A FRIEND IN NEED.
On a bright, warm morning, a week later, Leon had already arisen,
though it was barely past five o'clock, and having wandered off into a
secluded spot in the woods, lay on the ground, his head pillowed
against a tree trunk. Margaret Grath had been laid away beneath the
sod, and the old home was no longer homelike to him, since her two
sisters had moved in, to take possession until "the auction" which was
to occur on this day.
He had never liked these women, and they had lavished no affection
upon him. Consequently he was uneasy in their presence, and so avoided
them. They had plainly told him that he was no kith nor kin of theirs,
and that though he might abide on the farm till the auction, after
that event he would be obliged to shift for himself. They also
volunteered the advice that he should leave the town, and added that
if he did so it would be a good riddance. To all of these kind
speeches Leon had listened in silence, determined that he would earn
his living without further dependence upon this family, upon whom he
now thought that he had already intruded too long, though unknowingly.
Now, as he lay among the fresh mosses, and inhaled the sweet scents of
surrounding blossoms which lifted their drooping heads, and unfolded
their petals to the kisses of the newly risen sun, he was musing upon
the necessities of his situation, while in a measure taking a last
farewell of haunts which he had learned to love.
Presently, a sound of rustling twigs arrested his attention, and he
saw a tiny chipmunk looking at him. He smiled, and pursing up his lips
emitted a sound which was neither whistle, nor warble, but a
combination of both. The little creature flirted his head to one side,
as though listening. Leon repeated the call a little louder, and with
a sudden dash the chipmunk swiftly sped towards him, as suddenly
stopping about ten yards away. Here he sat up on his haunches, and,
with his forefeet, apparently caressed his head. Now Leon changed his
method, and sounded a prolonged and musical trill, like the purling of
a brook. The chipmunk came nearer and nearer, his timidity gradually
passing away. And now, in the distance, another rush through the
shrubbery was heard, and another chipmunk swiftly came out into the
open, presently joining his mate, and approaching nearer and nearer to
Leon, in short runs. At length they were quite close to him, and he
took some peanuts from his pocket. One at a time he threw this
tempting food to the little animals, who quickly nibbled off the outer
shell and abstracted the kernels, sitting up, their tails gracefully
curled over their backs. As Leon continued his chirping to his wild
pets, two searching eyes were gazing with intense interest upon the
scene. And the man who owned those eyes thought thus of what he saw:
"He has inherited the power. It is untrained at present, but it will
be easily developed."
A few moments later, Leon waved his hand and the chipmunks scurried
off, leaving the youth once more to his meditations. But soon again he
was interrupted. This time the noise of the approaching creature was
readily discernible even while he was yet afar off, and in a few
moments there came bounding through the brush a magnificent collie,
sable and white, and beautifully marked. This was Lossy, or, rather,
"The Marquis of Lossy," to give him his full title. Lossy was truly a
perfect collie, with long pointed nose, eyes set high in the forehead,
and beaming with human intelligence and a dog's love, which, we all
know, transcends the human passion which goes by the same name; his
ears were small and, at rest, carried so close to the head that,
buried in the long fur they were scarcely discernible, yet, they
pricked sharply forward when a sound attracted, giving the face that
rakish look so peculiar to the species; and besides a grand coat of
long, fine hair, and a heavy undercoat for warmth, he had a glorious
bushy tail, carried at just the curve that lent a pleasing symmetry to
the whole form. In short, Lossy was a collie that would prove a
prize-winner in any company.
But what was better than mere physical beauty, he was an exception in
intelligence, even for a collie, and lavished a wealth of love upon
his young master. On this morning, Leon had purposely stolen away
without the dog, for the pleasure of what now occurred. Lossy, finally
awakening from his morning nap, and missing his master, had started
after him taking almost the same course pursued by Leon. And now,
after his long run, he bounded forward, landing upon Leon's breast
with force enough to roll him over, and then, whining with joy at the
reunion, the dog kissed his master's face and hands again and again.
This display of affection delighted Leon, and he returned it with
unusual demonstrativeness. Rising from the ground, he snapped his
fingers, and at the sound Lossy bounded into the air, to be caught in
the arms of his master, hugged close to his bosom, and then dropped to
the ground. This trick was repeated again and again, the dog
responding with increasing impatience for the signal. Sometimes it was
varied. Leon turning his back, and bending his body at a slight angle,
would give the signal, whereupon Lossy would spring with agility upon
his back and climb forward, until, by holding the shoulders with his
forepaws, he could reach his head around, seeking to kiss Leon's face.
Here the fun was, for as the dog's head protruded over one shoulder,
Leon turned his face away, whereupon Lossy would quickly essay to
reach his goal over the other. In the midst of this sort of play, Leon
was surprised to hear his dog growl. Then Lossy leaped to the ground,
his hair rose almost straight along his spine, his ears pricked
forward, and again he growled ominously. Before Leon could step
forward to investigate, the man who had been silently observing the
whole scene stepped out, and Leon recognized Dr. Medjora.
While the two men gaze silently upon each other, I may take the
opportunity to say a few words about Dr. Medjora.
Immediately after his trial he left New York for a brief period, very
much against the wishes of Madam Corona. She pleaded with him for an
immediate marriage, but he firmly adhered to his own plans. The
wedding occurred, however, a year later, and he resumed the practice
of his profession in the Metropolis. Nineteen years later, at the time
when Margaret Grath died, he was counted one of the most eminent
practitioners in the country. He had steadfastly declined to adopt
surgery, that most fascinating field wherein great reputations are
frequently acquired through a single audacious operation, happily
carried to a successful termination; but instead, he remained the
plain medical man, paying special attention to zymotic diseases.
Within this sphere he slowly but no less surely acquired fame, as from
time to time the dying were plucked almost from the arms of death, and
restored to health and usefulness.
Attracting the admiration and esteem of his patients in a most
remarkable degree, he nevertheless aroused in them a certain feeling
of almost superstitious awe. People did not say aloud that Dr. Medjora
was a partner of the Evil One, but many whispers, not easily
traceable, finally resulted in his being commonly known as the "Wizard
Doctor" or simply the "Wizard."
On this morning, having come into the vicinity during the week for
some trout fishing, and then having learned of the auction sale about
to take place, he had determined to be present. He was early on his
way to the farm, when, crossing the strip of wood, he had first
observed Leon with the chipmunks. Now having shown himself he spoke:
"You are Leon Grath, I believe?" said he.
"If you do, your belief is ill founded," replied Leon, speaking with
no ill temper, but rather with a touch of sadness.
"Surely you are Leon----"
"I am Leon, but not Grath. You are Dr. Medjora?"
"Ah! Then you remember me?"
"Certainly! I remember all men, friend or foe. You have been more the
former than the latter. Therefore the remembrance is quite distinct."
Hearing the sound of his master's voice, untinged by anger, the collie
evidently decided that the newcomer was no enemy, and strolling off a
short distance, turned thrice, and lay down, resting his nose between
his two forepaws, and eying the twain, awaited developments.
"I am glad that you have pleasant recollections of our brief
acquaintance. But now, will you explain what you mean by saying that
you are not Leon Grath. I thought that Grath was your name?"
"So did I, Doctor, but I have learned that I was mistaken. I was with
Margaret Grath when she died, and she told me----" He paused.
"She told you what?" asked Dr. Medjora, with apparent eagerness.
"That Grath is not my name."
"What then is it? Did she tell you that?"
"No! I am Leon, the nameless!"
There was a touch of bitterness in Leon's voice, and, as he felt a
slight difficulty in enunciation caused by rising emotions, he turned
away his head and gazed into the deepest part of the wood, closing his
jaws tight together, and straining every muscle of his body to high
tension, in his endeavor to regain full control of himself. Dr.
Medjora observed the inward struggle for mastery of self, and admired
the youth for his strength of character. Without, however, betraying
that he had noticed anything, he said quietly:
"What will you do about it?"
"I will make a name for myself," was the reply given, with sharp
decisiveness of tones, and a smile played around the corners of Leon's
mouth, as though the open assertion of his purpose was a victory half
won.
Oh, the springtime of our youth! The young man climbs to the top of
the first hill, and, gazing off into his future, sees so many roads
leading to fortune, that he hesitates only about the choice, not
deeming failure possible by any path. But, presently, when his chosen
way winds up the mountain-side, growing narrower and more difficult
with every setting sun, at length he realizes the difference between
expectation and fulfilment. But Leon was now on the top of his first
hill, and climbing mountains seemed so brave a task that he was eager
to begin. Therefore, he spoke boldly. Almost at once he met his first
check.
"You will make a name for yourself!" repeated Dr. Medjora. "How? Have
you decided?"
Leon felt at once confronted with the task which he had set himself.
Now, the truth was that he had decided upon his way in life; or,
rather, I should say he had chosen, and, having made his choice, he
considered that he had decided the matter permanently. Yet, the first
man who questioned him, caused him to doubt the wisdom of his choice,
to hesitate about speaking of it, and to feel diffident, so that he
did not answer promptly. Dr. Medjora watched him closely, and spoke
again.
"Ah, I see; you think of becoming an author."
"How did you know that?" asked Leon, quickly, very much perplexed to
find his secret guessed.
"Then it is a fact? You would not ask me how I know it, were it not
true. I will answer your question, though it is of slight consequence.
You are evidently a young man of strong will-power, and yet you became
awkwardly diffident when I asked you what path in life you had elected
to follow. I have observed that diffidence is closely allied to a
species of shame, and that both are invariable symptoms of budding
authorship. To one of your temperament, I should say that these
feelings would come only from two causes, secret authorship and love.
The latter being out of consideration, the former became a
self-evident fact."
"Dr. Medjora, you seem to be a logician, and I should think that you
might be a successful author yourself."
"I might be, but I am not. I could be, only I do not choose to be. But
we are speaking of yourself. If you wish to be a writer, I presume
that you have written something. Does it satisfy you; that is to say,
do you consider that it is as excellent as it need be?"
"I have done a little writing. While thinking, this week, about my
future, somehow there came to me a longing to write. I did so, and I
have been over my little sketch so many times, that I cannot see
wherein it is faulty. Therefore, I must admit, however conceited it
may sound, that I am satisfied with it."
"That is a very bad sign. When a man is satisfied with his own work he
has already reached the end of his abilities. It is only continual
dissatisfaction with our efforts, that ever makes us ambitious to
attain better things. You have said that, in your opinion, I could be
a successful writer. Then let me read and judge what you have written.
You have it with you, I suppose?"
Leon was much embarrassed. He wished that he could say no, but the
composition was in his pocket. So he drew it out and handed it to Dr.
Medjora, without saying a word. The Doctor glanced at it a moment and
then said encouragingly:
"There is a quality in this, as excellent as it is rare. Brevity."
"Ah, Doctor!" said Leon, eagerly. "That is what I have aimed at. I
have but a single idea to expound, and I have endeavored to clothe it
in as few words as possible. Or, rather, I should say, I have tried to
make every word count. Please read it with that view uppermost."
The Doctor nodded assent, and then read the little story, which was as
follows:
IMMORTALITY.
I am dead!
Have you ever experienced the odd sensation of being present
at your own funeral, as I am now?
Impossible! For you are alive!
But I? I am dead!
There lies my body, prone and stiff, uncoffined, whilst the
grave-digger, by the light of the young moon, turns the sod
which is to hide me away forever.
Or so he thinks.
Why should he, a Christian minister, stoop to dig a grave?
Why? Because minister though he be, he is, or was my master;
and my murderer.
Murderer did I say? Was it murder to kill a dog?
For only a dog I was; or may I say, I am?
I stupidly tore up one of his sermons, in sport. For this
bad, or good deed, my master, in anger, kicked me. He kicked
me, and I died.
Was that murder? Or is the word applicable only to Man, who
is immortal?
But stay! What is the test of immortality?
The ego says, "I am I," and earns eternity.
Then am I not immortal, since though dead, I may speak the
charmed words?
No! For Christianity preaches annihilation to beast, and
immortality for Man only. Man, the only animal that murders.
Shall I be proof that Christianity contains a flaw?
Yet view it as you may, here I am, dead, yet not annihilated.
I say here I am, yet where am I?
How is it that I, stupid mongrel that I was, though true and
loving friend, as all dogs are; how is it that I, who but
slowly caught my master's meaning from his words, now
understand his thoughts although he does not speak?
At last I comprehend. I know now where I am. I am within his
mind. His eagerness to bury my poor carcass is but born of
the desire to drive me thence.
But is not mind an attribute of the human soul, and
conscience too? And are not both immortal?
Thus then the problem of my future do I solve. Let this good
Christian man hide under ground my carcass; evidence of his
foul crime. And being buried, let it rot. What care I though
it should be annihilated?
I am here, within this man's immortal mind, and here I shall
abide forever more, and prick his conscience for my pastime.
Thus do I win immortality, and cheat the Christian's creed.
Having read to the end, Dr. Medjora nodded approvingly to Leon and
said:
"For a first composition, you may well rest satisfied with this. It is
very subtile. Indeed I am surprised at the originality and thought
which you have displayed here. I should like to discuss with you some
of the points. May I?"
"With pleasure," Leon replied with ardor, delighted to find his little
story so well received.
"The first thought that occurs to me is, that there is a certain
amount of inspiration about your essay. I say essay because it is that
rather than a story. From this, I deduce a fact discouraging to your
ambition, for inspirations are rare, and it is probable that were you
to succeed in selling this to some magazine, you would find it
difficult to produce anything else as good."
"Why, Doctor," said Leon, anxious to prove his ability, "I wrote that
in a few minutes."
"By which statement you mean that with time for thought, you might do
better. But your argument is in favor of my theory. The more rapidly
you wrote this, the more difficult will it be for you to write
another. Let me tell you what I read between the lines here. Miss
Grath having died, you were left alone in the world. Her two amiable
sisters coming to the farm, probably made your loneliness intensified,
and whilst depressed by your mood, your dog showed you some affection,
which reaching you when your heart was full, caused it to spill over,
and this was the result. Am I wrong?"
"No! You have guessed the circumstances almost exactly. As you say, I
was feeling lonely and depressed. I came here for solitude, which is
something different from loneliness, and which is as soothing as
loneliness is depressing. I was sitting under that tree, thinking
bitter things of the world in general, and of the people about me more
especially, when without my having heard him approach, my dog, Lossy,
dear old brute, pushed his head over my shoulders, placed his paws
around my neck, and kissed me. It affected me deeply. It was as though
I had received a message from Providence, telling me not to despair.
Then like a flash it came to me, that if love is an attribute of the
soul, and a dog's love is the most unselfish of all, it must follow
logically that a dog has a soul."
"Your deduction is correct, if there be any such thing as soul. But,
for the moment, I will not take that up. You have told enough to show
that I am right as to the origin of your tale. It is also evident that
you cannot hope to be under such emotional excitement at all times,
when you might be called upon to write; to write or go without a meal.
However, I have faith in you, and do not doubt that we shall find a
way for you to earn as many meals as you shall need."
"Do you mean that you will assist me?"
"I will assist you, if I am correct in my present opinion of you.
Young men who need and expect assistance, are rarely worthy of help.
But I wish to talk about your essay. I like the line 'Was it murder to
kill a dog?' and the one which follows, 'For only a dog I was; or may
I say, I am?' Of course the word murder, strictly applied, means the
killing of a man by his fellow. I think I comprehend what you mean
here, but I would like you to explain it to me."
"Doctor, you compliment me by taking this so seriously. There is a
deeper meaning in the words than might be detected by a superficial
reader. As you say, the word murder applies only to the killing of a
man, by a man. Or I might change the wording and say, the killing of a
human being. Here, human implies the possession of those higher
attributes, the aggregate of which is the soul, which by man is
arrogantly claimed to exist exclusively in man. And it is the violent
separation of this soul from its earthly body, which makes it the
heinous crime, murder; while the beast, not possessing a soul, may be
killed without scruple, and without crime. Hence I say, 'Was it murder
to kill a dog?' and at once, in so few words, I raise the question as
to whether the dog has not a soul."
"I follow you. Your explanation is only what I expected. I said that I
liked the next line: 'For only a dog I was; or may I say, I am?' This
time I will show you that I comprehend you. The question here implies
much. If the dog is annihilated at death, then this dog ceased to
exist when his master slew him. But he is speaking; he realizes that
he continues to exist. Therefore, he says most pertinently, 'or may I
say, I am?' The question carries its own affirmative, for what is not,
cannot question its own existence. The subtilty here is very nice. You
convince your reader by presenting what seems to be a self-evident
proposition, and if he admits this, he must accord immortality to the
dog, for he that after death may say 'I am' is immortal. But the flaw,
which you have so well hidden, lies in the fact that you have started
with the assumption of that which you have essayed to prove. You make
the dead dog speak, which would be an impossibility had he been
annihilated."
"I am delighted, Doctor, at the way in which you criticise me. But I
am contending that the dog is immortal, hence my assumption at the
very start, that though dead, he may record his sensations. I do not
really mean to discuss the point, nor to prove it. I merely mean
dogmatically to assume it. I picture a dog, who in life believed that
death would be his total extinction, but who, when suddenly deprived
of life, finds that he is still in existence, and endeavors to analyze
his condition. If you will overlook the seeming egotism of pointing
out what I think the most subtile idea, I would call your attention to
the line where, concluding that he is immortal, he says 'Here I am,'
and instantly asks 'Where am I?'"
"Yes. I had already admired that and what follows; but I will ask you
to expound it yourself."
"You are very kind," said Leon, pleased, and eager to talk upon his
subject. "He asks where he is, and after a moment decides that he is
in his master's mind. Then he argues truly that, as mind is but a
part, or attribute of the soul, if the soul be immortal, the mind and
all that it contains must live on, also. Therefore, being in the man's
mind, he needs only to stay there, to escape annihilation. Then he
adds, that he will prick the man's conscience forever. Here is
something more than a mere dogmatism. None will deny that the wanton
killing of a dog can never be forgotten, and if the dog remains in
one's mind, is not that a sort of immortality?"
"Sophistry, my boy, sophistry; but clever. The idea is original, and
well conceived for the purpose of your narrative. But, like many
deductions assumed to be logical, it is illogical, because your
premises are wrong. It is not the dog, nor his spirit, that abides in
the mind and assails the conscience. What the man tries in vain to
forget is the thought of killing the beast, and thought, of course, is
immutable; but it does not at all follow that the thing of which we
think is imperishable."
"I see your meaning, Doctor, and of course you are right. But do you
side with the Christian, and claim that the dog is annihilated, while
man is immortal?"
"A discussion upon religious topics is seldom profitable. In reply to
your question, I think that you will be satisfied if I admit that the
dog is as surely immortal as man. No more so, and no less. The
Christian hypothesis, in this respect, is a unique curiosity to a
thinking man, at best. We are asked to believe that man is first
non-existent; then in a moment he begins to exist, or is born; then he
dies, but, nevertheless, continues to exist endlessly. Now it is an
evident fact that birth and death are analogous occurrences, and
related only to existence on this planet. The body of a man is born,
and it dies. It begins, and it ends. As to immortality, if you contend
that something abided in that body which continues to exist after
death, then it is necessary to admit that it had an existence previous
to its entrance into the body, at birth. Nothing can continue to exist
in all future time, which began at any fixed moment; it must have
being, whether we look forward or backward. Form is perishable. It had
a beginning, birth; and it will have an end, death! But the
intelligence which inhabits all form will live forever, because it has
forever lived. So I repeat, the dog is as immortal as the man."
There followed a silence after this speech, the two men gazing upon
one another intently, without speaking. Leon was deeply affected. He
felt almost as though listening to himself, and there is no human
being who does not find himself entertaining. Leon had grown up
without human companionship, for, in his environment, there was no one
of temperament congenial to his. But he had not lacked for company. He
found that within the covers of those books which he had begged,
borrowed, or bought with hard-earned, and more hardly-saved, pennies.
Miss Grath had never encouraged him to waste his time "reading those
wicked science books," when he should have been studying his
Testament. But he had sat alone in his garret room, on many a night,
reading by a candle, for he dared not use the oil, which was measured
out to last a given time. Thus he had become infatuated with works of
divers kinds: Mythology, Sociology, Theology, Physiology, Psychology,
and other kindred but difficult subjects. Difficult indeed to the
student who is his own teacher. He had come to read his books,
imagining that he listened to the authors talking, and, not
infrequently, carried away by his interest in his subject, he had
caught himself addressing questions aloud to the writer, whom his
fancy pictured as present. Now, for the first time, he had heard a man
"talk like a book." When he recovered from his pleasurable surprise,
he said with emotion and ardor:
"Doctor, if I could be where I might hear you talk, or have you to
teach me, I would be the happiest boy in the world."
"Are you in earnest, Leon, or are you merely carried away by an
emotion, aroused by something which I have said?"
"I am in earnest, but----" here his voice dropped and his tone became
almost sad, "of course I have no right to ask such a favor. Pardon my
presumption."
"Leon, if you mean what you have said; if you will be happy with me;
if you will accept me as your teacher, and endeavor to learn what I
can teach you, your wish shall be gratified."
"What do you mean?" cried Leon, renewed hope stirring within his
breast.
"You know me as a doctor, by which you understand that I physic people
when they are sick. But the true meaning of doctor, is teacher. I am
willing to be that to you, and I know much that I can teach; very much
more than other men. I will take you as my student, if you will come."
"You are very kind, Dr. Medjora, and I could wish for no greater
happiness than the chance to learn. Knowledge to me is God, the God
whom I worship. But I could never repay you for the time and trouble
that it will entail."
"Indeed you can. Knowledge is power, but the knowledge of one man has
its limitation, for the man will die. I have two things that I must
leave at death, money and knowledge. The former I may bequeath to whom
I please, and he will get it, unless others squabble over my will
until the lawyers spend the estate. With my knowledge it is different.
I must impart it to my successor during my life, or it will perish
with me. I have labored long and hard, and I have accumulated
knowledge of the rarest and most unusual kind. Knowledge which makes
me count myself the wisest physician in the world to-day. Knowledge
which I can transfer to you, if you will accept it as a sacred trust,
and use the power which it will confer upon you for the benefit of
your fellows. Have you the courage and the energy to accept my offer?
If so, do not hesitate, for I have been seeking for the proper man
during several years. If you be he, I ask no other reward for what my
task will be, than to see you worthy. Will you accept?"
"I will!"
Leon placed his hand in that of Doctor Medjora, and thus made a
compact with one, to whom were attributed powers as potent as Satan's.
Side by side, and deeply absorbed in earnest conversation, they
started to walk to the farm, to be present at the sale. Lossy,
although for the moment forgotten by his master, was on the alert and
jumped up to follow, as soon as they started away. For the dog is a
faithful friend, and the collie perhaps the most faithful of all dogs,
if indeed there be any choice in that respect between purest bred and
mongrel.