successful. As to Warren, he went on smoking quietly, without saying a
word. The long silence at last became painful. Hermann began to feel an
uncomfortable sensation of distress in presence of the strange guest he
had brought to his home. After a few minutes he ventured to ask for the
third time, "Will you make up your mind to speak, or must I begin?"
Warren gave vent to a little noiseless laugh. "I am thinking how I can
answer your question. The difficulty is that, to speak truly, I have
absolutely nothing to tell. I wonder now--and it was that made me
pause--how it has happened that, throughout my life, I have been bored
by--nothing. As if it would not have been quite as natural, quite as
easy, and far pleasanter, to have been amused by that same
nothing--which has been my life. The fact is, my dear fellow, that I
have had no deep sorrow to bear, neither have I been happy. I have not
been extraordinarily successful, and have drawn none of the prizes of
life. But I am well aware that, in this respect, my lot resembles that
of thousands of other men. I have always been obliged to work. I have
earned my bread by the sweat of my brow. I have had money difficulties;
I have even had a hopeless passion--but what then? every one has had
that. Besides, that was in bygone days; I have learned to bear it, and
to forget. What pains and angers me is, to have to confess that my life
has been spent without satisfaction and without happiness."
He paused an instant, and then resumed, more calmly: "A few years ago I
was foolish enough to believe that things might in the end turn out
better. I was a professor with a very moderate salary at the school at
Elmira. I taught all I knew, and much that I had to learn in order to
be able to teach it--Greek and Latin, German and French, mathematics
and physical sciences. During the so-called play-hours, I even gave
music lessons. In the course of the whole day there were few moments of
liberty for me. I was perpetually surrounded by a crowd of rough,
ill-bred boys, whose only object during lessons was to catch me making
a fault in English. When evening came, I was quite worn out; still, I
could always find time to dream for half an hour or so with my eyes
open before going to bed. Then all my desires were accomplished, and I
was supremely happy. At last I had drawn a prize! I was successful in
everything; I was rich, honored, powerful--what more can I say? I
astonished the world--or rather, I astonished Ellen Gilmore, who for me
was the whole world. Hermann, have you ever been as mad? Have you, too,
in a waking dream, been in turn a statesman, a millionaire, the author
of a sublime work, a victorious general, the head of a great political
party? Have you dreamt nonsense such as that? I, who am here, have been
all I say--in dreamland. Never mind; that was a good time. Ellen
Gilmore, whom I have just mentioned, was the eldest sister of one of my
pupils, Francis Gilmore, the most undisciplined boy of the school. His
parents, nevertheless, insisted on his learning something; and as I had
the reputation of possessing unwearying patience, I was selected to
give him private lessons. That was how I obtained a footing in the
Gilmore family. Later on, when they had found out that I was somewhat
of a musician--you may remember, perhaps, that for an amateur I was a
tolerable performer on the piano--I went every day to the house to
teach Latin and Greek to Francis, and music to Ellen.
"Now, picture to yourself the situation, and then laugh at your friend
as he has laughed at himself many a time. On the one side--the Gilmore
side--a large fortune and no lack of pride; an intelligent, shrewd, and
practical father; an ambitious and vain mother; an affectionate but
spoilt boy; and a girl of nineteen, surpassingly lovely, with a
cultivated mind and great good sense. On the other hand, you have Henry
Warren, aged twenty-nine; in his dreams the author of a famous work, or
the commander-in-chief of the Northern armies, or, it may be, President
of the Republic--in reality, Professor at Elmira College, with a modest
stipend of seventy dollars a month. Was it not evident that the
absurdity of my position as a suitor for Ellen would strike me at once?
Of course it did. In my lucid moments, when I was not dreaming, I was a
very rational man, who had read a good deal, and learned not a little;
and it would have been sheer madness in me to have indulged for an
instant the hope of a marriage between Ellen and myself. I knew it was
an utter impossibility--as impossible as to be elected President of the
United States; and yet, in spite of myself, I dreamed of it. However, I
must do myself the justice to add that my passion inconvenienced
nobody. I would no more have spoken of it than of my imaginary command
of the army of the Potomac. The pleasures which my love afforded me
could give umbrage to no one. Yet I am convinced that Ellen read my
secret. Not that she ever said a word to me on the subject; no look or
syllable of hers could have made me suspect that she had guessed the
state of my mind.
"One single incident I remember which was not in accordance with her
habitual reserve in this respect. I noticed one day that her eyes were
red. Of course I dared not ask her why she had cried. During the lesson
she seemed absent; and when leaving she said, without looking at me, 'I
may perhaps be obliged to interrupt our lessons for some little time; I
am very sorry. I wish you every happiness.' Then, without raising her
eyes, she quickly left the room. I was bewildered. What could her words
mean? And why had they been said in such an affectionate tone?
"The next day Francis Gilmore called to inform me, with his father's
compliments, that he was to have four days' holidays, because his
sister had just been betrothed to Mr. Howard, a wealthy New York
merchant, and that, for the occasion, there would be great festivities
at home.
"Thenceforward there was an end of the dreams which up to that moment
had made life pleasant. In sober reason I had no more cause to deplore
Ellen's marriage than to feel aggrieved because Grant had succeeded
Johnson as President. Nevertheless, you can scarcely conceive how much
this affair--I mean the marriage--grieved me. My absolute nothingness
suddenly stared me in the face. I saw myself as I was--a mere
schoolmaster, with no motive for pride in the past, or pleasure in the
present, or hope in the future."
Warren's pipe had gone out while he was telling his story. He cleaned
it out methodically, drew from his pocket a cake of Cavendish tobacco,
and, after cutting off with a penknife the necessary quantity, refilled
his pipe and lit it. The way in which he performed all these little
operations betrayed long habit. He had ceased to speak while he was
relighting his pipe, and kept on whistling between his teeth. Hermann
looked on--silently. After a few minutes, and when the pipe was in good
order, Warren resumed his story.
"For a few weeks I was terribly miserable; not so much because I had
lost Ellen--a man cannot lose what he has never hoped to possess--as
from the ruin of all my illusions. During those days I plucked and ate
by the dozen of the fruits of the tree of self-knowledge, and I found
them very bitter. I ended by leaving Elmira, to seek my fortunes
elsewhere. I knew my trade well. Long practice had taught me how to
make the best of my learning, and I never had any difficulty in finding
employment. I taught successively in upwards of a dozen States of the
Union. I can scarcely recollect the names of all the places where I
have lived--Sacramento, Chicago, St. Louis, Cincinnati, Boston, New
York; I have been everywhere--everywhere. And everywhere I have met
with the same rude schoolboys, just as I have found the same regular
and irregular verbs in Latin and Greek. If you would see a man
thoroughly satiated and saturated with schoolboys and classical
grammars, look at me.
"In the leisure time which, whatever might be my work, I still
contrived to make for myself, I indulged in philosophical reflections.
Then it was I took to the habit of smoking so much."
Warren stopped suddenly, and, looking straight before him, appeared
plunged in thought. Then, passing his hand over his forehead, he
repeated, in an absent manner, "Yes, of smoking so much. I also took to
another habit," he added, somewhat hastily; "but that has nothing to do
with my story. The theory which especially occupied my thoughts was
that of the oscillations of an ideal instrument of my own imagining, to
which, in my own mind, I gave the name of the Philosopher's Pendulum.
To this invention I owe the quietude of mind which has supported me for
many years, and which, as you see, I now enjoy. I said to myself that
my great sorrow--if I may so call it without presumption--had arisen
merely from my wish to be extraordinarily happy. When, in his dreams, a
man has carried presumption so far as to attain to the heights of
celebrity, or to being the husband of Ellen Gilmore, there was nothing
wonderful if, on awaking, he sustained a heavy fall before reaching the
depths of reality. Had I been less ambitious in my desires, their
realization would have been easier, or, at any rate, the disappointment
would have been less bitter. Starting from this principle, I arrived at
the logical conclusion that the best means to avoid being unhappy is to
wish for as little happiness as possible. This truth was discovered by
my philosophical forefathers many centuries before the birth of Christ,
and I lay no claim to being the finder of it; but the outward symbol
which I ended by giving to this idea is--at least I fancy it is--of my
invention.
"Give me a sheet of paper and a pencil," he added, turning to his
friend, "and with a few lines I can demonstrate clearly the whole
thing."
Hermann handed him what he wanted without a word. Warren then began
gravely to draw a large semicircle, open at the top, and above the
semicircular line a pendulum, which fell perpendicularly and touched
the circumference at the exact point where on the dial of a clock would
be inscribed the figure VI. This done, he wrote on the right-hand side
of the pendulum, beginning from the bottom and at the places of the
hours V, IV, III, the words Moderate Desires--Great Hopes,
Ambition--Unbridled Passion, Mania of Greatness. Then, turning the
paper upside-down, he wrote on the opposite side, where on a dial would
be marked VII, VIII, IX, the words Slight Troubles--Deep Sorrow,
Disappointment--Despair. Lastly, in the place of No. VI, just where the
pendulum fell, he sketched a large black spot, which he shaded off with
great care, and above which he wrote, like a scroll, Dead Stop,
Absolute Repose.
Having finished this little drawing, Warren laid down his pipe,
inclined his head on one side, and raising his eyebrows, examined his
work with a critical frown. "This compass is not yet quite complete,"
he said; "there is something missing. Between Dead Stop and Moderate
Desires on the right, and Slight Troubles on the left, there is the
beautiful line of Calm and Rational Indifference. However, such as the
drawing is, it is sufficient to demonstrate my theory. Do you follow
me?"
Hermann nodded affirmatively. He was greatly pained. In lieu of the
friend of his youth, for whom he had hoped a brilliant future, here was
a poor monomaniac!
"You see," said Warren, speaking collectedly, like a professor, "if I
raise my pendulum till it reaches the point of Moderate Desires and
then let it go, it will naturally swing to the point of Slight
Troubles, and go no further. Then it will oscillate for some time in a
more and more limited space on the line of Indifference, and finally it
will stand still without any jerk on Dead Stop, Absolute Repose. That
is a great consolation!"
He paused, as if waiting for some remark from Hermann; but as the
latter remained silent, Warren resumed his demonstration.
"You understand now, I suppose, what I am coming to. If I raise the
pendulum to the point of Ambition or Mania of Greatness, and then let
it go, that same law which I have already applied will drive it to Deep
Sorrow or Despair. That is quite clear, is it not?"
"Quite clear," repeated Hermann sadly.
"Very well," continued Warren, with perfect gravity; "for my
misfortune, I discovered this fine theory rather late. I had not set
bounds to my dreams and limited them to trifles. I had wished to be
President of the Republic, an illustrious savant, the husband of Ellen.
No great things, eh? What say you to my modesty? I had raised the
pendulum to such a giddy height that when it slipped from my impotent
hands it naturally performed a long oscillation, and touched the point
Despair. That was a miserable time. I hope you have never suffered what
I suffered then. I lived in a perpetual nightmare--like the stupor at
intoxication." He paused, as he had done before, and then, with a
painfully nervous laugh, he added, "Yes, like intoxication. I drank."
Suddenly a spasm seemed to pass over his face, he looked serious and
sad as before, and he said, with a shudder, "It's a terrible thing to
see one's self inwardly, and to know that one is fallen."
After this he remained long silent. At last, raising his head, he
turned to his friend and said, "Have you had enough of my story, or
would you like to hear it to the end?"
"I am grieved at all you have told me," said Hermann; "but pray go on;
it is better I should know all."
"Yes; and I feel, too, that it relieves me to pour out my heart. Well,
I used to drink. One takes to the horrid habit in America far easier
than anywhere else. I was obliged to give up more than one good
situation because I had ceased to be RESPECTABLE. Anyhow, I always
managed to find employment without any great difficulty. I never
suffered from want, though I have never known plenty. If I spent too
much in drink, I took it out of my dress and my boots.
"Eighteen months after I had left Elmira, I met Ellen one day in
Central Park, in New York. I was aware that she had been married a
twelve-month. She knew me again at once, and spoke to me. I would have
wished to sink into the earth. I knew that my clothes were shabby, that
I looked poor, and I fancied that she must discern on my face the
traces of the bad habits I had contracted. But she did not, or would
not, see anything. She held out her hand, and said in her gentle voice:
"'I am very glad to see you again, Mr. Warren. I have inquired about
you, but neither my father nor Francis could tell me what had become of
you. I want to ask you to resume the lessons you used to give me.
Perhaps you do not know where I live? This is my address,' and she gave
me her card.
"I stammered out a few unmeaning words in reply to her invitation. She
looked at me, smiling kindly the while; but suddenly the smile
vanished, and she added, 'Have you been ill, Mr. Warren? You seem worn.'
"'Yes,' I answered, too glad to find an excuse for my appearance--'yes,
I have been ill, and I am still suffering.'
"'I am very sorry,' she said, in a low voice.
"Laugh at me, Hermann--call me an incorrigible madman; but believe me
when I say that her looks conveyed to me the impression of more than
common interest or civility. A thrilling sense of pain shot through my
frame. What had I done that I should be so cruelly tried? A mist passed
before my eyes; anxiety, intemperance, sleeplessness, had made me weak.
I tottered backwards a few steps. She turned horribly pale. All around
us was the crowd--the careless, indifferent crowd.
"'Come and see me soon,' she added hastily, and left me. I saw her get
into a carriage, which she had doubtless quitted to take a walk; and
when she drove past, she put her head out and looked at me with her
eyes wide open--there was an almost wildly anxious expression in them.
"I went home. My way led me past her house--it was a palace. I shut
myself up in my wretched hotel-room, and once more I fell to dreaming.
Ellen loved me; she admired me; she was not for ever lost to me! The
pendulum was swinging, you see, up as high as Madness. Explain to me,
if you can, how it happens that a being perfectly rational in ordinary
life should at certain seasons, and, so to speak, voluntarily, be
bereft of reason. To excuse and explain my temporary insanity, I am
ready to admit that the excitement to which I gave way may have been a
symptom of the nervous malady which laid hold of me a few days later,
and stretched me for weeks upon a bed of pain.
"As I became convalescent, reason and composure returned. But it was
too late. In the space of two months, twenty years had passed over my
head. When I rose from my sick-bed I was as feeble and as broken-down
as you see me now. My past had been cheerless and dim, without one ray
of happiness; yet that past was all my life! Henceforward there was
nothing left for me to undertake, to regret, or to desire. The pendulum
swung idly backwards and forwards on the line of Indifference. I wonder
what are the feelings of successful men--of men who HAVE been
victorious generals, prime ministers, celebrated authors, and that sort
of tiling! Upheld by a legitimate pride, do they retire satisfied from
the lists when evening conies, or do they lay down their arms as I did,
disappointed and dejected, and worn out with the fierce struggle? Can
no man with impunity look into his own heart and ask himself how his
life has been spent?"
Here Warren made a still longer pause than before, and appeared
absorbed in gloomy thought. At last he resumed in a lower tone:
"I had not followed up Ellen's invitation. But in some way she had
discovered my address, and knew of my illness. Do not be alarmed, my
dear Hermann; my story will not become romantic. No heavenly vision
appeared to me during my fever; I felt no gentle white hands laid on my
burning brow. I was nursed at the hospital, and very well nursed too; I
figured there as 'Number 380,' and the whole affair was, as you see, as
prosaic as possible. But on quitting the hospital, and as I was taking
leave of the manager, he handed me a letter, in which was enclosed a
note for five hundred dollars. In the envelope there was also the
following anonymous note:
"'An old friend begs your acceptance, as a loan, of the inclosed sum.
It will be time enough to think of paying off this debt when you are
strong enough to resume work, and you can then do it by instalments, of
which you can yourself fix the amount, and remit them to the hospital
of New York.'
"It was well meant, no doubt, but it caused me a painful impression. My
determination was taken at once. I refused without hesitation. I asked
the manager, who had been watching me with a friendly smile while I
read the letter, whether he could give the name of the person who had
sent it. In spite of his repeated assurances that he did not know it, I
never doubted for a single instant that he was concealing the truth.
After a few seconds' reflection I asked if he would undertake to
forward an answer to my unknown correspondent; and, on his consenting
to do so, I promised that he should have my answer the next day.
"I thought long over my letter. One thing was plain to me--it was Ellen
who had come to my help. How could I reject her generous aid without
wounding her or appearing ungrateful? After great hesitation I wrote a
few lines, which, as far as I can recollect, ran thus:
"'I thank you for the interest you have shown me, but it is impossible
for me to accept the sum you place at my disposal. Do not be angry with
me because I return it. Do not withdraw your sympathy; I will strive to
remain worthy of it, and will never forget your goodness.'
"A few days later, after having confided this letter to the manager, I
left New York for San Francisco. For several years I heard nothing of
Ellen; her image grew gradually fainter, and at last almost disappeared
from my memory.
"The dark river that bore the frail bark which carried me and my
fortunes was carrying me smoothly and unconsciously along towards the
mysterious abyss where all that exists is engulfed. Its course lay
through a vast desert; and the banks which passed before my eyes were
of fearful sameness. Indescribable lassitude took possession of my
whole being. I had never, knowingly, practised evil; I had loved and
sought after good. Why, then, was I so wretched? I would have blessed
the rock which wrecked my bark so that I might have been swallowed up
and have gone down to my eternal rest. Up to the day when I heard of
Ellen's betrothal, I had hoped that the morrow would bring happiness.
The long-wished-for morrow had come at last, gloomy and colorless,
without realizing any of my vague hopes. Henceforth my life was at an
end."
Warren said these last words so indistinctly that Hermann could
scarcely hear them; he seemed to be speaking to himself rather than to
his friend. Then he raised the forefinger of his right hand, and after
moving it slowly from right to left, in imitation of the swing of a
pendulum, he placed it on the large black dot he had drawn on the sheet
of paper exactly below his pendulum, and said, "Dead Stop, Absolute
Repose. Would that the end were come!"
Another and still longer interval of silence succeeded, and at last
Hermann felt constrained to speak.
"How came you to make up your mind," he said, "to return to Europe?"
"Ah, yes, to be sure," answered Warren, hurriedly; "the story--the
foolish story--is not ended. In truth it has no end, as it had no
beginning; it is a thing without form or purpose, and less the history
of a life than of a mere journeying towards death. Still I will
finish--following chronological order. It does not weary you?"
"No, no; go on, my dear friend."
"Very well. I spent several years in the United States. The pendulum
worked well. It came and went, to and fro, slowly along the line of
Indifference, without ever transgressing as its extreme limits on
either hand, Moderate Desires and Slight Troubles. I led obscurely a
contemplative life, and I was generally considered a queer character. I
fulfilled my duties, and took little heed of any one. Whenever I had an
hour at my disposal, I sought solitude in the neighboring woods, far
from the town and from mankind. I used to lie down under the big trees.
Every season in turn, spring and summer, autumn and winter, had its
peculiar charm for me. My heart, so full of bitterness, felt lightened
as soon as I listened to the rustling of the foliage overhead. The
forest! There is nothing finer in all creation. A deep calm seemed to
settle down upon me. I was growing old. I was forgetting. It was about
this time that, in consequence of my complete indifference to all
surroundings, I acquired the habit of answering 'Very well' to
everything that was said. The words came so naturally that I was not
aware of my continual use of them, until one day one of my
fellow-teachers happened to tell me that masters and pupils alike had
given me the nickname of 'Very well.' Is it not odd that one who has
never succeeded in anything should be known as 'Very well'?
"I have only one other little adventure to relate, and I will have told
all. Then I can listen to your story.