XV
There is a mirror over the mantel-piece in my study. For months I have tried not to look in mirrors, except when I have finished dressing, and then only to see if I am normally presentable. But this night the room grew chilly past midnight, and I arose and went to hold open my dressing gown before the red logs in the grate. Sandy went to bed over an hour ago, and I did not care to rouse him to build a huge fire.
As I was standing there, I leaned forward absent-mindedly on the mantel-piece and placed my head in the palms of my hands in such close proximity to the mirror that the fleshly features and the illusory features touched. I gazed upon my face intently.
The sight stirred the most profound depths within me, not for sorrow, not for pity, not for age, not for the changes, but the realization that it was I. Actually I! I, as I am. Look at these eyes, even they alone tell the story, a tale of trying to be what I was not to be; of trying to be good and pure and sinless, of wishing for a little success as other men succeed; of wanting a mate. My mate! to be by my side, she who could have steadied my passion, and have grown old as I grew old, she who could have kept me from all these wretched acts and thoughts; and then—then I lost! I slipped; I fell. And this face shows it. These eyes show it. They see failure, utter, bleak, barren failure. The Great Gambler gives us the dice to throw once, and only once. We lose or we win. I lost.
Ah God, must I once more be wakeful with hot tears? I think of the men and the women I know—of you—of you; how did the dice come up for you? What have the figures read?
As I am gazing thus in the mirror, my eyes wander to the other part of the reflection which shows the darkness of the opposite end of the room, for the lamp is beginning to flicker. Out of that darkness comes a boyish figure, and this new sight makes my eyes nearly start from their sockets.
But is he a new figure?
He advances a step out of the darkness. He is young and supple, about seventeen. I still have my eyes on him in the mirror. This moment he caught my glance! He steps nearer, keeping my eye and trying to laugh, and yet, oh, how wistful that look really is.
“Who the devil are you?” I asked, without turning from the mirror and half closing my eyes in an effort to search his countenance.
“Oh, I reckon you know who I am;” he said flippantly, with a Southern accent.
“Sit down, won’t you?” I said, without turning around to greet him. And then with impudence he sits himself down in the very chair which I had recently vacated. I still retain my position and watch him in the mirror.
Looking up at me, he began again:
“No one would think, from the manner in which you recognized me, that we are as closely related as father and son.”
“It’s a lie,” I answered, calmly, “why do you accuse me with a lie?”
“Oh, don’t excite yourself,” he came back, “I am the guilty party. I am the father and you are the son. Certainly you have often heard that the boy is father to the man?”
“Aye, and the child, sire to the boy.”
“Look at yourself. You are seeing you that are, while I am you that used to be. I reckon you know me now.”
I stared again at my misbegotten self in the mirror, the self that is, and I thought upon what had just been uttered by the self that was. A weird truth came to me, and I spoke this thought aloud:
“You have spoken correctly, for if the boy is father to the man, he may beget a legitimate self or an illegitimate self. You, damn you, you did not create the self that might have been, but begot me, a bastard self.”
“Well,” he said defiantly, “I admit it. What then?”
“Why did you do so—why did you ruin your future—why did you wish me to be a failure?”
“Why was I weak?—that is what you mean. Well, my son, I can not tell you. It was in me and it had to come out. Perhaps my ancestors were to blame; perhaps I alone was to blame. They say we are masters of our fate. I doubt it. Surely no more sensitive, passionate youth longed as actually as I did to make you noble and true and generous. Was there ever a grander wreck? Look at yourself. Gaze into the diorama of your mind, and what do you see?”
I looked and saw the dismal pomp unroll before my mental eyes. And I saw a mass of indecision.
“Behold! there come the Ghosts of Past Intentions. I was going to marry the love of my life—that is the saddest ghost of all. I intended to be industrious and win fame for her—and see what I have done—nothing—and my life is sailing away, growing dimmer and dimmer, until now my worthy craft is a weather-beaten derelict even before my prime. This ghost gets up with me in the morning, sits with me at meals, reads every book I hold in my hand, goes on all my walks, sips each glass of my sangaree, retires to bed with me at night. This ghost is Insomnia Incarnate.
“Here comes another procession—the Imps of Lost Opportunities. Why was I not able to grasp them? The next company of players tell the tale. They are the ever-present giants, tyrants—Weak Resolutions—weak, weak, weak—back to the word you spoke!”
But lo, as I spoke, the lad took his leave. He could stand the arraignment no longer, and hot tears welled his eyes.
“You were too hard on him,” a voice within me cried, “he did not mean to do what he did. It was not to his interest to ruin you. Do you not recall those lines he read in adolescence, and predicted that each syllable would come true of himself. He has not lied. He knew.”
“What were the lines?” I asked.
“Here they are:
‘Even so it was when I was young.
If ever we are nature’s, these are ours; this thorn
Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong;
Our blood to us, this to our blood is born.
It is the show and seal of nature’s truth,
Where love’s strong passion is impress’d in youth;
By our remembrances of days foregone,
Such were our faults—or then we thought them none.’”