The Beggar of Souls

Is There a Romance Hidden in the Soul of Every Human Being?

GIOVANNI PAPINI

I WAS at the end of my resources, financial and imaginative In those days I lived precariously by my wits,—that is, I wrote essays and stories for a review, the editor of which was as fickle as the changing winds. Now he bought my stuff, now he spurned it. I fawned upon him. I abased myself. I wrote atrociously, to please him. And, there being no pleasing him, I wrote divinely, also to please him. Now and again, worn down by my insistence, he bought something of mine, paid me, invariably, the sum of ten dollars, and so saved me from the dangers of starvation. . . .

But on this night I was terribly hungry. I remember the peculiar quality of my suffering: I wanted food for my stomach and fame to feed my pride. I had a quarter—my last. I went, into a lunchroom, one of those white-tiled, glaring places where you eat in full view of every passer-by, like a goldfish in a bowl, and, ordering a cup of coffee, continued to sit there, idly stirring it, my mind on the immediate, the perilous future.

The review would go to press on the morrow and I had written nothing to offer to my precious editor. My mind was as empty as air. Yet I must write, or starve. Write, or starve. . . . Que faire?

Que faire? I paid for the coffee, gave the change to the waitress and wandered out into the street, still whistling vainly for a theme. And, suddenly, I remembered what some one had once said: "If the average man could tell the true story of his life, it would be one of the greatest romantic novels of the time."

The idea delighted me. Why not stop the first man I happened to encounter— any man, the more ordinary, the better— and beg him to tell me the story of his life? Why not, indeed? I was in absolute want of a theme—some simple tale of human suffering, endeavour, victory or defeat. I would not beg for money—though, God knows, I needed it!—but I would beg for an autobiography. Surely I could find some one generous enough to part with the storv of his life!

I STOPPED, and in the circle of yellow light cast by a street lamp, scrutinized the faces of those who passed.

The first man was far too distinguished a type—I let him go. I was looking, rather, for the Average Citizen. The next passer-by was shivering and wide-eyed— an eater of hashish, perhaps. I did not want an obnoxious sinner, or a penitent. I let this one go, too, unchallenged. The third was old and ruby-nosed—he whistled a Bacchanalian tune and hiccoughed as he passed.

It was late; yet I waited patiently—a brigand, intent on plunder ; a patient "beggar of souls. The gas light above me leaned now this way, now that, in the gusty wind. I shivered. What if even* passer-by should be strange and tormented, obvious as bad fiction? What if the man I sought—the Philistine, the bore, the Average Citizen—should never pass at all?

But at last he came, walking steadily, with his head bent against the wind and his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. I saw at once that he was quite ordinary, neither young nor old, rich nor poor. An ideal object for my experiment in literature!

I ran after him and caught his arm. " Beg pardon," I said. "There is no reason to be afraid of me. I'm not a pickpocket, an assassin, or a beggar. Yet perhaps I am a beggar! I don't want money. I want something that will cost you nothing, sir. I beg— I implore you to tell me the story of vour life."

The stranger stared at me a moment, then shook off my detaining hand and walked hurriedly away. I followed.

"I am not insane," I cried. "I am a journalist. I must write a story tonight and sell it tomorrow, or else die of hunger. If you will tell me everything about yourself, hiding nothing, forgetting nothing, I will use your confession as the theme of my story. Who knows, it might be my masterpiece! You can not refuse me this very slight charity."

THE stranger paused and looked at m with a sort of mild pity in his blue eyes "If this is true," he said, "I will oblige you with pleasure. I was bom thirty-five year ago of honest parents. My father was a sho keeper, my mother a seamstress. I was an only son, and at six years of age was sent to a public school. I was a fairly brigh youth—not too bright, yet not stupid. A nineteen, I entered college and in du course was graduated. I became a clerk and met my fiancee. She was a nice gir and a year later we were married. We hav two children, a boy and a girl. The bo is ten years old, and when he grows up is going to be an engineer. The girl is nin years old. and is going to be a teacher My life is simple. My salary is raise every five years, and when I am sixty shall have a pension. I rise every naorning at eight. At nine, I go to my office, I the evening I go to my club, where I dis cuss the weather, the high cost of livng and the presidential candidates. Now you must really excuse me, for it is ta minutes past the hour when I am et pected at home."

The stranger bowed and turned away For an instant, I stood rooted to th spot, speechless with pity and amazement So this was the Average Citizen, the nor mal man, the model of all the virtueshe who dreams no dreams but builds u the cities of the world! This was he colourless and uncomprehending, incom prehensible and omnipresent! Where then, was that great romance that is saidt slumber in the soul of even* man?

I ran after him and again caught hii by the sleeve. "Surely, you have not tol me all ? Has nothing ever happened i you other than these births and marriage and little pleasures? Nothing? Has n one ever tried to kill you ? Has your wit, never deceived you ? Have you neve been betrayed, insulted, blackmailed loved, or slandered?"

"Never," he replied. "My life h passed quietly, without too much joy too much pain. I have never had an a venture. ..."

"Never?" I interrupted eagerly, you sure? Try7 to remember. Someth! out of the ordinary must have happen to you at one time or another. Otherwis your life would have been too unutter abb horrible."

He shook his head. "Nothing unusual has ever happened to me," he said, "until to-night This conversation with you is my first real adventure. If you are in need of a story why not write a true account of this meeting? Eh?"

And, without giving me time to reply, ht touched his hat and walked quickly away. I stared after him, speechless, unbelieving, los in wonder. . . .

From that day I have never dared to laugh) in my sleeve,or out of it,at the Average Citizen