The first time I met him, to my knowledge, was on an evil-smelling,
one-funnelled steam boat that in those days plied between London Bridge
and Antwerp. He was walking the deck arm-in-arm with a showily dressed
but decidedly attractive young woman; both of them talking and laughing
loudly. It struck me as odd, finding him a fellow-traveller by such a
route. The passage occupied eighteen hours, and the first-class return
fare was one pound twelve and six, including three meals each way;
drinks, as the contract was careful to explain, being extra. I was
earning thirty shillings a week at the time as clerk with a firm of
agents in Fenchurch Street. Our business was the purchasing of
articles on commission for customers in India, and I had learned to be
a judge of values. The beaver lined coat he was wearing--for the
evening, although it was late summer, was chilly--must have cost him a
couple of hundred pounds, while his carelessly displayed jewellery he
could easily have pawned for a thousand or more.
I could not help staring at him, and once, as they passed, he returned
my look.
After dinner, as I was leaning with my back against the gunwale on the
starboard side, he came out of the only private cabin that the vessel
boasted, and taking up a position opposite to me, with his legs well
apart and a big cigar between his thick lips, stood coolly regarding
me, as if appraising me.
"Treating yourself to a little holiday on the Continent?" he inquired.
I had not been quite sure before he spoke, but his lisp, though slight,
betrayed the Jew. His features were coarse, almost brutal; but the
restless eyes were so brilliant, the whole face so suggestive of power
and character, that, taking him as a whole, the feeling he inspired was
admiration, tempered by fear. His tone was one of kindly contempt--the
tone of a man accustomed to find most people his inferiors, and too
used to the discovery to be conceited about it.
Behind it was a note of authority that it did not occur to me to
dispute.
"Yes," I answered, adding the information that I had never been abroad
before, and had heard that Antwerp was an interesting town.
"How long have you got?" he asked.
"A fortnight," I told him.
"Like to see a bit more than Antwerp, if you could afford it, wouldn't
you?" he suggested. "Fascinating little country Holland. Just long
enough--a fortnight--to do the whole of it. I'm a Dutchman, a Dutch
Jew."
"You speak English just like an Englishman," I told him. It was
somehow in my mind to please him. I could hardly have explained why.
"And half a dozen other languages equally well," he answered, laughing.
"I left Amsterdam when I was eighteen as steerage passenger in an
emigrant ship. I haven't seen it since."
He closed the cabin door behind him, and, crossing over, laid a strong
hand on my shoulder.
"I will make a proposal to you," he said. "My business is not of the
kind that can be put out of mind, even for a few days, and there are
reasons"--he glanced over his shoulder towards the cabin door, and gave
vent to a short laugh--"why I did not want to bring any of my own staff
with me. If you care for a short tour, all expenses paid at slap-up
hotels and a ten-pound note in your pocket at the end, you can have it
for two hours' work a day."
I suppose my face expressed my acceptance, for he did not wait for me
to speak.
"Only one thing I stipulate for," he added, "that you mind your own
business and keep your mouth shut. You're by yourself, aren't you?"
"Yes," I told him.
He wrote on a sheet of his notebook, and, tearing it out, handed it to
me.
"That's your hotel at Antwerp," he said. "You are Mr. Horatio Jones's
secretary." He chuckled to himself as he repeated the name, which
certainly did not fit him. "Knock at my sitting-room door at nine
o'clock tomorrow morning. Good night!"
He ended the conversation as abruptly as he had begun it, and returned
to his cabin.
I got a glimpse of him next morning, coming out of the hotel bureau. He
was speaking to the manager in French, and had evidently given
instructions concerning me, for I found myself preceded by an
obsequious waiter to quite a charming bedroom on the second floor,
while the "English breakfast" placed before me later in the coffee-room
was of a size and character that in those days I did not often enjoy.
About the work, also, he was as good as his word. I was rarely
occupied for more than two hours each morning. The duties consisted
chiefly of writing letters and sending off telegrams. The letters he
signed and had posted himself, so that I never learnt his real
name--not during that fortnight--but I gathered enough to be aware that
he was a man whose business interests must have been colossal and
world-wide.
He never introduced me to "Mrs. Horatio Jones," and after a few days he
seemed to be bored with her, so that often I would take her place as
his companion in afternoon excursions.
I could not help liking the man. Strength always compels the adoration
of youth; and there was something big and heroic about him. His
daring, his swift decisions, his utter unscrupulousness, his occasional
cruelty when necessity seemed to demand it. One could imagine him in
earlier days a born leader of savage hordes, a lover of fighting for
its own sake, meeting all obstacles with fierce welcome, forcing his
way onward, indifferent to the misery and destruction caused by his
progress, his eyes never swerving from their goal; yet not without a
sense of rough justice, not altogether without kindliness when it could
be indulged in without danger.
One afternoon he took me with him into the Jewish quarter of Amsterdam,
and threading his way without hesitation through its maze of unsavoury
slums, paused before a narrow three-storeyed house overlooking a
stagnant backwater.
"The room I was born in," he explained. "Window with the broken pane
on the second floor. It has never been mended."
I stole a glance at him. His face betrayed no suggestion of sentiment,
but rather of amusement. He offered me a cigar, which I was glad of,
for the stench from the offal-laden water behind us was distracting,
and for a while we both smoked in silence: he with his eyes
half-closed; it was a trick of his when working out a business problem.
"Curious, my making such a choice," he remarked. "A butcher's
assistant for my father and a consumptive buttonhole-maker for my
mother. I suppose I knew what I was about. Quite the right thing for
me to have done, as it turned out."
I stared at him, wondering whether he was speaking seriously or in grim
jest. He was given at times to making odd remarks. There was a vein
of the fantastic in him that was continually cropping out and
astonishing me.
"It was a bit risky," I suggested. "Better choose something a little
safer next time."
He looked round at me sharply, and, not quite sure of his mood, I kept
a grave face.
"Perhaps you are right," he agreed, with a laugh. "We must have a talk
about it one day."
After that visit to the Goortgasse he was less reserved with me, and
would often talk to me on subjects that I should never have guessed
would have interested him. I found him a curious mixture. Behind the
shrewd, cynical man of business I caught continual glimpses of the
visionary.
I parted from him at The Hague. He paid my fare back to London, and
gave me an extra pound for travelling expenses, together with the
ten-pound note he had promised me. He had packed off "Mrs. Horatio
Jones" some days before, to the relief, I imagine, of both of them, and
he himself continued his journey to Berlin. I never expected to see
him again, although for the next few months I often thought of him, and
even tried to discover him by inquiries in the City. I had, however,
very little to go upon, and after I had left Fenchurch Street behind
me, and drifted into literature, I forgot him.
Until one day I received a letter addressed to the care of my
publishers. It bore the Swiss postmark, and opening it and turning to
the signature I sat wondering for the moment where I had met "Horatio
Jones." And then I remembered.
He was lying bruised and broken in a woodcutter's hut on the slopes of
the Jungfrau. Had been playing a fool's trick, so he described it,
thinking he could climb mountains at his age. They would carry him
down to Lauterbrunnen as soon as he could be moved farther with safety,
but for the present he had no one to talk to but the nurse and a Swiss
doctor who climbed up to see him every third day. He begged me, if I
could spare the time, to come over and spend a week with him. He
enclosed a hundred-pound cheque for my expenses, making no apology for
doing so. He was complimentary about my first book, which he had been
reading, and asked me to telegraph him my reply, giving me his real
name, which, as I had guessed it would, proved to be one of the best
known in the financial world. My time was my own now, and I wired him
that I would be with him the following Monday.
He was lying in the sun outside the hut when I arrived late in the
afternoon, after a three-hours' climb followed by a porter carrying my
small amount of luggage. He could not raise his hand, but his
strangely brilliant eyes spoke their welcome.
"I am glad you were able to come," he said. "I have no near relations,
and my friends--if that is the right term--are business men who would
be bored to tears. Besides, they are not the people I feel I want to
talk to, now."
He was entirely reconciled to the coming of death. Indeed, there were
moments when he gave me the idea that he was looking forward to it with
an awed curiosity. With the conventional notion of cheering him, I
talked of staying till he was able to return with me to civilisation,
but he only laughed.
"I am not going back," he said. "Not that way. What they may do
afterwards with these broken bones does not much concern either you or
me.
"It's a good place to die in," he continued. "A man can think up here."
It was difficult to feel sorry for him, his own fate appearing to make
so little difference to himself. The world was still full of interest
to him--not his own particular corner of it: that, he gave me to
understand, he had tidied up and dismissed from his mind. It was the
future, its coming problems, its possibilities, its new developments,
about which he seemed eager to talk. One might have imagined him a
young man with the years before him.
One evening--it was near the end--we were alone together. The
woodcutter and his wife had gone down into the valley to see their
children, and the nurse, leaving him in my charge, had gone for a walk.
We had carried him round to his favourite side of the hut facing the
towering mass of the Jungfrau. As the shadows lengthened it seemed to
come nearer to us, and there fell a silence upon us.
Gradually I became aware that his piercing eyes were fixed on me, and
in answer I turned and looked at him.
"I wonder if we shall meet again," he said, "or, what is more
important, if we shall remember one another."
I was puzzled for the moment. We had discussed more than once the
various religions of mankind, and his attitude towards the orthodox
beliefs had always been that of amused contempt.
"It has been growing upon me these last few days," he continued. "It
flashed across me the first time I saw you on the boat. We were
fellow-students. Something, I don't know what, drew us very close
together. There was a woman. They were burning her. And then there
was a rush of people and a sudden darkness, and your eyes close to
mine."
I suppose it was some form of hypnotism, for, as he spoke, his
searching eyes fixed on mine, there came to me a dream of narrow
streets filled with a strange crowd, of painted houses such as I had
never seen, and a haunting fear that seemed to be always lurking behind
each shadow. I shook myself free, but not without an effort.
"So that's what you meant," I said, "that evening in the Goortgasse.
You believe in it?"
"A curious thing happened to me," he said, "when I was a child. I
could hardly have been six years old. I had gone to Ghent with my
parents. I think it was to visit some relative. One day we went into
the castle. It was in ruins then, but has since been restored. We were
in what was once the council chamber. I stole away by myself to the
other end of the great room and, not knowing why I did so, I touched a
spring concealed in the masonry, and a door swung open with a harsh,
grinding noise. I remember peering round the opening. The others had
their backs towards me, and I slipped through and closed the door
behind me. I seemed instinctively to know my way. I ran down a flight
of steps and along dark corridors through which I had to feel my way
with my hands, till I came to a small door in an angle of the wall. I
knew the room that lay the other side. A photograph was taken of it
and published years afterwards, when the place was discovered, and it
was exactly as I knew it with its way out underneath the city wall
through one of the small houses in the Aussermarkt.
"I could not open the door. Some stones had fallen against it, and
fearing to get punished, I made my way back into the council room. It
was empty when I reached it. They were searching for me in the other
rooms, and I never told them of my adventure."
At any other time I might have laughed. Later, recalling his talk that
evening, I dismissed the whole story as mere suggestion, based upon the
imagination of a child; but at the time those strangely brilliant eyes
had taken possession of me. They remained still fixed upon me as I sat
on the low rail of the veranda watching his white face, into which the
hues of death seemed already to be creeping.
I had a feeling that, through them, he was trying to force remembrance
of himself upon me. The man himself--the very soul of him--seemed to
be concentrated in them. Something formless and yet distinct was
visualising itself before me. It came to me as a physical relief when
a spasm of pain caused him to turn his eyes away from me.
"You will find a letter when I am gone," he went on, after a moment's
silence. "I thought that you might come too late, or that I might not
have strength enough to tell you. I felt that out of the few people I
have met outside business, you would be the most likely not to dismiss
the matter as mere nonsense. What I am glad of myself, and what I wish
you to remember, is that I am dying with all my faculties about me.
The one thing I have always feared through life was old age, with its
gradual mental decay. It has always seemed to me that I have died more
or less suddenly while still in possession of my will. I have always
thanked God for that."
He closed his eyes, but I do not think he was sleeping; and a little
later the nurse returned, and we carried him indoors. I had no further
conversation with him, though at his wish during the following two days
I continued to read to him, and on the third day he died.
I found the letter he had spoken of. He had told me where it would be.
It contained a bundle of banknotes which he was giving me--so he
wrote--with the advice to get rid of them as quickly as possible.
"If I had not loved you," the letter continued, "I would have left you
an income, and you would have blessed me, instead of cursing me, as you
should have done, for spoiling your life."
This world was a school, so he viewed it, for the making of men; and
the one thing essential to a man was strength. One gathered the
impression of a deeply religious man. In these days he would, no
doubt, have been claimed as a theosophist; but his beliefs he had made
for, and adapted to, himself--to his vehement, conquering temperament.
God needed men to serve Him--to help Him. So, through many changes,
through many ages, God gave men life: that by contest and by struggle
they might ever increase in strength; to those who proved themselves
most fit the sterner task, the humbler beginnings, the greater
obstacles. And the crown of well-doing was ever victory. He appeared
to have convinced himself that he was one of the chosen, that he was
destined for great ends. He had been a slave in the time of the
Pharaohs; a priest in Babylon; had clung to the swaying ladders in the
sack of Rome; had won his way into the councils when Europe was a
battlefield of contending tribes; had climbed to power in the days of
the Borgias.
To most of us, I suppose, there come at odd moments haunting thoughts
of strangely familiar, far-off things; and one wonders whether they are
memories or dreams. We dismiss them as we grow older and the present
with its crowding interests shuts them out; but in youth they were more
persistent. With him they appeared to have remained, growing in
reality. His recent existence, closed under the white sheet in the hut
behind me as I read, was only one chapter of the story; he was looking
forward to the next.
He wondered, so the letter ran, whether he would have any voice in
choosing it. In either event he was curious of the result. What he
anticipated confidently were new opportunities, wider experience. In
what shape would these come to him?
The letter ended with a strange request. It was that, on returning to
England, I should continue to think of him: not of the dead man I had
known, the Jewish banker, the voice familiar to me, the trick of
speech, of manner--all such being but the changing clothes--but of the
man himself, the soul of him, that would seek and perhaps succeed in
revealing itself to me.
A postscript concluded the letter, to which at the time I attached no
importance. He had made a purchase of the hut in which he had died.
After his removal it was to remain empty.
I folded the letter and placed it among other papers, and passing into
the hut took a farewell glance at the massive, rugged face. The mask
might have served a sculptor for the embodiment of strength. He gave
one the feeling that having conquered death he was sleeping.
I did what he had requested of me. Indeed, I could not help it. I
thought of him constantly. That may have been the explanation of it.
I was bicycling through Norfolk, and one afternoon, to escape a coming
thunderstorm, I knocked at the door of a lonely cottage on the
outskirts of a common. The woman, a kindly bustling person, asked me
in; and hoping I would excuse her, as she was busy ironing, returned to
her work in another room. I thought myself alone, and was standing at
the window watching the pouring rain. After a while, without knowing
why, I turned. And then I saw a child seated on a high chair behind a
table in a dark corner of the room. A book of pictures was open before
it, but it was looking at me. I could hear the sound of the woman at
her ironing in the other room. Outside there was the steady thrashing
of the rain. The child was looking at me with large, round eyes filled
with a terrible pathos. I noticed that the little body was misshapen.
It never moved; it made no sound; but I had the feeling that out of
those strangely wistful eyes something was trying to speak to me.
Something was forming itself before me--not visible to my sight; but it
was there, in the room. It was the man I had last looked upon as,
dying, he sat beside me in the hut below the Jungfrau. But something
had happened to him. Moved by instinct I went over to him and lifted
him out of his chair, and with a sob the little wizened arms closed
round my neck and he clung to me crying--a pitiful, low, wailing cry.
Hearing his cry, the woman came back. A comely, healthy-looking woman.
She took him from my arms and comforted him.
"He gets a bit sorry for himself at times," she explained. "At least,
so I fancy. You see, he can't run about like other children, or do
anything without getting pains."
"Was it an accident?" I asked.
"No," she answered, "and his father as fine a man as you would find in
a day's march. Just a visitation of God, as they tell me. Sure I
don't know why. There never was a better little lad, and clever, too,
when he's not in pain. Draws wonderfully."
The storm had passed. He grew quieter in her arms, and when I had
promised to come again and bring him a new picture-book, a little
grateful smile flickered across the drawn face, but he would not talk.
I kept in touch with him. Mere curiosity would have made me do that.
He grew more normal as the years went by, and gradually the fancy that
had come to me at our first meeting faded farther into the background.
Sometimes, using the very language of the dead man's letter, I would
talk to him, wondering if by any chance some flash of memory would come
back to him, and once or twice it seemed to me that into the mild,
pathetic eyes there came a look that I had seen before, but it passed
away, and indeed, it was difficult to think of this sad little human
oddity, with its pleading helplessness, in connection with the strong,
swift, conquering spirit that I had watched passing away amid the
silence of the mountains.
The one thing that brought joy to him was his art. I cannot help
thinking that, but for his health, he would have made a name for
himself. His work was always clever and original, but it was the work
of an invalid.
"I shall never be great," he said to me once. "I have such wonderful
dreams, but when it comes to working them out there is something that
hampers me. It always seems to me as if at the last moment a hand was
stretched out that clutched me by the feet. I long so, but I have not
the strength. It is terrible to be one of the weaklings."
It clung to me, that word he had used. For a man to know he is weak;
it sounds a paradox, but a man must be strong to know that. And
dwelling upon this, and upon his patience and his gentleness, there
came to me suddenly remembrance of that postscript, the significance of
which I had not understood.
He was a young man of about three- or four-and-twenty at the time. His
father had died, and he was living in poor lodgings in the south of
London, supporting himself and his mother by strenuous, ill-paid work.
"I want you to come with me for a few days' holiday," I told him.
I had some difficulty in getting him to accept my help, for he was very
proud in his sensitive, apologetic way. But I succeeded eventually,
persuading him it would be good for his work. Physically the journey
must have cost him dear, for he could never move his body without pain,
but the changing landscapes and the strange cities more than repaid
him; and when one morning I woke him early and he saw for the first
time the distant mountains clothed in dawn, there came a new light into
his eyes.
We reached the hut late in the afternoon. I had made my arrangements
so that we should be there alone. Our needs were simple, and in
various wanderings I had learnt to be independent. I did not tell him
why I had brought him there, beyond the beauty and stillness of the
place. Purposely I left him much alone there, making ever-lengthening
walks my excuse, and though he was always glad of my return I felt that
the desire was growing upon him to be there by himself.
One evening, having climbed farther than I had intended, I lost my way.
It was not safe in that neighbourhood to try new pathways in the dark,
and chancing upon a deserted shelter, I made myself a bed upon the
straw.
I found him seated outside the hut when I returned, and he greeted me
as if he had been expecting me just at that moment and not before. He
guessed just what had happened, he told me, and had not been alarmed.
During the day I found him watching me, and in the evening, as we sat
in his favourite place outside the hut, he turned to me.
"You think it true?" he said. "That you and I sat here years ago and
talked?"
"I cannot tell," I answered. "I only know that he died here, if there
be such a thing as death--that no one has ever lived here since. I
doubt if the door has ever been opened till we came."
"They have always been with me," he continued, "these dreams. But I
have always dismissed them. They seemed so ludicrous. Always there
came to me wealth, power, victory. Life was so easy."
He laid his thin hand on mine. A strange new look came into his
eyes--a look of hope, almost of joy.
"Do you know what it seems to me?" he said. "You will laugh perhaps,
but the thought has come to me up here that God has some fine use for
me. Success was making me feeble. He has given me weakness and
failure that I may learn strength. The great thing is to be strong."