RELIEF AT LAST
"Heart failure; mustn't hurry or you'll die; must eat more, whether
you've any appetite, or means to get it or not; must rest and take
things quietly," and so on, and so on. Bitterly I smiled to myself as
I slowly crept home. But so curiously is the average man constituted
that I did not feel as if I was actually under sentence of death. I
rather clung to the belief that Doctor Stericker might be mistaken, and
anyhow that many things might happen in eighteen months. Though really
that was not what kept me going. I have no claim to perseverance,
pertinacity, courage or, least of all, optimism, but like the involved
orator I couldn't see a place to leave off. No opening presented itself
to me to step out of and lay the almost intolerable burden down,
although I know full well that but for those helpless ones dependent
upon me I should certainly have made or found a way long before.
Here is the only explanation I can give of my persistence in a hopeless
cause, to assign any other would be rank hypocrisy, as it would be
to claim any special virtues of endurance or bravery in the face of
overwhelming odds. And I have often thought that in many of us who
get credit for "sticking to it" when all hope seems dead, there may
be something of what Kipling quotes as the pertinacity of materials:
we hold on because it has become a habit so to do. But even I could
not help seeing that the crash could now not be very long delayed,
especially as I dared no longer dash at my work when it came in with
a rush. I have also to recall very gratefully that my chief at the
office, who took a kindly interest in my struggles, and had advised me
to file my petition in bankruptcy, now hinted to me very clearly that
in the event of my doing so, no notice would be taken by those "up
above." This cheered me immensely, for I knew he would not have told me
this if he had not found good grounds for doing so. And so I went on in
my quieter course awaiting the catastrophe, and absolutely uncertain as
to how or when it would come.
Just about this time, I was delighted by the acceptance of an article
I had written, by the editor of _Chambers's Journal_, a magazine which
I had known and admired all my life, although I think it was called
_Chambers's Miscellany_, "When that I was a little tiny boy," I had
also imagined that the publication of a story or an article by anybody
in those familiar double-column pages conferred a sort of brevet rank
upon the writer of which no one could rob him; and in addition to all
this the cheque which I received with (to me) amazing promptitude,
was three times as much as I had previously received for an article
of nearly the same length. So that altogether I felt uplifted and
heartened, although the idea of literature as a profession still never
occurred to me, especially as I was rapidly nearing forty, and feeling
very often double that.
I fully believed that at forty a man's career was irrevocably fixed;
if he had done nothing worthy of note before, he would certainly never
do anything after, and all the stirring adventure of my early days had
been completely overlaid by the dull drab round of my clerkly duties
through so many years, to say nothing of the other jejune, undramatic,
commonplace matters of which I have been writing in these pages. Only,
and this I would like to lay stress upon, there was a glow of strange
delight in my heart, to find that when I took my pen in hand and sat
down to write, all that early life on many seas stood out bold and
clear upon the background of my mind, and I lived its incidents over
and over again.
Little did any of my infrequent customers think when they came into
the shop and saw me writing as if for dear life, as I leaned over the
counter, that I was lost in the resuscitated life of a quarter of
a century before. And strange to say, at least to me, as soon as I
laid down the pen all the vivid reality vanished, and I was as eager
to get an order for a five-shilling frame, or to sell a couple of
little pictures that I had framed on speculation, as if I had never
done anything else all my life. Occasionally, however, my eagerness
departed, as when one day a lady came in and purchased all the framed
Mildmay texts I had in the place, telling me that she was going to
present them to a church bazaar. Of course I cut the price to the bone,
as we say, for I thought I must not miss so good a chance of getting
rid of stock that had been on hand for a long time; so I charged her
just about half what the things cost me in materials. Her order came to
thirty shillings, and she said when about to pay me, "Of course you'll
give me twenty-five per cent. discount, I always get that for bazaar
goods!"
Even £1. 2s. 6d. would have been heartily welcome, but I rejoice to
recollect that I told that wicked old harpy exactly what I thought
of her, and her methods, and the system generally. This is not the
place nor the time for a dissertation upon the charity of those who
grind the face of the poor tradesman to supply the goods which they
so ostentatiously present to the local bazaar, but I do not know that
anything has aroused fiercer resentment in my heart than the behaviour
of these liars, hypocrites, and thieves. Strong words, I agree, but
not any stronger than the truth which is, as we know, mighty and will
prevail.
Nearer and nearer drew the day of my deliverance, though of the manner
in which that liberation was to be effected or of the time when it
would come, I had not the remotest idea. I have omitted to say that
when I took this shop I agreed with the gas company to supply me with
three large incandescent gas lamps on hire. They gave a splendid light,
and were called the Vertmarsche patent, I remember. I was very proud
of them, although they were only mine by courtesy, as I had not paid
more than three quarterly instalments off their heavy cost. But they
certainly did give a tone to the appearance of the shop, and although
they undoubtedly made a heavy increase in my gas bills, I had learned
that economy in light in any shop was fatal to business.
However I was often congratulated upon the splendour of my lights, for
the system was then new, and I was the only tradesman in the lane who
had them. They were especially admired by the tenant of my old shop
nearly opposite, who had for some time been endeavouring to carry on a
little drapery business there. He used to come over and swap troubles
with me, telling me things which made me realise that I was by no means
the only sufferer in this war of ours. At last, one evening, he became
exceedingly confidential, telling me that his affairs had come to a
crisis, and that he was about to file his petition in bankruptcy. But,
he said, his furniture was of a very good and expensive kind, and he
felt it would be too bad to have it seized and sold for such a trifle
as it would surely fetch at a knockout auction. Would I then let him my
first-floor front room, which I had never occupied, as a store house
for the best of his furniture until the clouds had rolled away? and
if so, what would I charge per week. He could pay three shillings and
sixpence.
At first I hesitated, for I realised the precariousness of my own
position, but my visitor, mistaking my hesitation for a desire to get
more money out of him, said, "I'd pay you more if I could, but I swear
I have hardly a penny in the world. Do help me if you can; you may be
glad of a similar lift yourself some day." Of course I hastened to
assure him that nothing could well have been farther from my thoughts
than the idea of exploiting his misery. Three shillings and sixpence a
week would pay me well, and indeed was the sum I had been vainly asking
for that room for a long time.
He thanked me effusively and departed. After closing hours, he managed
to get his effects transferred to my front room, and when I saw the
kind of stuff he had, I could not wonder at his anxiety lest it should
fall into the hands of those harpies, who batten upon the hardships
of people who have their homes broken up. A terrible tragedy indeed,
when the savings of an industrious lifetime invested in furniture are
knocked down for, in many cases, less shillings than they cost pounds
originally, and are then immediately resold to the inner gang for an
enhanced price, to appear in a few days' time in some local furnishing
warehouse at almost as high a price as their original figure.
The next day, my poor little guest came the expected cropper. His
shop was closed, and he disappeared with his wife and family. I felt
a wistful curiosity to know how he was faring, and yet a curious
diffidence lest I should learn too much for my peace of mind. And
so he passed out of my thoughts, and indeed I even forgot that so
large a portion of his belongings was under my roof. Truly I had
quite sufficient of my own pressing personal affairs to occupy all my
attention to the exclusion of any one else's troubles for the time,
and that probably made me more callous than I should have been. I
know that when some chance acquaintance would come in, and after a
very lengthy preamble, try to borrow a few shillings, I used to wax
eloquent. Yet I suppose I ought to have been quite grateful for the
opportunity of giving utterance to my sorrows without being suspected
of ulterior motives. But I regret to say that I got a very bad idea of
my fellow-men generally about this time. So many of them known to me
looked so jolly, existed so easily, dressed well, smoked good cigars,
and yet when they got me by myself invariably sang a song of misery, of
a hollow mask concealing a broken heart, which the temporary loan of a
pound or two would mend. And when the pound or two was not forthcoming
a shilling or even sixpence would be so welcome. One quality they
certainly had, that of perseverance. Yes, after the most vehement
exposition of the impossibility of ever borrowing anything from me,
of all people in the world, they would reappear shortly on the same
errand, until I shrewdly suspected, and told them as much, that they
were only doing it for practice.
The climax for which I had been so long and so ignorantly waiting came
in dramatic fashion. Not, of course, as I had expected it to come,
for to tell the plain simple truth I had for a long time thought that
it would arrive by my falling dead in the street, and I exercised my
imagination continually on the possible scenes afterwards. There was
nothing much to wonder at in this for I almost always felt at this time
as if I was, as the Spaniards say, _Gastados_, used up, had nothing
at all left inside. But on this eventful evening I was working away
as usual, "fitting up," in trade terms, at my glass cutting bench,
when, without the slightest warning, the whole ceiling of the shop
fell down, from wall to wall it tore away in one great mass of rotten
plaster, smashing everything in its fall and filling the shop with
dust and ruin. An earthquake could not have been more comprehensive
as regards the internal fittings of the shop. My blessings upon the
loafing scoundrels who slapped that rubbish up against the laths
above, entirely careless of what happened as long as it stuck there
till they got their money. They did me better service than they ever
dreamed of. A big chunk of plaster having hit me on the head I was for
a moment dazed and partly suffocated by the dust as well, but I saw my
broken lamps flaring up towards the network of tindery laths above, and
instinctively I dropped on my hands and knees to grope my way to the
gas meter. I got rather badly cut, but I found the meter and turned off
the gas, just in time to save the house from catching fire.
I can hear some cynic say, "Silly ass, why didn't he let it catch
fire and burn down, he could have made a bit out of it then." Perhaps
so, but I was not prepared to make a bit, and I had trained myself in
habits of honesty (now don't laugh, for many people do, and I am no
great exception) so that my first and only thought at that juncture
was to prevent the greater calamity of fire. Groping my way back along
the counter, the dust having somewhat subsided I saw my wife, white
and trembling, at the door of the shop parlour. On a sudden impulse
I laughed loudly. In that instant I saw that the long looked for
deliverance had come at last. But she said, "Oh, what's the matter?
Are you all right?" meaning was I sane. I answered cheerily, "No doubt
about that. I'm all right, and for good or evil I've done with this
business. This means a full stop. I can't go on, however much I might
want to."
Then I became aware that the outside of the shop was crowded with
people who had heard the crash, and with the intense curiosity of a
London crowd had accumulated with the idea of seeing what was "up."
This sight caused my mirth to subside, for like most Englishmen I hate
a crowd, hate to be pried upon, especially at a time like that. We like
to fight our troubles alone, or at most with one or two chosen chums.
On the platform it is different, the more facing you then the better,
but afterwards, half a dozen will make you feel awkward. So I went to
the door, and said appealingly, "What do you want?" There was no reply,
so with a sigh I went on. "The ceiling of my shop has fallen down and
ruined my stock. That's all. There's plenty of trouble, but it's mine,
and you people can only add to it by crowding round here." With this
I seized my "long arm," a pole with a hook to it, and marching out
pulled the shutters down. I daresay a lot of them stood for a long time
staring at the shutters, a practice of London crowds that is in curious
variance to their usual alertness, but I do not know, for I did not
look out again that night.
Having bolted up as securely as if I feared a raid I came back to the
parlour, where my wife met me, still with that doubting look in her
eyes, and said, "Whatever will you do?" "_Do_," I replied, "I shall
do the only thing that is now possible, I shall go up to Bankruptcy
Buildings in the morning and file my petition." "How do you do that?"
she queried. "I don't know anything about it, but I can learn, and
shall learn I doubt not pretty quick," I answered. "And in any case it
doesn't matter much now, for I am absolutely certain that this is what
I have been unconsciously waiting for so long." As the matter was not
yet quite plain to her I went on to point out the absolutely ruinous
condition of the house with respect to the other ceilings, which did
not, however, make the place uninhabitable. The shop was quite another
matter. For in the first place the bulk of my stock of pictures was
smashed, in the next my three costly lamps would require at least £5
spent upon them to put them in working order again, while I could
not possibly open the shop again for business in that forlorn and
dilapidated condition.
Now the landlord had simply scoffed at the idea of doing anything to
the premises in the way of repairs, telling me, with some indignation,
what was indeed true, that the house had just been practically rebuilt,
although taking no notice of my demur that the work had been so badly
done that it had long ago required doing all over again. In addition
to all these things I was very near the end of a second quarter in
which I had paid no rent, and I should have been diffident, to put it
delicately, in any case of approaching the landlord upon the subject of
repairs unless I could do so with £20 in my hand.
To say that I had no money wherewith to get these repairs done would
be too bold a platitude, for I never had any money that I could call
my own, I never spent a penny upon the imperative needs of my family
or myself, without a sense of guilt, of dishonesty, because I knew
that it rightly belonged to someone else. But perhaps I should not
have accepted the fiat of that collapsed ceiling so readily, had I
not, metaphorically speaking, been in a state of physical decay, and
inviting a _coup de grâce_. At anyrate I was perfectly satisfied in
my own mind that it was a direct interposition of the awful power of
Providence in my little ephemeral affairs, and after a few mouthfuls of
bread and cheese I went to bed with a lighter heart than I had borne
for many a day.
I arose in the morning at daylight, refreshed by my good rest, which
in itself was most unusual, but to me is a proof how largely fatigue
is induced by worry. My first thought was the ruin below, and as soon
as I had drunk my tea, I faced it. Pushing the shutters up and letting
the light stream in, I surveyed the scene and saw that it was far more
ghastly than I had realised last night. In fact it quite fascinated me,
and I stood staring at it for about ten minutes, softly whistling the
while, until I suddenly came to myself with a jerk, and commenced to
clear up a bit. But it was a painful business because of its obvious
hopelessness. Still something had to be done in order to get in and
out, and besides I had got so used to work that employment, whether
remunerative or not, was an absolute necessity.
Another thing which made this occupation so painful to me was the
handling of the broken children of my labours, my picture frames. Every
one of them had been a source of pride to me as I finished it, and
stood it up to contemplate it; and to see them all mutilated, spoiled,
and scattered was to me a most depressing sight. Still, by sheer force
of habit, I worked on, and succeeded in getting a sufficient clearance
made for present purposes by the time I had to prepare for the office.
Not that I intended to do any office work that day, for quite different
plans were in my mind.
I reached the office at the usual time, and, without uncovering my
table, sought my kindly chief and told him that I was at last compelled
to take his often reiterated advice and go to Carey Street (the
Bankruptcy Court). Hurriedly I explained the circumstances to him,
finding that he was entirely in favour of my action. Then I made out
the usual application for a day's leave (to be deducted from my summer
vacation), handed it in, and left.
With ample time to spare, I strolled up to the huge pile of buildings
at the back of the Law Courts, which I in common with many happier
Londoners had never known the use of until then. Indeed they had not
long been finished and the approach to them, across what some of the
newspapers ironically called at that time Strand Common, was quite
appropriately depressing. It had that effect upon me at anyrate, added
to all that horror of the unknown which is so natural to imaginative
people and withal so unjustifiable in nine cases out of ten. Being full
early I sat down on one of the benches which even then were provided
by some thoughtful souls for the use of weary jetsam from the roaring
tide of the Strand or Fleet Street, and endeavoured to concentrate my
thoughts upon the approaching ordeal. It was a hopeless failure, as any
attempts at meditation have always been with me. My thoughts will only
flow under the stimulus of speech or pen action, in silence and alone
they are uncontrollable, and range fruitlessly over the whole field of
my experience.
But, behold, to me came sudden and grateful relief in the person of an
old patron of mine who held some snug billet as an official reporter
at the Law Courts facing us. Having an hour to spare, he had come
there to smoke a contemplative pipe and enjoy the unwonted rest from
recording in wiggly hieroglyphics the mass of banalities, lies, and
legalities which it was his business to perpetuate in print. He was an
enthusiast in photography--indeed, it was his only hobby--and at the
very slightest sign that I was attending to what he said, he launched
forth into a flood of talk about lenses and exposures, and focussing
and developing, about all of which I knew rather less than I did of
cuneiform inscriptions. But he was so pleased, and my face expressed so
much interest (which I swear I could not feel), that he babbled on for
the hour he had to spare.
Then suddenly he said, "But what are you doing here?" I replied
casually as if it was an ordinary occurrence with me, "Oh, I'm waiting
to file my petition in Bankruptcy as soon as it's eleven o'clock."
"Indeed," he answered, "well, you needn't be in a hurry, you won't find
anybody in there that is. Good morning," and he left me.
True my histrionic qualities are few, but I know that I did try and
impart a pathetic break to my voice when I spoke of my errand, to
infuse it with a pathos which I did not feel, for I had no idea of what
was before me. I know also that he did not take the slightest notice of
my tone, and treated it as one of the commonest of human experiences,
one not deserving of even a passing thought. I know too that this
vulgar indifference of his hurt me more than any words of whatever kind
could have done. By it I knew that I was now enrolled among the ranks
of the great army who live by their wits, who make a business of living
upon other people, who are as much the parasites of society as the
bookmaker or the bucket-shopkeeper, although not nearly so prosperous.
No one would give me any credit, I knew, for the almost superhuman
struggles I had made to pay my way, and to justify my right to live and
maintain my wife and family. I, who had literally starved myself and
worked myself into collapse in order to practice all the week what I
preached on Sundays in the open air, was now to be classed with those
whom I had so often denounced.
Perhaps it served me right for denouncing anybody. But it is hard when
one feels deeply to refrain from speech. Yet I suppose it would be
safe to say that we never know what we might become if we fell victims
to the _folie des grandeurs_, combined with that far more common
complaint, the accursed thirst for gold, no matter whose.