The St. Charles herald. [volume], June 30, 1917, Image 4

About The St. Charles herald. [volume] (Hahnville, La.) 1873-1993

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ils Brother'
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By JACK LONDON
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(Copyngtit by tbo McClure fcovsspaper syndicale)
A strange life lias come to an end
In the death of Mr. Sedley t'rayden of
Crayden Hill. Mild, liarinh'ss, lie was
the victim ol' a strange delusion that
kept him pinned, night and day, in his
chair for the last two years of his life.
The mysterious death, or rather disap
pearance, of Ids elder brother, James
t'rayden, seems to have preyed upon
his mind, for it was shortly after that
event that his delusion began to mani
fest itself.
Mr. Crayden never vouchsafed any
explanation of his strange conduct.
There was nothing the matter with
him physically or mentally; the alien
ists found him normal in every way
save for his one remarkable idiosyn
crasy. Ilis remaining in his chair was
purely voluntary, an act of his own
will. And now he is dead and the
mystery remains unsolved.—Extract
from the Newton Courier-Times.
"Briefly, I was Mr. Sedley Crayden's
confidential servant and valet for the
last eight months of his life. During
that time he worked a good deal on a
manuscript that he kept always beside
him, except when he drowsed or
slept, at which times he invariably
locked it in a desk drawer close to his.
hand.
I was curious to read what the old
g Aleman wrote, but he was too cau
tious and cunning. I never got a peep
at the manuscript. If he were en
gaged upon it when I attended on him,
li 1 covered the top sheet with a large
blotter. It was I who found him dead
in !;is chair, and it was then that I
took the liberty of abstracting the
manuscript. I was very curious to
read it, and I have no excuses to offer.
After retaining it in my secret pos
session for several years, and later
ascertaining that Mr. Crayden left no
surviving relatives. I have decided to
make the nature of the manuscript
known. It is very long, and I have
omitted nearly all of it, giving only the
jnore lucid fragments. It bears all the
earmarks of a disordered mind, and va
rious experiences are repeated over
and over, while much is so vague and
incoherent as to defy comprehension.
Nevertheless, from reading it myself,
I venture to predict that if an exca
vation is made In the main basement,
somewhere in the vicinity of the foun
dation of the great chimney, a collec
tion of bones will be found which
should very closely resemble those
which Jnmes Crayden once clothed in
mortal flesh.—Statement of Rudolph
Heckler.
Here follow the excerpts from the
manuscript, made and arranged by
Rudolph Heckler:
I never killed my brother. Let this
be my first word and my last. Why
should I kill him? We lived together
In unbroken harmony for twenty years.
We were old men, and the fires and
tempers of youth had long since
burned out. We never disagreed even
over the most trivial things. Never
was there such amity as ours. We
were scholars. We cared nothing for
the outside world. Our companionship
and our books were all-satisfying.
Never were there such talks as we
held. Many a night we have sat up
till two or three in the morning con
versing, weighing opinions and judg
ments, referring to authorities—In
short, we lived at high and friendly
Intellectual attitudes.
He disappeared. I suffered a great
shook. Why should he have disap
peared? Where could he have gone?
It was very strange. I was stunned.
They say I was very sick for weeks.
It was brain fever. This was caused
by his inexplicable disappearance. It
was at the beginning of the experience
I hope here to relate that he disap
peared.
How I have endeavored to find him !
I am not an excessively rich man, yet
have I offered continually increasing
rewards. I have advertised in all the
papers, and sought the aid of all the
detective bureaus. At the present mo
ment the rewards I have out aggregate
over fifty thousand dollars.
They say he was murdered. They
also say murder will out. Then I say,
why does not his murder come out?
Who did it? Where is he? Where is
Jim? My Jim.
We were so happy together. He had
a remafknble mind, a most remarkable
mind, so firmly founded, so widely In
formed, so rigidly logical, that it was
not at all strange that we agreed In
all things. Dissension was unknown
between us. Jim was the most truth
ful man I have ever met. In this, too,
we were similar, as we were similar
in onr intellectual honesty. We never
sacrificed truth to make a point. We
had no points to make, we so thor
oughly agreed. It is absurd to think
that we could disagree on anything
under the sun.
I wish he would come back. Why
did he go? Who can ever explain it?
I am lonely now, and depressed with
grave forebodings—frightened by ter
rors that are of the mind and that put
at nnnzht ail that mv mind has ever
(•«■nceivi-d. Fi,mi is mutable. This is
the last word of positive science. The
j dead do not come back. This is incon
trovertible. Tue dead are dead, and
that is the end of it, and of them.
And yet I have had experiences here
—here, in this very room, at this very
desk, that—but wait. Let me put it
down in black and white, in words sim
ple and unmistakable. Let me ask
some questions. Who mislays my pen?
That is what I desire to know. Who
uses up my ink so rapidly? Not I.
And yet the ink goes.
The answer to these questions would
settle all the enigmas of the universe.
I know the answer. I am not a fool.
And some day, if I am plagued too des
perately, I shall give the answer my
self. I shall give the name of him
who mislays my pen and uses up my
ink, Ir is so silly to think that I could
use such a quantity of ink. The serv
ant lies, I know.
I have got me a fountain pen. I have
always disliked the device, hut my old
stub had to go. I burned it in the
fireplace. The ink I keep under lock
and key. I shall see if I cannot put a
stop to these lies that are being writ
ten about me. And I have other plans.
It is not true that I have recanted. I
still believe that I live in a mechanical
universe. It has not been proved oth
erwise to mo, for all that I have peered
over his shoulder and read his mali
cious statement to the contrary. He
gives me credit for no less than aver
age stupidity. He thinks I think he
is real. How silly. I know he is a
brain-figment, nothing more.
There are sueh things as hallucina-
tions. Even as I looked over his shoul-
der and read, I knew that this was
such a thing. If I were only well it
would he interesting. All my life I
have wanted to experience such phe-
nomena. And now It has come to me.
I shall make the most of it. What is
imagination? It can make something
where there Is nothing. How can any-
thing be something whore there is
nothing? How can anything be some-
thing and nothing at the same time?
I leave it for the metaphysicians to
ponder. I know better. No scholastics
for me. This is a real world and ev-
erything in it is real. What is not real
is not. Therefore he is not. Yet he
tries to fool me into believing that he
is—when all the time I know he has
no existence outside of my own brain
cells.
- 0
I saw him today, seated at the desk,
writing. It gave me quite a shock, be
cause I had thought he was quite dis
pelled. Nevertheless, on looking stead
ily, I found that he wns not there—the
old familiar trick of the brain. I have
dwelt too long on what has happened.
I am becoming morbid, and my old in
digestion Is hinting and muttering. I
shall take exercise. Each day I shall
walk for two hours.
It is impossible. I cannot exercise.
Each time I return from my walk, he
is sitting in my chair at my desk. It
grows more difficult to drive him away.
It is my chair. Upon this I insist. It
was his, but he is dead, 'and it is no
longer his. How can one be fooled by
the phantoms of his own imagining!
There is nothing real in his apparition.
I know it. I am firmly grounded with
my fifty years of study. The dead are
dead.
And yet, explain one thing. Today,
before going for my walk, I carefully
put the fountain pen in my pocket be
fore leaving the room. I remember it
distinctly. I looked at the clock at the
time. It was 10:20. Yet on my return
there was the pen lying on the desk.
Someone had been using it. There
.was very little ink left. I wish he
would not write so much. It is discon
certing.
» -
There is one thing upon which Jim
and I were not quite agreed. He be
lieved in the eternity of the forms of
things. Therefore, there entered in im
mediately the consequent belief in im
mortality and all the other notions of
the metaphysical philosophers. I had
little patience with him in this. Pains
takingly I hafe traced to him the evo
lution of his belief in the eternity
forms, showing him how it has arisen
out of his early infntuatldh with logic
and mathematics. Of course, from
that warped, squinting, abstract view
point, it is very easy to believe in the
eternity of forms.
I laughed at the unseen world. Only
the real was real, I contended, and
what one could not perceive, was not,
could not be. I believed in a mechan
ical universe. Chemistry and physics
explained everything. "Can no being
be?" he demanded in reply. I said
that his question was but the major
premise of a fallacious Christian Sci
ence syllogism. Oh, believe me, I knew
my logic, too. But he was very stub
born. I never had any patience with
philosophic idealists.
Once I made to him my confession of
faith. It was simple, brief, unanswer
able. Even as I write it now, I know
it is unanswerable. Here it is. I told
him: "I assert, with Hobbes, that It
is Impossible to separate thought from
matter that thinks. I assert, with Ba
con, that ail human understanding
arises from the world of sensations,
I assert, with Locke, that all human
ideas are due to the functions of the
senses. I assert, with Kant, the me
chanical origin of the universe, and
that création is a natural and liistori
cal process. I assert, with Laplace,
that there is no need "of the hypothesis
of n creator. And. finally, I assi rt, lie
cause of ail the foregoing, that form
Is ephemera
1. Form passes. There
fore we
I as
I rope
U. i
t was unanswerable. Yet
did lie ;
nsv.
or with l'aby's notorious
fallacy <
f tl
e wati'h. Also, he talked
aboutra
fill!
;. ami all but asserted that
tin* very
t*X!
steuce of matter hud been
explode;
by
these later-tiny laboratory
research
os.
it was childish. I had
not drea
nod
lie could be so immature.
IIow
•oui
! one argue with such a
min? I
tin*
l assertt*d tin* reasonable
ness of
til that is. To this lie agreed.
reservin'
r. h.
wovor, one exception. He
looked at in
e, us he said it, in a way
I could
not
mistake. The inference
was obvi
oils.
That lie should be guilty
of So cli
cap
a quip in the midst of a
serious discussion, astounded me.
The eternity of forms. It was ri
diculous. Yet is there a strange n.ggic
in the words. If it he true, then lias lie
not ceased to exist? Then does lie ex
ist? This is impossible.
I have ceased exercising. As long
as I remain in the room the hallucina
tion does not bother me. But when
I return to the room after an absence
lie is always there, sitting at the desk,
writing. Yet I dare not confide in a
physician. I must fight this out by
myself.
He grows more importunate. Today,
consulting a book on the shelf, I
turned and found him again in the
chair. This is the first time he has
dared to do this in my presence. Nev
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A Strange Delusion That Kept Him Night and Day in His Chair for the Last
Two Years of His Life.
of
ertheless, by looking at him steadily
and sternly for several minutes, I com
pelled him to vanish. This proves my
contention. He does not exist. If he
were an eternal form I could not make
him vanish by a mere effort of my
will.
This is getting damnable. Today I
gazed at him for an entire.hour before
I could, make him leave. Yet it is so
simple. What I see is a memory pic
ture, For twenty years I was accus
tomed to seeing him there at the desk.
The present phenomenon is merely a
recrudescence of that memory pic
ture—a picture which was impressed
countless times on my conscience.
I gave up today. He exhausted me,
and still he would not go. I sat and
watched him hour after hour. He
takes no notice of me, but continually
writes. I know he writes, for I read
It over his shoulder. It is not true.
He is taking an unfair advantage.
Query : He is a product of my con
sciousness; is it possible, then, that en
tities may be created by conscious
ness?
We did not quarrel. To this day I
do not know how it happened. Let
me tell you. Then you will see. We
sat up late that never-to-be-forgotten
last night of his existence. It was the
old, old discussion—the eternity of
forms. How many hours and how
many nights we had consumed over it !
On this night he had been particu
larly irritating, and all my nerves were
screaming. He had been maintaining
that the human soul was itself a form,
an eternal form, and that the light
within his brain would go on forever
and always. I took up the poker.
"Suppose," I said. "I should strike
you dead with thlaf"
"I would go on," he answered. »
elder
mother, Jim.
I ca
nm>t reinem!»
r. I was vi
ry I X
..
ted. He had
bet
s
sitisiat*
in this met
(physical he
ief of
bis.
Hie next I k
new lie was
lying
«ui tin
hearth. Bio
>d was rutin
ng. It
was t
Tribe*. He t
itl not spent
. He
did n<
■i move, lie
must have
fallen
m a
it and struck
bis head.
I 1111
ticed
there was M
.ml on tin*
poker.
In fall
itig lie must !
ave struck u
pon it
witli 1
tis head. An
! yet I fail
to see
liow t
fis can In*, f
.r I hold it
in my
liant! ;
ill the time.
I was still h
tiding
it in i
îy hand as I
looked at it.
It is
a hallueinati
in. That is
a eon
elusion of comniot
sense. I
have
"As a conscious entity?" I demand
ed.
"Yes, as a conscious entity," was his
reply. "I should go on, from phine to
plane of higher existence, remembering
ley earth lift*, you. this very argument
—ay. and continuing the argument
with you."
It was the only argument. (Forci
ble! Ha, ha!-—comment of Rudolph
Heckler on margin). I swear it was
only argument. 1 never lifted a hand.
IP.w cibiid iv He was mv I rotier, n.y
!
J
I
!
•
I
watehed the growth of it. At first it
was only in the dimmest light that I
could see him sitting in the chair. But
us the time passed ami the hallucina
tion, by repetition, strengthened. lie
was able to appear in the clmir under
the strongest lights. That is the ex
planation. It is quite satisfactory.
I shall never forget the first time I
saw it. I had dined alone downstairs.
I never drink wine, so that what hap
pened was eminently normal. It was
in the summer twilight that I returned
to the study. I glanced at the desk.
There he was, sitting. So natural was
it, that before I knew I cried out,
"Jim !" Then I remembered all that
had happened. Of course, it was a hal
lucination. I knew that, I took the
poker and went over to it. lie did not
move or vanish. The poker cleaved
through the non-existent substance of
the thing and struck the back of, the
chair. Fabric of fancy, that is all it
was. The mark is there on the chair
now where the poker struck. I pause
from my writing and turn and look at
it—press the tips of my fingers into
the indentation.
He did continue the argument. I
stole up today and looked over his
shoulder. He was writing the history
of our discussion. It was the same old
nonsense about the eternity of forms.
But "its I continued to read, he wrote
down the practical test I had made
with the poker. Now tills is unfair
and untrue. I made no test. In fall
ing he struck his head on the poker.
Some day somebody will find and
read what he'writes. This will be ter
rible. I am suspicious of the servant,
who is always peeping and peering,
trying to see what I write. I must do
something. Every servant I have had
is curious about what I write.
Fabric of fancy. That is all It Is.
There is no Jim who sits in the chair.
I know that. Last night, when the
house was asleep, I went down into
the cellar and looked carefully at the
soil around the chimney. It was un
tampered with. The dead do not rise
up.
Yesterday morning, when I entered
the study, there he was in the chair.
When I had dispelled him, I sat in the
chair myself all day. I had my meals
brought to me. And thus I escaped
the sight of him for many hours, for
he appears only in the chair. I was
weary, but I sat late, until 11 o'clock.
Yet, when I stood up to go to bed, I
looked around, anti there he was. He
had slipped into the chair on the in
stant. Being only a fabric of fancy,
all day he had resided in my brain.
rvant
carry
the pen out
of
the room
Iw
lot ke
t. But licit
UT
could I
w
rit e.
—
The s
erva.r
t never sers
hi
is
st ran;
;t*. I
ave I devcloj
od
a keener
_*ht fo
' the
unseen? » *:•
rat
lier, docs
it
not ]
rove
the phantom
to
be what
it
is—a
TodU
ct of lay own
Ill<
rbid cou
sc
iousm
SS ?
—
lie st
tie m
y pen again.
I
allucina
ti
ms ea
i,not
steal pens.
Th
l - is un
iswera
(do.
And yet 1 <
•an
iat keep
tl
e pen
iilW!
ys out of tl
it*
room. I
\Y
int to
writt
myself.
—
I liavt
had
three differt
nt
servants
[The moment it was unoccupied, he j
took up his resilience in the chair. Are !
these his boasted higher planes of oxist
once—his brother's Praia and chair?
After all, was lie :
eternal tern: becoa
to he a hallueinati
lions real entities?
is food for thought
shall eeme to a o.
iot right? lias his
it* so attenuated as
in? Are knliueina
Why not? Then*
». re. Seme day 1
lu lusioa upon it.
nut h
•aid
iisturhed *
1 had mm
I
since my trouble came upon me, and
not one has seen hint. Is the verdict
of their senses right? And is that of
mine wrong? Nevertheless, the ink
goes too rapidly. T fill my pen more
often than is necessary. And further
more. only today I found my pen out
of order. I did not break it.
I have spoken to him many times,
but lie never answers. I sat and watch
ed him all morning. Frequently he
looked at me, and it was patent that
lie knew me.
By striking the skfe of my head vio
lently with the heel of my hand, I can [
shake the vision of him out of my eyes.
Then I can-get into the chair; but I
have learned that I must move very
quickly in order to accomplish this. Of
ten he fools me anti is back again be
fore I can sit down.
It is getting unbearable. He is a
jack-in-the-box, the way he pops into
the chair. He does not assume form
slowly. He pops. That is the only
way to tiescribe it. I cannot stand
looking at him much more. That way
lies madness, for it compels me almost
to believe in the reality of what,I
know is not. Besides, hallucinations
do not pop.
Thank God, he only manifests him
self in the chair. As long as I occupy
the chair I am quit of him.
My device for dislodging him from
the chair by striking my head is fail
ing. I have to hit much more vio
lently, and I do not succeed perhaps
more than once in a dozen trials. My
head is quite sore where I have so
repeatedly struck it. I must use the
other hand.
My brother was right. There Is an
unseen world. Po I not see it? Am I
not cursed with the seeing of it all the
time? Call it a thought, an itlea, any
thing you will, still it is there. It is
unescapable. Thoughts are entities.
We create with every act of thinking.
I have created this phantom that sits
in my chair and uses my ink. Because
I have created him is no reason that
he is any the less real. He is an idea ;
he is an entity ; ergo, ideas are entities,
and an entity is a reality.
Query: If a man, with the whole
historical process behind him, can cre
ate an entity, a real thing, then is not
the hypothesis of a Creator made sub
stantial? If the stuff of life can create,
then it Is fair to assume that there
can be a he who created the stuff of
life. It is merely a difference of de
gree. I have not yet made a mountain
nor a solar system, hut I have made
something that sits in my chair. This
in
In
is
it
a
he
in
,
being so, may I not some day he able j
to make a mountain or a solar sys
tem?
All his days, down to today, man lias
lived in a maze. He has never seen
the light. I am convinced that I am
beginning to see the light—not as my
brother saw it, by stumbling upon it
accidentally, but deliberately and ra
tionally. My brother is dead. He has
ceased. There is no doubt about it,
for I have made another journey down
into the cellar to see. The ground was
untouched. I broke it myself to make
sure, and I saw what made me sure.
My brother has ceased, yet have I re
created him. This is not my old broth
er, yet it is something as nearly re
sembling him as I could fashion it. I
am unlike other men. I am a god. 1
have created.
Whenever I leave the room to go to
bed I look back, and there is my broth
er sitting In the chair. And then I
cannot sleep because of thinking of
him sitting through nil the long night
hours. And in the morning, when I
open the study door, there he Is, and I
know he has sat there the night long.
I am becoming desperate from lack
of sleep. I wish I could confide in a
physician.
Blessed sleep! I have won It at
last. Let me tell you. Last night I
was so worn that I found myself doz
ing in my cha-lr. I rang for the serv
ant and ordered him to bring blankets.
I slept. All night was he banished
from my thoughts as he was banished
from my chair. I shall remain in it
all day. It is a wonderful relief.
It is uncomfortable to sleep in a
chair. But it ft more uncomfortable to
lie in bed, hour after hour, and not
try
a
ly
of
sleep, and to know tii.it ht Is
there in the cold darkness.
It is no use. I shall never he abb* to
sleep in a bed again. I have tried it
now, numerous times, and
such night is a horror. If 1 could nut
only persuade him to go to bed! But
im, He sits there and sits there—I
know he does—while I start* and start*
up into the hlaekness and think and
think, continually think, of him to
know that he is sitting here.
Tilt* servants think I am crazy. That
hut t<> he txp ' ted and it is why
I have never called a physician.
or
I am rt
Im ination et
remain i'i tk
it. I shall r
ami always.
■ed. Henceforth this kal
is.-s. Front now on I shall
chair. I shall never leave
main in it night and day
I have succeeded. For two weeks i
have not seen him Nor shall I ever
see him again. I have at his; attained
the equanimity of mind necessary tor
philosophic thought, I wrote a com
plete chapter today.
it is very wearisome sitting in a
chair. The weeks pass, tin* months
come and go. the seasons change, the
servants replace each other, while I re
main. I only remain. It is a strange
life I lead, but at least I am at peace.
He comes no more. There is no eter
nity of forms. I have proved it. For
nearly two years now I have remained
in this chair, anti I have not seen him
once. But it is clear that what I
thought I saw was merely hallucina
tion. He never was. Yet I do not
leave the chair. I am afraid to leave
the chair.
SUPERSTITIONS ARE MANY
Seafaring Men, Especially, Have Many
Signs Which Are Believed to Indi
cate Good or Bad Luck.
Old actors believe the witches' song
In "Macbeth" to possess the power of
casting evil spells, and the majority of
them strongly dislike to play in the
piece.
Some of the creatures met with at
sea are considered unlucky. If a shark
is seen following a ship for days it is
thought that someone on board is
doomed to die shortly. The birds
known as Mother Cary's chickens,
when they perch upon the rigging of a
vessel, are believed to be the messen
gers of a storm. Dolphins or porpoises
seen in a calm are unfavorable omens.
The naming of a warship after sting
ing or venomous things is considered
unlucky.
In Newfoundland the superstitious
say that if a ship lias a starboard list
it is a sign of a quick passage; a port
list, it is a sign of a long passage.
The throwing overboard during a
calm of old clothes too bad to wear,
which have been saved for the pur
pose, is supposed to bring a wind.
If the nails of the hand he cut with
a knife or scissors it will bring a head
wind.
A vessel which sticks upon the way
while being launched is certain to be
unlucky, in the lore of the sea.
A vessel painted blue is supposed to
he a hoodoo and .to bring had weather.
Misfortune to a vessel is sure to lie
followed by ill luck to all vessels bear
ing the same name.
Business Men Best Farmers.
"It may be disputed and appear Im
probable, but it is nevertheless true
that the best farmers are uot those
who are brought qp on the farm and
educated as farmers, but rather those
who go on to the farm from other oc
cupations," remarked James Hayden, a
stockman of Montuna, according to the
Washington Post. "Montana, you may
know, has become an agricultural state
in the last decade. Before that we
were a stock state, and there was very
nttle real farming done. We have had
immigrants from all parts of the coun
try who have gone on to farms. Many
bave become rich, because Montana
land is rich agricultural land. Investi
gation has been made in all parts of
ihe country to learn who make the
most successful farmers anti why.
These inquiries have invariably shown
that the best farmers are progressive
men. By that I mean men who are
intelligent and aggressive. They are
doctors, merchants, lawyers, clerks and
others. The professional man usually
makes a successful farmer because, as
a rule, he applies to farming tirât sys
tematic, orderly intelligence which
made him a success in his profession."
Hetty Green Changed Faith.
Mrs. Hetty Green, who was frequent
ly called the richest woman in the
world and wa3 reared la the Quaker
fiilth, accepted the Episcopalian creed
three years before lier death to be
buried in the family plot with her hus
band. The story became known in
transfer tax proceedings to determine
Mrs. Green's legal place of abode.
"Mrs. Green's attachment," said one
of the estate's lawyers, "for the place
to which her young husband took her
as his bride fifty years ago was so
strong that she was baptized 'nto tin*
Episcopal faith a few years before her
death because she feared she otherwise
might not he permitted to lit* after
death beside her husband in tin* cem
etery of that church In Bellows Falls"
—From the New York Sun.
A Useful Servie*.
Weather nows is now received r- .u
larlv by wireless at 270 atmitei *• r dio
stations located in nine of llit* uorth
ern and western states. In this way
the wireless operator !.-: enabled to
give h»3 neighborhood 'the wratner
forecast as soon us it is issued*