LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1825, 27 December 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MY FRIEND THE COMMUNIST. There was plenty of brilliancy about Paul Forbes, and when, after his return from Europe, he took a fancy to spend his even ings with me I was highly flattered by the idea that I was fitted to enjoy free and untrammelled intercourse with a master mind. He had sounded life and experiences to the bottom, and could relate his experiences in a clear, picturesque fas* ion. He had fought through the war of the Rebellion, belonged to secret societies in Europe, studied art under G —, and lived in Paris during the commune ; he had been foreign nepspaper correspondent, and written a book and three plays, all dead failures. He called himself a champion failure, but he took the world with an air of success, and his accumulated experiences, instead of depressing him, afforded him a fund of material upon which his imagination acted with powerful vivacity. I found him and his conversation very fascinating. A holy friendship sprang up between us. He pronounced himself a Communist, and, after long arguments, quite converted me to his ideas. When finally, he made the suggestion In his frank, dictatorial fashion that we should live together and have everything in common, I was touched and exalted by the idea, besides being secretly pleased with the notion of identifying my insignificant career with that of an intellectual giant, Paul despised the meager conventionalisms and corroding selfishness which pervaded society, and I heartily agreed with him that in order to readjust the scale of human estimates and recommence civilisation, it was necessary for brave spirits like onrselves to make a beginning and afford a spectacle of the true brotherhood of man. As I had an excellent room on Twelfth street, it was not necessary that we should find new quarters. Paul brought his effects aud settled down at once. While we were discussing ways and means, he had talked a good deal about his ‘furniture,’ and I had gained the idea that his belongings would inaugurate an era of sumptuous luxury in my modest apartment 1 confess it did seem to me that these hints were not practically carried out. He had, it is true, an embroidered arm-chair, but it was faded and badly moth-eaten. But some women had worked it for Paul, and I could not blame him for seeing more in it than was appircut to my eyes. There waa a sofa, too, which he had affirmed to be a superb piece of furniture, but it came to pieces when moved, and when the remains were earned to the nearest cabinet maker the idea that it could be resurrected entire waa cynically repudiated. He had, besides, about a thousand books, some handsomely bound, and a piaster cast of ‘ the Venus,’ as he called it, spotted and blackened by age, and a skeleton. I ventured to object to the skeleton, but Paul scorned all ideas which rested upon individual whim or caprice and demanded a foundation of universal law. Anything, ho declared, which was * universal’ waa good.

Now. certainly nothing can bs more nniver--B*l than skehtons, Accordingly, the Venus stood on a draped pedestal, made of a chair that had lost its back and an old dressinggown. on one side of the bookshelves, and the skeleton hung by a book on the other. Over and above these possessions he fcai two unframed pictures, presented by artist friends In Paris. I frankly c ncede that his things gave an air of taste to the room ; they showed culture. I had always felt my lack of culture, and now encouraged a large and 'ivid belief in my opportunity for intellectual and rc.thetical impro ement. I began at once to enjoy his library, and was not slow to not’ce a singular circum stance; all the books had different names on their fly-leaves, as if they had been drawn from various private libraries. I questioned Paul about this, and ho told me that a few had been picked np at sales, others were presents, but the gr atest number had been leot to him and never returned.

‘ Why, Brix,’ said ho (my name is Henry Brisbane, but he always c>lled me ‘ Brix ’), ‘ I needed them more than the pe pile I bor rowed them from. Why, Brix, books should bo a commodity free as the universal air. Of what use is a book when shut away in a library? As well shut away sunshine Whsn society is revolutionised, when selfishness and narrowness no longer characterise men and rulers, books will be like the dew which falls from heaven. Tour or my right to a book lies in the need of it.’

I could readily see that there was a good deal in this ; still public libraries offer facilities to the poor man. ‘Too much circumlocution—too ranch red tape,’ said Paul. ‘By the very asking for a particular book you become the humiliated bondsman of caitain rules which cramp and fetter every geuuine impulse. I want books to suit my convenience. I cant read intelligently pant up in a room with a pack of ninnies. ’ I had long since made up my mind that society was all wrong, and it was a real pleasure to hear Paul challenge the estabI'ehed order of things e fearlessly. If some of his views were rather personal than general, rather chimerical than practical, that seemed mere human nature. We got on capitally. Paul had made an estimate of our expenses. I was to furnish 50 dollars a month b sides the room, and he would contribute the equivalent. But as all his schemes turned out unluckily, and he had no money, the entire expenses devolved upon me We breakfasted together in onr room. Paul was a capital cook, and used to ge‘ up at daylight in the cold winter morn ings and broil our bacon, cook onr hominy, and make onr coffee. Then in the evening, when we met again, he would often offer a suggestion of supper. I occasionally had a dim suspicion, which sometimes amounted to a certainty, that the poor fellow needed his sapper, having had neither luncheon nor dinner. so]l never begrudged him anything. He was a most delightful companion, and over onr oysters and lager beer would pour out confessions suggestive, romantic, and heart-stirring. I could not admire him enough. I felt myself a tamo, shabby fellow beside him, a mere foil to his brightness, His wardrobe was scanty, poor devil ! and he had a knack of wearing clothes so much better than I, that I liked to see him In my things. He shared my coats and trousers as he shared my room and that he should make unstinted use of my neckties and handkerchiefs was a matter of course.

But one day, when I came in after my umbrella and overshoes, and found that he had gone out and carried them off, I began to sulk over Paul’s free-and-easy ways I remembered with soma acerbity that bis part of onr contract had not been carried out. I had paid the rent, furnished breakfast and supper, and had that very morning paid his bill to the laundress, who had become importunate and threatened to keep back his small stock of linen. On no occa ion had I ever seen any money of Paul’s except on Christmas, when he invited ms with lordly good-nature to dine with him at Martigy’s, remarking that Christmas comes but once a year, and that we would dine well. Even then his hospitality lost its force and was a little marred by the circumstance that I had to pay for the second bottle of wine. But on this particular afternoon I was led to a softened feeling for Paul’s faults by the fact that I had received an invitation to dinner for the next day. Tom Tbatober had just come back from Europs with his father and sister Lulu They were the oldest and best friends I had in the world, and Lulu I had adored almost from my infancy. Tom had hunted me up almost as soon as he landed, and urged me to dine with them the very next evening at the old house on Twenty-first street. Accordingly, as I said before, I was inclined to forgive Paul taking away my overshoes and umbrella, for otherwise I should have missed Tom and thus lost my invitation. When Paul came iu and began to explain how he came to wear my overshoes, I interrupted with an ‘ All right 1 I’m glad you did so. ” ‘ Brix,’ he returned with fervor, ‘you’re a capital fellow! You have treated me like a brother and—’

‘That was the compact,’ said I ; ‘ we were to share and share alike.’ ‘lf I ever get rich— * Paul exclaimed with some ardor. I looked at him and laughed. It waa evident that Paul had some personal schemes in view, and I diverted myself a little all the next day, imagining what wonderful financial successes he was hoping for. I w*s in capital spirits, although the day was a fatiguing one and I did not leave the office until long after five, and I waa engaged to dine with the Thatchers at half past six. I sped uptown by the elevated roid, whisked along Fourteenth street, down University place to ' r we'fth, and found when I reached my room I had forty minutes to shave and dress in. Paul was out—had apparently been cut all day, for there was no litter of books or manuscripts around, I felt sorry for the poor fellow, lonely, unlucky, cut off from domestic ties and the pleasant intimacy of friendly homes, forced to console himself with a bitter barren philosophy and look to a doubtfni and distant future for the scant rewards of his fidelity to principles which the rest of the wodd hated and disowned. While I shaved I felt myself, in contrast with him, a pampered child of f jrtune. I was tempted to put out my entire box of cigars, that he might enjoy at least such meagre comfort when he came in.

In this tender mood I went to my wardrobe to my dress clothes. They we-e not there. I looked in the clothes press, I looked everywhere. I did not readily admit the possibility that they were actually gone. There are circumstances which embitter friendship. I swore at Paul with cordial profanity. He had gone out attired in my dress suit, Irrefragible proof; his own habiliments (he had but one set of garments) hung in the closet. Every man has his vulnerable point. I bad liked Paul's views of a universal brotherhood ; there was something ennobling in the renunciation of selfish individual claims; but a man has, nevertheless, a few inalienable rights, and one of them is certainly the undisputed tenu -e of his solitary dress suit. This was Communism, was it ? This was the npsh-.t of these fine theories ! Here was I, a plodding, hard-working fellow, who had economised in all sorts of ways to keep himself in the condition of a gentleman, the prey of a lazy vagabond who spent his time in quarrelling with the universe instead of making his living like other m-n. Where could he have worn my clothes ? What need existed of his appearance in faultless evening attire among his shabby Bohemian coterie ? Time passed while I waa in the clutches of this painful dilemma. Should I send an excuse to the Thatchers, or commit the glaring impropriety of going to the dinner in my rough morning clothes 1 Even if Tom and his father overlooked the fault, Lulu would observe, with feminine fastidiousness, and make up her mind that I was altogether sunk below her ideal. But 1 had no messenger to send, and I determined to go and avenge my wrongs by telling everybody the reason of my being in this plight. There waa no end to the clever satirical obaerva tions concerning Paul and his fantastic theories, I made to myself on the way to Mr Thatcher’s. I found that the family had already sat down to table, and 1 was at once ushered into the dini-g-room. Mr Thatcher nodded to [me, and held out a couple of fingers ; Tom waa brusque, and gave my clothes an odd glance ; bat the fair Lula was gracious, and a thousand times more lovely than ever. I had no eyes for anybody else antll she said sweetly, ‘ Mr Brisbane, let me Introduce yon to Mr Forbes.’

I looked np. I need all my self-command not to cry out. There sat P»nl oppo'ite, wall dressed, calm, easy, assured, returning my glance with a humorous expression on his handsome face, ‘How are you, Bril 7’ said he. ‘You were late in coming home to-night.’ Lulu looked at me with interest. ‘So you and Mr Forbes are acquainted ?' said she, ‘Brix and I are brothers,’ Paul answered for me in his genial, heartfelt way. * Brix has redeemed my lost faith in mankind It is a distinct blessing to me that Brix is alive. Poor wretch that I am, without any of the rewards which sweeten a lonely destiny, it has done me good to know a man like Brix. I may say I was a stranger when he took me in.’ ([ waited breathless to hear if he added, ‘ naked, and he clothed me,’ but ho broke off with a half laugh and a smiling glance at me,) then added : ‘Yes, Miss Lu'u Brix aud I are friends,’ Lulu smiled at him. She evidently con sidered it a fellowship like that of I’ame et la bete. I sat dumb. My wit was generally too early or too late. I knew not in what form to attack Haul —whether fearlessly to expose him as a wolf in sheep’s clothing, or • umiliate, sting and wound him by satire. I could not, however, find a chance to speak; I tat like an awkward boy. Of course, my dinner was spoiled. I made mistakes in my wine, and Mr Thatcher came to my relief with effloious instructions that he did not intend the Cloa Vougeot to go with the salad. Wherever I failed Paul shone. He was well dressed, whereas I was ill dressed ; he was chatty, even brilliant, whereas I was sulky and silent. I discovered that he had spent a month with the Thatchers in Italy. It was easy to see how they regarded him a man too young, far from rich, yet who had seen and possessed the best part of the world—a sort of Ulysses. I was rayless beside him. When I finally rallied and made some trifling observations, they fell flat, while haul’s least remark was pondered and treasured. I pleaded an engagement, illness, something, and left the house as soon as we rose from the table. I went home and sat np moodily until Paul came in. I foresaw a climax of emotion, wrath, and the end of our friendship. He entered just past midnight with a jaunty air. ‘ ttill up ?’ said he, putting his hand on my shoulder. ‘By the way, Brix, had I dreamed that you were invited to the Thatchers’ to-night we would have tossed up for the dress-suit.’

‘ Tossed up ?’ I retorted fiercely. ‘ This is distinctly too much.’ ‘ What is too much ?’ ‘I have not been backward in conferring whatever benefits I could grant consistent with my own self-respect,’ I gasped, ‘but for you to wear the very clothes I— ’ ‘You don’t mean to say, Brix, that you begrudged me the use of this coat and waistcoast and trousers V I wanted to be rough with him ; I wanted to express with the utmost force my rage at the affront, the wrong, he had put upon me. But be had so surprised a manner, he seemed so prined by my selfish and arrogant behaviour he retired so ingenuously into his philosophical theories concerning the inalienable right of one man to the possessions of any other man, he looked at me so reproachfully and evince such disappointment at my decline from the plane of lofty diiinterestedneas on which he had placed me, that I began to believe that I really was a selfish brute. He went on to tell me that he had loved the fair Lulu for more than a year, and that it was his intention to cffer himself to her the very next evening, when he had promised to aot as escort to a concert. ‘ You shan't wear my dress-clothes,’ I gasped violently. He bemoaned hia destiny like an artless child; he complained of the cruelty of the world, I had disappointed him. It was but one failure the more, but the worst failure of hia life. Ha had no money to buy dressclothes for himself, yet if he presented himself next evening to Lulu in his shabby velveteen, it would bo such a palpable shook to the su capabilities that he would be liable to lose the ground already gained. But almost worse than his disappointment in love was the disappointment in my fraternal affection. He ought, ho said, to have accepted my offers of friendship, counting upon them no more than upon a Spaniard’s courteous hut unmeaning formula, ‘Todo ete ala disposiclone do V. ’ He should not have put my uncompromising egotism to this test.

I was amenable to such treatment, * Oh, take my clothes,' I cried wildly, ‘Take anything I Don’t think of me or of my claims In the least. I’ve got a better nesktie than that, and a pair of diamond studs, Put them on to-morrow night. Let Lulu believe they are yours. Look your best in them. Win her if yon can. ’ Paul rung my hand, * Brix,’ he returned with fervor, * I will.’ He did so. He went out next evening faultless in my attire, and returned triumphant; Lulu had accepted him. Old Thatcher had found no fault ■« ith him, and the thing was to be an engagement. I found a certain morbid pleasure in making Paula wedding present of the clothes he was wearing. lam the sort of man who cannot stand up against destiny, and is forced to accommodate himself to the inevitable. Paul was extremely grateful, and upon the breaking np of ont menage, which followed hard npon his engagement, insisted npon making me a pretent of the skeleton.