{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_76991/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_76991","id":"gutenberg_76991","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76991","summary":null,"tags":["Authors, English -- 20th century -- Biography","Blackwood, Algernon, 1869-1951","Category: Biographies","Category: Religion/Spirituality"],"text":"EPISODES BEFORE THIRTY\n\n\n\n\n EPISODES BEFORE\n THIRTY\n\n By\n ALGERNON BLACKWOOD\n\n CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD\n London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne\n 1923\n\n\n\n\n_Printed in Great Britain_\n\n\n\n\n To\n ALFRED H. LOUIS\n\n\n\n\nEPISODES BEFORE THIRTY\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nA strong emotion, especially if experienced for the first time, leaves\na vivid memory of the scene where it occurred. I see a room in a New\nYork boarding-house. I can touch the wooden bed, the two gas-brackets\nbeside the looking-glass, the white door of the cupboard, the iron\n\u201cregister\u201d in the wall that let in heated air, the broken sofa. The\nview from the dirty windows towards the high roof of Tony Pastor\u2019s\nmusic hall in 14th Street, with a side glimpse of the trees in Irving\nPlace, show clearly. The rattle of the Broadway cable cars, the clang\nof their bells, still come to me through that stifling August air, when\nthe shade thermometer stood at a hundred, with humidity somewhere about\n95 per cent. Thoughts of the sea and mountains, vainly indulged within\nthose walls, are easily remembered too.\n\nThe room I am writing in now seems less actual than the one in the\nEast 19th Street boarding-house, kept by Mrs. Bernstein, a German\nJewess, whose husband conducted his own orchestra in a Second Avenue\nrestaurant. Though thirty years ago, it is more clearly defined for\nme than Lady X\u2019s dining-room where I dined last night, and where the\nlady I took in said graciously, \u201cI simply loved your _Blue Lagoon_,\u201d\nwhich, naturally, I was able to praise unreservedly, while leaving her\nwith the illusion as long as possible that she had made friends with\nits gifted author. And this detailed clarity is due, I am sure, to the\nfact that in that New York room I had my first experience of three new\nemotions, each of which, separately, held horror.\n\nHorror draws its lines deep; its pictures stand out in high relief.\nIn my case the horrors were, perhaps minor ones, but at the age of\ntwenty-one--an exceptionally inexperienced twenty-one--they seemed\nimportant; and the fact that they were combined entitles them to be\nconsidered major. They were three in number: the horror of loathsome\nvermin running over my body night after night, the horror of hunger,\nand the horror of living at close quarters with a criminal and degraded\nmind.\n\nAll, as I said, came together; all were entirely new sensations. \u201cClose\nquarters,\u201d too, is used advisedly, for not only was the room a small\none, the cheapest in a cheap house, but it was occupied by three of\nus--three Englishmen \u201con their uppers,\u201d three big Englishmen into the\nbargain, two of us standing 6 feet 2 inches, the other 6 feet 3 inches\nin his socks. We shared that room for many weeks, taking our turn at\nsleeping two in the bed, and one on the mattress we pulled off and kept\nhidden in the cupboard during the day. Mrs. Bernstein, denying her\nblood, won our affection by charging eight dollars only, the price for\ntwo, morning coffee included; and Mrs. Bernstein\u2019s face, fat, kindly,\nperspiring, dirty, is more vivid in my memory after all these years\nthan that of the lady last night who so generously mistook me for De\nVere Stacpoole. Her voice even rings clear, with its Jewish lisp, its\nguttural German, its nasal twang thrown in:\n\n\u201cI ask my hospand. Berhaps he let you stay anozzer week.\u201d\n\nWhat the husband said we never knew. He was usually too drunk to say\nanything coherent. What mattered to us was that we were not turned\nout at the moment, and that, in the long run, the good-hearted woman\nreceived her money.\n\nCertain objects in that room retain exceptional clarity in my mind. If\nthought-pictures could be photographed, a perfect print of the bed and\ngas-bracket could be printed from my memory. With the former especially\nI associate the vermin, the hunger, and the rather tawdry criminal. I\ncould describe that bed down to the smallest detail; I could draw it\naccurately, even to the carving; were I a carpenter I could make it.\nAll that I suffered in it, of physical and mental anguish, the vain\nlongings and despair, the hopes and fears, the loneliness, the feverish\ndreams--the entire dread panorama still hangs in the air between its\nstained brown foot and the broken sofa, as though of yesterday. I can\nsee a tall man pass the end of it, one eye on me and another on the\ndoor, opening a razor slowly as he went. I see the blue eyes narrowing\nin his white face, the treachery of the coward twisting his lip into\na smirk. I can see him sleeping like a child beside me, touching me.\nMoving stealthily about the room in the darkness too, as, thinking me\nasleep, he stole on bare feet to recover the confession of forgery I\nhad forced him to sign, I can still see his dim outline, and even hear\nhis tread--a petty scoundrel unwittingly on his way to gaol.\n\nThe bed, thus, is vividly present in my memory. By contrast with it,\nnot quite so sharp, perhaps, and a pleasanter feeling associated\nwith it, another New York sleeping-place rises in the mind--a bench\nin Central Park. Here, however, the humour of adventure softens the\npicture, though at the time it did not soften the transverse iron arms\nwhich made it impossible to stretch out in comfort. Nor is there any\ntouch of horror in it. Precise and detailed recollection fades. The\nhoboes who shared it with me were companions, even comrades of a sort,\nand one did not feel them necessarily criminal or degraded. They were\n\u201con their uppers\u201d much as I was, and far quicker than I was at the\ntrick of suddenly sitting upright when the night policeman\u2019s tread\nwas coming our way. What thoughts they indulged in I had no means of\nknowing, but I credited them with flitting backwards to a clean room\nsomewhere and a soft white bed, possibly to that ridiculous figure of\nimmense authority, a nurse, just as my own flashed back to a night\nnursery in the Manor House, Crayford, Kent. That the seats I favoured\nwere near the Swings lent possibly another touch to the childhood\u2019s\npicture.\n\nThe memory, anyhow, is a sweeter one than that of the bed in East 19th\nStreet, if less sharply defined. The cool fresh air, the dew, the\nstars, the smell of earth and leaves, were all of them clean, and no\nprice asked at dawn. Yet the two--the bed and the bench--are somehow\nlinked together in my mind, the one invariably calling up the other;\nand, thanks to them probably, no bed bothers me now, lumpy or sloping\nthough it be, in train, hotel, or lodging. I have slept in strange\nplaces since--high in the Caucasus, on the shores of the Black Sea, on\nthe Egyptian desert, on the banks of the Danube, in the Black Forest\nand Hungary--but each time the effort to get comfortable brought back\nthe bed and the bench, and sleep soon followed to smother both.\n\nThe gas-brackets, similarly, rise vividly before my eyes, associated\nwith the pain, the weariness of hunger; not of true starvation, but\nof weeks and months of under-nourishment, caused by one meal a day.\nThe relation between hunger and gas-brackets may seem remote. It was\non the latter, however, that we learned to fix the metal top which\nmade the flame spread in a circle round a light tin cooking-pot. We\nboiled water for milkless tea in this way, cooked porridge, and when\nporridge was not to be had we heated water with dried apples in it. I\nremember the day we discovered that it was more economical to eat the\nstrips of dried apple first, then drink the hot water that made them\nswell so comfortingly inside us. They proved more filling that way, the\nfalse repletion lasted longer, the sense of bulk was more satisfying,\nthe gnawing ceased, and the results, if temporary, at least made it\npossible to fall asleep.\n\nThere are other details of that sordid New York room which still\nretain their first disagreeable vividness, each with the ghost--a very\nsturdy ghost--of the emotion that printed it indelibly in the mind.\nThese details are best mentioned, however, in their proper place and\nsequence. It should first be told how we came to be there.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nWe arrived in New York towards the end of October, coming straight\nfrom five months in the Canadian backwoods. Before that, to mention\nmyself first, there had been a year in Canada, where, even before\nthe age of twenty-one, I had made a living of sorts by teaching the\nviolin, French, German, and shorthand. Showing no special talent for\nany profession in particular, and having no tastes that could be\nheld to indicate a definite career, I had come to Canada three years\nbefore for a few weeks\u2019 trip. My father, in an official capacity, had\npasses from Liverpool to Vancouver, and we crossed in the _Etruria_, a\nCunarder which my mother had launched. He was much f\u00eated and banqueted,\nand the C.P.R. bigwigs, from Lord Strathcona and Sir William van Horne\ndownwards, showed him all attention, placing an observation car at his\ndisposal. General James, the New York postmaster, gave a dinner in\nhis honour at the Union League Club, where I made my first and last\nspeech--consisting of nine words of horrified thanks for coupling \u201ca\nchip of the old block,\u201d as the proposer called me, with the \u201cChief of\nthe British Postal Service.\u201d\n\nA ludicrous wound to vanity helps it to stick in the mind--my father\nwore no braces, and I copied him, but--well, in his case no belt\nwas necessary, whereas I was slim. It suddenly dawned on me, as I\nspluttered my brief words, that a line of white was showing between\nmy waistcoat and the top of my trousers. The close of my speech was\nhurried, my bow was cautious; I was extremely relieved to sit down\nagain.\n\nIn the lovely autumn weather, we saw Canada at its best, and the trip\ndecided my future. My father welcomed it as a happy solution. I came,\ntherefore, to Toronto at the age of twenty, with \u00a3100 a year allowance,\nand a small capital to follow when I should have found some safe\nand profitable chance of starting life. With me came--in the order\nof their importance--a fiddle, the \u201cBhagavad Gita,\u201d Shelley, \u201cSartor\nResartus,\u201d Berkeley\u2019s \u201cDialogues,\u201d Patanjali\u2019s \u201cYoga Aphorisms,\u201d de\nQuincey\u2019s \u201cConfessions,\u201d and--a unique ignorance of life.... I served\nmy first literary apprenticeship on the _Methodist Magazine_, a monthly\nperiodical published in Toronto, and before that licked stamps in the\nback office of the Temperance and General Life Assurance Company, at\nnothing a week, but with the idea of learning the business, so that\nlater I might bring out some English insurance company to Canada.\n\nThe first taught me that, just as I had no ambition to write, so,\nlikewise, I possessed no talent; the second merely made articulate\nthe dislike I felt for anything to do with Business. It was the three\nmonths in the insurance office that caused me to accept eagerly the job\non the _Methodist Magazine_ at four dollars a week, and the reaction\nhelped to make the work congenial if not stimulating.\n\nThe allowance of ten dollars a week was difficult to live on, and I\nhad been looking everywhere for employment. It was through a daughter\nof Sir Thomas Galt, a friend of my father\u2019s on our previous trip to\nCanada, that I obtained this job--sixteen shillings a week, hours ten\nto four.\n\nDr. Withrow, editor of the leading Methodist magazine, and of various\nChristian Endeavour periodicals for children and young people, was a\npleasant old gentleman, who went about in a frock coat and slippers,\nhad a real sense of humour and a nice wife and daughter. His editorial\nden was in his own little house, and my duties were to write an article\nevery month for the magazine, which was illustrated, and also to write\na few descriptive lines of letterpress to accompany the full-page\nillustrations for the numerous Christian Endeavour and Methodist\nperiodicals for young people and children. He taught me the typewriter,\nand with my shorthand I took most of his letters at dictation, and\ncertainly earned my money. My monthly articles in the magazine were on\nsuch subjects as Christmas in England, Life at a Moravian School, The\nBlack Forest, Travel in the Alps--anything that my limited experience\nenabled me to describe at first-hand, and on the whole the old\ngentleman seemed satisfied. The description of the children\u2019s pictures,\nhowever, always made him chuckle, though he never said why, and I wrote\ndozens of these a day, describing the picture of \u201cKing Canute and the\nSea,\u201d \u201cElijah in a Chariot of Fire,\u201d \u201cA Child Blowing Bubbles,\u201d \u201cThe\nWood-boring Beetle,\u201d etc. etc.\n\nHe would dictate some of his articles of travel to me, and I would take\nthem down in shorthand, and he often made such grotesque mistakes in\nfacts that I quietly corrected these as I wrote, and when I read out\nthe sentence to him he would notice the alteration and look at me over\nhis spectacles and say:\n\n\u201cThank you. Yes, I was wrong there. The fact is, I have so many\narticles to write that I compose two at a time in my mind, and they\nget muddled up. An editor should always be accurate, and Methodist\nreaders are cranky and hard to please.\u201d He was a Methodist parson\nhimself, which did not prevent him saying exactly what he thought. He\nlunched off dates and bananas, which he kept in a bag beside his desk,\nand that same desk was in such disorder that he never could find what\nhe wanted, and I was not surprised to learn that, before I came, the\nprinters got the wrong papers, and that many of the children\u2019s pictures\ngot descriptions underneath that did not belong to them--for instance,\na boy blowing a bubble was published over a few lines describing the\nhabits of snakes, \u201cas seen in our illustration,\u201d and so forth.\n\nI got on so well with the little Methodist that he wanted to come to\nthe evening French classes I was giving at fifty cents a lesson to some\nof the clerks in the insurance office, and to bring his daughter with\nhim. He said a little more knowledge of French would be very good\nfor him when he took his conducted tours of Canadian Methodists to\nSwitzerland; but I did not rise to this, and persuaded him to wait till\nI could get a more select class to meet, perhaps, at his own house,\nwhere a girl could more suitably attend. For, to tell the truth, some\nof my pupils had a habit of coming slightly drunk--or, as they called\nit, \u201cwith a jag on.\u201d He, however, would not wait, so I lost two good\npupils!... Dr. Withrow, patient little man of kindly disposition! His\nfaded black frock-coat, his spectacles high on his puckered forehead,\nhis carpet slippers, his tobacco-stained white beard, his sincere\nbeliefs and his striped trousers of a pattern I have always since\nlabelled mentally as \u201cMethodist trousers\u201d--it is a gentle little memory\ntucked away among unkinder ones, and I still hear him giving me my\nfirst and only lesson how to write. His paraphrase of \u201cfatal facility\u201d\nstays with me: \u201cFluency means dullness, unless the mind is packed with\nthought.\u201d It stays with me because the conversation led to my asking if\nI might write an article for the monthly on the subject of Buddhism.\nBehind it lay an ever keener desire to write something on Hegel, whose\nphilosophy I felt certain was based on some personal experience of\ngenuine mystical kind.\n\n\u201cFrom what point of view?\u201d he asked, his forehead puckering with\namazement.\n\n\u201cThat of belief,\u201d I said, my mind bursting with an eager desire to\nimpart information, if not also to convert.\n\nHe passed his hand across his forehead, knocking the spectacles\noff. Then, catching them with a fumbling motion which betrayed his\nperturbation, he inquired: \u201cBut, of course, Mr. Blackwood, not your\n_own_?\u201d\n\nThe voice, the eyes, the whole attitude of the body made me realize he\nwas prepared to be shocked, if not already shocked.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d I replied truthfully, \u201cmy own. I\u2019ve been a Buddhist for a long\ntime.\u201d\n\nHe stared for some time at me without a word, then smiled a kindly,\nindulgent, rather sceptical smile. \u201cIt would be hardly suitable,\u201d\nhe mentioned, as I felt his whole being draw away from me as from\nsomething dangerous and unclean. Possibly, of course, he did not\nbelieve me; I am sure he prayed for me. Our relations seemed less\ncordial after that; he read most carefully every word I wrote in his\nmagazine and children\u2019s pages, but he never referred to the matter\nagain.\n\nMy Methodist job, none the less, was a happy one; this first regular\nwage I had yet received in life gave me the pleasant sensation that I\nwas launched. My connexion with Methodism ceased, not because I was\ndismissed or had failed to give satisfaction (indeed, the editor had\njust told me my salary was to be raised!), but because all the capital\nI should ever have was sent to me about that time from England--about\n\u00a32,000--and I went into partnership with a farmer outside Toronto and\nbought some forty head of pedigree Jersey cattle.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nThe Islington Jersey Dairy, Messrs. Cooper and Blackwood, started\nbusiness with a retail office in College Street, a number of milk\ncarts bearing our names in black lettering upon a yellow background,\nand the supply farm at Islington, a lovely little hamlet on the shores\nof Lake Ontario, some six miles west of the city. We sold rich Jersey\nmilk, we sold eggs and butter too. I gave picnics at our pretty little\nfarm for customers I knew socially. The upper floors of the building\nin College Street we furnished, letting bedrooms at a dollar a week\nto young Englishmen, clerks in offices, and others. I engaged an old,\nmotherly Englishwoman, Mrs. \u2019Iggins, with a face like a rosy apple,\nto \u201cdo\u201d for us--she made the beds and cooked the breakfast--while her\npretty daughter, in cap and apron, was our dairymaid. The plan did not\nwork smoothly--the dairymaid was too pretty, perhaps; Mrs. Higgins too\nvoluble. Complaints came from all sides; the lodgers, wildish young\nfellows in a free and easy country, made more promises than payments.\nOne wanted a stove, another a carpet in his bedroom, another complained\nabout his bed. I had my first experience of drink and immorality\ngoing on under my very eyes.... Trouble--though mercifully of another\nkind--spread then to the customers. The milk began to go sour; it was\ntoo rich; it wouldn\u2019t keep; the telephone rang all day long. Cooper,\nan experienced dairy-farmer, was at his wits\u2019 end; every device for\nscouring the bottles, for cooling the milk before bringing it twice\na day to the city, failed. At dinner parties my hostess would draw\nme tactfully aside. \u201cThe milk, I\u2019m afraid, Mr. Blackwood,\u201d she would\nmurmur softly, \u201cwas sour again this morning. Will you speak about it?\u201d\n\nI spoke about it--daily--but Alfred Cooper\u2019s only comment was, \u201cSay,\nhave you got a bit more capital? That\u2019s what we really want.\u201d\n\nThat sour milk became a veritable nightmare that never left me. I had\nenough of milk. Yet, later in life, I found myself \u201cin milk\u201d again,\nbut that time it was dried milk, a profitable business to the owners,\nthough it brought me nothing. I worked six years at it for a bare\nliving wage. But, at any rate, it couldn\u2019t turn sour. It was a powder.\n\nAlfred Cooper was a delightful fellow. I think some detail of how our\npartnership came to be may bear the telling. It points a moral if it\ndoes not adorn a tale. It may, again, prove useful to other young\nEnglishmen in Canada similarly waiting with money to invest; but on the\nother hand it may not, since there can be few, I imagine, as green as\nI was then, owing to a strange upbringing, or as ignorant of even the\nsimplest worldly practices. Of the evangelical training responsible for\nthis criminal ignorance I will speak later.\n\nCooper, then, was a delightful fellow, fitting my ideal of a type I\nhad read about--the fearless, iron-muscled colonial white man who\nfought Indians. The way we met was quite simply calculated--by a clerk\nin the bank where my English allowance of \u00a3100 a year was paid by my\nfather. The clerk and I made friends--naturally; and one day--also\nnaturally--he suggested a Sunday walk to Islington, some six miles\ndown the lake shore. We could get tea at a farm he knew. We did. The\npraises of the Cooper family, who owned it, had already been sung. I\nwas enchanted. So, doubtless, was the clerk.\n\nThe farm was a small one--perhaps eight acres; and Cooper lived on it\nin poverty with his aged mother and unmarried sister. It was charmingly\nsituated, the fields running down to the water, pine copses dotting\nthe meadows to the north, and the little village church standing at\none corner near the road. Mrs. Cooper, in cap and apron, dropping\nevery \u201ch\u201d that came her way, described to me how she and her husband\nhad emigrated from England sixty years before, in the days of sailing\nships. Her husband\u2019s grave in the churchyard we could see from\nthe window while we sat at tea--an unusually sumptuous tea for a\nfarmhouse--and it was evident that she was more alive to the memories\nof half a century ago in the \u201cold country,\u201d than to the plans of her\nambitious son in the new colony.\n\nThe son came to tea too, but a little late, having obviously brushed\nhimself up a bit for his visitor from England. He was about forty\nyears of age, tall, well-built, keen-faced, with steel-blue eyes and\na hatchet nose, and his body was just that combination of leanness,\nstrength and nervous alertness which made one think of a wolf. He\nwas extremely polite, not to say flattering, to me. I thought him\ndelightful, his idyllic farm still more delightful; he was so eager,\nvigorous and hardy, a typical pioneer, slaving from dawn to sunset to\nwin a living from the soil in order to support the family. I trusted\nhim, admired him immensely. Having been duly prepared for the picture\non our walk out, I was not disappointed. He spoke very frankly of the\ndesperate work he and his sister were forced to do; also of what he\nmight do, and what could be made of the farm, if only he had a little\ncapital. I liked him; he liked me; the clerk liked us both.\n\nHe showed me round the farm after tea, and his few Jersey cows came up\nand nosed his hand. The elderly sister, a weaker repetition of himself,\njoined us. She, too, slaved from morning till night. The old mother,\ndiminutive, quiet, brave, devoted to her children yet with her heart in\nthe old country she would never see again, completed a charming picture\nin my mind. I was invited to come again.\n\nAnother picture, still more alluring, was set before me during the walk\nback, the picture of what a \u201clittle capital\u201d could do with that tiny\nfarm. The dairy business that could be worked up made me feel a rich\nman before the Toronto spires became visible. The desire to put capital\ninto the Islington Jersey Dairy became the one hope of my life. Would\nCooper agree? Would he accept me as a partner? The suggestion came\nfrom myself. The clerk, of course, had never dreamed of such a thing.\nThey _might_ welcome me, the clerk thought. Very kindly, he said he\nwould sound Cooper about it and let me know....\n\nThe scheme seemed such a perfect solution of my problem of earning a\nliving, that I was afraid up to the last moment something must happen\nto prevent it. Cooper would die, or change his mind, or one of my\ninfluential business friends would warn me not to do it. I was so\njealous of interference that I sought no advice. Without so much as a\nscratch of the pen between us the enterprise started. So heartily did\nI like and trust my partner that when, later, wiser friends inquired\nabout my contract with him, it infuriated me. \u201cContract! A contract\nwith Alfred Cooper!\u201d\n\nWe did a roaring trade at first. Our Jersey milk was beyond all\nquestion the best in the town. It was honest, unwatered milk, and our\ncream, without any preservative added, was so prized that we soon\nhad more orders than we could fill. Why our milk and cream soured so\nreadily, losing us trade rapidly later, is a mystery to me to this day.\n\nWithin a few weeks of our starting business, Cooper convinced me that\na model dairy building on the farm would be a desirable improvement;\nit would save labour in various ways; it was built. The farm belonged\nto his mother, not to him; he kept the building when our collapse\nfollowed. Next, his sister really must have someone to help her, and\nthat someone was provided at high wages. Business was good, so good\nin fact that we could not supply orders. Extra milk must therefore be\nbought from neighbouring farmers. This was done, the contracts being\nmade by Cooper. I never asked to see them. The bills were paid every\nmonth without question on my part. More grazing fields, with enough\nartificial food to feed at least a hundred cows in addition, these\ntoo had to be paid for. As for the appetites of our forty animals, I\nmarvelled at them long before I became suspicious. Yet when, after\nmuch insisting, I saw one of the farmer\u2019s bills for extra milk, it left\nme, naturally, no wiser than before, and certainly not a whit more\ncomforted, for the less our trade became, the more milk, apparently,\nthose farmers sold us!\n\nSix months later the firm of Cooper and Blackwood dissolved\npartnership, Blackwood having got the experience and Cooper having\ngot--something quite as useful, but more marketable. Cooper\u2019s I.O.U.\nfor five hundred dollars, now stuck in an old scrap-book somewhere,\nmade me realize a little later how lucky it was that I had only a\nlimited amount to lose.\n\nYet, though it seemed the end of the world to me, my capital lost, my\nenterprise a failure, I recall the curious sense of relief with which I\nsaw the last cow knocked down to some bidder from up-country. From the\nvery beginning I had hated the entire business. I did not know a Jersey\nfrom a Shorthorn, so to speak. I knew nothing about farming, still\nless about dairy-farming. The year spent at Edinburgh University to\nlearn the agricultural trade had been wasted, for, instead, I attended\nwhat interested me far more--the post-mortems, operations, lectures on\npathology, and the dissecting room. My notebooks of Professor Wallace\u2019s\nlectures, crammed as they were, with entries about soil, rotation of\ncrops, and drainage, represented no genuine practical knowledge. I knew\nnothing. My father sent me out to Canada to farm. I went. I farmed.\nCooper and Blackwood is carved upon the gravestone. But the gravestone\ncost \u00a32,000, my share of the forced sale being about \u00a3600. My Canadian\nexperience, anyhow, can be summed up in advice, which is, of course, a\nbromide now: let any emigrant young Englishman earn his own living for\nat least five years in any colony before a penny of capital is given\nhim to invest.\n\nIt was with this \u00a3600 I soon after went into partnership with another\nman, but this time an honest one. We bought a small hotel in the heart\nof Toronto. It also lasted about six months. When the crash came we\nlived together from May to October on a small island in a thirty-mile\nlake of the Ontario hinterland; we shared a long slice of difficult\nlife together subsequently in New York; we shared the horrors of East\n19th Street together. He failed me only once, missing a train a few\nyears later by a couple of minutes. It was the Emigrant Sleeper to\nDuluth on Lake Superior, _en route_ for the Rainy River Gold Fields,\nwhere four of us had made sudden plans to try our fortunes. I was on\na New York paper at the time, and had secured passes over the first\nfifteen hundred miles. As the train drew out of the Central Station I\nsaw my friend racing down the platform, a minute too late! From that\nday to this I have never set eyes on him again. It was an abrupt end to\na friendship cemented by hard times, and my disappointment at losing\nhis companionship was rather bitter at the time.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nAt the time we met, this friend of mine had been out from Oxford--New\nCollege, I think--a year or so, and with a Cambridge man about his\nown age, had been running a sporting goods shop in King Street. They\nsold the paraphernalia of cricket, tennis, boxing and the like, but\nwith no marked success. The considerable money invested by the pair\nof them earned no interest. John Kay was impatient and dissatisfied;\nthe other had leanings towards the brokering trade, as offering better\nopportunities. Both were ready to cut their losses, realize, and get\nout. They did so, remaining the best of friends. And it was one day,\nwhile these preliminary negotiations were being discussed in the back\noffice, where they muddled away the day between rare sales, that Kay\nsaid to me mysteriously: \u201cLook here, I say--I\u2019ve got a wonderful\nscheme. Have you got any money left?\u201d\n\nI mentioned the \u00a3600.\n\n\u201cI call it a rotten shame,\u201d he went on. \u201cOf course, you\u2019ve been\nswindled. These people look upon us as their natural prey\u201d--and he\nproceeded to describe his \u201cscheme\u201d--to buy a small hotel which, owing\nto its bad name, was going cheap; to work up a respectable business and\na valuable goodwill; then to sell out at a top price and retire with a\ncomfortable fortune. Kay was twenty-three, two years my senior; to me,\nthen, he seemed an experienced man of business, almost elderly. The\nscheme took my breath away. It was very tempting. The failure of the\ndairy farm had left me despondent; I felt disgraced; the end of life,\nit seemed, had come. I was ready to grasp at anything that held out\nhopes of a recovery of fortune. But an hotel! I hesitated.\n\n\u201cI know nothing about running an hotel,\u201d I objected.\n\n\u201cNeither do I--yet,\u201d was the sanguine answer, \u201cbut we can learn. It\u2019s\nonly common sense and hard work. We can hire a good manager and engage\na first-class cook.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow many rooms are there?\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly thirteen. It\u2019s the bar where we shall make the money.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe bar----!\u201d\n\n\u201cThere are two bars, one on the main street and another on the back.\nBilly Bingham has made the place too hot to hold him. His licence is to\nbe withdrawn. He\u2019s got to get out. We can get his licence transferred\nto us all right, if we promise to make the place respectable. We\u2019ll\nhave good food, a first-rate lunch counter for the business men, we can\nlet the big rooms for club dinners and society banquets, and there\u2019s\na 100 per cent. profit, you know, on liquor. We\u2019ll make the _Hub_ the\nbest \u2018joint\u2019 in the town. All the fellows will come. A year will do it.\nThen we\u2019ll sell out....\u201d\n\nI was not listening. The word \u201cliquor\u201d--I had never touched alcohol in\nmy life--made such a noise in my mind that I could hear nothing else.\n\n\u201cMy father,\u201d I mentioned in a faint voice, \u201cis a public man at home.\nHe\u2019s a great temperance reformer. He speaks and writes against drink.\nHe\u2019s brought me up that way. It would be a terrible shock to him if his\nson made money out of a bar.\u201d The hotel scheme, indeed, seemed to me an\nimpossibility. A picture of the Temperance meetings held in our country\nhouse flashed through my mind. I glanced down at my coat, on whose\nlapel, until recently, there had been a little strip of blue ribbon,\nsignifying that I was a member of the Band of Hope which included\nseveral million avowed teetotallers. \u201cDon\u2019t you see, old chap?\u201d I\nexplained further. \u201cIt would simply break his heart, and my mother\u2019s\ntoo.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe need never know anything about it,\u201d came the answer at once. \u201cWhy\nshould he? Our names needn\u2019t appear at all. We\u2019ll call ourselves the\n\u2018Hub Wine Company, Limited.\u2019\u201d My head was swimming, my mind buzzing\nwith conflicting voices as we walked down King Street to inspect the\npremises. I ached to re-establish my position. The prospect of a quick\nrecovery of fortune was as sweet a prize as ever tempted a green youth\nlike myself. My partner, too, this time would be a \u201cgentleman,\u201d a\nfellow my father might have invited to dine and play tennis; it was my\nappalling ignorance of life that gave to his two years\u2019 seniority some\nimagined quality of being a man much older than myself, and one who\nknew what he was about.\n\nThe character of the proposed enterprise, of course, had no effect at\nall upon the judgment. To be known as a successful hotel proprietor was\na legitimate ambition. My father\u2019s stern judgment of philanthropists\nwho preached temperance while owning distilleries or holding brewery\nshares--I knew it word for word--was quite forgotten. Only the little\npersonal point of view was present: \u201cI\u2019ve been an ass. I must make\ngood. Here\u2019s a chance, a certainty, of getting money. I must take it.\nIt\u2019s my Karma.\u201d\n\nWe strode down King Street together, past the corner of Yonge Street,\nbelow the windows of the hated Temperance and General Life Assurance\nCompany where I had licked stamps, and on towards the Hub Hotel. The\nToronto air was fresh and sweet, the lake lay blue beyond, the sunlight\nsparkled. Something exhilarating and optimistic in the atmosphere gave\nthought a happy and sanguine twist. It was a day of Indian summer, a\nfaint perfume of far-distant forest fires adding a pleasant touch to\nthe familiar smell of the cedar-wood sidewalks. A mood of freedom,\nliberty, great spaces, fine big enterprises in a free country where\neverything was possible, of opportunities seized and waves of fortune\ntaken on their crest--I remember this mood as sharply still, and the\nscent of a wood-fire or a cedar pencil recalls it as vividly still, as\nthough I had experienced it last week.\n\nI glanced at my companion. I liked him, trusted him. There was a happy\nlight in his frank blue eyes. He was a good heavy-weight boxer too.\nThe very man, I felt, for a bold enterprise of this sort. He talked\nthe whole way. He was describing how we might increase the fortune we\nshould draw out of our successful venture in a year\u2019s time, when we\npassed Tim Sullivan, standing at the door of his, a rival, saloon, and\nexchanged a nod with him. The Irishman had a shadow on his face. \u201cHe\u2019s\nheard about it,\u201d whispered Kay, with a chuckle. \u201cHe\u2019ll look glummer\nstill when he sees all his customers coming across the way to us!\u201d\n\nTurning down a narrow side street, the Hub blocked the way, a\nthree-story building with a little tower, clean windows, and two big\nswinging doors. It ran through to a back street where there was another\nentrance.\n\n\u201cHere it is,\u201d said Kay, in the eager, happy voice of a man who has just\ninherited a family mansion and come to inspect it. \u201cThis is the Hub\nwhere we shall make our fortune.\u201d\n\nIt seemed to me I had entered an entirely new world. Everything was\nspotless. The rows of bottles and glasses, the cash-register and brass\ntaps glittered in the sunlight that fell through coloured windows. The\nperfume of stale liquor was not as disagreeable as it sounds. In one\nsense the whole place looked as harmless as the aisle of some deserted\nchurch. I stood just inside those swing-doors, which had closed behind\nme, with a strange feeling of gazing at some den of vice reconstructed\nin the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud\u2019s. Empty and innocent as\nthe bar might appear, however, there was a thrill of adventure, even of\ndanger, about it that reached my mind, with a definite shock of dread.\n\n\u201cNice, airy premises, with plenty of room,\u201d Kay\u2019s cheery voice came to\nme from a distance. \u201cThis is the principal bar. Twenty men could line\nup easily. It\u2019ll want four bar-tenders.... There\u2019s another bar at the\nend. There\u2019ll be a few fights there before we\u2019ve done. The dining-room\nlies through that archway just between the two.\u201d\n\nHe walked away, passing along the length of the room and down three\nsteps into a narrower, darker bar beyond, where the shadows hid him.\nBut his voice still reached me: \u201cIt\u2019s on the back street, this bar,\u201d he\ncalled. \u201cThis is for the _hoi polloi_. We shall want a chucker out....\nHere\u2019s the private door leading to the upstairs dining-room we\u2019ll let\nout for banquets. We\u2019ll have our own bedrooms and sitting-room on the\nfirst floor too....\u201d\n\nHis voice roared on; I heard, but did not answer; I had not moved an\ninch from my place against the swing-doors. He had not, of course, the\nfaintest idea what was passing through my mind at the moment; and, had\nI told him, he would only have laughed good-naturedly and talked of the\nmoney we should make. The fact was, however, that the whole of my early\nup-bringing just then came at me with a concentrated driving-force\nwhich made the venture seem absolutely impossible.\n\n\u201cWe\u2019ll call this one the House of Commons,\u201d he bawled delightedly; \u201cand\nthat one--the front bar--the House of Lords. We shall take 250 dollars\na day easily!\u201d\n\nThe shock, the contrast, the exaggerated effect of entering a saloon\nfor the first time in my life, especially with the added possibility of\nshortly becoming its proprietor, were natural enough. My unworldliness,\neven at twenty-one, was abnormal. Not only had I never smoked tobacco\nnor touched alcohol of any description, but I had never yet set foot\ninside a theatre; a race-course I had never seen, nor held a billiard\ncue, nor touched a card. I did not know one card from another. Any game\nthat might involve betting or gambling was anathema. In other ways,\ntoo, I had been sheltered to the point of ignorance. I had never even\ndanced. To hold a young woman round the waist was not alone immodest\nbut worse than immodest.\n\nThis peculiarly sheltered up-bringing, this protected hot-house of\nboyhood and early youth to which a drinking bar was the vestibule of\nhell, and a music-hall an invention of a personal devil, are necessary\nto understand the reaction produced in me as I stood in Billy Bingham\u2019s\n\u201cjoint.\u201d I stood, literally, on the brink of \u201cthe downward path.\u201d I\nheard my father\u2019s voice, I saw my mother\u2019s eyes.... In very definite\nform I now faced \u201cworldly temptation\u201d they had so often warned me\nagainst. Accompanying an almost audible memory of \u201cGet thee behind\nme, Satan,\u201d drove a crowded kaleidoscope of vivid pictures from those\nsheltered years.\n\nMy parents were both people of marked character, with intense\nconvictions; my mother, especially, being a woman of great\nindividuality, of iron restraint, grim humour, yet with a love and\ntenderness, and a spirit of uncommon sacrifice, that never touched\nweakness. She possessed powers of mind and judgment, at the same time,\nof which my father, a public servant--financial secretary to the Post\nOffice--availed himself to the full. She had great personal beauty. A\nyoung widow, her first husband having been the 6th Duke of Manchester,\nalso of the evangelical persuasion, she met my father at Kimbolton soon\nafter his return from the Crimean War, where he had undergone that\nreligious change of heart known to the movement as \u201cconversion.\u201d From\na man of fashion, a leader in the social life to which he was born,\nhe changed with sudden completeness to a leader in the evangelical\nmovement, then approaching its height. He renounced the world, the\nflesh, the devil and all their works. The case of \u201cBeauty Blackwood,\u201d\nto use the nickname his unusual handsomeness gained for him, was, in\nits way, notorious. He became a teetotaller and non-smoker, wrote\ndevotional books, spoke in public, and held drawing-room prayer\nmeetings, the Bible always in his pocket, communion with God always\nin his heart. His religion was genuine, unfaltering, consistent and\nsincere. He carried the war into his own late world of fashion. He\nnever once looked back. He knew a vivid joy, a wondrous peace, his pain\nbeing for others only, for those who were not \u201csaved.\u201d The natural,\ninstinctive type he was, asserted its claim. He became a genuine\nsaint. Also, to the very end, he remained that other delightful thing,\npossible only to simple hearts, a boy.\n\nBoth my parents, thus, believed in Jesus, with a faith of that simple,\nunshakable order that could feel no doubts. Their lives were consistent\nand, as must always be the case when fine characters are possessed of a\nperfectly sincere faith, they stood out in the world of men and women\nas something strong and beautiful. Edmund Gosse, in \u201cFather and Son,\u201d\nhas described the mental attitude of the type; William James might,\nequally, have included my father\u2019s case as a typical \u201cconversion\u201d in\nhis \u201cVarieties of Religious Experience.\u201d\n\nThe effect upon the children--there were five of us--followed\nnaturally. My father, apart from incurring much public odium owing to\nhis official position, found himself, and us with him, cut off from the\namenities of the social life to which we were otherwise born. Ordinary\npeople, \u201cworldly\u201d as he called them, left us alone. A house where no\nwine was served at dinner, where morning and evening prayers were\n_de rigueur_, a guest even being asked to \u201clead in prayer\u201d perhaps,\nand where at any suitable moment you might be drawn aside and asked\n\u201cHave _you_ given your soul to Jesus?\u201d was not an attractive house to\nstay in. We were ostracized. The effect of such disabilities upon us\nin later life was not considered, for it was hoped each and all of\nus would consecrate ourselves to God. We were, thus, kept out of the\n\u201cworld\u201d in every possible sense and brought up, though with lavish\nlove and kindness, yet in the narrowest imaginable evangelical path\nwhich scents danger in knowledge of any kind not positively helpful\nto the soul. I, personally, at that time, regarded the temptations\nof the world with a remote pity, and with a certainty that I should\nnever have the least difficulty in resisting them. Men who smoked and\ndrank and were immoral, who gambled, went to theatres and music-halls\nand race-meetings, belonged to the submerged and unworthy portion of\nmankind. I, in this respect at least, was of the elect, quite sure that\nthe weakness of their world could never stain me personally.\n\nYet I never shared the beliefs of my parents with anything like genuine\npleasure. I was _afraid_ they were true, not glad.\n\nWithout wholeheartedly sharing my father\u2019s faith, however, his\nreligious and emotional temperament, with its imperious need of\nbelieving _something_, he certainly bequeathed to me.... The\nevangelical and revivalist movement, at any rate, was the dominant\ninfluence in my boyhood\u2019s years. People were sharply divided into souls\nthat were saved and those that were--not saved. Moody and Sankey, the\nAmerican Revivalists, stayed in our house.\n\nI was particularly influenced in this direction by a group of young\n\u2019Varsity men who worked with Moody, and who were manly fellows, good\ncricketers, like the Studd brothers, or Stanley Smith and Montague\nBeauchamp, men who had rowed in their University boats, and who were\nfar removed from anything effeminate. Of course I thought that what\nthese men did could not be otherwise than fine and worth copying,\nand I lost no time in attacking everyone I met and asking the most\nimpertinent questions about their souls and fallen natures. By some\nlucky chance no one kicked me to death--probably because most of my\nevangelizing work was done at home!\n\nMy old nurse I implored to yield herself up to the Saviour, and I felt\nmy results were very poor in her case because I only got affectionate\ncaresses and smiles, and even observations about the holes in my\nclothes, in return. The fat butler (I assured him) was going headlong\ndown the kitchen stairs to everlasting fire because he showed no\nsymptoms of ecstasy when he met my pleadings with \u201cO, I\u2019m sure \u2019E died\nfor me all right, Master Algie. I don\u2019t feel a bit afraid!\u201d\n\nBut all this was genuine so far as I was concerned, and it lasted a\nconsiderable time, to my father\u2019s great joy, though not so much, I\nthink, to my mother\u2019s. She read far deeper into things....\n\nIn a short time I came to look upon the whole phenomena of\n\u201cconversion,\u201d so far as my type of mind and character was concerned,\nwith distrust and weariness. Only the very topmost layer of my\npersonality was affected; evidently, there was no peace or happiness\nfor me that way!\n\nNone the less, I had one or two terrible moments; one (I was reading\nwith a private tutor in Somerset for Edinburgh University) when I woke\nin the very early morning with a choking sensation in my throat, and\nthought I was going to die. It must have been merely acute indigestion,\nbut I was convinced my last moment had come, and fell into a sweating\nagony of fear and weakness. I prayed as hard as ever I could, swearing\nto consecrate myself to God if He would pull me through. I even vowed\nI would become a missionary and work among the heathen, than which,\nI was always told, there was no higher type of manhood. But the pain\nand choking did not pass, and in despair I got up and swallowed half a\nbottle of pilules of aconite which my mother, an ardent hom\u0153opathist,\nalways advised me to take after sneezing or cold shivers. They were\nsweet and very nice, and the pain certainly began to pass away, but\nonly to leave me with a remorse that I had allowed a mere human\nmedicine to accomplish naturally what God wished to accomplish by His\ngrace. He had been so slow about it, however, that I felt also a kind\nof anger that He could torture me so long, and as it was the aconite\nthat cured me, and not His grace, I was certainly released from my\npromise to become a missionary and work among the heathen. And for this\nsmall mercy I was duly thankful, though the escape had been a rather\nnarrow one.\n\nA year and a half in a school of the Moravian Brotherhood in the\nBlack Forest, though it showed me another aspect of the same general\nline of belief, did not wholly obliterate my fear of hell, with its\ncorrelated desire for salvation. The poetry of the semi-religious\nlife in that remote village set among ancient haunted forests, gave\nto natural idealistic tendencies another turn. The masters, whom\nwe termed Brother, were strenuous, devoted, self-sacrificing men,\nall later to go forth as Missionaries to Labrador. Humbug, comfort,\npersonal ambition played no part in their lives. The _Liebesmahl_ in\ntheir little wooden church, for all its odd simplicity, was a genuine\nand impressive ceremony that touched something in me no church service\nat home, with Sankey\u2019s hymns on a bad harmonium, had ever reached. At\nthis Communion Service, or Love Feast, sweet, weak tea in big white\nthick cups, followed by a clothes-basket filled with rolls, were handed\nround, first to the women, who sat on one side of the building, and\nthen to the men and boys on the other side. There was a collective\nreality about the little ceremony that touched its sincerity with\nbeauty. Similarly was Easter morning beautiful, when we marched in the\nearly twilight towards the little cemetery among the larch trees and\nstood with our hats off round an open grave, waiting in silence for the\nsunrise. The air was cool and scented, our mood devotional and solemn.\nThere was a sense of wonder among us. Then, as the sun slipped up above\nthe leagues of forest, the Eight Brothers, singing in parts, led the\nninety boys in the great German hymn, \u201c_Christus ist auferstanden_....\u201d\n\nThe surroundings, too, of the school influenced me greatly.\nThose leagues of Black Forest rolling over distant mountains,\nvelvet-coloured, leaping to the sky in grey cliffs, or passing quietly\nlike the sea in immense waves, always singing in the winds, haunted by\nelves and dwarfs and peopled by charming legends--those forest glades,\ndeep in moss and covered in springtime with wild lily-of-the-valley;\nthose tumbling streams that ran for miles unseen, then emerged to serve\nthe peasants by splashing noisily over the clumsy water-wheel of a\nbrown old sawmill before they again lost themselves among the mossy\npine roots; those pools where water-pixies dwelt, and those little red\nand brown villages where we slept in our long walks--the whole setting\nof this Moravian school was so beautifully simple that it lent just the\nproper atmosphere for lives consecrated without flourish of trumpets\nto God. It all left upon me an impression of grandeur, of loftiness,\nand of real religion ... and of a Deity not specially active on Sundays\nonly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nThese notes aim at describing merely certain surface episodes, and\nwould leave unmentioned of set purpose those inner activities which\npertain to the intimate struggles of a growing soul. There is a veil\nof privacy which only in rarest cases of exceptional value should be\nlifted. That honesty, moreover, which is an essential of such value,\nseems almost unattainable. Only a diary, written at the actual time and\nintended for no one\u2019s eye, can hope to achieve the naked sincerity,\nwhich could make it useful to lift that veil.\n\nYet, even with these surface episodes, something of the background\nagainst which they danced and vanished must be sketched; to understand\nthem, something of the individual who experienced them must be known.\nThis apology for so much use of the personal pronoun is made once for\nall.\n\nThe failure of the evangelical Christian teaching either to attract\ndeeply or to convince, has been indicated. An eager, impressionable\nmind lay empty and unstimulated. It fed upon insipid stuff, such\nas Longfellow, Mrs. Hemans, goody-goody stories, and thousands of\nreligious tracts. It was the days of yellow-backs in three volumes,\nof Ouida especially, of Miss Braddon, and Wilkie Collins; but novels\nwere strictly forbidden in the house. Lewis Carroll, which my father\noften read aloud, and Foxe\u2019s \u201cBook of Martyrs,\u201d which made every Roman\nCatholic priest seem ominous, were our imaginative fiction. But my\nchief personal delight was Hebrew poetry, the Psalms, the Song of\nSolomon, above all the Book of Job (which I devoured alone)--these\nmoved me in a different way and far more deeply.\n\nThe mind, meanwhile, without being consciously aware of it, was\nsearching with eager if unrewarded zeal, until one day Fate threw a\nstrange book in its way--Patanjali\u2019s \u201cYoga Aphorisms,\u201d a translation\nfrom the Sanskrit. I was about seventeen then, just home from a year\nand a half in the Moravian Brotherhood School in the Black Forest.\n\nI shall never forget that golden September day when the slight volume,\nbound in blue, first caught my eye. It was lying beside a shiny black\nbag on the hall table, and the bag belonged, I knew, to a Mr. Scott,\nwho had come to spend a week with us and to hold a series of meetings\nunder my father\u2019s auspices in the village hall. Mr. Scott was an ardent\nrevivalist. He was also--this I grasped even at the time--a cadaverous\nmass of religious affectations. He was writing a brochure, I learned\nlater, to warn England that Satan was bringing dangerous Eastern\nteachings to the West, and this book was a first proof of the Fiend\u2019s\ndiabolical purpose.\n\nI opened it and read a few paragraphs in the hall. I did not understand\nthem, though they somehow held my mind and produced a curious sense of\nfamiliarity, half of wonder, half of satisfaction. A deeper feeling\nthan I had yet known woke in me. I was fascinated.... My father\u2019s voice\ncalling me to tennis interrupted my reading, and I dropped the book,\nnoticing that it fell behind the table. Hours later, though the bag was\ngone, the book lay where it had fallen. I stole it. I took it to bed\nwith me and read it through from cover to cover. I read it twice, three\ntimes; bits of it I copied out; I did not understand a word of it, but\na shutter rushed up in my mind, interest and joy were in me, a big\ntroubling emotion, a conviction that I had found something I had been\nseeking hungrily for a long time, something I needed, something that,\nin an odd way, almost seemed familiar.\n\nI repeat--I did not understand a word of it, while yet the meaningless\nphrases caught me with a revolutionary power. As I read and re-read\ntill my candles guttered, there rose in me a dim consciousness,\nbecoming more and more a growing certainty, that what I read was not\nentirely new. So strong was this that it demanded audible expression.\nIn that silent bedroom, dawn not far away, I can hear myself saying\naloud: \u201cBut I\u2019ve known all this before--only I\u2019ve forgotten it.\u201d Even\nthe Sanskrit words, given phonetically in brackets, had a familiar look.\n\nShutter after shutter rose, \u201clifting a veil and a darkness,\u201d letting\nin glimpses of a radiant and exciting light. Though the mind was too\nuntaught to grasp the full significance of these electric flashes,\ntoo unformed to be even intelligently articulate about them, there\ncertainly rushed over my being a singular conviction of the unity of\nlife everywhere and in everything--of its _one-ness_. That objects,\nthe shifting appearance of phenomena, were but a veil concealing some\nintensely beautiful reality--the beauty shining and divine, the reality\nbitingly, terrifically actual--this poured over me with a sense of\nbeing not so much dis-covered as re-covered. Ignorant as I was, without\nfacts or arguments or reason to support me, this I _knew_.\n\nIt is possible the awakening consciousness fringed some state of\necstasy during that long communing with ancient things.... The house,\nat any rate, was still dark, but sunrise not long to come, when at\nlength I stole down into the deserted hall and replaced the little book\nupon the table.\n\nThose Yoga aphorisms of a long-dead Hindu sage, set between a golden\nSeptember evening and a guttering candle, marked probably the opening\nof my mind.... The entire paraphernalia of my evangelical teaching\nthenceforth began to withdraw. Though my father\u2019s beliefs had cut\ndeep enough to influence me for many years to come, their dread,\nwith the terror of a personal Satan and an actual Hell, grew less\nfrom that moment. The reality of the dogmas was impaired. Here was\nanother outlook upon life, another explanation of the world; caprice\nwas eliminated and justice entered; the present was the result of the\npast, the future determined by the present; I must reap what I had\nsown, but, also, I could sow what I wished to reap. Hope was born.\nApart from this was that curious deep sense of familiarity with these\nEastern teachings, as with something I understood and in which I felt\nat home....\n\nCautiously, I put indirect questions to my father, who at once--the\nclumsy questions betraying me--detected Satan\u2019s subtle handiwork.\nHe was grave and troubled. With affectionate solicitude he told me,\nfinally, a story of na\u00efve horror, intended to point the warning. A\nyoung man, who suffered from repeated epileptic fits, had tried every\ndoctor and specialist in vain, when, as a last resort, he followed some\nfriend\u2019s counsel of despair, and consulted a medium. The medium, having\nconferred with his familiar, handed the patient a little locket which\nhe was to wear day and night about his neck, but never on any account\nto open. The spell that would save him from a repetition of his fits\nlay inside, but he must resist to the death the curiosity to read it.\nTo the subsequent delight and amazement of everybody, the fits abruptly\nceased; the man was cured; until one day, after years of obedience,\ncuriosity overcame him; he opened the brief inscription, and fell\ndown in a fit--dead. The wording, minutely written in red ink, ran as\nfollows: \u201cLet him alone till he drop into Hell!\u201d\n\nThe warning, above all the story, acted as a stimulus instead of the\nreverse. Yet another strange door was set ajar; my eyes, big with\nwonder and questions, peered through. \u201cEarth\u2019s Earliest Ages,\u201d by\nG. H. Pember, an evangelical, but an imaginative evangelical, was\nplaced in my hands, accompanied by further solemn warnings. Pember, a\nwriter of the prophetic school, had style, imagination, a sense of the\nmarvellous, a touch of genuine drama too; he used suggestion admirably,\nhis English was good, he had proportion, he knew where to stop. As\na novelist of fantastic kind--an evangelical Wells, a \u201cconverted\u201d\nDunsany--he might have become a best-seller. He had, moreover, a theme\nof high imaginative possibilities, based upon a sentence in Genesis\n(vi. 2)--\u201cThe Sons of God saw the Daughters of men that they were fair\n... and took to themselves wives from among them ... and there were\ngiants in the earth in those days....\u201d These Sons of God were some\nkind of higher beings, mighty spirits, angels of a sort; but rather\nfallen angels; their progeny formed a race apart from humans; for some\nreason, now slipped from my memory, Pember was convinced that this\nunlawful procreation was being resumed in modern days. The Nephilim,\nas he called them, were aiming at control of the world, Anti-Christ, a\ngorgeous but appalling figure, naturally, at their head.\n\nIt was a magnificent theme; he treated it, within the limits he set\nhimself, with ingenious conviction. The danger was imminent; the human\nrace, while shuddering, must be on its guard. In the night, in the\ntwinkling of an eye, the catastrophe might come. Signs the Nephilim\nbrought with them were spiritualism, theosophy, the development of\nsecret powers latent in man, a new and awful type of consciousness,\nmagic, and all the rest of the \u201coccult\u201d movement that was beginning to\nshow its hydra head about this time.\n\nIn a moment Moody went to the bottom of the class, and Pember reigned\nin his stead. By hook or by crook I obtained the books that Pember\nsignalled as so dangerously subversive of the truth: \u201cMagic Black and\nWhite\u201d by Dr. Franz Hartmann; \u201cThe Perfect Way,\u201d by Anna Kingsford and\nEdward Maitland; \u201cEsoteric Buddhism,\u201d by A. P. Sinnett; \u201cVoice of the\nSilence,\u201d by Mabel Collins; \u201cThe Bhagavad Gita,\u201d from the Upanishads;\nand Emma Hardinge Britten\u2019s \u201cHistory of American Spiritualism.\u201d My\nfirst delicious alarm lest the sky might fall any moment, and Satan\nappear with the great and terrible Nephilim princes to rule the world,\nbecame less threatening.... Soon afterwards, too, I happened upon my\nfirst novel, Laurence Oliphant\u2019s \u201cMassollam,\u201d followed, a good deal\nlater, by his \u201cScientific Religion\u201d and his \u201cSympneumata.\u201d This history\nof his amazing subservience to Thomas Luke Harris helped to peel\nanother thin skin from my eyes; Oliphant seemed a hero, but Harris a\nvile humbug. By this time other books had brought grist to the mill\nas well: Amiel\u2019s \u201cJournal Intime\u201d; Drummond\u2019s \u201cNatural Law in the\nSpiritual World\u201d--I knew Professor Drummond later, when he came to\nstay with us, and also when he lectured to the students at Edinburgh\non Sunday nights, coming from his Glasgow Chair for the purpose: I can\nstill see his large, glowing, far-seeing eyes--Cahagnet\u2019s \u201cArcanes\nde la Vie Future\u201d; and \u201cAnimal Magnetism,\u201d by Binet and F\u00e9r\u00e9. The\nexperiments of Braid, and Dr. Esdaille in India, had also come my way.\n\nSuch one-sided reading, of course, fed the growing sense of wonder,\nnaturally strong in any case; Shelley coloured it; and nothing offered\nitself at the time to curb, shape or qualify it. Spiritualism, apart\nfrom the exciting phenomena it promised with such confident volubility,\nleft me rather unstirred, but theosophy, of course, I swallowed whole,\nwith its Mahatmas, development of latent powers, memory of past lives,\nastral consciousness, and description of other beings both superior\nand inferior to man. It was some years before scientific reading came\nto check and guide a too exuberant imagination; but, even so I have\nalways taken ideas where I found them, regardless of their propounders;\nif Tibet and its shining Mahatmas faded, the theories of Karma and\nreincarnation were older than any modern movement, and the belief in\nextension of consciousness to some _n_th degree, with its correlative\nof greater powers and new faculties, have not only remained with me,\nbut have justified themselves. The \u201cGita,\u201d too, remains the profoundest\nworld-scripture I have ever read.\n\nAn immediate, happy result of this odd reading, at any rate, I recall\nwith pleasure: my father\u2019s Christianity became splendid in my eyes. I\nrealized, even then, that it satisfied his particular and individual\nvision of truth, while the fact that he lived up to his beliefs nobly\nand consistently woke a new respect and admiration in me....\n\nBy far the strongest influence in my life, however, was Nature; it\nbetrayed itself early, growing in intensity with every year. Bringing\ncomfort, companionship, inspiration, joy, the spell of Nature has\nremained dominant, a truly magical spell. Always immense and potent,\nthe years have strengthened it. The early feeling that everything was\nalive, a dim sense that some kind of consciousness struggled through\nevery form, even that a sort of inarticulate communication with this\n\u201cother life\u201d was possible, could I but discover the way--these moods\ncoloured its opening wonder. Nature, at any rate, produced effects\nin me that only something living could produce; though not till I\nread Fechner\u2019s \u201cZend-Avesta,\u201d and, later still, James\u2019s \u201cPluralistic\nUniverse,\u201d and Dr. R. M. Bucke\u2019s \u201cCosmic Consciousness\u201d did a possible\nmeaning come to shape my emotional disorder. Fairy tales, in the\nmeanwhile bored me. Real facts were what I sought. That these existed,\nthat I had once known them but had now forgotten them, was thus an\nearly imaginative conviction.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThis tendency showed itself even in childhood. We had left the\nManor House, Crayford, and now lived in a delightful house at\nShortlands, in those days semi-country. It was the time of my horrible\nprivate schools--I went to four or five--but the holidays afforded\nopportunities....\n\nI was a dreamy boy, frequently in tears about nothing except a vague\nhorror of the practical world, full of wild fancies and imagination and\na great believer in ghosts, communings with spirits and dealings with\ncharms and amulets, which latter I invented and consecrated myself by\nthe dozen. This was long before I had read a single book.\n\nI loved to climb out of the windows at night with a ladder, and creep\namong the shadows of the kitchen garden, past the rose trees and under\nthe fruit-tree wall, and so on to the pond where I could launch the\nboat and practise my incantations in the very middle among the floating\nweeds that covered the surface in great yellow-green patches. Trees\ngrew closely round the banks, and even on clear nights the stars could\nhardly pierce through, and all sorts of beings watched me silently from\nthe shore, crowding among the tree stems, and whispering to themselves\nabout what I was doing.\n\nI cannot say I ever believed actually that my spells would produce\nany results, but it pleased and thrilled me to think that they might\ndo so; that the scum of weeds might slowly part to show the face of a\nwater-nixie, or that the forms hovering on the banks might flit across\nto me and let me see their outline against the stars.\n\nEverything I did and felt in this way was evolved out of my inner\nconsciousness, and even after I had passed into long trousers I loved\nthe night, the shadows, empty rooms and haunted woods.\n\nOn returning from these nightly expeditions to the pond, the sight of\nthe old country-house against the sky always excited me strangely.\nThree cedars of Lebanon flanked it on the side I climbed out, towering\naloft with their great funereal branches, and I thought of all the\npeople asleep in their silent rooms, and wondered how they could be so\ndull and unenterprising, when out here they could see these sweeping\nbranches and hear the wind sighing so beautifully among the needles.\nThese people, it seemed to me at such moments, belonged to a different\nrace. I had nothing in common with them. Night and stars and trees and\nwind and rain were the things I had to do with and wanted. They were\nalive and personal, stirring my depths within, full of messages and\nmeanings, whereas my parents and sisters and brother, all indoors and\nasleep, were mere accidents, and apart from my real life and self. My\nfriend the under-gardener always took the ladder away early in the\nmorning.\n\nSometimes an elder sister accompanied me on these excursions. She, too,\nloved mystery, and the peopled darkness, but she was also practical. On\nreturning to her room in the early morning we always found eggs ready\nto boil, cake and cold plum-pudding perhaps, or some such satisfying\nmorsels to fill the void. She was always wonderful to me in those days.\nVery handsome, dark, with glowing eyes and a keen interest in the\nundertaking, she came down the ladder and stepped along the garden\npaths more like a fairy being than a mortal, and I always enjoyed\nthe event twice as much when she accompanied me. In the day-time she\nfaded back into the dull elder sister and seemed a different person\naltogether. I never reconcile the two.\n\nThis childish manifestation of an overpowering passion changed later,\nin form, of course, but not essentially much in spirit. Forests,\nmountains, desolate places, especially perhaps open spaces like the\nprairies or the desert, but even, too, the simple fields, the lanes,\nand little hills, offered an actual sense of companionship no human\nintercourse could possibly provide. In times of trouble, as equally\nin times of joy, it was to Nature I ever turned instinctively. In\nthose moments of deepest feeling when individuals must necessarily be\nalone, yet stand at the same time in most urgent need of understanding\ncompanionship, it was Nature and Nature only that could comfort me.\nWhen the cable came, suddenly announcing my father\u2019s death, I ran\nstraight into the woods.... This call sounded above all other calls,\nmusic coming so far behind it as to seem an \u201calso ran.\u201d Even in those\nfew, rare times of later life, when I fancied myself in love, this\nspell would operate--a sound of rain, a certain touch of colour in the\nsky, the scent of a wood-fire smoke, the lovely cry of some singing\nwind against the walls or window--and the human appeal would fade in\nme, or, at least, its transitory character become pitifully revealed.\nThe strange sense of a oneness with Nature was an imperious and royal\nspell that over-mastered all other spells, nor can the hint of comedy\nlessen its reality. Its religious origin appears, perhaps, in the fact\nthat sometimes, during its fullest manifestation, a desire stirred in\nme to leave a practical, utilitarian world I loathed and become--a monk!\n\nAnother effect, in troubled later years especially, was noticeable;\nits dwarfing effect upon the events, whatever they might be, of daily\nlife. So intense, so flooding, was the elation of joy Nature brought,\nthat after such moments even the gravest worldly matters, as well as\nthe people concerned in these, seemed trivial and insignificant.\nNature introduced a vaster scale of perspective against which a truer\nproportion appeared. There lay in the experience some cosmic touch of\nglory that, by contrast, left all else commonplace and unimportant. The\ngreat gods of wind and fire and earth and water swept by on flaming\nstars, and the ordinary life of the little planet seemed very small,\nman with his tiny passions and few years of struggle and vain longings,\nalmost futile. One\u2019s own troubles, seen in this new perspective,\ndisappeared, while, at the same time, the heart filled with an immense\nunderstanding love and charity towards all the world--which, alas, also\nsoon disappeared.\n\nIt is difficult to put into intelligible, convincing words the\nirresistible character of this Nature-spell that invades heart and\nbrain like a drenching sea, and produces a sense of rapture, of\necstasy, compared to which the highest conceivable worldly joy becomes\nmerely insipid.... Heat from this magical source was always more or\nless present in my mind from a very early age, though, of course, no\nattempt to analyse or explain it was then possible; but, in bitter\nyears to come, the joy and comfort Nature gave became a real and only\nsolace. When possession was at its full height, the ordinary world,\nand my particular little troubles with it, fell away like so much\ndust; the whole fabric of men and women, commerce and politics, even\nthe destinies of nations, became a passing show of shadows, while the\nvisible and tangible world showed itself as but a temporary and limited\nrepresentation of a real world elsewhere whose threshold I had for a\nmoment touched.\n\nOthers, of course, have known similar experiences, but, being\nbetter equipped, have understood how to correlate them to ordinary\nlife. Richard Jefferies explained them. Whitman tasted expansion of\nconsciousness in many ways; Fechner made a grandiose system of them;\nEdward Carpenter deliberately welcomed them; Jacob Boehme, Plotinus,\nand many others have tried to fix their nature and essence in terms,\nrespectively, of religion and philosophy; and William James has\nreviewed them with an insight as though he had had experienced them\nhimself. Whatever their value, they remain authentic, the sense of\noneness of life their common denominator, a conviction of consciousness\npervading all forms everywhere their inseparable characteristic.\n\nIf Kentish gardens saw the birth of this delight, the Black Forest\noffered further opportunities for its enjoyment, and a year in a\nvillage of the Swiss Jura Mountains to learn French--I often wandered\nall night in the big pine forests without my tutor, a bee-keeping\npasteur, at B\u00f4le, near Neuch\u00e2tel, discovering my absence--intensified\nit. Without it something starved in me. It was a persistent craving,\noften a wasting _nostalgia_, that cried for satisfaction as the whole\nbody cries for covering when cold, and Nature provided a companionship,\na joy, a bliss, that no human intercourse has ever approached, much\nless equalled. It remains the keenest, deepest sensation of its kind I\nhave known....\n\nHere, in Toronto, opportunities multiplied, and just when they were\nneeded: in times of difficulty and trouble the call of Nature became\nparamount; during the vicissitudes of dairy and hotel the wild\nhinterland behind the town, with its lakes and forests, were a haven\noften sought. Among my friends were many, of course, who enjoyed a\nday \u201cin the country,\u201d but one man only who understood a little the\nfeelings I have tried to describe, even if he did not wholly share\nthem. This was Arnold Haultain, a married man, tied to an office all\nday long, private secretary to Goldwin Smith (whose life, I think, he\nsubsequently wrote), and editor of a weekly periodical called _The\nWeek_. He was my senior by many years.... At three in the morning,\nsometimes, he would call for me at the dairy in College Street, and we\nwould tramp out miles to enjoy the magic of sunrise in a wood north of\nthe city. And such an effort was only possible to a soul to whom it was\na necessity.... The intensity of early dreams and aspirations, what\nenergy lies in them! In later life, though they may have solidified\nand become part of the character, that original fiery energy is gone.\nA dreadful doggerel I wrote at this time, Haultain used in his paper,\nand its revealing betrayal of inner tendencies is the excuse for its\nreproduction here. It appeared the same week its author bought the Hub\nHotel and started business with Kay, as \u201cThe Hub Wine Company.\u201d\n\n\nLINES TO A DREAMER\n\n    O change all this thinking, imagining, hoping to be;\n    Change dreaming to action and work; there\u2019s a God in your will.\n    Self-mastery and courage and confidence make a man free,\n    And doing is stronger than dreaming for good or for ill.\n\n    Then make a beginning; don\u2019t lie like an infant and weep.\n    Begin with the dearest and crush some delight-giving sin\n    Right out of your life, with a purpose of death before sleep;\n    A passion controlled is an index of power within.\n\n    Some hard self-denial; let no one suspect it at all.\n    With ruthless self-torture continue, nor half an inch yield,\n    Step fearless and bravely; hold on and believe--you won\u2019t fall;\n    Companions you\u2019ve none but the best on this grim battlefield.\n\n    Stagnation means death. If you cannot advance you retreat;\n    Steel purpose maintain; let it be the first aim of your life;\n    Beware of those mushroom resolves as impulsive as fleet,\n    And remember, the nobler the end the more deadly the strife.\n\n    For the hope that another may save you is coward and vain,\n    And the ladder, by which you must climb to yon far starry height,\n    Is of cast-iron rungs from the furnace of suffering and pain.\n    Then forward; and courage! from darkness to truth\u2019s golden light.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nThe pictures that have occupied two chapters, flashed and vanished,\nlasting a few moments only. It was Kay\u2019s voice that interrupted them:\n\n\u201cThis is my partner, Mr. Blackwood,\u201d he was saying, as he came from the\ndining-room door, accompanied by an undersized little man with sharp,\nbeady eyes set in a face like a rat\u2019s, with deep lines upon a skin as\nwhite as paper. I shook hands with Billy Bingham, proprietor of the\nHub, the man whose disreputable character had made it a disgrace to the\nCity of Churches.\n\nOf the conversation that followed, though I heard every word of it,\nonly a blurred memory remained when we left the building half an hour\nlater. I was in two worlds--innocent Kent and up-to-date Toronto--while\nKay and Bingham talked. Mysterious phrases chased pregnant business\nterms in quick succession: Goodwill, stock in hand, buying liquor at\nthirty days, cash value of the licence, and heaven knows what else\nbesides. Kay was marvellous, I thought. The sporting goods business had\napparently taught him everything. Two hundred per cent. profit, rapid\nturn over, sell out at top price, were other vivid sentences I caught\nin part, while I stared and listened, feigning no doubt a comprehension\nthat was not mine. The glow of immense success to come, at any rate,\nshone somehow about the nasty face of that cunning little Billy\nBingham, as he painted our future in radiant colours. Kay was beaming.\n\n\u201cA short period of horror,\u201d I remember thinking, for the sanguine fires\nlit me too, \u201cand we shall be independent men! It\u2019s probably worth it.\nCanada\u2019s a free country. What\u2019s impossible at home is possible here.\nOpportunities must be seized...!\u201d\n\nThen Bingham\u2019s white face retreated, his beady eyes became twin points\nof glittering light, and another picture slid noiselessly before\nthem. Euston Station a few short months ago, myself tightly wedged in\na crowded third-class carriage, the train to Liverpool slowly moving\nout, and my father\u2019s tall figure standing on the platform--this picture\nhid the Hub and Bingham and John Kay. The serious blue eyes, fixed\non mine with love and tenderness, could not conceal the deep anxiety\nthey betrayed for my future. Behind them, though actually at the Manor\nHouse, Crayford, fixed on a page of the Bible, or perhaps closed in\nearnest prayer, the eyes of my mother rose up too.... The train moved\nfaster, the upright figure and the grave, sad face, though lit by a\nmomentary smile of encouragement, were hidden slowly by the edge of the\ncarriage window. I was too shy to wave my hand, and far too sensitive\nof what the carriage-full of men would think if I moved to the window\nand spoke, or worse, gave the good-bye kiss I burned to give. So the\nstraight line of that implacable wooden sash slid across both face and\nfigure, cutting our stare cruelly in the middle.\n\nIt was the last time I saw my father; a year later he was dead; and ten\nyears were to pass before I saw my mother again. Before this--to look\nahead for a second--some enterprising Toronto friend, with evangelical\ntact, wrote to my father ... \u201cyour son is keeping a tavern,\u201d and my\nfather, calling my brother into his study where he laid all problems\nbefore his God with prayer, told him in a broken voice and with tears\nin his eyes: \u201cHe is lost; his soul is lost. Algie has gone to--Hell!\u201d...\n\nMy vision faded. My broad-shouldered friend and his little rat-faced\ncompanion stood with their elbows on the bar. I saw six small glasses\nand a big dark bottle. Three of the former were filled to the brim with\nneat rye whisky, the other three, \u201cthe chasers\u201d as they were called,\nheld soda-water.\n\n\u201cDrink hearty,\u201d rasped Bingham\u2019s grating voice, as he tossed down his\nliquor at a gulp, Kay doing the same, then swallowing the soda-water.\n\nI moved to the swing-doors. I had never touched spirits, and loathed\nthe mere smell of them. I cannot pretend that any principle was\ninvolved; it was simply that the mere idea of swallowing raw whisky\ngave me nausea. I saw Kay give me a quick look. \u201cHe\u2019ll be offended if\nyou don\u2019t take something,\u201d it said plainly. I was, besides, familiar\nwith the customs of the country, at any rate in theory.\n\n\u201cHave something else,\u201d invited Bingham, \u201cif you don\u2019t like it straight.\u201d\n\nI shook my head, mumbling something about it\u2019s being too early in the\nday, and I shall never forget the look that came into that cunning\nlittle face. But he was not offended. He put his hand on Kay\u2019s arm.\n\u201cNow, see here,\u201d he said with seriousness, \u201cthat\u2019s dead right. That\u2019s\ngood business every time. Never drink yourselves, and you\u2019ll make it a\nsuccess. Your partner\u2019s got the right idea, and I tell you straight:\nnever touch a drop of liquor till after closing hours. You\u2019ll be\nasked to drink all day long. Everybody will want to drink with the\nnew management. Every customer that walks in will say \u2018What\u2019s yours?\u2019\nbefore you even know his name. Now, see here, boys, listen to me--you\n_can\u2019t_ do it! You\u2019ll be blind to the world before eleven o\u2019clock. _I_\ntell you, and I _know_!\u201d\n\n\u201cHow are you to refuse?\u201d asked Kay.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll give you a tip: drink tea!\u201d\n\n\u201cTea!\u201d\n\n\u201cHave your bottle of tea. Tell your bar-tenders. It\u2019s the same colour\nas rye whisky. No one\u2019ll ever know. The boss can always have his own\nprivate bottle. Well, yours is tea. See?\u201d And he winked with a leer\nlike some intelligent reptile.\n\nWe shook hands, as he saw us into the street.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll take a cheque, I suppose?\u201d I heard Kay say just before we moved\noff.\n\n\u201cA marked cheque, yes,\u201d was the reply. The phrase meant that the bank\nmarked the cheque as good for the amount.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s all fixed then,\u201d returned Kay.\n\n\u201cAll fixed,\u201d said Bingham, and the swing-doors closed upon his\nunpleasant face as we went out into the street.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nThe influences that decided the purchase of the Hub were emotional, at\nany rate, not rational; there lay some reaction in me, as of revolt.\n\u201cYou can do things out here you could not do at home,\u201d ran like a song\nthrough the heart all day long, and life seemed to hold its arms wide\nopen. Fortunes were quickly made. Speculation was rife. Pork went up\nand wheat went down, and thousands were made or lost in a few hours.\nNo enterprise was despised, provided it succeeded. All this had its\neffect upon an impressionable and ignorant youth whose mind now touched\nso-called real life for the first time. The example of others had its\ninfluence, too. The town was sprinkled with young Englishmen, but\nuntrained Englishmen the country did not need, though it needed their\nmoney; and this money they speedily exchanged, just as I had done, for\nexperience--and then tried to find work.\n\nThe pathos of it all was, though, that for an average young Englishman\nto find a decent job was impossible. I was among the unsuccessful ones.\nKay was another, but Kay and myself were now--we thought--to prove the\nexception.\n\n\u201cWe\u2019ll show \u2019em!\u201d was the way Kay\u2019s sanguine twenty-three years phrased\nit. We both knew men of splendid education and real ability, earning\nprecarious livings in positions that would have been ludicrous if\nthey were not so pathetic. Men from Oxford and Cambridge, with first\nrate classical training, were slinging drinks behind bars, or running\nabout the country persuading the farmers to insure their stacks and\nouthouses; others with knowledge of languages and pronounced literary\ntalent were adding figures in subordinate positions in brokers\u2019\noffices. But by far the greater number were working as common labourers\nfor small farmers all over the country.\n\n\u201cThey missed their chance when it came,\u201d Kay repeated. \u201cWe won\u2019t miss\nours. A chance like the Hub won\u2019t come twice.\u201d A year of disagreeable,\nuncongenial work and then--success! Retire! Off to the primeval woods,\ncanoes, Indians, camp fires, books ... a dozen dreams flamed up.\n\nWithin a month we had completed the purchase, and the Hub opened\nwith flying colours and high hopes; the newspapers gave us what they\ncalled a \u201csend off\u201d; both \u201cHouse of Lords\u201d and \u201cHouse of Commons\u201d\nwere packed; the cash-registers clicked and rang all day, and the\nHub, swept and garnished, fairly sparkled with the atmosphere of\nsuccess, congratulations, and promise of good business. Billy Bingham\u2019s\nassociation with it was a thing of the past; it became the most\nrespectable place of its kind in the whole town.\n\nAll day long the shoal of customers flocked in and rattled their\nmoney across the busy counters. Each individual wanted a word with\nthe proprietors. Buyers and brewery agents poured in too, asking for\norders, and newspaper reporters took notes for descriptive articles\nwhich duly appeared next morning. The dining-room did a roaring trade\nand every stool at the long lunch counter had its occupant. How easy\nit all seemed! And no one the worse for liquor! Everybody was beaming,\nand, as a partner in the Hub Wine Company, I already felt that my\nfailure in the dairy farm was forgotten, an unlucky incident at most; a\nboyish episode due to inexperience, but now atoned for.\n\nLord Dufferin, a few years before, had been Governor-General of Canada,\nand a huge framed photograph of him hung above the cold meat, game\npies and salads of the lunch counter. A connexion of my father\u2019s, the\nnewspapers had insisted upon a closer relationship, and while some\nthought he would do better as a first cousin, others preferred him as\nmy uncle. As an exceedingly popular Governor-General, his place above\nthe good Canadian food seemed appropriate at any rate, and the number\nof customers, both known and unknown, who congratulated me upon our\ndistinguished framed patron, gave me the odd feeling that somehow the\nshock to my father was thereby lessened. The stories of what Dufferin\nand his wife had done for Tom, Dick and Harry, for their wives and\ntheir children or their dogs, told to me beside our House of Lords\u2019 bar\nthat opening day proved good for business. I had come to the colony\nsomewhat overburdened with distinguished relations of heavy calibre\nwho, to extend the simile a little, neither now nor later, ever fired\na single shot on my behalf. The mere inertia of their names, indeed,\nweighed down my subsequent New York days with the natural suspicion\nthat a young man so well born must have done something dreadful at\nhome to be forced to pose to artists for a living. Why, otherwise,\nshould he suffer exile in the underworld of a city across the seas?\nLord Dufferin\u2019s photograph augustly throned above the Hub luncheon\ncounter, certainly, however, fired a shot on my behalf, making\nthe cash-registers clink frequently. His effect on our bar-trade,\ninnocently uncalculated, deserves this word of gratitude.\n\nThere were three white-coated bar-tenders in the House of Lords, Jimmy\nMartin, their principal, in charge of it; a couple managed the House\nof Commons trade in the lower bar, down a step and through an arch;\nand here, too, were tables and chairs, rooms curtained off, and other\nfacilities for back-street customers who wanted to sit and talk over\ntheir beer. Between the two, a door in the wall led to my own quarters\nupstairs by means of a private staircase. Sharp on eleven we closed\nour doors that first night, and proceeded, with Jimmy Martin\u2019s aid, to\nopen the cash-registers and count up our takings. There was just under\n250 dollars, or \u00a350 in English money. Then, having said good night to\nour chief bar-tender, we spent a happy hour making calculations for the\nfuture. The first day, of course, could not be taken as an average,\nbut prospects, we assured ourselves, were brilliant. Later we were to\ndiscover things that were to prove a source of endless trouble and\nvexation of spirit to us both--daily worries we both learned to dread.\nAt the moment, however, it was in sanguine mood that I went to bed\nthat night of our opening day. The money was locked away, ready for me\nto take to the bank next morning--our first deposit. Before that I must\nbe at the market to buy provisions--six o\u2019clock--and Kay was to be in\nattendance in the bars at nine-thirty.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a go all right,\u201d were his good-night words, as he thumped down my\nprivate staircase and let himself into the street with his latch-key.\n\nLucky beggar! He hadn\u2019t got to write home and explain to evangelical\nand teetotal parents what he was doing!\n\nSome customers, I discovered, arrived early. That a man should want\nto swallow raw spirits at 9 A.M. amazed me. Some of these were men\nwe knew socially; with one of them, who arrived regularly at 9.15, I\noften dined in his cosy little bungalow beside the lake. His wife was\ncharming, I played with his children. He was a lawyer. He came for\nwhat he called an \u201ceye-opener.\u201d Another of this early brigade was a\nstockbroker, who later made a fortune speculating in wheat on margin,\nlost it again, and disappeared mysteriously across the border into the\nStates. His manner of taking his \u201ceye-opener\u201d was peculiar, puzzling me\nfor a long time. I had never seen it before. It made me laugh heartily\nthe first morning, for I thought he was doing it to amuse me--till his\ninjured expression corrected me. Producing a long silk handkerchief, he\nflung it round his neck, one end held by the hand that also held his\nbrimming glass. With the free hand he then pulled the other end very\nslowly round his collar, levering thus the shaking glass to his lips.\nUnless he used this pulley, the glass shook and rattled so violently\nagainst his teeth that its contents would be spilt before he could\nget it into his mouth. The horror of it suddenly dawned on me. I was\nappalled. The stuff that poisoned this nervous wreck was sold by myself\nand partner at 100 per cent. profit!\n\n\u201cIf he doesn\u2019t get it here,\u201d said Kay, \u201che\u2019ll go to Tim Sullivan\u2019s\nacross the way, and get bad liquor. Ours at least is pure.\u201d\n\nDuring the long twelve hours that the Hub was open either Kay or myself\nwas always on duty, talking to customers, keeping an eye (as we hoped!)\non the bar-tenders, showing ourselves with an air of authority in the\nHouse of Commons when, as usually, it became too rowdy--Kay enjoying\nthe occasional \u201cchucking out.\u201d At lunch time and from four to half-past\nsix or seven o\u2019clock, the bars were invariably crowded. The amount of\nmilkless tea we drank ought to have poisoned us both, but we never\nfell from grace in this respect, and we kept faithfully, too, to Jimmy\nMartin\u2019s advice never to \u201cput \u2019em up\u201d for others.\n\nDays were long and arduous. Though we soon closed the dining room after\nlunch, doing no supper trade, there were public dinners once or twice a\nweek for Masonic societies, football clubs and the like, and at these\none or other of the proprietors was expected to show himself. To my\ngreat relief, Kay rather enjoyed this light duty. His talent for acting\nwas often in demand too; he would don his Henry Irving wig and give the\ncompany an imitation of the great actor in \u201cThe Bells.\u201d\n\nKay was very successful at these \u201cbanquets,\u201d and sometimes a Society\nwould engage the room on the condition that he performed for them\nafter dinner. What annoyed him was that \u201cthe silly idiots always order\nchampagne!\u201d There was no profit worth mentioning in \u201cwine,\u201d as it was\ncalled. The profit was in beer and \u201cliquor.\u201d The histrionic talent,\nat any rate, was an accomplishment that proved useful later in our\ndifficult New York days, when Kay not only got a job on the stage\nhimself, but provided me with a part as well.\n\nThe shadow of that East 19th Street boarding-house was already drawing\nnearer ... and another customer of the Hub who was to share it with\nus was Louis B----, a voluble, high-strung fat little Frenchman, of\nmercurial temperament and great musical gifts. When a Hub banquet had\nseen enough of the Irving wig, and expressed a wish to hear the other\nproprietor, it was always Louis B---- who accompanied my fiddle on the\npiano. Raff\u2019s \u201cCavatina\u201d was tolerated, the \u201cBer\u00e7euse\u201d from \u201cJocelyn\u201d\nenjoyed, but the popular songs of the day, Louis extemporizing all\naccompaniments with his perfect touch, it was these that were good for\n\u201cbusiness.\u201d The fat, good-natured little man, with his bright dark\neyes and crisp curly black hair, demanded several absinthes before he\nwould play. He was a born musician. He loved, in the order mentioned,\nmusic, horses, his wife, and from the last he always had to obtain\npermission to \u201cplay at the Hub.\u201d Towards midnight he would dash to the\ntelephone and say pleadingly to his wife: \u201cThey want me to play one\nmore piece--only one. Do you mind? I shan\u2019t be long!\u201d\n\nThe Hub Wine Company, camouflaging the saloon business of two foolish\nyoung idiots, passed through its phases towards the inevitable\ncollapse. Business declined; credit grew difficult; prompt payment\nfor supplies more difficult still. We closed the Dining Room, then\nthe House of Commons. The Banquets ceased. Selling out at \u201ctop price\u201d\nbecame a dream, loss of all my capital a fact. Those were funereal\ndays. To me it was a six months\u2019 horror. The impulsive purchase\nwas paid for dearly. It was not only the declining business, the\napproaching loss of my small capital, the prospect of presently working\nfor some farmer at a dollar a day and green tea--it was not these\nthings I chiefly felt. It was, rather, the fact that I had taken a step\ndownhill, betrayed some imagined ideal in me, shown myself willing to\n\u201csell my soul\u201d for filthy lucre. The price, though not paid in lucre,\nwas certainly paid in mental anguish, and the letters from home, though\npatient, generously forgiving, even understanding, increased this\ntenfold....\n\nMy own nature, meanwhile, wholly apart from any other influence, sought\nwhat relief it could. My heart had never really been in the venture, my\nbody now kept out of it as much as possible. The loathing I had felt\nfor the place from the very beginning was quite apart from any question\nof success or failure. I hated the very atmosphere, the faces of the\nstaff, the sound of voices as I approached the swinging doors. While\nattending strictly to business, never shortening my hours on duty by\nfive minutes, and eagerly helping Kay in our efforts to get in another\npartner with money, my relief when once outside the actual building was\nimmense. We had engaged a new manager, whose popularity in the town--he\nwas a great cricketer--brought considerable fresh custom, but whose\nchief value in my eyes lay in the fact that I need not be present quite\nas much as before. Collins, who weighed twenty stone, was a character.\nKnown for some reason as \u201cthe Duke,\u201d he had no other title to nobility.\nHe helped trade for a few brief weeks, but also helped himself at the\nsame time, and his exit, not unlike that of Jimmy--who was \u201cfired\u201d for\nthe same reason--was attended by threats of a slander suit, which also,\nlike Jimmy\u2019s, was set down in the Greek kalends.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nOne effect of these long, unhappy months, anyhow, was to emphasize\nanother, and that the principal side, of my nature. The daily effort\nof forcing myself to do what I hated so intensely, was succeeded by\nthe equal and opposite reaction of enjoying tremendously my free hours\nof relaxation. When the swing-doors closed behind me, my mind closed\ntoo upon all memory of the hated Hub. It was shut out, forgotten,\nnon-existent. I flew instinctively to what comforted and made me happy.\nGorged with the reading of poetry and of idealistic, mystical books,\nan insatiable sense of wonder with a childish love of the marvellous\nadded to it, my disappointing experience of practical realities\ndemanded compensation as a safety-valve, if as nothing more. I found\nthese in Nature, music, and in the companionship of a few people I will\npresently describe. Out of those prison-like swing-doors I invariably\nwent, either with the fiddle-case in my hand, or with food in my pocket\nand a light cloak as blanket for sleeping out. Concerts and organ\nrecitals were not enough; more than to listen, I wanted to play myself;\nand Louis B---- was usually as enthusiastic as I. The music was a deep\ndelight to me, but the sleeping under the stars I enjoyed most.\n\nThose lonely little camp fires have left vivid pictures in the mind.\nAn East-bound tram soon took one beyond the city, where the shores of\nLake Ontario stretched their deserted sands for miles. There was always\nfresh water to be found for boiling tea, lots of driftwood lying about,\nand the sand made a comfortable bed. Many a night of that sweet Indian\nsummer I saw the moon rise or set over the water, and lay watching the\nstars until the sunrise came. One spot in particular was a favourite\nwith me, because, just over the high loam cliffs that lined the shore,\nthere was an enormous field of tomatoes, and while Jimmy was helping\nhimself to the Hub cash under Kay\u2019s eyes in the city, I helped myself\nto half a dozen of the farmer\u2019s ripe tomatoes. The Hub, however, of set\npurpose, formed no part of my thoughts, my reveries and dreams being of\na very different, and far more interesting, kind....\n\nA night in the woods, though distance made it more difficult, comforted\nme even more than the Lake expeditions. I kept the woods usually for\nSaturday night, when the next day left me free as well.\n\nA pine forest beyond Rosedale was my favourite haunt, for it was (in\nthose days) quite deserted and several miles from the nearest farm,\nand in the heart of it lay a secluded little lake with reedy shores\nand deep blue water. Here I lay and communed, the world of hotels,\ninsurance, even of Methodists, very far away. The hum of the city\ncould not reach me, though its glare was faintly visible in the sky.\nThere were no signs of men; no sounds of human life; not even a dog\u2019s\nbark--nothing but a sighing wind and lapping water and a sort of\nearth-murmur under the trees, and I used to think that God, whatever\nHe was, or the great spiritual forces that I believed lay behind all\nphenomena, and perhaps were the moving life of the elements themselves,\nmust be nearer to one\u2019s consciousness in places like this than among\nthe bustling of men in the towns and houses. As the material world\nfaded away among the shadows, I felt dimly the real spiritual world\nbehind shining through ... I meditated on the meaning of these dreams\ntill the veil over outer things seemed very thin; diving down into my\ninner consciousness as deeply as I could till a stream of tremendous\nyearning for the realities that lay beyond appearances poured out of\nme into the night.... The hours passed with magical swiftness, and\nmy dreaming usually ended in sleep, for I often woke in the chilly\ntime just before the dawn, lying sideways on the pine needles, and\nsaw the trees outlined sharply against the Eastern sky, and the lake\nwater still and clear, and heard the dawn-wind just beginning to sing\noverhead. The laughter of a loon would sound, the call of an owl, the\ncry of a whip-poor-will; and then--the sun was up.\n\nThought ran, on these lonely nights, to everything except to present\nor recent happenings. Life, already half over as, at twenty-one, it\nthen seemed to me, had proved a failure; my few trivial experiences\nappeared gigantic and oppressive. I felt very old. Present conditions,\nbeing unhappy and promising to become more unhappy still, I left aside.\nI had \u201caccepted\u201d them as Karma, I must go through with them, but there\nwas no need to intensify or prolong unhappiness by dwelling on them.\nI therefore dismissed them, thought wandering to other things. All\nwas coloured, shaped, directed by those Eastern teachings in which I\nwas then entirely absorbed ... and the chief problem in my mind at\nthe time, was to master the method of accepting, facing, exhausting,\nwhatever life might bring, while being, as the Bhagavad Gita described,\n\u201cindifferent to results,\u201d unaffected, that is, by the \u201cfruits of\naction.\u201d Detachment, yet without shirking, was the nearest equivalent\nphrase I could find; a state, anyhow, stronger than the Christian\n\u201cresignation,\u201d which woke contempt in me....\n\nUnhappiness, though it may seem trivial now, both as to cause\nand quality, was very deep in me at the time. It had wakened an\nunderstanding of certain things I had read--as in the stolen\n\u201cPatanjali\u201d years before--without then grasping what they meant. These\nthings I now was beginning to reach by an inner experience of them,\nrather than by an intellectual comprehension merely.... And, as thought\nran backwards, escaping the unpleasant Hub and Dairy, to earlier days\nin the Black Forest School, to the Jura Mountains village, to family\nholidays among the Alps or on the west coast of Scotland, it reached in\ndue course the year spent at Edinburgh University just before I left\nfor Canada, and so to individuals there who had strongly influenced me:\n\nI recalled Dr. H----, who used hypnotism in his practice, taught\nme various methods of using it, and often admitted me to private\nexperiments in his study. He explained many a text-book for me. He had\nurged me to give up the idea of farming in Canada, and to read for\nmedicine and become a doctor. \u201cSpecialize,\u201d he said (in 1883). \u201cBy the\ntime you are qualified Suggestion will be a recognized therapeutic\nagent, accepted by all, and accomplishing marvellous results. Become a\nmental specialist.\u201d\n\nI lay under my pine trees, wondering if it were still too late ...\nbut speculating, further and chiefly, about those other states of\nconsciousness, since called \u201csubliminal,\u201d which his experiments had\nconvinced me were of untold importance, both to the individual and to\nthe race. Any lawful method of extending the field of consciousness,\nof increasing its scope, of developing latent faculties, with its\ncorollary of greater knowledge and greater powers, excited and\ninterested me more than the immediate prospect of making a million....\n\nThis doctor\u2019s family were sincere and convinced spiritualists. He let\nthem be, paying no attention to them, yet pointing out to me privately\nthe \u201csecondary\u201d state into which his wife, as the medium, could throw\nherself at will. His son had an Amati violin; we played together; I\nwas invited to many s\u00e9ances. The power of reading a \u201csitter\u2019s\u201d mind I\noften witnessed, my own unuttered thoughts often being announced as\nthe communication from some \u201cguide\u201d or \u201cspirit friend.\u201d But for the\ndoctor\u2019s private exposition, I might doubtless have been otherwise\npersuaded and shared my hostess\u2019s convictions.\n\nSome of the \u201ccommunications\u201d came back in memory, none the less, as I\nlay beside the little lake and watched the firelight reflected with\nthe stars: \u201cThere is an Indian here; he says he comes for you. He is a\nmedicine man. He says you are one, too. You have great healing power.\nHe keeps repeating the word \u2018scratch.\u2019\u201d The dubious word meant \u201cwrite\u201d;\nI was to become a writer, a prophesy that woke no interest in me at\nall.... Another communication delved into the past: \u201cYou have been an\nIndian in a recent life, and you will go back to their country to\nwork off certain painful Karma. You were Aztec, Inca, Egyptian, and,\nbefore that again, Atlantean. With the world to-day you have nothing\nin common, for none of the souls you knew have come back with you.\nNature means more to you than human beings. Beware!\u201d The last word\nalarmed me a good deal until the doctor\u2019s humorous exposition killed\nany malefic suggestion. The horoscope his wife cast and read for me,\nhowever, he refused to be bothered with; he could not, therefore,\ncomfort me by explaining away a disturbing sentence: \u201cAll your planets\nare beneficent, but were just below the horizon at the hour of your\nbirth. This means that you will come very near to success in all you\nundertake, yet never quite achieve it.\u201d\n\nThese memories slipped in their series across my mind, as the embers\nof my fire faded and the night drew on. Swiftly they came and passed,\neach leaving its little trail of dust, its faint emotion, yet leading\nalways to a stronger ghost whose memory still bulked largely in my\nmind--the ghost of a Hindu student. He was a fourth-year man, about\nto become a qualified doctor, and I met him first in the dissecting\nroom, where occasionally I played at studying anatomy. We first became\nintimate friends over the dissection of a leg. It was he who explained\n\u201cPatanjali\u201d to me. He was a very gifted and unusual being. He showed\nme strange methods of breathing, of concentration, of meditation. He\nmade clear a thousand half-conscious dreams and memories in me. He\nwas mysterious but sincere, living his theories in practice. We went\nfor great walks along the Forth, watching the Forth Bridge then being\nbuilt; down the coast to St. Abb\u2019s Head and Coldingham; deep into the\nrecesses of the Pentlands, where, more than once, we slept in the\nopen. We made curious and interesting experiments together.... Years\nlater--he is still alive--I drew upon a fraction of his personality in\ntwo books, \u201cJohn Silence\u201d and \u201cJulius Le Vallon.\u201d...\n\nMuch that he explained and taught me, much that he believed and\npractised, came back vividly during these nightly vigils in the woods,\nwhile I listened to the weird laughter of the loons like the voices of\nwomen far away, and watched the Northern Lights flash in their strange\nmajesty from the horizon to mid-heaven. Unhappiness was making my real\nlife sink deeper. No boy, I am sure, sought for what he believed would\nprove the realities with more passionate intensity than I did. It is\ncurious now to look back upon those grave experiments first taught me\nby my Hindu friend, who assured me that the way to rob emotions of\ntheir power was to refuse to identify one\u2019s \u201cself\u201d with them, this real\n\u201cself\u201d merely looking on as a spectator, apart, detached; and that the\nouter events of life had small importance, what mattered being solely\none\u2019s inner attitude to them, one\u2019s interpretation of them....\n\nFrom these hours spent alone with Nature, as also from the hours\nof music with Louis B---- I returned, at any rate, refreshed and\ninvigorated to my loathsome bars. Personal troubles seemed less\nimportant, less oppressive; they were, after all, but brief episodes\nin a single life; as Karma, they had to be faced, gone through with;\nthey had something to teach, and I must learn the lesson, or else miss\none of the objects of my being. Watching the starry heavens through\nhours of imaginative reflection brought a bigger perspective in which\nindividual worries found reduced proportion. My thoughts introduced a\nyet vaster perspective still. The difficulty was to keep the point of\nview when the mood that encouraged it was gone. After a few hours in\nthe House of Lords perspective was apt to dwindle again....\n\nWhen the winter months made sleeping out impossible, and Louis B----\nwas not available, my precious hours of freedom would be spent with\na young agnostic doctor dying of consumption; with the Professor of\nHistory in Toronto University--a sterling, sympathetic man, a true\nChristian of intellectual type, and a big, genuine soul who never\nthought of himself in the real help he gave me unfailingly with both\nhands; or, lastly, with an enthusiast who shared my quest for what\nwe called \u201cthe Realities.\u201d With all three I had made close friends\nduring the first prosperous days of the Dairy; the Professor\u2019s family\nhad been customers for milk and eggs; the young doctor, living in my\nboarding-house, had been a pupil in my French and German class.\n\nThe third was a Scotsman, fairly well educated, about thirty years\nof age, who, while fully in sympathy with my line of thinking, had\nsucceeded in reducing his dreams to some sort of order so that they\ndid not interfere with his ordinary, practical career and yet were the\nguiding rule of his life.\n\nHe was in the cement business, and his clothes, even on Sunday, were\nalways covered with a fine white dust, for he was unmarried and lived\nalone in a single room. He made a bare living at his work, but was\nthoroughly conscientious and devoted to the interests of his employer,\nand all he asked was steady work and fair remuneration for the rest\nof his life. He was a real mystic by temperament, though he belonged\nto no particular tradition. The world for him was but a show of false\nappearances that the senses gathered; the realities behind were\nspiritual. He believed that his soul had existed for ever and would\nnever cease to exist, and that his ego would continue to expand and\ndevelop according to the life he led, and shaped by his thoughts and\nacts (but especially by his thoughts) to all eternity. This world for\nhim was a schoolroom, a place of difficult discipline and learning,\nand the lessons he was learning were determined logically and justly\nby his previous living and previous mistakes. Talents or disabilities,\nequally, were the results of former action....\n\nBut to the ordinary man he appeared simply as a rather dull everyday\nworker, without any worldly ambition, absolutely honest and\ntrustworthy, and always occupying a subordinate position in practical\naffairs.\n\nIn the \u201cold country\u201d he had belonged to some sort of society that kept\nalive traditions of teaching methods of spiritual development, and he\ntold me much concerning their theories that immense latent powers lay\nin the depths of one\u2019s being and could be educed by suitable living,\nand the period in the \u201cschoolroom of this world,\u201d as he called it,\ncould be shortened and the progress of one\u2019s real development hastened.\nIt all lay, with him, in learning how to concentrate the faculties on\nthis inner life, without neglecting the duties of the position one\nheld to family or employer, and thus reducing the life of the body and\nthe senses to the minimum that was consistent with health and ordinary\nduty. In this way he believed new forces would awaken to life, and new\nparts of one\u2019s being be stimulated into activity, and in due course one\nwould become conscious of a new spiritual region with the spiritual\nsenses adapted to it. It amounted, of course, to an expansion of\nconsciousness.\n\nAll this, naturally, interested me very much indeed, and I spent hours\ntalking with this cement maker, and many more hours reading the books\nhe lent me and thinking about them. My friend helped in this extension.\nCarl du Prel\u2019s \u201cPhilosophy of Mysticism\u201d was a book to injure no one.\n\nHe had published one or two volumes of minor poetry, and his verse,\nthough poor in form, caught all through it the elusive quality of\ngenuine mystical poetry, unearthly, touching the stars, and wakening in\nthe reader the note of yearning for the highest things. I took him with\nme several times to my little private grove, and he would recite these\nverses to me in a way that made them sound very different from my own\nreading of them. And as he lay beside the lake and I heard his reedy\nvoice mingling with the wind in the trees, and watched his watery blue\neyes shine across the smoke of our fire, I realized that the value of\nhis poems lay in the fact that they were a perfectly true expression\nof his self--of his small, mystical, unselfish and oddly elemental\nsoul searching after the God that should finally absorb him up into\nsomething greater. I do not wish to criticize him, but only to picture\nwhat I saw. His attenuated body, and long thin fingers, his shabby\nclothes covered with white dust lying by my side under the stars, his\neyes looking beyond the world, and the sound of his thin voice that\nlost half its words somewhere in the wind--the picture is complete in\nevery detail in my mind to this day. His reasoning powers were slight,\nfor like all true mystics he believed in the intuitive perception\nof truth; but, coming into my life just at this time, he came with\ninfluence and a good deal of stimulus too. From the \u201cHouse of Commons\u201d\nto his dream-laden atmosphere provided a contrast that brought relief,\nat any rate.\n\nThis mystical minor poet in the cement business had several friends\nlike himself, but no one of them possessed his value, because no one of\nthem practised their beliefs. They talked well and were sincere up to\na point, but not to the point of making sacrifices for their faith. It\nwas always with them a future hope. One, however, must be excepted--a\nwoman. She was over sixty and always dressed in black, with cr\u00eape\nscattered all over her, and a large white face, and shining eyes, and\ngreat bags under them. She had been a vegetarian for years. In spite of\nher size she looked so ethereal that a puff of wind might have blown\nher across the street. All her friends and relations had \u201cpassed over,\u201d\nand her thoughts were evidently centred in the beyond, so far as she\nherself was concerned. She had means of her own, but spent most of them\nin helping others. There was no humbug about her. She claimed to have\nwhat she called \u201ccontinuous consciousness,\u201d and at night, when her body\nlay down and the brain slept, she focused her Self in some spiritual\nregion of her being, and never lost consciousness. She saw her body\nlying there, and knew the brain was asleep, but she meanwhile became\nactive elsewhere, for she declared a spirit could never sleep, and it\nwas only the body that became too weary at the end of the day to answer\nto the spirit\u2019s requirements. In sleep the body, left empty by the\nspirit, slept, and memory, being in the brain, became inactive. But as\nsoon as one had learned to realize one\u2019s spirit, sleep involved no loss\nof consciousness and memory was continuous.\n\nHer accounts of her experiences in the night thrilled me.... While\nshe talked her face grew so white that it almost shone. It was a\nbeaming, good, loving face, and the woman was honest, even if deluded.\nShe radiated kindness and sympathy from her person. She had a way of\nscrewing up her eyes when speaking, stepping back a few paces, and then\ncoming suddenly forward again as though she meant to jump across the\nroom, her voice ringing, and her eyes opened so wide that I thought the\nbags underneath them must burst with a pop.\n\nThe young doctor living in the boarding-house also interested me,\nreviving indeed my desire to follow his own profession myself. He\nwas about twenty-six years old and very poor; the exact antithesis\nof myself, being clear-minded, practical, cynical and a thorough\nsceptic on the existence of a soul and God and immortality. He was\nwell-read and had the true scientific temperament, spending hours\nwith his microscope and books. The fact of his being at the opposite\npole to myself attracted me to him, and we had long talks in his\nconsulting-room on the ground floor back--where everything was prepared\nfor the reception of patients, but where no patient ever came. Our\nworlds were so far apart, and it was so hard to establish a mutual\ncoinage of words that our talks were somewhat futile. He was logical,\nabsorbed in his dream of original research; he used words in their\nexact meaning and jumped to no conclusions rashly, and never allowed\nhis judgment to be influenced by his emotions; whereas I talked, no\ndoubt, like a child, building vast erections upon inadequate premises,\nindulging in my religious dreams about God and the soul, speculative\nand visionary. He argued me out of my boots every time, and towards the\nend of our talks grew impatient and almost angry with my vague mind and\n\u201ctranscendental tommy-rot,\u201d as he called it; but at the same time he\nliked me, and was always glad to talk and discuss with me.\n\nNothing he said, though much of it was cogent and unanswerable, ever\ninfluenced my opinions in the least degree, because I felt he was\nfundamentally wrong, and was trying to find by scalpel and microscope\nthe things of the spirit. I felt a profound pity for him, and he felt\na contemptuous pity for me. But one night my pity almost changed to\nlove, and after this particular conversation, in the course of which he\nmade me deep confidences of his early privations in order that he might\nstudy for his profession, and of his unquenchable desire for knowledge\nfor its own sake, I felt so tenderly towards him, that I never tried to\nargue again, but only urged him to believe in a soul and in a future\nlife. For he told me that he was already so far gone in consumption\nthat at most he had but a year or two to live, and he knew that in the\ntime at his disposal he could not accomplish the very smallest part of\nhis great dream. I then understood why his eyes were so burning bright\nand why he had always glowing red spots in his cheeks, and looked so\nterribly thin and emaciated.\n\nThe hours spent with him did not refresh or invigorate me as the woods\nand music did; I re-entered the swing doors of my prison--as I came to\nregard the Hub--with no new stimulus. His example impressed me, but\nhis atmosphere and outlook both depressed. Only my admiration for his\ncourage, strong will, and consistent attitude remained, while I drank\n\u201ctea\u201d with my unpleasant customers, or listened to complaints from\nthe staff. Before the swing-doors closed for the last time, however,\nthe thin, keen-faced doctor with the hectic flush and the bright\nburning eyes had succumbed to his terrible malady. His end made a\ngreat impression on me. For several months he went about like a living\nskeleton. His cough was ghastly. He had less and less money, and I\nseemed to be the only friend he turned to, or indeed possessed at all,\nfor I was the only person he allowed to help him, and the little help\nI could give was barely enough to prevent the landlady turning him out\nfor rent and board unpaid.\n\nTo the last his will burned in him like a flame. He talked and studied,\nand dreamed his long dream of scientific achievement even when he knew\nhis time was measured by weeks, and he was utterly scornful of death\nand a Deity that could devise such a poor scheme of existence, so full\nof failure, pain, and abortive effort. But I was full of admiration\nfor the way he kept going full speed to the very end, starting new\nbooks and fresh experiments even when he knew he would not have time\nto get half-way through with them, and discussing high schemes just as\nthough he expected years in which to carry them out--instead of days.\n\nHere was a man absolutely without faith, or any belief in God or\nfuture life, who walked straight up to a miserable death under full\nsteam, with nothing to console or buoy him up, and without friends to\nsympathize, and who never for a single instant flinched or whimpered.\nThere burned in his heart the fire of a really strong will. It was\nthe first time I had realized at close quarters what this meant, and\nwhen I went to his funeral I felt full of real sorrow, and have never\nforgotten the scene at his death-bed when the keen set face relaxed\nnothing of its decision to the very last.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nAt length the bitter, sparkling winter was over, the sleigh-bells\nsilent, the covered skating-rinks all closed. The last remnants\nof the piled-up snow had melted, and the sweet spring winds were\nblowing freshly down the cedar-paved streets. On the lake shores the\nboat-houses were being opened; canoes, skiffs and cat-boats being\nrepainted. Tents and camping kit were being overhauled. The talk\neverywhere was of picnics, expeditions, trips into the backwoods, and\nplans for summer holidays. Crystal sunlight flooded the world. The\nCanadian spring intoxicated the brain and sent the blood dancing to\nwild, happy measures.\n\nThe Hub was now in the hands of a Receiver; Adams and Burns, the\nwholesale house, controlled it. Kay and I had to pay cash for\neverything--the Hub Wine Company was \u201cbust.\u201d\n\nYielding to my father\u2019s impatient surprise that after all these months\nI was still a partner, I had assigned my interest a short time before\nto Kay, and had sent home the printed announcement in the newspapers.\nIt was a nominal assignment only, for I had nothing to assign. My last\npenny of capital was lost. Kay, for his part, had lost everything too.\nVultures, in the form of bailiffs with blue writs in their claws,\nhaunted our last week; by good luck rather than good management I owed\nnothing, but Kay had small outstanding accounts all over the town.\n\nIt was a hectic last week. Our friends came in crowds to sympathize,\nto offer advice, to suggest new plans, and all considered a liquid\nfarewell necessary. This etiquette was strict. A private word with\nthe Receiver brought back our tea bottle. The Upper House did a fair\nbusiness again, while Louis B---- bursting with new schemes, new\nenterprises, that should restore our fortunes, was for ever at the\npiano in the upstairs room. We played together while our little Rome\nwas burning--Tchaikowsky, Chopin, Wagner, and the latest songs with\nchoruses. Kay donned his Irving wig from time to time and roared his\n\u201cBells\u201d and \u201cSuicide.\u201d Our last days rattled by.\n\nThe pain of the failure was mitigated for me personally by the intense\nrelief I felt to be free of the nightmare at last. Whatever might\nbe in store, nothing could be worse than that six months\u2019 horror.\nBesides, failure in Canada was never final. It held the seeds of\nsuccess to follow. From its ashes new life rose with wings and singing.\nThe electric air of spring encouraged brave hopes of a thousand\npossibilities, and while I felt the disaster overwhelmingly, our brains\nat the same time already hummed with every imaginable fresh scheme.\nWhat these schemes were it is difficult now to recall, beyond that they\nincluded all possibilities of enterprise that a vast young country\ncould suggest to penniless adventurous youth.\n\nWhat memory still holds sharply, however, is the face of a young lawyer\nof our acquaintance, as he looked at me across the fiddle and said\ncasually: \u201cYou can live on my island in Lake Rosseau if you like!\u201d\nWithout a moment\u2019s hesitation we accepted the lawyer\u2019s offer of his\nten-acre island in the northern lakes. The idea of immediate new\nenterprise faded. Kay was easily persuaded into a plan that promised a\nfew weeks\u2019 pleasant leisure to think things over, living meanwhile for\nnext to nothing. \u201cI shall go to New York later,\u201d he announced, \u201cand get\non the stage. I\u2019ll take Shakespeare up to the island and study it.\u201d\nHe packed his Irving wig. It was the camping-out which caught me with\nirresistible attraction: the big woods, an open air life, sun, wind\nand water.... \u201cI\u2019ll come up and join you later,\u201d promised the sanguine\nLouis B----. \u201cI\u2019ll come with some new plan we can talk over round your\ncamp-fire.\u201d He agreed to pack up our few belongings and keep them for\nus till we went later to New York. \u201cWe\u2019ll all go to the States,\u201d he\nurged. \u201cCanada is a one-horse place. There are far more chances across\nthe line.\u201d\n\nWe kept secret our date of leaving, only Louis knowing it. On the\nmorning of May 24th, the Queen\u2019s birthday, he came to fetch us and our\nluggage, the latter reduced to a minimum. There were no good-byes. But\nthis excitable little Frenchman, who loved a touch of the picturesque,\ndid not come quite as we expected. He arrived two hours before his\ntime, with a wagonette and two prancing horses, his fat figure on the\nbox, flicking his long whip and shouting up at our windows. His idea,\nhe explained as we climbed in, was to avoid the main station, where we\nshould be bound to see a dozen people we knew. He proposed, instead, to\ndrive us twenty miles to a small station, where the train stopped on\nits way north. There was no time to argue. I sat beside him on the box\nwith the precious fiddle, Kay got behind with our two bags, and Louis\ndrove us and his spanking pair along King Street and then up Yonge\nStreet. Scores recognized us, wondering what it meant, for these were\nthe principal streets of the town, but Louis flourished his whip, gave\nthe horses their head, and raced along the interminable Yonge Street\ntill at length the houses disappeared, and the empty reaches of the\nhinterland took their place. He saw us into the train with our luggage\nand our few dollars, waving his whip in farewell as the engine started.\nWe did not see him again till he arrived, thin, worried, anxious and\ngabbling, in the East 19th Street boarding-house the following autumn.\n\nMy Toronto episodes were over. I had been eighteen months in the\ncountry and was close upon twenty-two; my capital I had lost, but I had\ngained at least a little experience in exchange. I no longer trusted\nevery one at sight. The green paint had worn thin in patches, if not\nall over. The collapse of the Dairy made me feel old, the Hub disaster\nmade me a Methuselah. My home life seemed more and more remote, I had\nbroken with it finally, I could never return to the old country, nor\nshow my face in the family circle again. Thus I felt, at least. The\npain and unhappiness in me seemed incurably deep, and my shame was\nvery real. In my heart was a secret wish to live in the backwoods for\nevermore, a broken man, feeding on lost illusions and vanished dreams.\nThe lighthearted plans that Louis B---- and Kay so airily discussed I\ncould not understand. My heart sank each time I recognized my father\u2019s\nhandwriting on an envelope. I felt a kind of final misery that only my\nbelief in Karma mitigated.\n\nThis mood of exaggerated intensity soon passed, of course, but for\na time life was very bitter. It was hard at first to \u201caccept\u201d these\nfruits of former lives, this harvest of misfortune whose seeds I\nassuredly had sown myself long, long ago. The \u201cdetachment\u201d I was trying\nto learn, with its attitude of somehow being \u201cindifferent to the fruits\nof action,\u201d was not acquired in a day.\n\nYet it interests me now to look back down the vista of thirty years,\nand to realize that this first test of my line of thought--whether it\nwas a pretty fancy merely, or whether a real conviction--did not find\nme wanting. It was, I found, a genuine belief; neither then, nor in the\nseverer tests that followed, did it ever fail me for a single moment. I\nunderstood, similarly, how my father\u2019s faith, equally sincere though in\nsuch different guise to mine, could give him strength and comfort, no\nmatter what life might bring....\n\nAs our train went northwards through the hinterland towards Gravenhurst\nand the enchanted island where we were to spend five months of a\nfairyland existence, I grasped that a chapter of my life was closed,\nand a new one opening. The mind looked back, of course. Toronto, whose\nIndian name means Place of Meeting, I saw only once or twice again.\nI never stayed there. At the end of our happy island-life, we rushed\nthrough it on our way to fresh adventures in New York, Kay hiding his\nface in an overcoat lest some creditor catch a glimpse of him and serve\na blue writ before the train\u2019s few minutes\u2019 pause in the station ended.\nThe following winter, indeed, this happened, though in a theatre and\nnot in a railway carriage. The travelling company, of which he formed\na member, was giving its Toronto week, and a creditor in the audience\nrecognized him on the stage, though not this time in his Irving wig.\nThe blue writ was served, the bailiff standing in the wings until the\namount was paid.\n\nIn the mood of reflection a train journey engenders, a sense of\nperspective slipped behind the eighteen months just over. Shot forth\nfrom my evangelical hot-house into colonial life, it now seemed to\nme rather wonderful that my utter ignorance had not landed me in yet\nworse muddles ... even in gaol.... One incident, oddly enough, stood\nout more clearly than the rest. But for my ridiculous inexperience of\nthe common conditions of living, my complete want of _savoir faire_,\nmy unacquaintance even with the ways of normal social behaviour, I\nmight have now been in very different circumstances. A quite different\ncareer might easily have opened for me, a career in a railway, in the\nCanadian Pacific Railway, in fact, on one of whose trains we were then\ntravelling.\n\nBut for my stupid ignorance, an opening in the C.P.R. would certainly\nhave been found for me, whether it led to a future or not. The\nincident, slight and trivial though it was, throws a characteristic\nlight on the results of my upbringing. It happened in this way:\n\nAmong my father\u2019s acquaintance were the bigwigs of the Canadian Pacific\nRailway, who had shown him much courtesy on our earlier visit. The\nrelationship this time was not of a religious kind; he was Financial\nSecretary to the Post Office; the C.P.R. carried the mails. Sir\nGeorge Stephen and Sir Donald Stewart had not at that time received\ntheir peerages as My Lords Mount-Stephen and Strathcona; Sir William\nvan Horne was still alive. To all of these I bore letters, though\nI delivered--by post to Montreal--only the one to Sir George, as\nPresident of the line. It met with the kindest possible response, and\nfor several weeks I had been awaiting the return of T., an important\nofficial in Toronto, to whom my case had been explained, but who was\naway at the time, touring the west in his special car. The moment I\nreturned, I felt reasonably sure that he would find me a place of some\nsort or other where I could at least make a start. He had, in fact,\nbeen asked to do so. With influence, too, in high quarters behind me,\nI had every reason to hope. The return of Mr. T. I awaited eagerly. He\nwas a young man, I learned, of undoubted ability, but was at the same\ntime a petty fellow, very pushing, very conceited, and a social snob\nof the most flagrant type. I was rather frightened, indeed, by what I\nheard, for a colonial social snob can be a very terrible creature, as I\nhad already discovered.\n\nMr. T.\u2019s return chanced to coincide with a big race meeting, to be\nfollowed by a ball at Government House. Sir Alexander Campbell was\nGovernor of Ontario at the time. It was the event of the season, and of\ncourse Mr. T. came back in time to attend it and be in evidence. With a\nparty of friends I drove to my first race meeting (oh, how the clothes,\nthe talk, the rushing horses, all looking exactly alike, bored me!)\nwith an invitation to the grand stand box of the Governor General, Lord\nAberdeen, also a friend of my father\u2019s, and was thus introduced to the\nrailway official under the best possible auspices. My heart beat high\nwhen I saw how he took trouble to be nice to me and begged me to call\nupon him next day at his office, saying that \u201csomething could no doubt\nbe arranged for me _at once_.\u201d I was so delighted that I felt inclined\nto cable home at once \u201cGot work\u201d; but I resisted this temptation and\nsimply let my imagination play round the nature of the position I\nshould soon be holding in a very big company, with excellent chances\nof promotion and salary. I was too young to be bothered by the man\u2019s\npatronizing manner and did not care a straw about his condescension and\nself-importance, because I thought only of getting work and a start.\n\nThe ball filled me with intense shyness and alarm, however, for I had\nnever learned to dance, or been inside a ballroom, and it was merely by\nchance I found out that white gloves and a white tie (not a black one\nas I had always worn at home for dinner) were the proper things. In a\ncolony, too, an Englishman, who pretends to any standing, cannot be\ntoo careful about social details; for everything, and more besides, is\nexpected of him.\n\nThe ball was even worse than I had anticipated. I was nervous and\nuncomfortable. Ignorant of the little observances that would have been\nknown to any man brought up differently, I found nothing to say to the\nnumerous pretty Canadian girls, unconventional and natural, who were\nintroduced to me, and I had not the slightest idea that the correct and\npolite thing to do was to ask each young lady for the \u201cpleasure of a\ndance.\u201d\n\nWhat people must have thought of my manners I cannot imagine, but the\nclimax was undoubtedly reached when the railway official swaggered up\nto me in the middle of the room and said he wished to introduce me to\nhis sister. This was duly accomplished, but--I could think of nothing\nto say. We stood side by side, with the official beaming upon us, I\nfingering my empty programme and the girl waiting to be asked for a\ndance. But the request was not forthcoming, and after a few minutes\nof terrible awkwardness and half silence, the purple-faced official\nmarched his sister off again, highly insulted, to introduce her to men\nwho would appreciate their luck better than I had done.\n\nTo him, of course, my manners must have seemed hopelessly rude. He\nfelt angry that I had not thought his sister worth even the ordinary\npoliteness of a dance; and to a Canadian, who learns dancing with his\nbottle, and dances indoors and out on every possible occasion, the\nomission must have seemed incredibly ill-mannered, and the snub an\nunforgivable one. I cannot blame him. I remained in complete ignorance\nhowever of my crime, and, beyond feeling nervously foolish, out of\nplace, and generally not much of a success, I had no idea I had given\ncause for offence until, long afterwards, I heard stories about myself\nand my behaviour which made me realize that I had done unpardonable\nthings and left undone all that was best and correct.\n\nAt the time, however, I had no realization that I had offended at all;\nand in the morning I went down according to appointment to call upon\nthe railway official in his fine offices and hear the joyful news of my\nappointment to a lucrative and honourable position in the Company.\n\nIt seemed a little strange to me that I was kept waiting exactly an\nhour in the outer office, but I was so sure of a pleasant interview\nwith a practical result that when at last the clerk summoned me to the\nofficial\u2019s sanctum, I went in with a smiling face and goodwill and\nhappiness in my heart.\n\nThe general manager, as I will call him, though this title disguises\nhis actual position, greeted me, however, without a word. He was\ntalking to a man who stood beside his desk, and though he must have\nheard my name announced, he did not so much as turn his head. I stood\nlooking at the framed photographs on the wall for several moments\nbefore the man went out, and then, when the door was closed, I advanced\nwith outstretched hand and cordial manner across the room to greet my\nfuture employer.\n\nHe glanced at me frigidly, and, without even rising from his chair,\ngave me a stiff bow and said in a voice of the utmost formality:\n\n\u201cWell, sir, and what can I do for you?\u201d\n\nThe words fell into my brain like so many particles of ice, and froze\nmy tongue. Such a reception I had never dreamed of receiving. What\nhad I done wrong? How in the world had I offended? Not even a word of\napology for keeping me waiting an hour; and not even a seat offered me.\nI stood there foolishly for a moment, completely puzzled. Surely there\nmust be a mistake. The man had forgotten me, or took me for somebody\nelse.\n\n\u201cI had an appointment with you at eleven o\u2019clock, Mr. T.,\u201d I said\nnervously, but trying to smile pleasantly. \u201cYou remember you were kind\nenough to say yesterday you thought you might find work for me to do\nin--in the railway offices.\u201d\n\nThe man\u2019s eyes flashed, just as though he were angry, his face turned\nred, and I could not help suddenly noticing what a bad, weak chin he\nhad and how common and coarse the lines of his face were. The flush\nseemed to emphasize all its bad points.\n\n\u201cOh, you want work?\u201d he said with a distinct sneer, looking me up and\ndown as if I were an animal to be judged. \u201cYou want work, do you?\u201d\n\nMy nervousness began to melt away before his offensive manner, and I\nfelt the blood mounting, but trying to keep my temper and to believe\nstill there must be some mistake, I again reminded him of our previous\ninterview at the races and in the ballroom.\n\n\u201cOh, to be sure, yes, now I remember,\u201d he said casually, and turned to\ntake up pencil and paper on his desk. I looked about for a chair, but\nthere was none near, so I remained standing, feeling something like a\nsuspected man about to be examined by a magistrate.\n\n\u201cWhat can you do?\u201d he asked abruptly.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d I stammered, utterly surprised at his rudeness and manner,\n\u201cI\u2019ve not had much experience yet, of course, but I\u2019m willing to begin\nat the bottom and work up. I\u2019ll do anything for a beginning.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s what everyone says. \u2018Doing anything\u2019 is no good to me. I want\nto know what you _can_ do. All my clerks here write shorthand----\u201d\n\n\u201cI can write shorthand accurately and fast,\u201d I hastened to interrupt,\nevidently to his surprise, as though he had not expected to find me\nthus equipped.\n\n\u201cBut at present,\u201d he hastened to add, \u201cthere are no vacancies on my\nstaff, and I fear I can offer you nothing unless----\u201d he hesitated a\nmoment and then looked me full in the face. This time there could be no\nmistake. I saw blood in his eye and I realized he was savagely angry\nwith me for some reason, and was determined to make the interview as\nunpleasant for me as possible.\n\n\u201c----unless you care to sling baggage on a side station up the line,\u201d\nhe finished sneeringly.\n\nThe blood rushed to my face, and I understood in a flash that the\ninterview was a farce and his only object to humiliate me. I had so far\nswallowed my temper on the chance of getting a position, but I knew\nthat a post under such a man, who evidently hated me, would be worse\nthan nothing. So I gave him one look from head to foot and turned to\nleave the room. I could have struck him in the jaw with the greatest\npleasure in the world.\n\n\u201cThen I understand you have no vacancies,\u201d I said quietly as soon as I\ngot to the door. \u201cI will write and thank Sir George Stephen and tell\nhim about your kindness to me.\u201d\n\nI said this because it was the only thing that occurred to me to say,\nand not with the object of making him uncomfortable. I had no intention\nof putting my words into effect, I had no idea my stray shot would hit\nthe mark.\n\nYet it did. The official, purple, and dismayed, got up hastily, and\ncalled me to stay a moment and he would see if something was not\npossible. Hurried sentences followed me to the passage, but I merely\nbowed and went out, knowing perfectly well that nothing could come of\nfurther conversation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nGradually, thus, contact with ordinary people and experiences with\ncertain facets, at least, of practical life had begun to give me what\nis called a knowledge of the world. The hot-house upbringing made\nthis acquisition difficult as well as painful; there still remained a\nfeeling that I was \u201cpeculiar\u201d; ignorance of things that to other youths\nof twenty-one were commonplaces still gave me little shocks. Knowledge\nthat comes at the wrong time is apt to produce exaggerated effects; and\nonly those who have shared the childlike shelter afforded by a strict\nevangelical enclosure in early years can appreciate the absurd want\nof proportion which is one of these effects. Knowledge of \u201cnatural\u201d\nhuman kinds, withheld at the right moment, and acquired later, has its\ndangers....\n\nTwo things, moreover, about people astonished me in particular,\nI remember; they astonish me even more to-day. Being, in both\ncases, merely individual reactions, to the herd, they are easily\nunderstandable, and are mentioned here because, being entirely\npersonal, they reveal the individual whose adventures are described.\n\nThe first--it astonished me daily, hourly--was the indifference of\nalmost everybody to the great questions Whence, Why, Whither. The few\nwho asked these questions seemed cranks of one sort or another; the\nimmense majority of people showed no interest whatever. Creatures of\nextraordinary complexity, powers, faculties, set down for a given\nperiod, without being consulted apparently, upon a little planet amid\ncountless numbers of majestic, terrifying suns ... few showed even the\nfaintest interest in the purpose, origin and goal of their existence.\nOf these few, again, by far the majority were eager to prove that\nsoul and spirit were chemical reactions, results of some fortuitous\nconcourse of dead atoms, to rob life, in a word, of all its wonder.\nThese problems of paramount, if insoluble, interest, were taken as a\nmatter of course. There was, indeed, no sense of wonder.\n\nIt astonished me, doubtless, because in my own case this was the only\nkind of knowledge I desired, and desired passionately. To me it was\nthe only real knowledge, the only thing worth knowing.... And I was\never getting little shocks on discovering gradually that not only\nwas such knowledge not wanted, but that to talk of its possibility\nconstituted one a dreamer, if not a bore. How anybody in possession\nof ordinary faculties could look, say, at the night sky of stars,\nand not know the wondrous flood of divine curiosity about his own\npersonal relation to the universe drench his being--this never ceased\nto perplex me. Yet with almost everybody, the few exceptions being\nusually \u201codd,\u201d conversation rapidly flattened out as though such things\nwere of no importance, while stocks and shares, some kind of practical\n\u201cmarket-value,\u201d at any rate, quickly became again the topic of real\nvalue. Not only, however, did this puzzle me; it emphasized at this\ntime one\u2019s sense of being peculiar; it sketched a growing loneliness\nin more definite outline. No one wanted to make some money more than\nI did, but these other things--one reason, doubtless, why I never did\nmake money--came indubitably first.\n\nThe second big and daily astonishment of those awakening years, which\nalso has persisted, if not actually intensified, concerned the blank\nirresponsiveness to beauty of almost everybody I had to do with.\nExceptions, again, were either cranks or useless, unpractical people,\nfailures to a man. Many liked \u201cscenery,\u201d either perceiving it for\nthemselves, or on having it pointed out to them; but very few, as\nwith myself, knew their dominant mood of the day influenced--well,\nby a gleam of light upon the lake at dawn, a faint sound of music in\nthe pines, a sudden strip of blue on a day of storm, the great piled\ncoloured clouds at evening--\u201csuch clouds as flit, like splendour-winged\nmoths about a taper, round the red west when the sun dies in it.\u201d\nThese things had an effect of intoxication upon me, for it was the\nwonder and beauty of Nature that touched me most; something like the\ndelight of ecstasy swept over me when I read of sunrise in the Indian\nCaucasus.... \u201cThe point of one white star is quivering still, deep in\nthe orange light of widening morn beyond the purple mountains ...\u201d and\nit was a genuine astonishment to me that so few, so very few, felt the\nslightest response, or even noticed, a thousand and one details in sky\nand earth that delighted me with haunting joy for hours at a stretch.\n\nWith Kay, my late \u201cpartner in booze,\u201d as I had heard him called,\nthere was sufficient response in these two particulars to make him a\nsympathetic companion. If these things were not of dominant importance\nto him, they were at least important. Humour and courage being likewise\nhis, he proved a delightful comrade during our five months of lonely\nisland life. What his view of myself may have been is hard to say;\nluckily perhaps, Kay was not a scribbler.... He will agree, I think,\nthat we were certainly very happy in our fairyland of peace and\nloveliness amid the Muskoka Lakes of Northern Ontario.\n\nOur island, one of many in Lake Rosseau, was about ten acres in extent,\nirregularly shaped, overgrown with pines, its western end running out\nto a sharp ridge we called Sunset Point, its eastern end facing the\ndawn in a high rocky bluff. It rose in the centre to perhaps a hundred\nfeet, it had little secret bays, pools of deep water beneath the rocky\nbluff for high diving, sandy nooks, and a sheltered cove where a boat\ncould ride at anchor in all weathers. Close to the shore, but hidden\nby the pines, was a one-roomed hut with two camp-beds, a big table,\na wide balcony, and a tiny kitchen in a shack adjoining. A canoe and\nrowing-boat went with the island, a diminutive wharf as well. On the\nmainland, a mile and a half to the north, was an English settler named\nWoods who had cleared the forest some twenty-five years before, and\nturned the wilderness into a more or less productive farm. Milk, eggs\nand vegetables we obtained from time to time. To the south and east\nand west lay open water for several miles, dotted by similar islands\nwith summer camps and bungalows on them. The three big lakes--Rosseau,\nMuskoka and Joseph--form the letter Y, our island being where the three\nstrokes joined.\n\nTo me it was paradise, the nearest approach to a dream come true I had\nyet known. The climate was dry, sunny and bracing, the air clear as\ncrystal, the nights cool. In moonlight the islands seemed to float upon\nthe water, and when there was no moon the reflection of the stars had\nan effect of phosphorescence in some southern sea. Dawns and sunsets,\ntoo, were a constant delight, and before we left in late September\nwe had watched through half the night the strange spectacle of the\nNorthern Lights in all their rather awful splendour.\n\nThe day we arrived--May 24th--a Scotch mist veiled all distant views,\nthe island had a lonely and deserted air, a touch of melancholy about\nits sombre pines; and when the small steamer had deposited us with our\nluggage on the slippery wharf and vanished into the mist, I remember\nKay\u2019s disconsolate expression as he remarked gravely: \u201cWe shan\u2019t stay\n_here_ long!\u201d Our first supper deepened his conviction, for, though\nthere were lamps, we had forgotten to bring oil, and we devoured bread\nand porridge quickly before night set in. It was certainly a contrast\nto the brilliantly lit corner of the Hub dining-room where we had eaten\nour last dinner.... But the following morning at six o\u2019clock, after a\nbathe in the cool blue water, while a dazzling sun shone in a cloudless\nsky, he had already changed his mind. Our immediate past seemed hardly\ncredible now. Jimmy Martin, the \u201cDuke,\u201d the Methodist woodcuts, the\nlife insurance offices, to say nothing of the sporting goods emporium,\nred-bearded bailiffs, Alfred Cooper, and a furious half-intoxicated\nIrish cook--all faded into the atmosphere of some half-forgotten, ugly\ndream.\n\nWe at once set our house in order. We had saved a small sum in cash\nfrom the general wreck; a little went a long way; pickerel were to\nbe caught for the trouble of trolling a spoon-bait round the coast,\nand we soon discovered where the black bass hid under rocky ledges of\ncertain pools. In a few weeks, too, we had learned to manage a canoe\nto the point of upsetting it far from shore, shaking it half-empty\nwhile treading water, then climbing in again--the point where safety,\naccording to the Canadians, is attained. Even in these big lakes, it\nwas rare that the water was too rough for going out, once the craft was\nmastered; a \u201cRice Lake\u201d or \u201cPeterborough,\u201d as they were called, could\nface anything; a turn of the wrist could \u201clift\u201d them; they answered the\npaddle like a living thing; a chief secret of control being that the\nkneeling occupant should feel himself actually a part of his canoe.\nThis trifling knowledge, gained during our idle holiday, came in useful\nyears later when taking a canoe down the Danube, from its source in the\nBlack Forest, to Budapest.\n\nTime certainly never hung heavy on our hands. Before July, when the\nCanadians came up to their summer camps, we had explored every bay and\ninlet of the lakes, had camped out on many an enchanted island, and had\nmade longer expeditions of several days at a time into the great region\nof backwoods that began due north. These trips, westward to Georgian\nBay with its thousand islands, on Lake Huron, or northward beyond\nFrench River, where the primeval backwoods begin their unbroken stretch\nto James Bay and the Arctic, were a source of keen joy. Our cooking\nwas perhaps primitive, but we kept well on it. With books, a fiddle,\nexpeditions, to say nothing of laundry and commissariat work, the days\npassed rapidly. Kay was very busy, too, \u201cpreparing for the stage,\u201d as\nhe called it, and Shakespeare was always in his hand or pocket. The\neastern end of the island was reserved for these rehearsals, while\nthe Sunset Point end was my especial part, and while I was practising\nthe fiddle or deep in my Eastern books, Kay, at the other point of\nthe island, high on his rocky bluff, could be heard sometimes booming\n\u201cThe world is out of joint. Oh cursed fate that I was born to set it\nright,\u201d and I was convinced that he wore his Irving wig, no matter what\nlines he spouted. In the evenings, as we lay after supper at Sunset\nPoint, watching the colours fade and the stars appear, it was the\nexception if he did not murmur to himself \u201c... the stars came out, over\nthat summer sea,\u201d and then declaim in his great voice the whole of \u201cThe\n_Revenge_\u201d which ends \u201cI, Sir Richard Grenville, die!\u201d--his tall figure\nsilhouetted against the sunset, his voice echoing among the pines\nbehind him.\n\nConsiderations for the future were deliberately shelved; we lived\nin the present, as wise men should; New York, we knew, lay waiting\nfor us, but we agreed to let it wait. My father\u2019s suggestion--\u201cyour\nright course is to return to Toronto, find work, and live down your\npast\u201d--was a counsel of perfection I disregarded. New York, the busy,\nstrenuous, go-ahead United States, offered the irresistible lure of\na promised land, and we both meant to try our fortunes there. How\nwe should reach it, or what we should do when we did reach it, were\nproblems whose solution was postponed.\n\nOn looking back I can only marvel at the patience with which neither\ntired of the other. Perhaps it was perfect health that made squabbles\nso impossible. Nor was there any hint of monotony, strange to say. We\nhad many an escape, upsetting in wild weather, losing our way in the\ntrackless forests of the mainland, climbing or felling trees, but some\nPan-like deity looked after us.... The spirit of Shelley, of course,\nhaunted me day and night; \u201cPrometheus Unbound,\u201d pages of which I knew\nby heart, lit earth and sky, peopled the forests, turned stream and\nlake alive, and made every glade and sandy bay a floor for dancing\nsilvery feet: \u201cOh, follow, follow, through the caverns hollow; As the\nsong floats thou pursue, Where the wild bee never flew....\u201d I still\nhear Kay\u2019s heavy voice, a little out of tune, singing to my fiddle the\nmelody I made for it. And how he used to laugh! Always at himself, but\nalso at and with most other things, an infectious, jolly wholesome\nlaughter, inspired by details of our care-free island life, from his\nbeard and Shakespeare rehearsals to my own whiskers and uncut hair, my\nShelley moods and my intense Yoga experiments....\n\nMuch of the charm of our lonely life vanished when, with high summer,\nthe people came up to their camps and houses on the other islands. The\nsolitude was then disturbed by canoes, sailing-boats, steam-launches;\nsinging and shouting broke the deep silences; camp-fires in a dozen\ndirections blazed at night. Many of these people we had known well in\nToronto, but no one called on us. Sometimes we would paddle to some\ndistant camp-fire, lying on the water just outside the circle of light,\nand recognizing acquaintances, even former customers of Hub and Dairy\nand the Sporting Goods Emporium, but never letting ourselves be seen.\nEverybody knew we were living on the island; yet avoidance was mutual.\nWe were in disgrace, it seemed, and chiefly because of the Hub--not\nbecause of our conduct with regard to it, but, apparently, because we\nhad left the town suddenly without saying good-bye to all and sundry.\nThis abrupt disappearance had argued something wrong, something we\nwere ashamed of. All manner of wild tales reached us, most of them\nastonishingly remote from the truth.\n\nThis capacity for invention and imaginative detail of most ingenious\nsort, using the tiniest insignificant item of truth as starting point,\nsuggests that even the dullest people must have high artistic faculties\ntucked away somewhere in them. Many of these tales we traced to\ntheir source--usually a person the world considered devoid of fancy,\neven dull. Here, evidently, possessing genuine creative power, were\nunpublished novelists with distinct gifts of romance and fantasy who\nhad missed their real vocation. The truth about us was, indeed, far\nfrom glorious, but these wild tales made us feel almost supermen. Many\nyears later I met other instances of this power that dull, even stupid\npeople could keep carefully hidden till the right opportunity for\nproduction offers--I was credited, to name the best, with superhuman\npowers of Black Magic, whatever that may be, and of sorcery. It was\nsoon after a book of mine, \u201cJohn Silence,\u201d had appeared. A story\nreached my ears, the name of its author boldly given, to the effect\nthat, for the purposes of this Black Magic, I had stolen the vases from\nthe communion altar of St. Paul\u2019s Cathedral and used their consecrated\ncontent in some terrible orgy called the Black Mass. Young children,\ntoo, were somehow involved in this ceremony of sacrilegious sorcery,\nand I was going to be arrested. The author of this novelette was well\nknown to me, connected even by blood ties, a person I had always\nconceived to be without the faintest of imaginative gifts, though a\ncredulous reader, evidently, of the medi\u00e6val tales concerning the\nmonstrous Gilles de Rais. Absurd as it sounds, a solicitor\u2019s letter\nwas necessary finally to limit the author\u2019s prolific output, although\npirated editions continued to sell for a considerable time. There is a\npoet hidden, as Stevenson observed, in most of us!\n\nMeanwhile, summer began to wane; we considered plans for attacking\nNew York; hope rose strongly in us both; disappointments and failures\nwere forgotten. In so big a city we were certain to find work. We\nhad a hundred dollars laid aside for the journey and to tide us over\nthe first few days until employment came. We could not hide for ever\nin fairyland. Life called to us.... Late in September, just when the\nlakes were beginning to recover their first solitude again, we packed\nup to leave. Though the sun was still hot at midday, the mornings and\nevenings were chill, and cold winds had begun to blow. The famous fall\ncolouring had set fire to the woods; the sumach blazed a gorgeous red,\nthe maples were crimson and gold, half of the mainland seemed in flame.\nSorrowfully, yet with eager anticipation in our hearts, we poured water\non our camp-fire that had served us for five months without relighting,\nlocked the door of the shanty, handed over to Woods the canoe and boat,\nand caught the little steamer on one of its last trips to Gravenhurst\nwhere the train would take us, _via_ Toronto, to New York.\n\nIt had been a delightful experience; I had seen and known at last the\nprimeval woods; I had even seen Red Indians by the dozen in their\npathetic Reservations, and if they did not, like the spirit of the\nMedicine Man in Edinburgh, advise me to \u201cscratch,\u201d they certainly made\nup for the omission by constantly scratching themselves. It seems\ncurious to me now that, during those months of happy leisure, the\ndesire to write never once declared itself. It never occurred to me\nto write even a description of our picturesque way of living, much\nless to attempt an essay or a story. Nor did plans for finding work in\nNew York--we discussed them by the score--include in their wonderful\nvariety any suggestion of a pen and paper. At the age of twenty-two,\nliterary ambition did not exist at all.\n\nThe Muskoka interlude remained for me a sparkling, radiant memory,\nalight with the sunshine of unclouded skies, with the gleam of stars\nin a blue-black heaven, swept by forest winds, and set against a\nbackground of primeval forests that stretched without a break for six\nhundred miles of lonely and untrodden beauty.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nKay and I arrived in New York on a crisp, sunny afternoon with sixty\ndollars in hand out of the original hundred set by for the purpose,\nand took a room in the Imperial Hotel, Broadway, which someone had\nrecommended. We knew no one, had no letters of introduction. We were\ntanned the colour of Red Indians, in perfect physical condition, but\nwith a very scanty wardrobe.\n\nThe furious turmoil of the noisy city, boiling with irrepressible\nenergies, formed an odd contrast to the peace and stillness of the\nforests. There was indifference in both cases, but whereas there it\nwas tolerant and kindly, here it seemed intolerant and aggressive.\n\u201cGet a hustle on, or get out,\u201d was the note. Nature welcomed, while\nhuman nature resented, the intrusion of two new atoms. Nostalgia for\nthe woods swept over me vehemently, but at the same time an eager\nanticipation to get work. We studied the papers at once for rooms,\nchoosing a boarding house in East 19th Street, between Broadway and\n4th Avenue. Something in the wording caught us. An hour after our\narrival we interviewed Mrs. Bernstein and engaged the third floor\nback, breakfast included, for eight dollars a week. It was cheap. The\nslovenly, emotional, fat Jewess, with her greasy locks, jewellery, and\ntawdry finery, had something motherly about her that appealed. She\nsmiled. She did not ask for payment in advance.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s your work,\u201d she inquired, gazing up at me.\n\n\u201cOh, I\u2019m going on the newspapers,\u201d I said offhand, taking the first\nidea that offered, but little dreaming it was to prove true.\n\n\u201cI shall be on the stage,\u201d Kay promptly added, \u201cas soon as my\narrangements are made.\u201d\n\nMrs. Bernstein smiled. She knew the power of the Press and favoured\nreporters. \u201cMy hospand,\u201d she informed Kay sympathetically, \u201cis an\nartist too, a moosician. He has his own orghestra.\u201d\n\nWhile Kay studied the theatrical papers, I took the elevated railway\ndown-town. I wanted to stand on Brooklyn Bridge again. Since first\nseeing it with my father a few years before, and again on my arrival\neighteen months ago, _en route_ for Toronto, the place had held my\nimagination. Something sentimental lay in this third journey, for I\nwanted to go alone.\n\nHalfway across, at the highest point, I stood looking down upon the\ngreat waterway between the two cities of the new world, and the feeling\nof a fresh chapter in life, with its inevitable comparisons, rose in\nme.... The sun was sinking behind the hills of New Jersey, and the\ncrowded bay lay a sheet of golden shimmer. Huge, double-ended ferry\nboats, plying between the wooded shores of Staten and Manhattan Islands\nand Brooklyn, rushed to and fro with great snortings and hootings;\nlittle tugs dashed in every direction with vast importance; sailboats,\nyachts, schooners and cat-boats dotted the water like a thousand living\nthings; and threading majestically through them all steamed one or two\nimpressive Atlantic liners, immense and castle-like, towering above all\nelse, as they moved slowly out toward the open sea. The deep poetry\nwhich ever frames the most prosaic things, lending them their real\nsignificance, came over me with the wind from that open sea.\n\nI stood watching the fading lights beyond the bay, while behind me the\ncrowded trains, at the rate of one a minute, passed thundering across\nthe bridge, and thousands upon thousands of tired workers thronged to\ntheir Brooklyn homes after their day in the bigger city. The great\nbridge swayed and throbbed as the dense masses of pedestrians climbed\nuphill to the centre, then swarmed in a thick black river down the\nnether slope. I had never seen such numbers, or such speed of nervous\nmovement, and the eager, tense faces, usually strained, white, drawn\nas well, touched an unpleasant note. New York, I felt, was not to be\ntrifled with; the human element was strenuously keen; no loafing\nor dreaming here; work to the last ounce, or the city would make\ncat\u2019s meat of one! Whereupon, by contrast, stole back again the deep\nenchantment of the silent woods, and the longing for the great, still\nplaces rose; I saw our little island floating beneath glittering stars;\na loon was laughing farther out; the Northern Lights went flashing\nto mid-heaven; there was a sound of wind among the pines. The huge\nstructure that reared above me seemed unreal; the river of men and\nwomen slipped past like silent shadows; the trains and boats became\nremote and hushed; and the ugly outer world about me merged in the\nsubstance of a dream and was forgotten....\n\nI turned and looked out over New York. I saw its lofty spires, its\nmassed buildings, gigantic in the sky; I saw the opening of the great\nHudson River, and the darkening water of the bay; I heard, like a\nsinister multiple voice out of the future, the strident cry of this\nwonderful and terrible capital of the New World, and the deep pulsings\nof its engines of frantic haste and untiring energy. The general\nnote, I remember, was alarming rather; a touch of loneliness, of my\nown stupid incompetence to deal with its aggressive spirit, in which\ngleamed something merciless, almost cruel--this was the response it\nstirred in me. I suddenly realized I had no trade, no talents to sell,\nno weapons with which to fight. My heart sank a little. Among these\nteeming millions, with their tearing speed, their frenzied energy,\ntheir appalling practical knowledge, I possessed but one friend, Kay,\nand some sixty dollars between us. New York would eat me up unless I\n\u201cgot a hustle on.\u201d\n\nNext morning, our capital much reduced, we moved into the lodging\nhouse. The idea of sharing a bed, in view of our size and the\nnarrowness of the bed, amused us, but without enthusiasm. The sofa was\ntoo small to sleep on. \u201cWe\u2019ll move,\u201d announced Kay, \u201cas soon as we get\njobs.\u201d A telegram was sent to Toronto giving our address, and a few\ndays later a packing case arrived with our Toronto possessions, and\nten dollars to pay out of our small total. We found close at hand, in\n20th Street, a cheap clean German restaurant--Krisch\u2019s--where a meal of\nsorts could be had for 30 cents, tip 5 cents; it had a sanded floor and\nwas half _bier-stube_, and one of its smiling waiters, Otto--he came\nfrom the Black Forest where I had been to school--proved a true friend\nlater, allowing us occasional credit at his own risk; a Chinese laundry\nwas looked up in Fourth Avenue; I spent one of our precious dollars in\na small store of fiddle strings against a possible evil day--a string\nmeant more to me than a steak--and we were then ready for our campaign.\n\nNot a minute was lost. Kay, in very sanguine mood, the Irving wig, I\nshrewdly suspected, in his pocket, went out to interview managers;\nwhile I took a train down-town to interview Harper\u2019s, as being the\nmost important publishing house I knew. This step was the result of\nmany discussions with Kay, who said he was sure I could write. The Red\nIndian advice of the Edinburgh \u201cspirit\u201d had impressed him. \u201cThat\u2019s\nyour line,\u201d he assured me. \u201cTry the magazines.\u201d I felt no similar\nassurance, no desire to write was in me; we had worked ourselves up to\na conviction that bold, immediate action was the first essential of\nour position; to get pupils for my two languages or shorthand seemed\nimpossible in a city like New York; therefore I hurried down, with\nvague intentions but a high heart, to Harper\u2019s.\n\nThere was the _Magazine_, the _Weekly_, and _Harper\u2019s Young People_.\nOne of them surely would listen to my tale. I chose the _Weekly_ for\nsome unknown reason. For some equally unknown reason I was admitted to\nthe editor\u2019s sanctum, and, still more strange, Richard Harding Davis\nlistened to my tale. His success as a novelist had just begun; he had\nleft the _Evening Sun_, where his \u201cVan Bibber\u201d stories had made him\nfirst known; his popularity was rising fast, though I had never heard\nof him.\n\nMy tale was brief, having been rehearsed in the train. It took,\nperhaps, three minutes at most to rattle it off--my parentage, my farm\nand hotel, my interest in Eastern Thought, my present destitution, and\nI remember adding, \u201cYou see, I cannot possibly go home to England\nagain until I have made good somehow.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you written anything?\u201d he asked, after listening patiently with\nraised eyebrows.\n\n\u201cWell--no, I haven\u2019t, not yet, I\u2019m afraid.\u201d I explained that I wanted\nto begin, though what I really wanted was only paid employment.\n\nThe author of \u201cVan Bibber\u201d and \u201cA Soldier of Fortune\u201d looked me up and\ndown and then chuckled. After a moment\u2019s silence, he got up, led me\nacross the hall to another door, opened it without knocking and said to\na man who was seated at a table smothered in papers:\n\n\u201cThis is Mr. Blackwood, an Englishman, who wants to write something for\nyou. He is prepared to write anything--from Eastern philosophy to \u2018How\nto run a hotel in Canada.\u2019\u201d\n\nThe door closed behind me, with no word of farewell, and I learned\nthat the man facing me was the editor of _Harper\u2019s Young People_. His\nname, if I remember rightly, was Storey, and he was an Englishman,\nwho, curiously enough, almost at once mentioned my father. He had been\nan employ\u00e9 of the G.P.O. in London. He was unpleasant, supercilious,\npatronizing and off-hand, proud of his editorial power. He gave me,\nhowever, my first assignment--to write a short, descriptive article\nabout a cargo of wild animals that had just arrived for the New York\n\u201cZoo.\u201d I hurried off to the steamer, bought some paper, wrote the\narticle in a pew of Trinity Church in Lower Broadway, and returned\nthree hours later to submit it. Storey read it and said without\nenthusiasm it would do, but when I asked \u201cIs it good?\u201d he shook his\nhead with the comment \u201cWell--some men would have made more of it\nperhaps.\u201d It was printed, however, and in due course I got ten dollars\nfor it. I inquired if I could do something else. He took my address.\nNo further results followed. Evidently, I realized, writing was not my\nline, and both Kay and the Red Indian Medicine Man were mistaken.\n\nKay\u2019s report of his luck, when we met again that evening was meagre;\nhe had met an English Shakespearean actor, Bob Mantell, and a Toronto\nacquaintance, the \u201cDuke.\u201d The actor, however, had given him an\nintroduction or two, and the Duke had asked us to play next day in a\ncricket match on Staten Island. It was an eleven of Actors _v._ the\nStaten Island Club, and Kay would meet useful people. In sanguine mood\nwe agreed to go. It proved a momentous match for me.\n\nBefore it came off, however, something else had happened that may seem\nvery small beer, but that provided me with a recurrent horror for many\nmonths to come, a horror perhaps disproportionate to its cause. It\nfilled me, at any rate, with a peculiar loathing as of some hideous\nnightmare. I had never seen the things before; their shape, their\nungainly yet rapid movement, their uncanny power of disappearing in a\nsecond, their number, their dirty colour, above all their smell, now\ngave me the sensations of acute nausea. Kay\u2019s laughter, though he too\nfelt disgust and indignation, brought no comfort. We eventually got\nup and lit the gas. We caught it. I had my first view of the beast.\nWe stared at each other in horror. Then Kay sniffed the air. \u201cThat\nexplains it,\u201d he said, referring to a faint odour of oil we had both\nnoticed when engaging the room. \u201cThey put it in the woodwork to kill\nthem,\u201d he added. \u201cIt\u2019s the only thing. But it never really gets rid of\nthem, I\u2019m afraid.\u201d\n\nThe anger of Mrs. Bernstein when we accused her in the morning, her\nindignant denials, her bluster about \u201cinsoults,\u201d and that \u201cnever had\nsooch a t\u2019ing been said of her house pefore,\u201d were not half as comic as\nher expression when I suddenly produced the soap-dish with its damning\nevidence--17 all told.\n\nShe stared, held her breath a second, then very quietly said \u201cAch, Ach!\nIf you stay, chentelmen, I take von tollar off the price.\u201d\n\nIt was impossible not to laugh with her; there was something kind\nand motherly, something good and honest and decent about her we both\nliked; she would do her best, we believed; possibly she really would\nexterminate the other tenants. We stayed on.\n\nOf the cricket match on Staten Island, beyond the pretty ground with\nits big trees, and that we got a good lunch without paying for it,\nno memory remains. What stands out vividly is the tall figure of\nArthur Glyn Boyde, a fast bowler and a good bat, and one of the most\nentertaining and sympathetic companions I had ever met. His clothes\nwere shabby, but his graceful manners, his voice, his smile, everything\nabout him, in fact, betrayed the English gentleman. He was about thirty\nyears of age, of the most frank and engaging appearance, with kindly,\nhonest blue eyes, in one of which he wore an eyeglass. I remember the\nlittle fact that he, Kay and myself were measured for a bet after the\nmatch, and that he, like Kay, was six feet two inches, being one inch\nshorter than myself.\n\nI took to him at once, and he to me. His real name was a distinguished\none which he shared, it turned out, with some cousins of my own. We\nwere, therefore, related. The bond was deepened. Times had gone hard\nwith him, it seemed, but at the moment he was on the stage, being\nunderstudy to Morton Selton as Merivale in \u201cCaptain Lettarblair,\u201d which\nE. H. Sothern\u2019s company was then playing. In \u201cThe Disreputable Mr.\nReagen,\u201d by, I think, Richard Harding Davis he had also played the r\u00f4le\nof the detective. He was waiting, however, for a much better post, as\nhuntsman to the Rockaway Hunt, a Long Island fashionable club, and this\npost, oddly enough, was in the gift, he told me, of Davis. It had been\npractically promised to him, he might hear any day.... The story of his\nmany jobs and wanderings interested us, and his theatre work promised\nto be helpful in many ways to what was called my \u201croom-mate.\u201d Boyde\u2019s\nexperience of New York generally was invaluable to us both, and the\nfact that he had nowhere to sleep that night (having been turned out\nby his landlady) gave us the opportunity to invite him to our humble\nquarters. We mentioned the other tenants, but he said that made no\ndifference, he would sleep on the sofa. He dined with us at Krisch\u2019s;\nhe was extremely hard up; luckily, we still had enough to invite a\nfriend. His only luggage was a small bag, for he told us, with a rueful\nsmile, that his clothes were all in pawn. I had an extra suit or two\nwhich, being of about my size, he was able to wear.\n\nI felt immensely drawn to him, and his story touched my pity as well\nas stirred my admiration. It was a happy evening we all spent in the\nlittle bedroom, for he was not only well-read--he knew my various\n\u201cEastern books\u201d and could talk about them interestingly--but had a\nfine tenor voice into the bargain. My fiddle came out of its case, and\nif the other lodgers disliked our duets, they did not, at any rate,\ncomplain. Boyde sang, he further told us, in the choir of the 2nd\nAvenue Baptist Church, and was assistant organist there as well, but\nmade little out of this latter job, as he was only called upon when the\nother man was unable to attend. He even taught sometimes in the Sunday\nSchool--\u201cto keep in the pastor\u2019s good books,\u201d as he explained with a\nlaugh. But the chief thing he told us that night was the heartening\ninformation that, when all other chances failed, there was always a\nfair living to be earned by posing to artists at 50 cents an hour, or a\ndollar and a half for a full sitting of three hours. It was easy work\nand not difficult to get. He would gladly introduce us to the various\nstudios, as soon as they opened, most of the artists being still in the\ncountry.\n\nThe search for work was a distressing business, when to the inevitable\nquestion \u201cWhat can you do?\u201d the only possible, but quite futile, reply\nwas, \u201cI\u2019ll do anything.\u201d I had collected the ten dollars from _Harper\u2019s\nYoung People_, but a letter to Storey for more work brought no reply.\nThe payment for the Toronto packing-case and for a week\u2019s rent of the\nrooms had reduced the exchequer so seriously that in a few days there\nwas only the _Harper\u2019s_ money in hand. Boyde, who stayed on at our\nurgent invitation, shared all he earned, and taught us, besides, the\ntrick of using the free lunch-counters in hotels and saloons. For a\nglass of beer at five cents, a customer could eat such snacks as salted\nchip-potatoes, strips of spiced liver sausage, small squares of bread,\nand pungent almonds, all calculated to stimulate unnatural thirst. The\nhotels provided more sumptuous dishes, though the price of drink was\nhigher, and the calm way Boyde would help himself deliberately to a\nplate and fork, with an ample supply of the best food he could find,\nthen carry it all back to his glass of lager under the bar-tender\u2019s\nvery nose, was an ideal we could only hope to achieve by practice as\nlong as his own. It was a question of nerve. Our midday meal was now\ninvariably of this kind. The free lunch brigade, to which we belonged,\nwas tolerantly treated by the majority of bar-tenders. A thirty cents\ndinner at Krisch\u2019s in the evening, choosing the most bulky dishes,\nended the long tiring day of disappointing search. Boyde also made us\nbuy oatmeal, with tin pot and fixture for cooking over the gas-jet. He\nwas invaluable in a dozen ways, always cheery, already on the right\nside of Mrs. Bernstein, and turning up every evening with a dollar or\ntwo he had earned during the day.\n\nHe further taught us--the moment had come, he thought--to pawn. The\npacking-case in the basement was opened and rummaged through (a\nhalf-used cheque-book from Toronto days was a pathetic relic!) for\nthings on which Ikey of 3rd Avenue might offer a few dollars. The\ntennis cups, won at little Canadian tournaments, seemed attractive, he\nthought, but our English overcoats would fetch most money. The weather\nwas still comfortable ... we sallied forth, hoping Mrs. Bernstein would\nnot see us, carrying two tennis cups and a couple of good overcoats.\nEverybody stared and grinned, it seemed, though actually of course,\nno one gave us a glance. Boyde, humming Lohengrin, was absolutely\nnonchalant. For me, the pawnbroker\u2019s door provided sensations similar\nto those I knew when first entering the Hub just a year before.\n\n\u201cI want ten dollars on these,\u201d said Boyde, in a firm voice. \u201cWhat\u2019ll\nyou give? I shall take \u2019em out next week.\u201d\n\nThe Jew behind the counter gave one glance at the tennis cups, then\npushed them contemptuously aside; the overcoats he examined carefully,\nholding them up to the light for holes or threadbare patches, feeling\nthe linings, turning the sleeves inside out.\n\n\u201cGood English cloth,\u201d mentioned Boyde. \u201cHardly used at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cA dollar each,\u201d said the man, laying them down as though the deal was\nfinished. He turned to make out the tickets. He had not looked at us\nonce yet.\n\nBoyde picked them up and turned to go. \u201cTwo dollars,\u201d he said flatly,\n\u201cI can get five in 4th Avenue.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo ged it,\u201d was the reply, the man\u2019s back still turned on us.\n\nBoyde gave a cheery laugh. \u201cMake it three dollars for the two,\u201d he\nsuggested in an off-hand manner, \u201cwith another couple for the cups.\nThey\u2019re prizes. We wouldn\u2019t lose them for worlds.\u201d\n\nThe man looked at us for the first time; we were fairly well dressed,\nobviously English, three hulking customers of a type he was not used\nto. Perhaps he really believed we might redeem the cups one day. \u201cWorth\nless than nozzing,\u201d he said in his Yiddish accent. The keen, appraising\nlook he gave us made me feel even less than that.\n\n\u201cWorth a lot to us, though,\u201d came Boyde\u2019s quick comment.\n\n\u201cName?\u201d queried the man, bending over a table with his back turned\nagain.\n\n\u201cJohn Doe,\u201d came promptly, and a moment later, with the ticket, the\nJew handed out four dirty dollar bills and fifty cents in coin. The\ninterest was twelve per cent. per month, and the articles could be\nredeemed any time up to the end of a year.\n\n\u201cNever ask more than you really need at the moment,\u201d was Boyde\u2019s advice\nas we came out into the street. \u201cI could have raised him a few dollars\nprobably, but, remember, you\u2019ll have to get the coats out again before\nlong.\u201d\n\nWhen we got back to the room a Western Union telegram lay on the table\nfor him; it was from Davis: \u201cPlease call to-morrow 3 o\u2019clock without\nfail _re_ Rockaway,\u201d it read. And hope ran high. That night we spent\nhalf of our new money at Krisch\u2019s, giving a tip of thirty cents to\nOtto....\n\nSome ten days to a fortnight had passed, and October with its cooler\nwinds had come, though life was still possible without overcoats. Our\ndress-clothes were now in Ikey\u2019s, moth-balls beside them. The Chinese\nlaundry had been paid, but not the second week\u2019s rent, for money was\nvery low and dinners of the smallest. Practice at the free lunch\ncounters had improved our methods of strolling up absent-mindedly,\nperceiving the food apparently for the first time, then picking up with\nquick fingers the maximum quantity. Kay, meanwhile, had secured a part\nin a touring company which was to start out for a series of one-night\nstands in about three weeks, his salary of fifteen dollars to begin\nwith the first night. He was already rehearsing. My own efforts had\nproduced nothing. Boyde, too, had not yet landed his huntsman job,\nwhich was to include comfortable quarters as well as a good salary. I\nhad been down with him when he went to see Davis, waiting in the street\ntill he came out, and the interview, though reassuring, he told me,\ninvolved a little further delay still. He, therefore, continued his odd\njobs, calling at the theatre every night and matin\u00e9e to see if he was\nwanted, playing the organ in church occasionally, and getting a small\nfee for singing in the choir. He shared with us as we shared with him;\nhe slept on the sofa in our room; he was welcome to wear my extra suits\nof clothes--until Ikey might care to see them.\n\nThen, quite suddenly, fate played a luckier card.\n\nKay and I were at the free lunch counter of the Fifth Avenue Hotel,\nBoyde having been called away to do something at his Baptist church,\nwhen Bob Mantell strolled up, bringing a tall, grey-haired man with\nhim. The next minute he was introducing me to Cecil Clay, with a\nremark to the effect that he must surely have known my father, and\nthat I surely must know Mr. Clay\u2019s famous book on whist. Cecil Clay,\nanyhow, was a kindly old Englishman, and evidently was aware how the\nland lay with us, for a few minutes later he had given me a card to\nLaffan, manager of the _New York Sun_. \u201cGo and see him the day after\nto-morrow,\u201d he said. \u201cMeanwhile I\u2019ll write him a line about you.\u201d\n\nHad it been possible to go then and there I should have felt more\nconfidence and less nervousness than when I called at the appointed\nhour. The interval, with its hopeful anticipation and alternate dread,\nwas a bad preparation for appearing at my best. After a few questions,\nhowever, Mr. Laffan, a man of very powerful position in the newspaper\nworld, a great art collector and connoisseur, head, too, of the Laffan\nNews Bureau, said that Mr. McCloy, managing editor of the _Evening\nSun_, would give me a trial as a reporter, and I could start next\nMonday--four days away--at fifteen dollars a week. I had mentioned that\nI knew French and German, and could write shorthand. He spoke to me in\nboth languages, but, luckily, he did not think of testing the speed and\naccuracy of my self-taught Pitman.\n\nOn the staff of a great New York newspaper! That it was anti-British\nand pro-Tammany did not bother me. A reporter! A starting salary of\n\u00a33 a week that might grow! I wrote the news to my father that very\nafternoon, and that night Kay, Boyde and I had almost a festive dinner\nat Krisch\u2019s restaurant--that is, we ended with sweets and coffee. The\nfollowing day I spent practising my rusty shorthand, about 90 words\na minute being my best speed consistent with legibility. Would it\nbe fast enough? I might have spared myself the trouble for all the\nuse shorthand was to me on the _Evening Sun_ during the two years I\nremained with it. Only once--much later, when I was with the _New\nYork Times_, did it prove of value, securing for me on that occasion\nan increase of salary.... The slogan of the _Sun_, printed on each\ncopy was, \u201cIf you See it in the _Sun_ it is so!\u201d accuracy the strong\npoint. The _Times_ preferred a moral tinge: \u201cAll the News that\u2019s Fit to\nPrint.\u201d Both mottoes were faithfully observed and rigidly practised.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nIf any young man learning values wants to know the quickest way to\nstudy the seamy side of life, to understand the darkest aspects of\nhuman nature, and incidentally, to risk the loss of every illusion\nhe ever had, let him become a reporter on an up-to-date New York\nnewspaper. Within six months he will be apt to believe that every man\nhas his price; he will become acquainted with vice, crime, horror,\nterror, and every kind of human degradation; theft, murder, arson will\nseem commonplaces, forgery a very ordinary affair; men and women,\nit may even seem to him, \u201cgo straight,\u201d not because of any inherent\nprinciple of goodness in them, but because that degree of temptation\nwhich constitutes their particular \u201cprice\u201d has not yet offered itself.\n\nPassion of every type, abnormal, often incredible, will be his daily\nstudy; if he reflects a little he will probably reach the conclusion\nthat either jealousy in some form, or greed for money, lie at the\nroot of every crime that is ever committed. The overwhelming power of\nthese two passions will startle him, at any rate, and his constant\nassociation with only one aspect of life, and that the worst and\nlowest, will probably produce the conviction that, given only the\nopportunity, everybody is bad. His conception of women may suffer in\nparticular. The experience, contrariwise, may widen his tolerance and\ndeepen his charity; also, it may leave him as it left me, with an\nineradicable contempt for those who, born in ease, protected from the\ntemptations due to poverty and misery, so carelessly condemn the weak,\nthe criminal and the outcast.\n\nWith bigger experience may come, in time, a better view; equally, it\nmay never come. Proportion is not so easily recovered, for the mind,\nat an impressionable age, has been deeply marked. The good, the\nbeautiful, the lovely, in a New York paper, is very rarely \u201cnews\u201d; it\nis considered as fake, bunkum, humbug, a pose; it is looked at askance,\nregarded with suspicion, as assumed by someone for the purpose of a\n\u201cdeal\u201d; it is rarely worth its space, at any rate. A reporter finds\nhimself in a cynical school; he is lucky if he escape in the end with a\nsingle rag of illusion to his back. If he has believed, up to the age\nof twenty-one, as I did, that the large majority of people are decent,\nkindly, honest folk, he will probably lose even that last single rag.\nOn the _Evening Sun_, certainly, it was not the good, the beautiful,\nthe clean, that constituted the most interesting news and got scare\nheadlines and extra editions. I give, of course, merely the impression\nmade upon my own mind and type, coloured as these were, some thirty\nyears ago, by a characteristically ignorant and innocent upbringing....\n\nThe important newspapers, in those days, were all \u201cdown town,\u201d grouped\nabout Park Row, and the shabby, tumble-down building of the _Sun_\nwas not imposing. The World and Times towered above it; the _Morning\nAdvertiser_, the _Evening Telegram_, even the _Recorder_ were better\nhoused; the _Journal_ had not yet brought W. R. Hearst\u2019s methods from\nSan Francisco. For all its humble offices, the _Sun_ was, perhaps, the\ngreatest power in the city. It was openly Tammany; it had a grand,\ncourageous editor, Charles A. Dana. \u201cCharles A.\u201d was an imposing\nfigure, a man of immense ability, a \u201ccrank\u201d perhaps in certain ways,\nbut a respected chief of outstanding character and fearless policy....\nMy own chief, however, was W. C. McCloy, and the offices where he\nreigned as managing editor were housed on the top floor of the rickety\nbuilding, with the machinery making such a din and roar and clatter\nthat we had to shout to make ourselves heard at all. Metal sheets\nthat clanged and pinged as we walked on them covered the floors. It\nwas amid this pandemonium I had my first interview with him. An iron\nspiral staircase led from the quiet workrooms of the _Morning Sun_, on\nthe first floor, to the dark, low-ceilinged space, where the whirring\nprinting presses were not even partitioned off from the tables of\neditorial departments or reporters. It was like a factory going at full\nspeed. Hours were 8.30 A.M. to 6.30 P.M., or later if an extra--a 6th\nor 7th--edition was called for. I arrived at 8.15.\n\nIn a dark corner of this machinery shop I introduced myself with\ntrepidation to McCloy, mentioning Mr. Laffan\u2019s name, and saw the blank\nlook come and go, as he stared at me with \u201cBlackwood, Blackwood?...\nOh, yes, I remember! You\u2019re fifteen dollars a week. A Britisher from\nCanada.... Well, you\u2019ll have to look lively here!\u201d He seemed so\nintensely busy and preoccupied, his mind so charged with a sort of\nelectric activity, that I wondered he had time to open and shut his\nmouth. A small, thin man, with the slightest of frail bodies, nervous,\ndelicately shaped hands, gimlet eyes that pierced, a big head with\nprotruding forehead, a high-pitched, twanging voice that penetrated\neasily above the roar of the machinery, and a general air of such\nlightning speed and such popping, spitting energy that I felt he might\nany moment flash into flame or burst with a cracking report into a\nthousand pieces--this was the man on whom my living depended for many\nmonths to come. The phrase \u201cNew York hustler,\u201d darted across my mind;\nit stood in the flesh before me; he lived on wires. Buried among this\nmechanic perfection, however, I caught, odd to relate, an incongruous\ntouch--of kindness, even of tenderness. There were gentle lines in that\nelectric face. He had a smile I liked.\n\n\u201cWhat are you out here for? Where have you come from? What have\nyou been doing? What d\u2019you know?\u201d he asked with the rapidity of a\nmachine-gun. The shorthand rate must have been 400 words per minute.\n\nI never talked so quickly in my life as in my brief reply. I watched\nthe smile come and go. While he listened, he was shouting instructions\nto reporters then streaming in, to office boys, to printers, to\nsub-editors; but his eyes never left my face, and when I had finished\nmy lightning sketch, the machine-gun crackled with its deadliest aim\nagain: \u201cOnly _one_ thing counts here; get the news and get it _quick_;\nmethod of no consequence. Get the news and get it _first_!\u201d He darted\noff, for the first edition went to press at 10.30. As he went, however,\nhe turned his head a moment. \u201cWrite a story,\u201d he backfired at me.\n\u201cWrite your experiences--From Methodism to Running a Saloon,\u201d--and he\nvanished amid the whirling machinery in the back of the great room.\n\nI have the pleasantest recollections of W. C. McCloy; he was just,\nfair, sympathetic, too, when time permitted; he showed me many\nlittle kindnesses; he was Presbyterian, his parents Scotch; he was\nalso--sober. I proved a poor reporter, and my salary remained at\nfifteen dollars all the time I was with the paper, yet once he kept\na place open for me for many weeks; he even took me back when the\nconsideration was hardly deserved.\n\nThat first day, however, I spent on tenterhooks, fully expecting to be\n\u201cfired\u201d at its end. I found a corner at the big reporters\u2019 table, and,\nhaving seized some \u201ccopy\u201d paper from the general pile, I sat down to\nwrite \u201cFrom Methodism to Running a Saloon,\u201d without the faintest idea\nof how to do it. A dozen reporters sat scribbling near me, but no one\npaid me the smallest attention. They came and went; at another table\nCooper, the City Editor (anglice news-editor) issued the assignments;\nthe editorial writers arrived and sat at their little desks apart; the\nroar and pandemonium were indescribable; the first edition was going\nto press, with McCloy in a dozen places at once, but chiefly watching\nthe make-up over the shoulders of the type-setters in the back of the\nroom.... I wrote on and on; I believed it was rather good; no one came\nto stop me, no one looked at my \u201ccopy\u201d or told me what length was\nwanted; once or twice, McCloy, flashing by, caught my eye, but with\na glance that suggested he didn\u2019t know who I was, why I was there at\nall, or what I was writing.... The hours passed; the first edition\nwas already out; the reporters were reading hurriedly their own work\nin print, delighted if it was on the front page; the space-men were\nmeasuring the columns to see how much they had earned; and the make-up\nfor the second edition, out at noon, was being hastened on behind the\nbuzzing machinery in the rear.\n\nBy this time I must have written two columns at least, and I began to\nwonder. Perhaps I was to appear in the principal final edition at six\no\u2019clock! On the front page! The article, evidently, was considered\nimportant! The notion that I was making a fool of myself, being made\na fool of, rather, also occurred to me. I wrote on and on ... it was\nhunger finally that stopped me. I was famished. I turned to an albino\nreporter next me, a mere boy, whose peculiarity had earned him the\nnickname \u201cWhitey.\u201d Was I allowed to go out for lunch? \u201cJust tell Cooper\nyou\u2019re going,\u201d he replied. \u201cCome out with me,\u201d he added, \u201cif you\u2019ve\nfinished your story. I\u2019m going in a moment.\u201d I finished my \u201cstory\u201d\nthen and there, putting the circle with three dots in it which, he\nexplained, meant _finis_ to the printers. \u201cJust hand it in to Cooper,\nand we\u2019ll get right out,\u201d he said. I obeyed, Cooper taking my pile of\n\u201ccopy\u201d with a grin, and merely nodding his head when I mentioned lunch.\nHe was a young man with thick curly black hair, big spectacles that\nmagnified his good-natured eyes, only slightly less rapid and electric\nthan McCloy, but yet so unsure of himself that the reporters soon found\nhim out--and treated him accordingly. I saw my precious \u201ccopy\u201d shoved\nto one side of his desk, but I never saw it again, either in print\nor elsewhere. No mention was ever made of it. It was, doubtless, two\ncolumns of the dullest rubbish ever scribbled in that office.\n\n\u201cI guess Mac only wanted to see what you could do,\u201d explained the\nalbino, as we swallowed \u201csinkers\u201d (heavy dough scones) and gulped down\ncoffee at Childs\u2019 Cheap Lunch Counter round the corner. Whitey had\ninvited me to lunch; he \u201cput me wise\u201d about a thousand things; showed\nme how to make a bit on my weekly expense-account, if I wanted to;\nhow one could \u201csneak off\u201d about five o\u2019clock, if one knew the way;\nand, most useful of all, warned me as to accuracy in my facts and\nthe right way to present them. A \u201cstory\u201d whether it was the weather\nstory or a murder story, should give in a brief first paragraph the\nessential facts--this satisfied the busy man who had no time to read\nmore; the second paragraph should amplify these facts--for those who\nwanted to know more; afterwards--for those interested personally in the\nstory--should come \u201cany stuff you can pick up.\u201d An item that seemed\nexclusive--a \u201cscoop\u201d or \u201cbeat\u201d he called it--should come in the very\nbeginning, so as to justify the headlines.\n\n\u201cWhitey\u201d was always a good friend to me. \u201cMake friends with the\nreporters on other papers,\u201d he advised, \u201cthen you won\u2019t get badly left\non the story you\u2019re all \u2018covering.\u2019 Most of \u2019em give up all right.\u201d He\ngave me names of sundry who never \u201cgave up,\u201d skunks he called them.\n\nAs we hurried back to the office half an hour later, he dived into\na drug store on the ground floor. The way most of the reporters\nfrequented this drug store puzzled me for a time, till I learned\nthat whisky was to be had there in a little back room. The chemist\nhad no license, but by paying a monthly sum to the ward man of the\ndistrict--part of immense revenues paid to Tammany by every form of\nlaw-breaking, from gambling-halls and disorderly houses to far graver\nthings--he was allowed to dispense liquor. It was a pretty system,\nmarvellously organized down to the lowest detail; cash to the ward\nman opened most doors; a policeman paid $300 before he even got a\nnomination on the force; vice paid gigantic tribute; but the people\nliked a Tammany Government because \u201cthey knew where they were\u201d with it,\nthough the _Sun_, my paper, was the only journal that boldly supported\nit--for which Charles A. Dana was forever being attacked. I acquired\nmuch inside experience of the secret workings of Tammany Hall before my\nnewspaper days came to an end.... It appalled me.\n\nThat afternoon, I had two assignments, and failed badly in both. The\nfirst was to find a company promoter who had got into trouble, and to\nask him \u201call about it.\u201d I could not find him; his house, his office,\nhis club knew him not. After two hours\u2019 frantic search, I returned\ncrestfallen, expecting to be dismissed there and then. Cooper, however,\ncut short my lengthy explanations with a shrug of the shoulders, and\nsent me up to the Fort Lee woods, across the Hudson River, to find out\n\u201call about\u201d a suicide whose body had just been discovered under the\ntrees. \u201cGet his name right, why he did it, and what the relatives have\nto say,\u201d were his parting words. The Fort Lee woods were miles away, I\nsaw the body--an old man with a bullet hole in his temple, I found his\nson at the police station, and asked him what his tears and grief made\npermissible, the answer being that \u201che had no troubles and we can\u2019t\nthink what made him do it.\u201d Then I telephoned these few facts to the\noffice. On getting back myself at half-past six when the last edition\nwas already on the streets, Cooper showed me the final edition of the\n_Evening World_. It had a column on the front page with big head-lines.\nThe suicide was a defaulter, and the reporter gave a complete story\nof his gambling life. Cooper offered no comment. The _Evening World_\nhad got \u201ca beat\u201d; and I had failed badly. I sat down at the reporters\u2019\ntable and wondered what would happen, and then saw, lying before\nme, our own last edition with exactly the same story, similar big\nheadlines, and all the important facts complete. An interview with the\ncompany promoter was also in print. I was at a loss to understand what\nhad happened until Whitey, on the way into the drug-store a little\nlater, explained things: the United Press, a news agency that \u201ccovered\u201d\neverything, had sent the story. The \u201cflimsy\u201d men, so called because\nthey wrote on thin paper that made six copies at once, were very\nvaluable. \u201cMake friends with them,\u201d said Whitey, \u201cand no one will ever\nget a beat on you. They\u2019re paid a salary and don\u2019t care. It\u2019s only the\nspace-men, as a rule, who won\u2019t give up.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nAs a new \u201cbum reporter,\u201d however, I had a hectic life, but rapidly made\nfriends with the other men, and a mutual loathing of the work brought\nus easily together. Friday was pay-day; by Wednesday everybody was\ntrying to borrow money--one dollar, usually--from everybody else, the\ndebts being always faithfully repaid when the little envelopes were\ncollected at the cashier\u2019s office downstairs.\n\nMy first week\u2019s reporting passed in a whirl of feverish excitement.\nAssignments of every possible kind were hurled at me. I raced and\nflew about. The \u201cBritisher,\u201d the \u201cEnglish accent,\u201d were a source of\namusement to the staff, but there was no ill-nature. Cooper seemed to\nlike me; he chuckled; he even gave me hints. \u201cWell, Mr. Britisher, did\nyou get it this time?\u201d Few of my first efforts were used, the flimsy\nreport being printed instead, but a divorce case in special sessions,\nand interviews with the principals in it, brought me into notice, the\nstory being put in the front page of the first edition. When I came\ndown on the following Monday, McCloy whipped up to me like a steel\nspring released. \u201cYou can cover the Tombs this morning,\u201d he rattled.\n\u201cAnything big must be in by ten at the latest. Use judgment and pick\nout the best stories. Don\u2019t let anyone get a beat on you.\u201d He flashed\naway, and I tore down to the Tombs Police Court.\n\nThe Tombs--I can smell to-day its peculiar mixture of extremely dirty\nhumanity, cheap scent, very old clothes, Chinese opium, stale liquor,\niodoform, and a tinge of nameless disinfectant. In winter the hot-air\nwhich was the means of heating the court whose windows were never\nopened, and in summer the stifling, humid atmosphere, to say nothing of\nthe added flavour of acid perspiration, were equally abominable. The\nbuilding, with its copy of Egyptian architecture, vies in gloom with\nthe prison in Venice, though the former takes unpleasant precedence--a\nveritable Hall of Eblis, with thick walls, impressive portals, a\ngeneral air of hopeless and portentous doom about even its exterior.\nThere was a grimness in its dark passages that made the heart sink,\ntruly an awe-ful building. The interior was spick and span and clean\nas a hospital ward, but the horror of that repellent outside leaked\nthrough somehow. Both inside and outside, the Tombs Prison became\nas familiar to me as my room in East 19th Street; many a prisoner\nI interviewed in his cell, many a wretch I talked with through the\nbars of his last earthly cage in Murderers\u2019 Row; I never entered the\nforbidding place without a shudder, nor stepped into the open air again\nwithout relief.\n\nThe routine of the police court, too, became mechanical as the months\nwent by. The various reporters acted in concert; we agreed which\nstories we would use, and in this way no paper got a \u201cbeat\u201d on the\nothers. The man on duty stood beside the Tammany magistrate, making\nhis notes as each case came up. It was a depressing, often a painful,\nbusiness.\n\nThe cases rattled by very quickly--arson, burglary, forgery, gambling,\nopium dens, street women, all came up, but it was from assaults that we\nusually culled our morning assortment for the first edition. Negroes\nused a razor, Italians a stiletto, white men a knife, a pistol, a club\nor a sandbag. Women used hatpins mostly.\n\nIt was, of course, some particular feature, either picturesque or\nhorrible, that lent value to a case. Gradually my \u201cnose for news\u201d was\nsharpened. It was a friendly little German Jew, named Freytag, who\ntaught me how to make the commonest police story readable. I had just\n\u201cgiven up\u201d the facts about a Syrian girl who had been stabbed by a\njealous lover, and the reporters all round me were jotting down the\ndetails. Freytag, who worked for Hermann Ridder\u2019s _Staatszeitung_,\nlooked over my shoulder. \u201cThat\u2019s no good,\u201d he said. \u201cDon\u2019t begin\n\u2018Miriam so-and-so, living at such a place, was stabbed at two o\u2019clock\nthis morning by Whatshisname....\u2019 That\u2019s not interesting. Begin like\nthis: \u2018A mysterious crime with an exotic touch about it was committed\nin the early hours this morning when all worthy New Yorkers were\nenjoying their beauty sleep.... Far away, where the snows of the Taurus\nMountains gleam to heaven, the victim, a lovely Syrian maid, once had\nher home....\u2019\u201d I followed his advice, though my version was severely\nblue-pencilled, but his point--selecting a picturesque angle of\nattack--was sound and useful.\n\nThe police court work was over by half-past ten, and I was then\ngenerally sent on to report the trials in Special or General Sessions.\nThese, naturally, were of every sort and kind. Divorce, alienation\nof affection and poison trials were usually the best news. My hair\noften stood on end, and some of the people were very unpleasant to\ninterview. The final talk before a man went to the Chair was worst\nof all. If the case was an important one, I had to get an interview\nin the Tombs Prison cell before the day\u2019s trial--there was no _sub\njudice_ prohibition in New York. Inevitably, I formed my own opinion as\nto a man\u2019s innocence or guilt; the faces, gazing at me through bars,\nwould often haunt me for days. Carlyle Harris, calm, indifferent, cold\nas ice, I still see, as he peered past the iron in Murderers\u2019 Row,\nprotesting his innocence with his steely blue eyes fixed on mine; he\nwas a young medical student accused of poisoning his wife with morphia;\nhe was electrocuted ... and Lizzie Borden ... though this was in\nProvidence, Rhode Island--who took all her clothes off, lest the stains\nof blood betray her, before killing her father and mother in their\nsleep....\n\nSome of the cases made a lasting and horrible impression; some even\nterrified. The behaviour of individuals, especially of different races,\nwhen sentence was given also left vivid memories; negroes, appealing\nhysterically to God and using the most extraordinary, invented words,\nthe longer the better; the stolid, unemotional Chinamen; the voluble\nItalian; the white man, as a rule, quiet, controlled, insisting merely\nin a brief sentence that he was innocent. In a story, years later (_Max\nHensig, Bacteriologist and Murderer_), the facts were taken direct from\nlife. It needed more than fifteen years to dim their memory. I remained\nthe Tombs reporter for the best part of a loathed, distressing,\nhorror-laden year.\n\nThere were pleasanter intervals, of course. The French paper, _Le\nCourier des Etats Unis_, published a short story every Monday, and\none day I translated an exceptionally clever one, and submitted it to\nMcCloy. It was printed; subsequently, I was allowed an afternoon off\nweekly, provided I translated a story each time, and though no money\nwas paid for these, I secured a good many free hours to myself. These\nhours I spent in the free library in Lafayette Place, devouring the\nRussians, as well as every kind of book I could find on psychology; or\nelse in going out to Bronx Park, a long tram journey, where I found\ntrees and lovely glades and water. Bronx Park, not yet the home of\nthe New York \u201cZoo,\u201d was a paradise to me, the nearest approach to the\nwoods that I could find. Every Sunday, wet or fine, I went there. In a\n_cache_ I hid a teapot, and would make a tiny fire and drink milkless\ntea. I could hear the wind and see the stars and taste the smell of\nearth and leaves, the clean, sweet things....\n\nOne morning in the second week of my apprenticeship, I interviewed a\nlion.\n\n\u201cAfraid of wild animals, Mr. Britisher?\u201d inquired Cooper, looking at me\nquizzically. I stared, wondering what he meant. It was my duty to have\nread the morning paper thoroughly, but there had been no mention of any\nwild animal. I replied that I thought I didn\u2019t mind wild animals.\n\n\u201cTake your gun,\u201d said Cooper, \u201cand get up to East 20th Street, between\nThird and Fourth Avenues. Bostock\u2019s Circus came to town last night\nlate. Their lion\u2019s escaped. They\u2019ve chased it into a stable. Killed\na valuable horse. Neighbourhood\u2019s paralysed with terror. It\u2019s a\nman-eater. Send down bulletins about it. Now, better get a move on!\u201d\n\nOn leaving the elevated train at East 18th Street, the streets were\nblack with people, they even pressed up the front steps of the houses.\nThe word \u201clion\u201d was in everybody\u2019s mouth. Something about Cooper\u2019s\nvoice and eyes had made me suspect a \u201cfake.\u201d As I forced my way through\ntowards 20th Street, there came a roar that set the air trembling even\nabove the din of voices. It was certainly no fake.\n\nOn reaching 20th Street, the cordon of police, with pistols ready,\nkeeping the crowd in order, showed plainly where the stable was.\nGradually I bored a way through. The stable stood back from the road,\na courtyard in front of it. A ladder, crowded already with reporters\nclimbing up, led to a hayloft just above. I met the _Evening Telegram_\nman, whom I knew, half-way up this ladder. \u201cGot a messenger boy? No!\nThen you can share mine,\u201d he offered good-naturedly. The only occupants\nof the yard were a dozen of these messenger boys, waiting to take the\n\u201ccopy\u201d to the various newspaper offices. It was 8.30 A.M.\n\nI noticed to my surprise that the _Evening Telegram_ man was a star\nreporter; three rungs above him, to my still greater surprise, climbed\nRichard Harding Davis. My vanity was stirred. This was a big story, yet\nCooper had chosen me! As I squeezed up the ladder, my hands stuffed\nwith paper, the lion below gave forth an awe-inspiring roar; it was a\ndreadful sound. The great doors of wood seemed matchwood easily burst\nthrough. The crowd swayed back a moment, then, with a cheer, swayed\nforward again.\n\nIn the loft I found some twenty reporters; each time the brute gave its\nterrible roar they scuttled into corners, behind the hay, even up into\nthe rafters of the darkened loft. Pistol shots accompanied every roar,\nand the added terror lest a bullet from below might pierce the boards\non which we stood, made us all jump about like dervishes. One man wrote\nhis story, perched in the dark on the highest rafter, from which he\nnever once moved. I scribbled away, and threw down my \u201cstuff\u201d to the\nboy below.\n\nMeanwhile the circus officials were doing their best to force the great\nbeast into a cage. This cage stood ready against the outside doors in\nthe yard, and at the right moment these doors would be swiftly opened.\nOn being driven into the stable, the animal had found, and quickly\nkilled, a trotting horse, valued at $2,000, standing in its stall. This\ndetail I at first disbelieved, but when my turn came to kneel and peer\nthrough the trap-door for feeding the hay down into the dark stable\nbelow, I found it was all true. In the centre of the floor the great\nlion was plainly visible, not six feet below my own face, lying with\ntwo paws stretched upon the carcass of a torn, dead horse. The smell\nof flesh and blood rose to my nostrils. In a dim corner perched on a\nrefrigerator, sat one of the trainers, a pistol in his hand. In another\ncorner, but invisible from my peephole, crouched another circus man,\nalso with his pistol, and each time the lion made an ugly move, both\nmen fired off their weapons.... I wrote more \u201cbulletins,\u201d and dropped\nthem down to a messenger boy in the yard. He hurried off, then returned\nto fetch more \u201ccopy\u201d; I sent at least a column for the first edition. I\nfelt a very proud reporter.\n\nAfter two hours of thrills and scares, the news spread that the Strong\nMan of the circus was on his way down, a fearless Samson of a fellow\nwho lifted great weights. The news proved true. A prolonged cheer\ngreeted him. He acknowledged it with a sweeping bow. He wore diamonds\nand a top hat. Swaggering up among the reporters, he announced in a\nloud voice: \u201cBoys! I\u2019m going to fix that lion, and I\u2019m going to fix it\nright away!\u201d\n\nThe boastful bluff received no believing cheer in response, but to my\namazement, the fellow proved as good as his talk. He said no further\nword, he just lifted the trap-door in the floor and began to squeeze\nhimself through--straight down onto the very spot where the lion lay,\ncrouching below on the dead horse. He dropped. We heard the thud. We\nalso heard the appalling roar that followed, the quick pistol shots,\nthe shouts, the excited cries--then silence. The reporter at the\ntrap-door called out to us what was happening.... That Strong Man was a\nhero.\n\nTen or fifteen minutes later, the big stable-doors swung open, and\nthe cage, with the lion safely inside it, emerged on a high-wheeled\ntruck into full view of the cheering crowd. On the top of the cage,\nsweeping his shiny top hat about, bowing, waving his free hand with\nmodest dignity to the admiring thousands, the Strong Man sat enthroned,\ncross-legged, proud and smiling. The procession through the streets of\nthe city was a triumphal progress that lasted most of the day. That\nnight Bostock\u2019s Circus opened to the public.\n\nI hurried back to the office, and had the joy of seeing the first\nedition hawked and cried about the streets, even before I got there.\nBig head-lines about a \u201cMan-eating Lion,\u201d a \u201cTwo Thousand Dollar\nTrotting Horse,\u201d \u201cHeroic Rescuer,\u201d and the rest, met my eye everywhere.\nCooper, however, made no remark or comment, sending me on at once to\nreport a murder trial at special sessions, and in half an hour the\ngruesome thrills of a horrible poison case made the lion and the strong\nman fade away.\n\n\u201cRead your morning paper?\u201d Cooper asked, when I appeared next morning.\nI nodded. The lion story, I had noticed, filled only half a stick of\nprint. \u201cRead the advertisements?\u201d he asked next. I saw a twinkle in his\neye, and quickly scanned the circus advertisements about the man-eating\nlion that had killed a trotting horse, and a strong man whose courage\nhad done this and that, saving numerous lives ... but I was still\npuzzled by Cooper\u2019s twinkling eye. He offered no word of explanation;\nI learned the truth from someone else later. The toothless, aged\nlion, gorged with food and doped as well, had been pushed into the\nstable overnight, the carcass of a horse, valued at $10, had been\ndragged in after it. The newspapers had been notified, and the long\nadvertisements, of course, were paid for in the ordinary way, but the\nfree advertisement obtained was of a kind that mere dollars could not\nbuy.\n\nOccasional interludes of this sort certainly brightened the sordid\ndaily routine, but they were rare. A big fire was a thrilling\nexperience, a metal badge pinned to the coat allowing the reporter to\ngo as near as he liked and to run what risks he pleased. Such work\nbecame, with time, mechanical in a sense, it occurred so often, arson,\ntoo, being very frequent, especially among the Jews of the East side.\nEven in those days the story of the two Jews was a \u201cchestnut\u201d: \u201cI\u2019m\nthorry your blace of business got burnt down last Tuesday,\u201d says Ikey.\nTo which Moses replies: \u201cHush! It\u2019s next Tuesday!\u201d\n\nThe r\u00f4le of the reporter in New York, of course, was an accepted one;\npublicity and advertisement were admittedly desirable; the reporter\nas a rule was welcomed; privacy was very rare; a reporter could,\nand was expected to, intrude into personal family affairs where, in\nEngland, he would be flung into the street.... Other interviews were\nof a pleasanter kind; I remember Henry Irving and Ellen Terry in their\nspecial train, Sarah Bernhardt, at the Hoffman House hotel, and many a\ndistinguished foreigner I was sent to interview because I could speak\ntheir languages. The trip to meet the Atlantic steamer at Quarantine I\nregarded as a day off: it could be made to last for hours. I saw the\ncoast, moreover, and smelt the sea....\n\nMost of my work on the _Evening Sun_, at any rate, took me among the\ncriminal and outcast sections of the underworld. In those days the\npolice, as a whole, were corrupt, brutal, heartless; I saw innocent\nmen against whom they had a grudge, or whom they wanted out of the way\nfor some reason, \u201crailroaded to gaol\u201d on cooked-up evidence; sickening\nand dreadful scenes I witnessed.... The valueless character of human\nevidence I learned daily in the trials I reported, so that even a man\nwho was trying to tell the truth seemed unable to achieve it. Tammany\nhad its slimy tentacles everywhere and graft was the essence of success\nin every branch of public life. A police captain had his town and\ncountry house, perhaps his yacht as well.... The story of Tammany\nhas been told again and again. It is too well known for repetition.\nI watched its vile methods from the inside with a vengeance; its\nloathsome soul I saw face to face. The city, too, I soon knew inside\nout, especially its darker, unclean quarters. Chinatown, Little Africa,\nwhere, after dark, it was best to walk in the middle of the street,\n\u201cItaly,\u201d the tenement life of the overcrowded, reeking East side....\nI made friends with strange people, feeling myself even in touch with\nthem, something of an outcast like themselves. My former life became\nmore and more remote, it seemed unreal; the world I now lived in seemed\nthe only world; these evil, depraved, tempted, unhappy devils were\nnot only the majority, but the real, ordinary humanity that stocked\nthe world. More and more the under-dog appealed to me. The rich, the\nluxurious, the easily-placed, the untempted and inexperienced, these\nI was beginning to find it in me to look down on, even to despise.\n_Mutatis mutandis_, I thought to myself, daily, hourly, where would\n_they_ be?... Where would _I_ myself be...?\n\nBronx Park, Shelley, the violin, the free library, organ recitals in\nchurches, my Eastern books, and meetings of the Theosophical Society,\nprovided meanwhile the few beauty hours to which I turned by way\nof relief and relaxation. One and all fed my inner dreams, gave me\nintense happiness, offered a way of escape from a daily atmosphere I\nloathed like poison. Sometimes, sitting in court, reporting a trial\nof absorbing interest, my eye would catch through the dirty window\na patch of blue between the clouds ... and instantly would sweep up\nthe power of the woods, the strange joy of clean solitary places in\nthe wilderness, the glamour of a secret little lake where loons were\ncalling and waves splashing on deserted, lonely shores. I heard the\npines, saw the silvery moonlight, felt the keen wind of open and\nuntainted spaces, I smelt the very earth and the perfume of the\nforests.... A serious gap would follow in my report, so that I would\nhave to borrow from the flimsy man, or from another reporter, what had\nhappened in the interval. In this connexion there comes back to me a\npicture of a _World_ man whose work constituted him a star reporter,\nbut who could write nothing unless he was really drunk. With glazed\neyes he would catch the witness and listen to question and answer,\nwhile with a pencil he could scarcely direct, he scribbled in immense\nwriting three or four sloping lines to each page of \u201ccopy\u201d paper. It\nalways astonished me that such work could be any good, but once I\nmade a shorthand note of several of his pages, and found them printed\nverbatim in the next edition, without a single blue-pencil alteration.\nWhen this man sat next me, my intervals of absent-mindedness did not\nmatter. His big writing enabled me to crib easily all I had missed.\n\nOther compensating influences, too, I found with my \u201croom-mates,\u201d\nespecially with Boyde, to whom I had become devotedly attached. I was\nuncommonly lucky to have such friends, I thought. Talking with Boyde,\nplaying the fiddle to his singing, sharing my troubles with his subtle,\nsympathetic, well-read mind, was an unfailing pleasure, that made me\nlook forward intensely to our evenings together, and helped me to get\nthrough many a day of repulsive and distasteful work. Compared with\nthe charm and variety of Boyde, Kay seemed stolid, even unresponsive\nsometimes.\n\nTo live consciously is to register impressions; some receive many more\nof these per second than others, and thus enjoy an intenser and more\nvaried life. The two-per-second mind finds the two-per-minute one slow,\ndull and stupid. Kay, anyhow, didn\u2019t \u201cmind\u201d things much, circumstances\nnever troubled him, whereas Boyde and I minded them acutely. I envied\nKay\u2019s power of sleeping calmly in that bed, careless of night-attacks\nuntil they actually came. The horror of New York, similarly, that was\ncreeping into my blood had hardly touched him, though it certainly\nhad infected Boyde. In my own make-up lay something ultra-sensitive\nthat took impressions far too easily. Not only did it vibrate with\nunnecessary eagerness to every change in sky and sea, but to every\nshade of attitude and manner in my fellows as well. I seemed covered\nwith sore and tender places into which New York rubbed salt and acid\nevery hour of the day. It wounded, not alone because I felt unhappy,\nbut of itself. It hit me where it pleased. The awful city, with its\ntorrential, headlong life, held for me something of the monstrous.\nEverything about it was exaggerated. Its racing speed, its roofs amid\nthe clouds with the canyon gulfs below, its gaudy avenues dripping\ngold that ran almost arm in arm with streets little better than\nsewers of human decay and misery, its frantic noise, both of voices\nand mechanism, its lavishly organized charity and boastful splendour,\nand its deep corruption in the grip of a heartless and degraded\nTammany--it was all this that painted the horror into my imagination\nas of something monstrous, non-human, almost unearthly. It became, for\nme, a scab on the skin of the planet, brilliant with the hues of fever,\nmoving all over with its teeming microbes. I felt it, indeed, but half\ncivilized.\n\nThis note of how I felt in these--my early years--rose up again the\nother day, as I read what O. Henry wrote to his outlaw friend from the\nOhio Penitentiary about it. Al Jennings had just been pardoned. O.\nHenry had finished his terms some years before. They met again in a\nWest 26th Street hotel, not far from my own room in Mrs. Bernstein\u2019s\nhouse. They talked of their terrible prison days.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s good you\u2019ve been there,\u201d said O. Henry. \u201cIt\u2019s the proper\nvestibule to this city of Damned Souls. The crooks there are straight\ncompared with the business thieves here. If you\u2019ve got $2 on you,\ninvest it now or they\u2019ll take it away from you before morning.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nIn the East 19th Street room, meanwhile, things were going from bad to\nworse. Kay\u2019s touring company delayed its starting, and consequently\nhis salary. Boyde\u2019s huntsman\u2019s job, equally, was postponed for various\nreasons, while his income from posing, from churchly activities, from\nthe theatre as well, was reduced to a very few dollars a week. These he\nshared faithfully, but my $15 every Friday (usually $13 net when office\nloans had been repaid) were our only certain source of revenue.\n\nAfter paying something on the room, the laundry in full, and buying\noatmeal, dried apples, and condensed milk for the week to come, there\nremained barely enough for one man\u2019s meals, much less for the food of\nthree, during the ensuing seven days. Boyde\u2019s contribution brought the\nbudget to, perhaps, twenty dollars all told. Something, too, had to be\nallowed daily to car-fares for Kay, while my own expenses in getting\nabout after assignments, only recoverable at the end of the week, were\nconsiderable. The weather was turning colder at the same time, for it\nwas now past mid-October. Our overcoats had to be redeemed. Boyde\u2019s\nwisdom in obtaining only the strictly necessary became evident. We\nredeemed the overcoats out of my second week\u2019s pay. Boyde himself had\nno overcoat at all. As we were all about the same height and build,\nclothes were interchangeable. There was a discussion every morning,\nwhen I left the other two, in bed and on the sofa respectively, as to\nwho should wear what.\n\nWe had now pawned with Ikey various items: a Gladstone bag, two top\nhats, some underwear, and two pairs of boots. These were on separate\ntickets, by Boyde\u2019s advice. Tennis trousers, and several summer shirts\nwere together on another ticket. All that winter Kay and I wore no\nunderwear but a vest. The bag and top hats were taken out and put in\nagain regularly every week for many months. There was only one article\nthat, selfishly, I could never pawn or sell--the fiddle.\n\nDried apples and hot water--with expensive oatmeal we had to be very\nsparing--constituted our dinner for four nights out of the week; coffee\nand bread and butter for breakfast, coffee and \u201csinkers\u201d for lunch\ncompleted my dietary. Occasionally Boyde or Kay, having been invited to\na meal, brought home something in their pockets, but not often. We felt\nhunger every day, only the evening dried apples and hot water giving a\nsense of repletion that yet did not really allay the pangs of appetite,\nthough it stopped the dull gnawing until sleep finally obliterated it.\nKay and I, but never Boyde, oddly enough, had vivid and amusing dreams\nof food, and one invariable topic of conversation every night as we\ndined at Krisch\u2019s, or gobbled apples and oatmeal, was the menu we would\norder when things improved.... But Krisch\u2019s, after a time, we found\ntoo difficult and tempting, with the good smells, the sight of people\neating at other tables, the lager beer, the perfume of cigars; and many\na time, with the price of a dinner in our pockets, we preferred to eat\nin our room.\n\nAnother topic of conversation was our plan, myself its enthusiastic\ncreator, to take up land in Canada and lead the life of settlers in\nthe backwoods, which by contrast to our present conditions seemed to\npromise a paradise. Occasionally Kay spouted bits of Shakespeare, or\nrehearsed a r\u00f4le in one of the plays his touring company was to give.\nBut it was the talks with Boyde about Eastern ideas and philosophy\nthat were my keenest pleasure, for his appreciation and sympathetic\nunderstanding were a delight I thought about with anticipatory\neagerness even during the day. My attachment to him deepened into\naffection.\n\nThe weeks went by; we scraped along somehow; Mrs. Bernstein was kept\nquiet--a relative term--by cajoling, promises and bluff. We bullied\nher. When Kay\u2019s lordly talk of free seats at theatres failed to\nmaterialize, and Boyde\u2019s trick of leaving about telegrams received\nfrom Davis and others, especially one from August Belmont, the great\nbanker, inviting him to lunch at a fashionable club--when these devices\nlost their \u201cpull,\u201d I resorted to the power of the Press. Her husband\u2019s\nposition, his orchestra, offered vulnerable points of attack; the\nvermin-infested room, for instance, might be unpleasantly described....\n\nFor weeks we had paid nothing, everything worth fifty cents was\npawned, Boyde\u2019s contribution had grown smaller and smaller, and the\nonly addition to my salary had been a few dollars Kay had earned by\nposing to Smedley, one of Harper\u2019s illustrators. Things looked pretty\ndark, when luck turned suddenly; Kay received word from Gilmour, the\norganizer of his company, that he was to start touring on November\n15th, and Boyde had a telegram from Davis--\u201cAppointment confirmed,\nduties begin December 1st.\u201d This did not increase our cash in hand,\nbut it increased our hope and raised our spirits. Kay and Boyde would\nboth soon repay their share of past expenses. We should all three be in\njobs a few weeks later. Early in November Kay actually left on his tour\nof one night stands in New York State, and Boyde left the mattress on\nthe floor for the bed. A week after Kay sent us half his first salary,\n$7.50, which we gave to Mrs. Bernstein forthwith. The letter containing\nit was opened by Boyde, and dealt with while I was out.\n\nIt was a few days later, when I was alone one evening, that an\nEnglishman who had played with us in the cricket match called to\nsee me. I hardly remembered him, he had to introduce himself, the\napologies to explain his sudden call were very voluble. He was well\ndressed and well fed, I noticed, a singer and concert accompanist; he\nannoyed me from the start by his hesitations, his endless humming and\nhawing. It was, he kept telling me, rather an intrusion; it was, he\nfelt, of course, no concern of his; but \u201cNew York was a strange place,\nand--and--er--er--well, after much reflection, I really felt it my\nduty--I decided to take the risk, that is, to--er----\u201d\n\n\u201cTo what?\u201d I asked bluntly at last. \u201cFor heaven\u2019s sake, tell me.\u201d\n\nI was beginning to feel uneasy. My threats to Mrs. Bernstein, perhaps,\nhad gone too far. Besides, the effect of the apples was passing and I\nlonged for bed.\n\nHe took a gulp. \u201cTo warn you,\u201d he said, with a grave and ominous\nexpression.\n\nIt was a long-winded business before I got him to the point, and even\nthen the point was not really explicit. New York, he kept repeating,\nwas a dangerous place for inexperience, there were strange and\ndesperate characters in it. In the end, I think, my manners exasperated\nhim as much as his vagueness exasperated me, for when he told me he\ncame about \u201csomeone very close to you,\u201d and I asked point-blank, \u201cIs it\nsomeone sharing this room with me?\u201d his final word was a most decided\n\u201cYes\u201d--with nothing more. This \u201csomeone,\u201d I gathered, at any rate, was\nfooling me, was up to all sorts of tricks, was even \u201cdangerous.\u201d\n\nI was infuriated, though I felt a certain sinking of the heart as well.\nHe was attacking either Kay or Boyde, my only friends, both of whom I\ntrusted to the last cent, for both of whom I had sincere affection. If\nhe knew anything definite or really important, why couldn\u2019t he say it\nand be done with it? I put this to him.\n\n\u201cI prefer not to be more explicit,\u201d he replied with an air. He was\noffended. His patronizing offer of advice and sympathy, his pride, were\nwounded. \u201cI would rather not mention names. It\u2019s true all the same,\u201d\nhe added. And my patience then gave way. I got up and opened the door.\nHe went without a word, but just as I was about to slam the door after\nhim, he turned.\n\n\u201cRemember,\u201d he said, half angrily, half gravely, \u201cI\u2019ve warned you. He\u2019s\na real crook. He\u2019s already been in gaol.\u201d\n\nI banged the door behind him. I felt angry but uncomfortable, and as\nthe anger subsided my uneasiness increased. The horrible feeling\nthat there was truth in the warning harassed me. When Boyde came in\nan hour or so later, I pretended to be asleep. I told him nothing of\nmy visitor, but through half-closed eyes I watched him as he moved\nabout the room very quietly, lest he disturb my sleep. His delightful,\nkind expression, his frank blue eyes, the refinement and gentleness\nof his gestures, I noted them all for the hundredth time. His acts,\ntoo, I remembered; how he always shared his earnings, gave his help\nunstintingly, advice, a thousand hints, the value of his own sad and\nbitter experience. My heart ached a little. No, I reflected, it was\ncertainly not Boyde who was the crook. My thoughts turned to Kay, who\nhad just sent us half his salary. It was equally incredible. I wished\nI had treated my visitor differently. I wished I had kicked him out,\ninstead of telling him to go. Sneak! A sneak with some evil motive into\nthe bargain!\n\nThings began to move now with a strange rapidity. It was as though\nsomeone who had been winding up machinery suddenly released the spring.\nItem by item, preparations had been completed--then, let her go! She\nwent....\n\nThe weeks that followed seemed as many months. I was alone with Boyde\nin a filthy, verminous room, food and money scarce, rent owing, Kay\naway, clothes negligible, my single asset being a job. I lost that job\nowing to illness that kept me for weeks in bed--in that bed.... And as\n\u201cshe went\u201d I had the curious feeling that someone watched her going,\nsomeone other than myself. It was an odd obsession. Someone looked on\nand smiled. Certain practices, gathered from my \u201cEastern\u201d reading, were\nno doubt responsible for this uncanny feeling, for with it ran also a\nparallel idea: that only a portion of my being suffered while another\nportion, untouched, serene and confident, accepting all that came with\na kind of indifferent resignation, stood entirely apart, playing,\nequally, the r\u00f4le of a spectator. This detached spectator watched \u201cher\ngoing\u201d with close attention, even with something of satisfaction.\n\u201cTake it all,\u201d was its attitude; \u201cavoid nothing; it is your due; for\nit is merely reaping what you sowed long ago. Face it to the very\ndregs. Only in this way shall you pay a just debt and exhaust it.\u201d So\nvital was this attitude in all that followed that it must be honestly\nmentioned.\n\nA stabbing in the side had been bothering me for some days, making\nwalking difficult and painful. A blow received while diving from our\nisland--I hit a rock--began to ache and throb. I came home in the\nevenings, weary to the bone. There were headaches, and a touch of\nfever. The pain increased. There was a swelling. I went to bed. Boyde\ntook down a letter to McCloy, asking for a day off, which was granted.\nThe next day I turned up at 8.30, but had to come back to bed after the\nmidday coffee and sinkers. \u201cSee a doctor,\u201d snapped McCloy, in his best\nmaxim-firing manner, \u201cand come back when you\u2019re fixed up again.\u201d\n\nBut there wasn\u2019t enough money for a doctor\u2019s fee of from two to five\ndollars. I lay up for three days, hoping for improvement which did\nnot come. The pain and fever grew. Mrs. Bernstein, upset and even\ndisagreeable, sent me bread and soup in the evening as well as the\nmorning coffee. Boyde brought a few extras late at night. He was\nchasing a new post just then--organist to a church in Patterson,\nN.J.--and rarely got home before eleven, sometimes later. He brought\nlong rolls of Vienna bread, a few white Spanish grapes, a tin of\ncondensed milk. He slept peaceably beside me. His manner, once or\ntwice, seemed different. I smelt liquor. \u201cSomeone stood me a drink,\u201d\nhe explained, \u201cand by God, I needed it. I\u2019m fagged out.\u201d He was kind\nand sympathetic, doing all he could, all that his position allowed. He\nwas very much in love at the moment with the daughter of the pastor of\nthe Second Avenue Baptist Church, where he sang in the choir, and he\nconfided his hopes and troubles about the affair to me.... It all gave\nme a queer feeling of unreality somewhere. In my feverish state I knew\nan occasional unaccustomed shiver. The long day in bed, alone with my\nthoughts, waiting for Boyde\u2019s return, was wearisome to endlessness,\nby no means free from new, unpleasant reflections, yet when at last\nthe door opened softly, and he came back, his arms full of the little\nextras mentioned, there was disappointment in me somewhere. It was not\nquite as I expected. Accompanying the disappointment were these new,\nfaint twinges of uneasiness as well. I kept the gas burning all night.\nI watched Boyde\u2019s face, as he slept calmly beside me in that narrow\nbed, his expression of innocence and kindliness increased my feelings\nof gratitude, even of tenderness, towards him. There were deep lines,\nhowever, that sleep did not smooth out. \u201cPoor devil, he\u2019s been through\nthe mill!\u201d This habit of watching him grew.\n\nThere was delay and trouble about the Rockaway Hunt post; studio\nsittings were scarce; the Baptist church organist was never unable\nto officiate; Morton Selton never missed a performance; and Boyde,\nas a result, though he still contributed what he could, earned next\nto nothing. If I was puzzled by his late hours, his explanations\ninvariably cleared away my wonder. He always had a plausible excuse,\none, too, that woke my sympathy. It was just at this time, moreover,\nthat Kay wrote. The Canadian tour was such a failure that Gilmour was\ntaking his troupe to the States, where they anticipated better houses.\nNo salaries had been paid. They were now off to Pittsburg. Kay hoped to\nsend some money before long.\n\nI spent the weary hours reading.... On the third day, my symptoms\nworse, the door opened suddenly without a knock, and I saw an old man\nwith a white moustache and spectacles peering round the edge at me. I\nlaid down my \u201cGita\u201d and stared back at him.\n\n\u201cAre you Mr. Blackwood?\u201d he asked, with a marked German accent.\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d I had not the faintest idea who he was.\n\nHe closed the door, took off his slouch hat, crossed the room, laid his\nsmall black bag on the sofa, then came and stood beside my bed. He was\nextremely deliberate. I watched him anxiously. He said no word for some\ntime, while we stared at one another.\n\nHe was of medium height, about sixty-five years old, with white hair,\ndark eyes behind magnifying spectacles, the strong face deeply lined,\nvoice and manner stern to the point of being forbidding--but when I saw\nit rarely--a most winning smile. Except for the spectacles, he was like\na small edition of Bismarck.\n\n\u201cI am a doctor,\u201d he said, after a prolonged silent inspection, \u201cand I\nlive down the street. Your friend, an Englishman, asked me to call.\nAre _you_ English?\u201d I told him I was a reporter on the _Evening Sun_,\nadding that I had no money at the moment. The suspicion his manner had\nnot attempted to hide at once showed itself plainly. His manner and\nvoice were brusque to offensiveness, as he said flatly: \u201cI expect to be\npaid. I have a wife and child.\u201d He stood there, staring at me, hard and\ncold. I repeated that I had nothing to pay him with, and I lay back in\nbed, wishing he would go, for I felt uncomfortable and ashamed, annoyed\nas well by his unsympathetic attitude. \u201cHumph!\u201d he grunted, still\nstaring without moving. There was an awkward silence I thought would\nnever end. \u201cHumph!\u201d he grunted again presently. \u201cI egsamine you anyhow.\nHow old are you?\u201d\n\n\u201cTwenty-two,\u201d I said, \u201cand a bit.\u201d\n\n\u201cHumph!\u201d he repeated, as he examined me rather roughly. \u201cYou\u2019re very\nthin. Too thin!\u201d\n\nHe hurt me, and I did not answer.\n\n\u201cNot eating enough,\u201d he added, and then gave his verdict. It was an\nabscess, I must keep my bed for a month or six weeks, an operation\nmight be necessary....\n\nI asked how much I owed him. \u201cTwo dollars,\u201d he said. He gave me his\naddress, and I replied that I would bring the money to him as soon as I\ncould, but that he need not call again. He stared severely at me with\nthose magnified eyes.\n\n\u201cHaven\u2019t you got two dollars even?\u201d he asked curtly.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve told you the truth. And, anyhow, I didn\u2019t send for you. I didn\u2019t\nask my friend to fetch you either.\u201d\n\nI could think of nothing else to say. His verdict had flattened me out.\nI was angry, besides, with Boyde, for not consulting me first, though\nI knew he had done the right thing. Another period of awkward silence\nfollowed, during which the doctor never moved, but stood gazing down at\nme. Suddenly his eye rested on the book I had been reading. He put out\na hand and picked it up. He glanced through the pages of the \u201cGita,\u201d\nthen began to read more carefully. A few minutes passed. He became\nabsorbed.\n\n\u201c_You_ read this?\u201d he asked presently. \u201c_Ach was!_\u201d There was a look of\nkeen astonishment in his eyes; his gaze searched me as though I were\nsome strange animal. I told him enough by way of reply to explain my\ninterest. He listened, without a word, then presently picked up his bag\nand hat and moved away. At the door he turned a moment. \u201cI come again\nto-morrow,\u201d he said gruffly, and he was gone.\n\nIn this way Otto Huebner, with his poignant tragedy, came into my life.\n\nThat evening, with the bread and soup, there was a plate of chicken;\nit was not repeated often, but he had spoken to Mrs. Bernstein, I\ndiscovered, for her attitude, too, became slightly pleasanter. I spent\nthe long evening composing a letter to McCloy, which Boyde could take\ndown next day.... I lay thinking of that curious gruff, rude old\nGerman, whose brusqueness, I felt sure, covered a big good heart. There\nwas mystery about him, something unusual, something pathetic and very\nlovable. There was power in his quietness. Despite his bluntness, there\nwas in his atmosphere a warm kindness, a sincerity that drew me to him.\nAlso there was a darkness, a sense of tragedy somewhere that intrigued\nme because I could not explain it.\n\nIt was after he was gone that I felt all this. While he was in the room\nI had been too troubled and upset by his manner to feel anything but\nannoyance. Now that he was gone his face and eyes and voice haunted\nme. His bleak honesty, I think, showed me, without my recognizing it,\nanother standard.\n\nWas it this, I wonder, that made me start a little when, about two in\nthe morning, I heard a stealthy tread coming upstairs, and presently\nsaw Boyde enter the room--carrying his boots in his hand? Was it this,\nagain, that made me feign to be asleep, and a couple of hours later\nstill, when I woke with a shiver, notice, for the first time, a new\nexpression in the face that lay so calmly asleep beside me?\n\nBehind the kindly innocence, I thought, there lay a darker look. It was\nlike a shadow on the features. It increased my feelings of uneasiness,\nthough as yet no definite thought had formulated itself in my mind.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nNext day there was a racing west wind that sent the clouds scudding\nacross a bright blue sky. The doctor was to come at 3 o\u2019clock. Boyde,\nin very optimistic mood, had gone out early, taking my letter to\nMcCloy. He had a studio sitting; he was going to Patterson too; he\nwould return as early as he could. The shadow of the night before\nhad vanished; I no longer believed in it; I ascribed it to fever and\nnerves. He sang cheerily while he dressed in my thick brown suit, the\nonly one not in pawn (everything else, now that I was in bed, had gone\nto Ikey), and his voice sounded delightful. In the afternoon he came\nback with the news that McCloy had read my letter and said \u201cThat\u2019s\nright. Tell him to be good to himself. He can come back.\u201d Also he had\nagreed to use translations of the French stories at five dollars each.\nBoyde brought a _Courier_ in with him. Two letters from home arrived\ntoo. Both my father and mother, though having no idea what was going\non, never missed a single week. My own letters were difficult to write.\nI had come to New York against my father\u2019s advice. I wrote home what I\nthought best.\n\nAt 3 o\u2019clock the doctor came. My heart sank as I heard his step. I\nwas in considerable pain. What would he be like? Would an operation\nbe necessary? Would he speak about money again? Mrs. Bernstein, oily\nand respectful, a little awed as well, announced him. Without a\nword, without a glance in my direction, he walked over in his slow,\ndeliberate way, and laid hat and bag upon the sofa. Then he turned and\nlooked steadily at himself in the mirror for a period I thought would\nnever end. After that he turned and looked at me.\n\nHe was an angel. His face was wreathed in smiles. It beamed with\ngood-nature, kindness, sympathy. He at once said something that was\ngentle, soothing, like music to me. My heart suddenly expanded in a\nmost uncomfortable way. I believe a lump came up in my throat. This\nwas all so contrary to what I had expected. He was not only an angel,\nhe was a womanly angel. I must have been in a very weak state, for it\nwas all I could do to keep my tears back. The same instant his eye fell\non my fiddle case. He looked at it, then at me, then back again at the\nfiddle.\n\n\u201cYou play?\u201d he asked, with a twinkle in his big eyes.\n\n\u201cI ought to pawn it,\u201d I said, \u201cbut----\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t,\u201d he answered with decision. He added an odd sentence: \u201cIt\u2019s\nan esgape from self.\u201d I remember that I couldn\u2019t say a word to this.\nHis kindness melted me. The struggle to keep my eyes from betraying\nme seemed the most idiotic yet bitter I had ever known. I could have\nkissed the old man\u2019s hand, when he examined me then at once, but with\na gentleness, even a tenderness, that both astonished me, yet did not\nastonish me at all. I felt, too, already the support of his mind and\ncharacter, of his whole personality, of a rugged power in him, of\ngenerosity, true goodness, above all, of sympathy. I think he had made\nup his mind to treat me for nothing. No reference, in any case, was\nmade to money; nor did I dare even to mention it myself. An operation,\nmoreover, of any big kind, was not necessary; he thought he could save\nme that; he performed a small one then and there, for he had brought\nall that was required for it. The pain seemed nothing, his kindness\nmade me indifferent to it. \u201cYou are brave,\u201d he said, with a smile that\nseemed to me really beautiful, when it was over. \u201cThat hurt, I know.\u201d\nHe promised to come daily to drain the wound and so forth; he bandaged\nme up; a month to six weeks would see me out of bed, he hoped; he\npacked up his bag, but, instead of leaving the room, he then sat down\ndeliberately and began to talk.\n\nI was too surprised, too happy, to wonder why he stayed. His talk\nwas food and drink to me. He picked up my few books, and sat reading\nquietly to himself when he saw I was getting tired. De Quincey\u2019s\n\u201cConfessions\u201d interested him especially, and he asked if he might\nborrow it. He took also \u201cSartor Resartus.\u201d I slipped into German, to\nhis keen delight, and told him about the Moravian Brotherhood School\nin the Black Forest. A sketch of the recent past I gave him too. He\nlistened with great attention, asking occasional questions, but always\nwith real tact, and never allowing me to tire myself.\n\nThough it was obvious, even to my stupidity, that he regarded me rather\nas a \u201cspecimen\u201d of some sort, there was heart in all he said and did.\nOtto Huebner poured balm into all my little wounds that afternoon, but\nabout himself he told me hardly anything. While he drew me out, with\nskill and sympathy, he hid himself behind that impenetrable mystery I\nhad already noted the previous day. I say purposely that of himself\nhe told me \u201chardly anything,\u201d because one detail did escape him\ninadvertently. An hour later, as he was leaving, he turned his smile\non me from the door. \u201cI send you something,\u201d he said shortly. \u201cMy vife\nmakes goot broth. I cannot do much. I have not got it.\u201d\n\nOne other thing I noticed about his visit, when towards the end, Boyde\ncame in unexpectedly, bringing a small bunch of the yellow Spanish\ngrapes. In his best, most charming manner he spoke with the doctor. The\ndoctor\u2019s face, however, darkened instantly. His features, it seemed to\nme, froze. His manner was curt. He scarcely replied. And when he left a\nlittle later he did not include my friend in his good-bye. It puzzled\nme. It added to my uneasiness as well.\n\nBoyde, who apparently had noticed nothing, explained that he had to go\nout again to an appointment with Davis about the Rockaway Hunt post; he\ndid not return that night at all.\n\nI listened to the city clocks striking midnight, one, two, three ...\nhe did not come. I listened to the howling wind as well. Imagination\ntried feebly to construct a happier state, lovelier conditions, a world\nnearer to the heart\u2019s desire. While waiting for midnight to strike, I\nsaid to myself, thinking of yesterday and to-morrow, with all the one\nhad meant and the other might mean to me:\n\n\u201cYesterday is now twenty-four hours away, but in a minute it will be\nonly one minute away.\u201d\n\nI treated the hidden to-morrow similarly. I imagined, the world being\nold and creaky, ill-fitting too, that a crack existed between the two\ndays. Anyone who was thin enough might slip through! I, certainly, was\nthin enough. I slipped through.... I entered a region out of time, a\nregion where everything came true. And the first thing I saw was a\nwondrous streaming vision of the wind, the wind that howled outside\nmy filthy windows.... I saw the winds, changing colours as they rose\nand fell, attached to the trees, in tenuous ribands of gold and blue\nand scarlet as they swept to and fro.... I little dreamed that these\nfancies would appear fifteen years later in a book of my own, \u201cThe\nEducation of Uncle Paul.\u201d That crack, at any rate, became for me, like\nthe fiddle, a means of escape from unkind reality into a state of inner\nbliss and wonder \u201cwhere everything came true.\u201d...\n\nIt was after twelve o\u2019clock next day when Boyde returned--with a\nblack eye, my one thick suit stained and soiled, and a long involved\nstory that utterly confused me. There had been a fight; he had\nprotected a woman; a false charge had been laid against him owing to\nmisunderstanding, owing also to the fact that he had no money to tip\nthe policeman, and he had spent the night in a cell at Jefferson Market\npolice station. In the morning the magistrate had discharged him with\nmany compliments upon his \u201cgallantry and courage.\u201d It did not ring\ntrue. I knew the Tammany magistrates better than that. He contradicted\nhimself too, in saying that a Mr. Beattie, a friend of his mother\u2019s,\nwho occasionally gave him a little money she sent from England, had\nbailed him out. He had been bailed out, discharged with compliments,\nhad slept in a cell, and not been fined! I smelt spirits too. It all\nmade me miserable.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ve been drunk and they locked you up,\u201d I reproached him. \u201cWhy\ndo you lie to me?\u201d The copious explanations that followed I hardly\nlistened to. I lay in bed, saying nothing, but the warning of my\nvisitor came back.\n\n\u201cI went down to the _Evening Sun_,\u201d Boyde said presently, when my\nsilence made his explanations end of their own accord. \u201cI\u2019ve just come\nback with this. McCloy asked after you and sent it on account of the\nFrench stories.\u201d He handed me five dollars, in single bills, which we\ndivided equally then and there.\n\nHe had been gone hardly ten minutes when the door opened again, and\nanother visitor came in, an actor out of a job, Grant, an Englishman\nof perhaps twenty-five, one of the cricket team I had met in Staten\nIsland a few weeks before. He had run across Boyde, he explained,\nand had heard I was ill. As one Englishman to another \u201cin this awful\ncity\u201d he wanted to see if he could help in any way. He did then a\nwonderful thing. We had met but once, he scarcely knew me, he might\nnever see me again, but when he realized the state of affairs he said\nhe thought he could get a little money for me, and before I could\nsay a word he vanished from the room. His shyness, his lame manner\nof speech, something hesitating and awkward about him generally, had\nembarrassed me as much as, evidently, he was embarrassed himself;\nand I was convinced his plea of getting money was only an excuse to\ndisappear quickly. I rather hoped it was; certainly I thought it\nunlikely he would come back--which, nevertheless, he did, in about a\nquarter of an hour. He came in breathlessly, a shamefaced air about\nhim; flung down some dollar bills on the bed, and vanished the second\ntime. Three dollars lay on the counterpane. It was only a little later,\nas reflection brought up details, that I remembered he had worn an\novercoat when he first came in, and that on his second visit he wore\nnone. He had pawned it. Another detail rose to the surface: that he\nhad called, really, upon quite another errand, and that there was\nsomething he wanted to tell me that he had not the courage to put into\nwords. Later he admitted it was true....\n\nAnticipating Otto Huebner\u2019s visits was now a keen pleasure; the one\nevent of a long weary day.\n\nDuring the next fortnight or so, he missed no single afternoon. His\nmoods varied amazingly. One day he seemed an angel, the next a devil. I\nwas completely puzzled.\n\nThe talks we had on his good days were an enjoyment I can hardly\ndescribe. I realized how much I depended on them, as well as on the man\nwho made them possible. I realized also how much I depended on my other\nfriend--on Boyde. The latter\u2019s curious and unsatisfactory behaviour,\nmysterious still to my blind ignorant eyes, made no difference to\nmy feelings for him, but, if anything, tended to strengthen the\nattachment. My affection deepened. There lay now a certain pity in\nme too, an odd feeling that he was in my charge, and that, for all\nhis greater knowledge and experience of life, his seniority as well,\nI could--I must--somehow help him. Upon the German doctor and Boyde,\nat any rate, Kay being far away, my mind rested with security, if of\ndifferent degrees. To lose either of them in my lonely situation would\nhave been catastrophic.\n\nThe old German would settle himself on the sofa, drawn up close to the\nbed, and talk. He was saturated in his native philosophy, but Hegel was\nhis king.... \u201cSartor Resartus\u201d enthralled him. Of De Quincey\u2019s struggle\nagainst opium he was never tired. Of Vedantic and Hindu philosophy,\ntoo, he was understanding and tolerant, though not enamoured. Regarding\nme still as a \u201cspecimen\u201d evidently, he also treated me as though I were\na boy, discerning of course at once my emptiness of mind and experience.\n\nHow patiently he listened to my eager exposition of life\u2019s mysteries,\nmy chaotic theories, my fanciful speculations....\n\n\u201cWe _know_--nothing, you must remember. _Nothing_,\u201d he would say with\nemphasis. \u201cNor can we know anything, _ever_. We label, classify,\nexamine certain _results_--that\u2019s all. Of causes we remain completely\nignorant. Speculation is not proof. The fact that a theory fits all the\nfacts gets us no further.\u201d\n\nHe smiled, but with close attention, while I plunged again into a\ndescription of my beliefs. The tobacco smoke curled up about his genial\nface. I had no fear of him in this mood. I could say all my thoughts\nwithout shyness. I made full confession.\n\n\u201cInteresting, logical, possibly true,\u201d he replied, \u201cand most certainly\nas good an explanation as any other, better even than most, but\u201d--he\nshrugged his shoulders--\u201calways a theory only, and nothing else. There\nis no proof of anything. The higher states of consciousness you mention\nare nebulous, probably pathogenic. Those who experience them cannot,\nin any case, report their content intelligibly to us who have not\nexperienced them--because no words exist. They are of no value to the\nrace, and that condemns them. Men of action, not dreamers, are what the\nworld needs.\u201d\n\n\u201cMen of action only carry out what has first been dreamed,\u201d I ventured.\n\n\u201cTrue,\u201d replied the old man, \u201ctrue very often. Men of action rarely\nhave much vision. The poet is the highest type.... I am with you in\nthis too--that the only _real_ knowledge is the knowledge of man,\nthe study of consciousness. _Gnothi seauton_ is still the shortest,\nas well as the most pregnant, sermon in the world. Before we can\nget new knowledge, _different_ knowledge--yes, there I am with\nyou--consciousness itself must change and become different first\n... _but_ ... the people who get that _different_ knowledge cannot\ndescribe it to us because there is no language.\u201d Wise, thoughtful\nthings the old man said, while I listened eagerly. \u201cOne thing is\ncertain,\u201d he declared with his usual emphasis: \u201cIf there is another\nstate after the destruction of the body, it cannot be merely an\nextension, an idealization, of the one we know. _That_ is excluded.\nWithout senses, without brain or nerves, without physical reactions\nof any kind--since there is no body--how shall we be aware of things\nabout us? Another state can only be--_different_, yet so different\nthat it is useless to talk of it. The Heaven of the spiritualists,\nthe elaborate constructions of a Swedenborg, are nothing but\ncoloured idealizations of the state we already know ...\u201d--he snorted\ncontemptuously--\u201cobviously self-created. A different state of\nconsciousness would show us a universe so totally different from\nanything we know that it must be--indescribable.\u201d\n\nOf my own future, too, he liked to talk. The newspaper reporting he\ndisapproved; it could lead to little; it was \u201c_unersprechlich gemein_\u201d;\nthe New York press was a cesspool; it might serve a temporary purpose,\nbut no self-respecting man should stay too long in it. He urged me\nto become a doctor, saying I should be a success, advising me to\nspecialize in nerves and mental cases. Being an Englishman would help\nvery much; in time I should have an enormous practice; he would assist\nme in all manner of ways, so that my course need not be longer than two\nyears, or three at the most. He would coach me, rush me through in half\nthe normal time. Later I could get a foreign degree, which would be an\nadditional asset.... He never tired of this topic, and his enthusiasm\nwas certainly sincere.\n\nOf stars, too, he loved to talk, of space, of possible other dimensions\neven. His exposition of a fourth dimension always delighted me. That\nthe universe, indeed, was really four-dimensional, and that all we\nperceived of it was that sectional aspect, a portion as it were,\nthat is projected into our three-dimensional world, was a theme that\npositively made him red in the face, as his big eyes focused on me,\nhis concentrated mind working vehemently behind them.... Certainly, my\nknowledge of German improved considerably.\n\nThen, as Boyde came in, the light would die out of his eyes, his face\nwould harden and grow dark--he had a way of making it seem frozen--and\nwith a stiff bow to Boyde that only just acknowledged his presence, he\nwould get up and leave the room.\n\nMeanwhile, I sold two more French stories, and Boyde bought back the\nten dollars paid for them; three others were \u201cnot suitable,\u201d according\nto McCloy. I told the doctor all I earned. \u201cLater,\u201d he said, \u201cyou pay\nme, if you want to. I take nothing--now.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nThe days passed; I grew slowly better; the wound still had to be\ndrained and bandaged, and the doctor kept me to my bed. Kay, writing\nfrom Toronto, had contrived to send us ten dollars. More French\ntranslations had gone to McCloy, but only one or two had been used.\n\nIf the loneliness of the long days was dismal, the feverish nights were\nworse. I knew my few books by heart; Shelley and the \u201cGita\u201d were indeed\ninexhaustible, but I longed for something new. To play the fiddle\nwas too tiring. There was endless time for reflection ... and, thank\nheaven, through the two dirty windows I could watch the sky. Many a\nstory I published fifteen years later had its germ in the apparently\ndead moments of those wearisome hours, although at the time it never\nonce occurred to me to try and write, not even the desire being in me.\n\nIt was the interminable nights that were most haunted. In the daylight\nthere was colour in the changing clouds and sky, a touch of pink, a\nflame of sunset gold that opened the narrow crack through which I\nslipped into some strange interior state of happiness. There were\nthe visits of the beloved, mysterious doctor, too. But the night was\notherwise. The gas I left burning till Boyde woke and turned it out in\nthe morning, made it impossible to see the stars. I could never settle\ndown until he was comfortably asleep beside me. He kept late hours\nalways. I reproached and scolded, yet in the end I always forgave. It\nwas a comfort to know him within reach of my hand, while at the same\ntime I dreaded his coming. My mixed feelings had reached that stage--I\nfeared his coming and yet longed for it.\n\nI lay waiting, listening for his step. Far below I would hear it, down\nin the well of the sleeping house, even on the first flight of stairs.\nIt mounted, mounted, stealthy, cautious, coming nearer and nearer, but\nalways at the same steady pace. It never hastened. As it approached,\nrising through the stillness of the night, my heart would begin to\nbeat; I dreaded the moment when our landing would be reached, still\nmore the actual opening of our door. I listened, smothering my breath,\ntrying to lessen the loud thumping against my ribs. The steps _might_\nnot be his, after all; it might be someone else; that stealthy tread\nmight pass my door without opening it and go upstairs. Then, when at\nlast the handle rattled faintly, the door opened, and I saw him slowly\nenter, carrying his boots in his hand, my first instinct always was\nto--scream. Then he would smile, the eye-glass would drop from his\neye, he would begin his explanations and excuses, and my dread soon\nevaporated in the friendliest of intimate talk.\n\nSo well, at last, did I learn to recognize his approach, that I knew\nthe moment he opened the front door three flights below. The sound of\nthe handle with its clink of metal, the dull thud as the big thing\nclosed--I was never once mistaken. In my fitful snatches of sleep these\nsounds stole in, shaping my dreams, determining both cause and climax\nof incessant nightmares which, drawing upon present things and recent\nmemories, and invariably including the personality of Boyde, made those\nwaiting hours a recurrent horror. I would fight in vain to keep awake.\nOnly when he was safely asleep at my side did the nightmares cease.\n\nI had once seen Dixon, a Toronto photographer, walk across the Niagara\nriver, just below the Falls; he used Blondin\u2019s old tight-rope; he lay\ndown on his back half way over, turned round, knelt, hovered on one\nfoot, using an immense balancing pole. Thousands watched him from both\nshores on a day of baking sunshine; his background was the massive main\nwaterfall, slowly rolling down and over; below him swirled and boiled\nthe awful rapids. Dixon now came walking, walking in my dream again. I\ncould hear his soft tread as his stockinged feet gripped the cable that\nswayed slightly as it sagged to the centre half way across. The sound,\nthe figure came nearer; it came at me; it--was not Dixon after all.\nIt was Boyde.... Then, as he moved with slow, creeping tread, nearer,\never nearer, I perceived suddenly that the rope was gone. There was no\nrope. He walked on empty air towards me--towards--_me_. I was appalled,\nspeechless, paralyzed. That figure walking on space, walking towards\nme, walking remorselessly nearer was terrible.... The next second the\ndoor opened and Boyde stood peering at me round the edge, his boots in\nhis hands.\n\nOne morning, tired of learning the \u201cWitch of Islam\u201d by heart, I leaned\nover the bed, and something in the waste-paper basket close beside it\ncaught my eye; a scrap of coloured paper--several scraps--pink. Looking\nnearer, I saw it was a torn-up cheque. Without any particular interest\nat first I stared at the unfamiliar thing, wondering vaguely how it\ncame to be there. Only after this casual inspection did it occur to me\nas being rather odd. A cheque! What was it? Whose was it? How did it\ncome to be there, torn up in _my_ waste-paper basket? It was a long\ntime since I had seen such a thing as a cheque; and idly, with no more\ncuriosity than this, I lay gazing at the scraps of coloured paper.\n\nThe basket lay within easy reach; I stretched out an arm and picked it\nup; I emptied the contents on the white counterpane; I sorted out the\ncoloured scraps from among the general litter. The scraps were small,\nand the puzzle amused me. It was a long business. Bit by bit the cheque\ntook shape. The word \u201cToronto\u201d was the first detail that caught my\nattention closer. Presently, fitting three tiny scraps together, I saw\nto my surprise a name in full--Arthur Glyn Boyde. Another little group\nmade \u201cKay.\u201d A third read \u201cSeventy Five Dollars.\u201d My interest increased\nwith every moment, till at last the complete cheque lay pieced together\nbefore my eyes.\n\nIt was drawn by Kay on my old Toronto bank for the sum mentioned, and\nit was payable to Boyde. The date was--three days before.\n\nI lay and stared at it in blank bewilderment. Fitting the scraps\ntogether on the counterpane was nothing compared to my difficulty in\nfitting the pieces together in my mind. I could make neither head nor\ntail of it. Kay had, indeed, been acting in Toronto on the date given,\nbut--a bank account...! And why was the cheque torn up? It must have\nbeen delivered with a letter--yesterday. Boyde had not mentioned it.\nI felt as confused as though it were a problem in arithmetic; but a\nproblem in arithmetic would not have stirred the feeling of pain and\ndread that rose in me. Something I had long feared and hated, had\ndeliberately hidden from myself, had cloaked and draped so that I need\nnot recognize it, now at last stared me in the face.\n\nThe chief item in the puzzle, however, remained. That it was not\nKay\u2019s real signature, I saw plainly, it was a reasonably good copy;\nbut why was the cheque torn up? It had been taken from my old book in\nthe packing-case downstairs, of course; but why was it destroyed? A\nforgery! The word terrified me.\n\nIt was while trying to find the meaning that my fingers played with the\nrest of the littered paper ... and presently pieced together a letter\nin the same writing as the signature; a letter, written from Toronto,\nwith Islington Jersey Dairy as address, and bearing the same date as\nthe cheque--a letter from Kay to Boyde. It had been also torn into\nlittle bits.\n\n\u201cDear B.,\u201d it ran, \u201cI am awfully sorry to hear poor Blackwood is so\nill still, and that he has no money. I enclose my cheque for $75 to\nhelp him out, but, for God\u2019s sake, see that he doesn\u2019t waste it in\ndissipation, as he did the last I sent. I know I can trust you in\nthis\u201d.... A page and a half of news followed. A postscript came at the\nend: \u201cBetter not let him know how much I\u2019ve sent. I\u2019ll send another\ncheque later if you let me know it\u2019s really needed.\u201d\n\nWith these two documents spread on the counterpane before me, I lay\nback thinking, thinking, while an icy feeling spread slowly over\nme that for a long time made clear thought impossible. The word\n\u201cdissipation\u201d made me smile, but all I knew in those first moments was\nan aching, dull emotion, shot through from time to time by stabs of\nkeenest pain. There was horror too, there was anger, pity ... as, one\nby one, recent events dropped the masks I had so deliberately pinned on\nthem. These thin disguises that too sanguine self-deception had helped\nme to lay over a hideousness that hurt and frightened me, fell one by\none. My anger passed; horror and pity remained. I cannot explain it\nquite; an intense sorrow, an equally intense desire to help and save,\nwere in me. Affection, no doubt, was deep and real....\n\nAt the same time, the shock numbed something in me; the abrupt collapse\nof a friendship that meant so much to my loneliness bowled me over.\nWhat exactly had happened I did not know, I could not understand;\ntreachery, falsity, double-dealing, lies--these were obvious, but the\n_modus operandi_ was not clear. Why was the cheque torn up and so\ncarelessly flung away? There was a mist of confusion over my mind.\nI thought over my police court experience, the criminal tricks and\npractices I already knew, but these threw no helpful light. Was Kay,\ntoo, involved? Did the warning of a few weeks ago include him as well?\nThere had been forgery, yet again--why was the cheque torn up? The\nmystery of it all increased the growing sense of dread, of fear, of\ncreeping horror. My newspaper work had given me the general feeling\nthat everyone had his price ... but between friends in adversity,\nEnglishmen, gentlemen as well ... was it then true literally of\n_everybody_?\n\nAfter a time I collected the two documents and pieced them together\nagain between the pages of a book, lest someone might enter and\ndiscover them. The doctor was not coming that day, but there might be\nother visitors. Then it suddenly dawned on me--why hadn\u2019t this occurred\nto me before?--that the whole thing must be a joke after all. Of course\n... why not? It might even have something to do with the r\u00f4le of\nunderstudy in the Sothern Play. It could easily be--oh, surely!--a bit\nof stupid fun on Kay\u2019s part. The carelessness too! Throwing the scraps\nin the basket under my very nose, where anybody could easily see them,\nwhere Mrs. Bernstein might find them, or the woman who came in twice a\nweek to do the room. This was certainly against criminal intent.\n\nThe most far-fetched explanations poured through my mind, invited by\nhope, dressed up by eager desire, then left hanging in mid-air, with\nnot the faintest probability to support them. I deliberately recalled\nthe kind actions, the solicitude, the sharing of receipts, a thousand\nfavourable details, even to the innocent expression and the frank blue\neyes, only to find these routed utterly by two other details; one\nnegative, one vague, yet both insistent; the doctor\u2019s silence and the\nshadow noticed recently on the sleeping face.\n\nIt was eleven o\u2019clock; Boyde had said he would return about four; I\nexpected him, for the doctor, whom he avoided, was not coming. There\nwere five hours of waiting to endure first.\n\nThe situation which another might have tossed aside with a wry laugh at\nhimself for having been a guileless fool, to me seemed portentous with\npain and horror.\n\nI had no plan, however, when the door opened at half-past three, long\nbefore I expected it. There was in me no faintest idea of what I\nwas going to say or do. The book lay on my knee, with the documents\nconcealed between the pages. I had heard no footstep, the rattle\nof the handle was the first sound I caught. Yet the door opened\ndifferently--not quite as Boyde opened it. There was hesitation in\nthe movement. In that hesitation of a mere second there again flashed\nacross my mind a sudden happy certainty; the documents could be\nexplained, it was all a joke somewhere. He had done nothing wrong, he\nwould clear up the whole thing in a moment! Of course! It was my weak,\nfeverish condition that had raised a bogey. A few words from him were\nnow going to destroy it.\n\nThen, instead of Boyde, I saw Grant standing shyly on the threshold,\nthe young actor who had pawned his overcoat. This time he wore it.\n\nThe relief I felt at seeing him betrayed me to myself.\n\nI welcomed him so heartily that his shyness disappeared. He had dropped\nin by chance, he told me. I gave him an account of my discovery, and he\nbent over me to see the cheque and letter, asking if the writing was\nreally Kay\u2019s. He looked very grave.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s not unlike it, but it isn\u2019t his,\u201d I replied. \u201cWhat do you make of\nit? Why are they torn up?\u201d I was burning to hear what he thought.\n\nHe did not answer for a moment. He asked instead a number of questions\nabout Boyde, listening closely to my account of him, which mentioned\nthe good with the bad. He went down to examine the packing-case and\nreturned with the report that my cheque-book was not there. I asked\nhim again what he made of it all, waiting with nervous anxiety for his\nverdict, but again he put me off. He wanted to know when I last heard\nfrom Kay. Eight days ago, I told him, from Toronto. He asked numerous\nquestions. He seemed as puzzled as I was.\n\n\u201cWhat do you think it means?\u201d I begged. \u201cWhat\u2019s he been doing?\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you _quite_ positive it\u2019s not Kay\u2019s writing,\u201d he urged, \u201ceven, for\ninstance, if he was--\u201d he hesitated--\u201ca bit tight at the time?\u201d\n\nI clung to the faint hope. \u201cWell, of course--I really couldn\u2019t say.\nI\u2019ve never seen his writing when he was tight. I suppose----\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause if it isn\u2019t,\u201d interrupted Grant decisively, \u201cit means that\nBoyde has been getting money from him and using it for himself.\u201d\n\nI realized then that he was trying to make things less grave than they\nreally were, trying to make it easier for me in the best way he could.\nThe torn-up cheque proved his suggestion foolish.\n\n\u201cDo you think he\u2019s an absolute scoundrel?\u201d I asked point blank, unable\nto bear the suspense any longer. \u201cReally a criminal--is he?\u201d\n\n\u201cI wanted to tell you the other day,\u201d he said quickly. \u201cOnly you were\ntoo ill. I thought it would upset you.\u201d\n\n\u201cCriminal? Tell me at once. He may be in any minute. I must know.\u201d\n\n\u201cHis reputation is bad,\u201d was the reply, \u201cas bad as it could be. I\u2019ve\nheard things about him. He\u2019s already been in gaol. He\u2019s supposed to be\na bit dangerous.\u201d\n\nI was listening for the sound of a step on the stairs. I lowered my\nvoice a little. It was clear to me that Grant did not want to tell me\nall he knew.\n\n\u201cSo--what do you make, then, of this?\u201d I asked in a half whisper,\npointing to the documents.\n\nHe looked at me hard a moment, then gave his reply, also in an\nundertone:\n\n\u201cPractising--I think.\u201d\n\nI did not understand him. The uncertainty of his meaning, the queer\nsuggestion in the word he used, gave my imagination a horrid twist. I\nasked again, my heart banging against my ribs:\n\n\u201cPractising--what?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe didn\u2019t think it a successful--copy--so he tore it up,\u201d Grant\nexplained.\n\n\u201cYou mean--forgery?\u201d\n\n\u201cI think so. That is--I\u2019m afraid so.\u201d\n\nI think the universe changed for me in that moment; something I had\nbeen standing on for years collapsed; I was left hanging in space\nwithout a platform, without a rudder. An odd helplessness came over me.\nGrant, of course, had only confirmed my own suspicions, had merely put\ninto words what, actually, I had known for a long time; but it was just\nthis hearing the verdict spoken by another that hurt so abominably.\nGrant had quietly torn off me the last veil of self-deception. I could\nno longer pretend to myself. It seems absurdly out of proportion now on\nlooking back; at the time the shock was appalling.\n\nWe talked together, we tried to devise some plan of action, we reached\nno settled conclusion. The minutes passed. I never ceased listening for\nthe familiar footstep on the stairs. Of one thing only was I perfectly\nsure: whatever happened, I intended to take charge of it all myself.\nI would deal with Boyde in my own way. The principle lay clear and\ndecided in me; I meant to frighten Boyde as severely as I possibly\ncould, then to give him another chance. Anticipation made the minutes\ncrawl. Grant talked a good deal.\n\n\u201cHe spotted you and Kay from the start,\u201d I heard Grant saying. \u201cHe saw\nyour ignorance of the town, your inexperience, your generosity. He felt\nsure of free lodging anyhow, perhaps a good deal more----\u201d\n\nA faint thud sounded from downstairs.\n\n\u201cThere he is,\u201d I said instantly. \u201cThat\u2019s the front door banging. He\u2019s\ncoming. Keep quiet.\u201d\n\nI told Grant to get into the cupboard and hide. He was only just\nconcealed in the deep cupboard and the door drawn to, when the other\ndoor opened quietly and Boyde came in.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nBoyde was in cheerful, smiling mood. He put some grapes on the bed,\nasked how I felt, and told me about his trip to Patterson and his\nfailure to get the organist job. \u201cIt\u2019s bitterly cold,\u201d he said. \u201cI\n_was_ glad of your overcoat. You _have_ been a brick,\u201d he added, \u201cbut\nI\u2019ll make it all up to you when my luck turns.\u201d He crossed over to the\nsofa and sat down, stretching himself, obviously tired out.\n\n\u201cNever mind, old chap; we shall get along somehow. Probably Kay will\nsend us something more before long. He\u2019s always faithful. Let\u2019s see,\u201d I\nwent on casually, \u201cwhen was it we heard from him last?\u201d\n\n\u201cA week ago,\u201d said Boyde quite naturally. \u201cToronto, wasn\u2019t it? Or\nBuffalo--no, no, Toronto.\u201d\n\nWe laughed together. \u201cSo it was,\u201d I agreed carelessly. Then I pretended\nto hesitate. \u201cBut that was nearly a fortnight ago,\u201d I suddenly\ncorrected my memory; \u201csurely we\u2019ve heard since that. Only the other\nday--or did I dream it?\u201d\n\nBoyde stared at me lazily through the cigarette smoke. \u201cNo, I think\nnot,\u201d he said quietly. \u201cThere was only the one letter.\u201d He showed no\nsign of disturbance.\n\nI lay still, pretending to think back a bit, then heaved myself slowly\nup in bed.\n\n\u201cBut, Boyde, I remember the letter,\u201d I exclaimed with conviction,\nstaring into his face, \u201cI\u2019m certain I do--another letter. Why, of\ncourse! I remember your showing it to me. There was a cheque in it--a\ncheque for seventy-five dollars!\u201d\n\nHis easy laugh, his voice and manner, the perfect naturalness of his\nreply made me feel sure that I was in the wrong. He knew absolutely\nnothing of the cheque and letter. He was innocent. It was not _his_\ndoing, at any rate.\n\n\u201cYou must have been dreaming,\u201d he said, looking me full in the face\nwith his big, honest blue eyes. \u201cIt\u2019s too good to be true.\u201d He gave\na wry little chuckle that only a clear conscience could have made\npossible.\n\nI lay back in bed and laughed with him, partly from weakness, partly\nto hide my shaking, which I was terrified he would notice. I changed\nthe subject a moment later, as he said nothing more; then, still acting\non impulse and with no preconceived plan or idea of my next move, I\nsat bolt upright in bed and fixed him with my eyes. I assumed a very\nconvinced and serious tone. I felt serious and convinced. The mood of\nhorror had rushed suddenly up in me:\n\n\u201cBoyde, I remember it all now.\u201d I spoke with great emphasis. \u201cIt was\nnot a dream at all. You came to this bedside and showed me the letter.\nYou held it out for me to read. It was dated from my old Toronto Dairy\nthree days ago. _You showed me the cheque too._ It was for seventy-five\ndollars, signed by Kay, and made out to your order. I remember every\nsingle detail of it suddenly. And--_so do you_.\u201d\n\nHe gazed at me as a little child might gaze. He made no movement. His\neyes neither dropped nor flinched. He merely gazed--with a puzzled,\ninnocent, guileless stare. A pained expression then stole across his\nface.\n\n\u201cBlackwood, what on earth do you mean? It\u2019s not likely I should forget\nit if seventy-five dollars came, is it?\u201d he went on quickly in his\nmost sympathetic voice, an aggrieved note in it that stirred all my\naffection instantly. \u201cThe most he has sent so far is ten dollars. I\nshould have given you the money at once. And _you know it_, Blackwood.\u201d\nHe got up and walked quietly to and fro.\n\nIt was the way he uttered those last four words that sent ice down my\nspine and brought the mood of horror back. Why this was so, I cannot\nexplain. Perhaps the phrase rang false; perhaps its over-emphasis\nfailed. I only know that my hesitation vanished. That prepared plan so\nstrangely matured, yet hidden so deeply that it emerged only step by\nstep as it was needed, pushed up another move into my upper mind.\n\nI got slowly out of bed. Perspiration broke out all over me. I felt\nvery weak. The wound stretched. Straight before me, a long way off it\nseemed, was the sofa. Boyde stood watching my every move. He stood like\na statue.\n\nBefore I had taken a couple of slow, small steps, crawling round the\nedge of the bed, he did two quick things that in a flash brought final\nconviction to me, so that I knew beyond any doubt the hideous thing\nwas true: he moved suddenly across the room, passing in front of me,\nthough not near enough to touch; three rapid strides and he was against\nthe window--with his back to the light. It was dusk. He wished to\nconceal his face from me. His left arm hung at his side, the hand on a\nlevel with the dressing-table, and I saw his fingers feeling along its\nsurface, though his eyes never left my own. I saw them find, then grip,\nthe white-handled razor, and pull it slowly towards him. These were\nthe two things that betrayed him, but chiefly, I think, the first of\nthem--concealing his face.\n\nAt the same instant there was a faint sound on my left. I had\ncompletely forgotten the existence of my visitor; I now remembered him,\nfor that sound came from inside the cupboard, and Grant, evidently,\nwas ready to leap out. But I did not want Grant. I intended the whole\nmatter to be between Boyde and myself. A flash of understanding had\ngiven me complete assurance. Boyde, I now knew, was a coward, a\nsneak, a cheat, a liar, and worse besides. In spite of my physical\nweakness I had the upper hand. I was about to give him the fright of\nhis life, though still with no clear idea exactly how this was to\nbe accomplished. All I knew was that I meant to terrify him, then\nforgive--and save him from himself.\n\n\u201cNot yet!\u201d I called out, yet so quickly, and with so little apparent\nmeaning, that Boyde, I think, hardly heard me, and certainly did not\nunderstand. Grant, however, understood. He told me later it was just in\ntime to prevent his coming out.\n\nWith one hand supporting me on the edge of the dressing-table, I was\nnow close to Boyde, bent double in front of him, staring up into his\neyes.\n\n\u201cGive me that razor,\u201d I said, and he obeyed, as I felt sure he would.\nThat is, his fingers moved away from it, and I quickly pushed it out of\nhis reach. With my other hand I seized his arm. I raised my face to his\nas much as my wound allowed.\n\n\u201cBoyde,\u201d I said, \u201cI know _everything_!\u201d\n\nIf I expected a collapse, as I think was the case, I was disappointed.\nNothing happened. He did not move. Not a muscle, not even an eyelash\nflickered. He stared down into my upturned face without a word, waiting\nfor what was coming; control of the features, of mouth and eyes in\nparticular, was absolute. And it was this silence, this calm assurance,\ngiving me no help, even making it more difficult for me, that, I think,\ncombined to set me going. I was fairly wound up; I saw red. The words\npoured out, hot, bitter, scathing.\n\nThe moment I ended, he smiled, as he said very quietly:\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know _what_ you\u2019re talking about. You are fearfully excited\nand you will regret your words. I do wish you would get back into bed.\nAll this is awfully bad for you in your weak condition.\u201d\n\nI was flabbergasted. All the wind had been taken from my sails. A touch\nwould have sent me to the floor, but he did not touch me. He merely\ngazed into my face with an air of calm patience that had pity in it, a\nhint even of contempt.\n\nThere was a little silence after he had spoken. For a moment I had no\nnotion what to do or say. Then, quite suddenly, up flashed my plan. I\nwas less excited now, my voice was well under control.\n\n\u201cBoyde,\u201d I said, \u201cnow, at last, I\u2019ve caught you in a worse thing still.\nYou have forged a letter and a signature. You have forged a cheque as\nwell. And you will have to go to prison for it. There is a headquarters\ndetective outside waiting for me to call him in. You are going to be\narrested.\u201d\n\nThere was a moment of taut suspense I can never forget. He stared down\nat me, obviously at first incredulous. A slight twitch ran across his\nface, nothing more; beyond a trifling extra bend of the head, he made\nno movement. He was judging me, weighing my words, wondering if they\nwere true. The next second I saw that he believed me.\n\nWhat happened then to his face I had never seen before, though I\nwas often to see it afterwards in other faces during my criminal\nexperience. The skin slowly blanched to the hue of flour; the cheeks\nsagged; the mouth opened; the look in his eyes was dreadful. The whole\nface disintegrated, as it were. He had the air of a hunted animal at\nbay. At the same time there was a convulsive movement of his entire\nbody that frightened me. I did not know what he was going to do. It\nwas really made up of several movements, one starting after another.\nFirst, his knees gave way and he nearly collapsed. Then, evidently, he\nconsidered the possibility of knocking me down and dashing out of the\nroom. His eyes ran swiftly over everything at once, it seemed, noticing\nthe razor certainly, but finding me awkwardly between him and the end\nof the table where it lay. He half turned in the direction of the\nwindow behind him, thinking doubtless of escape by the leads outside.\nHe gave finally a sort of lurch towards me, but this I did not actually\nsee, for I had turned away and was crawling painfully over to the door.\nIt was Grant who supplied this detail of description later. His idea,\nprobably, was to knock me down and make a bolt for it. But, whatever it\nwas he really intended to do, in the end he did nothing, for at this\nsecond Grant emerged suddenly from his cupboard.\n\nI was already leaning with my back against the door and caught the\nlook of terror and blank amazement that came into Boyde\u2019s face, as he\nsaw another man whom he certainly took at first for the detective.\nHe stood stock still like a petrified figure. A moment later he\nrecognized him as the Englishman he had met at the cricket match. He\nsubsided backwards, half on to the window-sill and half against the\ndressing-table. The drama of the scene suddenly occurred to me for\nthe first time, as I watched Grant walk over and put the razor in his\npocket, and then sit down quietly on the sofa. He spoke no single word.\nHe merely sat and watched.\n\nWith my back against the door I then went on talking quickly. Yet\nbehind my anger and disgust, I felt the old pity surge up; already I\nwas sorry for him; I would presently forgive him. But, first, there was\nsomething else to be done. The plan lay quite clear in my mind.\n\nClosely watched by Grant and myself, Boyde had meanwhile moved out into\nthe room, still without speaking a single word, and flung himself on\nthe bed where he began to cry like a child. He sobbed convulsively,\nthough whether the tears were of sorrow or of fear, I could not tell.\nWe watched him for some time in silence. It was some minutes later that\nhe sat up, still shaking with sobs, and tried to speak. In an utterly\nbroken voice he begged for mercy, not for himself--he swore he didn\u2019t\n\u201ccare a damn\u201d about his \u201cworthless self\u201d--but for his mother\u2019s sake.\nIt would break her heart, if she heard about it; it would kill her. He\nimplored me for another chance. His flow of words never ceased. If I\nwould let him off this time, he begged, he would do anything I wished,\nanything, anything in the world. He would leave New York, he would go\nhome and enlist ... but forgery meant years in gaol. \u201cI am only thirty,\nand the sentence would mean the end of my life....\u201d\n\nPerhaps instinct warned me he was lying, perhaps he over-acted, I\ncannot say; but the entire scene, the sobs, the impassioned language,\nthe anguish in the broken voice, the ruin of the face I had once\nthought innocent, all left me without emotion. I was exhausted too. I\nhad witnessed similar scenes between detectives and their prisoners,\nthe former not only unmoved, but bored and even angry. I understood now\nhow they felt. But there was the balance of my plan to be carried out;\nmy original principle had never wavered; I believed the terror he had\nfelt would make him run straight in future; the moment had now come, I\nthought, to tell him he was forgiven. So I left the door--he screamed,\nthinking I was going to open it--and crawled slowly over to him.\nPutting my hand on his shoulder, and using the gentlest, kindest voice\nI could find, I told him he should have another chance, but only one.\nAll excitement had died out of me, I felt real pity, the old affection\nrose, I urged and begged him to \u201crun straight\u201d from this moment....\n\n\u201cBut--there is a condition,\u201d I finished my sermon.\n\n\u201cAnything, Blackwood. I\u2019ll do anything you say.\u201d The tears were still\nhanging on his cheeks.\n\n\u201cYou will sit down and write what I dictate.\u201d\n\nWe found a sheet of foolscap, and he sat down at the little desk,\nwhile I stood over him and dictated the words of a full confession. In\nwriting it, Boyde\u2019s hand was as steady as that of a clerk making an\nunimportant entry in an office book. He came to the end and looked up\nat me enquiringly.\n\n\u201cNow write a duplicate,\u201d I said, \u201cin your other handwriting, the one\nyou meant to be a copy of Kay\u2019s.\u201d\n\nHe did this too; to an inexperienced eye the difference was\nextraordinary. I asked Grant to witness it with me, and when this was\nfinished I waved the document in the other\u2019s face. \u201cI shall keep this,\u201d\nI told him gravely, \u201cand if ever you go wrong again, it will mean\ntwenty years in prison.\u201d I do not think he knew what I knew at that\nmoment; _viz._ that a confession signed \u201cunder duress\u201d was not evidence\nin a court of law. He said very simply, gazing into my eyes: \u201cYou\u2019ve\nsaved my life, Blackwood. I shall never forget this day. My temptations\nhave been awful, but from this moment I mean to run straight, perfectly\nstraight.\u201d Words of gratitude followed in a flood. He shook my hand,\nbegging to be allowed to help me back into bed.\n\n\u201cI must first tell the detective I\u2019ve withdrawn the charge,\u201d I said.\n\u201cI must send him away. He doesn\u2019t know your name.\u201d Boyde thanked me\nvolubly again, as I crawled to the door, closed it again, and stood in\nthe cold passage a minute or two. \u201cThe man\u2019s gone,\u201d I said, when I came\nback.\n\n\u201cWhen--when am I to leave this room?\u201d he asked quietly. I told him he\ncould stay. The matter was forgiven and forgotten. He began to cry\nagain....\n\nFor some time after Grant had gone, we were alone. Boyde talked a\nlittle, repeating his gratitude. I asked him one question only: had\nhe been in gaol before? \u201cI would rather not answer that, if you don\u2019t\nmind,\u201d he said. I did not press him, for he had answered it. \u201cI shall\nnever, never go wrong again,\u201d he kept repeating. And all the time he\ntalked--I learned this later--there lay in his coat pocket, that was my\ncoat pocket, the sum of ten dollars which belonged to me. He had sold\ntwo of my translations to McCloy, telling me McCloy had refused them.\n\nI have a vague recollection of that evening and of our talk, for\ncomplete exhaustion had come over me from the moment I got back into\nbed. It was not unconsciousness, but probably half unconsciousness. I\nwas only dimly aware of what was going on. I remember Boyde going out\nto eat something at Krisch\u2019s, then coming back. I woke in darkness with\na sudden start. The gas was out, and I wondered why. There was a noise\nclose beside me--something swishing. My mind cleared in a flash.\n\n\u201cPut it back, Boyde,\u201d I called out. \u201cPut it back at once.\u201d\n\nA thin summer coat hung on the door, too thin and shabby to wear, too\nragged to pawn. I had placed the confession in the inside pocket, and\nit was this coat I now heard swishing faintly against the wood.\n\nNo answer came, but I plainly heard the soft tread of bare feet along\nthe carpet. I got up and lit the gas. Boyde lay apparently sleeping\nsoundly on the floor. I noticed how well-nourished his body looked.\n_He_, at any rate, had not been starving. Then I moved to the door,\nfound the confession, took it out, and crawled back into bed. From that\nmoment the paper never left me; it was with me when later the doctor\nallowed me out, and at night it lay under my pillow while I slept. I\nkept the torn scraps of the cheque and letter with it, and I hid the\nrazor. Boyde never shaved himself in that room again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nThe episode, though far from being finished, had a shattering effect\nupon me. If a friend, so close to me by ties of affection and\ngratitude, could act like this, how would others, less intimately\nrelated, behave? My trust in people was killed. A sense of deep\nloneliness was added to the other miseries of that bed.\n\nOnly my books comforted and helped ... they did not fail ... their\nteachings stood stiff and firm like a steel rod that never bent or\nshifted, much less broke. Since these notes tell merely the superficial\nepisodes of my early years, further mention of what the books meant to\nme is unnecessary; enough--more than enough, probably--has already been\ntold to show the background which explains motive and conduct. The main\nstream of my life, at any rate, ran deeper and ever deeper, its centre\nof gravity far below anything that could possibly come to me in the\nordinary world or outward happenings. Big dreams were in me at white\nheat, burning, burning ... and all external events were coloured by\nthem.\n\nThere followed now a more peaceful though short period, during which\nBoyde behaved well, with kindness and signs of true penitence. Grant\nwarned me this was acting, and that I had been a fool to forgive and\nlet him stay on, but I would not listen, and followed my own principle.\nI did not trust him, but never let him know it, showing him full\nconfidence, with all the former intimacy and affection. I felt sure\nthis was the right and only way. His attitude to me had something of a\ndog\u2019s devotion in it. I fully believed he was \u201crunning straight\u201d again.\nI watched him closely, while hiding suspicion carefully away.\n\nNovember drew to a close; Kay sent no more money; the debt to Mrs.\nBernstein grew; income became smaller and smaller. I wrote to McCloy,\nwho replied with a brief word that I could come back when I was well\nagain.\n\nBefore leaving my bed, however, at the end of the month, another\nincident occurred that shocked me far more than the first.\n\nOne afternoon about a week after the confession, there came a knock\nat the door, and to my complete surprise, in walked a banker, who had\noften stayed in our house in England. I was startled and annoyed, for\nI feared he would write home and tell the truth that my letters so\ncarefully concealed. It was a couple of years since I had seen him. How\nhad he found me out? His first sentence told me: \u201cBut this is dreadful.\nI knew nothing about your being ill. I didn\u2019t know you were in New York\neven. An Englishman named Boyde came to my office yesterday and told\nme.\u201d He looked me over with anxiety. \u201cBut your bones are showing! Have\nyou been very bad? Why on earth didn\u2019t you let me know, my dear fellow?\u201d\n\nI had spoken of this acquaintance in Boyde\u2019s presence, and he had\nevidently made a note of name and address. I explained quickly that\nI had not been seriously ill, that I was nearly well and had a good\ndoctor, and that I was on the staff of the _Evening Sun_ and doing\nwell. I told him briefly about my Canadian career as well. The banker\nwas a very decent fellow. His visit was brief, but he was very kind,\nwell-meaning and sympathetic--only--I did not want him! He promised,\nanyhow, he would not write to my father--was glad, I think, to be\nrelieved of the necessity--and before going he absolutely insisted\non leaving some money with me. I refused and refused again. But my\nown exhaustion and his persistence resulted in his leaving all he had\non him at the moment--$32. Months later I discovered that Boyde had\nobtained other sums from him on the plea that I needed a specialist,\nand there may have been yet further amounts of similar kind for all I\nknew.\n\nOn coming in, Boyde took his scolding with a smile; he had \u201cacted for\nthe best....\u201d We discussed how the money should be spent, agreeing\nupon $10 to Mrs. Bernstein, $10 to the doctor next day, $3 to redeem\nKay\u2019s overcoat, which we would send to him, and the balance in hand,\nafter laying in a store of dried apples, oatmeal and condensed milk, as\nour supplies were now exhausted. Next morning, when he left at eight\no\u2019clock for a studio appointment and choir rehearsal, I gave him the\nmoney for the landlady and a dollar he asked for himself. The balance\nhe put back in the drawer of the little desk beside my bed.\n\nIt was a happier morning than I had known for long; the feeling that\nI had something to give to the doctor made the hours pass quickly,\nand when he arrived at three, in his very best mood, he was obviously\npleased on hearing that I could easily spare $10. The relief was\nwritten on his beaming face. He thanked me warmly. \u201cI do really need\nit,\u201d he said with emphasis, \u201cor I couldn\u2019t take it from you.\u201d We passed\na delightful hour or two; I was strong enough to play the fiddle to\nhim; we talked ... the happiest afternoon I had yet known in that room\ncame to an end; he prepared to go. Pointing to the drawer, I asked him\nto take the money out. He did so. At least he opened the drawer. He\nopened all four drawers. The money was not there.\n\nThe most painful part of it, I think, was the look on his face as he\npresently went out. He did not believe me. I had found it impossible\nto mention Boyde. I had been speechless. I had no explanation to give.\nBy the expression on the old German\u2019s face as he left the room I could\nsee he thought I was lying to him. His disappointment in me was greater\nthan his disappointment over the money. It was a bitter moment--even\nmore bitter than the further treachery of my companion....\n\nI was alone with my thoughts and feelings. I was alone for four\ndays--and four nights. Boyde, that is, did not return till four\ndays had passed, while the doctor stayed away three days. Whether\neither of them had said anything to Mrs. Bernstein on their way out,\nBoyde promising payment perhaps, the doctor letting fall something\nderogatory, I did not know. Mrs. Bernstein, anyhow, was very\nunpleasant during those four awful days. Boyde had not even given her\nthe $10. She paid me dreadful visits, she threatened to sell my things\n(what? I wondered), to turn me out; she sent up hardly any food....\n\nWaiting for Boyde\u2019s step, listening all day, all night ... I needed my\nbooks, my dreams, my inner crack, as I had never needed them before\nduring those horrible four days. They seemed an eternity. The long\nnights, of course, were by far the worse; the dreams, the expectancy,\nfor ever anticipating the familiar tread of stockinged feet on the\nstairs, wondering what in the world had happened, how things would\nend.... Had he been arrested, perhaps for something terrible? They were\nhaunted nights that made me dread the first sign of coming dusk. It\nseemed like weeks, an incalculable time altogether had passed since I\nhad seen him.... Then the spider took the place of the other vermin.\nI have always particularly disliked spiders, and this one was the\nfather of them all; though it was the horror of him, not the physical\npresence, that haunted my nights so persistently. He was, I am sure,\nthe Spider Idea. He originated in a room in Toronto, where a friend\nfoolishly let his prototype, a tarantula, escape, and where it hid all\nnight. It was my room. He came from Florida with a case of bananas. He\nwas very big, if sluggish, his swollen body and hairy black legs the\nnastiest I had ever seen. I spent the night with this monster on the\nloose, and the first thing in the morning I saw him, low down on the\nwall, quite close to me. He had crept for warmth to a pipe near the hot\nair register.\n\nThis spider now came at me, stirred into life by the chance activity\nof some memory cell. He came crawling across the leads, dragging his\nbulging body slowly, then feeling over the smooth glass with his legs\nthat were like black brushes a chimney sweep might use. Up the stairs\nhe came too, but sideways there, being too large to move in his usual\nway; first three legs on one side, then three legs on the other,\nheaving himself along, the mass of his body between them sloping like\na boat at sea. The fat body was derived, I\u2019m sure, from the shock\nof noticing Boyde\u2019s well-fed appearance.... There were other things\nbesides the spider, the mind, doubtless, being a little overwrought.\n\nOne of these \u201cother things\u201d was real--a yellow-haired woman who aired\nwhat the papers called her \u201cshapely legs\u201d in silk tights for a living.\nPauline M---- was her name, and she was leading lady in the \u201cNight Owls\nCompany,\u201d then playing at Tony Pastor\u2019s Music Hall in 14th Street,\nor, perhaps, it was at Koster and Biel\u2019s Hall further up town. I have\nforgotten. In any case, Boyde had mentioned the Company to me in some\nconnexion or other. He knew her.\n\nHer visit to me has always seemed vague and hazy; shrouded in mist\nof some kind, the mist of my suffering mind, I imagine. There lies a\nfeverish touch of fantasy all over it. It was on the evening of the\nsecond day since Boyde had disappeared, though I could have sworn that\nat least a week\u2019s loneliness had intervened. It _was_ the second day,\nI know, because the doctor came on the fourth. During the afternoon\nan unintelligible telegram had come, sent from a Broadway office:\n\u201c_Don\u2019t be anxious--have surprising news for you--no drinking--home\nthis afternoon.----B._\u201d There was not much comfort in it, though at\nleast I knew then he had not been arrested, but an hour or so later a\nsecond telegram had arrived, sent from an office above 42nd Street:\n\u201c_Married Pauline this afternoon.----B._\u201d It all mystified, confused\nand troubled me extremely, and the strain on nerves and emotions had\nbeen so prolonged that, I think, I was half stupefied with it all, half\nstupid certainly.\n\nAt any rate, the visit always seemed a sort of unreal visit, veiled\nas it were, and shadowy. Two thoughts were in my mind when the knock\nsounded on the door: food and Boyde. I was always listening intently\nfor his tread, but I was also listening for Mrs. Bernstein\u2019s footstep\nwith a possible tray. It was after six o\u2019clock; since coffee and bread\nat 8.30 in the morning I had eaten nothing, for our own supplies\nwere finished. Instead of Boyde or the tray, however, in walked the\nwoman with yellow hair and statuesque figure. She wore furs, she was\nover-dressed and painted, she reeked of scent. To me it was a kind of\nnightmare vision.\n\nDetails of her long visit I remember but very few. She at once\nannounced herself--\u201cI am Pauline M----\u201d and asked excitedly, \u201cAre\nyou Blackwood?\u201d She was in a \u201cstate.\u201d Her great figure filled the\nlittle room. She poured out a torrent of words in a cockney voice.\nHer face was flaming red beneath the paint. Occasionally she swept\nabout. The name of Boyde recurred frequently. She was attacking me,\nI gathered. Boyde had said this and that about me. I understood less\nthan nothing. I remember asking her to sit down, and that she refused,\nand that presently I asked something else: \u201cHas he married you?\u201d and\nthat she suddenly caught sight of the telegrams lying on my bed--I had\npointed--then picked them up and read them. She came closer to me while\nshe did this, so that I caught the stink of spirits.\n\nIt was all very muddled and confused to me, and I made no attempt to\ntalk. I heard her begging me to \u201cgive him back\u201d to her, that she loved\nhim, that I had \u201cpoisoned his mind\u201d against her--threats and beseeching\noddly mingled. But the telegrams seemed to sober her a little, for I\nremember her becoming abruptly more quiet, almost maudlin, and pouring\nout an endless story about Boyde who was, apparently, \u201cfull of money\n... full of liquor\u201d ... and full of anger against me because _he_ had\nbeen \u201csupporting\u201d me and I had shown \u201cbase ingratitude.\u201d... I was too\nbewildered to feel much. It numbed me. I couldn\u2019t make sense of it.\nI couldn\u2019t realize how Boyde had deliberately left me alone so long.\nSomething monstrous and inhuman touched it all.\n\nShe went away eventually in a calmer state, though leaving me in\na condition that was far from calm. She went, begging me to \u201csend\nhim back\u201d to her when he came home, but half realizing, I gathered,\nthat the boot was on the other leg, so far as Boyde and myself were\nconcerned. She was still angry with me in a vague unjust sort of way,\nnot knowing whom to believe probably, nor exactly what had happened.\nShe flounced out of the room in a whirl of excitement and cockney\nsentences, and I never saw her again. My tray arrived within a few\nminutes of her welcome departure.... I spent an appalling night. Boyde,\nthe yellow-haired woman, Mrs. Bernstein, the old German, the spider,\nsteps on the stairs a hundred times that came to nothing.... I wished\nonce or twice that I were dead.... The door did not open....\n\nIt never rains but it pours. Two days later the doctor came in the\nafternoon, in the blackest mood I had yet encountered. I rather\nexpected his visit, and though dreading it, I also longed for it,\nlonged to see someone--a human being. He came sharp at three, attended\nto me, and left again. The visit lasted perhaps ten or fifteen minutes,\nand during the whole time he spoke no single word, not even greeting\nme when he entered, or saying good-bye when he went out. His face was\nblack, aged, terrible in the suffering it wore. I had meant to tell\nhim at last about Boyde, unable any longer to keep it to myself. I\nsimply _must_ tell someone. But not a syllable could I get out. When\nthe old German had gone, however, I felt sure it was his own mysterious\nsuffering, and not any feeling against myself, that caused his strange\nbehaviour. I knew, too, that he would come again, and thus I got some\ncomfort from his silent, rapid visit. This was on the fourth day since\nBoyde deserted; it was the day on which he came back.\n\nHe came back; his money had given out; he had nowhere to sleep.\n\nIt was night, somewhere about ten o\u2019clock. I was falling into an uneasy\ndoze, the kind of doze that introduced the spider, when the door opened\nsoftly. There was no knock. I had heard no footstep. The door just\nopened and he came in.\n\nEvery nerve in me became alert. Truth to tell, there was no emotion\nin me of any sort or kind. I was numb, exhausted to the bone. I lay\nstill and stared at him. He looked sleek and even prosperous. He looked\ngorged with food. His face was a little swollen. The big blue eyes were\nclear. He let the eyeglass fall, gazing at me, while a smile broke over\nhis face. I was so glad to see him, so relieved to have him back, that,\nthough no emotion beyond that of suspense ended was in me, I felt, as\nonce before with the doctor, a lump rise in my throat. His bloated\nexpression distressed me vaguely. At first he said nothing, but walked\nacross the room on tiptoe, as though pretending I was asleep and he\nfeared to wake me.\n\nMy tongue loosened suddenly. The very words I have not forgotten. A\nmatter that had not lain in my mind for days came uppermost:\n\n\u201cDid you send off the overcoat to Kay?\u201d\n\nHe nodded, but without looking at me. It was a lie, I knew. My eyes\nfollowed him round, as he began to undress. For several minutes I said\nnothing. Then other words came to me:\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve been alone four days and nights.\u201d\n\nSilence.\n\n\u201cWithout food--or anybody.\u201d\n\nSilence, but he turned his back to me.\n\n\u201cWithout money.\u201d\n\nSilence. He stood quite motionless.\n\n\u201cI might have died. I might have gone crazy.\u201d\n\nSilence.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s been awful--the loneliness and wondering----\u201d\n\nHe half turned, but instantly turned back again. No sound escaped him.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve been thinking about you--and wondering day and night. Are you\nreally married? Pauline\u2019s been here--this afternoon.\u201d\n\nHis silence was broken by a sort of gulp, and he bent over. My mistake\nabout the date of the woman\u2019s visit was intentional--I thought it might\nopen his lips; I did not correct it. He half turned to look at me, but\nagain instantly hid his face as before. Then he abruptly sat down on\nthe sofa, leaning against the back, his head in his hands. I raised\nmyself in bed, never taking my eyes off him.\n\n\u201cI got your telegrams. Have you nothing to say? No explanation? Have\nyou brought any food, any money? You have had money--all this time.\u201d\n\nSilence, broken only by another gulp.\n\n\u201cI saw you take the money out of the drawer. I said nothing because I\nthought you were going to get me things. I _trusted_ you.\u201d\n\nHe turned all at once and faced me, though keeping his eyes always\nsteadily on the floor. The tears were streaming down his face like rain.\n\n\u201cAre you tired?\u201d I asked. \u201cYou\u2019d better lie down and go to sleep. You\ncan talk to-morrow.\u201d\n\nIt was this that finished him. He had reached the breaking point.\n\nThere is no heroism in me; it was simply that I needed him, rotten as\nhe was, heartless, cruel, vile as well; I funked another spell of that\nawful loneliness; I knew him now for a coward and a beast, but I could\nnot face another night alone. That complete loneliness had been too\nhorrible. A wild animal was better than that. Boyde was of the hyena\ntype, but a hyena was better than a spider. It was neither generosity\nnor nobility that made me listen to his ridiculous and lying story of\nan \u201cawful and terrible temptation,\u201d of a \u201cfearful experience with a\nwoman\u201d who had drugged him.... The tale spun itself far into the night,\nthe razor and the confession were under my pillow, I fell asleep, dead\nwith exhaustion, while he was still explaining something about a \u201cwoman\nnamed Pauline M----\u201d who had \u201cdeceived me in a most extraordinary\nway....\u201d\n\nThe following day, in the morning--Dr. Huebner came unexpectedly. Boyde\nhad gone out before I woke. This time he was a radiant Dr. Jekyll, and\nI told him the whole story. His only comment, looking severely at me\nthrough the big spectacles, was: \u201cI expected it. He is a confidence\nman. I knew it the first time I saw him. You have kicked the devil out,\nof course?\u201d\n\nA violent disagreement that was almost a quarrel followed.\n\n\u201cI simply do not understand you,\u201d he said at last, in complete disgust.\nIt was only the wondrous, beaming happy mood he was in that prevented\nhis being really angry. He threw his hands up and snorted. \u201cYou are\neither a fool or a saint, and--I\u2019m sure you\u2019re not a saint.\u201d He was\nvery much upset.\n\nI did not yield. There was something in me that persuaded me to forgive\nBoyde and to give him yet another chance. I told Boyde this in very\nplain language. I claim no credit--I have never felt the smallest\ncredit--for what I did. It was simply that somehow it seemed impossible\n_not_ to forgive him--anything. But the time was near, though the\nfeeling of forgiveness still held true in me, when my forgiveness took\nanother form. Thirty years ago these little incidents occurred. It\nseems like thirty days.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\nIt is a mercy one cannot see the future. In that New York misery,\npresent and to follow, had I known that some fifteen years later I\nshould be my own master, living more or less \u201clike a gentleman,\u201d\nearning my livelihood, though a very bare one, by writing, I could\nnever have faced what I did face. Any value that may have lain in the\nexperiences would certainly have been missed, at any rate. If one\nknew that the future promised better things, there is no patience in\nhuman beings that could hold and wait for it; if, on the other hand,\nit promised worse, I have met no courage that could bear the present.\nThose who preach \u201clive in the present only\u201d have common sense on their\nside.\n\nWith the memory of the past, similarly, such folk show wisdom.\nReincarnation is an interesting theory to many; yet to recall past\nlives could have but one effect--to render one ineffective now. To\nrecall the failures of a mere forty years is bad enough; to look back\nover a hundred lives would be disastrous: one could only sit down and\ncry.\n\nDecember had come with its cold and bitter winds, and the doctor, ever\nfaithful, had let me up. I went for my first little walk, leaning\non Boyde\u2019s arm. Round Gramercy Park we crawled slowly, and that\nfirst taste of fresh air, the sound of wind in the leafless trees,\na faint hint of the sea that reaches even the city streets, gave me\nan unforgettable happiness and yearning. The plan to settle in the\nbackwoods again obsessed me. A little later I had almost persuaded\nthe doctor, and Kay in my letters, to take up a claim north of the\nMuskoka Lakes where we had spent such a happy summer. Boyde was to come\ntoo--\u201cas a sort of excitement, I suppose!\u201d was the doctor\u2019s bitter\ncomment.\n\nI grew gradually stronger. Reporting was still impossible, but,\nintroduced by Boyde, I earned something by posing in the studios. A\n\u201csitting\u201d was three hours. Some artists paid by the hour, but Charles\nDana Gibson, then drawing his weekly cartoons in _Life_, always paid\nfor a full sitting, though he might use his model for an hour only.\nHe was a rapid worker, and a good fellow; he never forgot to ask\nif one was tired of any particular attitude; my first pose to him\nwas for a broken-down actor leaning against a hoarding covered with\nadvertisements, the joke being something about a bill-board and a\nboard-bill. I was thrilled when it appeared in _Life_. There was always\na great rush among the models for Gibson\u2019s studio. The only other poses\nI remember are swinging a golf club and sitting for a bishop\u2019s arms and\nhands. I wore big sleeves. These, however, were not in Gibson\u2019s studio.\n\nMy memory of this work is dim; it was not unpleasant; only its\nuncertainty against it, though a good week might bring in as much as\nfifteen dollars. Smedley, who illustrated for _Harper\u2019s Magazine_, was\nthe painter we all disliked most; Cox, son of Bishop Cox, Cleveland\nCox being his full name, I think, was a favourite: he was a gentleman.\nThere was Zogbaum too, another illustrator, and there was Lynwood\nPalmer, the horse-painter, and leading artist on _The Rider and\nDriver_, a first-class weekly of that day. \u201cArtist Palmer,\u201d as the\npapers called him later, was a character. His kindness to me stands\nout. He had very great talent--for getting the likeness of a horse.\nWe called him \u201cThe Horse.\u201d He made a success at his work, painted\nthe \u201cKing\u2019s Horses and Men\u201d in subsequent years, and settled down\neventually--he was an Englishman--I believe, at Heston, Hounslow. His\nNew York studio was in Fifth Avenue. Many a time he gave me food there.\n\n\u201cArtist Palmer\u201d was self-taught. I forget the whole story, but he\nhad known his hard times. Looking at my dirty boots the first time I\ncalled, he said: \u201cWhen I drove a cab here, my boots were better cleaned\nthan any man\u2019s on the rank.\u201d I was not partial to Dr. Smiles\u2019 \u201cSelf\nHelp.\u201d A \u201cshine\u201d moreover, cost 5 cents, and 5 cents meant a glass of\nbeer and a meal at a free lunch counter--our invariable lunch at that\ntime.\n\nArtist Palmer knew Boyde as a bad lot, and told me that Boyde was lying\nabout me behind my back everywhere, saying that he was supporting me,\npaying for my illness, and while borrowing money in my name, explaining\nthat I spent all he gave me in dissipation! His method was to present a\nforged cheque to some good-natured friend after banking hours, obtain\nthe money, and spend it on himself. A tale of woe, with crocodile\ntears, saved him from subsequent arrest. No one ever prosecuted him.\n\nAll this I kept to myself, though I watched Boyde more and more\nclosely. I knew his studio appointments and made him hand over what\nhe earned. I did also an idiotic thing: I went down and warned the\npastor\u2019s daughter about him. Palmer\u2019s words and my own feeling\npersuaded me to this fatal action. She was a beautiful girl. I received\nfrom her the same kind of treatment that I had shown to the man who\nfirst warned me. Boyde, of course, soon knew about it. We had a scene.\nI saw for the first time anger in his face, black hatred too. He never\nforgave me my stupid indiscretion.... The way he explained my action to\nthe girl herself was characteristic of him, but I only learned later\nhow he managed it. In a voluntary confession he wrote a few weeks\nafterwards, a confession he judged might convince me he was genuinely\nrepentant, and at the same time save him from a grave impending fate,\nhe described it--honestly: \u201cI told her,\u201d he said, \u201cshe was to pay no\nattention to your warnings, because you wanted me to marry one of your\nsisters.\u201d\n\nThe way I lost Boyde temporarily comes a little later in his story,\nbut may be told here because it marked the close of a definite little\nchapter in his career with me.\n\nIt was the first week in December. I came home--from the doctor\u2019s\nhouse--at two in the morning. The gas was burning, but the room was not\ntoo well lit by the single burner. Boyde lay asleep on the floor as\nusual. I moved softly so as not to wake him. I glanced down. What I saw\nstartled me; more, it gave me a horrid turn. The figure on the mattress\nwas another man. It was not Boyde. Then, as I cautiously looked closer,\nI discovered my mistake. It _was_ Boyde after all, but without his\nmoustache.\n\nI stared for some minutes in amazement, for the face was completely\naltered. The drooping, rather heavy moustache had always hidden his\nlips and mouth. I now saw that mouth. And it was a cruel, brutal mouth,\nhard, sensual, with ugly thickish lips, contradicting the kindly\nblue eyes completely. A sentence of detective-sergeant Heidelberg, a\nheadquarters man, came back to me, himself a brutal, heartless type, if\never there was one, but with years of criminal experience behind him:\n\u201cWatch the mouth and hands and feet,\u201d he told me once in court. \u201cThey\ncan fake the eyes dead easy, but they can\u2019t fake the mouth hell give\n\u2019em. They forgit their hands and feet. Watch their mouth and hands and\nfeet--the way these fidgit. That give \u2019em away every time.\u201d\n\nWhy had Boyde done this thing? He was a handsome man, the light\ngraceful moustache was a distinct asset in his appearance. Why had he\nshaved suddenly? I stared at the new horrid face for a long time. He\nlay sleeping like a child.\n\nI turned to examine the room, as changes might be there too. All seemed\nas usual, I saw no difference anywhere. Then my eyes fell on the\ncupboard with its half-opened door. Boyde\u2019s coat, that was my own coat,\nthe only thick one we had between us, hung down from the hook. And, for\nthe first time, the sight of that coat stirred a dim, painful memory\nof the place where I had first worn it. Naturally it was old, but it\nwas also English. The house in Kent rose up--the lime trees on the\nlawn, the tennis courts, my father\u2019s study, his face, my mother\u2019s face,\ntheir voices even, the very smell and atmosphere and feelings of happy\ndays that now seemed for ever lost. The whole machinery of association\nworked suddenly at full pressure. It was like a blow. I realized\nvividly the awful gap between those days and these, between myself as I\nhad been and as I was. A whiff of perfume, a smell, produces this kind\nof evocation in most cases; with me, just then, it was my old English\ncoat.\n\nI remember the strong emotion in me, and that, while still held and\ngripped by it, my eye caught sight of an envelope sticking out of\nthe inside breast pocket. The coat hung by chance in a way that made\nit visible. It might easily fall out altogether. I moved over and\nstretched out a hand to put it safely back and then saw that the\nwriting on the envelope was my own. It was a letter. I took it out. The\naddress was the house in Kent, whose atmosphere still hung about my\nthoughts. The name was my mother\u2019s name. There were other letters, all\nmy own; one to my father; two to my brother, the one being in the world\nI really loved, the only one of the family to whom I had given vague\nhints of the real state of affairs.\n\nSome of the letters were two weeks, three weeks old. In each case the\nfive-cent stamp had been torn off. Five cents meant a glass of lager\nand a meal at a free lunch counter.\n\nThere was no reflection. Holding the letters in my hand, I moved\nacross to the mattress. There was an anger in me that made me afraid,\nafraid of myself. I wanted to kill, I thought I was going to kill, I\nunderstood easily how a man _can_ kill. In my mind was a vivid picture\nof my brother\u2019s face--it was he, not my parents, who moved with me.\nBut I was not excited; ice was in me, not fire. Something else, too,\nat that moment was in my veins, a drug ... a strong dose, too! Five\nminutes before my entire being had been in a state of utter bliss, of\nradiant kindness, of tolerance, of charity to everybody in the world.\nI would have given away my last cent, I would have forgiven anybody\nanything. All this was swept away in an instant. I felt a cold, white\nanger that wanted to kill.\n\nBoyde had not heard my footstep; he lay sound asleep. I tore the\nblanket off. He lay half naked before me, sleek, well-nourished,\nover-fed, loathsome, horrible beyond anything I had known. He turned\nwith a jump and sat up. I held the letters against his face, but he was\nstill dazed with sleep and only stared stupidly, first at the letters,\nthen into my face.\n\nI kicked him; I had my boots on.\n\n\u201cGet up!\u201d I said. And, as he got up, rather heavily, trying to protect\nhimself, I kicked him again and again, till at last he stood upright,\nbut at some distance from me, over towards the window. He understood\nby this time; he saw the letters in my hand. The terror in his face\nsickened me even in my anger. I saw the evil almost visibly leap out.\nThe unfamiliarity, now that the moustache was gone, the cruelty of the\nnaked lips and mouth, the shrinking of the coward in him, these made an\nunforgettable picture. He did not utter a syllable.\n\nMy own utterance, what words I used, I cannot remember. I did not\nremember them even ten minutes afterwards, certainly not the next day,\nwhen I told the doctor what had happened. Two sentences only remain\naccurate: \u201cCome close to me. I\u2019m going to kill you,\u201d and the other:\n\u201cGet ready! I\u2019m going to beat you like an animal!\u201d\n\nHe stood before me, wearing his short day-shirt without a collar, his\nhair untidy, his face white, his half-naked body shaking. He dropped\nto his knees, he got up again and tried to hide, he cringed and whined\nlike a terrified dog, his blue eyes were ghastly. In myself were\nfeelings I had never dreamed I possessed, but whose evidence Boyde\nmust, plainly, have read in my expression. What he could not read, nor\never knew of course, was the fight, the fight of terror, I was having\nwith myself. I felt that once I touched him I should not stop till I\nhad gone too far.\n\nI did not touch him once. Instead, I told him to put on his clothes,\nhis own clothes, and go. He had no clothes of his own. He did not\ngo.... I eventually let him wait till morning, when he could find\nenough rags of sorts to wear in the street.... He explained that he had\nshaved his moustache because the Rockaway Hunt demanded it.\n\nHe had said hardly a word during the entire scene. Half an hour after\nit was over he was sleeping soundly again. I, too, thanks to the drug,\nslept deeply. I woke in the morning to find the mattress on the floor\nunoccupied. Boyde had gone. With him had gone, too, my one thick suit\nand, in addition, every possible article of pawnable or other value\nthat had been in the room or in the packing-case downstairs. Only the\nrazor and the confession had he left behind because they were beneath\nmy pillow.\n\nThe next time we met was in even more painful and dramatic\ncircumstances. I decided it was time to act.\n\nI went down that same morning to police headquarters in Mulberry\nStreet, and swore out a warrant for his arrest on two charges; forgery\nand petit larceny. A theft of more than $25 was grand larceny, a\nconviction, of course, carrying heavier punishment. I reduced his\ntheft of my $32, therefore, by seven dollars, so that, if caught and\nconvicted, his sentence might be as short as possible.\n\nBut for the fact that I was a reporter on a Tammany newspaper,\nnothing would have happened. As it was, no bribe being available, the\npolice refused to take any steps in the matter. The confession, they\nknew, was worthless; it was a small case; no praise in the press, no\nadvertisement, lay in it. \u201cFind out where he is,\u201d Detective Lawler\nsaid, \u201cand let us know. Just telephone and I\u2019ll come up and take him.\nBut _you_ do the huntin\u2019. See? _I_ don\u2019t.\u201d\n\nThis was Detective Lawler, who, under another name came into a story\nyears later--\u201cMax Hensig,\u201d in \u201cThe Listener.\u201d\n\nThe determination to put Boyde where he could no longer harm himself or\nothers held as firm in me as, formerly, the determination to forgive\nhad held. The hunt, however, comes a little later in the story. There\nwas first the explanation of the doctor\u2019s secret. The doctor was my\ncompanion in the dreadful hunt.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\n\nIt was, perhaps, the undigested horror of those days, as also their\nunsatisfied yearnings after beauty, that tried to find expression\nfifteen years later in writing. Once they were over I hid them away,\nthose dreadful weeks, trying to forget them. But nothing is ever\nforgotten, nor is anything finally suppressed in the sense that it\nis done with. Expression, sooner or later, in one form or another,\ninevitably crops up.\n\n\u201cWriting,\u201d declared the old doctor, after a talk about De Quincey, \u201cis\nfunctional.\u201d He had many pet theories or hobbies on which he loved to\nexpatiate. \u201cWriting is as much a function of the system as breathing\nor excretion. What the body takes in and cannot use, it discards.\nWhat the mind takes in and cannot use, it, similarly, excretes. A\nsensitive, impressionable mind receives an incessant bombardment, often\nan intense, terrific bombardment of impressions. Two-thirds of such\nimpressions are never digested, much less used. The artist-temperament\nwhose sensitiveness accumulates a vast store, uses them; the real\nartist, of course, shapes them at the same time. The ordinary man, the\n_Dutzend Mensch_, made in bundles by the dozen, gets few impressions,\nand needs, naturally, no outlet.... Writing is purely functional....\u201d\nIt was one of his numerous pet theories.\n\nI went to his house now every night; he gave me his professional care,\nhe gave me sympathy, he gave me food. Pathetic, wonderful old German!\nHis tenderness was a woman\u2019s, his temper a demon\u2019s. I felt a giant in\nhim somewhere. At close daily quarters his alternate moods perplexed me\nutterly. He had an Irish wife, a kind, motherly, but quite uneducated\nwoman of about forty-five, and a little girl of eight or nine, whose\nwhite face looked as old as her mother\u2019s, and whose diminutive figure\nseemed to me unusual somewhere. Was it not stunted? Her intelligence,\nher odd ways, her brilliant eyes captivated me. She called me \u201cUncle\nDiedel.\u201d She talked, like her mother, broken German. Supper, an\nextremely simple meal, but a feast to me, was always in the basement\nkitchen.\n\nThe tiny wooden house, owning something akin to squatter\u2019s rights\nwhich prevented its demolition, stood in the next block to my own,\nhemmed in by \u201cbrownstone fronts,\u201d but with a miniature garden. New\nYork, that burns anthracite coal, has no blacks and smuts; the trees\nand shrubs were really green; the earth smelt sweet. The little house,\nstanding back from the road, was a paradise to me. Its one ground-floor\napartment was divided by folding doors into consulting- and\nwaiting-rooms. But no patients came, or came so rarely that it was an\nevent when the door-bell rang. The doctor had the greatest difficulty\nin keeping himself and family alive. At supper I used to eat as little\nas possible. He seemed a competent physician. I wondered greatly. As\nwell as real human kindness, there was courage in that little building;\nthere was also a great tragedy I sensed long before I discovered its\nsolution. The strange innocence and ignorance of my up-bringing still\nclung to me.\n\nThe establishment, the poverty, the alternating moods, as I said,\npuzzled me; I was aware of a whole life hidden away from my\nobservation. They were so poor that dinner was the meal of a workman,\nthey could not even keep a servant. There were worrying debts as well.\nOften the doctor was so bearish and irritable that I dared not say a\nword, his wife got curses and abuse, he would almost kick the child,\nfinding fault with such sneers and rudeness that I vowed to myself I\nwould never eat his food again. Then, after a momentary absence in his\nworkshop upstairs, where he kept a lathe and made beautiful chessmen,\nhe would come slowly stumbling down again, and the door would open to a\nwholly different being. Bent, as always, but well poised and vigorous,\nwith bright smiling eyes, benevolent yet rugged face, every gesture\nfull of gentle kindness, he would pat his old wife on the shoulder and\ntake the child upon his knee, and beg me to play the fiddle to him or\nto draw my chair up for an intimate talk. He would light his great\nmeerschaum pipe and beam upon the world through the blue smoke like\nsome old jolly idol. The change seemed miraculous.\n\nHis talk seemed, at the time, wonderful to me. He would discourse\non Kant, Novalis, Heine, on music, science, astronomy--\u201cwhen your\ntroubles seem at their worst,\u201d he would say, \u201clook up at the stars\nfor half an hour, _with imagination_, and you\u2019ll see your troubles\nin a new perspective\u201d--on religion, literature and life, on anything\nand everything, while downstairs his kindly old wife prepared the\nFrankfurters and sauerkraut and coffee.\n\nNeither mother nor child, I noticed, paid much attention to his\nattacks. The little girl, who called her father \u201cOtto,\u201d sat up with\nus night after night till two in the morning, and hated going to bed.\nShe listened spellbound to the stream of talk. I still see the dingy,\nlamp-lit room in the heart of the roaring city, the white-haired old\ndoctor, pipe in mouth, the operating chair in the middle of the floor,\nthe little pale-faced child with her odd expression of maturity as she\nlooked from him to me, then led me by the hand to our late meal in the\ngloomy basement. I often waited achingly for that meal, having eaten\nnothing since breakfast. Would he never stop talking...?\n\nWe talked of Boyde--his face. The doctor\u2019s reading of Boyde\u2019s face was\nthat it was a bad, deceitful, clever face, evil, brutal and cruel. I\nmentioned the man\u2019s various acts of kindness. \u201cBait,\u201d he exclaimed,\nwith a scornful snort, \u201cmere bait! He wanted a free lodging. He had\nplenty of money all along, but the free bed gave him more--to spend on\nhimself while you starved.\u201d\n\nHe talked on about faces.... Handsome ones he either disliked or\ndistrusted, handsome features like Boyde\u2019s were too often a cloak that\nhelped to hide and deceive. Behind such faces, as a rule, lay either\nbadness or vacuity; good looks were the most misleading thing in the\nworld. Expression rarely accompanied good looks, good features. He was\noff on a pet hobby, he waxed eloquent. Beautiful women--he spoke of\ngood features chiefly--were almost invariably wicked, or else empty. Of\n\u201cSociety Beauties\u201d he was particularly contemptuous. \u201cRegular features,\nfine eyes, perfect skin, but no expression--no soul within. The\ndeer-like eyes, the calm, proud loveliness people rave about is mere\nvacancy. Pfui!\u201d\n\nHis habit of staring into the mirror came back to me, and I ventured a\nquestion. He hesitated a moment, then got up and led me to the glass,\nwhere, without a word, he began to gaze at his own reflection, making\nthe familiar grimaces, smiling, screwing up his eyes, stretching his\nlips, raising his eyebrows, pulling his moustache about until, at last,\nI burst into laughter I could control no longer.\n\nHe turned in astonishment. He examined my own face closely for some\ntime. \u201cYou are too young still,\u201d he said. \u201cYou have no lines. In my\nface, you see, lies all my past, layer below layer, skin behind skin,\nmy face of middle age, of early manhood, of youth, of childhood. It\ncarries me right back.\u201d\n\nHe began showing me again, pointing to his reflection as he did so.\n\u201cThat\u2019s middle age ... that\u2019s youth.... Ach! and there\u2019s the boy\u2019s\nface, look!\u201d\n\nI did not dare to look, for explosions of laughter were in my throat,\nand I should have hurt his feelings dreadfully. I understood what he\nmeant, however.\n\n\u201cWith the face of each period,\u201d he explained, \u201crise the memories,\nfeelings and emotions of that particular period, its point of view, its\nfears, ambitions--_hopes_. I live again momentarily in it. I am a young\nman again, a boy, a child. I am, at any rate, no longer myself--_as\nI now am_.\u201d The way he spoke these four words was very grave and\nsad. \u201cNow,\u201d he went on with a sigh, \u201cyou understand the charm of the\nmirror. It means escape from self. This is the ultimate teaching of\nall religion--to escape from Self.\u201d He chuckled. \u201cThe mirror is my\nReligion.\u201d\n\nDuring this odd little scene I felt closer to his secret than ever\nbefore. There was something fine and lovely in him, something big,\nbut it lay in ruins. Had my attitude been a little different, had I\nnot laughed for instance, I think he would have taken me into his\nconfidence there and then. But the opportunity was lost this time.\nHe asked, instead, for music, old, simple German songs being what he\nliked most. He would lean back in his big chair, puff his great pipe,\nclose his eyes, and hum the melodies softly to himself while I played.\nIt was easy to vamp a sort of accompaniment with double stopping.\nHe dreamed of old days, I suppose; it was a variant of the mirror\ngame. Tschaikowsky, Meyer-Helmund, Massenet he also liked, but it was\nSchubert, Schumann, even Mendelssohn he always hummed to. Of \u201c_Ich\ngrolle-nicht, auch wenn das Herz mir bricht_,\u201d he never tired. The\nlittle child would dart up from the basement at the first sound of the\nfiddle, show her old, white face at the door, then creep in, sit in a\ncorner, and never take her eyes from \u201cthe orchestra.\u201d When it stopped\nplaying, she was off again in a second.\n\nOne item, while speaking of the music, stands out--chanting to the\nfiddle a certain passage from De Quincey. The \u201cConfessions\u201d fascinated\nhim; the description of the privations in London, the scenes with\nAnne when she first brought him out of her scanty money the reviving\nglass of port, her abrupt disappearance finally and his pathetic\nfaithful search, the lonely hours in the empty house in Greek Street,\nbut particularly his prolonged fight against the drug. It was the\nInvocation to Opium, a passage of haunting beauty, however, he loved\nso much that he chanted it over and over to himself. The first time he\ndid this I invented a soft running accompaniment on the lower strings,\nusing double stopping. The mute was on. My voice added the bass. It\nwas a curious composition of which he never tired; it moved him very\ndeeply; I have even seen tears trickling down his cheeks when it was\nover. He always left his chair for this performance, walking slowly to\nand fro while he chanted the rhythmical, sonorous sentences:\n\n  \u201cO just, subtle and mighty opium! that, to the hearts of rich and\n  poor alike, for the wounds that will never heal, and for the pangs\n  of grief that tempt the spirit to rebel, bringest an assuaging\n  balm;--eloquent opium! that with thy potent rhetoric stealest away\n  the purposes of wrath.... Thou buildest upon the bosom of darkness,\n  out of the fantastic imagery of the brain, cities and temples,\n  beyond the art of Phidias and Praxiteles, beyond the splendours\n  of Babylon and Hekatompylos; ... and hast the keys of Paradise, O\n  just, subtle and mighty opium...!\u201d\n\n\u201c_Ach! wie prachtvoll!_\u201d he would cry a moment later, \u201c_wie\nwunderschoen!_\u201d and then would recite a translation he had made into\nhis own tongue, and a very fine one too. Quite delighted, he would\nrepeat the passage over and over again, pausing to compare the two\nversions, fixing me with his big eyes in order to increase his own\npleasure in the music by witnessing the evidence of my own.\n\nTruly he was a Jekyll and Hyde.\n\nIt was only during the Jekyll mood this kind of scene took place; in\nthe Jekyll happy humour, too, that I had told him about my strange\nup-bringing. \u201cNow I understand better,\u201d he said, \u201cwhy you are still so\nyoung and know so little of life, and why you are so foolishly good to\nBoyde\u201d--which annoyed me, because I considered myself now quite old and\na thorough man of the world as well.\n\nIt was in this mood, too, that we discussed my own theories and beliefs\n... a life in the woods as well. Kay, himself and his family, Boyde\nand I were to settle in the backwoods ... perhaps I was as eloquent\nas I was earnest; he listened attentively; sometimes he seemed almost\nready to consent; he understood, at any rate, the deep spell that\nNature had for me. But he only smiled when I said I was a failure and\nan outcast. My life had hardly begun yet! No man was a failure who had\nan object and worked for it, even though he never got within miles of\naccomplishment. \u201cA life for a man is a life _among_ men,\u201d he would say\nwith emphasis. \u201cThe woods are all right as an interlude, but not as a\ncareer.\u201d He was very sympathetic, but he shook his head violently. \u201cIn\naction lies a man\u2019s safety in life,\u201d he growled at me. \u201cThe world needs\nmen of action, not dreamers,\u201d he repeated and repeated, \u201cand Buddhism\nhas never yet produced a man of action. Do _something_, even if it\nprove the wrong thing. Dreaming, without action, is the quickest way\nof self-corruption I know.\u201d And he would then urge me again to become\na doctor, after which he would proceed to dream himself for an hour or\ntwo ... showing that all his life he had been far more of a dreamer\nthan a man of action....\n\nIt was chance that suddenly led me into the doctor\u2019s secret. He became\nfor me, from that moment, the most pathetic and tragic of human beings.\nMy own troubles seemed insignificant.\n\nOne afternoon early in December, gloomy, very cold, a studio\nappointment failed, and I decided to go to the wooden house. It was\nthat or the public library, but I wanted a talk, I wanted also to get\nreally warm. I had no overcoat; the doctor\u2019s room was always like an\noven. The vermin I had grown accustomed to and hardly noticed them. An\nidea of food, too, was in my mind, for the free lunch glass of beer and\nsalt chip-potatoes was all I had eaten since breakfast. Seven o\u2019clock,\nhowever, was my usual hour of visit, I had never been in the afternoon\nbefore. A memorable visit; we were alone; he told me his secret very\nquietly.\n\nI found him in his most awful mood, rude, his nerves unbearably on\nedge. He said he had not expected me, but when I tried to go, he became\nangry and begged me to stay, saying that I helped him more than I could\never know. Had I brought the fiddle? I said I would run up the street\nand get it. \u201cNo,\u201d he implored, \u201cdon\u2019t go now. You can go later--before\nsupper. _Please_ do not leave me--_please_!\u201d He then said he would tell\nme something no one else knew, no one except his wife. I wondered\nwhat was coming, and felt strangely touched and moved at his treating\nme with such confidence. His manner was so pathetic, and he seemed\nsuddenly to have become weak and helpless, and somehow or other it was\nin my power to do him a service. I was thrilled and full of expectation.\n\nBut, before he began to tell me, he went up to a little cabinet with a\nglass door and took out a small bottle full of a white powder, bearing\nthe word, the magical word \u201cMajendie\u201d--a word I can never forget as\nlong as I live--and took some of the powder and made a solution and\nthen sucked some of it up with a needle and turned to me. His face was\nswollen and looked terrible, for the eyes glowed so hotly, and the skin\nwas so red and white in patches. Then he began to open his waistcoat\nand shirt till his chest was bare. \u201cLook,\u201d he said, for I half moved\naside, and when I looked I saw he was covered with hundreds of small\nred sores.\n\nEvidently my face betrayed shrinking and horror, for the old man\nlaughed and said \u201cOh, I\u2019m not a leper. They\u2019re only blisters,\u201d and then\nfinding a little clear space on his skin, put the needle of his syringe\nthrough the flesh and injected the fluid into his body. He next quickly\nput his finger over the spot and rubbed to and fro for about a minute,\nstaring steadily at me while he did so.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s morphine,\u201d he said in a dead voice, \u201cand the rubbing is\nnecessary to prevent a blister forming.\u201d\n\nI knew nothing about morphine except the name, and I was disappointed\nrather than thrilled, but the next minute he gave me all the thrill I\nwanted, and more besides:\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve been fighting it for two years,\u201d he said quietly in German, still\nrubbing the spot and staring hard at me, \u201cand I am slowly getting the\nbetter of it. If I don\u2019t succeed, it means I die.\u201d A cold grim smile\nthat made me shudder stole over his swollen face. \u201c_Death_,\u201d he added.\n\nI felt his despair, the despair of doubt, as he said this, and in his\neyes blazed suddenly all the suppressed depths of suffering and emotion\nthat he usually kept hidden. Such a flood of sympathy for the old man\nrose in me that I did not know what to say. Of drugs and their power I\nknew nothing. I stood and stared in silence, but his voice and manner\nmade me realize one thing: that here was an awful battle, a struggle\nbetween human courage, will and endurance, on the one hand, and some\ntremendous power on the other--a struggle to the death. The word\n\u201cmorphine\u201d seemed to me some sort of demon.\n\nHe sat down in his armchair, lit his pipe, pulled up the operating\nchair for me to lie on beside him, and then told me very quietly why he\ntook it. Already his face looked different, as the morphine circulated\nthrough the blood, and he smiled and wore a genial happy air of\nbenevolence that made him at once a different man.\n\n\u201cI shall have peace now for several hours,\u201d he said, \u201cbut I don\u2019t take\nmorphine for pleasure. I take it because it is the only way to keep\nmyself alive and to keep my wife and child from starving. If I can\ngradually wean myself from it I shall live for years. If not, and I\ncannot make the dose less and less, it will kill me very soon. I am\nold, you see.\u201d\n\nHe told me very simply, but very graphically, speaking in German\nas he loved to do, that three years ago he had enjoyed a good and\nlucrative practice. But he had embarked upon some experiments in his\nleg--I never understood exactly what and did not dare to ask--and to\nobserve these properly he was obliged to use the knife without taking\nany an\u00e6sthetic. His wife stood beside him and staunched the blood,\nbut the pain and shock proved more than he was equal to, being an old\nman, and a collapse followed. All his patients left him, for he could\nnot attend to them, and in order to be in a fit condition to see even\nchance callers he had to inject morphine. Thus the habit began, and\nbefore he knew where he was the thing had him by the throat. He was a\nman of great natural strength of will and he began to stop it, but the\nfight was far harder than he had imagined, and his nerves seemed to\nhave gone to pieces. Unless he had the support of a dose, he was so\nbrutal, irritable and rude that no one could stay in his presence, and\nno patient would come near him. He never got his practice back again,\nand whenever a stray patient called now he had to take an injection, or\nhe would be sure to behave in such a way that the man or woman would\nnever return. He used atropine to mix with his morphine, and thus tried\ngradually to cure himself, and lately had succeeded in reducing the\nquantity very considerably, but it was an awful fight, and he admitted\nthe end was uncertain. He said I helped him to bear the strain. My\npresence, he said, the music too, gave him some sort of comfort and\nstrength, and he was always glad to see me. When I was there he could\nhold out longer than when he was alone, and one reason he was telling\nme all this intimate history--telling it to a comparative stranger--was\nbecause he wished me to try and help him more.\n\nI stammered some words in broken German about being eager and willing\nto help, and he smiled and said he thanked me and \u201cwe would make the\nfight together.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe charm is very powerful,\u201d he went on, \u201cespecially to a nature like\nmine, for when I take this stuff the world becomes full of wonder\nand mystery again, just as it was for me sixty years ago when I was\na boy with burning hopes and high dreams. But far more than that, I\n_believe in people_ again. That makes more difference in your life than\nanything else, for to lose faith in men makes life unbearable. Bitter\nexperiences have shaken my trust and belief in my fellow creatures. But\nwith this stuff in me I find it again and feel at peace with the world.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is why you sometimes approve and at other times disapprove of my\nattitude towards Boyde?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d he said, with a most benign and delightful expression in his\neyes. \u201cGive him every chance. There\u2019s lots of good in him. He feels, no\ndoubt, that everyone who knows about him distrusts him. Weak men will\nalways try more or less to live up to what is expected of them, for\nthey are easily hypnotised. If they feel every one expects only evil\nfrom them their chief incentive is lost.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen I ought never to let him think I\u2019ve lost belief in him?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever. Frighten him, kick him, urge him along with violence, anything\nto make him move of himself towards being decent; but never suggest he\n_cannot_ be, and _is not_, decent and straight.\u201d\n\nHow we talked that night--and how I suffered from hunger, for when\nmorphine was in him the old doctor ate little, and this time he was\nfull of ideas and ideals, and had so sympathetic a listener, that he\nforgot I might want food, and it was not till after one in the morning\nthat he began to flag and thought of coffee. We went down into the\nkitchen, and there we found the patient wife dozing on the wooden\nchair, and the child reading a book--\u201cUndine\u201d--on the deal table, with\nher eyes so bright I thought they were going to shoot out flame. She\nlooked up and stared at us for a long time before she got herself back\nfrom that enchanted region of woods and pools and moonlight.... Strange\nsupper parties they were, in that quiet, basement-kitchen between one\nand two of the winter mornings of December, 1892....\n\nOtto Huebner, having broken the ice, told me much of his own life then.\nOwing to family disputes he left the manufacturing town in Northern\nGermany where he was born and brought up, and came to New York as a\nyoung man. He never saw his parents again, and took out naturalization\npapers at once. For years he was employed by Steinway\u2019s piano factory,\nas a common workman at first, then as a skilled man. He was unmarried,\nhe saved money, he began to study at night; the passion for medicine\nwas so strong in him that he made up his mind to become a doctor. He\nattended lectures when he could. It was a life of slavery, of incessant\ntoil both day and night. He was over forty when he began studying for\nthe examinations, and it took him seven years to attain his end. His\nhealth had suffered during this strenuous time. He had married well\nafter fifty....\n\nDear, lovable, much-to-be-pitied old man, my heart went out to him; I\nwas determined to do everything I could to help. I owed him much for\ncounsel, sympathy and kindness, to say nothing of medical attendance\nand food besides, at a time, too, when I believed myself a complete\nfailure and thought my life was ruined. England, my family, all that I\nhad been accustomed to seemed utterly remote; I had cut myself off; I\nhad tumbled into quite another world, and the only friend I had, the\nonly being I trusted, even loved as well, was the old German morphine\nvictim.\n\nMeanwhile, it had been very wonderful to me to see an irritable, savage\nold man change in a few minutes into a kindly, genial, tender-hearted\nbeing, and I began to feel an absorbing curiosity about this fine\nwhite powder labelled \u201cMajendie.\u201d I invariably now rubbed in the dose,\nfinding with increasing difficulty a clear space of skin in the poor\nworn old body. I watched the change steal over him. It seemed to me\npure magic. It began more and more to fascinate me.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\n\nA few days after the doctor\u2019s secret had been laid bare I received a\nbrief, curt letter from McCloy to say he could not keep my place open\nfor ever; how soon was I coming back? Six weeks had passed already. The\ndoctor convinced me I was not yet in a condition to face ten hours\u2019\nhard reporting a day. I answered McCloy as best I could, thanking him,\nand telling the facts. Dr. Huebner also wrote him a line.\n\nI was distressed and anxious, none the less, and that evening I was\ncertainly not at my best. I gave the old man but little help. His\nmethod of using me was simple: if I could manage to interest him,\nby talk, by music, by books, by anything at all, it enabled him to\npostpone the hour of injection. Each time we tried to make this\ninterval longer; each time, he told me, he took a smaller quantity.\n\nOn this particular evening, hungry and depressed as I was, I failed\nto be \u201cinteresting,\u201d and no forced attempt could make me so. My own\ncondition, in any case, was pretty low; my friend\u2019s dejection and\nexcessive irritability proved the last straw. We disagreed, we hurt\neach other\u2019s feelings a little, I relapsed into silence finally, the\ngloom was dreadful. My own troubles just then were uppermost in my\nmind. If I lost my job, I kept thinking, what on earth would happen to\nme?...\n\nThe old man presently, and long before his time, got up in silence\nand went to the glass cabinet where now the Majendie bottle stood. He\nno longer kept it in his workshop out of sight. His face was black as\nthunder. Conscience pricked me; I roused myself, saying something by\nway of trying to prevent, whereupon he turned and said savagely: \u201cDo\nyou want to see me die? Or lose my reason?\u201d\n\nAs already mentioned, I was totally ignorant of drugs and their effect.\nHis words, which I took literally, frightened me. I watched him mix the\nsolution, fill his syringe slowly with shaking hands, then unfasten his\nclothes. I found the place and rubbed the skin as usual, while he sat\nback in his big chair, in sullen silence. He drew the needle out; his\nface was awful; he sighed and groaned; I really thought he was going to\ncollapse before my eyes, perhaps to die. I rubbed and rubbed ... while\nthe magical change stole slowly over him. His face cleared, his smile\ncame back, he looked younger, his very voice became mellow instead of\nharsh and rough, his eyes lit up with happiness.\n\nThe contrast was astonishing, the effect so rapid. And, for the first\ntime, a longing rose in me: if only _I_ could have some of this\nbewitching panacea! My troubles would all melt away. I should feel\nhappy. Hunger also would disappear. Was it so terrible and dangerous\nafter all?\n\nThe thought went through me like a burning flame.\n\nIt was a thought, merely. I had no intention of asking, not even of\nsuggesting, such a thing. I would not have dared to; the old man, I\nknew, besides, would never, never consent; his obstinacy was beyond any\npower of mine to modify. None the less, the thought and desire were\ndistinctly in me at that moment. It even crossed my mind that he was\nselfish, inconsiderate, unkind, not to realize that a little, oh, just\na tiny dose, would help me and make me happy too.\n\nThe change in him was now complete, he settled back in his deep chair.\nI heard him asking for the fiddle. I remember the effort it cost me to\nsay something about being ready to try, and how I concealed my sulky\nface as I crossed the room to open my case. I felt disappointed, rather\nsore, a trifle angry too; he could so easily open the gates of heaven\nfor me. I fumbled with the case, delaying on purpose, for no music lay\nin me, and I did not want to play, I felt miserable all over. My back\nwas turned to him. And then I heard my name softly spoken close behind\nme.\n\nI turned with a start, it was the doctor\u2019s voice, its peculiar softness\nstruck me. He was coming slowly across the room, a curious smile on his\nface, peering at me over the top of his spectacles, the shoulders bent\nforward a little, his gait slouching, his slippers dragging along the\ncarpet, his white hair tumbling about his forehead, moving slowly at\nme--and in his raised right hand was a needle poised to strike.\n\nI knew what it meant: he was going to give me morphia without even\nbeing asked. A queer revulsion of feeling came over me. He was saying\nsomething, but I did not hear the words properly, nor understand\nthem, at any rate; his voice, too, was so low and soft. My brain was\nin a whirl. Something in the old man\u2019s appearance frightened me. The\nidea of the drug now also frightened me. Then, suddenly, a complete\nrecklessness rushed over me.\n\n\u201cTake off your coat,\u201d I heard him say. \u201cAnd now roll\nyour sleeve up. _So! Nun, jetzt_\u201d--he gazed hard into my\neyes--\u201c_aber--nur--ausnahmsweise!_\u201d With slow earnest emphasis he\nrepeated the words: \u201cAs an exception--only!\u201d\n\nI watched him choose the place on my arm, I watched the needle go in\nwith its little prick, I watched him slowly press the small piston\nthat injected the poison into my blood. He, for his part, never\nonce moved his eyes from mine till the operation was ended, and\nmy coat was on again. He wore that curious smile the whole time.\n\u201cYou needed it to-night,\u201d he said, \u201cjust a little, a very weak\ndose--_aber--nur--ausnahmsweise_!\u201d He walked over and put the little\nMajendie phial back upon the shelf. Then he filled his pipe and drew up\nthe operating chair for me to lie on. His eye was constantly on me. The\nmusic was forgotten. He wanted to talk.\n\nWhether he had done this thing really to give me a little happiness, or\nwhether his idea was to make me \u201cinteresting\u201d for his own sake, I do\nnot know. The fact is that within three minutes of the needle\u2019s prick I\nwas in a state of absolute bliss.\n\nA little warm sensation, accompanied by the faintest possible\nsuggestion of nausea which was probably my own imagination, passed up\nthe spine into the head. Something cleared in my brain, then burst. A\nsense of thawing followed, the melting away of all the things that had\nbeen making me unhappy. I began to glow all over. Hope, happiness and a\ngorgeous confidence flowed in; benevolence, enthusiasm, charity flooded\nme to the brim. I wanted to forgive Boyde _everything_ to the end of\ntime, sacrifice my entire life to cure my old German friend; everything\nbase, unworthy, sordid in me, it seemed, had dropped away....\n\nThe experience is too well-known to bear another description; it\nvaries, of course, with individuals; varies, too, according to the\nstate of health or sickness, according to whether it is needed or not\nreally needed; and while some feel what I felt, others merely sleep,\nor, on the contrary, cannot sleep at all. The strength of the dose,\nnaturally, is also an important item. Individual reactions, anyhow, are\nvery different, and with Kay, to whom later the doctor gave it too,\nthree doses produced no effect whatever, while the fourth brought on\nthe cumulative result of all four at once, so that we had to walk him\nup and down, pouring strong black coffee down his unwilling throat,\nurging him violently not to sleep--the only thing he wanted to do--or\nhe would, old Huebner assured him--never wake again.... In my case, at\nany rate, wasted physically as I was, empty of food, under-nourished\nfor many weeks, below par being a mild description of my body, the\nresult seemed a radiance that touched ecstasy. It was, of course, an\nintensification of consciousness.\n\nSuch intensification, I well knew, could be produced by better if more\ndifficult ways, ways that caused no reaction, ways that constructed\ninstead of destroyed ... and the first pleasure I derived from my\nexperience, the interest that first stirred flashingly and at once\nthrough my cleared mind, was the absolute conviction that the teaching\nand theories in my books were true....\n\nThe doctor sat, smiling at me from his chair.\n\n\u201cI would not do this for many,\u201d he said in German, \u201cbut for you it\nhas no danger. _You_ could stop anything. You have real will.\u201d After\na pause he added: \u201cNow we are happy; we are both happy. Let us dream\nwithout thinking. Let us _realize_ our happiness!...\u201d\n\nThe hours passed while we talked, and my hunger was forgotten. I only\nwanted one thing to complete my happiness--I wanted Kay, I wanted\nBoyde, and I wanted one figure from across the sea, my brother. Had\nthese three come to join the circle in that dingy consulting-room, my\nheaven, it seemed to me, would have been made perfect....\n\nThe passing of time was not marked. I played the fiddle, and we chanted\nthe old man\u2019s favourite passage: \u201cO just, subtle and mighty opium!\u201d ...\nits full meaning, with the appeal it held, now all explained to me at\nlast. As I laid the instrument down, I saw the white face of the little\ngirl just inside the half-opened door. She caught my eye, ran up to me,\nand climbed upon my knee.\n\n\u201cOh, Uncle Diedel,\u201d she cried, \u201chow big your eyes are! I do believe\nOtto has given you some of his Majendie medicine. Are you going to die,\ntoo, unless you have it?\u201d\n\nNothing, it seemed, was hidden from the clear vision that lay in me\nthen; the appalling truth flashed into me on the instant. The little,\nstunted figure, the old expression in the pallid child-face, the\nwhiteness of the skin, the brilliant eyes, all were due to the same one\nthing. Did the doctor, her own father, give _her_ the needle too?\n\nIt was on this occasion, this night of my first experience with\nmorphine, that I found my letters with the stamps torn off. I reached\nhome, as described, about two in the morning, still in a state of\nbliss, although the effect of the drug was waning a little then.\nBut there was happiness, affection, forgiveness and charity in my\nheart, I thought. This describes my feelings of the moment certainly.\nHow they were swept away has been already told. So much for the\npseudo-exaltation of the drug! And, while on this subject, the part\nplayed by the drug in this particular little scrap of history may as\nwell be told briefly at once and done with.\n\nThe suggestion that I could \u201cstop anything,\u201d combined with my own\ndesire, was potent. There was another way in which the insidious\npoisoning also worked: I became so \u201cinteresting,\u201d and entertained the\nold doctor so successfully, that he found himself able to do without\nhis own dose. The stern injunction \u201c_nur ausnahmsweise_\u201d was forgotten.\nWithout the stuff in my blood I was gloomy, stupid, dull; with it,\nI became alive and helped him. But the headache and depression, the\nnausea, the black ultimate dejection of the \u201cday after\u201d could be\nremoved by one thing only. Nothing else had the slightest effect, and\nonly another dose could banish these after-effects--a stronger dose.\nWhile the old man was soon able to reduce not only the quantity he\ntook, but the number of injections as well, my own dose, to produce the\ndesired effect, had to be doubled.\n\nEvery night for four weeks that needle pricked me. In my next\nincarnation--if it takes place--I shall still see the German doctor\nslouching across the room at me with the loaded syringe in his poised\nhand, and the strange look in his eyes. It seems an ineradicable\nmemory.... By the end of the four weeks, I was working again on the\nnewspaper; my visits to the wooden house I cut down to two a week, then\none a week. It was a poignant business. He needed me. Desire for the\n\u201cbalm that assuaged,\u201d desire to help the friend who was slowly dying,\ndesire to save myself from obvious destruction, these tugged and tore\nme different ways. For the full story I should have to write another\nbook.... Three things saved me, I think--in the order of their value:\nmy books and beliefs; Nature--my Sundays in Bronx Park or the woods of\nthe Palisades in New Jersey; and, lastly, the power of the doctor\u2019s own\nsuggestion, \u201c_you_ could stop anything!\u201d...\n\nWhen May came, with her wonder and her magic, I was free again, so free\nthat I could play the fiddle and talk to the old man by the hour, and\nfeel even no desire for the drug. Nor has the desire ever returned to\nme from that day to this. An experiment with haschisch, a good deal\nlater, an account of which I wrote for my paper at the time, had no\n\u201cdesire\u201d in it. Foolish and dangerous though the experiment was, of\ncourse, the _cannabis indica_ was not taken for indulgence, nor to\nbring a false temporary happiness into a life I loathed. I did it to\nearn a little extra money; Kay did it with me; three times in all we\ntook it. Some of the effects I tried to describe years later in the\nfirst story of a book, \u201cJohn Silence.\u201d\n\nMy decision, with the steps I had taken, to arrest Boyde, I told to the\ndoctor on the afternoon following the discovery of his treachery with\nmy letters. He approved. This time even his Jekyll personality approved.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll never catch him though,\u201d he growled. \u201cHe\u2019s too clever for you.\nHe\u2019ll hear about the warrant and be out of the State in a day, if not\nout of the country. In Canada they can\u2019t touch him. Besides, the police\nwon\u2019t stir a finger. Oh, you\u2019ll never catch him.\u201d\n\nI felt otherwise, however, I meant to catch him, while at the same time\nI did not want to. The horrible man-hunt began that very night.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\n\nThe search for Boyde was a prolonged nightmare: used several times\nalready, this phrase alone describes it. It lasted over a fortnight.\nEvery night, from nine o\u2019clock till two, or even later in the morning,\nit continued. The old doctor almost invariably came with me. It was\nmid-winter and bitter cold, I still had no overcoat, a thin summer\nvest being my only underwear. The disreputable haunts we searched were\nheated to at least 70\u00b0 F., whereas the street air was commonly not far\nfrom zero, with biting winds or icy moisture that cut like a knife.\nIt must have been the drug that saved me from pneumonia, for I was\nin and out of a dozen haunts each night.... I was a prey to contrary\nand alternating emotions--the desire to let the fellow go free, the\nconviction that it was my duty to save him from himself, to save others\nfrom him as well. The distress, unhappiness and doubt I experienced\nmade that prolonged man-hunt indeed a nightmare.\n\nPlans were laid with care and knowledge. Boyde, we argued, had money,\nor he would have returned to East 19th Street. Had he enough to bribe\nthe police, or to go to Canada? We decided that his contempt for me\nwould outweigh any fear he felt that I might take action. The \u201cNight\nOwls\u201d were now away on tour; he would hardly go after Pauline M----.\nWe concluded he was \u201cdoing the town,\u201d as it was called, and was not\nvery far from East 19th Street. With his outstanding figure and\nappearance, it ought not to be difficult to find some trace of him in\nthe disreputable places. The \u201cTenderloin\u201d--a region about Broadway and\n30th Street, so packed with illegal \u201cjoints\u201d that their tribute to the\npolice was the richest and juiciest of the whole city--was sure to be\nhis hunting ground. To the Tenderloin haunts, accordingly, we went\nthat first night of the chase.\n\nAs a reporter I knew the various places well already, and felt quite\nequal to making my search alone, but the doctor, though in no condition\nto traipse about the icy street after dark, insisted on accompanying\nme. Nothing I said could prevent him coming. Truth to tell, I was not\nsorry to have him with me--in some of the saloons; besides which I had\nno money, and something--lager beer cost only five cents a glass--had\nto be ordered in each place. We hurried from one saloon to another,\nlooking in at various gambling hells, opium joints, dancing places and\nmusic-halls of the poorer kind where men and women met on easy terms,\nand we stayed at each one just long enough to make inquiries, and\nto benefit by the warmth and comfort, without being pestered by the\nhabitual frequenters.\n\nI had in my possession a small photograph of Boyde; it was on tin,\nshowing the head and shoulders; it had been taken one day earlier in\nour acquaintance when we went together to a Dime Museum in 14th Street.\nIt now proved very useful. It showed his full face, big eyes, drooping\nmoustaches and eyeglass. The absence of the moustache altered him a\ngreat deal, but the eyeglass and the six feet two inches in height\ncounterbalanced this.\n\nAt every \u201cjoint\u201d I produced this photograph, asking the attendants,\nbar-tenders, and any women I judged to be frequenters of the place,\nwhether they had seen the original recently, or anyone like him. Some\nlaughed and said they had, others said the opposite, but the majority\nrefused to say anything, showed insolently their suspicion of me and\nmy purpose, and, more than once, made it advisable for us to get out\nbefore we were put out. At such places customers are chary about\ninformation of each other. Among the women, however, were some who knew\nclearly who it was we \u201cwanted,\u201d though saying nothing useful, and soon\nthe doctor decided it was a mistake to show the photograph too much,\nfor Boyde would be warned by these women, while many, fearful that\nthey themselves were \u201cwanted,\u201d would merely lie in self protection,\nand set us upon false trails. Any woman who had not paid her weekly\nblackmail money to the ward man was in danger, and few, to judge by\ntheir appearance, were not involved in robbery, knock-out drops, or\nthe ubiquitous \u201cbadger-game.\u201d Yet these, I knew, were the places Boyde\nwould feel at home in. My being a newspaper man proved of value to us\nmore than once, at any rate. My thoughts, as we sat in a curtained\ncorner of some \u201chell,\u201d whose overheated atmosphere of smoke, scent,\nalcohol and dope was thick enough to cut with a knife, watching,\nwaiting, listening, must be imagined. I watched every arrival. The\ntension on nerves already overstrained was almost unbearable. A habit\nof the doctor\u2019s intensified this strain. He did not, I think, remember\nBoyde very well, and was constantly imagining that he saw him. The\nstreet door would open; he would nudge me and whisper \u201c_Sehen Sie, da\nkommt der Kerl nun endlich...!_\u201d He pointed, my heart leapt into my\nmouth; nothing could induce me to arrest him, it seemed, and my relief\non seeing it was a stranger was always genuine--at the moment.\n\nOne night--or early morning, rather--the doctor, who had been silent\nfor a long time, turned to me with a grey, exhausted face. The morphine\nwas beginning to fail him, and he must inject another dose. This\nhappened several times.... Behind a curtain, or in a place aside where\nwe were not even alone, he opened his clothes, found a clear space of\nskin, and applied the needle, while I rubbed the spot with my finger\nfor about a minute to prevent a blister forming. No one, except perhaps\na very drunken man or woman occasionally, paid the smallest attention\nto the operation; to them it was evidently a familiar and commonplace\noccurrence.... \u201cYou must not stay up any longer,\u201d he would say another\ntime, after a sudden examination of my face. \u201cYou look dreadful. Come,\nwe will go home.\u201d\n\nI was only too glad to be marched off. We paced the icy streets arm\nin arm, numerous people still about on various errands, tramcars and\nelevated trains still roaring, saloons and joints blazing with light,\nwide open till dawn, while the old man, rejuvenated and stimulated by\nthe drug, discoursed eloquently the whole way, I dragging by his side,\nsilent, depressed, weary with pains that seemed more poignant then than\nhunger or mere physical fatigue.\n\nThe next night it would be the same, and the one after that, and the\nnext one after that too--the search continued. It wore me down. I saw\nthe eyeglass staring furtively at me from behind every corner, even in\nthe day-time. His footstep sounded behind me often. At night I locked\nmy door, for fear he might steal back into the room.... Once or twice I\nreported to headquarters that I was on the trail, but the detective had\nlost interest in the case; a conviction was doubtful, anyhow; he was\nnot \u201cgoing to sit around catching flies\u201d; only the fact that I was a\nreporter on the _Sun_ made him pause. \u201cTelephone when you get him,\u201d he\nsaid, \u201cand I\u2019ll come up and do the rest.\u201d Much fresh information about\nBoyde had also come my way; he had even stolen the vases from a Church\ncommunion table--though he denied this in his confession later--and\npawned them. In every direction, and this he did not deny, he had\nborrowed money in my name, giving me the worst possible character while\ndoing so. Probably indeed, I never lived down _all_ he said about me....\n\nIt was a bitter, and apparently, an endless search. From the West Side\njoints, we visited the East Side haunts of vice and dissipation. I now\nknew Boyde too well to think he would \u201cfly high\u201d; his tastes were of\nthe lowest. The ache it all gave me I can never describe....\n\nWe went from place to place as hour after hour passed. We found\nhis trail, and each time we found it my heart failed me. A woman,\ngorgeously painted, showing her silk stockings above the knee, her\natmosphere reeking of bad scent and drink, came sidling up, murmuring\nthis and that.... The Doctor\u2019s eye was on me, though he said no word,\nmade no single gesture.... The tin-type photograph was produced....\n\u201cYep, I seen dat fellar,\u201d grinned the woman in her \u201ctough\u201d bowery\ntalk they all affected in the Tenderloin. \u201cA high flier ... raining\nin London, too\u201d--a gibe at the \u201cEnglish\u201d habit of turning up one\u2019s\ntrousers--with a stream of local slang, oaths, filthy hints and\nrepeated demands to \u201cput \u2019em up,\u201d meaning drinks. Then a whispered\ngrowl from the old German \u201c_Nichts! ... sie luegt ... los mit ihr!_\u201d\nA further stream of lurid insults ... and she was gone, while another\nsidled up a little later. They all knew German, these women. Was not\nNew York the third biggest German city, qua population, in the Empire?\nFew, as a matter of fact, were American. Barring the mulattos and\nquadroon girls, to say nothing of the negresses, the majority were\nFrench, Hungarian, Spanish, Italian, Dutch or some polyglot mixture not\neven the British Museum could define....\n\nNever did the old German\u2019s kindness prove itself as in these hideous\nnight-watches. Apart from all questions of trouble and expense, he was\nobliged to take extra doses of morphine to meet the charge upon his\nsystem, at a time, too, when he was struggling to reduce the quantity.\nCompared to what he did, even the fact that he gave the poison to\nothers, possibly to his own child among them, seemed negligible.\nNot only did he accompany me during the chase, spending hours in\nlow, suffocating dens of beastliness, walking the wind-swept streets\nin mid-winter, suffering insults and acute discomfort, but also he\nbestowed practical care and kindness on me during the day, providing\nme with food (I was in no state even to pose in the studios at the\ntime), and even suggesting that I should fit up a bed in his workshop\nwhere he kept the lathe and made the chessmen. All this, too, from an\nold man, himself in deep misery, and on the losing side of a fight far\nmore terrible than I ever knew or imagined, a fight, _he_ then realized\nalready, was to end before very long in failure, which meant death. The\nstrange, broken old being, twisted and distorted though his nervous\nsystem was by a drug, showed--to me, at any rate--that rare thing\nwhich experience of life proves greater than intellect, than success,\nthan power, or brilliance may achieve--a heart. If reincarnation, with\nits karmic law, be true, either he owed me a heavy debt from some\nforgotten past, or I owe to him a debt some future life will enable,\nand enforce me, to repay.\n\nIt was at the end of the first ten days that, quite by chance, we\nstumbled upon the trail of Boyde. He had been seen in a \u201cswell dive\u201d\non the West Side--with a woman. He was spending money like water.\nHow had he come by it? Whom had he swindled now? We were in the East\nSide, following a false clue, when this information was given to\nus--under conditions impossible to describe--and we hurried across\nto the neighbourhood indicated. An hour later we were only a short\nthirty minutes behind his glittering path. He was visiting expensive\njoints. Champagne flowed. The woman wore furs. He wore a light coloured\nbox-cloth overcoat. Both were \u201chigh fliers.\u201d And he was drinking hard.\n\nThe information, I confess, had the effect of stiffening me. It was\nimpossible not to wonder, as we sat in the cross-town tram of East 23rd\nStreet, whether in his gay career he gave a single thought to the room\nin East 19th Street, where he shared my bed, wore my suit, ate my food,\nsuch as it was, and where he had left me ill, alone and starving. The\nold doctor was grim and silent, but a repressed fury, I could see, bit\ninto him. Was there, perhaps, vengeance, in the old, crumpled man? \u201cNo\nweakness, remember,\u201d he growled from time to time. \u201cI hold him, while\nyou telephone to Mulberry Street. _Pflicht, pflicht!_ It is your duty\nto--to everybody...!\u201d\n\nThe trail led us to Mouquin\u2019s, where he had undoubtedly been shortly\nbefore, then on to a place in 34th Street ... and there we lost it\nhopelessly. It was not a false alarm, but the trail ran up a tree and\nvanished. He had gone home with the woman, but who she was or where she\nlived, not even the ward man--whom I knew by chance, and, equally by\nchance, met at the door--could tell us. I telephoned to headquarters\nto warn Detective Lawler to be in readiness. Lawler was out on a \u201cbig\nstory\u201d elsewhere, but another man would come up with the warrant the\nmoment I sent word. I had, however, no occasion to telephone again that\nnight, nor even the next night, though we must evidently have been\nwithin an ace of catching him. It was like searching for a needle in a\nhaystack, or for a rabbit in a warren. The neighbourhood, this joint in\nparticular, was alive with similar characters; all the women wore furs;\nall the men were tall, many of them had \u201cglass-eyes,\u201d the majority\nseemed English with \u201ctheir trousers turned up.\u201d We sat for hours in one\nden after another, but we caught no further indication of the trail. It\nhad vanished into thin air. And after these two exciting and exhausting\nnights, the old doctor collapsed; he could do no more; he told me he\nfelt unequal to the strain and could not accompany me even one more\ntime. The old man was done.\n\nThe day after the search stopped temporarily, Kay arrived in the city,\nto my great delight. It was a keen relief to have him back. The tour\nhad been a failure, and the company had become stranded in Port Hope,\nOntario. Salaries were never paid; he had received hotel board, railway\nticket, laundry, but rarely any cash. What luggage he possessed was in\nthe Port Hope hotel, held in lieu of payment. It remained there.\n\nWe talked things over, and the news about Boyde, heard now for the\nfirst time in detail, shocked him. There was no doubt or hesitation in\nKay\u2019s mind. \u201cOf course you must arrest him; we\u2019ll go out to-night and\nlook.\u201d We did so, but with no result. Kay had the remains of a borrowed\n$10, we dined at Krisch\u2019s; he had cigarettes, too.... We passed a\nhappy evening, coming home early from the chase. Like myself, he had\nno overcoat, but the money did not reach to getting it from Ikey where\nBoyde had pawned it. We sat indoors, and talked.... Only a short three\nmonths before we had sat talking round a camp-fire on our island. It\nseemed incredible. We discussed my plan for settling in the woods, to\nwhich he was very favourably inclined. Meanwhile, he explained, his\nCompany was preparing another tour with better plays and better cast.\nThey hoped to start out after Christmas, now only a week away. The word\n\u201cChristmas\u201d made us laugh. I still had the Christmas menu of our Hub\ndinner, and we pinned it upon the wall. It might suggest something to\nthe long-suffering Mrs. Bernstein, Kay thought.\n\nBut instead we ate our oatmeal and dried apples....\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\nIt was on the Tuesday before Christmas that I caught Boyde; the day\nalso before the White Star steamers sailed. The cold was Arctic, a\nbiting east wind swept the streets. There was no sun. If ever there was\na Black Tuesday for me it was that 18th of December, 1892.\n\nTowards evening, the doctor, I knew, would expect me as usual; there\nwas nothing to prevent my going; and yet each time the thought cropped\nup automatically in my mind I was aware of a vague, indeterminate\nfeeling that somehow or other I should not go. This dim feeling also\nwas automatic. There was nothing I knew of to induce, much less to\nsupport it. I did not mention it to Kay. I could not understand whence\nit came nor what caused it, but it did not leave me, it kept tugging\nat my nerves. \u201cYou\u2019re not going to the doctor\u2019s to-night,\u201d it said,\n\u201cyou\u2019re going elsewhere.\u201d\n\nAfter dark this odd feeling became more and more insistent, and\nthen all at once it connected itself with Boyde. Quite suddenly\nthis happened. I had not been thinking of Boyde at the moment; now,\nabruptly, up cropped his name and personality. I was to go out and\ncatch him.\n\nMy mind resisted this idea. Several things, besides, were against it.\nIn the first place, we had voluntarily given up the hunt and I was\nresigned to his escape; secondly and thirdly, I dreaded being out\nin the bitter cold, and I badly needed the \u201cassuaging balm\u201d of old\nHuebner\u2019s needle. If the first two were negative inhibitions, the third\nwas decidedly positive. All three had to be conquered if I was to obey\nthe strange prompting which whispered, and kept on whispering: \u201cGo out\nand look. You\u2019ll find him.\u201d\n\nThere was, in addition, the usual minor conflict to which I had grown\nquite accustomed, the conflict between my desire to be relieved of\nan unpleasant \u201cduty,\u201d yet the conviction that it was a duty I had no\nright to shirk. In spite of my resistance, at any rate, the prompting\nstrengthened; as night fell I grew more and more restless and uneasy;\nuntil at last the touch of inevitability that lay behind it all\ndeclared itself--and the breaking point was reached.\n\nI could resist no longer; it was impossible to contain myself. I sprang\nout of my chair and told Kay I was going out to catch Boyde.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t go,\u201d he said. \u201cWaste of time. He\u2019s skipped long ago--been\nwarned.\u201d He muttered something more about the intense cold. \u201cYou\u2019ll\nkill yourself.\u201d\n\nBut the impulsion I felt was irresistible. It was as though some inner\npower drove and guided me. As a matter of fact, I went straight to the\nexact spot where, among the teeming millions of the great city, Boyde\nwas. Fifteen minutes earlier or later, I should have missed him. Also,\nbut for a chance hesitation later--lasting sixty seconds at most--he\nwould have seen me and escaped. The calculation, whether due to\nintelligence or to coincidence, was amazingly precise. I left our room\nat nine o\u2019clock; at a quarter to ten I stood face to face with Boyde.\n\nThe wind was driving a fine dry dust of snow before it, and all who\ncould remained indoors. The streets were deserted; despite the nearness\nof Christmas, signs of bustle and the usual holiday crowd were absent.\nI walked very quickly to keep warm, an odd subconscious excitement in\nme. I seemed to know exactly where I was going, though, had anybody\nasked me, I could not have told them. Up 4th Avenue to 23rd Street,\nthen west across Broadway, I passed 6th and 7th Avenues, with only one\npause of a moment. At the corner of 7th Avenue I hesitated, uncertain\nwhether to turn north, or to continue west towards 8th Avenue. A\npoliceman was standing outside a saloon side-door, a man I had known\nin the Tombs police court; an Irishman, of course. I recognized him,\nHe was friendly to me because I had used his name in a story; he\nremembered me now. I produced the tin-type photograph. He inspected it\nunder the nearest electric light.\n\n\u201cYep,\u201d he said, \u201cI seen that feller only a few minutes back--half an\nhour maybe--only he\u2019s lifted his mustache.\u201d\n\n\u201cShaved his moustache--yes?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s what I said,\u201d as he handed back the tin-type. \u201cGot a story?\u201d he\ninquired the same instant. \u201cAnything big doing?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhich way did he go?\u201d\n\n\u201cUp-town,\u201d said the policeman, jerking his thumb in the direction\nnorth. \u201cUp 8th Avenoo. And he was travellin\u2019 with a partner, a big\nfeller, same size as yerself, I guess.\u201d He moved off to show he had\nno more to say. Any story that might result would be out of his beat.\nThere was nothing in it for him. His interest vanished. I hurried on to\nthe corner of 8th Avenue, the edge of a bad neighbourhood leading down\nthrough the negro quarter towards the haunts of the river-front, and\nthere I paused again for a second or two.\n\nI was still in 23rd Street, but I now turned up the Avenue. It was\npractically deserted, the street cars empty, few people on the\npavements. The side-streets crossed it at right angles, poorly lit,\nrunning right and left into a world of shadows, but at almost every\ncorner stood a brilliant saloon whose windows and glass doors poured\nout great shafts of light. Sometimes there were four saloons, one at\neach corner, and the blaze was dazzling. I passed 24th, 25th, 26th and\n27th streets. There were little flurries of dry snow; I saw no one,\nnothing but empty silent sidewalks swept by the icy wind.\n\nAt 28th Street there were four saloons, one at each corner, and the\nblaze of light had a warm, enticing look. Through the blurred windows\nof the one nearest to me, the heads of the packed crowd inside as they\nlined up to the bar were just visible, and while I stood a moment,\nshivering in the icy wind, the comforting idea of a hot whisky came\nto me. For the wind cut like glass and neither my excitement nor the\nexercise had warmed me. I hesitated, standing against a huge electric\nlight pole, in whose black shadow I was quite invisible. A hot whisky,\nI reflected, in this neighbourhood would cost 20 or 25 cents; I had\n30 cents in my pocket; I needed the stimulant; I was very weak; I\nfelt cold to the bone. But 25 cents was a lot of money, I might want\na car-fare home besides ... and I was still hesitating when two tall\nfigures emerged suddenly out of the dark side-street into the flood of\nlight, swung sharp round the corner, and passed through the glass doors\ninto the saloon. The figures were two men, and the first of them was\nBoyde.\n\nFor a second my heart seemed to stop, then began immediately racing and\nbeating violently. In that brilliant light I saw every detail sharply,\nBoyde and his companion, both mercilessly visible. The man I wanted\nwore a big horsy overcoat of light-coloured box-cloth with large white\nbuttons, the velvet collar turned up about his ears. The other man I\ndid not know; he was taller than Boyde and wore no overcoat; he was the\n\u201cpartner travellin\u2019 with him\u201d mentioned by the policeman. His gait was\nunsteady, he reeled a little.\n\nThe clamour of noisy voices blared out a moment into the street before\nthe doors swung to again, and I stood quite still for an appreciable\ntime, blotted out of sight in my black shadow. Had I not hesitated a\nmoment to reflect about that hot whisky I should have passed, my figure\nfull in the blaze, just in front of the two men, who would have waited\nin the dark side-street till I was safely out of sight.\n\nThe state of my nerves, I suppose, was pretty bad, and the lack of my\ncustomary evening dose accentuated it. I know, anyhow, that at first I\nrealized one thing only--that I could never have the heart to arrest\nthe fellow. This quickly passed, however; the racing of my blood passed\ntoo; determination grew fixed; I decided to act at once. But should I\ngo in, or should I wait till they came out again? If I went in there\nwould probably be a fight; Boyde\u2019s hulking companion would certainly\ntake his side; the lightest blow in my weak state and I should be down\nand out. On the other hand, there was a side door, there were several\nside doors, and the couple might easily slip out, for I could not watch\nall the doors at once.\n\nI decided to go in. And the moment the decision was taken, complete\ncalmness came over me, so that I felt myself merely an instrument\nof fate. It was horrible, but it had to be. Boyde was to get the\npunishment he deserved. I could not fail.\n\nThe way the little scene was stage-managed seemed curious to me when it\nwas all over, for as I moved out into the light, a couple of policemen\ncame across the broad avenue behind and looked inquisitively at what\nmust have seemed my queer behaviour. I immediately crossed to meet\nthem, while never taking my eye off the swing-doors. A man who had just\ngone into that saloon, I told them, was to be arrested.\n\n\u201cThat so?\u201d they asked with a grin, thinking me drunk, of course. \u201cAnd\nwhat\u2019s he done to get all that?\u201d\n\nI told them I was a reporter on the _Sun_, that I was the complainant\nin the case, and that Detective Lawler of the 9th District had the\nwarrant at headquarters. They could telephone to him if they liked.\nThey listened, but they would not do anything. I could telephone to\nLawler myself; _they_ weren\u2019t going to act without a warrant. They\nfinally agreed to wait outside and \u201csee fair play,\u201d if I would go in\nand fetch \u201cthe guy\u201d out into the street. \u201cWe\u2019ll stop any trouble,\u201d they\nsaid, \u201cand take him to the station if _you_ make a complaint.\u201d I agreed\nto this and walked in through the swing-doors.\n\nThe saloon was crowded, the heat wonderful, the bars thronged with men\nin all stages of intoxication; bar-tenders in white jackets flew to and\nfro; business was booming, and at the least sign of a row, everybody,\nmore or less, would have joined in. This general impression, however,\nwas only in the background of my mind. What filled it was the fact that\nBoyde was looking at me, staring straight into my eyes, but in the\nmirror. The instant the doors swung to I had caught his reflection\nin the long glass behind the bar. Across this bar, a little space on\neither side of him, he was leaning on both elbows, his face resting in\none hand. The eye-glass--it was asking for trouble to wear it in such\na place--had been discarded. He was alone. His back, of course, was\ntowards me.\n\nFor a few seconds we stared at one another in this way, and then, as I\nwalked down the long room, pushing between the noisy crowd, he slowly\nturned. I reached him. A faint smile appeared on his face. He evidently\ndid not know quite what to do, but a hand began to move towards me. He\nthought, it seemed, I was going to shake hands, whereas I thought he\nwas probably going to hit me. Instead my hand went to his shoulder.\n\n\u201cBoyde,\u201d I said, keeping my voice low, \u201cI want you. You\u2019re going to\nbe--arrested.\u201d\n\nThe smile died out, and an awful look rushed into his eyes. His face\nturned the colour of chalk. At first I felt sure he was going to land\nme a blow in the face, but the abrupt movement of his body was merely\nthat he tried to steady himself against the bar, for I saw his hand\ngrip the rail and cling to it. The same second his features began to\nwork.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve got to arrest you,\u201d I repeated. \u201cIt\u2019s Karma. You had better come\nquietly.\u201d\n\n\u201cKarma----\u201d he repeated in a dazed way and stared. He was bewildered,\nincredulous still.\n\nThe same second, however, he grasped that it was serious, my face and\nvoice and manner doubtless warned him. This, at last, was real; he\nsuddenly knew it. The expression of appeal poured up instantly into\nhis eyes, those big, innocent, blue eyes where I had so often seen it\nbefore. Only now there was no moustache, and the brutal cunning mouth\nwas bare. He began to speak at once, keeping his voice low, for several\npeople were already interested in us. He used his softest and most\npleading tone. With that, too, I was thoroughly familiar.\n\n\u201cBlackwood--for God\u2019s sake let me go. I\u2019m off to England to-morrow on a\nWhite Star boat. I\u2019m working my passage over. For the love of God--for\nmy mother\u2019s sake----!\u201d\n\nI cut him short. The falseness, the cowardice, the treachery all\nworking in his face at once, sickened me. At the same time an aching\npity rose. I felt miserable.\n\n\u201cYou must come out with me. At once.\u201d\n\nHe turned quickly and looked about him, his eyes taking in everything.\nSome men beside us had heard our talk and were ready to interfere.\n\u201cWhat\u2019s your trouble?\u201d one of them asked thickly. I realized we must\nget away at once, out into the street, though the scene had barely\nlasted two minutes yet.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s a policeman waiting outside,\u201d I went on. \u201cYou\u2019d better come\nquietly. A row won\u2019t help you.\u201d But I said it louder than I thought,\nfor several heads turned towards the swing-doors. The effect on Boyde,\nhowever, was hardly what I expected, and seemed strange. He wilted\nsuddenly. I believe all thought of resistance or escape went out of him\nwhen he heard the word \u201cpolice.\u201d His jaw dropped, there was suddenly\nno expression in his eyes at all. A complete blankness came into his\nfeatures. It was horrible. He\u2019s got no soul, I thought. He merely\nstared at me.\n\n\u201cWhose is that overcoat?\u201d I asked, feeling sure it was not his own. I\nalready had him by the arm.\n\n\u201cRoper\u2019s,\u201d he said quietly, his voice gone quite dead. \u201cHere he is.\u201d\nHis face was still like a ghost\u2019s. It was blank as stone.\n\nI had quite forgotten the companion, but at that same moment I saw\nRoper hovering up beside me. His attitude was threatening, he was\nthree-parts drunk; a glance showed me he was an Englishman, and\nobviously, by birth, a gentleman.\n\n\u201cRoper, if you want your coat, you\u2019d better take it. Boyde is under\narrest.\u201d\n\n\u201cArrest be damned!\u201d Roper cried in a loud voice that everybody heard.\nThere was already a crowd about us, but this increased it. Roper was\nlooking me over. He glared with anger. \u201cYou\u2019re that cad Blackwood,\nI suppose, are you? I\u2019ve heard about you. I know your whole damned\nrotten story and the way you\u2019ve treated Boyde. But Boyde\u2019s a friend of\nmine. No one can do anything to him while _I\u2019m_ here...!\u201d\n\nHe roared and shouted in that crowded bar-room, while the whole place\nlooked on and listened, ready to interfere at the first sign of \u201ca\nfuss.\u201d A blow, a little push even, would have laid me out, and in\nthe general scuffle or free fight that was bound to follow, Boyde\ncould have got clear away--but neither he nor Roper thought of this\napparently. Roper went on pouring out his drunken abuse, lurching\nforward but never actually touching me, while Boyde stood perfectly\nstill and listened in silence. He made no attempt to shake off my hand\neven. I suddenly then leaned over and spoke into his ear:\n\n\u201cIf you come quietly at once it\u2019s only petit larceny--stealing the\nmoney. Otherwise it\u2019s forgery.\u201d\n\nIt acted like magic. An expression darted back into his face. He\nturned, told Roper to shut up, said something to the crowd about its\nbeing only a little misunderstanding, and walked without another word\ntowards the doors. I walked beside him, the men made a way; a few\nseconds later we were in the street. Roper, who had waited to finish\nhis drink, and was puzzled besides by the quick man\u0153uvre, lurched at\nsome distance after us. The two policemen, who had watched the scene\nthrough the windows, stood waiting. Boyde swayed against me when he saw\nthem. I marched him up to the nearest one. \u201cI make a charge of larceny\nagainst this man, and the warrant is at Mulberry Street with Detective\nLawler. I am the complainant.\u201d They told him he was under arrest, and\nwe began our horrible little procession to the station in West 21st\nStreet.\n\nBoyde was between the two policemen, I was next to the outside one, on\nthe kerb, Roper came reeling in the rear, shouting abuse and threats\ninto my face. The next time I saw Roper was in the court of General\nSessions, weeks later, when Boyde was brought up for trial. By that\ntime he had learned the truth; he came up and apologized. Boyde, he\ntold me, had swindled him even more completely than he had swindled me.\n\nThe search in the station made me sick at heart; every pocket was\nturned out; there was 80 dollars in cash; the sergeant used filthy\nlanguage. Boyde was taken down to a cell, and I, as a newspaper\nreporter, was allowed to go down with him. I stayed for two hours,\ntalking through the bars.\n\nIt was two in the morning when the sergeant turned me out after a\ndreadful conversation, and when I reached home, to find Kay sitting up\nanxiously still, I was too exhausted, from cold, excitement and hunger,\nto tell him more than a bare outline of it all. I had to appear at\neight o\u2019clock next morning and make my formal charge against Boyde,\nin the Tombs Police Court--the Tombs, of all places!--and with that\nthought in my mind I fell asleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\n\nBoyde came up with the first batch of prisoners. The portentous shadow\nof the Tombs prison, with its forbidding architecture, hung over the\nwhole scene.\n\nMy first sight of him was sitting among the rows of prisoners, waiting\nto be called. He looked ill and broken, he made a pleading sign to me.\nAs a reporter I had the right to interview anybody and everybody, and\nI made my way along the serried wooden benches. Lawler sat next him,\nlooking very pleased to have secured his prisoner, and a good story\ninto the bargain, without any trouble to himself; but when I tried to\nshake hands with Boyde, I found to my horror that he was handcuffed.\n\n\u201cSay, boss, be sure and git me name spelled right, and tell the\nreporters that _I_ effected the arrest,\u201d was the first thing that\nLawler said, using the phrase the detectives always used.\n\nBy promising the man all he wanted and more besides, I managed to\nget us all three into a corner where we could talk without everybody\nelse hearing; also I got the handcuffs taken off, for they were quite\nunnecessary inside the building. The first thing Boyde said was to\nbeg for a drink; he had taken a lot the night before, his throat was\nparched, his nerves were bad. At the moment this was quite impossible,\nbut I got one for him in the reporters\u2019 room after his case had been\ncalled. The second thing he said was to beg me to \u201ckeep it out of the\npapers,\u201d though this, of course, lay quite beyond my powers. Apart\nfrom this he said very little except to repeat and repeat that he was\nrepentant, and to beg me to withdraw the charge, though this was now\nimpossible, the matter being out of my hands. Also, he wondered what\nthe sentence would be--he meant to plead guilty--and implored me to\nleave out the forgery. He was very badly frightened.\n\nThat early morning hour in the stinking atmosphere of the over-heated\npolice court was too ghastly ever to be forgotten, but there were\nparticular moments when pain and pity, to say nothing of other\nstrangely mixed emotions, stabbed me with peculiar ferocity. When the\nreporters flocked round him like vultures after prey was one of these;\nanother was when Boyde stood in front of the Tammany magistrate, Ryan\nby name, and pleaded guilty. A mistake, though not actually wrong, had\ncrept into the charge sheet. In my excitement of the night before the\namount stolen had been entered as $32, and though this was the truth,\nI had meant to make it only $25. I was unintentionally to blame for\nthis--it was now Grand Larceny instead of Petit Larceny. A magistrate\ncould only deal with the lesser offence, and Boyde therefore was held\nfor trial in General Sessions, instead of being sentenced then and\nthere. The look he gave me as Ryan spoke the words was like a knife. He\nbelieved I had done this purposely. A third unforgettable moment was\nwhen he was being roughly pushed downstairs on his way to a cell in the\nTombs: he looked back forlornly over his shoulder at me.\n\nIn the reporters\u2019 room it was decided to print the \u201cBoyde story.\u201d\nI knew all the men; Acton Davies was there for the _Evening Sun_,\nspecially sent down by McCloy. The reporters dragged and tore at me.\nI realized what \u201cinterviewed\u201d victims felt when they wished to hide\neverything away inside themselves. Yet the facts had to be told; it was\nbest I should give them accurately, if as briefly, as leniently, as\npossible. The sight of all those vultures (of whom, incidentally, I was\none) scribbling down busily the details of my intimate life with Boyde,\nto be hawked later in the streets as news, was likewise a picture not\neasily forgotten.\n\nBefore the ordeal was over, Lawler returned from the cell. He insisted,\nwith a wink at me, that he had made the arrest; the credit of the chase\nhe also claimed; he had, too, additional facts about Boyde\u2019s past\ncriminal career of which I was quite ignorant, supplied by records at\nheadquarters. Lawler intended to get all the advertisement for himself\nhe could. I let his lying pass. On the whole it seemed best to let him\nbe responsible for the arrest; it made the story more commonplace, and,\nluckily, so far, I had not described this scene.\n\nAn hour later I was talking with Boyde between the bars of his cell\nin the Tombs prison, while, two hours later, every evening paper in\nNew York had a column or a column and a half about us printed on its\nfront page. There were scare headlines of atrocious sort. There were\nposters, too, showing our names in big letters. News that day happened\nto be scarce, and the Boyde story was \u201cgood stuff\u201d apparently. The talk\nwith him in the cell was one of many; he was there six weeks before the\ntrial came on.\n\nThe papers finished him; the case was too notorious for him ever to\nswindle again unless he changed his name. They scarified him, they left\nout no detail, they hunted up a thousand new ones, he had \u201ccut a wide\nswath\u201d (_sic_) all over New York State, as one of them printed. I had\nnot mentioned Pauline M---- or the pastor\u2019s daughter, yet both were\nincluded. To see my own name in print for the first time, the names of\nmy parents, and of half the peerage as well, was bad enough; to find\nmyself classed with bad company generally, with crooks and rogues, with\nshady actresses, with criminals, was decidedly unpleasant. Paragraphs\nmy brother wrote to me appeared in London papers too. Copies of the\nNew York ones were sent to my father. \u201cToo foxy for Algernon\u201d was a\nheadline he read out to my brother in his library. Boyde had even\nwritten to him, signing himself \u201cyour cousin,\u201d to ask for money for\n\u201cyour poor son,\u201d but had received no reply. There is no need now to\nmention names, but any distinguished connexion either of us possessed\nappeared in the headlines or the article itself. \u201cNephew of an earl\nheld in $1,000 bail,\u201d \u201cCousin of Lord X,\u201d \u201cScion of British Aristocracy\na Sneak-thief,\u201d were some of the descriptions. \u201cSon of a duchess\nin the Soup,\u201d was another. The _Staatszeitung_ had a phrase which\nthrew a momentary light on an aspect of lower life in the city, when\nFreytag, the German reporter who had taught me how to write a court\nstory, described me as \u201cSohn einer _sogennanten_ Herzogin.\u201d He only\nlaughed when I spoke to him about it. \u201cHow should _I_ know,\u201d he said\nsceptically....\n\nBoyde came up in due course before Recorder Smythe in general sessions,\nthe most severe and most dreaded of all the judges. He still wore\nmy thick suit, he wore also a pair of Harding Davis\u2019s boots, and, I\nbelieve, something else of Sothern\u2019s. His sentence was two years in\nthe Penitentiary on Blackwell Island. A group of other people he had\nswindled, including \u201cArtist Palmer,\u201d were in court; so was an assistant\nof Ikey\u2019s, with _all_ our pawned articles. Every single thing, whether\nstolen goods or not, was returned to me. The doctor and Kay were also\nthere. Some of his letters are a human document:\n\n                                               _Tombs_,\n                                                   December, 1892.\n\n  Oh, Blackwood, what black treachery I returned you for your many\n  kindnesses, base lying for all your straightforward dealing with\n  me! You freely forgave me what ninety-nine men out of every hundred\n  would, if not imprisoned me for, certainly never have forgiven me.\n  I returned evil for good, and you still bore with me. You said--I\n  shall never forget it, for it was when you found the stamp torn\n  off your letter--and even at that moment I had money in my pocket\n  belonging to you, just as I had when you shared your last 50 cent.\n  piece that night at Krisches, for I _must_ say this, though I could\n  tear myself to pieces when I think of it--You said, \u2018B. how you\n  must _hate_ me!\u2019\n\n  No, Blackwood, it seems a paradox, but I could not hate you if I\n  tried to. I don\u2019t say this because I am in prison, or with any\n  desire to flatter. I am sincere in everything I say and it comes\n  from my heart. You have every reason to think from my former\n  actions that I am not sincere above reward, but I am.\n\n  Oh, the old, but nevertheless true remark, TOO LATE! It comes\n  home to me with striking and horrible vividness. Too Late! I\n  have forfeited the respect of every good and honest man, have\n  disgraced my English name and my family. But, let me go. Five\n  years of service will be the best thing for me. I can enlist under\n  another name and may perhaps get a commission in time. Give me the\n  chance of redeeming myself, please. If ever any man was sincerely\n  repentant for the past I am that man.\n                                                         ARTHUR B.\n\n  Please excuse mistakes and alterations. I am so fearfully shaky.\n\n\n                                           _The Tombs City Prison,\n                                             Centre Street, N. Y._\n\n  Please read through before destroying it.\n\n  I have begged another sheet of paper and stamp in order to make one\n  final appeal.\n\n  Will you not come down again on receipt of this? Please do, for\n  God\u2019s sake. No visitors are allowed on New Year\u2019s Day, or on\n  Sunday. New Year\u2019s Day! What a new year\u2019s day for me! Let me\n  begin it afresh. I have a favour to ask you which I must ask you\n  verbally; I cannot put it on paper. It is getting dark; so once\n  more I ask you, I implore you, to have mercy on me for my mother\u2019s\n  sake. For her sake spare\n                                                         ARTHUR B.\n\n  Visiting hours 10-2. I am speaking the truth and nothing but the\n  truth when I say that I am sincerely sorry for all that I have done\n  and implore your pardon. This is not an insincere expression, but\n  one from my heart. Come down again, please, even to speak to me,\n  for you don\u2019t know the mental agony I am suffering.\n                                                             A. B.\n\n\n                                              _Tombs City Prison_,\n                                                   New Year\u2019s Day.\n\n  It was more than kind of you to come all the way down here and then\n  after all not be able to see me; not much loss to you, it is true,\n  but a bitter disappointment to me. Palmer came down and talked\n  _very_ kindly to me and instilled a little hope in me. But this is\n  a wretched New Year\u2019s Day.\n\n  I was talking to an old convict this morning, a man who in his life\n  has been about sixteen years in jail, and he said that if he had\n  only been let off in the first instance with a few days in here, he\n  would have been a different man to-day, but after serving one term\n  he became reckless and has now become a notorious thief. As I said\n  to you, think of me after 20 years\u2019 penal servitude.\n\n  Blackwood, won\u2019t you and Palmer stay your hands once more? I will\n  leave the country, and if ever I should return you could always\n  have me arrested. I will never trouble you again. Let me make a\n  fresh start once more.\n\n  Should you decide not to press the charge you can go to the\n  District Attorney\u2019s Office and inform them of the fact.\n\n  I once more _implore_ you and Palmer to have pity on me, and please\n  come and see me! May I wish you and Palmer a bright and happy New\n  Year, brighter and happier than the past one.\n                                                         ARTHUR B.\n\n  Many thanks for the paper and envelopes. Bless you!\n\n\n                                                      _The Tombs._\n\n  Very many thanks for your visit yesterday. It is the only pleasure\n  I have. I believe what you say is true--that I am reaping the\n  result of evil done in the past and that the only real way to atone\n  is to meet it squarely and accept my punishment without grumbling.\n  If Karma is true, it is just, and I shall get what I deserve, and\n  not an iota more.\n\n  I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for being so lenient to\n  me and even writing to the District Attorney on my behalf. I am\n  truly grateful, Blackwood. Please do not think I am not sorry for\n  what I have done, or that I am not really penitent, for I am indeed.\n\n  It was bitterly cold last night and I was awfully glad to have my\n  overcoat, and blessed you for sending it. I know you got it out of\n  pawn for me, and that is another kindness.\n\n  Again, for the last time probably, I thank you for your many acts\n  of kindness. I bitterly regret and earnestly repent for the manner\n  I treated you, returning evil for good, and I shall think much of\n  you when serving my time under a blazing sun or in my cramped and\n  chilly cell.\n                                                         ARTHUR B.\n\n\n                                                   _Tombs Prison._\n\n  I have just been to the Court House and pleaded guilty. My sentence\n  is remanded till Friday week. If I could only get that lawyer I\n  might get the sentence reduced a little. But Judge Smythe is a very\n  hard man. My small hopes were dashed away on hearing that you had\n  been subp\u0153naed to go before the Grand Jury this morning.\n\n  Now all hope is gone; only blank, blank despair; no hope, all is\n  dark. I wish I could die--much rather that than suffer this awful\n  remorse. Do you know I sometimes think I am going mad? When I come\n  out I shall be too old for the army, and what else can a felon,\n  a criminal, a convict do? Is crime the only refuge? Shall I sink\n  lower and lower? Will what small sense of decency and honour I have\n  left be utterly destroyed and made callous by propinquity with\n  other criminals?\n\n  What a frightful nightmare to conjure up! Nightmare? No, it is only\n  too true; it is stern, inexorable reality. Thank you for sending\n  the clothes. I had no change before. Bless you!\n\n                                                             A. B.\n\n\n                                              _Tombs City Prison._\n\n  What follows I wish to write voluntarily. It is a Confession and\n  relieves me--\n\n  I certainly wish to convey to you the fact of my sincere and deep\n  sorrow for the shameful manner I treated you and abused your\n  confidence and kindness. I fear that one of my letters cannot\n  have reached you, as I am sure I wrote at length on this subject.\n  You mistake and misjudge me when you think it is only fear that\n  prompts me to write as I do. My eyes are opened to the enormity of\n  my past crimes, opened by thinking and seeing things in the proper\n  light. I have been alone with my thought for days now, and God\n  knows how many more days will pass over my head before I again face\n  the world. It will relieve me to give you a full confession of my\n  treachery, for I believe there is no real repentance without real\n  confession.\n\n  To begin with the editor. I never had a chance of the position at\n  Rockaway, although the editor once said casually that he would\n  try and find me some similar position. I lied to you all through\n  in that, for I wished you to think I had prospects of paying work\n  in view. When you used to come down with me to Franklin Street\n  (Harper\u2019s) I waited about upstairs and looked at books, etc., and\n  then came down and concocted some lies about what I had said and\n  done. I once borrowed $15 from him (Richard Harding Davis, Editor\n  \u201cHarper\u2019s Weekly\u201d) and said they were for you. My dealings with\n  Sothern were that he from time to time lent me money, some $50 in\n  all, and gave me a position at ten dollars a week. I told him when\n  borrowing that the money was for your doctor, and when borrowing\n  more I said you had wasted it in drink. I asked him to cash several\n  of the cheques I forged, but he would never do this. I was paid\n  up in full by the manager and also for the extra performances\n  of the \u201cDisreputable Mr. Reagen.\u201d I little thought when I was\n  playing Merivale\u2019s part that I should act it true to life. With\n  Mr. Beattie I lied all through. He never had any money of mine or\n  knew my mother or ever heard from her. He never bailed me out, and\n  I never used to see him as I said I did. You and Palmer thought\n  that I spent some time in jail this summer, but I would rather not\n  say anything in writing about that. My dealings with Palmer were\n  that I borrowed money from him and said it was for you. I also\n  went to your banker acquaintance and borrowed twenty-five dollars\n  for a specialist, saying it was at your request. I did pawn the\n  overcoat you gave me to post to Kay, and that time you forgave me\n  for stealing your money I had in my pocket the proceeds of three\n  stories of yours I had given the _Sun_, and they had paid for. But,\n  even in the face of your forgiveness, I wanted this money so much\n  for my indulgences that I could not face the privation of handing\n  it over to you. I lied in the face of your kindness and generosity,\n  and when you even needed food I was going about drinking and\n  womanizing and spending freely. When my funds were exhausted I came\n  back to you, for I knew you would always forgive me. It is awful.\n  No wonder you want to see me go to prison. I am as wicked a man as\n  ever lived, I believe. I wonder what caused me to tell such lies.\n  Am I a natural born liar? It seems like it. You wrong me in one\n  thing--in thinking my sorrow is sham and prompted by fear and the\n  hope of getting off. I cannot find words to express my contrition.\n  Believe me, I would do anything in my power, and will do, when\n  my term is up, to make reparation. I submit to the inevitable. I\n  can imagine something now of what you must have suffered when I\n  left you alone without food or money those four days and nights.\n  I think, however, the worst thing I did was telling the pastor\u2019s\n  daughter that you tried to prevent our meeting because you wished\n  me to marry one of your sisters, though I do not know, of course,\n  whether you have any even. That, and the taking the stamps off\n  your letters so that I could get beer, seem to weigh most heavily\n  with me now in my darkness and loneliness. I do not know what my\n  sentence will be--heavy, I suspect, unless I can get someone to\n  plead for me, and I have not a single solitary friend to do that.\n  I am utterly alone. I have been in this cell now twenty-one days,\n  and have a week more before sentence is given. It seems like six\n  months. No one can realize what prison is like till they have tried\n  it.\n\n  Believe me, I am deeply and truly sorry. I speak from my heart.\n  Think of me as kindly as you can when I am in the Penitentiary. I\n  hope I shall see you once more.\n                                                         ARTHUR B.\n\nI saw Boyde twice in my life afterwards; I heard, indirectly, from him\nonce: the prison chaplain wrote to ask for \u201chis things\u201d which, Boyde\ntold him, I \u201cinsisted upon keeping.\u201d He never had any \u201cthings\u201d at all\nwhile I knew him; the letter was indignant and offensive. Boyde had\nevidently \u201ctold a tale\u201d to the chaplain.\n\nThe first time I saw him was some eighteen months after he had been\nsent up, good behaviour evidently having shortened his term. I was\nwalking up Irving Place and saw him suddenly about fifty yards in front\nof me. It was my own thick suit I recognized first, then its wearer. I\ninstinctively called out his name. He turned, looked at me, hurried on,\nand went round the corner into 21st Street. Once round the corner, he\nmust have run like a hare, for when I entered the street too, he had\ndisappeared.\n\nThe second, and last, time I saw him was in London ten years later--at\na bookstall in Charing Cross station. He saw me, however, first, or\nbefore I could come close enough to speak, and he melted away into the\ncrowd with swift and accomplished ease. I was near enough, though,\nto note that he had grown his heavy moustache again, still wore his\neyeglass, and was smartly, even prosperously, dressed. He looked very\nlittle older. From Lynwood Palmer, whom I met soon afterwards in\nPiccadilly, I heard that my old employer, the Horse, had seen him at\nTattersalls not long before, and that he, Boyde, had come and begged\nPalmer not to give him away as he was \u201cafter some Jews only\u201d! Artist\nPalmer took no action.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\n\nMcCloy took me back on the _Evening Sun_, according to his promise,\nabout mid-January, and about the same time Mrs. Bernstein sold her\nhouse and moved to another lower down the street, almost opposite to\nthe doctor\u2019s. There were no insects, all our things were out of pawn,\nwe had overcoats again, but we had to find a new Ikey, for the old\nIkey, of course, would have nothing more to do with our trousers,\ngladstone bag, top hat and tennis cups.\n\nThe East 19th Street chapter was closed when Boyde went to Blackwell\nIsland; another in the same street had begun: Mrs. Bernstein begged\nus to move with her: we owed her big arrears of rent; also, for some\nodd reason, she really liked us. In her odd way she even tried to\nmother me, as though her interest, somewhere perhaps her pity too,\nwere touched. \u201cYou haf had drouble in England, I subbose?\u201d she hinted\nsympathetically. She had read the newspapers carefully, and could not\nunderstand why I should be exiled in poverty in this way unless I had\ndone something shady at home. It followed that I had been sent out\nto America for my country\u2019s good. She shared, that is, the view most\npeople took of my position in New York.\n\nOnly three months had passed since we arrived, but it seemed years. I\nhad never lived anywhere else. The sheltered English life, the Canadian\nadventures, above all the months upon our happy island, lay far away\ndown the wrong end of a telescope, small, distant patches, brightly\ncoloured, lit by a radiant sun, remote, incredible. It was not myself\nbut another person I watched moving across these miniature maps of\nmemory. Those happy days, states, places, those careless, sanguine\nmoods, those former points of view so bright with hope, seemed gone for\never. I now lived in a world where I belonged. I should never climb\nout again.\n\nThe intensity of emotion at the time is difficult to realize now, and\nquite impossible to recapture. I only know that my feelings burned\nlike fire, all the fiercer, of course, for being inarticulate. The\nexaggeration was natural enough; everything was out of proportion in\nme: Boyde had destroyed my faith in people. I believed in no one. The\ndoctor had said that to lose belief in others made life insupportable.\nI found that statement true. There was a deep bitterness in my heart\nthat for a time was more than I could manage, and this distrust and\nbitterness led me into an act of cruelty that shames me to this day.\n\nInto the roar and thunder of that frenzied newspaper office stole a\nhesitating figure one afternoon, a shy youth with rosy cheeks and\ncurly hair, dressed in shabby but well-cut clothes, and obviously an\nEnglishman. He wore gloves and carried a \u201ccane\u201d; these marked him\nas a \u201cBritisher\u201d at once. He was asking for someone; fingers were\npointed at me; he was faintly familiar; I had seen the face before--but\nwhere? He came over and introduced himself as Calder, son of a Midland\ncoach-builder; we had met at some place or other--outside a studio\ndoor, I think--and he knew Kay. I forget what he was doing in New\nYork---idling, I think, or travelling. He had outlived his cash, at any\nrate. He was in difficulties. I distrusted him instantly. He was, of\ncourse, another Boyde. I gave him the curtest possible greeting. He, in\nturn, found the greatest possible difficulty in telling me his story.\n\nI was sitting at the reporters\u2019 table in shirt-sleeves (owing to the\nsuffocating temperature of the over-heated office), scribbling at\ntop speed the details of some lurid \u201cstory,\u201d while Calder told me\nhis tale. He wanted to whisper, but the noise forced him to shout,\nand this disconcerted him. No one listened, however; he had merely\nbrought a \u201cstory\u201d in. He had--but it was his own story. I have quite\nforgotten what it was, or what had happened to him; only the main point\nI remember: he had nowhere to sleep. Of his story I did not believe\na single word, though I did believe that he had no bed. \u201cCan I bunk\nwith you to-night?\u201d he came finally to the point. I told him he most\ncertainly could not. He refused to believe me. I assured him I meant\nit. I was his last hope, he said, with a nervous grin. I told him to\ntry a doss-house. He grinned and giggled and flushed--then thanked me!\nIt would only be for a night or two, he urged. \u201cYou can\u2019t possibly\nlet me walk the streets all night!\u201d I replied that one Boyde had been\nenough for me. I had learnt my lesson, he could walk the streets for\nthe rest of his life for all I cared. He giggled, still refusing to\nbelieve I meant it. His father was sending money. He would repay me.\nHe went on pleading. I again repeated that I could not take him in. He\nleft, still thanking me and blushing.\n\nVisions of another Boyde were in my mind. At the time, moreover, our\npoverty was worse than it ever had been. Boyde, I found, had sold six\nof my French stories to McCloy at $5 each, and had pocketed the money.\nMy salary was now being docked five dollars each week till this $30\nwas paid off. We had, therefore, only ten dollars a week between the\ntwo of us. Everything was in pawn again, and times were extra hard. To\nhave Calder living on us was out of the question, for once he got in we\nshould never get him out. I was tired of criminal parasites.\n\nIt was my head that argued thus; in my heart I knew perfectly well that\nCalder was guileless, innocent as milk, an honest, feckless, stupid\nfellow who was in genuine difficulty for the moment, but who would\nnever sponge on us, and certainly do nothing mean. Conscience pricked\nme--for half an hour perhaps; in the stress and excitement of the day\nI then forgot him. That evening Acton Davis, the dramatic critic, gave\nme a theatre seat, on condition that I wrote the notice for him. It was\nafter eleven when I reached home. Curled up in my bed, sound asleep,\nhis clothes neatly folded on the chair, lay Calder.\n\nIt was February and freezing cold. Kay was away for the week, trying\na new play at Mount Vernon, where he slept. There was no reason why I\nshould not have let Calder spend at least one warm night in the room.\nBut, apart from the shock of annoyance at finding him asleep in my\nown bed, and apart from a moment\u2019s anger at his cool impudence, the\nstartling parallel with Boyde was vividly unpleasant. It was Boyde No.\n2 I saw sleeping in my bed. If I let him stay one night I should never\nget rid of him at all. $10 a week among three! Calder must take up his\nbed and walk.\n\nI woke him and told him to dress and leave the room. I watched him\ndress, heard him plead, heard him describe the freezing weather,\ndescribe his walking the streets all night without a cent in his\npockets. He blushed and giggled all the time. It was some minutes\nbefore he believed I was in earnest, before he crawled out of bed; it\nwas much longer before he was dressed and ready to go.... I saw him\ndown the stairs and through the front door and out into the bitter\nstreet. I gave him a dollar, which represented two days\u2019 meals for\nme, and would pay a bed in a doss-house for him. When he was gone I\nspent a wretched night, ashamed of myself through and through. It\nreally was Boyde who turned him out, but the excuse had no comfort in\nit. The little incident remains unkindly vivid; I still see it; it\nhappens over again; the foolish, good-natured face, the blushes and\nshyness, the implicit belief in my own kindness, the red cheeks and\ncurly hair--going through the front door into the bitter streets. It\nall stands out. Shame and remorse go up and down in me while I write it\nnow, a belated confession.... I never saw Calder again.\n\nAnother thing that still shames me is our treatment of old greasy\nMother Bernstein. Though a little thing, this likewise keeps vividly\nalive. A \u201clittle\u201d thing! The big things, invariably with extenuating\ncircumstances that furnish modifying excuses and comforting\nexplanations, are less stinging in the memory. It is the little things\nthat pierce and burn and prick for years to come. In my treatment of\nMrs. Bernstein, at any rate, lay an alleviating touch of comedy. In\nthe end, too, the debt was paid. Twelve months later--it seemed a\nperiod of years--Kay got suddenly from a brother \u00a3100--an enormous sum;\nwhile I had twice received from my brother, God bless him! post-office\norders for \u00a310. This was a long time ahead yet, but Mrs. Bernstein\neventually received her due with our sincerest thanks. She had moved to\nanother house in Lafayette Place by then. We paid up and left her, Kay\ngoing to one boarding-house, I to another.\n\nThe payment in full, at any rate, relieved my conscience, for the way\nwe bullied that poor old Jewess was inexcusable. The excuse I found\nseemed adequate at the time, however--we must frighten her or be turned\nout. Each time she pressed for payment, out came my heavy artillery;\nimaginary insects, threats of newspaper articles, bluster, bluff and\nbullying of every description, often reducing her to tears, and a final\nindignant volley to the effect that \u201cIf you don\u2019t trust us, we had\nbetter go; in fact, if this occurs again, we _shall_ go!\u201d More than\nonce we pretended to pack up; more than once I announced that we had\nfound other rooms; \u201cNext Monday I shall pay you the few dollars we owe,\nand leave your house, and you will read an account of your conduct in\nthe _Evening Sun_, Mrs. Bernstein.\u201d She invariably came to heel. \u201cI ask\nmy hospand\u201d had no sequel. By frightening and bullying her, I stayed\non and on and on, owing months\u2019 and months\u2019 rent and breakfast; our\nascendancy over her was complete. It was, none the less, a shameful\nbusiness, for at the time it seemed doubtful if we should ever be in a\nposition to pay the kind old woman anything at all....\n\nThe fifteen months I now spent reporting for the _Evening Sun_ at\nfifteen dollars a week lie in the mind like a smudged blur of dreary\nwretchedness, a few incidents only standing out.... The desire for\nthe drug was conquered, the old doctor was dead, Kay had obtained\na position with a firm in Exchange Place, where he made a small,\nuncertain income in a business that was an absolute mystery to me, the\nbuying and selling of exchange between banks. Louis B---- had meanwhile\narrived, without a cent to his name. It was a long and bitter period,\nthree of us in a small room again, but at least an honest three.\nLouis\u2019s French temperament ran to absinthe--when he could get it. He\nused the mattress on the floor, while Kay and I shared the bed between\nus. Our clothes were useless to the short, rotund little Frenchman;\nas the weeks passed he looked more and more like a pantomime figure\nin the streets, and when he went to give his rare French and Spanish\nlessons he never dared to take off his overcoat (which he had managed\nto keep) even in the hottest room, nor during the most torrid of summer\ndays. Often he dared not unbutton the collar he turned up about his\nneck, affirming with much affected coughing that he had a \u201cdreadful\nthroat.\u201d He was, by nature and habit, an inveterate cigarette smoker;\na cigarette, indeed, meant more to him than a meal, and I can still\nsee him crawling about the floor of the room on all fours in the early\nmorning, \u201chunting snipe,\u201d as he called it--in other words, looking for\nfag-ends. He was either extremely sanguine or extremely depressed; in\nthe former mood he planned the most alluring and marvellous schemes, in\nthe latter he talked of suicide. His wife, whom he dearly loved, had a\nbaby soon after his arrival. He suffered a good deal....\n\nHe was a great addition to our party, if at the same time a great\ndrain on our purse. His keen, materialistic French mind was very\neager, logical, well-informed, and critical in a destructive sense, an\niconoclast if ever there was one. All forms of belief were idols it\nwas his great delight to destroy; faith was superstition; cosmogonies\nwere inventions of men whose natural feebleness forced them to seek\nsomething bigger and more wonderful than themselves; creeds, from\nprimitive animism to Buddhism and Christianity, were, similarly,\nman-made, with a dose of pretentious ethics thrown in; while soul,\nspirit, survival after death, were creations of human vanity and\negoism, and had not a single atom of evidence to support them from the\nbeginning of the world to date. Naturally, he disbelieved everything\nthat I believed, and, naturally, too, our arguments left us both\nprecisely where we started. But they helped the evenings, often hungry\nevenings, to pass without monotony; and when, as sometimes though but\nrarely happened, Louis had come by a drop of absinthe, monotony was\nentirely forgotten. He would sit crossed-legged on his mattress, his\nbrown eyes sparkling in the round little face, his thick curly black\nhair looking like stiff wire, his podgy hands gesticulating, his\nlanguage voluble in French and English mixed, his infectious laughter\nringing and bubbling out from time to time--and the evening would pass\nlike magic. He was charged with poetry and music too. On absinthe\nevenings, indeed, it was difficult to get any sleep at all ... and\nthe first thing in the morning he would be hunting for \u201csnipe\u201d on all\nfours, cursing life and fate, in a black depression which made him\nthink of suicide, and looking like a yellow Chinese God of Luck that\nhad come to life.\n\nHunger was agony to him, but, oddly enough, he never grew less rotund.\nHe particularly enjoyed singing what he called _la messe noire_ with\nastonishing variations in his high falsetto. This \u201cmass\u201d was performed\nby all three of us to a plaster-cast faun an artist had given me in\nToronto. It had come in the packing-case with our other things, this\nDonatello, and we set it on the mantelpiece, filled a saucer with\nmelted candle stolen from a boarder\u2019s room, lit the piece of string\nwhich served for wick, and turned the gas out. In the darkened room\nthe faunish face leered and moved, as the flickering light from below\nset the shadows shifting about its features; the fiddle, Louis\u2019s thin\nfalsetto, Kay\u2019s bass, badly out of tune, and my own voice thrown in as\nwell, produced a volume of sound the other boarders strongly objected\nto--at one o\u2019clock in the morning. Yet the only time Mrs. Bernstein\ncame to complain, she got no farther than the door: Louis had a blanket\nover his head and shoulders, Kay was in his night-shirt, which was a\nday-shirt really, the old Irving wig lying crooked on his head, and I\nwas but half dressed, fiddling for all I was worth. The darkened room,\nthe three figures passing to and fro and chanting, the strange weird\nface of the faun, it by the flickering flame from below, startled her\nso that she stood stock-still on the threshold without a word. The\nnext second she was gone.... What eventually happened to Louis I never\nknew. Months later he moved to a room up-town. We lost track of one\nanother, and I have no idea how fate behaved to him in after-life. He\nwas thirty-five when he sang the _messe noire_, hunted snipe, and gave\noccasional lessons in French and Spanish.\n\nThese trivial little memories remain vivid for some reason. To my\nprecious Sundays in Bronx Park, or farther afield when the days grew\nlonger, he came too, and Kay came with him. We shared the teapot and\ntin mug I still kept hidden behind a boulder, we shared the fire I\nalways made--neither of my companions shared my mood of happiness....\nI was glad when they both refused to get up and start at eight,\npreferring to spend the morning in bed. For months and months I never\nmissed a single Sunday, wet or fine, for these outings were life to me,\nand I made a rough lean-to that kept the rain off in bad weather....\nThe car-fare was only 30 cents, both ways; bread and a lump of cheese\nprovided two meals; there were few Sundays when I did not get at least\nseven or eight hours of intense happiness among the trees and wild\nstretches of what was to me a veritable Eden of delight.... Nothing\nexperienced in later life, tender or grandiose, neither the splendour\nof the Alps, the majesty of the Caucasus, the mystery of the desert,\nthe magic of spring in Italy or the grim wonder of the real backwoods\nwhich I tasted later too--none of these produced the strange and subtle\necstasy of happiness I found on those Sundays in the wastes of scrubby\nBronx Park, a few miles from \u201cNoo York City.\u201d ... It was, of course,\nbut the raw material, so to speak, of beauty, which indeed is true\nalways of \u201cscenery\u201d as a whole, but it was possible to find detail\nwhich, grouped together, made unforgettable pictures by the score.\nThough deprived of technique, I could _see_ the pictures I need never\nthink of painting. The selection of significant detail in scenery is\nthe secret of enjoyment, for such selection can be almost endless....\n\nThe hours passed too quickly always, but they provided the energy to\nface what, to me, was the unadulterated misery of the week to follow.\nA book was in my pocket and Shelley was in my memory. From the tram\nto the trees was half a mile, perhaps, but with the first sight of\nthese, with the first scent of leaves and earth, the first touch of the\nwind of open spaces on my tongue, my joy rose like a great sea-wave,\nand the city life, with all its hideousness, was utterly forgotten.\nWhat occupied my mind during those seven or eight hours it would be\ntedious to describe.... I was, besides, hopelessly inarticulate in\nthose early days; conclusions I arrived at were reached by feeling, not\nby thinking; one, in particular, about which I felt so positive that\nI _knew_ it was true, I could no more have expressed in words than I\ncould have flown or made a million. This particular conclusion that the\nSundays in Bronx Park gave me has, naturally, been expressed by others\nfar better than I could ever express it, but the first time I came\nacross the passage, perhaps a dozen years later in London, my thought\ninstantly flashed back to the teapot, the tin mug, and the boulder in\nBronx Park when the same conviction had burned into my own untaught\nmind:\n\n  \u201cOne conclusion was forced upon my mind ... and my impression of\n  its truth has ever since remained unshaken. It is that our normal\n  waking consciousness, rational consciousness as we call it, is but\n  _one special type_ of consciousness, whilst all about us, parted\n  from it by the filmiest of screens, there are potential forms of\n  consciousness entirely different. We may go through life without\n  suspecting their existence; but apply the requisite stimulus and at\n  a touch they are there in all their completeness; definite types of\n  mentality which probably somewhere have their field of application\n  and adaptation. No account of the universe in its totality can\n  be final which leaves these other forms of consciousness quite\n  disregarded. At any rate, they forbid a premature closing of our\n  accounts with reality. The whole drift of my education goes to\n  persuade me that the world of our present consciousness is _only\n  one_ out of many worlds of consciousness that exist, and that these\n  other worlds must contain experiences which have a meaning for our\n  life also.... [The insight in these other states] has a keynote\n  invariably of reconciliation. It is as if the opposites of the\n  world, whose contradictions and conflict make all our difficulties\n  and troubles, were melting into unity.\u201d[1]\n\n  [1] \u201cVarieties of Religious Experience.\u201d William James.\n\nThe immortal may mingle with certain moods, perhaps, especially when\nviolent contrast underlies the transition, and when deep yearnings,\nsuppressed equally with violence, find their sudden radiant outlet.\nSince those Bronx Park days, when Nature caught me with such profound,\nuplifting magic, yet when thought was dumb and inarticulate, I am for\never coming across neat expressions by better minds than mine of what I\nthen felt, and even believed I _knew_, in some unimagined way. Nature\ndrew me, perhaps, away from life, while at the same time there glowed\nin my heart strange unrealizable desires to help life, to assist at her\nUtopian development, to work myself to the bone for the improvement\nof humanity. The contradiction, silly and high-flown though it now\nsounds, was then true. Inextinguishable fires to this end blazed in\nme, both mind and heart were literally on fire. My failure with Boyde,\nmy meanness with Calder, to mention no graver lapses, both bit deep,\nbut the intense longing to lose my Self in some Utopian cause was as\nstrong as the other longing to be lost in the heart of some unstained\nand splendid wilderness of natural beauty. And the conflict puzzled me.\nBeing inarticulate, I could not even find relief in words, though, as\nmentioned, I have often since discovered my feelings of those distant\ndays expressed neatly enough by others. Only a few days ago I came\nacross an instance:\n\n\u201cIf Nature catches the soul young it is lost to humanity,\u201d groans\nLeroy, in a truly significant book of 1922.[2]\n\n[2] \u201cThe Interpreters,\u201d by A. E. The characters \u201cinterpret\u201d the\n\u201crelation of the politics of Time to the politics of Eternity.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d replies the poet. \u201cThe earth spirit does not draw us aside\nfrom life. How could that which is father and mother of us all lead us\nto err from the law of our being?\u201d\n\nAnd, again, as I sat puzzling about the amazing horror of what was\ncalled the Civilization of the New World, and doubtless making the\ncommonplace mistake of thinking that New York City was America:--\n\n  \u201cEvery great civilization, I think, has a Deity behind it, or\n  a divine shepherd who guided it on some plan in the cosmic\n  imagination. \u2018Behold,\u2019 said an ancient Oracle, \u2018how the Heavens\n  glitter with intellectual sections.\u2019... These are archetypal images\n  we follow dimly in our evolution.\u201d\n\n  \u201cHow do you conceive of these powers as affecting civilization?\u201d\n\n  \u201cI believe they are incarnate in the race; more in the group than\n  in the individual; and they tend to bring about an orchestration of\n  the genius of the race, to make manifest in time their portion of\n  eternal beauty....\u201d[3]\n\n  [3] _Ibid._\n\nMy conception of the universe, at any rate, in these early days\nwas imaginative entirely; the critical function, which comes with\ngreater knowledge, with reason, with fuller experience, lay wholly\ndormant. I communed with both gods and devils. New York stoked the\nfurnace--provided the contrasts. Experience, very slowly, furnished the\nfiles and sand-paper which lay bare what may be real beneath by rubbing\naway the pretty gilt. Certain convictions of those far days, however,\nstood the test, whatever that test may be worth, and have justified\nthemselves to me with later years as assuredly _not_ gilt. That unity\nof life is true, and that our normal human consciousness is but one\ntype, and a somewhat insignificant type at that, hold unalterably\nreal for me to-day. My other conviction, born in Bronx Park in 1892\nby the teapot, tin mug, and familiar boulder which concealed these\nindispensable utensils during the week, is that the Mystical Experience\nknown to many throughout the ages with invariable similarity is _not_ a\npathogenic experience, but is due to a desirable, genuine and valuable\nexpansion of consciousness which furnishes knowledge normally ahead\nof the race; but, since language can only describe the experience of\nthe race, that it is incommunicable because no words exist, and that\nonly those who have experienced it can comprehend it. The best equipped\nmodern \u201cintellectual\u201d (above all the \u201cintellectual\u201d perhaps), the most\nadvanced scientist, as, on the other hand, the drayman, the coster, the\ncity clerk, must remain not only dumb before its revelation, stupid,\nhopelessly at sea, angry probably, but contemptuous and certainly\nmystified: they must also appear, if they be honest, entirely and\nunalterably _sceptical_. Such scepticism is their penalty; it is,\nequally, their judge and their confession.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\n\nAmong the \u201cincidents\u201d that stand out from the dim, miserable smudge of\nfifteen months, is one that centres about a strange figure, and a most\nlovable fellow, named Angus Hamilton. Various odd fish drifted on to\nthe paper as reporters, and drifted off again; they form part of an\nunimportant kaleidoscope. But Angus Hamilton, with his generosity, his\nstartling habits, his undoubted ability, his sad and sudden end, stands\nout.\n\nMy position had improved since the publication of the Boyde story,\nchiefly, of course, because of the way the peerage had been dragged\ninto its details and its headlines. I received no advance in salary,\nbut I received an advance in respect. Even McCloy was different: \u201cWhy\nwaste your time with us?\u201d he spat at me like a machine-gun with a rapid\nsmile. \u201cGo home. Collect a lot of umbrellas and turned-up trousers and\nletters of introduction. Then come out to \u2018visit the States,\u2019 marry\nan heiress, and go home and live in comfort!\u201d He was very lenient to\nmy numerous mistakes. Other papers \u201cgot a beat\u201d on me, I \u201cfell down\u201d\ntimes without number, I failed to get an interview with all and sundry\nbecause I could not find \u201cthe nerve\u201d to intrude at certain moments into\nthe lives and griefs of others. But McCloy winked the other eye, even\nif he never raised my pay. Other men were sacked out of hand. I stayed\non. \u201cYou\u2019ve got a pull with Mac!\u201d said \u201cWhitey.\u201d New men took the\nplaces of the lost. Among these I noticed an Englishman. Cooper noticed\nhim too. \u201cBetter share an umbrella and go arm in arm,\u201d he said in his\ngood-natured way. \u201cHe\u2019s a fellow-Britisher.\u201d\n\nWhy he came to New York I never understood. He was a stepson of\nPinero, the playwright, and he received occasional moneys from Daniel\nFrohman, by way of allowance, I supposed, though I never knew exactly.\nClever though he was, he was a worse reporter than myself--because he\ndidn\u2019t care two straws whether he got the news or did not get it. He\nhad a \u201cpull\u201d of some sort, with Laffan probably, we thought. He came\nto our boarding-house in East 19th Street. He had a bad stammer. His\nmethods of reporting were peculiar to himself. Often enough, when sent\nout on a distasteful assignment, he simply went home. He had literary\ntalent and wrote well when he liked. When Frohman handed out his money,\nhe spent it in giving a big dinner to various friends, though he never\nincluded Kay, Louis, or myself among his distinguished guests. We had\nno dress-suits, for one thing.\n\nHamilton was perhaps twenty-one at the time, a trifle younger than\nmyself, at any rate. He came downstairs sometimes to spend the evening\nin our room. In spite of his stammer and a certain shyness, he was\nalways very welcome. He liked, above all, to listen to weird stories I\nused to tell, strange, wild, improbable tales akin to ghost-stories.\nWhen the Black Mass failed to attract, when Louis was uninspired by\nabsinthe, or when no argument was afoot, such as whether poet or\nscientist were the highest type of human being, I discovered this taste\nfor spinning yarns, usually of a ghostly character, and found, to my\nsurprise, that my listeners were enthralled. At a moment\u2019s notice, no\ntheme or idea being in my head, I found that I could invent a tale,\nwith beginning, middle and climax. Something in me, doubtless, sought a\nnatural outlet. The stories, at any rate, poured forth endlessly. \u201cMay\nI write that one?\u201d Hamilton would ask. \u201cIt\u2019s a corker!\u201d And he would\nbring his written version to read to us a few evenings later. \u201cIt ought\nto sell,\u201d he said, though I never heard that it did sell actually.\nCertainly, it never occurred to me that I might write and sell it\nmyself. And Angus Hamilton is mentioned here because it was owing to a\nchance act of his that I eventually took to writing and so found my\nliberty.\n\nThis happened some twelve years later, when I was living in a room in\nHalsey Street, Chelsea, sweating my life out in the dried milk business\nand earning barely enough at the job to make both ends meet. A hansom\nstopped suddenly near me in Piccadilly Circus, its occupant shouted my\nname, then sprang out--Angus Hamilton.\n\nHe came round to my room for a talk over old days; he had done well\nfor himself as Reuter\u2019s correspondent in the Manchurian War, had\npublished a book on Korea, and was just off to China, again as Reuter\u2019s\nagent. He reminded me of the stories I used to tell in the New York\nboarding-house. I had written some of these, a couple of dozen perhaps,\nand they lay in a cupboard. Could he see them? Might he take them away\nand read them?\n\nIt had been my habit and delight to spend my evenings composing yarns\non my typewriter, finding more pleasure in this than in any dinner\nengagement, theatre or concert. Why this suddenly began I cannot say,\nbut I guess at a venture that the accumulated horror of the years in\nNew York was seeking expression. Wandering in Richmond Park at night\nwas the only rival entertainment that could tempt me from the joy\nof typing out some tale or other in solitude. \u201cJimbo\u201d I had already\nwritten twice, several of the \u201cJohn Silence\u201d tales as well, and\nnumerous other queer ghostly stories of one sort or another. From among\nthese last Hamilton took a dozen or so away with him, but forgot to\nsend them back as he had promised. He had gone to China, I supposed,\nand the matter had slipped his mind. It didn\u2019t matter much--I went on\nwriting others; the stories were no good to anybody, the important\nthing being the relief and keen pleasure I found in their expression.\nBut some weeks later a letter came from a publisher: \u201cI have read your\nbook.... My reader tells me ...\u201d this and that \u201cabout your stories....\nI shall be glad to publish them for you ...,\u201d and then a few words\nabout a title and a request that I would call for an interview.\n\nIt was some little time before I realized what the publisher was\ntalking about. Hamilton, without asking permission, had sent my\nstories to him. Eveleigh Nash was the publisher, and his reader at\nthat time was Maude Ffoulkes, who later wrote Lady Cardigan\u2019s Memoirs,\nnumerous other biographies, also \u201cMy Own Past,\u201d and to whom I owe\nan immense debt for unfailing guidance, help and encouragement from\nthat day to this. I never forget my shrinking fear at the idea of\nappearing in print, my desire to use another name, my feeling that it\nwas all a mistake somewhere, the idea that I should have a book of\nmy own published being too absurd to accept as true. My relief when,\neventually, the papers gave it briefest possible mention, a few words\nof not unkindly praise or blame, I remember too, and my astonishment,\nsome weeks later, to find a column in the _Spectator_, followed not\nlong afterwards by an interesting article in the Literary Page of the\n_Morning Post_ on the genus \u201cghost story,\u201d based on my book--by Hilaire\nBelloc, as he told me years later. All of which prompted me to try\nanother book ... and after the third, \u201cJohn Silence,\u201d had appeared, to\nrenounce a problematical fortune in dried milk, and with typewriter\nand kit-bag, to take my precious new liberty out to the Jura Mountains\nwhere, at frs. 4.50 a day, I lived in reasonable comfort and wrote more\nbooks. I was then thirty-six.\n\nWhether I should be grateful to my fellow-reporter on the _Evening Sun_\nis another matter. Liberty is priced above money, at any rate. I have\nwritten some twenty books, but the cash received for these, though it\nhas paid for rent, for food, for clothing, separately, has never been\nenough to pay for all three together, even on the most modest scale of\nliving, and my returns, both from America and England, remain still\nmicroscopic. Angus Hamilton I never saw again. A year or so later,\nwhile on a lecture tour in New York, things apparently went wrong with\nhim. Life drove against him in some way. He put a sudden end to himself.\n\nIt seems strange to me now that so few incidents, and those such\ntrivial ones, stand out from the long months of newspaper work in New\nYork. Harrowing and dreadful stories, appalling in their evidence\nof human degradation, or poignant beyond words in their revelation\nof misery, temptation, failure, were my daily experience week after\nweek, month after month. I might now have bulky scrap-books packed\nwith thrilling plots of every kind, all taken from life. My affair\nwith Boyde, moreover, had taught me how much of curious psychological\ninterest lay behind the most ordinary arrest for a commonplace crime.\nYet, of all these thousands of cases, I remember hardly a single one,\nwhile of uninteresting assignments Cooper gave me several still live\nvividly in my memory. Social reporting, in particular, both amused and\ndistressed me, for which reasons probably it has not faded. Sitting in\nthe lobby at Sherry\u2019s or Delmonico\u2019s when a ball or society function\nwas in progress and taking the names of the guests as they entered,\ntaking the snubs and rudeness of these gay, careless folk as well, was\nnot calculated to add much to my self-respect. The lavish evidence\nof money, the excess, often the atrocious taste, even stirred red\nsocialism in me, although this lasted only till I was out in the street\nagain. Various connexions, distant or otherwise, of my family often,\ntoo, visited New York, while more than one had married an American\ngirl of prominent name. It was odd to see Lord Ava, Dufferin\u2019s eldest\nson, walk up the steps, and odder still to jot down his name upon the\nlist of \u201cthose present.\u201d There was an American woman, too, who bore\nmy mother\u2019s name.... To see any of these people was the last thing on\nearth I wished, much less to speak to them or be recognized; they were\nin another world to mine; none the less, I had odd sensations when I\nsaw them.... A ball of deaf-mutes, too, remains very clear, only the\nshuffling sound of boots, and of the big drum whose heavy vibrations\nthrough their feet enabled them to keep time, breaking the strange hush\nof the dancing throng, for ever gesticulating with busy fingers.\n\nA much-coveted annual assignment once came my way, through the\nkindness of McCloy, I think--the visit to the winter quarters of Barnum\nand Bailey\u2019s Circus. Every newspaper was invited; the animals were\ninspected; an article was written; and the circus opened its yearly\ntour with immense advertisements. In the evening there was a--banquet!\nI came home in the early hours with my pockets stuffed for Kay and\nLouis--cigars, fruit, rolls, and all imaginable edibles that might bear\nthe transport. But the occasion is clear for another reason--elephants\nand rats. The keeper told us that the elephants were terrified of rats\nbecause they feared the little beasts would run up their trunks. We\ndoubted his story. He offered to prove it. In the huge barn where some\ntwenty-five monsters stood, chained by the feet against the walls,\nhe emptied a sackful of live rats. The stampede, the trumpeting of\nthose frightened elephants is not easily forgotten. In the centre of\nthe great barn stood masses of hay cut into huge square blocks, and\nthe sight of us climbing for safety to the top of these slippery,\nprecariously balanced piles of hay is not easily forgotten either.\n\nThe raid at dawn upon a quasi lunatic asylum, kept by an unqualified\nman, should have left sharper impressions than is the case, for it was\ncertainly dramatic and sinister enough. Word came to the office that a\nquack \u201cdoctor\u201d was keeping a private Home for Lunatics at Amityville,\nL.I., and that sane people, whom interested parties wished out of the\nway, were incarcerated among the inmates. The Health Department were\ngoing to raid it at dawn. It was to be a \u201cscoop\u201d for the _Evening Sun_,\nand the assignment was given to me.\n\nI started while it was still dark, crossing the deserted ferry long\nbefore the sun was up, but when I reached the lonely house, surrounded\nby fields and a few scattered trees, I found that every newspaper in\nthe city was represented. Even the flimsy men were there, all cursing\ntheir fate in the chilly air of early morning. No lights showed in\nthe building. The eastern sky began to flush. With the first glimmer\nof dawn I saw the sheriff\u2019s men at their various posts, hiding behind\ntrees and hedges, some crouching under the garden shrubberies, some\nconcealed even on the veranda of the house. After a long and weary\nwait, the house began to stir; shutters were taken down; a window, then\na door, were thrown open; figures became visible moving inside from\nroom to room; and presently someone came out on to the veranda. He was\ninstantly seized and taken away. After several men and women had been\narrested in this way, a general raid of the whole house took place. A\ndozen of the sheriff\u2019s men rushed in. The nurses, male and female, the\n\u201cdoctor\u201d-proprietor, his assistants, and every single inmate, sane or\ncrazy, were all caught and brought out under arrest, before they had\ntasted breakfast.\n\nIt was broad daylight by this time. The whole party, of at least\nthirty, were assembled in a barn where a magistrate, brought down\nspecially for the purpose, held an impromptu court. If some of the\ninmates were insane at the time and had been so before incarceration,\nothers certainly had been deliberately made insane by the harsh and\ncruel treatment to which they had purposely been subjected. There\nwere painful episodes, while the testimony was hurriedly listened to\nin that improvised court of inquiry. Yet it has all, all vanished\nfrom my memory. I forget even what the sequel was, or what sentence\nthe infamous proprietor received later on from a properly-constituted\ncourt. Many a sane man or woman had been rendered crazy by the\ntreatment, I remember, and the quack had taken heavy payments from\ninterested relatives for this purpose. But all details have vanished\nfrom my mind. What chiefly remains is the wonder of that breaking dawn,\nthe light stealing over the sky, the sweet smell of the country and the\ntang of the salt sea. These, with the singing of the early birds, and\nthe great yearnings they stirred in me, left deep impressions.\n\nOne reason, I am sure, why such painful and dramatic incidents have\nleft so little trace, is that I had a way of shielding myself from the\nunpleasantness of them, so that their horror or nastiness, as the case\nmight be, never really got into me deeply. By a method of \u201cdetachment,\u201d\nas mentioned earlier, I protected my sensitive inner self from being\ntoo much wounded. I would depute just sufficient intelligence and\nobservation to attend to the immediate work in hand, while the rest of\nme, the major portion, lay inactive, uninvolved, certainly inoperative.\nPainful and vivid impressions were, none the less, received, of course,\nonly I refused to admit or recognize them. They emerged, years later,\nin stories perhaps, these suppressed hieroglyphics, but at the actual\ntime I could so protect myself that I did not consciously record them.\nAnd hence, I think, my faint recollection now of a thousand horrible\nexperiences during these New York reporting days.\n\nThis \u201cdetachment,\u201d in the ignorant way I used it, was, perhaps, nothing\nless than shirking of the unpleasant. At twenty-three I had not yet\ndiscovered that better method which consists in facing the unpleasant\nwithout reservation or evasion, while raising the energy thus released\ninto a higher channel, \u201ctransmuting\u201d it, as the jargon of 1922\ndescribes it. \u201cDetachment,\u201d however, even in its earliest stages, and\nprovided it does not remain merely where it starts, is an acquisition\nnot without value; it can lead, at any rate, to interesting and curious\nexperiments. It deputes the surface-consciousness, or sufficient of\nit, to deal with some disagreeable little matter in hand, while the\nsubconscious or major portion of the self--for those who are aware of\npossessing it--may travel and go free. It is, I think, Bligh Bond, in\nhis \u201cGate of Remembrance,\u201d who mentions that the automatic writer whose\nrevelations are there given, read a book aloud while his hand with the\npencil wrote. Many a literary man, whose inspiration depends upon the\nstirrings of this mysterious subconscious region, knows that to read a\ndull book, or talk to a dull person, engages just enough of his surface\nconsciousness to set the other portion free. Reading verse--though not\npoetry, of course--has this effect; for some, a cinema performance,\nwith the soothing dimness, the music, the ever-shifting yet not too\narresting pictures, works the magic; for others, light music; for\nothers, again, looking out of a train window. There are as many ways\nas individuals. To listen to Mrs. de Montmorency Smith telling her\ntedious dream, while you hear just enough to comment intelligently upon\nher endless details, even using some of these details to feed your own\nmore valuable dream, is an admirable method--I am told; and my own\nchildish habit of squeezing \u201cthrough the crack between yesterday and\nto-morrow\u201d in that horrible bed of East 19th Street, merely happened to\nbe my own little personal adaptation of the principle....\n\nIncidents that had held a touch of comedy remain more clearly in the\nmemory than those that held ugliness and horror only. A member of\nthe Reichstag Central Party, for instance, Rector Ahlwardt by name,\ncame out to conduct a campaign against the Jews. He was violently\nanti-semitic. I was sent to meet his steamer at Quarantine because I\ncould speak German, and my instructions were to warn him that America\nwas a free country, that the Jews were honourable and respected\ncitizens, and that abuse would not be tolerated for a moment. These\ninstructions I carried out, while we drank white wine in the steamer\u2019s\nsmoking-room. Freytag, I noticed with amusement, himself a Jew, was\nthere for the _Staatszeitung_.\n\nAhlwardt, however, was impervious to advice or warnings. At his first\nbig meeting in the Cooper Union Hall, arriving late, I noticed at once\ntwo things: the seats were packed with Jews, while almost as many\npolicemen stood about waiting; and the reporters\u2019 tables underneath\nthe platform showed several open umbrellas. Both, I knew, were ominous\nsigns. Ahlwardt himself, fat, beaming, in full evening dress, was\nalready haranguing the huge audience. At first he was suave and gentle,\neven mealy-mouthed, but before long his prejudices mastered him and\nhis language changed. Up rose a member of the audience and advised him\nangrily to go back to Germany. The police ejected the interrupter.\nOthers took his place. Then suddenly the fusillade began--and up went\nthe reporters\u2019 umbrellas! A flying egg caught the speaker full on\nhis white shirt-front, another yellowed his dazzling white waistcoat,\na third smashed over his fat face. Pandemonium reigned, during which\nthe German melted out of the landscape and disappeared from his first\nand last anti-semite meeting in Noo York City. He attempted a little\npropaganda from the safe distance of Hoboken, N.J., but the Press\ncampaign against him was so violent and covered him with such ridicule,\nthat he very soon took steamer back to his Berlin. Every little detail\nof this incident, were it worth the telling, I could give accurately.\nThere was no reason to be \u201cdetached,\u201d unless the protection of the\n_World_ man\u2019s umbrella comes under that description.\n\nIt was somewhere about this time, too, that another trivial incident\noccurred, refusing to be forgotten. It, again, increased the respect\nshown to me by the staff of the paper--Americans being truly\ndemocratic!--though it did not increase my salary. A belted earl left\nhis card on me. Coming in breathless from some assignment, I saw\nMcCloy staring at me. \u201cIs this for _you_?\u201d he asked sarcastically,\nhanding me a visiting-card. A brother-in-law, \u201cHis Excellency\u201d into\nthe bargain, \u201cGovernor of an Australian Province\u201d to which he was then\non his way, had climbed those narrow spiral stairs and asked for me.\nThe letters after his name alone were enough to produce a commotion\nin that democratic atmosphere.... He was staying at the Brevoort\nHouse, and he certainly behaved \u201clike a man,\u201d thought Kay and I, as\nwe enjoyed more than one good dinner at his expense in the hotel.\nProud of me he had certainly no cause to be, but if he felt ashamed,\nequally, he gave no sign of it. He even spoke on my behalf to Paul\nDana, the editor-proprietor\u2019s son, who assured him that I was \u201ca bright\nfellow\u201d--a description the staff managed to get hold of somehow and\napplied to me ever afterwards. His brief visit, both because of its\nkindness and its general good effect, stand out, at any rate, in the\n\u201cbright fellow\u2019s\u201d memory. Like Dufferin in the Hub, he fired a shot for\nme.\n\nThe months dragged by in their dreary, hated length, while numerous\nchances of getting more congenial work were tried in vain. Torrid\nsummer heat, with its all-dissolving humidity, replaced the bitter\nwinter. The deep, baked streets that never cooled, the stifling nights,\nthe heat-waves when the temperature stood between 90 and 100 in the\nshade, and we toiled about the blazing pavements in shirt-sleeves\ncarrying a palm-leaf fan, and when the moisture in the air made the\nvery \u201ccopy-paper\u201d stick to the hand that wrote upon it--those four\nmonths of New York summer were a misery. We had only our winter clothes\nto wear; a white collar was dirty pulp before nine in the morning;\nthe dazzling electric-light sign flashed nightly in the air above\n23rd Street with its tempting legend \u201cManhattan Beach Swept by Ocean\nBreezes,\u201d while the ice-carts in the streets were the nearest approach\nto comfort we could find. Many a time I followed one at close quarters\nto taste a whiff of cooler air. Life became unendurable, yet day\nfollowed day, night followed night, week followed week, till one\u2019s last\nbreath of energy seemed exhausted by the steaming furnace of the city\nair.\n\nThe respectable quarters of the town were, of course, deserted, but the\nEast Side, and the poorer parts, became a gigantic ant-heap, thousands\nof families sleeping on the balconies of the packed tenement houses,\nas though a whole underground-world had risen suddenly to the surface.\nChildren died by the hundred; there were heat strokes by the score. It\nwas too hot to eat. Reporting in such weather was a trying business....\nA reporter was entitled to a fortnight\u2019s holiday in the year, and\nthough none was due to me, McCloy let me go about the middle of\nOctober. I procured a railway pass and went off to Haliburton, Ontario,\nto spend my precious twelve days with a settler in the backwoods. He\nwas a Scotsman I had met during our island days, and Haliburton was\nnot far from our own delightful lake.... On my way back the cable came\ntelling of my father\u2019s death while being brought home from Ems. I was\nspending the night with an old friend of his, in Hamilton, Ont., where\nhe had a church. Originally in the navy, the evangelical movement had\n\u201cconverted\u201d him, and he had taken to it with such zeal that a church\nand parish became a necessity of life. He was sincere and sympathetic,\nand the bad news could have come to me in no better place.\n\nThe next day I returned to New York and resumed my life of reporting on\nthe paper.... The elections had been fought, and Tammany was beaten,\na wave of Republicanism sweeping both State and City. A Committee of\nInvestigation, under Senator Lexow, was appointed to examine into\nthe methods of Tammany Hall, and for weeks I sat in court while the\ntestimony was taken, and the most amazing stories of crime, corruption,\nwickedness and horror I ever heard were told by one \u201cprotected\u201d witness\nafter another. It brought to light a veritable Reign of Terror. John\nGoff was prosecuting counsel; he became Recorder, in place of Judge\nSmythe, as his reward. Boss Croker, head of Tammany, was conveniently\nin England and could not be subp\u0153naed. Other leaders, similarly, were\nwell out of reach. Tammany, it was proved up to the hilt, had extorted\nan annual income of fifteen million dollars in illegal contributions\nfrom vice. The court was a daily theatre in which incredible melodrama\nand tragedy were played. With this thrilling exception, the work I had\nto do remained the same as before ... a second Christmas came round\n... another spring began to melt the gloomy skies. Conditions, it is\ntrue, were a little easier, for Louis had left us and Kay was earning\nten or fifteen dollars a week in Exchange Place, but by March or April,\nthe eighteen months of underfeeding and trying work had brought me,\npersonally, to the breaking point....\n\nIt was late in April I read that gold had been found in the Rainy\nRiver district which lay in the far north-western corner of Ontario,\nthe river of that name being the frontier between Minnesota State and\nCanada. The paragraph stating the fact was in a Sunday paper I read on\nmy way to Bronx Park, and the instant I saw it my mind was made up. It\nwas spring, the primitive instinct to strike camp and move on was in\nthe blood, a nostalgia for the woods was in it too, and the prospect of\nanother torrid, moist summer in the city at $15 a week was more than\nI could face. That scrap of news, at any rate, decided me. And, truth\nto tell, it was not so much the lure of gold that called me, as the\nlure of the wilderness. I longed to see the big trees again, to smell\nthe old naked earth, to hear water falling and feel the great winds\nblow.... It was an irresistible call.\n\nMy one terror, as when I decided to buy the dairy two years before, was\nthat someone would tell me there was no gold, that it was not worth\ngoing, or would prevent me in some other way. I deliberately hid from\nmyself all unfavourable information, while I collected all possible\nitems that might justify my intention. That same night I showed the\nparagraph to Kay. \u201cI\u2019ll go,\u201d he said at once, \u201cbut let\u2019s get a third,\na fourth too, if we can.\u201d He mentioned Paxton, an engineer, aged 35,\nwho had just lost all his worldly possessions in speculation. Paxton\nsaid he would come with us. The fourth was R.M., son of the clergyman\nin Hamilton. R.M., whose father was brother to a belted earl, was an\ninsurance agent, and making a good living at his job. He was my own\nage, also my own height. He was, besides, a heavy-weight amateur boxer\nof considerable prowess, and his favourite time for holding bouts in\nthe ring was Sunday evenings, to which fact a rival clergyman had\nrecently taken occasion to refer slightingly in his own pulpit. R.M.,\nresenting the slur both upon himself and his father, had waited outside\nthe church door one Sunday after the evening service, and when the\nclergyman emerged had asked for an apology--a public one in the pulpit.\nOn being met with an indignant refusal, R.M. invited the other to \u201cput\n\u2019em up.\u201d The thrashing that followed produced a great scandal in the\nlittle town, and R.M. found the place too hot to hold him. He therefore\njumped at the idea of the goldfields.\n\nThe arrangements were made, of course, by letter, and took some little\ntime; but on a given morning in early May R.M. was to join our train as\nit passed through Hamilton. I had been able to procure passes for the\nlot of us as far as Duluth, some fifteen hundred miles distant, on Lake\nSuperior, and from there we should have to travel another hundred and\nfifty miles by canoe down the Vermilion River to Rainy Lake City, for\nthe foundations of which the forest, I read, had already been partially\ncleared. Several further articles had appeared in the papers; it was\na gorgeous country, men were flocking in, and the Bank of Montreal\nhad established a branch in a temporary shack. Moreover, as mentioned\nbefore, it was spring.\n\nThat a man of Paxton\u2019s age and experience should have made this long\nexpedition without first satisfying himself that it was likely to be\nworth while, has always puzzled me. He was an easy-going, good-natured\nman, whose full figure proclaimed that he liked the good things of\nlife. But he was in grave difficulties, graver perhaps than I ever\nknew, and I think he was not sorry to contemplate a trip across the\nborder. His attitude, at any rate, was that he \u201cdidn\u2019t care a rap so\nlong as I get out of here.\u201d That Kay and myself and R.M. should take\nthe adventure was natural enough, for none of us had anything to lose,\nand, whatever happened, we should \u201cget along somehow,\u201d and even out of\nthe frying-pan into the fire was better than the summer furnace of the\ncity. R.M. wrote that he had a hundred dollars, Paxton produced fifty,\nI supplied the railway passes and added my last salary, together with\nsome eight dollars that Ikey No. 2 was persuaded to hand over.\n\n\u201cSend some stuff along,\u201d fired McCloy, opening his eyes a little wider\nthan usual when I told him. \u201cAny hot stuff you get I\u2019ll use.\u201d\n\nIt has already been told how Kay missed the train by a few minutes, and\nhow Whitey, waving his parting present of a bottle of Bourbon whisky,\nwas the final picture Paxton and I had of New York City as the evening\ntrain pulled out.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\n\nSome people, examining the alternate ups and downs of life, have\nthought to detect a rhythm in it: like every other expression of\nenergy, from heat to history, from sound to civilization, it moves,\nthey think, with a definite wave-length. The down and up, the hollow\nof the wave and its crest, follow one another in rhythmical sequence.\nIt is an imaginary notion doubtless, though it applied to my life\naptly enough at this time apparently: the Toronto misery, the Island\nhappiness; the New York hell, the Backwoods heaven.\n\nI think, when I wrote home the literal truth: \u201cI can\u2019t stand this\nreporting life any longer. I\u2019m off to the goldfields, and McCloy has\nasked me to write articles for the paper,\u201d there lay a vague idea in\nme that these goldfields would prove somehow to be comic goldfields,\nand that the expedition would be somewhere farcical. I was so eager,\nso determined to go, that I camouflaged from myself every unfavourable\naspect of the trip. Green, being still my predominant colour, was\nused freely in this camouflage. It was only afterwards I realized\nhow delightfully I fooled myself. Yet it was true, at the same time,\nthat a deep inner necessity drove irresistibly. The city life was\nkilling something in me, something in the soul: get out or go under,\nwas my feeling. How easy it would have been to go under was a daily\nthought. Far better men than myself proved it all round me every week.\nIt seemed, indeed, the natural, obvious thing to do for an educated,\nrefined Englishman without character who found himself adrift from\nhome influences in this amazing city--to sink into the general scum\nof failures and outcasts, to yield to one of the many an\u00e6sthetics New\nYork so lavishly provided, to find temporary relief, a brief wild-eyed\nhappiness, oblivion, then, not long afterwards, death.\n\nThe draw of the woods, the call of the open air, moreover, always\npotent, had become insistent. Spring added its aching nostalgia that\nburned like a fever in my veins.\n\nThus various influences, some positive, some negative, combined to make\nme feel that anything was better than the drudgery of my wretched New\nYork life, and the goldfields merely offered a plausible excuse. If I\nmade blinkers with my own hands, I made them effectively at least. Deep\nout of sight in the personality there hides, perhaps, some overseer\nwho, watching wisely the turns of fate, makes such blinkers, ensuring\ntheir perfect fit as well....\n\nThere was a nice feeling, of course, that if one went to a goldfield,\none picked up gold. Shaking sand in a shining pan beside a rushing\nriver was a picture in the mind. There were wild men, friends and\nenemies; there were Indians too; but also there were sunsets, tempests,\ndawns and stars. It would be liberty and happiness. I should see the\nmoon rise in clear, sweet air above the rim of prim\u00e6val woods. I should\ncook bacon over an open fire of wood. There would be no grinning\nChinaman to pay for laundry....\n\nThe men with whom I was going were not entirely satisfactory. I knew\nthem slightly, for one thing; for another, the chief drawback, they\nwere going in a very different mood from mine. Their one object was\nto make their fortunes. It was real gold, and not the glamour of\nthe wilderness, that called them; and in the Emigrant Sleeper, as\nwe journeyed towards Duluth, they sketched their plans with intense\nenthusiasm: Paxton, the engineer, explained puzzlingly, with the aid\nof matches, a trolley he would construct for bringing the ore from pit\nto crusher, while R.M., with reckless immorality, enlarged upon the\nprofits he would derive from running a \u201cjoint\u201d of desperate sort--\u201cfor\nno one need know that my father\u2019s a clergyman, and my uncle in the\nHouse of Lords.\u201d\n\nBoth men were shadows; they were not real; there was no companionship\nin them for me, at any rate. That they were fellow-travellers for the\nmoment on a trip I did not care about making alone, was sufficient. I\nwould just as soon have gone with McCloy or a Tombs policeman.\n\nWhat constitutes one person out of a hundred \u201creal,\u201d the other\nninety-nine shadows, is hard to define, but an instinct in me has ever\npicked out that \u201creal\u201d one. With him or her I know instantly my life is\ngoing to be unavoidably linked: through love or hate, through happiness\nor trouble, perhaps through none of these, but with the conviction that\na service has to be rendered or accepted, a debt, as it were, to be\npaid or received, a link at any rate that cannot be broken or evaded.\nSuch real people are to be counted on the fingers of one hand: R.M.\nand Paxton were certainly not among them. Nor, for that matter, was my\nfriend Kay, who, I am reasonably positive, missed the train on purpose;\nwhile, curiously enough, Boyde, that trivial criminal, _was_ among\nthem. Had Kay, for instance, done what that cheap ruffian did, I should\nnever have taken the trouble to arrest or punish him....\n\nThe comic opera touch began with Whitey racing down the platform waving\na bottle of rye whisky; it continued next morning when we picked up\nR.M. at eight o\u2019clock. Our train stopped at Hamilton, Ont., for five\nminutes. We craned our heads out of the window and saw a party of\nyoung fellows with flushed faces and singing voices, and on their\nshoulders in the early sunshine the inert figure of a huge man without\na hat. They recognized me and heaved him into our compartment, where\nhe slept soundly for two hours until we had left Toronto far behind.\n\u201cOuch! Ouch!\u201d said Paxton--it was about all \u201cengineer Paxton\u201d ever did\nsay--\u201cIs that R.M.?\u201d They had never met before. We took the money out\nof his pocket for safety\u2019s sake, and it proved to be more than his\npromised contribution. His friends had indeed given him a send-off, and\nthe all-night poker had proved lucrative.\n\nIt was a long, long journey to Duluth, with heartening glimpses from\nthe window, of river, lake and forest, all touched with \u201cspring\u2019s\ndelightful weather.\u201d Shelley filled my head and heart. I saw dawn in\na vale of the Indian Caucasus, I saw Panthea, Asia, fleeting dryads\nand troops of happy fauns. Out of New York City into this prim\u00e6val\nwilderness produced intoxication. No more cities of dreadful night for\nme! The repressed, unrealized yearnings of many painful months burst\nforth in a kind of rapture. Riches can never taste the treasures of\nrelief and change provided by the law of contrast. To be free to go\neverywhere is tantamount to going nowhere, to be able to do everything\nis to do nothing. Without school, holidays could have no meaning. The\nintensity of escape, with all the gorgeous emotions it involves, is\nhardly possible to the big bank-balances.\n\nI thought of the overheated _Sun_ offices, and saw cool, silent woods;\nof thronged canyon-streets between cliffs of buildings, and saw lonely\ngorges where the deer stole down to drink in quiet pools; of Mrs.\nBernstein\u2019s room, and saw green glades of beauty, a ceiling of blue\nsky, walls of hemlock, spruce and cedar. The May sunlight made the\nwhole world sing, as the train rushed through the wilderness of the\nOntario Highlands. It woke a kind of lyrical delight in me. \u201cThe day\nseemed one sent from beyond the skies, that shed to earth, above the\nsun, a light of Paradise.\u201d Paxton, with his puzzling matches, found me\nabsent-minded and irresponsive to his \u201couch! ouch!\u201d and R.M., suffering\nfrom a bad \u201chang-over\u201d headache, thought me unsympathetic toward his\ndisreputable joint.\n\nMore clearly than the matches, or the profit and loss figures of the\njoint, I remember the three bullets lying on the palm of the engineer\u2019s\nfat open hand. His solemn gravity depressed R.M. It infected me a\nlittle too. Why in the world should he be so serious? \u201cIf we fail,\nboys,\u201d said the engineer laconically, as he looked down with grim\nsignificance at the three bullets, \u201cI for one--shall not return.\u201d He\nput a bullet in his pocket, he handed one to R.M., the third he passed\nto me. \u201cIs it a deal?\u201d he asked, speaking as one who had come to the\nend of his tether, which, indeed, perhaps really was the case. We\npocketed our bullets anyhow, and told him gravely: \u201cYes, it\u2019s a deal.\u201d\nWe shook hands on it.\n\nIt was all in the proper spirit of gold-seeking adventure, begad! and\nthe comic-opera touch, so far as I was concerned, had not yet quite\nfully appeared. I had cut loose from everything. I felt as though I\nwere jumping off the rim of the planet into unknown space. It was\na delightful, reckless, half naughty, half childish, feeling. \u201cTo\nhell with civilization!\u201d was its note. At the back of the mind lay\na series of highly-coloured pictures: Men made fortunes in a night,\nhuman life was cheap, six-shooters lay beside tin mugs at camp-fire\nbreakfasts, and bags of \u201cdust\u201d were tossed across faro-tables from one\ndesperado in a broad-brimmed hat to another who was either an Oxford\ndon _incognito_, or an unfrocked clergyman, or a younger son concealing\ntragic beauty in an over-cultured heart, with perhaps an unclaimed\ntitle on his strawberry-marked skin. R.M., too, was forever talking\nabout staking claims: \u201cWe\u2019ll get grub-staked by some fellow.... If\nwe only pan a few ounces per day it\u2019ll mean success ...\u201d to all of\nwhich Paxton emitted his \u201cOuch! Ouch!\u201d as a strong man who said little\nbecause he preferred action to words.\n\nI, meanwhile, had no accurate information to supply, though I was the\npromoter of the expedition. I paraded the newspaper accounts. They were\nof little use. Nothing, in fact, was of any use. We were in different\nworlds. _They_ were in an Emigrant Sleeper skirting the shores of Lake\nSuperior. _I_ was on the look-out for the Witch of Atlas, wandering\nthrough the pine forest of the Cascine near Pisa, dreaming in the\nIndian Caucasus, or watching Serchio\u2019s stream. Even \u201cOuch! Ouch!\u201d could\nnot keep me in Ontario for long.\n\nIt all lies down the wrong end of that ever-lengthening telescope now,\nour trip to the Rainy River Gold Fields. Happy, careless, foolish days\nof sunlight, liberty, wood-smoke and virgin wilderness. Useless days,\nof course, yet sweetly perfumed as in a dream of fairyland. I revelled\nin them. New York was still close enough to lend them some incredible\nglamour by contrast. That no gold came our way was nothing, that the\ndays came to an end was bitter. Fading into mist, behind veils of blue\nsmoke, yet lit by sheets of burning sunshine, lies the faint outline\nstill. Each year drops another gauze curtain over an entrancing and\nridiculous adventure that for my companions was disappointingly empty,\nbut to me was filled to the brim with wonder and delight. A few sharp\npictures, rather disconnected, defy both veils and curtains, set\nagainst a dim background of wild forest, a blue winding river with\nstrange red shores, swift rapids, and cosy camp-fires at dawn, at\nsunset, beneath the stars, beneath the moon. The stillness of those\ngrand woods is unforgettable; the voice of the river was unceasing,\nyet broke no silence; the smells of balsam, resinous pitch-pine, cedar\nsmoke rise like incense above the memory of it all.\n\nDuluth was all agog with excitement, and in every shop-window hung\nblue-prints of the El Dorado we were bound for. Two big-bladed\nhunting-knives, a second-hand Marlin rifle for $8, a Smith and Wesson\nrevolver, were our weapons. I already had a six-shooter, given to me\nby the Tombs Court police. It had killed a negro, and I had reported\nthe murder trial resulting. Three blankets had to be bought, a canoe,\nand provisions for the week\u2019s trip down the Vermilion River--tea,\nbacon, flour, biscuits, salt and sugar. R.M. had a small \u201cA\u201d tent with\nhim large enough to hold three; an old, high-prowed bark canoe was\npurchased from an Indian for $6; but our money did not run to Hudson\nBay blankets, and the cheap, thin coverings we bought proved poor\nprotection in those frosty nights of early May.\n\nWe picked up a guide too, a half-breed named Gallup. He was going\nto Rainy Lake City in any case, and agreed to show us the portages\nand rapids for two dollars a day each way. He justified his name. He\ngalloped. He had a slim-nosed Maine cedar-wood canoe that oiled along\ninto the daily head-wind with easy swiftness, whereas R.M. and myself\nin our high-prowed craft found progress slow and steering a heavy toil.\nThe wind caught our big bows like a sail. Gallup, moreover, sizing us\nup as English greenhorns, expected good food and lots of whisky, and,\ngetting neither, vented his spleen on us as best he could. His natural\nevil temper grew steadily worse. There were several ways in which he\ncould have revenge. He used them all. By \u201closing his way\u201d down branch\nstreams he made the journey last eight days instead of five, yet he\nwent so fast in his neat-nosed craft that it was all R.M. and I could\ndo to keep him in sight at all. The sunlight flashing on his paddle two\nor three miles ahead, the canoe itself a mere dark speck in the dazzle\nof water, was all we usually had to guide us. Paxton, weary, much\nthinner than he had been, useless as a paddler, lay in the bottom of\nthe canoe, leaving all the work to Gallup. And Gallup did it, even with\nthis dead freight against him. To our injunction to make the fellow\ngo slower, his \u201cOuch! Ouch!\u201d was quite ineffective. I was careful to\nkeep the provisions in my own canoe, so that we could not lose him\naltogether, and he was faithful in one thing, that he waited for us at\nthe rapids and portages.\n\nWhat did it matter? The head wind held steadily day after day, blowing\nfrom the north-west through a cloudless sky. Everything sparkled,\nthe air was champagne; such a winding river of blue I had never seen\nbefore. Every tree wore little fingers of bright fresh green. There was\nexhilaration and wonder at every turn. Burned by the hot sun and wet by\nthe flying spray, our hands swelled till the knuckles disappeared, then\ncracked between the joints till they bled.\n\nI steered. R.M. sat in the bows. Paddling hour after hour against\nthe wind became a mechanical business the muscles attended to\nautomatically. The mind was free to roam. The loneliness was magical,\nfor it was a peopled loneliness. A start at dawn, half an hour for\nlunch, and camp at sunset was the day\u2019s routine. Usually we were too\nexhausted to cook the dwindling bacon, make the fire, put up the tent.\nWhat did it matter? Nothing mattered. Each mile was a mile of delight\nfarther from New York. The trip might last months for all I cared.\n\nWe cursed Gallup behind his back and to his face. He never even\nanswered. His sulky silence broke only round the evening fire, when\nhe would tell us appalling tales of murder, violence and sudden death\nabout the goldfields whither we were bound. It was another form of\nrevenge. The desperadoes, cutthroats, and wild hairy men generally who\nawaited us, _us_ especially since we were English, hardly belonged to\nour happy planet. Yet he knew them at first hand, knew them even by\nname. They would all be on the look-out for us. Against several, for\nhe had his friendly impulses, he warned us in particular. Were we good\nshots and quick on the trigger? The man who pulled first, he reminded\nus, had the drop on the other fellow. There was a \u201cstiff\u201d named Morris\nwho was peculiarly deadly, Morris, a Canadian, who had killed his man\nin a saloon brawl across the river and had skipped over the border into\nMinnesota. Morris would be interested in \u201cguys\u201d like us. He described\nhim in detail. We looked forward to Morris.\n\nThey were cheery camp-fire stories Gallup told us nightly. We crawled\ninto our chilly tent, wondering a little, each in his own thin blanket,\nwhat these hairy men were going to do to \u201cguys like us.\u201d We did not\nwonder long. Sleep came like a clap. At dawn, the wind just rising,\nand the chipmunks dropping fir-cones on to our tent with miniature\nreports, the hairy men were all forgotten. It was impossible to hold\nan ugly thought of any kind. The river sang at our feet, the sky was\npearl and rose, the air was sharply perfumed with smells of forest and\nwood-smoke, and glimpses of sunrise shone everywhere between the trees;\ntrees that stretched without a break five hundred miles to the shores\nof James Bay in the arctic seas.\n\nWe gulped our tea and bacon, packed tent and blankets, split open the\ncracks in our swollen hands, and launched the canoes upon a crystal\nriver that swirled along in eddies and sheets of colour. Sometimes\nit narrowed to a couple of hundred yards between rugged cliffs where\nthe water raced towards a rapid, sometimes it broadened into wide,\nlake-like spaces; there were reaches of placid calm; there were\nstretches white with tumbling foam. The sun blazed down; we turned\na sharp bend and surprised a deer; a porcupine waddled up against a\npine-stem; a fish leaped in a golden pool; birds flashed and vanished;\nthere was a silence, a stillness beyond all telling. Nuggets, gold\ndust, hairy men, six-shooters--nothing mattered!\n\nIt was, indeed, this loneliness, this entire absence of all other human\nsigns, that gradually betrayed the truth. Where was the stream of\nfrenzied gold-seekers? Where was the rush the papers mentioned? Beyond\na few stray Indians on the fourth day, we saw no living being. Gallup\u2019s\ntales of terror began to lose their sting. Of real information he\nvouchsafed no single item. But who wanted real information? Rainy Lake\nCity might be the legendary city of gold that lies beyond the mirages\nof the Lybian desert, for all I cared. The City of New York was out of\nsight. That was the important thing.\n\nThe series of wild, lonely camps lie blurred in the composite outline\nof a single camp; eight dawns combine into one; I remember clear\nnight-skies ablaze with brilliant stars; I remember the moon rising\nbehind the black wall of forest across the water. All night the river\nsang and whispered. Police courts and Mrs. Bernstein\u2019s room hid far\naway in the dim reaches of some former life. Behind these, again, lay a\nshadowy, forgotten Kent. There were haunting faces, veiled by distance,\nfor a strange remoteness curtained the past with unreality. The wonder\nof the present dominated. These woods, this river, ruled the world, and\nsomewhere in the heart of that old forest the legendary Wendigo, whose\nhistory I wrote later in a book, had its awful lair.\n\nOwing to Gallup\u2019s trick of lengthening the journey, our food gave out,\nbut with fish, venison and partridge it was impossible to starve. The\nlast-named, a grouse actually, perches in the branches, waiting to be\nshot; a bullet must take its head off or it is useless for the pot but\nwhizzing bullets do not disturb it, and several birds, sitting close\ntogether, can be picked off _seriatim_. Some dried sturgeon we found,\ntoo, on an island--an Indian sturgeon fishery--where great odorous\nstrips were hanging in the sun. The braves were away, and the squaw\nleft in charge was persuaded to sell us slabs of this excellent meat.\nIn a deep, clear pool some half-dozen living monsters, hooked by the\nnose, turned slowly round and round, waiting the moment of their death.\nThe island was interesting for another reason--it was an Indian canoe\nfactory. Here the Redskins built their craft of birchbark, and a dozen\ncanoes in various stages of completion lay in the broiling sun.... To\nme it was all visible romance, adventure, wonder in the heart of an\nunspoilt spring, with Hiawatha round the next big bend. Paxton and R.M.\ntook another view....\n\nOn the eighth night--our last, had we known it--there was an\n\u201cincident.\u201d Gallup had been unusually silent and extra offensive all\nday, had \u201cgalloped\u201d at top speed, had refused to answer a single\nquestion, and the idea came to us all three simultaneously that he was\nnot losing his way with the mere object of more money, but was taking\nus out of our route with a more sinister purpose. We depended on the\nfellow entirely; words or violence were equally useless; we were quite\nhelpless. He was convinced we carried money, for no three Englishmen\nof our type would make such a trip without it. What was easier, we\nwhispered to one another, than to murder us and bury our bodies in the\ntrackless, lonely forest? We watched him....\n\nThat night, exhausted to the bone, we camped on a point of wooded shore\nagainst the sunset. Across the broad reach of water, three miles away\nperhaps, was an Indian encampment. Pointed wigwams and the smoke of\nmany fires were visible; voices were audible in the distance. The wind\nhad died down as usual with the sun. A deep hush lay over the scene.\nAnd, hardly had we landed, almost too weary to drag ourselves up the\nbank, when Gallup stepped back into his Maine canoe and pushed off\ndownstream without a word. He stood upright; he did not sit or kneel.\nHis figure was outlined one minute against the red sky, the next his\nsilhouette merged into the dark forest beyond. He disappeared.\n\nHe had gone, we agreed, for one of two reasons: to get food, or to\nreturn in the dark and pick us off, much as we picked off the grouse\nfrom the branches. We inclined towards the latter theory--and kept eyes\nand ears wide open. We made a diminutive fire in a hollow, lest we be\ntoo visible in the surrounding darkness. We listened, watched, and\nwaited. It was already dusk. The night fell quickly. River and forest\nbecame an impenetrable sheet of blackness, our tiny fire, almost too\nsmall to cook on, the only speck of light. The stars came out, peeping\nthrough the branches. There was no wind. We shivered in the cold,\nlistening for every slightest sound ... and the hours passed.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019ll wait till we\u2019re asleep,\u201d said R.M., keeping his eyes open with\nthe greatest difficulty. Paxton fingered his revolver and mumbled\n\u201cOuch! Ouch!\u201d\n\nOnly the cold prevented us falling asleep, as, weapons in hand, we took\nturns to watch and listen. Had we the right to fire the instant we saw\na figure? Should we wait till the scoundrel made a sign? We discussed\nendlessly in whispers. Though no wind stirred the branches, the noises\nin that \u201csilent\u201d forest never ceased, because no forest ever is, or can\nbe, really silent. The effort of listening produced them by the dozen.\nOn every side twigs snapped and dry wood crackled. Soft, stealthy\nfootsteps were everywhere on the pine-needles. Canoes landed higher up\nand lower down; paddles dripped out in the river as someone approached;\nsometimes two or three dim figures crouched low on the shore, sometimes\nonly one. Finally, for safety\u2019s sake, we let the fire go out altogether.\n\nArmed to the teeth, we were still shivering in the cold darkness well\non into the night, and at some distance from the dying embers, when\nsuddenly--we nearly screamed--there was a sound of a voice. It was a\nman\u2019s voice; he was angry; he was cursing. A flame shot up beneath the\ntrees. We saw Gallup on his knees blowing up the hemlock coals. He had\nlanded, pulled his canoe on to the bank, and come up to within a few\nyards of where we stood without our hearing the faintest sound. He said\nno word. He cooked himself no food. He just made a huge fire, spread\nhis blanket beside the comforting blaze, curled up, and fell asleep. We\nsoon followed his example. Probably he had enjoyed a square meal with\nthe Indians, then sauntered home to bed.... Next day we reached Rainy\nLake City, paid him off, and saw him push off upstream in his Maine\ncanoe without having uttered a single word. He just counted the dollar\nbills and vanished.\n\nRainy Lake City was a few acres roughly cleared from the prim\u00e6val\nforest, yet with avenues cut through the dense trees to indicate\nstreets where tramcars were to run at some future date. River, lake\nand forest combined to make an enchanting scene. There were perhaps\na hundred men there. There was gold, but there was no gold-dust, no\nshining pans to sift the precious sand; in a word, no placer-mining. It\nwas all quartz; machinery to crush the quartz had to be dragged in over\nthe ice in the winter. Capital was essential, large lumps of capital.\nA word of inquiry in New York could have told me this. I felt rather\nguilty, but very happy. Paxton and R.M. were philosophical. No word of\nblame escaped their lips. They had the right to curse me, whereas both\nplayed the part of Balaam. Even at the time I thought this odd. Neither\nof them seemed to care a straw. \u201cWe\u2019ll stake a claim,\u201d said R.M. at\nintervals. Perhaps both were so pleased to have arrived safely that\nthey neither grumbled nor abused me. The truth was that, like myself,\nthough for rather different reasons, both of them were relieved to be\n\u201caway from home.\u201d The engineer, I discovered later, was glad that\n1,500 miles lay between him and New York City.\n\nWe pitched our tent by the shore and proceeded to investigate. Living\ncost little. It was sunny weather, it was spring. One company was\nalready sinking a shaft and working a small crusher; there were shacks\nand shanties everywhere; the \u201ccity\u201d was as peaceful as the inside of\nSt. Paul\u2019s Cathedral; we saw no hairy men, but we saw mosquitoes. With\nthe first warm nights these pests emerged for the season in their\nmillions; they were very large and very hungry; they hung in the air\nlike clouds of smoke; they welcomed us; as R.M. said, they had probably\nwritten the newspaper accounts that advertised the place. We had no\nnetting. They stung the bears blind; they would have stung a baby to\ndeath, had there been any babies, except ourselves, to sting. The only\ngold we saw was a lump, valued at $5,000, lying beside a revolver on\nthe counter of the Bank of Montreal\u2019s shack. The clerk allowed us to\nhold it for a second each. It was the only gold we touched.... We\ninvestigated, as mentioned; we wandered about; we fished and shot,\nwe rubbed Indian stuff over our faces to keep the mosquitoes off; we\nenjoyed happy, careless, easy days, bathing in ice-cold water, basking\nin hot sunshine, resting, loafing, and spinning yarns with all and\nsundry round our camp-fires. After New York it was a paradise, and but\nfor the mosquitoes, we could have dressed in fig leaves.\n\nExcept for the question of having enough money to get out again before\nthe iron winter set in towards October, we might have spent the whole\nsummer there. We decided to leave while it was still possible. To\npaddle a hundred and fifty miles against the stream was not attractive.\nWe would do the trip on foot. Selling tent and canoe to the clerk in\nthe bank, we set out across the Twenty-Six Mile Portage one day towards\nthe end of June. A party of five men, also bound for Duluth, joined us,\nand one of them was--Morris.\n\nThose happy, unproductive goldfields! That untenanted Rainy Lake City\nwhere no tramcars ever ran, nor faro-tables flourished! Morris, the\nhairy desperado! In the dismal New York days that followed they seemed\nto belong to some legendary Golden Age. Romance and adventure, both\ntouched with comedy, went hand in hand, beauty and liberty heightening\nsome imagined radiance. Wasted time, of course, but for that very\nreason valuable beyond computation. Stored memories are stored energy\nthat may prove the raw material of hope in days that follow after. Even\nMorris, the \u201cstiff,\u201d and cut-throat, played his little part in the\nproper spirit. There was a price on his head in Canada. We watched him\nclosely; we watched his partners too. The Twenty-Six Mile Portage cut\noff an immense bend of the Vermilion River, running through the depths\nof trackless, gloomy forest the whole way. Nothing was easier than to\n\u201cmix us up with the scenery\u201d as a phrase of those parts expressed it.\nEspecially must we be on our guard at night. One of us must always\nonly pretend to sleep. Our former mistake about Gallup need not make\nus careless. A natural instinct to dramatize the expedition might have\nsucceeded better if Morris, the villain, had not sometimes missed his\ncue and failed to realize the importance of his r\u00f4le.\n\nThe scenery, at any rate, was right. The weather broke the very day\nwe started, and the region justified its translated Indian name. A\ndrenching rain fell sousing on the world. With our heavy packs we made\nslow progress, crawling in single file beneath the endless dripping\ntrees, soaked to the skin in the first ten minutes. There was no trail,\nbut Morris had a compass. Darkness fell early on the first night when\nwe had covered barely six miles. Morris found a deserted lumbermen\u2019s\nshanty. One man chopped down a pitch-pine and cut out its dry heart of\nresinous wood which caught fire instantly; another soaked a shred of\ncedar-wood in a tin mug filled with melted bacon fat; a third cooked\ndinner for the whole party; and by eight o\u2019clock we all lay grouped\nabout the fire, dodging the streams of water that splashed through the\ngaping remnants of the pine-log roof.\n\nOutside in that windless forest the drip of the rain was like the\nsound of waterfalls, but it was a magnificent, a haunted, a legendary\nforest none the less. Our shanty was faintly lit by the flickering\ncedar-candle. Queer shadows danced, eyes glittered, the faces here and\nthere seemed distorted oddly in the shifting flame and darkness that\nalternately rose and fell. One by one, dog-tired, we fell asleep. It\nwas R.M.\u2019s turn to watch. Before supper was ended even, he lay soundly\nslumbering, his head, with touselled hair and ragged beard, thrown back\nagainst the wall, his mouth, containing unswallowed food--so weary was\nhe--half-open. I exchanged a significant glance with Paxton over his\ncollapsed body, meaning that we must watch instead.\n\nOur steaming clothes dried slowly as the night wore on. The dripping\ntrickle of the trees became louder and louder. Paxton, very thin now,\nlooked like a scarecrow in his ragged shirt and coat. His customary\nexclamation was rarely heard. He fell asleep in turn. The rest of the\nparty had been snoring for an hour or more. It was up to me to watch.\n\nI watched. The next thing I knew was a sudden stealthy movement, and\na low voice that woke me out of a slumber made of lead. The fire was\nlow, the candle hardly flickered. Across the gloom I saw the movement\nthat had waked me--Morris, the hairy man, was stirring. I watched him.\nHe sat up. He leaned cautiously over--towards R.M. His hand stretched\nout slowly. Splendid fellow! I felt furious with R.M. for falling\nasleep, for keeping his mouth open in that idiotic way. Stupid idiot\nand faithless comrade! Morris, I saw, was doing something to his\nbulky, motionless figure, just about to slit him open perhaps. Well,\nlet him slit! It was the head he touched. He was doing something to\nthe sleeper\u2019s head--pushing it--pushing it sideways so that a stream\nof water through the roof might just miss falling on his shoulder and\nthus splashing the hairy man\u2019s own face with spray. I watched closely,\nfaithful to my job. I saw Morris the Stiff take a bit of spare clothing\nout of his pack and hang it over R.M.\u2019s neck and shoulder. \u201cI got no\nuse for it,\u201d he was saying. \u201cYer friend might jest as well hev it.\u201d\nHe knew, therefore, quite well that I was watching. But R.M. knew\nnothing, less than nothing. He neither stirred nor woke. A more kindly,\ntender-hearted fellow than Morris the Stiff, no traveller in wild\nplaces could possibly desire.\n\nIt was perhaps a couple of hours later when I woke again, disturbed\nthis time not by noise, but by the sudden absence of it. One winter\u2019s\nnight the inhabitants of Niagara, similarly, woke up because, ice\nhaving formed, the thunder of the falls had ceased. I listened a\nmoment, then went out. The rain had ceased, the clouds were gone, in a\nclear sky the three-quarter moon shone brightly. The rain-washed air\nseemed perfumed beyond belief. Nor did the old moon merely \u201clook round\nher when the heavens were bare,\u201d she sprawled fantastically at full\nlength, as it were, in her magnificent blue-black bed of naked space. I\nwent out to a clear spot among the trees. Far away rose a soft murmur.\nThe air hummed and shook with the roar of distant rapids, so calm and\nstill the night was. No bird, no animal cried. The earth herself, it\nseemed, stopped turning in that wonderful stillness. Those few minutes\npainted a picture that memory must always keep....\n\nThree months later the first week in October found us in New York\nagain. The bullets were forgotten and, of course, unmentioned, and five\nmonths of glorious wasted time lay safely behind us.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\n\nIf it is impossible to recapture the boyish moods of those early days,\nit is also difficult not to import into these notes the point of view\nand feelings that belong to later life. Surely, but gradually, the\nscale of time changes with the years, and with it the range and quality\nof the emotions: to-day, a year seems a very brief period; the few\nmonths spent in the woods after our Gold Fields fiasco seemed both an\neternity, yet far too brief. A faint flavour of childhood\u2019s immense\nscale, when twelve months was an immeasurable stretch of time, still\nclung to them, perhaps.\n\nBut the magnet of New York drew us. Any idea of returning to England\nuntil I had made good was far from me. We arrived in the detested\ncity late in October, with livings to earn, and with less money than\nwhen we had first come two years before. We took separate rooms this\ntime, for I had learned my lesson about sharing beds and clothes and\nscanty earnings. It was to be each man for himself. Paxton disappeared\nimmediately; only occasionally did I hear his \u201cOuch, Ouch!\u201d again; M.\nfound a bed in Harlem and started to teach boxing; I took quarters in\nEast 21st Street, on the top floor of a cheap but cleanish house, and\narranged for breakfast and dinner in a neighbouring boarding-house at\n$2.50 a week.\n\nTwo Germans lived in the adjoining attic. Through the thin wooden\npartition I heard their talk, their breathing, their slightest\nmovement. They rarely came to bed before midnight; they talked the\nwhole night through. Informing them in a loud voice that I understood\ntheir language made no difference; they neither stopped nor answered.\nYet, oddly enough, I never once saw them; never met them on the stairs,\nnor in the hall, nor at the front door. They remained invisible, if not\ninaudible. But I formed vivid pictures of them, and knew from their\nconversation that they were not better than they need be. An old man\nand a young one, I gathered. An unpleasant house altogether, the low\nrent more easily explained than I at first guessed. Long afterwards\nI had my revenge upon those unsavoury Germans--by writing an awful\nstory about them, \u201cA Case of Eavesdropping,\u201d though by the time it was\npublished they were probably either dead or in gaol. A sinister couple,\nthese invisible Teutons!\n\nMy one main object was to avoid the _Evening Sun_: any work was better,\nI felt, than a return to that hated sensational reporting. A place was\nalways open to me under McCloy, but my detestation of the police court,\nand of the criminal atmosphere generally, was so strong that I would\nrather have taken a street-cleaning job under Tammany than go back to\nit. I therefore began by trying free-lance work, gathering news items\nand selling them for a dollar or two apiece to various papers, writing\nsnippets of description, inventing incidents, and earning perhaps ten\ndollars a week on the average. It was hard going, but pawning and\nfree lunches in the saloons made it possible to live. I knew all the\ntricks by now; I used them. The blanket off my bed occasionally spent\na week-end with a new \u201cIkey,\u201d though getting it out of the house and\nback again was no easy matter, while the smell of the moth-balls I\nalways expected must betray me. It was a poor blanket, too, worth only\n50 cents from Ikey\u2019s point of view, and certainly not worth the foolish\nrisk involved. For, literally--though this never once occurred to me\nat the time--it was stealing, and the fact that I told Ikey where it\ncame from, hoping to extract thereby an extra half-dollar from him,\ncould not have exonerated me if the landlady had met me on the stairs.\nPersonally, I think the quantity of food I devoured at the free lunch\ncounters in exchange for a five-cent glass of lager was a more flagrant\ncase of theft. Only it was a recognized theft. The temporary absence of\nthe blanket, anyhow, since I made my own bed, was never discovered, and\nmy heart remained innocent of conscious burglary.\n\nA dozen years before, aged 12, I had once been accused of stealing by\nthe headmaster of the private school I adorned in Sevenoaks. I was\ninnocent, but the evidence was both ludicrous and damning, so damning,\nindeed, that, strangely, I _felt_ guilty and accepted the punishment.\nA terrifying experience, it haunted me for years, and the sight of a\npoliceman, or the words \u201ccriminal judge,\u201d sent shivers down my spine\nlong afterwards. When a little older, I came to suspect that it was\nworked up against me by the master to curry favour with an influential\nparent; but at the actual time I had visions even of prison--for\nsomething I had not done. All about a poem, too!\n\nAt evening \u201cprep\u201d a \u201cbit of poetry,\u201d as we called it, had to be learnt\nby heart; my own poetry book was lost; I borrowed young Gildea\u2019s.\nThe last thing in the world I wanted to own was that poetry book of\nyoung Gildea, the last thing I wanted to do was to learn that poem by\nheart. I spent the hour, therefore, inscribing my name with elaborate\nflourishes on the title page. Twice I wrote it, with capitals, of which\nI was very proud; I thought it ornate and beautiful; and when the hour\nwas over I tossed the book into my locker and forgot all about it.\nNext morning I was summoned into the headmaster\u2019s presence. He wore\nred whiskers about an otherwise clean-shaven face: a face of natural\nsternness, with a big nose, a mouth of iron, and steely blue eyes. He\nwas a clergyman of evangelical persuasion.\n\nI had no idea why I had been summoned, but his glance made me at once\nfeel uneasy.\n\n\u201cBlackwood minor,\u201d he said in a solemn and portentous voice, \u201cdid you\ndo--_this_?\u201d He held out Gildea\u2019s poetry book towards me with the cover\nopen. His finger pointed to my name in pencil, flourishes and all.\n\nI was completely puzzled as to what was coming, but I admitted the\nsignature of course.\n\n\u201cIs the book yours?\u201d he asked. I said it was not. \u201cGildea has reported\nthe loss of his own copy,\u201d the voice of doom went on. \u201cIt has been\nfound--_in your locker_--and with _your name written_ in it.\u201d The\nvoice made me think of \u201cand God spake\u201d in the Bible.\n\nHe looked at me in such a way that I felt sure I was going to be\nflogged. What had I done? And why? I couldn\u2019t quite remember. No\nexplanation came to me. The simple truth was too silly to mention. I\nhad nothing to say except to admit everything. The man, with his awful\nmanner and appalling aspect, terrified me. I stood speechless and\nparalysed, wondering what was coming next. The red whiskers made me\nthink of Satan.\n\nI little dreamed, however, that the headmaster would say what he then\ndid say. He spoke with a terribly slow, deliberate emphasis.\n\n\u201cThis is as grave a case of stealing,\u201d fell the awful words of\njudgment, \u201cas ever came before a _Criminal Judge_. I have sent for your\nfather.\u201d\n\nI was petrified. It was enough to frighten any boy into his boots.\n\nMy father in due course arrived; Gildea\u2019s parents, both of them,\narrived likewise; there were consultations, mysterious comings and\ngoings; it was a day of gloom and terror; for some reason I made no\nattempt to defend myself; it all flabbergasted, frightened, puzzled me\nbeyond understanding. I was made to confess to Gildea and to apologize\nto the parents. To my own father I said nothing. He looked troubled,\nyet somehow not as grave as he ought to have looked. Perhaps he had\nhis doubts.... What that fiendish headmaster, whose name I will not\nmention, had said behind my back, I did not know, for my father never\nreferred to the matter afterwards, and both I and my brother were\nremoved from the school at the end of the term. But I was severely\npunished--sent to Coventry for three days--for doing something I had\nboth done and had not done, and the phrase \u201cCriminal Judge\u201d was burnt\ninto my memory with letters of fire. My revenge was rather an oblique\none--a fight with that headmaster\u2019s son, though about quite another\nmatter. With each blow I landed--and I landed several--I saw red\nwhiskers on a boy about my own age!\n\nThis digression concerning a poetry book occurs to me only now, while\ntelling of my wickedness about the blanket. The lesson that master\nwished to teach me had no effect, for the simple reason that I had\n_not_ stolen. The fear, however, doubtless remained; the injustice\nscored deep, bitter wounds. I trace back to it a curious persistent\ndread, not entirely obliterated even now: the dread of being accused\nof a crime I have not committed; yet where the evidence of guilt\nseems overwhelming. Patanjali\u2019s \u201cAphorisms\u201d describe a method of\nliving through in imagination all possible experiences. A series of\nlaborious incarnations would be necessary to exhaust these experiences\nin the ordinary way. They can be lived out in the mind instead. In\nimagination, anyhow, thanks to that little school injustice, I have\noften tried to _realize_ the feelings of a man serving a term of\nimprisonment for a crime he has not committed. Patanjali\u2019s interesting\nmethod is, at any rate, a means of opening the mind to a sympathetic\nunderstanding of many an experience one could not otherwise know. Only\nimagination must be sustained and very detailed, and the projection of\nthe personality is not easy.\n\nAn interlude of play-acting now enlivened my period of free-lance\njournalism. Kay was in my life again, and the opportunity came through\nhim. He had spent the summer between odd jobs on the stage, and odd\njobs at buying and selling exchange in Wall Street. He made both ends\nmeet, at any rate, and had a cheap room in the purlieus of Hoboken\nacross the river. A part in a third-rate touring company had just been\noffered to him, and he said he could get me a part as well. One-night\nstands in the smaller towns of New York State with a couple of plays,\nof which \u201cJim, the Penman,\u201d was one, formed the programme, and my utter\nignorance of acting, he assured me, need not stand in the way. My\nsalary would be $15 a week, with travelling expenses paid. Gilmour, the\nleading man, and organizer of the company, was anxious to find someone\nlike myself.\n\nI jumped at it. Gilmour looked me up and down and said I\u2019d do. I had\nonly one line to say. I was a prison warder on sentry duty, pacing to\nand fro between the walls at night, when Gilmour, the hero, escaping\nfrom his cell, knocks me down after a brief struggle, and disappears\ninto the night. A moment later the alarm is given; other warders\narrive, find me wounded on the ground and ask which way the prisoner\nhas gone. \u201cThat way,\u201d I shout, pointing the direction before losing\nconsciousness; whereupon the curtain falls.\n\nIt was not an exacting part. Gilmour said I should make a \u201cbully\nwarder.\u201d My own shabby clothes, with a brown billycock hat, would\ndo as they were. I was to carry a large wooden pistol. We rehearsed\nthe scene, swaying to and fro, breathing hard, grunting with effort,\ncursing each other fiercely, until the prisoner, wrenching the pistol\nfrom me, struck me on the head and floored me. Such was my r\u00f4le.\n\nI played it at Yonkers and Mount Vernon, three nights in each place,\nif memory serves me correctly, but \u201cwent through it\u201d is the true\ndescription of my performance. For the theatre, either as a writer or\nactor, I possess no trace of talent, a fact rediscovered recently when\nplaying an insignificant part in Drinkwater\u2019s \u201cOliver Cromwell\u201d on tour\nwith Henry Ainley. My dismissal at the end of the first week, however,\nwas not due to this lack of skill--it was due to a pail of beer and the\nleading lady. For the leading lady, handsome daughter, I remember, of\na Washington General, was the inspiration of the touring company, and\nit was for her _beaux yeux_ that the enterprise was undertaken. Gilmour\nwas what is known as \u201ccrazy\u201d about her, his jealousy a standing joke\namong us, so that when those _beaux yeux_ were turned upon my lanky,\nhalf-starved self, there were warnings that trouble might begin. But\nI was looking for salary and food rather than for trouble. In the\ndressing-room we underlings all shared together, though \u201cdressing\u201d\nwas of negligible kind, I was quite safe. Chance meetings, however,\nwere unavoidable, of course, and Bettina\u2019s instinct for adventure was\ndistinctly careless. It was here the pail of beer came in--into our\ncrowded dressing-room. Who brought it, I have forgotten; the miscreant\nwho stood treat to the band of hungry and thirsty Thespians is lost\nto memory. I only know that, empty of food as I was, my share of that\ngallon pail distinctly cheered me. The _beaux yeux_ had been boldly\nrolling; another pair of eyes, not so lovely, had been rolling too. To\nbe ungallantly honest about it, my own feelings were not engaged in\nany way, except on this particular night, when they were considerably\nroused--against that stupid, jealous Gilmour. The way he glared in my\ndirection stirred my bile; the few glasses of beer made me reckless.\nWhen the escaping prisoner fought with me for the possession of the\ngreat wooden pistol, I refused to be \u201cthrown.\u201d\n\nThe scanty audience that night witnessed a good performance of my\nbrief, particular scene. Gilmour cursed and swore beneath his breath,\nbut he was a smaller man than I was. He could do nothing with me. What\nwas a shocking performance in one sense, was a realistic and sincere\nperformance in another. Had my share of the pail been slightly bigger\nthan it was, I should undoubtedly have \u201cthrown\u201d the prisoner and spoilt\nthe curtain. As it was, however, Gilmour managed in the end to wrench\nthe pistol from me, and in doing so, his fury genuine, he landed me\na blow on the forehead with its heavy butt that stunned me. I fell.\nHe fled. Roars of applause I heard dimly. My brown billycock hat, I\nremember, fell on its springy brim, bounced into the air, then hopped\naway against the footlights. And all my interest went with my precious\nhat. To the warders who at once rushed on with cries of \u201cHe\u2019s escaped!\nWhich way did he go?\u201d I used the right words, taking my cue correctly.\nOnly I pointed in the wrong direction. I pointed towards my old hat\nagainst the footlights. It lay outside the curtain.\n\nIt is odd to think that somewhere in the under-mind of the individual\nwho lay half-stunned on the stage of a Yonkers theatre, pointing\nwildly at a dilapidated, but precious, old brown billycock, slept a\nscore of books, waiting patiently for expression a few years later.\nIt is difficult, indeed, as I write these notes, to realize that\nthe individual who describes the incidents is the individual who\nexperienced them. The body itself has changed every single physical\nparticle at least four times in succession. Nor is the mind the same.\nWith the exception of one or two main interests, easily handed on by\nthe outgoing atoms to the incoming atoms in the brain, \u201cI\u201d possess\nlittle that the \u201cI\u201d of those distant New York days possessed. Even the\ncontinuity of memory is bequeathable by atoms leaving the brain to the\nnew ones just arriving. Where, then, is the self who experienced years\nago what the self holding this pen now sets down?\n\nThe \u201cI,\u201d during the next few years, at any rate, went rolling; rolling\nfrom one experience to another, if not cheerily, at least resignedly.\nWhatever happened--and what happened was mostly unpleasant--there was\nnever absent the conviction that it was deserved, and must be lived\nout in a spirit of acceptance, until finally exhausted. Any other\nattitude toward unwelcome events meant evasion, and a disagreeable\nexperience shirked merely postponed it to another time, either in this\nlife or another. There was, meanwhile, a _real_ self that remained\naloof, untouched, neither happy nor unhappy, a spectator, but a royal\nspectator. Into this eternal Self was gathered the fruit and essence\nof each and every experience the lower \u201cI\u201d passed through; the secret\nof living was to identify oneself with this exalted and untroubled\nroyalty....\n\nThe rolling-stone went rolling, therefore, somewhat in this spirit,\nwhich helped and comforted, which made most things possible, bearable\nat any rate, because it was the outcome of that strange inner\nconviction established in my blood, a conviction, as mentioned, neither\nargument nor evidence could alter.\n\nLetters from home, home memories as well, pertained now to some\ndistant, unrecoverable region that was dead and gone. My mother\u2019s\nletters--one every week without a single omission--expressed a larger\nspirit. Her faithful letters, secure in a sincere belief, were very\nprecious, I remember. Sometimes, though never successfully, they\ntempted me almost to giving my full confidence and telling more than\nmy camouflaged reports revealed. From the rest of my family, with the\nexception of a really loved brother, I knew myself entirely divorced, a\ndivorce that later years proved final and somehow inevitable.\n\nTo my father, who was always something of a stranger to me, I could\nnever tell my heart; my mother, on the other hand, always had my\nconfidence, coupled with an austere respect. Few words passed between\nus, yet she always knew, I felt, my thoughts. And this full confidence\ndated, oddly enough, from an incident in early childhood, when I was\nsaying the Lord\u2019s Prayer at her knee. There was a phrase that puzzled\nme even when I was in knickerbockers: \u201cLead us not into temptation....\u201d\nI stopped, looked up into her face, and asked: \u201cBut _would_ He lead me\ninto temptation unless I asked Him not to?\u201d Her eyes opened, she gazed\ndown into mine with a thoughtful, if perplexed expression, for a moment\nshe was evidently at a loss how to answer. She hesitated, then decided\nto trust me with the truth: \u201cI have never quite understood those\nwords myself,\u201d she said. \u201cI think, though, it is best to leave their\nexplanation to Him, and to say the words exactly as He taught them.\u201d\n\n\u201cOld souls\u201d and \u201cyoung souls\u201d was a classification that ruled my mind\nin this New York period: my mother was of the former, my father of the\nlatter. In the Old lay innate the fruits, the results, the memories of\nmany many previous lives, and this ripeness of long experience showed\nitself in certain ways--in taste, in judgment, in their standard of\nvalues, in that mysterious quality called tact; above all, perhaps,\nin the type and quality of goods they desired from life. Worldly\nambitions, so-called, were generally negligible in them. What we\nlabel to-day as the subconscious was invariably fully charged; also,\nwithout too much difficulty, accessible. It made them interesting,\nstimulating and not easily exhausted. Wide sympathies, spread charity,\nunderstanding were their hall-marks, and a certain wisdom, as apart\nfrom intellect, their invariable gift; with, moreover, a tendency to\nwit, if not that rare quality wit itself, and humour, the power of\nseeing, and therefore laughing at, oneself. The cheaper experiences of\nbirth, success, possessions they had learned long ago; it was the more\ndifficult, but higher, values they had come back to master, and among\nthe humbler ranks of life they found the necessary conditions. Christ,\nI reflected, was the son of a carpenter.\n\nThe Young Souls, on the other hand, were invariably hot-foot after\nthe things of this world. Show, Riches and Power stuck like red\nlabels on their foreheads. The Napoleons of the earth were among\nthe youngest of all; the intellectuals, those who relied on reason\nalone, often the prosperous, usually the well-born, were of the same\ncategory. Rarely was \u201cunderstanding\u201d in them, and brilliant cleverness\ncould never rank with that wisdom which knows that _tout comprendre,\nc\u2019est tout pardonner_. To me the Young Souls were the commonplace\nand uninteresting ones. They were shallow, sketchy, soon exhausted,\nthe _Dutzend-menschen_; whereas, the others were intuitive, mature\nin outlook, aware of deeper values and eager for the things of the\nspirit....\n\nThinking over my distinguished relations, I found none fit to black\nthe boots of that kindly waiter in Krisch\u2019s cheap eating-house, Otto,\nthe Black Forest German, who trusted us for food and often forwent\nhis trumpery tip with a cheery smile. And there were many others,\nwhose memory remains bright and wonderful from those dismal New York\nyears.... A volume of \u201cDistinguished People I have Met,\u201d for instance,\nwould include the Italian bootblack at the corner of 4th Avenue and\n20th Street, who had the sun in his face, in his bright black eyes and\nbrown skin, and who trusted me sometimes for a month, although five\ncents meant as much to him as it did to me. The bigwigs I interviewed\nfor newspapers are forgotten, but the faces of Otto and the Italian\nshine in memory still. I even remember the sentence the latter taught\nme. It invariably formed our daily greeting: _E molto tempo che siete\nstato amalato?_ Often since have I spouted it in Italy, as bewildered\nby the voluble replies I could not understand, as the peasants were by\nmy familiar enquiry after their health. Mrs. Bernstein, I think, would\nbe entitled to a place, and Grant, who pawned his overcoat to buy me\nfood, most certainly to full mention.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\n\nWorthy of more detailed description, however, is the figure of an old,\nold man I met about this time, a dignified, venerable and mysterious\nbeing, man of the world, lawyer, musician, scholar, poet, but above\nall, exile. Incidentally, he was madman too. What unkindly tricks fate\nhad played with his fine brain, I never learned with accuracy. It was\nbut the ruin of a great mind I knew. Pain and suffering of no unusual\norder, as I soon discovered, had, at any rate, left his heart as wise\nand sweet and gentle as any I have ever known. His voice, his eyes, his\nsmile, his very gestures, even, had in them all the misery and all the\ngoodness of the world. Our chance meeting deepened into a friendship,\nthe intimacy of which between Padre and Figlio--names he himself\nassigned respectively--yet never permitted a full account of his own\nmysterious past. The little I gathered of his personal history before\nhe died some dozen years later in England, came to me from patchwork\nsources, but none of it from his own lips. What term the alienists\nmight use to describe the mental disorder of Alfred H. Louis I do not\nknow.\n\nThe first time I saw him he cut a sorry figure; an old fellow in far\nworse plight and even worse down at heel than I was myself. It was in\nan olive-oil warehouse, at No. 1, Water Street, on the river front.\nMcKay, the owner, whom I had met through some newspaper story or other,\nhad converted me to the wisdom of an occasional glass of olive oil. It\nwas healthful and delicious, but to me its chief value was as food. On\nthis day of broiling heat I had wandered in for a glass of oil, and,\nwhile waiting a moment for the owner to appear, I noticed an old tramp\nseated on a packing-case, gazing at me in penetrating fashion. He was a\nJew, he was very small, his feet were tiny, his hands, I took in, were\nbeautiful. I thought of Moses, of Abraham, some Biblical prophet come\nto life, of some storied being like the Wandering Jew.\n\nHis atmosphere, that is, at once sent a message of something unusual\nto my imagination. But it was when McKay came in and, to my surprise,\ncalmly introduced us as fellow Englishmen, that my mind was really\nstartled--not because the old tramp was English, but because when\nhe rose to shake my hand, it seemed to me that some great figure of\nhistory rose to address, not me, but the nations of the world. He\nreached barely to my shoulder, his face upturned to mine, yet the\nfeeling came that it was I who looked up into his eyes. The dignity and\npower the frail outline conveyed were astonishing. He was a Presence.\nAnd his voice the same instant--though in some commonplace about having\nknown Lord Dufferin--increased the air of greatness, almost I had said\nof majesty, that he wore so naturally. It was not merely cultured,\ndeep and musical, it vibrated with a peculiar resonance that conveyed\nauthority beyond anything I have known in any other human voice.\n\nWe talked ... _he_ talked, rather ... hunger, thirst, the afflicting\nmoist heat of the day were all forgotten, New York City was forgotten\ntoo. His words carried me beyond this world, his language in that\nastonishing voice wore wings that brought escape. His long frock-coat,\ngreen with age and dirt; his broken boots and frayed trousers; his\nshapeless top hat, brushed the wrong way till it looked like a beehive\ncoated with rough plush; his grimy collar without a tie; the spots upon\nhis grease-stained waistcoat--all vanished completely. It was, above\nall, I think, the poetry in his voice and words that brought the balm\nand healing into my whole being. The way his hands moved too. We talked\nfor several hours, for it was McKay\u2019s nasal interruption, saying he\nmust close the warehouse, that brought me back to--Water Street.\n\nRecklessly, though with a diffidence as though I were with royalty, I\ninvited him to dine, but in the cheap Childs\u2019 Eating House where we\n\u201cfed,\u201d I soon perceived that I had no reason to feel embarrassed. A cup\nof coffee and \u201csinkers\u201d sufficed him, he took my shyness away, he won\nmy easy and full confidence; and afterwards--for he refused to let me\ngo--as we sat, that stifling night, on a bench in Battery Park, tramps\nand Wearie Willies our neighbours, but the salt air from the sea in our\nnostrils, he used a phrase that, giving me the calibre of his thought,\nwas too significant ever to be forgotten. I had spoken of my hatred of\nthe city and of my present circumstances in it. He peered into my face\na moment beneath his dreadful hat, then, raising a beautiful hand by\nway of emphasis, his deep voice came to me like some music of the sea\nitself:\n\n\u201cNo man worth his spiritual salt,\u201d he said with impressive gentleness,\n\u201cis ever entangled in locality.\u201d He smiled, and the tenderness of the\nvoice was in the eyes as well....\n\nThe little park emptied gradually, the heated paving-stones lost\nsomething of their furnace breath, the stars were visible overhead\nbeyond the great arc lights, the parched leaves rustled faintly, and\nI spoke to him of poetry. He had lived with Longfellow, he had known\nBrowning. The poetry of the world was in his soul--Greek, Latin,\nGerman, French, above all, Hebrew. I drank in his words, unaware of the\npassing hours. To me it was like finding a well in the desert when I\nwas dying of thirst. Even the awful city he transfigured. Suddenly his\nlean fingers touched my arm, his voice deepened and grew soft, he took\nhis hat off. \u201cI will say my Night-Song to you now,\u201d he said. \u201cI can\nonly say it to very, very few. For years I have said it to--no one. But\n_you_ shall hear it.\u201d\n\nIf there was something in his voice and manner that thrilled me to\nthe core, the poem he then repeated on that bench in Battery Park at\nmidnight gave me indescribable sensations of beauty and delight. I\nrealized I listened to a personal confession that was a revelation of\nthe mysterious old heart beneath the green frock-coat. It seemed to me\nthat Night herself spoke through him:\n\n    Known only, only to God and the night, and the stars and me!\n              Prophetic, jubilant Song,\n    Smiting the rock-bound hours till the waters of life flow free;\n              And a Soul, on pinion strong,\n    Flieth afar, and hovers over the infinite sea\n              Of love and of melody:\n              _While the blind fates weave their nets\n              And the world in sleep forgets_.\n\n    Known only, only to me and the night, and the stars and God!\n              Song, from a burning breast,\n    Of a land of perfected delights which the foot of man ne\u2019er trod,\n              Like a foaming wine expressed\n    From passionate fruits that glowed \u2019mid the boughs of the Eden lost,\n              Ere sin was born and frost;--\n              _Song wild with desires and regrets,\n              While the world in sleep forgets_.\n\n    Known only, only to me and God, and the night and the stars!\n              The beacon fire of song,\n    Flaming for guidance and hope while the storm-winds wage their wars;\n              Balm for the ancient wrong,\n    Dropping from healing wings on the wounds of the heart and brain,\n              Quenching their ancient pain:\n              Love-star that rises and sets,\n              _While the world in sleep forgets_.\n\n    Known only, only to God and me, and the stars and the night!\n              Dove that returns to my ark,\n    Murmuring of grief-floods falling, of light beyond all light:\n              Voice that cleaveth the dark,\n    Singing of earth growing heaven, of distant lands that bless,\n              Though they may not caress,\n              And, blessing, pay Love\u2019s old debts,\n              _While the world in sleep forgets_.\n\nLong before he ended the tears were coursing slowly down his withered\ncheeks, and when the last word died away a long silence came between\nus, for I could find no words to express the emotion in me. He took my\nhand and held it a moment tightly, then presently got up, put on his\nold hat again, with the remark that it was time for bed, and followed\nme slowly to a Broadway cable car. His small, frail figure seemed to\nhave dwindled to a child\u2019s shadow as he moved beside me; he had a way\nof hunching his thin shoulders that still further dwarfed his height;\nI felt myself a giant physically, but in my mind _his_ stature reached\nthe stars. We exchanged addresses. He lived in 8th Street, a miserable\nattic, I learned later, though I never actually entered it. Of his\nmental disorder no inkling had then reached me. I watched him melt\ninto the shadows of the side street with the feeling that I watched\nsome legendary figure, some ancient prophet, some mysterious priest.\nHe smiled at me; there was love and blessing in the brilliant eyes.\nThen he was gone.... For me, at this time, to meet and talk with such\na man held something of the fabulous. He had set fire to a hundred new\nthoughts and left them flaming in me.\n\nIt was in this way began a friendship that has always seemed to me\nmarvellous, and that lasted till his death in England some fifteen\nyears later. Sweet, patient, resigned and lovable to the end, he died\nincurably insane, the charity in him never tainted, the tenderness\nunstained, the passionate love of his kind, of beauty, of all that is\nlovely and of good report, unspoilt. The grimmest pain had not soured\nthe natural sweetness in him, his gentle spirit knew no bitterness,\nhis megalomania, complicated, I believe, with other varieties of\ndisorder, was harmless and inoffensive. As Padre he still lives in my\nmemory; as The Old Man of Visions (\u201cThe Listener\u201d), he still haunts my\nimagination. \u201cYou have taken my name away,\u201d he chided me with a smile,\nwhen I published this picture of him. \u201cI am now uncertain who I am.\nThat is well. I am Anybody I choose to be. I will be Everybody.\u201d He had\nrooms in Great Russell Street at the time. Though baptised by Charles\nKingsley into the English Church, he later became a Roman Catholic,\nbut, when the end came, he reverted to the blood and faith born in him.\nHe was buried, by his own wish, in a Hebrew cemetery. The epitaph he\nso often told me with an ironic smile he had chosen for his own was\nnot, however, used. Talk, he always declared, vain, excessive talk, lay\nat the bottom of every misunderstanding in the world. If people would\ntalk less, there would be less trouble in life. \u201cSorry I spoke,\u201d was to\nbe cut upon one of his tombstones; \u201cSorry they spoke\u201d upon the other.\n\nA poem he wrote--published, like the Night Song, in _Harper\u2019s\nMagazine_--describing death, I have kept all these years. The strange\nintensity of expression he put into the passage which begins: \u201cThe sand\nof my Being is fused and runs ...\u201d lives in my mind to this day. The\ntitle of the poem was \u201cThe Final Word\u201d:\n\n    Hence then at last! For the strife is past\n      Of the Birth and Death, of the Self and Soul;\n    The memory breaks, the breath forsakes,\n      The waves of the \u00e6ther o\u2019er me roll.\n    The pulses cease, and the Hours release\n      Their wearied school of the nerves and brain;\n    I fall on the Deep of the Mystic Sleep,\n      Where the Word that is Life can be heard again.\n    And the fires descend, and my fragments blend,\n      And the sand of my Being is fused and runs\n    To the mould of a glass for the rays to pass\n      Of the Sun of the centre that rules all suns.\n    But, or ever I rest, I take from my breast\n      My blood-drained heart for the tablet white\n    Of a gospel page to the far-off Age--\n      O Hand eternal!--Come forth--and write!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\n\nThe personality of Alfred H. Louis is identified with New York for\nme; he accompanied my remaining years there, guide, philosopher and\nfriend. He took in hand that indiscriminate heterogeneous reading\nwhich the Free Library made possible. He proved an unfailing and\ninspiring counsellor. How, why or whence he came to be in America at\nall I never knew. One thing that stirred him into vehemence, when the\npast was mentioned, was the name of Gladstone. With flashing eyes and\nvoice of thunder he condemned the Grand Old Man, both as to character\nand policy, in unmeasured terms. Gladstone, apparently, had done him\na personal injury as well. \u201cWe cannot let that man come among us,\u201d\nwas Gladstone\u2019s dictum, when Louis\u2019s name was being considered as\na candidate for Parliament by the Party. \u201cHe is too earnest.\u201d This\nfragment was all he ever told me, but there lay evidently much behind\nit. \u201c_Too earnest!_\u201d he repeated with contemptuous indignation.\n\nOf his days at Cambridge he was more communicative, though,\nunfortunately, I kept no notes. The eloquence and earnestness of his\nspeeches at the Union, when Sir William Harcourt was president, made,\naccording to his own account, a great stir. Of Dr. (Bishop) Lightfoot,\nof Benson, afterwards Archbishop, he had intimate memories, coloured\nby warm praise. His book on \u201cEngland\u2019s Foreign Policy\u201d (Bentley, 1869)\napparently angered Gladstone extremely, and Louis\u2019s political career\nwas killed.\n\nHe was called to the bar. Of success, of important cases, he told\nme nothing. His early brilliance suffered, I gathered, a strange\neclipse, and from things he hinted at, I surmised--I cannot state it\ndefinitely--that a period in some kind of _maison de sant\u00e9_ followed\nabout this time. That he had been, then or later, in an asylum for the\ninsane, I heard vouched for repeatedly in London years later. For an\ninterval before the breakdown came, he was editor, or part-editor, of\nthe _Spectator_, and in some similar connexion, as owner or editor,\nhe served the _Fortnightly_ too. George Eliot he knew well, giving me\nvivid descriptions of her famous Sundays, and of his talks with George\nHenry Lewes and Herbert Spencer. He claimed to be the original of\nDaniel Deronda. He was a pupil of Sterndale Bennett\u2019s on the piano. Of\nhis friendship with Cardinal Manning he had also much to tell.\n\nIt was in the domain of politics that I first began to notice the\nexaggeration and incoherence of his mind, and it was \u201cin politics,\u201d\nevidently, that the deep wounds which would not heal had been\nreceived. In music, poetry, literature, above all in law, his\nintelligence had remained clear and sound, his judgments consummate,\nhis knowledge encyclop\u00e6dic. Large tracts of memory in him were,\napparently, obliterated, whole stretches of life submerged, but his\nlegal attainments had remained untouched. A business friend of mine\n\u201cbriefed\u201d him to lecture on International, Company and Patent Law; and\nthe substance of those \u201cLectures\u201d stood the test, years later, of the\nhighest English and French Courts.\n\nThe lonely old man\u2019s kingdom was his mind, and he dwelt in it aloof,\nsecure, contented, unassailable. Into the big empty stretches a half\neducation had left in my own, he poured his riches with unstinted\nsatisfaction, even with delight. Worldly advice he never proffered;\nthe world had left him aside, he, in his turn, left the world aside.\nTo practical questions he merely shook his Moses-head: \u201cThat,\u201d he\nwould say, \u201cyou must decide for yourself. Considered in relation to\nthe Eternities, it is of little moment in any case.\u201d To any question,\nhowever, of a philosophical kind, to any enquiry for explanation about\nwhat perplexed or interested me in the realm of thought, he would reply\nwith what I can only call a lecture, but a lecture so lucid, so packed\nwith knowledge and learning, with classical comment and quotation,\noften with passages of moving eloquence, and invariably in language\nso considered that no single word could have been altered, and the\n\u201cessay\u201d might have been published as it stood--lectures, in a word,\nthat enthralled and held me spellbound for hours at a time. For his\nknowledge was not knowledge merely, it was knowledge transmuted by\nemotion into that spiritual wisdom called Understanding.\n\nThe respect he inspired me with was such that rarely did I venture\nupon a personal question, though I longed to know more about himself\nand his mysterious story. His face sometimes betrayed intense mental\nsuffering. On one occasion, feeling braver, owing to a happy mood that\nseemed established naturally between us, I attempted rather an intimate\nquestion of some kind about his past. He turned and stared with an\nexpression that startled me. It was so keen, so searching. For several\nminutes he made no reply. His eyes narrowed. I felt ashamed. I had\nwounded him. The truth was, it seems, I had touched his heart.\n\n\u201cListen,\u201d he said presently. In a voice full of tears and deep emotion,\na very quiet, a very beautiful voice, he replied to my question.\nThe expression of his eyes turned inwards, there rose in memory the\nghostly figure of someone he had loved, perhaps loved still. The whole\naspect of the old exiled poet became charged with an intolerable\nsadness, as he spoke the lines, not to myself, but to this vanished\nfigure--\u201cShadowed by yearning memory\u2019s raven wing\u201d:\n\n\nHEREAFTER\n\n    Thou know\u2019st not, sweet, what must remain unknown\n    Through all that my poor words can say or sing,\n    The measure of the love to thee I bring.\n    One day thou wilt, when, by a graven stone\n    That bears a name, thou standest, white, alone,\n    Shadowed by yearning memory\u2019s raven wing,\n    Rained on by blossoms of some wind-torn spring\n    Wherefrom thirst-quenching fruit shall ne\u2019er be grown.\n    Then--power shall rest upon the vanished hand\n    Once too much trembling to thy touch for power;\n    Then--shall my soul at last thy soul command\n    As it might not in Time\u2019s brief fitful hour;\n    And what Life\u2019s fires might neither melt nor burn\n    Shall yield with tears to ashes and the urn.\n\nI had my answer. Never again did I venture on a personal question.\n\nAll our talks came round to poetry in the end. It was his deepest love\nas well. Sound lawyer he may have been, but inspired poet, to me at\nleast, he certainly was. His own poems he severely deprecated, calling\nthem, with the exception of the \u201cNight Song,\u201d \u201cpoor things, though from\nmy heart.\u201d His room, it seems, was littered with them in manuscript,\nwhich he rarely tried, and never wished, to sell. Some time later Mr.\nAlden, Editor of _Harper\u2019s Magazine_, questioned me for information\n\u201cabout a wonderful old gentleman who comes into the office like an\nemperor, and offers me a poem as though he were parting painfully with\na treasure he hardly dared let out of his keeping, and certainly does\nnot wish to sell for cash.\u201d To all, thus, he was a mystery. If he was\nuncared for, he was at the same time indifferent to human care. Great\nintellect, great mind, great heart, he seemed to me, a wraith perhaps,\nbut an august, a giant wraith, draped by mysterious shadows, dwelling\nin a miserable slum, cut off from his kind amid the dim pomp and\npageantry of majestic memories.\n\nIt was thus, at any rate, with the pardonable exaggeration of ignorant\ntwenty-five, I saw and knew the Old Man of Visions. It was his deep\nheart of poetry, rather than his fine intellect I worshipped. The\nunder-mind in him, the subconscious region, I think, was whole and\nhealed; it was the upper-mind, the surface consciousness, that alone\nwas damaged. If this mind was wrecked, this brain partly in ruins, the\nsoul in him peered forth above the broken towers, remaining splendidly\naware. Not even the imperfect instrument through which it worked could\nprevent this fine expression: behind the disproportion of various\ndelusions, behind the outer tumbled ruins, there dwelt unaffected in\nhim that greater thing than any intellect--Understanding.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\n\nIt was with a singular young man, who claimed proudly to be the\nillegitimate son of a certain duke, that I found myself presently in\nthe eau de Cologne business. A long difficult winter had passed; all my\nfriends had disappeared; there had been periods of dried apples again,\nof posing in studios, of various odd jobs, and of half-starving, with\nblack weeks in plenty. I had moved into yet cheaper quarters, where I\noccupied a room that had been formerly a butler\u2019s pantry, and was so\nsmall that when the folding-bed was down the entire space from wall to\nwall was occupied. The wash-hand stand was a sink in a recess let into\nthe wall and supplied with a tap.\n\nWhen Mr. Louis visited me, as he did frequently, we lowered the bed and\nused it as a divan. The door could not open then. I made tea in the\nsink. We talked....\n\nIf Louis\u2019s atmosphere suggested choirs and places where they sing,\nthat of Brodie, as I may call him here, was associated with bars and\nplaces where they drink. Not that he drank himself, for he was most\nabstemious, but that in certain superior saloons, all of them far above\nmy means, he was usually to be found. A simple, yet complex, generous\nas well as mean creature, with all the canniness of the Scot, with his\nuncanniness as well, his education had been neglected, he read with\ndifficulty, and only wrote well enough to sign his name laboriously\nto a cheque. He, too, like Louis, had his mystery; there was no one,\nindeed, in my circle of those days whose antecedents would bear too\nclose a scrutiny.\n\nI was first introduced to him by a burly Swede, with hands like\nbeef-steaks, and the shoulders of a heavy-weight fighter, who was\nlater arrested and sent to gaol for picking pockets. His notoriety\nas a sneak-thief none of us had guessed, and how those bulky hands\ncould have accomplished anything neat and clever was a puzzle. In\nthe Scotsman\u2019s pleasant quarters, somewhat outlandishly furnished by\nhimself on a top floor, the Swede had made himself at home too long.\nBrodie, the prey of many who, invited for a day or two, stayed on for\nweeks, was glad to see his back. His weak good-nature, refusing to turn\nhis guests out, was the cause of endless troubles with men who sponged\nupon his kindness and his purse. This and his eau de Cologne business,\n\u201cme beezness\u201d as he called it, were his sole topics of conversation. He\nhad money to spend--was it an allowance? We never knew--and was always\nwell dressed; many a square meal he stood me; there was something in\nhis soft West of Scotland voice that drew me to this odd fish in the\n\u201cperfumery line.\u201d It reminded me of happier days. And I have described\nhis habits at some length, because it was owing to a small service I\nrendered him, and rendered myself at the same time, that I became a\npartner in \u201cme beezness\u201d of manufacturing and selling eau de Cologne\nmade from the Johann Maria Farina recipe.\n\nBrodie\u2019s social aspirations were very marked; to hear him talk one\nwould have thought him heir to a dukedom; he had, too, a curious\nfaculty for getting his name associated with people above him in the\nsocial world. How he managed it was a problem I never solved. His\ninstinct for smelling out and using such folk was a gift from heaven.\nTo see his name in the paper gave him supreme happiness. Real \u201cSociety\u201d\nof course, Ward Macallister\u2019s Four Hundred, lay beyond the reach of\nwhat was actually a peasant type, but there were less select fields he\nworked assiduously with great success. There was matter for a play,\na novel, a character study, at any rate, in Brodie, who himself, I\nlearned much later, had come out to New York as valet to Clyde Fitch,\nthe playwright, and whose recipe for the \u201cgenuine Johann Maria Farina,\u201d\nhis successful \u201cbeezness,\u201d was stolen property. My father\u2019s son knew\ncertainly queer bedfellows in that underworld in New York City.\n\nMeeting him in one of his usual haunts one night, he complained\nbitterly of a young man he had invited for a week, but who had stayed\na month, and stayed on still. The name, which need not be mentioned,\nwas a well-known one. It was a bad case of imposition, by a man, too,\nwho had ample means of his own. I offered to turn him out, much to\nBrodie\u2019s alarm. That is, he both desired the result and feared it. Next\nmorning I arrived in the oddly-furnished rooms and found Brodie cooking\nbreakfast for the undesirable young man who had imposed on his host too\nlong, and who still lay in bed. It was a comic scene, no doubt, for\nBrodie, though frightened, bore out my accusations while he fried the\neggs, and the other blustered noisily until he found out that bluster\nwas of no avail; and then, threatening an action for assault, got\nsuddenly out of bed and dressed himself. Half-an-hour later he was, bag\nand baggage, in the street, while I went down and sold the \u201cstory\u201d to\nthe _New York Journal_, who printed it next morning with big headlines,\nbut also with a drawing showing the eviction scene. No action for\nassault followed, however; I received twenty dollars for my \u201cstory\u201d;\nand Brodie, full of gratitude--his name was mentioned in flattering\nterms--offered to take me into partnership in \u201cme beezness.\u201d I demurred\nat first. \u201cYou might help me with the correspondence,\u201d he suggested\ncautiously. I was to be his educated partner and his pen.\n\nAll that spring and summer I received ten dollars a week which,\nin addition to free-lance newspaper work, enabled me to live in\ncomparative luxury. In a dark little back-office on Broadway and 8th\nStreet, the eau de Cologne was made. It might have been the secret\nheadquarters of an anarchist fraternity, or the laboratory of some\nmedi\u00e6val alchemist, such was the atmosphere of secrecy, of caution and\nof mystery. It never occurred to me that anything was wrong. Our only\nassistant was a young Polish girl named Paola, a beautiful, dark-haired\nJewess. The precious recipe I was never allowed to see. Great flagons\nin wicker coverings stood in rows upon long shelves; the mixing of\nthe ingredients was a delicate operation lasting an hour; the room\nsmelt rich and sweet of spices that made me think of Araby and the\nEast. It was a curious and picturesque scene--the rather darkened\nroom, the perfume-laden air, the hush no traffic could disturb, the\ngreat, mysterious flagons, which might almost have concealed forty\nthieves, the canny Scot of doubtful origin, the beautiful Jewess,\nthe air of caution and suspicion that reigned over all. The filling\nof the bottles in two sizes, affixing the labels, flavouring the\nsoap--we made eau-de-Cologne soap too--answering the letters, writing\nflowery advertisements, and so forth, occupied the entire day. Brodie,\na born salesman, would take a cab and visit the big stores with\nsamples--Macy\u2019s, Siegel and Cooper, and others whose names I have\nforgotten. He never came back without an order. The business flourished.\n\nI made no secret of being in the perfumery trade. I had moved into a\nlarger room at my boarding-house. I had bought boots, some new linen,\nand most of my things were out of pawn. Then, presently, here and\nthere, I began to notice things I did not like. Rumours reached me.\nHints were dropped, sometimes more than hints, that made me wonder\nand look over my shoulder a little. No member of my immediate circle\nat this time was of too sweet origin nor of too stainless habits, yet\nfrom these came the rumours and the hints. I had better \u201ckeep my eyes\npeeled,\u201d and the rest...! One man in particular who warned me was an\nelderly, shrewd German, friend of Brodie\u2019s, and himself a mystery. His\noccupation was unknown, however, even to Brodie; he hid it carefully\naway; he led a double life, protecting himself with the utmost skill\nand caution behind a screen of detail none of us ever pierced. \u201cVon\u201d\nSchmidt, as he styled himself, was educated; also he had a heart;\nfor once, when I was in a state of collapse from hunger, he brought\noysters for me at great trouble to himself, having to go out on a\nrainy night and bring them some distance along the street; from which\nmoment, though the unpleasant mystery about him intrigued and cautioned\nme, I became his friend. We talked German together. His one desire,\nhe confided to me, was to marry a rich woman, and once he clumsily\nproposed to arrange a rich marriage for myself if I would give him\na--commission on results!\n\nHis personality is worth this brief description, perhaps, since it\nsheds light, incidentally, upon the world I lived in. Always most\ncarefully dressed, he occupied a single room in a well-appointed house\nin East 22nd Street, talking airily of a bedroom on the floor above,\nof a bathroom I was sure he never used, and complaining apologetically\nof \u201cthis awful house I\u2019m in for the moment.\u201d His pose was that of an\naristocrat, proud and resigned among untoward circumstances, and it was\nthrough no mistake of his own that this humbug did not impose on me.\nI just knew it was all bunkum. His actual business, I felt sure, was\nunsavoury, though Brodie, having once discovered artificial flowers\nin his coat pocket, thought he was a floor-walker in some big store.\nVarious suspicious details confirmed me later in the belief that his\nreal occupation was blackmailing.\n\nIn his single room, at any rate, where a piece of furniture against\nthe wall covered with framed photographs of German notabilities was\nin reality a folding-bed--I never once, since the oysters, betrayed\nthat I knew this--he lived \u201clike a gentleman.\u201d Every night, from nine\no\u2019clock onwards, he was \u201cat home\u201d; a box of cigars, various liqueurs,\nhe offered without fail, and \u201cwith an air\u201d if you please, although\nthe former never held more than three or four cigars, the bottles\nnever more than enough to fill two glasses, because \u201cmy servant,\nconfound him, has forgotten again to fill them.\u201d He had no servant,\nof course, and the minimum of replenishing was done by himself every\nevening before nine o\u2019clock. \u201cThen you are a Baron really?\u201d I said\nonce, referring to the \u201cvon\u201d before his name. He looked at me with the\ndisdainful smile a prince in difficulties might have worn: \u201cIn this\ncity of snobs and scoundrels,\u201d he said lightly, \u201cI have dropped my\ntitle. The \u2018von\u2019 alone I find more dignified.\u201d He left the house, I\nfound, every morning sharp at eight, and this was in favour of Brodie\u2019s\ntheory that he had some regular job. He was an experienced, much-lived\nold bird, a touch of something sinister about him always, about most\nof his friends as well. Some very disagreeable types I surprised more\nthan once in his well-furnished room. He \u201cknew the ropes,\u201d knew men\nand women too, his counsel was always sound in worldly matters. A lack\nof humour was his chief failing, it seemed to me, while his snobbery\nwas another weakness that probably led many of his schemes to failure.\nEvery summer, for instance, he would go for two weeks to Newport, where\nthe rank and fashion went. \u201cWhen I was at Newport,\u201d or \u201cI am going to\nNewport next week,\u201d were phrases his tongue loved to mouth and taste\nlike fine wine. But his brief days there were spent actually in a cheap\nboarding-house, although the letters he wrote to all and sundry, to\nmyself included, bore one word only as address: \u201cNewport,\u201d made from a\ndie, at the head of his coloured paper.\n\nIt was von Schmidt, then, who warned me about Brodie and his\neau-de-Cologne business: \u201cHe is a fool, a peasant. There will be\ntrouble there. Do not identify yourself with him or his business. It\nis not worth while....\u201d And his manner conveyed that he could tell\nsomething more definite if he liked, which I verily believe was the\ncase. Brodie, I was convinced later, paid him tribute.\n\nI began to feel uncomfortable. One day I asked Brodie, point blank,\nwhat his recipe was and how he came by it? \u201cThat\u2019s me own beezness,\u201d\nhe replied. \u201cThere\u2019s nothing to be nairvous about.\u201d I consulted \u201cold\nLouis.\u201d \u201cIf you feel the faintest doubt,\u201d was his answer, \u201cyou should\nleave at once.\u201d I decided to get out. Brodie asked me to wait the\ncurrent month. I agreed.\n\nBefore the end of the month, however, when I left the eau-de-Cologne\nbusiness, a most unpleasant and alarming incident occurred. The\nterrible thing, long dreaded in a vague kind of way, had overtaken me\nat last. I was to be convicted of a crime I had not committed. I might\neven be sent to gaol....\n\nBrodie\u2019s outlandish furnishing of his rooms has been mentioned\npurposely; they were filled with an assortment of showy trash that\ncould not have deceived a charwoman; fifty dollars would have covered\neverything. He was proud of his curtains, rugs and faked draperies,\nhowever; showed them off with the air of a connoisseur; hinted at their\ngreat value. He had insured them, it always pleased him to mention.\nThe _New York Journal_, describing the eviction scene, had referred\nto his fine apartment \u201cfurnished with exotic taste and regardless of\ncost,\u201d adding this touch of colour which was certainly not my own.\nBrodie, thus encouraged in print, promptly took out another fire policy\nin a second company. And one day, while toying with his flagons, he\nmentioned casually that he was having \u201cme place done up a bit,\u201d new\npaint, new paper were to be put on, and--might he bring his clothes to\nmy room until this was finished, as his own cupboard space was limited?\n\nHe brought the suits himself, carrying them one by one concealed\ninside a folded overcoat upon his arm. He did this always after dusk.\nNo suspicion stirred in me. My own cupboards were, of course, empty.\nBrodie\u2019s fine wardrobe now filled them. It all seemed natural enough;\ncertainly it roused no doubt or query in me; neither did the party to\nwhich I was invited a few days later, which included a \u201cdistinguished\u201d\nmember, of course, a famous dress-designer from Europe, with whose\npublicity campaign in the Press, Brodie had contrived to get his name\nassociated.\n\nWe were a party of five men, and we met at our host\u2019s rooms before\ngoing out to dine, the rooms that had just been done up; and attention,\nI recall, was drawn particularly to the beauty, rarity and value of\nhis variegated trash. The electric light was shaded, a big coal fire\nburned in the grate, at a cursory glance the apartment might possibly\nhave produced a favourable impression of expense and richness. But our\nhost did not allow us to linger; there was a hurried cocktail, and we\nwere gone. I remember that I was last but one in the procession down\nthe stairs from this top floor; Brodie, who had held the door open for\nus to pass, came last. Also I remembered later, that as we reached the\nnext flight, he said he had forgotten something, and dashed upstairs\nagain to fetch it. A moment later he rejoined us in the street, and\nwe all went on to dinner. \u201cIt was a kind of house-warming party,\u201d he\nexplained.\n\nThe evening passed pleasantly. We went on to Koster and Biel\u2019s music\nhall, and after that, to supper in some Tenderloin joint or other. And\nit was here I first noticed a change in our host. Something about him\nwas different. His behaviour was not what was normal to him. His face\nwas pale, his manner nervous and excited; though there was no drink in\nhim to account for it, he was overwrought, unusually voluble, unable to\nkeep still for a single moment. I had never seen him like this before,\nand the strangeness of his behaviour arrested me. Once or twice, _\u00e0\npropos_ of nothing, he referred to the money he had spent on his\napartment; and more than once in asides to me, he spoke of the value of\nhis rugs and curtains, engaging my endorsement, as it were. The other\nmen, who knew him less intimately, probably noticed nothing, or, if\nthey did, attributed it to the excitement of alcohol.... But it made me\nmore and more uneasy. I didn\u2019t like it; I watched him attentively. I\ncame to the strange conclusion, long before the evening was over, that\nhe was frightened. And when he met suggestions that it was time for bed\nwith obstinate refusals, anxious and nervous at the same time, I knew\nthat he was more than frightened, he was terrified.\n\nOnce when I asked him whether he felt unwell, there was startled terror\nin his cunning eyes as he whispered: \u201cI dreamed of rats last night.\nSomething bad will be coming.\u201d His face was white as chalk. To dream\nof rats, with him, always meant an enemy in the offing; a dozen times\nhe had given me instances of this strange superstition; to dream of an\nacquaintance in connexion with these unpleasant rodents meant that\nthis particular acquaintance was false, an enemy, someone who meant him\nharm. I, therefore, understood the allusion in his mind, but this time,\nfor some reason, I did not believe it. He was lying. The terror of a\nguilty conscience was in those startled eyes and in that sheet-white\nskin. I felt still more uneasy. I was glad I had put my resignation\nfrom the \u201cbeezness\u201d in writing. There was trouble coming in connexion\nwith that recipe, and Brodie already knew it.\n\nIt was after two in the morning when we reached home. My rooms were a\ncouple of streets before his own, but he begged me to see him to his\ndoor. His nervous state had grown, meanwhile, worse and worse; his legs\nfailed him several times, seeming to sink under his weight; he took my\narm; more than once he reeled. There was something about it all, about\nhimself particularly, that made my skin crawl. The awful feeling that\nI, too, was to be involved increased in me.\n\nAs we turned out of Fourth Avenue into his street, a loud noise met\nus: a prolonged, hoarse sound, a clank of machinery in it somewhere,\nanother sound as well that pulsed and throbbed. A dense crowd blocked\nthe way. There was smoke. A fire engine was pumping water into a\nburning building--the one that Brodie lived in. These details I noticed\nin the first few seconds, but even before I had registered them Brodie\nuttered a queer cry and half-collapsed against me. He was speechless\nwith terror, and at first something of his terror he communicated\nto me, too. My heart sank into my boots. The \u201crats\u201d I understood\ninstantly, had nothing to do with his eau de Cologne recipe. This was a\nfar more serious matter.\n\nFires were no new thing to me, and this evidently was only a small one,\nbut, none the less, people might have been burned to death. Telling\nmy companion to wait for me, and to keep his mouth shut whatever\nhappened, I produced some paper and pushed my way through the crowd to\nthe police cordon, saying I was from the _Evening Sun_. Though I had\nno fire-badge, the bluff worked. I ran up the steps of the familiar\nhouse. \u201cWhich floor is it? How did it start? Is it insured? Is anybody\nburned?\u201d I asked a fireman. The answer came and I jotted it down; it\nwas the top floor, how it started was unknown, nobody was hurt--it was\nheavily insured.\n\nIt had been burning for four hours, the worst was over, the fire was\nout; only steam and smoke now filled the staircase and corridors. The\nstreet was covered with a litter of ruined furniture. The occupants of\nthe lower floors stood about in various attire; I caught unpleasant\nremarks as I dashed upstairs to Brodie\u2019s floor. Hoses, I found, were\nstill at work; the room we had left six hours before was gutted; a\ngaping hole permitted a view of the room on the floor below, and this\nhole began immediately in front of the grate. A black woolly mat\nwith long hair, I remembered, had lain on the floor just there. The\nunpleasant remarks, as I ran up, had reference to insurance; phrases\nsuch as \u201cover-insured,\u201d \u201ctoo well insured\u201d were audible. They were the\nusual phrases uttered at the scene of a New York fire, where arson was\nas common as picking pockets; I had heard them a hundred times; they\nhad furnished clues for my newspaper stories. On this occasion they\nheld a new significance.\n\nBrodie shared my folding-bed that night, but he did not sleep. He cried\na good deal. He said very little. He referred neither to the loss of\nhis stuff, nor to the fact of its being covered by insurance, nor to\nhow and why the fire started. He was frightened to the bone.\n\nNext day, when we visited the burned apartment to secure what fire\nand water had spared, Brodie was abused and scarified by the inmates\nas he went upstairs.... Weeks of keen anxiety followed, of worse than\nanxiety. The insurance companies refused to pay the claims, which\nBrodie, after much hesitation, had sent in. They decided to fight them.\nThe lawyer--a _scheister_, meaning a low, unprincipled type of attorney\nwho would take any case for the money it might contain--bled my friend\neffectively by preying on his obvious fear. He was summoned to give\nwitness before a hearing in the offices of the company, and I shall\nnever forget his face when he met me that night with the significant\nwords: \u201cThey know everything about me, everything about you too. They\neven know that I took all my clothes to your room before it happened.\nThey are going to summon you to give evidence too.\u201d\n\nI consulted with \u201cold Louis,\u201d telling him the full story, but making\nno accusations. \u201cFew people are worthy to live with,\u201d was his comment,\n\u201cfewer still to share one\u2019s confidence. You must tell the truth as you\nknow it. You have nothing to fear.\u201d I was searchingly examined by the\ncompany\u2019s lawyer and my evidence made, I saw, a good impression. No\nawkward leading questions were put. Brodie had been kind to me; I knew\nnothing definite against him; in his ignorance, which I described, he\nmight well have thought his possessions were of value. It had nothing\nto do with me, at any rate, and there was a perfectly good explanation\nfor his clothes being in my cupboard. None the less, it was a trying\nordeal. Worse, however, was to follow. The fire marshal, recently\nappointed, a proverbial new broom, was out to put down the far too\nfrequent arson in the city. Fire Marshal Mitchell--I see his face\nbefore me still--intended to prosecute.\n\nThis was a bombshell. My imaginative temperament then became, indeed,\nmy curse. Waiting for the summons was like waiting for the verdict\nof a hostile jury. I waited many days, hope alternating with fear. I\nfelt sure I was being watched the whole time. Brodie and I never met\nonce. I changed my room about this time, though for reasons entirely\ndisconnected with this unpleasant business (I had obtained a violin\npupil in another house), and I wrote to the fire marshal informing him\nof my new address, in case, as I understood was probable, he might want\nmy evidence.\n\nBut what really alarmed me most was my inside knowledge of New York\njustice. I had seen too many innocent men sent up; I had heard faked\nevidence in too many police cases; I knew that, without a \u201cpull,\u201d I\nstood but little chance of escaping a conviction as an accessory\nto what they would call a wanton case of arson. I was not even on\nthe staff of a newspaper at the time. I had no influence of any sort\nbehind me. Nor were my means of support too \u201cvisible,\u201d a Britisher,\na highly-connected Britisher into the bargain, it was just what the\nnew-broom fire marshal was looking for. It would make a big case for\nthe Press. The agony of mind I endured was ghastly, and the slow delay\nof long waiting intensified it.... One evening, on coming home about\ndusk, I saw a strange man in the little hall-way of my house. He asked\nme my name. I told him. He handed me a blue paper and went out. It was\nthe long-expected subp\u0153na from the fire marshal. I was summoned to\nattend at eight o\u2019clock two mornings later in his office.\n\nMy emotions that night and the next day were new experiences to me; I\nheard the judge sentence me, saw myself in prison for a term of years\nwith hard labour. I began to _feel_ guilty. I knew I should say the\nwrong thing to the fire marshal. I should convict myself. The truth\nwas the truth, but everything pointed against me; I knew Brodie as a\nfriend, I was his business associate, was frequently in his rooms, had\naccepted kindnesses from him, I needed money badly, I had hidden his\ngood clothes in my cupboards a few days before the fire. I had been\nwith him on that particular night, I had left the room with him--last\nof the party. I should be looked upon as guilty, it was for me to\nclear myself. Prejudice against me, too, as an Englishman would be\nstrong. The Boyde episode would be revived, and twisted to show that I\nconsorted with law-breakers. I should stammer and hesitate and appear\nto be hiding the truth, to be lying, and I should most certainly look\nguilty. The thing I dreaded had come upon me. I thought of my home and\nfamily.\n\nIt all made me realize with a fresh sharpness the kind of world poverty\nhad dragged me down to, with the contrast between what I had been\nborn to and what I now lived in.... I needed every scrap of strength\nand comfort my books could give me. That I was exaggerating like\na schoolboy never occurred to me. I suffered the tortures of the\ndamned, of the already condemned, at any rate. That I was innocent of\nwrong-doing was, for some reason, no consolation: I had got myself into\nan awful mess and should have to pay the price.\n\nThe wildest ideas filled my brain; I would call and enlist the\ninfluence of McCloy, of various officials, of headquarters detectives,\nof D. L. Moody the Revivalist, who was then preaching in New York\nand who had been a guest in my father\u2019s house, of the Exchange Place\nbanker, even of von Schmidt, though fear of blackmail stopped me here.\nBut reflection told me how useless such a proceeding would be. The\nRepublicans, besides, were in power at the time, and Tammany had no\n\u201cpull.\u201d I even thought of Roosevelt, whom, as President of the Police\nBoard, I had often interviewed. The fire marshal would rejoice in the\ncase, of course, for, as with the Boyde story, the newspapers would\nprint it at great length. There lay much _kudos_ for him in it. I\nhad no sleep that night, as I had no friend or counsellor either. I\nthought of spending it in Bronx Park with the trees, but it occurred to\nme that, if I were being watched, the act might be interpreted as an\nattempt to escape--for what would a New York fire marshal make of my\nlove of nature?\n\nThe following day, as the dreaded examination grew closer, was a day of\nacute misery--until the late afternoon, when I met by chance the man\nwho saved me. I shall always believe, at least, that \u201csaved\u201d is the\nright word to use.\n\nA coincidence, as singular as the coincidence of catching Boyde, was\ninvolved. Fate, anyhow, brought me across the path of Mullins, the one\nman who could help, just at the time and place, too, where that help\ncould be most effectively given. The word coincidence, therefore, seems\njustified.\n\nMullins, the Irishman, was an editorial writer on the _Evening Sun_\nwhen I was a reporter there; he disliked the paper as heartily as I\ndid, and his ambition was to join the staff of the _New York Times_,\nwhere Muldoon, another Irishman, a boon companion, was City Editor.\nHe had proved a real friend to me in my days of gross inexperience.\n\u201cIf ever I get on the _Times_,\u201d he used to say, \u201cI\u2019ll try and get a\nplace for you, too. It\u2019s a fine, clean paper, and they treat a man\ndecently.\u201d He had realized his ambition just about the time I went into\nthe eau-de-Cologne business, but had said there was no vacancy for me.\nThere might be one later. He would let me know. For months, however, we\nhad not met, and the matter had really left my mind. And it was now,\nwhen I was casting about in a state of semi-panic for someone who might\nhelp me, that I suddenly thought of Mullins. As a last hope, rather, I\nthought of him, for it seemed a very off-chance indeed.\n\nFor various reasons I did not act upon the idea, but Mullins was in\nmy mind, so much, so persistently, so often, that I kept seeing him\nin passers-by. I mistook several strangers for Mullins, until close\nenough to see my mistake. Then, suddenly, in Union Square, towards\nevening, I did see him. I was sitting on a bench. He walked past me. He\nwas on his way to an assignment. I told him the whole story, making no\naccusations, but omitting no vital detail. He listened attentively, his\nface very grave. He shared my own misgivings. \u201cIt\u2019s just the kind of\ncase Mitchell\u2019s looking for,\u201d he said. \u201cHe wants to make a splash with\nit. But I think I can fix it for you. Guess what my assignment is at\nthis moment?\u201d\n\nAnd then he told me. His job that evening was a special interview with\nMitchell, a descriptive story of the newly-appointed fire marshal, his\npersonality and character, his plans for suppressing arson, and it was\nto be a front-page article. Mullins could make him or mar him; he had a\nfree hand in the matter; the _Times_ was a Republican organ. It would\nmean a great deal to Mitchell. \u201cHe comes from my part of Ireland,\u201d said\nMullins with a grin and a wink. And then he added that he had spoken\nto Muldoon about me only the day before, and that Muldoon had promised\nme a place on the paper the moment it was possible--in a few weeks\nprobably. \u201cI shall just mention to Mitchell that you\u2019re going on the\n_Times_,\u201d was his significant parting word to me, as he hurried off to\nkeep his appointment.\n\nMy examination next morning was robbed of much of its terror. The\nfire marshal was evidently not quite sure of himself, for, if manner,\nvoice and questions were severe, I detected an attitude that suggested\nwavering. A shorthand writer behind me took down every word I uttered,\nand the searching examination about the clothes, my social and business\nrelations with Brodie, my knowledge, if any, concerning the value of\nhis rugs and curtains, especially concerning the night of the fire\nand the details of how we left the room, gave me moments of acute\ndiscomfort. Although Mitchell rarely once looked straight at me, I\nknew he was observing my every word and gesture, the slightest change\nin facial expression, too. He confined himself entirely to questions,\nallowing no hint of his own opinion to escape him, and yet, to my very\nstrung-up attention, he betrayed the uncertainty already mentioned.\nI, of course, confined myself entirely to answers, brief, but without\nhesitation.\n\nMy instinct, right or wrong, was to protect Brodie, a man who had\nshown me real kindness. I remembered the meals, for one thing. In any\ncase, it was not for me to express opinions, much less to bring an\naccusation. And, towards the end of a gruelling half-hour, I began to\nfeel a shade more comfortable. When, with a slightly different manner,\nthe fire marshal began to ask personal questions about my own career,\nI felt the day was almost won. I gave a quick outline of my recent\nhistory, though I never once mentioned the name of Mullins; let fall\nthe detail, too, that I was an Irishman, and, a little later, seizing\nan opening with an audacity that surprised myself even while I said the\nwords, I congratulated Mr. Mitchell upon his campaign to crush out the\nfar too frequent arson in the city. \u201cAs a newspaper man,\u201d I gave this\nblessing, and the shot, I instantly saw, went home. If I could be of\nany use to him on the _Times_, if any suspicious case came my way, I\nadded that I should always be glad to serve him. For the first time the\nfire marshal smiled. I shot in a swift last stroke for Brodie, though\nan indirect one. \u201cBut you don\u2019t want any _mis_fires,\u201d I ventured,\ninwardly delighted that the play on the word amused him. \u201cA big case\nthat failed of a conviction would be damaging.\u201d\n\nWe shook hands as I left soon after, though the final comfort he denied\nme. For when I mentioned that my present address would always find me\n\u201cif you need me again,\u201d he merely bowed and thanked me. He did _not_\nsay, as I hoped he would, \u201cyour presence will not be required any more.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\n\nSix weeks later, when the torrid summer heat was waning and September\nbreezes had begun to cool the streets, the nights, at any rate, I found\nmyself a reporter on the staff of the _New York Times_. My salary of\n$35 a week seemed incredible. It was like coming into a fortune, and\nits first effect was to make a miser of me. I had learned the value of\nthe single cent; I found myself fearful of spending even that cent. I\nunderstood why people who pass suddenly from want to affluence become\nstingy, complaining always of being hard-up. I determined to save. I\nopened an account in a Savings Bank against another rainy day. This\ntrait, acquired in my unhappy New York period, remains in me still, I\nnotice. Never have I known from that time to this what it means to be\ncomfortably off, free from financial anxiety for more than a month or\ntwo ahead, yet each time an extra bit of money comes in, I am aware\nof the instinct to be extremely, unnecessarily careful of each penny.\nThe less I have, the more reckless I feel about spending it, and _vice\nversa_.\n\nThose six weeks, however, before Muldoon sent for me, proved the most\npainful and unhappy of all my New York days. There was something\ndesperate about them; I reached bottom. It was the darkest period\nbefore the dawn, though I had no certainty that the dawn was breaking.\nMy income from the eau de Cologne business was ended, my free-lance\nwork struck a bad streak, the artists were still out of town, the\nstudios consequently empty; my violin pupil had gone to Boston. It\nwas during this August that I slept in Central Park, and passed the\nnight--for there was not much sleep about it--beneath the Bronx Park\ntrees as well, though I had to walk all the long weary way to get\nthere. It was, also, _par excellence_, the height of the dried-apple\nseason. With the exception of Old Louis, occasionally Mullins too, I\nhad no companionship. Brodie, who by the way received no money from the\ninsurance companies, but equally, escaped a worse disaster, I never\nsaw again. The post on the _Times_, meanwhile, seemed far away, highly\nproblematical too. My comforts were Bronx Park, occasionally open-air\nmusic, Louis, and my own dreams, speculations and, chief of all, the\nBhagavad Gita.... Hours I spent in the free libraries. Never, before or\nsince, did I read so many books in so short a time. This free reading,\nof course, never stopped for a moment all the years I lived in New\nYork, but during these six weeks it reached a maximum.\n\nFrom the \u2019vantage ground of easier days I have often looked back and\nwondered why I made no real effort to better myself, to get out of the\nhated city, to go west, for a railway pass was always more or less\nwithin my power, and other fellows, similarly in difficulties, were\nalways changing occupations and localities. It was due, I think, to\na kind of resignation, though rather a fierce resignation, a kind of\nobstinate spirit of acceptance in me. \u201cTake it all, whatever comes,\u201d\nsaid this spirit. \u201cDodge, shirk, avoid nothing. You have deserved\nit. Exhaust it then. Suck the orange dry.\u201d And, as if life were not\nsevere and difficult enough, as it was, I would even practise certain\nausterities I invented on my own account. Already I felt myself\nimmeasurably old; life seemed nearly ended; external events, anyhow,\ndid not _really_ matter....\n\nA rolling-stone sees life, of course, but collects little, if any,\nfruit; though I made no determined efforts to escape my conditions at\nthis time, a new adventure ever had attractions for me. Having once\ntasted the essence of a particular experience, I found myself weary\nof it and longing for a new one. This vagabondage in the blood has\nstrengthened with the years. A fixed job means prison, a new one sends\nmy spirits up. Routine is hell. To take a room, a flat, a job by the\nyear, means insupportable detestation of any of them soon afterwards.\nIt is a view of life that hardly goes to make good citizenship, but,\non the other hand, it tends to keep the heart young, to prevent too\nearly hardening of the mental arteries, while it certainly militates\nagainst the dread disease of boredom. _Une vie mouvement\u00e9e_ has its\nvagabond values. To a certain side of my nature Old Louis\u2019s wiser\nepitaph (\u201cSorry _I_ spoke; sorry _they_ spoke\u201d) made less appeal than\nsome anonymous verses I came across in _Scribner\u2019s Magazine_ with the\ntitle \u201cA Vagrant\u2019s Epitaph\u201d--verses I knew by heart after a first\nreading:\n\n    Change was his mistress; Chance his counsellor.\n      Love could not hold him; Duty forged no chain.\n    The wide seas and the mountains called him,\n      And grey dawns saw his camp-fires in the rain.\n\n    Sweet hands might tremble!--aye, but he must go.\n      Revel might hold him for a little space;\n    But, turning past the laughter and the lamps,\n      His eyes must ever catch the luring Face.\n\n    Dear eyes might question! Yea, and melt again;\n      Rare lips a-quiver, silently implore;\n    But he must ever turn his furtive head,\n      And hear that other summons at the door.\n\n    Change was his mistress; Chance his counsellor.\n      The dark firs knew his whistle up the trail.\n    Why tarries he to-day?... And yesternight\n      Adventure lit her stars without avail.\n\nThe plague of possessions, at any rate, has never troubled me, either\nactually or in desire, while the instinct to reduce life to its\nsimplest terms has strengthened. The homeless feeling of living in my\ntrunks is happiness, the idea of domesticity appals, and the comforts\nof rich friends wake no echo in me, assuredly no envy. A home, as a\nsettled place one owns and expects to live in for years, perhaps for\never, is abhorrent to every instinct in me, and when acquaintances\nshow off with pride their cottage, their flat, their furniture, their\n\u201ccollections,\u201d even their \u201cnot a bad little garden, is it?\u201d my heart\nconfesses to a vague depression which makes it difficult to sympathise\nand give them my blessing. Life, at its longest, is absurdly brief\nbefore health and energy begin to slip downhill; it is mapped with\na cunning network of ruts and grooves from which, once in, it is\ndifficult to escape; only the lucky ones are never caught, although the\n\u201ccaught\u201d are lucky perhaps in another way--they do not realize it. Yet\neven to-day, when times are bad and the horizon not too clear for some\ntime ahead, the old dread of starvation rises in me; I never see apple\nrings in a grocer\u2019s window without getting their taste and feeling them\nrise and swell within me like some troublesome emotion....\n\nTo my year and a-half on the _New York Times_ I look back with nothing\nbut pleasure; the slogan, \u201cAll the news that\u2019s fit to print,\u201d was\npractised; and the men I worked with were a good company of decent\nfellows. Muldoon, a fighting Irishman with a grim fierce manner and\na warm heart, had a sense of humour and a gift for encouraging his\nreporters that made them love him. C. W. Miller was editor in chief,\nand Carey, manager. Who owned the paper I have forgotten, but it was\nnot Colonel Jones who was present at the Union League Club dinner to\nmy father, when I made my maiden speech some nine years before. Hours\nof work were from noon until the night assignment was turned in, which\nmeant any time from ten o\u2019clock onwards; though, as emergency man, in\ncase of something happening late, I often had to stay in the office\ntill after one in the morning. Proper food, a new suit, comradeship\nwith a better class of men, came, perhaps, just in time for me. I\nremember the pleasure of writing home about my new post. I had a\ndress-suit again. I saved $15 a week.\n\nReporting for a New York newspaper can never be uneventful, but the\npainful incidents of life make deeper impressions than the pleasant\nones. To meet the former means usually to call upon one\u2019s reserves,\nand memory hence retains sharper pictures of them corresponding to the\ngreater effort. On the _Times_ I was happy.\n\nTwo incidents stand out still in the mind, one creditably pleasing to\nvanity; the other, exactly the reverse. The latter, though it annoyed\nMuldoon keenly at the moment, fortunately for me appealed to his sense\nof humour too. He had given me an evening off--that is, all I had to do\nwas to write a brief report of a Students\u2019 Concert in which his little\nniece was performing.\n\n\u201cWithout straining veracity,\u201d he mentioned with a grin, \u201cye might\nperhaps say something kind and pretty about her!\u201d He winked, whispering\nher name in my ear. \u201cHave ye got it?\u201d he asked fiercely. I nodded. Was\nI thinking of something else at the moment? Was my mind in the woods\nthat lovely evening in spring?\n\nAt the concert I picked out the name I remembered and wrote later a\nsturdy eulogistic notice of an atrocious performer, saying the very\nprettiest and nicest things I could think of, then went home to a\ncoveted early bed. But Muldoon\u2019s grim smile next day, as I reported at\nhis desk for an assignment, gave me warning that something was wrong.\nHe did not keep me in suspense. I had selected for my praise, not\nonly the crudest performer of the concert--that I already knew--but\none whom all the other pupils disliked intensely, and whose name they\nparticularly hoped would be omitted altogether. The niece I had not\neven mentioned.\n\nThe other incident that stands out after all these years was more\ncreditable. Dr. Lyman Abbott, Editor of the _Outlook_, which once Henry\nWard Beecher edited as the _Church Union_, was preaching in Beecher\u2019s\nPlymouth Church, Brooklyn, a series of sermons on \u201cThe Theology of\nan Evolutionist,\u201d and Muldoon had persuaded the editor-in-chief that\na full report on the front page every Monday would be a credit to\nthe paper. His proposal was agreed to, apparently without too much\nenthusiasm. The Irishman was determined to justify it. \u201cI want ye to\ntake it on,\u201d said Muldoon to me. \u201cYe can write shorthand. Make it 150.\u201d\nA column was 100. To have a column and a-half on the front page, if I\ncould do it well, would be a feather in my cap. But my shorthand was\npoor, I was out of practice too, bad notes are impossible to read for\ntranscription, and mistakes would mean angry letters of correction from\nDr. Abbott, probably.\n\nMonday was my day off. I went to Plymouth Church with a new notebook\nand three soft lead pencils, duly sharpened at both ends. In the brief\ninterval before Sunday I practised hard. The church was packed to the\nroof, as I sneaked up the aisle--an unfamiliar place, I felt it!--to a\nlittle table placed immediately beneath the pulpit. I came in after the\nservice, but just in time for the sermon. There were no other reporters\npresent. It thrilled me to see Dr. Abbott, who, as a young man of\ntwenty-three, had heard Lincoln speak on slavery.\n\nThe \u201cTheology of an Evolutionist\u201d was an arduous assignment that\nstrained every faculty I possessed, but indifferent shorthand lay at\nthe root of the strain. Dr. Abbott\u2019s delivery was sure and steady, more\nrapid than it sounded. He never hesitated for a word, he never coughed,\nor cleared his throat, or even sneezed. There were none of those slight\npauses which help a poor shorthand-writer to pick up valuable seconds.\nThe stream of words poured on relentlessly, and the rate, I should\njudge, was 250 a minute. Verbatim reporting was impossible to me. I\nhad to condense as I went along, and to condense without losing sense\nand coherence was not easy. My pencil was always eight or ten words\nbehind the words I actually listened to, and the Pitman outlines for\nthe words I wrote down had to be recalled, while, at the same time,\nmemory had to retain those being actually uttered at the moment. Being\nout of practice I often hesitated over an outline, losing fractions\nof a second each time I did so. These outlines come automatically, of\ncourse, to a good writer. Then there was the sense, the proportion,\nthe relative values of argument and evidence to be considered--matters\nthat could not be adjusted in the office afterwards, when there was\nbarely time, in any case, to transcribe my notes before going to Press.\nThe interest I felt in the subject, moreover, delayed my mind time\nand time again. Occasionally a pencil-point would break as well, and\nturning it round in my hand meant important delay in a process where\neach fraction of a second counts. In the office afterwards, each page\ntranscribed was whipped away by a printer\u2019s devil before it could be\nreconsidered and re-read. I invariably went to bed after these evenings\nin church with a splitting headache; but the 150 appeared duly on the\nfront page every Monday morning, though whether good or bad I had no\ninkling. My impression, due to Muldoon\u2019s silence, was that my reports\nwere hardly a success.\n\nWhen the last of the long series came my opening report was confused\nand inaccurate owing to an announcement from the pulpit which\nembarrassed me absurdly. Dr. Abbott mentioned briefly that numerous\nrequests to print the sermons had reached him, but that he did not\npropose to do so. He referred those interested, instead, to the reports\nin the _Times_ which, he took pleasure in saying, were excellent,\naccurate and as satisfactory as anything he could do himself. Being the\nonly reporter present, I felt conspicuous at my little table under the\npulpit in the immense building. But I remember the pleasure too. It\nwas an announcement I could use, was bound to use, indeed, in my own\nreport next day. Muldoon would be pleased. On the Tuesday morning, when\nI appeared at his desk, he looked at me with such a fierce expression\nthat I thought I was about to be dismissed. \u201cHave ye been to your\nlocker?\u201d was all he said. In the locker, however, I found a letter from\nDr. Abbott to the editor-in-chief, thanking him for the reports of the\nsermons, reports, he wrote, \u201cwhose brevity, accuracy, and intelligence\nfurnish a synopsis I could not have improved upon myself.\u201d He added,\ntoo, another important sentence: \u201cby your reporter whom I do not know.\u201d\nIt was not favouritism therefore. A brief chit to be handed to the\ncashier was in my locker too. My salary was raised to $40 a week. The\nheadaches had proved worth while.\n\nThe year and a-half with the _Times_ was a happy period, though long\nbefore it ended I had begun to feel my customary weariness of the job,\nand a yearning for something new. The newspaper experience, which\nbegan with the _Evening Sun_, was exhausted for me. The pleasant\nand unpleasant sides of it I knew by heart. Though I took no action,\nmy mind began to cast about for other fields. I had saved a little\ncash. My thoughts turned westwards, California, the Pacific Coast, the\nbright sunshine and blue waters of the southern seas even. I was past\ntwenty-seven. To be a New York reporter all my life did not appeal. Nor\nwas it yet time to go back to England. No trace of literary faculty,\nnor any desire to write, much less a consciousness that I could write\nperhaps, had declared themselves. My summer holidays of two weeks I\nspent again in the backwoods, with a view to some woodland life which\nwas to include, this time, Old Louis, too. Obstacles everywhere made me\nfeel, however, that it was not to be, for though they were obstacles I\ncould have overcome, I took them as an indication that fate had other\nviews for my future. When a thing was meant to be, it invariably came\nof itself, I found. My temperament, at any rate, noted and obeyed these\nhints. Old Louis, too, who was to collect his poems in our woodland\nhome, to write new ones as well, met all practical suggestions with,\n\u201cLet us consider, Figlio, a little longer first.\u201d He was to write also\na political history of the United States and \u201cI must collect more\ndata before I am ready to go.\u201d The dread of being fixed and settled,\na captive in a place I could not leave at a moment\u2019s notice, did not\noperate where Nature was concerned. The idea of living in the forests\nhad no fear of prison in it.\n\nEvents, moreover, which brought big changes into my life had always\ncome, I noticed, from outside, rather than as a result of definite\naction on my own part. A chance meeting in a hotel-bar set me\nreporting, a chance meeting with Mullins landed me on the _Times_,\na chance meeting with Angus Hamilton in Piccadilly Circus led to my\nwriting books, a chance meeting with William E. Dodge now suddenly\nheaved me up another rung of life into the position of private\nsecretary to a millionaire banker.\n\nTo me it has always seemed that some outside power, but an intelligent\npower, pulled a string each time, and up I popped into an entirely new\nset of circumstances. This power pushed a button, and off I shot in\na direction at right angles to the one I had been moving in before.\nThis intelligent supervision I attributed in those days to Karma. In\nthe mind, though perhaps with less decision there, it operated too. A\nbook, a casual sentence of some friend, an effect of scenery, of music,\nand an express-lift mounts rapidly from the cellar of my being to an\nupper story, giving a new extended view over a far, a new horizon. Much\nthat puzzles in the obscurity of the basement outlook becomes clear\nand simple. The individual who announces the sudden change is unaware\nprobably how vital a r\u00f4le he plays in another\u2019s life. He is but an\ninstrument, after all.\n\nWhen, by chance, I found Mr. Dodge next me in a Broadway cable car, my\nfirst instinct was to slip out on to the outside platform before he had\nseen me, with, simultaneously, a hope that if he had seen me, he would\nnot recognize me. He was a friend of my father\u2019s. We had dined at his\nhouse on our first visit to New York, and once or twice since then our\npaths had crossed for a moment or two. He was a man of great influence,\nand of tireless philanthropy, a fine, just, high-minded personality. He\nstared hard at me. Before I could move, he had spoken to me by name.\n\u201cHow was I getting along?\u201d he inquired kindly, and did I \u201clike New\nYork?\u201d What was I \u201cdoing at the moment?\u201d\n\nI seized the opportunity and told him of my longing to get out of\nnewspaper work. He listened attentively; he examined me, I was\naware, more than attentively. In the end he asked me to come and\nsee him for a personal chat--not in his office, but in his house.\nHe named a day and hour. An invitation to his office I should have\ndisregarded. It was the kindness of \u201cmy house\u201d that won me. But the\ninterview was disappointing, rather embarrassing as well to me. He\nasked many personal questions about my life and habits, it was all\nvery business-like and chilling. In the end he mentioned vaguely that\nJames Speyer, of Speyer Bros., was thinking, he believed, of engaging\na secretary, and that possibly--he could not say for certain--he might,\nwhen he next saw him, suggest my name for the post. \u201cOf course,\u201d\nhe added, still more cautiously, \u201cyou will understand I must make\ninquiries about you at the _Times_.\u201d He promised to let me know if\nanything further came of it. For many weeks I heard no word. Then I\nwrote. The reply asked me to call at his office. He was kindness and\nsympathy personified. \u201cThe _Times_ gives you an excellent character,\u201d\nhe informed me, \u201cand say they will be very sorry to lose you. I am\nsorry there has been this delay.\u201d He handed me a personal letter to\nJames Speyer. He invited me to dinner in his house the following\nevening. Before brushing up my dress-suit for the occasion--my first\ndinner in a decent house for many years--I had seen Mr. Speyer and\nhad been engaged at a salary of $2,000 a year for a morning job, from\n8 till 2 o\u2019clock daily, with a general supervision during the day of\nhis town and country houses, horses, servants, charities, and numerous\nother interests.\n\nThe dinner in Mr. Dodge\u2019s Fifth Avenue palace was a veritable banquet\nto me. Immediately opposite, across the avenue, was the other palace\noccupied by James Speyer. It was all rather bewildering, a new world\nwith a vengeance. Years among the outcast of the city had not precisely\npolished my manners, nor could I feel at my ease thus suddenly among\ndecent folk again. I remember being absurdly tongue-tied, shy and\nawkward, until M. de Chaillu, who was present, began to talk about\nbooks, stars, natural history, and other splendid things, and took me\nwith him into some unimaginable seventh heaven. I had moments of terror\ntoo, but the strongest emotion I remember is the deep gratitude I felt\ntowards Mr. Dodge. A further tiny detail clings as well, when I was\ninvited for a week-end to the Dodge country house on the Hudson, and\nwas bathing with the son. He was, like myself, six feet three inches,\nwell built, but well covered too, his age perhaps close on forty. As\nwe stood on the spring-board waiting for our second dive, he looked\nat me. \u201cYou certainly haven\u2019t got a tummy,\u201d he remarked with admiring\nenvy. \u201cI wish I were as thin!\u201d And the casual words made a queer\nimpression on me. I realized abruptly how little of certain real values\nsuch people knew ... how little these protected people ever _could_\nknow. I still see his admiring, good-humoured, kindly expression, as he\nsaid the empty words....\n\nJames Speyer, brother of Edgar, who later became a baronet and member\nof the Privy Council, was what we called in New York a \u201cwhite man.\u201d\nI hardly think I proved an ideal private secretary. His patience and\nkindness began at the first trial interview I had with him, when\nmy shorthand--he dictated a newspaper financial paragraph full of\nunfamiliar terms--was not at its best, \u201cnot _very_ grand,\u201d were the\nactual words he used. As for bookkeeping, I told him frankly that\n\u201cfigures were my idea of hell,\u201d whereupon, after a moment\u2019s puzzled\nstare, he laughed and said that keeping accounts need not be among my\nprincipal duties. A clerk from the office could come up and balance\nthe books every month. The phrase about hell, the grave expression\nof my face, he told me long afterwards, touched his sense of humour.\nThe huge book in which I kept his personal accounts proved, none the\nless, a daily nightmare, with its nine columns for different kinds of\nexpenditure--Charities, Housekeeping, Presents, Loans, Personal, and\nthe rest. It locked with a key. I spent hours over it. No total ever\ncame out twice alike. Yet Mr. Hopf, the bright-eyed, diminutive German\nfrom the office, ran his tiny fingers up and down those columns like\nsome twinkling insect, chatting with me while he added, and making the\ntotals right in a few minutes. Max Hopf, with his slight, twisty body,\nlooked like an agile figure of 3 himself. In his spare time, I felt\nsure, he played with figures. He was a juggler in my eyes.\n\nThe first week in my new job was a nervous one, though Mr. Speyer\u2019s\ntact and kindly feeling soon put me at my ease. My desk at first was\nin a corner of an unused board room in the bank, where I sat like\na king answering countless letters on a typewriter. The shorthand\nwas discarded; I composed the replies from verbal hints and general\nindications. Clerks treated me with respect; language was decent;\nsurroundings were sumptuous; it was some time before I \u201cfound\u201d myself.\nThe second morning a caller was shown in, somebody to see Mr. Speyer.\nHe took a chair beside my desk, stared fixedly at me, opened his mouth\nand called me by my Christian name--it was the Exchange Place banker\nwho used to stay in my father\u2019s house and who had last seen me in bed\nat East 19th Street. He congratulated me. I found out, incidentally,\nthen, how much my swindling friend of those days had \u201ctouched\u201d him for\non my behalf ... and repaid it.\n\nJames Speyer proved a good friend during the two years or so I spent\nwith him; he treated me as friend, too, rather than as secretary. My\noffice was transferred to his palatial residence in Madison Avenue, a\nnew house he had just built for himself, and it was part of my job to\nrun this house for him, his country house at Irvington on the Hudson\nas well. These establishments, for a millionaire bachelor, were on\na simple scale, though the amount of money necessary for one man\u2019s\ncomforts staggered me at first. A married French couple were his chief\nservants, the woman as cook, the man as butler; they had been with him\nfor a long time; they eyed the new secretary with disfavour; they were\nfeathering their nests very comfortably, I soon discovered. My hotel\nexperience in Toronto stood me in good stead here. But Mr. Speyer was\na generous, live-and-let-live type of man who did not want a spirit\nof haggling over trifles in his home. I gradually adjusted matters by\nintroducing a reasonable scale. The French couple and I became good\nfriends. I enjoyed the work, which included every imaginable duty under\nthe sun, had ample time for exercise and reading, and my employer\u2019s\nzest in the University Settlement Movement I found particularly\ninteresting.\n\nJames Speyer was more than a rich philanthropist: he had a heart.\nThe column for Charities and Presents in the book Mr. Hopf juggled\nwith once a month was a big one, while that for Personal Expenditure\nwas relatively small. When I dined alone with him in the luxurious\npanelled room I realized that life had indeed changed for me. His\nhouse, too, was filled with beautiful things. He had rare taste. His\nbrother Edgar, whose English career had not yet begun, stayed with him\non his periodical visits from Frankfurt. There was music then, big\ndinner-parties too, to which I was sometimes invited. Social amenities\nwere not always quite easy, for the position of a Jew in New York\nSociety was delicate, but I never once knew James Speyer\u2019s taste or\njudgment at fault. His intelligence showed itself not only in finance;\nhe was intelligent all over; imaginatively thoughtful for all connected\nwith him, and his philanthropy sprang from a genuine desire to help the\nunfortunate.\n\nFor Jews I have always had a quick feeling of sympathy, of admiration.\nI adore their intelligence, subtlety, keen love of beauty, their\nunderstanding, their wisdom. In the best of them lies some intuitive\ngrip of ancient values, some artistic discernment, that fascinates\nme. I found myself comparing Alfred Louis with James Speyer; their\nreaction, respectively, upon myself showed clearly again the standard\nof what, to me, was important: the one, alone among his unchangeable,\nimperishable \u201cEternities,\u201d unaware of comfort as of fame, unrecognized,\nunadvertised, lonely and derelict, yet equally as proud of his heritage\nas the other who, in a noisier market sought the less permanent\nsplendours of success and worldly honour. One filled his modern palace\nwith olden beauty fashioned by many men, the other had stocked his mind\nwith a loveliness that money could not buy. One financed a gigantic\nrailway enterprise, the other wrote the \u201cNight Song.\u201d All the one said\nblessed and ornamented the mind, all the other said advised it. One\nparted with a poem as though he sold a pound of his own living flesh,\nthe other was pleased, yet a trifle nervous, when Muldoon--thinking\nto help me in my job--wrote a panegyric of easy philanthropies in\nthe _Brooklyn Eagle_, to which his fierce activities had now been\ntransferred from the _Times_. Both taught me much. From one, singing\namid his dirt in an attic, I learned about a world that, hiding behind\nephemeral appearances, lies deathlessly serene and unalterably lovely;\nfrom the other, about a world which far from deathless and certainly\nless serene, flaunts its rewards upon a more obviously remunerative\nscale. Of both poet and financier, at any rate, I kept vivid, grateful,\npleasant memories.\n\nBetween the unsavoury world I had lived in so long and the new one I\nhad now entered, the Old Man of Visions, himself at home in all and\nevery kind of world, always seemed a bridge. His personality spread\nimaginatively, as it were, over all grades and through all strata of\nhumanity. In my slow upward climb he seemed to hand me on, and in\nreturn for his unfailing guidance it was possible to make his own\nconditions a trifle more comfortable: possible, but not easy, because\nthere was no help he needed and did not positively scorn. He watched\nmy welfare with unfailing interest, but nothing would induce him to\nbuy a new hat, a new frock-coat, an umbrella or a pair of gloves. \u201cOur\nmemories, at any given moment,\u201d says Bergson, \u201cform a solid whole,\na pyramid, so to speak, whose point is inserted precisely into our\npresent action.\u201d On that \u201cpoint\u201d old Louis still drives through my mind\nand wields an influence to-day....\n\nThe happier period with James Speyer was, of course, an episode,\nlike my other experiences. It was wonderful to draw a good salary\nregularly for pleasant work; to have long holidays in the Adirondacks,\nor moose-shooting in the woods north of the Canadian Pacific Railway;\nwonderful, too, when my employer went to Europe for three months, to\nknow myself in charge of such big interests, with a power of attorney\nto sign all cheques. But the usual restlessness was soon on me again,\ndesire for a change stirred in my blood. The Spanish-American War, I\nremember, made me think of joining Roosevelt\u2019s Rough Riders, a scheme\nboth Speyer and Louis strongly disapproved, and that an attack of\ntyphoid fever rendered impossible in any case.\n\nIt was during convalescence that it occurred to me I was nearing\nthirty, and that if I meant to live in America all my life, it was time\nto become naturalized. And this thought caused me to reflect on the\nquestion of going home. My sister, with her children, passed through\nNew York about this time, returning from South Australia, where her\nhusband was Governor, and it was at dinner in my employer\u2019s house,\nwhere he had invited them, that the longing to return to England\nsuddenly declared itself. To find myself among relatives who called\nme by the unfamiliar childhood name, woke English memories, English\nvalues, and brought back the English atmosphere once more. My mother\nwas still alive.... I remember that dinner well. My sister brought a\ntame little Mexican monkey with her. A man, also, called to ask Mr.\nSpeyer for help, and when I went to interview him in the hall, his long\nstory included a reference to something Mr. Dodge, he declared, had\ndone for him. \u201cMr. Dodge gave me this,\u201d he said, and promptly scooped\none eye out of its socket and showed it to me lying in the palm of his\nhand. The glass eye, the monkey, remain associated in my mind still\nwith the rather poignant memories of forgotten English days my sister\u2019s\nvisit stirred to life, and with my own emotions as I reflected upon the\nidea of going home at last. A chance meeting, again, worked its spell.\n\nI had felt that half a universe separated me from the world in which\nmy relatives lived, but after they had gone I began to realize various\nthings I had not appreciated before. New York, I saw, could furnish\nno true abiding city for my soul which, though vagabond, yet sought\nsomething more than its appalling efficiency could ever give. What\ndid I miss? I could name it now, but I hardly named it then perhaps.\nI was always hungry there, but with a hunger not of the body merely.\nThe hunger, however, was real, often it was devastating. With such a\nlop-sided development as mine had been, my immaturity, no doubt, was\nstill glaring. The sense of failure, I know, at any rate, was very\nstrong. My relatives had been travelling, and they reflected a colour\nof other lands that called to me. Thought and longing now turned to an\nolder world. There were ancient wonders, soft with age, mature with a\nbeauty and tenderness only timelessness can give, that caught me on the\nraw with a power no Yosemites, Niagaras, or Grand Canyons could hope to\nimitate. Size has its magic, but size bludgeons the imagination, rather\nthan feeds it. My heart turned suddenly across the sea. I loved the big\nwoods, but behind, beyond the woods, great Egypt lay ablaze....\n\nI talked things over with the Old Man of Visions; he advised me to go\nhome. \u201cSee your mother before she dies,\u201d he urged. \u201cI cannot come with\nyou, but I may follow you.\u201d He added: \u201cI shall miss you,\u201d then dropped\ninto poetry, as he always did when he was moved....\n\nIt was these talks with Old Louis about England, the atmosphere of\nEngland as well, that my sister somehow left behind her, my own\nyearnings now suddenly reawakened too, that decided me. My detestation\nof the city both cleared and deepened. I began to understand more\nvividly, more objectively, the reasons for my feeling alien in it. I\nmissed tradition, background, depth. There was a glittering smartness\neverywhere. The great ideal was to be sharper, smarter than your\nneighbour, above all things sharp and smart and furiously rapid,\nabove all things--win the game. To be in a furious rush was to be\nintelligent, to do things slowly was to be derided. The noise and\nspeed suggested rapids; the deep, quiet pools were in the older lands.\nDisplay, advertisement, absence of all privacy I had long been aware\nof, naturally; I now realized how little I desired this speed and\nglittering brilliance, this frantic rush to be at all costs sharper,\nquicker, smarter than one\u2019s neighbour, to win the game at any price. I\nrealized why my years in the city had brought no friendships, and why\nthey had been starved as well as lonely....\n\nSome months passed before I booked a passage, however. I was sorry\nto leave James Speyer. Then one day he spoke to me about--marriage.\nFor a year or more I had noticed his friendship with Mrs. Lowry,\na Christian, well-known figure in the social world; and, being the\nconfidant of both parties, I had done all I could to encourage a\nmarriage that promised happiness and success. In due course, Bishop\nPotter, of New York, officiated. The ceremony was performed in the\ndrawing-room, and just before it began, James Speyer came up to me,\ntook the beautiful links out of his cuffs, and handed them to me. \u201cI\nshould like you to have these,\u201d he said, \u201cas a little memento.\u201d I have\nthem still.\n\nA few months later, just before I was thirty, I found myself in a\nsecond-class cabin in a Cunarder, with my savings in my pocket. Old\nLouis, who followed me a year or two later, came down to see me off.\nI was glad when the Statue of Liberty lay finally below the sea\u2019s\nhorizon, but I shall never forget the thrill of strange emotion I\nexperienced when I first saw the blue rim of Ireland rise above the\nhorizon a few days later. A shutter dropped behind me. I entered a\ntotally new world. Life continued to be _mouvement\u00e9e_, indeed, one\nadventure succeeding another, and ever with the feeling that a chance\nletter, a chance meeting might open any morning a new chapter of quite\na novel kind; but my American episodes were finished.\n\nOf mystical, psychic, or so-called \u201coccult\u201d experiences, I have\npurposely said nothing, since these notes have sought to recapture\nsurface adventures only.\n\n\n\n\nINDEX\n\n\n  \u201cA Case of Eavesdropping,\u201d 252\n\n  Abbott, Dr. Lyman, sermons on the theology of an Evolutionist, 292\n        _et seq._\n    tribute to _N.Y. Times_ report of his sermons, 294\n\n  Aberdeen, Lord, Governor-General of Canada, 66\n\n  Advertising extraordinary, 105\n\n  Ahlwardt, Rector, anti-semitism of, 229\n    his meeting at Cooper Union Hall, 229 _et seq._\n\n  Alden, Mr., and A. H. Louis, 271\n\n  Amityville, a quasi lunatic asylum at, 226\n\n  Anti-semitic campaign in New York, 229 _et seq._\n\n  Apples, dried, and hot water, as hunger-appeaser, 111\n\n  Arson, frequency of, among Jews, 106\n\n\n  Barnum and Bailey\u2019s Circus, a banquet at, 226\n\n  Beattie, Mr., Boyde and, 206\n\n  Beauchamp, Montague, 23\n\n  Belloc, Hilaire, an article by, based on author\u2019s book, 224\n\n  Bennett, Sterndale, A. H. Louis a pupil of, 269\n\n  Benson, Archbishop, A. H. Louis\u2019s memories of, 268\n\n  Bernhardt, Sarah, interview with, 106\n\n  Bernstein, Mrs., a long-outstanding account with, settled, 213\n    and her third floor back, 80\n    reduces rent--and why, 85\n    removes to another house, 209\n\n  \u201cBhagavad Gita,\u201d the, world-scripture of, 32\n\n  Bingham, Billy, former proprietor of the Hub, 17, 39 _et seq._\n\n  Black Forest, schooldays in the, 24\n\n  Blackwood, Algernon, a childish recollection of his mother, 259\n    a poem in _The Week_ by, 38\n    an earl\u2019s visit to _Sun_ office, 230\n    an interlude of play-acting, 255 _et seq._\n    and Boyde: a scene, 161 _et seq._\n    and the Hub hotel, 14, 16 _et seq._, 39 _et seq._\n    as reporter in the Tombs, 99 _et seq._\n    as story-teller, 222\n    as violinist, 5, 46, 75, 83, 87, 107, 168, 180\n    assigns his interest in the Hub, 61\n    attends a ball at Government House, 66\n    becomes a partner in an eau de Cologne business, 273, 274\n    beginning of friendship with Alfred H. Louis, 266\n    credited with powers of Black Magic, 77\n    \u201ccribs\u201d from an intoxicated reporter, 108\n    death of his father, 35, 231\n    \u201cdetachment\u201d method of, 51, 227, 228\n    disagreement with Dr. Huebner, 156\n    discovers Boyde\u2019s forgery, 132\n    dissolves partnership with Cooper, 14\n    Edinburgh University course of, 14, 51\n    eighteen months on staff of _New York Times_, 288 _et seq._\n    essays magazine writing, 84\n    evangelical upbringing of, 20, 23, 27, 71\n    examined on a charge of arson, 286\n    first experience of morphine, 178\n    five months on Lake Rosseau, 73 _et seq._\n    free-lance journalism, 252, 274\n    friendship with a dying doctor, 58 _et seq._\n    his mother\u2019s letters, 258\n    improvises accompaniment to \u201cInvocation to Opium,\u201d 168\n    interviews a lion, 102\n    interviews in Tombs prison cell before trial, 101\n    learns French, 37\n    literary apprenticeship of, 6\n    loses faith in mankind, and a regretted act, 210 _et seq._\n    maiden speech of, 5, 291\n    off to the goldfields, 235 _et seq._\n    on staff of _Evening Sun_, 91\n    parents of, 17, 18, 21 _et seq._\n    partner in dairy concern, 10 _et seq._\n    pawnbroking experiences, 88, 110, 120, 252\n    plays in Drinkwater\u2019s \u201cOliver Cromwell,\u201d 256\n    poses in studios, 44, 158\n    reads Patanjali\u2019s \u201cYoga Aphorisms,\u201d 28 _et seq._\n    receives a visit from Pauline, 152\n    reports a raid on a quasi lunatic asylum, 226\n    reports Dr. Lyman Abbott\u2019s sermons, 292 _et seq._\n    resumes duties on _Evening Sun_, 209\n    returns from Muskoka lakes, 78\n    returns to England, 304\n    secretary to James Speyer, 297 _et seq._\n    tackles Boyde _re_ a forged cheque, 138 _et seq._\n    talks with Boyde in his cell at Tombs prison, 202\n    teaches French, 5, 7\n    translates French stories, 102, 124, 128, 129\n    unhappy days in New York, 288\n    visited by a banker: further disclosures concerning Boyde, 148\n    visits of an eccentric German doctor, 116, 120, 125\n    visits winter quarters of Barnum and Bailey\u2019s circus, 226\n    warned against Boyde, 112, 135, 136, 147\n    warns a pastor\u2019s daughter against Boyde, 139\n    \u201cWhitey\u2019s\u201d useful hints to, 96, 97, 98\n    why an opening in C.P.R. did not eventuate, 66 _et seq._\n    works by, 53, 78, 102, 123, 163, 182, 223, 224, 252\n\n  Blackwood, Sir Arthur (father), a disregarded counsel of perfection\n        of, 76\n    and the Hub venture, 40\n    death of, 35, 231\n    farewell to author, 40\n    f\u00eated in New York, 5\n    marriage of, 21\n    religious and temperance views of, 17, 18, 21 _et seq._, 30\n\n  Bond, Bligh, his \u201cGate of Remembrance,\u201d 228\n\n  Bookkeeping, author\u2019s frank opinion of, 298\n\n  Borden, Lizzie, interview with, 100\n\n  Bostock\u2019s Circus, a lion escapes from: reporting the episode, 102 _et\n        seq._\n\n  Boyde, Arthur Glyn, an echo of, 299\n    arrest of, 198\n    author\u2019s attachment to, 108, 111\n    committed for trial to General Sessions, 201\n    communicates with Sir A. Blackwood, 202\n    confessions of, 139, 144, 206\n    disguises himself, 160\n    duplicity of, 132, 138 _et seq._, 149, 160, 206, 207, 211\n    his varied experience of New York, 86 _et seq._\n    hunt for, 182 _et seq._\n    last sight of, 207\n    letters to author from Tombs prison, 203 _et seq._\n    meeting with, 86\n    sentenced, 203\n    telegraphs news of his marriage, 151\n    uneasy suspicions regarding, 119, 122, 124, 129, 131, 134\n    warrant for arrest of, 163\n\n  Brodie, as salesman, 275\n    heavy insurances of--and a fire, 278 _et seq._\n    how he obtained recipe for eau de Cologne, 273\n    introduction to, 272\n    social aspirations of, 273\n\n  Bronx Park, Sundays in, 216 _et seq._\n\n  Brooklyn Bridge, reflections on, 81\n\n  Buddhism, a German doctor\u2019s opinion of, 170\n    author\u2019s interest in, 8, 51, 54\n    Dr. Withrow and, 8\n\n\n  Calder, introduces himself, 210\n    uninvited, sleeps in author\u2019s bed, 211\n\n  Campbell, Sir Alexander, Governor of Ontario, 66\n\n  Canada, social customs unwittingly broken by author in, 66\n\n  Canadian Pacific Railway, how an opening in, was lost, 65 _et seq._\n\n  Canoeing on Canadian lakes, 74\n\n  Carey, Mr., manager of _New York Times_, 291\n\n  Clay, Cecil, introduction to, 90\n\n  Clothes, interchangeable, 110\n\n  Conversion, reflections on, 23 _et seq._\n\n  Cooper, Alfred, partner in Islington Jersey Dairy, 10 _et seq._\n\n  Cooper, Mr., news-editor of _Evening Sun_, 95\n\n  Cox, Cleveland, posing for, 158\n\n  Crayford, home life at, 33, 40\n\n  Croker, Boss, head of Tammany, 232\n\n\n  Dana, Charles A., editor of _Evening Sun_, 93\n\n  Davies, Acton, 211\n    and the Boyde story, 201\n\n  Davis, Richard Harding, a play by, 86\n    an interview with, 83\n    Boyde and, 206\n\n  Davis, R. H., witnesses capture of an escaped lion, 103\n\n  de Chaillu, M., 297\n\n  De Quincey\u2019s \u201cConfessions,\u201d Dr. Huebner and, 125, 168\n\n  Dixon, his tight-rope walk across the Niagara, 130\n\n  Dodge, William E., a chance meeting with, 295 _et seq._\n\n  Drug stores and their attraction, 97\n\n  Drummond, Professor, Sunday lectures at Edinburgh of, 32\n\n  Dufferin, Lord, a photograph of, in Hub hotel, 43\n\n  Duluth, and the gold rush, 240\n\n\n  \u201cEarth\u2019s Earliest Ages,\u201d Pember\u2019s, 30\n\n  Easter Day in the Black Forest, 25\n\n  Eau de Cologne business, author and, 272 _et seq._\n\n  Edinburgh University, author at, 14, 51\n\n  \u201cEducation of Uncle Paul, The,\u201d 123\n\n  Elephants, their fear of rats, 226\n\n  Eliot, George, and her Sunday receptions, 269\n\n  _Etruria_, launching of, 5\n\n  _Evening Sun_, slogan of, 91\n\n  _Evening World_, the, a scoop in, 98\n\n  Evolutionist theology, sermons on, 292 _et seq._\n\n\n  Ffoulkes, Maude, author\u2019s indebtedness to, 224\n\n  \u201cFinal Word, The\u201d (poem), 267\n\n  Free-lunch counters, 87, 90\n\n  Freytag, German reporter, 202, 229\n    his advice to author, 100\n\n  Frohman, Daniel, and Angus Hamilton, 222\n\n\n  Gallup, a half-breed guide, 240\n    camp-fire stories of, 242\n\n  Galt, Sir Thomas, 6\n\n  Germans, talkative, 251\n\n  Gibson, Charles Dana, author poses for, 158\n\n  Gilmour, jealousy of--and a realistic performance, 256-7\n\n  Gilmour, organizes a theatrical touring company, 112, 116\n\n  Gladstone, Right Hon. W. E., A. H. Louis and, 268\n\n  Goff, John, replaces Judge Smythe as Recorder, 232\n\n  Gold, a quest in search of, 235 _et seq._\n\n  Gosse, Edmund, \u201cFather and Son\u201d of, 22\n\n  Grant, and author, 114\n    hears and witnesses Boyde\u2019s confession, 140 _et seq._\n    warns author against Boyde, 135, 136, 147\n\n\n  Hamilton, a clergyman publicly thrashed in, 233\n\n  Hamilton, Angus, 221, 222\n    and author\u2019s stories, 223, 224\n    suicide of, 224\n\n  Harcourt, Sir William, president of Cambridge Union, 268\n\n  _Harper\u2019s Magazine_, publication of A. H. Louis\u2019s poems in, 267\n\n  Harris, Carlyle, electrocuted, 101\n\n  Haschisch, an experiment with, 182\n\n  Haultain, Arnold, private secretary to Goldwin Smith, 37\n\n  Henry, O., his conception of New York, 109\n\n  \u201cHereafter,\u201d poem by A. H. Louis, 270\n\n  Hopf, Max, 298, 300\n\n  Hub hotel, advice to new proprietors of, 41\n    early customers at, 45\n    in hands of a receiver, 61\n    its former proprietor, 17, 39 _et seq._\n    opening of, 43\n    purchase of, 41, 42\n\n  Huebner, Dr. Otto, a disappointment for, 149\n    administers morphine to author, 178, 181\n    and Boyde, 122, 127, 155, 166\n    called in by Boyde, 116 _et seq._\n    confesses himself a morphine taker, 171\n    death of, 213\n    friendship with, 164 _et seq._\n    his wife and daughter, 164, 165\n    joins in search for Boyde, 183 _et seq._\n    life-story of, 174\n    urges author to become a doctor, 127\n    varying moods of, 125, 153, 155, 165, 170, 173, 185\n\n  Hypnotism, experiments in, 51, 52\n\n\n  Irving, Henry, interview with, 106\n\n  Irvington, Mr. Speyer\u2019s country house at, 299\n\n  Islington Jersey Dairy, partnership in, 10\n\n\n  James, General, a dinner to Sir A. Blackwood, 5, 291\n\n  James, William, \u201cVarieties of Religious Experience\u201d by, 22, 217-18\n\n  Jews, a campaign against, 229\n    author\u2019s admiration of, 300\n\n  \u201cJimbo,\u201d author\u2019s, 223\n\n  \u201cJohn Silence,\u201d 53, 78, 223\n    effects of haschisch described in, 182\n    publication of, 224\n\n  Jones, Colonel, 291\n\n  Joseph Lake, Northern Ontario, 74\n\n  \u201cJulius Le Vallon,\u201d 53\n\n\n  Kay, John, and the \u201cHub\u201d venture, 16 _et seq._, 39 _et seq._, 46\n    effect of morphine on, 179\n    his immunity to \u201cnight-attacks,\u201d 109\n    histrionic bent of, 46, 75, 90, 111, 112, 255\n    in search of Boyde, 189\n    poses to Smedley, 112\n    served with a blue writ, 64\n\n  Kingsley, Charles, baptizes A. H. Louis, 266\n\n\n  Laffan, Mr., of _New York Sun_, 91\n\n  Lake Rosseau, departure for, 63\n    five months on, 74 _et seq._\n\n  Lawler, Detective, 163, 186, 189, 200, 201\n\n  Lewes, George Henry, A. H. Louis\u2019s talks with, 269\n\n  Lexow, Senator, and a Tammany investigation, 232\n\n  Liebesmahl, the, of Moravian Brotherhood, 25\n\n  Lightfoot, Bishop, A. H. Louis and, 268.\n\n  Lion, an escaped, a \u201cstrong man\u201d and, 104\n\n  \u201cListener, The,\u201d author\u2019s, 163, 266\n\n  Louis, Alfred H., advice _re_ eau de Cologne business, 277\n    and politics, 268, 269\n    arrives, and a description of, 213\n    as editor, 269\n    breakdown of, 269\n    buried in a Hebrew cemetery, 266\n    Cambridge days of, 268\n    claims to be original of Daniel Deronda, 209\n    condemns Gladstone, 268\n    \u201cHereafter\u201d of, 270\n    his farewell to author, 304\n    legal attainments of, 269\n    meeting with, 262\n    \u201cNight Song\u201d of, 264, 265, 271\n    self-chosen epitaph of, 267, 290\n    \u201cThe Final Word\u201d of, 267\n    unfailing guidance of, 301\n\n  Lowry, Mrs., marries James Speyer, 304\n\n  Lunatic asylum (a quasi), raid on, 226 _et seq._\n\n\n  Manchester, Duchess of, marries Sir A. Blackwood, 21\n\n  Manning, Cardinal, A. H. Louis and, 269\n\n  Mantell, Bob (Shakespearean actor), 85\n    introduces author to Cecil Clay, 90\n\n  \u201cMax Hensig, Bacteriologist and Murderer,\u201d author\u2019s story of, 102,\n        163\n\n  McCloy, Mr. (managing editor of _Evening Sun_), 91\n    and author, 221\n    interview with, 92\n    recollections of, 94, 95\n\n  McKay, owner of olive-oil warehouse, 262, 263\n\n  _Messe noire_, a, and its performers, 215\n\n  _Methodist Magazine_, author on staff of, 6 _et seq._\n\n  Miller, C. W., editor in chief of _New York Times_, 291\n\n  Mitchell, Fire-Marshal, examines author, 286\n    prosecutes Brodie, 282\n\n  Moody and Sankey visit England, 23\n\n  _Morning Post_, an article on the genus \u201cghost story\u201d in: its writer,\n        224\n\n  Morphine, and its effects, 172 _et seq._, 178, 179\n\n  Morris (a reputed \u201cstiff\u201d and cut-throat), 248\n    an instance of his kindness, 249\n\n  Mosquitoes of Rainy Lake City, 247\n\n  Muldoon, Mr., and author\u2019s report of a students\u2019 concert, 292\n    City editor of _New York Times_, 285, 291\n    joins staff of _Brooklyn Eagle_, 300\n\n  Mullins, editorial writer on _Evening Sun_, 284\n\n  Muskoka Lakes of Northern Ontario, 73, 74\n\n  Mystical minor poet, a, 55 _et seq._\n\n\n  Nash, Eveleigh, publishes stories by author, 224\n\n  Nature, spell of, and its influence on author, 32, 35, 49 _et seq._,\n        169, 218, 233, 236, 238, 240\n\n  New York, a lively anti-semitic meeting at, 229\n    horrors of, 108, 109\n    miseries of summer heat in, 231\n\n  _New York Times_, author on staff of, 288\n    slogan of, 91, 291\n\n  Newspaper reporting, reminiscences of, 225 _et seq._\n\n  \u201cNight Song,\u201d poem by A. H. Louis, 264, 265, 271\n\n  Novelists, instances of their creative power, 77\n\n\n  Olive-oil, its value as food, 262\n\n  Opium, the Invocation to, 168, 169, 180\n\n  Otto, waiter in Krisch\u2019s, 260\n\n\n  Palmer, Lynwood, and Boyde, 159, 206, 208\n    attends trial of Boyde, 203\n    kindness to author, 158\n\n  Patanjali, \u201cAphorisms\u201d of, 28 _et seq._, 255\n\n  Pawnbroking, experiences of, 88 _et seq._, 110, 120, 252\n\n  Paxton, 233, 236 _et seq._, 246, 249\n\n  Pember, G. H., evangelical writer of prophetic school, 30, 31\n\n  Police, New York, the Tammany system and, 107, 183\n\n  Potter, Bishop, officiates at wedding of James Speyer, 304\n\n  Prison as \u201ca proper vestibule to a city of Damned Souls,\u201d 109\n\n\n  Rainy Lake City, arrival at, 246\n    desolateness of, 248\n\n  Rainy River district, gold discovered in, 232\n\n  Reporter, a drunken, 108\n\n  Reporting for New York papers, experiences acquired from, 92\n\n  Revivalist movement, author and, 23\n\n  Roosevelt\u2019s Rough Riders, 301\n\n  Roper, and Boyde, 197, 198, 199\n\n  Ryan, a Tammany magistrate, 201\n\n\n  Schmidt, \u201cVon,\u201d personality of, 276\n    warns author against Brodie, 275, 277 _et seq._\n\n  Scott, Mr., revivalist, 28\n\n  _Scribner\u2019s Magazine_, \u201cA Vagrant\u2019s Epitaph\u201d in, 290\n\n  Selton, Morton, and his understudy, 86\n\n  Sevenoaks, a reminiscence of schooldays at, 253\n\n  Shakespearean rehearsals on Lake Rosseau, 75, 77\n\n  Smedley, Mr., posing for, 112, 158\n\n  Smith, Goldwin, and his private secretary, 37\n\n  Smith, Stanley, 23\n\n  Smythe, Judge, replaced by John Goff as Recorder, 232\n    sentences Boyde, 203\n\n  \u201cSnipe\u201d hunting, definition of, 214, 215\n\n  Social reporting, experiences of, 225\n\n  Sothern advances money to Boyde, 206\n\n  Spanish-American War, the, 301\n\n  _Spectator_ reviews author\u2019s published stories, 224\n\n  Spencer, Herbert, A. H. Louis\u2019s talks with, 269\n\n  Speyer, James, a letter of introduction to, 297\n    a present to author, 304\n    and the University Settlement movement, 299\n    as friend and employer, 299\n    as philanthropist, 298, 299\n    author becomes secretary to, 297 _et seq._\n    marriage of, 304\n    tact and kindly feeling of, 298\n\n  Speyer, Sir Edgar, 298, 300\n\n  Spiritualism, a doctor\u2019s exposition of, 52, 53\n\n  Spiritualist, a cement-maker as, 55\n\n  Staten Island, a cricket match on, 85, 86\n\n  Stephen, Sir George, 65\n\n  Stevenson, R. L., a dictum of, 78\n\n  Stewart, Sir Donald, 65\n\n  Storey, Mr., editor of _Harper\u2019s Young People_, accepts an article by\n        author, 84\n\n  Strathcona, Lord, 5\n\n  Studd brothers (cricketers), 23\n\n  Sullivan, Tim, and his rival saloon, 19\n\n\n  Tammany Hall, a Committee of Investigation into methods of, 232\n\n  Tammany system, the, 97, 107\n    the \u201cTenderloin\u201d region and, 183\n\n  Temperance and General Life Assurance Company, author\u2019s post in, 6, 18\n\n  Terry, Ellen, interview with, 106\n\n  Theosophical Society meetings, attendance at, 107\n\n  Theosophy, author\u2019s early interest in, 32\n\n  \u201cThe Interpreters,\u201d by A. E., 218, 219\n\n  \u201cThe Listener,\u201d 163, 266\n\n  Tombs Police Court and Prison, the, 99\n    trial of Boyde at, 200\n\n  Toronto, author as hotel proprietor in, 39\n\n\n  Understanding, a spiritual wisdom, 270, 271\n\n  Union League Club dinner, author\u2019s maiden speech at, 5, 291\n\n  University Settlement movement, the, James Speyer and, 299\n\n\n  \u201cVagrant\u2019s Epitaph, A,\u201d 290\n\n  van Horne, Sir William, 5, 65\n\n  Vermin-infested bedroom, an uncomfortable night in a, 85\n\n\n  Wallace, Professor, of Edinburgh University, 14\n\n  Whitey, a parting present of a bottle of rye whisky, 234, 237\n    hints to author, 96-98\n\n  Withrow, Dr., editor of _Methodist_ Magazine, 6 _et seq._\n\n\n  Yonkers theatre, a realistic scene in a, 257\n\n\n  Zogbaum, illustrator, 158\n\n\n\n\n                               PRINTED BY\n              CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE\n                             LONDON, E.C.4.\n                               F. 20.1023\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber\u2019s Notes\n\n  \u2022 Italics represented by _underscores_.\n\n  \u2022 Small caps converted to ALL CAPS.\n\n  \u2022 Footnotes renumbered consecutively and moved to below the paragraph\n    in which they were referenced.\n\n  \u2022 Obvious typographic errors silently corrected.\n\n  \u2022 Variation in hyphenation kept as in the original.\n\n  \u2022 P. 196: changed \u201can awful looked\u201d to \u201can awful look\u201d to make the\n    sentence grammatical.","title":"Episodes before thirty","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":107278}