“You are fond of poetry too?” I asked.
“I am a great reader,” he replied. “At one time I had begun to amass quite a small but well-selected library; and when that was scattered, I still managed to preserve a few volumes—chiefly of pieces designed for recitation—which have been my travelling companions.”
“Is that one of them?” I asked, pointing to the volume in his hand.
“No, sir,” he replied, showing me a translation of the “Sorrows of Werther”; “that is a novel I picked up some time ago. It has afforded me great pleasure, though immoral.”
“O, immoral!” cried I, indignant as usual at any complication of art and ethics.
“Surely you cannot deny that, sir, if you know the book,” he said. “The passion is illicit, although certainly drawn with a good deal of pathos. It is not a work one could possibly put into the hands of a lady; which is to be regretted on all accounts, for I do not know how it may strike you; but it seems to me—as a depiction, if I make myself clear—to rise high above its compeers—even famous compeers. Even in Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, or Hawthorne, the sentiment of love appears to me to be frequently done less justice to.”
“You are expressing a very general opinion,” said I.
“Is that so, indeed, sir?” he exclaimed, with unmistakable excitement. “Is the book well known? and who was Go-eath? I am interested in that, because upon the title-page the usual initials are omitted, and it runs simply ‘by Go-eath.’ Was he an author of distinction? Has he written other works?”
Such was our first interview, the first of many; and in all he showed the same attractive qualities and defects. His taste for literature was native and unaffected; his sentimentality, although extreme and a thought ridiculous, was plainly genuine. I wondered at my own innocent wonder. I knew that Homer nodded, that Cæsar had compiled a jest-book, that Turner lived by preference the life of Puggy Booth, that Shelley made paper boats, and Wordsworth wore green spectacles! and with all this mass of evidence before me, I had expected Bellairs to be entirely of one piece, subdued to what he worked in, a spy all through. As I abominated the man’s trade, so I had expected to detest the man himself; and behold, I liked him. Poor devil! he was essentially a man on wires, all sensibility and tremor, brimful of a cheap poetry, not without parts, quite without courage. His boldness was despair; the gulf behind him thrust him on; he was one of those who might commit a murder rather than confess the theft of a postage-stamp. I was sure that his coming interview with Carthew rode his imagination like a nightmare; when the thought crossed his mind, I used to think I knew of it, and that the qualm appeared in his face visibly. Yet he would never flinch—necessity stalking at his back, famine (his old pursuer) talking in his ear; and I used to wonder whether I more admired or more despised this quivering heroism for evil. The image that occurred to me after his visit was just; I had been butted by a lamb, and the phase of life that I was now studying might be called the Revolt of a Sheep.
It could be said of him that he had learned in sorrow what he taught in song—or wrong; and his life was that of one of his victims. He was born in the back parts of the State of New York; his father a farmer, who became subsequently bankrupt and went West. The lawyer and money-lender who had ruined this poor family seems to have conceived in the end a feeling of remorse; he turned the father out indeed, but he offered, in compensation, to charge himself with one of the sons: and Harry, the fifth child, and already sickly, was chosen to be left behind. He made himself useful in the office: picked up the scattered rudiments of an education; read right and left; attended and debated at the Young Men’s Christian Association and in all his early years was the model for a good story-book. His landlady’s daughter was his bane. He showed me her photograph; she was a big, handsome, dashing, dressy, vulgar hussy, without character, without tenderness, without mind, and (as the result proved) without virtue. The sickly and timid boy was in the house; he was handy; when she was otherwise unoccupied, she used and played with him—Romeo and Cressida; till in that dreary life of a poor boy in a country town, she grew to be the light of his days and the subject of his dreams. He worked hard, like Jacob, for a wife; he surpassed his patron in sharp practice; he was made head clerk; and the same night, encouraged by a hundred freedoms, depressed by the sense of his youth and his infirmities, he offered marriage and was received with laughter. Not a year had passed, before his master, conscious of growing infirmities, took him for a partner. He proposed again; he was accepted; led two years of troubled married life; and awoke one morning to find his wife had run away with a dashing drummer, and had left him heavily in debt. The debt, and not the drummer, was supposed to be the cause of this hegira; she had concealed her liabilities, they were on the point of bursting forth, she was weary of Bellairs; and she took the drummer as she might have taken a cab. The blow disabled her husband, his partner was dead; he was now alone in the business, for which he was no longer fit; the debts hampered him; bankruptcy followed; and he fled from city to city, falling daily into lower practice. It is to be considered that he had been taught, and had learned as a delightful duty, a kind of business whose highest merit is to escape the commentaries of the bench: that of the usurious lawyer in a county town. With this training, he was now shot, a penniless stranger, into the deeper gulfs of cities; and the result is scarce a thing to be surprised at.