Read Ebook: Wesblock the autobiography of an automaton by Walters Harry McDonald

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Ebook has 672 lines and 52023 words, and 14 pages

This question of mine, "How do you know?" became a byword in the family. Father thought it very amusing, and used it very much as an actor uses a bit of gag. It is a very disconcerting question when put earnestly.

Our family, I may explain, taken in all its branches, was a very large one, and of the common sort that would be called middle class in England. My father, who was the only son of my grandmother's third husband, was a King to all the tribes,--to the grandmothers, grandfathers, aunts, uncles, the various great aunts, and the one great-uncle and the one great-grandfather--who lived during my childhood. They all bowed down to him, and he dominated them, although by calling he was only a book-keeper in a wholesale grocery firm. My mother, let me add, was the eldest daughter of a Civil servant in the Montreal Post Office.

Scarlet fever was a very much more dreadful disease when I was a child than it is now-a-days. Not only have methods of treatment improved greatly, but the disease itself is not so deadly, or perhaps man's resisting powers have increased. It is a pity that diseases like everything else do not grow old and weak and lose their power to destroy.

After I had been ill for several weeks a consultation of the doctors was held, and they declared solemnly that my recovery was impossible, since with every organ diseased or weakened I could not live. In any case it hardly seemed worth while to live, for I was both deaf and dumb. However there must have been within me some great vital power of resistance that the doctors did not know about, seeing that I finally made a kind of recovery, and persisted on my precarious way.

Trained nurses were not common in those days. I probably should have died if they had been. Only the great love of a mother can give the nursing that I received. Surely many times she must have wished that death would end the horrible struggle, but still she fought for me and hoped.

I was naturally of a tender, clinging and dependent character, and my illness certainly intensified those unfortunate characteristics. As I recovered, mother taught me things. I could not hear or speak; but I could see and use my hands, and she taught me to knit and tat and crotchet. These small and much despised things, I believe, helped to save my life. If I had been forced to lie idle amidst the great silence of deafness, unable to speak, I surely would have died of mental inanition. Using my hands renewed my interest in life. Speech at last came slowly back, hearing to some extent, and for the second time in my life I learned to walk.

I can see myself now as I struggled up on my poor shaky pins. How I sweated and trembled. How proud I was! I was exultant because I could stand up. I felt as though I were some wild and blood-thirsty barbarian who had slain a powerful enemy by a great feat of strength. I stood up on my own legs, every nerve atingle, every muscle trying to do its office. I held on to chairs and tables while the moisture fairly trickled down my face, and even the backs of my hands were wet. "Ah ha!" I said to myself, "I knew I could do it."

I made an effort to walk from one chair to another, only a couple of steps, and fell prone upon my face. It was a disaster, a great failure. I was heart-broken and burst into a violent fit of crying, refusing to be comforted. This little scene broke my mother down. I had never seen her weep when I was fighting the scarlet fever. Now we wept together.

My mother at this time was twenty-four years of age. She was very beautiful. Her hair, which she wore severely plain, was black as jet. Her cheeks were pink, and soft and velvety to the touch; on one of them she had a mole. Her eyes were dark and deep set, with dark shadows under them. Her expression was sad, sweet and full of love; her smile pleasant but wistful. She had a great heart, but not much mind of her own, being completely dominated by my father, whom she worshipped with a foolish worship.

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 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.

The Canon had a balky horse with a hairless tail which he really appeared to delight in belabouring. On one occasion his little daughter Mabel and several of the school boys were present while he thrashed this horse without mercy. The horse was harnessed to a heavily ladened stone-boat so that he could not bolt. Mabel screamed a little weak "Oh!"

"Go into the house, daughter," said the Canon.

"But father," she began. She got no further when slash came the whip about her poor little legs.

"Into the house," the Canon shouted. A boy standing by with every expression of rooted horror upon his face was suddenly discovered.

"What are you gaping at, you silly little ass?" said the old man. At the same instant he struck him on the side of the head with his open hand a blow which nearly felled him. I was the stricken boy.

The rod was never spared in this school, with the result that every one lied and deceived systematically.

Sundays under the Canon were a horror. We rose at eight o'clock and went to prayers before breakfast. After breakfast we had time to dress and to go to Bible-class. Bible-class ended just in time for church, and immediately after church we dined. The Canon offered up a particularly long blessing before Sunday dinner. It always spoiled what little appetite I had. His voice at any time was not a pleasant one, but his hypocritical Sunday tone was exasperating. After dinner we sat in the schoolroom and studied the lesson and collect for the day. At three we went to Sunday School, which lasted till nearly five. From five to six we walked with a teacher--a pusillanimous wretch without a soul. We had tea at six and went to church at seven. I doubt if a more perfect programme could be elaborated for the purpose of disgusting children with religion.

The Canon's favourite hymn was "Abide with me." Perhaps he was aware that the more foolish parents there were who would send poor, helpless children to abide with him the more satisfying would be his income.

It is not surprising that I heartily hated Church and all it implied; with a very special hatred for "Abide with me," in which I had been forced to lift up my voice hundreds of times before I was fifteen years old.

I was so unhappy in the house of Canon Barr that I decided I must leave or die; it did not matter which. To effect my release I pretended to have gone violently insane. It is not certain if I deceived the Canon, but I think I did. When the foolish idea first came to me, I did not realise what a strain acting the madman would be, or how I could make an end of the comedy. I just played my little part and trusted to luck.

I started moderately by doing foolish things, grinning at every one one minute and being cross the next; striking and slapping all who approached me. This brought the Canon down on me with his favourite implement of torture--a nice, smooth flour barrel stave with a handle whittled at one end. He thought it was a case of ordinary rebellion. But one blow from the barrel stave was enough for me; and its effect, I fancy, startled the old brute. I flew at him like a wild cat, kicked his shins, bit him on the hand and on the calf of his leg, and tore his gown to ribbons. Of course I was no match for the Canon and his barrel stave, and received unmerciful punishment; but I played the game, throwing ink bottles, rulers, books, anything that came to hand, in the old fellow's face, and overturning desks and chairs like a maniac. He called on the boys for assistance. I brandished a ruler and threatened dire vengeance in a loud hysterical voice against any one who dared approach me, and the boys held back. I was not subdued till the hired man came to the rescue, and bundled me into my room and locked me up. There I continued to howl aloud, and destroy every breakable thing. When I had screamed myself hoarse and was tired out I lay down on my bed and cried till I fell asleep. When I awoke it was nearly dark. There were people in the room, so I remained quiet with closed eyes to discover if any conversation would give me a cue for my next move in the drama. I was rewarded for my cunning by hearing the voice of the village doctor telling the Canon to keep me very quiet and to send for my parents. In a minute they withdrew, and presently a lamp and my supper were brought me by a very nervous maid.

The next day I was in a raging fever. My mother arrived in the evening and to her I confessed. I was forgiven, taken home, and not sent to another boarding school.

Sending children to boarding schools is an admission of incapacity made by a great many parents who are too lazy or ignorant to superintend the early years of a child's up-bringing; or else it is done in vanity as the proper thing.

There are possibly good boarding schools where children are better than they would be at home, but I never knew one. The only good reason for sending the young to be cared for by strangers is when the home for some reason is not a fit place. No doubt a good boarding school is better than a bad home; but no boarding school is as good as a good home and wise parents. Girls brought up in fashionable schools are notoriously ignorant and useless.

One pleasant memory remains to me of the Canon's school. It is that of a little girl with blue eyes, golden hair, red pouty lips and blunt nose. She was a day scholar from the village, where her father kept a general store. I never had much opportunity to speak to her, and she was very shy when I did; yet it was a pleasure just to look at her. When the Canon frightened her by shouting and pounding his desk with his large hard hand I was maddened to the fury point. She was a gentle little creature, truthful, believing and good-hearted; a thing so little understood by the Canon that he called her "Little Blockhead." When I was robbed of my meals, which frequently happened as punishment for some fault, "Little Blockhead" would bring me biscuits on the sly. Whether the Canon made me forego meals wholly as a punishment for my misdeeds, or partly in delight to torture me and save victuals, I cannot say. But for whatever cause it was, I really did not mind it, and sometimes even looked forward to it so that "Little Blockhead" could feed me from her pocket.

During the miserable days at the Canon's my little brother died suddenly without giving me a last sweet hug and kiss. He was ten years younger than me to a day, having been born on my tenth birthday. This was the first real sorrow to leave its mark upon me. I loved that brother more than anything or anybody. I had taught him his first words, mended his playthings, and been his play-horse, his cow, his dog--anything he desired me to be. When I was at home, it was to me he always came first thing in the early morning, crawling into my bed to start the day's play, and every word of his lisping, indistinct prattle stuck in my mind.

I was brought home by an old friend of my father's, who came for me with the message that my little brother was seriously ill. On looking into the old man's face, I was not deceived, and knew at once that my little friend was dead. But I said nothing. I did not weep or wail. I could not.

When we were seated beside each other on the train, and I said to him, "Chuckie is dead!" he did not reply. He merely nodded his head, and I rode silently home without a word or a tear. I wished to weep, but could not. Even when I arrived home and my mother kissed me I remained dry-eyed, but my misery was very real. It hurt me so much my breath came short and painful.

Then we went through the ghastly meaningless mummery and pomp of the funeral. Even then I disliked our foolish display in burying our dead. Since that day I have buried my own dead; but it was always done silently, privately, quickly, without display, without pomp and without advertisement. To me death is a thing to be put behind you. When loved ones die, there is nothing to be done or said. It is over. First bury them, then get occupied with the affairs of the living, being careful in your conduct that you make as few mistakes as may be; so that when another goes away you may have no memories of actions or words to cause self-reproach.

I had no remorse for any unkindness to my baby brother; for I had always loved him much, even from the time when he had newly arrived; a helpless, unseeing, unthinking bit of life. I like to dwell on this, for it is at least one instance where humanly I did my whole duty. My duty to him was such a simple uncomplicated thing--just to love him and be kind. As I grew up I found duty rather a difficult and complicated thing to see and do.

Other deaths happened as they must in a large family. In quick succession several of our older relatives died. In those young days I never felt very keenly the loss of old people. It seemed so natural for the aged to die that I took it as a matter of course. I do not know that I have changed much in this respect even now, especially when people are both old and useless.

I lost my paternal grandparents, and my great-grandfather about this time. I felt a genuine sorrow about grandfather's death because he was a dear old chap--hale, hearty, and jovial. He was suddenly, and it may seem ruthlessly, killed by having his head crushed by a runaway horse; but sudden death is not, despite the Prayer Book, the worst kind of exit. He was a most cheerful old optimist, caring nothing for the day after to-morrow, or any other day but the one he was living; and his end was in keeping with his life. He was a third husband of my grandmother, who had been a very beautiful Quakeress, and my father was their only son.

Both my grandmothers were very religious, one more ostentatiously than the other. When a young child I distinguished them by calling one the grandmother who said prayers, and the other the grandmother who made cakes. I had a strong preference for the one who made cakes. Her plain fruit cake, undefiled by messy icing of chocolate or sugar, was a production worthy of remembrance.

My great-grandfather was to me just an old man, very old and blind, who sat by the fire all day long, and spoke little, and then in a harsh cold voice, with a strong Scotch accent. He lived in a large house on a dingy, but a highly respectable street, with four old daughters and one son, who I discovered did not love him very much.

Visiting my great-grandfather's house was like passing suddenly into old-fashioned long-passed times. My ancient great-aunts were very prim and very properly made-up ladies, looking as much alike and as smooth and shiny as four silk hats just out of bandboxes.

"Here's Jack," Aunt Elizabeth would say when I arrived, and I would be gently pushed towards my great-grandfather who sat in the hall in a big high-backed arm-chair, combing his long white beard with his fingers. "Weel, laddie?" the old fellow would growl, and he would reach out to feel me and pat my head with his large hand.

My great-aunts were very proud of their descent, which they claimed from the Duke of Argyle. I never was interested enough to ask how far they had descended from the noble duke. They helped out a meagre fortune by keeping a genteel dressmaking establishment patronised by a few select people. In their house I played Blind Man's Buff, Puss in the Corner, and other dead and gone games; drank raspberry vinegar and ate plum cake.

My great-uncle was a curiosity. He did not drink, smoke nor work. He was a little wizened, dried-up fellow with a much wrinkled face the colour of a potato. He lived on his sisters, who made everything he wore but his hat and boots, and his clothes were certainly remarkable.

After his death I heard my father say to some card-playing cronies, "We planted Uncle Allan to-day." Everybody laughed, but I thought it was hard-hearted. Nothing about my great-uncle seemed, however, to matter, or to be serious, not even his death. He inspired neither dislike nor fondness. He was just one of those who do not count--a human vegetable.

A pack of cards was a thing never seen in the houses of my great-grandfather or either of my grandmothers, but in our house they were the main source of amusement. Father could not see the harm in cards that the older branches of our family saw. My earliest memories are associated with cards. Father played nearly nightly except on Sundays. Every one who came to our house was a card-player. The neighbours with whom we associated were card players. Possibly cards are a safe amusement for a certain type of character. They are like everything else--used with discretion they are good; without discretion, and in league with drink and gambling, they are bad.

Thus it came about quite naturally that while still young I learned many games of cards. If father and I were left alone together of an evening we played cribbage. If we were three--mother, he and I--we played bezique. If we were four it was whist. If others dropped in, or were invited, we played draw-poker for a small stake. Draw-poker never got disreputable or blood-thirsty in our house, as a very low stake was the rule.

Through cards I came to distrust my father's judgment. He played games of cards the way he felt, sometimes playing with rare skill, at other times madly and feverishly, without thought or judgment. He was a man of impulse. If I had wholly distrusted his wisdom, instead of allowing myself to be dominated by his high-handedness, his life and mine might have been very different. But I was brought up in the days when authority of whatever kind was worshipped. To-day authority must "show cause." I see now that my father played the game of life the same as he played cards--by impulse, by intuition. I was taught to believe that what he said was sound and wise; and if I continued in this belief for many years, it is not to be wondered at. I had better card-sense than he; but it does not follow that my sense was better in other things.

When I left the Canon's school, my father declared that every boy ought to go to a public school. So to public school I went, where I made but little progress. Of course I was backward for my age, and, being shy, never plucked up enough courage to ask for help when I should have done so. Even the dullest boys left me behind, and the masters considered me lazy. Perhaps I was, but I do not believe it was so much that as lack of energy. One either generates energy or one does not. I was delicate and growing at a great rate, getting my full height, six feet, before I was sixteen years old. It took all the energy I had to live and grow.

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