I arrived in the city of Montreal long before the time of telephones,
electric street cars or automobiles. It was a dark morning in the month
of January of the year One—I call it the year One because that is what
it was to me.
Man cannot imagine eternity—Time that always was and always will be,
without beginning or end. Hence the word _Time_ to indicate the small
measure of the infinite duration of eternity that insignificant man can
grasp. The year 1913 in which I write means to most of us nothing more
than the year following 1912, or so many years since a certain event
vital to us. We can say “a thousand years ago” but only a very few are
capable of conceiving such a period, and as for “world without end,” we
cannot think it. For these reasons I say I arrived in the year One:—a
wee, puny, unappreciable atom of a creature, weighing considerably
under three pounds. Naked, wailing, hairless, incomplete even to the
finger-tips, I was considered by the old women who hover about on these
occasions as a distinct failure.
So small a specimen being difficult to adapt to the usual swaddling
clothes, I was simply wrapped in cotton wool and put to bed in a
cardboard box near the fire, without much hope or expectation on the
part of my parents that I would survive.
At the time of my birth my father and mother were a most
unsophisticated couple of very tender years, my mother being seventeen
and my father nineteen. It is not clear to me even now how far my
insignificant start in life under their charge was destined to affect
my later career. But as I look back, it seems of a part with the whole
course of petty circumstances that made me into an automaton.
Before I learnt to speak and began to think, I grew very much as other
children do. From a comparatively formless lump of human clay, I
developed into a sturdy, well-shaped chubby urchin. At four years of
age I was considered worthy of having my photograph taken, and one of
my first recollections is of that remarkable incident and the Scotch
cap with silver buckle which I donned for the occasion. This brings me
to the childish litany of “Why?” and “How?” so often heard during these
early days. By this time I had already become dimly conscious that
being alive was a great mystery. The “Why” and the “How” of it gave
me indeed much thought. I had questions to put on the subject every
day; but received very unsatisfactory answers from my parents. Other
children, moreover, did not help me much; for they did not understand
me.
The fact of my being born in the middle of winter may account for my
loving that season beyond all others as a small boy. Winter was so
different then from what it is now. The snow was not cleared away as
soon as it fell but was allowed to accumulate till spring. It lay upon
the sidewalks or was shovelled into the street until it was sometimes
six or seven feet high. Huge mounds of it bordered every street, with
passages cut in steps through the frozen barriers, here and there, to
allow of the coming and going of the townsfolk. When walking on one
side of the street you could not see the people on the other side,
and the sleighs were on a road as high as a man’s head above the walk.
The street cars were built on runners, and passed along any convenient
street that offered a clear road. They were drawn by horses, an extra
pair being stationed at the foot of every hill to help the car up the
grade. The floors of these vehicles were carpeted with straw, and after
dark they were lighted by small smoky oil-lamps.
The streets themselves were lighted by gas-lamps, and at dusk men
with ladders could be seen running from one lamp-post to another,
and climbing up to kindle a dim flame which only made the darkness
less black. But to return to the snow-mountains, for so they seemed
to me, children would dig wonderful houses and castles out of their
dirty-white heaps. For other reasons I learnt to love the snow. I
discovered that by climbing on top of a broad bank of it, where I could
lie on my back and look at the sky, it was possible in that attitude
to think wonderful things. One day, while sprawling in bliss on top
of such a bank, and chewing a hole in one of the beautiful red mits
knitted by my mother, I was surprised by a gentleman of an inquiring
turn of mind who had spied me and climbed up after me.
“What are you doing there, my little man?” he asked.
“I’m dreaming,” I replied.
“Dreaming, about what?” he inquired.
“About being alive,” I answered. The man laughed.
“You can’t be dreaming about being alive,” he said; “you are alive.”
“Yes,” I said, “but why?”
“Good gracious child,” he exclaimed, reaching into his trouser pocket,
“here is a penny for you, go and buy candy. No one can answer that
question.”
At another time, after a dream on the snow, I ran into my mother and
told her I had seen God. She was shocked, and even inclined to be
angry. She threatened to whip me for telling her such a lie, but could
not in reason do so, for my questions were too much for her.
“How do you know I did not see God?” I asked.
“Because no one can see Him,” she answered.
“Did any one ever see Him?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
“How do you know?”
“We are told so in the Bible.”
“Who put it in the Bible?”
“Good men.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh, Jack, you are too young to understand. Go away and don’t tell
lies; go and play!”
But I wanted sorely to understand this great matter. Whether I really
believed that I had seen God, it would be hard to say. Either I deluded
myself, as many imaginative and emotional children do, or half in
innocence, half in childish slyness, laid a scheme to surprise my
mother. For the mystery of my being continually teased me.
The question whence I had come was not to be set aside; and I
cross-examined my mother about it frequently without getting much
information. The only reply I got was that God had made me, which I
understood as well then as I do now.
This question of mine, “How do you know?” became a byword in the
family. Father thought it very amusing, and used it very much as an
actor uses a bit of gag. It is a very disconcerting question when put
earnestly.
Our family, I may explain, taken in all its branches, was a very
large one, and of the common sort that would be called middle class
in England. My father, who was the only son of my grandmother’s
third husband, was a King to all the tribes,—to the grandmothers,
grandfathers, aunts, uncles, the various great aunts, and the one
great-uncle and the one great-grandfather—who lived during my
childhood. They all bowed down to him, and he dominated them, although
by calling he was only a book-keeper in a wholesale grocery firm. My
mother, let me add, was the eldest daughter of a Civil servant in the
Montreal Post Office.
My seventh year is a very distinct memory, as a period of my life
associated in my mind with very momentous happenings. Up to the age
of seven I prospered in my health although I was never what is called
robust. It was very nearly my last year, for fate, not satisfied with
bringing a weakling into the world before its time, now visited me
with scarlet fever and all the dreadful complications known to that
disease. I lay for months in bed, part of the time delirious, and was
reduced to a mere skeleton. I remember the sufferings of convalescence,
but have no very distinct recollection of the actual illness, beyond
the delirium it brought on, which left a curious impression on my
mind. During its course I seemed to be two personalities, distinct
but attached, one capable of observing the other. I strove and argued
continually with myself, and again the great question of where I
had come from haunted and worried me. Clearly I must have come from
somewhere, and must also have had existence prior to my arrival; but
where had I been? Nearly my whole delirium turned upon this question.
“God made you,” I would say to myself; then I would scream aloud,
“How do you know, how do you know?” repeating it over and over again
consciously, but unable to stop and rest. I had read _Uncle Tom’s
Cabin_ and remembered that Topsy had wisely remarked, in reply to a
similar question, “I specks I growed.” But the suspicion that I had
grown was not satisfactory to me; I wanted to know. And here I may
pause a moment to reflect that among my memories is none of learning to
read. It seems to me that I always knew how. No doubt my mother taught
me while I was still very young, using the newspaper as text-book.
Before I was seven I had read many books, or mother had read them to
me, for she was a very good reader and loved an understanding listener.
Scarlet fever was a very much more dreadful disease when I was a child
than it is now-a-days. Not only have methods of treatment improved
greatly, but the disease itself is not so deadly, or perhaps man’s
resisting powers have increased. It is a pity that diseases like
everything else do not grow old and weak and lose their power to
destroy.
After I had been ill for several weeks a consultation of the doctors
was held, and they declared solemnly that my recovery was impossible,
since with every organ diseased or weakened I could not live. In any
case it hardly seemed worth while to live, for I was both deaf and
dumb. However there must have been within me some great vital power of
resistance that the doctors did not know about, seeing that I finally
made a kind of recovery, and persisted on my precarious way.
Trained nurses were not common in those days. I probably should have
died if they had been. Only the great love of a mother can give the
nursing that I received. Surely many times she must have wished that
death would end the horrible struggle, but still she fought for me and
hoped.
I was naturally of a tender, clinging and dependent character, and my
illness certainly intensified those unfortunate characteristics. As
I recovered, mother taught me things. I could not hear or speak; but
I could see and use my hands, and she taught me to knit and tat and
crotchet. These small and much despised things, I believe, helped to
save my life. If I had been forced to lie idle amidst the great silence
of deafness, unable to speak, I surely would have died of mental
inanition. Using my hands renewed my interest in life. Speech at last
came slowly back, hearing to some extent, and for the second time in my
life I learned to walk.
I can see myself now as I struggled up on my poor shaky pins. How I
sweated and trembled. How proud I was! I was exultant because I could
stand up. I felt as though I were some wild and blood-thirsty barbarian
who had slain a powerful enemy by a great feat of strength. I stood
up on my own legs, every nerve atingle, every muscle trying to do
its office. I held on to chairs and tables while the moisture fairly
trickled down my face, and even the backs of my hands were wet. “Ah
ha!” I said to myself, “I knew I could do it.”
I made an effort to walk from one chair to another, only a couple of
steps, and fell prone upon my face. It was a disaster, a great failure.
I was heart-broken and burst into a violent fit of crying, refusing to
be comforted. This little scene broke my mother down. I had never seen
her weep when I was fighting the scarlet fever. Now we wept together.
My mother at this time was twenty-four years of age. She was very
beautiful. Her hair, which she wore severely plain, was black as jet.
Her cheeks were pink, and soft and velvety to the touch; on one of them
she had a mole. Her eyes were dark and deep set, with dark shadows
under them. Her expression was sad, sweet and full of love; her smile
pleasant but wistful. She had a great heart, but not much mind of her
own, being completely dominated by my father, whom she worshipped with
a foolish worship.
There was a kind of tacit conspiracy between my mother and me against
my father. He expected to have his own way in all things; but in a
great many cases he only thought he had it.
When I recovered from the scarlet fever, our fortunes took a turn for
the better. Father became a partner in the firm for whom he had worked
since his thirteenth year. We moved from our middle-class environment
into a new house that he had bought in a better neighbourhood. We kept
a horse, too, which afforded mother and me a great deal of pleasure.
My father’s name was John H. Wesblock. He came, as I have already
hinted, of a long, unillustrious line; and while his name and many
of his peculiarities became mine, I have added no lustre to the
commonplace stock from which we both sprang.
The personality of my father was peculiar. He was a curious mixture of
good and evil. As he was an Englishman, of course he thought there was
only one person in the house of any consequence, and that person the
head of the family—himself. He had wonderful powers in some directions,
and was very weak in others. He was very self-opinionated, and had an
uncertain temper which broke out on slight provocation. I can hardly
say that I remember him at that time with great affection. I feared him
without respecting him. His vanity was abnormal. His dress was showy
and extravagant and he loved display of a kind that did not cause him
any great effort or trouble. He always looked so well dressed that he
appeared altogether too new. He wore a low-cut dress waistcoat showing
a vast expanse of white shirt front, a frock-coat with ample skirt,
light trousers, generally lavender or pale tan, and white gaiters over
exceptional shoes. His feet and hands were very small.
He was a prosperous self-made business man with great ambition, but
love of luxury sapped his energy and he never arrived. Both he and
mother were very religious in the old early Victorian way which I
always thought did not tend to make our home happy and cheerful, in
fact I have seldom seen an extremely religious home which was a happy
one.
I was a sad disappointment to father. He despised my puny body, but I
generally over-reached him when it came to a contest between my desires
and his wishes, for I was endowed, as many physical weaklings are, with
a deep and skilful cunning. Like most cunning people I was a brilliant
liar. I lied in self-defence and for advantage, as many common liars
do, but besides this I loved to elaborate facts, and laid many traps
to gain my little ends through playing on my father’s weaknesses.
If I were to classify liars I would divide them into Moral Liars,
Fancy Liars, Slovenly Liars and Immoral Liars.—The Moral Liar is one
who never lies for wickedness but only for utility and to gain good
ends. The Fancy Liar is one with an imagination so lively that the
embellishment of facts is something he cannot resist. The Slovenly Liar
is one who is too lazy to observe, so lies to save trouble. The Immoral
Liar is one who backs up wicked designs, scandal and libel with lies. I
was none of these but was in a class by myself. I was better than some
liars and worse than others.
My father had a friend he called Eddy who was a typical specimen of
the fancy liar. I found him very entertaining. I calculated from the
personal experiences he related that Eddy must have been about one
hundred and six years old although he looked younger than father. He
had played marbles with several of the signers of the Declaration of
Independence, and related experiences of that day—political, social,
scientific and sporting—wherein he had personally figured. He had
studied for the bar, the ministry and the army. He was a mechanic and
a hunter; had run a marine engine and hanged greasers in Mexico and
Indians in Arizona, lassoed wild horses on the Prairies and dug gold in
California. An anachronism here and there did not trouble him in the
slightest.
When I began to get about after my illness I found myself dull and
listless; I wanted nothing but peace, and hated all physical effort. As
there was no promise of my ever developing sufficient energy to _make_
myself, the delicate and complicated operation of making me was left to
tutors, parsons, teachers and the like. I was carefully and expensively
educated, much against my will; for I most heartily hated every teacher
I ever had, especially those who were parsons.
When I look back over those years during which I passed through many
forming hands, I find that it was not so much the teachers whom
I hated, but their methods. No one of them ever aroused in me the
interest and love of acquiring knowledge which I long afterwards
developed in myself. The same fatal failing still exists among
teachers. It is but rarely that a teacher can be found who has the
teaching faculty born in him and the power to present knowledge to the
young in an attractive form. In fact, it appears to be the aim of most
educational institutions to make learning as unattractive as possible,
and in this they succeed gloriously, especially in denominational
schools.
I was a delicate and dreamy boy, and was having great trouble with
my ears, consequently my education was frequently interrupted by
sickness, and even when comparatively well it was necessary to keep me
continually interested or I would fall asleep. I was tired for nearly
fifteen years, and until I was of age never enjoyed six consecutive
months of even fair health. Meanwhile a small brother had arrived on
the scene, who brought new life into the house. He was destined, as you
shall hear, very few years.
As everything appertaining to my father had to be a credit to him,
strenuous efforts were made to bring me up to the standard; but from
the start I was a failure both physically and mentally. I was educated
one way and another; system could not be applied to me. Schools made
but little impression on me, with the exception of one particular
boarding school, kept by a Church of England parson in a small village
not far from Montreal. This parson, Canon Barr, was a crude, rough,
wicked, ignorant, self-opinionated, hypocritical old man, more farmer
than parson. His only aim seemed to be to make as much out of his
boys as possible with the least trouble. He thrashed me cruelly on
the slightest pretext, in fact he thrashed everybody in the school
and on his farm; the boys, his sons and daughters, the servants, his
horses and his dogs. I am not aware that he thrashed his wife, but
as I have seen him beat a horse in the face with his fists, and kick
it in the stomach with his long boots, it is highly probable that he
laid violent hands on his wife. The Canon was a tall, lanky, rawboned
individual with prominent nose and chin, and small eyes set very close
together. He suffered from some skin disease that made his complexion
scaly and blotchy. This affliction, no doubt, affected his temper, for
I noticed that when the disfiguring blotches were fiery looking, he
was particularly touchy. As he sat at his desk in class-room, he was
always pawing his bald head with a large bony hand, probing his ear
with a lead pencil or pen handle, or investigating his nose. His black
waistcoat, which buttoned behind, was always decorated with spots, and
his odour was that of a stableman. His voice was harsh and loud, except
when speaking from the pulpit; then he subdued it to a monotonous
sing-song drone involving four semitones in a chromatic scale; the
kind of noise the bass string of a ’cello will make if it is plucked
while the peg is turned up and let down again. I never saw him laugh
heartily, but a joyless grin disclosing large yellow teeth sometimes
wrinkled his displeasing face; and this generally occurred just before
some one was beaten.
The Canon had a balky horse with a hairless tail which he really
appeared to delight in belabouring. On one occasion his little daughter
Mabel and several of the school boys were present while he thrashed
this horse without mercy. The horse was harnessed to a heavily ladened
stone-boat so that he could not bolt. Mabel screamed a little weak “Oh!”
“Go into the house, daughter,” said the Canon.
“But father,” she began. She got no further when slash came the whip
about her poor little legs.
“Into the house,” the Canon shouted. A boy standing by with every
expression of rooted horror upon his face was suddenly discovered.
“What are you gaping at, you silly little ass?” said the old man. At
the same instant he struck him on the side of the head with his open
hand a blow which nearly felled him. I was the stricken boy.
The rod was never spared in this school, with the result that every one
lied and deceived systematically.
Sundays under the Canon were a horror. We rose at eight o’clock and
went to prayers before breakfast. After breakfast we had time to
dress and to go to Bible-class. Bible-class ended just in time for
church, and immediately after church we dined. The Canon offered up a
particularly long blessing before Sunday dinner. It always spoiled what
little appetite I had. His voice at any time was not a pleasant one,
but his hypocritical Sunday tone was exasperating. After dinner we sat
in the schoolroom and studied the lesson and collect for the day. At
three we went to Sunday School, which lasted till nearly five. From
five to six we walked with a teacher—a pusillanimous wretch without a
soul. We had tea at six and went to church at seven. I doubt if a more
perfect programme could be elaborated for the purpose of disgusting
children with religion.
The Canon’s favourite hymn was “Abide with me.” Perhaps he was aware
that the more foolish parents there were who would send poor, helpless
children to abide with him the more satisfying would be his income.
It is not surprising that I heartily hated Church and all it implied;
with a very special hatred for “Abide with me,” in which I had been
forced to lift up my voice hundreds of times before I was fifteen years
old.
I was so unhappy in the house of Canon Barr that I decided I must leave
or die; it did not matter which. To effect my release I pretended to
have gone violently insane. It is not certain if I deceived the Canon,
but I think I did. When the foolish idea first came to me, I did not
realise what a strain acting the madman would be, or how I could make
an end of the comedy. I just played my little part and trusted to luck.
I started moderately by doing foolish things, grinning at every one
one minute and being cross the next; striking and slapping all who
approached me. This brought the Canon down on me with his favourite
implement of torture—a nice, smooth flour barrel stave with a handle
whittled at one end. He thought it was a case of ordinary rebellion.
But one blow from the barrel stave was enough for me; and its effect,
I fancy, startled the old brute. I flew at him like a wild cat, kicked
his shins, bit him on the hand and on the calf of his leg, and tore his
gown to ribbons. Of course I was no match for the Canon and his barrel
stave, and received unmerciful punishment; but I played the game,
throwing ink bottles, rulers, books, anything that came to hand, in the
old fellow’s face, and overturning desks and chairs like a maniac. He
called on the boys for assistance. I brandished a ruler and threatened
dire vengeance in a loud hysterical voice against any one who dared
approach me, and the boys held back. I was not subdued till the hired
man came to the rescue, and bundled me into my room and locked me up.
There I continued to howl aloud, and destroy every breakable thing.
When I had screamed myself hoarse and was tired out I lay down on my
bed and cried till I fell asleep. When I awoke it was nearly dark.
There were people in the room, so I remained quiet with closed eyes
to discover if any conversation would give me a cue for my next move
in the drama. I was rewarded for my cunning by hearing the voice of
the village doctor telling the Canon to keep me very quiet and to send
for my parents. In a minute they withdrew, and presently a lamp and my
supper were brought me by a very nervous maid.
The next day I was in a raging fever. My mother arrived in the evening
and to her I confessed. I was forgiven, taken home, and not sent to
another boarding school.
Sending children to boarding schools is an admission of incapacity made
by a great many parents who are too lazy or ignorant to superintend the
early years of a child’s up-bringing; or else it is done in vanity as
the proper thing.
There are possibly good boarding schools where children are better
than they would be at home, but I never knew one. The only good reason
for sending the young to be cared for by strangers is when the home
for some reason is not a fit place. No doubt a good boarding school is
better than a bad home; but no boarding school is as good as a good
home and wise parents. Girls brought up in fashionable schools are
notoriously ignorant and useless.
One pleasant memory remains to me of the Canon’s school. It is that of
a little girl with blue eyes, golden hair, red pouty lips and blunt
nose. She was a day scholar from the village, where her father kept a
general store. I never had much opportunity to speak to her, and she
was very shy when I did; yet it was a pleasure just to look at her.
When the Canon frightened her by shouting and pounding his desk with
his large hard hand I was maddened to the fury point. She was a gentle
little creature, truthful, believing and good-hearted; a thing so
little understood by the Canon that he called her “Little Blockhead.”
When I was robbed of my meals, which frequently happened as punishment
for some fault, “Little Blockhead” would bring me biscuits on the sly.
Whether the Canon made me forego meals wholly as a punishment for my
misdeeds, or partly in delight to torture me and save victuals, I
cannot say. But for whatever cause it was, I really did not mind it,
and sometimes even looked forward to it so that “Little Blockhead”
could feed me from her pocket.
During the miserable days at the Canon’s my little brother died
suddenly without giving me a last sweet hug and kiss. He was ten years
younger than me to a day, having been born on my tenth birthday. This
was the first real sorrow to leave its mark upon me. I loved that
brother more than anything or anybody. I had taught him his first
words, mended his playthings, and been his play-horse, his cow, his
dog—anything he desired me to be. When I was at home, it was to me he
always came first thing in the early morning, crawling into my bed to
start the day’s play, and every word of his lisping, indistinct prattle
stuck in my mind.
I was brought home by an old friend of my father’s, who came for me
with the message that my little brother was seriously ill. On looking
into the old man’s face, I was not deceived, and knew at once that my
little friend was dead. But I said nothing. I did not weep or wail. I
could not.
When we were seated beside each other on the train, and I said to him,
“Chuckie is dead!” he did not reply. He merely nodded his head, and
I rode silently home without a word or a tear. I wished to weep, but
could not. Even when I arrived home and my mother kissed me I remained
dry-eyed, but my misery was very real. It hurt me so much my breath
came short and painful.
Then we went through the ghastly meaningless mummery and pomp of the
funeral. Even then I disliked our foolish display in burying our dead.
Since that day I have buried my own dead; but it was always done
silently, privately, quickly, without display, without pomp and without
advertisement. To me death is a thing to be put behind you. When loved
ones die, there is nothing to be done or said. It is over. First bury
them, then get occupied with the affairs of the living, being careful
in your conduct that you make as few mistakes as may be; so that when
another goes away you may have no memories of actions or words to cause
self-reproach.
I had no remorse for any unkindness to my baby brother; for I had
always loved him much, even from the time when he had newly arrived; a
helpless, unseeing, unthinking bit of life. I like to dwell on this,
for it is at least one instance where humanly I did my whole duty. My
duty to him was such a simple uncomplicated thing—just to love him and
be kind. As I grew up I found duty rather a difficult and complicated
thing to see and do.
Other deaths happened as they must in a large family. In quick
succession several of our older relatives died. In those young days I
never felt very keenly the loss of old people. It seemed so natural for
the aged to die that I took it as a matter of course. I do not know
that I have changed much in this respect even now, especially when
people are both old and useless.
I lost my paternal grandparents, and my great-grandfather about this
time. I felt a genuine sorrow about grandfather’s death because he
was a dear old chap—hale, hearty, and jovial. He was suddenly, and it
may seem ruthlessly, killed by having his head crushed by a runaway
horse; but sudden death is not, despite the Prayer Book, the worst
kind of exit. He was a most cheerful old optimist, caring nothing for
the day after to-morrow, or any other day but the one he was living;
and his end was in keeping with his life. He was a third husband of my
grandmother, who had been a very beautiful Quakeress, and my father was
their only son.