At War with Society; or, Tales of the Outcasts

by Rodrigues Ottolengui

  The Cobbler's Knife.

  You will have perceived that among my mysteries I have never hadanything to do with dreams or dream-mongers. My dreams have been all ofthat peep-o'-day kind when a man is "wide awake" as they say, and "up toa thing or two." Not to say that I disbelieve in dreams when they have astreak of sunlight in them, as all veritable ones have. Nor is thestrange case I am about to relate free from the suspicion that the dreamwhich preceded a terrible act, was just a daylight feeling reflectedfrom some dark corner of the brain.

  In 1835, I met one morning, as I was going to commence the duties of theday, William Wright, shoemaker in Fountain Close. He had been drinkingthe evening before, for his eyes were red and swollen, and he had thetwittering about the tumified top of the cheeks, which shews that theinflammation is getting vent. There was some wildness in his look, and,as it afterwards appeared, something in his talk with a deeper meaningthan I could comprehend.

  "You have had more than enough last night, William," said I.

  "Why, yes," replied he, "James and I had a bout, and I am off work foran hour or two till my hand steadies."

  "Better for you and your wife if your hand was always steady," said I,as I made a movement to walk on.

  "Do you believe in dreams?"

  "Some," replied I, meaning the streaked ones I have alluded to. "Why doyou put that question?"

  "Because," replied he, "I am quite disturbed this morning by one I hadlast night. I thought that James Imrie stabbed me with the knife I cutmy leather with."

  "But James hasn't done it yet, has he?"

  "No, but I awoke as angry at him as if he had; and though I have comeout to get a mouthful of fresh air, I can't get quit of my wrath."

  "Angry at a dream," said I, as I looked into William's scowling face. "Ithought we had all quite enough to be angry at, without having recourseto dreams."

  "Ay, but I can't help it," said he again; "I have been trying to shakeit off, but it won't do."

  "It will fly off with the whisky fever, William," said I. "James and youare old friends, and you mustn't allow a dream to break yourfriendship."

  "Wouldn't like that either," was the reply. "He's a good-naturedcreature, and I like him; but I can't get quit of his visage as hestuck the knife into me. It has haunted me all the morning."

  "So that you would reverse the dream, and make it true by _contraries_,as the old ladies do, when they can't get things to fit--by sticking theknife into _him_?"

  "No, I wouldn't feel it in my heart to stab the best friend I have,"said he; and looking wistfully into my face with his bloodshot eyes, headded, "But maybe a glass with James will wear it off."

  "Yes, of pure spring water from the Fountain well there," said I.

  "I never was very fond of water," said he, with a kind of grim smile,"nor is it very fond of me. One can't talk over it."

  "Your old political twists, William," said I, as I recollected a curioustheory he sported everywhere, and was rather mad upon.

  "Oh, but I don't hate James for opposing me in that. I rather like himthe better for it. We get fun out of it."

  "The more reason," said I, "for you to give up your ill-natured fancy.Stab you!--why, man, James Imrie is so inoffensive a creature, that,though a flesher's runner, he wouldn't flap a fly that blows his beef,unless it were a very tempting bluebottle."

  "I believe it," said he, looking a little more calm; "and I will try toforget the face. I will be better after my breakfast."

  So I left William to his morning meal, suspecting that there would be adram before it, thinking too of the strange fancy that had takenpossession of him, but never dreaming that anything would come of it. Itwas sometime afterwards that the thread of the story again recurred tomy mind, and what I have now to relate was derived from a conversation Ihad with Wright himself at a time when he was likely to speak the truth.I cannot answer for every word of the conversation I am to report, but Ihave little doubt that the substance comes as near the thing as otherrecitals of the same kind, recorded a considerable time after they haveoccurred.

  It appeared that James Imrie, according to his old habit, and withoutknowing anything of William's dream, had left his house in Skinner'sClose, and gone to his friend's, for the purpose of having a crack and aspark. William, who was at the time busy with a job of cobbling which hehad promised to finish that night, received his friend with all hisusual warmth, but, what was strange enough, without saying a word of hisdream. James sat at a little side-table near William's stool, and somewhisky was produced, according to their old fashion; for the shoemaker,like other political cobblers, liked nothing better than to spin hispolitics and take his dram while he was plying his awl and rosin-end. Soscarcely had the first glass been swallowed, when William got upon hishobby--"The five acres and the thousand pounds" doctrine as he used tocall it, and which the reader will understand as the conversationprogresses. Poor James was no great adept at the sublime mystery that,like Fourier's, was to regenerate the world, and make every snob andflesher's runner as happy as the denizens of Paradise; and therefore,with his tardy thoughts and slow Scotch pronunciation, was no match forhis book-read and voluble antagonist; but he was a good "butt," and thatwas all probably that Wright cared for--his sole ambition being to speakand to be heard speaking by any one, however unable to understand theextent of his learning.

  "There now," began William, "I have been reading in the _Scotsman_to-day that the Duke of Buccleuch has a thousand a-day. Good Lord! justthink, if all the land possessed by this one man, made of clay no finerthan the potter's, and maybe not so well turned, was divided intoploughgates, how many poor people would be lairds, and rendered happy."

  "But if we were a' lairds," drawled James, "wha wad mak' the shoon andrin wi' the beef?"

  "They would make their own shoes out of their own leather, and reartheir own beef," was the triumphant reply. "Then, people say I'm forFrench equality. I'm not. The idiots don't understand the 'five acresand thousand pounds' doctrine. No man should have more than thatquantity of land, or that sum of money. The overplus should be takenfrom him and divided."

  "It looks weel," replied James, with a good-natured smile; "but howwould it work? It puts me in mind o' Laird Gilmour's plan wi' his snuff.'Let every prudent man ken,' said he, 'that there's twa hundred pinchesin half an unce; and let him keep count as he taks every pinch, and hisnose will never cheat him, and he'll never cheat his nose.' I've triedit, but I aye lost count."

  "Nonsense, man! You're just like the rest, trying to crack a joke at theexpense of a grand scheme for benefiting our species. You forget thatunder our present idiotic system a poor man cannot often get his halfounce to divide into pinches, whereas under the 'five acres and thousandpunds' doctrine you could rear your own tobacco, dry it, make Taddy ofit, and then snuff it, without the necessity of your arithmetic."

  "And mak' our ain whisky tae," rejoined James, "and get a' drunk?"

  "No," responded the theorist. "We might certainly distil our own whisky,but not get all drunk. Drunkenness is the consequence of our presentsystem, where poverty makes misery, and misery flies to the bottle, andwhere bloated wealth produces epicures, who disdain whisky, but wallowin wine from morning to night."

  "And yet they're no ill chields, thae grand folk, after a'," said James."Mony a shilling I get when my basket's emptied. It comes a' round. Ifthey get, they gie; and they're no unmindfu' o' the puir."

  "I'm poor," cried the cobbler; "do they mind me? No. They grind me downto a farthing, and are ready to say, when I support the rights oflabour, 'Well, labour then, and be paid; and when you can't work, youhave the workhouse between you and starvation.' And yet I have a soul asnoble as theirs."

  "And nobler," said James, with his quiet humour; "for you would mak' aparadise o' the world, and every ane o' us an angel, without wings; butwe wouldna' need wings, for wha would think o' fleeing out o' paradise?"

  "Your old mockery, James," said Wright, a little touched. "The greatproblem of the happiness of mankind i
s not a subject for ridicule."

  "It's yoursel' that's making the fun," rejoined his friend. "I was onlyusing your ain words. But could we no speak about something else thanthe 'five acres and thousand pounds' doctrine? I never could comprehendit."

  "And never can," was the tart reply. "You haven't capacity. It requiresdeep thought to solve the problem of human happiness, and you needn'ttry; but you might listen to instruction."

  "I have listened lang aneugh," said the other, alike ruffled in histurn, "and it comes aye to the same knotted thrum. Ye canna mak a gudejob o't by slicing aff the lords and the puir. Ye might as weel try tofancy a sheep wi' nae mair body than a king's-hood and some trollops,without head or trotters." And James laughed good-naturedly.

  "Gibes again," retorted Wright, as (according to his account to me) thevision of the dream came before him, and the anger which had accompaniedit flared upon his heart.

  But he wrestled with it, occasionally looking at his friend, whom hereally loved, yet still fancying that the face of that friend, howeverilluminated with the good humour probably inspired by the whisky, mightor would assume the demoniac expression it carried when he dreamed thathe had stabbed him to the heart. It signified little that James wassmiling,--the other expression would return when the smile left. It wasembodied in the muscles. It appeared as a phantasm, and the strength ofa morbid imagination gave it form and expression.

  "Yes, the old gibes."

  "No," replied James; "I canna jibe wi' an auld freend. But to end a'this just never speak mair o' the new paradise."

  "Worse and worse!" cried Wright. "You despise a subject that ought tointerest all people. What are you who laugh at the idea of being made aproprietor of the rights of man--a poor wretch, who makes a shillinga-day by carrying beef, and licks the hand that gives you a penny, whichby the rights of nature belongs to you; for is it not robbed from youby your masters, who have made a forceful division of property, and thenyou scoff at the man who would right you. I say, man, you're a bornidiot."

  A word this that changed James's face into as much of ill-nature as thepoor fellow's naturally good and simple heart would permit. Wright atthat moment looked at him. He saw, as he thought, the very countenanceof the stabber, and his heart burned again, his eye flashed, and heinstinctively grasped the knife in his hand. The fit lasted for a momentand went off, and the conversation was renewed at a point where I breakoff my narrative, to resume it when Wright gave me the parting words.

  All this time I was in my own house. It would be, I think, about nineo'clock when I left to go up the High Street. I saw a number of peoplecollected at the mouth of the Fountain Close, and heard dreadful criesof murder from the high windows of a house a little way down the entry.I was not thinking of Wright, and pushing the people aside, I wasbeginning to make my way down, when up the close comes running a man inhis shirt-sleeves. I caught him in an instant in my arms, while thepeople were crying wildly, the women screaming, "Take care of theknife!"

  And to be sure the knife was in his hand, _all bloody_.

  "Wright!" cried I, as I wrenched the weapon from him.

  "Ay, Wright," replied he; "I have murdered James," and then drawing adeep sigh he added, in choking accents, "Oh, that dream!"

  Holding him tight I got him from amongst the crowd for indeed at thetime I thought him mad. In leading him up I began to recollect the storyhe had told me before. I wished to speak, but when I turned to him Ibeheld such a wild distortion of features that I shrunk from increasinghis agony. I heard him groaning, every groan getting into thearticulation, "My friend," "My best friend," "Surely I am mad," "Takecare of me, M'Levy--I'm a maniac." I didn't think so now, yet I was uponmy guard; and, as he was a strong man, I got a constable to take him bythe other arm.

  On arriving at the Office, which we did in the midst of a dense crowd,among whom the word "murder" sped from mouth to mouth, making open lipsand wide staring eyes, I led him in. The moment he entered, he flunghimself on a seat, and covering his eyes with his hands sent forthgurgling sounds, as if his chest were convulsed--rolling meanwhile fromside to side, striking his head on the back of the seat, and still thewords, "James, James, my old friend--O God! what is this I have broughtupon me?"

  "Is Imrie dead?" said I, watching him narrowly.

  "Dead!" he cried, with a kind of wild satire, even light as a madman'slaugh; "up to the heft in his bowels."

  "Was it connected with the dream, William?" I said again; "why, it wasJames should have stabbed you."

  "The dream," he ejaculated, as if his spirit had retired back into hisheart; "the dream--ay, the dream. It was that--it was that."

  "How could that be?" I said again, for I was in a difficulty.

  "His face, the very face he had when, in my dream, he plunged my ownknife in me, has haunted me ever since. I told you that morning it waswith me. I could not get rid of it, and when I saw him to-night sittingby me, I observed the same scowl. I thought he was going to seize myknife and stab me. I thought I would prevent him by being before him,and plunged the knife into his body."

  "Terrible delusion," said I. "Imrie, as I told you, couldn't have hurt afly."

  "Too late, too late," he groaned. "I know it now, and, what is worst ofall, I'm not mad; I feel I am not, and I must be hanged. Nothing elsewill satisfy my mind--I have said it. If not, I will destroymyself--lend me my knife."

  "No, no," said I, "no murders here; but perhaps James is not dead--hemay recover."

  "Why do you say that?" he cried, as he slipt off the chair, and took meby the knees; "who knows that? has any one seen him to tell you? I wouldgive the world and my existence to know that he has got one remnant oflife in him;" and then he added, as his head fell upon his chest, "Alas!it is impossible. I took too good care of that. It would have done forone of his master's oxen."

  "Imrie's not dead," said a constable, as he came forward; "they've takenhim to the Infirmary."

  I have seen a criminal with his whole soul in his ear as the jury tooktheir seats, and seen his eye after the transference of his spirit fromthe one organ to the other, as he heard the words "Not guilty." Soappeared Wright. He rose up, and again seating himself, while his eyewas still fixed on the bearer of good news, he held up his hands in anattitude of prayer, and kept muttering words which I could not hear.

  On leading him to the cell, where he was in solitude to be left for thenight, I could not help thinking, as I have done on other occasions,that the first night is the true period of torture to such a one asWright, with remorse in his heart. I suspect we cannot picture thoseagonies of the spirit except by some comparisons with our experiences ofpain; but as pain changes its character with every pang, as it respondsto the ever-coming and varying thoughts, our efforts are simplyineffectual. We give a shudder, and fly to some other thought forrelief. To a sufferer such as Wright, we can picture only onealternative--the total renunciation of the spirit to God; and howwonderfully the constitution of the mind is suited to this, the deepestremorse finding the readiest way where we would think it might bereversed. It is impossible to rid one's-self of the conviction from thisstrange fact alone, that Christianity, which harmonises with thisinstinct, so to call it, comes from the God of the instinct. It seemedto me that Wright would, in the ensuing night, find the solace he seemedto yearn for. He had already got some hope; and becoming calm, I satdown beside him for a short time, for I had known him as a decent,hard-working fellow, incapable, except under some frenzy, of committingmurder. I got from him the conversation with Imrie, which I have givenpartly, I doubt not, in that incorrect way, as to the set form of words,inseparable from such narratives.

  "When I called James an idiot," he continued, "I saw the expression, asI thought, coming over his face, and I had the feeling I had in mydream, but I soon saw the old smile there again, and was soonreconciled.

  "'Weel, maybe I am an idiot,' said James, 'for I've been aye dangling mybonnet in the presence o' customers, when maybe if I had clapt it on myhead wi' a gude thud o' my hand, and
said, "I'm as gude as you," andforced my way i' the warld, I wouldna, this day, be ca'd Jamie Imrie,the flesher's porter.'

  "And the good soul smiled again, so we took another glass of thewhisky,--a good thing when it works in a good heart, but a fearful onewhen it rouses the latent corruption of a bad one. I fear it wrought sowith me, for although we were old friends, I got still moodier, thinkingmore and more of my dream, while James became more humorous.

  "'But, Willie, my dear Willie,' he said, 'idiot as I may be, I doot if Iwould ha'e been better under your system, for I would ha'e been a daftlaird o' five acres, and gi'en awa' my snuff and my whisky, and maybe myturnips, to my freends, and got in debt and been a bankrupt proprietor;so, just to be plain wi' you, and I've thought o' tellin' ye this aforenou, I would recommend you to gi'e up this new-fangled nonsense o'yours, or rather, I should say, auld-fangled, for you've been at itsince ever I mind. Naebody seems to understand it, and here's a bit o' asecret,' lowering his voice, 'the folks lauch at ye when you're walkingon the street, and say, "There's the political cobbler that's to cobbleup society."'

  "'Laugh at me!' I cried, in my roused wrath, yet I had borne ten timesmore from my old friend; 'laugh at me, you villain!'

  "Then James's face grew dark--I watched it, it was the very face of mydream. The drink deceived me, no doubt, but I was certain of what I saw.I observed him move, as if he wanted the knife. Oh, terrible delusion! Ibelieve the good soul had no such intention; but I was carried away bysome mysterious agency. I thought I was called upon to defend myselfagainst murder; I grasped the knife, and in an instant plunged it intohis belly, and as I drew out the weapon, the blood gushed forth like awell. 'Oh, Willie!' he cried, and fell at my feet.

  "I immediately roared for help, and in ran my wife, followed byneighbours. With the knife in my hand, I rushed out, and fell into yourarms. Now, can you read this story, and tell me the meaning of it? Ihave already said I am not mad; but why was I led by a dream to stab myfriend? Is there any meaning in my conduct as directed by Providence?"

  "I just fear, William," said I, "from what I observed in you thatmorning when you told me your dream, that you had been drinking too muchwhisky, which, fevering and distempering your mind, produced not onlythe dream, but the subsequent notion that poor James was intent uponkilling you. You will now see the consequence of drink. One may tracethe effects of it for a time, but when, after a certain period, itbegins to work changes in the tormented and worried brain, no man cancalculate the results, or the crimes to which it may lead."

  "I believe you are right," replied he; "and if James would just recover,he would be dearer to me than ever, and whisky no longer a deceitfulfriend; but, ah! I fear. And then how am I to pass this night in a darkcell, with no one near me, and the vision of that bleeding body beforemy eyes aye, and those words sounding in my ear, which torture and wringmy heart more than a thousand oaths--those simple words, 'Oh, Willie!'"

  "You must trust where trust can find a bottom," said I; "perhaps Imriemay live and recover."

  "God grant!" groaned the prisoner.

  And with a sorrowful heart, I turned the key in the lock.

  Next day, it was ascertained that Imrie had passed a night of extremesuffering, and then died. This information I conveyed to Wright. It wasneedless to try modes of breaking it to him. His fear made him leap atit as one under frenzy will leap down a precipice. I had no nerve forwhat I have no doubt followed, and hurried out just as he had thrownhimself on his hard bed, and I heard his cries ringing behind the dooras I again closed it.

  Wright was brought to trial on a charge of wilful murder, with a minorcharge of culpable homicide. It was a stretch to choose the latter; butthe men were known to be friends, and as no one witnessed thecatastrophe, the milder construction was put upon an act which, afterall, I suspect was simply one of temporary madness. I doubt if all thestrange particulars were ever known. Wright was sentenced to fourteenyears' penal servitude. I have often thought of this case, but neverdiverged from the theory I mentioned to Wright himself. It does notaffect my opinion of dreams. The two friends had been in the habit ofgetting into tilts, the result of their drinking. The dream was only animpression caused by some angry look forced out of the simple victim.The fever of the brain gave it consistency, and deepened it, and underthe apprehension that he himself was to be stabbed, he stabbed hisfriend. This is the only dream-case in my book; and I'm not sorry forit, otherwise I might have glided into the supernatural, as others havedone who have had more education than I, and are better able to separatethe world of dreams from the stern world of realities.