The Hundred Dollar Suicide

Last Week I Received a telephone call from my artist friend, Peter Gallant. "Victor," he implored, "you must come to my studio at once. I need you. And bring a lot of money."

When I climbed the four flights of dark, creaking stairs and entered Peter's studio, I found my friend pacing the floor, and greatly agitated. His studio also was in an unusual state. Instead of being cluttered with paintings thrown about in all sorts of disorder, the studio was neat. He had lined the walls with his best works, and others had been stacked behind his cot. The studio--for the first time in years--had been swept, dusted, and made tidy. Brushes and paints were arranged in an orderly fashion, dirty dishes had been washed, and the cot was neatly made up. Peter himself was changed. He had shaved, his wild hair was combed flat, his sweatshirt was clean and his trousers were pressed.

"Peter!" I cried. "May I be the first to congratulate you! Is she beautiful and an heiress? When are the nuptials to be announced?"

Peter shook his head and looked at me. To my amazement I saw his eyes were filled with tears. "Victor, my friend," he said movingly. "You must help me."

"Certainly," I said. "Am I not your friend? I will do anything in my power."

Peter turned his head and gazed out of the window. "Victor, you must help me to die."

I did not question or argue with Peter. He had asked me for help, not for advice. And a true friend holds his tongue in and his hand out.

"Victor," Peter continued, "I have bought some poison. I wish to die because I do not wish to live in the sort of world we now have. I wish my death to be A Protest Against Civilization As We Know It."

"It should not be difficult," I said. "You have a glass ..."

"It is more difficult than you imagine," Peter said. "I was about to take the poison when I suddenly realized that my suicide might be misinterpreted. You see, Victor, I have no money. When I kill myself, the police will find me. They will look at my walls and see that I was an artist. Then they will look in my pockets and discover that I have no money. Then the newspapers will report that I killed myself because I was not a successful artist.

"I wish to die," Peter said, a note of bitterness in his voice, "but not because I am without funds and the public is too backward to appreciate my work. I wish to die not as a failure, but as one who had everything to live for from a materialistic standpoint. So you see, Victor, if my death is to be an effective, convincing Protest, I cannot die without money. I ask you, Victor, my dearest friend, to give me a hundred dollars. I will put the hundred dollars in my pocket, and then I will take the poison. Then it cannot be said that I killed myself because I was without funds. There will be speculation why an artist with a hundred dollars kills himself. In that way the Truth will emerge, and my death will have served its Purpose."

"Peter," I said, "I am your friend, and friends, do not argue and try to inflict their opinions on each other. You are sacrificing your life as A Protest Against Society. The least I can do, dear friend, is sacrifice one hundred dollars. How would you like the money? In small bills, or perhaps a single hundred-dollar bill?"

"I think I would prefer the single, large bill," Peter said thoughtfully. "I have never seen so large a bill. It will be interesting to own it briefly. Then, it would also appear more like a payment for a painting, and not so much like the last of my savings."

"Peter," I said, not without emotion, "here is your hundred-dollar bill. I will miss you, good friend."

"Thank you," Peter said simply, accepting the money. "You have made it possible for me to die in the manner I wish. How many of us are so fortunate as that? You are a true and generous friend, Victor."

"A friend could do no less," I replied modestly.

"If you would like a painting," Peter Suicide(continued from preceding page) said, "any one at all..."

"I would be unable to choose among them," I said. And knowing that Peter had other business, and not wishing to intrude, I shook his hand and left. With the small gift of a hundred dollars, I had raised him from despair to happiness. What more could I ask?

I went home. Perhaps an hour later the phone rang again. It was Peter.

"Victor? I must ask you a question."

"Peter," I said, and hesitated. "Peter... have you... ?"

"I have taken the poison," Peter said. "In an hour I will be dead. But I called to ask you, Victor, do you think I should leave a note making everything clear? I am afraid those who find me may be so dense they will not understand my death is a Protest unless it is specifically stated. On the other hand, a note is trite and bourgeois, is it not?"

"A note is a very ordinary thing," I agreed. "If you will excuse me for intruding in your affairs, Peter, I would suggest that you arrange to fall dead in front of your latest canvas in which you depict, symbolically, The Decadence Of Our Civilization and Your Refusal To Compromise With It. I believe it would then be obvious even to policemen and reporters why you died by your own hand."

"Thank you," Peter said, his voice trembling with gratitude. "You have been a true friend. Farewell, Victor!"

"Goodbye, Peter."

An hour passed. When the sixty minutes elapsed, I thought of my friend, who now lay dead. Then I thought of how he might be suffering if he had not taken enough of the poison to kill him. I debated with myself for a few seconds only, then hurried to the studio. I could not bear to think of my friend in pain--and if he were alive, and wished to change his mind, I might be able to save his life.

I climbed the stairs to Peter's studio, opened the door and stepped inside. Peter lay on the floor in front of his last painting, as I had suggested. In his right hand there was a brush, wet with paint, as though he had killed himself at the moment he had finished the work of art.

In his left hand there was a piece of paper. I bent down to examine it. I was shocked to find that it was a farewell note. At the last moment, despite my advice--which he had requested--Peter had written a note. However, I did not think badly of him. It may have been that he misunderstood me, since he was under some emotional stress at the time.

The note made clear his Reason for dying, called attention to the money in his pocket, and left no doubt about the nature of his Protest.

I wondered in which pocket Peter had put the money. He was of such a careless nature that it was like him to forget to place it in his pocket. I therefore searched briefly and was glad to discover the bill in the righthand pocket of his trousers. My fears had been groundless. He had not forgotten.

I looked down at the dead face of my friend. He looked so peaceful and contented. He had died as he had wished, and my hundred dollars had made that possible. I left the studio.

The next day there was a small story on the back page of the newspaper. It said that Peter had taken poison, and as there was no food in the studio, and he had no money in his pockets, it was assumed he had been driven to the desperate act by poverty and despair.

Needless to say, I am troubled by Peter's note, which is beautifully written, in a fine hand. I would like to send this note to the newspapers, so the world might know the noble Reason and manner of Peter's death. But I hesitate. What, after all, does the opinion of strangers matter, who scorned Peter in life? Why spoil his final moment of triumph over Society, by allowing Society to sneer at his sentiments and snicker at his emotion? Why give Society a chance to deal another blow, when he can rise to fight no more?

Besides, the note rashly mentions the hundred-dollar bill, and if I send the note to the newspapers, the police might come around and ask embarrassing questions and possibly confiscate the money--which I am sure Peter would wish me to have as I wished him to have it when he needed it.

After all, if the memory of a man's life and noble death lives on in the heart and mind of just one true friend, that man has not lived--or died--in vain.