Adventures in Contentment by Ray Stannard Baker
By Ray Stannard Baker
This publication is a facsimile reprint and will include imperfections corresponding to marks, notations, marginalia and incorrect pages.
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I don’t know who you are. ” I cannot well describe the intensity of the passion with which he spoke, his face shaking with emotion, his hands trembling. ” “No no,” he returned. ” And yet I longed to know of the life within this strange husk of manhood. “I know,” he said, as if reading my thought, “you think”—and he tapped his forehead with one finger—”but I’m not. ” It was a strange story he told. It seems almost unbelievable to me as I set it down here, until I reflect how little any one of us knows of the deep life within his nearest neighbour—what stories there are, what tragedies enacted under a calm exterior!
He looked at me again, not sharply, but with a sort of weak cunning. So far he had not said a word. ” “No, mister,” he mumbled, “a bite out here—no, mister”—and then, as though the sound of his own voice inspired him, he grew declamatory. “I’m a respectable man, mister, plumber by trade, but——” “But,” I interrupted, “you can’t get any work, you’re cold and you haven’t had anything to eat for two days, so you are walking out here in the country where we farmers have no plumbing to do. ” I led him into the entry way and poured for him a big basin of hot water.
Suddenly he leaned forward toward me with a piercing gaze as though he would look into my soul. His face had changed completely; from the loose and vacant mask of the early evening it had taken on the utmost tensity of emotion. ” I asked. ” He paused a moment and then broke out in a higher key: “You think I am a tramp. Yes—you do. I know—a worthless fellow, lying, begging, stealing when he can’t beg. You have taken me in and fed me. You have said the first kind words I have heard, it seems to me, in years.