it on the mantelpiece, filled a saucer with +melted candle stolen from a boarder’s room, lit the piece of string +which served for wick, and turned the gas out. In the darkened room +the faunish face leered and moved, as the flickering light from below +set the shadows shifting about its features; the fiddle, Louis’s thin +falsetto, Kay’s bass, badly out of tune, and my own voice thrown in as +well, produced a volume of sound the other boarders strongly objected +to--at one o’clock in the morning. Yet the only time Mrs. Bernstein +came to complain, she got no farther than the door: Louis had a blanket +over his head and shoulders, Kay was in his night-shirt, which was a +day-shirt really, the old Irving wig lying crooked on his head, and I +was but half dressed, fiddling for all I was worth. The darkened room, +the three figures passing to and fro and chanting, the strange weird +face of the faun, it by the flickering flame from below, startled her +so that she stood stock-still on the threshold without a word. The +next second she was gone.... What eventually happened to Louis I never +knew. Months later he moved to a room up-town. We lost track of one +another, and I have no idea how fate behaved to him in after-life. He +was thirty-five when he sang the _messe noire_, hunted snipe, and gave +occasional lessons in French and Spanish. + +These trivial little memories remain vivid for some reason. To my +precious Sundays in Bronx Park, or farther afield when the days grew +longer, he came too, and Kay came with him. We shared the teapot and +tin mug I still kept hidden behind a boulder, we shared the fire I +always made--neither of my companions shared my mood of happiness.... +I was glad when they both refused to get up and start at eight, +preferring to spend the morning in bed. For months and months I never +missed a single Sunday, wet or fine, for these outings were life to me, +and I made a rough lean-to that kept the rain off in bad weather.... +The car-fare was only 30 cents, both ways; bread and a lump of cheese +provided two meals; there were few Sundays when I did not get at least +seven or eight hours of intense happiness among the trees and wild +stretches of what was to me a veritable Eden of delight.... Nothing +experienced in later life, tender or grandiose, neither the splendour +of the Alps, the majesty of the Caucasus, the mystery of the desert, +the magic of spring in Italy or the grim wonder of the real backwoods +which I tasted later too--none of these produced the strange and subtle +ecstasy of happiness I found on those Sundays in the wastes of scrubby +Bronx Park, a few miles from “Noo York City.” ... It was, of course, +but the raw material, so to speak, of beauty, which indeed is true +always of “scenery” as a whole, but it was possible to find detail +which, grouped together, made unforgettable pictures by the score. +Though deprived of technique, I could _see_ the pictures I need never +think of painting. The selection of significant detail in scenery is +the secret of enjoyment, for such selection can be almost endless.... + +The hours passed too quickly always, but they provided the energy to +face what, to me, was the unadulterated misery of the week to follow. +A book was in my pocket and Shelley was in my memory. From the tram +to the trees was half a mile, perhaps, but with the first sight of +these, with the first scent of leaves and earth, the first touch of the +wind of open spaces on my tongue, my joy rose like a great sea-wave, +and the city life, with all its hideousness, was utterly forgotten. +What occupied my mind during those seven or eight hours it would be +tedious to describe.... I was, besides, hopelessly inarticulate in +those early days; conclusions I arrived at were reached by feeling, not +by thinking; one, in particular, about which I felt so positive that +I _knew_ it was true, I could no more have expressed in words than I +could have flown or made a million. This particular conclusion that the +Sundays in Bronx Park gave me has, naturally, been expressed by others +far better than I could ever express it, but the first time I came +across the passage, perhaps a dozen years later in London, my thought +instantly flashed back to the teapot, the tin mug, and the boulder in +Bronx Park when the same conviction had burned into my own untaught +mind: + + “One conclusion was forced upon my mind ... and my impression of + its truth has ever since remained unshaken. It is that our normal + waking consciousness, rational consciousness as we call it, is but + _one special type_ of consciousness, whilst all about us, parted + from it by the filmiest of screens, there are potential forms of + consciousness entirely different. We may go through life without + suspecting their existence; but apply the requisite stimulus and at + a touch they are there in all their completeness; definite types of + mentality which probably somewhere have their field of application + and adaptation. No account of the universe in its totality can + be final which leaves these other forms of consciousness quite + disregarded. At any rate, they forbid a premature closing of our + accounts with reality. The whole drift of my education goes to + persuade me that the world of our present consciousness is _only + one_ out of many worlds of consciousness that exist, and that these + other worlds must contain experiences which have a meaning for our + life also.... [The insight in these other states] has a keynote + invariably of reconciliation. It is as if the opposites of the + world, whose contradictions and conflict make all our difficulties + and troubles, were melting into unity.”[1] + + [1] “Varieties of Religious Experience.” William James. + +The immortal may mingle with certain moods, perhaps, especially when +violent contrast underlies the transition, and when deep yearnings, +suppressed equally with violence, find their sudden radiant outlet. +Since those Bronx Park days, when Nature caught me with such profound, +uplifting magic, yet when thought was dumb and inarticulate, I am for +ever coming across neat expressions by better minds than mine of what I +then felt, and even believed I _knew_, in some unimagined way. Nature +drew me, perhaps, away from life, while at the same time there glowed +in my heart strange unrealizable desires to help life, to assist at her +Utopian development, to work myself to the bone for the improvement +of humanity. The contradiction, silly and high-flown though it now +sounds, was then true. Inextinguishable fires to this end blazed in +me, both mind and heart were literally on fire. My failure with Boyde, +my meanness with Calder, to mention no graver lapses, both bit deep, +but the intense longing to lose my Self in some Utopian cause was as +strong as the other longing to be lost in the heart of some unstained +and splendid wilderness of natural beauty. And the conflict puzzled me. +Being inarticulate, I could not even find relief in words, though, as +mentioned, I have often since discovered my feelings of those distant +days expressed neatly enough by others. Only a few days ago I came +across an instance: + +“If Nature catches the soul young it is lost to humanity,” groans +Leroy, in a truly significant book of 1922.[2] + +[2] “The Interpreters,” by A. E. The characters “interpret” the +“relation of the politics of Time to the politics of Eternity.” + +“No, no,” replies the poet. “The earth spirit does not draw us aside +from life. How could that which is father and mother of us all lead us +to err from the law of our being?” + +And, again, as I sat puzzling about the amazing horror of what was +called the Civilization of the New World, and doubtless making the +commonplace mistake of thinking that New York City was America:-- + + “Every great civilization, I think, has a Deity behind it, or + a divine shepherd who guided it on some plan in the cosmic + imagination. ‘Behold,’ said an ancient Oracle, ‘how the Heavens + glitter with intellectual sections.’... These are archetypal images + we follow dimly in our evolution.” + + “How do you conceive of these powers as affecting civilization?” + + “I believe they are incarnate in the race; more in the group than + in the individual; and they tend to bring about an orchestration of + the genius of the race, to make manifest in time their portion of + eternal beauty....”[3] + + [3] _Ibid._ + +My conception of the universe, at any rate, in these early days +was imaginative entirely; the critical function, which comes with +greater knowledge, with reason, with fuller experience, lay wholly +dormant. I communed with both gods and devils. New York stoked the +furnace--provided the contrasts. Experience, very slowly, furnished the +files and sand-paper which lay bare what may be real beneath by rubbing +away the pretty gilt. Certain convictions of those far days, however, +stood the test, whatever that test may be worth, and have justified +themselves to me with later years as assuredly _not_ gilt. That unity +of life is true, and that our normal human consciousness is but one +type, and a somewhat insignificant type at that, hold unalterably +real for me to-day. My other conviction, born in Bronx Park in 1892 +by the teapot, tin mug, and familiar boulder which concealed these +indispensable utensils during the week, is that the Mystical Experience +known to many throughout the ages with invariable similarity is _not_ a +pathogenic experience, but is due to a desirable, genuine and valuable +expansion of consciousness which furnishes knowledge normally ahead +of the race; but, since language can only describe the experience of +the race, that it is incommunicable because no words exist, and that +only those who have experienced it can comprehend it. The best equipped +modern “intellectual” (above all the “intellectual” perhaps), the most +advanced scientist, as, on the other hand, the drayman, the coster, the +city clerk, must remain not only dumb before its revelation, stupid, +hopelessly at sea, angry probably, but contemptuous and certainly +mystified: they must also appear, if they be honest, entirely and +unalterably _sceptical_. Such scepticism is their penalty; it is, +equally, their judge and their confession. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + + +Among the “incidents” that stand out from the dim, miserable smudge of +fifteen months, is one that centres about a strange figure, and a most +lovable fellow, named Angus Hamilton. Various odd fish drifted on to +the paper as reporters, and drifted off again; they form part of an +unimportant kaleidoscope. But Angus Hamilton, with his generosity, his +startling habits, his undoubted ability, his sad and sudden end, stands +out. + +My position had improved since the publication of the Boyde story, +chiefly, of course, because of the way the peerage had been dragged +into its details and its headlines. I received no advance in salary, +but I received an advance in respect. Even McCloy was different: “Why +waste your time with us?” he spat at me like a machine-gun with a rapid +smile. “Go home. Collect a lot of umbrellas and turned-up trousers and +letters of introduction. Then come out to ‘visit the States,’ marry +an heiress, and go home and live in comfort!” He was very lenient to +my numerous mistakes. Other papers “got a beat” on me, I “fell down” +times without number, I failed to get an interview with all and sundry +because I could not find “the nerve” to intrude at certain moments into +the lives and griefs of others. But McCloy winked the other eye, even +if he never raised my pay. Other men were sacked out of hand. I stayed +on. “You’ve got a pull with Mac!” said “Whitey.” New men took the +places of the lost. Among these I noticed an Englishman. Cooper noticed +him too. “Better share an umbrella and go arm in arm,” he said in his +good-natured way. “He’s a fellow-Britisher.” + +Why he came to New York I never understood. He was a stepson of +Pinero, the playwright, and he received occasional moneys from Daniel +Frohman, by way of allowance, I supposed, though I never knew exactly. +Clever though he was, he was a worse reporter than myself--because he +didn’t care two straws whether he got the news or did not get it. He +had a “pull” of some sort, with Laffan probably, we thought. He came +to our boarding-house in East 19th Street. He had a bad stammer. His +methods of reporting were peculiar to himself. Often enough, when sent +out on a distasteful assignment, he simply went home. He had literary +talent and wrote well when he liked. When Frohman handed out his money, +he spent it in giving a big dinner to various friends, though he never +included Kay, Louis, or myself among his distinguished guests. We had +no dress-suits, for one thing. + +Hamilton was perhaps twenty-one at the time, a trifle younger than +myself, at any rate. He came downstairs sometimes to spend the evening +in our room. In spite of his stammer and a certain shyness, he was +always very welcome. He liked, above all, to listen to weird stories I +used to tell, strange, wild, improbable tales akin to ghost-stories. +When the Black Mass failed to attract, when Louis was uninspired by +absinthe, or when no argument was afoot, such as whether poet or +scientist were the highest type of human being, I discovered this taste +for spinning yarns, usually of a ghostly character, and found, to my +surprise, that my listeners were enthralled. At a moment’s notice, no +theme or idea being in my head, I found that I could invent a tale, +with beginning, middle and climax. Something in me, doubtless, sought a +natural outlet. The stories, at any rate, poured forth endlessly. “May +I write that one?” Hamilton would ask. “It’s a corker!” And he would +bring his written version to read to us a few evenings later. “It ought +to sell,” he said, though I never heard that it did sell actually. +Certainly, it never occurred to me that I might write and sell it +myself. And Angus Hamilton is mentioned here because it was owing to a +chance act of his that I eventually took to writing and so found my +liberty. + +This happened some twelve years later, when I was living in a room in +Halsey Street, Chelsea, sweating my life out in the dried milk business +and earning barely enough at the job to make both ends meet. A hansom +stopped suddenly near me in Piccadilly Circus, its occupant shouted my +name, then sprang out--Angus Hamilton. + +He came round to my room for a talk over old days; he had done well +for himself as Reuter’s correspondent in the Manchurian War, had +published a book on Korea, and was just off to China, again as Reuter’s +agent. He reminded me of the stories I used to tell in the New York +boarding-house. I had written some of these, a couple of dozen perhaps, +and they lay in a cupboard. Could he see them? Might he take them away +and read them? + +It had been my habit and delight to spend my evenings composing yarns +on my typewriter, finding more pleasure in this than in any dinner +engagement, theatre or concert. Why this suddenly began I cannot say, +but I guess at a venture that the accumulated horror of the years in +New York was seeking expression. Wandering in Richmond Park at night +was the only rival entertainment that could tempt me from the joy +of typing out some tale or other in solitude. “Jimbo” I had already +written twice, several of the “John Silence” tales as well, and +numerous other queer ghostly stories of one sort or another. From among +these last Hamilton took a dozen or so away with him, but forgot to +send them back as he had promised. He had gone to China, I supposed, +and the matter had slipped his mind. It didn’t matter much--I went on +writing others; the stories were no good to anybody, the important +thing being the relief and keen pleasure I found in their expression. +But some weeks later a letter came from a publisher: “I have read your +book.... My reader tells me ...” this and that “about your stories.... +I shall be glad to publish them for you ...,” and then a few words +about a title and a request that I would call for an interview. + +It was some little time before I realized what the publisher was +talking about. Hamilton, without asking permission, had sent my +stories to him. Eveleigh Nash was the publisher, and his reader at +that time was Maude Ffoulkes, who later wrote Lady Cardigan’s Memoirs, +numerous other biographies, also “My Own Past,” and to whom I owe +an immense debt for unfailing guidance, help and encouragement from +that day to this. I never forget my shrinking fear at the idea of +appearing in print, my desire to use another name, my feeling that it +was all a mistake somewhere, the idea that I should have a book of +my own published being too absurd to accept as true. My relief when, +eventually, the papers gave it briefest possible mention, a few words +of not unkindly praise or blame, I remember too, and my astonishment, +some weeks later, to find a column in the _Spectator_, followed not +long afterwards by an interesting article in the Literary Page of the +_Morning Post_ on the genus “ghost story,” based on my book--by Hilaire +Belloc, as he told me years later. All of which prompted me to try +another book ... and after the third, “John Silence,” had appeared, to +renounce a problematical fortune in dried milk, and with typewriter +and kit-bag, to take my precious new liberty out to the Jura Mountains +where, at frs. 4.50 a day, I lived in reasonable comfort and wrote more +books. I was then thirty-six. + +Whether I should be grateful to my fellow-reporter on the _Evening Sun_ +is another matter. Liberty is priced above money, at any rate. I have +written some twenty books, but the cash received for these, though it +has paid for rent, for food, for clothing, separately, has never been +enough to pay for all three together, even on the most modest scale of +living, and my returns, both from America and England, remain still +microscopic. Angus Hamilton I never saw again. A year or so later, +while on a lecture tour in New York, things apparently went wrong with +him. Life drove against him in some way. He put a sudden end to himself. + +It seems strange to me now that so few incidents, and those such +trivial ones, stand out from the long months of newspaper work in New +York. Harrowing and dreadful stories, appalling in their evidence +of human degradation, or poignant beyond words in their revelation +of misery, temptation, failure, were my daily experience week after +week, month after month. I might now have bulky scrap-books packed +with thrilling plots of every kind, all taken from life. My affair +with Boyde, moreover, had taught me how much of curious psychological +interest lay behind the most ordinary arrest for a commonplace crime. +Yet, of all these thousands of cases, I remember hardly a single one, +while of uninteresting assignments Cooper gave me several still live +vividly in my memory. Social reporting, in particular, both amused and +distressed me, for which reasons probably it has not faded. Sitting in +the lobby at Sherry’s or Delmonico’s when a ball or society function +was in progress and taking the names of the guests as they entered, +taking the snubs and rudeness of these gay, careless folk as well, was +not calculated to add much to my self-respect. The lavish evidence +of money, the excess, often the atrocious taste, even stirred red +socialism in me, although this lasted only till I was out in the street +again. Various connexions, distant or otherwise, of my family often, +too, visited New York, while more than one had married an American +girl of prominent name. It was odd to see Lord Ava, Dufferin’s eldest +son, walk up the steps, and odder still to jot down his name upon the +list of “those present.” There was an American woman, too, who bore +my mother’s name.... To see any of these people was the last thing on +earth I wished, much less to speak to them or be recognized; they were +in another world to mine; none the less, I had odd sensations when I +saw them.... A ball of deaf-mutes, too, remains very clear, only the +shuffling sound of boots, and of the big drum whose heavy vibrations +through their feet enabled them to keep time, breaking the strange hush +of the dancing throng, for ever gesticulating with busy fingers. + +A much-coveted annual assignment once came my way, through the +kindness of McCloy, I think--the visit to the winter quarters of Barnum +and Bailey’s Circus. Every newspaper was invited; the animals were +inspected; an article was written; and the circus opened its yearly +tour with immense advertisements. In the evening there was a--banquet! +I came home in the early hours with my pockets stuffed for Kay and +Louis--cigars, fruit, rolls, and all imaginable edibles that might bear +the transport. But the occasion is clear for another reason--elephants +and rats. The keeper told us that the elephants were terrified of rats +because they feared the little beasts would run up their trunks. We +doubted his story. He offered to prove it. In the huge barn where some +twenty-five monsters stood, chained by the feet against the walls, +he emptied a sackful of live rats. The stampede, the trumpeting of +those frightened elephants is not easily forgotten. In the centre of +the great barn stood masses of hay cut into huge square blocks, and +the sight of us climbing for safety to the top of these slippery, +precariously balanced piles of hay is not easily forgotten either. + +The raid at dawn upon a quasi lunatic asylum, kept by an unqualified +man, should have left sharper impressions than is the case, for it was +certainly dramatic and sinister enough. Word came to the office that a +quack “doctor” was keeping a private Home for Lunatics at Amityville, +L.I., and that sane people, whom interested parties wished out of the +way, were incarcerated among the inmates. The Health Department were +going to raid it at dawn. It was to be a “scoop” for the _Evening Sun_, +and the assignment was given to me. + +I started while it was still dark, crossing the deserted ferry long +before the sun was up, but when I reached the lonely house, surrounded +by fields and a few scattered trees, I found that every newspaper in +the city was represented. Even the flimsy men were there, all cursing +their fate in the chilly air of early morning. No lights showed in +the building. The eastern sky began to flush. With the first glimmer +of dawn I saw the sheriff’s men at their various posts, hiding behind +trees and hedges, some crouching under the garden shrubberies, some +concealed even on the veranda of the house. After a long and weary +wait, the house began to stir; shutters were taken down; a window, then +a door, were thrown open; figures became visible moving inside from +room to room; and presently someone came out on to the veranda. He was +instantly seized and taken away. After several men and women had been +arrested in this way, a general raid of the whole house took place. A +dozen of the sheriff’s men rushed in. The nurses, male and female, the +“doctor”-proprietor, his assistants, and every single inmate, sane or +crazy, were all caught and brought out under arrest, before they had +tasted breakfast. + +It was broad daylight by this time. The whole party, of at least +thirty, were assembled in a barn where a magistrate, brought down +specially for the purpose, held an impromptu court. If some of the +inmates were insane at the time and had been so before incarceration, +others certainly had been deliberately made insane by the harsh and +cruel treatment to which they had purposely been subjected. There +were painful episodes, while the testimony was hurriedly listened to +in that improvised court of inquiry. Yet it has all, all vanished +from my memory. I forget even what the sequel was, or what sentence +the infamous proprietor received later on from a properly-constituted +court. Many a sane man or woman had been rendered crazy by the +treatment, I remember, and the quack had taken heavy payments from +interested relatives for this purpose. But all details have vanished +from my mind. What chiefly remains is the wonder of that breaking dawn, +the light stealing over the sky, the sweet smell of the country and the +tang of the salt sea. These, with the singing of the early birds, and +the great yearnings they stirred in me, left deep impressions. + +One reason, I am sure, why such painful and dramatic incidents have +left so little trace, is that I had a way of shielding myself from the +unpleasantness of them, so that their horror or nastiness, as the case +might be, never really got into me deeply. By a method of “detachment,” +as mentioned earlier, I protected my sensitive inner self from being +too much wounded. I would depute just sufficient intelligence and +observation to attend to the immediate work in hand, while the rest of +me, the major portion, lay inactive, uninvolved, certainly inoperative. +Painful and vivid impressions were, none the less, received, of course, +only I refused to admit or recognize them. They emerged, years later, +in stories perhaps, these suppressed hieroglyphics, but at the actual +time I could so protect myself that I did not consciously record them. +And hence, I think, my faint recollection now of a thousand horrible +experiences during these New York reporting days. + +This “detachment,” in the ignorant way I used it, was, perhaps, nothing +less than shirking of the unpleasant. At twenty-three I had not yet +discovered that better method which consists in facing the unpleasant +without reservation or evasion, while raising the energy thus released +into a higher channel, “transmuting” it, as the jargon of 1922 +describes it. “Detachment,” however, even in its earliest stages, and +provided it does not remain merely where it starts, is an acquisition +not without value; it can lead, at any rate, to interesting and curious +experiments. It deputes the surface-consciousness, or sufficient of +it, to deal with some disagreeable little matter in hand, while the +subconscious or major portion of the self--for those who are aware of +possessing it--may travel and go free. It is, I think, Bligh Bond, in +his “Gate of Remembrance,” who mentions that the automatic writer whose +revelations are there given, read a book aloud while his hand with the +pencil wrote. Many a literary man, whose inspiration depends upon the +stirrings of this mysterious subconscious region, knows that to read a +dull book, or talk to a dull person, engages just enough of his surface +consciousness to set the other portion free. Reading verse--though not +poetry, of course--has this effect; for some, a cinema performance, +with the soothing dimness, the music, the ever-shifting yet not too +arresting pictures, works the magic; for others, light music; for +others, again, looking out of a train window. There are as many ways +as individuals. To listen to Mrs. de Montmorency Smith telling her +tedious dream, while you hear just enough to comment intelligently upon +her endless details, even using some of these details to feed your own +more valuable dream, is an admirable method--I am told; and my own +childish habit of squeezing “through the crack between yesterday and +to-morrow” in that horrible bed of East 19th Street, merely happened to +be my own little personal adaptation of the principle.... + +Incidents that had held a touch of comedy remain more clearly in the +memory than those that held ugliness and horror only. A member of +the Reichstag Central Party, for instance, Rector Ahlwardt by name, +came out to conduct a campaign against the Jews. He was violently +anti-semitic. I was sent to meet his steamer at Quarantine because I +could speak German, and my instructions were to warn him that America +was a free country, that the Jews were honourable and respected +citizens, and that abuse would not be tolerated for a moment. These +instructions I carried out, while we drank white wine in the steamer’s +smoking-room. Freytag, I noticed with amusement, himself a Jew, was +there for the _Staatszeitung_. + +Ahlwardt, however, was impervious to advice or warnings. At his first +big meeting in the Cooper Union Hall, arriving late, I noticed at once +two things: the seats were packed with Jews, while almost as many +policemen stood about waiting; and the reporters’ tables underneath +the platform showed several open umbrellas. Both, I knew, were ominous +signs. Ahlwardt himself, fat, beaming, in full evening dress, was +already haranguing the huge audience. At first he was suave and gentle, +even mealy-mouthed, but before long his prejudices mastered him and +his language changed. Up rose a member of the audience and advised him +angrily to go back to Germany. The police ejected the interrupter. +Others took his place. Then suddenly the fusillade began--and up went +the reporters’ umbrellas! A flying egg caught the speaker full on +his white shirt-front, another yellowed his dazzling white waistcoat, +a third smashed over his fat face. Pandemonium reigned, during which +the German melted out of the landscape and disappeared from his first +and last anti-semite meeting in Noo York City. He attempted a little +propaganda from the safe distance of Hoboken, N.J., but the Press +campaign against him was so violent and covered him with such ridicule, +that he very soon took steamer back to his Berlin. Every little detail +of this incident, were it worth the telling, I could give accurately. +There was no reason to be “detached,” unless the protection of the +_World_ man’s umbrella comes under that description. + +It was somewhere about this time, too, that another trivial incident +occurred, refusing to be forgotten. It, again, increased the respect +shown to me by the staff of the paper--Americans being truly +democratic!--though it did not increase my salary. A belted earl left +his card on me. Coming in breathless from some assignment, I saw +McCloy staring at me. “Is this for _you_?” he asked sarcastically, +handing me a visiting-card. A brother-in-law, “His Excellency” into +the bargain, “Governor of an Australian Province” to which he was then +on his way, had climbed those narrow spiral stairs and asked for me. +The letters after his name alone were enough to produce a commotion +in that democratic atmosphere.... He was staying at the Brevoort +House, and he certainly behaved “like a man,” thought Kay and I, as +we enjoyed more than one good dinner at his expense in the hotel. +Proud of me he had certainly no cause to be, but if he felt ashamed, +equally, he gave no sign of it. He even spoke on my behalf to Paul +Dana, the editor-proprietor’s son, who assured him that I was “a bright +fellow”--a description the staff managed to get hold of somehow and +applied to me ever afterwards. His brief visit, both because of its +kindness and its general good effect, stand out, at any rate, in the +“bright fellow’s” memory. Like Dufferin in the Hub, he fired a shot for +me. + +The months dragged by in their dreary, hated length, while numerous +chances of getting more congenial work were tried in vain. Torrid +summer heat, with its all-dissolving humidity, replaced the bitter +winter. The deep, baked streets that never cooled, the stifling nights, +the heat-waves when the temperature stood between 90 and 100 in the +shade, and we toiled about the blazing pavements in shirt-sleeves +carrying a palm-leaf fan, and when the moisture in the air made the +very “copy-paper” stick to the hand that wrote upon it--those four +months of New York summer were a misery. We had only our winter clothes +to wear; a white collar was dirty pulp before nine in the morning; +the dazzling electric-light sign flashed nightly in the air above +23rd Street with its tempting legend “Manhattan Beach Swept by Ocean +Breezes,” while the ice-carts in the streets were the nearest approach +to comfort we could find. Many a time I followed one at close quarters +to taste a whiff of cooler air. Life became unendurable, yet day +followed day, night followed night, week followed week, till one’s last +breath of energy seemed exhausted by the steaming furnace of the city +air. + +The respectable quarters of the town were, of course, deserted, but the +East Side, and the poorer parts, became a gigantic ant-heap, thousands +of families sleeping on the balconies of the packed tenement houses, +as though a whole underground-world had risen suddenly to the surface. +Children died by the hundred; there were heat strokes by the score. It +was too hot to eat. Reporting in such weather was a trying business.... +A reporter was entitled to a fortnight’s holiday in the year, and +though none was due to me, McCloy let me go about the middle of +October. I procured a railway pass and went off to Haliburton, Ontario, +to spend my precious twelve days with a settler in the backwoods. He +was a Scotsman I had met during our island days, and Haliburton was +not far from our own delightful lake.... On my way back the cable came +telling of my father’s death while being brought home from Ems. I was +spending the night with an old friend of his, in Hamilton, Ont., where +he had a church. Originally in the navy, the evangelical movement had +“converted” him, and he had taken to it with such zeal that a church +and parish became a necessity of life. He was sincere and sympathetic, +and the bad news could have come to me in no better place. + +The next day I returned to New York and resumed my life of reporting on +the paper.... The elections had been fought, and Tammany was beaten, +a wave of Republicanism sweeping both State and City. A Committee of +Investigation, under Senator Lexow, was appointed to examine into +the methods of Tammany Hall, and for weeks I sat in court while the +testimony was taken, and the most amazing stories of crime, corruption, +wickedness and horror I ever heard were told by one “protected” witness +after another. It brought to light a veritable Reign of Terror. John +Goff was prosecuting counsel; he became Recorder, in place of Judge +Smythe, as his reward. Boss Croker, head of Tammany, was conveniently +in England and could not be subpœnaed. Other leaders, similarly, were +well out of reach. Tammany, it was proved up to the hilt, had extorted +an annual income of fifteen million dollars in illegal contributions +from vice. The court was a daily theatre in which incredible melodrama +and tragedy were played. With this thrilling exception, the work I had +to do remained the same as before ... a second Christmas came round +... another spring began to melt the gloomy skies. Conditions, it is +true, were a little easier, for Louis had left us and Kay was earning +ten or fifteen dollars a week in Exchange Place, but by March or April, +the eighteen months of underfeeding and trying work had brought me, +personally, to the breaking point.... + +It was late in April I read that gold had been found in the Rainy +River district which lay in the far north-western corner of Ontario, +the river of that name being the frontier between Minnesota State and +Canada. The paragraph stating the fact was in a Sunday paper I read on +my way to Bronx Park, and the instant I saw it my mind was made up. It +was spring, the primitive instinct to strike camp and move on was in +the blood, a nostalgia for the woods was in it too, and the prospect of +another torrid, moist summer in the city at $15 a week was more than +I could face. That scrap of news, at any rate, decided me. And, truth +to tell, it was not so much the lure of gold that called me, as the +lure of the wilderness. I longed to see the big trees again, to smell +the old naked earth, to hear water falling and feel the great winds +blow.... It was an irresistible call. + +My one terror, as when I decided to buy the dairy two years before, was +that someone would tell me there was no gold, that it was not worth +going, or would prevent me in some other way. I deliberately hid from +myself all unfavourable information, while I collected all possible +items that might justify my intention. That same night I showed the +paragraph to Kay. “I’ll go,” he said at once, “but let’s get a third, +a fourth too, if we can.” He mentioned Paxton, an engineer, aged 35, +who had just lost all his worldly possessions in speculation. Paxton +said he would come with us. The fourth was R.M., son of the clergyman +in Hamilton. R.M., whose father was brother to a belted earl, was an +insurance agent, and making a good living at his job. He was my own +age, also my own height. He was, besides, a heavy-weight amateur boxer +of considerable prowess, and his favourite time for holding bouts in +the ring was Sunday evenings, to which fact a rival clergyman had +recently taken occasion to refer slightingly in his own pulpit. R.M., +resenting the slur both upon himself and his father, had waited outside +the church door one Sunday after the evening service, and when the +clergyman emerged had asked for an apology--a public one in the pulpit. +On being met with an indignant refusal, R.M. invited the other to “put +’em up.” The thrashing that followed produced a great scandal in the +little town, and R.M. found the place too hot to hold him. He therefore +jumped at the idea of the goldfields. + +The arrangements were made, of course, by letter, and took some little +time; but on a given morning in early May R.M. was to join our train as +it passed through Hamilton. I had been able to procure passes for the +lot of us as far as Duluth, some fifteen hundred miles distant, on Lake +Superior, and from there we should have to travel another hundred and +fifty miles by canoe down the Vermilion River to Rainy Lake City, for +the foundations of which the forest, I read, had already been partially +cleared. Several further articles had appeared in the papers; it was +a gorgeous country, men were flocking in, and the Bank of Montreal +had established a branch in a temporary shack. Moreover, as mentioned +before, it was spring. + +That a man of Paxton’s age and experience should have made this long +expedition without first satisfying himself that it was likely to be +worth while, has always puzzled me. He was an easy-going, good-natured +man, whose full figure proclaimed that he liked the good things of +life. But he was in grave difficulties, graver perhaps than I ever +knew, and I think he was not sorry to contemplate a trip across the +border. His attitude, at any rate, was that he “didn’t care a rap so +long as I get out of here.” That Kay and myself and R.M. should take +the adventure was natural enough, for none of us had anything to lose, +and, whatever happened, we should “get along somehow,” and even out of +the frying-pan into the fire was better than the summer furnace of the +city. R.M. wrote that he had a hundred dollars, Paxton produced fifty, +I supplied the railway passes and added my last salary, together with +some eight dollars that Ikey No. 2 was persuaded to hand over. + +“Send some stuff along,” fired McCloy, opening his eyes a little wider +than usual when I told him. “Any hot stuff you get I’ll use.” + +It has already been told how Kay missed the train by a few minutes, and +how Whitey, waving his parting present of a bottle of Bourbon whisky, +was the final picture Paxton and I had of New York City as the evening +train pulled out. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + + +Some people, examining the alternate ups and downs of life, have +thought to detect a rhythm in it: like every other expression of +energy, from heat to history, from sound to civilization, it moves, +they think, with a definite wave-length. The down and up, the hollow +of the wave and its crest, follow one another in rhythmical sequence. +It is an imaginary notion doubtless, though it applied to my life +aptly enough at this time apparently: the Toronto misery, the Island +happiness; the New York hell, the Backwoods heaven. + +I think, when I wrote home the literal truth: “I can’t stand this +reporting life any longer. I’m off to the goldfields, and McCloy has +asked me to write articles for the paper,” there lay a vague idea in +me that these goldfields would prove somehow to be comic goldfields, +and that the expedition would be somewhere farcical. I was so eager, +so determined to go, that I camouflaged from myself every unfavourable +aspect of the trip. Green, being still my predominant colour, was +used freely in this camouflage. It was only afterwards I realized +how delightfully I fooled myself. Yet it was true, at the same time, +that a deep inner necessity drove irresistibly. The city life was +killing something in me, something in the soul: get out or go under, +was my feeling. How easy it would have been to go under was a daily +thought. Far better men than myself proved it all round me every week. +It seemed, indeed, the natural, obvious thing to do for an educated, +refined Englishman without character who found himself adrift from +home influences in this amazing city--to sink into the general scum +of failures and outcasts, to yield to one of the many anæsthetics New +York so lavishly provided, to find temporary relief, a brief wild-eyed +happiness, oblivion, then, not long afterwards, death. + +The draw of the woods, the call of the open air, moreover, always +potent, had become insistent. Spring added its aching nostalgia that +burned like a fever in my veins. + +Thus various influences, some positive, some negative, combined to make +me feel that anything was better than the drudgery of my wretched New +York life, and the goldfields merely offered a plausible excuse. If I +made blinkers with my own hands, I made them effectively at least. Deep +out of sight in the personality there hides, perhaps, some overseer +who, watching wisely the turns of fate, makes such blinkers, ensuring +their perfect fit as well.... + +There was a nice feeling, of course, that if one went to a goldfield, +one picked up gold. Shaking sand in a shining pan beside a rushing +river was a picture in the mind. There were wild men, friends and +enemies; there were Indians too; but also there were sunsets, tempests, +dawns and stars. It would be liberty and happiness. I should see the +moon rise in clear, sweet air above the rim of primæval woods. I should +cook bacon over an open fire of wood. There would be no grinning +Chinaman to pay for laundry.... + +The men with whom I was going were not entirely satisfactory. I knew +them slightly, for one thing; for another, the chief drawback, they +were going in a very different mood from mine. Their one object was +to make their fortunes. It was real gold, and not the glamour of +the wilderness, that called them; and in the Emigrant Sleeper, as +we journeyed towards Duluth, they sketched their plans with intense +enthusiasm: Paxton, the engineer, explained puzzlingly, with the aid +of matches, a trolley he would construct for bringing the ore from pit +to crusher, while R.M., with reckless immorality, enlarged upon the +profits he would derive from running a “joint” of desperate sort--“for +no one need know that my father’s a clergyman, and my uncle in the +House of Lords.” + +Both men were shadows; they were not real; there was no companionship +in them for me, at any rate. That they were fellow-travellers for the +moment on a trip I did not care about making alone, was sufficient. I +would just as soon have gone with McCloy or a Tombs policeman. + +What constitutes one person out of a hundred “real,” the other +ninety-nine shadows, is hard to define, but an instinct in me has ever +picked out that “real” one. With him or her I know instantly my life is +going to be unavoidably linked: through love or hate, through happiness +or trouble, perhaps through none of these, but with the conviction that +a service has to be rendered or accepted, a debt, as it were, to be +paid or received, a link at any rate that cannot be broken or evaded. +Such real people are to be counted on the fingers of one hand: R.M. +and Paxton were certainly not among them. Nor, for that matter, was my +friend Kay, who, I am reasonably positive, missed the train on purpose; +while, curiously enough, Boyde, that trivial criminal, _was_ among +them. Had Kay, for instance, done what that cheap ruffian did, I should +never have taken the trouble to arrest or punish him.... + +The comic opera touch began with Whitey racing down the platform waving +a bottle of rye whisky; it continued next morning when we picked up +R.M. at eight o’clock. Our train stopped at Hamilton, Ont., for five +minutes. We craned our heads out of the window and saw a party of +young fellows with flushed faces and singing voices, and on their +shoulders in the early sunshine the inert figure of a huge man without +a hat. They recognized me and heaved him into our compartment, where +he slept soundly for two hours until we had left Toronto far behind. +“Ouch! Ouch!” said Paxton--it was about all “engineer Paxton” ever did +say--“Is that R.M.?” They had never met before. We took the money out +of his pocket for safety’s sake, and it proved to be more than his +promised contribution. His friends had indeed given him a send-off, and +the all-night poker had proved lucrative. + +It was a long, long journey to Duluth, with heartening glimpses from +the window, of river, lake and forest, all touched with “spring’s +delightful weather.” Shelley filled my head and heart. I saw dawn in +a vale of the Indian Caucasus, I saw Panthea, Asia, fleeting dryads +and troops of happy fauns. Out of New York City into this primæval +wilderness produced intoxication. No more cities of dreadful night for +me! The repressed, unrealized yearnings of many painful months burst +forth in a kind of rapture. Riches can never taste the treasures of +relief and change provided by the law of contrast. To be free to go +everywhere is tantamount to going nowhere, to be able to do everything +is to do nothing. Without school, holidays could have no meaning. The +intensity of escape, with all the gorgeous emotions it involves, is +hardly possible to the big bank-balances. + +I thought of the overheated _Sun_ offices, and saw cool, silent woods; +of thronged canyon-streets between cliffs of buildings, and saw lonely +gorges where the deer stole down to drink in quiet pools; of Mrs. +Bernstein’s room, and saw green glades of beauty, a ceiling of blue +sky, walls of hemlock, spruce and cedar. The May sunlight made the +whole world sing, as the train rushed through the wilderness of the +Ontario Highlands. It woke a kind of lyrical delight in me. “The day +seemed one sent from beyond the skies, that shed to earth, above the +sun, a light of Paradise.” Paxton, with his puzzling matches, found me +absent-minded and irresponsive to his “ouch! ouch!” and R.M., suffering +from a bad “hang-over” headache, thought me unsympathetic toward his +disreputable joint. + +More clearly than the matches, or the profit and loss figures of the +joint, I remember the three bullets lying on the palm of the engineer’s +fat open hand. His solemn gravity depressed R.M. It infected me a +little too. Why in the world should he be so serious? “If we fail, +boys,” said the engineer laconically, as he looked down with grim +significance at the three bullets, “I for one--shall not return.” He +put a bullet in his pocket, he handed one to R.M., the third he passed +to me. “Is it a deal?” he asked, speaking as one who had come to the +end of his tether, which, indeed, perhaps really was the case. We +pocketed our bullets anyhow, and told him gravely: “Yes, it’s a deal.” +We shook hands on it. + +It was all in the proper spirit of gold-seeking adventure, begad! and +the comic-opera touch, so far as I was concerned, had not yet quite +fully appeared. I had cut loose from everything. I felt as though I +were jumping off the rim of the planet into unknown space. It was +a delightful, reckless, half naughty, half childish, feeling. “To +hell with civilization!” was its note. At the back of the mind lay +a series of highly-coloured pictures: Men made fortunes in a night, +human life was cheap, six-shooters lay beside tin mugs at camp-fire +breakfasts, and bags of “dust” were tossed across faro-tables from one +desperado in a broad-brimmed hat to another who was either an Oxford +don _incognito_, or an unfrocked clergyman, or a younger son concealing +tragic beauty in an over-cultured heart, with perhaps an unclaimed +title on his strawberry-marked skin. R.M., too, was forever talking +about staking claims: “We’ll get grub-staked by some fellow.... If +we only pan a few ounces per day it’ll mean success ...” to all of +which Paxton emitted his “Ouch! Ouch!” as a strong man who said little +because he preferred action to words. + +I, meanwhile, had no accurate information to supply, though I was the +promoter of the expedition. I paraded the newspaper accounts. They were +of little use. Nothing, in fact, was of any use. We were in different +worlds. _They_ were in an Emigrant Sleeper skirting the shores of Lake +Superior. _I_ was on the look-out for the Witch of Atlas, wandering +through the pine forest of the Cascine near Pisa, dreaming in the +Indian Caucasus, or watching Serchio’s stream. Even “Ouch! Ouch!” could +not keep me in Ontario for long. + +It all lies down the wrong end of that ever-lengthening telescope now, +our trip to the Rainy River Gold Fields. Happy, careless, foolish days +of sunlight, liberty, wood-smoke and virgin wilderness. Useless days, +of course, yet sweetly perfumed as in a dream of fairyland. I revelled +in them. New York was still close enough to lend them some incredible +glamour by contrast. That no gold came our way was nothing, that the +days came to an end was bitter. Fading into mist, behind veils of blue +smoke, yet lit by sheets of burning sunshine, lies the faint outline +still. Each year drops another gauze curtain over an entrancing and +ridiculous adventure that for my companions was disappointingly empty, +but to me was filled to the brim with wonder and delight. A few sharp +pictures, rather disconnected, defy both veils and curtains, set +against a dim background of wild forest, a blue winding river with +strange red shores, swift rapids, and cosy camp-fires at dawn, at +sunset, beneath the stars, beneath the moon. The stillness of those +grand woods is unforgettable; the voice of the river was unceasing, +yet broke no silence; the smells of balsam, resinous pitch-pine, cedar +smoke rise like incense above the memory of it all. + +Duluth was all agog with excitement, and in every shop-window hung +blue-prints of the El Dorado we were bound for. Two big-bladed +hunting-knives, a second-hand Marlin rifle for $8, a Smith and Wesson +revolver, were our weapons. I already had a six-shooter, given to me +by the Tombs Court police. It had killed a negro, and I had reported +the murder trial resulting. Three blankets had to be bought, a canoe, +and provisions for the week’s trip down the Vermilion River--tea, +bacon, flour, biscuits, salt and sugar. R.M. had a small “A” tent with +him large enough to hold three; an old, high-prowed bark canoe was +purchased from an Indian for $6; but our money did not run to Hudson +Bay blankets, and the cheap, thin coverings we bought proved poor +protection in those frosty nights of early May. + +We picked up a guide too, a half-breed named Gallup. He was going +to Rainy Lake City in any case, and agreed to show us the portages +and rapids for two dollars a day each way. He justified his name. He +galloped. He had a slim-nosed Maine cedar-wood canoe that oiled along +into the daily head-wind with easy swiftness, whereas R.M. and myself +in our high-prowed craft found progress slow and steering a heavy toil. +The wind caught our big bows like a sail. Gallup, moreover, sizing us +up as English greenhorns, expected good food and lots of whisky, and, +getting neither, vented his spleen on us as best he could. His natural +evil temper grew steadily worse. There were several ways in which he +could have revenge. He used them all. By “losing his way” down branch +streams he made the journey last eight days instead of five, yet he +went so fast in his neat-nosed craft that it was all R.M. and I could +do to keep him in sight at all. The sunlight flashing on his paddle two +or three miles ahead, the canoe itself a mere dark speck in the dazzle +of water, was all we usually had to guide us. Paxton, weary, much +thinner than he had been, useless as a paddler, lay in the bottom of +the canoe, leaving all the work to Gallup. And Gallup did it, even with +this dead freight against him. To our injunction to make the fellow +go slower, his “Ouch! Ouch!” was quite ineffective. I was careful to +keep the provisions in my own canoe, so that we could not lose him +altogether, and he was faithful in one thing, that he waited for us at +the rapids and portages. + +What did it matter? The head wind held steadily day after day, blowing +from the north-west through a cloudless sky. Everything sparkled, +the air was champagne; such a winding river of blue I had never seen +before. Every tree wore little fingers of bright fresh green. There was +exhilaration and wonder at every turn. Burned by the hot sun and wet by +the flying spray, our hands swelled till the knuckles disappeared, then +cracked between the joints till they bled. + +I steered. R.M. sat in the bows. Paddling hour after hour against +the wind became a mechanical business the muscles attended to +automatically. The mind was free to roam. The loneliness was magical, +for it was a peopled loneliness. A start at dawn, half an hour for +lunch, and camp at sunset was the day’s routine. Usually we were too +exhausted to cook the dwindling bacon, make the fire, put up the tent. +What did it matter? Nothing mattered. Each mile was a mile of delight +farther from New York. The trip might last months for all I cared. + +We cursed Gallup behind his back and to his face. He never even +answered. His sulky silence broke only round the evening fire, when +he would tell us appalling tales of murder, violence and sudden death +about the goldfields whither we were bound. It was another form of +revenge. The desperadoes, cutthroats, and wild hairy men generally who +awaited us, _us_ especially since we were English, hardly belonged to +our happy planet. Yet he knew them at first hand, knew them even by +name. They would all be on the look-out for us. Against several, for +he had his friendly impulses, he warned us in particular. Were we good +shots and quick on the trigger? The man who pulled first, he reminded +us, had the drop on the other fellow. There was a “stiff” named Morris +who was peculiarly deadly, Morris, a Canadian, who had killed his man +in a saloon brawl across the river and had skipped over the border into +Minnesota. Morris would be interested in “guys” like us. He described +him in detail. We looked forward to Morris. + +They were cheery camp-fire stories Gallup told us nightly. We crawled +into our chilly tent, wondering a little, each in his own thin blanket, +what these hairy men were going to do to “guys like us.” We did not +wonder long. Sleep came like a clap. At dawn, the wind just rising, +and the chipmunks dropping fir-cones on to our tent with miniature +reports, the hairy men were all forgotten. It was impossible to hold +an ugly thought of any kind. The river sang at our feet, the sky was +pearl and rose, the air was sharply perfumed with smells of forest and +wood-smoke, and glimpses of sunrise shone everywhere between the trees; +trees that stretched without a break five hundred miles to the shores +of James Bay in the arctic seas. + +We gulped our tea and bacon, packed tent and blankets, split open the +cracks in our swollen hands, and launched the canoes upon a crystal +river that swirled along in eddies and sheets of colour. Sometimes +it narrowed to a couple of hundred yards between rugged cliffs where +the water raced towards a rapid, sometimes it broadened into wide, +lake-like spaces; there were reaches of placid calm; there were +stretches white with tumbling foam. The sun blazed down; we turned +a sharp bend and surprised a deer; a porcupine waddled up against a +pine-stem; a fish leaped in a golden pool; birds flashed and vanished; +there was a silence, a stillness beyond all telling. Nuggets, gold +dust, hairy men, six-shooters--nothing mattered! + +It was, indeed, this loneliness, this entire absence of all other human +signs, that gradually betrayed the truth. Where was the stream of +frenzied gold-seekers? Where was the rush the papers mentioned? Beyond +a few stray Indians on the fourth day, we saw no living being. Gallup’s +tales of terror began to lose their sting. Of real information he +vouchsafed no single item. But who wanted real information? Rainy Lake +City might be the legendary city of gold that lies beyond the mirages +of the Lybian desert, for all I cared. The City of New York was out of +sight. That was the important thing. + +The series of wild, lonely camps lie blurred in the composite outline +of a single camp; eight dawns combine into one; I remember clear +night-skies ablaze with brilliant stars; I remember the moon rising +behind the black wall of forest across the water. All night the river +sang and whispered. Police courts and Mrs. Bernstein’s room hid far +away in the dim reaches of some former life. Behind these, again, lay a +shadowy, forgotten Kent. There were haunting faces, veiled by distance, +for a strange remoteness curtained the past with unreality. The wonder +of the present dominated. These woods, this river, ruled the world, and +somewhere in the heart of that old forest the legendary Wendigo, whose +history I wrote later in a book, had its awful lair. + +Owing to Gallup’s trick of lengthening the journey, our food gave out, +but with fish, venison and partridge it was impossible to starve. The +last-named, a grouse actually, perches in the branches, waiting to be +shot; a bullet must take its head off or it is useless for the pot but +whizzing bullets do not disturb it, and several birds, sitting close +together, can be picked off _seriatim_. Some dried sturgeon we found, +too, on an island--an Indian sturgeon fishery--where great odorous +strips were hanging in the sun. The braves were away, and the squaw +left in charge was persuaded to sell us slabs of this excellent meat. +In a deep, clear pool some half-dozen living monsters, hooked by the +nose, turned slowly round and round, waiting the moment of their death. +The island was interesting for another reason--it was an Indian canoe +factory. Here the Redskins built their craft of birchbark, and a dozen +canoes in various stages of completion lay in the broiling sun.... To +me it was all visible romance, adventure, wonder in the heart of an +unspoilt spring, with Hiawatha round the next big bend. Paxton and R.M. +took another view.... + +On the eighth night--our last, had we known it--there was an +“incident.” Gallup had been unusually silent and extra offensive all +day, had “galloped” at top speed, had refused to answer a single +question, and the idea came to us all three simultaneously that he was +not losing his way with the mere object of more money, but was taking +us out of our route with a more sinister purpose. We depended on the +fellow entirely; words or violence were equally useless; we were quite +helpless. He was convinced we carried money, for no three Englishmen +of our type would make such a trip without it. What was easier, we +whispered to one another, than to murder us and bury our bodies in the +trackless, lonely forest? We watched him.... + +That night, exhausted to the bone, we camped on a point of wooded shore +against the sunset. Across the broad reach of water, three miles away +perhaps, was an Indian encampment. Pointed wigwams and the smoke of +many fires were visible; voices were audible in the distance. The wind +had died down as usual with the sun. A deep hush lay over the scene. +And, hardly had we landed, almost too weary to drag ourselves up the +bank, when Gallup stepped back into his Maine canoe and pushed off +downstream without a word. He stood upright; he did not sit or kneel. +His figure was outlined one minute against the red sky, the next his +silhouette merged into the dark forest beyond. He disappeared. + +He had gone, we agreed, for one of two reasons: to get food, or to +return in the dark and pick us off, much as we picked off the grouse +from the branches. We inclined towards the latter theory--and kept eyes +and ears wide open. We made a diminutive fire in a hollow, lest we be +too visible in the surrounding darkness. We listened, watched, and +waited. It was already dusk. The night fell quickly. River and forest +became an impenetrable sheet of blackness, our tiny fire, almost too +small to cook on, the only speck of light. The stars came out, peeping +through the branches. There was no wind. We shivered in the cold, +listening for every slightest sound ... and the hours passed. + +“He’ll wait till we’re asleep,” said R.M., keeping his eyes open with +the greatest difficulty. Paxton fingered his revolver and mumbled +“Ouch! Ouch!” + +Only the cold prevented us falling asleep, as, weapons in hand, we took +turns to watch and listen. Had we the right to fire the instant we saw +a figure? Should we wait till the scoundrel made a sign? We discussed +endlessly in whispers. Though no wind stirred the branches, the noises +in that “silent” forest never ceased, because no forest ever is, or can +be, really silent. The effort of listening produced them by the dozen. +On every side twigs snapped and dry wood crackled. Soft, stealthy +footsteps were everywhere on the pine-needles. Canoes landed higher up +and lower down; paddles dripped out in the river as someone approached; +sometimes two or three dim figures crouched low on the shore, sometimes +only one. Finally, for safety’s sake, we let the fire go out altogether. + +Armed to the teeth, we were still shivering in the cold darkness well +on into the night, and at some distance from the dying embers, when +suddenly--we nearly screamed--there was a sound of a voice. It was a +man’s voice; he was angry; he was cursing. A flame shot up beneath the +trees. We saw Gallup on his knees blowing up the hemlock coals. He had +landed, pulled his canoe on to the bank, and come up to within a few +yards of where we stood without our hearing the faintest sound. He said +no word. He cooked himself no food. He just made a huge fire, spread +his blanket beside the comforting blaze, curled up, and fell asleep. We +soon followed his example. Probably he had enjoyed a square meal with +the Indians, then sauntered home to bed.... Next day we reached Rainy +Lake City, paid him off, and saw him push off upstream in his Maine +canoe without having uttered a single word. He just counted the dollar +bills and vanished. + +Rainy Lake City was a few acres roughly cleared from the primæval +forest, yet with avenues cut through the dense trees to indicate +streets where tramcars were to run at some future date. River, lake +and forest combined to make an enchanting scene. There were perhaps +a hundred men there. There was gold, but there was no gold-dust, no +shining pans to sift the precious sand; in a word, no placer-mining. It +was all quartz; machinery to crush the quartz had to be dragged in over +the ice in the winter. Capital was essential, large lumps of capital. +A word of inquiry in New York could have told me this. I felt rather +guilty, but very happy. Paxton and R.M. were philosophical. No word of +blame escaped their lips. They had the right to curse me, whereas both +played the part of Balaam. Even at the time I thought this odd. Neither +of them seemed to care a straw. “We’ll stake a claim,” said R.M. at +intervals. Perhaps both were so pleased to have arrived safely that +they neither grumbled nor abused me. The truth was that, like myself, +though for rather different reasons, both of them were relieved to be +“away from home.” The engineer, I discovered later, was glad that +1,500 miles lay between him and New York City. + +We pitched our tent by the shore and proceeded to investigate. Living +cost little. It was sunny weather, it was spring. One company was +already sinking a shaft and working a small crusher; there were shacks +and shanties everywhere; the “city” was as peaceful as the inside of +St. Paul’s Cathedral; we saw no hairy men, but we saw mosquitoes. With +the first warm nights these pests emerged for the season in their +millions; they were very large and very hungry; they hung in the air +like clouds of smoke; they welcomed us; as R.M. said, they had probably +written the newspaper accounts that advertised the place. We had no +netting. They stung the bears blind; they would have stung a baby to +death, had there been any babies, except ourselves, to sting. The only +gold we saw was a lump, valued at $5,000, lying beside a revolver on +the counter of the Bank of Montreal’s shack. The clerk allowed us to +hold it for a second each. It was the only gold we touched.... We +investigated, as mentioned; we wandered about; we fished and shot, +we rubbed Indian stuff over our faces to keep the mosquitoes off; we +enjoyed happy, careless, easy days, bathing in ice-cold water, basking +in hot sunshine, resting, loafing, and spinning yarns with all and +sundry round our camp-fires. After New York it was a paradise, and but +for the mosquitoes, we could have dressed in fig leaves. + +Except for the question of having enough money to get out again before +the iron winter set in towards October, we might have spent the whole +summer there. We decided to leave while it was still possible. To +paddle a hundred and fifty miles against the stream was not attractive. +We would do the trip on foot. Selling tent and canoe to the clerk in +the bank, we set out across the Twenty-Six Mile Portage one day towards +the end of June. A party of five men, also bound for Duluth, joined us, +and one of them was--Morris. + +Those happy, unproductive goldfields! That untenanted Rainy Lake City +where no tramcars ever ran, nor faro-tables flourished! Morris, the +hairy desperado! In the dismal New York days that followed they seemed +to belong to some legendary Golden Age. Romance and adventure, both +touched with comedy, went hand in hand, beauty and liberty heightening +some imagined radiance. Wasted time, of course, but for that very +reason valuable beyond computation. Stored memories are stored energy +that may prove the raw material of hope in days that follow after. Even +Morris, the “stiff,” and cut-throat, played his little part in the +proper spirit. There was a price on his head in Canada. We watched him +closely; we watched his partners too. The Twenty-Six Mile Portage cut +off an immense bend of the Vermilion River, running through the depths +of trackless, gloomy forest the whole way. Nothing was easier than to +“mix us up with the scenery” as a phrase of those parts expressed it. +Especially must we be on our guard at night. One of us must always +only pretend to sleep. Our former mistake about Gallup need not make +us careless. A natural instinct to dramatize the expedition might have +succeeded better if Morris, the villain, had not sometimes missed his +cue and failed to realize the importance of his rôle. + +The scenery, at any rate, was right. The weather broke the very day +we started, and the region justified its translated Indian name. A +drenching rain fell sousing on the world. With our heavy packs we made +slow progress, crawling in single file beneath the endless dripping +trees, soaked to the skin in the first ten minutes. There was no trail, +but Morris had a compass. Darkness fell early on the first night when +we had covered barely six miles. Morris found a deserted lumbermen’s +shanty. One man chopped down a pitch-pine and cut out its dry heart of +resinous wood which caught fire instantly; another soaked a shred of +cedar-wood in a tin mug filled with melted bacon fat; a third cooked +dinner for the whole party; and by eight o’clock we all lay grouped +about the fire, dodging the streams of water that splashed through the +gaping remnants of the pine-log roof. + +Outside in that windless forest the drip of the rain was like the +sound of waterfalls, but it was a magnificent, a haunted, a legendary +forest none the less. Our shanty was faintly lit by the flickering +cedar-candle. Queer shadows danced, eyes glittered, the faces here and +there seemed distorted oddly in the shifting flame and darkness that +alternately rose and fell. One by one, dog-tired, we fell asleep. It +was R.M.’s turn to watch. Before supper was ended even, he lay soundly +slumbering, his head, with touselled hair and ragged beard, thrown back +against the wall, his mouth, containing unswallowed food--so weary was +he--half-open. I exchanged a significant glance with Paxton over his +collapsed body, meaning that we must watch instead. + +Our steaming clothes dried slowly as the night wore on. The dripping +trickle of the trees became louder and louder. Paxton, very thin now, +looked like a scarecrow in his ragged shirt and coat. His customary +exclamation was rarely heard. He fell asleep in turn. The rest of the +party had been snoring for an hour or more. It was up to me to watch. + +I watched. The next thing I knew was a sudden stealthy movement, and +a low voice that woke me out of a slumber made of lead. The fire was +low, the candle hardly flickered. Across the gloom I saw the movement +that had waked me--Morris, the hairy man, was stirring. I watched him. +He sat up. He leaned cautiously over--towards R.M. His hand stretched +out slowly. Splendid fellow! I felt furious with R.M. for falling +asleep, for keeping his mouth open in that idiotic way. Stupid idiot +and faithless comrade! Morris, I saw, was doing something to his +bulky, motionless figure, just about to slit him open perhaps. Well, +let him slit! It was the head he touched. He was doing something to +the sleeper’s head--pushing it--pushing it sideways so that a stream +of water through the roof might just miss falling on his shoulder and +thus splashing the hairy man’s own face with spray. I watched closely, +faithful to my job. I saw Morris the Stiff take a bit of spare clothing +out of his pack and hang it over R.M.’s neck and shoulder. “I got no +use for it,” he was saying. “Yer friend might jest as well hev it.” +He knew, therefore, quite well that I was watching. But R.M. knew +nothing, less than nothing. He neither stirred nor woke. A more kindly, +tender-hearted fellow than Morris the Stiff, no traveller in wild +places could possibly desire. + +It was perhaps a couple of hours later when I woke again, disturbed +this time not by noise, but by the sudden absence of it. One winter’s +night the inhabitants of Niagara, similarly, woke up because, ice +having formed, the thunder of the falls had ceased. I listened a +moment, then went out. The rain had ceased, the clouds were gone, in a +clear sky the three-quarter moon shone brightly. The rain-washed air +seemed perfumed beyond belief. Nor did the old moon merely “look round +her when the heavens were bare,” she sprawled fantastically at full +length, as it were, in her magnificent blue-black bed of naked space. I +went out to a clear spot among the trees. Far away rose a soft murmur. +The air hummed and shook with the roar of distant rapids, so calm and +still the night was. No bird, no animal cried. The earth herself, it +seemed, stopped turning in that wonderful stillness. Those few minutes +painted a picture that memory must always keep.... + +Three months later the first week in October found us in New York +again. The bullets were forgotten and, of course, unmentioned, and five +months of glorious wasted time lay safely behind us. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + + +If it is impossible to recapture the boyish moods of those early days, +it is also difficult not to import into these notes the point of view +and feelings that belong to later life. Surely, but gradually, the +scale of time changes with the years, and with it the range and quality +of the emotions: to-day, a year seems a very brief period; the few +months spent in the woods after our Gold Fields fiasco seemed both an +eternity, yet far too brief. A faint flavour of childhood’s immense +scale, when twelve months was an immeasurable stretch of time, still +clung to them, perhaps. + +But the magnet of New York drew us. Any idea of returning to England +until I had made good was far from me. We arrived in the detested +city late in October, with livings to earn, and with less money than +when we had first come two years before. We took separate rooms this +time, for I had learned my lesson about sharing beds and clothes and +scanty earnings. It was to be each man for himself. Paxton disappeared +immediately; only occasionally did I hear his “Ouch, Ouch!” again; M. +found a bed in Harlem and started to teach boxing; I took quarters in +East 21st Street, on the top floor of a cheap but cleanish house, and +arranged for breakfast and dinner in a neighbouring boarding-house at +$2.50 a week. + +Two Germans lived in the adjoining attic. Through the thin wooden +partition I heard their talk, their breathing, their slightest +movement. They rarely came to bed before midnight; they talked the +whole night through. Informing them in a loud voice that I understood +their language made no difference; they neither stopped nor answered. +Yet, oddly enough, I never once saw them; never met them on the stairs, +nor in the hall, nor at the front door. They remained invisible, if not +inaudible. But I formed vivid pictures of them, and knew from their +conversation that they were not better than they need be. An old man +and a young one, I gathered. An unpleasant house altogether, the low +rent more easily explained than I at first guessed. Long afterwards +I had my revenge upon those unsavoury Germans--by writing an awful +story about them, “A Case of Eavesdropping,” though by the time it was +published they were probably either dead or in gaol. A sinister couple, +these invisible Teutons! + +My one main object was to avoid the _Evening Sun_: any work was better, +I felt, than a return to that hated sensational reporting. A place was +always open to me under McCloy, but my detestation of the police court, +and of the criminal atmosphere generally, was so strong that I would +rather have taken a street-cleaning job under Tammany than go back to +it. I therefore began by trying free-lance work, gathering news items +and selling them for a dollar or two apiece to various papers, writing +snippets of description, inventing incidents, and earning perhaps ten +dollars a week on the average. It was hard going, but pawning and +free lunches in the saloons made it possible to live. I knew all the +tricks by now; I used them. The blanket off my bed occasionally spent +a week-end with a new “Ikey,” though getting it out of the house and +back again was no easy matter, while the smell of the moth-balls I +always expected must betray me. It was a poor blanket, too, worth only +50 cents from Ikey’s point of view, and certainly not worth the foolish +risk involved. For, literally--though this never once occurred to me +at the time--it was stealing, and the fact that I told Ikey where it +came from, hoping to extract thereby an extra half-dollar from him, +could not have exonerated me if the landlady had met me on the stairs. +Personally, I think the quantity of food I devoured at the free lunch +counters in exchange for a five-cent glass of lager was a more flagrant +case of theft. Only it was a recognized theft. The temporary absence of +the blanket, anyhow, since I made my own bed, was never discovered, and +my heart remained innocent of conscious burglary. + +A dozen years before, aged 12, I had once been accused of stealing by +the headmaster of the private school I adorned in Sevenoaks. I was +innocent, but the evidence was both ludicrous and damning, so damning, +indeed, that, strangely, I _felt_ guilty and accepted the punishment. +A terrifying experience, it haunted me for years, and the sight of a +policeman, or the words “criminal judge,” sent shivers down my spine +long afterwards. When a little older, I came to suspect that it was +worked up against me by the master to curry favour with an influential +parent; but at the actual time I had visions even of prison--for +something I had not done. All about a poem, too! + +At evening “prep” a “bit of poetry,” as we called it, had to be learnt +by heart; my own poetry book was lost; I borrowed young Gildea’s. +The last thing in the world I wanted to own was that poetry book of +young Gildea, the last thing I wanted to do was to learn that poem by +heart. I spent the hour, therefore, inscribing my name with elaborate +flourishes on the title page. Twice I wrote it, with capitals, of which +I was very proud; I thought it ornate and beautiful; and when the hour +was over I tossed the book into my locker and forgot all about it. +Next morning I was summoned into the headmaster’s presence. He wore +red whiskers about an otherwise clean-shaven face: a face of natural +sternness, with a big nose, a mouth of iron, and steely blue eyes. He +was a clergyman of evangelical persuasion. + +I had no idea why I had been summoned, but his glance made me at once +feel uneasy. + +“Blackwood minor,” he said in a solemn and portentous voice, “did you +do--_this_?” He held out Gildea’s poetry book towards me with the cover +open. His finger pointed to my name in pencil, flourishes and all. + +I was completely puzzled as to what was coming, but I admitted the +signature of course. + +“Is the book yours?” he asked. I said it was not. “Gildea has reported +the loss of his own copy,” the voice of doom went on. “It has been +found--_in your locker_--and with _your name written_ in it.” The +voice made me think of “and God spake” in the Bible. + +He looked at me in such a way that I felt sure I was going to be +flogged. What had I done? And why? I couldn’t quite remember. No +explanation came to me. The simple truth was too silly to mention. I +had nothing to say except to admit everything. The man, with his awful +manner and appalling aspect, terrified me. I stood speechless and +paralysed, wondering what was coming next. The red whiskers made me +think of Satan. + +I little dreamed, however, that the headmaster would say what he then +did say. He spoke with a terribly slow, deliberate emphasis. + +“This is as grave a case of stealing,” fell the awful words of +judgment, “as ever came before a _Criminal Judge_. I have sent for your +father.” + +I was petrified. It was enough to frighten any boy into his boots. + +My father in due course arrived; Gildea’s parents, both of them, +arrived likewise; there were consultations, mysterious comings and +goings; it was a day of gloom and terror; for some reason I made no +attempt to defend myself; it all flabbergasted, frightened, puzzled me +beyond understanding. I was made to confess to Gildea and to apologize +to the parents. To my own father I said nothing. He looked troubled, +yet somehow not as grave as he ought to have looked. Perhaps he had +his doubts.... What that fiendish headmaster, whose name I will not +mention, had said behind my back, I did not know, for my father never +referred to the matter afterwards, and both I and my brother were +removed from the school at the end of the term. But I was severely +punished--sent to Coventry for three days--for doing something I had +both done and had not done, and the phrase “Criminal Judge” was burnt +into my memory with letters of fire. My revenge was rather an oblique +one--a fight with that headmaster’s son, though about quite another +matter. With each blow I landed--and I landed several--I saw red +whiskers on a boy about my own age! + +This digression concerning a poetry book occurs to me only now, while +telling of my wickedness about the blanket. The lesson that master +wished to teach me had no effect, for the simple reason that I had +_not_ stolen. The fear, however, doubtless remained; the injustice +scored deep, bitter wounds. I trace back to it a curious persistent +dread, not entirely obliterated even now: the dread of being accused +of a crime I have not committed; yet where the evidence of guilt +seems overwhelming. Patanjali’s “Aphorisms” describe a method of +living through in imagination all possible experiences. A series of +laborious incarnations would be necessary to exhaust these experiences +in the ordinary way. They can be lived out in the mind instead. In +imagination, anyhow, thanks to that little school injustice, I have +often tried to _realize_ the feelings of a man serving a term of +imprisonment for a crime he has not committed. Patanjali’s interesting +method is, at any rate, a means of opening the mind to a sympathetic +understanding of many an experience one could not otherwise know. Only +imagination must be sustained and very detailed, and the projection of +the personality is not easy. + +An interlude of play-acting now enlivened my period of free-lance +journalism. Kay was in my life again, and the opportunity came through +him. He had spent the summer between odd jobs on the stage, and odd +jobs at buying and selling exchange in Wall Street. He made both ends +meet, at any rate, and had a cheap room in the purlieus of Hoboken +across the river. A part in a third-rate touring company had just been +offered to him, and he said he could get me a part as well. One-night +stands in the smaller towns of New York State with a couple of plays, +of which “Jim, the Penman,” was one, formed the programme, and my utter +ignorance of acting, he assured me, need not stand in the way. My +salary would be $15 a week, with travelling expenses paid. Gilmour, the +leading man, and organizer of the company, was anxious to find someone +like myself. + +I jumped at it. Gilmour looked me up and down and said I’d do. I had +only one line to say. I was a prison warder on sentry duty, pacing to +and fro between the walls at night, when Gilmour, the hero, escaping +from his cell, knocks me down after a brief struggle, and disappears +into the night. A moment later the alarm is given; other warders +arrive, find me wounded on the ground and ask which way the prisoner +has gone. “That way,” I shout, pointing the direction before losing +consciousness; whereupon the curtain falls. + +It was not an exacting part. Gilmour said I should make a “bully +warder.” My own shabby clothes, with a brown billycock hat, would +do as they were. I was to carry a large wooden pistol. We rehearsed +the scene, swaying to and fro, breathing hard, grunting with effort, +cursing each other fiercely, until the prisoner, wrenching the pistol +from me, struck me on the head and floored me. Such was my rôle. + +I played it at Yonkers and Mount Vernon, three nights in each place, +if memory serves me correctly, but “went through it” is the true +description of my performance. For the theatre, either as a writer or +actor, I possess no trace of talent, a fact rediscovered recently when +playing an insignificant part in Drinkwater’s “Oliver Cromwell” on tour +with Henry Ainley. My dismissal at the end of the first week, however, +was not due to this lack of skill--it was due to a pail of beer and the +leading lady. For the leading lady, handsome daughter, I remember, of +a Washington General, was the inspiration of the touring company, and +it was for her _beaux yeux_ that the enterprise was undertaken. Gilmour +was what is known as “crazy” about her, his jealousy a standing joke +among us, so that when those _beaux yeux_ were turned upon my lanky, +half-starved self, there were warnings that trouble might begin. But +I was looking for salary and food rather than for trouble. In the +dressing-room we underlings all shared together, though “dressing” +was of negligible kind, I was quite safe. Chance meetings, however, +were unavoidable, of course, and Bettina’s instinct for adventure was +distinctly careless. It was here the pail of beer came in--into our +crowded dressing-room. Who brought it, I have forgotten; the miscreant +who stood treat to the band of hungry and thirsty Thespians is lost +to memory. I only know that, empty of food as I was, my share of that +gallon pail distinctly cheered me. The _beaux yeux_ had been boldly +rolling; another pair of eyes, not so lovely, had been rolling too. To +be ungallantly honest about it, my own feelings were not engaged in +any way, except on this particular night, when they were considerably +roused--against that stupid, jealous Gilmour. The way he glared in my +direction stirred my bile; the few glasses of beer made me reckless. +When the escaping prisoner fought with me for the possession of the +great wooden pistol, I refused to be “thrown.” + +The scanty audience that night witnessed a good performance of my +brief, particular scene. Gilmour cursed and swore beneath his breath, +but he was a smaller man than I was. He could do nothing with me. What +was a shocking performance in one sense, was a realistic and sincere +performance in another. Had my share of the pail been slightly bigger +than it was, I should undoubtedly have “thrown” the prisoner and spoilt +the curtain. As it was, however, Gilmour managed in the end to wrench +the pistol from me, and in doing so, his fury genuine, he landed me +a blow on the forehead with its heavy butt that stunned me. I fell. +He fled. Roars of applause I heard dimly. My brown billycock hat, I +remember, fell on its springy brim, bounced into the air, then hopped +away against the footlights. And all my interest went with my precious +hat. To the warders who at once rushed on with cries of “He’s escaped! +Which way did he go?” I used the right words, taking my cue correctly. +Only I pointed in the wrong direction. I pointed towards my old hat +against the footlights. It lay outside the curtain. + +It is odd to think that somewhere in the under-mind of the individual +who lay half-stunned on the stage of a Yonkers theatre, pointing +wildly at a dilapidated, but precious, old brown billycock, slept a +score of books, waiting patiently for expression a few years later. +It is difficult, indeed, as I write these notes, to realize that +the individual who describes the incidents is the individual who +experienced them. The body itself has changed every single physical +particle at least four times in succession. Nor is the mind the same. +With the exception of one or two main interests, easily handed on by +the outgoing atoms to the incoming atoms in the brain, “I” possess +little that the “I” of those distant New York days possessed. Even the +continuity of memory is bequeathable by atoms leaving the brain to the +new ones just arriving. Where, then, is the self who experienced years +ago what the self holding this pen now sets down? + +The “I,” during the next few years, at any rate, went rolling; rolling +from one experience to another, if not cheerily, at least resignedly. +Whatever happened--and what happened was mostly unpleasant--there was +never absent the conviction that it was deserved, and must be lived +out in a spirit of acceptance, until finally exhausted. Any other +attitude toward unwelcome events meant evasion, and a disagreeable +experience shirked merely postponed it to another time, either in this +life or another. There was, meanwhile, a _real_ self that remained +aloof, untouched, neither happy nor unhappy, a spectator, but a royal +spectator. Into this eternal Self was gathered the fruit and essence +of each and every experience the lower “I” passed through; the secret +of living was to identify oneself with this exalted and untroubled +royalty.... + +The rolling-stone went rolling, therefore, somewhat in this spirit, +which helped and comforted, which made most things possible, bearable +at any rate, because it was the outcome of that strange inner +conviction established in my blood, a conviction, as mentioned, neither +argument nor evidence could alter. + +Letters from home, home memories as well, pertained now to some +distant, unrecoverable region that was dead and gone. My mother’s +letters--one every week without a single omission--expressed a larger +spirit. Her faithful letters, secure in a sincere belief, were very +precious, I remember. Sometimes, though never successfully, they +tempted me almost to giving my full confidence and telling more than +my camouflaged reports revealed. From the rest of my family, with the +exception of a really loved brother, I knew myself entirely divorced, a +divorce that later years proved final and somehow inevitable. + +To my father, who was always something of a stranger to me, I could +never tell my heart; my mother, on the other hand, always had my +confidence, coupled with an austere respect. Few words passed between +us, yet she always knew, I felt, my thoughts. And this full confidence +dated, oddly enough, from an incident in early childhood, when I was +saying the Lord’s Prayer at her knee. There was a phrase that puzzled +me even when I was in knickerbockers: “Lead us not into temptation....” +I stopped, looked up into her face, and asked: “But _would_ He lead me +into temptation unless I asked Him not to?” Her eyes opened, she gazed +down into mine with a thoughtful, if perplexed expression, for a moment +she was evidently at a loss how to answer. She hesitated, then decided +to trust me with the truth: “I have never quite understood those +words myself,” she said. “I think, though, it is best to leave their +explanation to Him, and to say the words exactly as He taught them.” + +“Old souls” and “young souls” was a classification that ruled my mind +in this New York period: my mother was of the former, my father of the +latter. In the Old lay innate the fruits, the results, the memories of +many many previous lives, and this ripeness of long experience showed +itself in certain ways--in taste, in judgment, in their standard of +values, in that mysterious quality called tact; above all, perhaps, +in the type and quality of goods they desired from life. Worldly +ambitions, so-called, were generally negligible in them. What we +label to-day as the subconscious was invariably fully charged; also, +without too much difficulty, accessible. It made them interesting, +stimulating and not easily exhausted. Wide sympathies, spread charity, +understanding were their hall-marks, and a certain wisdom, as apart +from intellect, their invariable gift; with, moreover, a tendency to +wit, if not that rare quality wit itself, and humour, the power of +seeing, and therefore laughing at, oneself. The cheaper experiences of +birth, success, possessions they had learned long ago; it was the more +difficult, but higher, values they had come back to master, and among +the humbler ranks of life they found the necessary conditions. Christ, +I reflected, was the son of a carpenter. + +The Young Souls, on the other hand, were invariably hot-foot after +the things of this world. Show, Riches and Power stuck like red +labels on their foreheads. The Napoleons of the earth were among +the youngest of all; the intellectuals, those who relied on reason +alone, often the prosperous, usually the well-born, were of the same +category. Rarely was “understanding” in them, and brilliant cleverness +could never rank with that wisdom which knows that _tout comprendre, +c’est tout pardonner_. To me the Young Souls were the commonplace +and uninteresting ones. They were shallow, sketchy, soon exhausted, +the _Dutzend-menschen_; whereas, the others were intuitive, mature +in outlook, aware of deeper values and eager for the things of the +spirit.... + +Thinking over my distinguished relations, I found none fit to black +the boots of that kindly waiter in Krisch’s cheap eating-house, Otto, +the Black Forest German, who trusted us for food and often forwent +his trumpery tip with a cheery smile. And there were many others, +whose memory remains bright and wonderful from those dismal New York +years.... A volume of “Distinguished People I have Met,” for instance, +would include the Italian bootblack at the corner of 4th Avenue and +20th Street, who had the sun in his face, in his bright black eyes and +brown skin, and who trusted me sometimes for a month, although five +cents meant as much to him as it did to me. The bigwigs I interviewed +for newspapers are forgotten, but the faces of Otto and the Italian +shine in memory still. I even remember the sentence the latter taught +me. It invariably formed our daily greeting: _E molto tempo che siete +stato amalato?_ Often since have I spouted it in Italy, as bewildered +by the voluble replies I could not understand, as the peasants were by +my familiar enquiry after their health. Mrs. Bernstein, I think, would +be entitled to a place, and Grant, who pawned his overcoat to buy me +food, most certainly to full mention. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + + +Worthy of more detailed description, however, is the figure of an old, +old man I met about this time, a dignified, venerable and mysterious +being, man of the world, lawyer, musician, scholar, poet, but above +all, exile. Incidentally, he was madman too. What unkindly tricks fate +had played with his fine brain, I never learned with accuracy. It was +but the ruin of a great mind I knew. Pain and suffering of no unusual +order, as I soon discovered, had, at any rate, left his heart as wise +and sweet and gentle as any I have ever known. His voice, his eyes, his +smile, his very gestures, even, had in them all the misery and all the +goodness of the world. Our chance meeting deepened into a friendship, +the intimacy of which between Padre and Figlio--names he himself +assigned respectively--yet never permitted a full account of his own +mysterious past. The little I gathered of his personal history before +he died some dozen years later in England, came to me from patchwork +sources, but none of it from his own lips. What term the alienists +might use to describe the mental disorder of Alfred H. Louis I do not +know. + +The first time I saw him he cut a sorry figure; an old fellow in far +worse plight and even worse down at heel than I was myself. It was in +an olive-oil warehouse, at No. 1, Water Street, on the river front. +McKay, the owner, whom I had met through some newspaper story or other, +had converted me to the wisdom of an occasional glass of olive oil. It +was healthful and delicious, but to me its chief value was as food. On +this day of broiling heat I had wandered in for a glass of oil, and, +while waiting a moment for the owner to appear, I noticed an old tramp +seated on a packing-case, gazing at me in penetrating fashion. He was a +Jew, he was very small, his feet were tiny, his hands, I took in, were +beautiful. I thought of Moses, of Abraham, some Biblical prophet come +to life, of some storied being like the Wandering Jew. + +His atmosphere, that is, at once sent a message of something unusual +to my imagination. But it was when McKay came in and, to my surprise, +calmly introduced us as fellow Englishmen, that my mind was really +startled--not because the old tramp was English, but because when +he rose to shake my hand, it seemed to me that some great figure of +history rose to address, not me, but the nations of the world. He +reached barely to my shoulder, his face upturned to mine, yet the +feeling came that it was I who looked up into his eyes. The dignity and +power the frail outline conveyed were astonishing. He was a Presence. +And his voice the same instant--though in some commonplace about having +known Lord Dufferin--increased the air of greatness, almost I had said +of majesty, that he wore so naturally. It was not merely cultured, +deep and musical, it vibrated with a peculiar resonance that conveyed +authority beyond anything I have known in any other human voice. + +We talked ... _he_ talked, rather ... hunger, thirst, the afflicting +moist heat of the day were all forgotten, New York City was forgotten +too. His words carried me beyond this world, his language in that +astonishing voice wore wings that brought escape. His long frock-coat, +green with age and dirt; his broken boots and frayed trousers; his +shapeless top hat, brushed the wrong way till it looked like a beehive +coated with rough plush; his grimy collar without a tie; the spots upon +his grease-stained waistcoat--all vanished completely. It was, above +all, I think, the poetry in his voice and words that brought the balm +and healing into my whole being. The way his hands moved too. We talked +for several hours, for it was McKay’s nasal interruption, saying he +must close the warehouse, that brought me back to--Water Street. + +Recklessly, though with a diffidence as though I were with royalty, I +invited him to dine, but in the cheap Childs’ Eating House where we +“fed,” I soon perceived that I had no reason to feel embarrassed. A cup +of coffee and “sinkers” sufficed him, he took my shyness away, he won +my easy and full confidence; and afterwards--for he refused to let me +go--as we sat, that stifling night, on a bench in Battery Park, tramps +and Wearie Willies our neighbours, but the salt air from the sea in our +nostrils, he used a phrase that, giving me the calibre of his thought, +was too significant ever to be forgotten. I had spoken of my hatred of +the city and of my present circumstances in it. He peered into my face +a moment beneath his dreadful hat, then, raising a beautiful hand by +way of emphasis, his deep voice came to me like some music of the sea +itself: + +“No man worth his spiritual salt,” he said with impressive gentleness, +“is ever entangled in locality.” He smiled, and the tenderness of the +voice was in the eyes as well.... + +The little park emptied gradually, the heated paving-stones lost +something of their furnace breath, the stars were visible overhead +beyond the great arc lights, the parched leaves rustled faintly, and +I spoke to him of poetry. He had lived with Longfellow, he had known +Browning. The poetry of the world was in his soul--Greek, Latin, +German, French, above all, Hebrew. I drank in his words, unaware of the +passing hours. To me it was like finding a well in the desert when I +was dying of thirst. Even the awful city he transfigured. Suddenly his +lean fingers touched my arm, his voice deepened and grew soft, he took +his hat off. “I will say my Night-Song to you now,” he said. “I can +only say it to very, very few. For years I have said it to--no one. But +_you_ shall hear it.” + +If there was something in his voice and manner that thrilled me to +the core, the poem he then repeated on that bench in Battery Park at +midnight gave me indescribable sensations of beauty and delight. I +realized I listened to a personal confession that was a revelation of +the mysterious old heart beneath the green frock-coat. It seemed to me +that Night herself spoke through him: + + Known only, only to God and the night, and the stars and me! + Prophetic, jubilant Song, + Smiting the rock-bound hours till the waters of life flow free; + And a Soul, on pinion strong, + Flieth afar, and hovers over the infinite sea + Of love and of melody: + _While the blind fates weave their nets + And the world in sleep forgets_. + + Known only, only to me and the night, and the stars and God! + Song, from a burning breast, + Of a land of perfected delights which the foot of man ne’er trod, + Like a foaming wine expressed + From passionate fruits that glowed ’mid the boughs of the Eden lost, + Ere sin was born and frost;-- + _Song wild with desires and regrets, + While the world in sleep forgets_. + + Known only, only to me and God, and the night and the stars! + The beacon fire of song, + Flaming for guidance and hope while the storm-winds wage their wars; + Balm for the ancient wrong, + Dropping from healing wings on the wounds of the heart and brain, + Quenching their ancient pain: + Love-star that rises and sets, + _While the world in sleep forgets_. + + Known only, only to God and me, and the stars and the night! + Dove that returns to my ark, + Murmuring of grief-floods falling, of light beyond all light: + Voice that cleaveth the dark, + Singing of earth growing heaven, of distant lands that bless, + Though they may not caress, + And, blessing, pay Love’s old debts, + _While the world in sleep forgets_. + +Long before he ended the tears were coursing slowly down his withered +cheeks, and when the last word died away a long silence came between +us, for I could find no words to express the emotion in me. He took my +hand and held it a moment tightly, then presently got up, put on his +old hat again, with the remark that it was time for bed, and followed +me slowly to a Broadway cable car. His small, frail figure seemed to +have dwindled to a child’s shadow as he moved beside me; he had a way +of hunching his thin shoulders that still further dwarfed his height; +I felt myself a giant physically, but in my mind _his_ stature reached +the stars. We exchanged addresses. He lived in 8th Street, a miserable +attic, I learned later, though I never actually entered it. Of his +mental disorder no inkling had then reached me. I watched him melt +into the shadows of the side street with the feeling that I watched +some legendary figure, some ancient prophet, some mysterious priest. +He smiled at me; there was love and blessing in the brilliant eyes. +Then he was gone.... For me, at this time, to meet and talk with such +a man held something of the fabulous. He had set fire to a hundred new +thoughts and left them flaming in me. + +It was in this way began a friendship that has always seemed to me +marvellous, and that lasted till his death in England some fifteen +years later. Sweet, patient, resigned and lovable to the end, he died +incurably insane, the charity in him never tainted, the tenderness +unstained, the passionate love of his kind, of beauty, of all that is +lovely and of good report, unspoilt. The grimmest pain had not soured +the natural sweetness in him, his gentle spirit knew no bitterness, +his megalomania, complicated, I believe, with other varieties of +disorder, was harmless and inoffensive. As Padre he still lives in my +memory; as The Old Man of Visions (“The Listener”), he still haunts my +imagination. “You have taken my name away,” he chided me with a smile, +when I published this picture of him. “I am now uncertain who I am. +That is well. I am Anybody I choose to be. I will be Everybody.” He had +rooms in Great Russell Street at the time. Though baptised by Charles +Kingsley into the English Church, he later became a Roman Catholic, +but, when the end came, he reverted to the blood and faith born in him. +He was buried, by his own wish, in a Hebrew cemetery. The epitaph he +so often told me with an ironic smile he had chosen for his own was +not, however, used. Talk, he always declared, vain, excessive talk, lay +at the bottom of every misunderstanding in the world. If people would +talk less, there would be less trouble in life. “Sorry I spoke,” was to +be cut upon one of his tombstones; “Sorry they spoke” upon the other. + +A poem he wrote--published, like the Night Song, in _Harper’s +Magazine_--describing death, I have kept all these years. The strange +intensity of expression he put into the passage which begins: “The sand +of my Being is fused and runs ...” lives in my mind to this day. The +title of the poem was “The Final Word”: + + Hence then at last! For the strife is past + Of the Birth and Death, of the Self and Soul; + The memory breaks, the breath forsakes, + The waves of the æther o’er me roll. + The pulses cease, and the Hours release + Their wearied school of the nerves and brain; + I fall on the Deep of the Mystic Sleep, + Where the Word that is Life can be heard again. + And the fires descend, and my fragments blend, + And the sand of my Being is fused and runs + To the mould of a glass for the rays to pass + Of the Sun of the centre that rules all suns. + But, or ever I rest, I take from my breast + My blood-drained heart for the tablet white + Of a gospel page to the far-off Age-- + O Hand eternal!--Come forth--and write! + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + + +The personality of Alfred H. Louis is identified with New York for +me; he accompanied my remaining years there, guide, philosopher and +friend. He took in hand that indiscriminate heterogeneous reading +which the Free Library made possible. He proved an unfailing and +inspiring counsellor. How, why or whence he came to be in America at +all I never knew. One thing that stirred him into vehemence, when the +past was mentioned, was the name of Gladstone. With flashing eyes and +voice of thunder he condemned the Grand Old Man, both as to character +and policy, in unmeasured terms. Gladstone, apparently, had done him +a personal injury as well. “We cannot let that man come among us,” +was Gladstone’s dictum, when Louis’s name was being considered as +a candidate for Parliament by the Party. “He is too earnest.” This +fragment was all he ever told me, but there lay evidently much behind +it. “_Too earnest!_” he repeated with contemptuous indignation. + +Of his days at Cambridge he was more communicative, though, +unfortunately, I kept no notes. The eloquence and earnestness of his +speeches at the Union, when Sir William Harcourt was president, made, +according to his own account, a great stir. Of Dr. (Bishop) Lightfoot, +of Benson, afterwards Archbishop, he had intimate memories, coloured +by warm praise. His book on “England’s Foreign Policy” (Bentley, 1869) +apparently angered Gladstone extremely, and Louis’s political career +was killed. + +He was called to the bar. Of success, of important cases, he told +me nothing. His early brilliance suffered, I gathered, a strange +eclipse, and from things he hinted at, I surmised--I cannot state it +definitely--that a period in some kind of _maison de santé_ followed +about this time. That he had been, then or later, in an asylum for the +insane, I heard vouched for repeatedly in London years later. For an +interval before the breakdown came, he was editor, or part-editor, of +the _Spectator_, and in some similar connexion, as owner or editor, +he served the _Fortnightly_ too. George Eliot he knew well, giving me +vivid descriptions of her famous Sundays, and of his talks with George +Henry Lewes and Herbert Spencer. He claimed to be the original of +Daniel Deronda. He was a pupil of Sterndale Bennett’s on the piano. Of +his friendship with Cardinal Manning he had also much to tell. + +It was in the domain of politics that I first began to notice the +exaggeration and incoherence of his mind, and it was “in politics,” +evidently, that the deep wounds which would not heal had been +received. In music, poetry, literature, above all in law, his +intelligence had remained clear and sound, his judgments consummate, +his knowledge encyclopædic. Large tracts of memory in him were, +apparently, obliterated, whole stretches of life submerged, but his +legal attainments had remained untouched. A business friend of mine +“briefed” him to lecture on International, Company and Patent Law; and +the substance of those “Lectures” stood the test, years later, of the +highest English and French Courts. + +The lonely old man’s kingdom was his mind, and he dwelt in it aloof, +secure, contented, unassailable. Into the big empty stretches a half +education had left in my own, he poured his riches with unstinted +satisfaction, even with delight. Worldly advice he never proffered; +the world had left him aside, he, in his turn, left the world aside. +To practical questions he merely shook his Moses-head: “That,” he +would say, “you must decide for yourself. Considered in relation to +the Eternities, it is of little moment in any case.” To any question, +however, of a philosophical kind, to any enquiry for explanation about +what perplexed or interested me in the realm of thought, he would reply +with what I can only call a lecture, but a lecture so lucid, so packed +with knowledge and learning, with classical comment and quotation, +often with passages of moving eloquence, and invariably in language +so considered that no single word could have been altered, and the +“essay” might have been published as it stood--lectures, in a word, +that enthralled and held me spellbound for hours at a time. For his +knowledge was not knowledge merely, it was knowledge transmuted by +emotion into that spiritual wisdom called Understanding. + +The respect he inspired me with was such that rarely did I venture +upon a personal question, though I longed to know more about himself +and his mysterious story. His face sometimes betrayed intense mental +suffering. On one occasion, feeling braver, owing to a happy mood that +seemed established naturally between us, I attempted rather an intimate +question of some kind about his past. He turned and stared with an +expression that startled me. It was so keen, so searching. For several +minutes he made no reply. His eyes narrowed. I felt ashamed. I had +wounded him. The truth was, it seems, I had touched his heart. + +“Listen,” he said presently. In a voice full of tears and deep emotion, +a very quiet, a very beautiful voice, he replied to my question. +The expression of his eyes turned inwards, there rose in memory the +ghostly figure of someone he had loved, perhaps loved still. The whole +aspect of the old exiled poet became charged with an intolerable +sadness, as he spoke the lines, not to myself, but to this vanished +figure--“Shadowed by yearning memory’s raven wing”: + + +HEREAFTER + + Thou know’st not, sweet, what must remain unknown + Through all that my poor words can say or sing, + The measure of the love to thee I bring. + One day thou wilt, when, by a graven stone + That bears a name, thou standest, white, alone, + Shadowed by yearning memory’s raven wing, + Rained on by blossoms of some wind-torn spring + Wherefrom thirst-quenching fruit shall ne’er be grown. + Then--power shall rest upon the vanished hand + Once too much trembling to thy touch for power; + Then--shall my soul at last thy soul command + As it might not in Time’s brief fitful hour; + And what Life’s fires might neither melt nor burn + Shall yield with tears to ashes and the urn. + +I had my answer. Never again did I venture on a personal question. + +All our talks came round to poetry in the end. It was his deepest love +as well. Sound lawyer he may have been, but inspired poet, to me at +least, he certainly was. His own poems he severely deprecated, calling +them, with the exception of the “Night Song,” “poor things, though from +my heart.” His room, it seems, was littered with them in manuscript, +which he rarely tried, and never wished, to sell. Some time later Mr. +Alden, Editor of _Harper’s Magazine_, questioned me for information +“about a wonderful old gentleman who comes into the office like an +emperor, and offers me a poem as though he were parting painfully with +a treasure he hardly dared let out of his keeping, and certainly does +not wish to sell for cash.” To all, thus, he was a mystery. If he was +uncared for, he was at the same time indifferent to human care. Great +intellect, great mind, great heart, he seemed to me, a wraith perhaps, +but an august, a giant wraith, draped by mysterious shadows, dwelling +in a miserable slum, cut off from his kind amid the dim pomp and +pageantry of majestic memories. + +It was thus, at any rate, with the pardonable exaggeration of ignorant +twenty-five, I saw and knew the Old Man of Visions. It was his deep +heart of poetry, rather than his fine intellect I worshipped. The +under-mind in him, the subconscious region, I think, was whole and +healed; it was the upper-mind, the surface consciousness, that alone +was damaged. If this mind was wrecked, this brain partly in ruins, the +soul in him peered forth above the broken towers, remaining splendidly +aware. Not even the imperfect instrument through which it worked could +prevent this fine expression: behind the disproportion of various +delusions, behind the outer tumbled ruins, there dwelt unaffected in +him that greater thing than any intellect--Understanding. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + + +It was with a singular young man, who claimed proudly to be the +illegitimate son of a certain duke, that I found myself presently in +the eau de Cologne business. A long difficult winter had passed; all my +friends had disappeared; there had been periods of dried apples again, +of posing in studios, of various odd jobs, and of half-starving, with +black weeks in plenty. I had moved into yet cheaper quarters, where I +occupied a room that had been formerly a butler’s pantry, and was so +small that when the folding-bed was down the entire space from wall to +wall was occupied. The wash-hand stand was a sink in a recess let into +the wall and supplied with a tap. + +When Mr. Louis visited me, as he did frequently, we lowered the bed and +used it as a divan. The door could not open then. I made tea in the +sink. We talked.... + +If Louis’s atmosphere suggested choirs and places where they sing, +that of Brodie, as I may call him here, was associated with bars and +places where they drink. Not that he drank himself, for he was most +abstemious, but that in certain superior saloons, all of them far above +my means, he was usually to be found. A simple, yet complex, generous +as well as mean creature, with all the canniness of the Scot, with his +uncanniness as well, his education had been neglected, he read with +difficulty, and only wrote well enough to sign his name laboriously +to a cheque. He, too, like Louis, had his mystery; there was no one, +indeed, in my circle of those days whose antecedents would bear too +close a scrutiny. + +I was first introduced to him by a burly Swede, with hands like +beef-steaks, and the shoulders of a heavy-weight fighter, who was +later arrested and sent to gaol for picking pockets. His notoriety +as a sneak-thief none of us had guessed, and how those bulky hands +could have accomplished anything neat and clever was a puzzle. In +the Scotsman’s pleasant quarters, somewhat outlandishly furnished by +himself on a top floor, the Swede had made himself at home too long. +Brodie, the prey of many who, invited for a day or two, stayed on for +weeks, was glad to see his back. His weak good-nature, refusing to turn +his guests out, was the cause of endless troubles with men who sponged +upon his kindness and his purse. This and his eau de Cologne business, +“me beezness” as he called it, were his sole topics of conversation. He +had money to spend--was it an allowance? We never knew--and was always +well dressed; many a square meal he stood me; there was something in +his soft West of Scotland voice that drew me to this odd fish in the +“perfumery line.” It reminded me of happier days. And I have described +his habits at some length, because it was owing to a small service I +rendered him, and rendered myself at the same time, that I became a +partner in “me beezness” of manufacturing and selling eau de Cologne +made from the Johann Maria Farina recipe. + +Brodie’s social aspirations were very marked; to hear him talk one +would have thought him heir to a dukedom; he had, too, a curious +faculty for getting his name associated with people above him in the +social world. How he managed it was a problem I never solved. His +instinct for smelling out and using such folk was a gift from heaven. +To see his name in the paper gave him supreme happiness. Real “Society” +of course, Ward Macallister’s Four Hundred, lay beyond the reach of +what was actually a peasant type, but there were less select fields he +worked assiduously with great success. There was matter for a play, +a novel, a character study, at any rate, in Brodie, who himself, I +learned much later, had come out to New York as valet to Clyde Fitch, +the playwright, and whose recipe for the “genuine Johann Maria Farina,” +his successful “beezness,” was stolen property. My father’s son knew +certainly queer bedfellows in that underworld in New York City. + +Meeting him in one of his usual haunts one night, he complained +bitterly of a young man he had invited for a week, but who had stayed +a month, and stayed on still. The name, which need not be mentioned, +was a well-known one. It was a bad case of imposition, by a man, too, +who had ample means of his own. I offered to turn him out, much to +Brodie’s alarm. That is, he both desired the result and feared it. Next +morning I arrived in the oddly-furnished rooms and found Brodie cooking +breakfast for the undesirable young man who had imposed on his host too +long, and who still lay in bed. It was a comic scene, no doubt, for +Brodie, though frightened, bore out my accusations while he fried the +eggs, and the other blustered noisily until he found out that bluster +was of no avail; and then, threatening an action for assault, got +suddenly out of bed and dressed himself. Half-an-hour later he was, bag +and baggage, in the street, while I went down and sold the “story” to +the _New York Journal_, who printed it next morning with big headlines, +but also with a drawing showing the eviction scene. No action for +assault followed, however; I received twenty dollars for my “story”; +and Brodie, full of gratitude--his name was mentioned in flattering +terms--offered to take me into partnership in “me beezness.” I demurred +at first. “You might help me with the correspondence,” he suggested +cautiously. I was to be his educated partner and his pen. + +All that spring and summer I received ten dollars a week which, +in addition to free-lance newspaper work, enabled me to live in +comparative luxury. In a dark little back-office on Broadway and 8th +Street, the eau de Cologne was made. It might have been the secret +headquarters of an anarchist fraternity, or the laboratory of some +mediæval alchemist, such was the atmosphere of secrecy, of caution and +of mystery. It never occurred to me that anything was wrong. Our only +assistant was a young Polish girl named Paola, a beautiful, dark-haired +Jewess. The precious recipe I was never allowed to see. Great flagons +in wicker coverings stood in rows upon long shelves; the mixing of +the ingredients was a delicate operation lasting an hour; the room +smelt rich and sweet of spices that made me think of Araby and the +East. It was a curious and picturesque scene--the rather darkened +room, the perfume-laden air, the hush no traffic could disturb, the +great, mysterious flagons, which might almost have concealed forty +thieves, the canny Scot of doubtful origin, the beautiful Jewess, +the air of caution and suspicion that reigned over all. The filling +of the bottles in two sizes, affixing the labels, flavouring the +soap--we made eau-de-Cologne soap too--answering the letters, writing +flowery advertisements, and so forth, occupied the entire day. Brodie, +a born salesman, would take a cab and visit the big stores with +samples--Macy’s, Siegel and Cooper, and others whose names I have +forgotten. He never came back without an order. The business flourished. + +I made no secret of being in the perfumery trade. I had moved into a +larger room at my boarding-house. I had bought boots, some new linen, +and most of my things were out of pawn. Then, presently, here and +there, I began to notice things I did not like. Rumours reached me. +Hints were dropped, sometimes more than hints, that made me wonder +and look over my shoulder a little. No member of my immediate circle +at this time was of too sweet origin nor of too stainless habits, yet +from these came the rumours and the hints. I had better “keep my eyes +peeled,” and the rest...! One man in particular who warned me was an +elderly, shrewd German, friend of Brodie’s, and himself a mystery. His +occupation was unknown, however, even to Brodie; he hid it carefully +away; he led a double life, protecting himself with the utmost skill +and caution behind a screen of detail none of us ever pierced. “Von” +Schmidt, as he styled himself, was educated; also he had a heart; +for once, when I was in a state of collapse from hunger, he brought +oysters for me at great trouble to himself, having to go out on a +rainy night and bring them some distance along the street; from which +moment, though the unpleasant mystery about him intrigued and cautioned +me, I became his friend. We talked German together. His one desire, +he confided to me, was to marry a rich woman, and once he clumsily +proposed to arrange a rich marriage for myself if I would give him +a--commission on results! + +His personality is worth this brief description, perhaps, since it +sheds light, incidentally, upon the world I lived in. Always most +carefully dressed, he occupied a single room in a well-appointed house +in East 22nd Street, talking airily of a bedroom on the floor above, +of a bathroom I was sure he never used, and complaining apologetically +of “this awful house I’m in for the moment.” His pose was that of an +aristocrat, proud and resigned among untoward circumstances, and it was +through no mistake of his own that this humbug did not impose on me. +I just knew it was all bunkum. His actual business, I felt sure, was +unsavoury, though Brodie, having once discovered artificial flowers +in his coat pocket, thought he was a floor-walker in some big store. +Various suspicious details confirmed me later in the belief that his +real occupation was blackmailing. + +In his single room, at any rate, where a piece of furniture against +the wall covered with framed photographs of German notabilities was +in reality a folding-bed--I never once, since the oysters, betrayed +that I knew this--he lived “like a gentleman.” Every night, from nine +o’clock onwards, he was “at home”; a box of cigars, various liqueurs, +he offered without fail, and “with an air” if you please, although +the former never held more than three or four cigars, the bottles +never more than enough to fill two glasses, because “my servant, +confound him, has forgotten again to fill them.” He had no servant, +of course, and the minimum of replenishing was done by himself every +evening before nine o’clock. “Then you are a Baron really?” I said +once, referring to the “von” before his name. He looked at me with the +disdainful smile a prince in difficulties might have worn: “In this +city of snobs and scoundrels,” he said lightly, “I have dropped my +title. The ‘von’ alone I find more dignified.” He left the house, I +found, every morning sharp at eight, and this was in favour of Brodie’s +theory that he had some regular job. He was an experienced, much-lived +old bird, a touch of something sinister about him always, about most +of his friends as well. Some very disagreeable types I surprised more +than once in his well-furnished room. He “knew the ropes,” knew men +and women too, his counsel was always sound in worldly matters. A lack +of humour was his chief failing, it seemed to me, while his snobbery +was another weakness that probably led many of his schemes to failure. +Every summer, for instance, he would go for two weeks to Newport, where +the rank and fashion went. “When I was at Newport,” or “I am going to +Newport next week,” were phrases his tongue loved to mouth and taste +like fine wine. But his brief days there were spent actually in a cheap +boarding-house, although the letters he wrote to all and sundry, to +myself included, bore one word only as address: “Newport,” made from a +die, at the head of his coloured paper. + +It was von Schmidt, then, who warned me about Brodie and his +eau-de-Cologne business: “He is a fool, a peasant. There will be +trouble there. Do not identify yourself with him or his business. It +is not worth while....” And his manner conveyed that he could tell +something more definite if he liked, which I verily believe was the +case. Brodie, I was convinced later, paid him tribute. + +I began to feel uncomfortable. One day I asked Brodie, point blank, +what his recipe was and how he came by it? “That’s me own beezness,” +he replied. “There’s nothing to be nairvous about.” I consulted “old +Louis.” “If you feel the faintest doubt,” was his answer, “you should +leave at once.” I decided to get out. Brodie asked me to wait the +current month. I agreed. + +Before the end of the month, however, when I left the eau-de-Cologne +business, a most unpleasant and alarming incident occurred. The +terrible thing, long dreaded in a vague kind of way, had overtaken me +at last. I was to be convicted of a crime I had not committed. I might +even be sent to gaol.... + +Brodie’s outlandish furnishing of his rooms has been mentioned +purposely; they were filled with an assortment of showy trash that +could not have deceived a charwoman; fifty dollars would have covered +everything. He was proud of his curtains, rugs and faked draperies, +however; showed them off with the air of a connoisseur; hinted at their +great value. He had insured them, it always pleased him to mention. +The _New York Journal_, describing the eviction scene, had referred +to his fine apartment “furnished with exotic taste and regardless of +cost,” adding this touch of colour which was certainly not my own. +Brodie, thus encouraged in print, promptly took out another fire policy +in a second company. And one day, while toying with his flagons, he +mentioned casually that he was having “me place done up a bit,” new +paint, new paper were to be put on, and--might he bring his clothes to +my room until this was finished, as his own cupboard space was limited? + +He brought the suits himself, carrying them one by one concealed +inside a folded overcoat upon his arm. He did this always after dusk. +No suspicion stirred in me. My own cupboards were, of course, empty. +Brodie’s fine wardrobe now filled them. It all seemed natural enough; +certainly it roused no doubt or query in me; neither did the party to +which I was invited a few days later, which included a “distinguished” +member, of course, a famous dress-designer from Europe, with whose +publicity campaign in the Press, Brodie had contrived to get his name +associated. + +We were a party of five men, and we met at our host’s rooms before +going out to dine, the rooms that had just been done up; and attention, +I recall, was drawn particularly to the beauty, rarity and value of +his variegated trash. The electric light was shaded, a big coal fire +burned in the grate, at a cursory glance the apartment might possibly +have produced a favourable impression of expense and richness. But our +host did not allow us to linger; there was a hurried cocktail, and we +were gone. I remember that I was last but one in the procession down +the stairs from this top floor; Brodie, who had held the door open for +us to pass, came last. Also I remembered later, that as we reached the +next flight, he said he had forgotten something, and dashed upstairs +again to fetch it. A moment later he rejoined us in the street, and +we all went on to dinner. “It was a kind of house-warming party,” he +explained. + +The evening passed pleasantly. We went on to Koster and Biel’s music +hall, and after that, to supper in some Tenderloin joint or other. And +it was here I first noticed a change in our host. Something about him +was different. His behaviour was not what was normal to him. His face +was pale, his manner nervous and excited; though there was no drink in +him to account for it, he was overwrought, unusually voluble, unable to +keep still for a single moment. I had never seen him like this before, +and the strangeness of his behaviour arrested me. Once or twice, _à +propos_ of nothing, he referred to the money he had spent on his +apartment; and more than once in asides to me, he spoke of the value of +his rugs and curtains, engaging my endorsement, as it were. The other +men, who knew him less intimately, probably noticed nothing, or, if +they did, attributed it to the excitement of alcohol.... But it made me +more and more uneasy. I didn’t like it; I watched him attentively. I +came to the strange conclusion, long before the evening was over, that +he was frightened. And when he met suggestions that it was time for bed +with obstinate refusals, anxious and nervous at the same time, I knew +that he was more than frightened, he was terrified. + +Once when I asked him whether he felt unwell, there was startled terror +in his cunning eyes as he whispered: “I dreamed of rats last night. +Something bad will be coming.” His face was white as chalk. To dream +of rats, with him, always meant an enemy in the offing; a dozen times +he had given me instances of this strange superstition; to dream of an +acquaintance in connexion with these unpleasant rodents meant that +this particular acquaintance was false, an enemy, someone who meant him +harm. I, therefore, understood the allusion in his mind, but this time, +for some reason, I did not believe it. He was lying. The terror of a +guilty conscience was in those startled eyes and in that sheet-white +skin. I felt still more uneasy. I was glad I had put my resignation +from the “beezness” in writing. There was trouble coming in connexion +with that recipe, and Brodie already knew it. + +It was after two in the morning when we reached home. My rooms were a +couple of streets before his own, but he begged me to see him to his +door. His nervous state had grown, meanwhile, worse and worse; his legs +failed him several times, seeming to sink under his weight; he took my +arm; more than once he reeled. There was something about it all, about +himself particularly, that made my skin crawl. The awful feeling that +I, too, was to be involved increased in me. + +As we turned out of Fourth Avenue into his street, a loud noise met +us: a prolonged, hoarse sound, a clank of machinery in it somewhere, +another sound as well that pulsed and throbbed. A dense crowd blocked +the way. There was smoke. A fire engine was pumping water into a +burning building--the one that Brodie lived in. These details I noticed +in the first few seconds, but even before I had registered them Brodie +uttered a queer cry and half-collapsed against me. He was speechless +with terror, and at first something of his terror he communicated +to me, too. My heart sank into my boots. The “rats” I understood +instantly, had nothing to do with his eau de Cologne recipe. This was a +far more serious matter. + +Fires were no new thing to me, and this evidently was only a small one, +but, none the less, people might have been burned to death. Telling +my companion to wait for me, and to keep his mouth shut whatever +happened, I produced some paper and pushed my way through the crowd to +the police cordon, saying I was from the _Evening Sun_. Though I had +no fire-badge, the bluff worked. I ran up the steps of the familiar +house. “Which floor is it? How did it start? Is it insured? Is anybody +burned?” I asked a fireman. The answer came and I jotted it down; it +was the top floor, how it started was unknown, nobody was hurt--it was +heavily insured. + +It had been burning for four hours, the worst was over, the fire was +out; only steam and smoke now filled the staircase and corridors. The +street was covered with a litter of ruined furniture. The occupants of +the lower floors stood about in various attire; I caught unpleasant +remarks as I dashed upstairs to Brodie’s floor. Hoses, I found, were +still at work; the room we had left six hours before was gutted; a +gaping hole permitted a view of the room on the floor below, and this +hole began immediately in front of the grate. A black woolly mat +with long hair, I remembered, had lain on the floor just there. The +unpleasant remarks, as I ran up, had reference to insurance; phrases +such as “over-insured,” “too well insured” were audible. They were the +usual phrases uttered at the scene of a New York fire, where arson was +as common as picking pockets; I had heard them a hundred times; they +had furnished clues for my newspaper stories. On this occasion they +held a new significance. + +Brodie shared my folding-bed that night, but he did not sleep. He cried +a good deal. He said very little. He referred neither to the loss of +his stuff, nor to the fact of its being covered by insurance, nor to +how and why the fire started. He was frightened to the bone. + +Next day, when we visited the burned apartment to secure what fire +and water had spared, Brodie was abused and scarified by the inmates +as he went upstairs.... Weeks of keen anxiety followed, of worse than +anxiety. The insurance companies refused to pay the claims, which +Brodie, after much hesitation, had sent in. They decided to fight them. +The lawyer--a _scheister_, meaning a low, unprincipled type of attorney +who would take any case for the money it might contain--bled my friend +effectively by preying on his obvious fear. He was summoned to give +witness before a hearing in the offices of the company, and I shall +never forget his face when he met me that night with the significant +words: “They know everything about me, everything about you too. They +even know that I took all my clothes to your room before it happened. +They are going to summon you to give evidence too.” + +I consulted with “old Louis,” telling him the full story, but making +no accusations. “Few people are worthy to live with,” was his comment, +“fewer still to share one’s confidence. You must tell the truth as you +know it. You have nothing to fear.” I was searchingly examined by the +company’s lawyer and my evidence made, I saw, a good impression. No +awkward leading questions were put. Brodie had been kind to me; I knew +nothing definite against him; in his ignorance, which I described, he +might well have thought his possessions were of value. It had nothing +to do with me, at any rate, and there was a perfectly good explanation +for his clothes being in my cupboard. None the less, it was a trying +ordeal. Worse, however, was to follow. The fire marshal, recently +appointed, a proverbial new broom, was out to put down the far too +frequent arson in the city. Fire Marshal Mitchell--I see his face +before me still--intended to prosecute. + +This was a bombshell. My imaginative temperament then became, indeed, +my curse. Waiting for the summons was like waiting for the verdict +of a hostile jury. I waited many days, hope alternating with fear. I +felt sure I was being watched the whole time. Brodie and I never met +once. I changed my room about this time, though for reasons entirely +disconnected with this unpleasant business (I had obtained a violin +pupil in another house), and I wrote to the fire marshal informing him +of my new address, in case, as I understood was probable, he might want +my evidence. + +But what really alarmed me most was my inside knowledge of New York +justice. I had seen too many innocent men sent up; I had heard faked +evidence in too many police cases; I knew that, without a “pull,” I +stood but little chance of escaping a conviction as an accessory +to what they would call a wanton case of arson. I was not even on +the staff of a newspaper at the time. I had no influence of any sort +behind me. Nor were my means of support too “visible,” a Britisher, +a highly-connected Britisher into the bargain, it was just what the +new-broom fire marshal was looking for. It would make a big case for +the Press. The agony of mind I endured was ghastly, and the slow delay +of long waiting intensified it.... One evening, on coming home about +dusk, I saw a strange man in the little hall-way of my house. He asked +me my name. I told him. He handed me a blue paper and went out. It was +the long-expected subpœna from the fire marshal. I was summoned to +attend at eight o’clock two mornings later in his office. + +My emotions that night and the next day were new experiences to me; I +heard the judge sentence me, saw myself in prison for a term of years +with hard labour. I began to _feel_ guilty. I knew I should say the +wrong thing to the fire marshal. I should convict myself. The truth +was the truth, but everything pointed against me; I knew Brodie as a +friend, I was his business associate, was frequently in his rooms, had +accepted kindnesses from him, I needed money badly, I had hidden his +good clothes in my cupboards a few days before the fire. I had been +with him on that particular night, I had left the room with him--last +of the party. I should be looked upon as guilty, it was for me to +clear myself. Prejudice against me, too, as an Englishman would be +strong. The Boyde episode would be revived, and twisted to show that I +consorted with law-breakers. I should stammer and hesitate and appear +to be hiding the truth, to be lying, and I should most certainly look +guilty. The thing I dreaded had come upon me. I thought of my home and +family. + +It all made me realize with a fresh sharpness the kind of world poverty +had dragged me down to, with the contrast between what I had been +born to and what I now lived in.... I needed every scrap of strength +and comfort my books could give me. That I was exaggerating like +a schoolboy never occurred to me. I suffered the tortures of the +damned, of the already condemned, at any rate. That I was innocent of +wrong-doing was, for some reason, no consolation: I had got myself into +an awful mess and should have to pay the price. + +The wildest ideas filled my brain; I would call and enlist the +influence of McCloy, of various officials, of headquarters detectives, +of D. L. Moody the Revivalist, who was then preaching in New York +and who had been a guest in my father’s house, of the Exchange Place +banker, even of von Schmidt, though fear of blackmail stopped me here. +But reflection told me how useless such a proceeding would be. The +Republicans, besides, were in power at the time, and Tammany had no +“pull.” I even thought of Roosevelt, whom, as President of the Police +Board, I had often interviewed. The fire marshal would rejoice in the +case, of course, for, as with the Boyde story, the newspapers would +print it at great length. There lay much _kudos_ for him in it. I +had no sleep that night, as I had no friend or counsellor either. I +thought of spending it in Bronx Park with the trees, but it occurred to +me that, if I were being watched, the act might be interpreted as an +attempt to escape--for what would a New York fire marshal make of my +love of nature? + +The following day, as the dreaded examination grew closer, was a day of +acute misery--until the late afternoon, when I met by chance the man +who saved me. I shall always believe, at least, that “saved” is the +right word to use. + +A coincidence, as singular as the coincidence of catching Boyde, was +involved. Fate, anyhow, brought me across the path of Mullins, the one +man who could help, just at the time and place, too, where that help +could be most effectively given. The word coincidence, therefore, seems +justified. + +Mullins, the Irishman, was an editorial writer on the _Evening Sun_ +when I was a reporter there; he disliked the paper as heartily as I +did, and his ambition was to join the staff of the _New York Times_, +where Muldoon, another Irishman, a boon companion, was City Editor. +He had proved a real friend to me in my days of gross inexperience. +“If ever I get on the _Times_,” he used to say, “I’ll try and get a +place for you, too. It’s a fine, clean paper, and they treat a man +decently.” He had realized his ambition just about the time I went into +the eau-de-Cologne business, but had said there was no vacancy for me. +There might be one later. He would let me know. For months, however, we +had not met, and the matter had really left my mind. And it was now, +when I was casting about in a state of semi-panic for someone who might +help me, that I suddenly thought of Mullins. As a last hope, rather, I +thought of him, for it seemed a very off-chance indeed. + +For various reasons I did not act upon the idea, but Mullins was in +my mind, so much, so persistently, so often, that I kept seeing him +in passers-by. I mistook several strangers for Mullins, until close +enough to see my mistake. Then, suddenly, in Union Square, towards +evening, I did see him. I was sitting on a bench. He walked past me. He +was on his way to an assignment. I told him the whole story, making no +accusations, but omitting no vital detail. He listened attentively, his +face very grave. He shared my own misgivings. “It’s just the kind of +case Mitchell’s looking for,” he said. “He wants to make a splash with +it. But I think I can fix it for you. Guess what my assignment is at +this moment?” + +And then he told me. His job that evening was a special interview with +Mitchell, a descriptive story of the newly-appointed fire marshal, his +personality and character, his plans for suppressing arson, and it was +to be a front-page article. Mullins could make him or mar him; he had a +free hand in the matter; the _Times_ was a Republican organ. It would +mean a great deal to Mitchell. “He comes from my part of Ireland,” said +Mullins with a grin and a wink. And then he added that he had spoken +to Muldoon about me only the day before, and that Muldoon had promised +me a place on the paper the moment it was possible--in a few weeks +probably. “I shall just mention to Mitchell that you’re going on the +_Times_,” was his significant parting word to me, as he hurried off to +keep his appointment. + +My examination next morning was robbed of much of its terror. The +fire marshal was evidently not quite sure of himself, for, if manner, +voice and questions were severe, I detected an attitude that suggested +wavering. A shorthand writer behind me took down every word I uttered, +and the searching examination about the clothes, my social and business +relations with Brodie, my knowledge, if any, concerning the value of +his rugs and curtains, especially concerning the night of the fire +and the details of how we left the room, gave me moments of acute +discomfort. Although Mitchell rarely once looked straight at me, I +knew he was observing my every word and gesture, the slightest change +in facial expression, too. He confined himself entirely to questions, +allowing no hint of his own opinion to escape him, and yet, to my very +strung-up attention, he betrayed the uncertainty already mentioned. +I, of course, confined myself entirely to answers, brief, but without +hesitation. + +My instinct, right or wrong, was to protect Brodie, a man who had +shown me real kindness. I remembered the meals, for one thing. In any +case, it was not for me to express opinions, much less to bring an +accusation. And, towards the end of a gruelling half-hour, I began to +feel a shade more comfortable. When, with a slightly different manner, +the fire marshal began to ask personal questions about my own career, +I felt the day was almost won. I gave a quick outline of my recent +history, though I never once mentioned the name of Mullins; let fall +the detail, too, that I was an Irishman, and, a little later, seizing +an opening with an audacity that surprised myself even while I said the +words, I congratulated Mr. Mitchell upon his campaign to crush out the +far too frequent arson in the city. “As a newspaper man,” I gave this +blessing, and the shot, I instantly saw, went home. If I could be of +any use to him on the _Times_, if any suspicious case came my way, I +added that I should always be glad to serve him. For the first time the +fire marshal smiled. I shot in a swift last stroke for Brodie, though +an indirect one. “But you don’t want any _mis_fires,” I ventured, +inwardly delighted that the play on the word amused him. “A big case +that failed of a conviction would be damaging.” + +We shook hands as I left soon after, though the final comfort he denied +me. For when I mentioned that my present address would always find me +“if you need me again,” he merely bowed and thanked me. He did _not_ +say, as I hoped he would, “your presence will not be required any more.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + + +Six weeks later, when the torrid summer heat was waning and September +breezes had begun to cool the streets, the nights, at any rate, I found +myself a reporter on the staff of the _New York Times_. My salary of +$35 a week seemed incredible. It was like coming into a fortune, and +its first effect was to make a miser of me. I had learned the value of +the single cent; I found myself fearful of spending even that cent. I +understood why people who pass suddenly from want to affluence become +stingy, complaining always of being hard-up. I determined to save. I +opened an account in a Savings Bank against another rainy day. This +trait, acquired in my unhappy New York period, remains in me still, I +notice. Never have I known from that time to this what it means to be +comfortably off, free from financial anxiety for more than a month or +two ahead, yet each time an extra bit of money comes in, I am aware +of the instinct to be extremely, unnecessarily careful of each penny. +The less I have, the more reckless I feel about spending it, and _vice +versa_. + +Those six weeks, however, before Muldoon sent for me, proved the most +painful and unhappy of all my New York days. There was something +desperate about them; I reached bottom. It was the darkest period +before the dawn, though I had no certainty that the dawn was breaking. +My income from the eau de Cologne business was ended, my free-lance +work struck a bad streak, the artists were still out of town, the +studios consequently empty; my violin pupil had gone to Boston. It +was during this August that I slept in Central Park, and passed the +night--for there was not much sleep about it--beneath the Bronx Park +trees as well, though I had to walk all the long weary way to get +there. It was, also, _par excellence_, the height of the dried-apple +season. With the exception of Old Louis, occasionally Mullins too, I +had no companionship. Brodie, who by the way received no money from the +insurance companies, but equally, escaped a worse disaster, I never +saw again. The post on the _Times_, meanwhile, seemed far away, highly +problematical too. My comforts were Bronx Park, occasionally open-air +music, Louis, and my own dreams, speculations and, chief of all, the +Bhagavad Gita.... Hours I spent in the free libraries. Never, before or +since, did I read so many books in so short a time. This free reading, +of course, never stopped for a moment all the years I lived in New +York, but during these six weeks it reached a maximum. + +From the ’vantage ground of easier days I have often looked back and +wondered why I made no real effort to better myself, to get out of the +hated city, to go west, for a railway pass was always more or less +within my power, and other fellows, similarly in difficulties, were +always changing occupations and localities. It was due, I think, to +a kind of resignation, though rather a fierce resignation, a kind of +obstinate spirit of acceptance in me. “Take it all, whatever comes,” +said this spirit. “Dodge, shirk, avoid nothing. You have deserved +it. Exhaust it then. Suck the orange dry.” And, as if life were not +severe and difficult enough, as it was, I would even practise certain +austerities I invented on my own account. Already I felt myself +immeasurably old; life seemed nearly ended; external events, anyhow, +did not _really_ matter.... + +A rolling-stone sees life, of course, but collects little, if any, +fruit; though I made no determined efforts to escape my conditions at +this time, a new adventure ever had attractions for me. Having once +tasted the essence of a particular experience, I found myself weary +of it and longing for a new one. This vagabondage in the blood has +strengthened with the years. A fixed job means prison, a new one sends +my spirits up. Routine is hell. To take a room, a flat, a job by the +year, means insupportable detestation of any of them soon afterwards. +It is a view of life that hardly goes to make good citizenship, but, +on the other hand, it tends to keep the heart young, to prevent too +early hardening of the mental arteries, while it certainly militates +against the dread disease of boredom. _Une vie mouvementée_ has its +vagabond values. To a certain side of my nature Old Louis’s wiser +epitaph (“Sorry _I_ spoke; sorry _they_ spoke”) made less appeal than +some anonymous verses I came across in _Scribner’s Magazine_ with the +title “A Vagrant’s Epitaph”--verses I knew by heart after a first +reading: + + Change was his mistress; Chance his counsellor. + Love could not hold him; Duty forged no chain. + The wide seas and the mountains called him, + And grey dawns saw his camp-fires in the rain. + + Sweet hands might tremble!--aye, but he must go. + Revel might hold him for a little space; + But, turning past the laughter and the lamps, + His eyes must ever catch the luring Face. + + Dear eyes might question! Yea, and melt again; + Rare lips a-quiver, silently implore; + But he must ever turn his furtive head, + And hear that other summons at the door. + + Change was his mistress; Chance his counsellor. + The dark firs knew his whistle up the trail. + Why tarries he to-day?... And yesternight + Adventure lit her stars without avail. + +The plague of possessions, at any rate, has never troubled me, either +actually or in desire, while the instinct to reduce life to its +simplest terms has strengthened. The homeless feeling of living in my +trunks is happiness, the idea of domesticity appals, and the comforts +of rich friends wake no echo in me, assuredly no envy. A home, as a +settled place one owns and expects to live in for years, perhaps for +ever, is abhorrent to every instinct in me, and when acquaintances +show off with pride their cottage, their flat, their furniture, their +“collections,” even their “not a bad little garden, is it?” my heart +confesses to a vague depression which makes it difficult to sympathise +and give them my blessing. Life, at its longest, is absurdly brief +before health and energy begin to slip downhill; it is mapped with +a cunning network of ruts and grooves from which, once in, it is +difficult to escape; only the lucky ones are never caught, although the +“caught” are lucky perhaps in another way--they do not realize it. Yet +even to-day, when times are bad and the horizon not too clear for some +time ahead, the old dread of starvation rises in me; I never see apple +rings in a grocer’s window without getting their taste and feeling them +rise and swell within me like some troublesome emotion.... + +To my year and a-half on the _New York Times_ I look back with nothing +but pleasure; the slogan, “All the news that’s fit to print,” was +practised; and the men I worked with were a good company of decent +fellows. Muldoon, a fighting Irishman with a grim fierce manner and +a warm heart, had a sense of humour and a gift for encouraging his +reporters that made them love him. C. W. Miller was editor in chief, +and Carey, manager. Who owned the paper I have forgotten, but it was +not Colonel Jones who was present at the Union League Club dinner to +my father, when I made my maiden speech some nine years before. Hours +of work were from noon until the night assignment was turned in, which +meant any time from ten o’clock onwards; though, as emergency man, in +case of something happening late, I often had to stay in the office +till after one in the morning. Proper food, a new suit, comradeship +with a better class of men, came, perhaps, just in time for me. I +remember the pleasure of writing home about my new post. I had a +dress-suit again. I saved $15 a week. + +Reporting for a New York newspaper can never be uneventful, but the +painful incidents of life make deeper impressions than the pleasant +ones. To meet the former means usually to call upon one’s reserves, +and memory hence retains sharper pictures of them corresponding to the +greater effort. On the _Times_ I was happy. + +Two incidents stand out still in the mind, one creditably pleasing to +vanity; the other, exactly the reverse. The latter, though it annoyed +Muldoon keenly at the moment, fortunately for me appealed to his sense +of humour too. He had given me an evening off--that is, all I had to do +was to write a brief report of a Students’ Concert in which his little +niece was performing. + +“Without straining veracity,” he mentioned with a grin, “ye might +perhaps say something kind and pretty about her!” He winked, whispering +her name in my ear. “Have ye got it?” he asked fiercely. I nodded. Was +I thinking of something else at the moment? Was my mind in the woods +that lovely evening in spring? + +At the concert I picked out the name I remembered and wrote later a +sturdy eulogistic notice of an atrocious performer, saying the very +prettiest and nicest things I could think of, then went home to a +coveted early bed. But Muldoon’s grim smile next day, as I reported at +his desk for an assignment, gave me warning that something was wrong. +He did not keep me in suspense. I had selected for my praise, not +only the crudest performer of the concert--that I already knew--but +one whom all the other pupils disliked intensely, and whose name they +particularly hoped would be omitted altogether. The niece I had not +even mentioned. + +The other incident that stands out after all these years was more +creditable. Dr. Lyman Abbott, Editor of the _Outlook_, which once Henry +Ward Beecher edited as the _Church Union_, was preaching in Beecher’s +Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, a series of sermons on “The Theology of +an Evolutionist,” and Muldoon had persuaded the editor-in-chief that +a full report on the front page every Monday would be a credit to +the paper. His proposal was agreed to, apparently without too much +enthusiasm. The Irishman was determined to justify it. “I want ye to +take it on,” said Muldoon to me. “Ye can write shorthand. Make it 150.” +A column was 100. To have a column and a-half on the front page, if I +could do it well, would be a feather in my cap. But my shorthand was +poor, I was out of practice too, bad notes are impossible to read for +transcription, and mistakes would mean angry letters of correction from +Dr. Abbott, probably. + +Monday was my day off. I went to Plymouth Church with a new notebook +and three soft lead pencils, duly sharpened at both ends. In the brief +interval before Sunday I practised hard. The church was packed to the +roof, as I sneaked up the aisle--an unfamiliar place, I felt it!--to a +little table placed immediately beneath the pulpit. I came in after the +service, but just in time for the sermon. There were no other reporters +present. It thrilled me to see Dr. Abbott, who, as a young man of +twenty-three, had heard Lincoln speak on slavery. + +The “Theology of an Evolutionist” was an arduous assignment that +strained every faculty I possessed, but indifferent shorthand lay at +the root of the strain. Dr. Abbott’s delivery was sure and steady, more +rapid than it sounded. He never hesitated for a word, he never coughed, +or cleared his throat, or even sneezed. There were none of those slight +pauses which help a poor shorthand-writer to pick up valuable seconds. +The stream of words poured on relentlessly, and the rate, I should +judge, was 250 a minute. Verbatim reporting was impossible to me. I +had to condense as I went along, and to condense without losing sense +and coherence was not easy. My pencil was always eight or ten words +behind the words I actually listened to, and the Pitman outlines for +the words I wrote down had to be recalled, while, at the same time, +memory had to retain those being actually uttered at the moment. Being +out of practice I often hesitated over an outline, losing fractions +of a second each time I did so. These outlines come automatically, of +course, to a good writer. Then there was the sense, the proportion, +the relative values of argument and evidence to be considered--matters +that could not be adjusted in the office afterwards, when there was +barely time, in any case, to transcribe my notes before going to Press. +The interest I felt in the subject, moreover, delayed my mind time +and time again. Occasionally a pencil-point would break as well, and +turning it round in my hand meant important delay in a process where +each fraction of a second counts. In the office afterwards, each page +transcribed was whipped away by a printer’s devil before it could be +reconsidered and re-read. I invariably went to bed after these evenings +in church with a splitting headache; but the 150 appeared duly on the +front page every Monday morning, though whether good or bad I had no +inkling. My impression, due to Muldoon’s silence, was that my reports +were hardly a success. + +When the last of the long series came my opening report was confused +and inaccurate owing to an announcement from the pulpit which +embarrassed me absurdly. Dr. Abbott mentioned briefly that numerous +requests to print the sermons had reached him, but that he did not +propose to do so. He referred those interested, instead, to the reports +in the _Times_ which, he took pleasure in saying, were excellent, +accurate and as satisfactory as anything he could do himself. Being the +only reporter present, I felt conspicuous at my little table under the +pulpit in the immense building. But I remember the pleasure too. It +was an announcement I could use, was bound to use, indeed, in my own +report next day. Muldoon would be pleased. On the Tuesday morning, when +I appeared at his desk, he looked at me with such a fierce expression +that I thought I was about to be dismissed. “Have ye been to your +locker?” was all he said. In the locker, however, I found a letter from +Dr. Abbott to the editor-in-chief, thanking him for the reports of the +sermons, reports, he wrote, “whose brevity, accuracy, and intelligence +furnish a synopsis I could not have improved upon myself.” He added, +too, another important sentence: “by your reporter whom I do not know.” +It was not favouritism therefore. A brief chit to be handed to the +cashier was in my locker too. My salary was raised to $40 a week. The +headaches had proved worth while. + +The year and a-half with the _Times_ was a happy period, though long +before it ended I had begun to feel my customary weariness of the job, +and a yearning for something new. The newspaper experience, which +began with the _Evening Sun_, was exhausted for me. The pleasant +and unpleasant sides of it I knew by heart. Though I took no action, +my mind began to cast about for other fields. I had saved a little +cash. My thoughts turned westwards, California, the Pacific Coast, the +bright sunshine and blue waters of the southern seas even. I was past +twenty-seven. To be a New York reporter all my life did not appeal. Nor +was it yet time to go back to England. No trace of literary faculty, +nor any desire to write, much less a consciousness that I could write +perhaps, had declared themselves. My summer holidays of two weeks I +spent again in the backwoods, with a view to some woodland life which +was to include, this time, Old Louis, too. Obstacles everywhere made me +feel, however, that it was not to be, for though they were obstacles I +could have overcome, I took them as an indication that fate had other +views for my future. When a thing was meant to be, it invariably came +of itself, I found. My temperament, at any rate, noted and obeyed these +hints. Old Louis, too, who was to collect his poems in our woodland +home, to write new ones as well, met all practical suggestions with, +“Let us consider, Figlio, a little longer first.” He was to write also +a political history of the United States and “I must collect more +data before I am ready to go.” The dread of being fixed and settled, +a captive in a place I could not leave at a moment’s notice, did not +operate where Nature was concerned. The idea of living in the forests +had no fear of prison in it. + +Events, moreover, which brought big changes into my life had always +come, I noticed, from outside, rather than as a result of definite +action on my own part. A chance meeting in a hotel-bar set me +reporting, a chance meeting with Mullins landed me on the _Times_, +a chance meeting with Angus Hamilton in Piccadilly Circus led to my +writing books, a chance meeting with William E. Dodge now suddenly +heaved me up another rung of life into the position of private +secretary to a millionaire banker. + +To me it has always seemed that some outside power, but an intelligent +power, pulled a string each time, and up I popped into an entirely new +set of circumstances. This power pushed a button, and off I shot in +a direction at right angles to the one I had been moving in before. +This intelligent supervision I attributed in those days to Karma. In +the mind, though perhaps with less decision there, it operated too. A +book, a casual sentence of some friend, an effect of scenery, of music, +and an express-lift mounts rapidly from the cellar of my being to an +upper story, giving a new extended view over a far, a new horizon. Much +that puzzles in the obscurity of the basement outlook becomes clear +and simple. The individual who announces the sudden change is unaware +probably how vital a rôle he plays in another’s life. He is but an +instrument, after all. + +When, by chance, I found Mr. Dodge next me in a Broadway cable car, my +first instinct was to slip out on to the outside platform before he had +seen me, with, simultaneously, a hope that if he had seen me, he would +not recognize me. He was a friend of my father’s. We had dined at his +house on our first visit to New York, and once or twice since then our +paths had crossed for a moment or two. He was a man of great influence, +and of tireless philanthropy, a fine, just, high-minded personality. He +stared hard at me. Before I could move, he had spoken to me by name. +“How was I getting along?” he inquired kindly, and did I “like New +York?” What was I “doing at the moment?” + +I seized the opportunity and told him of my longing to get out of +newspaper work. He listened attentively; he examined me, I was +aware, more than attentively. In the end he asked me to come and +see him for a personal chat--not in his office, but in his house. +He named a day and hour. An invitation to his office I should have +disregarded. It was the kindness of “my house” that won me. But the +interview was disappointing, rather embarrassing as well to me. He +asked many personal questions about my life and habits, it was all +very business-like and chilling. In the end he mentioned vaguely that +James Speyer, of Speyer Bros., was thinking, he believed, of engaging +a secretary, and that possibly--he could not say for certain--he might, +when he next saw him, suggest my name for the post. “Of course,” +he added, still more cautiously, “you will understand I must make +inquiries about you at the _Times_.” He promised to let me know if +anything further came of it. For many weeks I heard no word. Then I +wrote. The reply asked me to call at his office. He was kindness and +sympathy personified. “The _Times_ gives you an excellent character,” +he informed me, “and say they will be very sorry to lose you. I am +sorry there has been this delay.” He handed me a personal letter to +James Speyer. He invited me to dinner in his house the following +evening. Before brushing up my dress-suit for the occasion--my first +dinner in a decent house for many years--I had seen Mr. Speyer and +had been engaged at a salary of $2,000 a year for a morning job, from +8 till 2 o’clock daily, with a general supervision during the day of +his town and country houses, horses, servants, charities, and numerous +other interests. + +The dinner in Mr. Dodge’s Fifth Avenue palace was a veritable banquet +to me. Immediately opposite, across the avenue, was the other palace +occupied by James Speyer. It was all rather bewildering, a new world +with a vengeance. Years among the outcast of the city had not precisely +polished my manners, nor could I feel at my ease thus suddenly among +decent folk again. I remember being absurdly tongue-tied, shy and +awkward, until M. de Chaillu, who was present, began to talk about +books, stars, natural history, and other splendid things, and took me +with him into some unimaginable seventh heaven. I had moments of terror +too, but the strongest emotion I remember is the deep gratitude I felt +towards Mr. Dodge. A further tiny detail clings as well, when I was +invited for a week-end to the Dodge country house on the Hudson, and +was bathing with the son. He was, like myself, six feet three inches, +well built, but well covered too, his age perhaps close on forty. As +we stood on the spring-board waiting for our second dive, he looked +at me. “You certainly haven’t got a tummy,” he remarked with admiring +envy. “I wish I were as thin!” And the casual words made a queer +impression on me. I realized abruptly how little of certain real values +such people knew ... how little these protected people ever _could_ +know. I still see his admiring, good-humoured, kindly expression, as he +said the empty words.... + +James Speyer, brother of Edgar, who later became a baronet and member +of the Privy Council, was what we called in New York a “white man.” +I hardly think I proved an ideal private secretary. His patience and +kindness began at the first trial interview I had with him, when +my shorthand--he dictated a newspaper financial paragraph full of +unfamiliar terms--was not at its best, “not _very_ grand,” were the +actual words he used. As for bookkeeping, I told him frankly that +“figures were my idea of hell,” whereupon, after a moment’s puzzled +stare, he laughed and said that keeping accounts need not be among my +principal duties. A clerk from the office could come up and balance +the books every month. The phrase about hell, the grave expression +of my face, he told me long afterwards, touched his sense of humour. +The huge book in which I kept his personal accounts proved, none the +less, a daily nightmare, with its nine columns for different kinds of +expenditure--Charities, Housekeeping, Presents, Loans, Personal, and +the rest. It locked with a key. I spent hours over it. No total ever +came out twice alike. Yet Mr. Hopf, the bright-eyed, diminutive German +from the office, ran his tiny fingers up and down those columns like +some twinkling insect, chatting with me while he added, and making the +totals right in a few minutes. Max Hopf, with his slight, twisty body, +looked like an agile figure of 3 himself. In his spare time, I felt +sure, he played with figures. He was a juggler in my eyes. + +The first week in my new job was a nervous one, though Mr. Speyer’s +tact and kindly feeling soon put me at my ease. My desk at first was +in a corner of an unused board room in the bank, where I sat like +a king answering countless letters on a typewriter. The shorthand +was discarded; I composed the replies from verbal hints and general +indications. Clerks treated me with respect; language was decent; +surroundings were sumptuous; it was some time before I “found” myself. +The second morning a caller was shown in, somebody to see Mr. Speyer. +He took a chair beside my desk, stared fixedly at me, opened his mouth +and called me by my Christian name--it was the Exchange Place banker +who used to stay in my father’s house and who had last seen me in bed +at East 19th Street. He congratulated me. I found out, incidentally, +then, how much my swindling friend of those days had “touched” him for +on my behalf ... and repaid it. + +James Speyer proved a good friend during the two years or so I spent +with him; he treated me as friend, too, rather than as secretary. My +office was transferred to his palatial residence in Madison Avenue, a +new house he had just built for himself, and it was part of my job to +run this house for him, his country house at Irvington on the Hudson +as well. These establishments, for a millionaire bachelor, were on +a simple scale, though the amount of money necessary for one man’s +comforts staggered me at first. A married French couple were his chief +servants, the woman as cook, the man as butler; they had been with him +for a long time; they eyed the new secretary with disfavour; they were +feathering their nests very comfortably, I soon discovered. My hotel +experience in Toronto stood me in good stead here. But Mr. Speyer was +a generous, live-and-let-live type of man who did not want a spirit +of haggling over trifles in his home. I gradually adjusted matters by +introducing a reasonable scale. The French couple and I became good +friends. I enjoyed the work, which included every imaginable duty under +the sun, had ample time for exercise and reading, and my employer’s +zest in the University Settlement Movement I found particularly +interesting. + +James Speyer was more than a rich philanthropist: he had a heart. +The column for Charities and Presents in the book Mr. Hopf juggled +with once a month was a big one, while that for Personal Expenditure +was relatively small. When I dined alone with him in the luxurious +panelled room I realized that life had indeed changed for me. His +house, too, was filled with beautiful things. He had rare taste. His +brother Edgar, whose English career had not yet begun, stayed with him +on his periodical visits from Frankfurt. There was music then, big +dinner-parties too, to which I was sometimes invited. Social amenities +were not always quite easy, for the position of a Jew in New York +Society was delicate, but I never once knew James Speyer’s taste or +judgment at fault. His intelligence showed itself not only in finance; +he was intelligent all over; imaginatively thoughtful for all connected +with him, and his philanthropy sprang from a genuine desire to help the +unfortunate. + +For Jews I have always had a quick feeling of sympathy, of admiration. +I adore their intelligence, subtlety, keen love of beauty, their +understanding, their wisdom. In the best of them lies some intuitive +grip of ancient values, some artistic discernment, that fascinates +me. I found myself comparing Alfred Louis with James Speyer; their +reaction, respectively, upon myself showed clearly again the standard +of what, to me, was important: the one, alone among his unchangeable, +imperishable “Eternities,” unaware of comfort as of fame, unrecognized, +unadvertised, lonely and derelict, yet equally as proud of his heritage +as the other who, in a noisier market sought the less permanent +splendours of success and worldly honour. One filled his modern palace +with olden beauty fashioned by many men, the other had stocked his mind +with a loveliness that money could not buy. One financed a gigantic +railway enterprise, the other wrote the “Night Song.” All the one said +blessed and ornamented the mind, all the other said advised it. One +parted with a poem as though he sold a pound of his own living flesh, +the other was pleased, yet a trifle nervous, when Muldoon--thinking +to help me in my job--wrote a panegyric of easy philanthropies in +the _Brooklyn Eagle_, to which his fierce activities had now been +transferred from the _Times_. Both taught me much. From one, singing +amid his dirt in an attic, I learned about a world that, hiding behind +ephemeral appearances, lies deathlessly serene and unalterably lovely; +from the other, about a world which far from deathless and certainly +less serene, flaunts its rewards upon a more obviously remunerative +scale. Of both poet and financier, at any rate, I kept vivid, grateful, +pleasant memories. + +Between the unsavoury world I had lived in so long and the new one I +had now entered, the Old Man of Visions, himself at home in all and +every kind of world, always seemed a bridge. His personality spread +imaginatively, as it were, over all grades and through all strata of +humanity. In my slow upward climb he seemed to hand me on, and in +return for his unfailing guidance it was possible to make his own +conditions a trifle more comfortable: possible, but not easy, because +there was no help he needed and did not positively scorn. He watched +my welfare with unfailing interest, but nothing would induce him to +buy a new hat, a new frock-coat, an umbrella or a pair of gloves. “Our +memories, at any given moment,” says Bergson, “form a solid whole, +a pyramid, so to speak, whose point is inserted precisely into our +present action.” On that “point” old Louis still drives through my mind +and wields an influence to-day.... + +The happier period with James Speyer was, of course, an episode, +like my other experiences. It was wonderful to draw a good salary +regularly for pleasant work; to have long holidays in the Adirondacks, +or moose-shooting in the woods north of the Canadian Pacific Railway; +wonderful, too, when my employer went to Europe for three months, to +know myself in charge of such big interests, with a power of attorney +to sign all cheques. But the usual restlessness was soon on me again, +desire for a change stirred in my blood. The Spanish-American War, I +remember, made me think of joining Roosevelt’s Rough Riders, a scheme +both Speyer and Louis strongly disapproved, and that an attack of +typhoid fever rendered impossible in any case. + +It was during convalescence that it occurred to me I was nearing +thirty, and that if I meant to live in America all my life, it was time +to become naturalized. And this thought caused me to reflect on the +question of going home. My sister, with her children, passed through +New York about this time, returning from South Australia, where her +husband was Governor, and it was at dinner in my employer’s house, +where he had invited them, that the longing to return to England +suddenly declared itself. To find myself among relatives who called +me by the unfamiliar childhood name, woke English memories, English +values, and brought back the English atmosphere once more. My mother +was still alive.... I remember that dinner well. My sister brought a +tame little Mexican monkey with her. A man, also, called to ask Mr. +Speyer for help, and when I went to interview him in the hall, his long +story included a reference to something Mr. Dodge, he declared, had +done for him. “Mr. Dodge gave me this,” he said, and promptly scooped +one eye out of its socket and showed it to me lying in the palm of his +hand. The glass eye, the monkey, remain associated in my mind still +with the rather poignant memories of forgotten English days my sister’s +visit stirred to life, and with my own emotions as I reflected upon the +idea of going home at last. A chance meeting, again, worked its spell. + +I had felt that half a universe separated me from the world in which +my relatives lived, but after they had gone I began to realize various +things I had not appreciated before. New York, I saw, could furnish +no true abiding city for my soul which, though vagabond, yet sought +something more than its appalling efficiency could ever give. What +did I miss? I could name it now, but I hardly named it then perhaps. +I was always hungry there, but with a hunger not of the body merely. +The hunger, however, was real, often it was devastating. With such a +lop-sided development as mine had been, my immaturity, no doubt, was +still glaring. The sense of failure, I know, at any rate, was very +strong. My relatives had been travelling, and they reflected a colour +of other lands that called to me. Thought and longing now turned to an +older world. There were ancient wonders, soft with age, mature with a +beauty and tenderness only timelessness can give, that caught me on the +raw with a power no Yosemites, Niagaras, or Grand Canyons could hope to +imitate. Size has its magic, but size bludgeons the imagination, rather +than feeds it. My heart turned suddenly across the sea. I loved the big +woods, but behind, beyond the woods, great Egypt lay ablaze.... + +I talked things over with the Old Man of Visions; he advised me to go +home. “See your mother before she dies,” he urged. “I cannot come with +you, but I may follow you.” He added: “I shall miss you,” then dropped +into poetry, as he always did when he was moved.... + +It was these talks with Old Louis about England, the atmosphere of +England as well, that my sister somehow left behind her, my own +yearnings now suddenly reawakened too, that decided me. My detestation +of the city both cleared and deepened. I began to understand more +vividly, more objectively, the reasons for my feeling alien in it. I +missed tradition, background, depth. There was a glittering smartness +everywhere. The great ideal was to be sharper, smarter than your +neighbour, above all things sharp and smart and furiously rapid, +above all things--win the game. To be in a furious rush was to be +intelligent, to do things slowly was to be derided. The noise and +speed suggested rapids; the deep, quiet pools were in the older lands. +Display, advertisement, absence of all privacy I had long been aware +of, naturally; I now realized how little I desired this speed and +glittering brilliance, this frantic rush to be at all costs sharper, +quicker, smarter than one’s neighbour, to win the game at any price. I +realized why my years in the city had brought no friendships, and why +they had been starved as well as lonely.... + +Some months passed before I booked a passage, however. I was sorry +to leave James Speyer. Then one day he spoke to me about--marriage. +For a year or more I had noticed his friendship with Mrs. Lowry, +a Christian, well-known figure in the social world; and, being the +confidant of both parties, I had done all I could to encourage a +marriage that promised happiness and success. In due course, Bishop +Potter, of New York, officiated. The ceremony was performed in the +drawing-room, and just before it began, James Speyer came up to me, +took the beautiful links out of his cuffs, and handed them to me. “I +should like you to have these,” he said, “as a little memento.” I have +them still. + +A few months later, just before I was thirty, I found myself in a +second-class cabin in a Cunarder, with my savings in my pocket. Old +Louis, who followed me a year or two later, came down to see me off. +I was glad when the Statue of Liberty lay finally below the sea’s +horizon, but I shall never forget the thrill of strange emotion I +experienced when I first saw the blue rim of Ireland rise above the +horizon a few days later. A shutter dropped behind me. I entered a +totally new world. Life continued to be _mouvementée_, indeed, one +adventure succeeding another, and ever with the feeling that a chance +letter, a chance meeting might open any morning a new chapter of quite +a novel kind; but my American episodes were finished. + +Of mystical, psychic, or so-called “occult” experiences, I have +purposely said nothing, since these notes have sought to recapture +surface adventures only. + + + + +INDEX + + + “A Case of Eavesdropping,” 252 + + Abbott, Dr. Lyman, sermons on the theology of an Evolutionist, 292 + _et seq._ + tribute to _N.Y. Times_ report of his sermons, 294 + + Aberdeen, Lord, Governor-General of Canada, 66 + + Advertising extraordinary, 105 + + Ahlwardt, Rector, anti-semitism of, 229 + his meeting at Cooper Union Hall, 229 _et seq._ + + Alden, Mr., and A. H. Louis, 271 + + Amityville, a quasi lunatic asylum at, 226 + + Anti-semitic campaign in New York, 229 _et seq._ + + Apples, dried, and hot water, as hunger-appeaser, 111 + + Arson, frequency of, among Jews, 106 + + + Barnum and Bailey’s Circus, a banquet at, 226 + + Beattie, Mr., Boyde and, 206 + + Beauchamp, Montague, 23 + + Belloc, Hilaire, an article by, based on author’s book, 224 + + Bennett, Sterndale, A. H. Louis a pupil of, 269 + + Benson, Archbishop, A. H. Louis’s memories of, 268 + + Bernhardt, Sarah, interview with, 106 + + Bernstein, Mrs., a long-outstanding account with, settled, 213 + and her third floor back, 80 + reduces rent--and why, 85 + removes to another house, 209 + + “Bhagavad Gita,” the, world-scripture of, 32 + + Bingham, Billy, former proprietor of the Hub, 17, 39 _et seq._ + + Black Forest, schooldays in the, 24 + + Blackwood, Algernon, a childish recollection of his mother, 259 + a poem in _The Week_ by, 38 + an earl’s visit to _Sun_ office, 230 + an interlude of play-acting, 255 _et seq._ + and Boyde: a scene, 161 _et seq._ + and the Hub hotel, 14, 16 _et seq._, 39 _et seq._ + as reporter in the Tombs, 99 _et seq._ + as story-teller, 222 + as violinist, 5, 46, 75, 83, 87, 107, 168, 180 + assigns his interest in the Hub, 61 + attends a ball at Government House, 66 + becomes a partner in an eau de Cologne business, 273, 274 + beginning of friendship with Alfred H. Louis, 266 + credited with powers of Black Magic, 77 + “cribs” from an intoxicated reporter, 108 + death of his father, 35, 231 + “detachment” method of, 51, 227, 228 + disagreement with Dr. Huebner, 156 + discovers Boyde’s forgery, 132 + dissolves partnership with Cooper, 14 + Edinburgh University course of, 14, 51 + eighteen months on staff of _New York Times_, 288 _et seq._ + essays magazine writing, 84 + evangelical upbringing of, 20, 23, 27, 71 + examined on a charge of arson, 286 + first experience of morphine, 178 + five months on Lake Rosseau, 73 _et seq._ + free-lance journalism, 252, 274 + friendship with a dying doctor, 58 _et seq._ + his mother’s letters, 258 + improvises accompaniment to “Invocation to Opium,” 168 + interviews a lion, 102 + interviews in Tombs prison cell before trial, 101 + learns French, 37 + literary apprenticeship of, 6 + loses faith in mankind, and a regretted act, 210 _et seq._ + maiden speech of, 5, 291 + off to the goldfields, 235 _et seq._ + on staff of _Evening Sun_, 91 + parents of, 17, 18, 21 _et seq._ + partner in dairy concern, 10 _et seq._ + pawnbroking experiences, 88, 110, 120, 252 + plays in Drinkwater’s “Oliver Cromwell,” 256 + poses in studios, 44, 158 + reads Patanjali’s “Yoga Aphorisms,” 28 _et seq._ + receives a visit from Pauline, 152 + reports a raid on a quasi lunatic asylum, 226 + reports Dr. Lyman Abbott’s sermons, 292 _et seq._ + resumes duties on _Evening Sun_, 209 + returns from Muskoka lakes, 78 + returns to England, 304 + secretary to James Speyer, 297 _et seq._ + tackles Boyde _re_ a forged cheque, 138 _et seq._ + talks with Boyde in his cell at Tombs prison, 202 + teaches French, 5, 7 + translates French stories, 102, 124, 128, 129 + unhappy days in New York, 288 + visited by a banker: further disclosures concerning Boyde, 148 + visits of an eccentric German doctor, 116, 120, 125 + visits winter quarters of Barnum and Bailey’s circus, 226 + warned against Boyde, 112, 135, 136, 147 + warns a pastor’s daughter against Boyde, 139 + “Whitey’s” useful hints to, 96, 97, 98 + why an opening in C.P.R. did not eventuate, 66 _et seq._ + works by, 53, 78, 102, 123, 163, 182, 223, 224, 252 + + Blackwood, Sir Arthur (father), a disregarded counsel of perfection + of, 76 + and the Hub venture, 40 + death of, 35, 231 + farewell to author, 40 + fêted in New York, 5 + marriage of, 21 + religious and temperance views of, 17, 18, 21 _et seq._, 30 + + Bond, Bligh, his “Gate of Remembrance,” 228 + + Bookkeeping, author’s frank opinion of, 298 + + Borden, Lizzie, interview with, 100 + + Bostock’s Circus, a lion escapes from: reporting the episode, 102 _et + seq._ + + Boyde, Arthur Glyn, an echo of, 299 + arrest of, 198 + author’s attachment to, 108, 111 + committed for trial to General Sessions, 201 + communicates with Sir A. Blackwood, 202 + confessions of, 139, 144, 206 + disguises himself, 160 + duplicity of, 132, 138 _et seq._, 149, 160, 206, 207, 211 + his varied experience of New York, 86 _et seq._ + hunt for, 182 _et seq._ + last sight of, 207 + letters to author from Tombs prison, 203 _et seq._ + meeting with, 86 + sentenced, 203 + telegraphs news of his marriage, 151 + uneasy suspicions regarding, 119, 122, 124, 129, 131, 134 + warrant for arrest of, 163 + + Brodie, as salesman, 275 + heavy insurances of--and a fire, 278 _et seq._ + how he obtained recipe for eau de Cologne, 273 + introduction to, 272 + social aspirations of, 273 + + Bronx Park, Sundays in, 216 _et seq._ + + Brooklyn Bridge, reflections on, 81 + + Buddhism, a German doctor’s opinion of, 170 + author’s interest in, 8, 51, 54 + Dr. Withrow and, 8 + + + Calder, introduces himself, 210 + uninvited, sleeps in author’s bed, 211 + + Campbell, Sir Alexander, Governor of Ontario, 66 + + Canada, social customs unwittingly broken by author in, 66 + + Canadian Pacific Railway, how an opening in, was lost, 65 _et seq._ + + Canoeing on Canadian lakes, 74 + + Carey, Mr., manager of _New York Times_, 291 + + Clay, Cecil, introduction to, 90 + + Clothes, interchangeable, 110 + + Conversion, reflections on, 23 _et seq._ + + Cooper, Alfred, partner in Islington Jersey Dairy, 10 _et seq._ + + Cooper, Mr., news-editor of _Evening Sun_, 95 + + Cox, Cleveland, posing for, 158 + + Crayford, home life at, 33, 40 + + Croker, Boss, head of Tammany, 232 + + + Dana, Charles A., editor of _Evening Sun_, 93 + + Davies, Acton, 211 + and the Boyde story, 201 + + Davis, Richard Harding, a play by, 86 + an interview with, 83 + Boyde and, 206 + + Davis, R. H., witnesses capture of an escaped lion, 103 + + de Chaillu, M., 297 + + De Quincey’s “Confessions,” Dr. Huebner and, 125, 168 + + Dixon, his tight-rope walk across the Niagara, 130 + + Dodge, William E., a chance meeting with, 295 _et seq._ + + Drug stores and their attraction, 97 + + Drummond, Professor, Sunday lectures at Edinburgh of, 32 + + Dufferin, Lord, a photograph of, in Hub hotel, 43 + + Duluth, and the gold rush, 240 + + + “Earth’s Earliest Ages,” Pember’s, 30 + + Easter Day in the Black Forest, 25 + + Eau de Cologne business, author and, 272 _et seq._ + + Edinburgh University, author at, 14, 51 + + “Education of Uncle Paul, The,” 123 + + Elephants, their fear of rats, 226 + + Eliot, George, and her Sunday receptions, 269 + + _Etruria_, launching of, 5 + + _Evening Sun_, slogan of, 91 + + _Evening World_, the, a scoop in, 98 + + Evolutionist theology, sermons on, 292 _et seq._ + + + Ffoulkes, Maude, author’s indebtedness to, 224 + + “Final Word, The” (poem), 267 + + Free-lunch counters, 87, 90 + + Freytag, German reporter, 202, 229 + his advice to author, 100 + + Frohman, Daniel, and Angus Hamilton, 222 + + + Gallup, a half-breed guide, 240 + camp-fire stories of, 242 + + Galt, Sir Thomas, 6 + + Germans, talkative, 251 + + Gibson, Charles Dana, author poses for, 158 + + Gilmour, jealousy of--and a realistic performance, 256-7 + + Gilmour, organizes a theatrical touring company, 112, 116 + + Gladstone, Right Hon. W. E., A. H. Louis and, 268 + + Goff, John, replaces Judge Smythe as Recorder, 232 + + Gold, a quest in search of, 235 _et seq._ + + Gosse, Edmund, “Father and Son” of, 22 + + Grant, and author, 114 + hears and witnesses Boyde’s confession, 140 _et seq._ + warns author against Boyde, 135, 136, 147 + + + Hamilton, a clergyman publicly thrashed in, 233 + + Hamilton, Angus, 221, 222 + and author’s stories, 223, 224 + suicide of, 224 + + Harcourt, Sir William, president of Cambridge Union, 268 + + _Harper’s Magazine_, publication of A. H. Louis’s poems in, 267 + + Harris, Carlyle, electrocuted, 101 + + Haschisch, an experiment with, 182 + + Haultain, Arnold, private secretary to Goldwin Smith, 37 + + Henry, O., his conception of New York, 109 + + “Hereafter,” poem by A. H. Louis, 270 + + Hopf, Max, 298, 300 + + Hub hotel, advice to new proprietors of, 41 + early customers at, 45 + in hands of a receiver, 61 + its former proprietor, 17, 39 _et seq._ + opening of, 43 + purchase of, 41, 42 + + Huebner, Dr. Otto, a disappointment for, 149 + administers morphine to author, 178, 181 + and Boyde, 122, 127, 155, 166 + called in by Boyde, 116 _et seq._ + confesses himself a morphine taker, 171 + death of, 213 + friendship with, 164 _et seq._ + his wife and daughter, 164, 165 + joins in search for Boyde, 183 _et seq._ + life-story of, 174 + urges author to become a doctor, 127 + varying moods of, 125, 153, 155, 165, 170, 173, 185 + + Hypnotism, experiments in, 51, 52 + + + Irving, Henry, interview with, 106 + + Irvington, Mr. Speyer’s country house at, 299 + + Islington Jersey Dairy, partnership in, 10 + + + James, General, a dinner to Sir A. Blackwood, 5, 291 + + James, William, “Varieties of Religious Experience” by, 22, 217-18 + + Jews, a campaign against, 229 + author’s admiration of, 300 + + “Jimbo,” author’s, 223 + + “John Silence,” 53, 78, 223 + effects of haschisch described in, 182 + publication of, 224 + + Jones, Colonel, 291 + + Joseph Lake, Northern Ontario, 74 + + “Julius Le Vallon,” 53 + + + Kay, John, and the “Hub” venture, 16 _et seq._, 39 _et seq._, 46 + effect of morphine on, 179 + his immunity to “night-attacks,” 109 + histrionic bent of, 46, 75, 90, 111, 112, 255 + in search of Boyde, 189 + poses to Smedley, 112 + served with a blue writ, 64 + + Kingsley, Charles, baptizes A. H. Louis, 266 + + + Laffan, Mr., of _New York Sun_, 91 + + Lake Rosseau, departure for, 63 + five months on, 74 _et seq._ + + Lawler, Detective, 163, 186, 189, 200, 201 + + Lewes, George Henry, A. H. Louis’s talks with, 269 + + Lexow, Senator, and a Tammany investigation, 232 + + Liebesmahl, the, of Moravian Brotherhood, 25 + + Lightfoot, Bishop, A. H. Louis and, 268. + + Lion, an escaped, a “strong man” and, 104 + + “Listener, The,” author’s, 163, 266 + + Louis, Alfred H., advice _re_ eau de Cologne business, 277 + and politics, 268, 269 + arrives, and a description of, 213 + as editor, 269 + breakdown of, 269 + buried in a Hebrew cemetery, 266 + Cambridge days of, 268 + claims to be original of Daniel Deronda, 209 + condemns Gladstone, 268 + “Hereafter” of, 270 + his farewell to author, 304 + legal attainments of, 269 + meeting with, 262 + “Night Song” of, 264, 265, 271 + self-chosen epitaph of, 267, 290 + “The Final Word” of, 267 + unfailing guidance of, 301 + + Lowry, Mrs., marries James Speyer, 304 + + Lunatic asylum (a quasi), raid on, 226 _et seq._ + + + Manchester, Duchess of, marries Sir A. Blackwood, 21 + + Manning, Cardinal, A. H. Louis and, 269 + + Mantell, Bob (Shakespearean actor), 85 + introduces author to Cecil Clay, 90 + + “Max Hensig, Bacteriologist and Murderer,” author’s story of, 102, + 163 + + McCloy, Mr. (managing editor of _Evening Sun_), 91 + and author, 221 + interview with, 92 + recollections of, 94, 95 + + McKay, owner of olive-oil warehouse, 262, 263 + + _Messe noire_, a, and its performers, 215 + + _Methodist Magazine_, author on staff of, 6 _et seq._ + + Miller, C. W., editor in chief of _New York Times_, 291 + + Mitchell, Fire-Marshal, examines author, 286 + prosecutes Brodie, 282 + + Moody and Sankey visit England, 23 + + _Morning Post_, an article on the genus “ghost story” in: its writer, + 224 + + Morphine, and its effects, 172 _et seq._, 178, 179 + + Morris (a reputed “stiff” and cut-throat), 248 + an instance of his kindness, 249 + + Mosquitoes of Rainy Lake City, 247 + + Muldoon, Mr., and author’s report of a students’ concert, 292 + City editor of _New York Times_, 285, 291 + joins staff of _Brooklyn Eagle_, 300 + + Mullins, editorial writer on _Evening Sun_, 284 + + Muskoka Lakes of Northern Ontario, 73, 74 + + Mystical minor poet, a, 55 _et seq._ + + + Nash, Eveleigh, publishes stories by author, 224 + + Nature, spell of, and its influence on author, 32, 35, 49 _et seq._, + 169, 218, 233, 236, 238, 240 + + New York, a lively anti-semitic meeting at, 229 + horrors of, 108, 109 + miseries of summer heat in, 231 + + _New York Times_, author on staff of, 288 + slogan of, 91, 291 + + Newspaper reporting, reminiscences of, 225 _et seq._ + + “Night Song,” poem by A. H. Louis, 264, 265, 271 + + Novelists, instances of their creative power, 77 + + + Olive-oil, its value as food, 262 + + Opium, the Invocation to, 168, 169, 180 + + Otto, waiter in Krisch’s, 260 + + + Palmer, Lynwood, and Boyde, 159, 206, 208 + attends trial of Boyde, 203 + kindness to author, 158 + + Patanjali, “Aphorisms” of, 28 _et seq._, 255 + + Pawnbroking, experiences of, 88 _et seq._, 110, 120, 252 + + Paxton, 233, 236 _et seq._, 246, 249 + + Pember, G. H., evangelical writer of prophetic school, 30, 31 + + Police, New York, the Tammany system and, 107, 183 + + Potter, Bishop, officiates at wedding of James Speyer, 304 + + Prison as “a proper vestibule to a city of Damned Souls,” 109 + + + Rainy Lake City, arrival at, 246 + desolateness of, 248 + + Rainy River district, gold discovered in, 232 + + Reporter, a drunken, 108 + + Reporting for New York papers, experiences acquired from, 92 + + Revivalist movement, author and, 23 + + Roosevelt’s Rough Riders, 301 + + Roper, and Boyde, 197, 198, 199 + + Ryan, a Tammany magistrate, 201 + + + Schmidt, “Von,” personality of, 276 + warns author against Brodie, 275, 277 _et seq._ + + Scott, Mr., revivalist, 28 + + _Scribner’s Magazine_, “A Vagrant’s Epitaph” in, 290 + + Selton, Morton, and his understudy, 86 + + Sevenoaks, a reminiscence of schooldays at, 253 + + Shakespearean rehearsals on Lake Rosseau, 75, 77 + + Smedley, Mr., posing for, 112, 158 + + Smith, Goldwin, and his private secretary, 37 + + Smith, Stanley, 23 + + Smythe, Judge, replaced by John Goff as Recorder, 232 + sentences Boyde, 203 + + “Snipe” hunting, definition of, 214, 215 + + Social reporting, experiences of, 225 + + Sothern advances money to Boyde, 206 + + Spanish-American War, the, 301 + + _Spectator_ reviews author’s published stories, 224 + + Spencer, Herbert, A. H. Louis’s talks with, 269 + + Speyer, James, a letter of introduction to, 297 + a present to author, 304 + and the University Settlement movement, 299 + as friend and employer, 299 + as philanthropist, 298, 299 + author becomes secretary to, 297 _et seq._ + marriage of, 304 + tact and kindly feeling of, 298 + + Speyer, Sir Edgar, 298, 300 + + Spiritualism, a doctor’s exposition of, 52, 53 + + Spiritualist, a cement-maker as, 55 + + Staten Island, a cricket match on, 85, 86 + + Stephen, Sir George, 65 + + Stevenson, R. L., a dictum of, 78 + + Stewart, Sir Donald, 65 + + Storey, Mr., editor of _Harper’s Young People_, accepts an article by + author, 84 + + Strathcona, Lord, 5 + + Studd brothers (cricketers), 23 + + Sullivan, Tim, and his rival saloon, 19 + + + Tammany Hall, a Committee of Investigation into methods of, 232 + + Tammany system, the, 97, 107 + the “Tenderloin” region and, 183 + + Temperance and General Life Assurance Company, author’s post in, 6, 18 + + Terry, Ellen, interview with, 106 + + Theosophical Society meetings, attendance at, 107 + + Theosophy, author’s early interest in, 32 + + “The Interpreters,” by A. E., 218, 219 + + “The Listener,” 163, 266 + + Tombs Police Court and Prison, the, 99 + trial of Boyde at, 200 + + Toronto, author as hotel proprietor in, 39 + + + Understanding, a spiritual wisdom, 270, 271 + + Union League Club dinner, author’s maiden speech at, 5, 291 + + University Settlement movement, the, James Speyer and, 299 + + + “Vagrant’s Epitaph, A,” 290 + + van Horne, Sir William, 5, 65 + + Vermin-infested bedroom, an uncomfortable night in a, 85 + + + Wallace, Professor, of Edinburgh University, 14 + + Whitey, a parting present of a bottle of rye whisky, 234, 237 + hints to author, 96-98 + + Withrow, Dr., editor of _Methodist_ Magazine, 6 _et seq._ + + + Yonkers theatre, a realistic scene in a, 257 + + + Zogbaum, illustrator, 158 + + + + + PRINTED BY + CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE + LONDON, E.C.4. + F. 20.1023 + + + + +Transcriber’s Notes + + • Italics represented by _underscores_. + + • Small caps converted to ALL CAPS. + + • Footnotes renumbered consecutively and moved to below the paragraph + in which they were referenced. + + • Obvious typographic errors silently corrected. + + • Variation in hyphenation kept as in the original. + + • P. 196: changed “an awful looked” to “an awful look” to make the + sentence grammatical. + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76991 *** diff --git a/76991-h/76991-h.htm b/76991-h/76991-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c699556 --- /dev/null +++ b/76991-h/76991-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,13923 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <title> + Episodes before thirty | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { margin: 0 10%; 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right: 84%; text-align: right;} +blockquote .footnotes { font-size: 100%; } +blockquote .footnote .label { right: 82%; } + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin: 0 5%; font-size: 90%; } +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; +} +.transnote h2 { margin-top: 1.5em; } + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3.0em;} +.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: -2.0em;} +.poetry .indent10 {text-indent: 2.0em;} + + +/* Illustration classes */ +.illowp47 {width: 47%;} +.x-ebookmaker .illowp47 {width: 100%;} + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76991 ***</div> +<div class='x-ebookmaker-drop'> +<figure class="figcenter illowp47" id="cover" style="max-width: 102.0em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Book Cover"> +</figure> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="section front"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_i">[i]</span></p> +</div> + +<h1> +EPISODES BEFORE THIRTY +</h1> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="section front"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_ii"></a><a id="Page_iii"></a>[iii]</span></p> +</div> + +<p class="center mt2 ltsp2 fs250">EPISODES BEFORE</p> +<p class='center ltsp2 fs250'>THIRTY</p> + +<p class="center mt4">By</p> +<p class='center fs150 mtq xwdsp'>ALGERNON BLACKWOOD</p> + +<p class="center mt8 fs120 xwdsp">CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD</p> +<p class='center xwdsp'>London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne</p> +<p class='center'>1923</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_iv">[iv]</span></p> + +<p class='center fs70 mt8 mb8'><i>Printed in Great Britain</i></p> + +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_v">[v]</span></p> + +<p class='center mt8 blackletter'>To</p> +<p class='center mth mb8'>ALFRED H. LOUIS</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> +</div> + +<div class='toc'> +<p class='no-indent'> +<a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER XXXII</a><br> +<a href="#INDEX">INDEX</a><br> +<a href="#Transcribers_Notes">Transcriber’s Notes</a> +</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vi"></a><a id="Page_1"></a>[1]</span></p> +</div> + +<p class='center fs200 mt4 mb2'> + EPISODES BEFORE THIRTY +</p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I"> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + + +<p class='drop-cap'><span class='allcaps'>A strong</span> emotion, especially if experienced for the +first time, leaves a vivid memory of the scene +where it occurred. I see a room in a New York +boarding-house. I can touch the wooden bed, the two +gas-brackets beside the looking-glass, the white door of +the cupboard, the iron “register” in the wall that let +in heated air, the broken sofa. The view from the dirty +windows towards the high roof of Tony Pastor’s music +hall in 14th Street, with a side glimpse of the trees in +Irving Place, show clearly. The rattle of the Broadway +cable cars, the clang of their bells, still come to me through +that stifling August air, when the shade thermometer +stood at a hundred, with humidity somewhere about 95 +per cent. Thoughts of the sea and mountains, vainly +indulged within those walls, are easily remembered too.</p> + +<p>The room I am writing in now seems less actual than +the one in the East 19th Street boarding-house, kept by +Mrs. Bernstein, a German Jewess, whose husband conducted +his own orchestra in a Second Avenue restaurant. +Though thirty years ago, it is more clearly defined for +me than Lady X’s dining-room where I dined last night, +and where the lady I took in said graciously, “I simply +loved your <i>Blue Lagoon</i>,” which, naturally, I was able +to praise unreservedly, while leaving her with the illusion +as long as possible that she had made friends with +its gifted author. And this detailed clarity is due, I am +sure, to the fact that in that New York room I had my +first experience of three new emotions, each of which, +separately, held horror.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span></p> + +<p>Horror draws its lines deep; its pictures stand out +in high relief. In my case the horrors were, perhaps +minor ones, but at the age of twenty-one—an exceptionally +inexperienced twenty-one—they seemed important; +and the fact that they were combined entitles them to +be considered major. They were three in number: the +horror of loathsome vermin running over my body night +after night, the horror of hunger, and the horror of living +at close quarters with a criminal and degraded mind.</p> + +<p>All, as I said, came together; all were entirely new +sensations. “Close quarters,” too, is used advisedly, for +not only was the room a small one, the cheapest in a cheap +house, but it was occupied by three of us—three Englishmen +“on their uppers,” three big Englishmen into the +bargain, two of us standing 6 feet 2 inches, the other +6 feet 3 inches in his socks. We shared that room for many +weeks, taking our turn at sleeping two in the bed, and +one on the mattress we pulled off and kept hidden in the +cupboard during the day. Mrs. Bernstein, denying her +blood, won our affection by charging eight dollars only, +the price for two, morning coffee included; and Mrs. +Bernstein’s face, fat, kindly, perspiring, dirty, is more +vivid in my memory after all these years than that of +the lady last night who so generously mistook me for +De Vere Stacpoole. Her voice even rings clear, with its +Jewish lisp, its guttural German, its nasal twang +thrown in:</p> + +<p>“I ask my hospand. Berhaps he let you stay anozzer +week.”</p> + +<p>What the husband said we never knew. He was +usually too drunk to say anything coherent. What +mattered to us was that we were not turned out at the +moment, and that, in the long run, the good-hearted +woman received her money.</p> + +<p>Certain objects in that room retain exceptional clarity +in my mind. If thought-pictures could be photographed, +a perfect print of the bed and gas-bracket could be printed +from my memory. With the former especially I associate +the vermin, the hunger, and the rather tawdry criminal. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span> +I could describe that bed down to the smallest detail; +I could draw it accurately, even to the carving; were I +a carpenter I could make it. All that I suffered in it, +of physical and mental anguish, the vain longings and +despair, the hopes and fears, the loneliness, the feverish +dreams—the entire dread panorama still hangs in the air +between its stained brown foot and the broken sofa, as +though of yesterday. I can see a tall man pass the end +of it, one eye on me and another on the door, opening +a razor slowly as he went. I see the blue eyes narrowing +in his white face, the treachery of the coward twisting +his lip into a smirk. I can see him sleeping like a child +beside me, touching me. Moving stealthily about the +room in the darkness too, as, thinking me asleep, he stole on +bare feet to recover the confession of forgery I had forced +him to sign, I can still see his dim outline, and even hear +his tread—a petty scoundrel unwittingly on his way to gaol.</p> + +<p>The bed, thus, is vividly present in my memory. By +contrast with it, not quite so sharp, perhaps, and a +pleasanter feeling associated with it, another New York +sleeping-place rises in the mind—a bench in Central Park. +Here, however, the humour of adventure softens the picture, +though at the time it did not soften the transverse +iron arms which made it impossible to stretch out in +comfort. Nor is there any touch of horror in it. Precise +and detailed recollection fades. The hoboes who shared +it with me were companions, even comrades of a sort, +and one did not feel them necessarily criminal or degraded. +They were “on their uppers” much as I was, and far +quicker than I was at the trick of suddenly sitting +upright when the night policeman’s tread was coming our +way. What thoughts they indulged in I had no means +of knowing, but I credited them with flitting backwards +to a clean room somewhere and a soft white bed, possibly +to that ridiculous figure of immense authority, a nurse, +just as my own flashed back to a night nursery in the +Manor House, Crayford, Kent. That the seats I favoured +were near the Swings lent possibly another touch to the +childhood’s picture.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span></p> + +<p>The memory, anyhow, is a sweeter one than that of +the bed in East 19th Street, if less sharply defined. The +cool fresh air, the dew, the stars, the smell of earth and +leaves, were all of them clean, and no price asked at +dawn. Yet the two—the bed and the bench—are somehow +linked together in my mind, the one invariably +calling up the other; and, thanks to them probably, +no bed bothers me now, lumpy or sloping though it be, +in train, hotel, or lodging. I have slept in strange places +since—high in the Caucasus, on the shores of the Black +Sea, on the Egyptian desert, on the banks of the Danube, +in the Black Forest and Hungary—but each time +the effort to get comfortable brought back the bed +and the bench, and sleep soon followed to smother +both.</p> + +<p>The gas-brackets, similarly, rise vividly before my +eyes, associated with the pain, the weariness of hunger; +not of true starvation, but of weeks and months of under-nourishment, +caused by one meal a day. The relation +between hunger and gas-brackets may seem remote. It +was on the latter, however, that we learned to fix the +metal top which made the flame spread in a circle round +a light tin cooking-pot. We boiled water for milkless tea +in this way, cooked porridge, and when porridge was not +to be had we heated water with dried apples in it. I +remember the day we discovered that it was more economical +to eat the strips of dried apple first, then drink +the hot water that made them swell so comfortingly +inside us. They proved more filling that way, the false +repletion lasted longer, the sense of bulk was more satisfying, +the gnawing ceased, and the results, if temporary, +at least made it possible to fall asleep.</p> + +<p>There are other details of that sordid New York room +which still retain their first disagreeable vividness, each +with the ghost—a very sturdy ghost—of the emotion +that printed it indelibly in the mind. These details are +best mentioned, however, in their proper place and +sequence. It should first be told how we came to be +there.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II"> + CHAPTER II + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap'><span class='allcaps'>We</span> arrived in New York towards the end of October, +coming straight from five months in the Canadian +backwoods. Before that, to mention myself first, +there had been a year in Canada, where, even before the +age of twenty-one, I had made a living of sorts by teaching +the violin, French, German, and shorthand. Showing no +special talent for any profession in particular, and having +no tastes that could be held to indicate a definite career, +I had come to Canada three years before for a few weeks’ +trip. My father, in an official capacity, had passes from +Liverpool to Vancouver, and we crossed in the <i>Etruria</i>, +a Cunarder which my mother had launched. He was +much fêted and banqueted, and the C.P.R. bigwigs, from +Lord Strathcona and Sir William van Horne downwards, +showed him all attention, placing an observation car at +his disposal. General James, the New York postmaster, +gave a dinner in his honour at the Union League Club, +where I made my first and last speech—consisting of +nine words of horrified thanks for coupling “a chip of +the old block,” as the proposer called me, with the “Chief +of the British Postal Service.”</p> + +<p>A ludicrous wound to vanity helps it to stick in the +mind—my father wore no braces, and I copied him, but—well, +in his case no belt was necessary, whereas I was +slim. It suddenly dawned on me, as I spluttered my +brief words, that a line of white was showing between +my waistcoat and the top of my trousers. The close of +my speech was hurried, my bow was cautious; I was +extremely relieved to sit down again.</p> + +<p>In the lovely autumn weather, we saw Canada at its +best, and the trip decided my future. My father welcomed +it as a happy solution. I came, therefore, to +Toronto at the age of twenty, with £100 a year allowance, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span> +and a small capital to follow when I should have found +some safe and profitable chance of starting life. With +me came—in the order of their importance—a fiddle, the +“Bhagavad Gita,” Shelley, “Sartor Resartus,” Berkeley’s +“Dialogues,” Patanjali’s “Yoga Aphorisms,” de +Quincey’s “Confessions,” and—a unique ignorance of +life.... I served my first literary apprenticeship on +the <i>Methodist Magazine</i>, a monthly periodical published +in Toronto, and before that licked stamps in the back +office of the Temperance and General Life Assurance +Company, at nothing a week, but with the idea of learning +the business, so that later I might bring out some English +insurance company to Canada.</p> + +<p>The first taught me that, just as I had no ambition +to write, so, likewise, I possessed no talent; the second +merely made articulate the dislike I felt for anything to +do with Business. It was the three months in the insurance +office that caused me to accept eagerly the job on +the <i>Methodist Magazine</i> at four dollars a week, and the +reaction helped to make the work congenial if not +stimulating.</p> + +<p>The allowance of ten dollars a week was difficult to +live on, and I had been looking everywhere for employment. +It was through a daughter of Sir Thomas Galt, +a friend of my father’s on our previous trip to Canada, +that I obtained this job—sixteen shillings a week, hours +ten to four.</p> + +<p>Dr. Withrow, editor of the leading Methodist magazine, +and of various Christian Endeavour periodicals for +children and young people, was a pleasant old gentleman, +who went about in a frock coat and slippers, had +a real sense of humour and a nice wife and daughter. +His editorial den was in his own little house, and my +duties were to write an article every month for the magazine, +which was illustrated, and also to write a few +descriptive lines of letterpress to accompany the full-page +illustrations for the numerous Christian Endeavour and +Methodist periodicals for young people and children. He +taught me the typewriter, and with my shorthand I took +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span> +most of his letters at dictation, and certainly earned my +money. My monthly articles in the magazine were on +such subjects as Christmas in England, Life at a Moravian +School, The Black Forest, Travel in the Alps—anything +that my limited experience enabled me to +describe at first-hand, and on the whole the old gentleman +seemed satisfied. The description of the children’s +pictures, however, always made him chuckle, though he +never said why, and I wrote dozens of these a day, describing +the picture of “King Canute and the Sea,” “Elijah +in a Chariot of Fire,” “A Child Blowing Bubbles,” “The +Wood-boring Beetle,” etc. etc.</p> + +<p>He would dictate some of his articles of travel to me, +and I would take them down in shorthand, and he often +made such grotesque mistakes in facts that I quietly +corrected these as I wrote, and when I read out the sentence +to him he would notice the alteration and look at +me over his spectacles and say:</p> + +<p>“Thank you. Yes, I was wrong there. The fact is, +I have so many articles to write that I compose two at +a time in my mind, and they get muddled up. An editor +should always be accurate, and Methodist readers are +cranky and hard to please.” He was a Methodist parson +himself, which did not prevent him saying exactly what +he thought. He lunched off dates and bananas, which +he kept in a bag beside his desk, and that same desk +was in such disorder that he never could find what he +wanted, and I was not surprised to learn that, before I +came, the printers got the wrong papers, and that many +of the children’s pictures got descriptions underneath that +did not belong to them—for instance, a boy blowing +a bubble was published over a few lines describing the +habits of snakes, “as seen in our illustration,” and so +forth.</p> + +<p>I got on so well with the little Methodist that he +wanted to come to the evening French classes I was +giving at fifty cents a lesson to some of the clerks in the +insurance office, and to bring his daughter with him. +He said a little more knowledge of French would be very +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span> +good for him when he took his conducted tours of Canadian +Methodists to Switzerland; but I did not rise to this, and +persuaded him to wait till I could get a more select class +to meet, perhaps, at his own house, where a girl could +more suitably attend. For, to tell the truth, some of +my pupils had a habit of coming slightly drunk—or, as +they called it, “with a jag on.” He, however, would not +wait, so I lost two good pupils!... Dr. Withrow, patient +little man of kindly disposition! His faded black frock-coat, +his spectacles high on his puckered forehead, his +carpet slippers, his tobacco-stained white beard, his sincere +beliefs and his striped trousers of a pattern I have +always since labelled mentally as “Methodist trousers”—it +is a gentle little memory tucked away among unkinder +ones, and I still hear him giving me my first and only +lesson how to write. His paraphrase of “fatal facility” +stays with me: “Fluency means dullness, unless the +mind is packed with thought.” It stays with me because +the conversation led to my asking if I might write an +article for the monthly on the subject of Buddhism. Behind +it lay an ever keener desire to write something on +Hegel, whose philosophy I felt certain was based on some +personal experience of genuine mystical kind.</p> + +<p>“From what point of view?” he asked, his forehead +puckering with amazement.</p> + +<p>“That of belief,” I said, my mind bursting with an +eager desire to impart information, if not also to convert.</p> + +<p>He passed his hand across his forehead, knocking the +spectacles off. Then, catching them with a fumbling +motion which betrayed his perturbation, he inquired: +“But, of course, Mr. Blackwood, not your <i>own</i>?”</p> + +<p>The voice, the eyes, the whole attitude of the body +made me realize he was prepared to be shocked, if not +already shocked.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I replied truthfully, “my own. I’ve been a +Buddhist for a long time.”</p> + +<p>He stared for some time at me without a word, then +smiled a kindly, indulgent, rather sceptical smile. “It +would be hardly suitable,” he mentioned, as I felt his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span> +whole being draw away from me as from something dangerous +and unclean. Possibly, of course, he did not believe +me; I am sure he prayed for me. Our relations seemed +less cordial after that; he read most carefully every word +I wrote in his magazine and children’s pages, but he never +referred to the matter again.</p> + +<p>My Methodist job, none the less, was a happy one; +this first regular wage I had yet received in life gave me +the pleasant sensation that I was launched. My connexion +with Methodism ceased, not because I was dismissed +or had failed to give satisfaction (indeed, the +editor had just told me my salary was to be raised!), +but because all the capital I should ever have was sent +to me about that time from England—about £2,000—and +I went into partnership with a farmer outside Toronto +and bought some forty head of pedigree Jersey cattle.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III"> + CHAPTER III + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap'><span class='allcaps'>The</span> Islington Jersey Dairy, Messrs. Cooper and +Blackwood, started business with a retail office in +College Street, a number of milk carts bearing our +names in black lettering upon a yellow background, and +the supply farm at Islington, a lovely little hamlet on +the shores of Lake Ontario, some six miles west of the +city. We sold rich Jersey milk, we sold eggs and butter +too. I gave picnics at our pretty little farm for customers +I knew socially. The upper floors of the building +in College Street we furnished, letting bedrooms at a +dollar a week to young Englishmen, clerks in offices, and +others. I engaged an old, motherly Englishwoman, Mrs. +’Iggins, with a face like a rosy apple, to “do” for us—she +made the beds and cooked the breakfast—while her +pretty daughter, in cap and apron, was our dairymaid. +The plan did not work smoothly—the dairymaid was too +pretty, perhaps; Mrs. Higgins too voluble. Complaints +came from all sides; the lodgers, wildish young fellows +in a free and easy country, made more promises than +payments. One wanted a stove, another a carpet in his +bedroom, another complained about his bed. I had my +first experience of drink and immorality going on under +my very eyes.... Trouble—though mercifully of another +kind—spread then to the customers. The milk began to +go sour; it was too rich; it wouldn’t keep; the telephone +rang all day long. Cooper, an experienced dairy-farmer, +was at his wits’ end; every device for scouring the +bottles, for cooling the milk before bringing it twice a +day to the city, failed. At dinner parties my hostess +would draw me tactfully aside. “The milk, I’m afraid, +Mr. Blackwood,” she would murmur softly, “was sour +again this morning. Will you speak about it?”</p> + +<p>I spoke about it—daily—but Alfred Cooper’s only comment +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span> +was, “Say, have you got a bit more capital? +That’s what we really want.”</p> + +<p>That sour milk became a veritable nightmare that +never left me. I had enough of milk. Yet, later in life, +I found myself “in milk” again, but that time it was +dried milk, a profitable business to the owners, though +it brought me nothing. I worked six years at it for a +bare living wage. But, at any rate, it couldn’t turn sour. +It was a powder.</p> + +<p>Alfred Cooper was a delightful fellow. I think some +detail of how our partnership came to be may bear the +telling. It points a moral if it does not adorn a tale. +It may, again, prove useful to other young Englishmen +in Canada similarly waiting with money to invest; but +on the other hand it may not, since there can be few, +I imagine, as green as I was then, owing to a strange +upbringing, or as ignorant of even the simplest worldly +practices. Of the evangelical training responsible for +this criminal ignorance I will speak later.</p> + +<p>Cooper, then, was a delightful fellow, fitting my ideal +of a type I had read about—the fearless, iron-muscled +colonial white man who fought Indians. The way we met +was quite simply calculated—by a clerk in the bank +where my English allowance of £100 a year was paid by +my father. The clerk and I made friends—naturally; +and one day—also naturally—he suggested a Sunday walk +to Islington, some six miles down the lake shore. We +could get tea at a farm he knew. We did. The praises +of the Cooper family, who owned it, had already been +sung. I was enchanted. So, doubtless, was the clerk.</p> + +<p>The farm was a small one—perhaps eight acres; and +Cooper lived on it in poverty with his aged mother and +unmarried sister. It was charmingly situated, the fields +running down to the water, pine copses dotting the +meadows to the north, and the little village church standing +at one corner near the road. Mrs. Cooper, in cap and +apron, dropping every “h” that came her way, described +to me how she and her husband had emigrated from +England sixty years before, in the days of sailing ships. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span> +Her husband’s grave in the churchyard we could see from +the window while we sat at tea—an unusually sumptuous +tea for a farmhouse—and it was evident that she was +more alive to the memories of half a century ago in the +“old country,” than to the plans of her ambitious son +in the new colony.</p> + +<p>The son came to tea too, but a little late, having +obviously brushed himself up a bit for his visitor from +England. He was about forty years of age, tall, well-built, +keen-faced, with steel-blue eyes and a hatchet nose, +and his body was just that combination of leanness, +strength and nervous alertness which made one think +of a wolf. He was extremely polite, not to say flattering, +to me. I thought him delightful, his idyllic farm still +more delightful; he was so eager, vigorous and hardy, +a typical pioneer, slaving from dawn to sunset to win a +living from the soil in order to support the family. I +trusted him, admired him immensely. Having been +duly prepared for the picture on our walk out, I was not +disappointed. He spoke very frankly of the desperate +work he and his sister were forced to do; also of what he +might do, and what could be made of the farm, if only he +had a little capital. I liked him; he liked me; the +clerk liked us both.</p> + +<p>He showed me round the farm after tea, and his few +Jersey cows came up and nosed his hand. The elderly +sister, a weaker repetition of himself, joined us. She, +too, slaved from morning till night. The old mother, +diminutive, quiet, brave, devoted to her children yet +with her heart in the old country she would never see +again, completed a charming picture in my mind. I was +invited to come again.</p> + +<p>Another picture, still more alluring, was set before +me during the walk back, the picture of what a “little +capital” could do with that tiny farm. The dairy +business that could be worked up made me feel a rich +man before the Toronto spires became visible. The +desire to put capital into the Islington Jersey Dairy +became the one hope of my life. Would Cooper agree? +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span> +Would he accept me as a partner? The suggestion came +from myself. The clerk, of course, had never dreamed +of such a thing. They <i>might</i> welcome me, the clerk +thought. Very kindly, he said he would sound Cooper +about it and let me know....</p> + +<p>The scheme seemed such a perfect solution of my +problem of earning a living, that I was afraid up to the +last moment something must happen to prevent it. +Cooper would die, or change his mind, or one of my +influential business friends would warn me not to do it. +I was so jealous of interference that I sought no advice. +Without so much as a scratch of the pen between us the +enterprise started. So heartily did I like and trust my +partner that when, later, wiser friends inquired about +my contract with him, it infuriated me. “Contract! +A contract with Alfred Cooper!”</p> + +<p>We did a roaring trade at first. Our Jersey milk +was beyond all question the best in the town. It was +honest, unwatered milk, and our cream, without any +preservative added, was so prized that we soon had +more orders than we could fill. Why our milk and cream +soured so readily, losing us trade rapidly later, is a mystery +to me to this day.</p> + +<p>Within a few weeks of our starting business, Cooper +convinced me that a model dairy building on the farm +would be a desirable improvement; it would save labour +in various ways; it was built. The farm belonged to +his mother, not to him; he kept the building when our +collapse followed. Next, his sister really must have +someone to help her, and that someone was provided at +high wages. Business was good, so good in fact that we +could not supply orders. Extra milk must therefore be +bought from neighbouring farmers. This was done, the +contracts being made by Cooper. I never asked to see +them. The bills were paid every month without question +on my part. More grazing fields, with enough artificial +food to feed at least a hundred cows in addition, these +too had to be paid for. As for the appetites of our forty +animals, I marvelled at them long before I became suspicious. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span> +Yet when, after much insisting, I saw one of +the farmer’s bills for extra milk, it left me, naturally, no +wiser than before, and certainly not a whit more comforted, +for the less our trade became, the more milk, +apparently, those farmers sold us!</p> + +<p>Six months later the firm of Cooper and Blackwood +dissolved partnership, Blackwood having got the experience +and Cooper having got—something quite as +useful, but more marketable. Cooper’s I.O.U. for five +hundred dollars, now stuck in an old scrap-book somewhere, +made me realize a little later how lucky it was +that I had only a limited amount to lose.</p> + +<p>Yet, though it seemed the end of the world to me, +my capital lost, my enterprise a failure, I recall the curious +sense of relief with which I saw the last cow knocked +down to some bidder from up-country. From the very +beginning I had hated the entire business. I did not +know a Jersey from a Shorthorn, so to speak. I knew +nothing about farming, still less about dairy-farming. +The year spent at Edinburgh University to learn the +agricultural trade had been wasted, for, instead, I +attended what interested me far more—the post-mortems, +operations, lectures on pathology, and the dissecting +room. My notebooks of Professor Wallace’s lectures, +crammed as they were, with entries about soil, rotation +of crops, and drainage, represented no genuine practical +knowledge. I knew nothing. My father sent me out to +Canada to farm. I went. I farmed. Cooper and Blackwood +is carved upon the gravestone. But the gravestone +cost £2,000, my share of the forced sale being about £600. +My Canadian experience, anyhow, can be summed up in +advice, which is, of course, a bromide now: let any +emigrant young Englishman earn his own living for at +least five years in any colony before a penny of capital +is given him to invest.</p> + +<p>It was with this £600 I soon after went into partnership +with another man, but this time an honest one. We +bought a small hotel in the heart of Toronto. It also +lasted about six months. When the crash came we lived +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span> +together from May to October on a small island in a +thirty-mile lake of the Ontario hinterland; we shared +a long slice of difficult life together subsequently in New +York; we shared the horrors of East 19th Street together. +He failed me only once, missing a train a few years later +by a couple of minutes. It was the Emigrant Sleeper to +Duluth on Lake Superior, <i>en route</i> for the Rainy River +Gold Fields, where four of us had made sudden plans to +try our fortunes. I was on a New York paper at the +time, and had secured passes over the first fifteen hundred +miles. As the train drew out of the Central Station I +saw my friend racing down the platform, a minute too +late! From that day to this I have never set eyes on +him again. It was an abrupt end to a friendship cemented +by hard times, and my disappointment at losing his companionship +was rather bitter at the time.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV"> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap xkern'><span class='allcaps'>At</span> the time we met, this friend of mine had been out +from Oxford—New College, I think—a year or so, +and with a Cambridge man about his own age, had +been running a sporting goods shop in King Street. They +sold the paraphernalia of cricket, tennis, boxing and the +like, but with no marked success. The considerable +money invested by the pair of them earned no interest. +John Kay was impatient and dissatisfied; the other +had leanings towards the brokering trade, as offering +better opportunities. Both were ready to cut their +losses, realize, and get out. They did so, remaining +the best of friends. And it was one day, while these +preliminary negotiations were being discussed in the +back office, where they muddled away the day between +rare sales, that Kay said to me mysteriously: “Look +here, I say—I’ve got a wonderful scheme. Have you +got any money left?”</p> + +<p>I mentioned the £600.</p> + +<p>“I call it a rotten shame,” he went on. “Of course, +you’ve been swindled. These people look upon us as +their natural prey”—and he proceeded to describe his +“scheme”—to buy a small hotel which, owing to its +bad name, was going cheap; to work up a respectable +business and a valuable goodwill; then to sell out at +a top price and retire with a comfortable fortune. Kay was +twenty-three, two years my senior; to me, then, he seemed +an experienced man of business, almost elderly. The +scheme took my breath away. It was very tempting. +The failure of the dairy farm had left me despondent; +I felt disgraced; the end of life, it seemed, +had come. I was ready to grasp at anything that held +out hopes of a recovery of fortune. But an hotel! I +hesitated.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span></p> + +<p>“I know nothing about running an hotel,” I objected.</p> + +<p>“Neither do I—yet,” was the sanguine answer, +“but we can learn. It’s only common sense and hard +work. We can hire a good manager and engage a first-class +cook.”</p> + +<p>“How many rooms are there?”</p> + +<p>“Only thirteen. It’s the bar where we shall make +the money.”</p> + +<p>“The bar——!”</p> + +<p>“There are two bars, one on the main street and +another on the back. Billy Bingham has made the place +too hot to hold him. His licence is to be withdrawn. +He’s got to get out. We can get his licence transferred +to us all right, if we promise to make the place respectable. +We’ll have good food, a first-rate lunch counter +for the business men, we can let the big rooms for club +dinners and society banquets, and there’s a 100 per +cent. profit, you know, on liquor. We’ll make the <i>Hub</i> +the best ‘joint’ in the town. All the fellows will come. +A year will do it. Then we’ll sell out....”</p> + +<p>I was not listening. The word “liquor”—I had +never touched alcohol in my life—made such a noise +in my mind that I could hear nothing else.</p> + +<p>“My father,” I mentioned in a faint voice, “is a +public man at home. He’s a great temperance reformer. +He speaks and writes against drink. He’s brought me +up that way. It would be a terrible shock to him if his +son made money out of a bar.” The hotel scheme, +indeed, seemed to me an impossibility. A picture of the +Temperance meetings held in our country house flashed +through my mind. I glanced down at my coat, on +whose lapel, until recently, there had been a little strip +of blue ribbon, signifying that I was a member of the +Band of Hope which included several million avowed +teetotallers. “Don’t you see, old chap?” I explained +further. “It would simply break his heart, and my +mother’s too.”</p> + +<p>“He need never know anything about it,” came the +answer at once. “Why should he? Our names needn’t +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span> +appear at all. We’ll call ourselves the ‘Hub Wine Company, +Limited.’” My head was swimming, my mind +buzzing with conflicting voices as we walked down King +Street to inspect the premises. I ached to re-establish +my position. The prospect of a quick recovery of fortune +was as sweet a prize as ever tempted a green youth like +myself. My partner, too, this time would be a “gentleman,” +a fellow my father might have invited to dine +and play tennis; it was my appalling ignorance of life +that gave to his two years’ seniority some imagined +quality of being a man much older than myself, and one +who knew what he was about.</p> + +<p>The character of the proposed enterprise, of course, +had no effect at all upon the judgment. To be known +as a successful hotel proprietor was a legitimate ambition. +My father’s stern judgment of philanthropists who preached +temperance while owning distilleries or holding brewery +shares—I knew it word for word—was quite forgotten. +Only the little personal point of view was present: “I’ve +been an ass. I must make good. Here’s a chance, a +certainty, of getting money. I must take it. It’s my +Karma.”</p> + +<p>We strode down King Street together, past the corner +of Yonge Street, below the windows of the hated Temperance +and General Life Assurance Company where I had +licked stamps, and on towards the Hub Hotel. The +Toronto air was fresh and sweet, the lake lay blue beyond, +the sunlight sparkled. Something exhilarating and +optimistic in the atmosphere gave thought a happy and +sanguine twist. It was a day of Indian summer, a faint +perfume of far-distant forest fires adding a pleasant +touch to the familiar smell of the cedar-wood sidewalks. +A mood of freedom, liberty, great spaces, fine big enterprises +in a free country where everything was possible, +of opportunities seized and waves of fortune taken on +their crest—I remember this mood as sharply still, +and the scent of a wood-fire or a cedar pencil recalls +it as vividly still, as though I had experienced it last +week.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span></p> + +<p>I glanced at my companion. I liked him, +trusted him. There was a happy light in his frank +blue eyes. He was a good heavy-weight boxer too. +The very man, I felt, for a bold enterprise of this +sort. He talked the whole way. He was describing +how we might increase the fortune we should draw out +of our successful venture in a year’s time, when we passed +Tim Sullivan, standing at the door of his, a rival, saloon, +and exchanged a nod with him. The Irishman had a +shadow on his face. “He’s heard about it,” whispered +Kay, with a chuckle. “He’ll look glummer still +when he sees all his customers coming across the way +to us!”</p> + +<p>Turning down a narrow side street, the Hub blocked +the way, a three-story building with a little tower, clean +windows, and two big swinging doors. It ran through +to a back street where there was another entrance.</p> + +<p>“Here it is,” said Kay, in the eager, happy voice of +a man who has just inherited a family mansion and come +to inspect it. “This is the Hub where we shall make +our fortune.”</p> + +<p>It seemed to me I had entered an entirely new world. +Everything was spotless. The rows of bottles and glasses, +the cash-register and brass taps glittered in the sunlight +that fell through coloured windows. The perfume of stale +liquor was not as disagreeable as it sounds. In one sense +the whole place looked as harmless as the aisle of some +deserted church. I stood just inside those swing-doors, +which had closed behind me, with a strange feeling of +gazing at some den of vice reconstructed in the Chamber +of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s. Empty and innocent +as the bar might appear, however, there was a thrill of +adventure, even of danger, about it that reached my +mind, with a definite shock of dread.</p> + +<p>“Nice, airy premises, with plenty of room,” Kay’s +cheery voice came to me from a distance. “This is the +principal bar. Twenty men could line up easily. It’ll +want four bar-tenders.... There’s another bar at +the end. There’ll be a few fights there before we’ve +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span> +done. The dining-room lies through that archway just +between the two.”</p> + +<p>He walked away, passing along the length of the +room and down three steps into a narrower, darker bar +beyond, where the shadows hid him. But his voice still +reached me: “It’s on the back street, this bar,” he called. +“This is for the <i>hoi polloi</i>. We shall want a chucker +out.... Here’s the private door leading to the +upstairs dining-room we’ll let out for banquets. We’ll +have our own bedrooms and sitting-room on the first +floor too....”</p> + +<p>His voice roared on; I heard, but did not answer; +I had not moved an inch from my place against the +swing-doors. He had not, of course, the faintest idea +what was passing through my mind at the moment; and, +had I told him, he would only have laughed good-naturedly +and talked of the money we should make. The fact was, +however, that the whole of my early up-bringing just then +came at me with a concentrated driving-force which made +the venture seem absolutely impossible.</p> + +<p>“We’ll call this one the House of Commons,” he +bawled delightedly; “and that one—the front bar—the +House of Lords. We shall take 250 dollars a day +easily!”</p> + +<p>The shock, the contrast, the exaggerated effect of +entering a saloon for the first time in my life, especially +with the added possibility of shortly becoming its proprietor, +were natural enough. My unworldliness, even +at twenty-one, was abnormal. Not only had I never +smoked tobacco nor touched alcohol of any description, +but I had never yet set foot inside a theatre; a race-course +I had never seen, nor held a billiard cue, nor +touched a card. I did not know one card from another. +Any game that might involve betting or gambling was +anathema. In other ways, too, I had been sheltered to +the point of ignorance. I had never even danced. To +hold a young woman round the waist was not alone +immodest but worse than immodest.</p> + +<p>This peculiarly sheltered up-bringing, this protected +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span> +hot-house of boyhood and early youth to which a drinking +bar was the vestibule of hell, and a music-hall an invention +of a personal devil, are necessary to understand the reaction +produced in me as I stood in Billy Bingham’s +“joint.” I stood, literally, on the brink of “the downward +path.” I heard my father’s voice, I saw my mother’s +eyes.... In very definite form I now faced “worldly +temptation” they had so often warned me against. +Accompanying an almost audible memory of “Get thee +behind me, Satan,” drove a crowded kaleidoscope of vivid +pictures from those sheltered years.</p> + +<p>My parents were both people of marked character, +with intense convictions; my mother, especially, being +a woman of great individuality, of iron restraint, grim +humour, yet with a love and tenderness, and a spirit of +uncommon sacrifice, that never touched weakness. She +possessed powers of mind and judgment, at the same +time, of which my father, a public servant—financial +secretary to the Post Office—availed himself to the full. +She had great personal beauty. A young widow, her +first husband having been the 6th Duke of Manchester, +also of the evangelical persuasion, she met my father at +Kimbolton soon after his return from the Crimean War, +where he had undergone that religious change of heart +known to the movement as “conversion.” From a man +of fashion, a leader in the social life to which he was born, +he changed with sudden completeness to a leader in the +evangelical movement, then approaching its height. He +renounced the world, the flesh, the devil and all their +works. The case of “Beauty Blackwood,” to use the +nickname his unusual handsomeness gained for him, was, +in its way, notorious. He became a teetotaller and non-smoker, +wrote devotional books, spoke in public, and held +drawing-room prayer meetings, the Bible always in his +pocket, communion with God always in his heart. His +religion was genuine, unfaltering, consistent and sincere. +He carried the war into his own late world of fashion. He +never once looked back. He knew a vivid joy, a wondrous +peace, his pain being for others only, for those who were +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span> +not “saved.” The natural, instinctive type he was, +asserted its claim. He became a genuine saint. Also, +to the very end, he remained that other delightful thing, +possible only to simple hearts, a boy.</p> + +<p>Both my parents, thus, believed in Jesus, with a faith +of that simple, unshakable order that could feel no doubts. +Their lives were consistent and, as must always be the +case when fine characters are possessed of a perfectly +sincere faith, they stood out in the world of men and +women as something strong and beautiful. Edmund +Gosse, in “Father and Son,” has described the mental +attitude of the type; William James might, equally, +have included my father’s case as a typical “conversion” +in his “Varieties of Religious Experience.”</p> + +<p>The effect upon the children—there were five of us—followed +naturally. My father, apart from incurring +much public odium owing to his official position, found +himself, and us with him, cut off from the amenities of +the social life to which we were otherwise born. Ordinary +people, “worldly” as he called them, left us alone. A +house where no wine was served at dinner, where morning +and evening prayers were <i>de rigueur</i>, a guest even being +asked to “lead in prayer” perhaps, and where at any +suitable moment you might be drawn aside and asked +“Have <i>you</i> given your soul to Jesus?” was not an +attractive house to stay in. We were ostracized. The +effect of such disabilities upon us in later life was not +considered, for it was hoped each and all of us would +consecrate ourselves to God. We were, thus, kept out +of the “world” in every possible sense and brought up, +though with lavish love and kindness, yet in the narrowest +imaginable evangelical path which scents danger in knowledge +of any kind not positively helpful to the soul. I, +personally, at that time, regarded the temptations of the +world with a remote pity, and with a certainty that I +should never have the least difficulty in resisting them. +Men who smoked and drank and were immoral, who +gambled, went to theatres and music-halls and race-meetings, +belonged to the submerged and unworthy +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span> +portion of mankind. I, in this respect at least, was of the +elect, quite sure that the weakness of their world could +never stain me personally.</p> + +<p>Yet I never shared the beliefs of my parents with +anything like genuine pleasure. I was <i>afraid</i> they were +true, not glad.</p> + +<p>Without wholeheartedly sharing my father’s faith, +however, his religious and emotional temperament, with +its imperious need of believing <i>something</i>, he certainly +bequeathed to me.... The evangelical and revivalist +movement, at any rate, was the dominant influence in +my boyhood’s years. People were sharply divided into +souls that were saved and those that were—not saved. +Moody and Sankey, the American Revivalists, stayed in +our house.</p> + +<p>I was particularly influenced in this direction by a +group of young ’Varsity men who worked with Moody, +and who were manly fellows, good cricketers, like the +Studd brothers, or Stanley Smith and Montague Beauchamp, +men who had rowed in their University boats, +and who were far removed from anything effeminate. Of +course I thought that what these men did could not be +otherwise than fine and worth copying, and I lost no time +in attacking everyone I met and asking the most impertinent +questions about their souls and fallen natures. +By some lucky chance no one kicked me to death—probably +because most of my evangelizing work was done +at home!</p> + +<p>My old nurse I implored to yield herself up to the +Saviour, and I felt my results were very poor in her case +because I only got affectionate caresses and smiles, and +even observations about the holes in my clothes, in return. +The fat butler (I assured him) was going headlong down +the kitchen stairs to everlasting fire because he showed +no symptoms of ecstasy when he met my pleadings with +“O, I’m sure ’E died for me all right, Master Algie. I +don’t feel a bit afraid!”</p> + +<p>But all this was genuine so far as I was concerned, and +it lasted a considerable time, to my father’s great joy, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span> +though not so much, I think, to my mother’s. She read +far deeper into things....</p> + +<p>In a short time I came to look upon the whole +phenomena of “conversion,” so far as my type of mind +and character was concerned, with distrust and weariness. +Only the very topmost layer of my personality +was affected; evidently, there was no peace or happiness +for me that way!</p> + +<p>None the less, I had one or two terrible moments; +one (I was reading with a private tutor in Somerset for +Edinburgh University) when I woke in the very early +morning with a choking sensation in my throat, and +thought I was going to die. It must have been merely +acute indigestion, but I was convinced my last moment +had come, and fell into a sweating agony of fear and +weakness. I prayed as hard as ever I could, swearing +to consecrate myself to God if He would pull me through. +I even vowed I would become a missionary and work +among the heathen, than which, I was always told, there +was no higher type of manhood. But the pain and +choking did not pass, and in despair I got up and swallowed +half a bottle of pilules of aconite which my mother, an +ardent homœopathist, always advised me to take after +sneezing or cold shivers. They were sweet and very +nice, and the pain certainly began to pass away, but only +to leave me with a remorse that I had allowed a mere +human medicine to accomplish naturally what God +wished to accomplish by His grace. He had been so +slow about it, however, that I felt also a kind of anger +that He could torture me so long, and as it was the aconite +that cured me, and not His grace, I was certainly released +from my promise to become a missionary and work +among the heathen. And for this small mercy I was +duly thankful, though the escape had been a rather +narrow one.</p> + +<p>A year and a half in a school of the Moravian Brotherhood +in the Black Forest, though it showed me another +aspect of the same general line of belief, did not wholly +obliterate my fear of hell, with its correlated desire for +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span> +salvation. The poetry of the semi-religious life in that +remote village set among ancient haunted forests, gave +to natural idealistic tendencies another turn. The masters, +whom we termed Brother, were strenuous, devoted, +self-sacrificing men, all later to go forth as Missionaries +to Labrador. Humbug, comfort, personal ambition +played no part in their lives. The <i>Liebesmahl</i> in their +little wooden church, for all its odd simplicity, was a +genuine and impressive ceremony that touched something +in me no church service at home, with Sankey’s hymns +on a bad harmonium, had ever reached. At this Communion +Service, or Love Feast, sweet, weak tea in big +white thick cups, followed by a clothes-basket filled +with rolls, were handed round, first to the women, who +sat on one side of the building, and then to the men and +boys on the other side. There was a collective reality +about the little ceremony that touched its sincerity +with beauty. Similarly was Easter morning beautiful, +when we marched in the early twilight towards the little +cemetery among the larch trees and stood with our hats +off round an open grave, waiting in silence for the sunrise. +The air was cool and scented, our mood devotional and +solemn. There was a sense of wonder among us. Then, +as the sun slipped up above the leagues of forest, +the Eight Brothers, singing in parts, led the ninety +boys in the great German hymn, “<i>Christus ist auferstanden</i>....”</p> + +<p>The surroundings, too, of the school influenced me +greatly. Those leagues of Black Forest rolling over distant +mountains, velvet-coloured, leaping to the sky in +grey cliffs, or passing quietly like the sea in immense +waves, always singing in the winds, haunted by elves +and dwarfs and peopled by charming legends—those +forest glades, deep in moss and covered in springtime +with wild lily-of-the-valley; those tumbling streams +that ran for miles unseen, then emerged to serve the +peasants by splashing noisily over the clumsy water-wheel +of a brown old sawmill before they again lost themselves +among the mossy pine roots; those pools where water-pixies +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span> +dwelt, and those little red and brown villages +where we slept in our long walks—the whole setting of +this Moravian school was so beautifully simple that it +lent just the proper atmosphere for lives consecrated +without flourish of trumpets to God. It all left upon +me an impression of grandeur, of loftiness, and of real +religion ... and of a Deity not specially active on +Sundays only.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V"> + CHAPTER V + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap'><span class='allcaps'>These</span> notes aim at describing merely certain +surface episodes, and would leave unmentioned +of set purpose those inner activities which pertain +to the intimate struggles of a growing soul. There is +a veil of privacy which only in rarest cases of exceptional +value should be lifted. That honesty, moreover, which is +an essential of such value, seems almost unattainable. +Only a diary, written at the actual time and intended +for no one’s eye, can hope to achieve the naked sincerity, +which could make it useful to lift that veil.</p> + +<p>Yet, even with these surface episodes, something of +the background against which they danced and vanished +must be sketched; to understand them, something of the +individual who experienced them must be known. This +apology for so much use of the personal pronoun is made +once for all.</p> + +<p>The failure of the evangelical Christian teaching +either to attract deeply or to convince, has been indicated. +An eager, impressionable mind lay empty and unstimulated. +It fed upon insipid stuff, such as Longfellow, Mrs. Hemans, +goody-goody stories, and thousands of religious tracts. +It was the days of yellow-backs in three volumes, of Ouida +especially, of Miss Braddon, and Wilkie Collins; but novels +were strictly forbidden in the house. Lewis Carroll, +which my father often read aloud, and Foxe’s “Book of +Martyrs,” which made every Roman Catholic priest +seem ominous, were our imaginative fiction. But my +chief personal delight was Hebrew poetry, the Psalms, +the Song of Solomon, above all the Book of Job (which +I devoured alone)—these moved me in a different way +and far more deeply.</p> + +<p>The mind, meanwhile, without being consciously +aware of it, was searching with eager if unrewarded zeal, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span> +until one day Fate threw a strange book in its way—Patanjali’s +“Yoga Aphorisms,” a translation from the +Sanskrit. I was about seventeen then, just home from a +year and a half in the Moravian Brotherhood School in +the Black Forest.</p> + +<p>I shall never forget that golden September day when +the slight volume, bound in blue, first caught my eye. +It was lying beside a shiny black bag on the hall table, +and the bag belonged, I knew, to a Mr. Scott, who had come +to spend a week with us and to hold a series of meetings +under my father’s auspices in the village hall. Mr. +Scott was an ardent revivalist. He was also—this I +grasped even at the time—a cadaverous mass of religious +affectations. He was writing a brochure, I learned later, +to warn England that Satan was bringing dangerous +Eastern teachings to the West, and this book was a first +proof of the Fiend’s diabolical purpose.</p> + +<p>I opened it and read a few paragraphs in the hall. I +did not understand them, though they somehow held my +mind and produced a curious sense of familiarity, half of +wonder, half of satisfaction. A deeper feeling than I +had yet known woke in me. I was fascinated.... My +father’s voice calling me to tennis interrupted my reading, +and I dropped the book, noticing that it fell behind the +table. Hours later, though the bag was gone, the book +lay where it had fallen. I stole it. I took it to bed +with me and read it through from cover to cover. I read +it twice, three times; bits of it I copied out; I did not +understand a word of it, but a shutter rushed up in my +mind, interest and joy were in me, a big troubling emotion, +a conviction that I had found something I had been +seeking hungrily for a long time, something I needed, +something that, in an odd way, almost seemed familiar.</p> + +<p>I repeat—I did not understand a word of it, while yet +the meaningless phrases caught me with a revolutionary +power. As I read and re-read till my candles guttered, +there rose in me a dim consciousness, becoming more and +more a growing certainty, that what I read was not entirely +new. So strong was this that it demanded audible +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span> +expression. In that silent bedroom, dawn not far away, +I can hear myself saying aloud: “But I’ve known all +this before—only I’ve forgotten it.” Even the Sanskrit +words, given phonetically in brackets, had a familiar +look.</p> + +<p>Shutter after shutter rose, “lifting a veil and a darkness,” +letting in glimpses of a radiant and exciting light. +Though the mind was too untaught to grasp the full +significance of these electric flashes, too unformed to be +even intelligently articulate about them, there certainly +rushed over my being a singular conviction of the unity +of life everywhere and in everything—of its <i>one-ness</i>. +That objects, the shifting appearance of phenomena, +were but a veil concealing some intensely beautiful +reality—the beauty shining and divine, the reality bitingly, +terrifically actual—this poured over me with a sense of +being not so much dis-covered as re-covered. Ignorant +as I was, without facts or arguments or reason to support +me, this I <i>knew</i>.</p> + +<p>It is possible the awakening consciousness fringed +some state of ecstasy during that long communing with +ancient things.... The house, at any rate, was still +dark, but sunrise not long to come, when at length I +stole down into the deserted hall and replaced the little +book upon the table.</p> + +<p>Those Yoga aphorisms of a long-dead Hindu sage, +set between a golden September evening and a guttering +candle, marked probably the opening of my mind.... +The entire paraphernalia of my evangelical teaching +thenceforth began to withdraw. Though my father’s +beliefs had cut deep enough to influence me for many +years to come, their dread, with the terror of a personal +Satan and an actual Hell, grew less from that moment. +The reality of the dogmas was impaired. Here was another +outlook upon life, another explanation of the world; +caprice was eliminated and justice entered; the present +was the result of the past, the future determined by the +present; I must reap what I had sown, but, also, I could +sow what I wished to reap. Hope was born. Apart from +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> +this was that curious deep sense of familiarity with these +Eastern teachings, as with something I understood and +in which I felt at home....</p> + +<p>Cautiously, I put indirect questions to my father, +who at once—the clumsy questions betraying me—detected +Satan’s subtle handiwork. He was grave and +troubled. With affectionate solicitude he told me, finally, +a story of naïve horror, intended to point the warning. +A young man, who suffered from repeated epileptic fits, +had tried every doctor and specialist in vain, when, as a +last resort, he followed some friend’s counsel of despair, +and consulted a medium. The medium, having conferred +with his familiar, handed the patient a little locket which +he was to wear day and night about his neck, but never +on any account to open. The spell that would save him +from a repetition of his fits lay inside, but he must resist +to the death the curiosity to read it. To the subsequent +delight and amazement of everybody, the fits abruptly +ceased; the man was cured; until one day, after years +of obedience, curiosity overcame him; he opened the brief +inscription, and fell down in a fit—dead. The wording, +minutely written in red ink, ran as follows: “Let him +alone till he drop into Hell!”</p> + +<p>The warning, above all the story, acted as a stimulus +instead of the reverse. Yet another strange door was set +ajar; my eyes, big with wonder and questions, peered +through. “Earth’s Earliest Ages,” by G. H. Pember, +an evangelical, but an imaginative evangelical, was placed +in my hands, accompanied by further solemn warnings. +Pember, a writer of the prophetic school, had style, +imagination, a sense of the marvellous, a touch of genuine +drama too; he used suggestion admirably, his English +was good, he had proportion, he knew where to stop. +As a novelist of fantastic kind—an evangelical Wells, +a “converted” Dunsany—he might have become a best-seller. +He had, moreover, a theme of high imaginative +possibilities, based upon a sentence in Genesis (vi. 2)—“The +Sons of God saw the Daughters of men that they +were fair ... and took to themselves wives from among +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span> +them ... and there were giants in the earth in those +days....” These Sons of God were some kind of higher +beings, mighty spirits, angels of a sort; but rather fallen +angels; their progeny formed a race apart from humans; +for some reason, now slipped from my memory, Pember was +convinced that this unlawful procreation was being resumed +in modern days. The Nephilim, as he called them, +were aiming at control of the world, Anti-Christ, a gorgeous +but appalling figure, naturally, at their head.</p> + +<p>It was a magnificent theme; he treated it, within the +limits he set himself, with ingenious conviction. The +danger was imminent; the human race, while shuddering, +must be on its guard. In the night, in the twinkling of +an eye, the catastrophe might come. Signs the Nephilim +brought with them were spiritualism, theosophy, the development +of secret powers latent in man, a new and awful +type of consciousness, magic, and all the rest of the +“occult” movement that was beginning to show its hydra +head about this time.</p> + +<p>In a moment Moody went to the bottom of the class, +and Pember reigned in his stead. By hook or by crook I +obtained the books that Pember signalled as so dangerously +subversive of the truth: “Magic Black and White” +by Dr. Franz Hartmann; “The Perfect Way,” by Anna +Kingsford and Edward Maitland; “Esoteric Buddhism,” +by A. P. Sinnett; “Voice of the Silence,” by Mabel Collins; +“The Bhagavad Gita,” from the Upanishads; and Emma +Hardinge Britten’s “History of American Spiritualism.” +My first delicious alarm lest the sky might fall any moment, +and Satan appear with the great and terrible Nephilim +princes to rule the world, became less threatening.... +Soon afterwards, too, I happened upon my first novel, +Laurence Oliphant’s “Massollam,” followed, a good deal +later, by his “Scientific Religion” and his “Sympneumata.” +This history of his amazing subservience to +Thomas Luke Harris helped to peel another thin skin +from my eyes; Oliphant seemed a hero, but Harris a vile +humbug. By this time other books had brought grist to the +mill as well: Amiel’s “Journal Intime”; Drummond’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span> +“Natural Law in the Spiritual World”—I knew Professor +Drummond later, when he came to stay with us, +and also when he lectured to the students at Edinburgh +on Sunday nights, coming from his Glasgow Chair for the +purpose: I can still see his large, glowing, far-seeing eyes—Cahagnet’s +“Arcanes de la Vie Future”; and “Animal +Magnetism,” by Binet and Féré. The experiments of +Braid, and Dr. Esdaille in India, had also come my way.</p> + +<p>Such one-sided reading, of course, fed the growing +sense of wonder, naturally strong in any case; Shelley +coloured it; and nothing offered itself at the time to curb, +shape or qualify it. Spiritualism, apart from the exciting +phenomena it promised with such confident volubility, +left me rather unstirred, but theosophy, of course, I +swallowed whole, with its Mahatmas, development of +latent powers, memory of past lives, astral consciousness, +and description of other beings both superior and inferior +to man. It was some years before scientific reading came +to check and guide a too exuberant imagination; but, +even so I have always taken ideas where I found them, +regardless of their propounders; if Tibet and its shining +Mahatmas faded, the theories of Karma and reincarnation +were older than any modern movement, and the belief in +extension of consciousness to some <i>n</i>th degree, with its +correlative of greater powers and new faculties, have not +only remained with me, but have justified themselves. +The “Gita,” too, remains the profoundest world-scripture +I have ever read.</p> + +<p>An immediate, happy result of this odd reading, at +any rate, I recall with pleasure: my father’s Christianity +became splendid in my eyes. I realized, even then, +that it satisfied his particular and individual vision of +truth, while the fact that he lived up to his beliefs nobly +and consistently woke a new respect and admiration in +me....</p> + +<p>By far the strongest influence in my life, however, +was Nature; it betrayed itself early, growing in intensity +with every year. Bringing comfort, companionship, inspiration, +joy, the spell of Nature has remained dominant, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span> +a truly magical spell. Always immense and potent, +the years have strengthened it. The early feeling that +everything was alive, a dim sense that some kind of consciousness +struggled through every form, even that a +sort of inarticulate communication with this “other +life” was possible, could I but discover the way—these +moods coloured its opening wonder. Nature, at any rate, +produced effects in me that only something living could +produce; though not till I read Fechner’s “Zend-Avesta,” +and, later still, James’s “Pluralistic Universe,” and +Dr. R. M. Bucke’s “Cosmic Consciousness” did a possible +meaning come to shape my emotional disorder. Fairy +tales, in the meanwhile bored me. Real facts were what +I sought. That these existed, that I had once known them +but had now forgotten them, was thus an early imaginative +conviction.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>This tendency showed itself even in childhood. We +had left the Manor House, Crayford, and now lived in +a delightful house at Shortlands, in those days semi-country. +It was the time of my horrible private schools—I +went to four or five—but the holidays afforded opportunities....</p> + +<p>I was a dreamy boy, frequently in tears about nothing +except a vague horror of the practical world, full of wild +fancies and imagination and a great believer in ghosts, +communings with spirits and dealings with charms and +amulets, which latter I invented and consecrated myself +by the dozen. This was long before I had read a single +book.</p> + +<p>I loved to climb out of the windows at night with a +ladder, and creep among the shadows of the kitchen garden, +past the rose trees and under the fruit-tree wall, and so +on to the pond where I could launch the boat and practise +my incantations in the very middle among the floating +weeds that covered the surface in great yellow-green +patches. Trees grew closely round the banks, and even +on clear nights the stars could hardly pierce through, +and all sorts of beings watched me silently from the shore, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span> +crowding among the tree stems, and whispering to themselves +about what I was doing.</p> + +<p>I cannot say I ever believed actually that my spells +would produce any results, but it pleased and thrilled me +to think that they might do so; that the scum of weeds +might slowly part to show the face of a water-nixie, or +that the forms hovering on the banks might flit across to +me and let me see their outline against the stars.</p> + +<p>Everything I did and felt in this way was evolved out +of my inner consciousness, and even after I had passed +into long trousers I loved the night, the shadows, empty +rooms and haunted woods.</p> + +<p>On returning from these nightly expeditions to +the pond, the sight of the old country-house against +the sky always excited me strangely. Three cedars +of Lebanon flanked it on the side I climbed out, +towering aloft with their great funereal branches, and +I thought of all the people asleep in their silent rooms, +and wondered how they could be so dull and unenterprising, +when out here they could see these sweeping +branches and hear the wind sighing so beautifully among +the needles. These people, it seemed to me at such +moments, belonged to a different race. I had nothing +in common with them. Night and stars and trees and wind +and rain were the things I had to do with and wanted. +They were alive and personal, stirring my depths within, +full of messages and meanings, whereas my parents and +sisters and brother, all indoors and asleep, were mere +accidents, and apart from my real life and self. My friend +the under-gardener always took the ladder away early in +the morning.</p> + +<p>Sometimes an elder sister accompanied me on these +excursions. She, too, loved mystery, and the peopled +darkness, but she was also practical. On returning to her +room in the early morning we always found eggs ready to +boil, cake and cold plum-pudding perhaps, or some such +satisfying morsels to fill the void. She was always wonderful +to me in those days. Very handsome, dark, with +glowing eyes and a keen interest in the undertaking, she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span> +came down the ladder and stepped along the garden paths +more like a fairy being than a mortal, and I always +enjoyed the event twice as much when she accompanied +me. In the day-time she faded back into the dull elder +sister and seemed a different person altogether. I never +reconcile the two.</p> + +<p>This childish manifestation of an overpowering passion +changed later, in form, of course, but not essentially much +in spirit. Forests, mountains, desolate places, especially +perhaps open spaces like the prairies or the desert, but even, +too, the simple fields, the lanes, and little hills, offered an +actual sense of companionship no human intercourse +could possibly provide. In times of trouble, as equally +in times of joy, it was to Nature I ever turned instinctively. +In those moments of deepest feeling when individuals +must necessarily be alone, yet stand at the same time in +most urgent need of understanding companionship, it was +Nature and Nature only that could comfort me. When +the cable came, suddenly announcing my father’s death, +I ran straight into the woods.... This call sounded above +all other calls, music coming so far behind it as to seem +an “also ran.” Even in those few, rare times of later life, +when I fancied myself in love, this spell would operate—a +sound of rain, a certain touch of colour in the sky, the +scent of a wood-fire smoke, the lovely cry of some singing +wind against the walls or window—and the human appeal +would fade in me, or, at least, its transitory character +become pitifully revealed. The strange sense of a oneness +with Nature was an imperious and royal spell that over-mastered +all other spells, nor can the hint of comedy +lessen its reality. Its religious origin appears, perhaps, +in the fact that sometimes, during its fullest manifestation, +a desire stirred in me to leave a practical, utilitarian +world I loathed and become—a monk!</p> + +<p>Another effect, in troubled later years especially, was +noticeable; its dwarfing effect upon the events, whatever +they might be, of daily life. So intense, so flooding, was +the elation of joy Nature brought, that after such moments +even the gravest worldly matters, as well as the people +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span> +concerned in these, seemed trivial and insignificant. +Nature introduced a vaster scale of perspective against +which a truer proportion appeared. There lay in the +experience some cosmic touch of glory that, by contrast, +left all else commonplace and unimportant. The great +gods of wind and fire and earth and water swept by on +flaming stars, and the ordinary life of the little planet +seemed very small, man with his tiny passions and few +years of struggle and vain longings, almost futile. One’s +own troubles, seen in this new perspective, disappeared, +while, at the same time, the heart filled with an immense +understanding love and charity towards all the world—which, +alas, also soon disappeared.</p> + +<p>It is difficult to put into intelligible, convincing words +the irresistible character of this Nature-spell that invades +heart and brain like a drenching sea, and produces a +sense of rapture, of ecstasy, compared to which the highest +conceivable worldly joy becomes merely insipid.... +Heat from this magical source was always more or less +present in my mind from a very early age, though, of +course, no attempt to analyse or explain it was then possible; +but, in bitter years to come, the joy and comfort Nature +gave became a real and only solace. When possession +was at its full height, the ordinary world, and my particular +little troubles with it, fell away like so much dust; +the whole fabric of men and women, commerce and politics, +even the destinies of nations, became a passing show +of shadows, while the visible and tangible world showed +itself as but a temporary and limited representation of a +real world elsewhere whose threshold I had for a moment +touched.</p> + +<p>Others, of course, have known similar experiences, +but, being better equipped, have understood how to +correlate them to ordinary life. Richard Jefferies explained +them. Whitman tasted expansion of consciousness +in many ways; Fechner made a grandiose system of them; +Edward Carpenter deliberately welcomed them; Jacob +Boehme, Plotinus, and many others have tried to fix their +nature and essence in terms, respectively, of religion and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span> +philosophy; and William James has reviewed them with +an insight as though he had had experienced them himself. +Whatever their value, they remain authentic, the sense +of oneness of life their common denominator, a conviction +of consciousness pervading all forms everywhere +their inseparable characteristic.</p> + +<p>If Kentish gardens saw the birth of this delight, the +Black Forest offered further opportunities for its enjoyment, +and a year in a village of the Swiss Jura Mountains +to learn French—I often wandered all night in the big +pine forests without my tutor, a bee-keeping pasteur, +at Bôle, near Neuchâtel, discovering my absence—intensified +it. Without it something starved in me. It was +a persistent craving, often a wasting <i>nostalgia</i>, that cried +for satisfaction as the whole body cries for covering when +cold, and Nature provided a companionship, a joy, a +bliss, that no human intercourse has ever approached, +much less equalled. It remains the keenest, deepest +sensation of its kind I have known....</p> + +<p>Here, in Toronto, opportunities multiplied, and just +when they were needed: in times of difficulty and trouble +the call of Nature became paramount; during the vicissitudes +of dairy and hotel the wild hinterland behind the +town, with its lakes and forests, were a haven often sought. +Among my friends were many, of course, who enjoyed a +day “in the country,” but one man only who understood +a little the feelings I have tried to describe, even if he did +not wholly share them. This was Arnold Haultain, a +married man, tied to an office all day long, private secretary +to Goldwin Smith (whose life, I think, he subsequently +wrote), and editor of a weekly periodical called <i>The Week</i>. +He was my senior by many years.... At three in the +morning, sometimes, he would call for me at the dairy in +College Street, and we would tramp out miles to enjoy +the magic of sunrise in a wood north of the city. And +such an effort was only possible to a soul to whom it was +a necessity.... The intensity of early dreams and aspirations, +what energy lies in them! In later life, though they +may have solidified and become part of the character, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span> +that original fiery energy is gone. A dreadful doggerel +I wrote at this time, Haultain used in his paper, and its +revealing betrayal of inner tendencies is the excuse for +its reproduction here. It appeared the same week its +author bought the Hub Hotel and started business with +Kay, as “The Hub Wine Company.”</p> + + +<p class='center mt1h'>LINES TO A DREAMER</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">O change all this thinking, imagining, hoping to be;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Change dreaming to action and work; there’s a God in your will.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Self-mastery and courage and confidence make a man free,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And doing is stronger than dreaming for good or for ill.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Then make a beginning; don’t lie like an infant and weep.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Begin with the dearest and crush some delight-giving sin</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Right out of your life, with a purpose of death before sleep;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A passion controlled is an index of power within.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Some hard self-denial; let no one suspect it at all.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With ruthless self-torture continue, nor half an inch yield,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Step fearless and bravely; hold on and believe—you won’t fall;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Companions you’ve none but the best on this grim battlefield.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Stagnation means death. If you cannot advance you retreat;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Steel purpose maintain; let it be the first aim of your life;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beware of those mushroom resolves as impulsive as fleet,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And remember, the nobler the end the more deadly the strife.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">For the hope that another may save you is coward and vain,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the ladder, by which you must climb to yon far starry height,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is of cast-iron rungs from the furnace of suffering and pain.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Then forward; and courage! from darkness to truth’s golden light.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI"> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap'><span class='allcaps'>The</span> pictures that have occupied two chapters, +flashed and vanished, lasting a few moments only. +It was Kay’s voice that interrupted them:</p> + +<p>“This is my partner, Mr. Blackwood,” he was saying, +as he came from the dining-room door, accompanied by an +undersized little man with sharp, beady eyes set in a face +like a rat’s, with deep lines upon a skin as white as paper. +I shook hands with Billy Bingham, proprietor of the Hub, +the man whose disreputable character had made it a disgrace +to the City of Churches.</p> + +<p>Of the conversation that followed, though I heard +every word of it, only a blurred memory remained when +we left the building half an hour later. I was in two +worlds—innocent Kent and up-to-date Toronto—while +Kay and Bingham talked. Mysterious phrases chased +pregnant business terms in quick succession: Goodwill, +stock in hand, buying liquor at thirty days, cash value +of the licence, and heaven knows what else besides. Kay +was marvellous, I thought. The sporting goods business +had apparently taught him everything. Two hundred +per cent. profit, rapid turn over, sell out at top price, were +other vivid sentences I caught in part, while I stared and +listened, feigning no doubt a comprehension that was not +mine. The glow of immense success to come, at any rate, +shone somehow about the nasty face of that cunning little +Billy Bingham, as he painted our future in radiant colours. +Kay was beaming.</p> + +<p>“A short period of horror,” I remember thinking, for +the sanguine fires lit me too, “and we shall be independent +men! It’s probably worth it. Canada’s a free country. +What’s impossible at home is possible here. Opportunities +must be seized...!”</p> + +<p>Then Bingham’s white face retreated, his beady eyes +became twin points of glittering light, and another picture +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span> +slid noiselessly before them. Euston Station a few short +months ago, myself tightly wedged in a crowded third-class +carriage, the train to Liverpool slowly moving out, +and my father’s tall figure standing on the platform—this +picture hid the Hub and Bingham and John Kay. +The serious blue eyes, fixed on mine with love and tenderness, +could not conceal the deep anxiety they betrayed for +my future. Behind them, though actually at the Manor +House, Crayford, fixed on a page of the Bible, or perhaps +closed in earnest prayer, the eyes of my mother rose up +too.... The train moved faster, the upright figure and +the grave, sad face, though lit by a momentary smile of +encouragement, were hidden slowly by the edge of the +carriage window. I was too shy to wave my hand, and +far too sensitive of what the carriage-full of men would +think if I moved to the window and spoke, or worse, gave +the good-bye kiss I burned to give. So the straight line +of that implacable wooden sash slid across both face and +figure, cutting our stare cruelly in the middle.</p> + +<p>It was the last time I saw my father; a year later he +was dead; and ten years were to pass before I saw my +mother again. Before this—to look ahead for a second—some +enterprising Toronto friend, with evangelical tact, +wrote to my father ... “your son is keeping a tavern,” +and my father, calling my brother into his study where +he laid all problems before his God with prayer, told him +in a broken voice and with tears in his eyes: “He is lost; +his soul is lost. Algie has gone to—Hell!”...</p> + +<p>My vision faded. My broad-shouldered friend and +his little rat-faced companion stood with their elbows on +the bar. I saw six small glasses and a big dark bottle. +Three of the former were filled to the brim with neat rye +whisky, the other three, “the chasers” as they were called, +held soda-water.</p> + +<p>“Drink hearty,” rasped Bingham’s grating voice, as +he tossed down his liquor at a gulp, Kay doing the same, +then swallowing the soda-water.</p> + +<p>I moved to the swing-doors. I had never touched +spirits, and loathed the mere smell of them. I cannot +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span> +pretend that any principle was involved; it was simply +that the mere idea of swallowing raw whisky gave me +nausea. I saw Kay give me a quick look. “He’ll be +offended if you don’t take something,” it said plainly. I +was, besides, familiar with the customs of the country, +at any rate in theory.</p> + +<p>“Have something else,” invited Bingham, “if you +don’t like it straight.”</p> + +<p>I shook my head, mumbling something about it’s being +too early in the day, and I shall never forget the look that +came into that cunning little face. But he was not offended. +He put his hand on Kay’s arm. “Now, see here,” he +said with seriousness, “that’s dead right. That’s good +business every time. Never drink yourselves, and you’ll +make it a success. Your partner’s got the right idea, and +I tell you straight: never touch a drop of liquor till after +closing hours. You’ll be asked to drink all day long. +Everybody will want to drink with the new management. +Every customer that walks in will say ‘What’s yours?’ +before you even know his name. Now, see here, boys, +listen to me—you <i>can’t</i> do it! You’ll be blind to the world +before eleven o’clock. <i>I</i> tell you, and I <i>know</i>!”</p> + +<p>“How are you to refuse?” asked Kay.</p> + +<p>“I’ll give you a tip: drink tea!”</p> + +<p>“Tea!”</p> + +<p>“Have your bottle of tea. Tell your bar-tenders. +It’s the same colour as rye whisky. No one’ll ever know. +The boss can always have his own private bottle. Well, +yours is tea. See?” And he winked with a leer like some +intelligent reptile.</p> + +<p>We shook hands, as he saw us into the street.</p> + +<p>“You’ll take a cheque, I suppose?” I heard Kay say +just before we moved off.</p> + +<p>“A marked cheque, yes,” was the reply. The phrase +meant that the bank marked the cheque as good for the +amount.</p> + +<p>“It’s all fixed then,” returned Kay.</p> + +<p>“All fixed,” said Bingham, and the swing-doors closed +upon his unpleasant face as we went out into the street.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII"> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap'><span class='allcaps'>The</span> influences that decided the purchase of the Hub +were emotional, at any rate, not rational; there +lay some reaction in me, as of revolt. “You can +do things out here you could not do at home,” ran like +a song through the heart all day long, and life seemed to +hold its arms wide open. Fortunes were quickly made. +Speculation was rife. Pork went up and wheat went +down, and thousands were made or lost in a few hours. +No enterprise was despised, provided it succeeded. All +this had its effect upon an impressionable and ignorant +youth whose mind now touched so-called real life for the +first time. The example of others had its influence, +too. The town was sprinkled with young Englishmen, +but untrained Englishmen the country did not need, +though it needed their money; and this money they speedily +exchanged, just as I had done, for experience—and then +tried to find work.</p> + +<p>The pathos of it all was, though, that for an average +young Englishman to find a decent job was impossible. +I was among the unsuccessful ones. Kay was another, +but Kay and myself were now—we thought—to prove +the exception.</p> + +<p>“We’ll show ’em!” was the way Kay’s sanguine +twenty-three years phrased it. We both knew men of +splendid education and real ability, earning precarious +livings in positions that would have been ludicrous if they +were not so pathetic. Men from Oxford and Cambridge, +with first rate classical training, were slinging drinks behind +bars, or running about the country persuading the farmers +to insure their stacks and outhouses; others with knowledge +of languages and pronounced literary talent were adding +figures in subordinate positions in brokers’ offices. But +by far the greater number were working as common +labourers for small farmers all over the country.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span></p> + +<p>“They missed their chance when it came,” Kay repeated. +“We won’t miss ours. A chance like the Hub +won’t come twice.” A year of disagreeable, uncongenial +work and then—success! Retire! Off to the primeval +woods, canoes, Indians, camp fires, books ... a dozen +dreams flamed up.</p> + +<p>Within a month we had completed the purchase, and +the Hub opened with flying colours and high hopes; +the newspapers gave us what they called a “send off”; +both “House of Lords” and “House of Commons” +were packed; the cash-registers clicked and rang all day, +and the Hub, swept and garnished, fairly sparkled with +the atmosphere of success, congratulations, and promise +of good business. Billy Bingham’s association with it +was a thing of the past; it became the most respectable +place of its kind in the whole town.</p> + +<p>All day long the shoal of customers flocked in and +rattled their money across the busy counters. Each +individual wanted a word with the proprietors. Buyers +and brewery agents poured in too, asking for orders, and +newspaper reporters took notes for descriptive articles +which duly appeared next morning. The dining-room +did a roaring trade and every stool at the long lunch counter +had its occupant. How easy it all seemed! And no one +the worse for liquor! Everybody was beaming, and, +as a partner in the Hub Wine Company, I already felt +that my failure in the dairy farm was forgotten, an unlucky +incident at most; a boyish episode due to inexperience, +but now atoned for.</p> + +<p>Lord Dufferin, a few years before, had been Governor-General +of Canada, and a huge framed photograph of him +hung above the cold meat, game pies and salads of the +lunch counter. A connexion of my father’s, the newspapers +had insisted upon a closer relationship, and while +some thought he would do better as a first cousin, others +preferred him as my uncle. As an exceedingly popular +Governor-General, his place above the good Canadian food +seemed appropriate at any rate, and the number of customers, +both known and unknown, who congratulated me +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span> +upon our distinguished framed patron, gave me the odd +feeling that somehow the shock to my father was thereby +lessened. The stories of what Dufferin and his wife had +done for Tom, Dick and Harry, for their wives and their +children or their dogs, told to me beside our House of +Lords’ bar that opening day proved good for business. +I had come to the colony somewhat overburdened with +distinguished relations of heavy calibre who, to extend +the simile a little, neither now nor later, ever fired a single +shot on my behalf. The mere inertia of their names, +indeed, weighed down my subsequent New York days +with the natural suspicion that a young man so well born +must have done something dreadful at home to be forced +to pose to artists for a living. Why, otherwise, should he +suffer exile in the underworld of a city across the seas? +Lord Dufferin’s photograph augustly throned above the +Hub luncheon counter, certainly, however, fired a shot +on my behalf, making the cash-registers clink frequently. +His effect on our bar-trade, innocently uncalculated, +deserves this word of gratitude.</p> + +<p>There were three white-coated bar-tenders in the House +of Lords, Jimmy Martin, their principal, in charge of it; +a couple managed the House of Commons trade in the +lower bar, down a step and through an arch; and here, +too, were tables and chairs, rooms curtained off, and other +facilities for back-street customers who wanted to sit and +talk over their beer. Between the two, a door in the wall +led to my own quarters upstairs by means of a private +staircase. Sharp on eleven we closed our doors that first +night, and proceeded, with Jimmy Martin’s aid, to open +the cash-registers and count up our takings. There was +just under 250 dollars, or £50 in English money. Then, +having said good night to our chief bar-tender, we spent +a happy hour making calculations for the future. The +first day, of course, could not be taken as an average, +but prospects, we assured ourselves, were brilliant. +Later we were to discover things that were to prove a +source of endless trouble and vexation of spirit to us both—daily +worries we both learned to dread. At the moment, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span> +however, it was in sanguine mood that I went to bed that +night of our opening day. The money was locked away, +ready for me to take to the bank next morning—our first +deposit. Before that I must be at the market to buy +provisions—six o’clock—and Kay was to be in attendance +in the bars at nine-thirty.</p> + +<p>“It’s a go all right,” were his good-night words, as he +thumped down my private staircase and let himself into +the street with his latch-key.</p> + +<p>Lucky beggar! He hadn’t got to write home and explain +to evangelical and teetotal parents what he was doing!</p> + +<p>Some customers, I discovered, arrived early. That +a man should want to swallow raw spirits at 9 <span class="allsmcap">A.M.</span> amazed +me. Some of these were men we knew socially; with one +of them, who arrived regularly at 9.15, I often dined in his +cosy little bungalow beside the lake. His wife was charming, +I played with his children. He was a lawyer. He +came for what he called an “eye-opener.” Another of +this early brigade was a stockbroker, who later made a +fortune speculating in wheat on margin, lost it again, and +disappeared mysteriously across the border into the States. +His manner of taking his “eye-opener” was peculiar, +puzzling me for a long time. I had never seen it before. +It made me laugh heartily the first morning, for I thought +he was doing it to amuse me—till his injured expression +corrected me. Producing a long silk handkerchief, he +flung it round his neck, one end held by the hand that also +held his brimming glass. With the free hand he then +pulled the other end very slowly round his collar, levering +thus the shaking glass to his lips. Unless he used +this pulley, the glass shook and rattled so violently against +his teeth that its contents would be spilt before he could +get it into his mouth. The horror of it suddenly dawned +on me. I was appalled. The stuff that poisoned this +nervous wreck was sold by myself and partner at 100 +per cent. profit!</p> + +<p>“If he doesn’t get it here,” said Kay, “he’ll go to +Tim Sullivan’s across the way, and get bad liquor. Ours +at least is pure.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span></p> + +<p>During the long twelve hours that the Hub was open +either Kay or myself was always on duty, talking to customers, +keeping an eye (as we hoped!) on the bar-tenders, +showing ourselves with an air of authority in the House of +Commons when, as usually, it became too rowdy—Kay +enjoying the occasional “chucking out.” At lunch time +and from four to half-past six or seven o’clock, the bars +were invariably crowded. The amount of milkless tea +we drank ought to have poisoned us both, but we never +fell from grace in this respect, and we kept faithfully, +too, to Jimmy Martin’s advice never to “put ’em up” +for others.</p> + +<p>Days were long and arduous. Though we soon closed +the dining room after lunch, doing no supper trade, there +were public dinners once or twice a week for Masonic +societies, football clubs and the like, and at these one or +other of the proprietors was expected to show himself. +To my great relief, Kay rather enjoyed this light duty. +His talent for acting was often in demand too; he would +don his Henry Irving wig and give the company an imitation +of the great actor in “The Bells.”</p> + +<p>Kay was very successful at these “banquets,” +and sometimes a Society would engage the room on the +condition that he performed for them after dinner. What +annoyed him was that “the silly idiots always order +champagne!” There was no profit worth mentioning +in “wine,” as it was called. The profit was in beer and +“liquor.” The histrionic talent, at any rate, was an +accomplishment that proved useful later in our difficult +New York days, when Kay not only got a job on the stage +himself, but provided me with a part as well.</p> + +<p>The shadow of that East 19th Street boarding-house +was already drawing nearer ... and another customer +of the Hub who was to share it with us was Louis B——, +a voluble, high-strung fat little Frenchman, of mercurial +temperament and great musical gifts. When a Hub +banquet had seen enough of the Irving wig, and expressed +a wish to hear the other proprietor, it was always Louis +B—— who accompanied my fiddle on the piano. Raff’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span> +“Cavatina” was tolerated, the “Berçeuse” from +“Jocelyn” enjoyed, but the popular songs of the day, +Louis extemporizing all accompaniments with his perfect +touch, it was these that were good for “business.” The +fat, good-natured little man, with his bright dark eyes +and crisp curly black hair, demanded several absinthes +before he would play. He was a born musician. He loved, +in the order mentioned, music, horses, his wife, and from +the last he always had to obtain permission to “play at +the Hub.” Towards midnight he would dash to the telephone +and say pleadingly to his wife: “They want me +to play one more piece—only one. Do you mind? I +shan’t be long!”</p> + +<p>The Hub Wine Company, camouflaging the saloon +business of two foolish young idiots, passed through its +phases towards the inevitable collapse. Business declined; +credit grew difficult; prompt payment for supplies more +difficult still. We closed the Dining Room, then the +House of Commons. The Banquets ceased. Selling out +at “top price” became a dream, loss of all my capital +a fact. Those were funereal days. To me it was a +six months’ horror. The impulsive purchase was paid for +dearly. It was not only the declining business, the approaching +loss of my small capital, the prospect of presently +working for some farmer at a dollar a day and green tea—it +was not these things I chiefly felt. It was, rather, +the fact that I had taken a step downhill, betrayed some +imagined ideal in me, shown myself willing to “sell my +soul” for filthy lucre. The price, though not paid in +lucre, was certainly paid in mental anguish, and the letters +from home, though patient, generously forgiving, even +understanding, increased this tenfold....</p> + +<p>My own nature, meanwhile, wholly apart from any +other influence, sought what relief it could. My heart +had never really been in the venture, my body now kept +out of it as much as possible. The loathing I had felt +for the place from the very beginning was quite apart from +any question of success or failure. I hated the very atmosphere, +the faces of the staff, the sound of voices as I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span> +approached the swinging doors. While attending strictly +to business, never shortening my hours on duty by five +minutes, and eagerly helping Kay in our efforts to get in +another partner with money, my relief when once outside +the actual building was immense. We had engaged a +new manager, whose popularity in the town—he was a +great cricketer—brought considerable fresh custom, but +whose chief value in my eyes lay in the fact that I need +not be present quite as much as before. Collins, who +weighed twenty stone, was a character. Known for some +reason as “the Duke,” he had no other title to nobility. +He helped trade for a few brief weeks, but also helped +himself at the same time, and his exit, not unlike that of +Jimmy—who was “fired” for the same reason—was +attended by threats of a slander suit, which also, like +Jimmy’s, was set down in the Greek kalends.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII"> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap kern'><span class='allcaps'>One</span> effect of these long, unhappy months, anyhow, +was to emphasize another, and that the principal +side, of my nature. The daily effort of forcing +myself to do what I hated so intensely, was succeeded by +the equal and opposite reaction of enjoying tremendously +my free hours of relaxation. When the swing-doors +closed behind me, my mind closed too upon all memory +of the hated Hub. It was shut out, forgotten, non-existent. +I flew instinctively to what comforted and +made me happy. Gorged with the reading of poetry and +of idealistic, mystical books, an insatiable sense of wonder +with a childish love of the marvellous added to it, my +disappointing experience of practical realities demanded +compensation as a safety-valve, if as nothing more. I +found these in Nature, music, and in the companionship +of a few people I will presently describe. Out of those +prison-like swing-doors I invariably went, either with the +fiddle-case in my hand, or with food in my pocket and a +light cloak as blanket for sleeping out. Concerts and +organ recitals were not enough; more than to listen, I +wanted to play myself; and Louis B—— was usually as +enthusiastic as I. The music was a deep delight to me, +but the sleeping under the stars I enjoyed most.</p> + +<p>Those lonely little camp fires have left vivid pictures +in the mind. An East-bound tram soon took one beyond +the city, where the shores of Lake Ontario stretched +their deserted sands for miles. There was always fresh +water to be found for boiling tea, lots of driftwood lying +about, and the sand made a comfortable bed. Many a +night of that sweet Indian summer I saw the moon rise +or set over the water, and lay watching the stars until the +sunrise came. One spot in particular was a favourite +with me, because, just over the high loam cliffs that lined +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span> +the shore, there was an enormous field of tomatoes, and +while Jimmy was helping himself to the Hub cash under +Kay’s eyes in the city, I helped myself to half a dozen +of the farmer’s ripe tomatoes. The Hub, however, of set +purpose, formed no part of my thoughts, my reveries +and dreams being of a very different, and far more interesting, +kind....</p> + +<p>A night in the woods, though distance made it more +difficult, comforted me even more than the Lake expeditions. +I kept the woods usually for Saturday night, +when the next day left me free as well.</p> + +<p>A pine forest beyond Rosedale was my favourite +haunt, for it was (in those days) quite deserted and several +miles from the nearest farm, and in the heart of it lay a +secluded little lake with reedy shores and deep blue +water. Here I lay and communed, the world of hotels, +insurance, even of Methodists, very far away. The hum +of the city could not reach me, though its glare was faintly +visible in the sky. There were no signs of men; no sounds +of human life; not even a dog’s bark—nothing but a sighing +wind and lapping water and a sort of earth-murmur +under the trees, and I used to think that God, whatever He +was, or the great spiritual forces that I believed lay behind +all phenomena, and perhaps were the moving life of the +elements themselves, must be nearer to one’s consciousness +in places like this than among the bustling of men +in the towns and houses. As the material world faded +away among the shadows, I felt dimly the real spiritual +world behind shining through ... I meditated on the +meaning of these dreams till the veil over outer things +seemed very thin; diving down into my inner consciousness +as deeply as I could till a stream of tremendous +yearning for the realities that lay beyond appearances +poured out of me into the night.... The hours passed +with magical swiftness, and my dreaming usually ended +in sleep, for I often woke in the chilly time just before +the dawn, lying sideways on the pine needles, and saw +the trees outlined sharply against the Eastern sky, and +the lake water still and clear, and heard the dawn-wind +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span> +just beginning to sing overhead. The laughter of a loon +would sound, the call of an owl, the cry of a whip-poor-will; +and then—the sun was up.</p> + +<p>Thought ran, on these lonely nights, to everything +except to present or recent happenings. Life, already +half over as, at twenty-one, it then seemed to me, had +proved a failure; my few trivial experiences appeared +gigantic and oppressive. I felt very old. Present conditions, +being unhappy and promising to become more +unhappy still, I left aside. I had “accepted” them as +Karma, I must go through with them, but there was no +need to intensify or prolong unhappiness by dwelling on +them. I therefore dismissed them, thought wandering +to other things. All was coloured, shaped, directed by +those Eastern teachings in which I was then entirely +absorbed ... and the chief problem in my mind at the +time, was to master the method of accepting, facing, +exhausting, whatever life might bring, while being, as the +Bhagavad Gita described, “indifferent to results,” unaffected, +that is, by the “fruits of action.” Detachment, +yet without shirking, was the nearest equivalent phrase +I could find; a state, anyhow, stronger than the Christian +“resignation,” which woke contempt in me....</p> + +<p>Unhappiness, though it may seem trivial now, both as to +cause and quality, was very deep in me at the time. It +had wakened an understanding of certain things I had +read—as in the stolen “Patanjali” years before—without +then grasping what they meant. These things I now was +beginning to reach by an inner experience of them, rather +than by an intellectual comprehension merely.... And, +as thought ran backwards, escaping the unpleasant +Hub and Dairy, to earlier days in the Black Forest School, +to the Jura Mountains village, to family holidays among the +Alps or on the west coast of Scotland, it reached in due +course the year spent at Edinburgh University just before +I left for Canada, and so to individuals there who had +strongly influenced me:</p> + +<p>I recalled Dr. H——, who used hypnotism in his practice, +taught me various methods of using it, and often +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span> +admitted me to private experiments in his study. He +explained many a text-book for me. He had urged +me to give up the idea of farming in Canada, and to read +for medicine and become a doctor. “Specialize,” he +said (in 1883). “By the time you are qualified Suggestion +will be a recognized therapeutic agent, accepted by all, +and accomplishing marvellous results. Become a mental +specialist.”</p> + +<p>I lay under my pine trees, wondering if it were still too +late ... but speculating, further and chiefly, about those +other states of consciousness, since called “subliminal,” +which his experiments had convinced me were of untold +importance, both to the individual and to the race. +Any lawful method of extending the field of consciousness, +of increasing its scope, of developing latent faculties, with +its corollary of greater knowledge and greater powers, +excited and interested me more than the immediate +prospect of making a million....</p> + +<p>This doctor’s family were sincere and convinced spiritualists. +He let them be, paying no attention to them, +yet pointing out to me privately the “secondary” state +into which his wife, as the medium, could throw herself +at will. His son had an Amati violin; we played together; +I was invited to many séances. The power of reading +a “sitter’s” mind I often witnessed, my own unuttered +thoughts often being announced as the communication +from some “guide” or “spirit friend.” But for the +doctor’s private exposition, I might doubtless have been +otherwise persuaded and shared my hostess’s convictions.</p> + +<p>Some of the “communications” came back in memory, +none the less, as I lay beside the little lake and watched +the firelight reflected with the stars: “There is an Indian +here; he says he comes for you. He is a medicine man. +He says you are one, too. You have great healing power. +He keeps repeating the word ‘scratch.’” The dubious +word meant “write”; I was to become a writer, a prophesy +that woke no interest in me at all.... Another +communication delved into the past: “You have been an +Indian in a recent life, and you will go back to their country +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span> +to work off certain painful Karma. You were Aztec, +Inca, Egyptian, and, before that again, Atlantean. With +the world to-day you have nothing in common, for none +of the souls you knew have come back with you. Nature +means more to you than human beings. Beware!” +The last word alarmed me a good deal until the doctor’s +humorous exposition killed any malefic suggestion. The +horoscope his wife cast and read for me, however, he +refused to be bothered with; he could not, therefore, +comfort me by explaining away a disturbing sentence: +“All your planets are beneficent, but were just below the +horizon at the hour of your birth. This means that you +will come very near to success in all you undertake, yet +never quite achieve it.”</p> + +<p>These memories slipped in their series across my mind, +as the embers of my fire faded and the night drew on. +Swiftly they came and passed, each leaving its little trail +of dust, its faint emotion, yet leading always to a stronger +ghost whose memory still bulked largely in my mind—the +ghost of a Hindu student. He was a fourth-year +man, about to become a qualified doctor, and I met him +first in the dissecting room, where occasionally I played +at studying anatomy. We first became intimate friends +over the dissection of a leg. It was he who explained +“Patanjali” to me. He was a very gifted and unusual +being. He showed me strange methods of breathing, of +concentration, of meditation. He made clear a thousand +half-conscious dreams and memories in me. He was +mysterious but sincere, living his theories in practice. +We went for great walks along the Forth, watching the +Forth Bridge then being built; down the coast to St. +Abb’s Head and Coldingham; deep into the recesses of +the Pentlands, where, more than once, we slept in the +open. We made curious and interesting experiments +together.... Years later—he is still alive—I drew upon +a fraction of his personality in two books, “John Silence” +and “Julius Le Vallon.”...</p> + +<p>Much that he explained and taught me, much that he +believed and practised, came back vividly during these +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span> +nightly vigils in the woods, while I listened to the weird +laughter of the loons like the voices of women far away, +and watched the Northern Lights flash in their strange +majesty from the horizon to mid-heaven. Unhappiness +was making my real life sink deeper. No boy, I am sure, +sought for what he believed would prove the realities +with more passionate intensity than I did. It is curious +now to look back upon those grave experiments first taught +me by my Hindu friend, who assured me that the way to rob +emotions of their power was to refuse to identify one’s +“self” with them, this real “self” merely looking on as +a spectator, apart, detached; and that the outer events +of life had small importance, what mattered being solely +one’s inner attitude to them, one’s interpretation of +them....</p> + +<p>From these hours spent alone with Nature, as also +from the hours of music with Louis B—— I returned, at +any rate, refreshed and invigorated to my loathsome bars. +Personal troubles seemed less important, less oppressive; +they were, after all, but brief episodes in a single life; +as Karma, they had to be faced, gone through with; +they had something to teach, and I must learn the lesson, +or else miss one of the objects of my being. Watching +the starry heavens through hours of imaginative reflection +brought a bigger perspective in which individual +worries found reduced proportion. My thoughts introduced +a yet vaster perspective still. The difficulty was +to keep the point of view when the mood that encouraged +it was gone. After a few hours in the House of Lords +perspective was apt to dwindle again....</p> + +<p>When the winter months made sleeping out impossible, +and Louis B—— was not available, my precious hours +of freedom would be spent with a young agnostic doctor +dying of consumption; with the Professor of History in +Toronto University—a sterling, sympathetic man, a true +Christian of intellectual type, and a big, genuine soul who +never thought of himself in the real help he gave me unfailingly +with both hands; or, lastly, with an enthusiast +who shared my quest for what we called “the Realities.” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span> +With all three I had made close friends during the first +prosperous days of the Dairy; the Professor’s family had +been customers for milk and eggs; the young doctor, +living in my boarding-house, had been a pupil in my +French and German class.</p> + +<p>The third was a Scotsman, fairly well educated, +about thirty years of age, who, while fully in sympathy +with my line of thinking, had succeeded in reducing his +dreams to some sort of order so that they did not interfere +with his ordinary, practical career and yet were the +guiding rule of his life.</p> + +<p>He was in the cement business, and his clothes, even +on Sunday, were always covered with a fine white dust, +for he was unmarried and lived alone in a single room. +He made a bare living at his work, but was thoroughly +conscientious and devoted to the interests of his employer, +and all he asked was steady work and fair remuneration +for the rest of his life. He was a real mystic by temperament, +though he belonged to no particular tradition. +The world for him was but a show of false appearances +that the senses gathered; the realities behind were spiritual. +He believed that his soul had existed for ever and would +never cease to exist, and that his ego would continue to +expand and develop according to the life he led, and shaped +by his thoughts and acts (but especially by his thoughts) +to all eternity. This world for him was a schoolroom, a +place of difficult discipline and learning, and the lessons +he was learning were determined logically and justly by +his previous living and previous mistakes. Talents or +disabilities, equally, were the results of former action....</p> + +<p>But to the ordinary man he appeared simply as a rather +dull everyday worker, without any worldly ambition, +absolutely honest and trustworthy, and always occupying +a subordinate position in practical affairs.</p> + +<p>In the “old country” he had belonged to some sort +of society that kept alive traditions of teaching methods +of spiritual development, and he told me much concerning +their theories that immense latent powers lay in the depths +of one’s being and could be educed by suitable living, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span> +and the period in the “schoolroom of this world,” as he +called it, could be shortened and the progress of one’s +real development hastened. It all lay, with him, in learning +how to concentrate the faculties on this inner life, +without neglecting the duties of the position one held to +family or employer, and thus reducing the life of the body +and the senses to the minimum that was consistent with +health and ordinary duty. In this way he believed new +forces would awaken to life, and new parts of one’s being +be stimulated into activity, and in due course one would +become conscious of a new spiritual region with the +spiritual senses adapted to it. It amounted, of course, +to an expansion of consciousness.</p> + +<p>All this, naturally, interested me very much indeed, +and I spent hours talking with this cement maker, and +many more hours reading the books he lent me and thinking +about them. My friend helped in this extension. +Carl du Prel’s “Philosophy of Mysticism” was a book to +injure no one.</p> + +<p>He had published one or two volumes of minor poetry, +and his verse, though poor in form, caught all through it +the elusive quality of genuine mystical poetry, unearthly, +touching the stars, and wakening in the reader the note +of yearning for the highest things. I took him with me +several times to my little private grove, and he would +recite these verses to me in a way that made them sound +very different from my own reading of them. And as he +lay beside the lake and I heard his reedy voice mingling +with the wind in the trees, and watched his watery blue +eyes shine across the smoke of our fire, I realized that +the value of his poems lay in the fact that they were a +perfectly true expression of his self—of his small, mystical, +unselfish and oddly elemental soul searching after the God +that should finally absorb him up into something greater. +I do not wish to criticize him, but only to picture what +I saw. His attenuated body, and long thin fingers, his +shabby clothes covered with white dust lying by my side +under the stars, his eyes looking beyond the world, and +the sound of his thin voice that lost half its words somewhere +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span> +in the wind—the picture is complete in every detail +in my mind to this day. His reasoning powers were slight, +for like all true mystics he believed in the intuitive perception +of truth; but, coming into my life just at this time, +he came with influence and a good deal of stimulus too. +From the “House of Commons” to his dream-laden +atmosphere provided a contrast that brought relief, at +any rate.</p> + +<p>This mystical minor poet in the cement business had +several friends like himself, but no one of them possessed +his value, because no one of them practised their beliefs. +They talked well and were sincere up to a point, but not +to the point of making sacrifices for their faith. It was +always with them a future hope. One, however, must be +excepted—a woman. She was over sixty and always +dressed in black, with crêpe scattered all over her, and a +large white face, and shining eyes, and great bags under +them. She had been a vegetarian for years. In spite +of her size she looked so ethereal that a puff of wind +might have blown her across the street. All her friends +and relations had “passed over,” and her thoughts were +evidently centred in the beyond, so far as she herself +was concerned. She had means of her own, but spent +most of them in helping others. There was no humbug +about her. She claimed to have what she called “continuous +consciousness,” and at night, when her body +lay down and the brain slept, she focused her Self in +some spiritual region of her being, and never lost consciousness. +She saw her body lying there, and knew the brain +was asleep, but she meanwhile became active elsewhere, +for she declared a spirit could never sleep, and it was only +the body that became too weary at the end of the day to +answer to the spirit’s requirements. In sleep the body, +left empty by the spirit, slept, and memory, being in the +brain, became inactive. But as soon as one had learned +to realize one’s spirit, sleep involved no loss of consciousness +and memory was continuous.</p> + +<p>Her accounts of her experiences in the night thrilled +me.... While she talked her face grew so white that it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span> +almost shone. It was a beaming, good, loving face, and +the woman was honest, even if deluded. She radiated +kindness and sympathy from her person. She had a way +of screwing up her eyes when speaking, stepping back a few +paces, and then coming suddenly forward again as though she +meant to jump across the room, her voice ringing, and her +eyes opened so wide that I thought the bags underneath +them must burst with a pop.</p> + +<p>The young doctor living in the boarding-house also +interested me, reviving indeed my desire to follow his own +profession myself. He was about twenty-six years old +and very poor; the exact antithesis of myself, being clear-minded, +practical, cynical and a thorough sceptic on the +existence of a soul and God and immortality. He was +well-read and had the true scientific temperament, +spending hours with his microscope and books. The fact +of his being at the opposite pole to myself attracted me +to him, and we had long talks in his consulting-room on +the ground floor back—where everything was prepared +for the reception of patients, but where no patient ever +came. Our worlds were so far apart, and it was so hard +to establish a mutual coinage of words that our talks were +somewhat futile. He was logical, absorbed in his dream +of original research; he used words in their exact +meaning and jumped to no conclusions rashly, and never +allowed his judgment to be influenced by his emotions; +whereas I talked, no doubt, like a child, building vast +erections upon inadequate premises, indulging in my +religious dreams about God and the soul, speculative and +visionary. He argued me out of my boots every time, +and towards the end of our talks grew impatient and +almost angry with my vague mind and “transcendental +tommy-rot,” as he called it; but at the same time he +liked me, and was always glad to talk and discuss +with me.</p> + +<p>Nothing he said, though much of it was cogent and unanswerable, +ever influenced my opinions in the least degree, +because I felt he was fundamentally wrong, and was trying +to find by scalpel and microscope the things of the spirit. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span> +I felt a profound pity for him, and he felt a contemptuous +pity for me. But one night my pity almost changed to +love, and after this particular conversation, in the course +of which he made me deep confidences of his early privations +in order that he might study for his profession, and +of his unquenchable desire for knowledge for its own sake, +I felt so tenderly towards him, that I never tried to argue +again, but only urged him to believe in a soul and in a +future life. For he told me that he was already so far +gone in consumption that at most he had but a year or +two to live, and he knew that in the time at his disposal +he could not accomplish the very smallest part of his +great dream. I then understood why his eyes were so +burning bright and why he had always glowing red spots +in his cheeks, and looked so terribly thin and emaciated.</p> + +<p>The hours spent with him did not refresh or invigorate +me as the woods and music did; I re-entered the swing +doors of my prison—as I came to regard the Hub—with +no new stimulus. His example impressed me, but his +atmosphere and outlook both depressed. Only my admiration +for his courage, strong will, and consistent attitude +remained, while I drank “tea” with my unpleasant +customers, or listened to complaints from the staff. +Before the swing-doors closed for the last time, however, +the thin, keen-faced doctor with the hectic flush and the +bright burning eyes had succumbed to his terrible malady. +His end made a great impression on me. For several +months he went about like a living skeleton. His cough +was ghastly. He had less and less money, and I seemed to +be the only friend he turned to, or indeed possessed at all, +for I was the only person he allowed to help him, and the +little help I could give was barely enough to prevent the +landlady turning him out for rent and board unpaid.</p> + +<p>To the last his will burned in him like a flame. He +talked and studied, and dreamed his long dream of scientific +achievement even when he knew his time was measured +by weeks, and he was utterly scornful of death and a Deity +that could devise such a poor scheme of existence, so full +of failure, pain, and abortive effort. But I was full of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span> +admiration for the way he kept going full speed to the very +end, starting new books and fresh experiments even when +he knew he would not have time to get half-way through +with them, and discussing high schemes just as though he +expected years in which to carry them out—instead of +days.</p> + +<p>Here was a man absolutely without faith, or any belief +in God or future life, who walked straight up to a miserable +death under full steam, with nothing to console or buoy +him up, and without friends to sympathize, and who never +for a single instant flinched or whimpered. There burned +in his heart the fire of a really strong will. It was the +first time I had realized at close quarters what this meant, +and when I went to his funeral I felt full of real sorrow, +and have never forgotten the scene at his death-bed +when the keen set face relaxed nothing of its decision to +the very last.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX"> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap xkern'><span class='allcaps'>At</span> length the bitter, sparkling winter was over, the +sleigh-bells silent, the covered skating-rinks all +closed. The last remnants of the piled-up snow +had melted, and the sweet spring winds were blowing +freshly down the cedar-paved streets. On the lake shores +the boat-houses were being opened; canoes, skiffs and cat-boats +being repainted. Tents and camping kit were +being overhauled. The talk everywhere was of picnics, +expeditions, trips into the backwoods, and plans for +summer holidays. Crystal sunlight flooded the world. +The Canadian spring intoxicated the brain and sent the +blood dancing to wild, happy measures.</p> + +<p>The Hub was now in the hands of a Receiver; Adams +and Burns, the wholesale house, controlled it. Kay and +I had to pay cash for everything—the Hub Wine Company +was “bust.”</p> + +<p>Yielding to my father’s impatient surprise that after +all these months I was still a partner, I had assigned my +interest a short time before to Kay, and had sent home +the printed announcement in the newspapers. It was a +nominal assignment only, for I had nothing to assign. +My last penny of capital was lost. Kay, for his part, had +lost everything too. Vultures, in the form of bailiffs +with blue writs in their claws, haunted our last week; +by good luck rather than good management I owed +nothing, but Kay had small outstanding accounts all +over the town.</p> + +<p>It was a hectic last week. Our friends came in crowds +to sympathize, to offer advice, to suggest new plans, and +all considered a liquid farewell necessary. This etiquette +was strict. A private word with the Receiver brought +back our tea bottle. The Upper House did a fair business +again, while Louis B—— bursting with new schemes, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span> +new enterprises, that should restore our fortunes, was for +ever at the piano in the upstairs room. We played together +while our little Rome was burning—Tchaikowsky, +Chopin, Wagner, and the latest songs with choruses. +Kay donned his Irving wig from time to time and roared +his “Bells” and “Suicide.” Our last days rattled by.</p> + +<p>The pain of the failure was mitigated for me personally +by the intense relief I felt to be free of the nightmare +at last. Whatever might be in store, nothing could be +worse than that six months’ horror. Besides, failure in +Canada was never final. It held the seeds of success to +follow. From its ashes new life rose with wings and +singing. The electric air of spring encouraged brave hopes +of a thousand possibilities, and while I felt the disaster +overwhelmingly, our brains at the same time already +hummed with every imaginable fresh scheme. What +these schemes were it is difficult now to recall, beyond +that they included all possibilities of enterprise that a +vast young country could suggest to penniless adventurous +youth.</p> + +<p>What memory still holds sharply, however, is the face +of a young lawyer of our acquaintance, as he looked at +me across the fiddle and said casually: “You can live +on my island in Lake Rosseau if you like!” Without a +moment’s hesitation we accepted the lawyer’s offer of +his ten-acre island in the northern lakes. The idea of +immediate new enterprise faded. Kay was easily persuaded +into a plan that promised a few weeks’ pleasant +leisure to think things over, living meanwhile for next to +nothing. “I shall go to New York later,” he announced, +“and get on the stage. I’ll take Shakespeare up to the +island and study it.” He packed his Irving wig. It +was the camping-out which caught me with irresistible +attraction: the big woods, an open air life, sun, wind and +water.... “I’ll come up and join you later,” promised +the sanguine Louis B——. “I’ll come with some new +plan we can talk over round your camp-fire.” He agreed +to pack up our few belongings and keep them for us till +we went later to New York. “We’ll all go to the States,” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span> +he urged. “Canada is a one-horse place. There are far +more chances across the line.”</p> + +<p>We kept secret our date of leaving, only Louis knowing +it. On the morning of May 24th, the Queen’s birthday, +he came to fetch us and our luggage, the latter reduced to +a minimum. There were no good-byes. But this excitable +little Frenchman, who loved a touch of the picturesque, +did not come quite as we expected. He arrived two hours +before his time, with a wagonette and two prancing horses, +his fat figure on the box, flicking his long whip and shouting +up at our windows. His idea, he explained as we climbed +in, was to avoid the main station, where we should be bound +to see a dozen people we knew. He proposed, instead, to +drive us twenty miles to a small station, where the train +stopped on its way north. There was no time to argue. +I sat beside him on the box with the precious fiddle, Kay +got behind with our two bags, and Louis drove us and his +spanking pair along King Street and then up Yonge Street. +Scores recognized us, wondering what it meant, for these +were the principal streets of the town, but Louis flourished +his whip, gave the horses their head, and raced along the +interminable Yonge Street till at length the houses disappeared, +and the empty reaches of the hinterland took +their place. He saw us into the train with our luggage +and our few dollars, waving his whip in farewell as the +engine started. We did not see him again till he arrived, +thin, worried, anxious and gabbling, in the East 19th +Street boarding-house the following autumn.</p> + +<p>My Toronto episodes were over. I had been eighteen +months in the country and was close upon twenty-two; +my capital I had lost, but I had gained at least a little +experience in exchange. I no longer trusted every one +at sight. The green paint had worn thin in patches, if +not all over. The collapse of the Dairy made me feel old, +the Hub disaster made me a Methuselah. My home life +seemed more and more remote, I had broken with it finally, +I could never return to the old country, nor show my face +in the family circle again. Thus I felt, at least. The +pain and unhappiness in me seemed incurably deep, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span> +my shame was very real. In my heart was a secret wish +to live in the backwoods for evermore, a broken man, +feeding on lost illusions and vanished dreams. The lighthearted +plans that Louis B—— and Kay so airily discussed +I could not understand. My heart sank each time I +recognized my father’s handwriting on an envelope. I +felt a kind of final misery that only my belief in Karma +mitigated.</p> + +<p>This mood of exaggerated intensity soon passed, of +course, but for a time life was very bitter. It was hard at +first to “accept” these fruits of former lives, this harvest +of misfortune whose seeds I assuredly had sown myself +long, long ago. The “detachment” I was trying to learn, +with its attitude of somehow being “indifferent to the +fruits of action,” was not acquired in a day.</p> + +<p>Yet it interests me now to look back down the vista +of thirty years, and to realize that this first test of my line +of thought—whether it was a pretty fancy merely, or +whether a real conviction—did not find me wanting. It +was, I found, a genuine belief; neither then, nor in the +severer tests that followed, did it ever fail me for a single +moment. I understood, similarly, how my father’s faith, +equally sincere though in such different guise to mine, +could give him strength and comfort, no matter what +life might bring....</p> + +<p>As our train went northwards through the hinterland +towards Gravenhurst and the enchanted island where we +were to spend five months of a fairyland existence, I +grasped that a chapter of my life was closed, and a new one +opening. The mind looked back, of course. Toronto, +whose Indian name means Place of Meeting, I saw only +once or twice again. I never stayed there. At the end +of our happy island-life, we rushed through it on our way +to fresh adventures in New York, Kay hiding his face in +an overcoat lest some creditor catch a glimpse of him +and serve a blue writ before the train’s few minutes’ pause +in the station ended. The following winter, indeed, this +happened, though in a theatre and not in a railway +carriage. The travelling company, of which he formed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span> +a member, was giving its Toronto week, and a creditor in +the audience recognized him on the stage, though not this +time in his Irving wig. The blue writ was served, the +bailiff standing in the wings until the amount was paid.</p> + +<p>In the mood of reflection a train journey engenders, +a sense of perspective slipped behind the eighteen months +just over. Shot forth from my evangelical hot-house into +colonial life, it now seemed to me rather wonderful that +my utter ignorance had not landed me in yet worse +muddles ... even in gaol.... One incident, oddly +enough, stood out more clearly than the rest. But for +my ridiculous inexperience of the common conditions of +living, my complete want of <i>savoir faire</i>, my unacquaintance +even with the ways of normal social behaviour, I +might have now been in very different circumstances. A +quite different career might easily have opened for me, +a career in a railway, in the Canadian Pacific Railway, in +fact, on one of whose trains we were then travelling.</p> + +<p>But for my stupid ignorance, an opening in the C.P.R. +would certainly have been found for me, whether it led +to a future or not. The incident, slight and trivial +though it was, throws a characteristic light on the results +of my upbringing. It happened in this way:</p> + +<p>Among my father’s acquaintance were the bigwigs +of the Canadian Pacific Railway, who had shown him +much courtesy on our earlier visit. The relationship this +time was not of a religious kind; he was Financial Secretary +to the Post Office; the C.P.R. carried the mails. +Sir George Stephen and Sir Donald Stewart had not at that +time received their peerages as My Lords Mount-Stephen +and Strathcona; Sir William van Horne was still alive. +To all of these I bore letters, though I delivered—by post +to Montreal—only the one to Sir George, as President of +the line. It met with the kindest possible response, and +for several weeks I had been awaiting the return of T., +an important official in Toronto, to whom my case had +been explained, but who was away at the time, touring +the west in his special car. The moment I returned, I +felt reasonably sure that he would find me a place of some +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span> +sort or other where I could at least make a start. He had, +in fact, been asked to do so. With influence, too, in high +quarters behind me, I had every reason to hope. The +return of Mr. T. I awaited eagerly. He was a young +man, I learned, of undoubted ability, but was at the same +time a petty fellow, very pushing, very conceited, and a +social snob of the most flagrant type. I was rather +frightened, indeed, by what I heard, for a colonial social +snob can be a very terrible creature, as I had already +discovered.</p> + +<p>Mr. T.’s return chanced to coincide with a big race meeting, +to be followed by a ball at Government House. Sir +Alexander Campbell was Governor of Ontario at the time. +It was the event of the season, and of course Mr. T. came +back in time to attend it and be in evidence. With a +party of friends I drove to my first race meeting (oh, how +the clothes, the talk, the rushing horses, all looking exactly +alike, bored me!) with an invitation to the grand stand +box of the Governor General, Lord Aberdeen, also a friend +of my father’s, and was thus introduced to the railway +official under the best possible auspices. My heart beat +high when I saw how he took trouble to be nice to me and +begged me to call upon him next day at his office, saying +that “something could no doubt be arranged for me +<i>at once</i>.” I was so delighted that I felt inclined to cable +home at once “Got work”; but I resisted this temptation +and simply let my imagination play round the nature +of the position I should soon be holding in a very big +company, with excellent chances of promotion and salary. +I was too young to be bothered by the man’s patronizing +manner and did not care a straw about his condescension +and self-importance, because I thought only of getting +work and a start.</p> + +<p>The ball filled me with intense shyness and alarm, +however, for I had never learned to dance, or been inside +a ballroom, and it was merely by chance I found out that +white gloves and a white tie (not a black one as I had always +worn at home for dinner) were the proper things. In a +colony, too, an Englishman, who pretends to any +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span> +standing, cannot be too careful about social details; for +everything, and more besides, is expected of him.</p> + +<p>The ball was even worse than I had anticipated. I +was nervous and uncomfortable. Ignorant of the little +observances that would have been known to any man +brought up differently, I found nothing to say to the +numerous pretty Canadian girls, unconventional and +natural, who were introduced to me, and I had not the +slightest idea that the correct and polite thing to do was +to ask each young lady for the “pleasure of a dance.”</p> + +<p>What people must have thought of my manners I +cannot imagine, but the climax was undoubtedly reached +when the railway official swaggered up to me in the middle +of the room and said he wished to introduce me to his +sister. This was duly accomplished, but—I could think +of nothing to say. We stood side by side, with the official +beaming upon us, I fingering my empty programme and +the girl waiting to be asked for a dance. But the request +was not forthcoming, and after a few minutes of terrible +awkwardness and half silence, the purple-faced official +marched his sister off again, highly insulted, to introduce +her to men who would appreciate their luck better than +I had done.</p> + +<p>To him, of course, my manners must have seemed hopelessly +rude. He felt angry that I had not thought his +sister worth even the ordinary politeness of a dance; +and to a Canadian, who learns dancing with his bottle, +and dances indoors and out on every possible occasion, +the omission must have seemed incredibly ill-mannered, +and the snub an unforgivable one. I cannot blame him. +I remained in complete ignorance however of my crime, +and, beyond feeling nervously foolish, out of place, and +generally not much of a success, I had no idea I had given +cause for offence until, long afterwards, I heard stories +about myself and my behaviour which made me realize +that I had done unpardonable things and left undone +all that was best and correct.</p> + +<p>At the time, however, I had no realization that I had +offended at all; and in the morning I went down according +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span> +to appointment to call upon the railway official in +his fine offices and hear the joyful news of my appointment +to a lucrative and honourable position in the +Company.</p> + +<p>It seemed a little strange to me that I was kept waiting +exactly an hour in the outer office, but I was so sure of a +pleasant interview with a practical result that when at +last the clerk summoned me to the official’s sanctum, I +went in with a smiling face and goodwill and happiness in +my heart.</p> + +<p>The general manager, as I will call him, though this +title disguises his actual position, greeted me, however, +without a word. He was talking to a man who stood +beside his desk, and though he must have heard my name +announced, he did not so much as turn his head. I stood +looking at the framed photographs on the wall for several +moments before the man went out, and then, when the +door was closed, I advanced with outstretched hand +and cordial manner across the room to greet my future +employer.</p> + +<p>He glanced at me frigidly, and, without even rising +from his chair, gave me a stiff bow and said in a voice of +the utmost formality:</p> + +<p>“Well, sir, and what can I do for you?”</p> + +<p>The words fell into my brain like so many particles of +ice, and froze my tongue. Such a reception I had never +dreamed of receiving. What had I done wrong? How in +the world had I offended? Not even a word of apology +for keeping me waiting an hour; and not even a seat +offered me. I stood there foolishly for a moment, completely +puzzled. Surely there must be a mistake. The +man had forgotten me, or took me for somebody else.</p> + +<p>“I had an appointment with you at eleven o’clock, +Mr. T.,” I said nervously, but trying to smile pleasantly. +“You remember you were kind enough to say yesterday +you thought you might find work for me to do in—in the +railway offices.”</p> + +<p>The man’s eyes flashed, just as though he were angry, +his face turned red, and I could not help suddenly noticing +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span> +what a bad, weak chin he had and how common and coarse +the lines of his face were. The flush seemed to emphasize +all its bad points.</p> + +<p>“Oh, you want work?” he said with a distinct sneer, +looking me up and down as if I were an animal to be judged. +“You want work, do you?”</p> + +<p>My nervousness began to melt away before his offensive +manner, and I felt the blood mounting, but trying to +keep my temper and to believe still there must be some +mistake, I again reminded him of our previous interview +at the races and in the ballroom.</p> + +<p>“Oh, to be sure, yes, now I remember,” he said +casually, and turned to take up pencil and paper on his +desk. I looked about for a chair, but there was none near, +so I remained standing, feeling something like a suspected +man about to be examined by a magistrate.</p> + +<p>“What can you do?” he asked abruptly.</p> + +<p>“Well,” I stammered, utterly surprised at his rudeness +and manner, “I’ve not had much experience yet, of course, +but I’m willing to begin at the bottom and work up. +I’ll do anything for a beginning.”</p> + +<p>“That’s what everyone says. ‘Doing anything’ is +no good to me. I want to know what you <i>can</i> do. All +my clerks here write shorthand——”</p> + +<p>“I can write shorthand accurately and fast,” I hastened +to interrupt, evidently to his surprise, as though he +had not expected to find me thus equipped.</p> + +<p>“But at present,” he hastened to add, “there are no +vacancies on my staff, and I fear I can offer you nothing +unless——” he hesitated a moment and then looked me +full in the face. This time there could be no mistake. +I saw blood in his eye and I realized he was savagely +angry with me for some reason, and was determined to +make the interview as unpleasant for me as possible.</p> + +<p>“——unless you care to sling baggage on a side station +up the line,” he finished sneeringly.</p> + +<p>The blood rushed to my face, and I understood in a +flash that the interview was a farce and his only object +to humiliate me. I had so far swallowed my temper on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span> +the chance of getting a position, but I knew that a post +under such a man, who evidently hated me, would be worse +than nothing. So I gave him one look from head to foot +and turned to leave the room. I could have struck him +in the jaw with the greatest pleasure in the world.</p> + +<p>“Then I understand you have no vacancies,” I said +quietly as soon as I got to the door. “I will write and +thank Sir George Stephen and tell him about your kindness +to me.”</p> + +<p>I said this because it was the only thing that occurred +to me to say, and not with the object of making him uncomfortable. +I had no intention of putting my words into +effect, I had no idea my stray shot would hit the mark.</p> + +<p>Yet it did. The official, purple, and dismayed, got +up hastily, and called me to stay a moment and he would +see if something was not possible. Hurried sentences +followed me to the passage, but I merely bowed and went +out, knowing perfectly well that nothing could come of +further conversation.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X"> + CHAPTER X + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap kern'><span class='allcaps'>Gradually</span>, thus, contact with ordinary people +and experiences with certain facets, at least, of +practical life had begun to give me what is called +a knowledge of the world. The hot-house upbringing +made this acquisition difficult as well as painful; there still +remained a feeling that I was “peculiar”; ignorance of +things that to other youths of twenty-one were commonplaces +still gave me little shocks. Knowledge that comes +at the wrong time is apt to produce exaggerated effects; +and only those who have shared the childlike shelter +afforded by a strict evangelical enclosure in early years +can appreciate the absurd want of proportion which is one +of these effects. Knowledge of “natural” human kinds, +withheld at the right moment, and acquired later, has its +dangers....</p> + +<p>Two things, moreover, about people astonished me in +particular, I remember; they astonish me even more to-day. +Being, in both cases, merely individual reactions, +to the herd, they are easily understandable, and are mentioned +here because, being entirely personal, they reveal +the individual whose adventures are described.</p> + +<p>The first—it astonished me daily, hourly—was the +indifference of almost everybody to the great questions +Whence, Why, Whither. The few who asked these +questions seemed cranks of one sort or another; the +immense majority of people showed no interest whatever. +Creatures of extraordinary complexity, powers, faculties, +set down for a given period, without being consulted +apparently, upon a little planet amid countless numbers of +majestic, terrifying suns ... few showed even the +faintest interest in the purpose, origin and goal of their +existence. Of these few, again, by far the majority were +eager to prove that soul and spirit were chemical reactions, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span> +results of some fortuitous concourse of dead atoms, to rob +life, in a word, of all its wonder. These problems of paramount, +if insoluble, interest, were taken as a matter of +course. There was, indeed, no sense of wonder.</p> + +<p>It astonished me, doubtless, because in my own case +this was the only kind of knowledge I desired, and desired +passionately. To me it was the only real knowledge, the +only thing worth knowing.... And I was ever getting +little shocks on discovering gradually that not only was +such knowledge not wanted, but that to talk of its possibility +constituted one a dreamer, if not a bore. How anybody +in possession of ordinary faculties could look, say, +at the night sky of stars, and not know the wondrous +flood of divine curiosity about his own personal relation +to the universe drench his being—this never ceased to +perplex me. Yet with almost everybody, the few exceptions +being usually “odd,” conversation rapidly flattened +out as though such things were of no importance, while +stocks and shares, some kind of practical “market-value,” +at any rate, quickly became again the topic of real value. +Not only, however, did this puzzle me; it emphasized +at this time one’s sense of being peculiar; it sketched a +growing loneliness in more definite outline. No one wanted +to make some money more than I did, but these other things—one +reason, doubtless, why I never did make money—came +indubitably first.</p> + +<p>The second big and daily astonishment of those +awakening years, which also has persisted, if not actually +intensified, concerned the blank irresponsiveness to beauty +of almost everybody I had to do with. Exceptions, again, +were either cranks or useless, unpractical people, failures +to a man. Many liked “scenery,” either perceiving it +for themselves, or on having it pointed out to them; +but very few, as with myself, knew their dominant mood of +the day influenced—well, by a gleam of light upon the lake +at dawn, a faint sound of music in the pines, a sudden strip +of blue on a day of storm, the great piled coloured clouds +at evening—“such clouds as flit, like splendour-winged +moths about a taper, round the red west when the sun dies +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span> +in it.” These things had an effect of intoxication upon me, +for it was the wonder and beauty of Nature that touched +me most; something like the delight of ecstasy swept over +me when I read of sunrise in the Indian Caucasus.... +“The point of one white star is quivering still, deep in +the orange light of widening morn beyond the purple +mountains ...” and it was a genuine astonishment to +me that so few, so very few, felt the slightest response, +or even noticed, a thousand and one details in sky and +earth that delighted me with haunting joy for hours at a +stretch.</p> + +<p>With Kay, my late “partner in booze,” as I had +heard him called, there was sufficient response in these +two particulars to make him a sympathetic companion. +If these things were not of dominant importance to him, +they were at least important. Humour and courage +being likewise his, he proved a delightful comrade during +our five months of lonely island life. What his view of +myself may have been is hard to say; luckily perhaps, +Kay was not a scribbler.... He will agree, I think, +that we were certainly very happy in our fairyland of +peace and loveliness amid the Muskoka Lakes of Northern +Ontario.</p> + +<p>Our island, one of many in Lake Rosseau, was about +ten acres in extent, irregularly shaped, overgrown with +pines, its western end running out to a sharp ridge we called +Sunset Point, its eastern end facing the dawn in a high +rocky bluff. It rose in the centre to perhaps a hundred +feet, it had little secret bays, pools of deep water beneath +the rocky bluff for high diving, sandy nooks, and a sheltered +cove where a boat could ride at anchor in all weathers. +Close to the shore, but hidden by the pines, was a one-roomed +hut with two camp-beds, a big table, a wide balcony, +and a tiny kitchen in a shack adjoining. A canoe +and rowing-boat went with the island, a diminutive wharf +as well. On the mainland, a mile and a half to the north, +was an English settler named Woods who had cleared the +forest some twenty-five years before, and turned the wilderness +into a more or less productive farm. Milk, eggs +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span> +and vegetables we obtained from time to time. To the +south and east and west lay open water for several miles, +dotted by similar islands with summer camps and bungalows +on them. The three big lakes—Rosseau, Muskoka +and Joseph—form the letter Y, our island being where +the three strokes joined.</p> + +<p>To me it was paradise, the nearest approach to a dream +come true I had yet known. The climate was dry, sunny +and bracing, the air clear as crystal, the nights cool. In +moonlight the islands seemed to float upon the water, +and when there was no moon the reflection of the stars +had an effect of phosphorescence in some southern sea. +Dawns and sunsets, too, were a constant delight, and before +we left in late September we had watched through half +the night the strange spectacle of the Northern Lights in +all their rather awful splendour.</p> + +<p>The day we arrived—May 24th—a Scotch mist veiled +all distant views, the island had a lonely and deserted air, +a touch of melancholy about its sombre pines; and when +the small steamer had deposited us with our luggage on +the slippery wharf and vanished into the mist, I remember +Kay’s disconsolate expression as he remarked gravely: +“We shan’t stay <i>here</i> long!” Our first supper deepened +his conviction, for, though there were lamps, we had forgotten +to bring oil, and we devoured bread and porridge +quickly before night set in. It was certainly a contrast +to the brilliantly lit corner of the Hub dining-room where +we had eaten our last dinner.... But the following +morning at six o’clock, after a bathe in the cool blue water, +while a dazzling sun shone in a cloudless sky, he had already +changed his mind. Our immediate past seemed hardly +credible now. Jimmy Martin, the “Duke,” the +Methodist woodcuts, the life insurance offices, to say +nothing of the sporting goods emporium, red-bearded +bailiffs, Alfred Cooper, and a furious half-intoxicated Irish +cook—all faded into the atmosphere of some half-forgotten, +ugly dream.</p> + +<p>We at once set our house in order. We had saved a +small sum in cash from the general wreck; a little went a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span> +long way; pickerel were to be caught for the trouble of +trolling a spoon-bait round the coast, and we soon discovered +where the black bass hid under rocky ledges of +certain pools. In a few weeks, too, we had learned to +manage a canoe to the point of upsetting it far from shore, +shaking it half-empty while treading water, then climbing +in again—the point where safety, according to the Canadians, +is attained. Even in these big lakes, it was rare +that the water was too rough for going out, once the craft +was mastered; a “Rice Lake” or “Peterborough,” as +they were called, could face anything; a turn of the wrist +could “lift” them; they answered the paddle like a +living thing; a chief secret of control being that the +kneeling occupant should feel himself actually a part of +his canoe. This trifling knowledge, gained during our +idle holiday, came in useful years later when taking a +canoe down the Danube, from its source in the Black +Forest, to Budapest.</p> + +<p>Time certainly never hung heavy on our hands. +Before July, when the Canadians came up to their summer +camps, we had explored every bay and inlet of the lakes, +had camped out on many an enchanted island, and had +made longer expeditions of several days at a time into the +great region of backwoods that began due north. These +trips, westward to Georgian Bay with its thousand +islands, on Lake Huron, or northward beyond French +River, where the primeval backwoods begin their unbroken +stretch to James Bay and the Arctic, were a source +of keen joy. Our cooking was perhaps primitive, but we +kept well on it. With books, a fiddle, expeditions, to +say nothing of laundry and commissariat work, the days +passed rapidly. Kay was very busy, too, “preparing +for the stage,” as he called it, and Shakespeare was always +in his hand or pocket. The eastern end of the island was +reserved for these rehearsals, while the Sunset Point end +was my especial part, and while I was practising the fiddle +or deep in my Eastern books, Kay, at the other point of the +island, high on his rocky bluff, could be heard sometimes +booming “The world is out of joint. Oh cursed fate that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span> +I was born to set it right,” and I was convinced that he +wore his Irving wig, no matter what lines he spouted. In +the evenings, as we lay after supper at Sunset Point, +watching the colours fade and the stars appear, it was the +exception if he did not murmur to himself “... the +stars came out, over that summer sea,” and then declaim +in his great voice the whole of “The <i>Revenge</i>” +which ends “I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!”—his tall +figure silhouetted against the sunset, his voice echoing +among the pines behind him.</p> + +<p>Considerations for the future were deliberately shelved; +we lived in the present, as wise men should; New York, +we knew, lay waiting for us, but we agreed to let it wait. +My father’s suggestion—“your right course is to return +to Toronto, find work, and live down your past”—was +a counsel of perfection I disregarded. New York, the +busy, strenuous, go-ahead United States, offered the irresistible +lure of a promised land, and we both meant to try +our fortunes there. How we should reach it, or what we +should do when we did reach it, were problems whose +solution was postponed.</p> + +<p>On looking back I can only marvel at the patience +with which neither tired of the other. Perhaps it was +perfect health that made squabbles so impossible. Nor +was there any hint of monotony, strange to say. We had +many an escape, upsetting in wild weather, losing our way +in the trackless forests of the mainland, climbing or felling +trees, but some Pan-like deity looked after us.... The +spirit of Shelley, of course, haunted me day and night; +“Prometheus Unbound,” pages of which I knew by heart, +lit earth and sky, peopled the forests, turned stream and +lake alive, and made every glade and sandy bay a floor +for dancing silvery feet: “Oh, follow, follow, through +the caverns hollow; As the song floats thou pursue, +Where the wild bee never flew....” I still hear Kay’s +heavy voice, a little out of tune, singing to my fiddle the +melody I made for it. And how he used to laugh! +Always at himself, but also at and with most other things, +an infectious, jolly wholesome laughter, inspired by details +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span> +of our care-free island life, from his beard and Shakespeare +rehearsals to my own whiskers and uncut hair, my +Shelley moods and my intense Yoga experiments....</p> + +<p>Much of the charm of our lonely life vanished when, +with high summer, the people came up to their camps +and houses on the other islands. The solitude was then +disturbed by canoes, sailing-boats, steam-launches; singing +and shouting broke the deep silences; camp-fires in a +dozen directions blazed at night. Many of these people +we had known well in Toronto, but no one called on us. +Sometimes we would paddle to some distant camp-fire, +lying on the water just outside the circle of light, and +recognizing acquaintances, even former customers of Hub +and Dairy and the Sporting Goods Emporium, but never +letting ourselves be seen. Everybody knew we were +living on the island; yet avoidance was mutual. We were +in disgrace, it seemed, and chiefly because of the Hub—not +because of our conduct with regard to it, but, apparently, +because we had left the town suddenly without +saying good-bye to all and sundry. This abrupt disappearance +had argued something wrong, something we +were ashamed of. All manner of wild tales reached us, +most of them astonishingly remote from the truth.</p> + +<p>This capacity for invention and imaginative detail of +most ingenious sort, using the tiniest insignificant item of +truth as starting point, suggests that even the dullest +people must have high artistic faculties tucked away somewhere +in them. Many of these tales we traced to their +source—usually a person the world considered devoid of +fancy, even dull. Here, evidently, possessing genuine +creative power, were unpublished novelists with distinct +gifts of romance and fantasy who had missed their real +vocation. The truth about us was, indeed, far from glorious, +but these wild tales made us feel almost supermen. +Many years later I met other instances of this power that +dull, even stupid people could keep carefully hidden till +the right opportunity for production offers—I was credited, +to name the best, with superhuman powers of Black Magic, +whatever that may be, and of sorcery. It was soon after +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span> +a book of mine, “John Silence,” had appeared. A story +reached my ears, the name of its author boldly given, to +the effect that, for the purposes of this Black Magic, I +had stolen the vases from the communion altar of St. +Paul’s Cathedral and used their consecrated content in +some terrible orgy called the Black Mass. Young children, +too, were somehow involved in this ceremony of sacrilegious +sorcery, and I was going to be arrested. The author +of this novelette was well known to me, connected even +by blood ties, a person I had always conceived to be without +the faintest of imaginative gifts, though a credulous +reader, evidently, of the mediæval tales concerning the +monstrous Gilles de Rais. Absurd as it sounds, a solicitor’s +letter was necessary finally to limit the author’s +prolific output, although pirated editions continued to sell +for a considerable time. There is a poet hidden, as Stevenson +observed, in most of us!</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, summer began to wane; we considered +plans for attacking New York; hope rose strongly in us +both; disappointments and failures were forgotten. In +so big a city we were certain to find work. We had a hundred +dollars laid aside for the journey and to tide us over +the first few days until employment came. We could not +hide for ever in fairyland. Life called to us.... Late +in September, just when the lakes were beginning to recover +their first solitude again, we packed up to leave. +Though the sun was still hot at midday, the mornings and +evenings were chill, and cold winds had begun to blow. +The famous fall colouring had set fire to the woods; +the sumach blazed a gorgeous red, the maples were crimson +and gold, half of the mainland seemed in flame. +Sorrowfully, yet with eager anticipation in our hearts, we +poured water on our camp-fire that had served us for five +months without relighting, locked the door of the shanty, +handed over to Woods the canoe and boat, and caught +the little steamer on one of its last trips to Gravenhurst +where the train would take us, <i>via</i> Toronto, to New York.</p> + +<p>It had been a delightful experience; I had seen and +known at last the primeval woods; I had even seen Red +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span> +Indians by the dozen in their pathetic Reservations, and +if they did not, like the spirit of the Medicine Man in +Edinburgh, advise me to “scratch,” they certainly made +up for the omission by constantly scratching themselves. +It seems curious to me now that, during those months of +happy leisure, the desire to write never once declared itself. +It never occurred to me to write even a description +of our picturesque way of living, much less to attempt +an essay or a story. Nor did plans for finding work in +New York—we discussed them by the score—include in +their wonderful variety any suggestion of a pen and paper. +At the age of twenty-two, literary ambition did not exist +at all.</p> + +<p>The Muskoka interlude remained for me a sparkling, +radiant memory, alight with the sunshine of unclouded +skies, with the gleam of stars in a blue-black heaven, +swept by forest winds, and set against a background of +primeval forests that stretched without a break for six +hundred miles of lonely and untrodden beauty.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI"> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap kern'><span class='allcaps'>Kay</span> and I arrived in New York on a crisp, sunny +afternoon with sixty dollars in hand out of the +original hundred set by for the purpose, and took +a room in the Imperial Hotel, Broadway, which someone +had recommended. We knew no one, had no letters of +introduction. We were tanned the colour of Red Indians, +in perfect physical condition, but with a very scanty wardrobe.</p> + +<p>The furious turmoil of the noisy city, boiling with +irrepressible energies, formed an odd contrast to the peace +and stillness of the forests. There was indifference in +both cases, but whereas there it was tolerant and kindly, +here it seemed intolerant and aggressive. “Get a hustle +on, or get out,” was the note. Nature welcomed, while +human nature resented, the intrusion of two new atoms. +Nostalgia for the woods swept over me vehemently, but +at the same time an eager anticipation to get work. +We studied the papers at once for rooms, choosing a boarding +house in East 19th Street, between Broadway and +4th Avenue. Something in the wording caught us. An +hour after our arrival we interviewed Mrs. Bernstein and +engaged the third floor back, breakfast included, for eight +dollars a week. It was cheap. The slovenly, emotional, +fat Jewess, with her greasy locks, jewellery, and tawdry +finery, had something motherly about her that appealed. +She smiled. She did not ask for payment in advance.</p> + +<p>“What’s your work,” she inquired, gazing up at me.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m going on the newspapers,” I said offhand, +taking the first idea that offered, but little dreaming it +was to prove true.</p> + +<p>“I shall be on the stage,” Kay promptly added, “as +soon as my arrangements are made.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bernstein smiled. She knew the power of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span> +Press and favoured reporters. “My hospand,” she informed +Kay sympathetically, “is an artist too, a moosician. +He has his own orghestra.”</p> + +<p>While Kay studied the theatrical papers, I took the +elevated railway down-town. I wanted to stand on +Brooklyn Bridge again. Since first seeing it with my +father a few years before, and again on my arrival +eighteen months ago, <i>en route</i> for Toronto, the place had +held my imagination. Something sentimental lay in this +third journey, for I wanted to go alone.</p> + +<p>Halfway across, at the highest point, I stood looking +down upon the great waterway between the two cities of +the new world, and the feeling of a fresh chapter in life, +with its inevitable comparisons, rose in me.... The +sun was sinking behind the hills of New Jersey, and the +crowded bay lay a sheet of golden shimmer. Huge, double-ended +ferry boats, plying between the wooded shores of +Staten and Manhattan Islands and Brooklyn, rushed to +and fro with great snortings and hootings; little tugs +dashed in every direction with vast importance; sailboats, +yachts, schooners and cat-boats dotted the water +like a thousand living things; and threading majestically +through them all steamed one or two impressive Atlantic +liners, immense and castle-like, towering above all else, +as they moved slowly out toward the open sea. The deep +poetry which ever frames the most prosaic things, lending +them their real significance, came over me with the wind +from that open sea.</p> + +<p>I stood watching the fading lights beyond the bay, while +behind me the crowded trains, at the rate of one a minute, +passed thundering across the bridge, and thousands upon +thousands of tired workers thronged to their Brooklyn homes +after their day in the bigger city. The great bridge swayed +and throbbed as the dense masses of pedestrians climbed +uphill to the centre, then swarmed in a thick black river +down the nether slope. I had never seen such numbers, +or such speed of nervous movement, and the eager, tense +faces, usually strained, white, drawn as well, touched an +unpleasant note. New York, I felt, was not to be trifled +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span> +with; the human element was strenuously keen; no loafing +or dreaming here; work to the last ounce, or the city +would make cat’s meat of one! Whereupon, by contrast, +stole back again the deep enchantment of the silent woods, +and the longing for the great, still places rose; I saw our +little island floating beneath glittering stars; a loon was +laughing farther out; the Northern Lights went flashing +to mid-heaven; there was a sound of wind among the +pines. The huge structure that reared above me seemed +unreal; the river of men and women slipped past like +silent shadows; the trains and boats became remote +and hushed; and the ugly outer world about me merged +in the substance of a dream and was forgotten....</p> + +<p>I turned and looked out over New York. I saw its +lofty spires, its massed buildings, gigantic in the sky; I +saw the opening of the great Hudson River, and the darkening +water of the bay; I heard, like a sinister multiple +voice out of the future, the strident cry of this wonderful +and terrible capital of the New World, and the deep +pulsings of its engines of frantic haste and untiring energy. +The general note, I remember, was alarming rather; a +touch of loneliness, of my own stupid incompetence to +deal with its aggressive spirit, in which gleamed something +merciless, almost cruel—this was the response it stirred +in me. I suddenly realized I had no trade, no talents to +sell, no weapons with which to fight. My heart sank a +little. Among these teeming millions, with their tearing +speed, their frenzied energy, their appalling practical +knowledge, I possessed but one friend, Kay, and some +sixty dollars between us. New York would eat me up +unless I “got a hustle on.”</p> + +<p>Next morning, our capital much reduced, we moved +into the lodging house. The idea of sharing a bed, in +view of our size and the narrowness of the bed, amused us, +but without enthusiasm. The sofa was too small to sleep +on. “We’ll move,” announced Kay, “as soon as we get +jobs.” A telegram was sent to Toronto giving our address, +and a few days later a packing case arrived with our +Toronto possessions, and ten dollars to pay out of our +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span> +small total. We found close at hand, in 20th Street, +a cheap clean German restaurant—Krisch’s—where a meal +of sorts could be had for 30 cents, tip 5 cents; it had a +sanded floor and was half <i>bier-stube</i>, and one of its +smiling waiters, Otto—he came from the Black Forest +where I had been to school—proved a true friend later, +allowing us occasional credit at his own risk; a Chinese +laundry was looked up in Fourth Avenue; I spent one of +our precious dollars in a small store of fiddle strings against +a possible evil day—a string meant more to me than a +steak—and we were then ready for our campaign.</p> + +<p>Not a minute was lost. Kay, in very sanguine mood, +the Irving wig, I shrewdly suspected, in his pocket, went +out to interview managers; while I took a train down-town +to interview Harper’s, as being the most important publishing +house I knew. This step was the result of many +discussions with Kay, who said he was sure I could write. +The Red Indian advice of the Edinburgh “spirit” had +impressed him. “That’s your line,” he assured me. +“Try the magazines.” I felt no similar assurance, no +desire to write was in me; we had worked ourselves up to +a conviction that bold, immediate action was the first +essential of our position; to get pupils for my two languages +or shorthand seemed impossible in a city like New York; +therefore I hurried down, with vague intentions but a +high heart, to Harper’s.</p> + +<p>There was the <i>Magazine</i>, the <i>Weekly</i>, and <i>Harper’s +Young People</i>. One of them surely would listen to my +tale. I chose the <i>Weekly</i> for some unknown reason. +For some equally unknown reason I was admitted to the +editor’s sanctum, and, still more strange, Richard Harding +Davis listened to my tale. His success as a novelist had +just begun; he had left the <i>Evening Sun</i>, where his “Van +Bibber” stories had made him first known; his popularity +was rising fast, though I had never heard of him.</p> + +<p>My tale was brief, having been rehearsed in the train. +It took, perhaps, three minutes at most to rattle it off—my +parentage, my farm and hotel, my interest in Eastern +Thought, my present destitution, and I remember adding, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span> +“You see, I cannot possibly go home to England again +until I have made good somehow.”</p> + +<p>“Have you written anything?” he asked, after listening +patiently with raised eyebrows.</p> + +<p>“Well—no, I haven’t, not yet, I’m afraid.” I explained +that I wanted to begin, though what I really wanted was +only paid employment.</p> + +<p>The author of “Van Bibber” and “A Soldier of Fortune” +looked me up and down and then chuckled. +After a moment’s silence, he got up, led me across the +hall to another door, opened it without knocking and +said to a man who was seated at a table smothered in +papers:</p> + +<p>“This is Mr. Blackwood, an Englishman, who wants +to write something for you. He is prepared to write anything—from +Eastern philosophy to ‘How to run a hotel in +Canada.’”</p> + +<p>The door closed behind me, with no word of farewell, +and I learned that the man facing me was the editor of +<i>Harper’s Young People</i>. His name, if I remember rightly, +was Storey, and he was an Englishman, who, curiously +enough, almost at once mentioned my father. He had +been an employé of the G.P.O. in London. He was +unpleasant, supercilious, patronizing and off-hand, proud +of his editorial power. He gave me, however, my first +assignment—to write a short, descriptive article about +a cargo of wild animals that had just arrived for the New +York “Zoo.” I hurried off to the steamer, bought some +paper, wrote the article in a pew of Trinity Church in +Lower Broadway, and returned three hours later to submit +it. Storey read it and said without enthusiasm it would +do, but when I asked “Is it good?” he shook his head +with the comment “Well—some men would have made +more of it perhaps.” It was printed, however, and in due +course I got ten dollars for it. I inquired if I could do +something else. He took my address. No further results +followed. Evidently, I realized, writing was not my line, +and both Kay and the Red Indian Medicine Man were +mistaken.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span></p> + +<p>Kay’s report of his luck, when we met again that evening +was meagre; he had met an English Shakespearean +actor, Bob Mantell, and a Toronto acquaintance, the +“Duke.” The actor, however, had given him an introduction +or two, and the Duke had asked us to play next +day in a cricket match on Staten Island. It was an +eleven of Actors <i>v.</i> the Staten Island Club, and Kay would +meet useful people. In sanguine mood we agreed to go. +It proved a momentous match for me.</p> + +<p>Before it came off, however, something else had happened +that may seem very small beer, but that provided me with +a recurrent horror for many months to come, a horror +perhaps disproportionate to its cause. It filled me, at +any rate, with a peculiar loathing as of some hideous nightmare. +I had never seen the things before; their shape, +their ungainly yet rapid movement, their uncanny power +of disappearing in a second, their number, their dirty +colour, above all their smell, now gave me the sensations +of acute nausea. Kay’s laughter, though he too felt +disgust and indignation, brought no comfort. We eventually +got up and lit the gas. We caught it. I had my +first view of the beast. We stared at each other in horror. +Then Kay sniffed the air. “That explains it,” he said, +referring to a faint odour of oil we had both noticed when +engaging the room. “They put it in the woodwork to +kill them,” he added. “It’s the only thing. But it +never really gets rid of them, I’m afraid.”</p> + +<p>The anger of Mrs. Bernstein when we accused her in +the morning, her indignant denials, her bluster about +“insoults,” and that “never had sooch a t’ing been said +of her house pefore,” were not half as comic as her expression +when I suddenly produced the soap-dish with its +damning evidence—17 all told.</p> + +<p>She stared, held her breath a second, then very quietly +said “Ach, Ach! If you stay, chentelmen, I take von +tollar off the price.”</p> + +<p>It was impossible not to laugh with her; there was +something kind and motherly, something good and honest +and decent about her we both liked; she would do her best, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span> +we believed; possibly she really would exterminate the +other tenants. We stayed on.</p> + +<p>Of the cricket match on Staten Island, beyond the +pretty ground with its big trees, and that we got a good +lunch without paying for it, no memory remains. What +stands out vividly is the tall figure of Arthur Glyn Boyde, +a fast bowler and a good bat, and one of the most entertaining +and sympathetic companions I had ever met. +His clothes were shabby, but his graceful manners, his voice, +his smile, everything about him, in fact, betrayed the +English gentleman. He was about thirty years of age, +of the most frank and engaging appearance, with kindly, +honest blue eyes, in one of which he wore an eyeglass. +I remember the little fact that he, Kay and myself were +measured for a bet after the match, and that he, like Kay, +was six feet two inches, being one inch shorter than myself.</p> + +<p>I took to him at once, and he to me. His real name +was a distinguished one which he shared, it turned out, +with some cousins of my own. We were, therefore, related. +The bond was deepened. Times had gone hard with him, +it seemed, but at the moment he was on the stage, being +understudy to Morton Selton as Merivale in “Captain +Lettarblair,” which E. H. Sothern’s company was then +playing. In “The Disreputable Mr. Reagen,” by, I +think, Richard Harding Davis he had also played the +rôle of the detective. He was waiting, however, for a +much better post, as huntsman to the Rockaway Hunt, +a Long Island fashionable club, and this post, oddly enough, +was in the gift, he told me, of Davis. It had been practically +promised to him, he might hear any day.... +The story of his many jobs and wanderings interested us, +and his theatre work promised to be helpful in many ways +to what was called my “room-mate.” Boyde’s experience +of New York generally was invaluable to us both, +and the fact that he had nowhere to sleep that night +(having been turned out by his landlady) gave us the opportunity +to invite him to our humble quarters. We mentioned +the other tenants, but he said that made no difference, +he would sleep on the sofa. He dined with us at +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span> +Krisch’s; he was extremely hard up; luckily, we still had +enough to invite a friend. His only luggage was a small +bag, for he told us, with a rueful smile, that his clothes +were all in pawn. I had an extra suit or two which, being +of about my size, he was able to wear.</p> + +<p>I felt immensely drawn to him, and his story touched +my pity as well as stirred my admiration. It was a happy +evening we all spent in the little bedroom, for he was not +only well-read—he knew my various “Eastern books” +and could talk about them interestingly—but had a +fine tenor voice into the bargain. My fiddle came out of +its case, and if the other lodgers disliked our duets, they +did not, at any rate, complain. Boyde sang, he further +told us, in the choir of the 2nd Avenue Baptist Church, +and was assistant organist there as well, but made little out +of this latter job, as he was only called upon when the +other man was unable to attend. He even taught sometimes +in the Sunday School—“to keep in the pastor’s +good books,” as he explained with a laugh. But the chief +thing he told us that night was the heartening information +that, when all other chances failed, there was always a +fair living to be earned by posing to artists at 50 cents an +hour, or a dollar and a half for a full sitting of three hours. +It was easy work and not difficult to get. He would gladly +introduce us to the various studios, as soon as they opened, +most of the artists being still in the country.</p> + +<p>The search for work was a distressing business, when +to the inevitable question “What can you do?” the only +possible, but quite futile, reply was, “I’ll do anything.” +I had collected the ten dollars from <i>Harper’s Young People</i>, +but a letter to Storey for more work brought no reply. +The payment for the Toronto packing-case and for a +week’s rent of the rooms had reduced the exchequer so +seriously that in a few days there was only the <i>Harper’s</i> +money in hand. Boyde, who stayed on at our urgent +invitation, shared all he earned, and taught us, besides, +the trick of using the free lunch-counters in hotels and +saloons. For a glass of beer at five cents, a customer +could eat such snacks as salted chip-potatoes, strips of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span> +spiced liver sausage, small squares of bread, and pungent +almonds, all calculated to stimulate unnatural thirst. +The hotels provided more sumptuous dishes, though the +price of drink was higher, and the calm way Boyde would +help himself deliberately to a plate and fork, with an ample +supply of the best food he could find, then carry it all back +to his glass of lager under the bar-tender’s very nose, +was an ideal we could only hope to achieve by practice +as long as his own. It was a question of nerve. Our +midday meal was now invariably of this kind. The +free lunch brigade, to which we belonged, was tolerantly +treated by the majority of bar-tenders. A thirty cents +dinner at Krisch’s in the evening, choosing the most bulky +dishes, ended the long tiring day of disappointing search. +Boyde also made us buy oatmeal, with tin pot and fixture +for cooking over the gas-jet. He was invaluable in a dozen +ways, always cheery, already on the right side of Mrs. +Bernstein, and turning up every evening with a dollar +or two he had earned during the day.</p> + +<p>He further taught us—the moment had come, he +thought—to pawn. The packing-case in the basement +was opened and rummaged through (a half-used cheque-book +from Toronto days was a pathetic relic!) for things on +which Ikey of 3rd Avenue might offer a few dollars. The +tennis cups, won at little Canadian tournaments, seemed +attractive, he thought, but our English overcoats would +fetch most money. The weather was still comfortable ... +we sallied forth, hoping Mrs. Bernstein would not see us, +carrying two tennis cups and a couple of good overcoats. +Everybody stared and grinned, it seemed, though actually +of course, no one gave us a glance. Boyde, humming +Lohengrin, was absolutely nonchalant. For me, the +pawnbroker’s door provided sensations similar to those I +knew when first entering the Hub just a year before.</p> + +<p>“I want ten dollars on these,” said Boyde, in a firm +voice. “What’ll you give? I shall take ’em out next +week.”</p> + +<p>The Jew behind the counter gave one glance at the +tennis cups, then pushed them contemptuously aside; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span> +the overcoats he examined carefully, holding them up to +the light for holes or threadbare patches, feeling the linings, +turning the sleeves inside out.</p> + +<p>“Good English cloth,” mentioned Boyde. “Hardly +used at all.”</p> + +<p>“A dollar each,” said the man, laying them down as +though the deal was finished. He turned to make out the +tickets. He had not looked at us once yet.</p> + +<p>Boyde picked them up and turned to go. “Two +dollars,” he said flatly, “I can get five in 4th Avenue.”</p> + +<p>“Go ged it,” was the reply, the man’s back still turned +on us.</p> + +<p>Boyde gave a cheery laugh. “Make it three dollars +for the two,” he suggested in an off-hand manner, “with +another couple for the cups. They’re prizes. We wouldn’t +lose them for worlds.”</p> + +<p>The man looked at us for the first time; we were fairly +well dressed, obviously English, three hulking customers +of a type he was not used to. Perhaps he really believed +we might redeem the cups one day. “Worth less than +nozzing,” he said in his Yiddish accent. The keen, +appraising look he gave us made me feel even less than +that.</p> + +<p>“Worth a lot to us, though,” came Boyde’s quick +comment.</p> + +<p>“Name?” queried the man, bending over a table +with his back turned again.</p> + +<p>“John Doe,” came promptly, and a moment later, +with the ticket, the Jew handed out four dirty dollar bills +and fifty cents in coin. The interest was twelve per cent. +per month, and the articles could be redeemed any time +up to the end of a year.</p> + +<p>“Never ask more than you really need at the moment,” +was Boyde’s advice as we came out into the street. “I +could have raised him a few dollars probably, but, remember, +you’ll have to get the coats out again before long.”</p> + +<p>When we got back to the room a Western Union +telegram lay on the table for him; it was from Davis: +“Please call to-morrow 3 o’clock without fail <i>re</i> Rockaway,” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span> +it read. And hope ran high. That night we spent +half of our new money at Krisch’s, giving a tip of thirty +cents to Otto....</p> + +<p>Some ten days to a fortnight had passed, and October +with its cooler winds had come, though life was still possible +without overcoats. Our dress-clothes were now in Ikey’s, +moth-balls beside them. The Chinese laundry had been +paid, but not the second week’s rent, for money was very +low and dinners of the smallest. Practice at the free +lunch counters had improved our methods of strolling up +absent-mindedly, perceiving the food apparently for the +first time, then picking up with quick fingers the maximum +quantity. Kay, meanwhile, had secured a part in a +touring company which was to start out for a series of +one-night stands in about three weeks, his salary of fifteen +dollars to begin with the first night. He was already rehearsing. +My own efforts had produced nothing. Boyde, +too, had not yet landed his huntsman job, which was to +include comfortable quarters as well as a good salary. +I had been down with him when he went to see Davis, +waiting in the street till he came out, and the interview, +though reassuring, he told me, involved a little further +delay still. He, therefore, continued his odd jobs, calling +at the theatre every night and matinée to see if he was +wanted, playing the organ in church occasionally, and +getting a small fee for singing in the choir. He shared with +us as we shared with him; he slept on the sofa in our room; +he was welcome to wear my extra suits of clothes—until +Ikey might care to see them.</p> + +<p>Then, quite suddenly, fate played a luckier card.</p> + +<p>Kay and I were at the free lunch counter of the Fifth +Avenue Hotel, Boyde having been called away to do +something at his Baptist church, when Bob Mantell +strolled up, bringing a tall, grey-haired man with him. +The next minute he was introducing me to Cecil Clay, +with a remark to the effect that he must surely have known +my father, and that I surely must know Mr. Clay’s famous +book on whist. Cecil Clay, anyhow, was a kindly old +Englishman, and evidently was aware how the land lay +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span> +with us, for a few minutes later he had given me a card +to Laffan, manager of the <i>New York Sun</i>. “Go and see +him the day after to-morrow,” he said. “Meanwhile I’ll +write him a line about you.”</p> + +<p>Had it been possible to go then and there I should have +felt more confidence and less nervousness than when +I called at the appointed hour. The interval, with its +hopeful anticipation and alternate dread, was a bad +preparation for appearing at my best. After a few +questions, however, Mr. Laffan, a man of very powerful +position in the newspaper world, a great art collector +and connoisseur, head, too, of the Laffan News Bureau, +said that Mr. McCloy, managing editor of the <i>Evening +Sun</i>, would give me a trial as a reporter, and I could start +next Monday—four days away—at fifteen dollars a week. +I had mentioned that I knew French and German, and +could write shorthand. He spoke to me in both languages, +but, luckily, he did not think of testing the speed and +accuracy of my self-taught Pitman.</p> + +<p>On the staff of a great New York newspaper! That +it was anti-British and pro-Tammany did not bother me. +A reporter! A starting salary of £3 a week that might +grow! I wrote the news to my father that very afternoon, +and that night Kay, Boyde and I had almost a +festive dinner at Krisch’s restaurant—that is, we ended with +sweets and coffee. The following day I spent practising +my rusty shorthand, about 90 words a minute being my +best speed consistent with legibility. Would it be fast +enough? I might have spared myself the trouble for all +the use shorthand was to me on the <i>Evening Sun</i> during the +two years I remained with it. Only once—much later, +when I was with the <i>New York Times</i>, did it prove of +value, securing for me on that occasion an increase of +salary.... The slogan of the <i>Sun</i>, printed on each copy +was, “If you See it in the <i>Sun</i> it is so!” accuracy the strong +point. The <i>Times</i> preferred a moral tinge: “All the +News that’s Fit to Print.” Both mottoes were faithfully +observed and rigidly practised.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII"> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap kern'><span class='allcaps'>If</span> any young man learning values wants to know the +quickest way to study the seamy side of life, to understand +the darkest aspects of human nature, and +incidentally, to risk the loss of every illusion he ever had, +let him become a reporter on an up-to-date New York +newspaper. Within six months he will be apt to believe +that every man has his price; he will become acquainted +with vice, crime, horror, terror, and every kind of human +degradation; theft, murder, arson will seem commonplaces, +forgery a very ordinary affair; men and women, +it may even seem to him, “go straight,” not because of +any inherent principle of goodness in them, but because +that degree of temptation which constitutes their particular +“price” has not yet offered itself.</p> + +<p>Passion of every type, abnormal, often incredible, +will be his daily study; if he reflects a little he will probably +reach the conclusion that either jealousy in some +form, or greed for money, lie at the root of every crime +that is ever committed. The overwhelming power of +these two passions will startle him, at any rate, and his +constant association with only one aspect of life, and that +the worst and lowest, will probably produce the conviction +that, given only the opportunity, everybody is bad. His +conception of women may suffer in particular. The experience, +contrariwise, may widen his tolerance and +deepen his charity; also, it may leave him as it left me, +with an ineradicable contempt for those who, born in +ease, protected from the temptations due to poverty and +misery, so carelessly condemn the weak, the criminal and +the outcast.</p> + +<p>With bigger experience may come, in time, a better +view; equally, it may never come. Proportion is not so +easily recovered, for the mind, at an impressionable age, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span> +has been deeply marked. The good, the beautiful, the +lovely, in a New York paper, is very rarely “news”; +it is considered as fake, bunkum, humbug, a pose; it is +looked at askance, regarded with suspicion, as assumed +by someone for the purpose of a “deal”; it is rarely +worth its space, at any rate. A reporter finds himself in +a cynical school; he is lucky if he escape in the end with +a single rag of illusion to his back. If he has believed, +up to the age of twenty-one, as I did, that the large +majority of people are decent, kindly, honest folk, he will +probably lose even that last single rag. On the <i>Evening +Sun</i>, certainly, it was not the good, the beautiful, the +clean, that constituted the most interesting news and got +scare headlines and extra editions. I give, of course, +merely the impression made upon my own mind and type, +coloured as these were, some thirty years ago, by a characteristically +ignorant and innocent upbringing....</p> + +<p>The important newspapers, in those days, were all +“down town,” grouped about Park Row, and the shabby, +tumble-down building of the <i>Sun</i> was not imposing. +The World and Times towered above it; the <i>Morning +Advertiser</i>, the <i>Evening Telegram</i>, even the <i>Recorder</i> were +better housed; the <i>Journal</i> had not yet brought W. R. +Hearst’s methods from San Francisco. For all its humble +offices, the <i>Sun</i> was, perhaps, the greatest power in the +city. It was openly Tammany; it had a grand, courageous +editor, Charles A. Dana. “Charles A.” was an +imposing figure, a man of immense ability, a “crank” +perhaps in certain ways, but a respected chief of outstanding +character and fearless policy.... My own +chief, however, was W. C. McCloy, and the offices where +he reigned as managing editor were housed on the top +floor of the rickety building, with the machinery making +such a din and roar and clatter that we had to shout to +make ourselves heard at all. Metal sheets that clanged +and pinged as we walked on them covered the floors. It +was amid this pandemonium I had my first interview with +him. An iron spiral staircase led from the quiet workrooms +of the <i>Morning Sun</i>, on the first floor, to the dark, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span> +low-ceilinged space, where the whirring printing presses +were not even partitioned off from the tables of editorial +departments or reporters. It was like a factory going at +full speed. Hours were 8.30 <span class="allsmcap">A.M.</span> to 6.30 <span class="allsmcap">P.M.</span>, or later +if an extra—a 6th or 7th—edition was called for. I +arrived at 8.15.</p> + +<p>In a dark corner of this machinery shop I introduced +myself with trepidation to McCloy, mentioning Mr. +Laffan’s name, and saw the blank look come and go, as +he stared at me with “Blackwood, Blackwood?... +Oh, yes, I remember! You’re fifteen dollars a week. A +Britisher from Canada.... Well, you’ll have to look +lively here!” He seemed so intensely busy and preoccupied, +his mind so charged with a sort of electric +activity, that I wondered he had time to open and shut +his mouth. A small, thin man, with the slightest of +frail bodies, nervous, delicately shaped hands, gimlet +eyes that pierced, a big head with protruding forehead, a +high-pitched, twanging voice that penetrated easily above +the roar of the machinery, and a general air of such lightning +speed and such popping, spitting energy that I felt +he might any moment flash into flame or burst with a +cracking report into a thousand pieces—this was the man +on whom my living depended for many months to come. +The phrase “New York hustler,” darted across my mind; +it stood in the flesh before me; he lived on wires. Buried +among this mechanic perfection, however, I caught, odd +to relate, an incongruous touch—of kindness, even of +tenderness. There were gentle lines in that electric face. +He had a smile I liked.</p> + +<p>“What are you out here for? Where have you come +from? What have you been doing? What d’you +know?” he asked with the rapidity of a machine-gun. +The shorthand rate must have been 400 words per minute.</p> + +<p>I never talked so quickly in my life as in my brief +reply. I watched the smile come and go. While he +listened, he was shouting instructions to reporters then +streaming in, to office boys, to printers, to sub-editors; +but his eyes never left my face, and when I had finished +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span> +my lightning sketch, the machine-gun crackled with its +deadliest aim again: “Only <i>one</i> thing counts here; get +the news and get it <i>quick</i>; method of no consequence. +Get the news and get it <i>first</i>!” He darted off, for the +first edition went to press at 10.30. As he went, however, +he turned his head a moment. “Write a story,” he backfired +at me. “Write your experiences—From Methodism +to Running a Saloon,”—and he vanished amid the whirling +machinery in the back of the great room.</p> + +<p>I have the pleasantest recollections of W. C. McCloy; +he was just, fair, sympathetic, too, when time permitted; +he showed me many little kindnesses; he was Presbyterian, +his parents Scotch; he was also—sober. I proved +a poor reporter, and my salary remained at fifteen dollars +all the time I was with the paper, yet once he kept a place +open for me for many weeks; he even took me back when +the consideration was hardly deserved.</p> + +<p>That first day, however, I spent on tenterhooks, fully +expecting to be “fired” at its end. I found a corner at +the big reporters’ table, and, having seized some “copy” +paper from the general pile, I sat down to write “From +Methodism to Running a Saloon,” without the faintest +idea of how to do it. A dozen reporters sat scribbling +near me, but no one paid me the smallest attention. +They came and went; at another table Cooper, the City +Editor (anglice news-editor) issued the assignments; the +editorial writers arrived and sat at their little desks +apart; the roar and pandemonium were indescribable; +the first edition was going to press, with McCloy in a +dozen places at once, but chiefly watching the make-up +over the shoulders of the type-setters in the back of the +room.... I wrote on and on; I believed it was rather +good; no one came to stop me, no one looked at my +“copy” or told me what length was wanted; once or +twice, McCloy, flashing by, caught my eye, but with a +glance that suggested he didn’t know who I was, why I +was there at all, or what I was writing.... The hours +passed; the first edition was already out; the reporters +were reading hurriedly their own work in print, delighted +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span> +if it was on the front page; the space-men were measuring +the columns to see how much they had earned; and the +make-up for the second edition, out at noon, was being +hastened on behind the buzzing machinery in the rear.</p> + +<p>By this time I must have written two columns at +least, and I began to wonder. Perhaps I was to appear +in the principal final edition at six o’clock! On the front +page! The article, evidently, was considered important! +The notion that I was making a fool of myself, being +made a fool of, rather, also occurred to me. I wrote on +and on ... it was hunger finally that stopped me. I +was famished. I turned to an albino reporter next me, +a mere boy, whose peculiarity had earned him the nickname +“Whitey.” Was I allowed to go out for lunch? +“Just tell Cooper you’re going,” he replied. “Come out +with me,” he added, “if you’ve finished your story. I’m +going in a moment.” I finished my “story” then and +there, putting the circle with three dots in it which, he +explained, meant <i>finis</i> to the printers. “Just hand it +in to Cooper, and we’ll get right out,” he said. I obeyed, +Cooper taking my pile of “copy” with a grin, and merely +nodding his head when I mentioned lunch. He was a +young man with thick curly black hair, big spectacles +that magnified his good-natured eyes, only slightly less +rapid and electric than McCloy, but yet so unsure of himself +that the reporters soon found him out—and treated +him accordingly. I saw my precious “copy” shoved +to one side of his desk, but I never saw it again, either in +print or elsewhere. No mention was ever made of it. +It was, doubtless, two columns of the dullest rubbish +ever scribbled in that office.</p> + +<p>“I guess Mac only wanted to see what you could do,” +explained the albino, as we swallowed “sinkers” (heavy +dough scones) and gulped down coffee at Childs’ Cheap +Lunch Counter round the corner. Whitey had invited +me to lunch; he “put me wise” about a thousand +things; showed me how to make a bit on my weekly +expense-account, if I wanted to; how one could “sneak +off” about five o’clock, if one knew the way; and, most +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span> +useful of all, warned me as to accuracy in my facts and +the right way to present them. A “story” whether it +was the weather story or a murder story, should give in +a brief first paragraph the essential facts—this satisfied +the busy man who had no time to read more; the second +paragraph should amplify these facts—for those who +wanted to know more; afterwards—for those interested +personally in the story—should come “any stuff you can +pick up.” An item that seemed exclusive—a “scoop” +or “beat” he called it—should come in the very beginning, +so as to justify the headlines.</p> + +<p>“Whitey” was always a good friend to me. “Make +friends with the reporters on other papers,” he advised, +“then you won’t get badly left on the story you’re all +‘covering.’ Most of ’em give up all right.” He gave +me names of sundry who never “gave up,” skunks he +called them.</p> + +<p>As we hurried back to the office half an hour later, he +dived into a drug store on the ground floor. The way +most of the reporters frequented this drug store puzzled +me for a time, till I learned that whisky was to be had +there in a little back room. The chemist had no license, +but by paying a monthly sum to the ward man of the +district—part of immense revenues paid to Tammany by +every form of law-breaking, from gambling-halls and disorderly +houses to far graver things—he was allowed to +dispense liquor. It was a pretty system, marvellously +organized down to the lowest detail; cash to the ward +man opened most doors; a policeman paid $300 before +he even got a nomination on the force; vice paid gigantic +tribute; but the people liked a Tammany Government +because “they knew where they were” with it, though +the <i>Sun</i>, my paper, was the only journal that boldly +supported it—for which Charles A. Dana was forever being +attacked. I acquired much inside experience of the secret +workings of Tammany Hall before my newspaper days +came to an end.... It appalled me.</p> + +<p>That afternoon, I had two assignments, and failed +badly in both. The first was to find a company promoter +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span> +who had got into trouble, and to ask him “all about it.” +I could not find him; his house, his office, his club knew +him not. After two hours’ frantic search, I returned +crestfallen, expecting to be dismissed there and then. +Cooper, however, cut short my lengthy explanations with +a shrug of the shoulders, and sent me up to the Fort Lee +woods, across the Hudson River, to find out “all about” +a suicide whose body had just been discovered under the +trees. “Get his name right, why he did it, and what the +relatives have to say,” were his parting words. The Fort +Lee woods were miles away, I saw the body—an old man +with a bullet hole in his temple, I found his son at the +police station, and asked him what his tears and grief +made permissible, the answer being that “he had no +troubles and we can’t think what made him do it.” Then +I telephoned these few facts to the office. On getting back +myself at half-past six when the last edition was already +on the streets, Cooper showed me the final edition of the +<i>Evening World</i>. It had a column on the front page with +big head-lines. The suicide was a defaulter, and the reporter +gave a complete story of his gambling life. Cooper +offered no comment. The <i>Evening World</i> had got “a +beat”; and I had failed badly. I sat down at the reporters’ +table and wondered what would happen, and then +saw, lying before me, our own last edition with exactly +the same story, similar big headlines, and all the important +facts complete. An interview with the company promoter +was also in print. I was at a loss to understand what had +happened until Whitey, on the way into the drug-store +a little later, explained things: the United Press, a news +agency that “covered” everything, had sent the story. +The “flimsy” men, so called because they wrote on thin +paper that made six copies at once, were very valuable. +“Make friends with them,” said Whitey, “and no one +will ever get a beat on you. They’re paid a salary and +don’t care. It’s only the space-men, as a rule, who won’t +give up.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIII"> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap xkern'><span class='allcaps'>As</span> a new “bum reporter,” however, I had a hectic +life, but rapidly made friends with the other +men, and a mutual loathing of the work brought +us easily together. Friday was pay-day; by Wednesday +everybody was trying to borrow money—one dollar, +usually—from everybody else, the debts being always faithfully +repaid when the little envelopes were collected at the +cashier’s office downstairs.</p> + +<p>My first week’s reporting passed in a whirl of feverish +excitement. Assignments of every possible kind were +hurled at me. I raced and flew about. The “Britisher,” +the “English accent,” were a source of amusement to the +staff, but there was no ill-nature. Cooper seemed to like +me; he chuckled; he even gave me hints. “Well, Mr. +Britisher, did you get it this time?” Few of my first +efforts were used, the flimsy report being printed instead, +but a divorce case in special sessions, and interviews +with the principals in it, brought me into notice, the story +being put in the front page of the first edition. When I +came down on the following Monday, McCloy whipped up +to me like a steel spring released. “You can cover the +Tombs this morning,” he rattled. “Anything big must +be in by ten at the latest. Use judgment and pick out +the best stories. Don’t let anyone get a beat on you.” +He flashed away, and I tore down to the Tombs Police +Court.</p> + +<p>The Tombs—I can smell to-day its peculiar mixture +of extremely dirty humanity, cheap scent, very old clothes, +Chinese opium, stale liquor, iodoform, and a tinge of nameless +disinfectant. In winter the hot-air which was the means +of heating the court whose windows were never opened, +and in summer the stifling, humid atmosphere, to say +nothing of the added flavour of acid perspiration, were +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span> +equally abominable. The building, with its copy of +Egyptian architecture, vies in gloom with the prison in +Venice, though the former takes unpleasant precedence—a +veritable Hall of Eblis, with thick walls, impressive +portals, a general air of hopeless and portentous doom +about even its exterior. There was a grimness in its dark +passages that made the heart sink, truly an awe-ful +building. The interior was spick and span and clean as a +hospital ward, but the horror of that repellent outside +leaked through somehow. Both inside and outside, +the Tombs Prison became as familiar to me as my room +in East 19th Street; many a prisoner I interviewed in his +cell, many a wretch I talked with through the bars of his +last earthly cage in Murderers’ Row; I never entered the +forbidding place without a shudder, nor stepped into the +open air again without relief.</p> + +<p>The routine of the police court, too, became mechanical +as the months went by. The various reporters acted in +concert; we agreed which stories we would use, and in this +way no paper got a “beat” on the others. The man on +duty stood beside the Tammany magistrate, making his +notes as each case came up. It was a depressing, often a +painful, business.</p> + +<p>The cases rattled by very quickly—arson, burglary, +forgery, gambling, opium dens, street women, all came up, +but it was from assaults that we usually culled our morning +assortment for the first edition. Negroes used a razor, +Italians a stiletto, white men a knife, a pistol, a club or a +sandbag. Women used hatpins mostly.</p> + +<p>It was, of course, some particular feature, either +picturesque or horrible, that lent value to a case. Gradually +my “nose for news” was sharpened. It was a friendly +little German Jew, named Freytag, who taught me how to +make the commonest police story readable. I had just +“given up” the facts about a Syrian girl who had been +stabbed by a jealous lover, and the reporters all round me +were jotting down the details. Freytag, who worked for +Hermann Ridder’s <i>Staatszeitung</i>, looked over my shoulder. +“That’s no good,” he said. “Don’t begin ‘Miriam so-and-so, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span> +living at such a place, was stabbed at two o’clock +this morning by Whatshisname....’ That’s not interesting. +Begin like this: ‘A mysterious crime with an +exotic touch about it was committed in the early hours +this morning when all worthy New Yorkers were enjoying +their beauty sleep.... Far away, where the snows of +the Taurus Mountains gleam to heaven, the victim, a +lovely Syrian maid, once had her home....’” I followed +his advice, though my version was severely blue-pencilled, +but his point—selecting a picturesque angle of +attack—was sound and useful.</p> + +<p>The police court work was over by half-past ten, and +I was then generally sent on to report the trials in Special +or General Sessions. These, naturally, were of every sort +and kind. Divorce, alienation of affection and poison +trials were usually the best news. My hair often stood on +end, and some of the people were very unpleasant to interview. +The final talk before a man went to the Chair +was worst of all. If the case was an important one, I had +to get an interview in the Tombs Prison cell before the day’s +trial—there was no <i>sub judice</i> prohibition in New York. +Inevitably, I formed my own opinion as to a man’s innocence +or guilt; the faces, gazing at me through bars, would +often haunt me for days. Carlyle Harris, calm, indifferent, +cold as ice, I still see, as he peered past the iron in Murderers’ +Row, protesting his innocence with his steely blue +eyes fixed on mine; he was a young medical student +accused of poisoning his wife with morphia; he was electrocuted +... and Lizzie Borden ... though this was in +Providence, Rhode Island—who took all her clothes off, +lest the stains of blood betray her, before killing her father +and mother in their sleep....</p> + +<p>Some of the cases made a lasting and horrible impression; +some even terrified. The behaviour of individuals, +especially of different races, when sentence was given +also left vivid memories; negroes, appealing hysterically +to God and using the most extraordinary, invented words, +the longer the better; the stolid, unemotional Chinamen; +the voluble Italian; the white man, as a rule, quiet, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span> +controlled, insisting merely in a brief sentence that he +was innocent. In a story, years later (<i>Max Hensig, +Bacteriologist and Murderer</i>), the facts were taken direct +from life. It needed more than fifteen years to dim +their memory. I remained the Tombs reporter for +the best part of a loathed, distressing, horror-laden +year.</p> + +<p>There were pleasanter intervals, of course. The French +paper, <i>Le Courier des Etats Unis</i>, published a short story +every Monday, and one day I translated an exceptionally +clever one, and submitted it to McCloy. It was printed; +subsequently, I was allowed an afternoon off weekly, +provided I translated a story each time, and though no +money was paid for these, I secured a good many free +hours to myself. These hours I spent in the free library +in Lafayette Place, devouring the Russians, as well as +every kind of book I could find on psychology; or else in +going out to Bronx Park, a long tram journey, where I +found trees and lovely glades and water. Bronx Park, +not yet the home of the New York “Zoo,” was a paradise +to me, the nearest approach to the woods that I could +find. Every Sunday, wet or fine, I went there. In a +<i>cache</i> I hid a teapot, and would make a tiny fire and drink +milkless tea. I could hear the wind and see the stars +and taste the smell of earth and leaves, the clean, sweet +things....</p> + +<p>One morning in the second week of my apprenticeship, +I interviewed a lion.</p> + +<p>“Afraid of wild animals, Mr. Britisher?” inquired +Cooper, looking at me quizzically. I stared, wondering +what he meant. It was my duty to have read the morning +paper thoroughly, but there had been no mention of any +wild animal. I replied that I thought I didn’t mind wild +animals.</p> + +<p>“Take your gun,” said Cooper, “and get up to East +20th Street, between Third and Fourth Avenues. Bostock’s +Circus came to town last night late. Their lion’s escaped. +They’ve chased it into a stable. Killed a valuable horse. +Neighbourhood’s paralysed with terror. It’s a man-eater. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span> +Send down bulletins about it. Now, better get +a move on!”</p> + +<p>On leaving the elevated train at East 18th Street, +the streets were black with people, they even pressed +up the front steps of the houses. The word “lion” was +in everybody’s mouth. Something about Cooper’s voice +and eyes had made me suspect a “fake.” As I forced my +way through towards 20th Street, there came a roar that +set the air trembling even above the din of voices. It +was certainly no fake.</p> + +<p>On reaching 20th Street, the cordon of police, with +pistols ready, keeping the crowd in order, showed plainly +where the stable was. Gradually I bored a way through. +The stable stood back from the road, a courtyard in front +of it. A ladder, crowded already with reporters climbing +up, led to a hayloft just above. I met the <i>Evening Telegram</i> +man, whom I knew, half-way up this ladder. “Got +a messenger boy? No! Then you can share mine,” he +offered good-naturedly. The only occupants of the yard +were a dozen of these messenger boys, waiting to take +the “copy” to the various newspaper offices. It was +8.30 <span class="allsmcap">A.M.</span></p> + +<p>I noticed to my surprise that the <i>Evening Telegram</i> +man was a star reporter; three rungs above him, to my +still greater surprise, climbed Richard Harding Davis. +My vanity was stirred. This was a big story, yet Cooper +had chosen me! As I squeezed up the ladder, my hands +stuffed with paper, the lion below gave forth an awe-inspiring +roar; it was a dreadful sound. The great doors of wood +seemed matchwood easily burst through. The crowd +swayed back a moment, then, with a cheer, swayed +forward again.</p> + +<p>In the loft I found some twenty reporters; each time +the brute gave its terrible roar they scuttled into corners, +behind the hay, even up into the rafters of the darkened +loft. Pistol shots accompanied every roar, and the added +terror lest a bullet from below might pierce the boards +on which we stood, made us all jump about like dervishes. +One man wrote his story, perched in the dark on the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span> +highest rafter, from which he never once moved. I +scribbled away, and threw down my “stuff” to the boy +below.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile the circus officials were doing their best to +force the great beast into a cage. This cage stood ready +against the outside doors in the yard, and at the right +moment these doors would be swiftly opened. On being +driven into the stable, the animal had found, and quickly +killed, a trotting horse, valued at $2,000, standing in its +stall. This detail I at first disbelieved, but when my turn +came to kneel and peer through the trap-door for feeding +the hay down into the dark stable below, I found it was +all true. In the centre of the floor the great lion was plainly +visible, not six feet below my own face, lying with two paws +stretched upon the carcass of a torn, dead horse. The +smell of flesh and blood rose to my nostrils. In a dim +corner perched on a refrigerator, sat one of the trainers, +a pistol in his hand. In another corner, but invisible +from my peephole, crouched another circus man, also with +his pistol, and each time the lion made an ugly move, +both men fired off their weapons.... I wrote more +“bulletins,” and dropped them down to a messenger boy +in the yard. He hurried off, then returned to fetch more +“copy”; I sent at least a column for the first edition. +I felt a very proud reporter.</p> + +<p>After two hours of thrills and scares, the news spread +that the Strong Man of the circus was on his way down, +a fearless Samson of a fellow who lifted great weights. +The news proved true. A prolonged cheer greeted him. +He acknowledged it with a sweeping bow. He wore +diamonds and a top hat. Swaggering up among the +reporters, he announced in a loud voice: “Boys! I’m +going to fix that lion, and I’m going to fix it right +away!”</p> + +<p>The boastful bluff received no believing cheer in response, +but to my amazement, the fellow proved as good as +his talk. He said no further word, he just lifted the trap-door +in the floor and began to squeeze himself through—straight +down onto the very spot where the lion lay, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span> +crouching below on the dead horse. He dropped. We +heard the thud. We also heard the appalling roar that +followed, the quick pistol shots, the shouts, the excited +cries—then silence. The reporter at the trap-door called +out to us what was happening.... That Strong Man +was a hero.</p> + +<p>Ten or fifteen minutes later, the big stable-doors +swung open, and the cage, with the lion safely inside it, +emerged on a high-wheeled truck into full view of the +cheering crowd. On the top of the cage, sweeping his +shiny top hat about, bowing, waving his free hand with +modest dignity to the admiring thousands, the Strong +Man sat enthroned, cross-legged, proud and smiling. +The procession through the streets of the city was a triumphal +progress that lasted most of the day. That +night Bostock’s Circus opened to the public.</p> + +<p>I hurried back to the office, and had the joy of +seeing the first edition hawked and cried about the +streets, even before I got there. Big head-lines about a +“Man-eating Lion,” a “Two Thousand Dollar Trotting +Horse,” “Heroic Rescuer,” and the rest, met my eye +everywhere. Cooper, however, made no remark or comment, +sending me on at once to report a murder trial +at special sessions, and in half an hour the gruesome +thrills of a horrible poison case made the lion and the +strong man fade away.</p> + +<p>“Read your morning paper?” Cooper asked, when I +appeared next morning. I nodded. The lion story, I +had noticed, filled only half a stick of print. “Read +the advertisements?” he asked next. I saw a twinkle in +his eye, and quickly scanned the circus advertisements +about the man-eating lion that had killed a trotting horse, +and a strong man whose courage had done this and that, +saving numerous lives ... but I was still puzzled by +Cooper’s twinkling eye. He offered no word of explanation; +I learned the truth from someone else later. The +toothless, aged lion, gorged with food and doped as well, +had been pushed into the stable overnight, the carcass +of a horse, valued at $10, had been dragged in after it. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span> +The newspapers had been notified, and the long advertisements, +of course, were paid for in the ordinary way, but +the free advertisement obtained was of a kind that mere +dollars could not buy.</p> + +<p>Occasional interludes of this sort certainly brightened +the sordid daily routine, but they were rare. A big fire +was a thrilling experience, a metal badge pinned to the +coat allowing the reporter to go as near as he liked and +to run what risks he pleased. Such work became, with +time, mechanical in a sense, it occurred so often, arson, +too, being very frequent, especially among the Jews of +the East side. Even in those days the story of the two +Jews was a “chestnut”: “I’m thorry your blace of +business got burnt down last Tuesday,” says Ikey. To +which Moses replies: “Hush! It’s next Tuesday!”</p> + +<p>The rôle of the reporter in New York, of course, was an +accepted one; publicity and advertisement were admittedly +desirable; the reporter as a rule was welcomed; privacy +was very rare; a reporter could, and was expected to, +intrude into personal family affairs where, in England, +he would be flung into the street.... Other interviews +were of a pleasanter kind; I remember Henry Irving +and Ellen Terry in their special train, Sarah Bernhardt, +at the Hoffman House hotel, and many a distinguished +foreigner I was sent to interview because I could speak +their languages. The trip to meet the Atlantic steamer +at Quarantine I regarded as a day off: it could be made +to last for hours. I saw the coast, moreover, and smelt +the sea....</p> + +<p>Most of my work on the <i>Evening Sun</i>, at any rate, +took me among the criminal and outcast sections of the +underworld. In those days the police, as a whole, were +corrupt, brutal, heartless; I saw innocent men against +whom they had a grudge, or whom they wanted out of +the way for some reason, “railroaded to gaol” on cooked-up +evidence; sickening and dreadful scenes I witnessed.... +The valueless character of human evidence I learned +daily in the trials I reported, so that even a man who was +trying to tell the truth seemed unable to achieve it. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span> +Tammany had its slimy tentacles everywhere and graft +was the essence of success in every branch of public +life. A police captain had his town and country house, +perhaps his yacht as well.... The story of Tammany +has been told again and again. It is too well known for +repetition. I watched its vile methods from the inside +with a vengeance; its loathsome soul I saw face to face. +The city, too, I soon knew inside out, especially its darker, +unclean quarters. Chinatown, Little Africa, where, after +dark, it was best to walk in the middle of the street, +“Italy,” the tenement life of the overcrowded, reeking +East side.... I made friends with strange people, +feeling myself even in touch with them, something of an +outcast like themselves. My former life became more and +more remote, it seemed unreal; the world I now lived in +seemed the only world; these evil, depraved, tempted, +unhappy devils were not only the majority, but the real, +ordinary humanity that stocked the world. More and +more the under-dog appealed to me. The rich, the luxurious, +the easily-placed, the untempted and inexperienced, +these I was beginning to find it in me to look down on, +even to despise. <i>Mutatis mutandis</i>, I thought to myself, +daily, hourly, where would <i>they</i> be?... Where would <i>I</i> +myself be...?</p> + +<p>Bronx Park, Shelley, the violin, the free library, +organ recitals in churches, my Eastern books, and meetings +of the Theosophical Society, provided meanwhile the few +beauty hours to which I turned by way of relief and relaxation. +One and all fed my inner dreams, gave me intense +happiness, offered a way of escape from a daily atmosphere +I loathed like poison. Sometimes, sitting in court, +reporting a trial of absorbing interest, my eye would catch +through the dirty window a patch of blue between the +clouds ... and instantly would sweep up the power of the +woods, the strange joy of clean solitary places in the wilderness, +the glamour of a secret little lake where loons +were calling and waves splashing on deserted, lonely shores. +I heard the pines, saw the silvery moonlight, felt the keen +wind of open and untainted spaces, I smelt the very earth +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span> +and the perfume of the forests.... A serious gap would +follow in my report, so that I would have to borrow from +the flimsy man, or from another reporter, what had happened +in the interval. In this connexion there comes back +to me a picture of a <i>World</i> man whose work constituted him +a star reporter, but who could write nothing unless he was +really drunk. With glazed eyes he would catch the witness +and listen to question and answer, while with a pencil he +could scarcely direct, he scribbled in immense writing +three or four sloping lines to each page of “copy” paper. +It always astonished me that such work could be any +good, but once I made a shorthand note of several of his +pages, and found them printed verbatim in the next +edition, without a single blue-pencil alteration. When +this man sat next me, my intervals of absent-mindedness +did not matter. His big writing enabled me to crib easily +all I had missed.</p> + +<p>Other compensating influences, too, I found with my +“room-mates,” especially with Boyde, to whom I had +become devotedly attached. I was uncommonly lucky +to have such friends, I thought. Talking with Boyde, +playing the fiddle to his singing, sharing my troubles with +his subtle, sympathetic, well-read mind, was an unfailing +pleasure, that made me look forward intensely to our +evenings together, and helped me to get through many +a day of repulsive and distasteful work. Compared with +the charm and variety of Boyde, Kay seemed stolid, even +unresponsive sometimes.</p> + +<p>To live consciously is to register impressions; some +receive many more of these per second than others, and +thus enjoy an intenser and more varied life. The two-per-second +mind finds the two-per-minute one slow, dull +and stupid. Kay, anyhow, didn’t “mind” things much, +circumstances never troubled him, whereas Boyde and I +minded them acutely. I envied Kay’s power of sleeping +calmly in that bed, careless of night-attacks until they +actually came. The horror of New York, similarly, that +was creeping into my blood had hardly touched him, +though it certainly had infected Boyde. In my own make-up +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span> +lay something ultra-sensitive that took impressions +far too easily. Not only did it vibrate with unnecessary +eagerness to every change in sky and sea, but to every shade +of attitude and manner in my fellows as well. I seemed +covered with sore and tender places into which New York +rubbed salt and acid every hour of the day. It wounded, +not alone because I felt unhappy, but of itself. It hit me +where it pleased. The awful city, with its torrential, +headlong life, held for me something of the monstrous. +Everything about it was exaggerated. Its racing speed, +its roofs amid the clouds with the canyon gulfs below, its +gaudy avenues dripping gold that ran almost arm in arm +with streets little better than sewers of human decay and +misery, its frantic noise, both of voices and mechanism, +its lavishly organized charity and boastful splendour, +and its deep corruption in the grip of a heartless and +degraded Tammany—it was all this that painted the horror +into my imagination as of something monstrous, non-human, +almost unearthly. It became, for me, a scab on the +skin of the planet, brilliant with the hues of fever, moving +all over with its teeming microbes. I felt it, indeed, but +half civilized.</p> + +<p>This note of how I felt in these—my early years—rose +up again the other day, as I read what O. Henry wrote +to his outlaw friend from the Ohio Penitentiary about it. +Al Jennings had just been pardoned. O. Henry had finished +his terms some years before. They met again in a +West 26th Street hotel, not far from my own room in Mrs. +Bernstein’s house. They talked of their terrible prison +days.</p> + +<p>“It’s good you’ve been there,” said O. Henry. “It’s +the proper vestibule to this city of Damned Souls. The +crooks there are straight compared with the business thieves +here. If you’ve got $2 on you, invest it now or they’ll +take it away from you before morning.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIV"> + CHAPTER XIV + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap kern'><span class='allcaps'>In</span> the East 19th Street room, meanwhile, things were +going from bad to worse. Kay’s touring company +delayed its starting, and consequently his salary. +Boyde’s huntsman’s job, equally, was postponed for +various reasons, while his income from posing, from +churchly activities, from the theatre as well, was reduced +to a very few dollars a week. These he shared faithfully, +but my $15 every Friday (usually $13 net when office +loans had been repaid) were our only certain source of +revenue.</p> + +<p>After paying something on the room, the laundry in +full, and buying oatmeal, dried apples, and condensed +milk for the week to come, there remained barely enough +for one man’s meals, much less for the food of three, +during the ensuing seven days. Boyde’s contribution +brought the budget to, perhaps, twenty dollars all told. +Something, too, had to be allowed daily to car-fares +for Kay, while my own expenses in getting about after +assignments, only recoverable at the end of the week, +were considerable. The weather was turning colder at +the same time, for it was now past mid-October. Our +overcoats had to be redeemed. Boyde’s wisdom in +obtaining only the strictly necessary became evident. +We redeemed the overcoats out of my second week’s pay. +Boyde himself had no overcoat at all. As we were all +about the same height and build, clothes were interchangeable. +There was a discussion every morning, when I left +the other two, in bed and on the sofa respectively, as to +who should wear what.</p> + +<p>We had now pawned with Ikey various items: a +Gladstone bag, two top hats, some underwear, and two +pairs of boots. These were on separate tickets, by Boyde’s +advice. Tennis trousers, and several summer shirts were +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span> +together on another ticket. All that winter Kay and I +wore no underwear but a vest. The bag and top hats +were taken out and put in again regularly every week +for many months. There was only one article that, +selfishly, I could never pawn or sell—the fiddle.</p> + +<p>Dried apples and hot water—with expensive oatmeal +we had to be very sparing—constituted our dinner for +four nights out of the week; coffee and bread and butter +for breakfast, coffee and “sinkers” for lunch completed +my dietary. Occasionally Boyde or Kay, having been +invited to a meal, brought home something in their +pockets, but not often. We felt hunger every day, only +the evening dried apples and hot water giving a sense of +repletion that yet did not really allay the pangs of appetite, +though it stopped the dull gnawing until sleep finally +obliterated it. Kay and I, but never Boyde, oddly enough, +had vivid and amusing dreams of food, and one invariable +topic of conversation every night as we dined at +Krisch’s, or gobbled apples and oatmeal, was the menu +we would order when things improved.... But Krisch’s, +after a time, we found too difficult and tempting, with the +good smells, the sight of people eating at other tables, the +lager beer, the perfume of cigars; and many a time, +with the price of a dinner in our pockets, we preferred +to eat in our room.</p> + +<p>Another topic of conversation was our plan, myself +its enthusiastic creator, to take up land in Canada and +lead the life of settlers in the backwoods, which by contrast +to our present conditions seemed to promise a +paradise. Occasionally Kay spouted bits of Shakespeare, +or rehearsed a rôle in one of the plays his touring company +was to give. But it was the talks with Boyde about +Eastern ideas and philosophy that were my keenest +pleasure, for his appreciation and sympathetic understanding +were a delight I thought about with anticipatory +eagerness even during the day. My attachment to him +deepened into affection.</p> + +<p>The weeks went by; we scraped along somehow; +Mrs. Bernstein was kept quiet—a relative term—by +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span> +cajoling, promises and bluff. We bullied her. When +Kay’s lordly talk of free seats at theatres failed to materialize, +and Boyde’s trick of leaving about telegrams +received from Davis and others, especially one from +August Belmont, the great banker, inviting him to lunch +at a fashionable club—when these devices lost their +“pull,” I resorted to the power of the Press. Her husband’s +position, his orchestra, offered vulnerable points +of attack; the vermin-infested room, for instance, might +be unpleasantly described....</p> + +<p>For weeks we had paid nothing, everything worth +fifty cents was pawned, Boyde’s contribution had grown +smaller and smaller, and the only addition to my salary +had been a few dollars Kay had earned by posing +to Smedley, one of Harper’s illustrators. Things looked +pretty dark, when luck turned suddenly; Kay received +word from Gilmour, the organizer of his company, that +he was to start touring on November 15th, and Boyde +had a telegram from Davis—“Appointment confirmed, +duties begin December 1st.” This did not increase our +cash in hand, but it increased our hope and raised our +spirits. Kay and Boyde would both soon repay their +share of past expenses. We should all three be in jobs +a few weeks later. Early in November Kay actually left +on his tour of one night stands in New York State, and +Boyde left the mattress on the floor for the bed. A week +after Kay sent us half his first salary, $7.50, which we +gave to Mrs. Bernstein forthwith. The letter containing +it was opened by Boyde, and dealt with while I was out.</p> + +<p>It was a few days later, when I was alone one evening, +that an Englishman who had played with us in the cricket +match called to see me. I hardly remembered him, he +had to introduce himself, the apologies to explain his +sudden call were very voluble. He was well dressed and +well fed, I noticed, a singer and concert accompanist; he +annoyed me from the start by his hesitations, his endless +humming and hawing. It was, he kept telling me, rather +an intrusion; it was, he felt, of course, no concern of +his; but “New York was a strange place, and—and—er—er—well, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span> +after much reflection, I really felt it my +duty—I decided to take the risk, that is, to—er——”</p> + +<p>“To what?” I asked bluntly at last. “For heaven’s +sake, tell me.”</p> + +<p>I was beginning to feel uneasy. My threats to Mrs. +Bernstein, perhaps, had gone too far. Besides, the effect +of the apples was passing and I longed for bed.</p> + +<p>He took a gulp. “To warn you,” he said, with a +grave and ominous expression.</p> + +<p>It was a long-winded business before I got him to +the point, and even then the point was not really explicit. +New York, he kept repeating, was a dangerous place for +inexperience, there were strange and desperate characters +in it. In the end, I think, my manners exasperated him +as much as his vagueness exasperated me, for when he +told me he came about “someone very close to you,” +and I asked point-blank, “Is it someone sharing this room +with me?” his final word was a most decided “Yes”—with +nothing more. This “someone,” I gathered, at +any rate, was fooling me, was up to all sorts of tricks, +was even “dangerous.”</p> + +<p>I was infuriated, though I felt a certain sinking of the +heart as well. He was attacking either Kay or Boyde, +my only friends, both of whom I trusted to the last cent, +for both of whom I had sincere affection. If he knew +anything definite or really important, why couldn’t he +say it and be done with it? I put this to him.</p> + +<p>“I prefer not to be more explicit,” he replied with an +air. He was offended. His patronizing offer of advice +and sympathy, his pride, were wounded. “I would +rather not mention names. It’s true all the same,” he +added. And my patience then gave way. I got up and +opened the door. He went without a word, but just as +I was about to slam the door after him, he turned.</p> + +<p>“Remember,” he said, half angrily, half gravely, +“I’ve warned you. He’s a real crook. He’s already +been in gaol.”</p> + +<p>I banged the door behind him. I felt angry but uncomfortable, +and as the anger subsided my uneasiness +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span> +increased. The horrible feeling that there was truth in +the warning harassed me. When Boyde came in an +hour or so later, I pretended to be asleep. I told him +nothing of my visitor, but through half-closed eyes I +watched him as he moved about the room very quietly, +lest he disturb my sleep. His delightful, kind expression, +his frank blue eyes, the refinement and gentleness of +his gestures, I noted them all for the hundredth time. +His acts, too, I remembered; how he always shared his +earnings, gave his help unstintingly, advice, a thousand +hints, the value of his own sad and bitter experience. +My heart ached a little. No, I reflected, it was certainly +not Boyde who was the crook. My thoughts turned to +Kay, who had just sent us half his salary. It was equally +incredible. I wished I had treated my visitor differently. +I wished I had kicked him out, instead of telling him to +go. Sneak! A sneak with some evil motive into the +bargain!</p> + +<p>Things began to move now with a strange rapidity. It +was as though someone who had been winding up machinery +suddenly released the spring. Item by item, +preparations had been completed—then, let her go! +She went....</p> + +<p>The weeks that followed seemed as many months. I +was alone with Boyde in a filthy, verminous room, food +and money scarce, rent owing, Kay away, clothes negligible, +my single asset being a job. I lost that job owing to illness +that kept me for weeks in bed—in that bed.... And as +“she went” I had the curious feeling that someone +watched her going, someone other than myself. It was +an odd obsession. Someone looked on and smiled. Certain +practices, gathered from my “Eastern” reading, +were no doubt responsible for this uncanny feeling, for +with it ran also a parallel idea: that only a portion of +my being suffered while another portion, untouched, serene +and confident, accepting all that came with a kind of +indifferent resignation, stood entirely apart, playing, +equally, the rôle of a spectator. This detached spectator +watched “her going” with close attention, even +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span> +with something of satisfaction. “Take it all,” was its +attitude; “avoid nothing; it is your due; for it is +merely reaping what you sowed long ago. Face it to the +very dregs. Only in this way shall you pay a just debt +and exhaust it.” So vital was this attitude in all that +followed that it must be honestly mentioned.</p> + +<p>A stabbing in the side had been bothering me for some +days, making walking difficult and painful. A blow +received while diving from our island—I hit a rock—began +to ache and throb. I came home in the evenings, +weary to the bone. There were headaches, and a touch +of fever. The pain increased. There was a swelling. +I went to bed. Boyde took down a letter to McCloy, +asking for a day off, which was granted. The next day +I turned up at 8.30, but had to come back to bed after +the midday coffee and sinkers. “See a doctor,” snapped +McCloy, in his best maxim-firing manner, “and come +back when you’re fixed up again.”</p> + +<p>But there wasn’t enough money for a doctor’s fee of +from two to five dollars. I lay up for three days, hoping +for improvement which did not come. The pain and +fever grew. Mrs. Bernstein, upset and even disagreeable, +sent me bread and soup in the evening as well as the +morning coffee. Boyde brought a few extras late at night. +He was chasing a new post just then—organist to a church +in Patterson, N.J.—and rarely got home before eleven, +sometimes later. He brought long rolls of Vienna bread, +a few white Spanish grapes, a tin of condensed milk. He +slept peaceably beside me. His manner, once or twice, +seemed different. I smelt liquor. “Someone stood me +a drink,” he explained, “and by God, I needed it. I’m +fagged out.” He was kind and sympathetic, doing all +he could, all that his position allowed. He was very +much in love at the moment with the daughter of the +pastor of the Second Avenue Baptist Church, where +he sang in the choir, and he confided his hopes and +troubles about the affair to me.... It all gave me +a queer feeling of unreality somewhere. In my feverish +state I knew an occasional unaccustomed shiver. The +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span> +long day in bed, alone with my thoughts, waiting for +Boyde’s return, was wearisome to endlessness, by no +means free from new, unpleasant reflections, yet when +at last the door opened softly, and he came back, his +arms full of the little extras mentioned, there was disappointment +in me somewhere. It was not quite as I +expected. Accompanying the disappointment were these +new, faint twinges of uneasiness as well. I kept the gas +burning all night. I watched Boyde’s face, as he slept +calmly beside me in that narrow bed, his expression of +innocence and kindliness increased my feelings of gratitude, +even of tenderness, towards him. There were deep lines, +however, that sleep did not smooth out. “Poor devil, +he’s been through the mill!” This habit of watching +him grew.</p> + +<p>There was delay and trouble about the Rockaway +Hunt post; studio sittings were scarce; the Baptist +church organist was never unable to officiate; Morton +Selton never missed a performance; and Boyde, as a +result, though he still contributed what he could, earned +next to nothing. If I was puzzled by his late hours, his +explanations invariably cleared away my wonder. He +always had a plausible excuse, one, too, that woke my +sympathy. It was just at this time, moreover, that Kay +wrote. The Canadian tour was such a failure that Gilmour +was taking his troupe to the States, where they anticipated +better houses. No salaries had been paid. They were +now off to Pittsburg. Kay hoped to send some money +before long.</p> + +<p>I spent the weary hours reading.... On the third +day, my symptoms worse, the door opened suddenly +without a knock, and I saw an old man with a white +moustache and spectacles peering round the edge at me. +I laid down my “Gita” and stared back at him.</p> + +<p>“Are you Mr. Blackwood?” he asked, with a marked +German accent.</p> + +<p>“Yes.” I had not the faintest idea who he was.</p> + +<p>He closed the door, took off his slouch hat, crossed +the room, laid his small black bag on the sofa, then came +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span> +and stood beside my bed. He was extremely deliberate. +I watched him anxiously. He said no word for some +time, while we stared at one another.</p> + +<p>He was of medium height, about sixty-five years old, +with white hair, dark eyes behind magnifying spectacles, +the strong face deeply lined, voice and manner stern to +the point of being forbidding—but when I saw it rarely—a +most winning smile. Except for the spectacles, he +was like a small edition of Bismarck.</p> + +<p>“I am a doctor,” he said, after a prolonged silent +inspection, “and I live down the street. Your friend, an +Englishman, asked me to call. Are <i>you</i> English?” I +told him I was a reporter on the <i>Evening Sun</i>, adding that +I had no money at the moment. The suspicion his manner +had not attempted to hide at once showed itself plainly. +His manner and voice were brusque to offensiveness, as +he said flatly: “I expect to be paid. I have a wife and +child.” He stood there, staring at me, hard and cold. +I repeated that I had nothing to pay him with, and I +lay back in bed, wishing he would go, for I felt uncomfortable +and ashamed, annoyed as well by his unsympathetic +attitude. “Humph!” he grunted, still staring +without moving. There was an awkward silence I thought +would never end. “Humph!” he grunted again presently. +“I egsamine you anyhow. How old are you?”</p> + +<p>“Twenty-two,” I said, “and a bit.”</p> + +<p>“Humph!” he repeated, as he examined me rather +roughly. “You’re very thin. Too thin!”</p> + +<p>He hurt me, and I did not answer.</p> + +<p>“Not eating enough,” he added, and then gave his +verdict. It was an abscess, I must keep my bed for a +month or six weeks, an operation might be necessary....</p> + +<p>I asked how much I owed him. “Two dollars,” he +said. He gave me his address, and I replied that I would +bring the money to him as soon as I could, but that he +need not call again. He stared severely at me with +those magnified eyes.</p> + +<p>“Haven’t you got two dollars even?” he asked curtly.</p> + +<p>“I’ve told you the truth. And, anyhow, I didn’t +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span> +send for you. I didn’t ask my friend to fetch you +either.”</p> + +<p>I could think of nothing else to say. His verdict had +flattened me out. I was angry, besides, with Boyde, for +not consulting me first, though I knew he had done the +right thing. Another period of awkward silence followed, +during which the doctor never moved, but stood gazing +down at me. Suddenly his eye rested on the book I had +been reading. He put out a hand and picked it up. He +glanced through the pages of the “Gita,” then began to +read more carefully. A few minutes passed. He became +absorbed.</p> + +<p>“<i>You</i> read this?” he asked presently. “<i>Ach was!</i>” +There was a look of keen astonishment in his eyes; his +gaze searched me as though I were some strange animal. +I told him enough by way of reply to explain my interest. +He listened, without a word, then presently picked up his +bag and hat and moved away. At the door he turned a +moment. “I come again to-morrow,” he said gruffly, +and he was gone.</p> + +<p>In this way Otto Huebner, with his poignant tragedy, +came into my life.</p> + +<p>That evening, with the bread and soup, there was a +plate of chicken; it was not repeated often, but he had +spoken to Mrs. Bernstein, I discovered, for her attitude, +too, became slightly pleasanter. I spent the long evening +composing a letter to McCloy, which Boyde could take +down next day.... I lay thinking of that curious +gruff, rude old German, whose brusqueness, I felt sure, +covered a big good heart. There was mystery about him, +something unusual, something pathetic and very lovable. +There was power in his quietness. Despite his bluntness, +there was in his atmosphere a warm kindness, a sincerity +that drew me to him. Also there was a darkness, a sense +of tragedy somewhere that intrigued me because I could +not explain it.</p> + +<p>It was after he was gone that I felt all this. While +he was in the room I had been too troubled and upset by +his manner to feel anything but annoyance. Now that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span> +he was gone his face and eyes and voice haunted me. +His bleak honesty, I think, showed me, without my +recognizing it, another standard.</p> + +<p>Was it this, I wonder, that made me start a little +when, about two in the morning, I heard a stealthy +tread coming upstairs, and presently saw Boyde enter +the room—carrying his boots in his hand? Was it this, +again, that made me feign to be asleep, and a couple of +hours later still, when I woke with a shiver, notice, for +the first time, a new expression in the face that lay so +calmly asleep beside me?</p> + +<p>Behind the kindly innocence, I thought, there lay a +darker look. It was like a shadow on the features. It +increased my feelings of uneasiness, though as yet no +definite thought had formulated itself in my mind.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XV"> + CHAPTER XV + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap kern'><span class='allcaps'>Next</span> day there was a racing west wind that sent the +clouds scudding across a bright blue sky. The +doctor was to come at 3 o’clock. Boyde, in very +optimistic mood, had gone out early, taking my letter to +McCloy. He had a studio sitting; he was going to +Patterson too; he would return as early as he could. +The shadow of the night before had vanished; I no +longer believed in it; I ascribed it to fever and nerves. +He sang cheerily while he dressed in my thick brown +suit, the only one not in pawn (everything else, now that +I was in bed, had gone to Ikey), and his voice sounded +delightful. In the afternoon he came back with the +news that McCloy had read my letter and said “That’s +right. Tell him to be good to himself. He can come +back.” Also he had agreed to use translations of the +French stories at five dollars each. Boyde brought a +<i>Courier</i> in with him. Two letters from home arrived too. +Both my father and mother, though having no idea what +was going on, never missed a single week. My own +letters were difficult to write. I had come to New York +against my father’s advice. I wrote home what I thought +best.</p> + +<p>At 3 o’clock the doctor came. My heart sank as I +heard his step. I was in considerable pain. What would +he be like? Would an operation be necessary? Would +he speak about money again? Mrs. Bernstein, oily and +respectful, a little awed as well, announced him. Without +a word, without a glance in my direction, he walked +over in his slow, deliberate way, and laid hat and bag +upon the sofa. Then he turned and looked steadily at +himself in the mirror for a period I thought would never +end. After that he turned and looked at me.</p> + +<p>He was an angel. His face was wreathed in smiles. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span> +It beamed with good-nature, kindness, sympathy. He +at once said something that was gentle, soothing, like +music to me. My heart suddenly expanded in a most +uncomfortable way. I believe a lump came up in my +throat. This was all so contrary to what I had expected. +He was not only an angel, he was a womanly angel. I +must have been in a very weak state, for it was all I could +do to keep my tears back. The same instant his eye fell +on my fiddle case. He looked at it, then at me, then +back again at the fiddle.</p> + +<p>“You play?” he asked, with a twinkle in his big +eyes.</p> + +<p>“I ought to pawn it,” I said, “but——”</p> + +<p>“Don’t,” he answered with decision. He added an +odd sentence: “It’s an esgape from self.” I remember +that I couldn’t say a word to this. His kindness melted +me. The struggle to keep my eyes from betraying me +seemed the most idiotic yet bitter I had ever known. +I could have kissed the old man’s hand, when he examined +me then at once, but with a gentleness, even a +tenderness, that both astonished me, yet did not astonish +me at all. I felt, too, already the support of his mind +and character, of his whole personality, of a rugged power +in him, of generosity, true goodness, above all, of sympathy. +I think he had made up his mind to treat me for nothing. +No reference, in any case, was made to money; nor did +I dare even to mention it myself. An operation, moreover, +of any big kind, was not necessary; he thought he +could save me that; he performed a small one then and +there, for he had brought all that was required for it. +The pain seemed nothing, his kindness made me indifferent +to it. “You are brave,” he said, with a smile that seemed +to me really beautiful, when it was over. “That hurt, +I know.” He promised to come daily to drain the wound +and so forth; he bandaged me up; a month to six weeks +would see me out of bed, he hoped; he packed up his bag, +but, instead of leaving the room, he then sat down deliberately +and began to talk.</p> + +<p>I was too surprised, too happy, to wonder why he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span> +stayed. His talk was food and drink to me. He picked +up my few books, and sat reading quietly to himself when +he saw I was getting tired. De Quincey’s “Confessions” +interested him especially, and he asked if he might borrow +it. He took also “Sartor Resartus.” I slipped into +German, to his keen delight, and told him about the +Moravian Brotherhood School in the Black Forest. A +sketch of the recent past I gave him too. He listened +with great attention, asking occasional questions, but +always with real tact, and never allowing me to tire +myself.</p> + +<p>Though it was obvious, even to my stupidity, that he +regarded me rather as a “specimen” of some sort, there +was heart in all he said and did. Otto Huebner poured +balm into all my little wounds that afternoon, but about +himself he told me hardly anything. While he drew me +out, with skill and sympathy, he hid himself behind that +impenetrable mystery I had already noted the previous +day. I say purposely that of himself he told me “hardly +anything,” because one detail did escape him inadvertently. +An hour later, as he was leaving, he turned his smile on +me from the door. “I send you something,” he said +shortly. “My vife makes goot broth. I cannot do +much. I have not got it.”</p> + +<p>One other thing I noticed about his visit, when towards +the end, Boyde came in unexpectedly, bringing a small +bunch of the yellow Spanish grapes. In his best, most +charming manner he spoke with the doctor. The doctor’s +face, however, darkened instantly. His features, it +seemed to me, froze. His manner was curt. He scarcely +replied. And when he left a little later he did not include +my friend in his good-bye. It puzzled me. It added to +my uneasiness as well.</p> + +<p>Boyde, who apparently had noticed nothing, explained +that he had to go out again to an appointment with +Davis about the Rockaway Hunt post; he did not return +that night at all.</p> + +<p>I listened to the city clocks striking midnight, one, +two, three ... he did not come. I listened to the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span> +howling wind as well. Imagination tried feebly to construct +a happier state, lovelier conditions, a world nearer +to the heart’s desire. While waiting for midnight to +strike, I said to myself, thinking of yesterday and to-morrow, +with all the one had meant and the other might +mean to me:</p> + +<p>“Yesterday is now twenty-four hours away, but in a +minute it will be only one minute away.”</p> + +<p>I treated the hidden to-morrow similarly. I imagined, +the world being old and creaky, ill-fitting too, that a +crack existed between the two days. Anyone who was +thin enough might slip through! I, certainly, was thin +enough. I slipped through.... I entered a region out of +time, a region where everything came true. And the first +thing I saw was a wondrous streaming vision of the wind, +the wind that howled outside my filthy windows.... +I saw the winds, changing colours as they rose and fell, +attached to the trees, in tenuous ribands of gold and blue +and scarlet as they swept to and fro.... I little +dreamed that these fancies would appear fifteen years +later in a book of my own, “The Education of Uncle +Paul.” That crack, at any rate, became for me, like the +fiddle, a means of escape from unkind reality into a state +of inner bliss and wonder “where everything came +true.”...</p> + +<p>It was after twelve o’clock next day when Boyde +returned—with a black eye, my one thick suit stained +and soiled, and a long involved story that utterly confused +me. There had been a fight; he had protected a woman; +a false charge had been laid against him owing to misunderstanding, +owing also to the fact that he had no +money to tip the policeman, and he had spent the night +in a cell at Jefferson Market police station. In the morning +the magistrate had discharged him with many compliments +upon his “gallantry and courage.” It did not +ring true. I knew the Tammany magistrates better than +that. He contradicted himself too, in saying that a Mr. +Beattie, a friend of his mother’s, who occasionally gave +him a little money she sent from England, had bailed him +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span> +out. He had been bailed out, discharged with compliments, +had slept in a cell, and not been fined! I smelt +spirits too. It all made me miserable.</p> + +<p>“You’ve been drunk and they locked you up,” I +reproached him. “Why do you lie to me?” The +copious explanations that followed I hardly listened to. +I lay in bed, saying nothing, but the warning of my +visitor came back.</p> + +<p>“I went down to the <i>Evening Sun</i>,” Boyde said +presently, when my silence made his explanations end +of their own accord. “I’ve just come back with this. +McCloy asked after you and sent it on account of the +French stories.” He handed me five dollars, in single +bills, which we divided equally then and there.</p> + +<p>He had been gone hardly ten minutes when the door +opened again, and another visitor came in, an actor out +of a job, Grant, an Englishman of perhaps twenty-five, +one of the cricket team I had met in Staten Island a few +weeks before. He had run across Boyde, he explained, and +had heard I was ill. As one Englishman to another “in +this awful city” he wanted to see if he could help in any +way. He did then a wonderful thing. We had met but +once, he scarcely knew me, he might never see me again, +but when he realized the state of affairs he said he thought +he could get a little money for me, and before I could say +a word he vanished from the room. His shyness, his lame +manner of speech, something hesitating and awkward about +him generally, had embarrassed me as much as, evidently, +he was embarrassed himself; and I was convinced his +plea of getting money was only an excuse to disappear +quickly. I rather hoped it was; certainly I thought it +unlikely he would come back—which, nevertheless, he did, +in about a quarter of an hour. He came in breathlessly, +a shamefaced air about him; flung down some dollar bills +on the bed, and vanished the second time. Three dollars +lay on the counterpane. It was only a little later, as +reflection brought up details, that I remembered he had +worn an overcoat when he first came in, and that on his +second visit he wore none. He had pawned it. Another +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span> +detail rose to the surface: that he had called, really, upon +quite another errand, and that there was something he +wanted to tell me that he had not the courage to put into +words. Later he admitted it was true....</p> + +<p>Anticipating Otto Huebner’s visits was now a keen +pleasure; the one event of a long weary day.</p> + +<p>During the next fortnight or so, he missed no single +afternoon. His moods varied amazingly. One day he +seemed an angel, the next a devil. I was completely +puzzled.</p> + +<p>The talks we had on his good days were an enjoyment +I can hardly describe. I realized how much I depended +on them, as well as on the man who made them possible. +I realized also how much I depended on my other friend—on +Boyde. The latter’s curious and unsatisfactory +behaviour, mysterious still to my blind ignorant eyes, +made no difference to my feelings for him, but, if anything, +tended to strengthen the attachment. My affection +deepened. There lay now a certain pity in me too, an +odd feeling that he was in my charge, and that, for all +his greater knowledge and experience of life, his seniority +as well, I could—I must—somehow help him. Upon the +German doctor and Boyde, at any rate, Kay being far +away, my mind rested with security, if of different degrees. +To lose either of them in my lonely situation would have +been catastrophic.</p> + +<p>The old German would settle himself on the sofa, +drawn up close to the bed, and talk. He was saturated +in his native philosophy, but Hegel was his king.... +“Sartor Resartus” enthralled him. Of De Quincey’s +struggle against opium he was never tired. Of Vedantic +and Hindu philosophy, too, he was understanding and +tolerant, though not enamoured. Regarding me still as +a “specimen” evidently, he also treated me as though +I were a boy, discerning of course at once my emptiness +of mind and experience.</p> + +<p>How patiently he listened to my eager exposition of +life’s mysteries, my chaotic theories, my fanciful speculations....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span></p> + +<p>“We <i>know</i>—nothing, you must remember. <i>Nothing</i>,” +he would say with emphasis. “Nor can we know anything, +<i>ever</i>. We label, classify, examine certain <i>results</i>—that’s +all. Of causes we remain completely ignorant. +Speculation is not proof. The fact that a theory fits all +the facts gets us no further.”</p> + +<p>He smiled, but with close attention, while I plunged +again into a description of my beliefs. The tobacco smoke +curled up about his genial face. I had no fear of him in +this mood. I could say all my thoughts without shyness. +I made full confession.</p> + +<p>“Interesting, logical, possibly true,” he replied, “and +most certainly as good an explanation as any other, better +even than most, but”—he shrugged his shoulders—“always +a theory only, and nothing else. There is no +proof of anything. The higher states of consciousness you +mention are nebulous, probably pathogenic. Those who +experience them cannot, in any case, report their content +intelligibly to us who have not experienced them—because +no words exist. They are of no value to the race, and +that condemns them. Men of action, not dreamers, are +what the world needs.”</p> + +<p>“Men of action only carry out what has first been +dreamed,” I ventured.</p> + +<p>“True,” replied the old man, “true very often. Men +of action rarely have much vision. The poet is the highest +type.... I am with you in this too—that the only <i>real</i> +knowledge is the knowledge of man, the study of consciousness. +<i>Gnothi seauton</i> is still the shortest, as well as the +most pregnant, sermon in the world. Before we can get +new knowledge, <i>different</i> knowledge—yes, there I am +with you—consciousness itself must change and become +different first ... <i>but</i> ... the people who get +that <i>different</i> knowledge cannot describe it to us because +there is no language.” Wise, thoughtful things the old +man said, while I listened eagerly. “One thing is certain,” +he declared with his usual emphasis: “If there is another +state after the destruction of the body, it cannot be merely +an extension, an idealization, of the one we know. <i>That</i> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span> +is excluded. Without senses, without brain or nerves, +without physical reactions of any kind—since there is +no body—how shall we be aware of things about us? +Another state can only be—<i>different</i>, yet so different that +it is useless to talk of it. The Heaven of the spiritualists, +the elaborate constructions of a Swedenborg, are nothing +but coloured idealizations of the state we already know +...”—he snorted contemptuously—“obviously self-created. +A different state of consciousness would show +us a universe so totally different from anything we know +that it must be—indescribable.”</p> + +<p>Of my own future, too, he liked to talk. The newspaper +reporting he disapproved; it could lead to little; +it was “<i>unersprechlich gemein</i>”; the New York press was +a cesspool; it might serve a temporary purpose, but no +self-respecting man should stay too long in it. He urged +me to become a doctor, saying I should be a success, +advising me to specialize in nerves and mental cases. +Being an Englishman would help very much; in time I +should have an enormous practice; he would assist me +in all manner of ways, so that my course need not be +longer than two years, or three at the most. He would +coach me, rush me through in half the normal time. +Later I could get a foreign degree, which would be an +additional asset.... He never tired of this topic, and +his enthusiasm was certainly sincere.</p> + +<p>Of stars, too, he loved to talk, of space, of possible +other dimensions even. His exposition of a fourth +dimension always delighted me. That the universe, +indeed, was really four-dimensional, and that all we perceived +of it was that sectional aspect, a portion as it were, +that is projected into our three-dimensional world, was +a theme that positively made him red in the face, as his +big eyes focused on me, his concentrated mind working +vehemently behind them.... Certainly, my knowledge +of German improved considerably.</p> + +<p>Then, as Boyde came in, the light would die out of his +eyes, his face would harden and grow dark—he had a way of +making it seem frozen—and with a stiff bow to Boyde that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span> +only just acknowledged his presence, he would get up and +leave the room.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, I sold two more French stories, and Boyde +bought back the ten dollars paid for them; three others +were “not suitable,” according to McCloy. I told the +doctor all I earned. “Later,” he said, “you pay me, +if you want to. I take nothing—now.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVI"> + CHAPTER XVI + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap'><span class='allcaps'>The</span> days passed; I grew slowly better; the wound +still had to be drained and bandaged, and the +doctor kept me to my bed. Kay, writing from +Toronto, had contrived to send us ten dollars. More +French translations had gone to McCloy, but only one +or two had been used.</p> + +<p>If the loneliness of the long days was dismal, the +feverish nights were worse. I knew my few books by +heart; Shelley and the “Gita” were indeed inexhaustible, +but I longed for something new. To play the fiddle was +too tiring. There was endless time for reflection ... +and, thank heaven, through the two dirty windows I +could watch the sky. Many a story I published fifteen +years later had its germ in the apparently dead moments +of those wearisome hours, although at the time it never +once occurred to me to try and write, not even the desire +being in me.</p> + +<p>It was the interminable nights that were most haunted. +In the daylight there was colour in the changing clouds +and sky, a touch of pink, a flame of sunset gold that +opened the narrow crack through which I slipped into +some strange interior state of happiness. There were the +visits of the beloved, mysterious doctor, too. But the +night was otherwise. The gas I left burning till Boyde +woke and turned it out in the morning, made it impossible +to see the stars. I could never settle down until he was +comfortably asleep beside me. He kept late hours +always. I reproached and scolded, yet in the end I always +forgave. It was a comfort to know him within reach +of my hand, while at the same time I dreaded his coming. +My mixed feelings had reached that stage—I feared his +coming and yet longed for it.</p> + +<p>I lay waiting, listening for his step. Far below I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span> +would hear it, down in the well of the sleeping house, +even on the first flight of stairs. It mounted, mounted, +stealthy, cautious, coming nearer and nearer, but always +at the same steady pace. It never hastened. As it +approached, rising through the stillness of the night, my +heart would begin to beat; I dreaded the moment when +our landing would be reached, still more the actual opening +of our door. I listened, smothering my breath, trying to +lessen the loud thumping against my ribs. The steps +<i>might</i> not be his, after all; it might be someone else; that +stealthy tread might pass my door without opening it +and go upstairs. Then, when at last the handle rattled +faintly, the door opened, and I saw him slowly enter, +carrying his boots in his hand, my first instinct always +was to—scream. Then he would smile, the eye-glass +would drop from his eye, he would begin his explanations +and excuses, and my dread soon evaporated in the friendliest +of intimate talk.</p> + +<p>So well, at last, did I learn to recognize his approach, +that I knew the moment he opened the front door three +flights below. The sound of the handle with its clink of +metal, the dull thud as the big thing closed—I was never +once mistaken. In my fitful snatches of sleep these +sounds stole in, shaping my dreams, determining both +cause and climax of incessant nightmares which, drawing +upon present things and recent memories, and invariably +including the personality of Boyde, made those waiting +hours a recurrent horror. I would fight in vain to keep +awake. Only when he was safely asleep at my side did +the nightmares cease.</p> + +<p>I had once seen Dixon, a Toronto photographer, walk +across the Niagara river, just below the Falls; he used +Blondin’s old tight-rope; he lay down on his back half +way over, turned round, knelt, hovered on one foot, +using an immense balancing pole. Thousands watched +him from both shores on a day of baking sunshine; his +background was the massive main waterfall, slowly +rolling down and over; below him swirled and boiled the +awful rapids. Dixon now came walking, walking in my +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span> +dream again. I could hear his soft tread as his stockinged +feet gripped the cable that swayed slightly as it sagged +to the centre half way across. The sound, the figure +came nearer; it came at me; it—was not Dixon after +all. It was Boyde.... Then, as he moved with slow, +creeping tread, nearer, ever nearer, I perceived suddenly +that the rope was gone. There was no rope. He walked +on empty air towards me—towards—<i>me</i>. I was appalled, +speechless, paralyzed. That figure walking on space, +walking towards me, walking remorselessly nearer was +terrible.... The next second the door opened and +Boyde stood peering at me round the edge, his boots in +his hands.</p> + +<p>One morning, tired of learning the “Witch of Islam” +by heart, I leaned over the bed, and something in the +waste-paper basket close beside it caught my eye; a +scrap of coloured paper—several scraps—pink. Looking +nearer, I saw it was a torn-up cheque. Without any +particular interest at first I stared at the unfamiliar thing, +wondering vaguely how it came to be there. Only after +this casual inspection did it occur to me as being rather +odd. A cheque! What was it? Whose was it? How +did it come to be there, torn up in <i>my</i> waste-paper basket? +It was a long time since I had seen such a thing as a +cheque; and idly, with no more curiosity than this, I +lay gazing at the scraps of coloured paper.</p> + +<p>The basket lay within easy reach; I stretched out an +arm and picked it up; I emptied the contents on the white +counterpane; I sorted out the coloured scraps from +among the general litter. The scraps were small, and the +puzzle amused me. It was a long business. Bit by bit +the cheque took shape. The word “Toronto” was the +first detail that caught my attention closer. Presently, +fitting three tiny scraps together, I saw to my surprise +a name in full—Arthur Glyn Boyde. Another little group +made “Kay.” A third read “Seventy Five Dollars.” +My interest increased with every moment, till at last the +complete cheque lay pieced together before my eyes.</p> + +<p>It was drawn by Kay on my old Toronto bank for the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span> +sum mentioned, and it was payable to Boyde. The date +was—three days before.</p> + +<p>I lay and stared at it in blank bewilderment. Fitting +the scraps together on the counterpane was nothing compared +to my difficulty in fitting the pieces together in my +mind. I could make neither head nor tail of it. Kay +had, indeed, been acting in Toronto on the date given, +but—a bank account...! And why was the cheque +torn up? It must have been delivered with a letter—yesterday. +Boyde had not mentioned it. I felt as confused +as though it were a problem in arithmetic; but a +problem in arithmetic would not have stirred the feeling +of pain and dread that rose in me. Something I had +long feared and hated, had deliberately hidden from +myself, had cloaked and draped so that I need not recognize +it, now at last stared me in the face.</p> + +<p>The chief item in the puzzle, however, remained. +That it was not Kay’s real signature, I saw plainly, it was +a reasonably good copy; but why was the cheque torn +up? It had been taken from my old book in the packing-case +downstairs, of course; but why was it destroyed? +A forgery! The word terrified me.</p> + +<p>It was while trying to find the meaning that my +fingers played with the rest of the littered paper ... +and presently pieced together a letter in the same writing +as the signature; a letter, written from Toronto, with +Islington Jersey Dairy as address, and bearing the same +date as the cheque—a letter from Kay to Boyde. It had +been also torn into little bits.</p> + +<p>“Dear B.,” it ran, “I am awfully sorry to hear poor +Blackwood is so ill still, and that he has no money. I +enclose my cheque for $75 to help him out, but, for God’s +sake, see that he doesn’t waste it in dissipation, as he did +the last I sent. I know I can trust you in this”.... +A page and a half of news followed. A postscript came +at the end: “Better not let him know how much I’ve +sent. I’ll send another cheque later if you let me know +it’s really needed.”</p> + +<p>With these two documents spread on the counterpane +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span> +before me, I lay back thinking, thinking, while an icy +feeling spread slowly over me that for a long time made +clear thought impossible. The word “dissipation” made +me smile, but all I knew in those first moments was an +aching, dull emotion, shot through from time to time by +stabs of keenest pain. There was horror too, there was +anger, pity ... as, one by one, recent events dropped +the masks I had so deliberately pinned on them. These +thin disguises that too sanguine self-deception had helped +me to lay over a hideousness that hurt and frightened +me, fell one by one. My anger passed; horror and pity +remained. I cannot explain it quite; an intense sorrow, +an equally intense desire to help and save, were in me. +Affection, no doubt, was deep and real....</p> + +<p>At the same time, the shock numbed something in +me; the abrupt collapse of a friendship that meant so +much to my loneliness bowled me over. What exactly +had happened I did not know, I could not understand; +treachery, falsity, double-dealing, lies—these were obvious, +but the <i>modus operandi</i> was not clear. Why was the +cheque torn up and so carelessly flung away? There +was a mist of confusion over my mind. I thought over +my police court experience, the criminal tricks and practices +I already knew, but these threw no helpful light. +Was Kay, too, involved? Did the warning of a few +weeks ago include him as well? There had been forgery, +yet again—why was the cheque torn up? The mystery +of it all increased the growing sense of dread, of fear, of +creeping horror. My newspaper work had given me the +general feeling that everyone had his price ... but +between friends in adversity, Englishmen, gentlemen as +well ... was it then true literally of <i>everybody</i>?</p> + +<p>After a time I collected the two documents and pieced +them together again between the pages of a book, lest +someone might enter and discover them. The doctor +was not coming that day, but there might be other visitors. +Then it suddenly dawned on me—why hadn’t this occurred +to me before?—that the whole thing must be a joke after +all. Of course ... why not? It might even have +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span> +something to do with the rôle of understudy in the Sothern +Play. It could easily be—oh, surely!—a bit of stupid +fun on Kay’s part. The carelessness too! Throwing the +scraps in the basket under my very nose, where anybody +could easily see them, where Mrs. Bernstein might find +them, or the woman who came in twice a week to do the +room. This was certainly against criminal intent.</p> + +<p>The most far-fetched explanations poured through my +mind, invited by hope, dressed up by eager desire, then +left hanging in mid-air, with not the faintest probability +to support them. I deliberately recalled the kind actions, +the solicitude, the sharing of receipts, a thousand favourable +details, even to the innocent expression and the frank +blue eyes, only to find these routed utterly by two other +details; one negative, one vague, yet both insistent; +the doctor’s silence and the shadow noticed recently on the +sleeping face.</p> + +<p>It was eleven o’clock; Boyde had said he would +return about four; I expected him, for the doctor, whom +he avoided, was not coming. There were five hours of +waiting to endure first.</p> + +<p>The situation which another might have tossed aside +with a wry laugh at himself for having been a guileless +fool, to me seemed portentous with pain and horror.</p> + +<p>I had no plan, however, when the door opened at +half-past three, long before I expected it. There was in +me no faintest idea of what I was going to say or do. +The book lay on my knee, with the documents concealed +between the pages. I had heard no footstep, the rattle +of the handle was the first sound I caught. Yet the door +opened differently—not quite as Boyde opened it. There +was hesitation in the movement. In that hesitation of +a mere second there again flashed across my mind a sudden +happy certainty; the documents could be explained, it +was all a joke somewhere. He had done nothing wrong, +he would clear up the whole thing in a moment! Of +course! It was my weak, feverish condition that had raised +a bogey. A few words from him were now going to +destroy it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span></p> + +<p>Then, instead of Boyde, I saw Grant standing shyly +on the threshold, the young actor who had pawned his +overcoat. This time he wore it.</p> + +<p>The relief I felt at seeing him betrayed me to myself.</p> + +<p>I welcomed him so heartily that his shyness disappeared. +He had dropped in by chance, he told me. +I gave him an account of my discovery, and he bent over +me to see the cheque and letter, asking if the writing was +really Kay’s. He looked very grave.</p> + +<p>“It’s not unlike it, but it isn’t his,” I replied. “What +do you make of it? Why are they torn up?” I was +burning to hear what he thought.</p> + +<p>He did not answer for a moment. He asked instead +a number of questions about Boyde, listening closely to +my account of him, which mentioned the good with the +bad. He went down to examine the packing-case and +returned with the report that my cheque-book was not +there. I asked him again what he made of it all, waiting +with nervous anxiety for his verdict, but again he put +me off. He wanted to know when I last heard from +Kay. Eight days ago, I told him, from Toronto. He +asked numerous questions. He seemed as puzzled as I +was.</p> + +<p>“What do you think it means?” I begged. “What’s +he been doing?”</p> + +<p>“Are you <i>quite</i> positive it’s not Kay’s writing,” he +urged, “even, for instance, if he was—” he hesitated—“a +bit tight at the time?”</p> + +<p>I clung to the faint hope. “Well, of course—I really +couldn’t say. I’ve never seen his writing when he was +tight. I suppose——”</p> + +<p>“Because if it isn’t,” interrupted Grant decisively, “it +means that Boyde has been getting money from him and +using it for himself.”</p> + +<p>I realized then that he was trying to make things +less grave than they really were, trying to make it easier +for me in the best way he could. The torn-up cheque +proved his suggestion foolish.</p> + +<p>“Do you think he’s an absolute scoundrel?” I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span> +asked point blank, unable to bear the suspense any longer. +“Really a criminal—is he?”</p> + +<p>“I wanted to tell you the other day,” he said quickly. +“Only you were too ill. I thought it would upset you.”</p> + +<p>“Criminal? Tell me at once. He may be in any +minute. I must know.”</p> + +<p>“His reputation is bad,” was the reply, “as bad as +it could be. I’ve heard things about him. He’s already +been in gaol. He’s supposed to be a bit dangerous.”</p> + +<p>I was listening for the sound of a step on the stairs. +I lowered my voice a little. It was clear to me that +Grant did not want to tell me all he knew.</p> + +<p>“So—what do you make, then, of this?” I asked +in a half whisper, pointing to the documents.</p> + +<p>He looked at me hard a moment, then gave his reply, +also in an undertone:</p> + +<p>“Practising—I think.”</p> + +<p>I did not understand him. The uncertainty of his +meaning, the queer suggestion in the word he used, gave +my imagination a horrid twist. I asked again, my heart +banging against my ribs:</p> + +<p>“Practising—what?”</p> + +<p>“He didn’t think it a successful—copy—so he tore it +up,” Grant explained.</p> + +<p>“You mean—forgery?”</p> + +<p>“I think so. That is—I’m afraid so.”</p> + +<p>I think the universe changed for me in that moment; +something I had been standing on for years collapsed; I +was left hanging in space without a platform, without a +rudder. An odd helplessness came over me. Grant, of +course, had only confirmed my own suspicions, had merely +put into words what, actually, I had known for a long +time; but it was just this hearing the verdict spoken by +another that hurt so abominably. Grant had quietly +torn off me the last veil of self-deception. I could no +longer pretend to myself. It seems absurdly out of proportion +now on looking back; at the time the shock was +appalling.</p> + +<p>We talked together, we tried to devise some plan of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span> +action, we reached no settled conclusion. The minutes +passed. I never ceased listening for the familiar footstep +on the stairs. Of one thing only was I perfectly sure: +whatever happened, I intended to take charge of it all +myself. I would deal with Boyde in my own way. The +principle lay clear and decided in me; I meant to frighten +Boyde as severely as I possibly could, then to give him +another chance. Anticipation made the minutes crawl. +Grant talked a good deal.</p> + +<p>“He spotted you and Kay from the start,” I heard +Grant saying. “He saw your ignorance of the town, +your inexperience, your generosity. He felt sure of free +lodging anyhow, perhaps a good deal more——”</p> + +<p>A faint thud sounded from downstairs.</p> + +<p>“There he is,” I said instantly. “That’s the front +door banging. He’s coming. Keep quiet.”</p> + +<p>I told Grant to get into the cupboard and hide. He +was only just concealed in the deep cupboard and the +door drawn to, when the other door opened quietly and +Boyde came in.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVII"> + CHAPTER XVII + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap kern'><span class='allcaps'>Boyde</span> was in cheerful, smiling mood. He put +some grapes on the bed, asked how I felt, and +told me about his trip to Patterson and his failure +to get the organist job. “It’s bitterly cold,” he said. +“I <i>was</i> glad of your overcoat. You <i>have</i> been a brick,” +he added, “but I’ll make it all up to you when my luck +turns.” He crossed over to the sofa and sat down, +stretching himself, obviously tired out.</p> + +<p>“Never mind, old chap; we shall get along somehow. +Probably Kay will send us something more before long. +He’s always faithful. Let’s see,” I went on casually, +“when was it we heard from him last?”</p> + +<p>“A week ago,” said Boyde quite naturally. “Toronto, +wasn’t it? Or Buffalo—no, no, Toronto.”</p> + +<p>We laughed together. “So it was,” I agreed carelessly. +Then I pretended to hesitate. “But that was nearly +a fortnight ago,” I suddenly corrected my memory; +“surely we’ve heard since that. Only the other day—or +did I dream it?”</p> + +<p>Boyde stared at me lazily through the cigarette smoke. +“No, I think not,” he said quietly. “There was only the +one letter.” He showed no sign of disturbance.</p> + +<p>I lay still, pretending to think back a bit, then heaved +myself slowly up in bed.</p> + +<p>“But, Boyde, I remember the letter,” I exclaimed +with conviction, staring into his face, “I’m certain I do—another +letter. Why, of course! I remember your +showing it to me. There was a cheque in it—a cheque +for seventy-five dollars!”</p> + +<p>His easy laugh, his voice and manner, the perfect +naturalness of his reply made me feel sure that I was in +the wrong. He knew absolutely nothing of the cheque +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span> +and letter. He was innocent. It was not <i>his</i> doing, at +any rate.</p> + +<p>“You must have been dreaming,” he said, looking me +full in the face with his big, honest blue eyes. “It’s too +good to be true.” He gave a wry little chuckle that only +a clear conscience could have made possible.</p> + +<p>I lay back in bed and laughed with him, partly from +weakness, partly to hide my shaking, which I was terrified +he would notice. I changed the subject a moment later, +as he said nothing more; then, still acting on impulse and +with no preconceived plan or idea of my next move, I sat +bolt upright in bed and fixed him with my eyes. I assumed +a very convinced and serious tone. I felt serious +and convinced. The mood of horror had rushed suddenly +up in me:</p> + +<p>“Boyde, I remember it all now.” I spoke with great +emphasis. “It was not a dream at all. You came to this +bedside and showed me the letter. You held it out for me +to read. It was dated from my old Toronto Dairy three +days ago. <i>You showed me the cheque too.</i> It was for +seventy-five dollars, signed by Kay, and made out to your +order. I remember every single detail of it suddenly. +And—<i>so do you</i>.”</p> + +<p>He gazed at me as a little child might gaze. He made +no movement. His eyes neither dropped nor flinched. +He merely gazed—with a puzzled, innocent, guileless +stare. A pained expression then stole across his face.</p> + +<p>“Blackwood, what on earth do you mean? It’s +not likely I should forget it if seventy-five dollars came, is +it?” he went on quickly in his most sympathetic voice, +an aggrieved note in it that stirred all my affection instantly. +“The most he has sent so far is ten dollars. +I should have given you the money at once. And <i>you +know it</i>, Blackwood.” He got up and walked quietly to +and fro.</p> + +<p>It was the way he uttered those last four words that +sent ice down my spine and brought the mood of horror +back. Why this was so, I cannot explain. Perhaps the +phrase rang false; perhaps its over-emphasis failed. I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span> +only know that my hesitation vanished. That prepared +plan so strangely matured, yet hidden so deeply that it +emerged only step by step as it was needed, pushed up +another move into my upper mind.</p> + +<p>I got slowly out of bed. Perspiration broke out all +over me. I felt very weak. The wound stretched. +Straight before me, a long way off it seemed, was the sofa. +Boyde stood watching my every move. He stood like a +statue.</p> + +<p>Before I had taken a couple of slow, small steps, +crawling round the edge of the bed, he did two quick things +that in a flash brought final conviction to me, so that I +knew beyond any doubt the hideous thing was true: +he moved suddenly across the room, passing in front of +me, though not near enough to touch; three rapid strides +and he was against the window—with his back to the light. +It was dusk. He wished to conceal his face from me. +His left arm hung at his side, the hand on a level with the +dressing-table, and I saw his fingers feeling along its surface, +though his eyes never left my own. I saw them find, +then grip, the white-handled razor, and pull it slowly +towards him. These were the two things that betrayed +him, but chiefly, I think, the first of them—concealing +his face.</p> + +<p>At the same instant there was a faint sound on my left. +I had completely forgotten the existence of my visitor; +I now remembered him, for that sound came from inside +the cupboard, and Grant, evidently, was ready to leap out. +But I did not want Grant. I intended the whole matter +to be between Boyde and myself. A flash of understanding +had given me complete assurance. Boyde, I now knew, +was a coward, a sneak, a cheat, a liar, and worse besides. +In spite of my physical weakness I had the upper hand. +I was about to give him the fright of his life, though +still with no clear idea exactly how this was to be accomplished. +All I knew was that I meant to terrify him, +then forgive—and save him from himself.</p> + +<p>“Not yet!” I called out, yet so quickly, and with so +little apparent meaning, that Boyde, I think, hardly heard +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span> +me, and certainly did not understand. Grant, however, +understood. He told me later it was just in time to prevent +his coming out.</p> + +<p>With one hand supporting me on the edge of the dressing-table, +I was now close to Boyde, bent double in front of +him, staring up into his eyes.</p> + +<p>“Give me that razor,” I said, and he obeyed, as I felt +sure he would. That is, his fingers moved away from it, +and I quickly pushed it out of his reach. With my other +hand I seized his arm. I raised my face to his as much as +my wound allowed.</p> + +<p>“Boyde,” I said, “I know <i>everything</i>!”</p> + +<p>If I expected a collapse, as I think was the case, I was +disappointed. Nothing happened. He did not move. +Not a muscle, not even an eyelash flickered. He stared +down into my upturned face without a word, waiting for +what was coming; control of the features, of mouth and +eyes in particular, was absolute. And it was this silence, +this calm assurance, giving me no help, even making it +more difficult for me, that, I think, combined to set me +going. I was fairly wound up; I saw red. The words +poured out, hot, bitter, scathing.</p> + +<p>The moment I ended, he smiled, as he said very +quietly:</p> + +<p>“I don’t know <i>what</i> you’re talking about. You are +fearfully excited and you will regret your words. I do +wish you would get back into bed. All this is awfully bad +for you in your weak condition.”</p> + +<p>I was flabbergasted. All the wind had been taken +from my sails. A touch would have sent me to the floor, +but he did not touch me. He merely gazed into my face +with an air of calm patience that had pity in it, a hint +even of contempt.</p> + +<p>There was a little silence after he had spoken. For +a moment I had no notion what to do or say. Then, +quite suddenly, up flashed my plan. I was less excited +now, my voice was well under control.</p> + +<p>“Boyde,” I said, “now, at last, I’ve caught you in a +worse thing still. You have forged a letter and a signature. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span> +You have forged a cheque as well. And you will +have to go to prison for it. There is a headquarters +detective outside waiting for me to call him in. You are +going to be arrested.”</p> + +<p>There was a moment of taut suspense I can never forget. +He stared down at me, obviously at first incredulous. +A slight twitch ran across his face, nothing more; beyond +a trifling extra bend of the head, he made no movement. +He was judging me, weighing my words, wondering if +they were true. The next second I saw that he believed +me.</p> + +<p>What happened then to his face I had never seen before, +though I was often to see it afterwards in other faces +during my criminal experience. The skin slowly blanched +to the hue of flour; the cheeks sagged; the mouth opened; +the look in his eyes was dreadful. The whole face disintegrated, +as it were. He had the air of a hunted animal +at bay. At the same time there was a convulsive movement +of his entire body that frightened me. I did not +know what he was going to do. It was really made up of +several movements, one starting after another. First, +his knees gave way and he nearly collapsed. Then, evidently, +he considered the possibility of knocking me down +and dashing out of the room. His eyes ran swiftly over +everything at once, it seemed, noticing the razor certainly, +but finding me awkwardly between him and the end of +the table where it lay. He half turned in the direction +of the window behind him, thinking doubtless of escape +by the leads outside. He gave finally a sort of lurch +towards me, but this I did not actually see, for I had turned +away and was crawling painfully over to the door. It +was Grant who supplied this detail of description later. +His idea, probably, was to knock me down and make a +bolt for it. But, whatever it was he really intended to +do, in the end he did nothing, for at this second Grant +emerged suddenly from his cupboard.</p> + +<p>I was already leaning with my back against the door +and caught the look of terror and blank amazement that +came into Boyde’s face, as he saw another man whom he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span> +certainly took at first for the detective. He stood stock +still like a petrified figure. A moment later he recognized +him as the Englishman he had met at the cricket match. +He subsided backwards, half on to the window-sill and +half against the dressing-table. The drama of the scene +suddenly occurred to me for the first time, as I watched +Grant walk over and put the razor in his pocket, and then +sit down quietly on the sofa. He spoke no single word. +He merely sat and watched.</p> + +<p>With my back against the door I then went on talking +quickly. Yet behind my anger and disgust, I felt +the old pity surge up; already I was sorry for him; I +would presently forgive him. But, first, there was +something else to be done. The plan lay quite clear in +my mind.</p> + +<p>Closely watched by Grant and myself, Boyde had +meanwhile moved out into the room, still without speaking +a single word, and flung himself on the bed where he began +to cry like a child. He sobbed convulsively, though +whether the tears were of sorrow or of fear, I could not +tell. We watched him for some time in silence. It was +some minutes later that he sat up, still shaking with sobs, +and tried to speak. In an utterly broken voice he begged +for mercy, not for himself—he swore he didn’t “care a +damn” about his “worthless self”—but for his mother’s +sake. It would break her heart, if she heard about it; +it would kill her. He implored me for another chance. +His flow of words never ceased. If I would let him off +this time, he begged, he would do anything I wished, +anything, anything in the world. He would leave New +York, he would go home and enlist ... but forgery +meant years in gaol. “I am only thirty, and the sentence +would mean the end of my life....”</p> + +<p>Perhaps instinct warned me he was lying, perhaps he +over-acted, I cannot say; but the entire scene, the sobs, +the impassioned language, the anguish in the broken voice, +the ruin of the face I had once thought innocent, all left +me without emotion. I was exhausted too. I had +witnessed similar scenes between detectives and their +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span> +prisoners, the former not only unmoved, but bored and +even angry. I understood now how they felt. But there +was the balance of my plan to be carried out; my original +principle had never wavered; I believed the terror he had +felt would make him run straight in future; the moment +had now come, I thought, to tell him he was forgiven. +So I left the door—he screamed, thinking I was going to +open it—and crawled slowly over to him. Putting my +hand on his shoulder, and using the gentlest, kindest voice +I could find, I told him he should have another chance, +but only one. All excitement had died out of me, I felt +real pity, the old affection rose, I urged and begged him +to “run straight” from this moment....</p> + +<p>“But—there is a condition,” I finished my sermon.</p> + +<p>“Anything, Blackwood. I’ll do anything you say.” +The tears were still hanging on his cheeks.</p> + +<p>“You will sit down and write what I dictate.”</p> + +<p>We found a sheet of foolscap, and he sat down at the +little desk, while I stood over him and dictated the words +of a full confession. In writing it, Boyde’s hand was as +steady as that of a clerk making an unimportant entry +in an office book. He came to the end and looked up at +me enquiringly.</p> + +<p>“Now write a duplicate,” I said, “in your other handwriting, +the one you meant to be a copy of Kay’s.”</p> + +<p>He did this too; to an inexperienced eye the difference +was extraordinary. I asked Grant to witness it with me, +and when this was finished I waved the document in +the other’s face. “I shall keep this,” I told him gravely, +“and if ever you go wrong again, it will mean twenty +years in prison.” I do not think he knew what I knew at +that moment; <i>viz.</i> that a confession signed “under duress” +was not evidence in a court of law. He said very simply, +gazing into my eyes: “You’ve saved my life, Blackwood. +I shall never forget this day. My temptations have been +awful, but from this moment I mean to run straight, +perfectly straight.” Words of gratitude followed in a +flood. He shook my hand, begging to be allowed to help +me back into bed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span></p> + +<p>“I must first tell the detective I’ve withdrawn the +charge,” I said. “I must send him away. He doesn’t +know your name.” Boyde thanked me volubly again, +as I crawled to the door, closed it again, and stood in the +cold passage a minute or two. “The man’s gone,” I said, +when I came back.</p> + +<p>“When—when am I to leave this room?” he asked +quietly. I told him he could stay. The matter was +forgiven and forgotten. He began to cry again....</p> + +<p>For some time after Grant had gone, we were alone. +Boyde talked a little, repeating his gratitude. I asked +him one question only: had he been in gaol before? “I +would rather not answer that, if you don’t mind,” he +said. I did not press him, for he had answered it. “I +shall never, never go wrong again,” he kept repeating. +And all the time he talked—I learned this later—there lay +in his coat pocket, that was my coat pocket, the sum of +ten dollars which belonged to me. He had sold two of +my translations to McCloy, telling me McCloy had refused +them.</p> + +<p>I have a vague recollection of that evening and of our +talk, for complete exhaustion had come over me from the +moment I got back into bed. It was not unconsciousness, +but probably half unconsciousness. I was only dimly +aware of what was going on. I remember Boyde going +out to eat something at Krisch’s, then coming back. I +woke in darkness with a sudden start. The gas was +out, and I wondered why. There was a noise close +beside me—something swishing. My mind cleared in a +flash.</p> + +<p>“Put it back, Boyde,” I called out. “Put it back at +once.”</p> + +<p>A thin summer coat hung on the door, too thin and +shabby to wear, too ragged to pawn. I had placed the +confession in the inside pocket, and it was this coat I +now heard swishing faintly against the wood.</p> + +<p>No answer came, but I plainly heard the soft tread of +bare feet along the carpet. I got up and lit the gas. +Boyde lay apparently sleeping soundly on the floor. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span> +I noticed how well-nourished his body looked. <i>He</i>, at +any rate, had not been starving. Then I moved to the +door, found the confession, took it out, and crawled back +into bed. From that moment the paper never left me; it +was with me when later the doctor allowed me out, and at +night it lay under my pillow while I slept. I kept the +torn scraps of the cheque and letter with it, and I hid +the razor. Boyde never shaved himself in that room +again.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"> + CHAPTER XVIII + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap'><span class='allcaps'>The</span> episode, though far from being finished, had a +shattering effect upon me. If a friend, so close +to me by ties of affection and gratitude, could act +like this, how would others, less intimately related, behave? +My trust in people was killed. A sense of deep +loneliness was added to the other miseries of that bed.</p> + +<p>Only my books comforted and helped ... they did +not fail ... their teachings stood stiff and firm like a +steel rod that never bent or shifted, much less broke. +Since these notes tell merely the superficial episodes of +my early years, further mention of what the books meant +to me is unnecessary; enough—more than enough, probably—has +already been told to show the background +which explains motive and conduct. The main stream +of my life, at any rate, ran deeper and ever deeper, its +centre of gravity far below anything that could possibly +come to me in the ordinary world or outward happenings. +Big dreams were in me at white heat, burning, burning +... and all external events were coloured by them.</p> + +<p>There followed now a more peaceful though short +period, during which Boyde behaved well, with kindness +and signs of true penitence. Grant warned me this was +acting, and that I had been a fool to forgive and let him +stay on, but I would not listen, and followed my own principle. +I did not trust him, but never let him know it, +showing him full confidence, with all the former intimacy +and affection. I felt sure this was the right and only +way. His attitude to me had something of a dog’s devotion +in it. I fully believed he was “running straight” +again. I watched him closely, while hiding suspicion +carefully away.</p> + +<p>November drew to a close; Kay sent no more money; +the debt to Mrs. Bernstein grew; income became smaller +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span> +and smaller. I wrote to McCloy, who replied with a brief +word that I could come back when I was well again.</p> + +<p>Before leaving my bed, however, at the end of the +month, another incident occurred that shocked me far +more than the first.</p> + +<p>One afternoon about a week after the confession, +there came a knock at the door, and to my complete surprise, +in walked a banker, who had often stayed in our +house in England. I was startled and annoyed, for I +feared he would write home and tell the truth that my +letters so carefully concealed. It was a couple of years +since I had seen him. How had he found me out? +His first sentence told me: “But this is dreadful. +I knew nothing about your being ill. I didn’t know you +were in New York even. An Englishman named Boyde +came to my office yesterday and told me.” He looked +me over with anxiety. “But your bones are showing! +Have you been very bad? Why on earth didn’t you let +me know, my dear fellow?”</p> + +<p>I had spoken of this acquaintance in Boyde’s presence, +and he had evidently made a note of name and address. +I explained quickly that I had not been seriously ill, that +I was nearly well and had a good doctor, and that I was +on the staff of the <i>Evening Sun</i> and doing well. I told him +briefly about my Canadian career as well. The banker +was a very decent fellow. His visit was brief, but he was +very kind, well-meaning and sympathetic—only—I did +not want him! He promised, anyhow, he would not write +to my father—was glad, I think, to be relieved of the +necessity—and before going he absolutely insisted on +leaving some money with me. I refused and refused again. +But my own exhaustion and his persistence resulted in +his leaving all he had on him at the moment—$32. Months +later I discovered that Boyde had obtained other sums +from him on the plea that I needed a specialist, and there +may have been yet further amounts of similar kind for +all I knew.</p> + +<p>On coming in, Boyde took his scolding with a smile; +he had “acted for the best....” We discussed how the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span> +money should be spent, agreeing upon $10 to Mrs. Bernstein, +$10 to the doctor next day, $3 to redeem Kay’s +overcoat, which we would send to him, and the balance in +hand, after laying in a store of dried apples, oatmeal and +condensed milk, as our supplies were now exhausted. +Next morning, when he left at eight o’clock for a studio +appointment and choir rehearsal, I gave him the money +for the landlady and a dollar he asked for himself. The +balance he put back in the drawer of the little desk beside +my bed.</p> + +<p>It was a happier morning than I had known for long; +the feeling that I had something to give to the doctor +made the hours pass quickly, and when he arrived at +three, in his very best mood, he was obviously pleased +on hearing that I could easily spare $10. The relief +was written on his beaming face. He thanked me +warmly. “I do really need it,” he said with emphasis, +“or I couldn’t take it from you.” We passed a delightful +hour or two; I was strong enough to play the fiddle to +him; we talked ... the happiest afternoon I had yet +known in that room came to an end; he prepared to go. +Pointing to the drawer, I asked him to take the money +out. He did so. At least he opened the drawer. He +opened all four drawers. The money was not there.</p> + +<p>The most painful part of it, I think, was the look on his +face as he presently went out. He did not believe me. +I had found it impossible to mention Boyde. I had been +speechless. I had no explanation to give. By the expression +on the old German’s face as he left the room I +could see he thought I was lying to him. His disappointment +in me was greater than his disappointment over the +money. It was a bitter moment—even more bitter than +the further treachery of my companion....</p> + +<p>I was alone with my thoughts and feelings. I was alone +for four days—and four nights. Boyde, that is, did not +return till four days had passed, while the doctor stayed +away three days. Whether either of them had said anything +to Mrs. Bernstein on their way out, Boyde promising +payment perhaps, the doctor letting fall something +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span> +derogatory, I did not know. Mrs. Bernstein, anyhow, +was very unpleasant during those four awful days. Boyde +had not even given her the $10. She paid me dreadful +visits, she threatened to sell my things (what? I wondered), +to turn me out; she sent up hardly any food....</p> + +<p>Waiting for Boyde’s step, listening all day, all night +... I needed my books, my dreams, my inner crack, +as I had never needed them before during those horrible +four days. They seemed an eternity. The long nights, of +course, were by far the worse; the dreams, the expectancy, +for ever anticipating the familiar tread of stockinged feet +on the stairs, wondering what in the world had happened, +how things would end.... Had he been arrested, perhaps +for something terrible? They were haunted nights +that made me dread the first sign of coming dusk. It +seemed like weeks, an incalculable time altogether had +passed since I had seen him.... Then the spider took +the place of the other vermin. I have always particularly +disliked spiders, and this one was the father of them all; +though it was the horror of him, not the physical presence, +that haunted my nights so persistently. He was, I am +sure, the Spider Idea. He originated in a room in Toronto, +where a friend foolishly let his prototype, a tarantula, +escape, and where it hid all night. It was my room. +He came from Florida with a case of bananas. He was +very big, if sluggish, his swollen body and hairy black +legs the nastiest I had ever seen. I spent the night with +this monster on the loose, and the first thing in the morning +I saw him, low down on the wall, quite close to me. +He had crept for warmth to a pipe near the hot air register.</p> + +<p>This spider now came at me, stirred into life by the +chance activity of some memory cell. He came crawling +across the leads, dragging his bulging body slowly, then +feeling over the smooth glass with his legs that were like +black brushes a chimney sweep might use. Up the stairs +he came too, but sideways there, being too large to move +in his usual way; first three legs on one side, then three +legs on the other, heaving himself along, the mass of his +body between them sloping like a boat at sea. The fat +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span> +body was derived, I’m sure, from the shock of noticing +Boyde’s well-fed appearance.... There were other things +besides the spider, the mind, doubtless, being a little overwrought.</p> + +<p>One of these “other things” was real—a yellow-haired +woman who aired what the papers called her +“shapely legs” in silk tights for a living. Pauline M—— +was her name, and she was leading lady in the “Night +Owls Company,” then playing at Tony Pastor’s Music +Hall in 14th Street, or, perhaps, it was at Koster and +Biel’s Hall further up town. I have forgotten. In any +case, Boyde had mentioned the Company to me in +some connexion or other. He knew her.</p> + +<p>Her visit to me has always seemed vague and hazy; +shrouded in mist of some kind, the mist of my suffering +mind, I imagine. There lies a feverish touch of fantasy +all over it. It was on the evening of the second day since +Boyde had disappeared, though I could have sworn that +at least a week’s loneliness had intervened. It <i>was</i> the +second day, I know, because the doctor came on the fourth. +During the afternoon an unintelligible telegram had come, +sent from a Broadway office: “<i>Don’t be anxious—have +surprising news for you—no drinking—home this afternoon.——B.</i>” +There was not much comfort in it, though +at least I knew then he had not been arrested, but an hour +or so later a second telegram had arrived, sent from an +office above 42nd Street: “<i>Married Pauline this afternoon.——B.</i>” +It all mystified, confused and troubled me +extremely, and the strain on nerves and emotions had been +so prolonged that, I think, I was half stupefied with it all, +half stupid certainly.</p> + +<p>At any rate, the visit always seemed a sort of unreal +visit, veiled as it were, and shadowy. Two thoughts were +in my mind when the knock sounded on the door: food +and Boyde. I was always listening intently for his tread, +but I was also listening for Mrs. Bernstein’s footstep with +a possible tray. It was after six o’clock; since coffee +and bread at 8.30 in the morning I had eaten nothing, +for our own supplies were finished. Instead of Boyde or +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span> +the tray, however, in walked the woman with yellow +hair and statuesque figure. She wore furs, she was over-dressed +and painted, she reeked of scent. To me it was a +kind of nightmare vision.</p> + +<p>Details of her long visit I remember but very few. +She at once announced herself—“I am Pauline M——” +and asked excitedly, “Are you Blackwood?” She +was in a “state.” Her great figure filled the little +room. She poured out a torrent of words in a cockney +voice. Her face was flaming red beneath the paint. +Occasionally she swept about. The name of Boyde +recurred frequently. She was attacking me, I gathered. +Boyde had said this and that about me. I understood +less than nothing. I remember asking her to sit down, +and that she refused, and that presently I asked something +else: “Has he married you?” and that she suddenly +caught sight of the telegrams lying on my bed—I had +pointed—then picked them up and read them. She came +closer to me while she did this, so that I caught the stink +of spirits.</p> + +<p>It was all very muddled and confused to me, and I made +no attempt to talk. I heard her begging me to “give +him back” to her, that she loved him, that I had “poisoned +his mind” against her—threats and beseeching +oddly mingled. But the telegrams seemed to sober her +a little, for I remember her becoming abruptly more +quiet, almost maudlin, and pouring out an endless story +about Boyde who was, apparently, “full of money ... +full of liquor” ... and full of anger against me because +<i>he</i> had been “supporting” me and I had shown “base +ingratitude.”... I was too bewildered to feel much. +It numbed me. I couldn’t make sense of it. I couldn’t +realize how Boyde had deliberately left me alone so long. +Something monstrous and inhuman touched it all.</p> + +<p>She went away eventually in a calmer state, though +leaving me in a condition that was far from calm. She +went, begging me to “send him back” to her when he +came home, but half realizing, I gathered, that the boot +was on the other leg, so far as Boyde and myself were +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span> +concerned. She was still angry with me in a vague unjust +sort of way, not knowing whom to believe probably, +nor exactly what had happened. She flounced out of the +room in a whirl of excitement and cockney sentences, and +I never saw her again. My tray arrived within a few +minutes of her welcome departure.... I spent an appalling +night. Boyde, the yellow-haired woman, Mrs. Bernstein, +the old German, the spider, steps on the stairs a hundred +times that came to nothing.... I wished once or twice +that I were dead.... The door did not open....</p> + +<p>It never rains but it pours. Two days later the doctor +came in the afternoon, in the blackest mood I had yet +encountered. I rather expected his visit, and though +dreading it, I also longed for it, longed to see someone—a +human being. He came sharp at three, attended +to me, and left again. The visit lasted perhaps ten +or fifteen minutes, and during the whole time he spoke +no single word, not even greeting me when he entered, +or saying good-bye when he went out. His face was +black, aged, terrible in the suffering it wore. I had +meant to tell him at last about Boyde, unable any +longer to keep it to myself. I simply <i>must</i> tell someone. +But not a syllable could I get out. When the old +German had gone, however, I felt sure it was his own +mysterious suffering, and not any feeling against myself, +that caused his strange behaviour. I knew, too, that he +would come again, and thus I got some comfort from +his silent, rapid visit. This was on the fourth day +since Boyde deserted; it was the day on which he came +back.</p> + +<p>He came back; his money had given out; he had nowhere +to sleep.</p> + +<p>It was night, somewhere about ten o’clock. I was falling +into an uneasy doze, the kind of doze that introduced +the spider, when the door opened softly. There was no +knock. I had heard no footstep. The door just opened +and he came in.</p> + +<p>Every nerve in me became alert. Truth to tell, there +was no emotion in me of any sort or kind. I was numb, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span> +exhausted to the bone. I lay still and stared at him. He +looked sleek and even prosperous. He looked gorged with +food. His face was a little swollen. The big blue eyes +were clear. He let the eyeglass fall, gazing at me, while a +smile broke over his face. I was so glad to see him, so +relieved to have him back, that, though no emotion beyond +that of suspense ended was in me, I felt, as once before +with the doctor, a lump rise in my throat. His bloated +expression distressed me vaguely. At first he said nothing, +but walked across the room on tiptoe, as though pretending +I was asleep and he feared to wake me.</p> + +<p>My tongue loosened suddenly. The very words I +have not forgotten. A matter that had not lain in my +mind for days came uppermost:</p> + +<p>“Did you send off the overcoat to Kay?”</p> + +<p>He nodded, but without looking at me. It was a lie, +I knew. My eyes followed him round, as he began to +undress. For several minutes I said nothing. Then +other words came to me:</p> + +<p>“I’ve been alone four days and nights.”</p> + +<p>Silence.</p> + +<p>“Without food—or anybody.”</p> + +<p>Silence, but he turned his back to me.</p> + +<p>“Without money.”</p> + +<p>Silence. He stood quite motionless.</p> + +<p>“I might have died. I might have gone crazy.”</p> + +<p>Silence.</p> + +<p>“It’s been awful—the loneliness and wondering——”</p> + +<p>He half turned, but instantly turned back again. No +sound escaped him.</p> + +<p>“I’ve been thinking about you—and wondering day +and night. Are you really married? Pauline’s been +here—this afternoon.”</p> + +<p>His silence was broken by a sort of gulp, and he bent +over. My mistake about the date of the woman’s visit +was intentional—I thought it might open his lips; I did +not correct it. He half turned to look at me, but again +instantly hid his face as before. Then he abruptly sat +down on the sofa, leaning against the back, his head in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span> +his hands. I raised myself in bed, never taking my eyes +off him.</p> + +<p>“I got your telegrams. Have you nothing to say? +No explanation? Have you brought any food, any money? +You have had money—all this time.”</p> + +<p>Silence, broken only by another gulp.</p> + +<p>“I saw you take the money out of the drawer. I said +nothing because I thought you were going to get me things. +I <i>trusted</i> you.”</p> + +<p>He turned all at once and faced me, though keeping +his eyes always steadily on the floor. The tears were +streaming down his face like rain.</p> + +<p>“Are you tired?” I asked. “You’d better lie down +and go to sleep. You can talk to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>It was this that finished him. He had reached the +breaking point.</p> + +<p>There is no heroism in me; it was simply that I needed +him, rotten as he was, heartless, cruel, vile as well; I +funked another spell of that awful loneliness; I knew him +now for a coward and a beast, but I could not face another +night alone. That complete loneliness had been too +horrible. A wild animal was better than that. Boyde +was of the hyena type, but a hyena was better than a +spider. It was neither generosity nor nobility that made +me listen to his ridiculous and lying story of an “awful +and terrible temptation,” of a “fearful experience with +a woman” who had drugged him.... The tale spun itself +far into the night, the razor and the confession were under +my pillow, I fell asleep, dead with exhaustion, while he was +still explaining something about a “woman named +Pauline M——” who had “deceived me in a most extraordinary +way....”</p> + +<p>The following day, in the morning—Dr. Huebner +came unexpectedly. Boyde had gone out before I woke. +This time he was a radiant Dr. Jekyll, and I told him the +whole story. His only comment, looking severely at me +through the big spectacles, was: “I expected it. He is a +confidence man. I knew it the first time I saw him. +You have kicked the devil out, of course?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span></p> + +<p>A violent disagreement that was almost a quarrel +followed.</p> + +<p>“I simply do not understand you,” he said at last, +in complete disgust. It was only the wondrous, beaming +happy mood he was in that prevented his being really angry. +He threw his hands up and snorted. “You are either +a fool or a saint, and—I’m sure you’re not a saint.” He +was very much upset.</p> + +<p>I did not yield. There was something in me that +persuaded me to forgive Boyde and to give him yet another +chance. I told Boyde this in very plain language. I +claim no credit—I have never felt the smallest credit—for +what I did. It was simply that somehow it seemed +impossible <i>not</i> to forgive him—anything. But the time +was near, though the feeling of forgiveness still held true +in me, when my forgiveness took another form. Thirty +years ago these little incidents occurred. It seems like +thirty days.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIX"> + CHAPTER XIX + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap kern'><span class='allcaps'>It</span> is a mercy one cannot see the future. In that +New York misery, present and to follow, had I +known that some fifteen years later I should be my +own master, living more or less “like a gentleman,” +earning my livelihood, though a very bare one, by writing, +I could never have faced what I did face. Any value that +may have lain in the experiences would certainly have +been missed, at any rate. If one knew that the future +promised better things, there is no patience in human +beings that could hold and wait for it; if, on the other +hand, it promised worse, I have met no courage that could +bear the present. Those who preach “live in the present +only” have common sense on their side.</p> + +<p>With the memory of the past, similarly, such folk +show wisdom. Reincarnation is an interesting theory +to many; yet to recall past lives could have but one effect—to +render one ineffective now. To recall the failures of +a mere forty years is bad enough; to look back over a +hundred lives would be disastrous: one could only sit +down and cry.</p> + +<p>December had come with its cold and bitter winds, +and the doctor, ever faithful, had let me up. I went for +my first little walk, leaning on Boyde’s arm. Round +Gramercy Park we crawled slowly, and that first taste +of fresh air, the sound of wind in the leafless trees, a faint +hint of the sea that reaches even the city streets, gave me +an unforgettable happiness and yearning. The plan to +settle in the backwoods again obsessed me. A little later +I had almost persuaded the doctor, and Kay in my letters, +to take up a claim north of the Muskoka Lakes where we +had spent such a happy summer. Boyde was to come too—“as +a sort of excitement, I suppose!” was the doctor’s +bitter comment.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span></p> + +<p>I grew gradually stronger. Reporting was still impossible, +but, introduced by Boyde, I earned something +by posing in the studios. A “sitting” was three hours. +Some artists paid by the hour, but Charles Dana Gibson, +then drawing his weekly cartoons in <i>Life</i>, always paid +for a full sitting, though he might use his model for +an hour only. He was a rapid worker, and a good +fellow; he never forgot to ask if one was tired of any +particular attitude; my first pose to him was for a broken-down +actor leaning against a hoarding covered with advertisements, +the joke being something about a bill-board +and a board-bill. I was thrilled when it appeared in +<i>Life</i>. There was always a great rush among the models +for Gibson’s studio. The only other poses I remember +are swinging a golf club and sitting for a bishop’s arms +and hands. I wore big sleeves. These, however, were +not in Gibson’s studio.</p> + +<p>My memory of this work is dim; it was not unpleasant; +only its uncertainty against it, though a good week might +bring in as much as fifteen dollars. Smedley, who illustrated +for <i>Harper’s Magazine</i>, was the painter we all disliked +most; Cox, son of Bishop Cox, Cleveland Cox being +his full name, I think, was a favourite: he was a gentleman. +There was Zogbaum too, another illustrator, and +there was Lynwood Palmer, the horse-painter, and leading +artist on <i>The Rider and Driver</i>, a first-class weekly of that +day. “Artist Palmer,” as the papers called him later, +was a character. His kindness to me stands out. He had +very great talent—for getting the likeness of a horse. +We called him “The Horse.” He made a success at his +work, painted the “King’s Horses and Men” in subsequent +years, and settled down eventually—he was an Englishman—I +believe, at Heston, Hounslow. His New York +studio was in Fifth Avenue. Many a time he gave me +food there.</p> + +<p>“Artist Palmer” was self-taught. I forget the whole +story, but he had known his hard times. Looking at my +dirty boots the first time I called, he said: “When I +drove a cab here, my boots were better cleaned than any +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span> +man’s on the rank.” I was not partial to Dr. Smiles’ +“Self Help.” A “shine” moreover, cost 5 cents, and +5 cents meant a glass of beer and a meal at a free lunch +counter—our invariable lunch at that time.</p> + +<p>Artist Palmer knew Boyde as a bad lot, and told me +that Boyde was lying about me behind my back everywhere, +saying that he was supporting me, paying for my +illness, and while borrowing money in my name, explaining +that I spent all he gave me in dissipation! His method +was to present a forged cheque to some good-natured +friend after banking hours, obtain the money, and spend +it on himself. A tale of woe, with crocodile tears, saved +him from subsequent arrest. No one ever prosecuted him.</p> + +<p>All this I kept to myself, though I watched Boyde +more and more closely. I knew his studio appointments +and made him hand over what he earned. I did also an +idiotic thing: I went down and warned the pastor’s +daughter about him. Palmer’s words and my own feeling +persuaded me to this fatal action. She was a beautiful +girl. I received from her the same kind of treatment that +I had shown to the man who first warned me. Boyde, +of course, soon knew about it. We had a scene. I saw +for the first time anger in his face, black hatred too. He +never forgave me my stupid indiscretion.... The way +he explained my action to the girl herself was characteristic +of him, but I only learned later how he managed it. +In a voluntary confession he wrote a few weeks afterwards, +a confession he judged might convince me he +was genuinely repentant, and at the same time save +him from a grave impending fate, he described it—honestly: +“I told her,” he said, “she was to pay no attention to +your warnings, because you wanted me to marry one of +your sisters.”</p> + +<p>The way I lost Boyde temporarily comes a little later +in his story, but may be told here because it marked the +close of a definite little chapter in his career with me.</p> + +<p>It was the first week in December. I came home—from +the doctor’s house—at two in the morning. The +gas was burning, but the room was not too well lit by the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span> +single burner. Boyde lay asleep on the floor as usual. +I moved softly so as not to wake him. I glanced down. +What I saw startled me; more, it gave me a horrid turn. +The figure on the mattress was another man. It was not +Boyde. Then, as I cautiously looked closer, I discovered +my mistake. It <i>was</i> Boyde after all, but without his +moustache.</p> + +<p>I stared for some minutes in amazement, for the face +was completely altered. The drooping, rather heavy +moustache had always hidden his lips and mouth. I now +saw that mouth. And it was a cruel, brutal mouth, hard, +sensual, with ugly thickish lips, contradicting the kindly +blue eyes completely. A sentence of detective-sergeant +Heidelberg, a headquarters man, came back to me, himself +a brutal, heartless type, if ever there was one, but with +years of criminal experience behind him: “Watch the +mouth and hands and feet,” he told me once in court. +“They can fake the eyes dead easy, but they can’t fake +the mouth hell give ’em. They forgit their hands and +feet. Watch their mouth and hands and feet—the way +these fidgit. That give ’em away every time.”</p> + +<p>Why had Boyde done this thing? He was a handsome +man, the light graceful moustache was a distinct asset +in his appearance. Why had he shaved suddenly? I +stared at the new horrid face for a long time. He lay +sleeping like a child.</p> + +<p>I turned to examine the room, as changes might be +there too. All seemed as usual, I saw no difference anywhere. +Then my eyes fell on the cupboard with its half-opened +door. Boyde’s coat, that was my own coat, the +only thick one we had between us, hung down from the +hook. And, for the first time, the sight of that coat stirred +a dim, painful memory of the place where I had first worn +it. Naturally it was old, but it was also English. The +house in Kent rose up—the lime trees on the lawn, the +tennis courts, my father’s study, his face, my mother’s +face, their voices even, the very smell and atmosphere +and feelings of happy days that now seemed for ever lost. +The whole machinery of association worked suddenly at +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span> +full pressure. It was like a blow. I realized vividly the +awful gap between those days and these, between myself +as I had been and as I was. A whiff of perfume, a smell, +produces this kind of evocation in most cases; with me, +just then, it was my old English coat.</p> + +<p>I remember the strong emotion in me, and that, while +still held and gripped by it, my eye caught sight of an +envelope sticking out of the inside breast pocket. The coat +hung by chance in a way that made it visible. It might +easily fall out altogether. I moved over and stretched +out a hand to put it safely back and then saw that the +writing on the envelope was my own. It was a letter. +I took it out. The address was the house in Kent, whose +atmosphere still hung about my thoughts. The name was +my mother’s name. There were other letters, all my own; +one to my father; two to my brother, the one being in the +world I really loved, the only one of the family to whom +I had given vague hints of the real state of affairs.</p> + +<p>Some of the letters were two weeks, three weeks old. +In each case the five-cent stamp had been torn off. Five +cents meant a glass of lager and a meal at a free lunch +counter.</p> + +<p>There was no reflection. Holding the letters in my +hand, I moved across to the mattress. There was an +anger in me that made me afraid, afraid of myself. I +wanted to kill, I thought I was going to kill, I understood +easily how a man <i>can</i> kill. In my mind was a vivid +picture of my brother’s face—it was he, not my parents, +who moved with me. But I was not excited; ice was in +me, not fire. Something else, too, at that moment was +in my veins, a drug ... a strong dose, too! Five minutes +before my entire being had been in a state of utter bliss, +of radiant kindness, of tolerance, of charity to everybody in +the world. I would have given away my last cent, I +would have forgiven anybody anything. All this was swept +away in an instant. I felt a cold, white anger that wanted +to kill.</p> + +<p>Boyde had not heard my footstep; he lay sound +asleep. I tore the blanket off. He lay half naked before +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span> +me, sleek, well-nourished, over-fed, loathsome, horrible +beyond anything I had known. He turned with a jump +and sat up. I held the letters against his face, but he +was still dazed with sleep and only stared stupidly, first +at the letters, then into my face.</p> + +<p>I kicked him; I had my boots on.</p> + +<p>“Get up!” I said. And, as he got up, rather heavily, +trying to protect himself, I kicked him again and again, till +at last he stood upright, but at some distance from me, over +towards the window. He understood by this time; he +saw the letters in my hand. The terror in his face sickened +me even in my anger. I saw the evil almost visibly leap +out. The unfamiliarity, now that the moustache was gone, +the cruelty of the naked lips and mouth, the shrinking of +the coward in him, these made an unforgettable picture. +He did not utter a syllable.</p> + +<p>My own utterance, what words I used, I cannot remember. +I did not remember them even ten minutes +afterwards, certainly not the next day, when I told the +doctor what had happened. Two sentences only remain +accurate: “Come close to me. I’m going to kill you,” +and the other: “Get ready! I’m going to beat you like +an animal!”</p> + +<p>He stood before me, wearing his short day-shirt +without a collar, his hair untidy, his face white, his half-naked +body shaking. He dropped to his knees, he got +up again and tried to hide, he cringed and whined like a +terrified dog, his blue eyes were ghastly. In myself were +feelings I had never dreamed I possessed, but whose +evidence Boyde must, plainly, have read in my expression. +What he could not read, nor ever knew of course, was the +fight, the fight of terror, I was having with myself. I +felt that once I touched him I should not stop till I had +gone too far.</p> + +<p>I did not touch him once. Instead, I told him to put +on his clothes, his own clothes, and go. He had no clothes +of his own. He did not go.... I eventually let him +wait till morning, when he could find enough rags of sorts +to wear in the street.... He explained that he had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span> +shaved his moustache because the Rockaway Hunt demanded +it.</p> + +<p>He had said hardly a word during the entire scene. +Half an hour after it was over he was sleeping soundly +again. I, too, thanks to the drug, slept deeply. I woke +in the morning to find the mattress on the floor unoccupied. +Boyde had gone. With him had gone, too, my one thick +suit and, in addition, every possible article of pawnable +or other value that had been in the room or in the +packing-case downstairs. Only the razor and the confession +had he left behind because they were beneath +my pillow.</p> + +<p>The next time we met was in even more painful and +dramatic circumstances. I decided it was time to act.</p> + +<p>I went down that same morning to police headquarters +in Mulberry Street, and swore out a warrant for his arrest +on two charges; forgery and petit larceny. A theft of +more than $25 was grand larceny, a conviction, of course, +carrying heavier punishment. I reduced his theft of +my $32, therefore, by seven dollars, so that, if caught +and convicted, his sentence might be as short as possible.</p> + +<p>But for the fact that I was a reporter on a Tammany +newspaper, nothing would have happened. As it was, no +bribe being available, the police refused to take any steps +in the matter. The confession, they knew, was worthless; +it was a small case; no praise in the press, no advertisement, +lay in it. “Find out where he is,” Detective Lawler said, +“and let us know. Just telephone and I’ll come up and +take him. But <i>you</i> do the huntin’. See? <i>I</i> don’t.”</p> + +<p>This was Detective Lawler, who, under another name +came into a story years later—“Max Hensig,” in “The +Listener.”</p> + +<p>The determination to put Boyde where he could no +longer harm himself or others held as firm in me as, +formerly, the determination to forgive had held. The hunt, +however, comes a little later in the story. There was first +the explanation of the doctor’s secret. The doctor was +my companion in the dreadful hunt.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XX"> + CHAPTER XX + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap kern'><span class='allcaps'>It</span> was, perhaps, the undigested horror of those days, +as also their unsatisfied yearnings after beauty, that +tried to find expression fifteen years later in writing. +Once they were over I hid them away, those +dreadful weeks, trying to forget them. But nothing is +ever forgotten, nor is anything finally suppressed in the +sense that it is done with. Expression, sooner or later, +in one form or another, inevitably crops up.</p> + +<p>“Writing,” declared the old doctor, after a talk about +De Quincey, “is functional.” He had many pet theories +or hobbies on which he loved to expatiate. “Writing is +as much a function of the system as breathing or excretion. +What the body takes in and cannot use, it +discards. What the mind takes in and cannot use, it, +similarly, excretes. A sensitive, impressionable mind +receives an incessant bombardment, often an intense, +terrific bombardment of impressions. Two-thirds of such +impressions are never digested, much less used. The +artist-temperament whose sensitiveness accumulates a +vast store, uses them; the real artist, of course, shapes +them at the same time. The ordinary man, the <i>Dutzend +Mensch</i>, made in bundles by the dozen, gets few impressions, +and needs, naturally, no outlet.... Writing +is purely functional....” It was one of his numerous +pet theories.</p> + +<p>I went to his house now every night; he gave me his +professional care, he gave me sympathy, he gave me food. +Pathetic, wonderful old German! His tenderness was +a woman’s, his temper a demon’s. I felt a giant in him +somewhere. At close daily quarters his alternate moods +perplexed me utterly. He had an Irish wife, a kind, +motherly, but quite uneducated woman of about forty-five, +and a little girl of eight or nine, whose white face +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span> +looked as old as her mother’s, and whose diminutive figure +seemed to me unusual somewhere. Was it not stunted? +Her intelligence, her odd ways, her brilliant eyes captivated +me. She called me “Uncle Diedel.” She talked, +like her mother, broken German. Supper, an extremely +simple meal, but a feast to me, was always in the basement +kitchen.</p> + +<p>The tiny wooden house, owning something akin to +squatter’s rights which prevented its demolition, stood +in the next block to my own, hemmed in by “brownstone +fronts,” but with a miniature garden. New York, +that burns anthracite coal, has no blacks and smuts; the +trees and shrubs were really green; the earth smelt +sweet. The little house, standing back from the road, +was a paradise to me. Its one ground-floor apartment +was divided by folding doors into consulting- and waiting-rooms. +But no patients came, or came so rarely that it +was an event when the door-bell rang. The doctor had +the greatest difficulty in keeping himself and family alive. +At supper I used to eat as little as possible. He seemed +a competent physician. I wondered greatly. As well +as real human kindness, there was courage in that little +building; there was also a great tragedy I sensed long +before I discovered its solution. The strange innocence +and ignorance of my up-bringing still clung to me.</p> + +<p>The establishment, the poverty, the alternating moods, +as I said, puzzled me; I was aware of a whole life hidden +away from my observation. They were so poor that dinner +was the meal of a workman, they could not even keep a +servant. There were worrying debts as well. Often the +doctor was so bearish and irritable that I dared not say a +word, his wife got curses and abuse, he would almost kick +the child, finding fault with such sneers and rudeness that +I vowed to myself I would never eat his food again. Then, +after a momentary absence in his workshop upstairs, +where he kept a lathe and made beautiful chessmen, he +would come slowly stumbling down again, and the door +would open to a wholly different being. Bent, as always, +but well poised and vigorous, with bright smiling eyes, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span> +benevolent yet rugged face, every gesture full of gentle +kindness, he would pat his old wife on the shoulder and +take the child upon his knee, and beg me to play the fiddle +to him or to draw my chair up for an intimate talk. He +would light his great meerschaum pipe and beam upon +the world through the blue smoke like some old jolly idol. +The change seemed miraculous.</p> + +<p>His talk seemed, at the time, wonderful to me. He +would discourse on Kant, Novalis, Heine, on music, science, +astronomy—“when your troubles seem at their worst,” +he would say, “look up at the stars for half an hour, <i>with +imagination</i>, and you’ll see your troubles in a new perspective”—on +religion, literature and life, on anything +and everything, while downstairs his kindly old wife +prepared the Frankfurters and sauerkraut and coffee.</p> + +<p>Neither mother nor child, I noticed, paid much attention +to his attacks. The little girl, who called her father +“Otto,” sat up with us night after night till two in the +morning, and hated going to bed. She listened spellbound +to the stream of talk. I still see the dingy, lamp-lit room +in the heart of the roaring city, the white-haired old doctor, +pipe in mouth, the operating chair in the middle of the +floor, the little pale-faced child with her odd expression +of maturity as she looked from him to me, then +led me by the hand to our late meal in the gloomy +basement. I often waited achingly for that meal, having +eaten nothing since breakfast. Would he never stop +talking...?</p> + +<p>We talked of Boyde—his face. The doctor’s reading +of Boyde’s face was that it was a bad, deceitful, clever +face, evil, brutal and cruel. I mentioned the man’s +various acts of kindness. “Bait,” he exclaimed, with a +scornful snort, “mere bait! He wanted a free lodging. +He had plenty of money all along, but the free bed gave +him more—to spend on himself while you starved.”</p> + +<p>He talked on about faces.... Handsome ones he +either disliked or distrusted, handsome features like +Boyde’s were too often a cloak that helped to hide and +deceive. Behind such faces, as a rule, lay either badness +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span> +or vacuity; good looks were the most misleading thing +in the world. Expression rarely accompanied good looks, +good features. He was off on a pet hobby, he waxed +eloquent. Beautiful women—he spoke of good features +chiefly—were almost invariably wicked, or else empty. +Of “Society Beauties” he was particularly contemptuous. +“Regular features, fine eyes, perfect skin, but no expression—no +soul within. The deer-like eyes, the calm, +proud loveliness people rave about is mere vacancy. +Pfui!”</p> + +<p>His habit of staring into the mirror came back to me, +and I ventured a question. He hesitated a moment, +then got up and led me to the glass, where, without a +word, he began to gaze at his own reflection, making the +familiar grimaces, smiling, screwing up his eyes, stretching +his lips, raising his eyebrows, pulling his moustache about +until, at last, I burst into laughter I could control no +longer.</p> + +<p>He turned in astonishment. He examined my own +face closely for some time. “You are too young still,” +he said. “You have no lines. In my face, you see, lies +all my past, layer below layer, skin behind skin, my face +of middle age, of early manhood, of youth, of childhood. +It carries me right back.”</p> + +<p>He began showing me again, pointing to his reflection +as he did so. “That’s middle age ... that’s youth.... Ach! +and there’s the boy’s face, look!”</p> + +<p>I did not dare to look, for explosions of laughter were +in my throat, and I should have hurt his feelings dreadfully. +I understood what he meant, however.</p> + +<p>“With the face of each period,” he explained, “rise +the memories, feelings and emotions of that particular +period, its point of view, its fears, ambitions—<i>hopes</i>. I +live again momentarily in it. I am a young man again, +a boy, a child. I am, at any rate, no longer myself—<i>as +I now am</i>.” The way he spoke these four words was very +grave and sad. “Now,” he went on with a sigh, “you +understand the charm of the mirror. It means escape +from self. This is the ultimate teaching of all religion—to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span> +escape from Self.” He chuckled. “The mirror is +my Religion.”</p> + +<p>During this odd little scene I felt closer to his secret +than ever before. There was something fine and lovely +in him, something big, but it lay in ruins. Had my +attitude been a little different, had I not laughed for instance, +I think he would have taken me into his confidence +there and then. But the opportunity was lost this time. +He asked, instead, for music, old, simple German songs +being what he liked most. He would lean back in his big +chair, puff his great pipe, close his eyes, and hum the +melodies softly to himself while I played. It was easy +to vamp a sort of accompaniment with double stopping. +He dreamed of old days, I suppose; it was a variant of +the mirror game. Tschaikowsky, Meyer-Helmund, Massenet +he also liked, but it was Schubert, Schumann, even +Mendelssohn he always hummed to. Of “<i>Ich grolle-nicht, +auch wenn das Herz mir bricht</i>,” he never tired. The +little child would dart up from the basement at the first +sound of the fiddle, show her old, white face at the door, +then creep in, sit in a corner, and never take her eyes +from “the orchestra.” When it stopped playing, she +was off again in a second.</p> + +<p>One item, while speaking of the music, stands out—chanting +to the fiddle a certain passage from De Quincey. +The “Confessions” fascinated him; the description of +the privations in London, the scenes with Anne when she +first brought him out of her scanty money the reviving +glass of port, her abrupt disappearance finally and his +pathetic faithful search, the lonely hours in the empty +house in Greek Street, but particularly his prolonged +fight against the drug. It was the Invocation to Opium, +a passage of haunting beauty, however, he loved so much +that he chanted it over and over to himself. The first +time he did this I invented a soft running accompaniment +on the lower strings, using double stopping. The mute +was on. My voice added the bass. It was a curious composition +of which he never tired; it moved him very +deeply; I have even seen tears trickling down his cheeks +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span> +when it was over. He always left his chair for this performance, +walking slowly to and fro while he chanted +the rhythmical, sonorous sentences:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“O just, subtle and mighty opium! that, to the hearts of +rich and poor alike, for the wounds that will never heal, and for +the pangs of grief that tempt the spirit to rebel, bringest an +assuaging balm;—eloquent opium! that with thy potent +rhetoric stealest away the purposes of wrath.... Thou buildest +upon the bosom of darkness, out of the fantastic imagery of +the brain, cities and temples, beyond the art of Phidias and +Praxiteles, beyond the splendours of Babylon and Hekatompylos; +... and hast the keys of Paradise, O just, subtle and mighty +opium...!”</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>“<i>Ach! wie prachtvoll!</i>” he would cry a moment +later, “<i>wie wunderschoen!</i>” and then would recite a +translation he had made into his own tongue, and a very +fine one too. Quite delighted, he would repeat the passage +over and over again, pausing to compare the two versions, +fixing me with his big eyes in order to increase his own +pleasure in the music by witnessing the evidence of my +own.</p> + +<p>Truly he was a Jekyll and Hyde.</p> + +<p>It was only during the Jekyll mood this kind of scene +took place; in the Jekyll happy humour, too, that I +had told him about my strange up-bringing. “Now I +understand better,” he said, “why you are still so young +and know so little of life, and why you are so foolishly +good to Boyde”—which annoyed me, because I considered +myself now quite old and a thorough man of the world +as well.</p> + +<p>It was in this mood, too, that we discussed my own +theories and beliefs ... a life in the woods as well. +Kay, himself and his family, Boyde and I were to settle +in the backwoods ... perhaps I was as eloquent as I +was earnest; he listened attentively; sometimes he +seemed almost ready to consent; he understood, at any +rate, the deep spell that Nature had for me. But he only +smiled when I said I was a failure and an outcast. My +life had hardly begun yet! No man was a failure who +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span> +had an object and worked for it, even though he never +got within miles of accomplishment. “A life for a man +is a life <i>among</i> men,” he would say with emphasis. “The +woods are all right as an interlude, but not as a career.” +He was very sympathetic, but he shook his head violently. +“In action lies a man’s safety in life,” he growled at me. +“The world needs men of action, not dreamers,” he repeated +and repeated, “and Buddhism has never yet produced +a man of action. Do <i>something</i>, even if it prove +the wrong thing. Dreaming, without action, is the +quickest way of self-corruption I know.” And he would +then urge me again to become a doctor, after which he +would proceed to dream himself for an hour or two ... +showing that all his life he had been far more of a dreamer +than a man of action....</p> + +<p>It was chance that suddenly led me into the doctor’s +secret. He became for me, from that moment, the most +pathetic and tragic of human beings. My own troubles +seemed insignificant.</p> + +<p>One afternoon early in December, gloomy, very cold, +a studio appointment failed, and I decided to go to the +wooden house. It was that or the public library, but I +wanted a talk, I wanted also to get really warm. I had +no overcoat; the doctor’s room was always like an oven. +The vermin I had grown accustomed to and hardly noticed +them. An idea of food, too, was in my mind, for the free +lunch glass of beer and salt chip-potatoes was all I had eaten +since breakfast. Seven o’clock, however, was my usual +hour of visit, I had never been in the afternoon before. +A memorable visit; we were alone; he told me his secret +very quietly.</p> + +<p>I found him in his most awful mood, rude, his nerves +unbearably on edge. He said he had not expected me, +but when I tried to go, he became angry and begged me +to stay, saying that I helped him more than I could ever +know. Had I brought the fiddle? I said I would run +up the street and get it. “No,” he implored, “don’t go +now. You can go later—before supper. <i>Please</i> do not +leave me—<i>please</i>!” He then said he would tell me +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span> +something no one else knew, no one except his wife. I +wondered what was coming, and felt strangely touched +and moved at his treating me with such confidence. His +manner was so pathetic, and he seemed suddenly to have +become weak and helpless, and somehow or other it was +in my power to do him a service. I was thrilled and full +of expectation.</p> + +<p>But, before he began to tell me, he went up to a little +cabinet with a glass door and took out a small bottle full +of a white powder, bearing the word, the magical word +“Majendie”—a word I can never forget as long as I live—and +took some of the powder and made a solution and +then sucked some of it up with a needle and turned to me. +His face was swollen and looked terrible, for the eyes +glowed so hotly, and the skin was so red and white in +patches. Then he began to open his waistcoat and shirt +till his chest was bare. “Look,” he said, for I half +moved aside, and when I looked I saw he was covered +with hundreds of small red sores.</p> + +<p>Evidently my face betrayed shrinking and horror, for +the old man laughed and said “Oh, I’m not a leper. +They’re only blisters,” and then finding a little clear +space on his skin, put the needle of his syringe through +the flesh and injected the fluid into his body. He next +quickly put his finger over the spot and rubbed to and +fro for about a minute, staring steadily at me while he +did so.</p> + +<p>“That’s morphine,” he said in a dead voice, “and +the rubbing is necessary to prevent a blister forming.”</p> + +<p>I knew nothing about morphine except the name, and +I was disappointed rather than thrilled, but the next +minute he gave me all the thrill I wanted, and more +besides:</p> + +<p>“I’ve been fighting it for two years,” he said quietly +in German, still rubbing the spot and staring hard at me, +“and I am slowly getting the better of it. If I don’t +succeed, it means I die.” A cold grim smile that made +me shudder stole over his swollen face. “<i>Death</i>,” he +added.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span></p> + +<p>I felt his despair, the despair of doubt, as he said this, +and in his eyes blazed suddenly all the suppressed depths +of suffering and emotion that he usually kept hidden. +Such a flood of sympathy for the old man rose in me that +I did not know what to say. Of drugs and their power +I knew nothing. I stood and stared in silence, but his +voice and manner made me realize one thing: that here +was an awful battle, a struggle between human courage, +will and endurance, on the one hand, and some tremendous +power on the other—a struggle to the death. The word +“morphine” seemed to me some sort of demon.</p> + +<p>He sat down in his armchair, lit his pipe, pulled up +the operating chair for me to lie on beside him, and then +told me very quietly why he took it. Already his face +looked different, as the morphine circulated through the +blood, and he smiled and wore a genial happy air of benevolence +that made him at once a different man.</p> + +<p>“I shall have peace now for several hours,” he said, +“but I don’t take morphine for pleasure. I take it +because it is the only way to keep myself alive and to +keep my wife and child from starving. If I can gradually +wean myself from it I shall live for years. If not, and +I cannot make the dose less and less, it will kill me very +soon. I am old, you see.”</p> + +<p>He told me very simply, but very graphically, speaking +in German as he loved to do, that three years ago he +had enjoyed a good and lucrative practice. But he had +embarked upon some experiments in his leg—I never +understood exactly what and did not dare to ask—and +to observe these properly he was obliged to use the knife +without taking any anæsthetic. His wife stood beside +him and staunched the blood, but the pain and shock +proved more than he was equal to, being an old man, and +a collapse followed. All his patients left him, for he could +not attend to them, and in order to be in a fit condition +to see even chance callers he had to inject morphine. Thus +the habit began, and before he knew where he was the +thing had him by the throat. He was a man of great +natural strength of will and he began to stop it, but the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span> +fight was far harder than he had imagined, and his nerves +seemed to have gone to pieces. Unless he had the support +of a dose, he was so brutal, irritable and rude that no one +could stay in his presence, and no patient would come +near him. He never got his practice back again, and +whenever a stray patient called now he had to take an +injection, or he would be sure to behave in such a way +that the man or woman would never return. He used +atropine to mix with his morphine, and thus tried gradually +to cure himself, and lately had succeeded in reducing the +quantity very considerably, but it was an awful fight, +and he admitted the end was uncertain. He said I +helped him to bear the strain. My presence, he said, the +music too, gave him some sort of comfort and strength, +and he was always glad to see me. When I was there he +could hold out longer than when he was alone, and one +reason he was telling me all this intimate history—telling +it to a comparative stranger—was because he wished me +to try and help him more.</p> + +<p>I stammered some words in broken German about +being eager and willing to help, and he smiled and +said he thanked me and “we would make the fight +together.”</p> + +<p>“The charm is very powerful,” he went on, “especially +to a nature like mine, for when I take this stuff the +world becomes full of wonder and mystery again, just as it +was for me sixty years ago when I was a boy with burning +hopes and high dreams. But far more than that, I <i>believe +in people</i> again. That makes more difference in your life +than anything else, for to lose faith in men makes life unbearable. +Bitter experiences have shaken my trust and +belief in my fellow creatures. But with this stuff in me +I find it again and feel at peace with the world.”</p> + +<p>“That is why you sometimes approve and at other +times disapprove of my attitude towards Boyde?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said, with a most benign and delightful +expression in his eyes. “Give him every chance. There’s +lots of good in him. He feels, no doubt, that everyone +who knows about him distrusts him. Weak men will +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span> +always try more or less to live up to what is expected of +them, for they are easily hypnotised. If they feel every +one expects only evil from them their chief incentive is +lost.”</p> + +<p>“Then I ought never to let him think I’ve lost belief +in him?”</p> + +<p>“Never. Frighten him, kick him, urge him along +with violence, anything to make him move of himself +towards being decent; but never suggest he <i>cannot</i> be, +and <i>is not</i>, decent and straight.”</p> + +<p>How we talked that night—and how I suffered from +hunger, for when morphine was in him the old doctor ate +little, and this time he was full of ideas and ideals, and +had so sympathetic a listener, that he forgot I might want +food, and it was not till after one in the morning that he +began to flag and thought of coffee. We went down into +the kitchen, and there we found the patient wife dozing on +the wooden chair, and the child reading a book—“Undine”—on +the deal table, with her eyes so bright I thought +they were going to shoot out flame. She looked up and +stared at us for a long time before she got herself back +from that enchanted region of woods and pools and moonlight.... +Strange supper parties they were, in that +quiet, basement-kitchen between one and two of the +winter mornings of December, 1892....</p> + +<p>Otto Huebner, having broken the ice, told me much +of his own life then. Owing to family disputes he left +the manufacturing town in Northern Germany where he +was born and brought up, and came to New York as a young +man. He never saw his parents again, and took out +naturalization papers at once. For years he was employed +by Steinway’s piano factory, as a common workman +at first, then as a skilled man. He was unmarried, +he saved money, he began to study at night; the passion +for medicine was so strong in him that he made up his +mind to become a doctor. He attended lectures when he +could. It was a life of slavery, of incessant toil both day +and night. He was over forty when he began studying +for the examinations, and it took him seven years to attain +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span> +his end. His health had suffered during this strenuous +time. He had married well after fifty....</p> + +<p>Dear, lovable, much-to-be-pitied old man, my heart went +out to him; I was determined to do everything I could to +help. I owed him much for counsel, sympathy and kindness, +to say nothing of medical attendance and food +besides, at a time, too, when I believed myself a complete +failure and thought my life was ruined. England, my +family, all that I had been accustomed to seemed utterly +remote; I had cut myself off; I had tumbled into quite +another world, and the only friend I had, the only being +I trusted, even loved as well, was the old German morphine +victim.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, it had been very wonderful to me to see +an irritable, savage old man change in a few minutes +into a kindly, genial, tender-hearted being, and I began +to feel an absorbing curiosity about this fine white powder +labelled “Majendie.” I invariably now rubbed in the +dose, finding with increasing difficulty a clear space of +skin in the poor worn old body. I watched the change +steal over him. It seemed to me pure magic. It began +more and more to fascinate me.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXI"> + CHAPTER XXI + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap'><span class='allcaps'>A few</span> days after the doctor’s secret had been laid +bare I received a brief, curt letter from McCloy +to say he could not keep my place open for ever; +how soon was I coming back? Six weeks had passed +already. The doctor convinced me I was not yet in a +condition to face ten hours’ hard reporting a day. I +answered McCloy as best I could, thanking him, and telling +the facts. Dr. Huebner also wrote him a line.</p> + +<p>I was distressed and anxious, none the less, and that +evening I was certainly not at my best. I gave the old +man but little help. His method of using me was simple: +if I could manage to interest him, by talk, by music, by +books, by anything at all, it enabled him to postpone the +hour of injection. Each time we tried to make this interval +longer; each time, he told me, he took a smaller +quantity.</p> + +<p>On this particular evening, hungry and depressed as +I was, I failed to be “interesting,” and no forced attempt +could make me so. My own condition, in any case, was +pretty low; my friend’s dejection and excessive irritability +proved the last straw. We disagreed, we hurt each other’s +feelings a little, I relapsed into silence finally, the gloom +was dreadful. My own troubles just then were uppermost +in my mind. If I lost my job, I kept thinking, +what on earth would happen to me?...</p> + +<p>The old man presently, and long before his time, got +up in silence and went to the glass cabinet where now the +Majendie bottle stood. He no longer kept it in his workshop +out of sight. His face was black as thunder. Conscience +pricked me; I roused myself, saying something by +way of trying to prevent, whereupon he turned and said +savagely: “Do you want to see me die? Or lose my +reason?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span></p> + +<p>As already mentioned, I was totally ignorant of drugs +and their effect. His words, which I took literally, frightened +me. I watched him mix the solution, fill his syringe +slowly with shaking hands, then unfasten his clothes. +I found the place and rubbed the skin as usual, while he +sat back in his big chair, in sullen silence. He drew the +needle out; his face was awful; he sighed and groaned; +I really thought he was going to collapse before my eyes, +perhaps to die. I rubbed and rubbed ... while the +magical change stole slowly over him. His face cleared, +his smile came back, he looked younger, his very voice +became mellow instead of harsh and rough, his eyes lit up +with happiness.</p> + +<p>The contrast was astonishing, the effect so rapid. +And, for the first time, a longing rose in me: if only <i>I</i> +could have some of this bewitching panacea! My troubles +would all melt away. I should feel happy. Hunger +also would disappear. Was it so terrible and dangerous +after all?</p> + +<p>The thought went through me like a burning flame.</p> + +<p>It was a thought, merely. I had no intention of asking, +not even of suggesting, such a thing. I would not +have dared to; the old man, I knew, besides, would never, +never consent; his obstinacy was beyond any power of +mine to modify. None the less, the thought and desire +were distinctly in me at that moment. It even crossed +my mind that he was selfish, inconsiderate, unkind, not +to realize that a little, oh, just a tiny dose, would help me +and make me happy too.</p> + +<p>The change in him was now complete, he settled back +in his deep chair. I heard him asking for the fiddle. I +remember the effort it cost me to say something about +being ready to try, and how I concealed my sulky face +as I crossed the room to open my case. I felt disappointed, +rather sore, a trifle angry too; he could so easily open the +gates of heaven for me. I fumbled with the case, delaying +on purpose, for no music lay in me, and I did not want to +play, I felt miserable all over. My back was turned to him. +And then I heard my name softly spoken close behind me.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span></p> + +<p>I turned with a start, it was the doctor’s voice, its +peculiar softness struck me. He was coming slowly +across the room, a curious smile on his face, peering at me +over the top of his spectacles, the shoulders bent forward +a little, his gait slouching, his slippers dragging along the +carpet, his white hair tumbling about his forehead, moving +slowly at me—and in his raised right hand was a needle +poised to strike.</p> + +<p>I knew what it meant: he was going to give me +morphia without even being asked. A queer revulsion of +feeling came over me. He was saying something, but I +did not hear the words properly, nor understand them, +at any rate; his voice, too, was so low and soft. My +brain was in a whirl. Something in the old man’s appearance +frightened me. The idea of the drug now also +frightened me. Then, suddenly, a complete recklessness +rushed over me.</p> + +<p>“Take off your coat,” I heard him say. “And now +roll your sleeve up. <i>So! Nun, jetzt</i>”—he gazed hard into +my eyes—“<i>aber—nur—ausnahmsweise!</i>” With slow +earnest emphasis he repeated the words: “As an exception—only!”</p> + +<p>I watched him choose the place on my arm, I +watched the needle go in with its little prick, I watched +him slowly press the small piston that injected the poison +into my blood. He, for his part, never once moved his +eyes from mine till the operation was ended, and my coat +was on again. He wore that curious smile the whole time. +“You needed it to-night,” he said, “just a little, a very +weak dose—<i>aber—nur—ausnahmsweise</i>!” He walked +over and put the little Majendie phial back upon the shelf. +Then he filled his pipe and drew up the operating chair +for me to lie on. His eye was constantly on me. The +music was forgotten. He wanted to talk.</p> + +<p>Whether he had done this thing really to give me a +little happiness, or whether his idea was to make me +“interesting” for his own sake, I do not know. The +fact is that within three minutes of the needle’s prick I +was in a state of absolute bliss.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span></p> + +<p>A little warm sensation, accompanied by the faintest +possible suggestion of nausea which was probably my own +imagination, passed up the spine into the head. Something +cleared in my brain, then burst. A sense of thawing +followed, the melting away of all the things that had been +making me unhappy. I began to glow all over. Hope, +happiness and a gorgeous confidence flowed in; benevolence, +enthusiasm, charity flooded me to the brim. I +wanted to forgive Boyde <i>everything</i> to the end of time, +sacrifice my entire life to cure my old German friend; +everything base, unworthy, sordid in me, it seemed, +had dropped away....</p> + +<p>The experience is too well-known to bear another +description; it varies, of course, with individuals; varies, +too, according to the state of health or sickness, according +to whether it is needed or not really needed; and while +some feel what I felt, others merely sleep, or, on the contrary, +cannot sleep at all. The strength of the dose, +naturally, is also an important item. Individual reactions, +anyhow, are very different, and with Kay, to whom +later the doctor gave it too, three doses produced no effect +whatever, while the fourth brought on the cumulative +result of all four at once, so that we had to walk him up +and down, pouring strong black coffee down his unwilling +throat, urging him violently not to sleep—the only thing +he wanted to do—or he would, old Huebner assured him—never +wake again.... In my case, at any rate, wasted +physically as I was, empty of food, under-nourished for +many weeks, below par being a mild description of my +body, the result seemed a radiance that touched ecstasy. +It was, of course, an intensification of consciousness.</p> + +<p>Such intensification, I well knew, could be produced +by better if more difficult ways, ways that caused no +reaction, ways that constructed instead of destroyed ... +and the first pleasure I derived from my experience, the +interest that first stirred flashingly and at once through +my cleared mind, was the absolute conviction that the +teaching and theories in my books were true....</p> + +<p>The doctor sat, smiling at me from his chair.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span></p> + +<p>“I would not do this for many,” he said in German, +“but for you it has no danger. <i>You</i> could stop anything. +You have real will.” After a pause he added: “Now we +are happy; we are both happy. Let us dream without +thinking. Let us <i>realize</i> our happiness!...”</p> + +<p>The hours passed while we talked, and my hunger was +forgotten. I only wanted one thing to complete my +happiness—I wanted Kay, I wanted Boyde, and I wanted +one figure from across the sea, my brother. Had these +three come to join the circle in that dingy consulting-room, +my heaven, it seemed to me, would have been made +perfect....</p> + +<p>The passing of time was not marked. I played the +fiddle, and we chanted the old man’s favourite passage: +“O just, subtle and mighty opium!” ... its full meaning, +with the appeal it held, now all explained to me +at last. As I laid the instrument down, I saw the white +face of the little girl just inside the half-opened door. +She caught my eye, ran up to me, and climbed upon +my knee.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Uncle Diedel,” she cried, “how big your eyes +are! I do believe Otto has given you some of his Majendie +medicine. Are you going to die, too, unless you have it?”</p> + +<p>Nothing, it seemed, was hidden from the clear vision +that lay in me then; the appalling truth flashed into me on +the instant. The little, stunted figure, the old expression +in the pallid child-face, the whiteness of the skin, the brilliant +eyes, all were due to the same one thing. Did the +doctor, her own father, give <i>her</i> the needle too?</p> + +<p>It was on this occasion, this night of my first experience +with morphine, that I found my letters with the stamps +torn off. I reached home, as described, about two in the +morning, still in a state of bliss, although the effect of the +drug was waning a little then. But there was happiness, +affection, forgiveness and charity in my heart, I thought. +This describes my feelings of the moment certainly. +How they were swept away has been already told. So +much for the pseudo-exaltation of the drug! And, while +on this subject, the part played by the drug in this particular +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span> +little scrap of history may as well be told briefly +at once and done with.</p> + +<p>The suggestion that I could “stop anything,” combined +with my own desire, was potent. There was another way +in which the insidious poisoning also worked: I became +so “interesting,” and entertained the old doctor so successfully, +that he found himself able to do without his own +dose. The stern injunction “<i>nur ausnahmsweise</i>” was +forgotten. Without the stuff in my blood I was gloomy, +stupid, dull; with it, I became alive and helped him. +But the headache and depression, the nausea, the black +ultimate dejection of the “day after” could be removed +by one thing only. Nothing else had the slightest effect, +and only another dose could banish these after-effects—a +stronger dose. While the old man was soon able to reduce +not only the quantity he took, but the number of +injections as well, my own dose, to produce the desired +effect, had to be doubled.</p> + +<p>Every night for four weeks that needle pricked me. +In my next incarnation—if it takes place—I shall still see +the German doctor slouching across the room at me with +the loaded syringe in his poised hand, and the strange look +in his eyes. It seems an ineradicable memory.... By +the end of the four weeks, I was working again on the +newspaper; my visits to the wooden house I cut down to +two a week, then one a week. It was a poignant business. +He needed me. Desire for the “balm that assuaged,” +desire to help the friend who was slowly dying, desire to +save myself from obvious destruction, these tugged and +tore me different ways. For the full story I should have +to write another book.... Three things saved me, I +think—in the order of their value: my books and beliefs; +Nature—my Sundays in Bronx Park or the woods of the +Palisades in New Jersey; and, lastly, the power of the +doctor’s own suggestion, “<i>you</i> could stop anything!”...</p> + +<p>When May came, with her wonder and her magic, +I was free again, so free that I could play the fiddle and +talk to the old man by the hour, and feel even no desire +for the drug. Nor has the desire ever returned to me from +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span> +that day to this. An experiment with haschisch, a good +deal later, an account of which I wrote for my paper at +the time, had no “desire” in it. Foolish and dangerous +though the experiment was, of course, the <i>cannabis +indica</i> was not taken for indulgence, nor to bring a false +temporary happiness into a life I loathed. I did it to earn +a little extra money; Kay did it with me; three times in +all we took it. Some of the effects I tried to describe +years later in the first story of a book, “John Silence.”</p> + +<p>My decision, with the steps I had taken, to arrest +Boyde, I told to the doctor on the afternoon following the +discovery of his treachery with my letters. He approved. +This time even his Jekyll personality approved.</p> + +<p>“You’ll never catch him though,” he growled. “He’s +too clever for you. He’ll hear about the warrant and be +out of the State in a day, if not out of the country. In +Canada they can’t touch him. Besides, the police won’t +stir a finger. Oh, you’ll never catch him.”</p> + +<p>I felt otherwise, however, I meant to catch him, +while at the same time I did not want to. The horrible +man-hunt began that very night.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXII"> + CHAPTER XXII + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap'><span class='allcaps'>The</span> search for Boyde was a prolonged nightmare: +used several times already, this phrase alone describes +it. It lasted over a fortnight. Every +night, from nine o’clock till two, or even later in the morning, +it continued. The old doctor almost invariably +came with me. It was mid-winter and bitter cold, I +still had no overcoat, a thin summer vest being my only +underwear. The disreputable haunts we searched were +heated to at least 70° F., whereas the street air was commonly +not far from zero, with biting winds or icy moisture +that cut like a knife. It must have been the drug +that saved me from pneumonia, for I was in and out of +a dozen haunts each night.... I was a prey to contrary +and alternating emotions—the desire to let the fellow go +free, the conviction that it was my duty to save him from +himself, to save others from him as well. The distress, +unhappiness and doubt I experienced made that prolonged +man-hunt indeed a nightmare.</p> + +<p>Plans were laid with care and knowledge. Boyde, +we argued, had money, or he would have returned to East +19th Street. Had he enough to bribe the police, or to go +to Canada? We decided that his contempt for me would +outweigh any fear he felt that I might take action. The +“Night Owls” were now away on tour; he would hardly +go after Pauline M——. We concluded he was “doing +the town,” as it was called, and was not very far from East +19th Street. With his outstanding figure and appearance, +it ought not to be difficult to find some trace of him +in the disreputable places. The “Tenderloin”—a region +about Broadway and 30th Street, so packed with illegal +“joints” that their tribute to the police was the richest +and juiciest of the whole city—was sure to be his hunting +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span> +ground. To the Tenderloin haunts, accordingly, we +went that first night of the chase.</p> + +<p>As a reporter I knew the various places well already, +and felt quite equal to making my search alone, but the +doctor, though in no condition to traipse about the icy street +after dark, insisted on accompanying me. Nothing I said +could prevent him coming. Truth to tell, I was not sorry +to have him with me—in some of the saloons; besides which +I had no money, and something—lager beer cost only +five cents a glass—had to be ordered in each place. We +hurried from one saloon to another, looking in at various +gambling hells, opium joints, dancing places and music-halls +of the poorer kind where men and women met on +easy terms, and we stayed at each one just long enough +to make inquiries, and to benefit by the warmth and +comfort, without being pestered by the habitual frequenters.</p> + +<p>I had in my possession a small photograph of Boyde; +it was on tin, showing the head and shoulders; it had been +taken one day earlier in our acquaintance when we went +together to a Dime Museum in 14th Street. It now proved +very useful. It showed his full face, big eyes, drooping +moustaches and eyeglass. The absence of the moustache +altered him a great deal, but the eyeglass and the six feet +two inches in height counterbalanced this.</p> + +<p>At every “joint” I produced this photograph, asking +the attendants, bar-tenders, and any women I judged to +be frequenters of the place, whether they had seen the +original recently, or anyone like him. Some laughed and +said they had, others said the opposite, but the majority +refused to say anything, showed insolently their suspicion +of me and my purpose, and, more than once, made it +advisable for us to get out before we were put out. At +such places customers are chary about information of each +other. Among the women, however, were some who +knew clearly who it was we “wanted,” though saying +nothing useful, and soon the doctor decided it was a mistake +to show the photograph too much, for Boyde would +be warned by these women, while many, fearful that they +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span> +themselves were “wanted,” would merely lie in self +protection, and set us upon false trails. Any woman who +had not paid her weekly blackmail money to the ward man +was in danger, and few, to judge by their appearance, +were not involved in robbery, knock-out drops, or the +ubiquitous “badger-game.” Yet these, I knew, were +the places Boyde would feel at home in. My being a +newspaper man proved of value to us more than once, +at any rate. My thoughts, as we sat in a curtained +corner of some “hell,” whose overheated atmosphere of +smoke, scent, alcohol and dope was thick enough to cut +with a knife, watching, waiting, listening, must be +imagined. I watched every arrival. The tension +on nerves already overstrained was almost unbearable. +A habit of the doctor’s intensified this strain. He +did not, I think, remember Boyde very well, and +was constantly imagining that he saw him. The +street door would open; he would nudge me and whisper +“<i>Sehen Sie, da kommt der Kerl nun endlich...!</i>” +He pointed, my heart leapt into my mouth; nothing +could induce me to arrest him, it seemed, and my relief +on seeing it was a stranger was always genuine—at the +moment.</p> + +<p>One night—or early morning, rather—the doctor, +who had been silent for a long time, turned to me with a +grey, exhausted face. The morphine was beginning to +fail him, and he must inject another dose. This happened +several times.... Behind a curtain, or in a place aside +where we were not even alone, he opened his clothes, +found a clear space of skin, and applied the needle, while +I rubbed the spot with my finger for about a minute to +prevent a blister forming. No one, except perhaps a +very drunken man or woman occasionally, paid the +smallest attention to the operation; to them it was evidently +a familiar and commonplace occurrence.... +“You must not stay up any longer,” he would say another +time, after a sudden examination of my face. “You +look dreadful. Come, we will go home.”</p> + +<p>I was only too glad to be marched off. We paced the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span> +icy streets arm in arm, numerous people still about on +various errands, tramcars and elevated trains still roaring, +saloons and joints blazing with light, wide open till dawn, +while the old man, rejuvenated and stimulated by the drug, +discoursed eloquently the whole way, I dragging by his +side, silent, depressed, weary with pains that seemed +more poignant then than hunger or mere physical +fatigue.</p> + +<p>The next night it would be the same, and the one after +that, and the next one after that too—the search continued. +It wore me down. I saw the eyeglass staring +furtively at me from behind every corner, even in the day-time. +His footstep sounded behind me often. At night +I locked my door, for fear he might steal back into the +room.... Once or twice I reported to headquarters that +I was on the trail, but the detective had lost interest in +the case; a conviction was doubtful, anyhow; he was not +“going to sit around catching flies”; only the fact that I +was a reporter on the <i>Sun</i> made him pause. “Telephone +when you get him,” he said, “and I’ll come up and do the +rest.” Much fresh information about Boyde had also +come my way; he had even stolen the vases from a Church +communion table—though he denied this in his confession +later—and pawned them. In every direction, and this +he did not deny, he had borrowed money in my name, +giving me the worst possible character while doing so. +Probably indeed, I never lived down <i>all</i> he said about +me....</p> + +<p>It was a bitter, and apparently, an endless search. +From the West Side joints, we visited the East Side haunts +of vice and dissipation. I now knew Boyde too well to +think he would “fly high”; his tastes were of the lowest. +The ache it all gave me I can never describe....</p> + +<p>We went from place to place as hour after hour passed. +We found his trail, and each time we found it my heart +failed me. A woman, gorgeously painted, showing her +silk stockings above the knee, her atmosphere reeking of +bad scent and drink, came sidling up, murmuring this +and that.... The Doctor’s eye was on me, though he said +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span> +no word, made no single gesture.... The tin-type +photograph was produced.... “Yep, I seen dat fellar,” +grinned the woman in her “tough” bowery talk they +all affected in the Tenderloin. “A high flier ... raining +in London, too”—a gibe at the “English” habit +of turning up one’s trousers—with a stream of local +slang, oaths, filthy hints and repeated demands to “put +’em up,” meaning drinks. Then a whispered growl from +the old German “<i>Nichts! ... sie luegt ... los mit +ihr!</i>” A further stream of lurid insults ... and she was +gone, while another sidled up a little later. They all knew +German, these women. Was not New York the third +biggest German city, qua population, in the Empire? +Few, as a matter of fact, were American. Barring the +mulattos and quadroon girls, to say nothing of the negresses, +the majority were French, Hungarian, Spanish, Italian, +Dutch or some polyglot mixture not even the British +Museum could define....</p> + +<p>Never did the old German’s kindness prove itself as +in these hideous night-watches. Apart from all questions +of trouble and expense, he was obliged to take extra doses +of morphine to meet the charge upon his system, at a time, +too, when he was struggling to reduce the quantity. +Compared to what he did, even the fact that he gave the +poison to others, possibly to his own child among them, +seemed negligible. Not only did he accompany me during +the chase, spending hours in low, suffocating dens of beastliness, +walking the wind-swept streets in mid-winter, +suffering insults and acute discomfort, but also he bestowed +practical care and kindness on me during the day, providing +me with food (I was in no state even to pose in the +studios at the time), and even suggesting that I should fit +up a bed in his workshop where he kept the lathe and made +the chessmen. All this, too, from an old man, himself in +deep misery, and on the losing side of a fight far more +terrible than I ever knew or imagined, a fight, <i>he</i> then +realized already, was to end before very long in failure, +which meant death. The strange, broken old being, +twisted and distorted though his nervous system was by +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span> +a drug, showed—to me, at any rate—that rare thing +which experience of life proves greater than intellect, than +success, than power, or brilliance may achieve—a heart. +If reincarnation, with its karmic law, be true, either he +owed me a heavy debt from some forgotten past, or I +owe to him a debt some future life will enable, and enforce +me, to repay.</p> + +<p>It was at the end of the first ten days that, quite by +chance, we stumbled upon the trail of Boyde. He had +been seen in a “swell dive” on the West Side—with a +woman. He was spending money like water. How had +he come by it? Whom had he swindled now? We were +in the East Side, following a false clue, when this information +was given to us—under conditions impossible to describe—and +we hurried across to the neighbourhood +indicated. An hour later we were only a short thirty +minutes behind his glittering path. He was visiting +expensive joints. Champagne flowed. The woman wore +furs. He wore a light coloured box-cloth overcoat. Both +were “high fliers.” And he was drinking hard.</p> + +<p>The information, I confess, had the effect of stiffening +me. It was impossible not to wonder, as we sat in the +cross-town tram of East 23rd Street, whether in his gay +career he gave a single thought to the room in East 19th +Street, where he shared my bed, wore my suit, ate my food, +such as it was, and where he had left me ill, alone and +starving. The old doctor was grim and silent, but a repressed +fury, I could see, bit into him. Was there, perhaps, +vengeance, in the old, crumpled man? “No weakness, +remember,” he growled from time to time. “I hold +him, while you telephone to Mulberry Street. <i>Pflicht, +pflicht!</i> It is your duty to—to everybody...!”</p> + +<p>The trail led us to Mouquin’s, where he had undoubtedly +been shortly before, then on to a place in 34th Street ... +and there we lost it hopelessly. It was not a false alarm, +but the trail ran up a tree and vanished. He had gone +home with the woman, but who she was or where she lived, +not even the ward man—whom I knew by chance, and, +equally by chance, met at the door—could tell us. I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span> +telephoned to headquarters to warn Detective Lawler to +be in readiness. Lawler was out on a “big story” elsewhere, +but another man would come up with the warrant +the moment I sent word. I had, however, no occasion to +telephone again that night, nor even the next night, +though we must evidently have been within an ace of +catching him. It was like searching for a needle in a +haystack, or for a rabbit in a warren. The neighbourhood, +this joint in particular, was alive with similar characters; +all the women wore furs; all the men were tall, many of +them had “glass-eyes,” the majority seemed English with +“their trousers turned up.” We sat for hours in one den +after another, but we caught no further indication of the +trail. It had vanished into thin air. And after these two +exciting and exhausting nights, the old doctor collapsed; +he could do no more; he told me he felt unequal to the +strain and could not accompany me even one more time. +The old man was done.</p> + +<p>The day after the search stopped temporarily, Kay +arrived in the city, to my great delight. It was a keen relief +to have him back. The tour had been a failure, and the +company had become stranded in Port Hope, Ontario. +Salaries were never paid; he had received hotel board, +railway ticket, laundry, but rarely any cash. What +luggage he possessed was in the Port Hope hotel, held in +lieu of payment. It remained there.</p> + +<p>We talked things over, and the news about Boyde, +heard now for the first time in detail, shocked him. There +was no doubt or hesitation in Kay’s mind. “Of course +you must arrest him; we’ll go out to-night and look.” +We did so, but with no result. Kay had the remains of +a borrowed $10, we dined at Krisch’s; he had cigarettes, +too.... We passed a happy evening, coming home +early from the chase. Like myself, he had no overcoat, but +the money did not reach to getting it from Ikey where +Boyde had pawned it. We sat indoors, and talked.... +Only a short three months before we had sat talking round +a camp-fire on our island. It seemed incredible. We +discussed my plan for settling in the woods, to which he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span> +was very favourably inclined. Meanwhile, he explained, +his Company was preparing another tour with better plays +and better cast. They hoped to start out after Christmas, +now only a week away. The word “Christmas” made us +laugh. I still had the Christmas menu of our Hub +dinner, and we pinned it upon the wall. It might suggest +something to the long-suffering Mrs. Bernstein, +Kay thought.</p> + +<p>But instead we ate our oatmeal and dried apples....</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"> + CHAPTER XXIII + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap kern'><span class='allcaps'>It</span> was on the Tuesday before Christmas that I caught +Boyde; the day also before the White Star steamers +sailed. The cold was Arctic, a biting east wind +swept the streets. There was no sun. If ever there +was a Black Tuesday for me it was that 18th of December, +1892.</p> + +<p>Towards evening, the doctor, I knew, would expect +me as usual; there was nothing to prevent my going; +and yet each time the thought cropped up automatically +in my mind I was aware of a vague, indeterminate feeling +that somehow or other I should not go. This dim feeling +also was automatic. There was nothing I knew of to +induce, much less to support it. I did not mention it to +Kay. I could not understand whence it came nor what +caused it, but it did not leave me, it kept tugging at my +nerves. “You’re not going to the doctor’s to-night,” +it said, “you’re going elsewhere.”</p> + +<p>After dark this odd feeling became more and more +insistent, and then all at once it connected itself with +Boyde. Quite suddenly this happened. I had not been +thinking of Boyde at the moment; now, abruptly, up +cropped his name and personality. I was to go out and +catch him.</p> + +<p>My mind resisted this idea. Several things, besides, +were against it. In the first place, we had voluntarily +given up the hunt and I was resigned to his escape; +secondly and thirdly, I dreaded being out in the bitter +cold, and I badly needed the “assuaging balm” of old +Huebner’s needle. If the first two were negative inhibitions, +the third was decidedly positive. All three had to +be conquered if I was to obey the strange prompting +which whispered, and kept on whispering: “Go out and +look. You’ll find him.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span></p> + +<p>There was, in addition, the usual minor conflict to +which I had grown quite accustomed, the conflict between +my desire to be relieved of an unpleasant “duty,” yet the +conviction that it was a duty I had no right to shirk. In +spite of my resistance, at any rate, the prompting strengthened; +as night fell I grew more and more restless and uneasy; +until at last the touch of inevitability that lay +behind it all declared itself—and the breaking point was +reached.</p> + +<p>I could resist no longer; it was impossible to contain +myself. I sprang out of my chair and told Kay I was going +out to catch Boyde.</p> + +<p>“Don’t go,” he said. “Waste of time. He’s skipped +long ago—been warned.” He muttered something more +about the intense cold. “You’ll kill yourself.”</p> + +<p>But the impulsion I felt was irresistible. It was as +though some inner power drove and guided me. As a +matter of fact, I went straight to the exact spot where, +among the teeming millions of the great city, Boyde was. +Fifteen minutes earlier or later, I should have missed him. +Also, but for a chance hesitation later—lasting sixty seconds +at most—he would have seen me and escaped. The calculation, +whether due to intelligence or to coincidence, +was amazingly precise. I left our room at nine o’clock; +at a quarter to ten I stood face to face with Boyde.</p> + +<p>The wind was driving a fine dry dust of snow before it, +and all who could remained indoors. The streets were +deserted; despite the nearness of Christmas, signs of bustle +and the usual holiday crowd were absent. I walked very +quickly to keep warm, an odd subconscious excitement in +me. I seemed to know exactly where I was going, though, +had anybody asked me, I could not have told them. Up +4th Avenue to 23rd Street, then west across Broadway, I +passed 6th and 7th Avenues, with only one pause of a +moment. At the corner of 7th Avenue I hesitated, +uncertain whether to turn north, or to continue west towards +8th Avenue. A policeman was standing outside +a saloon side-door, a man I had known in the Tombs +police court; an Irishman, of course. I recognized him, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span> +He was friendly to me because I had used his name in a +story; he remembered me now. I produced the tin-type +photograph. He inspected it under the nearest electric +light.</p> + +<p>“Yep,” he said, “I seen that feller only a few minutes +back—half an hour maybe—only he’s lifted his mustache.”</p> + +<p>“Shaved his moustache—yes?”</p> + +<p>“That’s what I said,” as he handed back the tin-type. +“Got a story?” he inquired the same instant. “Anything +big doing?”</p> + +<p>“Which way did he go?”</p> + +<p>“Up-town,” said the policeman, jerking his thumb in +the direction north. “Up 8th Avenoo. And he was +travellin’ with a partner, a big feller, same size as yerself, +I guess.” He moved off to show he had no more to say. +Any story that might result would be out of his beat. +There was nothing in it for him. His interest vanished. +I hurried on to the corner of 8th Avenue, the edge of a +bad neighbourhood leading down through the negro +quarter towards the haunts of the river-front, and there +I paused again for a second or two.</p> + +<p>I was still in 23rd Street, but I now turned up the +Avenue. It was practically deserted, the street cars empty, +few people on the pavements. The side-streets crossed it +at right angles, poorly lit, running right and left into a +world of shadows, but at almost every corner stood a +brilliant saloon whose windows and glass doors poured +out great shafts of light. Sometimes there were four +saloons, one at each corner, and the blaze was dazzling. +I passed 24th, 25th, 26th and 27th streets. There were +little flurries of dry snow; I saw no one, nothing but empty +silent sidewalks swept by the icy wind.</p> + +<p>At 28th Street there were four saloons, one at each +corner, and the blaze of light had a warm, enticing look. +Through the blurred windows of the one nearest to me, +the heads of the packed crowd inside as they lined up to +the bar were just visible, and while I stood a moment, +shivering in the icy wind, the comforting idea of a hot +whisky came to me. For the wind cut like glass and neither +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span> +my excitement nor the exercise had warmed me. I +hesitated, standing against a huge electric light pole, in +whose black shadow I was quite invisible. A hot whisky, +I reflected, in this neighbourhood would cost 20 or 25 cents; +I had 30 cents in my pocket; I needed the stimulant; +I was very weak; I felt cold to the bone. But 25 cents +was a lot of money, I might want a car-fare home besides +... and I was still hesitating when two tall figures +emerged suddenly out of the dark side-street into the flood +of light, swung sharp round the corner, and passed through +the glass doors into the saloon. The figures were two men, +and the first of them was Boyde.</p> + +<p>For a second my heart seemed to stop, then began +immediately racing and beating violently. In that brilliant +light I saw every detail sharply, Boyde and his companion, +both mercilessly visible. The man I wanted wore +a big horsy overcoat of light-coloured box-cloth with large +white buttons, the velvet collar turned up about his ears. +The other man I did not know; he was taller than Boyde +and wore no overcoat; he was the “partner travellin’ +with him” mentioned by the policeman. His gait was +unsteady, he reeled a little.</p> + +<p>The clamour of noisy voices blared out a moment into +the street before the doors swung to again, and I stood quite +still for an appreciable time, blotted out of sight in my +black shadow. Had I not hesitated a moment to reflect +about that hot whisky I should have passed, my figure +full in the blaze, just in front of the two men, who would +have waited in the dark side-street till I was safely out of +sight.</p> + +<p>The state of my nerves, I suppose, was pretty bad, +and the lack of my customary evening dose accentuated +it. I know, anyhow, that at first I realized one thing only—that +I could never have the heart to arrest the fellow. +This quickly passed, however; the racing of my blood +passed too; determination grew fixed; I decided to act at +once. But should I go in, or should I wait till they came +out again? If I went in there would probably be a fight; +Boyde’s hulking companion would certainly take his side; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span> +the lightest blow in my weak state and I should be +down and out. On the other hand, there was a side +door, there were several side doors, and the couple +might easily slip out, for I could not watch all the doors +at once.</p> + +<p>I decided to go in. And the moment the decision was +taken, complete calmness came over me, so that I felt +myself merely an instrument of fate. It was horrible, +but it had to be. Boyde was to get the punishment he +deserved. I could not fail.</p> + +<p>The way the little scene was stage-managed seemed +curious to me when it was all over, for as I moved out into +the light, a couple of policemen came across the broad +avenue behind and looked inquisitively at what must have +seemed my queer behaviour. I immediately crossed to +meet them, while never taking my eye off the swing-doors. +A man who had just gone into that saloon, I told them, +was to be arrested.</p> + +<p>“That so?” they asked with a grin, thinking me drunk, +of course. “And what’s he done to get all that?”</p> + +<p>I told them I was a reporter on the <i>Sun</i>, that I was the +complainant in the case, and that Detective Lawler of the +9th District had the warrant at headquarters. They +could telephone to him if they liked. They listened, but +they would not do anything. I could telephone to Lawler +myself; <i>they</i> weren’t going to act without a warrant. +They finally agreed to wait outside and “see fair play,” +if I would go in and fetch “the guy” out into the street. +“We’ll stop any trouble,” they said, “and take him to +the station if <i>you</i> make a complaint.” I agreed to this +and walked in through the swing-doors.</p> + +<p>The saloon was crowded, the heat wonderful, the bars +thronged with men in all stages of intoxication; bar-tenders +in white jackets flew to and fro; business was +booming, and at the least sign of a row, everybody, more +or less, would have joined in. This general impression, +however, was only in the background of my mind. What +filled it was the fact that Boyde was looking at me, staring +straight into my eyes, but in the mirror. The instant the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span> +doors swung to I had caught his reflection in the long glass +behind the bar. Across this bar, a little space on either +side of him, he was leaning on both elbows, his face resting +in one hand. The eye-glass—it was asking for trouble to +wear it in such a place—had been discarded. He was +alone. His back, of course, was towards me.</p> + +<p>For a few seconds we stared at one another in this way, +and then, as I walked down the long room, pushing between +the noisy crowd, he slowly turned. I reached him. A +faint smile appeared on his face. He evidently did not +know quite what to do, but a hand began to move towards +me. He thought, it seemed, I was going to shake hands, +whereas I thought he was probably going to hit me. +Instead my hand went to his shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Boyde,” I said, keeping my voice low, “I want you. +You’re going to be—arrested.”</p> + +<p>The smile died out, and an awful <span id='cor_196'>look<del>ed</del></span> rushed into his +eyes. His face turned the colour of chalk. At first I +felt sure he was going to land me a blow in the face, but +the abrupt movement of his body was merely that he tried +to steady himself against the bar, for I saw his hand grip +the rail and cling to it. The same second his features +began to work.</p> + +<p>“I’ve got to arrest you,” I repeated. “It’s Karma. +You had better come quietly.”</p> + +<p>“Karma——” he repeated in a dazed way and stared. +He was bewildered, incredulous still.</p> + +<p>The same second, however, he grasped that it was +serious, my face and voice and manner doubtless warned +him. This, at last, was real; he suddenly knew it. The +expression of appeal poured up instantly into his eyes, +those big, innocent, blue eyes where I had so often seen it +before. Only now there was no moustache, and the +brutal cunning mouth was bare. He began to speak at +once, keeping his voice low, for several people were already +interested in us. He used his softest and most pleading +tone. With that, too, I was thoroughly familiar.</p> + +<p>“Blackwood—for God’s sake let me go. I’m off to +England to-morrow on a White Star boat. I’m working +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span> +my passage over. For the love of God—for my mother’s +sake——!”</p> + +<p>I cut him short. The falseness, the cowardice, the +treachery all working in his face at once, sickened me. +At the same time an aching pity rose. I felt miserable.</p> + +<p>“You must come out with me. At once.”</p> + +<p>He turned quickly and looked about him, his eyes +taking in everything. Some men beside us had heard our +talk and were ready to interfere. “What’s your trouble?” +one of them asked thickly. I realized we must get away +at once, out into the street, though the scene had barely +lasted two minutes yet.</p> + +<p>“There’s a policeman waiting outside,” I went on. +“You’d better come quietly. A row won’t help you.” +But I said it louder than I thought, for several heads turned +towards the swing-doors. The effect on Boyde, however, +was hardly what I expected, and seemed strange. He +wilted suddenly. I believe all thought of resistance or +escape went out of him when he heard the word “police.” +His jaw dropped, there was suddenly no expression in +his eyes at all. A complete blankness came into his features. +It was horrible. He’s got no soul, I thought. +He merely stared at me.</p> + +<p>“Whose is that overcoat?” I asked, feeling sure it +was not his own. I already had him by the arm.</p> + +<p>“Roper’s,” he said quietly, his voice gone quite dead. +“Here he is.” His face was still like a ghost’s. It was +blank as stone.</p> + +<p>I had quite forgotten the companion, but at that same +moment I saw Roper hovering up beside me. His attitude +was threatening, he was three-parts drunk; a glance +showed me he was an Englishman, and obviously, by birth, +a gentleman.</p> + +<p>“Roper, if you want your coat, you’d better take it. +Boyde is under arrest.”</p> + +<p>“Arrest be damned!” Roper cried in a loud voice +that everybody heard. There was already a crowd about +us, but this increased it. Roper was looking me over. +He glared with anger. “You’re that cad Blackwood, I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span> +suppose, are you? I’ve heard about you. I know your +whole damned rotten story and the way you’ve treated +Boyde. But Boyde’s a friend of mine. No one can do +anything to him while <i>I’m</i> here...!”</p> + +<p>He roared and shouted in that crowded bar-room, +while the whole place looked on and listened, ready to +interfere at the first sign of “a fuss.” A blow, a little push +even, would have laid me out, and in the general scuffle +or free fight that was bound to follow, Boyde could have +got clear away—but neither he nor Roper thought of this +apparently. Roper went on pouring out his drunken abuse, +lurching forward but never actually touching me, while +Boyde stood perfectly still and listened in silence. He +made no attempt to shake off my hand even. I suddenly +then leaned over and spoke into his ear:</p> + +<p>“If you come quietly at once it’s only petit larceny—stealing +the money. Otherwise it’s forgery.”</p> + +<p>It acted like magic. An expression darted back into +his face. He turned, told Roper to shut up, said something +to the crowd about its being only a little misunderstanding, +and walked without another word towards the doors. +I walked beside him, the men made a way; a few seconds +later we were in the street. Roper, who had waited to +finish his drink, and was puzzled besides by the quick +manœuvre, lurched at some distance after us. The two +policemen, who had watched the scene through the windows, +stood waiting. Boyde swayed against me when he +saw them. I marched him up to the nearest one. “I +make a charge of larceny against this man, and the warrant +is at Mulberry Street with Detective Lawler. I am the +complainant.” They told him he was under arrest, and +we began our horrible little procession to the station in +West 21st Street.</p> + +<p>Boyde was between the two policemen, I was next to +the outside one, on the kerb, Roper came reeling in the +rear, shouting abuse and threats into my face. The next +time I saw Roper was in the court of General Sessions, +weeks later, when Boyde was brought up for trial. By +that time he had learned the truth; he came up and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span> +apologized. Boyde, he told me, had swindled him even +more completely than he had swindled me.</p> + +<p>The search in the station made me sick at heart; +every pocket was turned out; there was 80 dollars in cash; +the sergeant used filthy language. Boyde was taken +down to a cell, and I, as a newspaper reporter, was allowed +to go down with him. I stayed for two hours, talking +through the bars.</p> + +<p>It was two in the morning when the sergeant turned +me out after a dreadful conversation, and when I reached +home, to find Kay sitting up anxiously still, I was too exhausted, +from cold, excitement and hunger, to tell him more +than a bare outline of it all. I had to appear at eight +o’clock next morning and make my formal charge against +Boyde, in the Tombs Police Court—the Tombs, of all +places!—and with that thought in my mind I fell asleep.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"> + CHAPTER XXIV + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap kern'><span class='allcaps'>Boyde</span> came up with the first batch of prisoners. +The portentous shadow of the Tombs prison, +with its forbidding architecture, hung over the +whole scene.</p> + +<p>My first sight of him was sitting among the rows of +prisoners, waiting to be called. He looked ill and broken, +he made a pleading sign to me. As a reporter I had the +right to interview anybody and everybody, and I made +my way along the serried wooden benches. Lawler sat +next him, looking very pleased to have secured his prisoner, +and a good story into the bargain, without any trouble +to himself; but when I tried to shake hands with Boyde, +I found to my horror that he was handcuffed.</p> + +<p>“Say, boss, be sure and git me name spelled right, and +tell the reporters that <i>I</i> effected the arrest,” was the first +thing that Lawler said, using the phrase the detectives +always used.</p> + +<p>By promising the man all he wanted and more besides, +I managed to get us all three into a corner where we could +talk without everybody else hearing; also I got the handcuffs +taken off, for they were quite unnecessary inside the +building. The first thing Boyde said was to beg for +a drink; he had taken a lot the night before, his throat +was parched, his nerves were bad. At the moment this +was quite impossible, but I got one for him in the reporters’ +room after his case had been called. The second +thing he said was to beg me to “keep it out of the papers,” +though this, of course, lay quite beyond my powers. +Apart from this he said very little except to repeat and +repeat that he was repentant, and to beg me to withdraw +the charge, though this was now impossible, the matter +being out of my hands. Also, he wondered what the sentence +would be—he meant to plead guilty—and implored me +to leave out the forgery. He was very badly frightened.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span></p> + +<p>That early morning hour in the stinking atmosphere +of the over-heated police court was too ghastly ever to be +forgotten, but there were particular moments when pain +and pity, to say nothing of other strangely mixed emotions, +stabbed me with peculiar ferocity. When the reporters +flocked round him like vultures after prey was one of these; +another was when Boyde stood in front of the Tammany +magistrate, Ryan by name, and pleaded guilty. A mistake, +though not actually wrong, had crept into the charge +sheet. In my excitement of the night before the amount +stolen had been entered as $32, and though this was the +truth, I had meant to make it only $25. I was unintentionally +to blame for this—it was now Grand Larceny +instead of Petit Larceny. A magistrate could only deal +with the lesser offence, and Boyde therefore was held for +trial in General Sessions, instead of being sentenced then +and there. The look he gave me as Ryan spoke the words +was like a knife. He believed I had done this purposely. +A third unforgettable moment was when he was being +roughly pushed downstairs on his way to a cell in the +Tombs: he looked back forlornly over his shoulder at me.</p> + +<p>In the reporters’ room it was decided to print the +“Boyde story.” I knew all the men; Acton Davies was +there for the <i>Evening Sun</i>, specially sent down by McCloy. +The reporters dragged and tore at me. I realized what +“interviewed” victims felt when they wished to hide +everything away inside themselves. Yet the facts had +to be told; it was best I should give them accurately, if as +briefly, as leniently, as possible. The sight of all those +vultures (of whom, incidentally, I was one) scribbling +down busily the details of my intimate life with Boyde, +to be hawked later in the streets as news, was likewise a +picture not easily forgotten.</p> + +<p>Before the ordeal was over, Lawler returned from the +cell. He insisted, with a wink at me, that he had made +the arrest; the credit of the chase he also claimed; he had, +too, additional facts about Boyde’s past criminal career +of which I was quite ignorant, supplied by records at +headquarters. Lawler intended to get all the advertisement +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span> +for himself he could. I let his lying pass. On the +whole it seemed best to let him be responsible for the arrest; +it made the story more commonplace, and, luckily, so far, +I had not described this scene.</p> + +<p>An hour later I was talking with Boyde between the +bars of his cell in the Tombs prison, while, two hours later, +every evening paper in New York had a column or a column +and a half about us printed on its front page. There were +scare headlines of atrocious sort. There were posters, +too, showing our names in big letters. News that day +happened to be scarce, and the Boyde story was “good +stuff” apparently. The talk with him in the cell was one +of many; he was there six weeks before the trial came on.</p> + +<p>The papers finished him; the case was too notorious +for him ever to swindle again unless he changed his name. +They scarified him, they left out no detail, they hunted +up a thousand new ones, he had “cut a wide swath” +(<i>sic</i>) all over New York State, as one of them printed. +I had not mentioned Pauline M—— or the pastor’s +daughter, yet both were included. To see my own name +in print for the first time, the names of my parents, and +of half the peerage as well, was bad enough; to find myself +classed with bad company generally, with crooks and +rogues, with shady actresses, with criminals, was decidedly +unpleasant. Paragraphs my brother wrote to me appeared +in London papers too. Copies of the New York +ones were sent to my father. “Too foxy for Algernon” +was a headline he read out to my brother in his library. +Boyde had even written to him, signing himself “your +cousin,” to ask for money for “your poor son,” but had +received no reply. There is no need now to mention names, +but any distinguished connexion either of us possessed +appeared in the headlines or the article itself. “Nephew +of an earl held in $1,000 bail,” “Cousin of Lord X,” +“Scion of British Aristocracy a Sneak-thief,” were some +of the descriptions. “Son of a duchess in the Soup,” +was another. The <i>Staatszeitung</i> had a phrase which threw +a momentary light on an aspect of lower life in the city, +when Freytag, the German reporter who had taught me +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span> +how to write a court story, described me as “Sohn einer <i>sogennanten</i> +Herzogin.” He only laughed when I spoke to him +about it. “How should <i>I</i> know,” he said sceptically....</p> + +<p>Boyde came up in due course before Recorder Smythe +in general sessions, the most severe and most dreaded of +all the judges. He still wore my thick suit, he wore +also a pair of Harding Davis’s boots, and, I believe, something +else of Sothern’s. His sentence was two years in +the Penitentiary on Blackwell Island. A group of other +people he had swindled, including “Artist Palmer,” were +in court; so was an assistant of Ikey’s, with <i>all</i> our pawned +articles. Every single thing, whether stolen goods or +not, was returned to me. The doctor and Kay were also +there. Some of his letters are a human document:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class='right pr7'><i>Tombs</i>,</p> +<p class='right pr1'>December, 1892.</p> + +<p class='mtq'>Oh, Blackwood, what black treachery I returned you for +your many kindnesses, base lying for all your straightforward +dealing with me! You freely forgave me what ninety-nine men +out of every hundred would, if not imprisoned me for, certainly +never have forgiven me. I returned evil for good, and you still +bore with me. You said—I shall never forget it, for it was when +you found the stamp torn off your letter—and even at that +moment I had money in my pocket belonging to you, just as I +had when you shared your last 50 cent. piece that night at +Krisches, for I <i>must</i> say this, though I could tear myself to pieces +when I think of it—You said, ‘B. how you must <i>hate</i> me!’</p> + +<p>No, Blackwood, it seems a paradox, but I could not hate you +if I tried to. I don’t say this because I am in prison, or with any +desire to flatter. I am sincere in everything I say and it comes +from my heart. You have every reason to think from my former +actions that I am not sincere above reward, but I am.</p> + +<p>Oh, the old, but nevertheless true remark, TOO LATE! +It comes home to me with striking and horrible vividness. +Too Late! I have forfeited the respect of every good and honest +man, have disgraced my English name and my family. But, +let me go. Five years of service will be the best thing for me. +I can enlist under another name and may perhaps get a commission +in time. Give me the chance of redeeming myself, please. +If ever any man was sincerely repentant for the past I am that +man.</p> + +<p class='right pr1'><span class="smcap">Arthur B.</span></p> + +<p>Please excuse mistakes and alterations. I am so fearfully +shaky.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span></p> + + +<p class='mt1h right pr1'><i>The Tombs City Prison,</i><br> + <i>Centre Street, N. Y.</i></p> + +<p class='mtq'>Please read through before destroying it.</p> + +<p>I have begged another sheet of paper and stamp in order to +make one final appeal.</p> + +<p>Will you not come down again on receipt of this? Please +do, for God’s sake. No visitors are allowed on New Year’s Day, +or on Sunday. New Year’s Day! What a new year’s day for +me! Let me begin it afresh. I have a favour to ask you +which I must ask you verbally; I cannot put it on paper. It +is getting dark; so once more I ask you, I implore you, to +have mercy on me for my mother’s sake. For her sake spare</p> + +<p class='right pr1'> + <span class="smcap">Arthur B.</span> +</p> + +<p>Visiting hours 10-2. I am speaking the truth and nothing +but the truth when I say that I am sincerely sorry for all that I +have done and implore your pardon. This is not an insincere +expression, but one from my heart. Come down again, please, +even to speak to me, for you don’t know the mental agony I +am suffering.</p> + +<p class='right pr1'> + A. B. +</p> + + +<p class='mt1h right pr2'><i>Tombs City Prison</i>,</p> +<p class='right pr1'>New Year’s Day.</p> + +<p class='mtq'>It was more than kind of you to come all the way down here +and then after all not be able to see me; not much loss to you, +it is true, but a bitter disappointment to me. Palmer came down +and talked <i>very</i> kindly to me and instilled a little hope in me. +But this is a wretched New Year’s Day.</p> + +<p>I was talking to an old convict this morning, a man who in +his life has been about sixteen years in jail, and he said that if +he had only been let off in the first instance with a few days in +here, he would have been a different man to-day, but after serving +one term he became reckless and has now become a notorious +thief. As I said to you, think of me after 20 years’ penal servitude.</p> + +<p>Blackwood, won’t you and Palmer stay your hands once more? +I will leave the country, and if ever I should return you could +always have me arrested. I will never trouble you again. +Let me make a fresh start once more.</p> + +<p>Should you decide not to press the charge you can go to the +District Attorney’s Office and inform them of the fact.</p> + +<p>I once more <i>implore</i> you and Palmer to have pity on me, +and please come and see me! May I wish you and Palmer a +bright and happy New Year, brighter and happier than the past +one.</p> + +<p class='right pr1'> + <span class="smcap">Arthur B.</span> +</p> + +<p>Many thanks for the paper and envelopes. Bless you!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span></p> + + +<p class='mt1h right pr1'> + <i>The Tombs.</i> +</p> + +<p class='mtq'>Very many thanks for your visit yesterday. It is the only +pleasure I have. I believe what you say is true—that I am +reaping the result of evil done in the past and that the only +real way to atone is to meet it squarely and accept my punishment +without grumbling. If Karma is true, it is just, and I +shall get what I deserve, and not an iota more.</p> + +<p>I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for being so lenient +to me and even writing to the District Attorney on my behalf. +I am truly grateful, Blackwood. Please do not think I am not +sorry for what I have done, or that I am not really penitent, +for I am indeed.</p> + +<p>It was bitterly cold last night and I was awfully glad to have +my overcoat, and blessed you for sending it. I know you got +it out of pawn for me, and that is another kindness.</p> + +<p>Again, for the last time probably, I thank you for your +many acts of kindness. I bitterly regret and earnestly repent +for the manner I treated you, returning evil for good, and I shall +think much of you when serving my time under a blazing sun +or in my cramped and chilly cell.</p> + +<p class='right pr1'> + <span class="smcap">Arthur B.</span> +</p> + +<p class='mt1h right pr1'> + <i>Tombs Prison.</i> +</p> + +<p class='mtq'>I have just been to the Court House and pleaded guilty. +My sentence is remanded till Friday week. If I could only get +that lawyer I might get the sentence reduced a little. But Judge +Smythe is a very hard man. My small hopes were dashed +away on hearing that you had been subpœnaed to go before the +Grand Jury this morning.</p> + +<p>Now all hope is gone; only blank, blank despair; no hope, +all is dark. I wish I could die—much rather that than suffer +this awful remorse. Do you know I sometimes think I am going +mad? When I come out I shall be too old for the army, and +what else can a felon, a criminal, a convict do? Is crime the +only refuge? Shall I sink lower and lower? Will what small +sense of decency and honour I have left be utterly destroyed +and made callous by propinquity with other criminals?</p> + +<p>What a frightful nightmare to conjure up! Nightmare? +No, it is only too true; it is stern, inexorable reality. Thank +you for sending the clothes. I had no change before. Bless +you!</p> + +<p class='right pr1'> + A. B. +</p> + +<p class='mt1h right pr1'> + <i>Tombs City Prison.</i> +</p> + +<p class='mtq'>What follows I wish to write voluntarily. It is a Confession +and relieves me—</p> + +<p>I certainly wish to convey to you the fact of my sincere and +deep sorrow for the shameful manner I treated you and abused +your confidence and kindness. I fear that one of my letters +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span> +cannot have reached you, as I am sure I wrote at length on this +subject. You mistake and misjudge me when you think it is +only fear that prompts me to write as I do. My eyes are opened +to the enormity of my past crimes, opened by thinking and seeing +things in the proper light. I have been alone with my thought +for days now, and God knows how many more days will pass over +my head before I again face the world. It will relieve me to +give you a full confession of my treachery, for I believe there is +no real repentance without real confession.</p> + +<p>To begin with the editor. I never had a chance of the position +at Rockaway, although the editor once said casually that he would +try and find me some similar position. I lied to you all through +in that, for I wished you to think I had prospects of paying work in +view. When you used to come down with me to Franklin Street +(Harper’s) I waited about upstairs and looked at books, etc., +and then came down and concocted some lies about what I +had said and done. I once borrowed $15 from him (Richard +Harding Davis, Editor “Harper’s Weekly”) and said they were +for you. My dealings with Sothern were that he from time to +time lent me money, some $50 in all, and gave me a position at ten +dollars a week. I told him when borrowing that the money +was for your doctor, and when borrowing more I said you had +wasted it in drink. I asked him to cash several of the cheques +I forged, but he would never do this. I was paid up in full by +the manager and also for the extra performances of the “Disreputable +Mr. Reagen.” I little thought when I was playing +Merivale’s part that I should act it true to life. With Mr. +Beattie I lied all through. He never had any money of mine +or knew my mother or ever heard from her. He never bailed +me out, and I never used to see him as I said I did. You and +Palmer thought that I spent some time in jail this summer, +but I would rather not say anything in writing about that. +My dealings with Palmer were that I borrowed money from him +and said it was for you. I also went to your banker acquaintance +and borrowed twenty-five dollars for a specialist, saying it +was at your request. I did pawn the overcoat you gave me to +post to Kay, and that time you forgave me for stealing your +money I had in my pocket the proceeds of three stories of yours +I had given the <i>Sun</i>, and they had paid for. But, even in the +face of your forgiveness, I wanted this money so much for my +indulgences that I could not face the privation of handing it +over to you. I lied in the face of your kindness and generosity, +and when you even needed food I was going about drinking and +womanizing and spending freely. When my funds were exhausted +I came back to you, for I knew you would always forgive +me. It is awful. No wonder you want to see me go to prison. +I am as wicked a man as ever lived, I believe. I wonder what +caused me to tell such lies. Am I a natural born liar? It +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span> +seems like it. You wrong me in one thing—in thinking my +sorrow is sham and prompted by fear and the hope of getting +off. I cannot find words to express my contrition. Believe me, +I would do anything in my power, and will do, when my term +is up, to make reparation. I submit to the inevitable. I can +imagine something now of what you must have suffered when I +left you alone without food or money those four days and nights. +I think, however, the worst thing I did was telling the pastor’s +daughter that you tried to prevent our meeting because you +wished me to marry one of your sisters, though I do not know, +of course, whether you have any even. That, and the taking +the stamps off your letters so that I could get beer, seem to weigh +most heavily with me now in my darkness and loneliness. I +do not know what my sentence will be—heavy, I suspect, unless +I can get someone to plead for me, and I have not a single solitary +friend to do that. I am utterly alone. I have been in this +cell now twenty-one days, and have a week more before sentence +is given. It seems like six months. No one can realize what +prison is like till they have tried it.</p> + +<p>Believe me, I am deeply and truly sorry. I speak from my +heart. Think of me as kindly as you can when I am in the +Penitentiary. I hope I shall see you once more.</p> + +<p class='right pr1'> + <span class="smcap">Arthur B.</span> +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>I saw Boyde twice in my life afterwards; I heard, +indirectly, from him once: the prison chaplain wrote to +ask for “his things” which, Boyde told him, I “insisted +upon keeping.” He never had any “things” at all while I +knew him; the letter was indignant and offensive. Boyde +had evidently “told a tale” to the chaplain.</p> + +<p>The first time I saw him was some eighteen months +after he had been sent up, good behaviour evidently +having shortened his term. I was walking up Irving Place +and saw him suddenly about fifty yards in front of me. +It was my own thick suit I recognized first, then its wearer. +I instinctively called out his name. He turned, looked at +me, hurried on, and went round the corner into 21st Street. +Once round the corner, he must have run like a hare, +for when I entered the street too, he had disappeared.</p> + +<p>The second, and last, time I saw him was in London +ten years later—at a bookstall in Charing Cross station. +He saw me, however, first, or before I could come close +enough to speak, and he melted away into the crowd with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span> +swift and accomplished ease. I was near enough, though, +to note that he had grown his heavy moustache again, +still wore his eyeglass, and was smartly, even prosperously, +dressed. He looked very little older. From Lynwood +Palmer, whom I met soon afterwards in Piccadilly, I +heard that my old employer, the Horse, had seen him at +Tattersalls not long before, and that he, Boyde, had come +and begged Palmer not to give him away as he was “after +some Jews only”! Artist Palmer took no action.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXV"> + CHAPTER XXV + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap kern'><span class='smcap'>Mc</span><span class='allcaps'>Cloy</span> took me back on the <i>Evening Sun</i>, according +to his promise, about mid-January, and about +the same time Mrs. Bernstein sold her house and +moved to another lower down the street, almost opposite +to the doctor’s. There were no insects, all our things +were out of pawn, we had overcoats again, but we had to +find a new Ikey, for the old Ikey, of course, would have +nothing more to do with our trousers, gladstone bag, top +hat and tennis cups.</p> + +<p>The East 19th Street chapter was closed when Boyde +went to Blackwell Island; another in the same street had +begun: Mrs. Bernstein begged us to move with her: we +owed her big arrears of rent; also, for some odd reason, +she really liked us. In her odd way she even tried to +mother me, as though her interest, somewhere perhaps her +pity too, were touched. “You haf had drouble in England, +I subbose?” she hinted sympathetically. She had +read the newspapers carefully, and could not understand +why I should be exiled in poverty in this way unless I +had done something shady at home. It followed that I +had been sent out to America for my country’s good. +She shared, that is, the view most people took of my +position in New York.</p> + +<p>Only three months had passed since we arrived, but +it seemed years. I had never lived anywhere else. The +sheltered English life, the Canadian adventures, above all +the months upon our happy island, lay far away down the +wrong end of a telescope, small, distant patches, brightly +coloured, lit by a radiant sun, remote, incredible. It was +not myself but another person I watched moving across +these miniature maps of memory. Those happy days, +states, places, those careless, sanguine moods, those former +points of view so bright with hope, seemed gone for ever. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span> +I now lived in a world where I belonged. I should never +climb out again.</p> + +<p>The intensity of emotion at the time is difficult to +realize now, and quite impossible to recapture. I only +know that my feelings burned like fire, all the fiercer, of +course, for being inarticulate. The exaggeration was +natural enough; everything was out of proportion in me: +Boyde had destroyed my faith in people. I believed in no +one. The doctor had said that to lose belief in others made +life insupportable. I found that statement true. There +was a deep bitterness in my heart that for a time was more +than I could manage, and this distrust and bitterness +led me into an act of cruelty that shames me to this day.</p> + +<p>Into the roar and thunder of that frenzied newspaper +office stole a hesitating figure one afternoon, a shy youth +with rosy cheeks and curly hair, dressed in shabby but +well-cut clothes, and obviously an Englishman. He wore +gloves and carried a “cane”; these marked him as a +“Britisher” at once. He was asking for someone; +fingers were pointed at me; he was faintly familiar; I had +seen the face before—but where? He came over and +introduced himself as Calder, son of a Midland coach-builder; +we had met at some place or other—outside a +studio door, I think—and he knew Kay. I forget what he +was doing in New York—-idling, I think, or travelling. +He had outlived his cash, at any rate. He was in difficulties. +I distrusted him instantly. He was, of course, +another Boyde. I gave him the curtest possible greeting. +He, in turn, found the greatest possible difficulty in telling +me his story.</p> + +<p>I was sitting at the reporters’ table in shirt-sleeves +(owing to the suffocating temperature of the over-heated +office), scribbling at top speed the details of some lurid +“story,” while Calder told me his tale. He wanted to +whisper, but the noise forced him to shout, and this disconcerted +him. No one listened, however; he had merely +brought a “story” in. He had—but it was his own story. +I have quite forgotten what it was, or what had happened +to him; only the main point I remember: he had nowhere +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span> +to sleep. Of his story I did not believe a single word, +though I did believe that he had no bed. “Can I bunk +with you to-night?” he came finally to the point. I +told him he most certainly could not. He refused to believe +me. I assured him I meant it. I was his last hope, he +said, with a nervous grin. I told him to try a doss-house. +He grinned and giggled and flushed—then thanked me! +It would only be for a night or two, he urged. “You +can’t possibly let me walk the streets all night!” I +replied that one Boyde had been enough for me. I had +learnt my lesson, he could walk the streets for the rest of +his life for all I cared. He giggled, still refusing to believe +I meant it. His father was sending money. He would +repay me. He went on pleading. I again repeated that +I could not take him in. He left, still thanking me and +blushing.</p> + +<p>Visions of another Boyde were in my mind. At the +time, moreover, our poverty was worse than it ever had +been. Boyde, I found, had sold six of my French stories +to McCloy at $5 each, and had pocketed the money. +My salary was now being docked five dollars each week +till this $30 was paid off. We had, therefore, only ten +dollars a week between the two of us. Everything was +in pawn again, and times were extra hard. To have Calder +living on us was out of the question, for once he got +in we should never get him out. I was tired of criminal +parasites.</p> + +<p>It was my head that argued thus; in my heart I knew +perfectly well that Calder was guileless, innocent as milk, +an honest, feckless, stupid fellow who was in genuine +difficulty for the moment, but who would never sponge on +us, and certainly do nothing mean. Conscience pricked +me—for half an hour perhaps; in the stress and excitement +of the day I then forgot him. That evening Acton Davis, +the dramatic critic, gave me a theatre seat, on condition +that I wrote the notice for him. It was after eleven +when I reached home. Curled up in my bed, sound +asleep, his clothes neatly folded on the chair, lay Calder.</p> + +<p>It was February and freezing cold. Kay was away for +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span> +the week, trying a new play at Mount Vernon, where he +slept. There was no reason why I should not have let Calder +spend at least one warm night in the room. But, apart +from the shock of annoyance at finding him asleep in my +own bed, and apart from a moment’s anger at his cool +impudence, the startling parallel with Boyde was vividly +unpleasant. It was Boyde No. 2 I saw sleeping in my bed. +If I let him stay one night I should never get rid of him at +all. $10 a week among three! Calder must take up his +bed and walk.</p> + +<p>I woke him and told him to dress and leave the room. +I watched him dress, heard him plead, heard him describe +the freezing weather, describe his walking the streets all +night without a cent in his pockets. He blushed and giggled +all the time. It was some minutes before he believed +I was in earnest, before he crawled out of bed; it was much +longer before he was dressed and ready to go.... I saw +him down the stairs and through the front door and out +into the bitter street. I gave him a dollar, which represented +two days’ meals for me, and would pay a bed in a +doss-house for him. When he was gone I spent a wretched +night, ashamed of myself through and through. It really +was Boyde who turned him out, but the excuse had no +comfort in it. The little incident remains unkindly vivid; +I still see it; it happens over again; the foolish, good-natured +face, the blushes and shyness, the implicit belief +in my own kindness, the red cheeks and curly hair—going +through the front door into the bitter streets. It +all stands out. Shame and remorse go up and down in me +while I write it now, a belated confession.... I never +saw Calder again.</p> + +<p>Another thing that still shames me is our treatment of +old greasy Mother Bernstein. Though a little thing, +this likewise keeps vividly alive. A “little” thing! +The big things, invariably with extenuating circumstances +that furnish modifying excuses and comforting explanations, +are less stinging in the memory. It is the little +things that pierce and burn and prick for years to come. +In my treatment of Mrs. Bernstein, at any rate, lay an +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span> +alleviating touch of comedy. In the end, too, the debt +was paid. Twelve months later—it seemed a period of +years—Kay got suddenly from a brother £100—an enormous +sum; while I had twice received from my brother, +God bless him! post-office orders for £10. This was a long +time ahead yet, but Mrs. Bernstein eventually received her +due with our sincerest thanks. She had moved to another +house in Lafayette Place by then. We paid up and left +her, Kay going to one boarding-house, I to another.</p> + +<p>The payment in full, at any rate, relieved my conscience, +for the way we bullied that poor old Jewess was inexcusable. +The excuse I found seemed adequate at the time, +however—we must frighten her or be turned out. Each +time she pressed for payment, out came my heavy artillery; +imaginary insects, threats of newspaper articles, bluster, +bluff and bullying of every description, often reducing her +to tears, and a final indignant volley to the effect that +“If you don’t trust us, we had better go; in fact, if this +occurs again, we <i>shall</i> go!” More than once we pretended +to pack up; more than once I announced that we had found +other rooms; “Next Monday I shall pay you the few dollars +we owe, and leave your house, and you will read an account +of your conduct in the <i>Evening Sun</i>, Mrs. Bernstein.” +She invariably came to heel. “I ask my hospand” had +no sequel. By frightening and bullying her, I stayed on and +on and on, owing months’ and months’ rent and breakfast; +our ascendancy over her was complete. It was, none the +less, a shameful business, for at the time it seemed doubtful +if we should ever be in a position to pay the kind old woman +anything at all....</p> + +<p>The fifteen months I now spent reporting for the +<i>Evening Sun</i> at fifteen dollars a week lie in the mind like +a smudged blur of dreary wretchedness, a few incidents +only standing out.... The desire for the drug was conquered, +the old doctor was dead, Kay had obtained a +position with a firm in Exchange Place, where he +made a small, uncertain income in a business that was an +absolute mystery to me, the buying and selling of exchange +between banks. Louis B—— had meanwhile +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span> +arrived, without a cent to his name. It was a long and +bitter period, three of us in a small room again, but at +least an honest three. Louis’s French temperament ran +to absinthe—when he could get it. He used the mattress +on the floor, while Kay and I shared the bed between us. +Our clothes were useless to the short, rotund little Frenchman; +as the weeks passed he looked more and more like +a pantomime figure in the streets, and when he went to +give his rare French and Spanish lessons he never dared +to take off his overcoat (which he had managed to keep) +even in the hottest room, nor during the most torrid of +summer days. Often he dared not unbutton the collar +he turned up about his neck, affirming with much affected +coughing that he had a “dreadful throat.” He was, by +nature and habit, an inveterate cigarette smoker; a cigarette, +indeed, meant more to him than a meal, and I can +still see him crawling about the floor of the room on all +fours in the early morning, “hunting snipe,” as he called it—in +other words, looking for fag-ends. He was either extremely +sanguine or extremely depressed; in the former +mood he planned the most alluring and marvellous schemes, +in the latter he talked of suicide. His wife, whom he dearly +loved, had a baby soon after his arrival. He suffered a +good deal....</p> + +<p>He was a great addition to our party, if at the same +time a great drain on our purse. His keen, materialistic +French mind was very eager, logical, well-informed, and +critical in a destructive sense, an iconoclast if ever there +was one. All forms of belief were idols it was his great +delight to destroy; faith was superstition; cosmogonies +were inventions of men whose natural feebleness forced +them to seek something bigger and more wonderful than +themselves; creeds, from primitive animism to Buddhism +and Christianity, were, similarly, man-made, with a dose +of pretentious ethics thrown in; while soul, spirit, survival +after death, were creations of human vanity and egoism, +and had not a single atom of evidence to support them +from the beginning of the world to date. Naturally, he +disbelieved everything that I believed, and, naturally, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span> +too, our arguments left us both precisely where we started. +But they helped the evenings, often hungry evenings, +to pass without monotony; and when, as sometimes +though but rarely happened, Louis had come by a drop of +absinthe, monotony was entirely forgotten. He would +sit crossed-legged on his mattress, his brown eyes sparkling +in the round little face, his thick curly black hair +looking like stiff wire, his podgy hands gesticulating, his +language voluble in French and English mixed, his infectious +laughter ringing and bubbling out from time to +time—and the evening would pass like magic. He was +charged with poetry and music too. On absinthe evenings, +indeed, it was difficult to get any sleep at all ... +and the first thing in the morning he would be hunting +for “snipe” on all fours, cursing life and fate, in a +black depression which made him think of suicide, and +looking like a yellow Chinese God of Luck that had +come to life.</p> + +<p>Hunger was agony to him, but, oddly enough, he never +grew less rotund. He particularly enjoyed singing what +he called <i>la messe noire</i> with astonishing variations in his +high falsetto. This “mass” was performed by all three +of us to a plaster-cast faun an artist had given me in +Toronto. It had come in the packing-case with our other +things, this Donatello, and we set it on the mantelpiece, +filled a saucer with melted candle stolen from a boarder’s +room, lit the piece of string which served for wick, and +turned the gas out. In the darkened room the faunish +face leered and moved, as the flickering light from below +set the shadows shifting about its features; the fiddle, +Louis’s thin falsetto, Kay’s bass, badly out of tune, and +my own voice thrown in as well, produced a volume of +sound the other boarders strongly objected to—at one +o’clock in the morning. Yet the only time Mrs. Bernstein +came to complain, she got no farther than the door: +Louis had a blanket over his head and shoulders, Kay was +in his night-shirt, which was a day-shirt really, the old +Irving wig lying crooked on his head, and I was but half +dressed, fiddling for all I was worth. The darkened room, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span> +the three figures passing to and fro and chanting, the +strange weird face of the faun, it by the flickering flame +from below, startled her so that she stood stock-still on +the threshold without a word. The next second she was +gone.... What eventually happened to Louis I never +knew. Months later he moved to a room up-town. We +lost track of one another, and I have no idea how fate +behaved to him in after-life. He was thirty-five when he +sang the <i>messe noire</i>, hunted snipe, and gave occasional +lessons in French and Spanish.</p> + +<p>These trivial little memories remain vivid for some +reason. To my precious Sundays in Bronx Park, or farther +afield when the days grew longer, he came too, and +Kay came with him. We shared the teapot and tin mug +I still kept hidden behind a boulder, we shared the fire +I always made—neither of my companions shared my mood +of happiness.... I was glad when they both refused to +get up and start at eight, preferring to spend the morning +in bed. For months and months I never missed a single +Sunday, wet or fine, for these outings were life to me, +and I made a rough lean-to that kept the rain off in bad +weather.... The car-fare was only 30 cents, both ways; +bread and a lump of cheese provided two meals; there were +few Sundays when I did not get at least seven or eight +hours of intense happiness among the trees and wild +stretches of what was to me a veritable Eden of delight.... +Nothing experienced in later life, tender or grandiose, +neither the splendour of the Alps, the majesty of the Caucasus, +the mystery of the desert, the magic of spring in +Italy or the grim wonder of the real backwoods which I +tasted later too—none of these produced the strange and +subtle ecstasy of happiness I found on those Sundays in +the wastes of scrubby Bronx Park, a few miles from “Noo +York City.” ... It was, of course, but the raw material, +so to speak, of beauty, which indeed is true always of +“scenery” as a whole, but it was possible to find detail +which, grouped together, made unforgettable pictures +by the score. Though deprived of technique, I could <i>see</i> +the pictures I need never think of painting. The selection +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span> +of significant detail in scenery is the secret of enjoyment, +for such selection can be almost endless....</p> + +<p>The hours passed too quickly always, but they provided +the energy to face what, to me, was the unadulterated misery +of the week to follow. A book was in my pocket and +Shelley was in my memory. From the tram to the trees +was half a mile, perhaps, but with the first sight of these, +with the first scent of leaves and earth, the first touch of +the wind of open spaces on my tongue, my joy rose like +a great sea-wave, and the city life, with all its hideousness, +was utterly forgotten. What occupied my mind during +those seven or eight hours it would be tedious to describe.... +I was, besides, hopelessly inarticulate in those early +days; conclusions I arrived at were reached by feeling, +not by thinking; one, in particular, about which I felt so +positive that I <i>knew</i> it was true, I could no more have +expressed in words than I could have flown or made a +million. This particular conclusion that the Sundays in +Bronx Park gave me has, naturally, been expressed by +others far better than I could ever express it, but the first +time I came across the passage, perhaps a dozen years +later in London, my thought instantly flashed back to the +teapot, the tin mug, and the boulder in Bronx Park when +the same conviction had burned into my own untaught +mind:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“One conclusion was forced upon my mind ... and my +impression of its truth has ever since remained unshaken. It +is that our normal waking consciousness, rational consciousness +as we call it, is but <i>one special type</i> of consciousness, whilst all +about us, parted from it by the filmiest of screens, there are +potential forms of consciousness entirely different. We may +go through life without suspecting their existence; but apply +the requisite stimulus and at a touch they are there in all their +completeness; definite types of mentality which probably somewhere +have their field of application and adaptation. No +account of the universe in its totality can be final which leaves +these other forms of consciousness quite disregarded. At any +rate, they forbid a premature closing of our accounts with reality. +The whole drift of my education goes to persuade me that the +world of our present consciousness is <i>only one</i> out of many worlds +of consciousness that exist, and that these other worlds must +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span> +contain experiences which have a meaning for our life also.... +[The insight in these other states] has a keynote invariably of +reconciliation. It is as if the opposites of the world, whose +contradictions and conflict make all our difficulties and troubles, +were melting into unity.”⁠<a id="FNanchor_1_1" href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> + +<div class='footnotes'> +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_1_1" href="#FNanchor_1_1" class="label">[1]</a> “Varieties of Religious Experience.” William James.</p></div> +</div> +</blockquote> + +<p>The immortal may mingle with certain moods, perhaps, +especially when violent contrast underlies the transition, +and when deep yearnings, suppressed equally with violence, +find their sudden radiant outlet. Since those +Bronx Park days, when Nature caught me with such profound, +uplifting magic, yet when thought was dumb and +inarticulate, I am for ever coming across neat expressions +by better minds than mine of what I then felt, and even +believed I <i>knew</i>, in some unimagined way. Nature drew +me, perhaps, away from life, while at the same time there +glowed in my heart strange unrealizable desires to help +life, to assist at her Utopian development, to work myself +to the bone for the improvement of humanity. The contradiction, +silly and high-flown though it now sounds, +was then true. Inextinguishable fires to this end blazed +in me, both mind and heart were literally on fire. My +failure with Boyde, my meanness with Calder, to mention +no graver lapses, both bit deep, but the intense longing +to lose my Self in some Utopian cause was as strong as +the other longing to be lost in the heart of some unstained +and splendid wilderness of natural beauty. And the conflict +puzzled me. Being inarticulate, I could not even find +relief in words, though, as mentioned, I have often since +discovered my feelings of those distant days expressed +neatly enough by others. Only a few days ago I came across +an instance:</p> + +<p>“If Nature catches the soul young it is lost to +humanity,” groans Leroy, in a truly significant book of +1922.⁠<a id="FNanchor_2_2" href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> + +<div class='footnotes'> +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_2_2" href="#FNanchor_2_2" class="label">[2]</a> “The Interpreters,” by A. E. The characters “interpret” the +“relation of the politics of Time to the politics of Eternity.”</p></div> +</div> + +<p>“No, no,” replies the poet. “The earth spirit does +not draw us aside from life. How could that which is +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span> +father and mother of us all lead us to err from the law of +our being?”</p> + +<p>And, again, as I sat puzzling about the amazing horror +of what was called the Civilization of the New World, +and doubtless making the commonplace mistake of +thinking that New York City was America:—</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“Every great civilization, I think, has a Deity behind it, +or a divine shepherd who guided it on some plan in the cosmic +imagination. ‘Behold,’ said an ancient Oracle, ‘how the +Heavens glitter with intellectual sections.’... These are archetypal +images we follow dimly in our evolution.”</p> + +<p>“How do you conceive of these powers as affecting civilization?”</p> + +<p>“I believe they are incarnate in the race; more in the group +than in the individual; and they tend to bring about an orchestration +of the genius of the race, to make manifest in time their +portion of eternal beauty....”⁠<a id="FNanchor_3_3" href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></p> + +<div class='footnotes'> +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_3_3" href="#FNanchor_3_3" class="label">[3]</a> <i>Ibid.</i></p></div> +</div> +</blockquote> + +<p>My conception of the universe, at any rate, in these +early days was imaginative entirely; the critical function, +which comes with greater knowledge, with reason, with +fuller experience, lay wholly dormant. I communed +with both gods and devils. New York stoked the furnace—provided +the contrasts. Experience, very slowly, furnished +the files and sand-paper which lay bare what may +be real beneath by rubbing away the pretty gilt. Certain +convictions of those far days, however, stood the test, +whatever that test may be worth, and have justified +themselves to me with later years as assuredly <i>not</i> gilt. +That unity of life is true, and that our normal human +consciousness is but one type, and a somewhat insignificant +type at that, hold unalterably real for me to-day. My +other conviction, born in Bronx Park in 1892 by the teapot, +tin mug, and familiar boulder which concealed these indispensable +utensils during the week, is that the Mystical +Experience known to many throughout the ages with invariable +similarity is <i>not</i> a pathogenic experience, but is +due to a desirable, genuine and valuable expansion of +consciousness which furnishes knowledge normally ahead +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span> +of the race; but, since language can only describe the +experience of the race, that it is incommunicable because +no words exist, and that only those who have experienced +it can comprehend it. The best equipped modern “intellectual” +(above all the “intellectual” perhaps), the +most advanced scientist, as, on the other hand, the drayman, +the coster, the city clerk, must remain not only +dumb before its revelation, stupid, hopelessly at sea, +angry probably, but contemptuous and certainly mystified: +they must also appear, if they be honest, entirely +and unalterably <i>sceptical</i>. Such scepticism is their penalty; +it is, equally, their judge and their confession.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"> + CHAPTER XXVI + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap xkern'><span class='allcaps'>Among</span> the “incidents” that stand out from the dim, +miserable smudge of fifteen months, is one that +centres about a strange figure, and a most lovable +fellow, named Angus Hamilton. Various odd fish drifted +on to the paper as reporters, and drifted off again; they +form part of an unimportant kaleidoscope. But Angus +Hamilton, with his generosity, his startling habits, +his undoubted ability, his sad and sudden end, stands +out.</p> + +<p>My position had improved since the publication of the +Boyde story, chiefly, of course, because of the way the +peerage had been dragged into its details and its +headlines. I received no advance in salary, but I +received an advance in respect. Even McCloy was +different: “Why waste your time with us?” he spat +at me like a machine-gun with a rapid smile. “Go +home. Collect a lot of umbrellas and turned-up trousers +and letters of introduction. Then come out to ‘visit +the States,’ marry an heiress, and go home and live in +comfort!” He was very lenient to my numerous mistakes. +Other papers “got a beat” on me, I “fell down” +times without number, I failed to get an interview with +all and sundry because I could not find “the nerve” to +intrude at certain moments into the lives and griefs of +others. But McCloy winked the other eye, even if he +never raised my pay. Other men were sacked out of +hand. I stayed on. “You’ve got a pull with Mac!” +said “Whitey.” New men took the places of the lost. +Among these I noticed an Englishman. Cooper noticed +him too. “Better share an umbrella and go arm in arm,” +he said in his good-natured way. “He’s a fellow-Britisher.”</p> + +<p>Why he came to New York I never understood. He +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span> +was a stepson of Pinero, the playwright, and he received +occasional moneys from Daniel Frohman, by way of +allowance, I supposed, though I never knew exactly. +Clever though he was, he was a worse reporter than myself—because +he didn’t care two straws whether he got the +news or did not get it. He had a “pull” of some sort, +with Laffan probably, we thought. He came to our +boarding-house in East 19th Street. He had a bad +stammer. His methods of reporting were peculiar to +himself. Often enough, when sent out on a distasteful +assignment, he simply went home. He had literary talent +and wrote well when he liked. When Frohman handed +out his money, he spent it in giving a big dinner to various +friends, though he never included Kay, Louis, or myself +among his distinguished guests. We had no dress-suits, +for one thing.</p> + +<p>Hamilton was perhaps twenty-one at the time, a trifle +younger than myself, at any rate. He came downstairs +sometimes to spend the evening in our room. In spite +of his stammer and a certain shyness, he was always very +welcome. He liked, above all, to listen to weird stories +I used to tell, strange, wild, improbable tales akin to +ghost-stories. When the Black Mass failed to attract, +when Louis was uninspired by absinthe, or when no +argument was afoot, such as whether poet or scientist +were the highest type of human being, I discovered this +taste for spinning yarns, usually of a ghostly character, +and found, to my surprise, that my listeners were enthralled. +At a moment’s notice, no theme or idea being +in my head, I found that I could invent a tale, with +beginning, middle and climax. Something in me, doubtless, +sought a natural outlet. The stories, at any rate, +poured forth endlessly. “May I write that one?” +Hamilton would ask. “It’s a corker!” And he would +bring his written version to read to us a few evenings +later. “It ought to sell,” he said, though I never heard +that it did sell actually. Certainly, it never occurred +to me that I might write and sell it myself. And Angus +Hamilton is mentioned here because it was owing to a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span> +chance act of his that I eventually took to writing and +so found my liberty.</p> + +<p>This happened some twelve years later, when I was +living in a room in Halsey Street, Chelsea, sweating my +life out in the dried milk business and earning barely +enough at the job to make both ends meet. A hansom +stopped suddenly near me in Piccadilly Circus, its occupant +shouted my name, then sprang out—Angus Hamilton.</p> + +<p>He came round to my room for a talk over old days; +he had done well for himself as Reuter’s correspondent +in the Manchurian War, had published a book on Korea, +and was just off to China, again as Reuter’s agent. He +reminded me of the stories I used to tell in the New York +boarding-house. I had written some of these, a couple +of dozen perhaps, and they lay in a cupboard. Could he +see them? Might he take them away and read them?</p> + +<p>It had been my habit and delight to spend my evenings +composing yarns on my typewriter, finding more pleasure +in this than in any dinner engagement, theatre or concert. +Why this suddenly began I cannot say, but I guess at a +venture that the accumulated horror of the years in +New York was seeking expression. Wandering in Richmond +Park at night was the only rival entertainment that +could tempt me from the joy of typing out some tale or +other in solitude. “Jimbo” I had already written twice, +several of the “John Silence” tales as well, and numerous +other queer ghostly stories of one sort or another. From +among these last Hamilton took a dozen or so away with +him, but forgot to send them back as he had promised. +He had gone to China, I supposed, and the matter had +slipped his mind. It didn’t matter much—I went on +writing others; the stories were no good to anybody, the +important thing being the relief and keen pleasure I found +in their expression. But some weeks later a letter came +from a publisher: “I have read your book.... My +reader tells me ...” this and that “about your +stories.... I shall be glad to publish them for you +...,” and then a few words about a title and a request +that I would call for an interview.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span></p> + +<p>It was some little time before I realized what the +publisher was talking about. Hamilton, without asking +permission, had sent my stories to him. Eveleigh Nash +was the publisher, and his reader at that time was Maude +Ffoulkes, who later wrote Lady Cardigan’s Memoirs, +numerous other biographies, also “My Own Past,” and +to whom I owe an immense debt for unfailing guidance, +help and encouragement from that day to this. I never +forget my shrinking fear at the idea of appearing in print, +my desire to use another name, my feeling that it was all +a mistake somewhere, the idea that I should have a book +of my own published being too absurd to accept as true. +My relief when, eventually, the papers gave it briefest +possible mention, a few words of not unkindly praise or +blame, I remember too, and my astonishment, some +weeks later, to find a column in the <i>Spectator</i>, followed +not long afterwards by an interesting article in the Literary +Page of the <i>Morning Post</i> on the genus “ghost story,” +based on my book—by Hilaire Belloc, as he told me +years later. All of which prompted me to try another +book ... and after the third, “John Silence,” had +appeared, to renounce a problematical fortune in dried +milk, and with typewriter and kit-bag, to take my +precious new liberty out to the Jura Mountains where, +at frs. 4.50 a day, I lived in reasonable comfort and wrote +more books. I was then thirty-six.</p> + +<p>Whether I should be grateful to my fellow-reporter +on the <i>Evening Sun</i> is another matter. Liberty is priced +above money, at any rate. I have written some twenty +books, but the cash received for these, though it has +paid for rent, for food, for clothing, separately, has never +been enough to pay for all three together, even on the +most modest scale of living, and my returns, both from +America and England, remain still microscopic. Angus +Hamilton I never saw again. A year or so later, while +on a lecture tour in New York, things apparently went +wrong with him. Life drove against him in some way. +He put a sudden end to himself.</p> + +<p>It seems strange to me now that so few incidents, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span> +and those such trivial ones, stand out from the long months +of newspaper work in New York. Harrowing and dreadful +stories, appalling in their evidence of human degradation, +or poignant beyond words in their revelation of misery, +temptation, failure, were my daily experience week after +week, month after month. I might now have bulky +scrap-books packed with thrilling plots of every kind, +all taken from life. My affair with Boyde, moreover, +had taught me how much of curious psychological interest +lay behind the most ordinary arrest for a commonplace +crime. Yet, of all these thousands of cases, I remember +hardly a single one, while of uninteresting assignments +Cooper gave me several still live vividly in my memory. +Social reporting, in particular, both amused and distressed +me, for which reasons probably it has not faded. Sitting +in the lobby at Sherry’s or Delmonico’s when a ball or +society function was in progress and taking the names of +the guests as they entered, taking the snubs and rudeness +of these gay, careless folk as well, was not calculated to +add much to my self-respect. The lavish evidence of +money, the excess, often the atrocious taste, even stirred +red socialism in me, although this lasted only till I was +out in the street again. Various connexions, distant +or otherwise, of my family often, too, visited New York, +while more than one had married an American girl of +prominent name. It was odd to see Lord Ava, Dufferin’s +eldest son, walk up the steps, and odder still to jot +down his name upon the list of “those present.” There +was an American woman, too, who bore my mother’s +name.... To see any of these people was the last thing +on earth I wished, much less to speak to them or be +recognized; they were in another world to mine; none +the less, I had odd sensations when I saw them.... +A ball of deaf-mutes, too, remains very clear, only the +shuffling sound of boots, and of the big drum whose heavy +vibrations through their feet enabled them to keep time, +breaking the strange hush of the dancing throng, for ever +gesticulating with busy fingers.</p> + +<p>A much-coveted annual assignment once came my +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span> +way, through the kindness of McCloy, I think—the visit +to the winter quarters of Barnum and Bailey’s Circus. +Every newspaper was invited; the animals were inspected; +an article was written; and the circus opened its yearly +tour with immense advertisements. In the evening there +was a—banquet! I came home in the early hours with +my pockets stuffed for Kay and Louis—cigars, fruit, +rolls, and all imaginable edibles that might bear the +transport. But the occasion is clear for another reason—elephants +and rats. The keeper told us that the elephants +were terrified of rats because they feared the little beasts +would run up their trunks. We doubted his story. He +offered to prove it. In the huge barn where some twenty-five +monsters stood, chained by the feet against the walls, +he emptied a sackful of live rats. The stampede, the +trumpeting of those frightened elephants is not easily +forgotten. In the centre of the great barn stood masses +of hay cut into huge square blocks, and the sight of us +climbing for safety to the top of these slippery, precariously +balanced piles of hay is not easily forgotten either.</p> + +<p>The raid at dawn upon a quasi lunatic asylum, kept +by an unqualified man, should have left sharper impressions +than is the case, for it was certainly dramatic and sinister +enough. Word came to the office that a quack “doctor” +was keeping a private Home for Lunatics at Amityville, +L.I., and that sane people, whom interested parties +wished out of the way, were incarcerated among the +inmates. The Health Department were going to raid it +at dawn. It was to be a “scoop” for the <i>Evening Sun</i>, +and the assignment was given to me.</p> + +<p>I started while it was still dark, crossing the deserted +ferry long before the sun was up, but when I reached +the lonely house, surrounded by fields and a few scattered +trees, I found that every newspaper in the city was represented. +Even the flimsy men were there, all cursing +their fate in the chilly air of early morning. No lights +showed in the building. The eastern sky began to flush. +With the first glimmer of dawn I saw the sheriff’s men +at their various posts, hiding behind trees and hedges, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span> +some crouching under the garden shrubberies, some +concealed even on the veranda of the house. After a +long and weary wait, the house began to stir; shutters +were taken down; a window, then a door, were thrown +open; figures became visible moving inside from room to +room; and presently someone came out on to the veranda. +He was instantly seized and taken away. After several +men and women had been arrested in this way, a general +raid of the whole house took place. A dozen of the +sheriff’s men rushed in. The nurses, male and female, +the “doctor”-proprietor, his assistants, and every single +inmate, sane or crazy, were all caught and brought out +under arrest, before they had tasted breakfast.</p> + +<p>It was broad daylight by this time. The whole party, +of at least thirty, were assembled in a barn where a magistrate, +brought down specially for the purpose, held an +impromptu court. If some of the inmates were insane +at the time and had been so before incarceration, others +certainly had been deliberately made insane by the harsh +and cruel treatment to which they had purposely been +subjected. There were painful episodes, while the testimony +was hurriedly listened to in that improvised court +of inquiry. Yet it has all, all vanished from my memory. +I forget even what the sequel was, or what sentence the +infamous proprietor received later on from a properly-constituted +court. Many a sane man or woman had been +rendered crazy by the treatment, I remember, and the +quack had taken heavy payments from interested relatives +for this purpose. But all details have vanished from my +mind. What chiefly remains is the wonder of that +breaking dawn, the light stealing over the sky, the sweet +smell of the country and the tang of the salt sea. These, +with the singing of the early birds, and the great yearnings +they stirred in me, left deep impressions.</p> + +<p>One reason, I am sure, why such painful and dramatic +incidents have left so little trace, is that I had a way of +shielding myself from the unpleasantness of them, so +that their horror or nastiness, as the case might be, never +really got into me deeply. By a method of “detachment,” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span> +as mentioned earlier, I protected my sensitive inner +self from being too much wounded. I would depute +just sufficient intelligence and observation to attend to +the immediate work in hand, while the rest of me, the +major portion, lay inactive, uninvolved, certainly inoperative. +Painful and vivid impressions were, none the +less, received, of course, only I refused to admit or recognize +them. They emerged, years later, in stories perhaps, +these suppressed hieroglyphics, but at the actual time I +could so protect myself that I did not consciously record +them. And hence, I think, my faint recollection now +of a thousand horrible experiences during these New +York reporting days.</p> + +<p>This “detachment,” in the ignorant way I used it, +was, perhaps, nothing less than shirking of the unpleasant. +At twenty-three I had not yet discovered +that better method which consists in facing the unpleasant +without reservation or evasion, while raising the energy +thus released into a higher channel, “transmuting” it, +as the jargon of 1922 describes it. “Detachment,” however, +even in its earliest stages, and provided it does not +remain merely where it starts, is an acquisition not without +value; it can lead, at any rate, to interesting and curious +experiments. It deputes the surface-consciousness, or +sufficient of it, to deal with some disagreeable little matter +in hand, while the subconscious or major portion of the +self—for those who are aware of possessing it—may travel +and go free. It is, I think, Bligh Bond, in his “Gate of +Remembrance,” who mentions that the automatic writer +whose revelations are there given, read a book aloud +while his hand with the pencil wrote. Many a literary +man, whose inspiration depends upon the stirrings of this +mysterious subconscious region, knows that to read a +dull book, or talk to a dull person, engages just enough +of his surface consciousness to set the other portion free. +Reading verse—though not poetry, of course—has this +effect; for some, a cinema performance, with the soothing +dimness, the music, the ever-shifting yet not too arresting +pictures, works the magic; for others, light music; for +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span> +others, again, looking out of a train window. There are +as many ways as individuals. To listen to Mrs. de +Montmorency Smith telling her tedious dream, while you +hear just enough to comment intelligently upon her endless +details, even using some of these details to feed your own +more valuable dream, is an admirable method—I am +told; and my own childish habit of squeezing “through +the crack between yesterday and to-morrow” in that +horrible bed of East 19th Street, merely happened to be +my own little personal adaptation of the principle....</p> + +<p>Incidents that had held a touch of comedy remain +more clearly in the memory than those that held ugliness +and horror only. A member of the Reichstag Central +Party, for instance, Rector Ahlwardt by name, came +out to conduct a campaign against the Jews. He was +violently anti-semitic. I was sent to meet his steamer +at Quarantine because I could speak German, and my +instructions were to warn him that America was a free +country, that the Jews were honourable and respected +citizens, and that abuse would not be tolerated for a +moment. These instructions I carried out, while we drank +white wine in the steamer’s smoking-room. Freytag, I +noticed with amusement, himself a Jew, was there for +the <i>Staatszeitung</i>.</p> + +<p>Ahlwardt, however, was impervious to advice or warnings. +At his first big meeting in the Cooper Union Hall, +arriving late, I noticed at once two things: the seats were +packed with Jews, while almost as many policemen stood +about waiting; and the reporters’ tables underneath the +platform showed several open umbrellas. Both, I knew, +were ominous signs. Ahlwardt himself, fat, beaming, +in full evening dress, was already haranguing the huge +audience. At first he was suave and gentle, even mealy-mouthed, +but before long his prejudices mastered him and +his language changed. Up rose a member of the audience +and advised him angrily to go back to Germany. The +police ejected the interrupter. Others took his place. +Then suddenly the fusillade began—and up went the +reporters’ umbrellas! A flying egg caught the speaker +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span> +full on his white shirt-front, another yellowed his dazzling +white waistcoat, a third smashed over his fat face. Pandemonium +reigned, during which the German melted out +of the landscape and disappeared from his first and last +anti-semite meeting in Noo York City. He attempted a +little propaganda from the safe distance of Hoboken, N.J., +but the Press campaign against him was so violent and +covered him with such ridicule, that he very soon took +steamer back to his Berlin. Every little detail of this +incident, were it worth the telling, I could give accurately. +There was no reason to be “detached,” unless the protection +of the <i>World</i> man’s umbrella comes under that +description.</p> + +<p>It was somewhere about this time, too, that another +trivial incident occurred, refusing to be forgotten. It, +again, increased the respect shown to me by the staff +of the paper—Americans being truly democratic!—though +it did not increase my salary. A belted earl left +his card on me. Coming in breathless from some assignment, +I saw McCloy staring at me. “Is this for <i>you</i>?” +he asked sarcastically, handing me a visiting-card. A +brother-in-law, “His Excellency” into the bargain, +“Governor of an Australian Province” to which he was +then on his way, had climbed those narrow spiral stairs +and asked for me. The letters after his name alone were +enough to produce a commotion in that democratic +atmosphere.... He was staying at the Brevoort +House, and he certainly behaved “like a man,” thought +Kay and I, as we enjoyed more than one good dinner +at his expense in the hotel. Proud of me he had certainly +no cause to be, but if he felt ashamed, equally, he gave +no sign of it. He even spoke on my behalf to Paul Dana, +the editor-proprietor’s son, who assured him that I was +“a bright fellow”—a description the staff managed to +get hold of somehow and applied to me ever afterwards. +His brief visit, both because of its kindness and its general +good effect, stand out, at any rate, in the “bright fellow’s” +memory. Like Dufferin in the Hub, he fired a shot for +me.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span></p> + +<p>The months dragged by in their dreary, hated length, +while numerous chances of getting more congenial work +were tried in vain. Torrid summer heat, with its all-dissolving +humidity, replaced the bitter winter. The deep, +baked streets that never cooled, the stifling nights, the +heat-waves when the temperature stood between 90 and +100 in the shade, and we toiled about the blazing pavements +in shirt-sleeves carrying a palm-leaf fan, and when +the moisture in the air made the very “copy-paper” +stick to the hand that wrote upon it—those four months +of New York summer were a misery. We had only our +winter clothes to wear; a white collar was dirty pulp before +nine in the morning; the dazzling electric-light sign +flashed nightly in the air above 23rd Street with its +tempting legend “Manhattan Beach Swept by Ocean +Breezes,” while the ice-carts in the streets were the nearest +approach to comfort we could find. Many a time I +followed one at close quarters to taste a whiff of cooler +air. Life became unendurable, yet day followed day, night +followed night, week followed week, till one’s last breath +of energy seemed exhausted by the steaming furnace +of the city air.</p> + +<p>The respectable quarters of the town were, of course, +deserted, but the East Side, and the poorer parts, became +a gigantic ant-heap, thousands of families sleeping on the +balconies of the packed tenement houses, as though a +whole underground-world had risen suddenly to the +surface. Children died by the hundred; there were heat +strokes by the score. It was too hot to eat. Reporting +in such weather was a trying business.... A reporter +was entitled to a fortnight’s holiday in the year, and +though none was due to me, McCloy let me go about the +middle of October. I procured a railway pass and went +off to Haliburton, Ontario, to spend my precious twelve +days with a settler in the backwoods. He was a Scotsman +I had met during our island days, and Haliburton was +not far from our own delightful lake.... On my way +back the cable came telling of my father’s death while +being brought home from Ems. I was spending the night +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span> +with an old friend of his, in Hamilton, Ont., where he +had a church. Originally in the navy, the evangelical +movement had “converted” him, and he had taken to it +with such zeal that a church and parish became a necessity +of life. He was sincere and sympathetic, and the bad +news could have come to me in no better place.</p> + +<p>The next day I returned to New York and resumed my +life of reporting on the paper.... The elections had been +fought, and Tammany was beaten, a wave of Republicanism +sweeping both State and City. A Committee of +Investigation, under Senator Lexow, was appointed +to examine into the methods of Tammany Hall, and for +weeks I sat in court while the testimony was taken, and +the most amazing stories of crime, corruption, wickedness +and horror I ever heard were told by one “protected” +witness after another. It brought to light a veritable +Reign of Terror. John Goff was prosecuting counsel; he +became Recorder, in place of Judge Smythe, as his reward. +Boss Croker, head of Tammany, was conveniently in +England and could not be subpœnaed. Other leaders, +similarly, were well out of reach. Tammany, it was +proved up to the hilt, had extorted an annual income of +fifteen million dollars in illegal contributions from vice. +The court was a daily theatre in which incredible melodrama +and tragedy were played. With this thrilling +exception, the work I had to do remained the same as +before ... a second Christmas came round ... another +spring began to melt the gloomy skies. Conditions, it is +true, were a little easier, for Louis had left us and Kay was +earning ten or fifteen dollars a week in Exchange Place, +but by March or April, the eighteen months of underfeeding +and trying work had brought me, personally, to the +breaking point....</p> + +<p>It was late in April I read that gold had been found +in the Rainy River district which lay in the far north-western +corner of Ontario, the river of that name being +the frontier between Minnesota State and Canada. The +paragraph stating the fact was in a Sunday paper I read +on my way to Bronx Park, and the instant I saw it my +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span> +mind was made up. It was spring, the primitive instinct +to strike camp and move on was in the blood, a nostalgia +for the woods was in it too, and the prospect of another +torrid, moist summer in the city at $15 a week was more +than I could face. That scrap of news, at any rate, decided +me. And, truth to tell, it was not so much the lure +of gold that called me, as the lure of the wilderness. I +longed to see the big trees again, to smell the old naked +earth, to hear water falling and feel the great winds +blow.... It was an irresistible call.</p> + +<p>My one terror, as when I decided to buy the dairy +two years before, was that someone would tell me there +was no gold, that it was not worth going, or would prevent +me in some other way. I deliberately hid from myself +all unfavourable information, while I collected all possible +items that might justify my intention. That same night +I showed the paragraph to Kay. “I’ll go,” he said at +once, “but let’s get a third, a fourth too, if we can.” He +mentioned Paxton, an engineer, aged 35, who had just +lost all his worldly possessions in speculation. Paxton +said he would come with us. The fourth was R.M., +son of the clergyman in Hamilton. R.M., whose father +was brother to a belted earl, was an insurance agent, +and making a good living at his job. He was my own +age, also my own height. He was, besides, a heavy-weight +amateur boxer of considerable prowess, and his favourite +time for holding bouts in the ring was Sunday evenings, +to which fact a rival clergyman had recently taken occasion +to refer slightingly in his own pulpit. R.M., resenting +the slur both upon himself and his father, had waited +outside the church door one Sunday after the evening +service, and when the clergyman emerged had asked for +an apology—a public one in the pulpit. On being met +with an indignant refusal, R.M. invited the other to +“put ’em up.” The thrashing that followed produced +a great scandal in the little town, and R.M. found the +place too hot to hold him. He therefore jumped at the +idea of the goldfields.</p> + +<p>The arrangements were made, of course, by letter, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span> +and took some little time; but on a given morning in +early May R.M. was to join our train as it passed through +Hamilton. I had been able to procure passes for the lot +of us as far as Duluth, some fifteen hundred miles distant, +on Lake Superior, and from there we should have to travel +another hundred and fifty miles by canoe down the Vermilion +River to Rainy Lake City, for the foundations of +which the forest, I read, had already been partially +cleared. Several further articles had appeared in the +papers; it was a gorgeous country, men were flocking +in, and the Bank of Montreal had established a branch +in a temporary shack. Moreover, as mentioned before, +it was spring.</p> + +<p>That a man of Paxton’s age and experience should +have made this long expedition without first satisfying +himself that it was likely to be worth while, has always +puzzled me. He was an easy-going, good-natured man, +whose full figure proclaimed that he liked the good things +of life. But he was in grave difficulties, graver perhaps +than I ever knew, and I think he was not sorry to contemplate +a trip across the border. His attitude, at any rate, +was that he “didn’t care a rap so long as I get out of +here.” That Kay and myself and R.M. should take the +adventure was natural enough, for none of us had anything +to lose, and, whatever happened, we should “get along +somehow,” and even out of the frying-pan into the fire +was better than the summer furnace of the city. R.M. +wrote that he had a hundred dollars, Paxton produced +fifty, I supplied the railway passes and added my last +salary, together with some eight dollars that Ikey No. 2 +was persuaded to hand over.</p> + +<p>“Send some stuff along,” fired McCloy, opening his +eyes a little wider than usual when I told him. “Any +hot stuff you get I’ll use.”</p> + +<p>It has already been told how Kay missed the train by +a few minutes, and how Whitey, waving his parting +present of a bottle of Bourbon whisky, was the final +picture Paxton and I had of New York City as the evening +train pulled out.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"> + CHAPTER XXVII + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap kern'><span class='allcaps'>Some</span> people, examining the alternate ups and +downs of life, have thought to detect a rhythm +in it: like every other expression of energy, from +heat to history, from sound to civilization, it moves, they +think, with a definite wave-length. The down and up, +the hollow of the wave and its crest, follow one another +in rhythmical sequence. It is an imaginary notion +doubtless, though it applied to my life aptly enough at +this time apparently: the Toronto misery, the Island +happiness; the New York hell, the Backwoods heaven.</p> + +<p>I think, when I wrote home the literal truth: “I +can’t stand this reporting life any longer. I’m off to the +goldfields, and McCloy has asked me to write articles for +the paper,” there lay a vague idea in me that these goldfields +would prove somehow to be comic goldfields, and that +the expedition would be somewhere farcical. I was so +eager, so determined to go, that I camouflaged from myself +every unfavourable aspect of the trip. Green, being still +my predominant colour, was used freely in this camouflage. +It was only afterwards I realized how delightfully I fooled +myself. Yet it was true, at the same time, that a deep +inner necessity drove irresistibly. The city life was +killing something in me, something in the soul: get out +or go under, was my feeling. How easy it would have +been to go under was a daily thought. Far better men +than myself proved it all round me every week. It +seemed, indeed, the natural, obvious thing to do for an +educated, refined Englishman without character who +found himself adrift from home influences in this amazing +city—to sink into the general scum of failures and outcasts, +to yield to one of the many anæsthetics New York +so lavishly provided, to find temporary relief, a brief wild-eyed +happiness, oblivion, then, not long afterwards, death.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span></p> + +<p>The draw of the woods, the call of the open air, moreover, +always potent, had become insistent. Spring +added its aching nostalgia that burned like a fever in my +veins.</p> + +<p>Thus various influences, some positive, some negative, +combined to make me feel that anything was better than +the drudgery of my wretched New York life, and the +goldfields merely offered a plausible excuse. If I made +blinkers with my own hands, I made them effectively +at least. Deep out of sight in the personality there hides, +perhaps, some overseer who, watching wisely the turns of +fate, makes such blinkers, ensuring their perfect fit as +well....</p> + +<p>There was a nice feeling, of course, that if one went +to a goldfield, one picked up gold. Shaking sand in a +shining pan beside a rushing river was a picture in the +mind. There were wild men, friends and enemies; there +were Indians too; but also there were sunsets, tempests, +dawns and stars. It would be liberty and happiness. +I should see the moon rise in clear, sweet air above the +rim of primæval woods. I should cook bacon over an +open fire of wood. There would be no grinning Chinaman +to pay for laundry....</p> + +<p>The men with whom I was going were not entirely +satisfactory. I knew them slightly, for one thing; for +another, the chief drawback, they were going in a very +different mood from mine. Their one object was to make +their fortunes. It was real gold, and not the glamour +of the wilderness, that called them; and in the Emigrant +Sleeper, as we journeyed towards Duluth, they sketched +their plans with intense enthusiasm: Paxton, the engineer, +explained puzzlingly, with the aid of matches, a trolley +he would construct for bringing the ore from pit to crusher, +while R.M., with reckless immorality, enlarged upon the +profits he would derive from running a “joint” of desperate +sort—“for no one need know that my father’s a +clergyman, and my uncle in the House of Lords.”</p> + +<p>Both men were shadows; they were not real; there was +no companionship in them for me, at any rate. That +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span> +they were fellow-travellers for the moment on a trip +I did not care about making alone, was sufficient. I +would just as soon have gone with McCloy or a Tombs +policeman.</p> + +<p>What constitutes one person out of a hundred “real,” +the other ninety-nine shadows, is hard to define, but an +instinct in me has ever picked out that “real” one. With +him or her I know instantly my life is going to be unavoidably +linked: through love or hate, through happiness or +trouble, perhaps through none of these, but with the +conviction that a service has to be rendered or accepted, +a debt, as it were, to be paid or received, a link at any +rate that cannot be broken or evaded. Such real people +are to be counted on the fingers of one hand: R.M. and +Paxton were certainly not among them. Nor, for that +matter, was my friend Kay, who, I am reasonably positive, +missed the train on purpose; while, curiously enough, +Boyde, that trivial criminal, <i>was</i> among them. Had +Kay, for instance, done what that cheap ruffian did, I +should never have taken the trouble to arrest or punish +him....</p> + +<p>The comic opera touch began with Whitey racing +down the platform waving a bottle of rye whisky; it +continued next morning when we picked up R.M. at +eight o’clock. Our train stopped at Hamilton, Ont., +for five minutes. We craned our heads out of the window +and saw a party of young fellows with flushed faces and +singing voices, and on their shoulders in the early sunshine +the inert figure of a huge man without a hat. They +recognized me and heaved him into our compartment, +where he slept soundly for two hours until we had left +Toronto far behind. “Ouch! Ouch!” said Paxton—it +was about all “engineer Paxton” ever did say—“Is that +R.M.?” They had never met before. We took the +money out of his pocket for safety’s sake, and it proved to +be more than his promised contribution. His friends +had indeed given him a send-off, and the all-night poker +had proved lucrative.</p> + +<p>It was a long, long journey to Duluth, with heartening +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span> +glimpses from the window, of river, lake and forest, all +touched with “spring’s delightful weather.” Shelley +filled my head and heart. I saw dawn in a vale of the +Indian Caucasus, I saw Panthea, Asia, fleeting dryads +and troops of happy fauns. Out of New York City into +this primæval wilderness produced intoxication. No more +cities of dreadful night for me! The repressed, unrealized +yearnings of many painful months burst forth in a kind +of rapture. Riches can never taste the treasures of relief +and change provided by the law of contrast. To be free +to go everywhere is tantamount to going nowhere, to be +able to do everything is to do nothing. Without school, +holidays could have no meaning. The intensity of escape, +with all the gorgeous emotions it involves, is hardly possible +to the big bank-balances.</p> + +<p>I thought of the overheated <i>Sun</i> offices, and saw +cool, silent woods; of thronged canyon-streets between +cliffs of buildings, and saw lonely gorges where the deer +stole down to drink in quiet pools; of Mrs. Bernstein’s +room, and saw green glades of beauty, a ceiling of blue +sky, walls of hemlock, spruce and cedar. The May sunlight +made the whole world sing, as the train rushed through +the wilderness of the Ontario Highlands. It woke a kind +of lyrical delight in me. “The day seemed one sent from +beyond the skies, that shed to earth, above the sun, a +light of Paradise.” Paxton, with his puzzling matches, +found me absent-minded and irresponsive to his “ouch! +ouch!” and R.M., suffering from a bad “hang-over” +headache, thought me unsympathetic toward his disreputable +joint.</p> + +<p>More clearly than the matches, or the profit and loss +figures of the joint, I remember the three bullets lying on +the palm of the engineer’s fat open hand. His solemn +gravity depressed R.M. It infected me a little too. Why +in the world should he be so serious? “If we fail, boys,” +said the engineer laconically, as he looked down with +grim significance at the three bullets, “I for one—shall +not return.” He put a bullet in his pocket, he handed +one to R.M., the third he passed to me. “Is it a deal?” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span> +he asked, speaking as one who had come to the end of his +tether, which, indeed, perhaps really was the case. We +pocketed our bullets anyhow, and told him gravely: +“Yes, it’s a deal.” We shook hands on it.</p> + +<p>It was all in the proper spirit of gold-seeking adventure, +begad! and the comic-opera touch, so far as I was concerned, +had not yet quite fully appeared. I had cut loose +from everything. I felt as though I were jumping off the +rim of the planet into unknown space. It was a delightful, +reckless, half naughty, half childish, feeling. “To hell with +civilization!” was its note. At the back of the mind lay a +series of highly-coloured pictures: Men made fortunes +in a night, human life was cheap, six-shooters lay beside +tin mugs at camp-fire breakfasts, and bags of “dust” +were tossed across faro-tables from one desperado in a +broad-brimmed hat to another who was either an Oxford +don <i>incognito</i>, or an unfrocked clergyman, or a younger +son concealing tragic beauty in an over-cultured heart, +with perhaps an unclaimed title on his strawberry-marked +skin. R.M., too, was forever talking about staking +claims: “We’ll get grub-staked by some fellow.... If +we only pan a few ounces per day it’ll mean success ...” +to all of which Paxton emitted his “Ouch! Ouch!” as +a strong man who said little because he preferred action +to words.</p> + +<p>I, meanwhile, had no accurate information to supply, +though I was the promoter of the expedition. I paraded +the newspaper accounts. They were of little use. +Nothing, in fact, was of any use. We were in different +worlds. <i>They</i> were in an Emigrant Sleeper skirting the +shores of Lake Superior. <i>I</i> was on the look-out for the +Witch of Atlas, wandering through the pine forest of the +Cascine near Pisa, dreaming in the Indian Caucasus, or +watching Serchio’s stream. Even “Ouch! Ouch!” could +not keep me in Ontario for long.</p> + +<p>It all lies down the wrong end of that ever-lengthening +telescope now, our trip to the Rainy River Gold Fields. +Happy, careless, foolish days of sunlight, liberty, wood-smoke +and virgin wilderness. Useless days, of course, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span> +yet sweetly perfumed as in a dream of fairyland. I +revelled in them. New York was still close enough to +lend them some incredible glamour by contrast. That +no gold came our way was nothing, that the days came +to an end was bitter. Fading into mist, behind veils +of blue smoke, yet lit by sheets of burning sunshine, lies +the faint outline still. Each year drops another gauze +curtain over an entrancing and ridiculous adventure that +for my companions was disappointingly empty, but to +me was filled to the brim with wonder and delight. A few +sharp pictures, rather disconnected, defy both veils and +curtains, set against a dim background of wild forest, a +blue winding river with strange red shores, swift rapids, +and cosy camp-fires at dawn, at sunset, beneath the +stars, beneath the moon. The stillness of those grand +woods is unforgettable; the voice of the river was unceasing, +yet broke no silence; the smells of balsam, resinous +pitch-pine, cedar smoke rise like incense above the memory +of it all.</p> + +<p>Duluth was all agog with excitement, and in every +shop-window hung blue-prints of the El Dorado we were +bound for. Two big-bladed hunting-knives, a second-hand +Marlin rifle for $8, a Smith and Wesson revolver, were +our weapons. I already had a six-shooter, given to me +by the Tombs Court police. It had killed a negro, and +I had reported the murder trial resulting. Three blankets +had to be bought, a canoe, and provisions for the week’s +trip down the Vermilion River—tea, bacon, flour, biscuits, +salt and sugar. R.M. had a small “A” tent with him +large enough to hold three; an old, high-prowed bark +canoe was purchased from an Indian for $6; but our +money did not run to Hudson Bay blankets, and the +cheap, thin coverings we bought proved poor protection +in those frosty nights of early May.</p> + +<p>We picked up a guide too, a half-breed named Gallup. +He was going to Rainy Lake City in any case, and agreed +to show us the portages and rapids for two dollars a day +each way. He justified his name. He galloped. He had +a slim-nosed Maine cedar-wood canoe that oiled along +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span> +into the daily head-wind with easy swiftness, whereas +R.M. and myself in our high-prowed craft found progress +slow and steering a heavy toil. The wind caught our +big bows like a sail. Gallup, moreover, sizing us up as +English greenhorns, expected good food and lots of whisky, +and, getting neither, vented his spleen on us as best he +could. His natural evil temper grew steadily worse. +There were several ways in which he could have revenge. +He used them all. By “losing his way” down branch +streams he made the journey last eight days instead of +five, yet he went so fast in his neat-nosed craft that it +was all R.M. and I could do to keep him in sight at all. +The sunlight flashing on his paddle two or three miles +ahead, the canoe itself a mere dark speck in the dazzle +of water, was all we usually had to guide us. Paxton, +weary, much thinner than he had been, useless as a +paddler, lay in the bottom of the canoe, leaving all the +work to Gallup. And Gallup did it, even with this dead +freight against him. To our injunction to make the +fellow go slower, his “Ouch! Ouch!” was quite ineffective. +I was careful to keep the provisions in my own canoe, so +that we could not lose him altogether, and he was faithful +in one thing, that he waited for us at the rapids and +portages.</p> + +<p>What did it matter? The head wind held steadily +day after day, blowing from the north-west through a +cloudless sky. Everything sparkled, the air was champagne; +such a winding river of blue I had never seen +before. Every tree wore little fingers of bright fresh +green. There was exhilaration and wonder at every turn. +Burned by the hot sun and wet by the flying spray, our +hands swelled till the knuckles disappeared, then cracked +between the joints till they bled.</p> + +<p>I steered. R.M. sat in the bows. Paddling hour +after hour against the wind became a mechanical business +the muscles attended to automatically. The mind was free +to roam. The loneliness was magical, for it was a peopled +loneliness. A start at dawn, half an hour for lunch, and +camp at sunset was the day’s routine. Usually we were +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span> +too exhausted to cook the dwindling bacon, make the +fire, put up the tent. What did it matter? Nothing +mattered. Each mile was a mile of delight farther from +New York. The trip might last months for all I cared.</p> + +<p>We cursed Gallup behind his back and to his face. +He never even answered. His sulky silence broke only +round the evening fire, when he would tell us appalling +tales of murder, violence and sudden death about the +goldfields whither we were bound. It was another form +of revenge. The desperadoes, cutthroats, and wild hairy +men generally who awaited us, <i>us</i> especially since we were +English, hardly belonged to our happy planet. Yet he +knew them at first hand, knew them even by name. They +would all be on the look-out for us. Against several, for +he had his friendly impulses, he warned us in particular. +Were we good shots and quick on the trigger? The man +who pulled first, he reminded us, had the drop on the +other fellow. There was a “stiff” named Morris who was +peculiarly deadly, Morris, a Canadian, who had killed his +man in a saloon brawl across the river and had skipped +over the border into Minnesota. Morris would be interested +in “guys” like us. He described him in detail. +We looked forward to Morris.</p> + +<p>They were cheery camp-fire stories Gallup told us +nightly. We crawled into our chilly tent, wondering a +little, each in his own thin blanket, what these hairy men +were going to do to “guys like us.” We did not wonder +long. Sleep came like a clap. At dawn, the wind just +rising, and the chipmunks dropping fir-cones on to our +tent with miniature reports, the hairy men were all +forgotten. It was impossible to hold an ugly thought +of any kind. The river sang at our feet, the sky was +pearl and rose, the air was sharply perfumed with smells +of forest and wood-smoke, and glimpses of sunrise shone +everywhere between the trees; trees that stretched without +a break five hundred miles to the shores of James Bay +in the arctic seas.</p> + +<p>We gulped our tea and bacon, packed tent and blankets, +split open the cracks in our swollen hands, and launched +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span> +the canoes upon a crystal river that swirled along in +eddies and sheets of colour. Sometimes it narrowed +to a couple of hundred yards between rugged cliffs where +the water raced towards a rapid, sometimes it broadened +into wide, lake-like spaces; there were reaches of placid +calm; there were stretches white with tumbling foam. +The sun blazed down; we turned a sharp bend and surprised +a deer; a porcupine waddled up against a pine-stem; +a fish leaped in a golden pool; birds flashed and +vanished; there was a silence, a stillness beyond all telling. +Nuggets, gold dust, hairy men, six-shooters—nothing +mattered!</p> + +<p>It was, indeed, this loneliness, this entire absence of +all other human signs, that gradually betrayed the truth. +Where was the stream of frenzied gold-seekers? Where +was the rush the papers mentioned? Beyond a few +stray Indians on the fourth day, we saw no living being. +Gallup’s tales of terror began to lose their sting. Of real +information he vouchsafed no single item. But who +wanted real information? Rainy Lake City might be +the legendary city of gold that lies beyond the mirages of +the Lybian desert, for all I cared. The City of New York +was out of sight. That was the important thing.</p> + +<p>The series of wild, lonely camps lie blurred in the +composite outline of a single camp; eight dawns combine +into one; I remember clear night-skies ablaze with brilliant +stars; I remember the moon rising behind the black wall of +forest across the water. All night the river sang and +whispered. Police courts and Mrs. Bernstein’s room hid +far away in the dim reaches of some former life. Behind +these, again, lay a shadowy, forgotten Kent. There were +haunting faces, veiled by distance, for a strange remoteness +curtained the past with unreality. The wonder of the +present dominated. These woods, this river, ruled the +world, and somewhere in the heart of that old forest the +legendary Wendigo, whose history I wrote later in a book, +had its awful lair.</p> + +<p>Owing to Gallup’s trick of lengthening the journey, +our food gave out, but with fish, venison and partridge +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span> +it was impossible to starve. The last-named, a grouse +actually, perches in the branches, waiting to be shot; a +bullet must take its head off or it is useless for the pot +but whizzing bullets do not disturb it, and several birds, +sitting close together, can be picked off <i>seriatim</i>. Some +dried sturgeon we found, too, on an island—an Indian +sturgeon fishery—where great odorous strips were hanging +in the sun. The braves were away, and the squaw left in +charge was persuaded to sell us slabs of this excellent +meat. In a deep, clear pool some half-dozen living +monsters, hooked by the nose, turned slowly round and +round, waiting the moment of their death. The island +was interesting for another reason—it was an Indian canoe +factory. Here the Redskins built their craft of birchbark, +and a dozen canoes in various stages of completion +lay in the broiling sun.... To me it was all visible +romance, adventure, wonder in the heart of an unspoilt +spring, with Hiawatha round the next big bend. Paxton +and R.M. took another view....</p> + +<p>On the eighth night—our last, had we known it—there +was an “incident.” Gallup had been unusually silent +and extra offensive all day, had “galloped” at top speed, +had refused to answer a single question, and the idea +came to us all three simultaneously that he was not +losing his way with the mere object of more money, but +was taking us out of our route with a more sinister purpose. +We depended on the fellow entirely; words or violence +were equally useless; we were quite helpless. He was +convinced we carried money, for no three Englishmen of +our type would make such a trip without it. What was +easier, we whispered to one another, than to murder us +and bury our bodies in the trackless, lonely forest? We +watched him....</p> + +<p>That night, exhausted to the bone, we camped on a +point of wooded shore against the sunset. Across the +broad reach of water, three miles away perhaps, was an +Indian encampment. Pointed wigwams and the smoke +of many fires were visible; voices were audible in the +distance. The wind had died down as usual with the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span> +sun. A deep hush lay over the scene. And, hardly +had we landed, almost too weary to drag ourselves up +the bank, when Gallup stepped back into his Maine canoe +and pushed off downstream without a word. He stood +upright; he did not sit or kneel. His figure was outlined +one minute against the red sky, the next his +silhouette merged into the dark forest beyond. He disappeared.</p> + +<p>He had gone, we agreed, for one of two reasons: to get +food, or to return in the dark and pick us off, much as we +picked off the grouse from the branches. We inclined +towards the latter theory—and kept eyes and ears wide +open. We made a diminutive fire in a hollow, lest we be +too visible in the surrounding darkness. We listened, +watched, and waited. It was already dusk. The night +fell quickly. River and forest became an impenetrable +sheet of blackness, our tiny fire, almost too small to cook +on, the only speck of light. The stars came out, peeping +through the branches. There was no wind. We shivered +in the cold, listening for every slightest sound ... and +the hours passed.</p> + +<p>“He’ll wait till we’re asleep,” said R.M., keeping his +eyes open with the greatest difficulty. Paxton fingered +his revolver and mumbled “Ouch! Ouch!”</p> + +<p>Only the cold prevented us falling asleep, as, weapons +in hand, we took turns to watch and listen. Had we the +right to fire the instant we saw a figure? Should we wait +till the scoundrel made a sign? We discussed endlessly +in whispers. Though no wind stirred the branches, the +noises in that “silent” forest never ceased, because no +forest ever is, or can be, really silent. The effort of +listening produced them by the dozen. On every side +twigs snapped and dry wood crackled. Soft, stealthy +footsteps were everywhere on the pine-needles. Canoes +landed higher up and lower down; paddles dripped out +in the river as someone approached; sometimes two or +three dim figures crouched low on the shore, sometimes +only one. Finally, for safety’s sake, we let the fire go +out altogether.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span></p> + +<p>Armed to the teeth, we were still shivering in the cold +darkness well on into the night, and at some distance +from the dying embers, when suddenly—we nearly +screamed—there was a sound of a voice. It was a man’s +voice; he was angry; he was cursing. A flame shot up +beneath the trees. We saw Gallup on his knees blowing +up the hemlock coals. He had landed, pulled his canoe +on to the bank, and come up to within a few yards of +where we stood without our hearing the faintest sound. +He said no word. He cooked himself no food. He just +made a huge fire, spread his blanket beside the comforting +blaze, curled up, and fell asleep. We soon followed his +example. Probably he had enjoyed a square meal with +the Indians, then sauntered home to bed.... Next day +we reached Rainy Lake City, paid him off, and saw him +push off upstream in his Maine canoe without having +uttered a single word. He just counted the dollar bills +and vanished.</p> + +<p>Rainy Lake City was a few acres roughly cleared from +the primæval forest, yet with avenues cut through the +dense trees to indicate streets where tramcars were to run +at some future date. River, lake and forest combined to +make an enchanting scene. There were perhaps a hundred +men there. There was gold, but there was no gold-dust, +no shining pans to sift the precious sand; in a word, no +placer-mining. It was all quartz; machinery to crush the +quartz had to be dragged in over the ice in the winter. +Capital was essential, large lumps of capital. A word +of inquiry in New York could have told me this. I felt +rather guilty, but very happy. Paxton and R.M. were +philosophical. No word of blame escaped their lips. +They had the right to curse me, whereas both played +the part of Balaam. Even at the time I thought this +odd. Neither of them seemed to care a straw. “We’ll +stake a claim,” said R.M. at intervals. Perhaps both +were so pleased to have arrived safely that they neither +grumbled nor abused me. The truth was that, like +myself, though for rather different reasons, both of them +were relieved to be “away from home.” The engineer, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span> +I discovered later, was glad that 1,500 miles lay between +him and New York City.</p> + +<p>We pitched our tent by the shore and proceeded to +investigate. Living cost little. It was sunny weather, +it was spring. One company was already sinking a shaft +and working a small crusher; there were shacks and +shanties everywhere; the “city” was as peaceful as the +inside of St. Paul’s Cathedral; we saw no hairy men, +but we saw mosquitoes. With the first warm nights +these pests emerged for the season in their millions; they +were very large and very hungry; they hung in the air +like clouds of smoke; they welcomed us; as R.M. said, +they had probably written the newspaper accounts +that advertised the place. We had no netting. They +stung the bears blind; they would have stung a baby +to death, had there been any babies, except ourselves, to +sting. The only gold we saw was a lump, valued at +$5,000, lying beside a revolver on the counter of the +Bank of Montreal’s shack. The clerk allowed us to +hold it for a second each. It was the only gold we +touched.... We investigated, as mentioned; we wandered +about; we fished and shot, we rubbed Indian stuff +over our faces to keep the mosquitoes off; we enjoyed +happy, careless, easy days, bathing in ice-cold water, +basking in hot sunshine, resting, loafing, and spinning +yarns with all and sundry round our camp-fires. After +New York it was a paradise, and but for the mosquitoes, +we could have dressed in fig leaves.</p> + +<p>Except for the question of having enough money to +get out again before the iron winter set in towards October, +we might have spent the whole summer there. We decided +to leave while it was still possible. To paddle a hundred +and fifty miles against the stream was not attractive. We +would do the trip on foot. Selling tent and canoe to the +clerk in the bank, we set out across the Twenty-Six Mile +Portage one day towards the end of June. A party of +five men, also bound for Duluth, joined us, and one of +them was—Morris.</p> + +<p>Those happy, unproductive goldfields! That untenanted +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span> +Rainy Lake City where no tramcars ever ran, +nor faro-tables flourished! Morris, the hairy desperado! +In the dismal New York days that followed they seemed +to belong to some legendary Golden Age. Romance and +adventure, both touched with comedy, went hand in hand, +beauty and liberty heightening some imagined radiance. +Wasted time, of course, but for that very reason valuable +beyond computation. Stored memories are stored energy +that may prove the raw material of hope in days that +follow after. Even Morris, the “stiff,” and cut-throat, +played his little part in the proper spirit. There was a +price on his head in Canada. We watched him closely; +we watched his partners too. The Twenty-Six Mile +Portage cut off an immense bend of the Vermilion River, +running through the depths of trackless, gloomy forest +the whole way. Nothing was easier than to “mix us +up with the scenery” as a phrase of those parts expressed +it. Especially must we be on our guard at night. One +of us must always only pretend to sleep. Our former +mistake about Gallup need not make us careless. A +natural instinct to dramatize the expedition might have +succeeded better if Morris, the villain, had not sometimes +missed his cue and failed to realize the importance of his rôle.</p> + +<p>The scenery, at any rate, was right. The weather +broke the very day we started, and the region justified +its translated Indian name. A drenching rain fell sousing +on the world. With our heavy packs we made slow +progress, crawling in single file beneath the endless dripping +trees, soaked to the skin in the first ten minutes. There +was no trail, but Morris had a compass. Darkness fell +early on the first night when we had covered barely six +miles. Morris found a deserted lumbermen’s shanty. +One man chopped down a pitch-pine and cut out its dry +heart of resinous wood which caught fire instantly; +another soaked a shred of cedar-wood in a tin mug filled +with melted bacon fat; a third cooked dinner for the whole +party; and by eight o’clock we all lay grouped about the +fire, dodging the streams of water that splashed through +the gaping remnants of the pine-log roof.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span></p> + +<p>Outside in that windless forest the drip of the rain +was like the sound of waterfalls, but it was a magnificent, +a haunted, a legendary forest none the less. Our shanty +was faintly lit by the flickering cedar-candle. Queer +shadows danced, eyes glittered, the faces here and there +seemed distorted oddly in the shifting flame and darkness +that alternately rose and fell. One by one, dog-tired, +we fell asleep. It was R.M.’s turn to watch. Before +supper was ended even, he lay soundly slumbering, his +head, with touselled hair and ragged beard, thrown back +against the wall, his mouth, containing unswallowed +food—so weary was he—half-open. I exchanged a +significant glance with Paxton over his collapsed body, +meaning that we must watch instead.</p> + +<p>Our steaming clothes dried slowly as the night wore on. +The dripping trickle of the trees became louder and louder. +Paxton, very thin now, looked like a scarecrow in his +ragged shirt and coat. His customary exclamation was +rarely heard. He fell asleep in turn. The rest of the +party had been snoring for an hour or more. It was +up to me to watch.</p> + +<p>I watched. The next thing I knew was a sudden +stealthy movement, and a low voice that woke me out of +a slumber made of lead. The fire was low, the candle +hardly flickered. Across the gloom I saw the movement +that had waked me—Morris, the hairy man, was stirring. +I watched him. He sat up. He leaned cautiously over—towards +R.M. His hand stretched out slowly. Splendid +fellow! I felt furious with R.M. for falling asleep, for +keeping his mouth open in that idiotic way. Stupid +idiot and faithless comrade! Morris, I saw, was doing +something to his bulky, motionless figure, just about to +slit him open perhaps. Well, let him slit! It was the +head he touched. He was doing something to the sleeper’s +head—pushing it—pushing it sideways so that a stream of +water through the roof might just miss falling on his +shoulder and thus splashing the hairy man’s own face +with spray. I watched closely, faithful to my job. I +saw Morris the Stiff take a bit of spare clothing out of his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span> +pack and hang it over R.M.’s neck and shoulder. “I +got no use for it,” he was saying. “Yer friend might +jest as well hev it.” He knew, therefore, quite well +that I was watching. But R.M. knew nothing, less than +nothing. He neither stirred nor woke. A more kindly, +tender-hearted fellow than Morris the Stiff, no traveller +in wild places could possibly desire.</p> + +<p>It was perhaps a couple of hours later when I woke +again, disturbed this time not by noise, but by the sudden +absence of it. One winter’s night the inhabitants of +Niagara, similarly, woke up because, ice having formed, +the thunder of the falls had ceased. I listened a moment, +then went out. The rain had ceased, the clouds were +gone, in a clear sky the three-quarter moon shone brightly. +The rain-washed air seemed perfumed beyond belief. +Nor did the old moon merely “look round her when the +heavens were bare,” she sprawled fantastically at full +length, as it were, in her magnificent blue-black bed of +naked space. I went out to a clear spot among the trees. +Far away rose a soft murmur. The air hummed and shook +with the roar of distant rapids, so calm and still the night +was. No bird, no animal cried. The earth herself, it +seemed, stopped turning in that wonderful stillness. Those +few minutes painted a picture that memory must always +keep....</p> + +<p>Three months later the first week in October found us +in New York again. The bullets were forgotten and, of +course, unmentioned, and five months of glorious wasted +time lay safely behind us.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"> + CHAPTER XXVIII + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap kern'><span class='allcaps'>If</span> it is impossible to recapture the boyish moods of +those early days, it is also difficult not to import +into these notes the point of view and feelings that +belong to later life. Surely, but gradually, the scale of +time changes with the years, and with it the range and +quality of the emotions: to-day, a year seems a very brief +period; the few months spent in the woods after our +Gold Fields fiasco seemed both an eternity, yet far too +brief. A faint flavour of childhood’s immense scale, when +twelve months was an immeasurable stretch of time, still +clung to them, perhaps.</p> + +<p>But the magnet of New York drew us. Any idea of +returning to England until I had made good was far from +me. We arrived in the detested city late in October, +with livings to earn, and with less money than when we +had first come two years before. We took separate rooms +this time, for I had learned my lesson about sharing beds +and clothes and scanty earnings. It was to be each man +for himself. Paxton disappeared immediately; only +occasionally did I hear his “Ouch, Ouch!” again; M. found +a bed in Harlem and started to teach boxing; I took +quarters in East 21st Street, on the top floor of a cheap +but cleanish house, and arranged for breakfast and dinner +in a neighbouring boarding-house at $2.50 a week.</p> + +<p>Two Germans lived in the adjoining attic. Through +the thin wooden partition I heard their talk, their breathing, +their slightest movement. They rarely came to bed +before midnight; they talked the whole night through. +Informing them in a loud voice that I understood their +language made no difference; they neither stopped nor +answered. Yet, oddly enough, I never once saw them; +never met them on the stairs, nor in the hall, nor at the +front door. They remained invisible, if not inaudible. +But I formed vivid pictures of them, and knew from their +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span> +conversation that they were not better than they need +be. An old man and a young one, I gathered. An unpleasant +house altogether, the low rent more easily +explained than I at first guessed. Long afterwards I had +my revenge upon those unsavoury Germans—by writing +an awful story about them, “A Case of Eavesdropping,” +though by the time it was published they were probably +either dead or in gaol. A sinister couple, these invisible +Teutons!</p> + +<p>My one main object was to avoid the <i>Evening Sun</i>: +any work was better, I felt, than a return to that hated +sensational reporting. A place was always open to me +under McCloy, but my detestation of the police court, +and of the criminal atmosphere generally, was so strong +that I would rather have taken a street-cleaning job +under Tammany than go back to it. I therefore began +by trying free-lance work, gathering news items and selling +them for a dollar or two apiece to various papers, writing +snippets of description, inventing incidents, and earning +perhaps ten dollars a week on the average. It was hard +going, but pawning and free lunches in the saloons made +it possible to live. I knew all the tricks by now; I used +them. The blanket off my bed occasionally spent a week-end +with a new “Ikey,” though getting it out of the house +and back again was no easy matter, while the smell of the +moth-balls I always expected must betray me. It was a +poor blanket, too, worth only 50 cents from Ikey’s point of +view, and certainly not worth the foolish risk involved. +For, literally—though this never once occurred to me +at the time—it was stealing, and the fact that I told Ikey +where it came from, hoping to extract thereby an extra +half-dollar from him, could not have exonerated me if +the landlady had met me on the stairs. Personally, I +think the quantity of food I devoured at the free lunch +counters in exchange for a five-cent glass of lager was a +more flagrant case of theft. Only it was a recognized +theft. The temporary absence of the blanket, anyhow, +since I made my own bed, was never discovered, and my +heart remained innocent of conscious burglary.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span></p> + +<p>A dozen years before, aged 12, I had once been accused +of stealing by the headmaster of the private school I +adorned in Sevenoaks. I was innocent, but the evidence +was both ludicrous and damning, so damning, indeed, +that, strangely, I <i>felt</i> guilty and accepted the punishment. +A terrifying experience, it haunted me for years, and the +sight of a policeman, or the words “criminal judge,” sent +shivers down my spine long afterwards. When a little +older, I came to suspect that it was worked up against +me by the master to curry favour with an influential +parent; but at the actual time I had visions even of +prison—for something I had not done. All about a +poem, too!</p> + +<p>At evening “prep” a “bit of poetry,” as we called +it, had to be learnt by heart; my own poetry book was +lost; I borrowed young Gildea’s. The last thing in the +world I wanted to own was that poetry book of young +Gildea, the last thing I wanted to do was to learn that +poem by heart. I spent the hour, therefore, inscribing +my name with elaborate flourishes on the title page. Twice +I wrote it, with capitals, of which I was very proud; I +thought it ornate and beautiful; and when the hour was +over I tossed the book into my locker and forgot all about +it. Next morning I was summoned into the headmaster’s +presence. He wore red whiskers about an otherwise clean-shaven +face: a face of natural sternness, with a big nose, +a mouth of iron, and steely blue eyes. He was a clergyman +of evangelical persuasion.</p> + +<p>I had no idea why I had been summoned, but his +glance made me at once feel uneasy.</p> + +<p>“Blackwood minor,” he said in a solemn and portentous +voice, “did you do—<i>this</i>?” He held out Gildea’s poetry +book towards me with the cover open. His finger pointed +to my name in pencil, flourishes and all.</p> + +<p>I was completely puzzled as to what was coming, but +I admitted the signature of course.</p> + +<p>“Is the book yours?” he asked. I said it was not. +“Gildea has reported the loss of his own copy,” the voice +of doom went on. “It has been found—<i>in your locker</i>—and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span> +with <i>your name written</i> in it.” The voice made me +think of “and God spake” in the Bible.</p> + +<p>He looked at me in such a way that I felt sure I was +going to be flogged. What had I done? And why? I +couldn’t quite remember. No explanation came to me. +The simple truth was too silly to mention. I had nothing +to say except to admit everything. The man, with his +awful manner and appalling aspect, terrified me. I stood +speechless and paralysed, wondering what was coming +next. The red whiskers made me think of Satan.</p> + +<p>I little dreamed, however, that the headmaster would +say what he then did say. He spoke with a terribly slow, +deliberate emphasis.</p> + +<p>“This is as grave a case of stealing,” fell the awful +words of judgment, “as ever came before a <i>Criminal +Judge</i>. I have sent for your father.”</p> + +<p>I was petrified. It was enough to frighten any boy +into his boots.</p> + +<p>My father in due course arrived; Gildea’s parents, +both of them, arrived likewise; there were consultations, +mysterious comings and goings; it was a day of gloom and +terror; for some reason I made no attempt to defend +myself; it all flabbergasted, frightened, puzzled me beyond +understanding. I was made to confess to Gildea and to +apologize to the parents. To my own father I said +nothing. He looked troubled, yet somehow not as grave +as he ought to have looked. Perhaps he had his doubts.... +What that fiendish headmaster, whose name I will +not mention, had said behind my back, I did not know, +for my father never referred to the matter afterwards, +and both I and my brother were removed from the school +at the end of the term. But I was severely punished—sent +to Coventry for three days—for doing something +I had both done and had not done, and the phrase “Criminal +Judge” was burnt into my memory with letters of +fire. My revenge was rather an oblique one—a fight +with that headmaster’s son, though about quite another +matter. With each blow I landed—and I landed several—I +saw red whiskers on a boy about my own age!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span></p> + +<p>This digression concerning a poetry book occurs to +me only now, while telling of my wickedness about the +blanket. The lesson that master wished to teach me +had no effect, for the simple reason that I had <i>not</i> stolen. +The fear, however, doubtless remained; the injustice +scored deep, bitter wounds. I trace back to it a curious +persistent dread, not entirely obliterated even now: the +dread of being accused of a crime I have not committed; +yet where the evidence of guilt seems overwhelming. +Patanjali’s “Aphorisms” describe a method of living +through in imagination all possible experiences. A series +of laborious incarnations would be necessary to exhaust +these experiences in the ordinary way. They can be lived +out in the mind instead. In imagination, anyhow, +thanks to that little school injustice, I have often tried to +<i>realize</i> the feelings of a man serving a term of imprisonment +for a crime he has not committed. Patanjali’s interesting +method is, at any rate, a means of opening the mind to +a sympathetic understanding of many an experience one +could not otherwise know. Only imagination must be +sustained and very detailed, and the projection of the +personality is not easy.</p> + +<p>An interlude of play-acting now enlivened my period +of free-lance journalism. Kay was in my life again, and +the opportunity came through him. He had spent the +summer between odd jobs on the stage, and odd jobs at +buying and selling exchange in Wall Street. He made +both ends meet, at any rate, and had a cheap room in the +purlieus of Hoboken across the river. A part in a third-rate +touring company had just been offered to him, and +he said he could get me a part as well. One-night stands +in the smaller towns of New York State with a couple of +plays, of which “Jim, the Penman,” was one, formed the +programme, and my utter ignorance of acting, he assured +me, need not stand in the way. My salary would be +$15 a week, with travelling expenses paid. Gilmour, the +leading man, and organizer of the company, was anxious +to find someone like myself.</p> + +<p>I jumped at it. Gilmour looked me up and down +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span> +and said I’d do. I had only one line to say. I was a +prison warder on sentry duty, pacing to and fro between +the walls at night, when Gilmour, the hero, escaping from +his cell, knocks me down after a brief struggle, and disappears +into the night. A moment later the alarm is given; +other warders arrive, find me wounded on the ground +and ask which way the prisoner has gone. “That way,” +I shout, pointing the direction before losing consciousness; +whereupon the curtain falls.</p> + +<p>It was not an exacting part. Gilmour said I should +make a “bully warder.” My own shabby clothes, with +a brown billycock hat, would do as they were. I was to +carry a large wooden pistol. We rehearsed the scene, +swaying to and fro, breathing hard, grunting with effort, +cursing each other fiercely, until the prisoner, wrenching +the pistol from me, struck me on the head and floored me. +Such was my rôle.</p> + +<p>I played it at Yonkers and Mount Vernon, three nights +in each place, if memory serves me correctly, but “went +through it” is the true description of my performance. +For the theatre, either as a writer or actor, I possess no +trace of talent, a fact rediscovered recently when playing +an insignificant part in Drinkwater’s “Oliver Cromwell” +on tour with Henry Ainley. My dismissal at the end of +the first week, however, was not due to this lack of skill—it +was due to a pail of beer and the leading lady. For the +leading lady, handsome daughter, I remember, of a Washington +General, was the inspiration of the touring company, +and it was for her <i>beaux yeux</i> that the enterprise was +undertaken. Gilmour was what is known as “crazy” +about her, his jealousy a standing joke among us, so that +when those <i>beaux yeux</i> were turned upon my lanky, half-starved +self, there were warnings that trouble might begin. +But I was looking for salary and food rather than for +trouble. In the dressing-room we underlings all shared +together, though “dressing” was of negligible kind, +I was quite safe. Chance meetings, however, were unavoidable, +of course, and Bettina’s instinct for adventure +was distinctly careless. It was here the pail of beer came +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span> +in—into our crowded dressing-room. Who brought it, +I have forgotten; the miscreant who stood treat to the +band of hungry and thirsty Thespians is lost to memory. +I only know that, empty of food as I was, my share of +that gallon pail distinctly cheered me. The <i>beaux yeux</i> +had been boldly rolling; another pair of eyes, not so lovely, +had been rolling too. To be ungallantly honest about it, +my own feelings were not engaged in any way, except on +this particular night, when they were considerably roused—against +that stupid, jealous Gilmour. The way he +glared in my direction stirred my bile; the few glasses of +beer made me reckless. When the escaping prisoner +fought with me for the possession of the great wooden +pistol, I refused to be “thrown.”</p> + +<p>The scanty audience that night witnessed a good performance +of my brief, particular scene. Gilmour cursed +and swore beneath his breath, but he was a smaller man +than I was. He could do nothing with me. What was +a shocking performance in one sense, was a realistic and +sincere performance in another. Had my share of the +pail been slightly bigger than it was, I should undoubtedly +have “thrown” the prisoner and spoilt the curtain. As +it was, however, Gilmour managed in the end to wrench +the pistol from me, and in doing so, his fury genuine, +he landed me a blow on the forehead with its heavy butt +that stunned me. I fell. He fled. Roars of applause I +heard dimly. My brown billycock hat, I remember, fell +on its springy brim, bounced into the air, then hopped +away against the footlights. And all my interest went +with my precious hat. To the warders who at once +rushed on with cries of “He’s escaped! Which way +did he go?” I used the right words, taking my cue correctly. +Only I pointed in the wrong direction. I pointed +towards my old hat against the footlights. It lay outside +the curtain.</p> + +<p>It is odd to think that somewhere in the under-mind +of the individual who lay half-stunned on the stage of a +Yonkers theatre, pointing wildly at a dilapidated, but +precious, old brown billycock, slept a score of books, waiting +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span> +patiently for expression a few years later. It is difficult, +indeed, as I write these notes, to realize that the individual +who describes the incidents is the individual who experienced +them. The body itself has changed every single +physical particle at least four times in succession. Nor +is the mind the same. With the exception of one or two +main interests, easily handed on by the outgoing atoms +to the incoming atoms in the brain, “I” possess little that +the “I” of those distant New York days possessed. Even +the continuity of memory is bequeathable by atoms leaving +the brain to the new ones just arriving. Where, then, is +the self who experienced years ago what the self holding +this pen now sets down?</p> + +<p>The “I,” during the next few years, at any rate, went +rolling; rolling from one experience to another, if not +cheerily, at least resignedly. Whatever happened—and +what happened was mostly unpleasant—there was never +absent the conviction that it was deserved, and must be +lived out in a spirit of acceptance, until finally exhausted. +Any other attitude toward unwelcome events meant evasion, +and a disagreeable experience shirked merely postponed +it to another time, either in this life or another. +There was, meanwhile, a <i>real</i> self that remained aloof, untouched, +neither happy nor unhappy, a spectator, but a +royal spectator. Into this eternal Self was gathered +the fruit and essence of each and every experience +the lower “I” passed through; the secret of living +was to identify oneself with this exalted and untroubled +royalty....</p> + +<p>The rolling-stone went rolling, therefore, somewhat in +this spirit, which helped and comforted, which made most +things possible, bearable at any rate, because it was the +outcome of that strange inner conviction established in +my blood, a conviction, as mentioned, neither argument +nor evidence could alter.</p> + +<p>Letters from home, home memories as well, pertained +now to some distant, unrecoverable region that was dead +and gone. My mother’s letters—one every week without +a single omission—expressed a larger spirit. Her faithful +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span> +letters, secure in a sincere belief, were very precious, I +remember. Sometimes, though never successfully, they +tempted me almost to giving my full confidence and +telling more than my camouflaged reports revealed. +From the rest of my family, with the exception of a +really loved brother, I knew myself entirely divorced, +a divorce that later years proved final and somehow +inevitable.</p> + +<p>To my father, who was always something of a stranger +to me, I could never tell my heart; my mother, on the +other hand, always had my confidence, coupled with +an austere respect. Few words passed between us, yet +she always knew, I felt, my thoughts. And this full +confidence dated, oddly enough, from an incident in early +childhood, when I was saying the Lord’s Prayer at her +knee. There was a phrase that puzzled me even when +I was in knickerbockers: “Lead us not into temptation....” +I stopped, looked up into her face, and +asked: “But <i>would</i> He lead me into temptation unless I +asked Him not to?” Her eyes opened, she gazed down +into mine with a thoughtful, if perplexed expression, for +a moment she was evidently at a loss how to answer. She +hesitated, then decided to trust me with the truth: “I +have never quite understood those words myself,” she +said. “I think, though, it is best to leave their explanation +to Him, and to say the words exactly as He taught +them.”</p> + +<p>“Old souls” and “young souls” was a classification +that ruled my mind in this New York period: my mother +was of the former, my father of the latter. In the Old +lay innate the fruits, the results, the memories of many +many previous lives, and this ripeness of long experience +showed itself in certain ways—in taste, in judgment, in +their standard of values, in that mysterious quality called +tact; above all, perhaps, in the type and quality of goods +they desired from life. Worldly ambitions, so-called, were +generally negligible in them. What we label to-day as the +subconscious was invariably fully charged; also, without +too much difficulty, accessible. It made them interesting, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span> +stimulating and not easily exhausted. Wide sympathies, +spread charity, understanding were their hall-marks, and +a certain wisdom, as apart from intellect, their invariable +gift; with, moreover, a tendency to wit, if not that rare +quality wit itself, and humour, the power of seeing, and +therefore laughing at, oneself. The cheaper experiences +of birth, success, possessions they had learned long ago; +it was the more difficult, but higher, values they had come +back to master, and among the humbler ranks of life they +found the necessary conditions. Christ, I reflected, was +the son of a carpenter.</p> + +<p>The Young Souls, on the other hand, were invariably +hot-foot after the things of this world. Show, Riches and +Power stuck like red labels on their foreheads. The +Napoleons of the earth were among the youngest of all; +the intellectuals, those who relied on reason alone, often +the prosperous, usually the well-born, were of the same +category. Rarely was “understanding” in them, and +brilliant cleverness could never rank with that wisdom +which knows that <i>tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner</i>. +To me the Young Souls were the commonplace and +uninteresting ones. They were shallow, sketchy, soon +exhausted, the <i>Dutzend-menschen</i>; whereas, the others +were intuitive, mature in outlook, aware of deeper values +and eager for the things of the spirit....</p> + +<p>Thinking over my distinguished relations, I found none +fit to black the boots of that kindly waiter in Krisch’s +cheap eating-house, Otto, the Black Forest German, who +trusted us for food and often forwent his trumpery tip +with a cheery smile. And there were many others, whose +memory remains bright and wonderful from those dismal +New York years.... A volume of “Distinguished People +I have Met,” for instance, would include the Italian +bootblack at the corner of 4th Avenue and 20th Street, +who had the sun in his face, in his bright black eyes and +brown skin, and who trusted me sometimes for a month, +although five cents meant as much to him as it did to me. +The bigwigs I interviewed for newspapers are forgotten, +but the faces of Otto and the Italian shine in memory still. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span> +I even remember the sentence the latter taught me. +It invariably formed our daily greeting: <i>E molto tempo +che siete stato amalato?</i> Often since have I spouted it +in Italy, as bewildered by the voluble replies I could not +understand, as the peasants were by my familiar enquiry +after their health. Mrs. Bernstein, I think, would be +entitled to a place, and Grant, who pawned his overcoat +to buy me food, most certainly to full mention.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"> + CHAPTER XXIX + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap'><span class='allcaps'>Worthy</span> of more detailed description, however, +is the figure of an old, old man I met about this +time, a dignified, venerable and mysterious being, +man of the world, lawyer, musician, scholar, poet, but +above all, exile. Incidentally, he was madman too. +What unkindly tricks fate had played with his fine brain, +I never learned with accuracy. It was but the ruin of +a great mind I knew. Pain and suffering of no unusual +order, as I soon discovered, had, at any rate, left his +heart as wise and sweet and gentle as any I have ever +known. His voice, his eyes, his smile, his very gestures, +even, had in them all the misery and all the goodness of +the world. Our chance meeting deepened into a friendship, +the intimacy of which between Padre and Figlio—names +he himself assigned respectively—yet never permitted +a full account of his own mysterious past. The +little I gathered of his personal history before he died +some dozen years later in England, came to me from +patchwork sources, but none of it from his own lips. What +term the alienists might use to describe the mental disorder +of Alfred H. Louis I do not know.</p> + +<p>The first time I saw him he cut a sorry figure; an old +fellow in far worse plight and even worse down at heel +than I was myself. It was in an olive-oil warehouse, at +No. 1, Water Street, on the river front. McKay, the +owner, whom I had met through some newspaper story +or other, had converted me to the wisdom of an occasional +glass of olive oil. It was healthful and delicious, but to +me its chief value was as food. On this day of broiling +heat I had wandered in for a glass of oil, and, while waiting +a moment for the owner to appear, I noticed an old tramp +seated on a packing-case, gazing at me in penetrating +fashion. He was a Jew, he was very small, his feet were +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span> +tiny, his hands, I took in, were beautiful. I thought of +Moses, of Abraham, some Biblical prophet come to life, +of some storied being like the Wandering Jew.</p> + +<p>His atmosphere, that is, at once sent a message of +something unusual to my imagination. But it was when +McKay came in and, to my surprise, calmly introduced +us as fellow Englishmen, that my mind was really startled—not +because the old tramp was English, but because when +he rose to shake my hand, it seemed to me that some great +figure of history rose to address, not me, but the nations +of the world. He reached barely to my shoulder, his face +upturned to mine, yet the feeling came that it was I who +looked up into his eyes. The dignity and power the frail +outline conveyed were astonishing. He was a Presence. +And his voice the same instant—though in some commonplace +about having known Lord Dufferin—increased the air +of greatness, almost I had said of majesty, that he wore so +naturally. It was not merely cultured, deep and musical, +it vibrated with a peculiar resonance that conveyed +authority beyond anything I have known in any other +human voice.</p> + +<p>We talked ... <i>he</i> talked, rather ... hunger, thirst, +the afflicting moist heat of the day were all forgotten, New +York City was forgotten too. His words carried me beyond +this world, his language in that astonishing voice wore +wings that brought escape. His long frock-coat, green +with age and dirt; his broken boots and frayed trousers; +his shapeless top hat, brushed the wrong way till it looked +like a beehive coated with rough plush; his grimy collar +without a tie; the spots upon his grease-stained waistcoat—all +vanished completely. It was, above all, I +think, the poetry in his voice and words that brought +the balm and healing into my whole being. The way +his hands moved too. We talked for several hours, +for it was McKay’s nasal interruption, saying he must +close the warehouse, that brought me back to—Water +Street.</p> + +<p>Recklessly, though with a diffidence as though I were +with royalty, I invited him to dine, but in the cheap +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span> +Childs’ Eating House where we “fed,” I soon perceived +that I had no reason to feel embarrassed. A cup of coffee +and “sinkers” sufficed him, he took my shyness away, +he won my easy and full confidence; and afterwards—for +he refused to let me go—as we sat, that stifling night, +on a bench in Battery Park, tramps and Wearie Willies +our neighbours, but the salt air from the sea in our nostrils, +he used a phrase that, giving me the calibre of his thought, +was too significant ever to be forgotten. I had spoken of +my hatred of the city and of my present circumstances in +it. He peered into my face a moment beneath his dreadful +hat, then, raising a beautiful hand by way of emphasis, +his deep voice came to me like some music of the sea +itself:</p> + +<p>“No man worth his spiritual salt,” he said with impressive +gentleness, “is ever entangled in locality.” He +smiled, and the tenderness of the voice was in the eyes +as well....</p> + +<p>The little park emptied gradually, the heated paving-stones +lost something of their furnace breath, the stars +were visible overhead beyond the great arc lights, the +parched leaves rustled faintly, and I spoke to him of poetry. +He had lived with Longfellow, he had known Browning. +The poetry of the world was in his soul—Greek, Latin, +German, French, above all, Hebrew. I drank in his +words, unaware of the passing hours. To me it was like +finding a well in the desert when I was dying of thirst. +Even the awful city he transfigured. Suddenly his lean +fingers touched my arm, his voice deepened and grew +soft, he took his hat off. “I will say my Night-Song to +you now,” he said. “I can only say it to very, very +few. For years I have said it to—no one. But <i>you</i> shall +hear it.”</p> + +<p>If there was something in his voice and manner that +thrilled me to the core, the poem he then repeated on +that bench in Battery Park at midnight gave me indescribable +sensations of beauty and delight. I realized +I listened to a personal confession that was a revelation +of the mysterious old heart beneath the green +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span> +frock-coat. It seemed to me that Night herself spoke +through him:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Known only, only to God and the night, and the stars and me!</div> + <div class="verse indent10">Prophetic, jubilant Song,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Smiting the rock-bound hours till the waters of life flow free;</div> + <div class="verse indent10">And a Soul, on pinion strong,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Flieth afar, and hovers over the infinite sea</div> + <div class="verse indent10">Of love and of melody:</div> + <div class="verse indent10"><i>While the blind fates weave their nets</i></div> + <div class="verse indent10"><i>And the world in sleep forgets</i>.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Known only, only to me and the night, and the stars and God!</div> + <div class="verse indent10">Song, from a burning breast,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of a land of perfected delights which the foot of man ne’er trod,</div> + <div class="verse indent10">Like a foaming wine expressed</div> + <div class="verse indent0">From passionate fruits that glowed ’mid the boughs of the Eden lost,</div> + <div class="verse indent10">Ere sin was born and frost;—</div> + <div class="verse indent10"><i>Song wild with desires and regrets,</i></div> + <div class="verse indent10"><i>While the world in sleep forgets</i>.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Known only, only to me and God, and the night and the stars!</div> + <div class="verse indent10">The beacon fire of song,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Flaming for guidance and hope while the storm-winds wage their wars;</div> + <div class="verse indent10">Balm for the ancient wrong,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Dropping from healing wings on the wounds of the heart and brain,</div> + <div class="verse indent10">Quenching their ancient pain:</div> + <div class="verse indent10">Love-star that rises and sets,</div> + <div class="verse indent10"><i>While the world in sleep forgets</i>.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Known only, only to God and me, and the stars and the night!</div> + <div class="verse indent10">Dove that returns to my ark,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Murmuring of grief-floods falling, of light beyond all light:</div> + <div class="verse indent10">Voice that cleaveth the dark,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Singing of earth growing heaven, of distant lands that bless,</div> + <div class="verse indent10">Though they may not caress,</div> + <div class="verse indent10">And, blessing, pay Love’s old debts,</div> + <div class="verse indent10"><i>While the world in sleep forgets</i>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>Long before he ended the tears were coursing slowly +down his withered cheeks, and when the last word died +away a long silence came between us, for I could find no +words to express the emotion in me. He took my hand +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span> +and held it a moment tightly, then presently got up, put +on his old hat again, with the remark that it was time for +bed, and followed me slowly to a Broadway cable car. +His small, frail figure seemed to have dwindled to a child’s +shadow as he moved beside me; he had a way of hunching +his thin shoulders that still further dwarfed his height; +I felt myself a giant physically, but in my mind <i>his</i> stature +reached the stars. We exchanged addresses. He lived +in 8th Street, a miserable attic, I learned later, though I +never actually entered it. Of his mental disorder no +inkling had then reached me. I watched him melt into +the shadows of the side street with the feeling that I +watched some legendary figure, some ancient prophet, +some mysterious priest. He smiled at me; there was love +and blessing in the brilliant eyes. Then he was gone.... +For me, at this time, to meet and talk with such a man +held something of the fabulous. He had set fire to a +hundred new thoughts and left them flaming in me.</p> + +<p>It was in this way began a friendship that has always +seemed to me marvellous, and that lasted till his death in +England some fifteen years later. Sweet, patient, resigned +and lovable to the end, he died incurably insane, the +charity in him never tainted, the tenderness unstained, +the passionate love of his kind, of beauty, of all that is +lovely and of good report, unspoilt. The grimmest pain +had not soured the natural sweetness in him, his gentle +spirit knew no bitterness, his megalomania, complicated, +I believe, with other varieties of disorder, was harmless +and inoffensive. As Padre he still lives in my memory; +as The Old Man of Visions (“The Listener”), he still +haunts my imagination. “You have taken my name +away,” he chided me with a smile, when I published this +picture of him. “I am now uncertain who I am. That is +well. I am Anybody I choose to be. I will be Everybody.” +He had rooms in Great Russell Street at the time. +Though baptised by Charles Kingsley into the English +Church, he later became a Roman Catholic, but, when the end +came, he reverted to the blood and faith born in him. He +was buried, by his own wish, in a Hebrew cemetery. The +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span> +epitaph he so often told me with an ironic smile he had +chosen for his own was not, however, used. Talk, he +always declared, vain, excessive talk, lay at the bottom +of every misunderstanding in the world. If people +would talk less, there would be less trouble in life. “Sorry +I spoke,” was to be cut upon one of his tombstones; “Sorry +they spoke” upon the other.</p> + +<p>A poem he wrote—published, like the Night Song, in +<i>Harper’s Magazine</i>—describing death, I have kept all +these years. The strange intensity of expression he put +into the passage which begins: “The sand of my Being is +fused and runs ...” lives in my mind to this day. The +title of the poem was “The Final Word”:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Hence then at last! For the strife is past</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Of the Birth and Death, of the Self and Soul;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The memory breaks, the breath forsakes,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The waves of the æther o’er me roll.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The pulses cease, and the Hours release</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Their wearied school of the nerves and brain;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I fall on the Deep of the Mystic Sleep,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Where the Word that is Life can be heard again.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the fires descend, and my fragments blend,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And the sand of my Being is fused and runs</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To the mould of a glass for the rays to pass</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Of the Sun of the centre that rules all suns.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But, or ever I rest, I take from my breast</div> + <div class="verse indent2">My blood-drained heart for the tablet white</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of a gospel page to the far-off Age—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">O Hand eternal!—Come forth—and write!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXX"> + CHAPTER XXX + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap'><span class='allcaps'>The</span> personality of Alfred H. Louis is identified with +New York for me; he accompanied my remaining +years there, guide, philosopher and friend. He +took in hand that indiscriminate heterogeneous reading +which the Free Library made possible. He proved an +unfailing and inspiring counsellor. How, why or whence +he came to be in America at all I never knew. One thing +that stirred him into vehemence, when the past was +mentioned, was the name of Gladstone. With flashing +eyes and voice of thunder he condemned the Grand Old +Man, both as to character and policy, in unmeasured +terms. Gladstone, apparently, had done him a personal +injury as well. “We cannot let that man come among +us,” was Gladstone’s dictum, when Louis’s name was being +considered as a candidate for Parliament by the Party. +“He is too earnest.” This fragment was all he ever told +me, but there lay evidently much behind it. “<i>Too +earnest!</i>” he repeated with contemptuous indignation.</p> + +<p>Of his days at Cambridge he was more communicative, +though, unfortunately, I kept no notes. The eloquence +and earnestness of his speeches at the Union, when Sir +William Harcourt was president, made, according to his +own account, a great stir. Of Dr. (Bishop) Lightfoot, of +Benson, afterwards Archbishop, he had intimate memories, +coloured by warm praise. His book on “England’s +Foreign Policy” (Bentley, 1869) apparently angered Gladstone +extremely, and Louis’s political career was killed.</p> + +<p>He was called to the bar. Of success, of important +cases, he told me nothing. His early brilliance suffered, +I gathered, a strange eclipse, and from things he hinted +at, I surmised—I cannot state it definitely—that a period +in some kind of <i>maison de santé</i> followed about this time. +That he had been, then or later, in an asylum for the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span> +insane, I heard vouched for repeatedly in London years +later. For an interval before the breakdown came, he +was editor, or part-editor, of the <i>Spectator</i>, and in some +similar connexion, as owner or editor, he served the +<i>Fortnightly</i> too. George Eliot he knew well, giving me +vivid descriptions of her famous Sundays, and of his +talks with George Henry Lewes and Herbert Spencer. He +claimed to be the original of Daniel Deronda. He was a +pupil of Sterndale Bennett’s on the piano. Of his friendship +with Cardinal Manning he had also much to tell.</p> + +<p>It was in the domain of politics that I first began to +notice the exaggeration and incoherence of his mind, and +it was “in politics,” evidently, that the deep wounds +which would not heal had been received. In music, +poetry, literature, above all in law, his intelligence had +remained clear and sound, his judgments consummate, +his knowledge encyclopædic. Large tracts of memory +in him were, apparently, obliterated, whole stretches of +life submerged, but his legal attainments had remained +untouched. A business friend of mine “briefed” him to +lecture on International, Company and Patent Law; and +the substance of those “Lectures” stood the test, years +later, of the highest English and French Courts.</p> + +<p>The lonely old man’s kingdom was his mind, and he +dwelt in it aloof, secure, contented, unassailable. Into +the big empty stretches a half education had left in my +own, he poured his riches with unstinted satisfaction, even +with delight. Worldly advice he never proffered; the +world had left him aside, he, in his turn, left the world +aside. To practical questions he merely shook his Moses-head: +“That,” he would say, “you must decide for +yourself. Considered in relation to the Eternities, it is +of little moment in any case.” To any question, however, +of a philosophical kind, to any enquiry for explanation +about what perplexed or interested me in the realm of +thought, he would reply with what I can only call a lecture, +but a lecture so lucid, so packed with knowledge and +learning, with classical comment and quotation, often with +passages of moving eloquence, and invariably in language +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span> +so considered that no single word could have been altered, +and the “essay” might have been published as it stood—lectures, +in a word, that enthralled and held me spellbound +for hours at a time. For his knowledge was not knowledge +merely, it was knowledge transmuted by emotion into that +spiritual wisdom called Understanding.</p> + +<p>The respect he inspired me with was such that rarely did +I venture upon a personal question, though I longed to +know more about himself and his mysterious story. His +face sometimes betrayed intense mental suffering. On one +occasion, feeling braver, owing to a happy mood that +seemed established naturally between us, I attempted +rather an intimate question of some kind about his past. +He turned and stared with an expression that startled +me. It was so keen, so searching. For several minutes +he made no reply. His eyes narrowed. I felt ashamed. +I had wounded him. The truth was, it seems, I had +touched his heart.</p> + +<p>“Listen,” he said presently. In a voice full of tears and +deep emotion, a very quiet, a very beautiful voice, he +replied to my question. The expression of his eyes turned +inwards, there rose in memory the ghostly figure of someone +he had loved, perhaps loved still. The whole aspect of the +old exiled poet became charged with an intolerable sadness, +as he spoke the lines, not to myself, but to this vanished +figure—“Shadowed by yearning memory’s raven wing”:</p> + + +<p class='center mt1'>HEREAFTER</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Thou know’st not, sweet, what must remain unknown</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Through all that my poor words can say or sing,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The measure of the love to thee I bring.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">One day thou wilt, when, by a graven stone</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That bears a name, thou standest, white, alone,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shadowed by yearning memory’s raven wing,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Rained on by blossoms of some wind-torn spring</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Wherefrom thirst-quenching fruit shall ne’er be grown.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Then—power shall rest upon the vanished hand</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Once too much trembling to thy touch for power;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Then—shall my soul at last thy soul command</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As it might not in Time’s brief fitful hour;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And what Life’s fires might neither melt nor burn</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shall yield with tears to ashes and the urn.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span></p> + +<p class='no-indent'>I had my answer. Never again did I venture on a personal +question.</p> + +<p>All our talks came round to poetry in the end. It was +his deepest love as well. Sound lawyer he may have been, +but inspired poet, to me at least, he certainly was. His +own poems he severely deprecated, calling them, with the +exception of the “Night Song,” “poor things, though +from my heart.” His room, it seems, was littered with +them in manuscript, which he rarely tried, and never +wished, to sell. Some time later Mr. Alden, Editor of +<i>Harper’s Magazine</i>, questioned me for information “about +a wonderful old gentleman who comes into the office like +an emperor, and offers me a poem as though he were +parting painfully with a treasure he hardly dared let out +of his keeping, and certainly does not wish to sell for +cash.” To all, thus, he was a mystery. If he was uncared +for, he was at the same time indifferent to human care. +Great intellect, great mind, great heart, he seemed to me, +a wraith perhaps, but an august, a giant wraith, draped +by mysterious shadows, dwelling in a miserable slum, +cut off from his kind amid the dim pomp and pageantry +of majestic memories.</p> + +<p>It was thus, at any rate, with the pardonable exaggeration +of ignorant twenty-five, I saw and knew the Old Man +of Visions. It was his deep heart of poetry, rather than +his fine intellect I worshipped. The under-mind in him, +the subconscious region, I think, was whole and healed; +it was the upper-mind, the surface consciousness, that +alone was damaged. If this mind was wrecked, this brain +partly in ruins, the soul in him peered forth above the +broken towers, remaining splendidly aware. Not even +the imperfect instrument through which it worked could +prevent this fine expression: behind the disproportion of +various delusions, behind the outer tumbled ruins, there +dwelt unaffected in him that greater thing than any intellect—Understanding.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"> + CHAPTER XXXI + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap kern'><span class='allcaps'>It</span> was with a singular young man, who claimed proudly +to be the illegitimate son of a certain duke, that I +found myself presently in the eau de Cologne business. +A long difficult winter had passed; all my friends had +disappeared; there had been periods of dried apples again, +of posing in studios, of various odd jobs, and of half-starving, +with black weeks in plenty. I had moved into +yet cheaper quarters, where I occupied a room that had +been formerly a butler’s pantry, and was so small that +when the folding-bed was down the entire space from wall +to wall was occupied. The wash-hand stand was a sink +in a recess let into the wall and supplied with a tap.</p> + +<p>When Mr. Louis visited me, as he did frequently, we +lowered the bed and used it as a divan. The door could +not open then. I made tea in the sink. We talked....</p> + +<p>If Louis’s atmosphere suggested choirs and places +where they sing, that of Brodie, as I may call him here, +was associated with bars and places where they drink. +Not that he drank himself, for he was most abstemious, +but that in certain superior saloons, all of them far above +my means, he was usually to be found. A simple, yet +complex, generous as well as mean creature, with all +the canniness of the Scot, with his uncanniness as well, +his education had been neglected, he read with difficulty, +and only wrote well enough to sign his name laboriously +to a cheque. He, too, like Louis, had his mystery; there +was no one, indeed, in my circle of those days whose +antecedents would bear too close a scrutiny.</p> + +<p>I was first introduced to him by a burly Swede, with +hands like beef-steaks, and the shoulders of a heavy-weight +fighter, who was later arrested and sent to gaol for picking +pockets. His notoriety as a sneak-thief none of us had +guessed, and how those bulky hands could have accomplished +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span> +anything neat and clever was a puzzle. In the +Scotsman’s pleasant quarters, somewhat outlandishly +furnished by himself on a top floor, the Swede had made +himself at home too long. Brodie, the prey of many +who, invited for a day or two, stayed on for weeks, was +glad to see his back. His weak good-nature, refusing +to turn his guests out, was the cause of endless troubles +with men who sponged upon his kindness and his purse. +This and his eau de Cologne business, “me beezness” as +he called it, were his sole topics of conversation. He had +money to spend—was it an allowance? We never +knew—and was always well dressed; many a square meal +he stood me; there was something in his soft West of +Scotland voice that drew me to this odd fish in the “perfumery +line.” It reminded me of happier days. And +I have described his habits at some length, because it was +owing to a small service I rendered him, and rendered +myself at the same time, that I became a partner in “me +beezness” of manufacturing and selling eau de Cologne +made from the Johann Maria Farina recipe.</p> + +<p>Brodie’s social aspirations were very marked; to +hear him talk one would have thought him heir to a +dukedom; he had, too, a curious faculty for getting his +name associated with people above him in the social world. +How he managed it was a problem I never solved. His +instinct for smelling out and using such folk was a gift +from heaven. To see his name in the paper gave him +supreme happiness. Real “Society” of course, Ward +Macallister’s Four Hundred, lay beyond the reach of what +was actually a peasant type, but there were less select +fields he worked assiduously with great success. There +was matter for a play, a novel, a character study, at any +rate, in Brodie, who himself, I learned much later, +had come out to New York as valet to Clyde Fitch, the +playwright, and whose recipe for the “genuine Johann +Maria Farina,” his successful “beezness,” was stolen +property. My father’s son knew certainly queer bedfellows +in that underworld in New York City.</p> + +<p>Meeting him in one of his usual haunts one night, he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span> +complained bitterly of a young man he had invited for a +week, but who had stayed a month, and stayed on still. +The name, which need not be mentioned, was a well-known +one. It was a bad case of imposition, by a man, +too, who had ample means of his own. I offered to turn +him out, much to Brodie’s alarm. That is, he both +desired the result and feared it. Next morning I arrived +in the oddly-furnished rooms and found Brodie cooking +breakfast for the undesirable young man who had imposed +on his host too long, and who still lay in bed. It was a +comic scene, no doubt, for Brodie, though frightened, +bore out my accusations while he fried the eggs, and the +other blustered noisily until he found out that bluster +was of no avail; and then, threatening an action for +assault, got suddenly out of bed and dressed himself. +Half-an-hour later he was, bag and baggage, in the street, +while I went down and sold the “story” to the <i>New +York Journal</i>, who printed it next morning with big +headlines, but also with a drawing showing the eviction +scene. No action for assault followed, however; I received +twenty dollars for my “story”; and Brodie, full of +gratitude—his name was mentioned in flattering terms—offered +to take me into partnership in “me beezness.” +I demurred at first. “You might help me with the +correspondence,” he suggested cautiously. I was to be +his educated partner and his pen.</p> + +<p>All that spring and summer I received ten dollars a +week which, in addition to free-lance newspaper work, +enabled me to live in comparative luxury. In a dark +little back-office on Broadway and 8th Street, the eau +de Cologne was made. It might have been the secret +headquarters of an anarchist fraternity, or the laboratory +of some mediæval alchemist, such was the atmosphere +of secrecy, of caution and of mystery. It never occurred +to me that anything was wrong. Our only assistant was +a young Polish girl named Paola, a beautiful, dark-haired +Jewess. The precious recipe I was never allowed to see. +Great flagons in wicker coverings stood in rows upon long +shelves; the mixing of the ingredients was a delicate +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span> +operation lasting an hour; the room smelt rich and sweet +of spices that made me think of Araby and the East. It +was a curious and picturesque scene—the rather darkened +room, the perfume-laden air, the hush no traffic could +disturb, the great, mysterious flagons, which might +almost have concealed forty thieves, the canny Scot of +doubtful origin, the beautiful Jewess, the air of caution +and suspicion that reigned over all. The filling of the +bottles in two sizes, affixing the labels, flavouring the soap—we +made eau-de-Cologne soap too—answering the letters, +writing flowery advertisements, and so forth, occupied +the entire day. Brodie, a born salesman, would take +a cab and visit the big stores with samples—Macy’s, +Siegel and Cooper, and others whose names I have forgotten. +He never came back without an order. The +business flourished.</p> + +<p>I made no secret of being in the perfumery trade. I +had moved into a larger room at my boarding-house. +I had bought boots, some new linen, and most of my +things were out of pawn. Then, presently, here and +there, I began to notice things I did not like. Rumours +reached me. Hints were dropped, sometimes more than +hints, that made me wonder and look over my shoulder +a little. No member of my immediate circle at this time +was of too sweet origin nor of too stainless habits, yet +from these came the rumours and the hints. I had better +“keep my eyes peeled,” and the rest...! One man in +particular who warned me was an elderly, shrewd German, +friend of Brodie’s, and himself a mystery. His +occupation was unknown, however, even to Brodie; +he hid it carefully away; he led a double life, protecting +himself with the utmost skill and caution behind a screen +of detail none of us ever pierced. “Von” Schmidt, +as he styled himself, was educated; also he had a heart; +for once, when I was in a state of collapse from hunger, +he brought oysters for me at great trouble to himself, +having to go out on a rainy night and bring them some +distance along the street; from which moment, though the +unpleasant mystery about him intrigued and cautioned me, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span> +I became his friend. We talked German together. His +one desire, he confided to me, was to marry a rich woman, +and once he clumsily proposed to arrange a rich marriage +for myself if I would give him a—commission on +results!</p> + +<p>His personality is worth this brief description, perhaps, +since it sheds light, incidentally, upon the world I lived in. +Always most carefully dressed, he occupied a single room in +a well-appointed house in East 22nd Street, talking airily of +a bedroom on the floor above, of a bathroom I was sure +he never used, and complaining apologetically of “this +awful house I’m in for the moment.” His pose was that +of an aristocrat, proud and resigned among untoward +circumstances, and it was through no mistake of his own +that this humbug did not impose on me. I just knew +it was all bunkum. His actual business, I felt sure, +was unsavoury, though Brodie, having once discovered +artificial flowers in his coat pocket, thought he was a +floor-walker in some big store. Various suspicious details +confirmed me later in the belief that his real occupation +was blackmailing.</p> + +<p>In his single room, at any rate, where a piece of furniture +against the wall covered with framed photographs of +German notabilities was in reality a folding-bed—I never +once, since the oysters, betrayed that I knew this—he +lived “like a gentleman.” Every night, from nine +o’clock onwards, he was “at home”; a box of cigars, +various liqueurs, he offered without fail, and “with an +air” if you please, although the former never held more +than three or four cigars, the bottles never more than +enough to fill two glasses, because “my servant, confound +him, has forgotten again to fill them.” He had no servant, +of course, and the minimum of replenishing was done by +himself every evening before nine o’clock. “Then you +are a Baron really?” I said once, referring to the “von” +before his name. He looked at me with the disdainful +smile a prince in difficulties might have worn: “In +this city of snobs and scoundrels,” he said lightly, “I have +dropped my title. The ‘von’ alone I find more dignified.” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span> +He left the house, I found, every morning sharp at eight, +and this was in favour of Brodie’s theory that he had +some regular job. He was an experienced, much-lived +old bird, a touch of something sinister about him always, +about most of his friends as well. Some very disagreeable +types I surprised more than once in his well-furnished +room. He “knew the ropes,” knew men and women too, +his counsel was always sound in worldly matters. A +lack of humour was his chief failing, it seemed to me, while +his snobbery was another weakness that probably led many +of his schemes to failure. Every summer, for instance, he +would go for two weeks to Newport, where the rank and +fashion went. “When I was at Newport,” or “I am +going to Newport next week,” were phrases his tongue +loved to mouth and taste like fine wine. But his brief +days there were spent actually in a cheap boarding-house, +although the letters he wrote to all and sundry, to myself +included, bore one word only as address: “Newport,” +made from a die, at the head of his coloured paper.</p> + +<p>It was von Schmidt, then, who warned me about +Brodie and his eau-de-Cologne business: “He is a +fool, a peasant. There will be trouble there. Do not +identify yourself with him or his business. It is not +worth while....” And his manner conveyed that he +could tell something more definite if he liked, which I +verily believe was the case. Brodie, I was convinced +later, paid him tribute.</p> + +<p>I began to feel uncomfortable. One day I asked +Brodie, point blank, what his recipe was and how +he came by it? “That’s me own beezness,” he replied. +“There’s nothing to be nairvous about.” I consulted +“old Louis.” “If you feel the faintest doubt,” was his +answer, “you should leave at once.” I decided to get +out. Brodie asked me to wait the current month. +I agreed.</p> + +<p>Before the end of the month, however, when I left the +eau-de-Cologne business, a most unpleasant and alarming +incident occurred. The terrible thing, long dreaded in a +vague kind of way, had overtaken me at last. I was to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span> +be convicted of a crime I had not committed. I might +even be sent to gaol....</p> + +<p>Brodie’s outlandish furnishing of his rooms has been +mentioned purposely; they were filled with an assortment +of showy trash that could not have deceived a +charwoman; fifty dollars would have covered everything. +He was proud of his curtains, rugs and faked draperies, +however; showed them off with the air of a connoisseur; +hinted at their great value. He had insured them, it +always pleased him to mention. The <i>New York Journal</i>, +describing the eviction scene, had referred to his fine +apartment “furnished with exotic taste and regardless +of cost,” adding this touch of colour which was certainly +not my own. Brodie, thus encouraged in print, +promptly took out another fire policy in a second company. +And one day, while toying with his flagons, he mentioned +casually that he was having “me place done up a bit,” +new paint, new paper were to be put on, and—might he +bring his clothes to my room until this was finished, as +his own cupboard space was limited?</p> + +<p>He brought the suits himself, carrying them one by +one concealed inside a folded overcoat upon his arm. +He did this always after dusk. No suspicion stirred +in me. My own cupboards were, of course, empty. +Brodie’s fine wardrobe now filled them. It all seemed +natural enough; certainly it roused no doubt or query in +me; neither did the party to which I was invited a few +days later, which included a “distinguished” member, +of course, a famous dress-designer from Europe, with +whose publicity campaign in the Press, Brodie had +contrived to get his name associated.</p> + +<p>We were a party of five men, and we met at our host’s +rooms before going out to dine, the rooms that had just +been done up; and attention, I recall, was drawn particularly +to the beauty, rarity and value of his variegated +trash. The electric light was shaded, a big coal fire +burned in the grate, at a cursory glance the apartment +might possibly have produced a favourable impression of +expense and richness. But our host did not allow us to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span> +linger; there was a hurried cocktail, and we were gone. I +remember that I was last but one in the procession down +the stairs from this top floor; Brodie, who had held +the door open for us to pass, came last. Also I remembered +later, that as we reached the next flight, he said he had +forgotten something, and dashed upstairs again to fetch +it. A moment later he rejoined us in the street, and we +all went on to dinner. “It was a kind of house-warming +party,” he explained.</p> + +<p>The evening passed pleasantly. We went on to Koster +and Biel’s music hall, and after that, to supper in some +Tenderloin joint or other. And it was here I first noticed +a change in our host. Something about him was different. +His behaviour was not what was normal to him. His face +was pale, his manner nervous and excited; though there +was no drink in him to account for it, he was overwrought, +unusually voluble, unable to keep still for a single moment. +I had never seen him like this before, and the strangeness +of his behaviour arrested me. Once or twice, <i>à propos</i> of +nothing, he referred to the money he had spent on his apartment; +and more than once in asides to me, he spoke of +the value of his rugs and curtains, engaging my endorsement, +as it were. The other men, who knew him less +intimately, probably noticed nothing, or, if they did, +attributed it to the excitement of alcohol.... But it +made me more and more uneasy. I didn’t like it; I +watched him attentively. I came to the strange conclusion, +long before the evening was over, that he was +frightened. And when he met suggestions that it was +time for bed with obstinate refusals, anxious and nervous +at the same time, I knew that he was more than frightened, +he was terrified.</p> + +<p>Once when I asked him whether he felt unwell, there was +startled terror in his cunning eyes as he whispered: “I +dreamed of rats last night. Something bad will be coming.” +His face was white as chalk. To dream of rats, +with him, always meant an enemy in the offing; a dozen +times he had given me instances of this strange superstition; +to dream of an acquaintance in connexion with these +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span> +unpleasant rodents meant that this particular acquaintance +was false, an enemy, someone who meant him harm. I, +therefore, understood the allusion in his mind, but this +time, for some reason, I did not believe it. He was +lying. The terror of a guilty conscience was in those +startled eyes and in that sheet-white skin. I felt still more +uneasy. I was glad I had put my resignation from the +“beezness” in writing. There was trouble coming in +connexion with that recipe, and Brodie already knew it.</p> + +<p>It was after two in the morning when we reached home. +My rooms were a couple of streets before his own, but he +begged me to see him to his door. His nervous state had +grown, meanwhile, worse and worse; his legs failed him +several times, seeming to sink under his weight; he took +my arm; more than once he reeled. There was something +about it all, about himself particularly, that made my +skin crawl. The awful feeling that I, too, was to be +involved increased in me.</p> + +<p>As we turned out of Fourth Avenue into his street, +a loud noise met us: a prolonged, hoarse sound, a clank +of machinery in it somewhere, another sound as well that +pulsed and throbbed. A dense crowd blocked the way. +There was smoke. A fire engine was pumping water into a +burning building—the one that Brodie lived in. These +details I noticed in the first few seconds, but even before +I had registered them Brodie uttered a queer cry and +half-collapsed against me. He was speechless with +terror, and at first something of his terror he communicated +to me, too. My heart sank into my boots. The “rats” +I understood instantly, had nothing to do with his eau de +Cologne recipe. This was a far more serious matter.</p> + +<p>Fires were no new thing to me, and this evidently +was only a small one, but, none the less, people might +have been burned to death. Telling my companion to +wait for me, and to keep his mouth shut whatever happened, +I produced some paper and pushed my way through +the crowd to the police cordon, saying I was from the +<i>Evening Sun</i>. Though I had no fire-badge, the bluff +worked. I ran up the steps of the familiar house. “Which +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span> +floor is it? How did it start? Is it insured? Is anybody +burned?” I asked a fireman. The answer came +and I jotted it down; it was the top floor, how it started +was unknown, nobody was hurt—it was heavily insured.</p> + +<p>It had been burning for four hours, the worst was +over, the fire was out; only steam and smoke now filled +the staircase and corridors. The street was covered with +a litter of ruined furniture. The occupants of the lower +floors stood about in various attire; I caught unpleasant +remarks as I dashed upstairs to Brodie’s floor. +Hoses, I found, were still at work; the room we had +left six hours before was gutted; a gaping hole permitted +a view of the room on the floor below, and this hole +began immediately in front of the grate. A black woolly +mat with long hair, I remembered, had lain on the floor +just there. The unpleasant remarks, as I ran up, had +reference to insurance; phrases such as “over-insured,” +“too well insured” were audible. They were the usual +phrases uttered at the scene of a New York fire, where +arson was as common as picking pockets; I had heard +them a hundred times; they had furnished clues for my +newspaper stories. On this occasion they held a new +significance.</p> + +<p>Brodie shared my folding-bed that night, but he did +not sleep. He cried a good deal. He said very little. +He referred neither to the loss of his stuff, nor to the fact +of its being covered by insurance, nor to how and why +the fire started. He was frightened to the bone.</p> + +<p>Next day, when we visited the burned apartment +to secure what fire and water had spared, Brodie was +abused and scarified by the inmates as he went upstairs.... +Weeks of keen anxiety followed, of worse than +anxiety. The insurance companies refused to pay the +claims, which Brodie, after much hesitation, had sent +in. They decided to fight them. The lawyer—a <i>scheister</i>, +meaning a low, unprincipled type of attorney who would +take any case for the money it might contain—bled my +friend effectively by preying on his obvious fear. He was +summoned to give witness before a hearing in the offices +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span> +of the company, and I shall never forget his face when he +met me that night with the significant words: “They +know everything about me, everything about you too. +They even know that I took all my clothes to your room +before it happened. They are going to summon you to +give evidence too.”</p> + +<p>I consulted with “old Louis,” telling him the full story, +but making no accusations. “Few people are worthy +to live with,” was his comment, “fewer still to share one’s +confidence. You must tell the truth as you know it. You +have nothing to fear.” I was searchingly examined by +the company’s lawyer and my evidence made, I saw, a +good impression. No awkward leading questions were +put. Brodie had been kind to me; I knew nothing +definite against him; in his ignorance, which I described, +he might well have thought his possessions were of value. +It had nothing to do with me, at any rate, and there was +a perfectly good explanation for his clothes being in my +cupboard. None the less, it was a trying ordeal. Worse, +however, was to follow. The fire marshal, recently +appointed, a proverbial new broom, was out to put down +the far too frequent arson in the city. Fire Marshal +Mitchell—I see his face before me still—intended to +prosecute.</p> + +<p>This was a bombshell. My imaginative temperament +then became, indeed, my curse. Waiting for the summons +was like waiting for the verdict of a hostile jury. I +waited many days, hope alternating with fear. I felt +sure I was being watched the whole time. Brodie +and I never met once. I changed my room about this +time, though for reasons entirely disconnected with this +unpleasant business (I had obtained a violin pupil in +another house), and I wrote to the fire marshal informing +him of my new address, in case, as I understood was +probable, he might want my evidence.</p> + +<p>But what really alarmed me most was my inside +knowledge of New York justice. I had seen too many +innocent men sent up; I had heard faked evidence in too +many police cases; I knew that, without a “pull,” I stood +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span> +but little chance of escaping a conviction as an accessory +to what they would call a wanton case of arson. I was +not even on the staff of a newspaper at the time. I had +no influence of any sort behind me. Nor were my means +of support too “visible,” a Britisher, a highly-connected +Britisher into the bargain, it was just what the new-broom +fire marshal was looking for. It would make a big case +for the Press. The agony of mind I endured was ghastly, +and the slow delay of long waiting intensified it.... One +evening, on coming home about dusk, I saw a strange man +in the little hall-way of my house. He asked me my +name. I told him. He handed me a blue paper and went +out. It was the long-expected subpœna from the fire +marshal. I was summoned to attend at eight o’clock two +mornings later in his office.</p> + +<p>My emotions that night and the next day were new +experiences to me; I heard the judge sentence me, saw +myself in prison for a term of years with hard labour. I +began to <i>feel</i> guilty. I knew I should say the wrong +thing to the fire marshal. I should convict myself. The +truth was the truth, but everything pointed against me; +I knew Brodie as a friend, I was his business associate, +was frequently in his rooms, had accepted kindnesses +from him, I needed money badly, I had hidden his good +clothes in my cupboards a few days before the fire. I had +been with him on that particular night, I had left the room +with him—last of the party. I should be looked upon as +guilty, it was for me to clear myself. Prejudice against +me, too, as an Englishman would be strong. The Boyde +episode would be revived, and twisted to show that I +consorted with law-breakers. I should stammer and +hesitate and appear to be hiding the truth, to be lying, +and I should most certainly look guilty. The thing I +dreaded had come upon me. I thought of my home and +family.</p> + +<p>It all made me realize with a fresh sharpness the kind +of world poverty had dragged me down to, with the +contrast between what I had been born to and what I now +lived in.... I needed every scrap of strength and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[284]</span> +comfort my books could give me. That I was exaggerating +like a schoolboy never occurred to me. I suffered the +tortures of the damned, of the already condemned, at +any rate. That I was innocent of wrong-doing was, for +some reason, no consolation: I had got myself into an +awful mess and should have to pay the price.</p> + +<p>The wildest ideas filled my brain; I would call and +enlist the influence of McCloy, of various officials, of headquarters +detectives, of D. L. Moody the Revivalist, who +was then preaching in New York and who had been a +guest in my father’s house, of the Exchange Place banker, +even of von Schmidt, though fear of blackmail stopped me +here. But reflection told me how useless such a proceeding +would be. The Republicans, besides, were in power at +the time, and Tammany had no “pull.” I even thought +of Roosevelt, whom, as President of the Police Board, +I had often interviewed. The fire marshal would rejoice +in the case, of course, for, as with the Boyde story, the +newspapers would print it at great length. There lay +much <i>kudos</i> for him in it. I had no sleep that night, as I +had no friend or counsellor either. I thought of spending +it in Bronx Park with the trees, but it occurred to me that, +if I were being watched, the act might be interpreted as +an attempt to escape—for what would a New York fire +marshal make of my love of nature?</p> + +<p>The following day, as the dreaded examination grew +closer, was a day of acute misery—until the late afternoon, +when I met by chance the man who saved me. I shall +always believe, at least, that “saved” is the right word +to use.</p> + +<p>A coincidence, as singular as the coincidence of catching +Boyde, was involved. Fate, anyhow, brought me across +the path of Mullins, the one man who could help, just at +the time and place, too, where that help could be most +effectively given. The word coincidence, therefore, seems +justified.</p> + +<p>Mullins, the Irishman, was an editorial writer on the +<i>Evening Sun</i> when I was a reporter there; he disliked +the paper as heartily as I did, and his ambition was to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[285]</span> +join the staff of the <i>New York Times</i>, where Muldoon, +another Irishman, a boon companion, was City Editor. +He had proved a real friend to me in my days of gross +inexperience. “If ever I get on the <i>Times</i>,” he used to +say, “I’ll try and get a place for you, too. It’s a fine, +clean paper, and they treat a man decently.” He had +realized his ambition just about the time I went into the +eau-de-Cologne business, but had said there was no vacancy +for me. There might be one later. He would let me +know. For months, however, we had not met, and the +matter had really left my mind. And it was now, when +I was casting about in a state of semi-panic for someone +who might help me, that I suddenly thought of Mullins. +As a last hope, rather, I thought of him, for it seemed +a very off-chance indeed.</p> + +<p>For various reasons I did not act upon the idea, but +Mullins was in my mind, so much, so persistently, so often, +that I kept seeing him in passers-by. I mistook several +strangers for Mullins, until close enough to see my mistake. +Then, suddenly, in Union Square, towards evening, I did +see him. I was sitting on a bench. He walked past me. +He was on his way to an assignment. I told him the +whole story, making no accusations, but omitting no +vital detail. He listened attentively, his face very grave. +He shared my own misgivings. “It’s just the kind of +case Mitchell’s looking for,” he said. “He wants to make +a splash with it. But I think I can fix it for you. Guess +what my assignment is at this moment?”</p> + +<p>And then he told me. His job that evening was a +special interview with Mitchell, a descriptive story of the +newly-appointed fire marshal, his personality and character, +his plans for suppressing arson, and it was to be a front-page +article. Mullins could make him or mar him; he had +a free hand in the matter; the <i>Times</i> was a Republican +organ. It would mean a great deal to Mitchell. “He +comes from my part of Ireland,” said Mullins with a grin +and a wink. And then he added that he had spoken to +Muldoon about me only the day before, and that Muldoon +had promised me a place on the paper the moment it was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[286]</span> +possible—in a few weeks probably. “I shall just mention +to Mitchell that you’re going on the <i>Times</i>,” was his +significant parting word to me, as he hurried off to keep his +appointment.</p> + +<p>My examination next morning was robbed of much +of its terror. The fire marshal was evidently not quite +sure of himself, for, if manner, voice and questions were +severe, I detected an attitude that suggested wavering. A +shorthand writer behind me took down every word I +uttered, and the searching examination about the clothes, +my social and business relations with Brodie, my knowledge, +if any, concerning the value of his rugs and curtains, +especially concerning the night of the fire and the +details of how we left the room, gave me moments of acute +discomfort. Although Mitchell rarely once looked straight +at me, I knew he was observing my every word and +gesture, the slightest change in facial expression, too. +He confined himself entirely to questions, allowing no +hint of his own opinion to escape him, and yet, to my +very strung-up attention, he betrayed the uncertainty +already mentioned. I, of course, confined myself entirely +to answers, brief, but without hesitation.</p> + +<p>My instinct, right or wrong, was to protect Brodie, a +man who had shown me real kindness. I remembered the +meals, for one thing. In any case, it was not for me to +express opinions, much less to bring an accusation. And, +towards the end of a gruelling half-hour, I began to feel a +shade more comfortable. When, with a slightly different +manner, the fire marshal began to ask personal questions +about my own career, I felt the day was almost won. I +gave a quick outline of my recent history, though I never +once mentioned the name of Mullins; let fall the detail, +too, that I was an Irishman, and, a little later, seizing an +opening with an audacity that surprised myself even while +I said the words, I congratulated Mr. Mitchell upon his +campaign to crush out the far too frequent arson in the +city. “As a newspaper man,” I gave this blessing, and +the shot, I instantly saw, went home. If I could be of +any use to him on the <i>Times</i>, if any suspicious case came +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[287]</span> +my way, I added that I should always be glad to serve +him. For the first time the fire marshal smiled. I shot +in a swift last stroke for Brodie, though an indirect +one. “But you don’t want any <i>mis</i>fires,” I ventured, +inwardly delighted that the play on the word amused him. +“A big case that failed of a conviction would be damaging.”</p> + +<p>We shook hands as I left soon after, though the final +comfort he denied me. For when I mentioned that my +present address would always find me “if you need me +again,” he merely bowed and thanked me. He did <i>not</i> +say, as I hoped he would, “your presence will not be +required any more.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[288]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"> + CHAPTER XXXII + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class='drop-cap kern'><span class='allcaps'>Six</span> weeks later, when the torrid summer heat was +waning and September breezes had begun to cool +the streets, the nights, at any rate, I found myself +a reporter on the staff of the <i>New York Times</i>. My salary +of $35 a week seemed incredible. It was like coming into +a fortune, and its first effect was to make a miser of me. +I had learned the value of the single cent; I found myself +fearful of spending even that cent. I understood why +people who pass suddenly from want to affluence become +stingy, complaining always of being hard-up. I determined +to save. I opened an account in a Savings Bank against +another rainy day. This trait, acquired in my unhappy +New York period, remains in me still, I notice. Never +have I known from that time to this what it means to be +comfortably off, free from financial anxiety for more than +a month or two ahead, yet each time an extra bit of +money comes in, I am aware of the instinct to be extremely, +unnecessarily careful of each penny. The less I have, the +more reckless I feel about spending it, and <i>vice versa</i>.</p> + +<p>Those six weeks, however, before Muldoon sent for +me, proved the most painful and unhappy of all my New +York days. There was something desperate about them; +I reached bottom. It was the darkest period before the +dawn, though I had no certainty that the dawn was +breaking. My income from the eau de Cologne business +was ended, my free-lance work struck a bad streak, the +artists were still out of town, the studios consequently +empty; my violin pupil had gone to Boston. It was during +this August that I slept in Central Park, and passed the +night—for there was not much sleep about it—beneath +the Bronx Park trees as well, though I had to walk all +the long weary way to get there. It was, also, <i>par +excellence</i>, the height of the dried-apple season. With the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[289]</span> +exception of Old Louis, occasionally Mullins too, I had +no companionship. Brodie, who by the way received no +money from the insurance companies, but equally, +escaped a worse disaster, I never saw again. The post +on the <i>Times</i>, meanwhile, seemed far away, highly +problematical too. My comforts were Bronx Park, occasionally +open-air music, Louis, and my own dreams, +speculations and, chief of all, the Bhagavad Gita.... +Hours I spent in the free libraries. Never, before or +since, did I read so many books in so short a time. This +free reading, of course, never stopped for a moment all +the years I lived in New York, but during these six weeks +it reached a maximum.</p> + +<p>From the ’vantage ground of easier days I have often +looked back and wondered why I made no real effort to +better myself, to get out of the hated city, to go west, +for a railway pass was always more or less within my +power, and other fellows, similarly in difficulties, were +always changing occupations and localities. It was due, +I think, to a kind of resignation, though rather a fierce +resignation, a kind of obstinate spirit of acceptance in +me. “Take it all, whatever comes,” said this spirit. +“Dodge, shirk, avoid nothing. You have deserved it. +Exhaust it then. Suck the orange dry.” And, as if life +were not severe and difficult enough, as it was, I would +even practise certain austerities I invented on my own +account. Already I felt myself immeasurably old; life +seemed nearly ended; external events, anyhow, did not +<i>really</i> matter....</p> + +<p>A rolling-stone sees life, of course, but collects little, +if any, fruit; though I made no determined efforts to escape +my conditions at this time, a new adventure ever had +attractions for me. Having once tasted the essence of a +particular experience, I found myself weary of it and +longing for a new one. This vagabondage in the blood +has strengthened with the years. A fixed job means +prison, a new one sends my spirits up. Routine is hell. +To take a room, a flat, a job by the year, means insupportable +detestation of any of them soon afterwards. It +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[290]</span> +is a view of life that hardly goes to make good citizenship, +but, on the other hand, it tends to keep the heart young, +to prevent too early hardening of the mental arteries, while +it certainly militates against the dread disease of boredom. +<i>Une vie mouvementée</i> has its vagabond values. To a +certain side of my nature Old Louis’s wiser epitaph (“Sorry +<i>I</i> spoke; sorry <i>they</i> spoke”) made less appeal than some +anonymous verses I came across in <i>Scribner’s Magazine</i> +with the title “A Vagrant’s Epitaph”—verses I knew +by heart after a first reading:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Change was his mistress; Chance his counsellor.</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Love could not hold him; Duty forged no chain.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The wide seas and the mountains called him,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And grey dawns saw his camp-fires in the rain.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Sweet hands might tremble!—aye, but he must go.</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Revel might hold him for a little space;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But, turning past the laughter and the lamps,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">His eyes must ever catch the luring Face.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Dear eyes might question! Yea, and melt again;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Rare lips a-quiver, silently implore;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But he must ever turn his furtive head,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And hear that other summons at the door.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Change was his mistress; Chance his counsellor.</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The dark firs knew his whistle up the trail.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Why tarries he to-day?... And yesternight</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Adventure lit her stars without avail.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>The plague of possessions, at any rate, has never +troubled me, either actually or in desire, while the instinct +to reduce life to its simplest terms has strengthened. The +homeless feeling of living in my trunks is happiness, the +idea of domesticity appals, and the comforts of rich +friends wake no echo in me, assuredly no envy. A home, +as a settled place one owns and expects to live in for +years, perhaps for ever, is abhorrent to every instinct in +me, and when acquaintances show off with pride their +cottage, their flat, their furniture, their “collections,” +even their “not a bad little garden, is it?” my heart +confesses to a vague depression which makes it difficult +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[291]</span> +to sympathise and give them my blessing. Life, at its +longest, is absurdly brief before health and energy begin +to slip downhill; it is mapped with a cunning network +of ruts and grooves from which, once in, it is difficult to +escape; only the lucky ones are never caught, although +the “caught” are lucky perhaps in another way—they +do not realize it. Yet even to-day, when times are bad +and the horizon not too clear for some time ahead, the old +dread of starvation rises in me; I never see apple rings in +a grocer’s window without getting their taste and feeling +them rise and swell within me like some troublesome +emotion....</p> + +<p>To my year and a-half on the <i>New York Times</i> I look +back with nothing but pleasure; the slogan, “All the news +that’s fit to print,” was practised; and the men I worked +with were a good company of decent fellows. Muldoon, +a fighting Irishman with a grim fierce manner and a warm +heart, had a sense of humour and a gift for encouraging his +reporters that made them love him. C. W. Miller was +editor in chief, and Carey, manager. Who owned the +paper I have forgotten, but it was not Colonel Jones who +was present at the Union League Club dinner to my +father, when I made my maiden speech some nine years +before. Hours of work were from noon until the night +assignment was turned in, which meant any time from +ten o’clock onwards; though, as emergency man, in case +of something happening late, I often had to stay in the +office till after one in the morning. Proper food, a new +suit, comradeship with a better class of men, came, perhaps, +just in time for me. I remember the pleasure of writing +home about my new post. I had a dress-suit again. I +saved $15 a week.</p> + +<p>Reporting for a New York newspaper can never be +uneventful, but the painful incidents of life make deeper +impressions than the pleasant ones. To meet the former +means usually to call upon one’s reserves, and memory +hence retains sharper pictures of them corresponding to +the greater effort. On the <i>Times</i> I was happy.</p> + +<p>Two incidents stand out still in the mind, one creditably +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[292]</span> +pleasing to vanity; the other, exactly the reverse. The +latter, though it annoyed Muldoon keenly at the moment, +fortunately for me appealed to his sense of humour too. +He had given me an evening off—that is, all I had to do +was to write a brief report of a Students’ Concert in which +his little niece was performing.</p> + +<p>“Without straining veracity,” he mentioned with a +grin, “ye might perhaps say something kind and pretty +about her!” He winked, whispering her name in my +ear. “Have ye got it?” he asked fiercely. I nodded. +Was I thinking of something else at the moment? Was +my mind in the woods that lovely evening in spring?</p> + +<p>At the concert I picked out the name I remembered +and wrote later a sturdy eulogistic notice of an atrocious +performer, saying the very prettiest and nicest things I +could think of, then went home to a coveted early bed. +But Muldoon’s grim smile next day, as I reported at his +desk for an assignment, gave me warning that something +was wrong. He did not keep me in suspense. I had +selected for my praise, not only the crudest performer of +the concert—that I already knew—but one whom all the +other pupils disliked intensely, and whose name they +particularly hoped would be omitted altogether. The +niece I had not even mentioned.</p> + +<p>The other incident that stands out after all these years +was more creditable. Dr. Lyman Abbott, Editor of the +<i>Outlook</i>, which once Henry Ward Beecher edited as the +<i>Church Union</i>, was preaching in Beecher’s Plymouth +Church, Brooklyn, a series of sermons on “The Theology +of an Evolutionist,” and Muldoon had persuaded the +editor-in-chief that a full report on the front page every +Monday would be a credit to the paper. His proposal was +agreed to, apparently without too much enthusiasm. The +Irishman was determined to justify it. “I want ye to +take it on,” said Muldoon to me. “Ye can write shorthand. +Make it 150.” A column was 100. To have a +column and a-half on the front page, if I could do it well, +would be a feather in my cap. But my shorthand was +poor, I was out of practice too, bad notes are impossible to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[293]</span> +read for transcription, and mistakes would mean angry +letters of correction from Dr. Abbott, probably.</p> + +<p>Monday was my day off. I went to Plymouth Church +with a new notebook and three soft lead pencils, duly +sharpened at both ends. In the brief interval before +Sunday I practised hard. The church was packed to the +roof, as I sneaked up the aisle—an unfamiliar place, I +felt it!—to a little table placed immediately beneath the +pulpit. I came in after the service, but just in time for +the sermon. There were no other reporters present. It +thrilled me to see Dr. Abbott, who, as a young man of +twenty-three, had heard Lincoln speak on slavery.</p> + +<p>The “Theology of an Evolutionist” was an arduous +assignment that strained every faculty I possessed, but +indifferent shorthand lay at the root of the strain. Dr. +Abbott’s delivery was sure and steady, more rapid than it +sounded. He never hesitated for a word, he never coughed, +or cleared his throat, or even sneezed. There were none +of those slight pauses which help a poor shorthand-writer +to pick up valuable seconds. The stream of words poured +on relentlessly, and the rate, I should judge, was 250 a +minute. Verbatim reporting was impossible to me. I +had to condense as I went along, and to condense without +losing sense and coherence was not easy. My pencil was +always eight or ten words behind the words I actually +listened to, and the Pitman outlines for the words I wrote +down had to be recalled, while, at the same time, memory +had to retain those being actually uttered at the moment. +Being out of practice I often hesitated over an outline, +losing fractions of a second each time I did so. These +outlines come automatically, of course, to a good writer. +Then there was the sense, the proportion, the relative +values of argument and evidence to be considered—matters +that could not be adjusted in the office afterwards, when +there was barely time, in any case, to transcribe my notes +before going to Press. The interest I felt in the subject, +moreover, delayed my mind time and time again. Occasionally +a pencil-point would break as well, and turning it +round in my hand meant important delay in a process +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[294]</span> +where each fraction of a second counts. In the office +afterwards, each page transcribed was whipped away by +a printer’s devil before it could be reconsidered and re-read. +I invariably went to bed after these evenings in church +with a splitting headache; but the 150 appeared duly on +the front page every Monday morning, though whether +good or bad I had no inkling. My impression, due to +Muldoon’s silence, was that my reports were hardly a +success.</p> + +<p>When the last of the long series came my opening +report was confused and inaccurate owing to an announcement +from the pulpit which embarrassed me absurdly. +Dr. Abbott mentioned briefly that numerous requests to +print the sermons had reached him, but that he did not +propose to do so. He referred those interested, instead, +to the reports in the <i>Times</i> which, he took pleasure in +saying, were excellent, accurate and as satisfactory as +anything he could do himself. Being the only reporter +present, I felt conspicuous at my little table under the +pulpit in the immense building. But I remember the +pleasure too. It was an announcement I could use, was +bound to use, indeed, in my own report next day. Muldoon +would be pleased. On the Tuesday morning, when I +appeared at his desk, he looked at me with such a fierce +expression that I thought I was about to be dismissed. +“Have ye been to your locker?” was all he said. In the +locker, however, I found a letter from Dr. Abbott to the +editor-in-chief, thanking him for the reports of the sermons, +reports, he wrote, “whose brevity, accuracy, and intelligence +furnish a synopsis I could not have improved upon +myself.” He added, too, another important sentence: +“by your reporter whom I do not know.” It was not +favouritism therefore. A brief chit to be handed to the +cashier was in my locker too. My salary was raised to +$40 a week. The headaches had proved worth while.</p> + +<p>The year and a-half with the <i>Times</i> was a happy period, +though long before it ended I had begun to feel my customary +weariness of the job, and a yearning for something +new. The newspaper experience, which began with the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[295]</span><i>Evening Sun</i>, was exhausted for me. The pleasant and +unpleasant sides of it I knew by heart. Though I took +no action, my mind began to cast about for other fields. +I had saved a little cash. My thoughts turned westwards, +California, the Pacific Coast, the bright sunshine and blue +waters of the southern seas even. I was past twenty-seven. +To be a New York reporter all my life did not appeal. Nor +was it yet time to go back to England. No trace of literary +faculty, nor any desire to write, much less a consciousness +that I could write perhaps, had declared themselves. My +summer holidays of two weeks I spent again in the backwoods, +with a view to some woodland life which was to +include, this time, Old Louis, too. Obstacles everywhere +made me feel, however, that it was not to be, for though +they were obstacles I could have overcome, I took them +as an indication that fate had other views for my future. +When a thing was meant to be, it invariably came of +itself, I found. My temperament, at any rate, noted and +obeyed these hints. Old Louis, too, who was to collect +his poems in our woodland home, to write new ones as +well, met all practical suggestions with, “Let us consider, +Figlio, a little longer first.” He was to write also a +political history of the United States and “I must collect +more data before I am ready to go.” The dread of being +fixed and settled, a captive in a place I could not leave +at a moment’s notice, did not operate where Nature was +concerned. The idea of living in the forests had no fear +of prison in it.</p> + +<p>Events, moreover, which brought big changes into +my life had always come, I noticed, from outside, rather +than as a result of definite action on my own part. A +chance meeting in a hotel-bar set me reporting, a chance +meeting with Mullins landed me on the <i>Times</i>, a chance +meeting with Angus Hamilton in Piccadilly Circus led to +my writing books, a chance meeting with William E. +Dodge now suddenly heaved me up another rung of life +into the position of private secretary to a millionaire +banker.</p> + +<p>To me it has always seemed that some outside power, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[296]</span> +but an intelligent power, pulled a string each time, and +up I popped into an entirely new set of circumstances. +This power pushed a button, and off I shot in a direction +at right angles to the one I had been moving in before. +This intelligent supervision I attributed in those days to +Karma. In the mind, though perhaps with less decision +there, it operated too. A book, a casual sentence of some +friend, an effect of scenery, of music, and an express-lift +mounts rapidly from the cellar of my being to an upper +story, giving a new extended view over a far, a new +horizon. Much that puzzles in the obscurity of the basement +outlook becomes clear and simple. The individual +who announces the sudden change is unaware probably +how vital a rôle he plays in another’s life. He is but an +instrument, after all.</p> + +<p>When, by chance, I found Mr. Dodge next me in a +Broadway cable car, my first instinct was to slip out on +to the outside platform before he had seen me, with, simultaneously, +a hope that if he had seen me, he would not +recognize me. He was a friend of my father’s. We had +dined at his house on our first visit to New York, and +once or twice since then our paths had crossed for a moment +or two. He was a man of great influence, and of tireless +philanthropy, a fine, just, high-minded personality. He +stared hard at me. Before I could move, he had spoken +to me by name. “How was I getting along?” he inquired +kindly, and did I “like New York?” What was +I “doing at the moment?”</p> + +<p>I seized the opportunity and told him of my longing +to get out of newspaper work. He listened attentively; +he examined me, I was aware, more than attentively. In +the end he asked me to come and see him for a personal +chat—not in his office, but in his house. He named a +day and hour. An invitation to his office I should have +disregarded. It was the kindness of “my house” that +won me. But the interview was disappointing, rather +embarrassing as well to me. He asked many personal +questions about my life and habits, it was all very business-like +and chilling. In the end he mentioned vaguely that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[297]</span> +James Speyer, of Speyer Bros., was thinking, he believed, +of engaging a secretary, and that possibly—he could not +say for certain—he might, when he next saw him, suggest +my name for the post. “Of course,” he added, still more +cautiously, “you will understand I must make inquiries +about you at the <i>Times</i>.” He promised to let me know if +anything further came of it. For many weeks I heard no +word. Then I wrote. The reply asked me to call at his +office. He was kindness and sympathy personified. “The +<i>Times</i> gives you an excellent character,” he informed me, +“and say they will be very sorry to lose you. I am sorry +there has been this delay.” He handed me a personal +letter to James Speyer. He invited me to dinner in his +house the following evening. Before brushing up my +dress-suit for the occasion—my first dinner in a decent +house for many years—I had seen Mr. Speyer and had been +engaged at a salary of $2,000 a year for a morning job, +from 8 till 2 o’clock daily, with a general supervision during +the day of his town and country houses, horses, servants, +charities, and numerous other interests.</p> + +<p>The dinner in Mr. Dodge’s Fifth Avenue palace was a +veritable banquet to me. Immediately opposite, across +the avenue, was the other palace occupied by James +Speyer. It was all rather bewildering, a new world with +a vengeance. Years among the outcast of the city had +not precisely polished my manners, nor could I feel at +my ease thus suddenly among decent folk again. I +remember being absurdly tongue-tied, shy and awkward, +until M. de Chaillu, who was present, began to talk about +books, stars, natural history, and other splendid things, +and took me with him into some unimaginable seventh +heaven. I had moments of terror too, but the strongest +emotion I remember is the deep gratitude I felt towards +Mr. Dodge. A further tiny detail clings as well, when I +was invited for a week-end to the Dodge country house +on the Hudson, and was bathing with the son. He was, +like myself, six feet three inches, well built, but well +covered too, his age perhaps close on forty. As we stood +on the spring-board waiting for our second dive, he looked +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[298]</span> +at me. “You certainly haven’t got a tummy,” he +remarked with admiring envy. “I wish I were as thin!” +And the casual words made a queer impression on me. +I realized abruptly how little of certain real values +such people knew ... how little these protected people +ever <i>could</i> know. I still see his admiring, good-humoured, +kindly expression, as he said the empty words....</p> + +<p>James Speyer, brother of Edgar, who later became +a baronet and member of the Privy Council, was +what we called in New York a “white man.” I hardly +think I proved an ideal private secretary. His patience +and kindness began at the first trial interview I had with +him, when my shorthand—he dictated a newspaper +financial paragraph full of unfamiliar terms—was not at +its best, “not <i>very</i> grand,” were the actual words he used. +As for bookkeeping, I told him frankly that “figures were +my idea of hell,” whereupon, after a moment’s puzzled +stare, he laughed and said that keeping accounts need +not be among my principal duties. A clerk from the +office could come up and balance the books every month. +The phrase about hell, the grave expression of my face, +he told me long afterwards, touched his sense of humour. +The huge book in which I kept his personal accounts +proved, none the less, a daily nightmare, with its nine +columns for different kinds of expenditure—Charities, +Housekeeping, Presents, Loans, Personal, and the rest. +It locked with a key. I spent hours over it. No total +ever came out twice alike. Yet Mr. Hopf, the bright-eyed, +diminutive German from the office, ran his tiny fingers up +and down those columns like some twinkling insect, +chatting with me while he added, and making the totals +right in a few minutes. Max Hopf, with his slight, twisty +body, looked like an agile figure of 3 himself. In his +spare time, I felt sure, he played with figures. He was a +juggler in my eyes.</p> + +<p>The first week in my new job was a nervous one, though +Mr. Speyer’s tact and kindly feeling soon put me at my +ease. My desk at first was in a corner of an unused +board room in the bank, where I sat like a king answering +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[299]</span> +countless letters on a typewriter. The shorthand was +discarded; I composed the replies from verbal hints and +general indications. Clerks treated me with respect; +language was decent; surroundings were sumptuous; it +was some time before I “found” myself. The second +morning a caller was shown in, somebody to see Mr. Speyer. +He took a chair beside my desk, stared fixedly at me, +opened his mouth and called me by my Christian name—it +was the Exchange Place banker who used to stay in +my father’s house and who had last seen me in bed at +East 19th Street. He congratulated me. I found out, +incidentally, then, how much my swindling friend of +those days had “touched” him for on my behalf ... +and repaid it.</p> + +<p>James Speyer proved a good friend during the two years +or so I spent with him; he treated me as friend, too, rather +than as secretary. My office was transferred to his +palatial residence in Madison Avenue, a new house he had +just built for himself, and it was part of my job to run this +house for him, his country house at Irvington on the +Hudson as well. These establishments, for a millionaire +bachelor, were on a simple scale, though the amount of +money necessary for one man’s comforts staggered me at +first. A married French couple were his chief servants, +the woman as cook, the man as butler; they had been with +him for a long time; they eyed the new secretary with +disfavour; they were feathering their nests very comfortably, +I soon discovered. My hotel experience in +Toronto stood me in good stead here. But Mr. Speyer +was a generous, live-and-let-live type of man who did not +want a spirit of haggling over trifles in his home. I +gradually adjusted matters by introducing a reasonable +scale. The French couple and I became good friends. I +enjoyed the work, which included every imaginable duty +under the sun, had ample time for exercise and reading, +and my employer’s zest in the University Settlement +Movement I found particularly interesting.</p> + +<p>James Speyer was more than a rich philanthropist: +he had a heart. The column for Charities and Presents in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[300]</span> +the book Mr. Hopf juggled with once a month was a big +one, while that for Personal Expenditure was relatively +small. When I dined alone with him in the luxurious +panelled room I realized that life had indeed changed for +me. His house, too, was filled with beautiful things. He +had rare taste. His brother Edgar, whose English career +had not yet begun, stayed with him on his periodical visits +from Frankfurt. There was music then, big dinner-parties +too, to which I was sometimes invited. Social +amenities were not always quite easy, for the position of a +Jew in New York Society was delicate, but I never once +knew James Speyer’s taste or judgment at fault. His +intelligence showed itself not only in finance; he was +intelligent all over; imaginatively thoughtful for all +connected with him, and his philanthropy sprang from a +genuine desire to help the unfortunate.</p> + +<p>For Jews I have always had a quick feeling of sympathy, +of admiration. I adore their intelligence, subtlety, +keen love of beauty, their understanding, their wisdom. +In the best of them lies some intuitive grip of ancient +values, some artistic discernment, that fascinates me. I +found myself comparing Alfred Louis with James Speyer; +their reaction, respectively, upon myself showed clearly +again the standard of what, to me, was important: the +one, alone among his unchangeable, imperishable “Eternities,” +unaware of comfort as of fame, unrecognized, unadvertised, +lonely and derelict, yet equally as proud of +his heritage as the other who, in a noisier market sought +the less permanent splendours of success and worldly honour. +One filled his modern palace with olden beauty fashioned by +many men, the other had stocked his mind with a loveliness +that money could not buy. One financed a gigantic +railway enterprise, the other wrote the “Night Song.” +All the one said blessed and ornamented the mind, all the +other said advised it. One parted with a poem as though he +sold a pound of his own living flesh, the other was pleased, +yet a trifle nervous, when Muldoon—thinking to help me +in my job—wrote a panegyric of easy philanthropies in the +<i>Brooklyn Eagle</i>, to which his fierce activities had now been +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[301]</span> +transferred from the <i>Times</i>. Both taught me much. +From one, singing amid his dirt in an attic, I learned about +a world that, hiding behind ephemeral appearances, lies +deathlessly serene and unalterably lovely; from the other, +about a world which far from deathless and certainly less +serene, flaunts its rewards upon a more obviously remunerative +scale. Of both poet and financier, at any rate, I +kept vivid, grateful, pleasant memories.</p> + +<p>Between the unsavoury world I had lived in so long and +the new one I had now entered, the Old Man of Visions, +himself at home in all and every kind of world, always +seemed a bridge. His personality spread imaginatively, +as it were, over all grades and through all strata of humanity. +In my slow upward climb he seemed to hand me on, +and in return for his unfailing guidance it was possible +to make his own conditions a trifle more comfortable: +possible, but not easy, because there was no help he needed +and did not positively scorn. He watched my welfare +with unfailing interest, but nothing would induce him to +buy a new hat, a new frock-coat, an umbrella or a pair +of gloves. “Our memories, at any given moment,” +says Bergson, “form a solid whole, a pyramid, so to speak, +whose point is inserted precisely into our present action.” +On that “point” old Louis still drives through my mind +and wields an influence to-day....</p> + +<p>The happier period with James Speyer was, of course, +an episode, like my other experiences. It was wonderful +to draw a good salary regularly for pleasant work; to have +long holidays in the Adirondacks, or moose-shooting in the +woods north of the Canadian Pacific Railway; wonderful, +too, when my employer went to Europe for three months, +to know myself in charge of such big interests, with a +power of attorney to sign all cheques. But the usual +restlessness was soon on me again, desire for a change +stirred in my blood. The Spanish-American War, I +remember, made me think of joining Roosevelt’s Rough +Riders, a scheme both Speyer and Louis strongly disapproved, +and that an attack of typhoid fever rendered +impossible in any case.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[302]</span></p> + +<p>It was during convalescence that it occurred to me +I was nearing thirty, and that if I meant to live in America +all my life, it was time to become naturalized. And this +thought caused me to reflect on the question of going +home. My sister, with her children, passed through New +York about this time, returning from South Australia, +where her husband was Governor, and it was at dinner in +my employer’s house, where he had invited them, that the +longing to return to England suddenly declared itself. +To find myself among relatives who called me by the +unfamiliar childhood name, woke English memories, +English values, and brought back the English atmosphere +once more. My mother was still alive.... I remember +that dinner well. My sister brought a tame little Mexican +monkey with her. A man, also, called to ask Mr. Speyer +for help, and when I went to interview him in the hall, +his long story included a reference to something Mr. +Dodge, he declared, had done for him. “Mr. Dodge +gave me this,” he said, and promptly scooped one eye out +of its socket and showed it to me lying in the palm of his +hand. The glass eye, the monkey, remain associated in +my mind still with the rather poignant memories of +forgotten English days my sister’s visit stirred to life, and +with my own emotions as I reflected upon the idea of going +home at last. A chance meeting, again, worked its +spell.</p> + +<p>I had felt that half a universe separated me from the +world in which my relatives lived, but after they had gone +I began to realize various things I had not appreciated +before. New York, I saw, could furnish no true abiding +city for my soul which, though vagabond, yet sought +something more than its appalling efficiency could ever +give. What did I miss? I could name it now, but I +hardly named it then perhaps. I was always hungry +there, but with a hunger not of the body merely. The +hunger, however, was real, often it was devastating. With +such a lop-sided development as mine had been, my +immaturity, no doubt, was still glaring. The sense of +failure, I know, at any rate, was very strong. My relatives +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[303]</span> +had been travelling, and they reflected a colour of other +lands that called to me. Thought and longing now turned +to an older world. There were ancient wonders, soft with +age, mature with a beauty and tenderness only timelessness +can give, that caught me on the raw with a power no +Yosemites, Niagaras, or Grand Canyons could hope to +imitate. Size has its magic, but size bludgeons the +imagination, rather than feeds it. My heart turned suddenly +across the sea. I loved the big woods, but behind, beyond +the woods, great Egypt lay ablaze....</p> + +<p>I talked things over with the Old Man of Visions; he +advised me to go home. “See your mother before she +dies,” he urged. “I cannot come with you, but I may +follow you.” He added: “I shall miss you,” then dropped +into poetry, as he always did when he was moved....</p> + +<p>It was these talks with Old Louis about England, the +atmosphere of England as well, that my sister somehow +left behind her, my own yearnings now suddenly reawakened +too, that decided me. My detestation of the +city both cleared and deepened. I began to understand +more vividly, more objectively, the reasons for my feeling +alien in it. I missed tradition, background, depth. There +was a glittering smartness everywhere. The great ideal +was to be sharper, smarter than your neighbour, above all +things sharp and smart and furiously rapid, above all +things—win the game. To be in a furious rush was to be +intelligent, to do things slowly was to be derided. The +noise and speed suggested rapids; the deep, quiet pools +were in the older lands. Display, advertisement, absence +of all privacy I had long been aware of, naturally; I now +realized how little I desired this speed and glittering +brilliance, this frantic rush to be at all costs sharper, +quicker, smarter than one’s neighbour, to win the game +at any price. I realized why my years in the city had +brought no friendships, and why they had been starved +as well as lonely....</p> + +<p>Some months passed before I booked a passage, +however. I was sorry to leave James Speyer. Then one +day he spoke to me about—marriage. For a year or more +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[304]</span> +I had noticed his friendship with Mrs. Lowry, a Christian, +well-known figure in the social world; and, being the +confidant of both parties, I had done all I could to encourage +a marriage that promised happiness and success. +In due course, Bishop Potter, of New York, officiated. +The ceremony was performed in the drawing-room, and +just before it began, James Speyer came up to me, took the +beautiful links out of his cuffs, and handed them to me. +“I should like you to have these,” he said, “as a little +memento.” I have them still.</p> + +<p>A few months later, just before I was thirty, I found +myself in a second-class cabin in a Cunarder, with my +savings in my pocket. Old Louis, who followed me a +year or two later, came down to see me off. I was glad +when the Statue of Liberty lay finally below the sea’s +horizon, but I shall never forget the thrill of strange +emotion I experienced when I first saw the blue rim of +Ireland rise above the horizon a few days later. A +shutter dropped behind me. I entered a totally new +world. Life continued to be <i>mouvementée</i>, indeed, one +adventure succeeding another, and ever with the feeling +that a chance letter, a chance meeting might open any +morning a new chapter of quite a novel kind; but my +American episodes were finished.</p> + +<p>Of mystical, psychic, or so-called “occult” experiences, +I have purposely said nothing, since these notes +have sought to recapture surface adventures only.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[305]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="INDEX"> + INDEX + </h2> +</div> + + +<ul class="index"> + <li class="ifrst">“A Case of Eavesdropping,” <a href="#Page_252">252</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Abbott, Dr. Lyman, sermons on the theology of an Evolutionist, <a href="#Page_292">292</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">tribute to <i>N.Y. Times</i> report of his sermons, <a href="#Page_294">294</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Aberdeen, Lord, Governor-General of Canada, <a href="#Page_66">66</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Advertising extraordinary, <a href="#Page_105">105</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Ahlwardt, Rector, anti-semitism of, <a href="#Page_229">229</a></li> + <li class="isub1">his meeting at Cooper Union Hall, <a href="#Page_229">229</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Alden, Mr., and A. H. Louis, <a href="#Page_271">271</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Amityville, a quasi lunatic asylum at, <a href="#Page_226">226</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Anti-semitic campaign in New York, <a href="#Page_229">229</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Apples, dried, and hot water, as hunger-appeaser, <a href="#Page_111">111</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Arson, frequency of, among Jews, <a href="#Page_106">106</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Barnum and Bailey’s Circus, a banquet at, <a href="#Page_226">226</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Beattie, Mr., Boyde and, <a href="#Page_206">206</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Beauchamp, Montague, <a href="#Page_23">23</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Belloc, Hilaire, an article by, based on author’s book, <a href="#Page_224">224</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bennett, Sterndale, A. H. Louis a pupil of, <a href="#Page_269">269</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Benson, Archbishop, A. H. Louis’s memories of, <a href="#Page_268">268</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bernhardt, Sarah, interview with, <a href="#Page_106">106</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bernstein, Mrs., a long-outstanding account with, settled, <a href="#Page_213">213</a></li> + <li class="isub1">and her third floor back, <a href="#Page_80">80</a></li> + <li class="isub1">reduces rent—and why, <a href="#Page_85">85</a></li> + <li class="isub1">removes to another house, <a href="#Page_209">209</a></li> + + <li class="indx">“Bhagavad Gita,” the, world-scripture of, <a href="#Page_32">32</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bingham, Billy, former proprietor of the Hub, <a href="#Page_17">17</a>, <a href="#Page_39">39</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Black Forest, schooldays in the, <a href="#Page_24">24</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Blackwood, Algernon, a childish recollection of his mother, <a href="#Page_259">259</a></li> + <li class="isub1">a poem in <i>The Week</i> by, <a href="#Page_38">38</a></li> + <li class="isub1">an earl’s visit to <i>Sun</i> office, <a href="#Page_230">230</a></li> + <li class="isub1">an interlude of play-acting, <a href="#Page_255">255</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">and Boyde: a scene, <a href="#Page_161">161</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">and the Hub hotel, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>, <a href="#Page_16">16</a> <i>et seq.</i>, <a href="#Page_39">39</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">as reporter in the Tombs, <a href="#Page_99">99</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">as story-teller, <a href="#Page_222">222</a></li> + <li class="isub1">as violinist, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, + <a href="#Page_168">168</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a></li> + <li class="isub1">assigns his interest in the Hub, <a href="#Page_61">61</a></li> + <li class="isub1">attends a ball at Government House, <a href="#Page_66">66</a></li> + <li class="isub1">becomes a partner in an eau de Cologne business, <a href="#Page_273">273</a>, <a href="#Page_274">274</a></li> + <li class="isub1">beginning of friendship with Alfred H. Louis, <a href="#Page_266">266</a></li> + <li class="isub1">credited with powers of Black Magic, <a href="#Page_77">77</a></li> + <li class="isub1">“cribs” from an intoxicated reporter, <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> + <li class="isub1">death of his father, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a></li> + <li class="isub1">“detachment” method of, <a href="#Page_51">51</a>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a></li> + <li class="isub1">disagreement with Dr. Huebner, <a href="#Page_156">156</a></li> + <li class="isub1">discovers Boyde’s forgery, <a href="#Page_132">132</a></li> + <li class="isub1">dissolves partnership with Cooper, <a href="#Page_14">14</a></li> + <li class="isub1">Edinburgh University course of, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>, <a href="#Page_51">51</a></li> + <li class="isub1">eighteen months on staff of <i>New York Times</i>, <a href="#Page_288">288</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">essays magazine writing, <a href="#Page_84">84</a></li> + <li class="isub1">evangelical upbringing of, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>, <a href="#Page_27">27</a>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a></li> + <li class="isub1">examined on a charge of arson, <a href="#Page_286">286</a></li> + <li class="isub1">first experience of morphine, <a href="#Page_178">178</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[306]</span> +five months on Lake Rosseau, <a href="#Page_73">73</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">free-lance journalism, <a href="#Page_252">252</a>, <a href="#Page_274">274</a></li> + <li class="isub1">friendship with a dying doctor, <a href="#Page_58">58</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">his mother’s letters, <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + <li class="isub1">improvises accompaniment to “Invocation to Opium,” <a href="#Page_168">168</a></li> + <li class="isub1">interviews a lion, <a href="#Page_102">102</a></li> + <li class="isub1">interviews in Tombs prison cell before trial, <a href="#Page_101">101</a></li> + <li class="isub1">learns French, <a href="#Page_37">37</a></li> + <li class="isub1">literary apprenticeship of, <a href="#Page_6">6</a></li> + <li class="isub1">loses faith in mankind, and a regretted act, <a href="#Page_210">210</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">maiden speech of, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_291">291</a></li> + <li class="isub1">off to the goldfields, <a href="#Page_235">235</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">on staff of <i>Evening Sun</i>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a></li> + <li class="isub1">parents of, <a href="#Page_17">17</a>, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">partner in dairy concern, <a href="#Page_10">10</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">pawnbroking experiences, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>, <a href="#Page_252">252</a></li> + <li class="isub1">plays in Drinkwater’s “Oliver Cromwell,” <a href="#Page_256">256</a></li> + <li class="isub1">poses in studios, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>, <a href="#Page_158">158</a></li> + <li class="isub1">reads Patanjali’s “Yoga Aphorisms,” <a href="#Page_28">28</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">receives a visit from Pauline, <a href="#Page_152">152</a></li> + <li class="isub1">reports a raid on a quasi lunatic asylum, <a href="#Page_226">226</a></li> + <li class="isub1">reports Dr. Lyman Abbott’s sermons, <a href="#Page_292">292</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">resumes duties on <i>Evening Sun</i>, <a href="#Page_209">209</a></li> + <li class="isub1">returns from Muskoka lakes, <a href="#Page_78">78</a></li> + <li class="isub1">returns to England, <a href="#Page_304">304</a></li> + <li class="isub1">secretary to James Speyer, <a href="#Page_297">297</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">tackles Boyde <i>re</i> a forged cheque, <a href="#Page_138">138</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">talks with Boyde in his cell at Tombs prison, <a href="#Page_202">202</a></li> + <li class="isub1">teaches French, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_7">7</a></li> + <li class="isub1">translates French stories, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a></li> + <li class="isub1">unhappy days in New York, <a href="#Page_288">288</a></li> + <li class="isub1">visited by a banker: further disclosures concerning Boyde, <a href="#Page_148">148</a></li> + <li class="isub1">visits of an eccentric German doctor, <a href="#Page_116">116</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>, <a href="#Page_125">125</a></li> + <li class="isub1">visits winter quarters of Barnum and Bailey’s circus, <a href="#Page_226">226</a></li> + <li class="isub1">warned against Boyde, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>, <a href="#Page_136">136</a>, <a href="#Page_147">147</a></li> + <li class="isub1">warns a pastor’s daughter against Boyde, <a href="#Page_139">139</a></li> + <li class="isub1">“Whitey’s” useful hints to, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>, <a href="#Page_98">98</a></li> + <li class="isub1">why an opening in C.P.R. did not eventuate, <a href="#Page_66">66</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">works by, <a href="#Page_53">53</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>, + <a href="#Page_223">223</a>, <a href="#Page_224">224</a>, <a href="#Page_252">252</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Blackwood, Sir Arthur (father), a disregarded counsel of perfection of, <a href="#Page_76">76</a></li> + <li class="isub1">and the Hub venture, <a href="#Page_40">40</a></li> + <li class="isub1">death of, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a></li> + <li class="isub1">farewell to author, <a href="#Page_40">40</a></li> + <li class="isub1">fêted in New York, <a href="#Page_5">5</a></li> + <li class="isub1">marriage of, <a href="#Page_21">21</a></li> + <li class="isub1">religious and temperance views of, <a href="#Page_17">17</a>, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a> <i>et seq.</i>, <a href="#Page_30">30</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bond, Bligh, his “Gate of Remembrance,” <a href="#Page_228">228</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bookkeeping, author’s frank opinion of, <a href="#Page_298">298</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Borden, Lizzie, interview with, <a href="#Page_100">100</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bostock’s Circus, a lion escapes from: reporting the episode, <a href="#Page_102">102</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Boyde, Arthur Glyn, an echo of, <a href="#Page_299">299</a></li> + <li class="isub1">arrest of, <a href="#Page_198">198</a></li> + <li class="isub1">author’s attachment to, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_111">111</a></li> + <li class="isub1">committed for trial to General Sessions, <a href="#Page_201">201</a></li> + <li class="isub1">communicates with Sir A. Blackwood, <a href="#Page_202">202</a></li> + <li class="isub1">confessions of, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>, <a href="#Page_144">144</a>, <a href="#Page_206">206</a></li> + <li class="isub1">disguises himself, <a href="#Page_160">160</a></li> + <li class="isub1">duplicity of, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_138">138</a> <i>et seq.</i>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>, <a href="#Page_160">160</a>, <a href="#Page_206">206</a>, + <a href="#Page_207">207</a>, <a href="#Page_211">211</a></li> + <li class="isub1">his varied experience of New York, <a href="#Page_86">86</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">hunt for, <a href="#Page_182">182</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">last sight of, <a href="#Page_207">207</a></li> + <li class="isub1">letters to author from Tombs prison, <a href="#Page_203">203</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">meeting with, <a href="#Page_86">86</a></li> + <li class="isub1">sentenced, <a href="#Page_203">203</a></li> + <li class="isub1">telegraphs news of his marriage, <a href="#Page_151">151</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[307]</span> +uneasy suspicions regarding, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>, + <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_131">131</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a></li> + <li class="isub1">warrant for arrest of, <a href="#Page_163">163</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Brodie, as salesman, <a href="#Page_275">275</a></li> + <li class="isub1">heavy insurances of—and a fire, <a href="#Page_278">278</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">how he obtained recipe for eau de Cologne, <a href="#Page_273">273</a></li> + <li class="isub1">introduction to, <a href="#Page_272">272</a></li> + <li class="isub1">social aspirations of, <a href="#Page_273">273</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bronx Park, Sundays in, <a href="#Page_216">216</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Brooklyn Bridge, reflections on, <a href="#Page_81">81</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Buddhism, a German doctor’s opinion of, <a href="#Page_170">170</a></li> + <li class="isub1">author’s interest in, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_51">51</a>, <a href="#Page_54">54</a></li> + <li class="isub1">Dr. Withrow and, <a href="#Page_8">8</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Calder, introduces himself, <a href="#Page_210">210</a></li> + <li class="isub1">uninvited, sleeps in author’s bed, <a href="#Page_211">211</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Campbell, Sir Alexander, Governor of Ontario, <a href="#Page_66">66</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Canada, social customs unwittingly broken by author in, <a href="#Page_66">66</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Canadian Pacific Railway, how an opening in, was lost, <a href="#Page_65">65</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Canoeing on Canadian lakes, <a href="#Page_74">74</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Carey, Mr., manager of <i>New York Times</i>, <a href="#Page_291">291</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Clay, Cecil, introduction to, <a href="#Page_90">90</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Clothes, interchangeable, <a href="#Page_110">110</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Conversion, reflections on, <a href="#Page_23">23</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Cooper, Alfred, partner in Islington Jersey Dairy, <a href="#Page_10">10</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Cooper, Mr., news-editor of <i>Evening Sun</i>, <a href="#Page_95">95</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Cox, Cleveland, posing for, <a href="#Page_158">158</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Crayford, home life at, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>, <a href="#Page_40">40</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Croker, Boss, head of Tammany, <a href="#Page_232">232</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Dana, Charles A., editor of <i>Evening Sun</i>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Davies, Acton, <a href="#Page_211">211</a></li> + <li class="isub1">and the Boyde story, <a href="#Page_201">201</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Davis, Richard Harding, a play by, <a href="#Page_86">86</a></li> + <li class="isub1">an interview with, <a href="#Page_83">83</a></li> + <li class="isub1">Boyde and, <a href="#Page_206">206</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Davis, R. H., witnesses capture of an escaped lion, <a href="#Page_103">103</a></li> + + <li class="indx">de Chaillu, M., <a href="#Page_297">297</a></li> + + <li class="indx">De Quincey’s “Confessions,” Dr. Huebner and, <a href="#Page_125">125</a>, <a href="#Page_168">168</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Dixon, his tight-rope walk across the Niagara, <a href="#Page_130">130</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Dodge, William E., a chance meeting with, <a href="#Page_295">295</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Drug stores and their attraction, <a href="#Page_97">97</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Drummond, Professor, Sunday lectures at Edinburgh of, <a href="#Page_32">32</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Dufferin, Lord, a photograph of, in Hub hotel, <a href="#Page_43">43</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Duluth, and the gold rush, <a href="#Page_240">240</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">“Earth’s Earliest Ages,” Pember’s, <a href="#Page_30">30</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Easter Day in the Black Forest, <a href="#Page_25">25</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Eau de Cologne business, author and, <a href="#Page_272">272</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Edinburgh University, author at, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>, <a href="#Page_51">51</a></li> + + <li class="indx">“Education of Uncle Paul, The,” <a href="#Page_123">123</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Elephants, their fear of rats, <a href="#Page_226">226</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Eliot, George, and her Sunday receptions, <a href="#Page_269">269</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Etruria</i>, launching of, <a href="#Page_5">5</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Evening Sun</i>, slogan of, <a href="#Page_91">91</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Evening World</i>, the, a scoop in, <a href="#Page_98">98</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Evolutionist theology, sermons on, <a href="#Page_292">292</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Ffoulkes, Maude, author’s indebtedness to, <a href="#Page_224">224</a></li> + + <li class="indx">“Final Word, The” (poem), <a href="#Page_267">267</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Free-lunch counters, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Freytag, German reporter, <a href="#Page_202">202</a>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a></li> + <li class="isub1">his advice to author, <a href="#Page_100">100</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Frohman, Daniel, and Angus Hamilton, <a href="#Page_222">222</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Gallup, a half-breed guide, <a href="#Page_240">240</a></li> + <li class="isub1">camp-fire stories of, <a href="#Page_242">242</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Galt, Sir Thomas, <a href="#Page_6">6</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Germans, talkative, <a href="#Page_251">251</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Gibson, Charles Dana, author poses for, <a href="#Page_158">158</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Gilmour, jealousy of—and a realistic performance, <a href="#Page_256">256-7</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[308]</span> +Gilmour, organizes a theatrical touring company, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>, <a href="#Page_116">116</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Gladstone, Right Hon. W. E., A. H. Louis and, <a href="#Page_268">268</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Goff, John, replaces Judge Smythe as Recorder, <a href="#Page_232">232</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Gold, a quest in search of, <a href="#Page_235">235</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Gosse, Edmund, “Father and Son” of, <a href="#Page_22">22</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Grant, and author, <a href="#Page_114">114</a></li> + <li class="isub1">hears and witnesses Boyde’s confession, <a href="#Page_140">140</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">warns author against Boyde, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>, <a href="#Page_136">136</a>, <a href="#Page_147">147</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Hamilton, a clergyman publicly thrashed in, <a href="#Page_233">233</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Hamilton, Angus, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a></li> + <li class="isub1">and author’s stories, <a href="#Page_223">223</a>, <a href="#Page_224">224</a></li> + <li class="isub1">suicide of, <a href="#Page_224">224</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Harcourt, Sir William, president of Cambridge Union, <a href="#Page_268">268</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Harper’s Magazine</i>, publication of A. H. Louis’s poems in, <a href="#Page_267">267</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Harris, Carlyle, electrocuted, <a href="#Page_101">101</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Haschisch, an experiment with, <a href="#Page_182">182</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Haultain, Arnold, private secretary to Goldwin Smith, <a href="#Page_37">37</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Henry, O., his conception of New York, <a href="#Page_109">109</a></li> + + <li class="indx">“Hereafter,” poem by A. H. Louis, <a href="#Page_270">270</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Hopf, Max, <a href="#Page_298">298</a>, <a href="#Page_300">300</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Hub hotel, advice to new proprietors of, <a href="#Page_41">41</a></li> + <li class="isub1">early customers at, <a href="#Page_45">45</a></li> + <li class="isub1">in hands of a receiver, <a href="#Page_61">61</a></li> + <li class="isub1">its former proprietor, <a href="#Page_17">17</a>, <a href="#Page_39">39</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">opening of, <a href="#Page_43">43</a></li> + <li class="isub1">purchase of, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_42">42</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Huebner, Dr. Otto, a disappointment for, <a href="#Page_149">149</a></li> + <li class="isub1">administers morphine to author, <a href="#Page_178">178</a>, <a href="#Page_181">181</a></li> + <li class="isub1">and Boyde, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_166">166</a></li> + <li class="isub1">called in by Boyde, <a href="#Page_116">116</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">confesses himself a morphine taker, <a href="#Page_171">171</a></li> + <li class="isub1">death of, <a href="#Page_213">213</a></li> + <li class="isub1">friendship with, <a href="#Page_164">164</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">his wife and daughter, <a href="#Page_164">164</a>, <a href="#Page_165">165</a></li> + <li class="isub1">joins in search for Boyde, <a href="#Page_183">183</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">life-story of, <a href="#Page_174">174</a></li> + <li class="isub1">urges author to become a doctor, <a href="#Page_127">127</a></li> + <li class="isub1">varying moods of, <a href="#Page_125">125</a>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>, + <a href="#Page_173">173</a>, <a href="#Page_185">185</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Hypnotism, experiments in, <a href="#Page_51">51</a>, <a href="#Page_52">52</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Irving, Henry, interview with, <a href="#Page_106">106</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Irvington, Mr. Speyer’s country house at, <a href="#Page_299">299</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Islington Jersey Dairy, partnership in, <a href="#Page_10">10</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">James, General, a dinner to Sir A. Blackwood, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_291">291</a></li> + + <li class="indx">James, William, “Varieties of Religious Experience” by, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>, <a href="#Page_217">217-18</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Jews, a campaign against, <a href="#Page_229">229</a></li> + <li class="isub1">author’s admiration of, <a href="#Page_300">300</a></li> + + <li class="indx">“Jimbo,” author’s, <a href="#Page_223">223</a></li> + + <li class="indx">“John Silence,” <a href="#Page_53">53</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>, <a href="#Page_223">223</a></li> + <li class="isub1">effects of haschisch described in, <a href="#Page_182">182</a></li> + <li class="isub1">publication of, <a href="#Page_224">224</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Jones, Colonel, <a href="#Page_291">291</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Joseph Lake, Northern Ontario, <a href="#Page_74">74</a></li> + + <li class="indx">“Julius Le Vallon,” <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Kay, John, and the “Hub” venture, <a href="#Page_16">16</a> <i>et seq.</i>, <a href="#Page_39">39</a> <i>et seq.</i>, <a href="#Page_46">46</a></li> + <li class="isub1">effect of morphine on, <a href="#Page_179">179</a></li> + <li class="isub1">his immunity to “night-attacks,” <a href="#Page_109">109</a></li> + <li class="isub1">histrionic bent of, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>, <a href="#Page_111">111</a>, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>, + <a href="#Page_255">255</a></li> + <li class="isub1">in search of Boyde, <a href="#Page_189">189</a></li> + <li class="isub1">poses to Smedley, <a href="#Page_112">112</a></li> + <li class="isub1">served with a blue writ, <a href="#Page_64">64</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Kingsley, Charles, baptizes A. H. Louis, <a href="#Page_266">266</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Laffan, Mr., of <i>New York Sun</i>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lake Rosseau, departure for, <a href="#Page_63">63</a></li> + <li class="isub1">five months on, <a href="#Page_74">74</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[309]</span> +Lawler, Detective, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>, <a href="#Page_189">189</a>, <a href="#Page_200">200</a>, + <a href="#Page_201">201</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lewes, George Henry, A. H. Louis’s talks with, <a href="#Page_269">269</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lexow, Senator, and a Tammany investigation, <a href="#Page_232">232</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Liebesmahl, the, of Moravian Brotherhood, <a href="#Page_25">25</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lightfoot, Bishop, A. H. Louis and, <a href="#Page_268">268</a>.</li> + + <li class="indx">Lion, an escaped, a “strong man” and, <a href="#Page_104">104</a></li> + + <li class="indx">“Listener, The,” author’s, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>, <a href="#Page_266">266</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Louis, Alfred H., advice <i>re</i> eau de Cologne business, <a href="#Page_277">277</a></li> + <li class="isub1">and politics, <a href="#Page_268">268</a>, <a href="#Page_269">269</a></li> + <li class="isub1">arrives, and a description of, <a href="#Page_213">213</a></li> + <li class="isub1">as editor, <a href="#Page_269">269</a></li> + <li class="isub1">breakdown of, <a href="#Page_269">269</a></li> + <li class="isub1">buried in a Hebrew cemetery, <a href="#Page_266">266</a></li> + <li class="isub1">Cambridge days of, <a href="#Page_268">268</a></li> + <li class="isub1">claims to be original of Daniel Deronda, <a href="#Page_209">209</a></li> + <li class="isub1">condemns Gladstone, <a href="#Page_268">268</a></li> + <li class="isub1">“Hereafter” of, <a href="#Page_270">270</a></li> + <li class="isub1">his farewell to author, <a href="#Page_304">304</a></li> + <li class="isub1">legal attainments of, <a href="#Page_269">269</a></li> + <li class="isub1">meeting with, <a href="#Page_262">262</a></li> + <li class="isub1">“Night Song” of, <a href="#Page_264">264</a>, <a href="#Page_265">265</a>, <a href="#Page_271">271</a></li> + <li class="isub1">self-chosen epitaph of, <a href="#Page_267">267</a>, <a href="#Page_290">290</a></li> + <li class="isub1">“The Final Word” of, <a href="#Page_267">267</a></li> + <li class="isub1">unfailing guidance of, <a href="#Page_301">301</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lowry, Mrs., marries James Speyer, <a href="#Page_304">304</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lunatic asylum (a quasi), raid on, <a href="#Page_226">226</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Manchester, Duchess of, marries Sir A. Blackwood, <a href="#Page_21">21</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Manning, Cardinal, A. H. Louis and, <a href="#Page_269">269</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Mantell, Bob (Shakespearean actor), <a href="#Page_85">85</a></li> + <li class="isub1">introduces author to Cecil Clay, <a href="#Page_90">90</a></li> + + <li class="indx">“Max Hensig, Bacteriologist and Murderer,” author’s story of, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_163">163</a></li> + + <li class="indx">McCloy, Mr. (managing editor of <i>Evening Sun</i>), <a href="#Page_91">91</a></li> + <li class="isub1">and author, <a href="#Page_221">221</a></li> + <li class="isub1">interview with, <a href="#Page_92">92</a></li> + <li class="isub1">recollections of, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>, <a href="#Page_95">95</a></li> + + <li class="indx">McKay, owner of olive-oil warehouse, <a href="#Page_262">262</a>, <a href="#Page_263">263</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Messe noire</i>, a, and its performers, <a href="#Page_215">215</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Methodist Magazine</i>, author on staff of, <a href="#Page_6">6</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Miller, C. W., editor in chief of <i>New York Times</i>, <a href="#Page_291">291</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Mitchell, Fire-Marshal, examines author, <a href="#Page_286">286</a></li> + <li class="isub1">prosecutes Brodie, <a href="#Page_282">282</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Moody and Sankey visit England, <a href="#Page_23">23</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Morning Post</i>, an article on the genus “ghost story” in: its writer, <a href="#Page_224">224</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Morphine, and its effects, <a href="#Page_172">172</a> <i>et seq.</i>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a>, <a href="#Page_179">179</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Morris (a reputed “stiff” and cut-throat), <a href="#Page_248">248</a></li> + <li class="isub1">an instance of his kindness, <a href="#Page_249">249</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Mosquitoes of Rainy Lake City, <a href="#Page_247">247</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Muldoon, Mr., and author’s report of a students’ concert, <a href="#Page_292">292</a></li> + <li class="isub1">City editor of <i>New York Times</i>, <a href="#Page_285">285</a>, <a href="#Page_291">291</a></li> + <li class="isub1">joins staff of <i>Brooklyn Eagle</i>, <a href="#Page_300">300</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Mullins, editorial writer on <i>Evening Sun</i>, <a href="#Page_284">284</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Muskoka Lakes of Northern Ontario, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>, <a href="#Page_74">74</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Mystical minor poet, a, <a href="#Page_55">55</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Nash, Eveleigh, publishes stories by author, <a href="#Page_224">224</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Nature, spell of, and its influence on author, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a> <i>et seq.</i>, <a href="#Page_169">169</a>, + <a href="#Page_218">218</a>, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>, <a href="#Page_236">236</a>, <a href="#Page_238">238</a>, <a href="#Page_240">240</a></li> + + <li class="indx">New York, a lively anti-semitic meeting at, <a href="#Page_229">229</a></li> + <li class="isub1">horrors of, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a></li> + <li class="isub1">miseries of summer heat in, <a href="#Page_231">231</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>New York Times</i>, author on staff of, <a href="#Page_288">288</a></li> + <li class="isub1">slogan of, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_291">291</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Newspaper reporting, reminiscences of, <a href="#Page_225">225</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">“Night Song,” poem by A. H. Louis, <a href="#Page_264">264</a>, <a href="#Page_265">265</a>, <a href="#Page_271">271</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Novelists, instances of their creative power, <a href="#Page_77">77</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[310]</span> +Olive-oil, its value as food, <a href="#Page_262">262</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Opium, the Invocation to, <a href="#Page_168">168</a>, <a href="#Page_169">169</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Otto, waiter in Krisch’s, <a href="#Page_260">260</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Palmer, Lynwood, and Boyde, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>, <a href="#Page_206">206</a>, <a href="#Page_208">208</a></li> + <li class="isub1">attends trial of Boyde, <a href="#Page_203">203</a></li> + <li class="isub1">kindness to author, <a href="#Page_158">158</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Patanjali, “Aphorisms” of, <a href="#Page_28">28</a> <i>et seq.</i>, <a href="#Page_255">255</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Pawnbroking, experiences of, <a href="#Page_88">88</a> <i>et seq.</i>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>, <a href="#Page_252">252</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Paxton, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>, <a href="#Page_236">236</a> <i>et seq.</i>, <a href="#Page_246">246</a>, <a href="#Page_249">249</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Pember, G. H., evangelical writer of prophetic school, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>, <a href="#Page_31">31</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Police, New York, the Tammany system and, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_183">183</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Potter, Bishop, officiates at wedding of James Speyer, <a href="#Page_304">304</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Prison as “a proper vestibule to a city of Damned Souls,” <a href="#Page_109">109</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Rainy Lake City, arrival at, <a href="#Page_246">246</a></li> + <li class="isub1">desolateness of, <a href="#Page_248">248</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Rainy River district, gold discovered in, <a href="#Page_232">232</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Reporter, a drunken, <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Reporting for New York papers, experiences acquired from, <a href="#Page_92">92</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Revivalist movement, author and, <a href="#Page_23">23</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Roosevelt’s Rough Riders, <a href="#Page_301">301</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Roper, and Boyde, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>, <a href="#Page_199">199</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Ryan, a Tammany magistrate, <a href="#Page_201">201</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Schmidt, “Von,” personality of, <a href="#Page_276">276</a></li> + <li class="isub1">warns author against Brodie, <a href="#Page_275">275</a>, <a href="#Page_277">277</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Scott, Mr., revivalist, <a href="#Page_28">28</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Scribner’s Magazine</i>, “A Vagrant’s Epitaph” in, <a href="#Page_290">290</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Selton, Morton, and his understudy, <a href="#Page_86">86</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Sevenoaks, a reminiscence of schooldays at, <a href="#Page_253">253</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Shakespearean rehearsals on Lake Rosseau, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_77">77</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Smedley, Mr., posing for, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>, <a href="#Page_158">158</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Smith, Goldwin, and his private secretary, <a href="#Page_37">37</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Smith, Stanley, <a href="#Page_23">23</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Smythe, Judge, replaced by John Goff as Recorder, <a href="#Page_232">232</a></li> + <li class="isub1">sentences Boyde, <a href="#Page_203">203</a></li> + + <li class="indx">“Snipe” hunting, definition of, <a href="#Page_214">214</a>, <a href="#Page_215">215</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Social reporting, experiences of, <a href="#Page_225">225</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Sothern advances money to Boyde, <a href="#Page_206">206</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Spanish-American War, the, <a href="#Page_301">301</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Spectator</i> reviews author’s published stories, <a href="#Page_224">224</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Spencer, Herbert, A. H. Louis’s talks with, <a href="#Page_269">269</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Speyer, James, a letter of introduction to, <a href="#Page_297">297</a></li> + <li class="isub1">a present to author, <a href="#Page_304">304</a></li> + <li class="isub1">and the University Settlement movement, <a href="#Page_299">299</a></li> + <li class="isub1">as friend and employer, <a href="#Page_299">299</a></li> + <li class="isub1">as philanthropist, <a href="#Page_298">298</a>, <a href="#Page_299">299</a></li> + <li class="isub1">author becomes secretary to, <a href="#Page_297">297</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + <li class="isub1">marriage of, <a href="#Page_304">304</a></li> + <li class="isub1">tact and kindly feeling of, <a href="#Page_298">298</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Speyer, Sir Edgar, <a href="#Page_298">298</a>, <a href="#Page_300">300</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Spiritualism, a doctor’s exposition of, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>, <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Spiritualist, a cement-maker as, <a href="#Page_55">55</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Staten Island, a cricket match on, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Stephen, Sir George, <a href="#Page_65">65</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Stevenson, R. L., a dictum of, <a href="#Page_78">78</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Stewart, Sir Donald, <a href="#Page_65">65</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Storey, Mr., editor of <i>Harper’s Young People</i>, accepts an article by author, <a href="#Page_84">84</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Strathcona, Lord, <a href="#Page_5">5</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Studd brothers (cricketers), <a href="#Page_23">23</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Sullivan, Tim, and his rival saloon, <a href="#Page_19">19</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Tammany Hall, a Committee of Investigation into methods of, <a href="#Page_232">232</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Tammany system, the, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a></li> + <li class="isub1">the “Tenderloin” region and, <a href="#Page_183">183</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[311]</span> +Temperance and General Life Assurance Company, author’s post in, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_18">18</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Terry, Ellen, interview with, <a href="#Page_106">106</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Theosophical Society meetings, attendance at, <a href="#Page_107">107</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Theosophy, author’s early interest in, <a href="#Page_32">32</a></li> + + <li class="indx">“The Interpreters,” by A. E., <a href="#Page_218">218</a>, <a href="#Page_219">219</a></li> + + <li class="indx">“The Listener,” <a href="#Page_163">163</a>, <a href="#Page_266">266</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Tombs Police Court and Prison, the, <a href="#Page_99">99</a></li> + <li class="isub1">trial of Boyde at, <a href="#Page_200">200</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Toronto, author as hotel proprietor in, <a href="#Page_39">39</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Understanding, a spiritual wisdom, <a href="#Page_270">270</a>, <a href="#Page_271">271</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Union League Club dinner, author’s maiden speech at, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_291">291</a></li> + + <li class="indx">University Settlement movement, the, James Speyer and, <a href="#Page_299">299</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">“Vagrant’s Epitaph, A,” <a href="#Page_290">290</a></li> + + <li class="indx">van Horne, Sir William, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_65">65</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Vermin-infested bedroom, an uncomfortable night in a, <a href="#Page_85">85</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Wallace, Professor, of Edinburgh University, <a href="#Page_14">14</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Whitey, a parting present of a bottle of rye whisky, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>, <a href="#Page_237">237</a></li> + <li class="isub1">hints to author, <a href="#Page_96">96-98</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Withrow, Dr., editor of <i>Methodist</i> Magazine, <a href="#Page_6">6</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Yonkers theatre, a realistic scene in a, <a href="#Page_257">257</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Zogbaum, illustrator, <a href="#Page_158">158</a></li> +</ul> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[312]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center mt4 mb4"> +<span class="smcap">Printed by</span><br> +<span class="smcap">Cassell & Company, Limited, La Belle Sauvage</span><br> +<span class="smcap">London, E.C.4.</span><br> +F. 20.1023 +</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<div class='transnote mt4'> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Notes"> + Transcriber’s Notes + </h2> + +<ul> + <li>Footnotes renumbered consecutively and moved to below the paragraph +in which they were referenced.</li> + + <li>Obvious typographic errors silently corrected.</li> + + <li>Variation in hyphenation kept as in the original.</li> + + <li>P. <a href='#cor_196'>196</a>: changed “an awful looked” to + “an awful look” to make the sentence grammatical.</li> + +<li>Table of Contents added by the transcriber for reader convenience.</li> +</ul> +</div></div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76991 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/76991-h/images/cover.jpg b/76991-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..37193bb --- /dev/null +++ b/76991-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b5dba15 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this book outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7f2bb0a --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for book #76991 +(https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76991) |
