Wesblock, the autobiography of an automaton

by Harry McDonald Walters

But now occurred a vital new development, not unexpected. We were about to pay a visit to Montreal, when our First Beloved arrived. We two played croquet one fine June evening, and early the next morning there were three of us. It was a girl—a little pink lump of humanity, with large dark blue eyes, and a great quantity of straight black hair. I was very proud and elated over this commonplace occurrence. If I had had forty cannon I would have fired them all, while ammunition lasted; but I had no cannon, so I fired telegrams right and left, to every relative whom I thought ought to be interested in the event. I took a long pole and stuck it in the chimney, and hoisted a flag on it, which action was nearly the cause of my being left a widower, for a breeze sprung up next day and brought down my chimney, flag-pole and all with such a racket that poor little Muriel was nearly frightened to death.

Before the baby was two days old Mrs. Joseph was with us, accompanied by her sister, the kind and friendly aunt at whose house we were married. I was still a beardless youth when our First Beloved arrived. Persistent shaving had failed to raise any manly growth of hair upon my face. I have learned since that a hairless face is really a blessing. Mrs. Joseph did not thaw to me very much, but she was condescendingly kind, and took more interest in the baby and our affairs than might have been expected. She was always a kill-joy to me in those days. She seemed to carry more dignity than was necessary for a mere woman. In her presence even the new baby seemed but a poor achievement. She did not use a lorgnette, which is much to her credit. She was just the kind of person who might daintily and grandly gaze on a baby through a lorgnette, and exclaim, “How perfectly ridiculous.” Her departure was a distinct relief to us. Muriel’s aunt remained with us, a welcome guest, for several weeks.

At this time Muriel and I weighed jointly very little over two hundred pounds. We both grew after marriage, in weight and in stature. Even the shapes of our heads altered. My health improved steadily, until I was nearly robust. I still succumbed easily to fatigue, and suffered from a weak digestion, but nevertheless enjoyed fair health. I was fortunate in having a proud stomach which resented ill-usage; for it helped to teach me my physical limitations. If these matters are alluded to, and I note a detail like perfect hearing in my left ear, while the right one remained a typical scarlet fever ear—source of anxiety and trouble—it is because they serve to show how seriously handicapped I was for the work I had before me.

My affairs were by this time prosperous in a modest way, but I did not realise it. Over and above my salary, which covered our actual needs, I enjoyed an income from a small general store from which the mill hands were provided with the rough necessaries of life. It was a cash business, and brought me in a small profit. My men were my only customers.

I can hardly say that I was quite happy during this period of my life. The numerous small things to which I had to attend worried me. I was gaining valuable experience, but at a high price in nervous waste. I was careless and extravagant in money matters, and Muriel was not the one to correct these failings. I was impatient, and expected results when other men would be content to plod and wait. When our baby was several weeks old, and Muriel was up and well, I saw that the novelty of our life had worn off for her. She craved for the city, and she wanted, a very natural desire, to show her baby. We were in our busy season, the mill running night and day; it was hard for me to leave my post, while I did not wish Muriel to go to Montreal alone. This led to many discussions between us. We were young, and had not learned that matters of disagreement between two people could be easily settled without heat. We were not patient with each other, so that Muriel went to Montreal with her baby, leaving me in a sulky mood. This was not a serious breach; it was only a tiff, but I felt very much ill-used.

It is very pleasant no doubt to hear married couples tell of the many years they have passed together without a single cross word being spoken; and in a few cases the fond reminiscence may be true. But our married life, particularly the early part of it, was stormy. Most of the storms were necessary, inevitable, and led to better understanding between Muriel and me. For the most part we were generous with each other, and ever ready when a storm was over to take our fair share of blame and admit evident error. I regret no part of these experiences except when through whim, jealousy, or crustiness born of bad health, I did my wife an injustice. The monotony of a long married life, without one quarrel or disagreement, is something I do not pretend to understand, unless among a wooden humanity unknown to my experience. People who do not quarrel do not know the exquisite pleasure of making up, and coming thereby to a better understanding; they do not acquire the art of giving way gracefully and gallantly, or taste the gratification of making it plain that you were right after all.

During the six months following the birth of our First Beloved, Muriel spent a good deal of her time in Montreal, running away on the slightest provocation, and being followed by me and brought back again. This did not reduce our expenses, which were beginning to press heavily upon our income. She was tired of the mill, and persevered in her complaints against it, until she persuaded me to believe that it was not a fit place in which to live; that it offered no outlook for the future, and that I could do much better in the city. Whether she was right or wrong in this it is impossible to state. Having taken one course in life, who can tell where another would have led?

My father was at all times decidedly promiscuous in his business ventures. As he grew older he became still more adventurous, taking chances on all kinds of things. He was always involved in several business undertakings outside his legitimate line, making much money in some ventures, losing much in others. In my sketch of his character I have, perhaps, been hardly fair to him, not from any deliberate unfairness, but from a lack of understanding of his peculiar, erratic temperament. I must say of him that he lived according to his light, and was always ready to be of use to me in the years of my apprenticeship to life, always showing a great and deep love, more by deeds than words. His hand was always ready to pull me out of the many financial holes into which I had a happy faculty of getting, and I believe he understood me better than I understood myself.

Approaching him relative to the question of my leaving the mill, I was surprised but glad to find that he was not opposed to the idea; in fact he was quite willing that I should come to Montreal. This was, no doubt, accounted for by his having a new sphere for my usefulness in sight. He was largely involved at the time in a cartage business, to which he could give no personal attention. Arrangements were soon made, and we moved our home from the mill to Montreal. I left the mill with deep regret.

I now took up the duty of watching my father’s interests in the cartage business, and I found it no easy task. I was tied to drivers, horses and waggons hand and foot, by night and day. This business failed at the end of about a year and a half, for reasons which need not be discussed. While I was busy with the work of moving freight and sundries of every kind, from a five-cent parcel to a piano, our Second Beloved arrived, and the good and great Doctor passed out. He had been fighting a cirrhotic liver for over a year, but had undertaken its cure too late. Hard mental work, want of outdoor exercise plus high living wore him out before his time; so that he died at the early age of sixty. I had seen a good deal of him latterly, and his death was a great blow to me in every way. He had been a tower of strength to his own family, to a large circle beyond the family, and even to the country at large. It appears that families grow up and multiply till they attain their fullest development in the person of one great man, who dominates or largely influences his time and holds things together by the strength of his personality. He dies and the family dissolves and disperses into various commonplace paths. In altered spheres the family units lose distinction.