Their Low's Christmas Story by John Kendrick Bangs, one being the statement of Henry
Thurlow, author to George Carrier, editor of The Idler, a weekly journal
of human interest. I have always maintained, my dear Carrier, that if
man wishes to be considered sane and has any particular regard for his reputation as
a truth teller, he would better keep silent as to the singular experiences that
enter into his life. I have had many such experiences myself, but I
have rarely confided them in detail or otherwise to those about me, because I
know that even the most trustful of my friends would regard them merely as the
outcome of an imagination unrestrained by conscience, or of a gradually weakening mind subject
to hallucinations. I know them to be true. But until mister Edison or
some other modern wizard has invented a searchlight strong enough to lay bare the secrets
of the mind and conscience of man, I cannot prove to others that they
are not pure fabrications, or at least the conjurings of a diseased fancy.
For instance, no man would believe me if I were to state to him
the plain and indisputable fact that one night last month, on my way up
to bed, shortly after midnight, having been neither smoking nor drinking, I
saw confronting me upon the stairs, with the moonlight streaming through the windows back
of me, lighting up its face, a figure in which I recognized my
very self in every form and feature. I might describe the chill of terror
that struck to the very marrow of my bones and well nigh forced me to
stagger backward down the stairs, as I noticed in the face of this confronting
figure every indication of all the bad qualities which I know myself to possess,
of every evil instinct which by no easy effort I have repressed heretofore, and
realized that that thing was, as far as I knew, entirely independent of
my true self, in which I hope, at least the moral has made
an honest fight against the immoral. Always. I might describe this chill,
I say, as vividly as I felt it at that moment, but it
would be of no use to do so, because, however realistic it might
prove, is a bit of description, no man would believe that the incident
really happened, and yet it did happen as truly as I write, And
it has happened a dozen times since, and I am certain that it will
happen many times again, though I would give all that I possess to be
assured that never again should that disquieting creation of mind or matter, whichever it
may be, cross my path. The experience has made me afraid almost to
be alone, and I have found myself unconsciously and uneasily glancing at my face
and mirrors in the plate glass of show windows on the shopping streets of the
city, fearful lest I should find some of those evil traits which I have
struggled to keep under, and have kept under so far, cropping out there
where all the world, all my world, can see and wonder at it.
Having known me always as a man of right doing and right feeling,
many a time in the night, the thought has come to me with prostrating
force, what if that thing were to be seen and recognized by others myself,
and yet not my whole self, my unworthy self, unrestrained and yet
recognizable as Henry Thurlow. I have also kept silent as to that strange condition
of affairs which has tortured me in my sleep for the past year and a
half. No one but myself has until this writing known that for that period
of time I have had a continuous logical dream life, A life so vivid
and so dreadfully real to me that I have found myself at times wondering which
of the two lives I was living and which I was dreaming. A life
in which that other, wicked self has dominated and forced me to a career
of shame and horror, A life which, being taken up every time I
sleep where it ceased with the awakening from a previous sleep, has made me
fear to close my eyes in forgetfulness. When others are near at hand lest
sleeping, I shall let fall some speech that striking on their ears shall lead
them to believe that in secret there is some wicked mystery connected with my life.
It would be of no use for me to tell these things. It
would merely serve to make my family and my friends uneasy about me if they
were told in their awful detail, and so I have kept silent about them
to you alone. And now, for the first time have I hinted as
to the troubles which have oppressed me for many days, and to you they
are confided only because the demand you have made that I explain to you the
extraordinary complication in which the Christmas Story sent you last week has involved me.
You know that I am a man of dignity, that I am not a
schoolboy and a lover of childish trick, and knowing that your friendship at least
should have restrained your tongue and pen when through the former on Wednesday, you
accused me of perpetrating a trifling and to you excessively embarrassing practical joke, a
charge which at the moment I was too overcome to refute, And through the
latter on Thursday, you reiterated the accusation, coupled with a demand for an
explanation of my conduct satisfactory to yourself, or my immediate resignation from the staff
of the Idler. To explain is difficult, for I am certain that you
will find the explanation too improbable for credence, But explain I must the alternative
that of resigning from your staff affects not only my own welfare but that of
my children, who must be provided for. And if my post with you
is taken from me, then are all resources gone. I have not the
courage to face dismissal, for I have not sufficient confidence in my powers to
please elsewhere to make me easy in my mind, or if I could please
elsewhere, the certainty of finding the immediate employment of my talents, which is
necessary to me in view of the present overcrowded condition of the literary field.
To explain, then my seeming jest at your expense, hopeless as it appears
to be, is my task, and to do so as completely as I
can. Let me go back to the very beginning. In August. You
informed me that you would expect me to provide as I have heretofore been in
the habit of doing a story for the Christmas issue of The Idler, that
a certain position in the makeup was reserved for me, and that you had
already taken steps to advertise the fact that the story would appear. I undertook
the commission, and, upon seven different occasions, set about putting the narrative
into shape. I found great difficulty, however, in doing so. For
some reason or other, I could not concentrate my mind upon the work.
No sooner would I start in on one story than a better one, in
my estimation, would suggested itself to me, and all the labor expended on
the story already begun would be cast aside, and the news story set in
motion. Ideas were plenty enough, but to put them properly upon paper seemed
beyond my powers. One story, however, I did finish, but after
it had come back to me from my typewriter, I read it and was
filled with consternation to discover that it was nothing more nor less than a mass
of jumpled sentences, conveying no idea to the mind. A story which it
seemed to me in the writing to be coherent, had returned to me as
a mere bit of incoherence, formless without ideas, a bit of raving.
It was then that I went to you and told you, as you remember,
that I was worn out and needed a month of absolute rest, which
you granted. I left my work wholly and went into the wilderness, where
I could be entirely free from everything suggesting labor, and where no summons back
to town could reach me. I fished and hunh I slept, and although
as I have already said in my sleep, I found myself leading a life
that was not only not to my taste, but horrible to me in many
particulars. I was able, at the end of my vacation to come back
to town greatly refreshed, and as far as my feelings went, ready to
undertake any amount of work. For two or three days after my return,
I was busy with other things. On the fourth day after my arrival,
you came to me and said that the story must be finished, at the
very latest by October fifteenth, and I assured you that you should have it
by that time. That night I said about it. I mapped it out
incident by incident, and before starting up to bed, had actually written some
twelve or fifteen hundred words of the opening chapter. It was to be told
in four chapters. When I had gone thus far, I experienced a slight
return of one of my nervous chills, and on consulting my watch, discovered
that it was after midnight, which was a sufficient explanation of my mind nervousness.
I was merely tired. I arranged my manuscripts on my table so that
I might easily take up the work The following morning. I locked up the
windows and doors, turned out the lights, and proceeded upstairs to my room.
It was then that I first came face to face with myself, that
other self in which I recognized developed to the full every bit of my capacity
for an evil life. Conceive of the situation if you can imagine the horror
of it, and then ask yourself if it was likely that when next morning
came, I could, by any possibility bring myself to my work table in
fit condition to prepare for you anything at all worthy of publication, And the
idler I tried. I implore you to believe that I did not hold lightly
the responsibilities of the commission you had entrusted to my hands. You must know
that if any of your writers has a full appreciation of the difficulties which are
strewn along the path of an editor, I, who have myself had an
editorial experience, have it, and so would not, in the nature of
things, do anything to add to your troubles. You cannot but believe that
I have made an honest effort to fulfill my promise to you. But it
was useless, And for a week after that visitation was it useless for me
to attempt the work. At the end of the week I felt better and
again I started in and the story developed satisfactorily, until it came again that
figure, which was my own figure, that face, which was the evil
counterpart of my own countenance, again rose up before me, and once more
was I plunged into hopelessness. Thus matters went on until the fourteenth of October,
when I received your peremptory message that the story must be forthcoming the following
day. Needless to tell you that it was not forthcoming. But what I
must tell you, since you do not know it, is that on the
evening of the fifteenth day of October, a strange thing happened to me.
And in the narration of that incident, which I almost despair of your believing,
lies my explanation of the discovery of October sixteenth, which has placed my
position with you in peril. At half past seven o'clock on the evening of
October fifteenth, I was sitting in my library trying to write. I was
alone, my wife and children had gone away on a visit to Massachusetts for
a week. I had just finished my cigar and had taken my pen in
hand when my front door bell rang. Our maid, who is usually prompt
in answering summonses of this nature apparently did not hear the bell, for she
did not respond to its clanging. Again, the bell rang, and still
did it remain unanswered, until finally, at the third ringing, I went
to the door myself. On opening it, I saw standing before me a
man of I should say fifty odd years of age, tall, slender,
pale faced, and clad in somber black. He was entirely unknown to me.
I had never seen him before, but he had about him such an
air of pleasantness and wholesomeness that I instinctively felt glad to see him, without
knowing why or whence he had come. Does mister Thurlow live here? He
asked? You must excuse me for going into what may seem to you to
be petty details. But by a perfectly circumstantial account of all that happened that
evening alone, can I hope to give a semblance of truth to my story,
And that it must be truthful? I realize as painfully as you do.
I am mister Thurlow, I replied, Henry Thurlow, the author,
he said, with a surprised look upon his face. Yes, said I,
and then, impelled by the strange appearance, of surprise on the man's
countenance, I added, don't I look like an author? He laughed and
candidly admitted that I was not the kind of looking man he had expected to
find from reading my books. And then he entered the house in response to
my invitation that he do so. I ushered him into my library, and,
after asking him to be seated, inquired as to his business with me.
His answer was gratifying at least. He replied that he had been a
reader of my writings for a number of years, and that for some time
past he had had a great desire, not to say curiosity, to meet
me and tell me how much he had enjoyed certain of my stories. I'm
a great devourer of books, mister Thurlow, he said, and I have
taken the keenest delight in reading your verses in humorous sketches. I may go
further and say to you that you have helped me over many a hard place
in my life by your work. At times when I felt myself worn out
with my business, or face to face with some knotty problem in my career,
I found much relief in picking up and reading your books at random.
They've helped me to forget my weariness or my knotty problems for the time being,
and to day, finding myself in this town, I resolved to call
upon you this evening and thank you for all that you've done for me.
Thereupon we became involved in a general discussion of literary men in their works,
and I found that my visitor certainly did have a pretty thorough knowledge of what
has been produced by the writers of today. I was quite won over to
him by a simplicity, as well as attracted to him by his kindly opinion
of my own efforts, and I did my best to entertain him, showing
him a few of my little literary treasures in the way of autograph letters,
photographs, and presentation copies of well known books from the authors themselves. From
this we drifted naturally and easily into a talk on the methods of work adopted
by literary men. He asked me many questions as to my own methods,
and when I had, in a measure outlined to him the manner of life
which I had adopted, telling him of my days at home, how little
detail office work I had, he seemed much interested with the picture. Indeed,
I painted the picture of my daily routine in almost two perfect colors.
For When I had finished, he observed quietly that I appeared to him to
lead the ideal life, and added that he supposed I knew very little unhappiness.
The remark recalled to me the dreadful reality that, through some perversity of
faith, I was doomed to visitations of an uncanny order, which were practically
destroying my usefulness in my profession and my sole financial resource. Well, I
replied, as my mind reverted to the unpleasant predicament in which I found myself,
I can't say that I know little unhappiness. As a matter of fact,
I know a great deal of that undesirable thing. At the present moment,
I am very much embarrassed through my absolute inability to fulfill a contract into
which I have entered, and which should have been filled this morning. I
was due to day with a Christmas story. The presses are waiting for it,
and I am utterly unable to write it. He appeared deeply concerned at
the confession. I had hoped, indeed, that he might be sufficiently concerned
to take his departure, that I might make one more effort to write the
promised story. His solicitude, however, showed itself in another way. Instead
of leaving me, he ventured the hope that he might aid me. What
kind of a story is it to be, he asked, Oh, the
usual ghostly tale, I said, with a dash of the Christmas flavor,
thrown in here and there to make it suitable to the season. Ah,
he observed, and you find your vein worked out. It was a direct
and perhaps impertinent question, but I thought it best to answer it, and
to answer it as well without giving him any clue as to the real facts.
I could not very well take an entire stranger into my confidence and describe
to him the extraordinary encounters I was having with an uncanny other self. He
would not have believed the truth. Hence I told him an untruth and assented
his proposition. Yes, I replied, the vein is worked out. I've
written ghosts stories for years now, serious and comic, and I am today
at the end of my tether, compelled to move forward and yet held back.
That accounts for it, he said, simply. When I first saw
you tonight at the door, I could not believe that the author who had
provided me with so much merriment could be so pale and worn and seemingly mirthless.
Pardon me, mister Thurlow, for my lack of consideration when I told
you that you did not appear as I had expected to find you. I
smiled my forgiveness, and he continued. It may be, he said,
with a show of hesitation, it may be that I have come not altogether
inopportunely. Perhaps I can help you. I smiled again. I should be
most grateful if you could, I said, But you doubt my ability to
do so. He put in, Oh, well, yes, of course
you do, and why shouldn't you. Nevertheless, I have noticed this at
times when I have been baffled in my work, A mere hint from another,
from one who knew nothing of my work, has carried me onto a
solution of my problem. I've read most of your writings, and I've thought
over some of them many a time, and I have even had ideas for
stories which, in my own conceit I have imagined were good enough for you.
And I have wished that I possessed your facility with the pen, that
I might make of them myself what I thought you would make of them had
they been ideas of your own. The gentleman's pallid face reddened as he said
this, and while I was hopeless as to anything of value resulting from his
ideas, I could not resist the temptation to hear what he had to say.
Further, his manner was so deliciously simple, and his desire to aid
me so manifest. He rattled on with suggestions for a half hour. Some
of them were good, but none were new. Some were irresistibly funny,
and did me good because they made me laugh, and I hadn't left naturally
for a period so long that it made me shudder to think of it,
fearing lest I should forget how to be mirthful. Finally, I grew tired
of his persistence, and with a very ill concealed impatience, told him plainly
that I could do nothing with his suggestions, thanking him, however, for
the spirit of kindliness which had prompted him to offer them. He appeared somewhat
hurt, but immediately desisted, and when nine o'clock came, he rose up
to go. As he walked to the door, he seemed to be undergoing
some mental struggle, to which, with a sudden resolve, he finally succumbed,
for after having picked up his hat and stick and donned his overcoat,
he turned to me and said, mister Thurlow, I don't want to offend
you. On the contrary, it is my dearest wish to assist you.
You have helped me, as I have told you. Why may I not
help you? I assure you, sir, I began when he interrupted me.
One moment, please, he said, putting his hand into the inside
pocket of his black coat and extracting from it an envelope addressed to me.
Let me finish. It is the whim of one who has an affection for
you. For ten years, I have secretly been at work myself on a
story. It is a short one, but it has seemed good to me.
I had a double object in seeking you out tonight. I wanted not
only to see you, but to read my story to you. No one
knows that I have written it. I had intended it as a surprise to
my to my friends. I had hoped to have it published somewhere, and
I'd come here to seek your advice in the matter. It is a story
which I have written, and rewritten, and rewritten time and time again.
In my leisure moments during the ten years past. As I have told you,
it is not likely that I shall ever write another. I am proud
of having done it, but I should be prouder yet if it, if
it could in some way help you. I leave it with you, sir,
to print or to destroy. And if you print it, to see
it in type will be enough for me to see your name signed to it
will be a matter of pride to me. No one will be ever the
wiser, For as I say, no one knows I have written it,
and I promise you that no one shall know of it. If you decide
to do as I not only suggest, but ask you to do. No
one would believe me after it has appeared as yours. Even if I should
forget my promise and claim it as my own, take it it is yours.
You are entitled to it as a slight measure of repayment for the debt
of gratitude I owe you. He pressed the manuscript into my hand, and
before I could reply, had opened the door and disappeared into the darkness of
the street. I rushed to the sidewalk and shouted out to him to return.
But I might as well save my breath and spared the neighborhood, for
there was no answer. Holding his story in my hand, I re entered
the house and walked back into my library, where, sitting and reflecting upon
the curious interview, I realized for the first time that I was in entire
ignorance as to my visitor's name and address. I opened the envelope, hoping
to find them, but they were not there. The envelope contained merely a
finely written manuscript of thirty odd pages, unsigned, and then I read the
story. When I began, it was with a half smile upon my lips,
and with a feeling that I was wasting my time. The smile soon
faded. However, after reading the first paragraph, there was no question of
wasted time. The story was a masterpiece. It is needless to say to
you that I am not a man of enthusiasms. It is difficult to roused
that emotion in my breast, But upon this occasion I yielded to a force
too great for me to resist. I've read the tales of Hoffmann and of
Poe, the wondrous romances of de la motte Fuch, the unfortunately little known
tales of the lamented Fitz James O'Brien. The weird tales of writers of all
tongues have been thoroughly sifted by me in the course of my reading. And
I say to you now that in the whole of my life, I never
read one story, one paragraph, one line, that could approach in vivid
delineation, in weirdness of conception, in anything in the quality which goes to
make up the truly great story. That story which came into my hands,
as I have told you, I read it once and was amazed. I
read it a second time and was tempted. It was mine. The writer
himself had authorized me to treat it as if it were my own, had
voluntarily sacrificed his own claim to its authorship that he might relieve me of my
very pressing embarrassment. And not only this, he had almost intimated that in
putting my name to his work, I should be doing him a favor.
Why not do so? Then, I asked myself, and immediately my better
self rejected the idea as impossible. How could I put out as my own
another man's work and retain my self respect? I resolved on another and better
course to send you the story in lieu of my own, with a full
statement of the circumstances under which it had come into my possession. When that
demon rose up out of the floor at my side, this time more evil
of aspect than before, more commanding in its manner. With a groan,
I shrank back into the cushions of my chair, and, by passing my
hands over my eyes, tried to obliterate forever the offending sight. But it
was useless. The uncanny thing approached me, and, as truly as I
write, sat upon the edge of my couch, where for the first time
it addressed me fool it said, how can you hesitate? Here's your position.
You have made a contract which must be filled. You are already behind
and in a hopeless mental state. Even granting that between this and tomorrow morning
you could put together the necessary number of words to fill the space allotted to
you, what kind of a thing do you think that story would make?
It would be a mere raving, like that other precious effort of August.
The public, if by some odd chance it ever reached them, would think
your mind was utterly gone. Your reputation would go with that verdict. On
the other hand, if you do not have the story ready. By tomorrow,
your hold on the Idler will be destroyed. They have their announcements printed,
and your name and portrait appear among those of the prominent contributors. Do
you suppose the editor and publisher will look leniently upon your failure considering my past
record? Yes, I replied, I have never yet broken a promise to
them, which is preci the reason why they will be severe with you,
You, who have been regarded as one of the few men who can do
almost any kind of literary work. It will you, of whom it is
said that your brains are on tap? Will they be lenient with you?
Bah? Can't you see that the very fact of your invariable readiness heretofore,
is going to make your present unreadiness a thing incomprehensible? Then what shall I
do? I asked? If I can't, I can't. That is all
you can. There's the story in your hands. Think what it will do
for you. It is one of the immortal stories. You've read it?
Then, I asked, haven't you? Yes, but it is the same,
it said, with a leer and a contemptuous shrug. You and I
are inseparable, aren't you? Glad, it added, with a laugh that
grated on every fiber of my being. I was too overwhelmed to reply,
and it resumed. It is one of the immortal stories we agree to that
published over your name, your name will live. The stuff you write yourself
will give you present glory. But when you've been dead ten years, people
won't remember your name, even unless I get control of you. And in
that case there is a very pretty, though hardly a literary record in store
for you. Again, it laughed harshly, and I buried my face in
the pillows of my couch, hoping to find relief there from this dreadful vision.
Curious, it said, what you call your decent self doesn't dare look
me in the eye. What a mistake people make who say that the man
who won't look you in the eye is not to be trusted, as if
mere brazenness were a sign of honesty. Really, the theory of decency is
the most amusing thing in the world. But come, your time is growing
short. Take that story. The writer gave it to you, begged you
to use it as your own. It is yours. It will make your
reputation and save you with your publishers how can you hesitate? I shall not
use it, I cried desperately. I must consider your children. Suppose you
lose your connection with these publishers of yours, but it would be a crime,
not a bit of it. Whom do you rob a man who voluntarily
came to you and gave you that of which you rob him. Think of
it as it is, and act only act quickly. It is now midnight.
The tempter rose up and walked to the other end of the room.
Whence, while he pretended to be looking over a few of my books and
pictures, I was aware he was eyeing me closely and gradually compelling me by
sheer force of will to do a thing which I abhorred. And I struggled
weakly against the temptation. But gradually, little by little I yielded, and
finally succumbed altogether. Springing to my feet, I rushed to the table,
seized my pen, and signed my name to the story. There I said
it is done. I have saved my position and made my reputation, and
am now a thief as well as a fool, said the other, calmly,
you don't mean to say you are going to send that manuscript in as
it is. Good, Lord, I cried, what under heaven have you
been trying to make me do for the last half hour? Act like a
sane being, said the demon. If you send that manuscript to courier,
I'll know in a minute it isn't yours. He knows you haven't in ammanuensis,
and that handwriting isn't yours. Copy it true, I answered, I
haven't much of a mind for details. Tonight, I will do as you
say. I did so, I got out my pad and pen and ink,
and for three hours diligently applied myself to the task of copying the story.
When it was finished, I went over it carefully, made a few
minor corrections, signed it, put it in an envelope, addressed it to
you, stamped it, and went out to the mailbox on the corner,
where I dropped it into the slot and returned home. When I had returned
to my library, my visitor was still there. Well, it said,
I wish you'd hurry and complete this effect. I am tired and wished to
go. You can't go too soon to please me, said I, gathering
up the original manuscripts of the story and preparing to put them away in my
desk. Probably not, it sneered. I'll be glad to go too,
But I can't go until that manuscript is destroyed. As long as it exists,
there is evidence of your having appropriated the work of another. Why can't
you see that? Burn it? I can't see my way clear in crime,
I retorted, it is not in my line. Nevertheless, realizing the
value of his advice, I thrust the pages one by one into the blazing
log fire and watched them as they flared and flamed and grew to ashes.
As the last page disappeared in the embers, the demon vanished. I was
alone, and, throwing myself down for a moment's reflection upon my couch,
was soon lost in sleep. It was noon when I again opened my eyes,
and ten minutes after I awakened, your telegraphic summons reached me. Come
down at once, was what you said, and I went, and then
came the terrible de Nuemont and yet a de Numont, which was pleasing to
me since it relieved my conscience. You handed me the envelope containing the story.
Did you send that? Was your question? I did last night,
or rather early this morning. I mailed at about three o'clock, I replied,
I demand an explanation of your conduct, said you of what I asked.
Look at your so called story and see if this is a practical joke,
Thurlough. It's a damned poor one. I opened the envelope and took
from it the sheets I had sent you, twenty four of them. They
were every one of them as blank as when they left the paper mill.
You know the rest. You know that I tried to speak, that my
utterance failed me, and that, finding myself unable at the time to control
my emotions, I turned and rushed madly from the office, leaving the mystery
unexplained. You know that you wrote demanding a satisfactory explanation of the situation or
my resignation from your staff. This, this carrier, is my explanation.
It is all I have. It is absolute truth. I beg you to
believe it, for if you do not, then is my condition a hopeless
one. You will ask me, perhaps for a resume of the story which
I thought I had sent you. It is my crowning misfortune that upon that
point my mind is an absolute blank. I cannot remember it in form or
in substance. I've racked my brains for some recollection of some small portion of
it to help make my explanation more credible, but alas it will not come
back to me. If I were dishonest, I might fake up a story
to suit the purpose. But I am not dishonest. I came near to
doing an unworthy act. I did do an unworthy thing, but by some
mysterious provision of fate, my conscience is cleared of that. Be sympathetic,
Carrier, or if you cannot be lenient with me this time, believe,
believe, Believe Eve. I implore you pray, let me hear from you
at once, Signed Henry Thurlow. Two being a note from George Carrier,
editor of The Idler, to Henry Thurlow, author. Your explanation has come
to hand as an explanation. It isn't worth the paper it is written on,
but we are all agreed here that it is probably the best bit of
fiction you ever wrote. It is accepted for the Christmas issue enclosed Please find
check for one hundred dollars. Dawson suggests that you take another month up in
the Addiron Decks. You might put in your time writing up some account of
that dream life you are leading. While you are there, it seems to
me there are possibilities in the idea the concern will pay all expenses. What
do you say? Signed yours ever, g c. End of Thurlow's Christmas
Story by John Kendrick Bangs