Their Yesterdays Read online

  FAILURE

  And that year, also, went to join the years of the Yesterdays.

  It is as though Life, bringing to man every twelve months a new year,bids him try again. Always, it is necessary for man to try again.Indeed Life itself is nothing less than this: a continual tryingagain.

  In the world laboratory, mankind is conducting a series of elaborateexperiments--always on the verge of the great discovery but neverquite making it--always thinking that the secret is about to berevealed but never quite uncovering it--always failing in hisexperiments but always finding in the process something that leadshim, with hope renewed, to try again.

  The man had failed.

  Sadly, sternly, with the passing of the year, he admitted to himselfthat he had failed. Humiliated and ashamed, with the coming of the newyear, he admitted that he must begin again. Bitterly he called himselfa fool. And perhaps he was--more or less. Most men are a littlefoolish. The man who has never been forced to swallow his own follyhas missed a bitter but wholesome tonic that, more than likely, heneeds. This man was not the kind of a man who would blame any one buthimself for his failure. If he had been that particular kind of a foolhis failure would have been of little value either to him or to anyone. Neither would there be, for me, a story.

  I do not know the particulars of this man's failure--neither the what,the why, nor the how. I know only that he failed--that it wasnecessary for him to fail. Nor is this a story of such particulars forthey are of little importance. A man can fail in anything. Some, even,seem to fail in everything. This, therefore, is my story: that asFailure enters into the life of every man it came into the life ofthis man. In some guise or other Failure seems to be a necessity. Itis one of the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life. But the man didnot, at that time, understand that his failure was a necessity._That_ understanding came to him only with Success.

  You may say that this man was too young to accomplish a real Failure.But you need not bother about that, either. One is never too young toexperience Failure. And Failure, to the one who fails, is always, atthe time, very real.

  So this man saw the castles that he had toiled so hard to build cometumbling down about him. So he was awakened from his bright dreams tofind that they were only dreams. So he came to see his work asidleness and folly. Sorrowfully he looked at the ruin of his building.Hopelessly he recalled his dreams. Despairingly he looked upon hisfruitless labor. With his fine manhood's strength dead within him, hebitterly felt himself to be but a weakling; fit only to be pushedaside by the stronger, better, men among whom he went, now, withlifeless step and downcast face. There was left in his heart nocourage and no hope. He saw himself a most miserable coward, and,ashamed and disgraced in his own sight, he shrank from the eyes of hisfellows and withdrew into himself to hide.

  And the only thing that saved the man was this: he did not pityhimself. Self-pity is debilitating. It is the dry rot that weakens thelife lines. It is the rust that eats the anchor chains. At the lastanalysis, a man probably knows less about himself than he knows aboutothers. The only difference is that what he knows about others issometimes right while that which he thinks he knows about himself isnearly always wrong. Salvation is in pitying someone else. If one musthave pity he should accept it from strangers only. The pity ofstrangers is harmless to the object of it and very gratifying--to thestrangers. Self-accusation, self-censure, self-condemnation: these arethe antidotes for the poison that sometimes enters the soul throughFailure. But these antidotes must be administered with care.Self-accusation has, usually, a very low percentage of cause.Self-censure, undiluted, is dangerous to self-respect. Andself-condemnation is rarely to be had pure. When one brings himself totrial before himself his chance for justice is small--the judge isnearly always prejudiced, the jury packed, and the evidenceincomplete.

  The man, when he had withdrawn into himself, saw the world moving onits way without him as though his failure mattered, to it, not at all.He was forced to realize that the work of the world could be donewithout him. He was compelled to see that the sum of human happinessand human woe would be neither less nor more because of him. The worlddid not really need his success--he needed it. The world did notsuffer from his failure--he suffered. He did not understand, then,that no man is in line for success until he understands how littleeither his success or his failure matters to the world. He did notknow, then, how often a good strong failure is the corner stone of awell builded life.

  A child is not crippled for life because it falls when it is learningto walk; neither has a man come to the end of his upward climb becausehe "stubs his toe." The man knew this later but just then he was toosore at heart to think of even trying to get up again. All those firstmonths of that new year he did nothing but the labor that wasnecessary for him to do in order to live. And, in that which he did,he had no heart but toiled as a dumb beast toils in obedience to itsmaster. The joy of work which is the reward of labor was gone.

  So the spring came. The air grew warm and balmy. The grass on thelawns and in the parks began to look soft and inviting to feet thatwere weary with the feel of icy pavements. The naked trees were beingclothed in spring raiment, fresh and green. The very faces of thepeople seemed to glow with a new warmth as though a more generous lifewas stirring in their veins. As the sun gathered strength, and thecoldness and bleakness of winter retreated farther and farther beforethe advance of summer, the manner and dress of the crowds upon thestreets marked the change as truly as the habits of the birds andflowers, until, at last, here and there, straw hats appeared andsuddenly, as bluebirds come, barefooted boys were playing marbles inthe alleys and fishing tackle appeared in the windows of the stores.

  All his life the man had been an ardent fisherman. And so, when hiseyes were attracted that noon, as he was passing one of those windowsfilled with rods and reels and lines and hooks and nets and all thingsdear to the angler's heart, he paused. His somber face brightened. Hisform, that was already stooped a little, straightened. His listlesseyes, for a moment, shone with their old time fire. Then he went on tohis work.

  But, less than ever, that afternoon, was the man's heart in his labor.While his hands mechanically performed their appointed tasks and hisbrain as mechanically did its part, the man himself was not there. Hehad gone far, far, away into his Yesterdays. Once again, in hisYesterdays, the man went fishing.

  The boy was a very small boy when first he went fishing. And he fishedin the brook that ran through the valley below the little girl'shouse. His hook was only a pin, bent by his own fingers; his line, abit of string or thread borrowed from mother's work basket; and hisrod, a slender branch of willow or a green shoot from one of the treesin the orchard, or, it might be, a stalk of the tall pigweed that grewdown behind the barn; and for bait, those humble friends of boyhood,the angle worms. How the boy shouted and danced with glee when hefound a big one; even though he did shudder a little as he picked itup, squirming and wiggling, to drop it into the old baking powder canhe called his bait box! And how the little girl shrieked with fear andadmiration! Very proud was the boy that he had courage to handle thecrawling things--though many of them did escape into their tiny holesbefore he could bring himself quite to the point of catching them andpulling them out. "Only girls are afraid of worms and toads and bugs.Boys can bait their own hooks." Manfully, too, did he hide histhoughts when conscience pricked him, even as he the worm. "Do wormshave feelin's?" He wondered. "Does it hurt?" Half frightened, he hadlaughed, one day, when the little girl asked: "What if some wickedgiant should catch you and stick you on a great hook and swing youthrough the air, kicking and squirming, and drop you into the waterwhere it's deep, and leave you there till some great fish comes alongto swallow you like the man in the Bible that mother reads about?"

  But the boy in his Yesterdays carried home no fish from that littlebrook; though he spent many hours in the hot summer sun watchingeagerly for a bite. He knew there must be fish there--great bigfellows--there were such lovely places for them under the grassybanks--if onl
y they would come out--but they never did. Not until hewas older did the boy understand the real reason of this failure. Thewater was not deep enough. He learned, in time, that big fish are notfound in shallow streams.

  I do not know, but perhaps, the man, even as the boy, was fishing in atoo shallow stream.

  As he grew older, the boy wandered farther down the creek. A "sure'nough" fishhook took the place of the bent pin and a real "boughten"line, with a sinker, was tied to the hook though he still used theslender willow rods. And, now, he sometimes brought home a fish or twofrom the deeper water down in the pasture lot; and no success in afterlife would ever bring to the man the same thrill of delight that wasfelt by the boy when he landed a tiny "chub" or "shiner." No Romangeneral, returning in triumph from the wars with captives chained tohis chariot, ever moved with a prouder spirit than he, when he wenthome to mother with his little string of captured fishes.

  Then there came a day that was the proudest in his life--the day whenhe was given a larger hook, a longer line, a cane pole, and permissionto go to the mill pond. No more fishing for him in the brook now! Hehad outgrown all that. How small the little stream seemed, now, as hecrossed it on his way down the road! Could it be possible, he askedhimself, that he was ever content to fish there, and with a bent pin,at that? And he felt carefully in his pocket to see if those extrahooks were safe; and took another peep at the big worms in his baitbox--an old tomato can this time. There would be no twinge ofconscience when he baited his hook that day. And proudly he tried totake longer steps in the dusty road; almost breaking into a run as heneared the turn where he knew that he would see the pond.

  Often, the boy wondered if there could be anywhere in all the worldsuch another body of water as that old mill pond. Often, he wonderedhow deep it was down by the dam in the shadow of the giant elms thathalf hid the mill. Many times, he questioned: "Where did all the watercome from anyway?" Surely it could not _all_ come from the tinystream that flowed down the valley below the little girl's house! Why,he could wade in that and there were boats on this!

  Once again, the man, in his Yesterdays, stood at that turn in theroad; under his bare, boyish, feet the hot, hot, dust; over his headthe blue, blue, sky; before him the beautiful water that mirrored backthe trees, the clouds, and the buildings. Once again, he sat in theshadow of the old covered bridge, fish pole in hand, and, with boyishdelight and pride, hailed each addition to the string of catfish andsuckers that swam near by, safely anchored to the bank. He could hearthe drowsy hum of the mill across the pond and the merry shout of themiller hailing some passer-by. And, now and then, would come, theclatter of horses' hoofs and the rumble of a farmer's wagon on theplanks above his head and he would idly watch the ever wideningcircles in the water as some bit of dirt, jarred from the beams above,marred the glassy surface. The swallows were wheeling here and therein swift, graceful motions; one moment lightly skimming the surface ofthe pond and the next, high in air above the trees and buildings. Awater snake came gliding toward an old log close by. A turtle wasfloating lazily in the sun. And a kingfisher startled him with itsharsh, discordant, rattle as it passed in rapid flight toward theupper end of the pond where the tall cat-tails were nodding in thesunlight and the drooping willows fringed the bank with green.

  The shadows of the giant elms near the dam grew longer and longer. Aworkman left the mill and started across the pasture toward his home.A farmer stopped on his way from the field to water his team. Thefrogs began to call shrilly from the reeds and rushes. The swallows,twittering, sought their nests beneath the bridge. It was time thatthe boy was going home.

  Slowly, reluctantly, the little fisherman drew his line from the waterand wrapped it carefully round the pole. Then, picking up his stringof fish, he inspected them thoughtfully--admiring the largest andwishing that the others were like him--and, casting one last glance atthe water, the trees, the mill, started down the road toward home.

  He must hurry now. It was later than he thought. Mother would bewatching and waiting supper for him. How pleased she would be to seehis fish. He wished that the string were longer. How quickly the nightwas coming on. It was almost dark. And then, as the boy went down intothe deepening dusk of the valley, he saw, on the other side, the lightin the windows. He was almost home.

  Tired little fisherman. Wearily he crossed the creek and made his wayup the gentle slope toward the lights that gleamed so brightly againstthe dark mass of the orchard hill, while high above, the first starsof the evening were coming out. And then, as in the gloaming hereached at last the gate where the little girl lived, he found herwaiting--watching anxiously--eager to greet him with sweet solicitude."Did you catch anything?"

  Proudly the boy exhibited his catch--wishing again in his heart thatthe string were longer. Sadly, he told how the biggest fish of all haddropped from his hook just when he had it almost landed. Andsometimes--the man remembered--sometimes the boy was forced to answerthat he had caught nothing at all. But always, then, would he bravelydeclare that he would have better luck next time.

  Tired little fisherman--going home with his catch in the evening!Always--disappointed little fisherman--wishing that his string werelonger! Always-brave-to-try-again little fisherman--when his day was aday of failure!

  The man came back from his Yesterdays, that afternoon, to wonder: whenthe shadows of his life grew longer and longer--when his sun wasslowly setting--when he reluctantly withdrew, at last, from the busyhaunts of men--when he went down the road toward home, as it grewdarker and darker until he could not see the way, would there be alight in the window for him? Would he know that someone was waitingand watching? And would he wish that his string of fish were longer?However great his catch, would he not wish that the string werelonger? And might it not be, too, that always in life the largest fishwould be the one that he had almost landed?

  And it was so that the old fire came again into the man's eyes tostay. He stood once more erect before men. Again his countenance waslighted with courage and with hope. With the brave words of the littlefisherman who had caught nothing, the man, once again, faced the worldto work out his dreams.

  * * * * *

  And the woman who knew herself to be a woman was haunted by thethought of Failure.

  After Death had come with such suddenness into her life, she had goneback to her work, and, in spite of the changes that Death had wrought,the days had gone much as the days before. But, because of the newconditions and the added responsibilities, she gave herself, now,somewhat more fully to that work than she had ever done before. Sheleft for herself less time for the dreams of her womanhood--less timefor waiting beside that old, old, door beyond which lay the life thatshe desired with all the strength of her woman heart.

  And that world in which she labored--that life to which she now gaveherself more and more--rewarded her more and more abundantly. Becauseshe was strong in body with skillful hands and quick brain; becauseshe was superior in these things to many who labored beside her; shereceived a larger reward than they. For the richness, the fullness, ofher womanhood, she received nothing. From love, the only thing thatcan make that which a woman receives fully acceptable to her, shereceived nothing.

  There were many who, now, congratulated the woman upon what theycalled her success. And some, who knew the measure of the reward shereceived from the world that set a price upon the things of herwomanhood, envied her; wishing themselves as fortunate as she. She waseven pointed out and spoken of triumphantly, by certain modern,down-to-date, ones, as an example of the successful woman of the age.Her success--as it was called--was cited as a triumphant argument forthe right of women to sell their womanhood for a price: to put theirstrength of mind and flesh and blood, their physical and intellectualvigor, their vitality and life, upon a market that cannot recognizetheir womanhood; even though by so doing they rob the race of the onlycontribution they can make that will add to its perfection.

  Really, if the customs and necessities of this age of"down-to-date-ism" are to ta
ke the world's mothers, then it would seemthat this age of "down-to-date-ism" should find, for the perpetuationand perfection of the race, a substitute for women. The age shouldevolve a better way, a more modern method, than the old-fashioned waythat has been in vogue so long. For, just as surely as the laws oflife are beyond our power to repeal, so surely will the operation ofthe laws of life not change to accommodate our newest thinking and therace, by spending its best woman strength in work that cannotrecognize womanhood, will bequeath to the ages to come an everlowering standard of human life.

  The woman felt this--she felt that she could most truly serve the raceby being true to the dreams of her womanhood. She felt that the workshe was doing was not her real work but a makeshift to be undertakenunder protest and discarded without regret when her opportunity toenter upon the real work of her life should present itself. But still,even while feeling this, gradually there had come to be, for her, anamount of satisfaction in knowing that she was succeeding in thatwhich she had set her hand to do. In the increasing reward shereceived, in the advanced position she occupied, in the deference thatwas shown her, in the authority that was given her, in the largerinterests that were intrusted to her, and even in the attitude ofthose who held her to be a convincing example of the newest womanhood,there was coming to be a kind of satisfaction.

  Then came that day when the woman expressed a little of thissatisfaction to the man who had always understood and who had beenalways so kind. In this, too, the woman felt that he understood.

  The man had not sought to take advantage of the intimacy she hadgranted him in those trying days when Death had come into her life. Hehad never failed in being kind and considerate in the thousand littlethings of the work that brought them together and that gave heropportunity to learn his goodness and the genuine worth of hismanhood. Nor had he failed to make her understand that still he hopedfor the time when she would go with him into the life beyond the old,old, door. But that day, when she made known to him, a little, hergrowing satisfaction in that which the world called her success, shesaw that he was hurt. For the first time he seemed to be troubled andafraid for her.

  Very gravely lie looked down into her eyes. Very gravely hecongratulated her. And then, quietly and convincingly, with words ofauthority, he pointed out to her the possible heights she mightreach--would reach--if she continued. He told her of the place thatshe, if she chose, might gain. He spoke of the reward that would behers. And, as he talked to her of these things, he saw the light ofinterest and anticipation kindling in her eyes. Sadly he saw it. Then,pausing--hesitating--he asked her slowly: "Do you really think that itis, after all, worth while? For _you_, I mean, do you think thatit would be a satisfying success?" He did not wish to interfere withher career, he said--and smiled a little at the word. He would evenhelp her if--if--she was sure that such a career would bring her thereal happiness he so much wanted her to have.

  And the woman, as the man looked into her eyes and as she saw thetrouble in his thoughtful face and listened to his gravely spokenwords, felt ashamed. Remembering, again, the dreams of her womanhood,she was ashamed. From that day, the woman was haunted by the thoughtof Failure.

  Why, she asked herself, why could she not open the door of her heartto this man who had been so good to her--so true to her and tohimself? If he had taken advantage in any way, if he had sought to usehis power, she would not have cared so much. But because she knew himso well; because she had seen his splendid character, his finemanhood, his kindness of heart, and his strength; because of thedreams of her womanhood; she had tried to open the door and bid himtake possession of her heart that was as an empty room furnished andready. But she could not. She seemed to have lost the key.Why--why--could she not give this man what he asked? Why could she notgo with him into the life of her dreams? What was it that held herback? What was it that held shut the door of her womanhood againsthim? Could it be that, after all, she was fit only for the career uponwhich she was already entered? Could it be that she was not worthy toenter into the life her womanhood craved--the life for which she hadlonged with such passionate longing--the life she had desired withsuch holy desire? Could it be that she was unworthy of her womanhood?

  Bitterly this woman, who knew herself to be a woman, who had dreamedthe dreams of womanhood, and who was pointed out as a successfulwoman--bitterly she felt that she had failed.

  She knew that her failure could not be because she had squandered thewealth of her womanhood. Very carefully had she kept the treasures ofher womanhood for the coming of that one for whom she waited--knowingnot who he was but only that she would know him when he came. Might itbe that he _had_ come and she did not know him? Might it be thatthe heart of her womanhood did not know? If this was so then, indeed,Life itself is but an accident and must trust to blind chance thefulfillment of its most sacred mission--the perpetuation andperfection of itself.

  That the Creator should give laws for the right mating of all hiscreatures except man--leaving men and women, alone, with no guide tolead them aright in this relationship that is most vital to thespecies--is unthinkable. Deeply implanted in the hearts of men andwomen there is, also, an instinct; an instinct that is superior to thedictates of the social, financial, or ecclesiastical will. And it isthis natural instinct of mate selection that should govern themarriages of human kind as truly as it marries the birds of the fieldsand the wild things that mate in the forests.

  The woman knew, instinctively, that she should not give herself tothis man. She felt in her heart that to do so would make her kin toher sisters in the unnamable profession. The church would sanction,the state would legalize, and society would accept such a union--doesaccept such unions--but only the divine laws of Life, given for theprotection of Life, can ever make a man and a woman husband and wife.The laws that govern the right mating of human kind are not enacted byorganizations either social, political, or religious, but are writtenin the hearts of those who would, in mating, fulfill the purpose ofLife. These laws may be broken by man but they cannot by him berepealed; and the penalty that is imposed for their violation is veryevident to all who have eyes to see and who observe withunderstanding.

  The woman knew, also, that, in respect and honor and gratitude to thisman, she dared not do this thing against which the instinct of herheart protested. But still she asked herself: "Why? Why was the doorshut against him? Why was it not in her power to do that which she solonged to do?"

  And still, the thought of Failure haunted her.

  And so it was, that, in asking, "why"--in seeking the reason of herfailure, the woman was led back even to the years of her childhood.Back into her Yesterdays she went in search of the key that kept fastlocked the door of her heart against the man whom she would have sogladly admitted. And, all the way back, as she retraced the steps ofher years, she looked for one who might have the key. But she found noone. And in her Yesterdays she found only a boy who had entered herheart when it was the heart of a little girl.

  That the boy of her Yesterdays lived still in the heart of the woman,she knew. But surely--surely--the boy was not strong enough to holdher woman heart against the man who sought admittance. The boy couldnot hold the door against the man and against the woman herself. Thosevows, made so solemnly under the cherry tree, were but childish vows.It was but a play wedding, after all. And the kiss that had sealed thevows--the kiss that was so different from other kisses--it was but achildish kiss ... In the long years that had come between that boy andgirl the vows and the kiss had become but memories--even as the gamesthey played--even as her keeping house and her family of dolls. Thatchild wedding belonged only to the Yesterdays.

  The woman was haunted by the thought of Failure.