CHAPTER XLII. UPON THE HEEL OF THE LAST SCENE THE COSMOPOLITAN ENTERS THE BARBER’S SHOP, A BENEDICTION ON HIS LIPS.

“Bless you, barber!”

Now, owing to the lateness of the hour, the barber had been all alone until within the ten minutes last passed; when, finding himself rather dullish company to himself, he thought he would have a good time with Souter John and Tam O’Shanter, otherwise called Somnus and Morpheus, two very good fellows, though one was not very bright, and the other an arrant rattlebrain, who, though much listened to by some, no wise man would believe under oath.

In short, with back presented to the glare of his lamps, and so to the door, the honest barber was taking what are called cat-naps, and dreaming in his chair; so that, upon suddenly hearing the benediction above, pronounced in tones not unangelic, starting up, half awake, he stared before him, but saw nothing, for the stranger stood behind. What with cat-naps, dreams, and bewilderments, therefore, the voice seemed a sort of spiritual manifestation to him; so that, for the moment, he stood all agape, eyes fixed, and one arm in the air.

“Why, barber, are you reaching up to catch birds there with salt?”

“Ah!” turning round disenchanted, “it is only a man, then.”

“ Only a man? As if to be but a man were nothing. But don’t be too sure what I am. You call me man , just as the townsfolk called the angels who, in man’s form, came to Lot’s house; just as the Jew rustics called the devils who, in man’s form, haunted the tombs. You can conclude nothing absolute from the human form, barber.”

“But I can conclude something from that sort of talk, with that sort of dress,” shrewdly thought the barber, eying him with regained self-possession, and not without some latent touch of apprehension at being alone with him. What was passing in his mind seemed divined by the other, who now, more rationally and gravely, and as if he expected it should be attended to, said: “Whatever else you may conclude upon, it is my desire that you conclude to give me a good shave,” at the same time loosening his neck-cloth. “Are you competent to a good shave, barber?”

“No broker more so, sir,” answered the barber, whom the business-like proposition instinctively made confine to business-ends his views of the visitor.

“Broker? What has a broker to do with lather? A broker I have always understood to be a worthy dealer in certain papers and metals.”

“He, he!” taking him now for some dry sort of joker, whose jokes, he being a customer, it might be as well to appreciate, “he, he! You understand well enough, sir. Take this seat, sir,” laying his hand on a great stuffed chair, high-backed and high-armed, crimson-covered, and raised on a sort of dais, and which seemed but to lack a canopy and quarterings, to make it in aspect quite a throne, “take this seat, sir.”

“Thank you,” sitting down; “and now, pray, explain that about the broker. But look, look—what’s this?” suddenly rising, and pointing, with his long pipe, towards a gilt notification swinging among colored fly-papers from the ceiling, like a tavern sign, “ No Trust? ” “No trust means distrust; distrust means no confidence. Barber,” turning upon him excitedly, “what fell suspiciousness prompts this scandalous confession? My life!” stamping his foot, “if but to tell a dog that you have no confidence in him be matter for affront to the dog, what an insult to take that way the whole haughty race of man by the beard! By my heart, sir! but at least you are valiant; backing the spleen of Thersites with the pluck of Agamemnon.”

“Your sort of talk, sir, is not exactly in my line,” said the barber, rather ruefully, being now again hopeless of his customer, and not without return of uneasiness; “not in my line, sir,” he emphatically repeated.

“But the taking of mankind by the nose is; a habit, barber, which I sadly fear has insensibly bred in you a disrespect for man. For how, indeed, may respectful conceptions of him coexist with the perpetual habit of taking him by the nose? But, tell me, though I, too, clearly see the import of your notification, I do not, as yet, perceive the object. What is it?”

“Now you speak a little in my line, sir,” said the barber, not unrelieved at this return to plain talk; “that notification I find very useful, sparing me much work which would not pay. Yes, I lost a good deal, off and on, before putting that up,” gratefully glancing towards it.

“But what is its object? Surely, you don’t mean to say, in so many words, that you have no confidence? For instance, now,” flinging aside his neck-cloth, throwing back his blouse, and reseating himself on the tonsorial throne, at sight of which proceeding the barber mechanically filled a cup with hot water from a copper vessel over a spirit-lamp, “for instance, now, suppose I say to you, ‘Barber, my dear barber, unhappily I have no small change by me to-night, but shave me, and depend upon your money to-morrow’—suppose I should say that now, you would put trust in me, wouldn’t you? You would have confidence?”

“Seeing that it is you, sir,” with complaisance replied the barber, now mixing the lather, “seeing that it is you sir, I won’t answer that question. No need to.”

“Of course, of course—in that view. But, as a supposition—you would have confidence in me, wouldn’t you?”

“Why—yes, yes.”

“Then why that sign?”

“Ah, sir, all people ain’t like you,” was the smooth reply, at the same time, as if smoothly to close the debate, beginning smoothly to apply the lather, which operation, however, was, by a motion, protested against by the subject, but only out of a desire to rejoin, which was done in these words:

“All people ain’t like me. Then I must be either better or worse than most people. Worse, you could not mean; no, barber, you could not mean that; hardly that. It remains, then, that you think me better than most people. But that I ain’t vain enough to believe; though, from vanity, I confess, I could never yet, by my best wrestlings, entirely free myself; nor, indeed, to be frank, am I at bottom over anxious to—this same vanity, barber, being so harmless, so useful, so comfortable, so pleasingly preposterous a passion.”

“Very true, sir; and upon my honor, sir, you talk very well. But the lather is getting a little cold, sir.”

“Better cold lather, barber, than a cold heart. Why that cold sign? Ah, I don’t wonder you try to shirk the confession. You feel in your soul how ungenerous a hint is there. And yet, barber, now that I look into your eyes—which somehow speak to me of the mother that must have so often looked into them before me—I dare say, though you may not think it, that the spirit of that notification is not one with your nature. For look now, setting, business views aside, regarding the thing in an abstract light; in short, supposing a case, barber; supposing, I say, you see a stranger, his face accidentally averted, but his visible part very respectable-looking; what now, barber—I put it to your conscience, to your charity—what would be your impression of that man, in a moral point of view? Being in a signal sense a stranger, would you, for that, signally set him down for a knave?”

“Certainly not, sir; by no means,” cried the barber, humanely resentful.

“You would upon the face of him——”

“Hold, sir,” said the barber, “nothing about the face; you remember, sir, that is out of sight.”

“I forgot that. Well then, you would, upon the back of him, conclude him to be, not improbably, some worthy sort of person; in short, an honest man: wouldn’t you?”

“Not unlikely I should, sir.”

“Well now—don’t be so impatient with your brush, barber—suppose that honest man meet you by night in some dark corner of the boat where his face would still remain unseen, asking you to trust him for a shave—how then?”

“Wouldn’t trust him, sir.”

“But is not an honest man to be trusted?”

“Why—why—yes, sir.”

“There! don’t you see, now?”

“See what?” asked the disconcerted barber, rather vexedly.

“Why, you stand self-contradicted, barber; don’t you?”

“No,” doggedly.

“Barber,” gravely, and after a pause of concern, “the enemies of our race have a saying that insincerity is the most universal and inveterate vice of man—the lasting bar to real amelioration, whether of individuals or of the world. Don’t you now, barber, by your stubbornness on this occasion, give color to such a calumny?”

“Hity-tity!” cried the barber, losing patience, and with it respect; “stubbornness?” Then clattering round the brush in the cup, “Will you be shaved, or won’t you?”

“Barber, I will be shaved, and with pleasure; but, pray, don’t raise your voice that way. Why, now, if you go through life gritting your teeth in that fashion, what a comfortless time you will have.”

“I take as much comfort in this world as you or any other man,” cried the barber, whom the other’s sweetness of temper seemed rather to exasperate than soothe.

“To resent the imputation of anything like unhappiness I have often observed to be peculiar to certain orders of men,” said the other pensively, and half to himself, “just as to be indifferent to that imputation, from holding happiness but for a secondary good and inferior grace, I have observed to be equally peculiar to other kinds of men. Pray, barber,” innocently looking up, “which think you is the superior creature?”

“All this sort of talk,” cried the barber, still unmollified, “is, as I told you once before, not in my line. In a few minutes I shall shut up this shop. Will you be shaved?”

“Shave away, barber. What hinders?” turning up his face like a flower.

The shaving began, and proceeded in silence, till at length it became necessary to prepare to relather a little—affording an opportunity for resuming the subject, which, on one side, was not let slip.

“Barber,” with a kind of cautious kindliness, feeling his way, “barber, now have a little patience with me; do; trust me, I wish not to offend. I have been thinking over that supposed case of the man with the averted face, and I cannot rid my mind of the impression that, by your opposite replies to my questions at the time, you showed yourself much of a piece with a good many other men—that is, you have confidence, and then again, you have none. Now, what I would ask is, do you think it sensible standing for a sensible man, one foot on confidence and the other on suspicion? Don’t you think, barber, that you ought to elect? Don’t you think consistency requires that you should either say ‘I have confidence in all men,’ and take down your notification; or else say, ‘I suspect all men,’ and keep it up.”

This dispassionate, if not deferential, way of putting the case, did not fail to impress the barber, and proportionately conciliate him. Likewise, from its pointedness, it served to make him thoughtful; for, instead of going to the copper vessel for more water, as he had purposed, he halted half-way towards it, and, after a pause, cup in hand, said: “Sir, I hope you would not do me injustice. I don’t say, and can’t say, and wouldn’t say, that I suspect all men; but I do say that strangers are not to be trusted, and so,” pointing up to the sign, “no trust.”

“But look, now, I beg, barber,” rejoined the other deprecatingly, not presuming too much upon the barber’s changed temper; “look, now; to say that strangers are not to be trusted, does not that imply something like saying that mankind is not to be trusted; for the mass of mankind, are they not necessarily strangers to each individual man? Come, come, my friend,” winningly, “you are no Timon to hold the mass of mankind untrustworthy. Take down your notification; it is misanthropical; much the same sign that Timon traced with charcoal on the forehead of a skull stuck over his cave. Take it down, barber; take it down to-night. Trust men. Just try the experiment of trusting men for this one little trip. Come now, I’m a philanthropist, and will insure you against losing a cent.”

The barber shook his head dryly, and answered, “Sir, you must excuse me. I have a family.”

“So you are a philanthropist, sir,” added the barber with an illuminated look; “that accounts, then, for all. Very odd sort of man the philanthropist. You are the second one, sir, I have seen. Very odd sort of man, indeed, the philanthropist. Ah, sir,” again meditatively stirring in the shaving-cup, “I sadly fear, lest you philanthropists know better what goodness is, than what men are.” Then, eying him as if he were some strange creature behind cage-bars, “So you are a philanthropist, sir.”

“I am Philanthropos, and love mankind. And, what is more than you do, barber, I trust them.”

Here the barber, casually recalled to his business, would have replenished his shaving-cup, but finding now that on his last visit to the water-vessel he had not replaced it over the lamp, he did so now; and, while waiting for it to heat again, became almost as sociable as if the heating water were meant for whisky-punch; and almost as pleasantly garrulous as the pleasant barbers in romances.

“Sir,” said he, taking a throne beside his customer (for in a row there were three thrones on the dais, as for the three kings of Cologne, those patron saints of the barber), “sir, you say you trust men. Well, I suppose I might share some of your trust, were it not for this trade, that I follow, too much letting me in behind the scenes.”

“I think I understand,” with a saddened look; “and much the same thing I have heard from persons in pursuits different from yours—from the lawyer, from the congressman, from the editor, not to mention others, each, with a strange kind of melancholy vanity, claiming for his vocation the distinction of affording the surest inlets to the conviction that man is no better than he should be. All of which testimony, if reliable, would, by mutual corroboration, justify some disturbance in a good man’s mind. But no, no; it is a mistake—all a mistake.”

“True, sir, very true,” assented the barber.

“Glad to hear that,” brightening up.

“Not so fast, sir,” said the barber; “I agree with you in thinking that the lawyer, and the congressman, and the editor, are in error, but only in so far as each claims peculiar facilities for the sort of knowledge in question; because, you see, sir, the truth is, that every trade or pursuit which brings one into contact with the facts, sir, such trade or pursuit is equally an avenue to those facts.”

“ How exactly is that?”

“Why, sir, in my opinion—and for the last twenty years I have, at odd times, turned the matter over some in my mind—he who comes to know man, will not remain in ignorance of man. I think I am not rash in saying that; am I, sir?”

“Barber, you talk like an oracle—obscurely, barber, obscurely.”

“Well, sir,” with some self-complacency, “the barber has always been held an oracle, but as for the obscurity, that I don’t admit.”

“But pray, now, by your account, what precisely may be this mysterious knowledge gained in your trade? I grant you, indeed, as before hinted, that your trade, imposing on you the necessity of functionally tweaking the noses of mankind, is, in that respect, unfortunate, very much so; nevertheless, a well-regulated imagination should be proof even to such a provocation to improper conceits. But what I want to learn from you, barber, is, how does the mere handling of the outside of men’s heads lead you to distrust the inside of their hearts?

“What, sir, to say nothing more, can one be forever dealing in macassar oil, hair dyes, cosmetics, false moustaches, wigs, and toupees, and still believe that men are wholly what they look to be? What think you, sir, are a thoughtful barber’s reflections, when, behind a careful curtain, he shaves the thin, dead stubble off a head, and then dismisses it to the world, radiant in curling auburn? To contrast the shamefaced air behind the curtain, the fearful looking forward to being possibly discovered there by a prying acquaintance, with the cheerful assurance and challenging pride with which the same man steps forth again, a gay deception, into the street, while some honest, shock-headed fellow humbly gives him the wall! Ah, sir, they may talk of the courage of truth, but my trade teaches me that truth sometimes is sheepish. Lies, lies, sir, brave lies are the lions!”

“You twist the moral, barber; you sadly twist it. Look, now; take it this way: A modest man thrust out naked into the street, would he not be abashed? Take him in and clothe him; would not his confidence be restored? And in either case, is any reproach involved? Now, what is true of the whole, holds proportionably true of the part. The bald head is a nakedness which the wig is a coat to. To feel uneasy at the possibility of the exposure of one’s nakedness at top, and to feel comforted by the consciousness of having it clothed—these feelings, instead of being dishonorable to a bold man, do, in fact, but attest a proper respect for himself and his fellows. And as for the deception, you may as well call the fine roof of a fine chateau a deception, since, like a fine wig, it also is an artificial cover to the head, and equally, in the common eye, decorates the wearer.—I have confuted you, my dear barber; I have confounded you.”

“Pardon,” said the barber, “but I do not see that you have. His coat and his roof no man pretends to palm off as a part of himself, but the bald man palms off hair, not his, for his own.”

“Not his , barber? If he have fairly purchased his hair, the law will protect him in its ownership, even against the claims of the head on which it grew. But it cannot be that you believe what you say, barber; you talk merely for the humor. I could not think so of you as to suppose that you would contentedly deal in the impostures you condemn.”

“Ah, sir, I must live.”

“And can’t you do that without sinning against your conscience, as you believe? Take up some other calling.”

“Wouldn’t mend the matter much, sir.”

“Do you think, then, barber, that, in a certain point, all the trades and callings of men are much on a par? Fatal, indeed,” raising his hand, “inexpressibly dreadful, the trade of the barber, if to such conclusions it necessarily leads. Barber,” eying him not without emotion, “you appear to me not so much a misbeliever, as a man misled. Now, let me set you on the right track; let me restore you to trust in human nature, and by no other means than the very trade that has brought you to suspect it.”

“You mean, sir, you would have me try the experiment of taking down that notification,” again pointing to it with his brush; “but, dear me, while I sit chatting here, the water boils over.”

With which words, and such a well-pleased, sly, snug, expression, as they say some men have when they think their little stratagem has succeeded, he hurried to the copper vessel, and soon had his cup foaming up with white bubbles, as if it were a mug of new ale.

Meantime, the other would have fain gone on with the discourse; but the cunning barber lathered him with so generous a brush, so piled up the foam on him, that his face looked like the yeasty crest of a billow, and vain to think of talking under it, as for a drowning priest in the sea to exhort his fellow-sinners on a raft. Nothing would do, but he must keep his mouth shut. Doubtless, the interval was not, in a meditative way, unimproved; for, upon the traces of the operation being at last removed, the cosmopolitan rose, and, for added refreshment, washed his face and hands; and having generally readjusted himself, began, at last, addressing the barber in a manner different, singularly so, from his previous one. Hard to say exactly what the manner was, any more than to hint it was a sort of magical; in a benign way, not wholly unlike the manner, fabled or otherwise, of certain creatures in nature, which have the power of persuasive fascination—the power of holding another creature by the button of the eye, as it were, despite the serious disinclination, and, indeed, earnest protest, of the victim. With this manner the conclusion of the matter was not out of keeping; for, in the end, all argument and expostulation proved vain, the barber being irresistibly persuaded to agree to try, for the remainder of the present trip, the experiment of trusting men, as both phrased it. True, to save his credit as a free agent, he was loud in averring that it was only for the novelty of the thing that he so agreed, and he required the other, as before volunteered, to go security to him against any loss that might ensue; but still the fact remained, that he engaged to trust men, a thing he had before said he would not do, at least not unreservedly. Still the more to save his credit, he now insisted upon it, as a last point, that the agreement should be put in black and white, especially the security part. The other made no demur; pen, ink, and paper were provided, and grave as any notary the cosmopolitan sat down, but, ere taking the pen, glanced up at the notification, and said: “First down with that sign, barber—Timon’s sign, there; down with it.”

This, being in the agreement, was done—though a little reluctantly—with an eye to the future, the sign being carefully put away in a drawer.

“Now, then, for the writing,” said the cosmopolitan, squaring himself. “Ah,” with a sigh, “I shall make a poor lawyer, I fear. Ain’t used, you see, barber, to a business which, ignoring the principle of honor, holds no nail fast till clinched. Strange, barber,” taking up the blank paper, “that such flimsy stuff as this should make such strong hawsers; vile hawsers, too. Barber,” starting up, “I won’t put it in black and white. It were a reflection upon our joint honor. I will take your word, and you shall take mine.”

“But your memory may be none of the best, sir. Well for you, on your side, to have it in black and white, just for a memorandum like, you know.”

“That, indeed! Yes, and it would help your memory, too, wouldn’t it, barber? Yours, on your side, being a little weak, too, I dare say. Ah, barber! how ingenious we human beings are; and how kindly we reciprocate each other’s little delicacies, don’t we? What better proof, now, that we are kind, considerate fellows, with responsive fellow-feelings—eh, barber? But to business. Let me see. What’s your name, barber?”

“William Cream, sir.”

Pondering a moment, he began to write; and, after some corrections, leaned back, and read aloud the following:

“ Agreement Between Frank Goodman , Philanthropist, and Citizen of the World, and William Cream , Barber of the Mississippi steamer, Fidèle.

“The first hereby agrees to make good to the last any loss that may come from his trusting mankind, in the way of his vocation, for the residue of the present trip; PROVIDED that William Cream keep out of sight, for the given term, his notification of No Trust , and by no other mode convey any, the least hint or intimation, tending to discourage men from soliciting trust from him, in the way of his vocation, for the time above specified; but, on the contrary, he do, by all proper and reasonable words, gestures, manners, and looks, evince a perfect confidence in all men, especially strangers; otherwise, this agreement to be void.

“Done, in good faith, this 1st day of April 18—, at a quarter to twelve o’clock, P. M. , in the shop of said William Cream, on board the said boat, Fidèle.”

“There, barber; will that do?”

“That will do,” said the barber, “only now put down your name.”

Both signatures being affixed, the question was started by the barber, who should have custody of the instrument; which point, however, he settled for himself, by proposing that both should go together to the captain, and give the document into his hands—the barber hinting that this would be a safe proceeding, because the captain was necessarily a party disinterested, and, what was more, could not, from the nature of the present case, make anything by a breach of trust. All of which was listened to with some surprise and concern.

“Why, barber,” said the cosmopolitan, “this don’t show the right spirit; for me, I have confidence in the captain purely because he is a man; but he shall have nothing to do with our affair; for if you have no confidence in me, barber, I have in you. There, keep the paper yourself,” handing it magnanimously.

“Very good,” said the barber, “and now nothing remains but for me to receive the cash.”

Though the mention of that word, or any of its singularly numerous equivalents, in serious neighborhood to a requisition upon one’s purse, is attended with a more or less noteworthy effect upon the human countenance, producing in many an abrupt fall of it—in others, a writhing and screwing up of the features to a point not undistressing to behold, in some, attended with a blank pallor and fatal consternation—yet no trace of any of these symptoms was visible upon the countenance of the cosmopolitan, notwithstanding nothing could be more sudden and unexpected than the barber’s demand.

“You speak of cash, barber; pray in what connection?”

“In a nearer one, sir,” answered the barber, less blandly, “than I thought the man with the sweet voice stood, who wanted me to trust him once for a shave, on the score of being a sort of thirteenth cousin.”

“Indeed, and what did you say to him?”

“I said, ‘Thank you, sir, but I don’t see the connection,’”

“How could you so unsweetly answer one with a sweet voice?”

“Because, I recalled what the son of Sirach says in the True Book: ‘An enemy speaketh sweetly with his lips;’ and so I did what the son of Sirach advises in such cases: ‘I believed not his many words.’”

“What, barber, do you say that such cynical sort of things are in the True Book, by which, of course, you mean the Bible?”

“Yes, and plenty more to the same effect. Read the Book of Proverbs.”

“That’s strange, now, barber; for I never happen to have met with those passages you cite. Before I go to bed this night, I’ll inspect the Bible I saw on the cabin-table, to-day. But mind, you mustn’t quote the True Book that way to people coming in here; it would be impliedly a violation of the contract. But you don’t know how glad I feel that you have for one while signed off all that sort of thing.”

“No, sir; not unless you down with the cash.”

“Cash again! What do you mean?”

“Why, in this paper here, you engage, sir, to insure me against a certain loss, and——”

“Certain? Is it so certain you are going to lose?”

“Why, that way of taking the word may not be amiss, but I didn’t mean it so. I meant a certain loss; you understand, a CERTAIN loss; that is to say, a certain loss. Now then, sir, what use your mere writing and saying you will insure me, unless beforehand you place in my hands a money-pledge, sufficient to that end?”

“I see; the material pledge.”

“Yes, and I will put it low; say fifty dollars.”

“Now what sort of a beginning is this? You, barber, for a given time engage to trust man, to put confidence in men, and, for your first step, make a demand implying no confidence in the very man you engage with. But fifty dollars is nothing, and I would let you have it cheerfully, only I unfortunately happen to have but little change with me just now.”

“But you have money in your trunk, though?”

“To be sure. But you see—in fact, barber, you must be consistent. No, I won’t let you have the money now; I won’t let you violate the inmost spirit of our contract, that way. So good-night, and I will see you again.”

“Stay, sir”—humming and hawing—“you have forgotten something.”

“Handkerchief?—gloves? No, forgotten nothing. Good-night.”

“Stay, sir—the—the shaving.”

“Ah, I did forget that. But now that it strikes me, I shan’t pay you at present. Look at your agreement; you must trust. Tut! against loss you hold the guarantee. Good-night, my dear barber.”

With which words he sauntered off, leaving the barber in a maze, staring after.

But it holding true in fascination as in natural philosophy, that nothing can act where it is not, so the barber was not long now in being restored to his self-possession and senses; the first evidence of which perhaps was, that, drawing forth his notification from the drawer, he put it back where it belonged; while, as for the agreement, that he tore up; which he felt the more free to do from the impression that in all human probability he would never again see the person who had drawn it. Whether that impression proved well-founded or not, does not appear. But in after days, telling the night’s adventure to his friends, the worthy barber always spoke of his queer customer as the man-charmer—as certain East Indians are called snake-charmers—and all his friends united in thinking him quite an Original .