I SUPPOSE that every one has made the acquaintance of the subject of this
little biography at some time or other, though to others he may not have
appeared as he has appeared to me, and, as I know, he has been called by
many names. Indeed, when I consider that there have been men and women
who have sought his society with a passionate eagerness, it is clear to
me that his disguises must be extremely subtle, and that he employs them
with a just regard for the personalities of his companions. For while
some have found in his society the ultimate splendour of life, for me he
has always been wearisome and ridiculously mean.
Of course it may be that I have known him too long, for even as a child I
was accustomed to find him at my side, an unwelcome guest who came and
went by no law that my youthful mind could determine. Certainly in those
days he was more capricious, and the method of argument by repetition,
which he still employs, was only too well calculated to weary and
distress a child. But for the rest, the Harold whom I knew then was
materially the Harold whom I know now. Conceive a small man so severely
afflicted with St. Vitus’s dance that his features are hardly definable,
endow him with a fondness for clothes of dull colours grievously
decorated with spots, and a habit of asking meaningless questions over
and over again in an utterly unemotional voice, and you will be able to
form a not unfair estimate of the joys of Harold’s society. There have
been exceptions, however, to the detestable colourlessness of Harold’s
appearance. I have seen him on occasion dressed in flaming red, like
Mephistopheles, and his shrill staccato voice has pierced my head like a
corkscrew. But these manifestations have always been brief, and might
even be considered enjoyable when compared with the unrestful monotony of
Harold’s society in general.
Who taught me to call him by the name of Harold I do not know, but in my
youthful days the man’s character was oddly associated with the idea of
virtue as expounded in the books I read on Sunday afternoons. That I
hated him was, I felt, merely a fitting attribute in one whose instincts
were admittedly bad, but I did not allow the consideration to affect my
rejoicings when I escaped from his company. Curiously, too, I perceived
that the Olympians were with me in this, and since the moral soundness of
those improving books was beyond question, I had grave doubts as to their
ultimate welfare. But it was always an easy task to detect the Olympians
tripping in their own moralities; they had so many.
As time went on, and I grew out of the Sunday books and all that they
stood for, I came to believe that I was growing out of Harold too. His
appearances became rare, and, from his point of view, a little
ineffective. It pleased me to consider with a schoolboy’s arrogance that
he was little more than a child’s nightmare, and that if a man turned to
fight him Harold would vanish. For a while Harold, in his cunning,
played up to this idea. He would seek my side timidly, and fly at a
word. The long, sleepless nights of childhood and the weary days were
forgotten, and I made of him a jest. Sometimes I wondered whether he
really existed.
And then he came. At first I was only mildly astonished when I found
that nothing I could say would make him leave me, but as the hours passed
the old hatred asserted itself, and to fight the little man with the dull
voice and the cruel spots on his clothes seemed all that there was in
life to do. The hours passed into days and nights, and sometimes I was
passive in the hope that he might weary, sometimes I shouted answers to
his questions—the same answer to the same question—over and over again.
I felt, too, that if I could only see his features plainly for a moment
he would disappear, and I would stare at him until the sky grew red as my
eyes. But I could not see him clearly, and the world became a thing of
dull colours, terrible with spots. By now I was fighting him with a
sense of my own fatuity, for I felt that nothing would make this man
fight fairly. His voice had fallen to a passionless whisper and the
spots on his clothes swelled into obscene blotches and burst like
over-ripe fruit. It was then that the chloroform clutched me by the
throat. I have never known anything on earth more sweet.
Since then, it seems to me, Harold has never been quite the same. He
comes to see me now and again, and sometimes even he lingers by my side.
But there is a note of doubt about him that I do not remember to have
noticed before—some of his former spirit would seem to be lacking, and I
am forced to wonder sometimes whether Harold is not ageing. And, though
it may appear strange, the thought inspires me with a certain regret. I
do not like the man, and I should be mad to seek him of my own accord,
but in fairness I must acknowledge that in a negative way he has
contributed to all the pleasures I have enjoyed. Sunsets and roses and
the white light of the stars—I owe my appreciation of them all to Harold;
and I know that it is by aid of his keen realism that I have founded the
city of my dreams. It will be a grey world when Harold is no more.