Books: The Autobiography of Mark Rutherford
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Mark Rutherford >> The Autobiography of Mark Rutherford
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"It will be twenty-six years ago next Christmas," said he, "since I
suffered a great calamity. You will forgive my saying anything about
it, as I have no assurance that the wound which looks healed may not
break out again. Suffice to say, that for some ten years or more my
thoughts were almost entirely occupied with death and our future state.
There is a strange fascination about these topics to many people,
because they are topics which permit a great deal of dreaming, but very
little thinking: in fact, true thinking, in the proper sense of the
word, is impossible in dealing with them. There is no rigorous advance
from one position to another, which is really all that makes thinking
worth the name. Every man can imagine or say cloudy things about death
and the future, and feel himself here, at least, on a level with the
ablest brain which he knows.
"I went on gazing gloomily into dark emptiness, till all life became
nothing for me. I did not care to live, because there was no assurance
of existence beyond. By the strangest of processes, I neglected the
world, because I had so short a time to be in it. It is with absolute
horror now that I look back upon those days, when I lay as if alive in
a coffin of lead. All passions and pursuits were nullified by the
ever-abiding sense of mortality. For years this mood endured, and I
was near being brought down to the very dust.
"At last, by the greatest piece of good fortune, I was obliged to go
abroad. The change, and the obligation to occupy myself about many
affairs, was an incalculable blessing to me. While travelling I was
struck with the remarkable and tropical beauty of the insects, and
especially of the butterflies. I captured a few, and brought them
home. On showing them to a friend, learned in such matters, I
discovered that they were rare, and I had a little cabinet made for
them. I looked into the books, found what it was which I had got, and
what I had not got.
"Next year it was my duty to go abroad again, and I went with some
feeling akin to pleasure, for I wished to add to my store. I increased
it considerably, and by the time I returned I had as fine a show as any
private person might wish to possess. A good deal of my satisfaction,
perhaps, was unaccountable, and no rational explanation can be given of
it. But men should not be too curious in analysing and condemning any
means which Nature devises to save them from themselves, whether it be
coins, old books, curiosities, butterflies, or fossils. And yet my
newly-acquired passion was not altogether inexplicable. I was the
owner of something which other persons did not own, and in a little
while, in my own limited domain, I was supreme. No man either can
study any particular science thoroughly without transcending it; and it
is an utter mistake to suppose that, because a student sticks to any
one branch, he necessarily becomes contracted.
"However, I am not going to philosophise; I do not like it. All I can
say is, that I shun all those metaphysical speculations of former years
as I would a path which leads to madness. Other people may be able to
occupy themselves with them and be happy; I cannot. I find quite
enough in my butterflies to exercise my wonder, and yet, on the other
hand, my study is not a mere vacant, profitless stare. When you saw me
that morning, I was trying to obtain an example which I have long
wanted to fill up a gap. I have looked for it for years, but have
missed it. But I know it has been seen lately where we met, and I
shall triumph at last."
A good deal of all this was to me incomprehensible. It seemed mere
solemn trifling compared with the investigation of those great
questions with which I had been occupied, but I could not resist the
contagion of my friend's enthusiasm when he took me to his little
library and identified his treasures with pride, pointing out at the
same time those in which he was deficient. He was specially exultant
over one minute creature which he had caught himself, which he had not
as yet seen figured, and he proposed going to the British Museum almost
on purpose to see if he could find it there.
When I got home I made inquiries into the history of my entomologist.
I found that years ago he had married a delicate girl, of whom he was
devotedly fond. She died in childbirth, leaving him completely broken.
Her offspring, a boy, survived, but he was a cripple, and grew up
deformed. As he neared manhood he developed a satyr-like lustfulness,
which was almost uncontrollable, and made it difficult to keep him at
home without constraint. He seemed to have no natural affection for
his father, nor for anybody else, but was cunning with the base,
beastly cunning of the ape. The father's horror was infinite. This
thing was his only child, and the child of the woman whom he
worshipped. He was excluded from all intercourse with friends; for, as
the boy could not be said to be mad, he could not be shut up. After
years of inconceivable misery, however, lust did deepen into absolute
lunacy, and the crooked, misshapen monster was carried off to an
asylum, where he died, and the father well-nigh went there too.
Before I had been six months amongst the Unitarians, I found life even
more intolerable with them than it had been with the Independents. The
difference of a little less belief was nothing. The question of
Unitarianism was altogether dead to me; and although there was a phase
of the doctrine of God's unity which would now and then give me an
opportunity for a few words which I felt, it was not a phase for which
my hearers in the least cared or which they understood.
Here, as amongst the Independents, there was the same lack of personal
affection, or even of a capability of it--excepting always Mrs. Lane--
and, in fact, it was more distressing amongst the Unitarians than
amongst the orthodox. The desire for something like sympathy and love
absolutely devoured me. I dwelt on all the instances in poetry and
history in which one human being had been bound to another human being,
and I reflected that my existence was of no earthly importance to
anybody. I could not altogether lay the blame on myself. God knows
that I would have stood against a wall and have been shot for any man
or woman whom I loved, as cheerfully as I would have gone to bed, but
nobody seemed to wish for such a love, or to know what to do with it.
Oh, the humiliations under which this weakness has bent me! Often and
often I have thought that I have discovered somebody who could really
comprehend the value of a passion which could tell everything and
venture everything. I have overstepped all bounds of etiquette in
obtruding myself on him, and have opened my heart even to shame. I
have then found that it was all on my side. For every dozen times I
went to his house, he came to mine once, and only when pressed: I have
languished in sickness for a month without his finding it out; and if I
were to drop into the grave, he would perhaps never give me another
thought. If I had been born a hundred years earlier, I should have
transferred this burning longing to the unseen God and have become a
devotee. But I was a hundred years too late, and I felt that it was
mere cheating of myself and a mockery to think about love for the only
God whom I knew--the forces which maintained the universe.
I am now getting old, and have altered in many things. The hunger and
thirst of those years have abated, or rather, the fire has had ashes
heaped on it, so that it is well-nigh extinguished. I have been
repulsed into self-reliance and reserve, having learned wisdom by
experience; but still I know that the desire has not died, as so many
other desires have died, by the natural evolution of age. It has been
forcibly suppressed, and that is all. If anybody who reads these words
of mine should be offered by any young dreamer such a devotion as I
once had to offer, and had to take back again refused so often, let him
in the name of all that is sacred accept it. It is simply the most
precious thing in existence. Had I found anybody who would have
thought so, my life would have been redeemed into something which I
have often imagined, but now shall never know.
I determined to leave, but what to do I could not tell. I was fit for
nothing, and yet I could not make up my mind to accept a life which was
simply living. It must be a life, through which some benefit was
conferred upon my fellow-creatures. This was mainly delusion. I had
not then learned to correct this natural instinct to be of some service
to mankind by the thought of the boundlessness of infinity and of
Nature's profuseness. I had not come to reflect that, taking into
account her eternities, and absolute exhaustlessness, it was folly in
me to fret and fume, and I therefore clung to the hope that I might
employ myself in some way which, however feebly, would help mankind a
little to the realisation of an ideal. But I was not the man for such
a mission. I lacked altogether that concentration which binds up the
scattered powers into one resistless energy, and I lacked faith. All I
could do was to play the vagrant in literature, picking up here and
there an idea which attracted me, and presenting it to my flock on the
Sunday; the net result being next to nothing.
However, existence like that which I had been leading was intolerable,
and change it I must. I accordingly resigned, and with ten pounds in
my pocket, which was all that remained after paying my bills, I came to
London, thinking that until I could settle what to do, I would try and
teach in a school. I called on an agent somewhere near the Strand, and
after a little negotiation, was engaged by a gentleman who kept a
private establishment at Stoke Newington.
Thither I accordingly went one Monday afternoon in January, about two
days before the term commenced. When I got there, I was shown into a
long schoolroom, which had been built out from the main building. It
was dark, save for one candle, and was warmed by a stove. The walls
were partly covered with maps, and at one end of the room hung a
diagram representing a globe, on which an immense amount of wasted
ingenuity had been spent to produce the illusion of solidity. The
master, I was told, was out, and in this room with one candle I
remained till nine o'clock. At that time a servant brought me some
bread and cheese on a small tray, with half-a-pint of beer. I asked
for water, which was given me, and she then retired. The tray was set
down on the master's raised desk, and sitting there I ate my supper in
silence, looking down upon the dimly-lighted forms, and forward into
the almost absolute gloom.
At ten o'clock a man, who seemed as if he were the knife and boot-
cleaner, came and said he would show me where I was to sleep. We
passed through the schoolroom into a kind of court, where there was a
ladder standing against a trap-door. He told me that my bedroom was up
there, and that when I got up I could leave the ladder down, or pull it
up after me, just as I pleased.
I ascended and found a little chamber, duly furnished with a chest of
drawers, bed, and washhand-stand. It was tolerably clean and decent;
but who shall describe what I felt! I went to the window and looked
out. There were scattered lights here and there, marking roads, but as
they crossed one another, and now and then stopped where building had
ceased, the effect they produced was that of bewilderment with no clue
to it. Further off was the great light of London, like some unnatural
dawn, or the illumination from a fire which could not itself be seen.
I was overcome with the most dreadful sense of loneliness. I suppose
it is the very essence of passion, using the word in its literal sense,
that no account can be given of it by the reason.
Reflecting on what I suffered, then, I cannot find any solid ground for
it, and yet there are not half-a-dozen days or nights of my life which
remain with me like that one. I was beside myself with a kind of
terror, which I cannot further explain. It is possible for another
person to understand grief for the death of a friend, bodily suffering,
or any emotion which has a distinct cause, but how shall he understand
the worst of all calamities, the nameless dread, the efflux of all
vitality, the ghostly, haunting horror which is so nearly akin to
madness?
It is many years ago since that evening, but while I write I am at the
window still, and the yellow flare of the city is still in my eyes. I
remember the thought of all the happy homes which lay around me, in
which dwelt men who had found a position, an occupation, and, above all
things, affection. I know the causelessness of a good deal of all
those panic fears and all that suffering, but I tremble to think how
thin is the floor on which we stand which separates us from the
bottomless abyss.
The next morning I went down into the schoolroom, and after I had been
there for some little time, the proprietor of the school made his
appearance. He was not a bad man, nor even unkind in his way, but he
was utterly uninteresting, and as commonplace as might be expected
after having for many years done nothing but fight a very uphill battle
in boarding the sons of tradesfolk, and teaching them, at very moderate
rates, the elements of Latin, and the various branches of learning
which constitute what is called a commercial education. He said that
he expected some of the boys back that day; that when they came, he
should wish me to take my meals with them, but that meanwhile he would
be glad if I would breakfast with him and his wife. This accordingly I
did. What his wife was like I have almost entirely forgotten, and I
only saw her once again. After breakfast he said I could go for a
walk, and for a walk I went; wandering about the dreary, intermingled
chaos of fields with damaged hedges, and new roads divided into
building plots.
Meanwhile one or two of the boys had made their appearance, and I
therefore had my dinner with them. After dinner, as there was nothing
particular to do, I was again dismissed with them for a walk just as
the light of the winter afternoon was fading. My companions were
dejected, and so was I! The wind was south-easterly, cold, and raw,
and the smoke came up from the region about the river and shrouded all
the building plots in fog. I was now something more than depressed.
It was absolutely impossible to endure such a state of things any
longer, and I determined that, come what might, I would not stop. I
considered whether I should leave without saying a word--that is to
say, whether I should escape, but I feared pursuit and some unknown
legal proceedings.
When I got home, therefore, I sought the principal, and informed him
that I felt so unwell that I was afraid I must throw up my engagement
at once. He naturally observed that this was a serious business for
him; that my decision was very hasty--what was the matter with me? I
might get better; but he concluded, after my reiterated asseverations
that I must go, with a permission to resign, only on one condition,
that I should obtain an equally efficient substitute at the same
salary. I was more agitated than ever. With my natural tendency to
believe the worst, I had not the least expectation of finding anybody
who would release me.
The next morning I departed on my errand. I knew a poor student who
had been at college with me, and who had nothing to do, and to him I
betook myself. I strove--as even now I firmly believe--not to make the
situation seem any better than it was, and he consented to take it. I
have no clear recollection of anything that happened till the following
day, excepting that I remember with all the vividness of actual and
present sensuous perception lugging my box down the ladder and sending
for a cab. I was in a fever lest anything should arrest me, but the
cab came, and I departed. When I had got fairly clear of the gates, I
literally cried tears of joy--the first and the last of my life. I am
constrained now, however, to admit that my trouble was but a bubble
blown of air, and I doubt whether I have done any good by dwelling upon
it.
CHAPTER IX--OXFORD STREET
Until I had actually left, I hardly knew where I was going, but at last
I made up my mind I would go to Reuben Shapcott, another fellow-
student, whom I knew to be living in lodgings in one of the streets
just then beginning to creep over the unoccupied ground between Camden
Town and Haverstock Hill, near the Chalk Farm turnpike gate. To his
address I betook myself, and found him not at home. He, like me, had
been unsuccessful as a minister, and wrote a London letter for two
country papers, making up about 100 or 120 pounds a year by preaching
occasionally in small Unitarian chapels in the country. I waited till
his return, and told him my story. He advised me to take a bed in the
house where he was staying, and to consider what could be done.
At first I thought I would consult Mardon, but I could not bring myself
to go near him. How was I to behave in Mary's presence? During the
last few months she had been so continually before me, that it would
have been absolutely impossible for me to treat her with assumed
indifference. I could not have trusted myself to attempt it. When I
had been lying alone and awake at night, I had thought of all the
endless miles of hill and valley that lay outside my window, separating
me from the one house in which I could be at peace; and at times I
scarcely prevented myself from getting up and taking the mail train and
presenting myself at Mardon's door, braving all consequences. With the
morning light, however, would come cooler thoughts and a dull sense of
impossibility.
This, I know, was not pure love for her; it was a selfish passion for
relief. But then I have never known what is meant by a perfectly pure
love. When Christian was in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and,
being brought to the mouth of hell, was forced to put up his sword, and
could do no other than cry, O Lord, I beseech Thee, deliver my soul, he
heard a voice going before him and saying, Though I walk through the
Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear none ill, for Thou art with
me. And by and by the day broke. "Then," said Christian, "He hath
turned the Shadow of Death into morning. Whereupon Christian sang -
"Oh, world of wonders! (I can say no less)
That I should be preserved in that distress
That I have met with here! Oh, blessed be
That hand that from it hath delivered me!"
This was Christian's love for God, and for God as his helper. Was that
perfectly pure? However, this is a digression. I determined to help
myself in my own way, and thought I would try the publishers. One
morning I walked from Camden Town to Paternoster Row. I went
straightway into two or three shops and asked whether they wanted
anybody. I was ready to do the ordinary work it of a publisher's
assistant, and aspired no higher. I met with several refusals, some of
them not over-polite, and the degradation--for so I felt it--of
wandering through the streets and suing for employment cut me keenly.
I remember one man in particular, who spoke to me with the mechanical
brutality with which probably he replied to a score of similar
applications every week. He sat in a little glass box at the end of a
long dark room lighted with gas. It was a bitterly cold room, with no
contrivances for warming it, but in his box there was a fire burning
for his own special benefit. He surveyed all his clerks unceasingly,
and woe betide the unhappy wretch who was caught idling. He and his
slaves reminded me of a thrashing-machine which is worked by horses
walking round in a ring, the driver being perched on a high stool in
the middle and armed with a long whip.
While I was waiting his pleasure he came out and spoke to one or two of
his miserable subordinates words of directest and sharpest rebuke,
without anger or the least loss of self-possession, and yet without the
least attempt to mitigate their severity. I meditated much upon him.
If ever I had occasion to rebuke anybody, I always did it
apologetically, unless I happened to be in a flaming passion--and this
was my habit, not from any respectable motive of consideration for the
person rebuked, but partly because I am timid, and partly because I
shrink from giving pain. This man said with perfect ease what I could
not have said unless I had been wrought up to white heat. With all my
dislike to him, I envied him: I envied his complete certainty; for
although his language was harsh in the extreme, he was always sure of
his ground, and the victim upon whom his lash descended could never say
that he had given absolutely no reason for the chastisement, and that
it was altogether a mistake. I envied also his ability to make himself
disagreeable and care nothing about it; his power to walk in his own
path, and his resolve to succeed, no matter what the cost might be.
As I left him, it occurred to me that I might be more successful
perhaps with a publisher of whom I had heard, who published and sold
books of a sceptical turn. To him I accordingly went, and although I
had no introductions or recommendatory letters, I was received, if not
with a cordiality, at least with an interest which surprised me. He
took me into a little back shop, and after hearing patiently what I
wanted, he asked me somewhat abruptly what I thought of the miracles in
the Bible. This was a curious question if he wished to understand my
character; but his mind so constantly revolved in one circle, and
existed so completely by hostility to the prevailing orthodoxy, that
belief or disbelief in it was the standard by which he judged men. It
was a very absurd standard doubtless, but no more absurd than many
others, and not so absurd then as it would be now, when heresy is
becoming more fashionable.
I explained to him as well as I could what my position was; that I did
not suppose that the miracles actually happened as they are recorded,
but that, generally speaking, the miracle was a very intense statement
of a divine truth; in fact, a truth which was felt with a more than
common intensity seemed to take naturally a miraculous expression.
Hence, so far from neglecting the miraculous stories of the Bible as
simply outside me, I rejoiced in them more, perhaps, than in the plain
historical or didactic prose.
He seemed content, although hardly to comprehend, and the result was
that he asked me if I would help him in his business. In order to do
this, it would be more economical if I would live in his house, which
was too big for him. He promised to give me 40 pounds a year, in
addition to board and lodging. I joyously assented, and the bargain
was struck.
The next day I came to my new quarters. I found that he was a
bachelor, with a niece, apparently about four or five and twenty years
old, acting as a housekeeper, who assisted him in literary work. My
own room was at the top of the house, warm, quiet, and comfortable,
although the view was nothing but a wide reaching assemblage of
chimney-pots. My hours were long--from nine in the morning till seven
in the evening; but this I did not mind. I felt that if I was not
happy, I was at least protected, and that I was with a man who cared
for me, and for whom I cared. The first day I went there, he said that
I could have a fire in my bedroom whenever I chose, so that I could
always retreat to it when I wished to be by myself. As for my duties,
I was to sell his books, keep his accounts, read proofs, run errands,
and in short do just what he did himself.
After my first morning's work we went upstairs to dinner, and I was
introduced to "my niece Theresa." I was rather surprised that I should
have been admitted to a house in which there lived a young woman with
no mother nor aunt, but this surprise ceased when I came to know more
of Theresa and her uncle. She had yellowish hair which was naturally
waved, a big arched head, greyish-blue eyes, so far as I could make
out, and a mouth which, although it had curves in it, was compressed
and indicative of great force of character. She was rather short, with
square shoulders, and she had a singularly vigorous, firm walk. She
had a way, when she was not eating or drinking, of sitting back in her
chair at table and looking straight at the person with whom she was
talking.
Her uncle, whom, by the way, I had forgotten to name--his name was
Wollaston--happened to know some popular preacher whom I knew, and I
said that I wondered so many people went to hear him, for I believed
him to be a hypocrite, and hypocrisy was one of the easiest of crimes
to discover. Theresa, who had hitherto been silent, and was reclining
in her usual attitude, instantly broke out with an emphasis and
directness which quite startled me.
"The easiest to discover, do you think, Mr. Rutherford? I think it is
the most difficult, at least for ordinary persons; and when they do
discover it, I believe they like it, especially if it is successful.
They like the sanction it gives to their own hypocrisy. They like a
man to come to them who will say to them, 'We are all hypocrites
together,' and who will put his finger to his nose and comfort them.
Don't you think so yourself?"
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