It might be better if Jerry Benham wrote his own memoir, for no matter how veracious, this history must be more or less colored by the point of view of one irrevocably committed to an ideal, a point of view which Jerry at least would insist was warped by scholarship and stodgy by habit.  But Jerry, of course, would not write it and couldn’t if he would, for no man, unless lacking in sensibility, can write a true autobiography, and least of all could Jerry do it.  To commit him to such a task would be much like asking an artist to paint himself into his own landscape.  Jerry could have painted nothing but impressions of externals, leaving out perforce the portrait of himself which is the only thing that matters.  So I, Roger Canby, bookworm, pedagogue and student of philosophy, now recite the history of the Great Experiment and what came of it.

It is said that Solomon and Job have best spoken of the misery of man, the former the most fortunate, the latter the most unfortunate of creatures.  And yet it seems strange to me that John Benham, the millionaire, Jerry’s father, cynic and misogynist, and Roger Canby, bookworm and pauper, should each have arrived, through different mental processes, at the same ideal and philosophy of life.  We both disliked women, not only disliked but feared and distrusted them, seeing in the changed social order a menace to the peace of the State and the home.  The difference between us was merely one of condition; for while I kept my philosophy secret, being by nature reticent and unassertive, John Benham had both the means and the courage to put his idealism into practice.

Life seldom makes rapid adjustments to provide for its mistakes, and surely only the happiest kind of accident could have thrown me into the breach when old John Benham died, for I take little credit to myself in saying that there are few persons who could have fitted so admirably into a difficult situation.

Curiously enough this happy accident had come from the most unexpected source.  I had tried and failed at many things since leaving the University.  I had corrected proofs in a publishing office, I had prepared backward youths for their exams, and after attempting life in a broker’s office downtown, for which I was as little fitted as I should have been for the conquest of the Polar regions, I found myself one fine morning down to my last few dollars, walking the streets with an imminent prospect of speedy starvation.  The fact of death, as an alternative to the apparently actual, did not disconcert me.  I shouldn’t have minded dying in the least, were it not for the fact that I had hoped before that event to have expounded for modern consumption certain theories of mine upon the dialectics of Hegel.  As my money dwindled I was reduced to quite necessary economies, and while not what may be called a heavy eater, I am willing to admit that there were times when I felt distinctly empty.  Curiously enough, my philosophy did little to relieve me of that physical condition, for as someone has said, “Philosophy is a good horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on a journey.”

But it seems that the journeying of my jade was near its ending.  For upon this morning, fortune threw me into the way of a fellow who had been in my class at the University, who was to be my deus ex machina.  No two persons in the world could have been more dissimilar than “Jack” Ballard and I, and yet, perhaps for that reason, there had always been a kind of affinity between us.  He was one of the wealthiest men in my class and was now, as he gleefully informed me, busily engaged clipping coupons in his father’s office, “with office hours from two to three some Thursdays.”  Of course, that was his idea of a joke, for it seems quite obvious that a person who gave so little time to his business had better have kept no hours at all.  He greeted me warmly and led me into his club, which happened to be near by, where over the lunch table he finally succeeded in eliciting the fact that I was down to my last dollar with prospects far from encouraging.

“Good old Pope!” he cried, clapping me on the back.  “Pope” was my pseudonym at the University, conferred in a jocular moment by Ballard himself on account of a fancied resemblance to Urban the Eighth.  “Just the man!  Wonder why I didn’t think of you before!” And while I wondered what he was coming at, “How would, you like to make a neat five thousand a year?”

I laughed him off, not sure that this wasn’t a sample of the Ballard humor.

“Anything,” I said, trying to smile, “short of murder ”

“Oh, I am not joking!” he went on with an encouraging flash of seriousness.  “Five thousand a year cool, and no expenses livin’ on the fat of the land, with nothin’ to do but ”

He broke off suddenly and grasped me by the arm.

“Did you ever hear of old John Benham, the multi-millionaire?” he asked.  I remarked that my acquaintance with millionaires, until that moment, had not been large.

“Oh, of course,” he laughed, “if I had mentioned Xenophon, you’d have pricked up your ears like an old war horse.  But John Benham, as a name to conjure with, means nothing to you.  You must know then that John Benham was for years the man of mystery of Wall Street.  Queer old bird!  Friend of the governor’s, or at least as much of a friend of the governor’s as he ever was of anybody.  Made a pot of money in railroads.  Millions!  Of course, if you’ve never heard of Benham you’ve never heard of the Wall.”

I hadn’t.

“Well, the Benham Wall in Greene County is one of the wonders of the age.  It’s nine feet high, built of solid masonry and encloses five thousand acres of land.”

Figures meant nothing to me and I told him so.

“The strange thing about it is that there’s no mystery at all.  The old man had no secrets except in business and no past that anybody could care about.  But he was a cold-blooded proposition.  No man ever had his confidence, no woman ever had his affection except his wife, and when she died all that was human in him was centered on his son, the sole heir to twenty millions.  Lucky little beggar.  What?”

“I’m not so sure,” I put in slowly.

“Now this is where you come in,” Ballard went on quickly.  “It seems that inside his crusty shell old Benham was an idealist of sorts with queer ideas about the raising of children.  His will is a wonder.  He directs his executors (the governor’s one of six, you know) to bring up his boy inside that stone wall at Horsham Manor, with no knowledge of the world except what can be gotten from an expurgated edition of the classics.  He wants him brought to manhood as nearly as can be made, a perfect specimen of the human male animal without one thought of sex.  It’s a weird experiment, but I don’t see why it shouldn’t be interesting.”

“Interesting!” I muttered, trying to conceal my amazement and delight.

“The executors must proceed at once.  The boy is still under the care of a governess.  On the twelfth of December he will be ten years of age.  The woman is to go and a man takes her place.  I think I can put you in.  Will you take it?”

“I?” I said, a little bewildered.  “What makes you think I’m qualified for such an undertaking?”

“Because you were the best scholar in the class, and because you’re a blessed philosopher with leanings toward altruism.  A poor helpless little millionaire with no one to lean on must certainly excite your pity.  You’re just the man for the job, I tell you.  And if you said you’d do it, you’d put it over.”

“And if I couldn’t put it over?” I laughed.  “A growing youth isn’t a fifteen-pound shot or a football, Ballard.”

“You could if you wanted to.  Five thousand a year isn’t to be sneezed at.”

“I assure you that I’ve never felt less like sneezing in my life, but ”

“Think, man,” he urged, “all expenses paid, a fine house, horses, motors, the life of a country gentleman.  In short, your own rooms, time to read yourself stodgy if you like, and a fine young cub to build in your own image.”

“Mine?” I gasped.

He laughed.

“Good Lord, Pope!  You always did hate ’em, you know.”

“Hate?  Who?”

“Women.”

I felt myself frowning.

“Women!  No, I do not love women and I have some reasons for believing that women do not love me.  I have never had any money and my particular kind of pulchritude doesn’t appeal to them.  Hence their indifference.  Hence mine.  Like begets like, Jack.”

He laughed.

“I have reasons for believing the antipathy is deeper than that.”

I shrugged the matter off.  It is one which I find little pleasure in discussing.

“You may draw whatever inference you please,” I finished dryly.

He lighted a cigarette and inhaled it jubilantly.

“Don’t you see,” he said, “that it all goes to show that you’re precisely the man the governor’s looking for?  What do you say?”

I hesitated, though every dictate of inclination urged.  Here was an opportunity to put to the test a most important theory of the old Socratic doctrine, that true knowledge is to be elicited from within and is to be sought for in ideas and not in particulars of sense.  What a chance!  A growing youth in seclusion.  Such a magnificent seclusion!  Where I could try him in my own alembic!  Still I hesitated.  The imminence of such good fortune made me doubt my own efficiency.

“Suppose I was the wrong man,” I quibbled for want of something better to say.

“The executors will have to take their chance on that,” he said, rising with the air of a man who has rounded out a discussion.  “Come!  Let’s settle the thing.”

Ballard had always had a way with him, a way as foreign to my own as the day from night.  From my own point of view I had always held Jack lightly, and yet I had never disliked him nor did I now for there was little doubt of his friendliness and sincerity.  So I rose and followed him, my docility the philosophy of a full stomach plus the chance of testing the theory of probabilities; for to a man who for six years had reckoned life by four walls of a room and a shelf of books this was indeed an adventure.  I was already meshed in the loom of destiny.  He led me to a large automobile of an atrocious red color which was standing at the curb, and in this we were presently hurled through the crowded middle city to the lower part of the town, which, it is unnecessary for me to say, I cordially detested, and brought up before a building, the entire lower floor of which was given over to the opulent offices of Ballard, Wrenn and Halloway.

Ballard the elder was tall like his son, but here the resemblance ceased, for while Ballard the younger was round of visage and jovial, the banker was thin of face and repressive.  He had a long, accipitrine nose which imbedded itself in his bristling white mustache, and he spoke in crisp staccato notes as though each intonation and breath were carefully measured by their monetary value.  He paid out to me in cash a half an hour, during which he questioned and I replied while Jack grinned in the background.  And at the end of that period of time the banker rose and dismissed me with much the air of one who has perused a document and filed it in the predestined pigeonhole.  I felt that I had been rubber-stamped, docketed and passed into oblivion.  What he actually said was: 

“Thanks, I’ll write.  Good afternoon.”

The vision of the Great Experiment which had been flitting in rose-color before my eyes, was as dim as the outer corridor where I was suddenly aware of Jack Ballard’s voice at my ear and his friendly clutch upon my elbow.

“You’ll do,” he laughed.  “I was positive of it.”

“I can’t imagine how you reach that conclusion,” I put in rather tartly, still reminiscent of the rubber stamp.

“Oh,” he said, his eye twinkling, “simplest thing in the world.  The governor’s rather brief with those he doesn’t like.”

“Brief!  I feel as though I’d just emerged from a glacial douche.”

“Oh, he’s nippy.  But he never misses a trick, and he got your number all O.K.”

As we reached the street I took his hand.

“Thanks, Ballard,” I said warmly.  “It’s been fine of you, but I’m sorry that I can’t share your hopes.”

“Rot!  The thing’s as good as done.  There’s another executor or two to be consulted, but they’ll be glad enough to take the governor’s judgment.  You’ll hear from him tomorrow.  In the meanwhile,” and he thrust a paper into my hands, “read this.  It’s interesting.  It’s John Benham’s brief for masculine purity with a few remarks (not taken from Hegel) upon the education and training of the child.”

We had reached the corner of the street when he stopped and took out his watch.

“Unfortunately this is the Thursday that I work,” he laughed, “and it’s past two o’clock, so good-by.  I’ll stop in for you tomorrow,” and with a flourish of the hand he left me.

Still dubious as to the whole matter, which had left me rather bewildered, when I reached my shabby room I took out the envelope which Ballard had handed me and read the curious paper that it contained.

As I began reading this remarkable document (neatly typed and evidently copied from the original in John Benham’s own hand) I recognized some of the marks of the Platonic philosophy and read with immediate attention.  Before I had gone very far it was quite clear to me that the pedagogue who took upon himself the rearing of the infant Benham, must himself be a creature of infinite wisdom and discretion.  As far as these necessary qualifications were concerned, I saw no reason why I should refuse.  The old man’s obvious seriousness of purpose interested me.

“It is my desire that my boy, Jeremiah, be taught simple religious truths and then simple moral truths, learning thereby insensibly the lessons of good manners and good taste.  In his reading of Homer and Hesiod the tricks and treacheries of the gods are to be banished, the terrors of the world below to be dispelled, and the misbehavior of the Homeric heroes are to be censured.

“If there is such a thing as original sin and this I beg leave to doubt, having looked into the eyes of my boy and failed to find it there then teaching can eradicate it, especially teaching under such conditions as those which I now impose.  The person who will be chosen by my executors for the training of my boy will be first of all a man of the strictest probity.  He will assume this task with a grave sense of his responsibility to me and to his Maker.  If after a proper period of time he does not discover in his own heart a sincere affection for my child, he will be honest enough to confess the truth, and be discharged of the obligation.  For it is clear that without love, such an experiment is foredoomed to failure.  To a man such as my mind has pictured, affection here will not be difficult, for nature has favored Jerry with gifts of mind and body.”

Everywhere in John Benham’s instructions there were signs of a deep and corroding cynicism which no amount of worldly success had been able to dispel.  Everywhere could be discovered a hatred of modern social forms and a repugnance for the modern woman, against whom he warns the prospective tutor in language which is as unmistakable as the Benham Wall.  It pleased me to find at least one wise man who agreed with me in this particular.  Until the age of twenty-one, woman was to be taboo for Jerry Benham, not only her substance, but her essence.  Like the mention of hell to ears polite, she was forbidden at Horsham Manor.  No woman was to be permitted to come upon the estate in any capacity.  The gardeners, grooms, gamekeepers, cooks, house servants all were to be men at good wages chosen for their discretion in this excellent conspiracy.  The penalty for infraction of this rule of silence was summary dismissal.

I read the pages through until the end, and then sat for a long while thinking, the wonderful possibilities of the plan taking a firmer hold upon me.  The Perfect Man!  And I, Roger Canby, should make him.