The last furniture van had left; the tenant, a young man with a crape
band round his hat, walked for the last time through the empty rooms
to make sure that nothing had been left behind. No, nothing had been
forgotten, nothing at all. He went out into the front hall, firmly
determined never to think again of all that had happened to him in these
rooms. And all at once his eyes fell on half a sheet of foolscap, which
somehow had got wedged between the wall and the telephone; the paper was
covered with writing, evidently the writing of more persons than one.
Some of the entries were written quite legibly with pen and ink, while
others were scribbled with a lead-pencil; here and there even a red
pencil had been used. It was a record of everything that had happened
to him in the short period of two years; all these things, which he had
made up his mind to forget, were noted down. It was a slice of a human
life on half a sheet of foolscap.
He detached the paper; it was a piece of scribbling paper, yellow and
shining like the sun. He put it on the mantelpiece in the drawing-room
and glanced at it. Heading the list was a woman’s name: “Alice,” the
most beautiful name in the world, as it had seemed to him then, for it
was the name of his fiancée. Next to the name was a number, “15,11.”
It looked like the number of a hymn, on the hymn-board. Underneath was
written “Bank.” That was where his work lay, his sacred work to which he
owed bread, home, and wife--the foundations of life. But a pen had been
drawn through the word, for the Bank had failed, and although he had
eventually found another berth, it was not until after a short period of
anxiety and uneasiness.
The next entries were: “Flower-shop and livery-stable.” They related to
his betrothal, when he had plenty of money in his pockets.
Then came “furniture dealer and paper-hanger “--they were furnishing
their house. “Forwarding agents”--they were moving into it. The
“Box-office of the Opera-house, No. 50,50”--they were newly married, and
went to the opera on Sunday evenings; the most enjoyable hours of their
lives were spent there, for they had to sit quite still, while their
souls met in the beauty and harmony of the fairyland on the other side
of the curtain.
Then followed the name of a man, crossed out. He had been a friend of
his youth, a man who had risen high in the social scale, but who fell,
spoilt by success, fell irremediably, and had to leave the country.
So unstable was fortune!
Now, something new entered the lives of husband and wife. The next entry
was in a lady’s hand: “Nurse.” What nurse? Well, of course, the kindly
woman with the big cloak and the sympathetic face, who walked with a
soft footfall, and never went into the drawing-room, but walked straight
down the passage to the bedroom.
Underneath her name was written “Dr. L.”
And now, for the first time, a relative appeared on the list: “Mama.”
That was his mother-in-law, who had kept away discreetly, so as not to
disturb their newly found happiness, but was glad to come now, when she
was needed.
A great number of entries in red and blue pencil followed: “Servants’
Registry Office”--the maid had left and a new one had to be engaged.
“The chemist’s”--hm! life was growing dark. “The dairy”--milk had been
ordered--sterilised milk!
“Butcher, grocer, etc.” The affairs of the house were being conducted
by telephone; it argued that the mistress was not at her post. No, she
wasn’t, for she was laid up.
He could not read what followed, for it grew dark before his eyes; he
might have been a drowning man trying to see through salt water. And
yet, there it was written, plainly enough: “undertaker--a large coffin
and a small one.” And the word “dust” was added in parenthesis.
It was the last word of the whole record. It ended with “dust”! and that
is exactly what happens in life.
He took the yellow paper, kissed it, folded it carefully, and put it in
his pocket.
In two minutes he had lived again through two years of his life.
But he was not bowed down as he left the house. On the contrary, he
carried his head high, like a happy and proud man, for he knew that the
best things life has to bestow had been given to him. And he pitied all
those from whom they are withheld.