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Full text of "Scribner's magazine"

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SCRIBNER5 
MAGAZINE 

PUBLISHED MONTHEf 
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 



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J<f\.a-uj\A. 



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VOLUME XLU 
JUIY-DECEMBER 



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»-w.V!»^ I is f^m \ 




CHARLES SCRBNEKS SONS NEW YORK 

TEMPLE HOUSE, TAILIS STl!EET.LOlfl)0H.E.a 






Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 




CONTENTS 



OF 



SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE 

Volume XLII July— December, 1907 



PAGE 

ADMINISTRATION, THE. Point of View, 123 

ALARM, AN. Drawing by Philip R. Goodwin, Facing page 276 

AMERICAN COLLEGE WINDOW, FROM AN. Point 

of View 121 

AMERICAN PAINTINGS IN THE METROPOLITAN 

MUSEUM (William Walton). Field of Art, . . . 637 

AMERICAN PAINTERS, LIVING, WORKS BY, IN 
THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM (William Wal- 
ton). Field of Art 253 

» xTT-k-DT^-nrcj nitn-iT- T, CT ^ The Captains, . • 18 

^^10>RE^yS. '^■'^^Y T^-S.\ The Whistling of Zoetique 341 

BASTIDA. See A Great Spanish Artist. 

BLUEBIRD'S NEST, A, Marg.\ret Sherwood, . . .410 

BODY-SERVANTS, AS TO. Point of View 251 

BOOKS OF SENTIMENT. Point of View 762 

BROTHER TO GENIUS, A Katharine Holland Brown, . 700 



BROWN, KATHARINE HOLLAND 



' Galahad's Daugh- 
ter 115 

A Brother to 

Genius 700 



BUSTING, THE LAST, AT THE BOW-GUN , . . L. A. Huffman 76 

Illustrated from photographs by the author. 

CALL OF THE WEST, THE: AMERICA AND ELIZA- 
BETHAN ENGLAND, Sidney Lee, 

III.— THE AMERICAN INDIAN IN ELIZA- 
BETHAN ENGLAND 313 

IV.— THE PATH TO JAMESTOWN 614 

CAMPBELL COROT, Francis Cotton, ... 277 

Illustrations by J. L. S. Williams; reproduced in tint. 

CAPTAINS, THE. A boating story Mary R. S. Andrews, . . 18 

Illustrations by F. C. Yohn. 

CHAPMAN, CHARLES S. The Culler 305 



iv CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CHATEAU AND COUNTRY LIFE IN FRANCE, . . Mary King Waddington. . . 396 
(First paper.) 

Illustrations by E. L. Blumenschein. 
SECOND PAPER: COUNTRY VISITS. ... ... 521 

PHTin TN FATRYT -VND THE .^ °''^^"^S^ '^^ • * Sarah S. Stilwell, . . .661 

CHILD IN tAlRYLAJNU, 1^^.^^^^.^^^ ^^ j-j^j^j^ g Sturgis, 

The Illustrations reproduced in colors. 

COMMANDEERING, THE, OF THE LUCY FOSTER, James B. Connolly, . . .153 
Illustration by W. J. Aylward. 

( The Commandeering of the 

CONNOLLY, JAMES B.< Lucy Foster 153 

(The Harsh Word, 294 

CONTINENTS ARE SURMISED, WHEN. Point of 

View, ....,.,.......•••• 379 

COTTON, FRANCIS. Campbell Corot 277 

COUNTRY CLUB, A DAY AT THE. Drawings by . Harrlson Fisher 143 

Reproduced in colors. 

CULLER, THE Charles S. Chapmax, . . .305 

Illustrations by the author, in colors and black and 
white. 

DEADLY VIRTUES, THE SEVEN. Point of View 633 

DIE-SINKING (Russell Sturgis). Field of Art 509 

DWIGHT, H. G. The Golden Javelin 737 

ENGLISH WEATHER Louise Imogen Guiney. . . 630 

EPICURUS IN THE WEST Thomas Robins, . . . 331 

Illustration by E. C. Peixotto. 

FIELD OF ART, THE, 

American Paintings in the Metropolitan Museum 
(WiUiam Walton), 637. 

American Painters, Living, Works by, in the Metro- 
politan Museum (WilUam Walton), 253. 

Die-Sinking (Russell Sturgis), 609. 

Metropolitan Museum of Art: The American School — 
Some Early Painters (Frank Fowler), 125. 

Museum of Studies, As to a (Russell Sturgis), 765. 

Washington, The Founding of a National Museum 
of Art in (WiU H. Low). 381. 

FISHER, HARRISON. A Day at the Country Club 143 

FITZPATRICK, JOHN C. The Spanish Galleon and 

Pieces-of-Eight, 513 

FORD, JAMES L. " Listening" on the Stage 500 

FOR THE FAITH Henry B. Fuller 433 

Illustrations by James Montgomery Flagg. 

FRANCE, IMPRESSIONS OF CONTEMPORARY, . Barrett Wendell, ... 53 

IV.— THE REPUBLIC AND DEMOCRACY. 

FRIENDSHIP HERE AND THERE. Point of View 251 

FRUIT OF THE TREE, THE Edith Wharton, 89, 197, 357, 447, 595 

Chapter-s XIX — XLIII. (Concluded.) 
Illustrations by Alonzo Kimball. 

Waldo Trench Regains his 

FULLER, HENRY B.<; Youth 231 

For the Faith 433 

GALAHAD'S DAUGHTER Katharine Holland Brown, . 115 

Illustration by F. Walter Taylor. 

GAME BY WIRE, THE, Arthur Stanwood Pier, . . 532 

Ilhistrations by W. B. King. 



CONTENTS 



GARDEN AS A PICTURE, THE 

Illustrations drawn from photographs by Henry 
McCarter. 

GENTLE PATRIOT, THE. Point of View, . 

GHOST AT POINT OF ROCKS, THE, 
Illustrations by W. T. Benda. 

GOLDEN JAVELIN, THE, 

Illustrations by W. T. Benda. 

GOODWIN, PHILIP R. An Alarm 

GRANDFATHERS OF THE EVOLUTION, THE, 
Illustrations by James Montgomery Flagg. 



Beatrix Jones, 

Fr.\.nk H. Spearman, 
h. g. dwight, 

Nelson Lloyd, 



GUINEY, LOUISE IMOGEN. English Weather, 



GULLS. SOME REMARKS ON: WITH A FOOTNOTE 

ON A FISH, . Hexry van Dyke, 

(Fifth paper in "Days Off.") 

Illustrations by F. E. Schoonover. and from photo- 
graphs by Herbert K. Job. 

HALSEY, R. T H Josiah Wedgwood: American Sym- 

' pathizer and Portrait Maker 



Facing page 



PAGE 

2 



506 
159 

737 

276 
217 

630 

129 



HARRISON, BIRGE 

Illustrations from Mr. Harrison's Paintings. 

HARSH WORD. THE 

Illustrations by W. J. Aylward. 



John E. D. Trask, 



James B. Connolly, 



HERRICK, ROBERT, 



HOFFMAN. ROBERT FULKERSON 
Atta Vista, ..... 



The Master of the Inn, 

The Phmnix of 



HUARD, FRANCES WILSON 



A Sleepy Little City, 
Our Little Village, 



HUFFMAN, L. A. The Last Busting at the Bow-Gun 

INTERNATIONAL MARRIAGES Mary King Waddington, 

IRRITABLE, AN APOLOGY FOR THE. Point of 

View, ................ 



JOHNSON, HUGH. Lascar 

JONES, BEATRIX. The Garden as a Picture, 



KURTZ, CHARLES M. A Great Spanish Artist— 
Joaquin Sorolla-y-Bastida 



LASCAR, ... 

Illustrations by N. C. Wyeth. 



Hugh Johnson, 

Lieut. U. S. Cavalry. 



LEE, SIDNEY 



The Call of the West: American and Eliza- 
bethan England: 

III. — The American Indian in Eliza- 
bethan England,. .... 

IV. — The Path to Jamestown, 



LEVIATHAN Henry van Dyke, 

(Sixth paper in "Days Off.") 



"LISTENING" ON THE STAGE, . 
LITERARY CLASS DISTINCTIONS. 



James L. Ford, 



Point of View, 



LITERARY USES OF FOREIGNERS, THE: AN AN- 
GLO-AMERICAN CONTRAST. Point of View, 

LLOYD, NELSON. The Grandfather of the Evolution. . 



LOVELY, Juliet Wilbor Tompkins, 

Illustrations by May Wilson Preston. 



682 
576 

294 

669 

715 

551 
652 

75 

301 

634 

173 
2 

417 

173 



313 
614 

268 



500 
761 

635 
217 
586 



vi CONTENTS 



PAGE 

MASTER OF THE INN, THE Robert Herrick 669 

MATTHEWS, BRANDER. Poe and the Detective Story 287 

METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART, THE: THE 
AMERICAN SCHOOL— SOME EARLY PAINT- 
ERS. (Frank Fowler.) Field of Art 125 

MORTIMER'S FAILURE Jesse Lynch Williams, . . .183 

Illustration by F. C. Yohn. 

MOTOR CAR IN FICTION, THE. Point of View 507 

MUSEUM OF STUDIES, AS TO (Russell Sturgis). 

Field of Art ' .... 765 

MY FRIEND THE DOCTOR Thomas Nelson Page, . . .539 

Illustrations by Harrison Fisher. 

NATIONAL HYMNOLOGY. Point of View 380 

OUR LITTLE VILLAGE Frances Wilson Huard, . . 652 

Illustrations by Charles Huard. 

PACH, WALTER. The "Memoria" of Velasquez, 38 

PAGE, THOMAS NELSON. My Friend the Doctor 539 

PART OF CESAR, THE Arthur Stanwood Pier, . . 641 

Illustrations by George Wright. 

PECK, HENRY JARVIS. The Tortoise and the Hare Facing page 74 

(Drawing.) 

PENFIELD, EDWARD. Spanish Impressions 469 

PERPETUAL VISITOR, THE Evelyn Schuyler Schaeffer, . 66 

Illustrations by James Montgomery Flagg. 

PHCENIX OF ALTA VISTA, THE Robert Fulkerson Hoffman, . 715 

Illustrations by James Montgomery Flagg. 

POE AND THE DETECTIVE STORY, . . . Brander Matthews, . . .287 

POETRY AND HOMESICKNESS. Point of View 763 

POINT OF VIEW 

Administration, The, 123. Literary Uses of Foreigners — An 
American College Window, From an, 121. Anglo-American Contrast, 635. 

Body Servants, As to, 251. Motor Car in Fiction, The, 507. 

Books of Sentiment, 762. National Hymnology, 380. 

Continents are Surmised, When, 379. Poetry and Homesickne.ss, 763. 

Deadly Virtues, The Seven, 633. Practical Disabilities, 124. 

Friendship Here and There, 251. Professional Reflections, 122. 

Gentle Patriots, The, 506. Reformed Speech, 508. 

Irritable, An Apology for the, 634. Science as Culture, 249. 

Literary Class Distinctions, 761. Trolley, The Tour by, 250. 

PIER, ARTHUR, STANWOOD {^iJ^^'-.^Sn- : i l i l : : l 64^ 

PRACTICAL DISABILITIES. Point of View 124 

PRICE, WILMOT. A Test of Truth 750 

PROFESSORIAL REFLECTIONS. Point of View 122 

REFORMED SPEECH. Point of View 508 

RETREAT, THE Elsie Singmaster 13 

Illustration by F. Walter Taylor. 

RIVALS OF MR. KILCAMMON, THE, . . . Harrison Robert.son, . . .478 

Illustrations by Frederic Dorr Steele. 

ROBERTSON, HARRISON. The Rivals of Mr. Kil- 

cammon, 478 

ROBINS, THOMAS. Epicurus in the West 331 



CONTENTS vii 

PAGE 

ROOSEVELT, THEODORE. Small Country Neighbors, 385 

SAN FRANCISCO. See Epicurus in the West. 

SCHAEFFER, EVELYN SCHIJYLER. The Perpetual 

Visitor, .... 66 

SCIENCE AS CULTURE. Point of View 249 

SHERWOOD, MARGARET. A Bluebird's Nest 410 

SIENA, Arthur SyiMONs, . . ' . . 257 

Illustrations drawn by E. C. Peixotto, from photo- 
graphs; reproduced in tint. 

SINGMASTER, ELSIE. The Retreat 13 

SLEEPY LITTLE CITY, A Frances Wilson Hu.\^rd, . . 551 

Illustrations by Charles Huard. 

SMALL COUNTRY NEIGHBORS Theodore Roosevelt, . . . 385 

Illustrations from photographs. 

SPANISH ARTIST, A GREAT— JOAQUIN SOROLLA- 

Y-BASTIDA Charle-s M. Kurtz, . . . 417 

Illustrations from paintings by Sorolla-y-Bastida. Director of the Buffalo Fine Arts 

Academy. 

SPANISH GALLEON. THE, AND PIECES-OF-EIGHT, John C. Fitzpatrick, . . .513 
Illustrations by Frank Brangwyn, reproduced in 
colors. 

SPANISH IMPRESSIONS Edward Penfield 469 

Illustrations by the author, reproduced in colors. 

SPEARMAN, FRANK H. The Ghost at Point of Rocks. ........ 159 

STILWELL, SARAH S. The Child in Fairyland, 661 

SYMONS, ARTHUR. Siena ... 257 

TEST OF TRUTH, A Wilmot Price, .... 750 

TOMPKINS, JULIET WILBOR. Lovely . 586 

TORTOISE AND THE HARE, THE. Drawn by . Henry Jarvis Peck. Facing page 74 
Reproduced in colors. 

TRASK, JOHN E. D. Birge Harrison, . 576 

TROLLEY, THE TOUR BY. Point of View 250 

( Some Remarks on Gulls: With 

VAN DYKE, HENRY < a Foot-Note on a Fish 129 

I Leviathan, 268 

VELASQUEZ, THE "MEMORIA" OF Walter Pach 38 

Illustrations from photographs. 



WADDINGTON, MARY KING 



International Mar- 
riages 301 

Chateau and Country 

Life in France 396, 521 



WALDO TRENCH REGAINS HIS YOUTH, . . Henry B. Fuller 231 

Illustrations by James Montgomery Flagg. 

WASHINGTON, THE FOUNDING OF A NATIONAL 
MUSEUM OF ART IN (Will H. Low). Field of 
Art, 381 

WEDGWOOD, JOSIAH: AMERICAN SYMPATHIZER 

AND PORTRAIT MAIMER, . . . . R. T. H. Halsey, . . . .682 

Illustrations from the author's collection, reproduced 
in tint. 

WENDELL, BARRETT. Impressions of Contemporary 

France. IV. — The Republic and Democracy 53 

WHARTON, EDITH. The Fruit of the Tree, ... . . 89, 197, 357, 447, 595 



Vlll 



CONTENTS 



Mary R. S. Andrews, 



WHISTLING OF ZOETIQUE, THE, . 
lUustrations by F. Walter Taylor. 

^^^T, T -r^T^TT ( Mortimer's Failure, 

WILLIAMS. JESSE LYNCH -J j.^^„^ ^„^g 

YOUNG LOVE Jesse Lynch Williams, 

lUustrations by James Montgomery Flagg. 



FAGB 
341 



183 
727 



727 



POETRY 

^Q-g William Winter. 

CHILD IN FAIRYLAND, THE Edith B. Sturgis, . . 662, 664 

Verses to accompany drawings by Sarah S. Stilwell. 

CHRISTMAS CHILD, A Isabel E. Mackay. . 

Illustrations by Olive Rush. 

DARK OF THE MOON, THE Rosamund Marriott Watson, 

DAYBREAK Frank Dempster Sherman, 

DESERTED GARDEN, THE James B. Kenyon, . 



DESERTED VILLAGE, A Thomas S. Jones, Jr., . 

Illustration by Franklin Booth. 

FINALITIES M. A. DeWolfe Howe, 

FLEET, THE, OFF THE COAST OF VIRGINIA, . . Samuel McCoy, 
Illustrations by W. J. Aylward. 

FOR A SMALL BOY Samuel McCoy 

GREEN INN, THE Theodosia Garrison, 

MEADOW WIND, THE Arthur Davison Ficke, 

MIDNIGHT TRAIN, THE William Hervey Woods, 

MY HUT John Finley. . 

OLD SOUL, THE Edith M. Thomas, . 

PAN O' DREAMS William Hervey Woods, 

Illustration by Arthur Rackham. 

QUATRAIN W. F. Schmitz, 

RIME OF THE GIFT OF GOLD, THE M'Cready Sykes, . 



SONG OF OLD HOMES, THE, . . . 
After the French of Anatole le Braz. 



E. Sutton, 



THANKSGIVING, A William Lucius Graves, 

THIS IS ANOTHER DAY Don Marquis 

TO MY UNKNOWN NEIGHBOR C. A. Price 

TRAVAIL Louisa Fletcher Tarkington, 



TWO SONNETS: LOVE'S SILENCE— PARTING, 

UNAWARE 

VENTURES AND CONSUMMATIONS, . 

WANDERLIED 

WEDDING GOWN, THE 

WILD ROSE, THE . . 



Richard Hovey, 
William Hervey Woods, 
George Cabot Lodge, . 
Marie Van Vorst, . 
Josephine Preston Peabody, 
George Meredith, . 



193 
666 

651 

613 
355 
713 
575 

87 
496 

114 
1 

120 
759 
561 
338 
195 

286 
748 
698 

65 

11 

304 

538 
585 
36 
477 
248 
330 
668 




Drawn hy F. Walter Taylor. 



IJM UOD'S GREEN INN. 



ScRiBNER's Magazine 

VOL. XLII ^q'iiilC 1907 NO. 1 

THE GR^EN INN 

By Theodosia Garrison 

Illustration (frontispiece) by F. Walter Taylob 

I SICKEN of men's company — 

The crowded tavern's din, 
Where all day long with oath and song 

Sit they who entrance win; 
So come I out from noise and rout 

To rest in God's Green Inn. 

Here none may mock an empty purse 

Or ragged coat and poor, 
But Silence waits within the gates, 

And Peace beside the door; 
The weary guest is welcomest. 

The richest pays no score. 

The roof is high and arched and blue. 

The floor is spread with pine; 
On my four walls the sunlight falls 

In golden flecks and fine; 
And swift and fleet, on noiseless feet 

The Four Winds bring me wine. 

Upon my board they set their store — 

Great drinks mixed cunningly, 
Wherein the scent of furze is blent 

With odor of the sea, 
As from a cup I drink it up 

To thrill the veins of me. 

It's I will sit in God's Green Inn 

Unvexed by man or ghost. 
Yet ever fed and comforted, 

Companioned by mine host, 
And watched at night by that white light 

High-swung from coast to coast. 

Oh, you who in the House of Strife 

Quarrel and game and sin. 
Come out and see what cheer may be 

For starveling souls and thin, 
Who come at last from drought and fast 

To sit in God's Green Inn! 

Copyright, 1907, by Charies Scribner's Sons. All rights reserved. 

Vol. XLII.— I 




=^5*^^ 



. -^^-^ 



-^ 







Garden of the Villa of Castello. 



THE GARDEN AS A PICTURE 

By Beatrix Jones 

Illustrations by Henry McCarter 



Garden literature of to-day, as we all 
know, does not confine itself merely to 
flowers, insects, and the weather, but is 
equally authoritative as to astronomy, 
cookery, philosophy, and even matrimony. 
Some quotations from old writings, how- 
ever, come back over and over again, like 
the burden of a song, and we have grown so 
accustomed to them that we feel almost de- 
frauded if a garden book does not open with 
the first sentence of Bacon's stately essay. 
These books have done much good in mak- 
ing people realize that gardens are not 
pieces of ground kept solely for the delight 
of gardeners of the old school, who seem to 
have spent their time in designing flower- 
beds of intricate pattern filled with bedding 
plants so atrocious in color that a kaleido- 
scope is Quakerish in comparison. They 
have also taught the great essential of gar- 
dening, that in order to have good gardens 
we must really care for the plants in them 



and know them individually as well as col- 
lectively. This is an important part of the 
technique of the garden-maker; he must 
know intimately the form and texture as 
well as the color of all the plants he uses; 
for plants are to the gardener what his pal- 
ette is to a painter. The two arts of paint- 
ing and garden design are closely related, 
except that the landscape gardener paints 
with actual color, line, and perspective to 
make a composition, as the maker of stained 
glass does, while the painter has but a flat 
surface on which to create his illusion; he 
has, however, the incalculable advantage 
that no sane person would think of going 
behind a picture to see if it were equally in- 
teresting from that point of view. 

The painter has another great advantage 
over the gardener, becavise, as he cannot 
possibly transfer to canvas the miUions of 
colors and shadows which make up the most 
ordinary landscape, he must eliminate so 



The Garden as a Picture 



many that his presentment becomes more 
or less conventional, just as a playwright 
must recognize the conventions of the stage, 
and these limitations are taken for granted 
by the public, whereas the landscape gar- 
dener has to put his equally artificial land- 
scape out in real light, among real trees, to 
be barred by real and moving shadows. 
The garden designer has no noncommittal 
canvas at the back of his picture, but must 
be prepared, like the sculptor, for criticism 
from any standpoint, and it would seem as 
though most people were irresistibly drawn 
to look at a composition from its least attrac- 
tive side, as if, in a parallel case, they should 
criticise only the backs of statues, all of 
which are not so beautiful as that of the 
Venus of Syracuse. 

The painter has yet another advantage 
hard to overestimate, in that his palette is 
really in great measure the creation of his 
personal artistic temperament, expressed 
with more or less variation in all that he 
does, while the landscape architect must 
take the elements given him by nature as 
the basis of his composition in each sepa- 
rate piece of work ; this means that he can- 
not use the color, form, and texture suited 
to one place in another possibly only a few 



miles away. The painter also usually fol- 
lows his own bent and seldom varies from 
marines to portraits, or from still life to 
landscape, and although some have run the 
whole gamut, the personality of the artist 
unconsciously translates his subjects into 
his own individual language. 

The landscape artist, on the other hand, 
must subordinate himself to the elements 
given him, the climate and the soil, the 
character of the vegetation, and last but 
usually not least, the wishes of his client. 
The painter and the sculptor may finish 
their work and it can at once be judged as a 
whole, while the person who works with 
plants has to make up his mind to see the 
particular shrub he wanted in a special spot 
perversely die, while for years the shady 
groves of the future will decorate the scene 
like feather dusters on broomsticks. 

Although each year an increasing num- 
ber of people interest themselves in out-of- 
door life and the habits of birds, trees, and 
wild flowers, they may realize only the 
striking contrast between a landscape where 
deciduous trees predominate and another 
where evergreens give the characteristic 
note. Everyone can see the difference be- 
tween the austeritv of the rock-bound coast 




Fountain in the Garden of Castello. 



The Garden as a Picture 



of Maine, the quiet beauty of a Massachu- 
setts intervale, and the sleepy luxuriance 
of the Pennsylvania pastoral country, but 
slight variations between these may often 
pass unnoticed; it is only in trying to copy 
the expression of a landscape, or rather to fit 
in with its character, that it is possible to 
realize how infinite and yet how minute 
these variations are. The quality of the 
light is perhaps the most important. There 
is a pellucid quality in the northern atmos- 
phere which does not demand shade as do 
the richer colors and warmer light farther 
to the south. The recognition of the im- 
portance of the balance between light and 
shade was one of the chief elements in the 
composition of the great Italian garden ar- 
tists. They used shadow as having the 
same value of accent as color. Their long 
and sunlit walks were relieved by patches of 
shade; their brilliant and sometimes glar- 
ing parterres, vibrating with light, were con- 
trasted with the cool darkness of a little 
grove. This feeling for the balance be- 
tween light and shade may not have been a 
faculty consciously exercised on their part, 
but it is unquestionably a feeling without 
which no artist can make a composition at 
all. We are apt to read into the people of a 
past time subtleties of which they probably 
knew nothing, on the principle of 

Critics who from Shakespeare drew 
More than Shakespeare ever knew. 

The difference of the quality of light is no 
doubt what unconsciously affects the out- 
door art of different countries, and the de- 
mand of the eye for contrasts may be what 
makes the English gardens so full of dark 
yews, which even on dull days make the 
bright flowers near them seem as if the sun 
were actually shining, whereas in Italy the 
dark laurels and bays are more apt to be 
used as a contrast to actual light and not 
color. It should also be remembered that 
the art of gardening at its best is as strongly 
national as that of painting or sculpture; in 
the England of old days gardens which 
were honestly supposed to be Italian were 
in reality British, just as the so-called 
"English gardens" of the eighteenth cen- 
tury were either French or Italian when 
they were made in one or the other country. 
One reason for this was that artists were 
not distracted by the multitude of photo- 
graphs and rapid mental impressions of 



travel which with us make individuality so 
difficult to keep; for instance, a model seen 
in Rome is now often repeated in an alien 
American garden, merely because it looked 
well in the place for which it was intended. 
We cover more ground in a short holiday 
than our forefathers did in one of their 
solemn "tours," and can bring home any 
number of accurate records of what we have 
seen. Before photography was invented, if 
a traveller wanted to be sure of remember- 
ing a terrace or a summer-house he had to 
sketch it more or less accurately; now we 
snap a camera which reproduces every de- 
tail with a minuteness usually impossible in 
a drawing. When the old tourist returned 
and went to work again there was an exotic 
flavor in his design, but he had necessarily 
forgotten many minor points of decoration, 
as in mouldings and ornaments, so he re- 
placed them by those with which he was 
familiar, and his neighbors took it as a mat 
ter of course. Now we are terribly culti- 
vated and scrupulously accurate; we know 
just how everything all over the world 
looks, whether we have actually seen it or 
not, and if it is a work of art we think we 
know just "how it was done." 

It is well to remember that many of the 
garden decorations imported from one coun- 
try to another, as from Italy to England, look 
much better now than when they were first 
expatriated. Time and neglect will do won- 
ders for inappropriate garden architecture; 
in our climate, for instance, chilly marble 
goddesses will soon lose their noses and fin- 
gers in spite of their hibernation in wooden 
sentry-boxes, and fountains will go to pieces 
if the gardener delays putting on them the lit- 
tle thatched capes which look oddly like the 
mackintoshesof the Japanese jinrikishamen. 

A collection of flowers, no matter how 
beautiful they may be, does not make a gar- 
den, any more than the colors on a painter's 
palette make in themselves a picture. A 
real garden is just as artificial as a painting, 
and yet it has not the advantage of artificial 
surroundings. The landscape architect 
must put his composition down in the open 
air with the sky and the trees and the grass 
as a background, and must juggle with nat- 
ure in order that his composition may not 
look out of place, keeping always in his 
mind the balance between masses of color 
and offsetting masses of green. It is per- 
haps for this reason that we unconsciously 



The Garden as a Picture 



feel that a garden is best shut in, at any rate, 
in part, from the surrounding Unes of the 
landscape. This enlcosure does not neces- 
sarily mean a wall, nor does it mean that a 
garden should have no outlook, but only 
that there should be some definite limit. 

If one may use a musical expression, there 
is the same difference in quality of color be- 
tween a landscape and a garden that there 



color and interrupted by high lights and 
dark shadows to throw out contrasts. 

If it is possible to give over any consider- 
able part of a place to one special effect by 
massing rhododendrons, spring-flowering 
bulbs, or one particular flower, the result is 
incalculably greater than if the same num- 
ber of plants are dotted about promiscu- 
ously, but it must be borne in mind that in 



7^^^''^^ . 



■-^^ 












»• 










Shasta daisies in a border. 



is between an old orchestra and a modern 
one of nearly double its size, where the 
parts are much more subdivided and the 
sound consequently more complicated. In 
the same way the vibrations of color from 
a garden, being more closely brought to- 
gether, are much more exciting than in an 
ordinary landscape. This makes it neces- 
sary that the garden should be treated in a 
bolder manner; flowers must be used as 



order to get an effect like this planting must 
be done on a big scale; the artist must try 
to keep step with the great stride of Nature 
and copy as far as may be her breadth and 
simplicity. This can only be attempted 
where there is plenty of room. Ten bar- 
berry bushes in a front yard may be very 
good because they are simple, but they can- 
not even suggest the broad effect of which 
we have been speaking. 



6 



The Garden as a Picture 



A garden, large or small, must be treated 
in the impressionist manner. Old paint- 
ings and colored prints are interesting from 
their quaintness, but they do not make 
one feel the real effect of a garden any 
more than if they were in black and white. 
They treat it as a' part of the landscape and 
therefore subdue its coloring that it may 
not jar with the rest, whereas in reality a 
garden vibrates with color as the air rising 
over some reflecting surface on a summer 
day vibrates with heat. 



with manure, or at best with evei green 
boughs and leaves. If, however, they only 
stay in the country for two or three months 
it is comparatively easy to arrange a mass 
of color like a Turkey carpet, in which 
flowers are laid in in broad washes. This 
brilliant effect can be held for a couple of 
months, and during that time there need be 
no holes where flowers have died which 
have served their usefulness and left not 
even a tuft of green leaves to cover the 
brown earth. If the garden has to be pre- 



i ^0^ 




Moorish fragment at Villa Reed. 



The gardener must also consider the 
length of time in each year in which his work 
will be looked at. In the north it is diffi- 
cult to keep one from being more or less un- 
attractive during six months at least; there- 
fore, if a country house is to be lived in for 
the larger part of the year it is better not 
to put the garden too close to the house, as 
in that case the owners will have for several 
months a dreary view of garden walks with 
puddles in them and flower-beds covered 



sentable from early spring to late autumn it 
will be impossible, unless it covers a con- 
siderable piece of ground, to do more than 
keep a continuous succession of bloom in 
small patches rather than in great masses. 
Breaks in the surface of the ground are also 
needed, like terraces, arbors to interrupt 
long walks by shadow, benches and balus- 
trades. Here is where the old Italian gar- 
dens are so successful; their fountains and 
their statues, their benches and their vases, 



The Garden as a Picture 



are used as emphasis to give height or light 
or variation to a part of the composition 
which might otherwise be uninteresting. In 
the great Itahan garden of Castello the whole 
interest of the parterre is focussed at the cen- 
tre by the splendid high bronze fountain of 
Hercules and Antaeus by John of Bologna 



purple have completely changed the aspect 
of things from what it was in July, when 
there was nothing but slight gradations in a 
scheme with green as its key-note. Where 
colors do not change, as among the ever- 
greens, the effect of the autumn coloring is 
much more than doubled, as they are the 




The pond garden at Hampton Court palace 



and Tribolo. It is difficult to put a rule into 
words which will serve as a guide in even one 
hypothetical place, perhaps for the same rea- 
son that no two people would paint exactly 
the same picture from the same subject, or 
tell the same story in the same words. 

In nature colors are set rather as an inci- 
dent than as the principal feature of a land- 
scape; the spring flowers in the Alps, even 
if they are not surrounded by trees and 
much grass, are covered by the simple ex- 
panse of the sky; the colors in an American 
autumn, the change of leaf in the trees, the 
golden-rod and asters, are all playing in a 
certain tone of color. The whole symphony 
of nature changes at that time to an entirely 
different key from that of summer; the 
tawny, the brown, the red and yellow and 



only objects in the landscape which have 
remained as they were. This unchanging 
quality of the evergreens is, of course, the 
basis for the well-known French saying that 
"Evergreens are the joy of winter and the 
mourning of summer." It cannot be too 
often repeated that a garden is an absolute- 
ly artificial thing, not only as to the congre- 
gation of flowers but principally as to color, 
and for this reason must be treated as such. 
One can seldom, if ever, command a setting 
as wide as nature's in which to place our 
work, and therefore we must tune up our 
settings to the kev of the whole artificial 
composition. Writing in rhymed verse has 
been compared to dancing in fetters, and to 
apply that simile to gardening, it may be 
said that it is like composing in French 



8 



The Garden as a Picture 



alexandrines with their measured rhythm 
and subtle Cffsura. We must keep time 
with Nature, and follow her forms of ex- 
pression in dilTerent places while we carry 
out our own ideas or adaptations. Perhaps 
the so-called natural garcJen is the most dif- 
ficult to tit in with its surroundings, because 
there is no set line to act as a backbone to 
the composition, and the whole effect must 
be ol)tained from masses of color, contrast- 
ing heights, and varieties of texture without 
any straight line as an axis, without any 
architectural accessory for emphasis, with- 
out anything but an inchoate mass of trees 
or shrubs of a nondescript shape in which 
to put something that will look like a 
thought-outcompostion,and not a collection 
of flowers grown alphabetically on the prin- 
ciple of a nursery-man's catalogue. These 
gardens are very hard to design, far more so 



than the formal garden, and almost impossi- 
ble to reproduce, as pictures of them are apt 
to look like views of a perennial border, and 
all the play of light and color, which is the 
making of the actual place, is translated only 
by a little more or less depth in the values of 
black and white. The planning of an in- 
formal garden must be more or less like the 
arrangement of a painter's palette; and as 
an artist would not think of putting a rosy 
pink and a violent yellow side by side, so 
the gardener must go through careful proc- 
esses of choice and elimination. Each gar- 
den has one or more points from which it may 
be seen to more advantage than from others, 
and in a formal one these are comparatively 
easy to manage, but in the natural garden the 
grouping of color must be considered from 
every reasonable point of view, in order that 
there may be no jarring combinations. 











^;:>>^m« 




Approach to a natural garden 



The Garden as a Picture 



Perhaps it is a cowardly subterfuge, but 
it is one which is at least safe, to keep the 
bright yellows and the pinks absolutely 
separate in any place where masses of color 
are used. If you are going to make your 
garden in one of the very hot gamuts of col- 
or, you can vise the deep oranges, the yel- 
lows and browns, the scarlets, and that won- 
derful unifier, blue, as seen in the larkspurs, 
but you cannot use a certain quality of pa- 



ing and quite as effective in their own way. 
The blaze of the high colors may be com- 
pared to the brasses of an orchestra while 
the quieter shades are like the strings. 

No splendid and complete garden, how- 
ever, can afford to shut itself out from the 
high colors, any more than a composer writ- 
ing an opera would omit all the horns and 
trombones. In some places where special 
effects are sought the gardener may leave 




iiii(/.v>' 



An informal garden 



pery white in some thick petaled flowers, 
like the white phloxes and the Shasta daisies, 
which seem to spring out of any group of 
other flowers in which they are placed, leav- 
ing the rest of their companions looking mud- 
dled and woolly beside the intensity of their 
perfectly untranslucent white. 

In quiet colors, some of the misty whites, 
like gypsophila or antirrhinum, the faint 
blues, such as veronica spicata, the pale yel- 
lows of some of the evening primroses, with 
the dull violets of aconitum autumnale and 
the lilacs of hesperus matronalis, make a 
subdued harmony less exciting than the red 
of lychnis chalcedonica and the yellow of 
helianthus strumosus, but are more appeal- 



out the fanfare of the yellows and scarlets; 
perhaps his garden will be looked at often 
from the house or terrace on hot summer 
nights, and then he may wish to get the pe- 
culiar floating effect of certain white flowers 
which seem to quiver in the air rather than 
to grow on stems. Then, too, at dusk the 
scheme changes again as the yellow of the 
daylight fades and with it takes the subtler 
colors, leaving only the whites and some of 
the yellows to prevail. The elimination of 
detail at night and the thick quality of the 
light change the effect and the apparent dis- 
tance of colors entirely, and give a curiously 
submerged appearance to the garden. 
One of the most important things that 




A water garden 



the impressionist school has been trying to 
teach us is that shadow is a color and must be 
used as one, and the reason why the eye 
seeks relief from a flat surface is not only 
that it instinctively resents monotony, but 
that it feels the need of shadow. A flat coun- 
try like Holland may be made beautiful and 
interesting by the cloud shadows which pass 
over it constantly from the ample vault of its 
sky, but it is not easy to imagine anything 
more dreary than a wide expanse of level 
earth with no shadows at all. This quality 
of shadow, which must be recognized as 
color, makes it one of the most important 
factors in outdoor composition. Who has 
not noticed the beauty of outline of the shad- 
Ovi^s of a group of trees thrown on a lawn by 
the later afternoon sun, the round-topped 
ones making gracious curves, and the 
pointed ones seeming stretched out to hurry 
on the dusk ? 

People must not hesitate to make gar- 
dens because they fancy the difficulties are 
too great; it is only by having them, living 
in them, and never ceasing to notice the 
changes that are constantly passing over 



them, the effects that are good and those 
that are bad, the shadows that come in the 
wrong places and the superfluity of high 
lights, that they will learn to see; and not 
only must they see but they must think. 
Thev must notice the diff'erent lights and 
shadows and see how they change the ef- 
fect; they must remember the plants whose 
scent begins at dusk and those whose fra- 
grance stops with the light. They must dis- 
tinguish the flowers that are beautiful by 
night from those that are beautiful only by 
day; they must learn to know the sounds of 
the leaves on different sorts of trees; the 
rippling and pattering of the poplar, the 
rustling of the oak-leaves in winter, and the 
swishing of the evergreens. And by notic- 
ing they will also learn that plants are only 
one of the tools, although to be sure one of 
the most important,, with which a garden is 
made. Then, too, they wiU learn to see that 
the garden, to be successful, must be in scale 
with its surroundings as well as appropriate 
to them, and also that it must be kept up, as 
a garden, if left to itself, will quickly make 
alterations in the original scheme; certain 



lO 



This Is Another Day 11 

plants will become rampant, others will die study and care many of us may feel that the 

out, and thus the delicate balance will be more we learn about gardening the more 

destroyed. The owner of a garden is like there is left to know, but at any rate, we 

the leader of an orchestra; he must know shall have gained a sort of working hy- 

which of his instruments to encourage and pothesis on which to build the foundations 

which to restrain. After all this notice and of a good design. 



THIS IS ANOTHER DAY 

By Don Marquis 

I AM mine own priest, and I shrive myself 
Of all my wasted yesterdays. Though sin 
And sloth and foolishness, and all ill weeds 
Of error, evil, and neglect grow rank 
And ugly there, I dare forgive myself 
That error, sin, and sloth and foolishness. 
God knows that yesterday I played the fool; 
God knows that yesterday I played the knave; 
But shall I therefore cloud this new dawn o'er 
With fog of futile sighs and vain regrets? 

This is another day! And flushed Hope walks 

Adown the sunward slopes with golden shoon. 

This is another day; and its young strength 

Is laid upon the quivering hills until. 

Like Egypt's Memnon, they grow quick with song. 

This is another day, and the bold world 

Leaps up and grasps its light, and laughs, as leapt 

Prometheus up and wrenched the fire from Zeus. 

This is another day — are its eyes blurred 

With maudlin grief for any wasted past? 

A thousand thousand failures shall not daunt! 

Let dust clasp dust; death, death — I am alive! 

And out of all the dust and death of mine 

Old selves I dare to lift a singing heart 

And living faith; my spirit dares drink deep 

Of the red mirth mantling in the cup of morn. 




Drawn by F. Walter Taylor. 

They saw the strange old figure on the porch. — Page 17. 



THE RETREAT 



By 



Elsie Singmaster 



Illustration by F. Waltku Taylor 




GRANDFATHER MYERS 

rose stiffly from his knees. 
He had been weeding Henri- 
etta 's nasturtium bed, which, 
thanks to him, was ahvays 
the finest in the neighbor- 
hood of Gettysburg. As yet, the plants were 
not more than three inches high, and tlie old 
man tended them as carefully as though the}- 
were children. He was thankful now that 
his morning's work was done, the wood-box 
filled, the children escorted part of the way 
to school, and the nasturtium bed weeded, 
for he saw the buggy of the mail-carrier of 
Route 4 come slowly down the hill. It was 
grandfather's priYilege to bring the mail in 
from the box. This time he reached it be- 
fore the postman, and waited smilingl}- for 
him. It al\Yays reminded him a little of his 
youth, when theold stone house behind him 
had been a tavern, and the stage drew xi\) 
before it each morning with flourish of horn 
and proud curvetting of horses. 

The postman waved something white at 
him as he approached. 

"Great news for Gettysburg," he called. 
''The State militia's coming to camp in 
July." 

"You don't say sol" exclaimed Grand- 
father Myers. 

"Yes, they'll be here a week." 

"How many there'll be?" 

"About ten thousand." 

Grandfather started away in such excite- 
ment that the postman had to call him back 
for a letter. The old man took it and hob- 
bled up the yard, his trembling hands scarce- 
ly able to open the paper. He paused twice 
to read a paragraph, and when he reached 
the porch sat down on the upper step, the 
])aper quivering in his hands. 

"Henrietta!''' he called. 

His son's wife appeared in the doorway, 
a large, strong, young woman with snaj:)- 
ping eyes. She was drying a platter and her 
arms moved vigorously. 

"What is it, grandfather?" she asked 
impatiently. 

Vol. XLII.— 2 



The old man was so excited he could 
scarcely answer. 

"There's going to Ijc encampment at 
Gettysburg, Henrietta . All the State troops 
is going to be there. It'll be like \\ar-time 
again. It says here " 

"I like to read the news my own self, 
father," said Henrietta, moving briskly 
away from the door. She felt a sudden an- 
ger that it was grandfather who had this 
great piece of news to tell. "You ain't ta- 
ken your weeds away from the grass yet, 
and it's most dinner-time." 

Grandfather laid down the paper and 
went to Ihiish his task. He was accustomed 
to Henrietta's surliness, and nothing made 
him unhappy very long. He threw the 
weeds over the fence and then went back to 
the i)orch. So willing was he to forgive 
Henrietta, and .so anxious to tell her more 
of the e.xciting news in the paper, that, sit- 
ting on the steps, he read her extracts. 

"Ten thousand of 'em, Henrietta. 
They're going to camp around Pickett's 
charge, and near the Codori farm, and 
they're going to put the cavalry and artil- 
lery near Reynolds's woods, and some regu- 
lars are coming, Henrietta. It'll be like 
war-time. And they're going to have a 
grand review with the soldiers marchin' be- 
fore the governor. The governor'U be there, 
Henrietta! And " 

"I don't believe it's true," remarked 
Henrietta coldly. " I believe it's just news- 
paper talk." 

" Oh, no, Henrietta! " Grandfather spoke 
with deep convittion. " There wouldn't be 
no cheatin' about such a big thing as this. 
The Go\'ernment'd settle them if they'd pub- 
lish lies. And — ■" grandfather rose in excite- 
ment — " there'll be cannons a-boomin' and 
guns a-firin' and oh, my!" He waved the 
paper above his head. "And the review! 
I guess you ain't ever seen so many men 
together. But I have. I tell you I have. 
When I laid upstairs here, with the bullet in 
here — " he laid his hand upon his chest — 
"I seen 'em goin'." Grandfather's voice 



14 



The Retreat 



choked as the voice of one who speaks of 
some tremendous experience of his past. "I 
seen 'em goin'. Men and men and men and 
horses and horses and wagons. They was 
milHons, Henrietta." 

Henrietta did not answer. She said to 
herself that she had heard the account of 
grandfather's miUions of men milHons of 
times. Wounded at Chancellorsville, and 
sent home on furlough, he had watched the 
Confederate retreat from an upper window 
of the old stone house. 

"I woke up in the night, and I looked 
out," he would say. "Everybody was sleep- 
in' and I crept over to the window. It was 
raining like — " here grandfather's long list 
of comparisons failed, and he described it 
simply — "it was just rain and storm and 
marchin'. They kept going and going. It 
was tramp, tramp all night." 

"Didn't anybody speak, grandfather?" 
the children would ask. 

"You couldn't hear 'em for the rain," he 
would answer. " Once in a while you could 
hear 'em cryin'. But most of the time it 
was just rain and storm, rain and storm. 
They couldn't go fast, they " 

" Why didn't our boys catch them ? " little 
Caleb always asked. "I'd 'a' run after 
them." 

" Our boys was tired." Grandfather dis- 
missed the Union army with one short sen- 
tence. "The rebels kept droppin' in their 
tracks. There was two dead front of the 
porch in the morning, and three across the 
bridge. I tried to sneak out in the night 
and give 'em something to eat, or ask some 
of 'em to come in, but they thought I was 
too sick. They wouldn't let me go. I " 

"It would 'a' been a nice thing to help 
the enemies of your country that you'd been 
fightin' against!" Henrietta would some- 
times say scornfully. Grandfather's regret 
that he had not succored the Confederates 
still vexed him like an obsession. 

"You didn't see 'em marchin' and hear 
the sick ones crying when the rain held up 
a little," he reminded Henrietta. "Oh, I 
wish I'd sneaked out and done something 
for 'em!" 

Then he would lapse into silence, his 
eyes on the long, red road which led to Ha- 
gerstown. It lay clear and hot and treeless 
in the sunshine; to his eyes, however, the 
dust was whipped into deep mud by a 
beating rain, beneath which Lee and his 



army "marched and marched." He leaned 
forward as though straining to see. 

"I saw some flags once when it light- 
ened," he said; "and once I thought I saw 
General Lee." 

" Oh, I guess not ! " Henrietta would say 
with scornful indulgence to which grand- 
father was deaf. 

He read the newspaper announcement of 
the encampment again and again, then he 
went to meet the children on their way from 
school, stopping to tell their father, who 
was at work in the field. 

"There'll be a grand review," grandfa- 
ther said. "Ten thousand soldiers in line. 
We'll go and see, John. It'll be a great day 
for the yovuig ones." 

"We'll see," answered John. He was a 
brisk, energetic man, too busy to be always 
patient. 

In the children grandfather had his first 
attentive listeners. 

"Will it be like the war ?" they asked, 
eagerly. 

"Oh, something. There won't be near so 
many, and they won't kill nobody. But 
it'll be a great time. They'll drill all day 
long." 

"Will their horses' hoofs sound like dry 
leaves rustlin' ?" asked little INIary, who al- 
ways remembered most clearly what the old 
man had said. 

"Yes, like leaves a-rustlin'," repeated the 
old man. "You must be good children, 
now, so you don't miss the grand review." 

All through the early summer they talked 
of the encampment. Because of it the an- 
nual Memorial Day visit to the battle-field 
was omitted. Each night the children heard 
the story of the battle and the retreat, until 
they listened for commands, faintly given, 
and the sound of thousands of weary feet. 
Grandfather often got up in the night and 
looked out across the yard to the road. 
Sometimes they heard him whispering to 
himself as he went back to bed. He got 
down his old sword and spent many hours 
trying to polish away the rust which had 
been gathering for forty years. 

" You expect to wear the sword, father ? " 
asked Henrietta, laughing. 

News of the encampment reached them 
constantly. Three weeks before, they were 
visited by a man who wished to hire horses 
for the use of the cavalry and the artillery. 
John debated for a moment. The wheat 



The Retreat 



15 



was in, the oats could wait until the en- 
campment was over, the price paid for 
horse hire was good. He told the man 
that he might have Dick, one of the heavy- 
draught horses. 

Grandfather ran to meet the children as 
they came from a neighbor's. 

"Dick's going to the war," he cried ex- 
citedly. 

"To the war?" repeated the children. 

"I mean to the encampment. He's been 
hired. He's going to help pull one of the 
cannons for the artill'ry." 

The next week John drove into town with 
a load of early apples. He was offered work 
at a dozen different places. Supplies were 
being sent in, details of soldiers arriving to 
lay out the camp and put up tents, Gettys- 
burg was already crowded with visitors. 
His father made him tell it all the second 
time; then he explained the formation of an 
army to the children. 

"First comes a company, that's the small- 
est, then a regiment, then a brigade. A 
quartermaster looks after supplies, a sutler 
is a fellow who sells things to the soldiers. 
But, children, you should 'a' seen 'em 
marching by that night! " Grandfather al- 
ways came back to the retreat. "They 
hadn't any sutlers to sell 'em anything to 
eat. I wish— I wish I'd sneaked out and 
given 'em something." 

After grandfather went upstairs that night 
he realized that he was thirsty, and he came 
down again. The children were asleep, but 
their father and mother still sat talking on the 
porch. Grandfather had taken off his shoes 
and came upon them l^ef ore they were aware. 

"I don't see no use in his going," Henri- 
etta was saying. "There ain't no room for 
him in the buggy with us and the children. 
Where'd we put him ? And he saw the real 
war." 

"But he's looked forward to it, Henri- 
etta, he " 

" Well, would you have me stay at home, 
or would you have the children stay at home 
or what ? " Henrietta went on. She felt the 
burden of Grandfather Myers more every 
day. " He'll forget it anyhow in a few days. 
He forgets everything." 

"Do you — do you ' ' They turned to 

see grandfather behind them. He held 
weakly to the side of the door. "Do you 
mean I ain't to go, Henrietta ? " It did not 
occur to him to appeal to his son. 



"I don't see how you can," answered 
Henrietta. She was sorry he had heard. 
She meant to have John tell him gently the 
next day. "There is only the buggy, and if 
John goes and I and the children — it's you 
have made them so anxious to go." She 
spoke as though she blamed him. 

"But " Grandfather ignored the 

meanness of the excuse. "But couldn't we 
take the wagon?" 

"The wagon? To Gettysburg? With 
the whole county looking on? I guess 
they'd think John was getting along fine if 
we went in the wagon. ' ' Henrietta was glad 
to have so foolish a speech to answer as it 
deserved. ' ' Why, grandfather ! ' ' 

"Then " Grandfather's brain, which 

had of late moved more and more slowly, 
was suddenly quickened — "then let me 
drive the wagon and you can go in the 
buggy. I can drive Harry and nobody'U 
know I belong to you, and " 

"Let you drive around with all them 
horses and the shooting and everything!" 
exclaimed Henrietta. 

Her husband turned toward her. 

"You might drive the buggy and take 
grandfather, and I could go in the wagon," 
he said. 

"I don't go to Gettysburg without a man 
on such a day," said Henrietta firmly. 

"But " Grandfather interrupted his 

own sentence with a quavering laugh. Hen- 
rietta did not consider him a man! Then he 
turned and went upstairs, forgetting his 
drink of water. He heard Henrietta's voice 
long afterward, and John's low answers. 
John wanted him to go, he did not blame 
John. 

The next day he made a final plea. He 
followed John to the barn. 

" Seems as if I might ride Harry," he said 
tentatively. 

"O father, you couldn't," John an- 
swered gently. "You know how it will be, 
noise and confusion and excitement. Harry 
isn't used to it. You couldn't manage him." 

"Seems as though if Dick goes, Harry 
ought to go, too. 'Tain't fair for Dick to 
go, and not Harry," he whispered child- 
ishly. 

"I'm sorry, father," said John. It was 
better that his father should be disappointed 
than that Henrietta should be opposed. His 
father would forget in a few days and Hen- 
rietta would remember for weeks. 



16 



The Retreat 



The next day when the man came for 
Dick they found grandfather in the stable 
patting the horse and talking about the 
war. He watched Dick out of sight, and 
then sat down in his arm-chair on the 
porch whispering to himself. 

The children protested vigorously when 
they found that the old man was not going, 
but were soon silenced by their mother. 
Grandfather was old, it was much better 
that he should not go. "You can tell him 
all about it when you come home," she said. 

"You can guard the place while we're 
gone," said litUe Caleb. "Perhaps the 
Confederates will come back." 

"They wouldn't hurt nothing," answered 
the old man. "They was tired — tired — 
tired." 

When the family drove away he sat on 
the porch. He waved his hand until he 
could see little Mary's fluttering handker- 
chief no more, then he fell asleep. As Hen- 
rietta said, he soon forgot. When he woke 
up a little later, he went down to the barn 
and patted Harry, then he went out to the 
mail-box to see whether by any chance he 
had missed a letter. He looked at the nas- 
turtium bed, now aglow with yellow and 
rose and deep crimson blossoms, then he 
went back to the porch. He was lonely. 
He missed the sound of John's voice calling 
to the horses down in the south meadow or 
across the road in the wheat-field, he missed 
the chatter of the children, he missed even 
their mother's curt answers to his questions. 
For an instant he wondered where they had 
gone, then he sighed heavily as he remem- 
bered. Instead of sitting down again in his 
chair, he went into the house and upstairs. 
There he tiptoed warily up to the garret as 
if he were afraid that someone would follow 
him, and drew from a hiding-place which 
he fancied no one knew but himself an old 
coat, blue, with ]:)uttons of dull, tarnished 
brass. He thrust his arms into it, still whis- 
pering to himself, and smoothed it down. 
His fingers hesitated as they touched a jag- 
ged rent just in front of the shoulder. 

"What Oh, yes, I remember!" 

Grandfather had never been quite so for- 
getful as this. On his way downstairs he 
took from his hook the old sword. 

" Caleb says I must guard the house," he 
said smilingly. 

W^hen he reached the porch, he turned 
his chair so that it no longer faced toward 



Gettysburg, whither John and Henrietta and 
the children had gone, but toward the blue 
hills and Hagerstov^n. Once he picked up 
the sword and pointed with it, steadying it 
with both hands. "Through that gap they 
went," he said. 

Then he dozed again. The old clock, 
which had stood on the kitchen mantelpiece 
since before he was born, struck ten, but he 
did not hear. Henrietta had told him where 
he could find some lunch, but he did not re- 
member nor care. His dinner was set out 
beneath a white cloth on the kitchen table, 
but he had not curiosity enough to lift it and 
see what good things Henrietta had left for 
him. When he woke again, he began to sing 
in a shrill voice: 

"Away down South in Dixie, look away, look 
away." 

"They didn't sing that when they was 
marching home," he said solemnly. "They 
only tramped along in the dark and the 
rain." 

Then suddenly he straightened up. Like 
an echo from his own lips, there came from 
the distance toward Gettysburg the same 
tune, played by fifes, with the sharp accom- 
paniment of drums. He bent forward, lis- 
tening, then stood up, looking off toward 
the blue hills. Then he realized that the 
sound came from the other direction. 

"I thought they was all past, long ago," 
he said. "And they never played. I guess 
I was asleep and dreaming." 

He sat down once more, his head on his 
breast. When he lifted it again, it was in 
response to a sharp "Halt!" He stared 
about him. The road before him was filled 
with soldiers, hot and dusty and tired. 

- He 



Then he was not dreaming, then- 
tottered to the edge of the porch. 

The men of the Third Regiment did not 
approve of the march, in their parlance a 
"hike," which their colonel had decided to 
give them along the line of Lee's retreat. 
They felt that in view of the grand review 
in the afternoon, it was an imposition. Now 
they were glad to halt, while the captain of 
each company explained that upon the niglit 
of the 3d of July, 1863, Lee had traversed 
this road on his way to recross the Potomac. 

When his explanation was over, the cap- 
tain of Company I moved his men a little to 
the right under the shade of the maples. 
Then he saw the moving figure behind the 
vines. 



The Retreat 



17 



" Sergeant, go in and ask whether we may 
have water." 

The sergeant entered the gate, and the 
thirsty men, hearing the order, looked after 
him. They saw the strange old figure on 
the porch, the torn jacket belted at the 
waist, the sword, the smiling, eager face. 
The captain saw, too. 

"Three cheers for the old soldier," he 
cried, and hats were swung in the air. 

"May we have a drink?" the sergeant 
asked, and grandfather pointed the way to 
the well. He tried to go down the steps to 
help them pump, but his knees trembled, 
and he stayed where he was. He watched 
them, still smiling. He did not realize that 
the cheers were for him, he could not quite 
understand why suits which shouldbe gray 
were so yellow, but he supposed it was the 
mud. 

"Poor chaps," he sighed. "They're go- 
in' back to Dixie." 

One by one the companies drew up be- 
fore the gate, and one by one they cheered. 
They had been cheering ever since the be- 
ginning of the encampment — for Meade, for 
Hancock, for Reynolds, among the dead; 
for the governor, the colonel, the leader of 
the regiment band, among the living. The}' 
had enlisted for a good time, for a trip to 
Gettysburg, for a taste of camp life, from 
almost any other motive than that which 
had moved this old man to enlist back in 
'6i. They suddenly realized how little this 
encampment was like war. All the drill, all 
the pomp of this tin soldiering, even all the 
graves of the battle-field, had not moved 
them as did this old man in his tattered 
coat. Here was love of country. Would 
any of them care to don in fifty years their 
khaki blouses ? Then, before the momen- 
tarv enthusiasm or the momentarv serious- 



ness had time to wear away, the order was 
given to march back to camp. 

The old man did not turn to watch them 
go. He sat still with his eyes turned toward 
the distant hills. After a while his sword 
fell clattering to the floor. 

"I'm glad I sneaked out and gave 'em 
something," he said, smiling with a great 
content. 

The long leaves of the corn in the next field 
rustled in the wind, the sun rose higher, then 
declined, and still he sat there smilingly un- 
heeding, his eyes toward the west. Once he 
said, "Poor chaps, it's dark for 'em." 

The cows waited at the pasture gate for 
the master and mistress, who were late. 
Henrietta had wished that morning that 
grandfather could milk, so that they would 
not have to hurry home. Presently they 
came, tired and hungry, the children eager 
to tell of the wonders they had seen. At 
their mother's command, they ran to let 
down the pasture bars while their father led 
the horses to the barn, and she herself went 
on to the porch. 

"Grandfather," she said kindly, "we're 
here." She even laid a hand on his shoul- 
der, " Wake up, grandfather! " She spoke 
sharply, angry at his failure to respond to 
her unaccustomed gentleness of speech. 
Her hand fell upon his shoulder once more, 
this time heavily, and her finger-tips touched 
a jagged edge of cloth. ' ' \\Tiat " she be- 
gan. She remembered the old coat, which 
she had long since made up her mind to 
burn. She felt for the buttons down the 
front, the belt with its broad plate. Yes, it 

was Then suddenly she touched his 

hands, and screamed and ran, crying, tow- 
ard the barn. 

"John!" she called. "John! Grand- 
father is dead." 



THE CAPTAINS 

By Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews 

Illustrations by F. C. Yohn 



^^^^^^HERE was consternation in 
the great offices of Marcus 
Trefethen, for the chief had 
given an order that could not 
be understood. It was a sen- 
tence of twelve words, but its 





result, carried out, would be the sacrifice of 
more dollars than might be calmly con- 
templated. Besides infinite further conse- 
quences — throwing away, for instance, the 
glory, now almost in reach of these offices, of 
seeing their head the richest man on earth — 
that was a probable result if these twelve 
words went into action. It is easier to knock 
things to pieces than to build them. A great 
fortune assured, a great place in the finan- 
cial world won, a future tremendous enough 
for a Dumas romance lying a few steps on — 
and the man who had done the work was 
tossing these immensities from him like play- 
things. What did it mean? Three men 
skilled in affairs, in touch with the delicate 
pulse of business life, bent their heads to- 
gether and discussed it. Friday the policy 
of the office had been in the full vigor of its 
unhurrying, unrelenting swing. Saturday 
the chief had been restless, and had gone 
away and left things in a plastic form which 
needed his master-touch — an action out of 
character. And the first thing on this Mon- 
day was the extraordinary order. As long 
as they dared they discussed it, Compton 
and Barnes and Haywood, the three who 
stood next the throne, and at length, not 
overeagerly, Compton knocked and went 
into the inner room of the great man and 
closed the door. He emerged five minutes 
later with a slight dizziness in his air. He 
answered the inquiry of his associates' at- 
tentive silence. 

"It's so," he said. " The order is to be 
carried not. He's gone clean mad. 'AH 
negotiations as to the Southwestern road to 
be stopped at once.' " 

In the inner room a man sat at a desk lit- 
tered with the crisp sheets of a large mail, 
and stared out of the window, down over a 
white landscape of jutting roofs and soar- 



ing sky-scrapers, over a harbor filled with 
shipping, and a broad, quiet ocean. He 
was a big man with a look of by-gone ath- 
letic form; his face was lined, and every 
line meant accomplishment; his mouth was 
set now as if he were this moment engaged 
in something whose doing called for force. 
He drew a breath, and spoke aloud. 

"It's done," he said. "Thank the Lord 
it's done. Compton and the lot think me 
insane; but they can't undo it now. Thank 
the Lord it's done." Then he dropped his 
head into his hand and, gazing once more 
across the brilliant volcano of the feverish 
city, across the water-city of masts and 
smoke-stacks, his eyes rested on the ocean. 
With the crystal-clear, unwavering and 
rapid consideration which was his greatest 
power he reviewed events — followed up a 
clue which Compton and Barnes and Hay- 
wood had missed. Clearly as if it were a 
business affair he reviewed the time — but 
fully he did it — no moment of the three 
days' crisis was forgotten. For an hour he 
sat so, withdrawn from the whirlpool in 
which he had been the master-swimmer, 
which flowed about him yet. 

On Friday at ten there had been a short 
meeting of the directors of the Imperial and 
Western Railway; seven men present had 
decided in half an hour a few questions 
which would affect twenty thousand. The 
Southwestern Railway, covering much of 
the same country, willing or unwilling, was 
to be consolidated. Unwillingly it would 
be, for it was an old road, with a large client- 
age which could be held in spite of the new 
Imperial, and the routes differed enough to 
make both still useful. That was the point. 
If there was money to make, why should not 
the Imperial merge the Southwestern and 
make it all ? There was a large mortgage on 
the Southwestern, and Marcus Trefethen 
held the bonds; the Imperial and Western 
was richer; they could afford to lower their 
rates, forcing the older road to do the same; 
it was a question of a short time before the 
Southwestern would be making no money 



The Captains 



19 



and would be unable to pay interest on the 
mortgage. Trefethen could foreclose — the 
two roads would merge. And beyond this, 
to Trefethen 's far-seeing eye, the eye of a 
poet in stocks and combinations, sounded 
the rhythm of a greater combination , a poem 
in which railroads rhymed to each other, 
and whose metre was the swing of accu- 
mulating millions. It was not money he 
wanted — he had plenty — it was the interest 
of the great game which drew him , the poet's 
joy to fit the verse and realize the vision. 

The seven men decided that there was no 
reason why money should be made within 
reach of their grasp which they did not 
grasp. Marcus Trefethen unexpectedly de- 
murred for a moment. In a flash of memory 
it came to him who the president of the 
Southwestern was, and that all his fortune 
was in the road. 

"It seems a bit brutal," he said, " to undo 
solid work of forty years' standing." 

"It's a case of the survival of the fittest," 
Carroll's harsh voice answered. " Central- 
ization makes for efficiency — this is a world 
where the inefficient goes under." 

"The Southwestern isn't inefficient. It's 
a well-managed business, with a future as 
well as a past." 

"That's why we want it," Harrington 
slid in with suave readiness, and the others 
laughed cheerfully. Carroll took up the 
thread. 

"Don't strain at a gnat, Trefethen. 
You're new to this business of absorbing 
small corporations, but if you want to do 
large work you've got to get used to it. If 
you believe in evolution you must see the 
reasonableness- The big beast preys on 
the little one through nature, and you can't 
stop with a jerk when you get to man. 
We're part of the scheme. Like the other 
beasts, if we want to live we've got to eat 
small fry." 

"Live!" said Trefethen, and he threw a 
glance around the circle of multi-million- 
aires, and gave a short laugh. 

Van Vechten spoke. "All this is a side- 
issue," and his glittering small eyes ranged 
about. "The point is whether our railroad 
can afford to let the old Southwestern, with 
its large business as a carrier of both pas- 
sengers and produce, and with the prejudice 
of habit in its favor, continue to exist. If 
we do, the Imperial can't be a great rail- 
road. We shall not only be forced to di- 



vide profits — we shall have to contend for 
our existence. The Southwestern stands 
for equal rates, and other theories worthy 
but impracticable. It will bend our policy 
into the same lines. At this moment we 
are richer than they, and can force them to 
sell — it is lack of business initiative to hesi- 
tate. As to brutality, I don't take that se- 
riously — sentiment has nothing to do with 
business. What reason, as reasons are 
known in affairs, is against our absorbing 
the Southwestern?" As the chilly tones 
fell, the men who listened- saw no reason. 
Trefethen sighed as if he were tired. 

"Of course," he said. "I meant it; but 
I was mistaken. It's my first affair of the 
sort, as Carrollsaid, and I'm not used to it. 
But it's got to be done. The American 
Beautv rose at its finest is onlv obtained by 
nipping off buds. Well, we'll make the 
Imperial an American Beauty, and nip off 
the Southwestern to begin." 

As simply as a golf club committee ar- 
ranging for new greens details were settled, 
and the meeting ended; clerks in the great 
offices lifted their heads to look sharply as 
the members of it filed out, for this in i!esh 
and blood was the plutocracy about which 
one read in the papers. The most impor- 
iant of them all, left alone, turned to the cal- 
endar on his desk, where his time was 
spaced into half-hour, sometimes into fif- 
teen-minute divisions, to see what came 
next. As he whirled about on his swinging 
chair, a knock sounded at the door. Young 
Haywood opened it. 

"The Assistant Secretary of the Treas- 
ury had an appointment at this hour, sir." 

"Yes." 

"He telegraphs that he is detained in 
Washington and cannot be here till to- 
morrow." 

"Very well." But Haywood stood in the 
doorway. Marcus Trefethen lifted his 
head. "That's all." 

"Yes, sir" — the young man hesitated. 
"I'm sorry to trouble you, but there's a 
lady here " 

"A lady?" Trefethen's tone was sur- 
prised and not pleased. 

"I hope you won't blame me — she is not 
an ordinary person; she is anxious to speak 
to you." 

Trefethen glanced at his calendar. Here 
was an empty half-hour, too long to sit idle, 
too short to substitute any business effec- 



20 



The Captains 



tively. He might as well fill it in this way. 
"Show her in." 

In a moment he was standing before a 
slim woman of forty who carried her straight 
figure and wore her well-made clothes with 
certainty, and the air of a person used to 
consideration. She put out her hand 
frankly. 

"I used to know you, Mr. Trefethen. 
We went to school together — Sarah Speed." 
Trefethen remembered well enough. It 
was one of the old names in the old South- 
ern town. "I'm glad to see you," he said 
cordially, stirred a little, as a reminiscence 
of the place and times stirred him always, 
and he placed a chair for her. 

"I'm afraid you won't be when you know 
my errand," the woman said, and looked at 
him earnestly with wide gray eyes. Her 
face was troubled and sad, he noticed, for 
all her look of prosperity. He awaited de- 
Aelopments. "I'll try not to keep you 
long," she said; "but the matter is life and 
death to me. I am Mrs. Ruthven now — 
Morgan Ruthven, the President of the 
Southwestern Railroad, is my husband." 
The man knew now, and his face hardened 
as he hardened his soul, and the woman 
saw it. 

" Of course you know what I'm going to 
say" — her voice shook and then she lifted 
her head courageously. "I realize that it 
is awfully unpleasant for you, and not cjuite 
fair — you're here for business, and it's un- 
businesslike to have a woman break in and 
beg for mercy. But it isn't just mercy I'm 
here to beg for — it's justice. You are go- 
ing to force the Southwestern into a posi- 
tion where you can foreclose on it. It is a 
personal sort of business, that railroad. My 
husband's father was its president before 
him, and it has been prosperous and hon- 
orable forty years. It is now. They don't 
want to sell it. They're willing to make 
terms with your new road. You haven't 
any right to force them out simply because 
you can. You " 

Trefethen interrupted gently. "I know 
all this, Mrs. Ruthven," he said civilly. 

The woman caught her breath and made 
an evident effort for calmness. "I know 
you do. It's foolish of me to try you on 
that side. I won't waste your time," she 
brought out quickly. "What I want to do 
is this. I want to tell you what it means to 
us, and let you see if it means as much to 



you. My husband is very ill. He has 
been in an alarming state for a week, and 
to-day and to-morrow are turning-points. 
His business is on his mind, and last night 
when I was trying to calm him I thought of 
coming to you and telling you how things 
were, and asking you to remember old days 
and — " her voice broke, but she cleared, 
her throat quickly and went on in even 
tones — "and just be merciful. Of course 
you have every right — I don't mean moral 
— but every legal right to wipe out the old 
Southwestern, but you don't understand. 
If I go back to Morgan and tell him I've 
failed with you it will kill him as surely as if 
I gave him slow poison. The doctor said 
yesterday that everything depended on his 
being kept cheerful. Cheerful!" She 
laughed, half choking. "Keep a man cheer- 
ful on the rack ! And there's more. The 
boy. He is to graduate at Yale this sum- 
mer, and he's a boy who deserves — every- 
thing. The happiest, cleverest, best boy! 
Best at everything— away up in his classes 
— a hero among the other boys for athletics. 
But I mustn't bore you," she caught her- 
self. "Only he — he isn't just an ordinary 
boy " — and she laughed a little, tremblingly, 
knowing well enough through her trouble 
that all women think that of their boys. 
"He isn't," she insisted prettily. This 
wife of Morgan Ruthven's was an attrac- 
tive woman, Trefethen acknowledged to 
himself unwillingly. "I want you to real- 
ize about Carl, because then you will know 
how impossible it seems to take away all 
his chances, that he has worked toward for 
years. Such a good boy, Mr. Trefethen," 
the gray eyes glowed with the soul close 
back of them. "He has worked so hard 
and been so happy. And" — she threw 
this impulsively at him— "he's captain of 
the 'Varsity crew. You're a college man. 
You know what glory that means. To 
give all that up— graduation with honors — 
the great race — it's enough to break a boy's 
courage. It would break my heart to have 
him. He has been promised a trip abroad 
with his best friend, a boy like himself, and 
after that he is to have a special course in 
Germany. He is full of ambition and vi- 
tality. He could do anything — be anything. 
He'll have to give it all up — if you ruin the 
Southwestern. You see what it means to 
me — my husband's life, my boy's future." 
Marcus Trefethen was uncomfortable 



The Captains 



21 



and annoyed asthelow, eager words stopped 
suddenly. This was all beside the ques- 
tion. The question was this — to make a 
gigantic enterprise must small interests be 
sacrificed ? It had been answered. They 
must. That being the case, why should he 
harrow his soul with the details of each 
sacrifice ? It served no purpose, his mind 
being made up, and it might unsteady his 
nerves, which he needed to keep steady. 
While he considered how to put things most 
concisely, the intense voice went on: 

"Rich men nowadays, great financiers, 
seem to have a new standard of right and 
wrong. I don't see why. I don't see why 
the old standards of honesty and fairness 
don't apply as much to magnates as to 
every-day people. I don't see how it can 
make you happier, anyway. There's no 
real happiness in doing wrong, and it's 
wrong to crush life and hope out of people 
just to be richer yourself. You can't be 
good and do that, and you can't be light- 
hearted unless you're good — and it's worth 
a few millions to have a light heart." 

The gentle, stirring tones stopped. The 
woman was full of individuality and charm, 
and she had thrown all of it into her speech. 
The quiet room was as if swept with the 
rush of a mountain stream. But the man 
who listened meant to be the rock that such 
a stream dashes against to break in foam. 
He looked at her with cold, half-shut eyes. 

"Mrs. Ruthven," he answered, "you 
are very eloquent for your husband's cause. 
If eloquence might affect a business deci- 
sion of importance, in which a number of 
large interests are concerned, yours would 
succeed. I considered this view of the 
question before I came to any arrangement. 
I was reluctant" — there were other things 
which Marcus Trefethen was going to say 
in poised sentences, but they were suddenly 
caught from him. The woman was on her 
feet; color flooded her face and her hand 
flew out in a gesture of command as she 
gave a quick gasp. 

"Don't go on — it's no use — I see," she 
said. "I'll go home now." And before 
he could reach the door she had opened it 
for herself and passed out. 

Always as direct and swift as a Winches- 
ter bullet, there seemed to be added veloc- 
ity and penetration to Trefethen's mind 
through the hours of that day. Every sec- 
ond was full, hands and brain were full 



to overflowing, yet not for one of the busy 
minutes was the memory of the morning's 
interview crowded out. Through the 
voices of men who talked to him, with his 
intellect keyed to its keenest to follow, to 
lead theirs, he heard all day the soft inflec- 
tions so incongruous down there in his 
office. He saw again and again the gray 
eyes as she threw out her hand, heart- 
broken, scornful. It stabbed him that he 
should have broken her heart — it stabbed 
him again that she should despise him. 
Clearly Marcus Trefethen was not yet an 
expert in the art of being cold-blooded; the 
woman had got on his nerves — he could 
not shake off the memory of her. It was 
annoying. He dined at a club with men 
who were not concerned in the life of his 
daytime, and his spirits rose, and he walked 
over to his house later with a light step. 

"All I needed was to get out of the rut," 
he said aloud and set himself to reading. 
And there, in pages of a book on Tibet 
was the face, the agonized gray eyes; the de- 
scriptions of Lhassa read with the woman's 
subtle accent. He threw down the book 
irritably. "I've overworked. I thought 
it was impossible, but I must have done it. 
This is mcrbid. I'll get to bed early and 
sleep it off. ' 

Out of the blackness, as he lay staring, 
he heard a low voice say, "The happiest, 
cleverest, best boy ! " " Stuff! " Trefethen 
spoke aloud to himself. He was a bache- 
lor — he had no boy — why should he care 
about a boy ? Doubtless she had exagger- 
ated the whole business. Probably this 
boy was as commonplace as the average — 
each woman thinks hers exceptional. Yet 
at three in the morning he turned impa- 
tiently and said words aloud to try if they 
might break their hold. "He isn't just an 
ordinary boy — he isn't ! " he repeated aloud. 
And then for a short time he fell asleep. 
But at six his eyes opened and his brain 
searched miserably for a moment after the 
thing that was harrassing him. Only a 
moment — the thing was at hand. He 
sprang out of bed. 

"I have to shake off this possession — it's 
out of proportion," he said to himself and 
dressed, and astonished a sleepy valet by 
ordering his saddle-horse at seven. 

But the park and the spring freshness 
and the plunging beast gave him only tem- 
porary relief. In his ofiice at ten he felt, 



22 



The Captains 



with almost a terror, the possession taking 
hold again. He read his paper sternly, 
missing nothing, but his grip on his own 
powers was not as firm as yesterday. He 
had a nervous dread of certain things he 
must see in print. There they were — Mor- 
gan Ruthven's name and the situation as it 
was known outside. He flapped the page 
over, and his eyes rested on the column be- 
yond. Sporting news — from long habit it 
iield his eye — the news of the athletic world 
had been interesting to him for twenty-five 
years. 

"Boat-races at New Haven this after- 
noon." 

The paper fell to the floor. He knew 
what he would do. It would straighten 
him out as nothing else could — he would 
go up to New Haven and see the races. 
Twenty-five odd years ago he hadbeen cap- 
tain of a famous crew, and boats and water 
fascinated him to this day — the change of 
scene, the air, the old sharp interest in a 
race — these would make him over. It was 
fifteen years since he had been at New 
Haven. No one there would recognize him. 
This was not one of the great regattas which 
would draw crowds of people who might 
know him. He could come and go alone 
and unnoticed. He would do it. He went 
through his mail, gave orders, changed ap- 
pointments, and at twelve o'clock he was on 
the train at Forty -second Street. 

At two he went out from it into the New 
Haven station — into a throng of fresh, boy- 
ish faces — with a sense of exhilaration. He 
rushed for a car and hung from a strap with 
enjoyment in the discomfort of it. Soon 
someone got out, and he dropped into a 
seat by a pair of big shoulders which prod- 
ded into him. The owner twisted about. 

"I beg your pardon," he said in a frank 
young voice. "I'm afraid I'm taking up 
too much room, but I'm wedged into this 
crack on the bias, and I can't help it," and 
the two laughed together. 

There was an irresponsible gayety in the 
air, and Trefethen found himself catch- 
ing it. This friendly, honest-faced boy, 
with his enormous, inconvenient shoulders, 
pleased him. He fell to talking — asking 
questions about the new buildings, about 
the regatta, the university. Surprised, 
amused, he felt the old enthusiasm of Alma 
Mater rising in him. He was a Yale man 
— this lad wgs a Yale man — the brother- 



hood asserted itself — for years he had not 
had this feeling. Past the green, serene 
with its three churches set like oases in its 
broad expanse, they shot; past rows of 
New England homes stately with a dignity 
which money does not achieve; into Whitney 
Avenue with its wide lawns and fine old 
houses, crowned with the great sweep of 
the Hillhouse place, and its dominating, 
pillared mansion. And about there the car 
jolted and stopped. Looking ahead, there 
was a line of other stopped cars — a block for- 
ward. By slow degrees the passengers got 
out, and studied the case, and speculated. 

"Let's wallc," said the boy. "It's only 
a mile." 

And Trefethen, with a flattered sense of 
being officially taken into the guild of the 
able-bodied, swung out by the side of his 
new friend into a gay stream of people 
headed for Lake Whitney. His sponsor 
had gathered him under his wing with the 
simple, unconscious air of an older brother, 
which, to the man used to dictatorship, gave 
a piquancy to the situation. It was pleas- 
ant, if funny, to be looked after in this 
kindly way. 

"My name is Richard Elliot," said the 
lad without preface, and gave his year, and 
turned his brown eyes consideringly on the 
older man. 

Trefethen hesitated. Not to return this 
frank confidence would be ungracious, yet 
his name suggested himself too much just 
now throughout America to risk telling and 
hope to be unidentified. He compromised. 

" My graduation is a quarter of a century 
or so ahead of yours, I'm sorry to say." He 
smiled. "And my name is Lord" — and 
spoke truthfully, for this was his unused 
middle name. 

At that moment the lad's coat swung 
open, and Trefethen saw, pinned on his 
waistcoat, an Alpha Delta Phi pin. From 
some atrophied muscles sprang a throb 
which astonished him. Out flew his hand, 
the boy's eyes met his, and their fingers 
slid into the fraternity grip. 

"Why, this is bully," spoke' the youngster 
joyfully. "I'm awfully glad I met you. I 
wonder if there's anything I can do to make 
you enjoy yourself. Tell you what" — he 
went on in a burst — "ginger ! — I'm glad I 
thought of it — come out on the water with 
me, will you, Mr. Lord ? I've got a canoe, 
and my side-partner's sneaked — can't find 



The Captains 



23 



him. Anyhow, there's plenty of room, even 
if he turns up, if you'll sit tight and part 
your hair in the middle. Are you used to 
boats ? " 

Trefethen smiled. "That was my bus- 
iness when I was in college." 

"What, were you on a crew?" the lad 
asked, his eyes bright with interest. 

Vanity betrayed Trefethen suddenly. "I 
was captain of the 'Varsity crew of my 
year," he stated, and then felt alarmed to 
see the impression. 

Elliot stopped short, quite casual as to 
halting a long procession back of him. 
With that he gave his own knee a sounding 
slap. 

"Ginger! "he exploded. "Ginger! Hully- 
gee! and I never suspected. I might have 
known you were something with that build," 
and he glanced over Trefethen 's figure 
searchingly. "Nobody has that look with- 
out its meaning something. Ginger!" he 
murmured again with no sense of monotony, 
and swung on, gazing sidewise admiringly 
at the embarrassed Trefethen. "Why this 
is simply great, Mr. Lord," he addressed 
him. "We must have you over at the boat- 
house to meet the men — maybe you can row 
on a veteran crew — I don't know how that 
is — that's not my line — but an3'how they'd 
love to meet you. Lord — Lord," he re- 
flected. "Don't seem to remember the 
name — but the crews are not in my beat, as 
I said — they'll place you fast enough at the 
boat-house. What's your year?" 

With that Trefethen realized that his 
incognito was in peril. "It won't do, Mr. 
Elliot," he said firmly. "I'm tired and 
came out for a lazy afternoon, and I don't 
want to meet people, even Yale men. I'm 
not up it it. I'll be delighted to go out in 
your canoe if it won't inconvenience }'ou, 
but I'm a back number, and would only be 
in the way at the boat-house." 

"Back number nothing," responded the 
boy earnestly. " Of course they'd be proud 
and glad. Yale men don't shelve their 
chaps who've won laurels for them. Did 
you win, by the way? What class were 
you?" he demanded. 

Now Trefethen 's crew had gained an 
historic victory, and to give his class might 
place it and him. He did not want to be 
placed. He had an uneasy feeling that 
the multi-millionaire, Marcus Trefethen, 
would lose this unique comradeship which 



the obscure graduate Lord had found. This 
afternoon he had no use for his millions and 
his powerful name. 

"Don't pin an old bald-head, young 
man," he argued. "Don't you see I'm 
ashamed of my age?" 

The boy drew his brows and looked sur- 
prised, yet the glory of a crew-captainship 
overshadowed this exhibition of human 
weakness. "All right," he agreed; "but 
I'll look you vip, you know. What difference 
does it make, anyway? Did your crew 
win ? You can tell me that, Mr. Lord, and 
that's the point." 

"You bet we won," Trefethen threw at 
him emphatically, like another boy. 

"Hooray for you !" said the youngster, 
and laughed for pure love of Yale's great- 
ness, and with that they were at Lake Whit- 
ney. 

Girls and young men shifted in and out 
through a scene of gayety. Gray-haired 
men, men in the prime of life, and not a 
few older women with pleased faces to be 
there, thronged the landing-steps, and em- 
barked every moment in boats of all sorts. 
And in every mouthful of the spring air 
Trefethen drew a breath of that clean and 
happy out-of-doors' enthusiasm, of forget- 
fulness of people for deeds, which is the in- 
spiration of right athletics. In five min- 
utes, Elliot, serious and businesslike over 
his responsibility, was pushing his canoe 
from the dock with a well-handled paddle, 
and Trefethen sat facing him in the bow. 
He realized so the tremendous develop- 
ment of the young figure as, his coat off, the 
big muscles worked through a thin silk shirt. 

"You must be interested in something 
muscular by the look of you," he said. 
"What's your specialty?" 

The frank eyes dropped. "Oh — I'm 
not so good as I might be at anything," he 
answered, and his manner was confused. 
He went on quietly. " My stunt's football, 
but I'd like to do it better than I do." 

"Some failure to make good, poor lad," 
the older man thought to himself, and said 
aloud, with friendliness, "That's too bad — 
you're a strapping fellow. I should think 
you'd be strong at athletics if youreally tried. 
But I dare say you make it up some other 
way. Probably you're a fine scholar." 

The boy laughed. "Oh, no. Well, I'm 
not a positive disgrace to the family, but I 
haven't made ^BK by a good bit. Oh, no. 



24 



The Captains 



I'm afraid you wouldn't call me a search- 
light as a student. I'm afraid I'm better 
developed on the physical than the mental 
tack — can't be good at everything, you 
know. At lea^t most can't. There's only 
one fellow I know in Yale who's all 'round 
first-class, and he's a miracle." The brown 
eyes flashed sudden fire. "Gosh! the lad 
shot through set teeth. *'Gosh! I wish I 
had the killing of that man!" 

Trefethen looked at the irate youth in 
surprise. "The miracle?" he inc^uired, 
smiling. "Do you want to kill the mir- 
acle?" 

"No; oh, no." Elliot's responsive smile 
did not come. He was too stirred. "Not 
him — of course not. He's the finest chap 
in Yale University — the pride of the whole 
class. He's a peach. Why just let me tell 
you, Mr. Lord, what that fellow is: He 
made <PBK, he was on the Ji^i'^ior Prom. 
Committee. He made" — the boy hesi- 
tated and spoke low — ^"he made Bones. 
He's good enough for the tennis team, and 
he could have been on the football team, 
and he's captain of the 'Varsity crew. Yoii 
know what that means. He should have 
been here to-da}- — and he's gone. And the 
Harvard race in June will have to do without 
him. We'll lose it, likely, because of him. 
He's gone — gone!" The boy hurled the 
word at the man. 

"Where has he gone — how?" the other 
asked eagerly, carried a^vay !)}• the speaker's 
intensity. 

The paddle dipped in water for two liq- 
uid beats before he answered, and then it 
was with an evident effort for self-control. 
"It makes me so hot I can hardly talk al)out 
it," he brought out in repressed tones. 
"But you're a good sport, and scjuare and 
all that— you'll appreciate how we feel. 
Last night at the training table the captain 
had a telegram and a special delivery. His 
father has been ill, and his business'has all 
gone wrong, and he's — ruined. Just plain 
that. And when they were certain of it, 
yesterday, he got a lot worse at the news, 
and they were alarmed and sent for Carl. 
And the money's all lost, you see, so he 
can't come back. It's a darned shame!" 
the lad brought out, losing his grip on him- 
self again. "I'd like to have that man, 
that captain of industry, that robber baron, 
who's got Carl down and out, at the end of 
my fist" — the great young hand shot out, 



clinched. "It's Marcus Trefethen — t/ic 
Marcus Trefethen, you know — and if I got 
within ten feet of him I'd beat his bloomin' 
brains out." The man in the bow, eight 
feet away, gazed thoughtfull}" at the speaker. 

The canoe had worked up the lake; far 
away beyond the bridge was a stir as if those 
there could see the first crews of the first race 
coming; dozens of boats, gay with boys and 
girls and talk and laughter, lay below, be- 
yond them, Init at the turn where the canoe 
floated it was quiet. There was deep silence. 

"It's all his work. He's a thieving, cold- 
blooded monopolist," the boy went on an- 
grily. "He doesn't care how much flesh 
and blood he chops into hash to feed to his 
great fortune. He doesn't care that Carl's 
father's railroad stands for forty years' solid, 
honest work. He doesn't care that wreck- 
ing it is going to kill Mr. Ruthven — that 
Carl's got to give up his career and grind 
for bread and butter — all that's nothing." 

The vehement Aoice stopped; the boy 
was out of breath, and the man felt a ne- 
cessity to put in a word. "There are usu- 
ally two sides,'' he said. "Possibly Tref- 
ethen may not be free to stop the workings 
of a great affair — there are many men con- 
cerned in such a business. And perhaps 
he may not entirel}- realize the suffering en- 
tailed." He wondered at his own tone, at 
his desire to conciliate. Why should he 
care how a college student judged his con- 
duct? But he cared. 

The boy's eyes, gazing up the course, 
cjuestioned the distance. His big shoulders 
stiffened to alertness. "They're coming," 
he announced, and a twist of the paddle set 
the boat sidewise so that Trefethen also 
could see. "Ginger, they're coming fast! 
It's the Columbia freshmen against ours — 
golly, I hope we smear 'em! We lead — see 
— gosh, we've got a good lead!" 

Garnished M^ith strange interjections, the 
pleasant, well-bred young voice went on in 
staccato sentences, and Trefethen, still 
thunderstruck by the bolt that had been 
launched from the blue at him and all his 
works, watched the play of excitement on 
the unconscious face. The clear eyes fol- 
lowed keenly every movement of the rapid- 
ly nearing crews; they glowed with joy as 
the Yale boat forged ahead ; they darkened 
tragically as the rival shell crawled up on 
it. It was a spirited scene and the imper- 
sonal rush of interest all about him carried 




"Mrs. Ruth%-en," he answered, "you are verj' eloquent for your husband's cause." — Page 21. 



the man out of himself and into the bright 
flood of enthusiasm. Suddenly he found 
himself cheering madly, waving his hat as 
the blue coxswain, megaphone strapped to 
his mouth, howled hoarse encouragement 
to his men — as the crew of Yale swept past 
and first beyond the finish stakes. How 
glad the boy was — and how glad he him- 
self was! When had he had such a day? 

"Hooray for Yale'." 

He shouted, and laughed as he heard his 
own voice. He caught a long breath and 
drew in a mouthful of sentiments — sport — 
fellow-feeling — the game played fairly — he 
nearly choked with the unfamiliar taste — 
but he liked it. 

The lirst event was finished. "Rain," 
young Elliot announced, turning up his 
face. "We'll put in under the bridge till 
it's over. I'll hurry, so we'll get there be- 
fore the holy-poly." 

The canoe flew in under heavy stone 
arches only just in advance of a crowd of 
others. Everybody knew his friend, Tref- 
ethen remarked. There was a shouted 
word for him from almost every boat which 
scurried in for shelter, and the boy respond- 
ed with ready friendliness always, yet also, 
it seemed to the older man, with an uncon- 
scious air of being somebody. A rowboat 
with two students came bumping alongside. 
Vol. XLII.— 3 



and one caught the stern of the canoe and 
pulled in to it. "Here you, Dick — you can't 
take all of the roof if you are a great man," 
he threw at Elliot. 

"Lots of room," said the boy cheerfully. 
"I want to present you to my friend, Mr. 
Lord. Mr. Selden — ]Mr. Van Arden," and 
two hands gripped him heartily in spite of 
the inconveniences of the situation. "Mr, 
Lord was captain of the 'Varsity crew of his 
year," Dick Elliot hurried to explain, and 
there was instant deep respect in the new- 
comers' manner. "Won't go to the boat- 
house. He's tired — doesn't want to be 
fussed over," he forestalled their sugges- 
tions, and they met this with a cloud of 
protestation. He ought — the men would 
want to see him. It wasn't right for Dick 
Elliot to keep a good thing to himself. 

"Ought to get you two out of conjunc- 
tion, anyway," Van Arden remarked in a 
half-shy, eager, boyish manner. "Two cap- 
tains in one canoe are overallowance," and 
Trefethen looked inquiringly at him and 
then at Elliot. 

"Why, he doesn't know," Jimmy Selden 
burst out. "I'll be jiggered! Mr. Lord 
doesn't know that Dick Elliot's the great 
and only captain of the football team! Holy- 
smoke ! But they make 'em ignorant down 
in New York." 

25 



26 



The Captains 



And Trefethen — railroads and combina- 
tions entirely overshadowed — was deeply 
confused. Certainly he should have known 
— Elliot — last November's victorious team 
— certainly. But he had forgotten the first 
name; he hadn't thought of such luck — he 
simply hadn't placed him. And the boy 
laughed at him as a kind and modest em- 
peror might laugh at an obscure subject un- 
aware of his greatness. 

"Tell you what," he flung at them, "if 
Mr. Lord is game, what do you fellows say 
to coming to feed with me at Mory's this 
evening?" 

"0."k.," spoke Selden. "We'll come, 
anyway." 

"No, you don't," responded the host 
promptly. "This is a party for a distin- 
guished stranger, and there ain't going to 
be no party without him. Will you come, 
Mr. Lord?" 

" My train goes at " 

"Oh, there's another one at nine, and ten 
— and maybe eleven," urged Jimmy Selden. 
"And we'll have big chops and wonderful 
potatoes and " 

"Look here, Jimmy, who's giving this 
dinner?" demanded Elliot. "Will you 
come, Mr. Lord ? We will have those chops 
and things, and they're great, but it's none 
of his old business." 

"Yes, I'll come," said Trefethen. "I 
never was as hungry for a chop in my life." 

" Let's invite Pearly Gates, so he can sing 



and tell about outdoor sports," suggested 
Selden enthusiastically. "And you might 
ask Pat O'Connor — he does lovely stunts — 
and what about " 

"Jimmy," shouted the entertainer, " will 
you let me run my own dinner ?" 

"Well, I don't know," growled Jimmy. 
"The last one wasn't satisfactory. You've 
got the cash, but I've got the sense." 

And with that there was a spectacular, 
close race coming down the water — the rain 
was over — the canoe and rowboat flew out 
to posts of vantage, with parting arrange- 
ments for dinner-time called back and forth. 

Mory's is a low, wooden, two-story house 
on Temple Street. Trefethen, looking at 
it, as he and Elliot turned the corner that 
evening, suddenly remembered it well. It 
had looked just like that, small and dirty- 
white, twenty-five and thirty years ago. Up 
five, or six steps and into a side door they 
went. In each of the three or four rooms 
— low rooms, with bare floors and a few 
cheap sporting prints about the walls — are 
perhaps three heavy oblong oak tables, cov- 
ered thick with initials cut deep into the 
top. They are initials of students of Yale 
who for twenty odd years have been mak- 
ing monuments of Mory's tables. Against 
the walls of some of the rooms hang other 
tables, initial-covered, and the legs taken 
off. Freshmen are not allowed in this holy 
place, but the three upper classes constantly 
give dinners here — little dinners of six or 




"You bet we won," Trefethen threw at him emphatically. — Page 23. 




"And if I got within ten feet of him I'd beat his bloomin' brains out." — Page 24. 



SO, for the most part, and the boys sing col- 
lege songs all through them. The especial 
feature of such a meal is a chop, enormous 
in size and served on a plate twelve or four- 
teen inches across and supported by won- 
derful potatoes. The chops and potatoes 
at Mory's are famous. 

Marcus Trefethen looked over the array 
of grouped letters, many of them standing 
for names now on the country's roll of 
honor, carved when their owners were 
fresh-faced lads like these who stood about 
him, who leaned over him with a big young 
hand now and then familiarly, comrade- 
like, on his shoulder. Earnestly they stud- 
ied out famous name after name to show 
him. 

"There's a futurity list, too, you know," 
Van Arden said in his buoyant, eager way. 
"Here is Dickey Elliot's mark — football 
captain to-day. President of the United 
States to-morrow — who knows?" 

"What's the matter with Daisy Van 
Arden, editor Yale N'ews to-day — Emperor 
of Russia next week-ski?" Jimmy Selden 
contributed, and then, in an awed tone, with 



a big fore-linger pointed to letters freshly 
cut, "Boys, here's Carl." 

"Ah!" A sound that was half a groan 
came from them all in unison, and they 
leaned across each other's shoulders and 
looked. " C. R." and the year. There was 
a minute's serious silence as the heads bent, 
crowded together. 

"It's a darned shame," Dick Elliot said 
slowly, and then: "Well, let's have some 
eats. Our table's this way, Mr. Lord." 

Selden's suggestions, though frowned 
upon, had been carried out rather closely. 
Pat O'Connor, indeed, turned up missing, 
but enormous chops and marvellous po- 
tatoes appeared, and Pearly Gates was on 
hand with the two gifts which made him a 
desired dinner guest. His father's fortune 
having been won by Gates's Pearly Cap- 
sules for Rheumatism, it was perhaps in- 
evitable that the heir, Alexander, should 
be known in college as Pearly Gates. He 
was a Glee Club man with a remarkable 
voice, and, as Selden put it, a "peculiarly 
ready warbler," and also he was born with 
a marvellous ineptness for athletics which 

27 



28 



The Captains 



amounted to an inverted genius. It liad 
been discovered that his au naturel descrip- 
tions of a sporting event threw a hght on 
the occasion which could not be found 
otherwise; also it was impossible to him, 
though healthy and well-made, to jump, 
Tun, vault, swim, skate, play football, base- 
ball, tennis, or any known game. 

"The blame thing can walk," ElHot as- 
sured Trefethen, patting the exhibit fondly 
as he inventoried his quahties. " Show the 
gentleman how pretty you walk, Pearly," 
he urged, and Pearly beamed from behind 
his glasses and kicked out affectionately. 
"Trainer says he's made up all right," El- 
liot went on. "It's just a sort of foolish- 
ness of the muscles. We're proud of him, 
you know," he explained. "He's the only 
one. There isn't such a fool in college. 
Pearly, which will you do first, sing or tell 
Mr. Trefethen about the football game?" 
"I'll do anything you want in about a 
minute," responded the obliging gentle- 
man, "but I do like to chew this chop. Let 
me alone just a minute. Talk about me, 
but just let me alone." 

"Now look here. Pearly," Jimmy Sel- 
den spoke severely. "I didn't get you here 
to eat — primarily, that is. You were asked 
here to sing and be foolish — now do your 
part like a man. You're to amuse Mr. 
Lord. That's what I got you for." 

"You got him — I like your nerve," ob- 
served the host, outraged. "Am I giving 
this dinner, I'd like to know?" 

And the songster stuffed food placidly as 
war went on over him. 

"In a way — in a way, certainly," Selden 
agreed soothingly. " But you know, Dickey, 
you do give the rottenest dinners when my 
fatherly care isn't about you. You know 
you do. Now you'd never have thought of 
Pearly, would you? And he's going to be 
the life of the thing in a minute. Pearly — 
that's enough — tune up!" 

"All right," agreed the sweet-tempered 
youth, and pushed his chair away a bit and 
tossed back his blond head, and out through 
the room floated in the purest, most thrill- 
ing baritone, the words of "Amici." 

"Our strong band can ne'er be broken; 
Firm in friendship's tie, 
Far surpassing wealth unspoken, 
It can never die," 

he sang, and the words and the young voice 
went to the soul of Trefethen. Twenty- 



five odd years ago a lad like these and other 
lads, his friends, had sung that song in these 
low, old rooms, and in their hearts was the 
promise — he remembered how hotly it had 
risen in his — that the good friendship would 
last out their lives. How had he kept it ? 
What had he to show for the years — what 
that was worth the price paid — good-will 
toward the world, belief in ideals, altruism 
on fire to brighten the earth? Little by lit- 
tle he had paid these out, each bit wrapped 
in its cover of happiness, for a heap of 
money. The boys were all gone — the men 
— his friends — ■ He had not seen any of 
them for years. He had not taken any in- 
terest. Now he thought of it, he had no 
friends. His fortune had followers; he 
had associates— that was all. And with 
that, all the voices together rose happily in 
the chorus — 

"Amici usque ad aras 

Deep graven on each heart 
Shall be fourxd unwavering, true, 
When we from life shall part." 

"Hooray! " yelled Jimmy Selden vocifer- 
ously. "Pearly, you're the shark on the 
warble. Now buck up and tell Mr. Lord 
how you saw the football game." 

Pearly was seized with shyness. "You 
fellows make a fool out of me," he com- 
plained. 

"No trouble at all," Selden assured him. 

"It's this way, Mr. Lord," the pink- 
faced, spectacled, good-humored songster 
confided. "All these chaps pretend they 
see extraordinary things and talk about 'em 
with queer words an' things. An' I don't 
understand an' I don't think most of the 
others do. So I just tell 'em about how it 
looks to the eye of nature, an' they think 
it's funny. 'Tisn't funny. / don't think 
it's funny. I went to that game an' I ate 
my .sandwiches in the open, on a shelf 
with more like me. Humans — rows of 'em 
— thirty thousand. The fellows trotted 
on, pitter-patter, lookin' foolish, and all of 
us cheered — thirty thousand. Then the 
other fellows trotted on, lookin' foolish, an' 
we cheered. I knew precious little what 
they were doin' in the game, but it was 
pleasant to know they were doin' their best 
an' that we had an object in bein' there 's 
long 's they kept it up. They squatted and 
reflected an' then they fell on each other, 
an' then everybody rose and yelled and 
waved flags and Yale had the ball — or else 




Drawn by F. C. Vohn. 

"Two captains in one canoe is an overallowance," Van Arden remarked. — Page 25. 



30 



The Captains 



Harvard had it. Then they scattered out, 
and Harvard's red-head got hurt once in so 
often, and then twice somebody — I think 
Yale — kicked the ball over the shinto shine 
at the end. Oh, this is truck" — he ap- 
pealed to his confreres — "don't make me 
tell any more," he pleaded. And Tref- 
ethen shook with laughter as he had not 
shaken for years. " 'S cruel to make sport 
of my infirmity," reasoned Pearly. " But it 
looked that way to me, anyhow." 

The dinner was over; pipes came out of 
coat pockets. Elliot produced cigars for 
his guest of honor, and the military forma- 
tion of the party "fell out" about the table; 
chairs grouped at every angle. Jimmy 
Selden pumped a profound sigh. 

"Gosh! how Carl would have enjoyed 
them mushrooms!" he said sorrowfully. 

Dick Elliot's level black eyebrows drew 
into a frown. "I don't know if we'd bet- 
ter talk about Carl to-night," he said. "It's 
a pretty melancholy subject to drag a vis- 
itor in on," and he turned to Trefethen. 
"You see, Mr. Lord," he explained, "the 
whole college is sore. Ruthven was popu- 
lar with both the undergraduates and the 
faculty. Everybody was proud of him. 
He was just a miracle, you see. A whoop- 
ing good fellow, a fme student but no grind, 
and a tiptop athlete. The worst is the race 
in June. There's nobody tit for his place. 
Harvard will likely smear us. It's taken 
the heart out of the whole business. It's 
hard on us all." 

Van Arden spoke in his nervous, grace- 
ful way. "It's hardest on Dick, Mr. Lord. 
Ruthven was his room-mate, and he and 
Dick had it arranged to go abroad after 
they graduated this summer. It's been 
cut and dried for two years." 

"Yes, Dickey-bird's chief mourner, all 
right," Selden agreed sadly, and with that 
he burst forth : "If about four like us had 
Trefethen clasped inside these loving arms, 
we'd fit him for a career of sausage-meat 
pretty quick." 

"I give you my word," Dick Elliot said, 
and he threw back his great shoulders and 
threw up his square chin, and his brown 
eyes blazed at Trefethen. "I give you my 
word, Mr. Lord, that if that man Trefethen 
should get alone with a bunch of us to- 
night, feeling the way we do, I'd hate to be 
responsible for his safety. I believe we'd 
hurt him." 



This nervous English and the muscles 
that loomed back of it gave the guest 
of honor a sensation. He pulled at his 
cigar, and his eyes did not meet the football 
captain's. 

At last, "You're a belligerent young lot," 
he reflected aloud, and then, "I dare say the 
man's a beast," he brought out slowly," but 
you boys ought not to be swept away by 
half of a question. Remember there are 
always two sides — get at the other and 
found your judgment on knowledge — don't 
let personal feeling place you." 

"It isn't all personal feeling, Mr. Lord," 
Van Arden threw at him eagerly. "It's 
the big question of the day; it happens to 
have fired a broadside into us just this min- 
ute, and we're hurt and howling — but it's 
the big question we're up against — the mag- 
nates—the huge overweight fortunes that 
destroy the balance. You're an unpreju- 
diced man" — and Trefethen smiled in- 
wardly — "you know they don't play the 
game fairly, these captains of industry^ 
don't you?" 

"I do not," Trefethen said with empha- 
sis. "I know of no proof for a general 
statement like that. Of course there is 
plenty of advantage taken — you can't help 
that when men are human and the stake is 
W'orth while, but " 

"You can't help it?" Dick Elliot flung 
at him. "Of course you can help it — if 
you're civilized and decent. What's a 
standard for if not to live up to? What 
would you think of a football man that 
'took advantage' and then said he couldn't 
help it because he was human and the game 
was worth while ? We're penalized if we try 
that on; we're kicked out if we keep it up — 
and that's right. Lord, that stake looks 
bigger to us than a billion dollars ! I don't 
see why fair play isn't the thing — the only 
thing — for a white man, after he leaves col- 
lege as much as before." 

"Hold on, Mr. Elliot, give me a show," 
Trefethen protested. "I'm not advocating 
dishonesty. I was going to say that there 
are hosts of men who have made fortunes 
honorably — don't you hope to be rich your- 
selves?" 

There was a short stillness, and Pearly 
— the richest — broke it. They turned in 
their chairs and looked at him surprised. 
"Seems this way to me — like th' story in 
th' op'ra, y' see. When the gold shines 




"That afternoon at New Haven cost me five million dollars down." — Page 35. 



over the waters of the Rhine, an' the Rhine- 
maidens guard it, it's nice, an' everybody 
would hke it. But when the ugly dwarf, 
Alberich, climbs up and grabs it, you feel 
as if you'd rather get nothin' than get it by 
turnin' into a beast like that." 

"Hooray for Pearly! He's turning into 
poetry," Jimmy Selden contributed in an 
undertone, but Van x\rden's keen face was 
alert and serious. 

"It's partly so, what Pearly says — he 
wouldn't have any money but clean money. 
Nor I. But there's more. Even if huge 
fortunes are made straight we don't want 
them — Americans. We don't want kings, 
good or bad, and we don't want plutocrats, 
32 



good or bad. They don't fit us. We won't 
have them, either, I'll bet," he added sagely, 
this college editor, speaking as a man with 
his hand on the pulse of the people. 

"You've missed some points," said Tref- 
ethen quietly. "If we didn't have variety 
we wouldn't have civilization. It's the 
men who step out of the ranks who make 
progress. We'd all be cave-dwellers yet if 
some old skin-dressed fellow hadn't begun 
to accumulate stone knives and oyster- 
shells. I dare say they called him a menace 
to society. It's better for the world that 
some houses should be filled with pictures 
and books than that all should be hovels 
alike." 



The Captains 



33 



He stopped and considered, puffing at 
his cigar thoughtfully, and the bright-faced 
boys, sitting about the table, regarded him 
eagerly, respectfully. 

" The race is tied together. The whole 
procession moves up when the leaders take 
a step. The hovels of to-day have luxuries 
the palaces didn't have once. It's compe- 
tition; it's survival of the fittest that raises 
the standard for all. To the man fittest to 
organize and lead goes the prize. It's right 
it should go to him; he has earned it. He 
has created capital by efficiency. Before 
long his income inevitably exceeds his ex- 
penditures. A fortune is made, and it is a 
benefit to mankind that men of mental 
grasp should handle such fortunes, have the 
power to found libraries and hospitals and 
great public works; doing good to thou- 
sands, rather than that the money should be 
dribbled out in small sums among those 
who can't accumulate and who can't spend 
wisely." 

Van Arden was on his feet, his tall, ner- 
vous figure quivered with intensity. "That's 
the optimist view, Mr. Lord; that's not the 
average. Here and there, one in a thou- 
sand, maybe, is a magnate who takes his 
luck responsibly, but mostly what you see 
is vulgar greed — use of privilege without 
genius — brutal indifference, power used 
tyranically, cynical hardness to human feel- 
ings. Why, the papers are chuck-full of it. 
Look at our case; look at this Trefethen." 
He stopped and smiled a frank depreca- 
tion. "You see, I'm back to the personal 
view. I own up. Well, it isn't an abstract 
question in New Haven to-night. It's 
concrete as the dickens — it's Carl." 

"This Trefethen," hghting a fresh cigar, 
did not care to smile back into the sincere 
eyes; he occupied himself closely with the 
cigar. The football captain thundered in. 

"Carl!" he echoed dramatically. "Of 
course it's Carl, and he's an illustration of 
the whole mess. What sort of fairness has 
been shown in his case? Legal, all right; 
but that play wouldn't go in football. Just 
because Trefethen & Co. think they might 
as well make all the money in sight. He's 
rolling now, but they say he's going to be 
the richest man in the world — a sweet 
ambition! Hope he'll enjoy himself! I'll 
bet a doughnut he isn't happy this sec- 
ond. I wouldn't be in his skin for a dollar a 
minute." 

Vol. XLII.— 4 



And the silent Trefethen squirmed under 
that skin and agreed. 

"He's a Yale man," put in Van Arden 
reflectively. 

"More's the pity," growled Elliot. 
"We're not proud of him. Do you suppose 
any of us will ever turn into case- hardened 
octopuses like that? Ginger! I'll make a 
try at least not to be a disgrace to my Alma 
Mater." With that, as his guest sat quiet, 
his eyes on his cigar, "We're giving Mr. 
Lord a dickens of a gay time," Elliot an- 
nounced cheerfully. "Unloading all our 
kicks for his benefit. Now cut it out, fel- 
lows. Mr. Lord's not crazy about our 
great thoughts on political economy. He's 

no captain of industry " All at once 

he seemed to realize that in fact they did not 
know what their guest might be. "You 
said you were a lawyer, didn't you?" he 
demanded a bit anxiously. 

Trefethen smiled. "I've been called as 
bad as that," he answered truthfully — for 
he had been admitted and had practised 
twenty years ago. And the boy was quite 
satisfied. 

"That's all right," he said, relieved. 
"Pearly Gates, you sing." 

And Pearly's lovely voice floated out as 
promptly and as easily as if someone had 
started a music-box. First an old song 
adapted to the football captain of the year, 
and all the room — but one — joined in as 
he led it: 

" Here's to Dick Elliot, Dick Elliot- 
Here's to Dick Elliot, he's with us to-night. 
He's with us, God bless him ; he's with us, 

God bless him ; 
Here's to Dick Elliot, he's with us to-night." 

With its never-ending chorus of 

" Chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug 



Then, slipping effortless from one air to 
another, he was singing a favorite of Tref- 
ethen's own time. 

"Winds of night around us sighing," 

sang Pearly, 

" 'Neath the elm-trees murmur low." 

And the other voices joined in and the 
deep sound flooded the room as the boys 
sang, as Trefethen sang with them words 
about 

" The merry life we lead 'neath the elms, 
'Neath the elms of dear old Yale." 



34 



The Captains 



They were out in the street now, march- 
ing together, arm hnked in arm. Dick El- 
hot's big hand was across the older man's 
shoulder, and the touch was pleasant to 
him. So pleasant that his voice stopped in 
the middle of a Hne once, and the phalanx 
burst into a roar of young laughter. 

"Did it swallow a fly?" Jimmy Selden 
inquired impudently. They \\ere all boys 
together now for sure. 

So, singing and laughing, the five went 
down the dark street to the station, Tref- 
ethen in the midst, the guest, the hero, 
c[uite dazed, and happy as he thought he 
had forgotten how to be happy. 

"You wouldn't let us give you a real red 
celebration," Selden explained, as they 
stood on the platform, waiting. "It was 
fittinger that a crew captain should be of- 
ficially blowed to a party, and that dinner 
wasn't much — just a snack. But we done 
what we could — I done my durndest," he 
finished modestly. And Dick Elliot's scorn- 
ful "Huh!" came out of darkness. 

"Did we give you the time of your life? 
Do you like us?" Jimmy investigated 
further, and Trefethen laid a hand on his 
muscular arm. 

"You've given me the best time I've had 
in twenty-five years," he said. "And I like 
you a lot." 

"Well, we hke you; you're the right 
sort," Van Arden's quick tones threw back 
frankly, and with that Pearly l:)roke easily, 
sweetly, into 

"He's a jolly good fellow 
As nobody can deny." 

And the others chorused it with ringing 
notes. And as the train moved slowly out 
— Trefethen standing on the platform, 
watching his friends with intent eyes, with 
a new sense of loneliness — Pearly Gates's 
thrilling clear music rose again in "Bright 
College Years, " the other voices instantlv 
lifting to his. 

"The seasons come, the seasons go; 
The earth is green or white with snow: 
But time and change shall naught avail 
To break the friendships formed at Yale" 

they sang. And the train moved faster, 
and the boys stood in the half-light of the 
station, arms around each other's shoulders, 
leaning on each other, singing. And the 
train drew awa}-. 

On the 27th of August the Celtic sailed 



from Liverpool for New York. As the land 
of Wales melted into clouds a young fellow 
with conspicuous, broad shoulders walked 
aft and fell into conversation with a man 
who stood watching the fading earth-line. 

"I never can take any stock in the ship 
till the land's clean gone," the man said. 
"It'll be gone in a few minutes now." He 
glanced about the deck as if the next inter- 
est were awakening. "A crowd on board," 
he said. " Quite a lot of celebrities. Have 
you noticed the passenger list?" 

"No," said the boy politely, l)ut a bit 
absent-mindedly. 

"There's Lord and Lady de Gray, and a 
French marquis — I forget his name; and a 
Russian prince — I can't pronounce his. And 
there are several big Americans. That's 
Trefethen over there — Marcus Trefethen, 
the capitalist." He nodded across the deck 
where a tall man stood alone, smoking and 
staring out at sea. 

The boy turned. "Marcus Trefethen? 
I'd hke to see him." His eves searched. 
"Where?" 

"The tall fellow with a cigar — right 
where you're looking." The gaze changed 
to bewilderment, and with that there flashed 
to his face an astonished delight. " Marcus 
Trefethen your grandmother". " he threw at 
the man, and with a leap he was gone. 

"Mr. Lord — why this is great! You 
haven't forgotten me — Dick Elliot — the 
races on Lake Whitney last ^Nlay. Yes — I 
didn't think you would." Trefethen's hand 
hurt with the grip it got. 

"So you and young Ruthven had your 
trip, after all ?" he said five minutes later. 

'•Golly! Did we!" responded Elliot 
with enthusiasm. " Never had such a bully 
time in all my life, and Carl's as happy as a 
king — his father all right, his two years in 
Germany arranged, e\erything going his 
way. The finest chap. I wish you knew 
him! ^^'asn't it queer, though, about that 
old Trefethen, the octopus ? Nobody un- 
derstands, but he suddenly just took the 
clamps off, and buzz! the wheels went 
'round. The Southwestern Railroad came 
to, and is going like a queen, and Mr. Ruth- 
ven was well the minute he heard it — pretty 
near dead he was, too. Carl came back to 
college with howls of joy, and he rowed the 
race, and we smeared the Harvards, and 
the whole thing went like a book. What 
do }"ou suppose happened to old Tref- 



The Captains 



35 



ethen?" he shot at the other. "Lost his 
mind, didn't he?" 

"Old Tref ethen" puffed at his cigar. 
"Hadn't heard of it," he said tersely. 

"Well, I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Lord. 
I feel dift'erently toward that old galoot. 
Since the Southwestern business I respect 
him. I don't understand, but I swear I re- 
spect him. I've read every scrap about him 
in the papers, and I've formed an opinion. 
It's my idea that he's decided there are bet- 
ter games than being the richest man in the 
world. He's certainly thrown away his 
chance for that, by what they say." 

" He certainly has," the other responded, 
as one having authority, but the boy did 
not notice. A flash of amusement lit his 
face and his words flashed after it. 

"Do you know, Mr. Lord — that's queer 
— I'd forgotten." The hurrying words fell 
over each other. "You were pointed out 
to me as Trefethen this minute. That's 
how I came to see you." 

The man knocked his cigar ash into the 
sea. "Curious," he said quietly. It's not 
the first time, however — I look like him." 
He went on. "Tell me about yourself. 
What are you going to do when you get 
home?" 

The bright face grew serious. "Well, 
Mr. Lord," he said, "I'm in bad luck. 
Not the worst, for my people are all right, 
thank Heaven — but it's bad. My father's 
business — he's a steel man — is in poor 
shape, and it's about inevitable that he's 
got to fail. If he could raise a hundred thou- 
sand he could tide through, but he can't do 
it. It's too much for the small people, and 
the big people won't risk it — and he can't 
ask them. So. They wanted me to stay 
over with Carl and finish out my six months, 
and I could, for the trip is oft" money that 
was left me. They said they'd rather have 
me, and I'd only be in the way at home, and 
all that. But it seemed to me that if the 
governor was in a scrape I'd better go and 
stand by him. Even if I'm not good for 
much at first, I might help brace him up. 
Don't you think I was right?'' he asked 
wistfully. 

"I do, indeed," the other answered with 
emphasis. And then slowly, staring at the 
earnest face: "I wish I owned something 
like a boy to standby me in time of trouble." 
A quick color rushed to Elliot's cheeks. 

"If you mean that — you don't know me 



much — but if you'd let me— I'm not a lot of 
good yet, but I'm trustworthy. I'll stand 
by you, Mr. Lord." 

It was very boyish, but it went straight. 
So straight that Trefethen did not speak, 
and the lad went on eagerly. "Looks like 
you were in a scrape this minute, from the 
cock of your eye. Is it money ? All right. 
Here I be. Just use me for a battering- 
ram or any old thing, and I'll take charge of 
}()U and the governor together." 

At that Trefethen found his voice and his 
hand fell on the huge shoulder. "You're 
adopted," he said. "Just remember that. 
But I don't need you just at present — not 
that wnv. I'm cloing rather well finan- 
cially." ' 

Suddenly he drew back a step, and put 
his hands in his pockets and stared at the 
boy quizzically, a slow smile coming in his 
eyes. "You're a dear lad," he said, and 
his voice sounded strange to him. "But 
you're an expensive luxury. That after- 
noon at New Haven cost me five million 
dollars down, and heaven knows how many 
more by this time." The boy stared, 
amazed. "I don't grudge it, you know. 
What I got for it has paid, and will. I got 
a new point of view and a sense of propor- 
tion. I got a suspicion that what men 
want millions for is happiness, and millions 
don't bring it; I got a startling and original 
impression that the only way to get any- 
thing out of life is to live it for other people; 
I got the thought that service and not sel- 
fishness is the measure of a man's value, 
and I got — oh, I got this thing rubbed in 
with salt and lemon juice till it smarted like 
the devil — I got the idea that to play the 
game fairly is the first thing required if you 
mean to be a man at all." 

The boy gasped. "Who are you?" he 
stammered. 

"Wait a minute. I was just going over 
the edge of a precipice. I'd have slid down 
pleasantl}- — a long way down — and I'd 
have w"ll'.j\ved in gold at the bottom, and it 
would have been a mighty cold, hard bed, 
too. I'd have been miserable and lonely, 
with half the world envying me, after I'd 
got there. But there were two or three 
strings tied to me yet — and they were lymg 
up on God's earth above the precipice, and 
you boys got hold of them and yanked me 
back. Great Scott, but you yanked man- 
fully!" he said, and laughed and shook his 



36 Unaware 

head at the memory. " It wasn't your polit- behig a bloated bondholder, Mr. Lor — 

ical economy — I'd read things something Mr. Trefethen." 

like what you said. But I saw myself "That's the sort," said Trefethen gladly. 

through your eyes — honest eyes. You had "And as you belong to me a bit — adopted, 

nothing to gain or lose, and you gave me you remember — -you're to take that hun- 

your sincere thoughts — and you gave 'em dred thousand to your father from me. 

from the shoulder, you'll allow me to say. We'll send him a Marconi that will stagger 

Jove, how you roasted me! A spirit that him." 

I'd forgotten about was in every word, and Elliot gasped again. "Oh, no — I can't 

I caught it, and I'm tr3ang to keep the dis- do that — I wouldn't have told you," he 

ease, for I believe that, from a practical stammered. 

point of view, it's the spirit that will bring "Come, Dick, don't be a jackass," ad- 

a man peace at the last. And all along." vised Trefethen. "It's business — I'mlend- 

"Who are you ?" Dick Elliot demanded ing it to him — I'll skin you both yet." And 

again in a frightened voice. then, as he still hesitated, with wide trou- 

"I think you half know," the other said, bled eyes on the great man's face, Trefethen 

"I'm Marcus Lord Trefethen, and I'll put out his hand and found the football 

never be the richest man in the world, and I captain's fingers, and twisted them into the 

thank heaven for it. Don't hate me, boy — fraternity grip — and the old college boy 

don't be afraid of me, for your friendship's smiled at the young one. " Brothers, aren't 

important to me," he went on. "You re- we?" he demanded. "You've done a lot 

member what you said — you'd stand by me. more for me than I can do for you," and 

I need you now." And the young face with that, a flash of misty mischief coming 

brightened and smiled frankly at him. into his eyes, "'By ginger,' "quoted Marcus 

"Ginger, I'lldoit, too, " hesaid. "You're Trefethen, "let me 'make a try at least 

worth saving. You can't phase me just by not to be a disgrace to my Alma Mater.'" 



UNAWARE 

By William Hervey Woods 

"Children, tell me who was she 
Dancing with you on the lea? 
That bright maid of mien beguiling, 
Sometimes sad and sometimes smiling, 
But with witching sweetness wiling 

All your hearts away — 
Was it elfin maid, or human. 
Princess fay, or budding woman, 

Led your games to-day?" 
Then again I heard her laughter. 
And the children a-dancing after. 

Said nor yea nor nay. 

"Who was with you, lovers twain, 
Yonder in the moonlit lane? 
Young she seemed, and maiden-slender, 
Yet might Psyche nothing mend her 
Phantom grace, nor Venus lend her 
Aught of beauty new — 



Unaware 37 



Once I watched her bend and whisper — 
Did she in that speaking Hsp her 

Name and fame to you?" 
"Nay," the lovers said in wonder, 
"None was in the rose-lane yonder, 

None beside us two." 

"Mother, in whose brooding eyes 
Shine low lights of Paradise, 
When the sunset skies of amber 
Paint the west, and in the chamber 
Sleepy-head at last would clamber 

Up the waiting knee. 
Round ye both her white arms twining, 
Standeth one in raiment shining. 

Wondrous fair to see — 
Can this be the Mary-mother?" 
Soft she answered, "Here's no other 

But my child and me." 

"Soldier, in thy stern delight 
Charging headlong down the fight, 
Who is she above you gliding 
Like some ancient goddess guiding 
Heroes forth, and still dividing 

With them triumphs won ? 
Not more brave was Trojan Hector, 
Not more proud the Trojan's victor. 

Far by Ilion." 
"Vex me with no phantom woman," 
Cried the soldier, "Lo, the foeman 

Wavers! Ride, ride on!" 

Seeking still and still distraught. 
To the sage my quest I brought, 
"Tell me, father, what this haunting 
Vision is, this changing, taunting. 
Woman shape the world enchanting, 
Yet that none confess: 
Is it trick of necromancy, 
Or some bright mirage of fancy 

Gilding men's distress?" 
"That," the wise man answered, sighing, 
Something far beyond him eying, 

"That is Happiness." 



THE ''MEMORIA" OF VELASQUEZ 



By Walter Pach 



Illustrations from photographs 




RTISTS have left but little of 
written criticism. That they 
are practised critics, that 
nothing more delights their 
leisure than the close analyt- 
ical scrutiny of the produc- 
tions of art — other men's and their own — 
no one can doubt. We see them in museums 
— knots of intense students praising or con- 
demning, sustaining an opinion or opposing 
it, just as we see them in Zola's " L'(Euvre" 
and the few other great books on artists. 
Follow them back as far as the records take 
us: to Durer visiting Flanders and Ital\' 
and pronouncing on what he saw; to Bot- 
ticelli explaining that the principle of beau- 
ty lies within the artist; even to Cimabue 
recognizing the germ of a noble art in the 
untrained drawings of the youthful Giotto 
— and still we find that hand in hand with 
the faculty of creation goes that of criticism. 
But what has become of this mass of opinion 
— the weightiest that could bebrought to bear 
on the much-discussed problems of art ? All 
but the smallest of stray parts has been lost 
with the breath that uttered it. If the ques- 
tion of the value of their opinions entered 
at all the minds of most artists, it would 
seem as if they thought their ideas could be 
read clearlv enou2;h in their works. Onh' 
an unusual combination of circumstances — ■ 
of fortune, of success in the work, of ac- 
quaintance with artists, could bring a Va- 
sari to write. In Cellini it was the union of 
egotism and insatiable desire for expression; 
in Sir Joshua it was liis exceptional point 
of view that the principles of art could be 
taught; in Fromentin we recognize that a 
scholarly quality of mind and training, rare 
among artists, led him to set down his 
ideas in writing. 

The efforts of a Spanish savant some 
years ago made a new and most important 
addition to the store of criticism by artists. 
The"AIemorialof Paintings," by Velasquez, 
here given for the first time to English read- 
ers (see page 44), shows that the great Span- 
iard "had the gift for language asfor paint." 
Indeed, it was in the " History of Spanish Lit- 
erature" from which these words are quoted 
.^8 



that I first learned of Velasquez's having 
written. No one in America seemed to know 
of the matter, and it was after considerable 
time that a very kind answer from Mr, James 
Fitzmaurice-Kelly, the author of the "His- 
tory," reached me in Madrid. It referred 
me to the memorials of the Spanish Acad- 
emy for 187 1, in which appears the follow- 
ing extract from the minutes of a meeting 
in March of that year: "In behalf of our 
correspondent in Cadiz, Don Adolfo de 
Castro, and with a note of transmission 
which was read, Senop Fernandez-Guerra 
presented a rare and precious example of 
a pamphlet which contains, as denoted by 
the title, 'A Memorial of the Paintings 
which the Catholic Majesty of the King 
our lord Don Philip the Fourth sends to the 
Monastery of San Lorenzo the Royal, of the 
Escorial, this year of 1656. Described and 
arranged by Diego Velasquez de S3dva, etc.': 
— and with this printed matter, a manuscript 
from Senor Castro dedicated to the Academy, 
and purposing to prove that the small work 
cited is nottheonly datum whichwould make 
us give to the painter Velasquez the rank of a 
good writer. The Academy wished at once 
to hear the catalogue raisomie of Velasquez; 
and indeed occupied with it the rest of the 
session, the reading being often interrupted 
by demonstrations of applause, observa- 
tions, and comments from almost all the 
academicians present. And as, in the dis- 
creet and laconic description and critical 
judgment of the pictures there were natu- 
rally encountered words and phrases tech- 
nical in art, and authoritatively used by the 
author, it was decided to include Don 
Diego Velasquez among the authorities on 
the language recognized by the Academy. 

" It was also the unanimous decision to 
give a vote of most sincere thanks to Senor 
Castro; and that the said pamphlet, to- 
gether with themanuscriptof ourzealouscor- 
respondent, be published in our memorials. 

"The Academy also decided that the pres- 
ent location of each of the pictures described 
should be noted, as far as possible; and this 
charge was given to the academician Don 
Manuel Canete." 



The "Memoria" of Velasquez 



39 



Perhaps it would be as well to give here 
the results of his search. Of the total num- 
l^er of works treated by Velasquez, he iden- 
tities twenty-one as among those in the 
Prado Museum in Madrid; nine are in the 
Escorial, while twenty-two more, including 
the ''famous" St. Sebastian of Titian, he 
fails to trace, though a Titian mentioned — 
"The Tribute ^Sloney"- — appears to have 
been the one stolen !)}■ the French general 
Marshal Soult, who afterward sold it to 
the National Gallery of London for 62,000 
francs. It is now set down in the catalogue 
of that museum as "school of Titian." 
Such was evidently not the impression of 
Velasquez, for in his passing mention of it 
he says, describing the location of each 
painting at the monastery, "after that one, 
the painting from the liand 0} Titian " of the 
"Tribute INIoney, etc." 

The foot-notes of the "^Memoria" are by 
Senor Canete, except the one on the word 
aposentador. 

Mr. James Fitzmaurice-Kelly, in his his- 
tory above cited, in speaking of the "Me- 
moria" says: "It deserves a passing refer- 
ence as a model of energetic expression in a 
time when most professional men of letters 
were Gongorists or coiu-eptisfas." (The 
followers of the former of these schools of 
literature might be called the euphuists of 
Spain; those of the latter tried to elevate the 
style of their writings by interspersing them 
with frequent allusions to "concepts" of 
pseudo-sciences concocted by themselves.) 

The first of the writers on Velasquez to 
refer to the "Memoria" was Don Fran- 
cisco Pacheco, the Sevillian painter with 
whom Velasquez studied, and whose daugh- 
ter, Dona Ji-iawfli afterward became his 
wife. We are indebted to the book of this 
old painter and scholar for much of our in- 
formation about the great master, and in it 
we read of this transference by Philip the 
Fourth of a part of his collections, on the 
occasion of certain solemnities connected 
with the royal tombs at the great mauso- 
leum. Pacheco expressly says, "My son- 
in-law also drew up a memorial of the pict- 
ures that were sent." Palomino, another 
and highly considered writer on art, at a 
somewhat later time, also mentions the 
transaction, speaking eulogistically of Ve- 
lasquez's style in writing and his command 
of the subject. After these references, we 



lose track of the little book, and indeed one 
of the numerous and distinguished family 
of Madrazo spoke of it in a discourse as 
"unfortunately lost." A phrase of Palo- 
mino's furnishes a clue to the probable ex- 
planation of this; he says the memorial 
was done "for the information of his jNIaj- 
jesty as to the disposition of the pictures." 
Velasquez having performed the whole 
work simply in accordance with his duties 
as court painter, the idea that his pages 
might become a matter of concern to others, 
either as criticism or as literature, does not 
seem to have occurred to anyone but that 
youthful associate of the master, Juan de 
Alfaro, whose name appears on the title- 
page. Whether this devoted young pupil 
(later to become a \'ery tolerable painter), 
hailing his master as the "Apelles of this 
century" (he afterward wrote a long epic 
in Latin with Velasquez as the hero), really 
did have the work printed in Rome to con- 
secrate it to posterity, or only pretended 
that he did in order, as Senor Castro sur- 
mises, to forestall possible trouble, we can- 
not be sure. Certainly in our gratitude for 
the preservation of the document we must 
hope that his act procured him no disfavor 
from his superiors, though it can hardly 
have been acceptable to that Padre Santos, 
a chaplain at the Escorial, who, during the 
two years that intervened between Velas- 
quez's writing of the "Memoria" and Al- 
faro's publication of it, in his book on the 
monastery made use of Velasquez's manu- 
script for a description of the pictures with- 
out giving credit to the original author, 
changing his text only superficially. It is 
clear from the extracts which Castro in- 
cludes in his notes that Santos borrowed in 
the same way from his celebrated predeces- 
sor, Siguenza. The attitude of still a third 
monk, however, makes it seem as if such 
methods were then considered less repre- 
hensible than now. This last, Padre Xi- 
menez, "ingenuously confesses" that he 
copied from Sigiienza and Santos, only 
making such changes as he thought would 
improve their lines. 

The publication of Santos's plagiarism, 
which Senor Castro treated fully in the es- 
say which he sent to the Academy, together 
with the "Memoria," produced an effect 
which the "learned writer," as Beruete 
calls him, did not expect. For it is around 
Santos that dissension centres as to the 



40 



The "Memoria" of Velasquez 



authenticity of the work — a small group 
of critics having come forward with the con- 
tention that he, and not Velasquez, was the 
author. Perhaps the first to take issue 
against Castro's discovery was the Spanish 
art-writer, Villaamil. His first point, that 
Velasquez could not have set Raphael's 
"Pearl "above his other work, "The Virgin 
of the Fish," seems too easily refutable by 
the change in ideas that two centuries may 
bring to need further discussion. His sec- 
ond criticism, however, having been taken 
up by Don Aureliano de Beruete in his book 
on Velasquez, is more important. Villaa- 
mil says that an honor which is given to 
Velasquez on the title-page of the little book 
was one he did not at the time enjoy, i. e., 
that he was not then a knight of Santiago 
(St. James). But even if we were to allow 
that this argument could utterly vitiate the 
" Memoria's " claim to authenticity, there 
would still remain to the critic by far the 
greater part of his task in proving his state- 
ment. From Palomino we know that the 
Pope's sanction, which was needed for the 
painter's final entry into the noble order, 
did not come until after the publication by 
Alfaro — as Villaamil notes. But from the 
same source we know that the king, "ac- 
knowledging no temporal superior," con- 
ferred the title first, and had Velasquez's 
qualifications (freedom from any taint of 
Moorish or Jewish blood, absence of his 
family during three generations from any 
commercial pursuit or base office, etc., etc.) 
proved for Rome afterward. Mr. John La 
Farge, in discussing this point, as connected 
with Velasquez's wearing the red cross of 
the order in his own picture of the "Me- 
ninas" (two years before the "Memoria"), 
distinctly takes the ground that the insignia 
was even then due to the artist. For, he 
reasons, following the old account that it 
was Philip himself who painted on his fa- 
vorite's breast the cross in the picture, the 
king not only wished to reward him for the 
work, but to make it apparent to all who 
saw this intimate record that the painter 
thus associated with himself and his family 
was a person of sufiiicient rank for the honor. 
So Villaamil's objection as to the dates can 
in no way be considered final. 

Prof. Carl Justi, pursuing what Beruete 
calls a series of "ingenious reasonings," 
finds what he thinks cause for considerable 
doubt. The author of the "^Memoria" 



seems to him rather cavalier in the style 
with which he begins to speak of an English 
king dead seven years before, plunges, "like 
a modern essayist, in medias res, so as to rivet 
the attention of the reader by a striking 
statement," and only at the end brings in 
King Philip, with whom he really should 
have begun. Could we get more data on 
Velasquez's correspondence — so much of 
which is lost — we might include this opin- 
ion of Justi's in a consideration of the exact 
degree of the king's intimacy which the 
court painter enjoyed; but how little it af- 
fects the validity of the present document 
may be judged from the silence which the 
German's fellow-dissenters preserve upon 
the point. 

Justi — as also Beruete — finds the opin- 
ions which Velasquez expresses on the pict- 
ures quite out of accord with his character- 
istics as a painter. I take up below the 
arguments which seem to me to prove that 
no such incompatibility exists. And, while 
recognizing the scholarly qualities in the 
works of both of these gentlemen, and the 
increased knowledge of the great master 
which they have spread, I must remark 
that a constitutional disposition to over- 
criticise seems to afiiict them both — leading 
to such mistaken decisions as that which 
they rendered against the Velasquez por- 
trait recently acquired by the Boston Muse- 
um, a work whose genuineness is now com- 
monly admitted. 

Justi's final point — or, in his own book, 
the first — is, that a suggestion by Stirling- 
Maxwell in 1848, that Velasquez's lost 
"Memoria" may have guided Santos, did 
not, perhaps, fall on deaf ears; meaning 
that Senor Castro, having possibly read the 
Scotch author's lines, might have fabricated 
the work, or reconstructed it according to his 
own lights. This insinuation of Professor 
Justi becomes the more surprising as we 
read on in his chapter and fimd that the only 
support which he brings to it is what he con- 
siders the internal evidence which the text 
of the document contains. 

Here Beruete stands entirely apart from 
him. He does not believe in the "Me- 
moria," but his attitude toward Castro is 
wholly that of respect, laying the blame — if 
such there is — on the eighteenth-century 
conceit of producing literary forgeries. It 
seems most probable to him that the culprit 
was the Count de Saceda, on the ground that 




From tilt- painting by I'clastjuez. 



The Meninas. 



At the left of the pictuye appears Velasquez, showing; on his breast the red cross painted by King Philip in recognition of his 

work and proclaiming hiin a person of rank. 



he was especiall}- fond of this species of mys- 
tification. Beruete reviews the works of 
Villaamil and Justi, and states that Sehor 
Menendez y Pelayo, one of the most dis- 
tinguished of Spanish litterateurs to-day, 
first accepted the "Memoria" and later de- 
cided against it. On Stirhng-Maxwell's 
idea that Velasquez's book was used by 
Santos — that shrewd surmise which led 
Justi to his strange accusation — Beruete is 
silent, although he must have known of it 
from the former's reference. Sir Walter 
Vol. XLII.— c 



Armstrong, while he does not produce any 
further reason of his own for doubting the 
work, dismisses it more summarily than any 
of the preceding critics, with a poetic com- 
parison of our loss of the " Memoria " to that 
of certain relics of Dante. Such writing can 
only deepen an impression that the opinions 
of this group would have greater weight if 
more evidence should sustain their asser- 
tions a nd more logic temper their sentiment. 
In France, Baron Charles Davillier, the 
well-known writer on art and art industries, 

41 



42 The "Memoria" of Velasquez 

especially Spanish, translated the "Me- Of an entirely different tenor is his dis- 
moria" into French (Paris, 1874). Lefort, cussion of the Tintoretto picture. Admira- 
in the Velasquez book of his series, "Les tion for the truth of effect here takes the 
Artistes Celebres," gives considerable space place of a search for spiritual cjualities. 
to the document, which he accepts without Who but Velasquez among the old mas- 
question, ters would have hit on that phrase "am- 

Upon being published in Spain by the bient air " between the figures ? And when 
Academy, the "Memoria" was generally we read the remarks on the flatness of the 
received in much the same spirit as when floor, and think that it was this very year of 
first read to that body. The ascription of 1656 which saw the "Meninas" flow from 
certain pictures of which Velasquez treats, his brush, we see a connection between the 
now returned to Madrid and the Prado Mu- ideas which he expressed in writing and the 
seum, has been changed since the discovery ones which he expressed in paint. With 
of the document. Such is, for e.xample, this great interior of his own beside the Tin- 
the "Ecce Homo" of Titian, formerly as- toretto, there would, as Lefort suggests, 
cribed to Bassano. Later catalogues con- have been one picture at least which would 
firm Velasquez's account of the distribu- not "remain in terms of painting." The 
tion of the pictures; indeed, a few are to-day photograph shows how completely he has 
where he placed them. The number of described the Del Sarto in the few sen- 
pictures lost is very largely attributable to tences he employs. Again an even more 
the conflagrations, which in later and deca- succinct note is that on the Correggio, where 
dent reigns "aflhcted" the Escorial. the rapid phrases seem like the strokes of 

For the Academy's reprint of the "Me- his own brash. W'e wonder if he does not 

moria" Canete found it necessary to do no define his position between realism and 

more than modernize the spelling, a few idealism when he .says that the landscape 

slight errors of printing also being corrected, "equally deceives and rejoices the sight," 

So we read the master's words to-day pre- for of all pictures, his hold the truest balance 

cisely as he left them. between the two. 

History tells us that Michael Angelo, on 

Two and a half centuries have gone by seeing a painting by Titian, spoke slight- 
since Velasquez wrote his memorial, and on ingly of Venetian drawing. But here ad- 
the artists here so succinctly treated whole mirers of the great colorist have a dictum 
libraries of commentary and criticism have of ecjual value in favor of his drawing, and 
piled up. But the surety of the master's from an absolute master of the figure, when 
judgment was such that we look in vain Velasquez says that the " famous " Saint Se- 
among the received authorities for any con- bastian was "beautifully planted onhis feet."' 
siderable divergence from the lines of opin- This is to say that Titian has met one of 
ion that he laid down. The simple and the very difficult problems of drawing. 
direct words with which Velasquez notes It has frequently been noted that paint- 
the difference between the face of the Virgin ers of varying schools — draughtsmen, col- 
and that of the others in Veronese's " Mar- orists, and expressers — justify their theories 
riage at Cana " contain the substance of the by citing the same great masters. And that 
lengthy treatments of such subjects that we this arises from no anomaly is seen in these 
find in later writers. Sparing as are the pages. For directly after his praise of the 
phrases with which he describes each picture, noble figure-drawing in the Veronese "Mar- 
we find again and again that hehas fairly in- riage at Cana" Velasquez gives his appre- 
cluded the salient qualities of the painter, elation of the distinctions of expression, and 

He is impressed by the devotion, the rev- finally in the same paragraph a recognition 

erence, and the feeling in Raphael. Not not only of the color in the vesture of the 

only to the faces in the "Virgin of the Fish," little negro for itself, but for that "spot " as 

but to those in many another of the master's related to the whole composition. Later 

pictures could be applied Velasquez's words, again he speaks of a figure by Titian as be- 

" beautiful and grave, . . . although ing "so divinely colored that it seems ahve 

smiling." So, too, where he speaks earlier and of flesh." Men of the first rank ap- 

of " her exceeding grace " many a Raphael preciate all sides of art and embody them in 

Madonna must come to mind. their production. Afterward, men who can. 




From the painting by Raphael Sanzio de Urbino. 

" The Pearl." 



do but one thing find it in the work of the. 
masters, and straightway proclaim them as 
proving their doctrine. 

In spite of his cathoUcity, however, from 
his earliest bodegon to the "St. Anthony and 
St. Paul" of the latest period of his life, cer- 
tain tendencies and preferences are mark- 
edly apparent in Velasquez's work, and it 



would be unnatural that these should have 
no effect on his judgment. They do; and 
if it seems at times, as in placing that first 
Raphael — the" Pearl" — above theTintoret, 
that he does not follow completely his own 
judgment, we must remember that it was 
the pictures of his "lord, the king" with 
which he had to deal, and while he might 

43 



44 



The " Memoria " of Velasquez 



reverse this decision in familiar conversa- 
tion with a brother artist, as we know he 
did in Italy, before the rigors of his official 
position it was necessary to leave things in 
their accepted places. How far he did fol- 
low his own taste is witnessed by his general 
trend toward admiring excellence of repre- 
sentation, even in the work of Raphael, 
which later critics, notably those of French 
schooling, regard as the sublimation of har- 
monious line. And could the phrases on 
Tintoretto's "facility and verve" of hand- 
ling come more naturally from any other 
than the only painter to challenge the su- 
preme Frans Hals for sheer mastery of the 
brush ? Color, again, is with Velasquez re- 
lated with adherence to the facts of nature, 
if not actually dependent on that fidelity. 
Far from being at variance with his work in 
the Prado, let us say, is not this the very 
quality which for so long caused men to 
blunder about it ? For, with their eves ac- 



customed to the golden tone of Venetian 
painting, it was only a short time ago that 
men were saying, even such a one as our 
own John Hay, that Velasquez's canvases 
contained truth but no beauty. 

A phrase which occurs more than once in 
the "Memoria" is "lo historiado" — the 
recorded, or, as I render it, the representa- 
tion. That a picture should have sug- 
gested to Velasquez this word, that for all 
its a:sthetic appeal, a painting was to him 
not merely a design or a color scheme — 
whence his presentation of such composi- 
tions as the "Martyrdom of St. Gines" and 
"Christ's Visit to' His Mother," as the 
records of events, and his recognition of the 
portrait quality even in those heads of per- 
sonages merely figuring in a scene — all this 
agrees well with that noblest work which in 
the "Surrender of Breda," the "Spinners" 
and the "Meninas" touches the highest 
point attained by art. 



A MEMORIAL OF THE PAINTINGS 

Which The Catholic Majesty 

Of the King our Lord Don PhiHp the 

Fourth, sends to the Monastery of San 

Lorenzo the Roval of the Escorial, 

this year MDCLVI, 

Described and Arranged 
By Diego de Sylva \'elasquez, 
Knight of the Order of Santiago, Groom 
of the Bed Chamber to His IVIajesty, 
Reception Steward of His Imperial 
Palace,* Adjutant of the Wardrobe, 
Usher of the Chamber, Superin- 
tendent Extraordinary of Royal 
Works, and Court Painter — 
the Apelles of this Century. 

Offered, Dedicated and Consecrated to 

Posterity 

By Don Juan de Alfaro. 

Printed in Rome in the Office of Ludovico 

Grignano in the year 

M.D.C.LVHI 

Translated from the Spanish by Walter 

Pach. 

Charles Stuart, King of England, worthy 
of better fortune for the excellent parts with 

* Aposetitador: It was the duty of this official to provide 
for royal guests or for the reception of the king when he 
travelled. 



which nature gifted him, with laudable and 
generous ambition to embellish his palace 
and enrich his Kingdom with the most 
noble, precious, and exquisite that might 
be found in foreign lands, scattered through 
them persons of gentle mind, taste, intelli- 
gence and information. They traversed 
Europe, and supplementing with their dili- 
gence, the gold which the king freely pro- 
vided, were fortunate in acquiring much of 
the best that interested them. They trans- 
ported it to England and its royal palaces of 
\\'estminster and Nonsuch — which latter, 
newly adorned, worthily deserved its name. 
Painting, in England, was given ffi-st place 
among the arts; not only for its intrinsic 
excellence, but because of the honor which 
the pictures to be found there reflect upon 
it — famous works by those artists who in our 
times recei\e the veneration and cult which 
the past gave to its Apelles, Parrhasius, and 
Zeuxis. But at the tragic death of Charles, 
this care and labor of so many men fell to 
the ground in a day. Side by side with the 
rumor of his death ran that of this rich and 
singular spoil, convening to its auction all the 
princes of Europe. And through the Ambas- 
sador of Spain and other confidants in Eng- 
land, Don Luis Mendez de Haro, Count- 
Duke of San Lucar, was represented at the 
sale, as became one who in all things is ever 




a, 
a. 



-C 






J3 



S^ 



to 



46 



The "Memoria" of Velasquez 



watchful to secure the best. This he did 
here, obtainingforhighprices (whichseemed 
nothing to him) the canvases and panels 
which were justly reputed the best among 
manv good ones. When they were brought 
to ISiadrid and their excellence was recog- 
nized close at hand to deserve the attention 
of our Lord the King, with his superior 
understanding, [the Duke] laid them at his 
feet, and they had their due place and estima- 
tion in the Royal Palace — that sumptuous 
treasur}' and asylum of culture, where, obe- 
dient to Jove's command, the Arts have 
accumulated what is most admirable and 
precious of his realm — the labor and honor 
of many ages. 

I. [In the] Sacristy. — Beyond competi- 
tion, a panel* by Raphael Sanzio de Urbino 

♦This picture later came to be called "The Pearl," by 
which title it is now generally known. 



merits the first place. It was carried from 
Mantua to England; in it is painted Our 
Lady with the Child, Saint Isabel and Saint 
John, with a landscape well applied to the 
figures, and in its second compartment a 
Saint Joseph — most excellent, all this, in 
drawing as in color. The action and coun- 
tenance of the Virgin more than human. 
Words fail to explain her exceeding grace, 
that of the Child and the Saint John. The 
Child has his foot on a pillow that is in a 
cradle formed of osiers; the cloths of it are 
truth itself. No exaggeration could equal 
the taste and diligence of this work; we 
may assure ourselves that till to-day nothing 
equal by its author has been seen in Spain. 
The panel is five and a quarter feet high 
and a little more than four in breadth. 

II. Sacristy — Let there go in the second 
place, but not as inferior, the Canvas of 




From the painting />y Andrea del Sarto. 

Our Lady, the Child, and St. John. 




From the painting by Paolo Cagliari Veronese. 

The Marriage of Cana in Galilee. 
Christ perfoniuug the miracle of the conversion of water into wine. 



Christ's Washing the Feet of the Disciples, 
the night of the Supper. The great Jacobo 
Tintoretto here exceeded himself. It is 
most excellent in conception, and admirable 
in invention and execution. With difficulty 
does thespectatorpersuadehimself that what 
hesees is painting: such is the forceof its tints 
and the disposition of its perspective, that 
he thinks he can enter and walk about on its 
pavement — tiagged with stones of different 
colors, which, diminishing, make the dis- 
tance in the piece seem great; and between 
the figures there is ambient air. The table, 
seats,andadogwhichisintroducedaretruth, 
not paint. The facility and verve with which 
it is handled will cause astonishment to the 
most adept and practised painter; and in 
short, whatever thepainting that beset beside 
this canvas, it will remain in terms of paint- 
ing, while so much the more will this be felt to 
be truth. This canvas and another of the 
Supper were done by Tintoretto for the 
church called St. Mark's in Venice.* It was 
taken away and a copy put in its place, but 

* In the Catalogue of the Pictures of the Royal Monastery 
of San Lorenzo, called the Escorial, by Don Vicente Polero y 
Toledo (Madrid, 1857), a note to page 11 says that this 
canvas was painted, not for the Church of St. Mark's, but for 
that of Santa Marcola. The Spanish ambassador, Don 
Alonso de Cdrdenas, bought it at the auction of Charles I 
of England for King Philip IV for the sum of /J250 sterling. 



although one knows that such is the case, so 
satisfactory and harmonious is the copy 
that even beside the work of the master it 
seems an original. It is seven and a half 
feet high and nineteen broad. The figures 
are life size. 

III. Sacristy. — The panel by Andrea 
del Sarto, of Florence, is very worthy of 
this place and to be the work of so great a 
master. It is Our Lady seated upon some 
steps. She holds the Child with one hand 
and with the other her mantle. The Child 
stands, looking at an angel dressed in a 
green and most beautifully worked tunic; 
he has an open book in his hands, and looks 
at the Child, who stretching out His arms 
with an action of rare life, seems to throw 
himself toward him. On the other side 
there is a figure (in the main part of the 
picture) seated on the steps; it may be 
taken as Saint John the Evangelist, though 
it bears none of the special marks that de- 
note him. On the last of the steps is seen 
another small figure of a woman with a 
child by the hands, and all this against a 
landscape whose tints harmonize with the 
composition of the picture. This one was 
also taken to England from the auction of 
the Duke of Mantua. 

47 



48 



The "Memoria" of Velasquez 



IV. Chapter-room. — A painter of the 
Marriage of Cana in Galilee, where Christ is 
performing the miracle of the conversion of 
water into wine; it is by Paolo Cagliari 
Veronese, abounding in figures of the no- 
bility and rare disposition that this great 
painter possessed in all he did, both those 
seated at the table and those that serve. 
There are admirable heads, and almost all 
seem portraits. Not so that of the Virgin, 
for it has greater gravity and divinity, and 
though very beautiful, corresponds propor- 
tionately to the age of Christ, who is beside 
her; a matter in which very many painters 
err, who painting Christ of mature years, 
paint his mother as a girl. There is one 
standing figure, dressed in white, who 
seems to enter from without. Others ac- 
company him, and as they stop at the sight 
of the miracle one of those at the table de- 
scribes it to them. Before the board is a 
little negro seen from the back, serving; his 
vesture is vellow, and the spot produces a 
great harmony in the composition. The 
figures are of half-size. The height of the 
picture is four and a half feet, and its length 
seven and a half. 

Together with these four canvases he [the 
Duke] brought from England others, pro- 
fane works, no less excellent — such as are 
the twelve emperors which the famous Ti- 
tian painted for the Duke of Mantua, and 
which have been so frequently copied, to 
the greater fame and estimation of the orig- 
inals (they serve to-day to adorn the royal 
palace of Mediodia); among them the 
portrait of the Lord Emperor Charles the 
Fifth as a young man, his hand resting on a 
greyhound. But as the above-named are 
the four principal paintings, we shall onh' 
speak now of them, reserving a considera- 
tion of the others which he brought and 
gave to His Majesty for a due time in the 
future. 

As paintings really decide their own rank 
by their excellence and reputation, and as 
these are so possessed by the pictures here 
described, surely no one will imagine that I 
need give them grade or precedence. Pre- 
supposing this, I pass on to speak of others 
of the many that Don Ramiro Nunez de 
Guzman, Duke of Medina de las Torres, 
gave to His Majesty when he came from 
Italy. The following go with the four 
described above. 



V. Hall of the Chapter. — A panel * 
from the hand of Raphael of Urbino, in 
which is painted Our Lady seated on a high 
chair, and in front, below, a chest or pedes- 
tal of wood. xA.t her right side is the youth- 
ful Tobias, kneeling with the fish in his 
hand that indicates his history, and the 
angel who accompanied him. Notable are 
the devotion, reverence, and feeling of both 
as they look at the Virgin and at the Child; 
all, it seems, have life. The countenance 
of the Virgin is beautiful and grave, as also 
that of the Child, although smiling. He 
stretches out his arm toward them, and the 
other rests on a Saint Jerome kneeling at 
the other side in the robes of a cardinal with 
the lion at his feet. Of this painting, Gi- 
orgio Vasari makes mention in the life of 
Raphael. He says it was painted for 
Naples and that it is in the Chapel of the 
Santo Cristo who spoke to Saint Thomas. 
The Duke carried it to Spain, and with other 
excellent pictures presented it to His Majes- 
ty. The })anel is seven and a half feet high 
and five and a half broad. 

VI. Sacristy. — A picture of as high 
estimation as the preceding, from the hand 
of Antonio Correggio, is the risen Christ in 
the orchard. The Magdalen, most beauti- 
ful, on her knees at his feet — most tender 
in feeling; the Christ very beautiful; the 
landscape, in which there is the illusion of a 
dawn, equally deceives and rejoices the 
sight. The height is four and a half feet 
and the width nearly four. 

VII. Ante-sacristy. — A picture by Paul 
Veronese of the Mystery of the Purification. 
The figures are of half-size, but they have 
no lack of the appearance of life. In the 
centre is seen the aged Simeon, decorated 
with the insignia and ornaments of the 
High Priest, bowed with years, and resting 
his heavy body on two attendants who con- 
duct him to the table or altar. The Virgin, 
kneeling before him with the Child in her 
hands on a white cloth, He all nude — most 
beautiful, tender, and seemingly with the 
restlessness so natural to that age, so that 
he appears more alive and in the flesh than 
painted. Saint Joseph accompanies the 
Virgin with a candle in his hand, and be- 

* Senor Canete's note. — Among the multitude of 
works of which the French despoiled us during the War 
of Independence, this picture went to Paris in 1813. The 
bad state of the panel made them transfer the painting to 
canvas, on which it is preserved to-day. They returned it 
to us in 1822. "The Virgin of the Fish" is the name 
generally given to this beautiful composition of the painter 
of Urbino. 




]• }'o m the paiiituig by Rapiuicl Sttrir^/o di' Urbino. 

The Virgin of the Fish. 



hind the altar is a woman with some pig- 
eons in a cage, all painted with the nobility 
and grand manner of its author. The 
countenance of the Virgin, which is seen in 
half-profile, is divine — most beautiful and 
modest, and the other heads of the figures 



of the story most excellent. One figure 
seen from the rear in front of the altar, in 
counter-position to a white cloth which 
covers it, dressed in a yellow garment 
striped with other colors, and with an open 
book in his hands, completes the composi- 

49 



50 



The "Memoria" of Velasquez 



tion marvellously. This picture is four and 
three-quarters feet high, almost five wide. 

VIII. Ante-Sacristy. — Another, by Ti- 
tian, of the Flight into Egypt. In a natural 
and very beautiful landscape, Our Lady 
with the Child in her arms, gazing at Saint 
John, who brings her some cherries gath- 
ered from a tree by an angel; on the other 
side is Saint Joseph smiling, looking at the 
Child, on foot and leaning on his staff. 
Among the trees in the landscape is seen 
a little donkey grazing, and in the farthest 
distance, other animals. In the shrubbery, 
where there are terraces that seem real 
earth, some little rabbits gambol. In an- 
other part, on a pool, some ducks; marvel- 
lous all this, and in the best style of the 
author. The figures are less than life size. 
The height of the canvas five and a half 
feet, and twelve and a half broad. 

IX. Sacristy. — Another of the same 
artist, a "Betrothal of Saint Catherine." 
Our Lady is seated in a landscape, the 
Child reclining in her lap; the saint kneel- 
ing to caress Him; Saint John the Baptist, 
a child, who brings fruit to the Virgin, who 
e.xtends her hand to take it. This is an 
original — highly esteemed. The figures 
less than life size. The height is three and 
a half feet, the breadth almost five. 

X. Sacristy. — Another picture, from the 
hand of Paris Bordone, a portrayal of Our 
Lady seated in a chair of state, with the 
Child standing on her knees. At her right 
hand a Saint Anthony of Padua, and at the 
other, Saint Roch, medium-sized figures; 
the whole painted with very good taste. 
Three and a half feet high, and in length, 
less than five. 

The Admiral of Castile, Don Juan Al- 
fonso Gutierrez de Cabrera, gave many and 
selected paintings to His Majesty when he 
came from Italy. Of these, the following 
go to the Escorial: 

XL Chapter-room. — A canvas of Paul 
Veronese, in which Christ, accompanied by 
the Fathers of Limbo {Padres del Limbo — 
see Dante, " Inferno," Canto IV], visits his 
mother, finding her in loneliness and great 
affliction, praying. The countenance of the 
Virgin is one of great feeling, and in it are 
seen expressed at once sorrow and joy. 
Christ, most beautiful, with a white mantle, 
is blessing her, and nearest to him is seen the 
good thief, with his cross, and his hands in 



cords. The others, patriarchs and prophets 
— excellently painted and with great judg- 
ment, are recognized by their insignia. The 
invention is rare, the idea new, and the com- 
position and harmony of the representation 
beyond exaggeration. The figures are less 
than life-size. It is nearly five feet high and 
almost eight wide. 

XII. Small Aula. — Another of the same 
author; he has painted in it the martyrdom 
of a saint, * possibly Saint Sebastian. The 
other figures are many, varied in posture 
and in dress. It is of the finest of his work. 
The saint is kneeling, already placed on the 
spot where he is to be decapitated ; the exe- 
cutioner bares his neck with one hand while 
with the other he holds the sword. The 
saint, with his eyes toward heaven, closes 
his ears against the persuasion of some 
priests who point to the bronze statue of a 
goddess; all is painted with singular grace 
and charming taste. The figures life size. 
The height is nine feet and the breadth six 
and a half. 

XIII. Sacristy. — Another of Saint Mar- 
garet reviving a boy whomx an old man, ac- 
companied by other persons, sustains with 
his hands. The figures are life size — more 
than half-length. It is held to be from the 
hand of Michael Angelo Caravaggio, and 
one of his best works in this style. The 
height is four and a quarter feet, and the 
width more than three and a half. 

Of the paintings which the Count of Mon- 
terey brought from Italy and gave to His 
Majesty, whom God preserve, the following 
are included : 

XIV. Sacristy. — One bv Annibale Car- 
racci of the Ascent of Our Lady to heaven. 
Leaving the sepulchre she rises on high ac- 
companied by angels, and the apostles in 
various positions watch in wonder. It is a 
painting of great fame and stands among 
the good works of its author; very similar 
in its masses of color and in the disposition 
of the story to those of Tintoretto. It is in 
height four feet and three-quarters, in width 
three and a half. 

XV. Sacristy. — A picture by Fra Sebas- 
tiano del Piombo, of Venice. Christ, car- 
rying the cross slanting, with a light violet 
tunic; a painting of grandeur and force. 
The head of the Christ is most beautiful, 

* Canete's note. — The martyrdom represented is that of 
Saint Gines. 




prom the painting by AniiibaU Carracci. 

The Ascent of Our Ladj' to Heaven. 



and it and the rest of the figure represent seems a portrait. Behind him is seen an- 
well the weight and fatigue of the cross other head of a man in armor. The tint 
which bears him down. A rough fellow is of all the rest is dark. The life-size figures 
beside him; his head, charmingly painted, are of somewhat more than half-length. 

51 



52 



The "Memoria" of Velasquez 



Many copies exist of this original, and there 
are two at San Lorenzo which seem to be 
by the same hand. The height is four and 
a half feet, and the width a scant four. 

XVI. Small Aula. — Another from the 
hand of Titian : Christ shown by Pilate to the 
people. He is surrounded by many rough 
fellows; the figures all natural size. It is 




Ffom llie painting by Fra Sclnistiano del Pioiiibo. 
Christ Carrying tlie Cross. 

very good, but has suffered much and has 
some repairs. The height is more than 
four feet, the breadth three and a half. 

Other sacred paintings accompany those 
referred to, completing the number twenty- 
four; they are these: 

XVII. Sacristy. — The great Titian's 
famous Saint Sebastian (which belonged to 
the Counts of Benavente) , a figure of natural 
size in a niche, nude, the hands behind and 



two arrows piercing him, the head raised to 
heaven with great feeling and life; and be- 
side the body's being beautifully planted on 
its feet, it is so divinely colored that it seems 
alive and of flesh. 

[I here omit the notices of a number of 
pictures which the author simply mentions 
with their sizes and loca- 
tion at the monastery — - 
no comment being made.] 
Of all the forty -one 
paintings there remain 
only five to be accommo- 
dated, and of these the 
size has not been conven- 
ient ; so they remain in the 
chapter-rooms till others 
come that are expected, 
so that all may be placed. 
These sacred paint- 
ings, selected from those 
of all kinds which adorn 
the royal palace of His 
Majesty, are the ones he 
now sends to the Royal 
Monastery of San Loren- 
zo, thus giving, as he ab- 
sents them from his sight, 
a new and marked evi- 
dence of his feeling for 
that house, and a proof 
that to furnish it magnifi- 
cently he will never hesi- 
tate, when necessary, to 
strip his own residence of 
its most highly prized be- 
longings. 

His Majesty noticed 
that some of the apart- 
ments were poor in paint- 
ings, especially the two 
described, and he did not delay in their 
improvement. Beyond a doubt, when this 
sacred and stupendous pile was erected by 
his mighty grandfather, the latter, foresee- 
ing the great piety of His Majesty, pur- 
posely left him much space vacant, so that 
his royal mind might adorn it at will, and 
that his churchmen, in due gratitude, should 
incessantly pray God to prosper and pro- 
long a life of such great importance. 



IMPRESSIONS OF CONTEMPO- 
RARY FRANCE 



BY BARRETT WENDELL 
IV— THE REPUBLIC AND DEMOCRACY 




HEN we compare the present 
system of government in 
France with the various oth- 
ers which have flourished and 
fallen since the Revolution 
overthrew the traditional 
monarchy, at least two circumstances dis- 
tinguish it from all the rest. The first is 
that in origin it was not deliberate. For- 
eign invasion had resulted in the fall of the 
empire; a provisional government was a 
matter of necessity; and from this provi- 
sional government the republican system 
still in existence was presently developed, 
by methods of debate rather than of armed 
force. Though, beyond doubt, the repub- 
lic had intense partisans, their convictions 
would hardly have established it but for the 
solid fact that no other proposed plan of 
government, royalist or imperial, proved 
practicable at the moment; something had 
to be done and this seemed, on the whole, 
the only thing to do. Exceptional though 
the tragic conditions of its beginning were, 
there is, accordingly, a case for those who 
should maintain, with what seems paradox, 
that the present republic is the most normal 
form of government which has controlled 
France since the old regime. For it is the 
only one which was forced upon the country 
by the practical logic of necessity. x\ll the 
others were based on the revolutionary prec- 
edent of supplanting the regularly consti- 
tuted authorities by armed force — a process 
which, of course, resulted in making the sup- 
pressed parties revolutionists themselves, 
duly waiting their turn. The republic, to 
be sure, has as much doctrine of its own as 
the empire had or as either scheme of roy- 
alty; but this doctrine is rather the defence 
of its power than the basis. 

Even if this were the only circumstance to 

distinguish it from the forms of government 

to whose authority it has succeeded, it would 

stand conspicuously alone. A second cir- 

VoL. XLIL— 6 



cumstance makes its position doubly clear. 
Whether the unrecognized normality of its 
origin has had anything to do with its en- 
durance or not — the question might well 
prove debatable — the fact of its endurance 
is now beyond question. Between the out- 
break of the Revolution and the fall of the 
second empire no French sovereignty had 
maintained itself for more than eighteen 
consecutive years. There had consequently 
never been a period when everyone in the 
country who had attained the age of twenty- 
five could not personally remember both the 
state of affairs which had preceded that un- 
der which he was living and the revolution- 
ary disturbances by means of which the gov- 
ernment actually in pov.er had come into 
existence. During the first years of the third 
republic it must have seemed as palpable a 
political novelty as almost any other of the 
systems which had come before it in living 
memory. By the year 1 888, however, it had 
already survived as long as either the reign 
of Louis Philippe or the second empire, its 
two most prolonged predecessors; and by 
this time the interval since 1888 is as long 
as that which separated i8'88 from 1870. 
For thirty-six years the actual form of gov- 
ernment in France has now remained un- 
broken by revolution. By 1 906 there was not 
a living Frenchman under the age of forty, 
whatever his political convictions, who could 
personally remem.ber any other system than 
that under which he was contentedly or 
restlessly living at the moment. Almost in- 
sensibly, the present Republic of France is 
growing to have such sanction as must come 
to any institutions from time wherein the 
memory of man runneth not to the contrary. 
This of itself Vk-ould give the present re- 
public a chance of stability not enjoyed by 
any other French system of the nineteenth 
century. When go\ernments, as when chil- 
dren, survive the dangers of infantile dis- 
ease, their prospects of survival till old age 

53 



54 



Impressions of Contemporary France 



regularly sets in are indefinitely strength- 
ened. The important question becomes 
whether anything seems to be organically 
the matter with them. In the case of a gov- 
ernment, such questions are extremely com- 
plicated. They involve all manner of sta- 
tistics, for one thing; for another, they are 
always confused by tlie methods of practice 
common among political experts and polit- 
ical quacks alike. Politicians, particularly 
when they have brewed panaceas of their 
own, are always eager to prove that the state 
needs their medicine. Their habitual elo- 
quence, accordingly, resembles that of the 
travelling vender of pills who declared that 
the great art of his profession lay not in the 
selling of his remedies, but in knowing how 
you could talk so as to make a crowd feel 
sick. In such quandary, an unprofessional 
listener, affected with qualms, has no re- 
source but to look at the crowd for himself. 
If it appears healthy, there is a strong prob- 
ability that, whatever its momentary mis- 
givings, it is really in sound condition. 

If any traveller in France thus considers 
the aspect of the country in the thirty-sev- 
enth year of the third republic, he can 
hardly avoid the impression that, at this 
moment, nothing could look more prosper- 
ous. Other countries, to be sure, may look 
more aggressively enterprising; you will 
perhaps see elsewhere more obtrusive nov- 
elties of modern trade and manufacture, or 
notice more bustle; but you will discover no- 
where else more constant evidence of solid 
and substantial welfare. From Flanders 
and Normandy to Provence, wherever you 
go, — from the Atlantic to the Alps, too, — 
you will find less evidence of poverty, of 
idleness, of misery, than will force itself on 
your attention in most parts of the world. 
To rely too strongly on such an impression 
as this may be imprudent; yet one cannot 
rationally neglect it. Travellers' tales have 
their value, as well as their limitations; and 
a pervasive national prosperity, a sound 
national virtue, is a fact a? incontrovertible 
as any assertion of statistics or philosophy. 
\A'hat is more, there are moods in which vou 
are disposed to think it more significant 
than the best of them. No government, 
to be sure, could produce the prosperity 
which must impress travellers throughovit 
France unless the people under its control 
were vigorous, intelligent, and thrifty; but 
no vigor or intelligence or thrift on the part 



of a people could produce it under a govern- 
ment which had not proved itself on the 
whole salutary. Whatever statistics or phi- 
losophy may tell you, the general condition 
of France at the present day is evidence 
enough for any traveller that throughout the 
memory of all men under forty years of age 
the government of the country has been not 
only unbroken, but efficient — that it has real- 
ly worked for the public good. 

Whether it has worked any better than 
some other form of government might have 
done, or even so well as might have been the 
case with some other, is evidently another 
question. In other countries, or at other 
epochs, this question might have been merely 
academic. In France, throughout the ex- 
istence of the third republic, it has often 
seemed one of practical politics. As we have 
already reminded ourselves, the present form 
of French government, though it has had the 
good fortune to survive beyond tlie limit of 
average human memory, began as a make- 
shift during a period of unprecedented na- 
tional disaster which threatened to result in 
anarchical revolution. For the moment, al- 
most all Frenchmen were willing to submit 
themselves to it provisionally. To many of 
them, however, it seemed at best only a pru- 
dent temporary alternative for some other 
form of government which they sincerely be- 
lieved to be superior. The empire had fallen ; 
but the spirit of the imperialists was not yet 
extinct. And, as everyone knows, the whole 
force of the empire, even when it seemed 
most dominant, had in no wise crushed 
the spirit of de\-oted royalists — Legitimist 
or Orleanist — any more than it had smoth- 
ered that of devoted republicans. What is 
more, everybody in the whole world could 
vividly remember the empire of Napoleon 
III ; men still in the full vigor of middle life 
could remember the reign of Louis Philippe; 
and it was only forty years since Louis 
Philippe had dethroned Charles X — little 
longer than it is now since Napoleon III 
surrendered at Sedan. Evidently, the pres- 
ent republic began its career under great 
disadvantages. Throughout France there 
were admirably honest Frenchmen who ar- 
dently believed that the country could not 
fully prosper until it returned to one or an- 
other of the three rival systems. 

Each of the three, too, had a personally 
respectable pretender to the throne of 
France. Had any of these aspirants to 



Impressions of Contemporary France 55 

hereditary sovereignty possessed a vividly well within what seemed the range of prac- 
commanding personality, the course of his- tical politics. So long as they remained 
tory might have taken another turn than there they could not help emphasizing the 
that which we have been considering to- fact that, as a form of government, the re- 
gether. In this respect fortune favored the public is based on only one aspect of French 
republic. Without venturing to criticise the tradition, — on the tradition of the Revolu- 
character of anv of the three, we can hardly tion, which is passionately contradictory of 
fail to agree that none of them was graced royalist andof imperial tradition alike. The 
with that kind of power which, whether you course of the republic, in many questions 
love it or hate it, impresses the imagination of detail, has done nothing to mitigate this 
of an enthusiastic people. Even from the emphasis; rather it has gloried in the tradi- 
beginning, accordingly, the republic was in tion peculiar to itself. Had it done otherwise, 
less danger than might otherwise have been it might have been more prudent, but it cer- 
the case of succumbing to some freshly revo- tainly would have been less French . There 
lutionary assertion of royalist or imperialist is something pleasantly typical in the device 
tradition. And the course oi events during which now ornaments the reverse of its gold 
the past thirty-six years has gone far to coinage. Instead of the imperial eagle, we 
avert what danger of such fate may have have the Gallic cock. To all appearance, 
originally existed. The direct line of Napo- this spirited bird is in the act of crowing — 
leon III is extinct; so is that of Charles X. for the purpose, one opines, of reminding us 
The Orleanist prince who has succeeded to that he is on top of the heap; which is very 
the Legitimist claim is not even descended, delightful for the cock, but not conciliatory 
in male line, from Louis XIV; and the pres- to the temper of less fortunate fowls. The 
ent heir of the Bonapartes must go back to same spirit shows itself more sedately in the 
the Corsican lawyer of the eighteenth cen- inscriptions with which the republic has 
tury if he would prove kinship with either evcrvwhere decorated the public buildings 
of the French emperors. Neither of these of France. Wherever you go, the words 
gentlemen, furthermore, is any more fortu- Liberty, Equality, Fraternity stare you in 
nate than the pretender whose claims he in- the face, never suffering you to forget that 
herits, in the matter of such personal qtiali- the watchwords of the Revolution are once 
ties as irresistibly impress public imagina- more those of the government in full posses- 
tion. It may seem needless to repeat that sion of power. And another vi\id exam- 
nothing is further from my purpose than pie of the spirit in question happens to 
to make any comment whate\er on their rise straight to the surface of my memory, 
private characters, which I am led to be- Among the masterpieces of Renaissance 
lieve deserving of universal esteem. The architecture in France is the Chateau of St. 
plain truth is that neither of them, for all his Germain, a great part of which was erected 
honorable virtues, has the gift of such dis- in the reign of King Francis I. It was ac- 
tinction as should make people in general cordingly decorated, like many other of his 
quite sure of just who he is. A pretender buildings, with his personal device, the sala- 
whom you have to verify in the Almanack mander, and with the initial " F " of his royal 
de Gotlia is no longer a serious menace — name. In the course of time it fell out of 
unless, in time to come, he remove himself repair, and furthermore was disfigured by 
from those impressive pages into the sun- various additions, and surrounded by other 
shine and shadow of open air. At this mo- buildings, of neither dignity nor impor- 
ment, accordingly, the claims of rival tra- tance. Within a few years the government 
ditions to the established government of has undertaken to restore it, as an historical 
France seem less threatening to established monument. The restoration, which has 
order than at any previous time since 1815. proceeded with intelligence and skill, is now 
For all this, these rival traditions persist so far advanced that, in certain places, it 
to the present day; and at times they have has reached the stage of finishing touches, 
been real dangers to the republic. Even of ornamental detail. Here the salamander 
though they no longer present themselves, writhes as splendidly as ever; and here, as 
at least for the moment, in so serious a light, in the elder time, admirably designed ini- 
the effect of them is evident everywhere tials alternate with him. But the new ini- 
throughout France. For years they were tials, of the restored palace are not those of 



56 



Impressions of Contemporary France 



King Francis. Instead of "F," you per- 
ceive "R. F." everywhere. The republic 
does not show itself quite confident enough 
to admit the past. Thus, by its own act, it 
reveals what still seems true. Even to this 
day the republic presents itself, both to its 
partisans and to its opponents, not so much 
in the light of an established national gov- 
ernment as in that of a temporarily dom- 
inant political party. 

In spite of this, we should be much mis- 
taken if we supposed its career exactly like 
that of some party which should have proved 
able to maintain itself indefinitely in power 
under a system like our own. In the course 
of its career, it has come, at different times, 
under the control of very different kinds of 
people. There have been moments in its 
existence, indeed, when it has so nearly 
passed into the hands of sympathizers with 
royalist tradition that the advent of a king 
seemed close at hand; and, radical though 
its revolutionary devices must always have 
appeared, it has more than once found itself 
under the management of people whose 
impulses were certainly conservative, if not 
reactionary. In other words, if we are dis- 
posed to liken the republic to a dominant 
party, as distinguished from a system of 
government established by full consent of 
the governed, we must never suffer our- 
selves to forget that it has resembled a party 
composed of discordant factions rather than 
one vigorously united by general devotion to 
a common purpose. 

Viewing the matter in this light, one would 
naturally suppose that when any faction 
found itself for a while dominant it would 
be disposed, as a matter of obvious policy, 
to behave in a manner which so far as pos- 
sible should conciliate its opponents. Pre- 
cisely this form of amenity seems one of the 
few which the French are impulsively un- 
able to practise. Wherever you go in France 
you find aggressive assertions on the part of 
any faction or party which has ever got itself 
into control of affairs that it has had its way, 
if only for a while. The Gallic cock of the re- 
public struts crowing on coins which are still 
popularly described as napoleons; the cock- 
erels which France has hatched for him 
show themselves of the pure breed. 

An obvious example of this tendency 
must instantly attract the notice of any vis- 
itor to Paris at the present day. The cap- 
ital city of the republic is, in most respects. 



very like the capital of the second empire. 
Viewed from any distance or from any 
height, however, it proves to be dominated 
by two lofty structures which have been built 
under the present system of government. 
And these rise so conspicuously above all the 
rest of Paris that they are inevitably the 
points which catch the eye, and which linger 
in memory as the most salient features of 
the view. One is the Eiffel Tower, a re- 
markable achievement of construction in 
riveted steel. Its loftiness and the struct- 
ural accuracy of its lines give it something 
more like dignity and beauty than one would 
have supposed possible. At the same time, 
this network of steel pushed skyward has no 
apparent quality of permanence. It is evi- 
dently nothing more than a colossal piece of 
eccentric ingenuity, devised for the purpose 
of amusing crowds who flocked from every- 
where to one of the international exposi- 
tions. It has outlasted the occasion for 
which it admirably served its advertising 
purpose; and, as it still attracts and amuses 
a good many travellers every year, it stands 
there still, a huge plaything. But it does 
not look as if it need stand there very long. 
When people grow tired of playing with it, 
you fancy, it will be taken down and sold for 
old metal. And everybody will be happy — 
including those sensitive persons whose ar- 
tistic susceptibilities are wounded whenever 
they look at the monster. It has never done 
any harm to anybody else; and it is said to 
have proved a lucrative investment. 

The other structure which now surmounts 
Paris is in all respects of a different char- 
acter—except that there might be a case for 
those who should maintain it no more 
beautiful. The highest hill within the limits 
of the city is IMontmartre. It is at present 
crowned not with the houses and the wind- 
mill which used to distinguish it in former 
times, but with a huge white edifice, unmis- 
takable in its ecclesiastical character, yet so 
obviously modern in its lines that you can 
perceive it instantly to be a brand-new 
monument of the wealth and the power 
still resident in the Church. This sumptu- 
ous sanctuary, you presently discover, is the 
new Church of the Sacred Heart, specially 
consecrated to an extremely French species 
of mvstic devotion. It symbolizes that as- 
pect of the Church which is most intensely 
enthusiastic, and least concerned with the 
affairs of this world. It stands not for the 



Impressions of Contemporary France 57 

inexhaustible charity of Christianity, forever rily in power were disposed rather to sym- 
bringing aid and comfort to the poor and pathize with the Church than to oppose it 
unfortunate, earnestly endeavoring to miti- — you might accordingly have expected 
gate the ills of life. It stands rather for such them, as prudent statesmen, to have taken 
holy ecstasies as those who doubt or dislike this phase of opposition into consideration. 
Catholicism are apt to suppose little else than You might have expected the Church itself to 
drunkenness of the spirit. It is immensely have displayed a similar spirit. There are 
expensive; millions on millions of devout aspects enough and to spare in which Cath- 
francs have been consecrated to it by the olic Christianity is obviously beneficent, 
faithful. Every centime of them has gone These, you would have supposed, would be 
into its masonry and its decorations, to re- those which both its clergy and its laity 
main fixed there forever. For its founda- would have thought for the moment most 
tion and its walls are as solid as human skill deserving of emphasis. The last thing 
can make them. The church has been built which you would have supposed astute men 
there on Montmartre to dominate Paris so to favor would have been manifestations 
long as Paris shall stay on earth to be domi- of their more exasperating points of differ- 
nated. And, for fear that it might sometimes ence from fellow-citizens who had the mis- 
escape the notice of Parisians, the country- fortune to hold them in distrust. Yet with 
folk of Savoy have given their savings to free choice of conduct, the most extreme 
buy for it the biggest bell that can be had imaginable manifestation of such difference 
for money. They promise you, I believe, was the course which they preferred to take, 
that when the "Savoyard" is sounded, you Churchmen eagerly proposed this colossal 
shall hear the note of it in every cranny of monument of the Sacred Heart; the gov- 
the capital city of the French Republic. ernment of the moment consented to it. 

All of which is admirable in its way. One And there it stands to-day, a monument of 
cannot too deeply respect the self-sacrificing several other facts as well. It reminds every- 
devotion with which the Catholics of France body that for a while the clerical spirit was 
have thus testified to the living persistency dominant in the third republic; it reminds 
of their faith. If any splendor of enshrine- everybody that the moment it became so, it 
ment can really contribute ^'ad majorem proceeded to celebrate its dominance in the 
Z)ei ^/on'aw," no man who can sympathize most obtrusive and self-glorifying way — ■ 
with the longings of the human soul would and also in that which might be the hardest 
ever grudge the Church a bit of it. But you to obliterate when politics should take anr 
cannot be long in Paris without learning other turn. It reminds everybody that this 
that this colossal new place of worship has other turn of politics has ensued. It reminds 
another aspect than this primary one of tes- all who enthusiastically delight in the doc- 
tifying to the depth of orthodox devotion trines for which it stands that these are no 
still resident among the French. As is well longer in power. It reminds everybody who 
known, a great number of honest repub- distrusts or hates them that, if they once get 
licans have believed, throughout the nine- into power again, their enemies need look 
teenth century, that the Christian religion, for little mercy at their hands. At best, no 
particularly in its purely devotional aspects, matter what may have been the actual mo- 
is a relentless obstacle to human progress, fives of its founders, it reminds the whole 
To men of this disposition, the most un- world that the Frenchmen who built it were 
welcome of all French cults has been the ad- willing to set up, the moment they could do 
oration of the Sacred Heart — for the reason so, a constant and aggressive cause of provo- 
that it carried people farthest in sympathy cation to any compatriots who should not 
from the things of this world, directing their sympathize with the phase of national force 
attention rather to mystical ecstasy in which it so sumptuously represents, 
regions which they believed heavenly. To Even as yet, I believe, the Church of the 
unbelievers, in short, this worship stood for Sacred Heart is nowhere near finished. 
the acme of superstition. It was therefore Meanwhile, as we have already reminded 
the form of devotion which was most certain ourselves, the government of the republic 
to excite their antagonism. has fallen into far from clerical hands. 

When the republic was for a while in re- These more intense republicans have not as 

actionary hands — when the men tempora- yet set on foot a Temple of Reason, or what- 



58 Impressions of Contemporary France 

ever else, which should dwarf the Sacred is simply that Saint Bernard was a canonized 
Heart. On the other hand, they have lost worthy of the Catholics, and that Etienne 
few opportunities to assert their own opin- Dolet was a heretic, whose memory must 
ions in fashions quite as aggressive as that remain obnoxious to anyone who cherishes 
in which contrary opinions were asserted Catholic tradition. They have left the saint 
by clerical sympathizers a few years ago. on his pedestal; but no one who believes in 
All over France you will find monuments to the faith which he preached can see him 
the worthies of the republic and the heroes there without reminder that this faith no 
of the Revolution. In the Louvre itself, the longer has the best of it. 
two monuments which vie with the Arch of Again, in the city of Lyons there existed, 
the Carrousel are a most restless one in a few years ago, three distinct streets, which 
memory of Gambetta, and a sketch for an very properly had three distinct names, 
equestrian statue not yet cast of that hero What these names were, I do not remember, 
of two republics, Lafayette. One of the The fact which remains permanently im- 
avenues which radiate from the Arc de pressed on my mind is that at present all 
Triomphe has been deprived of its name of three bear the same name— that of Emile 
imperial victory and given instead that of Zola. They are distinguished, I believe, as 
Victor Hugo; and this not because he was an Rue, Avenue, and Boulevard; or perhaps 
eminent poet, but because he was a stanch one of them is a Place, and not a street. All 
republican opponent of the empire. There is I feel quite sure of is that the confusion is 
hardly a French town of any considerable annoying to travellers and to cabmen. It is 
size anywhere, indeed, which has not given more than annoying — it is persistently ex- 
his name to a principal street. And just such asperating — to people who live in any of 
violent, instantly aggressive changes of no- the three and who do not chance unreserv- 
menclature are still occurring everywhere. edly to approve the work of the eminent 
Now the use of a name, either for an indi- novelist in question. Even his most eager 
vidual or for a localit}', is obviously to serve admirers can hardly deny his tendency to 
as a means of identification. Any altera- pornographicexcess, which goes far to coun- 
tion of a name, accordingly, is inconvenient teract the impression of his indisputable 
and confusing. This reasonable consider- power. Few would pretend him, as a man 
ation seems rarely to present itself to the of letters, a model for the young. But 
minds of enthusiastic French republicans, this is not the question. During the prog- 
They are at present disposed rather to re- ress of the Dreyfus affair he devoted himself , 
gard the names of public places as instru- with generous enthusiasm, to the cause of 
ments of doctrinal propagation. At Dijon, what he believed to be justice. In so doing 
for example, one of the most memorable he was probably encouraged by the fact 
local worthies is Saint Bernard, who was that he found arrayed against him the gen- 
born in a little village overlooking the old eral consent of the Church — an institution 
Burgundian capital. A bronze statue in his of which he had been a violent opponent 
honor was very properly erected there some through his whole literary life. The certain 
years ago; and the square which surround- fact is that, as a most conspicuous advocate 
ed it — in a new part of the town — was duly for Dreyfus, he had made himself more ob- 
named the Place St. Bernard. How long it jectionable than almost anyone else to the 
retained the name I do not know. At pres- very considerable and personally respect- 
ent it has been renamed the Place Etienne able body of conservative and clerical prej- 
Dolet. So far as I am informed, Etienne udice which believed, on general principles, 
Dolet had little if anything to do with Dijon; that a case, once decided, had better not be 
but beyond r^uestion the conduct of this reopened. Meanwhile, this same line of 
skilful printer, who flourished at the period conduct made him a partisan hero of the 
of the Reformation, was such as to get him anticlericals. Anticlerical people came into 
into trouble, and he was ultimately burned power at Lyons. Among the first things 
at the stake. The reason why his name has they proceeded to do in the heat of their 
replaced that of Saint Bernard is not that he victory was to name for Zola not one public 
was a more memorable personage, or that place, but three separate ones. The concil- 
he had anything like so much reason for iatory wisdom of this process seems rivalled 
commemoration on the spot in question. It only by its practical good sense. 



Impressions of Contemporary France 59 

In some towns this kind of thing has gone republic came to the conclusion that these 
further still. I remember one where a num- had best be removed. In this, we may admit, 
ber of small streets bore extremely local they showed good sense. There was no 
names. These I did not take the precau- actual relation between the administration 
tion to copy; but they run somewhat as fol- of French law and the doctrines of Catholic 
lows: "Rue Jean Duval (Maire 1882)." Christianity. There was no reason for pre- 
Without the parenthesis even the oldest in- tending that any existed. The cruciiix was 
habitant might now beat pains to remem- evidently exasperating to anticlerical prej- 
ber who Jean Duval was. His name, how- udice. The absence of it, when people once 
ever, has served the worthy purpose of got used to the new state of things, need not 
supplanting tliat of the saint for whom the excite any i)rejudice whatever. If the cru- 
street had been named ever since the Mid- cifixes had been quietly taken away from 
die Ages; and if you should take the pains the court-rooms, accordingly, the process 
to look into his municipal history, you might might have been salutary, as distracting 
very likely discover that he had some lively from public notice an evident matter of ran- 
dispute with the priest in charge of the neigh- corous dispute. Instead of seizing this 
boring church. Now, whatever the personal opportunity, the republican authorities pre- 
merits or faults of Jean Duval, there can be ferred to emphasize their anticlerical senti- 
little question that his name is not so easy ments in the strongest way they could think 
to remember as that of Saint Peter, we will of. So, of all days in the year, they selected 
say; and consequently that it is intrinsically Good Friday for publicly removing from 
less adapted to the purpose of naming a their courts of justice the traditional im- 
street. I ventured to make this observation age of Christ. One's mind recurs, in con- 
to a staunch republican friend, who lived at trast, to the old story of the high-churcli 
the town in question. He admitted the jus- parson who converted his communion-tal)le 
tice of my view, except, he went on to say, into an altar ]:)y moving it an inch every 
that it showed a foreigner's ignorance of the week, until — quite undetected by his evan- 
local situation. My argument, he said, had gelical congregation — he got it safe against 
actually been presented to the authorities of the wall. 

the town; the householders of the street had In fact, as we have reminded ourselves 

preferred its old name, as a matter of ob- enough and to spare, whenever the extreme 

vious convenience; the authorities had been partisans of the republic in France have got 

disposed to take their view of the case; the the government into their hands, they have 

matter had been laid over till the next conducted themselves with no more reserve, 

meeting of the local council. But then, with no more attempt to conciliate doubtful 

what happened ? M. le Cure had preached or hostile sympathy, than was shown by re- 

a jubilant sermon to the effect that an im- actionary people when for a while they had 

pious attempt to dislodge Saint Peter had thebestof it in republican politics. Rather 

been frustrated by the faithful; the clerical they have been disposed to dwell trium- 

newspaper of the town had flapped its wings phantly on every detail of the differences be- 

and crowed like the cock of Saint Peter him- tween themselves and their conscientious 

self. And at the next meeting of the town opponents. They have insisted on the full 

authorities down went Saint Peter and up extent of their radical doctrines. They have 

went Jean Duval. The unhappy saint, it exulted in every triumph. They have often 

appeared, had ceased to be a topographical behaved, in fact, as if they were complete 

fact, and had become a political. advocates of a partisan tyranny, differing 

A more familiar manifestation of this chiefly from the conventional tyrannies of 

spirit was widely published a few years ago. history in the fact that it pretends to be the 

The law courts of the republic, continuing tyranny not of an individual, but of a special 

the tradition of the empire, and I l^elieve of class w^hich likes to jje described as the 

all French governments since the Concordat, people. 

had been ornamented with crucifixes, which Had the republic, however, really been so 

meant, in point of fact, just about as much radical and so tyrannical as its utterances 

as the Bibles used for the administration of and its petty acts might lead us to infer, the 

oaths in English or American courts of jus- present state of France could hardly be so 

tice. The anticlerical authorities of the healtliy and so prosperous as it appears. 



60 



Impressions of Contemporary France 



The republic seems French to the core, in 
the fact that it lays down a system as near 
logical consistency as it can devise. That 
system has the advantage of being compara- 
tively new; it is consequently contradicted 
by fewer incompatible facts than would be 
the case with an old system, like that of the 
ancien regime, or of the Church. Being 
human, nevertheless, it cannot help being 
confronted with some facts — among others, 
with persistent contrary prejvidices — not to 
be reconciled with its doctrines. These, ac- 
cordingly, it attempts either to ignore or to 
suppress after the good old human fashion. 
It does not try to reconcile opposition; it 
tries rather to impose its own principles, by 
force of assertion, or, if need be, by civil 
force. It seems still affected by the youthful 
dream that men on earth can somehow 
manage to have their own way. 

The principles which it holds and pro- 
mulgates appear on the whole to be those of 
extreme theoretical democracy. And there 
is no reason to doubt that it holds and pro- 
mulgates them with sincerity. At the same 
time, so far as a foreigner can understand 
what these principles signify to the French 
mind, they are by no means what the prin- 
ciples of democracy are really held to be 
among us of America, w^ho have so long 
lived under a democratic system of govern- 
ment. \A'ith us, as well as with other peo- 
ples, the commonplaces of democracy have 
been popularly set forth during the nine- 
teenth century almost without reserve. In 
practice, however, American democracy has 
hitherto confined itself to insistence on the 
principle that government should derive its 
just powers from the consent of the gov- 
erned. It has rather maintained than weak- 
ened the traditions of its own constitutional 
system. It has not indulged in the delights 
of class tyranny. We have talked very val- 
iantly about the people and their rights. 
We have never clearly defined what that 
term, the people, ought in truth to signify. 
In conduct, the while, we have acted on the 
tacit assumption that a complete people con- 
sists of no one class or kind of men — high 
or low% learned or ignorant, few or many; 
but rather of the inevitable variety of hu- 
man beings who must exist, each in his own 
sphere, in any healthy society. Democracy 
with us seems to mean government by com- 
mon consent for the common good. Prac- 
tically, so far as it has prospered in France, 



it has signified even there government for 
the common good, but with the element of 
common consent decidedly subordinated. 
In theory, however, and it utters its theories 
with intense eil'usiveness, it seems to mean 
among the French a system of government 
conducted in the interests of the masses, as 
distinguished from those of the better 
classes. It fiercely condemned the privileges 
of the better classes in former times. In 
their place, it now seems disposed to do all 
in its power to establish something like priv- 
ileges for the common people. 

How far it remains from anything like 
such an achievement is instantly proved by 
the persistence of the better classes through- 
out France. It is proved, as well, by the 
stability of the general social structure 
throughout the country. It is proved by the 
beautiful solidarity of domestic life in 
France. It is proved, among people of all 
classes, by the steady conscientiousness with 
which they maintain, and transmit to their 
children, their ancestral personal traditions. 
The extreme result of democratic doctrine — 
the arbitrary supremacy of the lower classes 
— however generous in impulse and agree- 
able to fervid faith, is something which 
France seems still almost as far from as 
ever. For the practical consequences of 
theoretical democracy, so far as it means 
that the ideal of equality shall drag down 
the ideal of excellence, would be either Uto- 
pian, or barbarous, or both. And no one 
who knows contemporary France could 
possibly mistake it for either Barbary or 
Utopia. 

How eagerly, on the other hand, the ad- 
vocates of an equality sanctioned neither 
by divine law% scientific observation, nor 
human experience occasionally try to make 
their principles dominant was lately brought 
to my notice by an anecdote told me by a 
professor in a provincial secondary school. 
He happened to be called on to examine can- 
didates for free instruction — for state schol- 
arships — in the school with which he was 
connected. His subject was the history of 
France; the candidates were children from 
twelve to fifteen years of age who had hon- 
orably completed the course of instruction 
in the primary schools of the region. In 
general, as I understand the case, they were 
of the respectable middle class — the smaller 
bourgeoisie, or the more well-to-do peas- 
antry. Their examiner began by asking 



Impressions of Contemporary France 



61 



them various questions concerning the older 
history of France. Their confusion of mind 
was appalling. They hopelessly mixed up 
kings and queens, cardinals and poets, wars 
and rebellions; the only fixed idea in their 
minds seemed to be that France had once 
been in a state of deplorable turbulence, 
much like that which was said once to have 
been taught concerning ancient Rome in the 
common schools of Russia : "The last of the 
kings was Tarquinius Superbus, who was 
dethroned by an unprincipled demagogue 
named Brutus. A period of hideous dis- 
turbance followed which was brought to an 
end by the commanding genius of Julius 
Caesar." Startled by the extraordinary ig- 
norance displayed by these young French 
candidates for honorable distinction in the 
history of their country, their examiner was 
by chance reminded that he had put to them 
no questions concerning the history of the 
Revolution. The moment he touched on 
that the clouds rolled away. There was no 
Revolutionary incident so trivial that they 
did not know both the circumstances of it 
and the precise date; some of them could 
transpose the Revolutionary calendar into 
the terms of common civilization at a mo- 
ment's notice; they knew by heart not only 
the great men of the Revolution, but the 
smaller ones, too. They had been taught 
and had learned the history of France, in 
short, — and France, we must remember, was 
their own dear native land, — as if until 1 789 
the whole country had been plunged in 
depths of mediaeval darkness, too dense to 
deserve the pains of intelligent exploration. 
Of course, the case is solitary and per- 
haps unique. But even if it indicate how 
apostles of democracy now and then demand 
elsewhere that nothing be taught to ignorant 
children except the doctrine and the legends 
and the pious tales of the Rights of Man, 
there is no reason why we should blame their 
purpose. In its philanthropic sincerity, it is 
as worthy of respect as is the contrary pur- 
pose of so many religious teachers, who sup- 
press or distort the facts of heresy every- 
where. Whether doctrine, legend, and pious 
tale be devout or philanthropic, they are 
honestly meant; they represent conscien- 
tious effort to direct the course of children 
toward righteousness. On the other hand, 
there can be no question that any teaching 
of French history which neglects the develop- 
ment of France, throughout its thousand 



years of pre-Revolutionary existence, de- 
liberately discards a priceless treasure of na- 
tional tradition. The mood which would 
dictate such a policy, too — however aspiring 
and devoted in purpose — involves further 
injury than this to the full welfare of the na- 
tion. It would evidently exclude from the 
management of public affairs, and even from 
participation in public life, all who cherish 
this elder treasure of national tradition as 
in any wise comparable with the newer tra- 
dition of Revolutionary philanthropy. Thus 
it deprives the form of government in which 
it believes of what, in happier case, might be 
its most confident hope for endurance. 

For no one who comes to know the France 
of to-day can question that the men in actual 
power, however doctrinarian they may seem, 
and however tyrannical may seem the acts 
which they occasionally commit, are men 
of serious purpose, of alert intelligence, and 
of moral dignity. But neither can any such 
visitor doubt that there is equally serious 
purpose, equally alert intelligence, equal 
moral dignity, in many of their opponents. 
Were the republic as a system of govern- 
ment now in open danger, distrust of all 
sentiment not intensely republican might be 
a sad necessity of republican polity. As the 
republic stands to-day, one can perceive no 
reason why a policy of more hearty mutual 
confidence, of more magnanimous sym- 
pathy, should not prove as compatible with 
astuteness as it would surely be with gen- 
erosity. France still seems a country of ir- 
reconcilable antagonisms; yet France, I be- 
lieve, has reached a point where such recon- 
ciliation is no longer inconceivable. 

Born of necessity, as we have seen, the 
republic has had the unique fortune of 
persistence throughout the range of average 
human memory. And it has proved, what- 
ever else, favorable to the material welfare 
of the country which it has governed. And 
meanwhile chance has greatly weakened 
the hold on popular imagination of the sys- 
tems — royalist or imperialist — which dur- 
ing the earlier years of its existence were 
threatening rivals in their claim to power 
and to loyalty in France. Another fact 
about it is surely true. The men now living 
in France, whatever their personal convic- 
tions, are men who have lived for more than 
thirty-five years under no other form of gov- 
ernment than this. They have inherited, 
one and all, from the traditions of former 



62 



Impressions of Contemporary France 



times the habit of mutual intolerance and 
suspicion. Men of each side will honestly 
tell you, in all solemnity, that the advocates 
of other principles than theirs are either 
densely stupid or deliberately wicked. Yet 
when you meet those other men, who will 
tell you just the same things about their 
critics, you cannot feel that in truth they are 
either unintelligent or evil. There are un- 
worthy people, no doubt, in any party, any- 
where. What is more salient to a traveller 
among divergent kinds of Frenchmen is not 
this fact that some men everywhere must 
fail to command his complete esteem. It is 
rather that wherever he goes, among radi- 
cals or reactionaries, devout Catholics or 
philanthropic philosophers, he will surely 
find honest and admirable gentlemen, in the 
best sense of the term. There is less true 
discord of the spirit left in France than 
Frenchmen yet seem to dream. 

There are not wanting, meantime, cer- 
tain small symptoms that the French them- 
selves may perhaps be approaching a point 
where they can at last do more justice to one 
another than has been quite possible through 
the recurrently revolutionary period of the 
nineteenth century. A happy suggestion of 
this came to me most unexpectedly in the 
course of an excursion to some interesting 
old towns in central France. A month or 
two before I had written for a French re- 
view an article on contemporary politics in 
America. In the course of this, I had men- 
tioned, as a commonplace, the view of 
American democracy which I have long en- 
tertained, namely, that it is not the tyranny 
of any one class over any other, but the con- 
sent of all classes — none secured by inflex- 
ible privilege — to exist together under a sys- 
tem which all can trust, on the whole, to act 
as the guardian and the agent of their com- 
mon welfare. For the moment nothing was 
further from my mind than this little essay of 
mine in political philosophy. I had passed 
a delightful day in travelling through beau- 
tiful and interesting country; and came 
hungry to my dinner in the chief hotel of a 
small town remarkable for possessing some 
romantic mediaeval buildings and an excel- 
lent secondary school. Some of my neigh- 
bors at table presently proved to be teachers 
in this establishment; they were highly in- 
telligent young men, evidently of extremely 
republican sympathies, for their conversa- 
tion, which one could not help overhearing. 



was eagerly concerned with democratic doc- 
trines, and indicated no difference of opin- 
ion about general principles. It was an 
alertly critical discussion of a phase of dem- 
ocratic doctrine which to them seemed new. 

To my rather amused surprise, this turned 
out to have been suggested by my own arti- 
cle. They had no idea who I was, and, I 
fancy, not much that, in my character 
of a foreign traveller, I was paying any at- 
tention to what they said. In point of fact, 
however, they were eagerly wondering 
whether my doctrine — that a truly healthy 
democracy could never coexist with a per- 
sistent misunderstanding between social 
classes — might not throw light on the present 
troubles of France. The democracy of 
America they freely admitted to display a 
quality of traditional endurance not yet evi- 
dent in the newer democracy of their own 
country. The democracy of France, they 
went on to say, had always been intolerantly 
distrustful of the old privileged class, the 
nobility. They admitted that they had been 
so themselves; it had not occurred to them 
that any other course was possible. Was it 
conceivable that they had been mistaken — 
that the French people could never be a com- 
plete people unless it was willing to count as 
an essential part of itself that very nobilit} , 
which, after all, was as French as they were 
themselves? 

In other words, it appeared, these young 
Frenchmen had been at least momentarily 
impressed by two or three suggestions in my 
article which seemed to them far more novel 
than to me. Any stable national govern- 
ment, for one thing, must take into its ac- 
count the full range of rooted national tra- 
dition. This is obviously the case in Eng- 
land to-day, where the nation, as a whole, 
cherishes with equal respect and affection 
the memory of men who took the side of the 
king in the civil wars of the seventeenth cen- 
tury and of those who took the side of Par- 
liament. There are statues in London of 
both Charles I and Cromwell; and England 
could not be the England of our own time, 
if any considerable body of Englishmen 
now desired to overthrow either of them. 
Something similar is true already of our 
own republic, the United States. Little 
more than forty years ago, we were engaged 
in the most portentous civil war in modern 
history; to-day the survivors of that conflict 
are fellow-countrymen whose mortal enmi- 



Impressions of Contemporary France Qd 

ties are beginning to be fused in precious to exist in every vital nation. It must give 
historical memories. Our American repub- each his due, and demand its own due from 
lie has had no more loyal services in all its each. It must preserve the structure of so- 
career than it has received already from ciety so tirmly that the opportunity of a career 
honest men who fought hard against it shall always be open to talent. It must 
through four earnest years. The monu- preserve such liberty of the individual that 
ments which commemorate Union soldiers no inherited pri\-ilege shall keep weakness 
in the North and those which commemorate long secure, nor stand in the way of abil- 
Confederate soldiers in the South have al- ity born in a station too narrow for its power, 
ready been consecrated by the friendly pres- But it may never safely medd le with the ele- 
ence'of men who fought against the clead in mental truths of human nature — pretending 
whose honor thev were raised. It will not things excellent which in truth are common- 
be much longer, one grows confident, before place. It may never safely deny the fatal 
the descendants of both sides shall find them- fact that most men, in whatever range of 
selves readv to join in equal tribute to the human effort, are bound to have their su- 
heroes of both. \Mien that time comes our periors in power, and that civic insecurity is 
true national tradition will come once more the surest means to offer the semblance of a 
to be that of a united country. career not to talent but to mischief. It must 

Again, it is beyond peradventure that an recognize in itself not an immortal and in- 
enduring democracy can never exist when spired system, but only one of the means by 
only a portion of a people — a single social which human beings attempt so to govern 
class — is dominant, to the exclusion of the society that society may advance in prosper- 
rest. Such a state of affairs is a democra- ity and in righteousness. It must humbly 
cy only in name. In fact, it is at best admit itself as subject as any polity which 
an oligarchy — and oligarchy is oligarchy, it opposes to the insidious temptation of 
whether the ruling class chance to be large such tyranny as must surely bring any form 
or small, high or low. What is more, good of government to grief. If democracy can 
sense should seem to remind us that the truly rise to such full sense as this of its 
oligarchical tyranny of the masses mvist be. duties and its limitations, it may grow, by 
a more dangerous — a less tolerable — one such happy historical chance as has been 
than an oligarchical tyranny on the part of our own in America, into the venerable 
people of the better sort. For surely, to put sanction of historical tradition. Then, and 
the case most mildly, it must be animated only then, it can begin to enjoy such secur- 
by less intelligence and by more fickle in- ity as shall warrant it in holding high hopes 
stability 'of emotion. To us of America, for the future. And these hopes shall be the 
immemorially habituated to the practice of higher, and the more confident, when the 
democracy, the notion of submitting our- nation which sulmiits itself to democracy is 
selves to the direction of a small privileged such a nation as the France of to-day, rich 
(lass is abhorrent. Hardly less so, in real- with many noble memories, instead of with 
ity, would be the notion of submitting our- only one. In outward semblance the vital 
selves to the absolute sovereignty of a lower traditions of France seem fatally divergent, 
class, privileged in point of mere numbers but at least they have the deep community 
by the very fact of its lack of individual of enthusiastic devotion to ideals, 
privilege. We are restive at this moment Though the dream that these several 
under the suspicion that too much power ideals can ever Ije reconciled may well seem 
among ourselves is concentrating itself in Utopian, it already has the sanction of a 
the hands of our richest men. We are little memorable phrase. And this phrase, I 
less restive at the suggestion that there is found, appeals nowadays to almost every 
danger of finding our country at the mercy Frenchman, whatever the complexion of his 
of trades-unions. It is not that either form political convictions. Again and again, 
of oligarchy might not conceivably work well, amid surroundings which seem hopelessly 
or even prove beneficial. It is rather that at odds with each other, this same little story 
both alike are oligarchy, and not democracy, was told me, and always with the same ad- 

For true democracy, I cannot too ear- miringsympathy with its truth. For it goes 

nestly repeat, must tolerantly include all straight to the heart, not of one party or an- 

manner of men and of classes who are sure other, not of one or another system of doc- 



64 Impressions of Contemporary France 

trinal tradition, but of all alike. It touches n"e»." " Monsieur le Marechal," said the 

the common imagination of the whole peo- royal prince, "?7 restait la France." — "There 

pie — not in the mere democratic sense of the was France." 

word, but in that broader and truer sense So there was, and so there is, and so there 

which makes the people comprehend every- shall be. France has been the France of 

one in whose veins French blood is flowing, the empire; France to-day is the France of 

The greatest military calamity of the war the republic; and no Frenchman who would 
which brought the empire to an end, and treasure the full richness of memories which 
from which the present republic emerged as have gathered in his country may wisely for- 
the only system of government for the mo- get the glories of either. But neither com- 
ment practicable, was the surrender of Metz prebends France, any more than France was 
with its intact army, by Marshal Bazaine. completely comprehended in that constitu- 
What his motive mav have been remains de- tional monarchy which made the house of 
batable. Whatever the case, there can be Orleans for a while sovereign by the will of 
no doubt that he gave up, without a blow, the people. The true France embraces all 
a force with which the invaders of his coun- three, and more and more besides. It is the 
try would otherwise have had to reckon. France of the song of Roland, the France 
Wherefore, in due time, when the war was of St. Louis, the France of Jeanne d'Arc. 
ended, he was brought to military trial. It is the France of the Renaissance, and the 
There, in his own defence, he maintained France of Henry IV; the France of Riche- 
that at the moment of his surrender the lieu, and the France which imposed an im- 
empire had fallen, and no government had perial standard on European civilization 
arisen securely in its place. His duty had during the great century of Louis XIV. It 
been to defend the government. With the is the France of the old regime, as well, the 
disappearance of constituted authority it Franceof the Revolution, and the France of 
came to an end. The citadel was in the the empire. It is the France of that bewil- 
hands of the enemy. The empire was a dering, aspiring nineteenth century over 
thing of the past. What was left to fight whose history we have been lingering to- 
for? Nothing — // n''y avail rien. gether. No single one of these memories, 

To which instant answer was made by nor yet of the myriad others which these 

the member of his court of judges who could stirring names evoke, has made the France 

make it best. From the time when the king- of to-day such as it has seemed to me and 

dom of Louis Philippe had fallen the as I have tried to tell you. All of them 

princes of the house of Orleans had been together combine to make France heroic — 

mostly in exile from their native country, nonealone, none apart or neglected. With- 

Their presence there in any position would out every glory of its glorious past, France 

have seemed to menace either the republic would be the poorer, the lesser. All of 

which for a little while ensued on the con- them, blended and shining together, make 

stitutional monarchy or the revived empire the France of to-day that inexhaustibly 

before which the second republic fell. But noble fact which those who come to know 

the moment that France was in national it, and thus grow to love it, must always feel 

danger, struggling with the terrific force of it to be. 

foreign invasion, the Orleanist princes came So when, now and again, good friends of 

back to their century, not as royal person- mine were apt to speak of France as the 

ages, but only as Frenchmen. As such they republic, I found myself, as I find myself 

were welcomed with all the rest; and the still, disposed in answer to speak not of 

royal prince who — of all his kind — has per- the republic, but of France. This implied 

haps done most to re-establish the dignity no lack of eager response to the kindness 

of royal character in the estimation of a with which the French republicans whom 

radical century was among the ofhcers who I met welcomed me to their friendly coun- 

sat in judghient on the accused marshal of try. It implied, indeed, no shadow of doubt 

the second empire. It was he — the Due that the system of the present republic, 

d'Aumale, the son of Louis Philippe — who strengthening as it is into an immemorial 

made the answer which so instantly appeals tradition, is the system under which that 

to every French heart. There was nothing friendly country may most confidently hope 

to defend, said Bazaine — "// n^y avail for a future as admirable as its past. What 



A Thanksgiving 65 

I felt was only that the word republic still it shall have grown to be no longer parti- 
might seem to mean not the whole nation, san but national; and I believe that the time 
but only the accident of the sovereignty will come. But even then we shall be truer 
under which that nation now linds itself. To to the full splendor of the past, if we salute 
the French themselves, the republic still ap- the repubHc still as France, and not France 
pears not so much national as partisan. I only as the republic. Nothing less than the 
long, with the best of them, for the time when utmost can ever comprehend it all. 



A THANKSGIVING 

By William Lucius Graves 

I RAISE my face to Thee, 
Beneath Thy stars, O Lord; 

Take Thou the praise that still must be 
Beyond the uttered word. 

Life leaps within my breast, 

I feel its lyric beat; 
Blow cold or warm from out the west, 

The breath of hfe is sweet. 

To live, to feel the wind 

That shakes the apple-bcugh, 

To see Ihe furrow trail behind 
The thrusting of the plough; 

To lie where shadows swing 

Across the summer hush. 
To hear upon a dawn in spring 

The passion-throated thrush; 

Lo, these are joys to me, 
And all things that befall, — ■ 

The glancing rain, the lilac-tree 
That purples by the wall. 

Each winged day, O Lord, 

Hath burden of new bliss; 
Yet, since the past will ha\'e its word, 

I thank Thee, too, for this: 

Remembrance, through dead years, 

Ah, keen as lavender, — 
Behind a mist of tender tears, 

The pitying eyes of her. 



THE PERPETUAL VISITOR 



By Evelyn Schuyler Schaeffer 

Illustrations by James Montgomery Flagg 



" t '7gO^^S^>9>^ JHE mail is late this morn- 
ing," said Cousin Jane. 

Outside, the rain was 
persistently pouring down. 
Inside, a fire was burning 
cheerfully on the sitting- 





room hearth and the three ladies were spend- 
ing the morning over their work: Cousin 
Jane, elderly, stout, comfortably conscious 
that she was full of benevolence and feel- 
ing perfectly justified in being full of curi- 
osity; pleased with the expensiveness of her 
house, her rugs, her pictures, her china, and 
all her other belongings; remembering the 
price of each thing and quite willing to tell 
it; yet kindly and generous, the Lady Boun- 
tiful of a country town : Cousin Mary, ac- 
quiescent, aS became one who lived with 
Jane; a tranquil, industrious person: and 
Delia, in her careful dress, befitting a guest, 
with her slim, erect figure, her wavy light- 
brown hair, now beginning to grow dull in 
color, her delicate face, whose beauty was 
being effaced by tiny wrinkles and more 
decided lines; deep lines of cheerfulness — 
the careful, persistent, determined cheerful- 
ness of one who for ten years has been oc- 
cupied in being a good guest. She was knit- 
ting a shawl for Cousin Jane, hurrying to get 
it done before the end of her visit. She al- 
ways did knit something for her hostess and 
always had to hurry to get it done. She did 
not stop when the mail was brought in; she 
expected nothing. The next visit was ar- 
ranged and she had little correspondence of 
any other kind. But there was a letter for 
her, after all, which Cousin Jane handed her 
after examining it curiously. 

"I don't know what Anne Morrison can 
have to write to you about," she said "You 
have told her what train you are going by." 
Then, as Delia laid the letter in her lap, 
"Aren't you going to open it and let us hear 
what she says ? " 

"I haven't my glasses down here," mur- 
mured Delia. 

' Take mine," promptly answered Cousin 
Jane, wiping them and holding them out 
to her. 

66 



Delia hesitated. "Thank you," she said 
finally. "Yours don't suit me, you know, and 
I have to go upstairs anyway for some wool." 

As she went out of the room Jane turned to 
Mary with a little laugh. "Delia never for- 
gets that her eyes are younger than mine." 

"Well, you know she is near-sighted," 
said Mary apologetically. 

Up in her bedroom Delia opened the let- 
ter. Anne was so sorry, but some of Henry's 
family were coming unexpectedly and there 
wouldn't be an extra spot in the house; she 
and Henry were going to sleep on sofas. It 
was too bad to put dear Delia off, especially 
when they hadn't seen her for several years, 
but could she stay a week or ten days longer 
with Cousin Jane? And tlien she must be 
sure to come and stay a long time to 
make up. 

Delia sat down, feeling suddenly weak. 
Cousin Jane also expected other guests and 
had definitely fixed the limit of her vkit 
three days hence. The next instalment of 
her income was not due for a month yet, 
and meantime she had not money enough 
to pay ten days' board with travelling ex- 
penses in addition. She had a horrible sink- 
ing sensation and her hands and feet grew 
cold. She leaned back and closed her eyes. 
A few tears oozed between her eyelids, her 
throat ached. She thought of her father 
and mother. To them she had never been 
quite grown-up — she was their Delia, to be 
cared for and made much of. Did they 
somewhere know of these horrible years that 
she had been a wanderer from one friend's 
house to another's ? Delia hoped not- — yet 
sympathy would be sweet. Her thoughts 
wandered back to the comfortable little 
house and the pleasant little housekeeping. 
She hadn't been a good manager after her 
mother's death, but how could she be, with 
so much company ? Involuntarily rose the 
picture of herself sleeping on the lounge in 
the study while Julia and her mother had 
her room. That was when all the relations 
came to Washington for the Inauguration, 
and it was before Julia was rich. Every- 
body liked to come, at all times, she remem- 



The Perpetual Visitor 



67 



bered, with a thrill of pride in herself as a 
hostess. And then those years when her 
father was an invalid and there was no more 
salary. How could she stint his comforts 
then? "I'm glad I didn't!" said Delia 
aloud. And then when he died. "Why," 
she asked for the thousandth time, "did I 
yield when Cousin Jane said I couldn't keep 
the house and take lodgers ? Why did I let 
her break it all up and carry me off ? Why 
should she think that I would marry and 
settle the question that way? I wasn't a 
young girl even then. And oh, I'm so 
wretchedly ungrateful! I don't love them 
all as I used to." She surprised herself with 
a sob and jumped up hastily. This would 
never do — she must be ready to go down- 
stairs. But how to go with no plan made 

The doorbell rang and she went into the 
hall and leaned over the banister. A depu- 
tation from one of Cousin Jane's boards of 
managers had arrived and Delia heard the 
beginning of an informal and voluble com- 
mittee meeting. The affairs of the Orphans' 
Home would keep them busy for some time, 
and she drew a long breath. Casting about 
desperately and remembering the school- 
girl visits in W^ashington, she decided to 
ask Julia Sinclair if she might go there for 
ten days. Julia was good-natured and never 
put herself out for her and her house was 
big enough for anything. She went to her 
trunk and got out writing materials and a 
travelling inkstand. There was no writing- 
table in her room; Cousin Jane considered 
the library the place for writing and all were 
welcome there. What need of privacy? 
However, the most docile of guests has her 
own devices. Delia wrote to Julia. It was 
not an easy letter to write, but she managed 
to explain that there would be just time for 
an answer, and then put on her rainy-day 
clothes and posted the letter herself, slip- 
ping down the back stairs. 

Luncheon found Jane still so absorbed in 
the perplexities of benevolence that Delia's 
explanation went oft' fairly well ; an ex- 
planation which could not be longer deferred 
without the certainty of giving offence. 

"Why didn't you consult me before writ- 
ing?" Jane asked; but added kindly: "I'm 
really sorry, Delia. Almost any other time 
you could stay right on here and it wouldn't 
make a bit of difference." 

Three days later Cousin Jane provided 
her with a luncheon and a paper-covered 



novel, personally superintended the locking 
and strapping of her trunk, and took her to 
the train. In the breathless hurry with 
which the sight of a waiting train always in- 
spired her, Delia turned to clamber into a 
coach, but was restrained by Jane's admon- 
itory voice: 

"Are you going in the parlor car?" 

Delia turned away with a hurried, "Oh, 
no, of course not," and fell in behind Jane's 
quick toddle. After all, there was plenty of 
time. She kissed Jane good-by with a 
warmth born of relief and found a seat for 
herself. 

" Don 't wait ! " she cried from the window. 

"Very well," called back Jane. "If 
you're all right now, I'll go right on to my 
managers' meeting. Good-by!" 

Delia looked after her until she was out 
of sight, and then turned to arrange her be- 
longings. The car was filling up. A wom- 
an, broad of hip and laden with large bun- 
dles, had just sat down beside her, squeez- 
ing her against the wall. Delia sighed with 
disappointment. It was only during her 
journeys that she had any sense of posses- 
sion in herself. Then she calculated rapidly, 
devised one more makeshift of economy 
that wouldn't show, and made a quick de- 
cision. Hurriedly leaving the car, she flew 
back along the platform to the Pullman 
which she had just passed, gave her bag to 
the porter and let him help her up the steps. 
It was with the relief of one who has reached 
home that she dropped into a chair. 

"After all, why shouldn't I?" she 
thought. "This, at least, is my own mon- 
ey. Only I do hate to feel that I am grow- 
ing sly." 

She took off her jacket, settled herself in 
her chair, and let herself relax. Her face 
lost its set expression of cheerfulness, the 
muscles drooped, the lines became softer; 
she looked infinitely tired. Yet as the train 
rushed on, a little light came into her eyes, 
a little smile lurked in the corners of her 
mouth. 

"This is my parlor," she said to herself. 
"I have just come in and am resting. These 
other people — oh, I think they are not here 
at all. I don't see them." She looked out 
of the window at the landscape slipping by, 
but presently closed her eyes and dropped 
into her favorite day-dream — a dream of a 
little house which always stood ready for 
her, awaiting her mood. Here was her par- 



68 



The Perpetual Visitor 



lor, with her own table, her own chair, her 
own lamp, ready to be lighted. Her writing- 
desk stood in a corner; a fire burned on the 
hearth. The rugs, the pictures — she had 
selected them long ago, stopping to look in 
at shop-windows, "choosing," as children 
do. Beyond was her dining-room. There 
things were even more familiar — her moth- 
er's silver, her mother's china, so long 
packed away. Cousin Jane had urged her 
to sell them and had offered to take the tea- 
set herself, but what havoc that would have 
made with the day-dream! A pretty maid 
came from the kitchen with a tea-tray. The 
maid was always pretty, always neat, al- 
ways devoted to her. She was an excellent 
cook and never broke anything. Delia saw 
the tea-table in front of the fire. What lovely 
cups and saucers her mother's were; and 
what joy to rest here a little with her old 
trunk thrust under the eaves in the attic! 

By and by she roused herself. The after- 
noon was wearing away and Delia liked sit- 
ting for a while in the twilight. Then the 
lights were turned on and she liked that 
equally well. In the unreal light given by 
the lamps it was no longer home, but it was 
another state of being — a sort of intermedi- 
ate state where earthly existence was in 
abeyance, Rushing along through space, 
somewhere between heaven and earth, why 
shouldn't they come out on the other side of 
things? Delia closed her eyes. Cousin 
Jane was years behind her, Julia was part 
of an improbable future. Was she in the 
body or out of it ? 

Into this trance came the porter with his 
whisk brush. Delia detested this attention. 
It seemed to her that the brush took Hb- 
erties; but she felt that the porter had a 
claim and brushing appeared to be the 
proper thing, so she stood up meekly and 
let him buffet her with his little broom; and 
by the time she had given him a modest fee 
she had arrived and there was Julia's smart 
trap awaiting her. 

Julia Sinclair had accepted Delia as an 
inheritance from her mother. She took the 
trouble to invite her to her country house for 
a month each year and to see that the begin- 
ning and the end of the visit duly joined 
the end and the beginning of other visits in 
the neighborhood; and one summer when 
she was abroad she had sent Delia to the 
seashore for a delightful month. She al- 
ways sent her carriage to the station to meet 



her, gave her a pleasant room, begged her 
to consider herself quite at home, but did 
not take her too seriously. Delia, on her 
side, enjoyed these visits very well. She 
was not a distinguished guest, for whom 
luncheons and dinners were given, but she 
was treated with courtesy and was not inter- 
fered with. If not of great importance, at 
least she had great freedom. It was there- 
fore not at all out of the natural order of 
things that the Sinclairs should on this oc- 
casion leave her with the house to herself 
while they went off on a ten days' automo- 
bile trip. She was to have all the resources 
of the house, the garden, and the stables at 
her disposal and was to amuse herself as she 
saw fit. 

"And by the way," said Julia, as she was 
taking her leave, " if Teddy Creston should 
turn up before we get back, don't be dis- 
turbed. He'll wait for us." 

"Who is Teddy Creston ? " asked Delia. 

" Haven't you ever met him ? " said Julia 
carelessly. "He's a cousin of Frederick's, 
and he generally makes his headquarters 
here for a little while in the fall when he 
comes back from the other side. He is due 
about this time." Seeing that Delia looked 
somewhat dismayed, she added : " Don't be 
afraid of him. He's quite harmless and he 
won't interfere with you." 

"You call Teddy quite harmless?" 
laughed her husband as they drove away. 

"Yes, as far as Cousin Delia is con- 
cerned," replied Julia. 

And now began a season of delight for 
Delia. In the morning her breakfast was 
brought to her room by a smiling and oblig- 
ing maid and she need not get up until she 
was ready. W'hen she went downstairs the 
world was all before her, where to choose. 
She could wander into the library and select 
such books and magazines as she wanted, 
she could go out into the garden and pick 
all the flowers she liked, she could take a 
drive if she chose. As an additional piece 
of good fortune the weather was perfect, 
with the tempered warmth of early October. 
At noon an inviting luncheon was served for 
her, at night an equally inviting dinner; but 
best of all, she liked the afternoon tea, which 
could still be enjoyed out of doors. Once 
or twice some friend of Julia's drove over, 
not knowing of her absence, and accepted 
the cup of tea which Delia offered in a flutter 
of shy hospitality. It was just the one 




DraivH by James Montgomery Flagg. 

He loved to give a picturesque account of himself. — Page 71. 

Vol. XLII.— 7 



70 



The Perpetual Visitor 



touch of companionship which she needed 
to make it all quite perfect. She began to 
bloom a little; her face lost its sharpness 
and regained its lovely oval and her cheeks 
showed a delicate color. Even the maid 
who waited on her noticed it. 

"It certainly does agree with you here, 
Miss Mynor," she said. 

She took time in the morning to look over 
her box of old lace and added a few becom- 
ing touches to her toilet. She even consid- 
ered putting on her very best gown for din- 
ner, deciding at last with a sigh that she 
could not afford the extra wear. Thus a 
week passed and then one day the doorbell 
rang and she heard a masculine voice ask- 
ing questions in the hall. 

"Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair will be back 
about the 20th, sir," she heard the but- 
ler say; "and they said if you came you 
would please make yourself at home." 

"Quite so. Banks," the gay voice replied. 
"And so I shall be entirely alone here?" 

"There's Miss Mynor, sir," replied the 
man. 

" Oh . And who is IVIiss Mynor ? ' ' 

"She is a friend of the family, sir, on a 
visit." 

" Very well, Banks. My old room, I sup- 
pose?" and a moment after he was run- 
ning upstairs. 

Delia sighed. She felt horribly shy at the 
thought of this strange man and greatly 
feared that the spell of enchantment was 
broken. She put on her best gown for din- 
ner, but with no such zest as she would have 
felt in putting it on the night before. But 
when Mr. Creston sat opposite her at the 
dinner table he was very good to see; and 
when he looked at her in his frank way and 
spoke to her in his cordial, almost boyish 
voice there was a magnetism about him 
that dispelled her shyness. In fact, mag- 
netism was Teddy Creston's strong point 
and it was his nature to make himself agree- 
able. Even his wife was still susceptible to 
his charm, although she had had the strength 
of mind to establish herself in Paris. Mar- 
garet Creston was a good deal of a phi- 
losopher, and although when she first real- 
ized that change was the law of Teddy's 
being she had some bitter hours, yet her 
very insight into his character helped her. 
"If he must have change," she said to her- 
self, "then I, too, will be a change to him. 
I will go away while he still cares for me a 



little and he shall come to me when he 
wants me." This suited him very well, par- 
ticularly as Margaret had plenty of money. 
He visited her once a year, in Paris or else- 
where, and they lived very pleasantly to- 
gether for a time, and then he returned to be 
a free lance for the rest of the year; or per- 
haps it would be better to compare him to 
a resplendent butterfly. He could hardly 
look at any woman without feeling some in- 
terest in her, were it only to ask himself 
whether she could under any circumstances 
interest him. In asking this question a 
woman's age — within hmits — made very lit- 
de difference to him. His taste was cath- 
olic; and as for himself, he was now thirty- 
five years old. 

"A vestal virgin," he summed Delia up, 
and found a certain piquancy in thawing 
out the stiffness of her manner. Before the 
evening was over he had her laughing as she 
had not laughed for years, and meantime 
was planning the most delightful and sur- 
prising amusements for the morrow. 

"You have never been in a motor car?" 
he said. "Then it shaU be a motor car. I'm 
sure Frederick has left one here, and if not, 
we'll hunt up another. ^\'e'il take our 
luncheon and some books, if you like. 
These days are too glorious to spend in- 
doors." 

Delia awoke at daylight the next morning 
and looked out of the window in breathless 
fear lest the day should not be fine. It gave 
promise of perfection, and she went back to 
bed with a mind relieved. It was not worth 
while to get up, for her breakfast would not 
come for a long while yet, and they were not 
to start before eleven o'clock, Teddy being 
by no means an early riser; so she lay still 
and thought happily of the pleasure in store. 

Delia's heart was indeed virginal. In her 
youth she had been perhaps somewhat over- 
fastidious and had held herself aloof from 
the few admirers who came in her way. She 
had not been without her girlish dreams, 
but her ideal lover had been an angel rather 
than a man, a being so impossible that the 
result had been to give her a distaste for the 
reality as it had presented itself to her. She 
had never known any man well except her 
father, who was of her own type; the hus- 
bands and brothers of her friends were so 
remote from her that they were, as to the 
blind man of Scripture, "as trees walking." 
With the advent of her remarkable fellow- 



The Perpetual Visitor 



71 



guest a whole new set of sensations was be- 
ing awakened. Delia was thirty-six years 
old, but sensations out of season are all the 
more powerful. She was, however, still free 
from self-consciousness. When she got up 
she recklessly put on her best walking dress, 
the costume in which, simple as it was, she 
must be presentable for visits all winter. 
"She experimented with her hair, too, ar- 
ranging it more loosely than usual about 
the temples. The little waves into which it 
fell of its own accord were very becoming to 
her. She hesitated over the hat, and finally 
put aside the best one as being too formal 
and selected an old summer hat with a brim. 
She had not looked so young for ten years. 

It was a great success, that picnic. Even 
Teddy found himself amused. It enter- 
tained him to take her for the first time in a 
motor car. The first of anything always 
entertained Teddy. He drove the car him- 
self and it pleased him to see her excitement 
when he increased the speed. Delia was 
not in the least frightened; she wanted to 
go faster and still faster and was half sorry 
when they stopped, miles away from home, 
for luncheon. But she found nothing to re- 
gret. He exerted himself to make her com- 
fortable, putting cushions behind her and 
waiting on her with the ease born of long 
practice in studying the ways of women. 
To Delia, unused to being considered, this 
was an even more exciting experience than 
the drive. Then, too, they could talk, which 
had hardly been possible while they were 
flying along the road, or, to speak more cor- 
rectly, he could talk and she could listen. 
They sat long, breathing in the fragrant air 
of the woods, while he smoked innumerable 
cigarettes, but at last it was time to gather 
up their belongings and start for home. 

"You are a good sport, Miss Mynor," he 
said, as he helped her into the car, "not to 
be afraid of my reckless driving. I can 
never do anvthing half-wav." 

"I don't want to do it half-way," said 
Delia. "I want to do it completely." She 
laughed. "I'm tired of half-way," she said. 

"I am half sick of shadows," he quoted 
under his breath, but she heard him. 

"I believe there is no 'half in that, 
either," she said. 

One day followed another, each spent in 
the same way. If anyone had suggested to 
Delia that these excursions were too uncon- 
ventional she would have laughed at the 



idea — she, an old maid, and he, a married 
man! She was in love with motoring and 
Teddy was in love with the air, the sun, and 
the wild speed with which he drove the ma- 
chine; and he was for the moment amused 
with the idea of giving Delia "the time of 
her life." He was amused at himself, too, 
for being willing to remain sequestered in 
the deserted house when there were plenty 
of people in the neighborhood who would 
have been pleased enough to see him. As 
it chanced, he met no one who recognized 
him, disguised as he was by his cap and gog- 
gles, and Delia's head was enveloped in 
a veil; and they returned so late in the af- 
ternoon that she merely had a cup of tea in 
her room before dressing for dinner. They 
dined together and afterward they both 
went into the library, where they sat in front 
of the fire and he smoked his cigarettes. 
He loved to talk and she was a most sym- 
pathetic listener — and what talker does not 
love a fresh audience ? It seemed to him an 
odd and delicately flavored little adventure, 
this gentle flirtation with a woman who sug- 
gested nothing so much as a nun just es- 
caped from convent walls. He loved to 
give a picturesque account of himself and 
allowed it to appear that he was handicapped 
in his career by the whims of a wife who 
chose to live abroad. 

"For my part," he said virtuously, "I'm 
not willing to expatriate myself. Little old 
America is good enough for me and my 
place is here." 

Delia looked at him admiringly; his sen- 
timents sounded noble. "It is such men as 
you that are needed in their own country," 
she said fervently. 

He laughed and lighted a fresh cigarette. 
"Wefl, as to that, I'm afraid the country 
needs better men than I," he said lightly. 
"I'm a pretty worthless, do-nothing, selfish 
sort of a fellow. Miss Mynor. When I really 
want to do a thing I don't let anything stand 
in my way, I assure you. As to whether the 
things are worth doing is another question." 

All of which was quite true, but it didn't 
sound true when he said it. It only sounded 
adorably frank and boyish. His method of 
expiating a fault was to announce in a win- 
ning way that he had it; after that he felt 
almost bound to indulge it. It was wonder- 
ful how much immunity this habit pur- 
chased him. He looked at Delia with laugh- 
ing eyes, and as she continued to gaze at him 



72 



The Perpetual Visitor 



in a sort of perplexed admiration, he added: 
"You mustn't think me better than I am, 
dear." 

The word, apparently spoken inadver- 
tently, gave Delia a shock of surprise and 
a curious thrill, which was not displeas- 
ure. Instantly she thought: "He doesn't 
know he said it; I dare say he is soused 
to saying it to his wife. I wouldn't for 
anything seem to hear it." But her color 
betrayed her. 

He looked at her curiously. "She takes 
it more coolly than I thought she would," 
he reflected. "I wonder why." 

Just to find out, he said it again. This 
time, still covered with blushes, she remon- 
strated. 

" But what is the harm in it ? " he asked. 
"You wouldn't think anything of it if I 
said mv dear Miss Mynor. If I wrote a 
letter to you I'd say dear Miss INIynor. 
Now what particular thing is there about 
the word dear that makes you object to it ? " 

"It is different," said Delia, much em- 
barrassed. 

"But there isn't anything really wrong 
about it." 

"It isn't usual." 

' ' And must one always be usual ? Heav- 
ens! What a stupid world it would be!" 

"Well," said Delia, with some little dig- 
nity, "I think in this particular thing I'd 
rather be usual even if I'm stupid." 

"Just as you like," he said in a tone of 
caressing indulgence; and she was glad not 
to have offended him. 

As it happened, this was their last day 
together. Anne Morrison had already writ- 
ten that she was ready and waiting for 
Delia's visit, and next morning the Sinclairs 
came home, bringing a houseful of guests 
in their train. 

"And you have actually been here four 
days?" said Julia to Teddy. "What did 
you do with yourself all the time?" 

"Oh, I've enjoyed myself very much in- 
deed," he replied. 

"Have you been visiting the neighbors ? " 

"Well, no. I didn't need the neighbors. 
I've been living out of doors most of the 
time." 

She looked at him curiously. "That 
doesn't sound like you, Teddy. I've never 
known you willing to shun the madding 
crowd. I hope you've made yourself a little 
agreeable to Cousin DeUa." 



"Cousin Delia and I are great friends. 
Cousin Delia's too good to be true!" 

"Come now, you needn't make fun of 
poor Delia," said Julia. 

"Heaven forbid!" he exclaimed, and 
took himself off, leaving Julia doubtful. 

The dinner-table that night was very gay, 
everybody laughing and talking. Even 
Delia, who had not yet had time to get back 
into her shell, displayed a gentle liveliness. 
At the unusual sound of her soft laugh, 
Julia turned and looked at her with a con- 
sidering eye. Mrs. Sinclair was young, but 
she had the wisdom of the world. She noted 
Delia's improved looks, the color in her 
cheeks, the light in her eyes, the arrange- 
ment of her hair, and the subdued coquetry 
of her dress, rearranged by herself with old 
lace from her box. And Teddy said that he 
had enjoyed himself. "Teddy is incorrigi- 
ble!" she said to herself. She was very 
kind to Delia after that, although she did 
not urge her to prolong her stay after the next 
day; so Delia, with an ache at her heart, 
packed her trunk that night. All day Teddy 
had been much engrossed by the new ar- 
rivals and she had not exchanged many 
words with him. Her good time was over, 
and she tried to accept the inevitable with- 
out bitterness. 

She was to leave directly after luncheon, 
and in the morning, after she had watched 
the different parties going off, some on 
horseback, others on foot, she slipped away 
for a solitary walk. She wandered through 
the woods, gorgeous in their autumn color- 
ing, but somehow the exertion made her 
tired, and she sat down on a stone to rest. 
She wished that she could have had one more 
ride; she wondered whether Mr. Creston 
would ever think of her again; he had been 
so kind; it was years since anybody had 
been so kind to her. Idly she picked up 
the colored leaves and laid them together 
on her lap. Then with a sudden impatient 
movement she brushed them away and rose 
to her feet; and as she did so she looked up 
and saw Teddy sauntering along the path 
toward her. 

"I thought you went out to ride," she 
said, flushing painfully. Could he conceiv- 
ably think that she had followed him ? 

"The ride was postponed," he said. 
"And now I can have a little talk with you." 

"No, I must go." She would at least 
show him that she had not come to seek 




Draivii by Janus Mont^oiiici'y /V.i^v- 

She experimented with her hair. — Page 71. 



74 



The Perpetual Visitor 



him. "I am leaving to-day, you know, and I 
must get back." She tried to meet his eyes, 
but faltered and looked past him. ' ' Good- 
by, Mr. Creston," she said, holding out her 
hand. "You have given me some very 
pleasant days with the drives and picnics. 
I hope you'll have a pleasant winter." 

"Delia, look at me!" he commanded. 

She raised her eyes to his and he kissed 
her full on the mouth. 

" Oh ! " she cried, and turning, fled tow- 
ard the house without another look or word. 

Teddy watched her until she was out of 
sight and then strolled on. "Now I wonder 
why I did that," he said to himself. "Was 
it to give her a sensation or to give myself 
one? On my soul, I don't know." 

And Delia, gaining her room, panting 
and agitated, asked the same question: 
"Why did he do it? He doesn't love me. 
If he did, it wouldn't have made it right, 
but it would have been less insulting. Oh, 
it was brutal, and I hate him ! " She walked 
up and down with clenched hands. "I 
wish I could hate him," she groaned. And 
then from depths unsounded by any plum- 
met of Teddy's came the cry : "I have been 
cheated out of my birthright. A woman is 
born to be loved, and I never knew it till 
now — and now it is too late!" 

For a while she gave herself up to wretch- 
edness; but the conventions of life are ex- 
acting, and in the end they recalled her. 
She was obliged to put the finishing touches 
to her' packing and to go down to luncheon. 
When she looked in the glass to see whether 
her emotion had left any traces it would not 
have surprised her to confront the ravaged 
face of an old woman. As it was, she failed 
to see that instead of age she had gained a 
new and subtle look of youth — a youth 
which had never been hers before. As she 
sat at the table, trying to go through the 
form of eating, more than one person glanced 
at her with interest. Mercifully for her, 
Teddy did not appear at all. When she 



made her adieux she found that Julia was 
giving herself the unusual trouble of accom- 
panying her to the station, where she pur- 
chased a ticket for her and a seat in the 
Pullman coach. 

"This is my treat," she said cordially; 
"and I shall expect you to come again as 
usual, you know. This little visit doesn't 
count, for we were away all the time." 

Over the tea-table Delia was for a few 
moments the subject of conversation. 

"I had no idea," remarked one person, 
"that Miss Mynor was so pretty. I never 
noticed her particularly before. 

"Don't insult her by calling her pretty," 
said another man, who was by way of being 
artistic. "Beauty of so pure a type deserves 
a better adjective than that." 

Julia wondered whether it were not al- 
most a pity that she had not let Delia stay 
to receive this belated admiration ; whether 
it would not have proved an antidote to the 
dangers of Teddy's philandering. But it 
was too late to think of that now. 

Meantime, Delia, travelling to her next 
visit, was a prey to distressful thoughts. 
Her universe was in a state of upheaval; 
and most of all, she was aghast at the ele- 
mental instinct which had sprung to life in 
her — aghast and yet fascinated, and filled 
with desperate rebellion at fate. Was she, 
then, to be condemned henceforth to this 
futile inner turmoil? She looked back to 
the sweet, solitary days which she had so 
recently passed; she remembered the little 
house of her dreams; she even thought of 
certain satisfactory hours of visiting. Those 
tranquil pleasures belonged to a past which 
was definitely ended, and before her she 
could see nothing but unrest; uncertain 
hopes and certain discontents. Did she, 
then, wish to go back ? Oh, no, she wished 
to go forward. Belated, but imperious, the 
primitive woman in her had awakened and 
demanded to be recognized. Was it, indeed, 
too late? 





DraiLni by Hetiry Jarvis Peck. 



The Tortoise and the Hare. 



THE LAST BUSTING AT THE BOW-GUN 

By L. A. Huffman 

Illustrated p"kom PHOToaRArns by the author 



A HUNDRED and six in the shade of 
the cook's tent-fly at the Hat X Camp 
■ on the Big Dry. It was a mid-Aug- 
ust afternoon near the end of the general 
round-up. The sand flats and dunes of the 
lower Dry were radiating heat like griddles. 
Not a breath of air, not a suggestion of a 
breeze; yet in some mysterious way little 
dust and sand laden 
whirlwinds were 
born, sprang up and 
chased each other 
sportively, and 
sometimes savagely, 
noisily, across the 
bars and up the 
dunes to die in the 
sage or fringe of cot- 
tonwoods. 

The cook was 
flinging out a kettle 
of stewed raisins, 
which, he e.xplained 
— to no one in par- 
ticular — "would as- 
say eighty per cent, 
grit, since one of 
them dam w h i r 1 i - 
gigs " got tangled up 
with his pie prepara- 
tions. 

The great herd 
had watered a n d 
lain down by thou- 
sands upon the nar- 
row strip of cool, 
moist sand that 

bordered the half- Lee Wairen 

mile-long pool — a 

tempting pool, with smooth sand and silt 
floor. Yes, but the first splash of a swim- 
mer might start that entire herd rolling 
their tails for the hills, the pine ridges of 
^^ oody, twenty miles back, from whence 
the Circle, at much pains and expense of 
good horse-flesh, that morning had brought 
them. No one there needed cautioning. 



but a veteran puncher remarked: "Big dif- 
ference in cattle. They are sure always 
wolfly that range the pine ridges. Nev'r 
could quite savvy why they should be so 
much wilder than prairie rangers, but thev 
never do stand for no herdin' afoot or 
swimming parties." 

So we did not swim. We did the next 

best thing — lay in 
the shade swapping 
hunks of cow and 
horse wisdom ; rode 
b r o n c ' s , headed 
stampedes, "fit" 
prairie fires, killed 
whole dens of rattle- 
snakes, burned in- 
cense, watched, 
from the thickly 
bedded herd, the 
o'erthirsty ones rise 
st re tellingly and 
plod in straggling 
lines to the water, 
drink deep, plod 
back again, always 
to their particular 
family group to lie 
down again; chang- 
ing sides, too, of 
course, same as you 
or I going back to 
bed. 

To the west on 
the wide bench col- 
umns of dust and 
smoke told of the 
cut of cows and 
calves and the 
branding fire where Webb, Charley, and 
Smoky would soon be in a real roping con- 
test, bringing quite a hundred and fifty calves 
for the boys at that fire to, wrestle with in 
the space of an hour and a half. Across the 
flat to the north, which was the round-up 
ground this morning, the Cross Anchor bovs 
were pushing the biggest throw-back of the 

75 





Bringing calves to the branding fire. 
At the branding fire. 



year. From the bed-wagon I took a shot at 
the drag end of it as it passed; and you 
would not beUeve me, nor would the asses- 
sor, if I let you in on my estimate of how 
many horned creatures there were in that 
more than a mile-long line of drift, bound 
Redwater way. 

Also from my perch on the bed-wagon, 
'twixt yarns and snap-shots and burnings of 
incense, I saw far down the flat a string with 
a. bed-horse in the lead, making our way 
through the dust-laden, shimmering heat. 

The "Rep" that belonged to that string 
proved to be Sandy B of the Bow-Gun, who, 
76 



presently bunched the string ropes and un- 
loaded the bed-horse and unsaddled his 
sweating, blowing mount. 

"Me?" said Sandy, after he had drunk 
his fill from the keg beside the wagon and 
squatted among us, munching from a hunk 
of bread in one hand and a hunk of cold 
beef in the other, "ME? Why, I've been 
moonshinin'* the breaks below Hell and 
Crooked Creek, with a bunch of breeds- 
from Poplar River way for ten days. Mess- 
wagon looks good to me. Hot ? Say, Cat- 

*Rounding up rough country where packs instead of mess- 
wagon must be used. 



The Last Busting at the Bow-Gun 



77 



tie-boys, these sand-flats is cool to them 
breaks. Me?" — to no one in particular — 
''If I had time and a string of my own, I 
sure would go moonshinin' the breaks for 
horses. There's a wild maverick bunch in 
there that would give two honest, capable 
punchers a start in life. This cow-punchin' 
is gettin' to be a sorry trade. These breeds 
I reps with tells me it's no josh that them 
Neidrings that owned the N — N and have 
driven in more Oregon broncs and trailed 
more cattle than anybody are sure starting 
a hog ranch. Yessir, a Jiog ranch, woosh- 
ers, rooters, thousands of 'em. They are 
building her right now somewheres on the 
Missouri not far from Prairie Elk. Hain't 
goin' to be no room on this earth for 'ery 
real cow-hand a few years more. He goes 
to the tremblin' room final for his check — 
with 'er hog in the corner. This throw- 
back settles it with the old Bow- Gun, I 
guess. I am on my way to the ranch now 
to help gather the horses. We are short of 
saddle stock — going to break a bunch be- 
fore the beef-gather begins. Better come out 
and see a touch of high life" — this with a 
nod in my direction — "and bring along your 
snappin' machine." 

The fiery orb touched the tops of the 
cottonwoocls. They began to push our 
herd from its bed-ground on the bar. The 
squad from the branding fire galloped 
campward. The horses were bunched be- 
hind the ropes. 

The round-up was to split the long drive 
to Hungry Creek, where they would make 
the round-up next day, by an evening move 
to a dry camp high in the divide back of 
Sand Arroya. Next morning when I awoke 
Sandy was just cutting his string from the 
Hat X bunch, and with his bobbing bed- 
horse in the lead was soon a speck against 
the first slanting beams of the sunrise. 

But I did not forget Sandy's tip to be in 
on the " busting " ; so it fell out that one raw 
windy September evening I pulled up at the 
Bow-Gun, one of the old-time cow camps 
of the north country, built nearly twenty-five 
years back, and now sadly fallen to dilapi- 
dation and decay. 

I had come twenty miles to see "broncs 
busted" by new methods; and I thought, 
as I unhitched, of the Bow-Gun boys of a 
far time, and harked back to the days when 
the environs of ]Milestown — aye, its main 
thoroughfare withal — was the daily chosen 
Vol. XLII.— 8 



arena for the busters of those times, when a 
hand rode out his string whenever or wher- 
ever it was dealt to him, and was of the sort 
that resented the appellation "Horse Fight- 
er " or "Buster." He was born to the sad- 
dle and lariat, as farmer lads are born to the 
milking pens and the furrows. 

Foreman Bob bade me welcome. He 
and his crew were enjoying a rest between 
the general and the beef round-up, and 
lending a hand with the broncs. The old 
place seemed deserted until the cook, a tall, 
bony, four-eyed* rooster, let out a yell that 
searched the crannies of the old place and 
echoed back from the buttes, "It's a-l-l right 
with m-e-e ! " The cry brought foregather- 
ing from the one-time "buckaroo" house 
and sundry tepees pitched beside the dry 
washout, the hungry crew of the Bow-Gun, 
fifteen strong, to file by the lay-out box, 
where each man supplied himself with an 
outfit — plate, cup, knife and fork — and 
straightway to load the same with ribs of 
young beef, pot-roasted, hot biscuits, stewed 
corn, and the ever-present "Blue Hen" 
tomatoes, and to top it, a portion from the 
Dutch oven, of pudding with raisins galore, 
and sauce too a la Vanilla magoo, and 
strong black coffee, of course. 

While we supped I looked about me to 
see if I could pick out the broncho rider, 
whose fame had been long familiar to 
the countryside. "Weak head and strong 
back for a horse fighter " is an old and com- 
mon saying; and likewise it had not infre- 
quently chanced in old days that that gen- 
tleman could, with certainty, almost unerr- 
ingly, at any time or place, be spotted by 
his swagger, his display of artillery, his un- 
failing weakness for wearing heavy bear- 
skin or llama leggings, even in the hottest 
weather, and his spurs. 

But times have changed. There's little 
doing in bearskin shaps. Fewer men are 
drawing fifty a month, making up in hat rim 
what they lack in skill and brains. And here 
was the old Bow- Gun almost at the end of it, 
soon to become a third-rate sheep camp. 

As Foreman Bob and I supped elbow to 
elbow in the firelight, listening to the chaff 
of the crew, I asked him which was Lee 
Warren, who was to begin on the following 
morning to ride the wild Bow- Gun horses 
at the rate of six or eight a day. Pointed 
out, he proved to be about the least con- 

* Spectacled. 



78 



The Last Busting at the Bow-Gun 



spicuous, least loquacious man of the bunch . 
Short tostubbiness, and dressed like a farm- 
hand; declining the proffered weed with 
thanks, saying he'd never learned to smoke. 

Supper over, we gathered in the bunk- 
house for a memorable evening of songs 
and stories. No herd to hold, no guards 
to stand, so no one seemed in haste to 
seek his blankets. The four-eyed one, too, 
joined us when his work was done for the 
night; and there was a man with a voice 
and a laugh — such a voice and rippling con- 
tagious laugh you never could forget, once 
you'd heard it. A man could top my string 
of the best nag in it if I could fetch a laugh 
the like of that. And the one story — I'm 
sorry it's unprintable — that old four-eyes 
springs on us puts it out of everybody's 
reach for that session. So we unrolled our 
beds and turned in. 

From where I lay, through the wide-open 
door, I looked long at those eternal, tur- 
reted, cold, moonlit Western hills; outlined 
against them stood, saddled and picketed, 
sentinel like, the wrangler's gray night- 
horse, listening too to the myriad voices of 
the night that unfailingly come to the senses 
once a camp is stilled. I wondered, as T 
had a thousand times in years that are gone, 
when, by some dying camp-fire I drowsed, 
up-gazing into the always new, yet change- 
less star-studded, glittering vastness, what 
the indescribable charm of this life was, 
that one failed always to put into speech. 

In the cold grayness the wrangler tiptoed 
among the silent sleepers, wakened the cook, 
mounted old " Specks, "the gray horse, and 
was off to round-up his night grazing band. 

Then the voice, clear as a bugle: " R-o-1-1 
o-u-t, R-o-1-1 o-u-t, while she's hot." It 
was steak, stacks of griddle-cakes, and cof- 
fee; after which Foreman Bob, addressing 
Warren, said : " Lee, tell Lem [Lem was the 
horse wrangler] how many you want, and 
the boys will run them in for you when you're 
ready." Warren "reckoned " six would do 
to sample them at the jump-off. It re- 
minded me of Dewey and Gridley: "You 
may fire, Gridley, when you are ready." 

Both men were dealing in commonplaces. 
He'd have six, not more, raw onion-eyed, 
four- and five-year olds, for his first morn- 
ing's work — when Lem was ready — and 
six horses, mind you, that had never 
smelled oats or felt weight of rawhide since 
they had had that i 



Bow-Gun signal 



burned on their shoulders, some terrible 
day of their colthood. 

While we waited for the horses, Warren 
took stock of his outfit. Just a plain, or- 
dinary, single-rigged cow-saddle, bridle, 
and lariat, spurs, quirt, and some short 
pieces of grass rope for the cross-hobbling. 
Presently the voice, its owner elbow deep in 
his bread-pan, announced, "Hy-ar they 
come a f-o-g-g-i-n'. " 

Swiftly across the wide flat, flanked by 
half a dozen well-mounted riders, the little 
band swings a wide circle, leaving adrift 
behind it a long ribbon of dust. The big 
gate is flung open, and the day's work is 
corralled. An inner gate swings, another 
swift rush and the six beautiful beasts are 
bunched, snorting and trembling, in the 
round corral, the one with the snubbing-post 
in the centre, where legions of wild, care- 
free, young horses before them have bitten 
the dust, bidding sudden and painful fare- 
well to the glad, work-free life of the prairie. 

Warren, as he looks them over with crit- 
ical eye, uncoils the rawhide, adjusts hondo 
and loop. At his first step of approach 
they break away. Round and round they 
circle, in vain effort to dodge that flying 
noose, which, at the second cast, falls true, 
and the bright bay leader of the bunch, Os- 
car Wilde (a name that Warren flung to 
him with the first throw that he so neatly 
dodged, and Oscar he will be to the end of 
his days in the Bow-Gun saddle bunch) is 
in the toils, leaping, bucking, striking sav- 
agely at the thing that grips him by the 
throat, now held taut by Lee and his two 
helpers, who, when his first desperate lunges 
are past, take a turn of the rope round the 
snubbing-post set deep in the earth. 

" Easy, easy now ! Snub him too sudden 
and he kinks her or breaks her [his neck]. 
Steady now!" He is facing the post, feet 
braced and wide apart, straining at the rope 
until in his final, blind struggle for breath, 
he throws himself. Quick as a flash, War- 
ren has his knee on Oscar's neck, grips him 
by the underjaw, tilts his head so that his 
nose points skyward. Instantly the turn is 
thrown from the post. The noose slackens, 
is slipped off, passed bridle-wise over his 
ears and, by a dexterous and simple turn, 
made fast curbwise to his underjaw. 

For a full half-minute Oscar has found 
that dust-laden air so good that he has re- 
laxed, forgotten to fight. Deftly and quick- 



The Last Busting at the Bow-Gun 



79 



ly Warren hobbles his front feet together 
and slips on the bridle. Oscar bounds to 
his feet, but qviickly finds that his struggles 
to free himself only result in a succession of 
fallsthat cause him to hesitate, until, in some 
mysterious way, he finds his near hind foot, 
too, caught in a noose and made fast to his 
near front one. He's cross-hobbled now 
and ready for the saddle. 

Here the skill and patience of the bronco 
rider are put to a severe test. He must hold 
his horse by the reins and rope, lay the saddle 
blanket, then with a one-hand swing place 
that forty-pound saddle where it belongs. 
Dazed, cross-hobbled as he is, the horse re- 
sents the blanket to the twentieth time, 
often, and may frustrate as many attempts 
to reach with the latigo strap that swinging 
cinch ring, and often he will slip from under 
the saddle a good many times before it is 
caught and the first hard pull cinches the 
saddle firmly in place. 

Oscar has been in the toils fifteen min- 
utes — no doubt it's seemed longer to him. 
His hobbles are now being removed — often 
quite as exciting a task as putting them on. 
They are off, those hobbles, but Oscar does 
not know it. His attention is distracted by 
a pain in his ear. Lee has it twisted firmly, 
gripped in his strong left hand . Strange, but 
true, nine times out of ten, the wildest out- 
law will stand motionless for a minute or 
more if you get just the right twist on his ear. 

Cautiously, tensely, without the shadow 
of hesitation, Warren lightly swings to his 
seat. The critical moment has come. For 
five breathless seconds after that ear is 
released Oscar stands frozen, wide-eyed, 
nostrils distended, muscles strained until 
under the rear of that saddle-skirt there's 
room for your hat 'twixt it and his back. 

In response to the first pull at the rein, 
by one or two quick, short, nervous steps 
he discovers that his legs are once more un- 
shackled. Up he goes in a long, curving 
leap like a buck. Down goes his head, and 
he blats that indescribable bawl that only 
thoroughly maddened, terrified broncos can 
fetch, something uncanny, something be- 
tween a scream and a groan, that rasps 
the nerves and starts the chill, hunted feeling 
working your spine. 

The Voice, drawing water at the well, 
sends a hail: "N-o-w he t-a-k-e-s her. 
S-t-a-y with him, Lee. S-t-a-y with him," 
as round and round he leaps, reined hard, 



now right, now left, by his rider. Again and 
again he goes high, with hind feet drawn 
under, as if reaching for the stirrups. Fore- 
legs thrust forward, stiff as crowbars, driv- 
ing hoof-prints in the packed earth, like 
mauls, as he lands; yet light and tight, 
seeming never to catch the brunt of the jolt, 
sits his rider. 

Now the little horse begins to sulk, backs 
suddenly, and rears high, as if to throw 
himself backward. If he should succeed, 
should rid himself in that way, of his rider, 
he would surely try it again. His first les- 
son might end in failure, and he'd have 
made a good start toward becoming Oscar 
the outlaw. 

But Lee has also another card looped to 
his wrist, one that he is loath to use, that 
stinging rawhide quirt, which now descends 
fore and aft, round his ears, and raising 
welts on his quivering flanks at each stroke. 
Oscar is quickly distracted from rearing 
and backing. Again he sulks, refuses to 
respond to word, rein, or quirt. 

Now, for the first time it's the steel — the 
spurs — and the horse chooses doing the 
circle, the thing of the least punishment. 
Oscar has been in the corral forty minutes. 
Sweat runs from belly atid nose, and in lit- 
tle rivulets down his legs. Warren swings 
off gently, then quickly up again, mount- 
ing and dismounting rapidly half a dozen 
times, each time, with his gloved hand, 
patting the blowing horse on flank, rump, 
and neck. 

Almost in one motion, saddle and bridle 
are off — flung together at the post. Oscar's 
first lesson is finished. The gate swings, he 
dashes through to the outer corral, while 
Foreman Bob, where we're perched on the 
fence, says to me: "Old Lee knows when 
to quit. He's careful; never baked a horse 
for us yet. Keeps his temper. That's where 
most of us lose out in that game. Feller we 
had here last summer — good rider, stout as 
a mule — loses his, and his job. Bakes the 
first one he tackles. Fights him an hour 
saddlin', then sifts him outside; throws him 
the gut-hooks and quirt until the boss is 
plumb baked, overhet. Falls dead there 
a hundred yards from the ranch. Third 
time's plenty soon to ride 'em outside." 

Once more Lee gives " Smithy" the gate- 
man, a nod as he throws the kinks from the 
rawhide, coolly adjusting his noose for 
number two, a big chestnut sorrel. '' Flaxey" 



80 



The Last Busting at the Bow-Gun 



is the name that fits him by reason of his 
weakh of mane and tail of that color. 

Flaxey ducks, turns, doubles, and dodges 
that singing noose for the third time, lil^e a 
boxer. "I'll just take your front feet away 

from you, you , if you'd rather," and 

the loop then flies low, edgewise, well in 
front of the galloping horse. Somehow, too 
quick for the eye to detect just how it was 
done, Flaxey's down, his front feet gripped 
in the noose. Smithy's "nailed his muz- 
zle" and sits perched on his neck. 

It's the story of Oscar repeated, except 
that Flaxey varies the entertainment by 
bucking the empty saddle the second his 
hobbles are loosed; gets his feet tangled in 
the reins, snatches off the bridle. 

Lem's throw to catch him again falls 
short, catches the saddle-horn, pulls the 
saddle back on his rump, making him look 
for a time, to Lem, "like a two-seated hoss 
with the front seat missin'." 

"Say, Cattle-boys, old Flaxey, he shore 
does cut her high and wide when that sad- 
dle turns under his belly." It's only one 
of the inevitable, enlivening incidents of the 
day's work, delaying for the space of five 
minutes only, the twisting of Flaxey's left 
ear and his proper topping. 

It is eleven o'clock now. Warren, bare- 
headed, shapeless, sooty as a smith with 
dust and sweat, is up on " Stripes, " his sixth 
and last horse, when the Voice sings, 
" B-o-n-e-h-e-a-d-s, b-o-n-e-h-e-a-d-s, take 
it away," which announces the best meal of 
the day — roast beef, boiled spuds, fresh 
bread, cinnamon rolls, and, to trim it, quar- 
ters of thick, juicy, blackberry pie. 

Always when I sample blackberry pie or 
snuff the dust of a horse-fight, memory takes 
me far back on my trail to a distant Sep- 
temper day before a yard of wire fence or a 
horse corral had obtruded between Old 
Smoky Butte and the Sand-hills, or betwixt 
the Cannon Ball and Wind River, when 
horses were dirt cheap and for the most 
part broken on the trail. Just roped, sad- 
dled, and rode in the open. 

Old Twodot Satchel was our trail boss 
then, bringing in two big herds of Swinging 
A cattle. Our camp was among those won- 
derful red scoria hills on the Big Powder, 
hills that were full soon to witness the final 
and big things of the range cattle business. 

Old Satchel was scouting the country for 



shelter and grass and a site for the new 
ranch, and all hands were "layin' off to 
turn loose the herds," when this other day 
of horse-fighting, pie, and almost a homi- 
cide rolled around. 

Old Twodot was a good man to trail with. 
Never took the best of it, being boss, to 
shirk night guards on his boys. Come his 
guard any time between cocktail* and 
breakfast, he would "like to see some blank 
blank " stand his guard, as he'd lope for the 
herd prompt as any hand in the outfit. Woe, 
too, by the same token, to the man he 
caught overworking the gentle horses in his 
string, giving the bad ones the go-by cold 
mornings, hanging back when there was 
swimming in sight. He was never "hunt- 
in' shaller crossin's," was old Twodot, but 
had a well-earned reputation for " chousin " 
into any river that got in his way. 

We all have our failings. Old Twodot 
had his. Strike him at any time and he had 
two or three outlaws in his string that he 
seemed never to ride or to have other use for 
than to steer unsuspecting strangers against. 

"Looks like Old Satchel k'aint have no 
fun," Andy Williams used to say, "less'n 
he's sickin' somebody to ride Old Mokey or 
Zebra, and get k-i-1-l-e-d u-p. It ain't any 
of my fambly that's takin' risks that way. 
I shore have knowed fellers, though, to get 
a gun bent over their nut for less than loan- 
in' such outlaws to parties with a yearn for 
this glad life." 

On the September day reverted to, there 
drifted into that camp of ours a strange, 
wild specimen of humanity, not only wild- 
looking, but with that something indescrib- 
able in the look of his eye that told of his 
hunger for his kind. 

No puncher need look twice as he ap- 
proached to learn that the black mare he is 
riding, is "Injun" and wild, a stranger to 
cow camps, unbitted, ridden with some- 
thing between a one-eared bridle and a 
hackamore made of untanned skin; that 
his stirrups are pick-ups that don't mate, 
that the skirtless seat itself is more like 
some old castaway, back-number tree that's 
been hanging on a fence for a year, than a 
saddle. 

That arrival resulted in old Twodot tak- 
ing a long lay-off and making a trail boss 
of Andy. It was, to the last day of that 
worthy's life, worth while to hear him re- 

*The first guard after the last meal of the day. 





The outer gate swings and the band dashes through. 
The flying noose falls true. 



gale a bunch of cow-hands with the story in 
somewhat this wise : 

"I never did meet up with but one sure- 
enough hoss-tamer since I works my way, 
packin' water, into old Rarey's show when 
I'm a kid, where he's tamin' balky plugs 
for farmers back in old Misoo' at ten bucks 
a hoss; and that was Stutterin' Bob, that 
strikes us when we are locatin' the first 
*A's' old Satchel brings in on Powder 
that time. It's this Bob, you see, shoots 
up old Daniel's dive in Cheyenne that time, 
and wings one of the Blocker outfit when 
he's makin' his getaway, headin' north, 
Vol. XLIL— 9 



thinkin' he's a hunted outlaw. Keeps goin' 
from May to July, dodging stage roads and 
cow camps and every place where he might 
have got a meal, livin' like a 'k3'ot-e, and 
packin' a hunk of the Blocker boys' lead in 
his shoulder. When he is about all in he 
stumbles onto the camp of this old French 
doctor that's livin' with the Crees and 
breeds, around Sheep Mountains. Old 
Frenchy mines the lead out of him, and 
fixes him up some, but when he gets so he 
can crawl out of the wickyup, he ain't got 
no more horse, saddle, or gun, than a 
prairie-d-a-w-g. Them Crees the old sport 

8i 





"Easy, easy now!" 
He's cross-hobbled now and ready for the saddle. 



is a-harboring has him set afoot proper, 
exceptin' the clothes he's got on, and one 
pop. When he just kainH choke down 
another round of the marrow-gut and pemi- 
can dawg-feed this outfit feasts on, he bor- 
rows a hoss one dark night, and hghts out 
on the back trail. It's a cinch that lone 
gents ridin' mares* ain't so permiscous that 
away but what this Stutterin' Bob makes a 
hit with the A outfit, we bein' three hundred 
miles from a neighboring cow camp or a 
stage ranch when he shows up on us in 
that rig of his'n. Starvin', hidin', and hard 

* Never used by cow outfits. 
82 



ridin' fixes it that he gets the red ticket easy 
over anything that hits Powder River up to 
then. We all has our preejidices. Old 
Twodot has his. No squawmen, breeds, 
or Injuns for his'n. He catches a whiff of 
that teepee smell that's waftin' all the way 
from the old Dock's Cree Wickup in them 
remnants of what's onct Bob's clothes ; while 
Bob, all onbeknownst to them preejidices, 
is throwin' the feast of his life into hisself ; 
after which he loses no time bracin' Old 
Satchel fer a job, ridin'. 'Well, stranger,' 
says old Twodot, smoothlike, dlsguisin' his 
feelin's, 'we ain't short-handed for riders, 




Cross-hobbled as he is, the horse dodges the saddle blanket successfully. 
The first hard puU and the saddle is firmly in place. 



just at present, but, if you-all hain't drawin' 
the line at mares, I might stake you to an old 
gentle hoss or two, out of my string, so you 
can help with the cattle for a spell, ontil 
you can strike something better.' 

"That's all right with him. Ne.xt thing 
we see is this wild man leadin' old Zebra 
out of the bunch with this hackamore of 
his. Now, Zebra, he's one of these splay- 
footed, old hellyans that'll stand kinder 
spraddled, thoughtful, and meek-like for 
saddlin', never making a flounce until his 
man starts swingin' up; then of a sudden 
he breaks out er-rocketin', hoggin', sun- 



fishin', and plowin' up the yarth for about 
seven jumps, when he changes ends, cater- 
pillers, goin' over back quicker'n lightnin'. 
The way the outfit begins to line up watchin' 
him cinch that old centre-fire tree on old 
Zebra confirms his suspicions. He gives 
Twodot a savage look like a trapped wolf, 
tucks the loose coil of that hackamore rope 
into his belt, and just walks onto that hoss; 
never tries to find the off-stirrup, but stands 
high in the nigh one, a-rakin' old Zeeb up 
and down, and reachin' fer the root of his 
tail, and jabbin' him with his heel every 
jump until he goes to the earth, feet up- 

83 



K. 




. , 


-^^'"^ ^^^B 




-. ^ . . ^ .-*.-Li_* .-,.-^>— : -"li. 


ry-T.*- ~— . ~^^ 




If"--- ■ '-"v^ • 


»< X 


^?9^^^^^^Kp""""' '■^- - -, jM^SSBb 


^Kc^'.'^-^.AJ^^^^^^^^^B^s&fifii 


p> 




1"^^ 




Sometimes it's quite as interesting getting the hobbles off as on. 
Mounting — the ear twist. 



wards like a bear fightin' bees. Old Bob 
ain't under there to get pinched none, 
though, not on your type; he's jest calmly 
puttin' a pair of rawhide hobbles on them 
front feet and a-wroppin' old Zeeb's head 
and ears in that rag of a coat of his'n, that 
seems like he shucks before he hits the 
ground. I'll never tell a man what that 
long-legged, stutterin' maverick does to a 
bronc. Zebra ain't the last horse, though, 
that I sees him mesmerize, ontil they'd 
seem to firgit their past life when he'd let 
'em up to foUer him around crow hoppin' in 
the hobbles like a trick mewl in a circus. 
84 



Less time than I'm tellin' you, he has them 
hobbles off again, and is ridin' old Zebra 
round as quiet as a night hoss. 

"The laugh is on old Twodot; and he's 
that ringey he breaks out intimatin' Bob of 
some dirty breed work, like slippin' a hand- 
ful of gravel or a string of buckshot into old 
Zeeb's ear, and a chow-ow-in' that he never 

did see no Squawherdin' that rides 

fair. At that Bob climbs down, sayin' 
quiet like, 'Eat that Injun part and that 
name or I'll ride you.' Old Satchel goes 
after his gun, but Bob is too quick. He 
has him plugged through the wrist, and 




He discovers his legs are once more unshackled. 
Again and again he goes high. 



sends another barkin' his scalp that downs 
him hke a beef before he ever gets action. 
That's however I got my start in hfe, run- 
ning the old A outfit." 

It was a far, far cry between those two 
September days, between those two samples 
of blackberry pie. Stutterin' Bob, Two- 
dot, Old Andy, and Gentleman Bill had 
passed away. In the shade of this old 
Bow-Gun blacksmith shop, vaqueros born 
since their time were listening to tales of 
their prowess, while tentatively mending 
gear, from saddles to sougans, through the 
long afternoon. 



It was the third and last day of my stay 
at the old ranch. Warren, rising from 
breakfast asked — of no one in particular — 
"Who all is going to haze me?" Which 
was to say that Oscar, Flaxey, Stripes, and 
their fellows of that day's work are to-day 
to get their first gallop outside — with a haz- 
er, a rider mounted on something wise to 
the game and swift enough of foot to stay 
alongside, heading them from washouts, 
dog-towns, and miles on miles of breaks and 
cut-banks, any direction from the Bow-Gun, 
where there's such footing as one takes with 
caution on well-broken mounts. 

85 




Rearing and backing. 
Plumb gentle. 



Now he dispensed with hobbles and help- 
ers, roped, bridled, and saddled the horses 
unaided, mounted them, circled the corral 
a turn or two, gave the gateman the word, 
and out they went like a shot, buster and 
hazer neck and neck, off up the flat like a 
whipping finish in a quarter race. Four 
rides with a slicker lesson or two, and these 
dare-devil riders call them "plumb gentle," 
and each man gets his share of the new 
ones for immediate use in his string. 

"Of course," mused Lee, as we lounged 
by the cook's fire that last evening; "of 
course, if a buster was getting fifteen bones 
86 



a head instead of five, and all the time he 
needed, say thirty instead of five days, for a 
bunch like this one, horse fighting would be 
safer, less exciting, less picturesque, as you'd 
say. We would do our work, too, in a heap 
safer way for horses and men; but will it 
pay ? is the question. Whether it's bustin' 
a bronc or a bank, bosses won't stand for a 
fifteen-dollar finish on a thirty-five dollar 
horse." 

"Where do you go to ride your next 
bunch?" I asked. 

Warren fell silent, twirling thoughtfully 
the rowel of a spur, before replying. 



Finalities 



87 



"Just between ourselves, I am quitting to our friends along about turkey time, 

the game right here — ridingmy last bronc'. and you'll be welcome, if you happen that 

5//e wants that in our "contrack." I am to way, to the best we've got, and the spin 

be premoted to run the Flying Eight ry^ of your hfe behind a pair of flyin' hole 



over on the river. We'll be at home 



colts.' 




The old Bow-Gun Ranch. 



FINALITIES 

By M. A. De Wolfe Howe 
THE AMBUSH THE LAST ENEMY 



Sudden turnings of the trail, 
Fading footprints, clues that fail — 
What may not these portents mean 
When the foe is all unseen, 
And each fated pioneer 
Fares along a grim frontier? 
Lurking somewhere, left or right, 
Near the pathway, safe from sight, 
In his ambush subtlv laid. 
Stands the patient, hostile Shade. 
Come you marching like a king. 
Like a craven loitering, 
Still the unconquerable foe 
Waits your coming: forward, go! 
Thus along the grim frontier 
Fares each fated pioneer. 



For my destined last defeat 
Naught of mercy I entreat; 
Only borne to earth and faint 
May I fall without complaint; 
But, dear Foe, for them I love 
All thy mercy would I move. 
Torture not their end with vain 
Long vicissitudes of pain; 
Though they feel thee lurking near, 
Let their brave hearts laugh at fear; 
Then bestow thy sweetest gift, 
Smiting merciful and swift. 
Yet — yet may the stroke be stayed 
Till at evening, undismayed, 
They shall seize the vision far 
Of one reassuring star! 




Drawn by Alouzo Kimball. 



What was there to keep him from accepting? — Page 99. 



THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 

BY EDITH WHARTON 



Illustrations by Alonzo Kimball 



BOOK III — (Continued) 




XIX 

r was late in October when 
Amherst returned to Lyn- 
brook. 

He had begun to learn, in 
the interval, the lesson most 
difficult to his direct and 
trenchant nature: that compromise is the 
law of married life. On the afternoon of 
his talk with his wife he had sought her out, 
determined to make a final effort to clear up 
the situation between them; but he learned 
that, immediately after luncheon, she had 
gone off in the motor with Mrs. Carbury 
and two men of the party, leaving word 
that they would probably not be back till 
evening. It cost Amherst a struggle, when 
he had humbled himself to receive this in- 
formation from the butler, not to pack his 
portmanteau and take the first train for 
Hanaford; but he was still under the influ- 
ence of Justine Brent's words, and also of 
his own feeling that, at this juncture of their 
lives, a break between himself and Bessy 
would be final. 

He stayed on accordingly, enduring as 
best he might the mute observation of the 
household, and the gentle irony of Mr. 
Langhope's attentions; and before he left 
Lynbrook, two days later, a kind of provi- 
sional understanding had been reached. 

His wife proved more firm than he had 
foreseen in her resolve to regain control of 
her income, and the talk between them 
ended in reciprocal concessions, Bessy con- 
senting to let the town house for the winter 
and remain at Lynbrook, while Amherst 
agreed to restrict his improvements at West- 
more to such alterations as had already been 
begun, and to reduce the expenditure on 
these as much as possible. It was virtually 
the defeat of his policy, and he had to suffer 
the decent triumph of the Gaineses, as well 
as the bitterer pang of his foiled aspirations. 
In spite of the opposition of the directors. 
Vol. XLIL— id 



he had taken advantage of Truscomb's 
resignation to put Duplain at the head of 
the mills ; but the new manager's outspoken 
disgust at the company's change of plan 
made it clear that he would not remain long 
at Westmore, and it was one of the miseries 
of Amherst's situation that he could not give 
the reasons for his defection, but must bear 
to figure in Duplain's terse vocabulary as a 
"quitter." The difficulty of finding a new 
manager expert enough to satisfy the direc- 
tors, yet in sympathy with his own social 
theories, made Amherst fear that Duplain's 
withdrawal would open the way for Trus- 
comb's triumphant reinstatement, an out- 
come on which he suspected that Halford 
Gaines had always counted ; and this possi- 
bility loomed before him as the final defeat 
of his hopes. 

Meanwhile the issues confronting him 
had at least the merit of keeping him busy. 
The task of modifying and retrenching his 
plans contrasted drearily with the hopeful 
activity of the past months, but he had an 
iron capacity for hard work under adverse 
conditions, and the fact of being too busy 
for thought helped him to wear through the 
days. This pressure of work reheved him, 
at first, from too close consideration of his 
relation to Bessy. He had yielded up his 
dearest hopes at her wish, and for the mo- 
ment his renunciation had set a chasm be- 
tween them; but gradually he saw that, as 
he was patching together the ruins of his 
Westmore plans, so he must presently apply 
himself to the reconstruction of his married 
life. 

Before leaving Lynbrook he had had a 
last word with Miss Brent; not a word of 
confidence — for the same sense of reserve 
kept both from any explicit renewal of their 
moment's intimacy — but one of those ex- 
changes of commonplace phrase that cir- 
cumstances may be left to charge with spe- 
cial meaning. Justine had merely asked if 
he were really leaving and, on his assenting, 

89 



90 



The Fruit of the Tree 



had exclaimed quickly : " But you will come 
back soon?" 

"I shall certainly come back," he an- 
swered; and after a pause he added: "I 
shall find you here? You are going to re- 
main at Lynbrook?" 

On her part also there was a shade of 
hesitation; then she said with a smile: 
"Yes, I shall stay." 

His look brightened. "And you will 
write me if anything — if Bessy should not 
be well?" 

"I will write you," she promised; and a 
few weeks after his return to Hanaford he 
had, in fact, receiyed a short note from her. 
Its ostensible purpose was to reassure him 
as to Bessy's health, which had certainly 
grown stronger since Dr. Wyant had per- 
suaded her, after the dispersal of the last 
house-party, to accord herself a short period 
of quiet; but (the writer added) now that 
Mr. Langhope and Mrs. Ansell had also 
left, the quiet was perhaps too complete, 
and Bessy's neryes were beginning to suffer 
from the reaction. 

Amherst had no difficulty in interpreting 
this brief communication. "I haye suc- 
ceeded in dispersing the people who are al- 
ways keeping you and your wife apart ; now 
is your chance: come and take it." That 
was what Miss Brent's letter meant; and 
his answer was a telegram to Bessy, an- 
nouncing his return to Long Island. 

The step was not an easy one to take; but 
decisiye action, howeyer hard, was always 
easier to Amherst than the ensuing interyal 
of readjustment. To come to Lynbrook 
had recjuired a strong eft'ort of will ; but the 
effort of remaining there called into play 
less disciplined faculties. 

Amherst had alwaj's been used to doing 
things; now he had to resign himself to en- 
during a state of things. The material facil- 
ities of the life about him, the way in which 
the machinery of the great empty house ran 
on like some complex apparatus working in 
the yoid, increased the exasperation of his 
nerves. Dr. Wyant's suggestion — which 
Amherst suspected Justine of haying 
prompted — that Mrs. Am.herst should can- 
cel her autumn engagements, and giye her- 
self up to a quiet outdoor hfe with her hus- 
band, seemed to present the very opportu- 
nity these two distracted spirits needed to 
find and repossess each other. But, though 
Amherst was grateful to Bessy for having 



dismissed her visitors — partly to please him, 
as he guessed — yet he found the routine of 
the establishment more oppressive than 
when the house was full. If he could have 
been alone with her in a quiet corner — the 
despised cottage at Westmore, even! — he 
fancied they might still have been brought 
together by restricted space and the familiar 
exigencies of life. All the primitive neces- 
sities which bind together, through their 
recurring daily wants, natures fated to find 
no higher point of union, had been carefully 
eliminated from the hfe at Lynbrook, where 
material needs were not only provided for 
but anticipated by a hidden mechanism that 
filled the house with the perpetual sense of 
invisible attendance. Though Amherst 
knew that he and Bessy could never meet in 
the region of great issues, he thought he 
might have regained the way to her heart, 
and found relief from his own inaction, in 
the small ministrations of daily life; but the 
next moment he smiled to picture Bessy in 
surroundings where the clocks were not 
wound of themselves and the doors did not 
fly open at her approach. Those thick- 
crowding cares and drudgeries which serve 
as merciful screens between so many dis- 
cordant natures would have been as intol- 
erable to her as was to Amherst the great 
glare of leisure in which he and she were 
now confronted. 

He saw that Bessy was in the state of 
propitiatory eagerness which always fol- 
lowed on her gaining a point in their long 
duel ; and he could guess that she was trem- 
ulously anxious not only to make up to him, 
by all the arts she knew, for the sacrifice she 
had exacted, but also to conceal from every 
one the fact that, as Mr. Langhope bluntly 
put it, he had been "brought to terms." 
Amherst was touched by her eft'orts, and 
half-ashamed of his own inability to re- 
spond to them. But his mind, released 
from its normal preoccupations, had be- 
come a dangerous instrument of analysis 
and disintegration, and conditions which, a 
few months before, he might have accepted 
with the wholesome tolerance of the busy 
man, now pressed on him unendurably. 
He saw that he and his wife were really face 
to face for the first time since their marriage. 
Hitherto something had always intervened 
between them — first the spell of her grace 
and beauty, and the brief joy of her partici- 
pation in his work; then the sorrow of their 



The Fruit of the Tree 91 

child's death, and after that the temporary The pony made fast, the terrier re- 
exhilaration of carrying out his ideas at leased, and fern-box and lunch-basket slung 
Westmore — but now that the last of these over Amherst's shoulder, the three explor- 
veils had been torn away they confronted ers set forth on their journey. Amherst, as 
each other as strangers. became his sex, led the way; but after a 

few absent-minded plunges into the sedgy 

The habit of keeping factory hours drove depths between the islets, he was ordered 
Amherst forth long before his wife's day to relinquish his command and fall to the 
began, and in the course of one of these rear, where he might perform the humbler 
early tramps he met Miss Brent and Cicely service of occasionally lifting Cicely over 
setting out for a distant swamp where ru- unspannable gulfs of moisture, 
mour had it that a rare native orchid might Justine, leading the way, guided them 
be found. Justine's sylvan tastes had de- across the treacherous surface as fearlessly 
veloped in the Uttle girl a passion for these as a king-fisher, hghting instinctively on 
pillaging expeditions, and Cicely, who had every grass-tussock and svibmerged tree- 
discovered that her step-father knew almost stump of the uncertain path. Now and 
as much about birds and squirrels as Miss then she paused, her feet drawn close on 
Brent did about flowers, was not to be their narrow perch, and her slender body 
appeased till Amherst had scrambled into swaying over as she reached down for some 
the pony-cart, wedging his long legs be- rare growth detected among the withered 
tween a fern-box and a lunch-basket, and reeds and grasses; then she would right 
balancing a Scotch terrier's telescopic body herself again by a backward movement as 
across his knees. natural as the upward spring of a branch — 

The season was so mild that only one or so free and flexible in all her motions that 

two light windless frosts had singed the foli- she seemed akin to the swaying reeds and 

age of oaks and beeches, and gilded the road- curving brambles which caught at her as she 

sides with a smooth carpeting of maple ])assed. 

leaves. The morning haze rose like smoke At length the explorers reached the mossy 

from burnt-out pyres of sumach and sugar- corner where the orchids lurked, and Cicely, 

maple; a silver bloom lay on the furrows of securely balanced on a fallen tree-trunk, 

the ploughed fields; and now and then, as was allowed to dig the coveted roots. When 

they drove on, the wooded road showed at they had been packed away, it was felt that 

its end a tarnished disk of light, where sea this culminating moment must be cele- 

and sky were merged. brated with immediate libations of jam and 

At length they left the road for a winding milk; and having climbed to a dry slope 

track through scrub-oaks and glossy thick- among the fragrant pepper-bushes, the 

ets of mountain-laurel; the track died out party fell on the contents of the lunch- 

at the foot of a wooded knoll, and clam- basket. It was just the hour when Bessy's 

bering along its base they came upon the maid was carrying her breakfast-tray, with 

swamp. There it lay in charmed solitude, its delicate service of old silver and por- 

shut in by a tawny growth of larch and celain, into the darkened bed-room at Lyn- 

swamp-maple, its edges burnt out to smoul- brook ; but early rising and hard scrambling 

dering shades of russet, ember-red and ash- had whetted the appetites of the naturalists, 

en-grey, while the quaking centre still pre- and the plain nursery fare which Cicely 

served a jewel-like green, where hidden spread before them seemed a sumptuous 

lanes of moisture wound between islets reward for their toil. 

tufted with swamp-cranberry and with the "I do hke this kind of picnic much better 

charred browns of fern and wild-rose and than the ones where mother takes all the 

bay. Sodden earth and decaying branches footmen, and the mayonnaise has to be 

gave forth a strange sweet odour, as of the scraped off things before I can eat them," 

aromatic essences embalming a dead sum- Cicely declared, lifting her foaming mouth 

mer; and the air charged with this scent was from a beaker of milk, 

so still that the snapping of witch-hazel Amherst, lighting his pipe, stretched him- 

pods, the drop of a nut, the leap of a startled .self contentecUy among the pepper-bushes, 

frog, pricked the silence with separate points steeped in that unreflecting peace which is 

of sound. shed into some liearts by communion with 



92 The Fruit of the Tree 

trees and sky. He too was glad to get away after I'd had my fill of wonders, I should 
from the footmen and the mayonnaise, and come back to my familiar corner, and my 
he imagined that his stepdaughter's ex- house full of busy humdrum people, and fly 
clamation summed up all the reasons for his low to warn them of rain, and wheel up high 
happiness. The boyish wood-craft which to show them it was good haying weather, 
he had cultivated in order to encourage the and know what was going on in every room 
same taste in his factory lads came to life in the house, and every house in the village; 
in this sudden return to nature, and he re- and all the while I should be hugging my 
deemedhisclumsinessincrossingtheswamp .wonderful big secret — the secret of snow- 
by spying a marsh-wren's nest that had es- plains and burning deserts, and coral isl- 
caped Justine, and detecting in a swiftly- ands and buried cities — and should put 
flitting olive-brown bird a belated tanager it all into my chatter under the eaves, that 
in autumn incognito. the people in the house were always too 

Cicely sat rapt while he pictured the busy to stop and listen to — and when winter 

bird's winter pilgrimage, with glimpses of came I'm sure I should hate to leave them, 

the seas and islands that fled beneath him even to go back to my great Brazilian for- 

till his long southern flight ended in the dim ests full of orchids and monkeys I " 

glades of the equatorial forests. "But, Justine, in winter you could take 

" Oh, what a good life — how I should like care of the monkeys," the practical Cicely 

to be a wander-bird, and look down peo- suggested. 

pie's chimneys twice a year!" Justine "Yes — and that would remind me of 

laughed, tilting her head back to catch a home!" Justine cried, swinging about to 

last glimpse of the tanager. pinch the little girl's chin. 

The sun beamed full on their ledge from She was in one of the buoyant moods 

a sky of misty blue, and she had thrown when the spirit of life caught her in its grip, 

aside her hat, uncovering her thick waves of and shook and tossed her on its mighty 

hair, blue-black in the hollows, with warm waves as a sea-bird is tossed through the 

rusty edges where they took the light. Cicely spray of flying rollers. At such moments 

dragged down a plumy spray of traveller's all the light and music of the world seemed 

joy and wound it above her friend's fore- distilled into her veins, and forced up in 

head; and thus wreathed, with her bright bubbles of laughter to her lips and eyes, 

pallour relieved against the dusky autumn Amherst had never seen her thus, and he 

tints, Justine looked like a wood-spirit who watched her with the sense of relaxation 

had absorbed into herself the last golden which the contact of limpid gaiety brings 

juices of the year. to a mind obscured by failure and self-dis- 

She leaned back laughing against a tree- trust. The world was not so dark a place 

trunk, pelting Cicely with witch-hazel pods, after all, if such springs of merriment could 

making the terrier waltz for scraps of ginger- well up in a heart as sensitive as hers to the 

bread, and breaking off now and then to burden and tofl of existence, 

imitate, with her clear full notes, the call of "Isn't it strange," she went on with a 

some hidden marsh-bird, or the scolding sudden drop to gravity, "that the bird whose 

chatter of a squirrel in the scrub-oaks. wings carry him farthest and show him the 

"Is that what you'd like most about the most wonderful things, is the one who al- 

journey — looking down the chimneys?" ways comes back to the eaves, and is hap- 

Amherst asked with a smile. piest in the thick of everyday Hfe?" 

"Oh, I don't know — I should love it all! Her eyes met Amherst's. "It seems to 

Think of the joy of skimming over half the me," he said, "that you're like that yourself 

earth — seeing it born again out of darkness — loving long flights, yet happiest in the 

every morning! Sometimes, when I've been thick of life." 

up all night with a patient, and have seen She raised her dark brows laughingly, 

the world come hack to vie like that, I've "So I imagine — but then you see I've never 

been almost mad with its beauty; and then had the long flight!" 

the thought that I've never seen more than Amherst smiled. "Ah, there it is — one 

a little corner of it makes me feel as if I were never knows — one never says. This is the 

chained. But I think if I had wings I should viovientf because, however good it is, it al- 

choose to be a house-swallow; and then, ways seems the door to a better one beyond. 



1 



The Fruit of the Tree 



93 



Faust never said it till the end, when he'd 
nothing left of all he began by thinking 
worth while; and then, with what a differ- 
ence it was said!" 

She pondered. "Yes — but it was the 
best, after all — the moment in which he had 
nothing left. ..." 

"Oh," Cicely broke in suddenly, "do 
look at the squirrel up there ! See, father — 
he's off! Let's follow him!" 

As she crouched there, with head thrown 
back, and sparkling lips and eyes, her fair 
hair — of her mother's very hue — making a 
shining haze about her face, Amherst re- 
called with a pang the winter evening at 
Hopewood, when he and Bessy had tracked 
the grey squirrel under the snowy beeches. 
Scarcely three years ago — and how bitter 
memory had turned! A chilly cloud spread 
over his spirit, reducing everything once 
more to the leaden hue of reality. . . . 

"It's too late for any more adventures — 
we must be going home," he said. 

XX 

Amherst's morning excursions with his 
step-daughter and Miss Brent renewed 
themselves more than once. He welcomed 
any pretext for escaping from the unprofit- 
able round of his thoughts, and these wood- 
land explorations, with their breathless 
rivalry of search for some rare plant or elu- 
sive bird, and the contact with the child's 
happy wonder, and with the morning 
brightness of Justine's mood, gave him his 
only moments of self-forgetfulness. 

But the first time that Cicely's chatter 
carried home an echo of their adventures, 
Amherst saw a cloud on his wife's face. Her 
passing resentment of Justine's influence 
over the child had long since subsided, and 
in the temporary absence of the governess 
she was glad to have Cicely amused; but 
she was never quite satisfied that those about 
her should have pursuits and diversions in 
which she did not share. Her jealousy did 
not concentrate itself upon her husband and 
Miss Brent : Amherst had never shown any 
inclination for the society of other women, 
and if the possibility had been suggested to 
her, she would probably have said that Jus- 
tine was not " in his style " — so unconscious 
is a pretty woman apt to be of the versatil- 
ity of masculine tastes. But Amherst saw 
that she felt herself excluded from amuse- 



ments in which she had no desire to join, 
and of which she consequently failed to see 
the purpose ; and he gave up accompanying 
his step-daughter. 

Bessy, as if in acknowledgment of his 
renunciation, rose earlier in order to pro- 
long their rides together. Dr. Wyant had 
counselled her against the fatigue of fol- 
lowing the hounds, and she instinctively 
turned their horses away from the course 
the hunt was likely to take; but now and 
then the cry of the pack, or the flash of 
red on a distant slope, sent the blood to her 
face and made her press her mare to a gal- 
lop. When they escaped such encounters 
she showed no great zest in the exercise, 
and their rides resolved themselves into a 
spiritless middle-aged jog along the autumn 
lanes. In the early days of their marriage 
the joy of a canter side by side had merged 
them in a community of sensation beyond 
need of speech; but now that the physical 
spell had passed they felt the burden of a 
silence that neither knew how to break. 

Once only, a moment's friction galvan- 
ized these lifeless rides. It was one morn- 
ing when Bessy's wild mare Impulse, under- 
exercised and over-fed, suddenly broke from 
her control, and would have unseated her 
but for Amherst's grasp on the bridle. 

"The horse is not fit for you to ride," he 
exclaimed, as the hot creature, with shud- 
ders of defiance rippling her flanks, lapsed 
into sullen subjection to his hand. 

"It's only because I don't ride her 
enough," Bessy panted. "That new groom 
is ruining her mouth." 

"You must not ride her alone, then." 

"I shall not let that man ride her." 

"I say you must not ride her alone." 

"It's ridiculous to have a groom at one's 
heels!" 

"Nevertheless you must, if you ride Im- 
pulse." 

Their eyes met, and she quivered and 
yielded Hke the horse. "Oh, if you say 

so ' ' She always hugged his brief flashes 

of authority. 

"I do sav so. You promise me?" 

"If you like " 

Amherst had made an attempt to occupy 
himself with the condition of Lynbrook, one 
of those slovenly villages, without individ- 
ual character or the tradition of self-respect, 
which spring up in America on the skirts of 



94 



The Fruit of the Tree 



the rich summer colonies. But Bessy had 
never given Lynbrook a thought, and he 
reahzed the futility of hoping to interest her 
in its mongrel population of day-labourers 
and publicans so soon after his glaring fail- 
ure at Westmore. The sight of the village 
irritated him whenever he passed through 
the Lynbrook gates, but having perforce ac- 
cepted the situation of prince consort, with- 
out voice in the government, he tried to put 
himself out of relation with all the questions 
which had hitherto engrossed him, and to 
see life simply as a spectator. He could even 
conceive that, under certain conditions, there 
might be compensations in the passive at- 
titude; but unfortunately these conditions 
were not such as the life at Lynbrook pre- 
sented. 

The temporary cessation of Bessy's week- 
end parties had naturally not closed her 
doors to occasional visitors, and glimpses of 
the autumnal animation of Long Island 
passed now and then across the Amhersts' 
horizon. Blanche Carbury had installed 
herself at Mapleside, a fashionable autumn 
colony half-way between Lynbi=ook and 
Clifton, and even Amherst, unused as he 
was to noting the seemingly inconsecuti\e 
movements of idle people, could not but re- 
mark that her visits to his wife almost in- 
variably coincided with Ned Bowfort's can- 
tering over unannounced from the Hunt 
Club where he had taken up his autumn 
quarters. 

There was something very likeable about 
Bowfort, to whom Amherst was attracted by 
the fact that he was one of the few men of 
Bessy's circle who knew what was going on 
in the outer world. Throughout an existence 
which one divined to have been both de- 
pendent and desultory, he had preserved a 
sense of wider relations and acquired a smat- 
tering of information to which he applied 
his only independent faculty, that of clear 
thought. He could talk intelligently and 
not too inaccurately of the larger questions 
which Lynbrook ignored, and a gay indiffer- 
ence to the importance of money seemed the 
crowning grace of his nature, till Amherst 
suddenly learned that this attitude of de- 
tachment was generally ascribed to the lib- 
erality of Mrs. Fenton Carbury. "Every- 
body knows she married Fenton to provide 
for Ned," some one let fall in the course of 
one of the smoking-room dissertations upon 
which the host of Lynbrook had such diffi- 



culty in fixing his attention; and the speak- 
er's matter-of-course tone, and the careless 
acquiescence of his hearers, were more of- 
fensive to Amherst than the fact itself. In 
the first flush of his disgust he classed the 
story as one of the lies bred in the malarious 
air of after-dinner gossip; but gradually he 
saw that, whether true or not, it had suf- 
ficient circulation to cast a shade of ambigu- 
ity on the persons concerned. Bessy alone 
seemed deaf to the rumours about her friend. 
There was something captivating to her in 
Mrs. Carbury's slang and noise, in her de- 
fiance of decorum and contempt of criticism. 
"I like Blanche because she doesn't pre- 
tend," was Bessy's vague justification of the 
lady; but in reality she was under the mys- 
terious spell whicli such natures cast over 
the less venturesome imaginations of their 
own sex. 

Amherst at first tried to deaden himself 
to the situation, as part of the larger coil of 
miseries in which he found himself; but all 
his traditions were against such tolerance, 
and they were roused to revolt by the re- 
ceipt of a newspaper clipping, sent by an 
anonymous hand and enlarging allusively 
on the fact that the clandestine meetings of 
a fashionaljle couple were being facilitated 
by the connivance of a Long Island chate- 
laine. Amherst, hot from the perusal of this 
paragraph, sprang into the first train, and 
laid the clipping before his father-in-law, 
who chanced to be passing through town on 
his way from the Hudson to the Hot Springs. 

jNIr. Langhope, ensconced in the cush- 
ioned privacy of the reading-room at the 
Amsterdam Club, where he had invited his 
son-in-law to meet him, perused the article 
with the cool eye of the collector to whom 
a new curiosity is offered. 

"I suppose," he mused, "that in the time 
of the Pharaohs the Morning Papyrus used 
to serve up this kind of thing — " and then, 
as the nervous tension of his hearer ex- 
pressed itself in a sudden movement, he 
added, handing back the chpping with a 
smile: "What do you propose to do ? Kill 
the editor, and forbid Blanche and Bowfort 
the house?" 

"I mean to do something," Amherst be- 
gan, suddenly chilled by the realization that 
his wrath had not yet shaped itself into a 
definite plan of action. 

"Well, it must be that or nothing," said 
Mr. Langhope, drawing his stick medita- 



The Fruit of the Tree 



95 



lively across his knee. ' ' And, of course, if it's 
/Aa/, you'll land Bessy in a devil of a mess." 

Without giving his son-in-law time to pro- 
test, he touched rapidly but vividly on the 
inutility and embarrassment of libel suits, 
and on the devices whereby the legal means 
of vindication from such attacks may be 
turned against those who have recourse to 
them; and Amherst listened to him with a 
sickened sense of the incompatibility be- 
tween abstract standards of honour and their 
practical application. 

"What should you do, then?" he mur- 
mured, as Mr. Langhope ended with his 
light shrug and a "See Tredegar, if you 
don't believe me"^; and his father-in-law 
repHed, with a gesture of evasion: "Why, 
leave the responsibility where it belongs!" 

"Where it belongs?" 

"To Fenton Carbury, of course. Luck- 
ily it's nobody's business but his, and if he 
doesn't mind what is said about his wife I 
don't see how you can take up the cudgels 
for her without casting another shade on 
her somewhat chequered reputation." 

Amherst stared. "His wife? What do 
I care what's said of her? I'm thinking of 
mine!" 

"Well, if Carbury has no objection to his 
wife's meeting Bowfort, I don't see how you 
can object to her meeting him at your house. 
In such matters, as you know, it has merci- 
fully been decided that the husband's atti- 
tude shall determine other people's; other- 
wise we should be deprived of the legitimate 
pleasure of slandering our neighbours." 
jSIr. Langhope was always careful to tem- 
per his explanations with an " as you know '' : 
he would have thought it ill-bred to omit 
this parenthesis in elucidating the social code 
to his son-in-law. 

" Then you mean that I can do nothing ? " 
Amherst exclaimed, frowning. 

Mr. Langhope smiled. "AMiat applies to 
Carbury apjjlies to }'ou — l)y doing nothing 
you establish the fact that there's nothing 
to do; just as you create the difficulty by 
recognizing it." And he added, as Amherst 
sat silent: "Take Bessy away, and they'll 
have to see each other elsewhere." 

Amherst returned to Lynbrook with the 
echoes of this casuistry in his brain. It 
seemed to him but a part of the ingenious 
system of evasion whereby a society bent on 
the undisturbed pursuit of amusement had 



contrived to protect itself from the intrusion 
of the disagreeable: a policy summed u]) in 
Mr. Langhope's concluding advice that 
Amherst should take his wife away. Yes — 
that was wealth's contemptuous answer to 
every challenge of responsibility : duty, sor- 
row and disgrace were equally to be evaded 
by a change of residence, and nothing in life 
need be faced and fought out while one 
could pay for a passage to Europe ! 

In a calmer mood Amherst's sense of hu- 
mour would have preserved him from such 
a \iew of his father-in-law's advice; but 
just then it fell like a spark on his smoul- 
dering i^rejudices. He was clear-sighted 
enough to recognize the obstacles to legal 
retaliation ; but this only made him the more 
resolved to assert his will in his own house. 
He no longer paused to consider the possi- 
ble eti'ect of such a course on his already 
.■■trained relations with his wife: the man's 
will rose in him and spoke. 

The scene between Bessy and himself 
was short and sharp; and it ended in a way 
that left him more than ever perplexed at 
the ways of her sex. Impatient of pream- 
ble, he had opened the attack with his ulti- 
matum: the suspected couple were to be 
denied the house. Bessy flamed into imme- 
diate defence of her friend; but to Am- 
herst's surprise she no longer sounded the 
note of her own rights. Both were ani- 
mated by emotions deeper-seated and more 
instinctive than had ever before confronted 
them; yet while Amherst's resistance was 
gathering strength from the conflict, his 
wife's suddenly and unexpectedly collapsed 
in tears and submission. She would do as he 
wished, of course — give up seeing Blanche, 
dismiss Bowfort, wash her hands, in short, 
of the imprudent pair — in such matters a 
woman needed a man's guidance, a wife 
must of necessity see with her husband's 
eyes; and she looked up into his through a 
mist of penitence and admiration. . . . 

XXI 

In the fir.st reaction from her brief delu- 
sion about Stephen \\'yant, Justine accepted 
with a good grace the necessity of staying 
oni at Lynbrook. Though she was now well 
enough to return to her regular work, her 
talk with Amherst had made her feel that, 
for the present, she could be of more use by 
remaining with Bessy ; and she was not sorry 



96 



The Fruit of the Tree 



to have a farther period of delay and reflec- 
tion before taking the next step in her life. 
These at least were the reasons she gave 
herself for deciding not to leave; and if 
any less ostensible lurked beneath, they 
were not as yet visible even to her search- 
ing self-scrutiny. 

At first she was embarrassed by the obli- 
gation of meeting Dr. Wyant, on whom her 
definite refusal had produced an effect for 
which she could not hold herself free from 
blame. She had not kept her promise of 
seeing him on the day after their encounter 
at the post-office, but had written, instead, 
in terms which obviously made such a meet- 
ing unnecessary. But all her efforts to soft- 
en the abruptness of her answer could not 
conceal, from either herself or her suitor, 
that it was not the one she had led him to ex- 
pect; and she foresaw that if she remained 
at Lynbrook she could not escape a scene 
of recrimination. 

When the scene took place, Wyant's part 
in it went far toward justifying her deci- 
sion ; yet his vehement reproaches contained 
a sufl&cient core of truth to humble her pride. 
It was lucky for her somewhat exagger- 
ated sense of fairness that he overshot the 
mark by charging her with a coquetry of 
which she knew herself innocent, and lay- 
ing upon her the responsibility for any follies 
to which her rejection might drive him. 
Such threats, as a rule, no longer move the 
feminine imagination; yet Justine's pity for 
all forms of weakness made her recognize, 
in the very heat of her contempt for Wyant, 
that his reproaches were not the mere cry 
of wounded vanity but the appeal of a nat- 
. ure conscious of its lack of recuperative 
power. It seemed to her as though she had 
done him an irreparable harm, and the feel- 
ing might have betrayed her into too great 
a show of compassion had she not been re- 
strained by a salutary fear of the result. 

The state of Bessy's nerves necessitated 
frequent visits from her physician, but Jus- 
tine, on these occasions, could usually shel- 
ter herself behind the professional reserve 
which kept even Wyant from any open ex- 
pression of feeling. One day, however, 
they chanced to find themselves alone be- 
fore Bessy's return from her ride. The 
servant had ushered Wyant into the library 
where Justine M'as writing, and when she 
had replied to his enquiries about his patient 
they found themselves face to face with an 



awkward period of waiting. Justine was 
too proud to cut it short by leaving the room ; 
but Wyant answered her commonplaces at 
random, stirring uneasily to and fro between 
window and fireside, and at length halting 
behind the table at which she sat. 

"May I ask how much longer you mean 
to stay here ? " he said in a low voice, his eyes 
darkening under the sullen jut of the brows. 

As she glanced up in surprise she noticed 
for the first time an odd contraction of his 
pupils, and the discovery, familiar enough 
in her professional experience, made her 
disregard the abruptness of his question and 
softened the tone in which she answered. 
"I hardly know — I suppose as long as I am 
needed." 

Wyant laughed. "Needed by whom? 
By John Amherst?" 

A moment passed before Justine took in 
the full significance of the retort; then the 
blood rushed to her face. "Yes — I believe 
both Mr. and Mrs. Amherst need me," she 
answered, keeping her eyes on his; and 
Wyant laughed again. 

"You didn't think so till Amherst came 
back from Hanaford. His return seems 
to have changed your plans in several re- 
spects." 

She looked away from him, for even now 
the expression of his eyes moved her to pity 
and self-reproach. "Dr. Wyant, you are 
not well; why do you wait to see Mrs. Am- 
herst?" she said. 

He stared at her and then his glance fell. 
"I'm much obliged— I'm as well as usual," 
he muttered, pushing the hair from his fore- 
head with a shaking hand; and at that mo- 
ment the sound of Bessy's \'oice gave Justine 
a pretext for escape. 

In her own room she sank for a moment 
under a rush of self-disgust and misery; but 
it soon receded before the saner forces of 
her nature, leaving only a residue of pity 
for the poor creature whose secret she had 
surprised. She had never before suspected 
W^yant of taking a drug, nor did she now 
suppose that he did so habitually; but to 
see him even momentarily under such an 
influence explained her instinctive sense of 
his weakness. She felt now that what would 
have been an insult on other lips was only 
a cry of distress from his; and once more 
she blamed herself and forgave him. 

But if she had been inclined to any mor- 
bidness of self-reproach she would have 



I 



The Fruit of the Tree 



97 



been saved from it by other cares. For the 
moment she was more concerned with Bes- 
sy's fate than with her own — her poor friend 
seemed to have so much more at stake, and 
so much less strength to bring to the de- 
fence of her happiness. Justine was ahvays 
saved from any excess of self-compassion 
by the sense, within herself, of abounding 
forces of growth and self-renewal, as though 
from every lopped aspiration a fresh shoot 
of energy must spring; but she felt that 
Bessy had no such sources of renovation, 
and that ever}' disappointment left an arid 
spot in her soul. 

Even without the aid of her friend's con- 
fidences, Justine would have had no diffi- 
culty in following the successive stages of 
the Amhersts' inner history. She knew that 
Amherst had virtually resigned his rule at 
Westmore, and that his wife, in return for 
the sacrifice, was trying to conform to the 
way of life she thought he preferred; and 
the futility of both attempts was more visible 
to Justine than to either of the two con- 
cerned. She saw that the failure of the Am- 
hersts' marriage lay not in any accident of 
outward circumstances but in the lack of 
all natural points of contact. As she put 
it to herself, they met neither underfoot nor 
overhead: practical necessities united them 
no more than imaginative joys. 

There were moments when Justine 
thought that Amherst was hard to Bessy, as 
she suspected that he had once been hard 
to his mother— as the leader of men must 
perhaps always be hard to the hampering 
sex. Yet she did justice to his efforts to ac- 
cept the irretrievable, and to develop in his 
wife some capacity for sharing in his minor 
interests, since she had none of her own 
with which to fill their days. 

Amherst had always been a reader; not, 
like Justine herself, a flame-like devourer 
of the page, but a slow and silent absorber 
of its essence ; and in the early days of his 
marriage he had fancied it would be easy to 
make Bessy share this taste. Though his 
mother was not a bookish woman, he had 
breathed at her side an air rich in allusion 
and filled with the bright presences of ro- 
mance; and he had grown to regard this 
commerce of the imagination as one of the 
normal conditions of life. The discovery 
that there were no books at Lynbrook save 
a few morocco "sets" imprisoned behind 
the brass trellisings of the library had been 



one of the many surprises of his new state. 
But in his first months with Bessy there was 
no room for books, and if he thought of the 
matter it was only in a glancing vision of 
future evenings, when he and she, in the 
calm afterglow of happiness, should lean to- 
gether over some cherished page. Her lack 
of response to any reference outside the 
small circle of daily facts had long since 
dispelled that vision; but now that his own 
mind felt the need of inner sustenance he 
began to ask himself whether he might not 
have done more to waken her imagination. 
During the long evenings over the library 
fire he tried to lead the talk to books, with 
a parenthesis, now and again, from the page 
beneath his eve; and Bessv met the ex- 
periment with conciliatory eagerness. She 
showed, in especial, a hopeful but mislead- 
ing preference for poetry, leaning back with 
dreaming lids and lovely parted lips while he 
rolled out the immortal measures; but her 
outward signs of attention never ripened 
into any expression of opinion, or any after- 
allusion to what she had heard, and before 
long he discovered that Justine Brent was 
his onlv listener. It was to her that the 
words he read began to be unconsciously 
addressed; her comments directed him in 
his choice of subjects, and the ensuing dis- 
cussions restored him to some semblance of 
mental activity. 

Bessy, true to her new role of acquies- 
cence, shone silently on this interplay of 
ideas; Amherst even detected in her a vague 
admiration for his power of conversing on 
subjects which she regarded as abstruse; 
and this childlike approval, combined with 
her submission to his will, deluded him with 
a sense of recovered power over her. He 
could not but note that the new phase in 
their relations had coincided with his first 
decided assertion of mastery; and he rashly 
concluded that, with the removal of the in- 
fluences tending to separate them, his wife 
might gradually be won back to her earlier 
sympathy with his views. 

To accept this theory was to apply it; for 
nothing could long divert Amherst from his 
main purpose, and all the thwarted strength 
of his will was only gathering to itself fresh 
stores of energy. He had never been a skil- 
ful lover, for no woman had as yet stirred in 
him those sympathies which call the finer 
perceptions into play; and there was no 
instinct to tell him that Bessy's sudden con- 



98 



The Fruit of the Tree 



formity to his wishes was as unreasoning as 
her surrender to his first kiss. He fancied 
that he and she were at length reaching 
some semblance of that moral harmony 
which should grow out of the physical ac- 
cord, and that, poor and incomplete as the 
understanding was, it must lift and strength- 
en their relation. 

He waited till the early winter had 
brought solitude to Lynbrook, dispersing 
the hunting colony to various points of the 
compass, and sending Mr. Langhope to 
Egypt and the Riviera, while Mrs. Ansell, 
as usual, took up her annual tour of a social 
circuit whose extreme points were marked 
by Boston and Baltimore — and then he 
made his final appeal to his wife. 

His pretext for speaking was a letter 
from Duplain, definitely announcing his re- 
solve not to remain at Westmore. A year 
earlier Amherst, deeply moved by the letter, 
would have given it to his wife in the hope 
of its producing llie same effect upon her. 
He knew better now — he had learned her 
instinct for detecting "business" under ev- 
ery serious call on her attention. His only 
hope, as always, was to reach her through 
the personal appeal; and he put before her 
the fact of Duplain's withdrawal as the open 
victory of his antagonists. But he saw at 
once that even this expedient could not in- 
fuse new life into the question. 

"If I go back he will stay — I can hold 
him, can gain time till things take a turn," 
he urged. 

' ' Another ? I thought they were definite- 
ly settled," she objected languidly. 

"No— they're not; they can't be, on such 
a basis," Amherst broke out with sudden 
emphasis. He walked across the room, 
and came back to her side with a deter- 
mined face. "It's a delusion, a deception," 
he exclaimed, " to think that I can stand by 
any longer and see things going to ruin at 
Westmore! If I've made you think so, I've 
unconsciously deceived us both. As long 
as you're my wife we've only one honour 
between us, and that honour is mine to take 
care of." 

"Honour? What an odd expression!" 
she said with a forced laugh, and a little 
tinge of pink in her cheek. "You speak as 
if I had — had made myself talked about — 
when you know I've never e\cn looked at 
another man!" 

"Another man ? " Amherst looked at her 



in wonder. "Good God! Can't you con- 
ceive of any vow to be kept between hus- 
band and wife but the primitive one of bod- 
ily fidelity ? Heaven knows I've never looked 
at another woman— but, by my reading of 
our compact, I shouldn't be keeping faith 
with you if I didn't help you to keep faith 
with better things. And you owe me the 
same help — the same chance to rise through 
you, and not sink by you — else we've be- 
trayed each other more deeply than any adul- 
tery could make us!" 

She had drawn back, turning pale again, 
and shrinking a little at the sound of words 
which, except when heard in church, she 
vaguely associated with oaths, slammed 
doors, and other evidences of ill-breeding; 
but Amherst had been swept too far on the 
flood of his indignation to be checked by 
such minor signs of disapproval. 

"You'll say that what I'm asking you is 
to give me back the free use of your money. 
Well! Why not? Is it so much for a wife 
to give ? I know you all think that a man 
who marries a rich woman forfeits his self- 
respect if he spends a penny without her 
approval. But that's because money is so 
sacred to you all! It seems to me the least 
important thing that a woman entrusts to 
her husband. What of her dreams and 
her hopes, her belief in justice and good- 
ness and decency ? If he takes those and 
destroys them, he'd better have had a mill- 
stone about his neck. But nobody has a 
word to say till he touches her dividends — 
then he's a calculating brute who has mar- 
ried her because he wanted her money! " 

He had come close again, facing her with 
outstretched hands, half-commanding, half 
in appeal. "Don't you see that I can't go 
on in this way— that I've no right to let you 
keep me from Westmore?" 

Bessy was looking at him coldly, under the 
half-dropped lids of indifference. "I hardly 
know what you mean — you use such peculiar 
words; but I don't see why you should ex- 
pect me to give up all the ideas I was brought 
up in. Our standards are different — but 
why should yours always be right?" 

"You believed they were right when 
vou married me — have they changed since 
then?" 

"No; but " Herfaceseemedtohard- 

en and contract into a small expressionless 
mask, in which he could no longer read 
anything but blank opposition to his will. 



The Fruit of the Tree 



99 



" You trusted my judgment not long ago," 
he went on, "when I asked you to give up 
seeing Mrs. Carbury " 

She flushed, but with anger, not com- 
punction. "It seems to me that should be 
a reason for your not asking me to make 
other sacrifices! When I gave up Blanche I 
thought you would see that I wanted to 
please you — and that you would do some- 
thing for me in return. ..." 

Amherst interrupted her with a laugh. 
" Thank you for telling me your real reasons. 
I was fool enough to think you acted from 
conviction — not that you were simply strik- 
ing a bargain " 

He broke off, and they looked at each 
other with a kind of fear, each hearing be- 
tween them the echo of irreparable words. 
Amherst's only clear feeling was that he 
must not speak again till he had beaten 
down the horrible sensation in his breast — 
the rage of hate which had caught him in 
its grip, and which made him almost afraid, 
while it lasted, to let his eyes rest on the fair 
weak creature confronting him. Bessy, too, 
was in the clutch of a mute anger which slow- 
ly poured its benumbing current around her 
heart. Strong waves of passion did not 
quicken her vitality : she grew inert and cold 
under their shock. Only one little pulse of 
self-pity continued to beat in her, trembling 
out at last on the cry: "Ah, I know it's not 
because you care so much for Westmore — 
it's only because you want to get away 
from me!" 

Amherst stared at her as if her words had 
flashed a light into the darkest windings of 
his misery. "Yes— I want to get away. . ." 
he said ; and he turned and walked out of 
the room. 

He went down to the smoking-room, and 
ringing for a servant, ordered his horse to 
be saddled. The footman who answered 
his summons brought the afternoon's mail, 
and Amherst, throwing himself down on 
the sofa, began to tear open his letters me- 
chanically while he waited. 

He ran through the first few without 
knowing what he read; but suddenly his at- 
tention was arrested by the hand-writing of 
a man whom he had known well in college, 
and who had lately come into possession of 
a large cotton-mill in the south. He wrote 
now to ask if Amherst could recommend a 
good superintendent — "not one of your old 
routine men, but a young fellow with the 



new ideas. Things have been in pretty bad 
shape down here," the writer added, "and 
now that I'm in possession I want to see 
what can be done to civilize the place " ; and 
he went on to urge that Amherst should 
come down himself to inspect the mills, and 
propose such improvements as his experi- 
ence suggested. "We've all heard of the 
great things you're doing at Westmore," the 
letter ended; and Amherst cast it from him 
with a groan. ... 

It was Duplain's chance, of course . . . 
that was his first thought. He caught up 
the letter and read it over. He knew the 
man who wrote — no sentimentalist seeking 
emotional variety from vague philanthropic 
experiments, but a serious student of social 
conditions, now unexpectedly provided with 
the opportunity to apply his ideas. Yes, it 
was Duplain's chance — if indeed it might 
not be his own! . . . Amherst sat upright, 
dazzled by the thought. Why Duplain — 
why not himself? Bessy had spoken the 
illuminating word — what he wanted was to 
get away — to get away at any cost ! Escape 
had become his dominating thought: es- 
cape from the bondage of Lynbrook, from 
the bitter memory of his failure at West- 
more; and here was the chance to escape 
back into life — into independence, activity 
and usefulness ! Every atrophied faculty in 
him suddenly started from its torpor, and 
his brain throbbed with the pain of the 
awakening. . . . Theservant came to tell 
him that his horse waited, and he sprang 
up, took his riding-whip from the rack, 
stared a moment, absently, after the man's 
retreating back, and then dropped down 
again upon the sofa. . . . 

What was there to keep him from accept- 
ing? His wife's afl'ection was dead — if her 
sentimental fancy for him had ever deserved 
the name! And his momentary mastery 
over her was gone too — he smiled to remem- 
ber that, hardl}' two hours earlier, he had 
been fatuous enough to think he could still 
regain it! Now he said to himself that she 
would sooner desert a friend to please him 
than sacrifice a fraction of her income; and 
the discovery cast a stain of sordidness on 
their whole relation. He could still imagine 
struggling to win her back from another 
man, or even to save her from some folly 
into which mistaken judgment or perverted 
enthusiasm might have hurried her; but to 
go on battling against the dull unimaginative 



100 



The Fruit of the Tree 



subservience to personal luxury — the slavery 
to houses and servants and clothes — ah, no, 
while he had any fight left in him it was worth 
spending in a better cause than that! 

Through the open window he could hear, 
in the mild December stillness, his horse's 
feet coming and going on the gravel. Her 
horse, led up and down by her servant, at 
the door of Agr house ! . . . The sound 
symbolized his whole future . . . the sit- 
uation his marriage had made for him, and 
to which he must henceforth bend, unless 
he broke with it then and there. . . . He 
tried to look ahead, to follow up, one by 
one, the consequences of such a break. 
That it would be final he had no doubt. 
There are natures which seem to be drawn 
closer by dissension, to depend, for the re- 
newal of understanding, on the spark of 
generosity and compunction that anger 
strikes out of both; but Amherst knew that 
between himself and his wife no such clear- 
ing of the moral atmosphere was possible. 
The indignation which left him with ting- 
ling nerves and a burning need of some im- 
mediate escape into action, crystallized in 
Bessy into a hard kernel of obstinacy, in- 
to which, after each fresh collision, he felt 
that a little more of herself had been ab- 
sorbed. . . . No, the break between them 
woyild be final — if he went now he would 
not come back. And it flashed across him 
that this solution might have been foreseen 
by his wife— might even have been delib- 
erately planned and led up to by those about 
her. His father-in-law had never liked him 
— the disturbing waves of his activity had 
rippled even the sheltered surface of Mr. 
Langhope's existence. He must have been 
horribly in their way! Well — it was not too 
late to take himself out of it. In Bessy's 
circle the severing of such ties was regarded 
as an expensive but unhazardous piece of 
surgery — nobody bled to death of the 
wound. . . . The footman came back to 
remind him that his horse was waiting, and 
Amherst started to his feet. 

"Send him back to the stable," he said 
with a glance at his watch, "and order a 
trap to take me to the next train for town." 

XXII 

When Amherst woke, the next morning, 
in the hotel to which he had gone up from 
Lynbrook, he was oppressed by the sense 



that the most difficult step he had to take still 
lay before him. It had been almost easy to 
decide that the moment of separation had 
come, for circumstances seemed to have 
closed every other issue from his unhappy 
situation; but how tell his wife of his deter- 
mination ? Amherst, to whom decisive ac- 
tion was the first necessity of being, became 
a weak procrastinator when he was con- 
fronted by the need of writing instead of 
speaking. 

To account for his abrupt departure from 
Lynbrook he had left word that he was called 
to town on business; but, since he did not 
mean to return, some farther explanation 
was now necessary, and he was paralyzed by 
the difficulty of writing. He had already 
telegraphed to his friend that he would be at 
the mills the next day; but the southern ex- 
press did not leave till the afternoon, and he 
still had several hours in which to consider 
what he should say to his wife. To postpone 
the dreaded task, he invented the pretext of 
some business to be despatched, and taking 
the Subway to Wall Street consumed the 
morning in futile activities. But since the 
renunciation of his work at Westmore he 
had no active concern with the financial 
world, and by twelve o'clock he had ex- 
hausted his imaginary affairs and was jour- 
neying uptown again. He left the train at 
Union Square, and walked along Fourth 
Avenue, now definitely resolved to go back to 
the hotel and write his letter before lunching. 

At Twenty-fourth Street he had struck 
into Madison Avenue, and was striding on- 
ward with the fixed eye and aimless haste 
of the man who has interminable hours to 
consume, when a hansom drew up ahead of 
him and Justine Brent sprang out. She was 
trimly dressed, as if for travel, with a small 
bag in her hand; but at sight of him she 
paused with an exclamation of pleasure. 

"Oh, Mr. Amherst, I'm so glad! I was 
afraid I might not see you for goodbye." 

"For goodbye?" Amherst paused, em- 
barrassed. How had she guessed that he 
did not mean to return to Lynbrook ? 

"You know," she reminded him with a 
smile, "I'm going to some friends near Phil- 
adelphia for ten days — " and he remem- 
bered confusedly that a long time ago — 
probably yesterday morning — he had heard 
her speak of her projected departure. 

"I had no idea," she continued, "that 
you were coming up to town yesterday, or 



The Fruit of the Tree 



101 



I should have tried to see you before you left. 
I wanted to ask you to send me a line if Bessy 
needs me — I'll come back at once if she 
does." Amherst continued to listen to her 
blankly, as if making a painful effort to re- 
gain some consciousness of what was being 
said to him; and she went on: "She seemed 
so nervous and poorly yesterday evening 
that I was sorry I had decided to go " 

The unusual intentness of her gaze re- 
minded him that the emotions of the last 
twenty-four hours must still be visible in his 
face; and the thought of what she might de- 
tect helped to restore his self-possession. 
"You must not think of giving up your 
visit," he began hurriedly — he had meant to 
add "on account of Bessy," but he found 
himself suddenly unable to utter his wife's 
name. 

Justine was still looking at him. "Oh, 
I'm sure everything will be all right," she 
rejoined, smiling. " You go back this after- 
noon, I suppose? I've left a little note for 
you, with my address, and I want you to 
promise " 

She broke off, for Amherst had made a 
motion as though to interrupt her. The old 
confused sense that there must always be 
truth between them was struggling in him 
with the strong restraints of habit and char- 
acter; and suddenly, before he was con- 
scious of having decided to speak, he heard 
himself say: "I ought to tell you that I am 
not going back." 

"Not going back?" A flash of appre- 
hension crossed her face. " Not till tomor- 
row, you mean ? " she added, recovering her 
clear look. 

Amherst hesitated, glancing vaguely up 
and down the street. At that noonday hour 
it was nearly deserted, and Justine's driver 
dozed on his perch above the hansom. They 
could speak almost as openly as if they had 
been in one of the wood-paths at Lynbrook. 

"Nor tomorrow^" Amherst said in a low 
voice. There was another pause before he 
added: "It may be some time before—" 
He broke off, and then continued with sud- 
den decision: "The fact is, I am thinking 
of going back to my old work." 

She caught him up with an exclamation 
of surprise and sympathy. "Your old 
work? You mean at " 

She was checked by the quick contraction 
of pain in his face. "Not that! I mean 
that I'm thinking of taking a new job — as 



superintendent in a Georgia mill. . . . It's 
the only thing I know- how to do, and 
I've got to do something — " He forced a 
laugh. "The habit of work is incurable!" 

Justine's face had grown as grave as his. 
She hesitated a moment, looking down the 
street toward the angle of Madison Square 
which was visible from the corner where 
they stood. 

"Will you walk back to the square with 
me? Then we can sit down a moment." 

She began to move as she spoke, and he 
walked beside her in silence till they had 
gained the seat she pointed out. Her han- 
som trailed after them, drawing up at the 
corner of Twenty-sixth Street. 

As Amherst sat down beside her, Justine 
turned to him with an air of quiet resolu- 
tion. "Mr. Amherst — will you let me ask 
you something ? Is this a sudden decision ? " 

He met her eyes steadily. "Yes. I de- 
cided yesterday." 

"And Bessy ?" 

His glance dropped for the first time, but 
Justine pressed her point. "Bessy ap- 
proves?" 

"She — she will, I think — when she 
knows " 

"When she knows?" Her emotion 
sprang into her face, bathing it with a 
brightness which was more like light than 
colour. " When she knows ? Then she does 
not — yet?" 

"No. The offer came suddenly. I must 
go at once." 

' ' Without seeing her ? " She cut him short 
with a quick commanding gesture. "Mr. 
Amherst, you can't do this— you won't do 
it! You will not go away without seeing 
Bessy!" she said. 

Her eyes sought his and drew them up- 
ward, constraining them to meet the full 
beam of her rebuking gaze. 

"I must do what seems best under the 
circumstances," he answered hesitatingly. 
"She will hear from me, of course; I shall 
wTite today — and later " 

' ' Not later ! Now — you will go back now 
to Lynbrook ! Such things can't be told in 
writing — if they must be said at all, they 
must be spoken. Don't tell me that I don't 
understand — or that I'm meddling in what 
doesn't concern me. I don't care a fig for 
that! I've always meddled in what didn't 
concern me — I always shall, I suppose, un- 
til I die ! And I understand enough to know 



102 



The Fruit of the Tree 



that Bessy is very unhappy — and that you're 
the wiser and stronger of the two. I know 
what it's been to you to give up your work 
— to feel yourself useless," she interrupted 
herself, with softening eyes, "and I know 
how you've tried. . . . I've watched 
you . . . but Bessy has tried too; and even 
if you've both failed — if you've come to the 
end of your resources — it's for you to face 
the fact, and help her face it — not to run 
away from it like this!" 

Amherst sat silent under the sudden as- 
sault of her eloquence. He was conscious 
of no instinctive movement of resentment, 
no sense that she was, as she confessed, 
meddling in matters which did not concern 
her. His ebbing spirit was revived by the 
shock of an ardour like his own. She had 
not shrunk from calling him a coward — and 
it did him good to hear her call him so! 
Her words put life back into its true per- 
spective, restored their meaning to obsolete 
qualities: to truth and manliness and cour- 
age. He had lived so long among equivo- 
cations that he had forgotten how to look a 
fact in the face; iDUt here was a woman who 
judged life by his own standards — and by 
those standards she had found him wanting! 

Still, he could not forget the bitter expe- 
rience of the last hours, or change his opin- 
ion as to the futility of attempting to remain 
at Lynbrook. He felt as strongly as ever 
the need of moral and mental liberation — 
the right to begin life again on his own 
terms. But Justine Brent had made him 
see that his first step toward self-assertion 
had been the inconsistent one of trying to 
evade its results. 

"You are right — I will go back," he said. 

She thanked him with her eyes, as she 
had thanked him on the terrace at Lyn- 
brook, on the autumn evening which had 
witnessed their first strange, broken ex- 
change of confidences; and he was struck 
once more with the change that strong feel- 
ing produced in her face. Emotions flashed 
across her like the sweep of sun-rent clouds 
over a quiet landscape, bringing out the 
gleam of hidden waters, the fervour of 
smouldering colours, all the subtle delica- 
cies of modelling that are lost under the flat 
light of an open sky. And it was extraor- 
dinary how she could infuse into a principle 
the warmth and colour of a passion! If 
conduct, to most people, seemed a cold mat- 
ter of social prudence or inherited habit, to 



her it was always the newly-discovered ques- 
tion of her own relation to life — as most 
women see the great issues only through 
their own wants and prejudices, so she 
seemed always to see her personal desires in 
the light of the larger claims. 

"But I don't think," Amherst went on, 
"that anything can be said to convince me 
that I ought to alter my decision. These 
months of idleness have shown me that I'm 
one of the members of society who are a 
danger to the community if their noses are 
not kept to the grindstone " 

Justine lowered her eyes musingly, and 
he saw she was vmdergoing the reaction of 
constraint which always followed on her 
bursts of unpremeditated frankness. 

"That is not for me to judge," she an- 
swered after a moment. " But if you decide 
to — to go away for a time — surely it ought 
to be in such a way that your going does not 
seem to cast any reflection on Bessy, or sub- 
ject her to any unkind criticism." 

Amherst, reddening slightly, glanced at 
her in surprise. "I don't think you need 
fear that — I shall be the only one criticized," 
he said drily. 

"Are yovi sure— if you take such a posi- 
tion as you spoke of ? So few people under- 
stand the love of hard work for its own 
sake. They will say that your quarrel with 
your wife has driven you to support your- 
self — and that will be cruel to Bessy." 

Amherst shrugged his shoulders. "They 
will be more likely to say that I tried to play 
the gentleman and failed, and wasn't happy 
till I got back to my own place in life — which 
is true enough," he added with a touch of 
irony. 

"They may say that too; but they will 
make Bessy suffer first — and it will be your 
fault if she is humiliated in that way. If 
you decide to take up your factory work for 
a time, can't you do so without — without 
accepting a salary? Oh, you see I stick at 
nothing," she broke in upon herself with a 
laugh, "and Bessy has said things which 
make me see that she would suffer horribly 
if — if you put such a slight upon her." He 
remained silent, and she went on urgently: 
"From Bessy's standpoint it would mean a 
decisive break — the repudiating of your 
whole past. And it is a question on which 
you can afford to be generous because I 
know ... I think . . . it's less im- 
portant in your eyes than hers. . . ." 



{ 



The Fruit of the Tree 



103 



Amherst glanced at her quickly. "That 
particular form of indebtedness, you 
mean?" 

She smiled. "Yes: the easiest to cancel, 
and therefore the least galling; isn't that 
the way you regard it ? " 

"I used to — yes ; but — " He was about 
to add: "No one at Lynbrook does," but 
the flash of intelligence in her eyes re- 
strained him, while at the same time it 
seemed to answer: "There's my point! To 
see their limitation is to allow for it, since 
every enlightenment brings a corresponding 
obhgation." 

She made no attempt to put into words 
the argument her look conveyed, but rose 
from her seat with a rapid glance at the 
clock-tower above them. 

"And now I must go, or I shall miss my 
train," she said, signalling to her drowsy 
cabman; and as she held out her hand, and 
Amherst's met it, he said in a low tone, as 
if in reply to her unspoken appeal : "I shall 
remember all you have said." 

It was a new experience for Amherst to 
be acting under the pressure of another 
will; but during his return journey to Lyn- 
brook that afternoon it was pure relief to 
surrender himself to this pressure, and the 
surrender brought not a sense of weakness 
but of recovered energy. It was not in his 
nature to analyze his motives, or spend his 
strength in weighing closely balanced alter- 
natives of conduct; and though, during the 
last purposeless months, he had grown to 
brood over every spring of action in himself 
and others, this scrutinizing tendency dis- 
appeared at once in contact with the deed 
to be done. It was as though a tributary 
stream, gathering its crystal speed among 
the hills, had been suddenly poured into the 
stagnant waters of his will; and he saw now 
how thick and turbid those waters had be- 
come — how full of the slime-bred life that 
chokes the springs of courage. 

His whole desire now was to be generous to 
his wife: to bear the full brunt of whatever 
pain their parting brought. Justine had said 
that Bessy seemed nervous and unhappy: it 
was clear, therefore, that she also had suf- 
fered from the wounds they had dealt each 
other, though she kept her unmoved front 
to the last. Poor child ! Perhaps that in- 
sensible exterior was the only way she knew 
of expressing courage ! It seemed to Amherst 



that all means of manifesting the finer im- 
pulses must slowly wither in the Lynbrook 
air. As he approached his destination, his 
thoughts of her were all pitiful: nothing re- 
mained of the personal resentment which 
had debased their parting. He had tele- 
phoned from town to announce the hour of 
his return, and when he emerged from the 
station he half-expected to find her seated in 
the brougham wlaose lamps signalled him 
through the early dusk. It would be like 
her to undergo such a reaction of feeling, 
and to express it, not in words, but by tak- 
ing up their relation as if there had been no 
break in it. He had once condemned this fa- 
cility of renewal as a sign of lightness, a re- 
sult of that continual evasion of serious is- 
sues which made the life of Bessy's world a 
thin crust of custom above a void of thought. 
But now he saw that, if she was the product 
of her environment, that constituted but an- 
other claim on his charity, and made the 
more precious any impulses of natural feel- 
ing that had survived the unifying pressure 
of her life. As he approached the brough- 
am, he murmured mentally: "What if I 
were to try once more ? " 

Bessy had not come to the station to meet 
him ; but he said to himself that he should 
find her alone at the house, and that he 
would make his confession at once. As the 
carriage passed between the lights on the 
tall stone gate-posts, and rolled through the 
bare shrubberies of the winding avenue, he 
felt a momentary tightening of the heart — a 
sense of stepping back into the trap from 
which he had just wrenched himself free — a 
premonition of the way in which the smooth 
systematized organization of his wife's ex- 
istence might draw him back into its revo- 
lutions as he had once seen a careless fac- 
tory hand seized and dragged into a flying 
belt. . . . 

But it was only for a moment; then his 
thoughts reverted to Bessy. It was she who 
was to be considered — this time he must be 
strong enough for both. . . . 
- The butler met him on the threshold, 
flanked by the usual array of footmen ; and 
as he saw his portmanteau ceremoniously 
passed from hand to hand, Amherst once 
more felt the cold steel of the springe on his 
neck. 

"Is Mrs. Amherst in the drawing-room, 
Knowles?" he asked, advancing into the 
hah. 



104 



The Fruit of the Tree 



"No, sir," said Knowles, who had too 
high a sense of fitness to volunteer any in- 
formation beyond the immediate fact re- 
quired of him. 

"She has gone up to her sitting-room, 
then?" Amherst continued, turning tow- 
ard the broad sweep of the oak stairway. 

"No, sir," said the butler slowly; "Mrs. 
Amherst has gone away." 

" Gone away ? " Amherst stopped short, 
staring blankly at the man's smooth official 
mask. 

"This afternoon, sir; by motor — to 
Mapleside." 

" To Mapleside ? " 

" Yes, sir — to stay with Mrs. Carbury." 

There was a moment's silence. It had all 
happened so quickly that Amherst, with the 
dual vision which comes at such moments, 
noticed that the third footman — or was it 
the fourth ? — was just passing his portman- 
teau on to a shirt-sleeved arm behind the 
door which led to the servant's wing. . . . 

He roused himself to look at the tall clock 
facing the door. It was six o'clock. He 
had telephoned from town at two. 

"At what time did Mrs. Amherst leave ? " 
he asked. 

The butler meditated. "Sharp at four, 
sir. The maid took the three-forty with the 
luggage." 

With the luggage! So it was not a mere 
one-night visit. The blood rose slowly to 
Amherst's face. The footmen had disap- 
peared, but presently the door at the back 
of the hall reopened, and one of them came 
out, carrying an elaborately-appointed tea- 
tray toward the smoking-room. The rou- 
tine of the house was going on as if nothing 
had happened. . . The butler looked at 
Amherst with respectful — too respectful — 
interrogation, and he was suddenly con- 
scious that he was standing motionless in 
the middle of the hah, with one last intoler- 
able question on his lips. 

Well— it had to be spoken! "Did Mrs. 
Amherst receive my telephone message?" 

" Yes, sir. I gave it to her myself." 

It occurred confusedly to Amherst that a 
well-bred man — as Lynbrook understood 
the phrase — would, at this point, have made 
some tardy feint of being in his wife's con- 
fidence, of having, on second thoughts, no 
reason to be surprised at her departure. It 
was humiliating, he supposed, to be thus 
laying bare his discomfiture to his depend- 



ents — he could see that even Knowles was 
affected by the manifest impropriety of the 
situation — but no pretext presented itself to 
his mind, and after another interval of si- 
lence he turned slowly toward the door of 
the smoking-room. 

"My letters are here, I suppose?" he 
paused on the threshold to enquire; and on 
the butler's answering in the affirmative, he 
said to himself, with a last effort to suspend 
his judgment: "She has left a hne — there 
will be some explanation " 

But there was nothing — neither word nor 
message; nothing but the reverberating re- 
tort of her departure in the face of his re- 
turn — her flight to Blanche Carbury as the 
final answer to his final appeal. 



XXIII 

Justine was coming back to Lynbrook. 

She had been, after all, unable to stay out 
the ten days of her visit: the undefinable 
sense of being needed, so often the deter- 
mining motive of her actions, drew her back 
to Long Island at the end of the week. She 
had received no word from Amherst or Bes- 
sy; only Cicely had told her, in a big round 
hand, that mother had been away three 
days, and that it had been very lonely, and 
that the housekeeper's cat had kittens, and 
she was to have one; and were kittens chris- 
tened, or how did they get iheir names ? — 
because she wanted to call hers Justine; and 
she had found in her book a bird like the 
one father had shown them in the swamp; 
and they were not alone now, because the 
Telfers were there, and they had all been 
out sleighing; but it would be much nicer 
when Justine came back. . . . 

It was as difficult to extract any sequence 
of facts from Cicely's letter as from an 
early chronicle. She made no reference to 
Amherst's return, which was odd, since she 
was fond of her step-father, yet not signifi- 
cant, since the fact of his arrival might have 
been crowded out by the birth of the kit- 
tens, or some incident equally prominent in 
her perspectiveless grouping of events; nor 
did she name the date of her mother's de- 
parture, so that Justine could not guess 
whether it had been contingent on Am- 
herst's return, or wholly unconnected with 
it. What puzzled her most was Bessy's own 
silence — yet that too, in a sense, was reas- 



The Fruit of the Tree 



105 



suring, for Bessy thought of others chiefly 
when it was painful to think of herself, and 
her not writing implied that she had felt no 
need of appealing to her friend's sympathy. 

Justine did not greatly count on finding 
Amherst at Lynbrook. She had felt con- 
vinced, when they parted, that he would 
persist in his plan of going south; and the 
fact that the Telfer girls were again in pos- 
session made it seem probable that he had 
already left. Under the circumstances, Jus- 
tine thought the separation advisable; but 
she was eager to be assured that it had been 
effected amicably, and without open affront 
to Bessy's pride. 

She arrived on a Saturday afternoon, and 
when she entered the house the sound of 
voices from the drawing-room, and the pre- 
vailing sense of bustle and movement, amid 
which her own coming was evidentlv an un- 
considered detail, showed that thenormallife 
of Lynbrook had resumed its course. The 
Telfers, as usual, had brought a lively 
throng in their train; and amid the bursts of 
merriment about the drawing-room tea- 
table she caught Westy Gaines's impressive 
accents, and the screaming laughter of 
Blanche Carbury. . . . 

So Blanche Carbury was back at Lyn- 
brook! The discovery gave Justine fresh 
cause for conjecture. Whatever reciprocal 
concessions might have resulted from Am- 
herst's return to his wife, it seemed hardly 
probable that they included a renewal of re- 
lations with Mrs. Carbury. Had his mission 
failed then — had he and Bessy parted in 
anger, and was Mrs. Carbury's presence at 
Lynbrook Bessy's retort to his assertion of 
independence ? 

In the school-room, where Justine was re- 
ceived with the eager outpouring of Cicely's 
minutest experiences, she dared not put 
the question that would have solved these 
doubts; and she left to dress for dinner with- 
out knowing whether Amherst had returned 
to Lynbrook. Yet in her heart she ne\er 
questioned that he had done so; all her fears 
revolved about what had since taken place. 

She saw Bessy first in the drawing-room, 
surrounded by her guests; and their brief 
embrace told her nothing, except that she 
had never beheld her friend more brilliant, 
more triumphantly in possession of recov- 
ered spirits and health. 

That Amherst was absent was now made 
evident from Bessy's requesting \^'esty 
Vol. XLII.— II 



Gaines to lead the way to the dining-room 
with Mrs. Ansell, who was one of the reas- 
sembled visitors; and the only one, as Jus- 
tine presently observed, not in key with the 
prevailing gaiety. Mrs. Ansell, usually so 
tinged with the colours of her environment, 
preserved on this occasion a grey neutrality 
of tone which was the only break in the 
general brightness. It was not in her grace- 
ful person to express anything as gross as 
disapproval, yet that sentiment was man- 
ifest, to the nice observer, in the delicate 
aloofness which made the waves of laughter 
fall back from her, and spread a circle of 
cloudy calm about her end of the table. 
Justine had never been greatly drawn to 
Mrs. Ansell. Her own adaptability was not 
in the least akin to the older woman's studied 
self-effacement ; and the independence of 
judgment which Justine preserved in spite 
of her perception of divergent standpoints 
made her a httle contemptuous of an excess 
of charity that seemed to have been acquired 
at the cost of all individual convictions. 
Tonight for the first time she felt in Mrs. 
Ansell a secret sympathy with her own fears; 
and the sense of this tacit understanding 
made her examine with sudden interest the 
faceof her unexpected ally. . . . Afterall, 
what did she know of Mrs. Ansell's history 
— of the hidden processes which had grad- 
ually subdued her own passions and desires, 
making of her, as it were, a mere decora- 
tive background, a connecting link between 
other personalities ? Perhaps, for a woman 
alone in the world, without the power and 
opportunity that money gives, there was no 
alternative between letting one's individ- 
uality harden into a small dry nucleus of 
egoism, or diff'use itself thus in the interstices 
of other lives — and there fell upon Justine 
the chill thought that just such a future 
might await her if she missed the hberating 
gift of personal happiness. . . . 

Neither that night nor the next day did 
she have a private word with Bessy — and it 
became evident, as the hours passed, that 
Mrs. Amherst was deliberately postponing 
the moment when they should find them- 
selves alone. But the Lynbrook party was 
to disperse on the Monday; and Bessy, who 
hated early rising, and all the details of 
household administration, tapped at Jus- 
tine's door late on Sunday night to ask her 
to speed the departing visitors. 



106 



The Fruit of the Tree 



She pleaded this necessity as an excuse for 
her intrusion, and the playful haste of her 
manner showed a nervous shrinking from 
any renewal of confidence; but as she leaned 
in the doorway, fingering the diamond chain 
about her neck, while one satin-tipped foot 
emerged restlessly from the edge of her lace 
gown, her face lost the bloom of animation 
which lights and laughter always produced 
in it, and she looked so pale and weary that 
Justine needed no better pretext for draw- 
ing her into the room. 

It was not in Bessy to resist a soothing 
touch in her moments of nervous reaction. 
She sank into the chair by the fire and let 
her head rest wearily against the cushion 
which Justine shpped behind it. 

Justine dropped into the low seat beside 
her, and laid a hand on hers. "You don't 
look as well as when I went away, Bessy. 
Are you sure you've done wisely in begin- 
ning your house-parties so soon ?" 

It always alarmed Bessy to be told that 
she was not looking her best, and she sat 
upright at once, a wave of pink rising under 
her sensitive skin. 

"I am quite well, on the contrary; but I 
was dying of inanition in this big empty 
house, and I suppose I haven't got the bore- 
dom out of my system yet ! " 

Justine recognized the echo of Mrs. Car- 
bury's manner. 

"Even if you were bored," she rejoined, 
"the inanition was probalaly good for you. 
What does Dr. Wyant say to }'our breaking 
away from his regime?" She named Wy- 
ant purposely, knowing that Bessy had that 
respect for the medical verdict which is the 
last trace of reverence for authority in the 
mind of the modern woman. But Mrs. Am- 
herst surprised her by a gently malicious 
laugh. 

" Oh, I haven't seen Dr. Wyant since you 
went away. His interest in me died out the 
day you left." 

It was beyond Justine's self-control to 
conceal the annoyance which this allusion 
caused her. She had not yet recovered from 
the shrinking disgust of her last scene with 
Wyant. 

" Don't be foolish, Bessy. If he hasn't 
come, it must be because you've told him 
not to — because you're afraid of letting him 
see that you're disobeying him." 

Bessy laughed again. "My dear, I'm 
afraid of nothing — nothing! Not even of 



your big eyes when they glare at me like 
coals. I suppose you must have looked at 
poor Wyant like that to frighten him away! 
And yet the last time we talked of him you 
seemed to like him — you even hinted that it 
was because of him that W'esty had no 
chance." 

Justine uttered an impatient exclamation. 
"If neither of them existed it wouldn't af- 
fect the other's chances in the least! Their 
only merit is that they both enhance the 
charms of celibacy ! " 

Bessy's smile dropped, and she turned a 
grave glance on her friend. "Ah, most men 
do that — vou're so clever to have found it 
out!" 

It was Justine's turn to smile. " Oh, but 
I haven't — as a generalization. I mean to 
marry as soon as I get the chance ! " 

"The chance ?" 

"To meet the right man. I'm gambler 
enough to believe in my luck yet! " 

Mrs. Amherst sighed compassionately. 
" There is no right man! As Blanche says, 
matrimony's as uncomfortable as a ready- 
made shoe. How can one and the same in- 
stitution fit every individual case? And 
why should we all have to go lame because 
marriage was once invented to suit an im- 
aginary case?" 

Justine gave a slight shrug. "You talk 
of walking lame — how else do we all walk ? 
It seems to me that life's the tight boot, and 
marriage the crutch that may help one to 
hobble along!" She drew Bessy's hand 
into hers with a caressing pressure. "When 
you philosophize I always know you're 
tired. No one who feels well stops to gen- 
eralize about symptoms. If you won't let 
your doctor prescribe for you, your nurse is 
going to carry out his orders. What you 
want is quiet. Be reasonable and send 
away evervlDody before jNIr. Amherst comes 
back!" 

She dropped the last phrase carelessly, 
glancing away from Bessy as she spoke; but 
the stiffening of the fingers in her clasp sent 
a little tremor through her hand. 

"Thanks for your advice. It would be 
excellent but for one thing — my husband is 
not coming back ! " 

The mockery in Bessy's voice seemed to 
pass into her features, hardening and con- 
tracting them as frost shrivels a flower. Jus- 
tine's face, on the contrary, was suddenly il- 
luminated by compassion, as though a light 



The Fruit of the Tree 



107 



had struck up into it from the cold ghtter of 
her friend's unhappiness. 

' ' Bessv ! What do you mean by not com- 
ing back'?" 

"I mean that he's had the tact to see that 
we shall be more comfortable apart — with- 
out putting me to the unpleasant necessity 
of telling him so." 

Again the piteous echo of Blanche Car- 
bury's phrases! The laboured mimicry of 
her ideas ! 

Justine looked anxiously at her friend. It 
seemed horribly false not to mention her 
own talk with Amherst, yet she felt it was 
wiser to feign ignorance, since Bessy could 
never be trusted to interpret rightly any de- 
parture from the conventional. 

"Please tell me what has happened," she 
said at length. 

Bessy, with a smile, released her hand 
from Justine's. "John has gone back to 
the life he prefers — which I take to be a hint 
to me to do the same." 

Justine hesitated again; then the pressure 
of truth overcame every barrier of expedi- 
ency. "Bessy — I ought to tell you that I 
saw Mr. Amherst in town the day I went to 
Philadelphia. He spoke of going away for 
a time ... he seemed unhappy . . . but 
he told me he was coming back to see you 
first — " She broke oft", her clear eyes on 
her friend's; and she saw at once that Bessy 
was too self-engrossed to feel any surprise 
at her avowal. "Surely he came back?" 
she went on. 

"Oh, yes — he came back for a night." 
Bessy sank into the cushions, watching the 
firelight play on her diamond chain as she 
repeated the restless gesture of lifting it up 
and letting it slip through her fingers. 

"Well — and then ? " Justine persisted. 

"Then — nothing! I was not here when 
became." 

"You were not here? What had hap- 
pened?" 

"I had gone over to Blanche Carbury's 
for a day or two. I was just leaving when I 
heard he was coming back, and I couldn't 
throw her over at the last moment." 

Justine tried to catch the glance that flut- 
tered evasively under Bessy's lashes. " You 
knew he was coming back — and you chose 
that time to go to Mrs. Carbury's?" 

"I didn't choose, my dear — it just hap- 
pened ! And it really happened for the best. 
I suppose he was annoyed at my going — 



you know he has a ridiculous prejudice 
against Blanche — and so the next morning 
he rushed off to his cotton mill." 

There was a pause, while the diamonds 
continued to flow in threads of fire through 
Mrs. Amherst's fingers. 

At length Justine said: "Did Mr. Am- 
herst know that you knew he was coming 
back before you left for Mrs. Carbury's?" 

Bessy feigned to meditate the question 
for a moment. " Did he know that I knew 
that he knew ? " she mocked. " Yes — I sup- 
pose so — he must have known." She 
stifled a slight yawn as she drew herself lan- 
guidly to her feet. 

" Then he took that as your answer?" 

"My answer ?" 

"To his coming back " 



" So it appears. I told you he had shown 
unusual tact." Bessy stretched her softly 
tapering arms above her head and then 
dropped them along her sides with another 
yawn. "But it's almost morning — it's 
wicked of me to have kept you so late, 
when you must be up to look after all those 
people!" 

She flung her arms with a light gesture 
about Justine's shoulders, and laid a dry 
kiss on her cheek. 

"Don't look at me with those big eyes — 
they've eaten up the whole of your face! 
And you needn't think I'm sorry for what 
I've done," she declared. " I'm not — the — 
least — little — atom — of a bit!" 



XXIV 

Justine was pacing the long library at 
Lynbrook, between the caged sets of stand- 
ard authors. 

She felt as much caged as they: as much 
a part of a conventional stage-setting totally 
unrelated to the action going on before it. 
Two weeks had passed since her return 
from Philadelphia; and during that time 
she had learned that her usefulness at Lyn- 
brook was over. Though not unwelcome, 
she might almost call herself unwanted; 
life swept by, leaving her tethered to the 
stake of inaction; a bitter lot for one who 
chose to measure existence by deeds instead 
of days. She had found Bessy ostensibly 
preoccupied with a succession of guests; no 
one in the house needed her but Cicely, and 
even Cicely, at times, was caught up into 



108 



The Fruit of the Tree 



the whirl of her mother's agitated life, swept 
off on sleighing parties and motor-trips, or 
carried to town for a dancing-class or an 
opera matinee. 

Mrs. Fenton Carbury was not among the 
visitors who left Lynbrook on the Monday 
after Justine's return. 

Mr. Carbury, with the other bread-win- 
ners of the party, had hastened back to his 
treadmill in Wall Street after a Sunday 
spent in silently studying the files of the Fi- 
nancial Record; but his wife stayed on, 
somewhat aggressively in possession, criti- 
cizing and rearranging the furniture, ring- 
ing for the servants, making sudden demands 
on the stable, telegraphing, telephoning, or- 
dering fires lighted or windows opened, and 
leaving everywhere in her wake a trail of 
cigarette ashes and empty cocktail glasses. 

Ned Bowfort had not been included in 
the house-party; but on the day of its dis- 
persal he rode over unannounced for lunch- 
eon, put up his horse in the stable, threaded 
his way familiarly among the dozing dogs 
in the hall, greeted Mrs. Ansell and Justine 
with just the right shade of quiet deference, 
produced from his pocket a new puzzle- 
game for Cicely, and sat down beside her 
mother with the quiet urbanity of the fam- 
ily friend who knows his privileges but is 
too discreet to abuse them. 

After that he came every day, sometimes 
riding home late to the Hunt Club, some- 
times accompanying Bessy and Mrs. Car- 
burv to town for dinner and the theatre; but 
always with his deprecating air of having 
dropped in by accident, and modestly hoping 
that his intrusion was not unwelcome. 

The following Sunday brought another 
influx of visitors, and Bessy seemed to fling 
herself with renewed enthusiasm into the 
cares of hospitality. She had avoided Jus- 
tine since their midnight talk, contriving to 
see her in Cicely's presence, or pleading 
haste when they found themselves alone. 
The winter was unusually open, and she 
spent long hours in the saddle when her 
time was not taken up with her visitors. For 
a while she took Cicely on her daily rides; 
but she soon wearied of adapting her hunt- 
er's stride to the pace of the little girl's 
pony, and Cicely was once more given over 
to the coachman's care. 

Then there came snow and a long frost, 
and Bessy grew restless at her imprison- 
ment, and grumbled that there was no way 



of keeping well in a winter climate which 
made regular exercise impossible. 

"Why not build a squash-court?" 
Blanche Carbury proposed; and the two 
fell instantly to making plans under the guid- 
ance of Ned Bowfort and Westy Gaines. 
As the scheme developed, various advisers 
suggested that it was a pity not to add a 
bowling-alley, a swimming tank and a gym- 
nasium; a fashionable architect was sum- 
moned from town, measurements were 
taken, sites discussed, sketches compared, 
and engineers consulted as to the cost of ar- 
tesian wells and the best system for heating 
the tank. 

Bessy seemed filled with a feverish desire 
to carry out the plan as quickly as possible, 
and on as large a scale as even the archi- 
tect's invention soared to; but it was finally 
decided that, before signing the contracts, 
she should run over to New Jersey to see a 
building of the same kind on which a sport- 
ing friend of Mrs. Carbury's had recently 
lavished a fortune. 

It was on this errand that the two ladies, 
in company with Westy Gaines and Bow- 
fort, had departed on the day which found 
Justine restlessly measuring the length of 
the library. She and Mrs. Ansell had the 
house to themselves; and it was hardly a sur- 
prise to her when, in the course of the after- 
noon, Mrs. Ansell, after a discreet pause on 
the threshold, advanced toward her down 
the long room. 

Since the night of her return Justine had 
felt sure that Mrs. Ansell would speak; but 
the elder lady was given to hawk-like cir- 
clings about her subject, to hanging over it 
and contemplating it before her wings 
dropped for the descent. 

Now, however, it was plain that she had 
resolved to strike; and Justine had a sense 
of relief at the thought. She had been too 
long isolated in her anxiety, her powerless- 
ness to help; and she had a vague hope 
that Mrs. Ansell's worldly wisdom might 
accomplish what her inexperience had failed 
to achieve. 

" Shall we sit by the fire ? I am glad to 
find you alone," Mrs. Ansell began, with 
the pleasant abruptness that was one of the 
subtlest instruments of her indirection; and 
as Justine acquiesced, she added, yielding 
her slight lines to the luxurious depths of an 
arm-chair: "I have been rather suddenly 
asked by an invalid cousin to go to Europe 



{ 



The Fruit of the Tree 109 

with her next week, and I can't go contented- Justine pondered. She was perhaps more 

lywithout being at peace about our friends." ignorant of the situation than Mrs. Ansell 

She paused, but Justine made no answer, imagined, for since her return Bessy had al- 
In spite of her growing sympathy for Mrs. hided only once, and in general terms, to 
Ansell she could not overcome an inherent Amherst's absence, and she could only con- 
distrust, not of her methods, but of her ulti- jecture that he had carried out his plan of 
mate object. What, for instance, was her taking a position in the southern mill he had 
conception of being at peace about the Am- spoken of. What she most desired to know 
hersts ? Justine's own conviction was that, was whether he had listened to her entreaty, 
as far as their final welfare was concerned, and taken the position temporarily, without 
any terms were better between them than binding himself by the acceptance of a sal- 
the external harmony which had prevailed ary ; or whether, stung by the outrage of Bes- 
during Amherst's stay at Lynbrook. sy's flight to Blanche Carbury, he had freed 

The subtle emanation of her distrust may himself from financial dependence on her 

have been felt by Mrs. Ansell; for the latter by engaging himself definitely as Superin- 

presently continued, with a certain noble- tendent. 

ness: "I am the more concerned because I "I really know very little of the present 

believe I must hold myself, in a small de- situation," she said, looking at Mrs. Ansell. 

gree, responsible for Bessy's marriage — " "Bessy merely told me that Mr. Amherst 

and as Justine looked at her in surprise, had taken up his old work in a cotton mill 

she added: "I thought she could never be in the south." 

happy unless her affections were satisfied — As her eyes met Mrs. Ansell's it flashed 

and even now I believe so." across her that the latter did not believe 



ii • 



I believe so too," Justine said, sur- what she said, and the perception made her 

prised into assent by the simplicity of Mrs. instantly shrink back into herself. 

Ansell's declaration. But there was nothing in Mrs. Ansell's 

"Well, then — since we are agreed in our tone to confirm the doubt which her eyes 

diagnosis," the older woman went on, smil- betrayed. 

ing, "what remedy do you suggest? Or "Ah — I hoped you knew more," she said 
rather, how can we administer it ? " simply; "for, like you, I have only heard 
"What remedy ?" Justine hesitated. from Bessy that her husband went away 
" Oh, I believe we are agreed on that too. suddenly to help a friend who is reorganiz- 
Mr. Amherst must be brought back — but ing some mills in Georgia. Of course, under 
how to bring him ?" She paused, and then the circumstances, such a temporary break 
added, with a singular effect of appealing is natural enough — perhaps inevitable — 
frankness: "I ask you, because I believe only he must not stay away too long." 
youtobetheonly one of Bessy's friends who Justine was silent. Mrs. Ansell's mo- 
is in the least in her husband's confidence." mentary self-betrayal had checked all far- 
Justine's embarrassment increased, ther possibility of frank communion, and the 
Would it not be disloyal both to Bessy and discerning lady had seen her error too late 
Amherst to acknowledge to a third person to remedy it. 

a fact of which Bessy herself was unaware ? But her hearer's heart gave a leap of joy. 
Yet to betray any embarrassment under It was evident from what Mrs. Ansell said 
Mrs. Ansell's eyes was to risk giving it a that Amherst had not bound himself defi- 
dangerous significance. nitely, since he would not have done so 
"Bessy has spoken to me once or twice — without making the fact clear to his wife, 
but I know very little of Mr. Amherst's And with a secret thrill of happiness Jus- 
point of view; except," Justine added, after tine recalled his last word to her: "I will re- 
another moment's weighing of alternatives, member all you have said." 
"that I believe he suffers most from being He had kept that word and acted on it; 
cut off from his work at Westmore." in spite of Bessy's last assault on his pride, 
"Yes — so I think; but that is a difficulty he had borne with her, and deferred the 
that time and expediency must adjust. All day of final rupture; and the sense that 
we can do — their friends, I mean — is to get she had had a part in his decision filled 
them together again before the breach is too Justine with a glow of hope. The uneasy 
wide." consciousness of Mrs. Ansell's suspicions 



110 



The Fruit of the Tree 



faded to insignificance — Mrs. Ansell and 
her kind might think what they chose, since 
all that mattered now was that she herself 
should act bravely and circumspectly in her 
last attempt to save her friends. 

"I am not sure," Mrs. Ansell continued, 
gently scrutinizing her companion, "that I 
think it unwise of him to have gone; but if 
he stays too long Bessy may listen to bad ad- 
vice — advice disastrous to her happiness." 
She paused, and turned her eyes medita- 
tively toward the fire. "As far as I know," 
she said, with the same air of serious can- 
dour, "you are the only person who can tell 
him this." 

"I?" exclaimed Justine, with a leap of 
colour to her pale cheeks. 

Mrs. Ansell's eyes continued to avoid 
her. " My dear Miss Brent, Bessy has told 
me something of the wise counsels you have 
given her. Mr. Amherst is also your friend. 
As I said just now, you are the only person 
who might act as a Hnk between them — 
surely you will not refuse the role." 

Justine controlled herself. " My only role, 
as you call it, has been to urge Bessy to — to 
try to allow for her husband's views " 

"And have you not given the same ad- 
vice to Mr. Amherst?" 

The eyes of the two women met. " Yes," 
said Justine, after a moment. 

" Then why refuse your help now ? The 
moment is crucial." 

Justine's thoughts had flown beyond the 
stage of resenting Mrs. Ansell's gentle per- 
tinacity. All her faculties were really ab- 
sorbed in the question as to how she could 
most effectually use whatever influence she 
possessed. 

"I put it to you as one old friend to an- 
other — will you write to Mr. Amherst to 
come back ? " Mrs. AnseU urged her. 

Justine was past considering even the 
strangeness of this request, and its oblique 
reflection upon the kind of power ascribed 
to her. Through the confused beatings of 
her heart she merely struggled for a clearer 
sense of guidance. 

"No," she said slowly. "I cannot." 

"You cannot? With a friend's happi- 
ness in extremity ? " Mrs. AnseU paused a 
moment before she added: "Unless you be- 
lieve that Bessy would be happier di- 
vorced?" 

"Divorced — ? Oh, no," Justine shud- 
dered. 



" That is what it will come to." 

"No, no! In time " 

" Time is what I am most afraid of, when 
Blanche Carbury disposes of it." 

Justine drew a deep, shrinking sigh. 

"You'll write?" Mrs. Ansell mur- 
mured, laying a soft touch on her hand. 

"I have not the influence you think " 

" Can you do any harm by trying ? " 

"I might " Justine faltered, losing 

her exact sense of the words she used. 

"Ah," the other flashed back, "then you 
have influence ! Why will you not use it ? " 

Justine waited a moment; then her re- 
solve gathered itself into words. "If I have 
any influence, I am not sure it would be 
well to use it as you suggest." 

"Not to urge Mr. Amherst's return ?" 

"No — not now." 

She caught the same veiled gleam of in- 
credulity under Mrs. Ansell's lids — caught 
and disregarded it. 

"It must be now or never," Mrs. Ansell 
insisted. 

"I can't think so," Justine held out. 

" Nevertheless — will you try ? " 

"No— no! It might be fatal." 

"To whom?" 

"To both." She considered. "If he 
came back now I know he would not stay." 

Mrs. Ansell was upon her abruptly. 
"You know? Then you speak with author- 
ity?" 

"No — what authority ? I speak as I feel," 
Justine faltered. 

The older woman drew herself slowly to 
her feet. "Ah — then you shoulder a great 
responsibility!" She moved nearer to Jus- 
tine, and once more laid a fugitive touch 
upon her. "You won't write to him?" 

"No — no," the girl flung back; and the 
voices of the returning party in the hall 
made Mrs. Ansell, with an almost imper- 
ceptible gesture of warning, turn musingly 
away toward the fire. 

Bessy came back brimming with the 
wonders she had seen. A glazed "sun- 
room," mosaic pavements, a marble foun- 
tain to feed the marble tank — and outside, 
a water-garden, descending in successive 
terraces, to take up and utilize — one could 
see how practically ! — the overflow from the 
tank. If one did the thing at all, why not 
do it decently ? She had given up her new 
motor, had let her town house, had pinched 



The Fruit of the Tree 



111 



and stinted herself in a hundred ways — if 
ever woman was entitled to a little compen- 
sating pleasure, surely she was that woman ! 

The days were crowded with consulta- 
tions. Architect, contractors, engineers, a 
landscape gardener, and a dozen minor 
craftsmen, came and went, unrolled plans, 
moistened pencils, sketched, figured, ar- 
gued, persuaded, and filled Bessy with the 
dread of appearing, under Blanche Car- 
bury's eyes, subject to any restraining in- 
fluences of economy. What! She was a 
young woman, with an independent fort- 
une, and she was always wavering, consid- 
ering, secretly referring back to the mute 
criticism of an invisible judge — of the hus- 
band who had been first to shake himself 
free of any mutual subjection? The ac- 
complished Blanche did not have to say 
this — she conveyed it by the raising of paint- 
ed brows, by a smile of mocking interroga- 
tion, a judiciously placed silence or a re- 
signed glance at the architect. So the esti- 
mates poured in, were studied, resisted — 
then yielded to and signed ; then the hour of 
advance payments struck, and an imperi- 
ous appeal was despatched to Mr. Trede- 
gar, to whom the management of Bessy's 
affairs had been transferred. 

Mr. Tredegar, to his client's surprise, 
answered the appeal in person. He had not 
been lately to Lynbrook, dreading the cold 
and damp of the country in winter; and his 
sudden depJacement had therefore an omi- 
nous significance. 

He came for an evening in mid-week, 
when even Blanche Carbury was absent, 
and Bessy and Justine had the house to 
themselves. Mrs. Ansell had sailed the 
week before with her invalid cousin. No 
farther words had passed between herself 
and Justine — but the latter was conscious 
that their talk had increased instead of less- 
ening the distance between them. Justine 
herself meant to leave soon. Her hope of re- 
gaining Bessy's confidence had been de- 
ceived, and seeing herself definitely super- 
seded, she chafed anew at her purposeless 
inactivity. She had already written to one 
or two doctors in New York, and to the ma- 
tron of Saint Elizabeth's. She had made 
herself a name in surgical cases, and it could 
not be long before a summons came. . . . 

Meanwhile Mr. Tredegar arrived, and 
the three dined together, the two women 
bending meekly to his discourse, which was 



never more oracular and authoritative than 
when delivered to the gentler sex alone. 
Amherst's absence, in particular, seemed to 
loose the thin current of Mr. Tredegar's el- 
oquence. He was never cjuite at ease in the 
l)resence of an independent mind, and Jus- 
tine often reflected that, even had the two 
men known nothing of each other's views, 
there would have been between them an 
instinctive and irreducible hostility — they 
would have disliked each other if they had 
merely jostled elbows in the street. 

Yet even freed from Amherst's disturb- 
ing presence Mr. Tredegar showed a dark- 
ling brow, and as Justine slipped away after 
dinner she felt that she left Bessy to some- 
thing more serious than the usual business 
conference. 

How serious, she was to learn that very 
night, when, in the small hours, her friend 
burst in upon her tearfully. Bessy was 
ruined — ruined — that was what Mr. Trede- 
gar had come to tell her! She might have 
known he would not have travelled to Lyn- 
brook for a trifle. . . . She had expected to 
find herself cramped, restricted — to be 
warned that she must "manage," hateful 
word! . . . But this! This was incredible! 
Unendurable! There was no money to 
build the gymnasium — none at all! And 
all because it had been swallowed up at 
W'estmore — because the ridiculous changes 
there, the changes that nobody wanted, no- 
body approved of — that Truscomb and all 
the other experts had opposed and derided 
from the first — that these changes, even 
modified and arrested, had already in- 
volved so much of her income, that it might 
be years — yes, he said years! — before she 
should feel herself free again — free of her 
own fortune, of Cicely's fortune ... of 
the money poor Dick \\'estmore had meant 
his wife and daughter to enjoy! 

Justine listened anxiously to this con- 
fused outpouring of resentments. Bessy's 
born incapacity for figures made it indeed 
possible that the facts came on her as a sur- 
prise — that she had quite forgotten the 
temporary reduction of her income, and 
had begun to imagine that what she had 
saved in one direction was hers to spend in 
another. All this was conceivable. But 
why had Mr. Tredegar drawn so dark a 
picture of the future ? Or was it only that, 
thwarted of her immediate desire, Bessy's 
disappointment blackened the farthest 



112 



The Fruit of the Tree 



verge of her horizon? Justine, though 
aware of her friend's lack of perspective, 
suspected that a conniving hand had helped 
to throw the prospect out of drawing. . . 

Could it be possible, then, that Mr. Trede- 
gar was among those who desired a divorce ? 
That the influences at which Mrs. Ansell 
had hinted proceeded not only from Blanche 
Carbury and her group? Helpless amid 
this rush of forebodings, Justine could do 
no more than soothe and restrain — to rea- 
son would have been idle. She had never till 
now realized how completely she had lost 
ground with Bessy. 

"The humiliation — before my friends! 
Oh, I was warned . . . my father, every 
one . . . for Cicely's sake, I was warned 
. . . but I wouldn't listen — and now! 
From the first it was all he cared for — in 
Europe, even, he was always dragging me 
to factories. Me? — I was only the owner of 
Westmore! He wanted power — power, 
that's all — when he lost it he left me . . .oh, 
I 'm glad now my baby is dead ! Glad there's 
nothing between us — nothing, nothing in the 
world to tie us together any longer!" 

The disproportion between this violent 
grief and its trivial cause would have struck 
Justine as simply grotesque, had she not 
understood that the incident of the gymna- 
sium, which followed with cumulative press- 
ure upon a series of similiar episodes, 
seemed to Bessy like the reaching out of a 
retaliatory hand — a mocking reminder that 
she was still imprisoned in the consequences 
of her unhappy marriage. 

Such folly seemed past weeping for — it 
froze Justine's compassion into disdain, till 
she remembered that the sources of our sor- 
row are sometimes nobler than their means 
of expression, and that a baffled, unap- 
peased love was perhaps the real cause of 
Bessy's childish anger against her husband. 

At any rate, the moment was a critical 
one, and Justine remembered with a pang 
that Mrs. Ansell had foreseen such a con- 
tingency, and implored her to take meas- 
ures against it. She had refused, from a sin- 
cere dread of precipitating a definite es- 
trangement — but had she been right in 
judging the situation so logically ? With a 



creature of Bessy's emotional uncertainties 
the result of contending influences was real- 
ly incalculable — it might still be that, at this 
juncture, Amherst's return would bring 
about a reaction of better feelings. . . . 

Justine sat and mused on these things 
in her room, after leaving her friend ex- 
hausted upon a tearful pillow. She felt that 
she had perhaps taken too large a survey of 
the situation — that the question whether 
there could ever be ultimate happiness be- 
tween this tormented pair was not one to 
concern those who struggled for their wel- 
fare. Most marriages are a patch-work of 
jarring tastes and ill-assorted ambitions — 
if here and there, for a moment, two colours 
blend, two textures are the same, so much 
the better for the pattern ! Justine, certain- 
ly, could foresee in reunion no positive hap- 
piness for either of her friends; but she 
saw positive disaster for Bessy in separation 
from her husband. . . . 

Suddenly she rose from her chair by the 
falling fire, and crossed over to the writing- 
table. She would write to Amherst herself 
— she would tell him to come. The decision 
once reached, hope flowed back to her heart 
• — the joy of action so often deceived her in- 
to immediate faith in its results! 

"Dear Mr. Amherst," she wrote, "the 
last time I saw you, you told me you would 
remember what I said. I ask you to do so 
now — to remember that I urged you not to 
be away too long. I believe you ought to 
come back now, though I know Bessy will 
not ask you to. I am writing without her 
knowledge, but with the conviction that she 
needs you, though perhaps without know- 
ing it herself. ..." 

She paused, and laid down her pen. Why 
did it make her so happy to write to him? 
Was it merely the sense of recovered help- 
fulness, or something warmer, more per- 
sonal, that made it a joy to trace his name, 
and to remind him of their last intimate ex- 
change of words ? Well — perhaps it was 
that too. There were moments when she 
was so mortally lonely that any sympathetic 
contact with another life sent a glow into 
her veins — that she was thankful to warm 
herself at anv fire. 



(To be continued.) 




Dra-MH by A lonzo Kiinball. 

Her face lost the bloom of animation, and she looked pale and wearj- — Page io6. 

Vol. XLII.— 12 



FOR A SMALL BOY 

By Samuel McCoy 

O PRAIRIE, Mother of my West, 

Take this small waif to your broad breast: 

Let his feet love your changeless ways. 
To teach him firmness all his days; 

Let your fields, stretching to the sky, 
That sets no boundary to the eye, 

Give him their own deep breadth of view, 
The largeness of the cloudless blue ; 

Give him to drink your freshening breath 
That will not brook a thought of death; 

So he may go eternal young 

Along your marshes, that have flung 

Their yellowing willows' draperies 
To the keen sweetness of the breeze; 

And, prodigal of April hours. 
Take benediction of her showers; 

And when across the prairies come 
The yellowhammer's fife and drum, 

Then let him wander as he will. 
From hill to ever-rising hill, 

From your spring mornings, warm and bright, 
Surcharged with quivering, living light, 

Until the hazy sun at last 
Withdraws and leaves the pallid, vast 

Immensity of sky and moor 

And gray dusk closing swift and sure. 

In quiet let him bow his face 
Before the Presence in that space. 

When ghostly white the primrose stands, 
The spirit of your twilight lands ; 

See the pale jewel of the evening skies 
And hear the meadow's drowsy cries, 

And, last sweet challenge through the dark — 
The clear, thin whistle of the lark. 

So, prairie that I loved and blessed, 
The boy may know your way is best. 



GALAHAD'S DAUGHTER 

By Katharine Holland Brown 

Illustration by F. Walter Taylor 



ND the young girl in white, 
with silver and roses? 

Miss " 

"Asbury," supplied 
young Wharton prompt- 
ly. "Judith Anne; Judy 
Ann, most of us call her. Isn't she lovely ? 
Her father " 




"Judith Annel" 

Anne Burgess looked up at him with a 
quick, startled breath. A shadowy rose 
warmed her soft withered cheek. 

" Yes. It's a quaint little name, isn't it ? 
But it suits her. Judith was her grand- 
mother's name; the Anne was for a young 
girl her father used to know, they say. An 
old sweetheart, I fancy. She's a bit spoiled, 
of course; but with her beauty and her tal- 
ent, it's no wonder. Have vou read anv of 
her little things? 'The Chisel'? ' Or 
* Blood - Money ' ? They're bewilderingly 
clever for a slip of a girl like that." 

"Yes. They are certainly — clever." 
Miss Burgess fumbled tremulously with her 
dinner-card. Her face took on a curious 
smitten look — the pallor which betrays 
some poignant thrust of the spirit. Her 
lips tightened; her delicate old hands 
opened and shut. 

" She's a type to herself, don't you think 
so?" Wharton went on cheerfully. "She 
isn't really like a girl; she always makes 
me think of a splendid boy. They say she's 
the image of her father, frankness and all. 
He was something of a celebrity in his day. 
Did you ever know anvthing of him?" 

" Was his name Stephen ? Stephen Sum- 
ner Asbury? Was he a naval officer?" 

"Yes. It was rather a romantic story. 
He resigned out of the Service two years 
after he had graduated from Annapolis, 
and threw in his lot with Phillips and 
Parker and the Underground. That must 
have been along about 1857. I've heard 
my father tell about it, times without num- 
ber. He adored Stephen Asbury ; the young 
fellows of that day made a hero and a saint 



out of him. I fancy he deserved every whiff 
of incense that floated his way; his ordeal 
was grim enough, at the best. Feeling 
was running pretty high then, you ^jiow; 
and the Abolitionists made a great deal out 
of his throwing over his prospects and his 
profession and his family — for they all dis- 
owned him, every one of them — all for the 
Cause. That advertising his martyrdom 
was the worst of it all. He was a shy, mod- 
est fellow, and the notoriety of it cut pretty 
deep. He had put his hand to the plough, 
though, and he wouldn't turn back; but he 
made his furrows mighty quietly. When 
the war broke out, he went back into the 
navy, and they gave him a commission. 
He stayed on in the Service always. He 
did not marry until very late in life, and he 
died when Judy here was just a baby. The 
mother had died w'hen she was born." 

Miss Burgess listened, silent. 

" I'll never forget how queer and knocked 
out I felt when I heard that he was dead," 
he went on, after a pause. " I'd never seen 
him, of course; but I'd heard father talk of 
him so much, and I was an imaginative 
youngster; and somehow I thought of him 
always as of something too glorious to die, 
or to grow old, even ; a prince; a young god, 
maybe. And when I heard how he had 
been killed, trying to save a little street ur- 
chin from a runaway, it was as if the world 
had jolted, somehow. I know I went o.'f 
by myself, out of doors, and told it to my- 
self, over and over, about sixteen times: 
'Stephen Asbury is dead!' It seemed ri- 
diculous for the sun to keep on shining 
after that. Children have queer notions." 

^liss Burgess leaned back in her chair, 
with a faint, stealthy sigh. She peered into 
the rippling, merry young face across from 
her with solemn questioning eyes. It was 
as though she strove to trace another face, 
deep beyond the challenge of this freth 
loveliness. 

Young Wharton looked at her with quiet 
appreciation. He had dreaded the ordeal 

115 




Drawn by F. IValter Taylor. 

She felt the girl's keen, precocious gaze sweep and comprehend her. — Page ii8. 



i 



Galahad's Daughter 



117 



of taking her down to dinner; she was at 
once so gentle and so punctilious, so stately 
and so shy. He felt toward her the chival- 
rous deference which a man accords by in- 
stinct to the woman of his mother's genera- 
tion ; but he realized as well that she was a 
stranger in that strangest of all places, her 
own land, revisited now after half a lifetime, 
so he had taxed his wits to the uttermost in 
search of a topic which might interest her 
without reminding her of this long aliena- 
tion. 

And he had made preposterous choice. 
The Abolition period was dismally mal- 
apropos, he said to himself, with a rueful 
smile. Yet she seemed to overlook the Rip 
van Winkle interval in the fascination of 
the story; so he might well hold his peace 
and be thankful. 

Meanwhile, she was in herself most 
charming. He felt a whimsical impulse to 
put out his hand and touch the slim veined 
wrist, and so make sure that its frail waxen 
curves were flesh and blood. There was a 
wraith-like pictured quality in every line of 
her beautiful head, in every fold of the soft, 
dull-flowered silk, with its quaint, velvet- 
rimmed ruffles, its falls and frosts of lace, 
so ancient in fashion that it had circled the 
wheel, and gave now a dim reflection of the 
mode of to-day. Her parted silvery hair 
framed her face in high archaic coils; soft 
tarnished pearls and shallow cameos ghnted 
about her throat. For all her gentle inter- 
est, she held herself and ruled her speech 
with a sweet, rigid precision; she was as 
aloof as a lily. He recalled the score of 
picturing phrases with which his friends had 
described her to him. They had sounded 
fanciful, overdrawn ; but now they seemed 
at best scant praise. She was like a carv- 
ing in ivory; she was a white rose, withered 
on its stalk, still perfect; she was a frost 
painting on the window-pane; she was an 
April sunset. He counted them over, smil- 
ing at the thought of her fluttered amaze- 
ment if he should dare to say the words 
aloud. She was the refrain of an old, dear 
song; a woman of twihght mist; the scent 
of lilacs after rain. Yes, that last lyric, 
whimsical note rang as clear as words could 
tell it. She was not a woman ; she was a 
fragrance. 

"And who cared for her — the little Ju- 
dith?" she said presently, in her low wistful 
voice. 

Vol. XLII.— 13 



"Her aunts, and a grandmother, I be- 
lieve. Though she's so independent that 
it's hard to imagine anybody presuming to 
take care of her. She has travelled a lot, 
and she goes in for all kinds of things, be- 
side her writing: athletics, and Settlement 
work, and old brasses — really, I think there 
must be at least thirty-six hours to her day. 
She knocks about too much, perhaps. More, 
at any rate, than the girls do in your coun- 
try — in France, I mean. But it doesn't 
seem to hurt her." 

Miss Burgess turned to the girl again 
without replying. No, it could not have 
hurt her. Stephen Asbury's daughter was 
above contamination. Yet she looked on 
her white shoulders, her free ways, her 
ready laughter, with a sick reproach. Could 
this be his child ? Stephen's child ? 

Throughout these last weeks she had 
mused upon the thought of meeting the girl 
as one dreams of the fulfilling of a dream. 
It could never come true. In this great, 
hurrying city, they were both straws on the 
current. It was inconceivable that they 
could ever meet. Yet here, by most mys- 
terious chance, they two faced each other; 
and upon Anne Burgess lay the anguish of 
a dream come true. 

Surely she was her father's child. Only 
the eyes of one who had known and loved 
him might see the cruel little differences. 
For all her flowing feminine graces, she was 
moulded like a splendid boy — the boy that 
he had been. Her gray eyes, sparkhng be- 
neath long lashes, shone with the eager joy 
of life which had been as his breath; but 
their radiance could not hold the deeps of 
his graver mood. Her clear-cut mouth 
curved in his half-wistful smile; her flick- 
ering dimples mocked it. She locked her 
fingers together when she spoke gravely; 
that had been Stephen's trick, ahabit which 
he had striven in vain to break. Then she 
flung her hands outward with a shrug, a 
toss of her brown head, which taunted the 
moment's earnestness. Truly, she was 
Stephen's child. Oh, the pity of it! 

Months before, she had read her little 
stories, those fugitive snatches, clever, as- 
suredly. Little jewels of narrative they 
were, hard and cold and bright. She had 
seized upon them, eager to praise; she had 
put them away, harshly disquieted. These 
were not the stories that Stephen Asbury's 
daughter ought to write. There was no 



118 



Galahad's Daughter 



bloom upon them. They mirrored no 
gleam of his knightly faith, his honor, his 
high, pure spirit. They were smirched 
with the cheap cynicism of the day. A 
hurt, bewildered anger welled in her breast. 
How poor a reverence must his child's work 
grant to him! 

She had loved Stephen Asbury with all 
her shy heart; a love exalted above mere 
girlish fancy by her adoration of his high 
aims, her worship of his sacrifice. Between 
them there had existed one of the graceful 
friendships of their time and place. They 
had been comrades in study, fellow-en- 
thusiasts in the succession of reforms- that 
absorbed New England through the mid- 
century. Comrades, and nothing more. 
The mighty convictions that had swept him 
from the pathway of his fathers rolled in 
widening seas between him and his old life, 
his childhood friends. From the day of 
his resignation, she had never even seen 
him. She had gone abroad to study — to 
remain for two years, perhaps. But there 
were no ties to draw her back to her own 
land, and her work was dearer than the 
country of her blood. She came back now, 
after forty years, to find herself a stranger 
in a strange land. 

They had brought their meed of happi- 
ness, those tranquil working years. Her 
slow, conscientious study had won a quiet 
yet a satisfying success. She had lived on 
in the same narrow, rigid groove; she had 
never known Bohemia; the world of fads 
and whims and fancies in art had passed 
her by. Nor were the mountain heights 
for such as she; but her spirit knew the high 
quiet uplands. And the talisman of her si- 
lent love had kept her heart warm. 

Once only had her brave soul faltered, 
stricken — the hour when she had learned of 
the birth of this girl, his child. Then long- 
hushed pulses stirred within her; she wak- 
ened sobbing, those first nights after. He 
had never cared, she told herself patiently, 
striving to dull the smart by yet a deeper 
wound. She must not let herself remem- 
ber; she must not trammel her life with 
vain regrets. Yet he reigned still in her 
hushed innocent shrine, a boyish heroic 
memory, high above the altar of her dreams. 

" Mr. Wharton tells me that you used to 
know my people — my father, that is." Ju- 
dith Asbury crossed the drawing-room to 



her side. "Do you remember him well? 
Were you in school together?" 

She dropped down on a low gilded stool, 
her lace and silver draperies flaunting in 
shimmering waves. Her gray eyes were 
darkly earnest; her fleeting dimples de- 
rided. ^ 

"I knew him when I lived in Concord. 
We used to read Dante together. There 
were a number of us, fellow-students. . . ." 
Anne groped for her words ; her gentle poise 
quivered beneath the wave of inarticulate 
anger which surged within her. How could 
she speak of him thus lightly before all these 
others, these cool, indifferent strangers? 
How could she breathe his name, except 
with reverence? 

" He was awfully fond of Dante, I know. 
I have the little worn-out books with his 
notes in them, tucked away somewhere. 
He wrote a good deal of music, too. I've 
often wished that I could have heard him 
sing. Did you, ever?" 

"Yes. He had a wonderful voice." 
Anne stopped, with a gasp; but the girl's 
eyes were upon her, persistent, compelling. 
"He was a wonderful man," she went on 
steadily, slow painful flushes beating in 
her cheeks. " You lost much in losing him 
from your life. He was the purest soul I 
ever knew." 

She felt the girl's keen, precocious gaze 
sweep and comprehend her. She knew 
bitterly that her eyes caught and appraised 
each line and hue, each tone and gesture; 
she felt herself weighed and set aside, 
amusedly, a charming, antiquated trinket, 
by this pitiless childish judgment. Yet she 
spoke on: 

"And you are — you will be like him, I 
hope. You resemble him much already." 

" So they all tell me," said Judith indif- 
ferently. "I look as he did; I know that 
from his old daguerreotypes. But there's 
not so much resemblance in other ways, I 
fancy. Papa was such a rank ideahst!" 
She finished with a laugh which was echoed 
by every man in the room, so sweet it rang, 
so rippling full of merciless youth. 

Anne shrank back, paling. She did not 
try to speak with her again. 

She had ordered her carriage for an early 
hour; but by some mishap, it did not arrive. 
She waited, nervous and dismayed, until the 
other guests were about to leave; then she 
called a servant, and sent him for a cab. 



Galahad's Daughter 119 

Judith Asbury, radiant in her snowy furs, bridge. " But there's very little more of it. 

crossed the hallway as she stood giving the We have a mile or so of slums to cross, then 

order. What in the world is the matter?" 

" Your carriage didn't come ? That's too The carriage stopped with a lurch. There 
bad. But mine is here, and my aunt, Mrs. rose a clamor of startled, questioning voices. 
Cope, and I will be delighted if you will The horses started, then stopped again, 
drive over with us. We're on the West held back by a strong hand. The coach- 
Side too, you know, out on Jackson Boule- man bellowed an angry protest; above his 
vard. It's only a mile from where we're shout there rang a woman's frightened, be- 
stopping, and a mile doesn't count in Chi- seeching wail. 

cago. Oh, please don't! It will be just a "Thompson was an idiot to bring us 

pleasure to us. Come on, Aunt Emily!" around this way," said Judith Asbury im- 

Anne followed in her imperious wake, patiently. She wrung the door open in the 

bewildered yet relieved. She had dreaded face of Mrs. Cope's remonstrances, and 

the long, lonely night drive; the city was a stepped lightly out. The crowd of shabby 

drowsing Inferno to her eyes. It terrified night-birds hung back as her straight white 

her with a terror which was not of the flesh young apparition stood before them, 

alone. She had lived too long apart from " What's the trouble here, officer ? Why 

her place and time. This was no longer can't we be allowed to go on?" 

her country, nor were these her people. The policeman began a noisy explana- 

This great, restless, splendid evil city typi- tion. The coachman and the by-standers 

fied to her the bitter changes from her own joined in. 

day — a day whose memory still held for " Well, they was a-crossin' the street to- 

her the mystery and the glory of the dawn, gether, not payin' no attention to where they 

This new order irked and daunted her: the went — " " An' he had both his lamps lit, 

arrogant prosperity; the haste; theincred- leddy;yekinseethat fer yersilf." " — And 

ible swing of the wheel which had cast yer carriage knocked 'em both over, flat." 

her idols in the dust, and lifted strange "Sure, now, ye needn't look so scairt. No 

new gods to the highest shrine. She shrank great loss if they was kilt, to my mind, 

with a child's distrust from the brusque. Both of thim that drunk they couldn't be 

extravagant honors which the men and findin' the way home, the hussies!" 

women of this hurtling world strove to lav- Anne Burgess peered out, then leaned 

ish upon her. Like the vast toppling, gor- back, sick and faint. A girl in a huge white 

geous fabric which they had reared, they hat, toppling with plumes, stood leaning 

grieved and bewildered her. She looked against tlae policeman's shoulder. Her long 

on them and all their ways as upon torment- light cloak was spattered vnth mire; her 

ing puzzles, which her dazzled eyes might bare, glittering hands wove and fluttered 

not trace, her fingers were too weak to dis- in pitiful, horrible gestures above the limp 

entangle. And of all these fretting mys- bundle in flaring scarlet which the men 

teries, none stung and baffled her as did the were lifting to the curb. The street flashed 

sight of this girl, her name-child — she knew and darkened before her eyes; yet she 

by unwavering instinct: serene, cold-blood- missed no word nor motion from Judith, 

ed, lovely; the hard awakening from her stooping, white and calm, above the red 

life-long dream, heap. 

The drive stretched out interminably. " Her heart is going all right, officer, I 

They had left the smooth-paved residence can't find any broken bones, either. She's 

streets behind; they were jolting now only stunned." 

through the dusky tunnels which stretch "Thrue fer ye, miss. The carriage on'y 

from the lake front to the river. From cor- rubbed by thim, that's all, an' they tipped 

ner to corner gleamed feeble lights; through over straight. Here'H be the ambylance 

the block itself they blundered as through the minute!" 

clefts of darkness. "Judith, please/" entreated Mrs. Cope. 

"It makes me fidgety, driving through "Shut the carriage door. Aunt Emily, 

these canyons at this time of night," said Then you won't feel the chill. I'm sorry to 

Judith, looking out at the glimmer of red keep you, but it can't be helped. Here, let 

and green v/hich marked the mouth of the me Hft her head. You're sure she's not 



120 



The Meadow Wind 



hurt, doctor, apart from the shock ? Take 
her to the Anastasia Home, and give Doc- 
tor McLain my card. She'll understand. 
Please hand me my purse. Aunt Emily. 
Easy, men!" She steadied the stretcher 
with both firm, small hands. " Now," as 
the ambulance rolled away, " I'll take care 
of — of her. You can go on, officer. We're 
much obliged." 

She took the girl lightly by the arm. 
" Come." 

"Judith, how can you!" "Miss, that 
won't do, never. Work'us is the place for 
her, an' all her kind." " Don't be dirtyin' 
yer leddy hands wid the smut of the likes of 
her, miss!" 

" Pull the rugs up over you and Miss 
Burgess," commanded Judith, through the 
window. "It's only eight blocks to the 
Settlement Lodging House, and I won't 
trust anybody but myself to take her there. 
Come, child." 

" This won't do at all, young lady." The 
pohceman strove to flaunt a little brief au- 
thority. "Jail's the place for her, an' all 
her kind. You're wastin' yer time on her. 
That sort don't count." 

"'That sort don't count!'" 

Anne Burgess caught at the door. The 
stern thrill in the girl's low voice swept her 
heart like a call from a dear lost world. 

Her father's voice! 



She faced the policeman, white, defiant. 
Her face, set rigid beneath the airy frippery 
of lace and spangles, held a strange radi- 
ance; her gray eyes flared and darkened. 
She drew the girl to her and braced the wa- 
vering body against her arm. 

"Put her into the carriage. Carefully, 
now. Go on, officer; I tell you I've taken 
the responsibility. It's my place to look 
after her now." She turned to the full 
light ; Anne met her look. It was as though 
she looked into Stephen's eyes once more, 
ablaze with a holy anger, dark with unfath- 
omable love, with pity all but divine. " I'm 
ready, Thompson. Go on." 

Anne stumbled through the soft darkness 
of her room, and sat down by the low open 
fire. She lay back in her chair, her frail 
hands falling loosely in her lap; her bosom 
fell with the deep, yielding breath which 
speaks relief of body, and calm unspeak- 
able of soul. There was a lovely light in 
her tired eyes ; the joy of one whose beloved 
hope, racked, tortured, tried as by fire, re- 
turns unscathed; the peace of a faith re- 
stored. 

"It was not lost. It could not be lost," 
she whispered through the night. " It has 
no stain. It can never be wasted nor be- 
trayed. She will always hold it, honor it. 
She has her father's soul." 



THE MEADOW WIND 



By Arthur Davison Ficke 

Days full of labor — days wherein the mind 
Is tense with keen pursuit of some goal set — 
Come crowding, and would woo me to forget 

All that beyond them lies. But as a wind 

Sometimes a-sudden, in the summer's heat. 
Blows in on city dwellers parched and worn, 
Bringing the breath of country fields of corn 

Afar from all the clamor of the street; 

And those outwearied toilers start, and seem 
For that brief space transported otherwhere. 
And breathe the sweetness of the country air, 

And see the hills, and hear the hillside stream; 

So comes one thought to lead my soul afar — 

Surely it must be summer, where you are. 



THE POINT OF VIEW 



"My room looks out into a little court; there is a plot 
of grass, and to the right of it an old stone-built wall, close 
against which stands a row of aged lime-trees. Straight 
opposite, at right angles to the wall, is the east side of the 
Hall, with its big plain traceried windows enlivened with 
a few heraldic shields of stained glass. While I was look- 
ing out to-day there came a flying burst of sun, and the 
little corner became a sudden feast of delicate colour; the 
rich green of the grass, the foliage of the lime-trees, their 
brown wrinkled stems, the pale moss on the walls, the 
bright points of colour in the emblazonries of the window, 
made a sudden delicate harmony of tints. 1 had seen the 
place a hundred times before without ever guessing what 
a perfect picture it made. . . . 

"And thus I went slowly back to College in that gather- 
ing gloom that seldom fails to bring a certain peace to the 
mind. The porter sat, with his feet on the fender, in his 
comfortable den, reading a paper. The lights were be- 
ginning to appear in the court, and the firelight flickering 
briskly upon walls hung with all the pleasant signs of 
youthful life, the groups, the family photographs, the 
suspended oar, the cap of glory. So when I entered my 
book-lined rooms, and heard the kettle sing its comfortable 
song on the hearth, and reflected that I had a few letters 
to write, an interesting book to turn over, a pleasant Hall 
dinner to look forward to, and that, after a space of talk, 
an undergraduate or two were coming to talk over a lei- 
surely piece of work, an essay or a paper, I was more than 
ever inclined to acquiesce in my disabilities, to purr like an 
elderly cat, and to feel that while I had the priceless boon 
of leisure, set in a framework of small duties, there was 
much to be said for life, and that I was a poor creature if 
I could not be soberly content." 

— A. C. Benson, ''From a College Window." 



THE outlook from my room should in all 
charity be spared the disclosure of pub- 
licity. In arranging my study at home, 
my first precaution was to curtain the lower 
halves of the windows, so that if I chanced to 
look up and out I should see only a fair patch 
of sky and the tops of some struggling 
lindens. If unveiled, the windows would 
reveal a grimy wall, at the moment em- 
blazoned by an advertiser's legend inform- 
From an ^"& "^^ what tobacco gentlemen 

American of taste chew and whose ready-to- 

College Window ^,^^^ clothing I must purchase to 
masquerade as a prosperous man of fashion. 
From my "office" at the university, the 
outlook is more pleasing, yet equally lacks 
inspiration. The grass is green enough 
when not wholly worn shabby by students 
seeking a short cut to learning; the American 
elms rival the English lime-trees; the sun is 
brighter, the sky bluer than across the waters. 
But there is no den, and no porter ! If I 
wish anything done, I am reminded that the 
most reliable servitor is one's self; so I clean 
my boots at home and my type-writer at the 



office. The roller-top desk, the type-writer 
stand, the filing-cabinet, greet me with a 
business-like air. The solace of tea or 
nicotine, university tradition frowns down 
upon as lures to idleness. Moreover, the 
undergraduates who call upon me in ir- 
regular procession, are as apt to appear in 
"shirt-waists" as in "sweaters" — academic 
costume is undemocratic. They appeal to 
me as to the oracle of the railway informa- 
tion bureau; and I suggest the various roads 
and junctions — the changes of trains and fit- 
tings of schedules, the management of their 
impedimenta — that will bring them most 
safely and economically to their cherished 
destinations. They rarely inquire about in- 
teresting scenery on the way; stop-over 
privileges are not in demand. Up-to-date 
equipments and personally conducted tours 
— and with some, easy berths in Pullman 
cars — are popular. A batch of official en- 
velopes reminds me that I am also a uni- 
formed conductor for my charges and have 
reports to prepare for headquarters. More- 
over, my laboratory imposes insistent and 
heterogeneous housekeeping cares ; these in- 
volve the expenditure of money, and thus ac- 
quire a peculiarly American halo of sanctity. 
A mere professor cannot be entrusted with 
matters so exalted; and when the item has 
run the gauntlet of officialdom, the delayed 
benefit seems sadly out of proportion to the 
entanglements of the pursuit. In compensa- 
tion I have become a genius at makeshifts; 
and when the academic life palls, I may be 
qualified to serve as manager of some small 
corner (say the notion counter) of a "de- 
partment store." Two portentous envelopes 
remain: the one bids me share the joys of a 
committee meeting — one of a series of soi- 
rees — and assist in framing devices to divert 
a larger share of the scholastic fry to our 
weir, and away from the waters tributary to 
a fraternal institution farther down-stream. 
(These are not the words of the chairman; 
but he is skilful in phrase and shrewd in 
academic diplomacy — qualities quite beyond 

121 



122 



The Point of View 



my simple insight.) The other commands 
my attendance at a faculty meeting: the 
"space of talk" to be given to determining 
the minimum admission fee to intercollegiate 
contests compatible with the advertising 
value of football as an academic pursuit; 
the decorous mode of launching a scholastic 
innovation which the authorities have estab- 
lished without troubling the faculty with 
the question of its desirability; and the reg- 
ulation of extravagance in social affairs 
among students, to which a rural editor with 
political ambitions has called sensational at- 
tention. By this time my "framework of 
small duties" looms ominously large in the 
daily horizon. I fear that some of the eight 
lectures of the week may suggest a hasty 
warming over from an older and more in- 
spired preparation. The routine of my lab- 
oratory rounds becomes stale, and my re- 
search unprofitable. Yet the stroll home- 
ward in the gathering gloom somehow fails 
to bring a "certain peace to the mind." 
The campus through which I walk, generous- 
ly favored by nature, has suffered severely 
at the hands of man. Architecturally there 
is a measure of pleasing simplicity reminis- 
cent of modest beginnings, but more of 
motley venture, having only in common a 
general unkemptness and. the absence of any 
academic propriety. 

Informe, ingetis, cui lumen ademptiim. 

Nondescript in style, disregarding quality; 
huge in proportion, emphasizing bigness; 
and destitute of all that reflects and makes 
appeal to the inner vision, of the well-groomed 
and unified repose that elicits personal de- 
votion. 



I 



S my mood too critical to-day, or have the 
leisurely pages of the Cambridge don re- 
vived too keenly the Old World charms? 
For as a guest I have dined with the dons at 
the high table, chatted in the common-room, 
and glimpsed the even tenor of their honored 
way. In my hallway a group of Oxford es- 
cutcheons are assembled about a sketch of 
the mellow buildings among which for a time 
I sought my daily occupation. My book-lined 
study, with the modest gleanings of 
Professorial travel in pleasant places disposed 

on wall and shelf, seems indeed a 
pleasant retreat as I enter with weary step. 
No kettle sings "its comfortable song on the 



hearth " ; but a pipe and an easy-chair at the 
fire invite repose and contemplation. Ver- 
ily, I do not feel at all inclined to acqui- 
esce in my disabilities; and the sound ex- 
pressing my natural impulse would resemble 
nothing less than "the purr of an elderly 
cat"; it might even approach the menacing 
growl of an aggrieved but well-behaved 
collie, eager to bite, or at least to show his 
teeth. And yet I am not quite ready — until 
a pensionless old age is imminent — to ex- 
change my college window for the alluring 
outlook of the Cambridge don. I am desir- 
ous that my window shall look out upon the 
world, and that frequently I shall step into 
the busy out-of-doors of an active life set 
in a framework of "large" duties; and be- 
lieving thus, I am unwilling that so much 
energy shall be drained off in unprofitable 
driblets. Moreover, my tastes and interests 
lead me to broader streams where life may 
be felt in endless currents, and my small ser- 
vice added to the general flow. 

The fire burns brightly; I have lighted 
the lamp, and the room is aglow with a 
cheery light. Best of all, I am no longer 
alone. A presence is near me bringing from 
outdoors the lighter contact of pleasurable 
intercourse, and from within the sustaining 
sympathy of a ready insight. The English 
don may make light of his prescriptive dis- 
abilities: 

But no, the Pope no wife may choose, 
And so I would not wear his shoes. 

There is no constraint to talk. A deft needle 
weaves a patient trail of delicate tracery; my 
own reflections, thus supported, continue un- 
disturbed. 

My academic disabilities weigh heavily 
upon me, and increasingly so, even in my 
most optimistic and most lucid intervals. 
Although my score of years in academic ser- 
vice have brought patient tolerance of im- 
maturity and lack of comprehension, they 
have not removed my constant solicitude and 
occasional depression. Though I am decent- 
ly resigned to find the academic habitation a 
vale of tears, I protest against the added in- 
jury of a bad climate, and especially against 
those needlessly unfavorable elements in the 
academic atmosphere that are measurably 
under control: under control, that is, pro- 
vided that our efforts are properly inspired 
and wisely directed, not imprudently com- 
promised for lesser, lowlier, if more imme- 



The Point of View 



123 



diate gains. What most I envy the English 
don is wholly attainable, and in restricted 
measure is enjoyed by some of my more for- 
tunately situated colleagues: I mean the sense 
of corporate ai^Iiation and control — in law, in 
fact, and in spirit — of the institution in which 
they find a living. Natnrally the form of the 
bond will be shaped by divergent traditions 
and circumstance. The term, "a living," 
has a peculiarly Anglican flavor; and its 
essential emphasis — not its more intimate 
associations — appeals to me. I deem it 
fortunate that academically as well as social- 
ly we have followed so largely the spirit of 
English institutions, and equally so that the 
following has not been a formal one; that the 
assimilation has been practically tempered to 
our distinctive needs and has been compatible 
with a like hospitality to Teutonic thorough- 
ness anddirectnessof purpose, alike receptiv- 
ity to Gallic esprit. There is, too, in the coveted 
relation something intrinsically democratic — 
not in the vociferous Boeotian, campaigning 
sense, but as a discerning, Athenian devotion 
to principle. America is known as the land 
of contrasts ; and the form of academic govern- 
ment that has found strongest foothold here 
would be insupportably offensive to an Old 
World people acquiescent to monarchical in- 
stitutions. It would likewise be recognized in 
those more experienced civilizations as ineffi- 
cient and dangerous : inefficient, because the 
expert insight necessary to the wise conduct 
ofintellectual interests can be found only with- 
in the elect whose temper and attainments 
have fitted them for the delicate and respon- 
sible task; dangerous, because the settlement 
of control elsewhere means compromise of 
ideals, the introduction of irrelevant standards 
and of all the short-sighted shrewdness that 
makes the worse seem the better cause. 



T 



HERE is set up within the university an 
"administration" to which I am held 
closely accountable. They steer the 
vessel, and I am one of the crew. I am not al- 
lowed on the bridge except when summoned ; 
and the councils in which I participate uni- 
formly begin at the point at which 

ISministration P^^'^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^^ determined. I am 
not part <?/" the "administration," 
but am used (5y the " administration " in virtue 
of qualities that I may possess apart from 
my academic proficiencies. In authority, m 
dignity, in salary, the "administration" are 



over me, and I am under them. They sit at 
the high table, on a raised dais — each in 
turn elevated on a properly proportioned 
pedestal — while I in goodly (and, I confess, 
more congenial) company eat my humble 
fare at the homely board. My compensa-. 
tion I am supposed to find at the com- 
mencement season, when with "baccalau- 
reate" solemnity the sentiment is intoned 
that the luminaries of the university are those 
devoted torch-bearers, the wise and gifted 
professors, though the light thus generated 
by a curious optical perversity ever shines up- 
on the head of the procession. With the pro- 
fessor at one end of a log and the right kind 
of a student at the other you have a univer- 
sity. What avail governing boards, and presi- 
dents and deans, buildings and equipment, 
unless the uplifting spirit of liberalizing ed- 
ucation animates the whole through an en- 
thusiastic and exceptional faculty ! "Deeply 
impressed with these noble truths, the author- 
ities have devoted the generously increased 
resources to the erection of a sumptuous ad- 
ministration building [applause], to the en- 
largement of the swimming tank and the ath- 
letic grounds [great applause], and to so 
embellishing the summer session that no one 
can afford to go elsewhere. [The local allusion 
to a near rival elicits laughter and applause.] 
The authorities regret that the funds will not 
permit the increase of salaries of the under- 
paid professors or the appointment of the 
sorely needed assistants. For these they 
trust to the providential guidance of the 
future." It is disheartening — even after a 
summer's vacation enjoyed on borrowed 
funds — to recall how proudly we were pointed 
to in the metaphorical radiance of those June 
days: "These are my jewels!" and to real- 
ize in the sombre light of October that we are 
but paste, after all. 

I do not advocate the summary decapita- 
tion or even the virtual deposition of the uni- 
versity president; yet I confess that I should 
like to reform him out of all semblance to 
his present nature and function. I object 
to him not for what he is, but for the system 
which he represents, or of which, possibly, 
he is but the conspicuous and innocent vic- 
tim. I dislike the system with its concen- 
tration of power in a glorified "head" and a 
lay board — often inappropriately composed 
— not because I lack appreciation of what 
American education owes to endeavors thus 
furthered, but because we are paying too 



124 



The Point of View 



Practical 
Disabilities 



dearly for such benefit. The price is nothing 
less than the discredit of the academic career; 
for no profession can maintain itself in honor 
and dignity, and continue to attract the elect 
to its fold, that imposes such hampering rela- 
tions, such subordinating dependence upon 
its votaries. Judgment by one's peers and 
by them alone and authoritatively is an indis- 
pensable privilege of every learned profes- 
sion. Constant accountability to an imposed 
control hampers where above all liberty is 
vital; it restrains and sets up rituals where 
free initiative is the breath of life and no 
man can serve other master than himself. 



IT is the consoling advantage of a soliloquy 
that one readily carries his audience with 
him. Not having to stop for orders, the 
train of thought has undisputed right of way. 
I seem, however, to have addressed my con- 
clusions to my silently supporting listener; 
and I was promptly reminded that I had been 
going too fast and too far. Had I not un- 
observantly passed by a little way-station at 
which I might profitably have been reminded 
of such material considerations as fuel and 
water? Should I not be substantially aided 
in securing the "priceless boon of 
leisure" if — in the argo^ oi the day 
— I could secure the price; if I 
had not to embrace every slightest opportu- 
nity to bring more nearly together the two 
gaping ends that with all ingenious economy 
still fail to meet? Unc^uestionably so, my 
Socratic mentor. 

"And, furthermore, look upon Professor 
A — and it's just as true of B and C and 
D — and note how much more human he is, 
and how almost presentable is Mrs. A, and 
how the little A's have taken on some of the 
outer marks of civilization since they have 
come into a small but accessible income. 
And do you think that Professor and Mrs. 
E (and parenthetically F and G and H) 
are so well and cheerful and take a promi- 
nent part in affairs for any other reason than 
that Mrs. E has a bank account? And you 
know how seriously Professors N and O and 
P have been criticised for giving so much of 
their time to suburban lots and small specu- 
lations. Why, they are not more than half 
professors; and N has come to look just like 



a bank cashier. And then consider Profess- 
or X and the tail end of the alphabet: 
how they toil and spin and save the basting 
threads, and are arrayed neither as Solomon 
norany American citizen should be ! I would 
rather have you a book-agent than be so 
narrow and mean as the X Y Z's. They 
don't live; they just pinch and camp out; 
they haven't a spark of generosity in them. 
I don't want money to talk in college circles 
unless it can be taught to speak a more civil 
and less vulgar tongue than it does outside. 
But you can't be decently independent and 
face the expenses of life sanely unless you 
can hold up your head and draw a proper 
salary, not stand in line with the janitors and 
sign the pay-roll." 

Most decidedly and sadly true — all of it. 
I am as ready as anyone to prescribe tem- 
perately for the scholar in the republic the 
recipe of plain living and high thinking; 
but without further approach to high living, 
it is timely for the scholar and the public to 
indulge in some plain thinking. The sim- 
ple life is a very worthy ideal, which it re- 
quired no genius to enunciate. But I know 
of nothing that simplifies life so effectively 
as the possession of a little ready money. I 
know of nothing that so complicates matters 
as the everlasting balancing of accounts that 
will not balance and the insistent intrusion 
of petty dimes and cents. All this distracts 
and devitalizes, and in very truth interferes 
with the rational ordering of one's life by 
accepted standards. The unanimity with 
which it is conceded that the professor is woe- 
fully underpaid is almost alarming, as the 
failure of the -magnaminous admission to 
lead to any practical measures for relief is 
pathetic. If I am to maintain both my 
household and my self-respect, I have in- 
deed, a hard row to hoe; and while garden- 
ing as an avocation may be a very benefi- 
cial exercise, I cannot be a laborer in the fields 
and a professor at the same time. This is 
the very plain tale from the academic hills; 
and this is why the sun does not shine upon 
them more brightly, and why those who 
dwell long in the atmosphere succumb to its 
vicissitudes after the manner of their several 
very human weaknesses — among them that 
of indulging in envious comparison of views 
from others' windows. 



THE. FIELD OF ART 




From a paintitig by Gcoi-ge Iinicss. 



Autumn Oaks. 
Now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 



THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART 

THE AMERICAN SCHOOL — SOME EARLY 

PAINTERS 

IN reviewing the permanent collection of 
paintings at the Metropolitan Museum 
of Art it will be the purpose of these 
papers to mention some of the more impor- 
tant acquisitions and to note where examples 
are particularly fine and where perhaps they 
may be advantageously augmented. 

It seems very desirable to begin these com- 
ments with the American section and remark 
in what way, if in any, our present art is de- 
rivative. But we would differ greatly from 
other nations if it should be discovered that 
our art was of native origin. England for long 
years imported her painters, and it is not until 
the seventeenth century that one finds in that 
country a native painter of respectable per- 
formance. 

When we reflect that in the eighteenth 
century America possessed Benjamin West, 
Copley, and Gilbert Stuart, we do not appear 
Vol.- X LI I.— 14 



much younger in the art of painting than the 
mother country. We differ from her, how- 
ever, in this respect; that the few painters 
of foreign origin, and they were mainly Eng- 
lish, that painted here previous to the time of 
Copley and Stuart were not of the quality of 
the distinguished role of foreign artists that 
flourished in England before the advent 
of Hogarth, Gainsborough, Reynolds, and 
Romney. When we think of Holbein, Sir 
Anthony More, Vandyke, Janssens, Sir Peter 
Lely, and Sir Godfrey Kneller leaving num- 
berless e.xamples of their work there before 
the native eighteenth-century masters ap- 
peared, we can readily understand that the 
ground was well prepared to receive the seed 
of good art much earlier than with us. 

Aside from the aesthetic value or interest in 
any early expression of the mind of man 
through the medium of art, is the hint it gives 
of the manners and usages of a bygone age. 
It is often in this spirit that one must ap- 
proach the beginni ngs of art in any land ; and 

125 



126 



The Field of Art 



it is in something of this attitude of mind that 
we become interested in the early practice of 
portraiture in this country. Those who 
worked here, altliough incompetent from the 
point of view of cultured painting, have still 
left in some canvases this interest to be found 
in the past. These represent the formal 
proprieties of the colonial home where family 
groups are distributed in filial attitudes, and 
they remain rather a testimony to the civiliz- 
ing influence of family life than to any high 
proficiency on the part of the painter. 

A number of painters, then, far from first 
rate, preceded the men from whom we date 
our actual history in matters of art. 

Before West, Copley, Trumbull, and Stu- 
art, many of indifferent skill — Watson, Smy- 
bert, Feke, Blackburn, and others — came 
from England and painted portraits here. 
These namesare so unlike those of thesplendid 
race of painters who formed the advance- 
guard in Great Britain that it is not a little 
surprising to find ourselves in the late eigh- 
teenth century possessed of a number of por- 
trait painters of considerable importance. 

There is in the museum a picture by Mat- 
thew Pratt, a friend and pupil of Benjamin 
West, though four years his senior, entitled 
" The American School." It is a rather stiff 
composition, treated with little feeling for 
picturesque presentation or cJtiar'-oscHro, 
representing West's studio in London where 
he instructed pupils, Americans, who had 
followed him there. Carefully and rather 
laboriously painted, it is of interest as the 
work of so early an American. 

By West himself there are two canvases. 
The "Hagarand Ishmael" is a biblical sub- 
ject in which Italian influences are manifest. 
Although much more freely painted than 
the picture by Pratt, it is not really largely 
''seen." The angel is of a corporeal and 
terrestrial aspect that betrays a lack of fine 
imagination, while the color is not remark- 
able. 

We regret that, up to the present, the mu- 
seum has not an example of Copley, that 
painter of real ability who has perpetuated 
for us much of aristocratic New England. 

While the Gilbert Stuarts here are not per- 
haps of the finest, it is probable that the list 
will be enlarged in time. We will first speak 
of the two latest examples of this painter that 
have been acquired by the museum, they hav- 
ing been placed there as recently as April in 
the present year. They represent the Span- 



ish minister to the United States, Don Josef 
de Jaudenes y Nebot and Doiia Matilda 
Stoughton de Jaudenes, his American wife, 
and were painted in New York in 1794. 

On the retirement of the minister these 
portraits were taken to Spain, where they have 
remained until recently purchased, brought 
here, and since become the property of the 
museum. These portraits were done by 
Stuart two years after his return from Eng- 
land, and display all the dexterity of a con- 
stantly practised hand. They have not the 
breadth or sobriety of much of his later work, 
but are most skilfully and solidly painted. 
The portrait of Washington belongs to that 
series of replicas which flowed from his brush 
in periods of indigence and which he was fond 
of calling his "hundred dollar bills." Over- 
florid and overmodelled, it is not to be 
ranked as a fine example of this, at his best, 
large and virile painter. His portrait of 
David Sears is, however, a really good one, 
with a beautiful unity of aspect through un- 
forced and simple modelling on a high key. 
It is a little too much to the right and too low 
in the canvas, as Stuart often placed a head; 
but this in no way detracts from the admi- 
rable painting of the subject. It may be that 
he had planned for accessories which would 
have balanced this, and which for lack of time 
or through indolence he failed to carry out. 

A new purchase by the Rogers Fund is the 
portrait of Andrew Jackson by S. Waldo. 
This is an unfinished work, in parts little 
more than a knowing preparation, begun on 
rich brown canvas. By the aid of this the 
epaulettes and the gold on the collar of the 
uniform are admirably suggested, while the 
head, more solidly painted, is marked by a 
good sense of large forms. 

Thomas Sully is seen here in two portraits, 
one of a man and one of Mrs. Katherine 
Matthews. The male portrait is competent- 
ly drawn and painted and excellent in color; 
the portrait of Mrs. Matthews is evidently an 
early work, which, while interesting in char- 
acter, is in painting far from that suave and 
supple method which he later acquired; in 
fact, neither of these canvases show Sully at 
his best and maturest period. Would it not 
be desirable to secure for the museum a really 
representative example of this accomplished 
painter? 

Waldo and Jewett — Samuel L. Waldo and 
William S. Jewett — both born in Connecti- 
cut, worked so harmoniously together for 



The Field of Art 



127 



many years that it is difficult to disentangle 
their respective work in the portraits they pro- 
duced in collaboration. A sort of Erckmann 
and Chatrian in pigment, they produced a 
long series of canvases — strange to say, por- 
traits, in conjunction. Two are to be seen 
here painted under those conditions. They 
are catalogued, Portrait of Mr. Edward Kel- 
logg and Portrait of Mrs. Ed- 
ward Kellogg, and show good, 
substantial qualities of work- 
manship, united with a certain 
convincing element of char- 
acterization ; in all probability 
these artists were regarded as 
safe hands in which to entrust 
a commission. 

A striking portrait by Henry 
Inman is that of the actor Mac- 
ready as Coriolanus — it is 
well drawn and well placed on 
the canvas, besides possessing 
a direct and broad method of 
painting. The expression is 
dramatic, the head being re- 
lieved against a stormy efifect 
of sky. 

Charles Loring Elliott was 
for many years a popular 
painter of portraits, in which 
field he was particularly suc- 
cessful in the portrayal of men. 
Elliott's vogue must have 
arisen from his skill in secur- 
ing likenesses, for when it be- 
comes a question of high artis- 
tic qualities this painter seems 
to be devoid of them. His 
taste in composition appears 
little above that of the photog- 
rapher, while the attention he bestows on 
the superficies of the human countenance sug- 
gests what the photographerwould be pleased 
to find in a well-exposed negative. His "Por- 
trait of a Gentleman" is of this type of can- 
vas — overmodelled, heavy in color, with the 
conventional red chair; but the head un- 
doubtedly possesses character and this, for 
the period of our art in wliich it was painted, 
is about all that was likely to be looked for. 
Elliott lacks distinction. 

A capably painted little landscape entitled 
"On the Hudson," by Thomas Doughty, 
shows the work of a sturdy progenitor of the 
Hudson River School, stronger in touch and 
observation than much that followed under 



that name. The painter of this must have 
fallen under the spell of Constable's work and 
Gainsborough's landscapes, so fresh and sil- 
very and definite is the observation, and the 
sti'oke, even, with which the pigment is 
laid on. 

By Thomas Cole there is a romantic com- 
position, "The Valley of Vaucluse," in the 




I-'ioin a painting by Tlioiiias Sully. 

Portrait of Mr. William Glynn. 
Now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 



traditional browns and yellows with which 
nature was frequently interpreted by painters 
of that period. Doughty was, although ear- 
lier, a more sincere observer of natural ef- 
fects out of doors. 

"The Judgment of Og," by A. B. Durand, 
is somewhat of the Cole class of landscape. 
Large, dramatic, and dark, the scene is of the 
stage rather than of nature; but it is not 
without a certain pictorial power. It is a sub- 
ject indicative of the taste of our imaginative 
Bible-reading progenitors, who, if they pos- 
sessed a graphic talent, were sometimes cap- 
tivated by stories to be found in the Scriptures 
of a former race and its vicissitudes. This, 
however fair a field it may be for the art of the 



128 



The Field of Art 



illustrator, is a questionable one to approach 
through the medium of pigment, essaying to 
portray the forces of nature at pi ay under con- 
ditions too transient to be intelligently or lov- 
ingly studied from the point of view of char- 
acter or color. 

"The vEgean Sea," Frederick E. Church, 
is of this school of illustrative and pictorial 
art. In this painter's hands we find good 
composition, although somewhat conven- 
tional, intelligent drawing and construction 
of his theme. What we do miss, however, is 
a sensitiveness on the part of the artist to the 
brilliancy and light of out of doors. This 
subject should, if truly observed, fairly vibrate 
with the iridescence of colored air. Instead 
of this, the painter, to secure some sort of pris- 
matic effect for rainbow and distance, has 
plunged his foreground in a heavy gloom 
utterly at variance with the natural result of 
conditions of atmosphere he is endeavoring 
to portray. 

Of George Inness, a more emotional painter 
than the accomplished Church, and one per- 
haps more alive to the sensations of open air, 
we find too little — atleast of his latest and best 
work. Representative of this is his " Autumn 
Oaks," vital with the movingof clouds and the 
accidental falling ofsun and shadow on clumps 
of trees. The color is fresh, quickly mixed and 
laid, and one is not conscious of studied delib- 
eration in composition or execution. It is all 
the more vivid for this, and doubtless all the 
more impressive ; for it stirs the feelings as out 
of doors does, and the painter through this 
canvas has contributed to the world some- 
thing real. It would be desirable to increase 
the number of this painter's works here. 

Edwin White was a historical and genre 
painter whose qualities, it seems to me, have 
been too little exploited. It is perhaps in 
genre that he excelled ; but when we consider 
the good taste he infused into subjects of 
this character, the richness and beauty of his 
color, the grays of his interior scenes, as fine 
as those of Edouard Frere, W^hite is seen to 
be, at his best, a sensitive and refined ob- 
server of nature. 

"The Antiquary," by him, possesses fine 
color, the wall and bit of drapery relieving 
the figure are of a quite precious quality, and 
the pose of interested scrutiny of the figure 
logical and good. What this painter may 
have lacked in force he made up in sincerity. 

Without adequate training, but with a real 
impelling talent for art, George Fuller left 



behind him canvases that are instinct with a 
sense of the poetry of nature and the haunt- 
ing mystery of early New England legends, 
be they of witchcraft or romance. Hawthorne, 
in another medium, has not captivated the 
imagination more potently than has Fuller. 
His methods are those of feeling rather than 
of craft, as we have said ; but he always strikes 
the right key of color, and by some wizardry 
of touch places the significant hue where it 
belongs and where it communicates itself to 
the feelings. 

"And She was a Witch" exemplifies these 
remarks on the work of this artistic spirit, 
who, owing to circumstances, has left too 
little for the pleasure and refreshm'ent of his 
countrymen. 

Quite another temperament in art was that 
of William S. Mount, whose traditions were 
also rural, but through whom the bucolic took 
another channel. Mount loved his neigh- 
bors; their daily interests, duties, and pleas- 
ures, the gossip of the post-office, the ama- 
teur musician, the diversions and games of 
boyhood appealed to him. 

The picture here by him represents " Raf- 
fling for the Goose," probably a Long Island 
incident of no infrequent occurrence. This 
is a work of real quality and merit ; a well- 
contrived composition, painted with a solidity 
of pigment suggesting the Dutch school, 
strong and wholesome in color, and with a 
careful attention to detail made intelligently 
subservient. We cannot find that Mount had 
ever the advantage of foreign study, but he 
is a representative of the American school of 
which it may be justly proud. 

The limits of these comments on examples 
of early American painting are too restricted 
to permit the mention of other works ; but 
we are conscious that there are many more 
of interest and worthy of analysis. Such a 
task, if continued, would be an agreeable and 
instructive one, and one which might in turn 
serve as a kind of hand-book to the contents 
of the museum. For whatever will contrib- 
ute to the educational value of this splendid 
repository of art may be welcomed. 

The temper of mind and social environ- 
ment of these pioneers of art are more or less 
discovered through these beginnings — in the 
main, sound beginnings — of the painters of 
this earlier day. 

Enough has been shown, perhaps, to prove 
that we can claim a more than respectable 
heritage. Frank Fowler. 




Dia'Mii by JMa.vJicld Farrish. 



nf r:,„ri^„ /,i 



than Naiad by the side 



OLD ROMANCE. 



ScRiBNER's Magazine 



VOL. XLII 



AUGUST, 1907 



NO. 2 



CITY GULLS 



^^^^^^^HE current estimate of the 
sea-gull as an intellectual 
force is compressed into the 
word" gullibility" — a verbal 
monument of contempt. But 
when we think how many 





SOME REMARKS ON GULLS 

WITH A FOOT-NOTE ON A FISH 
By Henry van Dyke 

Illustrations by F. E. Schoonover and from photographs by Herbert K. Job 



hitherto shown distaste for the innuendo; 
both of them being inedible, and he of a 
happy disposition, indifferent to purely aca- 
demic opinions of his rank and station in 
the universe. Imagine a gull being disqui- 
eted because some naturalist solemnly 
averred that a hawk or a swallow was a bet- 
ter master of the art of flight; or a mocking- 
bird falling into a mood of fierce resentment 
or nervous depression because some pro- 
fessor of music declared that the hermit 
thrush had a more spontaneous and inspired 
song! The gull goes a-flying in his own 
way and the mocking-bird sits a-singing 
his roundelay, original or imitated, just as it 
comes to him; and neither of them is angry 
or depressed when a critic makes odious 
comparisons, because they are both doing 
the best that they know with "a whole and 
happy heart." Not so with poets, orators, 
and other human professors of the high-fly- 
ing and cantatory arts. They are often per- 
turbed and acerbated, and sometimes di- 
verted from their proper course by the 
winds of adverse comments. 

When Cicero Tomlinson began his career 
as a public speaker he showed a very pretty 
vein of humor, which served to open his 
hearers' minds with honest laughter to re- 
ceive his plain and forcible arguments. But 
someone remarked that his speaking lacked 
dignity and weight; so he loaded himself 
with the works of Edmund Burke; and now 
he discusses the smallest subject with a de- 
pressing ponderosity. The charm of Alfred 
Tennvson Starling's early Ivrics was unmis. 



things the gull does that we cannot do — how 
he has mastered the arts of flying and float- 
ing, so that he is equally at home in the air 
and on the water; how cleverly he adapts 
himself to his environment, keeping warm 
among the ice-floes in winter and cool when 
all the rest of the folks at the summer water- 
ing-places are sweltering in the heat; how 
well he holds his own against the encroach- 
ments of that grasping animal, man, who 
has driven so many other wild creatures 
against the wall, and over it into extinction; 
how prudently he accepts and utilizes all the 
devices of civilization which suit him, (such 
as steamship lanes across the Atlantic, and 
dumping-scows in city harbors, and fish-oil 
factories on the seashore), without becom- 
ing in the least civilized himself — in short, 
when we consider how he succeeds hi doing 
what every wise person is trying to do, lixing 
his own proper life amid various and chang- 
ing circumstances, it seems as if we might 
well reform the spelling of that supercilious 
word, and write it "gullability." 

But probably the gull would show no 
more relish for the compliment than he has 

Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scri 



bner's Sons. All rights reserved. 



130 



Some Remarks on Gulls 



takable. But in an evil day a newspaper 
announced that his poetry smelled of the 
lamp and was deficient in virility. Alfred 
took it painfully to heart, and fell into a 
violent state of Whitmania. Have you seen 
his patient imitations of the long-lined, tu- 
multuous one ? 

After all, the surest way to be artificial is 
to try to be natural according to some other 
man's recipe. 

One reason why the wild children of nat- 
ure attract our eyes, and gi\'e us an inward, 
subtle satisfaction in watching them, is be- 
cause they seem so confident that their own 
way of doing things is, for them at least, the 
best way. They let themselves go, on the 
air, in the water, over the hills, among the 
trees, and do not ask for admiration or cor- 
rection from people who are differently 
built. The sea-gulls flying over a busy port 
of commerce, or floating at ease on the dis- 
colored, choppy, churned-up waves of some 
great river. 

Bordered by cities, and hoarse 
With a thousand cries, 

are unconscious symbols of nature's self-re- 
liance and content with her ancient methods. 
Not a whit have they changed their manner 
of flight, their comfortable, rocking-chair 
seat upon the water, their creaking, eager 
voice of hunger and excitement, since the 
days when the port was a haven of solitude, 
and the river was crossed only by the red 
man's canoe passing from forest to forest. 
They are untroubled by the fluctviations of 
trade, the calms and tempests which afflict 
the stock market, the hot waves and cold 
waves of politics. They do not fash them- 
selves about the fashions — except, perhaps, 
that silly and barbarous one of adorning the 
headgear of women with the remains of 
dead gulls. They do not ask whether life 
is worth living, but launch themselves boldly 
upon the supposition that it is, and seem to 
find it interesting, various, and highly enjoy- 
able, even among wharves, steamboats, and 
factory chimneys. 

My first acquaintance with these untamed 
visitors of the metropolis was 

When that I was a hltel tine boy, 

and lived on the Heights of Brooklyn. A 
nurse, whose hateful official relation was 
mitigated by many amiable personal cjual- 
ities — she was a ro.sy Irish girl — had the 



happy idea of going, now^ and then, for a 
"day off" and a breath of fresh air, on one 
of the ferry-boats that ply the waters of 
Manhattan. Sometimes she took one of the 
ordinary ferries that went straight over to 
New York and back again ; but more often 
she chose a boat that proposed a longer and 
more adventurous voyage — to Hoboken, or 
Hunter's Point, or Staten Island. We would 
make the trip to and fro several times, but 
Biddy never paid, so far as my memory goes, 
more than one fare. By what arrangement 
or influence she inade the deck-hands con- 
siderately blind to this repetition of the jour- 
ney, without money and without price, I 
neither knew nor cared, being altogether 
engaged with playing about the deck and 
admiring the wonders of the vasty deep. 

The other boats w^ere wonderful, espe- 
cially the big sailing-ships, which were far 
more numerous then than they are now. 
The steam tugs, with their bluff, pushing, 
hasty manners, were very attractive, and I 
wondered why all of them had a gilt eagle 
on top of the wheel-house. A little row- 
boat, tossing along the edge of the wharves, 
or pushing out bravely for Governor's Isl- 
and, seemed to be full of perilous adventure. 
But most wonderful of all were the sea- 
gulls, flying and floating all over the East 
River and the North River and the bay. 

Where did they come from ? It was ea.sy 
to see where they got their living; they were 
" snappers-up of unconsidered trifles " from 
every passing vessel whose cabin-boy threw 
the rubbish overboard. If vou could succeed 
in getting off the peel of an orange in two or 
three big pieces, or if you could persuade 
yourself to leave a reasonably large core of 
an apple, or, best of all, if you had the limp 
skin of a yellow banana, you cast the for- 
bidden fruit into the water, and saw how 
quickly one of the gulls would pick it up, 
and how beautifully the others would fight 
him for it. Evidently gulls have a wider 
range of diet than little boys; also they have 
never been told that it is wrong to fight. 

' Hov/ greedy they are ! Wliat makes some 
of them white and some of them gray ? They 
must be different kinds; or else the gray 
ones are the father and mother gulls. But 
if that is so, it is funny that the white ones 
are the best fliers and seem able to take 
things away from the gray ones. How would 
you like to fly like that? They swoop 
around and go just where they want to. 



Some Remarks on Gulls 131 

Perliaps that is the way the angels fly; only house on Montague Terrace, coasted down 

of course the angels are much larger, and the hill to Fulton Ferry, and made an occa- 

very much more particular about what they sional expedition to Manhattan to observe 

eat. Isn't it queer that all the gulls have the strange wigwams and wild goats of the 

eyes just alike — black and shiny and round, tribe of squatters who inhabited the rocky 

just like little shoe-buttons ? How funnily country south of the newly discovered Cen- 

they swim! They sit right down on the tral Park. Eheu jugaces! 

water as if it wasn't wet. Don't you wish There was a long interval of years after 

you could do that ? I>ook how they tuck that when the sea-gulls of the harbor did 

up their pinky feet under them when they not especially interest me. But now again, 

fly, and how they turn their heads from side of late, I have begun to find delight in them, 

to side, looking for something good to eat. Conscience, awakened by responsibility, no 

See, there's a great big flock all together in Jongerpermitsthose surreptitiously repeated 

the water, over yonder, must be a thousand voyages without a repeated fare. But I go 

hundred. Now they all fly up at once, like through the gate at the end of each voyage, 

when you tear a newsj^aper into little scraps and consider twelve cents a reasonable price 

and throw a handful out of the window, for the pleasure of travelling up and down 

Where do you suppose they go at night? the North River for an hour and watching 

Perhaps they sleep on the water. That must the city gulls in their winter holiday, 

befun! Do they have gulls in Ireland, Bid- I know a little more about them now. 

dy, and are all their eyes black and shiny ? ' They are almost all herring gulls, although 

"Sure!" says Biddy. "An' they do be a occasionally a stray bird of another species 

hundred toimes bigger an' foiner than these may be seen. The dark-gray ones are the 

wans. The feathers o' thim shoines in the young. They grow lighter and more inno- 

sun loike silver and gowld, an' their eyes is cent-looking as they grow older, until they 

loike jools, an' they do be floying fasther are pure white, except the back and the top 

then the ships can sail. If ye was only seein' of the wings, which are of the softest pearl 

some o' thim rale Oirish gulls, ye'd think no gray. The head and neck, in winter, are 

more o' these little wans!" delicately pencilled with dusky lines. The 

This increases your determination to go bill is bright yellow and rather long, with the 

to the marvellous green island some day; upper part curved and slightly hooked, for 

but it does not in the least diminish your ad- a good hold on slippery little fish. The foot 

miration for the gulls of Manhattan. In has three long toes in front and a foolish lit- 

the summer, when you go to the seaside and tie short one behind. The web between the 

watch the front toes goes down to the tips; but it 

Gray spirits of the sea and of the shore makes^ only a small paddle, after all, and 

when it comes to swimming, the loon and 

sailing over the white beach or floating on the duck and several other birds can easily 

the blue waves of the unsullied ocean, you distance the gull. It is as a floater that he 

wonderwhether these country gulls are hap- excels in water sports; he rides the waves 

pier than the city gulls. That they are dif- more lightly and gracefully than any other 

ferent you are sure, and also that they must creature, 
have less variety in their diet, hardly any 

banana-skins and orange-peel at all. But '^^^ 8^"; ^'f" ^°^^^"g ^^^^^ ^l°°P "nladea 

,1,1, 7-1 1 111 Lets the loose water waft him as it will; 

then they have more fish, and probably The duck, round-breasted as a rustic maiden, 

more fun in catching them. Paddles and plunges, busy, busy, still. 

These are memories of old times — the 

ancient days before the Great Invasion of But it is when the gull rises into the air, 

the English Sparrows — the good old days where, indeed, he seems to spend most of his 

when orioles and robins still built their nests time, that you perceive the perfection of his 

in Brooklyn trees, and Brooklyn streets still design as a master of motion. The spread of 

resounded to the musical cries of the huck- his wings is more than twice the length of 

sters: "Radishees! wewradisliees!" or"01e his body, and every feather of those long, 

clo' an' bottles! any ole clo' to sell!" or silvery-pearly, crescent fans seems instinct 

"Shad O! }re-e-sh shad!" In that golden with the passion and the skill of flight. He 

age we played football around the old farm- rises and falls without an effort; he swings 



132 



Some Remarks on Gulls 



and turns from side to side with balancing 
motions like a skater; he hangs suspended 
in the air immovable as if he were held there 
by some secret force of levitation; he dives 
suddenly head foremost and skims along the 
water, feet dangling and wings flapping, to 
snatch a bit of food from the surface with 
his crooked golden bill. If the morsel is too 
large for him to swallow, look how quickly 
three or four other gulls will follow him, try- 
ing to take it away. How he turns and twists 
and dodges, and how cleverly they head him 
off and hang on his airy trail, like winged 
hounds, giving tongue with thin and quer- 
ulous voices, half laughing and half crying 
and altogether hungry. He cannot say a 
word, for his mouth is full. He gulps hastily 
at his booty, trying to get it down before the 
others catch him. But it is too big for his 
gullet, and he drops it in the very act and 
article of happy deglutition. The largest 
and whitest of his pursuers scoops up the 
morsel almost before it touches the waves, 
and flaps away to enjoy his piratical success 
in some quiet retreat. 

What a variety of cooking the gulls enjoy 
from the steamships and sailing-vessels of 
various nationalities which visit Manhattan! 
French cooks, Italian, German, Spanish, 
English, Swedish — cooks of all races min- 
ister to their appetites. Whenever a panful 
of scraps is thrown out from the galley, a 
flock of gulls may be seen fluttering over 
their fluent table dliote. Their shrill, qua- 
vering cries of joy and expectancy sound as 
if the machinery of their emotions were 
worked by rusty pulleys; their sharp eyes 
glisten, and their great wings flap and whirl 
together in a confusion of white and gray. 
It is said that they do useful service as scav- 
engers of the harbor. No doubt; but to me 
they commend themselves chiefly as visible 
embodiments and revelations of the mys- 
tery, wonder, and gladness of flight. 

What do we know about it, after all ? We 
call this long-winged fellow Lanis argcntatits 
smitlisomanus . We find that his normal 
temperature is about two degrees higher 
than ours, and that he breathes faster, and 
that his bones are lighter, and that his body 
is full of air-sacs, fitting him to fly. But 
how does he do it ? How does he poise him- 
self on an invisible ledge of air. 

Motionless as a cloud . . . 

That heareth not the loud winds when they call, 

And moveth altogether if it move at all ? 



How does he sail after a ship, with wings 
outspread, against the wind, never seeming 
to move a feather? You understand how a 
kite mounts vipon the breeze: the string 
holds it from going back, so it must go up. 
But where is the string that holds the gull ? 
I like these city gulls because they come 
to us in winter, when the gypsy part of our 
nature is most in need of comforting remind- 
ers that the world is not yet entirely dead or 
civilized. A man that I know once wrote a 
poem about them, and sent it to a magazine. 
It was so evidently an out-of-door poem 
that the editor put it in the midsummer 
number, when you might cross the ferry a 
hundred times without seeing a single gull. 
They do not begin to come to town until 
October; and it is well on into November 
before their social season begins. In March 
and April they begin to flit again, and by 
May they are all away northward, to the 
inland lakes among the mountains, or to the 
rocky islands of the Maine coast. Let us 
follow them. 



II 



A GULL P.'^RADISE 

In the waters south of Cape Cod, where 
blue-fish and other gamy surface swimmers 
are found, the gulls are often useful guides 
to the fisherman. When he sees a great 
flock of them fluttering over the water, he 
suspects that the objects of his pursuit are 
there, feeding from below on the squid, the 
shiners, or the skip-jack, on which the gulls 
are feeding from above. So the fisherman 
sails as fast as possible in that direction, 
wishing to drag his trolls through the school 
of fish while they are still hungry. But in the 
colder waters around the island of Mount 
Desert, where the blue-fish have not come 
and the mackerel have gone away, the sign 
of the fluttering gulls does not indicate fish 
to be caught, but fish which have already 
been caught, and which some other fisher- 
man is preparing for the market as he hur- 
ries home. The gulls follow his boat and 
clean up the waves behind it. They are 
commentators now, not prophets. 

In these blue and frigid deeps the real 
sport of angling is unknown. There is in- 
stead a rather childish, but amusing game 
of salt-water grab-bag. You let down a 
heavy lump of lead and two big hooks baited 




Drawn by F. E. Schoonovej; 

What a variety of cooking the gulls enjoy! — Page 112. 

Vol. XLIL— 16 



134 



Some Remarks on Gulls 



with clams into thirty, forty, or sixty feet of 
water. Then you wait until something 
nudges the line, or until you suspect that the 
hooks are bare. Then you give the line a 
quick jerk, and pull in, hand over hand, 
with more or less resistance, and see what 
you have drawn from the grab-bag. It may 
be a silly, but nutritious cod, gaping in sur- 
prise at this curious termination of his in- 
voluntary rise in the world; or a silvery had- 
dock, staring at you with round,reproachful 
eyes; or a pollock, handsome but worth- 
less; or a shiny, writhing dog-fish, whose 
villainy is written in every line of his degen- 
erate, chinless face. It may be that spiny 
gargoyle of the sea, a sculpin; or a soft and 
stupid hake from the mud-flats. It may be 
any one of the grotesque products of Nep- 
tune's vegetable garden, a sea-cucumber, a 
sea-carrot, or a sea-cabbage. Or it may be 
nothing at all. When you have made your 
grab, and deposited the result, if it be ed- 
ible, in the barrel which stancis in the mid- 
dle of the boat, you try another grab, and 
that's the whole story. 

It is astonishing how much amusement 
apparently sane men can get out of such a 
simple game as this. The interest lies, first, 
in the united effort to fill the barrel, and 
second, in the rivalry among the fishermen 
as to which of them shall take in the largest 
cod or the greatest number of haddock, 
these being regarded as prize packages. 
The sculpin and the sea vegetables may be 
compared to comic valentines, which expose 
the recipient to ridicule. The dog-fish are 
like tax notices and assessments; the man 
who gets one of them gets less than nothing, 
for they count against the catcher. It is 
quite as much a game of chance as politics 
or poker. You do not know on which side 
of the boat the good fish are hidden. You 
cannot tell the difference between the nibble 
of a cod and the bite of a dog-fish. You 
have no idea what is coming to you, until 
you have hauled in almost all of your line 
and caught sight of your allotment wrig- 
gling and whirling in the blue water. Some- 
times you get twins. 

The barrel is nearly full. Let us stop 
fishing and drifting. Hoist the jib, and trim 
in the main-sheet. The boat ceases to rock 
lazily on the tide. The life of the wind 
enters into her, and she begins to step over 
the waves and to cut through them, sending 
bright showers of spray from her bow, and 



leaving a swirling, bubbling, foaming wake 
astern. Were there ever waters so blue, or 
woods so green, or rocky shores so boldly 
and variously cut, or mountains so clear in 
outline and so jewel-like in shifting colors, 
as these of Mount Desert ? Was there ever 
an air which held a stronger, sweeter cordial, 
fragrant with blended odors of the forest 
and the sea, soothing, exhilarating, and life- 
renewing ? 

Here is the place to see it all, and to drain 
the full cup of delight; not a standpoint, 
but a sailing-line, just beyond Baker's Isl- 
and: a voyager's field of vision, shifting, 
changing, unfolding, as new bays and isl- 
ands come into view, and new peaks arise, 
and new valleys open in the line of emerald 
and amethyst and carnelian and tourmaline 
hills. You can count all the summits : New- 
port, and Green, and Pemetic, and Sargent, 
and Brown, and Dog, and Western. The 
lesser hills, the Bubbles, Bald Mountain, 
Flying Mountain, and the rest, detach them- 
selves one after another and stand out from 
their background of green and gray. How 
rosy the cliffs of Otter and Seal Harbor 
glow in the sunlight! How magically the 
great white flower of foam expands and 
closes on the sapphire water as the long 
waves, one by one, pass over the top of the 
big rock between us and Islesford! This 
is a bird's-eye view: not a high-flying bird, 
circling away up in the sky, or perched up- 
on some lofty crag, as Tennyson describes 
the eagle: 

Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ringed with the azure world he stands; 
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls, 
He watches from his mountain-walls; 

but a to-and-fro-travelling bird, keeping 
close to sea and shore. It is a gull's-eye view 
— just as the flocks of herring gulls see it 
every day, passing back and forth from their 
seaward nesting-place to their favorite feed- 
ing-ground at Bar Harbor. There they go 
now,flappingsouthwardwiththebreeze. We 
willgowiththem to their island home, andeat 
our dinner while they are digesting theirs. 
Great and Little Duck Islands lie about 
ten miles off shore from Seal Harbor. Their 
name suggests that they were once the havmt 
of various kinds of sea-fowl. But the ducks 
have been almost, if not quite, exterminated; 
and the herring gulls would probably have 
gone the same way, but for the exertions of 




Copyright igoj by H. K. Job. 



The gull goes a-flying in his own way. — Page 129. 



the Audubon Society, which have resulted 
in the reservation of the islands as a breed- 
ing-ground under governmental protection. 
It has taken a long time to aw^aken the 
American people to the fact that the wild 
and beautiful creatures of earth and air and 
sea are a precious part of the common in- 
heritance, and that their needless and heed- 
less destruction, by pot-hunters or plume- 
hunters or silly shooters who are not happy 
unless they are destroying something, is a 
crime against the commonwealth which 
must be punished or prevented. The people 
are not yet wide awake, but they are begin- 
ning to get their eyes open; and the State 
of Maine, which was once the Butchers' 
Happy Hunting Ground, is now a leader in 
the enactment and enforcement of good 
game laws. 

There is only one place on the shore of 
Great Duck where vou can land comfort- 



ably when the wind has any northing in it, 
and that is a little cove among the rocks, 
below a fisherman's shanty, on the lower 
end of the island. Here there are a few 
cleared acres; some low stone walls divid- 
ing abandoned fields; the cellar of a van- 
ished house, and a ruined fireplace and 
chimney; a little enclosure, overgrown with 
bushes and weeds, marking a lonely, for- 
gotten burial-ground. 

There are few gulls to be seen at this end 
of the island; it is a tranquil, forsaken place 
where we can sit beside our fire of driftwood 
and eat our broiled fish and bread, and 
smoke an after-dinner pipe of peace. A 
grassy foot-path leads down the fields, and 
across a salt-meadow, and along a high sea- 
wall of rocks and pebbles cast up by the 
storms, and so by a rude wood-road through 
a forest of spruce-trees to the higher part of 
the island. It rises perhaps a hundred feet 

135 



136 



Some Remarks on Gulls 




TheguUs' nestsarehid- 
den away among this 
gray debris, or in 
crevices among the 
rocks. 



or more above 
the sea, with a 
steep shore built 
of huge sloping 
ledges of flat 
rock. On the sea- 
ward point is the 
light-house, with 
the three dwell- 
ing-houses of 
the keepers, all 
precisely alike, 
immaculately 
neat and trim, surrounded 
by a long picket fence, and 
presenting a front of in- 
domitable human order 
and discipline to the tu- 
multuous and unruly 
ocean, which heaves away 
untamed and unbroken to 
the shores of Spain and 
Brittanv. 

The chief keeper of the 
light. Captain Stanley, 
who has been with it since 
it was first kindled twenty 
years ago, is also the war- 
den of the sea-gulls. All 
around us, in the air, on 
the green slopes of the island, 




waves, his feathered flocks are scattered, 
and their innumerable laughter and shrill 
screaming confuse the ear. The spruce- 
trees on the top of the island and the east- 
ward slopes are almost all dead; their fall- 
en trunks and branches and upturned roots 
cover the little hillocks and hollows in all 
directions. The gulls' nests are hidden away 
among this gray debris, or in crevices among 
the rocks, sheltered as much as possible from 
the wind and the rain. 

They are not very wonderful from an 
architectural point of view, being nothing 
more than rough little circles of dried twigs 

and grass matted to- 
gether, with perhaps 
a bit of seaweed or 
moss for padding in 
the case of a p a r e n t 
with luxurious tastes. 
Three eggs in a nest is 
the rule, and all that 
the average mother- 
gull wants is a place 
where she can hold 
them together and 
keep them warm until 
theyarehatched. The 
young birds are prae- 
cocial; they emerge 
from the shell with 
a full suit of downy 
feathers, and are able 
to walk after a fash- 



hM-.«i^:^w*»' 




Copyright iqoq by H. A'. Job. 
The young birds emerge from the shell with a full suit of downy feathers. 



on the broad ion, and to swim pretty well, almost from 
gray granite ledges, on the dancing blue the day of their second and completed birth. 



Some Remarks on Gulls 



137 



The young of altricial birds, like orioles, 
and bluebirds, and thrushes, being born 
naked and helpless, have a reason for lov- 
ing their nest-homes, so carefully and deli- 
cately built to shelter their nude infancy. 
But the young gull cares not for "a local 
habitation and a name." All that he wants 
of home is a father and mother, nimble 
and assiduous in bringing food to him 
while he flops around, practising his legs 
and his wings. 

It is August now, and the eggs are gone, 
shells and all. Almost all of the young gulls 
are accomplished swimmers and fair fliers 



the sea when there is a surf running, for if 
you alarm them they will plunge into the 
water and be bruised and wounded, per- 
haps killed, by the breakers throwing them 
against the rocks. 

Wild animals, like polecats and minks, 
who would be likely to prey upon the young 
birds, are not allowed to reside on the island ; 
and it is too far to swim from the mainland. 
But I wonder why large hawks and other 
birds of prey do not resort to this place as a 
marine restaurant. Perhaps a young gull 
is too big, or too tough, or too high-flavored 
a dish for them. Possibly the old gulls 




Copyright /907 by H. K. Job. 

How magically the great white flower of foam expands. — Page 134. 



by this time, and I suppose the majority of 
the brood can go with their parents to the 
nearer harbors and along the island shores 
to forage for themselves. But there are a 
few backward or lazy children — perhaps a 
hundred — still hanging around the places 
where they chipped the egg, hiding among 
the roots of the trees or crouching beside 
the rocks. What quaint, ungainly creatures 
they are! Big-headed, awkward, dusky, 
like gnomes or goblins, they hop and scuffle 
away as you come near them, stumbling 
over the tangled dead branches and the tus- 
socks of grass, with outspread wings and 
clumsy motions. Follow one a little while 
and he will take refuge in a hole under a 
fallen tree, or between two big stones, squat- 
ting there without much apparent fright 
while you pat his back or gently scratch his 
head. But you must be careful not to fol- 
low the youngsters who are near the edge of 



know how to fight for their offspring. I 
suppose that enough of the adult birds are 
always on hand for defence, although dur- 
ing a good part of the day the majority of 
the flock are away at the feeding grounds. 

I opened the gate of the light-house en- 
closure and went in. Three little children 
who were playing in the garden came shyly 
up to me, each silently offering a flower. 
The keeper of the light, who is a most in- 
telligent man and an ardent Audubonite, 
asked me into his sitting-room and told me 
a lot about his gulls. 

In the spring, the first of them come back 
in March, sometimes arriving in a snow- 
storm. They keep to the shore most of the 
time, but fuss around a little, pulling old 
nests to pieces or making new ones. About 
the first of May, they move up to the centre 
of the island. There are three or four thou- 
sand of them, and not quite half as many 



138 



Some Remarks on Gulls 



nests. By the middle of May the first egg 
may be expected, and in the second week of 
June the first gray chick puts out his big 
head. A week later the brood is all hatched 
and the parental troubles begin. 

"The old birds," says Mr. Stanley, "do 
not fail to provide food for their young, al- 
though as the birds get large the old ones 
have to go sometimes many miles to do it, 
but, as a general thing, there is plenty for 



swallow it again. Woe betide the young 
bird that belongs to a neighbor, who tries to 
fill up at the wrong place! I have seen a 
young bird killed by one blow from the old 
bird's bill, his head torn in two. As the 
young birds grow, the old birds bring them 
larger fish to swallow. We have a few old 
birds who know the time we feed the hens, 
and when that time draws near they are on 
hand to dine with the hens." 




Copyright Jgo^ by H. K. Job. 



"Gray spirits of the sea and of the shore." — Page 131. 



them. I have watched them coming back 
at night, appearing very tired, flying very 
low, one behind the other. They would 
light near where the young should be and 
call, and the chicks would rush up to the 
old bird and pick its bill; after the proper 
time the old bird will stretch out its neck, 
and up will come a mess of almost every- 
thing, from bread to sea-cucumbers, livers, 
fish (all the small kind). If there is anv- 
thing left after the feast the old bird will 



By the latter part of August, having done 
their duties, the old birds, the white ones, 
begin to leave the island. The dingy young- 
sters are slower to forsake their Eden of in- 
nocence, lingering on beside the unsullied 
waters and beneath the crystalline skies un- 
til the frosts of late September warn them 
that winter is at hand. Then the last of 
the colony take flight, winging their way 
southward leisurely and comfortably, put- 
ting in at many a port where fish are cleaned 



Some Remarks on Gulls 



139 




Copyright iqoj by H. A'. Job. 

■"It IS when a gull rises into the air that you perceive the perfection of his 
design as a master of motion." — -Page 131. 



and scraps are thrown over- 
board, until they arrive at 
their chosen harbor by some 
populous and smoke-clouded 
city, and learn to dodge the 
steamboats and swim in 
troubled waters. 

So the Gull Paradise is de- 
serted by all but its guardians. 
The school district of Duck 
Island — the smallest in the 
United States — resumes its 
activities; the school -house 
is open, the teacher raps on 
the desk, and the fourteen 
children of the keepers apply 
themselves to the knowledge 
that is dried in books. 

Ill 

IN THE gulls' bath-tub 

Over our cottage we saw 
them flying inland every 
morning about ten or eleven 
o'clock; in groups of three or 
four; in companies of twelve 
or twenty; sometimes a soli- 
tary bird, hurrying a little as 
if he were belated. Over our 
cottage we saw them flying 
seaward every afternoon, one 
or two at a time, and then, at 
last, a larger company all to- 
gether. The trail through the 
woods, up along the lovely 
mountain-brook, led us in the 
same direction as the gulls' 
path through the air. A cou- 
ple of miles of walking under- 
neath green boughs brought 
us to the shore of Jordan 
Pond, lying in a deep gorge 
between the mountains of 
rock with the rounded, forest- 
clad Bubbles at its head, and 
the birches, and maples, and 
poplars, and hemlocks fring- 
ing its clean, stony shores. 
Then we understood what 
brought the gulls up from the 
sea every day. They came for 
a fresh-water bath and a little 
fun in the woods. 

Look at them , gathered like 
a flotilla, in the centre of the 



140 



Some Remarks on Gulls 



pond. They are not feeding; they are not very low, almost unnoticeable; and the water 

attending to any business of importance; has not been raised enough to kill any of the 

they are not even worrying about their trees or spoil the shore. Jordan Pond, which 

young; they are not doing anything at all but was named for a commonplace lumberman 

"bath-ing" themselves, as my little lad used who used to cut timber on its banks, and 

to say, in this clear, cool, unsalted water, and which has, so far as I know, no tradition or 

having the best time in the world. See how legend of any kind connected with it, is still 

they swim lazily this way or that way, as as wild, as lovely, as perfect in its lonely 

the fancy strikes them. See how they duck charm as if it were consecrated and set apart 

their heads, and stretch their long wings in to the memory of a score of old romances, 

the air, and splash the water over one an- At the lower end, in an open space of 

other; how they preen their feathers and slightly rising ground, there is an ancient 

rise on the surface, shaking themselves, farmhouse which has been extended and pi- 



Here comes a trio of late 
starters, frying up from the 
sea. They hover overhead a 
moment, crying out to the 
crowd below, which answers 
them with a general shout and 




Copyright igo-j by H. A'. Job, 
A typical gull. 



a flutter of excitement. 
Didn't you hear what they 
said? 

"Hello, fellows! How 
the water?" 

"Bully! Just right — come 
in quick's you can!" So the 
new arrivals swoop down, 
spreading out their tails like 
fans, and dangling their feet 
underthem,andsettlinginthe 
centre of the crowd amid general hilarity. 

How long the gulls stay at their bath I do 
not know. Probably some of the busy and 
conscientious ones just hurry in for a dip 
and hurry back again. Others, of a more 
pleasure-loving temperament, make the trip 
more than once, like a boy I knew, whose 
proud boast it was that he had gone in 
swimming seven times in one afternoon. 
The very idle and self-indulgent ones, I 
reckon, spend nearly the whole day in their ice, and they caught ' — then followed the 
spacious and well-fitted bath-tub. usual piscatorial legends of antiquity. 

The mountain lake has been turned into But the Gypsy girl and I were not to be 
a reservoir for the neighboring village of disheartened by historical comparisons. We 
Seal Harbor. But the gulls do not know insisted on putting our living luck to the 
that, I am sure; nor would anyone else who proof, and finding out for ourselves what 
judged by outward appearances suspect that kind of fish were left in Jordan Pond. We 
such a transformation had taken place. For had a couple of four-ounce rods, one of 
the dam at the outlet is made of rough stones, which I fitted up with a troll, while she took 



azzaed and made into a rustic 
place of entertainment. Here 
the fashionable summer-folk 
of the various harbors come to 
drink afternoon tea and to eat 
famous dinners of broiled 
chicken, baked potatoes, and 
pop -overs. The proprietor 
has learned from the modern 
author and advertiser the 
secret of success; avoid ver- 
satility and stick to the line in 
which the public know you. 
Having won a reputation on 
pop -overs and chickens, 
he continues to turn them 
out with diligence and fidel- 
ity, like short-stories of a 
standard pattern. 

I asked him if there was any 
fishing in the lake. He said 
that there was plenty of fish- 
ing; but he said it in a tone 
which made me doubtful 
about his meaning. ' What kind of fish were 
there?' 'Trout by nature, and landlocked 
salmon by artificial planting.' 'Could we 
fish for them?' 'Sure; but as for catching 
anything big enough to keep — well, he did 
not want to encourage us. It was two or three 
years since any good fish had been caught 
in the lake, though there had been plenty of 
fishing. But in old times men used to come 
over from Hull's Cove, fishing through the 




Drawn by F. E. Schoonover, 



The gulls' bath-tub. — Page 139. 



142 Some Remarks on Gulls 

the oars in a round-bottomed, snub-nosed hundred feet behind us a splendid silver sal- 
white boat, and rowed me slowly around the mon leaps into the air. "What is it?" cries 
shore. The water was very clear; at a depth the Gypsy, " a fish ? " It is a fish, indeed, 
of twenty feet we could see everv stone and a noble ouananiche, and well hooked. Now 
stick on the bottom — and no fish! We tried if the gulls were here, who grab little fish 
alittlefarther out, where the water was deep- suddenly and never give them a chance; and 
er. My guide was a merry rower and the voy- if the mealy-mouthed sentimentalists were 
age was delightful, but we caught nothing, here, who like their fish slowly strangled to 

Let us set up the other rod, while we are death in nets, they should see a fairer method 

trolling, and try a few casts with the fly as of angling. 

we move along. I will put the trolling-rod The weight of the fish is twenty times 
behind me, leaning over the back-board; if that of the rod against which he matches 
a fish should strike, he would hook himself himself. The tiny hook is caught painlessly 
and I could pick up the rod and land him. in the gristle of his jaw. The line is long 
Now we will straighten out a leader and and light. He has the whole lake to play in, 
choose some flies — a silver doctor and a and he uses almost all of it, running, leap- 
queen of the water — how would those do ? ing, sounding the deep water, turning sud- 

Or perhaps a royal coachman would be denly to get a slack line. The Gypsy, tre- 

Chrrr-p! goes the reel. I turn hastily around, mendously excited, manages the boat with 

just in time to see the trolling-rod vanish perfect skill, rowing this way and that way, 

over the stern of the boat. Stop, stop! advancing or backing water to meet the 

Back water — hard as you can! Too late! tactics of the fish, and doing the most im- 

There goes my best-beloved little rod, with portant part of the work, 

a reel and fifty yards of line, settling down After half an hour the ouananiche begins 

in the deep water, almost out of sight, and to grow tired and can be reeled in near to 

slowly following the flight of that invisible the boat. We can see him distinctly as he 

fish, who has hooked himself and my prop- gleams in the dark water. It is time to 

erty at the same time. think of landing him. Then we remember, 

This is a piece of bad luck. Shall we let with a flash of despair, that we have no 

the day end with this ? "Never," says the landing-net! To lift him from the water by 

Gypsy. "Adventures ought to be continued theline would break it in an instant. There 

till they end with good luck. We will put a is not a foot of the rocky shore smooth 

long line on the other rod, and try that beau- enough to beach him on. Our caps are far 

tiful little phantom minnow, the silver silk too small to use as a net for such a fish, 

one that came from Scotland. There must be What to do? We must row around with 

some good fish in the pond, since they are him gently and- quietly for another ten 

big enough to run away with your tackle." minutes until he is quite weary and tame. 

Round and round the shore she rows, Now let me draw him softly in toward the 
past the points of broken rocks, underneath boat, slip my fingers under his gills to get a 
the rugged bluff's, skirting all the shelving firm hold, and lift him quickly over the gun- 
bays. Faintly falls the evening breeze, and wale before he can gasp or kick. A tap on 
behind the western ridge of Jordan Moun- the head with the empty rod-case — there 
tain suddenly the sun drops down. Look, he is — the prettiest landlocked salmon that 
the gulls have all gone home. Creeping up I ever saw, plump, round, perfectly shaped 
the rosy side of Pemetic, see old Jordan's and colored, and just six and a half pounds 
silhouette sketched in shadow by the sun. in weight, the record fish of Jordan Pond! 
Hark, was that a coaching horn, sounding Do you think that the Gypsy and I wept 
up from Wildwood Road? There's the over our lost rod, or were ashamed of our 
whistle of the boat coming round the point flannel shirts and tweeds, as we sat down to 
at Seal. How it sinks into the silence, fad- our broiled chickens and pop-overs that 
ing gradually away. Twilight settles slowly evening, on the piazza of the tea-house, 
down, all around the wooded shore, and among the white frocks and Tuxedo jackets 
across the opal lake of the diners-out ? No, for there was our 

Chr-r-r-r! sings the reel. The line tight- prize lying in state on the floor beside our 

ens. The little rod, firmly gripped in my table. "And we caught him," said she, "in 

hand, bends into a bow of beauty, and a the gulls' bath-tub!" 



A D/^ AT THE COUNTRY C 

A SERIES OF DR/WINGS BY 



HARRISON 






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Fisherman s Luck. 



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Drazvn by H'. J. Ayiioard. 

Our passenger thought the devil and all was runnin' amuck over the ocean. — Page 155 



1; 



THE COMiMANDEERING OF THE LUCY FOSTER 



By James B. Connolly 

Illustration by W. J. Aylward 




^HE word had been passed 
that Wesley Marrs was in 
from another slashing trip 
from Fortune Bay; and sure 
enough there was the match- 
less Lucy tied to her dock, 
but no sign, at the moment, of her redoubt- 
able master. However, a hint from the 
crew and a search disclosed him — but of 
all places! 

In Perry's, the picture-framer's, was 
Wesley, leaning over the low counter; and a 
sheet of brine-stained paper was in one 
hand, and his face was smiling as a sunlit 
sea. "And do a good job on it," he was 
saying to the clerk; ''oak, or cherry, or 
ebony, or whatever 'tis is the swell thing in 

frames. And Hah? who?" At another 

word from the clerk he looked toward the 
door. ' ' HuUo-o-oh, boy ! Come in, come in. 
What ? Something doin' when I got that, 
did y' say? Was there! Ho — ho — ho — 
was there? 

"We was in Fortune Bay," began Wes- 
ley, "layin' to old John Rose's wharf in 
Folly Cove. And John had thirteen or four- 
teen hundred barrels of frozen herrin' 
spread out on the scaffolds and along the 
beach near by, and 'twas a sight you'd sail a 
hundred mile to see — them fine, fat, frozen 
fish layin' out there under the winter sky. 
And John and me'd pretty nigh come to 
one way of thinkin' about a price for them 
same herrin', when along comes the gov- 
er'ment cutter. And they hails me, and 
asks me if I didn't think I'd better be gettin' 
under weigh and headin' for home, or any- 
where else — it didn't matter much where, 
so long's 'twas away from the Newf'und- 
land coast. 

"Nacherally I said I didn't see why I 
should, and mildly enough, too, I said it — 
mildly enough, that is, considering. There 
was differences of opinion, to be sure, on 
the herrin' rights of American and New- 
f'undland fishermen, but one man's opinion 
was as good as another's till it was settled. 
Vol. XLII.— i8 



"'But no man's opinion ain't nigh as 
good as the gover'ment's,' says the cutter's 
commander, and damn abrupt, too, he was. 

'"I dunno,' I says. 'It depends on 
whose gover'ment's ' 

"'Well, my gover'ment's gen'rally,' he 
butts in again ; ' but this time your gover'- 
ment's.' 

'"When I see it I'll believe it,' I says. 

" ' Well,' and he whisks a paper out of his 
pocket and slaps it under my nose. An 
American newspaper, too, it was, which 
you think'd have a good word for Glou- 
cester. You know the paper, and I know 
it, which's never yet hesitated to slam Glou- 
cester's interests. Now it had the opinion 
of this chap in Washington, and we all 
know him. You know how long he'd hesi- 
tate to sacrifice Gloucester and all New 
England — yes, and the whole country, if 
need be, for a foreign policy of his that 
three-quarters of the people of this country 
don't want. This interview with him said 
that the contentions of the American fisher- 
men as to their herring rights could prob- 
ably not be upheld before an international 
court of — m — m — adjudication, that's it. 
And on another page, the one where this 
was put — no pictures or despatches — edito- '^ 
rial page, yes — Curtin pointed out more to 
the same effect; that no doubt Gloucester 
would come to her senses now and that may- 
be the legislators, the Congressmen and the 
powerful Senator, who had hitherto succeed- 
ed in blocking the wheels of international 
something or other, would halt — and so on. 

" ' What do you think now ?' says Curtin; 
'your great American statesman.' 

"'Great slush!' I says. 'And him an 
American ? Why, he's no more American 
than you are, Captain Curtin. He only 
happened to be born in America. Why, 
he's got as much use for most American 
people as for gorillas in the jungle. He 
probably thinks men like me and the go- 
rillas pretty near the same class. Gover'- 
ment by him?' I goes on. 'Why, his 
notion of a good gover'ment is to have the 

153 



154 



The Commandeering of the Lucy Foster 



laws so that the puffy-eyed, heavy-jowled 
chaps from the mahogany offices can sleep 
easy nights. Anything that interferes with 
the comfort of that kind of people is bad 
gover'ment; but for you and me and men 
like us — the men that have to sail the sea, 
and them that dig in the mines, that cut 
the timber in the winter woods, or that 
plough the prairie, or do any of those hun- 
dred things whereby a man brings some- 
thing into his country that wasn't there 
before — to hell with us! You blasted 
lick-spittle! d'y' imagine I'm intendin' to 
be bound by your notion of what law is?' 
I says and punches the picture of his 
whiskered face in the paper. I only wished 
I had himself instead. 

"Oh, I was good and mad, and the 
thought of them herrin' that old John Rose 
had spread out there, it didn't make me 
feel any better. I turns to Curtin. ' Do you 
really mean that I got to get out this bay ? 

" 'I do just that, Captain Marrs,' he says. 
'And to make sure that you do go — for I can't 
stay hangin' around here forever to watch 
you — here's a gentleman will see that you do. 
I've instructions from St. John to put this 
gentleman aboard you, and his orders are 
to stay aboard till you're well out the bay.' 

"Well, I was fit to be triced to the main 
riggin'. But he had me, his steam-cutter and 
his guns; my vessel locked into a little har- 
bor and not so much as a duck gun aboard. 
So, though I hove some lovin' glances back 
at old John Rose and them fourteen hun- 
dred barrels of fine, fat, frozen herrin', I 
swings the Lucy out, with the gentleman 
from St. John's wavin' pleasantly from the 
Lucy's quarter to the commander of the 
cutter on his bridge. 

"This chap the cutter had put aboard to 
watch me was a new appointee of the Crown, 
he told me. He meant well enough; but 
why is it so many of those chaps think 
there's something about themselves that's 
so much ahead of anything that can ever 
come out of you and me ? A large man, he 
was — not big, but large — you know that 
kind — pleasant-lookin' enough, only his 
eyes had about as much color and fire as a 
boiled hake's — you've seen the washy eyes 
of a boiled fresh hake — yes ? Hah ? Goes 
better if it's well salted ? It cert'nly do. 

"And so, I cal'late, would this chap, who 
began to tell me all about himself right 
away — had been up and down the coast of 



his own country in some little steamer on 
some Crown commission or other, and 
never seasick in his life. No, sir, never. 
And maybe so, though to offer that as proof 
that you're cut out for a seaman is about as 
sensible as to say that if the smell of fresh 
paint don't make you sick to your stomach 
then the Lord intended you for a painter. 
Ain't that about so ? Sure it is. But what 
this chap didn't know of the sea! He told 
me of his coming across the Atlantic. One 
day, though, it did blow! My word, yes. 
Near as I could make out, she took some 
water over her bow one day and wet down 
some fat old unsuspectin' ladies that was 
baskin' on the sunny side of the main deck. 
A great storm — yes, it must 've been. 

" Just outside the bay the Ljicy ran into 
a nice breeze o' wind, and I took the stays'l 
off her, for you see she'd started her top- 
m'st on the run down, and I misdoubted 
the stick 'd stand the stays'l and that gaff 
tops'l both pulling on it to once. If it 
warn't the stick was weak and I expected 
to use it later, I'd no more taken that 
stays'l off that day than I'd taken off my 
undershirt 'cause of the heat — and it the 
fourteenth of December. But seeing it 
come off, this chap says, 'Hah, the storm 
too strong for her, captain?' 

" ' Storm ? ' I says. ' What storm ? And 
too strong for the Liicy ? For the Lucy! ' 
I sa)'s, and as I'm standin' here 'twas no 
more than the pleasantest, cheerfuUest, 
agreeablest weather imaginable — a proper 
sailin' breeze, just what a doctor who'd 
ordered a sea voyage for an invalid would 
've had, with no more sea than to barely 
save the gang from washin' down decks 
next mornin'. 

"Thinkin' his remarks over during that 
night while we were rolling about outside 
the bay put ideas into me. And thinkin' 
again of them fourteen hundred barrels of 
fine, fat, frozen herrin' back to old John 
Rose's made me say to myself: 'Wesley, but 
you'll sure go down in Gloucester's history 
as cert'nly a damn fool if you don't manage 
to get them herrin', statesman, cutter, and 
Crown commissioner, notwithstandin'.' 

"And the breeze makin', d'y' see, I turns 
to the Crown job chap. ' By the way ' — and 
I was deferential as hell, don't 3'OU think I 
warn't — 'by the way, sir, where was I to 
take you to?' 

"'Why, out of Fortune Bay.' 



r 



The Commandeering of the Lucy Foster 



155 



'"Yes, but then where? We're out the 
bay now.' 

'"Why, I'm sure I don't know.' 

"Well, I thought that was about as in- 
telligent as he looked. Didn't know! Get's 
aboard a vessel and don't know where she's 
bound. But it was good business for me, 
and I gave him time to think it over. His 
was a brain that needed a lot of time before 
it got to workin' so you could notice it. 

"'Why, where are you goin' to ?' he asks 
after a while. 

"'Well, my home port's Gloucester.' 

'"Gloucester? That's in the States, 
isn't it?' 

"'What!' I says. 

"'Yes, yes', I think I've heard of it, cap- 
tain. Oh, dear me, yes — a fishin' village, but 
I don't remember seein' it on any map.' 

"Well, I could have hove him over where 
he stood — a fishin' village! Village! There, 
thinks I, is another of them that imagines 
that in Gloucester the fishermen live in little 
huts on the beach and every evenin' after 
putting out the cat, we takes a lantern and 
looks our little boats over, and, maybe with 
the wife and children to help, hauls 'em a 
foot or two higher on the beach so the flood 
tide won't float 'em off durin' the night. 
Village! And not on the map! 'Why, you 
pink -haired tea-drinker,' I came near sayin' 
'Gloucester's all over the map.' But I 
didn't. I did say, though, 'Gloucester's the 
greatest fishin' port in the world,' a bit 
warm mavbe. 

'"Oh! ''he says. 

"'Oh!' I ohs after him. 'And I don't 
know but what I'll run for there,' but at the 
same time, mind you, havin' no more no- 
tion of goin' home without a load of herrin' 
than of dumping our grub over the side. 

"Well, the air 'round there freshened up, 
till it got to- be what you might call a tidy 
little breeze o' wind, and the Lucy, bein' 
light, was hopping something scandalous. 
We'd taken out, d'y' see, most of her ballast 
before leavin' home, but so she mightn't 
blow over altogether on the run down to 
Newf'undland, we'd stowed away about 
thirty tons of small rocks in hci'. But in 
anticipation of gettin' them herrin', all that 
loose rock that was intended to keep her 
from capsizin' had been hove out along- 
side old John Rose's wharf in Folly Cove, 
and now she was up on top of every wave 
like one of them empty air-balls that you 



sometimes see dancin' on top of a column 
of water out on the front lawns of swell 
houses. 

"Now, mind you, this warn't no bad 
gale o' wind all this time, but 'twas plain 
enough our passenger thought the devil and 
all was runnin' amuck over the ocean. 
Maybe the Lucy's behavior helped out the 
notion. There's nothing logv about the 
Lucy, you know, even when she's got all 
her hundred ton of pig iron cemented next 
her keelson. But now she was leapin' like 
a gamb'lin' goat on a green mossy hillside, 
only there warn't no moss growin' anyway 
'round Jier. But 'twas cert'nly amusin' to 
watch her — that is, if you were acquaint- 
ed with her ways and knew she meant no 
harm. 

"But this chap knew nothing of the 
Lucy's qualifications. And he knew damn 
less of the sea, and pretty soon he was grip- 
pin' the weather riggin' and, by the ex- 
pression of his face, wonderin' how much 
longer, I guess, before she was goin' to the 
bottom. I'd no notion startin' ofl" that his 
features could hold so much emotion. And 
the crew were lookin' properly scared, too, 
for I'd tipped 'em off early that they mustn't 
be too gay when on deck. ' A tempest of this 
magnitude,' I says to them ' is a terrible thing. 
So behave according.' And they did. 

"After a time I told the Crown chap I 
thought he ought to go below and have a 
mug of coffee, and 'twas ticklin' to see him 
pull himself together for that dash to the 
hatch. He cert'nly must 've thought he 
was takin' his life in his hands when he let 
go that riggin'. What I wanted to get him 
below for was so he'd have a look at what 
loose water was on the floor of the forec's'le, 
for, of course, you know it's nothing again' 
the Liicy if, after her years of hard drivin' 
and sail-carryin', her for'ard planks is a bit 
loose. Cert'nly not. Only nacheral — sure 
— that's what I say — three-inch plankin' 
bein' only three-inch plankin', after all. In 
the forec's'le the men were swashin' around 
with the water to their knees. It's a sight 
I've noticed that always impresses a shore- 
goin' man. It cert'nly impressed the Crown 
appointee this time. He gets one good look 
— 'My God!' he says, 'she's sinking!' and 
rushes up on deck and takes a fresh turn 
of himself around the riggin'. 

"Then, to help things along, I pulls 
Tony, the cook, into it. 'Didn't I see you 



156 



The Commandeering of the Lucy Foster 



with a pair of rosary beads the other day 
when you was overhauhn' your diddy-box ?' 
I asks Tony. And he says yes, he had a 
pair his wife gave him, and I asks him 
wouldn't he get 'em out and do a httle 
prayin' where he could be seen. ' Why for ? 
why for ? ' demands Tony, quite indignant, 
mind you. I had to explain it to him. 
'Now, Tony,' I says, 'it's this way. Half 
the sea stories that's ever been written has 
always some kind of a dago, when 'tisn't a 
Frenchman, droppin' to his knees and 
mumblin' his prayers when maybe he ought 
to be cuttin' away the spars or mannin' the 
pumps. And what I want you to do now, 
Tony, is to go up on deck and live up to 
your reputation.' 

"Well, Tony'd be damned if he would, 
and said there was never a Portugee yet 
didn't have more courage, even if they 
didn't write books about it, more than any 
damn Englishman that ever lived. Eng- 
land ? Huh ! Where was they when Alfonse 
Hairikay, where was they when Bartly 
Diaz, where was they when Vasco da Gam- 
mar or some such chap, and he mentioned a 
dozen other names that I'd never heard of 
before, and I doubt if anybody else ever 
did. Even Jim Riley, who's something of a 
schoolmaster, said they were past him. 

"'Now, Tony, I know all that,' I says. 
'I've had your kind for twenty-six years, 
and in that many winters and summers in 
small vessels on the North Atlantic a man 
does see some blue times. I've never seen 
one of you quit yet; but that ain't it, Tony. 
'Tisn't your national pride now, Tony. 
Consider, Tony,' I says, * them fourteen 
hundred barrels of fine, fat herrin' up to 
Fortune Bay, and the wad of bills you'll be 
handin' over to the wife, and the children, 
Tony — consider them black-eyed, curly- 
haired rascals rollin' their little blue wheel- 
barrows or haulin' their little red sleds all 
over the hill this winter, if ever the Lucy sees 
them herrin' in her hold, for if ever she 
does, Tony, all the cutter commanders and 
Crown commissioners and statesmen from 
here to hell won't get 'em out the Lucv till 
the gang hoists 'em out to her dock in 
Gloucester. 

"And Tony warmed up and said he 
would, only he wouldn't use no rosary. He 
took a pocketful of yellow-eyed beans out of 
the stores instead, and goin' up on deck he 
flops down by the for'ard hatch, as near 



under the lee of the dories as he could get, 
one eye out for what comfort there was, and 
starts in. And not such a bad job, either. 
He lowers his head to the deck and says 
something. And he looks aloft and says 
something, I don't know what. But I know 
that with every bend he takes a yellow-eyed 
bean out of his pocket and heaves it over- 
board; and up and down, heavin' the yel- 
low-eyed boys over, he goes on. And Jim 
Riley — he never passes the Crown commis- 
sioner without makin' an act of contrition. 
'Oh, oh, oh, the sinner I've been!' moans 
Jim, by way of completin' the picture. 

"All this time the vessel 'd been workiri' 
back toward the bay and Fortune Head 
warn't far away , and all at once a ledge 
of rock shows up under our lee. We wait- 
ed till the passenger saw it, which he did 
pretty quick, for you c'n be sure he warn't 
overlookin' any of the nacheral dangers. 
' Rocks ! ' he yells. ' Where — away ? ' says I 
and springs to the riggin', with my hand 
shadin' my eyes. And half the gang on deck 
springs to the riggin', and every blessed one 
of 'em shades his eyes with his hands and 
says, 'Where away, sir?' 

" ' Off to stawboard,' says he. 

"'Sure enough,' I says, and 'Sure 
enough,' repeats the gang, and, 'Cripes, but 
what an eye that gentleman's got!' adds 
Riley. 

"'We must work her off,' I says. 

"'Will you be able to?' inc^uires our 
friend. 

" ' I dunno,' I answers, ' whether we will or 
no, but I hope so, 'cause it's a bad place — 
and the harbor of Saint Peer is around the 
corner,' I added, which it warn't, knowin', 
too, that all he cared to know was was it solid 
land. The Pewee Islands would 've suited 
him just then — anything, I cal'late, that 
warn't floating around loose in the ocean. 

" ' Yes, I'll try to make it,' I goes on, and 
I gathered the crew together and tells 'em 
we were in a tight place and to die like men, 
and read 'em a lecture on our priceless her- 
itage and the immortal courage of our an- 
cestors. Did y' ever try to make up such a 
speech as you imagine a man like our pas- 
senger 'd like, and have listenin' to you a 
couple of Rileys and Sullivans, and a 
Frenchman from the Miquelons, and a few 
others whose grand-people had been pri- 
vateersmen in 1 8 1 2 ? No ? Well, you don't 
ever want to — it's disturbin'. I winds up 



The Commandeering of the Lucy Foster 



157 



mine by suddenly, much to his surprise, 
yanking Tony off the hatch. ' You coward- 
ly dago, be a man! ' I says to Tony, and he 
didn't Uke it. A little more and I think he'd 
mutinized on me. 

"And we were makin' out fine,"only just 
when the passenger was almost brightenin' 
with joy came more danger. The L2u-y got 
caught aback — myself to the wheel, yes — 
and down for the rocks she was borne. 
Well, there were the jagged devils all but 
under our stern, and that man sweated 
blood from his very heart, I'll bet, before 
she took the wind again and was safe away. 

"Man, but how the gang standin" round 
deck puffed their cheeks at each other! 
Everybody but Tony, who'd gone below 
disgusted. Some of 'em was even more 
thankful than the passenger, you'd think, 
and he was shrinkin' up again' the lan- 
yards, that he hadn't let go for a second in 
the past four hours. 'My God!' he gasps, 
'what a narrer escape!' 

'"Narrer? Well you might say it!' I 
says. 'The narrest I've had in twenty-six 
years of fishin'. And after that, you c'n see, 
sir, it wouldn't do to try and get by those 
rocks to make Saint Peer.' 

"'No, no, no,' he says; 'but can't you 
run her in some safe place?' 

"'There's one place I could safely make 
for with the wind the way it is,' I says. 
'There is just one place in the world where 
I could go,' I says, ' but I'm not allowed to.' 

'"Where's that?' he says. 

"'Fortune Bay.' 

"'Why not, captain? Why not? Incase 
of life or death ' 

"'Not even for life or death, sir, could I 
without the embargo was lifted off the ves- 
sel. If I was to put into Fortune Bay now 
and the cutter find me there, my vessel 
would be confiscated by the gover'ment.' 

"Them light-colored pop-eyes of his al- 
most took on a shine. 'But wouldn't my 
orders release you?' 

"'H-m,' I says. 'H-m— I hadn't thought 
of that. Do you think it would, sir?' 

'"Why, of course it would. If the 
CrowTi's agent can order you to do a thing 
then the Crown's agent can release you 
The home gover'ment takes precedence 
over any colonial or local gover'ment. 
Can't you see that ? ' 

"'Well,' I says, slow and ruminatin'- 
like. 'H-m — I dunno — m-m ' 



o> 



" 'Look here,' he breaks in, and you'd 'a' 
died if you could seen him clingin' to the 
lanyards, taking a fresh hold every once in 
a while when a hogshead or two of spray 
would break over him. And whoever was 
to the wheel always took care he got 'em 
reg'larly — you'd 'a' laffed, though Lord 
knows nothin' but death itself could 'a' un- 
hooked the grip he had to begin with. 
Well, to hear him there tryin' to overcome 
my objections to goin' into Fortune Bay — 
Jim Riley, passin' by, had to say, 'And are 
people really taxed to give jobs to the likes 
o' him?' 

'"That'll do you!' I says to Jim. 

"'What was it he said?' asks the home 
gover'ment chap. 

'"Only his weak heart,' I answers him, 
'sayin' if we don't do something soon we'll 
be lost — vessel and all hands.' 

"He broke into fresh argument then, but 
I didn't give in till we both happened to 
overhear Dal Hawkins saying to Riley: ' It's 
fine to have respect, same's the skipper has, 
for the Crown; but I do hope he'll change 
his mind soon, for cert'nly it's beginnin' to 
look blue for us around here.' Dai's speech 
made a great impression. You know Dal — 
a hard, gray-faced, serious man, the iron- 
nerved man of the old story books, y' know 
— yes. 

"'Well,' I says, 'when Dal Hawkins 
talks of death and danger, maybe it's time 
to do something, and I'll go, provided, sir* 
— and I looked judicial as hell saying it — 
'provided you'll make it a command and 
put it in writin'.' And we went below and 
got out pen and ink, and when he thawed 
out some he wrote it out. And never a sus- 
picion entered the soul of that Crown ap- 
pointee while he was writing it out why 
the vessel lay so easy. Hove to, y' see, so 
he could write, she was layin' like a duck 
in a pond. Up to that time we'd been put- 
tin' her any old which way to make her hop. 

"He was done at last. 'There it is, all 
properly worded,' he says, and read it out. 
And there it was — and here it is now 
again." 

Wesley reached across the counter and 
took the paper from the clerk. "Here it is; 
listen — dated December the fifteenth. 

"TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: 

"It is by my command that Wesley Marrs, 
master of the American schooner Lucy Foster, 
returns with me to within the limits of Fortune 



158 



The Commandeering of the Lucy Foster 



Bay, there to land me at some port to be later 
designated; and it is also by my command that 
the said Wesley Marrs be allowed to remain 
with his vessel, the said Lucy Foster, at some 
safe anchorage within the limits of the said 
Fortune Bay until the violence of the present 
storm shall have abated." 

Wesley paused. His auditor, looking 
over his shoulder, interjected, "But there's 
more to it." 

"Sure there is, a tail to it — postscript, 
yes. I'm coming to that — that's separate. 
'Twas me made him add that on after he 
thought 'twas all complete. When you're 
on a job there's nothin' like doin' it up 
right. Cert'nly, is there ? Sure there isn't. 
Well, listen," and Wesley read further: 

" P. 5. — The said Wesley Marrs wishes it un- 
derstood that he does this much against his will. 

" Warn't that a good one — hah ? Much 
against his will ! And violence of the storm ! 
Ain't that good — hah, what? And when 
we dumped him off at a little port, Charle- 
magne, just inside the bay, he was that 
grateful he gave me a cigarette-holder, a 
beautiful little yellow thing with gold edges 
— here 'tis, see — about as useful to me as 
one of those Japanese kimonos that's 
marked three forty-eight in the store win- 
dows these days. But when I get up to the 
house I'll make a whistle of it for the baby. 

"Well, after we'd put him ashore I sent 
word by a jack over to old John Rose's 
place, and was intendin' to wait for dark to 
slip out after it; but one of the gang who'd 
rowed our passenger ashore — and nacher- 
ally stopped to have a drink while he was 
there — came back with the word that that 
fool Crown man 'd been teUin' the natives 
what a narrer escape the vessel had off the 
harbor o' Saint Peer, and they got askin' 
him all about it, and one of 'em, gettin' 
more curious, says, 'What time was it you 
left here ? ' And he tells him. ' H-m, ' sniffs 
the doubtin' one, looking at the clock, 'she's 
a big sailor, the Lucy Foster, but she no 
more than any other vessel ever built can 
come forty-five mile in an hour an' a half.' 

"And so we decided, without waitin' for 
the further judgment of the Crown, that 
the violence of the storm had abated, and 
put over to old John Rose's place. And we 
anchored to a spring cable in Folly Cove 
that night, and cert'nly them herrin' looked 
beautiful as so many solid silver fish in the 
moonlight. 



"'He, he,' cackles old John. 'I knovved 
ee'd be back. How much, Wesley, be un 
goin' to give for them herrin' ? ' 

" ' A dollar and a half, John — say twenty- 
one hundred dollars and not stop to count 
'em. That is, John, I would only for the 
Crown law, John.' 

"'Perish the Crown!' says loyal John. 
'Twenty-one hundred dollars — take 'em 
away.' 

"We loaded by night and we loaded by 
day, and when all was below I drove for 
open water, for I was afeared the word 'd 
been passed to the cutter. And sure 
enough it had, but not till we were abreast 
of Cannaigre did we get a sight of her. W^e 
warn't so far off but I knew Curtin could 
see the Lucy was drawing a whole lot more 
water than she lawfully should — his law. 
But what he really thought about it we 
never learned. We didn't let him get near 
enough to tell us, but to help enlighten him 
I had Riley in his schoolmaster's hand 
make a fair clean copy of that Crown docu- 
ment. And I marked it ^attest' and *a true 
copy, Wesley Marrs,' and further put on the 
gill of a herrin' by way of a red seal, and 
rememberin' that in my coat pocket was a 
length of ribbon I pulled from off my little 
girl's head before leavin' home, I got that, 
and biting off about four inches of it, pinned 
that on by way of a blue seal, and I said, 
'There, my royal commander, there's a 
proper Crown document for you,' and 
stuffed it in an empty quart bottle of the 
three-black-letters brand which Dal Haw- 
kins 'd been usin' for linseed oil, he said — 
but no smell of oil in it — and corked it tight 
and made it fast to an old keg and hove 
the whole thing overboard. 

"And by and by we could see them haul- 
ing it over the side, after which I didn't 
linger around, but takes out the chart and 
draws one straight line from Cannaigre 
Rock to Cape Sable, and another frotn 
Cape Sable to Eastern Point, and down 
them two lanes, with fourteen hundred bar- 
rels of fine, fat, frozen herrin' in her hold, 
the Lucy came a-snortin'." 

Wesley turned to the clerk. "And be 
sure you do a good job on it, Joe. Don't 
spare no expense, mind — the best of oak, 
or cherry, or ebony, or whatever's the latest 
thing in frames. And when it's done I'm 
goin' to tack it over the litde oil painting of 
the Lucy on the east wall of what my wife 



The Ghost at Point of Rocks 



159 



calls the drawin'-room. And" — Wesley 
turned toward the door — "what's that? A 
little touch ? Well-1-1, seein' it's so brisk 
a mornin', and the fifty-odd cold hours we 
was on the passage, I don't know but what 
I owe a little somethin' warmin' to my 
system." 

In the saloon opposite Perry's, with the 
hollow of one foot resting on the under-rail, 
an elbow resting on the bar, Wesley poured 
out his drink and raised it up, but presently 
set it down again to gently roar : ' ' Hah ! hah ! 
'by my orders, and much against his will 
does Captain Marrs do this'l Ho! ho! 
And yet," reflectively, "that wants a fin- 
ishin' touch. By rights I ought to been 
there when Curtin met that Crown chap — 
and be sure he did — and pointin' that out 
to him, asks him, 'But did you really 
write that?' Hah, hah! ho, ho! Well"— 
Wesley raised his glass — " hopin' that 
every cargo of herrin' out o' Newf'undland 
will come as easy, and that we'll never 



meet any worse Crown chaps than that 
one — here's a shoot!" 

"And now" — Wesley hauled his cloth 
cap down over his brow — "to see about 
them herrin'. I was offered three twenty- 
five coming into the dock, but I think I 
c'n do a shade better than that, for you 
bet there won't be any herrin' come out of 
Fortune Bay in a hurry again. And if I get 
three-fifty, say, it won't be too bad, will it — 
hah — for a poor ignorant fisherman that 
don't know international law from a Jap- 
anese proclamation of war? Oh, we 
poor slobs o' fishermen! Ha, hah! 'Much 
against his will, and by my orders'! Ho, 
ho! wouldn't that melt any loose ice you 
might have 'round your deck — hah, what ? 
But don't mind me any more. Come on 
down and lay your eyes on the Lucy again. 
She c'n most talk, that vessel. Come and 
have a peek at her." 

And out the door and down the street 
swung W^esley, whistling blithely. 



THE GHOST AT POINT OF ROCKS 

By Frank H. Spearman 

Illustrations by W. T. Benda 




S for the country — there is 
really no end of country 
around Point of Rocks. 
When Hughie Morrison 
asked about the station after 
he had been assigned to it, 
he was told that on the north his territory 
would extend to the pole. He was assured 
that he would find very little of the country 
in any direction competitive, and, in matter 
of fact, he never did find any, though Mar- 
tin Duffy at one time advised him to cir- 
cularize the Esquimaux with a view of se- 
curing any portion of their cold-storage 
business that might be getting away from 
Jim Hill. 

On the south, while there was no compe- 
tition in sight, there was even less of busi- 
ness. The southern country for three thou- 
sand miles stood on end — at least so Hughie 
concluded after he had climbed the peak 
of Point of Rocks to look the field over and 



make a preliminary traffic survey. After 
he had climbed down he wrote to his mother 
that if arrangements could be made to ship 
all the scenery out of his territory and ship 
all the unassigned rainbows in, it would 
make a great farming country. Answering 
her affectionate inquiries from the East, he 
wrote that he was making money fast; that 
he feared, at the moment, to ship it in large 
sums out of the country, but that she need 
feel no anxiety; he really had the rocks and 
would show them to her when she came out. 
Point of Rocks has been called every- 
thing that is bad because of its reputation 
for loneliness. The point, a mere speck 
on a spreading map, set far and singly out 
on the high seas of the railroad desert, was 
the dread of all operators on the mountain 
division, and Hughie Morrison was the 
first night man sent there after the panic. 
When there were but two passenger trains 
a day on the division, and the Government 



160 The Ghost at Point of Rocks 

receivers were objecting to these, Hughie, tionsof hisyouth,andtoknowforacertainty 

with the rattlesnakes and a worn-out key, that Orion, calm and immensely dignified, 

was holding down Point of Rocks. Before wouldneverfai himandthatbetweenfreight 

he and the day man were sent, the Point trains about three o'clock in the morning the 

had long been abandoned. One building, red heart of the Scorpion in the sovith-west 

the section house, stood half a mile east of could always be counted on, was a mild 

the station, and in this thesection men hived, sort of consolation. Poling at Princeton, 

Otherthanthesenohumanbeingslivedwith- they had made, at three in the morning, no 

in miles of Hughie. To the north stretched impression on him ; at Point of Rocks there 

theforgottenland, on the west rose the point were absolutely no other associations to 

monstrous, andtothesouth,generallyspeak- suggest God's country, 

ing, hell prevailed. Besides these there was, in matter of fact, 

To this spot President Bucks had sent his nothing and nobody within measurable dis- 
nephew, Hugh Morrison, to learn the rail- tance of the night man. Hughie was a good 
roadbusiness. Hughiewas a Princeton man bit of a philosopher; but even among those 
when he asked his uncle to come through of the railroad men who had never been east 
with some sort of job; and his uncle, at that of the Missouri River a shift from Prince- 
time reorganizing the system, and having ton to Point of Rocks was commonly con- 
troubles of his own, was not disposed to take ceded to be a fright. 

on any family difficulties. Hemerely passed When Hugh was told that at one time a 
the word to Martin Duffy, chief despatcher colony had existed at Point of Rocks he was 
at Medicine Bend, to put Hughie through, unbelieving. Yet an Englishman, fasci- 
Accordingly the Princeton man, who had nated in an earlier day by the mountains, 
turned twenty, couldcounttoahundred, and had chosen the wildest spot between Medi- 
knew that the Rocky Mountains were sur- cine Bend and Bear Dance for a cattle- 
rounded by land, was brought to the Moun- ranch, and his shipping yards were put in 
tainDivision. Martinsoonsawthathecould at Point of Rocks. He built for himself in 
not get rid of Hughie merely by putting him the hills east of the station a great brick 
through. Hughie learned the key with facil- house. Deserted and in the slow decay of 
ity, ate what was set before him, and looked loneliness, it had stood long after the down- 
pleasant when the railroad men set up jobs, fall of his hopes, to serve while a vagrant 
Worst of all, Martin Duffy found that he army of prospectors moved across the coun- 
was beginning to like the green one. But try as a quarry for the hammer and chisel 
orders were orders. Bucks had said Hughie of their camp-fires. After they had left it 
was to be put through, and there was noth- naked in its ruin to the elements it had been 
ing more merciful to Martin's mind for the struck by lightning and burned. Yet after 
boy than a quick railroad death. Martin all of this the house stood. Built in stanch 
considered that in such a case strong medi- English fashion, its walls remained, and 
cine is best, and well knew that to assign a scarred and roofless its height and strength 
man to a night job at Point of Rocks was still defied the sunandthesandandthewind. 
equivalent to the knock-out drops. At one time the Englishman had a hun- 

Hughie never blanched when the orders dred men working on his ranches. He 

came. Why should he? He did not know fovmded a colony, planned an abattoir, 

Point of Rocks from Colorado Springs, and rode like a fiend, and drank like an engine, 

made his preparations and departed The beginning had been ten years before 

promptly for the new post. When he asked Hughie's day, the end perhaps five. A 

Duffy where he should board, Martin, a sheep-herder knew the story. Sitting on the 

taciturn man, said he might board in Texas ground one night beside the passing track, 

if he liked, provided he could make the a full-moon night with the white streaming 

hours for the job. through the sightless windows of the ruin on 

Hughie took hold, and the fun began, the hill, he had told Hughie about the Swin- 

The trainmen bullied him, called him tons — Richard and the bachelor brother 

Hughie and "Nephew, " stole his cigars, and John — Hughie, silent, in his belted trousers 

made him glad to be left alone with the and bare arms, standing while the wind blew 

night, the desert, the coyotes, and the stars, softly, with his back and one foot against the 

Hughie got used to looking for the constella- station building, listening. 



The Ghost at Point of Rocks 



161 



Once in a month, out of thedreadfulsouth, 
the sheep-herder, a lost man with sand- 
burned eyes and sun-spHt lips, came to hear 
a human voice. He was the sole caller on the 
college man at Point of Rocks. 

The sheep-herder was pointing in the 
moonlight to the east. "Dick Swinton built 
yards from the switch away over to the 
creek, and from there down to the curve." 

"Yards?" echoed Hughie incredulously. 

"Cattle yards. He had a barn five hun- 
dred feet long the other side of the draw for 
his Holsteins; another big barn over there 
to the right for a string of thoroughbreds. 
He run his horses in Denver and Colorado 
Springs. The whole family used to go 
down there summers— had a house down 
at the Springs nigh as big as this one. Mrs. 
Swinton, she was the thoroughbred, and 
the governess and the boy and the little girl 
— she had her own maid — used to go down 
regular with the China-boy cook and all 
hands, private car. I seen twenty-two 
trunks to one time piled up right there where 
you stand — ^oh, they were blooded, all right. 
Champagne right along from New York, 
twelve cases at a lick, piled up here for the 
wagons, when their cousins come out from 
the old country. All gone to hell. Was you 
ever in England ? " 

Hughie used to think about the story. 
He never tiredofhearingabout the Swintons. 
They were people, and had done things on 
a scale, and being the only interest, living or 
dead, about Point of Rocks, they were natu- 
rally matter for reflection. What if they had 
sunk their money ? They had sunk it roy- 
ally. The east-bound passenger train was 
not due to pass Point of Rocks until mid- 
night, and from then until four thirty o'clock 
in the morning, when the west-bound train 
was due, the operator had abundance of time 
to think. Even from sunset until midnight 
all alone under the lamp in the station, read- 
ing, perhaps, or writing, was a good bit of a 
stretch. But after Hughie got acquainted 
with the weather-warped sheep- herder he 
found something to look forward to in the 
night at Point of Rocks — he was waiting for 
a storm. 

"Wait till you get a good thunder-storm 
somenight,"thesheep-herderhadmuttered. 
"Then watch them windows over on the 
hill — you'll see dancing over there yet; I 
seen it since the house was burned, right 
along." When he spoke, he was telling of 



the big dances he remembered in the brick 
house at times that the New Yorkers and 
the English cousins came out in the car. 
The sheep-herder believed that when it 
stormed in the mountains they still danced 
through the floorless halls. Hughie wanted 
to ask a lot more questions when he heard 
of this: it was a story different from the 
others. But the passenger train in the 
west was whistling, and when it had come 
and gone the sheep-herder had disappeared. 
He blew in from the south like the wind, 
and died as silently away. 

Night after night Hughie waited for him 
to come back; night after night, at sunset, 
he scanned the vanishing point of the track, 
looking in vain for the stunted figure and 
the sidewise, twisted shamble. The silence of 
the place with the long hours of twilight and 
dark outside his window began to grow on 
Hughie,andoneeveninghewalkedacrossthe 
creek for a change and up the hill to the ruin. 

He had not realized before how large the 
house had been. Standing under the brick 
entrance arch where double doors had en- 
closed a deep vestibule, he saw how heavily 
every part of the house was built. The 
timbers that had crashed through the floors 
when the roof fell were like bridge stringers. 
The floors themselves had been framed like 
decks, and their charred debris lay in a for- 
bidding tangle just as the storm drowning 
theconflagrationhadleft it. The blackened 
walls gaped; the parting light streamed 
through vacant casements, and above the 
archesof the tower — whichhadsufferedleast 
from the fire — stars twinkled. The desola- 
tion was complete. 

He climbed into the tower. A stairway 
still remained, and, climbing higher, he 
found intact a half-story, once a child's 
playroom. Prints pasted on the walls hung 
in tatters. A little scrap-heap of rusty tin 
cars lay under the window opening. The 
sheep-herder had said the little girl was wild 
about engines and often used to ride with the 
englnemen on the passenger trains when the 
family were travelling. In a corner Hughie 
saw a Japanese doll, weather-beaten, but 
still lying where it had been left to its last 
sleep, with a battered locomotive for pillow. 
The frock was faded, and the pink cheeks 
and almond brows of the doll were blanched. 
He stooped to lift it from its long nap and 
something fell from its bosom. Hughie 
picked the something up. It was a broken 



162 



The Ghost at Point of Rocks 



ivory miniature, but the colors cunningly 
laid in still preserved the features of a little 
girl. Nearly half of the oval had beenbroken 
away, but the child's face remained. Under 
his lamp that night, Hughie examined it. 
Brown hair fell over the temples and the 
high cheeks, were touched with pink. The 
eyes deep-set and the nose straight and de- 
determined, looked boyish, but below it 
the face narrowed to a mere dimple of a 
girl's mouth; the chin was gone. 

That night the east-bound train was an 
hour late. The operator, idle in his solitude, 
studied the miniature. He wanted to know 
more about the children that had played in 
the tower and riddenthe desert ontheirponies 
— he had heard something about it — and 
wished continually for the sheep-herder to 
come back. The old fellow had been gone 
this time for weeks. While Hughie was 
reflecting, the train whistled, and he was 
still in a study when the engineman, Oliver 
Sellers, walked into the office for orders. 

"I struck a man to-night, Hughie," said 
Oliver, sitting down as he drew off his heavy 
gloves. 

•■'Where?" 

"Somewhere the other side of Castle 
Creek. He's back in the baggage-car. I 
didn't see him. It's bad luck, too, to strike 
a man that you don't see; leastwise, it never 
happened to me before. He must have 
been walking ahead of us, I guess, and the 
pilot picked him up. When we stopped at 
Castle Creek for water I got down to oil 
around and found him on the front end. He 
was an old man, too," added the engineman 
moodily. "We will have to leave him here 
with you, Hughie, for Number One to take 
back to Sleepy Cat. W^ell, it can't be 
helped. Got any orders, boy?" 

The trainmen brought in the body. They 
laid it on the waiting-room floor and Hughie, 
busy with his orders, did not look at the 
man. After the train pulled out and the 
dull red of the tail-lights had disappeared 
in the east he sat down under his lamp at 
the window table, the telegraph key in front 
'>f him clicking vagrant messages, to wait 
a few minutes before stepping out of the 
office to close the waiting-room door. The 
door was left open at night, but to-night 
it must not be, because the coyotes had long 
noses for blood. When Hughie went at 
length to bolt the outside door he took the 
lamp in his hand and, coming beck, stooped 



to lift the newspaper from the dead man's 
face. It was the sheep-herder. 

The operator let the newspaper drop. He 
went slowly back into the office. He re- 
membered now that he had never asked the 
man his name. If he knew it he could per- 
haps notify relatives somewhere — at the 
very least supply a name to go on the coffin. 

Dismiss the shock'as he would, he realized 
that he was unnerved. He sat down with 
his head in his hands, thinking over it, when 
he heard thunder in the mountains; the sky 
had been overcast when the train pulled in. 
Soon rain began to fall in great drops on the 
roof above his head, and within a few mo- 
ments in the land of no rain it was raining a 
flood. For a long time the storm hung above 
the peaks in the Mission range. Presently 
the wind shifted and shook the little station 
building with a yelp. Then, with the shock 
of an earthc|uake, the lightning claps of a 
cloudburst, and the pent-up fury of a long, 
dry summer, down came the storm from the 
high mountains. 

The wind whipped the water in sheets 
against the window-panes, and little gusts, 
exploding in the downpour, rattled the sash 
viciously. If the wind abated the rain 
plunged on the roof, and when it blew, 
water poured in at every joint andcievice 
of the dried-out building. Hughie turned 
down the lamp, cut in the lightning arrester, 
and sat down with his hands in his pockets. 

He knew now what the sheep-herder 
had meant when he talked of a storm. The 
lightning ceased to crash very soon and the 
thunder that shook the earth for a few 
moments abated, but great electric waves 
played almost silently and in a terrifying 
way through the deluge of falling rain. The 
desert rippled and swam in the dance of 
waters, the far mountains were strangely 
lighted, and above them distant thunder 
moaned unceasingly. 

Hughie unaffectedly wished himself away 
from Point of Rocks. He swore mentally 
but savagely at everything about the place 
except his dead companion, and when he 
could sit still no longer he began to walk 
around with his hands in his pockets. As 
he passed the waiting-room door he saw 
that the rain was driving in at the open win- 
dow above the head of the sheep-herder. He 
resisted an inclination to turn away, for the 
window ought to be closed. Above the roar 
of the rain he heard now through the open 



The Ghost at Point of Rocks 



163 



sash the roar of the water foaming down 
Dry Bitter Creek. Hughie walked out into 
the dark waiting-room to close the window. 
As he stepped toward it he saw the play of 
the storm in the ruin on the hill. 

From the heavens to the horizon the naked 
basin of the desert trembled in the shock of 
the storm. Through the deluge great cur- 
tains of light, shot from horizon to horizon, 
threw the landscape up in fanciful, quiv- 
ering pictures. Water leaped on arid slopes, 
hills floated in falling rivers, rain fell in 
never-ending sheets, and above all played 
the incessant blaze of the maddened sky and 
the long roll of the far and sullen thunder. 

He looked at the old house. Like a 
lamp set within a skull, lightning burned 
and played about it. Through the case- 
ments he saw the staring walls lighted again. 
The words of the dead sheep-herder came 
back and he waited for graceful figures to 
weave past the burning windows to the trem- 
bling rhythm of the storm. He stood only 
for a moment. Then he lowered the sash, 
stepped away from the dead man and go- 
ing back into the office, sat down at his 
table with his head between his hands. 



II 



The chief despatcher, Martin Duffy — 
this is the same man who is digging the 
Panama Canal — called Hughie up on the 
wire and began talking with him as soon as 
he received his letter of resignation. "You 
don't know your own mind," declared 
Martin Duffy, sending his annoyance fast, 
because the furtive liking he had for the boy 
made him the more solicitous. "Take off 
your head and pound it, Hughie. Your un- 
cle won't like this. You are in line for a bet- 
ter thing. Just as soon as we can get a man 
to take Point of Rocks you are to come in and 
take an East-end trick under me. I've been 
keeping it as a surprise. Just hold your horses 
thirty days, and see what will happen." 

"It may well be," returned Hughie over 
the wire in dry reply, "but that is just the 
point: I don't want anything to happen — 
leastwise, not anything at Point of Rocks." 

" Hold your horses thirty days, will you ? " 
retorted Martin Duffv, who when incensed 
always said "horses" with a hiss. 

"I can hold my horses for thirty days," 
returned Hughie, always impudent and al- 
ready clever at a key, "but who will hold 



them for thirty nights? Forty-second 
Street and slavery for life for mine, Mr. 
Dufl'y, if I can't get away from this job." 

However, Hughie held on as he had been 
told to and nothing whatever happened 
either at Point of Rocks or elsewhere. But 
he realized uncomfortably that Point of 
Rocks was getting on his nerves, and when 
the desert really does get on a man's nerves, 
it is time to get out. He was already con- 
scious that he was overstaying his leave, and 
but for Duffy he never could have been per- 
suaded to hang on. The nights grew lonelier 
and lonelier. But just as they had become 
unbearable lie got the long-awaited reprieve 
— orders to report at Medicine Bend on the 
ist of September for the despatcher's trick. 
It was then the 30th of August. 

Since the storm the desert nights had 
seemed never so peaceful. Hughie felt 
ashamed of himself alm.ost as soon as he 
knew he was going to leave. For nearly a 
month there had not been a cloud in the 
evening sky — just the clear lilies or roses of 
the sunset streaming into a high salmon 
field; then, purple; gray patches of dusk, 
and over all a lighting of stars. 

At dawn it was the very same : one morn- 
ing prettier than the other. Hughie began 
to realize he should lose something in leav- 
ing the desert. That night, the last but 
one, he was sneakingly sorry to go. The 
whole evening went to getting up his re- 
ports, and when he looked at the clock the 
east-bound passenger was due. Hughie 
had no orders for it, but the engineman 
stopped that night to tighten a nut, and the 
conductor came in to congratulate the boy 
on his promotion; also to give him a cigar 
instead of stealing one, and to beg Hughie 
to remember him when he came into the 
seats of the mighty — not to leave him lying 
out long hours at Point of Rocks on cold 
nights v/aiting for orders. Hughie had al- 
ready promised everybody the best of every 
thing, and after the conductor signalled and 
the long string of Pullmans drew past the 
station into the eastern night, he watched 
the lights vanish upon the distant tangent 
feeling content with himself and the world. 



Ill 



The lamp had burned bad all evening. 
After the train was gone Hughie stopped 
poking at the wick. His reports were up and 



164 



The Ghost at Point of Rocks 



signed, and he had finished a long letter home 
when he remembered that in his report to the 
express company he had forgotten, under the 
head of "Unusual Incidents," to note the 
death of the sheep-herder and the fact of the 
body's being brought into the station and left 
all night in the waiting-room. By keeping a 
recordof sucheventsthecompanysometimes 
developedcluestothefts, robberies, andother 
unpleasant happenings. While Hughie felt 
certain that there could be no after-clap to 
this affair, since the dead man had been 
taken away and duly buried, it was a part 
of the routine work to make up the record, 
and he began a brief account of the matter. 

As he wrote, the night of the death came 
back. The storm presented itself, and so 
vividly that he hesitated at times for words. 
His thoughts crowded fast one on another. 
It was what there was in his recollections to 
leave out that bothered him; things inde- 
finable but things creepy to think about. 
He stopped hiswritingforamomentand took 
thechimneyfromthelamptopoketheillwick 
with his pen. Through the open doors the 
south wind, fanning the uncertain flame, 
caused it to flaresuddenly,and as heputback 
the chimney he heard the office door behind 
him close. The wind often closed or opened 
the door and the south wind was a kindly 
companion, blowing for hours together with 
the same gentle swiftness over the desert 
wastes. Hughie wrote the last words of his 
report. Just as he pressed the blotter down 
upon the signature he became aware of an 
odd sensation ; an impression that he was no 
longer alone in the room. 

He passed his fingers mechanically across 
the blotter-pad waiting for the impression to 
pass. Instead, an almost imperceptible 
shiver ran up his back. He rubbed the 
blotter more firmly, almost officiously, but 
with the growing conviction that someone 
else was in the room, and soon the difficulty 
was to stop the rubbing. When he did 
lay the pad aside a faint moisture suffused 
his forehead. He wanted then to open the 
door that he had heard close, but to do it he 
should be compelled to turn around. This 
required an effort, and he tried to summon 
the resolve. He looked at the lamp — it 
burned brightly. The moisture cooled on 
his forehead; the signature he had just 
blotted lay under his eyes. He recognized 
it perfectly and felt sure he was awake. He 
was even conscious that his hands were 



growing cold, and he put them up to his 
head; what it cost mentally to do even this 
surprised him. He could not look around. 
He attempted to whistle softly and had al- 
most shamed himself out of a fear he felt to 
be ridiculous when he was stunned by a 
voice at his very side: "Should you like to 
have your grave dug out here under the 
stars?" 

The words were distinct. Hughie froze 
to his chair. If the tones were soft they 
were perfectly clear, and the words were 
already stamped on his consciousness. 
Wliat did it mean? Could it be the voice 
of a living creature? Of a woman? No 
woman lived within twenty miles of Point 
of Rocks — no living creature with a voice 
such as that within a hundred miles. He, 
heard it again: 

"Your grave will be under the stars." 

Hughie's fingers moved, but beyond that 
he sat paralyzed, and his tongue clove dry 
to the roof of his mouth. He knew now 
that an unreal presence had come upon 
him. He knew, too, that in the mountains 
men went mad of mere loneliness, and faint 
with horror, he clutched his temples, waiting 
every instant for reason to leave. 

"The stars are singing for us to-night." 
With these words, spoken softly and almost 
in his ear, something touched his shoulder. 
The touch went through him like needles, 
and he sprang like a madman from his chair. 

Hewhirledandcried out inacracked voice. 
A figure shrank quickly away — a woman's 
figure, seemingly, with a shadowy face and 
loosened hair. When he could realize that 
he really saw somethingthe headwas averted 
and he could remember only a glimpse of 
startled eyes. The apparition, with hands 
outstretched, was moving toward the door. 
He heard a suppressed utterance, "I cannot 
find my grave." 

The voice was too human. "Who are 
you?" cried the operator in desperation. 
"Why are you here?" 

"I cannot find my grave." 

"I — I haven't got it," stammered Hughie, 
with hair on end. 

The figure shrank farther away. In the 
dim light he could see outlines of loosened 
draperies and falling hair. It already 
seemed as if the ghost were more frightened, 
if possible, than he, and his scattered facul- 
ties began to act. The figure moved tow- 
ard the door and laid a white hand on the 




'Watch them windows over on the hill." — Page i6i. 



knob, but could not turn it. Hughie saw 
that the spring lock would hold the door 
and the helplessness of his unreal visitor in- 
spired courage. If it was a woman she wa.s 
trying painfully to open the door. Hughie 
took a cautious step. There was no longer 
any thought of a vision in his mind; the 
clock was ticking loudly, the sounder clicked 
at intervals on the table and his heart 
beat fast and heavilv. He was awake, and 
whether living or dead, a woman was stand- 



VoL. XLII. 



-19 



ing before him. If she had not dropped from 
the stars, how could she have come ? There 
had not been the slightest warning of an 
approach save the closing of the door — no 
wagon rattle from some far-off ranch, no 
sound of horses' hoofs, and as for walking, 
there was no place to walk from. Even 
believing her to be a living creature, there 
was something unnatural in her manner. 
She inspired fear. When she put her hands 
to her face a shiver passed over him. When 

165 



166 



The Ghost at Point of Rocks 



she moved, her feet gave forth no sound. 
Hesitating between the fear of what the 
wildest surmise could not explain and the 
conviction that this must be a reality, Hughie 
heard a sob and pity moved him. 

"I will let you out," he exclaimed un- 
steadily. Watching his visitor narrowly 
as he stepped forward, he released the 
spring-bolt. In doing so he saw her face. 



Failing to see that he held the knob in 
his hand, she put forward her own to reach 
it. Her fingers touched his, and he knew 
that he faced a creature of flesh and blood. 
He released the lock. ' ' Shall I let you out ? " 

She looked helplessly before her and her 
voice trembled. "It is cold." 

He closed the door. "It is cold," he 
echoed. "How did you come here?" 




Down came the storm from the hi^h mountains. — Pasre 162. 



A shock checked him and a new fear over- 
came him. What mystery could this be? 
It was the face of the broken miniature. 
The head, as he now saw it, was bent and 
the eyes were drooping, but the high cheeks, 
the lines of the hair falling over the temples, 
thestraightnose,andthecurvingsidemouth. 
With the certainty of an acute memory the 
operator knew it all. He collected himself 
and spoke again. "Shall I let you out?" 



She drew timidly back. "What is your 
name?" he persisted. 

"It is so cold." 

To none of his questions could she give 
an answer. She spoke like one in a trance; 
at times trying pathetically to put back her 
loosened hair, pleading at times to be let go 
and shrinking in fear from her companion, 
who found himself now the protector of his 
unaccountable apparition. He continued 




Drawn by IV. T. Benda. 

Hughie picked the something up. It was a broken ivory miniature. — Page i6i. 



168 



The Ghost at Point of Rocks 



to speak and with growing excitement, to all 
of which the strange visitor appeared in- 
sensible. He saw very soon that he was 
unnecessarily frightening his ghost, and he 
presently stood silent with his hands on the 
back of a surprised chair, waiting for his 
visitor to make the next move herself. 

She had, so far as he could ever remem- 
ber afterward, but two coherent move- 
ments; either her eyes sought in hope the 
light of his lamp or turned from it in despair. 
This much, at least, was intelligible, even if 
incomprehensible. Not until he saw her 
falter, put her hands blindly out and sink to 
the floor did he realize that she was ill and 
in distress. Too excited to breathe as he 
took her in his arms, he lifted her up and 
placed her inert upon a chair. She opened 
her eyes in a moment. A chill passed over 
her. Hughie threw open the drafts of the 
stove and chafed her hands. Something of 
gratitude seemed to move her, for as she 
shrank into the chair she looked at him with 
less of fear. He sat down then himself, and 
facing her, tried with his hands on his knees 
to inspire confidence. She would not talk. 
Instead, as the tire in the stove blazed up and 
the heat diffused itself sheshowed unmistak- 
able drowsiness and added the last straw 
to Hughie's embarrassment by asking him 
why he did not go to bed. He tried to ex- 
plain that he went to bed in the daytime. 
His apparition was too far overcome by the 
warmth to comprehend, but an inspira- 
tion seized him. He asked if she would 
rest for a while on the long table at the back 
of the room. She opposed nothing that he 
suggested, and he too^, the cushion of his 
chair for a pillow andi^Iped her as well as 
he could to lie down on the table. When he 
had done this he went back to his end of the 
room and watched the dim corner bevond 
the stop. His charge, for he now made 
her sum, lay perfectly quiet, and when she 
breathed regularly he took his overcoat 
from the nail behind the door, tiptoed over 
to the corner, andlaid it across hershoulders. 
It had been a swagger coat at school, but was 
short for a coverlet. Still, it served, and as 
he walked back better satisfied to his chair 
he heard a rapid clicking from the sounder. 
The train despatcher at Medicine Bend 
was sending the 19 — the imperative call 
from headquarters to clear thehne for the 
despatcher's office — and every night oper- 
ator on the division was getting out of his 



way. As soon as the wire was free a sta- 
tion call came, and to Hughie's surprise it 
was for Point of Rocks. He answered in- 
stantly, and the message came so fast he 
could hardly write it. 

' ' Passenger missing from Chicago sleeper 
on Train Number Two — a young English- 
woman. Is believed to be somewhere be- 
tween Castle Creek and Point of Rocks. Get 
your section men out quick with lights and 
hand-cars andwith orders to stayouttill they 
fmd her. Name, Grace Swinton. Answer 
quick." 

The chief despatcher's initials were ap- 
pended. Hughie Morrison sent his an- 
swer straightway. 

' ' Unnecessary to call out the men. I have 
the missing passenger. She is asleep here 
in the ofhce. Instruct." 

"Good boy, Hughie," returned the 
pleased despatcher. "Hold her for special 
car and engine from here running as second 
Number One. Make her as comfortable 
in every way as possible. Get whole story. 
If injured in any way notify office of Whis- 
pering Smith." 

Hughie Morrison, turning from the key, 
drew a breath. It was his last night at 
Point of Rocks. He looked with curious 
feelings into the dim corner where the miss- 
ing passenger lay. He turned in his chair 
again and again, but she did not move. He 
adjusted and readjusted the drafts of the 
stove, noisily and at times officiously, but 
her soft, regular breathing never varied 
and day broke on a face upon the table as 
delicate as ivory and the operator in despair 
for a sign of awakening. 

First Number Two, the regular train, 
came and went, with every man of the 
train and engine crews peering furtively in- 
to the shaded corner at Hughie Morrison's 
ghost, but Hughie waved them away and 
knew that the Special to bear her away 
would follow all too soon. When it drew 
in, bringing the superintendent's car, he 
was ready to rebel against his orders and 
disposed to hold the ghost against all com- 
ers. But with careful tread they brought 
in heavy blankets, and as Grace Swinton 
lay wrapped her in them and carried her, 
sleeping heavily, to the car, regardless of 
Hughie's protests that they ought at least 
to wait till he had got her story from her 
own lips. They asked for orders, got them 
almost at once, and puffed noisily away for 




Drawn by IV. T. Benda. 



"Your grave will bs under the stars." — Page 164. 



170 



The Ghost at Point of Rocks 



Medicine Bend. When they were gone 
Hughie folded his papers; he v/as all ready 
to say good-by to Point of Rocks. 



VI 



The promotion had come. After all, it 
was not exciting. Indeed, nothing excited 
Hughie any more. Martin Duffy was the 
most crestfallen man, save one, on the divi- 
sion over having picked Hughie for a de- 
spatcher, that one being the new despatcher 
himself. The change that had come over 
the president's nephew was the common 
talk of the trainmen. His alertness, the 
light play of his humor, the grasp that met 
the little desert emergencies at Point of 
Rocks with the ease of a veteran — where 
were they ? As to the night with the ghost, 
nobody gave that any consideration, be- 
cause where things happen all the time, and 
where everything that happens is unusual, 
an incident holds the stage only for its fleet- 
ing instant. Hughie himself felt the situ- 
ation keenly. He even asked to be re- 
lieved, but Martin Duffy was above all 
things not a quitter. "Don't commit sui- 
cide," he growled. "You're in a funk, 
that is all. I pulled a woman once from in 
front of a locomotive. What do you think 
she did ? Sent me a cross-stitched waist- 
coat and a copy of 'The Simple Life.' 
Wouldn't that kill you ? And I've wanted 
a meerschaum pipe for twenty years." 

The advice was good, and Hughie swal- 
lowed it, as a fool should, with disgust and 
humility. But Martin Duffy usually caused 
things to happen, and this time proved no ex- 
ception. When the new despatcher walked 
into the ofhce just before twelve o'clock that 
night for his trick, the mail from Number 
One was being distributed and a letter, small 
but plump-looking, bearing a foreign post- 
mark and addressed in a clear, firm hand 
to Hughie Morrison, was laid before him. 
He cut open the envelope with feverish haste 
and began to read. Line after line and page 
after page slipped past the lightning of his 
eyes, and one would have said that the play 
of his mental fire had quitecomeback. This 
was the letter that it should be. This was 
the story,herownstory with itsfrankaccount 
of the long illness that had first shown itself 
during an overland railroad journey in 
America; here were the prettily chosen ex- 
pressions of gratitude — all that the greediest 



Princeton man could ask for, and Hughie 
was greedy — thanking him for the delicate 
kindnesses she said he had shown to her 
during her night of trance and terror on the 
desert. Hughie, unable to read a nd breathe 
at the same time, sat down. Thedesertcame 
back; the stillness of the wind and the glory 
of the stars, the stealing fear, the shock, and 
now the grip of the eagerly waited letter. 

"I had come from the coast," she wrote, 
"and was bringing home from California 
my invalid brother. He was then, and is 
still very ill. The worry of providing for 
his journey and the fear that I might not be 
able to bring him home alive had worn 
upon me until I was in but little better con- 
dition, I fear, than he. 

' ' How I ever came to leave my berth in my 
sleep and to walk asleep straight out of our 
sleeping-car when the train stopped that 
night at Point of Rocks I cannot, of course, 
explain. But the doctor has since told me 
that in crossing the Rocky Mountains the 
altitude is often accountable for strange 
things that people do. When I reached 
home after the ocean voyage I was already 
ill of brain fever — less, I suppose, could 
hardly have been looked for — and my re- 
covery has been very slow. But for your 
delicate consideration in that night of de- 
lirium I should probably never have recov- 
ered at all. Wandering as I did over the open 
country around the station in the cold of 
those dreadful hours of unconsciousness, I 
seem faintly to remember seeing the light in 
your window — the only light, I was after- 
ward told, within many, many miles. And 
I want now to apologize with all humility 
for breaking in upon your solitude at so 
unearthly an hour and in so forlorn a con- 
dition. If at any time hereafter, you should 
ever be in England, I hope you will surely 
come to Ormonde Road, Richmond. You 
will find us at The Knolls, and it will give me 
a chance to tell you in person how grateful I 
am for all you did for me. It will surprise 
you very much, I know, to learn that I myself 
once really lived at Point of Rocks, but it was 
years ago, during mychildhood. Anundie of 
mine had cattle ranches in that country, and 
builtalargehousenearthePoint,whichafter- 
ward burned. As a little girl I lived with my 
aunt, and I often played with my dolls among 
the very rocks near the railroad station. 

The letter bore the signature of Grace 
Swinton. Hughie Morrison brought his 



The Ghost at Point of Rocks 



171 



hand down on the table and a new light 
shone in his face. His resolve was taken. 
Saint George and JMerry England was the 
watchword, whether it forever blasted hopes 
of promotion or not. He began his eight- 



own train, as he called Number Two, to The 
Knolls, in Ormonde Road, Richmond, ex- 
plaining how he had happened to be sent to 
Point of Rocks — with incidental mention 
that he had long known of her having lived 




The figure moved toward the door and laid a white hand on the knob. — Page 164. 



hour trick on the instant that night and did 
the best work with the trains he had done 
since his promotion. Moreover, he found 
time to write a letter and start it at six 
o'clock that morning on Grace Swinton's 



there. And mention, too, of a broken min- 
iature and of one surviving doll that she 
might, he hoped, still be interested in. 

Inquiries mutually began could not, of 
course, be satisfied at so long distance with 



172 



The Ghost at Point of Rocks 



a single exchange of letters. When Bucks 
heard the story, he seemed more pleased 
than he ever had been with a relative in his 
life, and to Hughie's surprise, gave the six 
months' leave asked for the trip to England 
and The Knolls without a word of reproach. 



their singing; the journey made by Presi- 
dent Bucks to inspect the English railways 
and to be present at The Knolls at his 
nephew, Hughie Morrison's, wedding — 
all this would make a chapter told too of- 
ten in the traditions of the Mountain 











He adjusted and readjusted the drafts of the stove. — Page i68. 



But an account of that trip with its sur- Division. What is of importance is that 

prises, with the international complications Hughie, being now general manager of the 

that followed, with Hughie's questions as to coast lines, is stationed where his English 

whether the stars really had sung on the bride — having lived in the Rocky Moun- 

desert that night and Cxrace Swinton's de- tains as a little girl — professes to feel entirely 

nials as to ever having said anything about at home. 



LASCAR 



By Hugh Johnson 

Illustrations by N. C. Wyeth 





^^^^^SJHIS is a matter of Fort Per- 
dido routine; drill call sounds 
from headquarters and a 
leathery, gray-haired soldier, 
chiefly noticeable for his 
gaunt, unlovely mount and 
his ferocious wiretangleof mustache, trots up 
the line, leading a prancing thoroughbred; 
he halts at a set of captain's quarters, there 
is a great sound of dragging spurs, the clank 
and bang of an absurdly long sabre against 
lintel, veranda, and sidewalk, and with the 
air of a swash-buckling buccaneer, Capt. 
Wendel Benner, veteran of six campaigns 
and some thirty battles, skirmishes, and en- 
gagements, and the embodied spirit of the 
Nth United States Horse, swaggers into 
view. Tall, rangy, and gray he is, and you 
may look from him to Danvers and be con- 
vinced that long association affects mutual 
resemblance, for, from the top of their close- 
ly cropped heads to the toes of their military 
boots, they appear as a service-worn man 
and his reflection in a discriminating mirror. 
"Sir," reports the one on such occasion, 
"the captain's horse is saddled and his or- 
derly awaits instructions, "and quickly steps 
forward to take the polished stirrup. This 
action is always vehemently rebuked. 

" Out of that, my man; out of that. I do 
not require any such flunkeying service, and 
when I do I shall not attend formations." 

This is not a conversation; it is a formula 
for morning drill, and officers of the Nth 
declare that it was devised by Danvers to 
gratify the sentiment that it imputes to his 
aging captain, for they both mount with 
pathetic stiffness and trot to "L" Troop's 
parade. 

What the third member of the Nth's de- 
voted trio thinks of this morning mummery 
he does not deign to express; he stretches 
out his attenuated neck and follows rheu- 
matically in the dusty wake of the thorough- 
bred, for Lascar, too, has seen his day, and 
his escapes from Mescalero roasting fires 
are as nothing compared to his present ones 
from condemnation. 
Vol. XLIL— 20 



The Nth is full of traditions; it claims 
the wholly unauthorized privilege of yellow 
neck-scarfs and leather re-enforced riding- 
breeches, but these are so incidental to Ben- 
ner, Danvers, and Lascar as to be completely 
forgotten when the regiment is mentioned. 
They have been an integral part of it for 
time out of mind and its record would be a 
dry recital of yearly routine if stripped of the 
incidents in which they have participated. 

All this explains the interest that was dis- 
played at evening stables in the fag-end of 
an exciting pay-day. Grooming was demor- 
alized and the men were rubbing vigorously 
small sections of glossy hide that they had 
rubbed so for minutes, their eyes were fixed 
on the end of the line, where Danvers was 
caressing Lascar with picturesque terms of 
endearment. As usual, on pay-days, he was 
unobtrusively, good-naturedly drunk. 

"You ol' cabbage-nipper," he was saying, 
"I'd polish you off till a fly couldn't light on 
you 'thout slippin' an breakin' his neck, but 
the army is goin' to the dogs an' I'd be in 
the mill an' you wouldn't care a parsnip, 
you hide-boun' waggon-puller " 

The man next him gouged him in the 
ribs with his elbow. 

"Cheese it — lootenant's comin'," he 
warned. 

But Danvers had privileges and knew 
them. He raised his voice. 

"Yes, the army's goin' to the dogs, an' 
they's lettin' pasty-faced little recrootin' 
picters go a-orderin' the likes o' us about 
an' you don't seem to give a snort whether 
you're superyerorficered by a spa vined burro 
'r not, you ewe-necked ol' darlin', yovi." 

The spick-and-span creased bundle of a 
first lieutenant blushed as red as a love-ap- 
ple and turned his face away like the gen- 
erous young gentleman that he was. But 
the captain called Danvers to the orderly 
room and lectured him for the better part 
of an hour with all the pomposity that was 
his right by immemorial prescription. Af- 
ter the last pretentious sentence Danvers 
saluted with exaggerated flourish and pre- 

173 



174 



Lascar 



pared to about-face when the gray man who 
sat before him had returned it, as had been 
his custom on such too-frequent occasions. 
But the gray man was looking at him quiz- 
zically and, with more emotion than he had 
shown in some twenty years of service, 
poorly disguised by a testy growl from be- 
hind his own wire tangle that he was now 
pulling furiously, asked: 

"My man, how long is it now that I have 
coddled you along like a swaddled baby?" 
And before Danvers could speak he had 
suppl ied his own answer : ' ' Gad — it's twenty 
years — dem swaddled baby, sir — swaddled 
baby." He had a way of repeating words 
that struck him as being apt, and just now 
he was in need of expletives and talk-filling, 
for he and the regiment and Danvers knew 
of certain other coddling — respectful, dis- 
tant, disguised coddling, but coddling none 
the less. "Twenty years that you've been 
saddling my horse and making my bed" — 
and with an access of fierceness — "and 
making a disgraceful exhibition of yourself 
for two days every month. What have 
you to say for yourself? Out with it, sir." 
During an interspersion of snorting mono- 
syllables Danvers said nothing for himself, 
which was what was expected of him. 

The captain seized half the wire tangle 
between his square teeth and nearly oblit- 
erated it in his supreme effort. 

"Danvers, I'm going away from the regi- 
ment — I'm going on a four-year paymaster 
detail — Stop wriggling your fingers!" (Dan- 
vers fingers had been motionless.) " What 
I want to know is — who in the infernal is 
going to keep your dem worthless hide out 
of the Leavenworth prison?" 

It was the first time he had bandied per- 
sonalities since Recruit Danvers led his 
brand-new lieutenant's horse up the line at 
old Fort Davis for his initial drill with "L" 
Troop, and with the sudden slight paling of 
his leathery face Danvers looked shocked. 

"Sir, I — sir, the captain " he be- 
gan, but 

"Speak when you're spoken to, sir!" 
with characteristic inconsistency interrupt- 
ed him and placed them both on familiar 
ground. 

This was their complete felicitation on 
the new life of each and their final farewell. 
Danvers spoke of it once, and then it was 
mumbled into a slender, pointed ear through 
a curtain of coarse, thick mane, for in mat- 



ters pertaining to his captain he had one 
confidant. This one comforted him as he 
might and sniffed down the seam in the 
back of his khaki coat and thrust a soft 
muzzle into his pocket. 

"No, you ol' hay-mattress, I didn' bring 
you no goodies, 'ceptin' the bread a sorrow 
an' the waters a marrow, 'cause it's you to 
the bone-yard an' me to the jim-jams an' 
the army to the eternal bow^-wows — ol' cart- 
horse." Lascar rubbed his forehead on 
Danvers's breast buttons and nipped him 
gently with worn teeth in token of approval. 
"You're an unfeelin' ol' caribou, an' you 
ain't no more innards a compassion 'n a 
saw-horse," he continued, and Lascar un- 
derstood completely and nuzzled close in 
sympathy. 

The captain's fears and Danvers' pre- 
dictions were not without foundation. The 
new lieutenant had a brown Filipino mu- 
chacho, who knew the intricacies of Eng- 
lish polo-saddles and fly-books, and who 
understood the art of drawing baths and 
preparing white uniforms and laying out 
clean linen in just the right place. He was 
not above kneeling and unstrapping pigskin 
puttees from tired legs and replacing them 
with grateful cinelas and Japanese kimonos, 
and before all this Danvers's formal digni- 
fied care of an old-mannered troop com- 
mander w^as neither required nor desired. 
On the morning after his captain left he be- 
gan his first day's full duty for many a year. 
This included the abnegation of many priv- 
ileges that he had long considered rights, 
and he grumbled and grew sullen. 

Moreover, the spick-and-span lieutenant 
could never quite forget about the spavined 
burro and he was young and ambitious and 
believed that if the army lay in danger of 
immediate dissolution it would be found in 
the direction of favoritism — he had written 
a short pamphlet on this very subject, in 
fact — and he was determined in all things 
to be firm and uncompromising. In a little 
red note-book that he carried about in his 
breast pocket was an entry for the next 
I. & I. report that read: "Lascar — L. N. 
— 42, Dark chestnut; — ring-bone spavin, 
malnutrition, old," etc., etc., until the entry 
looked like a veterinarian's list of equine 
ills, for on each occasion that Danvers's 
obsessions brought him to the orderly 
room a new disability of Lascar's seemed 
to present itself to the lieutenant's mind. 



H 



Lascar 175 

When at length, the inspector did come to proud of nice flat backs and nice soldierly 

Perdido, he made short shrift of one ancient set-ups and who answered with flippancy 

troop horse. He was a broad-jawed man the questions in the frippy little non-com's 

^^ ith a high, narrow forehead and a porcine school, took occasion now to correct defi- 

eye. He glanced from the I. &. I report ciencies in Danvers's conduct as a cavalry 

to the stiff-kneed mount. trooper. It is quite true that these same 



u^ 



' H'm — ah — h'm," he commented, corporals were puling in their mothers' arms 

"What'd you keep him so long for, j\Ir. when young Danvers was riding over the 

Wunbar?" he asked suspiciously. WTiite Mountains of Arizona while "L" 

"I didn't, sir; this is Captain Benner's Troop went out on heart-breaking marches 

troop." in the wake of fantastically painted Apaches, 

"H'm — ah — h'm," he said, as a good in- and it is also true that Danvers turned on 
spector should, and he made a furious lead- them quite suddenly, to the uproarious de- 
pencilled note and looked mysterious. light of the entire troop. 

At the ensuing auction of outlaws and "Why — youpimply-face,littletinimage," 
worn-out quartermaster mules Lascar was he roared, "you herring-backed, horse- 
tied to a fence and almost forgotten. There bluffed recruit, you — you — you bot-fly, I've 
is an element of pathos in the heartless sales wore more skin off a me on my saddle 'n ud 
of service-worn animals, and a general once, make a regiment a boneless mounted ma- 
who believed and wrote and practised that rines like you, an' if you ever talk to me 
war is anything but pleasant, signed the ag'in about bein' a cavalry sodger, I'll — I'll 
most remarkable order in the files of the wipe out my carbine-bore 'uth you — that's 
Department, to his everlasting credit, be it what I'll do 'uth you." 
said, for it saved to comfortable senility a The outraged non-com, took his griev- 
mule of many battles. But there was no re- ance to his already outraged officer, and 
prieve for Lascar. The horse-traders from Danvers faced long and verbose charges. 
San Antonio and the parasites of Fort Per- "WTiy, colonel," he said in answer to 
dido glanced once along his corrugated sides questions, "I jus' couldn' help it. I'm old 
and squatted cross-legged on the ground enough to be the mother a this yere shrimp, 
while the auctioneer cried the bid of a dis- an' I c'n stan' mos' anything but bein' tol' 
reputable Mexican wood-chopper against how to sodger by them childern." 
that of a Jew peddler to the amount of seven The colonel was a new colonel who knew 
dollars and thirty-five cents, when the ped- not Danvers, and he looked at him severely 
dler shrugged his shoulders and backed off over his spectacles and sent him to the 
through the laughing circle of onlookers. guard-house, where he worked on a shift 

Sprightly young "L" Troop horses had with a colored infantr}' prisoner and a dis- 
the grace to follow him along the corral charged degenerate. Danvers was corn- 
fence as far as they could when the Mexican pletely broken, and not the least of his sor- 
was leading him toward the bridge and out rows was the lack of a thin, glossy neck for 
in the tall blue-stem that fringed the creek the feel of his arms and a soft, sensitive 
edge, a very drunk old soldier lay, face muzzle to nose in his pockets and to caress 
downward, on the earth and dug his fingers his shoulder and a ready ear in which to 
knuckle-deep into the damp sand as the pour his w^oes, for he had never told them 
'plunk — plunk — plunk" of iron-rimmed to any person else. 

hoofs hollowed from the bridge and echoed WTien his short sentence was fulfilled he 

between the stream-banks. came back to the squad-room, beat a tattoo 

If Danvers had been stripped of a certain on his locker-lid with a clubbed marching 

distinction when he retrograded from the shoe, and dared any man in the troop to 

position of captain's man to the status of speak to him or encroach on his little al- 

plain Private Danvers, whose kit was num- lotment of floor space. This was because 

bered 42, who got drunk on pay — and other Danvers was drunk — not good-naturedly 

— days, and who rode the equine hero of the and more or less wittily drunk as always 

troop, he dropped to the colorless insignifi- before, but surlily, nastily, drunk. He had 

cance of a troop scapegrace when Lascar sold the Apache war-bonnet that had hung 

was sold. above his bunk for years and was really a 

Certain boy-face corporals who were thing of value, and had received in return 



176 



Lascar 



numbers of flat flasks of poisonous white 
mescal, that he kept beneath his mattress 
cover and visited at alarming intervals. His 
gait was steady and his face pale, but the 
stuff harried up his fancies and gave him the 
brain of a sullen madman. He spoke little 
and ate nothing and his debauch had en- 
dured a week when the paymaster made 
his monthly visit to Perdido. 

It is always a season of rejoicing in the 
parasitic little Texas town, this visit — Per- 
dido's monthly harvest, they call it — and 
bad men and worse women from miles 
around come in to gather the gleanings. 
There was wild revelry for two days at this 
one. The thirteen "saloons and dance- 
halls" glared with lights. Dishonest little 
balls that clattered around alluringly num- 
bered circles, bowls that spun out the re- 
sults of perennial races between crudely 
painted horses on an oil-cloth table-top, 
faro, and monte were the instruments, and 
barefaced chicanery was the spirit by which 
Fort Perdido soldiery was stripped of its 
month's wage. Now, in the days of the de- 
cent canteen — But, no matter. 

Into the towai came Danvers, unusually 
drunk and more than unusually taciturn. 
The boy-faced corporal had mistaken surly 
silence for wordless penitence, but Danvers 
was not troubled by remorse. He played 
monte without method or reason and he 
cashed in a pile of chips whose size caused 
the cashier to gasp with amazement. Cred- 
ulous recruits opened wide eyes and handed 
over their pathetic dollars so eagerly that 
the monte dealer had difficulty in receiving 
all of them, but managed it with an effort. 
There was one little contretemps while 
Danvers played. The man who stood next 
him had seen his hairy hand shoot across 
the table and grasp the wrist of the brazen 
youth who dealt. 

"Don't you try that on me, you haoun," 
he hoarsed, and beneath his grip an unac- 
counted card fluttered to the table. In- 
formation as to this occurrence relieved the 
mind of the perplexed cashier, but conveyed 
no ideas to the recruits. 

When morning came Danvers was gone 
and the boy-faced corporal spoke feelingly 
to the lieutenant. Danvers's most service- 
able clothes were not in his locker. The 
Morning Report said "absent without 
leave," but " L " Troop confidentially whis- 
pered "desertion" and the spick-and-span 



lieutenant could not fight completely off a 
feeling strangely like remorse. 

Capt. Wendel Benner is famous in the 
army as an officer of cavalry, but even he 
will admit that he is emphatically not a pay- 
master. His accounts for the first month 
cost him more than six of his own vouchers 
represented, and though the General and 
the entire Department Staff revelled in late 
office-hours, at six each morning his eyes 
popped open very much as they had done 
for the preceding twenty years, and no 
amount of tossing about on his bed would 
induce them to pop shut again. If he rose 
he was lonesome, and if he continued to toss 
he was miserable. He could plainly hear 
the service trumpet calls in the cavalry post 
across the wall, and they kept him in a state 
of nervous expectancy for something that 
never, by any chance, happened. What 
was truly the reason for all this, and what 
he would not have admitted for great mon- 
eys was that he missed the sound of horses' 
feet at his front door and the rusty voice and 
stilted actions of a certain old trooper very 
delicately, very formally, and yet withal, 
most lovingly assuring him that he was still 
young and active and that, after all, the new 
and annoying vagaries of an ambitious 
young army he was still the Wendel Benner 
of the Nth, United States Horse. 

He fumed through the first month and 
blustered through the second; before the 
end of the third he wrote a jerky, impera- 
tive letter and demanded to be relieved. It 
went ricocheting up the usual bone-dry 
channels and the chief of each successive 
office grew angrv as he read the bombastic, 
heavily written sentences searched furiously 
for the signature of one who had so pre- 
sumed, found it, sighed gently and smiled, 
as he wrote what each chief before him had 
written. On a certain December morning 
when the air was crisp with winter and good- 
will, an erstwhile paymaster of the Depart- 
ment of the Shoshone said his good-bys to 
grinning young aides and patronizing de- 
partment chiefs and caught the earliest 
train he knew for Perdido and the grum- 
bling, happy life he loved. 

Early trains are sometimes disappointing. 
Benner's was side-tracked at a little station 
on the Rio Grande and the conductor dared 
teU him that it would be there for hours. 
He was singularly resigned; on the south- 



r 



'•■Twl 




;iSifi?SS?S&V 




The Captain and Danvers. — Page 173. 



ern trip from California an officer of the 
old army is apt not to grudge the loss of 
hours promised by the too-sanguine sched- 
ule. From his car window he can see Fort 
Bliss and the ragged jumble of peaked blue 
hills toward Huachuca. There is the Lang- 
trv of Rov Bean and the streaked water- 
tank that stood like a harbinger of hope in 
the dreariness of the early Apache wars. If 
there were nothing else, there is the great 
parched waste itself, where he and the men 
who were dearer to him than brothers suf- 
fered and were glad together, and he is 
prone to people it with phantom guidons 
and dusty troops that trot strangely by the 
train-side and look in at him and smile. 
Benner had sat long at the car-windows 
with tilted cap and far-away eyes, and now 
he looked across at the barren sky-line of 
Mexico and saw that it had changed not at 
all in so many years. He remembered in- 
timate little things that had transpired at this 
very station, and was content. 

There was a flaring poster on an unpaint- 
ed wall that told in glowing terms of a f.csta 
in the Mexican town across the river, and 
in the boldest type of all stood out the magic 
name of "Chico," cspada grande of Mex- 
ico and darling of admiring hearts from 
Vol. XLIL— 21 



Yucatan to the river. It was to be a mar- 
vellous fight, four-bulls-four, and the poster 
spoke volumes for Yankee influence. Ben- 
ner grinned at it; he knew all about these 
border bull fights, but— well, the time mvist 
be passed somehow, and — oh, yes — he won- 
dered if Antoine, ISIexican-Frenchman of 
other days, still ruled the straggling, dirty 
town from his greasv bar in the market. 
That knowledge alone was worth while, and 
he crossed the bridge. 

Antoine was there. The day was swelter- 
ing, even for ^lexican December, but in 
his seal-skin cap, his flowered waistcoat, and 
wine-flecked expanse of shirt-front, he was 
the same Antoine ; he prevaricated gracious- 
ly and remembered Benner, parjaitment. 
The bull-fight — oh, we old ones, we know. 
But certainly, if the Senor Captain wished 
it, he would go with miicJw gusto. 

The rickety, wooden amphitheatre was 
packed to overflowing with Vjrown-skinned 
enthusiasts, who kept silent only while the 
asthmatic band of the Such-and-Such Regi- 
ment blew jumbled notes from their highly 
tarnished instruments and drowned human 
opposition. The weazened, bemedalled 
chief musician bowed extravagantly at each 
momentary breathing space, whether the 

177 



178 



Lascar 



crowd cheered or not, and the assemblage 
was thoroughly and odoriferously Mexican. 
The ring was small, and even here w^ere 
signs of Americanization : on the wooden 
shields that announced to frenzied bull or 
fleeting toreador that Jose Pradillo, beyond 
shadow of doubt, held for sale the most su- 
perlative stock of general merchandise in the 
entire ciudad, and that he and his entire fam- 
ily were at the disposition of Ustedes. Ben- 
ner's seats were umbra and fifty centavos 
more convenient than the sol ones at his feet. 

The long, preliminary wait served a pur- 
pose that is neither necessary nor desirable 
in the States, but that is admirably fitted to 
such gatherings as this, for it is designed 
and executed to make the crowd savage and 
blood-thirsty and thus indirectly add to 
their enjoyment of the spectacle. The cries 
of ■' £/ toro " had almost drowned the band 
and Benner was completely disgusted when 
a betasselled bandsman arose under the ad- 
miring gaze of the shouting rabble and blew 
a rusty note on a trumpet as long as a coach- 
horn. An answering trumpet blared, the 
entrance doors flew wide, and into the sand- 
covered arena, bowing carelessly to the un- 
restrained and garlic-scented applause of 
the standing populace, stepped the redoubt- 
able and unscathed Chico. Behind him 
trooped the handallcros, in blue and white 
and gold, and last of all, on the pitiful 
horses of the combate del toro, rode the gaudy 
picadors. 

Around and around the ring they trooped, 
and round after round of applause rivalled 
those that had gone before until the espada 
and his picadors trooped out and at inter- 
vals in the ring, nodding graciously to proud 
acquaintances in the stadium, stood the 
white-stockinged bandelleros. 

The trumpet sounded again, again the 
gates flew wide, the crowd screamed with 
delight and anticipation, and dazed, per- 
plexed, and thoroughly frightened, the first 
of the vaunted four-bulls-four carromed into 
the ring. He followed the high fence around, 
looking wildly for an opening, as he would 
have done in his native corral. He sniffed 
suspiciously at the wooden shields and made 
his way back to the gate, where he stood 
looking through the bars expectantly, with 
switching tail and wide eyes, waiting for 
them to open. 

" Coward !" shrieked the crowd, and hisses 
and groans made up the general uproar. 



"Poltroon!" they yelled, and fantastic in- 
genuity devised anathemas of all degrees 
for the shaming of a brute. 

A cautious bandaUero crept up beside him, 
quietly unfurling his purple cloak. Sud- 
denly, with swift legs, he rushed on and past 
the bull, flaunted the cloth in his face and 
blinded him. The great head flew up and 
caught the folds upon polished horns, and 
for the first time the bull evidenced spirit. 
He pawed the annoyance into the loose sand, 
and when his eyes were clear of their ob- 
struction he stood facing a more ambitious 
youth who held his gaudy bandaUeros above 
his head, stamped his foot in jota style, and 
made alluring motions with his arms. Him 
the beast charged madly, but the promise of 
placed darts was not fulfilled, and with wide 
margin of safety, the youth fled to a shield 
that splintered before the impact of fine 
black horns. 

Before the bull could turn another of his 
tormentors dashed past, and as he ran thrust 
with both hands two festooned darts deep 
into the already heaving shoulders of the 
excited beast. A grunt of astonishment and 
pain gave evidence of success, and the crowd 
cheered nastily. The bull was active now 
— fresh and angry, and the toreadors played 
the sportless game with skill, for at great dis- 
tances they flaunted him, tempted him to 
rush madly on hopeless chases, always tak- 
ing refuge behind the many shields, and 
never for one instant risking danger. As 
the beast grew tired under these constant 
efforts and seemed to become aware of their 
futility, the bandaUeros grew bolder. They 
even faced him as he stood with lowered 
head and bloodshot eyes, swaying from side 
to side in rhythmic anger; they aUowed him 
to charge them heavily while they swept 
swiftly aside, leaving needlessly cruel darts 
deep in his ensanguined shoulders. 

Here is the one period of besmirched 
magnificence in the entire brutal atavism, 
and here only is adduced from Saxon 
spirit any other sensation than that of help- 
less — stiflingly helpless — loathing anger. 
The great gory head, the unflinching red- 
rimmed eye, the heaving shoulders of power, 
and the sight of the dauntless, lumbering 
brute himself, fighting heavily, but without 
one single flaw of cowardice, absolutely 
against hope — all this is admirable, but 
beyond this single period the studied deg- 
radation of it is beyond belief, and this 




^ 



It was mumbled into a slender, pointed ear. — Page 174. 



view is singularly incongruous to the true 
spirit of the combate del toro. For from this, 
through the disgusting minutes when the 
bull is forced to the ghastly mutilation of 
helpless horses, to the final instant of su- 
preme cowardice,when the blood-mad crowd 
loses all control and screams with aban- 
doned cruelty, '' Al miierte! Al miiertef" 
while the dauntless espada thrusts his fine, 
sharp blade into the quivering lungs of the 



thoroughly exhausted and quite helpless in- 
vincible, the alien to the blood revel, if 
numbed by horror in his seat, can only clench 
his helpless hands and hope that a blazing 
earth might o]jen and engulf the revellers. 
The weazened little bandsman kept his 
cruel, expert eyes on the strainedfaces about 
him, and he knew the exact moment to put 
an end to this, which is really but a prepara- 
tory stage for the spectacle to follow. He 

179 



180 



Lascar 



trumpeted once more, and once more the 
gates were thrown wide. The commotion 
in the entrance lasted but a second, then, 
spurred furiously by the iron-encased legs 
of their thoroughly protected riders, the 
pitiful victims of brutality hobbled into the 
arena and were guided to posts on opposite 
sides of the ring. 

Benner had not seen such horses or 
dreamed that such existed. Necks so thin 
and devoid of muscle that the vertebras 
showed plainly in relief, hip and stifle bones 
so close to the surface of the crackling skin 
that the protuberances were capped by fear- 
ful abrasions; simply skeletons, they seemed 
— skeletons with a shrivelled covering of 
parchment. They staggered and swayed 
beneath the weight of their armored riders, 
and the painful hobble that the long, sharp 
spurs adduced was a final effort. The bull 
gazed from one to the other in apparent 
amazement and made no move toward them, 
but the handalleros were clever. By well- 
judged runs from the lumbering charges of 
the exhausted brute they left him non- 
plussed within reach of the shining spear 
of one of the picadors, and the spear licked 
out and stung the quivering and abraded 
shoulder. What happened on the instant 
Benner did not see; he was strangely fas- 
cinated by the mount of the other picador. 
This horse had shown a modicum of spirit; 
with a grotesque movement of his head, 
rebelling at the eye-bandage and speaking 
of former mettle, he had displaced the an- 
noyance and was actually fretting with the 
bit. This alone was remarkable, but the 
gait, the carriage, the flattening of the ears, 
all fascinated him. and his accustomed eye 
read a similarity in conformation to some 
horse he had seen, or ridden, or lost money 
on, and it was with difficulty that he looked 
away even when the strangely human, shiv- 
ering cry from the other side of the ring 
startled him into horror. He looked across, 
and with every countryman in the stadium 
gripped the boards beneath him to save 
himself from wild indiscretion and his teeth 
bit blood from his trembling lip. Strangely 
still under the breathless silence of the place, 
though speaking of fearful potentialitv in 
every vibrant line, the great straining bull 
and the anguished horse formed a quivering 
group like a horror in sculptured stone. The 
massive head of the bull seemed fixed be- 
neath the body of the dying brute and the 



heaving effort of the great neck muscles was 
apparent. What held the crowd in strained 
anticipation ended in incongruous bathos, 
but the momentary picture, the dying brutes, 
with the scared white face of the thoroughly 
frightened picador above, will remain with 
Benner long. Suddenly the strained mus- 
cles relaxed, the great head came away al- 
most gently, sullen drops of sluggish blood 
coursed down the sleek black horns into the 
bull's eyes, and as the crowd broke forth in 
cheers, attendants rushed forth to stanch 
the ghastly wound and prop the suffering 
beast up to receive one more attack. Their 
efforts were in vain. Very quietly the stiff 
knees crumpled,the withered muzzle lurched 
forward to the sand, and with scarcely a 
sound, the suffering horse fell dead. A red- 
haired farmer-boy who sat next Benner and 
who was one of a San Antonio excursion, 
reached out and gripped his knee all uncon- 
sciouslv. His face was half turned toward 
Benner, and it was innocent as a cherub's, 
but black curses came from the fresh lips in 
a dreary monotone, like the voice of a man 
under an anaesthetic, and Benner winced 
under the spasmodic grip and realized why 
he held himsel} in his seat. The crowd was 
crying for the other horse, and the bull need- 
ed no urging. The bandage had been quite 
displaced and, to the screaming delight of 
the audience, the horse leaped stiffly aside 
and escaped the first awkward charge. But 
it was not a fight ; there was no single chance 
for the starved brute, and the picador fought 
his pitiful effort with bit and spur. He suc- 
ceeded in turning the stubborn head away, 
and as the bull came on he deliberately 
forced a flank to the attack and raised his 
own leg from the way of harm. It was a 
glancing blow and scarcely ripped the hide, 
but just here the rash impulse in every hor- 
rified breast was incarnated, and even life in 
the ring was stilled by a wild scream that 
rose in the shrill treble of rage from the top- 
most tier of seats, shrilled out a frenzied jar- 
gon, and died away in inadequacy. 

"Las'." it screamed. "O Las — my God 
— Lascar!" 

A raging madman in ill-fitting civilian 
clothes was coming like an avalanche down 
the steps of people, striking, fighting, and 
kicking. He forced an open way before him 
and was in the ring before the swarthy po- 
lice could raise a hand. He rushed to the 
bleeding shoulder and his hand shot up and 







Drawn by N. C. ll'ycth. 



He was actually fretting with the bit. — Page i8o. 




I'raiun Oy .V. L. U'ycl/t. 

He thrust a dirty, crumpled wad of bills into the gasping mouth. — Page 183. 



Mortimers Failure 



183 



picked the startled rider from his seat; as 
though he had been an unclean insect, 
he was fairly hurled to the ground. The 
arms of the man were about the horse's 
neck and he was murmuring unspeakable 
curses, jumbled with the tenderest endear- 
ments of an imaginative lover. He kicked 
the gates apart, and at sight of the wildly 
gesticulating master of ceremonies his un- 
controlled madness flared up again. He 
seized the man beneath his drooping jaws 
with fingers that fairly bit the flesh and he 
thrust a dirty, crumpled wad of bills into 
the gasping mouth with his bare fist. 

"You'll take fifty dollars for this horse," 
he jibbered in unintelligible English and 
he hurtled the writhing body against the 
plank wall with crushing force. 

In the street, of course, they seized him, 



fighting tigerishly. Had it been in the ring 
they would have torn him to shreds, but 
some hundreds of Texan excursionists had 
trooped out of the stadium, and they stood 
about the police in a silently ugly group. 
They are tall, gaunt men, these West-Tex- 
ans, and their faces are hard and not at all 
good to look at. Danvers went to jail with 
little grace. 

Antoine makes alcaldes and various city 
jejes and unmakes them, and in the early 
morning hours the hinges of the carcel 
doors creaked and out on the long bridge 
the customs officers stopped a strange pro- 
cession of a very erect gray man in very neat 
civilian clothes, a very erect gray man not 
in very neat civilian clothes, and a limping 
travesty of a raw-boned horse, whose future 
stretches out in a vista of happy, happy days. 



MORTIMER'S FAILURE 

By Jesse Lynch Williams 



Illustration by F. C. Yohn 




^^^^^^^HE extraordinaryplot against 
Mortimer Billings's wife was 
planned and executed by 
Biflings himself; but Sharpe 
was responsible for it, 
Sharpe, the famous neurolo- 
gist, upon whom the husband, in desper- 
ation, had called late one afternoon, follow- 
ing a hard day, by no means unsuccessful, 
in Wall Street. 

ACT I 

"The whole secret of your wife's trou- 
ble," said the physician glibly, a dapper 
little man, with an engaging smile and mild 
blue eyes — but they saw everything — "lies 
in the simple fact that she has everything 
and does nothing." He paused to see what 
the husband thought of that. 

"Humph," said Bilhngs. He did not 
think much of it. 

"And such a departure from the natural 
state," the famous physician continued im- 
perturbably, "namely, that of having noth- 
ing and doing everything, is entirely too 



wide for any product of nature to stand, 
even the most civflized. It is abnormal. 
It is wrong. Hence it brings its victims to 
an abnormal condition of mind and body, 
illustrating one of the phases of what I call, 
borrowing the nomenclature of another 
science, 'the point of diminishing returns' 
of civilization." 

"But what I left my office early to-day 
to find out," interrupted the husband, "is 
what is the matter with my wife." Billings 
was a busy man, a practical man, a man of 
large affairs; he did not seem to hang upon 
the utterances of physicians, even famous 
specialists, with the awed respect mani- 
fested by the latter's female callers. 

" And I am telling you," returned Sharpe 
blandly, for he in turn was not particularly 
impressed by the presence of a famous cap- 
italist; he dealt largely in men of affairs, 
quite as many of his patients being men 
who did too much as women who did too 
little. "There is, I assure you, Mr. Bill- 
ings, nothing in the world seriously the mat- 
ter with your wife — except the most serious 
thing imaginable in a world made by and 




Drawn by /•'. C. Yolin. 



Mrs. Billings's husband had not enjoyed hauling dirt. — Page 191. 



Mortimer's Failure 



185 



for work. Effort, struggle, absorption in 
something outside of oneself; it is the law 
of this whirling universe." He paused im- 
pressively. "Mr. Billings, your wife is 
breaking that law every moment of her idle 
existence." Then he smiled and added, 
with a good-fellow manner, which the other 
liked better: "Of course, lean turn on a 
shower of technical terms, if you prefer, 
about hypochondriacs, neurasthenia, and 
all that. But you, I thought, would like 
the simple truth." 

"Cut out the technical terms," said Bill- 
ings, also smiling a little. " Only the truth 
is, my wife hasn't a lazy bone in her body. 
There are plenty of things she wants to do 
— if she were only well enough." 

" On the contrary," corrected the famous 
specialist, shaking his head authoritative- 
ly, "she would be well enough if she only 
had to do them — whether she wanted to 
or not." 

With this he paused, and genially re- 
turned Billings's scrutiny, each taking the 
other's measure of personality, so to speak, 
each respecting the other a little more, 
perhaps. 

The physician proceeded: "Now if your 
wife only had a half dozen children to 
worry about " 

"As there are no children," interrupted 
Billings, "suppose we leave them out of the 
question." He turned his gaze out of the 
window. It was a sore point; Billings was 
a fat, domestic man. 

The mild blue eyes took in all this. Al- 
so the neurologist perceived that he had to 
do with a devoted husband; this always 
complicated a case unfortunately. "Your 
wife," resumed the physician more sym- 
pathetically, "has an active mind." 

"She has a splendid mind," emphasized 
the husband. 

"Precisely; but of the type which, when 
not drawn out upon something else, turns 
in upon itself, like millstones which have 
no grist to grind." 

"And what I want to know," insisted the 
man of action, "is what I'm going to do 
about it. I've tried travel, baths. X-rays, 
massage, vibration, osteopathy — I've even 
tried Christian Science and mental healing. 
I have done everything for her!" 

"Ah, Mr. Billings, that is just it," re- 
turned the physician; "you've done every- 
thing for her — what has she done for you ?" 
Vol. XLII.— 23 



"For me?" repeated the husband, as if 
puzzled. "Didn't she marry me?" 

It came out so naively, and the implica- 
tion was so clearly, "Isn't that enough?" 
that the physician answered it. "No," he 
said, with his engaging smile; "permit me 
to express the opinion that it is not enough ; 
and there is no place on earth where it is 
considered enough, except here in this big, 
boyish, overgrown, newly rich nation you 
and I are so proud of. Look at the large 
responsibilities of a French family; look at 
the exacting duties of an English lady — so- 
cial exactions they may be, enjoyable they 
sometimes are, but she has to get up out of 
bed and meet them." The physician em- 
phasized this with a slap on his desk. 

"My wife," returned Billings, "has too 
much intelligence, too fine a spirit to be 
satisfied with a social career. She long 
since tired of the game." 

"Precisely; and was not compelled by 
circumstances, hers or yours, to keep it up 
whether satisfied or not. In this country un 
fortunately, a woman's career has little or 
nothing to do with her husband's. Social 
life is merely a game to throw over at will if 
it doesn't amuse. Well," he added inquir- 
ingly, "she next took up fads, I presume." 

"O Lord! all sorts of fads," smiled Bil- 
lings. The two men were now getting along 
very well together. 

"And abandoned each in turn when the 
novelty wore off ? " 

Billings hesitated. "She could not help 
laughing at the strenuosity of her fellow- 
faddists," was his way of putting it. 

"I see," said the expert, "and there was 
no way of compelling her to follow up her 
fads, whether absurd or not?" 

"Doctor," said Billings whimsically, "I 
could hardly compel her to lilt Irish poetry 
unless she felt like it." 

"Quite so," said the physician, smiling; 
and then after a pause : " Mr, Billings, your 
wife, before her marriage — had she not been 
thrown on her own resources at one time ? " 

Billings explained that when she was 
about twenty years old her father had failed 
and died; she, like the plucky girl she was, 
had sprung into the breach with much of 
father's former spirit, and had supported, 
not only herself, but her broken-hearted 
mother. "I had known her father, and 
this was what first called my attention to 
her," said Billings, sighing at the recollec- 



186 



Mortimer's Failure 



tion of the animated loveliness, the ener- 
getic grace, the efficient poise of the radiant 
girl he had wooed. " For a while she wanted 
to keep on with her work. That was my 
most serious rival." Billings laughed con- 
sciously. "But of course I wouldn't hear 
of it," he added. 

' * Why not ? " Sharpe asked it in the most 
matter-of-fact manner. 

Billings looked up to see whether he was 
really in earnest; he seemed to be. "Why, 
doctor," was the reply, "she's my wife." 

The physician opened his mouth to an- 
swer, but closed it again and merely looked 
professionally inscrutable, a look which 
even the youngest members of his profes- 
sion acquire early in their careers. He 
knew how powerless was science when pit- 
ted against sentiment. Was it worth while 
trying any longer to convince this generous, 
hard-working American husband that his 
conception of a spouse's duty toward his 
wife was as thoughtlessly cruel in practice 
as it was thoughtfully kind in intention? 
And yet this good man considered himself 
"practical," prided himself upon bringing 
his mate all the benefits of an enlightened 
civilization ! In effect, the relations of this 
pair were neither practical nor civilized — so 
it seemed to this man of science, who kept 
an eye on other sciences than his own. The 
instinct of protection remained from a 
rougher age; but reciprocal responsibilities 
on the part of the woman had been smoothed 
away now that the age and their circum- 
stances were no longer rough. Conse- 
quently, in the case of this wife, since noth- 
ing in the way of any other duty had been 
substituted, the resulting relation was more 
like that of a man and his mistress than a 
marriage of equals in a highly organized 
state of society, facing the world together 
as hfe partners, dividing the burdens and 
problems as well as sharing the luxuries of 
existence. The chief difference (from every 
point of view except religion and sociology) 
was that the so-called moral relation was a 
good deal worse — this woman was not im- 
pelled to exert herself to retain her luxuries; 
they were her legal rights, not merely his 
devoted favors. So it was no wonder that 
life together was becoming rather a wreck. 
Also it was no wonder that the scientist had 
closed his mouth abruptly, and now took 
another tack. 

"Mr. Billings, during these last three 



years," he inquired, for hefound the Socratic 
method the best for handling practical men 
accustomed to doing their own thinking, 
"since your wife became an invalid has she 
never come out from her mist of self -absorp- 
tion, her nervous inertia?" 

"Frequently," Billings assured him; "but 
less frequently each year." 

"Symptomatic," nodded the physician; 
"but I mean, more than for those brief pe- 
riods. Has she ever given signs of coming 
all the way out ? Of being her old, efficient 
self, able to make decisions without wor- 
rying, vigorous, buoyant, happily active." 

"Yes, once." Billings hesitated. "When 
her mother died. Sounds strange, I sup- 
pose." 

"To you, perhaps — not to me." 

" But — I have never seen a more devoted 
daughter. She had supported her mother, 
you know; and that had brought them very 
close together. I thought it would kill her." 

"And instead it made her live, for the 
time being?" 

"Well, I thought she was merely showing 
her nerve and would collapse after the fu- 
neral; but no, that girl still insisted upon 
overseeing everything herself. She wouldn't 
even let me attend to the notes of acknowl- 
edgment; I can see her now, writing away 
with the tears rolling down her cheeks, lean- 
ing back so they wouldn't drop on the pa- 
per — she writes very individual notes. She 
even took a hand in designing the lettering 
on the vault — she has an artistic bent, you 
know — and through the whole thing she 
somehow seemed not only well and strong, 
but, in a certain sense, though broken- 
hearted, she seemed' " 

"Happy?" 

"Well, I wouldn't like to say happy 
exactly." 

"No; of course you wouldn't; we are 
all such conventional cowards. We often 
think ourselves unnatural when we are only 
natural." 

"Humph," said Billings sardonically; "if 
her mother's taking away could do all that, 
I suppose you will tell me next that her 
husband's death would affect a perma- 
nent cure." 

"By no means, Mr. Billings. A serious 
illness on your part might go a long way to- 
ward it, but I fear a widow of yours would 
be left entirely too solvent to recover. On 
the contrary, she would relapse after a little 



Mortimer's Failure 187 

into a more permanent patient than ever; large interests involved, the half-finished 

unless," added the expert, " her second hus- undertakings, the great dreams and plans 

band married her for her money and devel- for opening up new sections of the country, 

oped into a scamp, an invalid, or — a father." the development of vast industries, and the 

Billings remarked parenthetically that he wreck and ruin that would be caused by 

had not expressed any immediate intention such a chimerical decision, such quixotic 

of dying for his wife. "Ah," pursued the action? The physician considered himself 

physician, with the gleam of an idea in his a humanitarian, and doubtless there was 

eyes, "but you would be willing to make a much to his credit on that score, thought 

few sacrifices — to give up a few luxuries?" Billings; but he did all his work on indi- 

"What are 'luxuries' to me? Country vidual organisms, and so did not consider 

places I can't use — too far from your office, the point of view of humanity at large, 

sir; a yacht I dare not sail — she worries Every specialized vision of life, whether 

about me; horses I can't ride; cars I can't commercial, scientific, or artistic, has its 

drive; and a home — well, doctor, if you Blind-spot. 

cure my wife you can have my house for a "Doctor," said Billings, with a gesture 

hospital; it's practically one already." of impatience, "what you propose is ab- 

"But I can't cure your wife," returned surd. It's out of the question." 

Sharpe suddenly. "Mr. Billings," said the other, quickly 

"Then you give it up, after all?" assuming the jocular note; " that is my only 

"But you can." prescription. But it will cure." 

"I! how can I?" "Doctor," said the caller, suavely re- 

"You won't do it, though, I've tried sponding to the jocular; "that may be 

other husbands." true; but I'll be damned if I do it," and he 

"You might try me," said Billings. arose to go. 

The doctor leaned forward. "Jump "And, Mr. Billings," replied the physi- 

over to the wrong side of the market — cian accompanying him to the door, "you'll 

smash your business — fail! " be damned if you don't. So there we are — 

The two men confronted each other a where we started out! I perceive that I 
moment in silence. Presently Billings, con- shall continue to have the pleasure of treat- 
vinced by the other's eye that he actually ing Mrs. Billings. I bid you good after- 
meant the thing he said, smiled indulgently, noon, sir," and they parted with unexpressed 
"Doctor," he remarked, "you don't realize sentiments of mutual contempt, as the next 
what you are proposing." caller was shown in. 

"Mr. Billings," was the reply, "I realize 

that there is one thing even the most de- ACT II 
voted husbands are more devoted to than 

their wives — their work." Mrs. Billings and her appendages oc- 

"It's my life," said Billings. cupied the floor above the beautiful but now 

"It's your wife's death," said the phy- useless Empire drawing-room. The care- 

sician; "her living death." fully selected chintzes of her boudoir, like 

The financier opened his mouth to speak, the wall coverings of the rest of her suite, 
but closed it again somewhat after the man- had been removed, because she could not 
ner of the man of science a few moments stand the irrevocable recurrence of designs, 
before — and, curiously enough, for a not Dull-colored cartridge paper had been sub- 
dissimilar reason. He felt the futility of ex- stituted for a while; but the regularity of 
plaining to this well-meaning but narrow- the joints where the rolls slightly over- 
minded specialist the consequences of the lapped soon attracted attention to them- 
stupendous act of folly and wickedness he selves and got on her nerves, so in turn the 
proposed. No matter what Billings might paper was scraped off and the bare walls 
say, the physician would believe that the were tinted a neutral gray, which served the 
mere loss of money, of power, of prestige, purpose rather well, except for a speck or 
caused the hesitancy. What could this im- two, which she tried to endure with forti- 
practical little man who dealt in death and tude. All the pictures and "pretty things" 
disease know of the consequence to others which she had once cherished had made 
of the failure of Mortimer Billings. — the way for glass-topped tables and white enam- 



188 



Mortimer's Failure 



eled affairs, like a hospital. Nearly all the 
furnishings were washable, and gave forth 
a faint odor of carbolic acid. The thought 
of germs was one of the things which got on 
the poor lady's nerves. 

Noises, naturally, were another. There 
were double doors, somewhat hke those of 
a telephone booth, and double-sashed win- 
dows, hermetically sealed to keep out the 
noise and germs of the street. Billings had 
installed, at great expense, the most mod- 
ern fresh-air system of flues, the air being 
drawn down from the roof to the basement, 
screened through silk, warmed over one set 
of coils or cooled over another, according to 
the automatic thermostat, which worked 
without any audible click. When Billings, 
who was usually allowed to visit his wife 
once a day, sometimes twice, wanted to 
light his cigar he had to go downstairs to 
strike a match. This was not much of a 
hardship, because, as his wife pointed out, 
he could always light his first one before 
starting upon the expedition to her rooms, 
and his second from the first, the stump of 
number one being escorted from the apart- 
ment by a maid summoned by the nurse. 
The difficult problem was to get into the 
room without startling Mrs. Billings, who 
couldn't stand being startled. Entering 
the room silently without being announced 
was very bad; knocking on the door was, 
of course, worse. So Billings had installed 
a silent indicator upon which the nurse was 
accustomed to gaze at certain agreed-upon 
hours. Then she would say, in a very soft, 
unstartling voice, "Mr. Billings is now en- 
tering the elevator on the ground-floor, and 
will be standing outside of the door in a 
moment. Shall I let him in?" 

This afternoon — it was a few minutes 
after his talk with the physician — Mrs. 
BiUings let him in at once. Sometimes he 
was allowed to wait a while and look at the 
blank walls of the hall. This time he had 
kept the nurse waiting staring at the an- 
nunciator for nearly an hour, while his 
wife became nervous. 

"Mor-timer! how could you?" she be- 
gan chidingly in the thin, spiritless drawl 
of the expert invalid, her eyelids drooping. 
"Why didn't you tell me you were going to 
be late ? I was so upset I couldn't take my 
nap." One could see that she was very 
sorry for herself, and anyone but the man 
who loved her would have been exasper- 



ated with her. She had a wan beauty in 
the delicate regularity of feature, and he was 
sorry for her, too. That had been one of 
the great troubles — he was too sympathetic 
and indulgent. 

Mortimer had closed the door softly, and 
now crossed the room with the quiet step he 
had learned by experience to adopt. "I 
was unavoidably detained, Clara, dear." 

"Not at the office?" 

"Yes,, at the office." He did not say 
whose office. 

His wife looked more offended. "Miss 
Hudson telephoned twice; they said you 
had gone! I think it's outrageous! You 
must have that telephone girl discharged 
to-morrow." 

"Very well, dear; very well," said Mor- 
timer abstractedly, for he had something 
on his mind. 

"I kept seeing them bear your dead 
body home on a stretcher. It was terrible. 
It has put me back three days." She was 
fond of her husband and leaned upon him. 

"Oh, no, Mrs. Billings," put in Miss 
Hudson, the nurse, cheerily — perhaps be- 
cause leaving the room for her hour's rel- 
axation out of doors. 

"You don't know anything about it. 
Miss Hudson," said the invalid, and add- 
ed to her husband as the door, very softly, 
closed. "That woman is like a stone; she's 
not in the least sympathetic or interested 
in me." 

"I'll speak to her," said Mortimer 
abstractedly. 

"Oh, no, no, no; you would be sure to 
hurt her feelings. Promise me you won't." 

"All right, then, I won't speak to her." 

"Mortimer, you're keeping something 
from me," his wife resumed irritably; "you 
know how it puts me back to be teased." 

"Clara, dear," he replied in a grave 
manner, "prepare yourself." 

"Now, Mortimer! don't tell me any bad 
news — I can't stand anything more to-day," 
she declared positively. 

"I'm afraid you'll have to, Clara." 

"You're not going to take me South 
again ? I won't go." She seemed almost 
in a panic about it. 

"It's worse than that, Clara." 

"Mortimer!" She was now feeling her 
pulse. "Your sister is coming to visit us 
again!" 

"No, my dear," he replied with a slight 



Mortimer's Failure 



189 



smile; "there's no danger of her wanting 
to come here again." 

" Then what is it, Mortimer! Don't you 
see how you're upsetting me ? Can't you 
think of me a Uttle?" 

"Clara, have you read the evening 



:>" 



papers , 

"You know I never read the horrid 
papers." 

He did know it; he was relying upon it. 
"I'm afraid you must this time." He 
brought forth the Evening Post. 

"Don't," she shuddered; "don't let it 
rustle!" 

"Look at this: P. and H. has dropped 
eight points. Do you know what that 
means to me?" As a matter of fact and 
financial history it meant that Billings and 
his associates had at last secured the long- 
desired outlet for their ore, but Mortimer 
was an experienced bluffer. 

The expression on his face startled her 
out of her supine self -absorption. She sud- 
denly sat up, rigidly erect. " Quick, what is 
it? " she cried. 

"It means," he declared in low, measured 
tones, simulating despair, "that I am on the 
wrong side of the market — that my business 
is smashed ! That I have failed, am ruined ! " 

He turned his face away as if to hide his 
grief, though really it was to avoid the look 
of horror in her wide-open eyes. He re- 
treated across the room, flung himself upon 
a lounge, and buried his face in his hands, 
muttering in broken accents: "My dreams, 
my half-finished undertakings — gone, all 
gone! My Hfe is wrecked!" 

Bedridden patients who have not touched 
foot to the floor in months have been known 
in case of fire to rush to the rescue of their 
children; it was with this same primal in- 
stinct, the maternal instinct of protection, 
that Mortimer Billings's wife flew across 
the room to her prostrate spouse, gathered 
his poor, bowed head to her bosom, and 
thinking now only of him, cried in vi- 
brant tones: "My poor, dear boy! My 
poor, dear boy!" 

ACT III 

The first question to decide, now that 
they were penniless, was where they were 
to live; and Billings told his wife that she 
would have to decide it. Following the 
first galvanic rally a reaction threatened; 



Mrs. BiUings seemed inclined to slump into 
hopeless apathy. "I'll go wherever you say, 
IMortimer," she answered with a wan smile. 
" I don't care where we live." One cannot 
be cured overnight, even of imaginary ills 
and their effects. 

"But you've got to care; you've got to 
say," declared Mortimer firmly. " Haven't I 
enough on my mind meeting my creditors ?" 

He seemed almost unkind, and this was 
so astonishingly unusual that she was on 
the verge of one of her old hysterical turns, 
until catching sight of his face working con- 
vulsively, and thinking of all he had been 
through, she straightway stopped thinking 
about herself. "Poor old Mortimer," she 
said, patting his arm; "of course, you 
have enough to do already. I'll attend to 
my share." 

It nearly broke his heart at first to watch 
her, tired out and distressed, nerving her- 
self to meet the situation with such sweet, 
pathetic attempts to look cheerful for his 
sake. He found it more difficult than he 
had anticipated to break the habit of years; 
to refrain from sympathizing with her woes, 
bearing her burdens as well as his own. 
Sometimes he feared he was overdoing it — 
she came near going to pieces. He knew 
how keenly she felt the lack of his solicitude. 
But he was afraid to be sympathetic; it 
would make her feel sorry for herself. So 
he compromised by being very demon- 
strative and affectionate. He showed her 
how much he appreciated her pluck and ef- 
ficiency. Appreciation never hurt anyone. 
And the result was the difference between 
making her feel sorry for herself and mak- 
ing her feel pleased with herself. More- 
over, it brought them closer together. Al- 
ready they were lovers again. 

The next day she reported that she had 
the refusal on a charming little flat for light 
housekeeping down in the quiet part of 
town known as Chelsea. "It will be so 
near our work," she said. 

" ' Our ' work ? " asked ISIortimer. 

She ran and kissed him gayly. "I have 
decided to be your stenographer, dearie!" 

"What!" exclaimed Mortimer in sudden 
alarm; "the deuce you have! " He might 
fool his wife; he couldn't his stenographer. 

"Don't you icant me in the office with 
you? You don't look a bit pleased," she 
said, with something of the coquetry of 
former years. 



190 Mortimer's Failure 

"It would be charming," said Mortimer and then broke the sad news that it was out 

gallantly; "but I cannot think of letting of the question, with the salary they heart- 

you do it, my dear, brave girl. Remember, lessly offered, to live in the city even most 

now, Clara." simply. "So," he went on cheerfully, "I 

" Such light housekeeping! " she returned, have secured a small house in a Connecticut 

"I can do both; I used to." He should village at the extreme edge of the com- 

have remembered that. "Mortimer," she muters'zone. That will keep you out there 

insisted sweetly, "I simply must do some- — in the sunshine and the flowers." 

thing." "Poor old Mortimer!" she replied, beam- 

"Do fancy work," said Mortimer, "at ing upon him; " I see how hard it is for you 

home." to tell me these things. It's so brave of you 

"But, you see, I never learned fancy to pretend to like it! But you mustn't be 

work. Besides, it wouldn't pay; but I did discouraged. Whatever happens, we have 

learn stenography, and it pays quite well, each other. Together we can meet poverty 

I was very good at it before I became a bravely." She looked very sweet and cour- 

librarian." ageous as she said it. Each added blow 

"My dear," said Mortimer solemnly — only seemed to make her stronger, like 

this was to be a staggerer — "perhaps we beating molten metal, 

cannot afford even one maid ! " She did not like to worry him about it, 

It was rather staggering, but she arose but how was she to look after the house- 
smiling. "If we are so poor as all that," keeping and go back and forth to the city 
she returned cheerfully, "it's all the more every day? For she was now more than 
reason why I should help you in your work, ever determined to get some kind of em- 
dear. I'll give up the refusal on the flat ployment — in a shop, if necessary. And 
and we'll live in a boarding-house." think of the late hours! "You ought to 

Billings groaned inwardly. "Clara," he have consulted me first, Mortimer," she 

said, becoming desperate, "I wanted to said, a little hurt. 

spare you this; but you force me to tell it. "But this was such an exceptional bar- 
Now that I have settled with my creditors, gain, and it wouldn't wait," he improvised 
I find I shall not be in a position to employ easily, and showed her the real-estate bro- 
a stenographer, for I myself am only to be a ker's photographs of a charming little vine- 
clerk, a poor clerk, Clara, in the very firm clad cottage with plenty[of ground around it. 
which still bears my name." "What is the rent?" she inquired with 

" Poor old Mortimer," she returned sym- alarm, 

pathetically; "then I'm sure they'll give "The rent? How do you mean — by the 

your wife a clerkship, too. I'll appeal to month or the year?" 

them myself." "By whatever arrangement you made," 

Mortimer mopped his genuinely beaded she demanded, irritatingly practical, 

brow. " Wait until to-morrow," be begged, Now, unfortunately, Billings had been in 

playing for time. " And don't forget, we're too much of a hurry to ask his secretary 

to say nothing about the failure to anyone." about this detail; so he said at a guess: 

He had explained to her, rather vaguely "Thirty-five dollars a month; aren't we 

perhaps, that it was "one of those quiet lucky?" 

failures " which the newspapers know noth- She shook her head grimly. "We can't 

ing about. His partners were his chief afford it, my dear," 

creditors, and he had "quietly" assigned " Oh, yes, we can, because you are going 

everything to them. "And the change in to help pay for it. There's a Carnegie li- 

our scale of living — I'm telling everyone brary out there, and they're looking for an 

that it is merely another of your fads, my assistant librarian. A friend of mine has 

dear — the simple life." secured the job for youf" That is, Mor- 

But Mortimer was beginning to think it timer's secretary had arranged to send the 

would not be very simple for him. A dual present incumbent abroad with full salary 

life never is. and expenses paid. "What do you think 

That afternoon he was very late in getting of that ? " 

home. "Well," he said, feeling better, "I There was an interlude of rejoicing, 

have come to terms with my employers," "Am I really going to help you?" she ex- 



Mortimer's Failure 191 

claimed girlishly. "Oh, I haven't been so Public School Board, e^ cetera, and Mrs. Bil- 

happy since I don't know whenl" lings's husband, a Wall Street clerk, were 

"Since your mother died," thought Mor- walking in the cool of the evening up and 

timer; but he didn't say so. downtheterraceof the diminutive but dainty 

"What is the salary?" she inquired formal garden which Mrs. Billings had de- 

suddenly. signed, after library hours, and for which 

Confound this practicality. He might Mrs.Billings'shusbandhadhauleddirtafter 

be able to keep her in the dark as to the real coming home with the other commuters, 

rent, whatever it proved to be, but as to her Mrs. Billings's husband had not enjoyed 

own salary — Mortimer had to confess that hauling dirt. He tried to get out of it by 

he had forgotten to ask about the salary, turning over to his wife the result of a lucky 

Atwhichhis wife gave him an anxious look, tip on the market kindly given him, she 

He had been through a great deal lately — supposed, by one of his employers. But 

perhaps he was breaking down; she thought Mrs. Billings insisted that the exercise would 

of taking him around to see Dr. Sharpe. do him good, now that he was a clerk on an 

"You see this friend of mine," Mortimer office stool all day, and quietly kept the 

was explaining glibly, " was in such a hurry money to invest in something "safe" — 

I didn't like to bother him; he's a very im- without consulting her husband. He, poor 

portant man" (and, indeed, Billings's secre- dear, had ruined himself in speculative 

tary was a very important man) ; "beggars stocks, and therefore his opinion in such 

can't be choosers, you know. But the sal- matters did not amount to much. Not that 

ary will be all right, and, as the doctor says, she loved him the less for it — not at all; he 

the quiet, regular work will be better for could not help it, poor fellow; it was his 

your " Then he stopped abruptly, for "temperament," she explained indulgent- 

the doctor had expressly forbidden him to ly, and was the more kind and considerate 

remind her of her nerves. toward him for his unfortunate weakness. 

But Billings needn't have worried about Often she noted a far-away, worried look 

that. " Mortimer, " she cried, approaching as he went about his "chores," shaking 

him solicitously, "what were you doing at down the furnace or pumping the water for 

the doctor's?" She gave him a searching the tank; and this look meant that he had 

look — which, by the way, would have de- been losing his earnings in speculation 

lighted Sharpe, though it did not delight again, and she smiled fondly to think how 

Mortimer at all, for he had to make answer easy it was for hor to see through him; for, 

to his wife, and yet obey Sharpe's injunc- like a naughty boy, he only told about his 

tions. Little beads of sweat again burst transactions when he happened to make a 

out upon his brow — sometimes a sign of lucky turn and indulged in some untoward 

nervous exhaustion. extravagance — such as an electric pump for 

"I knew it! I knew it!" she exclaimed; filling that same bottomless tank, or buying 

"you have broken down." her a new fur-lined coat last winter to walk 

"Nonsense," said Mortimer; "I merely to the library in. This last she could not 

dropped in to pay the bill." forgive, though she loved him for it. 

"Ah! How much was it, dear?" The past year of hardship and economy 

"See here, Clara," replied Mortimer, had drawn them closer together than ever, 

whodidnotknow, "if you don't stop asking They were very loving, and life was un- 

these vulgar questions " doubtedly sweet and all that; but just the 

"That means that the bill is enormous!" same, it was an awful bore to Mortimer. 

" Onthecontrary,"answeredher husband. He was sick of the simple life. There was 

smiling for a reason she did not understand, nothing in it when you weren't obliged to 

"I am becoming more and more convinced lead it. He was tired of getting up at dawn 

that Sharpe has undercharged me." and getting indigestion rushing for the 7.55. 

■He was becoming nervous and unstrung 

ACT IV from the strain of keeping up the elaborate 

deception. He had cured his wife, but some- 

Mrs. Mortimer Billings, President of times believed he was going to take her place 

the Village Improvement Society, Secre- as a nervous wreck, 

tary of the Present Era Club, member of the Yet he did not dare to tell her, for even if 



192 



Mortimer's Failure 



she might forgive him, she would probably 
relapse. Sharpe said so; and then all this 
foolish year would have been endured in 
vain. He didn't know what to do, but he 
knew he would soon do something. His 
wife was having the time of her Hfe, but he 
was getting desperate. It was no longer 
funny; no joke can last a year, especially 
such a practical one, which turns upon 
one's self like a boomerang. It no longer 
amused him to be known — in the village — 
as his own namesake and nephew and em- 
ployee. "Humph ! Nothing but a poor re- 
lation of Billings, the banker — no reason 
for being so stiff and formal," was the ver- 
dict at the bridge club. 

"Yes; Fred says Mrs. Billings's husband 
wears his mustache that queer way just 
because his uncle does," contributed the 
local doctor's wife; "likes to be taken for 
his uncle." This was rather rubbing it in. 

"Well, he does look like the Mortimer Bill- 
ings — I've seen his pictures in the papers," 
said a prominent member of the Present 
Era Club. 

"My dear," this bending nearer, "Charles 
says he's often seen him leaving the Grand 
Central in a cah ! and that sweet wife of his 
working all day long to help support him ! He 
ought to be ashamed." They all agreed 
on this — and for that matter, Mortimer 
was ashamed. 

"And you know, my dear, if it hadn't 
been for his rich uncle she wouldn't have 
this position in the library. I guess old 
Billings wanted to get them out of town out 
of the way," etc., ad libitum. For the story 
of the ex-assistant librarian's free trip to 
Europe had, of course, come out, being 
hardly of the nature to stay in. 

Fortunately, the local ladies were too tact- 
ful to let Mrs. Billings know that they were 
aware of the secret. She, as has been in- 
timated, was as much beloved as she was 
respected, notwithstanding the fact that she 
was by way of running the whole town — as 
well as her husband. Her husband was as 
proud of her as ever, but he no longer en- 
joyed being known as Mrs. Billings's hus- 
band. "Ah, glad to meet Mrs. BiUings's hus- 
band," the village pastor said, with a kind 
smile, when Mrs. Billings had insisted upon 
dragging him into "the life" of the place. 
"Your uncle has sent a check for the new 
organ ; I'm sure it would gratify him to hear 
of your identifying yourself with our church 



work." It was practically a command. 
Billings, to keep up the bluff, had to obey. 
So the check which he had hoped would let 
him out only pulled him in. The way of 
the liar is hard. 

All this had made excellent stories to re- 
gale his intimates with at luncheon in town 
— for a while. But he no longer told them. 
When gibed with questions about the simple 
life he merely wore the far-away look which 
troubled his wife sometimes, making her 
the more solicitous and motherly. 

It was the incident of the cigars which 
brought on the climax — a small thing in it- 
self, but so was the straw which broke the 
camel's back. She had been worrying 
again about his extravagance, and Mor- 
timer took her gentle reproof guiltily — for 
how else could he take it ? So when a little 
later she asked him in a shy, embarrassed 
manner, " Mortimer, dear, would you mind 
telling me how much you pay for your 
cigars?" he was naturally frightened, for 
his special importation of cigars — famous 
among his friends — was about the only 
thing he had left of his former mode of life, 
the one comfort he could quietly keep up 
on the old scale, without being found out 
in this awful nightmare of simplicity. To 
him they were not a luxury, but now more 
than ever a necessity, which he would not 
abandon without a fight. Therefore, "Five 
cents, my dear," he said hastily, thus add- 
ing one more to the long list of lies which 
were becoming easier to tell and harder to 
remember every day. His wife made no 
comment, but one afternoon a week later, 
with the conscious manner of one sure to 
please, regardless of expense, she said, 
"Your birthday, dear," and presented him 
with a box of ten-cent cigars. "I remem- 
ber how you used to enjoy a good smoke," 
she added fondly. 

"Oh, you should not have done this," he 
said, kissing her while he groaned inwardly. 

"Don't worry, dear boy " she said, re- 
assuringly practical, "you see I made a little 
extra money last month writing an article 
for the All Outdoors magazine on 'How to 
Build an Italian Garden for $46.45.' Enjoy 
your cigars with a free mind, dearest." 

So as they paced slowly up and down the 
small terrace this afternoon Mortimer was 
pathetically puffing one of his wife's dusty 
cigars, and coming to an important decision. 



Age 



193 



"Clara," he said with the same manner 
as when he announced his failure a year 
ago, "I have something to tell you." 

She turned and patted his arm with the 
same maternal instinct of protection as on 
that other occasion, but this time with poise, 
strength, and confidence. "Out with it, 
dearie. I've been expecting it for weeks. 
I have watched your poor troubled eyes. 
I knew it had to come sooner or later. But 
don't worry, dearest; I have an option on 
the old White farm. We'll go into flower 
raising. There, there, dearie, don't in- 
terrupt. I've always saved at least twenty- 
five per cent, of my housekeeping money 
and seventy-five per cent, of my salary — 
besides the sums I kept you from specu- 
lating with, you poor dear boy. I now 
know a lot about flowers, and you, dear," 
she concluded comfortingly, "you can be 
my foreman!" 

Mortimer Billings, the great financier, 
turned and confronted his wife with a look 
she had never seen since he had become 
known as "Mrs. Billings's husband." 

" Your foreman, eh ? " he snapped out, 
hurling the bitter cigar stub among the 
flowers. "Well, I guess I won't be your 
foreman — not if I know myself. I've had 
enough of this; I can't stand any more. 
You're a success; you think I'm a failure — 
'Poor old Mortimer, poor old dub! Let's 



be sorry for him.' Well, here's where you 
can stop being sorry for jne/ I can't help 
it, whether it hurts you or not — it's killing 
me! Besides, it's all very nice, your affec- 
tion, your tenderness, your solicitude; but 
you admire success, and I want your ad- 
miration, not merely your love." 

"Mortimer! why are you so excited? 
Do you mean you have not failed again?" 

"Again? Again! I never did fail, and 
by heavens, I never will — no matter what 
the doctor says. I'm worth double what I 
was last year, and I'm glad of it. I suppose 
you'll have a relapse, but that's the truth. 
I played a trick on you — do what you please 
about it." 

What she pleased, when at last she took 
it in, need not be recorded here. She 
did admire success, it seems. 

"And we'll buy the White farm — without 
any mortgage! " she cried. 

"Yes; and we'll buy back the town 
house, too." 

"No, Mortimer, if you don't mind," 
— there was more respect in her tone now — 
"not forme." 

"But why not?" 

"Will you promise not to tell?" 

He promised. She looked down at the 
grass beneath their feet. "Because," she 
said, hiding her face in his coat, "the city 
is no place for children." 



AGE 

By William Winter 
I 

Snow and stars, the same as ever 
In the days when I was young; 

But their silver song, ah, never. 
Never now is sung ! 

II 



Cold the stars are, cold the earth is, 
Everything is grim and cold ! 

Strange and drear the sound of mirth is- 
Life and I are old ! 



Vol. XLII.— 23 




Drawn by Arthur Rackham 




Illustration by Arthur Rackham 



"What dost thou here where the shivering reeds 

Lean over the dark marsh streams, 
O piper a-piping thy haunting tunes 
That dwindle and die on the dim lagoons 

In the waning autumn's gleams?" 
And the piper said under his flying hair, 

"I set me my nets for dreams." 

"But do the dreams fly on the open marsh 
By daylight? And these thy snares, 

Where are they?" He lifted his stately head 

And his lean brown fingers fluttering spread 
And played; and the by-gone airs 

Blew out of a summer of long ago 
And lands where a lost love fares, 

Till June came back o'er the whispering reeds 
And pranked them in em'rald plumes — 

(Oh, the sky was blue and the day was long!) 

And the bubbling notes of the starling's song 
Rang over the elder-blooms. 

And the dark marsh waters in ripples ran 
Far down in the grassy glooms. 

Then he softlier blew, and the low winds woke 

That whimper about the sills 
And the doors, when the wintry day is done, 
And the warmth and joy are gone with the sun, 

Gone down behind lonely hills — 
When a hush falls over the children's glee 

At dusk in the desolate hills. 

And never a lane nor a laughing brook 

By memory's meadows lay, 
But the cunning notes found a track to it, 
And my gladdening heart won back to it 

By the piper's path that day, 
For his are the keys of the world that is. 

And worlds that are worlds away. 

And under the tune came a tingling joy 

That ran in my veins like wine — 
"O piper, thy nets are most strange," I cried, 
"And their meshes of golden memories tied, 

But the things you snare are mine." 
"My pipes are the heart of the world," said he, 

"And the dreams are mine and thine." 





Draivti by Aloiizo Kimbal^ \ i 

!■■ I ' 

Under-thfe challenge of his tone Justine rose to her feet. — Page 212. 






THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 

BY EDITH WHARTON 



Illustration by Alonzo Kimball 



BOOK II — (Continued) 




XXV 

OME five days later, Bessy, 
languidly glancing through 
the midday mail, uttered a 
slight exclamation as she 
withdrew her finger-tip 
from the flap of an envelope 
which she had begun to open. 

It was a black sleety day, with an east 
wind bowing the trees beyond the drenched 
window-panes, and the two friends, after 
luncheon, had withdrawn to the library, 
where Justine sat writing notes for Bessy, 
while the latter lay back in her arm-chair, 
in the state of dreamy listlessness into which 
she always sank when not under the stimu- 
lus of amusement or exercise. 

"I beg your pardon! I thought it was 
for me," she said, holding out the letter to 
Justine. 

The latter reddened as she glanced at the 
superscription. It had not occurred to her 
that Amherst would reply to her appeal: 
she had pictured him springing on the first 
north-bound train, perhaps not even paus- 
ing to announce his return to his wife. . . 
And to receive his letter under Bessy's eye 
was undeniably embarrassing, since Jus- 
tine felt the necessity of jealously guarding 
the secret of her intervention. 

But under Bessy's eye she certainly was — 
it rested on her curiously, speculatively, with 
an under-gleam of malicious significance. 

" So stupid of me — I can't imagine why I 
should have expected my husband to write 
tome!" Bessy continued, leaning back in 
lazy contemplation of her other letters, but 
still obliquely including Justine in her angle 
of vision. 

The latter, after a moment's pause, broke 
the seal and read. 

"Millvale, Georgia. 
"My dear Miss Brent, 

"Your letter reached me-yesterday and 
I have thought it over carefully. I appreci- 
VoL. XLII.— 24 



ate the impulse that prompted it — but I don 't 
know that any friend, however kind and dis- 
cerning, can give the final advice in such mat- 
ters. You tell me you are sure my wife will 
not ask me to return — forgive me for saying 
that, under present conditions, that seems 
to me a sufficient reason for staying away. 

" Meanwhile, I assure you that I have re- 
membered all you said to me that day. I 
have made no binding arrangement here — 
nothing to involve my future action — and I 
have done this solely because you asked it. 
This will tell you better than words how 
much I value your advice, and what strong 
reasons I must have for not following it now. 

"I suppose there are no more exploring 
parties in this weather. I wish I could show 
Cicely some of the birds down here. 
"Yours faithfully, 

"John Amherst. 

"Please don't let my wife ride Impulse." 

Latent under Justine's acute conscious- 
ness of what this letter meant, was the vivid 
sense of Bessy's inferences and conjectures. 
She could feel them actually piercing the 
page in her hand, like some hypersensitive 
visual organ to which matter offers no ob- 
struction. Or rather, baffled in their en- 
deavour, they were evoking out of the un- 
seen, heaven knew what fantastic structure 
of intrigue — scrawling over the innocent 
page with burning evidences of perfidy and 
collusion. . . . 

One thing became instantly clear to her: 
she must show the letter to Bessy. She ran 
her eyes over it again, trying to disentangle 
the consequences. There was the allusion 
to their talk in town — well, she had told 
Bessy of that talk ! But the careless refer- 
ence to their woodland excursions — what 
might not Bessy, in her present mood, make 
of it ? Justine's uppermost thought was of 
distress at the failure of her plan. Perhaps 
she might stiU have induced Amherst to re- 
turn, had it not been for this betrayal of her 
attempt; but now that hope was destroyed. 

197 



198 The Fruit of the Tree 

She raised her eyes and met Bessy's, change my opinion. I still think it lies with 

"Will you read it?" she said, holding out you to bring him back." 

the letter. Bessy raised a glittering face to her — all 

Bessy received it with lifted brows, and a hardness and laughter. "Such modesty, 

protesting murmur — but as she read. Jus- my dear! As if I had a chance of succeed- 

tine saw the blood mount under her clear ing where you failed!" 

skin, invade the temples, the nape, even the She sprang up, brushing the curls from her 

little flower-like ears; then it receded as sud- temples with a petulant gesture. "Don't 

denly, ebbing at last from the very lips, so mind me if I'm cross — but I've had a dose 

that the smile with which she looked up from of preaching from Maria Ansell, and I don't 

her reading was as white as if she had been know why my friends should treat me like a 

under the stress of physical pain. puppet without any preferences of my own, 

"So you have written my husband to and press me upon a man who has done his 

comeback?" best to show that he doesn't want me. Asa 

"As you see." matter of fact, he and I are luckily agreed 

Bessy looked her straight in the eyes. "I on that point too — and I'm afraid all the 

am very much obliged to you — extremely good advice in the world won't persuade us 

obliged! " to change our opinion! " 

Justine met the look quietly. "Which Justine held her ground. "If I believed 

means that you resent my interference " that of either of you, I shouldn't have writ- 

" Oh, I leave you to call it that!" Bessy ten — I should not be pleading with you 

mocked, tossing the letter clown on the now — ■ And Mr. Amherst doesn't believe it 

table at her side. either," she added, after a pause, conscious 

"Bessy! Don't take it in that way. If I of the risk she was taking, but thinking the 

made a mistake I did so with the hope of words might act like a blow in the face of a 

helping you. How can I stand by, after all person sinking under a deadly narcotic, 

these months together, and see you deliber- Bessy's smile deepened to a sneer. "I see 

ately destroying your life without trying to you've talked me over thoroughly — and on 

stop you ? " his views I ought perhaps not to have risked 

The smile withered on Bessy's lips. "It an opinion " 

is very dear and good of you — I know " We have not talked you over," Justine 

you're never happy unless you're helping exclaimed. " Mr. Amherst could never talk 

people — but in this case I can only repeat of you ... in the way you think. . . ." 

what my husband says. He and I don't And under the light staccato of Bessy's 

often look at things in the same light — but I laugh, she found resolution to add: "It is 

quite agree with him that the management not in that way that I know what he feels." 

of such matters is best left to — to the per- "Ah? I should be curious to hear, 

sons concerned." then " 

Justine hesitated. "I might answer that, Justine turned to the letter, which still 

if you take that view, it was inconsistent of lay between them. "Will you read the last 

you to talk with me so openly. You've cer- sentence again ? The postscript, I mean." 

tainly made me feel that you wanted help — Bessy, after a surprised glance at her, 

you've turned to me for it. But perhaps took the letter up with the deprecating mur- 

that does not justify my writing to Mr. Am- mur of one who acts under compulsion rath- 

herst without your knowing it." er than dispute about a trifle. 

Bessy laughed. "Ah, my dear, you knew "The postscript ? Let me see. , . ' Don't 

that if you asked me the letter would never let my wife ride Impulse '. — Et puis ? " she 

be sent!" murmured, dropping the page again. 

"Perhaps I did," said Justine simply. "I "Well, does it tell you nothing? It's a 

was trying to help you against your will." cold letter — at first I thought so — the letter 

"Well, you see the result." Bessy laid a of a man who believes himself deeply hurt 

derisive touch on the letter. "Do you un- — oh, you see I'm not careful of my words! 

derstand now whose fault it is if I am — so deeply that he will make no advance, 

alone ? " no sign of relenting. That's what I thought 

Justine faced her steadily. "There is when I first read it . . . but the postscript 

nothing in Mr. Amherst's letter to make me undoes it all." 



The Fruit of the Tree 



199 



Justine, as she spoke, had drawn near 
Bessy, laying a hand on her arm, and shed- 
ding on her the radiance of a face all char- 
ity and sweet compassion. It was her rare 
gift, at such moments, to forget her own re- 
lation to the person for whose fate she was 
concerned, to cast aside all consciousness of 
any criticism and distrust in the heart she 
strove to reach, as pitiful people forget their 
physical timidity in the attempt to help a 
wounded animal. 

For a moment Bessy seemed to Vv'aver. 
The colour flickered faintly upon her cheek, 
her long lashes drooped — she had the ten- 
derest lids ! — and all her face seemed melt- 
ing under the beams of Justine's ardour. 
But the letter was still in her hand — her 
eyes, in sinking, fell upon it, and she sound- 
ed beneath her breath the fatal phrase: "I 
have done this solely because you asked it." 

"After such a tribute to your influence I 
don't wonder you feel competent to set 
everybody's affairs in order! But take my 
advice, my dear — don^t ask me not to ride 
Impulse!" 

The pity froze on Justine's lip: she 
shrank back cut to the quick. For a mo- 
ment the silence between the two women 
rang with the flight of arrowy, wounding 
thoughts; then Bessy's anger flagged sud- 
denly, she gave one of her embarrassed 
half-laughs, and turning back, laid a depre- 
cating touch on her friend's arm. 

"I didn't mean that, Justine . . . but 
let us not talk now — I can't! " 

Justine did not move: the reaction could 
not come quite as quickly in her case. But 
she turned on Bessy two eyes full of pardon, 
full of speechless pity . . . and Bes.sy re- 
ceived the look silently before she moved 
toward the door and went out. 

"Oh, poor thing — poor thing!" Justine 
gasped as the door closed. 

She had already forgotten her own hurt — 
she was alone again with Bessy's sterile pain. 
She stood staring before her for a moment 
— then her eyes fell on Amherst's letter, 
which had fluttered to the floor between 
them. The fatal letter! If it had not come 
at that unlucky moment perhaps she might 
still have gained her end. . . . She picked 
it up and re-read it. Yes — there were 
phrases in it that a wounded suspicious 
heart might misconstrue. . . . Yet Bessy's 
last words had absolved her. . . . Why 
had she not answered them ? Why had she 



stood there dumb ? The blow to her pride 
had been too deep, had been dealt too un- 
expectedly — for one miserable moment she 
had thought first of herself! Ah, that im- 
portunate, irrepressible self — the rnoi ha'is- 
sable of the Christian — if only one could 
tear it out of one's breast! She had missed 
an opportunity — her last opportunity per- 
haps! By this time, even, a hundred hostile 
influences, cold whispers of vanity, of self- 
ishness, of worldly pride, might have drawn 
their freezing ring about Bessy's heart. . . . 

Justine started up to follow her . . . then 
paused, recalling her last words. "Let us 
not talk now — I can't!" She had no right 
to intrude on that bleeding privacy — if the 
chance had been hers she had lost it. She 
dropped back into her seat at the desk, hid- 
ing her face in her hands. . . . 

Presently she heard the clock strike, and 
true to her tireless instinct of activity, she 
lifted her head, took up her pen, and went 
on mechanically with the correspondence 
she had dropped when Amherst's letter 
came. ... It was hard at first to collect 
her thoughts, or even to summon to her pen 
the conventional phrases that sufficed for 
most of the notes. Groping for a word, she 
pushed aside her writing and stared for a 
moment at the sallow frozen landscape 
framed by the window at which she sat. The 
sleet had ceased, and hollows of sunless blue 
showed through the driving wind-clouds. A 
hard sky and a hard ground — frost-bound 
ringing earth under rigid ice-mailed trees. 

As Justine looked out, shivering a little 
at the scene, she saw a woman's figure riding 
down the avenue toward the gate. The figure 
disappeared behind a clump of evergreens 
— showed again farther down, through the 
boughs of a skeleton beech — and revealed 
itself in the next open space as Bessy — 
Bessy in the saddle on a day of glaring frost, 
when no horse could keep his footing out 
of a walk ! 

Justine went to the window and strained 
her eyes for a confirming glimpse. Yes — it 
was Bessy! There was no mistaking that 
light flexible figure, every line swaying true 
to the beat of the horse's stride. But Jus- 
tine remembered that Bessy had not meant 
to ride — had countermanded her horse be- 
cause of the bad going. , . . Well, she was 
a perfect horsewoman and had no doubt 
chosen her surest-footed mount . . . prob- 
ably the brown cob, Tony Lumpkin. . . . 



200 



The Fruit of the Tree 



But when did Tony's sides shine so bright 
through the leafless branches ? And when 
did he sweep his rider on with such long 
free play of the hind-quarters ? Horse and 
rider shot into sight again, rounding the 
curve of the avenue near the gates, and in a 
sudden break of sunlight Justine saw the 
glitter of chestnut flanks — and remembered 
that Impulse was the only chestnut in the 
stables. . . . 

She went back to her seat and continued 
writing. Bessy had left a formidable heap 
of bills and letters; and when this was de- 
molished, Justine had her own correspond- 
ence to despatch. She had heard that morn- 
ing from the matron of Saint Ehzabeth's: 
an interesting "case" was offered her, but 
she must come within two days. For the 
first few hours she had wavered, loath to 
leave Lynbrook without some definite light 
on her friend's future; but now Amherst's 
letter had shed that hght — or rather, had 
deepened the obscurity — and she had no 
pretext for lingering on where her useless- 
ness had been so amply demonstrated. 

She wrote to the matron accepting the en- 
gagement; and the acceptance involved the 
writing of other letters, the general reorgan- 
izing of that minute polity, the life of Justine 
Brent. She smiled a little to think how easi- 
ly she could be displaced and transplanted 
— how slender were her material impedi- 
menta, how few her invisible bonds'. She 
was as light and detachable as a dead leaf 
on the autumn breeze — and yet she was in 
the season of sap and flower, the season 
when there is life and song in the trees! 

But she did not think long of herself, for 
an undefinable anxiety ran through her 
thoughts like a black thread. It found si- 
lent expression, now and then, in the long 
glances she threw through the window — in 
her rising to consult the clock and compare 
her watch with it — in a nervous snatch of 
humming as she paced the room once or 
twice before going back to her desk. . . . 

Why was Bessy so late ? Dusk was fall- 
ing already — the early end of the cold slate- 
hued day. But Bessy always rode late — 
there was always a rational answer to Jus- 
tine's irrational conjectures. . . It was 
the sight of those chestnut flanks that tor- 
mented her — she knew of Bessy's previous 
struggles with the mare. But the indulging 
of idle apprehensions was not in her rtature, 



and when the tea-tray came, and with it 
Cicely, sparkling from a gusty walk, and 
coral-pink in her cloud of crinkled hair, 
Justine sprang up and cast ofi" her cares. 

It cost her a pang, again, to see the lamps 
lit and the curtains drawn — shutting in the 
warmth and brightness of the house from 
that wind-swept frozen twilight through 
which Bessy rode alone. But the icy touch 
of the thought slipped from Justine's mind 
as she bent above the tea-tray, gravely 
measuring Cicely's milk into a " grown-up " 
teacup, hearing the confidential details of 
the child's day, and capping them with ban- 
ter and fantastic narrative. 

She was not sorry to go — ah, no! The 
house had become a prison to her, with 
ghost3 walking its dreary floors. But to 
lose Cicely would be bitter — she had not 
felt how bitter till the child pressed against 
her in the warm firelight, insisting raptly, 
with little sharp elbows stabbing her knee: 
"And then what happened, Justine?" 

The door opened, and some one came in 
to look at the fire. Justine, through the 
mazes of her fairy-tale, was dimly conscious 
that it was Knowles, and not one of the foot- 
men . . . the proud Knowles, who never 
mended the fires himself. . . . As he 
passed out again, hovering slowly down the 
long room, she rose, leaving Cicely on the 
hearth-rug, and followed him to the door. 

"Has Mrs. Amherst not come in?" she 
asked, not knowing why she wished to ask 
it out of the child's hearing. 

"No, Miss. I looked in myself to see — 
thinking she might have come by the side- 
door." 

"She may have gone to her sitting-room." 

" She's not upstairs." 

They both paused. Then Justine said: 
" What horse was she riding ? " 

"Impulse, Miss." The butler looked at 
his large responsible watch. "It's not late 
— " he said, more to himself than to her. 

"No. Has she been riding Impulse 
lately?" 

"No, Miss. Not since that day the mare 
nearly had her off. I understood Mr. Am- 
herst did not wish it." 

Justine went back to Cicely and the fairy- 
tale. — As she took up the thread of the Prin- 
cess's adventures, she asked herself why she 
had ever had any hope of helping Bessy. 
The seeds of disaster were in the poor creat- 
ure's soul. . . . Even when she appeared 



The Fruit of the Tree 



201 



to be moved, lifted out of herself, her escap- 
ing impulses were always dragged back to 
the magnetic centre of hard distrust and re- 
sistance that sometimes forms the core of 
soft-fibred natures. As she had answered 
her husband 's last appeal by her flight to the 
woman he disliked, so she answered this 
one by riding the horse he feared. . . . 
Justine's last illusions crumbled. The dis- 
tance between two such natures was un- 
spannable. Amherst had done well to re- 
main away . . . and with a tidal rush her 
sympathies swept back to his side. . . . 

The governess came to claim Cicely. One 
of the footmen came to put another log on 
the fire. Then the rite of removing the tea- 
table was majestically performed— the cer- 
emonial that had so often jarred on Am- 
herst's nerves. As she watched it, Justine 
had a vague sense of the immutability of the 
household routine — a queer awed feeling 
that, whatever happened, a machine so per- 
fectly adjusted would work on inexorably, 
like a natural law. . . . 

She rose to look out of the window, star- 
ing vainly into blackness between the part- 
ed curtains. As she turned back, passing 
the writing-table, she noticed that Cicely's 
irruption had made her forget to post her 
letters — an unusual oversight. A glance at 
the clock told her that she was not too late 
for the mail — reminding her, at the same 
time, that it was scarcely three hours since 
Bessy had started on her ride. . . . She re- 
alized the foolishness of hef fears. Even in 
winter, Bessy often rode for more than three 
hours; and now that the days were growing 
longer 

Suddenly reassured, Justine went out into 
the hall, intending to carry her batch of let- 
ters to the red pillar-box by the door. As 
she did so, a cold blast struck her. Could it 
be that for once the faultless routine of the 
house had been relaxed, that one of the 
servants had left the outer door ajar ? She 
walked over to the vestibule — yes, both 
doors were wide. The night rushed in on a 
vicious wind. As she pushed the vestibule 
door shut, she heard the dogs sniffing and 
whining on the threshold. She crossed the 
vestibule, and heard voices and the tramp- 
ing of feet in the darkness — then saw a lan- 
tern gleam. Suddenly Knowles shot out 
of the night — the lantern struck up on his 
bleached face. 



Justine, stepping back, pressed the elec- 
tric button in the wall, and the wide door- 
step was abruptly illuminated, with its hud- 
dled, pushing, heavily-breathing group. . . . 
black figures writhing out of darkness, 
strange faces distorted in the glare. 

" Bessy! " she cried, and sprang forward; 
but suddenly Wyant was before her, his hand 
on her arm; and as the dreadful group 
struggled by into the hall, he froze her to 
him with a whisper: "The spine " 



XXVI 

Within Justine there was a moment's 
darkness; then, like terror-struck workers 
rallying to their tasks, every faculty was 
again at its post, receiving and transmitting 
signals, taking observations, anticipating 
orders, making her cleared brain ring with 
the hum of a controlled activity. 

She had known the sensation before — the 
transmuting of terror and pity into this 
miraculous lucidity of thought and action; 
but never had it snatched her from such 
depths of pain. Oh, thank heaven for her 
knowledge now — for the trained mind that 
could take command of her senses and bend 
them firmly to its service! 

Wyant seconded her well, after a mo- 
ment's ague-fit of fear. She pitied and 
pardoned the moment, aware of its cause, 
and respecting him for the way in which 
he rose above it into the clear air of pro- 
fessional self-command. Through the first 
hours they worked shovilder to shoulder, 
conscious of each other only as of kindred 
will-powers, stretched to the utmost tension 
of discernment and activity, and hardly 
needing speech or look to further their swift 
co-operation. It was thus that she had 
known him in the hospital, in the heat of 
his youthful zeal : the doctor she liked best 
to work with, because no other so tempered 
ardour with judgment. 

The great surgeon, arriving from town at 
midnight, confirmed his diagnosis: there 
was undoubted injury to the spine. Other 
consultants were summoned in haste, and in 
the winter dawn the verdict was pronounced 
— a fractured vertelora, and possible lesion 
of the cord. . . . 

Justine got a moment alone when the 
surgeons returned to the sick-room. Other 
nurses were there now, capped, aproned, 



202 



The Fruit of the Tree 



quickly and silently unpacking their appli- 
ances. . . . She must call a halt, clear her 
brain again, decide rapidly what was to be 
done next. . . . Oh, if only the crawling 
hours could bring Amherst! It was strange 
that there was no telegram yet — no, not 
strange, after all, since it was barely six in the 
morning, and her message had not been de- 
spatched till seven the night before. It was 
not unlikely that, in that little southern set- 
tlement, the telegraph office closed at six. 

She stood in Bessy's sitting-room, her 
forehead pressed to the window-pane, her 
eyes straining out into the thin February 
darkness, through which the morning star 
swam white. As soon as she had yielded 
her place to the other nurses her nervous 
tension relaxed, and she hung again above 
the deepsof anguish, terrified and weak. In a 
moment the necessityforaction would snatch 
her back to a firm footing — her thoughts 
would clear, her will affirm itself, all the 
wheels of the complex machine resume their 
functions. But now she felt only the 
horror. . . . 

She knew so well what was going on in 
the next room. Dr. Garford, the great sur- 
geon, who had known her at Saint Eliza- 
beth's, had evidently expected her to take 
command of the nurses he had brought from 
town; Ijut there were enough without her, 
and there were other cares which, for the 
moment, she only could assume — the de- 
spatching of messages to the scattered fam- 
ily, the incessant telephoning and telegraph- 
ing to town, the general guidance of the 
household, swinging suddenly rudderless in 
the tide of disaster. Cicely, above all, must 
be watched over and guarded from alarm. 
The little governess, reduced to a twittering 
heap of fears, had Ijeen quarantined in a dis- 
tant room till reason returned to her; and 
the child, meanwhile, slept quietly in the old 
nurse's care. 

Cicely would wake presently, and Justine 
must go up to her with a bright face; other 
duties would press thick on the heels of this; 
their feet were already on the threshold. 
But meanwhile she could only follow in 
imagination what was going on in that other 
room. . . . 

She had often thought with dread of such 
a contingency. She always sympathized 
too much with her patients — she knew it 
was the joint in her armour. Her quick- 
gushing pity lay too near that professional 



exterior which she had managed to endue 
with such a bright glaze of insensibility that 
some sentimental patients — without much 
the matter — had been known to call her "a 
little hard." How, then, should she steel 
herself if it fell to her lot to witness a cruel 
accident to some one she loved, and to have 
to perform a nurse's duties, steadily, ex- 
pertly, unflinchingly, while every fibre was 
torn with inward anguish ? 

She knew the horror of it now — and she 
knew also that her self-enforced exile from 
the sick-room was a hundred times worse. 
To stand there, knowing, with each tick of 
the clock, what was being said and donei 
within — how the great luxurious room, with 
its pale draperies and scented cushions, and 
the hundred pretty trifles strewing the lac^ 
toilet-table and the delicate old fui'niture, 
was being swept bare, cleared for action like 
a ship's deck, drearily garnished with rows 
of instruments, rolls of medicated cotton, 
oiled silk, bottles, bandages, water-pillows 
—all the grim paraphernalia of the awful 
rites of pain — to know this, and to be able 
to call up with torturing vividness that poor 
pale face on the pillows, vague-eyed, ex- 
pressionless, perhaps, as she had last seen 
it, or — worse yet! — stirred already with the 
first creeping pangs of consciousness: to 
have these images slowly, deliberately burn 
themselves into her brain, and to be aware, 
at the same time, of that underlying moral 
disaster, of which the accident seemed the 
monstrous outward symbol — ah, this was 
worse than anything she had ever dreamed! 

She knew, of course, that the final verdict 
could not be pronounced till the operation 
which was about to take place should reveal 
the extent of injury to the spine. Bessy, in 
falling, must have struck on the back of her 
head and shoulders, and it was but too 
probable that the fractured vertebra had 
caused a bruise if not a lesion of the spinal 
cord. In that case paralysis was certain — 
and a slow crawling death the almost in- 
evitable outcome. There had been cases, 
of course — Justine's professional memory 
evoked them — cases of so-called "recov- 
ery," where actual death was kept at bay, a 
semblance of life preserved for years in tlie 
poor petrified body. . . . But the mind 
shrank from such a fate for Bessy. And it 
might still be that the injury to the spine was 
not grave — though, here again, the fractur- 
ing of the fourth vertebra was ominous. 



The Fruit of the Tree 



203 



Tlie door opened and some one came 
from the inner room — Wyant, in search of 
an instrument-case. Justine turned and 
they looked at each other. 

"'it will be now?" 

"Yes. Dr. Garford asked if there was 
no one you could send for." 

"No one but the Halford Gaineses. 
They'll be here this evening, I suppose." 

Thev exchanged a discouraged glance, 
knowing how little difference the j^resence 
of the Halford Gaineses would make. 

"He wanted to know if there was no tele- 
gram from Amherst." 

"No." 

"Then they mean to begin." 

A nursemaid appeared in the doorway. 
"jSIiss Cicely — " she said; and Justine 
bounded upstairs. 

The day's work had begun. From Cicely 
to the governess — from the governess to the 
house-keeper — from the telephone to the 
writing-table — Justine vibrated back and 
forth, quick, noiseless, self-possessed — so- 
bering, guiding, controlling her confused 
and panic-stricken world. It seemed to 
her that half the day had ela])sed before 
the telegraph office at Lynbrook opened — 
she was at the telephone at the stroke of the 
hour. No telegram ? Only one — a mes- 
sage from Halford Gaines — "Arrive at 
eight tonight." Amherst was still silent! 
Was there a difference of time to be al- 
lowed for ? She tried to remember, to cal- 
culate, but her brain was too crowded with 
other thoughts. . . . She turned away 
from the instrument discouraged. 

Whenever she had time to think, she was 
overAvhelmed by the weight of her solitude. 
Mr. Langhope was in Egypt, accessible only 
through a London banker — Mrs. Ansell pre- 
sumably wandering on the continent. Her 
cables might not reach them for days. And 
among the throng of Lynbrook habitues, 
she knew not to whom to turn. To loose 
the Telfer tribe and Mrs. Carbury upon 
that stricken house — her thought revolted 
from it, and she was thankful to know that 
February had dispersed their migratory 
flock to southern shores. But if only Am- 
herst would come! 

Cicely and the tranquillized governess 
had been despatched on a walk with the 
dogs, and Justine was returning upstairs 
when she met one of the servants with a tel- 
egram. She tore it open with a great throb 



of relief. It was her own message to Am- 
herst — address imknown. . . . 

Had she misdirected it, then ? In that first 
blinding moment her mind might so easily 
have failed her. But no — there was the 
nameof the town before her . . . Millfield, 
Georgia . . . the same name as in his let- 
ter. . . . She had made no mistake, but he 
was gone! Gone — and without leaving an 
address. . . . Foramoment her tired mind 
refused to work; then she roused herself, 
ran down the stairs again, and rang up the 
telegraph-office. The thing to do, of course, 
was to telegraph to the owner of the mills — 
of whose very name she was ignorant! — en- 
quiring where Amherst was, and asking him 
to forward the dreadful message. Precious 
hours must be lost meanwhile — but, after 
all, they were waiting for no one upstairs. 

The verdict had been pronounced: dislo- 
cation and fracture of the fourth vertebra, 
with consequent injury to the spinal cord. 
Dr. Garford and Wyant came out alone to 
tell her. The surgeon ran over the technical 
details, her brain instantly at attention as 
he develo]^ed his diagnosis and issued his or- 
ders. She asked no questions as to the fut- 
ure — she knew it was impossible to tell. But 
there were no immediate signs of a fatal 
ending: the patient had rallied well, and the 
general conditions were not unfavourable. 

"You have heard from Mr. Amherst?" 
Dr. Garford concluded. 

"Not yet. . . . He may be travelling," 
Justine faltered, unwilling to say that her 
telegram had been returned. As she spoke 
there was a tap on the door, and a folded 
paper was handed in — a telegram tele- 
phoned from the village. 

"Amherst gone South America to study 
possibilities cotton growing have cabled our 
correspondent at Buenos Ayres." 

Concealment was no longer ])Ossible. 
Justine handed the message to the surgeon. 

"Ah — and there would be no chance of 
finding his address among Mrs. Amherst's 
papers ? " 

"I think not— no." 

" Well — we must keep her alive, Wyant." 

"Yes, sir." 

At dusk, Justine sat in the library, waiting 
for Cicely to be brought to her. A lull had 
sunk upon the house— a new order devel- 
oped out of the morning's chaos. With 



204 



The Fruit of the Tree 



soundless steps, with lowered voices, the 
machinery of life was carried on. And Jus- 
tine, caught in one of the pauses of inaction 
which she had fought off since morning, was 
reliving, for the hundredth time, her few mo- 
ments at Bessy's bedside. . . . 

She had been summoned in the course of 
the afternoon, and stealing into the dark- 
ened room, had bent over the bed while the 
nurses noiselessly withdrew. There lay the 
white face which had been burnt into her 
inward vision — the motionless body, and 
the head stirring ceaselessly, as though to 
release the agitation of the imprisoned limbs. 
Bessy's eyes turned to her, drawingherdown. 

"Am I going to die, Justine?" 

"No." 

"The pain is . . . so awful. . . ." 

"It will pass . . . you will sleep. . . ." 

"Cicely " 

"She has gone for a walk. You will see 
her presently. 

The eyes faded, releasing Justine. She 
stole away, and the nurses came back. 

Bessy had spoken of Cicely — but not a 
word of her husband! Perhaps her poor 
dazed mind groped for him, or perhaps it 
shrank from his name. . . . Justine was 
thankful for her silence. For the moment 
her heart was bitter against Amherst. Why, 
so soon after her appeal and his answer, had 
he been false to the spirit of their agree- 
ment ? This unannounced, unexplained de- 
parture was nothing less than a breach of 
his tacit pledge — the pledge not to break 
definitely with Lynbrook. And why had he 
gone to South America ? She drew her ach- 
ing brows together, trying to retrace a vague 
memory of some allusion to the cotton- 
growing capabilities of the region. . . . Yes, 
he had spoken of it once in describing to her 
the world's area of cotton-production. But 
what impulse had sent him off on such an 
exploration? Mere unrest, perhaps — the 
intolerable burden of his useless life ? The 
questions spun round and round in her 
head, weary, profitless, yet persistent. . . . 

It was a relief when Cicely came — a re- 
lief to measure out the cambric tea, to make 
the terrier beg for ginger-bread, even to take 
up the thread of the interrupted fairy-tale — 
though through it all she was wrung by the 
thought that, just twenty-four hours earlier, 
she and the child had sat in the same place, 
listening for the trot of Bessy's horse on the 
frozen ground. . . . 



So the day passed : the hands of the clocks 
moved, food was cooked and served, blinds 
were drawn up or down, lamps lit and fires 
renewed . . . all these tokens of the passage 
of time took place before her, while her real 
consciousness seemed to hang in some dim 
central void, where nothing happened, noth- 
ing would ever happen. . . . 

And now Cicely was in bed, the last 
"long-distance" call was answered, the last 
orders to kitchen and stable had been de- 
spatched, Wyant had stolen down to her 
with his hourly report — "no change" — and 
she was waiting alone in the library for the 
Gaineses to come. 

Carriage-wheels on the gravel: they were 
there at last. Justine started up and went 
into the hall to meet them. As she passed 
out of the library the outer door opened, 
and the gusty night swooped in — as, at the 
same hour the day before, it had swooped 
in ahead of the dreadful procession — pre- 
ceding now the carriageful of Hanaford re- 
lations: Mr. Gaines, red-glazed, brief and 
interrogatory; Westy, small, nervous, ill at 
ease with his grief; and Mrs. Gaines, su- 
preme in the possession of a consolatory yet 
funereal manner, and sinking on Justine's 
breast with the solemn whisper: "Have you 
sent for the clergyman?" 



XXVII 

The house was empty again. 

A week had passed since Bessy's acci- 
dent, and friends and relations had dis- 
persed. The household had fallen into its 
routine, the routine of sickness and silence, 
and once more the perfectly-adjusted ma- 
chine was working on steadily, inexorably, 
like a natural law. . . . 

So at least it seemed to Justine's nerves, 
intolerably stretched, at times, on the rack 
of solitude, of suspense, of forebodings. She 
had been thankful when the Gaineses left — 
doubly thankful when a telegram from Ber- 
muda declared Mrs. Carbury to be "in de- 
spair " at her inability to fly to Bessy's side — ■ 
thankful even that Mr. Tredegar's profes- 
sional engagements made it impossible for 
him to do more than come down, every sec- 
ond or third day, for a few hours; yet, 
though in some ways it was a relief to Ije 
again in sole authority, there were moments 
when the weight of responsibility, and the 



The Fruit of the Tree 



205 



inability to cry out her fears, her doubts, her 
uncertainties, seemed almost more than she 
could bear. 

Wyant was her chief reliance. He had 
risen so gallantly above his weakness, be- 
come again so completely the zealous and 
indefatigable young physician of former 
days, that she began to accuse herself of in- 
justice in ascribing to physical causes the 
vague eye and tremulous hand which might 
merely have betokened a passing access of 
nervous sensibility. Now, at any rate, he 
had his nerves so well under control, and 
had shown such a grasp of the case, and such 
marked executive capacity, that on the third 
day after the accident Dr. Garford, with- 
drawing his own surgical assistant, had left 
him in command at Lynbrook. 

At the same time, also, Justine had taken 
up her attendance in the sick-room, replac- 
ing one of the subordinate nurses who had 
been suddenly called away. She had done 
this the more willingly because Bessy, who 
was now conscious for the greater part of 
the time, had asked for her once or twice, 
and had seemed easier when she was in the 
room. But she still gave only occasional 
assistance, relieving the other nurses when 
they dined orrested,butkeepingherself part- 
ly free in order to have an eye on the house- 
hold, and to give a few hours daily to Cicely. 

All this had become part of a system that 
already seemed as old as memory. She 
could hardly recall what life had been be- 
fore the accident — the seven dreadful days 
seemed as long as the days of creation. 
Every morning she rose to the same report 
— "no change"- — and every day passed 
without a word from Amherst. Minor 
news, of course, had come: poor Mr. Lang- 
hope, at length overtaken at Wady Haifa, 
was hastening back as fast as ship and rail 
could carry him; Mrs. Ansell, imprisoned at 
Algiers with her invalid, cabled distressful 
messages of inquiry; but still no word from 
Amherst. The correspondent at Buenos 
Ayres had simply cal:)led : " Not here. Will 
enquire" — and since then, silence. . . . 

Justine had taken to sitting in a small 
room beyond Amherst's bedroom, near 
enough to Bessy to be within call, yet ac- 
cessible to the rest of the household. The 
walls were hung with old prints, and with 
two or three photographs of early Italian 
pictures; and in a low bookcase Amherst 
had put the books he had brought from 



Hanaford — the English poets, the Greek 
dramatists, some text-books of biology and 
kindred subjects, and a few stray well- 
worn volumes; Lecky's European Morals, 
Carlyle's translation of Wilhelm Meister, 
Seneca, Epictetus, a German grammar, a 
pocket Bacon. 

It was unlike any other room at L}-ii- 
brook — even through her benumbing mis- 
ery, Justine felt the relief of escaping there 
from the rest of the great soulless house. 
Sometimes she took up one of the books and 
read a page or two, letting the beat of the 
verse lull her throbbing brain, or the strong 
words of stoic wisdom sink into her heart. 
And even when there was no time for these 
brief flights from reality it soothed her to 
feel herself in the presence of great thoughts 
— to know that in this room, among these 
books, another restless baffled mind had 
sought escape from the "dusty answer" of 
life. Her hours there made her think less 
bitterly of Amherst— but also, alas, made 
her see more clearly the irreconcilable difTer- 
ence between the two natures she had striven 
to reunite. That which was the essence of 
life to one was a meaningless shadow to the 
other ; and thegulfbetweenthemwastoo wide 
for the imagination of either to bridge. 

As she sat there on the seventh afternoon, 
there was a knock on the door and Wyant 
entered. She had only time to notice that 
he was very pale — she had been struck, 
once or twice during the week, with his look 
of sudden exhaustion, which passed as 
quickly as it came — then she saw that he 
carried a telegram, and her mind flew back to 
its central anxiety. She grew pale herself as 
she read themessage and handedit to Wyant. 

"He has been found — at Corrientes. It 
will take him at least a month to get here." 

"A month — good God!" 

"And it may take Mr. Langhope longer." 

Their eyes met. "It's too long ?" She 

asked. 

"I don't know — I don't know." He 
shivered slightly, turning away into the 
window. 

Justine sat down to dash off messages to 
Mr. Tredegar and the Gaineses: Amherst's 
return must be made known at once. When 
she glanced up, Wyant was standing near 
her. His air of intense weariness had 
passed, and he looked calm and ready for 
action. 

"Shall I take these down?" 



206 



The Fruit of the Tree 



"No. Ring, please. I want to ask you a 
few questions." 

The servant who answered the Ijell 
brought in a tea-tray, and Justine, having 
despatched the telegrams, seated herself 
and began to pour out her tea. Food had 
revolted her during the first anguished un- 
settled days; but with the resumption of 
the nurse's systematic habits the nurse's 
punctual appetite returned. Every drop of 
nervous energy must be husbanded now. 
and only sleep and nourishment could fill 
the empty cisterns. 

She held out a cup to Wyant, but he drew 
back with a gesture of aversion. 

"Thanks; I'm not hungry." 

"You ought to eat more." 

"No, no. I'm verv well." 

She lifted her head, revived by the warm 
draught. The mechanical act of nourish- 
ment performed, her mind leapt back to the 
prospect of Amherst's return. A whole 
month before he reached Lynbrook! He 
had instructed her where news might find 
him on the way . . . l)ut a whole m(mth 
to wait! 

She looked at Wyant, and they read each 
other's thoughts. 

"It's a long time," he said. 

"Yes." 

" But Garford can do wonders — and she's 
very strong." 

Justine shuddered. Just so a skilled 
agent of the Incjuisition might have spoken, 
calculating how much longer the power of 
suffering might be artificially preserved in a 
body broken on the wheel. . . . 

"How does she seem to you today?" 

"The general conditions are about the 
same. The heart keeps up wonderfully, but 
there is a little more oppression of the dia- 
phragm." 

"Yes — her breathing is harder. Last 
night she suffered horribly at times." 

"Oh — she'll suffer," Wyant murmured. 
"Of course the hypodermics can be in- 
creased." 

"Just what did Dr. Garford say this 
morning?" 

"He is astonished at her strength." 

"But there's no hope? — I don't know 
why I ask!" 

"Hope ? " Wyant looked at her. "You 
mean of what's called recovery — of defer- 
ring death indefinitely?" 

She nodded. 



" How can Garford tell — or any one ? We 
all know there have been cases \vhere such 
injury to the cord has not caused death. 
This may be one of those cases; but the 
biggest man couldn't tell now." 

Justine hid her eyes. "What a fate!" 

"Recovery ? Yes. Keeping people alive 
in such cases is one of the refinements of 
cruelty that it was left for Christianity to 
invent." 

"And yet ?" 

"And yet — it's got to be! Science her- 
self says so — not for the patient, of course; 
but for herself ^ — for unborn generations, 
rather. Queer, isn't it? The two creeds 
are at one." 

Justine murmured through her clasped 
hands: " I wish she were not so strong " 

" Yes; it's wonderful what those frail pet- 
ted bodies can stand 
])e a hard one." 

She rose with a shiver 
Cicelv " 



The fight is going to 



I must go to 



The rector of Saint Anne's ^'id called 
again. Justine, in obedience to Mrs. 
Gaines's suggestion, had summoned him 
from Clifton the day after the accident; but, 
supported by the surgeons and Wyant, she 
had resisted his admission to the sick-room. 
Bessy's religious practices had l^een purely 
mechanical: her faith had never been asso- 
ciated with the graver moments of her life, 
and the apparition of a clerical figure at her 
bedside would portend not consolation but 
calamity. Since it was all-important that 
her nervous strength should be sustained, 
and the gravity of the situation concealed 
from her, Mrs. Gaines yielded to the medical 
commands, consoled by the ready acquies- 
cence of the rector. But before she left 
she extracted a promise that he would call 
frequently at Lynbrook, and wait his op- 
portunity to say an uplifting word to Mrs. 
Amherst. 

The Reverend Ernest Lynde, who was a 
young man, with more zeal than experience, 
deemed it his duty to obey this injunction 
to the letter; but hitherto he had had to 
content himself with a talk with the house- 
keeper, or a brief word on the doorstep from 
Wyant. Today, however, he had asked 
somewhat insistently for Miss Brent; and 
Justine, who was free at the moment, felt 
that she could not refuse to go down. She 
had seen him only in the pulpit, when, once 



The Fruit of the Tree 



207 



or twice, in Bessy's absence, she had accom- 
panied Cicely to church: he struck her as a 
fair grave young man, with a tine voice but 
baking speech. His sermons were earnest 
but ineffective. 

As he rose to meet her, she felt that she 
should like him better out of church. His 
glance was clear and honest, and there was 
sweetness in his hesitating smile. 

"I am sorry to seem persistent — but I 
heard you had news of Mr. Langhope, and 
I was anxious to know the particulars," he 
explained. 

Justine replied that her message had over- 
taken ]Mr. Langhope at Wady Haifa, and 
that he hoped to reach Alexandria in time 
to catch a steamer to Brindisi at the end of 
the week. 

" Not till then ? So it will be almost three 
weeks ?" 

"As nearly as I can calculate, a month." 

The rector hesitated. "And INIr. Am- 
herst?" 

"He is coming back too." 

"Ah, you have heard ? I'm glad of that. 
He will be here soon?" 

"No. He is in South America — at Bue- 
nos Ayres. There will be no steamer for 
some days, and he may not get here till after 
Mr. Langhope." 

Mr. Lynde looked at her kindly, with 
grave eyes that proffered help. "This is 
terrible for you. Miss Brent." 

"Yes," Justine answered simply. 

"And ISIrs. Amherst's condition ^?" 

"It is about the same." 

"The doctors are hopeful ?" 

"They have not lost hope." 

" She seems to keep her strength wonder- 
fully." 

"Yes, wonderfully " 

Mr. Lynde pauserl, looking downward, 
and awkwardly turning his soft clerical hat 
in his large kind-looking hands. "One 
might almost see in it a dispensation — ive 
should see one, Miss Brent." 

"We?" She glanced up apologetically, 
not quite sure that her tired mind had fol- 
lowed his meaning. 

"We, I mean, who believe . . . that not 
one sparrow falls to the ground. . . ." He 
flushed, and went on in a more mundane 
tone: " I am glad you have the hope of Mr. 
Langhope's arrival to keep you up. Mod- 
ern science — thank heaven! — can do such 
wonders in sustaining and prolonging life 



that, even if there is little chance of recovery, 
the faint spark may be nursed until. . . ." 

He paused again, conscious that the 
dusky - browed young woman, slenderly 
erect in her dark blue linen and nurse's 
cap, was examining him with an intent- 
ness which contrasted curiously with the 
absent-minded glance she had dropped on 
him in entering. 

"In such cases," she said in a low tone, 
" there is practically no chance of recovery." 

"So I understand." 

"Even if there were, it would probably 
be death-in-life; complete paralysis of the 
lower body." 

He shuddered. "A dreadful fate! She 
w-as so gay and active " 

"Yes — and the struggle with death, for 
the next few weeks, must involve incessant 
suffering . . . frightful suffering . . . per- 
haps vainly. ..." 

"I feared so," he murmured, his kind 
face paling. 

"Then why do you thank heaven that 
modern science has found such wonderful 
ways of prolonging life ? " 

He raised his head with a start and their 
eyes met. He saw that the nurse's face 
was pale and calm — almost judicial in its 
composure — and his self - possession re- 
turned to him. 

"As a Christian," he answered, with his 
rare smile, "I can hardly do otherwise." 

Justinecontinued to consider him thought- 
fully. "The men of the older generation — - 
clergymen, I mean," she went on, in a low 
controlled voice, "would of course take that 
view — must take it. But the conditions are 
so changed — so many undreamed-of means 
of prolonging life — prolonging suffering- 
have been discovered and applied in the last 
few years, that I wondered ... in my pro- 
fession one often wonders. . . ." 

"I understand," he rejoined sympathet- 
ically, forgetting his youth and his inexperi- 
ence in the simple desire to bring solace to 
a troubled mind. "I understand your feel- 
ing — but you need have no doubt. Hu- 
man life is sacred, and the fact that, even in 
this materialistic age, science is continually 
struggling to preserve and prolong it, shows 
— very beautifully, I think— how all things 
work together to fulfill the divine will." 

"Then you believe that the divine will de- 
lights in mere pain — mere meaningless an- 
imal suffering — for its own sake?" 



208 



The Fruit of the Tree 



" Surely not; but for the sake of the spir- 
itual life that may be mysteriously wrung 
out of it." 

Justine bent her puzzled brows on him. 
"I could understand that view of moral 
suffering — or even of physical pain mod- 
erate enough to leave the mind clear, and to 
call forth qualities of endurance and renun- 
ciation. But where the body has been 
crushed to a pulp, and the mind is no more 
than a machine for the registering of sense- 
impressions of physical anguish: of what 
use can such suffering be to its owner— or 
to the divine will?" 

The young rector looked at her sadly, al- 
most severely. "There, Miss Brent, we 
touch on inscrutable things, and human 
reason must leave the answer to faith." 

Justine pondered. "So that — one may 
say — Christianity recognizes no exceptions 
?" 

"None — none," its authorized exponent 
pronounced emphatically. 

"Then Christianity and science are 
agreed." She rose with a sigh, and the 
young rector, with visible reluctance, stood 
up also. 

"That, again, is one of the most striking 

evidences " he began; and then, as 

the necessity of taking leave was forced 
upon him, he added appeahngly: "I under- 
stand your uncertainties, your questionings, 
and I wish I could have made my point 
clearer " 

"Thank you; but it is quite clear. The 
reasons, of course, are different; but the re- 
sult is exactly the same." 

She held out her hand, smiling sadly upon 
him, and with a sudden return of youth and 
self-consciousness, he murmured shyly: "I 
feel for you " — the man in him yearning over 
her loneliness, though the pastor dared not 
press his help. . . . 

XXVIII 

That evening, when Justine took her 
place at the bedside, and the other two 
nurses had stolen down to supper, Bessy 
turned her head slightly, resting her eyes on 
her friend. 

The rose-shaded lamp cast a tint of life 
on her small wan face, and the dark circles 
of pain made her eyes look deeper and 
brighter. Justine was almost deceived by 
the delusive semblance of vitality, and a 



hope that was half anguish stirred in her. 
She sat down by the bed, clasping the hand 
on the sheet. 

"You feel better tonight?" 

"I breathe . . . better . . . ." The words 
came brokenly, between long pauses, but 
without the hard agonized gasps of the pre- 
vious night. 

"That's a good sign." Justine paused, 
and then, letting her fingers glide once or 
twice over the back of Bessy's hand — "You 
know, dear, Mr. Amherst is coming," she 
leaned down to say. 

Bessy's eyes moved again, slowly, in- 
scrutably. She had never asked for her 
husband. 

"Soon?" she whispered. 

"He had started on a long journey — to 
out-of-the-way places — to study something 
about cotton growing — my message has just 
overtaken him," Justine explained. 

Bessy lay still, her breast straining pain- 
fully for breath. She remained so long 
without speaking that Justine began to think 
she was relapsing into the somnolent state 
that intervened between her moments of 
complete consciousness. But at length she 
lifted her lids again, and her lips stirred. 

"He will be . . . long . . . coming?" 

"Some days." 

"How . . . many?" 

"We can't tell yet," Justine faltered. 

Silence again. Bessy's features seemed 
to shrink into a kind of waxen quietude — 
as though her face were seen under clear 
water, a long way down. And then, as she 
lay thus, without sound or movement, two 
tears forced themselves through her lashes 
and rolled down her cheeks. 

Justine, bending close, wiped them away 
with a consoling murmur. "Bessy " 

The wet lashes were raised — an anguished 
look met her pitying gaze. 

"I — I can't bear it . . . ." Bessv breathed. 

"What, dear?" 

"The pain. . . . Sha'n't I die . . . 
sooner?" 

"You may get well, Bessy." 

Justine felt her hand quiver. "Walk 
again . . .?" 

"Perhaps ... not that." 

''This} I can't bear it. . . ." Her 
head drooped sideways, turning away to- 
ward the wall. 

Justine, that night, kept her vigil with an 
aching heart. The news of Amherst's re- 



The Fruit of the Tree 



209 



turn had produced no sign of happiness in 
his wife — the tears had been forced from 
her merely by the dread of being kept aUve 
during the long days of pain that must in- 
tervene before he came. . . . The medical 
explanation might have been that repeated 
crises of intense physical anguish, and the 
deep lassitude succeeding them, had so 
overlaid all other feelings, or at least so be- 
numbed their expression, that it was impos- 
sible to conjecture how Bessy's little half- 
smothered spark of soul had really been 
affected by the news. But Justine did not 
believe in this argument. Her experience 
among the sick had convinced her, on the 
contrary, that the shafts of grief or joy will 
find a crack in the heaviest armour of phys- 
ical pain, that the tiniest gleam of hope will 
light up depths of mental inanition, and 
somehow send a faint ray to the surface. . . . 
It was true that Bessy had never known 
how to bear pain, and that her own sensa- 
tions had alwavs formed the centre of her 
universe — yet, for that very reason, if the 
thought of seeing Amherst had made her 
happier it would have lifted, at least momen- 
tarily, the weight of death from her limbs. 

Justine, at first, had almost feared the 
contrary effect — feared that the moral de- 
pression might show itself in a lowering of 
physical resistance. But the body kept up 
its obstinate struggle against death, drawing 
strength from sources of vitality unsuspected 
in that frail envelope. The surgeon's report 
the next day was more favourable, and every 
day won from death pointed now to a faint 
hope of recovery. 

Such at least was Wyant's view. Dr. Gar- 
ford and the consulting surgeons had not 
yet declared themselves ; but the young doc- 
tor, strung to the highest point of watchful- 
ness, and constantly in attendance on the 
patient, was beginning to tend toward a 
hopeful prognosis. The growing conviction 
spurred him to fresh efforts; at Dr. Gar- 
ford's request, he had temporarily handed 
over his Clifton practice to a young New 
York doctor in need of change, and having 
installed himself at Lynbrook he gave up 
his days and nights to the study of Mrs. 
Amherst's case. 

"If any one can save her, Wyant will," 
Dr. Garford had declared to Justine, when, 
on the tenth day after the accident, the sur- 
geons held their third consultation. Dr. 
Garford reserved his own judgment. He had 



seen cases — they had all seen cases . . . 
but just at present the signs might point 
either way. . . . Meanwhile Wyant's con- 
fidence was an invaluable asset toward the 
patient's chances of recovery. Hopefulness 
in the physician was almost as necessary as 
in the patient — contact with such faith had 
been known to work miracles. . . . 

Justine listened in silence, wishing that 
she too could hope. But whichever way the 
prognosis pointed, she felt only a dull de- 
spair. She believed no more than Dr. Gar- 
ford in the chance of recovery — that con- 
viction seemed to her a mirage of Wyant's 
imagination, of his boyish ambition to 
achieve the impossible — and every hopeful 
symptom pointed, in her mind, only to a 
longer period of useless suffering. 

Her hours at Bessy's side deepened her 
revolt against the energy spent in the fi-ght 
with death. Since Bessy had learned that 
her husband was returning she had never, 
by sign or word, reverted to the fact. Ex- 
cept for a gleam of tenderness, now and 
then, when Cicely was brought to her, she 
seemed to have sunk back into herself, as 
though her poor little flicker of conscious- 
ness w^ere wholly centred in the contempla- 
tion of its pain. It was not that her mind was 
clouded — only that it w^as immersed, ab- 
sorbed, in that dread mystery of dispropor- 
tionate anguish which a capricious fate had 
laid on it. . . . And what if she recovered, 
as they called it ? If the flood-tide of pain 
should ebb, leaving her stranded, a helpless 
wreck, high and dry on the desert shores of 
inactivity? What would life be to Bessy 
without movement ? Thought would never 
set her blood flowing — motion, in her, could 
only take the form of the physical processes. 
Her love for Amherst was dead — even if it 
flickered into life again, it could only put the 
spark to smouldering discords and resent- 
ments; and would her one uncontaminated 
sentiment — her affection for Cicely — sufifice 
to reconcile her to the desolate half-life which 
was the utmost that science could hold out 
to her ? 

Here again, Justine's experience an- 
swered no. She did not beheve in Bessy's 
powers of moral recuperation — her body 
seemed less near death than her spirit. Life 
had been poured out to her in generous 
measure, and she had spilled the precious 
draught — the few drops remaining in the 
cup could no longer renew her strength. 



210 



The Fruit of the Tree 



Pity, not condemnation — profound, illim- 
itable pity — flowed from this conclusion of 
Justine's. To a compassionate heart there 
could be no sadder instance of the waste- 
fulness of life than this struggle of the small 
half-formed soul with a destiny too heavy 
for its strength. If Bessy had had any 
moral hope to light for, every pang of suffer- 
ing would have been worth enduring; but 
it was intolerable to witness the spectacle of 
her useless pain. 

Incessant, lonely commerce with such 
thoughts made Justine, as the days passed, 
crave any escape from solitude, any contact 
with other ideas. Even the reappearance of 
Westy Gaines, bringing a breath of com- 
mon-place conventional grief into the 
haunted silence of the house, was a respite 
from her cjuestionings. If it was hard to 
talk to him, to answer his enquiries, to as- 
sent to his platitudes, it was harder, a thou- 
sand times to go on talking to herself. . . . 

Mr. Tredegar's coming was a distinct 
relief. His dryness was like cautery to her 
wound. Mr. Tredegar undoubtedly grieved 
for Bessy ; but his grief struck inward, exud- 
ing only now and then, through the fissures 
of his hard manner, in a touch of extra solem- 
nity, the more laboured rovmding of a period. 
Yet, on the whole, it was to his feeling that 
Justine felt her own to be most akin. If his 
stoic acceptance of the inevitable proceeded 
from the resolve to spare himself pain, that 
at least was a form of strength, 'iin indication 
of character. She had never cared for the 
fluencies of invertebrate sentiment. 

Now, on the evening of the day after her 
talk with Bessy, it was more than ever a sol- 
ace to escape from the torment of her 
thoughts into the rarefied air of Mr. Trede- 
gar's presence. The day had been a bad 
one for the patient, and Justine's distress 
had been increased by the receipt of a cable 
from Mr. Langhope, announcing that, ow- 
ing to delay in reaching Brindisi, he had 
missed the fast steamer from CherlDOurg, 
and would not arrive till four or five days 
later than he had expected. Mr. Tredegar, 
in response to her report, had announced 
his intention of coming down by a late train, 
and now he and Justine and Dr. Wyant, 
after a brief dinner together, were seated 
before the fire in the smoking-room. 

"I take it, then," Mr. Tredegar said, 
turning to Wyant, "that the chances of her 
living to see her father are very slight." 



The young doctor raised his head eagerly. 
" Not in my opinion, sir. Unless unforeseen 
complications arise, I can almost promise 
to keep her alive for another month — I'm 
not afraid to call it six weeks,!" 

"H'm^Garford doesn't say so." 

"No; Dr. Garford argues from prece- 
dent." 

"And you?" Mr. Tredegar's thin lips 
were visited by the ghost of a smile. 

" Oh, I don't argue — I just feel my way," 
said Wyant imperturbably. 

"And yet vou don't hesitate to pre- 
dict "' 

"No, I don't, sir; because the case, as I 
see it, presents certain definite indications." 
He began to enumerate them, cleverly 
avoiding the use of technicalities and trying 
to make his point clear by the use of simple 
illustration and analogy. It sickened Jus- 
tine to listen to his pa.ssionate exposition — ■ 
she had heard it so often, she believed in it 
so little. 

jNIr. Tredegar turned a probing glance 
upon him as he ended. "Then, today even, 
you believe not only in the possibility of 
prolonging life, but of ultimate recovery?" 

Wyant hesitated. "I won't call it recov- 
ery — today. Say — life indefinitely pro- 
longed." 

"And the paralysis?" 

"It might disappear — after a few months 
- — or a few years." 

"Such an outcome would be unusual?" 

" Exceptional. But then there are excep- 
tions. And I'm straining every nerve to 
make this one!" 

"And the suffering — such as today's, for 
instance — is unavoidable?" 

"Unhappily." 

"And bound to increase?" 

"W'ell — as the anaesthetics lose their 
effect. . . ." 

There was a tap on the door, and one of 
the nurses entered to report to Wyant. He 
went out with her, and Justine was left with 
Mr. Tredegar. 

He turned to her thoughtfully. "That 
young fellow seems sure of himself. You 
believe in him ?" 

Justine hesitated. "Not in his expecta- 
tion of recovery — no one does." 

"But you think they can keep the poor 
child alive till Langhope and her husband 
get back?" 

There was a moment's pause; then Jus- 



The Fruit of the Tree 



211 



tine murmured: "It can be done ... I 
think. . . ." 

"Yes — it's horrible," said Mr. Tredegar 
suddenly, as if in answer to her unspoken 
thought. 

She looked up in surprise, and saw his 
eye resting on her with what seemed like 
a mist of sympathy on its vitreous sur- 
face. Her lips trembled, parting as if for 
speech — but she looked away without 



answeruig. 



"These new devices for keeping people 
alive," Mr. Tredegar continued; "they in- 
crease the suffering besides prolonging it ?" 

"Yes — in some cases." 

"In this case?" 

"I am afraid so." 

The lawyer drew out his fine cambric 
handkerchief, and furtively wiped a slight 
dampness from his forehead. "I wish to 
God she had been killed!" he said. 

Justine lifted her head again, with an an- 
swering exclamation. "Oh, yes!" 

"It's infernal — the time they can make it 
last," he went on. 

"It's useless!" Justine broke out. 

" Useless ? " He turned his critical glance 
on her. "Well, that's beside the point — 
since it's inevitable." 

She wavered a moment — but his words 
had loosened the bonds about her heart, 
and she could not check herself so sud- 
denly. "Why inevitable?" 

ISIr. Tredegar looked at her in surprise, 
as though wondering at so unprofessional 
an utterance from one who, under ordinary 
circumstances, showed the absolute self- 
control and submission of the well-dis- 
ciplined nurse. 

"Human life is sacred," he said senten- 
tiously. 

"Ah, that must have been decreed by 
some one who had never suffered ! " Justine 
exclaimed. 

Mr. Tredegar smiled compassionately: 
he evidently knew how to make allowances 
for the fact that she was overwrought by the 
sight of her friend's suffering. "Society 
decreed it — not one person," he corrected. 

"Society — science — religion!" she mur- 
mured, as if to herself. 

"Precisely. It's the universal consensus 
— the result of the world's accumulated ex- 
perience. Cruel in individual instances — 
necessary for the general welfare. Of 
course your training has taught you all this; 



but I can understand that at such a 
time. . . ." 

"Yes," she said, rising wearily as Wyant 
came in. 

Her worst misery, now, was to have to 
discuss Bessy's condition with Wyant. To 
the young physician Bessy was no longer a 
suffering, agonizing creature: she was a 
case — a beautiful case. As the problem de- 
veloped new intricacies, becoming more and 
more of a challenge to his faculties of obser- 
vation and inference, Justine saw the ab- 
stract scientific passion supersede his per- 
sonal emotions of pity. Though his pro- 
fessional skill made him exquisitely tender 
to the patient under his hands, he seemed 
hardly conscious that she was a woman who 
had befriended him, and whom he had so 
lately seen in the brightness of health and 
enjoyment. This view was normal enough 
— it was, as Justine knew, the ideal state of 
mind for the successful physician, in whom 
sympathy for the patient as an individual 
must often impede swift choice and unfalter- 
ing action. But what she shrank from was 
his resolve to save Bessy's life — a resolve 
fortified to the point of exasperation by the 
scepticism of the consulting surgeons, who 
saw in it only the youngster's natural desire 
to distinguish himself by performing a feat 
which his elders deemed impossible. 

As the days dragged on, and Bessy's suf- 
ferings increased, Justine longed in her an- 
guish for a protesting word from Dr. Gar- 
ford or one of his colleagues. In her hos- 
pital experience she had encountered cases 
where the viseless agonies of death were 
mercifully shortened by the physician; why 
was not this a case for such treatment ? The 
answer was simple enough — in the first 
place, it was the duty of the surgeons ta 
keep their patient alive till her husband and 
her father could reach her; and secondly, 
there was that faint illusive hope of so- 
ca,lled recovery, in which none of them be- 
lieved, yet which they could not ignore in 
their treatment. The evening after Mr. 
Tredegar's departure Wyant was setting 
this forth at great length to Justine. Bessy 
had had a bad morning: the bronchial 
symptoms which had developed a day or 
two before had greatly increased her dis- 
tress, and there had been, at dawn, a mo- 
ment of weakness when it seemed that some 
pitiful power was about to defeat the relent- 



212 



The Fruit of the Tree 



less efforts of science. But Wyant had 
fought off the peril. By the prompt and au- 
dacious use of stimulants — by a rapid mar- 
shalling of resources, a display of self-reli- 
ance and authority, which Justine could not 
but admire as she mechanically seconded his 
efforts — the spark of life had been revived, 
and Bessy vi^on back for fresh suffering. 

" Yes — I say it can be done : tonight I say 
it more than ever," Wyant exclaimed, push- 
ing the disordered hair from his forehead, 
and leaning tov^^ard Justine across the table 
on v^hich their brief evening meal had been 
served. "I say the way the heart has ral- 
lied proves that we've got more strength to 
draw on than any of them have been willing 
to admit. The breathing's better too. If 
we can fight off the degenerative processes 
— and, by George, I believe we can!" He 
looked up suddenly at Justine. " With you 
to work with, I believe I could do any- 
thing. How you do back a man up! You 
think with your hands — with every individ- 
ual finger!" 

Justine turned her eyes away : she felt a 
shudder of repulsion steal over her tired 
body. It was not that she detected any note 
of personal admiration in his praise — he 
had commended her as the surgeon might 
commend a fine instrument fashioned for 
his use. But that she should be the instru- 
ment to serve such a purpose — that her skill, 
her promptness, her gift of divining and in- 
terpreting the will she worked with, should 
be at the service of this implacable scientific 
passion! Ah, no — it was unendurable — 
she could be silent no longer. . . . 

She looked up at Wyant, and their eyes 
met. 

"Why do you do it ?" she asked. 

He stared, as if thinking that she referred 
'to some special point in his treatment. 
"Do what?" 

" It's all so useless . . . you all know she 
must die." 

"I know nothing of the kind . . . and 
even the others are not so sure today." He 
began to go over it all again — repeating his 
arguments, developing new theories, trying 
to force into her reluctant mind his own 
faith in the possibility of success. 

Justine sat resting her chin on her clasped 
hands, her eyes gazing straight before her 
under dark tormented brows. When he 
paused for a reply she remained silent. 



" Well — don't you believe me ? " he broke 
out with sudden asperity. 

"I don't know. . . .' I can't tell. . . ." 

"But as long as there's a doubt, even — 
a doubt my way — and I'll show you there 
is, if you'll give me time " 

"How much time?" she murmured, 
without shifting her gaze. 

"Ah — that depends on ourselves : on you 
and me chiefly. That's what Garford ad- 
mits. They can't do much now — they've 
got to leave the game to us. It's a ques- 
tion of incessant vigilance ... of utilizing 
every hour, every moment. . . . Time's 
all I ask, and you can give it to me, if any 
one can!" 

Under the challenge of his tone Justine 
rose to her feet with a low murmur of fear. 
"Ah, don't ask me!" 

"Don't ask you ?" 

"I can't— I can't!" 

Wyant stood up also, turning on her an 
astonished glance. 

"You can't — what?" he asked. 

Their eyes met, and she thought she read 
in his a sudden discernment of her inmost 
thoughts. The discovery electrified her flag- 
ging strength, restoring her to immediate 
clearness of brain. She saw the gulf of self- 
betrayal over which she had hung, and the 
nearness of the peril nerved her to a last 
effort of dissimulation. 

"I can't — talk of it . . . any longer," she 
faltered, letting her tears flow, and turning 
on him a face of pure womanly weakness. 

Wyant looked at her for a moment with- 
out answering. Did he distrust even these 
plain physical evidences of exhaustion, or 
was he merely disappointed in her, as in 
one whom he had believed to be above the 
emotional failings of her sex ? 

"You're over-tired," he said coldly. 
"Take tonight to rest. Miss Mace can re- 
place you for the next few hours — and I 
may need you more tomorrow." 



Four more days had passed. Bessy sel- 
dom spoke when Justine was with her. She 
was wrapped in a thickening cloud of opi- 
ates — morphia by day, bromides, sulphonal, 
chloral hydrate at night. When the cloud 
broke and consciousness emerged, it was 
centred in the one acute point of bodily an- 
guish. Darting throes of neuralgia, ago- 



The Fruit of the Tree 



213 



nized oppression of the breath, the diffused 
misery of the whole helpless body — these 
were reducing their victim to a mere in- 
strument on which pain played its inces- 
sant deadly variations. Once or twice she 
turned her dull eyes on Justine, breathing 
out: "I want to die," as some inevitable 
lifting or readjusting thrilled her body with 
fresh pangs; but there were no signs of con- 
tact with the outer world — she had ceased 
even to ask for Cicely. . . . 

And yet, according to the doctors, the pa- 
tient held her own. Certain alarming symp- 
toms had diminished, and while others per- 
sisted, the strength to combat them persisted 
too. With such strength to call on, what 
fresh agonies were reserved for the poor 
body when narcotics had lost their power 
over it ? 

That was the question always before 
Justine. She never again betrayed her fears 
to Wyant — she carried out his orders with 
morbid precision, trembling lest any failure 
in efficiency should revive his suspicions. 
She hardly knew what she feared his sus- 
pecting — she only had a confused sense that 
they were enemies, and that she was the 
weaker of the two. 

And then the anaesthetics began to fail. 
It was the sixteenth day since the accident, 
and the resources of alleviation were almost 
exhausted. It was not sure, even now, that 
Bessy was going to die — and she was cer- 
tainly going to suffer a long time. Wyant 
seemed hardly conscious of the increase 
of pain — his whole mind was fixed on the 
prognosis. What matter if the patient suf- 
fered, as long as he proved his case ? That, 
of course, was not his way of putting it. 
In reality he did all he could to allay the 
pain, surpassed himself in new devices and 
experiments. But death confronted him 
implacably, claiming his due: so many 
hours robbed from him, so much tribute to 
pay; and Wyant, setting his teeth, fought 
on — and Bessy paid. 

Justine had begun to notice that it was 
hard for her to get a word alone with Dr. 
Garford. The other nurses were not in the 
way — it was Wyant who always contrived 
to be there. Perhaps she was unreasonable 
in seeing a special intention in his pres- 
ence: it was natural enough that the two 
persons in charge of the case should confer 
together with their chief. But his persist- 
VoL. XLII.— 25 



ence annoyed her, and she was glad when, 
one afternoon, the surgeon asked him to 
telephone an important message to town. 

As soon as the door had closed, Justine 
said to Dr. Garford: "She is beginning to 
suffer terribly." 

He answered with the large impersonal 
gesture of the man to whom physical suffer- 
ing has become a painful general fact of 
life, no longer divisible into individual cases. 
"We are doing all we can." 

"Yes." She paused, and then raised her 
eyes to his dry kind face. "Is there any 
hope?" 

Another gesture — the fatalistic sweep of 
the lifted palms. "The next ten days will 
tell — the fight is on, as Wyant says. And 
if any one can do it, that young fellow can. 
There's stuff in him — and infernal ambi- 
tion." 

"Yes: but do yon believe she can 
live ?" 

Dr. Garford smiled indulgently on such 
unprofessional insistence; but she was past 
wondering what they must all think of her. 

"My dear Miss Brent," he said, "I have 
reached the age when one always leaves a 
door open to the unexpected." 

As he spoke, a slight sound at her back 
made her turn. Wyant was behind her — • 
he must have entered the room as she put 
her question. And he certainly could not 
have had time to descend the stairs, walk 
the length of the house, ring up New York, 
and deliver Dr. Garford's message. . . . 
The same thought seemed to strike the sur- 
geon. "Hallo, Wyant?" he said. 

"Line busy," said Wyant curtly. 

About this time, Justine gave up her 
night vigils. She could no longer face the 
struggle of the dawn hour, when life ebbs 
lowest; and since her duties extended be- 
yond the sick-room she could fairly plead 
that she was more needed about the house 
by day. But Wyant protested: he wanted 
her most at the difficult hour. 

"You know you're taking a chance from 
her," he said, almost sternly. 

"Oh, no " 

He looked at her searchingly. "You 
don't feel up to it?" 

"No." 

He turned away with a slight shrug; but 
she knew he resented her defection. 

The day watches were miserable enough. 



214 



The Fruit of the Tree 



It was the nineteenth day now; and Justine 
lay on the sofa in Amherst's sitting-room, 
trying to nerve herself for the nurse's sum- 
mons. A page torn out of a calendar lay be- 
fore her — she had been calculating again 
how many days must elai:)se before Mr. 
Langhope could arrive. Ten days — ten 
days and ten nights! And the length of the 
nights was double. . . . As for Amherst, it 
was impossible to set a date for his coming, 
for his steamer from Buenos Ayres called 
at various ports on the way northward, and 
the length of her stay at each was depend- 
ent on the delivery of freight, and on the 
dilatoriness of the South American official. 

She threw down the calendar and leaned 
back, pressing her hands to her aching tem- 
ples. Oh, for a word with Amherst — he 
alone would have understood what she was 
undergoing! Mr. Langhope's coming would 
make no difference — or rather, it would 
only increase the difficulty of the situation. 
Instinctively Justine felt that, though his 
heart would be wrung by the sight of Bes- 
sy's pain, his cry would be the familiar one, 
the traditional one: Keep Jicr alive! Under 
his surface originality, his verbal audacities 
and ironies, INIr. Langhope was the creature 
of accepted forms, inherited opinions: he 
had never really thought for himself on any 
of the pressing problems of life. 

But Amherst was different. Close con- 
tact with many forms of wretchedness had 
freed him from the bondage of accepted 
opinion. He looked at life through no eyes 
but his own ; and what he saw, he confessed 
to seeing. He never tried to evade the con- 
sequences of his discoveries. 

Justine's remembrance flew back to their 
first meeting at Hanaford, when his confi- 
dence in his own powers was still unshaken, 
his trust in others unimpaired. And, grad- 
ually, she began to relive each detail of their 
talk at Dillon's bedside — her first impression 
of him, as he walked down the ward; the 
first sound of his voice; her surprised sense 
of his authority ; her almost involuntary sub- 
mission to his will. . . . Then her thoughts 
passed on to their walk home from the 
hospital — she recalled his sober yet unspar- 
ing summary of the situation at Westmore, 
and the note of insight with which he touched 
on the hardships of the workers. . . .Then, 
word by word, their talk about Dillon came 
back . . . his indignation and pity . . . his 
shudder of revolt at the man's doom. , . . 



" In your work, donH you ever feel templed 
to set a poor devil free?" And then, after 
her conventional murmur of protest: "To 
save what, when all the good of life is gone?" 

To distract her thoughts she stretched her 
hand toward the book-case, taking out the 
first volume in reach — the little copy of 
Bacon. She leaned back, fluttering its pages 
aimlessly — so wrapped in her own misery 
that the meaning of the words could not 
reach her. It was useless to try to read: 
every perception of the outer world was lost 
in the hum of inner activity that made her 
mind like a forge throbbing with heat and 
noise. But suddenly her glance fell on some 
pencilled sentences on the fly-leaf. They 
were in Amherst's hand, and the sight ar- 
rested her thoughts as though she had heard 
him speak. 

La vraie morale semoquede la morale. . . . 

We perish because we folhnu other men's 

examples Socrates used to call the opin- 

ions of the many by the name of LamicB — 
bugbears to frighten children. . . . 

A rush of air seemed to have been let into 
her stifled mind. Were they his own 
thoughts ? No — her memory recalled some 
confused association with great names. But 
at least they must represent his beliefs — 
must embody deeply-felt convictions — or 
he would scarcely have taken the trouble to 
record them. 

She murmured over the last sentence 
once or twice: The opinions of the many — 
bugbears to frighten children. . . . Yes, she 
had often heard him speak of current judg- 
ments in that way . . . she had never 
known a mind so free from the spell of the 
Lamias. . . . 

Some one knocked, and she put aside the 
book and rose to her feet. It was a maid 
bringing a note from Wyant. 

"There has been a motor accident be- 
yond Clifton, and I have been sent for. I 
think I can safely be away for two or three 
hours, but ring me up at Clifton if you want 
me. Miss Mace has instructions, and Gar- 
ford's assistant will be down at seven." 

She looked at the clock : it was just three, 
the hour at which she was to relieve Miss 
Mace. She smoothed her hair from her 
forehead, straightened her cap, tied on the 
apron she had laid aside. . . . 

As she entered Bessy's sitting-room the 
nurse came out, memoranda in hand. The 



The Fruit of the Tree 



215 



two moved to the window for a moment's 
conference, and as the wintry hght fell on 
Miss Mace's face, Justine saw that it was 
livid with fatigue. 

"You're ill!" she exclaimed. 

The nurse shook her head. "No — but 
it's awful . . . this afternoon. ..." Her 
glance turned to the door of the sick-room. 

"Go and rest— I'll stay till bedtime," 
Justine said. 

"Miss Safford's down with another head- 
ache." 

"I know: it doesn't matter. I'm quite 
fresh." 

"You do look rested!" the other ex- 
claimed, her eyes lingering enviously on 
Justine's face. 

She stole heavily away, and Justine en- 
tered the room. It was true that she felt 
fresh — a new spring of hope had welled up 
in her. She had her nerves in hand again, 
shehadregainedhersteady vision of life. . . . 

But in the room, as the nurse had whis- 
pered, it was awful. The time had come 
when the effect of the ancTsthetics must be 
carefully husbanded, when long intervals of 
pain must purchase the diminishing mo- 
ments of relief. Yet from Wyant's stand- 
point it was a good day — things were look- 
ing well, as he would have phrased it. And 
each day now was a fresh victory. . . . 

Justine went through her task mechan- 
ically. The glow of strength and courage re- 
mained, steehng her to bear what had broken 
down Miss Mace's professional fortitude. 
But when she sat down by the bed, Bessy's 
moaning began to wear on her. It was no 
longer the utterance of human pain, but the 
monotonous whimper of an animal — the 
kind of sound that a compassionate hand 
would instinctively crush into silence. But 
her hand had other duties; she must keep 
watch on pulse and heart, must reinforce 
their action with the tremendous stimulants 
which Wyant was now using, and, having 
revived fresh sensibility to pain, must pres- 
ently try to allay it by the cautious use of 
narcotics. 

It was all simple enough — but suppose 
she should not do it ? Suppose she left the 
stimulants untouched? . . . Wyant was 
absent, one nurse exhausted with fatigue, 
the other laid low by headache. Justine 
had the field to herself. For three hours at 
least no one was likely to cross the threshold 
of the sick-room. . . . Ah, if no more 



time were needed ! But there was too much 
life in Bessy — her youth was fighting too 
hard for her ! She would not sink out of life 
in three hours . . . and Justine could not 
count on more than that. 

She looked at the little travelling-clock on 
the dressing-table, and saw that its hands 
marked four. An hour had passed already. 
.... She rose, and administered the pre- 
scribed restorative; then she took the pulse, 
and listened to the beat of the heart. Strong 
still — too strong! 

As she lifted her head, the vague animal 
wailing ceased, and she heard her name: 
"Justine " 

She bent down eagerly. " Yes ? " 

No answer: the waihng had begun again. 
But the one word showed her that the mind 
still lived in its torture-house, that the poor 
powerless body before her was not yet a 
mere bundle of senseless reilexes, but her 
friend Bessy Amherst, dying, and feeling 
herself die. . . . 

She reseated herself, and the vigil began 
again. The second hour ebbed slowly — ah, 
no, it was flying now ! Her eyes were on the 
hands of the clock, and they seemed leagued 
against her to devour the precious minutes. 
And now she could see by certain spas- 
modic symptoms that another crisis of pain 
was approaching — one of the struggles that 
Wyant, at times, had almost seemed to court 
and exult in. . . . 

Bessy's eyes turned on her again. ^^ Jus- 
tine " 

She knew what that meant : it was an ap- 
peal for the hypodermic needle. The little 
instrument lay at hand, beside a newly- 
filled bottle of morphia. But she must wait 
— must let the pain grow more severe. Yet 
she could not turn her gaze from Bessy, and 
Bessy's eyes entreated her again — Justine/ 
There was really no word now— the whim- 
perings were uninterrupted. But Justine 
heard an inner voice, and its pleading 
shook her heart. She rose and filled the 
syringe — and returning with it, bent above 
the bed. . . . 

She lifted her head and looked at the 
clock. The second hour had passed. As 
she looked, she heard a step in the sitting- 
room. Who could it be? Not Dr. Gar- 
ford's assistant — he was not due till seven. 
She listened again. . . . One of the nurses? 
No, it was not a woman's step 



216 



The Fruit of the Tree 



The door opened, and Wyant came in. 
She stood by the bed without moving 
toward him. He paused also, as if sur- 
prised to see her there motionless. In 
the intense silence, she fancied for a mo- 
ment that she heard Bessy's violent, ago- 
nized breathing. She tried to speak, to 
drown the sound of the breathing; but her 
lips trembled too much, and she remained 
silent. 

Wyant seemed to hear nothing. He stood 
so still that she felt she must move forward. 
As she did so, she picked up from the table 
by the bed the memoranda that it was her 
duty to submit to him. 

"Well?" he said, in the familiar sick- 
room whisper. 

"She is dead." 

He fell back a step, glaring at her, white 
and incredulous. 

"Dead?— When ?" 

"A few minutes ago. . . ." 

" Dead— ? It's not possible ! " 

He swept past her, shouldering her aside, 
pushing in an electric button as he sprang 
to the bed. She realized then that the room 
had been almost in darkness. She recov- 
ered command of herself, and followed him. 
He was going through the usual rapid ex- 
amination — pulse, heart, breath — hanging 
over the bed like some angry animal balked 



of its prey. Then he lifted the lids and bent 
close above the eyes. 

"Take the shade off that lamp! " he com- 
manded. 

Justine obeyed him. 

He stooped down again to examine the 
eyes . . .he remained stooping a long time. 
Suddenly he stood up and faced her. 

"Had she been in great pain?" 

"Yes." 

"Worse than usual?" 

"Yes." 

"What had you done?" 

"Nothing — there was no time." 

"No time?" He broke off to sweep the 
room again with his excited glance. ' ' Where 
are the others ? Why were you here alone ? " 
he demanded. 

"It came suddenly. I was going to 
call " 

Their eyes met for a moment. Her face 
was perfectly calm — she could feel that her 
lips no longer trembled. She was not in the 
least afraid of Wyant's scrutiny. 

As he continued to look at her, his ex- 
pression slowly passed from incredulous 
wrath to something softer — -more human — 
she could not tell what. . . . 

"This has been too much for you — go 
and send one of the others. . . . It's all 
over," he said. 



(To be continued.) 




THE GRANDFATHERS OF THE EVOLUTION 



By Nelson Lloyd 

Illustrations by James Montgomery Flagg 



^^^^^^^HE retirement of Jared Blake 
from the gay world in which 
he had been so long a con- 
spicuous figure was, at the 
time, a subject of much 
comment and speculation. 





That a man of his large means, of his po- 
sition socially, and, moreover, a bachelor, 
should suddenly close his house, disappear 
from his clubs and from the smart circle in 
which he was a favorite, rent his opera box, 
sell his stable— in fact, give up all those pleas- 
ures for which men most strive, renounce 
them to begin the study of medicine and 
take to politics and philanthropy — was un- 
doubtedly strange. Some of his friends 
even went so far as to hint that his mind 
was affected, that an hereditary taint of the 
Van Eycks, of which that ancient family 
was rather proud, had in him assumed a 
more pronounced form, and among his rel- 
atives there was not a little talk of legal 
steps to prevent him from dissipating his 
fortune in charity. It appeared, however, 
to the eminent counsel whom they consulted 
that it would be difScult to have a man ad- 
judged insane because he was giving away 
nearly one million dollars annually, when 
in return he could show that while devoting 
his entire income to homes and hospitals he 
had been steadily increasing his capital by 
clever investment; or, further, to convince 
the courts that he was incompetent to con- 
trol his own affairs because time formerly 
spent in dining and dancing was given to 
the study of human ills and their allevia- 
tion. That Blake was eccentric, if not mad, 
was the general verdict of his friends. For 
myself I love the new Blake. I liked the 
old — but liked only. I knew the epicure, 
the raconteur, the genial spendthrift. I 
know the student, the politician, the philan- 
thropist. And what wrought the change is 
not a mystery to me. He told me every- 
thing that night when I came upon him 
standing in the debris of his strange mid- 
night feast; standing, too, in the debris of 
his past, erect, his shoulders square, his face 



grimly set in a new determination. At first 
I scoffed. Then came his resignation from 
the Colonial Lords, that most exclusive of 
all our societies given to ancestor worship. 
It had been his hobby for years and such a 
desertion brought forth my most forceful 
remonstrances. I even hinted my darkest 
suspicions. "Mad ? " he cried. " Because I 
refuse to worship a crew like that — mad ?" 
And he laughed so uproariously yet so sane- 
ly that I began to believe. He believes. He 
proves it every day, but when I see him I 
marvel more at the result than at the cause. 

Jared Blake, then, had ancestors as well 
as money. He inherited them from his 
mother, a Van Eyck whose family tree 
spread its branches into ten of the original 
thirteen colonies. His fortune, his consti- 
tution, and, remembering that good woman, 
I should add his looks, came from his fath- 
er's side. The Blake tree was a shorn trunk, 
all its branches having long since been 
blown away on the winds of adversity. But 
Jared could spare them. His mother had 
bequeathed him a large collection of por- 
traits, and strolling around his library he 
could look into the solemn faces of many of 
his forefathers. In certain of these he had 
particular pleasure, for through them he had 
qualified for the Colonial Lords, and he 
never tired of extolling them and giving 
their history to his guests. 

"Yonder, over the fireplace," he would 
say, "is my great-great-grandfather, Paul 
Van Eyck, who was twice speaker of the 
provincial assembly, a very well-known 
man of the time. The third to the right is 
Captain Peter Windom, of Massachusetts, 
commander of the famous privateer Spar- 
hawk, a gallant sailor. Beside him is 
Harry Hurlingham, of the Virginia Hurl- 
inghams, you know — served as aide to Mad 
Anthony Wayne ; and the benign old Qua- 
ker is Thomas Williams, a Philadelphia mer- 
chant — fine face, has he not?" 

These, then, were the four great-great- 
grandfathers of Jared Blake. True, he 
should have had eight, but four was all he 

217 



218 The Grandfathers of the Evolution 

knew, and surely four were enough for any ing-room and had a glass of Scotch and 

man. And if he ever had any longing for a soda. Butmarkthis — he drank but one, and 

complete set it could not have outhved that that a scant two fingers of the liquid that 

midnight supper, that strange time exhilarates but does not inebriate if taken 

But there, I am getting ahead too fast again, in sufhciently small quantities. I mention 

Facts should be arranged in proper se- this to show that his innocent diversion was 

quence, truth as well as fiction. in no way the cause of the events that fol- 

The supper was for the governors of the lowed. They followed fast. Hardly had he 
Colonial Lords. It was to be a quiet little returned to the library when from the draw- 
affair at which we should discuss the com- ing-room solemnly, formally, rang the voice 
ing dinner of the society, decide who should of Hopkins, 
speak and who should not, and what we "IVfr. Paul Van Eyck." 
were to eat and drink. As president, Blake Blake started, halted, and stared. He 
was our host. Indeed, because he had been started at the name; he halted, hearing the 
our host for so many years we kept him in light footfalls approaching through the ad- 
the chair, as his little midnight feasts were joining room ; he stared when he saw his 
more enjoyable by far than the formal din- guest. Framed in the portieres was his great- 
ner, for we were rare cronies, and quickly great-grandfather! Real? Nonsense! It 
passed from the discussioft of speakers and was but some quaint conceit of Ames or 
guests to more interesting subjects, like ter- Harding to masquerade this way. To the 
rapin and wine. portrait above the mantel went his glance; 

Jared Blake's terrapin! How my outer then back to the man. That one was a copy 
man smiles and my inner man frowns at the of the other there could be no doubt. Each 
very thought of it! Never was its like. For wore a coat of black velvet with wide-spread- 
t^iis particular occasion he had composed a ing tails and lace rufiSes at the sleeves, black 
new sauce, a poem of wines and spices, breeches, and stockings of white silk. Their 
which he warned us would be ready at long waistcoats were alike to the pattern of 
twelve, and who delayed past the stroke of the embroidery, and so with the hair, curled 
the hour did so at his own cost. He knew and powdered, and caught behind in a cue. 
us. He knew that at eleven we should ap- The copy was faithful to the very fall of 
pear no matter how alluring the last bars the neckcloth and the silver knee-buckles, 
of the opera or the bridge room at the club. But in this there was nothing uncanny. It 
So at eleven he descended the stairs, took a was the faces that made Blake shake him- 
turn of the dining-room to see the final self as though he would break from en- 
touches of the table, and settled himself in a meshing dreams. For the face of the man 
deep chair in the library. Comfortable, by was the face of the portrait, even to the hook 
a blazing fire, gazing up into the expression- of the nose; it was the face of the portrait 
less face of Paul Van Eyck, he did not real- come to life; the ruddy red of health shot 
ize what was going on without. The wind over the cheeks, as the mouth curled in a 
in the chimney might have suggested it, but smile, and the eyes were alight with humor, 
he gave it no heed, and the curtains were " Good evening, Jared," he said, coming 
drawn so that he could not see the snow forward. Drawing from his pocket a snuff- 
falling so heavily as to make the streets al- box, he snapped open the lid and proffered 
most impassable. It was for Hopkins, the it politely, to meet a gesture of refusal. Un- 
butler, to apprise him of the blizzard that disturbed by the coldness of the greeting, he 
raged. There had just been a call from the took a pinch himself; then inquired in a 
Gotham Club, a message from Mr. Ames, pleasant voice, "Have the others come?" 
but before he could take it the wire had To him, anyway, there was nothing out 
broken down. Blake went to the window, of the ordinary occurring, and his easy self- 
and after one glance at the storm gave assurance revived Blake's oozing courage, 
orders to delay the terrapin, for it was now Blake was really a man of courage. Bracing 
nearly midnight and not a guest had ap- himself, he gave the problem a quick turn 
peared. He became worried, pacing rest- in his mind. If he were dreaming he had 
lessly up and down the library, each minute nothing to fear. If he were awake, he was 
adding to his impatience. At last, to calm alone a match for this slender old gentle- 
his unsettled nerves, he turned to the din- man, and did he need aid a dozen servants 



The Grandfathers of the Evolution 



219 



were within call. A hand was outstretched 
to him, and he could hesitate no longer, and 
meeting it found it as solid flesh as his own. 
Had he any doubts that friendly grasp 
swept them away. He rapped his head 
with clenched fist; he beat his chest; he 
rubbed his eyes. He was awake — wide, 
wide awake ! And this was Paul Van Eyck ! 
Surely time had turned and tumbled him 
into a past century. 

"Grandfather!'' he faltered. 

"Have the others come?" repeated the 
old gentleman. 

"Who?" Blake asked, regaining some- 
what of his composure. 

"The Grandfathers of the Evolution," 
was the grave reply. 

"I do not understand," returned Jared, 
this puzzling question driving from his mind 
for the moment the great mystery. "What 
do you mean by the Evolution, sir?" 

"Why you, my dear boy," answered Mr. 
Van Eyck, kindly. "You are the Evolu- 
tion. Surely you knew we were coming 
here to-night to have a little celebration in 
your honor. You seemed to expect me. 
My, but it is good to see you! And so 
prosperous!" He slapped his descendant 
heartily on the shoulder. 

Blakegasped. "Do you mean to say " 

" I mean to say that we are proud of you, 
Jared." There was no trace of sarcasm 
either in face or voice. Mr. Van Eyck 
raised his hand and drew his descendant's 
gaze to the broad lapel of his coat. "You 
may be interested in our badge — the rib- 
bon, blue — true blue, you know, emble- 
matic — and the head you recognize, of 
course." 

Leaning forward, Blake studied the me- 
dallion, and was astounded to see stamped 
there his own likeness. The top-hat and 
rather high collar looked strangely out of 
place in bronze, but more curious still was 
the motto beneath the head. 

" He is a gentleman," he read aloud in a 
voice that quavered. A thoughtful silence 
followed. There was a smile on his face 
when he looked up at his ancestor. "Am 
I?" he asked quietly. 

"Of course." Mr. Van Eyck seemed to 
believe there could be no doubt about it 
whatever. "Otherwise, we should hardly 
be foolish enough to have a society devoted 
to talking about you— dinners and speeches 
and all that kind of thing. But what can 



be the matter with Windom and Hurling- 
ham and Ah!" 

The voice of Hopkins stopped him. 
Through the drawing-room it rang pom- 
pously, announcing "Mr. Thomas Wil- 
liams." 

A solemn figure appeared. Blake shud- 
dered, not at the weirdness of his situation, 
but at the aspect of the new guest. Mr. 
Williams bore no resemblance to his por- 
trait save in the sombre garb, all dark gray, 
even to the stockings. The cut of the coat, 
the broad-brimmed black hat, the straight 
hair chopped off at the shoulders, marked 
him a Quaker, but there was nothing of the 
benign in the beady eyes looking out from 
a face all circled with deep wrinkles. In the 
portrait he seemed severe, but pious and 
ready to murmur, "Peace " with sweet suav- 
ity. In the flesh he halted with soldierly 
precision, raised his hand, and in an acid 
tone cried: "Peace, my son; I wish thee 
all good." 

Blake, though doubting his sincerity, re- 
turned the greeting with proper meekness: 
"Peace, grandfather, and welcome." 

"My apologies for lateness," Mr. Wil- 
liams went on. "Thee will understand — I 
sought to save a few shillings by walking 
instead of taking a public conveyance. A 

shilling saved is " His portrait had 

caught his glance, and as he gazed at it in 
silence his face wrinkled deeper in an ap- 
proving smile. "Thou flatterest me, 
Jared," he cried. 

Now Blake was a man of some wit. As an 
accomplished after-dinner speaker he was 
much sought by the sons of various revolu- 
tions and had sharpened his tongue in many 
a tilt. Marvelling still at the strangeness of 
his company, he was meeting the situation 
with aplomb. In this he had been helped 
by the distinguished appearance and man- 
ners of Mr. Van Eyck. He was decidedly 
proud of him. But to counterbalance the 
first pleasant impression of his ancestors 
came this repelling figure to irritate him. 

"I am sorry, grandfather," he returned 
in his blandest tone. "It was done from a 
silhouette and the artist had to imagine 
much. His imagination seems to have 
missed." 

Mr. Van Eyck, in the act of taking snuff, 
gasped at this temerity on Jared's part and 
drew the powder into his throat. He began 
to choke violently and fell to beating his 



220 



The Grandfathers of the Evolution 



chest with his hands. Dignity disappeared 
in the struggle between merriment and 
agony. Such levity added fuel to the fire in 
the face of Mr. Williams, and he turned 
from his descendant to glare at his con- 
temporary. 

"Impudence," he snapped. "I tell thee, 
Friend Paul " 

A sound of scuffling in the hall cut short 
this outbreak. There was a shuffle of feet in 
the drawing-room; a hoarse voice carolled a 
few bars of a ribald song ; a crash of furniture 
was followed by a muffled oath and silence. 

"Mr. Hurhngham," cried Hopkins. He 
had lifted the guest to his feet and pointed 
him toward the library. This done, he 
seemed to think his duty ended and stepped 
away, leaving the Virginian to come lurch- 
ing on. He made a wide detour and brought 
up against a high-backed chair. Finding 
such solid support, he laid fast hold of it, and 
stood leering contentedly at the other three. 

Sober and clean, Mr. Hurlingham would 
have been a handsome man. In a dark- 
blue coat and claret-colored waistcoat, with 
breeches and stockings of white silk, he 
should have made the gallant figure of the 
portrait on the wall. But his clothes were 
sadly faded and stained; linen and lace were 
soiled and torn; his neckcloth was twisted 
and his wig askew; even the century had 
not aired him out. Sober and clean, in his 
courtly garb, with a sword to tip up the 
broad tails of his coat and a cocked hat to 
swing gracefully as he moved, he would 
have been an ancestor to boast of. But 
Blake saw an unkempt toper. He wanted 
to laugh — to laugh long and loud at him- 
self and all his family. So this was Harry 
Hurlingham, one of the fairest flowers on 
his family tree, Hurhngham, of Virginia, 
the dashing soldier, the hero of a dozen 
duels — this besotted creature ! As he quiet- 
ly eyed the latest guest his face grew hard. 
Disappointment was written there, and 
reading it, Paul Van Eyck laid a kindly hand 
on his shoulder. 

" Cheer up, Jared," he said. "Harry is at 
heart a fine feUow. He died in his cups, to 
be sure, but many a good man has had the 
same end. Remember, too, that of us all he 
was the only gentleman born." 

"Gentleman — disgusting," cried Mr. 
Williams, pointing a condemning finger at 
the rake. "Friend Harry, thy conduct is 
most unseemly, but I pray that the good 



Lord will not deal more harshly with thee 
than is necessary." 

The Virginian's retort was a drunken 
laugh. "Has the soshiety — I mean ihe 

shos — the shos " He became lost in the 

mazes of the word, broke again into his 
maudlin song, and collapsed into the chair. 

Mr. Van Eyck, starting to the toper's aid, 
halted and turned to the entrance. 

"Ah! at last the Captain," he exclaimed. 

A harsh voice of command rang through 
the drawing-room. "Get away, you mu- 
tinous lackey. I need no introduction to 
my own great-great-grandson." 

The protests of Hopkins, though obse- 
quious, were loud, but he was brought to 
silence by a feigned blow and an oath. 

" The Captain is in fine feather to-night," 
said Mr. Van Eyck, addressing no one in 
particular, and looking up at the ceiling as 
though to hide the vague smile that flitted 
over his face. 

"What — you here, you double-faced poli- 
tician ? " There was no doubting the sailor's 
mood. It was pugnacious. He did not 
trouble even to remove his hat, but stood 
between the portieres, erect, arms folded, 
a picture of contempt, ill-mannered, yet a 
fine figure of a seaman. 

The portrait showed him a dandy, with 
hair carefully dressed and powdered, and 
clad in a blue uniform slashed with red, 
which was a marvel of fit and neatness. The 
man was a fighter. His hair, unpowdered, 
was gathered behind in a loose knot; his 
face was purple from the salt winds and 
grog, and a great scar split his cheek from 
ear to chin. The pistols and sword slung 
from his loose sash, and the heavy sea- 
boots were in perfect accord with the feroc- 
ity of his countenance and address. He 
would never have said, " Gentlemen of the 
Guard, fire first." 

Evidently the effect of his entrance 
pleased him. The smile fled the face of 
Paul Van Eyck and he began to rub his 
hands together apologetically. Mr. Wil- 
liams was edging toward the distant end 
of the room. Blake alone seemed unper- 
turbed, for he was now prepared for any- 
thing that the past might produce, and re- 
turned the sailor's gaze with one as con- 
temptuous. This boldness softened the 
Captain a trifle, and when he spoke again 
his voice had a pleasanter note. 

"Pardon me, Jared, but it is hard to 




i 9 o 7 



"Thou flatterest me, Jared," he cried. — Page 219. 



leave a comfortable berth on such a night, 
and I am a plain-speaking man and care 
little for company like this . Harry Hurling- 
ham as usual — always a weak-kneed man 
with a bottle. Ah ! and yonder is old Friend 
Sourphiz. Don't trouble, Thomas, to place 
the table between us, for though you did 
your best to have me hanged I'll have no 
Vol. XLII.— 26 



quarrel with you in the house of our hon- 
ored descendant." 

Mr. Williams made a poor show of cour- 
age. "Dost thou come as a pirate. Friend 
Windom, or as an officer in the navy of Con- 
gress?" he asked in a trembling voice. 

"Peace unto thee," was the mocking 
answer. "That ship of yours that I took 



221 



222 



The Grandfathers of the Evolution 



would have met a worse fate in other hands, to improve our manners with supper. Har- 

and surely I treated the crew kindly. But ry, suppose you and I lead." 
it was no fault of yours that I escaped The Virginian made no protest, and al- 

the gallows and lived to serve my country, lowed the kindly Dutchman to lift him to 

Peace, old miser. And as for you, Jared, his feet and support him to the dining- 




iJWi\ESt MomTS^omGr.'^ +tAe6. 



He was brought to silence by a feigned blow and an oath. — Page 220. 



a little rum would warm my breast tow- 
ard you most amazingly." 

"Yes, peace — in heaven's name, peace," 
cried Paul Van Eyck. " Remember our de- 
scendant is a gentleman and not accustomed 
to our unseemly ways, We have made a 
bad beginning in his house. Now let us try 



room. Blake followed with the Quaker on 
his arm, casting, as they went, many ner- 
vous glances over shoulder at the Captain, 
who swaggered behind. 

The servants were standing woodenly 
behind their chairs. It might be thought 
that at the entrance of such a company they 




8 

4 

S 

e 









■^ 



224 



The Grandfathers of the Evolution 



had good right to be suspicious, if not abso- 
lutely frightened, but they remembered the 
master's fondness for masquerade, his fa- 
mous costume ball of the year before, and 
his wardrobe crammed with the strange uni- 
forms of many societies. That they mis- 
took his ancestors for his friends was a re- 
flection on our former conduct in his house 
that it is well to pass by lightly. Whatever 
was in their minds, they gave no evidence of 



events crowd quickly on us we act on im- 
pulse. So with Blake. Every passing minute 
had brought a new figure from the past, and 
he could only accept them for what they were 
— dead men come to life — and as living men 
he had received them. Here was a miracle. 
But when a man, dead a hundred years, 
appears before you in the flesh, when he 
comes, as would any guest, properly an- 
nounced by the butler, with his hand out- 



\^< W4/ 




In this perilous position he remained suspended and forgotten. — Page 226. 



it, no suggestion that to them anything un- 
usual was occurring, and as became men 
trained by the admirable Mr. Hopkins, they 
fell to their task of serving. But what of 
the host to this strange company ? In that 
preprandial hush, when the guests were 
getting the range of their plates and adjust- 
ing their sights, tucking their napkins under 
their chins and figuring the bacchanalian 
possibilities from their glasses, he had the 
first opportunity to ponder over the strange- 
ness of his case. In those moments when 



stretched, you will welcome him first and 
marvel next. Now Blake was marvelling. 
From the head of the table, bolt upright in 
his chair, he stared from guest to guest. 
Dead though these men had been, they 
were alive. Quickened they might be for 
this one night; and Paul Van Eyck could 
speak about the weather and Thomas Wil- 
liams hem and haw in answer; Peter Win- 
dom could count his forks and glasses in 
greedy calculation, and Hurlingham groan 
humanly — real they might be, real and nat- 




u 
Oh 



•a 
a 
m 

s 
o 
>> 



o 

a 



a 









2 



226 



The Grandfathers of the Evolution 



ural, yet all was wrong! They had not 
come from their graves to harm him. Jared 
was sure of that. But his blood swung 
through him in icy currents. He must cry 
out in protest, in horror. This were easy to 
do, did he sit in a company of ghouls; at a 








"Gentlemen, pardon me." — Page 229. 

well-ordered table, with these men strange- 
ly garbed but strangely human, with his 
own servants filhng their glasses, he could 
not. He could only lurch back in his chair 
and gape at the pirate on his left. 

The Captain, sipping his sherry, did not 



notice the curious conduct of his host. But 
Mr. Williams did, and cried out in alarm: 
"Friend, thou art ill." 

Windom turned his glass from his own 
lips to Jared's. "Quick, boy," he ex- 
claimed. "A swallow of wine." 

"It is nothing," said Blake, refusing the 
proffered aid. ' ' Pardon me if I was absent- 
minded. I was thinking." His blood ran 
warm again and he sat erect, bolt upright, 
with shoulders squared, speaking with 
steady voice. " Grandfathers, your coming 
was a surprise and I was not altogether pre- 
pared, but you are welcome. I hope the 
supper will be to your liking." 

The supper was to their liking. Never 
had Blake's kitchen produced a better. 
The grapefruit dashed with old Madeira 
was new to the guests, and they were soon 
smacking their lips over it with rare and 
noisy relish. At the sight of the Lynnhaven 
oysters, fattened to the hour, a smile fast- 
ened itself on the face of Friend Williams. 
At the first taste of the terrapin the purple 
countenance of Captain Windom began 
to glow. 

"Peace unto thee, dear Thomas," he 
said, raising his glass of champagne and 
beaming on his old foe. "Let us forget that 
little matter of brig and cargo and remem- 
ber only that we are co-ancestors of Jared 
Blake." 

Mr. Williams cackled joyously. "Thou 
shouldst have been hanged, Peter," he re- 
turned, "but I forgive thee for our descend- 
ant's sake. I shall even break my rule to 
touch not the cup that biteth like an adder, 
so kindly disposed do I feel toward thee." 
With that he turned up his face in ecstasy 
and drained his glass to the bottom. 

Mr. Hurlingham began to cheer, but the 
effort unsettled him and he slipped down in 
his chair, only his elbows catching on the 
oak arms preventing him from coasting 
under the table. In this perilous position he 
remained suspended and forgotten, for Mr. 
Van Eyck had arisen to propose a toast. 

The smart attire, the courtly manners, and 
the kindly disposition of this old New York- 
er were as balm to the wounded pride of 
Jared Blake. Here, at least, said he to him- 
self, was one great-great-grandfather whom 
he could present to any of his friends. So 
for the moment he forgot the others, the 
boorish pirate, the tattered rake, the grim- 
visaged Quaker, and turned a smiling face 



The Grandfathers of the Evohition 



227 



to the speaker. Mr. Van Eyck had the ease 
of one accustomed to postprandial oratory. 
He began with a gentle gesture of protest as 
though the task to which he was set were far 
from his liking. 

"I find that I am on the programme to 
speak on our descendant. To talk on such 
a subject cannot but be a pleasure to one 
who is a self-made man. I am a self-made 
man." He drew himself up and gazed stern- 
ly at his hearers, as though to let that fact 
sink deeply into their hearts. And it did sink 



highly respectable wig-maker of Whitehall 
Street. So, if after a century I confess that 
mv life was not altogether what it should 
have been, you will understand and excuse, 
for remember I began with nothing. I had 
to make my own way in the world and took 
to politics, and in our time politics were 
not what they are now and — well, friends, 
you can appreciate what I mean — you, 
Windom, who have been a pirate, and 
you, my hypocritical old Quaker, with your 
quiet little trade in slaves." 




JAmt* MOHTwrntVif^iCG 



All turned. — Page 229. 



deeply into that of Blake, for from this man 
had come his fine Dutch blood, the blood of 
Bogardus Van Eyck, the patroon. To 
know that Harry Hurhngham had been a 
toper was bad enough; that Peter Windom 
had been a pirate was worse; to hear Paul 
Van Eyck boasting in this fashion that he 
was self-made completed the wreck of his 
pride of family. 

"Yes, I am a self-made man," repeated 
Mr. Van Eyck, " and I glory in it. My real 
parents are unknown, but I took the name 
of Matthew Van Eyck, my foster-father, a 



This sally gave great amusement to its 
victims. They raised their glasses and 
drank to the speaker uproariously, vowing 
that they forgave his sharp tongue for the 
sake of his wit. Mr. Hurlingham added to 
the disorder by his maudlin cries of "More 
^more." 

"W^ere it not that there are others more 
distinguished to address you I should give a 
few recollections of my political life," Mr. 
Van Eyck resumed. " But we are not here 
to praise ourselves. We are here to do 
honor to Jared Blake. With what pride we 




Caught his assailant a stunning blow on the chin. — Page 230. 



can look upon him — with what- 



-" Blake 

tried to get to his feet and make a modest 
protest against such adulation, but Captain 
Windom dragged him down into his chair. 
The interruption simply caused the speaker 
to raise his voice to a more impassioned 
height. "With what satisfaction, then, my 
friends, can we look upon this finished prod- 
uct of genealogical evolution who has the 
wealth of a colony in his control, who lives 
in a house which the kings of our day 
would have envied. In all New York no 
man is better known. Our descendant, 
sirs, is a multi-millionaire, a vestryman in 
the church, a captain in the militia, a gov- 
ernor of the Gotham Club, and a director in 
three banks — in brief, sirs, he is a gentle- 
228 



man. His glory reflects into past centuries 
and we bask in its light. When he wore my 
clothes at his ball last winter my name got 
into every paper in the land. From the At- 
lantic to the Pacific it was heralded: 'Mr. 
Blake wore a periwig, a suit of black velvet, 
with white embroidered waistcoat and 
white stockings, the costume being that in 
which his great - great - grandfather, Paul 
Van Eyck, appeared at the first inaugu- 
ration ball.' What a time I had getting a 
ticket ! Think of it — Paul Van Eyck raked 
up after a century and made famous in 
the greatest country on earth. Well may 
we do honor to such a descendant. A toast, 
then, to him in whose veins runs our blood, 
who has everything that we did not have, 



The Grandfathers of the Evolution 229 

who is everything we longed to be — to "No ancestors on his father's side, eh," 

Jared Blake, the gentleman." he returned with a hearty laugh, advanc- 

It was a graceful tribute, gracefully ing with so heavy a tread that his steel 

given, but the confusion that covered Blake heel-tips clicked on the hardwood floor, 

was not of pleasure. He sought in Mr. Van " Surely, he had as many as on his mother's 

Eyck's face some trace of sarcasm or of jest, only they have been lost. As I am as far 

He found there only a benign smile, and back as he can trace on his father's side, I 

even Friend Williams was beaming warm came. And I stay!" 

approval. Mr. Hurlingham, aroused from stupor 

"We are proud of thee, Jared," the by the controversy, pulled himself up in his 

Quaker cried. chair, and turned, leering at the nev.xomer. 

"Grandfathers " Blake shouted, try- "Kick him out," he shouted, adding an oath 

ing to rise. The Captain's heavy arm across in emphasis. 

his shoulders kept him pinned in his chair. Blake caught him by the neckcloth, and 

"You are too modest, my boy," the old a dexterous twist sent the Virginian hurt- 
sailor exclaimed, laughing. "Long life and ling under the table to silence, 
health to you." "He knows no better," Jared said, step- 
Mr. Williams was up. "Peace, Jared," ping toward the stranger. "And you, sir, 
he said. "Thy turn will come later. Thy are welcome, for you must be my grand- 
modesty does thee credit, but thou must father who died in the Punxatawney mine." 
bear with me a few moments while I speak "In the sixties," the other answered 
of the great work thou hast been doing for simply. 

the uplifting — the uplifting " He had " Died saving the lives of twenty of your 

raised a hand to give force to his words. He men ? " 

stopped speaking. The hand paused in The miner laughed. "I couldn't help it; 

midair, trembling, a long bony finger point- I didn't stop to think. But speaking of the 

ing to the doorway. "Friend, who art mine — it has paid you millions, eh ?" 

thou?" he cried. Blake had forgotten the courtly man in 

All turned. A stranger had entered, a velvet and rufSes, the gallant commander of 

tall man, topping six feet three, with a pow- the privateer Sparhawk, the dashing Vir- 

erful frame clothed in blackened jeans. His ginian, the godly merchant. His back was 

face was seamed and tanned, and though it turned on them, and he stood with the 

shone with the polish of soap, it still bore miner's hand in his. 

traces of coal-dust. So with the hands. "Welcome, grandfather," he said ear- 

They were great horny hands, that seemed nestly. "Will you condescend to join this 

to seek some place to hide, for he was ill at common company ? Hopkins — another 

ease in such a company and stood hesitat- place here by me — plates, glasses, every- 

ing, as though he realized that a simple thing." 

miner could have no right among the an- The other hung back. "About those 

cestors of Jared Blake. If he had looked for millions," he returned with gentle insist- 

his portrait in the library as a passport, he ence. " Of course, I did well to trust them 

had looked in vain. all to you." 

"Gentlemen, pardon me," he said in a Blake was silent. The man in him was 
voice of embarrassment. "I do not come aroused by the sight of this giant whose 
of my own wish, but it did seem that the first story he knew. He pictured him that day 
Jared Blake should be here to pay homage in the depths of the mine, holding the key- 
to his grandson." beam against the grinding coal until his last 

"This, my man, is a meeting of great- imperilled fellow could pass to safety — 

great-grandfathers," cried Captain Win- then sinking beneath the black avalanche, 

dom sharply. " Jared had none on his fa th- This sooty man was an ancestor worth 

er's side. If you leave we will pardon you." boasting; worth ten of the swaggering pirate 

The uncouth appearance of the Captain who fought for gain, the politician in velvet 

gave courage to the miner, and he faced and lace, or the tattered rake who sprawled 

him as he never would have faced the po- beneath the table. Yes, worth ten of them, 

lite address or the shaking rufiies of Paul and as such he would do him homage. But 

Van Eyck. those millions ? He would embrace him, 
Vol. XLII. — 27 



230 



The Grandfathers of the Evolution 



seat him in the place of honor and serve 
him. But those eyes! They held him off. 
This was no time to speak of paltry money 
matters. Yet the eyes persisted and the big 
hands, no longer awkward, were stretched 
out in appeal. Blake looked away. 

"Of course, you 
have made the best 
use of them," came in 
an insistent tone. 

" Of course," Blake 
answered feebly. 

" You are not sure," 
the miner cried. "Do 



you mean 

Thomas Williams 
began to pound the 
table. " Peace, friend, 
peace," he shouted. 
"Hast thou no man- 
ners ? We came here 
to be merry and not to 
discuss thy millions." 

"Out with you," 
roared the Captain, 
as with one hand he 
raised his glass and 
with the other pointed 
to the door. 

The giant laughed. 
"Leave this house, 
for which I paid, to a 
sorry pack like you ? 
The very food and 
drink " 

The glass and wine 
went full in his face. 
He struck out blind- 
ly, and caught his as- 
sailant a stunning 
blow on the chin, 
sending him reeling; 
in falling, the Cap- 
tain seized the cloth 
and brought half the 
table's contents 
crashing about him. 
Adding to the confu- 
sion came the muffled 
cries of Mr. Hurling- 

ham, who was kicking wildly to free him- 
self from his prison, and the shouts of the 
servants rushing to stamp out the lighted 
candles which had been scattered about 
the room. The danger of fire passed, they 
faced another, but to flee in dismay. The 




So I found him standing in the dining-room. — Page 231 



Captain was sitting up amid the debris of 
the feast tugging at his pistols. He had 
almost disengaged one from his sash when 
Paul Van Eyck threw himself upon the 
sailor and bore him back to the floor, pin- 
ning his arms there. From a refuge behind 

a high-backed chair 
the hand of Friend 
Williams was extend- 
ed in appeal, but his 
cries of "Peace " were 
drowned in the gen- 
eral disorder. 

A single candle still 
burned on the table 
and the figures of his 
ancestors were shad- 
owy as Blake saw 
them. Standing 
dazed amid the first 
confusion, in the quiet 
that followed he re- 
covered his full 
senses, and with them 
came doubt. Beside 
him, in the dim light, 
shading away into the 
blackness, was the 
towering figure of the 
miner. He reached 
out and touched it, 
felt the very grit of 
the coal-dust on the 
sleeve of the jumper. 
Beneath him was 
Great-great- grandfa- 
ther Van Eyck astride 
the prostrate form of 
the Captain. Real? 
Nonsense! He 
dreamed — he had 
been dreaming all the 
time — and to prove it 
he stamped on the 
boot that was strug- 
gling to free itself 
from the tangle of 
cloth. The sailor 
seemed very real. He 
kicked violently and 
hurled a volley of oaths at his descendant. 
Harry Hurlingham was stirring again, more 
noisy than ever, and now the frightened 
face of Friend Williams appeared above 
the back of his chair. 

"Peace — peace," he bawled. 



Waldo Trench 



Regains His Youth 



231 



" Yes — peace," cried Jared Blake. " Go, 
grandfathers, all of you, and leave me in 
peace. We are proud of each other — you 
and I — but pride and ignorance are one. 
You are dead. I have time to learn." 

So I found him standing in the dining- 
room, holding the lighted candle and look- 
ing with set face into the blackness before 
him. It was long past midnight when I 
reached the house, to be admitted by the 
trembling Hopkins. Poor Hopkins! He 
almost clasped me in his arms. In all his 



life he had never seen the beat of " them Co- 
lonial Lords!" Be careful — go cautious — 
they would be shooting next. Thinking the 
man mad, I brushed by him. But I thought 
that Blake was mad, too, when I saw him 
standing there, alone, erect, the debris of 
the feast about his feet. 

"Jared," I cried, "so the others got here, 
after all, and this is the result ?" 

" No," he said quietly. "They did not 
come. To-night I have been with my 
ancestors. They have just gone — thank 
God!" 



WALDO TRENCH REGAINS HIS YOUTH 



By Henry B. Fuller 

Illustrations by James Montgomery Flagg 




ALDO TRENCH, I take it, 
was one of the youngest 
things that ever happened. 
These few pages, from the 
note-book of a middle-aged 
observer, will tell how he 
grew older; then how, through the applica- 
tion of force majeure at a critical stage of 
his career, he became young again. 

When I say that Trench was young, I 
mean, in large part, that he was new, that 
he was fresh — using this latter word in 
its "good" sense; nay, in its best. For 
Trench, in his twenty-sixth year, still re- 
tained an extraordinary susceptibility to new 
impressions. 

His newness was perhaps less a matter of 
experience (or lack of experience) than of 
environment. Regarding this environment 
copious particulars bubbled to the surface 
through the twelve dragging days that the 
Macedonia required to get us from the Jer- 
sey water-front to the harbor of Genoa. 
Had I but known something of Trench's 
early surroundings on the occasion of my 
6rst encounter with him, the day before the 
Macedonia sailed, I might have come for- 
ward more quickly with my tribute (slight 
as it was) of indulgence and sympathy. 
Now, I am of course "city-broke," as 



Trench himself would quaintly express it. 
Still there are times when the roar of the 
metropolis becomes too strong for the most 
accustomed ears, and when a step aside 
from the tumult of Broadway seems neces- 
sary if the human mechanism is to endure 
any longer. Such a moment came to me as 
I was returning from my final negotiations 
with the steamship agents. I had almost 
reached the Post-office when a spire, a por- 
tico, and a huddle of gravestones vmited 
in saying, "Pause and rest." The day 
was warm, the clamor of traffic was out- 
rageous; the church offered me a " retreat," 
and I entered. 

For a minute or two I thought I had those 
bland, smug, shadowy precincts, full of be- 
lated echoes from the by no means impecca- 
ble Wren, quite to myself; but I perceived, 
presently, that another person was sharing 
my retirement: a somewhat tall, loose- 
jointed young man who was tiptoeing down 
the aisle with an effect of elaborate rever- 
ence. He carried an indifferently bound 
gray book, back into which a large map had 
been awkwardly refolded, and I saw that he 
w-as not a devotee, but a tourist. I suppose 
that I myself at one time may have tiptoed 
up the nave of Canterbury or on toward the 
tribune of San Paolo Fuori to much the 
same effect. 

"Dear me!" said I to myself, in smiling 



232 



Waldo Trench 



Regains 



His Youth 



recollection of earlier days, "this youth is 
making the most of it, surely!" 

I thought of all those old things at Ra- 
venna which were soon — thanks to my sud- 
den surrender to the caprice of travel— to 
be mine, and added: 

"What reckless improvidence, however! 
He is bestowing his whole purse where a 
single sixpence would more than suffice!" 

The young man bore down upon me with 
wide-open, ingenuous eyes and an evident 
fulness of feeling that dem.anded speech for 
relief. I felt him as stalking forward across 
the wide, horizonless plain of vitter social 
destitution, and ploughing a pure ether that 
had never been defiled ; and when he threw 
himself, with a certain frank confidence, 
upon the only other person present, I was in 
no degree surprised. Neither was I sur- 
prised when he solemnly referred to the 
mediocre fabric about us as an "ancient edi- 
fice" and naively expressed his pleasure in 
the privilege of standing beneath a roof that 
had endured for a hundred and fifty years. 

"A century and a half! think of it! 
And those cherub-headed tombstones out- 
side, with dates running back to — back 
to " 

"Venerable, indeed,"! murmured kindly. 

"I have just been sitting in Governor 
Clinton's pew," he went on in a tone of ap- 
preciative awe. "How it brings back the 
old Revolutionary days! I could almost 
fancy the governor himself sitting there be- 
side me, in his buff-and-blue uniform, and 
his sword, and his wig. All this makes a 
wig very real to me, let me tell you." 

"Yes, this old place is wonderfully loaded 
down with history," I contributed indul- 
gently. 

He raised his eyes to the eighteenth-cen- 
tury inanities of cornice and pediment that 
surrounded us, and half lifted his hand with 
a curious sort of impassioned restraint. 

"I expect to see few things more im- 
pressive than this," he said slowly. 

"You are travelling?" I asked. 

"I am beginning to — yes, sir," he re- 
sponded. "I sail for Europe to-morrow." 



II 



I HAD not been many hours aboard the 
Macedonia before the general situation and 
its enveloping atmosphere became toler- 
ably clear; our good ship, I discovered, had 



been pressed into the service of Culture. 
Along with two or three of her sisters, she 
was co-operating in a scheme of travel- 
study — an elaborate arrangement that elas- 
tically offered a wide choice of dates and a 
wider choice of routes, together with much 
counsel, guidance, and positive instruction 
from many competent minds. The tone of 
our company was strongly educational; a 
full half of the Macedonians, I presently 
perceived, were crying for succour — in so 
far as instruction can work salvation. Study 
and discussion went on all about me, and 
such as would listen were addressed in the 
saloon, the very first evening out, upon " The 
Art Impulse in Human Society." 

Trench had not told me what boat he was 
expecting to cross on, but I felt that such a 
milieu called loudly for his presence; I was 
not utterly dumfounded, therefore, when 
my first stroll on deck developed him. He 
had already found worthy objects for the 
exercise of his frank and facile good-will: 
a pair of ladies who, under his brooding 
care, were trying to settle down in their 
deck-chairs. The younger, a pretty but 
serious-looking girl of twenty, might sur- 
render herself readily enough, I thought, to 
the dominant interests of the cruise; she 
would olTer her budding nature, in all open- 
ness and sympathy, to the plastic touch of 
culture. Her companion, an ample woman 
of forty, with an air of half-suppressed jol- 
lity, left me, for the moment, in doubt. I 
could not decide M'hether she was a fit sub- 
ject for "improvement," or whether she 
considered herself to have accomplished 
the swing of the grand circle and to have 
got around to the point where simplicity 
ruled once more, and where culture, as a 
moving force, was genially ignored. The 
latter turned out to be more nearly the case. 
Trench claimed me at once as an old ac- 
quaintance, and as soon as he had ascer- 
tained that society knew me by the name of 
Aurelius Gilmore he presented me — all with 
a self-confident sang-froid that stripped the 
social temple of its last shred of upholstery 
and left human intercourse to be carried on 
in something but little better than a stark 
vacuum. 

"Why didn't you tell me yesterday you 
were coming along?" he asked brightly. 

' ' Dear me ! lam always ' coming along,' " 
I responded. "It's so easy when a man 
lives close to one end of the ferry." 



Waldo Trench 



Regains His Youth 



233 



My presentation of the voyage to Europe 
as a thoughtless impromptu seemed to dash 
him. He, evidently, took it as a sacra- 
mental matter, and there was a moment of 
awkward silence — or would have been, if 
the elder lady had not found in the refer- 
ence to "yesterday" an opening for the 
moment's needs. 

"Yes, we met in an ancient fane," I said 
to satisfy her, and related some of the de- 
tails of the encounter. 

"Ancient fiddlesticks!" she pronounced 
gayly. Nobody took offence, and within 
five minutes it was as if all four of us had 
met in the church and had maintained the 
most intimate relationship ever since. 

To this little company Trench was pres- 
ently spinning his Odyssey: a recital incon- 
ceivably short and simple; bare, too, save 
for the draperies that his eager hands 
seemed to be snatching from the immediate 
future. His earliest consciousness of ma- 
turity, it transpired, had come to him at a 
small town in western Nebraska — he left 
us to make the place as remote, as forlorn, 
as empty of social opportunity as we liked, 
and we did not scant the occasion. I mv- 
self, indeed, made it all so piteous as to pro- 
voke an indignant correction. 

"It may have been pretty bad," he de- 
clared bluntly, " but it wasn't as bad as that. " 

I begged pardon suitably and the recital 
moved on. 

Remote and empty his Stapleville may 
have been, but not remote and empty 
enough. His next stage came with the rush 
to Oklahoma. He himself was well to the 
fore in that wild dash. 

"Aha!" cried Mrs. Madeline K. Prit- 
chard heartily. ' ' I wish I had been in it my- 
self ! But about that time I must have been 
poking along toward the Second Cataract." 

"Why, aunt!" said the girl in a shocked 
undertone; "can you speak in that wav of 
Egypt?" 

"I guess I can," retorted the elder lady 
breezily. "Next time I start traipsing off it 
will be westward. Oklahoma is modern.'" 

Trench looked open-eyed thanks, and the 
young girl drew into herself a little. 

"Bessie, here, has a great reverence for 

them old ancient monarchies "began 

Mrs. Pritchard. 

The girl winced. "O aunt, please 
don't talk so before strangers, and please 
don't " 



"Oh, it's my grammar, is it ? Well, I've 
noticed that the best people in Venice and 
Naples talk in their local dialect when they 
choose, so why shouldn't I, too ? I've been 
tired of grammar for years, and " 

"And please don't call me 'Bessie,'" the 
girl went on in a lower tone. 

"Very well, Miss Elizabeth Payne, I 
won't, then" — with a grimace. "Another 
innocent just beginning the Vita N^itova — • 
and taking it hard," she murmured for me 
alone over her shoulder. 

" What is your dialect ? " I asked politely. 

"All in due course, dear sir; gentlemen 
first, however. We have heard about 
Mr. Trench's travels, but what, Mr. Gil- 
more, of yours ? " 

"They're not greatly varied. Sometimes 
I go from New York to Naples and back, 
and sometimes I go from New York to 
Southampton and back." 

"That," said Mrs. Pritchard decidedly, 
"tells me nothing I didn't know already. 
You may need a little Oklahoma, too." 

"Next year, perhaps. And now " 

"Oh, me? I'm from Ohio," announced 
Madeline K. Pritchard proudly. "I live 
near Cleveland. W^e own the earth." 

"Your family is fortunate," I observed. 

"My 'family'? That does very well, if 
you mean the whole Ohio crowd. As I say, 
we own the earth, New York included. 
Do you expect us to be modest ? Must we 
duck ? Must we shrink ? " 

I saw, now, the lady's "sanctions" — the 
sources of her more than metropolitan as- 
surance. She sat near the centre and ruled 
over East and West alike; from her seat of 
boundless confidence she might claim — or 
affect — whatever she chose. 

"We groan under your tyranny," I 
submitted. 

"And Bes — and Elizabeth, here, is an- 
other of your tyrants. She lives near Cleve- 
land, too. Some notable things are pro- 
duced in the Western Reserve." 

"I believe you," I said gallantly. "And 
to some of your tyrants we are only too 
ready to bow." 

The young lady seemed to be withdraw- 
ing herself from any comment, however 
oblique. But she gave a sidelong glance at 
Trench — the freemasonry of youth in the 
presence of elders — and if her look meant 
anything at all, she may have intended 
to ask: 



234 



Waldo Trench Regains His Youth 



"How can middle-aged people be so 
silly?" 

I hope it didn't mean anything; but the 
young are often so exacting with us. 

It meant little, apparently, to Trench. 
Though he drew back an attention that 
had strayed over the fussy uneventfulness 
of the sea, I guessed that what concerned 
him most was to regain the ear of the 
house and that his Odyssey was not quite 
complete. 

I was right. The rush of the land-seek- 
ers, Ohio once left behind, had been closely 
followed by the rush of a great philanthro- 
pist, and the new library was ready almost 
as soon as the new court-house. The books 
were not many, but they opened up novel 
vistas to the youthful Westerner (as Trench 
let Mrs. Pritchard call him) ; and after two 
or three years of "empire-building" he had 
left the broad abundance of his acres to the 
care of a younger brother and had started 
eastward to see the great world. 

"Good!" cried Madeline Pritchard. 
" Now we are all accounted for," she added, 
as she intercepted the deck-steward, with 
his tray of sandwiches. 



Ill 



On reaching shore, the little party thus 
happily formed did not break up at once. 
This means, principally, that I escorted the 
two ladies through the Genoese palaces. 
Though nothing can raise Genoa to the first 
rank, I did not mind giving a day to the Via 
Nuova; Genoa gave me the earliest of my 
Italian experiences, back in my impression- 
able twenties, and I shall always think of 
her with a decent fondness. So we saw a 
good many grandiose court-yards and stair- 
cases and lingered before a good many por- 
traits of the old Genoese nobility. But in 
our progress from palace to palace Mrs. 
Pritchard showed a great readiness to let 
her attention stray to street types and to 
other matters of contemporaneous interest; 
and in a quiet angle of a certain magnificent 
salone her niece took occasion to make an 
extended apologia. 

"Aunt Madeline doesn't care for the 
guide-book sights. She just puts up with 
them on my account. She has been every- 
where and seen everything. She has gone 
around the world — twice." 

Elizabeth Payne made a large solemn cir- 



cle with one hand. Then she made another 
in the reverse direction, 

"You mean she has worked it both ways ? " 

" Yes. Once she sailed from Boston, and 
once from San Francisco. She has seen 
ever so many historical things. She says 
she is tired of the past and wants to keep in 
the present. She thinks, though, that I 
ought to know Rubens and Van Dyck" — 
with a motion, here, to certain dark can- 
vases high on the wall behind us. "But I 
tell her I must get to Florence to see that 
dear Fra Angelico. I told her a year ago 
that I couldn't live another month without 
seeing Fra Angelico. But she has heard of 
an exposition at Milan and must see the 
latest things in French autos. I tell her that 
Milan itself is an exposition. So is Verona. 
So is Vicenza, even." 

I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Pritchard in 
the next saloon; she was busy, at a wide, 
open window, with the life of the street. 

"I see she doesn't care for picture 
galleries." 

"Sometimes she does, if the pictures are 
modern — and bad. She says she is tired of 
good art, and she has promised me some 
exquisite atrocities — as she puts it — in 
Rome. She has just heard of a new exhibi- 
tion there, and is saving herself for it. I'm 
afraid you don't understand," the girl con- 
cluded anxiously. 

"Oh yes, tolerably," I assured her. 

" But let me explain. She is ' reverting ' — 
that's what she calls it. She used to have 
some beautiful pictures of her own, but she 
sent them away to a gallery, and in their 
place she has put some oleographs of Swiss 
mountain scenery. She likes them, she 
says, because they're 'nature,' and so 'nice 
and oilv.'" 

"Ah!" said I. 

"And her furniture!" the girl went on. 
"Of course she threw out all her House 
Beautiful things long ago; but lately some 
very good Sheraton reproductions have fol- 
lowed them — to make room for the hair- 
cloth and carved walnut of the early '50s. 
Her rugs are terrible. All her Navajos are 
aniline dved." 

"Oh!"' said I. 

"She has heard all the finest orchestras 
in Europe and America, and really knows 
a good deal about the best music. But she 
prefers to run after hand-organs. And last 
month she bought a gramophone." 



Waldo Trench Regains His Youth 



235 



"Revolt, indeed!" I muttered. 

"When I was little she would bring me 
the loveliest perfumes from Paris. But now, 
at home, she often has a boiled dinner, and 
she lets the kitchen-door stand open while 
it's cooking. She has filled her window- 
boxes with marigolds. And you have 
heard the kind of English she uses when 
she wants to!" 

"More of us will get that way," I mum- 
bled darkly. "Too much art; too much 
civilization." 

"And she has a cultivated taste in fiction, 
yet nowadays she reads " 

' ' No more, I beg ! " said I quickly. "I have 
written one or two small things myself." 

"And this is my first trip abroad," the 
poor child breathed brokenly. "And there 
was nobody else to bring me." 

She was throwing herself on my chivalry. 
I resolved that she should see the Old 
World to advantage and to the fullest satis- 
faction, if I could help her; and I told her 
so. "And as for Fra Angelico," I ended, 
"I will take vou to San Marco and the 
Uffizi myself." 

I spoke as if claiming a monopoly. I was 
set right almost at once. A somewhat tall, 
loose-jointed figure appeared in the door- 
way — Trench, overjoyed to see us after a 
separation of twenty-four hours. Mrs. 
Pritchard, as soon as she perceived him, left 
the window whence she had been watching 
three or four street-boys nagging her cab- 
man, and came in to get the cream of 
Trench's first impressions of things Italian. 

He had aged perceptibly in the mean- 
while — more than a century. 

"I have just come from a church that 
was built as far back as 1620! " he declared 
in a pulsation of pure, enraptured energy. 
Then, to me more directly: 

"What you must have thought of me in 
that church back in New York! And what 
do you suppose I did that same day, after 
leaving you ? Went to a museum and wasted 
a whole hour over Copley and Gilbert Stu- 
art — mere things of yesterday! But the 
moment I heard about all these Van 
Dycks!" — and he waved toward one of 
those masterpieces, darkling in its massive 
frame. "Aren't they magnificent!" he 
cried. 

"Certainly you are more in the move- 
ment now," said Mrs. Pritchard indul- 
gently. 



"Do you know Alessi?" he asked us 
generally. 

Nobody did. "Why, Alessi built half 
the palaces in this street — perhaps this very 
one, too — away back in fifteen seventy 
something. I hear they used to call it the 
Via Nuova — no wonder they changed the 
name! Not know Alessi ? Why " 

"I seldom follow out the fag-ends of 
movements," I said languidly; "though I 
once did meditate a monograph on Ber- 
nini. Still, why look too long? Must we 
watch the rose until it falls to pieces ? Wait 
for Brunelleschi and Alberti at Florence." 

I saw that I had disconcerted him, as 
had happened before; so I went on: 

"This is a good idea of yours — taking 
Europe as they sometimes take history in 
schools: beginning at the end and working 
backward. However, save your strength, 
and remember that you have but just about 
so much film to expose. If you go on like 
this when you're in only up to your ankles, 
how will you do when you find yourself in 
up to your chin? Wait for Rome." 

"Yes, let us wait for Rome," said Eliza- 
beth Payne with a touch of solemnity, and 
I felt that she was accepting me as an ally 
against her world-surfeited aunt. 



IV 



Some weeks passed by. Mrs. Pritchard 
had gone to Milan, and I was hoping 
that before long she would deign to recall 
my claims to proficiency in motor-driving, 
gained with good friends in stony and sinu- 
ous Connecticut. Trench, when next I en- 
countered him, had not yet indeed made 
Rome, but had got as far on his way as 
Florence. We came together one forenoon 
on the Lungarno, at the head of the Carraja 
bridge. I soon learned that he had added 
another century or so to his years. 

"How glorious!" he exclaimed, waving 
that active right hand of his at the yellow 
river and at the opposing rows of blandly 
stuccoed house-fronts. "Here I am at the 
very heart of the Renaissance! I'm doing 
Brunelleschi, as you advised; and I've seen 
the Raphael portraits in the Pitti, and — Oh, 
forget, if you can, how ridiculous I was at 
Genoa! I was merely eating at the second 
table and didn't know it. I was groping 
about in a muggy twilight and thinking it 
was a dazzling high noon. I was tossing ofif 



236 



Waldo Trench Regains His Youth 



there on the remote horizon when I might 
have been striking out for the very light- 
house itself." He patted emphatically a 
large maroon volume that he was carrying 
under his arm. 

How the young fellow was coming on, to 
be sure — growing, towering, expanding! 

I glanced at the maroon volume. "Is 
that your lighthouse?" 

"You've guessed it!" he cried. "Look 
here! It's the life of Isabella d'Este. Do 
you know her?" 

"Oh, yes," I answered. "Isabella and I 
are friends of old." 

"Well, wasn't she a winner!" he joyed. 
"The very hub of the wheel! Just look 
here," he continued, wrenching open his 
book; " this is a picture of her. How she 
throws into the shade those commonplace 
creatures Van Dyck did at Genoa! Recog- 
nize her?" 

"Indeed I do. A very speaking like- 
ness." 

"And didn't she run things!" Trench 
continued, pounding the page with a sinewy 
fist. " Gathering the best poets and paint- 
ers round her. Collecting all sorts of curios 
and knick-knacks. Corresponding with all 
the clever people. Setting the fashions for 
Europe — why, all the queens and princesses 
from Portugal to Poland used to send to 
Mantua to learn what to wear and how to 
behave. She was the first queen of mod- 
ern society — the regular Mrs. Ah — u'ni of 
her day!" 

"Yes," I assented; "Mrs. Ah — h and 
Mrs. U'm — m rolled into one." 

"I'm going to Mantua next week," de- 
clared Trench; "andtoFerraraas well. I 
think I can break away from our party long 
enough for that. Just think of visiting those 
palace-halls where " 

"I'm afraid you may find them rather 
bare to-day — Ferrara, anyhow," I suggest- 
ed. But I remembered his success with 
Governor Clinton's pew and said no more, 
except to add: "On the whole, Isabella 
compares very favorably with Mrs. Prit- 
chard." 

"Oh, yes — those steamer ladies. Are 
they here?" 

"They are. Mrs. Pritchard, I am told, 
goes to the Gambrinus Halle every evening 
she can find anybody to take her — it strikes 
the modern note, she says; and her niece is 
hot on the trail of Fra Angelico." 



Ah, many the dear ladies — some young, 
some older — some expectant, some disap- 
pointed — who have been consoled in Flor- 
ence by the early Tuscan masters! 

"I thought Miss Payne a very nice girl — 
what T saw of her," pronounced Trench. 

"My own opinion," said I. In fact, I 
could easily have made out a long list of 
young women who would have been wel- 
comed with more difiiculty by my mother 
and sisters than this young woman from the 
Western Reserve. 

"Earnest, studious, and all that," Trench 
proceeded. " Rather pretty, too. Fra An- 
gelico was a painter, wasn't he?" 

"Yes." 

"Earlier than Raphael?" 

"A century or so." 

He strummed thoughtfully upon the par- 
apet and stared in some abstraction at the 
opposite quay. "Perhaps I ought to look 
into him." 

"Never mind," I rejoined; "/'w looking 
after Fra Angelico. You can easily go far- 
ther back than that — he's almost modern. 
Try Giotto; he's older, and really more 
important." 

"Thank you," replied Trench soberly. 

Just then a shining new motor-car came 
whirring along. In front, with the chauffeur 
sat Elizabeth Payne; in the tonneau was 
Mrs. Pritchard, with one of the travel-study 
professors beside her. Madeline K. Prit- 
chard had not been to the Milan Exposi- 
tion for nothing. 

The Macedonians immediately foregath- 
ered, and when Mrs. Pritchard's reverber- 
ant reception of Trench back into the fold 
was accomplished, I heard the voice of 
Elizabeth Payne saying, in a kind of strained 
ecstasy: 

"We've seen it at last!" 

"Eh?" said I. 

"We've seen it — Angelico's 'Corona- 
tion.'" 

"I should think we had! " exclaimed her 
aunt. "Four times to the Uffizi, and every 
time that blessed picture in possession of the 
copyists. But to-day our time finally came, 
just as we had about given up all hope of 
ever " 

"At last!" repeated Elizabeth Payne, 
rapt. 

"But, dear me " I begc-n in dismay. 

"Well, anyhow, you can't say but that / 
did everything in my power to " 



Waldo Trench Regains His Youth 



237 



"I know," said the girl. "You have been 
kindness itself, dear Mr. Gilmore, and you 
deserved to be with us to-day." 

Trench was staring in complete self-for- 
getfulness at the strange exaltation of our 
devotee. Mrs. Pritchard cast a quizzical 
glance over both of them and said: 

"Yes, that great matter is out of the way, 
and the next thing will be something else. 
We should be glad to take both of you 
gentlemen with us, if we could possibly 
find room." 

"Where are you going?" asked Trench 
informally. 

"To Pisa." 

"For the Campo Santo and all?" I 
inquired. 

"Well, we ir.ay do the Campo Santo and 
all," admitted Mrs. Pritchard, "but what 
we are after is the King's Zoo, at San Ros- 
sore. I want Professor Robbins to see the 
dromedaries." 

A shiver passed over Elizabeth Payne. 
Dromedaries in Italy; she felt the incon- 
gruity, as well she might. 

"Perhaps we shall 'take' them — show 
your camera, Bessie," persisted her aunt. 
"We are prepared to deal with anything 
that presents itself. If we meet Fra Angel- 
ico on the way we shall snap-shot him. 
Well, good-by. Avanti, Serafino!" 

The girl made a motion as if to tuck her 
camera still farther out of sight. Mr. Rob- 
bins, an elderly man with a close-cropped 
gray beard, held up an admonitory finger 
to Trench as the machine gave forth its 
first chug and tremor. 

"Don't forget the lecture in the hotel 
parlor this evening," he said; "'Florentine 
Society in Dante's Day,' you know." 

Mrs. Pritchard openly snickered, and 
off the car sped toward Bocca d'Arno. 

"There you have it," I said to Trench, 
as the little party disappeared from view; 
"Giotto, Dante — they go together, as a 
matter of course. If you are going to be 
mediaeval, do it thoroughly. Don't stop 
half-way up the stream, but strike straight 
for the fountain-head itself." 

Trench was already dropping into a 
brown study; it was almost as if the look in 
Elizabeth Payne's face had been left be- 
hind on his own. His arm gave the big 
maroon book an impatient hunch, and I 
trembled for the future of my old friend, 
Isabella d'Este. 



V 



At Rome Mrs. Pritchard definitely cast 
her travel-study friends adrift. She had 
never belonged to their company, of course, 
but she had joined it or dropped it here and 
there, as her somewhat cynical necessity 
for diversion had waxed or waned. "How- 
ever, I can't follow them through such an 
epitome of the world as Rome," she had 
declared, upon encountering the familiar 
sights and sounds of the Piazza di Spagna; 
and she added that she had heroically 
resolved to forego Professor Tait's very 
best lecture, his "Rome in the Time of 
Augustus." 

Just before leaving Florence I had run 
across Trench in one of the leafy alleys of 
the Cascine. Isabella d'Este had fared as 
I feared. 

"She was a mere society woman," he de- 
clared, as he plucked at a hedge of box; "a 
modern, like the rest of us. I don't think I 
can give much more time to anything as 
recent as the Renaissance. I shall leave out 
Ferrara and Mantua, and go, instead, to 
Assisi — I've got to know about St. Francis. 
Compare Isabella d'Este with Dante's 
Beatrice! I consider Beatrice the central 
woman of the world, and I've got to under- 
stand the conditions that produced her. 
Miss Payne agrees with me." 

"The deuce she does!" I thought to my- 
self. I saw the young pair wandering away 
together into the bewildering fogs of medi- 
aeval mysticism, and thought it but right to 
bring the situation to the notice of that posi- 
tive spirit, Madeline K. Pritchard. 

Immediately after my arrival in Rome I 
called upon her at the Bristol. She soon 
began to understand what I meant. But 
she took matters with the most disconcert- 
ing good-nature. 

"It's true enough," she declared," that 
Bessie herself is as keen as ever on Fra 
Angelico. She is inquiring after him here 
just as she inquired after him at Florence. 
Why, she asked for him at Alilan, when she 
ought to have been occupied with autos and 
air-ships; and she will expect to find him at 
Naples, when she ought to be learning how 
to make maccaroni. But " 

"But " 

"But the young man himself. He doesn't 
care any longer for the meditevals. Haven't 
you heard ? Haven't you met him here ? " 



238 



Waldo Trench Regains His Youth 



"No. What has happened?" 

"You knew about his plan for Assisi?" 

" Yc " 

"He went there. So did the whole travel- 
class, of course. And while there, he saw 
a great light, and conversion followed." 

"How did it happen?" 

"If you remember Professor Tait " 

"The one in your car at Florence ? " 

"No; that was Professor Robbins. Pro- 
fessor Tait is quite different." 

"How?" 

"Robbins is only a Middle- Age mooner, 
but Tait has a real education — one of the 
regular old classical sort. He dotes on Livy 
and Horace, and quotes them whenever 
a suitable occasion offers. That kind." 

"He didn't quote them at Assisi?" 

"He did— just." 

"Apropos of what?" 

"Why, apropos of the temple of Minerva, 
of course. He caught young Trench and 
pooh-poohed St. Francis's church to him, 
and Giotto's pictures, and told him that if 
he wanted to get the foundations of a good 
solid education he must give up the Middle 
Ages and concentrate on Rome. He brought 
up Goethe." 

"I see. Goethe, I recall, came to Assisi 
and ignored the monastery and gave all his 
attention to the temple." 

"'What is good enough for the central 
sun of culture is good enough for me ' — thus 
spake Tait to Trench, according to Trench's 
own account. Then the old fellow got in 
his line from Horace or somebody, and 
Waldo was won." 

She called him Waldo — only for the sake 
of alliteration, I hoped. 

" So he has been won over to Rome ? But 
this is all wrong!" I cried. 

"How so?" 

"I — I had meant him to go to Ravenna. 
I had rather thought of going there myself, 
but shall hardly do so now. Ravenna's a 
quaint, quiet place where he could meditate 
on the mosaics and the other Byzantine do- 
ings to his heart's content. He has made a 
bolt that is simply shocking. He has treated 
a thousand years like a mere yesterday. He 
ought at least to have paused half-way. 
Ravenna," I concluded ruefully, "would 
have been just the thing." 

"It's too late for Ravenna, now," she 

answered me. "N2{lla How do they 

say it?" 



" Vestigia nulla retrorsum?^^ 

"I guess so. And as for long jumps," 
she went on, "I believe he is ready, by this 
time, to jump any chasm whatever." 

' ' There are several yet," I acknowledged. 

"I should say so," she acquiesced. 

"What is he busy with at present?" 

"I believe they're doing the palace of the 
Caesars, on the Palatine." 

"They?" 

"Why, yes. Bessie has gone along with 
him and taken her camera." 

"Well! Does she expect to find * Corona- 
tions' and 'Assumptions' there?" 

"Don't ask me. Many's the long year 
since I have seen the ruins on the Palatine." 

"Do you think that Roman emperors are 
better for her than mediae', .i! -^aints ? Re- 
call those terrible orgies of Caligula and the 
rest of them." 

"I don't believe they'll make much of the 
orgies. That complicated camera will need 
all the attention Bessie has to give. And 
Trench himself is as correct a young fellow 
as I ever met." 

"U'm!" 

"Yes, u'm! He called the other evening 
and sat an hour in the very chair you're oc- 
cupying now. He talked in a very straight- 
forward way about his Western interests, 
and gave me ever so much information 
regarding Oklahoma. It seems he has 
got three different farms down there — or 
ranches, or plantations, or whatever they 
call them — and several town lots. He gets 
his corn to market a full six weeks before 
they do it in Illinois; and he raises cotton, 
too — miles of it. What does your land, 
produce, Mr. Gilmore?" 

Such impertinence ! "I have always lived 
in an adequate and dignified way," I an- 
swered, a bit stiffly. " My agent over there 
cuts my coupons." 

I had no great desire to be forced into an 
open competition. And as for that poor 
child, with her mediaeval obsession, I saw 
that the impetuous Trench was passing her 
at a canter. 



VI 



One morning, ten or twelve days later, 
Trench burst in upon me in my room at the 
Londres. 

"Why, Gilmore," he cried, "what's this 
I hear about the Etruscans?" 



Waldo Trench Regains His Youth 



239 



''I don't know," I rejoined. "What is it 
you hear about the Etruscans?" 

"The whole country between Florence 
and Rome is full of them! Why haven't I 
come across them ? Why have I never seen 
any of their " 

"Because they're all dead, perhaps. Be- 
cause the last of them went the way of all 
flesh two thousand years ago." 

"Don't I know that ?" he began hotly. 

"There, there," I said. "Sit down and 
tell me who started you after the Etruscans. " 

He flopped into a chair. "It's like this. 
I was walking through the Forum yester- 
day, looking over the Temple of the Vestals; 
and when I climbed up to the roadway an 
old fellow was standing there (a sort of sa- 
vant, if that's the word), who looked at me 
and — sniffed. He looked down on the ruins 
themselves, too, with a curious sort of con- 
tempt. It made me hot, and I asked him 
what he meant. He gave it back to me 
pretty direct, in some sort of foreign accent 
— it may have been German. He told me I 
was wasting my time on a lot of mere mo- 
dernities — said the whole Forum had been 
straightened out several years ago. He 
made me feel as if I had been kindergarten- 
ing. ' What are you busy about ? ' I asked. 
He replied that he was digging at Vulci — he 
was after Etruscan tombs. Vulci — know 
anything about it?" 

"I've heard the name; but there are easi- 
er places to reach." 

"I'm going to reach them," he declared. 

"And the Forum, with all Miss Payne's 
photographs?" I hinted. 

"She has found an early mediaeval 
church there, and is doing its frescoes." 

Well and good, thought I. The breach 
was widening once more. I resolved to 
help Trench retire still farther "up stage"; 
presently, perhaps, he might be absorbed 
into the darkness of the ultimate back- 
ground. 

"The Etruscans," I began blithely, 
"were the first schoolmasters of the Ro- 
mans. They whipped those poor, uncouth 
creatures into shape and passed them on to 
the Greeks." 

"Is it true that Etruria was an aggrega- 
tion of splendid cities when Rome was just 
a straw village set in the mud ? " 

"Of course it is." 

Trench drew a long breath. "Well, I 
vow!" 



"Don't try to magnify the early Ro- 
mans," I proceeded didactically. "They 
were a barbarous, bumptious lot, bare of 
every earthly thing except the determina- 
tion to boss — or, the 'will to power,' as 
Nietzsche would express it." 

Trench sat staring. 

"When Macaulay," I went on, "rises to 
remark : 

"Ho, trumpets, sound a war-note ! 
Ho, lictors, clear the way ! 

don't fancy that those fine things, and all 
the rest of them, originated in Rome itself. 
No; everything that adorned and dignified 
early Rome was a straight steal from Etru- 
ria: temples, sewers, circuses and games, 
augurs and haruspices ; the togas, the trump- 
ets, the curule cliairs, the very fasces car- 
ried by the early Victorian lictors aforesaid. 
Next time you come across the fasces printed 
on an old greenback or sculptured on any 
of our public buildings, think of Vetulonia, 
where this most serviceable symbol was 
devised." 

"Vetulonia," murmured Trench. "I'll 
go there before I'm a week older." 

"Don't," I counselled. "Vetulonia to- 
day is only a heap of brush-grown ruin on 
a hillock in the most pestilent depths of 
the Maremma. Try Caere or Tarquinii." 

"Very well," replied Trench, bringing 
out his notebook; "I will. And I'll cut 
loose from the travel-study people this very 
day. I've combed over their whole list of 
talent and there isn't a single Etruscan ex- 
pert among them. What kind of travel- 
study is that ? " 

He reached for his hat. 

"Abuse the Romans as much as you 
like," he added; "I'm passing them up, 
anyway." 

VII 

When Mrs. Pritchard announced her 
perfect willingness to take a spin toward 
Tarquinii — known to our modern day as 
Corneto — Bessie Payne, it was easy to see 
with half an eye, hardly dared believe the 
evidence of her ears. 

"Why, aunt," she stammered — she was 
far too pleased to be able to keep silence — 
"you can't care anything about Etruscan 
tombs!" 

"I can't, eh?" responded Madeline K. 



240 



Waldo Trench Regains His Youth 



Pritchard genially. "When you say that 
you make the worst guess of your life. I 
can, and do. I expect such a lark as I 
haven't had for many a day." 

"I hope," said the girl seriously, "that 
we shall be able to respect Mr. Trench's 
feelings. He is very much wrapped up in 
Etruria." 

"/ shall," retorted her aunt. "I can't 
answer for you. I only wish, Mr. Gilmore, 
that I saw any possible way of taking you 
with us. But Serafino — I have come to de- 
pend so much on him; I feel such a com- 
plete trust in him " 

"You're too good," I murmured. "But 
I am engaged for the day at Tivoli." 

Trench presendy arrived at the Bristol, 
and the portier helped him into his place. 
He had already raced through the Etruscan 
Museum at the Vatican and was master of 
a deep fund of by-gone lore. "Bessie's going 
to get enough of tombstones to last her one 
good while," declared her aunt. I almost 
blushed for the expansive creature. It was 
as if she were already exiling the girl to 
some far land so new that nobody had yet 
had a chance to die there. 

"You've got the camera, Bessie?" in- 
quired their bustling chaperon, looking 
back from her post beside Serafino. 

"Here it is." Yes, there it was, beyond 
all doubt, snuggled in between Bessie and 
Trench. 

"You will find little enough to photo- 
graph, I imagine," was my contribution at 
this stage; "and find it very hard to photo- 
graph that litde." 

"Oh, well," observed Bessie, as content- 
edly as you please, "I shall be able to catch 
up one or two souvenirs of the day." 

Serafino performed some manoeuvres 
round the spouting Triton in the middle of 
the piazza — I could have done as well — and 
off they plunged to desecrate the long kept 
silences of deepest Etruria. 

I was half inclined to follow by train. 
Still, that would not have been altogether 
dignified — nor, in fact, had they suggested, 
as they might have done — my doing so. 
Besides, there was that utterly superfluous 
fib about Tivoli. So I left them to their own 
courses. "They'll soon get enough of those 
bleak, bare, bumpy hills down by that mias- 
matic seashore," I comforted myself. 

"How was it?" I asked Mrs. Pritchard, 
the next aftneroon, on the Pincian. The 



band was playing Mascagni and she was 
perversely pretending to iind their doings 
adorable. 

"Well," she replied grimly, "it was— 
different. It enlarged my horizon wonder- 
fully. But I am crippled for life, and I 
doubt if Serafina has a sound joint left in 
her body." 

"Serafina?" 

"I mean the car, of course. So long as 
Serafino is the name of the chauffeur, Sera- 
fina will be the name of the chauft'ee. When 
Serafino goes — I hope he won't for a long 
time — Serafina's name will be changed ac- 
cordingly. If Vittorio succeeds to Serafino, 
then Vittoria succeeds to Serafina. If 
Francesco, Francesca. If Giuseppe, Giu- 
seppina. You catch on?" 

"Readily." 

"I should hate awfully to lose Serafino. 
How I could have wheedled him away from 
Florence and kept him so long remains a 
constant surprise to me. Some days I think 
he adores me; other days it seems as if I 
had only hypnotized him. And there are 
other days still when I feel sure he looks on 
me as the queerest creature that ever came 
along the pike, and is only holding on to see 
what I shall do next!" 

How tedious a clever woman can be ! 
"You are not here alone, I suppose?" I 
inquired with a glance over the circling car- 
riages and the sauntering throng. 

"I ? Alone in such a large concourse as 
this ? Hardly. I am being looked after by 
a pair of young people just behind that 
shrubbery. Whistle and they'll come out." 

They came without my whistling, and as 
they babbled forth their sepulchral litany it 
was hard to tell which had become the more 
thorough-going Etruscan of the two. 

"How about the camera ? " I asked Miss 
Payne. 

"Why, things turned out pretty nearly as 
you prophesied. Still, it was a great pleas- 
ure eveu to try to help such an enthusiastic 
student as Mr. Trench. Enthusiasm is the 
very savor of travel — don't you think so?" 

"Undoubtedly." 

"And aunt behaved nobly," the girl went 
on. "And Serafino was nice, too. In fact, 
we all agreed that Mr. Trench" — here she 
lowered her voice for me alone — "was en- 
titled to the very pleasantest day that could 
be devised. I really got six or eight good ex- 
posures; I'll show them to you some time." 



Waldo Trench Regains His Youth 



241 



"And you are actually interested in Etrus- 
can antiquities?" 

"Indeed, I am; immensely so," she re- 
turned, with the clearest glance and the 
honestest intonation in the world. 

"How long will her interest last?" I 
inwardly wondered; and our common 
attention reverted to the brilliant scene 
about us. 

VIII 

I SAW nothing of Trench for the next 
fortnight. I understood vaguely that he 
had renounced the world for a little and 
was pursuing his researches farther into 
Etruria. I fancied him as radiating in end- 
less excursions from Viterbo, or as toiling 
solitary along the remotest reaches of the 
Maremma coast-line. Meanwhile, it de- 
volved upon me, naturally enough, to pro- 
vide entertainment for Elizabeth Payne. I 
recalled two or three Angelicos at the Vati- 
can, and took her, in all haste, to see them. 
She showed less interest than I expected, 
and began to hint, lightly yet insistently, 
about going on to the Etruscan Museum. 

"Those dead and gone things!" I ex- 
claimed disparagingly. 

"Life can be put into them," was her 
rejoinder. 

We spent two hours among the sombre 
Etruscans, passing in review their vases and 
jocolari and cinerary urns and goldsmith's 
work and the reproductions of those faded 
subterranean frescoes at Corneto. 

"So this is how they looked!" was her 
comment on the pictured games and dances 
and banquets. She gazed long and earnestly 
at the various gaudy creatures that were 
capering about with more than doubtful 
propriety — singular decorations for the 
house of death. 

"My preference is for Era Angelico," I 
said pointedly. She ignored my rebuke. 
On the way back to the hotel I took her to 
the tomb of her painter at Santa ]\Taria 
sopra Minerva. It left her cold — other tombs 
were wanted now. I sighed patiently; of 
course nobody — not even the most docile — 
can be kept at one stage forever. 

A few days later I met Trench in the 
Corso. The marks of a strenuous fortnight 
were all over him. 

"What luck?" I asked. 

"Oh, very fair," he replied. "I have had 



an interesting experience, and can show 3'^ou 
a few things, if you care to come to my 



rooms." 



"Certainly," said I. 

He led me sedately through a quarter of a 
mile of street and introduced me soberly 
enough into his apartment. His own inter- 
est, as he began to display his acquisitions, 
was many degrees below the pitch I had 
anticipated. 

He showed me some trivial bronzes and a 
few vases — or rather, the fragments from 
which vases were to be reconstructed: ordi- 
nary roha di museo, but even less good than 
the average. He languidly detailed the va- 
rious incidents, more or less picturesque, 
that had attended their discovery. What 
was the matter ? 

"This cup," he said, putting together the 
red and black fragments of a promising 
kvlix, "I had thought of giving to Miss 
Payne." 

"Ah, yes," said I indifferently. 

He laid the fragments aside with an in- 
difference hardly less, and stood staring 
thoughtfully through the window. Pres- 
ently he spoke. 

"Day before yesterday, at my last site, I 
met an Englishman — the only creature be- 
sides contadini and vetturini I had encoun- 
tered for a week." 

"He was after the Etruscans, too?" 

"N— no," replied Trench. "No, he 
wasn't," he repeated with an abrupt em- 
phasis. " I was examining some mighty fine 
old walls^ — or at least foundations — when he 
came toward me through a thicket of under- 
brush, hatchet in hand. He poked his foot 
at those immensely venerable stones, as I 
thought them, and said disgustedly, ' Why, 
they're only Etruscan!' 

"'What did you expect them to be?' I 
asked. 

"'I'm after the Pelasgians,' he returned 
in the sourest tone imaginable; 'what is 
this modern rubbish to me ? ' And he stalked 
away again through the underbrush. Tell 
me, Giimore, who were the Pelasgians, and 
are they older than the Etruscans?" The 
fellow's face of strained concern was pitiful. 

"Now, see here. Trench," I began, 
"you've gone on long enough assuming 
that I know evervthing. The line must be 
drawn somewhere, and I draw it right 
here." 

"But did the Etruscans drive out the 



242 



Waldo Trench Regains His Youth 



Pelasgians and tear down their buildings 
and use the foundations for their own ? " 

''That's supposed to have happened in a 
few places — at Cortona and Cosa and so on. " 

"Then the Pelasgians are the older?" 

"Yes, indeed. Ages older," I added 
hardily. 

He gave a kind of ecstatic groan. " Then 
I've got to take them up right away." 

I couldn't but admire such gallantry. 
"All right, if you will. But you've really 
been on the wrong side of the Tiber for the 
Pelasgians. The best of their Cyclopean 
doings are beyond the Alban hills, on the 
way to Naples. The Pelasgians are harder 
to understand, but lots easier to get at." 

"Praise Heaven for that!" muttered 
Trench, glancing down at his worn boots 
and his lacerated hands. 

"Yes, indeed," I encouraged him; ^'tkey 
were obliging enough to build near the 
railroad and the highway. You can get to 
Alatri or Ferentino with no trouble at all." 

"Thank you, Gilmore," he said with 
feeling. "I'll start off to-morrow — well, no, 
not to-morrow" — here he worked his 
shoulder-blades with a grimace of pain — 
"but before the week is out. Will you go 
with me?" 

"O Trench, Trench, Waldo Trench!" 
I exclaimed, laughing. 

When next I called on Mrs. Pritchard, 
three days later, Elizabeth Payne asked me 
how we had happened to overlook the Pe- 
lasgian Museum. 

"There is no such thing," I returned 
bluntly. "The Pelasgians don't come to 
us; we have to go to them." 

But I laughed no more. 



IX 



"Novi^, see here," said Madeline Prit- 
chard decidedly, "we're not going to let Mr. 
Trench go off all by himself to any more of 
those lonesome places." 

"He isn't going all by himself," I re- 
turned. "He's going with me." 

"He's going with us" pronounced Mrs. 
Pritchard in the tone of finality. "And so 
are you. In the auto." 

"I, too? But— Serafino " 

A cloud passed over the good lady's 
handsome and genial face. 

"We are losing him," she said sadly. 
"Florence is too alluring, or my general 



oddity has lost its charm, or something 
equally as bad has happened " 

"'Equally as bad!' O Aunt Madeline!" 
chided her niece. 

" So that if we are to be driven to Ferentino 
you will have to drive us, Mr. Gilmore." 

"Very well," I replied. "At what hour 
does the Aurelia depart?" 

"The Aur ? Oh, I forget; the dear 

old Serafina is a thing of the past. Be here 
at nine." 

We reached Ferentino by noon, and 
killed nobody on the way. 

"Well, well," said Mrs. Pritchard, as we 
toiled and sputtered up the last incline, 
"this is great! No more Corneto for me; 
give me the sky and the hill-tops every time ! ' ' 

Meanwhile Trench and Elizabeth Payne 
were standing up, side by side, to catch a 
first view of things Cyclopean. 

He had brought the patched-up kylix 
and given it to her just before we started 
out. He had offered it without enthusiasm 
and she had received it with only the most 
conventional signs of interest. Etruria 
was dead. 

We grandly ignored the double arches of 
the Porta Casamari, for they looked as if 
they were merely Roman. As for the vari- 
ous marbles and mosaics of the cathedral, we 
never gave them a thought. We found our 
complete account in the ponderous polyg- 
onal walls of the narrow Porta Sangui- 
naria. Trench was in a state of exaltation, 
and Madeline Pritchard cried out loudly 
over such massiveness and such antiquity. 

"And I thought I had seen everything!" 
she exclaimed. " O Mr. Trench, the deepest 
gratitude of a world-weary old woman is 
yours! Now, Bessie, your camera." 

"Yes," said I; "the camera. Walls such 
as these are the only things the Pelasgians 
have left us. How would they do in a 
museum, eh?" 

Obedient Bessie reached down under the 
seat for the instrument. It was easy to see 
that those old walls had kindled in her the 
most burning interest, and that she was 
panting to bring her little art into its fullest 
play. She felt about for a moment; then 
she straightened up. 

"I've— I've forgotten it, aunt!" she mur- 
mured remorsefully. 

"Bessie Pavne!" exclaimed Mrs. Prit- 
chard, in the most massive of Pelasgian 
accents. 



Waldo Trench Regains His Youth 



243 



"I've forgotten it!" the poor girl mur- 
mured again, and turned her eyes, full of 
pitiful self-reproach, on — Trench. 

Trench, to do him justice, put on no 
"side." He thanked her heartily for her 
good intentions and consoled her manfully 
for their frustration. Having now only 
our own eyes to depend upon, all four of us 
stared as hard as we could, and then put 
ourselves in motion for Alatri, where bigger 
walls and broader gateways had been 
awaiting us for some three thousand years. 

"Aren't we almost reaching the end?" 
I asked Mrs. Pritchard, as we whizzed past 
Anagni, on the way home. 

"There are only a few more old things 
left," she returned humorously. "7 sha'n't 
mention any of them. Or," I thought I 
heard her add under her breath, "shall I, 
and bring this wild-goose chase to an end ? " 



X 



Our little party presently dissolved once 
more. I heard that the ladies, having en- 
gaged a new chauffeur, had moved on to 
Naples, and I imagined Trench as having 
returned to further explorations among the 
Volscian hills. 

Though Rome was thinning, I lingered a 
few days for the sake of an interesting Tus- 
can countess, a commensal of Mrs. Prit- 
chard's at the Bristol. 

"I have often wondered," this friend ob- 
served to me one afternoon, "how your 
American ladies contrive to do so much 
travelling without maids." 

"That is a question, isn't it?" 

"But I am on the way to answer it." 

"Yes?" 

"They borrow maids from us." 

Then I heard how her Nencina, a week 
before, had asked for a day's leave to visit 
an old aunt who was ill at Frascati; and 
how diligent inquiry, immediately made, 
had failed to disclose the existence of any 
aunt whatsoever. 

"Then Nencina wept and confessed that 
a Miss Pavne — your Miss Payne " 

"My M'iss Payne!" 

"Had asked her company on the train 
as far as Frascati, to visit the villas. 
'Did you go any farther than Frascati?' I 
was inspired to ask. Yes, the two had gone 
several miles beyond, to a town my Nencina 
had never heard of, she said. 'What for?' 



I demanded. And she wouldn't, or couldn't 
tell me. Your Miss Payne, it appears, acted 
just as all foreign tourists act, and there the 
account ended. Except that she gave Nen- 
cina ten lire for her trouble and told her to 
keep it perfectly clear in her mind that they 
had spent the day among the Frascati vil- 
las. I have plied the girl in vain " 

"No doubt you have plied her!" I mut- 
tered between my teeth. 

"But nothing could I learn about the 
motives of your singular young compatriot. 
By the way, she left a book behind her — a 
very heavy one." 

"Forgotten, doubtless." Forgetfulness 
seemed growing upon the poor girl. ' ' What 
was it called?" 

"'The Pelasgic Peoples.' The volume 
seemed quite new." 

"Ah, well," I observed blandly, "we An- 
glo-Saxons are a race of eccentrics, and It- 
aly seems to bring all our eccentricity out." 

And no further satisfaction did my hostess 
receive, though I was glad enough of the 
hint she had unwittingly given me. 

In due course I followed the general 
movement southward to Naples. On my 
first afternoon I sallied forth to enjoy the 
brilliant corso along the water-front of the 
Villa Nazionale. A grandiose motor-car 
was attempting to accommodate itself to 
the slower pace of the many carriages that 
swarmed over the wide road-bed. Just as 
it came abreast of me a familiar voice gave 
a word of command. 

"Stop, Giuliano!" 

And an instant later, Mrs. Pritchard, at 
whose side sat Elizabeth Payne, was invit- 
ing me to mount to the vacant place beside 
her newest chauffeur. 

"Giuliana is trying to hold her own in 
this gay throng, and we need your help." 

"It is a transplanted Rome," I said. "I 
have seen dozens of familiar faces already." 

"We miss one," declared Mrs. Pritchard 
bluntly. Elizabeth Payne — not merely, I 
hope, to cover her confusion — leaned for- 
ward and greeted me with an elaborate 
prettiness. 

"Everybody who ought to be present will 
doubtless appear," I said, to reward her. 

"O prophet!" exclaimed her aunt, and 
pointed to a self-absorbed figure strolling 
along the edge of the drive, not fifty feet 
from us — Trench, of course, and no other. 

Mrs. Pritchard caught up Trench as easi- 



244 



Waldo Trench 



Regains 



His Youth 



ly as she had caught up me. GiuHana drew 
a little aside from the pressing throng of 
vehicles, and Trench was encouraged to give 
an account of his recent peregrinations. 
Mrs. Pritchard asked directly about every- 
thing she wanted to know, and Elizabeth 
Payne's speaking brown eyes seconded her 
with a most becoming attention. 

This time Trench's boots were whole and 
his hands showed none of the scars of bat- 
tle. There had been no repetition of earlier 
hardships. He was, in fact, quite present- 
able, and the masterful owner of the ma- 
chine at once made him a part of the corso, 
just as she had done with me. 

"You may go back to the hotel, Giuli- 
ano." The new chauffeur, a swarthy, thick- 
set man, was no second Serafino, no ingra- 
tiating, indispensable Tuscan. "Mr. Gil- 
more, you may have Giuliano's place, and 
Waldo Trench may take yours." 

Trench, from his new post, told us of his 
recent tour. In due course he had seen 
Cori and Norba and Segni and the rest of 
them. He now knew as much about the 
Cyclopean builders among the Volscian hills 
(whom, adopting the newest jargon, he 
called "Italioti ") as anybody can know — 
which is very little, at best. 

"You feel repaid?" asked Mrs. Prit- 
chard kindly but keenly. 

" Ye-es," began Trench. 

"No, you don't," she retorted instantly. 
"You're keeping something back. Out 
with it!" 

"Well," responded Trench slowly, "I 
have just been talking with one of the pro- 
fessors at the museum, and Ite tells me of 
some prehistoric things off in a remote cor- 
ner of Sicily, the work of rock-dwellers 
called Sikelians or Sicanians, things even 
older than " 

"I've never heard of either of those 
tribes," declared Mrs. Pritchard loudly and 
with extraordinary promptness; "and nei- 
ther, I'm sure, have any of the rest of us. 
And when it comes to something that Mr. 
Gilmore and I haven't heard of, it's time 
to stop." 

"But I have heard of " I began. 

"Aurelius Gilmore," she interrupted with 
great energy, "get Serafina — I mean, GiuH- 
ana — out of this crowd at once. Drive 
straight west toward Posilipo. We'll settle 
this there." 

"But I have heard of both the Sikelians 



and the Sicanians," I insisted, as I wrenched 
the car out of the press and started for the 
less frequented suburban road. "The dis- 
tinction between them is an important one 
and well worthy the best endeavors of an 
ambitious young savant.^^ I hope I pro- 
nounced the word ''savatii" witla no sar- 
castic intonation. 

"Avanti!" Mrs. Pritchard merely cried, 
as she had so often done with Serafino. 

In three minutes we were climbing the hill 
of Posilipo, and the Bay, in all its breadth 
and beauty, was spreading itself before us. 

"Look at that!" cried Madeline K. 
Pritchard, sweeping her arm over the wide 
prospect and directly addressing Trench. 
"How much of charm and interest before 
our very eyes! ^^'hy scour the world, why 
poke among the prehistoric ages? Why 
grow old before our time? Why miss a 
hundred fine things immediately about us 
for the sake of some single thing away off in 
the dim distance ? We will trundle you to 
Pompeii, Mr. Trench" — a dab at the pano- 
rama — "or to Sorrento" — another dab — 
"or even to Passtum" — with a slower and 
steadier pointing toward the most dimly 
blue of all the circumjacent peaks: "Paes- 
tum, for choice, since we have given due 
attention to everybody save the Greeks. 
But I cannot promise you our co-operation 
in Sicily." 

And then the ruthless lady invited us to 
dinner. 

" Come to the hotel at seven, both of you. 
We will arrange some excursion for to- 
morrow. And Bessie, Mr. Trench, has a 
little gift to present you." 

Elizabeth Payne, with a look of imper- 
illed maiden m^odesty, placed a protesting 
hand on her aunt's plump arm. Trench, 
whose eyes were already wide open, now 
opened them still wider; and for the first 
time there was "speculation" in them. A 
man less innocent or less self-absorbed 
would have begun to speculate before. 



XI 



"Now, Bessie," said Mrs. Pritchard, as 
soon as we had left table d'hote for her own 
salottino. "It's got to be done one time or 
another," I thought I heard her add in an 
undertone. 

The girl, blushing rather prettily, rose 
with some hesitancy, or an appropriate 



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V 

bo 
a 



a 
be 



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•a 



c 



5" 



t 






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Vol. XIJI.— 28 



246 



Waldo Trench Regains His Youth 



affectation of hesitancy, and stepped tow- 
ard a writing-desk. 

"You may give it to him yourself," said 
the elder lady generously; and Trench was 
presently holding in his hand a nice enough 
little photograph album — a souvenir, as 
Mrs. Pritchard was at hand to put it, of 
their various journeyings together. "Bes- 
sie herself took every one of them," she 
finished. 

Under the circumstances a prompt review 
of the entire series was little less than ob- 
ligatory, and we spent the ensuing quarter 
of an hour in reliving the various excursions, 
archaeological and other, of the past few 
months. 

"That's all," said Elizabeth Payne, when 
we seemed close to the back cover. 

"Not quite," archly declared her aunt, 
who had kept pace with every picture. "I 
think there's one more — just one." 

"Let's have it," said Trench, with a 
touch of hoarse brusqueness that may have 
betokened either extreme embarrassment 
or a sudden long-delayed access of feeling. 

We turned the leaf, and there it was— 
the Porta Sanguinaria at Ferentino. 

"It isn't as wide as some of those other 
arches," said Mrs. Pritchard distinctly, 
"but it is wide enough for two to pass 
through." 

If ever Innocence were bold, it was 
when Madeline K. Pritchard spoke these 
words. 

"Well, that is the last," she said, turn- 
ing away, and I discreetly followed her ex- 
ample. 

In the wide embrasure of the open win- 
dow I suggested to her — discreetly or not, 
as others may decide — that this last photo- 
graph permitted one to surmise a second 
visit to Ferentino. 

"Possibly," she returned, with careless 
buoyancy. And then: "My dear Mr. Gil- 
more, I am not blind, I am not ignorant; 
and twenty francs, well bestowed, will 
often add considerable to what one may 
know already." 

She turned back into the room, where the 
album continued to preserve a status that- 
neither of the young pair dared to change, 
leaving me with the painful picture of a 
poor serving-maid doubly, trebly corrupted. 

"I think we will make it Paestum," she 
announced presently; and Paestum, under 
her forceful direction, it became. 



At two o'clock the next afternoon Mrs. 
Pritchard and I were seated at the base of 
the Temple of Neptune. Monte Chianiello 
and its mates looked composedly down 
upon us, and the blue sea lay neglected in 
the distance. Behind the car a super- 
flous but exigent "guide" was consoling 
himself with the remains of the luncheon; 
and Trench and Elizabeth Payne had wan- 
dered off, in intimate converse, in the direc- 
tion of the Basilica. 

"Well," said I, luxuriously fitting my 
back into a fluting of one of those giant 
columns, "antiquity still rules." 

"Antiquities," rejoined my companion, 
"are all very well if they can be put to a 
modern use. But when I see Inexperience 
losing itself in the murky labyrinth of the 
past " 

"The 'murky labyrinth of the past' is 
good. May I use it?" 

"Certainly. Why, then I feel like lend- 
ing a hand to lead it back to the light of the 
present day." 

"You will probably prevail," I observed, 
but not too bitterly. 

"That young man!" she went on; "such 
amazing vigor, such exhaustless driving- 
power, such astonishing singleness of pur- 
pose! And all, at present, so misapplied. 
Think what such qualities are going to 
effect for him on those farms and in the 
civic life of his new commonwealth!" 

"You find him single-minded, eh? I 
should say 'simple-minded,' or 'myriad- 
minded,' or " 

"Well, whether single, simple, or myr- 
iad, I bank strong on the thorough-go- 
ing fellow who can drive straight to the 
point." 

There was a sound behind us. The two 
young people were approaching through 
the opposite colonnade, each with an il- 
lumined countenance that conveyed one and 
the same declaration. Trench had come to 
the point. 

"It has happened," murmured Madeline 
Pritchard devoutly. 

"Let's render thanks, if thanks are due," 
said I. 

"Due — and overdue," said she. 

Trench approached with a buoyant 
gayety that seemed the full assertion of his 
ultimate self. 

"I have decided to give up the Sicilians," 
he said. "I have found curtain beyond 



^jl 



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*/Allr>fe3 lAONi't^OfAQlX'ttJ^'^''- 



Drawn by James Montgomery Flagg. 

The two young people were approaching.— Page 246. 



248 Wanderlied 

curtain. One can't go on forever. One emerge upon the modern age through these 

must stop somewhere." portentous pillars of PiTstum." 

"You have stopped at a very good place," "A lovely phrase — whatever it means," 

said Mrs. Pritchard. "Another month breathed Mrs. Pritchard. "Don't lose it." 

would have made a gray-beard of you." " Congratulate us, "said Trench ebuUient- 

" We have resolved to remain modern," ly, "upon our entry into our new State." 

said Elizabeth Payne, with a happy re- "New?" repeated Mrs. Pritchard. "One 

flection of Trench's own manner. "We of the oldest in the world!" 

have returned to the present era and mean Trench gave us another of those wide 

to stay there." looks. "I mean the State of Oklahoma." 

Mrs. Pritchard rose and gave each of Mrs. Pritchard laughed. "I mean the 

them a hand. "Welcome back, my dear state of matrimony." 

children, to the twentieth century, after "You have combined them," said I, with 

your long jaunt through time and space." an indulgent smile that set the past aside 

"A happy omen," said I, rising also and and forgave everything in it. "I trust you 

repeating her action, "that you should will prosper in both." 



WANDERLIED 

By Marie van Vorst 

Oh, when shall I come home again — 
My darhng, tell me true? 

To wander east, to wander west's a dreary thing to do! 
See summer burn the changing leaves 
Beneath the homeland sky, 
White winter fold familiar eaves — 
Oh, when shall I! 

The rose shall tinge the coverts, 
And the field-bird leave her nest, 

And autumn gather golden grain against her glowing breast; 
The W^ord shall find the snow-banned. 
And the wanderer back shall fly, 
And aHens seek their native land — 
Oh when shall I? 

The axes strike the yielding pine. 
The beams swing up of yew: 

To build a house for love and rest's a happy thing to do! 
A feathered pair have swung their nest, 
All secret, safe, and high. 
And everyone finds home and rest — 
Oh, when shall I! 



THE POINT OF VIEW 



cience as 
Culture " 



A GENERATION ago, those of our lead- 
ing minds which combined brightness 
with "natural piety "were intent upon 
the reconciliation of science with religion. 
At present some of those minds seem im- 
pressed with the desirableness of reconciling 
science with "culture." The President of 
Columbia not so long ago openly took the 
peace-path as a reconciler, and expressed a 
faith that "science," meaning physical sci- 
ence, might come to be as potent an agency 
of "culture" as what are distinctly 
known as the humanities. The hu- 
manities we may assume to be the 
current equivalent for the "seven liberal 
arts," which, under their various transfor- 
mations, have continued since the time of 
Abelard to dominate "liberal education," 
"though perhaps," asCarlyleonceremarked, 
" they are obsolete enough even yet for some 
of us." And the faithful fulfilment of the 
curriculum consequent upon the modern 
modification of them does without question 
produce a cultivated man in the accepted 
sense of that term. Now natural science, 
however faithfully pursued, does not obvious- 
ly tend to the saine result. The common 
stock of mere information which the accepted 
curriculum imparts and assumes is assuredly 
acquired in the study and as assuredly not in 
the laboratory. And a heavy burden of proof 
weighs down the reconciler who paraphrases 
and perverts Ovid to the extent of maintain- 
ing that faithfully to have pursued experi- 
mental "natural philosophy" softens the 
manners nor suffers to be rude ; which never- 
theless was the thesis of the discourse in ques- 
tion. 

We all know pretty well what are the re- 
sultsofapurely technical or "technological" 
education. Most of us have had opportuni- 
ties of estimating its human products. The 
oldest of the technical schools, for half a cen- 
tury or more the only one in this country, is 
the Military Academy. Baron Steuben is 

Vol. XLII. — 29 



sometimes referred to as the father of the Mili- 
tary Academy, because he sketched a curric- 
ulum of such an institution. But that it was 
by no means the West Point we know is evi- 
dent enough. The ex-officer of the great 
Frederick had provided, among other things, 
for a chair of belles-lettres and a chair of archi- 
tecture, two unquestionably "humanizing" 
agencies. But when the academy came actu- 
ally to be founded, these provisions were 
quite ruthlessly stricken out, and nothing left 
in but what directly "drove at practice." 
The result is that the West Pointer learns how 
to study, learns how to think straight, and be- 
comes a highly efficient military machine; so 
highly efficient that many are coming to think 
it is wasting him to make him a subaltern of 
the line. He is a "trained" man, he is an 
educated man with reservations. But no- 
body would think of calling him a "culti- 
vated " man. It is well looked out for that 
he gets no time for "collateral reading" 
while he is undergoinghis quadrennial ordeal. 
When he has escaped it, he is apt to emerge 
with an extreme aversion for reading, col- 
lateral or other. Those West Pointers, and 
they are many, who do acquire culture, ac~ 
quire it by "the strong propensity of nat- 
ure " and rather in spite of their specific 
"education." 

There is in truth no evidence that for their 
specific purpose of giving "the education of 
a gentleman " there is any effective substitute 
for the old-fashioned humanities. Matthew 
Arnold, quite justifiably from his point of 
view, holds up to odium the new-fashioned 
system which put in possession of certain olo- 
gies a student whom it did not prevent from 
paraphrasing 

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased? 
by 

Can you not wait upon the lunatic? 

And it has been remarked that there is an 
actual university president in these United 
States who has specialized in science with 

249 



250 



The Point of View 



distinguished success, but who, in a published 
address, showed himself unaware that it was 
Byron who wrote the "Isles of Greece." The 
evidence thus far is that science is science and 
culture is culture, that neither has anything 
to do with the other, and that neither can be 
made to "rub off" on the other. 



TO city dwellers the trolley is known as a 
rapid and convenient method of getting 
between their places of business and 
their places of residence. The workers for 
daily wages among them know it also as a 
means of Sunday excursion, when the hood- 
lums will permit. A still more beneficent 
use is that which enables the dwellers in tene- 
ment houses, when the nights are intolerable 
at home, to take themselves and their sick 
young abroad in the dark, with the certainty 
of some movement of air caused by the move- 
ment of the machine itself. 

But there is another use of the trolley for 
pleasure which is only just now beginning to 
be appreciated, and which is still in its in- 
fancy, and that is as a means of taking little 
tours at a cheap rate in the holiday season. 
Not such very little tours, either. One may 
go, it appears, from New York to Boston by 
trolley. It is open to any hardy pioneer to 
take that trip and report its results in a form 
which could hardly fail to be avail- 
Trolle ^^^ ^ ^^^^ ^^^ publication if he knew how 
to write and also how and at what 
to aim a camera. But less ambitious tours 
are open to everybody who can afford to take 
a holiday in the country at all. The subur- 
ban trolley, when one once gets beyond the 
radius of the Sunday excursionist, may be- 
come a pleasure vehicle, or land-yacht. 
There is even a trolley map of eastern New 
Jersey published by a wise corporation for the 
attraction of makers of small tours. Other 
wise corporations have found it remunerative 
to establish summer orchestras at their subur- 
ban termini, in order to supply the excur- 
sionists with a goal. 

But the true uses of the trolley for pleasure 
are in the rural, not the suburban, regions. 
New England is overspread with a reticula- 
tion of trolleys which adds immeasurably to 
the joys of the holiday-maker within its bor- 
ders. The Yankee maintains his old pre- 
eminence in the promptitude of his adoption 
and adaption of new mechanical devices. 
And he is singularly favored in the adoption 



of this device by the lie of his native land. 
By a merciful dispensation of providence, 
akin to that whereby great rivers are made to 
flow by great cities, it is in the bold and pict- 
uresque regions that the running of trolleys 
is cheapest. "From every mountain side" 
flow streams which were permitted to run un- 
checked and unharnessed during the age of 
steam, only to be brought into subjection and 
service again at the beginning of the Elec- 
trical Age. Water powers no longer run to 
waste in New England. The bolder and 
hillier the country, and by consequence the 
more interesting to the tourist, the more fre- 
quent the sources of power, the "stations" 
from which it may be drawn with economy. 
For less than the railroad fare one may travel 
with none of the nuisances of railroad travel. 
In the fervent heats of August a trustworthy 
and refreshing ten-knot breeze is made for 
the comfort of "MM. les Voyageurs" by the 
motion of their bark, a breeze readily tem- 
pered by wraps in the cool of the golden 
October. The hum of the trolley car is not, 
like the clatter of the train, prohibitory of the 
enjoyment of conversation. There is no dust; 
there are no cinders. "The side lights of a 
car in motion" are replaced by a wide out- 
look and look 'round. What philosopher on 
a trolley car among the New England hills 
can envy the sluggish "buggy" which he 
passes, or the automobile, vain for safety, 
which passes him ? He has no demoniac and 
speed-bug-bitten chauffeur to chide, no fear 
of a disabling accident with maddening de- 
lay and looming bill for repairs. Cheerfully 
irresponsible for everything but his road 
money of two cents a mile, or most likely less, 
he snaps his fingers at the black care which 
sits behind the horseman and the automo- 
bilist. The automobilist, spreading terror in 
his van, and stench, dust, and devastation in 
his wake, has no terrors for the tourist by 
trolley, who can sing "vacuus" before and 
behind him, travelling at a modest average 
of ten or twelve miles an hour, fast enough 
to give an exhilarating sense of motion, but 
not so fast as to prevent him from really im- 
bibing the scenery and extracting its healing 
uses. So why should he, in pleasant weather 
and with "a good tavern" as his goal, envy 
any son of Adam? 

Perhaps no better advice could be given to 
the holiday-maker, on pleasure bent and of a 
frugal mind, than to establish himself at a 
trolley-centre, in the heart of a picturesque 



The Point of View 



251 



and therefore trolleyiferous region, and 
thence radiate in excursions say of from thirty 
to fifty moderate diurnal miles, migrating, 
if possible by trolley, to another like point of 
centrifugal departure when he believes him- 
self to have exhausted the scenic resources 
of the first. 



I 



S the English reserve of which we hear so 
much that we try to escape from the 
phrase as from a condemning tag in 
reality a better envelope for ideal friendship 
than the warmer manner, the readier jest, 
the more expansive if not more genial inter- 
course, the more open minds of our com- 
patriots? It is certainly as impossible to find 
the average friend as it is the average man, 
whom we have long acknowledged to be non- 
existent. For a little space we all, more or 
less, took refuge in the "typical" 

nen s ip manorwoman, buttheindividualist 

Here and There • , ■ 

recently has scented offence in this 

also, and with much earnest emphasis it is im- 
pressed upon us that there is no typical human 
being. Tennyson is quite wrong; no longer 
can we say in praise or dispraise of Nature : 

So careful of the type she seems, 
So careless of the single life. 

But with all proper precautionary hedging 
we may, I think, find a sort of basis of com- 
parison in the manifold revelations of friend- 
ship offered in the biographies of the two 
countries. We hardly need to refer to the great 
friendships, as of Tennyson and Arthur Hal- 
lam, William Morris and Burne-Jones, of a 
day hardly past, nor at all to those of gen- 
erations earlier ; they must be only occasional 
in any lands, as was Montaigne's for La 
Boetie. But in the life of Huxley, in that of 
John Richard Green, of Benjamin Jowett, of 
George Eliot, is there not displayed a rich- 
ness of satisfaction not easily paralleled in 
our own more exuberant nation ? When we 
think of Fitzgerald, with his "friendships 
which were like loves," and very much more 
ardent than his own matrimonial experience 
of love, when we recall Thackeray's devotion 
to his friends, the happy fruit of which ap- 
pears in the Brookfield Letters, and remem- 
ber that with these beloved friends he placed 
"dear old Fitz," we wonder where among 
the lives of American men of letters we may 
look to find their like. 

Emerson early proclaimed for himself 
limits to the intimacy of friendship, in which 



perhaps he penetratingly, if unconciously, 
interpreted his fellow-countrymen. Nowhere 
can one turn to an ideal of friendship more 
exalted, nowhere find depicted nobler uses 
for that gift of the gods; and yet in the cool 
idealization of a relationship in which there 
is room for more than the ideal, he half 
recognized a fervor he could not feel, though 
he qualified with a hesitating "perhaps" his 
statement that he had ' ' never known so high 
a fellowship as others." The attributes in 
him that aroused oftenest in his companions 
the sentiment of reverence may have kept 
him free from the "touching and clawing" 
he deprecated, but it also lent to him a sort 
of remoteness. It is, however, with a little 
bewilderment not unmixed with something 
very like disdain that we find toward him in 
Carlyle a certain grudging good opinion, 
while on Froude Carlyle lavishes the warmth 
denied the greater man and truer friend. 

That the love of friends, the feeling and 
the expression, are potent in numberless 
Americans is not to be questioned, but the 
beauty of the bond, the touching dependence 
that led Green's friends to exile themselves 
with him for the last sad, almost inarticulate 
days, the intimacy of communication that 
marks in a striking degree the correspond- 
ence offered in many biographies of English- 
men, seem hardly to be found in similar 
works here. Where can we learn of such a 
group of college boys carrying into maturity 
the ardor of their youthful friendships as is 
revealed to us in the "Cambridge Apostles"? 
Have we hurried away from companionship 
lest it take too much time? After all, friend- 
ship is usually of leisurely growth. We have 
learned much of good living, of good sport, 
of how to build houses and estates from our 
brothers across the sea: must we learn from 
them the secret of the highest of all satisfac- 
tions, as Emerson tells us that friendship is? 



THERE would certainly appear to be no 
new views whatever that anybody could 
advance on the subject of personal 
service; and yet a chance opinion expressed 
within a short time by two friends of mine, 
strangers to each other and neither 



As to 
Body-Servants 



knowing of the other's ideas, starts 
a quite fresh line of thought. One 
of these persons was a much-travelled Eng- 
lishman, a man of good birth, and a priest 
of the Church of England; the other was a 



252 



The Point of View 



very cultivated woman, who had been mar- 
ried and a mother, had seen and known 
prosperity and also its reverse. Both re- 
marked that but for association with other 
servants they would not at all mind being 
servants themselves. The English clergy- 
man, in fact, declared that, provided one had 
the right sort of man to serve, he could not 
see why being a body-servant should not be 
a life desirable rather than otherwise. Ber- 
nard Shaw would naturally recognize in this 
the true Briton ; as when he makes Britan- 
nus say in "Cassar and Cleopatra" that 
only since he has been Caesar's slave has he 
known freedom. And Bernard Shaw natu- 
rally would not be in sympathy with the sen- 
timent. But when one has circled the cir- 
cumference of a good many ideas it does not 
seem to one perhaps that that independence 
of which Shaw is so fond is, after all, a thing 
to be more wished for than all others. It 
would be quite in Shaw's line to perceive that 
one can really be more independent person- 
ally when one is serving than when one is 
being served. And, in fact, he has perceived 
this on occasion also. 

With the practical extinction of the race 
of good servants and the diminution in the 
supply of any sort of servants (those recent 
statistics about the falling off in the number 
of French bonnes — those hearty, sensible 
creatures on whom one would longest have 
pinned one's faith — are the most appalling), 
our theorizers have been saying that we 
should be reduced to employing Asiatics, or 
to going quite without service in the strictly 
personal sense. The problem, according to 
lecturers and essayists on sociological topics, 
is to be entirely solved by institutionalism. I 
think they are leaving out of account some per- 
manent tendencies of human nature. Cook- 
ing done at central kitchens, housemaids' 
work supplied by the hour, sanitary dust- 
removing by the job, may be satisfactory 
changes — some of them are very satisfactory 



- — yet there remains a something in service 
which cannot be contracted for on the totally 
impersonal principle. Of course, men and 
women could outgrow altogether the con- 
ception of personal service. This (to bring 
him forward again) so modern a person as 
Mr. Shaw would prognosticate. His true 
Overmen would as lief black their own boots 
as not. And indeed there is no objection. 
But it is not alone a question of not object- 
ing. The Overman must also have the 
time. There are, in a full and complex life, 
an infinity of tasks more minute and, in 
themselves, inconsequential than blacking 
boots, which could not be~ intrusted to em- 
ployees of the most up-to-date domestic 
agencies without time-and-nerve-consuming 
explanations; tasks which a silent, ever- 
present intelligence, working shadow-like 
in the background, divining answers with- 
out putting questions, alone can execute to 
the immeasurable enfranchisement of the 
busy man. 

While we hear that soon there are to be 
no more servants, everywhere, from the heads 
of the big corporations down, there goes up 
the cry for the faithful man — the man who 
is willing to be faithful in secret, and without 
putting posies in his own hat. Naturally, 
while every man thinks that he is as much 
entitled to the posies as the other man, being 
faithful in secret will not present itself as a 
popular occupation. Yet it is possible that 
when perfect equality of everybody to every- 
body else has been absolutely established the 
desire to prove it will seem uninteresting and 
superfluous. Then there might be good 
servants again. And would it not be a whim- 
sical thought that the occupation should be 
rather sought for than not by cultivated per- 
sons who had somewhat lost interest in life 
perhaps on their own account, but were still 
vicariously interested in the activities of 
others, and, besides, content to earn their 
livelihood obscurely? 



THE FIELD OF A FLT 




*'The Gulf Stream," by Winslow Homer. 
Property of the Metropolitan Museum ot Art. By perniissiou. 



IVOie/^S BY LIVIXG AMERICAN PAINTERS 
IX THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM 

MR. FRANK FOWLER'S "hint" 
which any expression of the mind of 
man through the medium of art may 
give "of the manners and usages of an 
age"* may possibly be pursued even in our 
own, present, day. In continuance of his 
theme we may examine the collection of works 
by living American painters in the Metro- 
politan Museum, and find that, small as it 
is, it is yet of sufficient importance to give, 
say, to the intelligent foreigner, a fair, gen- 
eral notion of the present state and tenden- 
cies of the art, and even of the progress, or, 
at least, of the movement, it has made within 
the memory of the living. In its general di- 
rection this movement appears to have been 
a search, through varied and devious ways, 
for technical perfection in brush work — so in- 

*See article in The Fif.i.d or Art, July, 1907. 

Vol. XLII. — ^o 



sistent a quest that most other things formerly 
held of great importance in the art of paint- 
ing have been abandoned, temporarily at 
least. This has been said before. 

It is possible that the persistence of this 
quest — in which, of course, the untechnical 
public could have but little interest — has had 
much to do with that general indififerencc to 
the particular wares thus turned out, which 
has long been matter of general knowledge. 
At the present moment, however, there are 
declared to be signs of a greater consideration 
extended at home to this contemporary school 
of painting; and this wider interest and bet- 
ter appreciation may have been brought 
about by certain developments on both sides. 
The living painters have been broadening 
their humanities, as it were, and in some 
notable cases tempering their methods with- 
out impairing the purport of their work; the 
public have been overcoming certain preju- 

253 



254 



The Field of Art 



dices. Both of those important factors, the 
public museum and the private collector, 
have appeared in this movement; and the 
field covered by their appreciation and pur- 
chases has been very reasonably wide, includ- 
ing not only those aspects of portrait and 
genre painting which might be expected to 
appeal more strongly to a local or provincial 
taste, but also the wider range of imaginative 
or synthetic art. Credit for the initiation 
of this practical appreciation has been given 
by some of the painters benefited to the ^Vest- 
ern part of the country rather than the East- 
ern — the Western, where there is considered 
to be more civic pride, less dependence upon 
the traditions of the Old World, and greater 
self-assertion, than in the East. It has even 
been urged that the Western museums might 
profit by the errors of the Eastern institutions, 
and instead of covering their walls with such 
examples of the art of Europe as opportunity 
may throw in their way, frequently at very 
heavy cost, may by judicious selection secure 
collections of examples of the contemporary 
national art which will at once be more fitting 
and will increase in value and importance, 
and even in money value. 

All the important art museums of the coun- 
try have given signs of this greater interest; 
the Corcoran Gallery of Art, at Washington, 
the Chicago Art Institute, the great Carnegie 
Institute of Pittsburg, the Albright Art Gal- 
lery of Buffalo, the Boston Museum, and the 
Metropolitan Museum of New York. The 
thirty-fifth annual report of the trustees of the 
latter, for the year ending December 31, 1904, 
stated that "among the many directions in 
which extension of our collections are desir- 
able is one which has peculiar claim upon our 
interest and patriotism, that is, the art of our 
country. " In the report of the following year 
it was announced that an appeal had been 
made in this particular to the generosity of 
private citizens, and that this appeal had met 
with "a substantial response." There had 
been added to the museum's collection since 
the publication of the report of 1904 eight 
paintings by American artists, and the recent 
gift of Mr. George A. Hearn included twelve 
pictures by ten different artists besides an en- 
dowment of over $125,000, the income of 
which was to be applied exclusively to the pur- 
chase of contemporary American paintings. 
A tentative list of some of the best known 
American painters who were either not repre- 
sented at all in the museum's collection or in- 



adequately represented had been prepared, 
and also a similar list of American sculptors. 
The museum's BitUctiii for September, 1906, 
gave the complete list of American paintings 
in the institution, three hundred and eleven 
in all, of which three hundred were its own 
property; of these one hundred and eighty- 
six were on public exhibition. The major- 
ity of these were, naturally, by deceased ar- 
tists. In addition to Mr. Hearn's gift and his 
still more munificent endowment, the trus- 
tees of the museum announce the bequest of 
the late Mrs. Amelia B. Lazarus, consisting 
of $20,000, "to be applied, with all interest 
which may accrue, to the purchase of works 
of art by American artists, and of a part of 
her own collection, consisting of nine pict- 
ures." This bequest is in line with the dis- 
criminating interest manifested in American 
art by this lady, as exemplified by the gift by 
herself and daughter. Miss Emilie Lazarus, 
of the sum of $24,000 for the establishment 
of the fund known as "The Jacob H. Lazarus 
Travelling Scholarship Fund." Still another 
addition to the museum's American paint- 
ings is the recent gift by the late Thomas 
P. Salter of four canvases by R. S. Gifford, 
David Johnson, H. Bolton Jones, and Wil- 
liam L. Brown, among eighteen paintings of 
various schools, all of which have been on ex- 
hibition in the museum as loans since 1892. 
The department of con-temporary portrait 
painting is represented in the museum by few 
canvases, but all of these, fortunately, are of 
importance. Of those by living artists, Mr. 
Sargent has at present, counting recent loans, 
five good examples : the portrait of Mr Mar- 
quand of 1897 ; that of Mr. Chase, presented 
by thelatter's pupils in 1905, and of which the 
author himself asked apprehensivelyif it were 
too dramatic ; and, of those temporarily in the 
galleries, the aggressively alert and lifelike 
lady in grayish purples, seated on the edge 
of her white and gold chair, hands on hips, 
head forward, the beautiful tones of blues and 
grays in the background relieving the warm 
tints of the face; and the two most recent 
loans, the spirited first study of the head of 
Edwin Booth for the portrait in the Players' 
Club, and the carefully painted small por- 
trait of Robert Louis Stevenson, at Bourne- 
mouth, about 1887, seated at length in his 
wicker chair, the face smooth and youthful, 
fresh in color, the light of speculation in the 
eyes, the very long fingers holding the cigar- 
ette. Mr. Chase's portrait of a young lady 



The Field of Art 



255 



in black, presented by Mrs. Chase in 1891, Thomas Eakins's -'Chess Players," two or 
may be said to be of more interest than his three cattle pieces, etc., etc. 
recent contributions; in the same year the Notwithstanding the above long list of 
museum received, from Mrs. Milbank, John landscape painters, the museum's collections 
W. Alexander's striking presentation of the do not yet include any representatives of the 
ruddy face and white hair of Walt Whitman somewhat more unconventional school which 
set in a misty gray atmosphere. Mr. Fow- seeks greater vibration and luminousness by 
ler's recent article has dealt largely with the broken touches of color, the modern modifi- 
work of the early portrait painters and of cation of the impressionists' technical inno- 
some more recent, but not living. Of those vations, which are needed to complete its 
who, happily, still live, Mr. Sey- 
mour J. Guy is represented by 
his careful portrait of the artist 
Elliott, who died in 1868. This 
painting also was presented to 
the museum by a lady, Mrs. 
Robert W. de Forest, in 1903. 
Of those canvases which show 
the sound training of the Euro- 
pean schools, leavingthe painter 
sufficiently cosmopolitan, one 
of the most important is Dan- 
nat'sSpanish " Quartette," pre- 
sented by Mrs. Dannat in 1886. 
In the same year a number of 
gentlemen gave the museum 
Charles F. Ulrich's "Glass 
Blowers of Murano," which had 
just received a prize of $2,500 
at the competitive exhibition of 
the American Art Association 
and was considered to be a bril- 
liant demonstration of the new 
national school. As this was 
painted under German influ- 
ences, WalterGay's " Fileuses" 
may be said to be French, Mr. 
Millet's "Cosy Corner" Eng- 
lish, and Mr. Magrath's "On 
the Old Sod" Irish; but noth- 
ing could be much less profit- 
able than these searchings of 
foreign origins in American re- 
sults. Of those pictures which, 
apparently at least, are suffi- 
ciently national there are a number of exam- presentation. In the figure pieces also there 
pies; all the landscapes practically, includ- are no violent departures from academic 
ing works by Winslow Homer, Whittredge, methods, such as may be encountered in the 
Edward Gay, Horatio Walker, Tryon, Des- current exhibitions. With a few exceptions 
sar, Ranger, Bunce, Shurtleff, Parton, Bol- the differences between the older and the 
ton Jones, Daingerfield, Charles H. Davis, newer works of these contemporaries may be 
Coffin, Bogert, Charles H. Miller, and Ballard found in the themes proposed, the concep- 
Williams, and the curious and beautiful tions of things suitable for their art, rather 
study of a tree-bole by Mr. La Farge, an- than in the actual brush work, 
other gift from Mr. Hearn. Also, Mr. May- Such courageous attempts to paint un- 
nard's mermaids disporting in summer seas, paintable things as the blinding white light 




"The Green Bodice," by Julian Alden Weir. 
Property of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. By permission. 



256 



The Field of Art 



of an iron furnace in Prof. John F. Weir's 
"Forging the Shaft," may be said to be out 
of fashion; also the carefully built-up, in- 
genious, and learned composition of the for- 
eign schools, as Mosler's "Wedding Feast 
in Brittany"; even the mild sentiment, the 
less academical arrangement of Mr. Turner's 
presentation of the wedding procession of 
John Alden, with Priscilla mounted in state 
on the peaceable white bull. These large 
genre and historical compositions are now 
left to the mural painters, who find their 
problems somewhat simplified by the deco- 
rative necessity of keeping everything mr -e 
or less on one plane. Among these older 
pictures we find one of the most striking ex- 
amples of an original note, of the mysterious 
possibilities of suggestion, rendered in this 
case by color and tone rather than by the de- 
sign, in Mr. Vedder's "African Sentinel" of 
1865. His "Question of the Sphinx," a re- 
cent loan, however, painted in grays, does not 
seem to rise much above the triviality of the 
theme. In his deep concern for the preserva- 
tion of the artistic unities, it would seem that 
che contemporary painter was afraid to go 
too far afield, or to commit himself as hardily 
as did his predecessors. With greater knowl- 
edge, perhaps, has come greater discretion. 
He does not seek the full expression of a real 
artistic idea, built up of many things; very 
frequently he is content with the merest sug- 
gestion of it; not infrequently he is appar- 
ently content with the technical rendering of 
an outer aspect only. 

A number of pictures from Mr. Hearn's 
recent gift are, at this writing (May, 1907) 
hung in a group on the end wall of one of 
the museum's smaller galleries, well lit, 
where they may be considered with interest 
not only because of their intrinsic merit but 
also as a selection, as an intelligent attempt 
to discriminate. As they are all easel paint- 
ings, of a portable size, there are no large dec- 
orative panels, no great landscape composi- 
tions, no full-length, life-size portraits. In 
the centre hangs Mr. Thayer's well-known 
"Young Woman," the most elusive, the 
most of a work of the imagination, of the 
figure pieces; at one end, Alden Weir's 
"Green Bodice" (see illustration, p. 255), 
and at the other, Mr. Benson's arrangement 
of a lady in light and shade and green and 
black which he calls a portrait. All these 



three are half-length, life-size studies, and it 
can truthfully be said that between them they 
cover a very wide range. On either side of the 
center are coast scenes by Winslow Homer, 
"Cannon Rock" and "Searchlight, Har- 
bor Entrance, Santiago de Cuba," somewhat 
less forceful, less dramatic, than is usual with 
him. But in his "Gulf Stream," (see illus- 
tration, p. 253), purchased from the income 
of the Catherine Lorillard Wolfe fund, and 
hung in a neighboring gallery, all the power of 
his virile technique, the pomp of tropical 
color, are invoked to give effect to his grue- 
some "ea tragedy. On the line in Mr. Hearn's 
gr: p are also, a young pioneer, standing by 
his canoe, by Douglas Volk, and one of Mr. 
Brush's familiar repetitions of his family 
this time smaller than usual and given at 
full length, in a garden. Above, hangs a 
half-length, life-size study of a mother and 
child, in black and white, by Sergeant Ken- 
dall, and landscapes by Horatio Walker, 
Tryon, Dessar, Ranger and Bogert in which 
may be found the care for atmosphere, en- 
velope, and rendering of sentirpent and mood, 
with which we are familiar. A large ma- 
rine, somewhat grayer than is usual with him, 
by Gedney Bunce, has very recently been 
added. Mr. Daingerfield's creeping, noctur- 
nal fog, invading the high hill-tops, is strik- 
ing; Mr. Chase is represented byasmallstudy 
of a seventeenth-century lady turning her 
white satin back upon us, and by a large one 
(from another donor) in the adjoining gal- 
lery, of Carmencita dancing, in an arrange- 
ment of yellows ; Ballard Williams, a younger 
man, by two small canvases, a landscape and a 
"L' Allegro." Like the last-named, a return 
to the old-fashioned romantic school, is the big 
"Temple of the Winds," hung outside in the 
corridor, around the inner court of the build- 
ing. This is by Louis Loeb, and was pre- 
sented by Mr. Daniel Guggenheim, in 1905. 
It will be seen that there is already a rep- 
resentation of the national school; there is 
a fuller one, indeed, than can be adequately 
commented upon in the space of two such 
articles as Mr. Fowler's and this, and many 
of the important names in recent American 
painting — Homer Martin, Eastman John- 
son, Alfred Q. Collins, and others — remain 
for fuller notice when the collections are still 
more complete. 

William Walton. 



!L 



TiSC' 



ScRiBNER's Magazine 



VOL. XLII 



SEPTEMBER. 1907 



NO. 3 



SIENA 

By Arthur Symons 

Illustrations drawn by E. C. Peixotto from photographs 



I on either side; and they drag wicker carts 

shaped like Roman chariots. 
NFLEXIBLE Siena, St. The modern spirit has spoiled Rome, and 
Catherine's, is a fierce eyrie is daily destroying there. It is more slowly, 
for visions, yet, planted so but not less certainly, destroying Venice, 
firmly on its rock, almost with a literal, calculated destruction. Flor- 
every house still at need a ence has let in the English, who board there, 
fortress, is as if fortified per- and a new spirit, not destructive, reverent 
manently against enemies. The country of past things but superficial with new civ- 
comes right up to its gates, and is beaten ilization, has mingled the Renaissance with 
back there; the ancient walls are like a ram- the commonplace of the modern world, 
part, and inside them all the houses climb But Siena is content to remain itself, neither 
upward, crowding and tightening about the ambitious nor dejected, busying itself with 




cathedral, until their roofs and walls almost 
merge into its structure. They climb to it 
and cling like peasants about a queen, 
dressed in their homely brown and soiled 
white, and with ail the patches of poverty; 



its old industries (the smell of the tanneries, 
as in the days of St. Catherine, never out of 
its streets), keeping its beautiful old things 
quietly, not trying to make new things like 
them; content with the old limits, and with 



and the queen stands royally attired in the all old things as they were. 



supreme distinction of black and white. 
This concentration of the city upon itself, 
these close streets which twist around one 
another, cross and recross, and rise so high 
in order that they may not need to extend 
widely, this complete detachment from 
everything outside the walls which mark the 
city's limit, must certainly have helped the 



And the splendor and dignity of its past 
still live nobly in all the walls of Siena. Its 
history is written there in stone, and with a 
lasting beauty, on the walls of all its palaces. 
Palaces line the streets, Gothic and Renais- 
sance, all flat, severe, built with gray stone 
cut into square blocks, with here and there 
a reminiscence of the less simple and ad- 



growth of that instinct from which it sprang, mirable Florentine manner of building with 
the instinct of proud aloofness. Siena is partly unhewn blocks. The palaces join 
likealittleChina, and its city walls mark the walls with private houses, and ask for no 



bounds of what it chooses to keep from 
strangers. The image of the Middle Ages 
still persists in its streets, and the character 
of its people remains unchanged. Cus- 
toms never die in Siena, and change has no 
temptation for the Sienese. White oxen 



more space in these equalizing streets, to 
which they add force and beauty. They 
accommodate themselves to the street, and 
turn with it, in a kind of democracy of pride. 
Towers, structures like prisons, gloomy 
remnants, which stand at street-corners or 



still walk in the streets, drowsing in couples, between shop and shop, come into the pat- 
their wide horns almost touching the walls tern naturally, without incongruity. All 

Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons. All rights reserved. 



Vol. XLII. 



258 Siena 

Siena is of one piece, and at night sleeps to- In the heart of Siena there is a square, 

gether with the same tranquil sleep. the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, which is 

There is in the streets at night a curious shaped like the inside of a shell, and curves 
sense of quiet, not the quiet of suspense or upward from the Palazzo Communale, 
desolation, but rather of people who prefer with its high tower, La Mangia, which rises 
to stay indoors, in their own homes, with into the sky, red and white, with only less 
walls and windows between them and other than the supreme elegance of the dragon's 
people, in a quite friendly aloofness. The neck of Florence, the tower of the Palazzo 
streets do not call to them, as they call to Vecchio. The square is surrounded by tall, 
people in the South; they are corridors to irregular houses, built of red brick, with 
walk through, not alleys to linger in, and green wooden shutters; narrow lanes lead 
the Sienese are not lingerers. Even by day out of it upward and downward, and as you 
few people stand idle in the streets; the look through an archway you see feet walk- 
church square, on its height, is no meeting- ing above your head, and heads moving be- 
place. Siena works quietly by day, and at low your feet. The middle of the square 
night sleeps quietly. And, in the deserted is paved with red brick, and one walks on it 
streets, dimly lighted by gas lamps at rare as on alps; all around are short white stone 
intervals, you seem to walk through some pillars, set at intervals, and beyond a strip 
mysterious excavation, with precipitous de- of gray stone pavement, round which the 
scents on every side of you, going down, horses race every year in the sport of the 
you know not whither, into some lower part Palio, which has survived in Siena since the 
of the earth or of the night. Middle Ages. 

Religion, too, in Siena, is a part of tradi- 
tion, like the Palio, and the whole popula- 

II tion can be seen going all one way, like a 

Spanish city on the day of a bull-fight,when 

The streets in Siena are high and narrow, the sermon is to end the "forty hours" at 

and they plunge upward and downward, S. Domenico. In that Church of St. 

under dark arches, as if tunnelled out of Catherine, where Sodoma has painted her 

solid rock, with walls built straight from famous agony, one sees a great crowd of 

pavement to roof, every window flat to the townsfolk and peasants assembling gravely 

wall, without ledge or cornice or balcony, and standing patiently to listen to the ser- 

The streets are built to let in the wind and mon, which is spoken monotonously from 

to keep out the sun, and around all the the pulpit, all on one note, with pauses for 

squares, vast and empty, walls are built rest between each division. It is an old 

against the sky and square thin towers usage, and the people follow it with a natural 

climb straight to the stars, each to a sepa- obedience. And in the same way, with 

rate star in the stretched and many-lighted simplicity, not with fervor, they observe 

canopy. The streets are set at all angles; their feast-days. I was in Siena on the day 

the walls seem to meet overhead, they plunge of St. Joseph, and as I went toward the 

into invisible depths. There are streets little mean church of S. Giuseppe, in its 

which go downhill so rapidly that one is high corner, a kind of fair seemed to be 

obliged to lean back on every step, and then going on. On both sides of the two steep 

straight uphill again at almost an acute streets, S. Giovanni Dupre and S. Agata, 

angle, rarely a street which goes far on one little wooden toys that ran on wheels made 

level, and never a street which goes far in of fir-cones were being sold, and the people 

one direction without turning. One looks went up and down the two streets, dressed 

down from the street where one is walking in their best clothes, the flapping Leghorn 

upon another which passes under it, or hats garlanded with flowers nodding gro- 

strikes out at right angles at the bottom of a tesquely, as with an affectation of youth, on 

long flight of steps. One peers through an aged heads. Very soon one distinguished 

archway on a piazza of which one sees no that these people were on their way to the 

more than a pavement and the foundation church where mass was being said, and 

of the houses; or looks upward through an they poured in through the middle door and 

archway above a flight of steps, and sees out through the two side-doors, and every- 

only the tops of the houses. one dropped a coin into the money-box on 







^ -c TV xvTTT^ 




c^ 



Street in Siena. 



the table inside the door and received in 
exchange a leaflet with an image of St. 
Joseph, and kissed it with pious gravity. It 
is only on festa-da.ys that Siena seems com- 
pletely to waken, and it is only a few streets 
that are alive at any one time. 

What is still most living in Siena is the 
memory of St. Catherine. Every child in 



the street offers to take you to see her house, 
which stands half-way down the hill leading 
to the valley of the tanners and dyers, and 
to Fontebranda, the fountain which Dante 
remembered in hell. St. Catherine's head, 
a ghastly relic (of which I saw only the copy 
in her house, beautiful in the mortal pallor 
of the wax), is still kept in a shrine in S. 

259 



260 



Siena 



Domenico under the altar of the chapel 
which Sodoma painted in her honor. It is 
for the sake of this relic, and because St. 
Catherine used to come to this church to 
pray, that S. Domenico is still the favorite 
church in Siena, though the main part of 
the building has 
been turned into 
a barrack. The 
vast Gothic 
structure, built of 
red brick, mas- 
sive and impos- 
ing in its sim- 
plicity, is one of 
the landmarks of 
Siena. It is on 
theedgeof agulf, 
over against the 
cathedral; and 
on the other side 
of the gulf brown 
and white houses 
climb, roof 
above roof, like a 
cluster of rocks, 
grouped there 
naturally; with, 
high over them, 
long, slender, 
striped in long 
and slender lines 
of black and 
white marble, 
the cathedral, 
like a flower 
which has raised 
itself out of the 
gross red earth 
and its rocks. 



striped elegance in line, with its tower, so 
delicately symmetrical, its small gray dome 
supported on small and dainty pillars. In- 
side, what discretion, how undisfigured, 
how simply and harmoniously decorated 
for divine uses ! Severity unites with sump- 

tuousness in this 
distinguished in- 
ner covering of 
black and white 
marble on walls 
and pillars. Un- 
der the dome 
there are tall 
black and white 
pillars, bearing 
gilt statues; gold 
and blue (with 
the rarest traces 
of red) are the 
two colors which 
for the most part 
supplement and 
enrich this severe 
coloring. Around 
the roof, unde 
the cornice of the 
windows, there is 
a fantastic serie'S 
of busts of the 
Popes, each a 
mitred head, with 
its faint smile or 
closed eyes, in its 
separate niche, 
with the name, 
Formosus, Sivi- 
cius, or Zosimus, 
painted in black 
below. The gold 
on the mitres and 
on the lappets of 
the copes adds 
faint touches of 
color, and the 
walls below and 
the roof above 
are covered with 
fanciful patterns, 
and, on the roof, 

part disappointing, where, in the upper half, gold stars are set on a background of blue 
the modern mosaics bring a distracting tan- sky. In the choir, with its lovely carved 
gle into what would have been the splendid wood and intarsia, stands the pulpit of the 
design of the lower half. Seen from S. Do- Pianos, with its little carved worlds of men 
menico, on its hill, it has a clear, almost and the homely life of its beasts. Dona- 
transparent beauty, a slim and supple and tello's St. John stands in one of the side 



III 

The cathedral 
is a h o u s e of 
light, and all its 
form and orna- 
ment are meant 
for the sun. Only 
the fafade is in 




^t T\;<n-„ 



Under the Arches. 




Draum by E. C. Peixotto. 



Vor \'T TT 



Nicolo Pisano's Pulpit. 



262 



Siena 



small frescoes of Pinturicchio have faded 
to a discreet dimness, in which one sees, not 
too distinctly, lovely landscapes of grass 
and trees and hills; and there is a fresco of 
Pinturicchio over an altar. 



chapels named after the saint, and the five ornament he was but following in the tradi- 
tion of the Sienese painters; he was but real- 
izing some of their dreams, not without even 
a little of the hardness which with them went 
with their brightness, though with a purely 
human quality, a delighted sense of the 
The library of the cathedral, where the earth, to which the growths and ornaments 
sculptured Three Graces used to stand, of the earth could give entire satisfaction, 
when Raphael saw them, is at first sight too 
dazzling, and the 
ten frescoes seem to 
have been painted 
by Pinturicchio yes- 
terday. The splen- 
dor strikes harshly, 
and it is some time 
before we can accus- 
tom our eyes to the 
new aspect of this 
room, which is like 
a missal turned 
fresco. It is to avoid 
the sinking of the 
paint into the plas- 
ter, and that dulness 
which is in itself so 
attractive in fresco- 
painting, that Pin- 
turicchio uses so 
much gold, when- 
ever it can be used, 
on vestments, ceil- 
ings, canopies, al- 
tar-frames, on the 
bridles of horses, on 
belts , chains, and 
brooches, using 
stucco to give sali- 
ence to the gold. He 
paints in clear, 
crude colors, with 
little shading, and 
he uses some aston- 
ishing reds and 

greens and blues, which cry out like trum- art peculiar to Siena, 
pets from the midst of these pomps and 
ceremonies. The Raphaelesque air of 
these gracious young men and of these ele- 
gant old men would bring a new quality 
into painting at Siena, with all that Pin- 
turicchio chose out of the actual world, 
these decorative yet actual crowds, these 
knights on horseback, these Popes in bene- 
diction, these white-cowled monks and 
grave Easterners in turbans. But in his 
gold and brightness and love of beautiful 




Saint Catherine's huuse. 



Nothing so bright was ever put on a wall 

as the picture of 
that room in which 
/^neas Sylvius is 
made cardinal ; that 
ceiling of gold em- 
bossed in gold, that 
red and green of 
canopy and curtain, 
that gold altar-front 
and the gold frame 
of the altar-piece, 
with the glowing 
white marble of the 
altar-slab and of the 
floor and of the steps 
to the throne. It is 
as if the wall opened, 
and the room, not 
the picture of it, the 
actual room and 
crowd, were there. 

But what is most 
individual in the 
beauty of the cathe- 
dral decoration lies 
underfoot. The 
whole centre of the 
floor is carefully 
covered with wood, 
and it is only in the 
aisles that one can 
see the pictures cut 
out in thin outline, 
as if engraved in the 
stones, which is the 
Battles are fought 
out with lances, there are figures of the 
Sibyls with elaborate robes, friezes of winged 
lions, with scenes and stories of a great 
energy of movement; as in the many-col- 
ored " Massacre of the Innocents " by Mat- 
teo di Giovanni (his favorite subject) with 
its border of laughing children looking 
down from windows and balconies, the help- 
less women with their babies, the merciless 
swordsmen, woven mto a lovely decoration 
of tossing arms and swords, and babies 



,^ 





Ojv.-.-.-Mi 
f'4 4 •'"'■'■' V 














!^M^[t(ri-|j^ 



yc.V— Vil 



Drazun by E. C. Peixotto. 



J^ 



X 



Palazzo Communale. Siena. 



CAM 






]^J 




Siena and cathedral from San Domenico. 



brandished in the air. Nowhere else has 
stone so flowered into daintiness, into so 
delicate an image of life; not, as elsewhere, 
detached, in the great art of sculpture, but 
like pictures, like drawings (as indeed they 
are called, graffiti), like scratchings on 
slate. The Sienese love of minute finish 
in decoration is seen not only in their early 
paintings, but in tiny patterns cut into 
stone over doorways, like engraved work, 
in the painting of the under part of their jut- 
ting roofs, and, above all, in this manner of 
engraving stones, as others carved wood, 
choosing the hardest material for its diffi- 
culty and making it, by the patience of their 
264 



skill, a sumptuous thing. It is a way of turn- 
ing the hard pavement under one's feet into 
a painted carpet. 

IV 

In early Sienese art, so Byzantine in man- 
ner, one is struck by its elaborate finish, and 
by a love of rich ornament, of bright, pure 
color, which is, however, grave and gentle, 
and at first used only to paint the beauty of 
heaven and of the angels, and then the 
earthly splendor of the popes, and lastly, the 
divine humanity of St. Catherine and S. 
Bernardino, the two people of genius whom 
Siena gave to the angels. Duccio paints 



Siena 



265 



,.-<. --*! —" 






the faces of his Madonnas green, in each with gold halo distinct against a back- 
order to suggest a superhuman counte- ground of ruddier gold! And what sense 
nance in which there is none of the human of drama, how many kinds of beauty, 
ruddiness of flesh. With St. Catherine what delicate feeling, in the numberless 
another human pallor comes into painting, little scenes out of the Gospel, broken up 
and Sodoma, with his 
new, more accomplished 
means, strives to paint 
ecstasy, and once, in the 
swoon of St. Catherine 
in S. Domenico, renders 
marvellously that death 
in life. In Sodoma Sien- 
ese painting begins to 
become self-conscious, 
and he leads the way to 
the worst and feeblest 
extravagances of Becca- 
fumi and Pacchiarotto. 
He is never quite sin- 
cere, or wholly given up 
to the thing he is doing, 
and he lets his feelings or 
his rhetoric or his skill 
carry him in many direc- 
tions. But before he de- 
stroyed Sienese art he 
left at least this one ex- 
ample of how, what the 
early painters had been 
trying to do by pious 
formulas, the rendering 
of superhuman ecstasies 
could be done, quite lit- 
erally, by sheer painting. 
What is really most 
profound, personal, and 
exquisite in Sienese 
painting is to be found 
in Duccio, who in his 
earliest work is purely 
Byzantine, and in all his 
work purely mediaeval. 
His vast altar-piece in 
the Opera del Duomo, 
the "Majestas," is hie- 
ratic, formal, conven- 
tionally bright, but what 
warm personal feeling 
there is in even what is 
least individualized in 

the figures of the Madonna and Child, into arbitrary squares and sections in what 
with their gold halos and the pattern of was once the back of the picture! It is 
gold on their scarcely faded robes, the all much more realized than in many Si- 
burnished blue robe of the Virgin, and enese paintings in compartments, painted 
the bright robes of the attendant saints, with no more than a child's notion of what 




r.c.i>, 



^^ <iYt< 



The she-wolf (the arms) of Siena. 



266 



Siena 



reality ought to be. Yet it is still to some 
extent image-making. But between this 
image-making and the modern rhetoric of 
Sodoma there is an art more vital than 
Sodoma's and not wholly aloof from the 
decorative reality of the earlier work. Mat- 
teo di Giovanni and Sodoma are to be seen 
in a single chapel in S. Agostino. The 
"Massacre of the Innocents" has a violent 
loveliness which is rarer and more pene- 
trating than anything which Sodoma ever 
attained. The packed, angry crowd is, as 
it were, squeezed together, every face in- 
dividually alive, the grim swordsmen, the 
mocking Jew, Herod, who sits enthroned 
in the very midst of the slaughter, the ago- 
nized women, the father who kneels beside 
his wife and stretches out his arms tenderly 
over the dead child in her lap. And the 
gestures are terrible: the sword thrust into 
the mouth of the babe as the mother all but 
escapes with it, the gold-hilted daggers 
gripped hard high in the air, the clutching 
hands, and feet trampling on the dead, the 
strange decorative rim of dead babies set 
symmetrically along the floor in the front of 
the picture, the older children who look in 
through pillared windows, laughing idly. 
And this painter has alike care for the beauty 
of dresses worked 
with gold and 
falling in lovely 
folds, and for the 
scrupulous coils of 

hair and falling ' - - 

curls, and for the 

gold ornaments ' 

over Herod's ■-,, 

throne, and for the 
squares and circles 
of cosimato work in 
the floor stained 
with little, suffi- 
cient stains of 
blood. Over the 
altar Sodoma has 
painted an "Adora- 
tion of the Magi," 
and it is full of all 
the obviousness of 
beauty, of lyrical 
cries of color, from 
here, from there; 
this crowned youth 
with a face in which 
the Leonardo smile 



has deepened to consciousness, this kneel- 
ing king with his effective, manly grace, the 
effective violence of the negro king stand- 
ing by his side, the doll-like Virgin and 
child, St. Joseph posed for the display of 
a muscular bare arm; and beyond, a cav- 
alcade, trees, rocks, a shadowy castle on a 
hill, glimpses of a faint valley; all made of 
conscious charm, of a beauty not organic, 
an applied beauty. 

Elsewhere, as in S. Bernardino, where 
the really fine Sodoma is the Coronation of 
the Virgin, there is more of this wildly lux- 
urious color and languid form, nudes of 
romantic softness, strange spots of feverish 
color, as in the leopard-skin and purple 
girdle of St. John, and in the melting white 
drapery of the Virgin, and in the ruddy 
hair and beard of Christ. But what all this 
leads to is to be seen tragically on another 
wall,inBeccafumi's "Death of the Virgin," 
where the fever of Sodoma passes into de- 
lirium, and splashes in colored waves all 
over the picture. 

V 

There is in the ardent and concentrated 
beauty of Siena something almost artificial, 
as a city on a hill in an old picture. From 




^t 



Fontebrande. 










o 


'^ ' 


--«. 




^xj^s 



The cathedral, Siena. 



the fortifications one can see the whole city, 
the houses set tightly side by side, flat, many- 
windowed, brown and white, brown-roofed, 
tier above tier, without visible space be- 
tween; all clustered together, as if for safety 
or friendliness, and all leading up to the long 
and narrow cathedral, with its dome and 
tower, which seems to draw all this irregular 
mass into a single harmony. All around it is 
the peace of a green world, falling into valleys 
where there are red earth and dark and point- 
ing cypresses and the gray mist of olives, and 
rising into little hills where bells swing on the 
roofs of brown monasteries. As the valley 



dips and rises the colors darken, and, beyond 
the valley, hills begin, pale green and gray, 
and then, against the sky lighted at sunset, a 
luminous dark blue, like the color of storm- 
clouds. Far off the hills seem to break like 
quiet waves, in long curved lines, against the 
white shore of sky. Seen after sunset, it is as 
if a great missal, painted by Sienese artists, 
had iDeen set upright between earth and sky; 
a sky rose-colored and blue and gold, the 
outlines of the hills drawn sharply against a 
gold background, purple-black, with depths 
of color glowing through darkness and 
lighted at the edges with miraculous gold. 



LEVIATHAN 



By Henry van Dyke 




^^^^^^5)HE village of Samaria in the 
central part of the State of 
Connecticut resembled the 
royal city of Israel, after 
which it was named, in one 
point only. It was perched 
upon the top of a hill, encircled by gentle 
valleys which divided it from an outer ring 
of hills still more elevated, almost moun- 
tainous. But, except this position in the 
centre of the stage, you would find nothing 
theatrical or striking about the httle New 
England hill-town: no ivory palaces to 
draw down the denunciations of a minor 
prophet, no street of colonnades to girdle 
the green eminence with its shining pillars, 
not even a dirty picturesqueness such as 
now distinguishes the forlorn remnant of 
the once haughty city of Omri and of Herod. 
Neat, proper, reserved, not to say con- 
ventional, the Connecticut Samaria con- 
cealed its somewhat chilly architectural 
beauties beneath a veil of feathery elms 
and round-topped maples. It was not un- 
til you had climbed the hill from the clump 
of houses and shops which had grown up 
around the railway station, — a place of 
prosperous ugliness and unabashed mod- 
ernity, — that you perceived the respectable 
evidences of what is called in America 
"an ancient town." The village green and 
perhaps a half dozen of the white wooden 
houses which fronted it with their prim 
porticoes were possibly a little more than 
a hundred years old. The low farm- 
house, which showed its gambrel-roof and 
square brick chimney a few rods down the 
northern road, was a relic of colonial days. 
The stiff white edifice with its pointed 
steeple, called in irreverent modern phrase 
the "Congo" church, claimed an equal an- 
tiquity; but it had been so often repaired 
and "improved" to suit the taste of various 
epochs, that the traces of Sir Christopher 
Wren in its architecture were quite con- 
fused by the admixture of what one might 
describe as the English Sparrow style. 

The other buildings on the green, or with- 
in sight of it along the roads north, south, 
268 



east, and west, had been erected or built- 
over at different periods, by prosperous in- 
habitants or returning natives who wished 
to have a summer cottage in their birth- 
place. These structures, although irre- 
proachable in their moral aspect, indicated 
that the development of the builder's art in 
Samaria had not followed any known his- 
torical scheme, but had been conducted 
along sporadic lines of imitation, and in- 
terrupted at least once by a volcanic out- 
break of the style named, for some inscruta- 
ble reason, after Queen Anne. On the 
edges of the hill, looking off in various di- 
rections over the encircling vale, and com- 
manding charming views of the rolling 
ridges which lay beyond, were the houses 
of the little summer colony of artists, doc- 
tors, lawyers and merchants. Two or three 
were flamboyant, but for the most part 
they blended rather gently with the land- 
scape, and were of a modesty which gave 
their owners just ground for pride. 

The countenance of the place was placid. 
It breathed an air of repose and satisfac- 
tion, a spirit which when it refers to out- 
ward circumstances is called contentment, 
and when it refers to oneself is called com- 
placency. The Samaritans, in fact, did 
not think ill of themselves, and of their vil- 
lage they thought exceeding well. There 
was nothing in its situation, its looks, its 
customs which they would have wished to 
alter; and when a slight change came, a 
new house, a pathway on the other side of 
the green, an iron fence around the grave- 
yard, a golf links in addition to the tennis- 
courts, a bridge-whist afternoon to supple- 
ment the croquet club, by an unconscious 
convention its novelty was swiftly elimi- 
nated and in a short time it became one of 
the old traditions. Decidedly a place of 
peace was Samaria in Connecticut, — a 
place in which "the struggle for life" and 
the rivalries and contests of the great out- 
side world were known only by report. Yet, 
being human, it had its own inward strifes; 
and of one of these I wish to tell the tale. 

In the end this internal conflict centred 



Leviathan 



269 



about Leviathan; but in the beginning I 
beheve that it was of an ecclesiastical nat- 
ure. At all events it did not run its course 
without a manifest admixture of the odium 
theologicutn, and it came near to imperil- 
ling the cause of Christian unity in Samaria. 

The Episcopal Church was really one of 
the more recent old institutions of the vil- 
lage. It stood beside the graveyard, just 
around the corner from the village green; 
and the type of its wooden architecture, 
which was profoundly early Gothic and was 
painted of a burnt-umber hue sprinkled 
with sand to imitate brownstone, indicated 
that it must have been built in the Upjohn 
Period, about the middle of the nineteenth 
century. But Samaria, without the slight- 
est disloyalty to the principles of the Puri- 
tans, had promptly adopted and assimilated 
the Episcopal form of worship. The sing- 
ing by a voluntary quartette of mixed voices, 
the hours of service, even the sermons, were 
all of the Samaritan type. The old rector. 
Dr. Snodgrass, a comfortably stout and 
evangelical man, lived for forty years on 
terms of affectionate intimacy with three 
successive ministers of the Congregational 
Church, the deacons of which shared with 
his vestrymen the control of the village 
councils. 

The summer residents divided their 
attendance impartially between the two 
houses of worship. Even in the distribu- 
tion of parts in the amateur theatricals 
which were given every year by the vil- 
lagers in the town hall at the height of the 
season, no difference was made between 
the adherents of the ancient faith of Con- 
necticut and the followers of the more re- 
cently introduced order of Episcopacy. 
When old Dr. Snodgrass died and was 
buried, the Rev. Cotton Mather Hopkins, 
who was an energetic widower of perhaps 
thirty-five years, made an eloquent address 
at his funeral, comparing him to the prophet 
Samuel, the apostle John, and a green bay 
tree whose foundations are built upon the 
rock. In short, all was tranquil in the ec- 
clesiastical atmosphere of Samaria. There 
was not a cloud upon the horizon. 

The air changed with the arrival of the 
new rector, the Rev. Willibert Beauchamp 
Jones, B.D., from the Divinity School of 
St. Jerome at Oshkosh. He was a bachelor, 
not only of divinity but also in the social 
sense; a plump young man of eight and 
Vol. XLII. — 32 



twenty summers, with an English accent, 
a low-crowned black felt hat, blue eyes, a 
cherubic smile, and very high views on 
liturgies. He was full of the best inten- 
tions toward the whole world, a warm ad- 
vocate of the reunion of Christendom on 
his platform, and a man of sincere enthu- 
siasm who regarded Samaria as a mission- 
ary field and was prepared to consecrate 
his life to it. The only point in which he 
was not true to the teachings of his pro- 
fessors at St. Jerome's was the celibacy of 
the parish clergy. Here he held that the 
tradition of the Greek Church was to be 
preferred to that of the Roman, and felt in 
his soul that the priesthood and matrimony 
were not inconsistant. In fact, he was 
secretly ambitious to prove their harmony 
in his own person. He was also a very so- 
cial young man, and firm in his resolution 
to be kind and agreeable to everybody, 
even to those who were outside of the 
true fold. 

Mr. Hopkins called on him without de- 
lay and was received with cordiality amount- 
ing to empressenient. The two men talked 
together in the friendliest manner of inter- 
ests that they had in common, books, poli- 
tics, and out-of-door sports, to which both of 
them were addicted. Mr. Jones offered to 
lend Mr. Hopkins any of the new books, 
with which his library was rather well 
stocked, and promised to send over the Pall 
Mall Gazette, to which he was a subscriber, 
every week. Mr. Hopkins told Mr. Jones 
the name of the best washerwoman in the 
village, one of his own new parishioners, 
as it happened, and proposed to put him 
up at once for membership in the Golf 
Club. In fact the conversation went off 
most harmoniouslv. 

"It was extraordinarily kind of you to 
call so early, my dear friend," said Jones 
as he followed his guest to the door of the 
little rectory. "I take it as a mark of 
Christian brotherhood; and naturally, as 
a clergyman, I want to be as close as pos- 
sible to every one who is working in any 
way for the good of the place where my 
parish lies." 

" Of course ! " answered Hopkins. " That's 
all right. I guess you won't have any 
trouble about Christian brotherhood in Sa- 
maria. Good-bye till Monday afternoon." 

But as he walked across the green, the 
skirts of his black frock-coat flapping in 



270 Leviathan 

the September breeze, and his brown Fe- them. Now add to this a pair of con- 

dora hat set at a reflective angle on the sciences aggravated by the sense of official 

back of his head, he pondered a little over responsibilities, and a number of ladies 

the precise significance of his confrere's last who were alike in cherishing for one or the 

remark, which had not altogether pleased other of these two men a warm admiration, 

him. Was there a subtle shade of differ- amounting in several cases, shall I say, to 

ence between those who were working " in a sentimental adoration, and you have a 

any way" for the good of Samaria, and collection of materials not altogether favor- 

the "clergyman" who felt bound to be on able to a peaceful combination, 

good terms with them ? My business, however, is with Leviathan, 

On Monday afternoon they had ap- and therefore I do not propose to narrate 

pointed to take a country walk together, the development of the rivalry between 

and Hopkins, who was a lean, long-legged, these two excellent men. How Mr. Jones 

wiry fellow, with a deep ch'.st, gray eyes, introduced an early morning service, and 

and a short, crisp brown beard and mous- Mr. Hopkins replied with an afternoon 

tache, led the way at a lively pace over hill musical vespers : how a vested choir of 

and dale, around Lake Marapaug and boys was installed in the brown church, 

back, — fourteen miles in three hours. Jones and a cornet and a harp appeared in the 

was rather red when they returned to the gallery of the white church: how candles 

front gate of the rectory about five o'clock, were lighted in the Episcopalian apse, 

and he wiped his beaded forehead with his (whereupon Erastus Wliipple resigned from 

handkerchief as he invited his comrade to the vestry because he said he knew that he 

come in and have a cup of tea. was "goin' to act ugly"), and a stereop- 

"No, thank you," said Hopkins, "I'm ticon threw illuminated pictures of Pales- 
just ready for a bit of work in my study, tine upon the wall behind the Congrega- 
now. Nice little stroll, wasn't it ? I want tional pulpit (which induced Abijah Lemon 
you to know the country about here, and to refuse to pass the plate the next Sunday, 
the people too. You mustn't feel strange because he said he "wa'nt goin' to take up 
in this Puritan region where my church has no collection for a peep-show in meetin' ") : 
been established so long. We'll soon make how a sermon beside the graveyard on "the 
you feel at home. Good-bye." mart}Tdom of King Charles I," was fol- 

An hour later, when Jones had sipped lowed, on the green, by a discourse on "the 

his tea, he looked up from an article in the treachery of Charles II": how Mrs. Sheer 

Pall Mall Gazelle and began to wonder and Mrs. Cutter crossed each other in the 

whether Hopkins had meant anything in transfer of their church relations, because 

particular by that last remark. the Sheer boys were not asked to sing in 

"He's an awfully good chap, to be sure, the vested choir, and because Orlando Cut- 
but just a bit set in his way. I fancy he ter was displaced as cornetist by a young 
has some odd notions. Well, perhaps I man from Hitchfield: how the Jonesites 
shall be able to put him right, if I am pa- learned to speak of themselves as "church- 
tient and friendly. It is rather plain that men " and of their neighbors as "adherents 
I shall have a lot of missionary work to do of other religious bodies," while the Hop- 
here among these Dissenters." kinsians politely inquired as to the hours 

So he turned to his bookshelves and took at which "mass was celebrated" in the 
down a volume on The Primitive Diaconate brown edifice and were careful to speak of 
and the Reconstruction oj Christendom, their own services as "Divine worship": 
Meantime Hopkins was in his study mak- how Mr. Jones went so far, in his Wash- 
ing notes for a series of sermons on "The ington's Birthday Speech, as to compliment 
Scriptural Polity of the Early New Eng- the architectural effect of "the old meeting- 
land Churches." house on the green, that venerable monu- 

Well, you can see from this how the ment of an earnest period of dissent," to 
great Leviathan conflict began. Two men which Mr. Hopkins made the retort cour- 
meeting with good intentions, both anxious, teous by giving thanks, in his prayer on the 
even determined, to be the best of friends, same occasion, for "the gracious memo- 
yet each unconsciouslv pressing upon the ries of fraternal intercourse which still hal- 
other the only point of difference between lowed the little brown chapel beside the 



Leviathan 



271 



cemetery": how all these strokes and 
counterstrokes were given and exchanged 
in a decorous and bloodless religious war 
which enlivened a Samaritan autumn and 
winter almost to the point of effervescence : 
and how they were prevented from doing 
any great harm by the general good feeling 
and the constitutional sense of humor of 
the village, it is not my purpose, I say, to 
relate in detail. 

The fact is, the incipient fermentation 
passed away almost as naturally and sud- 
denly as it began. Old Cap'n Elihu Gray, 
who had made a tidy fortune in his voyages 
to the East Indies and retired to enjoy it in 
a snug farmhouse beside the Lirrapaug 
River, a couple of miles below the village, 
was reputed to be something of a free- 
thinker, but he used to come up, every 
month, to one or other of the two churches 
to taste a sermon. His summary of the 
controversy which threatened the peace of 
Samaria, seemed to strike the common- 
sense of his fellow-townsmen in the place 
where friendly laughter lies. 

"Wa'al," said he, puffing a meditative 
pipe, "I've seen folks pray to cows and jest 
despise folks 'at prayed to elephants. 'N 
I've seen folks whose r'ligion wouldn't 'low 
'em to eat pig's meat fight with folks whose 
r'ligion wouldn't 'low 'em to eat meat 't 
all. But I never seen reel Christians dis- 
pise other reel Christians for prayin' at 
seven in the mornin' 'stead of at eleven, 
nor yet fight 'bout the difference 'tween a 
passel o' boys singin' in white nightgowns 
an' half-a-dozen purty young gals tunin' 
their voices to a pipe-organ an' a harp o' 
solium saound. I don't 'low there is eny 
devil, but ef ther' wuz, guess that's the 
kind o' fight 'd make him grin." 

This opinion appeared to reach down to 
the fundamental saving grace of humor 
in the Samaritan mind. The vestry per- 
suaded the Reverend WilHbert that the 
time was not yet ripe for candles; and the 
board of deacons induced the Reverend 
Cotton Mather to substitute a course of 
lectures on the Women of the Bible for the 
stereopticon exhibitions. Hostilities gen- 
tly frothed themselves away and subsided. 
Decoration Day was celebrated in Samaria 
according to the Hitchfield Gazette^ "by a 
notable gathering in the Town Hall, at 
which the Rev. Jones offered an eloquent 
extemporaneous prayer and the Rev. Hop- 



kins pronounced an elegant oration on the 
Civil War, after which the surviving vet- 
erans partook of a banquet at the Hancock 
Hotel." 

But the rivalry between the two leaders, 
sad to say, did not entirely disappear with 
the peaceful reconciliation and commin- 
gling of their forces. On the contrary, it 
was as if a general engagement had been 
abandoned and both the opposing com- 
panies had resolved themselves into the 
happy audience of a single combat. It 
was altogether a friendly and chivalrous 
contest, you understand, — nothing bitter or 
malicious about it, — but none the less it was 
a duel a oiiirance, a struggle for the mas- 
tery between two men whom nature had 
made rivals, and for whom circumstances 
had prepared the arena in the double sphere 
of love and angling. 

Hopkins had become known, during the 
seven years of his residence at Samaria, as 
the best trout-fisherman of the village, and 
indeed of all the tributary region. With 
the black bass there were other men who 
were his equals, and perhaps one or two, 
like Judge Ward, who spent the greater 
part of his summer vacation sitting under 
an umbrella in a boat on Lake Marapaug, 
and Jags Witherbee, the village ne'er-do- 
weel, who were his superiors. But with 
the delicate, speckled, evasive trout he was 
easily first. He knew all the cold, foaming, 
musical brooks that sang their way down 
from the hills. He knew the spring-holes 
in the Lirrapaug River where the schools 
of fish assembled in the month of May, 
waiting to go up the brooks in the warm 
weather. He knew the secret haunts and 
lairs of the large fish where they established 
themselves for the whole season and took 
toll of the passing minnows. He knew 
how to let his line run with the current so 
that it would go in under the bushes with- 
out getting entangled, and sink to the bot- 
tom of the dark pools, beneath the roots of 
fallen trees, without the hook catching fast. 
He knew how to creep up to a stream that 
had hollowed out a way under the bank 
of a meadow, without shaking the boggy 
ground. He had a trick with a detachable 
float, made from a quill and a tiny piece of 
cork, that brought him many a fish from 
the centre of a mill-pond. He knew the 
best baits for every season, — worms, white 
grubs, striped minnows, miller's thumbs. 



272 



Leviathan 



bumble-bees, grasshoppers, young field- 
mice, — and he knew where to find them. 

For it must be confessed that Cotton 
Mather was a confirmed bait-fisherman. 
Confession is not the word that he would 
have used with reference to the fact; he 
would have called it a declaration of prin- 
ciples, and would have maintained that he 
was a follower of the best, the most skilful, 
the most productive, the fairest, the truly 
Apostolic method of fishing. 

Jones, on the other hand, was not a little 
shocked when he discovered in the course 
of conversation that his colleague, who was 
in many respects such a good sportsman, 
was addicted to fishing with bait. For his 
own angling education had been acquired 
in a different school, — among the clear 
streams of England, the open rivers of Scot- 
land, the carefully preserved waters of Long 
Island. He had been taught that the arti- 
ficial fly was the proper lure for a true 
angler to use. 

For coarse fish like perch and pike, a 
bait was permissible. For middle-class 
fish, like bass, which would only rise to the 
fly during a brief and uncertain season, a 
troUing-spoon or an artificial minnow might 
be allowed. But for fish whose blood, 
though cold, was noble, — for game fish of 
undoubted rank like the salmon and the 
trout, the true angler must use only the 
lightest possible tackle, the most difiicult 
possible methods, the cleanest and prettiest 
possible lure, — to wit, the artificial fly. 
Moreover he added his opinion that in the 
long run, taking all sorts of water and 
weather together, and fishing through the 
season, a man can take more trout with the 
fly than with the bait, — that is, of course, 
if he understands the art of fly-fishing. 

You perceive at once that here was a 
very pretty ground for conflict between the 
two men, after the ecclesiastical battle had 
been called off. Their community of zeal 
as anglers only intensified their radical op- 
position as to the authoritative and ortho- 
dox mode of angling. In the close sea- 
son, when the practice of their art was 
forbidden, they discussed its theory with 
vigor; and many were the wit-combats be- 
tween these two champions, to which the 
Samaritans listened in the drug-store-and- 
post-office that served them in place of a 
Mermaid Tavern. There was something 
of Shakspere's quickness and elegance in 



Willibert's methods; but Cotton Mather 
had the advantage in learning and in 
weight of argument. 

"It is unhistorical," he said, "to claim 
that there is only one proper way to catch 
fish. The facts are against you." 

"But surely, my dear fellow," replied 
Wiflibert, "there is one best way, and that 
must be the proper way on which all should 
unite." 

"I don't admit that," said the other, 
"variety counts for something. Besides, it 
is up to you to prove that fly-fishing is the 
best way." 

"Well," answered Willibert, "I fancy 
that would be easy enough. All the au- 
thorities are on my side. Doesn't every 
standard writer on angling say that fly- 
fishing is the perfection of the art ? " 

"Not at ah," Cotton Mather replied, 
with some exultation, "Izaak Walton's 
book is all about bait-fishing, except two 
or three pages on the artificial fly, which 
were composed for him by Thomas Barker, 
a retired confectioner. But suppose all the 
books were on your side. There are ten 
thousand men who love fishing and know 
about fishing, to one who writes about it. 
The proof of the angler is the full basket." 

At this Willibert looked disgusted. "You 
mistake quantity for quality. It's better to 
take one fish prettily and fairly than to fill 
your basket in an inferior way. Would you 
catch trout with a net?" 

Cotton Mather admitted that he would not. 

"Well, then, why not carry your dis- 
crimination a little farther and reject the 
coarse bait-hook, and the stiff rod, and the 
heavy line? Fly-tackle appeals to the 
aesthetic sense, — the slender, pliant rod 
with which you land a fish twenty times its 
weight, the silken line, the gossamer leader, 
the dainty fly of bright feathers concealing 
the tiny hook!" 

"Conceahng!" broke in the advocate of 
the bait, "that is just the spirit of the whole 
art of fly-fishing. It's alia deception. The 
slender rod is made of split cane that 
will bend double before it breaks; the gos- 
samer leader is of drawn-gut carefully 
tested to stand a heavier strain than the 
rod can put upon it. The trout thinks he 
can smash your tackle, but you know he 
can't, and you play with him half-an-hour 
to convince him that you are right. And 
after all, when you've landed him, he hasn't 



^ Leviathan 273 

had even a taste of anything good to eat to "Yes," rephed the other, "I'll admit 

console him for being caught, — nothing but there's something in it, but bait-fishing is 

a little bunch of feathers which he never superior. You take a long pool, late in the 

would look at if he knew what it was. Don't season; water low and clear; tish lying in 

you think that fly-fishing is something of a the middle; you can't get near them. You 

piscatorial immorality ? " go to the head of the pool in the rapids and 

"Not in the least," answered Willibert, stir up the bottom so as to discolor the 

warming to his work, "it is a legitimate ap- water a little 

peal, not to the trout's lower instinct, his "Deceptive," interrupted Willibert," and 

mere physical hunger, but to his curiosity, decidedly immoral!" 

his sense of beauty, his desire for knowl- "Only a little," continued Cotton Mather 

edge. He takes the fly, not because it looks "a very little! Then you go down to the 

like an edible insect, for nine times out of bottom of the pool with a hand-line " 

ten it doesn't, but because it's pretty and "A hand-line!" murmured the Kstener, 
he wants to know what it is. When he half-shuddering in feigned horror, 
has found out, you give him a fair run for "Yes, a hand-line," the speaker went on 
his money and bring him to basket with firmly, "a long, light hand-line, without a 
nothing more than a pin-prick in his lips, sinker, baited with a single, clean angle- 
But what does the bait-fisher do? He de- worm, and loosely coiled in your left hand, 
ceives the trout into thinking that a certain You cast the hook with your right hand, 
worm or grub or minnow is wholesome, and it falls lightly without a splash, a hun- 
nourishing, digestible, fit to be swallowed, dred feet up stream. Then you pull the 
In that deceptive bait he has hidden a big, line in very gently, just fast enough to keep 
heavy hook which sticks deep in the trout's it from sinking to the bottom. When the 
gullet and by means of which the disap- trout bites, you strike him and land him by 
pointed fish is forcibly and brutally dragged hand, without the help of rod or landing- 
to land. It lacks refinement. It is primi- net or any other mechanical device. Try 
tive, violent, barbaric, and so simple that this once, and you will see whether it is 
any unskilled village lad can do it as well easier than throwing the fly. I reckon this 
as you can." was the way the Apostle Peter fished when 

"I think not," said Cotton Mather, now he was told to 'go to the sea, and cast a 

on the defensive, "just let the village-lad hook, and take up the fish that first cometh 

try it. Why, the beauty of real bait-fishing up.' It is the only true Apostolic method 

is that it requires more skill than any other of fishing." 

kind of angling. To present your bait to "But, my dear fellow," answered the 

the wary old trout without frightening him ; other, "the text doesn't say that it was a 

to make it move in the water so that it bait-hook. It may have been a fly-hook, 

shall seem alive and free"; ("deception," Indeed the text rather implies that, for it 

murmured Willibert), "to judge the proper speaks of the fish as 'coming up,' and that 

moment after he has taken it when you means rising to the fly." 

should strike, and how hard; to draw him " Wa'al," said Cap'n Gray, rising slowly 

safely away from the weeds and roots among and knocking out the ashes of his pipe on 

which he has been lying; all this takes the edge of his chair, "I can't express no 

quite a little practice and some skill, — a jedgment on the merits of this debate, 

good deal more, I reckon, than hooking seein' I've never been much of a fisher. But 

and playing a trout on the clear surface of ef I wuz, my fust ch'ice 'd be to git the fish, 

the water when you can see every motion." an' enny way that got 'em I'd call good." 

"Ah, there you are," cried Willibert, The arrival of the Springtime, releasing 

"that's the charm of fly-fishing! It's all the streams from their imprisonment of ice, 

open and above-board. The long, light and setting the trout to leaping in every 

cast of the fly, 'fine and far off,' the delicate meadow-brook and all along the curving 

drop of the feathers upon the water, the reaches of the swift Lirrapaug, transferred 

quick rise of the trout and the sudden this piscatorial contest from the region of 

gleam of his golden side as he turns, the discourse to the region of experiment. The 

electric motion of the wrist by which you rector proved himself a competitor worthy 

hook him, — that is the magic of sport." of the minister's mettle. Although at first 



274 Leviathan 

he was at some disadvantage on account of giving any indication which of them she 
his shght acquaintance with the streams, Hked best. As her father's daughter she 
he soon overcame this by diligent study; was free from ecclesiastical entanglements; 
and while Hopkins did better work on the but of course she wanted to go to church, 
brooks that were overhung with trees and so she attended the Episcopal service at 
bushes, Jones was more effective on the eleven o'clock and became a member of 
open river and in the meadow-streams just Mr. Hopkins's Bible Class which met at 
at sundown. They both made some fa- twelve thirty. Orlando Cutter usually drove 
mous baskets that year, and were running home with her when the class was over, 
neck and neck in the angling field, equal You can imagine how eagerly and 
in success. gravely Cotton Mather and Willibert con- 
But in the field of love, I grieve to say, sidered the best means of advancing their 
their equality was of another kind. Both respective wishes in regard to this young 
of them were seriously smitten with the lady ; how they sought for some gift which 
beauty of Lena Gray, the old Captain's should not be too costly for her to accept 
only daughter, who had just come home with propriety, and yet sufficiently rare 
from Smith College, with a certificate of and distinguished to indicate her supreme 
graduation, five charming new hats, and a place in their regards. They had sent her 
considerable knowledge of the art of ama- things to read and things to eat; they had 
teur dramatics. She was cast for the part drawn upon Hitchfield in the matter of 
of leading lady in Samaria's play that sum- flowers. Now each of them was secretly 
mer, and Mr. Jones and Mr. Hopkins were casting about in his mind for some unique 
both secretly ambitious for the post of thing to offer, which might stand out from 
stage-manager. But it fell to Orlando trivial gifts, not by its cost, but by its in- 
Cutter, who lived on the farm next to the dividuality, by the impossibility of any 
Grays. The disappointed candidates con- other person's bringing it, and so might 
soled themselves by the size of the bouquets prepare the way for a declaration, 
which they threw to the heroine at the close By a singular, yet not unnatural, coinci- 
of the third act. One was of white roses dence, the solution presented itself to the 
and red carnations; the other was of pink imagination of each of them (separately 
roses and lilies of the valley. The flowers and secretly of course) in the form of 
that she wore when she answered the final Leviathan. 

curtain-call, curiously enough, were damask I feel that a brief word of explanation is 
roses and mignonette. A minute observer necessary here. Every New England vil- 
would have noticed that there was a fine lage that has any trout-fishing in its vicinity 
damask rose-bush growing in the Cutter's has also a legend of a huge trout, a great- 
back garden. grandfather of fishes, pra-ternaturally wise 
There was no dispute of methods be- and wary, abnormally fierce and powerful, 
tween Jones and Hopkins in the amatorial who lives in some particular pool of the 
realm, like that which divided them in principal stream, and is seen, hooked, and 
matters piscatorial. They were singularly played by many anglers but never landed, 
alike in attitude and in procedure. Both Such a traditional trout there was at Sa- 
were very much in earnest; both expressed maria. His lair was in a deep hole of the 
their earnestness by offerings presented to Lirrapaug, beside an overhanging rock, 
the object of their devotions; both hesi- and just below the mouth of the little 
tated to put their desires and hopes into spring-brook that divided the Gray's farm 
words, because they could not do it in any from the Cutter's. But this trovit was not 
but a serious way, and they feared to in- only traditional, he was also real. Small 
vite failure by a premature avowal. So, boys had fished for him, and described 
as I said, they stood in love upon an equal vividly the manner in which their hooks had 
footing, but not an equality of success; been carried away, — but that does not 
rather one of doubt, delay and dissatisfac- count. Jags Witherbee declared that he 
tion. Miss Gray received their oblations had struggled with him for nearly an hour, 
with an admirable impartiality. She liked only to fall exhausted in the rapids below 
their books, their candy, their earnest con- the pool while the trout executed a series 
versation, their mild clerical jokes, without of somersaults in the direction of Sims- 



Leviathan 



275 



ville, — but that does not count. What 
really counts is that two reputable clergy- 
men testified that they had seen him. He 
rose once to Jones's fly when he was fishing 
up the river after dusk, and Hopkins had 
seen him chase a minnow up the brook 
just before sunrise. The latter witness 
averred that the fish made a wake like a 
steam-boat, and the former witness esti- 
mated his weight at a little short of five 
pounds, — both called him Leviathan, and 
desired to draw him out with a hook. 

Now the thought that secretly occurred 
to each of these worthy young men, as I 
say, not unnaturally, but with a strange 
simultaneousness which no ordinary writer 
of fiction would dare to invent, was this: 
Catch Leviathan on the last day oj the trout- 
season and present him to Miss Gray. That 
will he a famous gijt, and no one else can 
duplicate it. 

The last day of the season was July 31st. 
Long before daybreak the Rev. Cotton 
jVIather Hopkins stole away from the 
manse, slipping through the darkness 
noiselessly, and taking the steep path by 
Bushy Brook towards the valley of the Lir- 
rapaug. Li one pocket was his long, light, 
hand-line, carefully coiled, with a selected 
sneck-bend hook of tempered steel made 
fast to the line by the smallest and firmest 
of knots. In the other pocket was a box 
of choice angle -worms, dug from the gar- 
den two davs before, and since that time 
kept in moss and sprinkled with milk to 
make them clean and rosy. It was his 
plan to go down stream a little way below 
the rock-pool, wait for daylight, and then 
fish up the pool slowly until he reached 
Leviathan's lair and catch him. It was a 
good plan. 

The day came gently and serenely; a 
touch of gray along the eastern horizon ; a 
fading of the deep blue overhead, a paling 
of the stars, a flush of orange in the east; 
then silver and gold on the little floating 
clouds, and amber and rose along the hill- 
tops; then lances of light showing over the 
edge of the world and a cool flood of dif- 
fused radiance flowing across field and 
river. It was at this moment, before there 
was a shadow to be found in the scene, that 
the fisherman stepped into the rapid below 
the pool and began to wade slowly and 
cautiously upward along the eastern bank. 
Not a ripple moved before him; his steps 



fell on the rocky bottom as if he had been 
shod with velvet. The long line shot out 
from his swinging hand and the bait fell 
lightly on the pool, — too far away yet to 
reach the rock. Another cast follows, and 
still another, but without any result. The 
rock is now reached, but the middle of it 
projects a little into the pool, and makes a 
bend or bay which is just out of sight from 
the point where the fisherman stands. He 
gathers his line in his left hand again and 
makes another cast. It is a beauty. The 
line uncoils itself without a hitch and the 
bait curves around the corner, settling down 
beside the rock as if a bit of sand had 
fallen from the top of the bank. 

But what is that dark figure kneeling on 
the eastern bank at the head of the pool, 
seventy feet above the rock ? It is the 
form of Willibert Beauchamp Jones, B.D. 
He has assumed this attitude of devotion 
in order that Leviathan may not see him 
from afar; but it also serves unconsciously 
to hide him from the fisherman at the foot 
of the pool. Willibert is casting the fly very 
beautifully, very delicately, very accurately, 
across the mouth of the spring-brook to- 
wards the upper end of the rock. The tiny 
royal coachman falls like a snowflake on the 
water, and the hare's ear settles like a bit 
of thistledown two feet beyond it. Nearer 
and nearer the flies come to the rock, until 
at last they cover the place where the last 
cast of the hand-line fell. There is a flash 
of purple and gold in the water, a great 
splash on the surface, — Leviathan has 
risen ; Willibert has struck him ; the royal 
coachman is fast in his upper lip. 

At the same instant the fisherman at the 
lower end of the pool feels a tightening of 
his line. He gives it a quick twitch with 
his right hand, and prepares to pull in with 
his left. Leviathan has taken the bait; 
Cotton Mather has struck; the hook is 
well fastened in the roof of the fish's mouth 
and the sport begins. 

Willibert leaps to his feet and moves 
towards the end of the point. Cotton Ma- 
ther, feeling the heavy strain on his line, 
wades out towards the deeper part of the 
pool. The two fishermen behold each 
other, in the moment of their common tri- 
umph, and they perceive what lies between 
them. 

"Excuse me," said Hopkins, "but that 
is my fish. He must have taken my bait 



276 



Leviathan 



before he rose to the fly, and I'll be much 
obliged to you if you'll let go of him." 

"I beg your pardon," replied Jones, 
"but it's quite evident that he rose to my 
fly before you felt him bite at your bait; 
and as I struck him first and hooked him 
first, he is my fish and I'll thank you to 
leave him alone." 

It was a pretty situation. Each fisher- 
man realized that he was called upon to do 
his best and yet unable to get ahead of the 
other without danger to his own success, — 
no time for argument surely ! Yet I think 
they would have argued, and that with 
fierceness, had it not been for a sudden 
interruption. 

"Good morning, gentlemen!" said the 
voice of Orlando Cutter, as he stepped 
from the bushes at the mouth of the brook, 
with a landing-net in his hand. " I see you 
are out early to-day. I came down myself 
to have a try for the big fish, and Miss Gray 
was good enough to come with me." 

The rosy, laughing face of the girl 
emerged from the willows. " Good morn- 
ing, good morning," she cried. "Why it's 
quite a party, isn't it? But how wet you 
both are, Mr. Hopkins and Mr. Jones, — 
did you fall in the water? And you look 
vexed, too! What is the matter? Oh, I 
see, both your lines are caught fast in the 
bottom of the pool, — no, they are tangled 
together — (at this the fish gave a mighty 
splash and a rush towards the shore,) — oh, 
Orlando, it's a fish, and such a beauty!" 

The trout, bewildered and exhausted by 
the double strain upon him, floundered a 
little and moved into the shallow water at 
the mouth of the brook. Orlando stepped 



down and quietly slipped the landing-net 
under him. 

"I see it is a fish," he said, "and it seems 
to be caught with a bait and a fly, but it 
certainly is landed with a net. So in that 
case, gentlemen, as your claims seem to be 
divided, I will take the liberty of disengag- 
ing both your hooks, and of begging Miss 
Gray to accept this Leviathan, as — may I 
tell them? — she has just accepted me." 

By this time the newly risen sun was 
shining upon the ripples of the Lirrapaug 
River and upon the four people who stood 
on the bank shaking hands and exchanging 
polite remarks. His glowing face was 
bright with that cheerful air of humorous 
and sympathetic benevolence with which 
he seems to look upon all our human ex- 
periences of disappointment and success. 

The weary anglers found some physical 
comfort, at least, in the cool glasses of milk 
which Miss Gray poured for them as they 
sat on the verandah of the farm-house. On 
their way up the hill, by the pleasant path 
which followed Bushy Brook, these two 
brethren who were so much of one mind in 
their devotion to their fishing and who 
differed only in regard to the method to be 
pursued, did not talk much, but they felt 
themselves nearer to each other than ever 
before. Something seemed to weave be- 
tween them the delicate and firm bonds of a 
friendship strengthened by a common aim 
and chastened by a common experience of 
disappointment. They could afford to be 
silent together because they were now true 
comrades. I shall always maintain that 
both of them received a great benefit from 
Leviathan. 




":t*— 



% 



i 







,.^ 








THE Academy reception was approach- 
ing a perspiring and vociferous close 
when the Antiquary whispered an in- 
vitation to the Painter, the Patron, and the 
Critic. A Scotch woodcock at "Dick's" 
weighs heavily, even against the more solid 
pleasures of the mind, so terminating four 
conferences on as many tendencies in mod- 
em art, and abandoning four hungry souls, 
we four hungry bodies bore down an ave- 
nue toward "Dick's" smoky realm, where 
we found a quiet corner apart from the 
crowd. It is a place where one may talk 
freely or even foolishly — one of those raie 
oases in whicli an artist, for example, may 
venture to read a lesson to an avowed pa- 
tron of art. 

All the way down the Patron had bored 
us with his new Corot, which he described 
at tedious length. Now the Antiquary bare- 
ly tolerated anything this side of the eigh- 
teenth century, the Painter was of Courbet's 
sturdy following, the Critic had been writing 
for a season that the only hope in art for the 
rich was to emancipate themselves from the 
exclusive idolatry of Barbizon. Accordingly 
the Patron's rhapsodies fell on impatient 
Vol. XLII.— 33 



ears, and when he continued his importu- 
nities over the Scotch woodcock and ale, the 
Painter was impelled to express the sense of 
the meeting. 

"Speaking of Corot," he began genially, 
"there are certain misapprehensions about 
him which I am fortunately able to clear up. 
People imagine, for instance, that he haunt- 
ed the woods about Ville d'Avray. Not at 
all. He frequented the gin-mills in Cedar 
Street. We are told he wore a peasant's 
blouse and sabots; on the contrary, he 
sported a frock-coat and congress gaiters. 
His long clay pipe has passed into legend, 
whereas he actually smoked a tilted Pitts- 
burg stogy. We speak of him by the oper- 
atic name of Camilla; he was prosaically 
called Campbell. You think he worked out 
of doors at rosy dawn; he painted habitu' 
ally in an air-tight attic by lamplight." 

As the Painter paused for the sensation 
to sink in, the Antiquary murmured sooth- 
ingly, "Get it off your mind quickly, old 
man," the Critic remarked that the Camp- 
bells were surely coming, and the Pa- 
tron asked with nettled dignity how the 
Painter knew. 

277 



278 Campbell Corot 

"Know?" he resumed, having had the ing the wind by ventures in omnibus sales; 
necessary fiUip. "Because I knew him, then there were old masters which one can- 
smelled his stogy, and drank with him in not mention because nobody would believe. 
Cedar Street. It was some time in the early But that particular morning the Corot had 
'70s, when a passion for Corot's opalescences no real competitor; its radiance fairly filled 
(with the Critic's permission) was the latest the entire junk-room. Rosenheim was in 
and most knowing fad. As a realist I half raptures. As luck would have it, it was in- 
mistrusted the fascination, but I felt it with deed the companion-piece to his, and his it 
the rest, and whenever any of the besotted should be at all costs. In Cedar Street, he 
dealers of that rude age got in an ' Early reasonably felt, one might even hope to get 
Morning' or a 'Dance of Nymphs,' I was it cheap. Then began our (/wo on the theme 
there among the first. For another reason, of atmosphere, vibrancy, etc. — brand new 
my friend Rosenheim, then in his modest phrases, mind you, in those innocent days, 
beginnings as a marchand-amateur, was As Rosenheim for a moment carried the bur- 
likely to appear at such private views. With den alone, I stepped up to the canvas and 
his infallible tact for future salability, he saw, with a shock, that the paint was about 
was already unloading the institute, and two days old. Under what conditions I 
laying in Barbizon. Find what he's buying wondered — for did I not know the tricks of 
now, and I'll tell you the next fad." paint — could a real Corot have come over 

The Critic nodded sagaciously, knowing so fresh ? I more than scented trickery, 

that Rosenheim, who now poses as collect- A sketch overpainted — for it seemed above 

ing only for his pleasure, has already begun the quality of a sheer forgery — or was the 

to affect the drastic productions of certain case worse than that ? Meanwhile not a 

clever young Spanish realists. shade of doubt was in Rosenheim's mind. 

"Rosenheim," the Painter pursued. As I canvassed the possibilities his sotto- 
" really loved his Corot quite apart from ■yoce ecstasies continued, to the vast amuse- 
prospective values. I fancy the pink silki- ment, as I perceived, of a sardonic stranger, 
ness of the manner always appeals to Jews, who hovered unsteadily in the background, 
recalling their most authentic taste, the This ill-omened person was clad in a states- 
eighteenth-century Frenchmen. Anyhow, manlike black frock-coat with trousers of 
Rosenheim took his new love seriously, fol- similar funereal shade. A white lawn tie, 
lowed up the smallest examples religiously, much soiled, and congress gaiters, much 
learned to know the forgeries that were al- frayed, were appropriate details of a costume 
ready afloat — in short ,was the best informed inevitably topped off with an army slouch 
Corotist in the city. It was appropriate, hat that had long lacked the brush. He 
then, that my first relations with the poet- was immensely long and sallow, wore a 
painter should have the sanction of Rosen- drooping mustache vaguely blonde, be- 
heim's presence." tween the unkempt curtains of which a 

Lingering upon the reminiscence, the thin cheroot pointed heavenward. As he 

Painter sopped up the last bit of anchovy walked nervously up and down, with a 

paste, drained his toby, and pushed it away, suspiciously stilted gait, he observed Ros- 

The rest of us settled back comfortably for cnheim with evident scorn and the picture 

a long session, as he persisted. with a strange pride. He was not merely 

"Rosenheim wrote me one day that he odd, but also offensive, for as Rosenheim 

had got wind of a Corot in a Cedar Street whispered ^Comme Q^est bean I ^ there was 

auction room. It might be, so his news an unmistakable snort; when he continued, 

went, the pendant to the one he had recently 'Mais c'est exquis/' the snort broadened 

bought at the Bolton sale. He suggested into a mighty chuckle; while as he con- 

we should go down together and see. So eluded * Most luminous ! ' the chuckle be- 

we joggled down Broadway in the 'bus, on came articulate, in an 'Oh, shucks!' that 

what looked rather like a wild-goose chase, could not be ignored. 
But it paid to keep the run of Cedar Street '"You seem to be interested, sir,' Rosen- 

in those days; one might find anything, heim remarked. 'You bet!' was the terse 

The gilded black walnut was pushing the response. 'May I inquire the cause of your 

old mahogany out of good houses ; Wyant concern ? ' Rosenheim continued placidly, 

and Homer Martin were occasionally rais- With a most exasperating air of willingness 




A sardonic stranger hovered in the hackground. — Page 278. 



to please, the stranger rejoined: ' Why, I jest 
took a simple pleasure, sir, in seeing an 
amachoor like you talking French about a 
little thing I painted here in Cedar Street.' 
For a moment Rosenheim was too indig- 
nant to speak, then he burst out with : 'It's 
an infernal lie; you could no more paint 
that picture than you could fly.' 'I did 
paint it, jest the same,' pursued the stranger 
imperturbably, as Rosenheim, to make an 
end of the insufferable wag, snapped out 
sarcastically, ' Perhaps you painted its mate, 
then, the Bolton Corot.' 'The one that 



sold for three thousand dollars last week ? 
Of course I painted it; it's the best nymph 
scene I ever done. Don't get mad, mister; 
I paint most of the Corots. I'm glad you 
like 'em.' 

"For a moment I feared that little Rosen- 
heim would smite the lank annoyer dead in 
his tracks. ' For heaven's sake be careful ! ' 
I cried. ' The man is drunk or crazy or he 
may even be right; the paint on this picture 
isn't two days old. ' ' Correct,' declared the 
stranger. 'I finished it day before yester- 
day for this sale.' Then a marked change 

279 



280 



Campbell Corot 



came over Rosenheim's manner. He grew 
positively deferential. It delighted him to 
meet an artist of talent; they must know 
each other better. Cards were exchanged, 
and Rosenheim read with amazement the 
grimy inscription ^Campbell Corot, Land- 
scape Artist.'' 'Yes, that's my painting 
name,' Campbell Corot said modestly; 'and 
my pictores are almost equally as good as 
his'n, but not quite. They do for ordinary 
household purposes. I really hate to see 
one get into a big sale like the Bolton; it 
don't seem honest, but I can't help it; no- 
body'd believe me if I told.' Rosenheim's 
demeanor was courtly to a fault as he plead- 
ed an engagement and bade us farewell. 
Already apparently he divined a certain 
importance in so remarkable a gift of 
mimicry. I stayed behind, resolved on 
making the nearer acquaintance of Camp- 
bell Corot." 

"Rosenheim clcarlv understands the art 
of business," interrupted the Antiquary. 
"And the business of art," added the Critic. 
" Could your seedy friend have painted my 
Corot?" said the Patron in real distress. 
"Why not?" continued the Painter re- 
morselessly. " Only hear me out, and you 
may judge for yourself. Anyhow, let's drop 
your Corot; we were speaking of mine." 

"To make Campbell Corot 's acquaint- 
ance proved more difhcult than I had ex- 
pected. He confided in me immediately 
that he had been a durn fool to give himself 
away to my friend, but talk was cheap, and 
people never believed him, anyway. Then 
gloom descended, and my professions of 
confidence received only the most surly re- 
sponses. He unbent again for a moment 
with, 'Painter feller, you knowed the pesky 
ways of paint, didn't yer?' but when I fol- 
lowed up this promising 
lead and claimed him as 
an associate, he repulsed 
mewith,'Stuckup, ain't 
yer? Parley French like 
your friend? 'Spose 
you've showed in the 
Saloon at Paris.' Giv- 
ing it up, I replied sim- 
ply: 'I have; I'm a land- 
scape painter, too, but 
I'd like to say before I 
go that I would be 




glad to be able to paint a picture like that.' 
Looking me in the eye and seeing I meant 
it, 'Shake!' he replied cordially. As we 
shook his breath met me fair: it was such a 
breath as was not uncommon in old-time 
Cedar Street. Gentlemen who affect this 
aroma are, I have noticed, seldom indif- 
ferent to one sort of invitation, so I ven- 
tured hardily : ' You know Nickerson's 
Glengyle, sir; perhaps you will do me the 
favor to drink a glass with me while we 
chat.' Here I could tell you a lot about 
Nickerson's." "Don't," begged the Critic, 
who is abstemious. "I will only say, then, 
that Nickerson's, then an all-night refuge, 
closes now at three — desecration has made 
it the yellow marble office of a teetotaler in 
the banking line — and the Glengyle, that 
blessed essence of the barley, heather, peat, 
and mist of Old Scotland, has been taken 
over by an exporting company, limited. 
Sometimes I think I detect a little of it in 
the poisons that the grocers of Glasgow and 
Edinburgh send over here, or perhaps I 
only dream of the old taste. Then it was 
itself, and by the second glass Campbell 
Corot was quite ready to soliloquize. You 
shall have his story about as he told it, but 
abridged a little in view of your tender ages 
and the hour. 

"John Campbell had grown up content- 
edly on the old farm under Mount Everett 
until one summer when a landscape painter 
took board with the family. At first the 
lad despised the gentle art as unmanly, but 
as he watched the mysterious processes he 
longed to try his hand. The good-natured 
Diisseldorfian willingly lent brushes and 
bits of millboard upon which John pro- 
ceeded to make the most lurid confections. 
The forms of things were, of course, an ob- 
stacle to him, as they are to everybody. 'I 
never could drore,' he 
told me, 'and I never 
wanted to drore like 
that painter chap. Why 
he'd fill a big canvas 
with little trees and 
rocks and ponds till it 
all seemed no bigger 
than a Noah's ark show. 
I used to ask him, "Why 
don't you wait till even- 
ing when you can't see 
so much to drore?"' To 




John Campbell began the artist's life afresh with high hopes. — Page 283. 



such criticism the painter naturally paid no 
attention, while John devoted himself to 
sunsets and the tube of crimson lake. From 
babyhood he had loved the purple hour, and 
his results, while without form and void, 
were apparently not wholly unpleasing, for 
his master paid him the compliment of us- 
ing one or two such sketches as backgrounds, 
adding merely the requisite hills, houses, 
fences, and cows. These collaborations 
were mentioned not unworthily beside the 
sunsets of Kensett and Cropsey next win- 
ter at the Academy. From that summer 
John was for better or worse a painter. 
"His first local success was curiously 



enough an historical composition, in which 
the village hose company, almost swallowed 
up by the smoke, held in check a confla- 
gration of Vesuvian magnitude. The few 
visible figures and Smith's turning-mill, 
which had heroically been saved in part 
from the flames, were jotted in from photo- 
graphs. Happily this work, for which the 
Alert Hose Company subscribed no less 
than twenty-five dollars, providing also a 
fifty-dollar frame, fell under the appreci- 
ative eye of the insurance adjuster who 
visited the very ruins depicted. Recogniz- 
ing immediately an uncommonly available 
form of artistic talent, this gentleman pro- 

281 



282 



Campbell Corot 



cured John a commission as painter in or- 
dinary to the Vulcan, with orders to come 
at once to town at excellent wages. By his 
twentieth year, then, John was established 
in an attic chamber near the North River 
with a public that, barring change in the 
advertising policy of the Vulcan, must in- 
evitably become national. For the lithog- 
raphers he designed all manner of holo- 
causts; at times he made tours through the 
counties and fixed the incandescent mouth 
of Vulcan's forge, the figures within being 
merely indicated, on the face of a hundred 
ledges. That was a shame, he freely ad- 
mitted to me; the rocks looked better with- 
out. In fact, John Campbell's first manner 
soon came to be a humiliation and an intol- 
erable bondage. He felt the insincerity of 
it deeply. 'You see, it's this way,' he ex- 
plained to me, 'you don't see the shapes by 
firelight or at sunset, but you have seen 
them all day and you know they're there. 
Nobody that don't have those shapes in his 
brush can make you feel them in a picture. 
Everybody puts too little droring into sun- 
sets. Nobody paints good ones, not even 
Inness [we must remember it was in the 
early '70s], except a Frenchman called 
Roosoo. He takes 'em very late, which is 
best, and he can drore some too.'" 

"A very decent critic, your alcoholic 
friend," the Critic remarked. 

"He was full of good ideas, as you shall 
see," the story-teller replied. "I quite 
agree with you, if the bad whiskey could 
have been kept away from him he might 
have shone in your profession. Anyhow , he 
had the makings of an honest man in him, 
and when the Vulcan enlarged its cliff- 
painting programme he cut loose bravely. 
Then followed ten lean years of odd jobs, 
with landscape painting as a recreation, and 
the occasional sale of a canvas on a street 
corner as a great event. When his need 
was greatest he consented to earn good 
wages composing symbolical door designs 
for the Meteor Coach Company, but that 
again he could not 
endure for long. 
Later in the inter- 
vals of coloring 
photographs, illu- 
minating window- 
shades, or whatever 
came to hand, he 
worked out the 



theory which finally led him to the feet of 
Corot. It was, in short, that the proper 
subject for an artist deficient in linear de- 



sign IS sunrise. 




"He explained the matter to me with 
zest. 'By morning you've half forgotten 
the look of things. All night you've seen 
only dream that don't have any true form, 
and when the first light comes nothing 
shows solid for what it is. The mist un- 
covers a little here and there, and you won- 
derwhat's beneath. It's all guesswork and 
nothing sure. Take any morning early 
when I look out of my attic window to the 
North River. There's nothing but a heap 
of fog, gray or pink, as there's more or less 
sun behind. It gets a little thick over tow- 
ard Jersey, and that may be the shore, or 
again it mayn't. Then a solid bit of vi'let 
shows high up, and I guess it's Castle Ste- 
vens, but perhaps it ain't. Then a pale-yel- 
low streak shoots across the river farther up 
and I take it to be the Palisades, but again 
it may be jest a ray of sunshine. You oce 
there really ain't no earth; it's all air and 
light. That's what a man that can't drore 
ought to paint; that's what my namesake, 
Cameel Corot, did paint better than any 
one that ever lived.' 

"At this point of his confession John 
Campbell glared savagely at me for assent, 
and set down a sadly frayed and noxious 
stogy on Nickerson's black walnut. I has- 
tened to agree, though much of the doctrine 
was heresy to a realist, only objecting: 'But 
one really has to draw a scene such as you 
describe just like any other. In fact, the 
drawing of atmosphere is the most difficult 
branch of our art. Many very good paint- 
ers, like my master, Courbet, have given it 
up.' 'Corbet!' he replied contemptuously; 
'he didn't give it up; he never even seen it. 
But don't I know it's hard, sir ? For years 
I tried to paint it, and I never got nothing 
but the fog; when I put in more I lost that. 
They're pretty, those sketches — like wa- 
tered silk or the scum in the docks with the 

sun on it ; but. Lord, 
there ain't nothing 
into 'em, and that's 
the truth. At last, 
after fumbling 
around for years, I 
happened to walk 
into Vogler's gal- 
lery one day and 




I deposited him before his attic door. — Page 285. 



saw my first Corot. Ther' it was— all I had 
been trying for. It was the kind of droring 
I knew ought to be, where a man sets down 
more what he feels than what he knows. I 
knew I was beginning too late, but I loved 
that way of working. I saw all the Corots 
I could, and began to paint as much as I 
could his way. I got almost to have his eye, 
but of course I never got his hand. No- 



body could, I guess, not even an educated 
artist like you, or they'd all a don' it.' 

After this awakening John Campbell be- 
gan the artist's life afresh with high hopes. 
His first picture in the sweet new style was 
honestly called "Sunrise in Berkshire," 
though he had interwoven with his own 
reminiscences of the farm several mo- 

283 




The three locked arms for the stroll downtown. — Page 286. 



tives from various compositions of his great 
exemplar. He signed the canvas Campbell 
Corot, in the familiar capital letters, be- 
cause he didn't want to take all the credit; 
because he desired to mark emphatically 
the change in his manner, and because it 
struck him as a good painting name justi- 
fied by the resemblance between his sur- 
name and the master's Christian name. It 
was a heartfelt homage in intention. If the 
disciple had been familiar with Renaissance 
usages he would undoubtedly have signed 
himself John of Camille. 

" ' Sunrise in Berkshire ' fetched sixtv dol- 
lars in a down-town auction room, the high- 
est price John had ever received; but this 
was only the beginning of a bewildering 
rise in values. When John next saw the 
picture Campbell had been deftly removed, 
and the landscape, being favorably noticed 
in the press, brought seven hundred dollars 
in an uptown salesroom. John happened 
on it again in Beilstein's gallery, where the 
price had risen to thirteen hundred dollars 
— a tidy sum for a small Corot in those early 
days. At that figure it fell to a noted col- 
lector whose walls it still adorns. Here 
Campbell Corot's New England conscience 
asserted itself. He insisted on seeing Beil- 
284 



stein in ])erson and told him the facts. Beil- 
stein treated the visitor as an impostor and 
showed him the door, taking his address, 
however, and scornfully bidding him make 
good his story by painting a similar picture, 
unsigned. For this, if it was worth any- 
thing, the dealer promised he should be lib- 
erally paid. Naturally Campbell Corot's 
professional dander was up, and he pro- 
duced in a week a Corotish 'Dance of 
Nymphs,' if anything, more specious than 
the last. For this Beilstein gave him twen- 
ty-five dollars, and within a month you 
might have seen it under the skylight of a 
country museum, where it is still reverently 
explained to successive generations of 
school-children. 

"If Campbell Corot had been a stronger 
character he might have made some stand 
against the fraudulent success his second 
manner was achieving. But unhappily, in 
those experimental years he had acquired 
an experimental knowledge of the whiskey 
of Cedar Street. His irregular and spend- 
thrift ways had put him out of all lines of 
employment. Besides, he was consumed 
by an artist's desire to create a kind of pict- 
ure that he could not hope to sell as his own. 
Nor did the voice of the tempter, Beilstein, 



Campbell Corot 



285 



fail to make itself heard. He offered an 
unfailing market for the little canvases at 
twenty-five or fifty dollars, according to 
size. There was a patron to supply unlim- 
ited colors and stretchers, a pocket that 
never refused to advance a small bill when 
thirst or lesser need found Campbell Co- 
rot penniless. Almost inevitably he passed 
from occasional to habitual forgery, con- 
soling himself with the thought that he 
never signed the pictures and, before the 
law at least, was blameless. But signed 
they all were somewhere between their fur- 
tive entrance at Bielstein's basement and 
their appearance on his walls or in the auc- 
tion rooms. Of course it wasn't the black- 
guard Beilstein who forged the five magic 
letters; he would never take the risk. ' Blast 
his dirty soul! ' cried Campbell Corot aloud, 
as he seethed with the memory of his shame. 
He rose as if for summary vengeance, to the 
amazement of the quiet topers in the room. 
For some time his utterance had been get- 
ting both excited and thick, and now I saw 
with a certain chagrin that the Glengyle 
had done its work only too well. It was a 
question not of hearing his story out, but of 
getting him home before worse befell. By 



mingled threats and blandishments I 



got 



him away from Nickerson's, and after an 
adventurous passage down Cedar Street I 
deposited him before his attic door, in a 
doubtful frame of mind, being alternately 
possessed by the desire to send Beilstein to 
hell and to pray for the welfare of the only 
genuine Corot." 

"You certainly make queer acquaint- 
ances," ejaculated the Patron uneasily. 

"Hurry up and tell us the rest; it's grow- 
ing late," insisted the Antiquary, as he beck- 
oned for the bill. 

"I saw Campbell Corot only once more, 
but occasionally I saw his work, and it told 
a sad tale of deterioration. The sunrises 
and nymphals no longer deceived anybody, 
having fallen nearly to the average level of 
auction-room impressionism. I was not 
surprised, then, when running into him 
near Nickerson's one 
day I felt that drink and 
poverty were speeding 
their work. He tried to 
pass me unrecognized, 
but I stopped him, 
and once more the in- 
vitation to a nip proved 
Vol. XLII.— 34 




irresistible. My curiosity was keen to learn 
his attitude toward his own work and that 
of his master, and I attempted to draw 
him out with a crass compliment. He 
denied me gently. ' The best things I do, 
or rather did, young feller, are jest a little 
poorer than his worst. Between ourselves, 
he painted some pretty bum things. Some 
I suppose he did, like me, by lamplight. 
Some he sketched with one hand while 
he was lighting that there long pipe with 
the other. Sometimes, I guess, he was in a 
hurry for the money. Now, when I'm 
painting my level best, like I used to could, 
mine are about like that. But people don't 
know the dift'erence about him or about me; 
and mine, as I told your Jew friend, are 
plenty good enough for every-day purposes. 
Used to be, anyway. Nobody can paint 
like his best. Think of it, young feller, you 
and me is painters and know what it means 
— jest a little dirty paint on white canvas, 
and you see the creeping of the sunrise over 
the land, the breathing of the mist from the 
fields, and the twinkling of the dew in the 
young leaves. Nobody but him could 
paint that, and I guess he never knowed 
how he done it; he jest felt it in his brush, 
it seems to me.' 

"After this outburst little more was to be 
got from him. In a word, he had gone to 
pieces and knew it. Beilstein had cast him 
oft"; the works in the third manner hung 
heavy in the auction places. Leaning over 
the table, he asked me, 'Who was the gent 
that said, "My God, what a genius I had 
when I done that!"?' I told him that the 
phrase was given to many, but that I be- 
lieved Swift was the gent. ' Jest so,' Camp- 
bell Corot responded; 'that's the way I felt 
the last time I saw Beilstein. He'd been 
sending back my things and, for a joke, I 
suppose, he wrote me to come up and see a 
real Corot, and take the measure of the job 
I was tackling. So up to the avenue I 
went, and Beilstein first gave me my dress- 
ing down and then asked me into the red- 
plush private room where he takes the big 
oil and wheat men when 
they want a little art. 
There on the easel was 
a picture. He drew the 
cloth away and said: 
' ' Now, Campbell, that's 
what we want in our 
business. " As sure 



286 Quatrain 

as you're born, sir, it was a "Dance of was right enough. The next winter I read 
Nymphs" that I done out of photographs one morning that the body of Campbell Co- 
eight years ago. But I can't paint like that rot had been taken from the river at the foot 
no more. I know the way your friend of Cedar Street. It was known that his 
Swift felt; only I guess my case is worse habits were intemperate, and it was probable 
than his.' that returning from a saloon he had walked 

' ' The mention of photographs gave me a past his door and off the dock. His cards de- 
clue to Campbell Corot's artistic methods, clared him to be a landscape painter, but he 
It appeared that Beilstein had kept him in was unknown in the artistic circles of the 
the best reproductions of the master. But city. I wrote to the authorities that he was 
on this point the disciple was reticent, indeed a landscape painter and that the 
evading my questions by a motion to go. fact should be recorded on his slab in Pot- 
'I'm not for long probably,' he said, as he ter's Field. I was poor and that was the 
refused a second glass. 'You've been pa- only service I could do to his memory." 
tient while I've talked — I can't to most — The Painter ceased. We all rose to go 
and I don't want you to remember me and were parting at the doorway with sun- 
drunk. Take good care of yourself, and, dry hems and haws when the Patron piped 
generally speaking, don't start your whis- up anxiously, "Do you suppose he painted 
key till your day's painting is done.' I my Corot?" "I don't know and I don't 
stood for some minutes on the corner of care," said the Painter shortly. "Damn 
Broadway as his gaunt form merged into it, man, can't you see it's a human not a 
the glow that fell full into Cedar Street picture-dealing proposition?" sputtered the 
from the setting sun. I wondered if the Antiquary. "That's right," echoed the 
hour recalled the old days on the farm and Critic, as the three locked arms for the stroll 
the formation of his first manner. downtown, leaving the bewildered Patron to 

"However that may be, his premonition find his way alone to the Park East. 




QUATRAIN 

By W. F. Schmitz 

What then — your little candle-flame blown out. 
And all the world in darkness for a minute? 
Why, even so? The stars still shine, no doubt. 
Enough to strike a match by — and God's in it. 



POE AND THE DETECTIVE STORY 



By Brander Matthews 




N one of those essays which 
were often as speculative 
and suggestive as he claimed, 
the late John Addington 
Symonds called attention to 
three successive phases of 
criticism, pointing out that the critics had 
first set up as judges, delivering opinions 
■from the bench and never hesitating to put 
on the black cap ; that then they had changed 
into showmen, dwelling chiefly on the beau- 
ties of the masterpieces they were exhibit- 
ing; and that finally, and only very re- 
cently, they had become natural historians, 
studying "each object in relation to its an- 
tecedents and its consequences" and mak- 
ing themselves acquainted "with the con- 
ditions under which the artist grew, the 
habits of his race, the opinions of his age, 
his physiological and psychological pecu- 
liarities." And Symonds might have added 
that it is only in this latest phase, when the 
critics have availed themselves of the meth- 
ods of the comparative biologists, that they 
are concerned with the interesting problems 
connected with the origin of the several lit- 
erary species. 

All over the world to-day devoted stu- 
dents are working at the hidden history of 
the lyric, for example, and of certain sub- 
divisions of this species, such as the elegy, 
as it flowered long ago in Greece and as it 
has flourished in most of the literatures of 
modern Europe. To the "natural histo- 
rian " of literary art, these subdivisions of a 
species are becoming more and more inter- 
esting, as he perceives more clearly how 
prone the poets have always been to work in 
accord with the pattern popular in their own 
time and to express themselves freely in the 
form they found ready to their hands. The 
student of the English drama is delighted 
when he can seize firmly the rise and fall of 
the tragedy of blood for one example, of 
the comedy of humors for another, and of 
sentimental comedy for a third; just as the 
investigator into the history of fiction is 
pleased to be able to trace the transforma- 



tions of the pastoral, of the picaresque ro- 
mance, and of the later short story. 

The beginnings of a species, or of a sub- 
species, are obscure more often than not; 
and they are rarely to be declared with cer- 
tainty. "Nothing is more difficult than to 
discover who have been in literature the 
first inventors" of a new form, so M. Jules 
Lemaitre once asserted, adding that inno- 
vations have generafly been attempted by 
writers of no great value, and not infre- 
quently by those who failed in those first ef- 
forts, unable to profit by their own origi- 
nality. And it is natural enough that a good 
many sighting shots should be wasted on a 
new target before even an accomplished 
marksman could plump his bullet in the 
bull's-eye. The historical novel as we 
know it now must be credited to Scott, who 
preluded by the rather feeble "Waverly," 
before attaining the more boldly planned 
"Rob Roy " and " Guy Mannering." The 
sea tale is to be ascribed to Cooper, whose 
wavering faith in its successful accomplish- 
ment is reflected in the shifting of the suc- 
cessive episodes of the " Pilot " from land to 
water and back again to land; and it was 
only when he came to write the "Red 
Rover" that Cooper displayed full confi- 
dence in the form he was the first to experi- 
ment with. But the history of the detec- 
tive story begins with the publication of the 
"Murders in the Rue Morgue," a master- 
piece of its kind, which even its author was 
unable to surpass; and Poe, unlike most 
other originators, rang the bell the very first 
time he took aim. 



II 



The detective story which Poe invented 
sharply difi"erentiates itself from the earlier 
tales of mystery, and also from the later nar- 
ratives in which actual detectives figure in- 
cidentally. Perhaps the first of these tales 
of mystery is Walpole's "Castle of Otran- 
to," which appears to us now clumsy 
enough, with its puerile attempts to excite 
terror. The romances of Mrs. Radclifl'e are 
scarcely more solidly built — indeed, the fa- 

287 



288 Poe and the Detective Story 

tigue of the sophisticated reader of to-day to be tempted and to fall into this snare. In 

when he undertakes the perusal of these the "Disciple, "and again in "Andre Cor- 

old-fashioned and long-winded chronicles nelis," M. Paul Bourget was lured from the 

may be ascribed partly to the fiimsiness path of psychologic analysis into the maze 

of the foundation which is supposed to of mystery-mongering; but he had the tact 

support the awe-inspiring superstructure, to employ his secrets to excite interest only in 

Godwin's "Caleb Williams" is far more the beginning of what were, after all, studies 

firmly put together; and its artful planning from life, each of them setting forth the 

called for imagination as well as mere in- struggle of a man with the memory of his 

vention. In the "Edgar Huntley" of crime. In "The Wreckers" Stevenson 

Charles Brockden Brown the veil of doubt and his young collaborator attempted that 

skilfully shrouds the unsuspected and un- "form of police novel or mystery story 

suspecting murderer who did the evil deed which consisted in beginning your yarn any- 

in his sleep — anticipating the somnambulist where but at the beginning, and finishing it 

hero of Wilkie Collins's "Moonstone." anywhere but at the end." They were at- 

The disadvantages of this mystery-mon- tracted by its "peculiar interest when done, 
gering have been pointed out by Poe with and the peculiar difficulties that attend its 
his wonted acuteness in his criticism of execution." They were "repelled by that 
"Barnaby Rudge." After retelling the appearance of insincerity and shallowness 
plot of Dickens's contorted narrative, and of tone which seems its inevitable draw- 
after putting the successive episodes into back," because "the mind of the reader al- 
their true sequence, Poe asserted that "the ways bent to pick up clews receives no im- 
thesis of the novel may thus be regarded as pression of reality or life, rather of an air- 
based upon curiosity," and he declared that less, elaborate mechanism; and the book 
"every point is so arranged as to perplex remains enthralling, but insignificant, like a 
the reader and whet his desire for elucida- game of chess, not a work of human art." 
tion." He insisted "that the secret be well They hoped to find a new way of handling 
kept is obviously necessary," because if it the old tale of mystery, so that they might 
leaksout" against the author's will, his pur- get the profit without paying the price. But 
poses are immediately at odds and ends." already in his criticism of "Barnaby 
Then he remarked that although "there Rudge" had Poe showed why disappoint- 
can be no question that . . . many ment was unavoidable, because the more 
points . . . which would have been artfully the dark intimations of horror are 
comparatively insipid even if given in full held out, the more certain it is that the an- 
detail in a natural sequence, are endued ticipation must surpass the reality. No 
with the interest of mystery; but neither matter how terrific the circumstances may 
can it be denied that a vast many more be which shall appear to have occasioned 
points are at the same time deprived of all the mystery, "still they will not be able to 
effect, and become null, through the impos- satisfy the mind of the reader. He will 
sibility of comprehending them without the surely be disappointed." 
key." In other words, the novelist has Even Balzac, with all his mastery of the 
chosen to sacrifice to the fleeting interest novelist's art, lost more thai, he gained 
which is evoked onlv by wonder the more when he strove to arouse the interest of his 
abiding interest which is aroused by the readers by an appeal to their curiosity. His 
clear perception of the interplay of char- mystery-mongering is sometimes perilously 
acter and motive. Poe suggested that even close to blatant sensationalism and overt 
" Barnaby Rudge " — in spite of its author's charlatanry; and he seems to be seeking 
efforts to keep secret the real springs of the bald effect for its own sake. In the 
action which controlled the characters — if "Chouans," and again in the "Tenebreuse 
taken up a second time by a reader put into Affaire," he has comphcated plots and 
possession of all that had been concealed, counterplots entangled almost to confusion, 
would be found to possess quadruple bril- but the reader "receives no impression of 
liance, "a brilliance unprofitably sacrificed reality or life" even if these novels cannot 
at the shrine of the keenest interest of mere be dismissed as empty examples of " airless, 
mystery." elaborate mechanism." 

Dickens was not the last novelist of note The members of the secret police appear- 



Poe and the Detective Story 



289 



ing in these stories have all a vague likeness 
to Vidocq, whose alleged memoirs were 
published in 1828, a few years before the 
author of the "Human Comedy" began to 
deal with the scheming of the underworld. 
Balzac's spies and his detectives are not 
convincing, despite his utmost effort ; and we 
do not believe in their preternatural acute- 
ness. Even in the conduct of their intrigues 
we are lost in a murky mistiness. Balzac 
is at his best when he is arousing the emo- 
tions of recognition; and he is at his worst 
when he sinks to evoking the emotions of 
surprise. 



Ill 



In the true detective story as Poe con- 
ceived it in the "Murders in the Rue 
Morgue," it is not in the mystery itself that 
the author seeks to interest the reader, but 
rather in the successive steps whereby his 
analytic observer is enabled to solve a prob- 
lem that might well be dismissed as beyond 
human elucidation. Attention is centred 
on the unravelling of the tangled skein 
rather than on the knot itself. The emo- 
tion aroused is not mere surprise, it is recog- 
nition of the unsuspected capabilities of the 
human brain; it is not a wondering curi- 
osity as to an airless mechanism, but a 
heightening admiration for the analytic 
acumen capable of working out an accept- 
able answer to the puzzle propounded. In 
other words, Poe, while he availed himself 
of the obvious advantages of keeping a 
secret from his readers and of leaving them 
guessing as long as he pleased, shifted the 
point of attack and succeeded in giving a 
human interest to his tale of wonder. 

And by this shift Poe transported the 
detective story from the group of tales of ad- 
venture into the group of portrayals of char- 
acter. By bestowing upon it a human inter- 
est, he raised it in the literary scale. There 
is no need now to exaggerate the merits of 
this feat or to suggest that Poe himself was 
not capable of loftier efforts. Of course the 
"Fall cf the House of Usher," which is of 
imagination all compact, is more valid evi- 
dence of his genius than the "Murders in 
the Rue Morgue," which is the product 
rather of his invention, supremely ingen- 
ious as it is. Even though the detective 
story as Poe produced it is elevated far 
above the barren tale of mystery which pre- 



ceded it and which has been revived in our 
own day, it is not one of the loftiest of liter- 
ary forms, and its possibilities are severely 
limited. It suffers to-day from the fact that 
in the half century and more since Poe set 
the pattern it has been vulgarized, debased, 
degraded by a swarm of imitators who 
lacked his certaintv of touch, his instinctive 
tact, his intellectual individuahty. In their 
hands it has been bereft of its distinction 
and despoiled of its atmosphere. 

Even at its best, in the simple perfection 
of form that Poe bestowed on it, there is no 
denving that it demanded from its creator no 
depth of sentiment, no warmth of emotion, 
and no large understanding of human de- 
sire. There are those who would dismiss it 
carelessly, as making an appeal not far re- 
moved from that of the riddle and of the 
conundrum. There are those again who 
would liken it rather to the adroit trick of a 
clever conjurer. No doubt, it gratifies in us 
chiefly that delight in difficulty conquered, 
which is a part of the primitive play impulse 
potent is us all, but tending to die out as we 
grow older, as we lessen in energy, and as 
we feel more deeply the tragi-comedy of ex- 
istence. But inexpensive as it may seem to 
those of us who look to literature for en- 
lightenment, for solace in the hour of need, 
for stimulus to stiffen the will in the never- 
ending struggle of life, the detective tale, as 
Poe contrived it, has merits of its own as 
distinct and as undeniable as those of the 
historical novel, for example, or of the sea 
tale. It may please the young rather than 
the old, but the pleasure it can give is ever 
innocent; and the young are always in the 
majority. 



IV 



In so far as Poe had any predecessor in 
the composing of a narrative, the interest 
of which should reside in the application 
of human intelligence to the solution of a 
mystery, this was not Balzac, although the 
American romancer was sufficiently famil- 
iar with the "Human Comedy" to venture 
an unidentified quotation from it. Nor was 
this predecessor Cooper, whom Balzac ad- 
mired and even imitated, although Leath- 
erstocking in tracking his redskin enemies 
revealed the tense observation and the fac- 
ulty of deduction with which Poe was to en- 
dow his Dupin. The only predecessor with 



290 



Poe and the Detective Story 



a good claim to be considered a progenitor 
is Voltaire, in whose "Zadig" we can find 
the method which Poe was to apply more 
elaborately. The Goncourts perceived this 
descent of Poe from Voltaire when they re- 
corded in their "Journal" that the strange 
tales of the American poet seemed to them 
to belong to "a new literature, the literature 
of the twentieth century, scientifically mi- 
raculous story-telling by A -f B, a literature 
at once monomaniac and mathematical, 
Zadig as district attorney, Cyrano de Ber- 
gerac as a pupil of Arago." 

Voltaire tells us that Zadig by study 
gained "a sagacity which discovered to him 
a thousand differences where other men saw 
only uniformity"; and he describes a mis- 
adventure which befell Zadig when he was 
living in the kingdom of Babylon. One 
day the chief eunuch asked if he had seen 
the Queen's dog. "It is a female, isn't it?" 
returned Zadig ; "a spaniel, and very small ; 
she littered not long ago; she is lame of the 
left fore foot; and she has very long ears." 
"So you have seen her?" cried the 
eunuch. "No," Zadig answered; "I have 
never seen her; and I never even knew that 
the Queen had a dog." 

About the same time the handsomest 
horse in the king's stables escaped; and the 
chief huntsman, meeting Zadig, inquired 
if he had not seen the animal. And Zadig 
responded: "It is the horse that gallops 
the best; he is five feet high; his shoe is 
very small ; his tail is three and a half feet 
long; the knobs of his bit are of twenty- 
three carat gold; and he is shod with 
eleven-penny silver." And the chief hunts- 
man asked, "Which way did he go?" To 
which Zadig replied: "I have not seen him; 
and I haveneverheardanything about him." 

The chief eunuch and the chief hunts- 
man naturally believed that Zadig had sto- 
len the queen's dog and the king's horse ; so 
they had him arrested and condemned, 
first to the knout, and afterward to exile for 
life in Siberia. And then both the missing 
animals were recovered; so Zadig was al- 
lowed to plead his case. He swore that he 
had never seen either the dog of the queen 
nor the horse of the king. This is what 
had happened : He had been walking toward 
a little wood and he had seen on the sand 
the track of an animal, and he judged that 
it had been a dog. Little furrows scratched 
in the low hillocks of sand between the foot- 



prints showed him that it was a female 
whose teats were pendent, and who there- 
fore must have littered recently. As the 
sand was less deeply marked by one foot 
than by the three others, he had perceived 
the queen's dog to be lame. 

As for the larger quadruped, Zadig, while 
walking in a narrow path in the wood, had 
seen the prints of a horse's shoes, all at an 
equal distance; and he had said to himself 
that here was a steed with a perfect stride. 
The path was narrow, being only seven feet 
wide, and here and there the dust had been 
flicked from the trees on either hand, and so 
Zadig had made sure that the horse had a 
tail three and a half feet long. The branches 
crossed over the path at the height of five 
feet, and as leaves had been broken off, the 
observer had decided that the horse was 
just five feet high. As to the bit, this must 
be of gold, since the horse had rubbed it 
against a stone, which Zadig had recognized 
as a touchstone and on which he had assayed 
the trace of precious metal. And from the 
marks left by the horse's shoes on another 
kind of stone Zadig had felt certain that 
they were made of eleven-penny silver. 

Huxley has pointed out that the method 
of Zadig is the method which has made pos- 
sible the incessant scientific discovery of the 
last century. It is the method of Welling- 
ton at Assaye, assuming that there must be 
a ford at a certain place on the river, be- 
cause there was a village on each side. It 
is the method of Grant at Vicksburg, exam- 
ining the knapsacks of the Confederate sol- 
diers slain in a sortie to see if these con- 
tained rations, which would show that the 
garrison was seeking to break out because 
the place was untenable. It is also the 
method of Poe in the "Gold Bug" and in 
the "Murders in the Rue Morgue." 

In his application of this method, not 
casually, playfully, and with satiric intent, 
as Voltaire had applied it, but seriously and 
taking it as the mainspring of his story, Poe 
added an ingenious improvement of his own 
devising. Upon the preternaturally acute 
observer who was to control the machinery 
of the tale, the American poet bestowed a 
companion of only an average alertness and 
keenness; and to this commonplace com- 
panion the romancer confided the telling of 
the story. By this seemingly simple device 
Poe doubled the effectiveness of his work, 
because this unobservant and unimagina- 



Poe and the Detective Story 291 

tive narrator of the unravelling of a tan- lessly prodigal fashion, threw out the seeds 

gled skein by an observant and imaginative from which so many of our present forms 

analyst naturally recorded his own admira- of literature have sprung, was the father of 

tion and astonishment as the wonder was the detective tale, and covered its limits so 

wrought before his eyes, so that the admira- completely that I fail to see how his foUow- 

tion and astonishment were transmitted di- ers can find any fresh ground which they 

rectly and suggestively to the readers of the can confidently call their own. For the se- 

narrative. cret of the thinness and also of the intensity 

In the " Gold Bug " the wonder worker is of the detective story is that the writer is left 
Legrand, and in both the "Murders in the with only one quality, that of intellectual 
Rue Morgue " and the " Purloined Letter " acuteness, with which to endow his hero, 
he is M. Dupin; and in all three tales the Everything else is outside the picture and 
telling of the story is entrusted to an anony- weakens the effect. The problem and its 
mous narrator, serving not only as a sort of solution must form the theme, and the char- 
Greek chorus to hint to the spectators the acter drawing is limited and subordinate, 
emotions they ought to feel, but also as the On this narrow path the writer must walk, 
describer of the personality and peculiari- and he sees the footmarks of Poe always in 
ties of Legrand and Dupin, who are thus front of him. He is happy if he ever finds 
individualized, humanized, and related to the means of breaking away and striking 
the real world. If they had not been ac- out on some little side-track of his own." 
cepted by the narrator as actual beings of The deviser of the adventures of Sherlock 
flesh and blood, they might otherwise retain Holmes hit on a happy phrase when he de- 
the thinness and the dryness of disembodied clared that "the problem and its solution 
intelligences working in a vacuum. must form the theme." This principle was 

This device of the transmitting narra- violated by Dumas, who gave us the solu- 
tor is indisputably valuable; and, properly tion before the problem, when he showed 
enough, it reappears in the one series of how d'Artagnan used the method of Zadig 
detective tales which may be thought by to deduce all the details of the duel on 
some to rival Poe's. The alluring record of horseback, in the "VicomtedeRragelonne," 
the investigations of ISIr. Sherlock Holmes after the author had himself described to us 
is the work of a certain Dr. Watson, a hu- the incidents of that fight. But when he 
man being but little more clearly charac- was thus discounting his effect Dumas 
terized than the anonymous narrators who probably had in mind, not Poe, but Cooper, 
have preserved for us the memory of Le- whose observant redskins he mightily ad- 
grand and Dupin. But Poe here again ex- mired and whom he frankly imitated in the 
hibited a more artistic reserve than any of "Mohicans of Paris." 
his imitators, in so far as he refrained from 
the undue laudation of the strange intel- 
lectual feats which are the central interest V 
of these three tales. In the "Gold Bug" 

he even heightens his suspense by allowing Although Poe tells these three stories in 
the narrator to suggest that Legrand might the first person, as if he was himself only 
be of unsound mind; and in the " Murders the recorder of the marvellous deeds of 
in the Rue Morgue" the narrator, although another, both Legrand and Dupin are pro- 
lost in astonishment at the acuteness of jections of his own personality; they are 
Dupin, never permits his admiration to be- characters created by him to be endowed 
come fulsome; he holds himself in, as though with certain of his own qualifications and 
fearing that overpraise might provoke a peculiarities. They were called into being 
denial. Moreover, Poe refrained from all to be possessed of the inventive and ana- 
exhibitions of Dupin's skill merely for its lytical powers of Poe himself. "To be an 
own sake — exhibitions only dazzling the artist, first and always, requires a turn for 
spectators and not furthering his immediate induction and analysis " — so Mr. Stedman 
purpose. has aptly put it; and this turn for induction 

Nothing could be franker than Sir Conan and analysis Poe had far more obviously 

Doyle's acknowledgment of his indebted- than most artists. When he was a student 

ness. "Edgar Allen Poe, who, in his care- he excelled in mathematics; in all his other 



292 Poe and the Detective Story 

tales he displays the same power of logical written in 1846, that Poe disparaged his de- 
construction; and he dehghted in the exer- tective stories and declared that they "owe 
cise of his own acumen, vaunting his ability most of their popularity to being something 
to translate any cipher that might be sent to in a new key. I do not mean to say that 
him and succeeding in making good his they are not ingenious — but people think 
boast. In the criticism of "Barnaby them more ingenious than they are — on ac- 
Rudge," and again in the explanation of count of their method and air of method, 
the Maelzel chess-player, Poe used for him- In the 'Murders in the Rue Morgue,' for 
self the same faculty of divination, the same instance, where is the ingenuity of unravell- 
power of seizing the one clue needful, how- ing a web which you yourself (the author) 
ever tangled amid other threads, which he have woven for the express purpose of un- 
had bestowed upon Legrand and Dupin. ravelling ? The reader is made to confound 

If we may exclude the "Marie Roger" the ingenuity of the supposititious Dupin 
narrative in which Poe was working over with that of the writer of the story." Here, 
an actual case of murder, we find him surely, Poe is overmodest; at least he over- 
only three times undertaking the "tale of states the case against himself. The in- 
ratiocination," to use his own term; and in genuity of the author obviously lies in his 
all three stories he was singularly happy invention of a web which seemingly cannot 
in the problem he invented for solution, be unravelled and which nevertheless one 
For each of the three he found a fit theme, of the characters of the tale, Legrand or 
wholly different from that employed in Dupin, succeeds in unravelling at last. Tnis 
either of the others. He adroitly adjusted ingenuity may be, in one way, less than that 
the proper accessories, and he created an required to solve an actual problem in real 
appropriate atmosphere. With no sense of life; but it is also, in another way, more, for 
strain, and no awkwardness of manner, he it had to invent its own puzzle and to put 
dealt with episodes strange indeed, but so this together so that the secret seemed to be 
simply treated as to seem natural, at least absolutely hidden, although all the facts 
for the moment. There is no violence of needed to solve it were plainly presented to 
intrigue or conjecture; indeed Poe strives the reader. 

to suggest a background of the common- In the same letter to Cooke, Poe remarked 

place against which his marvels may seem on the "wide diversity and variety" of his 

the more marvellous. In none of his stories tales when contrasted one with another; and 

is Poe's consummate mastery of the narra- he asserted that he did not consider any one 

tive art, his ultimate craftsmanship, his cer- better than another. "There is a vast va- 

tain control of all the devices of the most riety of kinds, and in degree of value these 

accomplished story-teller, more evident kinds vary — but each tale is equally good 

than in these three. of its kind." He added that "the loftiest 

And yet they are but detective stories, kind is that of the highest imagination." 
after all; and Poe himself, never prone to For this reason only he considered that 
underestimate what he had written, spoke "Ligeia" might be called the best of his 
of them lightly and even hinted that they stories. Now, after a lapse of threescore 
had been overpraised. Probably they were years, the "Fall of the House of U.sher," 
easy writing — for him — and therefore they with its "serene and sombre beauty, " would 
were not so close to his heart as certain seem to deserve the first place of all. And 
other of his tales over which he had toiled among the detective stories, standing on a 
long and more laboriously. Probably also lower plane as they do, because they were 
he felt the detective story to be an inferior wrought by invention rather than by the in- 
form. However superior his stories in this terpreting imagination, the foremost posi- 
kind might be, he knew them to be un- tion may be given to the "Murders in the 
worthy of comparison with his more imag- Rue Morgue." In this tale Poe's invention 
inative tales, which he had filled with a is most ingenious and his subject is selected 
thrilling weirdness and which attained a with the fullest understanding of the utmost 
soaring elevation far above any height to be possibilities of the detective story. At the 
achieved by ingenious narratives setting core of it is a strange, mysterious, mon- 
forth the solving of a puzzle. strous crime; and M. Anatole France was 

It is in a letter to Philip Pendleton Cooke, never wiser than when he declared the un- 



Poe and the Detective Story 



293 



failing interest of mankind in a gigantic 
misdeed "because we find in all crimes that 
fund of hunger and desire on which we all 
live, the good as well as the bad." Before 
a crime such as this we seem to find our- 
selves peering into the contorted visage of 
primitive man, obeying no law but his own 
caprice. 

The superiority of the poet who wrote the 
first detective story over all those who have 
striven to tread in the trail he blazed is ob- 
vious enough. It resides not only in his 
finer workmanship, his more delicate art, 
his finer certainty of execution, his more 
absolute knowledge of what it was best to 
do and of the way best to do this; it is to 
be seen not only in his coinmand of veri- 
similitude, in his plausibility, in his faculty 
of enwrapping the figures of his narrative 
in the atmosphere most fit for them; it is 
not in any of these things or in all of them 
that Poe's supremacy is founded. The 
reason of that supremacy must be sought in 
the fact that, after all, Poe was of a truth a 
poet, and that he had the informing imag- 
ination of a poet, even though it was only 
the more prosaic side of the faculty divine 
which he chose to employ in these tales of 
ratiocination. 

It is by their possession of poetry, how- 
ever slight their portion might be, that Fitz- 
james O'Brien and M. Jean Richepin and 
Mr. Rudyard Kipling were kept from rank 
failure when they followed in Poe's foot- 
steps and sought to imitate, or at least to 
emulate his more largely imaginative tales 
in the "Diamond Lens" of the Irish- 
American, in the "Morts Bizarres" of the 
Frenchman, and in half a dozen tales of the 
Anglo-Indian. But what tincture of poesy, 
what sweep of vision, what magic of style, 
is there in the attempts of the most of the 



others who have taken pattern by his detec- 
tive stories? None, and less than none. 
Ingenuity of a kind there is in Gaboriau's 
longer fictions, and in those of Fortune de 
Boisgobey, and in those of Wilkie Collins; 
but this ingenuity is never so simply em- 
ployed, and it is often artificial and violent 
and mechanical. It exists for its own sake, 
with little relation to the admitted charac- 
teristics of our common humanity. It stands 
alone, and it is never accompanied by the 
apparent ease which adds charm to Poe's 
handling of his puzzles. 

Consider how often Gaboriau puts us off 
with a broken-backed narrative, taking up 
his curtain on a promising problem, pre- 
senting it to us in aspects of increasing diffi- 
culty, only at last to confess his impotence 
by starting afresh and slowly detailing the 
explanatory episodes which happened be- 
fore the curtain rose. Consider how fre- 
quently Fortune de Boisgobey failed to play 
fair. Consider how juiceless was the docu- 
mentary method of Wilkie Collins, how me- 
chanical and how arid, how futilely compli- 
cated, how prolonged, and how fatiguing. 
Consider all the minor members of the 
sorry brood hatched out of the same egg, 
how cheap and how childish the most of 
them are. Consider all these; and we are 
forced to the conclusion that if the writ- 
ing of a good detective story is so rare and 
so difficult, if only one of Poe's imitators has 
been able really to rival his achievement, if 
this single success has been the result of an 
acceptance of Poe's formula and of a close 
adherence to Poe's practice, then, what Poe 
wrought is really unique; and we must give 
him the guerdon of praise due to an artist 
who has accomplished the first time of try- 
ing that which others have failed to achieve 
even after he had shown them how. 




THE HARSH WORD 



By James B. Connolly 

Illustrations by W. J. Aylward 



1 


1 


1 


1 



ARTIN CARRhadcome 

forward for his usual mug- 
up before turning in. Piling 
down after him came his 
1)unk-mate, almost his 
shadow, little Eddie Foy. 
"M-m — but it's some cold on declc! " ejac- 
ulated Eddie ere yet his feet hit the fore- 
c's'le floor. 

"Yes," assented Martin, taking a coffee 
mug from off a nail in the grub-locker the 
meanwhile, "yes, a man astray to-night in a 
dory he'll cert'nly thrash his arms across his 
breast afore mornin'." And then directing 
his voice toward the cook, "Louder, boy, 
louder." 

For a New Year's gift somebody had 
given the cook an advertising calendar, one 
of those thick pad-like affairs with each 
date in large numerals on a separate sheet. 
At the foot of each in small type were va- 
rious praiseworthy sentiments, and it was 
from these that the cook, in an almost in- 
audible voice, was reading. As he finished 
one he would tear it off with a flourish and 
pass on to the next. Martin, now leisurely 
pouring the hot coffee from the boiler on the 
stove, had again to admonish the cook : 
" Louder, Charlie, louder. Let's us all 
hear." 

"Ah-h — to hell with 'em!" suddenly ex- 
ploded the cook. "Look, Martin — you 
can't have two days runnin' of them, the 
things worth readin', and gran' sayin's some 
of them, when the third day'll come a lot 
of stuff about their ottermobiles. People 
who'd play that on you will make machines, 
I'll bet, that'd break down just when you 
was countin' most on 'em — goin' down a 
steep hill or maybe with a gully a thousand 
fathom deep to your rail." 

"'Mind a man of the weather, wouldn't 
it?" put in Eddie Foy, "which'll come 
along fair and promisin' for a few days, till 
you come to put trust in it, and then one 

day you get caught out " 

" G-g-g — " gasped the cook — " G-g-g — " 
and took to tearing off the sheets rapidly. 

2Q4. 



"Two, three, four — who the hell wants to 
hear about their old machines ?— nine, ten, 
e-leven. I s'pose I might's well set it for 
t'morrer. There — twelve. Feb'uary the 
twelfth." 

"Hah?" Martin, who had seated him- 
self in neighborly fashion on the locker next 
the cook's bunk, now. slewed his body half 
around to take heed of the cook. "The 
twelfth, did y' say, Charlie?" and after 
peering into the bunk to see for himself, 
said softly, "Sure enough, the twelfth." 
And yet more softly, gazing abstractedly 
into his steaming mug of coffee while he 
spoke, "February the twelfth — a year to- 
morrow," and, turning to his chum, "D'y' 
mind it, Eddie?" 

For an instant Eddie looked in puzzle- 
ment at Martin, and then he, too, with the 
tender tone, answered, "Aye, Martin, so 
'tis — a year to-morrow. PoorBushie!" 

There were those to whom the whole 
truth was not known, and so the story told 
this winter's night by Martin Carr in the 
brightness and warmth of the schooner's 
forec's'le. 

"A boy to love was Bushie; but from 
that very first summer trip he made he did 
things that 'd go to show he was never 
intended for a fisherman. 'Twasn't alone 
that matter of the sword-fish. That was 
when we were single-dory trawling on Le 
Have, and there was Bushie all by himself, 
nobody to advise him, when he runs foul of 
this great creature — just got a peek at him 
when down he goes, half a tub of trawls tan- 
gled up with him, and Lord knows how many 
fathom down, before Bushie waked up to it 
he's hooked anything at all. And when he, 
poor boy, never any great hand with an oar, 
sets out to tow him to the vessel, two miles 
against wind and tide. For hours we c'd see 
him comin', and while he was yet a cable's 
length away we could hear him hoUerin'. 
'The taykle! the taykle!" he kept yeUin'. 
' What is it ? ' we called out. ' A sword-fish,' 
he answers. T see the twin fins of him — a 



The Harsh Word 



295 



monster — all of a thousand pound. A good 
afternoon's work — sword-fish ten cents a 
pound when we left home — the taykle ! the 
taykle!' and such pride was there in his 
face and voice that 'twas a joy just to look 
and listen to him. And when he come 
alongside we put the dory tackle to the 
tangled trawls and begins to hoist, and sure 
enough, up comes something half as long 
as a dory. But when the gang gets a fair 
look at what it was! 

"'A sword-fish?' says one. 'A sword- 
fish ? ' roars another. And the skipper — ' He 
cert'nly looks to weigh a thousand pounds,' 
says the skipper, 'but we won't stop to 
weigh him.' And everyone that could 
grabs a fork or a gaff or a deck-broom and 
begins to welt that sword-fish over the nose. 
A sword-fish ? No ; but as ugly a hammer- 
headed shark as ever a man laid eyes on, 
and poor Bushie hadn't a word to say, but 
stood by with tears 'most in his eyes, while 
the gang walloped his great ketch till they 
got tired. 

"Bushie was the kind that took little 
things like that to heart, and some of 'em 
poked so much fun at him, especially two 
chaps, Addicks and Indry, that he didn't 
follow up that first trip on the Cygnet. And 
it was six months or more again before we, 
or most of us, anj'Avay, saw him again, and 
then it was plain what was drivin' him. He 
was starvin', for in the cold weather, d' y' 
see, there wasn't so much doin' for Bushie 
around the docks, and so one day he came 
down to our vessel — he'd heard we were a 
man short — got his courage up and came 
down, summer underclothes still on him, to 
see if he could get a chance on the Cygnet. 
Poor boy, his stomach was bending in for 
the want of good food, and his teeth were 
clicking with the cold. Well, he didn't get 
an over and above average encouragement, 
everybody knowin' what a poor hand he 
was in a dory; and there was this Addicks 
'specially that couldn't abide him at all. 
'H-m, ' he says, 'the lad that caught the 
sword-fish. Give him a chance? Why, 
he's about as much use as a passenger. 
Maybe he'll get another sword-fish and be 
roaring, "The taykle! the taykle!" again. 
"All of a thousand pound; I see the twin 
fins of him ! " ' and Addicks starts to roarin', 
and everybody roars. And yet 'twarn't so 
black a mark against a green man. 

"'Well,' the skipper says, 'what d' y' 



think, Martin?' and I said — God forgive 
me, now, but I meant well — I says, ' Give 
the poor boy a chance,' and the skipper, a 
good-hearted man, after a while said: 'All 
right; get your bag and come aboard,' but 
he jumped aboard as he was. Bag ? He 
didn't have a second undershirt to his back. 
Of course we helped him out — one a shirt, 
another drawers; here a pair of mitts, and 
there an oilskin. But when he was all fit- 
ted out he lacked a lot of bein' properly 
protected again' the cold of winter fishin'! 

"Now, there was a little something else 
behind Addicks and Indry's opposition, 
only it didn't come out till later. This lad, 
you see, Bushie, had the most takin' way 
with him. You'd laugh at him and you'd 
lecture him, but you couldn't help likin' 
him. The girls 'specially, took the great- 
est fancy to him. And that was the case 
with a couple that Indry and Addicks had 
been tryin' to get to wind'ard of for a long 
time. Addicks and Indry 'd be makin' 
great headway with 'em till Bushie 'd come 
along, and then 'twould be all off. The 
girls 'd forget that the other two was in the 
room at all. How do I account for that? 
Well, in the case of Addicks and his partner 
maybe 'twas easy enough. They were hard 
as flint, always lookin' for the best of it. 

"Well, on the run out to the grounds 
this trip Bushie he cert'nly won everybody's 
heart. That's after he got two or three 
good meals into him. He'd coil up in his 
bunk of an evenin', about the time every- 
body 'd be feelin' rested and contented, 
and in the right mood for it, and he'd 
get out his little harmonica. And man! 
maybe 'd there'd be an easterly swishin' and 
a cross-sea poundin', and maybe on deck 
'twould he half a foot of snow, and the 
watch slushin' around in it, wearin' their 
eyes out tryin' to see into what mortal eyes 
weren't meant to see into, and maybe we 
c'd hear 'em call out from one to the other. 
But Bushie he'd cuddle that little mouth- 
organ in the palm and fingers of his left 
hand, and the palm and fingers of his right 
hand he'd coil around on the outside of 
them again, like he was afraid somebody 
was goin' to steal it from him, and he'd 
curl his lips around the music side of it, and 
then, his shoulders hunched and his head 
to one side, he'd begin. And in five min- 
utes you'd forget all about a nothe-easter, 
another five and you couldn't 'a' said 



296 



The Harsh Word 



whether you were to sea or in a duck-pond. 
Five more and you'd be back to home and 
wife, and if 'twarn't for the oilskins and 
jackboots hangin' up by the stove to dry, 
you'd swear )^ou could see the babies rollin' 
'round the floor. Yes, sir; and when he 
wasn't too tired with his day at the trawls 
and dressin' down afterward — he warn't 
overstrong, the poor boy, and the work used 
to tire him out terribly some days — when 
there was any little let-up so there was a 
chance to rest up, man, you could see him 
fattenin' under your eyes, and then he'd 
joke and laugh till, if 'twas at table, you'd 
most forget to eat. He had a quick eye and 
brain, y' see, for odd happenings. Maybe 
that used up his strength same as so much 
hard work, that brain and eye of his that 
never rested, but in this life allowance, of 
course, is seldom made for that. 

"Well, winter fishin', no gainsaying it, is 
hard sometimes, and one day this trip 
leavin' the vessel it was pretty rough, and — 
you mind the day, Eddie?" 

"I do, Martin; and a damn sight rougher 
afore we got aboard again." 

' ' It was. And the first man to get aboard 
that day was Bushie. Before anybody 
else 'd hauled his first tub this lad Bushie 
was aboard. 'Twas plain his trouble — the 
fright of the sea was on him. I've seen it a 
score o' times and on many a man that made 
a good fisherman later. It's a great help, 
bein' born to a thing, but there's a lot, 
too, in bein' trained to it. And besides the 
fright in Bushie's case there was the ex- 
haustion, too, this day. It tried the tough- 
est of us that day. Well, Bushie, cut his 
gear and came aboard. I knew he cut it — 
I saw him when he did it. And he must 've 
known I saw him, 'cause I was ne.xt dory to 
him, his lines and mine all but tangled. But 
he knew, I s'pose, that I'd never say any- 
thing, he and me bein' very friendly; and 
he was hopin', no doubt, that nobody else 'd 
find it out. He accounted for coming 
aboard so early by sayin' he got hung up 
and parted his gear, and it bein' a rough 
bottom, too, that would 'a' sounded plau- 
sible enough comin' from some men. But 
this Addicks repeats, 'Parted his gear! and 
d' y' believe that shrimp had the strength 
to part a sixteen-pound ground-line?' and 
rushes up and overhauls the poor boy's tub 
of trawls, and there, sure enough, finds 
where it 'd been cut clean with a knife. And 



he brings what was left of the tub down 
into the forec's'le, where the first gang was 
to supper, and shows the mark of the knife. 
He showed it to you, Eddie?" 

"He did." 

"And to me; though I made out I was 
too busy to look. Well, it was a hard thing 
to have to face across the lighted supper- 
table, the forec's'le filled with angry men; 
for, while the gang started out by rather not 
wantin' to know about it, they warmed up, 
between Indry's and Addicks's talk, by 
feelin' that they hadn't been treated right. 
Addicks heaves the tub of trawls through the 
bulkhead door and into the forehold; and 
Indry, who was like a thumb to Addicks's 
fingers, he turns to take it up. 'And this 
man comes aboard here and expects to get 
a full share,' says Indry, 'a man's share, at 
the end of this trip — and for all the fish 
he'll bring aboard! And heaves away gear 
besides; and who'll pay for the lost gear? 
W'ill he? No; but it's the crew, and not 
them who cuts, who pays for lost gear. 
Yes, we'll do well by Jnm ! ' 

"Well, if the Lord was to condemn me 
for my sins, the last punishment I'd want 
would be to be set up before a gang of 
trawlers, maybe a little less good-natured 
than usual after a long, hard day in the 
dories; and perhaps half of 'em who hadn't 
wanted me aboard in the first place, and 
they passin' judgment on me after it 'd been 
proved I was a man that shirked my work, 
and that ran away from danger; that cut his 
gear, and put for the vessel when there was 
no need of it; and his shipmates, not him- 
self alone, havin' to suffer for it. Don't 
you say the same — isn't that hard, Eddie ? " 

"Aye, Martin, that's purgatory, sure 
enough." 

"Purgatory? It's hell. And I guess 
Bushie must 've tliought so that night. He 
sat there on the port lockers, the second 
man from the peak at the table— just sat 
there, denyin' nothing once they'd seen the 
cut line, not even movin' for the cook to . 
clear off the dishes; but just sat there, his 
head down; never looking up to meet a 
single eye, and not a blessed word out of ' 
him till just before he turned in. You 
mind him then, Eddie?" 

"I do, Martin; and what he said before 
he climbed into the peak to turn in, before 
he laid himself in his bunk." 

"Yes; we'll none of us forget that. He 




Vol. X LI I.— 35 



298 



The Harsh Word 



stood there where the samson-post is; and 
standin' there, the Hghtof the samson-lamp 
was strikin' his face sidewise, and the Ught 
of the forem'st lamp on him full — standin' 
there he faced them all and said, 'Well, 
next time I'll bet there'll be none of you 
hang on any longer than I do.' Just that — 
just like a boy that's ready to burst into 
tears — and turned his back and disappeared 
into the darkness of the peak; he had the 
top peak bunk. And this Addicks roared 
in pretended amazement after him, and so 
did Indry; but nobody else said anything. 
Them two, Indry and Addicks, were big, 
able men, with no lack of shortcomings 
themselves; but good fishermen both, no 
denyin' it — good trawlers, the pair of them. 

"'He hang on!' sneers Addicks after 
Bushie 'd gone; 'he will if somebody makes 
him.' 

"'I'll bet if we was to stand up by his 
bunk now we'd find him crvin',' adds this 
Indry. 

"Well, I have small love for people that 
have always the harsh word, that can 
never make allowance for people different 
from themselves, and that made me mad. 
'Maybe he is cryin',' I breaks in. 'Good 
men, better men than either of you, have 
cried like girls in their time ; shut up ! ' I says. 

"Aye, Martin, and more than that you 
said." Eddie Foy pounded the locker 
with his mug for emphasis. '"Blast you,' 
says Martin to them, 'no more of it, or I'll 
heave you both where you, Addicks, hove 
that tub of trawls to-night.'" Eddie Foy 
gazed about in pride of his big mate. " And 
maybe he wouldn't 'a' hove them if they 
hadn't shut up!" 

"Next morning," continued Martin, 
"when we turned out, it was too rough to 
put the dories over; but by the middle of 
the afternoon it moderated, so the skipper 
thought he'd try it. Some might 'a' said it 
was poor judgment orderin' the dories over 
that afternoon; but Lord, if men want to 
bring home the fish they've got to take 
chances sometimes. Soover we went; and 
Bushie bein' the first aboard the afternoon 
before, was, of course, the last out this day, 
and next to him was Addicks. The pair of 
'em were almost together up to wind'ard 
when the vessel came about to run down 
the string again. 

"Well, after lettin' the trawls set for an 
hour or so the signal went from the vessel 



to haul. It was coming on gray and chill 
then, looking like snow, and pretty cold, 
with the wind in the east. And so it stayed 
till nigh dark, when the air cleared and the 
wind began to back around to the west'ard. 
It was slow work haulin', owing to the 
rough bottom. Long before I had my first 
tub in I misdoubted we'd make the vessel 
before dark. And we didn't. No dory 
got aboard till well after what should have 
been sunset; which there wasn't any that 
evenin'. I was the first on board that 
evenin', and after pitchin' my fish on deck 
I went into the rigging with a torch flaring 
over my head — the skipper keepin' the 
horn goin' meantime. 

"The next two or three men aboard had 
a report of two dories far down to le'ward 
drifting away before the tide; and the tide 
was then settin' before the westerly breeze 
at a great clip. But as the skipper said, 
'Them two to le'ward can hear the horn, 
while them to wind'ard can't; and besides, 
it's eight dories against two!' And that 
was good judgment, too. 

"It might 've been eight o'clock then, and 
lookin' bad for all of 'em; but like a hun- 
dred other times we see it lookin' bad it 
didn't turn out so bad. One after the 
other we picked up them eight wind'ard 
dories, but the last of 'em not till after 
eleven o'clock, gettin' them by the sound of 
their voices while they were still half a mile 
away because of the strong wind was blow- 
in'. The missing two were Bushie and Ad- 
dicks, and Addicks we picked up along 
about midnight. 

"'See anything of Bushie?' inquired 
the skipper, when Addicks was alongside. 

"'Not since just after dark,' answers 
Addicks. 'When the wind hauled and we 
were left to le'ward I started for the vessel. 
He was then haulin' his trawls and slidin' 
off before wind and tide.' 

"'Wonder you wouldn't give him a lift.' 

"'Me? Give him — that boasted he'd 
hang out long's anybody ? Besides, I had 
enough to do to take care of myself.' 

'"I'll bet,' says Eddie there to me, but 
loud enough so Addicks could hear him, 
' that Bushie and him had it out, and Bushie 
made him quit.' 

"And I guess that was so; because Ad- 
dicks, gen'rally ready enough to explain 
himself, had no answer to that. 

"Well, we expected to see Bushie come 




Drawn by W. J. Aylward. 

"Our skipper leaned, weak as water, over the dory- gunnel. " — Page 300. 



300 



The Harsh Word 



aboard afore mornin', for it was a fine clear 
night overhead, though also, as you might 
expect of a westerly at that time of year, 
cold as hell. Well, a dory's but a small ob- 
ject on the wide ocean, and in the mornin' 
we got no sight of Bushie, nor during all 
that day — and a cold day it was — and the 
night that followed. On the second morn- 
ing neither was he to be seen, and then we 
worried sure enough, for a winter nor'- 
wester on the Atlantic it's the coldest wind 
there is on any ocean. 

"We didn't find Bushie; and a week 
later, having filled her up, we put for home. 
Maybe, we said, somebody's picked her up; 
but didn't believe it. And two days more 
saw us in Gloucester, with our flag to half- 
mast as we sailed past the Point. 

"You know how we have to shoot in 
around the end of the wharf and up into 
the slip, with that tall smoke-house hidin' 
whatevcr's layin' in to the firm's wharf till 
you're in yourself. There in the slip be- 
fore us was the Parker, Billie Simms, and 
her flag was to half-mast, and every sign 
was that she'd only just got in, too. ' Well,' 
says we; 'we're not the only unfortunates,' 
and the skipper hails Billie himself when 
we shot alongside. And he steps aboard 
the Parker from our rails to hers, as did 
half a dozen of us, soon as we made fast 
across his deck. 

"'Hard luck, Billie,' says our skipper. 
'Who is it?' 

"'Nobody I know,' says Billie; 'but I 
know the dory. And maybe you'll know it 
too, when you see it,' and lifts the canvas 
from off the bow of the top one of the nest 
of dories, and there we saw it, the name 
Cygnet.'' 

"'My dory,' says our skipper. 'I was 
hopin' he'd be picked up, but' — and looked 
to Billie's half-masted flag — ' not like this. 
You got him, too ? ' 

" ' Yes; we got him. ' For just a second 
when Billie said that, I had a hope that 
Bushie was alive, but only for a second. 
Billie rolls the canvas back further, and 
there we all saw him, the poor frozen body, 
the oilskins covered with ice; but the face 
warn't ice-covered, nor marked in any way. 
Calm and smooth and natural as life, poor 
Bushie's frozen facewas starin' up tothe sky. 

"The skipper looked down on him. We 
all looked down on him, and Billie Simms, 
touchin' the breast of the oil-jacket, said : 



' No wonder. Under these he hadn't clothes 
enough to warm a cat.' And one of us 
there touched the poor forehead, and then 
another, and 'Poor Bushie!' says two or 
three. 

"Our skipper leaned, weak as water, over 
the dory-gunnel, and from there he didn't 
move till Billie Simms replaced the canvas 
over the body. 'Hard lines,' says Billie. 
'And I s'pose 'twill be you will have to tell 
his folks ? ' 

"Our skipper comes to himself then. 
'No, not me, Billie; I'll be damned if I do,' 
and wheeling and pointing his woolen mitt 
at Addicks and Indry, 'One of you, 
damn you, go up and tell them.' 

"As for myself, that liked the boy so well, 
I couldn't do anything. I s'pose I ought 
to 've crushed the pair of 'em, but I couldn't 
have crushed a fly, I felt that bad; but 
Eddie there " 

"Aye, me," agreed Eddie, "I goes up to 
Addicks and repeats the skipper's words. 
'Yes, you,' I repeats; and with no more no- 
tion of doing it iDcfore I did do it than I have 
of jumping on Martin now, 'You hound!' 
I says, and leaps at him and smashes him to 
the deck. Yes, big Addicks, that was big 
enough to eat me, and when he stands up I 
smashes him again. And then I turns and 
smashes Indry. 'You hounds o' hell!' I 
shrieks; ' go up and tell them! ' " 

"And nobody," continued Martin, 
"seemed very much surprised at Eddie 
either; and without a word, without even 
stoppin' to wipe the blood from their faces 
—and their faces, not havin' been shaved 
for two weeks, the blood was crawling in 
and out of their beards — they swung them- 
selves into the Parker^s riggin', and from 
there to the stringpiece, and hurries up the 
wharf on their errand. They didn't even 
stop long enough to get a drink in a saloon 
on the way up, but kept on toward Ma-n 
Street, and never a look behind to see if we 
were watchin' them or no. 

"Yes, sir, they went on up. And never 
came back — not to the Cygnet, any\vay. 
And next day we took their bags, slipshods, 
bedding and diddy-boxes, and everything 
else in their bunks, and hove 'em into the 
harbor. One of 'em, Addicks, didn't need 
the gear, anyway; he never went fishing 
again." 

Here, while Martin paused to stare into 
the bottom of his empty mug, the cook 




DruwH hy C. S. Chapman. 



I'hen again that piercing cry. — Page 305. 



International Marriages 



301 



queried, "And is that the Addicks, Mar- 
tin, that " 

"The same man. Working ashore, a 
day now and a day again, when he c'n find 
anybody to give him a day's work and he's 
sober enough, for from tliat day to this he's 
drawn but few sober breaths." 

"And the same Indry, Martin, that was 
washed off the deck of the Independence off 
Bacalieu — she making a passage — last win- 
ter?" 

" The same chap. 'Twas a month after 
Busliie \yas lost — in broad light — and may- 
be you'll remember nobody jumped over- 
board after him. Indeed, there were those 
who said that the man to the wheel 
was in no great hurry even to bring the 
vessel to." 

During the silence which ensued, Martin 
stood up and looked toward the coffee ket- 
tle, as if contemplating another mug-up; 
but moderation, as ever, prevailing with 



him, he eventually, though with a lingering 
shake of the head, replaced his mug in the 
grub-locker, even as a half-sigh and a 
" O-ho, I guess it's time to be turnin' in" 
escaped him. " Come, Eddie, what d' y' 
say to goin' aft ? " 

" 'Bout time, Martin, I guess," and trod 
after Martin. 

"February the twelfth, a year to-mor- 
row — poor Bushie!" muttered Martin, and 
mounted the ladder. 

"Poor Bushie! " echoed Foy, and climbed 
after him. 

The cook listened while the scrapings of 
their slip-shods could be heard on the deck, 
and then " Poor Bushie ! " he, too, echoed, 
and "Poor Bushie !" again. "And Indry 
— he only got what was comin' to him. 
But Addicks!" Suddenly he dashed his 
fist into the figures of the calendar. "Ad- 
dicks, you hound o' hell!" and hung the 
calendar on its nail. 



INTERNATIONAL MARRIAGES 



ENGLISH AND AMERICAN WOMEN 

AND ITALY 



MARRIED IN FRANCE 



By Mary King Waddington 




NE hears them so much dis- 
cussed in these days when so 
many English and American 
girls are marrying foreign- 
ers that it is rather inter- 
esting to study the question 
from an impartial point of view. I think 
Americans are by far the most numerous in 
this category, and at a first glance one would 
think that nothing in an American girl's 
training and habits would fit her to become 
a member of an old-fashioned, narrow- 
minded, conventional French or Italian fam- 
ily; but I think she adapts herself far better 
than the English girl to the absolute change of 
life and surroundings, and in a certain way 
the French husband helps his wife. With a 
Frenchman's logical mind, he knows quite 
well that his American wife, brought up in 
the careless freedom of her father's house, 
hearing all sorts of things discussed quite 
openly — politics, books, social questions. 
Vol. X LI I.— 36 



social scandals even — having and express- 
ing opinions of her own on all matters, is 
quite a different person from his convent- 
bred sister, whose girlhood is carefully shut 
in and protected from everything that could 
contaminate her young mind or prepare her 
in any way for the realities or disillusions of 
married life. 

The American, too, has seen boys, young 
men — her brothers' friends, her girl friends' 
brothers — all her life quite easily and natu- 
rally. They have walked and ridden and 
danced together. The girl has measured 
the boy's intelligence, energy, and moral 
qualities perfectly well, and is quite able to 
make her own choice when the time comes 
for her to marry, without depending entirely 
upon what people tell her about the man. 
In Europe a girl hardly sees a young man 
until some matrimonial project is started. 

Some years ago I had at my house a sing- 
ing class once a week, boys and girls, their 



302 



International Marriages 



ages ranging from nineteen to twenty-five. 
There was a professor of the Conservatoire, 
a young lady who accompanied, and I, of 
course, was always present. All the mam- 
mas brought their daughters, and remained 
all the evening. Once or twice they were 
unable to come, and then a governess ap- 
peared. One of my friends had offered to 
bring a young fellow, very good-looking 
and attractive in every way. He came of 
very good stock on both sides, but there 
had been a slight irregularity in his parents' 
marriage, and the boy's position was diffi- 
cult. He had a charming tenor voice, and 
would have been a great addition to the 
choruses, but all the mammas oljjected. I 
was talking it over with one of my friends, a 
very clever old lady, with great experience, 
and she was quite of the same opinion. 

"You do already what is very dangerous 
— you bring boys and girls together most 
intimately." 

"But w^here is the harm? They only 
come to sing. I am always there. They 
sit in rows of gilt chairs in the drawing- 
room, their mammas opposite to them." 

"A marriage might easily come out of 
such familiar intercourse." 

"Again where is the harm? All these 
young people are perfectly well known, 
sons of your friends; all of them men your 
daughters would certainly meet in society, 
at all the balls and parties of the season." 

"Marriages are not made in that way in 
France; such reunions are most unusual." 

It was the more curious, as some of the 
young men were extremely good partis, 
and if the father in his frock-coat and top- 
hat had gone to make a formal demand for 
any one of the girls, I think his proposition 
would have been accepted with pleasure. 
The result is that no foreign girl ever knows 
anything of the man she marries. The 
marriage has usually been arranged Ijy two 
families of the same world, or coterie, and 
the same fortune, and very often the same 
part of the country. In France, in some of 
the big pro\'incial towns, Bordeaux orRouen, 
the bride's family make it a point that the 
young couple should live in the same town. 

When the American girl marries a French- 
man it is quite different. She adapts her- 
self very easily and quickly to her new sur- 
roundings, criticises freely whatever she 
doesn't like, expresses her opinion about 
everything, discusses religious and political 



matters quite simply, not being hampered 
by family traditions and the fear of being 
mal vue in her new family. She is always 
ready to interest herself in her husbancl's 
career, whatever it may be, and willing and 
anxious to help him; but she must help in 
her own way, not follow the lines laid down 
jjy long years of habit and influence. 

The religious question is sometimes a 
delicate one, when the wife is Protestant 
and the husband Catholic, particularly if 
the children must be brought up Catholics. 
I know Protestant mothers who superin- 
tend the children's religious education most 
conscientiously, even going to mass with 
them. The French father is quite satisfied ; 
lie knows his wife will keep the promise she 
has made, to bring the children up Catho- 
lics, and will never attempt to influence 
them toward her own faith. As a rule, 
Frenchmen, even those who are not very 
ardent Catholics, hold enormously to hav- 
ing their children brought up in their own 
religion. It is strange how many become 
lukewarm, if not absolutely indifferent, when 
they have passed their examinations, and 
learned to think for themselves. I don't 
know if it is peculiar to France, or the Ro- 
man Catholic religion. I rather think it is 
the same now in all countries. A spirit of 
doubt and criticism seems in the air; no one 
believes anything that can't be proved. 

The Frenchman is generally proud of his 
foreign wife's intelligence and quick per- 
ceptions, learns to value her opinion, sees 
that she is unlike his female relations, lack- 
ing very often in some of their good qualities. 
The American is often a careless house- 
keeper, and to the French mind always a 
careless mother, leaving her children, boys 
]:)articularly, too much to themselves. She 
is, too, much less exact in social duties, is not 
pursued by the idea that she must pay visits 
on reception days, and must be very deferen- 
tial to all the old ladies of her acquaintance. 
I think one of the prettiest things in France 
is the respect for age. 

Italian marriages are cjuite different. 
jVIany English and American girls have 
married in Italy, but the life there is not at 
all the same as in France. Italians are just 
as easy-going with their wives as with any- 
thing else in their lives. They don't in the 
least wish them to be very intelligent, or 
\ery cultivated, or to take a great interest 



International 



Marriages 



303 



in their career. As a rule, they haven't any 
career except politics and diplomacy (the 
army is not considered at all the brilliant 
career it is in other countries — the pay is 
small and promotion slow). It is becom- 
ing a very difficult question now in Italy 
how to occupy the young men — I am speak- 
ing, of course, of the upper classes. As 
long as the wife is amiable, nice to her hus- 
band's family and friends, makes his home 
pleasant, and doesn't expect too much from 
him in the way of attention or great intel- 
lectual effort, he is quite satisfied. He is 
generally perfectly indifferent to the re- 
ligious question, feels that his children 
ought to be brought up Catholic, but also 
feels that as soon as they get to man's estate 
they will judge for themselves. Religion 
and politics are so closely interwoven in 
Italy that it is difficult to be a modern Ital- 
ian, interested or actively occupied, in all 
the social and popular movement, without 
becoming almost a free-thinker. The Ital- 
ian is usually a good husband and father. 
This is, again, his easy, kindly nature. He 
is also fond of animals. It is amusing to 
hear them, of all classes, talking to their 
dogs and horses. 

I believe that most of the English and 
American women married in Italy are very 
happy and contented in their lives; but I 
think the beginnings must sometimes have 
been difficult. I can imagine nothing so 
unlike an Italian as an Englishman or an 
American. What makes the Italian's great 
attraction, the absolute lack of self-con- 
sciousness, the vivacity, exuberance of 
speech and gesture, quick changes of feel- 
ing most forcibly expressed, great artistic 
sensibility to sounds and color, and an fond 
an extraordinary insouciance (not absolute 
indifference) to what goes on around him, 
is such a perfect contrast to the practical, 
unartistic, self-controlled, self-contained 
Anglo-Saxon, that one wonders how such 
perfectly different elements ever merge into 
anything harmonious — but they do. 

Certainly the children of Italian fathers 
and English and American mothers are very 
good specimens. Some (not many) of the 
young Italians in those conditions, a dual 
nationality, are now being educated in Ger- 
many and England. It will be interesting 
to see the result of such education. Theo- 
retically, I think it must be wrong. Chil- 
dren , boys especially, should grow up in their 



own country, and among the people they are 
destined to live with. It seems to me it is 
not wise to allow a boy's first years, when im- 
pressions are easily made and habits formed, 
to be passed in a foreign country. The very 
friendships he makes at school would be of 
no use to him in after-life, and he must feel a 
stranger with his own people, disposed to 
criticise everything that is not exactly as he 
has been accustomed to see it. 

The answer to that is that one wants new 
blood and new ideas in old Italy. Inter- 
national marriages have done much, but if 
the boys are to be educated at Jesuit col- 
leges, kept under strict surveillance, allowed 
very little liberty and outdoor sport — lead, 
in fact, the regular life of Italian school-boys 
— that habit, example, and association will 
completely obliterate all trace of the north- 
ern blood, and the present generation will 
be exactly like what their fathers and grand- 
fathers were before them. 

I think Englishwomen are far less adapt- 
able than Americans. Every day it strikes 
me more forcibly. I know so many mar- 
ried abroad who have remained just as 
British as if they had never been off their 
island. The Englishwoman begins by be- 
lieving firmly (and asserting it rather ag- 
gressively) that everything in England is 
better than anything on the Continent. The 
men are bigger and stronger, the women 
more virtuous, all English boys speak the 
truth (the inference is obvious for the rest 
of the world), the tradespeople arc more 
honest, the statesmen, ministers, etc., more 
patriotic, the literature more elevated in 
tone. One can't help respecting such ab- 
solute conviction that England is the only 
country in the world, but then one mustn't 
marry a foreigner, who naturally thinks 
that his country offers a great deal that is 
attractive. It is really curious how the 
English impose their customs and opinions 
wherever they are. I am thinking of a lit- 
tle town on the Italian Riviera, not far from 
Genoa. There are several Italian palaces, 
and quite a large Italian bourgeois society, 
but all the villas are owned by English. 
The two hotels are filled with English; they 
have their church, their reading-room, their 
tennis, their club, and they have almost 
ousted the Italians from their own place. 
They do it quite unconsciously. They can't 
live without all that makes their lives com- 
fortable. The Italians don't like it, but they 



304 



To My Unknown Neighbor 



see that the town is improved, more money 
spent, many more people come there; so 
they stand aloof and look on at all the 
changes, never modifying in the least their 
own customs. 

Of course, it has its good side. The Eng- 
lishwoman married on the Continent tries 
at once to improve the condition of the peo- 
ple, especially in the country, organizes out- 
door games, sewing classes, mothers' meet- 
ings, etc. (this last an entire novelty in France 
certainly). I was once in a chateau where 
the mistress of the house, an Englishwoman 
born, was quite at a loss to know what to 
read to the mothers . The hour that the poor 
women spent in sewing she always read them 
something. The choice was not easy. It 
was difficult for her to judge what could in- 
terest that class of peasant. She told me 
they listened with great attention when the 
choice pleased them, remembering from 
week to week exactly where she had left off, 
even the last word in the sentence. The book 
that had had the greatest success was a 
translation of "Uncle Tom's Cabin." She 
had read it to them twice. 

Some Englishwomen never conform to 
French habits and hours. I know of one 
couple, the husband French, the wife Eng- 
lish, who have really become estranged over 
different hours. The wife lived a VAnglaise, 



— had her solid English breakfast, with mut- 
ton chops, eggs, hot bread, and orange mar- 
malade every day at 9.30 with her children; 
her luncheon also the traditional English 
luncheon, finishing with a tart or a pudding, 
at 1.30. The husband had his coffee and 
croissant (little crescent-shaped roll, which 
forms part of every petit dejeuner in France) 
at eight, in his room, and his breakfast, also 
a solid meal, a la joiirchetteat twelve o'clock, 
the usual French hour. 

In a French marriage contract all sorts 
of conditions and details are gone into, but 
I don't ever remember hearing hours of 
meals mentioned. 

The Anglo-Sa.xon married abroad brings 
a strong individuality , almost always a strong 
physique, great independence of judgment, 
a great wish to adapt herself to her new life, 
and to be popular with her husband's family 
and friends. She finds in her foreign home 
a strong family feeling that will never fail 
her (once a girl is married in France or 
Italy she is adopted by all the members of 
the family), a great pride of race, a high 
sense of honor, and in ])eople of rank and 
fortune a very strong feeling of the obli- 
gations and responsibilities of their posi- 
tion, which is well expressed by the old 
French diction, Noblesse oblige, in its best 
sense. 



TO MY UNKNOWN NEIGHBOR 



By C. A. Price 

L\ST night I sat beside my window late, 

As one who watches at his prison bars, 

Sick of the day's innumerable jars, 

Clogged with dull Earth and all her grievous weight 

Of tears and mute despairs and pitiless wars 

That know no cause, the brood and spawn of Hate. 

Above me bent the skies compassionate; 

I lon