Speaker 1: 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