Part 9 (1/2)
”Yes, I shall. Something inside of me argues: Why should you be sorry?
Were you not free for a whole afternoon?”
”Free?” I asked.
”Yes--free. You will not understand. But every day I work, work, work. I have friends, but somehow I can't get to them; I can't even get to my wife. It seems as if a wall hemmed me in, as if I were bound to a rock which I couldn't get away from, I am also afraid. When I am sober I know how to do great things, but I can't do them. After a few gla.s.ses--I never take more--I not only know I can do great things, but I feel as though I were really doing them.”
”But you never do?”
”No, I never do, but I _feel_ that I can. All the bonds break and the wall falls down and I am free. I can really touch people. I feel friendly and neighbourly.”
He was talking eagerly now, trying to explain, for the first time in his life, he said, how it was that he did what he did. He told me how beautiful it made the world, where before it was miserable and friendless, how he thought of great things and made great plans, how his home seemed finer and better to him, and his work more n.o.ble. The man had a real gift of imagination and spoke with an eagerness and eloquence that stirred me deeply. I was almost on the point of asking him where his magic liquor was to be found! When he finally gave me an opening, I said:
”I think I understand. Many men I know are in some respects drunkards.
They all want some way to escape themselves--to be free of their own limitations.”
”That's it! That's it!” he exclaimed eagerly.
We sat for a time side by side, saying nothing. I could not help thinking of that line of Virgil referring to quite another sort of intoxication:
”With Voluntary dreams they cheat their minds.”
Instead of that beautiful unity of thought and action which marks the finest character, here was this poor tragedy of the divided life. When Fate would destroy a man it first separates his forces! It drives him to think one way and act another; it encourages him to seek through outward stimulation--whether drink, or riches, or fame--a deceptive and unworthy satisfaction in place of that true contentment which comes only from unity within. No man can be two men successfully.
So we sat and said nothing. What indeed can any man _say_ to another under such circ.u.mstances? As Bobbie Burns remarks out of the depths of his own experience:
”What's done we partly may compute But know not what's resisted.”
I've always felt that the best thing one man can give another is the warm hand of understanding. And yet when I thought of the pathetic, shy bee-man, hemmed in by his sunless walls, I felt that I should also say something. Seeing two men struggling shall I not a.s.sist the better?
Shall I let the sober one be despoiled by him who is riotous? There are realities, but there are also moralities--if we can keep them properly separated.
”Most of us,” I said finally, ”are in some respects drunkards. We don't give it so harsh a name, but we are just that. Drunkenness is not a mere matter of intoxicating liquors; it goes deeper--far deeper. Drunkenness is the failure of a man to control his thoughts.”
The bee-man sat silent, gazing out before him. I noted the blue veins in the hand that lay on his knee. It came over me with sudden amus.e.m.e.nt and I said:
”I often get drunk myself.”
”You?”
”Yes--dreadfully drunk.”
He looked at me and laughed--for the first time! And I laughed, too. Do you know, there's a lot of human nature in people! And when you think you are deep in tragedy, behold, humour lurks just around the corner!
”I used to laugh at it a good deal more than I do now,” he said. ”I've been through it all. Sometimes when I go to town I say to myself, 'I will not turn at that corner,' but when I come to the corner, I do turn.
Then I say 'I will not go into that bar,' but I do go in. 'I will not order anything to drink,' I say to myself, and then I hear myself talking aloud to the barkeeper just as though I were some other person.
'Give me a gla.s.s of rye,' I say, and I stand off looking at myself, very angry and sorrowful. But gradually I seem to grow weaker and weaker--or rather stronger and stronger--for my brain begins to become clear, and I see things and feel things I never saw or felt before. I want to sing.”