Tramping on Life. Harry 1883-1960 Kemp
I was sent to the machine shop for "strap oil." I was thrown over a greasy bench and was given it—the laying on of a heavy strap not at all gently! I ran away, outraged, to tell my father; as I left, the men seemed more attentive to their work than ever. They smiled quietly to themselves.
In the comb department the throwing of chunks of composite was the workers' chief diversion. And if you were strange there, you were sure to be hit as you passed through.
The acid house was a gruesome place. Everything in it and for yards around it, was covered with a yellow blight, as if the slight beard of some pestilential fungous were sprouting … the only people the company could induce to work there were foreigners who knew little of America. … Swedes mostly … attentive churchgoers on Sunday—who on week-days, and overtime at nights, laboured their lives out among the pungent, lung-eating vats of acid. The fumes rose in yellow clouds. Each man wore something over his nose and mouth resembling a sponge. But many, grown careless, or through a silly code of mistaken manliness, dispensed with this safeguard part of the time. And whether they dispensed with it or not, the lives of the workers in the acid house was not much more than a matter of a few years … big, hulking, healthy Swedes, newly arrived, with roses in their cheeks like fair, young girls, faded perceptibly from day to day, into hollow-cheeked, jaundice-coloured death's-heads. They went about, soon, with eyes that had grey gaunt hollows about them—pits already cavernous like the eye-pits of a skull.
"Well, they don't have to work in there unless they want to, do they?"
"Ah, they're only a lot of foreigners anyhow."
Three dollars a week was a lot of money for me … a fortune, because I had never owned anything higher than nickles and dimes before.
And my father, for the first few weeks, allowed me to have all I earned, to do with as I wished. Later on he made me save two dollars a week.
Each Saturday I went down to Newark and bought books … very cheap, second hand ones, at Breasted's book store.
Every decisive influence in life has been a book, every vital change in my life, I might say, has been brought about by a book.
My father owned a copy of Lord Byron in one volume. It was the only book he cared for, outside of Shakespeare's Hamlet, together with, of course, his own various books on Free Masonry and other secret societies.
At first, oddly enough, it was my instinct for pedantry and linguistic learning that drew me to Byron. I became enamoured of the Latin and Greek quotations with which he headed his lyrics in Hours of Idleness, and laboriously I copied them, lying on my belly on the floor, under the lamp light. And under these quotations I indited boyish rhymes of my own.
Then I began to read—Manfred, Marino Faliero, Sardanapalus—the Deformed Transformed … The Bride of Abydos, The Corsair, Lara, The Prisoner of Chillon.
The frontispiece to the book was a portrait of Byron with flowing tie and open shirt. Much as a devout Catholic wears a gold cross around his neck to signify his belief, with a like devoutness I took to wearing my shirt open at the neck, and a loose, flowing black tie. And I ruffled my hair in the Byronic style.
"I see you're discovering Byron," my father laughed.
Then he slyly intimated that the best of the poet's works I had evidently overlooked, Childe Harold and Don Juan. And he quoted me the passage about the lifted skirt above the peeking ankle. And he reinforced his observation by grinning salaciously.
From that time on I searched with all the fever of adolescence through Byron for every passage which bore on sex, the mystery of which was beginning to devour my days.
I read and pondered, shaking with eagerness, the stories of Haidee, of Antonia and Julia—the tale of the dream of Dudu. I dwelt in a musk-scented room of imagination. Silver fountains played about me. Light forms flowed and undulated in white draperies over mosaiced pavements … flashing dark eyes shone mysteriously and amorously, starry through curtains and veils.
My every thought was alert with naïve, speculative curiosity concerning the mystery of woman.
Through Byron I learned about Moore. I procured the latter's Lalla Rookh, his odes of Anacreon.
From Byron and Moore I built up an adolescent ideal of woman—exquisitely sensual and sexual, and yet an angel, superior to men: an ideal of a fellow creature who was both a living, breathing mystery and a walking sweetmeat … a white creation moved and actuated by instinct and intuition—a perpetually inexplicable ecstasy and madness to man.
I drew more and more apart to myself. Always looked upon as queer by the good, bourgeois families that surrounded us, I was now considered madder still.
How wonderful it would be to become a hermit on some far mountain side, wearing a grey robe, clear-browed and calmly speculative under the stars—or, maybe—more wonderful: a singer for men, a travelling minstrel—in each case, whether minstrel or hermit, whether teaching great doctrines or singing great songs for all the world—to have come to me, as a pilgrim seeking enlightenment, the most beautiful maiden in the world, one who was innocent of what man meant. And together we would learn the mystery of life, and live in mutual purity and innocence.
The strangeness of my physical person lured me. I marvelled at, scrutinised intimately the wonder of myself. I was insatiable in my curiosities.
My discovery of my body, and my books, held me in equal bondage. I neglected my work in the drying room. My father was vexed. He'd hunt me out of the obscure corners back of the hanging sheets of composite where I hid, absorbed in myself and the book I held, and would run me back to work.
One day, in the factory, two other boys on an errand from another department, came back where I sat, in a hidden nook, reading Thompson's Seasons. One of them spit over my shoulder, between the leaves. I leaped to my feet, infuriated, and a fight began. The desecration of my beloved poetry gave me such angry strength that I struck out lustily and dropped both of them. …
Rushing in on the uproar and blaming me for it, my father seized me by the collar. He booted the other boys off, who were by this time on their feet again, took me up into the water-tower, and beat me with one of the heavy sticks, with metal clips on it, that was used for hanging the composite on.
Still trembling with the fight, I shook with a superadded ague of fear. My father's chastisement brought back to me with a chill the remembrance of the beatings Uncle Landon had given me.
"By God, Johnnie, this is the only thing there's left to do with you." He flung me aside. I lay there sobbing.
"Tell me, my boy, what is the matter with you?" he asked, softening. Unlike Landon, he was usually gentle with me. He seldom treated me harshly.
"Father, I don't want to work any more."
"Don't want to work? … but you quit school just to go to work, at your own wish!"
"I want to go back to school!"
"Back to school? … you'll be behind the rest by now."
"I've been studying a lot by myself," I replied, forgetting the feel of the stick already and absorbed in the new idea.
By this time we were down the stairs again, and I was sitting by my father's desk. He took up the unlighted cigar he always carried in his mouth (for smoking was not allowed among such inflammable material as composite). He sucked at it thoughtfully from habit, as if he were smoking.
"Look here, my son, what is the matter with you … won't you tell your daddy?"
"Nothing's the matter with me, Pop!"
"You're getting thin as a shadow … are you feeling sick?"
"No, Pop!"
"You're a queer little duck."
There was a long silence.
"You're always reading … good books too … yet you're no more good in school than you are at work … I can't make you out, by