From thence I went to another city house to which I owed a substantial sum. Here, however, I had never seen the principal, my dealings having been entirely through the traveller who called upon me, and who I have no doubt had been in serious trouble through my failure. My business here was of the most formal nature, for the cashier had nothing to do with the previous course of the business, only to receive my payment and to give me a quittance. But the sequel to this was perhaps the most surprising of all those eventful experiences. The next day I received a letter from the principal of the firm couched in the most charming terms. He had discovered he said that I was the writer of certain books, the reading of which had given him the greatest pleasure of that kind he had ever known. It was exceedingly difficult, he went on, to realise that I was the struggling tradesman whom he had so often caused to be harassed for the amount of his account; had he known who it was he would certainly not have troubled me. And now, as the only reparation he was able to make for what he felt had been his harshness towards me, he begged to return the cheque (I believe it was for £35), which nothing could induce him to accept. And he begged to wish me all possible happiness and prosperity as well as long life to go on giving pleasure.
I only wish I could add to my present pleasure by giving this good man's name, but that, alas, is out of the question for obvious reasons. But does not such an experience as this give one an exalted sense of the kindliness, courtesy, and active benevolence, that is to be found among business men. My motives in writing this book may be variously assessed, but I feel that I am only discharging an obvious duty in putting on record so fragrant, so elevating a record of fact. It should give persons inclined to cynicism a better, higher idea of their fellows. For it cannot be supposed that my experiences were unique, that I was specially singled out for such treatment. No, I believe that in every walk of life the good, the real good, in man far outweighs the evil, and that it is an entirely false and narrow view which sees in every man you do business with one whose mission in life is to do everybody he can, caring for nobody but himself. And I seek no better proof than that of my own experience.
Occasionally the honest kindly fair dealing trader or private person will be done, will be swindled ruthlessly. Now and then one comes across a man who simply lives to do harm, whose gall of envy is such that he will take any mean advantage to ruin another man whom he envies, even though in the process he only injures himself. Thank God, these are the exceptions, not the rule. On the contrary, in the good old way these exceptions only prove the rule that love, justice, and mercy are general, and that hatred, injustice, and cruelty are only sad upheavals of devilishness which are gradually but surely growing less and less able to harm well-doing folk.
Pleasant as these experiences were, and gratefully as I cherish them, I do not think that they were more so than some later ones, when I sought out some old friends who had lent me money to help me out of my constantly recurring difficulties, knowing full well when they did so that the chances of getting repaid were exceedingly slight. One of these friends indeed was a Swiss to whom in the early days of our friendship I had rendered some slight assistance in his endeavour to get arrears of four years wages from his employer, a compatriot who had been exploiting him on the ground of his ignorance of England and her ways. From him I learned how wonderfully these toiling Swiss managed to save. His wages never exceeded thirty shillings a week, out of which I should say, I never knew exactly, he saved seventy-five per cent. At any rate he was able to live for four years without receiving any wages from his employer, sleeping in a greenhouse at night (they were gardeners), and eating God knows what.
I met him at the mission with which I was associated in Paddington, and seeing his friendlessness asked him to my humble home for Sunday dinner and tea. And thus our friendship grew and ripened until I was able to render him the service aforesaid, thinking as I did that he was on the verge of starvation. To my intense surprise long afterwards, when I was bewailing to him my parlous plight, he took me to the garret-chamber which he occupied with all the paraphernalia of his business, and going to his box produced a bagful of sovereigns, out of which he asked me to take what would satisfy my urgent needs. Of course in a work of fiction I should have refused with many high falutin' words, but being cast in a lower mould I accepted, after I had got over my amazement that he should have any money at all, much less all that, for there was well over £100 in the bag.
But I must not make this chapter too long, and so I will leave over for the commencement of the next my dealings with my dear friend, Emanuel Hauri, whose end was peace.
CHAPTER XIX CONCLUSION
This loving stranger in a strange land was consumptive, racked with an awful cough, and lived like a dog—aye, worse than many dogs I know. By all theories he should not have lived a year, for in addition to his dreadfully disabling disease and his manner of living, he worked like an over-powered machine. He was never in bed after three in the morning, and I have known him to trundle a barrow containing a cartload of bedding plants from Covent Garden to Kilburn before beginning his work at six o'clock. And he was never fretful, never captious. The only criticism I ever heard him make was once when he told me he had employed a young Englishman to help him at a big job of work at a gentleman's garden which he was reconstructing. "He stand an' vatch me wile I do de vork, he vants 'is beer efery few minutes, he don't know dis and he von't know dat, an' at last I gif him his day's money an' dell 'im to go, for I can get on better vithout 'im. Dese people in dis country do not seem to know vat vork is!"