Degeneracy and an Apparition

Time is a rare old physician, excelling all his rivals in a two-fold qualification, indispensable to his profession—the power of healing and deadening. In the latter he has a helper, older and more experienced than he, by name the Devil. When I found myself homeless, without a mother and worse than fatherless, I fancied there was not one earthly comfort left to me, and that none of the things of this world had any charm, I thought, also, that nothing would be easier than to follow my mother’s advice to the letter. I felt not the slightest inclination for anything but that. My course lay clear before me: a thoughtful, studious and religious one. All my leisure hours were to be spent in reading good books, particularly the Bible. No resort was to have any attraction for me but the chapel— that old chapel wherein mother and Bob spent their happiest hours. Looking back, I was obliged to confess that I had been kept in closer bondage, when under mother’s care, than any other boy in the neighbourhood. But, I felt now, that it was mother who was right, and so resolved to keep within the old bounds; for I fancied it gave me the greatest freedom, and wholly suited my tastes and desires. My one great ambition was to become of use to religion; and there revived in me my former boyish aspiration towards the ministry. I did not see many obstacles in my path towards that position. I should only be following the natural bent of my mind, and fulfilling the best wishes of my mother. Besides, my character was untarnished, and I was resolved to keep it so; there should be neither gap nor turning in my straight path. How my heart deceived me! I can imagine Time ruffling his forehead, and the experienced assistant, of whom I spoke, laughing in his sleeve at these good resolutions. Was it possible that my nature contained some foul dirt heap of depravity which had never yet been stirred?

The “Corner Shop,” at which I was an apprentice, was one of the oldest establishments of the kind in the town. Abel Hughes, my master, was considered a careful, just and sharp-eyed man. Our line included the general drapery, but we principally dealt in cloth and flannels, always of the very best stuff. They were quiet times, and we were rarely busy except on fair days; and it is my opinion that Abel Hughes cared not in the least because the fairs were not held oftener than four times in the year. Ours was a good and steady trade, done with old customers and their families who had dealt at the same shop time out of mind. They were, for the most part, country people, the majority of them being Methodists, for the verse had not then gone out of fashion: “Do good unto all men, especially unto them who are of the household of faith.” As I have said, Abel Hughes kept the very best material; and he charged a reasonable profit on it. He would neither overpraise his goods, nor bate a halfpenny of their price; and should a customer not like what was offered him, he was advised by all means to leave it alone. I never heard Abel take oath that this stuff or the other was worth more than he asked for it. Lies were not so common in business, in those days, as to make it necessary a man should fore-swear himself. I do not think Abel spent a penny in his life upon posters; the only demand he made upon the printing press being for bill- heads. The shop window was small, and the glass in panes about a square foot each, plate glass not having then come into use. All the window dressing wanted could easily be got through in an hour, and it was only about once a fortnight it was done. The shop was rather dark, even in broad day, and had an atmosphere of moleskin, cotton-cord and velveteen so thick that I fancied I could cut it into lengths with my scissors. When a customer came in, the first thing Abel did was to hand him a chair and begin a conversation with him. There the man would sit for half an hour, sometimes for an hour, or even longer. Generally he would buy an expensive parcel, ending up, for the most part, by being asked into the house for a “cup of tea,” or a “bit of dinner.” But little business was done after sunset; and although gas was laid on, only one jet was ever lit, just to show that the concern was kept going. There was not much book-keeping work. One long, narrow arrangement served as both day book and ledger; and, when a customer paid his account, it was only necessary to let him see us cross it out in order to dispense with a receipt. There was nothing in the method of business to prevent the belief that Noah had used it before the Flood, if he ever kept shop. And yet Abel Hughes did well and saved money. What would have become of him had he kept shop in these days? In these days, when people beat about for customers in every possible direction, it does not matter what, when obtaining a customer and making money are, in some folk’s sight, of as much importance as immortality, and immortality of no more importance than a yard of grey calico? Then the chain had not been broken about the neck of greed; traders stuck to their own particular business and lived amicably, without trying to undersell or cut each others’ throats. They had no ambition to make a show, nor any overweening desire to cast their neighbours into the shade. If they attained a position free from care, got into comfortable circumstances, or had “a bit in an old stocking,” they were satisfied. And there was nothing in the outward appearance of the people who had reached this happy stage to distinguish them from others who had not. That such and such a person was rich, was a topic for belief and not for proof. Seldom, also, was anyone seen making a parade of prosperity one day, and the next coming down with a crash, leaving his creditors to pull a long face at their own folly in trusting him. Still seldomer was anyone seen, after deceiving his neighbours and cheating them of their due—yea, deceiving and cheating, I say, not failing to live honestly, though they tried—still seldomer, I repeat, would these be seen afterwards holding their heads high in the town, filling public offices and appearing better circumstanced than ever before, or swaggering in the Big Seat or the pulpit. Such things are not so strange in these days, I am sorry to say.

But what I wanted to know was—what would have become of Abel Hughes had he kept shop in these days, supposing he remained uncorrupted by the times? Well, he would have had to go to the workhouse; and I believe it is there he would go rather than conform to the avarice, the deceit and the trickery of the age. I know he would not bounce, I know he would not lie; would not pretend to sell his goods for less than he himself had given for them; would not take a customer by the scruff and drag him into his shop; would not persuade any man to buy the thing he did not want; would not carry a countenance with a perpetual smirk—in a word, would not act the monkey. And so, in the very nature of things he would, Heaven knows, have had to die of want, or go into the workhouse, as I have said.

The Corner Shop had an assistant named Jones. I have noticed, by the way, that, without exception, every draper’s shop has an assistant named Jones. I have a very vivid recollection of Jones, Abel Hughes’s assistant. I fancy seeing him at this moment standing behind the counter, with the tip of his bright scissors showing above the edge of his waistcoat-pocket, and a swarm of pins stuck into the left lappel of his coat, like mountebank’s children, making all sorts of tricks and endeavouring to show how far they can cross the centre of gravity without falling. A little, limp fellow was Jones, who made one think that Providence had intended him either for a tailor or an umbrella mender. He had a great shock of hair, all cut to a length and lying flat upon his pate, like a pound of candles. His head had evidently despoiled his cheeks, which were utterly bare; only, as if to indicate his sex, nature appeared to have gone out of her way to plant a meagre tuft upon his chin and permit some slight hirsute sprinkling of the upper lip, just like that of a stricken, grizzly old woman. Jones could on no account be said to wear a moustache, for his lip-hair was not worth the trouble of cutting, while a penny spent on a shave would be sheer waste of money. His blue-red, not over well-kept nose, was a standing libel upon its owner’s sobriety. He had a fashion of holding his arms as if he found them in his way and could do much better without them. His feet were wide, flat and jointless and, in walking, turned out at an angle which made one think they wanted to go off in different directions, They struck the beholder as if they had once had a dreadful quarrel which they could never, despite all the coaxing of mediator Jones, make up. Summer and winter Jones seemed just the same—as if he were nearly frozen and nothing would suit him so well as to run to the fire to warm. I never knew him offended, no matter what was said to him. One thing he hated very heartily—a busy day. The night before a fair he could not sleep a wink. His favourite post was, out of everybody’s sight, behind a pile of cloths, like a monument of winter, with feet turning outwards, like those of a round table, arms hanging like a doll’s, eyes opening and shutting like a cat’s on the hearth, thinking nothing, doing nothing. That was heaven for him. Jones was one of those creatures whom nature favours by refusing to denote their age, and who, as it were, are beyond the boundaries of a treatment extended alike to the horns of the cow and the teeth of the horse. A strange customer coming into the shop and seeing only his back, would take oath that Jones was an apprentice in his second year; if he saw but his profile, from behind a heap of cloth, he would have fancied him Abel Hughes’s sister; if he saw his feet alone, he would conclude him to be an old man of eighty; if he got a full view of him he would be desperately puzzled whether to address him as “My son,” or “Well, father.” I said Jones always seemed the same; I withdraw the words. A close observer of him, as I was, could perceive that the weather affected him greatly. Small and attenuated though he was, the cold and wet shrunk him up like a piece of Welsh flannel, with the difference that, unlike the flannel, he did not thicken in the shrinking. I have no doubt that his intention in thus retreating into himself was to evade the fall of temperature, a task in which he was very successful. When the weather grew warmer Jones would take an occasional stroll, and afterwards begin to thaw. His mouth being always half open, the wind entered it and plumped out his flesh a little. All things act and re-act. The weather influenced Jones; Jones had an influence upon the weather. In winter, the frozen look on Jones’s face, his nose and hands blue with the cold, would make a customer’s teeth chatter and give him the idea of adopting a warm top coat forthwith. It was a fact which Abel Hughes dared not deny that Jones could sell a larger number of oyer-coat pieces than anyone he ever saw. How was this to be accounted for? Why, because the fellow was a perfect refrigerator.

For all that, some people would ask why Abel Hughes kept a man like Jones in his shop. The reason was, I should imagine, that Abel was a merciful man, who knew Jones and his wife must have their daily bread somehow. Abel was also a just man, whose honour was above question; but the wages he paid Jones were very small—about a third of what assistants get in these days. And yet Jones, even Jones, had the impudence to marry a wife! For all I have heard the pair lived happily, and were wise enough not to add to the population. Abel Hughes had said that one Jones was enough in the world, and Jones believed him in this as in all things else. Jones’s wife was a buxom, red-cheeked woman. When she walked out with her husband I will not say they looked like a cow with her calf, because that would be inelegant; but I will say this, that Jones looked by her side like a lion’s provider, or, to be finer still, Jones stood, relatively to his wife, in point of size, as the cockle-boat does to the ship.

Why have I written so much about Jones? Because he was the means of stirring up and drawing forth my wickedness. We frequently hear parents advised not to let their children mix with mischief-making, irreverent companions. It is quite as important, to my mind, not let them associate with those who are too simple and unsuspecting. The temptation to wickedness is greater with these latter. If our first parents had not been quite so innocent, I question whether the Devil would have paid them so much attention. When we see the guilessness of childhood in a grown up man, the temptation to offer him the apple becomes exceedingly strong. I had not been many days in Abel Hughes’s shop before seeing that I could put my fingers into Jones’s eyes, and buy and sell him whenever I chose. From treading upon his corns, accidentally as it were, for the fun of hearing him squeak, down to persuading him to use a particular stuff for growing whiskers, my tricks upon Jones were endless, and such as would never have been thought of but for his simplicity. All this went on, of course, after time had worn away my regret, and the helper I have already mentioned had put a wet blanket upon my good resolutions. Jones could read, but I never saw a book in his hand, save at Sunday School. His head was as void of knowledge as a potato. He was credulous to a remarkable degree; nothing, almost, being too much for him to believe. Abel Hughes’s back turned, I would tell Jones the most fearful and wonderful things, the narrative being a mixture of what I had read and what I had invented. He swallowed every word. It did not strike me at the time that I was to blame for what I did, because had Jones been less gullible I should not have dreamt of stuffing him with fiction as if it were fact. Besides this, I thought that the minute and sedulous attention he paid to every word I said gave me a capital opportunity for “exercising my gift.” I should be ashamed to relate all the tricks I played upon him, and it would serve no useful purpose even if I did. I will say this much further: Jones was the means of disturbing something within me—I do not know what name to give it, and it never entered my head at the time to call it sin. It was nothing anyone had ever taught me, and I know my mother would not have commended it. Something it was, I fancied, which had always lain within me, but which had not been awakened until now. I used sometimes to think it was a kind of talent; for I fancied hearing someone say, “Bravo, Rhys!” But it was not my conscience that said so; that said something else. Neither was it my mother’s spirit, because, after I had gone to bed and shut my eyes, I fancied seeing her frown upon me. Had I been aware it was one of the enemies she had spoken of who thus commended me, would I have listened to him? Listen I did, anyhow; and I went from bad to worse. But to what purpose do I chronicle my evil deeds? I humbly trust they have been erased from the book of record.

I feel utterly unequal to the task of describing this period of my life. In a sense I was not master of myself. When I first went to Abel Hughes I was, owing to the trouble I had gone through, a serious boy, sad and with no disposition for play; considerations which earned me his confidence and good opinion at once. He fancied, I know, that it was not necessary to keep an eye on me. His sister, Miss Hughes, who kept house for him, was a kindly, religious old maid, who thought no harm of anybody, into whose heart my orphaned condition gave me speedy entrance. When, tête à tête with her, I told her of the hardships I had undergone, her eyes would fill with tears, and it was nothing unusual for her to get up, go to the cupboard, and bring me down an extra slice of pudding or some other delicacy. I saw the importance of making a fast friend of her, and completely succeeded. Abel Hughes, in the house, spoke no more than was necessary either for business or instruction. His sister was no exception to her sex. She was very fond of a chat, and I, on my part, endeavoured to appear as if I took a special pleasure in her small talk and trifling, all the while that something within me kept softly saying “fiddlesticks!” She liked to hear all I knew of everybody and everything. My store of knowledge was but scanty; but as often as it gave signs of exhaustion, I never hesitated seeking help from my imagination, which was lively enough always. I won Miss Hughes’s favour, and that paid me well. If Abel fancied I had transgressed, Miss Hughes came forward to prove it was from ignorance I did so. If something showed itself in my character not quite in keeping with Abel’s views, Miss Hughes would at once make it bright as burnished gold. Jones, also, was most useful in showing up my virtues. Miss Hughes had no patience even to speak of Jones, except as a means of proving my superiority over him. How did I feel? What did I think of myself? I felt myself a very different lad from what I was when mother was alive. I sometimes thought Miss Hughes did not know all about me. I could not help observing the difference between Miss Hughes and mother. I believe mother could see further through an oaken board than Miss Hughes could through her spectacles. Was I a bad boy? Who dared say so? True, Abel and his sister did not know one half of my history. Why should they? If mother knew all my affairs, even to my thoughts, Abel Hughes and his sister need not; a resolve at which someone said “Bravo!” But who? I did not know; but I felt, somehow, I was my own master, and that I could twist Miss Hughes round my fingers. I am surprised to think, and ashamed to remember, how free I made with her. I flattered her in the most shameless way. She asked me once how old I thought she was? (She did not know I had seen the date of her birth in the family Bible, kept in the cupboard and that, according to the entry, she was then in her sixtieth year.)

“Well,” replied I, “though you look young, Miss Hughes, I shouldn’t wonder if you were somewhere about forty.”

She laughed and said I wasn’t good at guessing,

I heard mother say Miss Hughes had never had an offer. Yet, for all that, I said to her, “I know, Miss Hughes, the reason why you never married.”

“Well, let us hear it,” said she.

“You didn’t care to leave the master,” I replied.

“That’s a very fair guess,” she rejoined, giving me twopence, with orders to be sure not to tell Abel.

Was it I or Will Bryan who had changed?

“D’ye know what,” said Will to me one day. “You are now like some other boy. I’ll never call you ‘Old Hundredth’ any more. I nearly gave you up at one time. When you went to old Abe I thought your hair would begin to whiten before you were seventeen, and expected every Sunday to hear you cry ‘Amen!’ and ‘Hallelujah!’ in chapel, as your mother used to do. I don’t wish to speak lightly of your mother, mind—far from it. ‘Amen’ and things like that suited her very well, but there was no reason why they should make an old man of you before you began to wear a hat. A thing of that sort isn’t true to nature, you know. Just you watch the big cat and the little one; the big cat is quiet and sad-looking; the little cat frisks and tumbles and tries to catch her tail, just as if she wasn’t in her senses. Or look at the mare and her colt; you’ll see the old mare, when not at work, stand in the middle of the field without budging a step or moving, except a little of the head when the flies are about her ears, She looks as miserable as if she were thinking of her end in the tan-yard, and you might swear she was sleeping on her legs, almost. But watch the colt, how he prances around, nose in air, tail erect, and kicks at nothing. If somebody comes along the road, he’ll run after him, ’tother side the hedge, with a ‘Hehe! Hehe!’ just as if he wanted to see all that was going on; for the world is new to the colt and the kitten, you know. It’s the same, exactly, with old people and young. Though your mother used to badger me frightfully, I always thought as well of her as of anybody living—I’ll take my oath of that. But to keep you, like she did, as if you were shut up in a clock-case, there was no sense or reason in that; it wasn’t true to nature. She might as well have made you wear a night cap, or breeches and leggings and a beaver hat, and sent you every Saturday to William the barber to be shaved, as waste the whole week, like she used to do, starching and smoothing you up for the Sunday. Not true to nature, Rhys,” he added in English; “at least that’s Will Bryan’s way of putting it.”

I admit, with sorrow, that I was inclined to agree with Will, and that we thenceforth became faster friends than ever. His people became my people, his affairs mine. Will was no stranger to the Corner Shop. Abel Hughes’ visits to the Association or Monthly Meeting took him from home for a day or two the rule being that as often as he was away Jones, as a protection from thieves (save the mark!) I was to sleep on the premises. I found no difficulty, on such occasions, in prevailing upon Miss Hughes to let Will spend the night with me. Will could creep up Miss Hughes’s sleeve with the greatest ease. He would delight her heart with good stories or good songs, both in English and Welsh. An invitation to the Corner Shop pleased Will always; he just “stuffed himself,” as he expressed it, whenever Abel Hughes was from home. His great delight was to get a little fun out of “The Genius, “as he used to call Jones. Mine was but a small, narrow bed, and I remember, on one occasion, Miss Hughes saying to my companion:

“Do you wish to sleep here to-night, William? I don’t know how the three of you are to get into that bit of a bed.”

“Splendid, Miss Hughes,” replied Will. “Rhys one side, I the other and Jones in the middle, like a tongue sanguage.”

“It’s you should be in the middle, William, if you want to be like a tongue sanguage,” Miss Hughes observed.

“One for you, Miss Hughes,” returned Will. “But, according to your plan, there would be more tongue than bread, you know.”

Miss Hughes marvelled why her brother Abel was not fonder of Will, whom she thought a clever, witty fellow. Abel never knew Will was in the habit of visiting the shop when he was from home. Once when Abel was at the Association in Bala something occurred at his house which nearly brought Will and me into the hands of the law. I would not mention the matter only it has an important bearing upon my history. I shall narrate the foolish occurrence in a very few words. Will and I having wished Miss Hughes “good night” and retired to our room, Will, in a spirit of mischief, insisted upon placing Jones on his trial for the murder of a creature which I need not here name. Will acted as counsel for the prosecution and judge. I, who was the jury, found the prisoner guilty, and he was duly sentenced to be hanged. Jones enjoyed the joke immensely. In the top of the door was a large nail for hanging clothes on. To this Will tied a cord with a noose at the end. Jones, who was made to stand upon a foot-stool, placed the noose about his neck, with a laugh. Before we could look around, and by a pure accident, I believe, the stool overturned. For some seconds we thought Jones was only pretending to hang, just to keep up the fun. Fortunately, however, I noticed that the stool lay on its side and that Jones’s feet were a couple of inches off the floor. I never was so frightened in my life. In less than no time I cut the cord and Jones came tumbling down, in a faint. Will, equally frightened, trembled like a leaf. We lifted Jones upon the bed, and I can never describe our joy on finding that he breathed. My conscience was ablaze at the idea that I had been within an inch of taking the life of one of the most harmless creatures in the world. When Jones came to himself he perceived my alarm and grief, looked at me compassionately, and said he forgave us both for everything. That, however, did not calm my conscience and my fear. As to Will, no sooner did he receive Jones’s solemn promise not to mention the matter to any living soul than he jumped into bed where, five minutes later, was fast asleep.

For me there was no sleep. Jones would fall into an uneasy sort of slumber, lasting hours, and then wake with a start of terror. And so, many times. A hundred different thoughts crossed my mind, and I felt myself undergoing some important change of condition. The room was dark and the night seemed long. Shortly before dawn, so I took it to be, I suddenly lost sound of my bedfellows’ breathing. Both lay as if dead. The silence was painfully oppressive. I saw the room becoming alight, but not with the light of dawn. It was swifter, and to my mind, if I may be permitted the expression, softer and more tender, like the approach of the effulgent face of an angel. The light increased, more and more; and yet it did not come through the window. It seemed to be all within the room; every object in which had now become visible. Still did the light increase, and so sweet was it that my eyes became restful and enjoyed the sight. Was I dreaming? I am not certain; only I believe I was awake—as wide awake as I am at the present moment. The light reached a climax of a kind whereof I cannot convey on paper any idea. I never in my life saw anything I could fitly compare to it. Before me in the midst of that brilliant but subdued glory I saw my mother, sitting in a chair, not one belonging to the room, but the old oak arm-chair she used to sit in at home. I did not notice the kind of dress she wore, for I looked only at her face, which, although it retained all its old peculiarities, was lovelier a thousand times than I had ever known it. I was not afraid, but I felt a guilty consciousness. Mother looked neither angry nor happy. “Come hither,” she commanded. I sprang out of bed and fell upon my knees before her and, with my cheeks between my hands, rested my head upon her knees, as I used to do when a child saying my prayers before going to bed.

“My son,” I heard her say; “I spoke to you of three enemies, and of the armour. But, after all the trouble I took with you, I fear you have no religion, and that you know nothing of the great things.”

I felt she had gone away before I could speak a word to her, and I felt also that my forehead was cold on one of Abel Hughes’ chairs. Springing up, I saw that the day was beginning to break. Was it a dream I know not. But thank God, I never forgot her words.