The Girl and the Game and Other College Stories/Talks with a Kid Brother/Work and Other Dissipations
WORK AND OTHER DISSIPATIONS
So you didn't expect a call from me this evening? Awfully glad? Well, you needn't be so flurried about it. Why, Dick, your hand is as cold as ice; what's the matter with you! Look rather rocky and pale. It's really very bad to work all the time and not have any fun in life. Judging from your reports, I did not suppose you had been troubled in just that way, but—you certainly do look worn out. Your athletic business and close application to your books are a little too much, I suppose.
As you know, I don't believe in giving younger brothers advice, but you won't mind if I offer a little fraternal warning against running a good thing like work into the ground. You will wreck your health and spoil your capacity for work if you keep on at the present apparent rate. What success is worth the price of your bodily well-being? After all, college life is only a preparation for real living and real work; but, don't you see, if you work so hard in college as to undermine your constitution, what kind of work will you be good for afterward? Think of the future! You will be graduated from college to a rest cure and from rest cures to a sanitarium, and from there to a home for incurables! Think of that, Dick! (no wonder you fidget in your chair) all because you hadn't sense enough to let good enough alone; thought it a fine thing, a manly thing, to overindulge yourself—in work! I didn't think it of a brother of mine!
Why, it has affected your eyes, hasn't it? or is the light too strong? You keep turning them away. Sit over there where you won't be bothered. Stretch out on the divan and take a rest from your studies—you need it. There, isn't that better, in the dark?
Now, some years ago there was a fellow here, a brilliant student like you, who used to study all the time—don't be so nervous and self-conscious; it's a worthy ambition—and this man was one of the keenest fellows who ever came to college; but the trouble with him was that he did not care for anything except the one thing he could do best. His friends used to warn him, but he would only say, "What nonsense!" and go on with his work. His specialty was moral philosophy. He took a fellowship and went abroad, became the favorite pupil of the famous Professor Lotze at Göttingen. He hobnobbed and swapped theories of the universe with all the big Herr Philosophers over there, and came back chock-full of stuff about the ego and the sense of oughtness. Strangely enough, despite his German influences, he was dead against the modern evolutionary tendencies in ethics—said sense of oughtness was innate, not merely a product of empiricism.
Several American universities set their caps for him—one of them offered him a full professorship to start with—but he suddenly decided to go into the law. Sense of oughtness told him he ought to, I suppose. Thought that the legal forum offered the greatest opportunities for his analytical powers and the study and influence of men's motives. He became a brilliant young brief-writer in a large law firm down-town. Did not go into court, spent all his time in the firm's library writing briefs with rare power. Did not mix with other men any more than he could help—scowled when any one came into the library. The firm put up with his eccentricities because he was such a good worker. He did nothing but work; was the first one down in the morning and the last to leave at night. He took no exercise. His only diversion was church work. He became superintendent of the Sunday-school—though he wasn't very good at that—and was a hard-working member of the committee which put through the building of a brand-new and not very ugly church edifice which cost a pile of money. When he was not preparing briefs or hustling with church matters he was writing articles on "What is Conscience?" and doing similar intellectual gymnastic stunts. He did not care even for in-door exercise.
Well, about that time, as it happened, a series of acts of vandalism began to take place in the church. It aroused tremendous indignation, and even the cold, brilliant young lawyer took more than an abstract scholarly interest in the "phenomena." Nothing was stolen—things were merely smashed. It was apparent to him, he said, that the acts were performed by some one who was deficient in the moral sense in a peculiar way—some one who was not so much immoral as non-moral. The elders said, "Moral sense or no moral sense, wait till we get hold of 'em!"
One night the brand-new cushions of the pews were ripped open; another time the pipes of the organ were plugged up. The preacher of the church delivered a sermon about it, and the young lawyer wrote an article about it for the editorial page of one of the papers—one of his fine, analytical masterpieces, which did not stop the dirty work but helped to advertise it. The session despaired of doing anything with detectives; they organized squads of watchers among themselves. "I think it is eminently sound to deduce from the data in hand," said the keen young lawyer, wagging a long forefinger in his earnest, impressive manner, "that the author of these acts is acquainted with the ins and outs of this edifice and has access thereto." They agreed with him, and, as the acts continued despite their caution and nightly vigils they dismissed the sexton, though the lawyer said that for his part he was convinced that John, the sexton, was innocent, and hoped eventually to "adduce convincing evidence thereof."The trustees said, "Oh, well, it was up to him to have caught 'em, anyhow—agoing on under his very nose—so we fire him for that."
By this time the whole town was stirred up over it; even the rival churches did not like it. The papers were full of it. At last the lawyer said that he would show them "a very simple solution of the apparently difficult problem." It had been observed that he had been studying the question night and day to the exclusion of all other interests.
"And when he applies that great mind of his to a thing," as one of the elders remarked, "something's bound to come." He bade them hide that night, which was Saturday night, in the organ loft. They had frequently done that before to no purpose, but they had such confidence in the quiet- mannered young man that they determined to try it.
So that night they lay low in the dust and darkness, which was disagreeable and mysterious; the lights from the street coming through stained glass only made it more mysterious. But they were used to that and did not feel it until suddenly at midnight, just as the clock in the tower overhead was announcing the beginning of another Sabbath day to be kept holy, a tall figure came down the aisle. It was covered with some sort of ghostly gown, and seemed to be carrying a flickering candle and a bucket. They saw the mysterious form cautiously approach the pulpit. Upon it, to their horror, they now saw appear in phosphorescent paint the letters R-a-t-s. Then the intruder turned and began tearing leaves from the Bible. The watchers had softly descended the stairs. As they silently hurried toward the scene of the desecration, the vandal leaned over with his candle and set fire to the pile. As they sprang in upon him the flame burst up and flared full upon the face of their brilliant lawyer, who raised his hand and said: "But the funny thing about this is that I have a keener moral sense than any of you. Do I make myself clear?"
The watchers stood aghast. Even now they did not believe him to be the one they were after. "Worry over the affair," they whispered to one another, nodding nervously.
He heard them. "What rot," said he; "or, as the pulpit has it, 'Rats.' I am a moral being, a free agent."
"Oh, this is too much—impossible!" groaned a good, gray old elder, breaking down.
"A perfectly natural mistake on your part," the smiling young lawyer replied, with condescending glibness. "I thought it was impossible myself—I wondered if I could. I puzzled over it for months. I tried it. I find I can. It is my greatest discovery."
"We cannot believe you!"
"Go tell John. He will corroborate me. He refused to tell before, which showed a deficient moral sense in John—or as Hegel would put it"
They led him away. He was right about John, as it proved.
"And yet, you know," he said to the head attendant when they took him to the insane asylum where he is to-day, "I believe I fooled my sense of oughtness worst of all!" and laughed heartily over his discovery.
Now, you see, if he had only mingled more with other fellows and had taken a little exercise now and then—but you see what comes of too much study. Why are you wriggling around now? A great mistake if I think you are poling too much? But can't I see with my own eyes the dark rings under yours? Polers so often pretend not to be polers. There was Poler Perkins, and Poler Stevenson, and Poler Stacy. Poler Stacy's case was quite different.
What's that? Oh, you want to tell me something? Not very polite for a kid brother, seems to me: you'll have to wait till I finish. Poler Stacy got sick of the monotony of poling and the ignominy of being called a poler. One evening he was invited to dine at one of the upper-class clubs and tried to give the illusion of being a good fellow, as he conceived it; told a lot of futile little stories and performed sorry antics, which certainly made the fellows laugh, and he thought they were laughing at his humor, not his absurdity—until on leaving the club he heard a bit of conversation through an open window which opened his eyes and kept them open all that night with the result that along about noon of the next day, having cut all his lectures meanwhile, he was desperate. "They smile at you, do they?" he said to himself in the glass; "well, we'll show 'em, we'll show 'em once for all!" and he stalked out of the room, slammed the door and, scowling devilishly, strode over to a place called "Scuds," where certain of his classmates were wont to gather of an afternoon in spring term for a glass of bock beer.
They were amazed when they saw Stacy march in, and they looked it.
"I'll show you," thought Stacy, and hammered on a table for a waiter, scowling terribly.
"Beer, sir?" said the waiter, mopping the table.
"Beer! No. I want some whiskey."
Then he buried his face in a newspaper to hide the blush upon it. Also, he thought that this would look like the real thing, especially as he had put his feet on a neighboring chair.
"Here! why do you bring me a little glass like that?" he growled at the waiter. "I want a big glass." Suddenly the others seemed to see something funny out of the window.
"A high ball, sir?"
"A what?" The thing outside was still funnier.
"A high ball?"
Stacy did not know whether or not the waiter was impudently trying to guy him, but he was sure the others were listening. He would show himself the match of any waiter. "Bring me a hot Scotch," he said calmly, and tried to look abstracted. He had read about "hot Scotches" in novels.
"That ought to impress them," he thought; and so it did, for it was a warm, sunny day.
They were still more impressed when he ordered a second and a third and a fourth. But each time it was a different impression. At first it seemed ludicrous, then pathetic, and finally quite disgusting.
What's the matter, Dick? Don't you want to hear about this? It is queer, I admit. So I'll cut it short. There could not have been any fun in it even for him, for he immediately—what do you call it?—"drew a blank," fell into a stupor. As soon as it was dusk they walked him over to his room. They opened the door for him and he staggered across the threshold and fell into the arms of his mother. She had been waiting to see him for over an hour.
Under the circumstances you might think she would blame it upon his "evil companions" who brought him home, and who stayed to help her. But she did not. She just stood there stunned and broken-hearted and kept saying, as she fanned him, "Why, he's the pride and ambition of the family—the pride and ambition of the family," and all that, and told them how she had always trusted her boy—and all that. It was a ghastly scene and they only perspired worse than the drunken man, and made no reply. Perhaps they were thinking
Why, what's the matter, Dick? Am I taking too much of your time? You want to speak to me about something? Well, fire away; it's your turn now. Won a prize—and you want to break it gently? No? What is it, then? Anything to do with that cigarette you're tearing to bits?
What?… So that's it!… Go on.… Out with it.… And you took too much.… Summoned before the faculty this afternoon, eh?… And they are to give you their decision to-morrow … um. … No, I don't think they will dismiss you from college entirely—if this is really the first time.… They have a right to suspend you though.…
If you don't mind, I don't care to hear how it happened—won't interest me a bit. Maybe it was because you wanted to show the gang, like Poler Stacy. I'd hate to think so, especially since it would be worse in your case, because you are popular and prominent already, and, moreover, know that that sort of thing does not endear you to anybody. Maybe it was because you were temporarily insane, like that young lawyer, and wanted to show yourself what it was like; only there would be less excuse for you to act like an idiot because you are a thoroughly healthy, normal person. Or maybe you just plain forgot and abused conviviality, which is too fine a thing to be entrusted to weaklings or brutes. Or maybe you don't know just how you happened to make a dd fool of yourself. At any rate, it's none of my business and I don't want to know. No excuse would cut any ice with me, and what's more, they are all too old to have any effect upon the Discipline Committee. I'm mighty glad you did not offer any of them. I'm glad you just said it was so and that you had no explanation for it. They rather liked that.
You needn't look surprised. I knew all about it when I came here this evening. That's why I came. But you were too much up in the air at first. To tell the truth, you weren't very anxious to speak of it to me. So I tried to get you calmed down by telling you of a man in a much worse hole than yours.
Well, I haven't any influence with the faculty; nothing I could do or say would affect their decision one way or the other. If they make up their minds to ship you, you go.
Rather steep price, you say, to pay for your fun? But I haven't been thinking of you. I was thinking that you might not be the one to pay dearest for it. What do I mean? 'Tisn't the sort of thing one likes to speak of out loud; I was merely thinking—oh, well, to be sure, it can't be as bad as Poler Stacy. The family won't actually see you that way. But, all the same, if an official notice comes home from the dean: "I regret to be obliged to inform you that your son is hereby suspended for a term of three weeks for " Pretty tough in that way, isn't it? All out of a clear sky too. You've got such a good rep. at home, you know.
Fool? Well, I should say so. Yes, all that too—yes, go on, it's good, sound, healthy remorse. But if you know it already why do you ask me? I'll say yes to everything you say about yourself, but, seems to me, that doesn't do much good. What's up to you now is to see that it does not happen again as long as you are a boy at college whose beer as well as his books are paid for by his daddy. How about that business aspect of it, Dick? 'Tisn't quite square, is it?
No, I wouldn't quite say that your life is ruined. There have been worse things in history. You have a chance. "All is not lost." Those two men I told you about—one of them, of course, is done for, but the other has become a useful and respected citizen. So there's a chance even for you. I still believe in you.
Yes, the notice from the dean will surely go home—if you do. It will get there ahead of you, if it goes at all. But maybe it's not going. No, I did not say they were going to suspend you. I merely pointed out what might happen. Now, as a matter of fact, I understand that they are going to let you off because this is your first offence. Yes, that's straight. No, I had nothing to do with it. They liked the way you talked—and mean to give you a chance. Yes, I should think you would feel relieved. But remember what it means if you ever make a fool of yourself again. Remember who will be made to suffer for it. That is the reason I ask you not to let it happen again. And that is the reason, and the only reason, I believe you won't let it happen again. Your "sense of oughtness" wouldn't keep you straight any more than the fear of filling a drunkard's grave or ruining your health, or even the fear of being ridiculous like Poler Stacy. But this other thing will, I think. Now I'll trouble you for a pipe.