The Lesson
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."
-THE END-
Jerome K. Jerome's short story: The Lesson
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