Wesblock, the autobiography of an automaton

by Harry McDonald Walters

There was a kind of tacit conspiracy between my mother and me against my father. He expected to have his own way in all things; but in a great many cases he only thought he had it.

When I recovered from the scarlet fever, our fortunes took a turn for the better. Father became a partner in the firm for whom he had worked since his thirteenth year. We moved from our middle-class environment into a new house that he had bought in a better neighbourhood. We kept a horse, too, which afforded mother and me a great deal of pleasure.

My father’s name was John H. Wesblock. He came, as I have already hinted, of a long, unillustrious line; and while his name and many of his peculiarities became mine, I have added no lustre to the commonplace stock from which we both sprang.

The personality of my father was peculiar. He was a curious mixture of good and evil. As he was an Englishman, of course he thought there was only one person in the house of any consequence, and that person the head of the family—himself. He had wonderful powers in some directions, and was very weak in others. He was very self-opinionated, and had an uncertain temper which broke out on slight provocation. I can hardly say that I remember him at that time with great affection. I feared him without respecting him. His vanity was abnormal. His dress was showy and extravagant and he loved display of a kind that did not cause him any great effort or trouble. He always looked so well dressed that he appeared altogether too new. He wore a low-cut dress waistcoat showing a vast expanse of white shirt front, a frock-coat with ample skirt, light trousers, generally lavender or pale tan, and white gaiters over exceptional shoes. His feet and hands were very small.

He was a prosperous self-made business man with great ambition, but love of luxury sapped his energy and he never arrived. Both he and mother were very religious in the old early Victorian way which I always thought did not tend to make our home happy and cheerful, in fact I have seldom seen an extremely religious home which was a happy one.

I was a sad disappointment to father. He despised my puny body, but I generally over-reached him when it came to a contest between my desires and his wishes, for I was endowed, as many physical weaklings are, with a deep and skilful cunning. Like most cunning people I was a brilliant liar. I lied in self-defence and for advantage, as many common liars do, but besides this I loved to elaborate facts, and laid many traps to gain my little ends through playing on my father’s weaknesses. If I were to classify liars I would divide them into Moral Liars, Fancy Liars, Slovenly Liars and Immoral Liars.—The Moral Liar is one who never lies for wickedness but only for utility and to gain good ends. The Fancy Liar is one with an imagination so lively that the embellishment of facts is something he cannot resist. The Slovenly Liar is one who is too lazy to observe, so lies to save trouble. The Immoral Liar is one who backs up wicked designs, scandal and libel with lies. I was none of these but was in a class by myself. I was better than some liars and worse than others.

My father had a friend he called Eddy who was a typical specimen of the fancy liar. I found him very entertaining. I calculated from the personal experiences he related that Eddy must have been about one hundred and six years old although he looked younger than father. He had played marbles with several of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, and related experiences of that day—political, social, scientific and sporting—wherein he had personally figured. He had studied for the bar, the ministry and the army. He was a mechanic and a hunter; had run a marine engine and hanged greasers in Mexico and Indians in Arizona, lassoed wild horses on the Prairies and dug gold in California. An anachronism here and there did not trouble him in the slightest.

When I began to get about after my illness I found myself dull and listless; I wanted nothing but peace, and hated all physical effort. As there was no promise of my ever developing sufficient energy to make myself, the delicate and complicated operation of making me was left to tutors, parsons, teachers and the like. I was carefully and expensively educated, much against my will; for I most heartily hated every teacher I ever had, especially those who were parsons.

When I look back over those years during which I passed through many forming hands, I find that it was not so much the teachers whom I hated, but their methods. No one of them ever aroused in me the interest and love of acquiring knowledge which I long afterwards developed in myself. The same fatal failing still exists among teachers. It is but rarely that a teacher can be found who has the teaching faculty born in him and the power to present knowledge to the young in an attractive form. In fact, it appears to be the aim of most educational institutions to make learning as unattractive as possible, and in this they succeed gloriously, especially in denominational schools.

I was a delicate and dreamy boy, and was having great trouble with my ears, consequently my education was frequently interrupted by sickness, and even when comparatively well it was necessary to keep me continually interested or I would fall asleep. I was tired for nearly fifteen years, and until I was of age never enjoyed six consecutive months of even fair health. Meanwhile a small brother had arrived on the scene, who brought new life into the house. He was destined, as you shall hear, very few years.