Wesblock, the autobiography of an automaton

by Harry McDonald Walters

This question of mine, “How do you know?” became a byword in the family. Father thought it very amusing, and used it very much as an actor uses a bit of gag. It is a very disconcerting question when put earnestly.

Our family, I may explain, taken in all its branches, was a very large one, and of the common sort that would be called middle class in England. My father, who was the only son of my grandmother’s third husband, was a King to all the tribes,—to the grandmothers, grandfathers, aunts, uncles, the various great aunts, and the one great-uncle and the one great-grandfather—who lived during my childhood. They all bowed down to him, and he dominated them, although by calling he was only a book-keeper in a wholesale grocery firm. My mother, let me add, was the eldest daughter of a Civil servant in the Montreal Post Office.

My seventh year is a very distinct memory, as a period of my life associated in my mind with very momentous happenings. Up to the age of seven I prospered in my health although I was never what is called robust. It was very nearly my last year, for fate, not satisfied with bringing a weakling into the world before its time, now visited me with scarlet fever and all the dreadful complications known to that disease. I lay for months in bed, part of the time delirious, and was reduced to a mere skeleton. I remember the sufferings of convalescence, but have no very distinct recollection of the actual illness, beyond the delirium it brought on, which left a curious impression on my mind. During its course I seemed to be two personalities, distinct but attached, one capable of observing the other. I strove and argued continually with myself, and again the great question of where I had come from haunted and worried me. Clearly I must have come from somewhere, and must also have had existence prior to my arrival; but where had I been? Nearly my whole delirium turned upon this question. “God made you,” I would say to myself; then I would scream aloud, “How do you know, how do you know?” repeating it over and over again consciously, but unable to stop and rest. I had read Uncle Tom’s Cabin and remembered that Topsy had wisely remarked, in reply to a similar question, “I specks I growed.” But the suspicion that I had grown was not satisfactory to me; I wanted to know. And here I may pause a moment to reflect that among my memories is none of learning to read. It seems to me that I always knew how. No doubt my mother taught me while I was still very young, using the newspaper as text-book. Before I was seven I had read many books, or mother had read them to me, for she was a very good reader and loved an understanding listener.

Scarlet fever was a very much more dreadful disease when I was a child than it is now-a-days. Not only have methods of treatment improved greatly, but the disease itself is not so deadly, or perhaps man’s resisting powers have increased. It is a pity that diseases like everything else do not grow old and weak and lose their power to destroy.

After I had been ill for several weeks a consultation of the doctors was held, and they declared solemnly that my recovery was impossible, since with every organ diseased or weakened I could not live. In any case it hardly seemed worth while to live, for I was both deaf and dumb. However there must have been within me some great vital power of resistance that the doctors did not know about, seeing that I finally made a kind of recovery, and persisted on my precarious way.

Trained nurses were not common in those days. I probably should have died if they had been. Only the great love of a mother can give the nursing that I received. Surely many times she must have wished that death would end the horrible struggle, but still she fought for me and hoped.

I was naturally of a tender, clinging and dependent character, and my illness certainly intensified those unfortunate characteristics. As I recovered, mother taught me things. I could not hear or speak; but I could see and use my hands, and she taught me to knit and tat and crotchet. These small and much despised things, I believe, helped to save my life. If I had been forced to lie idle amidst the great silence of deafness, unable to speak, I surely would have died of mental inanition. Using my hands renewed my interest in life. Speech at last came slowly back, hearing to some extent, and for the second time in my life I learned to walk.

I can see myself now as I struggled up on my poor shaky pins. How I sweated and trembled. How proud I was! I was exultant because I could stand up. I felt as though I were some wild and blood-thirsty barbarian who had slain a powerful enemy by a great feat of strength. I stood up on my own legs, every nerve atingle, every muscle trying to do its office. I held on to chairs and tables while the moisture fairly trickled down my face, and even the backs of my hands were wet. “Ah ha!” I said to myself, “I knew I could do it.”

I made an effort to walk from one chair to another, only a couple of steps, and fell prone upon my face. It was a disaster, a great failure. I was heart-broken and burst into a violent fit of crying, refusing to be comforted. This little scene broke my mother down. I had never seen her weep when I was fighting the scarlet fever. Now we wept together.

My mother at this time was twenty-four years of age. She was very beautiful. Her hair, which she wore severely plain, was black as jet. Her cheeks were pink, and soft and velvety to the touch; on one of them she had a mole. Her eyes were dark and deep set, with dark shadows under them. Her expression was sad, sweet and full of love; her smile pleasant but wistful. She had a great heart, but not much mind of her own, being completely dominated by my father, whom she worshipped with a foolish worship.