Once upon a time there was an idiot who had a few brains and in an
unlucky moment he started to think, which is a very idiotic thing to
do, as every one knows. The way to live peacefully is not to think, but
just to grab everything that you want that is grabable, eat well, sleep
well, work a little, but do not, on any account, think. It is bad; it
is conducive to thoughts; and thoughts worry; and worry is indigestion;
and indigestion is bad humour; and then peace is gone. Peace is the
only thing that is worth anything and you cannot have it if you have
thoughts.
Now this idiot was, of course, married,--a great many idiots are. His
wife was a very wise lady idiot: she was undoubtedly nice because all
the idiots she was idiot enough to entertain said she was a charming
hostess. Well, the idiot and his wife retired to rest one night as
usual; the wife to read the latest novel and the idiot to stare at the
wall paper until sleep overcame him. As he stared at the wall paper
he wondered at its ugliness, and he wondered why people who design
wall papers make wondrous geometrical vines bearing fretwork tarts
and lobster claws which worry one’s sight, instead of soothing, real
things. And these musings led to other musings and he closed his eyes
and looked inwardly for a minute and was horrified to discover that he
himself was very much after the style of the wall paper design;--in
that he was distorted by conventionality. And here he started to think
hard, and the more he thought the more he was horrified. Finally, he
sat up in bed and said suddenly to his wife:
“Do you know, Spot,” (her pet name was Spot), “I have been thinking--”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” responded Spot. “Go to sleep, if you don’t take
care you will have ideas.”
But the idiot was not to be put off that way this time; the warning was
too late, he had commenced to have ideas and very unpleasant ideas,
too. One horrible idea that had forced its unpleasant presence into
his brain was that his whole system of life had been and was wrong. He
thought of his marriage,--how he had married the girl of his choice
on $750 a year, and spent $300 on his wedding trip. That was a wrong
to the girl and to himself, for when they got back they had to finish
furnishing on the instalment plan. He thought how he had lived now at
the rate of $2,500 a year on a salary of $1,500; he thought of his
cigars, of his good clothes, of his children going to a good school;
he thought of his $700 piano on the instalment plan, of his wife’s
afternoon teas, of his two servants, of his rent $360 a year, of his
debts, how they grew; and the more he thought the more he concluded
that these things were all wrong, because he could not afford them.
He thought of his salary--$4.10 per day--and wondered how he had ever
expected to manage to keep four children, himself and wife and two
servants on it. Then he thought of his notes floating about and how he
had to juggle them every month and rob Peter to pay Paul. And it looked
wrong.
Of course he was only an idiot to let these things worry him. But he
explained all his thoughts to his wife, and the poor woman began to
think and have ideas, too. It was a cruel blow to her,--she had never
had an idea in her life, but had lived at peace, and now peace was
gone. She agreed with her idiot husband that it was all wrong, and like
a good, brave, dutiful and thoughtful woman agreed to help him to right
it all as far as possible or further.
So these two poor idiots began to right things. They cancelled the
lease of their house, took the children from the private school and
sent them to a 50-cent-a-month school, the idiot stopped smoking cigars
and took to a clay pipe and _tabac catholique_, they moved into six
rooms at $12 per month, sold most of their furniture, gave up the
instalment piano, never kept a drop of anything in the house, and never
received any friends.
Rumour then said the idiot had got squeezed in stocks, and the rumour
got to his employer’s ears. The fact of the terrible reduction in the
expenses of the idiot seemed to substantiate the rumour, and so he was
discharged.
Debts that would have waited indefinitely during the idiot’s apparent
prosperity now began to press him, suits in law piled up costs against
him, and he walked the streets without employment, and thought on and
on and on. His friends said he had lost his position because he had
used money that did not belong to him; his enemies said he was a thief.
His wife became prematurely old, slovenly and hopeless; the children
ragged and tough; the idiot himself struck odd jobs now and again, but
being unable any longer to hold up his head over a clean collar and
shirt, on account of his thoughts, he never recovered his lost faith in
himself. He drove a grocery wagon for two years at $9.50 per week and
then died,--his wife said of a broken heart. The wife soon followed the
idiot, and now his children are stablemen, cooks, waitresses and things
like that.
* * * * *
_Moral_:--Don’t be an idiot and think, just saw wood and keep up with
the procession.
[Illustration]
The Game is worth while to the wise, the fool alone crieth out that it
is not worth the candle.