The Wisdom of the Heart

  He went on at this rate without a letup—long monologues about the perfidy, the cruelty and the injustice of man towards man. Really a grand fellow at heart, with good instincts and all the attributes of a citizen of the world, except for the fact that somewhere along the line he had been flung out of the societal orbit and could never get back into it again. I saw from the queries which Rattner interjected now and then that he had hopes for the man. At two in the morning he was optimistic enough to believe that with a little perseverance there might be sown in this rugged heart the seed of hope. To me, much as I liked the fellow, it seemed just as futile as to attempt to reclaim the bad lands of Arizona or Dakota. The only thing society can do with such people, and it never does, is to be kind and indulgent to them. Just as the earth itself, in its endless experiments, comes to a dead end in certain regions, gives up, as it were, so with individuals. The desire to kill the soul, for that’s what it amounts to, is a phenomenon which has an extraordinary fascination for me. Sometimes it lends a grandeur to an individual which seems to rival the sublime struggles of those men whom we consider superior types. Because the gesture of negation, when pure and uncompromising, has also in it the qualities of the heroic. Weaklings are incapable of flinging themselves away in this manner. The weakling merely succumbs while the other, more single-minded character works hand and glove with Fate, egging it on, as it were, and mocking it at the same time. To invoke Fate is to expose oneself to the chaos which the blind forces of the universe are ever ready to set in motion once the will of man is broken. The man of destiny is the extreme opposite: in him we have an example of the miraculous nature of man, in that those same blind forces appear to be harnessed and controlled, directed towards the fulfillment of man’s own microscopic purpose. But to act either way one has to lift himself completely out of the set, reactionary pattern of the ordinary individual. Even to vote for self-destruction demands something of a cosmic approach. A man has to have some definite view of the nature of the world in order to reject it. It is far easier to commit suicide than to kill the soul. There remains the doubt, which not even the most determined destroyer can annihilate, that the task is impossible. If it could be accomplished by an act of will then there would be no need to summon Fate. But it is precisely because the will no longer functions that the hopeless individual surrenders to the powers that be. In short he is obliged to renounce the one act which would deliver him of his torment. Our friend had delivered himself up to John Barleycorn. But beyond a certain point John Barleycorn is powerless to operate. Could one succeed in summoning all the paralyzing and inhibiting forces of the universe there would still remain a frontier, a barrier which nothing but man himself can surmount and invade. The body can be killed, but the soul is imperishable. A man like our friend could have killed himself a thousand times had he the least hope of solving his problem thereby. But he had chosen to relapse, to lie cold and inert like the moon, to crush every fructifying impulse and, by imitating death, finally achieve it in the very heart of his being.

  When he spoke it was the heart which cried out. They had broken his heart, he said, but it was not true. The heart cannot be broken. The heart can be wounded and cause the whole universe to appear as one vast writhing place of anguish. But the heart knows no limits in its ability to endure suffering and torment. Were it otherwise the race would have perished long ago. As long as the heart pumps blood it pumps life. And life can be lived at levels so utterly disparate one from another that in some cases it would appear to be almost extinct. There are just as violent contrasts in the way life is lived by human beings as there are startling contrasts in the fish, the mineral or the vegetable worlds. When we use the term human society we speak of something which defies definition. No one can encompass the thought and behavior of man with a word or phrase. Human beings move in constellations which, unlike the stars, are anything but fixed. A story, such as I am relating, can be of interest or significance to certain clusters of men and totally devoid of any charm or value to others. What would Shakespeare mean to a Patagonian, assuming he could be taught to read the words? What can “The Varieties of Religious Experience” mean to a Hopi Indian? A man goes along thinking the world to be thus and so, simply because he has never been jolted out of the rut in which he crawls like a worm. For the civilized man war is not always the greatest jolt to his smug every day pattern. Some men, and their number is greater I fear than most of us would like to believe, find war an exciting if not altogether agreeable interruption to the toil and drudgery of common life. The presence of death adds spice, quickens their usually torpid brain cells. But there are others, like our friend who, in their revolt against wanton killing, in the bitter realization that no power of theirs will ever put an end to it, elect to withdraw from society and if possible destroy even the chance of returning to earth again at some distant and more propitious moment in human history. They want nothing more to do with man; they want to nip the experiment in the bud. And of course they are just as powerless here as in their efforts to eliminate war. But they are a fascinating species of man and ultimately of value to the race, if for no other reason than that they act as semaphores in those periods of darkness when we seem to be rushing headlong to destruction. The one who operates the switchboard remains invisible and it is in him we put our trust, but as long as we hug the rails the flashing semaphores offer a fleeting consolation. We hope that the engineer will bring us safely to our destination. We sit with arms folded and surrender our safekeeping to other hands. But even the best engineer can only take us over a charted course. Our adventure is in uncharted realms, with courage, intelligence and faith as our only guides. If we have a duty it is to put our trust in our own powers. No man is great enough or wise enough for any of us to surrender our destiny to. The only way in which any one can lead us is to restore to us the belief in our own guidance. The greatest men have always reaffirmed this thought. But the men who dazzle us and lead us astray are the men who promise us those things which no man can honestly promise another—namely safety, security, peace, etc. And the most deceptive of all such promisers are those who bid us kill one another in order to attain the fictive goal.

  Like our friend, thousands, perhaps millions of men, awaken to the realization of their error on the battlefield. When it is too late. When the men whom they no longer have a desire to kill are already upon them, ready to cut their throats. Then it is kill or be killed and whether one kills in the knowledge of the truth or without that knowledge makes little difference The murdering goes on—until the day the sirens scream their announcement of a truce. When peace comes it descends upon a world too exhausted to show any reaction except a dumb feeling of reief. The men at the helm, who were spared the horrors of combat, now play their ignominious role in which greed and hatred rival one another for mastery. The men who bore the brunt of the struggle are too sickened and disgusted to show any desire to participate in the rearrangement of the world. All they ask is to be left alone to enjoy the luxury of the petty, workaday rhythm which once seemed so dull and barren. How different the new order would be if we could consult the veteran instead of the politician! But logic has it that we ordain innocent millions to slaughter one another, and when the sacrifice is completed, we authorize a handful of bigoted, ambitious men who have never known what it is to suffer to rearrange our lives. What chance has a lone individual to dissent when he has nothing to sanction his protest except his wounds? Who cares about wounds when the war is over? Get them out of sight, all these wounded and maimed and mutilated! Resume work! Take up life where you left off, those of you who are still strong and able! The dead will be given monuments; the mutilated will be pensioned off. Let’s get on—business as usual and no feeble sentimentality about the horrors of war. When the next war comes we’ll be ready for them! Und so weiter. . . .

  I was reflecting thus while he and Rattner were exchanging anecdotes about their experiences in France. I was dying to get to bed. Our friend, on the other hand, was obviously becomi
ng more awake; I knew that with the least encouragement he would regale us till dawn with his stories. The more he talked about his misfortunes, oddly enough, the more cheerful he seemed to grow. By the time we managed to persuade him to leave the place he was positively radiant. Out in the street he began bragging again about his wonderful condition—liver, kidneys, bowels, lungs all perfect, eyes super-normal. He had forgotten evidently about his broken glasses, or perhaps that was just an invention by way of breaking the ice.

  We had a few blocks to walk before reaching our hotel. He said he would accompany us because he was going to turn in soon himself. There were some thirty-five cent lodging houses in the vicinity, he thought, where he’d get a few hours sleep. Every few steps, it seemed, he stopped dead and planted himself in front of us to expatiate on some incident which he evidently thought it important for us to hear. Or was it an unconscious desire to delay us in nestling down to our warm cozy beds? More than once, when we finally neared the hotel, we held out our hands to say good night, only to drop them again and stand patiently with one foot in the gutter and one on the curb hearing him out to the end.

  At last I began to wonder if he had the necessary pence to get himself a flop. Just as I was about to inquire Rattner, whose thoughts were evidently running in the same direction, anticipated me. Had he the money for a room? Why, he was pretty certain he did; he had counted his change at the restaurant. Yes, he was quite sure he had enough—and if he hadn’t he would ask us to make it up. Anyhow, that wasn’t important. What was he saying? Oh yes, about Nevada . . . about the crazy ghost towns he had lived in . . . the saloon made of beer bottles and the mechanical piano from the Klondike which he rolled out to the desert one night just to hear how it would sound in that great empty space. Yes, the only people worth talking to were the bar flies. They were all living in the past, like himself. Some day he’d write the whole thing out. “Why bother to do that?” I interposed. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, running his tobacco-stained fingers through his thick curly hair. “I’m going to ask you for a cigarette now,” he said. “I’m all out of mine.” As we lit the cigarette for him he launched into another tale. “Listen,” I said, “make it short, will you. I’m dead tired.” We moved at a snail-like pace across the street to the door of the hotel. As he was winding up his story I put my hand on the handle of the door in readiness to make a break. We started to shake hands again when suddenly he took it into his head to count his change. “I guess I’ll have to borrow three cents from you,” he said. “You can have a couple of bucks if you like,” we both started to say simultaneously. No, he didn’t want that—that might start him drinking all over again. He didn’t want to begin that now—he wanted a little rest first.

  There was nothing to do but give him the three cents and what cigarettes we had left. It hurt Rattner to hand him three pennies. “Why don’t you take a half dollar at least?” he said. “You might use it for breakfast tomorrow.”

  “If you give me a half dollar,” he said, “I’ll probably buy some candles and put them at Robert E. Lee’s monument up the street. It was his birthday today, you know. People have forgotten about him already. Everybody’s snoring now. I sort of like Lee; I revere his memory. He was more than a great general—he was a man of great delicacy and understanding. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll wander up there anyway before turning in. It’s just the sort of fool thing a fellow like me would do. Sleep isn’t so important. I’ll go up there to the monument and talk to him a little while. Let the world sleep! You see. I’m free to do as I please. I’m really better off than a millionaire. . . .”

  “Then there’s nothing more we can do for you?” I said, cutting him short. “You’ve got everything you need, you’ve got your health, you’re happy. . . .”

  I had no more than uttered the word happy when his face suddenly changed and, grasping me by both arms with a steely grip, he wheeled me around and gazing into my eyes with a look I shall never forget, he broke forth: “Happy? Listen, you’re a writer—you should know better than that. You know I’m lying like hell. Happy? Why, brother, you’re looking at the most miserable man on earth.” He paused a moment to brush away a tear. He was still holding me firmly with both hands, determined apparently that I should hear him out. “I didn’t bump into you accidentally tonight,” he continued. “I saw you coming along and I sized you both up. I knew you were artists and that’s why I collared you. I always pick the people I want to talk to. I didn’t lose any glasses at the bar, nor did I give my car to a dealer to sell for me. But everything else I told you is true. I’m just hoofing it from place to place. I’ve only been out of the pen a few weeks. They’ve got their eye on me still—somebody’s been trailing me around town, I know it. One false move and they’ll clap me back in again. I’m giving them the runaround. If I should go up to the circle now and accidentally fall asleep on a bench they’d have the goods on me. But I’m too wary for that. I’ll just amble about leisurely and when I’m good and ready I’ll turn in. The bartender’ll fix me up in the morning. . . . Look, I don’t know what kind of stuff you write, but if you’ll take a tip from me the thing to do is to learn what it is to suffer. No writer is any good unless he’s suffered. . . .”

  At this point Rattner was about to say something in my behalf, but I motioned to him to be silent. It was a strange thing for me to be listening to a man urging me to suffer. I had always been of the opinion that I had had more than my share of suffering. Evidently it didn’t show on my face. Or else the fellow was so engrossed with his own misfortunes that he was unable or unwilling to recognize the marks in another. So I let him ramble on. I listened to the last drop without once seeking to interrupt him. When he had finished I held out my hand for the last time to say good-bye. He took my hand in both of his and clasped it warmly. “I’ve talked your head off, haven’t I?” he said, that strange ecstatic smile lighting up his face. “Look, my name is So-and-So.” It sounded like Allison or Albertson. He began digging for his wallet. “I’d like to give you an address,” he said, “where you could drop me a line.” He was searching for something to write on, but couldn’t seem to find a card or blank piece of paper among the litter of documents he earned in that thick wallet. “Well, you give me yours,” he said. “That will do. I’ll write you some time.”

  Rattner was writing out his name and address for the fellow. He took the card and put it carefully in his wallet. He waited for me to write mine.

  “I have no address,” I said. “Besides, we’ve got nothing more to say to each other. I don’t think we’ll ever meet again. You’re bent on destroying yourself, and I can’t stop you, nor can anybody else. What’s the good of pretending that we’ll write one another? Tomorrow I’ll be somewhere else and so will you. All I can say is I wish you luck.” With that I pulled the door open and walked into the lobby of the hotel. Rattner was still saying good-bye to him.

  As I stood there waiting for the elevator boy he waved his hand cheerily. I waved back. Then he stood a moment, swaying on his heels and apparently undecided whether to go towards the monument or turn round and look for a flop. Just as the elevator boy started the lift going he signalled for us to wait. I signalled back that it was too late. “Go on up,” I said to the boy. As we rose up out of sight our friend stood there in front of the hotel door peering up at us with a blank expression. I didn’t feel that it was a lousy thing to do, leave him standing there like that. I looked at Rattner to see how he felt about it. He sort of shrugged his shoulders. “What can you do with a guy like that?” he said, “he won’t let you help him.” As we entered the room and turned on the lights, he added: “You surely did give him a jolt when you told him he was happy. Do you know what I thought he was going to do? I thought he was going to crack you. Did you notice the look that came over him? And when you refused to give him your name and address, well that just about finished him. I couldn’t do that. I’m not reproaching you—I just wonder why you acted that way. You could just as well have let him down
easy, couldn’t you?”

  I was about to smile, but so many thoughts entered my head at once that I forgot and instead I frowned.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” said Rattner, misinterpreting my expression. “I think you were damned patient with him. You hardly said a word all evening. . . .”

  “No, it’s not that,” I said. “I’m not thinking of myself. I’m thinking of all the fellows like him I’ve met in one short lifetime. Listen, did I ever tell you about my experience with the telegraph company? Hell, it’s late and I know you’re fagged out. So am I. But I just want to tell you one or two things. I’m not trying to defend myself, mind you. I’m guilty, if you like. Maybe I could have done something, said something—I don’t know what or how. Sure, I did let him down. And what’s more I probably hurt him deeply. But I figured it would do him good, if you can believe that. I never crossed him once, did I, or criticized him, or urged him to change his ways? No, I never do that. If a man is determined to go to the dogs I help him—I give him a little push if needs be. If he wants to get on his feet I help him to do that. Whatever he asks for. I believe in letting a man do as he pleases, for good or bad, because eventually well all wind up in the same place. But what I was starting to tell you is this—I’ve heard so many terrible tales, met so many guys like this Allison or Albertson, that I’ve hardly got an ounce of sympathy left in me. That’s a horrible thing to say, but it’s true. Get this—in one day, sometimes, I’ve had as many as a half-dozen men break down and weep before me, beg me to do something for them, or if not for them, for their wives and children. In four years I hardly ever had more than four or five hours’ sleep a night, largely because I was trying to help people who were helpless to help themselves. What money I earned I gave away; when I couldn’t give a man a job myself I went to my friends and begged them to give a man the work he needed. I brought them home and fed them; I fixed them up on the floor when the beds were full. I got hell all around for doing too much and neglecting my own wife and child. My boss looked upon me as a fool, and instead of praising me for my efforts bawled hell out of me continually. I was always between two fires, from above and from below. I saw finally that no matter how much I did it was just a drop in the bucket. I’m not saying that I grew indifferent or hardened. No, but I realized that it would take a revolution to make any appreciable change in conditions. And when I say a revolution I mean a real revolution, something far more radical and sweeping than the Russian revolution, for instance. I still think that, but I don’t think it can be done politically or economically. Governments can’t bring it about. Only individuals, each one working in his own quiet way. It must be a revolution of the heart. Our attitude towards life has to be fundamentally altered. We’ve got to advance to another level, a level from which we can take in the whole earth with one glance. We have to have a vision of the globe, including all the people who inhabit it—down to the lowest and the most primitive man.