Rensselaer Republican, Volume 26, Number 41, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 June 1894 — POOR HUMAN NATURE. [ARTICLE]

POOR HUMAN NATURE.

BY JEROME K. JEROME.

How much more of our —fortunately not very valuable—time we devoted to this wonderful story of ours -Lcaa not Turnin-gthe dogs' eared leaves of the dilapidated diary that lies before me I find the record of our later gatherings confused and incomplete. For weeks there does not appear a single word. Then comes an alarmingly businesslike minute of a meeting at which there were ’‘Present: Jephson. MacShaugnassy, Brown and self,” and at which ‘"the proceedings commenced at 8:30.” At what time the “proceedings” terminated and what business was done the chronicle, however, save th not; though faintly penciled in th emargin ofthe page I trace these hieroglyphics: “3-14-9 — 2-6-7,” bringing out a result of “1-8-2.” Evidently an unremunerative night. ~ On September 13, we seem to have become suddenly imbued with energyTo a quite remarkable degree, for I read that we “resolved to start for the first chapter at once” —“at once” being underlined-. —After this spurt we rested until Oct 4, when we discussed whether it should be a “novel of plot or of character,” without—so far as the diary affords indi-cation-arriving at any definite decision, I observed that on the same day, “Mac told a story about a man who accidentally bought a camel at a sale.” Details of the story are, however, wanting, which perhaps is fortunate for,the reader. On the 16th we were still debating the character of our hero, ahd I see that 1 suggested “a man of the Charley Buswell type.” Poor Charley, I wonder what , could have made me think of him in connection with heroes; his loveableness, I suppose— his heroic qualities. I recall his boyish face now (it was always a boyish face), the tears streaming down as he sat in the schoolyard beside a bucket, in which he was drowning three white mice and a tame rat. I sat down opposite and cried too, while helping him to hold a saucepan lid over the poor little creatures, and thus there sprang up a friendship between us, which grew. Over the grave of these murdered rodents, he took a solemn oath never to break school rules again by either keeping white mice or tame rats, but to devote the whole of his energies for the future to pleasing his masters and affording his parents some satisfaction for the money being spent upon his education. Seven weeks later the prevalence throughout the dormitory of an atmospheric effect more curious than pleasing led to the discovery that he had converted his box into a rabbit hutch. Confronted with eleven kicking witnesses, and reminded of his former promises, he explained that rabbits were not mice, and seemed to consider that a new and vexatious regulation had been sprung upon him. The rabbits were confiscated. What was their ultimate fate we never knew with certainty, but three days later we were given rabbit pie for dinner. To comfort him I endeavored to assure him that these could not be his rabbits. He, however, convinced that they were, cried steadily into his plate all the time that he was eating them, and afterwards, in the playground, had a standup fight with a fourth jorm boy who had requested a second helping.

That evening he performed another solemn oath-taking and for the next month was the model boy of the school. He read tracts, sent his spare pocket money to assist in annoying the heathen, and subscribed to the Young Christian and the Weekly Rambler, an evangelical miscellany, whatever that may mean. An undiluted course of this pernicious literature naturally created in him a desire toward the opposite extreme. He suddenly dropped the Young Christian and the Weekly Rambler and purchased penny dreadfuls; and, taking no further interest in the welfareof the heathen, saved up and bought a second-hand revolver and 100 cartridges. His ambition, he confided to me, was to become.£ “dead shot,” ar<i the marvel is that he did not succeed. Of course, there followed the usual discovery and consequent trouble, the usual repentance and reformation, the usual determination to start a new life. ■ Poor fellow, he lived “starting a new life.” Every New Year's day he would start a new life—on his birthday—on other people’s birthdays. I fancy that later on when he came to know their importance he extended the principle to quarter days. “Tidying up and starting afresh,” he always called it. I think as a young man he was ' better than most of us. But he lacked that great gift which is the distinguishing feature of the English.speaking race all the world over—the gift of hypocrisy. He seemed incapable of doing the slightest thing without getting found out. A grave misfortune for a man to suffer from, this. Dear, simple hearted fellow, it never occurred to him that he was as other men—with, perhaps, a dash of straightforwardness added; he regarded himself as a monster of depravity. One evening 1 found him in his chambers engaged in his Sisyphean labor of “tidying up.” A heap of letters, photographs and bills lay before him. He was tearing them up •nd throwing them into the fire. I came toward him. but he stop-

ped me. “Dort’t come near me,” he cried, “don’t touch me. I’m not fit to shake hands with a decent man.”, It was the sort of speech to make one feel hot and uncomfortable. I did not know what to answer and murmured' something about his being no worse than the average, “Don’t, talk dike that,” he answered excitedly; “you say that to comfort me, I know, but I don’t like to hear it. If 1 thought other men were like me I should be ashamed of being a man. I’ve been a blackguard, old fellow, but, please God, it’s not too late. To-morrow morning I begin a new life.” He finished his work of destruction and then rang the bell and, sent his man down stairs for a bottle of champagne. “My last drink,” he said, as we clicked glasses. “Here’s to ttie dlcl life out and the new life in.” He took a sip and flung the glass with the remainder into the fire. He was al way sal4ltie theatrical ,-especially when most in earnest. For a long while after that I saw nothing of Trim. Then one evening, sitting down to supper at a restaurant, I noticed him opposite me in company that could hardly be called doubtful, Hq. flushed and came over to me. “I’ve been an old woman for nearly six months,” he said with a laugh. “I find I can’t stand it any longer.” . ‘ ‘AJterall,” he confined,_‘ ‘ what is life but to live. It’s only hypocritical to try and be a thing we are not. And do you know”; —he leaned across the table, speaking earnestly—“honestly and seriously, I’m a better man —I feel it and know it — when I am my natural self than when I am trying to bean impossible saint.” That was the mistake he made; he always ran to extremes. He thought that an oath, if it were only big enough, would frighten away human nature, instead of only serving as a challenge to it. Accordingly each reformation-was more intemperate than the last, to be duly followed by a great swing of the pendulum in the opposite direction. Being now in a thoroughly reckless mood he went the pace rather hotly. Then one evening, without any previous warning, I had a note from him. “Come round and see me Thursday, It is my wedding eve.” I went. He was once more “tidying up.” All his drawers were open, and on the table were piled packs of cards, betting books, and much written paper, as before, all in course of demolition. I smiled; I could not help it. and, no way abashed, he laughed his usual hearty, honest laugh. “I know,” he explained gayly, “but this is not the same as the others.” Then, laying his hand on my shoulder and speaking with the sudden seriousness that comes so rapidly to shallow natures, he said: “God has heard my prayer, old friend. He knows lam weak. He has sent down an angel out of heaven to help me.” “He took her portrait from the' mantel piece and handed it to me. It seemed to me theface of a -hard, narrow woman, but of course, he raved about her. As he talked there fluttered to the ground from the heap before him an old restaurant bill, and, stooping, he picked it up and held it in his hand, musing. “Have you ever noticed how the scent of the champagne and the candles seems to cling to these things?” he said lightly, sniffing carelessly at it.

“I wonder what’s become of her.” “I think I wouldn’t think about her at all to-night.” I answered. He loosened his hand, letting the paper fall into the fire. “My God!” he cried vehemently. “When I think of all the wrong I have done —the irreparable, everwidening ruin I have brought into the world—O God! spare me a long life that I may make amends. Every hour, every piinute of it shall be devoted to your service.” As he stood there, with his eager, boyish eyes upraised, a light seemed to fall upon his face and illumine it. 1 had pushed the photograph back to him, and it lay upon the table before him. He knelt and pressed his lips to it - “With your help, my darling, and His,” he murmured. The next morning he was married. She was a well meaning girl, though her piety as with most people, was of the negative order, and her antipathy to things evil much stronger than her sympathy with things good. For a much longer time than I had expected she kept him straight—perhaps a Little too straight. But at last there came the inevitable relapse. I called upon him, in response to an excited message, and found him in the depths of despair. It was the old story, hum.an weakness, combined with lamentable lack of the most ordinary precautions against being found out. He gave me details, interspersed with exuberant' denunciations of himself, and I undertook the delicate task of peacemaker. It was a weary work, but eventually she consented to forgive him. His joy when I told him was boundless. “How good women are,” he said, while the tears came into his eyes. “But she shall not repent it. Please God, from this day forth I’ll —" He stopped, and for the first time in his life the doubt of himself crossed his mind. As I sat watching him the joy died out of his face, and the first hint of age passed over it. Y “I seem to have best, 'tidying up

and starting afresh’ all my life,” he said, wearily; “I’m beginning to see where this untidiness lies, and the only way to get rid of it.” I did not understand the meaning of~his words at the time, but learned it later on. He strove according to his strength, and fell. By a miracle his transgression was not discovered. The facts came to light long afterwards, but at the time there were only two who,knew. It was his last failure. Late one evening I received a hurriedly scrawled note from his wife begging me to come round. “A terrible thing has happened.” it ran: “Charley went up to his study after dinner, saying that he had some ‘tidying up,’ as he calls it, to do, and did not wish to be disturbed. In clearing out his desk he must have handled carelessly the revolver that he always keeps there, not remembering, I suppose, that it was loaded. We heard a report, and on rushing into the room found him lying • dead on the floor. The bullet had passed right through his heart.” Hardly the type of a man for a hero! And yet Ido not know. Pcrliaps he fought harder than many a man who conquers. In the world's courts we are compelled to judge on circumstantial - evidence only, and the chief witness, the man’s soul, can not very well be called. To return to my diary, I find that on Nov. 14 we held another meeting. But at this there were present only “Jephson, MacShaugnassy, and self,” and of Brown’s name I find henceforth no other trace. On Christmas day we three met again, and my notes inform me that MacShaugnassy brewed some whiskey punch according to a recipe of his own, a record suggestive of a sad Christmas for all three of us. No particular business appears to have been accomplished on either occasion. Then there is a break until Feb. 8, and the assemblage has shrunk to “Jephson and self.” vVitn a final flicker, as of a dying candle, my diary at this point, however, grows luminous, shedding much light on that evening’s conversation. Our talk seems to have been of many things—of most things, in fact, except our novel. Among other subjects we spoke of literature generally. “I am tired of this eternal cackle about books,” said Jephson, “these columns of criticism to every line of writing; these endless books about books; these shrill praises and shrill denunciations; this silly worship of Novelist Tom; this silly hate of Poet Dick; this silly squabbling over Playwright Harry. There is no soberness, no sense in it all. One would think, .to listen to the high priests _ofculture, that man was made for literature, and not literature for man. Thought existed before the printing press; and the men who wrote the best hundred booksnever read them. Books have their places in the world, but They are not its purpose. They are things side by side with beef and mutton, the scent of the sea, the touch of a hand, the memory of a hope, and all the other items in the sum total of our three score years and ten. Yet we speak of them as though they were the voice of life instead of merely its faint, distorted echo. Tales are delightful as tales—sweet as primroses after the long winter, restful as the cawing of rooks at sunset. But- we do not write ‘tales’ now; we prepare ‘human documents' and dissect souls.” He broke off abruptly in the midst of his tirade. “Do you know these ‘psychological studies’ that are so fashionable just now always make me think of?” he said. “One monkey examining another monkey for fleas.” ‘•And what, after all, does our dissecting pen lay bare?” he continued. “Human nature? or merely some more or less unsavory undergarment, disguising and disfiguring human nature? There is a story told of an elderly tramp who, overtaken by misfortune, was compelled to retired for awhile to the seclusion of Portland. His hosts, desiring to see as much as possible of their guest during his limited stay with them, proceeded to bathe him. They bathed him twice a day for a week, each time learning more of him,until at last they reached a flannel shirt. And with that they had to be content, soap and water proving powless to go further. In society one must needs be cynical and mildly wicked; in Bohemia orthodoxly unorthodox. I remember my mother expostulating with a friend, an actress, who had left a devoted husband and eloped with a disagreeable, ugly, little low comedian (I am speaking of long, long ago).

“ ‘You must be mad,’ said my mother, ‘what on earth induced you to take such a step?’ “‘My dear Emma,’ replied the lady, ‘what else was there for me? You know I can’t act. I had to do something to show 1 was an artiste!' “We are dressed up marionettes. Our voice is the voice of the unseen showman, convention; our very movements of passion and pain are but in answer to his jerk. A man resembles one of those gigantic bundles that one sees in nursemaids’ arms. It is very bulky and very long; it looks a mass, of delicate lace and rich fur and fine woven stuffs; and somewhere, hidden out of sight among the finery, there is a tiny red bit of bewildered humanity, with no voice but a foolish cry. “There is but one story,” he went on after a long pause, uttering his own thoughts aloud rather than speaking to me. “Wo sit at our desks and think and think, and write

and write, but the story is ever the same. Men told it and men listened tb it many years ago; we shall be telling it to another a thousand years hence; and the story is: ‘Once upon a Time there lived a man and a woman who loved him.’ Thedittie critic cries that it is not new, and asks for something fresh, thinking —as.children do—thatthefe~are strange things in the world.” At that point my notes end and there is nothing in the book beyond. Whether any of us thought any more of the novel, whether we ever met again to discuss it, whether it were ever begun, whether it were ever abandoned—l cannot say. I read a fairy story many years ago that has never ceased to haunt me. It told how a little boy once climbed a rainbow. And at the end of the rainbow he came to the most wonderful land that was ever dreamt of. Its houses were-built of gold and the streets were paved with silver. Its palaces were so beautiful that no language could describe them, but to merely look—at them satisfied all yearnings. And all the men who dwel t inth is city were grea tan d good, and the women fairer than the women of a boy’s dream. And the name of the city was “The City of Things Men Meant to Do.”