Transcribed from the 1893 Leadenhall Press Ltd. edition by David Price,
email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
NOVEL NOTES
To Big-Hearted, Big-Souled, Big-Bodied friend Conan Doyle
PROLOGUE
Years ago, when I was very small, we lived in a great house in a long,
straight, brown-coloured street, in the east end of London. It was a
noisy, crowded street in the daytime; but a silent, lonesome street at
night, when the gas-lights, few and far between, partook of the character
of lighthouses rather than of illuminants, and the tramp, tramp of the
policeman on his long beat seemed to be ever drawing nearer, or fading
away, except for brief moments when the footsteps ceased, as he paused to
rattle a door or window, or to flash his lantern into some dark passage
leading down towards the river.
The house had many advantages, so my father would explain to friends who
expressed surprise at his choosing such a residence, and among these was
included in my own small morbid mind the circumstance that its back
windows commanded an uninterrupted view of an ancient and much-peopled
churchyard. Often of a night would I steal from between the sheets, and
climbing upon the high oak chest that stood before my bedroom window, sit
peering down fearfully upon the aged gray tombstones far below, wondering
whether the shadows that crept among them might not be ghosts--soiled
ghosts that had lost their natural whiteness by long exposure to the
city's smoke, and had grown dingy, like the snow that sometimes lay
there.
I persuaded myself that they were ghosts, and came, at length, to have
quite a friendly feeling for them. I wondered what they thought when
they saw the fading letters of their own names upon the stones, whether
they remembered themselves and wished they were alive again, or whether
they were happier as they were. But that seemed a still sadder idea.
One night, as I sat there watching, I felt a hand upon my shoulder. I
was not frightened, because it was a soft, gentle hand that I well knew,
so I merely laid my cheek against it.
"What's mumma's naughty boy doing out of bed? Shall I beat him?" And
the other hand was laid against my other cheek, and I could feel the soft
curls mingling with my own.
"Only looking at the ghosts, ma," I answered. "There's such a lot of 'em
down there." Then I added, musingly, "I wonder what it feels like to be
a ghost."
My mother said nothing, but took me up in her arms, and carried me back
to bed, and then, sitting down beside me, and holding my hand in
hers--there was not so very much difference in the size--began to sing in
that low, caressing voice of hers that always made me feel, for the time
being, that I wanted to be a good boy, a song she often used to sing to
me, and that I have never heard any one else sing since, and should not
care to.
But while she sang, something fell on my hand that caused me to sit up
and insist on examining her eyes. She laughed; rather a strange, broken
little laugh, I thought, and said it was nothing, and told me to lie
still and go to sleep. So I wriggled down again and shut my eyes tight,
but I could not understand what had made her cry.
Poor little mother, she had a notion, founded evidently upon inborn
belief rather than upon observation, that all children were angels, and
that, in consequence, an altogether exceptional demand existed for them
in a certain other place, where there are more openings for angels,
rendering their retention in this world difficult and undependable. My
talk about ghosts must have made that foolishly fond heart ache with a
vague dread that night, and for many a night onward, I fear.
For some time after this I would often look up to find my mother's eyes
fixed upon me. Especially closely did she watch me at feeding times, and
on these occasions, as the meal progressed, her face would acquire an
expression of satisfaction and relief.
Once, during dinner, I heard her whisper to my father (for children are
not quite so deaf as their elders think), "He seems to eat all right."
"Eat!" replied my father in the same penetrating undertone; "if he dies
of anything, it will be of eating."
So my little mother grew less troubled, and, as the days went by, saw
reason to think that my brother angels might consent to do without me for
yet a while longer; and I, putting away the child with his ghostly
fancies, became, in course of time, a grown-up person, and ceased to
believe in ghosts, together with many other things that, perhaps, it were
better for a man if he did believe in.
But the memory of that dingy graveyard, and of the shadows that dwelt
therein, came back to me very vividly the other day, for it seemed to me
as though I were a ghost myself, gliding through the silent streets where
once I had passed swiftly, full of life.
Diving into a long unopened drawer, I had, by chance, drawn forth a dusty
volume of manuscript, labelled upon its torn brown paper cover, NOVEL
NOTES. The scent of dead days clung to its dogs'-eared pages; and, as it
lay open before me, my memory wandered back to the summer evenings--not
so very long ago, perhaps, if one but adds up the years, but a long, long
while ago if one measures Time by feeling--when four friends had sat
together making it, who would never sit together any more. With each
crumpled leaf I turned, the uncomfortable conviction that I was only a
ghost, grew stronger. The handwriting was my own, but the words were the
words of a stranger, so that as I read I wondered to myself, saying: did
I ever think this? did I really hope that? did I plan to do this? did I
resolve to be such? does life, then, look so to the eyes of a young man?
not knowing whether to smile or sigh.
The book was a compilation, half diary, half memoranda. In it lay the
record of many musings, of many talks, and out of it--selecting what
seemed suitable, adding, altering, and arranging--I have shaped the
chapters that hereafter follow.
That I have a right to do so I have fully satisfied my own conscience, an
exceptionally fussy one. Of the four joint authors, he whom I call
"MacShaughnassy" has laid aside his title to all things beyond six feet
of sun-scorched ground in the African veldt; while from him I have
designated "Brown" I have borrowed but little, and that little I may
fairly claim to have made my own by reason of the artistic merit with
which I have embellished it. Indeed, in thus taking a few of his bald
ideas and shaping them into readable form, am I not doing him a kindness,
and thereby returning good for evil? For has he not, slipping from the
high ambition of his youth, sunk ever downward step by step, until he has
become a critic, and, therefore, my natural enemy? Does he not, in the
columns of a certain journal of large pretension but small circulation,
call me "'Arry" (without an "H," the satirical rogue), and is not his
contempt for the English-speaking people based chiefly upon the fact that
some of them read my books? But in the days of Bloomsbury lodgings and
first-night pits we thought each other clever.
From "Jephson" I hold a letter, dated from a station deep in the heart of
the Queensland bush. "_Do what you like with it, dear boy_," the letter
runs, "_so long as you keep me out of it. Thanks for your complimentary
regrets, but I cannot share them. I was never fitted for a literary
career. Lucky for me, I found it out in time. Some poor devils don't.
(I'm not getting at you, old man. We read all your stuff, and like it
very much. Time hangs a bit heavy, you know, here, in the winter, and we
are glad of almost anything.) This life suits me better. I love to feel
my horse between my thighs, and the sun upon my skin. And there are the
youngsters growing up about us, and the hands to look after, and the
stock. I daresay it seems a very commonplace unintellectual life to you,
but it satisfies my nature more than the writing of books could ever do.
Besides, there are too many authors as it is. The world is so busy
reading and writing, it has no time left for thinking. You'll tell me,
of course, that books are thought, but that is only the jargon of the
Press. You come out here, old man, and sit as I do sometimes for days
and nights together alone with the dumb cattle on an upheaved island of
earth, as it were, jutting out into the deep sky, and you will know that
they are not. What a man thinks--really thinks--goes down into him and
grows in silence. What a man writes in books are the thoughts that he
wishes to be thought to think_."
Poor Jephson! he promised so well at one time. But he always had strange
notions.
CHAPTER I
When, on returning home one evening, after a pipe party at my friend
Jephson's, I informed my wife that I was going to write a novel, she
expressed herself as pleased with the idea. She said she had often
wondered I had never thought of doing so before. "Look," she added, "how
silly all the novels are nowadays; I'm sure you could write one."
(Ethelbertha intended to be complimentary, I am convinced; but there is a
looseness about her mode of expression which, at times, renders her
meaning obscure.)
When, however, I told her that my friend Jephson was going to collaborate
with me, she remarked, "Oh," in a doubtful tone; and when I further went
on to explain to her that Selkirk Brown and Derrick MacShaughnassy were
also going to assist, she replied, "Oh," in a tone which contained no
trace of doubtfulness whatever, and from which it was clear that her
interest in the matter, as a practical scheme, had entirely evaporated.
I fancy that the fact of my three collaborators being all bachelors
diminished somewhat our chances of success, in Ethelbertha's mind.
Against bachelors, as a class, she entertains a strong prejudice. A
man's not having sense enough to want to marry, or, having that, not
having wit enough to do it, argues to her thinking either weakness of
intellect or natural depravity, the former rendering its victim unable,
and the latter unfit, ever to become a really useful novelist.
I tried to make her understand the peculiar advantages our plan
possessed.
"You see," I explained, "in the usual commonplace novel we only get, as a
matter of fact, one person's ideas. Now, in this novel, there will be
four clever men all working together. The public will thus be enabled to
obtain the thoughts and opinions of the whole four of us, at the price
usually asked for merely one author's views. If the British reader knows
his own business, he will order this book early, to avoid disappointment.
Such an opportunity may not occur again for years."
Ethelbertha agreed that this was probable.
"Besides," I continued, my enthusiasm waxing stronger the more I
reflected upon the matter, "this work is going to be a genuine bargain in
another way also. We are not going to put our mere everyday ideas into
it. We are going to crowd into this one novel all the wit and wisdom
that the whole four of us possess, if the book will hold it. We shall
not write another novel after this one. Indeed, we shall not be able to;
we shall have nothing more to write. This work will partake of the
nature of an intellectual clearance sale. We are going to put into this
novel simply all we know."
Ethelbertha shut her lips, and said something inside; and then remarked
aloud that she supposed it would be a one volume affair.
I felt hurt at the implied sneer. I pointed out to her that there
already existed a numerous body of specially-trained men employed to do
nothing else but make disagreeable observations upon authors and their
works--a duty that, so far as I could judge, they seemed capable of
performing without any amateur assistance whatever. And I hinted that,
by his own fireside, a literary man looked to breathe a more sympathetic
atmosphere.
Ethelbertha replied that of course I knew what she meant. She said that
she was not thinking of me, and that Jephson was, no doubt, sensible
enough (Jephson is engaged), but she did not see the object of bringing
half the parish into it. (Nobody suggested bringing "half the parish"
into it. Ethelbertha will talk so wildly.) To suppose that Brown and
MacShaughnassy could be of any use whatever, she considered absurd. What
could a couple of raw bachelors know about life and human nature? As
regarded MacShaughnassy in particular, she was of opinion that if we only
wanted out of him all that _he_ knew, and could keep him to the subject,
we ought to be able to get that into about a page.
My wife's present estimate of MacShaughnassy's knowledge is the result of
reaction. The first time she ever saw him, she and he got on wonderfully
well together; and when I returned to the drawing-room, after seeing him
down to the gate, her first words were, "What a wonderful man that Mr.
MacShaughnassy is. He seems to know so much about everything."
That describes MacShaughnassy exactly. He does seem to know a tremendous
lot. He is possessed of more information than any man I ever came
across. Occasionally, it is correct information; but, speaking broadly,
it is remarkable for its marvellous unreliability. Where he gets it from
is a secret that nobody has ever yet been able to fathom.
Ethelbertha was very young when we started housekeeping. (Our first
butcher very nearly lost her custom, I remember, once and for ever by
calling her "Missie," and giving her a message to take back to her
mother. She arrived home in tears. She said that perhaps she wasn't fit
to be anybody's wife, but she did not see why she should be told so by
the tradespeople.) She was naturally somewhat inexperienced in domestic
affairs, and, feeling this keenly, was grateful to any one who would give
her useful hints and advice. When MacShaughnassy came along he seemed,
in her eyes, a sort of glorified Mrs. Beeton. He knew everything wanted
to be known inside a house, from the scientific method of peeling a
potato to the cure of spasms in cats, and Ethelbertha would sit at his
feet, figuratively speaking, and gain enough information in one evening
to make the house unlivable in for a month.
He told her how fires ought to be laid. He said that the way fires were
usually laid in this country was contrary to all the laws of nature, and
he showed her how the thing was done in Crim Tartary, or some such place,
where the science of laying fires is alone properly understood. He
proved to her that an immense saving in time and labour, to say nothing
of coals, could be effected by the adoption of the Crim Tartary system;
and he taught it to her then and there, and she went straight downstairs
and explained it to the girl.
Amenda, our then "general," was an extremely stolid young person, and, in
some respects, a model servant. She never argued. She never seemed to
have any notions of her own whatever. She accepted our ideas without
comment, and carried them out with such pedantic precision and such
evident absence of all feeling of responsibility concerning the result as
to surround our home legislation with quite a military atmosphere.
On the present occasion she stood quietly by while the MacShaughnassy
method of fire-laying was expounded to her. When Ethelbertha had
finished she simply said:--
"You want me to lay the fires like that?"
"Yes, Amenda, we'll always have the fires laid like that in future, if
you please."
"All right, mum," replied Amenda, with perfect unconcern, and there the
matter ended, for that evening.
On coming downstairs the next morning we found the breakfast table spread
very nicely, but there was no breakfast. We waited. Ten minutes went
by--a quarter of an hour--twenty minutes. Then Ethelbertha rang the
bell. In response Amenda presented herself, calm and respectful.
"Do you know that the proper time for breakfast is half-past eight,
Amenda?"
"Yes'm."
"And do you know that it's now nearly nine?"
"Yes'm."
"Well, isn't breakfast ready?"
"No, mum."
"Will it _ever_ be ready?"
"Well, mum," replied Amenda, in a tone of genial frankness, "to tell you
the truth, I don't think it ever will."
"What's the reason? Won't the fire light?"
"Oh yes, it lights all right."
"Well, then, why can't you cook the breakfast?"
"Because before you can turn yourself round it goes out again."
Amenda never volunteered statements. She answered the question put to
her and then stopped dead. I called downstairs to her on one occasion,
before I understood her peculiarities, to ask her if she knew the time.
She replied, "Yes, sir," and disappeared into the back kitchen. At the
end of thirty seconds or so, I called down again. "I asked you, Amenda,"
I said reproachfully, "to tell me the time about ten minutes ago."
"Oh, did you?" she called back pleasantly. "I beg your pardon. I
thought you asked me if I knew it--it's half-past four."
Ethelbertha inquired--to return to our fire--if she had tried lighting it
again.
"Oh yes, mum," answered the girl. "I've tried four times." Then she
added cheerfully, "I'll try again if you like, mum."
Amenda was the most willing servant we ever paid wages to.
Ethelbertha said she would step down and light the fire herself, and told
Amenda to follow her and watch how she did it. I felt interested in the
experiment, and followed also. Ethelbertha tucked up her frock and set
to work. Amenda and I stood around and looked on.
At the end of half an hour Ethelbertha retired from the contest, hot,
dirty, and a trifle irritable. The fireplace retained the same cold,
cynical expression with which it had greeted our entrance.
Then I tried. I honestly tried my best. I was eager and anxious to
succeed. For one reason, I wanted my breakfast. For another, I wanted
to be able to say that I had done this thing. It seemed to me that for
any human being to light a fire, laid as that fire was laid, would be a
feat to be proud of. To light a fire even under ordinary circumstances
is not too easy a task: to do so, handicapped by MacShaughnassy's rules,
would, I felt, be an achievement pleasant to look back upon. My idea,
had I succeeded, would have been to go round the neighbourhood and brag
about it.
However, I did not succeed. I lit various other things, including the
kitchen carpet and the cat, who would come sniffing about, but the
materials within the stove appeared to be fire-proof.
Ethelbertha and I sat down, one each side of our cheerless hearth, and
looked at one another, and thought of MacShaughnassy, until Amenda chimed
in on our despair with one of those practical suggestions of hers that
she occasionally threw out for us to accept or not, as we chose.
"Maybe," said she, "I'd better light it in the old way just for to-day."
"Do, Amenda," said Ethelbertha, rising. And then she added, "I think
we'll always have them lighted in the old way, Amenda, if you please."
Another time he showed us how to make coffee--according to the Arabian
method. Arabia must be a very untidy country if they made coffee often
over there. He dirtied two saucepans, three jugs, one tablecloth, one
nutmeg-grater, one hearthrug, three cups, and himself. This made coffee
for two--what would have been necessary in the case of a party, one dares
not think.
That we did not like the coffee when made, MacShaughnassy attributed to
our debased taste--the result of long indulgence in an inferior article.
He drank both cups himself, and afterwards went home in a cab.
He had an aunt in those days, I remember, a mysterious old lady, who
lived in some secluded retreat from where she wrought incalculable
mischief upon MacShaughnassy's friends. What he did not know--the one or
two things that he was _not_ an authority upon--this aunt of his knew.
"No," he would say with engaging candour--"no, that is a thing I cannot
advise you about myself. But," he would add, "I'll tell you what I'll
do. I'll write to my aunt and ask her." And a day or two afterwards he
would call again, bringing his aunt's advice with him; and, if you were
young and inexperienced, or a natural born fool, you might possibly
follow it.
She sent us a recipe on one occasion, through MacShaughnassy, for the
extermination of blackbeetles. We occupied a very picturesque old house;
but, as with most picturesque old houses, its advantages were chiefly
external. There were many holes and cracks and crevices within its
creaking framework. Frogs, who had lost their way and taken the wrong
turning, would suddenly discover themselves in the middle of our dining-
room, apparently quite as much to their own surprise and annoyance as to
ours. A numerous company of rats and mice, remarkably fond of physical
exercise, had fitted the place up as a gymnasium for themselves; and our
kitchen, after ten o'clock, was turned into a blackbeetles' club. They
came up through the floor and out through the walls, and gambolled there
in their light-hearted, reckless way till daylight.
The rats and mice Amenda did not object to. She said she liked to watch
them. But against the blackbeetles she was prejudiced. Therefore, when
my wife informed her that MacShaughnassy's aunt had given us an
infallible recipe for their annihilation, she rejoiced.
We purchased the materials, manufactured the mixture, and put it about.
The beetles came and ate it. They seemed to like it. They finished it
all up, and were evidently vexed that there was not more. But they did
not die.
We told these facts to MacShaughnassy. He smiled, a very grim smile, and
said in a low tone, full of meaning, "Let them eat!"
It appeared that this was one of those slow, insidious poisons. It did
not kill the beetle off immediately, but it undermined his constitution.
Day by day he would sink and droop without being able to tell what was
the matter with himself, until one morning we should enter the kitchen to
find him lying cold and very still.
So we made more stuff and laid it round each night, and the blackbeetles
from all about the parish swarmed to it. Each night they came in greater
quantities. They fetched up all their friends and relations. Strange
beetles--beetles from other families, with no claim on us whatever--got
to hear about the thing, and came in hordes, and tried to rob our
blackbeetles of it. By the end of a week we had lured into our kitchen
every beetle that wasn't lame for miles round.
MacShaughnassy said it was a good thing. We should clear the suburb at
one swoop. The beetles had now been eating this poison steadily for ten
days, and he said that the end could not be far off. I was glad to hear
it, because I was beginning to find this unlimited hospitality expensive.
It was a dear poison that we were giving them, and they were hearty
eaters.
We went downstairs to see how they were getting on. MacShaughnassy
thought they seemed queer, and was of opinion that they were breaking up.
Speaking for myself, I can only say that a healthier-looking lot of
beetles I never wish to see.
One, it is true, did die that very evening. He was detected in the act
of trying to make off with an unfairly large portion of the poison, and
three or four of the others set upon him savagely and killed him.
But he was the only one, so far as I could ever discover, to whom
MacShaughnassy's recipe proved fatal. As for the others, they grew fat
and sleek upon it. Some of them, indeed, began to acquire quite a
figure. We lessened their numbers eventually by the help of some common
oil-shop stuff. But such vast numbers, attracted by MacShaughnassy's
poison, had settled in the house, that to finally exterminate them now
was hopeless.
I have not heard of MacShaughnassy's aunt lately. Possibly, one of
MacShaughnassy's bosom friends has found out her address and has gone
down and murdered her. If so, I should like to thank him.
I tried a little while ago to cure MacShaughnassy of his fatal passion
for advice-giving, by repeating to him a very sad story that was told to
me by a gentleman I met in an American railway car. I was travelling
from Buffalo to New York, and, during the day, it suddenly occurred to me
that I might make the journey more interesting by leaving the cars at
Albany and completing the distance by water. But I did not know how the
boats ran, and I had no guide-book with me. I glanced about for some one
to question. A mild-looking, elderly gentleman sat by the next window
reading a book, the cover of which was familiar to me. I deemed him to
be intelligent, and approached him.
"I beg your pardon for interrupting you," I said, sitting down opposite
to him, "but could you give me any information about the boats between
Albany and New York?"
"Well," he answered, looking up with a pleasant smile, "there are three
lines of boats altogether. There is the Heggarty line, but they only go
as far as Catskill. Then there are the Poughkeepsie boats, which go
every other day. Or there is what we call the canal boat."
"Oh," I said. "Well now, which would you advise me to--"
He jumped to his feet with a cry, and stood glaring down at me with a
gleam in his eyes which was positively murderous.
"You villain!" he hissed in low tones of concentrated fury, "so that's
your game, is it? I'll give you something that you'll want advice
about," and he whipped out a six-chambered revolver.
I felt hurt. I also felt that if the interview were prolonged I might
feel even more hurt. So I left him without a word, and drifted over to
the other end of the car, where I took up a position between a stout lady
and the door.
I was still musing upon the incident, when, looking up, I observed my
elderly friend making towards me. I rose and laid my hand upon the door-
knob. He should not find me unprepared. He smiled, reassuringly,
however, and held out his hand.
"I've been thinking," he said, "that maybe I was a little rude just now.
I should like, if you will let me, to explain. I think, when you have
heard my story, you will understand, and forgive me."
There was that about him which made me trust him. We found a quiet
corner in the smoking-car. I had a "whiskey sour," and he prescribed for
himself a strange thing of his own invention. Then we lighted our
cigars, and he talked.
"Thirty years ago," said he, "I was a young man with a healthy belief in
myself, and a desire to do good to others. I did not imagine myself a
genius. I did not even consider myself exceptionally brilliant or
talented. But it did seem to me, and the more I noted the doings of my
fellow-men and women, the more assured did I become of it, that I
possessed plain, practical common sense to an unusual and remarkable
degree. Conscious of this, I wrote a little book, which I entitled _How
to be Happy, Wealthy, and Wise_, and published it at my own expense. I
did not seek for profit. I merely wished to be useful.
"The book did not make the stir that I had anticipated. Some two or
three hundred copies went off, and then the sale practically ceased.
"I confess that at first I was disappointed. But after a while, I
reflected that, if people would not take my advice, it was more their
loss than mine, and I dismissed the matter from my mind.
"One morning, about a twelvemonth afterwards, I was sitting in my study,
when the servant entered to say that there was a man downstairs who
wanted very much to see me.
"I gave instructions that he should be sent up, and up accordingly he
came.
"He was a common man, but he had an open, intelligent countenance, and
his manner was most respectful. I motioned him to be seated. He
selected a chair, and sat down on the extreme edge of it.
"'I hope you'll pard'n this intrusion, sir,' he began, speaking
deliberately, and twirling his hat the while; 'but I've come more'n two
hundred miles to see you, sir.'
"I expressed myself as pleased, and he continued: 'They tell me, sir, as
you're the gentleman as wrote that little book, _How to be Happy,
Wealthy, and Wise_."
He enumerated the three items slowly, dwelling lovingly on each. I
admitted the fact.
"'Ah, that's a wonderful book, sir,' he went on. 'I ain't one of them as
has got brains of their own--not to speak of--but I know enough to know
them as has; and when I read that little book, I says to myself, Josiah
Hackett (that's my name, sir), when you're in doubt don't you get addling
that thick head o' yours, as will only tell you all wrong; you go to the
gentleman as wrote that little book and ask him for his advice. He is a
kind-hearted gentleman, as any one can tell, and he'll give it you; and
_when_ you've got it, you go straight ahead, full steam, and don't you
stop for nothing, 'cause he'll know what's best for you, same as he knows
what's best for everybody. That's what I says, sir; and that's what I'm
here for.'
"He paused, and wiped his brow with a green cotton handkerchief. I
prayed him to proceed.
"It appeared that the worthy fellow wanted to marry, but could not make
up his mind _whom_ he wanted to marry. He had his eye--so he expressed
it--upon two young women, and they, he had reason to believe, regarded
him in return with more than usual favour. His difficulty was to decide
which of the two--both of them excellent and deserving young
persons--would make him the best wife. The one, Juliana, the only
daughter of a retired sea-captain, he described as a winsome lassie. The
other, Hannah, was an older and altogether more womanly girl. She was
the eldest of a large family. Her father, he said, was a God-fearing
man, and was doing well in the timber trade. He asked me which of them I
should advise him to marry.
"I was flattered. What man in my position would not have been? This
Josiah Hackett had come from afar to hear my wisdom. He was willing--nay,
anxious--to entrust his whole life's happiness to my discretion. That he
was wise in so doing, I entertained no doubt. The choice of a wife I had
always held to be a matter needing a calm, unbiassed judgment, such as no
lover could possibly bring to bear upon the subject. In such a case, I
should not have hesitated to offer advice to the wisest of men. To this
poor, simple-minded fellow, I felt it would be cruel to refuse it.
"He handed me photographs of both the young persons under consideration.
I jotted down on the back of each such particulars as I deemed would
assist me in estimating their respective fitness for the vacancy in
question, and promised to carefully consider the problem, and write him
in a day or two.
"His gratitude was touching. 'Don't you trouble to write no letters,
sir,' he said; 'you just stick down "Julia" or "Hannah" on a bit of
paper, and put it in an envelope. I shall know what it means, and that's
the one as I shall marry.'
"Then he gripped me by the hand and left me.
"I gave a good deal of thought to the selection of Josiah's wife. I
wanted him to be happy.
"Juliana was certainly very pretty. There was a lurking playfulness
about the corners of Juliana's mouth which conjured up the sound of
rippling laughter. Had I acted on impulse, I should have clasped Juliana
in Josiah's arms.
"But, I reflected, more sterling qualities than mere playfulness and
prettiness are needed for a wife. Hannah, though not so charming,
clearly possessed both energy and sense--qualities highly necessary to a
poor man's wife. Hannah's father was a pious man, and was 'doing well'--a
thrifty, saving man, no doubt. He would have instilled into her lessons
of economy and virtue; and, later on, she might possibly come in for a
little something. She was the eldest of a large family. She was sure to
have had to help her mother a good deal. She would be experienced in
household matters, and would understand the bringing up of children.
"Julia's father, on the other hand, was a retired sea-captain. Seafaring
folk are generally loose sort of fish. He had probably been in the habit
of going about the house, using language and expressing views, the
hearing of which could not but have exercised an injurious effect upon
the formation of a growing girl's character. Juliana was his only child.
Only children generally make bad men and women. They are allowed to have
their own way too much. The pretty daughter of a retired sea-captain
would be certain to be spoilt.
"Josiah, I had also to remember, was a man evidently of weak character.
He would need management. Now, there was something about Hannah's eye
that eminently suggested management.
"At the end of two days my mind was made up. I wrote 'Hannah' on a slip
of paper, and posted it.
"A fortnight afterwards I received a letter from Josiah. He thanked me
for my advice, but added, incidentally, that he wished I could have made
it Julia. However, he said, he felt sure I knew best, and by the time I
received the letter he and Hannah would be one.
"That letter worried me. I began to wonder if, after all, I had chosen
the right girl. Suppose Hannah was not all I thought her! What a
terrible thing it would be for Josiah. What data, sufficient to reason
upon, had I possessed? How did I know that Hannah was not a lazy, ill-
tempered girl, a continual thorn in the side of her poor, overworked
mother, and a perpetual blister to her younger brothers and sisters? How
did I know she had been well brought up? Her father might be a precious
old fraud: most seemingly pious men are. She may have learned from him
only hypocrisy.
"Then also, how did I know that Juliana's merry childishness would not
ripen into sweet, cheerful womanliness? Her father, for all I knew to
the contrary, might be the model of what a retired sea-captain should be;
with possibly a snug little sum safely invested somewhere. And Juliana
was his only child. What reason had I for rejecting this fair young
creature's love for Josiah?
"I took her photo from my desk. I seemed to detect a reproachful look in
the big eyes. I saw before me the scene in the little far-away home when
the first tidings of Josiah's marriage fell like a cruel stone into the
hitherto placid waters of her life. I saw her kneeling by her father's
chair, while the white-haired, bronzed old man gently stroked the golden
head, shaking with silent sobs against his breast. My remorse was almost
more than I could bear.
"I put her aside and took up Hannah--my chosen one. She seemed to be
regarding me with a smile of heartless triumph. There began to take
possession of me a feeling of positive dislike to Hannah.
"I fought against the feeling. I told myself it was prejudice. But the
more I reasoned against it the stronger it became. I could tell that, as
the days went by, it would grow from dislike to loathing, from loathing
to hate. And this was the woman I had deliberately selected as a life
companion for Josiah!
"For weeks I knew no peace of mind. Every letter that arrived I dreaded
to open, fearing it might be from Josiah. At every knock I started up,
and looked about for a hiding-place. Every time I came across the
heading, 'Domestic Tragedy,' in the newspapers, I broke into a cold
perspiration. I expected to read that Josiah and Hannah had murdered
each other, and died cursing me.
"As the time went by, however, and I heard nothing, my fears began to
assuage, and my belief in my own intuitive good judgment to return.
Maybe, I had done a good thing for Josiah and Hannah, and they were
blessing me. Three years passed peacefully away, and I was beginning to
forget the existence of the Hacketts.
"Then he came again. I returned home from business one evening to find
him waiting for me in the hall. The moment I saw him I knew that my
worst fears had fallen short of the truth. I motioned him to follow me
to my study. He did so, and seated himself in the identical chair on
which he had sat three years ago. The change in him was remarkable; he
looked old and careworn. His manner was that of resigned hopelessness.
"We remained for a while without speaking, he twirling his hat as at our
first interview, I making a show of arranging papers on my desk. At
length, feeling that anything would be more bearable than this silence, I
turned to him.
"'Things have not been going well with you, I'm afraid, Josiah?' I said.
"'No, sir,' he replied quietly; 'I can't say as they have, altogether.
That Hannah of yours has turned out a bit of a teaser.'
"There was no touch of reproach in his tones. He simply stated a
melancholy fact.
"'But she is a good wife to you in other ways,' I urged. 'She has her
faults, of course. We all have. But she is energetic. Come now, you
will admit she's energetic.'
"I owed it to myself to find some good in Hannah, and this was the only
thing I could think of at that moment.
"'Oh yes, she's that,' he assented. 'A little too much so for our sized
house, I sometimes think.'
"'You see,' he went on, 'she's a bit cornery in her temper, Hannah is;
and then her mother's a bit trying, at times.'
"'Her mother!' I exclaimed, 'but what's _she_ got to do with you?'
"'Well, you see, sir,' he answered, 'she's living with us now--ever since
the old man went off.'
"'Hannah's father! Is he dead, then?'
"'Well, not exactly, sir,' he replied. 'He ran off about a twelvemonth
ago with one of the young women who used to teach in the Sunday School,
and joined the Mormons. It came as a great surprise to every one.'
"I groaned. 'And his business,' I inquired--'the timber business, who
carries that on?'
"'Oh, that!' answered Josiah. 'Oh, that had to be sold to pay his
debts--leastways, to go towards 'em.'
"I remarked what a terrible thing it was for his family. I supposed the
home was broken up, and they were all scattered.
"'No, sir,' he replied simply, 'they ain't scattered much. They're all
living with us.'
"'But there,' he continued, seeing the look upon my face; 'of course, all
this has nothing to do with you sir. You've got troubles of your own, I
daresay, sir. I didn't come here to worry you with mine. That would be
a poor return for all your kindness to me.'
"'What has become of Julia?' I asked. I did not feel I wanted to
question him any more about his own affairs.
"A smile broke the settled melancholy of his features. 'Ah,' he said, in
a more cheerful tone than he had hitherto employed, 'it does one good to
think about _her_, it does. She's married to a friend of mine now, young
Sam Jessop. I slips out and gives 'em a call now and then, when Hannah
ain't round. Lord, it's like getting a glimpse of heaven to look into
their little home. He often chaffs me about it, Sam does. "Well, you
_was_ a sawny-headed chunk, Josiah, _you_ was," he often says to me.
We're old chums, you know, sir, Sam and me, so he don't mind joking a bit
like.'
"Then the smile died away, and he added with a sigh, 'Yes, I've often
thought since, sir, how jolly it would have been if you could have seen
your way to making it Juliana.'
"I felt I must get him back to Hannah at any cost. I said, 'I suppose
you and your wife are still living in the old place?'
"'Yes,' he replied, 'if you can call it living. It's a hard struggle
with so many of us.'
"He said he did not know how he should have managed if it had not been
for the help of Julia's father. He said the captain had behaved more
like an angel than anything else he knew of.
"'I don't say as he's one of your clever sort, you know, sir,' he
explained. 'Not the man as one would go to for advice, like one would to
you, sir; but he's a good sort for all that.'
"'And that reminds me, sir,' he went on, 'of what I've come here about.
You'll think it very bold of me to ask, sir, but--'
"I interrupted him. 'Josiah,' I said, 'I admit that I am much to blame
for what has come upon you. You asked me for my advice, and I gave it
you. Which of us was the bigger idiot, we will not discuss. The point
is that I did give it, and I am not a man to shirk my responsibilities.
What, in reason, you ask, and I can grant, I will give you.'
"He was overcome with gratitude. 'I knew it, sir,' he said. 'I knew you
would not refuse me. I said so to Hannah. I said, "I will go to that
gentleman and ask him. I will go to him and ask him for his advice."'
"I said, 'His what?'
"'His advice,' repeated Josiah, apparently surprised at my tone, 'on a
little matter as I can't quite make up my mind about.'
"I thought at first he was trying to be sarcastic, but he wasn't. That
man sat there, and wrestled with me for my advice as to whether he should
invest a thousand dollars which Julia's father had offered to lend him,
in the purchase of a laundry business or a bar. He hadn't had enough of
it (my advice, I mean); he wanted it again, and he spun me reasons why I
should give it him. The choice of a wife was a different thing
altogether, he argued. Perhaps he ought _not_ to have asked me for my
opinion as to that. But advice as to which of two trades a man would do
best to select, surely any business man could give. He said he had just
been reading again my little book, _How to be Happy_, etc., and if the
gentleman who wrote that could not decide between the respective merits
of one particular laundry and one particular bar, both situate in the
same city, well, then, all he had got to say was that knowledge and
wisdom were clearly of no practical use in this world whatever.
"Well, it did seem a simple thing to advise a man about. Surely as to a
matter of this kind, I, a professed business man, must be able to form a
sounder judgment than this poor pumpkin-headed lamb. It would be
heartless to refuse to help him. I promised to look into the matter, and
let him know what I thought.
"He rose and shook me by the hand. He said he would not try to thank me;
words would only seem weak. He dashed away a tear and went out.
"I brought an amount of thought to bear upon this thousand-dollar
investment sufficient to have floated a bank. I did not mean to make
another Hannah job, if I could help it. I studied the papers Josiah had
left with me, but did not attempt to form any opinion from them. I went
down quietly to Josiah's city, and inspected both businesses on the spot.
I instituted secret but searching inquiries in the neighbourhood. I
disguised myself as a simple-minded young man who had come into a little
money, and wormed myself into the confidence of the servants. I
interviewed half the town upon the pretence that I was writing the
commercial history of New England, and should like some particulars of
their career, and I invariably ended my examination by asking them which
was their favourite bar, and where they got their washing done. I stayed
a fortnight in the town. Most of my spare time I spent at the bar. In
my leisure moments I dirtied my clothes so that they might be washed at
the laundry.
"As the result of my investigations I discovered that, so far as the two
businesses themselves were concerned, there was not a pin to choose
between them. It became merely a question of which particular trade
would best suit the Hacketts.
"I reflected. The keeper of a bar was exposed to much temptation. A
weak-minded man, mingling continually in the company of topers, might
possibly end by giving way to drink. Now, Josiah was an exceptionally
weak-minded man. It had also to be borne in mind that he had a shrewish
wife, and that her whole family had come to live with him. Clearly, to
place Josiah in a position of easy access to unlimited liquor would be
madness.
"About a laundry, on the other hand, there was something soothing. The
working of a laundry needed many hands. Hannah's relatives might be used
up in a laundry, and made to earn their own living. Hannah might expend
her energy in flat-ironing, and Josiah could turn the mangle. The idea
conjured up quite a pleasant domestic picture. I recommended the
laundry.
"On the following Monday, Josiah wrote to say that he had bought the
laundry. On Tuesday I read in the _Commercial Intelligence_ that one of
the most remarkable features of the time was the marvellous rise taking
place all over New England in the value of hotel and bar property. On
Thursday, in the list of failures, I came across no less than four
laundry proprietors; and the paper added, in explanation, that the
American washing industry, owing to the rapid growth of Chinese
competition, was practically on its last legs. I went out and got drunk.
"My life became a curse to me. All day long I thought of Josiah. All
night I dreamed of him. Suppose that, not content with being the cause
of his domestic misery, I had now deprived him of the means of earning a
livelihood, and had rendered useless the generosity of that good old sea-
captain. I began to appear to myself as a malignant fiend, ever
following this simple but worthy man to work evil upon him.
"Time passed away, however; I heard nothing from or of him, and my burden
at last fell from me.
"Then at the end of about five years he came again.
"He came behind me as I was opening the door with my latch-key, and laid
an unsteady hand upon my arm. It was a dark night, but a gas-lamp showed
me his face. I recognised it in spite of the red blotches and the bleary
film that hid the eyes. I caught him roughly by the arm, and hurried him
inside and up into my study.
"'Sit down,' I hissed, 'and tell me the worst first.'
"He was about to select his favourite chair. I felt that if I saw him
and that particular chair in association for the third time, I should do
something terrible to both. I snatched it away from him, and he sat down
heavily on the floor, and burst into tears. I let him remain there, and,
thickly, between hiccoughs, he told his tale.
"The laundry had gone from bad to worse. A new railway had come to the
town, altering its whole topography. The business and residential
portion had gradually shifted northward. The spot where the bar--the
particular one which I had rejected for the laundry--had formerly stood
was now the commercial centre of the city. The man who had purchased it
in place of Josiah had sold out and made a fortune. The southern area
(where the laundry was situate) was, it had been discovered, built upon a
swamp, and was in a highly unsanitary condition. Careful housewives
naturally objected to sending their washing into such a neighbourhood.
"Other troubles had also come. The baby--Josiah's pet, the one bright
thing in his life--had fallen into the copper and been boiled. Hannah's
mother had been crushed in the mangle, and was now a helpless cripple,
who had to be waited on day and night.
"Under these accumulated misfortunes Josiah had sought consolation in
drink, and had become a hopeless sot. He felt his degradation keenly,
and wept copiously. He said he thought that in a cheerful place, such as
a bar, he might have been strong and brave; but that there was something
about the everlasting smell of damp clothes and suds, that seemed to sap
his manhood.
"I asked him what the captain had said to it all. He burst into fresh
tears, and replied that the captain was no more. That, he added,
reminded him of what he had come about. The good-hearted old fellow had
bequeathed him five thousand dollars. He wanted my advice as to how to
invest it.
"My first impulse was to kill him on the spot. I wish now that I had. I
restrained myself, however, and offered him the alternative of being
thrown from the window or of leaving by the door without another word.
"He answered that he was quite prepared to go by the window if I would
first tell him whether to put his money in the Terra del Fuego Nitrate
Company, Limited, or in the Union Pacific Bank. Life had no further
interest for him. All he cared for was to feel that this little nest-egg
was safely laid by for the benefit of his beloved ones after he was gone.
"He pressed me to tell him what I thought of nitrates. I replied that I
declined to say anything whatever on the subject. He assumed from my
answer that I did not think much of nitrates, and announced his intention
of investing the money, in consequence, in the Union Pacific Bank.
"I told him by all means to do so, if he liked.
"He paused, and seemed to be puzzling it out. Then he smiled knowingly,
and said he thought he understood what I meant. It was very kind of me.
He should put every dollar he possessed in the Terra del Fuego Nitrate
Company.
"He rose (with difficulty) to go. I stopped him. I knew, as certainly
as I knew the sun would rise the next morning, that whichever company I
advised him, or he persisted in thinking I had advised him (which was the
same thing), to invest in, would, sooner or later, come to smash. My
grandmother had all her little fortune in the Terra del Fuego Nitrate
Company. I could not see her brought to penury in her old age. As for
Josiah, it could make no difference to him whatever. He would lose his
money in any event. I advised him to invest in Union Pacific Bank
Shares. He went and did it.
"The Union Pacific Bank held out for eighteen months. Then it began to
totter. The financial world stood bewildered. It had always been
reckoned one of the safest banks in the country. People asked what could
be the cause. I knew well enough, but I did not tell.
"The Bank made a gallant fight, but the hand of fate was upon it. At the
end of another nine months the crash came.
"(Nitrates, it need hardly be said, had all this time been going up by
leaps and bounds. My grandmother died worth a million dollars, and left
the whole of it to a charity. Had she known how I had saved her from
ruin, she might have been more grateful.)
"A few days after the failure of the Bank, Josiah arrived on my doorstep;
and, this time, he brought his families with him. There were sixteen of
them in all.
"What was I to do? I had brought these people step by step to the verge
of starvation. I had laid waste alike their happiness and their
prospects in life. The least amends I could make was to see that at all
events they did not want for the necessities of existence.
"That was seventeen years ago. I am still seeing that they do not want
for the necessities of existence; and my conscience is growing easier by
noticing that they seem contented with their lot. There are twenty-two
of them now, and we have hopes of another in the spring.
"That is my story," he said. "Perhaps you will now understand my sudden
emotion when you asked for my advice. As a matter of fact, I do not give
advice now on any subject."
* * * * *
I told this tale to MacShaughnassy. He agreed with me that it was
instructive, and said he should remember it. He said he should remember
it so as to tell it to some fellows that he knew, to whom he thought the
lesson should prove useful.