gutenberg.txt
when the general assembly in france decreed equality of rights to all citizens, the mulattoes of santo domingo made a petition for the enjoyment of the same political privileges as the white people--to the unbounded consternation of the latter. they were rewarded with a decree which was so ambiguously worded that it was open to different interpretations and which simply heightened the animosity that for years had been smoldering. a new petition to the assembly in 1791 primarily for an interpretation brought forth on may 15 the explicit decree that the people of color were to have all the rights and privileges of citizens, provided they had been born of free parents on both sides. the white people were enraged by the decision, turned royalist, and trampled the national cockade underfoot; and throughout the summer armed strife and conflagration were the rule. to add to the confusion the black slaves struck for freedom and on the night of august 23, 1791, drenched the island in blood. in the face of these events the conventional assembly rescinded its order, then announced that the original decree must be obeyed, and it sent three commissioners with troops to santo domingo, real authority being invested in santhonax and polverel.
on june 20, 1793, at cape françois trouble was renewed by a quarrel between a mulatto and a white officer in the marines. the seamen came ashore and loaned their assistance to the white people, and the negroes now joined forces with the mulattoes. in the battle of two days that followed the arsenal was taken and plundered, thousands were killed in the streets, and more than half of the town was burned. the french commissioners were the unhappy witnesses of the scene, but they were practically helpless, having only about a thousand troops. santhonax, however, issued a proclamation offering freedom to all slaves who were willing to range themselves under the banner of the republic. this was the first proclamation for the freeing of slaves in santo domingo, and as a result of it many of the negroes came in and were enfranchised.
soon after this proclamation polverel left his colleague at the cape and went to port au prince, the capital of the west. here things were quiet and the cultivation of the crops was going forward as usual. the slaves were soon unsettled, however, by the news of what was being done elsewhere, and polverel was convinced that emancipation could not be delayed and that for the safety of the planters themselves it was necessary to extend it to the whole island. in september (1793) he set in circulation from aux cayes a proclamation to this effect, and at the same time he exhorted all the planters in the vicinity who concurred in his work to register their names. this almost all of them did, as they were convinced of the need of measures for their personal safety; and on february 4, 1794, the conventional assembly in paris formally approved all that had been done by decreeing the abolition of slavery in all the colonies of france.
all the while the spanish and the english had been looking on with interest and had even come to the french part of the island as if to aid in the restoration of order. among the former, at first in charge of a little royalist band, was the negro, toussaint, later called l'ouverture. he was then a man in the prime of life, forty-eight years old, and already his experience had given him the wisdom that was needed to bring peace in santo domingo. in april, 1794, impressed by the decree of the assembly, he returned to the jurisdiction of france and took service under the republic. in 1796 he became a general of brigade; in 1797 general-in-chief, with the military command of the whole colony.
he at once compelled the surrender of the english who had invaded his country. with the aid of a commercial agreement with the united states, he next starved out the garrison of his rival, the mulatto rigaud, whom he forced to consent to leave the country. he then imprisoned roume, the agent of the directory, and assumed civil as well as military authority. he also seized the spanish part of the island, which had been ceded to france some years before but had not been actually surrendered. he then, in may, 1801, gave to santo domingo a constitution by which he not only assumed power for life but gave to himself the right of naming his successor; and all the while he was awakening the admiration of the world by his bravery, his moderation, and his genuine instinct for government.
this was the man to whom the united states ultimately owes the purchase of louisiana. on october 1, 1801, bonaparte gave orders to general le clerc for a great expedition against santo domingo. in january, 1802, le clerc appeared and war followed. in the course of this, toussaint--who was ordinarily so wise and who certainly knew that from napoleon he had most to fear--made the great mistake of his life and permitted himself to be led into a conference on a french vessel. he was betrayed and taken to france, where within the year he died of pneumonia in the dungeon of joux. immediately there was a proclamation annulling the decree of 1794 giving freedom to the slaves. bonaparte, however, had not estimated the force of toussaint's work, and to assist the negroes in their struggle now came a stalwart ally, yellow fever. by the end of the summer only one-seventh of le clerc's army remained, and he himself died in november. at once bonaparte planned a new expedition. while he was arranging for the leadership of this, however, the european war broke out again. meanwhile the treaty for the retrocession of the territory of louisiana had not yet received the signature of the spanish king, because godoy, the spanish representative, would not permit the signature to be affixed until all the conditions were fulfilled; and toward the end of 1802 the civil officer at new orleans closed the mississippi to the united states. jefferson, at length moved by the plea of the south, sent a special envoy, no less a man than james monroe, to france to negotiate the purchase; bonaparte, disgusted by the failure of his egyptian expedition and his project for reaching india, and especially by his failure in santo domingo, in need also of ready money, listened to the offer; and the people of the united states--who within the last few years have witnessed the spoliation of hayti--have not yet realized how much they owe to the courage of 500,000 haytian negroes who refused to be slaves.
the slavery question in the new territory was a critical one. it was on account of it that the federalists had opposed the acquisition; the american convention endeavored to secure a provision like that of the northwest ordinance; and the yearly meeting of the society of friends in philadelphia in 1805 prayed "that effectual measures may be adopted by congress to prevent the introduction of slavery into any of the territories of the united states." nevertheless the whole territory without regard to latitude was thrown open to the system march 2, 1805.
thus, while the formal closing of the slave-trade might seem to be a great step forward, the laxness with which the decree was enforced places it definitely in the period of reaction.
3. gabriel's insurrection and the rise of the negro problem
gabriel's insurrection of 1800 was by no means the most formidable revolt that the southern states witnessed. in design it certainly did not surpass the scope of the plot of denmark vesey twenty-two years later, and in actual achievement it was insignificant when compared not only with nat turner's insurrection but even with the uprisings sixty years before. at the last moment in fact a great storm that came up made the attempt to execute the plan a miserable failure. nevertheless coming as it did so soon after the revolution in hayti, and giving evidence of young and unselfish leadership, the plot was regarded as of extraordinary significance.
on the day appointed for the uprising virginia witnessed such a storm as she had not seen in years. bridges were carried away, and roads and plantations completely submerged. brook swamp, the strategic point for the negroes, was inundated; and the country negroes could not get into the city, nor could those in the city get out to the place of rendezvous. the force of more than a thousand dwindled to three hundred, and these, almost paralyzed by fear and superstition, were dismissed. meanwhile a slave who did not wish to see his master killed divulged the plot, and all richmond was soon in arms.
a troop of united states cavalry was ordered to the city and arrests followed quickly. three hundred dollars was offered by governor monroe for the arrest of gabriel, and as much more for jack bowler. bowler surrendered, but it took weeks to find gabriel. six men were convicted and condemned to be executed on september 12, and five more on september 18. gabriel was finally captured on september 24 at norfolk on a vessel that had come from richmond; he was convicted on october 3 and executed on october 7. he showed no disposition to dissemble as to his own plan; at the same time he said not one word that incriminated anybody else. after him twenty-four more men were executed; then it began to appear that some "mistakes" had been made and the killing ceased. about the time of this uprising some negroes were also assembled for an outbreak in suffolk county; there were alarms in petersburg and in the country near edenton, n.c.; and as far away as charleston the excitement was intense.
the deeper meaning of such events as these could not escape the discerning. more than one patriot had to wonder just whither the country was drifting. already it was evident that the ultimate problem transcended the mere question of slavery, and many knew that human beings could not always be confined to an artificial status. throughout the period the slave-trade seemed to flourish without any real check, and it was even accentuated by the return to power of the old royalist houses of europe after the fall of napoleon. meanwhile it was observed that slave labor was driving out of the south the white man of small means, and antagonism between the men of the "up-country" and the seaboard capitalists was brewing. the ordinary social life of the negro in the south left much to be desired, and conditions were not improved by the rapid increase. as for slavery itself, no one could tell when or where or how the system would end; all only knew that it was developing apace: and meanwhile there was the sinister possibility of the alliance of the negro and the indian. sincere plans of gradual abolition were advanced in the south as well as the north, but in the lower section they seldom got more than a respectful hearing. in his "dissertation on slavery, with a proposal for the gradual abolition of it in the state of virginia," st. george tucker, a professor of law in the university of william and mary, and one of the judges of the general court of virginia, in 1796 advanced a plan by which he figured that after sixty years there would be only one-third as many slaves as at first. at this distance his proposal seems extremely conservative; at the time, however, it was laid on the table by the virginia house of delegates, and from the senate the author received merely "a civil acknowledgment."
indian and negro
it is not the purpose of the present chapter to give a history of the seminole wars, or even to trace fully the connection of the negro with these contests. we do hope to show at least, however, that the negro was more important than anything else as an immediate cause of controversy, though the general pressure of the white man upon the indian would in time of course have made trouble in any case. strange parallels constantly present themselves, and incidentally it may be seen that the policy of the government in force in other and even later years with reference to the negro was at this time also very largely applied in the case of the indian.
on august 7, 1786, the continental congress by a definite and far-reaching ordinance sought to regulate for the future the whole conduct of indian affairs. two great districts were formed, one including the territory north of the ohio and west of the hudson, and the other including that south of the ohio and east of the mississippi; and for anything pertaining to the indian in each of these two great tracts a superintendent was appointed. as affecting the negro the southern district was naturally of vastly more importance than the northern. in the eastern portion of this, mainly in what are now georgia, eastern tennessee, and eastern alabama, were the cherokees and the great confederacy of the creeks, while toward the west, in the present mississippi and western alabama, were the chickasaws and the choctaws. of muskhogean stock, and originally a part of the creeks, were the seminoles ("runaways"), who about 1750, under the leadership of a great chieftain, secoffee, separated from the main confederacy, which had its center in southwest georgia just a little south of columbus, and overran the peninsula of florida. in 1808 came another band under micco hadjo to the present site of tallahassee. the mickasukie tribe was already on the ground in the vicinity of this town, and at first its members objected to the newcomers, who threatened to take their lands from them; but at length all abode peaceably together under the general name of seminoles. about 1810 these people had twenty towns, the chief ones being mikasuki and tallahassee. from the very first they had received occasional additions from the yemassee, who had been driven out of south carolina, and of fugitive negroes.
by the close of the eighteenth century all along the frontier the indian had begun to feel keenly the pressure of the white man, and in his struggle with the invader he recognized in the oppressed negro a natural ally. those negroes who by any chance became free were welcomed by the indians, fugitives from bondage found refuge with them, and while indian chiefs commonly owned slaves, the variety of servitude was very different from that under the white man. the negroes were comparatively free, and intermarriage was frequent; thus a mulatto woman who fled from bondage married a chief and became the mother of a daughter who in course of time became the wife of the famous osceola. this very close connection of the negro with the family life of the indian was the determining factor in the resistance of the seminoles to the demands of the agents of the united states, and a reason, stronger even than his love for his old hunting-ground, for his objection to removal to new lands beyond the mississippi. very frequently the indian could not give up his negroes without seeing his own wife and children led away into bondage; and thus to native courage and pride was added the instinct of a father for the preservation of his own.
the seminoles--in the west more and more identified with the creeks--were angered by their failure to recover the lands lost by the treaty of fort jackson and also by the building of fort scott. one settlement, fowltown, fifteen miles east of fort scott, was especially excited and in the fall of 1817 sent a warning to the americans "not to cross or cut a stick of timber on the east side of the flint." the warning was regarded as a challenge; fowltown was taken on a morning in november, and the seminole wars had begun.
2. first seminole war and the treaties of indian spring and fort moultrie
in the course of the first seminole war (1817-18) jackson ruthlessly laid waste the towns of the indians; he also took pensacola, and he awakened international difficulties by his rather summary execution of two british subjects, arbuthnot and ambrister, who were traders to the indians and sustained generally pleasant relations with them. for his conduct, especially in this last instance, he was severely criticized in congress, but it is significant of his rising popularity that no formal vote of censure could pass against him. on the cession of florida to the united states he was appointed territorial governor; but he served for a brief term only. as early as 1822 he was nominated for the presidency by the legislature of tennessee, and in 1823 he was sent to the united states senate.
3. from the treaty of fort moultrie to the treaty of payne's landing
by 1827, however, the territorial legislature had begun to memorialize congress and to ask for the complete removal of the indians. meanwhile the negro question was becoming more prominent, and orders from the department of war, increasingly peremptory, were made on humphreys for the return of definite negroes. for duval and humphreys, however, who had actually to execute the commissions, the task was not always so easy. under date march 20, 1827, the former wrote to the latter: "many of the slaves belonging to the whites are now in the possession of the white people; these slaves can not be obtained for their indian owners without a lawsuit, and i see no reason why the indians shall be compelled to surrender all slaves claimed by our citizens when this surrender is not mutual." meanwhile the annuity began to be withheld from the indians in order to force them to return negroes, and a friendly chief, hicks, constantly waited upon humphreys only to find the agent little more powerful than himself. thus matters continued through 1829 and 1830. in violation of all legal procedure, the indians were constantly required to relinquish beforehand property in their possession to settle a question of claim. on march 21, 1830, humphreys was informed that he was no longer agent for the indians. he had been honestly devoted to the interest of these people, but his efforts were not in harmony with the policy of the new administration.
just what that policy was may be seen from jackson's special message on indian affairs of february 22, 1831. the senate had asked for information as to the conduct of the government in connection with the act of march 30, 1802, "to regulate trade and intercourse with the indian tribes and to preserve peace on the frontiers." the nullification controversy was in everybody's mind, and already friction had arisen between the new president and the abolitionists. in spite of jackson's attitude toward south carolina, his message in the present instance was a careful defense of the whole theory of state rights. nothing in the conduct of the federal government toward the indian tribes, he insisted, had ever been intended to attack or even to call in question the rights of a sovereign state. in one way the southern states had seemed to be an exception. "as early as 1784 the settlements within the limits of north carolina were advanced farther to the west than the authority of the state to enforce an obedience of its laws." after the revolution the tribes desolated the frontiers. "under these circumstances the first treaties, in 1785 and 1790, with the cherokees, were concluded by the government of the united states." nothing of all this, said jackson, had in any way affected the relation of any indians to the state in which they happened to reside, and he concluded as follows: "toward this race of people i entertain the kindest feelings, and am not sensible that the views which i have taken of their true interests are less favorable to them than those which oppose their emigration to the west. years since i stated to them my belief that if the states chose to extend their laws over them it would not be in the power of the federal government to prevent it. my opinion remains the same, and i can see no alternative for them but that of their removal to the west or a quiet submission to the state laws. if they prefer to remove, the united states agree to defray their expenses, to supply them the means of transportation and a year's support after they reach their new homes--a provision too liberal and kind to bear the stamp of injustice. either course promises them peace and happiness, whilst an obstinate perseverance in the effort to maintain their possessions independent of the state authority can not fail to render their condition still more helpless and miserable. such an effort ought, therefore, to be discountenanced by all who sincerely sympathize in the fortunes of this peculiar people, and especially by the political bodies of the union, as calculated to disturb the harmony of the two governments and to endanger the safety of the many blessings which they enable us to enjoy."
the policy thus formally enunciated was already in practical operation. in the closing days of the administration of john quincy adams a delegation came to washington to present to the administration the grievances of the cherokee nation. the formal reception of the delegation fell to the lot of eaton, the new secretary of war. the cherokees asserted that not only did they have no rights in the georgia courts in cases involving white men, but that they had been notified by georgia that all laws, usages, and agreements in force in the indian country would be null and void after june 1, 1830; and naturally they wanted the interposition of the federal government. eaton replied at great length, reminding the cherokees that they had taken sides with england in the war of 1812, that they were now on american soil only by sufferance, and that the central government could not violate the rights of the state of georgia; and he strongly advised immediate removal to the west. the cherokees, quite broken, acted in accord with this advice; and so in 1832 did the creeks, to whom jackson had sent a special talk urging removal as the only basis of federal protection.
to the seminoles as early as 1827 overtures for removal had been made; but before the treaty of fort moultrie had really become effective they had been intruded upon and they in turn had become more slow about returning runaway slaves. from some of the clauses in the treaty of fort moultrie, as some of the chiefs were quick to point out, the understanding was that the same was to be in force for twenty years; and they felt that any slowness on their part about the return of negroes was fully nullified by the efforts of the professional negro stealers with whom they had to deal.
early in 1832, however, colonel james gadsden of florida was directed by lewis cass, the secretary of war, to enter into negotiation for the removal of the indians of florida. there was great opposition to a conference, but the indians were finally brought together at payne's landing on the ocklawaha river just seventeen miles from fort king. here on may 9, 1832, was wrested from them a treaty which is of supreme importance in the history of the seminoles. the full text was as follows:
treaty of payne's landing,
whereas, a treaty between the united states and the seminole nation of indians was made and concluded at payne's landing, on the ocklawaha river, on the 9th of may, one thousand eight hundred and thirty-two, by james gadsden, commissioner on the part of the united states, and the chiefs and headmen of said seminole nation of indians, on the part of said nation; which treaty is in the words following, to wit:
the seminole indians, regarding with just respect the solicitude manifested by the president of the united states for the improvement of their condition, by recommending a removal to the country more suitable to their habits and wants than the one they at present occupy in the territory of florida, are willing that their confidential chiefs, jumper, fuch-a-lus-to-had-jo, charley emathla, coi-had-jo, holati-emathla, ya-ha-had-jo, sam jones, accompanied by their agent, major john phagan, and their faithful interpreter, abraham, should be sent, at the expense of the united states, as early as convenient, to examine the country assigned to the creeks, west of the mississippi river, and should they be satisfied with the character of the country, and of the favorable disposition of the creeks to re-unite with the seminoles as one people; the articles of the compact and agreement herein stipulated, at payne's landing, on the ocklawaha river, this ninth day of may, one thousand eight hundred and thirty-two, between james gadsden, for and in behalf of the government of the united states, and the undersigned chiefs and headmen, for and in behalf of the seminole indians, shall be binding on the respective parties.
article i. the seminole indians relinquish to the united states all claim to the land they at present occupy in the territory of florida, and agree to emigrate to the country assigned to the creeks, west of the mississippi river, it being understood that an additional extent of country, proportioned to their numbers, will be added to the creek territory, and that the seminoles will be received as a constituent part of the creek nation, and be re-admitted to all the privileges as a member of the same.
article ii. for and in consideration of the relinquishment of claim in the first article of this agreement, and in full compensation for all the improvements which may have been made on the lands thereby ceded, the united states stipulate to pay to the seminole indians fifteen thousand four hundred ($15,400) dollars, to be divided among the chiefs and warriors of the several towns, in a ratio proportioned to their population, the respective proportions of each to be paid on their arrival in the country they consent to remove to; it being understood that their faithful interpreters, abraham and cudjo, shall receive two hundred dollars each, of the above sum, in full remuneration of the improvements to be abandoned on the lands now cultivated by them.
article iii. the united states agree to distribute, as they arrive at their new homes in the creek territory, west of the mississippi river, a blanket and a homespun frock to each of the warriors, women and children, of the seminole tribe of indians.
article vi. the seminoles being anxious to be relieved from the repeated vexatious demands for slaves, and other property, alleged to have been stolen and destroyed by them, so that they may remove unembarrassed to their new homes, the united states stipulate to have the same property (properly) investigated, and to liquidate such as may be satisfactorily established, provided the amount does not exceed seven thousand ($7,000) dollars.
article vii. the seminole indians will remove within three (3) years after the ratification of this agreement, and the expenses of their removal shall be defrayed by the united states, and such subsistence shall also be furnished them, for a term not exceeding twelve (12) months after their arrival at their new residence, as in the opinion of the president their numbers and circumstances may require; the emigration to commence as early as practicable in the year eighteen hundred and thirty-three (1833), and with those indians at present occupying the big swamp, and other parts of the country beyond the limits, as defined in the second article of the treaty concluded at camp moultrie creek, so that the whole of that proportion of the seminoles may be removed within the year aforesaid, and the remainder of the tribe, in about equal proportions, during the subsequent years of eighteen hundred and thirty-four and five (1834 and 1835).
in testimony whereof, the commissioner, james gadsden, and the undersigned chiefs and head-men of the seminole indians, have hereunto subscribed their names and affixed their seals.
done at camp, at payne's landing, on the ocklawaha river, in the territory of florida, on this ninth day of may, one thousand eight hundred and thirty-two, and of the independence of the united states of america, the fifty-sixth.
now, therefore, be it known that i, andrew jackson, president of the united states of america, having seen and considered said treaty, do, by and with the advice and consent of the senate, as expressed by their resolution of the eighth day of april, one thousand eight hundred and thirty-four, accept, ratify, and confirm the same, and every clause and article thereof.
in witness whereof, i have caused the seal of the united states to be hereunto affixed, having signed the same with my hand. done at the city of washington, this twelfth day of april, in the year of our lord one thousand eight hundred and thirty-four, and of the independence of the united states of america, the fifty-eighth.
it will be seen that by the terms of this document seven chiefs were to go and examine the country assigned to the creeks, and that they were to be accompanied by major john phagan, the successor of humphreys, and the negro interpreter abraham. the character of phagan may be seen from the facts that he was soon in debt to different ones of the indians and to abraham, and that he was found to be short in his accounts. while the indian chiefs were in the west, three united states commissioners conferred with them as to the suitability of the country for a future home, and at fort gibson, arkansas, march 28, 1833, they were beguiled into signing an additional treaty in which occurred the following sentence: "and the undersigned seminole chiefs, delegated as aforesaid, on behalf of their nation, hereby declare themselves well satisfied with the location provided for them by the commissioners, and agree that their nation shall commence the removal to their new home as soon as the government will make arrangements for their emigration, satisfactory to the seminole nation." they of course had no authority to act on their own initiative, and when all returned in april, 1833, and phagan explained what had happened, the seminoles expressed themselves in no uncertain terms. the chiefs who had gone west denied strenuously that they had signed away any rights to land, but they were nevertheless upbraided as the agents of deception. some of the old chiefs, of whom micanopy was the highest authority, resolved to resist the efforts to dispossess them; and john hicks, who seems to have been substituted for sam jones on the commission, was killed because he argued too strongly for migration. meanwhile the treaty of payne's landing was ratified by the senate of the united states and proclaimed as in force by president jackson april 12, 1834, and in connection with it the supplementary treaty of fort gibson was also ratified. the seminoles, however, were not showing any haste about removing, and ninety of the white citizens of alachua county sent a protest to the president alleging that the indians were not returning their fugitive slaves. jackson was made angry, and without even waiting for the formal ratification of the treaties, he sent the document to the secretary of war, with an endorsement on the back directing him "to inquire into the alleged facts, and if found to be true, to direct the seminoles to prepare to remove west and join the creeks." general wiley thompson was appointed to succeed phagan as agent, and general duncan l. clinch was placed in command of the troops whose services it was thought might be needed. it was at this juncture that osceola stepped forward as the leading spirit of his people.
4. osceola and the second seminole war
all the while injustice and injury to the indians continued. econchattimico, well known as one of those chiefs to whom special reservations had been given by the treaty of fort moultrie, was the owner of twenty slaves valued at $15,000. observing negro stealers hovering around his estate, he armed himself and his men. the kidnapers then furthered their designs by circulating the report that the indians were arming themselves for union with the main body of seminoles for the general purpose of massacring the white people. face to face with this charge econchattimico gave up his arms and threw himself on the protection of the government; and his negroes were at once taken and sold into bondage.
a similar case was that of john walker, an appalachicola chief, who wrote to thompson under date july 28, 1835: "i am induced to write you in consequence of the depredations making and attempted to be made upon my property, by a company of negro stealers, some of whom are from columbus, ga., and have connected themselves with brown and douglass.... i should like your advice how i am to act. i dislike to make or to have any difficulty with the white people. but if they trespass upon my premises and my rights, i must defend myself the best way i can. if they do make this attempt, and i have no doubt they will, they must bear the consequences. but is there no civil law to protect me? are the free negroes and the negroes belonging to this town to be stolen away publicly, and in the face of law and justice, carried off and sold to fill the pockets of these worse than land pirates? douglass and his company hired a man who has two large trained dogs for the purpose to come down and take billy. he is from mobile and follows for a livelihood catching runaway negroes."
such were the motives, fears and incidents in the years immediately after the treaty of payne's landing. beginning at the close of 1834 and continuing through april, 1835, thompson had a series of conferences with the seminole chiefs. at these meetings micanopy, influenced by osceola and other young seminoles, took a more definite stand than he might otherwise have assumed. especially did he insist with reference to the treaty that he understood that the chiefs who went west were to examine the country, and for his part he knew that when they returned they would report unfavorably. thompson then, becoming angry, delivered an ultimatum to the effect that if the treaty was not observed the annuity from the great father in washington would cease. to this, osceola, stepping forward, replied that he and his warriors did not care if they never received another dollar from the great father, and drawing his knife, he plunged it in the table and said, "the only treaty i will execute is with this." henceforward there was deadly enmity between the young seminole and thompson. more and more osceola made his personality felt, constantly asserting to the men of his nation that whoever recommended emigration was an enemy of the seminoles, and he finally arrived at an understanding with many of them that the treaty would be resisted with their very lives. thompson, however, on april 23, 1835, had a sort of secret conference with sixteen of the chiefs who seemed favorably disposed toward migration, and he persuaded them to sign a document "freely and fully" assenting to the treaties of payne's landing and fort gibson. the next day there was a formal meeting at which the agent, backed up by clinch and his soldiers, upbraided the indians in a very harsh manner. his words were met by groans, angry gesticulations, and only half-muffled imprecations. clinch endeavored to appeal to the indians and to advise them that resistance was both unwise and useless. thompson, however, with his usual lack of tact, rushed onward in his course, and learning that five chiefs were unalterably opposed to the treaty, he arbitrarily struck their names off the roll of chiefs, an action the highhandedness of which was not lost on the seminoles. immediately after the conference moreover he forbade the sale of any more arms and powder to the indians. to the friendly chiefs the understanding had been given that the nation might have until january 1, 1836, to make preparation for removal, by which time all were to assemble at fort brooke, tampa bay, for emigration.
important in this general connection was the fate of the deputation that the influential john ross, chief of the cherokees, was persuaded to send from his nation to induce the seminoles to think more favorably of migration. micanopy, twelve other chieftains, and a number of warriors accompanied the cherokee deputation to the headquarters of the united states army at fort mellon, where they were to discuss the matter. these warriors also jessup seized, and ross wrote to the secretary of war a dignified but bitter letter protesting against this "unprecedented violation of that sacred rule which has ever been recognized by every nation, civilized and uncivilized, of treating with all due respect those who had ever presented themselves under a flag of truce before the enemy, for the purpose of proposing the termination of warfare." he had indeed been most basely used as the agent of deception.
this chapter, we trust, has shown something of the real nature of the points at issue in the seminole wars. in the course of these contests the rights of indian and negro alike were ruthlessly disregarded. there was redress for neither before the courts, and at the end in dealing with them every honorable principle of men and nations was violated. it is interesting that the three representatives of colored peoples who in the course of the nineteenth century it was most difficult to capture--toussaint l'ouverture, the negro, osceola, the indian, and aguinaldo, the filipino--were all taken through treachery; and on two of the three occasions this treachery was practiced by responsible officers of the united states army.
early approach to the negro problem
1. the ultimate problem and the missouri compromise
into the agitation was suddenly thrust the application of missouri for entrance into the union as a slave state. the struggle that followed for two years was primarily a political one, but in the course of the discussion the evils of slavery were fully considered. meanwhile, in 1819, alabama and maine also applied for admission. alabama was allowed to enter without much discussion, as she made equal the number of slave and free states. maine, however, brought forth more talk. the southern congressmen would have been perfectly willing to admit this as a free state if missouri had been admitted as a slave state; but the north felt that this would have been to concede altogether too much, as missouri from the first gave promise of being unusually important. at length, largely through the influence of henry clay, there was adopted a compromise whose main provisions were (1) that maine was to be admitted as a free state; (2) that in missouri there was to be no prohibition of slavery; but (3) that slavery was to be prohibited in any other states that might be formed out of the louisiana purchase north of the line of 36° 30'.
dr. finley's meeting at princeton was not very well attended and hence not a great success. nevertheless he felt sufficiently encouraged to go to washington in december, 1816, to use his effort for the formation of a national colonization society. it happened that in february of this same year, 1816, general charles fenton mercer, member of the house of delegates, came upon the secret journals of the legislature for the period 1801-5 and saw the correspondence between monroe and jefferson. interested in the colonization project, on december 14 (monroe then being president-elect) he presented in the house of delegates resolutions embodying the previous enactments; and these passed 132 to 14. finley was generally helped by the effort of mercer, and on december 21, 1816, there was held in washington a meeting of public men and interested citizens, henry clay, then speaker of the house of representatives, presiding. a constitution was adopted at an adjourned meeting on december 28; and on january 1, 1817, were formally chosen the officers of "the american society for colonizing the free people of color of the united states." at this last meeting henry clay, again presiding, spoke in glowing terms of the possibilities of the movement; elias b. caldwell, a brother-in-law of finley, made the leading argument; and john randolph, of roanoke, va., and robert wright, of maryland, spoke of the advantages to accrue from the removal of the free negroes from the country (which remarks were very soon to awaken much discussion and criticism, especially on the part of the negroes themselves). it is interesting to note that mercer had no part at all in the meeting of january 1, not even being present; he did not feel that any but southern men should be enrolled in the organization. however, bushrod washington, the president, was a southern man; twelve of the seventeen vice-presidents were southern men, among them being andrew jackson and william crawford; and all of the twelve managers were slaveholders.
we have seen that from the beginning there were liberal-minded men in the south who opposed the system of slavery, and if we actually take note of all the utterances of different men and of the proposals for doing away with the system, we shall find that about the turn of the century there was in this section considerable anti-slavery sentiment. between 1800 and 1820, however, the opening of new lands in the southwest, the increasing emphasis on cotton, and the rapidly growing negro population, gave force to the argument of expediency; and the missouri compromise drew sharply the lines of the contest. the south now came to regard slavery as its peculiar heritage; public men were forced to defend the institution; and in general the best thought of the section began to be obsessed and dominated by the negro, just as it is to-day in large measure. in taking this position the south deliberately committed intellectual suicide. in such matters as freedom of speech and literary achievement, and in genuine statesmanship if not for the time being in political influence, this part of the country declined, and before long the difference between it and new england was appalling. calhoun and hayne were strong; but between 1820 and 1860 the south had no names to compare with longfellow and emerson in literature, or with morse and hoe in invention. the foremost college professor, dew, of william and mary, and even the outstanding divines, furman, the baptist, of south carolina, in the twenties, and palmer, the presbyterian of new orleans, in the fifties, are all now remembered mainly because they defended their section in keeping the negro in bonds. william and mary college, and even the university of virginia, as compared with harvard and yale, became provincial institutions; and instead of the washington or jefferson of an earlier day now began to be nourished such a leader as "bob" toombs, who for all of his fire and eloquence was a demagogue. in making its choice the south could not and did not blame the negro per se, for it was freely recognized that upon slave labor rested such economic stability as the section possessed. the tragedy was simply that thousands of intelligent americans deliberately turned their faces to the past, and preferred to read the novels of walter scott and live in the middle ages rather than study the french revolution and live in the nineteenth century. one hundred years after we find that the chains are still forged, that thought is not yet free. thus the negro problem began to be, and still is, very largely the problem of the white man of the south. the era of capitalism had not yet dawned, and still far in the future was the day when the poor white man and the negro were slowly to realize that their interests were largely identical.
the negro reply, i: revolt
we have already seen that on several occasions in colonial times the negroes in bondage made a bid for freedom, many men risking their all and losing their lives in consequence. in general these early attempts failed completely to realize their aim, organization being feeble and the leadership untrained and exerting only an emotional hold over adherents. in charleston, s.c., in 1822, however, there was planned an insurrection about whose scope there could be no question. the leader, denmark vesey, is interesting as an intellectual insurrectionist just as the more famous nat turner is typical of the more fervent sort. it is the purpose of the present chapter to study the attempts for freedom made by these two men, and also those of two daring groups of captives who revolted at sea.
1. denmark vesey's insurrection
denmark vesey is first seen as one of the three hundred and ninety slaves on the ship of captain vesey, who commanded a vessel trading between st. thomas and cape françois (santo domingo), and who was engaged in supplying the french of the latter place with slaves. at the time, the boy was fourteen years old, and of unusual personal beauty, alertness, and magnetism. he was shown considerable favoritism, and was called télémaque (afterwards corrupted to telmak, and then to denmark). on his arrival at cape françois, denmark was sold with others of the slaves to a planter who owned a considerable estate. on his next trip, however, captain vesey learned that the boy was to be returned to him as unsound and subject to epileptic fits. the laws of the place permitted the return of a slave in such a case, and while it has been thought that denmark's fits may have been feigned in order that he might have some change of estate, there was quite enough proof in the matter to impress the king's physician. captain vesey never had reason to regret having to take the boy back. they made several voyages together, and denmark served until 1800 as his faithful personal attendant. in this year the young man, now thirty-three years of age and living in charleston, won $1,500 in an east bay street lottery, $600 of which he devoted immediately to the purchase of his freedom. the sum was much less than he was really worth, but captain vesey liked him and had no reason to drive a hard bargain with him.
in the early years of his full manhood accordingly denmark vesey found himself a free man in his own right and possessed of the means for a little real start in life. he improved his time and proceeded to win greater standing and recognition by regular and industrious work at his trade, that of a carpenter. over the slaves he came to have unbounded influence. among them, in accordance with the standards of the day, he had several wives and children (none of whom could he call his own), and he understood perfectly the fervor and faith and superstition of the negroes with whom he had to deal. to his remarkable personal magnetism moreover he added just the strong passion and the domineering temper that were needed to make his conquest complete.
2. nat turner's insurrection
about noon on sunday, august 21, 1831, on the plantation of joseph travis at cross keys, in southampton county, in southeastern virginia, were gathered four negroes, henry porter, hark travis, nelson williams, and sam francis, evidently preparing for a barbecue. they were soon joined by a gigantic and athletic negro named will francis, and by another named jack reese. two hours later came a short, strong-looking man who had a face of great resolution and at whom one would not have needed to glance a second time to know that he was to be the master-spirit of the company. seeing will and his companion he raised a question as to their being present, to which will replied that life was worth no more to him than the others and that liberty was as dear to him. this answer satisfied the latest comer, and nat turner now went into conference with his most trusted friends. one can only imagine the purpose, the eagerness, and the firmness on those dark faces throughout that long summer afternoon and evening. when at last in the night the low whispering ceased, the doom of nearly three-score white persons--and it might be added, of twice as many negroes--was sealed.
cross keys was seventy miles from norfolk, just about as far from richmond, twenty-five miles from the dismal swamp, fifteen miles from murfreesboro in north carolina, and also fifteen miles from jerusalem, the county seat of southampton county. the community was settled primarily by white people of modest means. joseph travis, the owner of nat turner, had recently married the widow of one putnam moore.
nat turner, who originally belonged to one benjamin turner, was born october 2, 1800. he was mentally precocious and had marks on his head and breast which were interpreted by the negroes who knew him as marking him for some high calling. in his mature years he also had on his right arm a knot which was the result of a blow which he had received. he experimented in paper, gunpowder, and pottery, and it is recorded of him that he was never known to swear an oath, to drink a drop of spirits, or to commit a theft. instead he cultivated fasting and prayer and the reading of the bible.
more and more nat gave himself up to a life of the spirit and to communion with the voices that he said he heard. he once ran away for a month, but felt commanded by the spirit to return. about 1825 a consciousness of his great mission came to him, and daily he labored to make himself more worthy. as he worked in the field he saw drops of blood on the corn, and he also saw white spirits and black spirits contending in the skies. while he thus so largely lived in a religious or mystical world and was immersed, he was not a professional baptist preacher. on may 12, 1828, he was left no longer in doubt. a great voice said unto him that the serpent was loosed, that christ had laid down the yoke, that he, nat, was to take it up again, and that the time was fast approaching when the first should be last and the last should be first. an eclipse of the sun in february, 1831, was interpreted as the sign for him to go forward. yet he waited a little longer, until he had made sure of his most important associates. it is worthy of note that when he began his work, while he wanted the killing to be as effective and widespread as possible, he commanded that no outrage be committed, and he was obeyed.
as the men neared the home of james parker, it was suggested that they call there; but turner objected, as this man had already gone to jerusalem and he himself wished to reach the county seat as soon as possible. however, he and some of the men remained at the gate while others went to the house half a mile away. this exploit proved to be the turning-point of the events of the day. uneasy at the delay of those who went to the house, turner went thither also. on his return he was met by a company of white men who had fired on those negroes left at the gate and dispersed them. on discovering these men, turner ordered his own men to halt and form, as now they were beginning to be alarmed. the white men, eighteen in number, approached and fired, but were forced to retreat. reënforcements for them from jerusalem were already at hand, however, and now the great pursuit of the negro insurrectionists began.
hark's horse was shot under him and five or six of the men were wounded. turner's force was largely dispersed, but on monday night he stopped at the home of major ridley, and his company again increased to forty. he tried to sleep a little, but a sentinel gave the alarm; all were soon up and the number was again reduced to twenty. final resistance was offered at the home of dr. blunt, but here still more of the men were put to flight and were never again seen by turner.
a little later, however, the leader found two of his men named jacob and nat. these he sent with word to henry, hark, nelson, and sam to meet him at the place where on sunday they had taken dinner together. with what thoughts nat turner returned alone to this place on tuesday evening can only be imagined. throughout the night he remained, but no one joined him and he presumed that his followers had all either been taken or had deserted him. nor did any one come on wednesday, or on thursday. on thursday night, having supplied himself with provisions from the travis home, he scratched a hole under a pile of fence-rails, and here he remained for six weeks, leaving only at night to get water. all the while of course he had no means of learning of the fate of his companions or of anything else. meanwhile not only the vicinity but the whole south was being wrought up to an hysterical state of mind. a reward of $500 for the capture of the man was offered by the governor, and other rewards were also offered. on september 30 a false account of his capture appeared in the newspapers; on october 7 another; on october 8 still another. by this time turner had begun to move about a little at night, not speaking to any human being and returning always to his hole before daybreak. early on october 15 a dog smelt his provisions and led thither two negroes. nat appealed to these men for protection, but they at once began to run and excitedly spread the news. turner fled in another direction and for ten days more hid among the wheat-stacks on the francis plantation. all the while not less than five hundred men were on the watch for him, and they found the stick that he had notched from day to day. once he thought of surrendering, and walked within two miles of jerusalem. three times he tried to get away, and failed. on october 25 he was discovered by francis, who discharged at him a load of buckshot, twelve of which passed through his hat, and he was at large for five days more. on october 30 benjamin phipps, a member of the patrol, passing a clearing in the woods noticed a motion among the boughs. he paused, and gradually he saw nat's head emerging from a hole beneath. the fugitive now gave up as he knew that the woods were full of men. he was taken to the nearest house, and the crowd was so great and the excitement so intense that it was with difficulty that he was taken to jerusalem. for more than two months, from august 25 to october 30, he had eluded his pursuers, remaining all the while in the vicinity of his insurrection.
the immediate panic created by the nat turner insurrection in virginia and the other states of the south it would be impossible to exaggerate. when the news of what was happening at cross keys spread, two companies, on horse and foot, came from murfreesboro as quickly as possible. on the wednesday after the memorable sunday night there came from fortress monroe three companies and a piece of artillery. these commands were reënforced from various sources until not less than eight hundred men were in arms. many of the negroes fled to the dismal swamp, and the wildest rumors were afloat. one was that wilmington had been burned, and in raleigh and fayetteville the wildest excitement prevailed. in the latter place scores of white women and children fled to the swamps, coming out two days afterwards muddy, chilled, and half-starved. slaves were imprisoned wholesale. in wilmington four men were shot without trial and their heads placed on poles at the four corners of the town. in macon, ga., a report was circulated that an armed band of negroes was only five miles away, and within an hour the women and children were assembled in the largest building in the town, with a military force in front for protection.
the effects on legislation were immediate. throughout the south the slave codes became more harsh; and while it was clear that the uprising had been one of slaves rather than of free negroes, as usual special disabilities fell upon the free people of color. delaware, that only recently had limited the franchise to white men, now forbade the use of firearms by free negroes and would not suffer any more to come within the state. tennessee also forbade such immigration, while maryland passed a law to the effect that all free negroes must leave the state and be colonized in africa--a monstrous piece of legislation that it was impossible to put into effect and that showed once for all the futility of attempts at forcible emigration as a solution of the problem. in general, however, the insurrection assisted the colonization scheme and also made more certain the carrying out of the policy of the jackson administration to remove the indians of the south to the west. it also focussed the attention of the nation upon the status of the negro, crystallized opinion in the north, and thus helped with the formation of anti-slavery organizations. by it for the time being the negro lost; in the long run he gained.
3. the "amistad" and "creole" cases
on june 28, 1839, a schooner, the amistad, sailed from havana bound for guanaja in the vicinity of puerto principe. she was under the command of her owner, don ramon ferrer, was laden with merchandise, and had on board fifty-three negroes, forty-nine of whom supposedly belonged to a spaniard, don jose ruiz, the other four belonging to don pedro montes. during the night of june 30 the slaves, under the lead of one of their number named cinque, rose upon the crew, killed the captain, a slave of his, and two sailors, and while they permitted most of the crew to escape, they took into close custody the two owners, ruiz and montes. montes, who had some knowledge of nautical affairs, was ordered to steer the vessel back to africa. so he did by day, when the negroes would watch him, but at night he tried to make his way to some land nearer at hand. other vessels passed from time to time, and from these the negroes bought provisions, but montes and ruiz were so closely watched that they could not make known their plight. at length, on august 26, the schooner reached long island sound, where it was detained by the american brig-of-war washington, in command of captain gedney, who secured the negroes and took them to new london, conn. it took a year and a half to dispose of the issue thus raised. the case attracted the greatest amount of attention, led to international complications, and was not really disposed of until a former president had exhaustively argued the case for the negroes before the supreme court of the united states.
in a letter of september 6, 1839, to john forsyth, the american secretary of state, calderon, the spanish minister, formally made four demands: 1. that the amistad be immediately delivered up to her owner, together with every article on board at the time of her capture; 2. that it be declared that no tribunal in the united states had the right to institute proceedings against, or to impose penalties upon, the subjects of spain, for crimes committed on board a spanish vessel, and in the waters of spanish territory; 3. that the negroes be conveyed to havana or otherwise placed at the disposal of the representatives of spain; and 4. that if, in consequence of the intervention of the authorities in connecticut, there should be any delay in the desired delivery of the vessel and the slaves, the owners both of the latter and of the former be indemnified for the injury that might accrue to them. in support of his demands calderon invoked "the law of nations, the stipulations of existing treaties, and those good feelings so necessary in the maintenance of the friendly relations that subsist between the two countries, and are so interesting to both." forsyth asked for any papers bearing on the question, and calderon replied that he had none except "the declaration on oath of montes and ruiz."
meanwhile the abolitionists were insisting that protection had not been afforded the african strangers cast on american soil and that in no case did the executive arm of the government have any authority to interfere with the regular administration of justice. "these africans," it was said, "are detained in jail, under process of the united states courts, in a free state, after it has been decided by the district judge, on sufficient proof, that they are recently from africa, were never the lawful slaves of ruiz and montes," and "when it is clear as noonday that there is no law or treaty stipulation that requires the further detention of these africans or their delivery to spain or its subjects."
writing on october 24 to the spanish representative with reference to the arrest of ruiz and montes, forsyth informed him that the two spanish subjects had been arrested on process issuing from the superior court of the city of new york upon affidavits of certain men, natives of africa, "for the purpose of securing their appearance before the proper tribunal, to answer for wrongs alleged to have been inflicted by them upon the persons of said africans," that, consequently, the occurrence constituted simply a "case of resort by individuals against others to the judicial courts of the country, which are equally open to all without distinction," and that the agency of the government to obtain the release of messrs. ruiz and montes could not be afforded in the manner requested. further pressure was brought to bear by the spanish representative, however, and there was cited the case of abraham wendell, captain of the brig franklin, who was prosecuted at first by spanish officials for maltreatment of his mate, but with reference to whom documents were afterwards sent from havana to america. much more correspondence followed, and felix grundy, of tennessee, attorney general of the united states, at length muddled everything by the following opinion: "these negroes deny that they are slaves; if they should be delivered to the claimants, no opportunity may be afforded for the assertion of their right to freedom. for these reasons, it seems to me that a delivery to the spanish minister is the only safe course for this government to pursue." the fallacy of all this was shown in a letter dated november 18, 1839, from b.f. butler, united states district attorney in new york, to aaron vail, acting secretary of state. said butler: "it does not appear to me that any question has yet arisen under the treaty with spain; because, although it is an admitted principle, that neither the courts of this state, nor those of the united states, can take jurisdiction of criminal offenses committed by foreigners within the territory of a foreign state, yet it is equally settled in this country, that our courts will take cognizance of civil actions between foreigners transiently within our jurisdiction, founded upon contracts or other transactions made or had in a foreign state." southern influence was strong, however, and a few weeks afterwards an order was given from the department of state to have a vessel anchor off new haven, conn., january 10, 1840, to receive the negroes from the united states marshal and take them to cuba; and on january 7 the president, van buren, issued the necessary warrant.
the rights of humanity, however, were not to be handled in this summary fashion. the executive order was stayed, and the case went further on its progress to the highest tribunal in the land. meanwhile the anti-slavery people were teaching the africans the rudiments of english in order that they might be better able to tell their own story. from the first a committee had been appointed to look out for their interests and while they were awaiting the final decision in their case they cultivated a garden of fifteen acres.
the appearance of john quincy adams in behalf of these negroes before the supreme court of the united states february 24 and march 1, 1841, is in every way one of the most beautiful acts in american history. in the fullness of years, with his own administration as president twelve years behind him, the "old man eloquent" came once more to the tribunal that he knew so well to make a last plea for the needy and oppressed. to the task he brought all his talents--his profound knowledge of law, his unrivaled experience, and his impressive personality; and his argument covers 135 octavo pages. he gave an extended analysis of the demand of the spanish minister, who asked the president to do what he simply had no constitutional right to do. "the president," said adams, "has no power to arrest either citizens or foreigners. but even that power is almost insignificant compared with that of sending men beyond seas to deliver them up to a foreign government." the secretary of state had "degraded the country, in the face of the whole civilized world, not only by allowing these demands to remain unanswered, but by proceeding, throughout the whole transaction, as if the executive were earnestly desirous to comply with every one of the demands." the spanish minister had naturally insisted in his demands because he had not been properly met at first. the slave-trade was illegal by international agreement, and the only thing to do under the circumstances was to release the negroes. adams closed his plea with a magnificent review of his career and of the labors of the distinguished jurists he had known in the court for nearly forty years, and be it recorded wherever the name of justice is spoken, he won his case.
lewis tappan now accompanied the africans on a tour through the states to raise money for their passage home. the first meeting was in boston. several members of the company interested the audience by their readings from the new testament or by their descriptions of their own country and of the horrors of the voyage. cinque gave the impression of great dignity and of extraordinary ability; and kali, a boy only eleven years of age, also attracted unusual attention. near the close of 1841, accompanied by five missionaries and teachers, the africans set sail from new york, to make their way first to sierra leone and then to their own homes as well as they could.
while this whole incident of the amistad was still engaging the interest of the public, there occurred another that also occasioned international friction and even more prolonged debate between the slavery and anti-slavery forces. on october 25, 1841, the brig creole, captain ensor, of richmond, va., sailed from richmond and on october 27 from hampton roads, with a cargo of tobacco and one hundred and thirty slaves bound for new orleans. on the vessel also, aside from the crew, were the captain's wife and child, and three or four passengers, who were chiefly in charge of the slaves, one man, john r. hewell, being directly in charge of those belonging to an owner named mccargo. about 9.30 on the night of sunday, november 7, while out at sea, nineteen of the slaves rose, cowed the others, wounded the captain, and generally took command of the vessel. madison washington began the uprising by an attack on gifford, the first mate, and ben blacksmith, one of the most aggressive of his assistants, killed hewell. the insurgents seized the arms of the vessel, permitted no conversation between members of the crew except in their hearing, demanded and obtained the manifests of slaves, and threatened that if they were not taken to abaco or some other british port they would throw the officers and crew overboard. the creole reached nassau, new providence, on tuesday, november 9, and the arrival of the vessel at once occasioned intense excitement. gifford went ashore and reported the matter, and the american consul, john f. bacon, contended to the english authorities that the slaves on board the brig were as much a part of the cargo as the tobacco and entitled to the same protection from loss to the owners. the governor, sir francis cockburn, however, was uncertain whether to interfere in the business at all. he liberated those slaves who were not concerned in the uprising, spoke of all of the slaves as "passengers," and guaranteed to the nineteen who were shown by an investigation to have been connected with the uprising all the rights of prisoners called before an english court. he told them further that the british government would be communicated with before their case was finally passed upon, that if they wished copies of the informations these would be furnished them, and that they were privileged to have witnesses examined in refutation of the charges against them. from time to time negroes who were natives of the island crowded about the brig in small boats and intimidated the american crew, but when on the morning of november 12 the attorney general questioned them as to their intentions they replied with transparent good humor that they intended no violence and had assembled only for the purpose of conveying to shore such of the persons on the creole as might be permitted to leave and might need their assistance. the attorney general required, however, that they throw overboard a dozen stout cudgels that they had. here the whole case really rested. daniel webster as secretary of state aroused the anti-slavery element by making a strong demand for the return of the slaves, basing his argument on the sacredness of vessels flying the american flag; but the english authorities at nassau never returned any of them. on march 21, 1842, joshua r. giddings, untiring defender of the rights of the negro, offered in the house of representatives resolutions to the effect that slavery could exist only by positive law of the different states; that the states had delegated no control over slavery to the federal government, which alone had jurisdiction on the high seas, and that, therefore, slaves on the high seas became free and the coastwise trade was unconstitutional. the house, strongly pro-southern, replied with a vote of censure and giddings resigned, but he was immediately reëlected by his ohio constituency.
the negro reply, ii: organization and agitation
it is not the purpose of the present chapter primarily to consider social progress on the part of the negro. a little later we shall endeavor to treat this interesting subject for the period between the missouri compromise and the civil war. just now we are concerned with the attitude of the negro himself toward the problem that seemed to present itself to america and for which such different solutions were proposed. so far as slavery was concerned, we have seen that the remedy suggested by denmark vesey and nat turner was insurrection. it is only to state an historical fact, however, to say that the great heart of the negro people in the south did not believe in violence, but rather hoped and prayed for a better day to come by some other means. but what was the attitude of those people, progressive citizens and thinking leaders, who were not satisfied with the condition of the race and who had to take a stand on the issues that confronted them? if we study the matter from this point of view, we shall find an amount of ferment and unrest and honest difference of opinion that is sometimes overlooked or completely forgotten in the questions of a later day.
1. walker's "appeal"
this document created the greatest consternation in the south. the mayor of savannah wrote to mayor otis of boston, demanding that walker be punished. otis, in a widely published letter, replied expressing his disapproval of the pamphlet, but saying that the author had done nothing that made him "amenable" to the laws. in virginia the legislature considered passing an "extraordinary bill," not only forbidding the circulation of such seditious publications but forbidding the education of free negroes. the bill passed the house of delegates, but failed in the senate. the appeal even found its way to louisiana, where there were already rumors of an insurrection, and immediately a law was passed expelling all free negroes who had come to the state since 1825.
2. the convention movement
at a numerous meeting of the people of color, convened at bethel church, to take into consideration the propriety of remonstrating against the contemplated measure that is to exile us from the land of our nativity, james forten was called to the chair, and russell parrott appointed secretary. the intent of the meeting having been stated by the chairman, the following resolutions were adopted without one dissenting voice:
whereas, our ancestors (not of choice) were the first successful cultivators of the wilds of america, we their descendants feel ourselves entitled to participate in the blessings of her luxuriant soil, which their blood and sweat manured; and that any measure or system of measures, having a tendency to banish us from her bosom, would not only be cruel, but in direct violation of those principles which have been the boast of this republic,
resolved, that we view with deep abhorrence the unmerited stigma attempted to be cast upon the reputation of the free people of color, by the promoters of this measure, "that they are a dangerous and useless part of the community," when in the state of disfranchisement in which they live, in the hour of danger they ceased to remember their wrongs, and rallied around the standard of their country.
resolved, that we never will separate ourselves voluntarily from the slave population of this country; they are our brethren by the ties of consanguinity, of suffering, and of wrong; and we feel that there is more virtue in suffering privations with them, than fancied advantages for a season.
resolved, that without arts, without science, without a proper knowledge of government to cast upon the savage wilds of africa the free people of color, seems to us the circuitous route through which they must return to perpetual bondage.
resolved, that having the strongest confidence in the justice of god, and philanthropy of the free states, we cheerfully submit our destinies to the guidance of him who suffers not a sparrow to fall without his special providence.
james forten, chairman.
russell parrott, secretary.
in 1827, in new york, was begun the publication of freedom's journal, the first negro newspaper in the united states. the editors were john b. russwurm and samuel e. cornish. russwurm was a recent graduate of bowdoin college and was later to become better known as the governor of maryland in africa. by 1830 feeling was acute throughout the country, especially in ohio and kentucky, and on the part of negro men had developed the conviction that the time had come for national organization and protest.
the very first motion of the convention resolved "that a committee be appointed to institute an inquiry into the condition of the free people of color throughout the united states, and report their views upon the subject at a subsequent meeting." as a result of its work this committee recommended that the work of organizations interested in settlement in canada be continued; that the free people of color be annually called to assemble by delegation; and it submitted "the necessity of deliberate reflection on the dissolute, intemperate, and ignorant condition of a large portion of the colored population of the united states." "and, lastly, your committee view with unfeigned regret, and respectfully submit to the wisdom of this convention, the operations and misrepresentations of the american colonization society in these united states.... we feel sorrowful to see such an immense and wanton waste of lives and property, not doubting the benevolent feelings of some individuals engaged in that cause. but we can not for a moment doubt but that the cause of many of our unconstitutional, unchristian, and unheard-of sufferings emanate from that unhallowed source; and we would call on christians of every denomination firmly to resist it." the report was unanimously received and adopted.
jocelyn, tappan, and garrison addressed the convention with reference to a proposed industrial college in new haven, toward the $20,000 expense of which one individual (tappan himself) had subscribed $1000 with the understanding that the remaining $19,000 be raised within a year; and the convention approved the project, provided the negroes had a majority of at least one on the board of trustees. an illuminating address to the public called attention to the progress of emancipation abroad, to the fact that it was american persecution that led to the calling of the convention, and that it was this also that first induced some members of the race to seek an asylum in canada, where already there were two hundred log houses, and five hundred acres under cultivation.
in 1832 eight states were represented by a total of thirty delegates. by this time we learn that a total of eight hundred acres had been secured in canada, that two thousand negroes had gone thither, but that considerable hostility had been manifested on the part of the canadians. hesitant, the convention appointed an agent to investigate the situation. it expressed itself as strongly opposed to any national aid to the american colonization society and urged the abolition of slavery in the district of columbia--all of which activity, it is well to remember, was a year before the american anti-slavery society was organized.
3. sojourner truth and woman suffrage
to the second national woman's suffrage convention, held in akron, ohio, in 1852, and presided over by mrs. frances d. gage, came sojourner truth.
the "libyan sibyl" was then in the fullness of her powers. she had been born of slave parents about 1798 in ulster county, new york. in her later years she remembered vividly the cold, damp cellar-room in which slept the slaves of the family to which she belonged, and where she was taught by her mother to repeat the lord's prayer and to trust in god. when in the course of gradual emancipation she became legally free in 1827, her master refused to comply with the law and kept her in bondage. she left, but was pursued and found. rather than have her go back, a friend paid for her services for the rest of the year. then came an evening when, searching for one of her children who had been stolen and sold, she found herself a homeless wanderer. a quaker family gave her lodging for the night. subsequently she went to new york city, joined a methodist church, and worked hard to improve her condition. later, having decided to leave new york for a lecture tour through the east, she made a small bundle of her belongings and informed a friend that her name was no longer isabella but sojourner. she went on her way, speaking to people wherever she found them assembled and being entertained in many aristocratic homes. she was entirely untaught in the schools, but was witty, original, and always suggestive. by her tact and her gift of song she kept down ridicule, and by her fervor and faith she won many friends for the anti-slavery cause. as to her name she said: "and the lord gave me sojourner because i was to travel up an' down the land showin' the people their sins an' bein' a sign unto them. afterwards i told the lord i wanted another name, 'cause everybody else had two names, an' the lord gave me truth, because i was to declare the truth to the people."
"amid roars of applause," wrote mrs. gage, "she returned to her corner, leaving more than one of us with streaming eyes and hearts beating with gratitude." thus, as so frequently happened, sojourner truth turned a difficult situation into splendid victory. she not only made an eloquent plea for the slave, but placing herself upon the broadest principles of humanity, she saved the day for woman suffrage as well.
in a former chapter we have traced the early development of the american colonization society, whose efforts culminated in the founding of the colony of liberia. the recent world war, with africa as its prize, fixed attention anew upon the little republic. this comparatively small tract of land, just slightly more than one-three hundredth part of the surface of africa, is now of interest and strategic importance not only because (if we except abyssinia, which claims slightly different race origin, and hayti, which is now really under the government of the united states) it represents the one distinctively negro government in the world, but also because it is the only tract of land on the great west coast of the continent that has survived, even through the war, the aggression of great european powers. it is just at the bend of the shoulder of africa, and its history is as romantic as its situation is unique.
liberia has frequently been referred to as an outstanding example of the incapacity of the negro for self-government. such a judgment is not necessarily correct. it is indeed an open question if, in view of the nature of its beginning, the history of the country proves anything one way or the other with reference to the capacity of the race. the early settlers were frequently only recently out of bondage, but upon them were thrust all the problems of maintenance and government, and they brought with them, moreover, the false ideas of life and work that obtained in the old south. sometimes they suffered from neglect, sometimes from excessive solicitude; never were they really left alone. in spite of all, however, more than a score of native tribes have been subdued by only a few thousand civilized men, the republic has preserved its integrity, and there has been handed down through the years a tradition of constitutional government.
1. the place and the people
the resources of liberia are as yet imperfectly known. there is no question, however, about the fertility of the interior, or of its capacity when properly developed. there are no rivers of the first rank, but the longest streams are about three hundred miles in length, and at convenient distances apart flow down to a coastline somewhat more than three hundred miles long. here in a tract of land only slightly larger than our own state of ohio are a civilized population between 30,000 and 100,000 in number, and a native population estimated at 2,000,000. of the civilized population the smaller figure, 30,000, is the more nearly correct if we consider only those persons who are fully civilized, and this number would be about evenly divided between americo-liberians and natives. especially in the towns along the coast, however, there are many people who have received only some degree of civilization, and most of the households in the larger towns have several native children living in them. if all such elements are considered, the total might approach 100,000. the natives in their different tribes fall into three or four large divisions. in general they follow their native customs, and the foremost tribes exhibit remarkable intelligence and skill in industry. outstanding are the dignified mandingo, with a mohammedan tradition, and the vai, distinguished for skill in the arts and with a culture similar to that of the mandingo. also easily recognized are the kpwessi, skillful in weaving and ironwork; the kru, intelligent, sea-faring, and eager for learning; the grebo, ambitious and aggressive, and in language connection close to the kru; the bassa, with characteristics somewhat similar to those of the kru, but in general not quite so ambitious; the buzi, wild and highly tattooed; and the cannibalistic mano. by reason of numbers if nothing else, liberia's chief asset for the future consists in her native population.
thus the first expedition failed. one year later, in march, 1821, a new company of twenty-one emigrants, in charge of j.b. winn and ephraim bacon, arrived at freetown in the brig nautilus. it had been the understanding that in return for their passage the members of the first expedition would clear the way for others; but when the agents of the new company saw the plight of those who remained alive, they brought all of the colonists together at fourah bay, and bacon went farther down the coast to seek a more favorable site. a few persons who did not wish to go to fourah bay remained in sierra leone and became british subjects. bacon found a promising tract about two hundred and fifty miles down the coast at cape montserado; but the natives were not especially eager to sell, as they did not wish to break up the slave traffic. meanwhile winn and several more of the colonists died; and bacon now returned to the united states. the second expedition had thus proved to be little more successful than the first; but the future site of monrovia had at least been suggested.
by the end of april all of the colonists who were willing to move had been brought from sierra leone to their new home. it was now decided to remove from the low and unhealthy island to the higher land of cape montserado only a few hundred feet away; on april 28 there was a ceremony of possession and the american flag was raised. the advantages of the new position were obvious, to the natives as well as the colonists, and the removal was attended with great excitement. by july the island was completely abandoned. meanwhile, however, things had not been going well. the deys had been rendered very hostile, and from them there was constant danger of attack. the rainy season moreover had set in, shelter was inadequate, supplies were low, and the fever continually claimed its victims. ayres at length became discouraged. he proposed that the enterprise be abandoned and that the settlers return to sierra leone, and on june 4 he did actually leave with a few of them. it was at this juncture that elijah johnson, one of the most heroic of the colonists, stepped forth to fame.
the early life of the man is a blank. in 1789 he was taken to new jersey. he received some instruction and studied for the methodist ministry, took part in the war of 1812, and eagerly embraced the opportunity to be among the first to come to the new colony. to the suggestion that the enterprise be abandoned he replied, "two years long have i sought a home; here i have found it; here i remain." to him the great heart of the colonists responded. among the natives he was known and respected as a valiant fighter. he lived until march 23, 1849.
july (1822) was a hard month for the settlers. not only were their supplies almost exhausted, but they were on a rocky cape and the natives would not permit any food to be brought to them. on august 8, however, arrived jehudi ashmun, a young man from vermont who had worked as a teacher and as the editor of a religious publication for some years before coming on this mission. he brought with him a company of liberated africans and emigrants to the number of fifty-five, and as he did not intend to remain permanently he had yielded to the entreaty of his wife and permitted her to accompany him on the voyage. he held no formal commission from the american colonization society, but seeing the situation he felt that it was his duty to do what he could to relieve the distress; and he faced difficulties from the very first. on the day after his arrival his own brig, the strong, was in danger of being lost; the vessel parted its cable, and on the following morning broke it again and drifted until it was landlocked between cape montserado and cape mount. a small anchor was found, however, and the brig was again moored, but five miles from the settlement. the rainy season was now on in full force; there was no proper place for the storing of provisions; and even with the newcomers it soon developed that there were in the colony only thirty-five men capable of bearing arms, so great had been the number of deaths from the fever. sometimes almost all of these were sick; on september 10 only two were in condition for any kind of service. ashmun tried to make terms with the native chiefs, but their malignity was only partially concealed. his wife languished before his eyes and died september 15, just five weeks after her arrival. he himself was incapacitated for several months, nor at the height of his illness was he made better by the ministrations of a french charlatan. he never really recovered from the great inroads made upon his strength at this time.
as a protection from sudden attack a clearing around the settlement was made. defenses had to be erected without tools, and so great was the anxiety that throughout the months of september and october a nightly watch of twenty men was kept. on sunday, november 10, the report was circulated that the deys were crossing the mesurado river, and at night it became known that seven or eight hundred were on the peninsula only half a mile to the west. the attack came at early dawn on the 11th and the colonists might have been annihilated if they had not brought a field-piece into play. when this was turned against the natives advancing in compact array, it literally tore through masses of living flesh until scores of men were killed. even so the deys might have won the engagement if they had not stopped too soon to gather plunder. as it was, they were forced to retreat. of the settlers three men and one woman were killed, two men and two women injured, and several children taken captive, though these were afterwards returned. at this time the colonists suffered greatly from the lack of any supplies for the treatment of wounds. only medicines for the fever were on hand, and in the hot climate those whose flesh had been torn by bullets suffered terribly. in this first encounter, as often in these early years, the real burden of conflict fell upon cary and johnson. after the battle these men found that they had on hand ammunition sufficient for only one hour's defense. all were placed on a special allowance of provisions and november 23 was observed as a day of prayer. a passing vessel furnished additional supplies and happily delayed for some days the inevitable attack. this came from two sides very early in the morning of december 2. there was a desperate battle. three bullets passed through ashmun's clothes, one of the gunners was killed, and repeated attacks were resisted only with the most dogged determination. an accident, or, as the colonists regarded it, a miracle, saved them from destruction. a guard, hearing a noise, discharged a large gun and several muskets. the schooner prince regent was passing, with major laing, midshipman gordon, and eleven specially trained men on board. the officers, hearing the sound of guns, came ashore to see what was the trouble. major laing offered assistance if ground was given for the erection of a british flag, and generally attempted to bring about an adjustment of difficulties on the basis of submitting these to the governor of sierra leone. to these propositions elijah johnson replied, "we want no flagstaff put up here that it will cost more to get down than it will to whip the natives." however, gordon and the men under him were left behind for the protection of the colony until further help could arrive. within one month he and seven of the eleven were dead. he himself had found a ready place in the hearts of the settlers, and to him and his men liberia owes much. they came in a needy hour and gave their lives for the cause of freedom.
by the regulations that governed the colony at the time, each man who received rations was required to contribute to the general welfare two days of labor a week. early in december twelve men cast off all restraint, and on the 13th ashmun published a notice in which he said: "there are in the colony more than a dozen healthy persons who will receive no more provisions out of the public store until they earn them." on the 19th, in accordance with this notice, the provisions of the recalcitrants were stopped. the next morning, however, the men went to the storehouse, and while provisions were being issued, each seized a portion and went to his home. ashmun now issued a circular, reminding the colonists of all of their struggles together and generally pointing out to them how such a breach of discipline struck at the very heart of the settlement. the colonists rallied to his support and the twelve men returned to duty. the trouble, however, was not yet over. on march 19, 1824, ashmun found it necessary to order a cut in provisions. he had previously declared to the board that in his opinion the evil was "incurable by any of the remedies which fall within the existing provisions"; and counter remonstrances had been sent by the colonists, who charged him with oppression, neglect of duty, and the seizure of public property. he now, seeing that his latest order was especially unpopular, prepared new despatches, on march 22 reviewed the whole course of his conduct in a strong and lengthy address, and by the last of the month had left the colony.
for a long time it was the custom of the american colonization society to send out two main shipments of settlers a year, one in the spring and one in the fall. on february 13, 1824, arrived a little more than a hundred emigrants, mainly from petersburg, va. these people were unusually intelligent and industrious and received a hearty welcome. within a month practically all of them were sick with the fever. on this occasion, as on many others, lott cary served as physician, and so successful was he that only three of the sufferers died. another company of unusual interest was that which arrived early in 1826. it brought along a printer, a press with the necessary supplies, and books sent by friends in boston. unfortunately the printer was soon disabled by the fever.
in his report rendered at the close of 1825 ashmun showed that the settlers were living in neatness and comfort; two chapels had been built, and the militia was well organized, equipped, and disciplined. the need of some place for the temporary housing of immigrants having more and more impressed itself upon the colony, before the end of 1826 a "receptacle" capable of holding one hundred and fifty persons was erected. ashmun himself served on until 1828, by which time his strength was completely spent. he sailed for america early in the summer and succeeded in reaching new haven, only to die after a few weeks. no man had given more for the founding of liberia. the principal street in monrovia is named after him.
the first governor of the newly formed commonwealth was thomas h. buchanan, a man of singular energy who represented the new york and pennsylvania societies and who had come in 1836 especially to take charge of the grand bassa settlements. becoming governor in 1838, he found it necessary to proceed vigorously against the slave dealers at trade town. he was also victorious in 1840 in a contest with the gola tribe led by chief gatumba. the golas had defeated the dey tribe so severely that a mere remnant of the latter had taken refuge with the colonists at millsburg, a station a few miles up the st. paul's river. thus, as happened more than once, a tribal war in time involved the very existence of the new american colonies. governor buchanan's victory greatly increased his prestige and made it possible for him to negotiate more and more favorable treaties with the natives. a contest of different sort was that with a methodist missionary, john seyes, who held that all goods used by missionaries, including those sold to the natives, should be admitted free of duty. the governor contended that such privilege should be extended only to goods intended for the personal use of missionaries; and the colonization society stood behind him in this opinion. as early as 1840 moreover some shadow of future events was cast by trouble made by english traders on the mano river, the sierra leone boundary. buchanan sent an agent to england to represent him in an inquiry into the matter; but in the midst of his vigorous work he died in 1841. he was the last white man formally under any auspices at the head of liberian affairs. happily his period of service had given opportunity and training to an efficient helper, upon whom now the burden fell and of whom it is hardly too much to say that he is the foremost figure in liberian history.
joseph jenkin roberts was a mulatto born in virginia in 1809. at the age of twenty, with his widowed mother and younger brothers, he went to liberia and engaged in trade. in course of time he proved to be a man of unusual tact and graciousness of manner, moving with ease among people of widely different rank. his abilities soon demanded recognition, and he was at the head of the force that defeated gatumba. as governor he realized the need of cultivating more far-reaching diplomacy than the commonwealth had yet known. he had the coöperation of the maryland governor, russwurm, in such a matter as that of uniform customs duties; and he visited the united states, where he made a very good impression. he soon understood that he had to reckon primarily with the english and the french. england had indeed assumed an attitude of opposition to the slave-trade; but her traders did not scruple to sell rum to slave dealers, and especially were they interested in the palm oil of liberia. when the commonwealth sought to impose customs duties, england took the position that as liberia was not an independent government, she had no right to do so; and the english attitude had some show of strength from the fact that the american colonization society, an outside organization, had a veto power over whatever liberia might do. when in 1845 the liberian government seized the little ben, an english trading vessel whose captain acted in defiance of the revenue laws, the british in turn seized the john seyes, belonging to a liberian named benson, and sold the vessel for £8000. liberia appealed to the united states; but the oregon boundary question as well as slavery had given the american government problems enough at home; and the secretary of state, edward everett, finally replied to lord aberdeen (1845) that america was not "presuming to settle differences arising between liberian and british subjects, the liberians being responsible for their own acts." the colonization society, powerless to act except through its own government, in january, 1846, resolved that "the time had arrived when it was expedient for the people of the commonwealth of liberia to take into their own hands the whole work of self-government including the management of all their foreign relations." forced to act for herself liberia called a constitutional convention and on july 26, 1847, issued a declaration of independence and adopted the constitution of the liberian republic. in october, joseph jenkin roberts, governor of the commonwealth, was elected the first president of the republic.
it may well be questioned if by 1847 liberia had developed sufficiently internally to be able to assume the duties and responsibilities of an independent power. there were at the time not more than 4,500 civilized people of american origin in the country; these were largely illiterate and scattered along a coastline more than three hundred miles in length. it is not to be supposed, however, that this consummation had been attained without much yearning and heart-beat and high spiritual fervor. there was something pathetic in the effort of this small company, most of whose members had never seen africa but for the sake of their race had made their way back to the fatherland. the new seal of the republic bore the motto: the love of liberty brought us here. the flag, modeled on that of the united states, had six red and five white stripes for the eleven signers of the declaration of independence, and in the upper corner next to the staff a lone white star in a field of blue. the declaration itself said in part:
we, the people of the republic of liberia, were originally inhabitants of the united states of north america.
in some parts of that country we were debarred by law from all the rights and privileges of men; in other parts public sentiment, more powerful than law, frowned us down.
we were everywhere shut out from all civil office.
we were excluded from all participation in the government.
we were taxed without our consent.
we were compelled to contribute to the resources of a country which gave us no protection.
we were made a separate and distinct class, and against us every avenue of improvement was effectually closed. strangers from all lands of a color different from ours were preferred before us.
we uttered our complaints, but they were unattended to, or met only by alleging the peculiar institution of the country.
all hope of a favorable change in our country was thus wholly extinguished in our bosom, and we looked with anxiety abroad for some asylum from the deep degradation.
the western coast of africa was the place selected by american benevolence and philanthropy for our future home. removed beyond those influences which depressed us in our native land, it was hoped we would be enabled to enjoy those rights and privileges, and exercise and improve those faculties, which the god of nature had given us in common with the rest of mankind.
with the adoption of its constitution the republic of liberia formally asked to be considered in the family of nations; and since 1847 the history of the country has naturally been very largely that of international relations. in fact, preoccupation with the questions raised by powerful neighbors has been at least one strong reason for the comparatively slow internal development of the country. the republic was officially recognized by england in 1848, by france in 1852, but on account of slavery not by the united states until 1862. continuously there has been an observance of the forms of order, and only one president has been deposed. for a long time the presidential term was two years in length; but by an act of 1907 it was lengthened to four years. from time to time there have been two political parties, but not always has such a division been emphasized.
it is well to pause and note exactly what was the task set before the little country. a company of american negroes suddenly found themselves placed on an unhealthy and uncultivated coast which was thenceforth to be their home. if we compare them with the pilgrim fathers, we find that as the pilgrims had to subdue the indians, so they had to hold their own against a score of aggressive tribes. the pilgrims had the advantage of a thousand years of culture and experience in government; the negroes, only recently out of bondage, had been deprived of any opportunity for improvement whatsoever. not only, however, did they have to contend against native tribes and labor to improve their own shortcomings; on every hand they had to meet the designs of nations supposedly more enlightened and christian. on the coast spanish traders defied international law; on one side the english, and on the other the french, from the beginning showed a tendency toward arrogance and encroachment. to crown the difficulty, the american government, under whose auspices the colony had largely been founded, became more and more halfhearted in its efforts for protection and at length abandoned the enterprise altogether. it did not cease, however, to regard the colony as the dumping-ground of its own troubles, and whenever a vessel with slaves from the congo was captured on the high seas, it did not hesitate to take these people to the liberian coast and leave them there, nearly dead though they might be from exposure or cramping. it is well for one to remember such facts as these before he is quick to belittle or criticize. to the credit of the "congo men" be it said that from the first they labored to make themselves a quiet and industrious element in the body politic.
stephen allen benson (four terms, 1856-1863) was forced to meet in one way or another almost all of the difficulties that have since played a part in the life of the liberian people. he had come to the country in 1822 at the age of six and had developed into a practical and efficient merchant. to his high office he brought the same principles of sobriety and good sense that had characterized him in business. on february 28, 1857, the independent colony of maryland formally became a part of the republic. this action followed immediately upon the struggle with the greboes in the vicinity of cape palmas in which assistance was rendered by the liberians under ex-president roberts. in 1858 an incident that threatened complications with france but that was soon happily closed arose from the fact that a french vessel which sought to carry away some kru laborers to the west indies was attacked by these men when they had reason to fear that they might be sold into slavery and not have to work simply along the coast, as they at first supposed. the ship was seized and all but one of the crew, the physician, were killed. trouble meanwhile continued with british smugglers in the west, and to this whole matter we shall have to give further and special attention. in 1858 and a year or two thereafter the numerous arrivals from america, especially of congo men captured on the high seas, were such as to present a serious social problem. flagrant violation by the south of the laws against the slave-trade led to the seizure by the united states government of many africans. hundreds of these people were detained at a time at such a port as key west. the government then adopted the policy of ordering commanders who seized slave-ships at sea to land the africans directly upon the coast of liberia without first bringing them to america, and appropriated $250,000 for the removal and care of those at key west. the suffering of many of these people is one of the most tragic stories in the history of slavery. to liberia came at one time 619, at another 867, and within two months as many as 4000. there was very naturally consternation on the part of the people at this sudden immigration, especially as many of the africans arrived cramped or paralyzed or otherwise ill from the conditions under which they had been forced to travel. president benson stated the problem to the american government; the united states sent some money to liberia, the people of the republic helped in every way they could, and the whole situation was finally adjusted without any permanently bad effects, though it is well for students to remember just what liberia had to face at this time. important toward the close of benson's terms was the completion of the building of the liberia college, of which joseph jenkin roberts became the first president.
the administrations of daniel bashiel warner (two terms, 1864-1867) and the earlier one of james spriggs payne (1868-1869) were comparatively uneventful. both of these men were republicans, but warner represented something of the shifting of political parties at the time. at first a republican, he went over to the whig party devoted to the policy of preserving liberia from white invasion. moved to distrust of english merchants, who delighted in defrauding the little republic, he established an important ports-of-entry law in 1865, which it is hardly necessary to say was very unpopular with the foreigners. commerce was restricted to six ports and a circle six miles in diameter around each port. on account of the civil war and the hopes that emancipation held out to the negroes in the united states, immigration from america ceased rapidly; but a company of 346 came from barbadoes at this time. the liberian government assisted these people with $4000, set apart for each man an allotment of twenty-five rather than the customary ten acres; the colonization society appropriated $10,000, and after a pleasant voyage of thirty-three days they arrived without the loss of a single life. in the company was a little boy, arthur barclay, who was later to be known as the president of the republic. at the semi-centennial of the american colonization society held in washington in january, 1867, it was shown that the society and its auxiliaries had been directly responsible for the sending of more than 12,000 persons to africa. of these 4541 had been born free, 344 had purchased their freedom, 5957 had been emancipated to go to africa, and 1227 had been settled by the maryland society. in addition, 5722 captured africans had been sent to liberia. the need of adequate study of the interior having more and more impressed itself, benjamin anderson, an adventurous explorer, assisted with funds by a citizen of new york, in 1869 studied the country for two hundred miles from the coast. he found the land constantly rising, and made his way to musardu, the chief city of the western mandingoes. he summed up his work in his narrative of a journey to musardo and made another journey of exploration in 1874.
within just a few years after 1871, however, conditions in the united states led to an interesting revival of the whole idea of colonization, and to noteworthy effort on the part of the negroes themselves to better their condition. the withdrawal of federal troops from the south, and all the evils of the aftermath of reconstruction, led to such a terrorizing of the negroes and such a denial of civil rights that there set in the movement that culminated in the great exodus from the south in 1879. the movement extended all the way from north carolina to louisiana and arkansas. insofar as it led to migration to kansas and other states in the west, it belongs to american history. however, there was also interest in going to africa. applications by the thousands poured in upon the american colonization society, and one organization in arkansas sent hundreds of its members to seek the help of the new york state colonization society. in all such endeavor negro baptists and methodists joined hands, and especially prominent was bishop h.m. turner, of the african methodist episcopal church. by 1877 there was organized in south carolina the liberian exodus and joint stock company; in north carolina there was the freedmen's emigration aid society; and there were similar organizations in other states. the south carolina organization had the threefold purpose of emigration, missionary activity, and commercial enterprise, and to these ends it purchased a vessel, the azor, at a cost of $7000. the white people of charleston unfortunately embarrassed the enterprise in every possible way, among other things insisting when the azor was ready to sail that it was not seaworthy and needed a new copper bottom (to cost $2000). the vessel at length made one or two trips, however, on one voyage carrying as many as 274 emigrants. it was then stolen and sold in liverpool, and one gets an interesting sidelight on southern conditions in the period when he knows that even the united states circuit court in south carolina refused to entertain the suit brought by the negroes.
in the administration of anthony w. gardiner (three terms, 1878-1883) difficulties with england and germany reached a crisis. territory in the northwest was seized; the british made a formal show of force at monrovia; and the looting of a german vessel along the kru coast and personal indignities inflicted by the natives upon the shipwrecked germans, led to the bombardment of nana kru by a german warship and the presentation at monrovia of a claim for damages, payment of which was forced by the threat of the bombardment of the capital. to the liberian people the outlook was seldom darker than in this period of calamities. president gardiner, very ill, resigned office in january of his last year of service, being succeeded by the vice-president, alfred f. russell. more and more was pressure brought to bear upon liberian officials for the granting of monopolies and concessions, especially to englishmen; and in his message of 1883 president russell said, "recent events admonish us as to the serious responsibility of claims held against us by foreigners, and we cannot tell what complications may arise." in the midst of all this, however, russell did not forget the natives and the need of guarding them against liquor and exploitation.
william d. coleman as vice-president finished the incomplete term of president cheeseman (to the end of 1897) and later was elected for two terms in his own right. in the course of his last administration, however, his interior policy became very unpopular, as he was thought to be harsh in his dealing with the natives, and he resigned in december, 1900. as there was at the time no vice-president, he was succeeded by the secretary of state, garretson w. gibson, a man of scholarly attainments, who was afterwards elected for a whole term (1902-1903). the feature of this term was the discussion that arose over the proposal to grant a concession to an english concern known as the west african gold concessions, ltd. this offered to the legislators a bonus of £1500, and for this bribe it asked for the sole right to prospect for and obtain gold, precious stones, and all other minerals over more than half of liberia. specifically it asked for the right to acquire freehold land and to take up leases for eighty years, in blocks of from ten to a thousand acres; to import all mining machinery and all other things necessary free of duty; to establish banks in connection with the mining enterprises, these to have the power to issue notes; to construct telegraphs and telephones; to organize auxiliary syndicates; and to establish its own police. it would seem that english impudence could hardly go further, though time was to prove that there were still other things to be borne. the proposal was indignantly rejected.
president barclay was succeeded by daniel edward howard (two long terms, 1912-1919), who at his inauguration began the policy of giving prominence to the native chiefs. the feature of president howard's administrations was of course liberia's connection with the great war in europe. war against germany having been declared, on the morning of april 10, 1918, a submarine came to monrovia and demanded that the french wireless station be torn down. the request being refused, the town was bombarded. the excitement of the day was such as has never been duplicated in the history of liberia. in one house two young girls were instantly killed and an elderly woman and a little boy fatally wounded; but except in this one home the actual damage was comparatively slight, though there might have been more if a passing british steamer had not put the submarine to flight. suffering of another and more far-reaching sort was that due to the economic situation. the comparative scarcity of food in the world and the profiteering of foreign merchants in liberia by the summer of 1919 brought about a condition that threatened starvation; nor was the situation better early in 1920, when butter retailed at $1.25 a pound, sugar at 72 cents a pound, and oil at $1.00 a gallon.
president howard was succeeded by charles dunbar burgess king, who as president-elect had visited europe and america, and who was inaugurated january 5, 1920. his address on this occasion was a comprehensive presentation of the needs of liberia, especially along the lines of agriculture and education. he made a plea also for an enlightened native policy. said he: "we cannot afford to destroy the native institutions of the country. our true mission lies not in the building here in africa of a negro state based solely on western ideas, but rather a negro nationality indigenous to the soil, having its foundation rooted in the institutions of africa and purified by western thought and development."
3. international relations
our study of the history of liberia has suggested two or three matters that call for special attention. of prime importance is the country's connection with world politics. any consideration of liberia's international relations falls into three divisions: first, that of titles to land; second, that of foreign loans; and third, that of so-called internal reform.
the international loans and the attempts at reform must be considered together. in 1871, at the rate of 7 per cent, there was authorized a british loan of £100,000. for their services the british negotiators retained £30,000, and £20,000 more was deducted as the interest for three years. president roye ordered mr. chinery, a british subject and the liberian consul general in london, to supply the liberian secretary of treasury with goods and merchandise to the value of £10,000; and other sums were misappropriated until the country itself actually received the benefit of not more than £27,000, if so much. this whole unfortunate matter was an embarrassment to liberia for years; but in 1899 the republic assumed responsibility for £80,000, the interest being made a first charge on the customs revenue. in 1906, not yet having learned the lesson of "cavete graecos dona ferentes," and moved by the representations of sir harry h. johnston, the country negotiated a new loan of £100,000. £30,000 of this amount was to satisfy pressing obligations; but the greater portion was to be turned over to the liberian development company, a great scheme by which the government and the company were to work hand in hand for the development of the country. as security for the loan, british officials were to have charge of the customs revenue, the chief inspector acting as financial adviser to the republic. when the company had made a road of fifteen miles in one district and made one or two other slight improvements, it represented to the liberian government that its funds were exhausted. when president barclay asked for an accounting the managing director expressed surprise that such a demand should be made upon him. the liberian people were chagrined, and at length they realized that they had been cheated a second time, with all the bitter experiences of the past to guide them. meanwhile the english representatives in the country were demanding that the judiciary be reformed, that the frontier force be under british officers, and that inspector lamont as financial adviser have a seat in the liberian cabinet and a veto power over all expenditures; and the independence of the country was threatened if these demands were not complied with. meanwhile also the construction of barracks went forward under major cadell, a british officer, and the organization of the frontier force was begun. not less than a third of this force was brought from sierra leone, and the whole cadell fitted out with suits and caps stamped with the emblems of his britannic majesty's service. he also persuaded the monrovia city government to let him act without compensation as chief of police, and he likewise became street commissioner, tax collector, and city treasurer. the liberian people naturally objected to the usurping of all these prerogatives, but cadell refused to resign and presented a large bill for his services. he also threatened violence to the president if his demands were not met within twenty-four hours. then it was that the british warship, the mutiny, suddenly appeared at monrovia (february 12, 1909). happily the liberians rose to the emergency. they requested that any british soldiers at the barracks be withdrawn in order that they might be free to deal with the insurrectionary movement said to be there on the part of liberian soldiers; and thus tactfully they brought about the withdrawal of major cadell.
4. economic and social conditions
from what has been said, it is evident that there is still much to be done in liberia along economic lines. there has been some beginning in coöperative effort; thus the bassa trading association is an organization for mutual betterment of perhaps as many as fifty responsible merchants and farmers. the country has as yet (1921), however, no railroads, no street cars, no public schools, and no genuine newspapers; nor are there any manufacturing or other enterprises for the employment of young men on a large scale. the most promising youth accordingly look too largely to an outlet in politics; some come to america to be educated and not always do they return. a few become clerks in the stores, and a very few assistants in the customs offices. there is some excellent agriculture in the interior, but as yet no means of getting produce to market on a large scale. in 1919 the total customs revenue at monrovia, the largest port, amounted to $196,913.21. for the whole country the figure has recently been just about half a million dollars a year. much of this amount goes to the maintenance of the frontier force. within the last few years also the annual income for the city of monrovia--for the payment of the mayor, the police, and all other city officers--has averaged $6000.
in any consideration of social conditions the first question of all of course is that of the character of the people themselves. unfortunately liberia was begun with faulty ideals of life and work. the early settlers, frequently only recently out of bondage, too often felt that in a state of freedom they did not have to work, and accordingly they imitated the habits of the old master class of the south. the real burden of life then fell upon the native. there is still considerable feeling between the native and the americo-liberian; but more and more the wisest men of the country realize that the good of one is the good of all, and they are endeavoring to make the native chiefs work for the common welfare. from time to time the people of liberia have given to visitors an impression of arrogance, and perhaps no one thing had led to more unfriendly criticism of this country than this. the fact is that the liberians, knowing that their country has various shortcomings according to western standards, are quick to assume the defensive, and one method of protecting themselves is by erecting a barrier of dignity and reserve. one has only to go beyond this, however, to find the real heartbeat of the people. the comparative isolation of the republic moreover, and the general stress of living conditions have together given to the everyday life an undue seriousness of tone, with a rather excessive emphasis on the church, on politics, and on secret societies. in such an atmosphere boys and girls too soon became mature, and for them especially one might wish to see a little more wholesome outdoor amusement. in school or college catalogues one still sees much of jurisprudence and moral philosophy, but little of physics or biology. interestingly enough, this whole system of education and life has not been without some elements of very genuine culture. literature has been mainly in the diction of shakespeare and milton; but shakespeare and milton, though not of the twentieth century, are still good models, and because the officials have had to compose many state documents and deliver many formal addresses, there has been developed in the country a tradition of good english speech. a service in any one of the representative churches is dignified and impressive.
the churches and schools of liberia have been most largely in the hands of the methodists and the episcopalians, though the baptists, the presbyterians, and the lutherans are well represented. the lutherans have penetrated to a point in the interior beyond that attained by any other denomination. the episcopalians have excelled others, even the methodists, by having more constant and efficient oversight of their work. the episcopalians have in liberia a little more than 40 schools, nearly half of these being boarding-schools, with a total attendance of 2000. the methodists have slightly more than 30 schools, with 2500 pupils. the lutherans in their five mission stations have 20 american workers and 300 pupils. while it seems from these figures that the number of those reached is small in proportion to the outlay, it must be remembered that a mission school becomes a center from which influence radiates in all directions.
important in connection with the study of the social conditions in liberia is that of health and living conditions. one who lives in america and knows that africa is a land of unbounded riches can hardly understand the extent to which the west coast has been exploited, or the suffering that is there just now. the distress is most acute in the english colonies, and as liberia is so close to sierra leone and the gold coast, much of the same situation prevails there. in monrovia the only bank is the branch of the bank of british west africa. in the branches of this great institution all along the coast, as a result of the war, gold disappeared, silver became very scarce, and the common form of currency became paper notes, issued in denominations as low as one and two shillings. these the natives have refused to accept. they go even further: rather than bring their produce to the towns and receive paper for it they will not come at all. in monrovia an effort was made to introduce the british west african paper currency, and while this failed, more and more the merchants insisted on being paid in silver, nor in an ordinary purchase would silver be given in change on an english ten-shilling note. prices accordingly became exorbitant; children were not properly nourished and the infant mortality grew to astonishing proportions. nor were conditions made better by the lack of sanitation and by the prevalence of disease. happily relief for these conditions--for some of them at least--seems to be in sight, and it is expected that before very long a hospital will be erected in monrovia.
one or two reflections suggest themselves. it has been said that the circumstances under which liberia was founded led to a despising of industrial effort. the country is now quite awake, however, to the advantages of industrial and agricultural enterprise. a matter of supreme importance is that of the relation of the americo-liberian to the native; this will work itself out, for the native is the country's chief asset for the future. in general the republic needs a few visible evidences of twentieth century standards of progress; two or three high schools and hospitals built on the american plan would work wonders. finally let it not be forgotten that upon the american negro rests the obligation to do whatever he can to help to develop the country. if he will but firmly clasp hands with his brother across the sea, a new day will dawn for american negro and liberian alike.
the negro a national issue
1. current tendencies
to such opinions was now added one of the greatest misfortunes that have befallen the negro race in its entire history in america--burlesque on the stage. when in 1696 thomas southerne adapted oroonoko from the novel of mrs. aphra behn and presented in london the story of the african prince who was stolen from his native angola, no one saw any reason why the negro should not be a subject for serious treatment on the stage, and the play was a great success, lasting for decades. in 1768, however, was presented at drury lane a comic opera, the padlock, and a very prominent character was mungo, the slave of a west indian planter, who got drunk in the second act and was profane throughout the performance. in the course of the evening mungo entertained the audience with such lines as the following:
dear heart, what a terrible life i am led! a dog has a better, that's sheltered and fed. night and day 'tis the same; my pain is deir game: me wish to de lord me was dead! whate'er's to be done, poor black must run. mungo here, mungo dere, mungo everywhere: above and below, sirrah, come; sirrah, go; do so, and do so, oh! oh! me wish to de lord me was dead!
the depreciation of the race that mungo started continued, and when in 1781 robinson crusoe was given as a pantomime at drury lane, friday was represented as a negro. the exact origins of negro minstrelsy are not altogether clear; there have been many claimants, and it is interesting to note in passing that there was an "african company" playing in new york in the early twenties, though this was probably nothing more than a small group of amateurs. whatever may have been the beginning, it was thomas d. rice who brought the form to genuine popularity. in louisville in the summer of 1828, looking from one of the back windows of a theater, he was attracted by an old and decrepit slave who did odd jobs about a livery stable. the slave's master was named crow and he called himself jim crow. his right shoulder was drawn up high and his left leg was stiff at the knee, but he took his deformity lightly, singing as he worked. he had one favorite tune to which he had fitted words of his own, and at the end of each verse he made a ludicrous step which in time came to be known as "rocking the heel." his refrain consisted of the words:
wheel about, turn about, do jis so, an' ebery time i wheel about i jump jim crow.
meanwhile even in the free states the disabilities of the negro continued. in general he was denied the elective franchise, the right of petition, the right to enter public conveyances or places of amusement, and he was driven into a status of contempt by being shut out from the army and the militia. he had to face all sorts of impediments in getting education or in pursuing honest industry; he had nothing whatever to do with the administration of justice; and generally he was subject to insult and outrage.
one might have supposed that on all this proscription and denial of the ordinary rights of human beings the christian church would have taken a positive stand. unfortunately, as so often happens, it was on the side of property and vested interest rather than on that of the oppressed. we have already seen that southern divines held slaves and countenanced the system; and by 1840 james g. birney had abundant material for his indictment, "the american churches the bulwarks of american slavery." he showed among other things that while in 1780 the methodist episcopal church had opposed slavery and in 1784 had given a slaveholder one month to repent or withdraw from its conferences, by 1836 it had so drifted away from its original position as to disclaim "any right, wish, or intention to interfere in the civil and political relation between master and slave, as it existed in the slaveholding states of the union." meanwhile in the churches of the north there was the most insulting discrimination; in the baptist church in hartford the pews for negroes were boarded up in front, and in stonington, conn., the floor was cut out of a negro's pew by order of the church authorities. in boston, in a church that did not welcome and that made little provision for negroes, a consecrated deacon invited into his own pew some negro people, whereupon he lost the right to hold a pew in his church. he decided that there should be some place where there might be more freedom of thought and genuine christianity, he brought others into the plan, and the effort that he put forth resulted in what has since become the tremont temple baptist church.
into all this proscription, burlesque, and crime, and denial of the fundamental principles of christianity, suddenly came the program of the abolitionists; and it spoke with tongues of fire, and had all the vigor and force of a crusade.
2. the challenge of the abolitionists
the death of raff on june 25, 1882, brought to macdowell his first profound sorrow. there was a deep attachment between pupil and master, and macdowell felt in raff's death the loss of a sincere friend, and, as he later came to appreciate, a powerful ally. the influential part which raff bore in turning macdowell's aims definitely and permanently toward creative rather than pianistic activity could scarcely be overestimated. when he first went to paris, and during the later years in germany, there had been little serious thought on his part, or on the part of his family, concerning his composition; his evident talent for piano-playing had persistently overshadowed his creative gifts, and had made it seem that his inevitable career was that of a virtuoso. as he wrote in after years: "i had acquired from early boyhood the idea that it was expected of me to become a pianist, and every moment spent in 'scribbling' seemed to be stolen from the more legitimate work of piano practice." it was raff--raff, who said to him once: "your music will be played when mine is forgotten"--who opened his eyes.
the two following years,--from the summer of 1882 till the summer of 1884--were increasingly given over to composition, though macdowell continued his private teaching and made a few appearances in concert. he continued to try his hand at orchestral writing, and in this pursuit he was greatly favoured by the willingness of the conductors of the cur-orchesters at baden-baden, wiesbaden, and elsewhere, to "try over" in the rehearsal hour his experiments. his requests for such a trial reading of his scores were seldom refused, and the practical training in instrumentation which was afforded by the experience he always regarded as invaluable. much that he tested in this manner was condemned as a result of the illuminating, if chastening, revelations thus brought about; and almost all of his orchestral writing which he afterward thought fit to publish received the benefit of such practical tests.
in june, 1884, macdowell returned to america, and on july 21, at waterford, connecticut, he was married to his former pupil, miss marian nevins--a union, which, for perfection of sympathy and closeness of comradeship, was, during the quarter of a century for which it was to endure, nothing less than ideal. a few days later macdowell and his bride sailed from new york for europe, innocent of any very definite plans for the immediate future. they visited exeter and bath, and then went to london, where they found lodgings at no. 5, woburn place. there macdowell's interest in the outer world was divided between the british museum, where he found a particular fascination in the egyptian and syrian antiquities, and the shakespearian performances of henry irving and ellen terry. he was captivated by their performance of "much ado about nothing," and made a sketch for a symphonic poem which was to be called "beatrice and benedick"--a plan which he finally abandoned. most of the material which was to form the symphonic poem went ultimately to the making of the scherzo of the second piano concerto, composed during the following year.
returning to frankfort, macdowell and his wife lived for a short time in a pension in the praunheimer strasse, keeping very much to themselves in two small rooms. upon their return from a brief excursion to paris, they found less restricted quarters in the hotel du nord. in september of this year macdowell learned of an advantageous position that had been vacated at the würzburg conservatory, and, assisted by letters from frau raff, marmontel (his former instructor at the paris conservatory), and the violinist sauret, he sought the place. but again, as at frankfort three years before, his youth was in his disfavour, and he was courteously rejected.
his pupils, he found, were scattered, and he gave himself up without restraint to the pleasures of creative writing. these were days of quiet and deep happiness. he read much, often aloud in the evening--fairy-tales, of which he was devotedly fond, legendary lore of different countries, mediaeval romances, keats, shelley, tennyson, benvenuto cellini's memoirs, victor hugo, heine; and also mark twain. later, in the spring, the days were devoted partly to composition and partly to long walks with his wife in the beautiful frankfort woods, where was suggested to macdowell the particular mood that found embodiment, many years later, in one of the last things that he wrote: "from a german forest," in the collection of "fireside tales."
the following summer (1885), the death of a friend of his earlier frankfort days, lindsay deas, a scotchman, left vacant in edinburgh the post of examiner for the royal academy of music, and deas's family presented macdowell's name as a candidate. a trip to london was undertaken for the purpose of securing the place, if possible--since composition alone could not be depended upon for a livelihood; but again his youth, as well as his nationality and his "modern tendencies," militated against him. he was obliged to admit that he had been a protégé of "that dreadful man liszt," as the potentate of weimar was characterised by lady macfarren, an all-powerful factor in the control of the institution; and that proving finally his abandonment to a nefarious modernity, he was again rejected.
one afternoon in the spring of 1887 macdowell and his friend templeton strong, a brilliant american composer who had recently moved from his home in leipzig to wiesbaden, were tramping through the country when they came upon a dilapidated cottage on the edge of the woods, in the grubweg. it had been built by a rich german, not as a habitation, but as a kind of elaborate summer house. the situation was enticing. the little building stood on the side of the neroberg, overlooking the town on one side, with the rhine and the main beyond, and on the other side the woods. the two americans were captivated by it, and nothing would do but that macdowell should purchase it for a home. there was some question of its practicability by his cooler-headed wife; but eventually the cottage was bought, with half an acre of ground, and the macdowells ensconced themselves. there was a small garden, in which macdowell delighted to dig; the woods were within a stone's throw; and he and strong, who were inseparable friends, walked together and disputed amicably concerning principles and methods of music-making, and the need for patriotism, in which strong was conceived to be deficient.
he might well have felt some pride in the sum of his achievements at this time. he had not completed his twenty-seventh year; yet he had published a concerto and two orchestral works of important dimensions--"hamlet and ophelia" and "lancelot and elaine"; most of the music that he had so far written had been publicly performed, and almost invariably praised with warmth; and he was becoming known in europe and at home. his material affairs, however, were far from being in a satisfactory or promising condition; for there was little more than a precarious income to be counted upon from his compositions; and he had given up teaching. musicians from america began coming to the little wiesbaden retreat to visit the composer and his wife, and he was repeatedly urged to return to america and assume his share in the development of the musical art of his country. it was finally decided that, all things considered, conditions would be more favorable in the united states; and in september, 1888, the macdowells sold their wiesbaden cottage, not without many pangs, and sailed for their own shores.
they settled in boston, as being less huge and tumultuous than new york, and took lodgings in mount vernon street. in later years they lived successively at 13 west cedar street and at 38 chestnut street. though all of his more important music was as yet unwritten, macdowell found himself already established in the view of the musical public as a composer abundantly worthy of honour at the hands of his countrymen. he made his first public appearance in america, in the double capacity of pianist and composer, at a kneisel quartet concert in chickering hall, boston, on november 19, 1888, playing the prelude, intermezzo, and presto from his first piano suite, and, with kneisel and his associates, the piano part in goldmark's b-flat quintet. he was cordially received, and mr. apthorp, writing in the transcript of his piano playing, praised his technique as "ample and brilliant," and as being especially admirable "in the higher phases of playing"; "he plays," wrote this critic, "with admirable truth of sentiment and musical understanding." of the early and immature suite he could not well write with much enthusiasm, though he found in it "life and brightness."
in the following spring macdowell made a more auspicious appearance, and one which more justly disclosed his abilities as a composer, when, on march 5, he played his second concerto, for the first time in public, at an orchestral concert in chickering hall, new york, under the direction of mr. theodore thomas. his success was then immediate and emphatic. mr. krehbiel, in the tribune, praised the concerto as "a splendid composition, so full of poetry, so full of vigor, as to tempt the assertion that it must be placed at the head of all works of its kind produced by either a native or adopted citizen of america"; and he confessed to having "derived keener pleasure from the work of the young american than from the experienced and famous russian"--tchaikovsky, whose fifth symphony was performed then for the first time in new york. "several enthusiastic and unquestionably sincere recalls," concluded the writer, "were the tokens of gratitude and delight with which his townspeople rewarded him." a month later macdowell played the same concerto in boston, at a symphony concert, under mr. gericke; his performance of it evoked "rapt attention," and "the very heartiest of plaudits, in which both orchestra and audience joined."
in the spring of 1896 it was determined to found a department of music at columbia university, new york. this was made possible by a fund of $150,000 given to the trustees by mrs. elizabeth mary ludow, with the proviso that the income was to be applied in such ways as should "tend more effectually to elevate the standard of musical instruction in the united states, and to afford the most favourable opportunity for acquiring musical instruction of the highest order." in may of that year the professorship was offered to macdowell, the committee who had the appointment in charge announcing the consensus of their opinion to be that he was "the greatest musical genius america has produced." macdowell, though he valued greatly the honour of his selection, considered anxiously the advisability of accepting the post. he now had more pupils than he could take, and his pecuniary circumstances would not be improved by the change, save that a settled income would be assured to him. this was of course a tempting prospect; on the other hand, the task of organizing de novo a new department in a large university, and the curtailed freedom which the position would necessitate, made him hesitate. but the assurance of an income free from precariousness finally decided him in favour of acceptance; and in the following autumn he moved from boston to new york, and began his duties at columbia.
that he undertook his labours there, from the start, in no casual or perfunctory spirit, is made clear by the bare record of his activity. for the first two years of his incumbency he had no assistant, carrying all the work of his department on his own shoulders. he devoted from eight to ten hours a week to lectures and class-work; and this represented but a small proportion of the time and labour expended in establishing the new department. the aim of the instruction was to be twofold. "first, to teach music scientifically and technically, with a view to training musicians who shall be competent to teach and to compose. second, to treat music historically and aesthetically as an element of liberal culture." this plan involved five courses of study, and a brief description of them will indicate the scope of the task undertaken by macdowell.
there was to be, first, a "general musical course," consisting of lectures and private reading, with illustrations. this course, while "outlining the purely technical side of music," aimed at giving "a general idea of music from its historical and aesthetic side," and it treated of "the beginnings of music, the greek modes and their evolution, systems of notation, the troubadours and minnesingers, counterpoint and fugue, beginnings of opera, the clavecinists, beginnings of programme music, harmony, beginnings of the modern orchestra, evolution of forms, the symphony and opera up to beethoven." a second course (this was not begun until the following year) treated "of the development of forms, the song, romanticism, instrumental development, and the composers for pianoforte, revolutionary influences, the virtuoso, modern orchestration and symphonic forms, the music-drama, impressionism versus absolute music, color versus form, the relationship of music to the other arts, musical criticism." a third course treated of "general theory, dictation, harmony, comprising chords and their mutual significance, altered chords, suspensions, modulation, imitation, analysis, and the commencement of composition in the smaller forms." a fourth course comprised, in the first term, counterpoint, canon, choral figuration, and fugue; in the second term, "free counterpoint, canon and fugue, analysis, commencement of composition in the larger forms." the fifth course treated of "free composition, analysis, instrumentation, symphonic forms," and the study of "all the orchestral and other instruments, considered collectively and individually," together with demonstrations of their "technique, possibilities, and limitations."
at the end of the second year an assistant was appointed--a gentleman who had been a student in the department. to him were entrusted the classes in rudimentary harmony, dictation, and chord-analysis: and to this extent he relieved macdowell until the latter had his sabbatical vacation in 1902-03; he then took over the classes in strict counterpoint; but all the more advanced courses were discontinued until macdowell's return. even with an assistant, however, macdowell found his labours very far from being light. in his third year (1898-99) he still gave five courses of two hours a week each, with the exception of a single one-hour course. for these no less than eighty-six students were registered; and in the following year, fifty-two students were registered in one of the courses. in 1901-02 he gave six courses: a general course in musical culture, for which he had thirty-seven students; an advanced course in musical culture, for which he had fourteen students; a course in counterpoint, twelve students; in orchestration, twelve students; in practical composition, thirteen students; in free compositions, two students. this continued to be, in general, his work until he resigned in 1904. to these labours he added the appalling drudgery of correcting examination books and exercises--a task which he performed with unflagging patience and invariable thoroughness. some of his friends remember seeing him at this particular labour, and they recall "the weary, tired, though interested face; the patient trying-over and annotating." in addition to his regular duties, he devoted every sunday morning to receiving students in the more advanced courses who were invited to come to him for help in their composition and piano work. he was, as his friend hamlin garland has said, "temperate in all things but work--in that he was hopelessly prodigal."
these facts are worth stating in detail; for it has been said that macdowell had no drudgery to perform at columbia; that he had few students, and that the burden of the teaching work was borne by his assistant. the impression has gone abroad that he had little didactic capacity, that he was disinclined toward and disqualified for methodical work. it cannot, of course, be said that his inclinations tended irresistibly toward pedagogy, or that he loved routine. yet that he had uncommon gifts as a teacher, that he was singularly methodical in his manner of work, are facts that are beyond question. his students have testified to the strikingly suggestive and illuminating manner in which his instruction was imparted. his lectures, which he wrote out in full, are remarkable for the amount of sheer "brain-stuff" that was expended upon them. they are erudite, accurate, and scholarly; they are original in thought, they are lucid and stimulating in their presentation and interpretation of fact, and they are often admirable in expression. they would reflect uncommon credit upon a writer who had given his life to the critical, historical, and philosophical study of music; as the work of a man who had been primarily absorbed in making music, rather than in discussing it, they are extraordinary.
as conveying an idea of macdowell's methods in the class-room i cannot do better than quote from a vivid account of him in this aspect written by one of his pupils, miss j.s. watson:
"a crowd of noisy, expectant students sat in the lecture room nervously eyeing the door and the clock by turns. the final examination in course i of the department of music was in progress in the back room, the door of which opened at intervals as one pupil came out and another went in. the examination was oral and private, and when the door closed behind me professor macdowell, who was standing at the open window, turned with a smile and motioned me toward a chair. in a pedagogic sense it was not a regular examination. there was something beautifully human in the way the professor turned the traditional stiff and starched catechism into a delightfully informal chat, in which the faburden, the netherland school, early notation, the great clavichord players, suites and sonatas, formed the main topics. the questions were put in such an easy, charming way that i forgot to be frightened; forgot everything but the man who walked rapidly about the room with his hands in his pockets and his head tipped slightly to one side; who talked animatedly and looked intently at the floor; but the explanations and suggestions were meant for me. when i tripped upon the beginning of notation for instruments, he looked up quickly and said, 'better look that up again; that's important.'
"at the lectures professor macdowell's aim had been to emphasise those things that had served to mark the bright spots in the growth and advancement of music as an intelligible language. how well i recall my impression on the occasion of my first visit to the lectures, and afterwards! there was no evidence of an æsthetic side to the equipment of the lecture room. at the end it was vast and glaringly white, and except for an upright piano and a few chairs placed near the lecturer's table the room was empty. ten or twelve undergraduates, youths of eighteen or twenty, and twenty or more special students and auditors, chiefly women, were gathered here. the first lectures, treating of the archaic beginnings of music, might have easily fallen into a business-like recital of dates, but professor macdowell never sank into the passionless routine of lecture giving. his were not the pedantic discourses students link most often to university chairs. they were beautifully illuminating talks, delivered with so much freedom and such a rush of enthusiasm that one felt that the hour never held all that wanted to be said, and the abundant knowledge, in its longing to get out, kept spilling over into the to-morrows.
"his ideas were not tied up in a manuscript, nor doled out from notes. they came untrammelled from a wonderfully versatile mind, and were illustrated with countless musical quotations and interlined with a wealth of literary and historical references. there was no regular textbook; some students carried a rockstro or a hunt, but the majority depended upon the references made during the lectures. these were numerous, and gave a broad view of this speculative period in musical history.
"the lectures on musical form were distinguished by many brilliant demonstrations of macdowell's genius. the ease and rapidity with which he flashed his thoughts upon the blackboard were both inspiring and bewildering to the student who must grope his way through notes before he can reach an idea. if any were unwise enough to stop even for a moment to catch these spontaneous thoughts as they flew along the staff, they were very apt upon looking up to see them vanishing like phantoms in a cloud of white chalk. at the same time he made sarabandes, gavottes, minuets, chaconnes, passepieds, gigues, polonaises and rondos dance across the piano in quick succession; and his comments were as spirited as his playing.
"professor macdowell's criticisms were clear and forceful, and filled with many surprising and humorous touches. of bach he said, 'bach spoke in close, scientific, contrapuntal language. he was as emotional and romantic as chopin, wagner or tchaikovsky; his emotion was expressed in the language of his time. young women who say they adore bach play him like a sum in mathematics. they find a grim pleasure in it, like biting on a sore tooth.'
"he never approached the piano like a conqueror. he had a nervous way of saying that he didn't know whether things would go, because he had had no time to practise. after an apologetic little preamble, he would sit down and play these rococo bits of trailing sound with fingers dipped in lightning, fingers that flashed over the keys in perfect evenness and with perfect sureness.
"the closing lectures were in reality delightfully informal concerts for which the class began to assemble as early as 8.30 in the morning. by 9.30 every student would be in his chair, which he had dragged as near to the piano as the early suburbanite would let him. someone at the window would say, 'here he comes!' and, entering the room with a huge bundle of music under one arm and his hat in his hand, macdowell would deposit them on the piano and turn to us with his gracious smile. then, instead of sitting down, he would continue to walk up and down the room, his thoughts following, apparently, the pace set by his energetic steps. he had an abundant word supply and his short, terse sentences were easy to follow."
this is not the picture of a man who was unqualified for his task, or indifferent, rebellious, or inept in its performance; it is the picture of a man of vital and electric temperament, with almost a genius--certainly with an extraordinary gift--for teaching. his ideals were lofty; he dreamed of a relationship between university instruction and a liberal public culture which was not to be realised in his time. he was anything but complacent; had he been less intolerant in his hatred of unintelligent and indolent thought on the subjects that were near his heart, his way would have been made far easier.
the results of his labours at the university, he finally came to feel, did not warrant the expenditure of the vitality and time that he was devoting to them. he was, in a sense, an anachronism in the position in which he found himself. both in his ideals and in his plans for bringing about their fulfilment he had reached beyond his day. the field was not yet ripe for his best efforts. it became clear to him that he could not make his point of view operative in what he conceived as the need for a reformation of conditions affecting his work; and on january 18, 1904, after long and anxious deliberation and discussion with his wife, he tendered his resignation as head of the department. his attitude in the matter was grievously misunderstood and misrepresented at the time, to his poignant distress and harassment. the iron entered deeply into his soul: it was the forerunner of tragedy.
when he took up his work at columbia his activity as a concert pianist had, of course, to be virtually suspended. with the exception of two short tours of a few weeks' each, he gave up his public appearances altogether until the year of his sabbatical vacation (1902-03). in december, 1902, he went on an extensive concert tour, which took him as far west as san francisco and occupied all of that winter. the following spring and summer were spent abroad, in england and on the continent. in london he appeared in concert, playing his second concerto with the philharmonic society on may 14. he returned to america in october, and resumed his work at columbia.
in new york the macdowells' home was, during the first year, a house in 88th street, near riverside drive. later they lived at the majestic hotel; but during most of the columbia years--from 1898 till 1902--they occupied an apartment at 96th street and central park west. after their return from the sabbatical vacation abroad they lived for a year at the westminster hotel in irving place, and for a year in an apartment house on upper seventh avenue, near central park. when that was sold and torn down they returned to the westminster; and there macdowell's last days were spent.
after he left columbia in 1904, he continued his private piano classes (at some of which he gave free tuition to poor students in whose talent he had confidence). he should have rested--should have ceased both his teaching and his composing; for he was in a threatening condition. had he spent a year in a sanitarium, or had he stopped all work completely and taken even a brief vacation, he might have averted the collapse which was to come. in the spring of 1905 he began to manifest alarming signs of nervous exhaustion. a summer in peterboro brought no improvement. that autumn his ailment was seen to be far more deeply seated than had been supposed. there were indications of an obscure brain lesion, baffling but sinister. then began a very gradual, progressive, and infinitely pathetic decline--the slow beginning of the end. he suffered little pain, and until the last months he preserved in an astonishing degree his physical well-being. it was clear almost from the start that he was beyond the aid of medical science, even the boldest and most expert. a disintegration of the brain-tissues had begun--an affection to which specialists hesitated to give a precise name, but which they recognized as incurable. his mind became as that of a little child. he sat quietly, day after day, in a chair by a window, smiling patiently from time to time at those about him, turning the pages of a book of fairy tales that seemed to give him a definite pleasure, and greeting with a fugitive gleam of recognition certain of his more intimate friends. toward the last his physical condition became burdensome, and he sank rapidly. at nine o'clock on the evening of january 23, 1908, in the beginning of his forty-seventh year, he died at the westminster hotel, new york, in the presence of the heroic woman who for almost a quarter of a century had been his devoted companion, counsellor, helpmate, and friend. after such simple services as would have pleased him, held at st. george's episcopal church, on january 25, his body was taken to peterboro; and on the following day, a sunday, he was buried in the sight of many of his neighbours, who had followed in procession, on foot, the passage of the body through the snow-covered lane from the village. his grave is on an open hill-top, commanding one of the spacious and beautiful views that he had loved. on a bronze tablet are these lines of his own, which he had devised as a motto for his "from a log cabin," the last music that he wrote:
"a house of dreams untold, it looks out over the whispering tree-tops and faces the setting sun."
personal traits and views
in his personal intercourse with the world, macdowell, like so many sensitive and gifted men, had the misfortune to give very often a wholly false account of himself. in reality a man of singularly lovable personality, and to his intimates a winning and delightful companion, he lacked utterly the social gift, that capacity for ready and tactful address which, even for men of gifts, is not without its uses. it was a deficiency (if a deficiency it is) which undoubtedly cost him much in a material sense. had he possessed this serviceable and lubricant quality it would often have helpfully smoothed his path. for those who could penetrate behind the embarrassed and painful reticence that was for him both an impediment and an unconscious shield, he gave lavishly of the gifts of temperament and spirit which were his; even that lack of ready address, of social adaptability and adjustment, which it is possible to deplore in him, was, for those who knew him and valued him, a not uncertain element of charm: for it was akin to the shyness, the absence of assertiveness, the entirely genuine modesty, which were of his dominant traits. yet in his contact with the outer world this incurable shyness sometimes, as i have said, led him into giving a grotesquely untrue impression of himself: he was at times gauche, blunt, awkwardly infelicitous in speech or silence, when he would have wished, as he knew perfectly how, to be considerate, gentle, sympathetic, responsive. on the other hand, his shyness and reticence were seemingly contradicted by a downright bluntness, a deliberate frankness in matters of opinion in which his convictions were involved; for his views were most positively held and his convictions were often passionate in intensity, and he declared them, upon occasion, with an utter absence of diplomacy, compromise, or equivocation; with a superb but sometimes calamitous disregard of his own interests.
confident and positive to a fault in his adherence to and expression of his principles, he was as morbidly dubious concerning his own performances as he was uneasy under praise. he was tortured by doubts of the value of each new work that he completed, after the flush and ardour generated in its actual expression had passed; and he listened to open praise of it in evident discomfort. i have a memory of him on a certain occasion in a private house following a recital at which he had played, almost for the first time, his then newly finished "keltic" sonata. standing in the center of a crowded room, surrounded by enthusiastically effusive strangers who were voluble--and not overpenetrating--in their expressions of appreciation, he presented a picture of unhappiness, of mingled helplessness and discomfort, which was almost pathetic in its genuineness of woe. i was standing near him, and during a momentary lull in the amiable siege of which he was the distressed object, he whispered tragically to me: "can't we get out of this?--do you know the way to the back door?" i said i did, and led him through an inconspicuous doorway into a comparatively deserted corridor behind the staircase. i procured for him, through the strategic employment of a passing servant, something to eat, and we staid in concealment there until the function had come to an end, and his wife had begun to search for him. he was quite happy, consuming his salad and beer behind the stairs and telling me in detail his conception of certain of the figures of celtic mythology which he had had in mind while composing his sonata.
"my dear mr.----:
"your article was forwarded to me after all. i wish to thank you for the warm-hearted and sympathetic enthusiasm which prompted your writing it. while my outgivings have always been sincere, i feel only too often their inadequacy to express my ideals; thus what you speak of as accomplishment i fear is often but attempt. certainly your sympathy for my aims is most welcome and precious to me, and i thank you again most heartily."
those who knew the man only through his music have thought of him as wholly a dreamer and a recluse, a poet brooding in detachment, and unfriendly to the pedestrian and homely things of the world. nothing could be further from the truth. he was overflowingly human, notably full-blooded. on his "farm" (as he called it) at peterboro he lived, when he was not composing, a robust and vigorous outdoor life. he was an ardent sportsman, and he spent much of his time in the woods and fields, fishing, riding, walking, hunting. he had a special relish for gardening and for photography, and he liked to undertake laborious jobs in carpentry, at which he was quite deft. that his feeling for the things of the natural world was acutely sensitive and coloured by imagination and emotion is abundantly evidenced in his music. he was fond of taking long, leisurely drives and rides through the rich and varied hill country about peterboro, and many of the impressions that were then garnered and stored have found issue in some of his most intimate and affecting music--as in the "woodland sketches" and "new england idyls." he had an odd, naive tenderness for growing things and for the creatures of the woods: it distressed him to have his wife water some of the flowers in the garden without watering them all; and though an excellent shot, he never brought down game without a pang--it used to be said at peterboro that for this reason he only "pretended to hunt," despite his expertness as a marksman.
in his intellectual interests and equipment he presented a striking contrast to the brainlessness of the average musician. his tastes were singularly varied and catholic. an omnivorous reader of poetry, an inquisitive delver in the byways of mediæval literature, an authority in mythological detail, he was at the same time keenly interested in contemporary affairs. he read, and discussed with eagerness and acumen, scientific, economic, and historical deliverances; and he enjoyed books of travel, biographies, dramatic literature. mark twain he adored, and delighted to quote, and almost to the end of his life he read with inexhaustible pleasure joel chandler harris's "uncle remus." in the later years of his activity he fell captive to the new and unaccustomed music of fiona macleod's exquisite prose and verse; he wanted to dedicate his "new england idyls" to the author of "pharais" and "from the hills of dream," and wrote for her permission; but the identity of the mysterious author was then jealously guarded, and his letter must have gone astray; for it was never answered.
his erudition was extraordinary. he exemplified in a marked degree the truth that the typical modern music-maker touches hands with the whole body of culture and the humanities in a sense which would have been simply incredible to mozart or schubert. he was, intellectually, one of the most fully and brilliantly equipped composers in the history of musical art. he had read widely and curiously in many literatures, and the knowledge which he had acquired he applied to the elucidation of aesthetic and philosophical problems touching the theory and practice of music. he had meditated deeply concerning the art of which he was always a tireless student--had come to conclusions concerning its actual and assumed records, its tendencies, its potentialities. he was a vigorous and original critic, and he had shrewd, cogent, and clear-cut reasons for the particular views at which he had arrived; whether one could always agree with them or not, they invariably commanded respect. yet his erudition was seldom displayed. one came upon it unexpectedly in conversation with him, through the accident of some reference or the discussion of some disputed point of fact.
in his appearance macdowell suggested a fusion of scandinavian and american types. his eyes, of a light and brilliant blue, were perhaps his most salient feature. they betrayed his inextinguishable humour. when he was amused--and he was seldom, in conversation, grave for long--they lit up with an extraordinary animation; he had an unconscious trick of blinking them rapidly once or twice, with the effect of a fugitive twinkle, which was oddly infectious. his laugh, too, was communicative; he did not often laugh aloud; his enjoyment found vent in a low, rich chuckle, which, with the lighting up of his eyes, was wholly and immediately irresistible. the large head, the strong, rather boyish face, with its singular mobility and often sweetness of expression, the bright, vital eyes, set wide apart, the abundant (though not long), dark hair tinged with grey, the white skin, the sensitive mouth, rather large and full-lipped, the strong jaws, the sturdy and athletic build,--he was somewhat above medium height, with broad shoulders, powerful arms, and large, muscular, finely shaped hands,--his general air of physical soundness and vigour: all these combined to form an outer personality that was strongly attractive. his movements were quick and decisive. to strangers, even when he felt at ease, his manner was diffident, yet of an indescribable, almost childlike, simplicity and charm. his voice in speaking was low-pitched and subdued, like his laugh; in conversation, when he was entirely himself, he could be brilliantly effective and witty, and his mirth-loving propensities were irrepressible.
his sense of humour, which was of true celtic richness, was fluent and inexhaustible. to an admirer who had affirmed in print that certain imaginative felicities in some of the verse which he wrote for his songs recalled at moments the phrasing of whitman and shakespeare, he wrote:
"i will confide in you that if, in the next world, i should happen upon the wraiths of shakespeare, whitman, and co., i would light out without delay. good heavens! i blush at the thought of it! a header through a cloud would be the only thing.--seriously, i was deeply touched by your praise and wish i were more worthy."
his pupil and friend, mr. w.h. humiston, recalls that, in going over macdowell's sketchbooks and manuscripts after his death, he found that many of the manuscripts had been rewritten several times: "i would find a movement begun and continued for half a page, then it would be broken off suddenly, and a remark like this written at the end:--'hand organ to the rescue!'"
i told him once that i had first heard his "to a wild rose" played by a high-school girl, on a high-school piano, at a high-school graduation festivity. "well," he remarked, with his sudden illumination, "i suppose she pulled it up by the roots!" some one sent him at about this time, relates mr. humiston, a programme of an organ recital which contained this same "wild rose" piece. "he was not pleased with the idea, having in mind the expressionless organ of a dozen years ago when only a small portion of most organs was enclosed in a swell-box. doubtless thinking also of a style of organ performance which plays schumann's träumerei on the great organ diapasons, he said it made him think of a hippopotamus wearing a clover leaf in his mouth."
a member of one of his classes at columbia, finding some unoccupied space on the page of his book after finishing his exercise, filled up the space with rests, at the end of which he placed a double bar. when his book was returned the page was covered with corrections--all except these bars of rests, which were enclosed in a red line and marked: "this is the only correct passage in the exercise."
he once observed in a lecture that "bach differed in almost everything from handel, except that he was born the same year and was killed by the same doctor."
in his methods of work he was, like most composers of first-rate quality, at the mercy of his inspiration. he never composed at the piano, in the ordinary meaning of the phrase. that is to say, he never sat down to the piano with the idea that he wanted to compose a song or a piano piece. but sometime, when he might be improvising, as he was fond of doing when alone, a theme, an idea, might come to him, and almost before he knew it he had sketched something in a rudimentary form. he had a fancy that the technique of composition suffered as much as that of the piano if it was allowed to go for weeks and months without exercise. the constant work and excitement that his winters in boston and new york involved, made it necessary for him to let days and weeks slip by with no creative work accomplished. yet he always tried to write each day a few bars of music. often in this way he evolved a theme for which he afterward found a use. in looking over a sketch-book in the summer he would run across something he liked, and the idea would expand into a matured work.
in the actual work of composition he was elaborately meticulous--not often to the extent of changing an original plan, but in minor details; he never ceased working on a score until the music was out of his hands, or entirely put aside. sometimes he tried over a few measures on the piano as many as fifty times, changing the value or significance of a note; as a result, his piano writing is almost always "pianistic." in one respect he was sometimes careless: in the noting of the expression marks. by the time he arrived at that duty he was usually tired out. for this reason, much in his printed music is marked differently from the way he actually played it in concert. he never, in performance, changed a note, save in a few of the earlier pieces; but in details of expression he often departed widely from the printed directions.
he was always profoundly absorbed when at work, though not to the extent of being able to compose amid noise or disturbance. he needed to isolate himself as much as possible; although, when it could not be avoided, he contrived to work effectively under obstructive conditions; the largo of the "sonata tragica," for example, was written in boston when he was harassed by drudgery and care. during the earlier days at peterboro he composed in a music room which was joined to the main body of the house by a covered passage; in this way he could hear nothing of the household workings, and was unaware of the chance caller. no one was ever allowed to intrude upon him, save his wife. yet certain outside noises were still apparent; so the log cabin in the woods was built. there he used to go nearly every morning, coming home when he felt disposed, and usually going to the golf grounds for a game before dinner, which he always had at night. he kept a piano in the music room as well as at the log cabin; so if he felt like working in the evening he could do so; and when he was especially engrossed he often worked into the small hours. his unselfishness made it easy for his wife, when she deemed a change and rest essential, to make the excuse that she needed it. after a preliminary protest he would usually give in, and they would leave peterboro for a few days' excursion.
he knew discouragement in an extreme form. many weeks, even months, had to pass before his discontent over the last child of his imagination would become normal. particularly was this so with the larger works; though each one was started in a fever of inspiration, a longing to reduce to actual form the impossible. he was always disheartened when a work was finished, but he was too sane in his judgment not to have moments when he could estimate fairly the quality of what he had written. but those were rare moments; as a rule, it was in his future music that he was always going to do his "really good work," and he longed ardently for leisure and freedom from care, so that, as he once bitterly said, he would not have to press into a small piano piece material enough to make a movement of a symphony.
his preferences in the matter of his own music were not very definite. in 1903, when he had finished all that he was to write, he expressed a preference for the "dirge" from the "indian" suite above anything that he had composed. "of all my music," he confessed at this time, "the 'dirge' in the 'indian' suite pleases me most. it affects me deeply and did when i was writing it. in it an indian woman laments the death of her son; but to me, as i wrote it, it seemed to express a world-sorrow rather than a particularised grief." his estimate of the value of the music has, naturally, no extraordinary importance; but my conviction is that, in this instance, his judgment was correct. as to the sonatas, he cared most for the "keltic"; after that, for the "eroica," as a whole; though i doubt whether there was anything in the two that he cared for quite as he did for the largo in the "tragica" and certain parts of the "norse." he felt concerning the "keltic" that there was hardly a bar in it that he wanted changed, that he had scarcely ever written any thing so rounded, so complete, in which the joining was so invisible. he played it con amore, and it grew to be part of himself as no other of his works ever did. technically, it was never hard for him, whereas he found the "eroica" exhausting, physically and mentally.
of the smaller works he preferred the "sea pieces," as a whole, above all the others; yet there were single things in each of the other sets for which he cared perhaps as much. of the "sea pieces" those he liked best were: "to the sea," "from the depths," "in mid-ocean"; of the "fireside tales": the "haunted house," "salamander," "'brer rabbit"; and he had a tender feeling for "in a german forest," which always seemed to bring back the frankfort days to his memory. of the "new england idyls," his favorites were: "in deep woods," "mid-winter," "from a log cabin."
in his composition he was growing away from piano work,--he felt that the future must mean larger, probably orchestral, forms, for him, and his dream of an ultimate leisure was a dream for which his friends can be thankful. he did not end with despair at his heart that the distracting work, the yearly drudgery, were to go on forever.
his preferences in music were governed by the independence which characterised his intellectual judgments. of the moderns, wagner was his god; for liszt he had an unbounded admiration, though he detected the showman, the mere juggler, in him; tchaikovsky stirred him mightily; brahms did not as a rule give him pleasure, though certain of that master's more fertile moments compelled his appreciation. grieg he delighted in. to him he dedicated both his "norse" and "keltic" sonatas. in response to his request for permission to inscribe the first of these to his eminent contemporary, he received from grieg the following delectable letter--one of the norwegian's very few attempts at english composition (i quote it verbatim; the spelling is grieg's):--
copenhagen, 26/10/99. hotel king of denmark.
my dear sir!
will you remit me in bad english to express my best thanks for your kind letter and for the sympathi you feel for my music. of course it will be a great honor and pleasure for me to accept your dedication.
some years ago i thought it possible to shake hands with you in your own country. but unfortunately my delicat health does not seem to agree. at all events, if we are not to meet, i am glad to read in the papers of your artistical success in amerika.
with my best wishes,
i am, dear sir,
yours very truly,
i may quote also, in this place, because of its unusual interest, a letter written (in german) by grieg to mrs. macdowell when he learned of her husband's collapse:--
christiania, december 14, 1905.
with best greeting to you both,
the modern frenchmen he knew scarcely at all. some of d'indy's earlier music he had heard and admired: but that he would have cared for such a score as debussy's "la mer" i very much doubt. i remember his amusement over what he called the "queerness" of a sonata by the belgian lekeu for violin and piano, which he had read or heard. it is likely that he would have found little to attract him in the more characteristic music of d'indy, debussy, and ravel; his instincts and temperament led him into a wholly different region of expression. he was a prophet of modernity; but it was a modernity that he alone exemplifies: it has no exact parallel.
concerning the classics he had his own views. of bach he wrote that he believed him to have accomplished his work as "one of the world's mightiest tone-poets not by means of the contrapuntal methods of his day, but in spite of them. the laws of canon and fugue are based upon as prosaic a foundation as those of the rondo and sonata form, and i find it impossible to imagine their ever having been a spur, an incentive, to poetic musical speech."
of mozart he wrote: "it is impossible to forget the fact that in his piano works he was first and foremost a piano virtuoso, a child prodigy: of whom filigree work (we cannot call this orientalism, for it was more or less of german pattern, traced from the fioriture of the italian opera singer) was expected by the public for which his sonatas were written.... we need freshness and sincerity in forming our judgments of art.... if we read on one page of some history (every history of music has such a page) that mozart's sonatas are sublime; that they far transcend anything written for the harpsichord or clavichord by haydn or his contemporaries, we are apt to echo the saying ... but let us look the thing straight in the face: mozart's sonatas are compositions entirely unworthy of the author of 'the magic flute' and 'don giovanni,' or of any composer with pretensions to more than mediocre talent. they are written in a style of flashy harpsichord virtuosity such as liszt in his most despised moments never descended to. yet i am well aware that this statement would be dismissed as either absurd or heretical, according to the point of view of the particular objector."
of mendelssohn he said: "mendelssohn professed to be an 'absolutist' in music. as a matter of fact, he stands on the same ground that liszt and berlioz did; for almost everything he wrote, even to the smallest piano piece, he furnished with an explanatory title.... formalist though he was, his work often exhibits eccentricities of form--as, for instance, in the scotch symphony, where, in the so-called 'exposition' of the first movement, he throws in an extra little theme that laps over his frame with a jaunty disregard of the rules that is delightful.... his technic of piano writing was perfect; compared with beethoven's it was a revelation. he never committed the fault of mere virtuoso writing, which is remarkable when we consider how strong a temptation there must have been to do so. in his piano music can be found the germs of most of the pianistic innovations that are usually identified with other composers--for instance, the manner of enveloping the melody with runs, the discovery of which has been ascribed to thalberg, but which we find in mendelssohn's first prelude, written in 1833. the interlocking passages which have become so prevalent in modern music we find in his compositions dating from 1835."
of schumann he said happily: "his music is not avowed programme-music; neither is it, as was much of schubert's, pure delight in beautiful sound. it did not break through formalism by sheer violence of emotion, as did beethoven's: it represents the rhapsodical revery of an inspired poet to whom no imaginative vagary seems strange or alien, and who has the faculty of relating his visions, never attempting to give them coherence, and unaware of their character until perhaps when, awakened from his dream, he naïvely wonders what they may have meant--you remember that he added titles to his music after it was composed. he put his dreams in music and guessed their meaning afterward."
of wagner: "his music-dramas, shorn of the fetters of the actual spoken word, emancipated from the materialism of acting, painting, and furniture, must be considered the greatest achievement in our art."
concerning programme-music he wrote at length. "in my opinion," he says in one of his lectures, "the battle over what music can express and what it cannot express has been carried on wrong lines. we are always referred back to language as actually expressing an idea, when, as a matter of fact, language expresses nothing but that which its vital parallel means of expression, gesture and facial expression, permit it to express. words mean nothing whatsoever in themselves; the same words in different languages mean wholly different things; for written words are mere symbols, and no more express things or ideas than any marks on paper would. yet language is forever striving to emulate music by actually expressing something, besides merely symbolising it, and thus we have in poetry the coining of onomatopoetic words--words that will bring the things they stand for more vividly before our eyes and minds. now music may express all that words can express and much more, for it is the natural means of expression for all animals, mankind included. if musical sounds were accepted as symbols for things we would have another speech. it seems strange to say that by means of music one could say the most commonplace thing, as, for instance: 'i am going to take a walk'; yet this is precisely what the chinese have been doing for centuries. for such things, however, our word-symbols do perfectly well, and such a symbolising of musical sounds must detract, i think, from the high mission of music: which, as i conceive, is neither to be an agent for expressing material things; nor to utter pretty sounds to amuse the ear; nor a sensuous excitant to fire the blood, or a sedative to lull the senses: it is a language, but a language of the intangible, a kind of soul-language. it appeals directly to the seelenzustände it springs from, for it is the natural expression of it, rather than, like words, a translation of it into set stereotyped symbols which may or may not be accepted for what they were intended to denote by the writer"--a credo which sums up in fairly complete form his theory of music-making, whatever validity it may have as a philosophical generalisation.
in regard to the sadly vexed question of musical nationalism, especially in its relation to america, his position was definite and positive. his views on this subject may well be quoted somewhat in detail, since they have not always been justly represented or fully understood. in the following excerpt, from a lecture on "folk-music," he pays his respects to dvorák's "new world" symphony, and touches upon his own attitude toward the case as exemplified in his "indian" suite:
"a man is generally something different from the clothes he wears or the business he is occupied with; but when we do see a man identified with his clothes we think but little of him. and so it is with music. so-called russian, bohemian, or any other purely national music has no place in art, for its characteristics may be duplicated by anyone who takes the fancy to do so. on the other hand, the vital element of music--personality--stands alone. we have seen the viennese strauss family adopting the cross rhythms of the spanish--or, to be more accurate, the moorish or arab--school of art. moszkowski the pole writes spanish dances. cowen in england writes a scandinavian symphony. grieg the norwegian writes arabian music; and, to cap the climax, we have here in america been offered a pattern for an 'american' national musical costume by the bohemian dvorak--though what the negro melodies have to do with americanism in art still remains a mystery. music that can be made by 'recipe' is not music, but 'tailoring.' to be sure, this tailoring may serve to cover a beautiful thought; but--why cover it? and, worst of all, why cover it (if covered it must be: if the trademark of nationality is indispensable, which i deny)--why cover it with the badge of whilom slavery rather than with the stern but at least manly and free rudeness of the north american indian? if what is called local tone colour is necessary to music (which it most emphatically is not), why not adopt some of the hindoo ragas and modes--each one of which (and the modes alone number over seventy-two) will give an individual tonal character to the music written according to its rules? but the means of 'creating' a national music to which i have alluded are childish. no: before a people can find a musical writer to echo its genius it must first possess men who truly represent it--that is to say, men who, being part of the people, love the country for itself: men who put into their music what the nation has put into its life; and in the case of america it needs above all, both on the part of the public and on the part of the writer, absolute freedom from the restraint that an almost unlimited deference to european thought and prejudice has imposed upon us. masquerading in the so-called nationalism of negro clothes cut in bohemia will not help us. what we must arrive at is the youthful optimistic vitality and the undaunted tenacity of spirit that characterizes the american man. this is what i hope to see echoed in american music."
of macdowell as a pianist, mr. henry t. finck, who had known him in this capacity almost from the beginning of his career in america, has written for me his impressions, and i shall quote them, rather than any of my own; since i had comparatively few opportunities to hear him display, at his best, the full measure of his ability:
"as he never felt quite sure," writes mr. finck, "that what he was composing was worth while, so, in the matter of playing in public, he was so self-distrustful that when he came on the stage and sat down on the piano stool he hung his head and looked a good deal like a school-boy detected in the act of doing something he ought not to do.
"often though i was with him--sometimes a week at a time in peterboro--i never could persuade him to play for me. i once asked paderewski to play for me his new set of songs, and he promptly did so. but macdowell always was 'out of practice,' or had some other excuse, generally a witticism or bit of sarcasm at his own expense. i am sorry now that i did not urge him with more persistence, for he might have yielded in the end, and i would have got a more intime idea of his playing; for after all a musical tête-à-tête like that is preferable to any public hearing. i never heard grieg play at a concert, but i am sure that the hour i sat near him in his bergen home, while he played and his wife sang, gave me a better appreciation of his skill as an interpreter than i could have got in a public hall with an audience to distract his attention. one afternoon i called on saint-saëns at his hotel after one of his concerts in new york. talking about it, he sat down at the piano, ran over his valse canariote, and said: 'that's the way i ought to have played it!'
"macdowell was quite right in saying that he was out of practice; he generally was, his duties as professor allowing him little time for technical exercising; but once every few years he set to work and got his fingers into a condition which enabled them to follow his intentions; and those intentions, it is needless to say, were always honourable! he never played any of those show pieces which help along a pianist, but confined himself to the best he could find.
"usually the first half of a recital was devoted to the classical and romantic masters, the second to his own compositions. beethoven, schubert, chopin, liszt, grieg, were likely to be represented, and he also did missionary work for templeton strong and other americans. his interpretation of the music of other composers was both objective and subjective; there was no distortion or exaggeration, yet one could not mistake the fact that it was macdowell who was playing it.
"the expression, 'he played like a composer,' is often used to hint that the technic was not that of a virtuoso. in this sense macdowell did not play like a composer; his technical skill was equal to everything he played, though never obtrusive. in another sense he did play 'like a composer,' especially when interpreting his own pieces; that is, he played with an insight, a subtlety of expression, which only a creative performer has at his command. i doubt if chopin himself could have rendered one of his pieces with more ravishing delicacy than macdowell showed in playing his 'to a wild rose.' i doubt if liszt could have shown a more overwhelming dramatic power than macdowell did in playing his 'keltic' sonata. in this combination of feminine tenderness with masculine strength he was, as in his creative gift, a man of genius. after one of his concerts i wrote in the glow of enthusiasm that i would rather hear him than any pianist in the field excepting paderewski; that utterance i never saw reason to modify."
"but for this finger speeding and for his other technical acquirements as well, macdowell cared little, except as they furthered his one absorbing aim. he was heart and soul a composer, and to be able to play his own music as he heard it in his inner ear was his single spur to practice. from the time of his complete immersion in composition, his ideas of pianistic effects, of tone colour, gradually led him farther and farther away from conventional pianism. scales and arpeggios, as commonly rendered, had no longer interest or charm for him. he cared for finger passages only when they could be made to suggest what he wanted them to suggest in his own colour-scheme. with his peculiar touch and facility at command, he rejoiced in turning such passages into streams and swirls of tone, marked with strong accents and coloured with vivid, dynamic contrasts.
"that his passage playing rarely sounded clean and pure--like that of a rosenthal--was due not only to his musical predilections, but to his hand formation as well. his hand was broad and rather thick-set, and tremendously muscular. it would not bend back at the knuckles; and the fingers also had no well-defined knuckle movement. it appears, therefore, that he could not, if he would, have succeeded on more conventional technical lines. gradually he developed great strength and intense activity in the middle joints, which enabled him to play with a very close, often overlapping, touch, and to maintain extremely rapid tempi in legato or staccato with perfect ease and little fatigue. with this combination of velocity and close touch, it was a slight matter to produce those pianistic effects which were especially dear to him.
"macdowell's finger development has been thus dwelt upon, because it was, as has been said, the feature of his technic which immediately surprised and captivated his hearers. less noticeable was his wrist and octave work. but his chord playing, though also relatively unattractive, was even in those early days almost as uncommon in its way as was his velocity. and in this field of technic, during his later years, when in composition his mind turned almost wholly to this mode of expression, he reached a plane of tonal effect which, for variety, from vague, shadowy, mysterious ppp, to virile, orchestral ffff, has never been surpassed by any pianist who has visited these shores in recent years. his tone in chord playing, it is true, was often harsh, and this fault also appeared in his melodic delivery. but in both cases any unmusical effect was so greatly overbalanced by many rare and beautiful qualities of tone production, that it was easily forgiven and forgotten.
"wonderful tone blending in finger passages; a peculiarly crisp, yet veiled staccato; chord playing extraordinary in variety,--tender, mysterious, sinister, heroic; a curiously unconventional yet effective melodic delivery; playing replete with power, vitality, and dramatic significance, always forcing upon the ear the phrase, never the tickling of mere notes; a really marvellous command and use of both pedals,--these were the characteristics of macdowell's pianistic art as he displayed it in the exposition of his own works. unquestionably he was a born pianist. if it had not been for his genius for composition, he would, without doubt, have been known as a brilliant and forceful interpreter of the greatest piano literature. but his compositional bent turned him completely away from mere piano playing. he was a composer-pianist, and as such he ever desired to be regarded."
he left few uncompleted works. there are among his manuscripts three movements of a symphony, two movements of a suite for string orchestra, a suite for violin and piano, some songs and piano pieces, and a large number of sketches. he had schemes for a music-drama on an arthurian subject, and sketched a single act of it. he had planned this work upon novel lines: there was to be comparatively little singing, and much emphasis was to be laid upon the orchestral commentary; the action was to be carried on by a combination of pantomime and tableaux, and the scenic element was to be conspicuous--a suggestion which he got in part from e.a. abbey's holy grail frescoes in the boston public library. but he had determined to write his own text: and the prospective labour of this, made more formidable by his restricted leisure, finally discouraged him, and he abandoned the project. five years before his death he destroyed the sketches that he had made; only a few fragments remain.
a rare and admirable man!--a man who would have been a remarkable personality if he had not written a note of music. his faults--and he was far from being a paragon--were never petty or contemptible: they were truly the defects of his qualities--of his honesty, his courage, his passionate and often reckless zeal in the promotion of what he believed to be sound and fine in art and in life. mr. philip hale, whose long friendship with macdowell gives him the right to speak with peculiar authority, and whose habit is that of sobriety in speech, has written of him in words whose justice and felicity cannot be bettered: "a man of blameless life, he was never pharasaical; he was compassionate toward the slips and failings of poor humanity. he was a true patriot, proud and hopeful of his country and of its artistic future, but he could not brook the thought of patriotism used as a cloak to cover mediocrity in art.... he was one who worked steadily and courageously in the face of discouragement; who never courted by trickery or device the favour of the public; who never fawned upon those who might help him; who in his art kept himself pure and unspotted."
"o that so many pitchers of rough clay should prosper and the porcelain break in two!"
his art and its methods
among those music-makers of to-day who are both pre-eminent and representative the note of sincere romance is infrequently sounded. the fact must be obvious to the most casual observer of musical art in its contemporary development. the significant work of the most considerable musicians of our time--of strauss, debussy, loeffler, d'indy--has few essentially romantic characteristics. it is necessary to distinguish between that fatuous romanticism of which mr. ernest newman has given an unequalled definition: the romanticism which expended itself in the fabrication of a pasteboard world of "gloomy forests, enchanted castles, impossible maidens, and the obsolete profession of magic," and that other and imperishable spirit of romance whose infrequent embodiment in modern music i have remarked. that is a romance in no wise divorced from reality--is, in fact, but reality diviningly perceived; if it uses the old romanticistic properties, it uses them not because of any inherent validity which they possess, but because they may at times be made to serve as symbols. it deals in a truth that is no less authentic because it is conveyed in terms of a beauty that may often be in the last degree incalculable and aërial.
it is to its persistent embodiment of this valid spirit of romance that macdowell's work owes its final and particular distinction. i know of no composer who has displayed a like sensitiveness to the finer stuff of romance. he has chosen more than occasionally to employ, in the accomplishment of his purposes, what seems at first to be precisely the magical apparatus so necessary to the older romanticism. dryads and elves are his intimate companions, and he dwells at times under fairy boughs and in enchanted woods; but for him, as for the poets of the celtic tradition, these things are but the manifest images of an interior passion and delight. seen in the transfiguring mirror of his music, the moods and events of the natural world, and of the drama that plays incessantly in the hearts of men, are vivified into shapes and designs of irresistible beauty and appeal. he is of those quickened ministers of beauty who attest for us the reality of that changeless and timeless loveliness which the visible world of the senses and the invisible world of the imagination are ceaselessly revealing to the simple of heart, the dream-filled, and the unwise.
macdowell presents throughout the entire body of his work the noteworthy spectacle of a radical without extravagance, a musician at once in accord with, and detached from, the dominant artistic movement of his day. the observation is more a definition than an encomium. he is a radical in that, to his sense, music is nothing if not articulate. wagner's luminous phrase, "the fertilisation of music by poetry," would have implied for him no mere æsthetic abstraction, but an intimate and ever-present ideal. he was a musician, yet he looked out upon the visible world and inward upon the world of the emotions through the transforming eyes of the poet. he would have none of a formal and merely decorative beauty--a beauty serving no expressional need of the heart or the imagination. in this ultimate sense he is to be regarded as a realist--a realist with the romantic's vision, the romantic's preoccupation; and yet he is as alien to the frequently unleavened literalism of richard strauss as he is to the academic ideal. though he conceives the prime mission of music to be interpretive, he insists no less emphatically that, in its function as an expressional instrument, it shall concern itself with essences and impressions, and not at all with transcriptions. his standpoint is, in the last analysis, that of the poet rather than of the typical musician: the standpoint of the poet intent mainly upon a vivid embodiment of the quintessence of personal vision and emotion, who has elected to utter that truth and that emotion in terms of musical beauty. one is, indeed, almost tempted to say that he is paramountly a poet, to whom the supplementary gift of musical speech has been extravagantly vouchsafed.
he is a realist, as i have said--applying the term in that larger sense which denotes the transmutation of life into visible or audible form, and which implicates beethoven as well as wagner, schumann as well as liszt, tchaikovsky and debussy as well as strauss: all those in whom the desire for intelligible utterance coexists with, or supersedes, the impulse toward perfected design. but if macdowell's method of transmutation is not the method of strauss, neither is it the method of schumann, or of debussy. he occupies a middle ground between the undaunted literalism of the munich tone-poet and the sentimental posturings into which the romanticism of schumann so frequently declined. it is impossible to conceive him attempting the musical exposition of such themes as kindled the imagination of strauss when he wrought out his "heldenleben," "zarathustra," and "till eulenspiegel"; nor has he any appreciable affinity with the prismatic subtleties of the younger french school: so that there is little in the accent of his musical speech to remind one of the representative voices of modernity.
though he has avoided shackling his music to a detailed programme, he has never very seriously espoused the sophistical compromise which concedes the legitimacy of programme-music provided it speaks as potently to one who does not know the subject-matter as to one who does. the bulk of his music no more discloses its full measure of beauty and eloquence to one who is in ignorance of its poetic basis than would wagner's "faust" overture, tchaikovsky's "romeo and juliet," or debussy's "l'après-midi d'un faune." its appeal is conditioned upon an understanding of the basis of drama and emotional crisis upon which the musician has built; and in much of his music he has frankly recognized this fact, and has printed at the beginning of such works as the "idyls" and "poems" after goethe and heine, the "norse" and "keltic" sonatas, the "sea pieces," and the "new england idyls," the fragment of verse or legend or meditation which has served as the particular stimulus of his inspiration; while in other works he has contented himself with the suggestion of a mood or subject embodied in his title, as, for example, in his "woodland sketches,"--"to a wild rose," "will o' the wisp," "at an old trysting place," "in autumn," "from an indian lodge," "to a water-lily," "a deserted farm." that he has been tempted, however, in the direction of the compromise to which i have alluded, is evident from the fact that although his symphonic poem "lancelot and elaine" is built upon the frame of an extremely definite sequence of events,--such as lancelot's downfall in the tournament, his return to the court, guinevere's casting away of the trophies, the approach of the barge bearing elaine's body, and lancelot's reverie by the river bank,--he gives in the published score no hint whatever of the particular phases of that moving chronicle of passion and tragedy which he has so faithfully striven to represent. "i would never have insisted," he wrote in 1899, "that this symphonic poem need mean 'lancelot and elaine' to everyone. it did to me, however, and in the hope that my artistic enjoyment might be shared by others, i added the title to my music."
"and like a thunderbolt he falls"
he was, in an extraordinarily complete sense, a celebrant of the natural world. his imagination was enslaved by the miraculous pageant of the visible earth, and he sought tirelessly to transfix some moment of its wonder or its splendour or its terror in permanent images of tone. the melancholy beauty of the autumn woods, the loveliness of quiet waters under fading skies, the sapphire and emerald glories, or the ominous chantings, of the sea, the benign and mysterious majesty of summer stars, the lyric sweetness of a meadow: these things urged him to musical transcripts, notations of loving tenderness and sincerity. his music is redolent of the breath and odour of woodland places, of lanes and moors and gardens; or it is saturated with salt spray; or it communicates the incommunicable in its voicing of that indefinable and evanescent sense of association which is evoked by certain aspects, certain phases, of the outer world--that sudden emotion of things past and irrecoverable which may cling about a field at sunset, or a quiet street at dusk, or a sudden intimation of spring in the scent of lilacs.
but although such themes as he loved to dwell upon in his celebration of the magic of the natural world were very precious to his imagination, the human spectacle held for him, from the first, an emotion scarcely less swift and abundant. his scope is comprehensive: he can voice the archest gaiety, a naive and charming humour, as in the "marionettes" and in the songs "from an old garden"; there is passion in the symphonic poems and in many of the songs; while in the sonatas and in the "indian" suite the tragic note is struck with impressive and indubitable authority.
this scope and amplitude of expression are realised through a method at once plastic and unlaboured; his art has spontaneity--the deceptive spontaneity of the expert craftsman. it is not, in its elements, a strikingly novel style. his harmony, per se, is not unusual, if one sets it beside the surprising combinations evolved by such innovators as d'indy, debussy, and strauss. it is in the novel disposition of familiar material--in what mr. apthorp has happily called his "free, instinctive application of the old in a new way"--that macdowell's emphatic individuality consists. whether it is a more signal achievement to create a new speech through the readjustment of established locutions than to evolve it from fresh and unworked elements, is open to debate. be that as it may, however, macdowell's achievement is of the former order.
his harmonic method is ingenious and pliable. an over-insistence upon certain formulas--eloquent enough in themselves--has been charged against it, and the accusation is not without foundation. macdowell is exceedingly fond, for instance, of suspensions in the chord of the diminished seventh. there is scarcely a page throughout his later work in which one does not encounter this effect in but slightly varied form. yet there is a continual richness in his harmonic texture. i can think of no other composer, save wagner, whose chord-progressions are so full and opulent in colour. his tonal web is always densely woven--he avoids "thinness" as he avoids the banal phrase and the futile decoration. in addition to the plangency of his chord combinations, as such, his polyphonic skill is responsible for much of the solidity of his fabric. his pages, particularly in the more recent works, are studded with examples of felicitous and dexterous counterpoint--poetically significant, and of the most elastic and untrammelled contrivance. even in passages of a merely episodic character, one is struck with the vitality and importance of his inner voices. dissonance--in the sense in which we understand dissonance to-day--plays a comparatively unimportant part in his technical method. the climax of the second of the "sea pieces"--"from a wandering iceberg"--marks about as extreme a point of harmonic conflict as he ever touches. nor has he been profoundly affected by the passion for unbridled chromaticism engendered in modern music by the procedures of chopin, liszt, and wagner. even in the earlier of the orchestral works, "hamlet and ophelia" and "lancelot and elaine"--both written in germany in the days when the genius of wagner was an ambient and inescapable flame--the writing is comparatively free from chromatic effects. on the other hand, he is far less audaciously diatonic than richard strauss. his style is, in fact, a subtle blend of opposing tendencies.
it must have already become evident to anyone who has followed this essay at an exposition of macdowell's art that his view of the traditional musical forms is a liberal one. which is briefly to say that, although his application to his art of the fundamental principles of musical design is deliberate and satisfying, he shares the typical modern distaste for the classic forms. his four sonatas, his two piano concertos, and his two "modern suites" for piano are his only important adventures in the traditional instrumental moulds. the catalogue of his works is innocent of any symphony, overture, string quartet, or cantata. the major portion of his work is as elastic and emancipated in form as it is unconfined in spirit. he preferred to shape his inspiration upon the mould of a definite poetic concept, rather than upon a constructive formula which was, for him, artificial and anomalous. even in his sonatas the classic prescription is altered or abrogated at will in accordance with the requirements of the underlying poetic idea.
"lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch' entrate"
not until one reaches the "hamlet and ophelia" is it apparent that he is beginning to find himself. this work was written before he had completed his twenty-fourth year; yet the music is curiously ripe in feeling and accomplishment. there is breadth and steadiness of view in the conception, passion and sensitiveness in its embodiment: it is mellower, of a deeper and finer beauty, than anything he had previously done, though nowhere has it the inspiration of his later works.
his third orchestral work, the symphonic poem "lamia," is based upon the fantastic (and what mr. howells would call unconscionably "romanticistic") poem of keats. begun during his last year in wiesbaden (1888), and completed the following winter in boston, it stands, in the order of macdowell's orchestral pieces, between "lancelot and elaine" and the two "fragments" after the "song of roland." on a fly-leaf of the score macdowell has written this glossary of the story as told by keats:
"lamia, an enchantress in the form of a serpent, loves lycius, a young corinthian. in order to win him she prays to hermes, who answers her appeal by transforming her into a lovely maiden. lycius meets her in the wood, is smitten with love for her, and goes with her to her enchanted palace, where the wedding is celebrated with great splendour. but suddenly apollonius appears; he reveals the magic. lamia again assumes the form of a serpent, the enchanted palace vanishes, and lycius is found lifeless."
now this is obviously just the sort of thing to stir the musical imagination of a young composer nourished on liszt, raff, and wagner; and macdowell (he was then in his twenty-seventh year) composed his tone-poem with evident gusto. yet it is the weakest of his orchestral works--the weakest and the least characteristic. there is much liszt in the score, and a good deal of wagner. only occasionally--as in the pianissimo passage for flutes, clarinets, and divided strings, following the first outburst of the full orchestra--does his own individuality emerge with any positiveness. macdowell withheld the score from publication, at the time of its composition, because of his uncertainty as to its effect. he had not had an opportunity to secure a reading of it by one of the cur-orchester which had accommodatingly tried over his preceding scores at their rehearsals; and such a thing was of course out of the question in america. not only was he reluctant to put it forth without such a test, but he lacked the funds to pay for its publication. he came to realise in later years, of course, that the music was immature and far from characteristic, though he still had a genuine affection for it. in a talk which i had with him a year before his collapse, he gave me the impression that he considered it at least as good a piece of work as its predecessors, "hamlet and ophelia" and "lancelot and elaine," though he made sport, in his characteristic way, of its occasional juvenility and its wagneristic allegiances. he intended ultimately to revise and publish the score, and he allowed it to remain on the list of his works. after his death it was concluded that it would be wise to print the music, for several reasons. these were, first, because of the fear lest, if it were allowed to remain in manuscript, it might at some future time suffer from well-meant attempts at revision; and, secondly, because of the chance that it might be put forward, after the death of those who knew its history, in a way which would seem to make unwarranted pretensions for it, or would give rise to doubts as to its authenticity. in a word, it was felt that its immediate publication would obviate any possible misconception at some future time as to its true relation to macdowell's artistic evolution. it was, therefore, published in october, 1908, twenty years after its composition, with a dedication to mr. henry t. finck.
"... schöne, kranke frau, zartdurchsichtig und marmorblass,"
and her desolate lamenting, are sharply projected, though scarcely with the power that he would have brought to bear upon the endeavour a decade later. less effective, but more characteristic, is "the shepherd boy" (no. 5). this is almost, at moments, macdowell in the happiest phase of his lighter vein. the transition from f minor to major, after the fermata on the second page, is as typical as it is delectable; and the fifteen bars that follow are of a markedly personal tinge. "from long ago" and "from a fisherman's hut" are less good, and "the post wagon" and "monologue" are disappointing--the latter especially so, because the exquisite poem which he has chosen to enforce, the matchless lyric beginning "der tod, das ist die kühle nacht," should, it seems, have offered an inspiring incentive.
a matured impressionist
in the suite as a whole he has caught and embodied the fundamental spirit of his theme: these are the sorrows and laments and rejoicings, not of our own day and people, but of the vanished life of an elemental and dying race; here is the solitude of dark forests, of illimitable and lonely prairies, and the sombreness and wildness of one knows not what grim tragedies and romances and festivities enacted in the shadow of a fading past.
into the discussion of the relation between such works as the "indian" suite and the establishment of a possible "american" school of music i shall not intrude. to those of us who believe that such a "school," whether desirable or not, can never be created through conscious effort, and who are entirely willing to permit time and circumstance to bring about its establishment, the subject is as wearisome as it is unprofitable. the logic of the belief that it is possible to achieve a representative nationalism in music by the ingenuous process of adopting the idiom of an alien though neighbouring race is not immediately apparent; and although macdowell in this suite has admittedly derived his basic material from the north american aborigines, he never, so far as i am aware, claimed that his impressive and noble score constitutes, for that reason, a representatively national utterance. he perceived, doubtless, that territorial propinquity is quite a different thing from racial affinity; and that a musical art derived from either indian or ethiopian sources can be "american" only in a partial and quite unimportant sense. he recognised, and he affirmed the belief, that racial elements are transitory and mutable, and that provinciality in art, even when it is called patriotism, makes for a probable oblivion.
music, of course--from frohberger and haydn to mendelssohn, wagner, raff, and debussy--abounds in examples of natural imagery. in claiming a certain excellence for his method one need scarcely imply that macdowell has ever threatened the supremacy of such things as the "rheingold" prelude or the "walküre" fire music. it is as much by reason of his choice of subjects as because of the peculiar vividness and felicity of his expression, that he occupies so single a place among tone-poets of the external world. he has never attempted such vast frescoes as wagner delighted to paint. of his descriptive music by far the greater part is written for the piano; so that, at the start, a very definite limitation is imposed upon magnitude of plan. you cannot suggest on the piano, with any adequacy of effect, a mountain-side in flames, or the prismatic arch of a rainbow, or the towering architecture of cloud forms; so macdowell has confined himself within the bounds of such canvases as he paints upon in his "four little poems" ("the eagle," "the brook," "moonshine," "winter"), in his first orchestral suite, and in the inimitable "woodland sketches" and "sea pieces." thus his themes are starlight, a water-lily, will o' the wisps, a deserted farm, a wild rose, the sea-spell, deep woods, an old garden. as a fair exemplification of his practice, consider, let me say, his "to a water-lily," from the "woodland sketches." it is difficult to recall anything in objective tone-painting, for the piano or for the orchestra, conceived and executed quite in the manner of this remarkable piece of lyrical impressionism. of all the composers who have essayed tonal transcriptions of the phases of the outer world, i know of none who has achieved such vividness and suggestiveness of effect with a similar condensation. the form is small; but these pieces are no more justly to be dismissed as mere "miniature work" than is wordsworth's "daffodils," which they parallel in delicacy of perception, intensity of vision, and perfection of accomplishment. the question of bulk, length, size, has quite as much pertinence in one case as in the other. in his work in this sort, macdowell is often as one who, having fallen, through the ignominies of daily life, among the barren makeshifts of reality, "remembers the enchanted valleys." it is touched at times with the deep and wistful tenderness, the primæval nostalgia, which is never very distant from the mood of his writing, and in which, again, one is tempted to trace the essential celt. it is this close kinship with the secret presences of the natural world, this intimate responsiveness to elemental moods, this quick sensitiveness to the aroma and the magic of places, that sets him recognisably apart.
these pieces have an inescapable fragrance, tenderness, and zest. "to a wild rose," "will o' the wisp," "in autumn," "from uncle remus," and "by a meadow brook" are slight in poetic substance, though executed with charm and humour; but the five other pieces--"at an old trysting place," "from an indian lodge," "to a water-lily," "a deserted farm," and "told at sunset"--are of a different calibre. with the exception of "to a water-lily," whose quality is uncomplex and unconcealed, these tone-poems in little are a curious blend of what, lacking an apter name, one must call nature-poetry, and psychological suggestion; and they are remarkable for the manner in which they focus great richness of emotion into limited space. "at an old trysting place," "from an indian lodge," "a deserted farm," and "told at sunset," imply a consecutive dramatic purpose which is emphasised by their connection through a hint of thematic community. the element of drama, though, is not insisted upon--indeed, a large portion of the searching charm of these pieces lies in their tactful reticence.
"brooding scowl and murk,"
"with husky-haughty lips";
while elsewhere, as in the "wandering iceberg" and "nautilus" studies, the pervading tone is of swinburne's
"deep divine dark dayshine of the sea."
"starlight" is of a brooding and solemn tenderness. the "song" and "a.d. mdcxx." (a memoir of the notorious galleon of the pilgrims) are in a lighter vein. the tonal plangency, the epic quality, of these studies is extraordinary,--exposing a tendency toward an orchestral fulness and breadth of style that will offer a more pertinent theme for comment in a consideration of the sonatas. their littleness is wholly a quantitative matter; their spiritual and imaginative substance is not only of rare quality, but of striking amplitude.
in the "new england idyls," the point is still more evident. one passes over "from an old garden" and "midsummer" as belonging fundamentally to the period of the "woodland sketches" and "sea pieces." but one halts at "mid-winter," no. 3 of the collection; with those fifteen bars in e-flat major in the middle section, one enters upon unfamiliar ground in the various and delectable region of macdowell's fantasy. so in the succeeding piece, "with sweet lavender": he had not given us in any of his former writing a theme similar in quality to the one with which he begins the thirteenth bar. "in deep woods" is less unusual--is, in fact, strongly suggestive, in harmonic colour, of the shining sonorities of the "wandering iceberg" study in the "sea pieces." the "indian idyl," "to an old white pine," and "from puritan days" are also contrived in the familiar idiom of the earlier volumes, though they are unfailingly resourceful in invention and imaginative vigour. in "from a log cabin," though, we come upon as surprising a thing as macdowell's art had yielded us since the appearance of the "woodland sketches." i doubt if, in the entire body of his writing, one will find a lovelier, a more intimate utterance. it bears as a motto the words--strangely prophetic when he wrote them--which are now inscribed on the memorial tablet near his grave:--
"a house of dreams untold, it looks out over the whispering tree-tops and faces the setting sun."
the music of this piece is suffused with a mood that is schumann-like in its intense sincerity of impulse, yet with a passionate fulness and ardour not elsewhere to be paralleled. it is steeped in an atmosphere which is felt in no other of his works, is the issue of an inspiration more profoundly contemplative than any to which he had hitherto responded.
his four sonatas belong undeniably, though with a variously strict allegiance, to the domain of programme-music. neither the "tragica," the "eroica," the "norse," nor the "keltic," makes its appeal exclusively to the tonal sense. if one looks to these works for the particular kind of gratification which he is accustomed to derive, for example, from a sonata by brahms (to name the most extreme of contrasts), he will not find it. it is impossible fully to appreciate and enjoy the last page of the "keltic," for instance, without some knowledge of the dramatic crisis upon which the musician has built--although its beauty and power, as sheer music, are immediately perceptible.
with the exception of the "tragica," the poetic substratum of the sonatas has been avowed with more or less particularity. in the "tragica"--his first essay in the form--he has vouchsafed only the general indication of his purpose which is declared in the title of the work, though it is known that in composing the music macdowell was moved by the memory of his grief over the death of his master raff (it might stand even more appropriately as a commentary on the tragedy of his own life). the tragic note is sounded, with impressive authority and force, in the brief introduction, largo maestoso. the music, from the first, drives to the very heart of the subject: there is neither pose nor bombast in the presentation of the thought; and this attitude is maintained throughout--in the ingratiating loveliness of the second subject, in the fierce striving of the middle section, in the noble and sombre slow movement,--a largo of profound pathos and dignity,--and in the dramatic and impassioned close (the scherzo is, i think, less good). of this final allegro an exposition has been vouchsafed. while in the preceding movements, it is said, he aimed at expressing tragic details, in the last he has tried to generalise. he wished "to heighten the darkness of tragedy by making it follow closely on the heels of triumph. therefore, he attempted to make the last movement a steadily progressive triumph, which, at its close, is utterly broken and shattered, thinking that the most poignant tragedy is that of catastrophe in the hour of triumph.... in doing this he has tried to epitomise the whole work." the meaning of the coda is thus made clear: a climax approached with the utmost pomp and brilliancy, and cut short by a precipitato descent in octaves, fff, ending with a reminiscence of the portentous subject of the introduction. it is a profoundly moving conclusion to a noble work--a work which mr. james huneker has not extravagantly called "the most marked contribution to solo sonata literature since brahms' f-minor piano sonata"; yet it is not so fine a work as any one of the three sonatas which macdowell afterward wrote. the style evinces, for the first time in his piano music, the striking orchestral character of his thought--yet the writing is not, paradoxical as it may seem, unpianistic. the suggestion of orchestral relationships is contained in the massiveness of the harmonic texture, and in the cumulative effect of the climaxes and crescendi. he conveys an impression of extended tone-spaces, of a largeness, complexity, and solidity of structure, which are peculiar to his own music, and which presuppose a rather disdainful view of the limitations of mere strings and hammers; yet it is all playable: its demands are formidable, but not prohibitive.
in this sonata macdowell has been not only faithful to his text, he has illuminated it. indeed, i think it would not be extravagant to say that he has given us here the noblest musical incarnation of the arthurian legend which we have. it is singular, by the way, how frequently one is impelled to use the epithet "noble" in praising macdowell's work; in reference to the "sonata eroica" it has an emphatic aptness, for nobility is the keynote of this music. if the work, as a whole, has not the dynamic power of the "tragica," the weight and gravity of substance, it is both a lovelier and a more lovable work, and it is everywhere more significantly accented. he has written few things more luxuriantly beautiful than the "guinevere" movement, nothing more elevated and ecstatic than the apotheosis which ends the work. the diction throughout is richer and more variously contrasted than in the earlier work, and his manipulation of the form is more elastic.
"night had fallen on a day of deeds. the great rafters in the red-ribbed hall flashed crimson in the fitful flame of smouldering logs; and from the stealthy shadows that crept 'round harald's throne rang out a skald's strong voice with tales of battles won: of gudrun's love and sigurd, siegmund's son."
here, evidently, is a subject after his own heart, presenting such opportunities as he is at his happiest in improving--and he has improved them magnificently. the spaciousness of the plan, the boldness of the drawing, the fulness and intensity of the colour scheme, engage one's attention at the start. he has indulged almost to its extreme limits his predilection for extended chord formations and for phrases of heroic span--as in, for example, almost the whole of the first movement. the pervading quality of the musical thought is of a resistless and passionate virility. it is steeped in the barbaric and splendid atmosphere of the sagas. there are pages of epical breadth and power, passages of elemental vigour and ferocity--passages, again, of an exquisite tenderness and poignancy. of the three movements which the work comprises, the first makes the most lasting impression, although the second (the slow movement) has a haunting subject, which is recalled episodically in the final movement in a passage of unforgettable beauty and character.
it was a fortunate, if not an inevitable, event, in view of his temperamental affiliations with the celtic genius, that macdowell should have been made aware of the suitability for musical treatment of the ancient heroic chronicles of the gaels, and that he should have gone for his inspiration, in particular, to the legends comprised in the famous cycle of the red branch: that wonderful group of epics which comprises, among other tales, the story of the matchless deirdré,--whose loveliness was such, so say the chroniclers, that "not upon the ridge of earth was there a woman so beautiful,"--and the life and adventures and glorious death of the incomparable cuchullin. these two kindred legends macdowell has welded into a coherent and satisfying whole; and in a verse with which he prefixes the sonata, he gives this index to its poetic content:
"who minds now keltic tales of yore, dark druid rhymes that thrall; deirdré's song, and wizard lore of great cuchullin's fall."
at the time of the publication of the sonata he wrote to me as follows concerning it:
the "lines anent cuchullin" i quote below. they do not, as he said, have a parallel in the sonata as a whole; but in the coda of the last movement (of which i shall speak later) he has attempted a commentary on the scene which he here describes:
"cuchullin fought and fought in vain, 'gainst faery folk and druid thrall: and as the queenly sun swept down. in royal robes, red gold besown, with one last lingering glance he sate himself in lonely state against a giant monolith, to wait death's wooing call. none dared approach the silent shape that froze to iron majesty, save the wan, mad daughters of old night, blind, wandering maidens of the mist, whose creeping fingers, cold and white, oft by the sluggard dead are kissed. and yet the monstrous thing held sway, no living soul dared say it nay; when lo! upon its shoulder still, unconscious of its potent will, there perched a preening birdling gray, a'weary of the dying day; and all the watchers knew the lore: cuchullin was no more."
to mr. corey macdowell wrote:
this sonata marks the consummation of his evolution toward the acme of powerful expression. it is cast in a mould essentially heroic; it has its moods of tenderness, of insistent sweetness, but these are incidental: the governing mood is signified in the tremendous exordium with which the work opens, and which is sustained, with few deviations, throughout the work. deirdré he has realised exquisitely in his middle movement: that is her image, in all its fragrant loveliness. macdowell has limned her musically in a manner worthy of comparison with the sumptuous pen-portrait of her in standish o'grady's "cuculain": "a woman of wondrous beauty, bright gold her hair, eyes piercing and splendid, tongue full of sweet sounds, her countenance like the colour of snow blended with crimson."
in the close of the last movement we are justified in seeing a translation of the sublime tradition of cuchullin's death. this it is which furnished macdowell with the theme that he celebrates in the lines of verse which i have quoted above. i believe that he was planning an orchestral setting of this scene; and that, had he lived, we should have had from him a symphonic poem, "cuchullin."
superb as this is, it is paralleled by macdowell's tone-picture. that, for nobility of conception, for majestic solemnity and pathos, is a musical performance which measures up to the level of superlative achievements.
if there is anything in the literature of the piano since the death of beethoven which, for combined passion, dignity, breadth of style, weight of momentum, and irresistible plangency of emotion, is comparable to the four sonatas which have been considered here, i do not know of it. and i write these words with a perfectly definite consciousness of all that they may be held to imply.
he has not been especially prolific in this field, when one thinks of grieg's one hundred and twenty songs, and of brahms' one hundred and ninety-six; not to mention schumann's two hundred and forty-eight, or schubert's amazing six hundred and over. macdowell has written forty-two songs for single voice and piano, together with a number of ingenious and effective pieces for men's voices and for mixed chorus.
he has avowed his methods and principles as a song writer. in an interview published a few years before his death he declared his opinion to be that "song writing should follow declamation"--that the composer "should declaim the poems in sounds: the attention of the hearer should be fixed upon the central point of declamation. the accompaniment should be merely a background for the words. harmony is a frightful den for the small composer to get into--it leads him into frightful nonsense. too often the accompaniment of a song becomes a piano fantasie with no resemblance to the melody. colour and harmony under such conditions mislead the composer; he uses it instead of the line which he at the moment is setting, and obscures the central point, the words, by richness of tissue and overdressing; and all modern music is labouring under that. he does not seem to pause to think that music was not made merely for pleasure, but to say things.
"language and music have nothing in common. in one way, that which is melodious in verse becomes doggerel in music, and meter is hardly of value. sonnets in music become abominable. i have made many experiments for finding the affinity of language and music. the two things are diametrically opposed, unless music is free to distort syllables. a poem may be of only four words, and yet those four words may contain enough suggestion for four pages of music; but to found a song on those four words would be impossible. for this reason the paramount value of the poem is that of its suggestion in the field of instrumental music, where a single line may be elaborated upon.... to me, in this respect, the poem holds its highest value of suggestion.... a short poem would take a lifetime to express; to do it in as many bars of music is impossible. the words clash with the music, they fail to carry the full suggestion of the poem ...
"many poems contain syllables ending with e or other letters not good to sing. some exceptionally beautiful poems possess this shortcoming, and, again, words that prove insurmountable obstacles. i have in mind one by aldrich in which the word 'nostrils' occurs in the very first verse, and one cannot do anything with it. much of the finest poetry--for instance, the wonderful writings of whitman--proves unsuitable, yet it has been undertaken....
"a song, if at all dramatic, should have climax, form, and plot, as does a play. words to me seem so paramount and, as it were, apart in value from the musical setting, that, while i cannot recall the melodies of many of the songs that i have written, the words of them are so indelibly impressed upon my mind that they are very easy of recall.... music and poetry cannot be accurately stated unless one has written both."
i have dwelt upon this point because it should be noted in any candid study of his traits as a song writer. yet it is not a defect which weighs heavily against him when one considers the musical quality of his songs as a whole. not, as a whole, equal to his piano music, they are admirable and deeply individual; and the best of them are not surpassed in any body of modern song-writing.
to gain a true sense of macdowell's place in american music it is necessary to remember that twenty-five years ago, when he sent from germany, as the fruit of his apprenticeship there, the earliest outgivings of his talent, our native musical art was still little more than a pallid reproduction of european models. macdowell did not at that time, of course, give positive evidence of the vitality and the rarity of his gifts; yet there was, even in his early music,--undeniably immature though it was, and modelled after easily recognised teutonic masters,--a fresh and untrammelled impulse. a new note vibrated through it, a new and buoyant personality suffused it. thenceforth music in america possessed an artistic figure of constantly increasing stature. macdowell commanded, from the start, an original idiom, a manner of speech which has been recognised even by his detractors as entirely his own.
his style is as pungent and unmistakable as grieg's, and far less limited in its variety. hearing certain melodic turns, certain harmonic formations, you recognise them at once as belonging to macdowell, and to none other. this marked individuality of speech, apparent from the first, became constantly more salient and more vivid, and in the music which he gave forth at the height of his creative activity,--in, say, the "sea pieces" and the last two sonatas,--it is unmistakable and beyond dispute. this emphatically personal accent it was which, a score of years ago, set macdowell in a place apart among native american music-makers. no one else was saying such charming and memorable things in so fresh and individual a way. we had then, as we have had since, composers who were entitled to respect by virtue of their expert and effective mastery of a familiar order of musical expression,--who spoke correctly a language acquired in the schools of munich, leipzig, and berlin. but they had nothing to say that was both important and new. they had grace, they had dexterity, they had, in a measure, scholarship; but their art was obviously derivative, without originality of substance or a telling quality of style. it is not a needlessly harsh asseveration to say that, until macdowell began to put forth his more individual works, our music had been palpably, almost frankly, dependent: an undisguised and naïve transplantation, made rather feeble and anæmic in the process, of european growths. the result was admirable, in its way, praiseworthy, in its way--and wholly negligible.
the music of macdowell was, almost from the first, in a wholly different case. in its early phases it, too, was imitative, reflective. macdowell returned to america, after a twelve years' apprenticeship to european influences, in 1888, bringing with him his symphonic poems, "hamlet and ophelia" and "lancelot and elaine," his unfinished "lamia," his two orchestral paraphrases of scenes from the song of roland, two concertos, and numerous songs and piano pieces. not greatly important music, this, measured beside that which he afterward put forth; but possessing an individual profile, a savour, a tang, which gave it an immediately recognised distinction. a new voice spoke out of it, a fresh and confident, an eloquent and forceful, voice. it betrayed germanic influences: of that there was no question; yet it was strikingly rich in personal accent. gradually his art came to find, through various forms, a constantly finer and weightier expression. for orchestra he wrote the "indian" suite--music of superb vigour, fantastically and deeply imaginative, wholly personal in quality; for the piano he wrote four sonatas of heroic and passionate content--indisputable masterworks--and various shorter pieces, free in form and poetic in inspiration; and he wrote many songs, some of them quite flawless in their loveliness and their emotional veracity.
it will thus be seen why the potent and aromatic art of macdowell impressed those who were able to feel its charm and estimate its value. it is mere justice to him, now that he has definitely passed beyond the reach of our praise, to say that he gave to the art of creative music in this country (i am thinking now only of music-makers of native birth) its single impressive and vital figure. his is the one name in our music which, for instance, one would venture to pair with that of whitman in poetry.
he suggested, at his best, no one save himself. he was one of the most individual writers who ever made music--as individual as chopin, or debussy, or brahms, or grieg. his mannner of speech was utterly untrammelled, and wholly his own. vitality--an abounding freshness, a perpetual youthfulness--was one of his prime traits; nobility--nobility of style and impulse--was another. the morning freshness, the welling spontaneity of his music, even in moments of exalted or passionate utterance, was continually surprising: it was music not unworthy of the golden ages of the world. yet macdowell was a celt, and his music is deeply celtic--mercurial, by turns dolorous and sportive, darkly tragical and exquisitely blithe, and overflowing with the unpredictable and inexplicable magic of the celtic imagination. he is unfailingly noble--it is, in the end, the trait which most surely signalises him. "to every man," wrote maeterlinck, "there come noble thoughts, thoughts that pass across his heart like great white birds." such thoughts came often to macdowell--they seem always to be hovering not far from the particular territory to which his inspiration has led him, even when he is most gayly inconsequent; and in his finest and largest utterances, in the sonatas, their majestic trend appears somehow to have suggested the sweeping and splendid flight of the musical idea. not often subtle in impulse or recondite in mood, his art has nothing of the impalpability, the drifting, iridescent vapours of debussy, nothing of the impenetrable backgrounds of brahms. he would have smiled at the dictum of emerson: "a beauty not explicable is dearer than a beauty of which we can see the end." he knew how to evoke a kind of beauty that was both aerial and enchanted; but it was a clarified and lucid beauty, even then: it was never dim or wavering. he would never, as i have said, have comprehended the art of such a writer as debussy--he viewed the universe from a wholly different angle. of the moderns, wagner he worshipped, tchaikovsky deeply moved him, grieg he loved--grieg, who was his artistic inferior in almost every respect. yet none of these so seduced his imagination that his independence was overcome--he was always, throughout his maturity, himself; not arrogantly or insistently, but of necessity; he could not be otherwise.
he had the rapt and transfiguring imagination, in the presence of nature, which is the special possession of the celt. yet he was more than a mere landscape painter. the human drama was for him a continually moving spectacle; he was most sensitively attuned to its tragedy and its comedy,--he was never more potent, more influential, indeed, than in celebrating its events. he is at the summit of his powers, for example, in the superb pageant of heroic grief and equally heroic love which is comprised within the four movements of the "keltic" sonata, and in the piercing sadness and the transporting tenderness of the "dirge" in the "indian" suite.
in its general aspect his later music is not german, or french, or italian--its spiritual antecedents are northern, both celtic and scandinavian. macdowell had not the promethean imagination, the magniloquent passion, that are strauss's; his art is far less elaborate and subtle than that of such typical moderns as debussy and d'indy. but it has an order of beauty that is not theirs, an order of eloquence that is not theirs, a kind of poetry whose secrets they do not know; and there speaks through it and out of it an individuality that is persuasive, lovable, unique.
there is no need to attempt, at this juncture, to speculate concerning his place among the company of the greater dead; it is enough to avow the conviction that he possessed genius of a rare order, that he wrought nobly and valuably for the art of the country which he loved.
list of works
compositions of edward macdowell
without opus number
two songs from the thirteenth century, for male chorus (1897): 1. winter wraps his grimmest spell 2. as the gloaming shadows creep
note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original lovely illustrations. see 14110-h.htm or 14110-h.zip: (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/1/1/14110/14110-h/14110-h.htm) or (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/1/1/14110/14110-h.zip)
kernel cob and little miss sweetclover
illustrated by tony sarg
to ursula, dordie, hutch and bob and children the wide world over, i dedicate brave kernel cob and dear little miss sweetclover.
jackie was a little boy and he had a little sister named peggs, and they lived with their aunt who was very old, maybe thirty-two.
and it was so very long since she had been a little girl, that she quite forgot that children need toys to play with and all that.
so poor little jackie and peggs had no soldiers or dolls but could only play at make-believe all day long.
they lived in a little white house nearly all covered with honeysuckle, and a little white fence with a little white gate in it ran all about and at the back of the little white house was a little garden with beautiful flowers growing in it.
and once, when they were making pies in the garden, peggs began to cry and jackie ran and put his arms about her, for he loved his little peggs very dearly; and he said to her:
"what's the matter, peggsie? did a spider bite you?"
"no," says peggs, "it didn't."
"was it a naughty worm?"
"no," says peggs, "it wasn't."
"well, what was it?" says jackie.
"it weren't anything that bit me, only i want a doll," and away she cried again.
"huh!" says jackie, "that's nothing. you don't want a doll any mor'n i want a soldier," and he sat down beside her and began to cry, too.
and after they had cried for a long time, maybe four hours or two, they stopped.
"i tell you what!" says jackie.
"what?" says peggs, drying her eyes on her pinafore.
"if no one will give us a soldier"...
"but i don't want a soldier," says peggs. "i want a doll."
"let's make one," says jackie.
"that's a good way," says peggs.
"you bet," says jackie, and he slapped one of his legs the way sailors do in tales of the sea.
"what'll we make it of?" asked peggs.
"things," says jackie. "goodie!" says peggs.
and they went in search of the things they would make the dolls of. and pretty soon, peggs made the most wonderful doll of flowers that ever a child could see.
the head was of sweetclover, the dress was a purple morning-glory turned upside-down so it looked like a bodice and a skirt, and it was tied to the head so that they wouldn't come apart. and perched on the top of the head was a little bonnet, only it wasn't really a bonnet, you know, but a little four o'clock.
and she called it little miss sweetclover and it was the dearest little doll and as fresh as the morning dew.
in the meantime, jackie had been busy, you may be sure; but he couldn't find anything to make a soldier of except sticks of wood, but he had no jack-knife, much as he had always wanted one.
"maybe this will do," and he picked all the kernels off except two for the eyes, one for the nose, two more for the ears and a row for the teeth.
and he ran to peggs to have her sew some clothes for his soldier.
"what do you think of little miss sweetclover?" says peggs, holding it up for jackie to see.
"i think she's very pretty," says jackie, "only she needs legs." and while peggs cut out and sewed a uniform for the soldier, jackie went in search of legs for sweetclover.
and these he made of two stems of a flower, bent at the ends to look like feet. and he ran back to peggs with them.
"here are the legs for sweetclover with green shoes and stockings on." and he tied them to the rest of sweetclover so that when she walked, they wouldn't come off.
by this time peggs had finished the uniform for jackie's soldier and a hat of newspaper with a great plume of cornsilk and a lot of medals which were cut from the gold leaf that comes on a card of buttons. and when they were all sewed on the jacket, he cut out a sword from the gold leaf and made hands and feet from the corn husk. and he colored the eyes with black ink and the lips with red, and, much before you could say "crickety," the soldier was all finished.
"what'll we call him?" asked jackie.
and they thought, and thought, and thought.
"i have it!" said jackie.
"what?" asked peggs.
"we'll call him kernel cob," says jackie.
"goodie!" says peggs, clapping her hands with glee.
and you will see what wonderful dolls they were, and what wonderful things they did, and how they helped jackie and peggs to find ... but never mind.
you will see.
and one day, when jackie and peggs were playing in the garden with kernel cob and sweetclover, the sun was very hot, so peggs ran and got a parasol and put it over the dolls so they wouldn't wilt.
"i'd like kernel cob to be a great general," said jackie as he put up the parasol, "and fight in all the wars of the world and lead his soldiers with a sword in his hand and get wounded and all that. not very much wounded, though. or i'd like to have him be an admiral and sail all around the world. what do you think of that?"
"that's good," said peggs.
"you bet," said jackie. and he stood on his tippy toes to look bigger.
"and i'd like sweetclover to be a mother," says peggs, "and have hundreds and hundreds of children so she could give them all the dolls that ever they wanted."
"that would be noble," said jackie.
"it's terrible for children to have no father or mother isn't it?" asked peggs looking far off at nothing in the sky.
"yes," said jackie.
"i would rather have a mother and father than everything else in the world," says peggs.
"better'n little sweetclover?" asked jackie.
"yes," answered peggs, "for i could make another doll, but you can only have one mother and one father."
"maybe you're right," said jackie, "but i love kernel cob very much, just the same."
"of course!" says peggs.
now, all of this was heard by kernel cob and sweetclover, for all flowers and vegetables understand the language of people, but people do not understand the language of flowers and vegetables; and when kernel cob and sweetclover talked, jackie and peggs couldn't hear them because flowers whisper very softly, and even if the children could hear them they couldn't understand them, you see, because it's a different kind of language and they never had heard it.
sometimes, if you are a child, and sit in the garden when the wind is blowing, and listen, you may hear a kind of whispering among the flowers. and if you look very closely, you will see them sway toward each other and smile and nod their heads. well, that is when they whisper in each other's ears just as if they were children.
and all vegetables are like that too, only the corn has a louder voice, because the wind loves to blow through its ears and make it wave so it looks like a great green ocean.
"did we have a mother and father?" asked peggs.
"of course!" answered jackie, "everybody has to have a mother and a father, except orphans."
"are we orphans?" asked peggs.
"i guess we must be," said jackie, "i heard auntie tell somebody, the other day, that both our parents were lost."
just then the wind blew sweetclover toward kernel cob, and, if you'd been there, you could have heard a whispering sound, and, if you'd been a flower, you would have heard sweetclover say to kernel cob:
"poor little peggs!" and if you had looked very closely you would have seen dew drops in her eyes.
"what did she do?" asked kernel cob, and his voice was slow, for you must remember that it took him a long time to think, because his head was heavy and so filled up with corn cob. but, like most people who are slow, he was very determined, and once he made up his mind to do a thing you might be sure he would do it, no matter what.
"she lost her motheranfather," said sweetclover.
"did jackie lose his motheranfather too?" asked kernel cob.
"of course," answered sweetclover. "don't you know that jackie and peggs are brother and sister?"
"sure," said kernel cob.
"well then," said sweetclover.
"you didn't tell me," said kernel cob.
"tell you what?" asked sweetclover.
"if jackie lost his motheranfather," said kernel cob.
"jackie's motheranfather are the same as peggs'," explained sweetclover.
"doesn't everybody have his own motheranfather?" asked kernel cob.
"not always," says sweetclover. "why?" asks kernel cob.
"please keep quiet," said sweetclover, "i can't hear what they are saying."
"if our mother and father are lost," says peggs, "why doesn't auntie try to find them?"
"i wish she would," says jackie.
"did you hear that?" says sweetclover.
"what?" asked kernel cob.
"that they would like to find their motheranfather," says sweetclover.
"are they lost?" asks kernel cob.
"yes," says sweetclover.
"who lost them?" asks kernel cob.
"hush!" says sweetclover.
for a long time nobody spoke and pretty soon a little breeze swayed kernel cob over toward sweetclover and he said:
"let's try to find jackie and peggs' motheranfather. let us pray to the fairies that something will come along to help us."
"good!" said sweet clover, and they prayed and prayed and prayed.
and just then a great wind came and raised the parasol from the ground, and the hook of the handle caught in kernel cob's belt and pulled him up with it and sweetclover was just in time to catch hold of him as he sailed away. and jackie and peggs sat upon the grass and cried because they had lost their little dolls.
"i wonder what the fairies are sending us up here for?" shouted kernel cob.
"maybe they're in heaven," said sweetclover, and just then the parasol went skimming through a beautiful white cloud, and the sun was dancing on it, making it look like pink eiderdown.
and soon they came out of the cloud and were in the blue sky again.
and up and up they sailed. and the sun dipped down in the sea, and its light went out, and the stars came out and began to peep through the sky like little fire-flies, and the moon came up, too, to see what was going on, and it grew bigger and bigger till it was nearly as big as the old earth.
and then they came to the moon and could see little people running around the edge waving their hands excitedly, and they were all dressed in silver clothing, and when kernel cob and sweetclover were landed the moonpeople ran to them and wondered.
and everything about them was silver. churches and houses and rocks and rivers and trees and everything.
and the moonpeople ran ahead in great confusion to show them the way.
and kernel cob formed them into line and put himself at the head of the column, as a general does, and they marched in step and everything until they came to the palace of the king, which was of silver with turrets and spires of diamonds, and glittered so you could scarcely see.
and the king and the queen were sitting on thrones, and when the king saw how kernel cob had formed his people in order, he was greatly pleased and said to himself, "here is a fine general. i will put him at the head of all my armies."
and kernel cobb and sweetclover were invited to a great banquet, as splendid as ever you could imagine.
and when they were seated, sweetclover saw some flowers on the banquet table which were very beautiful, white with silver calyx, and they were called silverfloss, and sweetclover whispered to silverfloss:
"do you understand earth talk?"
"ting-a-ling," answered silverfloss, and it sounded like the tinkling of a little silver bell.
"what did she say?" asked kernel cob.
"it must be moonflower talk," said sweetclover, and she looked about and saw some edelweiss and she was very glad and said: "edelweiss, edelweiss, how came you here?"
now you must know the edelweiss is a little white flower that grows away up in the snow of the mountains of switzerland.
"one night i was blown up here in a great snow storm and i've been here ever since," said edelweiss.
"can you speak moonflower talk?" asked sweetclover.
"yes," said edelweiss.
"very well," said kernel cob, "we are trying to find jackie and peggs' motheranfather and we came all the way from the earth on a parasol to do so. maybe you can help us."
"i would if i could," replied edelweiss. "but i am afraid they are not here. i've been here over four seasons and i've never seen a human being, and even if they were here they couldn't live here because it's too cold."
"you bet it is," said kernel cob, and he shivered till the medals on his coat rattled.
"maybe they could be here in some other part of the moon!" said sweetclover. "would you mind looking?"
"i would be glad to look," said edelweiss, for he was a very polite little flower and had very pretty manners.
and turning to silverfloss he asked her if she had seen two earth-people on the moon.
"ting-a-ling," answered silverfloss and you would have thought it was two bells tinkling.
"she says there never was a human being on the moon," said edelweiss.
"well if they are not here," said kernel cob, "we had better go before we freeze to death," and his teeth chattered.
"how'll we get off?" asked sweetclover.
"i'll tell silverfloss to weave you a strand of silver," and he turned to silverfloss and said some tinkling words to her.
"she's doing it," he said. "it's a thread of silver so thin that it can't be seen and yet it is so strong that it can easily bear your weight."
"but i can't climb all the way down," said kernel cob.
"you won't have to," said edelweiss. "all you have to do is to catch hold of the end of the silver thread and hang on to it, and, as silverfloss weaves the thread it gets longer and longer, until you have reached the earth. you'd better start now, if you are going."
so kernel cob wound the silver thread around his waist, and, lifting sweetclover, was ready to start. "good-bye," said kernel cob. "good-bye," said sweetclover.
"good-bye," said edelweiss, "hold on tight!"
"all right," said kernel cob.
"thank you very much," cried sweetclover.
and down they went, kernel cob hanging to the silver thread and sweetclover snuggled close against his jacket.
kernel cob and sweetclover went down and down and down through the sky from the moon.
and after they had gone down and down and down a long time sweetclover suddenly cried:
"what's that?" and pointed below. "it's like a great ball turning round and round."
"it looks like another moon with the lights out."
"it's the earth!" cried sweetclover with delight, for she could now see the tops of trees as the sun began to show his golden head above the hills in the east. and little by little, as kernel cob and sweetclover neared the earth, they could see rivers and lakes and steeples and houses and after awhile, people and horses in the fields.
and down, down, down they came, getting nearer and nearer and nearer until they saw, beneath their very feet, a great tall house with sails on it going round and round at a rapid rate, and, before you could say, "look out!" kernel cob was caught in one of the sails and dashed to the ground.
"are you hurt?" asked sweetclover sitting on the ground where she had been thrown.
"no," said kernel cob, for a soldier must bear pain without complaint and pretend he isn't hurt even if he is.
and a number of people who were working in the fields ran out to see what had happened, and you may be sure that they were surprised to see these strange dolls. and they spoke a strange language which neither kernel cob nor sweetclover could make out.
"i wonder where we are," said sweetclover, "and who these people can be?"
"they're very funny," laughed kernel cob, "i never saw shoes like those before. they look like boats."
"they're made of wood," said sweetclover.
and just then a little dutch girl--for you have guessed that they were in holland--came over and picked them up and carried them off into her house.
and little antje, for that was her name, played with them all day, and, when night was come, she put them to sleep in a chair before the fireplace where it was nice and warm and cosy.
"chirp, chirp, chirp," sang the cricket, and kernel cob woke up and rubbed his eyes and listened.
"hello, mister cricket," shouted kernel cob peering over the side of the chair.
and the cricket hopped over to where kernel cob was lying.
"who are you?" he chirped.
"i'm kernel cob. and sweetclover and i are looking for jackie and peggs' motheranfather," said kernel cob, "have you seen them?"
"never heard of them," chirped the cricket. "what's their names?"
"just jackie and peggs' motheranfather; that's all."
and just then sweetclover woke up and sat on the side of the chair.
"i'm sure that there isn't anybody by that name," chirped the cricket, "but i'll soon find out."
"how?" asked kernel cob.
"i'll send a chirp to all the crickets in this house and garden, and they'll send a chirp to all the crickets in the next house and garden, and so on, and so on, and so on, all through this country, and in a little while i'll be able to tell you if they're here or not."
"how'll you ever get the message back?" asked sweetclover.
"i'm the king of all the crickets," chirped he, "and when i give an order you may be assured that it will be obeyed," and he stretched himself with so much pride that you could have heard his jacket crackle.
"i'm sure you are very kind," said sweetclover, "and kernel cob and i are very much obliged to you," and she said this so very sweetly and so prettily that the cricket lost no time in sending the message.
"crick-a-crick-a-crick," he chirped, and it sounded just like a telegraph instrument. "crick-a-crick-a-crick. there," he chirped, "i've told them to make a search and we'll soon have an answer."
and while they waited, the cricket told them of the strange country they were in and all about the canals and the windmills and the skating in the winter and the curious wooden shoes that the people wore. and when he had done, kernel cob and sweetclover told him about jackie and peggs, their wonderful visit to the moon, and how they came down in the field and were picked up by little antje.
"hush!" said kernel cob, "i hear the chirping of a cricket," for his ears were quicker to hear than either sweetclover's or the cricket's. and sure enough you could now hear the chirping....
"crick-a-crick-a-crick," and the cricket pricked up his ears and held up a foot to warn them to keep silence.
"i'm sorry to tell you," he said as the chirping stopped, "that they are not here."
"too bad," said sweetclover, and the dew began to come into her eyes.
"come," chirped the cricket. "we must be quick, for if little antje wakes up, you'll not get away so easily again," and they followed him as he hopped toward the window, upon which he leaped and was soon outside.
kernel cob climbed upon a chair, lifted sweetclover in his arms and was soon outside, following quickly on the heels of the nimble cricket who led them down to the waterside, where they found an old wooden shoe.
into this kernel cob lifted sweetclover and, after he had put up a stick to serve as a mast and had fastened a piece of cloth to it for a sail, he shook hands with the cricket and climbed in. the cricket gave the shoe a push off with one of his feet and they were afloat on the sea.
"good-bye and good luck," chirped the cricket.
"good-bye and many thanks," shouted kernel cob and sweetclover, and soon they were far off for the wind was blowing very strong.
presently they were out of sight of the shore and the cricket turned upon his heel and hopped away.
the cricket is the kind of chap for whom i never cared a rap! i always thought he hopped about the fields, because he had the gout and lost his crutches in the crops, and that's the reason why he hops. but now i'll have to change my mind because i see he's very kind, for he who is a friend in need is quite the best of friends indeed.
and kernel cob and sweetclover sailed and sailed for many days and nights.
"i wonder where we are and if we shall ever be on land again," sighed poor little sweetclover.
"of course we will," answered kernel cob although he, too, was doubtful, but being a soldier he had to keep his courage up and to cheer sweetclover. so he pretended that they were perfectly safe.
and on they sailed and you couldn't see anything but water for miles and miles, no matter where you looked.
"what's that?" said sweetclover, and she was so excited that she nearly tipped over the boat.
"i can't see anything but water and a little too much of that to suit me," said kernel cob.
"don't you see something dark against the sky?" she asked.
"no, i don't," said kernel cob, and he shaded his eyes with his hand the way sailors do when they look for something at sea.
"i hope it isn't a whale," said sweetclover.
"it had better not be," said kernel cob, "if he knows what's good for him," and he patted his sword in a very brave manner.
"it's getting bigger and bigger," said sweetclover. "don't you see it?"
"it's land!" said sweetclover, joyfully, and sure enough it was, for soon you could see the trees. and as they sailed closer the trees grew taller and taller, and after a while you could see the shore.
"it's a little island," said sweetclover.
"what's an island?" asked kernel cob.
"didn't you ever go to school?" asked sweetclover.
"no, but i wish i had."
but kernel cob didn't answer. he just steered the shoeboat toward the shore by putting one leg over the side as if it were a rudder, and in a little while they ran the boat up on the shore and sweetclover hopped out and kernel cob pulled the boat up on the beach so the tide, when it came in, wouldn't take it out to sea again.
and they walked along the beach.
"i'm very hungry," said sweetclover.
"sit down here," said kernel cob, "and i'll see if i can find something for dinner." and he went along the beach.
after he had walked a long distance, he found a tree with some nuts on it, and he picked a lot of them and put them in his hat and started back to sweetclover.
you may imagine his astonishment when he reached the spot where he had left her and discovered that she was not there.
but, all about on the sand, he saw foot-prints as of a great number of bare footed people.
"the savages have taken her," he muttered, and drawing his sword he ran off in the direction they had taken.
through the woods he ran, and pretty soon he came to a clearing and there was sweetclover surrounded by about a thousand savages shouting and dancing and waving spears above their heads. and kernel cob grasped his sword firmly in his hand and ran at them, and, so fiercely did he fight, that in a minute he had driven away about a hundred of them. and he would have driven them all away, but his foot slipped and, before he could get up again, he was overpowered and bound hand and foot.
and they brought him before their chief who was a great giant.
and when it was night, the savages tied the two captives to trees and went to sleep about a great fire. and in the middle of the night when kernel cob was thinking of some way in which to make their escape, he heard something stirring in the grass at his feet.
"who's that?" he whispered.
"tommy hare," was the reply, and he ran out from a stone behind which he had been hiding.
"good for you!" said kernel cob. "come stand up on your hind legs, like a good fellow, and untie me from this tree."
"who are you?" asked tommy cautiously.
"i'm kernel cob and this is my little friend sweetclover and we're looking for jackie and peggs' motheranfather and we've been captured by the savages who may keep us here forever if you don't help us."
"that i will," said tommy, and in a jiffy he had gnawed them free.
"now, show us the way down to the beach as quickly as you can," said kernel cob, "for it will be daylight soon and then it will be too late. come."
and they started running as fast as they could.
and not a minute too soon, for they had got only half way when they heard the shouts of the savages and knew that their escape had been discovered.
faster and faster they ran, but the savages gained on them at every step and were soon close upon their heels.
"jump on my back!" shouted tommy, "for i can run faster than all of them put together."
and they did so and flew over the ground as fast as the wind.
and they reached the shore and jumped into the shoeboat and tommy shoved them off with a great push that put them out of sight of land, and the savages' spears fell in the water behind them.
"that was a narrow escape," said sweetclover, as she settled down in the boat. "i hope tommy hare wasn't caught by the savages."
but she needn't have worried in the least about tommy, for as soon as he had pushed them off, he scurried away and was at that moment sitting under a tree, eating his breakfast.
kernel cob and sweetclover sailed all day. the shoeboat rode the waves with perfect ease. up it went and up till it came to the top of a great wave, and then it would race down on the other side as if they were bob-sledding and great sport it was, too, out in the middle of the ocean, and sweetclover laughed and even old serious kernel cob smiled and forgot all about fighting.
toward the afternoon, the sea quieted down and they rode along faster and presently, sweetclover, who was always watching, cried out:
"i see another island!"
"so it is!" said kernel cob, looking in the wrong direction.
"not over there. look!" and she pointed.
sure enough. there was a large black stretch of what appeared to be land. and it was very flat.
"i hope there will be no more savages to fight," said sweetclover.
"i hope there will," said kernel cob.
"it's moving," said sweetclover. "it seems to be coming this way."
"where did it go?" asked kernel cob, for at that moment it disappeared altogether.
"i'm sure i saw it," said sweetclover. "didn't you?"
but kernel cob only frowned and looked serious.
and, in a few minutes, they saw it again, but this time it was very much nearer and bigger and the sun made it look very smooth.
"it's a whale!" said sweetclover.
"who cares," said he, and drew his sword.
and the turtle, for it was a turtle and not a whale at all, came towards them and it was very large, nearly as big around as an acre. and when it got very near to the boat, its head came up out of its shell and the little shoe boat shook with the waves it made.
and the turtle was just about to snap the boat in its mouth when kernel cob swung his sword and with one mighty stroke cut off its head.
"ha, ha!" cried kernel cob, but, receiving no reply from sweetclover, he looked about and found she had fainted.
he found also that the boat was leaking badly from a crack in the side made, no doubt, by the turtle.
quickly, he lifted sweetclover and carried her aboard the back of the turtle and laid her gently down, for the shoe was sinking and he was no sooner out of it than it turned over on its side.
"not a minute too soon," muttered kernel cob, "and now to revive sweetclover." this he soon did and she opened her eyes and looked about in wonder.
"where are we?" she asked.
"on the old turtle's back," laughed kernel cob.
"but we shall never get anywhere now, for we have no sail," said sweetclover. and she began to cry.
"i can't help it," said sweetclover, "i'm miserable."
"what's all this about?" said a strange voice, and looking about quickly, they saw a sea-horse riding up to them.
"i am very glad to see you," said kernel cob.
"you're just in time to give us a lift on our journey."
"with pleasure," whinnied the sea-horse. "and where might you be going?"
"to find jackie and peggs' motheranfather," said sweetclover.
"well, leap on my back," said the horse, "and i'll see that you get there if it's in the water."
so kernel cob got astride the horse and helped sweetclover to mount behind him.
"where are we?" asked kernel cob.
"cuba is right over there," said the sea-horse pointing with his ear.
"well, let's see if they are there, if you please," said sweetclover.
"aye, aye, miss," he said, and trotted away as nearly like a real horse as he could.
with a great leap, he started forward, his eyes bulging from his head, and, with a stream of foam flung out from his mouth, he turned and raced through the water at a terrific rate, kernel cob and sweetclover clinging to him with all their strength.
"he's a runaway," shouted kernel cob and, sure enough, the horse was mad and nothing could stop him. on and on they raced, but everything must come to an end and along about the afternoon, they saw land in the distance.
toward this he made at breakneck speed and with a final spurt dashed into an inlet where many ships rode at anchor and a large city rose against the sky.
"hurrah!" shouted kernel cob.
in and out among the ships the sea-horse ran, until, with a last gasp, he flung himself forward and fell upon the surface of the water.
and so they were, for a row-boat pulled toward them and in a minute they were taken from the water and laid on the bottom of the boat.
"what did i tell you?" said kernel cob. "if you wish for anything strong enough you'll get it."
"you'll wish you were never born before you get out of here," said a deep, strange voice, and looking about, kernel cob and sweetclover were surprised to see two puppets, their own size.
the one who spoke was a villainous-looking fellow dressed as a pirate. his face was browned as if by the sun, earrings were in his ears, a black hat on his head, and a deep and very ugly scowl was painted on his forehead.
the other was good looking and resembled the hero in a story. he had pink cheeks and a pretty smile.
now, when sweetclover heard the villainous puppet speak, she moved away from him but kernel cob, who always welcomed a new adventure and saw in this fellow a possible enemy, spoke up:
"who and what are you?"
"a friend," answered the villain.
"you don't look it," said sweetclover, "you look more like a villain."
"and so i am," said he. "at least that's what i'm painted to be, but i have a kind heart just the same."
"what are you doing out here in this boat?" asked kernel cob.
"the man who is rowing and who picked you up is a puppet showman," he explained.
"i don't like him a bit," said sweetclover.
"you'll like him less and less as you get to know him," said the villain. "he's very brutal. that's why we are in the boat, for yesterday during the puppet show, he broke the hero in a rage and he had to go across the harbor to a toy-shop to buy another. that's the new hero alongside of me."
"he's very handsome," said sweetclover.
"sure," said the villain. "he's got to be. heroes are all handsome."
"but why are you so ugly?" asked kernel cob.
"ha, ha," laughed the villain, "why bless your heart, i'm not a real villain, i only play the part of a villain in the play. my real self is something very different. but what, may i ask, are you doing out here in the harbor of valparaiso?"
"is that where we are?" asked sweetclover.
"sure," said kernel cob, for he didn't want the villain to think he wasn't smart. "didn't you know we were in italy?"
"ha, ha," sneered the hero, and from that moment kernel cob disliked him.
"but you haven't told me how you got into the water," persisted the villain.
"we came on a sea-horse from cuba," said sweetclover.
"that must have been an exciting adventure," said the villain. "tell me all of it."
and kernel cob told him how they had been to the moon on a parasol and all that. when he had finished, he asked the villain to tell them some of his adventures.
but the villain was a modest sort of fellow and would say nothing but that he was very unhappy, leading a wicked life. what annoyed him most, he said, was that nearly everybody thought he was bad.
"it only goes to show," he said, "that you can never go by anybody's looks."
"you're right," said kernel cob, and gave a sharp glance at the hero. "many a kind heart beats beneath an ugly face."
and then the row-boat landed at the dock, and the showman, taking the villain and the hero under one arm and kernel cob and sweetclover under the other, got out and walked away.
through the town they went and everywhere children ran after them, and wondered at the strange puppets. and after a while they came to a little theatre and were thrown down among a lot of other puppets.
"i don't intend to stay here," said kernel cob. "i'm going to run away. i've got to find jackie and peggs' motheranfather."
"i don't think you'll be able to get away," said the villain.
"well, at least i'll try," answered kernel cob. "wouldn't you like to come with us?"
"you bet," said the villain, for he had taken a great fancy to kernel cob and especially to sweetclover, whose gentle manners appealed very strongly to him. "but how are you going to do it?"
"let me think," said kernel cob and they were very quiet for a long while.
"i tell you what," said the villain, "when i am going to play i'll run off the stage and as soon as you see the showman run after me, you must be ready to run and before he catches me, you'll be safe away."
"but you won't be able to come with us, then," said sweetclover, "and you'll be beaten."
"well, as long as you and kernel cob get away, it won't matter what happens to me," said the villain.
"that's very noble of you, i'm sure," said kernel cob, "and i see that you are a very friendly villain, but i think i can find a better plan than that."
while they were talking, the showman came and tied some strings on kernel cob and sweetclover.
"what's that for?" asked kernel cob.
"i guess you are going to play in the show," explained the villain. "that's the way he works us."
"now we will never be able to get away," sighed sweetclover.
"won't we though," said kernel cob, "leave it to me," for he was very brave of heart and nothing daunted him, because he was a soldier, you see, and was brave by nature.
and the showman took them into the theatre, and the performance began. when the play was over, quick as a flash, kernel cob cut the strings from sweetclover and himself.
"now is our time!" shouted he to sweetclover and the villain, who were standing close by, and the villain, catching sweetclover by the hand, ran away with her.
holding the showman at a distance, kernel cob backed his way off the stage, joined the villain and sweetclover and all three ran out into the street at the top of their speed, but the showman was much faster and was close on their heels when they came to a corner.
"straight ahead!" shouted kernel cob while he turned and ran up the other street. this puzzled the showman just what kernel cob wanted, and while he stood, wondering which one of them to follow, they gained on him.
feeling angrier with kernel cob than with the villain and sweetclover, he made after him, but kernel cob had a good start this time and had turned another corner, and seeing an open doorway, leaped in and was well-hidden by the time the showman came puffing by.
for a long time the showman searched, but never thought of the door behind which kernel cob was hiding and finally gave up the search and went back.
after kernel cob had given him plenty of time to get away, he came out cautiously and with great courage went back the way he had come, anxious to find sweetclover and the villain.
when he came to the corner where sweetclover and the villain had gone straight ahead, he followed on after them, but could find no trace of them. night was coming on and still he walked and being very tired with all his running, he sat down on the roadside, for he was now out in the country. and the moon came out and he watched it and thought of the many adventures he had been in since sweetclover and he were up there and a great longing came into his heart to see her and if he had not been a soldier, i am sure he would have cried, but he didn't. instead, he got upon his feet and looked about for some place where he could spend the night.
the villain and sweetclover ran on and on till their legs would carry them no farther and, being entirely out of breath, they came to a halt at last. they were far out beyond the city, and, if they had not been worried about kernel cob, they would have enjoyed the lovely fields of flowers and sunshine, but sweetclover was quite sure that the wicked showman had captured kernel cob and, having recovered her breath, sat down and began to cry. and the villain, being a very kind-hearted puppet sat down to comfort her, but, try as he would, sweetclover only cried the louder.
"i'm sure he's captured, i'm sure he's captured," she repeated over and over again, until she made the villain believe it and he began to cry, too.
"no, no!" cried sweetclover. "you'll be caught too, and then what will i do?" so he stayed with her.
presently they were aroused by the barking of a dog and, looking about, discovered that they were sitting on the terrace of a big house all about which were fields of flowers and grain. and the dog, a big mastiff, came toward them. sweetclover put out a friendly hand and said, "nice fido."
"don't call me fido," said the dog, "my name is napoleon."
"oh, excuse me," said sweetclover, "i didn't know."
"that's all right," said napoleon with a stately bow. "is there anything i can do for you?"
"i'm afraid not," said sweetclover. "my friend here," and she turned to the villain, "and i have been separated from kernel cob and we are anxious to find him. you didn't see him pass by, did you?"
"no," said napoleon, "that i didn't."
"oh dear," sighed sweetclover, "night is coming on and we have nowhere to go."
"if you will give me a few minutes," said napoleon, with a courteous wave of his paw in the direction of his house, "i will put my humble home at your disposal."
"we cannot think of disturbing you," said sweetclover.
"it will be no trouble whatever," he said. "if i can be of any service to you, it will give me much pleasure."
and so they followed him, as he walked away with great dignity, to his kennel.
"what, may i enquire, has brought you to this neighborhood?" he asked as they arrived at his house.
"you see," explained sweetclover, "we were captured by a very wicked showman and made to act with him in his puppet-show, so we ran away."
"have you been long in valparaiso?" he asked. and she told him her story. how they had been to the moon in search of jackie and peggs' motheranfather, and so on, till the moment when he had met them on the road.
"very, very interesting, i am sure," he said, "and i wish i could help you in finding jackie and peggs' motheranfather, but i think you must be tired, so if you will lie down here i will sleep outside and protect you from any danger."
in the morning, the sun was shining brightly and looking out of the door of napoleon's house they were overjoyed to see kernel cob walking toward them, for the field in which he had slept was the one next to where napoleon lived.
you may imagine their joy.
after he had been introduced to napoleon, they sat down to think what had best be done.
"i wish i could help you," said napoleon, "but i am a watch dog and a watch dog may never shirk his duty. i never leave these grounds, for i love my master."
"you have been very kind," said sweetclover, "and i'm sure we are grateful to you."
"i'll tell you what i can do," said napoleon, whose forehead wrinkled as he thought, "i can introduce you to a great bird that lives in a field back of me. she is the south american condor and i'm sure she will be able to carry you somewhere."
"all of us?" asked kernel cob.
"why, yes, indeed," replied napoleon, "she is about ten times as big as you and very strong."
"oh, goodie," said sweetclover, "where is she?"
"over there," answered napoleon. "just say i sent you and she will do anything for you."
so, after thanking napoleon for his kindness, they walked in the direction he had given them and soon came to a great haystack on the top of which was a large nest.
and kernel cob called up to the nest and the bird put out her head.
kernel cob then introduced everybody and the bird flew down at once.
"we are trying to find jackie and peggs' motheranfather," he explained, and after he had told her their story, she was so interested that she said she would help them as soon as she had finished her breakfast.
"now," she said, "let us start. where are the motheranfather of these little children?"
"i don't know," said kernel cob. "they're lost."
"i don't know anything about motheranfathers," replied the bird, "but i know when i lose anything it is because it falls out of my nest."
"people don't live in nests," replied kernel cob. "for if they did, and fell out, they would get broken."
"i say!" said the villain who had been thinking very deeply. "let's look for them near where they were lost."
"that's a good way," said sweetclover. "let's go to the united states. how far is it?"
"thousands of miles," answered the condor. "but that is nothing for me. i can fly that far in a few days. come, get ready. we will go to the united states. jump on my back."
so they climbed up on the bird's back, and all being ready she flew away.
"how does she know which way to fly?" asked sweetclover.
"birds know everything in the air, just the same as fishes do in the water," said the villain.
"and worms in the ground," added kernel cob.
"i guess dolls must be the stupidest things in the world," said sweetclover.
"only some of us," said kernel cob.
at this sweetclover, the villain and the condor laughed, but kernel cob didn't know what they were laughing at, which was a very good thing for him.
all that day they flew, and were very happy indeed in the warm sunshine skimming through the clouds. and once they went through a rainstorm and got wet; but as the sun came out soon after and dried them quickly they were none the worse for their bath, but felt refreshed for it.
and they passed over the great amazon river, the largest river in the world, and, much before they knew it, they were in central america going at a tremendous rate of speed. you! haven't you got any manners at all?--after all the willows and the good powder i've wasted on you! get back to that pasture fence before i take a club to you for such acting!"
before belle's wrath lance retreated, and mary hope found the courage to wrinkle her nose at him when he glanced her way. "he rinned away to save himself a whupping," she commented, and made sure that he heard it, and hoped that he would realize that she spoke "scotchy" just for his special benefit.
"all right for you, belle lorrigan!" lance called back, retaliating for mary hope's grimace by a kiss thrown brazenly in the expectation of seeing her face grow redder; which it did immediately. "careful of that horse--he might rinned away again!"
"that'll do for you, young man!" whereupon belle picked up a small stone and threw it with such accurate aim that lance's hat went off. "good thing for you that i haven't got a gun on me, or i'd dust your heels for you!" then she turned to mary hope, who was listening with titillating horror to the painted jezebel's unorthodox method of reproving her offspring. "get right down, honey, and come in and rest. and don't mind lance; he's an awful tease, especially when he likes a person. tie your horse to the fence--or turn him in the corral, if he'll let you catch him again."
"there's something i like about this horse," said belle, running her plump white hand down the nose of rab. "he's neighborly, anyway. he brought you here against your will, i can see that. and now he's here he sort of takes it for granted you'll be friendly and stop a while. don't you think you ought to be as friendly as your horse, honey?"
"i--i am friendly. i--i always wished i could come and see you. but mother--mother doesna visit much among the neighbors; she--she's always busy."
"i don't visit much, myself," said belle dryly. "but that ain't saying i can't be friendly. come on in, and we'll have some lemonade."
sheer astonishment brought mary hope down from her horse. all her life she had taken it for granted that lemonade was sacred to the fourth of july picnics, just as oranges grew for christmas trees only. she followed belle dumbly into the house, and once inside she remained dumb with awe at what seemed to her to be the highest pinnacle of grandeur.
there was the piano with a fringed scarf draped upon its top, and pictures in frames standing upon the scarf in orderly rows. there were many sheets of music,--and never a hymn book. there were great chairs with deep upholstery which mary observed with amazement was not red plush, nor even blue plush, yet which appealed to her instincts for beauty. there was no center table with fringed spread and family album and a bible and a conch shell. instead there was a long table before a window--a table littered with all sorts of things: a box of revolver cartridges, a rifle laid down in the middle of scattered newspapers, a bottle of oil, more music, a banjo, a fruit jar that did duty as a vase for wild flowers, a half-finished, braided quirt and four silver dollars lying where they had been carelessly flung down. to mary hope, reared in a household where dollars were precious things, that last item was the most amazing of all. the lorrigans must be rich,--as rich as they were wicked. she thrilled anew at her own daring.
belle brought lemonade, wonderful lemonade, with an egg beaten to yellow froth and added the last minute. mary hope sipped and marveled. after that, belle played on the piano and sang songs which mary hope had never heard before and which she thought must be the songs the angels sang in heaven, although there was nothing to suggest harps or hallelujahs. love songs they were, mostly. the sun slipped around and shone through a window on belle's head, so that her yellow hair glistened like fine threads of gold. mary hope watched it dreamily and wondered how a jezebel could be so beautiful and so good.
"you'd better run along home now, honey," belle said at last when she had finished her eighth song. "i'd love to have you stay all night--but i reckon there'd be trouble. your dad ain't any too mild, i've heard. but i hope you won't wait until your horse runs away with you again. i want you to come real soon. and come early so you can stay longer. i'll teach you to play the piano, honey. you ought to learn, seeing you love it so."
that night mary hope dreamed of playing strange, complex compositions on a piano which lance lorrigan had given her. the next morning and for many days after she still dreamed of playing entrancing strains upon a piano, and of lance lorrigan who had thrown her a kiss. belle had said that lance always teased a person he liked, and in that one remark lay the stuff of many dreams.
a matter of brands
on the grassy expanse known locally as injun creek, fifteen hundred head of cattle were milling restlessly in a close-held herd over which gray dust hovered and settled and rose again. toward it other cattle came lowing, trotting now and then when the riders pressed close, essaying a retreat when the way seemed clear. from devil's tooth they came, and from lava bed way, and from the rough sandstone ridges of mill creek. two by two the riders, mere moving dots at first against a monotone of the rangeland, took form as they neared the common center. red cattle, black cattle, spotted and dingy white, with bandy-legged, flat-bodied calves keeping close to their mothers, kicking up their heels in sheer joy of their new life when the pace slowed a little, seeking a light lunch whenever the cows stopped to cast a wary glance back at their pursuer. a dozen brands were represented in that foregathering: the nl brand of tom lorrigan on most, with its various amendments which differentiated the property of other members of the family, since all of the lorrigans owned cattle. there was the nl block of belle lorrigan, the anl which was al's brand, the dnl of duke and the lnl which belonged to lance; monograms all of them, deftly constructed with the fewest possible lines. there was that invitation to the unlawful artistry of brand-working, the eleven which sleek douglas thought quite sufficient to mark his cattle. it was merciful to the calves, he maintained, and as to thieves, the dishonest would be punished by law and the douglas wrath. the miller brand, a plain block, showed now and then upon the rump of some animal. the aj fled occasionally before a rider, and there were brands alien to the black rim; brands on cattle that had drifted down from the snake through the lava creek pass, or over the sage-grown ridges farther north.
his rifle sheathed in a saddle holster under his thigh, his black eyes roving here and there and letting no small movement of men or animals escape their seeing glances, tom lorrigan rode to the round-up, lord of the range, steadfast upon the trail of his "million on the hoof" of which he dreamed. beside him rode al, and the two of them were talking while they rode.
"he ain't safe, i tell you," al was saying in the tone of reiteration. "and you needn't ask me how i know. i know it, that's all. maybe he's too damn' agreeable or something. anyway, i know i don't like the way his eyes set in his head."
"a man that wasn't safe wouldn't dare come into the black rim and make the play he's makin'," tom contended. "i've had my eye on him ever since he come. i've checked up what he says at different times--they tally like the truth. i can't find nothing wrong."
"i've got him set down for a spotter," said al.
"if he ain't on the level it'll show up sooner or later," tom contended. "i've got my eye on him. i dunno what you pin your argument on, al, i'll be darned if i do."
"well, watch out for cheyenne. that's all. you're pretty keen, all right, but all a man's got to do to get on your blind side is to blow in here with his chin on his shoulder and his horse rode to a whisper and claim to you he's hidin' out. cheyenne ain't right, i tell yuh. you take a tip from me and watch him."
"takes a kid to tell his dad where to head in at!" growled tom. "how do you reckon i ever got along before your time. ever figure that out, al?"
"now, what's eatin' on old scotty douglas, do yuh reckon? that's him, all right. i could tell him on horseback ten mile off. he rides like a mormon."
tom grunted. his boys, he had long ago discovered, were very apt to find some excuse for changing the subject whenever he mentioned the past which had not held their arrogant young selves. tom resented the attitude of superior wisdom which they were prone to assume. they were pretty smart kids, but if they thought they were smarter than their dad they sure had a change of heart coming to them.
"supposin' it is old scotty. do you reckon, al, i've got you along for a guide, to point out what my eyes is getting too poor to see? as for cheyenne," he reverted angrily to the argument, "as for cheyenne, when you've growed to be a man, you'll find it's just as much the mark of a fool to go along suspecting everybody as it is to bank on everybody. you think now it's funny to put the judas brand on every man you don't know. it ain't. it's a kid's trick. boys git that way when they begin to sprout hair under their noses. i been pretty patient with yuh, al. you're growing up fast, and you're feeling your oats. i make allowances, all kinds. but by the humpin' hyenas, don't you start in telling me where to head in at with my own outfit! if you do, i'll jest about wear out a willer switch on yuh!"
this to a youth almost old enough to vote was dire insult. al pulled up his horse. "run your own outfit and be darned to yuh!" he cried hotly, and spurred off in the direction of the ranch.
tom laughed shortly and rolled a cigarette. "thinks now it'll bust up the round-up if he goes," he opined. "lucky for my kids i ain't as strict as my old dad was; they wouldn't have any hide left, i reckon."
up loped aleck douglas then, riding stiff-legged, his bony elbows jerking awkwardly with the motion of his horse, a rusty black vest dangling open under his coat which flapped in the wind. that the douglas wrath rode with him tom saw from the corner of his eye and gave no sign.
"hello," said tom casually and drew a match along the stamped fork of his saddle. "you're quite a stranger." he lighted his cigarette, holding his reins lightly in one hand while he did so; gave the reins a gentle flip to one side and sent his horse after a cow and calf that showed symptoms of "breaking back."
"mister lorrigan, 'tis aboot a spotted yearlin' that i've come to speak with ye. i've found the hide of her in the brush beneath yon hill, and the brand is cut from it. but i wad swear to the hide wi'out the brand. 'twas a yearlin' i ken weel, mister lorrigan." he rode alongside, and his close-set little eyes regarded keenly tom's face.
"a spotted yearling with the brand cut out, hey? that looks kinda bad. have you got the hide with you?"
"i have no got the hide wi' me, but i ken weel whaur it lies, mister lorrigan, and i thinkit so do you."
"hm-m. you'd ought to of brought it along." tom's glance went out toward the herd and the cattle lumbering toward it far and near. "the range is plumb lousy with spotted yearlings, scotty. what do you expect me to do about it?"
the douglas face worked spasmodically before he spoke. "i expect ye, mr. lorrigan, to pay for yon beastie. i ken weel ye could name the mon that stickit the knife in her throat. an' she made fine eatin', i have na doot. but 'tis the law, mister lorrigan, that a mon should pay for the meat he consumes."
"meaning, of course, that you think i'm feeding douglas meat to my outfit. don't you think you're kinda hasty? i kill a beef about every three or four days in round-up time. the boys work hard and they eat hard. and they eat nl beef, scotty; don't overlook that fact. hides ain't worth anything much, but salt's cheap, too. i ain't throwin' away a dollar when it's no trouble to save it. if you're any curious at all, you ride over to ranch and count all the green hides you can find. belle, she'll show 'em to you. take a look at the brands, and figure it out yourself, i don't know how many you'll find, but i'll gamble you a dozen cows against one that you'll wonder what went with all the beef that was in them hides. humpin' hyenas! ain't i got cattle enough of my own, without rustlin' off my neighbors?"
"aye. ye ha' cattle, mister lorrigan; i ken weel ye should no' be put to it for a wee bit meat--but i ken weel yon spotty yearlin' was mine. i ken ye've been campin' thereabout--and it wad seem, mister lorrigan, that the salt was no sa plentifu' when the spotty yearlin' was kilt."
the downright foolhardiness of the douglas wrath held tom's hand,--though of a truth that hand trembled and crept backward. nor was aleck douglas nearsighted; he saw the movement and his bearded underlip met his shaven underlip in a straight line.
"ye do weel to be reachin' for the gun, mister lorrigan. i dinna carry aye weapon save the truth."
tom flushed. "blame your oatmeal soul, if i reached for my gun, you wouldn't be telling me about it!" he exploded. "carry the truth, do yuh? you've got to show me where you keep it, then. if you wasn't an old man--and a darn fool on top of that."
"'tis no brave to cover shame wi' bitter words, tam lorrigan. 'tis the way of ye to bluster and bully until the neighbors all are affrighted to face ye and yere ill deeds."
toward them clattered two riders hotly pursuing a lean, long-legged steer with a wide spread of horns and a gift of speed that carried him forging past the disputants. tom wheeled mechanically and gave chase, leaving the douglas wrath to wax hotter or to cool if it would. it was a harsh accusation that aleck douglas had made, and that he did make it seemed to prove that he had what he considered very good evidence that he was right. tom was well schooled in troubles of that kind. he did not take the matter so indifferently as douglas believed.
duke and mel wilson, riding hard, came upon tom just as he had roped and thrown the steer in a shallow draw that hid them from the level where aleck douglas waited.
a few moments later they came tearing up out of the draw, the steer running strong, the three riders still hotly pursuing. duke and mel rushed it on to the herd, and tom dropped out of the race and came along across to where douglas wrath had not cooled but had smoldered and waited for the wind of opposition to fan it to flame again.
"well, you still mournin' over your spotty yearlin'?" tom called. "you must have more time than you know what to do with to-day. us, we have to work."
"if it's to the round-up ye're going, then i'll ride wi' ye, tom lorrigan. i'm a fair mon and i wush na ill to my neighbors. but i canna twiddle the thumbs whilst others fare well on douglas beef."
"you can ride where you please; it's open range. but if you ride to the herd i'll show you forty yearlings that i'll bet are dead ringers for the one that you claim was killed. i never seen that hide neither, unless maybe when the critter was using it.
"now, i don't want any trouble with yuh, scotty. but i tell yuh right now i can't stand for much more of this talk about beef rustling. thief's a pretty hard word to use to a man's face--and get away with it."
"'tis a hard mon i'm usin' it tae," the douglas retorted grimly.
"braggin' about your nerve, are yuh, scotty?"
"i have a name, tam lorrigan, and 'tisna scotty." the douglas face twisted with anger. "i will no bandy worrds with ye. 'tis ill i should descend to the level o' them that deespitefully use me."
"deespitefully!--why, humpin' hyenas! ain't i letting yuh live? and do yuh reckon any other man could walk up to me and call me a thief and live long enough to take it back? just because you're old, and such a blamed fool you go around without a gun on yuh, i'm keepin' my hands off you. i call yuh a coward. you wouldn't a dared to come over here with a gun on yuh and talk the way you've done. you've got me hog-tied. you know it. and damn yuh, i'll fight yuh now with the law--which is the only way a coward will fight.
the douglas eyes flickered uncertainly, but the douglas mouth was unyielding. "the law can no be cheatit so easy, tam lorrigan. i hae no wush to send ye tae jail--but ye ken weel that wad be the penalty for killin' yon beastie in the willows. i came to settle the matter fair between neighbors, and tae warn ye to cease your evil doings on the range. i wadna see yer woman come tae grief--"
"you can cut out that mercy talk, scotty. and don't try to bring belle into this. if it comes to a showdown, lemme advise you, you'd better sidestep belle. the grief would all be yourn, if you and belle lock horns, and i'm telling yuh so."
"you can ask this man what he knows about any spotted hide over by squaw butte," he invited the douglas stiffly. "he's practically a stranger to the outfit--been here about a month. maybe his word'll be worth something to yuh--i dunno. you can ask him."
douglas rode over to cheyenne and said what he had to say. tom meanwhile held the herd and meditated on the petty injustices of life--perhaps--and wished that a real he-man had come at him the way douglas had come. it irked tom much to be compelled to meet hard words with tolerant derision. toleration was not much of a factor in his life. but since he must be tolerant, he swung his horse to meet the douglas when the brief conversation with cheyenne was over. the douglas head was shaking slowly, owning disappointment.
aleck douglas scowled, opened his hard lips to make a bitter answer and reconsidered. he went off instead to interview the men, perhaps thinking that adroit questioning might reveal a weak point somewhere in their denial.
tom rode over to cheyenne. "scotty's got his war clothes on," he observed carelessly.
"shore has," cheyenne grinned. "but that's all right. he didn't make nothin' off me. i never give him any satisfaction at all."
tom's brows pulled together. "well, now, if you know anything about any hide with the brand cut out, you'd better come through, cheyenne."
"i never said i knowed anything about it. i guess mebby that's why i couldn't give him no satisfaction." cheyenne still grinned, but he did not meet tom's eyes.
"you spoke kinda queer for a man who don't know nothing, cheyenne. did yuh think mebby it wasn't all nl beef you been eating?"
"why, no. i never meant anything like that at all. i only said--"
"straight talk don't need no explainin', cheyenne. the devil's tooth outfit shore likes the taste of its own beef. if any man fails to agree with that, i want him to speak up right now."
cheyenne pinched out the fire in his cigarette and flipped the stub away from him. he did not look at tom when he said:
"nl beef shore suits me. i don't know about any other brand. i ain't et none to judge by."
"you bet your life you ain't," snapped tom, as he turned away. "when you sample another brand you won't be drawin' wages with this outfit."
he rode away to the wagon, where a fire was already burning and the branding irons heating. cheyenne, with his hat pulled down over his forehead so that he looked out from under the brim that shaded his face, watched tom queerly, a corner of his lips lifted in a half smile that was not pleasant.
they ride and they do not tell where
aleck douglas, having questioned the crew as tom had suggested, and having inexorably ridden through the herd--in search of brands that had been "worked," or for other evidence of the unlawful acquisition of wealth, rather than in hope of finding his spotted yearling--rode away with the parting threat that he would "gang to the shuriff and hae a talk wi' him." tom had advised him of one or two other destinations where he hoped the douglas would arrive without any delay whatever, and the branding proceeded rather slowly with the crew three men short.
duke and mel wilson rode in about three o'clock with a few cows and calves which they had gleaned from some brushy draw to cover their real errand. by the time they had snatched a hasty meal at the wagon a mile away, and had caught up fresh horses, the afternoon's work was nearly over. a little earlier than usual, tom kicked the branding fire apart, ordered the herd thrown on water and grazed back to the bed-ground that had been used during round-up time ever since he could remember, and rode slowly toward camp, whither the lucky ones not on herd were speeding.
cheyenne, tom observed, seemed in a greater hurry than the others, and he beckoned to him a slim, swarthy-skinned youth who answered to the euphonious name of sam pretty cow, who was three-quarters indian and forgiven the taint for the ability to ride anything he ever tried to ride, rope anything he ever swung his loop at, and for his unfailing good humor which set him far above his kind.
"cheyenne's in a hurry to-night, sam."
"yeah. ride hell out of his horse. i dunno, me." sam grinned amiably at his boss.
"i wish you would camp on his trail, sam. he'll maybe ride somewhere to-night."
"yeah. uh-huh. you bet," acquiesced sam, and leaned forward a little, meaning to gallop after cheyenne.
"hold on a minute! what did scotty have to say, sam?"
"him? talk a lot about spotty yearlin' he says is dead. asking who kills them calf. search me, i dunno."
"hear any talk among the boys about beef rustling?"
"uh-huh. first i hear is them sour-face asking me who kills them critter. me, i dunno."
"if you hear anything about it, sam, let me know. scotty thinks we done it."
"yeah. uh-huh. anybody does something mean, everybody says, 'damn lorrigans done it.' too much talk in the black rim. talking under their hats all the time but no liking to fight them lorrigans. uh-huh. they're scared, you bet."
"they'll have something to get scared at, if they ain't careful. i'm getting tired of it," said tom gloomily.
"yeah, you bet!" agreed sam, his voice all sympathy. then seeing that tom had no immediate intention of saying more, he touched his horse with his long-shanked spurs and hurried on to "camp on the trail of cheyenne."
tom had nearly reached camp when duke came pounding up behind him, coming from the herd. duke set his horse up, in two jumps slowing from a gallop to a walk. tom turned his head but he did not speak. nor did duke wait for questions.
"dad, we didn't find any hide over by squaw butte," he announced abruptly. "mel and i hunted every foot of the willows. i saw where a critter had been killed, all right. there was some scuffed-out tracks and blood on the ground. but there wasn't any hide. scotty musta cachéd it somewheres."
"scotty claims he left it where he found it, for evidence," tom said gloomily.
"darned if i'd take the blame for other folks' rustling," duke declared. "i wisht he'd of come to me with his tale of woe. i'd a showed him where to head in, mighty darned sudden. i'd of asked where was his proof; there's other cow outfits in the black rim besides the devil's tooth, i'd tell him. and if he didn't have mighty darned good evidence, i'd of--"
"yes, i expect you would of tore the earth up all round him," tom interrupted drily. "you boys shore are fighty, all right--with your faces. what i'm interested in, is whereabouts you and mel hunted. that hide wouldn't show up like the devil's tooth--understand. and scotty was bawling around like a man that's been hurt in the pocket. he found a hide, and if it ain't his he shore thinks it is, and that's just about the same. and we camped over there three days ago. where all did you and mel look?"
"all over, wherever a hide could be cachéd. there ain't any over there. scotty musta dreamt it--or else he buried it."
"scotty ain't the dreamy kind. might be possible that the ones that done the killing went back and had a burying--which they'd oughta have had at the time. i can't sabe a man rustling beef and leaving the hide laying around, unless--" tom pulled his eyebrows together in quick suspicion. "it kinda looks to me like a frame-up," he resumed from his fresh viewpoint. "well, you and mel keep it under your hats, duke. don't say nothing to any of the boys at all. but if any of the boys has anything to say, you listen. scotty made the rounds to-day--talked to the whole bunch. they know all about his spotty yearlin', gol darn him! i'd like to know if any of 'em has got any inside dope. there's strangers in the outfit this spring. and, duke, you kinda keep your eye on cheyenne. al seems to think he ain't right--but al has got to the suspicious age, when every man and his dog packs a crime on his conscience. you kinda stall around and see if cheyenne lets slip anything."
"what would happen to old scotty douglas if he lost a bunch, for gosh sake? drop dead, i reckon," grumbled duke. "he's sure making a lot of fuss over one measly yearlin'."
"yeah--but i've saw bigger fusses made over smaller matters, son," tom drawled whimsically. "i saw two men killed over a nickel in change, once. it ain't the start; it's the finish that counts."
"well, looking at it that way, uh course--"
"that's the only way to look at it, son. did you think, maybe, that i hazed you over to find that hide and bury it, just to keep it from scentin' up the scenery? it's what i could smell farther ahead that i was after. if you'd looked ahead a little further, maybe you'd of looked a little closer in the willers."
to this duke had nothing to say; and presently he loped on, leaving tom to ride slowly and turn the matter of the spotted yearling over and over in his mind until he had reached some definite conclusion.
tom had the name of being a dangerous man, but he had not earned it by being hasty. his anger was to be feared because it smoldered long, rather than because it exploded into quick violence. he wanted to see the trail ahead of him--and just now he thought he saw trouble waiting on the turn. no lorrigan had ever ridden the other way because trouble waited ahead, but one lorrigan at least would advance with his eyes open and his weapons ready to his hand.
"bring your proof," he had said in effect to aleck douglas, "or stand trial for libel. since you won't fight with guns, i'll fight you with the law." very good, if he could be sure that the douglas would fail to produce his proof.
tom knew well enough the reputation he bore in the black rim country. before the coming of belle, and later, of the boys, tom had done his share toward earning that reputation. but belle and the boys had changed his life far more than appeared on the surface. they had held his rope from his neighbors' cattle, for one thing, though his neighbors never had credited him with honesty.
it is true that tom could remember certain incidents of the round-up that had added to his herd and brought him a little nearer the million-dollar mark. without remorse he remembered, and knew that any cowman in the country would do the same, or worse if he dared. for branding irons do not always inquire very closely into the parentage of a calf that comes bouncing up stiff-legged at the end of a cowpuncher's rope. nor need a maverick worry very long because he belongs to no one, so long as cowmen ride the range. cattle would always stray into the black rim country from ranges across the mountains, and of these the black rim took its toll. he supposed strange irons were set now and then on the hide of an nl animal across the mountains--but the branders had better not let him catch them at it! on the other hand, he would see to it that they did not catch him branding mavericks on his own range. to tom that seemed fair enough,--a give-and-take game of the rangeland. according to tom's code he was as honest as his neighbors, and that was honest enough for practical purposes.
it happened that he had not killed aleck douglas' spotted yearling. and to be accused of the theft hurt.
"why, humpin' hyenas! if i'd a beefed that critter, old scotty wouldn't ever have found no hide to catch me on! what kinda mark does he think i am! rustle a beef and leave the hide laying around? why, any darn fool would know better than that!"
it was characteristic of the lorrigan influence that when tom rode into camp every one of the crew save his own sons quieted a little; not enough to suggest timidity, but to a degree that told how well they knew that their master was present.
that master quietly took stock of his men while they ate their supper and loafed and smoked and talked. cheyenne had unobtrusively retired to the bed tent. with his thumbs pushed down inside his belt tom strolled past and slanted a glance inside. cheyenne was squatted on his heels shaving with cold lather and a cracked looking-glass propped against a roll of bedding, and a razor which needed honing. in turning his head to look at tom he nicked his chin and while he stopped the bleeding with a bit of old newspaper the size of a small finger-nail he congratulated himself in the mistaken belief that tom had not seen him at all.
cheyenne did not know tom very well, else he would have taken it for granted that tom not only had seen him, but had also made a guess at his reason for shaving in the middle of the week.
so presently cheyenne saddled the freshest horse in his string and loped off, making an insulting sign with one hand when the boys wished him luck with the girl and offered to go along and talk religion with "feyther" just to help him out.
very soon after that sam pretty cow drifted away, and no one noticed his absence. sam pretty cow's wanderings never did attract much attention. he was injun, and injuns have ways strange to white men. for instance, he did not sleep in the tent, but spread his blankets under whatever shelter he could find within hailing distance from the others. he was always around when he was wanted, and that seemed to be all that was expected of him. sleep settled on the devil's tooth round-up camp, and the night guard sang to the cattle while they rode round and round the herd, and never dreamed that this night was not as other nights had been.
belle meets an emergency in her own way
a meadow lark, his conscience comfortable after a generous breakfast of big and little worms carried to his mate hidden away under a thick clump of rabbit weed down by the creek, spread rigid wings and volplaned to the crooked post beside the corral gate, folded his feathers snug and tilted his head aslant. "cler, cler, cler, cler-ee, cler-ee!" he sang, and perked a wary eye toward the low-roofed stable.
"oh, i hear you, you sassy little sinner! i wouldn't think you'd have the nerve, after what you've done to my radishes. i'm sure going to mix with you, if you--rosa! lift a heel at me and you die! stand over--don't you try squeezing me against the wall, or i'll take my quirt to you! get over there, before i brain you! hay-ah-h, you--"
from the sounds one would imagine that a bear, two lions and a mule had come to handgrips in the stable, and that a woman of the amazons was battling with them all. the meadow lark knew better. this was his second season on the devil's tooth ranch, and he knew that belle lorrigan was merely harnessing her pinto team in the stable, and that nothing out of the ordinary was taking place. being a wise bird as well as an inquisitive one, he fluttered up to the ridge-pole of the roof and from that sanctuary listened beady-eyed to the customary tumult.
certain staccato epithets meant merely that subrosa was objecting to the crupper. a sudden stamping testified that belle had approached rosa with the bridle. a high-keyed, musical voice chanting man-size words of an intimidating nature followed which proved that the harnessing was progressing as well as could be expected. then came a lull, and the meadow lark tilted forward expectantly, his head turned sidewise to see what came next.
first came belle lorrigan, walking backward, a shot-loaded quirt raised admonishingly to the chin of subrosa who walked stiff-legged and reluctant, his white-lashed, blue eyes rolling fearsomely, his nostrils belling in loud snorts of protest. a complexity of emotions stirred subrosa. afraid to lunge forward, hating to walk circumspectly, eager for the race yet dreading the discipline of rein and whip, subrosa yielded perforce to the inevitable. as his heels flicked over the low doorsill he swung round and landed one final kick against the log wall, threw up his head in anticipation of the quirt, stepped on a dragging trace chain and jumped as though it was a rattler.
"none of that, you cantankerous brute! one of these days i'm going to just naturally brain you, sub. i'm getting good and tired of this circus business. you settle down, now, and act human, or--"
"oh, mrs. lorrigan! quick, i'm in a hurry. i mustn't stay, because they'll be here in a little while. but they're coming by the road and i came down the trail, and that gave me time. i can't take any more music lessons, mrs. lorrigan. father is that angry wi' your husband--and oh, mrs. lorrigan! if you have any hide that isna your own, ye should hide it away at once! because the shuriff--"
belle laid her palms on her hips and stared blankly up at mary hope, who sat nervously on old rab at the gate.
"heavens, child! my hide is my own--and at that it's pretty well hidden. what about the sheriff? what's he got to say about it?"
"it's the stealing, mrs. lorrigan. father has the shuriff wi' him, and they are going to search the ranch for the hides--"
"good lord! what hides?"
"the hides of my father's cattle. and if you have any, put them away quick, where the shuriff canna find them, mrs. lorrigan! it's ill i should go against my father, but you have been so good to me with the music lessons, and--"
"don't let the music lessons bother you, hope. and i guess we're entitled to all the cowhides we've got on the place, if that's what you mean. what do you think we are--thieves, hope douglas?"
"i dinna say it. i only came to warn ye, so that you may have time tae put your hides way oot o' their sicht when they come. i dinna want that your husband should go to prison, mrs. lorrigan. but father is that angry--"
"well, say! let me tell you something, hope. if there's any talk of stealing and prison for the lorrigans, your dad had better keep outa my tom's sight. and outa mine," she added grimly. "there'll be no searching for anything on this ranch when my tom's not here to see what goes on. you better go back and tell your dad i said it. if you don't and he brings the sheriff on here, don't blame me if somebody gets hurt."
"oh, but it's the law they're bringing on ye! ye canna go contrary to the law!" mary hope's voice quavered with fear.
"oh, can't i!" belle gave her head a tilt. "you beat it, while the going's good. i hear voices up on the road. if you don't want your dad to come and catch you here--"
that settled it. terror drove mary hope into the devil's tooth trail at rab's best pace, which was a stiff-legged lope. her last glance backward showed her belle lorrigan taking her six-shooter belt off the buckboard seat and buckling it around her waist so that the gun hung well forward. mary hope shuddered and struck rab with the quirt.
belle had led rosa from the stable and was cautiously fastening the neck yoke in place when the sheriff and aleck douglas rode around the corner of the stable. rosa shied and snorted and reared, and belle used the rein-ends for a whiplash until rosa decided that she would better submit to authority and keep her hide whole. she stood fairly quiet after that, with little nipping dance-steps in one spot, while belle fastened buckles and snaps and trace chains. subrosa, having had his tantrum, contented himself with sundry head-shakings and snorts. when the team was "hooked up" to belle's satisfaction, she tied them both firmly to the corral with short ropes, and finally turned her attention to her visitors.
"howdy, mr. douglas? fine day we're having," she greeted the dour scotchman amiably.
the sheriff coughed behind his hand, looked sidelong at his companion, rode a step or two nearer to belle, swung a leg over the cantle of his saddle. perhaps he expected aleck douglas to introduce him, but he did not wait for the formality.
"mrs. lorrigan, i'm sheriff of the county," he began ingratiatingly, when his two feet were on the ground.
"you are?" belle flashed a row of very white teeth. "you sure don't look it. i'd have taken you for a regular human being."
"mr. douglas, here, would like to take a look at some hides mr. lorrigan has got curing. he thinks possibly--"
"'tis useless to cover the truth wi' saft words, shuriff," douglas interrupted glumly. "'tis stolen cattle we are tracing, and 'tis here we wad look for the hides of them. i hae guid reason--"
"we'll have our talk with him after we've taken a look around," the sheriff amended, grinning a little. "it's just a matter of form--nothing you need to object to, one way or the other. i don't suppose we'll find anything--"
"no, i don't suppose you will. not unless you find it on the road back. i hate to seem unfriendly, but i'll just have to ask you to crawl on your horse and go see tom about it."
"now, we don't want any unpleasantness at all, mrs. lorrigan. but this man has swore out a warrant--"
"shucks! what he does never did interest me one way or the other, and does not now. i'm telling you there'll be no snooping around here while tom's away."
"oh, well, now!" the sheriff rather prided himself on his ability to "handle folks peaceable," as he expressed it. he injected a little more of the oil of persuasiveness into his voice. it was his standard recipe for avoiding trouble with a woman. "you don't think for a minute i'd take advantage of his absence, mrs. lorrigan? nothing like that at all. we just want to see if a certain cowhide is here. if it isn't, then we won't need to bother tom at all, maybe. get down, mr. douglas, and we'll just have a look around. mrs. lorrigan ain't going to make no objections to that."
belle smiled. "oh, yes, she is. she's going to do quite a lot of objecting. you better stay right where you are, scotty. you're a heap safer."
the sheriff began to lose patience. "now, look here, mrs. lorrigan! you're dealing with the law, you know. we can't have any nonsense."
"we won't have," belle assured him placidly. "that's what i've been trying to beat into your head. why, good lord! can't you take the hint and see i'm trying not to have any trouble with yuh? i don't want to have to run you off the ranch--but as you say, there's not going to be any nonsense. i said, go. i'm waiting to see if you've got sense enough to do it."
"sa-ay! just look here now! do you know it's a state's prison offense to resist an officer!" the sheriff's face was growing red.
belle laughed. "sure. but i'm not. you--you're irresistible! and i don't know you're an officer."
this went over the sheriff's head and was wasted, though aleck douglas pulled down his mouth at the corners as though he was afraid he might smile if he were not careful.
the sheriff took up his bridle reins, preparing to lead his horse over to a post and tie him. he glanced at belle and saw that she had a six-shooter in her hand and a glitter in her eyes. quite naturally he hesitated. then, at a perfectly plain signal from the gun, he turned his palms toward her at a level with his shoulders.
"i've got a search warrant--"
"you can keep it and show it to tom. and get off this ranch just as quick as that horse can take you. i'll have you both arrested for trespassing. i'm not taking your word for anything, you see. i don't know anything about your warrant--hey, riley!" this to the cook, who came, taking steps as long as his legs would let him, and swinging a damp dishcloth in one moist red hand.
"riley, here's a man claims he's the sheriff and that he's got a warrant to search the ranch. i don't believe a word of it, and i've ordered him off the place. i wouldn't for the world resist an officer of the law--put your hands up a little higher, mr. man!--but when tom ain't home no stranger is going to come snooping around here if i can stop him. ain't that right, riley?"
"that's right, belle," riley acquiesced, working his oversized adam's apple convulsively. (riley, by the way, would just as readily have approved of murder if belle had asked for his approval.)
"well, you're a witness that i'm from missouri. i've told this man to go tell his troubles to tom. if he's honest he'll do it. if he don't go in about ten seconds, i'm going to throw a bullet through his hat. then if he hangs around, i shall shoot him in his left leg just about six inches above the knee. i can do it, can't i, riley?"
"well, now, you shore can, belle!" riley nodded his head emphatically. "if you say six, i'd shore gamble a year's wages it won't be five, or seven. six inches above his knee goes, if you say six."
"all right. i'm just defending the ranch when tom's gone. you hear me, mr. man. now, you git!"
"open your mouth again and i'll be awfully tempted to shoot that crooked tooth out of it," belle observed. "and in ten seconds, remember, you're going to get--"
the sheriff still had two of the ten seconds to spare when he left, aleck douglas following him glumly.
"it's him, all right. it's the sheriff, belle," riley informed her, while they watched the two clatter up the road to where the real grade began. "what's eatin' on 'em? likely he did have a search warrant."
"he can use it, after i'm through. old scotty is trailing some rustled stock, they claim. they came here looking for hides. you keep an eye out, riley, and see if they keep going. i guess they will--they'll go after tom. i'm going to have a look at those cowhides in the old shed."
"better let me," riley offered. "it ain't any job for a woman nohow. you watch the trail and i'll look."
belle would not even consider the proposition. the lorrigan reputation never had troubled her much,--but it sent her now to the shed where hides were kept stored until the hide buyer made his next annual visit through the country. she did not believe that she would find any brand save the various combinations of the nl monogram, but she meant to make sure before any stranger was given access to the place.
the job was neither easy nor pleasant, but she did it thoroughly. riley, roosting meditatively on the top rail of the corral where he could watch the road down the bluff, craned his long neck inquiringly toward her when she returned.
"nothing but nl stuff, just as i thought," said belle, holding her hands as far away from her face as possible. "i knew tom wouldn't have any stolen hides on the place--but it was best to make sure."
"no ma'am, he wouldn't. i'm shore surprised they'd come and try to find any. looks bad to me, belle. looks to me like somebody is shore tryin' to start somethin'. there's plenty in the black rim would like to see tom railroaded to the pen--plenty. looks to me like they're aimin' to pin something on him. no, sir, i don't like it. uh course," he went on, letting himself loose-jointedly to the ground, "they couldn't get nothing on tom--not unless they framed something. but i wouldn't put it a-past 'em to do it. no, ma'am, i wouldn't."
"your bread's burning, riley. i can smell it. don't you never think they'll frame on tom. they may try it--but that's as far as they'll get. they don't want to start anything with the lorrigans!"
"well, i left the oven door open. she ain't burning to hurt. yuh see, scotty douglas, he's religious and he don't never pack a gun. them kind's bad to tangle up with; awful bad. there ain't nothing much a man can do with them religious birds. them not being armed, you can't shoot--it's murder. and that kinda ties a man's hands, as yuh might say. they always take advantage of it, invariable. no, ma'am, it looks bad."
"it'll look worse--for them that tries any funny business with this outfit," belle assured him. "go along and 'tend to your baking. you know i hate burnt bread. i'm going to drive over and see what they're up to."
she untied rosa and subrosa, and because she was in a hurry she permitted riley to hold them by the bits while she climbed in, got the lines firmly in one hand and her blacksnake in the other. not often did she deign to accept assistance, and riley was all aquiver with gratified vanity at this mark of her favor.
"turn 'em loose--and get to that bread!" she cried, and circled the pintos into the road. "you, sub! cut that out, now--settle down! rosa! stead-dy, i ain't any ben hur pulling off a chariot race, remember!"
as she sat jouncing on the seat of a buckboard with rattly spokes in all of the four wheels and a splintered dashboard where subrosa landed his heels one day when he had backed before he kicked, one felt that she would have made a magnificent charioteer. before she had gone half a mile her hair was down and whipping behind her like a golden pennant. her big range hat would have gone sailing had it not been tied under her chin with buckskin strings. usually she sang as she hurtled through space, but to-day the pintos missed her voice.
the two men looked back, saw belle coming and parted to let her pass. belle yelled to her team and went by with never a glance toward either, and the two stared after her without a word until she had jounced down into a shallow draw and up the other side, the pintos never slowing their lope.
"well, i'm darned!" ejaculated the sheriff. his name, by the way, was perry. "i've heard tell of belle lorrigan drivin' hell-whoopin' over the country with a team of bronks, but i kinda thought they was stretching the truth. i guess not, though, if that's a sample."
"the woman hersel' is no so bad. 'tis the men folk that are black wi' sin. drinkin', swearin', gamblin' thieves they be, and 'tis well they should be taught a lesson." the douglas head wagged self-righteously.
"maybe it would be a good idea to go back and search the ranch now, while she's gone." the sheriff pulled up, considering. "i didn't want any trouble with her; i never do quarrel with a woman if i can get around it any way. she's a holy terror. i guess i'll just ride back and take a look at them hides."
aleck douglas eyed him sardonically, thinking perhaps of the black-edged bullet hole that showed plainly in the sheriff's hat-crown.
"'tis a deal safer wi' the woman oot of the way," he agreed drily.
the sheriff nodded and turned back.
tom lorrigan may have seen bigger fusses made over smaller matters than the hide of a spotty yearlin', but his boys never had.
no country is so isolated that gossip cannot find it out. the story of the spotted yearling went speeding through the country. men made thin excuses to ride miles out of their way that they might air their opinions and hear some fresh bit of news, some conjecture that grew to a rumor and was finally repeated broadcast as truth. children cringed and wept while necks were scrubbed relentlessly, for a fever of "visiting" attacked the women of the range. miles they would travel to visit a neighbor. and there they talked and talked and talked, while the guest in neighborly fashion dried the dinner dishes for the hostess in hot, fly-infested kitchens.
aleck douglas, infuriated by the contemptuous attitude which tom had taken toward him and his spotty yearling, and by his failure to find any incriminating evidence on the devil's tooth ranch, swore to a good many suspicions which he called facts, and had tom arrested. the sheriff had taken two deputies along with him, because he fully expected that the lorrigans would "go on the warpath" as belle had done. he was vastly astonished and somewhat chagrined when tom gave a snort, handed over his gun, and turned to one of his boys.
black rim country talked and chortled and surmised, and wondered what made tom so darned meek about it. they did not accuse him of any lack of nerve; being a lorrigan, his nerve could scarcely be questioned. opinion was about evenly divided. a few declared that tom had something up his sleeve, and there would be a killing yet. others insisted that tom knew when he was backed into a corner. old scotty douglas had him dead to rights, they said, and tom knew better than to run on the rope. men and women assumed the gift of prophecy, and all prophesied alike. tom lorrigan would go "over the road"; for how long they could only guess according to their secret hopes. some predicted a fifteen-year term for tom. others thought that he might get off lightly--say with five or six years. they based their opinion on the fact that men have been sent to the penitentiary for fifteen years, there to repent of stealing a calf not yet past the age of prime veal. and it is not so long since men were hanged for stealing a horse; witness tom's brother, who would surely have been lynched had he not been shot. witness also divers other lorrigans whose careers had been shortened by their misdeeds.
"the show ain't over till the curtain's down for good," he said, borrowing a phrase from belle. "we got a long time yet to live in the black rim. we'll be right here when the smoke lifts. hang and rattle now, and keep your mouths shut. this here's the law-sharp's job. i'm payin' him darn good money for it, too. when he's through, then we'll play. but mark this down in yore little red book, boys: the less yuh say right now, the stronger we can play the game when we're ready."
"if they do railroad yuh, dad, leave it to us. they'll be a sorry looking bunch when we're through," said lance, and meant every word of it.
"they won't railroad me." tom snorted and laughed his contempt of the whole affair. "i ain't ever used the law to fight with before--but shucks! when a scrap gets outside of gun range, one club's about the same as another to me."
optimism is a good thing, but it does not altogether serve, as tom discovered at the trial.
evidence was produced which astonished him. for instance, an aj man had seen him riding over by squaw butte, on the night after douglas had accused him of stealing the spotted yearling. the aj man seemed embarrassed at his sudden prominence in the case, and kept turning his big range hat round and round on one knee as he sat in the chair sacred to those who bore witness to the guilt or innocence of their fellow men in black rim country. he did not often look up, and when he did he swallowed convulsively, as though something stuck in his throat. but his story sounded matter-of-fact and honest.
he had ridden past squaw butte the night after tom lorrigan was accused by douglas. yes, he knew it was that night, because next day he heard about the fuss over at devil's tooth. he had been on his way from jumpoff and had cut across country because he was late. there was a moon, and he had seen a man riding across an open space between the creek and the willows. the man had gone in among the willows. the aj man had not thought much about it, though he did wonder a little, too. it was late for a man to be riding around on the range.
when he reached the place, he saw a man ride out of the brush farther along, into clear moonlight. it was tom lorrigan; yes, he was sure of that. he knew the horse that tom was riding. it was a big, shiny black that always carried its head up; a high-stepping horse that a man could recognize anywhere. no, he didn't know of any other horse in the country just like it. he admitted that if he hadn't been sure of the horse he would not have been sure it was tom. he did not think tom saw him at all. he was riding along next the bank, in the shadow. he had gone on home, and the next day he heard that scotty douglas claimed the lorrigans had rustled a yearling from him.
later, tom's lawyer asked him why he had not spoken to tom. the aj man replied that he didn't know--he wasn't very close; not close enough for talking unless he hollered.
that was all very well, and black rim perked its ears, thinking that the case looked bad for tom. very bad indeed.
but tom's lawyer proved very adroitly that the aj man had not been in jumpoff at the time he claimed. he had been with his own outfit, and if he had ridden past squaw butte that night he must have gone out from the ranch and come back again. which led very naturally to the question, why?
on the other hand, why had tom lorrigan ridden to squaw butte that night? he himself explained that later on. he said that he had gone over to see if there was any hide in the willows as douglas had claimed. he had not found any.
thus two men admitted having been in the neighborhood of the stolen hide on that night. tom's lawyer was quick to seize the coincidence, and make the most of it. why, he asked mildly, might not the aj outfit have stolen the yearling? what was the aj man doing there? why not suspect him of having placed the hide in the crevice where it had later been found? that night the hide had been removed from the willows where douglas had first discovered it. douglas had gone back the next day after it, and it had been missing. it was not until several days later that he had found it in the crevice. why assume that tom lorrigan had removed it?
"if i'd set out to caché that hide," tom here interposed, "i'd have buried it. only a darn fool would leave evidence like that laying around in sight."
for this the court reprimanded him, but he had seen several of the jury nod their heads, unconsciously agreeing with him. and although his remark was never put on record, it stuck deep in the minds of the jury and had its influence later on. they remembered that the lorrigans were no fools, and they considered the attempt at concealing the hide a foolish one--not to say childish.
"me, i dunno what she's doin' on that place. cheyenne, he's in camp when i'm go. i'm stop by the haystack. i'm see cheyenne talk to scotty. that don't look good, you bet."
a full week the trial lasted, while the lawyers wrangled over evidence and technicalities, and the judge ruled out evidence and later ruled it in again. a full week tom slept in the county jail,--and for all their bad reputation, it was the first time a lorrigan had lain down behind a bolted door to sleep, had opened his eyes to see the dawn light painting the wall with the shadow of bars.
there were nights when his optimism failed him, when tom lay awake trying to adjust himself to the harrying thought that long, caged years might be his portion. nights when he doubted the skill of his "law-sharp" to free him from the deadweight of the lorrigan reputation and the malice of his neighbors. of course, he would fight--to the last dollar; but there were nights when he doubted the power of his dollars to save him.
it was during those nights that the lawless blood of the lorrigans ran swiftly through the veins of tom, who had set himself to win a million honestly. it was then that he remembered his quiet, law-abiding years regretfully, as time wasted; a thankless struggle toward the regard of his fellow men. of what avail to plod along the path of uprightness when no man would point to him and say, "there is an honest man."
"they've give me the name, and i ain't got the game," cried tom bitterly, in the quiet of his cell. "whether i go to the pen or whether i don't, they better stand from under. they'll sure know a lorrigan's livin' in the black rim before i'm done."
across the room, belle swung around on the piano stool and looked at him. "honey, if you're going to make out the order to montgomery, ward, i'd like to send on for some more music. i've been going over that new list--"
"i ain't," said tom, removing his cigarette from the corner of his mouth and blowing the tiny, blue-painted shavings off george washington's face. "you go ahead and make out the order yourself."
belle eyed the pencil-sharpening and sent a keen glance at tom's face. "well, honey, from the way you're squaring up to that tablet, i thought you was going to send on for a new buckboard and mower."
tom bent his head and blew again, gave george a sardonic grin and turned him face-down on the table, so that the ruled paper lay ready to his hand.
"right now i'm going to figure up what that dang spotty yearlin' of old scotty's cost me," he stated grimly. "and there's some other black rimmers i've got a bill against."
"mh-m--hm-m--that's what i'm figuring on now," said tom, and bent to his problem. "my old dad woulda gone out and shot up a few, but times are changed and we're all getting so damn civilized we've got to stack the cards or quit the game. belle, what do you reckon it's worth to a man to be hauled into court and called a cow thief?"
belle's lips pressed together. "i don't know, tom--but i know what it would have cost 'em if they had sent you over the road. i had a gun on me, and when that jury foreman stood up to give the verdict, it was looking him in the eye through a buttonhole in my coat. him and cheyenne and old scotty and two or three more would sure have got theirs, if he hadn't said, 'not guilty.'"
he settled himself to his task, writing at the top of the page the name of aleck douglas and after that "dr." a full page he covered with items set against the names of various neighbors. when he had finished he folded the paper neatly and put it away with other important memoranda, picked up his big gray stetson and went over to kiss belle full on her red lips, and to smooth her hair, with a reassuring pat on her plump shoulder as a final caress.
"don't you worry none about the black rimmers," he said, "and don't you worry about me. i've got to ride high, wide and handsome now to make up the time and money i lost on account of the spotty yearlin', and maybe i won't be home so much. but i ain't quarreling with my neighbors, nor getting into any kind of ruckus whatever."
with the stilted, slightly stiff-legged gait born of long hours in the saddle and of high-heeled riding boots, he walked unhurriedly to the corral where the boys were just driving in a herd of horses.
few of them showed saddle marks, all of them snorted and tossed untrimmed manes and tails as they clattered against the stout poles, circling the big corral in a cloud of dust and a thunder of hoof beats. pulling his hat down over his black brows to secure it against the wind, tom climbed the corral fence and straddled the top rail that he might scan the herd.
"pretty good-looking bunch, dad," said al, reining up beside tom. "we had to ride some to get 'em in--they're sure snuffy. what you going to do with 'em? break out a few?"
"some. did yuh take notice, al, that coaley come within an ace of sending me over the road? that there aj man swore to the horse when he wouldn't never have swore to me, but they all took it as a cinch it was me he saw, because nobody else ever rides coaley. and by the lord john, al, that's the last time any man's going to swear to me in the dark by the horse i'm ridin'. the devil's tooth outfit is going to have a lot more saddle horses broke gentle than what they've got now. and just between me and you, al, any more night-ridin' that's done in this outfit ain't going to be done on cayuses that can be told a mile off on a dark night!"
"you're durn tootin', dad." al grinned while he moistened the edge of his rolled cigarette. "i thought at the time that coaley was liable to be a damn expensive horse for you to be ridin'." his eyes traveled over the restless herd, singling out this horse and that for brief study. "there's some right speedy stuff in that bunch," he said. "they've got the look of stayers, some of 'em. take that there bay over there by the post: he's got a chest on him like a lion--and look at them legs! there'd be a good horse for you, dad."
"one, maybe." tom spat into the dust and, impelled by al's example, drew his own cigarette papers from his shirt pocket. "i'm thinkin' of breakin' all we've got time for this summer. darn this here makin' one horse your trademark!"
up at the house, riley appeared in the kitchen doorway and gave a long halloo while he wiped his big freckled hand on his flour-sack apron. "hoo-ee! come an' git it!" he waited a moment, until he saw riders dismounting and leading their horses into the little corral. then he turned back to pour the coffee into the big, thick, white cups standing in single file around the long oil-cloth-covered table in the end of the kitchen nearest the side door where the boys would presently come trooping in to slide loose-jointedly into their places on the long, shiny benches.
tom pinched out the blaze of his match and threw one long leg back over the corral fence. his glance went to the riders beyond the big corral.
"where's lance at!" he called to al, who was riding around to the little corral.
"you can search me. he quit us when we got the horses into the corral, and rode off up the slide trail. if i was to make a guess, i would say that he went to meet mary hope. they been doing that right frequent ever since she quit coming here. 'tain't no skin off my nose--but lance, he's buildin' himself a mess uh trouble with old scotty, sure as you're a foot high."
"darn fool kid--let the old folks git to scrappin' amongst themselves, and the young ones start the lovemakin'! i never knowed it to fail; but you can skin me for a coyote if i know what makes 'em do it." grumbling to himself, tom climbed down and followed al. "you can tell riley i'll be late to dinner," he said, when he had come up to where al was pulling the saddle off his horse. "i ain't much on buttin' into other folks' love affairs, but i reckon it maybe might be a good idea to throw a scare into them two. i'm plumb sick of scotch--wouldn't take it in a highball right now if you was to shove one under my nose!"
al laughed, looking over his shoulder at tom while he loosened the latigo. "if you can throw a scare into lance, you sure are a dinger," he bantered. "that youth is some heady."
"looks to me like it runs in the family," tom retorted. "you're some heady yourself, if you ever took notice. and i don't give a damn how heady any of you kids are; you can't run any rannies on your dad, and you want to put that down in your little red book so you won't forgit it!"
he led coaley from the stable, mounted and rode away up the slide trail, more than half ashamed of his errand. to interfere in a love affair went against the grain, but to let a lorrigan make love to a douglas on the heels of the trial was a pill so bitter that he refused to swallow it.
he urged coaley up the trail, his eyes somber with resentment whenever he saw the fresh hoofprints of lance's horse in the sandy places. of the three boys, lance was his favorite, and it hurt him to think that lance had so little of the lorrigan pride that he would ride a foot out of his way to speak to any one of the douglas blood.
"it's a dang darn shame i got to straddle strange horses just because there ain't another in the country like you, coaley," he muttered, leaning forward to smooth the silky hide under the crinkly mane. "it's going to set hard, now i'm tellin' yuh, to throw my saddle on some plain, ordinary cayuse. but it's a bet i can't afford to overlook; they made that plain enough."
coaley pricked up his ears and looked, his big, bright eyes taking in the shadow of a horse beside a clump of wild currant bushes that grew in the very base of the devil's tooth. tom grunted and rode over that way, coaley walking slowly, his knees bending springily like a dancer feeling out his muscles.
lance stood with his back toward them. his hat was pushed far back on his head, and he was looking at mary hope, who leaned against the rock and stared down into the valley below. her hair, tom observed, was not "slicked back" to-day. it had been curled a little, probably on rags twisted in after she had gone to bed and taken out before she arose in the morning, lest her mother discover her frivolity and lecture her long,--and, worse still, make her wet a comb and take all of the curl out. a loose strand blew across her tanned cheek, so that she reached up absently and tucked it behind her ear, where it would not stay for longer than a minute.
"i am sure i didna know you would be here," she said, without taking her eyes off the valley. "it is a view i like better than most, and i have a right to ride where i please. and i have no wish to ride out of my way to be friends with any one that tried to make my father out a liar and an unjust man. he may be hard, but he is honest. and that is more than some--"
"more than some can say--us lorrigans, for instance!"
"i didna say that, but if the coat fits, you can put it on."
mary hope bit her lip and lashed a weed with her quirt. "all of this is none of my doing," she added, with a dullness in her voice that may have meant either regret or resentment. "you hate my father, and you are mad because i canna side with you and hate him too. i am sorry the trouble came up, but i canna see how you expect me to go on coming to see your mither when you know my father would never permit it."
"you say that like you were speaking a piece. how long did you lay awake last night, making it up? you can't make me swallow that, anyway. your father never permitted you to come in the first place, and you know it. you made believe that old skate ran away with you down the trail, and that you couldn't stop him. you've been coming over to our place ever since, and you never asked old scotty whether he would permit it or not. i'm not saying anything about myself, but it hurts belle to have you throw her down right now. under the circumstances it makes her feel as if you thought we were thieves and stole your dad's yearling."
"i'm not saying anything like that."
"maybe you're not, but you sure are acting it. if you don't think that, why don't you go on taking music lessons from belle? what made you stop, all of a sudden?"
"that," said mary hope stiffly, "is my own affair, lance lorrigan."
"it's mine, let me tell you. it's mine, because it hits belle; and what hits her hits me. if you think she isn't good enough for you to visit, why in thunder have you been coming all this while? she isn't any worse than she was two months ago, is she?"
"i'm not saying that she is."
"well, you're acting it, and that's a darn sight worse."
"you ought to know that with all this trouble between your father and my father--"
"well, can you tell me when they ever did have any truck together? your father doesn't hate our outfit a darn bit worse than he ever did. he found a chance to knife us, that's all. it isn't that he never wanted to before."
"i'll thank you, lance lorrigan, not to accuse my father of knifing anybody. he's my father and--"
"and that isn't anything to brag about, if you ask me. i'd rather have my father doing time for stealing, than have him a darned, hide-bound old hypocrite that will lie a man into the pen, and then go around and pull a long face and call himself a christian!"
"my father doesna lie! and he is not a hypocrite either. if your father was half as--" she stopped abruptly, her face going red when she saw tom sitting on his horse beyond the shoulder of rock, regarding her with that inscrutable smile which never had failed to make her squirm mentally and wonder what he thought of her. she stood up, trembling a little.
lance turned slowly and met tom's eyes without flinching. "hello," he said, on guard against the two of them, wondering what had brought his dad to this particular point at this particular time.
"hello. how d'yuh do, miss douglas? lance, dinner's getting cold waiting for you." tom lifted his hat to mary hope, turned, and rode back whence he had come, never glancing over his shoulder but nevertheless keenly alert for the sound of voices.
he was not quite through the slide when he heard the hoof beats of lance's horse come clicking down over the rocks. tom smiled to himself as he rode on, never looking back.
a little scotch
in the black rim country march is a month of raw winds and cold rains, with sleet and snow and storm clouds tumbling high in the west and spreading to the east, where they hang lowering at the earth and then return to empty their burden of moisture upon the shrinking live things below.
in the thinly settled places march is also the time when children go shivering to school, harried by weather that has lost a little of its deadliness. in january and february their lives would not be safe from sudden blizzards, but by the middle of march they may venture forth upon the quest of learning.
black rim country was at best but scantily supplied with schools, and on the devil's tooth range seven young americans--three of them adopted from sweden--were in danger of growing up in deplorable ignorance of what learning lies hidden in books. a twelve-mile stretch of country had neither schoolhouse, teacher nor school officers empowered to establish a school. until the swedish family moved into a shack on the aj ranch there had not been children enough to make a teacher worth while. but the swedish family thirsted for knowledge of the english language, and their lamenting awoke the father of four purely range-bred products to a sense of duty toward his offspring.
wherefore mary hope douglas, home from two winters in pocatello, where she had lived with a cousin twice removed and had gone to school and had learned much, was one day invited to teach a school in the devil's tooth neighborhood.
true, there was no schoolhouse, but there was a deserted old shack on the road to jumpoff. a few benches and a stove and table would transform it into a seat of learning, and there were an old shed and corral where the pupils might keep their saddle horses during school hours. she would be paid five dollars a month per head, jim boyle of the aj further explained. seven "heads" at five dollars each would amount to thirty-five dollars a month, and mary hope felt her heart jump at the prospect of earning so much money of her own. moreover, to teach school had long been her secret ambition, the solid foundation of many an air castle. she forthwith consented to become the very first school-teacher in the devil's tooth neighborhood, which hoped some day to become a real school district.
she would have to ride five miles every morning and evening, and her morning ride would carry her five miles nearer the lorrigan ranch, two of them along their direct trail to jumpoff. mary hope would never admit to herself that this small detail interested her, but she thought of it the moment jim boyle suggested the old whipple shack as a schoolhouse.
tom lorrigan, riding home from jumpoff after two days spent in lava, pulled his horse down to a walk and then stopped him in the trail while he stared hard at the whipple shack. five horses walked uneasily around inside the corral, manes and tails whipping in the gale that blew cold from out the north. from the bent stovepipe of the shack a wisp of smoke was caught and bandied here and there above the pole-and-dirt roof. it seemed incredible to tom that squatters could have come in and taken possession of the place in his short absence, but there was no other explanation that seemed at all reasonable.
squatters were not welcome on the devil's tooth range. tom rode up to the shack, dismounted and let coaley's reins drop to the ground. he hesitated a minute before the door, in doubt as to the necessity for knocking. then his knuckles struck the loose panel twice, and he heard the sound of footsteps. tom pulled his hat down tighter on his forehead and waited.
when mary hope douglas pulled open the door, astonishment held them both dumb. he had not seen the girl for more than a year,--he was not certain at first that it was she. but there was no mistaking those eyes of hers, scotch blue and uncompromisingly direct in their gaze. tom pulled loose and lifted the hat that he had just tightened, and as she backed from the doorway he entered the shack without quite knowing why he should do so. comprehensively he surveyed the mean little room, bare of everything save three benches with crude shelves before them, a kitchen table and a yellow-painted chair with two-thirds of the paint worn off under the incessant scrubbing of mother douglas. the three swedes, their rusty overcoats buttoned to their necks, goggled at him round-eyed over the tops of their new spelling books, then ducked and grinned at one another. the four boyle children, also bundled in wraps, exchanged sidelong glances and pulled themselves up alert and expectant in their seats.
"school, eh?" tom observed, turning as mary hope pushed the door shut against the wind that rattled the small shack and came toward him shivering and pulling her sweater collar closer about her neck. "when did this happen?"
"when i started teaching here, mr. lorrigan." then, mindful of her manners, she tempered the pertness with a smile. "and that was yesterday. will you sit down?"
"no, thanks--i just stopped to see who was livin' here, and--" he broke off to look up at the dirt roof. a clod the size of his fist had been loosened by the shaking of the wind, and plumped down in the middle of the teacher's desk. with the edge of his palm he swept clod and surrounding small particles of dirt into his hat crown, and carried them to the door.
"there's an empty calf shed over at the ranch that would make a better schoolhouse than this," he observed. "it's got a shingle roof."
mary hope was picking small lumps of dirt out of her hair, which she wore in a pompadour that disclosed a very nice forehead. "i just love a roof with shingles on it," she smiled.
"h'm." tom looked up at the sagging poles with the caked mud showing in the cracks between where the poles had shrunken and warped under the weight. a fresh gust of wind rattled dust into his eyes, and the oldest swede chortled an abrupt "ka-hugh!" that set the other six tittering.
"silence! shame on you!" mary hope reproved them sternly, rapping on the kitchen table with a foot rule of some soft wood that blazoned along its length the name of a pocatello hardware store. "get to work this instant or i shall be compelled to keep you all in at recess."
"you better haze 'em all home at recess, and get where it's warm before you catch your death of cold," tom advised, giving first aid to his eye with a corner of his white-dotted blue handkerchief. "this ain't fit for cattle, such a day as this."
"a north wind like this would blow through anything," mary hope loyally defended the shack. "it was quite comfortable yesterday."
"i wouldn't send a dog here to school," said tom. "can't they dig up any better place than this for you to teach in?"
"the parents of these children are paying out of their own pockets to have them taught, as it is."
"they'll be paying out of their own pockets to have them planted, if they ain't careful," tom predicted dryly. "how're you fixed for firewood? got enough to keep warm on a hot day?"
mary hope smiled faintly. "mr. boyle hauled us a load of sage brush, and the boys chop wood mornings and noons--it's a punishment when they don't behave, or if they miss their lessons. but--the stove doesn't seem to draw very well, in this wind. it smokes more than it throws out heat." she added hastily, "it drew all right yesterday. it's this wind."
"what you going to do if this wind keeps up? it's liable to blow for a week or two, this time of year."
"why--we'll manage to get along all right. they'd probably be out playing in it anyway, if they weren't in school."
"oh. and what about you?" tom looked at her, blinking rapidly with his left eye that was growing bloodshot and watery.
"i? why, i've lived here all my life, and i ought to be used to a little bad weather."
"hunh." tom shivered in the draught. "so have i lived here all my life; but i'll be darned if i would want to sit in this shack all day, the way the wind whistles through it."
"you might do it, though--if it was your only way of earning money," mary hope suggested shrewdly.
"well, i might," tom admitted, "but i sure would stop up a few cracks."
"we've hardly got settled yet," said mary hope. "i intend to stuff the cracks with rags just as soon as possible. is your eye still paining? that dirt is miserable stuff to stick in a person's eye. shall i try and get it out? yesterday i got some in mine, and i had an awful time."
she dismissed the children primly, with a self-conscious dignity and some chagrin at their boorish clatter, their absolute ignorance of discipline. "i shall ring the bell in ten minutes," she told them while they scuffled to the door. "i shall give you two minutes after the bell rings to get into your seats and be prepared for duty. every minute after that must be made up after school."
"ay skoll go home now, sen you skoll not keep me by school from tan minootes," the oldest of the swedes stopped long enough to bellow at her from the doorway. "ole og helge skoll go med. ve got long way from school, og ve don't be by dark ven ve come by home!"
he seized the square tobacco boxes, originally made to hold a pound of "plug cut," and afterwards dedicated to whatever use a ranch man might choose to put them. where schools flourished, the tobacco boxes were used for lunch. the swedes carried three tied in flour sacks and fastened to the saddles. the wind carried them at a run to the corral. the two smaller boys, ole and helge, rode, one behind the other, on one horse, a flea-bitten gray with an enlarged knee and a habit of traveling with its neck craned to the left. christian, the leader of the revolt, considered himself well-mounted on a pot-bellied bay that could still be used to round up cattle, if the drive was not more than a couple of miles. looking after them from the window that faced the corral, tom could not wonder that they were anxious to start early.
"you better let the rest go, too," he advised the perturbed teacher, looking out at the four boyle children huddled in the shelter of the shack, the skirts of the girl whipping in the wind like a pillowslip on a clothesline in a gale. "there ain't any sense trying to teach school in a place like this, in such weather. don't you know them kids have got all of twelve miles to ride, facing this wind most of the way? and you've got to ride five miles; and when the sun drops it's going to be raw enough to put icicles on your ribs under the skin. tell 'em to go home. pore little devils, i wouldn't ask a cow-critter to face this wind after sundown."
"you do not understand that i must have discipline in this school, mr. lorrigan. to-morrow i shall have to punish those swedes for leaving school without permission. i shall make an example of christian, for his impudence. i do not think he will want to disobey me again, very soon!" mary hope took her handkerchief from her pocket, refusing to consider for one moment the significance of its flapping in the wind while the windows and doors were closed.
"you're just plain stubborn," tom said bluntly. "you've no business hanging out in a place like this!"
"i've the business of teaching school, mr. lorrigan. i suppose that is as important to me as your business is to you. and i can't permit my pupils to rebel against my authority. you would not let your men dictate to you, would you?"
"they would have a right to call for their time if i asked them to do some damfool thing like sitting in this shack with the wind blowing through it at forty miles an hour."
"i am sorry, mr. lorrigan, that i must remind you that gentlemen do not indulge in profanity before a lady."
"oh, hell! what have i said that was outa the way? i wasn't cussing; i was telling you what your father and mother ought to tell you, and what they would if they didn't think more of a few dollars than they do of their kid's health. but i don't reckon it's my put-in; only it's any man's business to see that women and kids don't freeze to death. and by the humpin' hyenas--"
with her lips in a straight line, her eyes very hard and bright and with a consciousness of heaping coals of fire on the head of an enemy of her house, mary hope had twisted a corner of her handkerchief into a point, moistened it by the simple and primitive method of placing the point between her lips, and was preparing to remove the dirt from tom's watering eye, the ball of which was a deep pink from irritation. but tom swung abruptly away from her, went stilting on his high heels to the door, pulled it open with a yank and rounded the corner where the four boyle children stood leaning against the house, their chilled fingers clasped together so that two hands made one fist, their teeth chattering while they discussed the swedes and tried to mimic christian's very swedish accent.
"og is and," said minnie boyle. "and skoll is shall. swede's easy. and med means with--"
"aw, it's just the way they try to say it in english," fred boyle contradicted. "it ain't swede--but gee, when the scotch and the swede goes in the air to-morrow, i bet there'll be fun. if mary hope tries to lick chris--"
"you kids straddle your cayuses and hit for home," tom interrupted them. "there ain't going to be any more school to-day. them your horses in the shed? well, you hump along and saddle up and beat it. go!"
he did not speak threateningly, at least he did not speak angrily. but the four boyle children gave him one affrighted glance and started on a run for the corral, looking back over their shoulders now and then as if they expected a spatter of bullets to follow them.
at the corral gate minnie boyle stopped and turned as though she meant to retrace her steps to the house, but tom waved her back. so minnie went home weeping over the loss of a real dinner-bucket and a slate sponge which she was afraid the swedes might steal from her if they came earlier to school than she.
when tom turned to reënter the shack for a final word with mary hope, and to let her give first aid to his eye if she would, he found that small person standing just behind him with set lips and clenched fists and her hair blowing loose from its hairpins.
"mr. tom lorrigan, you can just call those children back!" she cried, her lips bluing in the cold gale that beat upon her. "do you think that with all your lawlessness you can come and break up my school? you have bullied my father--"
he bettered his estimate, returning in just four minutes to find the door locked against him. "don't you dare come in here!" mary hope called out, her voice shrill with excitement. "i--i'll brain you!"
"oh, you will, will yuh?" whereupon tom heaved himself against the door and lurched in with the lock dangling.
mary hope had a stick of wood in her two hands, but she had not that other essential to quick combat, the courage to swing the club on the instant of her enemy's appearance. she hesitated, backed and threatened him futilely.
"all right--fine! scotch stubbornness--and not a damn thing to back it up! where's your coat? here. git into it." without any prelude, any apology, he wrested the stick of wood from her, pulled her coat off a nail near by, and held it outspread, the armholes convenient to her hands. with her chin shivering, mary hope obeyed the brute strength of the man. she dug her teeth into her lip and thrust her arms spitefully into the coat sleeves.
"here's yo're hat. better tie it on, if yuh got anything to tie it with. here."
he twitched his big silk neckerchief from his neck, pulled her toward him with a gentle sort of brutality, and tied the neckerchief over her hat and under her chin. he did it exactly as though he was handling a calf that he did not wish to frighten or hurt.
"got any mittens? gloves? put 'em on."
standing back in the corner behind the door, facing tom's bigness and his inexorable strength, mary hope put on her indian tanned, beaded buckskin gloves that were in the pockets of her coat. tom waited until she had tucked the coatsleeves inside the gauntlets. he took her by the arm and pulled her to the door, pushed her through it and held her with one hand, gripping her arm while he fastened the door by the simple method of pulling it shut so hard that it jammed in the casing. he led her to where her horse stood backed to the wind and tail whipping between his legs, and his eyes blinking half shut against the swirls of dust dug out of the dry sod of the grassland. without any spoken command, tom took the reins and flipped them up over rab's neck, standing forward and close to the horse's shoulder. mary hope knew that she must mount or be lifted bodily into the saddle. she mounted, tears of wrath spilling from her eyes and making her cheeks cold where they trickled down.
the boyle children, kicking and quirting their two horses--riding double, in the black rim country, was considered quite comfortable enough for children--were already on their way home. mary hope looked at their hurried retreat and turned furiously, meaning to overtake them and order them back. tom lorrigan, she reminded herself, might force her to leave the schoolhouse, but he would scarcely dare to carry his abuse farther.
she had gone perhaps ten rods when came a pounding of hoofs, and coaley's head and proudly arched neck heaved alongside poor, draggle-maned old rab.
"you're headed wrong. have i got to haze yuh all the way home? might as well. i want to tell yore dad a few things."
he twitched the reins, and coaley obediently shouldered rab out of the trail and turned him neatly toward the douglas ranch. even rab was scotch, it would seem. he laid his ears flat, swung his head unexpectedly, and bared his teeth at coaley. but coaley was of the lorrigans. he did not bare his teeth and threaten; he reached out like a rattler and nipped rab's neck so neatly that a spot the size of a quarter showed pink where the hair had been. rab squealed, whirled and kicked, but coaley was not there at that particular moment. he came back with the battle light in his eyes, and rab clattered away in a stiff-legged run. after him went coaley, loping easily, with high, rabbit jumps that told how he would love to show the speed that was in him, if only tom would loosen the reins a half inch.
for a mile tom kept close to rab's heels. then, swinging up alongside, he turned to mary hope, that baffling half smile on his lips and the look in his eyes that had never failed to fill her with trepidation.
mary hope was framing a sentence of defiance when coaley wheeled and went back the way they had come, so swiftly that even with shouting she could not have made herself heard in that whooping wind. she pulled rab to a willing stand and stared after tom, hating him with her whole heart. hating him for his domination of her from the moment he entered the schoolhouse where he had no business at all to be; hating him because even his bullying had been oddly gentle; hating him most of all because he was so like lance--and because he was not lance, who was away out in california, going to college, and had never written her one line in all the time he had been gone.
had it been lance who rode up to the schoolhouse door, she would have known how to meet and master the situation. she would not have been afraid of lance, she told herself savagely. she wouldn't have been afraid of tom--but the whole black rim was afraid of tom. well, just wait until she happened some day to meet lance! at least she would make him pay! for two years of silence and brooding over his hardihood for taking her to task for her unfriendliness, and for this new and unbearable outrage, she would make lance lorrigan pay, if the fates ever let them meet again.
the lorrigan way
the lorrigan family was dining comfortably in the light of a huge lamp with a rose-tinted shade decorated with an extremely sinuous wreath of morning glories trailing around the lower rim. a clatter of pots and pans told that riley was washing his "cookin' dishes" in the lean-to kitchen that had been added to the house as an afterthought, the fall before. belle had finished her dessert of hot mince pie, and leaned back now with a freshly lighted cigarette poised in her fingers.
"what have you got up your sleeve, tom?" she asked abruptly, handing duke her silver matchbox in response to a gestured request for it.
"my arm," tom responded promptly, pushing back his wristband to give her the proof.
"aw, cut out the comedy, tom. you've been doing something that you're holding out on us. i know that look in your eye; i ought, having you and lance to watch. you're near enough to double in a lead and not even the manager know which is who. you've been doing something, and lance knows what it is. now, i'll get it outa you two if i have to shoot it out."
lance, just returned from berkeley during easter holidays, lifted one eyebrow at tom, lowered one lid very slowly, and gave his mother a level, sidelong glance.
"your husband, my dear madame, has been engaged in a melodramatic role created by himself. he is painfully undecided whether the hisses of the orchestra attest his success as a villian; whether the whistling up in the gallery demands an encore, or heralds an offering of cabbages and ripe poultry fruit. i myself did not witness the production, but i did chance to meet the star just as he was leaving the stage. to me he confided the fact that he does not know whether it was a one-act farce he put on, or a five-act tragedy played accidentally hind-side before, with the villian-still-pursuing-her act set first instead of fourth. i am but slightly versed in the drama as played in the black rim the past two years. perhaps if the star would repeat his lines--"
"for-the-lord-sake, lance! as a dramatic critic you're the punkest proposition i ever slammed my door against. talk the way you were brought up to talk and tell me the truth. what did tom do, and how did he do it?"
lance drew his black eyebrows together, studying carefully the ethics of the case. "belle, you must remember that dad is my father. dad must remember that you are my mother--technically speaking. by heck, if it wasn't for remembering how you used to chase me up on the barn every day or so with your quirt, i'd swear that you grew up with me and are at this present moment at least two years younger than i am. however, they say you are my mother. and--do you want to know, honestly, what dad has been doing?"
"i'm going to know," belle informed him trenchantly.
"then let me tell you. i'll break it gently. tom, your husband, the self-confessed father of your offspring, to-day rode to an alleged schoolhouse, threatened, ordered, and by other felonious devices hazed three swedes and the four boyle kids out of the place and toward their several homes and then when the schoolmarm very discreetly locked the door and mildly informed him that she would brain him with a twig off a sage-bush if he burst the lock, he straightway forgot that he was old enough to have a son quite old enough to frighten, abduct and otherwise lighten the monotonous life of said schoolmarm, and became a bold, bad man. he bursted that door off its hinges--"
"you're a liar. i busted the lock," tom grunted, without removing the cigarette from his lips.
"he busted the lock of that door, madame; rushed in, wrested the sprig of sage--"
"it was a club the size of my arm."
"wrested the club from that schoolmarm, brutally and ferociously forced her into her coat and hat, compelled her to mount her horse, and then deliberately drove her away from that--"
"shut up, lance. you remind me of one of those monstrosities they serve in the lava house, that they call a combination salad. it's about two-thirds wilted lettuce and the rest beets and carrots. i don't ever eat them, but if i did they'd taste just like you sound."
"oh, all right, then. with only two weeks' vacation i won't have time for a real spree of black rim dialect and sober up in time for the university. let me mix it, belle. i'll eat my own verbal combination salad, if anybody has to. i won't ask you."
"you'll eat 'em, all right," tom stated briefly, lifting an eyebrow at him. "all i done, belle, was to ride up to the whipple shack to see who was camped there. it was that douglas girl and the boyle kids and them swedes that live over beyond boyle's. they was all setting there having school,--with their overcoats on, half froze, and the wind howling through like it was a corral fence. so when the douglas girl got her scotch up and said she wouldn't turn 'em loose to go home, i turned 'em loose myself and told 'em to beat it. and then i hazed her home. seems like they think that shack is good enough for women and kids; but i wouldn't keep pigs in it, myself, without doing a lot of fixing on it first."
"what dad seems to overlook is the attitude boyle and old scotty will take, when they hear how tom lorrigan broke up school for 'em. there'll be something drop, if you ask me--i hope it drops before i have to leave."
belle looked at him meditatively. "and where were you, lance? with mary hope?"
for answer, lance smiled, with his mouth twisted a little to one side, which made him resemble tom more than ever. "a fellow sure does hate to have his own father cut in--"
"so that's what ails you! well, you may just as well know first as last that mary hope hasn't spoken to one of us since the time they had tom up in court for stealing that yearling. you know how they acted; and if you'd come home last summer instead of fooling around in california, you'd know they haven't changed a darn bit. it's a shame. i used to like mary hope. she always seemed kinda lonesome and half scared--"
"she's got over it, then," tom interrupted, chuckling. "she's got spunk enough now for two of her size. had that club lifted, ready to brain me when i went in, just because i'd spoiled her rules for her. if she had as much sense as she's got nerve--"
"why don't they build her a schoolhouse, if they want her to teach?" belle pushed back her chair.
"ever know the aj to spend a cent they didn't have to?" duke asked. "or old scotty? the swede ain't able. how're they paying her? this ain't any school district."
"so much a head," tom answered. "not much, i reckon. the girl's got nerve. i'll say that much for her. she was dodgin' clods of dirt from the roof, and shivering and teaching to beat hell when i got there."
"they're going to be awful sore at you, tom, for this," belle predicted. "they're going to say you did it because you hate the douglases, and it was mary hope teaching. jim boyle will side with old scotty, and there'll be the devil and all to pay. did you tell those kids why you sent 'em home?"
"i told the girl. no, i never told the kids. the swedes had sense enough to beat it when she let 'em out for recess. she got fighty over that, and wouldn't let the school out and wait for good weather, so i went out and told the boyle kids to hit for home. humpin' cats, somebody had to do something!
"so then the scotch come out strong in the girl, and i made her go home too. if i see 'em in that shack to-morrow, and the weather like it is and like it's going to be, i'll send 'em home again. what in thunder do i care what old scotty and jim boyle says about it? if they want a woman to learn their kids to read, they'd oughta give her a better place than the whipple shack to keep school in."
"they won't," said belle. "a roof and four walls is all you can expect of them. it's a shame. i expect mary hope is tickled to death to be earning the money, too. she was taking music all winter in pocatello, i heard, and she and her mother saved up the money in nickels--lord knows how, the way old scotty watches them!--to pay for the lessons. it's a shame."
"all right, i appreciate your appreciation, and i wish to heaven you wouldn't ramble all over the range when you start to say a thing. that's one thing you learned in school that i'd like to take outa you with a quirt."
"i've wondered quite a lot, in the last two years, whether it's the black rim or the lorrigan outfit that's all wrong. i know all about grandad and all the various and sundry uncles and forbears that earned us the name of being bad; it makes darn interesting stuff to tell now and then to some of the fellows who were raised in a prune orchard and will sit and listen with watering mouths and eyes goggling. i've been a hero, months on end, just for the things that my grandad did in the seventies. of course," he pulled his lips into their whimsical smile, "i've touched up the family biography here and there and made heroes of us all. but the fact remains there are degrees and differences in badness. i've a notion that the black rim, taken by and large, is a damn sight worse than the devil's tooth outfit. i'd like to try the experiment of making the aj and old scotty ashamed of themselves. i'd like to try a schoolhouse on 'em, and see if they're human enough to appreciate it."
duke, turning his head slowly, glanced at al, and from him to tom. without moving a muscle of their faces the two returned his look. al slid his cigarette stub thoughtfully into his coffee cup and let his breath out carefully in a long sigh that was scarcely audible. tom took a corner of his lower lip between his teeth, matching lance, who had the same trick.
"honey, that's fine of you! there aren't many that realize what a lot of satisfaction there is in doing something big and generous and making the other fellow ashamed of himself. and it would be a god's mercy to mary hope, poor child. leave it to the aj and whatever other outfit there is to send pupils, and mary hope could teach in the whipple shack till it rattled down on top of them. i know what the place is. i put up there once in a hailstorm. it isn't fit for cattle, as tom says, unless they've fixed it a lot. i'll donate the furniture; i'll make out the order right this evening for seats and blackboard and a globe and everything, and make it a rush order!" belle pushed back her chair and came around to lance, slipped her arms around his neck and tousled his wavy mop of hair with her chin. "if the rest won't come through you and i'll do it, honey--"
"who said we wouldn't?" tom got up, stretching his arms high above his head,--which was very bad manners, but showed how supple he still was, and how well-muscled. "no one ever called me a piker--and let me hear about it. sure, we'll build a schoolhouse for 'em, seeing they're too cussed stingy to build one themselves. there's the lumber i had hauled out for a new chicken house; to-morrow i'll have it hauled up to some good building spot, and we'll have it done before the aj wakes up to the fact that anything's going on."
"i'll chip in enough to make her big enough for dances," volunteered duke. "darn this riding fifteen or twenty miles to a dance!"
"i'll paint 'er, if you let me pick out the color," said al. "where are you going to set 'er?"
"what's the matter with doing the thing in style, and giving a house-warming dance, and turning it over to the neighborhood with a speech?" bantered lance, as they adjourned to the big living room, taking the idea with them and letting it grow swiftly in enthusiasm. "that would celebrate my visit, and i'd get a chance to size up the rim folks and see how they react to kindness. lordy, folks, let's do it!"
"we might," belle considered the suggestion, while she thumbed the latest mail-order catalogue, the size of a family bible and much more assiduously studied. "they'd come, all right!" she added, with a scornful laugh. "even old scotty would come, if he thought it wouldn't cost him anything."
"well, by heck, we won't let it cost him anything!" lance stood leaning against the wall by the stove, his arms folded, the fingers of his left hand tapping his right forearm. he did not know that this was a lorrigan habit, born of an old necessity of having the right hand convenient to a revolver butt, and matched by the habit of carrying a six-shooter hooked inside the trousers band on the left side.
tom, studying lance, thought how much he resembled his grandfather on the night buck sanderson was killed in a saloon in salmon city. old tom had leaned against the wall at the end of the bar, with his arms folded and his fingers tapping his right forearm, just as lance was doing now. he had lifted one eyebrow and pulled a corner of his lip between his teeth when buck came blustering in. just as lance smiled at duke's chaffing, tom's father had smiled when buck came swaggering up to him with bold eyes full of fight and his right thumb hooked in his chap belt. old tom had not moved; he had remained leaning negligently against the wall with his arms folded. but the strike of a snake was not so quick as the drop of his hand to his gun.
tom was not much given to reminiscence; but to-night, seeing lance with two years of man-growth and the poise of town life upon him, he slipped into a swift review of changing conditions and a vague speculation upon the value of environment in the shaping of character. lance was all lorrigan. he had turned lorrigan in the two years of his absence, which had somehow painted out his resemblance to belle. his hair had darkened to a brown that was almost black. his eyes had darkened, his mouth had the lorrigan twist. he had grown taller, leaner, surer in his movements,--due to his enthusiasm for athletics and the gym, though tom had no means of knowing what had given him that catlike quickness, the grace of perfect muscular coordination. tom thought it was the lorrigan blood building lance true to his forbears as he passed naturally from youth to maturity. he wondered if lance, given the environment which had shaped his grandfather, would have been a "killer," hated by many, feared by all.
even now, if it came to the point of fighting, would not lance fight true to the blood, true to that lorrigan trick of the folded arms and the tapping fingers? would not lance--? tom pulled his thoughts away from following that last conjecture to its logical end. there were matters in which it might be best not to include lance, just as he had been careful not to include belle. for lance might still be a good deal like belle, in spite of his lorrigan looks and mannerisms. and there were certain lorrigan traits which would not bear any mixture of belle in the fiber.
"well, now, that's all made out. i'll send to salt lake and get the stuff quicker. wake up, tom, and tell us how long it will take to put up the schoolhouse? lance is going to give the dance--and there won't be so much as a soggy chocolate cake accepted from the rimmers. what will you do, lance? put up a notice in jumpoff?"
"surely! a mysteriously worded affair, telling little and saying much. music and refresh--no, by heck, that sounds too wet and not solid enough. music and supper furnished free. everybody welcome. can't riley drive the chuck-wagon over and have the supper served by a camp-fire? golly, but i've been hungry for that old chuck-wagon! that would keep all the mess of coffee and sandwiches out of the nice, new schoolhouse."
"who's going to hold their hat in front of the nice, new schoolhouse till it's done and ready? and how're you going to let 'em know where to come to, without giving away the secret?" al, the practical, stretched his long legs to the stove and thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets while he propounded these two conundrums. "go on, lance. this is yore party."
lance unfolded his arms and disposed his big body on a bearskin covered lounge where he could take belle's hand and pat it and playfully pinch a finger now and then.
"to look at your hand, belle, a fellow would swear that a blonde manicure girl comes here twice a week," he said idly. "where is the schoolhouse going to be built? why not put it just at the foot of the ridge, at cottonwood spring? that's out of sight of the road, and if the notice said 'cottonwood spring', folks would know where to head for. it's close to the line of your land, isn't it, dad? a yard--corral-size--fenced around the place would keep the cattle off the doorstep, and they could water there just the same. if we're going to do it, why not do it right?"
"i guess we could get down there with a load," tom assented easily. "i'd ruther have it on my land anyways."
"all done but the shingling--and i ain't got 'em bought yet!" grumbled tom, but was utterly disregarded in the sonorous chords of belle's prelude to the song.
lance rides ahead
as he rode lance sang lustily a love song, but he was not thinking especially of mary hope. in two years more than one california girl had briefly held his fancy, and memory of mary hope had slightly dimmed. in his pocket were two letters, addressed to two california towns. one letter had miss helene somebody inscribed upon it, and on the other was miss mildred somebody else. the love song, therefore, had no special significance, save that lance was young and perfectly normal and liked the idea of love, without being hampered by any definite form of it concentrated upon one girl.
for all that he had timed his trip so as to arrive at the whipple shack just about the time when mary hope would be starting home. he was curious to see just how much or how little she had changed; to know whether she still had that funny little scotch accent that manifested itself in certain phrasings, certain vowel sounds at variance with good english pronunciation. he wanted to know just how much pocatello had done to spoil her. beneath all was the primal instinct of the young male dimly seeking the female whom his destiny had ordained to be his mate.
as a young fellow shut in behind the rim, with the outside world a vast area over which his imagination wandered vaguely, mary hope had appealed to him. she was the one girl in the black rim country whom he would ride out of his way to meet, whose face, whose voice, lingered with him pleasantly for days after he had seen her and talked with her. he reflected, between snatches of song, that he might have thought himself in love with mary hope, might even have married her, had belle not suddenly decided that he should go beyond the rim and learn the things she could not teach him. belle must have wanted him, her youngest, to be different from the rest. he wondered with a sudden whimsical smile, whether she was satisfied with the result of his two years of exile. tom, he suspected, was not,--nor were duke and al. the three seemed to hold themselves apart from him, to look upon him as a guest rather than as one of the family returned after an absence. they did not include him in their talk of range matters and the business of the ranch. he had once observed in them a secret embarrassment when he appeared unexpectedly, had detected a swift change of tone and manner and subject.
surely they could not think he had changed sufficiently to make him an outsider, he meditated. aside from his teasing of belle, he had dropped deliberately into the range vernacular, refraining only from certain crudities of speech which grated on his ears. he had put on his old clothes, he had tried to take his old place in the ranch work. he had driven a four-horse team up the ridge trail with lumber for the schoolhouse, and had negotiated the rock descent to cottonwood spring with a skill that pleased him mightily because it proved to him--and to tom and the boys--that his range efficiency had not lessened during his absence. he had done everything the boys had done, except ride out with them on certain long trips over the range. he had not gone simply because they had made it quite plain that they did not want him.
nor did the hired cowboys want him with them,--ten of them in the bunk house with a cook of their own, and this only the middle of march! in two years the personnel of the bunk house had changed almost completely. they were men whom he did not know, men who struck him as "hard-boiled," though he could not have explained just wherein they differed from the others. sam pretty cow and shorty he could hobnob with as of yore,--sam in particular giving him much pleasure with his unbroken reserve, his unreadable indian eyes and his wide-lipped grin. the others were like duke, tom and al,--slightly aloof, a bit guarded in their manner.
"and i suppose mary hope will be absolutely spoiled, with small-town dignity laid a foot deep over her scotch primness. still, a girl that has the nerve to lift a club and threaten to brain tom lorrigan--"
he had forgotten the love song he was singing, and before he reached farther in his musings he met the swedes, who stared at him round-eyed and did not answer his careless hello. a little farther, the boyle children rode up out of a dry wash, grinned bashfully at him and hurried on.
a saddlehorse was tied to a post near the whipple shack. with long legs swinging slightly with the stride of his horse, reins held high and loose in one hand, his big hat tilted over his forehead, lance rode up and dismounted as if his errand, though important, was not especially urgent. the door stood open. he walked up, tapped twice with his knuckles on the unpainted casing, and entered, pulling off his hat and turning it round and round in his gloved fingers while he ducked his head, pressed his lips together with a humorous quirk, shuffled his spurred feet on the dirty floor and bowed again as awkwardly as he could. in this manner he hoped to draw some little spark of individuality from mary hope, who sat behind her yellow-painted table and stared at him over her folded arms. but mary hope, he observed, had been crying, and compunction seized him suddenly.
"well, what is it?" she asked him curtly, rubbing a palm down over one cheek, with the motion obliterating a small rivulet of tears.
"if you please, ma'am, i was sent to mend a lock on a door."
"what lock? on what door?" mary hope passed a palm down her other cheek, thus obliterating another rivulet that had ceased to flow tears and was merely wet and itchy.
"if you please, ma'am, you can search me." lance looked at her innocently. "i didn't bring any lock with me, and i didn't bring any door with me. but i've got some screws and three nails and--lots of good intentions."
"good intentions are very rare in this country," said mary hope, and made meaningless marks on the bare tabletop with a blunt pencil.
lance heard a twang of scotch in the "very rare" which pleased him. but he kept his position by the doorway, and he continued bashfully turning his big hat round and round against his chest,--though the action went oddly with the lorrigan look and the athletic poise of him. "yes, ma'am. quite rare," he agreed.
"in fact, i don't believe there is such a thing in the whole black rim country," stated mary hope, plainly nonplussed at his presence and behavior.
"you talk like a country peddler. i'm willing to accept a sample, and see if they are durable. though i can't for the life of me see why you'd be coming here with good intentions."
"i'd be mending a lock on a door. is this the door, ma'am? and is this the lock?"
since the door behind him was the only door within five miles of them, and since the lock dangled from a splintered casing, mary hope almost smiled. "it is a door," she informed him. "and it is a lock that has been broken by a lorrigan."
she was baiting him, tempting him to quarrel with her over the old grudge. because she expected a reply, lance made no answer whatever. he happened to have a dozen or so of nails in his coat pocket, left-overs from his assiduous carpentry on the house being builded for her comfort. the screws he possessed were too large, and he had no hammer. but no man worries over a missing hammer where rocks are plentiful, and lance was presently pounding the lock into place, his back to mary hope, his thoughts swinging from his prospective party to the possible religious scruples of the douglas family.
mary hope used to dance--a very little--he remembered, though she had not attended many dances. he recalled suddenly that a christmas tree or a fourth of july picnic had usually been the occasions when mary hope, with her skirts just hitting her shoe tops in front and sagging in an ungainly fashion behind, had teetered solemnly through a "square" dance with him. mother douglas herself had always sat very straight and prim on a bench, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes blinking disapprovingly at the ungodly ones who let out an exultant little yip now and then when they started exuberantly through the mazes of the "gran'-right-n-left."
would mary hope attend the party? should he tell her about it and ask her to come? naturally, he could not peacefully escort her partyward,--the feud was still too rancorous for that. or was it? at the devil's tooth they spoke of old scotty as an enemy, but they had cited no particular act of hostility as evidence of his enmity. at the devil's tooth they spoke of the whole black rim country as enemy's country. lance began to wonder if it were possible that the lorrigans had adopted unconsciously the role of black sheep, without the full knowledge or concurrence of the black rimmers.
he did what he could to make a workable lock of one that had been ready to fall to pieces before his father heaved against it; hammered in the loosened screws in the hinges, tossed the rock out into the scuffed sod before the shack, and picked up his hat. he had not once looked toward mary hope, but he turned now as if he were going to say good-by and take himself off; as if mending the lock had really been his errand, and no further interest held him there.
the whipple shack was not large. ten feet spanned the distance between them. impulsively lance covered that distance in three steps. at the table he stopped, leaned toward her with his palms braced upon the table, and stared full into mary hope's disturbed eyes.
"girl," he said, drawing the word softly along a vibrant note in his voice that sent a tremor through her, "girl, you're more lonesome than scotch, and you're more scotch than the heather that grows in your front yard to make your mother cry for the highlands she sees when her eyes blur with homesickness. you were crying when i came--crying because you're lonely. it's a big, wild country--the black rim. it's a country for men to ride hell-whooping through the sage and camas grass, with guns slung at their hips, but it's no country for a little person like you to try and carry on a feud because her father made one. you're--too little!"
he did not touch her, his face did not come near her face. but in his eyes, in his voice, in the tender, one-sided little smile, there was something,--mary hope caught her breath, feeling as if she had been kissed.
"you little, lonesome girl! there's going to be a party at cottonwood spring, a week from friday night. it's a secret--a secret for you. and you won't tell a soul that you were the first to know--and you'll come, you girl, because it's your party. and not a soul will know it's your party. if your father's scotch is too hard for dancing--you'll come just the same. you'll come, because the secret is for you. and--" he thought that he read something in her eyes and hastened to forestall her intention "--and you won't go near cottonwood spring before the time of the party, because that wouldn't be playing fair.
"don't be lonely, girl. the world is full of pleasant things, just waiting to pop out at you from behind every bush. if you're good and kind and honest with life, the fates are going to give you the best they've got. don't be lonely! just wait for the pleasant things in to-morrow and to-morrow--in all the to-morrows. and one of them, girl, is going to show you the sweetest thing in life. that's love, you girl with the tears back of your scotch blue eyes. but wait for it--and take the little pleasant things that minutes have hidden away in the to-morrows. and one of the pleasant times will be hidden at cottonwood spring, a week from friday night. wonder what it will be, girl. and if any one tries to tell it, put your hands over your ears, so that you won't hear it. wait--and keep wondering, and come to cottonwood spring next friday night. adios, girl."
he looked into her eyes, smiling a little. then, turning suddenly, he left her without a backward glance. left her with nothing to spoil the haunting cadence of his voice, nothing to lift the spell of tender prophecy his words had laid upon her soul. when he was quite gone, when she heard the clatter of his horse's hoofs upon the arid soil that surrounded the whipple shack, mary hope still stared out through the open doorway, seeing nothing of the march barrenness, seeing only the tender, inscrutable, tantalizing face of lance lorrigan,--tantalizing because she could not plumb the depths of his eyes, could not say how much of the tenderness was meant for her, how much was born of the deep music of his voice, the whimsical, one-sided smile.
and lance, when he had ridden a furlong from the place, had dipped into a shallow draw and climbed the other side, turned half around in the saddle and looked back.
"now, why did i go off and leave her like that? like an actor walking off the stage to make room for the other fellow to come on and say his lines. there's no other fellow--thank heck! and here are two miles we might be riding together--and me preaching to her about taking the little, pleasant things that come unexpectedly!" he swung his horse around in the trail, meaning to ride back; retraced his steps as far as the hollow, and turned again, shaking his head.
"anybody could stop at the schoolhouse just as school's out, and ride a couple of miles down the road with the schoolma'am--if she let him do it! anybody could do that. but that isn't the reason, why i'm riding on ahead. what the hell is the reason?"
he stopped again on the high level where he could look back and see the whipple shack squatted forlornly in the gray stretch of sage with wide, brown patches of dead grass between the bushes.
"lonesome," he named the wild expanse of unpeopled range land. "she's terribly lonely--and sweet. too lonely and sweet for me to play with, to ride a few miles with--and leave her lonelier than i found her. i couldn't. there's enough sadness now in those scotch blue eyes. damned if i'll add more!"
he saw mary hope come from the shack, pause a minute on the doorstep, then walk out to where her horse was tied to the post. he lifted the reins, pricked his horse gently with the spurs and galloped away to jumpoff, singing no more.
she will, and she won't
cottonwood spring was a dished-out oasis just under the easy slope of devil's tooth ridge. from no part of the jumpoff trail could it be seen, and the surrounding slope did not offer much inducement to cattle in march, when water was plentiful; wherefore riders would scarcely wander into the saucer-like hollow that contained the cottonwoods and the spring. a picnic had once been held there, but the festivities had been marred by a severe thunderstorm that came just as a wordy quarrel between two drunken cowpunchers was fast nearing the gun-pulling stage. lightning had struck the side hill just beyond the grove, and the shock of it had knocked down and stunned the two disputants, and three saddle horses standing in the muddy overflow from the spring. for this reason, perhaps, and because it was on lorrigan land, the place had never thereafter been frequented save by the stock that watered there.
but from the head of the little basin a wide view was had of the broken land beyond devil's tooth. the spring was clear and cold and never affected by drouth. by following the easy slope around the point of the main trail from jumpoff to the lorrigan ranch, no road-building was necessary, and in summer the cottonwoods looked very cool and inviting--though at certain times they harbored buffalo gnats and many red ants that would bite, which rendered the shade less grateful than it looked. but to the lorrigans it seemed an ideal site for a schoolhouse.
ten days after they had planned the deed, the schoolhouse stood ready for the dance. in the lean-to shed, twelve shiny yellow desks that smelled strongly of varnish were stacked in their heavy paper swaddlings, waiting to be set in place when the dance was done. belle herself had hemmed scrim curtains for the windows, which riley had washed copiously. the blackboard, with the names of various devil's tooth men and a "motto" or two scrawled upon it was in place; the globe was on the teacher's desk, and the water bucket on its shelf in the corner, with a shiny new tin dipper hanging on a nail above it.
if you were to believe the frequent declarations, every puncher on the ranch had done his durnedest to put 'er up, and put 'er up right. sam pretty cow had nailed a three-foot american flag to the front gable, and had landed on a nail when he jumped from the eaves. on the night of the dance he was hobbling around the chuck-wagon with half a pound of salt pork bound to his foot, helping riley, who had driven over to the spring early, burdened with the importance of his share in the entertainment.
a dance in the black rim country has all the effect of a dog fight in a small village with empty streets. no sooner does it start than one wonders where all the people came from.
at eight o'clock toiling horses drawing full loads of humanity began to appear over the rim of the hollow, to pick their way carefully down toward the lighted windows, urged by their drivers. men on horseback made the descent more swiftly, with a clatter of small rocks kicked loose as they came. they encountered a four-wire fence, circled it to where a lantern, hung on a post, revealed a gate that lay flat on the ground to leave a welcoming space for teams and saddle horses to pass through.
beside the schoolhouse, with two lanterns shedding a yellow glow on his thin, sandy hair, riley, at the chuck-wagon, arranged doughnuts, sandwiches, pies and cakes to his liking, wiped his red hands frequently on his clean flour-sack apron, and held carefully unprofane conversation with the women who came fluttering over to him, their arms burdened.
"no, mom, sorry! i know i'm turnin' down something that's better than anything i got here, but this here party's on the lorrigans. no, mom, i got orders not to take in s'much as a sour pickle from nobody. you jest put it back in the rig, whatever you got there, and consider't you got some sat'day bakin' did up ahead.
"yes, mom, it's lance's party. he's home for a visit, an' he kinda wanted to have a dance an' meet the folks, seein' he's been away quite a spell and kain't stay long.
"yes, mom, he's goin' back to college first the week.
"hey! i wisht you'd tie up yore cayuses other side the shack. folks'll be comin' around here for their supper, and they don't wanta git their faces kicked off whilst they're huntin' grub to fill 'em.
"no, mom, we ain't takin' any cakes or nothin' off nobody. lance, he wanted to give this dance an' give it right. ain't goin' to cost nobody a thing but sore corns, t'night!"
lance had hired an italian violinist and his boy who played a harp much taller than himself and people coming from jumpoff had brought them out. the millers had come, with all their outfit. the aj outfit was there to a man. the swedes were present, sitting together in the corner by the water bucket, and the conleys, who lived over by camas creek beyond the aj, had come. the conleys had sheep, and were not firmly settled in the black rim, sheepmen being looked at askance. there were families from nearer jumpoff,--one really did wonder where they all came from, when the country seemed so wide and unpeopled.
lance was surprised to see how many were there who were total strangers. until the dancing began the men stood outside and smoked, leaving the women and children to arrange themselves on benches along the wall inside. lance knew the custom well enough, and he did not go in. but he tried to see who came with every load that was deposited within the circle of light on the narrow platform that embellished the front.
at nine o'clock, when the musicians were trying their instruments tentatively and even the most reluctant male was being drawn irresistibly to the humming interior, lance frankly admitted to himself that he was not happy, and that his condition was the direct result of not having seen mary hope enter the door.
he sought out tom, who was over at the chuck-wagon, taking an early cup of coffee. tom blew away the steam that rose on the chill night air and eyed lance. "well, when do we make the speech? or don't we?" he demanded, taking a gulp and finding the coffee still too hot for comfort. "don't ask me to; i done my share when i built 'er. you can tell the bunch what she's for."
"oh, what the heck do we want with a speech?" lance remonstrated. "they know it's a schoolhouse, unless they're blind. and i thought maybe some one--you, probably, since you're the one who hazed her out of the other place--would just tell mary hope to bring her books over here and teach. and i thought, to cinch it, you could tell jim boyle that you felt you ought to do something toward a school, and since you couldn't furnish any kids, you thought you'd furnish the house. that ought to be easy. it's up to you, i should say. but i wouldn't make any speech."
tom grunted, finished his coffee and proceeded to remove all traces of it from his lips with his best white handkerchief. "where's jim boyle at?" he asked, moving into the wide bar of dusk that lay between the lights of the chuck-wagon and the glow from the two windows facing that way.
"i believe i'd speak about it first to mary hope," lance suggested, coming behind him. "but she hasn't come yet--"
as if she heard and deliberately moved to contradict him, mary hope danced past the window, the hand of a strange young man with a crisp white handkerchief pressed firmly between her shoulder blades. mary hope was dancing almost as solemnly as in the days of short skirts and sleek hair, her eyes apparently fixed upon the shoulder of her partner who gazed straight out over her head, his whole mind centered upon taking the brunt of collisions upon the point of his upraised elbow.
"i'll ketch her when she's through dancing," promised tom. but lance had another thought.
"let me tell mary hope, dad. i'm going to dance with her, and it will be easy."
in the darkness tom grinned and went on to find jim boyle standing in a group of older men on the platform that served as a porch. jim boyle was smoking a cheap cigar brought out from jumpoff by the section boss. he listened reflectively, looked at the glowing tip of the evil-smelling cigar, threw the thing from him and reached for his cigarette papers with an oath.
"now, that's damn white of yuh, tom," he said. "i leave it to the boys if it ain't damn white. not having no school district i'm puttin' up the money outa my own pocket to pay the teacher. and havin' four kids to feed and buy clothes for, i couldn't afford to build no schoolhouse, i tell yuh those. and uh course, i didn't like to go round askin' fer help; but it's damn white of yuh to step in an' do yore share towards making the rim look like it was civilized. sederson, he'll feel the same way about it. and i'm gitting a foreman that's got a kid, school age; we sure'n hell do need a schoolhouse. rim's settlin' up fast. i always said, tom, that you was white. i leave it to the boys here."
inside, lance was not finding it so easy to make the announcement. last tuesday, mary hope had not understood just why he had ridden on ahead of her for two miles--she could see the small dust cloud kicked up by his horse on the jumpoff trail, so there could be no mistake--when he knew perfectly well that she must ride that way, when he could not have failed to see her horse saddled and waiting at the door. it seemed to mary hope an obscure form of mockery to tell her not to be lonely--to tell her in a caressing tone that left with her all the effect of kisses--and then to ride away without one backward glance, one word of excuse. until she had mounted and had seen him on the trail ahead, she had not realized how he had mocked her.
for days--until friday, to be explicit--she had been quite determined not to go near cottonwood spring. then she had suddenly changed her mind, dismissed school half an hour early, put old rab in a lather on the way home, dressed herself and announced to her mother that she must ride into jumpoff for school supplies, and that she would stay all night with the kennedys. it had taken two years and the dignity of school-teacher to give mary hope the courage to announce things to her mother. as it was, she permitted her mother to explain as best she might to hugh douglas. her courage did not reach to that long, uncompromising upper lip of her father's.
"so sorry--it's promised already," said mary hope, in her primmest tone.
"there's a dance after the next one," he hinted, looking down from his more-than-six feet at her where she sat wedged between mrs. boyle and jennie miller.
"so sorry--but i think that one is promised also," said mary hope.
lance drew a corner of his lip between his teeth, let it go and lifted his eyebrows whimsically at jennie miller, whom he had once heard playing on her organ, and whom he had detested ever since with an unreasoning animosity born solely of her musical inability and her long neck that had on its side a brown mole with three coarse hairs in it.
"if miss douglas has two dances engaged in advance, it's quite hopeless to hope for a dance with miss miller," he said, maliciously drawing the sentence through certain vibrant tones which experience had taught him had a certain pleasing effect upon persons. "or is it hopeless? are you engaged for every dance to-night, miss miller? and if you are, please may i stand beside you while you eat a sandwich at midnight?"
jennie miller giggled. "i ain't as popular as all that," she retorted, glancing at mary hope, sitting very straight and pretty beside her. "and if i was, i don't go and promise everybody that asks. i might want to change my mind afterwards if some other fellow comes along i liked better--and i've saw too many fights start over a girl forgetting who she's promised to dance with."
"you don't want to see a fight start now, do you?" lance smiled down at her without in the least degree betraying to mary hope that he would like to pull jennie miller by force from that seat and occupy it himself.
"i never can see why men fight over things. i hate fights," miss miller stammered, agitated by a wild feeling that perhaps she was going to be made love to.
"then don't forget that you are going to dance with me." the music just then started again, and he offered her his arm with a certain import that made mary hope clench her hands.
mary hope was punished for her lie. she had not promised that dance, and so she sat on the plank bench and saw lance and jennie miller sway past her four times before a gawky youth who worked for her father caught sight of her and came over from the water-bucket corner to ask her for the dance. that was not the worst. on the fourth round of lance and jennie, and just as the gawky one was bowing stiffly before her, lance looked at her over jennie miller's shoulder, and smiled that tantalizing, lorrigan smile that always left her uneasily doubtful of its meaning.
a way he had with him
it was at the chuck-wagon at midnight, while riley and sam pretty cow were serving tin cups of black coffee to a shuffling, too-hilarious crowd, that lance next approached mary hope. she was standing on the outskirts of a group composed mostly of women, quite alone so far as cavaliers were concerned, for the gawky youth had gone after coffee. she was looking toward the sagebrush camp-fire around which a crowd of men had gathered with much horseplay at which they were laughing loudly, and she was wondering how best she could make lance lorrigan aware of her absolute indifference to him, when his voice drawled disconcertingly close to her ear:
"you're not lonely now, you girl--and you did find a secret at cottonwood spring. a pleasant little secret, wasn't it?"
mary hope's hands became fists at her side, held close against her best frock. "i think the fellows over by the fire have discovered your pleasant secret," she said, and did not turn her face toward him.
with his arms folded and his eyebrows pulled together and his lip between his teeth, lance stared down at her face, studying it in the flicker of the distant firelight and the two lanterns. if her combativeness roused in him any resentment, he did not permit it to show in his voice.
"some of the fellows from jumpoff brought a bottle or two. that's no secret, except that i don't know where they have it cachéd. the schoolhouse is your--"
"i heard it was included in the lorrigan refreshments."
"the schoolhouse is ready for your pleasure monday morning," lance spoke with that perfect impersonal courtesy that is so exasperating to a person who listens for something to resent. "i knew of it, of course--dad wanted it kept for a surprise. and he wanted me to tell you. it's the lorrigan expression of their appreciation of the need of a school."
lance reached a long arm and plucked the youth out by the slack of his coat, shook him and propelled him into the darkness, where he collided violently with sam pretty cow. some one had been over-generous with sam pretty cow. a drunken indian is never quite safe. sam pretty cow struck out blindly, yelling piegan curses hoarsely as he fought. the crowd of men around the camp-fire came running. for a short space there was confusion, shouting, the shrill voices of scalded women denouncing the accident as a deliberate outrage.
mrs. miller whirled on lance. "you pushed him on me! if that ain't a lorrigan trick!--"
"yeah--what yuh mean? throwin' bilin' hot coffee on--"
"who says it's a lorrigan trick?"
"might 'a' known what to expect--"
"get back here, away from the crowd. there may be shooting," lance muttered to mary hope, and pulled her to the rear of the wagon and around upon the farther side. she could not resist. his strength was beyond any hope of combating it with her small strength. mrs. miller, whose scalded shoulder led her to wild utterances without thought of their effect upon others, shouted at him as he hustled mary hope away:
"yeah--run! you're the one that done it--now run! that's like a lorrigan--do your dirty work and then crawl out and let somebody else take the blame! that kid never--"
"aw, come back and fight, you big sneak!" a drunken voice bellowed hoarsely, and a gunshot punctuated the command.
"go on--get on the other side of the schoolhouse. run! the fools will all start to shooting now!"
mary hope stopped stubbornly. "i will not!" she defied him; and lance without more argument lifted her from the ground, stooped and tossed her under the wagon, much as he would have heaved a bag of oats out of the rain.
"don't you move until i tell you to," he commanded her harshly, and ran back, diving into the thick of the crowd as though he were charging into a football scrimmage.
"who was it called me back to fight? put up your guns,--or keep them if you like. it's all one to me!"
in the dim light he saw the gleam of a weapon raised before him, reached out and wrenched it away from the owner, and threw it far over his shoulder into the weeds. "who said a lorrigan run? i want that man!"
"i said it," bellowed a whisky-flushed man whose face was strange to him. "i said it, and i say it agin. i say--a lorrigan!"
he lifted his gun above the pressure of excited men and women. lance sprung upward and forward, landed on some one's foot, lunged again and got a grip on the hand that held the gun. with his left hand he wrenched the gun away. with his right he pulled the man free of the crowd and out where there was room. the crowd--men, now, for the women had fled shrieking--surged that way.
"stand back there! i'll settle with this fellow alone." he held the other fast, his arms as merciless as the grip of a grizzly, and called aloud:
"this is a lorrigan dance, and the lorrigans are going to have order. those of you who brought chips on your shoulders, and whisky to soak the chips in, can drink your whisky and do your fighting among yourselves, off the lorrigan ranch. we all came here to have fun. there's music and room to dance, and plenty of chuck and plenty of coffee, and the dance is going right on without any fuss whatever.
"this poor boob here who thinks he wants to fight me just because i'm a lorrigan, i never saw before. it wouldn't be a fair fight, because he's too drunk to do anything but make a fool of himself. there's nothing to fight about, anyway. a fellow was carrying two cups of boiling hot coffee, and he stubbed his toe, and some one got scalded a little. that's nothing to break up a dance over. the rest of you heard the noise and jumped at the conclusion there was trouble afoot. there isn't. i think you all want to go on with the dance and have a good time, except perhaps a few who are drunk. they are at liberty to go off somewhere and beat each other up to their hearts' content. come on, now, folks--get your partners for a square dance--and everybody dance!"
his voice had held them listening. his words were not the words of a coward, yet they were a plea for peace, they seemed reasonable even to the half-drunken ones who had been the readiest to fight. the old-time range slogan, "everybody dance!" sent three or four hurrying to find the girls they wanted. the trouble, it would appear, had ended as suddenly as it had begun and for a moment the tension relaxed.
the drunken one was still cursing, struggling unavailingly to tear himself away from lance so that he could land a blow. lance, looking out across the crowd, caught belle's glance and nodded toward the schoolhouse. belle hurried away to find the musicians and set them playing, and a few couples strayed after her. but there were men who stayed, pushing, elbowing to see what would happen when lance lorrigan loosened his hold on the jumpoff man.
lance did not loosen his hold, however. he saw tom, al, three or four devil's tooth men edging up, and sent them a warning shake of his head.
"we'll take care of him," said another stranger, easing up to lance. "he won't hurt yuh; he was only foolin', anyway. bill kennedy, he always gits kinda happy when he's had one or two."
there was laughter in the crowd. two or three voices were heard muttering together, and other laughs followed. some one produced a bottle and offered the pugnacious one a drink. lance let him go with a contemptuous laugh and went to where the devil's tooth men now stood bunched close together, their backs to the chuck-wagon.
"we'll have to clean up this crowd, before it's over," al was saying to his father. "might as well start right in and git 'er over with."
"and have it said the lorrigans can't give a dance without having it end in rough-house!" lance interrupted. "cut out the idea of fighting that bunch. keep them out of the house and away from the women, and let them have their booze down in the grove. that's where i've seen a lot of them heading. come on, boys; it takes just as much nerve not to fight as it does to kill off a dozen men. isn't that right, dad?"
"more," said tom laconically. "no, boys, we don't want no trouble here. come on in and dance. that's yore job--to keep 'er moving peaceable. i'll fire any man i ketch drinking jumpoff booze. we've got better at the ranch. come on!"
he led the way and his men followed him,--not as though they were particularly anxious to avoid trouble, but more like men who are trained to obey implicitly a leader who has some definite purpose and refuses to be turned from it. lance, walking a few steps in the rear, wondered at the discipline his father seemed to maintain without any apparent effort.
"and they say the lorrigans are a tough outfit!" he laughed, when he had overtaken tom. "dad, you've got the bunch trained like soldiers. i was more afraid our boys would rough things up than i was worried over the stews."
"shucks! when we rough things up, it's when we want it rough. al, he was kinda excited. but at that, we may have to hogtie a few of them smart alecks from town, before we can dance peaceable."
mary hope, lance discovered, was already in the schoolhouse. also, several of the intoxicated were there, and the quadrille was being danced with so much zest that the whole building shook. that in itself was not unusual--black rim dances usually did become rather boisterous after supper--but just outside the door a bottle was being circulated freely, and two or three men had started toward the cottonwood grove for more. duke, coming up to lance where he stood in the doorway, pulled him to one side, where they could not be overheard.
"there's going to be trouble here, sure's you're knee-high to a duck. dad won't let our bunch light into 'em, but they'll be fighting amongst themselves inside an hour. you better slip it to the women that the dance breaks up early. give 'em a few more waltzes and two-steps, lance, and then make it home-sweet-home, if you don't want to muss up your nice city clothes," he added, with a laugh that was not altogether friendly.
"don't dance any more, girl," lance said, leaning so that he could make himself heard without shouting in the uproar. "it's getting pretty wild--and it will be wilder. they must have hauled it out in barrels!"
mary hope looked at him, but she did not smile, did not answer.
"i'm sorry the secret is no nicer," lance went on. "now the floor will have to be scrubbed before a lady girl can come out and teach school here. i thought it would be great to have a house-warming dance,--but they're making it too blamed warm!"
some one slipped and fell, and immediately there was a struggling heap where others had fallen over the first. there were shrieks of laughter and an oath or two, an epithet and then a loud-flung threat.
lance started up, saw that tom and al were heading that way, and took mary hope by the arm.
"it's time little girls like you went home," he said smiling, and somehow got her to the door without having her trampled upon. "where are your wraps?"
"there," said mary hope dazedly, and pointed to the corner behind them, where cloaks, hoods, hats and two sleeping children were piled indiscriminately.
through the doorway men were crowding, two or three being pushed out only to be pushed in again by others eager to join the mêlée. in the rear of the room, near the musicians, two men were fighting. lance, giving one glance to the fight and another to the struggling mass in the doorway, pushed up the window nearest them, lifted mary hope and put her out on the side hill. he felt of a coat or two, chose the heaviest, found something soft and furry like a cap, and followed her. behind the door no one seemed to look. a solid mass of backs was turned toward him when he wriggled through on his stomach.
"where's your horse?" he asked mary hope, while he slipped the coat on her and buttoned it.
"it does seem to me that a lorrigan is always making me put on a coat!" cried mary hope petulantly. "and now, this isn't mine at all!"
"a non-essential detail. it's a coat, and that's all that matters. where is your horse?"
"i haven't any horse here--oh, they're killing each other in there! the kennedys brought me--and he's that drunk, now--"
"good heck! bill kennedy! well, come on. you couldn't go back with them, that's sure. i'll take you home, girl." he was leading her by the arm to the fence behind the house. "wait, i'll lift a wire; can you crawl under?"
"no lorrigan will ever cry shame on a douglas for a coward! you must be crazy, taking this awful team."
"i am. i'm crazy to get you away from here before they start shooting, back there." he spoke to the team gruffly and with a tone of authority that held them quiet, wondering at his audacity perhaps. he untied them, got the lines, stepped in and turned them around, the pintos backing and cramping the buckboard, lunging a little but too surprised to misbehave in their usual form.
"get in--and hang on. there's no road much--but we'll make it, all right."
like the pintos, mary hope was too astonished to rebel. she got in.
the team went plunging up the hill, snorting now and then, swerving sharply away from rock or bush that threatened them with vague horrors in the clear starlight. behind them surged the clamor of many voices shouting, the confused scuffling of feet, a revolver shot or two, and threading the whole the shrill, upbraiding voice of a woman.
"that's mrs. miller," mary hope volunteered jerkily. "she's the one that was scalded."
"it wasn't her tongue that was hurt," lance observed, and barely saved the buckboard from upsetting on a rock as rosa and subrosa shied violently and simultaneously at a rabbit scuttling from a bush before them.
he swung the pintos to the right, jounced down into some sort of trail, and let them go loping along at their usual pace.
"belle has her own ideas about horse-training," lance chuckled, steadying subrosa with a twitch of the rein. "they'll hit this gait all the way to your ranch."
mary hope gave a gasp and caught him by the arm, shaking it a little as if she were afraid that otherwise he would not listen to her. "oh, but i canna go home! i've a horse and my riding clothes in jumpoff, and i must go for them and come home properly on horseback to-morrow! it's because of the lie i told my mother, so that i could come to the dance with the kennedys. set me down here anywhere, lance lorrigan, and let me walk until the kennedys overtake me! they'll be coming soon, now--as soon as bill kennedy gets licket sober. you can stop the horses--surely you can stop them and let me out. but please, please do not take me home to-night, in this party dress--and a coat that isna mine at all!"
"i'm not taking you home, girl. i'm taking you to jumpoff. and it won't matter to you whether bill kennedy is licked sober or not. and to-morrow i'll find out who owns the coat. i'll say i found it on the road somewhere. who's to prove i didn't? or if you disapprove of lying about it, i'll bring it back and leave it beside the road."
"it's a lot of trouble i'm making for you," said mary hope quite meekly, and let go his arm. "i should not have told the lie and gone to the dance. and i canna wear my own coat home, because it's there in the pile behind the door, and some one else will take it. so after all it will be known that i lied, and you may as well take me home now and let me face it."
to this lance made no reply. but when the pintos came rattling down the hill to where the douglas trail led away to the right, he did not slow them, did not take the turn.
mary hope looked anxiously toward home, away beyond the broken skyline. a star hung big and bright on the point of a certain hill that marked the douglas ranch. while she watched it, the star slid out of sight as if it were going down to warn hugh douglas that his daughter had told a lie and had gone to a forbidden place to dance with forbidden people, and was even now driving through the night with one of the lorrigans,--perchance the wickedest of all the wicked lorrigans, because he had been away beyond the rim and had learned the wickedness of the cities.
she looked wistfully at the face of this wickedest of the lorrigans, his profile seen dimly in the starlight. he did not look wicked. under his hat brim she could see his brows, heavy and straight and lifted whimsically at the inner points, as though he were thinking of something amusing. his nose was fine and straight, too,--not at all like a beak, though her father had always maintained that the lorrigans were but human vultures. his mouth,--there was something in the look of his mouth that made her catch her breath; something tender, something that vaguely disturbed her, made her feel that it could be terribly stern if it were not so tender. he seemed to be smiling--not with his mouth, exactly, but away inside of his mind--and the smile showed just a little bit, at the corner of his lips. his chin was the lorrigan chin absolutely; a nice chin to look at, with a little, long dimple down the middle. a chin that one would not want to oppose, would not want to see when the man who owned it was very angry.
mary hope had gone just so far in her analysis when lance turned his head abruptly, unexpectedly, and looked full into her eyes.
"don't be afraid, girl. don't worry about the lie--about anything. it was a sweet little lie--it makes you just human and young and--sweet. let them scold you, and smile, 'way down deep in your heart, and be glad you're human enough to tell a lie now and then. because if you hadn't, we wouldn't be driving all these miles together to save you a little of the scolding. be happy. be just a little bit happy to-night, won't you, girl--you lonely little girl--with the blue, blue eyes!"
there it was again, that vibrant, caressing note in his voice. it was there in his eyes while he looked at her, on his lips while he spoke to her. but the next moment he looked ahead at the trail, spoke to rosa who had flung her head around to bite pettishly at subrosa, who snapped back at her.
mary hope turned her face to the starlit rangeland. again she breathed quickly, fought back tears, fought the feeling that she had been kissed. all through the silent ride that followed she fought the feeling, knew that it was foolish, that lance knew nothing whatever about that look, that tone which so affected her. he did not speak again. he sat beside her, and she felt that he was thinking about her, felt that his heart was making love to her--hated herself fiercely for the feeling, fought it and felt it just the same.
"it's just a way he has with him!" she told herself bitterly, when he swung the team up in front of the section house and helped her down. "he'd have the same way with him if he spoke to a--a rabbit! he doesna mean it--he doesna know and he doesna care!"
"thank you, mr. lorrigan. it was very kind of you to bring me." her voice was prim and very scotch, and gave no hint of all she had been thinking.
"i'm always kind--to myself," laughed lance, and lifted his hat and drove away.
in which lance finishes one job
in the traffic saloon, whither lance had gone to find a fire and an easy chair and something cheering to drink while he waited for the pinto team to rest and eat, he found a sleepy bartender sprawled before the stove, a black-and-white dog stretched flat on its side and growling while it dreamed, and an all-pervading odor of alcoholic beverages that appealed to him.
"a highball would make me happy, right now," he announced cheerfully, standing over the bartender, rubbing his fingers numbed from the keen air and from holding in the pintos, to which a slackened pull on the bits meant a tacit consent to a headlong run.
"been to the dance?" the bartender yawned widely and went to mix the highball. "i been kinda waitin' up--but shucks! no tellin' when the crowd'll git in--not if they drink all they took with 'em."
"they were working hard to do just that when i left." lance stood back to the stove. having left in a hurry, without his overcoat, he was chilled to the bone, though the night had been mild for that time of the year. he hoped that the girl had not been uncomfortable--and yawned while the thought held him. he drank his highball, warmed himself comfortably and then, with some one's fur overcoat for a blanket, he disposed his big body on a near-by pool table, never dreaming that mary hope douglas was remembering his tone, his words, his silence even; analyzing, weighing, wondering how much he had meant, or how little,--wondering whether she really hated him, whether she might justly call her ponderings by any name save curiosity. such is the way of women the world over.
what lance thought does not greatly matter. such is the way of men that their thoughts sooner or later crystallize into action. the bartender would tell you that he went straight to sleep, with the fur coat pulled up over his ears and his legs uncovered, his modishly-shod feet extending beyond the end of the table. the bartender dozed in his chair, thinking it not worth while to close up, because the dance crowd might come straying in at any time with much noise and a great thirst, to say nothing of the possibility of thirsty men coming on the midnight freight that was always four or five hours late, and was now much overdue.
the freight arrived. three men entered the saloon, drank whisky, talked for a few minutes and departed. the bartender took a long, heat-warped poker and attacked the red clinkers in the body of the stove, threw in a bucket of fresh coal, used the poker with good effect on the choked draft beneath, and went back to his chair and his dozing.
during the clamor of the fire-building lance turned over, drawing up his feet and straightway extending them again; making a sleepy, futile clutch at the fur coat, that had slipped off his shoulders when he turned. the bartender reached out and flung the coat up on lance's shoulders, and bit off a chew of tobacco and stowed it away in his cheek. presently he dozed again.
dawn seeped in through the windows. lance, lying flat on his stomach with his face on his folded arms, slept soundly. the unpainted buildings across the street became visible in the gloomy, lifeless gray of a sunless morning. with the breeze that swept a flurry of gray dust and a torn newspaper down the street, came the rattle of a wagon, the sound of voices mingled in raucous, incoherent wrangling.
"they're comin'," yawned the bartender, glancing at the sleeper on the pool table. "better wake up; they're comin' pickled and fighty, judgin' by the sound."
lance sighed, turned his face away from the light and slept on, untroubled by the nearing tumult.
galloping horses came first, ka-lup, ka-lup, ka-lup, a sharp staccato on the frosted earth. the rattle of the wagon ceased, resumed, stopped outside the saloon. other galloping horsemen came up and stopped. the door was flung open violently, letting in men with unfinished sentences hot on their tongues.
"next time a lorrigan dance comes off--"
"what i'd a done, woulda--"
"fix them damn lorrigans!"
"and here's the--guy that run away from me!" bill kennedy jerked off his hat and brought it down with a slap on lance's face. "run off to town, by jiminy, and hid! run--"
half asleep as he was--rather, just shocked awake--lance heaved himself off the table and landed one square blow on bill kennedy's purple jaw. bill staggered, caught himself and came back, arms up and fists guarding his face. lance disentangled his feet from the fur coat, kicked it out of his way and struck again just as kennedy was slugging at him.
at the bar the long line of men whirled, glasses in hand, to watch the fight. but it did not last long. kennedy was drunk, and lance was not. so presently kennedy was crawling on his knees amongst some overturned chairs, and lance was facing the crowd, every inch of him itching to fight.
"who was it said he was going to fix them damn lorrigans?" he demanded, coming at them warily. "i'm not packing a gun, but i'd like to lick a few of you fellows that tried to rough-house the dance i gave. didn't cost you a cent; music, supper, everything furnished for you folks to have a good time--and the way you had it was to wreck the place like the rotten-souled hoodlums you are. now, who is it wants to fix the damn lorrigans?"
"me, for one; what yuh go'n take my girl away from me for?" a flushed youth cried, and flung the dregs of his whisky glass at lance. there was not more than a half teaspoon in the glass, but the intent was plain enough.
lance walked up and knocked that young man staggering half across the room, slapped with the flat of his hand another who leered at him, whirled to meet some one who struck him a glancing blow on the ear, and flung him after the first.
"you're all of you drunk--it's a one-sided fight all the way through," he cried, parrying a blow from kennedy, who had gotten to his feet and came at him again mouthing obscenity. "but i'll lick you, if you insist."
his coat had hampered him until it obligingly slit up the back. he wriggled out of the two halves, tore off his cuffs, and went after the crowd with his bare fists. some one lifted a chair threateningly, and lance seized it and sent it crashing through a window. some one else threw a beer mug, but he ducked in time and broke a knuckle on the front teeth of the thrower. he saw a gap in the teeth, saw the man edge out of the fray spitting blood while he made for the door, and felt that the blow was worth a broken knuckle.
it was not a pretty fight. such fights never are pretty. lance himself was not a pretty sight, when he had finished. there had been shooting--but even in jumpoff one hesitated to shoot down an unarmed man, so that the bar fixtures suffered most. lance came out of it with a fragment of shirt hanging down his chest like a baby's bib, a cut lip that bled all over his chin, a cheek skinned and swelling rapidly, the bad knuckle and the full flavor of victory.
the saloon looked as though cattle had been driven through it. bill kennedy lay sprawled over a card table, whimpering inarticulately because he had lost his gun at the dance. the flushed youth who had rashly claimed mary hope as his girl was outside with a washbasin trying to stop his nose from bleeding. others were ministering to their hurts as best they might, muttering the thoughts that they dared not express aloud.
lance looked up from examination of his knuckle, caressed his cut lip with the tip of his tongue, pulled the fragment of shirt down as far as possible, gently rubbed his swelling cheek, and turned to the bartender.
"i never licked a man yet and sent him home thirsty," he said. "set it out for the boys--and give me another highball. then if you'll lend me a coat and a pair of gloves, i'll go home."
peace was ratified in whisky drunk solemnly. lance paid, and turned to go. one of the vanquished wabbled up to him and held out his hand to shake.
"you damn lorrigans, you got us comin' and goin'," he complained, "but shake, anyway. i'm irish meself, and i know a rale fight when i see it. what we didn't git at the dance before we left, by heavins you give us when we got into town--so i'm one that's game to say it was a fine dance and not a dull momint anywhere!"
"that's something," lance grinned wryly and wriggled into the fur overcoat which the bartender generously lent him. he rejected the gloves when he found that his hands were puffed and painful, and went out to find breakfast.
over a thick white cup of dubious coffee and a plate of sticky hot-cakes he meditated glumly on the general unappreciativeness of the world in general, and of the black rim in particular. what had happened at the schoolhouse he could only surmise, but from certain fragmentary remarks he had overheard he guessed that the schoolhouse probably had suffered as much as the saloon. black rim, it would seem, was determined that the lorrigans should go on living up to their reputations, however peacefully inclined the lorrigans might be.
two disquieting thoughts he took with him to the stable when he went after the pinto team: mary hope would say that it was not a pleasant surprise which he had given her at cottonwood spring. and belle,--he was not at all sure whether he was too big for belle's quirt to find the tender places on his legs, but he was very sure that the irishman spoke the truth. there would still be no dull moments for lance when he confronted the owner of that pinto team.
he tackles another
much to the disgust of rosa and subrosa, their new driver turned them from the main trail just as they were beginning to climb joyously the first grade of devil's tooth ridge. rosa and subrosa were subdued, plainly resentful of their subjection, and fretting to be in their own stalls. belle they could and did bully to a certain extent. they loved to fight things out with belle, they never missed an opportunity for "acting up"--yet this morning they had been afraid to do more than nag at each other with bared teeth; afraid to lope when this big man said, "hey--settle down, there!" with a grating kind of calm that carried with it a new and unknown menace.
some one had exuberantly fired the whipple shack, and the pintos wanted to whirl short around in their tracks when they saw the smoking embers. they had wanted to bolt straight out across the rocky upland and splinter the doubletree, and perhaps smash a wheel or two, and then stand and kick gleefully at the wreck. if head-shakings and flattened ears meant anything, rosa and subrosa were two disgruntled pintos that morning. they had not dared do more than cut a small half-circle out of the trail when they passed the blackened spot that had been the whipple shack.
now they turned down the rocky, half-formed trail to cottonwood spring, reluctantly but with no more than a half-hearted kick from subrosa to register their disgust. and to that lance gave no heed whatever. he did not so much as twitch a rein or yell a threat. he drove surely--with one hand mostly because of the broken knuckle, which was painful in the extreme--ignoring the pintos for the most part.
he was meditating rather gloomily upon the innate cussedness of human nature as it was developed in black rim country. he was thinking of mary hope--a little; of her eyes, that were so obstinately blue, so antagonistically blue, and then, quite unexpectedly, so wistfully blue; of her voice, that dropped quite as unexpectedly into pure scottish melody; of her primness, that sometimes was not prim at all, but quaintly humorous, or wistfully shy.
he was thinking more often of the dance that had started out so well and had ended--lord knew how, except that it ended in a fight. he remembered striking, in that saloon, faces that had been pummeled before ever he sent a jab their way. there had been eyes already closed behind purple, puffy curtains of bruised flesh. he had fought animosity that was none of his creating.
thinking of the fight, he thought of the wrecked saloon when the fight was over. thinking of the wrecked saloon led him to think of the probable condition of the nice new schoolhouse. thinking of that brought him back to mary hope,--to her face as it looked when she rode up to the place on monday morning. ride up to it she must, if she meant to go on teaching, for there was no more whipple shack.
"rotten bunch of rough-necks," he summed up the men of black rim and of jumpoff. "and they'll blame the devil's tooth outfit--they'll say the lorrigans did it. oh, well--heck!"
so he drove down into the hollow, tied the pintos to the post where they stood the night before, crawled through the wire fence where mary hope had left a small three-cornered fragment of the coat that "wasna" hers at all, and went over to the schoolhouse, standing forlorn in the trampled yard with broken sandwiches and bits of orange peel and empty whisky flasks accentuating the unsightliness and disorder.
the door swung half open. the floor was scored, grimy with dirt tracked in on heedless feet and ground into the wax that had been liberally scattered over it to make the boards smooth for dancing. a window was broken,--by some one's elbow or by a pistol shot, lance guessed. the planks placed along the wall on boxes to form seats were pulled askew, the stovepipe had been knocked down and lay disjointed and battered in a corner. it was not, in lance's opinion, a pleasant little surprise for the girl with the scotch blue eyes.
he pulled the door shut, picked up the empty whisky flasks and threw them, one after the other, as far as he could send them into a rocky gulch where mary hope would not be likely to go. then he recrossed the enclosure, crawled through the fence, untied the pintos and drove home.
the bunk house emanated a pronounced odor of whisky and bad air, and much snoring, just as lance expected. the horses dozed in the corral or tossed listlessly their trampled hay; the house was quiet, deserted looking, with the doors all closed and the blinds down in the windows of the room that had been the birthplace of belle's three boys.
lance knew that every one would be asleep to-day. the devil's tooth ranch had always slept through the day after a dance, with certain yawning intermissions at mealtimes.
he unhitched the pintos, turned them loose in the corral, caught his own horse, which one of the boys must have led home, and tied it to a post. from the chuck-wagon, standing just where riley had driven it to a vacant spot beside the woodpile, lance purloined a can of pork and beans, a loaf of bread, and some butter. these things he put in a bag.
for a minute he stood scowling at the silent house, undecided, wondering just how soundly belle was sleeping. he was not afraid of belle; no real lorrigan was ever afraid of anything, as fear is usually defined. but he wanted to postpone for a time her reckoning with him. he wanted to face her when he had a free mind, when she had slept well, when her temper was not so edgy. he wanted other things, however, and he proceeded to get those things with the least effort and delay.
he wanted soft cloths. on the clothesline dangled three undershirts, three pair of drawers and several mismated socks. the shirts and drawers were of the kind known as fleece-lined--which means that they are fuzzy on the inside. they were riley's complete wardrobe so far as underwear went, but lance did not trouble himself with unimportant details. he took them all, because he had a swift mental picture of the schoolhouse floor which would need much scrubbing before it would be clean.
he was ready to mount and ride away when he remembered something else that he would need. "lye!" he muttered, and retraced his steps to the house. now he must go into the kitchen shed for what he wanted, and riley slept in a little room next the shed. but riley was snoring with a perfect rhythm that bespoke a body sunk deep in slumber, so lance searched until he found what he wanted, and added a full box of a much-advertised washing powder for good measure. he was fairly well burdened when he finally started up the trail again, but he believed that he had everything that he would need, even a lump of putty, and a pane of glass which he had carefully removed from a window of the chicken house, and which he hoped would fit.
you may think that he rode gladly upon his errand; that the thought of mary hope turned the work before him into a labor of love. it did not. lance lorrigan was the glummest young man in the whole black rim, and there was much glumness amongst the rim folk that day, let me tell you. he ached from fighting, from dancing, from sleeping on the pool table, from hanging for hours to those darned pintos. his left hand was swollen, and pains from the knuckle streaked like hot wires to his elbow and beyond. his lips were sore--so sore he could not even swear with any comfort--and even the pulling together of his black eyebrows hurt his puffed cheek. and he never had scrubbed a floor in his life, and knew that he was going to hate the work even worse than he hated the men who had made the scrubbing necessary.
while he went up the slide trail he wished that he had never thought of giving a dance. he wished he had gone down to los angeles for his easter holiday, as one of his pals had implored him to do. he wished mary hope would quit teaching school; what did she want to stay in the black rim for, anyway? why didn't she get out where she could amount to something?
if there were any caressing cadences in the voice of lance lorrigan, any provocative tilt to his eyebrows, any tenderness in his smile, anything enigmatical in his personality, none of these things were apparent when he set the first bucket of water on the stove to heat. he had added to his charms a broad streak of soot across his forehead and a scratch on his neck, acquired while putting up the stovepipe. he had set his lip to bleeding because he forgot that it was cut, and drew it sharply between his teeth when the stovepipe fell apart just when he was sure it was up to stay. he had invented two new cuss-words. what he had not done was weaken in his determination to make that small schoolhouse a pleasant surprise for mary hope.
he did the work thoroughly, though a woman might have pointed out wet corners and certain muddy splashes on the wall. he lost all count of the buckets of water that he carried from the spring, and it occurred to him that mary hope would need a new broom, for the one belle had provided was worn down to a one-sided wisp that reminded him of the beard of a billy goat. he used two cans of condensed lye and all of the washing powder, and sneezed himself too weak too swear over the fine cloud of acrid dust that filled his nostrils when he sprinkled the powder on the floor. but the floor was clean when he finished, and so was the platform outside.
of riley's underwear there was left the leg of one pair of drawers, which lance reserved for dusting the desks and the globe that had by some miracle escaped. while the floor was drying he took out the broken windowpane, discovered that the one from the chicken house was too short, and cut his thumb while he chipped off a piece of glass from the other to fill the space. he did not make a very good job of it. to hold the glass in place, he used shingle nails, which he had to hunt for on the ground where they had dropped from the roof during shingling, and when they had been driven into the frame--with the handle of the screwdriver--they showed very plainly from the inside. then the putty did not seem to want to stick anywhere, but kept crumbling off in little lumps. so lance threw the putty at a gopher that was standing up nibbling one of riley's sandwiches, and went after the desks.
these took some time to unwrap and carry into place. there were only twelve, but lance would have sworn before a jury that he carried at least fifty single desks into the schoolhouse that afternoon, and screwed them to the floor, and unscrewed them because the darned things did not line up straight when viewed from the teacher's desk, and he had a vivid impression that blue, blue eyes can be very critical over such things as a crooked line of desks!
perhaps it was because his head ached splittingly and his injured hand throbbed until it was practically useless; at any rate the cleaning of the schoolhouse, especially the placing of the desks, became fixed afterward in his memory as the biggest, the most disagreeable incident in his whole vacation.
at four-thirty however the task was accomplished. at the spring, lance scrubbed the water bucket clean, washed the dipper, placed them behind the door. he got wearily into the borrowed fur coat, took a last comprehensive survey of the room from the doorway, went back to erase certain sentences scrawled on the blackboard by some would-be humorist, took another look at the work of his aching hands, and went away with the coffeepot in his hand and the screwdriver showing its battered wooden handle from the top of his pocket. he was too tired to feel any glow of accomplishment, any great joy in the thought of mary hope's pleasure. he was not even sure that she would feel any pleasure.
his chief emotion was a gloomy satisfaction in knowing that the place was once more presentable, that it was ready for mary hope to hang up her hat and ring her little bell and start right in teaching. that what the lorrigans had set out to do, the lorrigans had done.
at the ranch he found riley at the bunk house wrangling with the boys over his lost wardrobe. in riley's opinion it was a darned poor idea of a darned poor joke, and it took a darned poor man to perpetrate it. lance's arrival scarcely interrupted the jangle of voices. the boys had bruises of their own to nurse, and they had scant sympathy for riley, and they told him so.
lance went into the house. he supposed he would have to replace riley's clothes, which he did, very matter-of-factly and without any comment whatever, restitution being in this case a mere matter of sorting out three suits of his own underwear, which were much better than riley's, and placing them on the cook's bed.
"that you, lance? where in the world have you been all this while? i came mighty near going gunning after the man that stole my team, let me tell you--and i would have, if tom hadn't found your horse tied up to the fence and guessed you'd gone to take mary hope home. but i must say, honey, you never followed any short cut!"
this was much easier than lance had expected, so he made shift to laugh, though it hurt his lip cruelly. "had to take her to jumpoff, belle. then i had to clean up that crowd of toughs that--"
"you cleaned up tom's leavin's, then!" belle made grim comment through lance's closed door. "i didn't think there was enough left of 'em to lick, by the time our boys got through. haven't you been to bed yet, for heaven's sake!"
"i'm going to bed," mumbled lance, "when i've had a bath and a meal. and to-morrow, belle, i think i'll hit the trail for 'frisco. hope you don't mind if i leave a few days early. i've got to stop off anyway to see a fellow in reno i promised--any hot water handy?"
there was a perceptible pause before belle answered, and then it was not about the bath water. she would not have been belle lorrigan if she had permitted a quiver in her voice, yet it made lance thoughtful.
"honey, i don't blame you for going. i expect we are awful rough--and you'd notice it, coming from civilized folks. but--you know, don't you, that the lorrigans never spoiled your party for you? it--it just happened that the jumpoff crowd brought whisky out from town. we tried to make it pleasant--and it won't happen again--"
"bless your heart!" clad with superb simplicity in a bathrobe, lance appeared unexpectedly and gathered her into his arms. "if you think i'm getting so darn civilized i can't stay at home, take a look at me! by heck, belle, i'll bet there isn't a man in the whole black rim that got as much fun out of that scrap as i did! but i've got to go." he patted her reassuringly on the head, laid his good cheek against hers for a minute and turned abruptly away into his own room. he closed the door and stood absent-mindedly feeling his swollen hand. "i've got to go," he repeated under his breath. "i might get foolish if i stayed. darned if i'll make a fool of myself over any girl!"
about a piano
in the lazy hour just after a satisfying dinner, lance stood leaning over an end of the piano, watching belle while she played--he listened and smoked a cigarette and looked as though he hadn't a thing on his mind.
"i remember you used to sing that a lot for the little douglas girl," he observed idly. "she used to sit and look at you--my word, but her eyes were the bluest, the lonesomest eyes i ever saw! she seemed to think you were next to angels when you sang. i saw it in her face, but i was too much of a kid then to know what it was." he lighted a fresh cigarette, placed it between belle's lips so that she need not stop playing while she smoked, and laughed as if he were remembering something funny.
"she always looked so horrified when she saw you smoking," he said. "and so adoring when you sang, and so lonesome when she had to ride away. she was a queer kid--and she's just as unexpected now--just as scotch. didn't you find her that way, dad?"
"she was scotch enough," tom mumbled from his chair by the fire. "humpin' hyenas! she was like handlin' a wildcat!"
"the poor kid never did have a chance to be human," said belle, and ceased playing for a moment. "good heavens, how she did enjoy the two hours i gave her at the piano! she's got the makings of a musician, if she could keep at it."
"we-ell--" having artfully led belle to this point, lance quite as artfully edged away from it. "you gave her all the chance you could. and she ought to be able to go on, if she wants to. i suppose old scotty's human enough to get her something to play on."
"him? human!" tom shifted in his chair. "if pianos could breed and increase into a herd, and he could ship a carload every fall, scotty might spend a few dollars on one."
"it's a darned shame," belle exclaimed, dropping her fingers to the keys again. "mary hope just starves for everything that makes life worth living. and that old devil--"
"say--don't make me feel like a great, overgrown money-hog," lance protested. "a girl starving for music, because she hasn't a piano to play on. and a piano costs, say, three or four hundred dollars. of course, we've got the money to buy one--i suppose i could dig up the price myself. i was thinking i'd stake our schoolhouse to a library. that's something it really needs. but a piano--i wish you hadn't said anything about starving. i know i'd hate to go hungry for music, but--"
"well, humpin' hyenas! i'll buy the girl a piano. i guess it won't break the outfit to pay out a few more dollars, now we've started. we're outlaws, anyway--might as well add one more crime to the list. only, it don't go to the douglas shack--it goes into the schoolhouse. lance, you go ahead and pick out some books and ship 'em on to the ranch, and i'll see they get over there. long as we've started fixin' up a school, we may as well finish the job up right. by henry, i'll show the black rim that there ain't anything small about the lorrigans, anyway!"
"dad, i think you're showin' yourself a real sport," lance laughed. "we-ell, if you're game to buy a piano, i'm game to buy books. we staked black rim to a school, so we'll do the job right. and by the way, belle, if you're going to get me to jumpoff in time for that evening train, don't you think it's about time you started?"
that is how it happened that mary hope walked into the schoolhouse one monday and found a very shiny new piano standing across one corner of the room where the light was best. on the top was a pile of music. in another corner of the room stood a bookcase and fifty volumes; she counted them in her prim, frugal way that she had learned from her mother. they were books evidently approved by some board of education for school libraries, and did not interest her very much. not when a piano stood in the other corner.
she was early, so she opened it and ran her fingers over the keys. she knew well enough who had brought it there, and her mouth was pressed into a straight line, her eyes were troubled.
the lorrigans--always the lorrigans! why did they do these things when no one expected goodness or generosity from them? why had they built the schoolhouse--and then given a dance where every one got drunk and the whole thing ended in a fight? every one said it was the lorrigans who had brought the whisky. some one told her they had a five-gallon keg of it in the shed behind the schoolhouse, and she thought it must be true, the way all the men had acted. and why had they burned the whipple shack and all the school books, so that she could not have school until more books were bought?--an expense which the swedes, at least, could ill afford.
why had lance taken her to jumpoff, away from the fighting, and then gone straight to the saloon and gotten so drunk that he fought every one in town before he left in the morning? why had he never come near her again? and now that he was back in california, why did he ignore her completely, and never send so much as a picture postal to show that he gave her a thought now and then?
mary hope would not play the piano that day. she was more stern than usual with her pupils, and would not so much as answer them when they asked her where the piano and all the books had come from. which was a foolish thing to do, since the four boyle children were keen enough to guess, and sure to carry the news home, and to embellish the truth in true range-gossip style.
mary hope fully decided that she would have the piano hauled back to the lorrigans. later, she was distressed because she could think of no one who would take the time or the trouble to perform the duty, and a piano she had to admit is not a thing you can tie behind the cantle of your saddle, or carry under your arm. the books were a different matter. they were for the school. but the piano--well, the piano was for mary hope douglas, and mary hope douglas did not mean to be patronized in this manner by lance lorrigan or any of his kin.
but she was a music-hungry little soul, and that night after she was sure that the children had ridden up over the basin's brim and were out of hearing, mary hope sat down and began to play. when she began to play she began to cry, though she was hardly conscious of her tears. she seemed to hear lance lorrigan again, saying, "don't be lonely, you girl. take the little pleasant things that come--" she wondered, in a whispery, heart-achey way, if he had meant the piano when he said that. if he had meant--just a piano, and a lot of books for school!
the next thing that she realized was that the light was growing dim, and that her throat was aching, and that she was playing over and over a lovesong that had the refrain:
"come back to me, sweetheart, and love me as before-- come back to me, sweetheart, and leave me nevermore!"
which was perfectly imbecile, a song she had always hated because of its sickly sentimentality. she had no sweetheart, and having none, she certainly did not want him back. but she admitted that there was a certain melodious swing to the tune, and that her fingers had probably strayed into the rhythm of it while she was thinking of something totally different.
the next day she played a little at noontime for the children, and when school was over she played for two hours. and the next day after that slipped away--she really had meant to ride over to the aj, or send a note by the children, asking jim boyle if he could please remove the piano and saying that she felt it was too expensive a gift for the school to accept from the lorrigans.
on the third day she really did send a prim little note to jim boyle, and she received a laconic reply, wholly characteristic of the black rim's attitude toward the devil's tooth outfit.
"take all you can git and git all you can without going to jale. that's what the lorrigans are doing, yrs truly,
"j. a. boyle."
it was useless to ask her father. she had known that all along. when alexander douglas slipped the collars up on the necks of his horses, he must see where money would be gained from the labor. and there was no money for the douglas pocket in hauling a piano down the devil's tooth ridge.
but the whole black rim was talking about it. mary hope felt sure that they were saying ill-natured things behind her back. never did she meet man or woman but the piano was mentioned. sometimes she was asked, with meaning smiles, how she had come to stand in so well with the devil's tooth. she knew that they were all gossiping of how lance lorrigan had taken her home from the dance, with belle lorrigan's bronco team. she had been obliged to return a torn coat to mrs. miller, and to receive her own and a long lecture on the wisdom of choosing one's company with some care. she had been obliged to beg mrs. miller not to mention the matter to her parents, and the word had gone round, and had reached mother douglas--and you can imagine how pleasant that made home for mary hope.
because she was lonely, and no one seemed willing to take it away, she kept the piano. she played it, and while she played she wept because the rim folk simply would not understand how little she wanted the lorrigans to do things for her. and then, one day, she hit upon a plan of redeeming herself, for regaining the self-respect she felt was slipping from her with every day that the piano stood in the schoolhouse.
she would give a series of dances--they would be orderly, well-behaved dances, with no refreshments stronger than coffee and lemonade!--and she would sell tickets, and invite every one she knew, and beg them to come and help to pay for the school piano.
even her mother approved that plan, though she did not approve dances. "but the folk are that sinfu' they canna bide wi' any pleasure save the hoppin' aboot wi' their arms around the waist of a woman," she sighed. "a church social wad be far more tae my liking, hope--if we had only a church!"
"well, since there isn't any church, and people won't go to anything but a dance, i shall have to get the money with dances," mary hope replied with some asperity. the subject was beginning to wear her nerves. "pay for it i shall, if it takes all my teacher's salary for five years! i wish the lorrigans had minded their own business. i've heard nothing but piano ever since it came there. i hate the lorrigans! sometimes i almost hate the piano."
"ye shud hae thought on all that before ye accepit a ride home wi' young lance, wi' a coat ye didna own on your back, and disobedience in your heart. 'tis the worst of them a' ye chose to escort ye, hope, and if he thought he could safely presume to gi' ye a present like yon piano, ye hae but yersel' tae blame for it."
"he didn't give it!" cried mary hope, her eyes ablaze with resentment. "he wasna here when it came. i havena heard from him and i dinna want to hear from him. it was belle lorrigan gave the piano, as i've said a million times. and i shall pay for it--"
"not from your ain pocket will ye pay. ye can give the dance--and if ye make it the fourth of july, with a picnic in the grove, and a dance in the schoolhouse afterwards, 'tis possible jeanie may come up from pocatello wi' friends--and twa dollars wad no be too much to ask for a day and a night of entertainment."
"well, mother! when you do--" mary hope bit her tongue upon the remainder of the sentence. she had very nearly told her mother that when she did choose to be human she had a great head for business.
it was a fine, practical idea, and mary hope went energetically about its development. she consulted mrs. kennedy. mrs. kennedy also had friends in pocatello, and she obligingly gave the names of them all. she strongly advised written invitations, with a ticket enclosed and the price marked plainly. she said it was a crying shame the way the lorrigans had conducted their dance, and that mary hope ought to be very careful and not include any of that rough bunch in this dance.
"look how that young devil, lance lorrigan, abused my bill, right before everybody!" she cited, shifting her youngest child, who was teething, to her hip that she might gesticulate more freely. "and look how they all piled into our crowd and beat 'em up! great way to do--give a dance and then beat up the folks that come to it! and look at what lance done right here in town--as if it wasn't enough, what they done out there! bill's got a crick in his back yet, where lance knocked him over the edge of a card table. you pay 'em for the piano, hope; i'll help yuh scare up a crowd. but don't you have none of the lorrigans, or there'll be trouble sure!"
mary hope flushed. "i could hardly ask the lorrigans to come and help pay for their own present," she pointed out in her prim tone. "i had never intended to ask the lorrigans."
"well, maybe not. but if you did ask them, i know lots of folks that wouldn't go a step--and my bill's one," said mrs. kennedy.
so much depends upon one's point of view. black rim gossip, which persisted in linking mary hope's name with lance lorrigan, grinned among themselves while they mentioned the piano, the schoolhouse, and the library as evidence of lance's being "stuck on her." the boyle children had frequently tattled to mary hope what they heard at home. lance had done it all because he was in love with her.
denial did not mend matters, even if mary hope's pride had not rebelled against protesting that the gossip was not true. lance lorrigan was not in love with her. over and over she told herself so, fiercely and with much attention to evidence which she considered convincing. only twice she had seen him in the two weeks of his visit. once he had come to mend the lock his father had broken, and he had taken her home from the dance because of the fighting. never had he made love to her.... here she would draw a long breath and wonder a little, and afterwards shake her head and say to herself that he thought no more of her than of jennie miller. he--he just had a way with him.
mary hope's point of view was, i think, justifiable. leaving out the intolerable implication that lance had showered benefits upon her, she felt that the lorrigans had been over-generous. the schoolhouse and the books might be accepted as a public-spirited effort to do their part. but the piano, since it had not been returned, must be paid for. and it seemed to mary hope that the lorrigans themselves would deeply resent being invited to a dance openly given for the purpose of raising money to repay them. it would never do; she could not ask them to come.
moreover, if the lorrigans came there would be trouble, whether there was whisky or not. at the house-warming dance the lorrigans had practically cleaned out the crowd and sent them home long before daylight. there had been no serious shooting--the lorrigans had fought with their fists and had somehow held the crowd back from the danger-line of gun-play. but mary hope feared there would be a killing the next time that the jumpoff crowd and the lorrigans came together.
she tried to be just, but she had heard only one side of the affair,--which was not the lorrigan side. whispers had long been going round among the black rim folk; sinister whispers that had to do with cattle and horses that had disappeared mysteriously from the rim range. mary hope could not help hearing the whispers, could not help wondering if underneath them there was a basis of truth. her father still believed, in spite of tom's exoneration, that his spotty yearling had gone down the gullets of devil's tooth men. she did not know, but it seemed to her that where every one hinted at the same thing, there must be some truth in their hints.
all of which proves, i think, that mary hope's point of view was the only one that she could logically hold, living as she did in the camp of the enemy; having, as she had, a delicate sense of propriety, and wanting above all things to do nothing crude and common. as she saw it, she simply could not ask any of the lorrigans to her picnic and dance on the fourth of july.
the lorrigan viewpoint
i have said that much depends upon one's point of view. mary hope's viewpoint was not shared by the devil's tooth. they had one of their own, and to them it seemed perfectly logical, absolutely justifiable.
they heard all about the fourth of july picnic and dance, to be held at cottonwood spring and in the schoolhouse of their own building. immediately they remembered that cottonwood spring was on lorrigan land, that lorrigan money had paid for the material that went into the schoolhouse, that lorrigan labor had built it, lorrigan generosity had given it over to the public as represented by mary hope douglas and the children who came to her to be taught. in their minds loomed the fact that lorrigan money had bought books for the school, and that tom lorrigan himself had paid close to four hundred dollars for the piano.
they heard that invitations were being sent broadcast, that a crowd was coming from pocatello, from lava, from jumpoff--invited to come and spend a day and night in merry-making. yet no invitation came to the devil's tooth ranch, not a word was said to them by mary hope, not a hint that they were expected, or would be welcome.
belle met mary hope in the trail one day, just a week before the fourth. mary hope was riding home from school; belle was driving out from jumpoff. it is the custom of the outland places for acquaintances to stop for a bit of friendly conversation when they meet, since meetings are so far between. but, though belle slowed the pintos to a walk, mary hope only nodded, said, "how do you do," and rode on.
"she looked guilty," belle reported wrathfully to tom and the boys at the supper table. "guilty as sin. she seemed to be afraid i was going to ask her if i couldn't come to her dance. the little fool! does she think for a minute i'd go? she hasn't so much as thanked you for that piano, tom. she hasn't said one word."
"well, i didn't put my name and ad-dress on it," tom palliated the ingratitude while he buttered a hot biscuit generously. "and there wasn't any name on the books to show who bought 'em. maybe she thinks--"
"i don't care what she thinks! it's the way she acts that counts. everybody in jumpoff has got invitations to her picnic and dance. they say it's to pay us for the piano--and they think she's doing some wonderful stunt. and we're left out in the cold!"
"we never was in where it was right warm, since i can remember," said al. "except when we made it warm ourselves."
"sam pretty cow was saying yesterday--" and duke repeated a bit of gossip that had a gibe at the lorrigans for its point. "he got it over to hitchcocks. it come from the douglases. i guess mary hope don't want nothing of us--except what she can get out of us. we been a good thing, all right--easy marks."
duke had done the least for her and therefore felt qualified to say the most. his last sentence did its work. tom pulled his eyebrows together, drew his lip between his teeth and leaned back in his chair, thinking deeply, his eyes glittering between his half-closed lids.
"easy marks, ay?" he snorted. "the lorrigans have been called plenty of things, fur back as i can remember, but by the humpin' hyenas, they never was called easy marks before!"
that was tom's last comment on the subject. belle, not liking the look on his face, because she knew quite well what it portended, passed him two kinds of preserves and changed the subject. al and duke presently left for the bunk house. mary hope's party and her evident intention to slight the lorrigans was not mentioned again for days.
but tom's wrath was smoldering. he was not hasty. he waited. he himself met mary hope in the trail one day, lifted his hat to her without a word and rode on. mary hope let him go with a chilly nod and a murmured greeting which was no more than an empty form. certainly she did not read tom's mind, did not dream that he was thinking of the piano,--and from an angle that had never once presented itself to her.
so, now that you see how both were justified in their opinions, as formed from different points of view, let me tell you what happened.
mary hope had her picnic, with never a thunderstorm to mar the day. which is unusual, since a picnic nearly always gets itself rained upon. she had sent out more than a hundred invitations--tickets two dollars, please--and there were more who invited themselves and had to be supplied with tickets cut hastily out of pasteboard boxes that had held sandwiches.
mary hope was jubilant. mother douglas, as official hostess, moved here and there among the women who fussed over the baskets and placated with broken pieces of cake their persistent offspring. mother douglas actually smiled, though her face plainly showed that it was quite unaccustomed to the expression, and tilted the smile downward at the corners. mother douglas was a good woman, but she had had little in her life to bring smiles, and her habitual expression was one of mournful endurance.
it was sultry, and toward evening the mosquitoes swarmed out of the lush grass around the spring and set the horses stamping and moving about uneasily. but it was a very successful picnic, with all the chatter, all the gourmandizing, all the gossip, all the childish romping in starched white frocks, all the innocuous pastimes that one expects to find at picnics.
mary hope wondered how in the world they were all going to find room inside the schoolhouse to dance. she had been frugal in the matter of music, dreading to spend any money in hiring professional musicians, lest she might not have enough people to justify the expense. now she wished nervously that she had done as lance lorrigan had done, and brought musicians from lava. of course, there had been no piano when lance gave his party, which was different. she herself meant to play, and art miller had brought his fiddle, and jennie had volunteered to "chord" with him. but, mary hope felt much nervous apprehension lest these pocatello and lava people should think it was just scotch stinginess on her part.
late in the afternoon a few of the ranchers rode hastily homeward to "do the chores," but the lava and pocatello crowd remained, and began to drift up to the schoolhouse and drum on the piano that was actually going to pay for itself and free mary hope's pride from its burden.
by sundown a dozen energetic couples were waltzing while a pocatello dentist with a stiff, sandy pompadour chewed gum and played loudly, with much arm movement and very little rhythm; so very little rhythm that the shuffling feet frequently ceased shuffling, and expostulations rose high above his thunderous chords.
by dusk the overworked ranch women had fed the last hungry mouth and put away the fragments of home-baked cakes and thick sandwiches, and were forming a solid line of light shirtwaists and dark skirts along the wall. the dance was really beginning.
as before, groups of men stood around outside and smoked and slapped at mosquitoes--except that at lance's party there had been no mosquitoes to slap--and talked in undertones the gossip of the ranges. if now and then the name of lorrigan was mentioned, there was no lorrigan present to hear. at intervals the "floor manager" would come to the door and call out numbers: "number one, and up to and including sixteen, git your pardners fer a two-step!" whereupon certain men would pinch out the glow of their cigarettes and grind the stubs into the sod under their heels, and go in to find partners. with that crowd, not all could dance at once; mary hope remembered pridefully that there had been no dancing by numbers at the party lance lorrigan gave.
what a terrible dance that had been! a regular rowdy affair. and this crowd, big as it was, had as yet shown no disposition to rowdyism. it surely did make a difference, thought mary hope, what kind of people sponsored an entertainment. with the devil's tooth outfit as the leaders, who could expect anything but trouble?
then she caught herself thinking, with a vague heaviness in her heart, how lance had taken her away from that other dance; of that long, wonderful, silent ride through the starlight; how careful he had been of her--how tender! but it was only the way he had with him, she later reminded herself impatiently, and smiled over her shoulder at the whirling couples who danced to the music she made; and thought of the money that made her purse heavy as lead, the money that would wipe out her debt to the lorrigans,--to lance, if it really were lance who had bought the piano.
a faint sound came to her through the open window, the rattle of a wagon coming down the hill in the dark. more people were coming to the dance, which meant more money to give to the lorrigans. mary hope smiled again and played faster; so fast that more than one young man shook his head at her as he circled past, and puffed ostentatiously, laughing at the pace she set. she had a wild vision of other dances which she would give--labor day, thanksgiving, christmas, new year's--and pay the lorrigans for everything they had done; for the books, for the schoolhouse, everything. she felt that then, and then only, could she face lance lorrigan level-eyed, cool, calm, feeling herself a match for him.
the rattle of the wagon sounded nearer, circled the yard, came in at the gate. mary hope was giving the dancers the fastest two-step she could play, and she laughed aloud. more people were coming to the dance, and there might not be coffee and sandwiches enough at midnight,--she had over three hundred dollars already.
mary hope looked again into tom's face, looked at belle. her fingers strayed uncertainly over the keys, making discords. she half rose, then sat down again. the room, all at once, seemed very still.
"i'm sorry to disturb yuh," tom said, touching his hat brim and lifting his eyebrows at her, half smiling with his lips pulled to one side, like lance--oh, maddeningly like lance!--"but i've come after the piano."
mary hope gasped. her arms went out instinctively across the keyboard, as if she would protect the instrument from his defaming touch.
"i'll have to ask yuh to move," said tom. "sorry to disturb yuh."
"i--i'm going to pay for it," said mary hope, finding her voice faint and husky. she had an odd sensation that this was a nightmare. she had dreamed so often of the dance and of the lorrigans.
"i paid for it long ago. i bought the piano--i've come after it."
mary hope slid off the stool, stood facing him, her eyes very blue. after all, he was not lance. "you can't have it!" she said. "i won't let you take it. i'm raising money to pay you for it, and i intend to keep it." she reached for her purse, but tom restrained her with a gesture.
"it ain't for sale," he said, with that hateful smile that always made her wonder just what lay behind it. "i own it, and i ain't thinking of selling. here's the shipping bill and the guarantee and all; i brought 'em along to show you, in case you got curious about whose piano it is. you see the number on the bill--86945. you'll find it tallies with the number in the case, if you want to look. pete, ed, john, take it and load it in the wagon."
"well, now, see here! this is an outrage! how much is the darn thing worth, anyway? this crowd is not going to stand by and see a raw deal like this pulled off." it was the pocatello dentist, and he was very much excited.
"you saw a raw deal, and stood for it, when you saw the lorrigans cold-shouldered out of the dance," belle flashed at him. "we've stood for a lot, but this went a little beyond our limit."
"we're not going to stand for anything like this, you know!" another man--also from lava--shouldered his way up to them.
"git outa the way, or you'll git tromped on!" cried pete over his shoulder as he backed, embracing the piano and groping for handholds.
the lava man gripped pete, trying to pull him away. pete kicked back viciously with a spurred heel. the lava man yelled and retreated, limping.
just how it happened, no two men or women afterward agreed in the telling. but somehow the merrymakers, who were merry no longer, went back and back until they were packed solidly at the sides and near the door, a few squeezing through it when they were lucky enough to find room. behind them came four of the devil's tooth men with six-shooters, looking the crowd coldly in the eyes. behind these came the piano, propelled by those whom tom had named with the tone of authority.
the crowd squeezed closer against the wall as the piano went past them. there was not so much noise and confusion as one would expect. then, at the last, slim, overworked, round-shouldered mother douglas, who had done little save pray and weep and work and scold all her life, walked up and slapped belle full on the cheek.
"ye painted jezebel!" she cried, her eyes burning. "long have i wanted to smack ye for your wickedness and the brazen ways of ye--ye painted jezebel!"
blind, dazed with anger, belle struck back.
"don't you touch my mother! shame on you! shame on you all! i didna ask you for your favors, for any gifts--and you gave them and then you come and take them--" this was the voice of mary hope, shrill with rage.
"you gave a dance in a house built for you by the lorrigans, on lorrigan land, and you danced to the music of a lorrigan piano--and the lorrigans were not good enough to be asked to come! get outa my way, hope douglas--and take your mother with you. call me a painted jezebel, will she?"
the piano was outside, being loaded into the wagon, where riley sat on the seat, chewing tobacco grimly and expectorating copiously, without regard for those who came close. outside there was also much clamor of voices. a lantern held high by a devil's tooth man who had a gun in the other, lighted the platform and the wagon beside it.
at the last, tom lorrigan himself went back after the stool, and the room silenced so that his footsteps sounded loud on the empty floor. he looked at mary hope, looked at her mother, looked at the huddled, whispering women, the gaping children. he swung out of his course and slipped one arm around belle and so led her outside, the stool swinging by one leg in the other hand.
"a painted jezebel!" belle said under her breath when they were outside the ring of light. "my god, tom, think of that!"
mary hope had never in her life suffered such humiliation. it seemed to her that she stood disgraced before the whole world, that there was no spot wherein she might hide her shame. her mother was weeping hysterically because she had been "slappit by the painted jezebel" and because aleck was not there to avenge her. the pocatello and lava crowd seemed on the point of leaving, and were talking very fast in undertones that made mary hope feel that they were talking about her. the rattle of the lorrigan wagon hauling the piano away, the click of the horses' feet as the devil's tooth riders convoyed the instrument, made her wince, and want to put her palms over her ears to shut out the sound of it.
but she was scotch, and a douglas. there was no weak fiber that would let her slump before this emergency. she went back to the little platform, stood beside the desk that held the globe and the dictionary and a can of flowers, and rapped loudly with the ruler from the pocatello hardware store. by degrees the room ceased buzzing with excited talk, the shuffling feet stood still.
"i am very sorry," said mary hope clearly, "that your pleasure has--has been interrupted. it seems there has been a misunderstanding about the piano. i thought that i could buy it for the school, and for that reason i gave this dance. but it seems--that--i'm terribly sorry the dance has been spoiled for you, and if the gentlemen who bought tickets will please step this way, i will return your money."
she had to clench her teeth to keep her lips from trembling. her hands shook so that she could scarcely open her handbag. but her purpose never faltered, her eyes were blue and sparkling when she looked out over the crowd. she waited. feet scuffled the bare floor, voices whispered, but no man came toward her.
"i want to return your money," she said sharply, "because without the piano i suppose you will not want to dance, and--"
"aw, the dickens!" cried a big, good-natured cowpuncher with a sun-peeled nose and twinkly gray eyes. "i guess we all have danced plenty without no piano music. there's mouth harps in this crowd, and there's a fiddle. git yore pardners for a square dance!" and under his breath, to his immediate masculine neighbors he added: "to hell with the lorrigans and their piano!"
mary hope could have hugged that cowpuncher who hastily seized her hand and swung her into place as the first couple in the first set.
when the three sets were formed he called the dance figures in a sonorous tone that swept out through the open windows and reached the ears of the lorrigans as they rode away.
"honor yore pardner--and the lady on your left! join eight hands, an' a-circle to the left! break an indian trail home in the indian style, with the lady in the lead! swing the lady behind you once in a while!-- the lady behind you once in a while!-- now your pardner, and go hog wild!"
the fiddle and two mouth harps were scarcely heard above the rhythmic stamping of feet, the loud chant of the caller, who swung mary hope clear of the floor whenever he put his arm around her.
"a--second couple out, and a-cir-cle four! lay-dees do ce do! you swing me, an' i'll swing you-- and we'll all dance in the same ole shoe!
"same four on to the next!--dance the ocean wave! the same ole boys, the same ole trail, watch that possum walk the rail! cir-cle six, and a-do ce do! swing, every one swing, and a--promenade home!"
"who wants a piano? couldn't hear it if yuh' had it!" he cried, while the twelve couples paused breathless. then he wiped his face frankly and thoroughly with his handkerchief, caught mary hope's hand in his, lifted his voice again in his contagious sing-song:
"cir-cle eight, till you get straight! swing them ladies, like swingin' on a gate! left foot up, and-a-right foot down-- make that big foot jar the ground! prom-e-nade! swing yore corner, if you ain't too slow! now yore pardner, and around you go! for the--last time--and a-long time-- you know where, and a-i don't care!"
the dance was saved by the big cowpuncher with the peeling nose and the twinkly gray eyes. mary hope had never seen him before that day, but whenever she looked at him a lump came in her throat, a warm rush of sheer gratitude thrilled her. she did not learn his name--two or three men called him burt, but he seemed to be a stranger in the country. burt saved her dance and kept things moving until the sky was streaked with red and birds were twittering outside in the cottonwoods.
she wanted to thank him, to tell him a little of her gratitude. but when she went to look for him afterwards he was gone, and no one seemed to know just where he belonged. which was strange, when you consider that in the black rim country every one knows everybody.
in the smoking compartment of a pullman car that rocked westward from pocatello two days after the fourth, lance sprawled his big body on a long seat, his head joggling against the dusty window, his mind sleepily recalling, round by round, a certain prize fight that had held him in reno over the fourth and had cost him some money and much disgust. the clicking of the car trucks directly underneath, the whirring of the electric fan over his head, the reek of tobacco smoke seemed to him to last for hours, seemed likely to go on forever. above it all, rising stridently now and then in a disagreeable monotone, the harsh, faintly snarling voice of a man on the opposite seat blended unpleasantly with his dozing discomfort. for a long time the man had been talking, and lance had been aware of a grating quality of the voice, that yet seemed humorous in its utterances, since his two listeners laughed frequently and made brief, profane comment that encouraged the talker to go on. finally, as he slowly returned from the hazy borderland of slumber, lance became indifferently aware of the man's words.
from under the peak of his plaid traveling cap lance lifted his eyelids the length of his black lashes, measured the men with a half-minute survey and closed his eyes again. the face matched the voice. a harsh face, with bold blue eyes, black eyebrows that met over his nose, a mouth slightly prominent, hard and tilted downward at the corners. over the harshness like a veil was spread a sardonic kind of humor that gave attraction to the man's personality. in the monotone of his voice was threaded a certain dry wit that gave point to his observations. he was an automobile salesman, it appeared, and his headquarters were in ogden, and he was going through to shoshone on business connected with a delayed shipment of cars. but he was talking, when lance first awoke to his monologue, of the sagebrush country through which the fast mail was reeling drunkenly, making up time that had been lost because of a washout that had held the train for an hour while two section crews sweated over a broken culvert.
"hard-boiled? say, there's a bunch up there that's never been curried below the knees--and never will be. they pulled off a stunt the fourth that i'll bet ain't ever been duplicated anywhere on earth, and never will be. i was in pocatello, and i went on up with the crowd from there, and got in on the show. and sa-ay, it was some show!
"they've got a feud up there that's rock-bottomed as any feud you ever heard of in kentucky. it's been going on for years, and it'll keep going on till the old folks all die off or move away--or land in the pen. hasn't been a killing in there for years, but that's because they're all so damn tough they know if one starts shooting it'll spread like a prairie fire through dry grass.
"there's an outfit in there--the devil's tooth outfit. far back as the country was settled--well, they say the first lorrigan went up in there to get away from the draft in the civil war, and headed a gang of outlaws that shot and hung more white men and injuns than any outfit in the state--and that's going some.
"they were killers from the first draw. other settlers went in, and had to knuckle under. the devil's tooth gang had the black rim in its fist. father to son--they handed down the disposition--i could tell yuh from here to boise yarns about that outfit.
"now, of course, things have tamed down. as i say, there hasn't been a devil's tooth killing for years. but it's there, you know--it's in the blood. it's all under the surface. they're a good-hearted bunch, but it'll take about four generations to live down the reputation they've got, if they all turned methodist preachers. and," the grating voice paused for a minute, so that one caught the full significance of his hint, "if all yuh hear is true, religion ain't struck the devil's tooth yet. it ain't my business to peddle rumors, and the time's past when you can hang a man on suspicion--but if you read about the devil's tooth outfit some time in the paper, remember i said it's brewing. the present tom lorrigan ain't spending all his time driving his cows to water. he was hauled up a few years ago, on a charge of rustling. an old scotchman had him arrested. tom was cleared--he had the best lawyer in the west--brought him from boise, where they need good lawyers!--and got off clear. and since then he's been laying low. that's the one mistake he's made, in my opinion. he never did a damn thing, never tried to kill the scotchman, never acted up at all. and when you think of the breed of cats he is you'll see yourself that the black rim is setting on a volcano.
"so all this preamble prepares you for the funniest thing i ever saw pulled. but i guess i'm about the only one who saw how funny it was. i know the black rim don't seem to see the joke, and i know the devil's tooth don't.
"you see, it's so big and neighbors are so far apart that there ain't any school district, and a few kids were getting school age, and no place to send 'em. so a couple of families got together and hired the daughter of this old scotchman to teach school. i ain't calling her by name--she's a nice kid, and a nervy kid, and i can see where she thought she was doing the right thing.
"well, she taught in a tumble-down little shack for a while, and one day this tom lorrigan come along, and saw how the girl and the kids were sitting there half froze, and he hazed 'em all home. broke up the school. being a lorrigan, all he'd have to do would be to tell 'em to git--but it made a little stir, all right. the schoolma'am, she went right back the next morning and started in again. like shooing a setting hen off her nest, it was.
"well, next thing they knew, the devil's tooth had built a schoolhouse and said nothing about it. tom's a big-hearted cuss--i know tom--tried to sell him a car, last fall. darn near made it stick, too. i figured that tom lorrigan was maybe ashamed of busting up the school and making talk, so he put up a regular schoolhouse. then one of his boys had been away to college--only one of the outfit that ever went beyond the rim, as far as i know--and he gave a dance; a regular house-warming.
"well, i wasn't at that dance. i wish i had been. they packed in whisky by the barrel. everybody got drunk, and everybody got to fighting. this young rooster from college licked a dozen or so, and then took the schoolma'am and drove clear to jumpoff with her, and licked everybody in town before he left. sa-ay, it musta been some dance, all right!
"then--here comes the funny part. everybody was all stirred up over the lorrigans' dance, and right in the middle of the powwow, blest if the lorrigans didn't buy a brand new piano and haul it to the schoolhouse. they say it was the college youth, that was stuck on the schoolma'am. well, everybody out that way got to talking and gossiping--you know how it goes--until the schoolma'am, just to settle the talk, goes and gives a dance to raise money to pay for the piano. she's all right--i don't think for a minute she's anything but right--and it might have been old tom himself that bought the piano. anyway, she went and sent invitations all around, two dollars per invite, and got a big crowd. had a picnic in the grove, and everything was lovely.
"but sa-ay! she forgot to invite the lorrigans! everybody in the country there, except the devil's tooth outfit. i figure that she was afraid they might rough things up a little--and maybe she didn't like to ask them to pay for something they'd already paid for--but anyway, just when the dance was going good, here came the whole devil's tooth outfit with a four-horse team, and i'm darned if they didn't walk right in there, in the middle of a dance, take the piano stool right out from under the schoolma'am, and haul the piano home! they--"
a loud guffaw from his friends halted the narrative there. before the teller of the tale went on, lance pulled his cap down over his eyes, got up and walked out and stood on the platform.
"they hauled the piano home!" he scowled out at the reeling line of telegraph posts. "they--hauled--that piano--home!"
he lighted a cigar, took two puffs and threw the thing out over the rail. "she didn't ask the lorrigans--to her party. and dad--"
he whirled and went back into the smoking compartment. he wanted to hear more. the seat he had occupied was still empty and he settled into it, his cap pulled over his eyes, a magazine before his face. the others paid no attention. the harsh-voiced man was still talking.
"well, they can't go on forever. they're bound to slip up, soon or late. and now, of course, there's a line-up against them. it's in the blood and i don't reckon they can change--but the country's changing. i know of one man that's in there now, working in the dark, trying to get the goods--but of course, it's not my business to peddle that kind of stuff. i was tickled about the piano, though. the schoolma'am was game. she offered to give us back our two dollars per, but of course nobody was piker enough to take her up on it. we went ahead and had the dance with harmonicas and a fiddle, and made out all right. looks to me like the schoolma'am's all to the good. she's got the dance money--"
it was of no use. lance found he could not listen to that man talking about mary hope. to strike the man on his fish-like, hard-lipped mouth would only make matters worse, so he once more left the compartment and stood in the open doorway of the vestibule just beyond. the train, slowing to a stop at a tank station, jarred to a standstill. in the compartment behind him the man's voice sounded loud and raucous now that the mechanical noises had ceased.
"well, i never knew it to fail--what's in the blood will come out. they've lived there for three generations now. they're killers, thieves at heart--human birds of prey, and it don't matter if it is all under the surface. i say it's there."
at that moment, lance had the hunger to kill, to stop forever the harsh voice that talked on and on of the lorrigans and their ingrained badness. he stepped outside, slamming the door shut behind him. the voice, fainter now, could still be heard. he swung down to the cinders, stood there staring ahead at the long train, counting the cars, watching the fireman run with his oil can and climb into the engine cab. he could no longer hear the voice, but he felt that he must forget it or go back and kill the man who owned it.
in the car ahead a little girl leaned out of the window, her curls whipping across her face. jubilantly she waved her hand at him, shrilled a sweet, "hello-oh. where you goin'? i'm goin' to my grandma's house!"
the rigor left lance's jaw. he smiled, showing his teeth, saw that a brakeman was down inspecting a hot box on the forward truck of that car, and walked along to the window where the little girl leaned and waited, waving two sticky hands at him to hurry.
"hello, baby. i know a grandma that's going to be mighty happy, before long," he said, standing just under the window and looking up at her.
"d'you know my gran'ma? s'e lives in a green house an' s'e's got five--hundred baby kittens for me to see! an' i'm goin' to bring one home wis me--but i do'no which one. d'you like yellow kittens, or litty gray kittens, or black ones?"
gravely lance studied the matter, his eyebrows pulled together, his mouth wearing the expression which had disturbed mary hope when he came to mend the lock on her door.
"i'd take--now, if your grandma has one that's all spotted, you might take that, couldn't you? then some days you'd love the yellow spots, and some days you'd love the black spots, and some days--"
"ooh! and i could call it all the nice names i want to call it!" the little girl pressed her hands together rapturously. "when my kitty's got its yellow-spotty day, i'll call him goldy, and when--"
the engine bell clanged warning, the wheels began slowly to turn.
"ooh! you'll get left and have to walk!" cried the little girl, in big-eyed alarm.
"all right, baby--you take the spotted one!" lance called over his shoulder as he ran. he was smiling when he swung up the steps. no longer did he feel that he must kill the harsh-voiced man.
he went forward to his own section, sat down and stared out of the window. as the memory of the little girl faded he drifted into gloomily reviewing the things he had heard said of his family. were they really pariahs among their kind? outlawed because of the blood that flowed in their veins?
away in the back of his mind, pushed there because the thought was not pleasant, and because thinking could not make it pleasant, had been the knowledge that he was returning to a life with which he no longer seemed to be quite in tune. two weeks had served to show him that he had somehow drifted away from his father and duke and al, that he had somehow come to look at life differently. he did not believe in the harsh man's theory of their outlawry; yet he felt a reluctance toward meeting again their silent measurement of himself, their intangible aloofness.
the harsh-voiced man had dragged it all to the surface, roughly sketching for the delectation of his friends the very things which lance had been deliberately covering from his own eyes. he had done more. he had told things that made lance wince. to humiliate mary hope before the whole black rim, as they had done, to take away the piano which he had wanted her to have--for that lance could have throttled his dad. it was like tom to do it. lance could not doubt that he had done it. he could picture the whole wretchedly cheap retaliation for the slight which mary hope had given them, and the picture tormented him, made him writhe mentally. but he could picture also mary hope's prim disapproval of them all, her deliberate omission of the lorrigans from her list of invited guests, and toward that picture he felt a keen resentment.
the whole thing maddened him. the more, because he was in a sense responsible for it all. just because he had not wanted that lonely look to cloud the blue eyes of her, just because he had not wanted her to be unhappy in her isolation, he had somehow brought to the surface all those boorish qualities which he had begun to hate in his family.
"cheap--cheap as dirt!" he gritted once, and he included them all in the denunciation.
furiously he wished that he had gone straight home, had not stopped in reno for the fight. but on the heels of that he knew that he would have made the trouble worse, had he been at the devil's tooth on the day of the fourth. he would have quarreled with tom, but there was scant hope that he could have prevented the piano-moving. tom lorrigan, as lance had plenty of memories to testify, was not the man whom one could prevent from doing what he set out to do.
at a little junction lance changed to the branch line, still dwelling fiercely upon his heritage, upon the lawless environment in which that heritage of violence had flourished. he was in the mood to live up to the lorrigan reputation when he swung off the train at jumpoff, but no man crossed his trail.
so lance carried with him the full measure of his rage against mary hope and the devil's tooth, when he rode out of jumpoff on a lean-flanked black horse that rolled a wicked eye back at the rider and carried his head high, looking for trouble along the trail.
mary hope has much trouble
mary hope, still taking her own point of view, had troubles in plenty to bear. in her own way she was quite as furious as was lance, felt quite as injured as did the devil's tooth outfit, had all the humiliation of knowing that the black rim talked of nothing but her quarrel with the lorrigans, and in addition had certain domestic worries of her own.
her mother harped continually on the piano quarrel and the indignity of having been "slappit" by the painted jezebel. but that was not what worried mary hope most, for she was long accustomed to her mother's habit of dwelling tearfully on some particular wrong that had been done her. mary hope was worried over her father.
on the day of the fourth he had stayed at home, tinkering up his machinery, making ready for haying that was soon to occupy all his waking hours,--and they would be as many as daylight would give him. he had been doing something to an old mower that should have gone to the junk heap long ago, and with the rusty sickle he had managed to cut his hand very deeply, just under the ball of the thumb. he had not taken the trouble to cleanse the cut thoroughly, but had wrapped his handkerchief around the hand and gone glumly on with his work. now, on the third day, mary hope had become frightened at the discoloration of the wound and the way in which his arm was swelling, and had begged him to let her drive him to jumpoff where he could take the train to lava and a doctor. as might be expected, he had refused to do anything of the kind. he would not spend the time, and he would not spend the money, and he thought that a poultice would draw out the swelling well enough. mary hope had no faith in poultices, and she was on the point of riding to jumpoff and telegraphing for a doctor when her father cannily read her mind and forbade her so sternly that she quailed before him.
there was another thing, which she must do. she must take the money she had gotten from the dance and with it pay tom lorrigan for the schoolhouse, or stop the school altogether. jim boyle, when she had ridden over to the aj to tell him, had said that she could do as she pleased about paying for the schoolhouse; but if she refused to teach his kids, he would get some one else who would. jim boyle seemed to feel no compunctions whatever about accepting favors from the devil's tooth. as to sederson, the swede, he was working for boyle, and did what his boss said. so the matter was flung back upon mary hope for adjustment according to the dictates of her pride or conscience, call it which you will.
her mother advised her to keep the money and buy another piano. but mary hope declared that she would not use the schoolhouse while it was a lorrigan gift; whereupon mother douglas yielded the point grudgingly and told her to send hugh, the gawky youth, to the devil's tooth with the three hundred dollars and a note saying what the money was for. but her father would not permit hugh to go, reiterating feverishly that he needed hugh on the ranch. and with the pain racking him and making his temper something fearful to face, mary hope dared not argue with him.
so she herself set out with her money and her hurt pride and all her troubles, to pay the devil's tooth outfit for the schoolhouse--approximately, since she had only a vague idea of the cost of the building--and then be quit of the lorrigan patronage forever.
it happened that she found tom at home and evidently in a temper not much milder than her father's. two of the devil's tooth men were at the stable door when she rode up, and to them tom was talking in a voice that sent shivers over mary hope when she heard it. not loud and declamatory, like her father's, but with a certain implacable calm that was harder to face than stormy vituperation.
but she faced it, now that she was there and tom had been warned of her coming by coaley, who pointed his ears forward inquiringly when she neared the stable. the two cowpunchers gave tom slanting glances and left, muttering under their breaths to each other as they led their sweaty horses into a farther corral.
tom lifted his hand to his hat brim in mute recognition of her presence, gave her a swift inquiring look and turned coaley into the stable with the saddle on. mary hope took one deep breath and, fumbling at a heavy little bag tied beside the fork of her saddle, plunged straight into her subject.
"i've brought the money i raised at the dance, mr. lorrigan," she said. "since you refused to take it for the piano, i have brought it to pay you for the schoolhouse--with mr. boyle's approval. i have three hundred and twelve dollars. if that is not enough, i will pay you the balance later." she felt secretly rather well satisfied with the speech, which went even better than her rehearsals of it on the way over.
then, having untied the bag, she looked up, and her satisfaction slumped abruptly into perturbation. tom was leaning back against the corral rails, with his arms folded--and just why must he lift his eyebrows and smile like lance? she was going to hand him the bag, but her fingers bungled and she dropped it in the six-inch dust of the trail.
tom unfolded his arms, moved forward a pace, picked up the bag and offered it to her. "you've got the buying fever, looks like to me," he observed coldly. "i haven't got any schoolhouse to sell."
"but you have! you built it, and--"
"i did build a shack up on the hill, awhile back," tom admitted in the same deliberate tone, "but i turned it over to jim boyle and the swede and whoever else wanted to send their kids there to school." since mary hope refused to put out her hand for the bag, tom began very calmly to retie it on her saddle. but she struck his hand away.
"i shall not take the money. i shall pay for the schoolhouse, mr. lorrigan. unless i can pay for it i shall never teach school there another day!" her voice shook with nervous tension. one did not lightly and unthinkingly measure wills with tom lorrigan.
"that's your business, whether you teach school or not," said tom, holding the bag as though he still meant to tie it on the saddle.
"but if i don't they will hire another teacher, and that will drive me away from home to earn money--" mary hope had not in the least intended to say that, which might be interpreted as a bid for sympathy.
"well, belle, she says no strange woman can use that schoolhouse. they might not find anything to teach school in, if they tried that."
"you've got to keep that money." mary hope turned the roman-nosed horse half away, meaning to leave tom there with the money in his hand.
tom reached calmly out and caught the horse by the bridle.
mary hope looked at him, opened her lips to defy him, and instead gave a small sob. her scotch blood chilled at the threat of such wanton destruction of property and money, but it was not that which made her afraid at that moment of tom lorrigan,--held her silent, glaring impotently.
she trembled while he tied the money to the saddle fork again, using a knot she had never seen tied before. she wanted to tell him how much she hated him, how much she hated the whole lorrigan family, how she would die before she ever entered the door of that schoolhouse again unless it was paid for and she could be free of obligation to him.
but when his head was bent, hiding all of his face but the chin, she had a wild fleeting notion that he was lance, and that he would lift his head and smile at her. yet when he lifted his head he was just tom lorrigan, with a hardness in his face which lance did not have, and a glint in his eye that told her his will was inexorable, that he would do exactly what he said he would do, and perhaps more, if she opposed him.
without a word she turned back, crushed under the sense of defeat. useless destruction of property and money did not seem to mean anything at all to a lorrigan, but to her the thought was horrible. she could not endure the thought of what he would do if she refused to use the schoolhouse. much less could she endure the thought of entering the place again while it remained a lorrigan gift.
blindly fighting an hysterical impulse to cry aloud like a child over her hurt, she reined jamie into the shortcut trail of the slide. coming down she had followed the wagon road, partly because the longer trail postponed a dreaded meeting, and partly because jamie, being uncertain in his temper and inclined to panicky spells when things did not go just right with him, could not safely be trusted on the slide trail, which was strange to him.
until she reached the narrow place along the shale side hill she did not realize what trail she was taking. then, because she could not leave the trail and take the road without retracing her steps almost to the stable, she went on, giving jamie an impatient kick with her heel and sending him snorting over the treacherous stuff in a high canter.
"go on and break your neck and mine too, if ye like," she sobbed. "ye needn't think i'll give an inch to you; it's bad enough." when jamie, still snorting, still reckless with his feet, somehow managed to pass over the boulder-strewn stretch without breaking a leg, mary hope choked back the obstreperous lump in her throat and spoke again in a quiet fury of resentment. "burn it he may if he likes; i shall not put my foot again inside a house of the lorrigans!"
whereat jamie threw up his head, shied at a white rock on the steep slope beneath, loped through the sagebrush where the trail was almost level, scrambled up a steep, deep-worn bit of trail, turned the sharp corner of the switch-back and entered that rift in the cap-rock known as the slide.
mary hope had traveled that trail many times on rab, a few years ago. she had always entered the slide with a little thrill along her spine, knowing it for a place where adventure might meet her face to face--where danger lurked and might one day spring out at her. to-day she thought nothing about it until jamie squatted and tried to whirl back. then she looked up and saw adventure, danger and lance lorrigan just ahead, where the slide was steepest.
lance pulled up his hired horse, his thoughts coming back with a jerk him dazed and sick for a second or two, and before the skipper could get around the little table robertson had swung out of the door. a clamor broke out, and men ran aft along the deck as he headed for the rail; but as he laid his hands on it jimmy reeled out of the room beneath the bridge with the blood trickling down his face. the engineer swung himself over, and jimmy, who shook off the skipper's grasp, sped aft with uneven strides and leaped from the taffrail.
the cold of that icy water steadied him when he came up again, and he saw that the stream of tide was carrying the other man down toward the shasta and strained every muscle to come up with him. it was, however, five or six minutes before he did it, and when robertson grappled with him they both went under. jimmy waited, knowing that they must come up again, and when that happened there was a splash of oars close by. then he struck with all his strength at a livid face, and just as he felt himself being drawn down once more an oar grazed his head and a hand grabbed his shoulder.
"lay hold of him!" he gasped, and the boat swayed down level with the water while he and robertson were dragged on board.
"keep still!" said somebody, who struck the latter hard with the pommel of an oar.
then jimmy scrambled to his feet with the water draining from him. "back to the adelaide," he said, "as fast as you can."
it was, however, half an hour later when robertson was once more thrust into the skipper's room, and collapsed, with all the fight gone out of him, on a settee. he seemed to have fallen to pieces physically, but it was evident that his mind was clear, though there was now only abject fear in his eyes.
"well," he said, "what do you want from me?"
jimmy still felt a trifle dazed, and his head was throbbing painfully, but he roused himself with an effort.
"i'll tell you in a minute; but first of all i should like you to realize how you stand," he said. "the oleander is a british ship, vancouver is a canadian town, and if i put the police on to the two men i mentioned they will have a tolerably clear case against you. you needn't expect anything from merril; he will certainly go back on you."
robertson's face grew vindictive. "he held the thing over me, but we never meant to kill the man. he tried to knife one of us, and, anyway, it was his heart that made an end of him. we didn't know until afterward that it was wrong. but go on."
"well," said jimmy dryly, "i'm not going to make a bargain with you, but at the same time i'm not quite sure how far it's my duty to work the case up for the police. in the meanwhile, i want a plain written statement as to your connection with merril."
the man made a sign of acquiescence, though there was malice in his eyes. "i can get even with him, anyway, and it's a sure thing he'd have sent me up out of the way if he could. get me some paper."
jimmy turned to the skipper. "call one of the prospectors. we want an outsider to hear the thing."
a miner was led in, and robertson, who had been handed pen and paper, commenced to write. the skipper read aloud what he had written, and all of them signed it. then jimmy put the document into his pocket, and two seamen led the engineer to his room. early next morning, when the breeze had fallen, a steward roused the skipper.
"i took in mr. robertson's coffee, but his room was empty," he said.
the skipper was on deck in a few minutes, but there was nothing to show what had become of the engineer. the adelaide had, however, now swung with her stern somewhat near the shore, and a man who had kept anchor watch remembered having seen a big siwash canoe slipping out to sea a few hours earlier.
"there was a man in her who didn't look quite like an indian," he said.
"well," said the skipper dryly, "if he's drowned it won't matter. anyway, i'm not going to worry."
an eye for an eye
the shasta lay safely tied up to a buoy in vancouver inlet, and a quartermaster stood at her gangway with instructions to see that no stranger got on board, when jimmy sat talking to his sister and jordan in the room beneath her bridge. it was an hour since she had steamed in, and except for an occasional clinking in her engine-room, where fleming was still busy, there was silence on board her, though the scream of saws and the rattle of freight-car wheels came off faintly across the still water. the two ports were open wide, but none of those who sat in the little room noticed that the light was fading. jordan and eleanor were listening with close attention while jimmy concisely related how he had fallen in with and towed merril's steamer. at last he broke off with an abrupt movement when a splash of oars grew louder.
"another boat!" he said. "we'll have every curious loafer in the city pulling off by and by."
then the voice of the quartermaster reached them as he answered somebody who called to him from the approaching boat.
"no," he said, "you can't see captain wheelock--he's busy. keep her off that ladder."
there was evidently another question asked, and the man answered impatiently: "i can't tell you anything about the adelaide 'cept that she's coming along under easy steam. should be here in a day or two."
jordan glanced at jimmy. "the men you brought down are talking already, and we haven't much time for fixing our program. when do you expect her?"
"i don't exactly know. we came away before she did when the breeze fell, but her second engineer seemed quite confident he could bring her along at seven or eight knots. he wasn't sure whether his high-pressure engine would stand anything more."
then it was significant that both of them looked at eleanor, who had insisted on coming with jordan, and who was apparently waiting to take her part in the discussion. one could have fancied from their faces that they would have preferred to be alone just then and were a trifle uneasy concerning the course their companion might think fit to pursue. she leaned back in her chair watching them, with a little hard smile which seemed to suggest that she knew what they were thinking. still, she said nothing, and jordan spoke again.
"you are sure of the adelaide's skipper and that miner fellow?" he asked. "they wouldn't go back on you if merril tried to buy them off?"
"i think i can be sure of them," said jimmy reflectively. "the skipper is not the kind of man i would take to, but, in some respects, at least, he's straight; and, anyway, he's bitter enough against merril to back us in anything we may decide to do. you see, the man who gets his boat ashore is practically done for nowadays, whether it's his own fault or not; and i fancy we can count on the miner, too. after what those fellows had to go through to get the gold they were bringing home, they're not likely to have much sympathy with merril. in fact, if the others understood how near they came to seeing it go down in the adelaide, it would be a little difficult to keep them from laying hands on him. in any case, there's the engineer's statement--one can't get over that."
eleanor stretched out her hand for the paper, and there was a vindictive sparkle in her eyes as she glanced at it.
"charley," she said with portentous quietness, "it seems to me that the possession of this document places merril absolutely in your hands. you are not afraid to make the utmost use of it?"
jordan glanced at jimmy in a fashion the latter understood. there was something deprecatory in it, and it appeared to suggest that he wished his comrade to realize that he was under compulsion and could not help himself. then he turned to the girl with a certain air of resolution.
"no," he said, "i don't think i am afraid, but i want you to understand that i am manager of the shasta company, and have first of all to consider the interests of my associates, the men who put their money into the concern. there is jimmy, too."
"jimmy!" and eleanor laughed a little, bitter laugh, which had a trace of contempt in it. "pshaw! jimmy's love affairs don't count now. i think he feels that, too. after all, there is a trace of our mother's temper in him if one can awaken it."
she turned and looked at her brother, who closed one hand tightly. "oh, i know; the girl has graciously condescended to smile on you, and no doubt you are almost astonished, as well as grateful, that she should go so far. still, where did the money that made her a dainty lady of station come from? must i tell you that a second time, jimmy?"
she stopped a moment, and gripped the paper hard in firm white fingers. "this is mine. i bought it. you know what it cost me, charley; and what has jimmy done in comparison with that? do you think anything would induce me to spare merril now that i have this in my hands?"
jimmy looked up sharply, and saw the flush of color in her cheek, and that the blood had crept into his comrade's face. his own grew suddenly hot.
"ah!" he said, with a thrill of anger in his voice, "i begin to understand. she got the information you acted on out of that brute, carnforth. you knew that, charley, and you--you countenanced it."
he half rose from his seat with a brown hand stretched out as if to tear the paper from the girl, but while jordan swung around toward him eleanor laughed.
"sit down," she said imperiously, "you simple-minded fool! do you think i would let charley's opinion influence me in an affair of this kind?"
jordan made a gesture of resignation. "she would not," he said. "that's the simple fact. but go on, eleanor--or shall i tell him? anyway, it must be done."
the girl silenced him, and though the next two or three minutes were, perhaps, as unpleasant as any jimmy had ever spent in his life, it was with a certain deep relief that he heard his sister out. before she stopped she held up a white hand.
"once," she said, "once only, he held my wrist. that was all, jimmy; but i feel it left a mark. if it could be removed that way, i would burn it out. now you know what the thing cost me--but i did it."
the men would not look at each other, and if eleanor had left them then it would have been a relief to both. her suppressed passion had stirred and shaken them, and they realized that the efforts they had made were, after all, not to be counted in comparison with what the girl had done.
it was jordan who spoke first. "well," he said, with the air of one anxious to get away from a painful subject, "we have got to be practical. the question is, how are we to strike merril? seems to me, in the first case, we'll hand him a salvage claim. i'll fix it at half her value, anyway, and he'll never fight us when he hears of the engineer's statement. so far as i know, he can't recover under his policy, and we could head him off from going to the underwriters if he can. the next point is--are the miner fellow and the adelaide's skipper likely to take any independent action on their own account? i don't think that's very probable."
"nor do i," said jimmy. "it isn't wise of a skipper to turn around on a man like merril, unless it's in a court where he has the law behind him, and the prospector would scarcely attempt to do anything alone. besides, without the document to produce, they would have very little to go upon--and what is more to the purpose, both of them promised to let me handle the thing."
jordan nodded as if satisfied. "that," he said, "makes it easier. we're going to collect our money on the salvage claim, and when merril has raised it he'll have strained his resources, so he won't count very much as an opponent of the shasta company. the man's crippled already."
the fact that his comrade was apparently not desirous of proceeding to extremities afforded jimmy a vast relief, but it vanished suddenly when eleanor broke in.
"can't you understand that the affair must be looked at from another point of view as well as the commercial one?" she asked.
it was a difficult question, and when neither of them answered her the girl went on:
"it doesn't seem to occur to you that what you suggest amounts to covering up a conspiracy and allowing a scoundrel to escape his deserts," she said. "there is another point, too. you will have to inform the police about the robertson affair, jimmy, and his connection with merril is bound to appear when they lay hands on him."
"that," said jimmy, with a trace of dryness, "is hardly likely. the man will be heading for the diggings by this time if he isn't drowned, and there's very little probability of the police getting hold of him there."
eleanor laughed, a very bitter laugh, as she fixed her eyes on him.
"so you are quite content with charley's plan--to extort so many dollars from merril?" she said. "it has one fatal defect; it does not satisfy me."
"now----" commenced jordan, but the girl checked him with a gesture.
"i want him crushed, disgraced, imprisoned, ruined altogether."
"anyway, i owe it to my associates to make sure of the money first."
"and after that you feel you have to stand by jimmy?"
the man winced when she flung the question at him; but when he did not answer she appeared to rouse herself for an effort, leaning forward a trifle with a gleam in her eyes and the red flush plainer in her cheek.
"still," she said, "if jimmy is what i think him, he will not ask it of you. i want him to go back six years to the time he came home--from portland, wasn't it, jimmy?--and stayed a few weeks with us. was there any shadow upon us then, though your father was getting old? i want you to remember him as he was when you went away, a simple, kindly, abstemious, and fearless man. it surely can't be very hard."
jimmy face grew furrowed, and he set his lips tight; but he said nothing, and the girl went on:
"it was not so the next time you came back. something had happened in the meanwhile. the bondholder had laid his grasp on him. he was weakening under it, and the lust of drink was crushing the courage out of him. still, you must remember that it was his one consolation. then came the awful climax of the closing scene. i had to face it with charley--you were away--but you must realize the horror it brought me."
jimmy's face was grim and white, but while he sat very still his comrade rose resolutely.
"eleanor," he said, "if you attempt to recall another incident of that horrible night i shall carry you by main force out of the room."
the girl turned to him with a little gesture. "then i suppose i must submit. you have a man's strength and courage in you--or i think you would be afraid to marry me; but one could fancy that jimmy has none. the daughter of the man who ruined his father has condescended to be gracious to him. still, i have a little more to say. she is his daughter, his flesh and blood, jimmy, and his pitiless, hateful nature is in her. that is the woman you wish to marry. the mere notion of it is horrible. still, you can't marry her, jimmy. you must crush her father, and drag him to his ruin. after all, there is a little manhood somewhere in you. you will take the engineer's statement to the underwriters and the police. you must--you have to."
jimmy stood up slowly, with the veins swollen on his forehead and a gray patch in his cheek. "eleanor," he said hoarsely, "i believe there is a devil in you; but i think you are right in this. jordan, will you hand me that paper?"
he stood still for at least a minute when his comrade passed it to him, and the girl watched him with a little gleam in her eyes. his face was furrowed, and looked worn as well as very hard. there was not a sound in the little room, and the splash of the ripples on the shasta's plates outside came in through the open ports with a startling distinctness. jordan felt that the tension was becoming almost unendurable. then jimmy turned slowly toward his sister, and though the pain was still in his face it had curiously changed. there was a look in his blue eyes that sent a thrill of consternation through her. they were very steady, and she knew that she had failed.
"i can't do it. it was not the girl's fault, and she shall not be dragged through the mire," he said. then he looked at his comrade. "what i am going to do may cost you a good deal of money, and my appointment to the shasta is, of course, in your hands. i am going straight from here to merril's house."
"well," said jordan simply, "it may cost us both a good deal, but i guess i must face it. if i were fixed as you are, that is just what i should do."
jimmy said nothing, but he went out swiftly, and eleanor turned to her companion with a very bitter smile when the door closed behind him.
"ah!" she said, "has that girl beguiled you too? you had merril in your hands, and instead of crushing him you are going to smooth his troubles away."
"no," said jordan dryly, "i don't quite think jimmy will do that. in some respects, i understand him better than you do. he wants to save the girl all the sorrow and disgrace he can, but he is going to run her father out of this city. jimmy's not exactly clever, and it's quite likely he'll mix up things when he meets merril; but, for all that, i guess he'll carry out just what he means to do. somehow, he generally does. that's the kind of man he is."
he stopped a moment, and a smile crept into his eyes. "i don't know what the result will be, and it may be the break-up of the shasta company; but i can't blame jimmy."
"ah!" said eleanor, "you, the man i counted on, are turning against me as well as my brother."
then the sustaining purpose seemed to die out of her, and she sank back suddenly in her chair with her face hidden from him. jordan crossed the little room, and stooping beside her slipped an arm about her.
"my dear," he said, "you can count on me always and in everything but this. it's because of what you are to me that i'm standing by jimmy."
merril was not in his house when jimmy reached it, but it appeared that he was expected shortly, and the latter, who resolved to wait for him, was shown into a big artistically furnished room. he sat there at least ten minutes, alone and grim in face, with a growing disquietude, for his surroundings had their effect on him. the house was built of wood, but expense had not been spared, and those who have visited the western cities know how beautiful a wooden dwelling can be made. jimmy looked out through the open windows on to a wide veranda framed with a slender colonnade of wooden pillars supporting fretted arches of lace-like delicacy. the floor of the room, which was choicely parquetted in cunningly contrasted wood, also caught his eye, and there were indian-sewn rugs of furs on it of a kind that he knew was rarely purchased in the north, except on behalf of russian princes and american railroad kings. the furniture, he fancied by the timber, was canadian-made, but it had evidently been copied from artistic european models; and though he was far from being a connoisseur in such things, they had all a painful significance to him just then.
they suggested wealth and taste and luxury; and it seemed only fitting that the woman he loved should have such a dwelling, while he realized that it was his hand which must deprive her of all the artistic daintiness to which she had grown accustomed and no doubt valued. he, a steamboat skipper of low degree, had, like blind samson, laid a brutal grasp upon the pillars of the house, and he could feel the trembling of the beautiful edifice. this would have afforded him a certain grim satisfaction, had it not been for the fact that it was impossible to tell whether the woman he would have spared every pain might not be overwhelmed amid the ruin when he exerted his strength. it must be exerted. in that he could not help himself.
while he sat there with a hard, set face, she came in, dressed, as he realized, in harmony with her surroundings. her gracious patrician quietness and her rich attire troubled him, and he felt, in spite of all eleanor had said, that it would be a vast relief if he could abandon altogether the purpose that had brought him there, though to do so would, it was evident, set the girl further apart from him than ever, since her father's station naturally stood as a barrier between them. still, he remembered what he owed the men who had sent him on board the shasta--jordan, forster, old leeson, and two or three more; he could not turn against them now.
anthea stood still just inside the door, looking at him half-expectant, but with something that was suggestive of apprehension in her manner, and jimmy felt the hot blood creep into his face when he moved quietly forward and kissed her. in view of what he had to do, it would, he felt, have been more natural if she had shrunk from him in place of submitting to his caress. she appeared to recognize the constraint that was upon him, for she turned away and sat down a little distance from him.
"jimmy," she said, "i'm glad to see you back. i have been lonely without you--and a little uneasy. indeed, though i don't know exactly why, i am anxious now."
then she looked at him steadily. "it is the first time you have been here. something unusual must have brought you. jimmy, is it war?"
the man made a deprecatory gesture. "i'm afraid it is," he said. "i don't think there can be any compromise."
"ah!" said the girl, with a start, "you don't look like a man who has come to offer terms."
jimmy was still standing, and he leaned somewhat heavily on the back of a chair. "i have to do something that i shrink from, but it must be done. if there were no other reason, i daren't go back on the men who have confidence in me; that is--not altogether, though in a way--i am now betraying them. anthea, you will not let this thing stand between us?"
"no;" and the girl's voice was steady, though a trifle strained. "at least, not always. still, i have felt that some day i should have to choose whom i should hold to--my father or you. it is very hard to face that question, jimmy."
"yes," said jimmy gravely; "i am afraid you must choose to-night. you know how much i want you, but i have sense enough to recognize that i may bring trouble on both of us if i urge you to do what you might afterward regret."
anthea said nothing for almost a minute, and because of the restraint he had laid upon himself jimmy understood the cost of her quietness. it seemed necessary that both should hold themselves in hand. then she turned to him again.
"you are quite sure there can be no compromise?"
"it is for many reasons out of the question. in fact, i think the decisive battle will be fought to-night. i have strained every point to make it easier for you, or i should not have come at all, and it is very likely that my comrades will discard me when they hear what i have done. i am willing to face their anger, but, to some extent, at least, i must keep my bargain with them."
he moved a pace or two, and stood close by her chair looking down at her. "if you understood everything, you would not blame me."
anthea glanced at him a moment, and he fancied that a shiver ran through her. "i do not blame you now, though it is all a little horrible. i cannot plead with you, and if i did i see that you would not listen. you must do what you feel you have to."
neither of them spoke for a while, though jimmy felt the tension was almost unendurable. it was evident that the girl felt it too, for he could see the signs of strain in her face. so intent were they that neither heard the door open, and jimmy turned with a little start when the sound of a footstep reached them. merril was standing not far away, little, portly, and immaculately dressed, regarding them with an inscrutable face.
"i understand you wish to see me, mr. wheelock," he said. "anthea, you will no doubt allow us a few minutes."
the girl rose and moved toward the door, but before she went out she turned for a moment and glanced at jimmy. then it closed softly, and he saw that merril was regarding him with a sardonic smile.
"i heard that you had made my daughter's acquaintance, but i was not aware that it had gone as far as i have some grounds for supposing now," he said.
"that," said jimmy quietly, "is a subject i may mention by and by. in the meanwhile i have something to say that concerns you at least as closely. as it has a bearing on the other question, we might discuss it first."
"i am at your service for ten minutes;" and merril pointed to a chair.
jimmy sat down, but said nothing for a few moments. apart from the trouble that he must bring upon anthea, he felt that it was a big and difficult thing he had undertaken. he was a steamboat skipper, and the man in front of him one skilled in every art of commercial trickery whose ability was recognized in that city. still, he felt curiously steady and sure of himself, for jimmy, like other simple-minded men, as a rule appeared to advantage when forced suddenly to face a crisis. he felt, in fact, much as he had done when he stood grimly resolute on the shasta's bridge while the adelaide, sheering wildly, dragged her toward the spouting surf. then he turned to merril.
"i called on you once before to make a request," he said.
"and your errand is much the same now, though one could fancy that you feel you have something to back it?" his companion suggested dryly.
"no," said jimmy, "i have nothing to ask you for this time. instead, i am simply going to mention certain facts, and leave you to act on the information in the only way open to you; that is, to get out of vancouver as soon as possible. i am giving you the opportunity in order to save miss merril the pain of seeing you prosecuted. you are in our hands now."
merril scarcely moved a muscle. "you are prepared to make that assurance good?"
"i am;" and jimmy's voice had a little ring in it. "if you will give me your attention i'll try to do it. you have no news of the adelaide yet, and, to commence with, you will have to face the fact that she is not on the rocks. she was just ready to steam south with a derangement of her high-pressure engine when i last saw her."
though his companion's face was almost expressionless, jimmy fancied that this shot had reached its mark, and he proceeded to relate what had happened since he fell in with the adelaide. he did it with some skill, for this was a subject with which he was at home, and he made the feelings of her skipper and second engineer perfectly clear. then, though he had not mentioned robertson's confession, he sat still, wondering at merril's composure.
"it sounds probable," said the latter, with a little smile. "you expect the skipper and the second engineer to bear you out? no doubt they promised, but when they get here the thing will wear another aspect. in fact, in all probability it will look too big for them. you see, they have merely put a certain construction upon one or two occurrences. it's quite likely they will be willing to admit that it is, after all, the wrong one."
"since we intend to claim half the value of the adelaide, they would have to answer on their oath in court."
merril shook his head. "half her value! i commence to understand," he said. "an appeal to the court is, as a rule, expensive, as i guess you know. it is generally wiser to be reasonable and make a compromise."
the suggestion was so characteristic of the man that jimmy lost a little of his self-restraint.
"there will be no compromise in this case," he said. "if it were necessary we would drag you through every court in the land; but, as a matter of fact, there will be no need for that. you made a mistake in your opinion of the courage of your skipper and your second engineer. you also made a more serious one in putting the screw too hard on robertson.".
"ah!" said merril sharply, at last, "there is something more?"
jimmy took a paper from his pocket, and gravely handed it to him. "i am quite safe in allowing you to look at it. it wouldn't be advisable for you to make any attempt to destroy it. you will excuse my mentioning that."
merril unfolded the document, and jimmy noticed that the half-contemptuous toleration died out of his face as he read it. then he quietly handed it back, and sat very still for at least a minute before he turned to his companion again.
"that rather alters the case. you have something to go upon. do you mind telling me what course you purpose to take?"
"as i mentioned, i don't purpose to take any. still, the shasta company will send in a claim for salvage to-morrow, and afterward sue you--or whoever you entrust with your affairs--unless it is met. the adelaide should also be here in the course of the next day or two, and you will have your skipper and second engineer, as well as the miner who witnessed the statement, to face. they appear determined on raising as much unpleasantness as possible, though they were willing to hold back until i had taken the first steps."
he stopped a moment, and then leaned forward in his chair with a little forceful gesture. "though it would please me to see you prosecuted and disgraced, i will at least take no steps to prevent your getting out of this city quietly."
"ah!" said merril, "you no doubt expect something for that concession?"
"no," and jimmy stood up, "i expect nothing. it would hurt me to make a bargain of any kind with you, and it would, i think, be illegal. still, i have the honor of informing you that i purpose to marry miss merril as soon as it appears convenient to her, in spite of any opposition that you may think fit to offer."
merril showed neither astonishment nor anger. instead he smiled quietly, and his companion surmised that he had already with characteristic promptness decided on his course of action.
"you have no objections to my sending for her?"
jimmy said he had none, and five minutes later anthea appeared. she stood near the door looking at the men, and saw that jimmy's face was darkly flushed. her father, however, appeared almost as composed as usual. jimmy felt that he dare not look at her, and the tense silence, which lasted a few moments, tried his courage hard. it cost him an effort to hold himself in hand when merril turned to the girl.
"i understand from mr. wheelock that you are willing to marry him. is that the case?" he said.
"yes," replied anthea simply, while the blood crept into her cheeks. "that is, i shall be willing when circumstances permit."
"then, in the meanwhile, at least, you would consider my wishes?"
anthea glanced at jimmy. "i think he understands that."
merril said nothing for almost half a minute, and sat still regarding them with a sardonic smile, though his eyes were gentler than usual.
"well," he said at last, "that is no more than one would have expected from you. mr. wheelock is, however, quite prepared to disregard my opposition. in fact, one could almost fancy that he will be a little grieved when i say that i do not mean to offer any."
jimmy was certainly astonished, for he had at least expected that the man would make an attempt to play upon the girl's feelings. however, he said nothing, and merril turned to her again.
"well, i fancy that he has shown himself capable of looking after you, and there is a certain forceful simplicity in his character that, when i consider him as my daughter's husband, somewhat pleases me. with moderate good fortune it may carry him a long way."
it seemed an almost incomprehensible thing to jimmy that the man should show no trace of vindictiveness, and perhaps the latter guessed it, for he laughed softly.
"mr. wheelock," he said, "as you have no doubt guessed, i never had much faith in the conventional code of morality, but since you seem determined to marry anthea, i am in one respect glad that you evidently have, though that is perhaps not a very logical admission. i was out after money, and allowed no other consideration to influence me. it is probable that i should have accumulated a good deal of it had not everything gone against me lately. well, if i showed no pity, i at least seldom allowed any rancor to betray me into injudicious action when other people treated me as i should have treated them; but, after all, that is not the question, and we will be practical. you will not see or write to anthea for six months from to-day, and then if neither of you has changed your mind you can understand that you have my good-will. she will advise you of her address--in toronto--in the meanwhile. it is not a great deal to promise."
jimmy glanced at the girl, and turned again to merril when she nodded.
"i pledge myself to that," he said.
"then," said merril, "you will leave us now. i have a good deal to say to anthea."
jimmy moved away without a word, and went down the corridor with every nerve in him tingling.
jordan, who waited some time on board the shasta, saw no more of jimmy that night. this was, however, in one respect a relief to him, since eleanor, who was evidently very angry with her brother, insisted on remaining as long as possible in the expectation that he would come back again. it was, in fact, only when the hour at which she had arranged to meet mrs. forster arrived that she very reluctantly permitted jordan to take her ashore, and he felt easier when he handed her into forster's wagon. it did not seem to him that a further meeting between her and her brother would be likely to afford much pleasure to anybody. he had been at work some little time in his office next morning when jimmy walked in, and, sitting down, looked at him quietly.
"i have no doubt that you know why i have kept out of your way so long," he said.
"well," replied jordan dryly, "i can guess. what did you say to merril?"
"i told him what had happened, and left him to act upon it. now i'm quite prepared to resign the command of the shasta."
"if it's necessary, we'll talk about that later. in the meanwhile we'll get our salvage claim in. leeson should be here at any moment. i saw him last night."
he set to work, but there were two or three points it was necessary to discuss with jimmy, and he was still busy when there was a rattle of wheels in the street outside, which was followed by the sound of voices on the stairway. jordan laid down his pen with a gesture of embarrassment and dismay.
"it's forster, and he has brought eleanor along," he said. "i'm 'most afraid you're going to have trouble, jimmy."
"it's more than probable," and jimmy smiled somewhat grimly. "i'm quite prepared for it."
then the door opened, and eleanor, forster and leeson came in. the girl sat down without a glance at her brother, and the rancher turned to jordan.
"miss wheelock has acquainted me with the substance of what jimmy told you yesterday, and i came to ask what course you expect to take," he said. "i may say that she seems as anxious to hear it as i am."
eleanor smiled. "it is not exactly mr. forster's fault that i am here," she said. "the fact is, i insisted on coming. he was perfectly willing to leave me behind."
jordan's face was more expressive of resignation than pleasure, but he took up his pen again.
"this is a statement of the services rendered the adelaide, and a claim in respect of them," he said. "i am going to take it along to merril's office in a few minutes, and one or more of you can come with me."
they went out together, but when they reached merril's office jordan and jimmy alone went in. they found a good many other people waiting there, and had some little difficulty in securing attention, while the clerk to whom jordan spoke appeared anxious and embarrassed.
"mr. merril is not here," he said. "he went out of town last night, and executed a trust deed before he left. mr. cathcart, one of the trustees, is now inside."
jordan looked at jimmy. "i don't mind admitting that i expected this," he said. then he turned to the clerk: "take our names in."
they were shown into the inner office, where a gray-haired gentleman listened gravely to what they had to say. then he took the salvage claim from jordan, and laid it beneath a pile of other papers.
"it will be considered in its turn," he said. "i do not know whether we shall attempt to contest it, or whether there will be funds to meet it, but i may be able to tell you more to-morrow, and would ask you to take no further steps until you have seen me. i am at liberty to say that mr. merril's affairs appear to be considerably involved."
jordan promised to wait, and when he turned toward the door, the trustee, who took up an envelope, made a sign to jimmy.
"i was instructed to hand you this, captain wheelock, and to tell you that miss merril leaves for toronto by to-day's express, on the understanding that you make no attempt to communicate with her. it contains her address."
jimmy went out with his thoughts confused. all that had come about was, he felt, the result of his action, but he realized that in any case the crisis could not have been much longer delayed. they found the others awaiting them, and when forster had quietly but firmly insisted on escorting eleanor into a dry-goods store and leaving her there, they went back together to jordan's office, where the latter related what he had heard.
"to be quite straight, i must admit that i had a notion of what jimmy meant to do last night, and took no steps to restrain him," he said. "if i had done so, merril would not have got away. we are both in your hands, but, while you may think differently, i am not sure that what has happened is a serious misfortune from a business point of view."
forster said nothing, and there was a few moments' awkward silence until old leeson spoke.
"considering everything, i guess you're right," he said. "cathcart's a straight man, and as they can't sell the adelaide without permission from us, we'll get some of our money, although it's hardly likely the estate will realize enough to go around. seems to me that's more than we should have done if merril had kept hold. well, it's not my proposition that we turn you out."
he stopped a moment, and glanced at jimmy with a little dry smile. "captain wheelock has gone 'way further than he should have done without our sanction, but i guess it will meet the case if we leave him to his sister. it's a sure thing miss wheelock is far from pleased with him. now, there's a point or two i want to mention."
the others seemed relieved at this, and when leeson had said his say forster went away with him. then jordan glanced at jimmy with apprehension in his eyes as eleanor came in. she stood still, looking at them with the portentous red flush burning in her cheek.
"what i foresaw all along has happened. jimmy has betrayed you to save that girl," she said.
then she turned to jimmy, flicking her glove in her hand as though she would have struck him with it. "jimmy," she said incisively, "you are no longer a brother of mine. neither charley nor i will speak to you again."
jordan straightened himself resolutely. "stop there, eleanor!" he said. "if you won't speak to him i can't compel you to, but, in this one thing, at least, you can't compel me. jimmy was my friend before i met you, and i'm standing by him now. anyway, what has he done?"
"ah!" said the girl, with an audible indrawing of her breath, "he has spoiled everything. if he hadn't played the traitor merril would never have got away. oh!" and her anger shook her, "i can never forgive him!"
once more she turned to her brother. "there is no longer any tie between us. you have broken it, and that is the last and only thing i have to say to you."
jimmy rose, and quietly reached for his hat. "then," he said, "there is nothing to be gained by pointing out what my views are. we can only wait until you see things differently."
he went out, and eleanor sank somewhat limply into a chair.
"charley," she said, "it's a little horrible, but he is a weak coward, and i hate him. you had better break off our engagement; i'm not fit to marry anybody."
"that's the one thing that holds in spite of everything," and jordan looked at her gravely with trouble in his face. "go quietly, eleanor. it will straighten out in time."
the girl sat still for a while saying nothing, and then she rose with a little shiver. "find forster, and if he is not going back, get a team," she said. "i want mrs. forster. i can't stay in the city."
jordan went out with her, and, though he had a good deal to do, was not sorry when he failed to find forster and it became necessary for him to drive her back to the ranch. eleanor, however, said very little to him during the journey, and he had sense enough to confine his attention to his team. he had also little time to think of anything that did not concern his business when he returned to the city, for the shasta had to be got ready to go back to sea, and the adelaide arrived early on the following day. the skipper went with him to interview merril's trustee, and the latter announced that no steps would be taken to contest the salvage claim when he heard what he had to say. however, he added dryly that it would probably be advisable for the shasta company to consider the compromise proposition he would shortly make. jordan, who fancied he was right in this, went away without having found it necessary to hand him the engineer's confession, and was glad he had not offered to produce it when he ransacked his office for it a few days later.
"i certainly had the thing the morning forster and eleanor were here," he said. "jimmy laid it down, and i don't remember having seen him take it up again. still, i suppose he must have done so."
jimmy had, however, gone north again by that time, and the compromise had been agreed to before he came back again. the shasta had also made several other successful trips when he had occasion to call at victoria on his southward run, and seeing the sorata in the harbor rowed off to her. he spent that evening in her little forecastle with valentine, who was busy with deep-water fishing-lines. the latter wore an old blue shirt and canvas trousers stained with paint and grease, and he laid down a big hank of line when at length jimmy, who had been whipping on hooks for him, inquired what plans he had.
"so you're not going back to the west coast to drum up cargo for us?" he said.
jimmy looked astonished. "it's the first i've heard of it--but, of course, it's a little while since i was in vancouver. where did they raise the money?"
"i believe they got some of it from cathcart on the salvage claim, and leeson and two or three of his friends raised the rest. the adelaide and merril's house were sold at auction. i heard it from jordan, who was over here a week ago, and it's scarcely necessary to say that he's going to send you in the new boat. he seems to have some notion of trying to get into the south sea trade, too, and i shouldn't wonder if eventually you're made general supervisor of the shasta company's growing fleet."
jimmy was sensible of a thrill of satisfaction, but he changed the subject. "you have given up your chartering?"
"i have," said valentine, with a curious smile. "the people who hired my boat had an unsettling effect on me, and now i'm going to try the halibut fishing with a couple of siwash hands. austerly's was my last charter--i don't think i shall ever take another."
jimmy nodded, for he felt that he understood. "well," he said, "in one way it wouldn't be nice to see anybody else occupying that after-cabin. of course, the notion is a fanciful one, but i shouldn't like to think of it myself."
again the curious little smile flickered into valentine's eyes. "it is scarcely likely to happen. i think you will understand my views when i show you the room."
jimmy went aft with him through the saloon, and valentine, unlocking a door beneath the companion slide, opened it gently. the fashion in which he did it had its significance, and jimmy understood altogether as he looked into the little room. it was immaculate. bulkhead and paneling gleamed with snowy paint, the berths with their varnished ledges were filled with spotless linen, and there was not a speck on the deck beneath. a few fresh sprays of balsam that hung beneath the beams diffused a faint aromatic fragrance.
"those," said valentine gravely, "are to keep out the smell of the halibut. i shouldn't like it to come in here. she had the lower berth. the top one was miss merril's."
jimmy felt the blood rise to his face. valentine's manner was very quiet, and there was not the slightest trace of sentimentality in it, but jimmy felt that he knew what he was thinking. besides, anthea had slept in that little snowy berth. they turned away without a word, when valentine carefully fastened the door, and the latter had sat down again in the forecastle before jimmy spoke.
"have you heard anything of miss austerly lately?" he asked.
valentine lighted the lamp beneath the beams, for it was growing dark, and taking something from a box in the upper berth stood still a moment with it in his hands. they were scarred and hardened by physical toil, and the man was big and bronzed and very quiet, though every line of his face and figure was stamped with the wholesome vigor of the sea.
"i see you do not know," he said. "this is the letter austerly sent me. as you will notice, it was at her request. she would not have minded your reading it."
jimmy started as he saw that the envelope had a broad black edge, and his companion nodded gravely.
"yes," he said, "there is neither tide nor fog where she has gone. there, at least, we are told, the sea is glassy."
jimmy took the letter out of the envelope, and once or twice his eyes grew a trifle hazy as he read. then he handed it back to valentine, almost reverently.
"i am sorry," was all he said.
valentine looked at him with the little grave smile still in his eyes. "i do not think there is any need for that. what had this world but pain to offer her? she has slipped away, but she has left something behind--something one can hold on by. what there is out yonder we do not know--but perhaps we shall not be sorry when we slip out beyond the shrouding mists some day."
neither of them said much more, and shortly afterward jimmy went back to the shasta. next morning he stood on his bridge watching the sorata slide out of harbor. valentine, sitting at her tiller, waved his hat to him, and jimmy was glad that he had hurled a blast of the whistle after him when some months later he heard that the sorata and her skipper had gone down together in a wild westerly gale.
in the meanwhile he proceeded to vancouver, and after an interview with jordan, who formally offered him command of the big new boat, took the first east-going train and reached toronto five days later. an hour after he got there he hired a pulling skiff at the water-front, and drove her out with sturdy strokes into the blue lake across which a little cutter was creeping a mile or so away. he came up with her, hot and breathless, and the girl at the tiller rose quietly when he swung himself on deck, though there was a depth of tenderness in her eyes.
"jimmy!" she said, "why didn't you tell me?"
anthea turned to the young man and the girl who were sitting in the cockpit. "captain wheelock. my cousin muriel, and graham hoyle."
the young man smiled at jimmy, who was, however, conscious that the girl was surveying him with critical curiosity. then she asked him a question concerning his journey, and they discussed the canadian railroads for the next ten minutes, until she flashed a suggestive glance at the young man.
"what a beautiful morning for a row!" she said.
jimmy did not get the topsail up when they rowed away, but sat down on the coaming with his arm around anthea's shoulder.
"i have just two weeks before i go north in our big new boat," he said. "it isn't very long, but i want to take you with me."
he was some little time overruling anthea's objections one by one, and then she turned and looked up at him with a flush in her face.
"jimmy," she said, "i suppose you realize that i haven't a dollar. some provision was to have been made for me--but i felt i couldn't profit by the arrangement."
jimmy laughed. "if it's any consolation to you, i haven't very much, either. still, i think i'm going to get it. i was creeping through the blinding fog six months ago, but the mists have blown away and the sky is brightening to windward now."
then he turned and pointed to the strip of dusky blue that moved across the gleaming lake. "if anything more is wanted, there's the fair wind."
they ran back before it under a blaze of sunshine with the little frothy ripples splashing merrily after them, and then jimmy had to exert himself again before he could induce anthea's aunt to believe that it was possible for her niece to be married at two weeks' notice. still, he accomplished it, and on the fifteenth day he and anthea wheelock stood on the platform of a big dusty car as the pacific express ran slowly into the station at vancouver.
leeson stood waiting with forster, and jordan was already running toward the car, but jimmy's lips set tight when he saw eleanor with mrs. forster. in a moment or two jordan handed anthea down, and then stood aside as eleanor came impulsively forward. to her brother's astonishment, she laid her hand on anthea's shoulder and kissed her on each cheek.
"now," she said, "you will have to forgive me."
jimmy did not hear what his wife said, for mrs. forster was greeting him, and then leeson and the rancher seized him; but five minutes later eleanor stood at his side.
"yes," she said, "anthea and i are going to be friends, and you daren't be angry any longer, jimmy."
they had dropped a little behind the others, who were moving along the wharf, and jimmy looked at her with a dry smile.
"i'm not," he said. "in fact, i don't think it was my temper that made things unpleasant all the time. still----"
"you didn't expect me to change?"
her brother said nothing, and she looked up at him with a softness in her eyes he never remembered seeing there.
"i'm going to marry charley very soon," she said. "i couldn't have done that while i hated anybody, and, after all, it was merril who roused--the wild cat--in me, and we have done with him altogether. they wouldn't have him back in vancouver, but there's a land-boom somewhere in california, and charley hears that he is already piling up money."
she stopped a moment, and thrust a folded paper into his hand. "that's yours, but anthea must never see it. charley didn't know i had it, and i meant to keep it in case merril got rich again; but i don't want it now. please destroy it, jimmy."
jimmy glanced at the paper, and his expression changed when he saw that it was the engineer's confession; but he laid his hand on his sister's arm and pressed it, for he understood what the fact that she had parted with that document signified. then leeson, who was a few paces in front of them, turned and pointed to a big steamer with a tier of white deck-houses lying out in the inlet.
"the boat's waiting at the landing, and we'll go off," he said. "there's a kind of wedding-lunch ready on board her."
jimmy said they had purposed going straight to the house he had commissioned jordan to take for him, but the latter laughed, and leeson chuckled dryly.
"we held a meeting over the question, and fixed it up that the house you wanted hadn't quite tone enough for the man who's to be commodore of the shasta fleet very soon," he said. "that's why we decided to put you into my big one on the rise. guess there's not a prettier house around this city, but it has never been really lived in. i'm out most of every day, and only want two rooms. now, there's no use protesting; it's all fixed ready, and you're going right in."
he turned, and touched anthea's arm. "you'll stand by me. you can't afford to have your husband kick against the man with the most money in the shasta company."
jimmy's protests were very feeble. it had been his one trouble that anthea would have to live in a very different fashion from the one she had been accustomed to, and he was relieved when she thanked the old man.
leeson smiled at her in a very kindly fashion. "well," he said, "i've been lonely for the last eight years since the boy who should have had that house went down with my smartest boat, and i want to feel that there's somebody under the same roof with me who will keep me from growing too hard and old."
then he stopped, and chuckled in his usual dry manner. "i was going to make jordan the proposition--only i got to thinking and my nerve failed me. guess i made my money hard in the free sealing days when we had trouble with everybody all the time, but i felt i'd sooner not offend mrs. jordan, and i might do it if i didn't fix things just as she told me. she's a clever woman--but i don't want to have her on my trail."
eleanor only glanced at him in whimsical reproach, and they moved on, laughing, toward the waiting boat.
transcriber's note: the following typographical errors present in the original edition have been corrected.
our house and london out of our windows
by elizabeth robins pennell
with illustrations by joseph pennell
copyright, 1910, by elizabeth robins pennell
copyright, 1912, by joseph pennell
all rights reserved
list of illustrations
our finding our house was the merest chance. j. and i had been hunting for it during weeks and months, from chelsea to blackfriars, when one day, on the way to take a train on the underground, we saw the notice "to let" in windows just where they ought to have been,--high above the embankment and the river,--and we knew at a glance that we should be glad to spend the rest of our lives looking out of them. but something depended on the house we looked out from, and, while our train went without us, we hurried to discover it. we were in luck. it was all that we could have asked: as simple in architecture, its bricks as time-stained, as the courts of the temple or gray's inn. the front door opened into a hall twisted with age, the roof supported by carved corbels, the upper part of another door at its far end filled with bull's-eye glass, while three flights of time-worn, white stone stairs led to the windows with, behind them, a flat called chambers, as if we were really in the temple, and decorated by adam, as if to bring our house into harmony with the younger houses around it. for our house it became on that very day, now years ago. our house it has been ever since, and i hope we are only at the beginning of our adventures in it. of some of the adventures that have already fallen to our share within our house, i now venture to make the record, for no better reason perhaps than because at the time i found them both engrossing and amusing. the adventures out of our windows--adventures of cloud and smoke and sunshine and fog--j. has been from the beginning, and is still, recording, because certainly he finds them the most wonderful of all. if my text shows the price we pay for the beauty, the reproductions of his paintings, all made from our windows, show how well that beauty is worth the price.
and london out of our windows
since my experience with 'enrietter, the pages of zola and the de goncourts have seemed a much more comfortable place for "human documents" and "realism" than the family circle. her adventures in our london chambers make a thrilling story, but i could have dispensed with the privilege of enjoying the thrill. when your own house becomes the scene of the story you cannot help taking a part in it yourself, and the story of 'enrietter was not precisely one in which i should have wanted to figure had it been a question of choice.
it all came of believing that i could live as i pleased in england, and not pay the penalty. an englishman's house is his castle only when it is run on the approved lines, and the foreigner in the country need not hope for the freedom denied to the native. i had set out to engage the wrong sort of servant in the wrong sort of way, and the result was--'enrietter. i had never engaged any sort of servant anywhere before, i did not much like the prospect at the start, and my first attempts in registry offices, those bulwarks of british conservatism, made me like it still less. that was why, when the landlady of the little craven street hotel, where we waited while the british workman took his ease in our chambers, offered me 'enrietter, i was prepared to accept her on the spot, had not the landlady, in self-defence, stipulated for the customary formalities of an interview and references.
the interview, in the dingy back parlour of the hotel, was not half so unpleasant an ordeal as i had expected. naturally, i do not insist upon good looks in a servant, but i like her none the less for having them, and a costume in the fashion of whitechapel could not disguise the fact that 'enrietter was an uncommonly good-looking young woman; not in the buxom, red-cheeked way that my old reading of miss mitford made me believe as inseparable from an english maid as a pigtail from a chinaman, nor yet in the anæmic way i have since learned for myself to be characteristic of the type. she was pale, but her pallor was of the kind more often found south of the alps and the pyrenees. her eyes were large and blue, and she had a pretty trick of dropping them under her long lashes; her hair was black and crisp; her smile was a recommendation. and, apparently, she had all the practical virtues that could make up for her abominable cockney accent and for the name of 'enrietter, by which she introduced herself. she did not mind at all coming to me as "general," though she had answered the landlady's advertisement for parlour maid. she was not eager to make any bargain as to what her work was, and was not, to be. indeed, her whole attitude would have been nothing short of a scandal to the right sort of servant. and she was willing with a servility that would have offended my american notions had it been a shade less useful.
as for her references, it was in keeping with everything else that she should have made the getting them so easy. she sent me no farther than to another little private hotel in another little street leading from the strand to the river, within ten minutes' walk. it was kept by two elderly maiden ladies who received me with the usual incivility of the british hotel-keeper, until they discovered that i had come not for lodging and food, which they would have looked upon as an insult, but merely for a servant's character. they unbent still further at 'enrietter's name, and were roused to an actual show of interest. they praised her cooking, her coffee, her quickness, her talent for hard work. but--and then they hesitated and i was lost, for nothing embarrasses me more than the englishwoman's embarrassed silence. they did manage to blurt out that 'enrietter was not tidy, which i regretted. i am not tidy myself, neither is j., and i have always thought it important that at least one person in a household should have some sense of order. but then they also told me that 'enrietter had frequently been called upon to cook eighteen or twenty breakfasts of a morning, and lunches and dinners in proportion, and it struck me there might not have been much time left for her to be tidy in. after this, there was a fresh access of embarrassment so prolonged that i could not in decency sit it out, though i would have liked to make sure that it was due to their own difficulty with speech, and not to unspeakable depravity in 'enrietter. however, it saves trouble to believe the best, when to believe the worst is to add to one's anxieties, and as soon as i got home i wrote and engaged 'enrietter and cheerfully left the rest to fate.
there was nothing to regret for a fortnight. fate seemed on my side, and during two blissful weeks 'enrietter proved herself a paragon among "generals." she was prettier in her little white cap than in her big feathered hat, and her smile was never soured by the friction of daily life. her powers as a cook had not been over-estimated; the excellence of her coffee had been undervalued; for her quickness and readiness to work, the elderly maiden ladies had found too feeble a word. there wasn't anything troublesome she wouldn't and didn't do, even to providing me with ideas when i hadn't any and the butcher's, or green-grocer's, boy waited. and it was the more to her credit because our chambers were in a chaotic condition that would have frightened away a whole staff of the right sort of servants. we had just moved in, and the place was but half furnished. the british workman still lingered, as i began to believe he always would,--there were times, indeed, when i was half persuaded we had taken our chambers solely to provide him a shelter in the daytime. my kitchen utensils were of the fewest. my china was still in the factory in france where they made it, and i was eating off borrowed plates and drinking out of borrowed cups. i had as yet next to no house-linen to speak of. but 'enrietter did not mind. she worked marvels with what pots and pans there were, she was tidy enough not to mislay the borrowed plates and cups, she knew just where to take tablecloths and napkins and have them washed in a hurry when friends were misguided enough to accept my invitation to a makeshift meal. if they were still more misguided and took me by surprise, she would run out for extra cutlets, or a salad, or fruit, and be back again serving an excellent little lunch or dinner before i knew she had gone. this was the greater comfort because i had just then no time to make things better. i was deep, beyond my habit, in journalism. a sister i had not seen for ten years and a brother-in-law recovering from nervous prostration were in town. poor man! what he saw in our chambers was enough to send him home with his nerves seven times worse than when he came. j., fortunately for him, was in the south of france, drawing cathedrals. that was my one gleam of comfort. he at least was spared the tragedy of our first domestic venture.
upon the pleasure of that fortnight there fell only a single shadow, but it ought to have proved a warning, if, at the moment, i had not been foolish enough to find it amusing. i had gone out one morning directly after breakfast, and when i came home, long after lunch-time, the british workman, to my surprise, was kicking his heels at my front door, though his rule was to get comfortably on the other side of it once his business at the public house round the corner was settled. he was more surprised than i, and also rather hurt. he had been ringing for the last ten minutes, he said reproachfully, and nobody would let him in. after i had rung in my turn for ten minutes and nobody had let me in, i was not hurt, but alarmed.
it was then that, for the first and last time in my knowledge of him, the british workman had an inspiration: why shouldn't he climb the ladder behind our outer front door,--we can "sport our oak" if we like,--get through the trap-door at the top to the leads, and so enter our little upper story, which looks for all the world like a ship's cabin drifted by mistake on to a london roof.
i was to remember afterwards, as they say in novels, how, as i watched him climb, it struck me that the burglar or the house-breaker had the way made straight for him if our chambers ever seemed worth burgling or breaking into. the british workman's step is neither soft nor swift, but he carried through his plan and opened the door for me without any one being aroused by his irregular proceedings, which added considerably to my alarm. but the flat is small, and my suspense was short. 'enrietter was in her bedroom, on her bed, sleeping like a child. i called her: she never stirred. i shook her: i might as well have tried to wake the seven sleepers, the sleeping beauty, barbarossa in the kyfhaüser, and all the sleepers who have slept through centuries of myth and legend rolled into one. i had never seen anything like it. i had never heard of anything like it except the trance which leads to canonization, or the catalepsy that baffles science. to have a cataleptic "general" to set off against the rapping nurse-maid of an acquaintance, who wanted me to take her in and watch her in the cause of psychology, would be a triumph no doubt, but for all domestic purposes it was likely to prove a more disturbing drawback than untidiness.
"thash a'right, mum," she said, and down went her head again.
furious, i shook her up on to her unsteady feet. "go to bed," i said with a dignity altogether lost upon her. "go at once, and in the dark. in your disgusting condition you are not fit to be trusted with a candle."
'enrietter smiled. "thash a'right, mum," she murmured reassuringly as she reeled up the stairs before me.
i must say for her that drink made her neither disagreeable nor difficult. she carried it off light-heartedly and with the most perfect politeness.
i had her in for a talk the next morning. i admit now that this was another folly. i ought to have sent her off bag and baggage then and there. but it was my first experience of the kind; i didn't see what was to become of me if she did go; and, as i am glad to remember, i had the heart to be sorry for her. she was so young, so pretty, so capable. the indiscretion of her sunday out meant for me, at the worst, temporary discomfort; for her, it might be the beginning of a life's tragedy. her explanation was ready,--she was as quick at explaining as at everything else. i needn't tell her what i thought of her, it seemed; it was nothing to what she thought of herself. there was no excuse. she was as disgusted as i could be. it was all her sister's fault. her sister would make her drink a drop of brandy just before she left her home at richmond. it was very wrong of her sister, who knew she wasn't used to brandy and couldn't stand it.
the story would not have taken in a child, but as it suited me to give her another trial, it was easier to make-believe to believe. before the interview was over i ventured a little good advice. i had seen too often the draggled, filthy, sexless creatures drink makes of women in london, and 'enrietter was worth a better end. she listened with admirable patience for one who was already, as i was only too quickly to learn, so far on the way to the london gutter that there was no hope of holding her back, as much as an inch, by words or kindness.
the next sunday 'enrietter stayed in and went to bed sober. it was the day after--a memorable monday--that put an end to all compromise and make-believe. i had promised to go down to cambridge, to a lunch at one of the colleges. at the english universities time enters so little into the scheme of existence that one loses all count of it, and i was pretty sure i should be late in getting home. i said, however, that i should be back early in the afternoon, and i took every latch-key with me,--as if the want of a latch-key could make a prison for so accomplished a young woman as 'enrietter! the day was delightful, the weather as beautiful as it can be in an english june, and the lunch gay. and afterwards there was the stroll along the "backs," and, in the golden hour before sunset, afternoon tea in the garden, and i need not say that i missed my train. it was close upon ten o'clock when i turned the key in my front door. the flat was in darkness, except for the light that always shines into our front windows at night from the lamps on the embankment and charing cross bridge. there was no sign of 'enrietter, and no sound of her until i had pulled my bell three or four times, and shouted for her in the manner i was taught as a child to consider the worst sort of form, not to say vulgar. but it had its effect. a faint voice answered from the ship's cabin upstairs, "coming, mum."
"light the gas and the lamp," i said when i heard her in the hall.
the situation called for all the light i could get. from the methodical way she set about lighting the hall gas i knew that, at least, she could not be reeling. then she came in and lit the lamp, and i saw her.
it was a thousand times worse than reeling, and my breath was taken away with the horror of it. for there she stood, in a flashy pink dressing-gown that was a disgrace in itself, her face ghastly as death, and all across her forehead, low down over one of the blue eyes, a great, wide, red gash.
before i had time to pull myself together 'enrietter had told her story,--so poor a story it showed how desperate now was her case. she had been quiet all morning--no one had come--she had got through the extra work i left with her. about three the milkman rang. a high wind was blowing. the door, when she opened it, banged in her face and cut her head open. and it had bled! she had only just succeeded in stopping it. one part of her story, anyway, was true beyond dispute. that terrible, gaping wound spoke for itself.
i did not know what to do. i was new in the neighbourhood, and my acquaintance with doctors anywhere is slight. but i could not turn her into the street, i could not even leave her under my own roof all night, like that. something had to be done, and i ran downstairs to consult the old housekeeper, who, after her half century in the quarter, might be expected to know how to meet any emergency.
more horrors awaited me in her room,--like macbeth, i was supping full with horrors,--for she had another story to tell, and, as i listened, the ghastly face upstairs, with the gaping red wound, became a mere item in an orgy more appropriate to the annals of the rougon-macquarts than, i devoutly trust, to ours. i cannot tell the story as the housekeeper told it. she had a trick of going into hysterics at moments of excitement, and as in all the years she had been in charge she had never seen such goings on, it followed that in all those years, she had never been so hysterical. she gasped and sobbed out her tale of horrors, and, all the while, her daughter, who was in the profession, sat apart, and, in the exasperating fashion of the chorus of a greek play, kept up a running commentary emphasizing the points too emphatic to need emphasis.
to tell the story in my own way: i was hardly out of the house when 'enrietter had a visit from a "gentleman,"--that was the housekeeper's description of him, and, as things go in england, he was a gentleman, which makes my story the more sordid. how 'enrietter had sent him word the coast was clear i do not pretend to say, though i believe the london milkman has a reputation as the cupid's postman of the kitchen, and i recalled afterwards two or three notes 'enrietter had received from her sister by district messenger,--the same sister, no doubt, who gave her the drop of brandy. towards noon 'enrietter and her gentleman were seen to come downstairs and go out together. where they went, what they did during the three hours of their absence, no one knew,--no one will ever know. sometimes, in looking back, the greatest horrors to me are the unknown chapters in the story of that day's doings. they were seen to return, about three, in a hansom. the gentleman got out, unsteadily. 'enrietter followed and collapsed in a little heap on the pavement. he lifted her, and staggered with her in by the door and up the three long flights of stairs to our chambers.
and then--i confess, at this point even now my anger gets the better of me. every key for my front door was in my pocket,--women were still allowed pockets in those days. there was no possible way in which they could have got in again, had not that gentleman climbed the ladder up which i had watched the british workman not so many days before, and, technically, broken into my place, and then come down the little stairway and let 'enrietter in. a burglar would have seemed clean and honest compared to the gentleman housebreaking on such an errand. my front door was heard to bang upon them both, and i wish to heaven it had been the last sound heard from our chambers that day. for a time all was still. then, of a sudden, piercing screams rang through the house and out through the open windows into the scandalized quarter. there was a noise of heavy things falling or thrown violently down, curses filled the air; as the housekeeper told it to me, it was like something out of morrison's "mean streets" or the "police-court gazette," and the dreadful part of it was that, no doubt, i was being held responsible for it! at last, loud above everything else, came blood-curdling cries of "murder! murder! help! murder!" there was not a window of the many over-looking my back rooms that was not filled with terrified neighbours. the lady in the chambers on the floor below mine set up a cry of her own for the police. the clerks from the church league and from the architect's office were gathered on the stairs. a nice reputation i must be getting in the house before my first month in it was up!
the housekeeper, with a new attack of hysterics, protested that she had not dared to interfere, though she had a key, nor could she give it to a policeman without my authority--she knew her duty. the greek chorus repeated, without hysterics but with careful elocution, that the housekeeper could not go in nor fetch the police without my authority--she knew her duty. and so, the deeds that were done within my four walls on that beautiful june afternoon must remain a mystery. the only record is the mark 'enrietter will carry on her forehead with her to the grave.
the noise gradually ceased. the neighbours, one by one, left the windows, the lady below disappeared into her flat. the clerks went back to work. and the housekeeper crept into her rooms for the cup of tea that saves every situation for the englishwoman. she had not finished when there came a knock at the door. she opened it, and there stood a gentleman--the gentleman--anyone could see he was a gentleman by his hat--and he told her his story: the third version of the affair. he was a medical student, he said. he happened to be passing along the strand when, just in front of charing cross, a cab knocked over a young lady. she was badly hurt, but, as a medical student, he knew what to do. he put her into another cab and brought her home; he saw to her injuries; but now he could stay no longer. she seemed to be quite alone up there. her condition was serious; she should not be left alone. and he lifted his hat and was gone. but the housekeeper daren't intrude, even then; she knew her place and her duty. she knew her place and her duty, the greek chorus echoed, and the end of her story brought me to just where i was at the beginning. upon one point the gentleman was right, and that was the condition of the "young lady" as long as that great wide gash still gaped open. the housekeeper, practical for all her hysterics, sobbed out "the hospital." "the hospital!" echoed the greek chorus, and i mounted the three flights of stairs for 'enrietter.
i tied up her head. i made her exchange the shameless pink dressing-gown for her usual clothes. i helped her on with her hat, though i thought she would faint before she was dressed. i led her down the three flights of stairs into the street, across the strand, to the hospital. by this time it was well past eleven.
so far i hadn't had a chance to think of appearances. but one glance from the night-surgeon at the hospital, and it was hard to think of anything else. he did not say a word more than the case demanded, but his behaviour to me was abominable all the same. and i cannot blame him. there was i, decently dressed i hope, for i had put on my very best for cambridge, in charge of a young woman dressed anyhow and with a broken head. it was getting on toward midnight. the strand was a stone's throw away. still, in his place, i hope i should have been less brutal.
i took 'enrietter home. i saw her up the three long flights of stairs to our chambers, the one little stairway to her bedroom, and into her bed. i walked down the little stairway and the three long flights. i went out into the night. i hurried to the chemist's. it was past midnight, an hour when decent women are not expected to wander alone in the strand, and now i was conscious that things might look queer to others. i skulked in the darkest shadows like a criminal. i bought the pills. i came home. for the fourth time i toiled up the three long flights of stairs and the one little stairway. i gave 'enrietter her pills. i put out her light. i shut her in her room.
i sent for a charwoman the next morning. she was of the type now rapidly dying out in london, and more respectable, if possible, than the housekeeper. her manner went far to restore my self-respect, and this was the only service i could ask of her, her time being occupied chiefly in waiting upon 'enrietter. in fairness, i ought to add that 'enrietter was game to the last. she got up and downstairs somehow, she cooked the lunch, she would have waited on the table, bandaged head and all, had i let her. but the less i saw of her, the greater her chance for the repose prescribed by the night-surgeon. besides, she and her bandaged head were due at the hospital. this time she went in charge of the charwoman, whose neat shabby shawl and bonnet, as symbols of respectability, were more than sufficient to keep all the night or day surgeons of london in their place. they returned with the cheerful intelligence that matters were much worse than was at first thought, that 'enrietter's eye was in serious danger, and absolute quiet in a darkened room was essential, that lotions must be applied and medicines administered at regular intervals,--in a word, that our chambers, as long as she remained in them, must be turned into a nursing home, with myself as chief nurse, which was certainly not what i had engaged her for.
i went upstairs, when she was in bed again, and told her so. she must send for some one, i did not care whom, to come and take her off my hands at once. my temper was at boiling-point, but not for the world would i have shown it or done anything to destroy 'enrietter's repose and so make matters worse, and not be able to get rid of her at all. as usual, her resources did not fail her; she was really wonderful all through. there was an old friend of her father's, she said, who was in the bank of england--i knew that friend; he could admit her into a hospital of which he was a patron--heaven help that hospital! but i held my peace. i even wrote her letter and sent it to the post by the charwoman. 'enrietter's morals were beyond me, but my own comfort was not.
i do not know whether the most astonishing thing in all the astonishing episode was not the reappearance of the old friend of her father's in his other rôle of medical student. i suppose he did not realize how grave 'enrietter's condition was. i am sure he did not expect anything less than that i should open the door for him. but this was what happened. his visit was late, the charwoman had gone for the night, and i was left to do all 'enrietter's work myself. he did not need to tell me who he was,--his face did that for him,--but he stammered out the wretched fable of the medical student, the young lady, and the cab. she was quite alone when he left her, he added, and he was worried, and, being in the neighbourhood, he called in passing to enquire if the young lady were better, and if there were now some one to take care of her. his self-confidence came back as he talked.
"your story is extremely interesting," i told him, "and i am especially glad to hear it, because my cook"--with a vindictive emphasis on the cook--"has told me quite a different one as to how she came by her broken head. now--"
he was gone. he threw all pretence to the winds and ran downstairs as if the police were at his heels, as i wished they were. i could not run after him without making a second scandal in the house; and if i had caught him, if i had given him in custody for trespass, as i was told afterwards i might have done, how would i have liked figuring in the police courts?
curiously, he did have influence with the hospital, which shall be nameless. he did get a bed there for 'enrietter the next morning. it may be that he had learned by experience the convenience to himself of having a hospital, as it were, in his pocket. but the arrangements were by letter; he did not risk a second meeting, and i asked 'enrietter no questions. for my own satisfaction, i went with her to the hospital: a long, melancholy drive in a four-wheeler, 'enrietter with ghastly face, more dead than alive. i delivered her into the hands of the nurses. i left her there, a bandaged wreck of the pretty 'enrietter who had been such an ornament to our chambers. and that was the last i saw of her, though not the last i heard.
a day or two later her sister came to pack up her belongings,--a young woman with a vacant smile, a roving eye, and a baby in her arms. i had only to look at her to know that she wasn't the sort of sister to force anything on anybody, much less on 'enrietter. and yet i went to the trouble of reading her a little lecture. 'enrietter's morals were beyond me, but i am not entirely without a conscience. the sister kept on simpering vacantly, while her eyes roved from print to print on the walls of the dining-room where the lecture was delivered, and the baby stared at me with portentous solemnity.
then, about three weeks after the sister's visit, i heard from 'enrietter herself. she wrote with her accustomed politeness. she begged my pardon for troubling me. she had left the hospital. she was at home in richmond, and she had just unpacked the trunk the sister had packed for her. only one thing was missing. she would be deeply obliged if i would look in the left-hand drawer of the kitchen dresser and send her the package of cigarettes i would find there. and she was mine, "very respectfully."
this is the story of 'enrietter's adventures in our chambers, and i think whoever reads it will not wonder that i fought shy afterwards of the english servant who was not well on the wrong side of forty and whose thirst could not be quenched with tea. the real wonder is that i had the courage to risk another maid of any kind. women have been reproached with their love of gossiping about servants since time immemorial, and i do not know for how long before that. but when i remember 'enrietter, i do not understand how we have the heart ever to gossip about anything else. what became of her, who can say? sometimes, when i think of her pretty face and all that was good in her, i can only hope that the next orgy led to still worse things than a broken head, and that death saved her from the london streets.
until i began my search for an elderly woman who never drank anything stronger than tea, i had supposed it was the old who could find nobody to give them work. but my trouble was to find somebody old enough to give mine to. the "superior domestics" at the registry offices were much too well trained to confess even to middle age, and probably i should be looking for my elderly woman to this day, had not chance led trimmer one afternoon to an office which i had left without hope in the morning. as her years could supply no possible demand save mine, she was sent at once to our chambers.
to tell the truth, as soon as i saw her, i began to doubt my own wisdom. i had never imagined anybody quite so respectable. in her neat but rusty black dress and cape, her hair parted and brought carefully down over her ears, her bonnet tied under her chin, her reticule hanging on her arm, she was the incarnation of british respectability; "the very type," the "old master rembrandt van rijn, with three baedeker stars," i could almost hear mr. henry james describing her; and all she wanted was to belong "beautifully" to me. but then she looked as old as she looked respectable,--so much older than i meant her to look,--old to the point of fragility. she admitted to fifty-five, and when mentally i added four or five years more, i am sure i was not over generous. her face was filled with wrinkles, her skin was curiously delicate, and she had the pallor that comes from a steady diet of tea and bread and sometimes butter. the hands through the large, carefully mended black gloves showed twisted and stiff, and it was not easy to fancy them making our beds and our fires, cooking our dinners, dusting our rooms, opening our front door. we needed some one to take care of us, and it was plain that she was far more in need of some one to take care of her,--all the plainer because of her anxiety to prove her capacity for work. there was nothing she could not do, nothing she would not do if i were but to name it. "i can cut about, mum, you'll see. oh, i'm bonny!" and the longer she talked, the better i knew that during weeks, and perhaps months, she had been hunting for a place, which at the best is wearier work than hunting for a servant, and at the worst leads straight to the workhouse, the one resource left for the honest poor who cannot get a chance to earn their living, and who, by the irony of things, dread it worse than death.
with my first doubt i ought to have sent her away. but i kept putting off the uncomfortable duty by asking her questions, only to find that she was irreproachable on the subject of alcohol, that she preferred "beer-money" to beer, that there was no excuse not to take her except her age, and this, in the face of her eagerness to remain, i had not the pluck to make. my hesitation cost me the proverbial price. before the interview was over i had engaged her on the condition that her references were good, as of course they were, though she sent me for them to the most unexpected place in the world, a corset and petticoat shop not far from leicester square. through the quarter to which all that is disreputable in europe drifts, where any sort of virtue is exposed to damage beyond repair, she had carried her respectability and emerged more respectable than ever.
she came to us with so little delay that i knew better than ever how urgent was her case. except for the providentially short interval with 'enrietter, this was my first experience of the british servant, and it was enough to make me tremble. it was impossible to conceive of anything more british. her print dress, changed for a black one in the afternoon, her white apron and white cap, became in my eyes symbolic. i seemed, in her, to face the entire caste of british servants who are so determined never to be slaves that they would rather fight for their freedom to be as slavish as they always have been. she knew her place, and what is more, she knew ours, and meant to keep us in it, no matter whether we liked or did not like to be kept there. i was the mistress and j. was the master, and if, with our american notions, we forgot it, she never did, but on our slightest forgetfulness brought us up with a round turn. so correct, indeed, was her conduct, and so respectable and venerable was her appearance, that she produced the effect in our chambers of an old family retainer. friends would have had us train her to address me as "miss elizabeth," or j. as "master j.," and pass her off for the faithful old nurse who is now so seldom met out of fiction.
for all her deference, however, she clung obstinately to her prejudices. we might be as american in our ways as we pleased, she would not let us off one little british bit in hers. she never presumed unbidden upon an observation and if i forced one from her she invariably begged my pardon for the liberty. she thanked us for everything, for what we wanted as gratefully as for what we did not want. she saw that we had hot water for our hands at the appointed hours. she compelled us to eat yorkshire pudding with our sirloin of beef, and bread-sauce with our fowl,--in this connection how can i bring myself to say chicken? she could never quite forgive us for our indifference to "sweets"; and for the daily bread-and-butter puddings and tarts we would not have, she made up by an orgy of tipsy cakes and creams when anybody came to dine. how she was reconciled to our persistent refusal of afternoon tea, i always wondered; though i sometimes thought that, by the stately function she made of it in the kitchen, she hoped to atone for this worst of our american heresies.
whatever she might be as a type, there was no denying that as a servant she had all the qualities. she was an excellent cook, despite her flamboyant and florid taste in sweets; she was sober, she was obliging, she had by no means exaggerated her talent for "cutting about," and i never ceased to be astonished at the amount she accomplished. the fire was always burning when we got down in the morning, breakfast always ready. beds were made, lunch served, the front door opened, dinner punctual. i do not know how she did it all, and i now remember with thankfulness our scruples when we saw her doing it, and the early date at which we supplied her with an assistant in the shape of a snuffy, frowzy old charwoman. the revelation of how much too much remained for her even then came only when we lost her, and i was obliged to look below the surface. while she was with us, the necessity of looking below never occurred to me; and as our chambers had been done up from top to bottom just before she moved into them, they stood her method on the surface admirably.
this method perhaps struck me as the more complete because it left her the leisure for a frantic attempt to anticipate our every wish. she tried to help us with a perseverance that was exasperating, and as her training had taught her the supremacy of the master in the house, it was upon j. that her efforts were chiefly spent. i could see him writhe under her devotion, until there were times when i dreaded to think what might come of it, all the more because my sympathies were so entirely with him. if he opened his door, she rushed to ask what he wanted. a spy could not have spied more diligently; and as in our small chambers the kitchen door was almost opposite his, he never went or came that she did not know it. he might be as short with her as he could, and in british fashion order her never to come into the studio, but it was no use; she could not keep out of it. each new visitor, or letter, or message, was an excuse for her to flounder in among the portfolios on the floor and the bottles of acid in the corner, at the risk of his temper and her life. on the whole, he bore it with admirable patience. but there was one awful morning when he hurried into my room, slammed the door after him, and in a whisper said,--he who would not hurt a fly,--"if you don't keep that woman out of my room, i'll wring her neck for her!"
i might have spared myself any anxiety. had j. offered to her face to wring her neck, she would have smiled and said, "that's all right, sir! thank you, sir!" for, with trimmer, to be "bonny" meant to be cheerful under any and all conditions. so long as her cherished traditions were not imperilled, she had a smile for every emergency. it was characteristic of her to allow me to christen her anew the first day she was with us, and not once to protest. we could not bring ourselves to call her lily, her christian name, so inappropriate was it to her venerable appearance. her surname was even more impossible, for she was the widow of a mr. trim. she herself--helpful from the beginning--suggested "cook." but she was a number of things besides, and though i did not mind my friends knowing that she was as many persons in one as the cook of the nancy bell, it would have been superfluous to remind them of it on every occasion. when, at my wits' end, i added a few letters and turned the impossible trim into trimmer, she could not have been more pleased had i made her a present, and from that moment she answered to the new name as if born to it.
the same philosophy carried her through every trial and tribulation. it was sure to be all right if, before my eyes and driving me to tears, she broke the plates i could not replace without a journey to central france, or if in the morning the kitchen was a wreck after the night jimmy, our unspeakable black cat, had been making of it. fortunately he went out as a rule for his sprees, realizing that our establishment could not stand the wear and tear. when he chanced to stay at home, i have come down to the kitchen in the morning to find the clock ticking upside down on the floor, oranges and apples rolling about, spoons and forks under the table, cups and saucers in pieces, and jimmy on the table washing his face. but trimmer would meet me with a radiant smile and would put things to rights, while jimmy purred at her heels, as if both were rather proud of the exploit, certain that no other cat in the world could, "all by his lone" and in one night, work such ruin.
after all, it was a good deal trimmer's fault if we got into the habit of shifting disagreeable domestic details on to her shoulders, she had such a way of offering them for the purpose. it was she who, when jimmy's orgies had at last undermined his health and the "vet" prescribed a dose of chloroform as the one remedy, went to see it administered, coming back to tell us of the "beautiful corpse" he had made. it was she who took our complaints to the housekeeper downstairs, and met those the other tenants brought against us. it was she who bullied stupid tradesmen and stirred up idle workmen. it was she, in a word, who served as domestic scapegoat. and she never remonstrated. i am convinced that if i had said, "trimmer, there's a lion roaring at the door," she would have answered, "that's all right, mum! thank you, mum!" and rushed to say that we were not at home to him. as it happens, i know how she would have faced a burglar, for late one evening when i was alone in our chambers, i heard some one softly trying to turn the knob of the door of the box-room. what i did was to shut and bolt the door at the foot of our little narrow stairway, thankful that there was a door there that could be bolted. what trimmer did, when she came home ten minutes later and i told her, "there's a burglar in the box-room," was to say, "oh, is there, mum? thank you, mum. that's all right. i'll just run up and see"; and she lit her candle and walked right up to the box-room and unlocked and opened the door. out flew william penn, furious with us because he had let himself be shut in where nobody had seen him go, and where he had no business to have gone. he was only the cat, i admit. but he might have been the burglar for all trimmer knew, and--what then?
as i look back and think of these things, i am afraid we imposed upon her. at the time, we had twinges of conscience, especially when we caught her "cutting about" with more than her usual zeal. she was not designed by nature to "cut about" at all. to grow old with her meant "to lose the glory of the form." she was short, she had an immense breadth of hip, and she waddled rather than walked. when, in her haste, her cap would get tilted to one side, and she would give a smudge to her nose or her cheek, she was really a grotesque little figure, and the twinges became acute. to see her "cutting about" so unbecomingly for us at an age when she should have been allowed, unburdened, to crawl towards death, was to shift the heaviest responsibility to our shoulders and to make us the one barrier between her and the workhouse. we could not watch the tragedy of old age in our own household without playing a more important part in it than we liked.
her cheerfulness was the greater marvel when i learned how little reason life had given her for it. in her rare outbursts of confidence, with excuses for the liberty, she told me that she was london born and bred, that she had gone into service young, and that she had married before she was twenty. i fancy she must have been pretty as a girl. i know she was "bonny," and "a fine one" for work, and i am not surprised that trim wanted to marry her. he was a skilled plasterer by trade, got good wages, and was seldom out of a job. they had a little house in some far-away mean street, and though the children who would have been welcome never came, there was little else to complain of.
trim was good to her, that is, unless he was in liquor, which i gathered he mostly was. he was fond of his glass, sociable-like, and with his week's wages in his pocket, could not keep away from his pals in the public. trimmer's objection to beer was accounted for when i discovered that trim's fondness for it often kept the little house without bread and filled it with curses. there were never blows. trim was good, she reminded me, and the liquor never made him wicked,--only made him leave his wife to starve, and then curse her for starving. she was tearful with gratitude when she remembered his goodness in not beating her; but when her story reached the day of his tumbling off a high ladder--the beer was in his legs--and being brought back to her dead, it seemed to me a matter of rejoicing. not to her, however, for she had to give up the little house and go into service again, and she missed trim and his curses. she did not complain. she always found good places, and she adopted a little boy, a sweet little fellow, like a son to her, whom she sent to school and started in life, and had never seen since. but young men will be young men, and she loved him. she was very happy at the corset and petticoat shop, where she lived while he was with her. after business hours she was free, for apparently the responsibility of being alone in a big house all night was as simple for her as braving a burglar in our chambers. the young ladies were pleasant, she was well paid. then her older brother's wife died and left him with six children. what could she do but go and look after them when he asked her?
he was well-to-do, and his house and firing and lighting were given him in addition to high wages. he did not pay her anything, of course,--she was his sister. but it was a comfortable home, the children were fond of her,--and also of her cakes and puddings,--and she looked forward to spending the rest of her days there. but at the end of two years he married again, and when the new wife came, the old sister went. this was how it came about that, without a penny in her pocket, and with nothing save her old twisted hands to keep her out of the workhouse, she was adrift again at an age which made her undesirable to everybody except foolish people like ourselves, fresh from the horrors of our experience with 'enrietter. it never occurred to trimmer that there was anything to complain of. for her, all had always been for the best in the best of all possible worlds. that she had now chanced upon chambers and two people and one dissipated cat to take care of, and more to do than ought to have been asked of her, was but another stroke of her invariable good luck.
she had an amazing faculty of turning all her little molehills into mountains of pleasure. i have never known anything like the joy she got from her family, though i never could quite make out why. she was inordinately proud of the brother who had been so ready to get rid of her; the sister-in-law who had replaced her was a paragon of virtue; the nieces were so many infant phenomena, and one sunday when, with the south london world of fashion, they were walking in the embankment gardens, she presumed so far as to bring them up to our chambers to show them off to me, and the affectionate glances she cast upon their expansive lace collars explained that she still had her uses in the family. there was also a cousin whom, to trimmer's embarrassment, i often found in our kitchen; but much worse than frequent visits could be forgiven her, since it was she who, after jimmy's inglorious end, brought us william penn, a pussy then small enough to go into her coat-pocket, but already gay enough to dance his way straight into our hearts.
trimmer's pride reached high-water mark when it came to a younger brother who travelled in "notions" for a city firm. his proprietor was the personage the rich jew always is in the city of london, and was made alderman and lord mayor, and knighted and baroneted, during the years trimmer spent with us. she took enormous satisfaction in the splendour of this success, counting it another piece of her good luck to be connected, however remotely, with anybody so distinguished. she had almost an air of proprietorship on the 9th of november, when from our windows she watched his show passing along the embankment; she could not have been happier if she herself had been seated in the gorgeous cinderella coach, with the coachman in wig and cocked hat, and the powdered footmen perched up behind; and when j. went to the lord mayor's dinner that same evening at the guildhall, it became for her quite a family affair. i often fancied that she thought it reflected glory on us all to have the sister of a man who travelled in "notions" for a knight and a lord mayor, living in our chambers; though she would never have taken the liberty of showing it.
trimmer's joy was only less in our friends than in her family, which was for long a puzzle to me. they added considerably to her already heavy task, and in her place, i should have hated them for it. it might amuse us to have them drop in to lunch or to dinner at any time, and to gather them together once a week, on thursday evening. but it could hardly amuse trimmer, to whose share fell the problem of how to make a meal prepared for two go round among four or six, or how to get to the front door and dispose of hats and wraps in chambers so small that the weekly gathering filled even our little hall to overflowing. there was always some one to help her on thursdays, and she had not much to do in the way of catering. "plain living and high talking" was the principle upon which our evenings were run, and whoever wanted more than a sandwich or so could go elsewhere. but whatever had to be done, trimmer insisted on doing, and, moreover, on doing it until the last pipe was out and the last word spoken; and as everybody almost was an artist or a writer, and as there is no subject so inexhaustible as "shop," i do not like to remember how late that often was. it made no difference. she refused to go to bed, and in her white cap and apron, with her air of old retainer or family nurse, she would waddle about through clouds of tobacco-smoke, offering a box of cigarettes here, a plate of sandwiches there, radiant, benevolent, more often than not in the way, toward the end looking as if she would drop, but apparently enjoying herself more than anybody, until it seemed as if the unkindness would be not to let her stay up in it.
more puzzling to me than her interest in all our friends was her choice of a few for her special favour. i could not see the reason for her choice, unless i had suspected her of a sudden passion for literature and art. certainly her chief attentions were lavished on the most distinguished among our friends, who were the very people most apt to put her devotion to the test. she adored whistler, though when he was in london he had a way not only of dropping in to dinner, but sometimes of dropping in so late that it had to be cooked all over again. she was so far from minding that, at the familiar sound of his knock and ring, her face was wreathed in smiles, she seemed to look upon the extra work as a privilege, and i have known her, without a word, trot off to the butcher's or the green-grocer's, or even to the tobacconist's in the strand for the little algerian cigarettes he loved. she went so far as to abandon certain of her prejudices for his benefit, and i realized what a conquest he had made when she resigned herself to cooking a fowl in a casserole and serving it without bread-sauce. she discovered the daintiness of his appetite, and it was delightful to see her hovering over him at table and pointing out the choice bits in every dish she passed. she was forever finding an excuse to come into any room where he might be. altogether, it was as complete a case of fascination as if she had known him to be the great master he was; and she was his slave long before he gave her the ten shillings, which was valued sentimentally as i really believe a tip never was before or since by a british servant.
henley was hardly second in her esteem, and this was the more inexplicable because he provided her with so many more chances to prove it. whistler then lived in paris, and appeared only now and then. henley lived in london half the week, and rarely missed a thursday. for it was on that evening that the "national observer," which he was editing, went to press, and the printers in covent garden were conveniently near to our chambers. his work done, the paper put to bed, about ten or eleven he and the train of young men then in attendance upon him would come round; and to them, in the comfortable consciousness that the rest of the week was their own, time was of no consideration. henley exulted in talk: if he had the right audience he would talk all night; and the right audience was willing to listen so long as he talked in our chambers. but trimmer, in the kitchen, or handing round sandwiches, could not listen, and yet she lingered as long as anybody. it might be almost dawn before he got up to go, but she was there to fetch him his crutch and his big black hat, and to shut the door after him. whatever the indiscretion of the hour one thursday, she welcomed him as cordially the next, or any day in between when inclination led him to toil up the three long flights of stairs to our dinner-table.
phil may was no less in her good graces, and his hours, if anything, were worse than henley's, since the length of his stay did not depend on his talk. i never knew a man of less conversation. "have a drink," was its extent with many who thought themselves in his intimacy. this was a remark which he could scarcely offer to trimmer at the front door, where whistler and henley never failed to exchange with her a friendly greeting. but all the same, she seemed to feel the charm which his admirers liked to attribute to him, and to find his smile, when he balanced himself on the back of a chair, more than a substitute for conversation, however animated. the flaw in my enjoyment of his company on our thursdays was the certainty of the length of time he would be pleased to bestow it upon us. trimmer must have shared this certainty, but to her it never mattered. she never failed to return his smile, though when he got down to go, she might be nodding, and barely able to drag one tired old foot after the other.
she made as much of "bob" stevenson, whose hours were worse than anybody's. we would perhaps run across him at a press view of pictures in the morning and bring him back to lunch, he protesting that he must leave immediately after to get home to kew and write his article before six o'clock. and then he would begin to talk, weaving a romance of any subject that came up,--the subject was nothing, it was always what he made of it,--and he would go on talking until trimmer, overjoyed at the chance, came in with afternoon tea; and he would go on talking until she announced dinner; and he would go on talking until all hours the next morning, long after his last train and any possibility of his article getting into yesterday afternoon's "pall mall." but early as he might appear, late as he might stay, he was never too early or too late for trimmer.
these were her favourites, though she was ready to "mother" beardsley, who, she seemed to think, had just escaped from the schoolroom and ought to be sent back to it; though she had a protecting eye also for george steevens, just up from oxford, evidently mistaking the silence which was then his habit for shyness; though, indeed, she overflowed with kindness for everybody who came. it was astonishing how, at her age, she managed to adapt herself to people and ways so unlike any she could ever have known, without relaxing in the least from her own code of conduct.
only twice can i remember seeing her really ruffled. once was when felix buhot, who, during a long winter he spent in london, was often with us on thursdays, went into the kitchen to teach her to make coffee. the inference that she could not make it hurt her feelings; but her real distress was to have him in the kitchen, which "ladies and gentlemen" should not enter. between her desire to get him back to the dining-room and her fear lest he should discover it, she was terribly embarrassed. it was funny to watch them: buhot, unconscious of wrong and of english, intent upon measuring the coffee and pouring out the boiling water; trimmer fluttering about him with flushed and anxious face, talking very loud and with great deliberation, in the not uncommon conviction that the foreigner's ignorance of english is only a form of deafness.
on the other occasion she lost her temper, the only time in my experience. it was a sunday afternoon, and whistler, appearing while she was out and staying on to supper, got constant, his man, to add an onion soup and an omelet to the cold meats she had prepared, for he would never reconcile himself to the english supper. she was furious when she got back and found that her pots and pans had been meddled with, and her larder raided. she looked upon it as a reproach; as if she couldn't serve mr. whistler as well as any foreign servant,--she had no use for foreign servants anyhow,--she would not have them making their foreign messes in any kitchen of hers! it took days and careful diplomacy to convince her that she had not been insulted.
i was the more impressed by this outbreak of temper because, as a rule, she gave no sign of seeing, or hearing, or understanding anything that went on in our chambers. she treated me as i believe royalty should be treated, leaving it to me to open the talk, or to originate a topic. i remember once, when we were involved in a rumpus which had been discussed over our dinner-table for months beforehand, and which at the time filled the newspapers and was such public property that everybody in the quarter--the milkman, the florist at the temple of pomona in the strand, the housekeeper downstairs, the postman--congratulated us on our victory, trimmer alone held her peace. i could not believe that she really did not know, and at last i asked her:--
"i suppose you have heard, trimmer, what has been going on these days?"
"what, mum?" was her answer.
then, exasperated, i explained.
"why yes, mum," she said. "i beg your pardon, mum, i really couldn't 'elp it. i 'ave been reading the pipers, and the 'ousekeeper she was a-talking to me about it before you come in, and the postman too, and i was sayin' as 'ow glad i was. i 'ope you and the master won't think it a liberty, mum. thank you, mum!"
i remember another time, when some of our friends took to running away with other friends' wives, and things became so complicated for everybody that our thursday evenings were brought to a sudden end, trimmer kept the same stolid countenance throughout, until, partly to prevent awkwardness, partly out of curiosity, i asked her if she had seen the papers.
"oh, i beg your pardon, mum," she hesitated, "thank you, mum, i'm sure. i know it's a liberty, but you know, mum, they've all been 'ere so often i couldn't help noticing there was somethink. and i'm very sorry, mum, if you'll excuse the liberty, they all was such lidies and gentlemen, mum."
and so, i should never have known there was another reason, besides the natural kindness of her heart, for her interest in our friends and her acceptance of their ways, if, before this, i had not happened to say to her one friday morning,--
"you seem, trimmer, to have a very great admiration for mr. phil may."
"i 'ope you and master won't think it a liberty, mum," she answered, in an agony of embarrassment, "but i do like to see 'im, and they allus so like to 'ear about 'im at 'ome. they're allus asking me when i 'ave last seen 'im or mr. whistler."
then it came out. chance had bestowed upon her father and one of the great american magazines the same name, with the result that the magazine was looked upon by her brothers and herself as belonging somehow to the family. the well-to-do brother subscribed to it, the other came to his house to see each new number. through the illustrations and articles they had become as familiar with artists and authors as most people in england are with the "winners," and their education had reached at least the point of discovery that news does not begin and end in sport. judging from trimmer, i doubt if at first their patronage of art and literature went much further, but this was far enough for them to know, and to feel flattered by the knowledge, that she was living among people who figured in the columns of art and literary gossip as prominently as "all the winners" in the columns of the sporting prophets, though they would have been still more flattered had her lot been cast among the prophets. in a few cases, their interest soon became more personal.
it was their habit--why, i do not suppose they could have said themselves--to read any letter whistler might write to the papers at a moment when he was given to writing, though what they made of the letter when read was more than trimmer was able to explain; they also looked out for phil may's drawings in "punch"; they passed our articles round the family circle,--a compliment hardly more astonishing to trimmer than to us. as time went on they began to follow the career of several of our other friends to whom trimmer introduced them; and it was a gratification to them all, as well as a triumph for her, when on sunday afternoon she could say, "mr. crockett or mr. 'arold frederic was at master's last thursday." thus, through us, she became for the first time a person of importance in her brother's house, and i suspect also quite an authority in brixton on all questions of art and literature. indeed, she may, for all i know, have started another carnegie library in south london.
it is a comfort now to think that her stay with us was pleasant to her; wages alone could not have paid our debt for the trouble she spared us during her five years in our chambers. i have an idea that, in every way, it was the most prosperous period of her life. when she came, she was not only without a penny in her pocket, but she owed pounds for her outfit of aprons and caps and dresses. before she left, she was saving money. she opened a book at the post office savings bank; she subscribed to one of those societies which would assure her a respectable funeral, for she had the ambition of all the self-respecting poor to be put away decent, after having, by honest work, kept off the parish to the end. her future provided for, she could make the most of whatever pleasures the present might throw in her way,--the pantomime at christmas, a good seat for the queen's jubilee procession; above all, the two weeks' summer holiday. no journey was ever so full of adventure as hers to margate, or yarmouth, or hastings, from the first preparation to the moment of return, when she would appear laden with presents of yarmouth bloaters or margate shrimps, to be divided between the old charwoman and ourselves.
if she had no desire to leave us, we had none to have her go; and as the years passed, we did not see why she should. she was old, but she bore her age with vigour. she was hardly ever ill, and never with anything worse than a cold or an indigestion, though she had an inconvenient talent for accidents. the way she managed to cut her fingers was little short of genius. one or two were always wrapped in rags. but no matter how deep the gash, she was as cheerful as if it were an accomplishment. with the blood pouring from the wound, she would beam upon me: "you 'ave no idea, mum, what wonderful flesh i 'as fur 'ealin'." her success in falling down our little narrow stairway was scarcely less remarkable. but the worst tumble of all was the one which j. had so long expected. he had just moved his portfolios to an unaccustomed place one morning, when a letter, or a message, or something, sent her stumbling into the studio with her usual impetuosity, and over she tripped. it was so bad that we had to have the doctor, her arm was so seriously strained that he made her carry it in a sling for weeks. we were alarmed, but not trimmer.
"you know, mum, it is lucky; it might 'ave been the right harm, and that would 'ave been bad!"
she really thought it another piece of her extraordinary good luck.
poor trimmer! it needed so little to make her happy, and within five years of her coming to us that little was taken from her. all she asked of life was work, and a worse infirmity than age put a stop to her working for us, or for anybody else, ever again. at the beginning of her trouble, she would not admit to us, nor i fancy to herself, that anything was wrong, and she was "bonny," though she went "cutting about" at a snail's pace and her cheerful old face grew haggard. presently, there were days when she could not keep up the pretence, and then she said her head ached and she begged my pardon for the liberty. i consulted a doctor. he thought it might be neuralgia and dosed her for it; she thought it her teeth, and had almost all the few still left to her pulled out. and the pain was worse than ever. then, as we were on the point of leaving town for some weeks, we handed over our chambers to the frowzy old charwoman, and sent trimmer down to the sea at hastings. she was waiting to receive us when we returned, but she gave us only the ghost of her old smile in greeting, and her face was more haggard and drawn than ever. for a day she tottered about from one room to another, cooking, dusting, making beds, and looking all the while as if she were on the rack. she was a melancholy wreck of the old cheerful, bustling, exasperating trimmer; and it was more than we could stand. i told her so. she forgot to beg my pardon for the liberty in her hurry to assure me that nothing was wrong, that she could work, that she wanted to work, that she was not happy when she did not work.
"oh, i'm bonny, mum, i'm bonny!" she kept saying over and over again.
her despair at the thought of stopping work was more cruel to see than her physical torture, and i knew, without her telling me, that her fear of the pain she might have still to suffer was nothing compared to her fear of the workhouse she had toiled all her life to keep out of. she had just seven pounds and fifteen shillings for her fortune; her family, being working people, would have no use for her once she was of no use to them; our chambers were her home only so long as she could do in them what she had agreed to do; there was no workmen's compensation act in those days, no old-age pensions, even if she had been old enough to get one. what was left for a poor woman, full of years and pain, save the one refuge which, all her life, she had been taught to look upon as scarcely less shameful than the prison or the scaffold?
well, trimmer had done her best for us; now we did our best for her, and, as it turned out, the best that could be done. through a friend, we got her into st. bartholomew's hospital. her case was hopeless from the first. a malignant growth so close to the brain that at her age an operation was too serious a risk, and without it she might linger in agony for months,--this was what life had been holding in store for trimmer during those long years of incessant toil, and self-sacrifice, and obstinate belief that a drunken husband, a selfish brother, an empty purse, were all for the best in our best of all possible worlds.
she did not know how ill she was, and her first weeks at the hospital were happy. the violence of the pain was relieved, the poor tired old body was the better for the rest and the cool and the quiet; she who had spent her strength waiting on others enjoyed the novel experience of being waited on herself. there were the visits of her family on visiting days, and mine in between, to look forward to; some of our friends, who had grown as fond of her as we, sent her fruit and flowers, and she liked the consequence all this gave her in the ward. then, the hospital gossip was a distraction, perhaps because in talking about the sufferings of others she could forget her own. my objection was that she would spare me not a single detail. but in some curious way i could not fathom, it seemed a help to trimmer, and i had not the heart to cut her stories short.
after a month or so, the reaction came. her head was no better, and what was the hospital good for if they couldn't cure her? she grew suspicious, hinting dark things to me about the doctors. they were keeping her there to try experiments on her, and she was a respectable woman, and always had been, and she did not like to be stared at in her bed by a lot of young fellows. the nurses were as bad. but once out of their clutches she would be "bonny" again, she knew. probably the doctors and nurses knew too, for the same suspicion is more often than not their reward; and indeed it was so unlike trimmer that she must have picked it up in the ward. anyway, in their kindness they had kept her far longer than is usual in such cases, and when they saw her grow restless and unhappy, it seemed best to let her go. at the end of four months, and to her infinite joy, trimmer, five years older than when she came to us, in the advanced stage of an incurable disease, with a capital of seven pounds and fifteen shillings, was free to begin life again.
i pass quickly over the next weeks,--i wish i could have passed over them as quickly at the time. my visits were now to a drab quarter on the outskirts of camden town, where trimmer had set up as a capitalist. she boarded with her cousin, many shillings of her little store going to pay the weekly bill; she found a wonderful doctor who promised to cure her in no time, and into his pockets the rest of her savings flowed. there was no persuading her that he could not succeed where the doctors at the hospital had failed, and so long as she went to him, to help her would only have meant more shillings for an unscrupulous quack who traded on the ignorance and credulity of the poor. week by week i saw her grow feebler, week by week i knew her little capital was dribbling fast away. she seemed haunted by the dread that her place would be taken in our chambers, and that, once cured, she would have to hunt for another. that she was "bonny" was the beginning and end of all she had to say. one morning, to prove it, she managed to drag herself down to see us, arriving with just strength enough to stagger into my room, her arms outstretched to feel her way, for the disease, by this time, was affecting both eyes and brain. nothing would satisfy her until she had gone into the studio, stumbling about among the portfolios, i on one side, on the other j., with no desire to wring her neck for it was grim tragedy we were guiding between us,--tragedy in rusty black with a reticule hanging from one arm,--five years nearer the end than when first the curtain rose upon it in our chambers. we bundled her off as fast as we could, in a cab, with the cousin who had brought her. she stopped in the doorway.
"oh, i'm bonny, mum. i can cut about, you'll see!" and she would have fallen, had not the cousin caught and steadied her.
after that, she had not the strength to drag herself anywhere, not even to see the quack. a week later she took to her bed, almost blind, her poor old wits scattered beyond recovery. i was glad of that: it spared her the weary waiting and watching for death while the shadow of the grim building she feared still more drew ever nearer. i hesitated to go and see her, for my mere presence stirred her into consciousness, and reminded her of her need to work and her danger if she could not. then there was a day when she did not seem to know i was there, and she paid no attention to me, never spoke until just as i was going, when of a sudden she sat bolt upright:--
"oh, i'm bonny, mum, i'm bonny. you'll see!" she wailed, and sank back on her pillows.
these were trimmer's last words to me, and i left her at death's door, still crying for work, as if in the next world, as in this, it was her only salvation. very soon, the cousin came to tell me that the little capital had dribbled entirely away, and that she could not keep trimmer without being paid for it. could i blame her? she had her own fight against the shadow hanging all too close now over trimmer. her 'usband worked 'ard, she said, and they could just live respectable, and trimmer's brothers, they was for sending trimmer to the workus. they might have sent her, and i doubt if she would have been the wiser. but could we see her go? for our own comfort, for our own peace of mind, we interfered and arranged that trimmer should board with her cousin until a bed was found in another hospital. it was found, mercifully, almost at once, but, before i had time to go there, the great release had come for her; and we heard with thankfulness that the old head was free from suffering, that the twisted hands were still, that fear of the workhouse could trouble her no more. life's one gift to trimmer had been toil, pain her one reward, and it was good to know that she was at rest.
the cousin brought us the news. but i had a visit the same day from the sister-in-law, the paragon of virtue, a thin, sharp-faced woman of middle age. i said what i could in sympathy, telling her how much we missed trimmer, how well we should always remember her. but this was not what she had come to hear. she let me get through. she drew the sigh appropriate for the occasion. then she settled down to business. when did i propose to pay back the money trimmer had spent on the doctor in camden town? i didn't propose to at all, i told her: he was a miserable quack and i had done my best to keep trimmer from going to him; besides, fortunately for her, she was beyond the reach of money that was not owing to her. the sister-in-law was indignant. the family always understood i had promised, a promise was a promise, and now they depended on me for the funeral. i reminded her of the society to which trimmer had subscribed solely to meet that expense. but she quickly let me know that the funeral the society proposed to provide fell far short of the family's standard. to them it appeared scarcely better than a pauper's. the coffin would be plain, there would be no oak and brass handles,--worse, there would be no plumes for the horses and the hearse. to send their sister to her grave without plumes would disgrace them before their neighbours. nor would there be a penny over for the family mourning,--could i allow them, the chief mourners, to mourn without crape?
i remembered their willingness to let trimmer die as a pauper in the workhouse. after all, she would have the funeral she had provided for. she would lie no easier in her grave for oak and brass handles, for plumes and crape. her family had made use of her all her life; i did not see why i should help them to make use of her after her death, that their grief might be trumpeted in brixton and camden town. i brought the interview to an end. but sometimes i wonder if trimmer would not have liked it better if i had helped them, if plumes had waved from the heads of the horses that drew her to her grave, if her family had followed swathed in crape. she would have looked upon it as another piece of her extraordinary good luck if, by dying, she had been of service to anybody.
i do not know where they buried her. probably nobody save ourselves to-day has as much as a thought for her. but, if self-sacrifice counts for anything, if martyrdom is a passport to heaven, then trimmer should take her place up there by the side of st. francis of assisi, and joan of arc, and st. vincent de paul, and all those other blessed men and women whose lives were given for others, and who thought it was "bonny."
for the third time since we had taken our chambers, i was servantless, and i could not summon up courage to face for the third time the scorn which the simple request for a "general" meets in the english registry office. that was what sent me to try my luck at a french bureau in soho, where, i was given to understand, it was possible to inquire for, and actually obtain, a good bonne à tout faire and escape without insult.
louise was announced one dull november morning, a few days later. i found her waiting for me in our little hall,--a woman of about forty, short, plump, with black eyes, blacker hair, and an enchanting smile. but the powder on her face and the sham diamonds in her ears seemed to hang out danger signals, and my first impulse was to show her the door. it was something familiar in the face under the powder, above all in the voice when she spoke, that made me hesitate.
"provençale?" i asked.
"yes, from marseilles," she answered, and i showed her instead into my room.
i had often been "down there" where the sun shines and skies are blue, and her provençal accent came like a breath from the south through the gloom of the london fog, bringing it all back to me,--the blinding white roads, the gray hills sweet with thyme and lavender, the towns with their "antiquities," the little shining white villages,--m. bernard's at martigues, and his dining-room, and the marseillais who crowded it on a sunday morning, and the gaiety and the laughter, and désiré in his white apron, and the great bowls of bouillabaisse....
it was she who recalled me to the business of the moment. her name was louise sorel, she said; she could clean, wash, play the lady's maid, sew, market, cook--but cook! té--au mouins, she would show madame; and, as she said it, she smiled. i have never seen such perfect teeth in woman or child; you knew at a glance that she must have been a radiant beauty in her youth. a provençal accent, an enchanting smile, and the remains of beauty, however, are not precisely what you engage a servant for; and, with a sudden access of common sense, i asked for references. surely, madame would not ask the impossible, she said reproachfully. she had but arrived in london, she had never gone as bonne anywhere; how, then, could she give references? she needed the work and was willing to do it: was not that sufficient? i got out of it meanly by telling her i would think it over. at that she smiled again,--really, her smile on a november day almost warranted the risk. i meant to take her; she knew; madame was kind.
i did think it over,--while i interviewed slovenly english "generals" and stray italian children, dropped upon me from heaven knows where, while i darned the family stockings, while i ate the charwoman's chops. i thought it over indeed, far more than i wanted to, until, in despair, i returned to the soho bureau to complain that i was still without a servant of any kind. the first person i saw was louise, disconsolate, on a chair in the corner. she sprang up when she recognized me. had she not said madame was kind? she cried. madame had come for her. i had done nothing of the sort. but there she was, this charming creature from the south; at home was the charwoman, dingy and dreary as the november skies. to look back now is to wonder why i did not jump at the chance of having her. as it was, i did take her,--no references, powder, sham diamonds, and all. but i compromised. it was to be for a week. after that, we should see. an hour later she was in my kitchen.
a wonderful week followed. from the start we could not resist her charm, though to be on such terms with one's servant as to know that she has charm, is no doubt the worst possible kind of bad form. even william penn, the fastidious, was her slave at first sight,--and it would have been rank ingratitude if he had not been, for, from the ordinary london tabby average people saw in him, he was at once transformed into the most superb, the most magnificent of cats! and we were all superb, we were all magnificent, down to the snuffy, tattered old irish charwoman who came to make us untidy three times a week, and whom we had not the heart to turn out, because we knew that if we did, there could be no one else foolish enough to take her in again.
and louise, though her southern imagination did such great things for us, had not overrated herself. she might be always laughing at everything, as they always do laugh "down there,"--at the english she couldn't understand, at mizé boum, the nearest she came to the charwoman's name, at the fog she must have hated, at the dirt left for her to clean. but she worked harder than any servant i have ever had, and to better purpose. she adored the cleanliness and the order, it seemed, and was appalled at the dirt and slovenliness of the english, as every frenchwoman is when she comes to the land that has not ceased to brag of its cleanliness since its own astonished discovery of the morning tub. before louise, the london blacks disappeared as if by magic. our wardrobes were overhauled and set to rights. the linen was mended and put in place. and she could cook! such risotto!--she had been in italy--such macaroni! such bouillabaisse! throughout that wonderful week, our chambers smelt as strong of ail as a provençal kitchen.
in the face of all this, i do not see how i brought myself to find any fault. to do myself justice, i never did when it was a question of the usual domestic conventions. louise was better than all the conventions--all the prim english maids in prim white caps--in the world. just to hear her talk, just to have her call that disreputable old mizé boum ma belle, just to have her announce as la dame de la bouillabaisse a friend of ours who had been to provence and had come to feast on her masterpiece and praised her for it,--just each and every one of her charming southern ways made up for the worst domestic crime she could have committed, i admit to a spasm of dismay when, for the first meal she served, she appeared in her petticoat, a dish-cloth for apron, and her sleeves rolled up above her elbows. but i forgot it with her delightful laugh at herself when i explained that, absurdly it might be, we preferred a skirt, an apron, and sleeves fastened at the wrists. it seemed she adored the economy too, and she had wished to protect her dress and even her apron.
these things would horrify the model housewife; but then, i am not a model housewife, and they amused me, especially as she was so quick to meet me, not only half, but the whole way. when, however, she took to running out at intervals on mysterious errands, i felt that i must object. her first excuse was les affaires; her next, a friend; and, when neither of these would serve, she owned up to a husband who, apparently, spent his time waiting for her at the street corner; he was so lonely, le pauvre! i suggested that he should come and see her in the kitchen. she laughed outright. why, he was of a shyness madame could not figure to herself. he never would dare to mount the stairs and ring the front door-bell.
in the course of this wonderful week, there was sent to me, from the soho bureau, a swiss girl with as many references as a colonial dame has grandfathers. even so, and despite the inconvenient husband, i might not have dismissed louise,--it was so pleasant to live in an atmosphere of superlatives and ail. it was she who settled the matter with some vague story of a partnership in a restaurant and work waiting for her there. perhaps we should have parted with an affectation of indifference had not j. unexpectedly interfered. husbands have a trick of pretending superiority to details of housekeeping until you have had all the bother, and then upsetting everything by their interference. she had given us the sort of time we hadn't had since the old days in provence, he argued; her smile alone was worth double the money agreed upon; therefore, double the money was the least i could in decency offer her. his logic was irreproachable, but housekeeping on such principles would end in domestic bankruptcy. however, louise got the money, and my reward was her face when she thanked me--she made giving sheer self-indulgence--and the risotto which, in the shock of gratitude, she insisted upon coming the next day to cook for us.
but, in the end, j.'s indiscretion cost me dear. as louise was determined to magnify all our geese, not merely into swans, but into the most superb, the most magnificent swans, the few extra shillings had multiplied so miraculously by the time their fame reached the quartier, that madame of the bureau saw in me a special providence appointed to relieve her financial difficulties, and hurried to claim an immediate loan. then, her claim being disregarded, she wrote to call my attention to the passing of the days and the miserable pettiness of the sum demanded, and to assure me of her consideration the most perfect. she got to be an intolerable nuisance before i heard the last of her.
we had not realized the delight of having louise to take care of us, until she was replaced by the swiss girl, who was industrious, sober, well-trained, with all the stolidity and surliness of her people, and as colourless as a self-respecting servant ought to be. i was immensely relieved when, after a fortnight, she found the work too much for her. it was just as she was on the point of going that louise reappeared, her face still white with powder, the sham diamonds still glittering in her ears, but somehow changed, i could not quite make out how. she had come, she explained to present me with a ring of pearls and opals and of surpassing beauty, at the moment pawned for a mere trifle,--here was the ticket; i had but to pay, add a smaller trifle for interest and commission, and it was mine. as i never have worn rings i did not care to begin the habit by gambling in pawn tickets, much though i should have liked to oblige louise. her emotion when i refused seemed so out of proportion, and yet was so unmistakably genuine, that it bewildered me.
but she pulled herself together almost at once and began to talk of the restaurant which, i learned, was marching in a simply marvellous manner. it was only when, in answer to her question, i told her that the demoiselle suisse was marching not at all and was about to leave me, that the truth came out. there was no restaurant, there never had been,--except in the country of tartarin's lions; it was her invention to spare me any self-reproach i might have felt for turning her adrift at the end of her week's engagement. she had found no work since. she and her husband had pawned everything. tiens, and she emptied before me a pocketful of pawn tickets. they were without a sou. they had had nothing to eat for twenty-four hours. that was the change. i began to understand. she was starving, literally starving, in the cold and gloom and damp of the london winter, she who was used to the warmth and sunshine, to the clear blue skies of provence. if the aliens who drift to england, as to the promised land, could but know what awaited them!
of course i took her back. she might have added rouge to the powder, she might have glittered all over with diamonds, sham or real, and i would not have minded. j. welcomed her with joy. william penn hung rapturously at her heels. we had a risotto, golden as the sun of the midi, fragrant as its kitchens, for our dinner.
there was no question of a week now, no question of time at all. it did not seem as if we ever could manage again, as if we ever could have managed, without louise. and she, on her side, took possession of our chambers, and, for a ridiculously small sum a week, worked her miracles for us. we positively shone with cleanliness; london grime no longer lurked, the skeleton in our cupboards. we never ate dinners and breakfasts more to our liking, never had i been so free from housekeeping, never had my weekly bills been so small. eventually, she charged herself with the marketing, though she could not, and never could, learn to speak a word of english; but not even the london tradesman was proof against her smile. she kept the weekly accounts, though she could neither read nor write: in her intelligence, an eloquent witness to the folly of general education. she was, in a word, the most capable and intelligent woman i have ever met, so that it was the more astounding that she should also be the most charming.
most astounding of all was the way, entirely, typically provençale as she was, she could adapt herself to london and its life and people. though she wore in the street an ordinary felt hat, and in the house the english apron, you could see that her hair was made for the pretty provençal ribbon, and her broad shoulders for the provençal fichu. té, vé, and au mouins were as constantly in her mouth as in tartarin's. provençal proverbs forever hovered on her lips. she sang provençal songs at her work. she had ready a provençal story for every occasion. her very adjectives were mistral's, her very exaggerations daudet's. and yet she did everything as if she had been a "general" in london chambers all her life. nothing came amiss to her. after her first startling appearance as waitress, it was no time before she was serving at table as if she had been born to it, and with such a grace of her own that every dish she offered seemed a personal tribute. people who had never seen her before would smile back involuntarily as they helped themselves. it was the same no matter what she did. she was always gay, however heavy her task. to her even london, with its fogs, was a galéjado, as they say "down there." and she was so appreciative. we would make excuses to give her things for the pleasure of watching the warm glow spread over her face and the light leap to her eyes. we would send her to the theatre for the delight of having her come back and tell us about it. all the world, on and off the stage, was exalted and transfigured as she saw it.
but frank as she was in her admiration of all the world, she remained curiously reticent about herself. "my poor grandmother used to say, you must turn your tongue seven times in your mouth before speaking," she said to me once; and i used to fancy she gave hers a few extra twists when it came to talking of her own affairs. some few facts i gathered: that she had been at one time an ouvreuse in a marseilles theatre; at another, a tailoress,--how accomplished, the smart appearance of her husband in j.'s old coats and trousers was to show us; and that, always, off and on, she had made a business of buying at the periodical sales of the mont de piété and selling at private sales of her own. i gathered also that they all knew her in marseilles; it was louise here, louise there, as she passed through the market, and everybody must have a word and a laugh with her. no wonder! you couldn't have a word and a laugh once with louise and not long to repeat the experience. but to her life when the hours of work were over, she offered next to no clue.
only one or two figures flitted, pale shadows, through her rare reminiscences. one was the old grandmother, whose sayings were full of wisdom, but who seemed to have done little for her save give her, fortunately, no schooling at all, and a religious education that bore the most surprising fruit. louise had made her first communion, she had walked in procession on feast days. j'adorais ça, she would tell me, as she recalled her long white veil and the taper in her hand. but she adored every bit as much going to the salvation army meetings,--the lassies would invite her in, and lend her a hymn-book, and she would sing as hard as ever she could, was her account. her ideas on the subject of the scriptures and the relations of the holy family left me gasping. but her creed had the merit of simplicity. the boun diou was intelligent, she maintained; il aime les gens honnêtes. he would not ask her to hurry off to church and leave all in disorder at home, and waste her time. if she needed to pray, she knelt down where and as she was, and the boun diou was as well pleased. he was a man like us, wasn't he? well then, he understood.
there was also a sister. she occupied a modest apartment in marseilles when she first dawned upon our horizon, but so rapidly did it expand into a palatial house in town and a palatial villa by the sea, both with cellars of rare and exquisite vintages and stables full of horses and carriages, that we looked confidently to the fast-approaching day when we should find her installed in the elysée at paris. only in one respect did she never vary by a hair's breadth: this was her hatred of louise's husband.
here, at all events, was a member of the family about whom we learned more than we cared to know. for if he did not show himself at first, that did not mean his willingness to let us ignore him. he persisted in wanting louise to meet him at the corner, sometimes just when i most wanted her in the kitchen. he would have her come back to him at night; and to see her, after her day's hard work, start out in the black sodden streets, seldom earlier than ten, often as late as midnight; to realize that she must start back long before the sun would have thought of coming up, if the sun ever did come up on a london winter morning, made us wretchedly uncomfortable. the husband, however, was not to be moved by any messages i might send him. he was too shy to grant the interview i asked. but he gave me to understand through her that he wouldn't do without her, he would rather starve, he couldn't get along without her. we did not blame him: we couldn't, either. that was why, after several weeks of discomfort to all concerned, it occurred to us that we might invite him to make our home his; and we were charmed by his condescension when, at last conquering his shyness, he accepted our invitation. the threatened deadlock was thus settled, and m. auguste, as he introduced himself, came to us as a guest for as long as he chose to stay. there were friends--there always are--to warn us that what we were doing was sheer madness. what did we know about him, anyway? precious little, it was a fact: that he was the husband of louise, neither more nor less. we did not even know that, it was hinted. but if louise had not asked for our marriage certificate, could we insist upon her producing hers?
it may have been mad, but it worked excellently. m. auguste as a guest was the pattern of discretion. i had never had so much as a glimpse of him until he came to visit us. then i found him a good-looking man, evidently a few years younger than louise, well-built, rather taller than the average frenchman. beyond this, it was weeks before i knew anything of him except the astonishing adroitness with which he kept out of our way. he quickly learned our hours and arranged his accordingly. after we had begun work in the morning, he would saunter down to the kitchen and have his coffee, the one person of leisure in the establishment. after that, and again in the afternoon, he would stroll out to attend to what i take were the not too arduous duties of a horse-dealer with neither horses nor capital,--for as a horse-dealer he described himself when he had got so far as to describe himself at all. at noon and at dinner-time, he would return from tattersall's, or wherever his not too exhausting business had called him, with a small paper parcel supposed to contain his breakfast or his dinner, our agreement being that he was to supply his own food. the evenings he spent with louise. i could discover no vice in him except the, to us, disturbing excess of his devotion to her. you read of this sort of devotion in french novels and do not believe in it. but m. auguste, in his exacting dependence on louise, left the french novel far behind. as for louise, though she was no longer young and beauty fades early in the south, i have never met, in or out of books, a woman who made me understand so well the reason of the selfishness some men call love.
m. auguste's manners to us were irreproachable. we could only admire the consideration he showed in so persistently effacing himself. j. never would have seen him, if on feast days--christmas, new year's, the 14th of july--m. auguste had not, with great ceremony, entered the dining-room at the hour of morning coffee to shake hands and wish j. the compliments of the season. with me his relations grew less formal, for he was not slow to discover that we had one pleasant weakness in common. though the modest proportions of that brown-paper parcel might not suggest it, m. auguste knew and liked what was good to eat; so did i. almost before i realized it, he had fallen into the habit of preparing some special dish for me, or of making my coffee, when i chanced to be alone for lunch or for dinner. i can still see the gleam in his eyes as he brought me in my cup, and assured me that he, not louise, was the artist, and that it was something of extra--but of extra!--as it always was. nor was it long before he was installed chef in our kitchen on the occasion of any little breakfast or dinner we might be giving. the first time i caught him in shirt-sleeves, with louise's apron flapping about his legs and the bib drawn over his waistcoat, he was inclined to be apologetic. but he soon gave up apology. it was evident there were few things he enjoyed more than cooking a good dinner,--unless it was eating it,--and his apron was put on early in the day. in the end, i never asked any one to breakfast or dinner without consulting him, and his menus strengthened the friendliness of our relations.
after a while he ran my errands and helped louise to market. i found that he spoke and wrote very good english, and was a man of some education. i have preserved his daily accounts, written in an unusually neat handwriting, always beginning "mussy: 1 penny"; and this reminds me that not least in his favour was his success in ingratiating himself with william penn,--or "mussy" in louise's one heroic attempt to cope with the english. m. auguste, moreover, was quiet and reserved to a degree that would not have discredited the traditional englishman. only now and then did the midi show itself in him: in the gleam of his eye over his gastronomic masterpieces; in his pose as horse-dealer and the scale on which the business he never did was schemed,--mademoiselle, the french dressmaker from versailles, who counted in tens and thought herself rich, was dazzled by the way m. auguste reckoned by thousands; and once, luckily only once, in a frenzied outbreak of passion.
he was called to paris, i never understood why. when the day came, he was seized with such despair as i had never seen before, as i trust i may never have to see again. he could not leave louise, he would not. no! no! no! he raved, he swore, he wept. i was terrified, but louise, when i called her aside to consult her, shrugged her shoulders. "we play the comedy in the kitchen," she laughed, but i noticed that her laughter was low. i fancy when you played the comedy with m. auguste, tragedy was only just round the corner. with the help of mademoiselle she got him to the station; he had wanted to throw himself from the train as it started, was her report. and in three days, not a penny the richer for the journey, he had returned to his life of ease in our chambers.
thus we came to know m. auguste's virtues and something of his temper, but never m. auguste himself. the months passed, and we were still conscious of mystery. i did not inspire him with the healthy fear he entertained for j., but i cannot say he ever took me into his confidence. what he was when not in our chambers; what he had been before he moved into them; what turn of fate had stranded him, penniless, in london with louise, to make us the richer for his coming; why he, a man of education, was married to a woman of none; why he was m. auguste while louise was louise sorel--i knew as little the day he left us as the day he arrived. j. instinctively distrusted him, convinced that he had committed some monstrous crime and was in hiding. this was also the opinion of the french quarter, as i learned afterwards. it seems the quartier held its breath when it heard he was our guest, and waited for the worst, only uncertain what form that worst would take,--whether we should be assassinated in our beds, or a bonfire made of our chambers. m. auguste, however, spared us and disappointed the quartier. his crime, to the end, remained as baffling as the identity of the man in the iron mask, or the secret of kaspar hauser.
that he was honest, i would wager my own reputation for honesty, even if it was curious the way his fingers gradually covered themselves with rings, a watch-chain dangled from his waistcoat pocket, a pin was stuck jauntily in his necktie. her last purchases at the mont de piété, pawned during those first weeks of starving in london and gradually redeemed, was louise's explanation; and why should we have suspected m. auguste of coming by them unlawfully when he never attempted to rob us, though we gave him every opportunity? he knew where i kept my money and my keys. he was alone with louise in our chambers, not only many a day and evening, but once for a long summer.
if i know m. auguste was not a thief, i do not think he was a murderer. how could i see blood on the hands of the man who presided so joyously over my pots and pans? if he were a forger, my trust in him never led to abuse of my cheque book; if a deserter, how came he to be possessed of his livret militaire duly signed, as my own eyes are the witness? how could he venture back to france, as i know he did for i received from him letters with the paris postmark? an anarchist, j. was inclined to believe. but i could not imagine him dabbling in bombs and fuses. to be a horse-dealer, without horses or money, was much more in his line.
only of one thing were we sure: however hideous or horrible the evil, m. auguste had worked "down there," under the hot sun of provence, louise had no part in it. she knew--it was the reason of her curious reticences, of her sacrifice of herself to him. that he loved her was inevitable. who could help loving her? she was so intelligent, so graceful, so gay. but that she should love m. auguste would have been incomprehensible, were it not in the nature of woman to love the man who is most selfish in his dependence upon her. she did all the work, and he had all the pleasure of it. he was always decently dressed, there was always money in his pocket, though she, who earned it, never had a penny to spend on herself. no matter how busy and hurried she might be, she had always the leisure to talk to him, to amuse him when he came in, always the courage to laugh, like the little fleurance in the story. what would you? she was made like that. she had always laughed, when she was sad as when she was gay. and while she was making life delightful for him, she was doing for us what three englishwomen combined could not have done so well, and with a charm that all the englishwomen in the world could not have mustered among them.
she had been with us about a year when i began to notice that, at moments, her face was clouded and her smile less ready. at first, i put it down to her endless comedy with m. auguste. but, after a bit, it looked as if the trouble were more serious even than his histrionics. it was nothing, she laughed when i spoke to her; it would pass. and she went on amusing and providing for m. auguste and working for us. but by the time the dark days of november set in, we were more worried about her than ever. the crisis came with christmas.
on christmas day, friends were to dine with us, and we invited mademoiselle, the french dressmaker, to eat her christmas dinner with louise and m. auguste. we were very staid in the dining-room,--it turned out rather a dull affair. but in the kitchen it was an uproarious feast. though she lived some distance away, though on christmas night london omnibuses are few and far between, mademoiselle could hardly be persuaded to go home, so much was she enjoying herself. louise was all laughter. "you have been amused?" i asked, when mademoiselle, finally and reluctantly, had been bundled off by j. in a hansom.
"mais oui, mais oui," m. auguste cried, pleasure in his voice. "cette pauvre mademoiselle! her life, it is so sad, she is so alone. it is good for her to be amused. we have told her many stories,--et des histoires un tout petit peu salées, n'est-ce pas? pour égayer cette pauvre mademoiselle?"
it was the day after the feast that louise had to give in. she confessed she had been in torture while she served our dinner and mademoiselle was there. she could hardly eat or drink. but why make it sad for all the world because she was in pain? and she had laughed, she had laughed!
we scolded her first. then we sent her to a good doctor. it was worse than we feared. the trouble was grave, there must be an operation without delay. the big tears rolled down her cheeks as she said it. she looked old and broken. why, she moaned, should this sorrow come to her? she had never done any harm to any one: why should she have to suffer? why, indeed? her mistake had been to do too little harm, too much good, to others, to think too little of herself. now, she had to pay for it as one almost always does pay for one's good deeds. she worried far less over the pain she must bear than over the inconvenience to m. auguste when she could no longer earn money for him.
we wanted her to go into one of the london hospitals. we offered to take a room for her where she could stay after the operation until she got back her strength. but we must not think her ungrateful, the mere idea of a hospital made her desperate. and what would she do in a room avec un homme comme ça. besides, there was the sister in marseilles, and, in the hour of her distress, her sister's horses and carriages multiplied like the miraculous loaves and fishes, the vintages in the cellar doubled in age and strength. and she was going to die; it was queer, but one knew those things; and she longed to die là-bas, where there was a sun and the sky was blue, where she was at home. we knew she had not a penny for the journey. m. auguste had seen to that. naturally, j. gave her the money. he would not have had a moment's comfort if he had not,--the drain upon your own emotions is part of the penalty you pay for having a human being and not a machine to work for you,--and he added a little more to keep her from want on her arrival in marseilles, in case the sister had vanished or the sister's fortunes had dwindled to their original proportions. he exacted but one condition: m. auguste was not to know there was more than enough for the journey.
louise's last days with us were passed in tears,--poor louise! who until now had laughed at fate. it was at this juncture that m. auguste came out strong. i could not have believed he had it in him. he no longer spent his time dodging j. and dealing in visionary horses. he took louise's place boldly. he made the beds, cooked all our meals, waited on us, dusted, opened the door, while louise sat, melancholy and forlorn, in front of the kitchen fire. on the last day of all--she was not to start until the afternoon continental train--she drew me mysteriously into the dining-room, she shut the door with every precaution, she showed me where she had sewed the extra sovereigns in her stays. m. auguste should never know. "je pars pour mon long voyage," she repeated. "j'ai mes pressentiments." and she was going to ask them to let her wear a black skirt i had given her, and an old coat of j.'s she had turned into a bodice, when the time came to lay her in her coffin. thus something of ours would go with her on the long journey. how could she forget us? how could we forget her? she might better have asked. i made a thousand excuses to leave her; louise playing "the comedy" had never been so tragic as louise in tears. but she would have me back again, and again, and again, to tell me how happy she had been with us.
"why, i was at home," she said, her surprise not yet outworn. "j'étais chez moi, et j'étais si tranquille. i went. i came. monsieur entered. he called me. 'louise.'--'oui, monsieur.'--'voulez-vous faire ceci ou cela?'--'mais oui, monsieur, de suite.' and i would do it and monsieur would say, 'merci, louise,' and he would go. and me, i would run quick to the kitchen or upstairs to finish my work. j'étais si tranquille!"
the simplicity of the memories she treasured made her story of them pitiful as i listened. how little peace had fallen to her lot, that she should prize the quiet and homeliness of her duties in our chambers!
at last it was time to go. she kissed me on both cheeks. she gave j. one look, then she flung herself into his arms and kissed him too on both cheeks. she almost strangled william penn. she sobbed so, she couldn't speak. she clutched and kissed us again. she ran out of the door and we heard her sobbing down the three flights of stairs into the street. j. hurried into his workroom. i went back to my desk. i don't think we could have spoken either.
two days afterwards, a letter from m. auguste came to our chambers, so empty and forlorn without louise. they were in paris. they had had a dreadful crossing,--he hardly thought louise would arrive at boulogne alive. she was better, but must rest a day or two before starting for the midi. she begged us to see that mussy ate his meals bien régulièrement, and that he "made the dead" from time to time, as she had taught him; and, would we write? the address was mr. auguste, horse-dealer, hotel du cheval blanc, rue chat-qui-pèche-â-la-ligne, paris.
horse-dealer! louise might be at death's door, but m. auguste had his position to maintain. then, after ten long days, came a post-card, also from paris: louise was in marseilles, he was on the point of going, once there he would write. then--nothing. had he gone? could he go?
if i were writing a romance it would, with dramatic fitness, end here. but if i keep to facts, i must add that, in about eight months, louise and m. auguste reappeared; that both were in the best of health and spirits, m. auguste a mass of jewelry; that all the sunshine of provence seemed let loose in the warmth of their greeting; that horse-dealing for the moment prospered too splendidly for louise to want to return to us,--or was this a new invention, i have always wondered, because she found in her place another frenchwoman who wept at the prospect of being dismissed to make room for her?
well, anyway, for a while, things, according to louise, continued to prosper. she would pay me friendly visits and ask for sewing,--her afternoons were so long,--and tell me of m. auguste's success, and of provence, though there were the old reticences. by degrees, a shadow fell over the gaiety. i fancied that "the comedy" was being played faster than ever in the soho lodgings. and, of a sudden, the fabric of prosperity collapsed like a house of cards. she was ill again, and again an operation was necessary. there was not a penny in her pockets nor in m. auguste's. what happened? louise had only to smile, and we were her slaves. but this time, for us at least, the end had really come. we heard nothing more from either of them. no letters reached us from paris, no post-cards. did she use the money to go back to marseilles? did she ever leave london? did m. auguste's fate overtake him when they crossed the channel? were the soho lodgings the scene of some tremendous crime passionel? for weeks i searched the police reports in my morning paper. but neither then nor to this day have i had a trace of the woman who, for over a year, gave to life in our chambers the comfort and the charm of her presence. she vanished.
i am certain, though, that wherever she may be, she is mothering m. auguste, squandering upon him all the wealth of her industry, her gaiety, her unselfishness. she couldn't help herself, she was made that way. and the worst, the real tragedy of it, is that she would rather endure every possible wrong with m. auguste than, without him, enjoy all the rights women not made that way would give her if they could. she has convinced me of the truth i already more than suspected: it is upon the m. augustes of this world that the woman question will eventually be wrecked.
i took over the charwoman with our chambers, and a great piece of luck i thought it; for charwomen never advertise, and are unheard of in registry offices. it was certain i could not get into the chambers without one, and at that early stage of my housekeeping in london i should not have known where in the world to look for her.
we are all human, and mrs. maxfielde was not without her weakness: she was afflicted with nerves. in looking back i can see how in character her sensibility was. it belonged to the old shawl and the demure bonnet, to the meekness of pose, to the bobbing of curtsies,--it was victorian. but at the time i was more struck by its inconvenience. a late milkman or a faithless butcher would bring her to the verge of collapse. she would jump at the over-boiling of the kettle. her hand went to her heart on the slightest provocation, and stayed there with a persistency that made me suspect her of seeking her dissipation in disaster. on the morning after our fire, though she had been at home in her own bed through all the danger of it, she was in such a flutter that i should have had to revive her with salts had not a dozen firemen, policemen, and salvage men been waiting for her to refresh them with tea. it was only when one of the firemen took the kettle from her helpless hand, saying he was a family man himself, and when i stood sternly over her that, like an elderly charlotte, she fell to cutting bread and butter, and regained the calm and dignity becoming to her. but i never saw her so agitated as the day she met a rat in the cellar. i had supposed it was only in comic papers and old-fashioned novels that a rat or a mouse could drive a sensible woman into hysterics. but mrs. maxfielde showed me my mistake. from that innocent encounter in the cellar she bounded up the four flights of stairs, burst into my room, and, breathless, livid, both hands on her heart, sank into a chair: a liberty which at any other time she would have regarded as a breach of all the proprieties. "oh, mum!" she gasped, "in the cellar!--a rat!" and she was not herself again until the next morning.
mrs. maxfielde came in the early spring. by the time winter, with its fogs, set in, age had so far overtaken her that she could not manage to attend to her husband and his wants and then drag her old body to our chambers by seven o'clock in the morning. it was she who gave notice; i never should have had the courage. we parted friends, and she was so amiable as not to deprive me of her problems with her services. when she could not work for me, she visited me, making it her rule to call on monday afternoon; a rule she observed with such regularity that i fancied monday must be her day for collecting the husband's income from the parish and her own from private sources. she rarely allowed a week to pass without presenting herself, always appearing in the same victorian costume and carrying off the interview with the same victorian manner. she never stooped to beg, but her hand was ready for the coin which i slipped into it with the embarrassment of the giver, but which she received with enviable calmness and a little curtsy. the hour of her visit was so timed that, when her talk with me was over, she could adjourn to the kitchen for dinner and, under augustine's rule, a glass of wine, which, though beer would have been more to her taste, she drank as a concession to the poor foreigner who did not know any better.
before a second winter had passed, mrs. maxfielde was forced to admit that she was too old for anybody to want her, or to accept a post if anybody did. but, all the same, the paralytic clung to his shadow of life with the obstinate tenacity of the human derelict, and she clung to her idea of home, and they starved on in the room the parish paid for until it was a positive relief to me when, after more years of starvation than i cared to count, she came to announce his death. it was no relief to her. she was full of grief, and permitted nothing to distract her from the luxury she made of it. the coin which passed from my hand to hers on the occasion of this visit, doubled in token of condolence, was invested in an elaborate crape bonnet, and she left it to me to worry about her future. i might have afforded to accept her trust with a greater show of enthusiasm, for, at once and with unlooked-for intelligence, the parish decided to allow her the same weekly sum her husband had received, and mrs. maxfielde, endowed with this large and princely income, became a parent so worthy of filial devotion that a daughter i had never heard of materialized, and expressed a desire to share her home with her mother.
the daughter was married, her husband was an unskilled labourer, and they had a large and increasing family. it is likely that mrs. maxfielde paid in more than money for the shelter, and that her own flesh-and-blood was less chary than strangers would have been in employing her services, and less mindful of the now more than seventy years she had toiled to live. perhaps her visits at this period were a little more frequent, perhaps her dinners were eaten and her wine drunk with a little more eagerness. but she refrained from any pose, she indulged in no heroics, she entertained me with no whinings, no railings against the ingratitude sharper than a serpent's tooth. however she got her ease, it was not in weeping, and what she had to bear from her daughter she bore in silence. her victorian sense of propriety would have been offended by a display of feeling. she became so pitiful a figure that i shrank from her visits. but she was content, she found no fault with life, and wealth being a matter of comparison, i am sure she was, in her turn, moved to pity for the more unfortunate who had not kept themselves out of the workhouse. had she had her way, she would have been willing to slave indefinitely for her daughter and her daughter's children. but death was wiser and brought her the rest she deserved so well and so little craved.
a couple of years or so after the loss of her husband, and after she had failed to appear, much to my surprise, on three or four mondays in succession, a letter came from her daughter to tell me that never again would monday bring mrs. maxfielde to my chambers. there had been no special illness. she had just worn out, that was all. her time had come after long and cruel days of toil and her passing was unnoted, for hers was a place easily filled,--that was the grisly thing about it. j. and i sent a wreath of flowers for the funeral, knowing that she would have welcomed it as propriety's crown of propriety, and it was my last communication with the maxfielde family. i had never met the daughter, and i was the more reluctant to go abroad in search of objects of charity because they had such an inconsiderate way of seeking me out in my own kitchen. i was already "suited" with another old woman in mrs. maxfielde's place. i was already visited by one or two others. in fact, i was so surrounded by old women that augustine, when she first came to the rescue, used to laugh with the insolence of youth at les vieilles femmes de madame.
my new old woman was mrs. burden. had i hunted all london over, i could not have found a more complete contrast to mrs. maxfielde. she was irish, with no respect for victorian proprieties, but as disreputable looking an old charwoman as you would care to see; large and floppy in figure, elephantine in movement, her face rough and dug deep by the trenches of more than fifty winters, her hair frowzy, her dress ragged, with the bodice always open at the neck and the sleeves always rolled up above the elbows, her apron an old calico rag, and her person and her clothes profusely sprinkled with snuff. in the street she wrapped herself in a horrible grey blanket-shawl, and on top of her disorderly old head set a little battered bonnet with two wisps of strings dangling about. when i knew her better i discovered that she owned a black shawl with fringe, and a bonnet that could tie under the chin, and in these made a very fine appearance. but they were reserved for such ceremonial occasions as mass on sunday or the funeral of a friend, and at other times she kept to the costume that so shamefully maligned her. for, if she looked like one of the terrible harpies who hang about the public house in every london slum, she was really the most sober creature in the world and never touched a drop, mr. burden, who drank himself into an early grave, having drunk enough for two.
mrs. burden did not improve with time. she never condescended to borrow qualities that did not belong to her. she grew more unwieldy and larger and floppier, a misfortune she attributed to some mysterious malady which she never named, but gloated over with the pride the poor have in their diseases. and she grew dirtier and more disorderly, continuing to scorn my objection to her opening the front door with the shoe she was blacking still on her hand, or to her bringing me a letter wrapped in an apron grimier than her grimy fingers. nothing would induce her not to call me "missis," which displeased me more, if for other reasons, than the "master" she as invariably bestowed upon j. she bobbed no curtsies. when, on saturdays, coins passed from my hand to hers, she spat on them before she put them in her pocket, to what purpose i have not to this day divined. her best friend could not have accused her of any charm of manner, but, being irish, she escaped the vulgarity bred in the london slums. in fact, i often fancied i caught gleams of what has been called the celtic temperament shining through her. she had the warmth of devotion, the exaggeration of loyalty, the power of idealizing, peculiar to her race. she was almost lyrical in her praise of j., who stood highest in her esteem, and "master good! master good!" was her constant refrain when she conversed with augustine in the language fitted for children and rich in gesture, which was her well-meant substitute for french. she saw him glorified, as the poets of her country see their heroes, and in her eyes he loomed a splendid rothschild. "master, plenty money, plenty money!" she would assure augustine, and, holding up her apron by the two corners, and well out from her so as to represent a capacious bag, add, "apron full, full, full!"
she had also the celtic lavishness of hospitality. i remember whistler's delight one morning when, after an absence from london, he received at our front door a welcome from mrs. burden, whom he had never seen before and now saw at her grimiest: "shure, mr. whistler, sir, an it's quite a stranger ye are. it's glad i am to see ye back, sir, and looking so well!" her hospitality was extended to her own friends when she had the chance. she who drank nothing could not allow mr. pooley, the sweep, who was her neighbour and cleaned our chimneys, to leave our chambers after his professional services without a drop of whiskey to hearten him on his sooty way. and, though you would still less have suspected it, romance had kept its bloom fresh in her heart. the summer the duke of york was married i could not understand her interest in the wedding, as until then she had not specially concerned herself with the affairs of royalty. but on the wedding-day this interest reached a point when she had to share it with somebody. "shure, missis, and i knows how it is meself. wasn't i after marrying burden's brother and he older than burden, and didn't he go and die, god bless him! and leave me to burden. and shure thin it's me that knows how the poor princess may, lord love her! is feeling this blessed day!"
not only the memory, but her pride in it, had survived the years which never brought romance to her again. the one decent thing burden did was to die and rid the world of him before mrs. burden had presented him and society with more than one child, a boy. he was a good son, she said, which meant that he spent his boyhood picking up odd jobs and, with them, odd pence to help his mother along, so that at the age when he should have been able to do something, he knew how to do nothing, and had not even the physical strength to fit him for the more profitable kinds of unskilled labour. he thought himself lucky when, in his twentieth year, he fell into a place as "washer-up" in a cheap restaurant which paid eighteen shillings a week; and he was so dazzled by his wealth that he promptly married. his wife's story is short: she drank. mercifully, like burden, she did the one thing she could do with all her might and drank herself to death with commendable swiftness, leaving no children to carry on the family tradition. mrs. burden was once more alone with her son. between them they earned twenty-eight shillings a week and felt themselves millionaires. augustine, for some reason, went at this period once or twice to her room, over the dingy shop of a cheap undertaker, and reported it fairly clean and provided with so much comfort as is represented by blankets on the bed and a kettle on the hob. but after a bit the son died, the cause, as far as i could make out, a drunken father and years of semi-starvation; and mrs. burden had to face, as cheerfully as she could, an old age to be lived out in loneliness and in the vain endeavour to make both ends meet on eight shillings a week, or less if she lost her job with me.
i could scarcely ignore so broad a hint, and i had her round that same morning, for her slum was close by. i learned from her that mr. pooley, if gruff, was truthful. she had no work, had not had any for weeks. she was in arrears to her landlord, her shawl with the fringe and her blankets were in pawn, she hadn't a farthing in her pocket. j., to whom i refer all such matters, and who was in her debt for the splendour of wealth with which she had endowed him, said "it was all nonsense,"--by "it" i suppose he meant this sorry scheme of things,--and he would not let her go without the money to pay her landlord, not only for arrears, but in advance, and also to redeem her possessions. i do not think she was the less grateful if, instead of bobbing humbly, she spat upon the coins before her first "shure and may god bless ye, master." nor was j. comfortable until provisions had followed her in such quantities that he would not have to be bothered by the thought of her starving to death, at any rate for some days. even after that, she scrupulously kept away. not christmas, that in london brings everybody with or without excuse begging at one's door, could induce her to present herself. it was we who had to send for her, and, in a land where begging comes so easily, we respected her for her independence.
i doubt if she ever got more work to do. she never received outdoor relief, according to her because of some misunderstanding between the parish church and hers, for, being irish, she was a devout roman catholic. i do not know how she lived, though perhaps they could have told me in her slum, nobody, they say, being as good to the poor as the poor themselves. but it was part of her delicacy to take herself off our hands and conscience within less than a year of her leaving us, and to die in her room peacefully of pneumonia, when she might have made us uncomfortable by dying of starvation, or lingering on in the workhouse. mr. pooley, the sweep, brought this news too. she was buried decent, he volunteered; she had taken care of that, though as poor as you want to see. a good old woman, he added, and it was all the obituary she had. he was right. she was of the best, but then she was only one "of the millions of bubbles" poured into existence to-day to vanish out of it to-morrow, of whom the world is too busy to keep count.
after mrs. burden, i went to the quartier--the french quarter in soho--for a charwoman. had i been tempted, as i never was, to believe in the entente cordiale, of which england was just then beginning to make great capital, affairs in my own kitchen would have convinced me of the folly of it. things there had come to a pass when any pretence of cordiality, except the cordial dislike which france and england have always cherished for each other and always will, had been given up, and if i hoped to escape threats of police and perpetual squabbles on the subject of cleanliness, there was nothing for it but to adopt a single-race policy. when it came to deciding which that race should be, i did not hesitate, having found out for myself that the french are as clean as the english believe themselves to be. the quartier could not be more french if it were in the heart of france. there is nothing french that is not to be had in it, from snails and boudin to the petit journal and the latest thing in apéritifs. the one language heard is french, when it is not italian, and the people met there have an animation that is not a characteristic of kensington or bayswater. the only trouble is that if the snails are of the freshest and the apéritifs bear the best mark, the quality of the people imported into the quartier is more doubtful. many have left their country for their country's good. when i made my mission known, caution was recommended to me by madame who presides chez le patissier, and monsieur le gros, as he is familiarly known, who provides me with groceries, and m. edmond from whom i buy my vegetables and salads at the quatre saisons. england, in the mistaken name of liberty, then opened her door to the riff-raff of all nations, and french prisons were the emptier for the indiscriminate hospitality of soho, or so i was assured by the decent french who feel the dishonour the quartier is to france.
caution served me well in the first instance, for i began my experience in french charwomen with marie, a little bretonne, young, cheerful, and if, like a true bretonne, not over clean by nature, so willing to be bullied into it that she got to scrub floors and polish brasses as if she liked it. she never sulked, never minded a scolding from augustine who scolds us all when we need it, did not care how long she stayed over time, had a laugh that put one in good humour to hear it, and such a healthy appetite that she doubled my weekly bill at the baker's. even augustine found no fault. but one fault there was. she was married. in the course of time a small son arrived who made her laugh more gaily than ever, though he added a third to the family of a not too brilliant young man with an income of a pound a week, and i was again without a charwoman.
marie helped me to forget caution, and i put down the stories heard in the quartier to libel. but i had my awakening. she was succeeded by another bretonne, a wild, frightened-looking creature, who, on her second day with me, when i went into the kitchen to speak to her, sat down abruptly in the fireplace, the fire by good luck still unlit, and i did not have to ask an explanation, for it was given me by the empty bottle on the dresser. her dull, sottish face haunted me for days afterwards, and i was oppressed, as i am sure she never was, by the thought of the blundering fate that had driven her from the windswept shores of her own brittany to the foul slums of london.
but i could not take over the mysteries and miseries of soho with its charwomen; it was about as much as i could do to keep up with the procession that followed her. there was no variety of femme de ménage in the quartier that i did not sample, nor one who was not the heroine of a tragedy or romance, too often not in retrospection or anticipation, but at its most psychological moment. i remember another marie, good-looking, but undeniably elderly, whose thoughts were never with the floor she was scrubbing or the range she was black-leading, because they were absorbed in the impecunious youth, half her age, with whom she had fallen in love in the fashion of to-day, and for whom she had given up a life of comparative ease with her husband, a well-paid chef. i remember a marthe, old and withered, whose tales of want were so heartrending that augustine lavished upon her all the old clothes of the establishment and all the "cold pieces" in the kitchen, but who, we learned afterwards, had a neat little bank-account at the crédit lyonnais and a stocking stuffed to overflowing in the bare garret where she shivered and starved. i remember a trim julie, whose debts left behind in france kept her nose to the grindstone, but who found it some compensation to work for j.: she felt a peculiar sympathy for all artists, she said, for the good reason, which seemed to us a trifle remote, that her husband's mother had been foster-mother to le grand maître, m. detaille. and there was a blanche, abandoned by her husband, and left with three small children to feed, clothe, and bring up somehow. and there were i have forgotten how many more, each with a story tragic or pitiful, until it came to clémentine, and her story was so sordid that when i parted with her i shook the dust of soho from off my feet, and imported from the pas-de-calais a little girl whose adventures i hoped were still in the future which, if i could manage it, would be postponed indefinitely. it may be true that every woman has one good novel in her life, but i did not see why i should keep on engaging charwomen to prove it.
she drifted in from the quartier, but the slovenliness and shabby finery of her dress made it hard to believe she was french. it was harder to believe she was grown up when she began to talk, for her voice was that of a child, a high shrill treble, with a babyish lisp, losing itself in giggles. and she was so short, so small, that she might easily have passed herself off as a little girl, but for the marks experience had left upon her face. i suppose she was not much under thirty when she first came to me.
how cruel this experience had been she took immediate care to explain. with her first few words she confided to me that she was hungry, and, in my embarrassment on hearing it, i engaged her before it occurred to me to ask for references. hunger does not exactly qualify a woman, however willing, for the rough work that must be done in a house, and that it is so surprising anybody ever should be willing to do. i engaged her to scrub the floors, black the shoes, clean the fireplaces, polish the brasses,--to pass every morning, except sunday, from seven to two, in fighting the london dirt for me, and struggling through all those disagreeable and tiresome tasks that not any amount of money would induce me to struggle through for myself.
as her duties were of a kind usually kept in the domestic background, and as she brought to them an energy her hunger had not prepared me for, an occasional bon jour when we met might have been the extent of my personal relations with her, had it not been for my foolish anxiety as to the state of her appetite. i had kept house long enough to understand the mistake of meddling with the affairs of my servants, but clémentine, with her absurd little voice and giggle, seemed much less a servant than a child making believe to be one. besides, i found that, though i can hear of unknown thousands starving in london without feeling called upon to interfere, it is another matter to come face to face with a hungry individual under my own roof.
augustine, who was then, as she is now, the prop and mainstay of our life, reassured me; clémentine, it seemed, from the moment of her arrival, had been eating as voraciously as if she were bent not only on satisfying the present, but on making up for the past and providing against the future. she could not pass the interval between eight o'clock coffee and the noonday lunch without un petit goûter to sustain her. at all hours she kept munching bits of crust, and after the heartiest meal she would fall, famished, upon our plates as they came from the dining-room, devouring any odd scraps left on them, feasting on cheese-rinds and apple-parings, or, though i regret to have to record it, licking up the gravy and grease, if there was nothing better. indeed, her condition was one of such chronic hunger that augustine grew alarmed and thought a doctor should be consulted. i put it down to the long succession of her lean years, and before the facts convinced me that clémentine was "all stomach and no soul," her appetite was a great deal on my mind, and made me far more preoccupied with her than was wise.
my inquiries into the state of clémentine's appetite were the reason for many conversations. i have no doubt that at first i encouraged her confidence, so unfailing was my delight in the lisping prattle, interrupted by giggles, with which they were made. even j., who as a rule is glad to leave all domestic matters to me, would stop and speak to her for the sake of hearing her talk. and she was a child in so many other ways. she had the vanity as well as the voice of a little girl. she was pretty after a fashion, but it always amazed me that anybody who was so hungry could be so vain. when i am hungry i am too demoralized to care how i look. but clémentine's respect for her appearance was, if anything, stronger than her craving for food. she would have gone without a meal rather than have appeared out of the fashion set by her london slum. her hair might be half combed,--that was a question of personal taste,--but she could not show herself abroad unless it was brought down over her forehead in the low wave required by the mode of the moment, and hidden at the back under a flat, overgrown jockey-cap fastened on with long pins. her skirt might be--or rather was--frayed at the bottom, and her jacket worn to shreds, but she could never neglect to tie round her neck a bit of white tulle or ribbon, however soiled or faded. nor could she be persuaded to run the shortest errand before this tulle or ribbon, taken off for work, had been tied on again, the low wave of hair patted well in place, and the jockey-cap stuck at the correct angle.
it was useless to try and hurry her. she did not care how urgent the errand was to us, her concern was entirely for what people in the street might think of her if any one detail of her toilet was neglected. augustine, who for herself was disdainful of the opinion of ces sales anglais and ran her errands en cheveux as if she were still in france, would scold and thunder and represent to clémentine that people in the street had something better to do than to think of her at all. when augustine scolds, i am always, to be honest, a little afraid. but clémentine would listen giggling, and refuse to budge an inch until the last touch had been given to her hair and to her dress. after working time she could not start for home until she had spent half an hour and more before the glass in the kitchen arranging her rags. in her own country her vanity would have been satisfied only by the extreme neatness and simplicity of her dress. in england she had borrowed the untidiness and tawdriness that degrade the english poor. but if the educated french, who ought to know that they are the most civilized people in the world, grow more english than the english when they become anglicized at all, i could scarcely blame clémentine for her weakness.
to one form of her untidiness, however, i objected though, had i known what was to come of my objection, i would have borne with worse in silence. she never wore an apron, and, in her stained and tattered dress, her appearance was disreputable even for a charwoman. she might be as slovenly as she chose in the street, that was her affair; but it was mine once she carried her slovenliness inside my four walls, especially as in chambers servants at work are more apt to be stumbled across than in a house, and as it was her duty at times to open the front door. i spoke to her on the subject, suggesting the value of aprons, if only as defences. the words were scarcely out of my mouth than i would have given worlds to take them back again. for when clémentine began to talk the difficulty was to stop her, and long before she finished explaining why she wore no aprons, i had learned a great deal more about her than i bargained for: among other things, that her previous places had been chiefly chez les femmes; that she wanted to give up working for them; that, after leaving her last place, she could get nothing to do in any maison bourgeoise; that she had no money and was very hungry,--what clémentine's hunger meant she did not have to tell me; that her little ernest was also hungry, and also la vieille grandmère; that her little ernest was her son,--"oui, madame, je serais franche, j'ai un fils mais pas un mari"; that la vieille grandmère was an old woman she had taken in, partly to look after him, partly out of sheer shiftlessness; that they could not starve; and that--well--all her aprons were au clou.
this sudden introduction of her little ernest was a trifle disconcerting, but it was none of my business how many people depended on clémentine, nor how many of her belongings were in pawn. i had vowed never again to give sympathy, much less help, to anybody who worked for me, since i knew to my cost the domestic disaster to which benevolence of this sort may lead. i gave her advice instead. i recommended greater thrift, and insisted that she must save from her wages enough to get her aprons out of pawn immediately, though i left it to a more accomplished political economist than i to show how, with three to provide for, she could save out of what barely provided for one. however, she agreed. she said, "oui, madame, madame a raison"; and for the next week or two i did my best to shut my eyes to the fact that she still went apronless.
at this juncture, her little ernest fell ill; now that i had heard of him, he took good care that i should not forget him. for three days there was no sign of clémentine; i had no word from her. at the end of the first day, i imagined a horrid tragedy of starvation; by the second, i was reproaching myself as an accessory; by the evening of the third, i could stand it no longer, and augustine was despatched to find out what was wrong. the child's illness was not very serious, but, incidentally, augustine found out a good deal besides. clémentine's room, in an unlovely workmen's building, was unexpectedly clean, but to keep it clean was the easier because it was so bare. her bed, which she shared with her little ernest, was a mattress on the floor in one corner, with not a sheet or a blanket to cover it; la vieille grandmère slept in a nest of newspapers in another corner, with a roll of rags for a pillow. bedsteads, sheets, covers, had gone the way of the aprons,--they, too, were au clou. the thrift i had advised scarcely met so acute a case of poverty. i was not at all anxious to burden myself with clémentine's destitution in addition to her hunger, and to get it out of my mind, i tried, with my usual generosity, to hand over the difficulty to j. i cannot say that he accepted it as unconditionally as i could have wished, for if he was positive that something must be done at once, he had as little doubt that it was for me to discover the way of doing it.
what i did was simple, though i dare say contrary to every scientific principle of charity. i told her to bring me her pawn-tickets and i would go over them with her. she brought them, a pocketful, the next day, throwing them down on the table before me and sorting them as if for a game of cards, with many giggles, and occasional cries of "tiens! this is my old blue apron"; or, "mon dieu! this is my nice warm grey blanket." her delight could not have been greater had it been the apron or the blanket itself. all told, her debts amounted to no very ruinous sum, and i arranged to pay them off and give her a fresh start if, on her side, she was prepared to work harder and practise stricter economy. i pointed out that as i did not need her in the afternoon, she had a half day to dispose of, and that she should hunt for something to fill it. she promised everything i asked, and more, and i hoped that this was the last of my sharing her burdens.
it might have been, but for her little ernest. i do believe that child was born for no other end than my special annoyance. his illness was only the beginning. when he was well, she brought him to see me one afternoon, nominally that he might thank me, but really, i fear, in hope of an extra sixpence or shilling. he was five years old and fairly large and well developed for his age, but there could never have been, there never could be, a less attractive child. his face had none of the prettiness of his mother's, though all the shrewdness: in knowledge of the gutter he looked fifty. then and afterwards, ashamed as i was of it, i instinctively shrank from him. anywhere, except in the comic ballad, a "horribly fast little cad" of a baby is as tragic a figure as i care to encounter, and to me the little ernest was all the more so because of the repugnance with which he inspired me. clémentine made a great pretence of adoring him. she carried a sadly battered photograph of him in her pocket, and would pull it out at intervals when anybody was looking, and kiss it rapturously. otherwise her admiration took the form of submitting to his tyranny. she could do far less with him than he with her, and la vieille grandmère was as wax in his rough little hands. his mornings, while his mother was at work, were spent in the grimy london courts and streets, where children swarm like vermin and babies grow old in vice. in the afternoon, after she left our chambers, he dragged her through the quartier, from shop to shop, she with her giggling "bon jour, m. edmond" or "comment ça va, madame pierre"--for though we live in london we are not of it, but of france,--he with his hand held out for the cakes and oranges and pennies he knew would drop into it: a pair of the most accomplished beggars in london.
as time went on, and clémentine did not find the extra work for her afternoons that she had promised to find, i realized that she would keep on wasting her free half day, and that he would go from bad to worse if he were not got away from her and out of the streets. i should have known better than to occupy myself with him, but his old shrewd face haunted me until i remonstrated with clémentine, and represented to her the future she was preparing for him. if she could not take care of him, she should send him to school where there were responsible people who could. i suggested a charitable institution of some kind in france where he would be brought up among her people. but this she fought against with a determination i could not understand, until it came out that she had profited by the english law which forces a father to contribute to his illegitimate child's support, and from ernest's she received weekly three shillings and sixpence. she much preferred to risk her little ernest's morals than an income that came of itself, and she feared she could no longer claim it if he were beyond the reach of the english courts. she was as doubtful of the result if he were got into a charity school in england, for if he cost her nothing the father might not be compelled to pay. she could be obstinate on occasions, and i was in despair. but by some fortunate chance, a convent at hampstead was heard of where the weekly charge would just be covered by the father's allowance, and as clémentine could find no argument against it, she had to give in.
i breathed freely again, but i was not to be let off so easily. it was simpler to get mixed up in clémentine's affairs than to escape from them. at the convent, the nuns had learned wisdom, and they demanded to be paid weekly in advance. i must have waited until judgment day if i had depended upon clémentine to be in advance with anything, and in self-defence i offered to pay the first month. but this settled, at once there was another obstacle to dispose of. a trousseau was required with the little ernest, and he had no clothes except those on his back. i provided the trousseau. then the little ernest rebelled and refused to hear of school unless he was supplied with a top, a mechanical boat, a balloon, and i scarcely remember what besides. i supplied them. clémentine, on her side, began to look harassed and careworn, and i never ventured to ask what conditions he exacted of her, but it was a relief to everybody when, after much shopping and innumerable coaxings and bribes and scenes, at last she got her little ernest off her hands.
but if he was off hers, she was more than ever on mine. he gave her a perpetual subject of conversation. there were days when i seemed to hear her prattling in the kitchen from the moment she came until the moment she left, and to a good deal of her prattle i had to listen. she made it her duty to report his progress to me, and the trouble was that she could never get through without confiding far more about her own, in the past as in the present. she might begin innocently with the fit of his new clothes, but as likely as not she would end with revelations of unspeakable horror. at least i could not find fault with clémentine's confidences for their mildness or monotony. in her high, shrill, lisping treble, as if she were reciting a lesson, and with the air of a naughty girl trying to keep back her giggles, she would tell me the most appalling details of her life.
i had not dreamed that out of zola or defoe a woman could go through such adventures, or that, if she could, it would be possible for her to emerge a harmless charwoman doing the commonplace work of a household which i flatter myself is respectable, for a few shillings a week. of poverty, of evil, of shame, of disgrace, there was nothing she had not known; and yet as i saw her busy and happy over her scrubbing and washing and polishing in our chambers, i could have believed she had never done anything less guileless in all her thirty years. she had a curiously impersonal way of relating these adventures, as if they were no concern of hers whatever. the most dramatic situations seemed to have touched her as little as the every-day events in her sordid struggle for bread, though she was not without some pride in the variety of her experience. when augustine warned her that her idleness was preparing for her a bed on the embankment and daily food in a soup-kitchen, "eh bien? why not?" she giggled; "i have been on the streets, i have been in prison, i have been in the workhouse, i have seen everything--j'ai tout vu, moi! why not that too?"
with her, there was no shrinking from the workhouse, as with the respectable poor, "ce n'est pas fait pour les chiens," she reasoned, and looked upon it as an asylum held in reserve.
her boast that she had seen everything was no exaggeration, her everything meaning the hideous side of life which those who see only the other try so hard to shut their eyes to. "what would you have?" she asked me more than once, "i was a bastard and a foundling"; as if with such a beginning, it would have been an inconsistency on her part to turn out any better than she was. that she had started life as a little lost package of humanity, left at the door of a house for les enfants trouvés not far from boulogne, never caused her shame and regret. from a visit paid by her mother to the institution during her infancy, there could remain no doubt of her illegitimacy, but it was a source of pleasure to her, and also of much agreeable speculation.
"how can i be sure," she said to me, "that, though my mother was a cook, my father might not have been a préfet, or even a prince?"
clémentine went into service young. she also went into it hungry, and life became a never-ending struggle for food. in one place she was reduced to such straits that she devoured a dish of poisoned meat prepared for the stray cats of the neighbourhood, and, though it brought her almost to death's door, she could still recall it as a feast. in another, a small country grocery store, she would steal down in the night, trembling with fear, to hunt for bits of candy and crackers, and, safe in bed again, would have to fight for them with the rats that shared her garret. and her tale of this period grew more miserable and squalid with every new stage, until she reached the dreadful climax when, still a child herself, she brought a little girl into the world to share her hunger. she had the courage to laugh when she told me of her wandering, half-starved, back to la bonne mère, who took her in when her time came, and kept the baby. she could laugh, too, when she recalled the wrath of m. le directeur at the institution, who sent for her, and scolded her, giving her a few sharp raps with his cane.
if to clémentine her tragedy was a laughing matter, it was not for me to weep over it. but i was glad when she got through with this period and came to the next, which had in it more of pure comedy than enlivened most of her confidences. for once she was of age, and her debt to the institution settled in full, she was free not only to work for herself, but to claim a percentage of the money she had been making during the long years of apprenticeship; and this percentage amounting to five hundred francs, and clémentine never having seen so much money before, her imagination was stirred by the vastness of her wealth, and she insisted on being paid in five-franc pieces. she had to get a basket to hold them all, and with it on her arm she started off in search of adventure. this, i think, was the supreme moment in her life.
her adventures began in the third-class carriage of a train for boulogne, which might seem a mild beginning to most people, but was full of excitement for clémentine. she dipped her hands into the silver, and jingled it, and displayed it to everybody, with the vanity of a child showing off its new frock. the only wonder was that any of the five-franc pieces were still in the basket when she got to boulogne. there they drew to her a group of young men and women who were bound for england to make their fortunes, and who persuaded her to join them. her head was not completely turned by her wealth, for she crossed with them on the bâteau aux lapins, which she explained as the cheapest boat upon which anything but beasts and vegetables could find passage. at folkestone, where they landed, she had no difficulty in getting a place as scullery maid. but washing up was as dull in england as in france, a poor resource for anybody with a basketful of five-franc pieces. one of the young men who had crossed with her agreed that it was a waste of time to work when there was money to spend, and they decided for a life of leisure together. the question of marriage apparently did not enter into the arrangement. they were content to remain des unis, in m. rod's phrase, and their union was celebrated by a few weeks of riotous living. the chicken their own henry iv wished for all his subjects filled the daily pot, beer flowed like water, they could have paid for cake had bread failed; for the first time in her life clémentine forgot what it was to be hungry.
it was delightful while it lasted, and i do not believe that she ever regretted having had her fling when the chance came. but the basket grew lighter and lighter, and all too soon barely enough five-franc pieces were left in it to carry them up to london. there, naturally, they found their way to the quartier. the man picked up an odd job or two, clémentine scrubbed, washed, waited, did any and everything by which a few pence could be earned. the pot was now empty, beer ceased to flow, bread sometimes was beyond their means, and she was hungrier than ever. in the course of the year her little ernest was added to the family, and there was no bonne mère in london to relieve her of the new burden. for a while clémentine could not work; when she could, there was no work to be had. nor could the man get any more jobs, though i fancy his hunt for them was not too strenuous. life became a stern, bread-hunting sort of business, and i think at moments clémentine almost wished herself back in the garret with the rats, or in the garden where dishes of poisoned meat were sometimes to be stolen. the landlord threatened, starvation stared them in the face. hunger is ever the incentive to enterprise, and ernest's father turned clémentine on the streets.
i must do her the justice to say that, of all her adventures, this was the one least to her liking. that she had fallen so low did not shock her; she looked upon it as part of the inevitable scheme of things: but left to herself, she would have preferred another mode of earning her living. after i had been told of this period of horrors, i could never hear clémentine's high, shrill treble and giggle without a shudder, for they were then part of her stock-in-trade, and she went on the streets in short skirts with her hair down her back. for months she wallowed in the gutter, at the mercy of the lowest and the most degraded, insulted, robbed, despised, and if she attempted to rebel, bullied back to her shameful trade by a man who had no thought save for the few pitiful pence she could bring to him out of it. the only part of the affair that pleased her was the ending--in prison after a disgraceful street brawl. she was really at heart an adventuress, and the opportunity to see for the first time the inside of the panier à salade, as she called the prison van, was welcomed by her in the light of a new and exciting adventure. then, in prison itself, the dress with the arrows could be adjusted becomingly, warders and fellow prisoners could be made to laugh by her antics, and if she could have wished for more to eat, it was a great thing not to have to find the means to pay for what she got.
she was hardly out of prison when ernest's father chanced upon a woman who could provide for him more liberally, and clémentine was again a free agent. the streets knew her no more, though for an interval the workhouse did. this was the crisis when, with the shrewdness acquired in the london slums, she learned something of the english law to her own advantage, and through the courts compelled the father to contribute to the support of his son. the weekly three shillings and sixpence paid for a room. for food she had to work. with prison behind her, she was afraid to ask for a place in respectable houses, and i should not care to record the sinks of iniquity and squalid dens where her shrill treble and little girl's giggle were heard. ernest was dumped down of a morning upon any friendly neighbour who would keep an eye on him, until, somehow or other, la vieille grandmère appeared upon the scene and clémentine once more had two to feed and the daily problem of her own hunger to face.
her responsibilities never drove her to work harder than was absolutely necessary. "we must all toil or steal," carlyle says. but clémentine knew better. she could have suggested a third alternative, for she had reduced begging to a fine art. her scent was as keen for charitable associations as a pig's for truffles, and she could tell to a minute the appointed time of their alms-giving, and to a penny the value of their alms. she would, no matter when, drop regular work at the risk of losing it, to rush off after a possible charity. there was a société--i never knew it by any other name--that, while she was with me, drew her from my kitchen floor or my luncheon dishes as surely as thursday came round, and the clock struck one. why it existed she never made quite clear to me,--i doubt if she had an idea why, herself. it was enough for her that the poor french in london were under its special charge, and that, when luck was with her, she might come away with a loaf of bread, or an order for coals, or, if she played the beggar well, as much as a shilling.
she kept up a brisk correspondence with "madame la baronne de rothschild," whose sole mission in life she apparently believed was to see her out of her difficulties. la baronne, on one occasion, gave her a sovereign, heaven knows why, unless as a desperate measure to close the correspondence; but a good part of it went in postage for letters representing why the bestowal of sovereigns upon clémentine should become habitual. stray agents, presumably from la baronne, would pay me mysterious visits, to ask if clémentine were a deserving object of benevolence, and i was exposed to repeated cross-examination in her regard. she made a point of learning the hours when the chefs left the kitchens of the big hotels and restaurants near the quartier, and also of finding out who among them might be looked to for a few odd pence for the sake of ernest's father, at one time a washer of dishes, or who, after a coup de vin or an absinthe, grew generous with their money. she had gauged the depth of every tender heart in the quartier and the possibility of scraps and broken meats at every shop and eating-place. and no one understood better how to beg, how to turn on the limelight and bring out in melodramatic relief the enormity of her need and destitution. the lisping treble, the giggle, the tattered clothes, la vieille grandmère, the desertion of the little ernest's father, the little ernest himself, were so many valuable assets. indeed, she appreciated the value of the little ernest so well that once she would have had me multiply him by twelve when she asked me to vouch for her poverty before some new society disposed to be friendly. if luck went against her, and nothing came of her begging, she was not discouraged. begging was a game of chance with her,--her monte carlo or little horses,--and she never murmured over her failures, but with her faculty for making the best of all things, she got amusement out of them as well as out of her successes.
unfortunately for me, i had not her callousness or philosophy,--i am not yet quite sure which it was,--and if she would not think for herself, i was the more disturbed by the necessity of thinking for her. it was an absurd position. there i was, positively growing grey in my endeavours to drag her up out of the abyss of poverty into which she had sunk, and there she was, cheerful and happy, if she could only continue to enjoy la bonne cuisine de madame. i never knew her to make the slightest attempt to profit by what i, or anyone else, would do for her. i remember, when madame la baronne sent her the sovereign, she stayed at home a week, and then wrote to me as her excuse, "j'ai été rentière toute la semaine. maintenant je n'ai plus un penny, il faut m'occuper du travail." i had not taken her things out of pawn before they were pawned again, and the cast-off clothes she begged from me followed as promptly. her little ernest, after all my trouble, stayed at the convent six weeks,--the month i paid for and two weeks that clémentine somehow wheedled out of the sisters,--and then he was back as of old, picking up his education in the london streets. i presented her once with a good bed i had no more use for, and, to make space for it, she went into debt and moved from her one room near tottenham court road to two rooms and a higher rent near the lower marsh, and was robbed on the way by the man she hired to move her. when she broke anything, and she frequently did, she was never perturbed: "madame est forte pour payer," or "l'argent est fait pour rouler," was her usual answer to my reproaches. to try to show her the road to economy was to plunge her into fresh extravagance.
nor did i advance matters by talking to her seriously. i recall one special effort to impress upon her the great misery she was preparing for herself by her shiftlessness. i had given her a pair of shoes, though i had vowed a hundred times to give her nothing more, and i used the occasion for a lecture. she seemed eager to interrupt once or twice, and i flattered myself my words were having their effect. and now what had she to say? i asked when my eloquence was exhausted. she giggled: "would madame look at her feet in madame's shoes? jamais je ne me suis vue si bien chaussée," and she was going straight to the quartier "pour éblouir le monde," she said. when augustine took her in hand, though augustine's eloquence had a vigour mine could not boast of, the result was, if anything, more discouraging. clémentine, made bold by custom, would turn a hand-spring or dance a jig, or go through the other accomplishments she had picked up in the slums.
if i could discover any weak spot by which i could reach her, i used to think something might be gained, and i lost much time in studying how to work upon her emotions. but her emotions were as far to seek as her morals. even family ties, usually so strong in france, had no hold upon her. if she adored her little ernest, it was because he brought her in three shillings and sixpence a week. there was no adoration for her little girl who occasionally wrote from the pas-de-calais and asked her for money. i saw one of the child's letters in which she implored clémentine to pay for a white veil and white shoes; she was going to make her first communion, and the good adopted mother could pay for no more than the gown. the first communion is the greatest event in the french child's life; there could be no deeper disgrace than not to be dressed for it, and the appeal must have moved every mother who read it, except clémentine. to her it was comic, and she disposed of it with giggles: "c'est drôle quand même, d'avoir une fille de cet âge," and funnier that she could be expected to pay for anything for anybody.
clémentine had been with us more than two years when the incident of the italian occurred, and by this time i had become so accustomed to her and to her adventures that i was not as shocked as perhaps i should have been. it was not a way out of difficulties i could approve, but clémentine was not to be judged by my standards, and i saw no reason to express my disapproval by getting rid of her just when she most needed to stay. in her continually increasing need to stay, i endured so much besides that, at the end of her third year in our chambers, i was convinced that she would go on doing my rough work as long as i had rough work to be done. more than once i came to the end of my patience and dismissed her. but it was no use. in the course of a couple of weeks, or at the most three, she was back scrubbing my floors and polishing my brasses.
the first time she lost her place with me, i sympathized to such an extent that i was at some pains to arrange a scheme to send her to france. but clémentine, clinging to the pleasures of life in the lower marsh, agreed to everything i proposed, and was careful to put every hindrance in the way of carrying out my plans. twice i went to the length of engaging another woman, but either the other woman did not suit or else she did not stay, and i had to ask clémentine to return. on her side, she made various efforts to leave me, bored, i fancy, by the monotony of regular work, but they were as unsuccessful as mine to turn her off. after one disappearance of three weeks, she owned up frankly to having been again chez les femmes whose pay was better; after a second, she said she had been ill in the workhouse which i doubted; after all, she was as frank in admitting that nowhere else did she enjoy la bonne cuisine de madame, and that this was the attraction to which i was indebted for her fidelity.
it may have been kindness, it may have been weakness, it may have been simply necessity, that made me so lenient on these occasions; i do not attempt to decide. but i cannot blame clémentine for thinking it was because she was indispensable. i noticed that gradually in small ways she began to take advantage of our good-nature. for one thing there was now no limit to her conversation. i did not spend my time in the kitchen and could turn a deaf ear to it, but i sometimes wondered if augustine would not be the next to disappear. she would also often relieve the tedium of her several tasks by turning the handsprings in which she was so accomplished, or dancing the jig popular in the lower marsh, or by other performances equally reprehensible in the kitchen of une maison bourgeoise, as she was pleased to describe our chambers. she never lost a chance of rushing to the door if tradespeople rang, or talking with the british workmen we were obliged, for our sins, to employ. their bewilderment, stolid britons as they were, would have been funny, had not her manner of exciting it been so discreditable. she was even caught--i was spared the knowledge until much later--turning her handsprings for a select company of plasterers and painters. then i could see that she accepted anything we might bestow upon her as her due, and was becoming critical of the value and quality of the gift. i can never forget on one occasion when j. was going away, and he gave her a few shillings, the expression with which she looked first at the money and then at him as though insulted by the paltriness of the amount. more unbearable was the unfair use she made of her little ernest.
la vieille grandmère, who had wandered by chance into her life, wandered out of it as casually, or so clémentine said as an argument to induce me to receive that odious little boy into my kitchen during her hours of work; she had nobody to take care of him, she could not leave him alone. here, happily for myself, i had the strength to draw the line. but when this argument failed, she found another far more harrowing. she took the opportunity of my stumbling across her in our little hall one day at noon to tell me that, as i would not let her bring him with her, she left him every day, carefully locked up out of harm's way, alone in her rooms. a child of seven, as he was then, locked up to get into any mischief he could invent, and, moreover, a child with a talent for mischief! that was too much, and i sent her flying home without giving her time to eat her lunch or linger before the glass, and i was haunted for the rest of the day with the thought of all the terrible things that might have happened to him. naturally nothing did happen, nothing ever does happen to children like the little ernest, and clémentine, dismayed by the loss of her lunch and the interference with her toilet, never ventured upon this argument a second time. but she found another almost as bad, for she informed me that, thanks to my interference, she was compelled to leave him again to run the streets as he would, and she hinted only too plainly that for whatever evil might befall him, i was responsible. our relations were at this pleasant stage, and her little ernest was fast developing into a monstrous frankenstein wholly of my own raising, when one day she arrived with a new air of importance and announced her approaching marriage.
i was enchanted. i had not permitted myself to feel the full weight of the burden clémentine was heaping upon my shoulders until now it seemed on the point of slipping from them, and never were congratulations more sincere than mine. as she spared me none of her confidence, every detail of her courtship and her prospects was soon at my disposal. in the course of her regular round of the kitchen doors of the quartier she had picked up an englishman who washed dishes in a restaurant. he was not much over twenty, he earned no less than eighteen shillings a week, and he had asked her to marry him. she accepted him, as she had accepted the italian, because he would pay the rent; the only difference was that her new admirer proposed the form of companionship which is not lightly broken. "cette fois je crois que cela sera vrai--que l'affaire ne tombera pas dans l'eau," she said, remembering the deep waters which, in her recent affair, had gone over her head. "mon petit anglais"--her name for him--figured in her account as a model of propriety. he had a strict regard for morals. he objected to her working chez les femmes, and expressed his desire that she should remain in our service, despite the loss to their income. he condoned her previous indiscretions, and was prepared to play a father's part to her little ernest.
altogether the situation was fast growing idyllic, and with clémentine in her new rôle of fiancée, we thought that peace for us all was in sight. she set about her preparations at once, and did not hesitate to let me know that an agreeable wedding present would be house linen, however old and ragged, and a new hat for the wedding. i had looked for some preliminary begging as a matter of course, and i was already going through my linen closet to see what i could spare, when i caught clémentine collecting wedding presents from me for which i had not been asked.
until then i believed that, whatever crimes and vices might be laid at her door, dishonesty was not to be counted among them. i even boasted of her honesty as an excuse for my keeping her, nuisance as she was. i think i should have doubted her guilt if the report of it only had reached me. but i could not doubt the testimony of my own eyes when there was discovered, carefully packed in the capacious bag she always carried, one of my best napkins, a brand-new tea-cloth, and a few kitchen knives and forks that could not have strayed there of themselves. i could see in the articles selected her tender concern for the comfort of her petit anglais and her practical wish to prepare her establishment for his coming, and probably it showed her consideration for me that she had been content with such simple preparations. but the value of the things themselves and her object in appropriating them had nothing to do with the main fact that, after all we had done and endured, she was stealing from us. "we should wipe two words from our vocabulary: gratitude and charity," stevenson once wrote. clémentine wiped out the one so successfully that she left me with no use for the other. i told her she must go, and this time i was in good earnest.
to clémentine, however, nothing could have seemed less possible. she could not understand that a petty theft would make her less indispensable, or that i would strain at a gnat after swallowing so many camels. within a week she was knocking at our door and expressing her willingness to resume her place in our chambers. she was not discouraged by the refusal to admit her, but a few days later, this time by letter, she again assured me that she waited to be recalled, and she referred to the desire of her petit anglais in the matter. she affected penitence, admitting that she had committed une "bêtisse"--the spelling is hers--and adding: "avoir âgit ainsi avec des maîtres aussi bons, ce n'est pas pardonable. je vous assure que si un jour je devien riche, ou peut être plus pauvre, que dans ma richesse, comme dans ma plus grande misère, je ne pourrais jamais oublier les bons maîtres monsieur et madame, car jamais dans ma vie d'orpheline, je n'aie jamais rencontré d'aussi bons maîtres." she also reminded me that she lived in the hope that madame would not forget the promised present of linen and a hat. i made no answer. another letter followed, penitence now exchanged for reproaches. she expostulated with me for taking the bread out of the mouth of her petit innocent--ernest--the little innocent whom the slums had nothing more to teach. this second letter met the same fate as the first, but her resources were not exhausted. in a third she tried the dignity of sorrow: "ma faute m'a rendu l'âme si triste" and, as this had no effect, she used in a fourth the one genuine argument of them all, her hunger: "enfin il faut que je tâche d'oublier, mais en attendant je m'en mordrais peut être les poings plus d'une fois." i was unmoved. i had spent too much emotion already upon clémentine; also a neat little french girl had replaced her.
she gave up when she found me proof against an argument that had hitherto always disarmed me. this was the last time she put herself at my service; though once afterwards she gave me the pleasure of hearing from her. not many weeks had passed when i received a pictorial post-card that almost reconciled me to a fashion i deplore. the picture that adorned it was a photograph of an ordinary three-storey london house, the windows draped with lace curtains of a quality and design not common in the lower marsh. but the extraordinary thing about it was that in the open doorway--apronless, her arms akimbo, the wave of hair low on her forehead--stood clémentine, giggling in triumph. a few words accompanied this astonishing vision. "je n'oublierais jamais la bonne maison de madame" and the kind message was signed "mrs. johnson." whether the eighteen shillings of her petit anglais ran to so imposing a home, or to what she owed the post-card prominence usually reserved for the monuments of london, she did not condescend to explain. probably she only wanted to show that, though she had achieved this distinction, she could be magnanimous enough to forget the past and think of us kindly.
that was the last i ever heard from clémentine, the last i hope i ever shall hear. the pictorial post-card told me the one thing i cared to know. she did not leave me for a bed on the embankment by night and a round of the soup-kitchens by day. if ever she does see life in this way and so completes her experience, the responsibility will not be mine for having driven her to it.
the old housekeeper
the old housekeeper
no housekeeper could have been more in place than the little old white-haired woman who answered our ring the day we came to engage our windows, and, incidentally, the chambers behind them. she was venerable in appearance and scrupulously neat in her dress, and her manner had just the right touch of dignity and deference, until we explained our errand. then she flew into a rage and told us in a tone that challenged us to dispute it, "you know, no coal is to be carried upstairs after ten o'clock in the morning."
coal was as yet so remote that we would have agreed to anything in our impatience to look out of the windows, and, reassured by us, she became the obsequious housekeeper again, getting the keys, toiling with us up the three flights of stairs, unlocking the double door,--for, as i have said, there is an "oak" to "sport,"--ushering us into the chambers with the adam mantelpieces and decorations and the windows that brought us there, dropping the correct "sir" and "madam" into her talk, accepting without a tremor the shilling we were ashamed to offer, and realizing so entirely our idea of what a housekeeper in london chambers ought to be, that her outbreak over the coal we had not ordered, and might never order, was the more perplexing.
i understood it before we were settled in our chambers, for they were not really ours until after a long delay over the legal formalities with which the english love to entangle their simplest transactions at somebody else's expense, and a longer one in proving our personal and financial qualifications, the landlord being disturbed by a suspicion that, like the housekeeper's daughter, we were in the profession and spent most of our time "resting," a suspicion confirmed by the escape of the last tenant, also in the profession, with a year's rent still to pay. and then came much the longest delay of all over the british workman, who, once he got in, threatened never to get out. in the mean while we saw the housekeeper almost every day.
we did not have to see her often to discover that she was born a housekeeper, that she had but one thought in life, and that this was the house under her charge. i am sure she believed that she came into the world to take care of it, unless indeed it was built to be taken care of by her. she belonged to a generation in england who had not yet been taught the folly of interest in their work, and she was old-fashioned enough to feel the importance of the post she filled. she would have lost her self-respect had she failed in the slightest detail of her duty to the house. from the first, the spotless marvel she made of it divided our admiration with our windows. the hall and front steps were immaculate, the white stone stairs shone, there was not a speck of dust anywhere, and i appreciated the work this meant in an old london building, where the dirt not only filters through doors and windows, but oozes out of the walls and comes up through the floors. she did not pretend to hide her despair when our painters and paperers tramped and blundered in and out; she fretted herself ill when our furniture was brought up the three flights of her shining stairs. painters and paperers and the bringing up of furniture were rare incidents in the life of a tenant and had to be endured. but coal, with its trail of dust, was an endless necessity, and at least could be regulated. this was why, after her daily cleaning was done, she refused to let it pass.
once we were established, we saw her less often. her daily masterpiece was finished in the morning before we were up, and at all times she effaced herself with the respect she owed to tenants of a house in which she was the servant. if we did meet her she acknowledged our greeting with ostentatious humility, for she clung with as little shame to servility as to cleanliness; servility was also a part of the business of a housekeeper, just as elegance was the mark of the profession which her daughter graced, and the shame would have been not to be as servile as the position demanded.
this daughter was in every way an elegant person, dressing with a fidelity to fashion which i could not hope to emulate, and with the help of a fashionable dressmaker whom i could not afford to pay. she was "resting" from the time we came into the house until her mother left it, but if in the profession it is a misfortune to be out of work, it is a crime to look it, and her appearance and manner gave no hint of unemployment. in an emergency she would bring us up a message or a letter, but her civility had none of her mother's obsequiousness; it was a condescension, and she made us feel the honor she conferred upon the house by living in it. she was engaged to be married to a stage manager who for the moment seemed to be without a stage to manage, for he spent his evenings with her in the housekeeper's little sitting-room, where photographs of actors and actresses, each with its sprawling autograph, covered the walls, crowded the mantelpiece, and littered the table. i think the housekeeper could have asked for nothing better than that they should both continue to "rest," not so much because it gave her the pleasure of their society as because it was a protection to the house to have a man about after dark until the street door was closed at eleven. had it come to a question between the house and her daughter, the daughter would not have had a chance.
the housekeeper, for all her deference to the tenants, was a despot, and none of us dared to rebel against her rule and disturb the order she maintained. to anybody coming in from the not too respectable little street the respectability of the house was overwhelming, and i often noticed that strangers, on entering, lowered their voices and stepped more softly. the hush of repose hung heavy on the public hall and stairs, whatever might be going on behind the two doors that faced each other on every landing. we all emulated her in the quiet and decorum of our movements. we allowed ourselves so seldom to be seen that after three months i still knew little of the others except their names on their doors, the professions of those who had offices and hung up their signs, and the frequency with which the church league on the first floor drank afternoon tea. on certain days, when i went out towards five o'clock, i had to push my way through a procession of bishops in aprons and gaiters, deans and ordinary parsons who were legion, dowagers and duchesses who were as sands on the stairs. i may be wrong, but i fancy that the housekeeper would have found a way to rout this weekly invasion if, in the aprons and gaiters, she had not seen symbols of the respectability which was her pride.
what i did not find out about the tenants for myself, there was no learning from her. she disdained the gossip which was the breath of life to the other housekeepers in the street, where, in the early mornings when the fronts were being done, or in the cool of summer evenings when the day's work was over, i would see them chattering at their doors. she never joined in the talk, holding herself aloof, as if her house were on a loftier plane than theirs, and as if the number of her years in it raised her to a higher caste. exactly how many these years had been she never presumed to say, but she looked as ancient as the house, and had she told me she remembered bacon and pepys, who were tenants each in his own day, or peter the great, who lived across the street, i should have believed her. she did not, however, claim to go further back than etty, the royal academician, who spent over a quarter of a century in our chambers, and one of whose sitters she once brought up to see us,--a melancholy old man who could only shake his head, first over the changes in the house since etty painted those wonderful victorian nudes, so demure that "bob" stevenson insisted that etty's maiden aunts must have sat for them, and then over the changes in the river, which also, it seemed, had seen better days. really, he was so dismal a survivor of an older generation that we were glad she brought no more of his contemporaries to see us.
for so despotic a character, the housekeeper had a surprisingly feminine capacity for hysterics, of which she made the most the night of the fire. i admit it was an agitating event for us all. the fire of london was not so epoch-making. afterwards the tenants used to speak of the days "before the fire," as we still talk at home of the days "before the war." it happened in july, the third month of our tenancy. j. was away, and, owing to domestic complications, i was alone in our chambers at night. i do not recall the period with pride, for it proved me more of a coward than i cared to acknowledge. if i came home late, it was a struggle to make up my mind to open my front door and face the unknown on the other side. once or twice there was a second struggle at the dining-room door, the simple search for biscuits exaggerating itself into a perilous adventure. as i was not yet accustomed to the noises in our chambers, fear followed me to my bedroom, and when the trains on the near railroad bridge awoke me, i lay trembling, certain they were burglars or ghosts, forgetting that visitors of that kind are usually shyer in announcing themselves. then i began to be ashamed, and there was a night when, though the noises sounded strangely like voices immediately outside my window, i managed to turn over and try to sleep again. this time the danger was real, and, the next thing i knew, somebody was ringing the front door-bell and knocking without stopping, and before i had time to be afraid i was out of bed and at the door. it was the young man from across the hall, who had come to give me the cheerful intelligence that his chambers were on fire, and to advise me to dress as fast as i knew how and get downstairs before the firemen and the hose arrived, or i might not get down at all.
i flung myself into my clothes, although, as i am pleased to recall, i had the sense to select my most useful gown, in case but one was left me in the morning, and the curiosity to step for a second on to the leads where the flames were leaping from the young man's windows. as it was too late to help himself, he was waiting, with his servant, to help me. a pile of j.'s drawings lay on a chair in the hall,--i thrust them the young man's outstretched arms. for some incomprehensible reason j.'s huge schube was on another chair,--i threw it into the arms of the young man's servant, who staggered under its unexpected weight. i rushed to my desk to secure the money i was unwilling to leave behind, when a bull's-eye lantern flashed upon me and a policeman ordered me out. firemen--for london firemen eventually arrive if the fire burns long enough--were dragging up a hose as i flew downstairs, and the policeman had scarcely pushed me into the housekeeper's room, the young man had just deposited the drawings at my feet, and the servant the schube, when the stairs became a raging torrent.
i had not thought of the housekeeper till then; after that there was no thinking of anything else. my dread of never again seeing our chambers was nothing to her sense of the outrage to her house. niobe weeping for her children was not so tragic a spectacle as she lamenting the ruin of plaster and paint that did not belong to her. she was half-dressed, propped up against cushions on a couch, sniffing the salts and sipping the water administered by her daughter, who had taken the time to dress carefully and elegantly for the scene. "oh, what shall i do! oh, what shall i do!" the housekeeper wailed as she saw me, wringing her hands with an abandonment that would have made her daughter's fortune on the stage.
her sitting-room had been appropriated as a refuge for the tenants, and this sudden reunion was my introduction to them. as the room was small, my first impression was of a crowd, though in actual numbers we were not many. the young man whose distinction was that the fire originated in his chambers, and myself, represented the third floor front and back. the architect and his clerks of the second floor front were at home in their beds, unconscious of the deluge pouring into their office; the second floor back had gone away on a holiday. the church league of the first floor front, haunted by bishops and deans, duchesses and dowagers, was of course closed, and we were deprived of whatever spiritual consolation their presence might have provided. but the first floor back filled the little room with her loud voice and portly presence. she had attired herself for the occasion in a black skirt and a red jacket, that, for all her efforts, would not meet over the vast expanse of grey jaeger vest beneath, and her thin wisps of grey hair were drawn up under a green felt hat of the pattern i wore for bicycling. i looked at it regretfully: a hat of any kind would have completed my costume. i complimented her on her fore-thought; but "what could i do?" she said, "they flurried me so i couldn't find my false front anywhere, and i had to cover my head with something." it was extraordinary how a common danger broke down the barrier of reserve we had hitherto so carefully cultivated. she had her own salts which she shared with us all, when she did not need them for the housekeeper, whom she kept calling "poor dear!" and who, after every "poor dear!" went off into a new attack of hysterics.
the ground floor front, a thin, spry old gentleman, hovered about us, bobbing in and out like the little man in the weather-house. he was in the insurance business, i was immediately informed, and it seemed a comfort to us all to know it, though i cannot for the life of me imagine why it should have been to me, not one stick or stitch up there in our chambers being insured. the ground floor back was at his club, and his wife and two children had not been disturbed, as in their chambers the risk was not immediate, and, anyway, they could easily walk out should it become so. he had been promptly sent for, and when a message came back that he was playing whist and would hurry to the rescue of his family as soon as his rubber was finished, the indignation in the housekeeper's room was intense. "brute!" the housekeeper said, and after that, through the rest of the night, she would ask every few minutes if he had returned, and the answer in the negative was fresh fuel to her wrath.
she was, if anything, more severe with the young man whose chambers were blazing, and who confessed he had gone out toward midnight leaving a burning candle in one of his rooms. he treated the fire as a jest, which she could not forgive; and when at dawn, he decided that all his possessions, including account-books committed to his care, were in ashes, and that it was useless to wait, and he wished us good-morning and good-by, she hinted darkly that fires might be one way of disposing of records it was convenient to be rid of.
indignation served better than salts to rouse the housekeeper from her hysterics, and i was glad of the distraction it gave her for another reason: without it, she could not long have remained unconscious of an evil that i look back to as the deadliest of all during that night's vigil. for, gradually through her room, by this time close to suffocation, there crept the most terrible smell. it took hold of me, choked me, sickened me. the housekeeper's daughter and the first floor back blanched under it, the housekeeper turned from white to green. i have often marvelled since that they never referred to it, but i know why i did not. for it was i who sent that smell downstairs when i threw the russian schube into the arms of the third floor front's servant. odours, they say, are the best jogs to memory, and the smell of the schube is for me so inextricably associated with the fire, that i can never think of one without remembering the other.
the schube was the chief treasure among the fantastic costumes it is j.'s joy to collect on his travels. his hungarian sheepskins, french hooded capes, swiss blouses, spanish berêts, scotch tam-o'-shanters, dalmatian caps, roumanian embroidered shirts, and the rest, i can dispose of by packing them out of sight and dosing them with camphor. but no trunk was big enough to hold the russian schube, and its abominable smell, even when reinforced by tons of camphor and pepper, could not frighten away the moths. it was picturesque, so much i admit in its favor, and whistler's lithograph of j. draped in it is a princely reward for my trouble. but that trouble lasted for eighteen years, during which time j. wore the schube just twice,--once to pose for the lithograph and once on a winter night in london, when its weight was a far more serious discomfort than the cold. occasionally he exhibited it to select audiences. at all other times it hung in a colossal linen bag made especially to hold it. the eighteenth summer, when the bag was opened for the periodical airing and brushing, no schube was there; not a shred of fur remained, the cloth was riddled with holes; it had fallen before its hereditary foe and the moths had devoured it. for this had i toiled over it; for this had i rescued it on the night of the fire as if it were my crowning jewel; for this had i braved the displeasure of the housekeeper, from which indeed i escaped only because, at the critical moment, the policeman who had ordered me downstairs appeared to say that the lady from the third floor back could go up again if she chose.
the stairs were a waterfall under which i ascended. the two doors of our chambers were wide open, with huge gaps where panels had been, the young man's servant having carefully shut them after me in our flight, thinking, i suppose, that the firemen would stand upon ceremony and ask for the key before venturing in. a river was drying up in our hall, and the strip of matting down the centre was sodden. empty soda-water bottles rolled on the floor, though it speaks well for london firemen that nothing stronger was touched. candles were stuck upside down in our hanging dutch lamp and all available candlesticks, curtains and blinds were pulled about, chairs were upset, the marks of muddy feet were everywhere. i ought to have been grateful, and i was, that the damage was so small, all the more when i went again on to the leads and saw the blackened heap to which the night had reduced the young man's chambers. but the place was inexpressibly cheerless and dilapidated in the dawning light.
it was too late to go to bed, too early to go to work. i was hungry, and the baker had not come, nor the charwoman. i was faint, the smell of the schube was strong in my nostrils, though the schube itself was now safely locked up in a remote cupboard. i wandered disconsolately from room to room, when, of a sudden, there appeared at my still open front door a gorgeous vision,--a large and stately lady, fresh and neat, arrayed in flowing red draperies, with a white lace fichu thrown over a mass of luxuriant golden hair. i stared, speechless with amazement. it was not until she spoke that i recognized the first floor back, who had had time to lay her hands not only on a false front, but on a whole wig, and who had had the enterprise to make tea which she invited me to drink with her in pepys's chambers.
the housekeeper and the housekeeper's daughter were already in her dining-room, the housekeeper huddled up in a big armchair, pillows at her back, a stool at her feet. like her house she was a wreck, and her demoralization was sad to see. all her life, until a few short hours ago, she had been the model of neatness; now she did not care how she looked; her white hair was untidy, her dress half-buttoned, her apron forgotten; and she, who had hitherto discouraged familiarity in the tenants, joined us as a friend. she was too exhausted for hysterics, but she moaned over her tea and abandoned herself to her grief. she could not rally, and, what is more, she did not want to. she had no life apart from her house, and in its ruin she saw her own. her immaculate hall was defaced and stained, a blackened groove was worn in her shining stairs, the water pouring through the chambers in the front, down to her own little apartment, had turned them all into a damp and depressing mess. her moans were the ceaseless accompaniment to our talk of the night's disaster. always she had waited for the fire, she said, she had dreaded it, and at last it had come, and there was no sorrow like unto hers.
after the first excitement, after the house had resumed, as well as it could, its usual habits, the housekeeper remained absorbed in her grief. hitherto her particular habit was to work, and she had been able, unaided, to keep the house up to her immaculate standard of perfection. but now to restore it to order was the affair of builders, of plasterers and painters and paperers. there was nothing for her to do save to sit with hands folded and watch the sacrilege. her occupation was gone, and all was wrong with her world.
i was busy during the days immediately "after the fire." i had to insure our belongings, which, of course, being insured, have never run such a risk again. i had to prepare and pack for a journey to france, now many days overdue, and, what with one thing or another, i neglected the housekeeper. when at last i was ready to shut up our chambers and start and i called at her rooms, it seemed to me she had visibly shrunk and wilted, though she had preserved enough of the proper spirit to pocket the substantial tip i handed over to her with my keys. she was no less equal to accepting a second when, after a couple of months i returned and could not resist this expression of my sympathy on finding the hall still stained and defaced, the stairs still with their blackened groove, the workmen still going and coming, and her despair at the spectacle blacker than ever.
the next day she came up to our chambers. she wore her best black gown and no apron, and from these signs i concluded it was a visit of state. i was right: it was to announce her departure. the house, partially rebuilt and very much patched up, would never be the same. she was too old for hope, and without the courage to pick up the broken bits of her masterpiece and put them together again. she was more ill at ease as visitor than as housekeeper. the conversation languished, although i fancied she had something particular to say, slight as was her success in saying it. we had both been silent for an awkward minute when she blurted out abruptly that she had never neglected her duty, no matter what it might or might not have pleased the tenants to give her. i applauded the sentiment as admirable, and i said good-by; and never once then, and not until several days after she left us, did it dawn upon me that she was waiting to accept graciously the fee it was her right in leaving to expect from me. the fact of my having only just tipped her liberally had nothing to do with it. a housekeeper's departure was an occasion for money to pass from the tenant's hand into hers, and she had too much respect for her duty as housekeeper not to afford me the opportunity of doing mine as tenant. it was absurd, but i was humiliated in my own eyes when i thought of the figure i must cut in hers, and i could only hope she would make allowance for me as an ignorant american.
how deep i sunk in her esteem, there was no means of knowing. i do not think she could endure to come to her house as a stranger, for she never returned. neither did any news of her reach us. i cannot believe she enjoyed the inactive existence with her daughter to which she had retired, and i should be astonished if she bore it long. in losing her house she had lost her interest in life. her work in the world was done.
the new housekeeper
the new housekeeper
it had taken years for the old housekeeper to mature, and i knew that in the best sense of the word she could never be replaced. but the knowledge did not prepare me for the new housekeeper.
mrs. haines was a younger and apparently stronger woman, but she was so casual in her dress, and so eager to emulate the lilies of the field, as to convince me that it was not in her, under any conditions, to mature into a housekeeper at all. it expressed much, i thought, that while the old housekeeper had always been "the housekeeper," we never knew mrs. haines by any name but her own. the fact that she had a husband was her recommendation to the landlord, who had been alarmed by the fire and the hysterics into which it threw the old housekeeper, and now insisted upon a man in the family as an indispensable qualification for the post. the advantage might have been more obvious had mr. haines not spent most of his time in dodging the tenants and helping them to forget his presence in the house. he was not an ill-looking nor ill-mannered man, and shyness was the only explanation that occurred to me for his perseverance in avoiding us. work could not force him from his retirement. mrs. haines said that he was a carpenter by trade, but the only ability i ever knew him to display was in evading whatever job i was hopeful enough to offer him. besides, though it might be hard to say what i think a carpenter ought to look like, i was certain he did not look like one, and others shared my doubts.
the rumour spread through our street--where everybody rejoices in the knowledge of everything about everybody else who lives in it--that he had once been in the civil service, but had married beneath him and come down in the world. how the rumour originated i never asked, or never was told if i did ask; but it was so evident that he shrank from the practice of the carpenter's trade that once we sent him with a letter to the publisher--who shares our love of the neighbourhood to the point, not only of publishing from it, but of living in it--asking if some sort of place could not be found for him in the office. it was found, i am afraid to his disappointment, for he never made any effort to fill it, and was more diligent than ever in keeping out of our way. if he saw us coming, on the rare occasions when he stood at the front door, or the rarer when he cleaned the gas-bracket above it, he would run if there was time, or, if there was not, turn his head and stare fixedly in the other direction that he might escape speaking to us. as the months went on, he was never caught cleaning anything or doing anything in the shape of work, except sometimes, furtively, as if afraid of being detected in the act, shutting the front door when the clocks of the neighbourhood struck eleven. he was far less of a safeguard to us than i often fancied he thought we were to him.
mrs. haines was sufficiently unlike him to account for one part of the rumour. she was coarse in appearance and disagreeable in manner, always on the defensive, always on the verge of flying into a temper. she had no objection to showing herself; on the contrary, she was perpetually about, hunting for faults to find; but she did object to showing herself with a broom or a duster, a pail or a scrubbing-brush in her hands. i shuddered sometimes at the thought of the shock to the old housekeeper if she were to see her hall and stairs. we could bring up coal now at any hour or all day long. and yet mrs. haines tyrannized over us in her own fashion, and her tyranny was the more unbearable because it had no end except to spare herself trouble. her one thought was to do nothing and get paid for it. she resented extra exertion without extra compensation. we never had been so bullied about coal under the old régime as we were under hers about a drain-pipe with a trick of overflowing. it might have drowned us in our chambers and she would not have stirred to save us; but its outlet was in a little paved court back of her kitchen, which it was one of her duties to keep in order, and she considered every overflow a rank injustice. she held the tenants in jose stayed around the house all one market-day afternoon, taking care of little tareja and being company for his father, while the mother, joanna and malfada went to the village with antonio. malfada dangled the silver-link bag from her wrist, just as antonio knew she would; and she brought back home in it a little boxful of candies for jose. it was a great day for them all.
there were long, pleasant evenings, for portuguese families stay at home together instead of going to their neighbors for amusement. jose played softly on his violin. the mother, joanna and malfada sewed or embroidered. antonio read aloud from some book, or oftener from a newspaper he had bought on the weekly market-day and which gave news of the nation's progress. sometimes, but not often, he went out with his flute; and then the family knew that he had gone to serenade inez castillo.
swiftly the days passed. soon came natal--christmas--the great holiday of the year. on this day and on new year's, there were fireworks and decorations at each farmhouse, singing, and visits back and forth.
daily between christmas and new year's the almaida family ate bôlos de bacalhau, and rebanadas,--thick slices of brôa soaked in new milk, fried in olive oil and spread with honey. rebanadas is the special holiday food for christmas and new year's. the red tomato salt-cellar was used at table on each of these days.
the holidays from farm-work lasted up to the feast of the epiphany, january 6th. on the day after, the school in the village opened.
five days each week jose and malfada walked barefoot the three miles in the early morning, returning in the dusk of the mild winter day. the walk was very tiring sometimes. it was fortunate that both children were strong, and used to being much on their feet.
at first carlos wanted to go with them. but soon he seemed to understand that he was not to be allowed to take these morning walks. on each school-day, however, at four o'clock, he would begin watching for the children, and the moment he caught sight of them coming along the wood-lane, he dashed off at top speed to meet them.
the old parrot was very funny these days. so much going and coming confused him. in the mornings when jose and malfada went away he called out accolade--welcome, and in the afternoons, when they returned, à deus--good-by. these were the only words he knew; jose had tried in vain to teach him other words, just as antonio had tried when a little boy.
"the parrot is growing very old; he is losing his sense," the mother said one day when the bird greeted the children on their return from school with à deus! à deus! à deus!
"oh no, mother; i am sure he thinks it is a joke, just as we do," jose said, very earnestly.
on the saturday holiday jose worked from dawn till dark, helping antonio. the vine-pruning and tying did not end until february. jose learned to tie the vine branches skilfully to the trees, leaving room for the vines to grow and not be hurt by the cord. in february, march and april came the sowing for the crops of the summer and autumn.
the sixteen weeks' term of school ended in april. jose had been put into the class of the quickest learners. he had gone rapidly ahead of malfada, who, although three years older, stayed in the lower class.
jose had been eager over his books,--far more eager than malfada. but he ran almost all the way home, and reaching there long before she did, put away his books gladly. the school-room, with its crowd of boys and girls, had seemed hot and dusty those days when the outside world was growing so beautiful.
antonio was out in the field, planting cabbages, when jose hurried toward him calling: "no more school, antonio, no more school now."
antonio straightened back his shoulders and asked: "is this the boy who wanted so much to go to school?"
jose's face turned very red under its tan. but when he saw the teasing look in antonio's eyes, he laughed and said: "it is good to have spring come after winter, so i think it is good to change from going to school to not going. besides, the teacher says there will be a ten weeks' term next autumn."
"spring unlocks the flowers, so the spring should let children come out of doors," said antonio. "there will be some hard work for you, jose, but never mind!"
"never mind," repeated jose, racing back to the house with carlos at his heels.
when spring unlocks the flowers
"in the merry month of may." --william shakespeare.
the hills were sweet with the air of spring. down their sides ran rills of water, foaming with golden light. the fresh grass of the fields was carpeted with flowers. the young vine-shoots were full of tender, pale green leaves.
lemon and orange trees shone with white blossoms. the elder, lotus, and shining-leaved magnolia showed almost more white than green. the pomegranate held forth fiery red blossoms. the olive-tree, with its stunted growth and its gray-green leaves, glowed all day long with a beautiful silver color under the bright sunshine. in the flower-garden, roses, geraniums and heliotrope were a-bloom.
crops were growing wonderfully. the effects of the deep ploughing already showed in the stronger maize-stalks, the more abundant bean pods and the well-started vegetables.
"the fourth leaf-spike has appeared on the maize: it is time for the hoeing," said the father. he could walk now, slowly, with the aid of a stout cane, as far as the field.
it was easy for jose to work with the new short-handled hoe antonio had bought for him. yet at the end of the day his arms and wrists were so tired that he could scarcely draw the bow across the violin. many an evening the bow dropped from his hand as he fell asleep, heavy-eyed after being all day in the open air.
as soon as the young maize-stalks were strong enough to stand the flow of water, the oxen were set to work at the nora and streams of water began running down through the fields. the dry season had commenced. there was day after day of bright, unclouded sunshine.
then came the thinning of the crops, to make the strong stalks grow stronger, and to give food for the cattle.
working with his bare feet two or three inches deep in the warm, moist soil, jose felt as if he were a part of this great, growing, beautiful world. the strength of the earth seemed to come into him with the air he breathed. he was taller and more sturdy: he no longer looked like the slim slip of a boy of six or seven months ago.
early in june the crops had grown to their limit. their turning to a yellow color showed the ripening. it would soon be time for cutting down the first crop of barley, oats, rye and wheat, and to make ready for a second sowing. the flax had already been taken up, and had been steeped or soaked in water for more than a week. now, well-dried in the sun, it must be broken and scutched by hand, or taken to some mill to be finally made ready for spinning.
antonio decided that he would carry the flax to guimarães, where there were good mills, instead of having his mother and sisters do the work at home. besides, he wanted to buy some new seeds for the second sowing.
"would you like to take a holiday with me to-morrow?" he asked jose on the evening before st. antonio's day.
"yes. where? to guimarães?" jose replied quickly.
"how did you guess, little brother?"
"because last autumn, when we went on a holiday, you said you would take me to guimarães when we went away again."
"we will start early to-morrow. we will take the oxen, because i am going to carry the flax to the mill."
"it is good to have the holiday on st. antonio's day. because you have that name, the day should be your holiday, antonio."
on st. antonio's day
"--in my soul is naught but gayety." --antonio ferreira.
for the first time in all his life, jose was to see guimarães, the old city where portugal's hero king, affonso henriquez, was born in 1109, the great warrior who made of portugal a united country.
on the morning of st. antonio's day, the thirteenth of june, the family was up early to eat with antonio and jose the holiday breakfast of estofado--stewed meat and vegetables. at six o'clock they gathered on the wide stone doorstep to see the brothers start. carlos lay at the edge of the step, his nose upon his paws, waiting, both eyes fixed upon jose. the dog knew that some unusual journey was planned; he was all ready to go, too.
but carlos could not go. this was jose's only regret at starting. "he would be frightened and perhaps lost in the city," antonio said. so the dog was held back by joanna, and he decided, in his dog way, that jose must be going off to school again. the parrot's cries of accolade! accolade! followed the brothers until they were beyond reach of the sound.
all beyond the village market-place was new to jose. the road grew constantly better. soon above the pine forests appeared the granite peak of penha. on the approach to guimarães, the ground rises and pine forests spread around the city for miles. in that wild country, affonso henriquez first learned the art of war, and in his very boyhood became the trusted leader of his troops.
as the brothers drew nearer, they saw the gentle hill on which stand the walls of the old castle, still keeping watch over the city which lies beneath. it is impossible to imagine a ruin more stately than that of this grand old castle of the middle ages, the first christian fortress in portugal,--a castle-fortress which tells the story of the strong spirit of the race of men who built it. the huge granite blocks, each taller than a man, which form the battlements, still stand erect and immovable.
on the road, as the brothers drew yet nearer, were many other travellers, like themselves bound for the city. it was market-day as well as the holiday of st. antonio. there were men and women, boys and girls, in gala-day costume. sometimes the women and girls were driving donkeys, pannier-laden. but oftenest, these women-folk had baskets, heavily filled, upon their heads; in portugal women carry everything in baskets, from babies to bales of goods. there were herdsmen on the way, driving flocks of goats. groups of children walked soberly along with their parents. now and then a beggar asked antonio for a bit of money; but portugal has few beggars compared with its neighboring country, spain.
the crowd of holiday-makers grew. jose climbed into the ox-cart, because he could see more and because the long walk and the unusual excitement were making him feel rather tired. most of the travellers passed on ahead, for the oxen, pulling their load up-hill, made slow progress. but jose did not mind this. the music of a brass band was coming to his ears. he had to ask antonio what it was; he had never before heard a band.
guimarães is a delightful old city. even people who have travelled much more than jose think so. it is full of picturesque buildings. there are many houses with balconies and windows of fine wood-carving. several of the streets are hardly more than narrow alleys, and the eaves of the houses all but meet overhead. some of the wider streets end in wonderful views of the hills, seen across fields brilliant green with rye and clover. and there is a beautiful old granite cathedral church.
jose had never seen anything so marvellous as this building. in its graceful granite belfry tower the peal of eight bells was ringing out the hour of ten as the oxen moved slowly past, along the crowded street. but jose hardly noticed the people: he was looking up, full of eager curiosity, at the strange heads and faces, half like men, half like animals,--the gargoyles carved on church and tower.
"take me to see the cars and the railroad first of all, please, antonio," had been jose's request, made over and over again that morning on the way.
so, to please the little brother, antonio drove the oxen directly to the railway station. by good fortune they were just in time to see the arrival of a long passenger train. jose was almost terrified by the rushing in of the tall black engine with its smoke and noise. the cars, with their seats and windows and curtains, seemed to him like strange little homes.
many a traveller turned to gaze with interest at the earnest-faced, black-eyed boy and the handsome, strong-looking brother, with the fresh color of the country upon their faces.
a little girl dressed in white stepped from the cars, holding fast to her mother's hand. "see, antonio," jose cried out in a voice so loud that everyone around heard: "see, she looks just like tareja's doll!" as the mother and little girl passed, they smiled with friendly blue eyes at the brothers.
after the passenger train moved out of the station, a puffing freight engine went back and forth, shifting and changing about many long, box-like looking freight cars. presently the cars were all in place, and the puffy engine pulled them slowly away.
jose would have stayed all day at the station, waiting for other trains to come and go. his eyes were not yet satisfied. but antonio had many other things to do. when they finally turned away, jose looked back as long as the station remained in sight. he soon, however, grew interested in seeing other sights.
to antonio, guimarães seemed very old-fashioned and slow, compared with the busy american cities of the same size which he had seen. but to jose everything was new and wonderful,--so many people, such tall buildings, such beautiful things in the shop windows, so much noise.
everywhere on the corners of the quaint, crowded streets groups of men were talking about the new government, and curious small boys were listening at the edges of the crowds. jose wanted to stop long enough to hear what was being said; but antonio urged the oxen on toward the mill. processions of young men marched through the streets to the music of flutes, pipes, and drums. on many a street the statue figure of st. antonio, in a shrine, was decorated with flowers and garlands of leaves. around bonfires in the city square young people were dancing.
when they reached the mill, antonio fastened the oxen at the corner of a near-by side street. jose helped carry the flax into the mill, but he hurried back to take his seat in the ox-cart: he liked this better even than staying in the mill.
a red, whizzing machine which jose knew at once, from descriptions antonio had given him, was an automobile--came rushing through the narrow street. the frightened oxen pulled so hard at the chain that jose thought they would break it and run away. he jumped down, and, in his effort to quiet the oxen, lost the chance really to see the darting red machine. but he saw other automobiles, by and by.
from the mill antonio went to a neighboring shop to buy the seeds he wanted for the second crop planting. this took a long time. just as he came back, the sweet-toned bells of the cathedral tower were chiming out one o'clock. he guided the oxen to the end of a short side street, where he let them graze upon the rich grass by the road while he and jose ate their luncheon. streams of water ran along in stone channels by the roadside. the murmur of running water was heard everywhere and always, for this was an especially dry season, and the gardens and fields of guimarães needed much moisture.
back the brothers went with the oxen into the city crowds. antonio wanted to get some presents to take home. jose helped him choose these. they bought a bright-colored little basket for the mother, new silk kerchiefs for the sisters, a gay little scarlet kerchief for tareja, and a book, about modern ways of farming, for the father.
after this was done, antonio was ready to go home.
but jose begged: "please, oh please, antonio, let us stay till dark. the band keeps on playing; i never should tire of hearing that. and some boys were saying on the street as we passed that there are going to be fireworks at dusk."
antonio hesitated. they were a long way from home, and it had been a long day.
"joanna will milk the cow, and feed the chickens and pig. mother will know we are safe together. do stay, antonio."
so, because the little brother did not often have a holiday, antonio delayed starting for home. the sky was very clear. a bright moon would give them light on the way after the late twilight ended.
there were many more people now in the city square. the crowds were cheerful, rather quiet, and very orderly; the portuguese people are sober-minded, even on their holidays.
toward nightfall the scene grew gayer. more bonfires were lighted. a second, third, and fourth brass band marched through the streets to their own lively strains of music. jose's quick ear caught many a tune which he afterward played upon his violin. candles were lighted now on the shrines of the holiday saint. the cathedral bells rang forth a beautiful vesper hymn. and almost before the sun had set, the fireworks began.
antonio bought a bagful of buns and seed-cakes, which they ate as they sat in the ox-cart on the edge of the crowd. it was not long before he saw that jose was growing very tired.
antonio stepped down from the cart. "we will start now, jose. we can watch the fireworks as we move away from the city. then we can stop outside and let the oxen feed a while. they must be very hungry."
and because the big brother had been so kind, jose did not object now to the homeward start.
a half mile out in the country, just before they reached the borders of the pine forest, antonio turned the willing oxen aside to let them crop the thick grass. seated on a high rock, he and jose looked across at the city.
wonderful gleams of colored light--red, blue, green and orange--shot out over the surrounding valleys. showers of bright stars fell, it seemed, as if at their very feet. the tall granite castle ruin was lighted up with a red glow. the city itself, with its many towers and tops showing in the blaze of color, with its bursts of music which floated across on the soft night air, was like a story or a dream.
at last antonio turned the oxen to the road again. "truly we have had a wonderful end to our holiday, jose," he said.
"truly we have," jose replied drowsily. the rest by the roadside had made him very sleepy, and the glare of light had almost blinded his eyes.
"climb into the cart, jose. there is no need for two of us to walk. the road is growing rougher now, and the cart jolts badly, but that is easier to bear than going afoot."
antonio, without stopping the oxen who were now going at top speed toward home, gently put his cloak over the sleeping little man-brother.
"in measureless content." --william shakespeare.
better times had surely come to the almaida family. by july, the father was able to walk about without a cane; and the doctor, whom antonio asked to come again, said that senhor almaida might begin work in september.
the first crops of the year were the largest that the farm had ever raised. the early harvest of oats, rye, and wheat was piled high in the barn by the last of july, and the new crops were growing abundantly.
"another year we shall have twice as much of everything," jose said, as he sat with his father and antonio at the barn door in the summer twilight.
the father looked smilingly into the little boy's eager face as he answered: "yes, and we can keep two cows instead of one cow, and more chickens, perhaps another pig. we shall have more feed for them, and with our larger crops to sell, we can soon pay back to antonio the money which he has spent for new farm implements and tools. it was good for us all that you went away, antonio, and came back with the new ideas."
there were other plans for the farm forming in antonio's mind, but he was not yet quite ready to talk them over with his father.
a few days later, as antonio and jose finished the work of watering the maize-fields for the second time that day, by means of the oxen's turning of the nora, antonio said to jose: "you know there is the good full stream which flows beyond the barn and along by the wood-lane? this autumn, when the farm-work grows lighter, we will put in pipes from that stream to the vineyard and garden, so that the crops can be watered by what is called irrigation, and without using the nora, which takes the oxen away from the other work. we will not tell this to the father until the time comes. he may think it too large a thing for us to do."
in mid-august a party of students from coimbra university came strolling through the village and up the hillside to the almaidas' and other farms. they were on a vacation pilgrimage to braga, one of the oldest cities in portugal, known in roman times as baraca augusta, and in more modern times as the home of the royal braganza family, to which king manuel ii belonged.
while these students, in long black coats buttoned close to the chin, ate the brôa and the fresh fruits which the good mother set before them, jose asked them many questions about the place from which they came. and they told the little boy about coimbra university, famous for many centuries as the seat of learning for all portugal, and about the great buildings of the university on the hill overlooking the town.
"like the old castle of guimarães?" jose asked.
"yes, have you ever seen that?" the leader of the students asked.
then jose shyly described to them his holiday with antonio at guimarães. "there is antonio off in the field now, and father is sitting with him, in the shade."
the five students were very comfortable on the vine-covered porch this warm august afternoon, so they stayed a little longer, and told jose more about coimbra,--how the city was, after guimarães, made the capital of portugal, and how, as the christian kings, beginning with affonso henriquez, drove the moors farther and farther south, until, after coimbra, the more southern city of lisbon was made the capital.
the students shook jose's hand and clapped him on the back as they started to go on with their journey. "some day i hope you will visit coimbra," one of them said.
"graçias, senhor," jose answered very politely. "some day i will go there, but not yet, for i am only a little boy."
"you have seen and learned more than most boys of your age in portugal. i believe you will some day come to study at coimbra," the leader of the students said.
"á deus, à deus, boy; come to coimbra some day," the students cried as they went off; a jolly, laughing group in their black coats.
through the summer, talk of public reforms, of railroad strikes, of riots and unrest, reached the almaida farm. it made the father think with a half regret of the old days of quiet. it made antonio long for the time when the young republic of portugal would have passed through these first months of change and become settled.
but none of this talk disturbed jose. he was the happiest boy in all portugal. his father was nearly well. his big brother was going to stay in portugal. his mother grew brighter of face every day. joanna was soon to marry a young village carpenter. malfada and jose himself could go to school again in the autumn. little tareja in a few years would also be able to go. and every day antonio told jose stories about the great world outside of portugal.
antonio valued education more than ever, since his four years of life in america. he knew that it was too late for him to go to school again, because of his age and because of the need for him to work on the farm. but he talked with jose of the future when, if the boy turned out to be good at studies, he might go to the university at coimbra. and it happened in the years afterward, that jose did go to coimbra, and that the leader of the students who had stopped at the almaida farm for brôa and fruits on the august afternoon, was then a teacher at coimbra.
of the money brought from america antonio had spent hardly any except that for farm tools and implements. the rest of the money, a good round sum for a young portuguese farmer, was in the bank at guimarães. once a month, now, antonio added a few dollars to this--not half nor quarter as much as he might have had in america, but although a man earns less in portugal, living costs less there.
with this money, and with what he would add to it in the future, antonio planned to pay for jose's education, and some time soon it would make him able to build near his father's, a new home where he could bring inez castillo as his bride.
if antonio and jose have hot summers of sixteen hours' work daily to toil through, they have no great severity of winter weather to bear. if their summer days bring more than common heat and weariness, they find rest during the cool, pleasant nights. in the summer and winter evenings alike, father, mother and children find quiet enjoyment together, and always, best of all, they have the power to enjoy simple things "in measureless content."
meanwhile jose and malfada, with many other portuguese children, are eagerly gaining education in the bettered schools which are a part of portugal's new government.
books for young people
the little colonel books
by annie fellows johnston
the little colonel stories (trade mark)
being three "little colonel" stories in the cosy corner series, "the little colonel," "two little knights of kentucky," and "the great scissors," put into a single volume.
the little colonel's house party (trade mark)
the little colonel's holidays (trade mark)
the little colonel's hero (trade mark)
the little colonel at boarding-school (trade mark)
the little colonel in arizona (trade mark)
the little colonel's christmas vacation (trade mark)
the little colonel, maid of honor (trade mark)
the little colonel's knight comes riding (trade mark)
mary ware: the little colonel's chum (trade mark)
mary ware in texas
the little colonel (trade mark)
two little knights of kentucky
the giant scissors
special holiday editions
new plates, handsomely illustrated with eight full-page drawings in color, and many marginal sketches.
in the desert of waiting: the legend of camelback mountain.
the three weavers: a fairy tale for fathers and mothers as well as for their daughters.
the legend of the bleeding heart
the rescue of princess winsome: a fairy play for old and young.
the jester's sword
there has been a constant demand for publication in separate form of these six stories, which were originally included in six of the "little colonel" books.
joel: a boy of galilee: by annie fellows johnston. illustrated by l. j. bridgman.
a story of the time of christ, which is one of the author's best-known books.
the little colonel good times book
cover design and decorations by peter verberg.
published in response to many inquiries from readers of the little colonel books as to where they could obtain a "good times book" such as betty kept.
the little colonel doll book
a series of "little colonel" dolls,--not only the little colonel herself, but betty and kitty and mary ware, yes, and rob, phil, and many another of the well-loved characters,--even mom' beck herself. there are many of them and each has several changes of costume, so that the happy group can be appropriately clad for the rehearsal of any scene or incident in the series.
the large, cumbersome sheets of most of the so-called doll "books" have been discarded, and instead each character, each costume, occupies a sheet by itself, the dolls and costumes being cut out only as they are wanted.
asa holmes: or, at the cross-roads. a sketch of country life and country humor. by annie fellows johnston.
with a frontispiece by ernest fosbery.
"'asa holmes; or, at the cross-roads' is the most delightful, most sympathetic and wholesome book that has been published in a long while."--boston times.
the rival campers; or, the adventures of henry burns. by ruel perley smith.
a story of a party of typical american lads, courageous, alert, and athletic, who spend a summer camping on an island off the maine coast.
the rival campers afloat; or, the prize yacht viking. by ruel perley smith.
this book is a continuation of the adventures of "the rival campers" on their prize yacht viking.
the rival campers ashore
by ruel perley smith.
"as interesting ashore as when afloat."--the interior.
the rival campers among the oyster pirates; or, jack harvey's adventures. by ruel perley smith.
"just the type of book which is most popular with lads who are in their early teens."--the philadelphia item.
prisoners of fortune: a tale of the massachusetts bay colony. by ruel perley smith.
"there is an atmosphere of old new england in the book, the humor of the born raconteur about the hero, who tells his story with the gravity of a preacher, but with a solemn humor that is irresistible."--courier-journal.
famous cavalry leaders. by charles h. l. johnston.
biographical sketches, with interesting anecdotes and reminiscences of the heroes of history who were leaders of cavalry.
"more of such books should be written, books that acquaint young readers with historical personages in a pleasant informal way."--n. y. sun.
famous indian chiefs. by charles h. l. johnston.
in this book mr. johnston gives interesting sketches of the indian braves who have figured with prominence in the history of our own land, including powhatan, the indian cæsar; massasoit, the friend of the puritans; pontiac, the red napoleon; tecumseh, the famous war chief of the shawnees; sitting bull, the famous war chief of the sioux; geronimo, the renowned apache chief, etc., etc.
famous scouts. by charles h. l. johnston.
mr. johnston gives us historical facts and biographical sketches and interesting anecdotes of those heroes of early pioneer days who made names for themselves among the hardy adventurers who thronged the border. there are tales of gen. israel putnam; the celebrated daniel boone; kit carson, the noted scout; lewis and clarke, the hardy explorers; the world-renowned buffalo bill, and of many other famous scouts, trappers and pioneers.
beautiful joe's paradise: or, the island of brotherly love. a sequel to "beautiful joe." by marshall saunders, author of "beautiful joe."
"this book revives the spirit of 'beautiful joe' capitally. it is fairly riotous with fun, and is about as unusual as anything in the animal book line that has seen the light."--philadelphia item.
'tilda jane. by marshall saunders.
"i cannot think of any better book for children than this. i commend it unreservedly."--cyrus townsend brady.
'tilda jane's orphans. a sequel to "'tilda jane." by marshall saunders.
'tilda jane is the same original, delightful girl, and as fond of her animal pets as ever.
the story of the graveleys. by marshall saunders, author of "beautiful joe's paradise," "'tilda jane," etc.
here we have the haps and mishaps, the trials and triumphs, of a delightful new england family, of whose devotion and sturdiness it will do the reader good to hear.
born to the blue. by florence kimball russel.
the atmosphere of army life on the plains breathes on every page of this delightful tale. the boy is the son of a captain of u. s. cavalry stationed at a frontier post in the days when our regulars earned the gratitude of a nation.
in west point gray
by florence kimball russel.
"singularly enough one of the best books of the year for boys is written by a woman and deals with life at west point. the presentment of life in the famous military academy whence so many heroes have graduated is realistic and enjoyable."--new york sun.
the sandman: his farm stories
by william j. hopkins. with fifty illustrations by ada clendenin williamson.
"an amusing, original book, written for the benefit of very small children. it should be one of the most popular of the year's books for reading to small children."--buffalo express.
the sandman: more farm stories
by william j. hopkins.
mr. hopkins's first essay at bedtime stories met with such approval that this second book of "sandman" tales was issued for scores of eager children. life on the farm, and out-of-doors, is portrayed in his inimitable manner.
the sandman: his ship stories
by william j. hopkins, author of "the sandman: his farm stories," etc.
"children call for these stories over and over again."--chicago evening post.
the sandman: his sea stories
by william j. hopkins.
each year adds to the popularity of this unique series of stories to be read to the little ones at bed time and at other times.
a texas blue bonnet
by emilia elliott.
this is the story of a warm-hearted, impulsive and breezy girl of the southwest, who has lived all her life on a big ranch. she comes to the far east for a long visit, and her experiences "up north" are indeed delightful reading. blue bonnet is sure to win the hearts of all girl readers.
the doctor's little girl
by marion ames taggart, author of "pussy-cat town," etc.
a thoroughly enjoyable tale of a little girl and her comrade father, written in a delightful vein of sympathetic comprehension of the child's point of view.
the further adventures of the doctor's little girl. by marion ames taggart.
in the new book, the author tells how nancy becomes in fact "the doctor's assistant," and continues to shed happiness around her.
a story of the san gabriel mission. by frances margaret fox.
"it is a pleasure to recommend this little story as an entertaining contribution to juvenile literature."--the new york sun.
the seven christmas candles
by frances margaret fox.
miss fox's new book deals with the fortunes of the delightful mulvaney children.
seven little wise men
by frances margaret fox.
in this new story miss fox relates how seven little children, who lived in sunny california, prepared for the great christmas festival.
by marion ames taggart.
"anything more interesting than the doings of the cats in this story, their humor, their wisdom, their patriotism, would be hard to imagine."--chicago post.
the roses of saint elizabeth
by jane scott woodruff.
this is a charming little story of a child whose father was caretaker of the great castle of the wartburg.
gabriel and the hour book
by evaleen stein.
gabriel was a loving, patient, little french lad, who assisted the monks in the long ago days, when all the books were written and illuminated by hand, in the monasteries.
a little shepherd of provence
by evaleen stein.
this is the story of little lame jean, a goatherd of provence, and of the "golden goat" who is supposed to guard a hidden treasure.
the enchanted automobile
translated from the french by mary j. safford.
"an up-to-date french fairy-tale which fairly radiates the spirit of the hour,--unceasing diligence."--chicago record-herald.
the story of a japanese girl. by helen eggleston haskell.
"the story comes straight from the heart of japan. from every page breathes the fragrance of tea leaves, cherry blossoms and chrysanthemums."--the chicago inter-ocean.
the young section-hand; or, the adventures of allan west. by burton e. stevenson.
mr. stevenson's hero is a manly lad of sixteen, who is given a chance as a section-hand on a big western railroad, and whose experiences are as real as they are thrilling.
the young train dispatcher. by burton e. stevenson.
"a better book for boys has never left an american press."--springfield union.
the young train master. by burton e. stevenson.
"nothing better in the way of a book of adventure for boys in which the actualities of life are set forth in a practical way could be devised or written."--boston herald.
captain jack lorimer. by winn standish.
jack is a fine example of the all-around american high-school boy.
jack lorimer's champions; or, sports on land and lake. by winn standish.
"it is exactly the sort of book to give a boy interested in athletics, for it shows him what it means to always 'play fair.'"--chicago tribune.
full of just the kind of fun, sports and adventure to excite the healthy minded youngster to emulation.
jack lorimer's substitute; or, the acting captain of the team. by winn standish.
on the sporting side, this book takes up football, wrestling, tobogganing, but it is more of a school story perhaps than any of its predecessors.
the red feathers. by theodore roberts.
"the red feathers" tells of the remarkable adventures of an indian boy who lived in the stone age, many years ago, when the world was young.
flying plover. by theodore roberts.
squat-by-the-fire is a very old and wise indian who lives alone with her grandson, "flying plover," to whom she tells the stories each evening.
comrades of the trails. by g. e. theodore roberts.
the story of a fearless young english lad, dick ramsey, who, after the death of his father, crosses the seas and takes up the life of a hunter and trapper in the canadian forests.
little white indians. by fannie e. ostrander.
"a bright, interesting story which will appeal strongly to the 'make-believe' instinct in children, and will give them a healthy, active interest in 'the simple life.'"
the boy who won by fannie e. ostrander, author of "little white indians."
a companion volume to "little white indians" continuing the adventures of the different "tribes," whose "doings" were so interestingly told in the earlier volume.
this is a splendid boy's story of the expedition of montgomery and arnold against quebec.
punctuation errors were corrected without note.
page 70, "guimãraes" changed to "guimarães" (to guimarães, where there)
page 89, "a" changed to "á" changed to (á deus!)
page a-4, subtitle of "prisoners of fortune" small-capped to match rest of usage in text.
the golden book of the dutch navigators
hendrik willem van loon
illustrated with seventy reproductions of old prints
copyright, 1916, by the century co.
for hansje and willem
this is a story of magnificent failures. the men who equipped the expeditions of which i shall tell you the story died in the poorhouse. the men who took part in these voyages sacrificed their lives as cheerfully as they lighted a new pipe or opened a fresh bottle. some of them were drowned, and some of them died of thirst. a few were frozen to death, and many were killed by the heat of the scorching sun. the bad supplies furnished by lying contractors buried many of them beneath the green cocoanut-trees of distant lands. others were speared by cannibals and provided a feast for the hungry tribes of the pacific islands.
but what of it? it was all in the day's work. these excellent fellows took whatever came, be it good or bad, or indifferent, with perfect grace, and kept on smiling. they kept their powder dry, did whatever their hands found to do, and left the rest to the care of that mysterious providence who probably knew more about the ultimate good of things than they did.
i want you to know about these men because they were your ancestors. if you have inherited any of their good qualities, make the best of them; they will prove to be worth while. if you have got your share of their bad ones, fight these as hard as you can; for they will lead you a merry chase before you get through.
whatever you do, remember one lesson: "keep on smiling."
hendrik willem van loon.
cornell university, ithaca, new york. february 29, 1916.
the history of america is the story of the conquest of the west. the history of holland is the story of the conquest of the sea. the western frontier influenced american life, shaped american thought, and gave america the habits of self-reliance and independence of action which differentiate the people of the great republic from those of other countries.
the wide ocean, the wind-swept highroad of commerce, turned a small mud-bank along the north sea into a mighty commonwealth and created a civilization of such individual character that it has managed to maintain its personal traits against the aggressions of both time and man.
when we discuss the events of american history we place our scene upon a stage which has an immense background of wide prairie and high mountain. in this vast and dim territory there is always room for another man of force and energy, and society is a rudimentary bond between free and sovereign human beings, unrestricted by any previous tradition or ordinance. hence we study the accounts of a peculiar race which has grown up under conditions of complete independence and which relies upon its own endeavors to accomplish those things which it has set out to do.
the virtues of the system are as evident as its faults. we know that this development is almost unique in the annals of the human race. we know that it will disappear as soon as the west shall have been entirely conquered. we also know that the habits of mind which have been created during the age of the pioneer will survive the rapidly changing physical conditions by many centuries. for this reason those of us who write american history long after the disappearance of the typical west must still pay due reverence to the influence of the old primitive days when man was his own master and trusted no one but god and his own strong arm.
the history of the dutch people during the last five centuries shows a very close analogy. the american who did not like his fate at home went "west." the hollander who decided that he would be happier outside of the town limits of his native city went "to sea," as the expression was. he always had a chance to ship as a cabin-boy, just as his american successor could pull up stakes at a moment's notice to try his luck in the next county. neither of the two knew exactly what they might find at the end of their voyage of adventure. good luck, bad luck, middling luck, it made no difference. it meant a change, and most frequently it meant a change for the better. best of all, even if one had no desire to migrate, but, on the other hand, was quite contented to stay at home and be buried in the family vault of his ancestral estate, he knew at all times that he was free to leave just as soon as the spirit moved him.
remember this when you read dutch history. it is an item of grave importance. it was always in the mind of the mighty potentate who happened to be the ruler and tax-gatherer of the country. he might not be willing to acknowledge it, he might even deny it in vehement documents of state, but in the end he was obliged to regulate his conduct toward his subjects with due respect for and reference to their wonderful chance of escape. the middle ages had a saying that "city air makes free." in the low countries we find a wonderful combination of city air and the salt breezes of the ocean. it created a veritable atmosphere of liberty, and not only the liberty of political activity, but freedom of thought and independence in all the thousand and one different little things which go to make up the complicated machinery of human civilization. wherever a man went in the country there was the high sky of the coastal region, and there were the canals which would carry his small vessel to the main roads of trade and ultimate prosperity. the sea reached up to his very front door. it supported him in his struggle for a living, and it was his best ally in his fight for independence. half of his family and friends lived on and by and of the sea. the nautical terms of the forecastle became the language of his land. his house reminded the foreign visitor of a ship's cabin.
and finally his state became a large naval commonwealth, with a number of ship-owners as a board of directors and a foreign policy dictated by the need of the oversea commerce. we do not care to go into the details of this interesting question. it is our purpose to draw attention to this one great and important fact upon which the entire economic, social, intellectual, and artistic structure of dutch society was based. for this purpose we have reprinted in a short and concise form the work of our earliest pioneers of the ocean. they broke through the narrow bonds of their restricted medieval world. in plain american terms, "they were the first to cross the alleghanies."
they ushered in the great period of conquest of west and east and south and north. they built their empire wherever the water of the ocean would carry them. they laid the foundations for a greatness which centuries of subsequent neglect have not been able to destroy, and which the present generation may triumphantly win back if it is worthy to continue its existence as an independent nation.
the golden book of the dutch navigators
jan huygen van linschoten
it was the year of our lord 1579, and the eleventh of the glorious revolution of holland against spain. brielle had been taken by a handful of hungry sea-beggars. haarlem and naarden had been murdered out by a horde of infuriated spanish regulars. alkmaar--little alkmaar, hidden behind lakes, canals, open fields with low willows and marshes--had been besieged, had turned the welcome waters of the zuyder zee upon the enemy, and had driven the enemy away. alva, the man of iron who was to destroy this people of butter between his steel gloves, had left the stage of his unsavory operations in disgrace. the butter had dribbled away between his fingers. another spanish governor had appeared. another failure. then a third one. him the climate and the brilliant days of his youth had killed.
but in the heart of holland, william, of the house of nassau, heir to the rich princes of orange, destined to be known as the silent, the cunning one--this same william, broken in health, broken in money, but high of courage, marshaled his forces and, with the despair of a last chance, made ready to clear his adopted country of the hated foreign domination.
everywhere in the little terrestrial triangle of this newest of republics there was the activity of men who had just escaped destruction by the narrowest of margins. they had faith in their own destiny. any one who can go through an open rebellion against the mightiest of monarchs and come out successfully deserves the commendation of the almighty. the hollanders had succeeded. their harbors, the lungs of the country, were free once more, and could breathe the fresh air of the open sea and of commercial prosperity.
on the land the spaniard still held his own, but on the water the hollander was master of the situation. the ocean, which had made his country what it was, which had built the marshes upon which he lived, which provided the highway across which he brought home his riches, was open to his enterprise.
he must go out in search of further adventure. thus far he had been the common carrier of europe. his ships had brought the grain from the rich baltic provinces to the hungry waste of spain. his fishermen had supplied the fasting table of catholic humanity with the delicacy of pickled herring. from venice and later on from lisbon he had carried the products of the orient to the farthest corners of the scandinavian peninsula. it was time for him to expand.
the rôle of middleman is a good rôle for modest and humble folk who make a decent living by taking a few pennies here and collecting a few pennies there, but the chosen people of god must follow their destiny upon the broad highway of international commerce wherever they can. therefore the hollander must go to india.
it was easily said. but how was one to get there?
jan huygen van linschoten was born in the year 1563 in the town of haarlem. as a small boy he was taken to enkhuizen. at the present time enkhuizen is hardly more than a country village. three hundred years ago it was a big town with high walls, deep moats, strong towers, and a local board of aldermen who knew how to make the people keep the laws and fear god. it had several churches where the doctrines of the great master johannes calvinus were taught with precision and without omitting a single piece of brimstone or extinguishing a single flame of an ever-gaping hell. it had orphan asylums and hospitals. it had a fine jail, and a school with a horny-handed tyrant who taught the a b c's and the principles of immediate obedience with due reference to that delightful text about the spoiled child and the twigs of a birch-tree.
outside of the city, when once you had passed the gallows with its rattling chains and aggressive ravens, there were miles and miles of green pasture. but upon one side there was the blue water of the quiet zuyder zee. here small vessels could approach the welcome harbor, lined on both sides with gabled storehouses. it is true that when the tide was very low the harbor looked like a big muddy trough. but these flat-bottomed contraptions rested upon the mud with ease and comfort, and the next tide would again lift them up, ready for farther peregrinations. over the entire scene there hung the air of prosperity. a restless energy was in the air. on all sides there was evidence of the gospel of enterprise. it was this enterprise that collected the money to build the ships. it was this enterprise, combined with nautical cunning, that pushed these vessels to the ends of the european continent in quest of freight and trade. it was this enterprise that turned the accumulating riches into fine mansions and good pictures, and gave a first-class education to all boys and girls. it walked proudly along the broad streets where the best families lived. it stalked cheerfully through the narrow alleys when the sailor came back to his wife and children. it followed the merchant into his counting-room, and it played with the little boys who frequented the quays and grew up in a blissful atmosphere of tallow, tar, gin, spices, dried fish, and fantastic tales of foreign adventure.
and it played the very mischief with our young hero. for when jan huygen was sixteen years old, and had learned his three r's--reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic--he shipped as a cabin-boy to spain, and said farewell to his native country, to return after many years as the missing link in the chain of commercial explorations--the one and only man who knew the road to india.
here the industrious reader interrupts me. how could this boy go to spain when his country was at war with its master, king philip? indeed, this statement needs an explanation.
economic necessity conquered religious prejudice. the ports of king philip's domain once more were opened to the grain-ships of the hollanders and remained open until the end of the war. the dutch trader never bothered about the outward form of things provided he got his profits. he knew how to take a hint. therefore, when he came to a spanish port, he hoisted the danish flag or sailed under the colors of hamburg and bremen. there still was the difficulty of the language, but the spaniard was made to understand that this guttural combination of sounds represented diverse scandinavian tongues. the tactful custom-officers of his most catholic majesty let it go at that, and cheerfully welcomed these heretics without whom they could not have fed their own people.
on the whole the printed work of jan huygen does not show him as an admirer of the portuguese or their system of navigation. in all his writing he gives us the impression of a very sober-minded young hollander with a lot of common sense. portugal had then been a colonial power for many years and showed unmistakable signs of deterioration. the people had been too prosperous. they were no longer willing to defend their own interests against other and younger nations. they still exercised their indian monopoly because it had been theirs for so long a time that no one remembered anything to the contrary. but the end of things had come. upon every page of jan huygen's book we find the same evidence of bad organization, little jealousies, spite, disobedience, cowardice, and lack of concerted action.
when only a few weeks from home this fleet of forty ships encountered a single small french vessel. part of the portuguese crew of the fleet was sick. the others made ready to flee at once. after a few hours it was seen that the frenchman had no evil intentions, and continued his way without a closer inspection of his enemies. then peace returned to the fleet of fonseca.
a few days later the ship reached the equator. the customary initiation of the new sailors, followed by the usual festivities and a first-class drunken row, took place. the captain was run down and trampled upon by his men, tables and chairs were upset, and the crew fought one another with knives. this quarrel might have ended in a general murder but for the interference of the archbishop, who threw himself among the crazy sailors, and with a threat of excommunication drove them back to work. half a dozen were locked up, others were whipped, and the ships continued their voyage in this happy-go-lucky fashion. then it appeared that nobody knew exactly where they were. observations finally showed that the fleet was still fifty miles west of the cape of good hope. as a matter of fact, they had passed the cape several days before, but did not discover their error until a week later. then they sailed northward until they reached mozambique, where they spent two weeks in order to give the crew a rest and to repair the damages of the equatorial fight. on the twentieth of august they continued their voyage until the serpents which they saw in the water showed them that they were approaching the coast of india. from that time on luck was with the expedition. the ships reached the coast near the town of destination. after a remarkably short passage of only five months and thirteen days the fleet landed safely in goa.
the next five years jan huygen spent in goa with his ecclesiastical master. he was intrusted with a great deal of confidential work, and became thoroughly familiar with all the affairs of the colony. in goa he heard wonderful tales about the great chinese empire, many weeks to the north. he began to collect maps for an expedition to that distant land, but lack of funds made him put it off, and he never went far beyond the confines of the small portuguese settlement.
unfortunately, at the end of five years the archbishop died, and jan huygen was without a job. as he had had news that his father had died, he now decided to go back to enkhuizen to see what he could do for his mother. accordingly, in january of the year 1589, he sailed for home on board the good ship santa maria. it was the same old story of bad management: the ships of the return fleet were all loaded too heavily. the handling of the cargo was left entirely to ship-brokers, and these worthies had developed a noble system of graft. merchandise was loaded according to a regular tariff of bribes. if you were willing to pay enough, your goods went neatly into the hold. if you did not give a certain percentage to the brokers, your bags and bales were stowed away somewhere on a corner of a wharf exposed to the rain and the sea. very likely, too, the first storm would wash your valuable possessions overboard.
when the santa maria left, her decks were stacked high with disorderly masses of colonial products. the sailors on duty had to make a path through this accumulated stuff, and the captain lacked the authority to put his own ship in order. a few days out a cabin-boy fell overboard. the sea was quiet, and it would have been possible to save the child, but when the crew ran for a boat, it was found to be filled with heavy boxes. by the time the boat was at last lowered the boy had drowned.
the santa maria sailed direct for the cape. there it fell in with another vessel called the san thome, and it now became a matter of pride which ship could round the cape first. severe western winds made the santa maria wait several days. the san thome, however, ventured forth to brave the gale. when finally the storm had abated and the santa maria had reached the atlantic ocean, the bodies and pieces of wreckage which floated upon the water told what had happened to the other vessel. this, however, was only the beginning of trouble. on the fifth of march the santa maria was almost lost. her rudder broke, and it could not be repaired. a storm, accompanied by a tropical display of thunder and lightning, broke loose. for more than forty-eight hours the ship was at the mercy of the waves. the crew spent the time on deck absorbed in prayer. when little electric flames began to appear upon the masts and yards (the so-called st. elmo's fire, a spooky phenomenon to all sailors of all times), they felt sure that the end of the world had come. the captain commanded all his men to pray the "salvo corpo sancto," and this was done with great demonstrations of fervor. the celestial fireworks, however, did not abate. on the contrary the crew witnessed the appearance of a five-pointed crown, which showed itself upon the mainmast, and was hailed with cries of the "crown of the holy virgin." after this final electric display the storm went on its way.
in his sober fashion jan huygen had looked on. he did not take much stock in this sudden piety, and called it "a lot of useless noise." then he watched the men repairing the rudder. it was discovered that there was no anvil on board the ship, and a gun was used as an anvil. a pair of bellows was improvised out of some old skins. with this contrivance some sort of steering-gear was finally rigged up, and the voyage was continued. after that, except for occasional and very sudden squalls, when all the sails had to be lowered to save them from being blown to pieces, the santa maria was past her greatest danger, though the heavy seas caused by a prolonged storm proved to be another obstacle. no further progress was possible until the ship had been lightened. for this purpose the large boat and all its valuable contents were simply thrown overboard.
the recital of jan huygen's trip is a long epic of bungling. the captain did not know his job; the officers were incompetent; the men were unruly and ready to mutiny at the slightest provocation; and everybody blamed everybody else for everything that went wrong. the captain, in the last instance, accused the good lord, who "would not allow his own faithful people to pass the cape of good hope with their strong and mighty ships," while making the voyage an easy one for "the blasphemous english heretics with their little insignificant schooners." in this statement there was more wisdom than the captain suspected. the english sailors knew their business and could afford to take risks. the portuguese sailors of that day hastened from one coastline and from one island to the next, as they had done a century before. as long as they were on the high seas they were unhappy. they returned to life when they were in port. every time the santa maria passed a few days in some harbor we get a recital of the joys of that particular bit of paradise. if we are to believe portuguese tradition, st. helena, where the ship passed a week of the month of may of the year 1589, was placed in its exact geographical position by the almighty to serve his faithful children as a welcome resting-point upon their perilous voyage to the far indies. the island was full of goats, wild pigs, chickens, partridges, and thousands of pigeons, all of which creatures allowed themselves to be killed with the utmost ease, and furnished food for generations of sailors who visited those shores.
on the twenty-first of may the santa maria continued her northward course. again bad food and bad water caused illness among the men. a score of them died. often they hid themselves somewhere in the hold, and had been dead for several days before they made their presence noticeable. it was miserable business; and now, with a ship of sick and disabled men, the santa maria was doomed to fall in with three small british vessels. at once there was a panic among the portuguese sailors. the british hoisted their pennant, and opened with a salvo of guns. the portuguese fled below decks, and the english, in sport, shot the sails to pieces. the crew of the santa maria tried to load their heavy cannon, but there was such a mass of howling and swearing humanity around the guns that it took hours before anything could be done. the ships were then very near one another, and the british sailors could be heard jeering at the cowardice of their prey. but just when jan huygen thought the end had come the british squadron veered around and disappeared. the santa maria then reached terceira in the azores without further molestation.
like all other truthful chroniclers of his day, jan huygen speculates about the mysterious island of st. brandon. this blessed isle was supposed to be situated somewhere between the azores and the canary islands, but nearer to the canaries. as late as 1721 expeditions were fitted out to search for the famous spot upon which the irish abbot of the sixth century had located the promised land of the saints. together with the recital of another mysterious bit of land consisting of the back of a gigantic fish, this story had been duly chronicled by a succession of irish monks, and when jan huygen visited these regions he was told of these strange islands far out in the ocean where the first travelers had discovered a large and prosperous colony of christians who spoke an unknown language and whose city could disappear beneath the surface of the ocean if an enemy approached.
once in the roads of terceira, however, there was little time for theological investigations. rumor had it that a large number of british ships were in the immediate neighborhood. strict orders had come from lisbon that all portuguese and spanish ships must stay in port under protection of the guns of the fortifications. just a year before that the armada had started out for the conquest of england and the low countries. the invincible armada had been destroyed by the lord, the british, and the dutch. now the tables had been turned, and the dutch and british vessels were attacking the spanish and portuguese colonies. the story of inefficient navigation is here supplemented by a recital of bad military management. the roads of terceira were very dangerous. in ordinary times no ships were allowed to anchor there. a very large number of vessels were now huddled together in too small a space. these vessels were poorly manned, for the portuguese sailors, whenever they arrived in port, went ashore and left the care of their ship to a few cabin-boys and black slaves. the unexpected happened; during the night of the fourth of august a violent storm swept over the roads. the ships were thrown together with such violence that a large number were sunk. in the town the bells were rung, and the sailors ran to the shore. they could do nothing but look on and see how their valuable ships were driven together and broken to splinters, while pieces of the cargo were washed all over the shore, to be stolen by the inhabitants of the greedy little town. when morning came, the shore was littered with silk, golden coin, china, and bales of spices. fortunately the wind changed later in the morning, and a good deal of the cargo was salved. but once on shore it was immediately confiscated by officials from the custom-house, who claimed it for the benefit of the royal treasury. then there followed a first-class row between the officials and the owners of the goods, who cursed their own government quite as cheerfully as they had done their enemies a few days before.
to make a long story short, after a lawsuit of two years and a half the crown at last returned fifty per cent. of the goods to the merchants. the other half was retained for customs duty. jan huygen, who was an honest man, was asked to remain on the island and look after the interests of the owners while they themselves went to lisbon to plead their cause before the courts. he now had occasion to study portuguese management in one of the oldest of their colonies. the principles of hard common sense which were to distinguish dutch and british methods of colonizing were entirely absent. their place was taken by a complicated system of theological explanations. the disaster that befell these islands was invariably due to divine providence. the local authorities were always up against an "act of god." while jan huygen was in terceira the colony was at the mercy of the british. the privateers waited for all the ships that returned from south america and the indies, and intercepted these rich cargoes in sight of the portuguese fortifications. when the englishmen needed fresh meat they stole goats from the little islands situated in the roads. finally, after almost an entire year, a spanish-portuguese fleet of more than thirty large ships was sent out to protect the traders. in a fight with the squadron of admiral howard the ship of his vice-admiral, grenville, was sunk. the vice-admiral himself, mortally wounded, was made a prisoner and brought on board a spanish man-of-war. there he died. his body was thrown overboard without further ceremonies.
at once, so the story ran, a violent storm had broken loose. this storm lasted a week. it came suddenly, and when the wind fell only thirty ships were left out of a total of one hundred and forty that had been in the harbors of the islands. the damage was so great that the loss of the armada itself seemed insignificant. of course it was all the fault of the good lord. he had deserted his own people and had gone over to the side of the heretics. he had sent this hurricane to punish the unceremonious way in which dead grenville had been thrown into the ocean. and of course this unbelieving britisher himself had at once descended into hades, had called upon all the servants of the black demon to help him, and had urged this revenge. evidently the thing worked both ways.
this clever argument did not in the least help the unfortunate owners of the shipwrecked merchandise. one fine day they were informed that they could no longer expect royal protection for the future. jan huygen was told to come to lisbon as best he could. he finally found a ship, and after an absence of nine years returned to lisbon. on his trip to holland he was almost killed in a collision. finally, within sight of his native land, he was nearly wrecked on the banks of one of the north sea islands. on the third of september of the year 1592, however, after an absence of thirteen years, he returned safely to enkhuizen. his mother, brother, and sisters were there to welcome him.
he did not at once rush into print. it was not necessary. the news of his return spread quickly to the offices of the amsterdam merchants. they had been very active during the last dozen years and they had conducted an efficient secret organization in portugal, trying to buy up maps and books of navigation and, perhaps, even a pilot or two. they knew a few things, and guessed at many others. a man who had actually been there, who knew concrete facts where other people suspected, such a man was worth while. jan huygen became consulting pilot to dutch capital.
the dutch merchants still found themselves in a very difficult position. they had to enter this field of activity when their predecessors had been at work for almost two centuries. these predecessors, judging by outward evidences, were fast losing both ability and energy. but prestige before an old and well-established name is a strong influence in the calculations of men. those who directed the new dutch republic did not lack courage. all the same, they shrank from open and direct competition with the mighty spanish empire. besides, there were other considerations of a more practical nature.
the middle ages, both late and early, dearly loved monopoly. indeed, the entire period between the days of the old roman empire and the latter part of the eighteenth century, when the french revolution destroyed the old system, was a time of monopolies or of quarrels about, and for, monopolies. the dutch traders wondered whether they could not obtain a little private route to india, something that should be dutch all along the line, and could be closed at will to all outsiders. what about the northeastern passage? there seem to have been vague rumors about a water route along the north of siberia. that part of the map was but little known. the knowledge of russia had improved since the days when moscow was situated upon the exact spot where the ocean between iceland and norway is deepest. the white sea was fairly well known, and dutch traders had found their way to the russian port of archangel. what lay beyond the white sea was a matter of conjecture. whether the caspian sea, like the white sea, was part of the arctic sea or part of the indian ocean no one knew. but it appeared that farther to the north, several days beyond the north cape, there was a narrow strait between an island which the russians called the new island (nova zembla) and the continent of asia. this might prove to be a shorter and less dangerous route to china and the indies. furthermore, by building fortifications on both sides of the narrows between the island and the siberian coast, the hollanders would be the sole owners of the most exclusive route to india. they could then leave the long and tedious trip around the cape of good hope, with its perils of storms, scurvy, royal and inquisitorial dungeons, savage negroes, and several other unpleasant incidents, to their esteemed enemies.
de moucheron, one of this large group which had been expelled, had begun life anew in the free republic and was soon among the greatest promoters of his day. of tireless energy and of a very bitter ambition, none too kindly to the leading business men of his adopted country, he got hold of jan huygen and decided to try his luck in a great gamble. he interested several of the minor capitalists of enkhuizen, and on the fifth of june of the year 1594 jan huygen went upon his first polar exploration with two ships, the mercurius and the lwaan. without adventure the ships passed the north cape, sailed along the coast of the kola peninsula, where willoughby had wintered just forty years before, and reached the straits of waigat, the prospective gibraltar of dutch aspirations. the conditions of the ice were favorable.
on the first of august of the year 1594 the two ships entered the kara sea, which they called the new north sea. then following the coast, they entered kara bay. after a few days jan huygen discovered the small kara river, the present frontier between russia and siberia. he mistook it for the obi river, and thought that he had gone sufficiently eastward to be certain of the practicability of the new route which he had set out to discover. the ice had all melted. as far as he could see there was open water. he cruised about in this region for several weeks, discovered a number of little islands, and sprinkled the names of all his friends and his employers upon capes and rivers and mountains. finally, contented with what had been accomplished, he returned home. on the sixteenth of september of the same year he came back to the roads of texel.
after that he was regarded as the leader in all matters of navigation. the stadholder, prince maurice, who had succeeded his father william after the latter had been murdered by one of king philip's gunmen, sent for jan huygen to come to the hague and report in person upon his discoveries. john of barneveldt, the clever manager of all the financial and political interests of the republic, discussed with him the possibility of a successful northeastern trading company. before another year was over jan huygen, this time at the head of a fleet of seven ships, was sent northward for a second voyage. everybody, from his highness the stadholder down to the speculator who had risked his last pennies, had the greatest expectations. nothing came of this expedition. as a matter of fact, jan huygen had met with exceptionally favorable weather conditions upon his first voyage; on the second he came in for the customary storms and blizzards. his ships were frozen in the ice, and for weeks they could not move. scurvy attacked the crew and many men died.
in october of the same year he was back in holland. the only result of the costly expedition was a dead whale that the captain had towed home as an exhibit of his good intentions. he was still a young man, not more than forty-five, but he had had his share of adventures. he did not join the third trip to the north in the next year, about which we shall give a detailed account in our next chapter. he was appointed treasurer of his native city. there he lived as its most respected citizen until the year 1611, when he died and was buried with great solemnity. his work had been done.
in the year 1595 the "itinerary of his voyage to the east indies" had been published. by this book he will always be remembered. for a century it provided a practical handbook of navigation which guided the dutch traders to the indies, allowed them to attack the spaniards and portuguese in their most vulnerable spot, and gave them the opportunity to found a colonial empire which has lasted to this very day.
the northeast passage
amsterdam, the capital of the new dutch commonwealth, the rich city which alone counted more people within her wide walls than all of the country provinces put together, had ever been the leader in all matters which offered the chance of an honest penny. her intellectual glory was a reflected one, her artistic fame was imported from elsewhere; but her exchange dictated its own terms to the rest of the country and to the rest of the world. when the estates of the republic gave up the hope of finding the route to india through the frozen arctic ocean, amsterdam had the courage of her nautical convictions, and at her own expense she equipped a last expedition to proceed northward and discover this famous route, which had the advantage of being short and safe.
out of this expedition grew the famous voyage of barendsz and heemskerk to nova zembla, the first polar expedition of which we possess a precise account. there were two ships. they were small vessels, for no one wished to risk a large investment on an expedition to the dangerous region of ice and snow. fewer than fifty men took part, and all had been selected with great care. married men were not taken; for this expedition might last many years, and it must not be spoiled by the homesick discontent of fathers of families.
jan corneliszoon de ryp was captain of the smaller vessel. the other one was commanded by jacob van heemskerk, a remarkable man, an able sailor who belonged to an excellent family and entered the merchant marine at a time when the sea was reserved for those who left shore for the benefit of civic peace and sobriety. he had enjoyed a good education, knew something about scientific matters, and had been in the arctic a year before with the last and unfortunate expedition of linschoten. the real leader of this expedition, however, was a very simple fellow, a pilot by the name of willem, the son of barend (barendsz, as it is written in dutch). he was born on the island of terschelling and had been familiar with winds and tides since early childhood. barendsz had two northern expeditions to his credit, and had seen as much of the coast of siberia as anybody in the country. a man of great resource and personal courage, combined with a weird ability to guess his approximate whereabouts, he guided the expedition safely through its worst perils. he died in a small open boat in the arctic sea. without his devoted services none of the men who were with him would ever have seen his country again.
there was one other member of the ship's staff who must be mentioned before the story of the trip itself is told. that was the ship's doctor. officially he was known as the ship's barber, for the professions of cutting whiskers and bleeding people were combined in those happy days. de veer was a versatile character. he played the flute, organized amateur theatrical performances, kept everybody happy, and finally he wrote the itinerary of the trip, of which we shall translate the most important part.
from former expeditions the sailors had learned what to take with them and what to leave at home. unfortunately, contractors, then as now, were apt to be scoundrels, and the provisions were not up to the specifications. during the long night of the arctic winter men's lives depended upon the biscuits that had been ordered in amsterdam, and these were found to be lacking in both quality and quantity. there were more complaints of the same nature. as the leaders of the expedition fully expected to reach china, they took a fair-sized cargo of trading material, so that the hollanders might have something to offer the heathen chinee in exchange for the riches of paradise which this distant and mysterious land was said to possess. on the eighteenth of may everything was ready. without any difficulty the arctic circle was soon reached and passed. then the trouble began. when two dutch sailors of great ability and equal stubbornness disagree about points of the compass there is little chance for an agreement. the astronomical instruments of that day allowed certain calculations, but in a rather restricted field. as long as land was near it was possible to sail with a certain degree of precision, but when they were far away from any solid indications of charted islands and continent the captains of that day were often completely at a loss as to their exact whereabouts.
the reason why two of the previous expeditions had failed was known: the ships had been driven into a blind alley called the kara sea. in order to avoid a repetition of that occurrence it was deemed necessary to try a more northern course. barendsz, however, wanted to go due northeast, while de ryp favored a course more to the west. for the moment the two captains compromised and stayed together. on the fifth of june the sailor on watch in the crow's-nest called out that he saw a lot of swans. the swans were soon found to be ice, the first that was seen that year.
four days later a new island was discovered. barendsz thought it must be part of greenland. after all, he argued, he had been right; the ships had been driven too far westward. de ryp denied this, and his calculation proved to be true. the ships were still far away from greenland. the islands belonged to the spitzbergen archipelago. on the nineteenth of june they discovered spitzbergen. the name (steep mountains) describes the island. an expedition was sent ashore, after which we get the first recital of one of the endless fights with bears that greatly frightened the good people in those days of blunderbusses. nowadays polar bears, while still far removed from harmless kittens, offer no grave danger to modern guns. but the bullets of the small cannon which four centuries ago did service as a rifle refused to penetrate the thick hide of a polar bear. the pictures of de veer's book indicate that these hungry mammals were not destroyed until they had been attacked by half a dozen men with gunpowder, axes, spears, and meat-choppers.
a very interesting discovery was made on this new island. every winter wild geese came to the dutch island of the north sea. four centuries ago they were the subject of vague ornithological speculations, for, according to the best authorities of the day, these geese did not behave like chickens and other fowl, which brought up their families out of a corresponding number of eggs. no, their chicks grew upon regular trees in the form of wild nuts. after a while these nuts tumbled into the sea and then became geese. barendsz killed some of the birds and he also opened their eggs. there were the young chicks! the old myth was destroyed. "but," as he pleasantly remarked, "it is not our fault that we have not known this before, when these birds insist upon breeding so far northward."
on the twenty-fifth of june, spitzbergen was left behind, and once more a dispute broke out between the two skippers over the old question of the course which was to be taken. like good dutchmen, they decided that each should go his own way. de ryp preferred to try his luck farther to the north. barendsz and heemskerk decided to go southward. they said farewell to their comrades, and on the seventeenth of july reached the coast of nova zembla. the coast of the island was still little known; therefore the usual expediency of that day was followed. they kept close to the land and sailed until at last they should find some channel that would allow them to pass through into the next sea. they discovered no channel, but on the sixth of august the northern point of nova zembla, cape nassau, was reached. there was a great deal of ice, but after a few days open water appeared.
the voyage was then continued. their course then seemed easy. following the eastern coast downward they were bound to reach the strait of kara. avoiding the kara sea, they made for the river obi and hoped that all would be well. but before the ship had gone many days the cold weather of winter set in, and before the end of august the ship was solidly frozen into the ice. many attempts were made to dig it out and push it into the open water. the men worked desperately; but the moment they had sawed a channel through the heavy ice to the open sea more ice-fields appeared, and they had to begin all over again. on the thirtieth of august a particularly heavy frost finally lifted the little wooden ship clear out of the ice. then came a few days of thaw, during which they hoped to get the vessel back into shape and into the water. but the next night there was a repetition of the terrible creakings. the ship groaned as if it were in great agony, and all the men rushed on shore.
unfortunately, after two weeks the carpenter of the expedition suddenly died. it was not easy to give him decent christian burial. the ground was frozen so hard that spades and axes could not dig a grave; so the carpenter was reverently laid away in a small hollow cut in the solid ice and covered with snow.
when their house was finished it did not offer many of the comforts of home, but it was a shelter against the ever-increasing cold. the roof offered the greatest difficulty to the inexperienced builders. at last they hit upon a scheme that proved successful: they made a wooden framework across which they stretched one of the ship's sails. this they covered with a layer of sand. then the good lord deposited a thick coat of snow, which gradually froze and finally made an excellent cover for the small wooden cabin which was solemnly baptized "safe haven." there were no windows--fresh air had not yet been invented--and what was the use of windows after the sun had once disappeared? there was one door, and a hole in the roof served as a chimney. to make a better draft for the fire of driftwood which was kept burning day and night in the middle of the cabin floor, a large empty barrel was used for a smoke-stack. even then the room was full of smoke during all the many months of involuntary imprisonment, and upon one occasion the lack of ventilation almost killed the entire expedition.
when the month of november came and the sun had disappeared, the bears also took their departure, rolled themselves up under some comfortable shelter, and went to sleep for the rest of the winter. now the sailors could wander about in peace, for the only other animal that kept awake all through the year was the polar fox. he was a shy beastie and never came near a human being. the sailors, however, hunted him as best they could. not only did they need the skins for their winter garments, but stewed fox tasted remarkably like the domestic rabbit and was an agreeable change from the dreary diet of salt-flesh. in holland before the introduction of firearms rabbits were caught with a net. the same method was tried on nova zembla with the more subtle fox. unfamiliar with the wiles of man, he actually allowed himself to be caught quite easily. later on traps were also built. but the method with the net was more popular, for the men had the greatest aversion to the fresh air of the freezing polar night and never left the house unless they were ordered to do some work. when they went hunting with the net they could pass the string that dropped the mechanism right under the door and stay inside, where it was warm and cheerful, and yet catch their fox.
on the sixth of november the sun was seen for the last time. on the seventh, when it was quite dark, the clock stopped suddenly in the middle of the night, and when the men got up in the morning they had lost the exact time. for the rest of the winter they were obliged to guess at the approximate hour; not that it mattered so very much, for life had become an endless night: one went to bed and got up through the force of habit acquired by thousands of previous generations. if the men had not been obliged to, they never would have left their comfortable beds. they had but one idea, to keep warm. the complaint about the insufferable cold is the main motive in this arctic symphony. lack of regular exercise was chiefly to blame for this "freezing feeling"--lack of exercise and the proper underwear. it is true that the men dressed in many layers of heavy skins, but their lower garments, which nowadays play a great part in the life of modern explorers, were sadly neglected. in the beginning they washed their shirts regularly, but they found it impossible to dry them; for just as soon as the shirt was taken out of the hot water it froze stiff. when they carried the frozen garment into the house to thaw it out before the fire it was either singed and burned in spots or it refused absolutely to melt back into the shape and aspect of a proper shirt. finally the washing was given up, as it has been on many an expedition, for cleanliness is a costly and complicated luxury when one is away from the beaten track of civilization.
all this time, while the men never ceased their complaint about feeling cold, the heating problem had been solved by fires made of such kindling-wood as the thoughtful ocean had carried across from the siberian coast and deposited upon the shore. finally, however, in despair at ever feeling really warm again, if only for a short while, it was decided, as an extra treat, to have a coal fire. there was some coal on board the ship, but it had been saved for use upon the homeward trip in the spring, when the men would be obliged to travel in open boats. the coal was brought to the house. the worst cracks in the walls were carefully filled with tar and rope, and somebody climbed to the roof and closed the chimney; not an ounce of the valuable heat must be lost. as a result the men felt comfortable for the first time in many months; they also came very near losing their lives. having dozed off in the pleasant heat they had not noticed that their cabin was filling with coal-gas until finally some of them, feeling uncomfortable, tried to get up, grew dizzy, and fainted. our friend the barber, possessed of more strength than any of the others, managed to creep to the door. he kicked it open and let in the fresh air. the men were soon revived, and the captain treated them all to a glass of wine to celebrate the happy escape. no further experiments with coal were made during that year.
december was a month of steady blizzards. the snow outside piled up in huge drifts which soon reached to the roof. the hungry foxes, attracted by the smell of cookery wafted abroad through the barrel-chimney, used to gallop across the roof, and at night their dismal and mean little bark kept the men in their bunks awake. at the same time their close proximity made trapping easier, and the skins were now doubly welcome; for the shoes, bought in holland, had been frozen so often and had been thawed out too near the fire so frequently that they were leaking like sieves and could no longer be worn. new shoes were cut out of wood and covered with fox-fur. they provided comfortable, though far from elegant, footwear.
new year's day was a dreary feast, for all the men thought of home and were melancholy and sad. outside a terrible snow-storm raged. it continued for an entire week. no one dared to go outside to gather wood, fearing the wind and cold would kill them. in this extremity they were obliged to burn some of their home-made furniture. on the fifth of january the blizzard stopped. the door was opened, the cabin was put in order, wood was brought from the woodpile, and then one of the men suddenly remembered the date and how at home the feast of the magi was being celebrated with many happy and innocent pastimes. the barber decided to organize a little feast. the first officer was elected to be "king of nova zembla." he was crowned with due solemnity. a special dinner of hot pancakes and rusks soaked in wine was served, and the evening was such a success that many imagined themselves safely home in their beloved fatherland. a new blizzard reminded them that they were still citizens of an arctic island.
on the sixteenth of january, however, the men who had been sent out to look after the traps and bring in wood suddenly noticed a glimmer of red on the horizon. it was a sign of the returning sun. the dreary months of imprisonment were almost over. from that moment the heating problem became less difficult. on the contrary, the roof and the walls now began to leak, and the expedition had its first taste of the thaw which would be even more fatal than the cold weather had proved to be. as has been remarked, these men had been leading a very unhealthy life. while it was still light outside they had sometimes played ball with the wooden knob of the flagpole of the ship, but since early november they had taken no exercise of any sort. a few minutes spent out of doors just long enough to kill the foxes in the traps was all the fresh air they ever got. out of a barrel they had made themselves a bath-tub, and once a week every man in turn had climbed through the little square opening into that barrel (see the picture) to get steamed out. but this mode of living, combined with bad food, brought half a year before from holland, together with the large quantity of fox-meat, now caused a great deal of scurvy, and the scurvy caused more dangerous illness. barendsz, the man upon whom they depended to find the way home, was already so weak that he could not move. he was kept near the fire on a pile of bearskins. on the twenty-sixth of january another man who had been ill for some time suddenly died. his comrades had done all they could to save him. they had cheered him with stories of home, but shortly after midnight of that day he gave up the ghost. early the next morning he was buried near the carpenter. a chapter of the bible was read, a psalm was sung, and his sorrowful companions went home to eat breakfast.
none of the men were quite as strong as they had been. among other things, they hated the eternal bother of keeping the entrance to the door clear of snow. why should they not abolish the door, and like good eskimos enter and leave their dwelling-place through the chimney? heemskerk wanted to try this new scheme and he got ready to push himself through the narrow barrel. at the same time one of the men rushed to the door to go out into the open and welcome the skipper when he should stick his head through the barrel; but before he espied the eminent leader of the expedition he was struck by another sight: the sun had appeared above the horizon. apparently barendsz, who had tried to figure out the day and week of the year after they had lost count of the calendar, had been wrong in his calculation. according to him, there were to be two weeks more of darkness. and now, behold! there was the shining orb, speedily followed by a matutinal bear. the lean animal was at once killed and used to replenish the oil of the odorous little lamp which for more than three months had provided the only light inside the cabin.
the next morning the men went back to their work. regular exercise and fresh air soon gave them greater strength, while the dire warning of heemskerk that, unless they succeeded, they would be obliged to end their days as citizens of nova zembla provided an excellent spur to their digging enthusiasm. the two boats were at last dragged to the house to be repaired. they were in very bad condition, but since there was no further reason for saving the ship there was sufficient wood with which to make good the damage. from early to late the men worked, the only interruptions being the dinner-hour and the visits of the bears. "but," as de veer remarked in his pleasant way, "these animals probably knew that we were to leave very soon, and they wanted to have a taste of us before we should have gone for good." before that happy hour arrived the expedition was threatened with a novel, but painful, visitation. to vary the monotonous diet of bearsteak, the men had fried the liver. three of them had eaten of this dish and fell so ill that all hope was given up of saving their lives. the others, who knew that they could not handle the boats if three more sailors were to die, waited in great anxiety. fortunately on the fourth day the patients showed signs of improvement and finally recovered. there were no further experiments with scrambled bear's liver.
after that the work on the two boats proceeded with speed, and by the twelfth of june everything was ready. the boats, now reinforced for the long trip across the open water of the arctic ocean, had to be hauled to the sea, and the ever-shifting wind had once more put a high ice-bank between the open water and the shore. a channel was cut through the ice with great difficulty, for there were no tools for this work. after two days more the survivors of this memorable shipwreck were ready for the last part of their voyage. before they left the house barendsz wrote three letters in which he recounted the adventures of the expedition. one of these letters was placed in a powder-horn which was left hanging in the chimney, where it was found two hundred and fifty years later.
on the morning of the fourteenth, barendsz and another sick sailor who could no longer walk were carried to the boats. with a favorable wind from the south they set sail for the northern cape of nova zembla, which was soon reached. then they turned westward, and followed the coast until they should reach the siberian continent. the voyage along the coast was both difficult and dangerous. the two boats were not quite as large as the life-boats of a modern liner. being still too weak to row, the men were obliged to sail between huge icebergs, often being caught for hours in the midst of large ice-fields. sometimes they had to drag the boats upon the ice while they hacked a channel to open water. after a week the condition of the ice forced them to pull the boats on shore and wait for several days before they could go any farther. great and tender care was taken of the sick pilot and the dying sailor, but those nights spent in the open were hard on the sufferers. on the morning of the twentieth of june the sailor, whose name was claes andriesz, felt that his end was near. barendsz, too, said he feared that he would not last much longer. his active mind kept at work until the last. de veer, the barber, had drawn a map of the coast, and barendsz offered suggestions. capes and small islands off the coast were definitely located, placed in their correct geographical positions, and baptized with sound dutch names.
the end of barendsz came very suddenly. without a word of warning he turned his eyes toward heaven, sighed, and fell back dead. a few hours later he was followed by the faithful claes. they were buried together. sad at heart, the survivors now risked their lives upon the open sea. they had all the adventures not uncommon to such an expedition. the boats were in a rotten condition; several times the masts broke, and most of the time the smaller boat was half full of water. the moment they reached land and tried to get some rest, there was a general attack by wild bears. and once a sudden break in a field of ice separated the boats from the provisions, which had just been unloaded. in their attempt to get these back several men broke through the ice. they caught cold, and on the fifth of july another sailor, a relative of claes, who had died with barendsz, had to be buried on shore.
during all this misery we read of a fine example of faithful performance of duty and of devotion to the interest of one's employers. you will remember that this expedition had been sent out to reach china by the northeast passage and to establish commercial relations with the merchants of the great heathen kingdom. for this purpose rich velvets and other materials agreeable to the eyes of chinamen had been loaded onto the ship when they left amsterdam. heemskerk felt it his duty to save these goods, and he had managed to keep them in safety. now that the sun shone with some warmth, the packages were opened and their contents dried. when heemskerk came back to amsterdam the materials were returned to their owners in good condition.
on the eleventh of june of the year 1597 the boats were approaching the spot where upon previous voyages large colonies of geese had been found. they went ashore and found so many eggs that they did not know how to take them all back to the boats. so two men took down their breeches, tied the lower part together with a piece of string, filled them with eggs, and carried their loot in triumph back to the others on board.
that was almost their last adventure with polar fauna, except for an attack by infuriated seals whose quiet they had disturbed. the seals almost upset one of the boats. the men had no further difficulties, however. on the contrary, from now on everything was plain sailing; and it actually seemed to them that the good lord himself had taken pity upon them after their long and patient suffering, for whenever they came to a large ice-field it would suddenly separate and make a clear channel for their boats; and when they were hungry they found that the small islands were covered with birds that were so tame that they waited to be caught and killed.
at last, on the twenty-seventh of july, they arrived in open water where they discovered a strong eastern current. they decided that they must be near kara strait. the next morning they hoped to find out for certain. when the next morning came they suddenly beheld two strange vessels near their own boats. they were fishing-smacks, to judge by their shape and size, but nothing was known about their nationality, for they flew no flags, and it was well to be careful in the year of grace 1597. therefore a careful approach was made. to heemskerk's great joy, the ships were manned by russians who had seen the fleet of linschoten several years before and remembered some of the hollanders. there were familiar faces on both sides, and this first glimpse of human beings did more to revive the courage of the men than the doubtful food which the russians forced with great hospitality upon their unexpected guests. the following day the two fishing-boats set sail for the west, and heemskerk followed in their wake. but in the afternoon they sailed into a heavy fog and when it lifted no further trace of the russians could be found. once more the two small boats were alone, with lots of water around them and little hope before them.
that virtually ends the adventures of the men who had gone out with barendsz and heemskerk to discover the northeast passage, and who quite involuntarily acted as the first polar explorers. after a few days the boats found each other, and together they reached the first russian settlement, where they found houses and warm rooms and a chance to get a decent bath and eat from a table. their misery was at once forgotten. at heart they were healthy-minded, simple fellows, and when for the first time after many months they saw some women they were quite happy, although these women were laplanders and proverbially lacking in those attributes which we usually connect with the idea of lovely womanhood.
the tragedy of spitzbergen
before i tell you the story of the first voyage to india i want to give a short account of another dutch expedition in the arctic sea which ended even more sadly than that of heemskerk and barendsz.
on their voyage to nova zembla the two mariners had discovered a group of islands which on account of their high mountains they had called the "islands of the steep peaks," or spitzbergen in the dutch language. these islands provided an excellent center for the whaling fisheries. during the first half of the seventeenth century a large dutch fleet went northward every spring to catch whales. the dead animals were brought to spitzbergen, where the blubber was turned into whale-oil, and the rest of the huge animal was got ready for a market that was not as finicky in its taste as in our own time.
soon a small city was built around the large furnaces and the rooming-houses for the workmen. this town was appropriately called "greaseville" (in dutch, smeerenburg). it consisted of the usual gathering of saloons, eating-places, and small stores, that you might find in a western american town during a mining boom. when the autumn came, the inhabitants moved back to holland and left the city to the tender mercies of the bears and foxes. unfortunately, the owners of this curious and somewhat motley settlement were not always the first to arrive upon the scene in the summer. other sailors, scotch or norwegian, had often visited greaseville before they arrived and either appropriated what they wanted or destroyed what they could not carry away. as early as 1626 a plan was discussed of leaving a guard on the island during the winter. the men could live comfortably in one of the houses and they could support themselves by hunting and fishing. it was not a bad idea, but nova zembla still spooked in people's heads, and nobody wanted to try a winter of darkness and cold such as had been just described by de veer. but in the year 1630 eight english sailors were accidentally left behind from a ship, and next spring they were found little the worse for wear. as a result the experiment was at last made in the winter of the year 1633. seven men were left on spitzbergen and seven others on the jan mayen, an island somewhat to the west and farther away from the pole. the seven on jan mayen all died of scurvy. when next spring a fleet came to relieve them they were found frozen dead in their bunks. on spitzbergen, however, all the men had passed a comfortable winter. they had suffered a good deal from the cold, but they had managed to keep out in the open, take a lot of exercise, and pass the long winter as cheerfully as the heavy blizzards and storms allowed. it was decided to leave a small guard upon the island every year. when in september of 1634 the fleet of whalers sailed back for holland, seven new men, under the leadership of adriaen janzzoon, who came from delft, had agreed to remain behind and keep watch over the little settlement of smeerenburg. they were well provided with supplies, but all perished before the spring of the next year. they left a diary, and from this we copy a few items to show the quiet and resigned courage with which they went to their death.
"on the eleventh of september of the year of our lord 1634 the whaling ships sailed for home. we wished them a happy voyage. we saw several whales and often tried to get one, but we did not succeed. we looked for fresh vegetables, foxes, and bears with great industry, but we did not find any.
"between the twentieth and the twenty-first of october the sun left us. on the twenty-fourth of november we began to suffer from scurvy. therefore we looked for fresh vegetables, foxes, and bears with great industry, but we did not succeed, to our great grief. therefore we consoled each other that the good lord would provide. on the second of december klaes florisz took a remedy against scurvy, and we set traps to catch foxes.
"on the eleventh of december jeroen caroen also took a remedy against scurvy, and we all began to eat separately from each other because some suffered more from scurvy and others less. we looked every day, trying to find fresh vegetables, but we found nothing. so we recommended our souls into the hands of god.
"on the twelfth of december cornelis thysz took a remedy for scurvy. on the twenty-third of december we saw our first bear. just as the cook was pouring out hot water from his kitchen the bear stood outside the window, but when he heard a noise he hastily fled. on the twenty-fourth we again heard a bear, and we at once ran for him with three men, whereupon he stood upright on his hind legs and looked quite horrible; but we shot a musket-ball through his belly, and he began to groan and bleed quite badly, and with his teeth he bit one of our halberds to pieces and then fled. we followed him with two lanterns, but we could not get him, although we needed him sorely on account of the sick people as well as of those who were still well, for nobody was quite without pain. if things do not improve before long we shall all be dead before the ships come back; but god knows what is best for us. on the twenty-fifth of december cornelis thysz took a remedy for scurvy for the second time, for things were going badly with him. on the fourteenth of january adriaen janszoon died, being the first of the seven of us to go; but we are now all very ill and have much pain.
"on the fifteenth fetje otjes died.
"on the seventeenth cornelis thysz died. next to god we had put our hope upon him. we who were still alive made coffins for the three dead ones, and we laid them into their coffins, although we were hardly strong enough to do this, and every day we are getting worse.
"on the twenty-eighth we saw the first fox, but we could not get him. on the twenty-ninth we killed our red dog, and we ate him in the evening. on the seventh of february we caught our first fox, and we were all very happy; but it did not do us much good, for we are all too far gone by now. we saw many bears, yes, sometimes we saw as many as three, four, five, six, ten, twelve at the same time; but we did not have strength enough to fire a gun, and even if we had hit a bear, we could not have walked out to get him, for we are all so weak that we can not put one foot before the other. we can not even eat our bread; we have terrible pains all over our bodies; and the worse the weather is the more pain we have. many of us are losing blood. jeroan caroen is the strongest, and he went out and got some coals to make a fire.
"on the twenty-third we laid flat on our backs almost all the time. the end has come, and we commend our souls into the hands of god.
"on the twenty-fourth we saw the sun again, for which we praised god, for we had not seen the sun since the twentieth or twenty-first of october of last year.
"on the sixth of february the four of us who are still alive are lying in our bunks. we would eat something if only one of us were strong enough to get up and make a fire; we can not move from the pain we suffer. with folded hands we pray to god to deliver us from this sorrowful world. if it pleases him we are ready; for we would prefer not to stand this suffering much longer without food and without a fire, and yet we cannot help each other, and each one must bear his own fate as well as he can."
when the ships came to spitzbergen in the spring of 1635 they found the cabin locked. a sailor climbed into the house through the attic window. the first things he found were pieces of the red dog hanging from the rafters, where they had been put to dry. in front of the stairs he stumbled over the frozen body of the other dog. inside the cabin the seven sailors rested together. three were lying in open coffins, two in one bunk, two others on a piece of sail on the floor, all of them frozen, with their knees pulled up to their chins.
that was the last time an attempt was made to have anybody pass the winter on the island.
the first voyage to india--failure
it was no mean expedition which set sail for the indies on the second of april of the year 1595 with four ships, 284 men, and an investment of more than three hundred thousand guilders. amsterdam merchants had provided the capital and the ships. the estates of holland and a number of cities in the same province had sent cannon. with large cannon and small harquebus, sixty-four in number, they were a fair match for any spaniard or portuguese who might wish to defend his ancient rights upon this royal indian route, which ran down the atlantic, doubled the cape of good hope, and then made a straight line from the southernmost tip of africa to cape comorin on the indian peninsula in asia.
a few words should be said about the ships, for each was to experience adventures before reaching the safe harbor of home or disappearing silently in a lonely sea. there were the hollandia, proudly called after the newly created sovereign republic of the seven united netherlands; the mauritius, bearing the name of the eminent general whose scientific strategy was forcing the spanish intruder from one province after the other; the amsterdam, the representative of a city which in herself was a mighty commonwealth; and lastly a small and fast ship called the pigeon.
also, since there were four ships, there were four captains, and thereby hangs a tale. this new dutch republic was a democracy of an unusually jealous variety, which is saying a great deal. its form of government was organized disorder. the principle of divided power and governmental wheels within wheels at home was maintained in a foreign expedition where a single autocratic head was a most imperative necessity. what happened during the voyage was this: the four captains mutually distrustful, each followed his own obstinate will. they quarreled among themselves, they quarreled with the four civil directors who represented the owners and the capitalists in holland, and who together with the captains were supposed to form a legislative and executive council for all the daily affairs of the long voyage. finally they quarreled with the chief representative of the commercial interests, cornelis de houtman, a cunning trader and commercial diplomatist who had spent four years in lisbon trying to discover the secrets of indian navigation. indeed, so great had been his zeal to get hold of the information hidden in the heads of portuguese pilots and the cabalistic meaning of portuguese charts, that the authorities, distrustful of this too generous foreigner, with his ever-ready purse, had at last clapped him into jail.
then there had been a busy correspondence with the distant employers of this distinguished foreign gentleman. amsterdam needed houtman and his knowledge of the indian route. the money which in the rotten state of portugal could open the doors of palaces as well as those of prisons brought the indiscreet pioneer safely back to his fatherland. now, after another year, he was appointed to be the leading spirit of a powerful small fleet and the honorable chairman of a complicated and unruly council of captains and civilian directors. that is to say, he might have been their real leader if he had possessed the necessary ability; but the task was too much for him. for not only was he obliged to keep the peace between his many subordinate commanders, but he was also obliged to control the collection of most undesirable elements who made up the crews of this memorable expedition. i am sorry that i have to say this, but in the year 1595 people did not venture upon a phantastical voyage to an unknown land along a highly perilous route unless there was some good reason why they should leave their comfortable native shores. the commanders of the ships and their chief officers were first class sailors. the lower grades, too, were filled with a fairly sober crowd of men, but the common sailor almost without exception belonged to a class of worthless youngsters who left their country for their country's good and for the lasting benefit of their family's reputation. there was, however, a saving grace, and we must give the devil his due. many of these men were desperately brave. when they were well commanded they made admirable sailors and excellent soldiers, but the moment discipline was relaxed, they ran amuck, killed their officers or left them behind on uninhabited islands and lived upon the fat of the commissary department until the last bottle of gin was emptied and the last ham was eaten. in most cases their ship then ran on a hidden cliff, whereupon the democratic sea settled all further troubles with the help of the ever-industrious shark.
when we realize that the dutch colonial empire was conquered with and by such men we gain a mighty respect for the leaders whose power of will turned these wild bands of adventurers into valiant soldiers. and when we study the history of our early colonial system we no longer wonder that it was so bad. we are gratefully astonished that it was not vastly worse.
on the tenth of march of the year 1595 the crews had been mustered, the last provisions had been taken on board. everything was ready for the departure. the riot act was read to the men, for discipline was maintained by means of the gallows and the flogging-pole, and after a great deal of gunpowder had been wasted upon salutes the ships sailed to the texel. here they waited in the roads for two weeks, and then with a favorable wind from the north set sail for the english channel. all this and the rest of the story which is to follow we have copied from the diary of frank van der does, who was on board the hollandia and who was one of the few officers who got safely home.
during the first three weeks it was plain sailing. on the twenty-sixth of april the fleet reached one of the cape verde islands. some of the wild goats of the islands that had so greatly impressed linschoten were caught and divided among the sailors, making a very welcome change in their eternal diet of salted meat. another week went by, and two portuguese freighters, loaded to the gunwales, appeared upon the horizon. kindly remember that this was only a few years after the desperate struggle with spain and while yet any ship that might be considered popish was a welcome prize. therefore the instinct of all the hollanders on board demanded that this easy booty be captured. these ships, so the men reasoned, would provide more profit than an endless, dreary trip to an unknown indian sea; but for once discipline prevailed. the commanders were under strict order not to do any freebooting on their own account. on the contrary, they must make friends wherever they could. accordingly, the dutch admiral gave the portuguese a couple of hams, and the portuguese returned the favor with a few jars of preserved fruit. then the two squadrons separated, and the dutch fleet went southward.
in the end of june the ships passed the equator, and scurvy made its customary appearance among the men. the suspicion that scurvy might have something to do with the lack of certain elements in the daily food had begun to dawn upon the sailors of that time. of course it was quite impossible for them to carry fresh solid food in their little and ill-ventilated ships, but they could take fluids. water was never drunk by sailors of that day. it spoiled too easily in the primitive tanks. beer was the customary beverage. this time, however, a large supply of wine had been taken along, and when they reached the tropics each of the sailors got a pint of wine per day as a remedy or, rather, a preventive of the dreaded disease. but it increased rapidly, and with a feeling of deep relief the sailors welcomed the appearance of wild birds, which indicated that the cape of good hope must be near. early in august they sailed past the southern point of the african continent, and dropped anchor in a small bay near the spot where now the town of port elizabeth is situated. here our friend van der does was sent on shore with two boats to find fresh water. his first attempt at a landing did not succeed. the boats got into a very heavy surf. they were attacked by a couple of playful whales, and on the shore excited natives, reputed to be cannibals, danced about in gleeful anticipation. a storm broke loose, and for almost an entire day the men floated helplessly on the angry waves. when at last they returned to the ship the other sailors had already given them up as lost.
the next day the weather was more favorable, and they managed to reach the shore, where they made friends with the natives. according to the description, these must have been hottentots. they made a very bad impression. the hottentot, then as now, was smallish and very ugly, with a lot of black hair that looked as if it had been singed. in short, in the language of the sixteenth century they looked like people who had been hanging on the gallows for a long time and had shriveled into the leathern caricature of a man. a dirty piece of skin served them as clothing, and their language sounded to the dutch sailors like the cackling of a herd of angry turkeys. as for their manners, they were beastly. when they killed an animal, they ate it raw, both insides and outsides. perhaps they stopped long enough to scrape some of the dirt off with their fingers, but usually they did not take the trouble to cook their food. furthermore--this, however, so far was only a suspicion--they were said to be cannibals and ate their own kind.
the happy hottentot still lived in the stone age, and these first european traders were a veritable godsend to a people obliged to hunt with stone arrows. the expedition did not fail to discover this, and for a few knives and a few simple iron objects they received all the cows and sheep they wanted. and, to our great joy, we get our first glimpse of that most amusing and clownish of all living creatures, the penguin. the penguin has risen in the social scale of wild birds since he has become one of the chief attractions of the moving-pictures. in the year 1595 he was every bit as silly and absurd an animal as he is now, when he wanders forth to make friends with the sailors of our south polar expeditions. van der does hardly knew what to make of this strange creature which has wings, yet cannot fly, and whose feathers look like the smooth skin of a seal. strangest of all, this wild animal was found to be so tame that the sailors had to box their ears before they could force a narrow path through the dense crowds of excited birds.
unfortunately, the navigating methods of that day were still very primitive. a profound trust in the lord made up for a lack of knowledge of the compass. the good lord in his infinite mercy usually guided the ship until it reached some shore or other. then the navigator set to work and wormed his way either upward or downward until at last he struck the spot which he had been trying to reach all the time and thanked divine providence for his luck. the particular bay renowned for its fresh water and vegetables, that the expedition hoped to reach was situated on the east coast of madagascar, but a small gale blew the ships to the westward. they could not reach the southern cape, and they were forced to take whatever the western coast could provide. that was little enough. there was an abundance of wild natives. upon one occasion the natives caught a landing party and stripped them of all their arms and clothes before they allowed them to return to their ships. but there were no wild fruit-trees, and upon these now depended the lives of the members of the expedition.
at this spot the sick people were landed, to be tended on shore. soon the misery was forgotten in the contemplation of an abundance of wild monkeys, which competed with the natives in the execution of wild and curious dances and which when roasted on hot coals made a fine dish. this idyl, however, did not last long. the "pious life" of the sailors and their attitude toward the natives soon caused considerable friction. one night the natives attacked the camp where the sick men slept. the hollanders, from their side, took four young natives to their ships and kept them there as prisoners. the four of course tried to escape. one was drowned, pulled down by his heavy chains. two others hid themselves in a small boat and were recaptured the next day. a few days after this event the mate of one of the ships and another sailor went on shore and tried to buy a cow. they were attacked. the sailor was mortally wounded, and the mate had his throat cut. in revenge the hollanders shot one of the natives and burned down a few villages. it is a sad story, but we shall often have to tell of this sort of thing when the white man made his first appearance among his fellow-creatures of a different hue.
after this adventure the council of captains decided to proceed upon the voyage without further delay. on the thirteenth of december the fleet started upon the last stretch of water which separated it from the island of java. after two weeks, however, scurvy once more played such havoc among the sailors that the ships were obliged to sail back to madagascar. they found the small island called santa maria on the east coast. the natives here were more civilized, there was an abundance of fresh food, and the sick people recovered in a short time. except for a sufficient supply of water, the expedition was ready for the last thousand miles across the indian ocean. santa maria, however, did not provide enough water.
i have mentioned that the captain of the hollandia had died on the west coast of madagascar. the owners of the ships, not wishing to leave anything to luck, had provided each ship with sealed instruction, telling the officers who should succeed whom in case of just such an accident. these letters were to be opened in the full council of captains. instead of doing this, the civil commissioner on the hollandia had opened his letter at once and had read therein that the office of captain should be bestowed upon the first mate, de keyser by name, and a personal friend of the commissioner. it is difficult at this late date to discover what caused all the trouble which followed. de keyser was a good man, the most popular officer of the fleet, while houtman, the civilian commander of the expedition, was very much disliked by the officers of all the ships. there is nothing very peculiar in this. civilians are never wanted on board a fleet, least of all when they have been sent out to control the actions of the regular seafaring people. it is not surprising, therefore, to find the officers taking the side of de keyser and turning against the civilians. houtman in his high official altitude and in a very tactless way, declared that he would not recognize de keyser. de keyser, to avoid friction, then declared that he would voluntarily resign, but the other officers declared that they would not hear of such a thing. thereupon houtman insisted that he, as civilian commander, had a right to demand the strictest obedience to the orders of the owners. the officers told houtman what they would be before they obeyed a mere civilian. houtman stood his ground. the council of the captains broke up in a free-for-all fight, and the most violent backers of de keyser declared that they would shoot houtman rather than give in. thus far the quarrel had been about the theoretical principle whether the actual sailors or the civilian commissioners should be the masters of the fleet. but when the man who had started the whole trouble by opening the sealed letter against orders proposed to desert the fleet with the hollandia he committed a breach of etiquette which at once made him lose the support of the other regular officers. discipline was discipline. the mutineer was brought before a court-martial and was ordered to be put in irons until the end of the voyage. he actually made the remainder of the trip as a prisoner. the suit against him was not dropped until after the return to holland. it was a storm in a tea-kettle, or, rather, it was a quarrel between a few dozen people, most of them ill, who were cooped up in four small and ill-smelling vessels and who had got terribly on one another's nerves. it is needless to say that these official disagreements greatly entertained the rough elements in the forecastle, who witnessed this commotion with hidden glee and decided that they would have some similar fun of their own as soon as possible.
meanwhile the wind had been favorable, and on the fifth of june, after a long, but uneventful voyage, an island was seen. it proved to be a small island off the coast of sumatra. sumatra itself was reached two days later, and on the eleventh of the same month the sunda archipelago, between sumatra and java, was reached. in this part of the indies the white man had been before. the natives, therefore, knew the power of firearms, and they were accordingly cautious. one of them who was familiar with the straits between the islands offered to act as pilot on their further trip to bantam. for eight reals in gold he promised to guide them safely to the north shore of java. the amount was small, but the distance was short. on the twenty-third of june of the year 1596 four dutch ships appeared for the first time in the roads of bantam, and were welcomed by the portuguese with all the civility which the sight of sixty-four cannon demanded. at that time bantam was an important city, the most important trading center of the western part of the indian islands. it was the capital of a mohammedan sultan, and for many years it had been the residence of a large portuguese colony. besides javanese natives and portuguese settlers there were many arab traders and chinese merchants. all of these hastened forth to inspect the ships with the strange flag and have a look at this new delegation of white men who were blond, not dark like the portuguese, and who spoke an unknown language.
the fleet had now reached its destination, and the actual work of the commercial delegates began. it was their business to conclude an official treaty with the native authorities and to try to obtain equal trading rights with the portuguese. houtman was of great value in this sort of negotiation. as representative of the mighty prince maurice of nassau, who for the benefit of the natives was described as the most high potentate of the most powerful dutch commonwealth, he called upon the regent, who was governing the country during the minority of the actual sultan. he made his visit in great state, and through a number of presents he gained the favor of the regent. on the first of july he obtained the desired commercial treaty. the hollanders were allowed to trade freely, and a house was put at their disposal to serve as a general office and storeroom. two of the civilian directors were allowed to live on shore, and everything was ready for business. thus far things had gone so well that houtman decided to perform his task leisurely. the new pepper harvest was soon to be gathered, and he thought it well to wait until he had a chance to get fresh spices. what was left of last year's crop was offered for a very low price, but as there was no hurry, no supply was bought.
unfortunately, this time of waiting was utilized by the portuguese for a campaign of underhand agitation against their unwelcome rivals. they did not accuse the hollanders directly of any evil intentions, but did the regent know who those people were? it is true that they claimed to be the representatives of a certain prince of nassau. was there such a prince? they might just as well be common buccaneers. it would be much safer if the regent would order his soldiers to take all the hollander people prisoner and to surrender them to the portuguese, to be dealt with according to their deserts.
the regent, who knew nothing about his new guests except that they were white and had come to him in wooden ships, listened with an attentive ear. at first he did not act, but the hollanders soon noticed that whereas they found it difficult to buy anything at all in bantam, portuguese vessels left the harbor every week with heavy cargoes. at last when the commissary department of the dutch fleet sent on shore for provisions they were refused all further supplies. evidently something was going to happen.
to be well prepared against all eventualities, the dutch captains began to chart the harbor. with the small guns of that age it was necessary to know exactly how near shore one could get in order to bombard the enemy. the natives saw the manoeuvering, and wondered what it was all about. from that moment on there was suspicion on both sides, and at last the tension between them grew so serious that the hollanders decided to remove their goods from their storehouse and bring them on the ships. but while they were loading their possessions into the boats houtman and another civilian by the name of willem lodewycksz were suddenly taken prisoner and brought to the castle of the regent. this dignitary, afraid of the portuguese, whose power he appreciated, and yet unwilling to act openly against some newcomers who might be far more dangerous, wanted to keep the leader of the dutch expedition and one of his officers as hostages until the dutch ships should have left the port without doing him or his people any harm.
the hollanders, however, who knew that the portuguese were responsible for this action, at once attacked the portuguese ships. both parties, however, proved to be equally strong, and having fired several volleys at one another, both sides gave up their quarrel and waited until they should be reinforced. houtman and his companion were set free after the hollanders had paid a heavy ransom. all this took place in the month of october. even then houtman hoped that the interrupted trading might be resumed. meanwhile, however, the portuguese had asked for reinforcements to be sent from their colony in malacca, and a high portuguese official was already on his way to bantam to offer the regent ten thousand reals for the surrender of the entire dutch fleet. of these negotiations the dutch commander obtained full details through a friendly portuguese merchant. since everybody spied upon everybody else, this merchant's secret correspondence was soon detected, and the culprit was sent to malacca. as there was now no longer any hope for profitable business, the dutch fleet made ready to depart. just before leaving, however, they managed to get some cargo. a chinaman got on board the admiral's ship, and made him the following offer. he would load two vessels with spices and would leave the port. the hollanders would attack his vessels and would capture both ship and cargo. of course they must pay cash and must deposit the money beforehand.
this was done, and in this way houtman got several thousand guilders' worth of nutmeg and mace. thereupon the hollanders left bantam and tried their luck in several other cities on the javanese coast; but everywhere the people had been warned by the portuguese against ungodly pirates who were soon to come with four big ships, and everywhere the ships were refused water and were threatened with open hostilities if they should attempt to buy anything from the natives.
here they arrived on the eighth of december, and were once more met by a large fleet of small craft. in one of these there was a native who knew a little portuguese. he asked to speak to the commander, who at that moment was on the amsterdam. houtman told the native interpreter to row to the mauritius, where he would join him in a few minutes. this was a good idea, for the people on the amsterdam, who had just seen the massacre of their comrades, were very nervous and in no condition to receive another visit of natives, however friendly they intended to be. but through a mistake the boat of the interpreter did not turn toward the mauritius, but returned once more to the amsterdam, apparently to ask for further instructions. then one of these horrible accidents due entirely to panic happened. the sailors of the amsterdam opened fire upon the natives. the other ships thought that this was the sign for a new general attack, and they got out their cannon. in a moment a score of well-intentioned natives, and among them their king, had been killed or were drowning.
after this it could not be expected that the island of madura would sell houtman anything at all. there was only one chance left if the expedition was to be a financial success. this was a trip to the molucca islands. but for this voyage the ninety-four sailors who were still alive--all the others who had left holland the year before were dead--hardly sufficed. furthermore, the amsterdam was beginning to show such severe leaks that the carpenters could not repair the damage. the ship was therefore beached and burned. the crew was divided among the three other ships and they set sail for the moluccas.
before they reached these islands a formal mutiny had broken out on board the mauritius. suddenly, during the afternoon meal, the captain of the ship had died. he had fainted, turned blue and black, and in less than an hour he was dead after suffering dreadful pains. healthy people, so the sailors whispered, did not die that way, and they accused houtman, who did not like this particular captain, of having put poison into his food. houtman was attacked by his own men, and he was put in irons. a formal tribunal then was called together. it investigated the charges, but nothing was found against the accused commissioner. therefore houtman was released, and the topsyturvy expedition once more continued its voyage.
but it never reached the molucca islands, for before they got to these they found the island of bali. this proved to be governed by a well-disposed monarch. the influence of the portuguese was less strong in this island than it had been on java. the hollanders, too, had learned their lesson, and they refrained from the naval swashbuckling that had often characterized their conduct on java. on the contrary, they gave themselves every possible trouble to be very pleasant to his majesty the sultan. they made him fine presents, and they produced their maps of the fatherland and made a great ado about their official documents. the sultan wished to know who they were. they told him that they came from a country which was situated in the northern part of europe, where the water turned into a solid mass across which you could drive a horse every winter. this country, according to their descriptions, covered a region occupied by russia, france, and germany. there was but little truth in these grandiloquent stories, but they were dealing with an innocent native who must be duly impressed by the great power and the enormous riches of the home of ninety-odd, bedraggled and much traveled dutch sailors. the account which the sailors gave of their country so deeply impressed the king that he allowed them to buy all the spices they wanted and to collect the necessary provisions for the long return voyage. on february 26, in the second year of their voyage, the three ships got ready to sail back to holland. one of the civilian directors who with his masterful fibbing had brought himself more particularly to the attention of his majesty was left behind, together with one sailor. they were to act as counselors to the court, an office which they held for four years, when they returned to amsterdam. of the two hundred and eighty-four men who had left holland in 1595, only eighty-nine returned after an absence of two years and four months.
but this was really a detail. it was an unfortunate incident due to their own lack of experience and to the intrigues of the rival portuguese merchants.
from a commercial point of view this expedition was a failure. yet it brought home a large volume of negative information which was of the utmost importance. it showed that the direct road to india was not an impossible achievement to anybody possessed of energy and courage. it showed that the power of the portuguese in india was not as strong as had been expected. it showed that the dream of an independent colonial empire for the new dutch republic in the indian islands was not an idle one. in short, it proved that all the fears and misgivings about holland's share in the development of the riches of asia had been unnecessary. the thing could be done.
the second voyage to india--success
there was now a great boom in the indian trade. whosoever could beg, borrow, or steal a few thousand guilders; whoever possessed an old scow which could perhaps be made to float, whoever was related to a man who had a cousin who had some influence on the exchange, suddenly became an indian trader, equipped a ship, hired sailors, had mysterious conferences with nautical gentlemen who talked about their great experience in foreign waters, and then waited for the early days of spring to bid god-speed to his little expedition. every city must have its own indian fleet. companies were formed, stockholders quarreled about the apportionment of the necessary capital, and at once they split up into other smaller companies. there was an "old" indian trading company. the next day there was a rival called the "new" indian trading company. there was an indian company which was backed by the province of zeeland. there was a private enterprise of the city of rotterdam. to be honest, there were too many companies for the small size of the country. before another dozen years had passed they were all amalgamated into one strong commercial body, the great dutch east india company, but during the first years hundreds of ships stampeded to the promised land of java and bali and the moluccas, and for one fleet of small vessels which came home with a profit there were a dozen which either were shipwrecked on the way or which had ruined their shareholders before they had passed the equator.
amsterdam, as always, was the leader in this activity. it was not only a question of capital. there had to be men of vision, merchants who were willing to do things on a large scale, before such a venture could return any profit. and while the ships of the zeeland company were hurried to sea, and left long before the others, and incidentally came back a few years later, amsterdam quietly collected eight hundred thousand guilders and advertised for competent officers and willing men for a large expedition. this time, it was decided, everything was to be done with scientific precision, and nothing must be left to chance. the commander in chief of the 560 men who were to take part in the expedition was jacob van neck, a man of good birth, excellent training, and well-known in the politics of his own city. his most important adviser was jacob van heemskerk, fresh from his adventures in the arctic sea and ready for new ones in the indian ocean. several of the officers who had been to bantam with houtman were engaged for this second voyage. among them our friend van der does, out of whose diary we copied the adventures of the first voyage to the indies. even the native element was not lacking. you will remember that the hollanders had taken several hostages in madagascar when they visited the east coast of that island in the year 1595. two of these had been tamed and had been taken to holland. after a year in amsterdam they were quite willing to exchange the uncomfortable gloominess of the dutch climate for a return to their sunny native shores. also there was a mohammedan boy by the name of abdul, whom curiosity had driven from bali to holland on board the ship of houtman.
within a remarkably short time the lonely island of tristan d'acunha was passed, and from there the current and the western winds carried the ships to the cape of good hope. but near this stormy promontory a small hurricane suddenly fell upon the fleet, and after a night of very heavy squalls one of the eight ships had disappeared. it was never seen again. a few days later, this time through carelessness in observing signals, four other ships were separated from their admiral. several days were spent in coursing about in the attempt to find them. the sea, however, is very wide, and ships very small, and van neck with two big and one small vessel at last decided to continue the voyage alone. he was in a hurry. there were many rivals to his great undertaking, and when he actually met a dutch ship sent out by the province of zeeland, he insisted that there must be no delay of any sort. the zeeland ship, however, was not a dangerous competitor. nine members of its crew of seventy-five had died. among the others there was so much scurvy that only seven men were able to handle the helm. only two could climb aloft. the amsterdam ships ought to have helped their fellow-countrymen, but in the indian spice trade it was a question of "first come, first served." therefore they piously commended their zeeland brethren to the care of the good lord and hastened on.
a short stay in madagascar was necessary because the water in the tanks was of such abominable taste and smelled so badly that it must be replenished. the ships sailed to the east coast of the island, stopped at santa maria, well known from the visit of houtman's ships three years before, and then made a short trip in search of fresh fruit to the bay of antongil. on the island of santa maria they had found a happy population, well governed by an old king and spending their days in hunting wild animals on land or catching whales at sea. but in the bay of antongil things had greatly changed since houtman had left a year before. there had been a war with some of the tribes from the interior of the island. the villages along the coast had been burned, and all the cattle had been killed. men and women were dying of starvation. right in the midst of the lovely tropical scenery there lay the decaying corpses of the natives, a prey to vultures and jackals. the expedition of van neck, however, had been sent out to buy spices in india and not to reform the heathen inhabitants of african islands. the water-tanks were hastily filled, and on the sixteenth of september the island was left to its own fate.
for two months the ships sailed eastward. there were a few sick men on board, but nobody died, which was considered a magnificent record in those days for so long a voyage. on november 19 the high mountains of the coast of sumatra appeared upon the horizon. from there van neck steered southward, and near the sunda islands he at last reached the dangerous domains of the portuguese. the cannon were inspected, the mechanism of the guns was well oiled, and everything was made ready for a possible fight. before the coast of java was reached one of the islands of the sunda archipelago was visited. could the natives tell them anything about the portuguese and their intentions? the natives could not do this, but in return asked the men whether they perhaps knew anything about a foreign expedition which had been in those parts a few years before? that expedition, it appeared, had left a very bad reputation behind on account of its cruelty and insolence.
in the end the sultan, curious to see whether these letters could perhaps tell him something of further ships which might be on their way, agreed to make his appearance upon the ship of the admiral, where he was received with great courtesy.
then, after the fashion of the indian ruler of his day and of our own, he demanded to know what his profits were to be in case he allowed the hollanders to trade in his city. van neck began negotiations about the bribe which the different functionaries were to receive. for a consideration of 3200 reals to the sultan and the commander of the harbor, the dutch ships were at last given permission to approach the shore and buy whatever they wanted. for ten days long canoes filled with pepper and nutmeg surrounded the ships. the pepper was bought for three reals a bag. everything was very pleasant, but one day abdul, the native who came from bali, got on shore and visited the city. here among his own people he cut quite a dash, and bragging about the wonders of the great dutch republic, he volunteered the information that on the amsterdam market he had seen how a bag of pepper was sold for 100 reals. that sum, therefore, was just ninety-seven reals more than the people in bantam received for their own raw product. of course they did not like the idea of getting so little, and at once they refused to sell to van neck at the old rate. it was a great disappointment. he tried to do business with some chinamen, but they were worse than the javanese. they offered their pepper to the hollanders at a ridiculously low price, but after the bags had been weighed they were found to be weighted with stones and sand and pieces of glass.
there was no end to all the small annoyances which the dutch admiral was made to suffer. there were a number of portuguese soldiers hanging about the town. they had been made prisoners during the last fatal expedition against bantam, and they suffered a good many hardships. one day they were allowed to pay a visit to the dutch ships, and the tales of their misery were so harrowing that the admiral had given them some money to be used for the purpose of buying food and clothes. no sooner, however, were the prisoners back on dry land than they started the rumor that the hollanders were dangerous pirates and ought not to be trusted. van neck vowed that he would hang his ungrateful visitors if ever they came to him again with their tales of woe. meanwhile, in order to stop further talk, he promised to raise the price of pepper two reals. for five reals a bag his ships were now filled with a cargo of the costly spice.
in a peaceful way the month of december went by. it was the last day of the year 1598 when quite unexpectedly the lost ships that had been driven away from their admiral near the cape of good hope appeared at bantam. they had passed through many exciting adventures. after they had lost sight of the commander-in-chief, they had first spent several days trying to discover his whereabouts. then they had continued their way to get fresh water in madagascar. they had reached the coast of the island safely, but just before they could land a sudden storm had driven them eastward. on the seventeenth of september they had again seen land, and they had dropped their anchors to discover to what part of the world they had been blown by the wind. the map did not show that there was any land in this region. therefore on the eighteenth of september of the year 1598 they had visited the island which lay before them, and they found that they had reached paradise. all the sailors had been taken ashore, it being sunday, and the ships' pastor had preached a wonderful sermon. so eloquent were his words that one of the madagascar boys who was on the fleet had accepted christian baptism then and there. after that for a full month officers and men had taken a holiday. whatever they wished for the island provided in abundance. there was fresh water. there were hundreds of tame pigeons. there were birds which resembled an ostrich, although they were smaller and tasted better when cooked. there were gigantic bats and turtles so large that several men could take a ride on their back. fish abounded in the rivers and the sea around the island, and it was thickly covered with all sorts of palm-trees. indeed, it looked so fertile that it was decided to use it as a granary for future expeditions. grain had been planted, and also beans and peas for the use of ships which might come during the next years. then the island had been officially annexed for the benefit of the republic. it had been called mauritius after prince maurice of nassau, the stadholder of holland. finally after a rooster and seven chickens had been given the freedom of this domain, to assure future travelers of fresh eggs, the four ships had hoisted their sails and had come to bantam to join their admiral.
van neck now commanded several ships, which were loaded. but the others must await the arrival of a new supply of pepper, which was being brought to bantam from the moluccas by some enterprising chinamen. this would take time, and van neck was still in a great hurry. he refused to consider the tempting offers of the sultan of bantam, who still wanted his help against his portuguese enemies. instead, he entered into negotiations with a hindu merchant who offered to bring the other ships directly to the moluccas, where they would be in the heart of the spice-growing islands. the hindu was engaged, and navigated the ships safely to their destination. here through their good behavior the hollanders made such an excellent impression upon the native ruler that they were allowed to establish two settlements on shore and leave a small garrison until they should return to buy more mace and nutmeg at incredibly reasonable terms. as for van neck, having saluted his faithful companions with a salvo of his big guns, which started a panic in the good town of bantam, where the people still remembered the departure of houtman, he sailed for the coast of africa.
he had every reason to be contented with his success. in a final audience with the governor of the city of bantam he had promised this dignitary that the hollanders would return the next year, "because that was the will of their mighty ruler." the governor, from his side, who upon this occasion had to deal with a much better class of men than houtman and his crew of mutinous sailors, had decided that the hollanders were preferable to the portuguese, and he assured van neck of a cordial reception.
the return voyage was not as prosperous as the outward trip had been. dysentery attacked the fleet, and many of the best officers and men had to be sewn into their hammocks to be dropped into the ocean, where they found an honorable burial. st. helena, with its fresh water and its many wild animals, was reached just when the number of healthy men had fallen to thirty. a week of rest and decent food was enough to cure all the men, and then they sailed for home. but so great was the hurry of this rich squadron to reach the markets of amsterdam that van neck's ship was almost destroyed when it hoisted too many sails and when the wind broke two of the masts. it was not easy to repair this damage in the open sea. after several days some sort of jury rig was equipped. the big ship, with its short stubby mast, then looked so queer that several dutch vessels which saw it appear upon the horizon off the gulf of biscay beat a hasty retreat. they feared that they had to do with a new sort of pirate, sailing the seas in the most recent piratical invention.
on the nineteenth of july, after an absence of only one year and two months, the first part of van neck's fleet returned safely to holland. the cargo was unloaded, and was sold on the amsterdam exchange. after the full cost of the expedition had been paid, each of the shareholders received a profit of just one hundred per cent. van neck, who had established the first dutch settlement in the indies, was given a public reception by his good city and was marched in state to the town hall.
van noort circumnavigates the world
oliver van noort was the first hollander to sail around the world. incidentally, he was the fourth navigator to succeed in this dangerous enterprise since in the year 1520 the little ships of magellan had accomplished the feat of circumnavigating the globe. of the hero of this memorable dutch voyage we know almost nothing. he was a modest man, and except for a few lines of personal introduction which appear in the printed story of his voyage, which was published in rotterdam, his home town, in the year 1620, in which he tells us that he had made many trips to different parts of the world, his life to us is a complete mystery.
he was not, like jacob van heemskerk and van neck, a man of education; neither was he of very low origin. he had picked up a good deal of learning at the common schools. very likely he had been the mate or perhaps the captain of some small schooner, had made a little money, and then had retired from the sea. spending one's days on board a ship in the latter half of the sixteenth century was no pleasure. the ships were small. the cabins were uncomfortable, and so low that nowhere one could stand up straight. cooking had to be done on a very primitive stove, which could not always be used when the weather was bad. the middle part of the deck was apt to be flooded most of the time, and the flat-bottomed ships rolled and pitched horribly. therefore, as soon as a man had made a little competency as the master of a small craft he was apt to look for some quiet occupation on shore. he had not learned a regular trade which he could use on shore. very often, therefore, he opened a small hotel or an inn or just an ale-house where he could tell yarns about whales and wild men and queer countries which he had seen in the course of his peregrinations. and when the evening came and the tired citizen wanted to smoke a comfortable pipe and discuss the politics of the pope, the emperor, kings, dukes, bishops and their mightinesses, his own aldermen, he liked to do so under the guidance of a man who knew what was what in the world and who could compare the stadholder's victories over the spaniards with those which king wunga wunga of mozambique had gained over his hottentot neighbors, and who knew that the wine of oporto sold in havana for less than the vinegar from dantsic and the salted fish from archangel.
therefore we are not surprised when in the year 1595 we find oliver van noort described as the owner of the "double white keys," an ale-house in the town of rotterdam. he might have finished his days there in peace and prosperity, but when houtman returned from his first voyage and the craze for the riches of the indies, or at least a share thereof, struck the town of rotterdam, van noort, together with everybody else who could borrow a few pennies, began to think of new ways of reaching the marvelous island of java, made of gold and jewels and the even more valuable pepper and nutmeg. van noort himself possessed some money and the rest he obtained from several of his best customers. with this small sum he founded a trading company of his own. he petitioned the estates general of the republic and the estates of his own province of holland to assist him in an expedition toward the "kingdom of chili, the west coast of america, and if need be, the islands of the moluccas." to make this important enterprise successful, the estates general were asked to give van noort and his trading company freedom of export and import for at least six voyages, and to present it with ten cannon and twelve thousand pounds of gunpowder. he asked for much in the hope of obtaining at least part of what he desired.
in the winter of 1597 his request was granted. he received four guns, six thousand pounds of bullets, twelve thousand pounds of gunpowder, and a special grant which relieved him of the customary export tax for two voyages. this demand for cannon, gunpowder, and bullets gives us the impression that the expedition expected to meet with serious trouble. that was quite true. the southern part of america was the private property of the spaniards and the portuguese. anybody who ventured into those regions flying the dutch colors did so at his own peril. among his fellow-citizens van noort had the reputation of great courage. nobody knew any precise details of his early life, but it was whispered, although never proved, that many years ago, long before the days of houtman, he had tried to reach the indies all alone, but that he had preferred the more lucrative profession of pirate to the dangerous calling of the pioneer. since, however, all his privateering had been done at the expense of the spaniards, nobody minded these few alleged irregularities of his youthful days. and the merchants who drank their pot of ale at his inn willingly provided him with the money which he needed, bade him go ahead, and helped him when during the winter of the year 1597 he was getting his two ships ready for the voyage.
now, it happened that at that time a number of merchants in amsterdam were working for the same purpose. they, too, wanted to sail to the moluccas by way of the strait of magellan. for the sake of greater safety the two companies decided to travel together. in june of the year 1597 their fleet, composed of four ships, was ready for the voyage. van noort was to command the biggest vessel, the mauritius, while the commander of the amsterdam company was to be vice-admiral of the fleet on board the henrick frederick. the name of the vice-admiral was jacob claesz. we know nothing about his early career, but we know all the details of his tragic end. there were two other small ships. there was a yacht called the eendracht, and there was a merchantman called the hope. the tonnage of the ships is not mentioned, but since there were only two hundred and forty-eight men on the four ships, they must have been small even for that time.
in a general way our meager information about the invested capital, the strange stories of the early lives of the commanders, and the very rough character of the crew show that we have to do with one of the many mushroom companies, an enterprise which was not based upon very sound principles, but was of a purely speculative nature. during the earliest days of indian trading, however, all good merchants were in such a hurry to make money to get to java long before anybody else and to reach home ahead of all competitors that there was no time for the promoting of absolutely sound companies.
on the other hand, the men who commanded those first expeditions had all been schooled in the noble art of self-reliance during the first twenty terrible years of the war against spain. they were brave, they were resourceful, they succeeded where others, more careful, would have failed.
on the twenty-eighth of june of the year 1597 van noort left rotterdam to await his companions from amsterdam in the downs, england. he waited for several weeks, but the ships did not appear, so he went back to holland to find out what might have become of them. he found them lying at anchor in one of the zeeland streams. evidently there had been a misunderstanding as to the exact meeting-place of the two squadrons. together they then began the voyage for a second time. they had lost a month and a half in waiting for each other, but at that date forty-five days more or less did not matter. the trip was to take a couple of years, anyway.
first of all van noort went to plymouth, where he had arranged to meet a british sailor, commonly referred to as "captain melis," a man who had been around the world with captain cavendish in 1588, and who was familiar with the stormy regions around the southern part of the american continent. in exchange for one englishman, van noort lost several good dutchmen. six of his sailors deserted, and could not be found again.
the first part of the trip was along the coast of africa, a road which we know from other expeditions. then came a story with which we are only too familiar from previous accounts, for the much dreaded scurvy appeared among the men. when the fleet passed the small island of principe in the gulf of guinea, it was decided to land there and try to obtain fresh water and fresh food. unfortunately, this island was within the established domain of the portuguese, and the hollanders must be careful. early in the morning of the day on which they intended to look for water they sent three boats ashore flying a white flag as a sign of their peaceful intentions. the inhabitants of the island came near the boats, also carrying a white flag. they informed the hollanders that if they would kindly visit the near-by villages the natives would sell them everything they wanted, provided the hollanders paid cash. the men were ordered to stay near the boats, but four officers went farther inland. they were asked to come first of all to the portuguese castle that was on the island. they went, but once inside, they were suddenly attacked, and three of them were murdered. the fourth one jumped out of the gate just in time to save his life. he ran to the shore. this was a great loss to the hollanders, for among the men who had been killed was a brother of admiral van noort and the english pilot upon whom they depended to guide them through the difficult strait of magellan.
to uphold the prestige of the dutch republic, van noort decided to make an example. the next day after he landed with 120 of his men and entrenched himself near the mouth of a river, so that he might fill his water-tanks at leisure. then, following this river, he went into the interior of the country and burned down all the plantations and houses he could find.
well provided with fresh water, he thereupon crossed the atlantic ocean and steered for the coast of brazil. on the ninth of february he dropped anchor in the harbor of rio de janeiro, which was a portuguese town. he carefully kept out of reach of the menacing guns of the fortification. the reception in brazil was little more cordial than it had been on the other side of the ocean. the portuguese sent a boat to the dutch ships to ask what they wanted. the answer was that the hollanders were peaceful travelers in need of fresh provisions. the provisions were promised for the next day, but van noort, who had heard similar promises before, was on his guard and for safety's sake he kept a few portuguese sailors on his ship as hostages.
on the morning of the next day he sent several of his men to the shore to get the supplies. they landed near a mountain called the sugarloaf. once more the portuguese did not play the game fairly. they had posted a number of their soldiers in a well-hidden ambush near the sugarloaf. these soldiers suddenly opened fire, wounded a large number of the dutch seamen and took two of them prisoners. a little later a shot fired from one of the cannon of the castle killed a man on board the eendracht. the two dutch prisoners were safely returned the next day in exchange for the portuguese hostages, but van noort was obliged to leave the town without getting his provisions. therefore a few days later he landed on a small island near the coast where he found water and fruit, and his men caught fish and wild birds and were happy. again the portuguese interfered. they had ordered a number of indians to follow the dutch fleet and do whatever damage they could. when a dutch boat with six men came rowing to the shore it was suddenly attacked by a large number of indians in canoes. two of the six men were killed. the other four were taken prisoner and were never seen again.
of course adventures of this sort were not very encouraging. some of the officers suggested that, after all, it might be a better idea to discontinue the voyage around the south american coast before it was too late. they proposed that the ships should cross the atlantic once more, and should either go to st. helena and wait there until the next spring or should sail to india by way of the cape of good hope; for it was now the month of march, and in that part of the world our summer is winter and our winter is summer. wherefore they greatly feared that the ships could not reach the strait of magellan before the winter storms of july should set in. it was upon such occasions that van noort showed his courage and his resolute spirit. his expedition was in bad shape. one of the ships, the eendracht, was leaking badly. through the bad water, the hard work, and the insufficient food a large number of sailors had fallen ill, and every day some of them died. wherever the expedition tried to land on the coast of brazil to get water and supplies they found strong portuguese detachments which drove them away. not for a moment, however, did van noort dream of giving up his original plans.
at last, after many weeks and by mere chance, he found a little island called st. clara where there were no portuguese and no unfriendly natives and where he could build a fort on shore to land the sick men and cure them of their scurvy with fresh herbs. the expedition remained on santa clara for three weeks. gradually the strength of the men returned, but they were still very weak, and it was now necessary that they should get plenty of exercise in the open air. therefore the admiral ordered the kitchens to be built at a short distance from the fort. those men who walked out to the kitchen got more dinner than those who demanded that their food be brought to them. soon they all walked, and they greatly benefited by this little scheme of their commander. on june 28 they were able to go back to the ship, and then they set sail for the south. two men, however, who had caused trouble since the beginning of the voyage and who seemed to be incorrigible were left behind on the island to get home as best they could. they never did. even such a severe punishment was not a deterrent. a few days later a sailor attacked and wounded one of the officers with a knife. he was spiked to the mast with the same knife stuck through his right hand. then he was left standing until he had pulled the knife out himself. it was a very rough crew, and only a system of discipline enforced in this cruel fashion saved the officers from being murdered and thrown overboard, so that the men might return home or become pirates.
i have just mentioned the bad condition of the eendracht. the ship was so unseaworthy, and so great was the danger of drowning all on board, that van noort at last decided to sacrifice the vessel. the sailors were divided among the other ships, and the eendracht was burned off the coast of brazil.
van noort now reached the southern part of the american continent.
the strait of magellan had been discovered in 1530. but even in the year 1598 it was little known. the few mariners who had passed through had all told of the difficulty of navigating these narrows, with their swift currents running from ocean to ocean and their terrible storms, not to speak of the fog. crossing from the atlantic into the pacific was therefore something which was considered a very difficult feat, and van noort did not dare to risk it with his ships in their bad condition. he made for the little island of porto deseado, which cavendish had discovered only a few years before. there was a sand-bank near the coast, and upon this the ships were anchored at high tide. then, when the tide fell, the ships were left on the dry sand, and the men had several hours in which to clean, tar, and calk them and generally overhaul everything that needed repairing. on the shore of the island a regular smithy was constructed. for three months everybody worked hard to get the vessels in proper condition for the dangerous voyage.
while they were on the island the captain of the hope died. he was buried with great solemnity, and the former captain of the eendracht was made commander of the hope, which was rebaptized the eendracht. this word means harmony in dutch, and the good lord knows that they needed harmony during the many difficult months which were to follow. on november 5, fourteen months after van noort left holland, and when the number of his men had been reduced to 148, he at last reached the strait of magellan. the ship of the admiral entered the strait first, and was followed by the new eendracht. the henrick frederick, however, commanded by jacob claesz, the vice-admiral, went her own way. van noort signaled to this ship to keep close to the mauritius, but he never received an answer. van noort then ordered claesz to come to the admiral's vessel and give an account of himself. the only answer which he received to that message was that captain claesz was just as good as admiral van noort, and was going to do just exactly what he pleased.
this was a case of open rebellion, but van noort was so busy navigating the difficult current that he could not stop to make an investigation. four times his ship was driven back by the strong wind. at the fifth attempt the ship at last passed the first narrows and anchored well inside the strait. the next day they passed a high mountain which they called cape nassau, and where they saw many natives running toward the shore. the natives in the southern part of the continent were not like the ordinary indian with whom the hollanders were familiar. they were very strong and brave and caused the hollanders much difficulty. they handled bows and arrows well, and their coats, made of skin, gave them a general appearance of greater civilization than anybody had expected to find in this distant part of the world. when the dutch sailors rowed to the shore of the strait, the indians attacked them at once. it was an unequal battle of arrows against bullets. the natives were driven back into their mountains, where they defended themselves in front of a large hollow rock. at last, however, all the men had been killed, and then the sailors discovered that the grotto was filled with many women and children. they did not harm these, but captured four small boys and two little girls to take home to holland. it seems to have been an inveterate habit of early expeditions to distant countries to take home some natives as curiosities. beginning with columbus, every explorer had brought a couple of natives with him when he returned home. the poor things usually died of small-pox or consumption or some other civilized disease. in case they kept alive, they became a sort of nondescript town-curiosity. what van noort intended to do with little patagonians in rotterdam i do not know, but he had half a dozen on board when on november 28 his two ships reached the spot where they expected to find a strong spanish castle.
this fortress, so they knew, had been built after the attack of drake on the west coast of america. drake's expedition had caused a panic among the spanish settlements of chile and peru. orders had come from madrid to fortify the strait of magellan and close the narrows to all foreign vessels. a castle had been built and a garrison had been sent. then, however, as happened often in spain, the home government had forgotten all about this isolated spot. no provisions had been forwarded. the country itself, being barren and cold, did not raise anything which a spaniard could eat. after a few years the castle had been deserted. when cavendish sailed through the strait he had taken the few remaining cannon out of the ruins. van noort did not even find the ruins. two whole months van noort spent in the strait. he took his time in this part of the voyage. he dropped anchor in a bay which he called olivier's bay, and there began to build some new life-boats.
on the twenty-ninth of february van noort reached the pacific. the last mile from the strait into the open sea took him four weeks. he now sailed northward along the coast of south america. two weeks later, during a storm, the henrick frederick disappeared. such an occurrence had been foreseen. van noort had told his captains to meet him near the island of santa maria in case they should become separated from him during the night or in a fog. therefore he did not worry about the fate of the ship, but sailed for the coast of chile.
van noort arranged a fine little comedy for his benefit. he hoisted the spanish flag and he dressed a number of his men in cowls, so that they would look like monks. these peeped over the bulwarks when the spaniard came near, mumbling their prayers with great devotion.
van noort himself, with the courtesy of the professional innkeeper, received his guest, and in fluent french told him that his ship was french and that he was trading in this part of the indies with the special permission of his majesty the spanish king. he regretted to inform his visitor that his first mate had just died and that he did not know exactly in which part of the indies his ship had landed. furthermore he told the spaniard that he was sadly in need of provisions and this excellent boarding officer was completely taken in by the comedy and at once gave van noort rice and a number of live pigs. the next day a higher officer made his appearance. again that story of being a french ship was told, and, what is more, was believed. van noort was allowed to buy what he wanted and to drop anchor on the coast. to expedite his work, he sent one of his sailors who spoke spanish fluently to the shore. this man reported that the spaniards never even considered the possibility of an attack by dutch ships so far away from home and so well protected by their fleet in the pacific. everything seemed safe.
but at last the spaniards, who had heard a lot about the wonderful commission given to this strange captain by the king of france and the king of spain, but who had never seen it, became curious. quite suddenly they sent a captain accompanied by a learned priest who could verify the documents. it was a difficult case for the dutch admiral. his official letters were all signed by the man with whom spain was in open warfare, prince maurice of nassau. when this name was found at the bottom of van noort's documents, his little comedy was over. nobody thereafter was allowed to leave the ship, and the natives were forbidden to trade with the hollander. van noort, however, had obtained the supplies he needed. he had an abundance of fresh provisions, and two natives had been hired to act as pilot in the straits between the different philippine islands.
another year had now gone by. it was january of 1601, and van noort's condition was still very dangerous. there were no supplies on board. the chinese pilots did not know the coast of borneo. there were many islands and many straits, and van noort had lost all idea as to his exact position. when he met a chinese vessel on the way to india he forced it to heave to and stole the mate, who was an experienced sailor. then the wind suddenly refused to blow from the right direction, and it was many weeks before the mauritius reached the harbor of cheribon, in the central part of java, many miles away from bantam.
van noort called upon his few remaining officers to decide what they ought to do. if his expedition were to be a financial success, he must find some place where he could buy spices. bantam was near by, but according to the stories of houtman and his expedition, the people in bantam were very unfriendly. with his twenty-three men the dutch commander did not dare to risk another battle. it is true that since the visit of houtman his successor van neck had established very good relations with the sultan; but van noort had been away from home for over three years, and knew nothing of van neck's voyage.
he might have guessed that there were hollanders in bantam when he found that there were no spices to be had in any of the other javanese ports. wherever he went he heard the same story. all the spices were now being sent to bantam, where the hollanders paid a very high price for them. but van noort distrusted this report. it might be another plot of the portuguese to catch him, and to keep out of harm's way, he sailed through the straits of bali, avoided the north coast of java and went to the cape of good hope.
the home trip was the most successful part of the entire voyage. it is true that, without good instruments, the dutch ships once more lost their bearings. they thought that they were two hundred miles away from the coast of africa when they had already passed the cape. on the twenty-sixth of may van noort landed at st. helena. three weeks later he met a large fleet. the ships flew the dutch flag. they were part of a squadron commanded by jacob van heemskerk, outward bound for their second voyage to india. from them the hollanders got their first news from home; how van neck's expedition had been a great success, and how bantam, which had been carefully avoided, was now a dutch settlement. van noort told them of his fight with the spanish fleet in different parts of the pacific, and in turn he was informed of the great victory which prince maurice had just won over the spaniards near nieuwpoort which had assured the dutch republic its final liberty. then both fleets continued their voyage. on the twenty-eighth of august van noort and forty-four out of the two hundred and forty-eight who had sailed away with him three years before came back to rotterdam.
the attack upon the west coast of america
this is the story of another expedition which tried to get possession of the indian route by way of the strait of magellan. it was a sad business.
oliver van noort, although he met with many difficulties, managed to bring one ship home and added greatly to the fame of the dutch navigators. but the second expedition, equipped by two of the richest men of rotterdam and sent out under the best of auspices, proved to be a total failure. the capital of half a million guilders which had been invested was an absolute loss. most of the participants in the voyage died. the ships were lost. perhaps everything had been prepared just a trifle too carefully. van noort, with his little ships, knew that he had to depend upon his own energy and resourcefulness; but the captains of the five ships which left rotterdam on the twenty-seventh of july, 1598, with almost five hundred men were under the impression that half of the work had been done at home by the owners. perhaps, too, there is such a thing as luck in navigating the high seas. one fleet sails for the indies and has good weather all the way across the ocean. when the wind blows hard it blows from the right direction. the next squadron which leaves two weeks later meets with storms and suffers from one unfortunate accident after the other; everybody gets sick, and when the sailors look for relief on land they find nothing but a barren desert. and so it goes. it is not for us to complain, but to recite faithfully the sad adventures of the good ships the hoop, the liefde, the geloof, the trouwe, and the blyde boodschap, all of which tried very hard to accomplish what van noort had been allowed to do with much less trouble.
the ships, as we said, left rotterdam in july, and after two months they reached the cape verde islands. there they found a couple of ships from hamburg, for the germans at the early period of exploring and discoveries were very active sailors. a few years later, however, the thirty years' war was to destroy their seafaring enterprises for centuries at least.
near these islands the hollanders had their first encounter with the portuguese. the stories of such meetings between the early dutch navigators and the portuguese owners of african and asiatic islands always read the same way. the hollanders ask for leave to go on shore to get fresh water and to buy provisions. this leave is never granted. then the two parties fight each other. in most cases the hollanders are victorious, though they still have too much respect for the traditional power of the portuguese to risk a definite attack upon their strongholds. very slowly and only after many years of experiment do they venture to drive the portuguese out of their colonies and take possession of this large, but badly managed, empire.
and then the bad luck which was to follow this expedition began. the admiral of the fleet, jacques mahu, died suddenly of a fever and was buried at sea. two weeks later so many men were desperately ill with the same fever that the ships were obliged to return upon their own track and establish a hospital upon one of the islands off the coast of guinea. all this time the wind blew from the wrong direction. when at last they saw land, they found that they were near the coast of lower guinea. they sent a boat to the shore to discover some native tribe which owned cattle. but the natives, who feared all white men as possible slave-dealers, ran into the bushes and carefully took their possessions with them. fortunately, after a few days another dutch ship appeared upon the horizon, and the first mate of this vessel, a frenchman by birth, knew the language of the negroes. through him a message was sent to the king of a small tribe, and when it had been proved that the hollanders were not slave-dealers, but honest merchants on their way to the indies and willing to pay money for whatever they bought, their newly elected commander, sebalt de weert was received in state and invited to dine with his majesty.
this dinner, much to the regret of the hungry guests, was a poor affair. the negro chieftain tried to be very civil to his guests. in their honor he had powdered himself white with the ashes of a wood fire, but the food was neither abundant nor very good. the hollanders decided to invite his majesty to one of their own dinners as a good example and a hint. from among the few supplies which were left on board they arranged so excellent a dinner that his royal highness ate everything on the table and then fell fast asleep in his chair. but when the next day the hollanders tried to buy the fresh provisions which they expected to get, they found that the domains of the king produced nothing but one single goat, a lean goat at that, and four puny chickens.
the coast of guinea, sometimes called the "dry gallows," gets its agreeable reputation from the fact that the malarial fevers of this swampy region usually kill all the white people who venture to settle there. the new commander of the expedition caught this malaria, and was sick in his bed for over two months. sixteen of his sailors died, and finally the expedition was obliged to flee to the healthy islands, which of course belonged to the portuguese. early in december they sailed toward annabon. once again the portuguese refused them both water and food. a troop of men were landed to take by force what they could not obtain through an appeal to christian charity. the portuguese did not await this attack, but surrendered their fortress and fled toward the mountains. from there they arranged sniping expeditions which killed many hollanders. as a punishment, admiral de weert burned the white settlement and the church. he took all the provisions which were stored in the little town, and on the second of january of the year 1599 he tried once more to cross the atlantic ocean.
it was a sad expedition which at last reached the strait of magellan on the sixth of april of the year 1599. happily the weather near the strait was fine. there was plenty of fresh water on the shore. the men killed hundreds of birds, caught geese and ducks, and found a large supply of oysters. but when finally the day came on which they tried to enter the strait, the wind suddenly veered around, and during four months the ships were forced to stay in their little harbor. they had enough to eat and they had found wood to keep warm, but much valuable time was lost, and when the winter at last came upon them with sudden violence they were entirely unprepared for it. the reports of the expeditions of magellan and drake and cavendish had shown that an expedition around the world was apt to suffer from too much heat, but rarely from too much cold. except for the few miles of the strait of magellan, the ships sailed in tropical or semi-tropical regions all the time. therefore the dutch ships had not brought any heavy clothes or furs, which would have taken up a lot of room, and the food which had been put up for them in holland had been prepared with the idea of supporting men who did their work under a blazing sun. when they were obliged to live for a long time in a raw, cold climate and work hard, hunting and fishing and gathering wood amid snow and icy winds, the sailors did not get sufficient nourishment. from sheer misery and exposure one hundred and twenty men died within less than four months. among them was the captain of the trouwe. he was the second officer to perish before his ship had reached the pacific ocean.
but illness was not the only enemy of this expedition. the natives of the south coast joined the terrible climate in its attack upon the hollanders. they murdered dutch sailors when these had gone on shore to look for fire-wood or to examine their traps. they killed several men and they wounded more. being wounded was almost as bad as being killed outright, for the spears of the natives were made with nasty barbs which caused very bad wounds. when they once had penetrated into a man's arm or hand, the only way to get them out successfully was by pushing them through until they came out again at the other side, or cut away all the flesh, in both cases a very painful operation.
at last, on the twentieth of august, the wind turned, and the ships were able to enter the strait. the joy of the men did not last very long. the next day there was no wind at all, and once more the fleet anchored. to keep his few remaining men busy, the commander arranged an expedition on shore. it was the first time that a dutch fleet had been in this part of the world, and the event must be properly celebrated. a high pole was planted in a conspicuous spot on shore, and the adventures of the expedition and the names of the leaders were carved on the pole. near this pole a small cemetery was made where two sailors who had died the night before were buried. in the evening all went back to their ships. when they returned the next morning, they found that the natives had hacked the monument to pieces and the corpses of the dead hollanders had been dug out of the earth and had been cut into little bits and were spread all over the shore. this humiliating experience was the last one which they suffered in the strait. the wind at last turned to their advantage and on the third of september the ships reached the pacific ocean.
van noort now paid a personal visit to de weert and asked what he could do to help him. de weert was much obliged for this offer, and asked for bread enough to last him another four months. unfortunately van noort could not do this. he had still a very long voyage before him, and did not dare to deprive his own men of their supplies. he advised de weert to go to the island of the penguins and to fill his storeroom with the dried meat of these birds. meanwhile, much to his regret, he must leave de weert as soon as possible, for he was in a hurry.
the next day they said farewell to one another for the last time. de weert took the precautions to leave instructions for the captain of the lost trouwe. he wrote a letter which was placed inside a bottle, and this bottle was buried at the foot of a high tree. on the tree itself a board was hammered, and on this board a message was painted telling in dutch where to look for an important document at the foot of the tree. then the ship sailed to the penguin island, and the thirty men who could do any work at all hunted the fat and lazy birds until they had killed several thousand. it was easy work. the penguins obligingly waited on their nests until they were killed. but the trip to the island almost destroyed the entire expedition. there was only one boat left, and in this boat the men who were not sick had rowed to the shore. they had been careless in fastening her, and a sudden squall caught her and threw her on the rocks. she was badly damaged and could not be used without being repaired, but the men on shore had no tools with which to do any repairing, while those on the ship were so ill that they could not swim to the shore with the necessary hammers and saws. two entire days were used to get that boat into order with the help of one ax and some pocket-knives, and during those two days the men lived out in the open on the cold shore and lived on raw penguin meat.
the island, among other things, contained material evidences of van noort's presence. a dead native, with his hands tied behind his back, was found stretched out upon the sand. in a little hollow in the rocks they discovered a woman who had been wounded by a gunshot. they took good care of the woman, bandaged her wounds, and gave her a pocket-knife. to show her gratitude, she told de weert of another island where there were even more penguins. the next week was spent on this island, and now the men had plenty of food. but the ship was without a single anchor and had only one leaking lifeboat. with the certainty that he could not land anywhere unless boats were sent for him from shore de weert decided to return to the coast of guinea and try to reach home. on the eighteenth of january the geloof went back upon her track. two months later the vessel reached the coast of guinea. this trip back was not very eventful except for one small incident. one of the sailors who was a drunkard had broken into the storeroom and had stolen a lot of rice and several bottles of wine. theft was one of the things which was punished most severely. therefore, the man had been condemned to death and was to be hanged. but while he was sitting in the rigging and waiting for somebody to push him into eternity the other members of the crew felt sorry for him and asked their captain to spare his life. at first he refused, but finally he agreed to show clemency if the men would never bother him again with a similar request. the prisoner was allowed to come down from his high perch, and to show his gratitude he broke again into the storeroom that same night. he was a very bad example. as such he was hanged from the yardarm of the highest mast, and his body was dropped into the sea.
the crew, however, were so thoroughly demoralized by this time that even such drastic measures did no good. they continued to pillage the storeroom, and when at last four of them had been detected and had been found guilty, their comrades were so weak that nobody could be found to hang the prisoners properly and they had to be taken home.
in july of the year 1600 the geloof reached the english channel, and on the thirteenth of that month she entered the mouth of the maas. there, within sight of home, one more sailor died. he was number sixty-nine. only thirty-six men came back to rotterdam. they were ill and had a story to tell of constant hardships and of terrible disappointments. the great expedition of the two courageous merchants and all their investments were a complete loss. none of the other ships ever came back to holland. but year after year stragglers from the other four ships reached home and told of the fate of the other three hundred sailors who had taken part in the unfortunate voyage. some of these reports have come down to us, and we are able to give a short account of the adventures of each ship after that day early in the year 1600 when the pacific storms had separated them from one another.
the booty found in this small settlement had not been of great value. the expedition felt inclined to move toward a richer port. they did not have food enough for their prisoners, and fourteen of the nineteen spaniards who were locked up in the hold were thrown overboard. this sounds very cruel, but it was the custom of the time that these two nations rarely gave each other quarter. whosoever was made a prisoner was killed. the spaniards started this practice in the middle of the sixteenth century because the hollanders as heretics deserved no better fate. the hollanders reciprocated. on this distant island of the pacific both parties obeyed the unwritten law. the hollanders drowned their prisoners. when spanish reinforcements reached chiloe and retook the fort, they killed the dutch garrison, for such was the custom of the time.
the six men were afterward taken to goa. gradually one after the other they had managed to escape and find their way back to holland. two of them returned to rotterdam in the autumn of 1603. another one we find mentioned in later years as commander of an indian trader. as for the trouwe, van neck on his second voyage to india found the vessel being used by the portuguese as a man-of-war.
new officers were elected from among the men, and the ships continued their northward course apparently without a definite idea of what they intended to do. they could not go back through the strait, and they were obliged to cross the pacific. they decided to avoid all spanish and portuguese settlements and to make for japan, where they might be able to sell their cargo, and where a peaceful couple of ships might find it possible to do some honest trading without being attacked by wild natives or lying spaniards. on the twenty-seventh of november the island of santa maria was left, and soon the ships passed the equator. they kept near the land, and lost eight more of their men when these had gone to the shore to get fresh water and were attacked by natives. on the twenty-third of february, during a gale, the ships were separated from each other. the liefde was obliged to make the voyage to japan alone. on the twenty-fourth of march of the year 1600 the first japanese island was reached.
the people of japan were very kind-hearted and very obliging. the sick hollanders were allowed to come on shore, and the others could trade as much as they liked. but japan for many years had been a field of successful activities for portuguese jesuits. these jesuits smiled pleasantly upon the dutch visitors, but to the japanese they hinted that the hollanders were pirates and could not be trusted. holland was not a country at all, and these men were all robbers and thieves. they advised the japanese authorities to let these dangerous people starve or send them away from their island, which would mean the same thing. but the news of the arrival of some strange ships had reached the ears of the emperor of japan. he sent for some of the crew to come to his court. an englishman among the sailors by the name of william adams was chosen for this dangerous mission. he not only represented to his imperial majesty the sad state of affairs among the shipwrecked hollanders, but he made himself so useful at the imperial court that he was asked to remain behind and serve the japanese state. he had a wife and children at home in england, but he liked this new country so well that he decided to stay. he lived happily for twenty years, married a japanese woman, and when he died in 1620 divided his fortune equally among his japanese and his english families.
finally there was the ship called the hoop, which had become separated from the liefde on the coast of south america in february of the year 1600. it went down to the bottom of the ocean with everybody on board.
the bad luck of captain bontekoe
captain bontekoe was a pious man who sailed the ocean in command of several dutch ships during the early part of the seventeenth century. he never did anything remarkable as a navigator, he never discovered a new continent or a new strait or even a new species of bird but he was blown up with his ship, flew heavenward, landed in the ocean, and survived this experience to tell a tale of such harrowing bad luck that the compassionate world read his story for over three centuries with tearful eyes. wherefore we shall copy as much as is desirable from his famous diary, which was published in the year 1647.
on the twenty-eighth of december of the year 1618, william ysbrantsz bontekoe, with a ship of 550 ton and 206 men, left the roads of texel for india. the name of the vessel was the nieuw hoorn, and it was loaded with gunpowder. kindly remember that gunpowder. there were the usual storms, the usual broken masts; the customary number of sick sailors either died or recovered; the customary route along the coast of africa was followed. the weather, once the cape was left behind, was fine, and a short stay on the island of reunion allowed the sick to regain their health and the dead to be buried. the natives were well disposed and traded with bontekoe. they entertained him and danced for the amusement of his men, and everything was as happy as could be.
for those who had been deserted on board there was only one way to salvation; they must try to put out the fire or be killed. under personal command of their captain they set to work and pumped and pumped and pumped. but the fire had reached several barrels of oil, and there was a dense smoke. it was impossible to throw 310 barrels of powder overboard in the suffocating atmosphere of the hold, yet the men tried to do it. they worked with desperate speed, but before the sixth part of the dangerous cargo was in the waters of the ocean the fire reached the forward part, where the powder was stored. a few moments later one hundred and ninety men were blown skyward, together with pieces of the masts and pieces of the ship and heavy iron bars and pieces of sail and everything that belongs to a well-equipped vessel. "and i, captain willem ysbrantsz bontekoe, commander of the ship, also flew through the sky, and i thought that my end had come. so i stretched my hands and arms toward heaven and said: 'o dear lord, there i go! please have pity upon this miserable sinner!' because i thought that now the next moment i must be dead; but all the time i was flying through the air i kept my mind clear, and i found that there was happiness in my heart; yes, i even found that i was quite gay, and so came down again, and landed in the water between pieces of the ship which had been blown into little scraps."
"and when i was now once in the water of the sea, i felt my courage return in such a way that it was as if i had become a new man. and when i looked around i found a piece of the mainmast floating at my side, and so i climbed on top of it, and looking over the scene around me, i said, 'o lord, so hath this fine ship been destroyed even as sodom and gomorrah.'"
for a short while the skipper floated and contemplated upon his mast, and then he noticed that he was no longer alone. a young german who had been on board as a common sailor came swimming to the wreckage. he climbed on the only piece of the ship's stern that was afloat, and pulling the captain's mast nearer to him with a long stick which he had fished out of the water, he helped our good bontekoe to pull himself on board his wreckage. there they were together on the lonely ocean on a few boards and with no prospect of rescue. both the boats were far away, and showed themselves only as small black dots upon the distant horizon. bontekoe told his comrade to pray with him. for a long time they whispered their supplications to heaven. then they looked once more to see what the boats were doing. and behold! their prayer had been answered. the boats came rowing back as fast as they could. when they saw the two men they tried to reach the wreckage; but they did not dare to come too near for their heavily loaded boats ran the risk of being thrown against the remains of the hulk. in that case they would have been swamped. bontekoe had felt very happy as long as he had been up in the air. now, however, he began to notice that he had hurt his back badly and that he had been wounded in the head. he did not dare to swim to the boats, but the bugler of the ship, who was in the first boat, swam back to the wreckage, fastened a rope around bontekoe's waist, and in this fashion the commander was pulled safely on board, where he was made as comfortable as could be. during the night the two boats remained near the place of the misfortune because they hoped that they might find a few things to eat in the morning. they had only a little bread and no water at all.
meanwhile the exhausted skipper slept, and when in the morning his men told him that they had nothing to eat he was very angry, for the day before the sea around his mast had been full of all sorts of boxes and barrels and there had been enough to eat for everybody. during the night, however, the boats had been blown away from the wreckage by the wind. there was no chance to get anything at all. eight pounds of bread made up the total amount of provisions for seventy strong men. of these there were forty-six in one and twenty-six in the second boat. part of that bread was used by the ship's doctor to make a plaster for bontekoe's wounds. with the help of a pillow which had been found in the locker of the biggest boat and which he wore around his head, bontekoe was then partly restored to life, and he took command of his squadron and decided what ought to be done. there were masts in the boat, but the sails had been forgotten. therefore he ordered the men to give up their shirts. out of these, two large sails were made. they were primitive sails, but they caught the breeze, and with the help of the western wind bontekoe hoped to reach the coast of sumatra, which, according to the best guess of all those on board, must be seventy miles to the east. all those who had the map of that part of india fairly well in their heads were consulted, and upon a piece of wood a chart of the coast of sumatra, the sunda islands, and the west coast of java was neatly engraved with the help of a nail and a pocket-knife. a few simple instruments were cut out of old planks, and the curious expedition was ready to navigate further eastward.
fortunately it rained very hard during the first night. the sails made out of shirts were used to catch the rain, and the water was carefully saved in two small empty barrels which had been found in one of the two boats. a drinking-cup was cut out of a wooden stopper, and each of the sailors in turn got a few drops of water. for many hours they sailed, and they became dreadfully hungry. again a merciful heaven came to their assistance. a number of sea-gulls came flying around the boats, and many of them ventured so near that they seemed to say "please catch us." of course they were caught and killed, and although there was no way of cooking them, they were eaten by the hungry men as fast as they came. but a sea-gull is not a very fat bird, and again there was hunger, and not yet any sight of land. the big boat was a good sailor, but the small one could not keep up with her. therefore the men in the small boat asked that they might be taken on board the big one, so that they might either perish together or all be saved. the sailors in if warwick ever had such an idea in his mind, he was far too acute to entertain it for long. gardiner as a colleague would have been a very dangerous rival. the alternative was to assume the lead of the advanced wing of the progressive party. warwick, who died professing himself a devout catholic, had no difficulty in assimilating the jargon of the zealots, and convincing their honest enthusiasm that they might look upon him as a joshua, while he doubled the part with that of achan. to him, religion was not among the things that mattered; but religion might be made to serve its turn in forwarding his own ambitions.
hitherto the reformation in england had moved a good deal more closely along the lines laid down a hundred and fifty years before by wiclif than on those of luther or of calvin; approximating more nearly to the zurich school, though by no means identical with them. zurich had proved more attractive to english refugees also. but now the abolition of the penal laws in england, and the dissatisfaction caused by the augsburg interim in germany, brought into the country a number of foreigners, lutheran and calvinist as well as zwinglian, including on the one hand bucer and on the other john knox--besides returning english refugees. not a few of these foreign visitors were inspired with a lively missionary zeal, and the freedom of discussion permitted naturally caused debate and controversy to wax fast and furious. if the country in general found the concessions already made to the new learning somewhat larger than was quite to its taste, the followers of the new learning were very far from satisfied with them. and they were vocal exceedingly, if not precisely harmonious. it was very soon evident that the comprehensive ambiguity of the new book of common prayer was in the eyes of the reformers too liberal to the old catholics and not sufficiently advanced for the new protestants--controversy raging chiefly over two subjects, the first being the eucharist, and the second forms and ceremonies.
without attempting to examine the actual views on the former subject held at this time by cranmer--as to which critics appear able to form very positive but very contradictory conclusions--it may be quite safely asserted that he had quite definitely given up all belief in transubstantiation, but had not accepted the view most remote from it, that the service was purely commemorative. the varied range of intermediate views might be associated with either of these in a common form of service, but these extremes were evidently incompatible. one or other must be excluded. cranmer, his right-hand man ridley, and their associates, were all travelling towards the zwinglian position, whether they ultimately reached it or not. if there was to be any more defining, it was the followers of the old learning who would be shut out thereby.
it was much the same with forms and ceremonies. the extreme men, whether they looked to zurich or geneva for guidance, regarded nearly everything in the way of vestments and ceremonial as the trappings of the scarlet woman. the archbishop did not. where these things did not directly imply the truth of specific doctrines definitely discarded--the sacrifice of the mass, the worship of images, and the like--their preservation, in his view, tended to decency and reverence. here, again, it was evident that any changes must tend to the exclusion of the rigid catholics. they and the calvinists could not travel in the same boat.
the result is to be seen in the second prayer book of edward vi., in the new ordinal, and in the forty-two articles which, with slight modification, became the thirty-nine of queen elizabeth. warwick--otherwise northumberland--was with the extremists, who were vigorous and loud-voiced, and altogether exercised an amount of forcing-power quite disproportionate to the number of their adherents among the general public. if they had had their way, the re-modelling would have been on lines satisfactory to john knox. northumberland’s government would not have stood in the way. the lutheranism of germany and the augsburg confession was uncongenial. it was cranmer, ridley, and their adherents who succeeded in retaining for the church of england a form to which she could mould herself, after the marian régime, without returning to the roman obedience or adopting the scottish model. if that was a praiseworthy achievement, it is to cranmer primarily that the praise is rightfully due.
that is what cranmer did. from somerset’s record, it may reasonably be inferred that it is very much what he would have endeavoured to do if he had remained in power. but he did not have the opportunity, because he was not in power, and warwick cut his head off.
what cranmer would have liked to do, beyond what he did, is another matter, and may be gathered from his proposed reformatio legum ecclesiasticarum--a document which shows that, erastian though he was, he desired the clergy to have much ampler powers of jurisdiction than there was the faintest chance of the state delegating to them. it was an essay in constitution-making of a decidedly academic order: the machinery would never have worked. it does not reveal unsuspected qualities of constructive statesmanship; but it does not detract from the credit due to the manner in which the archbishop managed to steer the ship through very stormy waters with a mutinous crew on board. the performance was not, perhaps, masterly; but it is not extravagant praise to call it meritorious.
northumberland’s methods did not make him popular; but they made him powerful, and it was his primary object to place on the throne in succession to edward some one who should be his own puppet. to this end he devoted himself in the last months of the young king’s life. by henry viii.’s will, the succession was fixed first on mary, then on elizabeth, then on the greys--not suffolk himself, but his wife frances brandon and their children. the accession of mary could only mean destruction for northumberland. he could not be sure of elizabeth, who was now in her twentieth year. but he thought he could make quite sure of lady jane grey, who was hardly more than a child and had been brought up under pronounced protestant tutelage. his plan was to marry her to one of his own sons, induce edward to assume the authority formally granted to his father and name her his heir--ostensibly, of course, on the ground that both his sisters had been declared illegitimate and those judgments had not been revoked--and trust to intrigue and force to secure her on the throne. having won the king over, he succeeded in entangling several of the council in the conspiracy; the rest were then worked upon individually to give their adherence. one after another did so, reluctantly, till all were drawn in save hales--cranmer being the last, and assenting only on the positive assurance that the crown lawyers had guaranteed the constitutional validity of the instrument he was called upon to sign, and under direct personal pressure from the king. northumberland, however, had completely miscalculated the forces at work. he knew that the very signatories of the document could not be relied on when out of his reach; but having them under his grip, he thought himself safe. but the country rallied to mary; the troops deserted to her standard; the plot failed, ignominiously and utterly. mary was hailed queen; the arch-traitor was sent to the block; for the rest, only a few of those most conspicuously compromised were sent to the tower.
it was, of course, obvious at the outset that mary’s rule must mean the return to power of the party which had been in opposition under somerset and more actively repressed under his successor. the daughter of katharine of aragon was a convinced adherent of the entire roman position. that she would go so far as to restore the roman obedience might have been a matter of doubt; but, short of that, she was not likely to allow limits to reaction. gardiner and bonner, tunstal and day and heath, had all been imprisoned and deprived of their sees during the last four years; it was not likely that the advanced bishops would be allowed to retain their functions. and, beyond theological differences, some of them had been driven by the religious motive into open and vigorous support of lady jane grey’s succession. of cranmer himself the most that could be said was that he was an assenting party; but ridley, bishop of london, had committed himself to the cause in somewhat inflammatory language.
nevertheless, mary was in no haste to strike. every one who feared for his own skin was given time and opportunity to retire from the country--whereof not a few made haste to take advantage. ridley was arrested; but cranmer, latimer, and others who stood their ground manfully, might have gone if they would. after all, no catholics during the last reign had suffered anything worse than imprisonment, and mary’s leniency towards the participators in the rebellion may well have given an impression that retaliation would not go beyond the infliction of corresponding penalties.
cranmer, then, remained at large for a time. but a report was circulated that he was about to make submission, and had himself set up the mass again. had it not been for this, he might have hoped to be allowed to retire into obscurity; but the rumour stirred him to an indignant and uncompromising denial, which was promptly followed by his arrest for complicity in northumberland’s plot. the archbishop was by nature a sanguine man, but he can hardly have imagined that this protest of his would be allowed to pass; for it was practically a challenge to all and sundry who desired the mass to be restored. no government of the time would have dreamed of ignoring the action of its author.
even when he was safely in the tower along with ridley, the hopefulness of cranmer’s temperament displayed itself. he had an incurable conviction that any one who listened to him was bound to recognise the entire reasonableness of his views; and from prison he petitioned mary for leave to “open his mind” to her. that accomplished, he felt that he would have discharged his conscience and could retire from further controversy without reproach, even though he might fail to persuade his sovereign. the duty of conformity, in conduct at least, to the sovereign’s decrees, was, as already remarked, a cardinal belief with him.
the petition was not granted. moreover, the reign of clemency was destined to very brief duration. wyatt’s rebellion hardened the queen, whose determination to marry philip of spain strengthened pari passu with her determination to be reconciled with rome and to discharge her duty as a daughter of the church by bringing her subjects back to the fold. throughout 1554 signs accumulated, ominous of the coming storm. whatever mary’s original intent may have been, mercy to cranmer must have ceased to be a part of it at an early stage; though, if she had definitely resolved on his destruction, it is difficult to find an adequate explanation of the extreme prolongation of his imprisonment.
in april 1554, the three who were most obnoxious to mary and the reactionaries, cranmer, ridley, and latimer, were removed to oxford, to play their part in a great disputation. all three held their ground stoutly. it was pronounced, of course, that all three had been completely refuted, and were manifest heretics; but being thereupon invited to recant, they all refused. cranmer had been treated with considerable rudeness in the course of the debates; but the mildness and dignity of his bearing throughout were such that one of his chief antagonists, the prolocutor, dean weston, thanked him openly for his admirable behaviour.
this condemnation, however, was of no practical account, since, in 1554, the penal laws against heresy were not yet re-enacted. on the other hand, to punish cranmer for treason would be a palpable piece of pure vindictiveness. his treason, such as it was, had been shared by several of the men who were now on the council. but the arrival of pole and the formal reconciliation with rome at the close of the year were accompanied by the revival of the statute de heretico comburendo, and the great persecution opened in february with the burning of rogers. a twelvemonth more passed before the end came for cranmer himself. it is perhaps, after all, a sufficient explanation of the delay that the primate of england could only be condemned for heresy by the pope. other cases fell within the jurisdiction of the legatine or national ecclesiastical courts; his did not.
in september 1555, a papal commission sat in oxford to examine the case of the archbishop and report to rome for the pope to pass judgment. cranmer refused to recognise the jurisdiction, but made a declaration in answer to the questions put to him as coming from the queen’s proctors, who were on the commission. he maintained his views on the sacrament, and on the royal supremacy, and on the usurpations of rome; and justified his actions on all points in respect of which it had been impugned. the trial over, he followed up his defence by a vigorous address to the queen, asserting the utter incompatibility of any sovereign authority with the papal claims. on november 25 the pope pronounced his excommunication. in the meantime ridley and latimer had been condemned by a court under the authority of the legate, cardinal pole, on october 1, and on the 16th they suffered martyrdom--cranmer, it is said, witnessing the scene from the roof of his prison.
cranmer remained in prison, cut off from every sympathiser. it is easy to forget, but it should not be difficult to realise, the tremendous strain on a nature like his--sensitive, diffident, imaginative. all his life he had been surrounded and supported by the personal affection of friends. now, every conceivable incentive to doubt whether he had been in the right after all was set to work on him simultaneously. yet month followed month, and he remained steadfast--unless his expression of a desire to confer with tunstal or pole was a sign of weakening. before he could be handed over to the secular arm, his ecclesiastical degradation was necessary. the sentence was carried out with every circumstance of public ignominy--bonner, the principal performer, excelling himself in his coarse brutality. for a man with highstrung nerves, the thing must have been simply shattering.
at the ceremony (february 14) he had drawn from his sleeve an appeal from the pope to a general council; and about this time he signed in close succession what are called four recantations. two of them probably preceded the degradation; the other two bonner extracted from him on february 15. none of them are recantations at all. they are submissions to the authority of the sovereign, to whom he had always taught that submission is due. he had obeyed his own conscience in contravention of his own theory hitherto; now, he returned to the theory, and owned that if the secular sovereign willed to establish papal authority, obedience was still due. as to doctrine he recanted nothing. but this was not nearly enough for mary and pole, who were bent on extracting something which should altogether discredit the cause of the reformation.
within ten days the writ for his burning was issued. then, before three more weeks had passed cranmer broke down under the strain, writing first a full and complete recantation of every impugned doctrine, and then one more--dictated to him (march 18). no man ever repudiated his whole past in terms more ignominious. his enemies had what they wanted; if they had stopped there and pardoned him, the force of the blow would have been incalculable. but their thirst for his blood gave him the chance of salvation, changing their victory to hopeless rout. they did not pardon. they demanded from the victim the public confirmation from his own lips of the recantations he had written and signed. that one disastrous moment of weakness was to be gloriously redeemed.
three days after his fall, on a morning of foul march weather, cranmer was conveyed from his prison to listen himself to his own funeral discourse and then to play his own allotted part. no suspicion seems to have crossed the mind of his gaolers that there was anything for them to fear. the oration over--he had listened with frequent tears--he was bidden to make public avowal of his recantation. he arose; he confessed the grievousness of his sin, entreating pardon before the throne of omnipotence. and then he declared the nature of his sin. before those about him could realise what was happening, he had recanted his recantation, declaring the truth of all he had before upheld, and proclaiming, “as my hand offended in writing contrary to my heart, therefore my hand shall first be punished. for if i may come to the fire, it shall first be burned.” hastily he was silenced, and hurried to the stake; but of his own will he moved so swiftly that the confessors could scarce keep pace with him. and when, indeed, he “came to the fire” he fulfilled his words. men saw him thrust the offending right hand into the flame, and hold it there till it was consumed.
so tragically, so triumphantly, closed the drama of cranmer’s life--surely a close fitted for “purging the passions through pity and fear.” a vase of fine porcelain whirled into the eddies in company with pots of brass and stoneware; a scholar, dragged from academic cloisters to control a revolution; a man with a receptive mind, when receptivity was about as dangerous a quality, for himself, as he could possess. a man whom men have ventured to call craven, yet who alone of his contemporaries dared to remonstrate with cromwell in his policy and with the eighth henry in the day of his wrath, and that not once, nor twice. a man who endured till the eleventh hour, and then--fell.
but a man who, ere the twelfth hour had struck, rose up the victor.
william cecil, lord burghley
the ministers of queen elizabeth
william cecil was born in 1520. he lived to the age of seventy-eight, dying in the same year as philip ii. of spain, who was five years his junior. his political connexion began before henry viii. was in his grave; and for more than fifty years it continued, except for his retirement from the public eye during the complete period of the marian persecution. even in his old age, when his son robert was already becoming, in his own crafty fashion, the most important person in queen elizabeth’s council, the father was still the adviser on whom she leaned in the last resort. for forty years he was, in fact, the mainstay of her government. for twenty of those years--roughly from 1569 to 1589--a man of even higher ability, in some respects, than himself, francis walsingham, was his loyal colleague. they served the cleverest, the most successful, and the most exasperating princess who ever sat upon a throne. both of them--especially walsingham--told her home-truths on occasion; both of them--especially walsingham--she on occasion abused like a billingsgate fish-wife. but all three were unfailingly loyal to each other; and among them they raised england to the forefront of the nations of christendom.
to establish orderly government at home, to settle a religious modus vivendi, to avoid war, and to prevent the succession of mary stewart or any pronounced catholic--these were the main aims on which elizabeth and her two great ministers were united. of the three, walsingham--a puritan--was the least devoted to the peace policy, elizabeth the most determined on that policy; yet it was elizabeth who habitually endangered it. the queen’s tortuous methods, pursued in defiance of her counsellors, more than once seemed to have brought her to a point where war was inevitable; yet time after time her ingenuity, or her lucky star, or a return just in time to cecil’s guidance, saved the situation. never has a sovereign been better served; never has there been a reign in which rulers and ruled worked in more essential concord. idealism and common sense were united in the conduct of affairs with a completeness which has rarely, if ever, been paralleled--never have the toils of the men of counsel and the men of action been more effectively combined. and england was peculiarly fortunate in this--that the great antagonist whom finally she fought and overthrew could be thoroughly relied on always to miss the opportunity for which he was always waiting, always to move only when the moment had passed irrevocably. so england was the victor in the great duel; and the stewarts found her might established on a basis so firm that even they were unable to pull it down.
that result was not due to any one mind--to any single guide. elizabeth, her ministers, her seamen, and her people, all contributed their share; and the work was crowned by the glory of her poets. burghley may not have been personally a statesman of the highest rank, though if he is not included in that category it is a little difficult to name any englishman who is entitled to that honour. there is a certain commonplace, bourgeois touch about him; he stands for the common sense, not the idealist, side, in the combination which made england great. his virtues were those of the successful pursuers of the via media. he did not organise revolution: he did not dream of an empire on which the sun should never set. but he played the political game with unfailing loyalty to his sovereign and his country, with level-headed shrewdness, with imperturbable resolution. there are few men to whom england owes so much; and if there be those to whom she owes more, their deeds but for him would yet have been impossible.
cecil under edward vi. and mary
in the reign of henry vii., richard sitsilt, affirmed by tradition to be of an ancient welsh family long established among the gentry of the marches, owned broad acres in the counties of monmouth and herefordshire. one of his sons, david, who elected to modify his name into cecil, transferred himself to lincolnshire, where he prospered greatly. he and his son richard became very large landed proprietors, and held a variety of offices connected with the court under henry viii. so it would appear that the present marquess of salisbury is not unconnected by descent with the “celtic fringe.” it must be admitted, however, that the notable qualities of his great ancestor are not those usually associated with what is supposed to be the celtic temperament. still in that connexion a rather curious point may be touched on. a critic has recently remarked that there is a type of statesmanship which we are in the habit of regarding as peculiarly english (à propos of l’hôpital), naming in a brief list both burghley and cromwell--oliver, apparently, not thomas. now oliver was descended from the sister of thomas, whose husband was a welshman, and whose son chose to adopt the maternal patronymic instead of his father’s name, which was williams. so wales has some title to claim the tudors, the cecils, and the great oliver among her contributions to “english” celebrities.
william cecil was born in 1520, and when in due course he went to cambridge, he became a member of a distinguished group of scholars which included roger ascham, afterwards tutor of lady jane grey and of elizabeth; john cheke, who became the tutor of edward vi., and whose sister was cecil’s first wife; and nicholas bacon, who married the sister of cecil’s second wife. william cecil married mary cheke in 1541: she died in less than two years, after bearing him one son, thomas, afterwards lord exeter. nearly three years later he married mildred, daughter of sir anthony cooke, the “governor” of prince edward--a young lady of portentous learning, whose name roger ascham coupled with that of jane grey. thus cecil himself was not only well versed in the most progressive learning of his time, but his chosen associates, including both the first and the second wife, were all distinguished for erudition--and all, it may be remarked, tinged with the “new learning” in the specific ecclesiastical sense of the term.
when somerset fell in 1549 cecil was still some way short of thirty; but he had an old head on his young shoulders--and he had every intention of keeping it there. he had no personal devotion to somerset or to his policy, and had carefully avoided quarrelling with anybody. when he perceived that the ship was scuttled, he had no compunction about making sure of leaving it in a decent and orderly manner before it sank. he did not quite desert; he remained with the protector in the discharge of his duties, while very nearly every one else was making a parade of sympathy with the cabal who obviously held the winning cards; but he remained there in careful obscurity--the personal secretary, not the partisan. he did not escape a brief imprisonment in the tower; no doubt he had counted on that. but warwick was perfectly aware of his power of making himself useful, and saw no possible reason why he should not avail himself thereof--nor did cecil. competent officials were few, and of these some had already put themselves out of court, in warwick’s eyes, either by having supported somerset too boldly or by displaying doubtful religious leanings. the former secretary of somerset had not made himself obnoxious in any quarter; and in the following september (1550) he emerged again into public life in a more responsible position than before, as secretary of state.
the political waters were, to say the least, unquiet; there was no telling when squalls might be coming. personal intrigues were rife. cecil had no ambition to grasp the tiller under these conditions. he was ready to give advice to the best of his ability; he was ready to carry out instructions, whether they accorded with his advice or not; but he was not disposed to give orders on his own account--his ambition was not of the vaulting sort. his business was to keep his own footing, whether others did so or no; he would take no risks unless his own life were endangered by refusing them--every man must take care of himself. if warwick chose to insist on a policy which the secretary disapproved--alliance with france abroad, or debasement of coinage at home--that was warwick’s business, not the secretary’s: what he had to do was to carry out the policy imposed on him, with the maximum of efficiency and the minimum of friction, without allowing himself to be identified with the policy or with antagonism to it.
as the young king’s death drew manifestly near, the intrigues of northumberland, as warwick had now become, thickened. sir william--he had been knighted at the end of 1551--did not like intrigues; but in spite of seasonable illness, which may have been genuine, he could not altogether avoid being dragged in, and was obliged--like all the rest of the council--to append his signature to the document nominating lady jane grey heir to the throne. he averred afterwards that he signed only as a witness--a statement more ingenious than ingenuous. still, he took care that there should be evidence from unofficial quarters that he would have avoided signing if he could, and that so far as he was formally a participator in northumberland’s plot it was with no goodwill to its success--which, indeed, was the attitude of several other signatories, who did their best to upset the scheme the moment they felt safe in doing so. cranmer, however, the most reluctant of any of them, had no such double-dealing in his mind, and made no attempt to evade the responsibility when he had once assumed it, though he had been tricked into acquiescence by a lie.
it is only fair, in judging cecil’s conduct through these years, to remember that he was only in his twenty-seventh year when somerset became protector, and in his thirty-third year when queen mary succeeded. warwick made him secretary of state eight days before his thirtieth birthday. of course, if the errors he committed had been errors of youth, he would have won easy forgiveness; yet in some respects his excessive caution may reasonably be attributed to his youth. he had every excuse for arguing that a real control must be out of his reach for many years, and that till it came within his reach he was not called upon to insist on his own views. in those days the servants of the state did not resign--the remark has been made before--they carried out the policy imposed on them from above. he was content, therefore, to bide his time, and for the present to do the political drudgery for somerset or northumberland, while he avoided committing himself personally to anybody or anything. this course was not one which permitted the exercise of generosity or magnanimity; it completely eschewed the idea of self-sacrifice; but it was a course which he could and did pursue without ever fairly laying himself open to the charge of treachery, or incurring the faintest suspicion of what is called corruption. if he was guided by considerations of personal advantage, it was not in the sense that any one could bid successfully for his support.
so when northumberland’s plot collapsed ignominiously, cecil, although a protestant and officially opposed to gardiner, had no difficulty in making his peace with the new government. only, the political seas being stormier than ever, he had no inclination either to head an opposition or to take a prominent place among the queen’s ministers. he was too much of a protestant for that, though not too much so to conform and “bow himself in the house of rimmon.” in short, he courted an obscurity from which the government had no desire to extract him--though it is probable that if he had chosen to offer himself as an instrument for mary’s use, she would have availed herself of him readily enough. but it was one thing to pass from somerset’s employ to warwick’s, and another to pass from northumberland’s to mary’s. besides, by keeping in the background now he could quietly establish himself in the confidence of the probable successor to the throne, the princess elizabeth. being a member of the parliament of 1556, he therein openly opposed sundry government measures which were hotly resisted by the house of commons, but even then he behaved with circumspection and did not suffer for his conduct. his real business was with elizabeth; and when the crisis came, and mary died, the members of the council who hastened to hatfield found cecil already installed as her prime minister elect, with the scheme for carrying on the government completely organised.
foreign affairs at elizabeth’s accession
sir william had bided his time, and that time had arrived. on the throne was a young woman of five-and-twenty, who had already shown a skill akin to cecil’s own in the avoidance of fatally compromising words or acts under circumstances when the utmost wariness had been the constant condition of safety. she had maintained her protestantism in precisely the same way and in very much the same degree as he had done; moreover, she was bound for her own sake to maintain it, since her personal claim to legitimate birth was bound up with the rejection of papal authority. cecil had received her confidence, it may be, in part, because she was aware that she could afford to indulge her own waywardness more freely while she had so eminently safe a counsellor as a stand-by. he, for his part, was doubtless fully satisfied that she had intelligence enough to recognise that he was indispensable to her, and that in the main their views of policy would harmonise. the young man had held aloof from intrigues and had declined all temptations to grasp at dangerous power, not from lack of ambition or of patriotism, but because the power would have been too dearly bought and its foundations too unstable. now, while he was still in the prime of life, yet of ripe experience, power lay ready for him to grasp--power to guide england in the courses which he believed would serve her best interests; power to cure the evils from which she had been suffering for many a year past; power to avert those which menaced her in the future; power which, once achieved, he was not likely to lose unless by his own blundering. he knew his own capacity. to refuse power under such conditions would have been not caution but pusillanimity.
it may be that the account of cecil’s public life during the reigns of edward and mary gives an impression merely that he was an exceedingly astute young man with no principles to speak of. if so, that view must be corrected. he valued himself on his own complete integrity, and would have done nothing which he recognised as inconsistent therewith. he had principles, but not enthusiasms. in politics, as in religion, he had his own opinions, but in both he admitted a very large body of adiaphora, things which were not questions of principle, though regarded as such by persons afflicted with enthusiasms. on all such matters, passive or even active conformity to the policy of de facto rulers was permissible. he was ready to go to mass, but not to take a part in the suppression of protestantism. he would assent to northumberland’s plot, but he would not further it. his integrity drew a line--lower than a person of finer moral susceptibilities would have drawn it, but with sufficient firmness and decision, and higher than most of his more prominent contemporaries. he did not feel called upon to swim against a stream which would overwhelm him if he did so; but he made for a backwater. it is often difficult to judge when and where courage becomes rashness, and prudence cowardice. on the whole, he was more inclined to be too prudent than too bold; but it was not because he lacked courage. his conduct might on occasion, though rarely, be charged as disloyal; it could never fairly be called treacherous. he was convinced that as a general rule honesty is the best policy, and justice is the best policy; but in the exceptional cases where he thought they were not, he chose--the best policy. the principles of his mistress were the same; but she deviated from the mean of resolute caution more markedly and more erratically than her minister; she was more readily rash and more easily frightened; her criterion of justice was lax, and her sense of honesty very nearly non-existent.
after the event, when the developments of a particular situation have taken place, it is always difficult to realise the aspect the situation itself presented to the statesman who had to deal with it. still, the attempt has to be made.
almost from time immemorial until the reign of henry viii. antagonism between england and france was traditional; through great part of that period, alliance between england and the house of burgundy had also been traditional, being largely based on the immense importance of the commercial intercourse between the low countries and england. during henry viii.’s reign, wolsey and the king had broken away from the theory of animosity to france, but neither of them had held the burgundian friendship cheap, and popular sentiment had lost very little of its anti-gallic flavour. further, we are apt not to bear in mind that, for forty years past, spain, burgundy, and the empire had been combined under one head; the importance of burgundy as a factor in the relations with charles escapes our attention. more or less unconsciously, we think almost exclusively of france and the empire; as in the coming period we think almost exclusively of france and spain.
on the other hand, antagonism between french and english interests was acute. england, drawn into a french war in mary’s reign, had just lost her last foothold on french soil--calais, which she had held for three hundred years; and though the loss might not be of great political or strategical consequence, its importance was magnified by popular sentiment. but apart from this: the young queen of scots had married the french dauphin, only in this same year; and as a mere question of legitimacy, there was no possible doubt that her title to the throne of england was very much better than that of elizabeth, who had been declared illegitimate by the english courts of justice, which judgment had never been formally reversed. the natural outcome of this marriage would be to bind france and scotland together in all and more than all the intimacy of that ancient alliance between them which for three centuries had been a thorn in the side of english kings. beyond that, the future queen of france and scotland would have a very much more tenable claim to the throne of england than ever an english king had had to the throne of france. moreover, there was a special danger threatening under the existing circumstances. mary was half a guise by birth; her guise mother was now regent in scotland; she was almost wholly guise by breeding. the presumption was enormous that the ascendency of that powerful and ambitious family in france and their influence in scotland would become more dominant than ever; the guises were strongly anti-english, and it was the head of that house who had just achieved the galling triumph at calais; while the fanatical catholics looked to them as their leaders. a more active animosity, therefore, towards protestantism was to be anticipated from france than from spain.
the spanish minister in england, naturally enough under these conditions, took it for granted that the countenance of philip was what the new government would most urgently need--that he would merely have to speak and his instructions would be humbly obeyed. to his extreme astonishment, he discovered that nothing was further from cecil’s mind. cecil and his mistress signified quite clearly that they would judge for themselves whether they would take his advice or not. at any rate, they were going to do a good many things entirely regardless of their being in flat opposition to his wishes. the spaniard declared to his master that queen and minister were rushing headlong to destruction; but they were doing nothing of the kind. what cecil saw was that philip could not at any price afford to withdraw his countenance from elizabeth; because the only alternative to elizabeth was mary stewart, and in that case mary would unite the crowns of france, england, and scotland. if france moved against england to the danger of elizabeth’s throne, philip would have no choice but to interfere on behalf of the queen--she need not buy support which he could not afford to withhold. he might call the tune, but she need not dance to it unless it suited her.
within a short period, the french king, henry ii., was mortally injured in a tournament. the dauphin succeeded, and his wife became queen of france, as well as of scotland. then the situation was modified by the death of francis and the accession of charles ix. to the throne, and to power of the queen-mother, catherine de medici, and the middle party who came to be known by the title of the “politiques.” with them the guises were out of favour, and could no longer count on wielding the power of france to advance mary’s interests; yet their popularity and strength in the country were still sufficient to keep the chance of their recovering their ascendency as a menace which philip could not disregard. the change, in short, cut both ways: it was not quite so imperative for philip that he should support elizabeth, but then it was not so necessary for elizabeth to have his support.
domestic and scottish policy
now, as concerned domestic affairs, two matters were of first-rate importance. one was religion; the other finance.
it was evidently quite necessary that a definite religious settlement should be arrived at, and that it must be one in which there was a reasonable prospect of the majority of englishmen concurring. there were fervent adherents of the papacy as restored by mary; these were not very numerous. there were fervent adherents of extreme swiss doctrines, calvinistic or zwinglian; these were also few. there were many who, like gardiner in early days, had no love for the papacy, but clung to traditional doctrines and ritual; there were not quite so many who might be called perhaps moderately evangelical; there were a very great many more who troubled their heads very little one way or another, and were what we should describe as high or low, pretty much according to their environment. the extreme reformers had very nearly but not quite succeeded in carrying the day during northumberland’s ascendency; the extreme catholics had just had their turn under mary. the extremists on both sides were intolerant, and it was quite obvious that the triumph of either would drive many moderates into joining the other extreme, and would keep the country in a state of violent unrest, or, at the best, of sullen submission. the experiment of trying to maintain traditional doctrine and ritual with the minimum of modification, while repudiating the roman authority, had been tried under henry; and it was fairly clear that a simple return to henry’s standards was impracticable. the course which cecil laid down was to adopt a compromise in which the great majority could at any rate acquiesce; a compromise which, while insisting on conformity, allowed of a very considerable latitude of interpretation; which would still pass, in many quarters where it did not satisfy; which was in short politically adequate. cecil himself would probably have had no quite insuperable objection either to attending mass or to sitting at communion; but a compromise which allowed of either course would also probably have found a less general acceptance than one which excluded both.
hardly less important was the restoration of financial stability. twelve years before, king henry had left matters in sufficiently ill-plight. the government could not, perhaps, be held responsible for the existence of severe agricultural depression; but, for its aggravation, the newly developed class of landlords was largely to blame, while no one but somerset had attempted to hold them in check. in the general ferment, commercial honesty had been on the downgrade. among financial officials, corruption had been rampant; and henry set the example of one of the grossest forms of dishonesty by debasing the coinage, paying his debts, when he did pay them, in the debased coin. hence in commercial circles credit was bad, while abroad the national credit was exceedingly low; and the national exchequer was almost empty. through the last two reigns, matters had gone from bad to worse. cecil took the finances in hand with solid systematic common sense. a rigid supervision of expenditure and stoppage of waste took the place of the prevailing laxity. men of probity were employed by the government as its financial agents. the debased coins were called in, and the new currency issued was of a standard which had never been surpassed. loans were repaid with punctuality, and debts discharged. almost at once, it followed that fresh loans could be raised at reasonable rates of interest, instead of at the ruinous charges which edward and mary had to pay; before long, it was hardly necessary to seek for them abroad--the merchants at home were ready and willing to come forward. confidence was restored under a steady government.
cecil’s economy may have verged on parsimony, and his mistress was as sharp in money matters as her grandfather; hard things are always said of a government which takes peace and retrenchment for its motto. but peace and retrenchment were a stern necessity, and in many respects the parsimony has been exaggerated; at any rate, the expenditure was thoroughly well directed. later in the reign it would probably have been sound policy to spend more, particularly in ireland, where efficiency was sacrificed to economy; but outside of ireland the nation got good value for every penny of outlay. in finance, as in other matters, cecil habitually followed the maxims of caution. consistently with this attitude, we do not find him striking out new economic theories. he believed, as nearly every one believed three hundred years ago, that new industries had very little chance of being established without the artificial stimulus of monopolies and patents to prevent competition--a system which always appeals most convincingly to the monopolist, but less convincingly to the consumer and the would-be competitor, as elizabeth found before the end of the reign. whatever we may think of the methods adopted to foster and encourage trade and the development of new industries, cecil is at least entitled to full credit for recognising that this was the direction in which the compensation and the remedy for agricultural depression were to be sought.
the subject of the secretary’s financial reforms has carried us on to a general account of principles which were only gradually illustrated in the progress of the reign. the third question which engaged his immediate activities on elizabeth’s accession was the policy to be followed in dealing with scotland.
traditionally, scotland was the friend of france and the enemy of england; from which it followed in a general way that scottish malcontents habitually looked to england for open or secret countenance, and very commonly got it. to foster divisions in scotland was one way of preventing her from becoming too actively dangerous a neighbour, and the plan had been very sedulously followed, especially throughout the reign of henry viii. the scottish clerics since the days of bruce had always been strongly anti-english, a term which was almost equivalent to nationalist. both james and david beton had been especially hostile; while, during the progress of the reformation, the cardinal was a rigorous and cruel persecutor of heresy. henry, with all his pride of orthodoxy, had no objection to heresy in the northern kingdom, where protestant and mal-content were nearly synonymous. had england devoted her attention simply to giving the protestants such support as would have secured them a predominance conditional on the support being maintained, diplomacy might have achieved the union of the crowns by the marriage of king edward to his cousin of scotland; but henry and somerset between them, by the re-assertion of english sovereignty and by the appeal to arms, had roused in protestants as well as catholics the nationalist sentiment which would not endure subjection to england at any price. the child-queen had been carried off to france and betrothed to the dauphin; and in the years that passed before the actual marriage the catholics had held the mastery; mary of guise was regent, and her power was maintained by french support and french troops. thus the scots began to realise that there was a danger, when their own queen should be queen of france also, that scotland might become an appendage of france. scotland was no more willing to be subject to france than to be subject to england.
thus it was again open to cecil to adopt the policy, not of exercising a direct english domination, but of establishing a protestant domination, which would in the nature of things be favourable to england and unfavourable to france--a policy which fitted in precisely with that of establishing a comprehensive protestantism in england, to which he was committed on other counts. he could rely, as we have already noted, on the fact that philip, however reluctant, would be compelled to check aggressive interference on the part of france, if carried beyond the limit at which england could cope with it unaided. this, therefore, was the keynote of his scottish policy--to avoid the blunder of seeming to threaten scotland’s independence, to maintain friendly relations with the scottish protestants, and to help them to a predominance which should yet depend for its security on the goodwill of england.
it was not till december 1560, that the death of francis deprived mary of the french crown. during these first two years of elizabeth’s reign, philip was kept in play partly by a pretence of negotiations for the queen’s marriage to his kinsman the austrian archduke charles; while the scottish protestants, or lords of the congregation, as their chiefs were called, were flattered by the idea of her marriage with james hamilton, earl of arran, who then stood next in succession to the scottish throne--a scheme of which the real motive was the possibility of dethroning mary in his favour. but the real business was to get the french out of scotland. cecil at last manœuvred his mistress into sending armed assistance to the lords of the congregation; the french garrison was cooped up in leith; in may 1560, sir william went to scotland himself to negotiate; in june mary of guise died, and in the beginning of july the treaty of edinburgh secured the protestant ascendency in scotland, and removed the french garrison for ever. although queen mary refused to ratify the instrument, consistently declining formally to withdraw her claim to the throne of england unless she were equally formally recognised as heir presumptive, cecil’s great object was achieved, in spite of elizabeth’s vacillations.
thirteen months later, mary, an eighteen-year-old widow, landed in scotland. during the seven troublous years she passed in that country, cecil’s policy remained the same--to support scottish protestantism, to prevent mary from making a marriage that would be dangerous to england. it is hardly necessary to say that the methods were never qualified by any touch of magnanimity--that the interests of england solely were considered, those of scotland disregarded. how much of what went on, on the part of england, was cecil’s doing and how much elizabeth’s, cannot well be decided. they may or may not have intended the darnley marriage to take place. they did encourage moray’s revolt on that occasion, and then repudiate responsibility for it. they knew something--how much is uncertain--about the rizzio murder, before it took place. generally, we can be tolerably confident that cecil, unfettered, would have given moray a more stable support throughout than it pleased his mistress to permit. it was elizabeth’s standing rule to object vehemently to being considered as having committed herself to anything by any words or acts in which she might have indulged.
cecil and protestantism
cecil had been successful in turning the french out of scotland. he held steadily, and the queen held unsteadily, to the conviction that spain would not move against england for two reasons--one, that the triumph of the scots queen would be too advantageous to france; the other, that the existing commercial war with the low countries, while bad enough for english trade, was threatening to ruin flanders, and could hardly fail to do so if any further burden were added. france, on the other hand, was not likely to be actively dangerous independently, so long as neither catholics nor huguenots could lay the opposing party prostrate. nevertheless, cecil had to be constantly on guard against the risk of a catholic combination. if mary placed herself under the ægis of philip, and the guises and their following got his active support in france--if he played to the french catholics the part which england was playing to the scottish protestants--he might reckon himself free of the fear of french advancement. the thing was not a probability, but it was a chance against which england had to be on the watch. every time, however, that a crisis of this kind threatened, or that a spanish ambassador hinted that his master would feel himself driven into active antagonism, the secretary refused to be frightened; direct threats always stiffened his mistress; and his calculation turned out correct.
at the bottom of cecil’s whole system of foreign policy was the theory that philip as lord of burgundy could not, for commercial reasons, afford to quarrel with england, and as king of spain was tied by the danger of strengthening france. spain, then, was not to be feared, but france might be; this, however, would be conditional on the huguenots being decisively crushed--a consummation not desired by catherine and the politiques; but this, in turn, required that the french huguenots should have enough support from england to maintain their power of resistance, if not their domination. as time went on, and the protestant netherlands found themselves in open armed resistance to philip, it was in just the same way necessary for england to keep them from being crushed. cecil saw the necessity of thus abetting the protestants in scotland, france, and the netherlands; and, being a genuine protestant if not an over-ardent one, did not dislike it. elizabeth saw the necessity also, but as in each case the protestants were subjects acting in opposition to the government, she did dislike it, and lost no opportunity of making the support she gave as ungracious, as niggardly, and as precarious as she dared, while she perpetually kept up a sort of pretence to herself as well as to others that she was not really helping those whom she called rebels. yet without the help that was wrung from her, it is doubtful whether in france, in the netherlands, or even in scotland, the issue of the struggles during her reign would not have been materially different.
now cecil’s ideal was one of sober and opulent respectability; he was not troubled with any notion that the pope was the scarlet woman; he held generally to the view that subjects ought to conform to the religion prescribed by government. but where the views which he himself held were not prescribed but proscribed, decency compelled sympathy with the sufferers. besides, the suppression of protestantism outside of england would inevitably mean its suppression in england also, in course of time. he was thoroughly satisfied that protestantism was best for england, and thus, although he had no abstract interest in what might be good for other countries, for england’s sake he was satisfied that protestantism must not be suppressed elsewhere. this was the mark up to which he had to keep the queen--who, for her part, was quite aware that the security of her throne depended on her sustaining the part laid down for her. but cecil’s minimum was her maximum, whereas his maximum--with which she would have nothing to do--was the minimum that would have satisfied her other great minister, walsingham.
elizabeth, we may put it, felt that protestantism was a political necessity for her personal government. she did not feel strongly that it would still be a necessity for england when she should be in her grave. cecil did; while for walsingham it was a necessity per se. therefore, to elizabeth the settlement of the succession was a political counter of which she did not choose to be deprived; while to her ministers the delay of it was a perpetual nightmare, because it meant a constant fear of the accession of mary stewart--a prospect even more threatening after she had left scotland than while she was a reigning queen. herein is to be found one of the reasons why elizabeth was not anxious to get rid of a prisoner round whom--dangerous though mary might be--she could weave intrigues and negotiations as well as her opponents; whereas cecil and walsingham would always have been pleased to find any decent excuse for eliminating the scots queen from the situation. in the same way, the ministers wanted their own queen to make a suitable marriage, whereas she herself used matrimonial negotiations merely as tricks for circumventing crises, and probably never at any time really intended to wed any one among the numerous suitors, of whom the last did not finally disappear till she was in her fiftieth year. there is no practical doubt that at one time, early in the reign, cecil was himself so much perturbed on the question of the succession as to have made a move in co-operation with nicholas bacon to get katharine grey--sister of lady jane, and now married to lord hertford--recognised officially as heir presumptive in accordance with the terms of the will of henry viii.; for which he very nearly got into serious trouble. also, it was many years before the secretary really felt thoroughly free from the fear, which elizabeth enjoyed holding in suspense over his head, that she might some day throw policy to the winds and court ruin by marrying robert dudley, earl of leicester.
elizabeth’s second period
the year 1568 and those immediately following had a very material effect on the general situation. in the first place, the queen of scots delivered herself into elizabeth’s hands, having already forfeited some of her chances of foreign support by her marriage with bothwell. in the second place, the disaffected provinces of the netherlands were driven into open revolt. broadly speaking, it may be said that from this time forward philip always wished to crush elizabeth, while he would not involve himself in war with england until he could reckon on crushing her decisively. there was always the possibility of an anglo-french combination, involving huguenot predominance in france; and in that event the fleets of the two powers would command his only line of communication with the netherlands. so that on the one hand spaniards are found, throughout mary’s captivity, engaged in plot after plot for her liberation and enthronement in england; while on the other, philip is obliged to swallow one affront after another, and to vary threats of utter destruction with elaborate efforts to placate the queen of england. cecil--lord burghley, as he became in 1571--was no less anxious to avoid war, but was also determined to go as far as might be, short of war, in support of the insurgent provinces; while steadily accumulating the evidence of spanish complicity in marian plots, to be produced as an effective answer to any complaints that england was abetting treason in the netherlands, or her seamen committing acts of war in the spanish main or the west indian islands.
the protestantism of the government stiffened inevitably with the development of catholic plots centring on mary, the atrocities perpetrated by alva in the netherlands, the cruelties practised by the spanish inquisition on english sailors who fell into its hands, and the blundering papal bull of deposition--which, in fact, embarrassed philip a good deal more than it injured the queen of england. this singularly impolitic act of the roman pontiff, emphasising the direct antagonism, not to say the irreconcilability, of loyalty to the throne and loyalty to the church, sufficed in itself to bring all catholics under suspicion of being at heart traitors--in the technical sense; pledged by their faith to desire, if not actively to compass, the overthrow of the reigning queen. preceded, as it was, by the insurrection of the northern catholic earls in mary’s favour, and followed by the ridolfi conspiracy, it is difficult to perceive how the queen’s government could have done otherwise than assume that to be a catholic was to be disaffected. nor is it possible to imagine that, after the appalling st. bartholomew massacres of 1572, anti-catholic sentiment in the country was not intensified to a white heat.
the people of england had a further grievance against spain, inasmuch as she had taken possession of the wealth of the new world, and meant to keep it for herself--whereas the english desired a share. throughout the later sixties and the seventies, english adventurers were engaged in making good their claims, in spite of nominal peace and law, by force of arms, raiding spanish settlements or compelling local authorities to allow them to trade in defiance of all injunctions from headquarters. technically, at least, these proceedings amounted to piracy, and if the spaniards had been content to treat their perpetrators as pirates, it would have been extremely difficult to protest. having an almost incontrovertible case, the spaniards elected to put themselves in the wrong by punishing their prisoners--when they caught them--not as pirates but as heretics, gratuitously introducing the religious factor. even in 1568 english sailors, under such captains as john hawkins, had learnt to feel that ship for ship they were very much more than a match for spanish galleons. thus the most adventurous and most irrepressible class in the community was athirst to measure its strength with the spaniard, and found no difficulty in convincing itself that to do so was a religious duty. the spirit of rivalry, greed of wealth, and sheer love of adventure, formed a sufficiently strong combination of motives; zeal against the persecutors of true religion gave them a colour which satisfied any but the most fastidious consciences.
now, it will be easy to see from the foregoing paragraphs that already in 1568 enough had occurred to inflame popular feeling against spain. there were the doings of the spanish inquisition in respect of english sailors. there was, amongst other grievances, the attack on john hawkins at san juan d’ulloa. there was alva’s tyranny in the netherlands. in france, no one could tell whether huguenots or catholics were going to get the upper hand; but philip was fully committed to the suppression of heresy within his own dominions, and outside them as well so far as it might lie in his power. during the next four years, every event of importance went to intensify the sentiment against spain, to which, and not to france, the ridolfi plot pointed as mary’s ally. on the other hand, it was evident at once, when elizabeth was able to detain in her own ports for her own use the treasure which was on its way up channel to help alva, that for the time philip was too heavily hampered to be able to turn his full strength against england; and as time went on it became increasingly clear that spain could not, with the netherlands revolt on her hands, contemplate an english war with equanimity. even saint bartholomew did not divert the hostile sentiment in the direction of france, since still after the massacre it was difficult to say whether the french nation should be identified with the party of the perpetrators rather than with that of the victims.
at the lowest estimate, then, there was a mass of feeling in the country which could very easily have been fanned into a blaze of indignation, imperatively demanding open defiance of spain, vigorous support of the netherlands and of the huguenots--in short, immediate war instead of the chance of war in the future. but the queen and burghley were determined to avoid war; and for nearly twenty years they succeeded. burghley’s own primary conviction was that amity between burgundy and england was of such enormous importance to both that considerations of policy would prevent philip, as they had prevented his father, from being dragged into war by considerations of religious zeal. protestantism--so much of it, at least, as was necessary--could be saved, probably without adopting heroic courses; and in any case, if a duel should ultimately prove inevitable, every year that it was deferred would tell in favour of england, which was daily growing in wealth, in stability, and in efficiency; and against spain, which was constantly subjected to the exhausting strain of war in the low countries and war with the turk.
ultimate friendship with spain, on the basis of immunity for unaggressive protestantism, mutual toleration, and unfettered trade, was broadly the ideal for which burghley worked; to achieve it, he was ready to bring to bear any amount of pressure which would not actually precipitate war. but it was part of the policy always to make sure that there was, at any rate, technical justification for everything done by the english government. this technical correctness is particularly characteristic of the man. while elizabeth herself and nearly every man in her court, were all shareholders, or in some degree interested, in the privateering expeditions of drake and other captains, burghley held himself rigidly aloof from them, and never made a penny of personal profit in that way. he had no moral qualms about seizing the genoese treasure in 1568--that was merely an arrangement by which the bankers lent to england money which they had intended to lend to spain; if it inconvenienced spain, spain should not have seized the english ships in her harbours. but when drake came home after sailing round the world, with vast quantities of captured treasure in the golden hind, burghley stigmatised the whole proceedings as piratical, declined any share of the spoil, and would have had it restored to spain.
in fact, for a dozen years after saint bartholomew, while burghley and the queen had the same main object in view, though others of the council were urgent in favour of her presenting herself openly as the champion of protestantism, burghley’s difficulties were mainly of elizabeth’s creating. to all appearance, she was in a state of ceaseless vacillation--now on the verge of a shameful betrayal of orange, now on the brink of a french marriage, now on the point of announcing her readiness to head a league of protestants, now of allowing them to take their chance with the preposterous alençon as their figure-head, while she stood aside, and anon dangling her matrimonial bait before that luckless and incapable prince as a preferable alternative. burghley, walsingham, all her advisers, were repeatedly driven almost to despair by her vagaries; none knew what her next twist would be--yet every twist that seemed to produce a fresh entanglement was followed by another which evaded it; and always as an open breach with spain or a flagrant rupture with france seemed really a thing immediately inevitable, some happy accident appeared to save the situation once more.
the war with spain
it would seem, however, that the discovery of the throgmorton conspiracy led burghley in the beginning of 1584 to the conclusion that a bolder support should be given to the netherlands, more especially as the alençon farce was finished. in 1585, elizabeth committed herself to the hollanders, drake went off on the cartagena raid, and in 1586 leicester was in the low countries in command of the english troops. then came the babington plot, the execution of the queen of scots after the new year, the certainty of philip’s preparations for the armada, and the “singeing of the king of spain’s beard” by drake, which deferred the great invasion for a twelvemonth; finally the week-long battle with the armada itself, ending in its destruction off gravelines, and subsequent annihilation by the tempests. to the very last elizabeth went on playing at negotiations with parma, on lines involving the basest treachery to the hollanders; to the entire satisfaction of sir james crofts whom she employed in the business, and who is known to have been in philip’s pay. this, however, was merely one of her regular pieces of diplomatic play-acting; while burghley kept his own counsel. the war-party lived on thorns; they did not know what to make of the trickery, whether it was genuine or a sham. howard of effingham, in fiery wrath, wrote--quoting an old byword--of the “long grey beard with a white head witless that to all the world would prove england heart-less,” i.e., cowardly. still, though it would have been natural enough for them to suspect that the peace-loving burghley was abetting the queen, the probabilities are that effingham was referring not to him but to crofts. retreat without dishonour was impossible; he certainly would not have advocated it seriously; and the elaborate farce which elizabeth deliberately played was merely a piece of that eternally baffling and exasperating diplomacy of which she might be called the inventor and patentee--methods which burghley always condemned, though probably his long experience of them had by this time taught him to see through them. from 1584 he recognised that events had forced his own peace-loving policy out of court, and that it could not be revived till the issue between england and spain had been fought out. the completeness of england’s triumph when the combatants did crash together in mortal fray went far, at any rate, to justify the theory on which he had systematically acted that, if the fight must come, the longer it could be staved off the more decisively it would favour his own country.
elizabeth, as usual, was at one with burghley on the point, and with burghley’s son robert cecil, who was now drawing to the front and making it possible for his father to transfer to him much of the burden of active work for which he was becoming unfitted by age. the main method by which the policy was given effect was by placing the conduct of the war as far as possible in the hands of that section of the war-party, headed by john hawkins among the seamen and by essex at court, which thought more of booty than of empire--which did not realise, with drake and raleigh, that the despoiling of treasure-fleets and the sacking of ports would accomplish very much less than the annihilation of fighting fleets and the establishment in the new world of rival english settlements. thus, by the time drake started for lisbon, he found his hands so tied by restrictions as to what he was to do and what he was not to do that the expedition failed of its purpose. drake was discredited in consequence, and for some years the war became a mere series of raids; conducted in force, indeed, and openly avowed and authorised by the queen, but not in essence differing from the semi-piratical performances of the drakes and hawkinses when spain and england were nominally at peace. hence, in 1598, when burghley and philip both died within a few weeks of each other, spain had been invariably defeated in every successive attempt to strike a blow at her rival; she had suffered a serious disaster at cadiz; her treasure-ships had been repeatedly raided; her enemy, henry of navarre, had carried the day in france: but her hold on the new world remained, she was still an effective power in europe, and the fear of her was not yet dead, though england still held, and more than held, the priority she had won ten years before.
in foreign policy we have seen that, at any rate in the broader aspects of it, burghley and elizabeth were at one--that is, the queen never departed so far from the path he laid down but that she could regain her footing thereon the moment a crisis arrived. that policy may be summed up as aiming at one issue--friendship with spain on an equality--while preparing for the alternative, a fight for the mastery. the policy failed to achieve the preferable issue, but in its secondary aspect was completely successful. burghley’s own methods were not of the heroic type; there was no glamour of chivalry and knight-errantry about them; they were untouched by magnanimity, generosity, moral enthusiasm; they were ruled by a devotion to law and order, to propriety, to sober respectability; they were entirely practical, unsympathetic; but they were essentially marked at least with the intention of strict justice and reasonableness.
the same characteristics present themselves in his domestic policy. in the religious settlement and in finance the course taken throughout the reign is along the broad lines laid down by him; the queen permits herself to indulge in personal outbreaks, and sets the general scheme at naught in individual instances, but, if she flies off at a tangent, still manages to return before it is too late, before any general deflection has been brought about. and again the desire of essential practical justice is the predominating feature. zeal for particular religious views, however sincere, must not be permitted to disturb public order; the decencies must be observed, but the decencies would allow of as much latitude as reasonable men could desire. if zeal went the length of harbouring and fostering persons whose doctrines might be interpreted as impugning the right of the queen to sit on the throne of england, justice required that such zeal should be penalised; if, further, zeal propagated such doctrines actively, zeal became treason. so, when parsons and campion came over with their propaganda, the catholic persecution which followed had burghley’s entire approval; nonconformity, aggressive and abusive, he was quite ready to punish with severity, but when archbishop whitgift and his court of high commission set about hunting for nonconformity, burghley was for restraining them though the queen sympathised not with him but with them. a more sensitive and sympathetic imagination would often have been alive to the existence of real injustice where the lord treasurer failed to perceive it; but where he did perceive it he always endeavoured to moderate it, even though he might not set his face stubbornly against it. his gorge rose at the stories of atrocities perpetrated in ireland which almost every one else seems to have taken as a matter of course. if the use of the rack met with his approval it was only in cases where he honestly believed that the ends of justice were thereby furthered; and though the practice had not been common in england, its prevalence elsewhere was so general that its increased employment involved no shock to the moral sense of contemporaries.
burghley’s principles of political action, then, were quite remote from those of machiavelli and thomas cromwell, according to which the slightest claim of political expediency outweighed the entire moral code, and ethical considerations were reduced at the best to a sentiment which under certain circumstances it might be expedient to humour. his principles were equally remote from those of somerset, which ignored the fact that no ends, however noble, can be achieved by disregarding hard facts. he insisted on upholding a moral standard in policy, and maintained a moral standard in his personal political relations. admitting the principle salus populi suprema lex, he allowed that supreme necessity might over-ride the moral law, but there were few of his contemporaries who were not very much readier than he to recognise such an exigency on slight provocation. on the other hand, while his personal standard was so high that even his bitterest foes among the spanish ambassadors acknowledged it with abusive candour, his normal political standard was that of his times. we may, perhaps, express it by saying that he had an almost abnormally strong sense of political proprieties but a complete absence of moral fervour.
sir francis walsingham
of the many englishmen, who, by loyal service to the nation in the reign of the virgin queen, deserved well of the state, there is perhaps not one whose claim stands higher than that of walsingham. for twenty years, or near it, elizabeth trusted him more completely than any of her council, except burghley, relied on his ability and his fidelity to carry out every task of exceptional difficulty, profited by his devotion, his penetration, and his resourcefulness, rejected his advice on the cardinal question of policy till she was compelled by circumstances in some measure to adopt it, suffered him to ruin his fortunes in her service, and finally permitted him to die the poorest of all her ministers. it was said, in the study of burghley, that she was loyal to him; she was so, in the sense that nothing would induce her to part from him. unlike many other princes, when she found a good servant, she never let him go from personal pique, or on account of differences; her loyalty was the loyalty of a very acute woman, but one wholly devoid of generosity. his loyalty she left to be its own reward.
walsingham won his position by sheer force of ability and character; qualities in him which were probably discovered by the penetration of william cecil, with whom he was always on the most cordial terms, although himself the advocate of a much bolder policy than was favoured by the cautious lord treasurer. none could say of walsingham, as his enemies have said of cecil, that he was in any degree a time-server; he was not only as incorruptible, but it could never be hinted that in affairs of state his line of action was deflected by a hair’s-breadth by any considerations of personal advantage or advancement. he indulged in none of those arts of courtiership which not only a leicester, a hatton, or an essex, but even a raleigh, took no shame in employing to extravagance. not knollys nor hunsdon, her own outspoken kinsmen, could be more blunt and outspoken to their royal mistress than he. it would be difficult to find in the long roll of english statesmen one more resolutely disinterested, or one whose services, being admittedly so great, were rewarded so meagrely.
there are diversities of conscientiousness. henry viii. referred most questions to his conscience, after he had made up his mind about the answer; and his conscience always endorsed his judgment. cromwell ignored conscience altogether; with more, it overruled every other consideration. burghley’s was tolerably active, but perhaps somewhat obtuse. walsingham, if we read him aright, was as rigidly conscientious as more himself; but his moral standard requires to be understood before it can be appreciated. it was derived, not from the new testament, but from the old. it assumed that the protestants were in the position of the ancient hebrews; that they were the chosen people, and their enemies, the enemies of the lord of sabaoth. it justified the spoiling of the egyptians. it was sufficiently tempered to disapprove the extermination of the canaanite, but it hardly condemned ehud and jael. broadly speaking it applied different moral codes in dealing with the foes of the faith and in other relations. identifying the foes of the faith with the enemies of the state, it authorised the use, in self-defence, of every weapon and every artifice employed on the other side. it was not with him as with those to whom the law serves for conscience; who will do with a light heart anything that the law permits, and shrink in horror from anything that it condemns. nor did he act on the principle that the right must give way to the expedient. with him, conscience positively approved in one group of relations the adoption of practices which in other relations it would have sternly denounced. that type of conscience is absolutely genuine and sincere; but it permits actions which are, to say the least, censurable from a more enlightened point of view.
the records of walsingham’s early years are somewhat scanty. an uncle was lieutenant of the tower during the latter part of the reign of henry viii.; of whom it is reported that when anne askew was on the rack, he refused to strain the torture to the point desired by wriothesly. his father was a considerable landed proprietor at chiselhurst, and filled sundry minor legal offices. he died in 1533, leaving several daughters and one son, francis, an infant, born not earlier than 1530, and so ten years younger than william cecil. young walsingham was up at king’s college, cambridge, from 1548 to 1550, and entered gray’s inn in 1552.
being of the advanced reformation party, young walsingham quitted the country on mary’s accession, remained abroad during the five years of her rule, and returned when elizabeth succeeded, to take his place in the house of commons. his sojourn abroad emphasised his protestantism; he utilised it also to acquire a very extensive knowledge of foreign affairs, though he omitted to make himself a master of the spanish tongue. he does not appear to have taken prominent part in the affairs of parliament when he came back to england; but he attracted cecil’s notice, and was employed by the secretary in procuring secret intelligence, of which the earliest definite record is a report of august 1568, giving a “descriptive list of suspicious persons arriving in italy during the space of three months,” obtained from “franchiotto the italian.” on november 20 of the same year, he writes to cecil to say that, if the evidence of mary’s complicity in darnley’s murder is insufficient, “my friend is able to discover certain that should have been employed in the said murder, who are here to be produced.” incidentally, it may be remarked that this, of course, means no more than that walsingham knew where to lay his hand on some one who professed to have information; which mr. froude renders by a phrase implying that he actually had information, known to be valuable, ready to be brought forward. what it really shows is, that walsingham was engaged in looking out for anything which offered a chance of being turned to account.
in the autumn of the following year, just before the rising of the northern earls, when it was practically certain that some kind of catholic plot was afoot and that the spanish ambassador, don guerau de espes was mixed up in it, circumstances brought the florentine banker ridolfi under suspicion. the position to which walsingham was now attaining is shown by the italian being assigned to his surveillance--with the result that ridolfi’s house and papers were thoroughly searched without his knowledge, but also without the discovery of anything incriminating. whether honestly or with the object of deceiving him, ridolfi was thereupon treated as if no vestige of suspicion attached to him. in the modern phrase, it was an integral part of walsingham’s system in dealing with persons on whom he expected to pounce when his own time came, to give them every inch of rope he could afford: but a year later walsingham wrote about the man to cecil in terms which imply that the belief in his honesty was genuine. when the whole of the ridolfi plot was revealed in 1571, walsingham was in france. the secret service was cecil’s creation, not walsingham’s, though doubtless the latter had a considerable share in organising it, and a little later became mainly responsible for controlling it. valuable as he was already rendering himself, he only emerges definitely into the front rank on his appointment as a special envoy to the french court in august 1570; followed immediately thereafter by his selection for the post of ambassador resident.
the situation at this time was exceedingly critical. at home, the northern insurrection had just been suppressed, norfolk and others of the peers were very much subjects of suspicion, and the papal bull of deposition had increased the sense of nervousness. the spanish representative in england was the hot-headed and intriguing don guerau de espes; in the netherlands, alva had made the world in general believe--though he knew better himself--that the revolt was crushed. in france the huguenots, despite defeat in the field, had just shown themselves strong enough to obtain, through the balancing party of the politiques, terms which placed them fairly on a level with the guise faction; but a marriage was being planned between henry of anjou, the king’s next brother and heir presumptive, and the imprisoned queen of scots. in scotland itself, the assassination of moray had revived the confusion which the sombre regent had been struggling to allay. thus, there was danger to elizabeth’s throne from her own catholic subjects; danger from france, since anjou was regarded as of the guise party; and danger, imagined at least, from spain, where that surprising charlatan, stukely, had almost, if not quite, persuaded philip that at his call--with some armed assistance--all ireland would rise, fling off the english yoke, and offer itself to spain. as a matter of fact, philip was much too heavily hampered to take openly aggressive action against england at the time--but that was known to very few people besides himself and alva.
such were the conditions under which walsingham was sent to france as a special envoy in august 1570--to congratulate the french government on the pacification just concluded; to urge the necessity of maintaining it loyally; and to dissuade the court from espousing the cause of the scots queen. within a month, he received official intimation that the resident ambassador, sir henry norris, was about to be recalled, and he was himself to succeed to the post; which arrangement took effect in january.
ambassador at paris
in the interval, an ingenious solution of several problems had suggested itself to the huguenot leaders, and found favour with the queen-mother. this was that anjou should drop the idea of marrying mary and should instead marry elizabeth herself. he was her junior by seventeen years, but that was a small matter. if he wedded the protestant queen, he would be definitely detached from the guises, toleration for both religions would be assured both in england and france, and the two countries could join in the liberation of the netherlands. the problem would be to arrange the marriage on terms which would give the parties who were favourably disposed to it security for the carrying out of those parts of the programme which were from their several points of view essential.
prima facie the plan was acceptable to the huguenots, to the politiques, to the english council, and to walsingham himself. to the guises, it was very much the reverse, and they tried, with a degree of success, to frighten the duke with the old scandals about the virgin queen and leicester. the spaniards were much perturbed. their ambassador first tried to draw the french into engagements with them against orange; and, failing in that attempt, began making overtures to walsingham which he appreciated at their true value. he knew all about the overtures to france--to which, as the englishman wrote drily to cecil, “the answers falling not out to his contentment, maketh him, as i suppose, to think that the friendship of england is worth the having.” the same letter notes information that the pope has a “practice in hand for england, which would not be long before it brake forth”--no doubt in connexion with the ridolfi plot, which was now maturing.
side by side with the business of the anjou marriage, walsingham was much engaged in gathering information as to the suspected spanish expedition to ireland; in respect of which he held much diplomatic conversation with the ex-archbishop of cashel and heard many tales of stukely’s doings and sayings. walsingham suspected his good faith, and remarked significantly to cecil--who had just been “ordered to write william burleigh” instead of william cecil, but had still some difficulty in remembering the new signature--“i have placed some especially about him, to whom he repaireth, as also who repairs unto him.” the suspicions were not dissipated as time went on.
the ambassador’s situation was one of singular difficulty. for a dozen years past, elizabeth had played fast and loose with so many suitors that any lack of straightforwardness on her part was certain to be construed as meaning that she intended to play with anjou in the same way; while she was absolutely incapable of being straightforward. as a matter of fact, she was probably merely playing her usual game. so long as the match was on the tapis, but only on the tapis, philip would be afraid to move lest he should precipitate it. meantime, orange was making ready to renew the struggle in the netherlands, and she might presently find that she could afford to manœuvre herself out of the marriage, and would have skill enough to make the rupture of negotiations come from the other side. burghley and leicester both wanted the match--the former being satisfied that it would result in the burgundian dominions being separated from spain without being absorbed by france, while protestantism would be generally much strengthened. but in his private correspondence with walsingham, he warned the ambassador very plainly that neither he nor leicester knew what the queen meant to do--it was as likely as not that she wished in the long run to get the match broken off by anjou on the score of the english stipulations for his conforming to the english law in matters of religion. walsingham, who was a protestant with his heart and soul as well as his head, and believed that the protestant cause was the national cause much more uncompromisingly than burghley, was more zealous on behalf of the marriage than the secretary himself, being convinced that it would bring about the victory of protestantism, in alliance with england, both in france and the netherlands.
it was not burghley nor walsingham, but elizabeth, who controlled the situation; and however strongly the ministers might express their private feelings to each other, they had to do as she told them. her trickery met with its usual success. in due course, henry of anjou found that he could not accede to the demand for conformity, and in spite of his mother’s entreaties withdrew his suit; yet the business was so successfully managed that the french court, instead of being offended, very soon began to hint that the french king had yet another brother, the duke of alençon, whose hand and heart were not yet disposed of. so the play began again.
but there was a factor in the situation of which on one had taken full account; not walsingham, nor burghley, nor elizabeth; not the huguenots; not philip nor alva. this was catherine de medici’s overwhelming lust of personal power, and the passion of jealousy accompanying it. she saw her ascendency over her son charles ix. slipping away and passing into the hands of coligny and his associates. for victory and vengeance, she prepared to commit, perhaps, the most appalling crime in the annals of christian europe. paris was crowded with huguenots gathered to celebrate the pact of amity, to be sealed by the wedding of the béarnais and the sister of the king. stealthily and swiftly the plans were laid, the plot organised, the preparations completed. the wedding took place on august 18: three days later, an unsuccessful attempt was made to murder coligny. it may be that if the assassin had killed the admiral, the huge tragedy which followed would have been averted; as it was, hours before the sun of st. bartholomew’s day (august 24) had risen, the floodgates had been opened, and the streets of paris were running red with rivers of huguenot blood. during the following days, like scenes were being enacted through the provinces.
the diplomatic fabric had collapsed, but at least there was no question of france holding elizabeth to blame for the rupture; nor was there any question of catherine turning to a junction with spain. the huguenots now were at bay; there would be work enough before they were either crushed or pacified; while the slaughter of their leaders had made the guises more dangerous than ever. on the other hand, there could be no joint action on behalf of orange. france had ruled herself out. walsingham would still have stood boldly for “the religion,” but the queen and burghley were not equally ready to fling themselves single-handed into the struggle on behalf of the netherlands. the spaniards deemed the opportunity a good one for seeking reconciliation with england. a more politic and less bloodthirsty governor was dispatched to the low countries to take the place of alva, who by his own desire was recalled. walsingham went back to england, and for some time to come philip and elizabeth were engaged in an elaborate if insincere ostentation of amicable intentions.
burghley as secretary had been so heavily worked that he was in danger of breaking down; to prevent such a catastrophe, he was made lord treasurer, walsingham on his return to england being appointed joint secretary of state with sir thomas smith. leicester continued to be burghley’s chief rival with elizabeth on the council, owing to his personal favour with her; and his political line was the same as walsingham’s, though the secretary supplied the brains. walsingham was neither the rival nor the follower of either; it was never in his mind to supplant burghley either himself or by leicester; but his counsels and those of the lord treasurer were often in disagreement in so far as his protestantism was more energetic, and as he had no sympathy with the idea of amity with spain, being thoroughly convinced of philip’s fundamental hostility to england as a protestant power.
for some years the protestant policy was out of court so far as spain and the netherlands were concerned; the comparative moderation of the new governor, requesens, giving plausibility to the hope that a modus vivendi might be arrived at--that philip’s maximum of concession and orange’s minimum of demand might prove capable of adjustment. in scotland, however, walsingham and burghley both recognised the necessity of maintaining friendly relations with the capable but sinister regent, the earl of morton. it was impossible to ignore the danger of a reconstruction of parties there, which might again result in french intervention being invited; a consummation equally abhorrent to the treasurer and the secretary. elizabeth’s parsimony here proved too strong for her policy. burghley and walsingham both believed that liberal but judicious expenditure would prove economical in the long run. but the queen would not relax the purse-strings; the unrest of scotland continued to be a thorn in her side, and to be also a perpetual strain on the anxiety of her ministers and a drain on her exchequer.
requesens died in 1576; before his successor, don john, arrived, the spanish soldiery--whose pay was in arrear--got completely out of hand; and the autumn saw the hideous butchery in antwerp known as the “spanish fury.” the whole of the provinces--catholic as well as protestant--were united thereby in a solid demand for the restoration of their old constitutional privileges, and the withdrawal of spanish troops; and in a flat refusal to admit the new governor or recognise his government, until their main demands were conceded. don john made provisional terms and was admitted in the spring following; but he was known to be harbouring audacious designs against england, the hollanders suspected his good faith, and the old state of serious tension was renewed. drake was planning his great voyage, to the entire satisfaction of the anti-spanish party--but with an obvious certainty of giving extreme offence to philip, which caused them to make a vain attempt to keep the thing secret from burghley; while elizabeth--who liked playing with fire and was also greedy for money--made her own bargain with the adventurer. thus, in 1578 a curious state of affairs arose. philip, jealous of his half-brother, and still extremely anxious to avoid a rupture with england, once more accredited an ambassador to the english court, bernardino de mendoza, whose business was to be conciliation; elizabeth’s council swayed to the views of walsingham and leicester, while burghley seemed to be outweighted. the queen started on one of her most exasperating pieces of political jugglery, snubbing orange on the one hand, and on the other reviving the alençon marriage project; while alençon himself was now posing as a would-be figure-head for the huguenots, and at odds with his brother henry iii., who had succeeded charles ix. two years after st. bartholomew.
elizabeth, however, was far too keenly alive to his value to allow him to become a looker-on; nor could burghley have spared him, however their views might differ on some points. the queen might ignore his advice, but she relied on his penetration and his loyalty, and was more afraid of his righteous indignation than of the lord treasurer’s sober disapprobation. neither minister would countenance what they accounted perfidy, and in act she never in the long run degraded her honour as much as she repeatedly threatened to do. both of them spoke their minds. she knew they were in the right; she resisted, abused, flouted, defied them; but she always yielded enough, and in time, to save some shreds of credit.
the death of don john about the end of september was followed by the appointment of alexander of parma, a statesman and soldier of the first rank, as his successor; who at the outset skilfully severed the union between the northern or protestant and the southern or catholic provinces. if burghley could have had his own way untrammelled, he would have dealt straightforwardly with orange, giving him support enough to keep him from calling in france, and still hoping to bring about an accommodation with parma possible of acceptance by both parties. neither he nor walsingham now had any belief in joint action with france, in which their confidence had been permanently blotted out by the paris massacre. neither of them, therefore, saw good in the alençon marriage as a genuine project, while both saw infinite danger in merely playing with it. they differed, as it would seem, only as to the length they were prepared to go in helping orange, burghley drawing the line at the point where he thought philip might be driven into a declaration of open war, while the secretary would have taken bigger risks, accepting open war if philip chose. the queen’s object was the same as burghley’s, but she elected, according to her habit, to seek it not by straightforward, but by crooked, courses. she would give orange the minimum of help, but she would, by playing with alençon, either keep france out of it, or else embroil france and spain, keeping herself out of it till she could strike in as arbiter. to do which, she had to induce every one to believe that she probably meant marrying, while trusting to her own ingenuity and the chapter of accidents to effect, if the worst came to the worst, an escape not too ruinously ignominious. if she really did know what she wanted, it was more than any of her council did, and she drove them almost to despair.
so the juggling went on; the queen blew hot and cold with alençon, and tried to inveigle france into a league without a marriage; the french tried to get the marriage secured as preliminary to a league. drake came home, his ship loaded with spoils; but the remonstrances of mendoza were met by complaints of the assistance given by spain to the desmond rebellion in ireland. walsingham was flatly opposing the marriage, and the puritan element in the country at least was with him to a man. parsons and campion, and the jesuit propaganda, had set puritans and catholics alike in a ferment. in the summer of 1581 alençon was still dangling, france was still waiting to have the marriage question settled, philip had just annexed portugal, and burghley himself was despairing of a peaceful outcome.
under these circumstances, elizabeth again chose to despatch walsingham on an embassy to paris. he was to get the queen out of the marriage without upsetting the french. he was to get france to espouse the cause of orange, while england was only to render secret pecuniary aid. whether, in the last resort, the queen would accede to the marriage for the sake of a secret league, or would accede to an open league to escape the marriage, or would positively on no condition have either marriage or open league, or would still keep the marriage unaccomplished but unrejected if she could, walsingham did not know; for whatever instructions he received were liable to be contradicted in twenty-four hours. he was to extract his mistress from the tangle in which she had involved herself, and might understand that whatever means he found for doing so would be angrily condemned.
naturally, he found the situation almost impossible. the king and the queen-mother would make an open league and let the marriage go; of that, he felt satisfied. but they would not have an undeclared league, nor commit themselves at any price to any war in the low countries, if there were any possible loophole for elizabeth to back out of supporting them. she must be so committed that she could not back out. the suspicion that she was only dallying both with the marriage and the league could only be got rid of by the most straightforward dealing, and if she would not listen to advice there was the gravest danger that she would find france, spain, and scotland all united against her. he wrote in very plain terms that if she would not make up her mind to a liberal expenditure, and convince her neighbours that she had done so, ruin threatened. the instructions from england continued to be evasive, non-committal. the personal correspondence between burghley and walsingham is particularly interesting, as showing the complete confidence between them, the loyalty with which the treasurer fought the secretary’s battles with the queen, though in vain, and walsingham’s entire frankness to him.
“sorry i am,” he writes, “to see her majesty so apt to take offence against me, which falleth not out contrary to my expectation, and therefore i did protest unto her, after it had pleased her to make choice of me to employ me this way, that i should repute it a greater favour to be committed to the tower, unless her majesty may grow more certain in her resolutions there.” twelve days later he fairly exploded in a letter to the queen herself. he told her point-blank that she had already lost scotland, and was like enough to lose england too, by her parsimony, and finished up--“if this sparing and improvident course be held still, the mischiefs approaching being so apparent as they are, i conclude therefore ... that no one that serveth in place of a counciller, that either weigheth his own credit, or carrieth that sound affection to your majestie as he ought to do, that would not wish himself in the farthest part of ethiopia, rather than enjoy the fairest palace in england. the lord god therefore direct your majestie’s heart to take that way of councel that may be most for your honour and safety.”
nothing came of the embassy; not even the ruin foretold by walsingham. the wonderful queen managed somehow to keep alençon dangling; and while he dangled there would be no decisive breach with france. in november he was in england again. she promised to marry him, kissed him, and a few weeks later told burghley that she would not marry the man on any terms. the ministers, of course, could see nothing possible but an irreconcilable quarrel with france over the affair sooner or later; and again burghley’s efforts were directed to pacifying mendoza, and walsingham’s to forcing elizabeth into openly supporting orange. in the council burghley was practically alone; yet walsingham could not effect his object. the impending avalanche did not fall--and then alençon in effect committed suicide by trying to play the traitor and failing ignominiously to carry out his plot; thereby making himself obviously and hopelessly impossible. the rupture with france on that score was averted. his death a year later, in 1584, made henry of navarre actual heir presumptive to the crown of france; and then the question of the succession became, and remained, so critical that all parties in france were too hotly engaged in their own contests to take effective part in quarrels beyond their borders. orange was assassinated; the throgmorton plot had convinced burghley himself that the duel with spain was inevitable; and in 1585 parma’s skill brought affairs in the netherlands to a point at which nothing but the armed intervention of england could apparently save the revolted provinces from utter destruction. before the end of the year elizabeth was in open league with them. at last, circumstances had compelled her officially to commit herself to walsingham’s policy, though even now she could not bring herself to resign either her systematic penuriousness or her systematic vacillation.
walsingham has hitherto appeared in the character of a foreign minister or ambassador with two main functions--to gauge the intentions of foreign courts, and to carry out a policy with which he was dissatisfied by methods which he abominated: the ally of leicester in the policy he advocated, the ally of burghley in his moral attitude towards the queen. she and burghley were at one in the knowledge that she must preserve continental protestantism from sheer destruction, and in the determination to limit their help, so long as it was possible to do so, in such wise as to avoid war with spain. since 1577 walsingham had been opposed to that limitation; in 1584 burghley himself was relinquishing it with reluctance, and with the persistent hope that a reconciliation might again become possible.
as a diplomatist, sir francis appears to have possessed in a high degree the quality of impenetrability, the precision of veracity which has the effect of suppressio veri or of suggestio falsi, misleading of set purpose but without deviation from formal truth. the ethics of the twentieth century have not yet learnt to condemn skilful deception in this kind, at any rate where it is not directed to personal ends. but the means which, in other capacities than that of an ambassador, walsingham employed for obtaining information, were not always such as would be ventured on to-day by a politician who was unwilling to be called unscrupulous. yet they were means which--so far as they can with certainty be attributed to him--would have been unhesitatingly sanctioned by almost every contemporary.
it has to be borne in mind, in the first place, that throughout the elizabethan period every country in europe was thick with plots, with the political intention of a violent coup d’état, or the religious intention of removing an obnoxious personality. while elizabeth was on the throne the list of successful assassinations included those of two dukes of guise, a king of france, the prince of orange, darnley, moray, and the victims of st. bartholomew. attempts which only just failed were made on orange and coligny. there were at least three plots--those known by the names of ridolfi, throgmorton, and babington--in favour of mary stewart, and involving the assassination of elizabeth, in which philip, or some of his ministers, or the guises, or the pope, or cardinal allen, were implicated, besides minor ones. rizzio’s murder was political; and burghley’s life was the object of a conspiracy. these are merely a few conspicuous instances out of a very long roll. the ingenuity of zealots, on either side, who honestly believed that in slaying a leader of heretics or of persecutors they were rendering acceptable service to the almighty, was backed by the unscrupulousness of politicians, who might not, indeed, themselves be prepared to stab or poison, but were quite ready to make use of those who would do so. in england especially there were vast interests involved in the removal of elizabeth, whose legitimate heir was, beyond all question, the catholic queen of scots. plots merely directed against the queen’s person were serious enough; but they might be combined with schemes for invasion or concerted insurrection, like the revolt of the northern earls. the plotters were perfectly unscrupulous. nothing could be more certain than that, so long as the queen of scots was alive and in captivity, there would be a series of conspiracies, with or without her connivance, having it as their object to place her on the throne of england. and we must remember, further, that, to intensify the situation, a papal bull had declared that while it was not incumbent upon catholics in england actively to hatch treason against the queen of england, it was incumbent on them to countenance, and meritorious to take part in it.
walsingham had no qualms about employing liars, perjurers, the basest kind of scoundrels in this business. when he had caught his culprits he quite deliberately applied the rack and other forms of torture to extract evidence. he would have argued that the queen’s enemies had chosen their own method of fighting, and it was legitimate to meet them with their own weapons--as clive argued in the case of omichund; that, in fact, it was only by the use of their own weapons that he could make sure of defeating them. also he did not originate the system--espionage and the rack were in full play when his foot was only on the lowest rung of the ladder. also, these methods were not employed vindictively, but with the single object of obtaining true information by which treasonous designs might be frustrated. also, in acting as he did, he did not violate the public conscience--or his own, with its rigid old testament limitations.
but there is one case in which he is charged with having gone farther.
it would be difficult to find any even approximate parallel to the position of mary stewart in england. whatever her own attitude might be, she was the inevitable centre of catholic plots of the most far-reaching order. while she lived, the throne of elizabeth and the triumph of the reformation in england could never be secure. she was held captive on no legitimate ground, but solely because her title to the english throne was so strong that the queen could not afford to set her at liberty. in plain terms, the national security required her death, but unless she could be convicted of plotting against the life of elizabeth, there was no legitimate ground for putting her to death. the eighth henry would have made short work with her; there was no european sovereign who would not have made short work with any dangerous pretender to his crown who lay completely in his power. yet even the throgmorton conspiracy was not turned to her destruction; elizabeth had her own reasons for preferring to keep her captive alive. but the throgmorton revelations, with the assassination of orange, the death of alençon, the approach of the spanish crisis, and the growing certainty that mary’s son would not take her place as the figure-head for catholic conspiracies, went far to cancel elizabeth’s reasons. to walsingham, alike as patriot and protestant, the death of mary had long been about the most desirable event that could occur; and now he saw his way to compass it--to inveigle her within reach of the law.
he reckoned it as a certainty that if she found herself able to communicate with her partisans undetected, she would soon enough get involved in some plot of a character which would justify her doom in the eyes of the world. a supposed adherent of hers, a jesuit, devised means of communicating with her and of passing her secret correspondence in and out of chartley manor. she fell into the trap: the supposed adherent was walsingham’s agent. every letter was opened and copied. a plot was soon on foot for her liberation, an invasion, and the deposition of elizabeth, whose assassination by anthony babington was part of the scheme. from walsingham’s point of view, the vital point was to get her definitely implicated in babington’s part of the conspiracy. at last, philips, the decipherer of the correspondence, produced a letter which was decisive. then walsingham struck. the bubble burst; mary was tried and condemned.
now an issue appears between walsingham and mary. the scots queen admitted participation in the plot up to a certain point: she denied in toto knowledge of the intended assassination. apart from certain phrases in one letter, it cannot be conclusively shown that she was lying. the conditions made it possible that she never wrote those incriminating phrases; that they were forged. did walsingham fabricate that evidence in order that mary might be prevented from escaping what he regarded as her just and necessary doom, on a technical plea? did philips forge it and persuade him that it was genuine? or was it in fact genuine? mendoza believed that mary was in the secret, but mendoza may have been under a misapprehension. no one will ever be able to answer that riddle decisively. but the form of walsingham’s denial, when the imputation of forgery was made in court, is worth noting. “as a private person, i have done nothing unbecoming an honest man, nor, as i bear the place of a public person have i done anything unworthy my place.” if walsingham did fabricate the evidence, he did it with a clear conscience; that is, with an honest conviction that he was discharging a duty; that he was “doing nothing unworthy his place.” the thing is perfectly conceivable. no one will deny that john knox was a conscientious man; but john knox justified assassination. walsingham himself thought it permissible in certain circumstances. but the case is not proved one way or the other. the twist in his rigid conscience may not have been crooked enough for that. yet the whole business of deliberately making arrangements to facilitate plotting on his victim’s part is hardly on a different plane. the point of interest lies in the fact that under sixteenth-century conditions such acts were committed and were sanctioned without compunction not only by men without conscience, or of careless conscience, or of conventional or adaptable conscience, but by the very men who held hardest to moral ideals: men whose serious purpose was to do all to the glory of god.
for all her confidence in and dependence on walsingham, the secretary was never persona grata with elizabeth. she abused him more roundly and more frequently than any other member of her council. if an opportunity offered of setting him a task which was utterly against the grain, she would not let it go; and she liked him none the better for his share in making her responsible for the death of queen mary. in that, as in passing from covert to overt war with spain, she was compelled to follow his policy; but she did not increase her favour to him and his allies, and she followed the policy with marked ill-will. nothing could avert a desperate conflict, yet she continued to the last to drive the war-party half-frantic by parsimony, by issuing impracticable orders, by imposing paralysing restrictions, by temporising with parma and threatening to betray her allies. and when the great armada was triumphantly shattered by english seamen, and thereafter overwhelmed by the winds and the waves, and drake would have delivered a still more fatal blow by rending portugal from philip, she carefully tied the admiral up with instructions which doomed the lisbon expedition to fruitlessness and its great organiser to discredit and practical retirement.
if walsingham lived to see england freed from the nightmare of mary stewart, and on a palpable equality with spain, the accession of the leader of “the religion” in france to the throne, if not as yet to the rulership, of that country, and the rise of a worthy successor to william the silent in the person of maurice of nassau, yet his last years were full enough of bitterness. he had striven devotedly with a single eye to the welfare of his country, so loyally and with such absence of self-seeking that he had beggared himself in the process. his services--invaluable yet unwelcome--were requited by chill disfavour; the assistance to which gratitude and justice should have entitled him was denied, since lavish bounty to walter raleigh suited the queen’s humour better at the time; and the statesman who with burghley had done most, for twenty years, for the honour and the safety of england, died so poor that he was buried quietly and privately--at his own desire--that his heirs might be spared the charges of a costly funeral. whether he was in alliance with burghley, or in occasional antagonism to the policy of his great colleague, the personal friendship and fidelity of the two to each other remained unbroken to the end. that is almost the only pleasing reflection to which his closing years give rise. for the rest, he passed from the world, one more example of the ingratitude of princes.
sir walter raleigh
in his virtues and in his faults, in his brilliance and in his limitations, in his greatness and in his defects, walter raleigh is the very type of elizabeth’s england. like robert cecil, spenser, and sidney, he was a child when the great queen ascended the throne; like shakespeare and bacon, he had not passed the full vigour of manhood when she died. he was a year older than henry of navarre, whom he outlived by eight years. walsingham was a grown man and william cecil a secretary of state before any one of this younger group was born. all of them were young men still when the crisis of elizabeth’s reign was reached and the armada was dispersed. the older generation raised england from weakness to strength; the younger saw her strength made patent to the world. the older generation maintained her on the defensive; it was the part of the younger to assert her primacy in every field of endeavour.
of this younger generation, raleigh stands out as the typical representative. in an age of men of action, he was one of the greatest of the men of action. in one of the two greatest ages of english poetry he was acclaimed as one of their peers by the poets. in the age which saw the creation of english prose, he was one of the masters of prose. the military world and the naval world were developing new theories of strategy and tactics; in both fields he was a first-rate authority and a brilliant performer. the expansion of spain and portugal had brought new political conceptions into being; we owe the conception of greater britain and all the first stubborn efforts to realise it to the genius of sir walter. in a day of brilliant courtiers, none was more brilliant than he; and in the day when bacon was formulating anew the principles of scientific inquiry, raleigh was incidentally an ardent experimentalist. in every field his versatility was exercised, and in every field his place was in the front rank.
and yet perhaps--save in one thing--never quite in the first rank. his literary achievement does not set him beside shakespeare and spenser. drake was a greater commander and john davis a greater seaman. by land he was never tested in a great command. his scientific pursuits were merely a parergon. as a statesman he never achieved the control of england’s destinies; wily robert cecil was the craftier politician. but two things he did: he taught englishmen that the might of england lay in her fleets--not as the accident of a moment but as a permanent principle; and he created the idea of a britain beyond the seas, struggled for it almost alone year after year with persistent tenacity, through good report and evil report and failure--finally died for it. he it was that sowed the seed; ours is the tree that sprang from it.
after that, his career for some while is not easy to trace. it looks as if he had returned to oxford, for his name was still on the list of undergraduates at oriel in 1572; but it is also said that he remained in france for five years, and even that he was in paris at the time of the massacre. in 1575 he entered--pro forma--at the middle temple; and two or three years later appears to have been in the field again, fighting in the low countries under sir john norreys. the chances are that he had had some further military practice in the interval between 1569 and 1578, in france or the netherlands or both, especially as his brother humphrey gilbert was in command of the english contingent at flushing and elsewhere for some while. in 1578 gilbert sailed on his first colonising venture, and young walter was one of his captains; but the expedition, after a collision with some spaniards, was driven back to plymouth by weather. in 1580, raleigh emerges definitely as a captain in the army employed for the suppression of desmond’s rebellion in ireland--in which capacity he was present at the capture of smerwick, and had the unsavoury business of superintending the massacre of the garrison.
raleigh remained in ireland on duty for something over a year, till the end of 1581. while there he accomplished sundry feats of arms of a brilliant character, all being of the kind in which personal daring and skill, and resourcefulness in emergency, are the leading characteristics--deeds in which he was acting with only some very small escort. it was very much in the nature--mutatis mutandis--of police work among hostile frontier tribes in india to-day. the young soldier’s ideas of irish government were derived from humphrey gilbert, who, in all other relations of life, was a noble-hearted generous christian gentleman, but in this particular relation was as perfectly ruthless as alva himself might have been. it is one of the puzzles of the period that men who upheld elsewhere the highest standards of chivalry and honour--men such as sussex, henry sidney, walter devereux--adopted towards the native irish the attitude of the primitive hebrew towards the canaanites, seeming to account the human population as if they were an irredeemably pernicious species of wild beasts; and raleigh was no exception to the rule.
immediately on his return to england he sprang into high favour with elizabeth, partly through his brilliant abilities, partly through the personal fascination which no one could exercise better when he chose. but this charm was accompanied by an insatiable ambition, pridefulness, and fiery temper, which effectually prevented him from making any attempt to conciliate rivalry or hostility, cut him off from his natural alliance with the court section of the war-party, and rather associated him with burghley. favourite as he was, and in some ways influential with the queen, he was never admitted by her into the privy council, though he was knighted so early as 1584, and received numerous and exceedingly substantial marks of the royal goodwill.
in fact, it would seem that his imagination carried his mind away from the current problems of administration and policy to another field. he was less occupied with the question how war with spain might be precipitated or deferred than with that of setting up a rival empire. if, as is most probable, the conception was primarily that of his brother humphrey gilbert, the younger man made it his own; and in these years the attempt to establish a colony in north america absorbed his best energies and enthusiasms. for burghley, spain was primarily the european power which--however interests might clash--was a necessary counterpoise to france; for walsingham, she was the aggressive enemy of protestantism; for raleigh, she was the claimant to the new world, whose rights might be and ought to be successfully challenged by england. thus, the first desired to avert conflict; the second was at least ready to join issue at once, lest it should be too late; whereas, from raleigh’s point of view, the time when spain and england should grapple was a matter of comparative indifference, provided that when it arrived england should be ready. but there was probably no man in england--not drake himself--in whose political creed fundamental hostility to spain was a more essential article.
when the armada was expected, raleigh was vice-admiral of the west, and was also one of the special defence commission. it was on the great ship which he had himself designed, the ark raleigh, that admiral howard hoisted his flag; but raleigh was not one of the commanders in the fleet. he had been largely occupied in organising the defences in the west country, and had been urgent in pressing the true strategical policy of fighting and beating the spaniard on the sea--of an offensive naval war as the only true defensive war. but it is not quite certain whether he even had any personal part in the armada engagements at all; though, on the whole, there is not sufficient ground for discarding the common report that he joined the fleet as a volunteer after the engagement off portland. at that stage, all fears had passed that the spaniard might effect a landing in the western division of the channel, where raleigh was responsible for the arrangements for meeting the invader. until then, he had been bound to remain at his post on shore. but now, not only did the english fleet know that it was a match for the enemy, but, if chance should enable them to attempt a landing, it would certainly not be in raleigh’s district. so there is an a priori probability that, being free to join the ships, he would not have missed the opportunity if it offered. there is no doubt, in any case, that he fully understood and appreciated the tactics adopted--a complete innovation in the methods of naval warfare--whether he did or did not take actual part, as a gentleman-volunteer, in the manœuvres.
the great débâcle initiated a new phase in the relations of spain to england and to europe generally. the defeat, of course, was not of itself a death-blow, though if victory had gone the other way--if the english fleet had been in effect annihilated--an invasion under parma would have followed; and parma was the best general living, while the whole number of englishmen who had any real experience of military service was small. but hitherto, wherever the spaniards went, afloat or ashore, they had the prestige of success; now at a single blow the prestige passed from spain to england--the theory of spanish invincibility was shattered. the change had no less effect on spain’s enemies on the continent than in england, where for years past the seamen at least had been in the habit of taking for granted that they understood the art of fighting on the sea infinitely better than their antagonists. now, however, the landsmen and the men of peace had had ocular demonstration of what the sailors had long been affirming as the conclusion from their own practical experience. england, hitherto on the defensive, was converted into the attacking power, and was filled with the spirit of aggression.
between his seventeenth and his thirtieth years, raleigh was completing his education as a soldier by his experiences in varied fields from jarnac to munster--sandwiching in, as it would appear, some residence at oxford, and some in london as a nominal student of the law; not actually becoming a courtier but making his first entrée among the associates of the court. in his thirtieth year he returned from ireland to london, with a reputation as a dashing officer, and immediately made his way into the good graces of the maiden queen who, already verging on fifty, was demanding with increased instead of diminished avidity the amorous adulation of those who would find favour in her eyes. raleigh made love to her on the recognised lines; with distinguished success, also on the recognised lines; to his own profit, and the extreme annoyance of the leicesters and hattons. the famous story of the cloak may or may not be true--it rests only on the authority of that chronicler whom every self-respecting author is obliged to refer to as “old fuller”--but it is one of those traditions which, like king alfred’s cakes and george washington’s little hatchet, can never be surrendered. in these years there are tales of hatton’s jealousy; records of appeals to the favourite to intervene now on behalf of burghley, now of leicester, to mitigate the royal displeasure; rumours, such as may have been concocted by spite, of not over-scrupulous methods employed in the pursuit of personal aggrandisement. beside these stories of court-gossip and intrigue are those of his association with bohemian literary circles, of his originating the meetings at the mermaid, of his friendship with marlowe, and his reputed “atheism”--a quite incredible, if by no means surprising, charge against a man whose speculations were probably as bold and unconventional in the field of religion as in those of political, naval, and military theory. but assuredly the author of the “history of the world” was no atheist.
but during these years, between 1582 and 1588, he was something more than the brilliant courtier, keen-witted humanist, and active member of the defence commission--he was the pioneer of colonial expansion.
humphrey gilbert was thirteen years older than his half-brother, whose hero he would seem to have been, not undeservedly, in raleigh’s younger days. of brilliant attainments, the bravest of the brave, intensely religious, an idealist and dreamer, he was a kind of incarnation of arthurian knighthood; for the very mercilessness he displayed in ireland was by no means the outcome of inhumanity but of a fixed belief that the irish ought to be accounted not as human beings but as beasts of prey. raleigh himself was hardly more than a boy when his brother was already fixing his thoughts on the colonisation of north america and the discovery of the north west passage. it cannot therefore be claimed for sir walter that he actually originated the colonial idea, which was gilbert’s; but he entered into it from the first and made it his own; while gilbert lived, they worked for it together; and when the atlantic billows swallowed up sir humphrey, it was to raleigh that his mantle passed undisputed.
about the time that the young man was entered at the temple, sir humphrey was at work on the treatise “to prove a passage by the north west to cathay and the east indies,” which was published in 1576 by gascoign. in 1578 he obtained a charter authorising what he had already been petitioning for four years earlier, an expedition to discover and take possession of unknown lands--the charter extending over six years. we have already noted raleigh’s participation in the first expedition, which put to sea late in 1579 but was obliged to return to port with nothing accomplished. in 1583 the second expedition sailed; but this time raleigh, though he had embarked everything he could in the venture, was at the last moment peremptorily forbidden to accompany it in person by his exigent mistress. quite definitely, the purpose of the expedition was not to hunt for precious metals but to establish a permanent agricultural settlement. incidentally, it is to be noted that walsingham was active in furthering the project. the expedition took formal possession of newfoundland, but this was not its actual destination. disasters overtook it, and gilbert finding himself compelled for the time to abandon the design, sailed for england. on the course of the voyage, the little squirrel, in which he was sailing, went down in a storm with all hands on board. raleigh was left to struggle single-handed for the carrying out of his brother’s conception.
now begins the story of raleigh’s persistent effort at the colonisation of virginia.
a fresh patent was issued to sir walter, who had just been knighted, in march 1584--just two years after his first entry into elizabeth’s court. the first step was taken immediately--an exploring expedition, which found its way to the island of roanoak on the coast of what is now carolina, opened friendly intercourse with the natives, took formal possession, and returned to report.
raleigh was largely interested in the series of arctic voyages undertaken by john davis during the three ensuing years: exploration and discovery pure and simple had an attraction for him only less powerful than colonisation; but it was to this that he devoted his keenest energies, and on this that he poured out the wealth he was acquiring. in the spring of 1585 his fleet sailed for virginia, as the new settlement was called, under the command of his kinsman, richard grenville. raleigh himself the queen, of course, could not spare. the open breach with spain and the open alliance with orange were now approaching rapidly, and grenville’s voyage seems to have been, in his own eyes, directed more against spaniards than with a single eye to the colony. in due course, however, roanoak was reached, and the settlement established with ralph lane as governor; and grenville came home. unluckily, the original friendly relations with the natives were upset; the quarrel led the colonists into “making an example” of an indian village; and the indians resolved to retaliate. till their opportunity should come, they merely made things as difficult as they could for the englishman. a relief-expedition had been promised for the following easter. it did not appear; but drake did, with the fleet which had just been employed in sacking cartagena. the settlers resolved to throw up their attempt, and returned to england with drake. a few days after they had sailed, the delayed relief party under grenville arrived to find the settlement abandoned. fifteen volunteers were now left behind, to keep the place in occupation; but when a new band of settlers with a new governor arrived in the following spring (1587), they found that the little garrison had been massacred. the party set about establishing a settlement once more; but under the existing conditions they induced john white, the governor, to return himself to england to bring fresh supplies and reinforcements.
this was the year in which the armada ought to have sailed against england; but drake’s successful raid on the harbour of cadiz deferred the invasion for a year. in the meantime, however, it was a matter of extreme difficulty to get permission for any ship to leave an english port. the demands of the coming duel were paramount. a couple of relief vessels with white were hardly allowed to sail; and these returned without reaching the colony. again, the next year there was an expedition, but it found roanoak deserted, and learned that the settlers had taken up fresh quarters. but neither did it discover them, nor did any one of the search expeditions which raleigh subsequently despatched one after another.
he had spent £40,000--the equivalent of something like five times that sum at the present day. for a dozen years his ships sailed--sometimes with fresh settlers, sometimes with stores only; to meet only with disappointment--often with nothing but reports that the bones of the last party left behind were bleaching in some undiscovered spot. half of the pioneers themselves were ready to turn back, abandoning the adventure, as soon as they realised that their business was not going to be picking up gold and silver. men of grenville’s type enjoyed themselves thoroughly when they were boarding spanish galleons against immense odds, or engaged in any other form of dare-devilry; a different type was required to settle down to a stubborn fight with nature, and found rural or commercial communities. the necessary type was forthcoming in course of time, but it had not yet realised the field that was open to it. as yet there were none to experiment, save adventurers who wanted something quite other than north america had to give. at last raleigh felt that for a time, but only for a time, he was beaten; that to obtain support he must have prospects to suggest, at least, of gold mines and silver mines; and his next great venture was in another region where the golden city of manoa was fabled to be hidden. but he never lost faith in his own ideal, or recanted his prophecy that the northern continent would yet be possessed and peopled by men of his own race, that he would live to see virginia an english nation. his own experiment failed; yet he lived to see the beginnings of fulfilment under other auspices, when again a colony of virginia received a charter in 1606--this time to establish and maintain herself as the mother of the american people.
after the armada
the spirit of aggression engendered by the armada was too strong for burghley and his mistress to oppose directly. their object was to give it such an outlet as would satisfy popular sentiment without ruining spain; and popular sentiment, as they saw, would find satisfaction in a mere extension of the old raiding warfare upon spanish commerce. the danger, in their eyes, was that the control of operations might fall into the hands of men who not only desired to annihilate spain but knew how to do it. drake and raleigh recognised in spain the one power which stood in the way of a complete english dominion of the seas, with everything that would mean: that dominion was already almost won, and could be made good. but if drake were discredited, raleigh would be unable to give their policy effect. this was duly brought about by the manipulation from headquarters of the lisbon expedition, which caused it to fail of accomplishing its immediate object. thereafter the policy was indeed anti-spanish, but on the lines advocated by hawkins and essex (who may now be said to have taken the place occupied by leicester till his death in 1588), not by raleigh and drake.
the distinction between raleigh’s political conceptions and those of his contemporaries marks the transition of which he was conscious and they were not. their eyes were fixed upon europe. burghley’s calculations were always directed to the preservation of a balance of power on the continent; he was afraid of france, and knew the commercial value of the burgundian alliance. the new world did not appeal to him at all--a rivalry there would hardly have seemed to him desirable. the ordinary englishman, on the other hand, felt that spain had proved herself the enemy of his country and his creed, and in the moment of victory his views were roughly summed up in two phrases--vae victis; and, the spoils for the victors. he had no very definite ideas as to the further results, though he might have the triumph of “the religion” over popery in his mind. if he thought of the new world, it was not as a land where he might make himself a new home, but as a tom tiddler’s ground for bold adventurers. raleigh saw the vision of the boundless empire occupied by the men of his own race. there are indications that if walsingham had lived raleigh would have stood less alone; but walsingham died, poor and in disfavour, in 1590.
roughly speaking, then, for some years after the armada the war party at large predominated; maintaining the system of persistent warfare on spanish commerce, varied at intervals with more effective blows such as the attack on the bretagne forts held by the spaniards (in league with the guises), and the great cadiz expedition. in these moves raleigh’s voice and hand were heard and felt; but they were isolated moves, not followed up--largely owing to the clever management of the cecils, in whom the queen really placed her reliance. the war party itself was ruled in effect by the young earl of essex, whose personality was particularly obnoxious to the cecils, while his policy was comparatively acceptable to them. essex, being desperately jealous of raleigh’s general favour with the queen, sir walter was generally on friendly terms with the cecils; whereas anything but a very temporary show of amity between the two court rivals was entirely out of the question. and whenever essex had access to the queen he had the better of the contest. these controlling conditions make raleigh’s career at this time intelligible.
at this time sir walter fell into complete disgrace at court, partly because he did not at first obey the queen’s orders, partly because of the discovery of his liaison with elizabeth throgmorton, who became his wife--whether he was already secretly married to her is a matter of some doubt. he was placed in confinement, and wrote the most outrageous letters to robert cecil anent the misery of being deprived of the sunshine of the royal presence; in the then conventional form of adulation for gloriana. he was more or less forgiven when the ships under the command of his lieutenant, borough, returned, with a very rich prize, of the value whereof elizabeth took one-half for herself. incidentally, the whole story of this enterprise shows that raleigh could make himself as popular with sailors as unpopular elsewhere; for the crews nearly mutinied when they found he was to be displaced by frobisher; and after they landed, robert cecil was quite perturbed at the discovery of their devotion to him, their wrath at his imprisonment, and his influence over them when he was sent down to the port to keep matters straight.
raleigh was released, but he no longer basked in the sunshine of the virgin queen’s favour, and lived away from the court, spending much of his time at his newly acquired estate of sherborne. about this time his rival, returned from france, was admitted to the privy council, from which he himself was still excluded; but he became active in parliament, in private matters relating to his various estates, and in planning his great expedition for the “discovery of guiana”; while he was also an energetic advocate of the policy of expelling the spaniards from brittany, relying--in full accord with the school of drake--on the navy as england’s instrument for fighting her great foe. the persuasive eloquence of his tongue would seem to have equalled the picturesque force of his pen, which had been displayed in more than one pamphlet, notably in his extremely vivid account of the great fight in which his kinsman grenville lost his life--where his narrative powers are associated with a singularly telling rhetorical invective directed against the spaniards.
for a dozen years past, however, raleigh had hardly put to sea in his own person, or seen much fighting. in 1595 he reappears as emphatically a man of action.
favour and fall
the virginia project was for the time abandoned, since it had become clear that no serviceable co-operation could be expected from any quarter. if the establishment of a working colony in north america was out of his power, raleigh came to the conclusion that territorial acquisitions on the southern continent might prove more attractive. rumour declared that the peruvian incas had set up in the interior a new empire, known as guiana, whose capital was the golden city of manoa; spanish attempts to penetrate inland had failed. if england established her sovereignty in the heart of south america, taking possession of what was believed to be the richest country in the world, the most short-sighted could see what a prospect was offered of dominating her rival, in the field to which that rival laid exclusive claim; and the most avaricious might anticipate opportunities of accumulating enormous wealth.
so raleigh organised his expedition for the exploration of the orinoco in 1595, taking command of it in person. the record of it we have from his own pen. as a matter of course, he had sundry collisions with the spaniards, very much of his own seeking, capturing berreo, the governor of trinidad, from whom he extracted a certain amount of information. then he made his way some distance up the great river, enduring many hardships, seeing many strange sights, and gathering still more astonishing reports; collecting also samples of ore which suggested the auriferous character of the district. it seems, however, a somewhat curious omission on his part that he had sailed without proper means either for mining or assaying. in all other respects he proved himself an extremely competent explorer, in especial recognising the necessity of cultivating--in contrast to the spaniards--the confidence and friendliness of the natives; carrying out his scheme, not on the hypothesis of bringing home the maximum of loot, but of preparing the way for the systematic entry of england into a great inheritance. he was again doomed to disappointment. the cecils at this period were cooperating with him cautiously, but he could still get no other support; the queen was minded to participate royally in profits, but she preferred to leave all the risks to others--and the others preferred the immediate return from raids to any systematic and laborious methods, however paying in the long run. moreover, the credit which sir walter gave to apparently authentic but fabulous tales of amazons and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders, brought undeserved discredit on the explorer’s account of what he had actually seen. in short, the result of his adventure seemed very likely to be, that adventurers with very different methods would visit guiana in search of eldorado; but the beginnings of an english empire in america were brought no nearer.
by this time elizabeth was awaking to the fact that spain’s power of aggression on the seas had by no means disappeared; and drake had once more been called into counsel. in the winter of 1595, the great seaman and his old colleague and rival john hawkins were in joint command of a new panama expedition, in the course of which both of them died. the cadiz expedition next year was the fruit of the more efficient policy which was being forced to the front by circumstances. general reconciliation was the order of the day in england; the cecils, the howards, raleigh, and essex were all on formal terms of alliance. philip was making great naval preparations, when an english force appeared off cadiz; essex was the general, effingham the admiral; his cousin, lord thomas howard and raleigh, were both on the war council. effingham wished to land the soldiers and attack the town; raleigh, who had been absent from the council of war, appeared in time to get a hearing; the decision arrived at was reversed, and raleigh in his vessel headed the squadron as it sailed into cadiz harbour. there is no doubt that sir walter was the hero of the occasion, setting the example of doing the right thing in the right way. the result was that thirteen of philip’s best warships were sunk or captured, a great fleet of forty sail packed full of riches was taken or burnt, and cadiz itself was sacked completely and thoroughly, while the persons of the inhabitants were protected and cared for with a most unaccustomed generosity. raleigh’s own narrative--he was badly wounded during the engagement--gives the fullest account of the proceedings, but is in the main substantiated by other evidence; and if he had no qualms about asserting the merits of his own performance, he was also at pains to emphasise with generous frankness the frank generosity displayed towards him by his personal rival. in all the relations between him and essex, this is the pleasantest--one might almost say the only really pleasing--episode.
at last raleigh was restored to court favour; but for a time a superficial friendliness with essex was maintained, and the pair were again united with lord thomas howard in the following year in what was known as the islands voyage: a futile performance, in which the english fleet had the worst of luck in respect of weather, and essex, who was in supreme command, showed grave incompetence--which was hardly unnatural, since he was quite inexperienced in naval warfare and knew nothing whatever of naval strategy. at one stage raleigh, awaiting essex off fayal (in the azores), with orders not to attack till the whole force was assembled, found sufficient reason, after some days’ delay, for effecting the capture of the place on his own responsibility--to the extreme annoyance of essex. the action was executed with brilliant courage and success; but the earl’s anger was with difficulty appeased, and the old animosity between the rivals was to a great extent revived by the incident.
for a time, however, raleigh was not much at court. but essex, who was popular with the mob, as the other was not, was jealous of every one, and nearly every one was jealous of essex. old lord burghley died, and a considerable part of the story of the queen’s last years is really the story of the crafty intriguing by which robert cecil first urged essex to the ruin on which he was ready enough to rush, and then laid his mines for the destruction of raleigh--while carefully avoiding the odium in both cases. essex, when in ireland, acquired a fixed idea that sir walter was the principal person whose machinations were compassing his downfall; but there is little enough reason to suppose that he had any one but himself to thank. the only effective machinations were those of the people who covertly encouraged his own arrogance and misconduct. nevertheless, it is matter of regret that when essex fell, raleigh--who had recently received insults from him--did take a vindictive line, while cecil was posing as the advocate of magnanimity.
a sketch such as this does not permit of an examination of the intricate plottings that surrounded the old queen as she was wearing rapidly to her grave. roughly speaking, the english catholics outside the country were zealous for the quite impossible succession of philip iii. of spain--a plan which did not appeal to the catholics in england. there were schemes for the succession of that monarch’s sister, which found supporters only on the basis of her uniting the crowns of the netherlands and england, in independence of spain. there were ideas of marrying arabella stewart and lord beauchamp--each of whom had some sort of title--with the object of preventing the accession of james vi., whose claim on purely legitimist grounds was quite indisputable. cecil, satisfied that james was the winning candidate, made it his business to convince that prince that his peaceful accession would be entirely due to cecil’s own masterly management, and that raleigh in particular was extremely antagonistic; while raleigh himself was at no pains to curry favour with the scots king.
scarcely was elizabeth dead and james on the throne when a plot for his removal and the substitution of arabella was brought to light, and raleigh was charged with having sold himself to spain and being a principal agent in the conspiracy, which involved the introduction of spanish troops. the conduct of the trial was a monstrous perversion of justice, and raleigh was condemned as a traitor. apart from the inadequacy of the evidence and the palpable fact that it was full of contradictions and of perjury, it remains incredible that raleigh should ever have seriously intended to support a spanish domination. it would not only have been a flat contradiction of his whole career, a merely amazing folly in the man who in all england was the most absolutely convinced of the rottenness of the power of spain; there was also no man alive who more thoroughly appreciated the historical truth, that he who sells his own country to her enemies purchases for himself not power and confidence but suspicion and contempt. the part of themistocles would not have attracted him. he might have been capable of playing a selfish game; he was certainly not likely to play a consciously unpatriotic one; but the game attributed to him by his enemies would have been in his own eyes not only unpatriotic, but, from the selfish point of view, egregiously stupid.
captive and victim
raleigh was condemned to die as a traitor; but the sentence was not carried out. instead, he was relegated to the tower, and was there held a prisoner for twelve years--mainly occupied in scientific and literary pursuits, varied by petitions for release. his chemical experiments may be accounted as a hobby; but his writings would have assured his fame had he possessed no other claim to recognition. they range over the whole field of what the greeks included under the term “politics”--economics, the art of war, the art of government, political institutions, as well as other subjects. the incidental discourses on such matters, illustrated from the events quorum pars magna fuerat, with his comments thereon, give the main permanent interest to his “history of the world”--in itself a monument of such historical learning as was available in his day. on every subject he touched he wrote with a knowledge of facts and a penetrating perception of causes which distinguish him as a political thinker of a high order; alive, like thomas more, to truths which had hardly won general recognition two centuries after he was in his grave. he who in the great days had been the intimate of edmund spenser was in the days of his captivity on terms of friendship with ben jonson. he, too, wrote poetry, but this was for him rather in the nature of an intellectual exercise or accomplishment than of a creative order; little that can with certainty be attributed to him has been handed down, though that little includes lines (like “the lie” and the sonnet to spenser) which are immortal, assuring him his place on the english helicon. but his magnum opus was that “history of the world” which king james condemned because it spoke too “saucily” of the doings of princes, but which was ranked by oliver cromwell next to his bible.
a curious psychological study is afforded by sir walter’s letters when he was lying under sentence of death. he condescended to appeal to the king for mercy in terms which can only be called abject; yet the ink was scarcely dry when he was writing to his wife with tender affection and beautiful dignity. the conclusion afforded by a comparison of the documents is that his personal attitude towards death was that expressed in the letter to his wife, but that for the sake of his family he felt bound to appeal for life, and the only form of appeal from which anything might be hoped must be couched in that style of pitiful self-abasement and fulsome flattery which he adopted--and by which he felt himself degraded.
while robert cecil lived there was never much hope of liberty for sir walter, who yet seems never to have realised that his old friend and colleague was, under the surface, his most determined enemy. but the prisoner, though now advanced in years--he was already fifty-one at the time of the trial--never ceased to dream of eldorado, and to petition for liberty in order to make one more expedition to guiana. cecil died; the rising favourite, villiers, was a person whose influence could be secured--at a price; and at last, after more than twelve years of captivity, raleigh was released, to prepare for his last voyage. but the attitude of england to spain had changed since elizabeth’s death: the ambassador gondomar could twist king james round his little finger. raleigh meant to win his golden empire, and incidentally to teach the old lesson of spanish incapacity over again; gondomar intended to use that expedition for raleigh’s destruction. sir walter played the game on the old familiar theory of twenty--thirty--forty years before: that success would excuse proceedings unauthorised, and even forbidden. every soul, from the king down, knew perfectly well that if the adventurer did not set spain at defiance, the adventure itself would be a stupid farce.
so the greatest living englishman was sent forth to his carefully prepared destruction, to entangle himself in the toils laid by, and at the bidding of, the minister of england’s old foe. of course, under the conditions the expedition was a disastrous failure. raleigh returned from it with a perfect knowledge that he was coming back to irretrievable ruin and disgrace. it would have been easy enough for him to find refuge in a french port; that he deliberately faced his fate is sufficient proof that the charge of his having already sold himself to france was a base slander. raleigh’s enemies were everlastingly accusing him of selling himself; they never produced a scintilla of proof, and the sales were singularly unremunerative to a man who was as careful of his own interests as any one when he did drive a bargain. he had hardly landed in plymouth when he was placed under arrest. even now he had an opportunity of escaping to france, but he refused to avail himself of it. his doom was a foregone conclusion; the death sentence passed on him in 1603 had never been cancelled.
he bore himself worthily; with the fortitude and dignity which were almost a commonplace with englishmen of the tudor tradition. the king of england, elizabeth’s successor, struck off the head of the last of the elizabethan heroes, at the orders of the king of spain. but the degradation was only for a time. spain had laid her enemy low; but the lesson he had spent his life to teach his countrymen was bearing its fruit even in the hour of his doom; to the men of raleigh’s race was destined the empire of the seas, and of the new worlds which spain had arrogantly claimed.
catherine of aragon, &c. see katharine of aragon
cecil, william. see burghley
dudley, john (northumberland). see northumberland
dudley, robert. see leicester
hertford, earl of. see somerset
howard, charles (effingham). see effingham
katharine de medici. see catherine
oaths, nature of, 247-248 and note
seymour, edward. see somerset
stuart, mary. see mary stuart
warwick (dudley). see northumberland
printed by ballantyne & co. limited
tavistock street, london
punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.
simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced quotation marks retained.
ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.
index not checked for proper alphabetization or correct page references.
page 246: “he was again despatched as an enemy to germany” was printed that way; perhaps “emissary” was intended.
a little garden calendar
a little garden calendar
for boys and girls
albert bigelow paine
author of "the little lady, her book," "the arkansaw bear," etc.
with forty-six illustrations
henry altemus company
by the same author
a word to teachers and parents
it is with dr. langley's motto in mind that the "little garden calendar" is offered to parents and teachers, and to children themselves who are old enough to read. the author has tried to tell in simple language a few of the wonders of plant life, and to set down certain easy methods of observation, including planting, tending, and gathering the harvests, from month to month, throughout the year. along with this it has been his aim to call attention to the more curious characteristics of certain plants--the really human instincts and habits of some, the family relations of others, the dependence of many upon mankind, animals, and insects, and the struggle for existence of all. simple botany plays a part in the little narrative, which forms a continuous story from chapter to chapter, interwoven with a number of briefer stories--traditions, fairy tales, and the like, all relating to plant life and origin. these are presented by way of entertainment--to illuminate fact with fancy--to follow, as it were, the path of knowledge through the garden of imagination.
the illustrations in this book are from excellent photographs--especially made for the various chapters--that the student of plant life may compare and identify with some degree of assurance as to varieties and particular specimens, especially in the matter of plant organisms. the volume is divided according to the calendar, for the reason that in the plant world there is interest for every month in the year if only someone is by to point the way, and it is for this purpose that the little story of prue and davy and their garden is offered to instructors in the schoolroom and at home, and to the young people themselves, with the greetings and good wishes of
i you may begin your garden right away
ii your garden may not look as i have it here
iii many seeds are given wings
iv i think seeds know the months
i little plants won't stand much handling
ii hey for the merry little sweet pease
iii even clover belongs to the pulse family
iv beans and morning-glories twine to the right
v the honeysuckle twines always to the left
i still it was really a radish
ii the sun swings like a great pendulum
iii long before there were any railroads and cities
iv did you ever see the little man in the pansy?
i the yellow dust is a food for the seed
ii the coming of the corn
iii cross by name and cross by nature
iv a peppery family
v for in that dish was davy's corn
i sweet pease have to be put down pretty deep
ii different families of ants have different droves of cows
iii there are many ways of producing species
i then they went down into the strawberry patch
ii how the rose became queen
iii the sun is the greatest of all
i a plant is divided into three principal parts
ii there are exogens and endogens
iii i don't see what weeds are for, anyway
i there are just two kinds of leaves
ii sometimes i think plants can see and hear
iii there are plants which do not bloom
iv the princess by the sea
i a flower really has clothes
ii a flower has many servants
iii a flower may really reason
iv some flowers live off other flowers and plants
v the prince and the thread of gold
i seeds are made to be planted
ii there are bitter nuts and sweet ones
iii there are many things called fruits
i there are annuals, biennials, and perennials
ii plants know how to spread
iii all thanks for the plants
i new gardens in the windows
ii to the garden of sleep
iii in the gardens of christmas
iv some verses, and then good-by
a little garden calendar
you may begin your garden right away
this is the story of a year, and begins on new year's day. it is the story of a garden--a little garden--and of a little boy and girl who owned the garden, and of the chief gardener, who helped them.
and the name of the little boy was david, after his grandfather. so they called him davy, because when grandfather was a little boy, he had been called davy, and this little boy wanted to be just as his grandfather had been--just the same kind of a little boy, with the same name and all.
and the name of the little girl was prudence, and she was called prue. for when her mother was a little girl, she had been called prue, and the chief gardener still called her that, sometimes, when he did not call her just mamma. and the little girl was five years old, and the little boy was 'most seven--"going-on seven" the little boy always said, when you asked him.
the garden was in a window, at first--in two windows, side by side--called a double window. it had to be in a window, because outside it was very cold, and the snow was white and deep on the beds where the chief gardener had flowers and vegetables in summer-time.
prue and davy were looking out on this white, snow-covered garden on new year's afternoon. christmas was over, and spring seemed far away. and there had been so much snow that they were tired of their sleds.
"i wish it would be warm again," said davy, "so there would be strawberries and nice things to eat in the garden; don't you, prue?"
"and nice green grass, and dandelions and pinks and morning-glories," said prue, who loved flowers.
then the little girl went over to where the chief gardener was reading. she leaned over his knee and rocked it back and forth.
"will it ever be warm again?" she asked. "will we ever have another garden?"
the chief gardener turned another page of his paper. prue rocked his knee harder.
"i want it to be warm," she said. "i want it to be so we can plant flowers."
"and things," put in davy, "nice things, to eat; pease and berries and radishes."
"oh, davy, you always want things to eat!" said the little girl. "we've just had our new year's dinner!"
"but i'd be hungry again before the things grew, wouldn't i? and you like strawberries, too, and short-cake."
the chief gardener laid down his paper.
"what's all this about strawberry short-cake and morning-glories?" he asked.
"we want it to be warm," said prue, "so we can have a garden, with pinks and pansies--"
"and pease--" began davy.
"and a short-cake tree," put in the chief gardener, "with nice short-cakes covered with whipped cream, hanging on all the branches. that would suit you, wouldn't it, davy boy?"
the very thought of a tree like that made davy silent with joy; but prue still rocked the knee and talked.
"when will it be warm? when can we have a garden?" she kept asking.
"it is warm, now, in this room," said the chief gardener, "and you may begin your garden right away, if you like."
the children looked at him, not knowing just what he meant.
"in the window," he went on. "there are two, side by side. they are a part of the garden, you know, for we always see the garden through them, in summer. you remember, we said last year they were like frames for it. now, suppose we really put a little piece of garden in the windows."
prue was already dancing.
"oh, yes! and i'll have pansies, and roses, and hollyhocks, and pinks, and morning-glories, and--"
"and i'll have peaches, and apples, and strawberries, and pease--"
"and a field of corn and wheat," laughed the chief gardener, "and a grove of cocoanut trees! what magic windows we must have to hold all the things you have named. they will be like the pack of santa claus--never too full to hold more."
"but can't we have all the things we like?" asked davy, anxiously.
"not quite all, i'm afraid. the hollyhocks and roses that prue wants do not bloom the first year from seed. it would hardly pay to plant them in a window-garden, and as for peach and apple trees, i am afraid you would get very tired waiting for them to bear. it takes at least five years for apple-trees to give us fruit, often much longer. peach-trees bear about the third year. i think we would better try a few things that bloom and bear a little more quickly."
your garden may not look as i have it here
the chief gardener took his pencil and a piece of paper, and drew a little plan. he was not much of an artist, and sometimes when he drew things he had to write their names below, so that prue and davy could tell which was the rabbit and which was the donkey, and so they wouldn't think the kitten was a lion. but a window was not so hard, and then he could put names under the plants, too. on the next page is the picture that the chief gardener drew.
while he was making the picture, the children had been asking questions.
"which is my side? oh, what's that in the center--that tall plant? what are those vines? what will we have in those littlest pots? oh, i know what those are! those are morning-glories! oh, goody!"
the last was from prue, when she saw the artist putting the flowers along the vines that he had made climbing up the sides of her window.
"yes," said the chief gardener, "those are morning-glories. you can have two vines in each pot, if you wish, and in that way get four colors--blue, white, purple, and pink. on davy's side i have made climbing beans--scarlet and white runners--because they are very pretty, and also very good to eat. davy's is a vegetable, and yours a flower, garden. then, if davy wants some flowers, and you get hungry, you can give him flowers for vegetables."
"oh, that will be playing 'market,' won't it? i just love to play 'store' and 'going to market.'"
"my beans look a good deal like prue's morning-glories, all but the flowers," said davy.
"so they do, davy; and they really look something the same in the garden. the leaves are nearly the same shape, only that the morning-glory's is more heart-shaped, and then beans have three leaves to the stem instead of one. sometimes i have taken a morning-glory for a bean, just at first."
"what else have we?" asked prue. "what are the little flowers, and the big one in the center?"
if the chief gardener felt hurt because his pictures did not show just what all the flowers were, without telling, he did not say so. he said:
"well, in the center of your window, prue, the big flower is made for a sunflower. not the big kind, but the small western sunflower, such as we had along the back fence last summer. i think we can raise those in the house."
"i just love those," nodded prue.
"then those two slender plants are sweet-pease on your side, and garden-pease on davy's. i put two in each window, because i know that you love sweet-pease, while davy is very fond of the vegetable kind."
"i'd like a whole bushel of sweet-pease!" said prue.
"and i wish i had a bushel of eating pease!" said davy, "and i know that's sweet corn in the middle of my window. i just love it!"
"yes," said the chief gardener, "and a little pot of radishes on one side, and a pot of lettuce salad on the other. do you think you like that, davy?"
"can't i have strawberries, instead of the salad?" asked davy.
"strawberries don't bear from seed the first season, and i can't remember any fruit that does, unless you call tomatoes fruit, and i don't think a tomato vine would be quite pleasant in the house. it doesn't always have a sweet odor."
"oh, well, i can eat lettuce," said davy. "i can eat anything that's good."
"what are in my other little pots?" asked prue for the third or fourth time.
"well, one is meant for a pot of pansies--"
"oh, pansies! pansies! can't i have two pots of pansies?"
"you can have three or four plants in one pot--perhaps that will do. then you can put nasturtiums in the other little pot. they are easy to grow, and very beautiful."
"yes," said prue, "i never saw anything so lovely as your nasturtiums by the house, last year."
the chief gardener looked at the sketch and tapped it with his pencil.
"of course," he said, "your garden may not look just as i have it here. i don't draw very well, but i can make things about the right sizes to fit the windows, and that isn't so hard to do with a pencil as it is with the plants themselves. plants, like children, don't always grow just as their friends want them to, and they are not always well behaved. you see--"
"but won't my bean vines and corn grow up like that?" asked davy.
"and won't my morning-glories have flowers on them?" asked prue.
"i hope they will, and we will try to coax them. but you see things may happen. sometimes it comes a very cold night when the fires get low, and then plants are likely to chill, or perhaps freeze and die. we can only try to be very careful."
"how long will it take them to grow?" asked davy.
many seeds are given wings
the chief gardener took davy and prue down in the basement, where in one corner he kept his flower-pots and garden-tools.
"i'm going to use the hoe," said davy, reaching for the long handle.
"i'll have the rake for my garden," said prue.
the chief gardener smiled.
"i don't think we'll need either for this gardening. a small weeder or an old kitchen-knife will be about the largest tool you can use."
then he picked out some pots, set them side by side on a table, and measured them to see how long a row they made. then he changed them and measured again.
"there," he said, "those will just fit one window. now, another set for the other window and we are ready for the soil."
"where will you get dirt? everything is frozen hard," said davy.
the chief gardener took up a spading-fork from among the tools.
"we'll get our hats and coats, first," he said, "then we'll see what we can find."
outside it was really very cold, but the children, with their thick wraps, did not mind. they raced in the snow across the empty little garden, and followed the chief gardener to a small mound in one corner. here he pushed away the snow, and with the fork lifted up a layer of frozen-looking weeds; then another layer, not quite so frozen and not quite so weedy; then still another layer that did not seem at all frozen, but was just a mass of damp leaves and bits of grass. and under this layer it must have been quite warm, for steam began to rise white in the cold air.
"oh, see!" said prue. "what makes the smoke?"
"that's steam," said davy, wisely; "but what makes it warm?"
"fever," said the chief gardener, "just as you had, davy, that night you ate too much layer-cake. you said you were burning up, but it was only nature trying to burn up the extra food. that is what nature is doing here--trying to burn up and turn to earth the pile of weeds and grass i threw here last summer for compost. next spring the fire will be out, and leave only a heap of rich soil for the garden."
beneath the last layer there was warm, dark earth. the chief gardener filled the basket he had brought, and they hurried back to the basement to fill the pots.
"not too full--we must leave room at the top for digging and watering, without spilling dirt and water on the floor. then the plants will help fill up by and by, too, and i think we would better put in a little of this compost at the bottom. when the roots run down they will be glad to find some fresh, rich food. don't pack the earth too tightly, davy; just jar the pot a little to settle it, and it should be fine and quite dry. perhaps we'd better dry it a little," the chief gardener added, as he saw by the children's hands that some of the earth was rather damp and sticky.
so he brought out a flat box, emptied all the pots into it, and set the box on top of the furnace.
"while it's drying, we'll go upstairs and pick out the seeds," he said.
"oh, see my beans! how pretty they are!" cried davy, as the chief gardener pointed out the purple-mottled seeds of the scarlet runners.
prue looked a little envious. she was fond of pretty things.
"but my pease are better-looking than those crinkly things of yours," she said; "mine are most like little beads; and see my nasturtium seed! they look good to eat, like little peanuts."
it was davy's turn now to be envious. anything that looked like peanuts must be very good to eat.
"people often pickle nasturtium pods," said the chief gardener. "they are fine and peppery. so prue will really have something to eat in her garden, while davy will have beautiful flowers on his scarlet runners."
"see my morning-glory seed, like quarters of a little black apple, and how tiny my pansy seeds are!" cried prue, holding out the papers.
davy was looking at the little round, brown kernels that the chief gardener had said were radish seeds, and the light little flakes that were to grow into lettuce.
"what makes seeds so different?" he asked soberly.
"ah, davy, that is a hard question," answered the chief gardener. "a great many very great people have tried to answer it."
he opened a little paper and held it out for them to see.
"what funny little feather-tops!" said prue.
"like little darts," said davy. "what are they?"
"marigold seeds. they are very light, and the little tufts or wings are to carry them through the air, so they will be scattered and sown by the wind. many seeds are given wings of different kinds. maple seeds have a real pair of wings. others have a tuft of down on them, so light that they are carried for miles. but many seeds are hard to explain. plants very nearly alike grow from seeds that are not at all alike, while plants as different as can be grow from seeds that can hardly be told apart, even under the magnifying-glass."
the pots filled with the warm earth were brought up and ranged in the windows.
"how deep, and how many seeds in a pot?" asked davy.
"that depends," the chief gardener answered. "i believe there is a rule that says to plant twice as deep as the seed is long, though sweet-pease and some other things are planted deeper; and you may plant more seeds than you want plants, so that enough are pretty sure to grow; four beans in each pot, davy--two white and two colored, and three grains of corn in the large center pot."
the children planted the seeds--the chief gardener helping, showing how to cover them with fine earth--the corn and beans quite deeply, the sweet-pease still deeper, fully an inch or more, the smaller seeds thinly and evenly: then how to pat them down so that the earth might be lightly but snugly packed about the sleeping seeds.
"now we will dampen them a little," he said, "and when they feel their covering getting moist, perhaps they will think of waking."
i think seeds know the months
but the seeds did not sprout that day, nor the next, nor for many days after they were planted.
prue and davy watered them a little every morning, and were quite sure the room had been warm, but it takes sunshine, too, to make seeds think of waking from their long nap, and the sun does not always shine in january. even when it does, it is so low in the sky, and stays such a little time each day, that it does not find its way down into the soil as it does in spring and summer time.
"you said that corn sprouts in a week," said davy to the chief gardener, one morning, "and it's a week to-day since we planted it, and even the radishes are not up yet."
prue also looked into her little row of pots, and said sadly that there was not even a little teeny-weeny speck of anything coming up that she could see.
"i'm sorry," said the chief gardener, "but you know i really can't make the sun shine, and even if i could, perhaps they would be slow about coming, at this season. sometimes i think seeds know the months as well as we do, for i have known seeds to sprout in june in a place where there was very little warmth or moisture and no sunshine at all. yes, i think the seeds know."
"and won't my pansies come at all?" whimpered little prue.
"oh, i think so. they only need a little more coaxing. suppose we see just what is going on. you planted a few extra radish seeds, davy. we will do as little folks often do--dig up one and see what has happened."
so the chief gardener dug down with his pocket-knife and lifted a bit of the dirt, which he looked at carefully. then he held it to the light and let the children look. sticking to the earth there was a seed, but it was no longer the tiny brown thing which davy had planted. it was so large that davy at first thought it was one of his pease, and on one side of it there was an edge of green.
"it's all right, davy boy. they'll be up in a day or two," laughed the chief gardener. "now, we'll try a pansy."
"oh, yes, try a pansy! try a pansy!" danced little prue, who was as happy as davy over the sprouting of the radish.
so the chief gardener dug down into the pansy-pot, but just at first could not find a pansy seed, they were so small. then he did find one, and coming out of it were two tiny pale-green leaves, and a thread of white rootlet that had started downward.
prue clapped her hands and wanted the chief gardener to dig in all the pots, but he told them that it would not be good gardening to do that, and that they must be patient now, and wait. so then another anxious week went by. and all at once, one morning very early, prue and davy came shouting up the stairs to where the chief gardener was shaving.
"they're up! they're up!"
"and my radishes! they've lifted up a piece of dirt over every seed, and there's one little green point in the corn-pot, too!"
the chief gardener had to leave his shaving to see. sure enough! davy's radishes and prue's pansies were beginning to show, and one tender shoot of davy's corn. and in less than another week davy's lettuce and pease and beans were breaking the ground above each seed, while prue's garden was coming too, all but the sweet-pease, which, because of their hard shell, sprouted more slowly, even though they had been soaked in warm water before planting. but in another week they began to show, too, and everything else was quite above ground.
then the chief gardener dug up one each of the extra seeds, root and all, and showed them just how they had sprouted and started to grow. he showed them how the shell or husk of the seed still clung to the two first leaves of some of the morning-glory and radish plants, how when the little plant had awakened from its long nap, it had stretched, just as a little boy would stretch, getting up out of bed, and how, being hungry, it had made its breakfast on a part of the tender kernel packed about it in the seed, and then pushed its leaves up for light and air. he also showed them how the grain of corn and the pea stayed below the ground to feed the little shoots that pushed up and the sprangled roots that were starting down to hunt for richness. but they all laughed at the beans, for the beans left only the husk below and pushed the rich kernel up into the air--coming up topsy-turvy, davy said, while prue thought the leaves must be very greedy to take the kernel all away from the roots, instead of leaving it where both could have a share.
and now another week passed, and other tiny leaves began to show on most of the plants. these were different shaped from the first oval or heart-shaped seed-leaves--real, natural leaves, prue said, such as they would have when they were grown. only the corn did not change, but just unfolded and grew larger.
and so in every pot there were tender green promises of fruit and flower. the little garden was really a garden at last.
little plants won't stand much handling
yet the little garden seemed to grow slowly. the sun in february was getting farther to the north, and came earlier and stayed later than it had in january, and was brighter, too. but for all that, to davy and prue, each new leaf came quite slowly--just a tiny point or bud at first, then a little green heart or oval or crinkly oblong with a wee stem of its own. it was very hard to see each morning, just what had grown since the morning before.
of course they did grow--little by little, and inch by inch--just as children grow, and a good deal faster, for when they measured their bean and morning-glory vines, they found one morning that they had grown at least a half an inch since the day before, and that would be a good deal for a little boy or girl to grow in one day.
but davy perhaps remembered the story of "jack and the beanstalk" and how jack's bean had grown to the sky in a very short time; and, of course, remembering a story like that is apt to make anybody impatient with a bean that grows only half an inch a day.
"i think it would be a good plan," he said one morning, "to tie a rubber band to the top of each of my bean vines, and then fasten the other end higher up the window to help pull the vines along."
and little prue said:
"i pulled my morning-glories along yesterday a little, with my fingers. i know they grew a tiny speck then, but they don't look quite so nice this morning."
the chief gardener came over to see what was going on.
"i don't think we'd better try any new plans," he said. "i'm afraid if we pull our plants to make them grow, we will have to pull them up altogether, pretty soon, and plant new ones. tender little plants won't stand much handling."
the chief gardener was not cross, but his voice was quite solemn. little prue looked frightened and her lip quivered the least bit.
"oh, will my morning-glories die now?" she asked; "and i pulled the pansies just a tiny speck, too. will they die?"
"not this time, i think; but i wouldn't do it again. just give them a little water now and then, and dig in the pots a little, and turn them around sometimes so that each side of the plant gets the light, and nature will do the rest. of course you can't turn the bean and morning-glory pots after they get to climbing the strings, but they will twine round and round and so turn themselves. your garden looks very well for the time of year. perhaps if you did not watch it so much it would grow faster. they say that a watched pot never boils, so perhaps a watched plant does not grow well. i am sure they do not like to be stretched up to a measuring-stick every morning at eight o'clock. suppose now we put up the strings for the morning-glories and beans to climb on, and some nice branchy twigs for the pease, then water them well and leave them for a few days and see what happens."
so then the chief gardener and the two little gardeners went down in the basement, where they found some tiny screw-hooks and some string, and where they cut some nice sprangly little limbs from the christmas tree that still stood in one corner, and was getting very dry. then they all came up again and put up strings for the scarlet runners and morning-glories, by tying one end of each string to a stout little stick which the chief gardener pushed carefully into the soil between the plants, and then carried the string to the small screw-hooks, which were put about half-way up, and at the top of the window-casings. the branchy twigs were stuck carefully into the pots where the pease grew, and stood up straight and fine--like little ladders, prue said--for the pease to climb.
"it's just like a circus," said davy. "the beans and morning-glories will be climbing ropes, and the pease will be running up straight ladders."
"and while we are waiting for the performance to begin," added the chief gardener, "suppose you let me tell you something about the performers--where they came from, and some stories that are told of them."
hey for the merry little sweet-pea
the chief gardener went into the next room, which was the library, and drew a cozy little settee up before the bright hickory fire. it was just wide enough for three, and when he sat down, davy and little prue promptly hopped up, one on each side. in a low rocker near the window big prue was doing something with silks and needles and a very bright pair of scissors. the chief gardener stirred the fire and looked into it. then he said:
"speaking of pease, i wonder if you ever heard this little song about
'the two peas
'oh, a little sweet-pea in the garden grew-- hey, for the merry little sweet-pea!
and a garden-pea, it grew there, too-- hi, for the happy little eat-pea! in all kinds of weather they grew there together-- ho, for the pease in the garden! hey, for the sweet-pea! hi, for the eat-pea! hey, he, hi, ho, hum!
'oh, the sweet-pea bloomed and the eat-pea bore-- hey, for the merry little sweet-pea! and they both were sent to a poor man's door-- hi, for the happy little eat-pea! in all kinds of weather they came there together! ho, for the pease from the garden! hey, for the sweet-pea! hi, for the eat-pea! hey, he, hi, ho, hum!
'now, the poor man's poor little girl lay ill-- what a chance for a merry little sweet-pea! and there wasn't a cent in the poor man's till-- good-by to the jolly little eat-pea! in all kinds of weather they brought joy together when they came from the happy little garden! hey, for the sweet-pea! hi, for the eat-pea! hey, he, hi, ho, hum!'"
"was there really ever a poor man and a little sick girl who had pease sent to them?" asked little prue, as the chief gardener finished.
"oh, i am sure there must have been! a great many of them."
"but the ones you sung about. those really same ones--did they ever really live, or did you make it up about them?"
"i don't think my pease would be quite enough for a poor man who didn't have a cent of money," said davy, after thinking about it.
"but my sweet-pease will be enough, only i want to know if there is really such a little girl, so i can send them. is there, papa?"
"well, i am sure we can find such a little girl, if we try. and i know she'd be glad for some sweet-pease. and now here's a little story that i really didn't make up, but read a long time ago.
"once upon a time there were two friars--"
"what are friars?" asked prue. "do they fry things?"
"well, not exactly, though one of these did do some stewing, and the other, too, perhaps, though in a different way. a friar is a kind of priest, and these two had done something which the abbot, who is the head priest, did not like, so he punished them."
"what did they do?" asked prue, who liked to know just what people could be punished for.
"i don't remember now. it's so long--"
"what do you s'pose it was?"
"well, i really can't s'pose, but it may have been because they forgot their prayers. abbots don't like friars to forget their prayers--"
"oh, prue!" said davy, "do let papa go on with the story!"
"but i would. i'd say 'em sixty times!"
"yes," said the chief gardener, "friars have to do that, too, i believe; but these had to do something different. they had to wear pease in their shoes."
"had to wear pease! in their shoes!"
"yes, pease, like those we planted, and they had to walk quite a long ways, and, of course, it wouldn't be pleasant to walk with those little hard things under your feet.
"well, they started, and one of them went limping and stewing along, and making an awful fuss, because his feet hurt him so, but when he looked at the other he saw that instead of hobbling and groaning as he was, he was walking along, as lively as could be, and seemed to be enjoying the fine morning, and was actually whistling.
"'oh, dear!' said the one who was limping, 'how is it you can walk along so spry, and feel so happy, with those dreadful pease in your shoes?'
"'why,' said the other, 'before i started, i took the liberty to boil my pease!'"
"but, papa," began little prue, "i don't see--"
"i do," said davy, "it made them soft, so they didn't hurt."
"what kind of pease were they?" asked prue. "like davy's or mine?"
"well, i've never heard just what kind they were. there are a good many kinds of pease, and they seem to have come from a good many places. besides the sweet-pease and garden-pease, there are field-pease, used dry for cattle, and in england there is what is called a sea-pea, because it was first found growing on the shore of a place called sussex, more than three hundred and fifty years ago, in a year of famine. there were many, many of them and they were in a place where even grass had not grown before that time. the people thought they must have been cast up by some shipwrecked vessel, and they gathered them for food, and so kept from going hungry and starving to death. the garden-pea is almost the finest of vegetables, and there are many kinds--some large, some small, some very sweet, some that grow on tall vines and have to have stakes, and some that grow very short without stakes, and are called dwarfs. there are a good many kinds of sweet-pease, too, different sizes and colors, but i think all the different kinds of garden-pease and sweet-pease might have come from one kind of each, a very, very long time ago, and that takes me to another story which i will have to put off until next time. i have some books now to look over, and you and davy, prue, can go for a run in the fresh air."
even clover belongs to the pulse family
it was on the same evening that prue and davy asked for the other story. and of course the chief gardener had to tell it, for he had promised, and little prue, especially, didn't like to put off anything that had been promised. so this is the story that the chief gardener told:
"the pulse family is a very large one. i don't know just where the first old great-grandfather pulse ever did come from, but it is thought to be some place in asia, a great country of the far east. it may be that the first pulse lived in the garden of eden, though whether as a tree or a vine or a shrub, or only as a little plant, we can't tell now."
"i think it's going to be a fairy story," said prue, settling down to listen. "is it, papa? a real, true fairy story?"
"well, perhaps it is a sort of a fairy story, and i'll try to tell it just as truly as i can. anyway, the story goes, that a long time after the garden of eden was ruined and the pulse family started west, there were two cousins, and these two cousins were vines, though whether they were always vines, or only got to be vines so they could travel faster, i do not know. some of their relations were trees then, and are now; the locust tree out in the corner of the yard is one of them."
davy looked up, and was about to ask a question. the chief gardener went on.
"the cousins i am talking about, being vines, traveled quite fast in the summer-time, but when it came winter, they lay down for a long nap, and only when spring came they roused up and traveled on. one of them was a very fine fellow, with gay flowers that had a sweet smell, and people loved him for his beauty and fragrance. the other brought only greenish-white flowers, not very showy, but some thought him far more useful than his pretty cousin, for he gave the people food as he passed along.
"did they really travel as you have told?" asked davy, looking into the fire.
"well, i have never been able to find any printed history of their travels, so it may have been something like that."
"they did, didn't they, papa?" insisted little prue, who always wanted to believe every word of every fairy story. "they went hand in hand, just as davy and i do when we go walking, didn't they?"
"and davy is the garden-pea and you the sweet-pea, is that it? well, they did come a long way--that is true--and they do belong to a very large family. why, even the clover belongs to the pulse family, and the peanut, and the locust, and the laburnum, and there is one distant branch of the family that is so modest and sensitive that at the least habits--no habits at all, in fact; and the one great passion of his simple heart is love without a limit for mollie and little davy. he lives for them; the least of their desires is the great concern of mike’s life. therefore, when his income shrinks from twelve dollars to six, it creeps up on him and chills him as a loss to mollie and davy. and peculiarly does this sorrowful business of a ruined christmas for davy prey on poor mike.
“you and i won’t mind,” says housewife mollie, looking up in mike’s face with the sage dignity of her eleven years, “because we’re old enough to understand; but i feel bad about little davy. it’s the first real awful christmas we’ve ever had.”
mollie is as bright and wise as mike is dull. seven years her senior, still mike has grown to believe in and rely altogether on mollie as a guide. he takes her commands without question, and does her will like a slave. to mollie goes every one of mike’s dollars; it is mollie who disposes of them, while mike never gives them a thought. they have been devoted to the one purpose of mike’s labors; they have gone to mollie and little davy of the crutch; why, then, should mike pursue them further?
following housewife mollie’s regrets over a sad christmas that was not because of their poverty to be a christmas, mike sits solemnly by the window looking out on the gathering gloom and hurrying holiday crowds of pitt street. the folk are all poor; yet each seems able to do a bit for christmas. as they hurry by, with small bundles and parcels, and now and then a basket from which protrude mayhap a turkey’s legs or other symptom of the victory of christmas, mike, in the midst of his sluggish amiabilities, discovers a sense of pain--a darkish thought of trouble.
and as if grief were to sharpen his wits, mike has for almost a first and last time an original idea. it is the thought natural enough, when one reflects on mike’s engagements, evening in and evening out, with professor o’punch.
that day mike, in passing through the bowery, read the two hundred dollars offer of the selfconfident terror. at that time mike felt nothing save wonder that so great a fortune might be the reward of so small an effort. but it did not occur to him that he should try a tilt with the terror. in his present stress, however, and with the woe upon him of a bad christmas to dawn for little davy, the notion marches slowly into mike’s intelligence. and it seems simple enough, too, now mike has thought of it; and with nothing further of pro or con, he prepares himself for the enterprise.
for causes not clear to himself he says nothing to housewife mollie of his plans. but he alarms that little lady of the establishment’s few sparse pots and kettles by declining to eat his supper. mollie fears mike is ill. the latter, knowing by experience just as any animal might, that with twelve minutes of violent exercise before him, he is better without, while denying the imputation of illness, sticks to his supperless resolve.
then mike goes into the rear room and dons blue tights, blue sleeveless shirt, canvas trunks, and light shoes; his working costume. over these he draws trousers and a blue sweater; on top of all a heavy double-breasted jacket. thrusting his feet, light shoes and all, into heavy snow-proof overshoes, and pulling on a bicycle cap, mike is arrayed for the street. mollie knows of these several preparations, the ring costume under the street clothes, but thinks naught of it, such being mike’s nightly custom as he departs for the academy of professor o’punch. at the last moment, mike kisses both mollie and little davy; and then, with a sudden original enthusiasm, he says:
“i’ve been thinkin’, mollie; mebby i can get some money. mebby we’ll see a good christmas, after all.”
mollie is dazed by the notion of mike thinking; but she looks in his face, with its honest eyes full of love for her and davy, and as beautiful as a god’s and as unsophisticated, and in spite of herself a hope begins to live and lift up its head. possibly mike may get money; and christmas, and the rent, and many another matter then pinching the baby housekeeper and of which she has made no mention to mike, will be met and considered.
“it’ll be nice if you should get money, mike,” is all mollie trusts herself to say, as she returns mike’s good-bye kiss.
when mike gets into pitt street he moves slowly. there’s the crowd, for one thing. then, too, it’s over early for his contest with the terror. mike prefers to arrive at the theatre just in time to strip and make the required application for those two hundred dollars. it may appear strange, but it never once occurs to mike that he will not last the demanded four rounds. but it seems such a weighty sum! mike doubts if the offer be earnest; hesitates with the fear that the management will refuse to give him the money at the end.
“but surely,” decides mike, “they will feel as though they ought to give me something. i lose a dollar by not going to professor o’punch’s; they must take account of that.”
mike loiters along with much inborn ease of heart. occasionally he pauses to gaze into one of the cheap shop windows, ablaze and garish of the season’s wares. there is no wind; the air has no point; but it is snowing softly, persistently, flakes of a mighty size and softness.
ten minutes before he arrives at that theatre which has been the scene of the terror’s triumphs, mike enters a bakery whereof the proprietor, a german, is known to him. mike has no money but he feels no confusion for that.
“sure!” says john, leading the way to a rear room which thrives greasily as a kind of restaurant. “and here, mike,” goes on john, as the soup arrives, “i’ll put a big drink of sherry in it. you will feel good because of it, and the sherry and the hot soup will make you quick and strong already.”
at the finish, mike, with an eye of bland innocence--for he is certain the theatre will give him something, even if it withhold the full two hundred--tells john he will pay for the soup within the hour, when he returns.
“that’s all right, mike,” cries the good-natured baker, “any time will do.”
“this w’y, me cove,” observes a person with a cockney accent, as the sharp gamin delivers mike, together with the message to the terror, at the stage door; “this w’y; ’ere’s a dressin’ room for you to shift your togs.”
later, when mike’s outer husks are off and he stands arrayed for the ring, this person, who is old and gray and wears a scarred and battered visage, looks mike over in approval:
“you seems an amazin’ bit of stuff, lad,” says this worthy man; “the build of tom sayres at his best, but’eavier. i ’opes you’ll do this mick, but i’m afeared on it. you looks too pretty; an’ you ain’t got a fightin’ face. how ’eavy be you, lad?”
“one hundred and eighty-one,” replies mike, smiling on the englishman with his boy’s eyes.
“can you spar a bit?” asks the other.
“why, of course i can!” and mike’s tones exhibit surprise.
“well, laddy,” says the other; “don’t let this dublin bloke rattle you. ’e’s a great blow’ard, i takes it, an’ will quit if he runs ag’in two or three stiff ’uns. a score of years ago, i’d a-give ’im a stone an’ done for ’im myself. i’m to be in your corner, laddy, an’ i trusts you’ll not disgrace me.”
“who are you?” asks mike.
“oh, me?” says the other; “i works for the theayter, laddy, an’, bein’ as ’ow i’m used to fightin’, i goes on to ’eel an’ ’andle the amatoors as goes arter the terror. it’s all square, laddy; i’ll be be’ind you; an’ i’ll ’elp you to win those pennies if i sees a w’y.”
“i have also the honor,” shouts the loud master of ceremonies, “to introduce to you mike men-ares, who will contend with the dublin terror. should he stay four rounds, marquis of queens-berry rules, the management forfeits two hundred dollars to the said menares.”
“what a model for my jason,” says a thin shaving of a man who stands as a spectator in the wings. he is an artist of note, and speaks to a friend at his elbow. “what a model for my jason! i will give him five dollars an hour for three hours a day. what’s his name? mike what?” the battle is about to commence; the friend, tongue-tied of interest, makes no reply.
the dublin terror is a rugged, powerful ruffian, with lumpy shoulders, thick short neck, and a shock gorilla head. his little gray eyes are lighted fiercely. his expression is as savagely bitter as mike’s is gentle. the creature, a fighter by nature, was born meaning harm to other men.
there is a roped square, about eighteen feet each way, on the stage, in which the gladiators will box. the floor is canvas made safe with rosin. the master of cermonies, himself a pugilist of celebration, will act as referee. the old battered man of white chapel is in mike’s corner.
another gentleman, with face similarly marred, but with seven dials as his nesting place, is posted opposite to befriend the terror. there is much buzz in the audience--a rude gathering, it is--and a deal of sympathetic admiration and not a ray of hope for mike in the eyes of those present.
the terror is replete of a riotous confidence and savage to begin. for two nights, such is the awe of him engendered among local bruisers, no one has presented himself for a meeting. this has made the terror hungry for a battle; he feels like a bear unfed. as he stands over from mike awaiting the call of “time,” he looks formidable and forbidding, with his knotted arms and mighty hands.
mike lounges in his place, the perfection of the athlete and picture of grace with power. his face, full of vacant amiability, shows pleased and interested as he looks out on the crowded, rampant house. mike has rather the air of a spectator than a principal. the crowd does not shake him; he is not disturbed by the situation. in a fashion, he has been through the same thing every night, save sunday, for three years. it comes commonplace enough to mike.
in a blurred way mike resents the blood-eagerness which glows in the eyes of his enemy; but he knows no fear. it serves to remind him, however, that no restraints are laid upon him in favor of the brute across the ring, and that he is at liberty to hit with what lust he will.
“time!” suddenly calls the referee.
those who entertained a forbode of trouble ahead for mike are agreeably surprised. with the word “time!” mike springs into tremendous life like a panther aroused. his dark eyes glow and gleam in a manner to daunt.
the terror, a gallant headlong ruffian, throws himself upon mike like a tornado. for full two minutes his blows fall like a storm. it does not seem of things possible that man could last through such a tempest. but mike lasts; more than that, every blow of the terror is stopped or avoided.
it runs off like a miracle to the onlookers, most of whom know somewhat of self-defensive arts. that mike makes no reprisals, essays no counterhits, does not surprise. a cautious wisdom would teach him to feel out and learn his man. moreover, mike is not there to attack; his mere mission is to stay four rounds.
while spectators, with approving comment on mike’s skill and quickness, are reminding one another that mike’s business is “simply to stay,” mike himself is coming to a different thought. he has grown disgusted rather than enraged by the attacks of the terror. his thrice-trained eye notes each detail of what moves as a whirlwind to folk looking on; his arm and foot provide automatically for his defense and without direct effort of the brain. this leaves mike’s mind, dull as it is, with nothing to engage itself about save a contemplation of the terror. in sluggish sort mike begins to hold a vast dislike for that furious person.
as those home-visions come to mike, and his antipathy to the terror mounting to its height, the grim impulse claims him to attack. tigerlike he steps back to get his distance; then he springs forward. it is too quickly done for eye to follow. the terror’s guard is opened by a feint; and next like a flash mike’s left shoots cleanly in. there is a sharp “spank!” as the six-ounce glove finds the terror’s jaw; that person goes down like an oak that is felled. as he falls, mike’s right starts with a crash for the heart. but there is no need: mike stops the full blow midway--a feat without a mate in boxing. the terror lies as one without life.
“w’y didn’t you let ’im ’ave your right like you started, laddy?” screams the old cockney, as mike walks towards his corner.
mike laughs in his way of gentle, soft goodnature, and points where the terror, white and senseless, bleeds thinly at nose and ear.
“the left did it,” mike replies.
out of his eyes the hot light is already dying. he takes a deep, deep breath, that arches his great breast and makes the muscles clutch and climb like serpents; he stretches himself by extending his arms and standing high on his toes. meanwhile he beams pleasantly on his grizzled adherent.
“it wasn’t much,” says mike.
“you be the coolest cove, laddy!” retorts the other in a rapt whisper. then he towels deftly at the sweat on mike’s forehead.
the decision has been given in mike’s favor. and to his delight, without argument or hesitation, the loud young man of the vociferous garb comes behind the scenes and endows him with two hundred dollars.
“say,” observes the loud young man, admiringly, “you ain’t no wonder, i don’t t’ink!”
“but how did you come to do it, mike?” asks the good-natured baker, as mike lingers over a midnight porterhouse at the latter’s restaurant.
“i had to, john,” says mike, turning his innocent face on the other; “i had to win christmas money for mollie and little davy.”
“and what,” said the sour gentleman, “became of this mike menares?”
“i should suppose,” broke in the red nosed gentleman, who had followed the jolly doctor’s narrative with relish, “i should suppose now he posed for the little sculptor’s jason.”
“it is my belief he did,” observed the jolly doctor, with a twinkle, “and in the end he became full partner of the bruiser, o’punch, and shared the profits of the gymnasium instead of taking a dollar a night for his labors. his sister grew up and married, which, when one reflects on the experience of her mother, shows she owned no little of her brother’s courage.”
“your story,” remarked the red nosed gentleman to the jolly doctor, “and the terrific blow which this menares dealt the dublin terror brings to mv mind a blow my father once struck.” this was a cue to the others and one quickly seized on; the red nosed gentleman was urged to give the story of that paternal blow. first seeing to it that the stock of burgundy at his elbow was ample, and freighting his own and the jolly doctor’s glasses to the brim, the red nosed gentleman coughed, cleared his throat, and then gave us the tale of that stolen ace of hearts.
chapter viii.--that stolen ace of hearts.
when i, at the unripe age of seventeen, left my father’s poor cottage-house on tom’s run and threw myself into life’s struggle, i sought pittsburg as a nearest promising arena of effort. i had a small place at a smaller wage as a sort of office boy and porter for a down-town establishment devoted to a commerce of iron; but as i came early to cut my connection with that hard emporium we will not dwell thereon.
i have already told you how by nature i was a gambler. i had inborn hankerings after games of chance, and it was scant time, indeed, before i found myself on terms of more or less near acquaintance with every card sharper of the city. and i became under their improper tutelage an expert cheat myself. at short cards and such devices as faro and roulette, i soon knew each devious turn and was in excellent qualification to pillage my way to eminence if not to riches among the nimble-fingered nobility of the green tables into whose midst i had coaxed or crowded my way. vast was my ambition to soar as a blackleg, and no student at his honest books burned with more fire to succeed. i became initiate into such mysteries as the “bug,” the “punch,” the “hold-out”; i could deal “double” or “from the bottom;” was a past master of those dubious faro inventions, the “snake,” the “end squeeze,” and the “balance top;” could “put back” with a clean deftness that might deceive even my masters in evil doing, and with an eye like a hawk read a deck of marked cards with the same easy certainty that i read the alphabet. it was a common compliment to my guilty merit that no better craftsman at crooked play ever walked in diamond alley.
no, as i’ve heretofore explained, there dawned a day when i gave up card gambling and played no more. it is now twenty years since i wagered so much as a two-bit piece in any game other than the wall street game of stocks. and yet it was no moral arousal that drew me from roulette, from farobank and from draw poker. i merely awoke to the truth that the greatest simpleton of cards is the professional gambler himself; and with that i turned my back on the whole scurvy business and quit the dens for the exchange. and with no purpose to preach, i say openly and with a fullest freedom that the game of stock speculation is as replete of traps and pitfalls, and of as false and blackleg character as any worst game of iniquitous faro that is dealt with trimmed and sanded deck from a dishonest box. as an arena of morals the stock exchange presents no conscious improvement beyond what is offered by the veriest dead-fall ever made elate with those two rings at the bell which tell the waiting inmates that some “steerer” is on the threshold with rustic victim to be fleeced. i once read that the homestead of captain kidd, the pirate, stood two centuries ago on that plot of ground now covered by the new york stock exchange; and i confess to a smile when i reflected how the spirit of immortal rapine would seem to hover over the place. the exchange is a fit successor to the habitat of that wild freebooter who died and dried in execution dock when long ago the stuart anne was queen.
during those earlier months in pittsburg, i was not permitted by my father--who had much control of me, even unto the day of his death--to altogether abandon tom’s run, and the good, grimy miner folk, its inhabitants. my week’s holiday began with each saturday’s noon; from that hour until monday morning i was free; and thus, obeying my father’s behests, saturday evening and sunday, i was bound to pass beneath my parents’ roof.
it was during one of these visits home when i first cheated at cards--memorable event!--and it was on another that my roguery was discovered and my father struck that blow.
as already stated, my father was of welsh extraction. it was no less the fact, however, that his original stock was irish; his grandfather--i believe it to have been that venerable and i trust respected gentleman--coming to wales from somewhere on the banks of the blackwater. and my father, excellent man! had vast pride in his irish lineage and grew never so angry, particularly if a bit heated of his saturday evening cups, as when one spoke of him as offshoot of the rocky land of leeks and saintly david.
“what!” he would cry; “because i was born in wales, do you take me for an onion-eating welshman? man, i’m irish and don’t make that mistake again!”
the vigor wherewith his mine-hardened fist smote the table as conclusion to this, carried such weight of emphasis that no man was ever found to fall a second time into the error.
for myself, the question whether my ancestors were welsh or irish held little interest. i was looking forward not backward, and a hot avarice to hunt dollars drove from my bosom the last trace of concern touching a genealogy. i would sooner have one year’s run of uninterrupted luck at a gambling table than to know myself a direct descendant of the plantagenets. not so my dear old father; to the hour when death closed his eyes--already sightless for ten years--burned out with a blast, they were--he ceased not to regale me with tales of that noble line of dauntless irish from whom we drew our blood. for the ten years following the destruction of his eyes by powder, i saw much of my father, for i established him at a little country tavern near enough to the ocean to hear the surf and smell the salt breath of it, and two or three times a week i made shift to get down where he was. and whether my stay was for an hour or for a night--as on sunday this latter came often to be the chance--he made his pedigree, or what he dreamed was such, the proud burden of his conversation.
brian boru, i remember, was an original wellhead of our family. my father was tireless in his settings forth of this hero king of munster; nor did he fail at the close of his story to curse the assassin who struck down boru at clontarf. sometimes to tease him, i’d argue what must have been the weak and primitive inconsequence of the royal boru. i’d suggest that by the sheer narrowness and savagery of the hour wherein that monarch lived, he could have been nothing more royal than the mere king of a kale patch, and probably wore less of authority with still less of revenue and reverence than belong commonly with any district leader of tammany hall.
at these base doubtings my parent’s wrath would mount. he would wax vivid with a picture of the majesty and grandeur of the great boru; and of the halls wherein he fed and housed a thousand knights compared with whom in riches, magnificence, and chivalrous feats those warriors who came about king arthur’s round table showed paltry, mean and low. to crown narration he would ascribe to boru credit as a world’s first law giver and hail him author of the “code brian.”
“shure!” he would say; “he called his scholars and his penmen about him and he made them write down as the wor-rds fell from th’ mouth av him th’ whole of th’ code brian; an’ this in tur-rn was a model of th’ code napoleon that makes th’ law av fr-rance to-day.”
it was in vain i pointed out that napoleon’s code found its roots and as well, its models, in the corpus juris civilis of justinian--i had learned so much latin from father glennon--and that nowhere in the english law was the code brian, as he called it, so much as adverted to.
“an’ that’s th’ sassenach jealousy av thim!” he would say. “an’ who was this justinian? who, indade, but a thievin’ roman imp’ror who shtole his laws from king boru just as th’ dagoes now are shtealin’ th’ jobs at th’ mines from th’ irish an’ welsh lads to whom they belong av r-rights.”
after this i said no more; i did not explain that justinian and his pandects and the others of his grand body of civil law were in existence five centuries before the martyred boru was born. that discovery would have served no purpose beyond my parent’s exasperation and earned for myself as well as the world’s historians naught save a cataract of hard words.
you marvel, perhaps, why i dwell with such length on the memory of my father--a poor, blind, ignorant miner of coal! i loved the old man; and to this day when my hair, too, is gray and when i may win my wealth and count my wealth and keep my wealth with any of the land, i recall him as the only man for whom i ever felt either love or confidence or real respect.
yes; i heard much of the blood of the truculent yet wise boru; also of younger ancestors who fought for the stuarts against cromwell, against monmouth, against william; and later in both the “fifteen” and in the “forty-five.” peculiarly was i made to know of my mother’s close connection by blood with the house of that brave sarsfield “who,” as my father explained, “fairly withstud th’ dootchman at th’ boyne; an’ later made him quit befure th’ walls av limerick.” there was one tradition of the renowned sarsfield which the old gentleman was peculiarly prone to relate, and on the head of him who distrusted the legend there was sure to fall a storm. that particular tale concerned the irish soldier and the sword of wallace wight.
“thish william wallace,” my father was wont to say as he approached the myth, “was a joint (giant), no less. he was nine fut ’leven inches tall an’ his soord was eight fut foore inches long. it’s in stirlin’ cashtle now, an’ there niver was but one man besides wallace who cud handle it. th’ black douglas an’ all av thim scotchmen thried it an’ failed. whin, one day, along comes gin’ral patrick sarsfield--a little bit av a felly, only five fut siven inches tall--an’ he tuk that soord av william wallace in one hand an’, me son, he made it whishtle.”
but i must press to my first crime of cards or your patience will desert. during those summer months on tom’s run when the mines were open and my father and his mates of the pick and blast were earning their narrow pay, it was the habit of himself and four or five other gentlemen of coal to gather in the toni’s run arms when saturday evening came on, and relax into that amusement dear to ireland as “forty-five.” usually they played for a dime a corner; on occasional rich evenings the stakes mounted dizzily to two-bits, though this last was not often.
now i was preyed on by a desire to make one at this saturday contention, but my father would never consent.
“jack,” he’d say; “you’d only lose your money. shure! you’re nawthin’ but a boy an’ not fit to pla-ay cards with th’ loikes av grown-up men.”
but i persisted; i argued--to myself, you may be certain--while i might be no match for these old professors of forty-five who played the game with never a mistake, if i, like them, played honestly, that the cunning work i meditated could not fail to bring me in the wealth.
at last one of the others came to my rescue.
“let him pla-ay, mishter roche,” he said. “let’s win his money fr-rom him an’ it’ll be a lesson. he’ll not lose much befure he’ll be gla-ad to quit.”
as i foresaw, i did not lose the four-bits which my indulgent parent had marked as the limits of farthest sacrifice to my ambitious innocence. already i had brought back to tom’s run a curious trick or two from pittsburg. it soon came to be my “deal,” and the moment i got the cards in my hands i abstracted the ace of hearts--a most doughty creature in this game of forty-five!--and dropped it in my lap, covering the fact from vulgar eyes with a fold of my handkerchief. that was all the chicane i practiced; i kept myself in constant possession of the ace of hearts and played it at a crisis; and at once the wagered dimes of the others began to travel into my illicit pockets where they made a merry jingle, i warrant you!
the honest irish from whom i was filching these small tributes never once bethought that i might play them sharp; they attributed my gains to luck and loud was exclamation over my good fortune. time and again, for i was not their equal as a mere player, i’d board the wrong card. when i’d make such a mistake, one of them would cry: “d’ye moind that now! d’ye moind how ba-ad he plays!”
“an’ yet,” another would add, “an’ yet he rakes th’ money!”
altogether i regarded my entrance into this ten-cent game of forty-five a most felicitous affair. i won at every sitting; getting up on some occasions with as much as eight dollars of profit for my evening’s work. in those days i went willingly to tom’s run, quitting pittsburg without a sigh; and such was my ardor to fleece these coaldigging comrades of my father--and for that matter, my father, also; for like your true gambler, i played no favorites and was as warm to gather in the dimes of my parent as any--that i was usually found waiting about the forty-five table when, following supper, they appeared. and it all went favorably with me for perhaps a dozen sittings; my aggregate gains must have reached the mighty sum of sixty dollars. of a merry verity! silver was at high tide in my hands!
one evening as the half dozen devoted to the science of forty-five drew up to the table--myself a stripling boy, the others bearded miner men--my father complained of an ache in his head or an ache in his stomach or some malady equally cogent, and said he would not play.
“i’ll have me poipe an’ me mug av beer,” he said, “an’ resht mesilf a bit. it’s loike i’ll feel betther afther a whoile an’ then i’ll take a haand.”
play began, while my suffering father with his aches, his tobacco and his beer, sat nursing himself at a near-by table. i lost no time in acquiring my magic ace of hearts and at once the stream of usual fortune set in to flow my way.
ten years, yes, one year later, my suspicions touching my father’s illness and his reasons for this unprecedented respite from the cares of forty-five would have stood more on tiptoe. as it was, however, it never assailed me as a thought that i had become the subject of ancestral doubts. i cheated on and on, and made hay while the sun shone with never a cloud in the sky.
even then i realized nothing and knew not that my villainy was made bare. this news, however, was not long in its arrival.
“niver did i r-raise a boy to be a r-robber!” roared my father.
coincident with this remark, the paternal hand--not the lightest nor least formidable on tom’s run--dealt me a buffet on the head that lifted me from my sinful chair and hurled me across the room and against the wall full fifteen feet away. my teeth clattered, my wits reeled, while my ill-gotten silver danced blithely to metallic music of its own.
“niver did i r-raise a boy to be a r-robber!” again shouted my father. then seizing me by the collar, he lifted me to my feet. “put all your money on the ta-able!” he cried; “put ivry groat av it!”
there was no escape; i was powerless in the talons of an inexorable fate. my pockets yielded a harvest of hardby seventy-five dollars--something more than the total of my winnings--and this was placed in the center of the table which had so lately witnessed my skill. an even distribution was then made by my father among the victims, each getting his share of the recovered treasure; my father keeping none for himself though urged by the others to that end.
“no,” said my father; “i’ll touch niver a penny av it. you take th’ money; i’ll make shift that the dishgrace of bein’ fa-ather to a rapparee shall do for me share!”
with that, he withdrew from the scene of my downfall, carrying me fast in his clutch; and later--bathed in tears of pain and shame--i was dragged into the presence of my mother and father glennon by the ignominious ear.
it did not cure me of cards, however; i ran the whole gamut of gambling and won dangerous prominence as a sharper of elevation and rank. to-morrow evening, should you care to listen, i may unfold concerning other of my adventures; i may even relate--as a tale most to my diplomatic glory, perhaps--how i brought casino joe to endow me with that great secret, richer, in truth! than the mines of peru! of “how to tell the last four.”
“speakin’ of gamblin’,” observed the old cattleman when the red nosed gentleman had come to a full stop, “i’ll bet a bloo stack that as we-alls sets yere talkin’, the games is goin’ brisk an’ hot in wolfville. thar won’t be no three foot of snow to put a damper on trade an’ hobble a gent’s energies in arizona.” this last with a flush of pride.
“does everybody gamble in the west?” asked the sour gentleman.
“every sport who’s got the dinero does,” responded the old cattleman. “white folks, injuns an’ mexicans is right now at roulette an’ faro bank an’ monte as though they ain’t got a minute to live. i hates to concede ’em so much darin’, but the mexicans, speshul, is zealous for specyoolations. which they’d shore wager their immortal souls on the turn of a kyard, only a greaser’s soul don’t own no market valyoo.”
“if you will,” said the jolly doctor, “you might tell us something of mexicans and their ways, their labors and relaxations--their loves and their hates. i’d be pleased to hear of those interesting people from one who knows them so thoroughly.”
“which i shore knows ’em,” returned the old cattleman, “an’ as i concedes how each gent present oughter b’ar his share of the entertainment, i’ll tell you of chiquita of chaparita.”
chapter ix.--chiquita of chaparita.
which i doubts some if i’m a proper party to be a historian of mexicans. nacherally i abhors ’em; an’ when a gent abhors anything, that is a caucasian gent, you-all can gamble the limit he won’t do it jestice. his prejudices is bound to hit the surface like one of these yere rock ledges in the mountains. be white folks ag’in mexicans? gents, the paleface is ag’in everybody but himse’f; ag’in mexicans, niggers, injuns, chinks--he’s ag’in ’em all; the paleface is overbearin’ an’ insolent, an’ because he’s the gamest fighter he allows he’s app’inted of providence to prance ‘round, tyrannizin’ an’ makin’ trouble for everybody whose color don’t match his own. shore, i’m as bad as others; only i ain’t so bigoted i don’t savey the fact.
doc peets is the one white gent i encounters who’s willin’ to mete out to mexicans a squar’ deal from a squar’ deck. i allers reckons these yere equities on peets’ part arises a heap from his bein’ a scientist. you take a scientist like peets an’ the science in him sort o’ submerges an’ drowns out what you-all might term the racial notions native to the hooman soil. they comes to concloosions dispassionate, that a-way, scientists does; an’ mexicans an’ injuns reaps a milder racket at their hands. with sech folks as old man enright an’ me, who’s more indoorated an’ acts on that arrogance which belongs with white folks at birth, inferior races don’t stand no dazzlin’ show.
but what’s the use of dilatin’ on savageries like that? i could push for’ard an’ relate how they makes flour with a stone rollin’-pin in a stone trough; how they grinds coffee by wroppin’ it in a gunny sack an’ beatin’ it with a rock; but where’s the good? it would only go lowerin’ your estimates of hooman nature to no end.
whatever be their amoosements? everything on earth amooses ’em. they has so many holidays, mexicans does, they ain’t hardly left no time for work. they’re pirootin’ about constant, grinnin’ an’ chatterin’ like a outfit of bloo-jays.
most likely if i reelates to you-all the story of a day among the mexicans you comes to a cl’arer glimpse of their loves an’ hates an’ wars an’ merry-makin’s. mexicans, like injuns when a paleface is about, lapses into shyness an’ timidity same as one of these yere cottontail rabbits. but among themse’fs, when they feels onbuckled an’ at home, their play runs off plenty different. tharfore a gent’s got to study mexicans onder friendly auspices, an’ from the angle of their own home-life, if he’s out to rope onto concloosions concernin’ them that’ll stand the tests of trooth.
it’s one time when i’m camped in the plaza chaparita. it’s doorin’ the eepock when i freights from vegas to the canadian over the old fort bascom trail. one of the mules--the nigh swing mule, he is--quits on me, an’ i has to lay by ontil that mule recovers his sperits.
it’s a fieste or holiday at the plaza chaparita. the first local sport i connects with is the padre. he’s little, brown, an’ friendly; an’ has twinklin’ beady eyes like a rattlesnake; the big difference bein’ that the padre’s eyes is full of fun, whereas the optics of rattlesnakes is deevoid of humor utter. shore; rattlesnakes wouldn’t know a joke from the ace of clubs.
the padre’s on his way to the ’dobe church; an’ what do you-all figger now that divine’s got onder his arm? hymn books, says you? that’s where you’re barkin’ at a knot. the padre’s packin’ a game chicken--which the steel gaffs, drop-socket they be an’ of latest sort, is in his pocket--an’ as i goes squanderin’ along in his company, he informs me that followin’ the services thar’ll be a fight between his chicken an’ a rival brass-back belongin’ to a commoonicant named romero. the padre desires my presence, an’ in a sperit of p’liteness i allows i’ll come idlein’ over onless otherwise engaged, the same bein’ onlikely.
gents, you should have witnessed that battle! it’s shore lively carnage; yes, the padre’s bird wins an’ downs romero’s entry the second buckle.
on the tail of the padre’s triumph, one of his parishioners gets locoed, shakes a chicken outen a bag an’ proclaims that he’ll fight him ag’in the world for two dollars a side. at that another enthoosiast gives notice that if the first parishioner will pinch down his bluff to one dollar--he says he don’t believe in losin’ an’ winnin’ fortunes on a chicken--he’ll prodooce a bird an’ go him once.
the match is made, an’ while the chickens is facin’ each other a heap feverish an’ fretful, peckin’ an’ see-sawin’ for a openin’, the various greasers who’s bet money on ’em lugs out their beads an’ begins to pray to beat four of a kind. shore, they’re prayin’ that their partic’lar chicken ’ll win. still, when i considers that about as many greasers is throwin’ themse’fs at the throne of grace for one as for the other, if providence is payin’ any attention to ’em--an’ i deems it doubtful--i estimates that them orisons is a stand-off.
as the birds goes to the center, one party sprinkles something on his chicken. at that the opposition grabs up his bird an’ appeals to the padre. he challenges the other’s bird because he says he’s been sprinkled with holy-water.
the padre inquires, an’ the holy-water sharp confesses his guilt. also, he admits that he hides the gaffs onder the altar cloth doorin’ the recent services so they’ll acquire extra grace an’ power.
the padre turns severe at this an’ declar’s the fight off; an’ he forfeits the doctored chicken an’ the gaffs to himse’f a whole lot--he representin’ the church--to teach the holy-water sharp that yereafter he’s not to go seizin’ onfair advantages, an’ to lead a happier an’ a better life. that culprit don’t say a word but passes over his chicken an’ the steel regalia for its heels. you can bet that padre’s word is law in the plaza chaparita!
followin’ this fiasco of the holy-water chicken the mexicans disperses themse’fs to pulque an’ monte an’ the dance. the padre an’ me sa’nters about; me bein’ a americano, an’ him what you might call professionally sedate, we-all don’t go buttin’ into the baile nor the pulque nor the gamblin’. the padre su’gests that we go a-weavin’ over to his own camp, which he refers to as casa dolores--though thar’s nothin’ dolorous about it, the same bein’ the home of mirth an’ hilarity, that a-way--an’ he allows he’s got some valley tan hived up that’ll make me forget my nationality if stoodiously adhered to. it’s needless to observe that i accompanies the beady-eyed padre without a struggle. an’ i admits, free an’ without limitation, that said valley tan merits the padre’s encomiums an’ fixes me in my fav’rite theery that no matter what happens, the best happens to the church.
as we crosses the little plaza on our way to casa dolores we passes in front of the church. thar on the grass lays the wooden image of the patron saint of the plaza chaparita. this figger is about four foot long, an’ thar’s a hossha’r lariat looped onto it where them mexicans who gets malcontent with the saint ropes him off his perch from up in front of the church. they’ve been haulin’ the image about an’ beatin’ it with cactus sticks an’ all expressive of disdain.
i asks the padre why his congregation engages itse’f in studied contoomely towards the plaza’s saint. he shrugs his shoulders, spreads his hands palm out, an’ says it’s because the plaza’s sheep gets sick. i su’gests that him an’ me cut in an’ rescoo the saint; more partic’lar since the image is all alone, an’ the outfit that’s been beatin’ him up has abandoned said corrections to drink pulque an’ exercise their moccasins in the baile. but the padre shakes his head. he allows it’s a heap better to let the public fully vent its feelin’s. he explains that when the sheep gets well the congregation ’ll round-up the image, give him a reproachful talk an’ a fresh coat of paint, an’ put him back on his perch. the saint ’ll come winner on the deal all right, the padre says.
“besides,” argues the padre, “it is onneces-sary for pore blinded mortals to come pawin’ about to protect a saint. these yere images,” he insists, “can look after themse’fs. they’ll find the way outen their troubles whenever they gets ready.”
at that we proceeds for’ard to casa dolores an’ the promised valley tan, an’ leaves the wooden saint to his meditations on the grass. after all, i agrees with the padre. it’s the saint’s business to ride herd on the interests of the plaza chaparita; an’ if he goes to sleep on the lookout’s stool an’ takes to neglectin’ sech plays as them sheep gettin’ sick, whatever is the greasers goin’ to do? they’re shore bound to express their disapproval; an’ i reckons as good a scheme as any is to caper up, yank the careless image outen his niche with a lariat, an’ lam loose an’ cavil at him with a club.
this yere fieste at the plaza chaparita is a day an’ night of laughter, dance an’ mirth. but it ends bad. the padre an’ me is over to the dance-hall followin’ our investigations touchin’ the valley tan an’ the padre explains to me how he permits to his people a different behavior from what’s possible among americanos.
“i studies for the church in baltimore,” the padre says, “an’ thar the priest must keep a curb on his americano parishioners. they are not like mexicanos. they’re fierce an’ headlong an’ go too far. if you let them gamble, they gamble too much; if you let them drink, they drink too much. the evil of the americano is that he overplays. it is not so with the mexicano. if the mexicano gambles, it is only a trifle an’ for pleasure; if he drinks, it is but enough to free a bird’s song in his heart. all my people drink an’ dance an’ gamble; but it’s only play, it is never earnest. see! in the whole plaza chaparita you find no drunkard, no pauper; no one is too bad or too good or too rich or too poor or too unhappy.”
then the priest beams on me like he disposes of the question; an’ since i’ve jest been drinkin’ his valley tan i don’t enter no protests to what he states. from what ensoos, however, i should jedge the padre overlooks his game in one partic’lar.
as me an’ the padre sits gazin’ on at the dance, a senorita with a dark shawl over her head, drifts into the door like a shadow. she’s little; an’ by what i sees of her face, she’s pretty. as she crosses in front of the padre she stops an’ sort o’ drops down on one knee with her head bowed. the padre blesses her an’ calls her “chiquita;” then she goes on. i don’t pay no onusual attention; though as me an’ the padre talks, i notes her where she stands with her shawl still over her head in a corner of the dance hall.
across from the little chiquita is a young greaser an’ his sweetheart. this girl is pretty, too; but her shawl ain’t over her head an’ she an’ her muchacho, from their smiles an’ love glances, is havin’ the happiest of nights.
“it looks like you’ll have a weddin’ on your hands,” i says to the padre, indicatin’ where the two is courtin’.
“chiquita should not stay here,” says the padre talkin’ to himse’f. with that he organizes like he’s goin’ over to the little shawled senorita in the corner.
it strikes me that the padre’s remark is a heap irrelevant. but i soon sees that he onderstands the topics he tackles a mighty sight better than me. the padre’s hardly moved when it looks like the senorita chiquita saveys he’s out to head her off. with that she crosses the dance-hall swift as a cat an’ flashes a knife into the heart of the laughing girl. the next moment the knife is planted in her own.
it’s the old story, so old an’ common thar’s not a new word to be said. two dead girls; love the reason an’ the jealous knife the trail. thar’s not a scream, not a word; that entire baile stands transfixed. as the padre raises the little chi-quita’s head, i sees the tears swimmin’ in his eyes. it’s the one time i comes nearest thinkin’ well of a mexican; that padre, at least, is toler’ble.
“that is a very sad finale--the death of the girls,” observed the sour gentleman, reaching for the scotch whiskey as though for comfort’s sake. “and still, the glimpse you gave would move me to a pleasant estimate of mexicans.”
“why then,” returned the old cattleman, becoming also an applicant for scotch, “considered as abstract prop’sitions, mexicans aint so bad. which they’re like injuns; they improves a lot by distance. an’ they has their strong p’ints, too; gratitoode is one. you-all confer a favor on a mexican, an’ he’ll hang on your trail a hundred years but what he’ll do you a favor in return. an’ he’ll jest about pay ten for one at that.
“speakin’ of gratitoode, sioux sam yere tells a story to ’llustrate how good deeds is bound to meet their reward. it’s what the squaws tells the papooses to make ’em kind.” then to sioux sam: “give us the tale of strongarm an’ the big medicine elk. the talk is up to you.”
sioux sam was in no sort diffident, and readily told us the following:
chapter x.--how strongarm was an elk.
moh-kwa was the wisest of all the beasts along the upper yellowstone; an’ yet moh-kwa could not catch a fish. this made moh-kwa have a bad heart, for next to honey he liked fish. what made it worse was that in moh-kwa’s cavern where he lived, there lay a deep pool which was the camp of many fish; an’ moh-kwa would sit an’ look at them an’ long for them, while the fish came close to the edge an’ laughed at moh-kwa, for they knew beneath their scales that he could not catch them; an’ the laughter of the fish made a noise like swift water running among rocks. sometimes moh-kwa struck at a fish with his big paw, but the fish never failed to dive out of reach; an’ this made the other fish laugh at moh-kwa more than before. once moh-kwa got so angry he plunged into the pool to hunt the fish; but it only made him seem foolish, for the fish swam about him in flashing circles, an’ dived under him an’ jumped over him, laughing all the time, making a play an’ a sport of moh-kwa. at last he gave up an’ swam ashore; an’ then he had to sit by his fire an’ comb his fur all day to dry himself so that he might feel like the same bear again.
one morning down by the yellowstone, moh-kwa met strongarm, the young sioux, an’ strongarm had a buffalo fish which he had speared in the river. an’ because moh-kwa looked at the fish hungrily an’ with water in his mouth, strongarm gave him the buffalo fish. also he asked moh-kwa why he did not catch fish since he liked them so well an’ the pool in his cavern was the camp of many fish. an’ moh-kwa said it was because the fish were cowards an’ would not stay an’ fight with him, but ran away.
“they are not so brave as the bees,” said moh-kwa, “for when i find a bee-tree, they make me fight for the honey. the bees have big hearts though little knives, but the fish have no hearts an’ run like water down hill if they but see moh-kwa’s shadow from his fire fall across the pool.”
strongarm said he would catch the fish for moh-kwa; an’ with that he went to the wise bear’s house an’ with his spear took many fish, being plenty to feed moh-kwa two days. moh-kwa was very thankful, an’ because strong-arm liked the wise bear, he came four times each moon an’ speared fish for moh-kwa who was never so well fed with fish before.
strongarm was a mighty hunter among the sioux an’ killed more elk than did the ten best hunters of his village. so many elk did strong-arm slay that his squaw, the blossom, made for their little son, feather-foot, a buckskin coat on which was sewed the eye-teeth of elk, two for each elk, until there were so many eye-teeth on feather-foot’s buckskin coat it was like counting the leaves on a cottonwood to find how many there were. an’ the blossom was proud of feather-foot’s coat, for none among the sioux had so beautiful a garment an’ the eye-teeth of the elk told how big a hunter was strongarm.
while the sioux wondered an’ admired at the elk-tooth coat, it made the big medicine elk, who was chief of the elk people, hot an’ angry, an’ turned his heart black against strongarm. the big medicine elk said he would have revenge.
thus it happened one day that when strong-arm stepped from his lodge, he saw standing in front a great elk who had antlers like the branches of a tree. an’ the great elk stamped his foot an’ snorted at strongarm. then strongarm took his bow an’ his lance an’ his knife an’ hunted the great elk to kill him; but the great elk ran always a little ahead just out of reach.
at last the great elk ran into the pouch canyon an’ then strongarm took hope into his heart like a man takes air into his mouth, for the sides of the pouch canyon were high an’ steep an’ it ended with a high wall, an’ nothing save a bird might get out again once it went in; for the pouch canyon was a trap which the great spirit had set when the world was new.
strongarm was happy in his breast as he followed the great elk into the pouch canyon for now he was sure. an’ he thought how the big eye-teeth of so great an elk would look on the collar of feather-foot’s buckskin coat.
when strongarm came to the upper end of the pouch canyon, there the great elk stood waiting.
“hold!” said the great elk, when strongarm put an arrow on his bowstring.
but strongarm shot the arrow which bounded off the great elk’s hide an’ made no wound. then strongarm ran against the great elk with his lance, but the lance was broken as though the great elk was a rock. then strongarm drew his knife, but when he went close to the great elk, the beast threw him down with his antlers an’ put his forefoot on strongarm an’ held him on the ground.
“listen,” said the great elk, an’ strongarm listened because he couldn’t help it. “you have hunted my people far an’ near; an’ you can never get enough of their blood or their eye-teeth. i am the big medicine elk an’ chief of the elk people; an’ now for a vengeance against you, i shall change you from the hunter to the hunted, an’ you shall know how good it is to have fear an’ be an elk.”
as the great elk said this, strongarm felt his head turn heavy with antlers, while his nose grew long an’ his mouth wide, an’ hair grew out of his skin like grass in the moon of new grass, an’ his hands an’ feet split into hoofs; an’ then strong-arm stood on his four new hoofs an’ saw by his picture in the stream that he was an elk. also the elk-fear curled up in his heart to keep him ever in alarm; an’ he snuffed the air an’ walked about timidly where before he was strongarm and feared nothing.
strongarm crept home to his lodge, but the blossom did not know her husband; an’ feather-foot, his little son, shot arrows at him; an’ as he ran from them, the hunters of his village came forth an’ chased him until strongarm ran into the darkness of the next night as it came trailing up from the east, an’ the darkness was kind an’ covered him like a blanket an’ strongarm was hid by it an’ saved.
when strongarm did not come with the next sun to spear fish for moh-kwa, the wise bear went to strongarm’s lodge to seek him for he thought that he was sick. an’ moh-kwa asked the blossom where was strongarm? an’ the blossom said she did not know; that strongarm chased the great elk into the pouch canyon an’ never came out again; an’ now a big doubt had spread its blankets in her heart an’ would not leave, but was making a long camp, saying she was a widow. then the blossom wept; but moh-kwa told her to wait an’ he would see, because he, moh-kwa, owed strongarm for many fish an’ would now pay him.
moh-kwa went to the big medicine elk.
“where is the strongarm?” said moh-kwa.
“he runs in the hills an’ is an elk,” said the big medicine elk. “he killed my people for their teeth, an’ a great fright was on all my people because of the strongarm. the mothers dare not go down to the river’s edge to drink, an’ their children had no time to grow fat for they were ever looking to meet the strongarm. now he is an elk an’ my people will have peace; the mothers will drink an’ their babies be fat an’ big, being no more chased by the strongarm.”
then moh-kwa thought an’ thought, an’ at last he said to the big medicine elk:
“that is all proud talk. but i must have the strongarm back, for he catches my fish.”
but the big medicine elk said he would not give moh-kwa back the strongarm.
“why should i?” asked the big medicine elk. “did not i save you in the yellowstone,” said moh-kwa, “when as you swam the river a drifting tree caught in your antlers an’ held down your head to drown you? an’ did you not bawl to me who searched for berries on the bank; an’ did i not swim to you an’ save you from the tree?” still the big medicine elk shook his antlers.
“what you say is of another day. you saved me an’ that is ended. i will not give you back the strongarm for that. one does not drink the water that is gone by.”
moh-kwa then grew so angry his eyes burned red like fire, an’ he threatened to kill the big-medicine elk. but the big medicine elk laughed like the fish laughed, for he said he could not be killed by any who lived on the land.
“then we will go to the water,” said moh-kwa; an’ with that he took the big medicine elk in his great hairy arms an’ carried him kicking an’ struggling to the yellowstone; for moh-kwa could hold the big medicine elk though he could not hurt him.
when moh-kwa had carried the big medicine elk to the river, he sat down on the bank an’ waited with the big medicine elk in his arms until a tree came floating down. then moh-kwa swam with the big medicine elk to the tree an’ tangled the branches in the antlers of the big medicine elk so that he was fast with his nose under the water an’ was sure to drown.
“now you are as you were when i helped you,” said moh-kwa.
an’ the catfish people in the river came with joy an’ bit the legs of the big medicine elk, an’ said, “thank you, moh-kwa; you do well to bring us food now an’ then since you eat so many fish.”
as moh-kwa turned to swim again to the bank, he said over his shoulder to the big medicine elk:
“now you may sing your death song, for pauguk, the death, is in the river with you an’ those are pauguk’s catfish which gnaw your legs.”
at this the big medicine elk said between his cries of grief an’ fear that if moh-kwa would save him out of the river, he would tell him how to have the strongarm back. so moh-kwa went again an’ freed the big medicine elk from the tree an’ carried him to the bank, while the catfish people followed, angrily crying:
“is this fair, moh-kwa? do you give an’ then do you take away? moh-kwa! you are a pawnee!”
when the big medicine elk had got his breath an’ wiped the tears from his eyes, he told moh-kwa that the only way to bring the strongarm back to be a hunter from being one of the hunted was for feather-foot, his son, to cut his throat; an’ for the blossom, his squaw, to burn his elk-body with cedar boughs.
“an’ why his son, the feather-foot?” asked moh-kwa.
“because the feather-foot owes the strongarm a life,” replied the big medicine elk. “is not strongarm the feather-foot’s father an’ does not the son owe the father his life?”
moh-kwa saw this was true talk, so he let the big medicine elk go free.
“i will even promise that the strongarm,” said moh-kwa, as the two parted, “when again he is a sioux on two legs, shall never hunt the elk people.”
but the big medicine elk, who was licking his fetlocks where the catfish people had hurt the skin, shook his antlers an’ replied:
“it is not needed. the strongarm has been one of the elk people an’ will feel he is their brother an’ will not hurt them.”
moh-kwa found it a hard task to capture strongarm when now he was an elk with the elk-fear in his heart. for strongarm had already learned the elk’s warning which is taught by all the elk people, an’ which says:
look up for danger and look down for gain;
believe no wolf’s word, and avoid the plain.
strongarm would look down for the grass with one eye, while he kept an eye up among the branches or along the sides of the canyon for fear of mountain lions. an’ he stuck close in among the hills, an’ would not go out on the plains where the wolves lived; an’ he wouldn’t talk with a wolf or listen to his words.
but strongarm, while he ran an’ hid from moh-kwa and the others, was not afraid of the blossom, who was his squaw, but would come to her gladly if he might find her alone among the trees.
“it is not the first time,” said the wise bear, “that the hunter has made his trap of love.”
with that he told the blossom to go into the hills an’ call strongarm to her with her love. then she was to bind his feet so that he might not get away an’ run.
the blossom called strongarm an’ he came; but he was fearful an’ suspicious an’ his nose an’ his ears an’ his eyes kept guard until the blossom put her hand on his neck; an’ then strongarm’s great love for the blossom smothered out his caution as one might smother a fire with a robe; an’ the blossom tied all his feet with thongs an’ bound his eyes with her blanket so that strongarm might not see an’ be afraid.
then came feather-foot, gladly, an’ cut strong-arm’s throat with his knife; for feather-foot did not know he killed his father--for that was a secret thing with moh-kwa an’ the blossom--an’ thought only how he killed a great elk.
when strongarm was dead, moh-kwa toiled throughout the day carrying up the big cedar; an’ when a pile like a hill was made, moh-kwa put strongarm’s elk-body on its top, an’ brought fire from his house in the rocks, an’ made a great burning.
in the morning, the blossom who had stayed with moh-kwa through the night while the fire burned, said, “now, although the big elk is gone into ashes, i do not yet see the strongarm.” but moh-kwa said, “you will find him asleep in the lodge.” an’ that was a true word, for when moh-kwa an’ the blossom went to the lodge, there they found strongarm whole an’ good an’ as sound asleep as a tree at midnight.
outside the lodge they met the little feather-foot who cried, “where is the big elk, moh-kwa, that i killed?” an’ the blossom showed him his father, strongarm, where he slept, an’ said, “there is your big elk, feather-foot; an’ this will ever be your best hunting for it found you your father again.”
when moh-kwa saw that everything was settled an’ well, an’ that he would now have always his regular fish, he wiped the sweat out of his eyes with his paws which were all singed fur an’ ashes, an’ said, “i am the weariest bear along the whole length of the yellowstone, for i carried some heavy trees an’ have worked hard. now i will sleep an’ rest.”
an’ with that moh-kwa lay down an’ snored an’ slept four days; then he arose an’ eat up the countless fish which strongarm had speared to be ready for him. this done, moh-kwa lighted his pipe of kinnikinick, an’ softly rubbing his stomach where the fish were, said: “fish give moh-kwa a good heart.”
“now that is what i call a pretty story,” said the jolly doctor.
“it is that,” observed the red nosed gentleman, with emphasis. “and i’ve no doubt the strongarm made it a point thereafter to be careful as to what game he hunted. but, leaving fable for fact, my friend,”--the red nosed gentleman addressed now the sour gentleman--“would you not call it your turn to uplift the spirits of this company? we have just enough time and i just enough burgundy for one more story before we go to bed.”
“while our friend, the sioux gentleman,” responded the sour gentleman, “was unfolding his interesting fable, my thoughts--albeit i listened to him and lost never a word--were to the rear with the old days which came on the back of that catastrophe of tobacco. they come to me most clearly as i sit here smoking and listening, and with your permission i’ll relate the story of the smuggled silk.”
chapter xi.--that smuggled silk.
should your curiosity invite it, and the more since i promised you the story, we will now, my friends, go about the telling of that one operation in underground silk. it is not calculated to foster the pride of an old man to plunge into a relation of dubious doings of his youth. and yet, as i look backward on that one bit of smuggling of which i was guilty, so far as motive was involved, i exonerate myself. i looked on the government, because of the south’s conquest by the north, and that later ruin of myself through the machinations of the revenue office, as both a political and a personal foe. and i felt, not alone morally free, but was impelled besides in what i deemed a spirit of justice to myself, to wage war against it as best i might. it was on such argument, where the chance proffered, that i sought wealth as a smuggler. i would deplete the government--forage, as it were, on the enemy--thereby to fatten my purse.
as my hair has whitened with the sifting frosts of years, i confess that my sophistries of smuggling seem less and less plausible, while smuggling itself loses whatever of romantic glamour it may once have been invested with, or what little color of respect to which it might seem able to lay claim. this tale shall be told in simplest periods. that is as should be; for expression should ever be meek and subjugated when one’s story is the mere story of a cheat. there is scant room in such recital for heroic phrase. smuggling, and paint it with what genius one may, can be nothing save a skulking, hiding, fear-eaten trade. there is nothing about it of bravery or dash. how therefore and avoid laughter, may one wax stately in any telling of its ignoble details?
when, following my unfortunate crash in tobacco, i had cleared away the last fragment of the confusion that reigned in my affairs, i was driven to give my nerves a respite and seek a rest. for three months i had been under severest stress. when the funeral was done--for funeral it seemed to me--and my tobacco enterprise and those hopes it had so flattered were forever laid at rest, my soul sank exhausted and my brain was in a whirl. i could neither think with clearness nor plan with accuracy. moreover, i was prey to that depression and lack of confidence in myself, which come inevitably as the corollary of utter weariness.
aware of this personal condition, i put aside thought of any present formulation of a future. i would rest, recover poise, and win back that optimism that belongs with health and youth.
this was wisdom; i was jaded beyond belief; and fatigue means dejection, and dejection spells pessimism, and pessimism is never sagacious nor excellent in any of its programmes.
for that rawness of the nerves i speak of, many apply themselves to drink; some rush to drugs; for myself, i take to music. it was midwinter, and grand opera was here. this was fortunate. i buried myself in a box, and opened my very pores to those nerve-healthful harmonies.
in a week thereafter i might call myself recovered. my soul was cool, my eye bright, my mind clear and sensibly elate. life and its promises seemed mightily refreshed.
no one has ever called me superstitious and yet to begin my course-charting for a new career, i harked back to the old astor house. it was there that brilliant thought of tobacco overtook me two years before. perhaps an inspiration was to dwell in an environment. again i registered, and finding it tenantless, took over again my old room. still i cannot say, and it is to that hostelry’s credit, that my domicile at the astor aided me to my smuggling resolves. those last had growth somewhat in this fashion:
i had dawdled for two hours over coffee in the café--the room and the employment which had one-time brought me fortune--but was incapable of any thought of value. i could decide on nothing good. indeed, i did naught save mentally curse those revenue miscreants who, failing of blackmail, had destroyed me for revenge.
whatever comfort may lurk in curses, at least they carry no money profit; so after a fruitless session over coffee and maledictions, i arose, and as a calmative, walked down broadway.
at trinity churchyard, the gates being open, i turned in and began ramblingly to twine and twist among the graves. there i encountered a garrulous old man who, for his own pleasure, evidently, devoted himself to my information. he pointed out the grave of fulton, he of the steamboats; then i was shown the tomb of that lawrence who would “never give up the ship;” from there i was carried to the last low bed of the love-wrecked charlotte temple.
my eye at last, by the alluring voice and finger of the old guide, was drawn to a spot under the tower where sleeps the lady cornbury, dead now as i tell this, hardby two hundred years. also i was told of that lord cornbury, her husband, once governor of the colony for his relative, queen anne; and how he became so much more efficient as a smuggler and a customs cheat, than ever he was as an executive, that he lost his high employ.
because i had nothing more worthy to occupy my leisure, i listened--somewhat listlessly, i promise you, for after all i was thinking on the future, not the past, and considering of the living rather than those old dead folk, obscure, forgotten in their slim graves--i listened, i say, to my gray historian; and somehow, after i was free of him, the one thing that remained alive in my memory was the smuggling story of our viscount cornbury.
among those few acquaintances i formed during my brief prosperity, was one with a gentleman named harris, who owned apartments under mine on twenty-second street. harris was elegant, educated, traveled, and apparently well-to-do of riches. busy with my own mounting fortunes, the questions of who harris was? and what he did? and how he lived? never rapped at the door of my curiosity for reply.
coming from old trinity, still mooting corn-bury and his smugglings, my thoughts turned to harris. also, for the earliest time, i began to consider within myself whether smuggling was not a field of business wherein a pushing man might grow and reap a harvest. the idea came to me to turn “free-trader.” the government had destroyed me; i would make reprisal. i would give my hand to smuggling and spoil the egyptian.
at once i sought harris and over a glass of champagne--ever a favorite wine with me--we struck agreement. as a finale we each put in fifteen thousand dollars, and with the whole sum of thirty thousand dollars harris pushed forth for europe while i remained behind. harris visited lyons; and our complete investment was in a choicest sort of lyons silk. the rich fabrics were packed in a dozen trunks--not all alike, those trunks, but differing, one from another, so as to prevent the notion as they stood about the wharf that there was aught of relationship between them or that one man stood owner of them all.
it is not needed to tell of my partner’s voyage of return. it was without event and one may safely abandon it, leaving its relation to harris himself, if he be yet alive and should the spirit him so move. it is enough for the present purpose that in due time the trunks holding our precious silk-bolts, with harris as their convoy, arrived safe in new york.
i had been looking for the boat’s coming and was waiting on the wharf as her lines and her stagings were run ashore.
our partner, the inspector, and who was to enjoy a per cent, of the profits of the speculation, was named lorns. he rapidly chalked “o. k.” with his name affixed to the end of each several trunk and it thereupon with the balance of inspected baggage was promptly piled upon the wharf.
there had been a demand for drays, i remember, and on this day when our silks came in, i was able to procure but one. the ship did not dock until late in the afternoon, and at eight o’clock of a dark, foggy april evening, there still remained one of our trunks--the largest of all, it was--on the wharf. the dray had departed with the second load for that concealing loft in reade street which, during harris’ absence, i had taken to be used as the depot of those smuggling operations wherein we might become engaged. i had made every move with caution; i had never employed our real names not even with the drayman.
for myself, i was from first to last lounging about the wharf, overseeing the going away of our goods. harris, so soon as i gave him key and street-number, had posted to reade street to attend the silk’s reception.
waiting for the coming back of the conveying dray proved but a slow, dull business, and i was impatiently, at the hour i’ve named, walking up and down, casting an occasional glance at the big last trunk where it stood on end, a bit drawn out and separated from the common mountain of baggage wherewith the wharf was piled.
as i marched up and down, lorns came ashore and pretended some business with his superior officer. as he returned to the ship and what duties he had still to perform there, he made a slight signal to both myself and his fellow inspector, quin, to follow him. i was well known to lorns, having had several talks with him, while harris was abroad. quin i had never met; but it quickly appeared that he was a confidant of lorns, and while without money interest in our affairs was ready to bear helping hand should the situation commence to pinch.
quin and i went severally and withal carelessly aboard ship, and not at all as though we were seeking lorns. this was to darken the chief, whom we both surmised to be the cause of lorn’s signal.
once aboard and gathered in a dark corner, lorns began at once:
“let me do the talking,” said lorns with a nervous rapidity that at once enlisted the ears of quin and myself. “don’t interrupt, but listen. the chief suspects that last trunk. i can tell it by the way he acts. a bit later, when i come ashore, he’ll ask to have it opened. should he do so, we’re lost; you and i.” this last was to me. then to quin: “do you see that long, bony swiss, with the boots and porcelain pipe? he’s in an ugly mood, doesn’t speak english, and within one minute after you return to the wharf, he and i will be entangled in a rough and tumble riot. i’ll attend to that. the row will be prodigious. the chief will be sent for to settle the war, and when he leaves the wharf, quin, don’t wait; seize on that silk trunk and throw it into the river. there’s iron enough clamped about the corners to sink it; besides, it’s packed so tightly it’s as heavy as lead, and will go to the bottom like an anvil. then from the pile pull down some trunk similar to it in looks and stand it in its place. it’ll go in the dark. give the new trunk my mark, as the chief has already read the name on the trunk. go, quin; i rely on you.”
“you can trust me, my boy,” retorted quin, cheerfully, and turning on his heel, he was back on the wharf in a moment, and apparently busy about the pile of baggage.
as the chief came down the plank, quin, who had not been a moment behind him in going aboard to discover the reasons of the riot, followed. brief as was that moment, however, during which quin had lingered behind, he had made the shift suggested by lorns; the silk trunk was under the river, a strange trunk stood in its stead.
as the chief returned, he walked straight to this suspected trunk and tipped it down with his foot. then to quin:
“ask lorns to step here.”
quin went questing lorns; shortly lorns and quin came back together. the chief turned in a brisk, sharp, official way to lorns:
“did you inspect this trunk?”
“i did,” said lorns, looking at the chalk marks as if to make sure.
the trunk was opened and found free and innocent of aught contraband. the chief wore a puzzled, dark look; he felt that he’d been cheated, but he couldn’t say how. therefore, being wise, the chief gulped, said nothing, and as life is short and he had many things to do, soon after left the docks and went his way.
“that was a squeak!” said lorns when we were at last free of the dangerous chief. “quin, i thank you.”
“that’s all right,” retorted quin, with a grin; “do as much for me some time.”
that night, with the aid of a river pirate, our trunk, jettisoned by the excellent quin, was fished up; and being tight as a drum, its contents had come to little harm with the baptism. at last, our dozen silk trunks--holding a treasure of thirty thousand dollars and whereon we looked to clear a heavy profit--were safe in the reade street loft; and my hasty heart, which had been beating at double speed since that almost fatal interference, slowed to normal.
one might now suppose our woes were at an end, all danger over, and nothing to do but dispose of that shimmering cargo to best advantage. harris and i were of that spirit-lifting view; we began on the very next day to feel about for customers.
harris, whose former smuggling exploits had dealt solely with gems, knew as little of silk as did i. had either been expert he might have foreseen a coming peril into whose arms we in our blindness all but walked. no, our troubles were not yet done. we had escaped the engulfing suck of charybdis, only to be darted upon by those six grim mouths of her sister monster, scylla, over the way.
well do i recall that morning. i had seen but two possible purchasers of silks when harris overtook me. his eye shone with alarm. lorns had run him down with the news--however he himself discovered it, i never knew--that another danger yawned.
harris hurried me to our reade street lair and gave particulars.
“it seems,” said harris, quite out of breath with the speed we’d made in hunting cover, “that stewart is for america the sole agent of these particular brands of silk which we’ve brought in. some one to whom we’ve offered them has notified the stewart company. at this moment and as we sit here, the detectives belonging to stewart, and for all i may guess, the whole central office as well, are on our track. they want to discover who has these silks; and how they came in, since the customs records show no such importations. and there’s a dark characteristic to these silks. each bolt has its peculiar, individual selvage. each, with a sample of its selvage, is registered at the home looms. could anyone get a snip of a selvage he could return with it to lyons, learn from the manufacturers’ book just when it was woven, when sold, and to whom. i can tell you one thing,” observed harris, as he concluded his story, “we’re in a bad corner.”
how the cold drops spangled my brows! i began to wish with much heart that i’d never met harris, nor heard, that trinity churchyard day, of cornbury and his smuggling methods of gathering gold.
there was one ray of hope; neither harris nor i had disclosed our names, nor the whereabouts or quantity of the silks; and as each had been dealing with folk with whom he’d never before met, we were both as yet mysteries unsolved.
nor were we ever solved. harris and i kept off the streets during daylight hours for a full month. we were not utterly idle; we unpleasantly employed ourselves in trimming away that telltale selvage.
preferring safety to profit, we put forth no efforts to realize on our speculations for almost a year. by that time the one day’s wonder of “who’s got stewart’s silks?” had ceased to disturb the mercantile world and the grand procession of dry goods interest passed on and over it.
at last we crept forth like felons--as, good sooth! we were--and disposed of our mutilated silks to certain good folk whose forefathers once ruled palestine. these gentry liked bargains, and were in no wise curious; they bought our wares without lifting an eyebrow of inquiry, and from them constructed--though with that i had no concern--those long “circulars,” so called, which were the feminine joy a third of a century gone.
as to harris and myself; what with delays, what with expenses, what with figures reduced to dispose of our plunder, we got evenly out. we got back our money; but for those fear-shaken hours of two separate perils, we were never paid.
i smuggled no more. still, i did not relinquish my pious purpose to despoil that public treasury egyptian quoted heretofore. neither did i give up the customs as a rich field of illicit endeavor. but my methods changed. i now decided that i, myself, would become an inspector, like unto the useful lorns, and make my fortune from the opulent inside. i procured the coveted appointment, for i could bring power to bear, and later i’ll tell you of the emperor’s cigars.
when i was in my room that night, making ready for bed, i could still hear the soft, cold fingers of the snow upon the pane. what a storm was that! our landlord who had been boy and man and was now gray in that old inn, declared how he had never witnessed the smothering fellow to it.
the following day, while still and bright and no snow to fall, showed a temperature below zero. the white blockade still held us fast, and now the desperate cold was come to be the ally of the snow. departure was never a question.
as we kicked the logs into a cheerful uproar of sparks, and drew that evening about the great fireplace, it was the old cattleman to break conversational ground.
“i shore unites with you,” responded the old cattleman, “in them script’ral exhortations to do things with all your heart. it was wild bill hickox’s way, too; an’ a christian adherence to that commandment, not only saves bill’s life, but endows him with the record for single-handed killin’s so far as we-all has accounts.”
“is it a story?” asked the red nosed gentleman. “once in a while i relish a good blood and thunder tale.”
“it’s this a-way,” said the old cattleman. “bill’s hand is forced by the jake mccandlas gang. bill has ’em to do; an’ rememberin’, doubtless, the bible lessons of his old mother back in illinois, he shore does ’em with all his heart, as the good book says. this yere is the story of ‘the wiping out of mccandlas.’”
chapter xii.--the wiping out of mccandlas.
tell you-all a tale of blood? it shore irritates me a heap, gents, when you eastern folks looks allers to the west for stories red an’ drippin’ with murder. which mighty likely now the west is plenty peaceful compared with this yere east itse’f. thar’s one thing you can put in your mem’randum book for footure ref’rence, an’ that is, for all them years i inhabits arizona an’ texas an’ sim’lar energetic localities, i never trembles for my life, an’ goes about plumb furtive, expectin’ every moment is goin’ to be my next that a-way, ontil i finds myse’f camped on the sunrise side of the alleghenies.
nacherally, i admits, thar has been a modicum of blood shed west an’ some slight share tharof can be charged to arizona. no, i can’t say i deplores these killin’s none. every gent has got to die. for one, i’m mighty glad the game’s been rigged that a-way. i’d shore hesitate a lot to be born onless i was shore i’d up an’ some day cash in. live forever? no, don’t confer on me no sech gloomy outlook. if a angel was to appear in our midst an’ saw off on me the news that i was to go on an’ on as i be now, livin’ forever like that wanderin’ jew, the information would stop my clock right thar. i’d drop dead in my moccasins.
it don’t make much difference, when you gives yourse’f to a ca’m consid’ration of the question as to when you dies or how you dies. the important thing is to die as becomes a gent of sperit who has nothin’ to regret. every one soon or late comes to his trail’s end. life is like a faro game. one gent has ten dollars, another a hundred, another a thousand, and still others has rolls big enough to choke a cow. but whether a gent is weak or strong, poor or rich, it’s written in advance that he’s doomed to go broke final. he’s doomed to die. tharfore, when that’s settled, of what moment is it whether he goes broke in an hour, or pikes along for a week--dies to-day or postpones his funeral for years an’ mebby decades?
holdin’ to these yere views, you can see without my tellin’ that a killin’, once it be over, ain’t likely to harass me much. like the rest of you-all, i’ve been trailin’ out after my grave ever since i was foaled--on a hunt for my sepulcher, you may say--an’ it ought not to shock me to a showdown jest because some pard tracks up ag’inst his last restin’ place, spreads his blankets an’ goes into final camp before it come my own turn.
but, speakin’ of killin’s, the most onusual i ever hears of is when wild bill hickox cleans up the jake mccandlas gang. this bill i knows intimate; he’s not so locoed as his name might lead a gent to concloode. the truth is, he’s a mighty crafty, careful form of sport; an’ he never pulled a gun ontil he knew what for an’ never onhooked it ontil he knew what at.
an’ speakin’ of the latter--the onhookin’ part--that wild bill never missed. that’s his one gift; he’s born to make a center shot whenever his six-shooter expresses itse’f.
this mccandlas time is doorin’ them border troubles between missouri an’ kansas. jest prior tharunto, bill gets the ill-will of the missouri outfit by some gun play he makes at independence, then the eastern end of the old santa fe trail. what bill accomplishes at independence is a heap effectual an’ does him proud. but it don’t endear him none to the missouri heart. moreover, it starts a passel of resentful zealots to lookin’ for him a heap f’rocious, an’ so he pulls his freight.
it’s mebby six months later when bill is holdin’ down a stage station some’eres over in kansas--it’s about a day’s ride at a road-gait from independence--for ben holiday’s overland line. thar’s the widow of a compadre of bill who has a wickeyup about a mile away, an’ one day bill gets on his hoss, black nell, an’ goes romancin’ over to see how the widow’s gettin’ on. this black nell hoss of bill’s is some cel’brated. black nell is tame as a kitten an’ saveys more’n a hired man. she’d climb a pa’r of steps an’ come sa’n-terin’ into a dance hall or a hurdy gurdy if bill calls to her, an’ i makes no doubt she’d a-took off her own saddle an’ bridle an’ gone to bed with a pa’r of blankets, same as folks, if bill said it was the proper antic for a pony.
it’s afternoon when bill rides up to pow-wow with this relict of his pard. as he comes into the one room--for said wickeyup ain’t palatial, an’ consists of one big room, that a-way, an’ a jim-crow leanto--bill says:
“howdy, jule?” like that.
“howdy, bill?” says the widow. “’light an’ rest your hat, while i roam ’round an’ rustle some chuck.” this widow has the right idee.
while bill is camped down on a stool waitin’ for the promised carne an’ flap-jacks, or whatever may be the grub his hostess is aimin’ to on-loose, he casts a glance outen the window. he’s interested at once. off across the plains he discerns the killer, mccandlas an’ his band p’intin’ straight for the widow’s. they’re from missouri; thar’s ’leven of ’em, corral count, an’ all “bad.” as they can see his mare, black nell, standin’ in front of the widow’s, bill argues jestly that the mccandlas outfit knows he’s thar; an’ from the speed they’re makin’ in their approach, he likewise dedooces that they’re a heap eager for his company.
bill don’t have to study none to tell that thar’s somebody goin’ to get action. it’s likely to be mighty onequal, but thar’s no he’p; an’ so bill pulls his gun-belt tighter, an’ organizes to go as far as he can. he has with him only one six-shooter; that’s a severe setback. now, if he was packin’ two the approaching war jig would have carried feachers of comfort. but he’s got a nine-inch bowie, which is some relief. when his six-shooter’s empty, he can fall back on the knife, die hard, an’ leave his mark.
as bill rolls the cylinder of his gun to see if she’s workin’ free, an’ loosens the bowie to avoid delays, his eye falls on a rifle hangin’ above the door.
“is it loaded, jule?” asks bill.
“loaded to the gyards,” says the widow.
“an’ that ain’t no fool of a piece of news, neither,” says bill, as he reaches down the rifle. “now, jule, you-all better stampede into the cellar a whole lot ontil further orders. thar’s goin’ to be heated times ’round yere an’ you’d run the resk of gettin’ scorched.”
“i’d sooner stay an’ see, bill,” says the widow. “you-all knows how eager an’ full of cur’osity a lady is,” an’ here the widow beams on bill an’ simpers coaxin’ly.
“an’ i’d shore say stay, jule,” says bill, “if you could turn a trick. but you sees yourse’f, you couldn’t. an’ you’d be in the way.”
thar’s a big burrow out in the yard; what kansas people deenominates as a cyclone cellar. it’s like a cave; every se’f-respectin’ kansas fam’ly has one. they may not own no bank account; they may not own no good repoote; but you can gamble, they’ve got a cyclone cave.
shore, it ain’t for ornament, nor yet for ostentation. thar’s allers a breeze blowin’ plenty stiff across the plains. commonly, it’s strenyous enough to pick up a empty bar’l an’ hold it ag’inst the side of a buildin’ for a week. sech is the usual zephyr. folks don’t heed them none. but now an’ then one of these yere cyclones jumps a gent’s camp, an’ then it’s time to make for cover. thar’s nothin’ to be said back to a cyclone. it’ll take the water outen a well, or the money outen your pocket, or the ha’r off your head; it’ll get away with everything about you incloodin’ your address. your one chance is a cyclone cellar; an’ even that refooge ain’t no shore-thing, for i knowed a cyclone once that simply feels down an’ pulls a badger outen his hole. still, sech as the last, is onfrequent.
the widow accepts bill’s advice an’ makes for the storm cave. this leaves bill happy an’ easy in his mind, for it gives him plenty of room an’ nothin’ to think of but himse’f. an’ bill shore admires a good fight.
as the band halts, bill hears mccandlas say:
“shore, gents; that’s wild bill’s hoss. we’ve got him treed an’ out on a limb; to-morry evenin’ we’ll put that long-ha’red skelp of his in a showcase in independence.” then mccandlas gives a whoop, an’ bluffs bill to come out. “come out yere, bill; we needs you to decide a bet,” yells mccandlas. “come out; thar’s no good skulkin’.”
“say, jake,” retorts bill; “i’ll gamble that you an’ your hoss thieves ain’t got the sand to come after me. come at once if you comes; i despises delays, an’ besides i’ve got to be through with you-all an’ back to the stage station by dark.”
“i’ll put you where thar ain’t no stage lines, bill, long before dark,” says mccandlas. an’ with that he comes caperin’ through the window, sash, glass, an’ the entire lay-out, as blithe as may an’ a gun in each hand.
bill cuts loose the hawkins as he’s anxious to get the big gun off his mind. it stops mccandlas, “squar’ in the door,” as they says in monte; only it’s the window. mccandlas falls dead outside.
“an’ i’m sorry for that, too,” says bill to him-se’f. “i’m preemature some about that shot. i oughter let jake come in. then i could have got his guns.”
an’ then ensoos the busiest season which any gent ever cuts in upon. the air is heavy with bullets an’ thick with smoke. the walls of the room later looks like a colander.
it’s a mighty fav’rable fight, an’ bill don’t suffer none in his repoote that kansas afternoon. faster than you can count, his gun barks; an’ each time thar’s a warrior less. one, two, three, four, five, six; they p’ints out after mccandlas an’ not a half second between ’em as they starts. it was good luck an’ good shootin’ in combination.
it’s the limit; six dead to a single colt’s! no gent ever approaches it but once; an’ that’s a locoed sharp named metzger in raton. he starts in with moulton who’s the alcade, an’ beefs five an’ creases another; an’ all to the same one gun. the public, before he can reload, hangs metzger to the sign in front of the first national bank, so he don’t have much time to enjoy himse’f reviewin’ said feats.
it shore ain’t boy’s play; the quintette who’s still prancin’ about the field is as bitter a combination as you’d meet in a long day’s ride. their guns is empty, too; an’ they, like bill, down to the steel. an’ thar’s reason to believe that the fight from this p’int on is even more interestin’ than the part that’s gone before. thar’s no haltin’ or hangin’ back; thar ain’t a bashful gent in the herd. they goes to the center like one man.
bill, who’s as quick an’ strong as a mountain lion, with forty times the heart an’ fire, grips one mccandlas party by the wrist. thar’s a twist an’ a wrench an’ bill onj’ints his arm.
that’s the last of the battle bill remembers. all is whirl an’ smoke an’ curse an’ stagger an’ cut an’ stab after that, with tables crashin’ an’ the wreck an’ jangle of glass.
but the end comes. whether the struggle from the moment when it’s got down to the bowies lasts two minutes or twenty, bill never can say. when it’s over, bill finds himse’f still on his feet, an’ he’s pushin’ the last gent off his blade. split through the heart, this yere last sport falls to the floor in a dead heap, an’ bill’s alone, blood to both shoulders.
is bill hurt? gents, it ain’t much likely he’s put ’leven fightin’ men into the misty beyond, the final four with a knife, an’ him plumb scatheless! no, bill’s slashed so he wouldn’t hold hay; an’ thar’s more bullets in his frame than thar’s pease in a pod. the doc who is called in, an’ who prospects bill, allers allowed that it’s the mistake of his life he don’t locate bill an’ work him for a lead mine.
when the battle is over an’ peace resoomes its sway, bill begins to stagger. an’ he’s preyed on by thirst. bill steadies himse’f along the wall; an’ weak an’ half blind from the fogs of fightin’, he feels his way out o’ doors.
thar’s a tub of rain-water onder the eaves; it’s the only thing bill’s thinkin’ of at the last. he bends down to drink; an’ with that, faints an’ falls with his head in the tub.
it’s the widow who rescoos bill; she emerges outen her cyclone cellar an’ saves bill from drownin’. an’ he lives, too; lives to be downed years afterward when up at deadwood a timid party who don’t dare come ’round in front, drills bill from the r’ar. but what can you look for? folks who lives by the sword will perish by the sword as the scripters sets forth, an’ i reckons now them warnin’s likewise covers guns.
“and did that really happen?” asked the red nosed gentleman, drawing a deep breath.
“it’s as troo as that burgundy you’re absorbin’,” replied the old cattleman.
“i can well believe it,” observed the sour gentleman; “a strong hour makes a strong man. did this wild bill hickox wed the widow who pulled him out of the tub?”
“which i don’t think so,” returned the old cattleman. “if he does, bill keeps them nuptials a secret. but it’s a cinch he don’t. as i says at the jump, bill is a mighty wary citizen an’ not likely to go walkin’ into no sech ambuscade as a widow.”
“you do not think, then,” observed the red nosed gentleman, “that a wife would be a blessing?”
“she wouldn’t be to wild bill hickox,” said the old cattleman. “thar is gents who ought never to wed, an’ bill’s one. he was bound to be killed final; the game law was out on bill for years. now when a gent is shore to cash in that a-way, why should he go roundin’ up a wife? thar oughter be a act of congress ag’in it, an’ i onderstand that some sech measure is to be introdooced.”
“passing laws,” remarked the jolly doctor, “is no such easy matter, now, as passing the bottle.” here the jolly doctor looked meaningly at the red nosed gentleman, who thereupon shoved the burgundy into the jolly doctor’s hand with all conceivable alacrity. like every good drinker, the red nosed gentleman loved a cup companion. “there was a western person,” went on the jolly doctor, “named jim britt, who came east to have a certain law passed; he didn’t find it flowers to his feet.”
“what now was the deetails?” said the old cattleman. “the doin’s an’ plottin’s an’ doubleplays of them law-makin’ mavericks in congress is allers a heap thrillin’ to me.”
“very well,” responded the jolly doctor; “let each light a fresh cigar, for it’s rather a long story, and when all are comfortable, i’ll give you the history of ‘how jim britt passed his bill.’”
chapter xiii.--how jim britt passed his bill.
last chance was a hamlet in southeastern kansas. last chance, though fervid, was not large. indeed, a cowboy in a spirit of insult born of a bicker with the town marshal had said he could throw the loop of his lariat about last chance and drag it from the map with his pony. however, this was hyperbole.
jim britt was not the least conspicuous among the men of last chance. withal, jim britt was much diffused throughout the commerce of that village and claimed interests in a dozen local establishments, from a lumber yard to a hotel. spare of frame, and of an anxious predatory nose, was jim britt; and his gray eyes ever roving for a next investment; and the more novel the enterprise, the more leniently did jim britt regard it. the new had for him a fascination, since he was in way and heart an alexander and hungered covetously for further worlds to conquer. thus it befell that jim britt came naturally to his desire to build a railway when the exigencies of his affairs opened gate to the suggestion.
jim britt became the proprietor of a lead mine--or was it zinc?--in southeastern missouri, and no mighty distance from his own abode of last chance. the mine was somewhat thrust upon jim britt by fate, since he accepted it for a bad debt. it was “lead mine or nothing,” and jim britt, whose instincts, like nature, abhorred a vacuum, took the mine. it was a good mine, but a drawback lurked in the location; it lay over the ozark hills and far away from any nearest whistle of a railroad.
this isolation taught jim britt the thought of connecting his mine by rail with last chance; the latter was an easiest nearest point, and the route offered a most accommodating grade. a straight line, or as the crow is said to fly but doesn’t, would make the length of the proposed improvement fifty miles. when done, it would serve not only jim britt’s mine, but admirably as a feeder for the fort scot and gulf; and jim britt foresaw riches in that. altogether, the notion was none such desperate scheme.
there was a side serious, however, which must be considered. the line would cross the extreme northeast angle of the indian territory, or as it is styled in those far regions, the “nation,” and for this invasion of redskin holdings the consent of the general government, through its congress assembled, must be secured.
jim britt; far from being depressed, said he would go to washington and get it; he rather reveled in the notion. samantha, his wife, shook her head doubtfully.
“jim britt,” said samantha, severely, “you ain’t been east since mr. lincoln was shot. you know no more of washington than a wolf. i’d give that railroad up; and especially, i’d keep away from congress. don’t try to braid that mule’s tail”--samantha was lapsing into the metaphor common of last chance--“don’t try to braid that mule’s tail. it’ll kick you plumb out o’ the stall.”
but jim britt was firm; the mule simile in no sort abated him.
“but what could you do with congress?” persisted samantha; “you, a stranger and alone?”
upon this mournful showing, turner was brought in and told to desist; and as a full complement of threats, which included among their features a trial at fort smith and a gibbet, went with the request, turner was in the end prevailed on to let his winchester sleep in its rack, and thereafter the comanches danced and devoured dog unscared. the sullen turner said the comanches had slain his parent long ago; the agent expressed regrets, but stuck for it that even with such an impetus a normal vengeance should have run itself out with the conquest of those sixty scalps.
jim britt told this story of turner to samantha; and then he argued that as the comanches were made to feel a one-man power by the industrious turner, so would he, jim britt, for all he stood alone, compel congress to his demands. he would take that right of way across the indian territory from between their very teeth. he was an american citizen and congress was his servant; in this wise spake jim britt.
“that’s all right,” argued the pessimistic samantha; “that’s all right about your drunken turner; but he had a winchester. now you ain’t goin’ to tackle congress with no gun, jim britt.”
despite the gloomy prophecies of samantha, whom jim britt looked on as a kind of cassandra without having heard of cassandra, our would-be railroad builder wound up the threads and loose ends of his last chance businesses, and having, as he described it, “fixed things so they would run themselves for a month,” struck out for washington. jim britt carried twenty-five hundred dollars in his pocket, confidence in his heart, and samantha’s forebode of darkling failure in his ears.
while no fop and never setting up to be the local brummel, jim britt’s clothes theretofore had matched both his hour and environment, and held their decent own in the van of last chance fashion. but the farther jim britt penetrated to the eastward in his native land, the more his raiment seemed to fall behind the age; and at the last, when he was fairly within the gates of washington, he began to feel exceeding wild and strange. also, it affected him somewhat to discover himself almost alone as a tobacco chewer, and that a great art preserved in its fullness by last chance had fallen to decay along the atlantic. these, however, were questions of minor moment, and save that his rococo garb drove the sensitive jim britt into cheap lodgings in four-and-one-half street, instead of one of the capital’s gilded hotels, they owned no effect.
this last is set forth in defence against an imputation of parsimony on the side of jim britt. he was one who spent his money like a king whenever and wherever his education or experience pointed the way. it was his clothes of a remote period to make him shy, else jim britt would have shrunk not from the raleigh itself, but climbed and clambered and browsed among the timberline prices of its grill-room, as safe and satisfied as ever browsed mountain goat on the high levels of its upland home. yea, forsooth! jim britt, like a sailor ashore, could spend his money with a free and happy hand.
jim britt, acting on a hint offered of his sensibilities, for a first step reclothed himself from a high-priced shop; following these improvements, save for the fact that he appalled the eye as a trifle gorgeous, he might not have disturbed the sacred taste of connecticut avenue itself. in short, in the matter of garb, jim britt, while audible, was down to date.
with the confidence born of his new clothes--for clothes in some respects may make the man--jim britt sate him down to study congress. he deemed it a citadel to be stormed; not lacking in military genius he began to look it over for a weak point.
these adventures of jim britt now about a record, occurred, you should understand, almost a decade ago. in that day there should have been eighty-eight senators and three hundred and fifty-six representatives, albeit, by reason of death or failure to elect, a not-to-be-noticed handful of seats were vacant.
by an industrious perusal of the congressional directory, wherein the skeleton of each house was laid out and told in all its divers committee small-bones, jim britt began to understand a few of the lions in his path. for his confusion he found that congress was sub-divided into full sixty committees, beginning with such giant conventions as the ways and means, appropriations, military, naval, coinage, weights and measures, banking and currency, indian, public lands, postal, and pensions, and dwindling down to ignoble riffraff--which owned each a chairman, a committee room, a full complement of clerks and messengers, and an existence, but never convened--like the committee on acoustics and ventliation, and alcoholic liquor traffic.
jim britt learned also of the sergeants at arms of senate and house, and how these dignitaries controlled the money for those bodies and paid the members their salaries. incidentally, and by way of gossip, he was told of that house sergeant who had levanted with the riches entrusted to his hands, and left the broken membership, gnashing its teeth in poverty and impotent gloom, unable to draw pay.
then, too, there was a document room where the bills and resolutions were kept when printed. also, about each of the five doors of house and senate, when those sacred gatherings were in session, there were situated a host of messengers, carried for twelve hundred dollars a year each on the doorkeeper’s rolls. it was the duty and pleasure of these myrmidons to bring forth members into the corridors, to the end that they be refreshed with a word of counsel from constituents who had traveled thither for that purpose; and in the finish to lend said constituents money to return home.
jim britt, following these first connings of the directory, went personally to the capitol, and from the galleries, leaning his chin on the rail the while, gazed earnestly on greatness about the transaction of its fame. these studies and personally conducted tours, and those conversations to be their incident which came off between jim britt and chance-blown folk who fell across his pathway, enlarged jim britt’s store of information in sundry fashions. he discovered that full ten thousand bills and resolutions were introduced each congress; that by virtue of a mere narrowness of time not more than five per cent, of this storm of business could be dealt with, the other ninety-five, whether for good or ill, being starved to death for lack of occasion. the days themselves were no longer than five working hours since congress convened at noon.
the great radical difference between house and senate loomed upon jim britt in a contrast of powers which abode with the presiding officers of those mills to grind new laws. the president of the senate owned few or none. he might enforce jefferson’s rules for debates and call a recalcitrant senator to order, a call to which the recalcitrant paid little heed beyond tart remarks on his part concerning his own high determinations to yield to no gavel tyranny, coupled with a forceful though conceited assurance flung to the senate at large, that he, the recalcitrant, knew his rights (which he never did), and would uphold them (which he never failed to do.) the senate president named no committees; owned no control over the order of business; indeed he was limited to a vote on ties, a warning that he would clear the galleries (which was never done) when the public therein roosting, applauded, and the right to prevent two senators from talking at one and the same time. these marked the utmost measure of his influence. any senator could get the floor for any purpose, and talk on any subject from prester john to sheep in the seventeenth century, while his strength stood. also, and much as dogs have kennels permitted them for their habitation, the presiding officer of the senate--in other words, the vice-president of the nation--was given a room, separate and secluded to himself, into which he might creep when chagrin for his own unimportance should overmaster him or otherwise his woes become greater than he might publicly bear.
the house speaker was a vastly different cock, with a louder crow and longer spur. the speaker was a king, indeed; and an absolute monarch or an autocrat or what you will that signifies one who may do as he chooses, exercise unbridled will, and generally sit beneath the broad shadows of the vine and the fig tree of his prerogatives with none to molest him or make him afraid. the speaker was, so to phrase it, the entire house, the other three hundred and fifty-five members acting only when he consented or compelled them, and then usually by his suggestion and always under his thumb. no bill could be considered without the speaker’s permission; and then for so long only as he should allow, and by what members he preferred. no man could speak to a measure wanting the gracious consent of this dignitary; and no word could be uttered--at least persisted in--to which he felt distaste. the speaker, when lengths and breadths are measured, was greater than the moscow czar and showed him a handless infant by comparison.
as a half-glove of velvet for his iron hand, and to mask and soften his pure autocracy--which if seen naked might shock the spirit of americanism--there existed a rules committee. this subbody, whereof the speaker was chief, carried, besides himself, but two members; and these he personally selected, as indeed he did the entire membership of every committee on the house muster-rolls. this rules committee, with the speaker in absolute sway, acted with reference to the house at large as do the board of judges for a racecourse. it declared each day what bills should be taken up, limited debate, and to pursue the track simile to a last word, called on this race or cleared the course of that race, and fairly speaking dry-nursed the house throughout its travels, romps and lessons.
jim britt discovered that in all, counting speaker, rules committee, and a dozen chairmen of the great committees, there existed no more than fifteen folk who might by any stretch of veracity be said to have a least of voice in the transaction of house business. in the gagged and bound cases of the other three hundred and forty-one, and for what public good or ill to flow from them, their constituents would have fared as well had they, instead of electing these representatives, confined themselves to writing the government a letter setting forth their wants.
in reference to his own bill, jim britt convinced himself of two imposing truths. anybody would and could introduce it in either house or senate or in both at once; then, when thus introduced and it had taken the routine course to the proper committee, the situation would ask the fervent agreement of a majority in each body, to say nothing of the speaker’s consent--a consent as hard to gain as a girl’s--to bring it up for passage.
nor was there any security of concert. the bill might be fashionable, not to say popular, with one body, while the other turned rigid back upon it. it might live in the house to die in the senate, or succeed in the senate and perish in the house. there were no safety and little hope to be won in any corner, and the lone certainty to peer forth upon jim britt was that the chances stood immeasurably against him wherever he turned his eyes. the camel for the needle’s eye and the rich man into heaven, were easy and feasible when laid side by side with the congressional outlook for his bill.
while jim britt was now sensibly cast down and pressed upon by despair, within him the eagerness for triumph grew taller with each day. for one daunting matter, should he return empty of hand, samantha would wear the fact fresh and new upon her tongue’s end to the last closing of his eyes. it would become a daily illustration--an hourly argument in her practiced mouth.
there was one good to come to jim britt by his investigations and that was a good instruction. like many another, jim britt, from the deceitful distance of last chance, had ever regarded both house and senate as gigantic conspiracies. they were eaten of plot and permeated of intrigue; it was all chicane and surprise and sharp practice. congress was a name for traps and gins and pits and snares and deadfalls. the word meant tunnels and trap-doors and vaults and dungeons and sinister black whatnot. jim britt never paused to consider wherefore congress should, for ends either clean or foul, conceal within itself these midnight commodities of mask and dark-lantern, and go about its destiny a perennial guy fawkes, ready to explode a situation with a touch and blow itself and all concerned to far-spread flinders. had he done so he might have dismissed these murky beliefs.
following two weeks of investigation, jim britt secured the introduction of his bill. this came off by asking; the representative from the last chance district performing in the one body, while one of the kansas senators acted in the more venerable convention.
now when the bill was introduced, printed, and in the lap of the proper committee, jim britt went to work to secure the bill’s report. he might as well have stormed the skies to steal a star; he found himself as helpless as a fly in amber.
about this hour in his destinies, jim britt made a radical and, as it turned, a decisive move. he had now grown used to washington and washington to him, and while folk still stared and many grinned, jim britt did not receive that ovation as he moved about which marked and made unhappy his earlier days in the town. believing it necessary to his bill’s weal, jim britt began to haunt john chamberlin’s house of call as then was, and to scrape acquaintance with statesmen who passed hours of ease and wine in its parlors.
in the commencement of his chamberlin experiences jim britt met much to affright him. a snowy-bearded senator from nevada sat at a table. on seeing jim britt smile upon him in a friendly way--he was hoping to make the senator’s acquaintance--he of the snow-beard, apropos of nothing, suddenly thundered:
“i have this day read john sherman’s defence of the crime of ’seventy-three. john sherman contends that no crime was committed because no criminals were caught.”
this outburst so dismayed jim britt that he sought a far corner and no more tempted the explosiveness of snow-beard.
again, jim britt would engage a venerable senator from alabama in talk. he was instantly taken by the helpless button, and for a quintette of hours told of the national need of a panama canal, and given a list of what railroads in their venality set the flinty face of their opposition to its coming about.
these things, the thunders of snow-beard and the exhaustive settings forth of the senator from the south, pierced jim britt; for he reflected that if the questions of silver and panama could not be budged for their benefit by these gentlemen of beard and long experience and who dwelt well within the breastworks of legislation, then his bill for that small right of way, and none to aid it save himself in his poor obscurity, could hope for nothing except death and burial where it lay.
there was a gentleman of congress well known and loved as the statesman from tupelo. he was frequent and popular about chamberlin’s. the statesman from tupelo was a humorist of celebration and one of the redeeming features of the house of representatives. his eye fell upon the queer, ungainly form of jim britt, with hungry face, eyes keen but guileless, and nose of falcon curve.
the statesman from tupelo beheld in jim britt with his gothic simplicity a self-offered prey to the spear of every joker. the statesman from tupelo, with a specious suavity of accent and a blandness irresistible, drew forth jim britt in converse. the latter, flustered, flattered, went to extremes of confidence and laid frankly bare his railroad hopes and fears which were now all fears.
the statesman from tupelo listened with decorous albeit sympathetic gravity. when jim britt was done he spoke:
“as you say,” observed the statesman from tupelo, “your one chance is to get acquainted with a majority of both houses and interest them personally in your bill.”
“but how might a party do that soonest?” asked jim britt. “i don’t want to camp yere for the balance of my days. besides, thar’s samantha.”
“certainly, there’s samantha,” assented the statesman from tupelo. then following a pause:
“i suppose the readiest method would be to give a dinner. could you undertake that?”
“why, i reckon i could.”
the dinner project obtained kindly foothold in the breast of jim britt; he had read of such banquet deeds as a boy when the papers told the splendors of sam ward and the lucullian day of the old pacific mail. jim britt had had no experience of chamberlin prices, since his purchases at that hotel had gone no farther a-field than a now-and-then cigar. he had for most part subsisted at those cheap restaurants which--for that there be many threadbare folk, spent with their vigils about congress, hoping for their denied rights--are singularly abundant in washington. these modest places of regale would give no good notion of chamberlin’s, but quite the contrary. wherefore, jim britt, quick with railway ardor and to get back to the far-away samantha, took the urgent initiative, and said he would order the dinner for what night the statesman from tupelo deemed best, if only that potent spirit would agree to gather in the guests.
“we will have the dinner, then,” said he of tupelo, “on next saturday. you can tell chamberlin; and i’ll see to the guests.”
“how many?” said chamberlin’s steward, when he received the orders of jim britt.
the coming railway magnate looked at the statesman from tupelo.
“say fifty,” remarked the statesman from tupelo.
jim britt was delighted. he would have liked sixty guests better, or if one might, one hundred; but fifty was a fair start. there could come other dinners, for the future holds a deal of room. in time jim britt might dine a full moiety of congress. the dinner was fixed; the menu left to the steward’s ingenuity and taste; and now when the situation was thus relaid, and saturday distant but two days, jim britt himself called for an apartment at chamberlin’s, sent for his one trunk, and established himself on the scene of coming dinner action to have instant advantage of whatever offered that might be twisted to affect his lead-mine road.
the long tables for jim britt’s dinner were spread in a dining room upstairs. there were fifty covers, and room for twenty more should twenty come. the apartment itself was a jungle of tropical plants, and the ground plan of the feast laid on a scale of bill-threatening magnificence.
this was but right. for when the steward would have consulted the exultant jim britt whose florid imaginings had quite carried him off his feet, that gentleman said simply:
thereupon the steward cast aside restraint and wandered forth upon that dinner with a heart care-free and unrestrained. he would make of it a moment of terrapin and canvas-back and burgundy which time should date from and folk remember for long to the chamberlin praise.
saturday arrived, and throughout the afternoon jim britt, by grace of the good steward, who had a pride of his work and loved applause, teetered in and out of the dining room and with dancing eye and mouth ajar gave rein to admiration. it would be a mighty dinner; it would land his bill in his successful hands, and make, besides, a story to amaze the folk of last chance to a standstill. these be not our words; rather they flowed as the advance jubilations of jim britt.
there was one thought to bear upon jim britt to bashful disadvantage. the prospect of entertaining fifty statesmen shook his confidence and took his breath. to repair these disasters he called privily from time to time for whiskey.
it was not over-long before he talked thickly his encomiums to the steward. on his last visit to survey that fairyland of a dining room, jim britt counted covers laid for several hundred guests; what was still more wondrous, he believed they would come and the prospect rejoiced him. there were as many lights, too, in the chandeliers as stars of a still winter’s night, while the apartment seemed as large as a ten-acre lot and waved a broad forest of foliage.
that he might be certainly present on the arrival of the first guest--for jim britt knew and felt his duties as a host--jim britt lay down upon a lounge which, to one side, was deeply, sweetly bowered beneath the overhanging palms. then jim britt went earnestly to sleep and was no more to be aroused than a dead man.
the statesman from tupelo appeared; by twos and threes and tens, gathered the guests; jim britt slept on the sleep of innocence without a dream. a steering committee named to that purpose on the spot by the statesman from tupelo, sought to recover jim britt to a knowledge of his fortunate honors. full sixty guests were there, and it was but right that he be granted the pleasure, not to say the glory, of their acquaintance.
it was of no avail; jim britt would not be withdrawn from slumbers deep as death. the steering committee suspended its labors of restoration. as said the chairman in making his report, which, with a wine glass in his hand, he subsequently did between soup and fish:
“our most cunning efforts were fruitless. we even threw water on him, but it was like throwing water on a drowned rat.”
thus did his slumbers defend themselves, and jim britt snore unchecked.
but the dinner was not to flag. the statesman from tupelo took the head of the table and the chairman of the steering committee the foot, the repast proceeded while wine and humor flowed.
it was a dream of a dinner, a most desirable dinner, a dinner that should stand for years an honor to jim britt of last chance. it raged from eight till three. corks and jokes were popping while laughter walked abroad; speeches were made and songs were sung. through it all, the serene founder of the feast slept on, and albeit eloquence took up his name and twined about it flowery compliment, he knew it not. tranquilly on his lounge he abode in dear oblivion.
things mundane end and so did jim britt’s dinner. there struck an hour when the last song was sung, the last jest was made, and the last guest departed away. the statesman from tupelo superintended the transportation of jim britt to his room, and having made him safe, he of tupelo went also out into the morning, and that famous banquet was of the perfumed past.
it dawned wednesday before the statesman from tupelo called again at chamberlin’s to ask for the excellent jim britt. the statesman from tupelo explained wherefore he was thus laggard.
“i thought,” he said to chamberlin, “that our friend would need sunday, monday and tuesday to straighten up his head.”
“the man’s gone,” said chamberlin; “he departed monday morning.”
“home to last chance.”
“what did he go home for?”
“that dinner broke him, i guess. it cost about eighteen hundred dollars, and he only had a little over a hundred when the bill was paid.”
the statesman from tupelo mused, while clouds of regret began to gather on his brow. his conscience had him by the collar; his conscience was avenging that bankruptcy of jim britt.
the statesman from tupelo received jim britt’s address from the hands of chamberlin’s clerk. the next day the statesman from tupelo wrote jim britt a letter. it ran thus:
my dear sir:--
don’t come back. write me in full the exact story of what you want and why you want it. i’ve got a copy of your bill from the document room, and so soon as i hear from you, shall urge the business before the proper committee.
when jim britt’s reply came to hand, the statesman from tupelo--whom nobody could resist--prevailed on the committee to report the bill. then he got the speaker, who while iron with others was as wax in the hands of the statesman from tupelo, to recognize him to bring up the bill. the house, equally under his spell, gave the statesman from tupelo its unanimous consent, and the bill was carried in the blink of a moment to its third reading and put upon its passage. then the statesman from tupelo made a speech; he said it was a confession.
the statesman from tupelo talked for fifteen minutes while the house howled. he told the destruction of jim britt. he painted the dinner and pointed to those members of the house who attended; he reminded them of the desolation which their appetites had worked. he said the house was disgraced in the downfall of jim britt, and admitted that he and his fellow diners were culpable to a last extreme. but there was a way to repair all. the bill must be passed, the stain on the house must be washed away, jim britt must stand again on his fiscal feet, and then he, the statesman from tupelo, and his fellow conspirators, might once more look mankind in the eye.
there be those who will do for laughter what they would not do for right. the house passed jim britt’s bill unanimously.
the statesman from tupelo carried it to the senate. he explained the painful situation and described the remedy. would the senate unbend from its stern dignity as the greatest deliberative body of any clime or age, and come to the rescue of the statesman from tupelo and the house of representatives now wallowing in infamy?
the senate would; by virtue of a kink in senate rules which permitted the feat, the jim britt bill was instantly and unanimously adopted without the intervention of a committee, the ordering a reference or a roll-call. the statesman from tupelo thanked the senate and withdrew, pretending emotion.
there was one more journey to make, one more power to consult, and the mighty work would be accomplished. the president must sign the bill. the statesman from tupelo walked in on that tremendous officer of state and told him the tale of injury done jim britt. the statesman from tupelo, by way of metaphor, called himself and his fellow sinners, cannibals, and showed how they had eaten jim britt. then he reminded the president how he had once before gone to the rescue of cannibals in the case of queen lil. would he now come to the relief of the statesman from tupelo and his fellow anthropophagi of the house?
the president was overcome with the word and the idea; he scribbled his name in cramped copperplate, and the deed was done. the jim britt bill was a law, and jim britt saved from the life-long taunts of samantha, the retentive. the road from last chance to the lead mine was built, and on hearing of its completion the statesman from tupelo wrote for an annual pass.
“then it was luck after all,” said the red
nosed gentleman, “rather than management to save the day for your jim britt.”
“entirely so,” conceded the jolly doctor.
“there’s a mighty deal in luck,” observed the red nosed gentleman, sagely. “certainly, it’s the major part in gambling, and i think, too, luck is a decisive element in every victory or defeat a man experiences.”
“and, now,” observed the sour gentleman, “now that you mention gambling, suppose you redeem your promise and give us the story of ‘how to tell the last four.’ the phrase is dark to me and has no meaning, but i inferred from what you were saying when you used it, that you alluded to some game of chance. assuredly, i crave pardon if i be in error,” and now the sour gentleman bowed with vast politeness.
“you are not in error,” returned the red nosed gentleman, “and i did refer to gambling. casino, however, when played by casino joe was no game of chance, but of science; his secret, he said in explanation, lay in ‘how to tell the last four.’”
casino joe, when thirty years ago he came about the bowery, was in manner and speech a complete expression of the rustical. his brow was high and fine and wise; but lank hair of yellow spoiled with its ragged fringe his face--a sallow face, wide of mouth and with high cheek bones. his garb was farmerish; kip-skin boots, coat and trousers of gray jeans, hickory shirt, and soft shapeless hat. nor was casino joe in disguise; these habiliments made up the uniform of his ancestral new hampshire. countryman all over, was casino joe, and this look of the uncouth served him in his chosen profession.
possibly “chosen” as a term is indiscreet. gamblers are born and not made; they occur and they do not choose; they are, compared with more conservative and lawful men, what wolves are to honest dogs--cousins, truly, but tameless depredators, living lean and hard, and dying when die they do, neglected, lone and poor. yet it is fate; they are born to it as much as is the ishmael wolf and must run their midnight downhill courses.
gamblers, that is true gamblers, are folk of specialties. casino joe’s was the game which gave to him his name--at casino he throve invincibly.
“it is my gift,” he said.
two things were with casino joe at birth; the genius for casino and that jack-knife talent to whittle which belongs with true-born yankees. of this latter i had proof long after poor casino joe wras dead and nourishing the grass. the races were in boston; it was when goldsmith maid reigned queen of the trotting turf. her owner came to me at the adams house and told how the aged sire of goldsmith maid, the great henry clay, was in his equine, joint-stiffened dotage pastured on a not too distant farm. he was eager to have a look at the old horse; and i went with him for this pilgrimage.
as we drove up to the tavern which the farmstead we sought surrounded, my curious eye was caught by a fluttering windmill contrivance perched upon the gable. it was the figure of a woman done in pine and perhaps four feet of height, carved in the somewhat airy character of a ballet dancer. instead of a dance, however, the lady contented herself with an exhibition of indian club swinging--one in each pine palm; the breeze offering the whirling impulse--in the execution wherof she poised herself with one foot on a wooden ball not unlike the arrowing bronze diana of madison square. this figure, twirling clubs, as a mere windmill would have been amazing enough; but as though this were not sufficiently wondrous, at regular intervals our ballet dancer shifted her feet on the ball, replacing the right with the left and again the left with the right in measured alternation. the miracle of it held me transfixed.
the host came fatly to his front stoop and smiled upon my wide-eyed interest.
“where did you get it?” i asked.
“that was carved with a jack-knife,” replied mine host, “by a party called ‘casino joe.’ it took him’most a year; he got it mounted and goin’ jest before he died.”
for long i had lost trace of casino joe; it was now at this change house i blundered on the news how my old gambling friend of the bowery came with his consumption and some eight thousand dollars--enough to end one’s life with--and made this place home until his death. his grave lay across a field in the little rural burying ground where he had played when a boy, for casino joe was native of these parts.
there were no cheatings or tricky illicitisms hidden in joe’s supremacies of casino. they were works of a wax-like memory which kept the story of the cards as one makes entries in a ledger. when the last hands were out between joe and an adversary, a glance at his mental entries of cards already played, and another at his own hand, unerringly informed him of what cards his opponent held. this he called “telling the last four.”
it was as an advantage more than enough to enable joe to win; and while i lived in his company, i never knew him to be out of pocket by that divertisement. the marvel was that he could keep accurate track of fifty-two cards as they fell one after the other into play, and do these feats of memory in noise-ridden bar-rooms and amid a swirl of conversation in which he more or less bore part.
those quick folk of the fraternity whom he encountered and who from time to time lost money to casino joe, never once suspected his victories to be a result of mere memory. they held that some cheat took place. but as it was not detectable and no man might point it out, no word of fault was uttered. joe took the money and never a protest; for it is as much an axiom of the gaming table as it is of the law that “fraud must be proved and will never be presumed or inferred.” with no evidence, therefore, the losing gamblers made no protesting charge, and joe went forward collecting the wealth of any and all who fought with him at his favorite science.
casino joe, as i have said, accounted for his mastery at casino by his power to “tell the last four,” and laid it all to memory.
“and yet,” said joe one evening as i urged him to impart to me his secret more in detail, “it may depend on something else. as i’ve told you, it’s my gift. folk have their gifts. once when i was in the town of warrensburg in western missouri, i was shown a man who had gifts for mathematics that were unaccountable. he was a coarse, animalish creature, this mathematician; a half idiot and utterly without education. a sullen, unclean beast of a being, he shuffled about in a queer, plantigrade fashion like a bear. he was ill-natured, yet too timid to do harm; and besides a genius for figures, his distinguishing characteristics were hunger measured by four men’s rations and an appetite for whiskey which to call swinish would be marking a weakness on one’s own part in the art of simile. yet this witless creature, unable to read his own printed name, knew as by an instinct every mathematical or geometrical term. you might propose nothing as a problem that he would not instantly solve. he could tell you like winking, the area of a seven or eight-angled figure so you but gave him the dimensions; he would announce the surface measurements of a sphere when told either its diameter or circumference. once, as a poser, a learned teacher proposed a supposititious cone seven feet in altitude and with a diameter of three feet at the base, and asked at what distance from the apex it should be divided to make both parts equal of bulk and weight. the gross, growling being made correct, unhesitating reply. this monster of mathematics seemed also to carry a chronometer in his stomach, for day or night, he could and would--for a drink of rum--tell you the hour to any splinter of a second. you might set your watch by him as if he were the steeple clock. i don’t profess,” concluded casino joe, “to either the habits or the imbecility of this genius of figures, yet it may well be that my abilities to keep track of fifty-two cards as they appear in play and know at every moment--as a bookkeeper does a balance--what cards are yet to come, are not of cultivation or acquirement, but were extant within me at my birth.” when casino joe appeared in the bowery he came to gamble at cards. that buzzing thoroughfare was then the promenade of the watchful brotherhood of chance. in that hour, too, it stood more the fashion--for there are fashions in gambling as in everything else--to win and lose money at short-cards, and casino enjoyed particular vogue. there were scores of eminent practitioners about new york, and joe had little trouble in securing recognition. indeed, he might have played the full twenty-four hours of every day could he have held up his head to such labors.
there was at the advent of our rural joe into metropolitan circles none more alert or breathless for pastmastery in unholy speculation than myself. about twenty-one should have been my years, and i carried that bubbling spirit for success common to the youth of every walk. aut cosar aut nullus! was my warcry, and i did not consider joe and his career for long before i was slave to the one hope of finally gaining his secret. one might found fortune on it; like the philosopher’s stone it turned everything to gold.
with those others who fell before joe i also believed his success to be offspring of some cheat. and while the rustic joe was engaged against some fellow immoralist, i’ve sat and watched for hours upon end to discover what winding thing joe did. there was no villainy of double dealing or chicane of cut-shifting or of marked cards at which i was not adept. and what i could so darkly perform i was equally quick to discover when another attempted it. but, albeit i eyed poor joe with a cat’s vigilance--a vigilance to have saved the life of argus had he but emulated it with his hundred eyes--i noted nothing. and the reason was a simple one. there was literally nothing to discover; joe played honestly enough; his advantage dwelt in his memory and that lay hidden within his head.
despairing of a discovery by dint of watching, i made friendly overtures to joe, hoping to wheedle a secret which i could not surprise. my proffers of comradeship were met more than half way. joe was a kindly though a lonely soul and had few friends; his queer garb of the cowpastures together with his unfailing domination at casino kept others of the fraternity at a distance. also i had been much educated of books by father glennon, and put in my spare time with reading. as joe himself had dived somewhat into books, we were doubly drawn to each other. hours have we sat together in joe’s nobly furnished rooms--for he lived well if he did not dress well--and overhauled for our mutual amusement the literature of the centuries back to chaucer and his tabard inn.
at this time joe was already in the coils of that consumption whereof at last he died. and what with a racking cough and an inability to breathe while lying down, joe seldom slept in a bed. the best he might do was to gain what snatches of slumber he could while propped in an arm-chair. it thus befell that at his suggestion and to tell the whole truth, at his generous expense, i came finally to room with joe. somebody should utilize the bed. being young and sound of nerves, his restless night-roamings about the floors disturbed not me; i slept serenely through as i doubtless would through the crack of doom had such calamity surprised us at that time, and joe and i prospered bravely in company.
beseech and plead as i might, however, joe would not impart to me that hidden casino strength beyond his word that no fraud was practiced--a fact whereof my watchings had made me sure--and curtly describing it as an ability to “tell the last four.”
while joe housed me as his guest for many months and paid the bills, one is not to argue therefrom any unhappy pauperism on my boyish part. in good sooth! i was more than rich during those days, with a fortune of anywhere from five hundred to as many as four thousand dollars. like all disciples of chance i had these riches ever ready in my pocket for what prey might offer.
it was now and then well for joe that i went thus provided. that badly garbed squire of good dame fortune, who failed not of a profit at casino, had withal an overpowering taste to play faro; and as if by some law of compensation and to preserve an equilibrium, he would seem to sit down to a faro layout only to lose.
time and again he came to his rooms stripped of the last dollar. on these harrowing occasions joe would borrow a round-number stake from me and so return to the legitimate sure harvests of casino, vowing never to lose himself and his money in any quicksands of farobank again.
it must be admitted that these anti-faro vows were never kept; once firm on his feet by virtue of casino renewed, it was not over long ere he “tried it just once more,” to lose again. these faro bankruptcies would overtake joe about once a month.
one day i made a mild plot; i had foregone all hope of coaxing joe’s secret from him; now i resolved to bring against him the pressure of a small intrigue. i lay in ambush for joe, waylaid him as it were in the weak hour of his destitution and ravished from him at the point of his necessities that which i could come by in no other way.
it was following a disastrous night at faro when joe appeared without so much silver in his pockets as might serve to keep the fiends from dancing there. having related his losses he asked for the usual five hundred wherewith to re-enter the sure lists of casino and begin the combat anew.
to his sore amazement and chagrin--and somewhat to his alarm, for at first he thought me as poor as himself from my refusal--i shook my sage young head.
“haven’t you got it?” asked joe anxiously.
“oh, yes,” i replied, “i’ve got it; and it’s yours on one condition. teach me how to ‘tell the last four,’ and you may have five hundred and five hundred with it.”
then i pointed out to joe his mean unfairness in not equipping me with this resistless knowledge. save for that one pregnant secret i was as perfect at casino as any sharper on the bowery. likewise, were the situation reversed, i’d be quick to instruct him. i’d lend no more; there would come no further five hundred save as the price of that touchstone--the golden secret of how to “tell the last four.” this i set forth jealously.
“why, then,” said joe, “i’ll do my best to teach you. but it will cost a deal of work. you’ll have to put in hours of practice and curry and groom and train your memory as if it were a horse for a great race. i tell you the more readily--for i could elsewhere easily get the five hundred and for that matter five thousand other dollars to keep it company--since i believe i’ve not many months to live at best”--here, as if in confirmation, a gust of coughing shook him--“and this secret shall be your legacy.”
with these words, joe got a deck of cards and began a game of casino with me as an adversary. slowly playing the cards, he explained and strove to illustrate those mental methods by which he kept account and tabbed them as they were played. if i could lay bare this system here i would; but its very elaboration forbids. it was as though joe owned a blackboard in his head with the fifty-two cards told off by numbers in column, and from which he erased a card the moment it appeared in play. by processes of elimination, he came finally to “tell the last four,” and as the last hands were dealt knew those held by his opposite as much as ever he knew his own. this advantage, with even luck and perfect skill made him not to be conquered.
it took many sittings with many lessons many hours long; but in time because of my young faculties--not too much cumbered of those thousand and one concerns to come with years and clamor for remembrance--i grew as perfect as joe.
and it was well i learned the secret when i did. soon after, i became separated from joe; i went southward to new orleans and when i was next to new york joe had disappeared. nor could i find trace or sign of his whereabouts. he went in truth to his old village, and my earliest information thereof came only when the tavern host told the origin of the club-swinging ballet dancer then toeing it so gallantly on his gables.
but while i parted with my friend, i never forgot him. the knowledge he gave double-armed me at the game. it became the reason of often riches in my hands, and was ever a resort when i erred over horse races or was beaten down by some storm of faro. then it was profitably i recalled casino joe and his instructions; and his invincible secret of “how to tell the last four.”
“is it not strange,” said the jolly doctor, when the red nosed gentleman had finished, “that i who never cared to gamble, should listen with delight to a story of gamblers and gambling? but so it is; i’ve heard scores such in my time and always with utmost zest. i’ll even tell one myself--as it was told me--when it again becomes my duty to furnish this good company entertainment. meanwhile, unless my memory fails, it should be the task of our descendant of hiawatha”--here the jolly doctor turned smilingly to sioux sam--“to take up the burden of the evening.”
the old cattleman, joining with the jolly doctor in the suggestion, and sioux sam being in no wise loth to be heard, our half-savage friend related “how moh-kwa fed the catfish.”
one day moh-kwa, the wise bear, had a quarrel with ish-koo-dah, the fire. moh-kwa was gone from home two days, for moh-kwa had found a large patch of ripe blackberries, an’ he said it was prudent to stay an’ eat them all up lest some other man find them. so moh-kwa stayed; an’ though he ate very hard the whole time an’ never slept, so many an’ fat were the blackberries, it took two suns to eat them.
when moh-kwa came into his cavern, he found ish-koo-dah, the fire, grown small an’ hot an’ angry, for he had not been fed for two days. moh-kwa gave the fire a bundle of dry wood to eat, an’ when the fire’s stomach was full an’ he had grown big an’ bright with plenty, he sat up on his bed of coals an’ found fault with moh-kwa for his neglect.
“an’ should you neglect me again for two days,” said the fire, “i will know i am not wanted an’ shall go away.”
moh-kwa was much tired with no sleep, so he answered ish-koo-dah, the fire, sharply.
“you are always hungry,” said moh-kwa; “also you are hard to suit. if i give you green wood, you will not eat it; if the wood be wet, you turn away. nothing but old dry wood will you accept. beggars like you should not own such fine tastes. an’ do you think, fire, that i who have much to do an’ say an’ many places to go--i, moh-kwa, who am as busy as the bees in the moon of blossoms, have time to stay ever by your side to pass you new dry wood to eat? go to; you are more trouble that a papoose!”
when moh-kwa awoke, he sat blinking in the darkness of his cavern, for ish-koo-dah, while moh-kwa slept, had gone out an’ left night behind.
for five days moh-kwa had no fire an’ it gave him a bad heart; for while moh-kwa could eat his food raw an’ never cared for that, he could not smoke his kinnikinick unless ish-koo-dah, the fire, was there to light his pipe for him.
for five days moh-kwa smoked no kinnikinick; an’ moh-kwa got angry because of it an’ roared an’ shouted up an’ down the canyons, an’ to show he did not care, moh-kwa smashed his redstone pipe on a rock. but in his stomach moh-kwa cared, an’ would have traded ish-koodah, the fire, four armsful of dry cedar just to have him light his kinnikinick but once. but ish-koo-dah, the fire, was gone out an’ would not come back.
openhand, the good sioux an’ great hunter, heard moh-kwa roaring for his kinnikinick. an’ openhand told him he behaved badly, like a young squaw who wants new feathers an’ cannot get them. then openhand gave moh-kwa another pine, an’ brought the fire from his own lodge; an’ again moh-kwa’s cavern blazed with ish-koo-dah, the fire, in the middle of the floor, an’ moh-kwa smoked his kinnikinick. an’ moh-kwa’s heart felt good an’ soft an’ pleasant like the sunset in the moon of fruit. also, he gave ish-koo-dah plenty of wood to eat an’ never scolded him for being always hungry.
all the sioux loved openhand; for no one went by his lodge empty but openhand gave him a piece of buffalo meat; an’ if a sioux was cold, he put a blanket about his shoulders. an’ for this he was named “openhand,” an’ the sioux were never tired of talking good talk of open-hand, an’ the noise of his praises never died out.
coldheart hated openhand because he was so much loved. coldheart was himself sulky an’ hard, an’ his hand was shut tight like a beaver-trap that is sprung, an’ it would not open to give anything away. those who came hungry went hungry for all of coldheart; an’ if they were cold, they were cold. coldheart wrapped his robes the closer, an’ was the warmest whenever he thought the frost-wolf was gnawing others.
“i do not rule the ice,” said coldheart; “hunger does not come or go on its war-trail by my orders. an’ if the sioux freeze or starve, an’ pau-guk, the death, walks among the lodges, it is because the time is pau-guk’s an’ i cannot help it.”
coldheart would have called pau-guk to his elbow an’ killed openhand; but coldheart was not sure. the openhand moved as quick as a fish in the yellowstone, an’ stood as tall an’ strong as the big pine on the hill; there were no three warriors, the bravest of the sioux, who could have gone on the trail of openhand an’ shown his skelp on their return, for openhand was a mighty fighter an’ had a big heart, so that even fear himself was afraid of openhand an’ never dared come where he was.
coldheart knew well that he could not fight with openhand; for to find this out, he made his strongest medicine an’ called jee-bi, the spirit; an’ jee-bi talked with pau-guk, the death, an’ asked pau-guk if coldheart went on the trail of openhand to take his skelp, which one pau-guk would have at the trail’s end. an’ pau-guk said he would have coldheart, for openhand would surely kill him. when jee-bi, the spirit, told coldheart the word of pau-guk, coldheart saw then that he must go a new trail with his hate.
coldheart smoked an’ smoked many pipes; but the thoughts of openhand an’ how he was loved by the sioux made his kinnikinick bitter. still coldheart smoked; an’ at last the thought came that if he could not kill openhand, he would kill the young wolf, who was openhand’s son. when this thought folded its wings an’ perched in the breast of coldheart, he called for the evil lynx, who was coldheart’s friend, an’ since he was the wickedest of the sioux, would do what coldheart said.
the lynx came an’ sat with coldheart in his lodge; an’ the lodge was closed tight so that none might listen, an’ because it was cold. the coldheart told the lynx to go with his war-axe when the next sun was up an’ beat out the brains of the young wolf.
“an’ when he is dead,” said coldheart, “you must bring me the young wolf’s heart to eat. then i will have my revenge on openhand, his father, whom i hate; an’ whenever i meet the openhand i will laugh with the thought that i have eaten his son’s heart.”
but there was one who listened to coldheart while he gave his orders to the evil lynx, although she was no sioux. this was the widow of the great rattlesnake of the rocks who had long before been slain by yellow face, his brother medicine. the widow having hunted long an’ hard had crawled into the lodge of cold-heart to warm herself while she rested. an’ as she slept beneath a buffalo robe, the noise of coldheart talking to the evil lynx woke the widow up; an’ so she sat up under her buffalo robe an’ heard every word, for a squaw is always curious an’ would sooner hear new talk than find a string of beads.
that night as moh-kwa smoked by ish-koo-dah, the fire, an’ fed him dry sticks so he would not leave him again, the widow came an’ warmed herself by moh-kwa’s side. an’ moh-kwa asked the widow how she fared; an’ the widow while hungry said she was well, only that her heart was made heavy by the words of coldheart. then the widow told moh-kwa what coldheart had asked the evil lynx to do, an’ how for his revenge against openhand he would eat the young wolf’s heart.
moh-kwa listened to the widow with his head on one side, for he would not lose a word; an’ when she had done, moh-kwa was so pleased that he put down his pipe an’ went to a nest which the owls had built on the side of the cavern an’ took down a young owl an’ gave it to the widow to eat. an’ the widow thanked moh-kwa an’ swallowed the little owl, while the old owl flew all about the cavern telling the other owls what moh-kwa had done. the owls were angry an’ shouted at moh-kwa.
“the catfish people said you were a pawnee! but you are worse; you are a shoshone, moh-kwa; yes, you are a siwash! bird-robber, little owl-killer, you an’ your rattlesnake widow are both siwashes!”
but moh-kwa paid no heed; he did not like the owls, for they stole his meat; an’ when he would sleep, a company of the older owls would get together an’ hold a big talk that was like thunder in moh-kwa’s cavern an’ kept him awake. moh-kwa said at last that if the owls called the widow who was his guest a siwash again, he would give her two more baby owls. with that the old owls perched on their points of rocks an’ were silent, for they feared moh-kwa an’ knew he was not their friend.
when the widow had eaten her little owl, she curled up to sleep two weeks, for such was the widow’s habit when she had eaten enough. an’ as she snored pleasantly, feathers an’ owl-down were blown out through her nose, but the young owl was gone forever.
moh-kwa left the widow sleeping an’ went down the canyon in the morning to meet the evil lynx where he knew he would pass close by the bank of the yellowstone. an’ when moh-kwa saw the evil lynx creeping along with his war-axe in his hand on the trail of the young wolf’s heart, he gave a great shout: “ah! lynx, i’ve got you!” an’ then he started for the lynx with his paws spread. for moh-kwa loved the open-hand, who brought back to him ish-koo-dah, the fire, when he had gone out of moh-kwa’s cavern an’ would not return.
but moh-kwa did not reach the lynx, for up a tree swarmed the lynx out of moh-kwa’s reach.
when the lynx struck splashing into the yellowstone, all the catfish people rushed for him with the big chief of the catfish at their head. also, ah-meek, the beaver, was angry; for ahmeek was crossing the yellowstone with a bundle of bulrushes in his mouth to help build his winter house on the bank, an’ the lynx struck so near to ah-meek that the waves washed his face an’ whiskers, an’ he was startled an’ lost the bulrushes out of his mouth an’ they were washed away.
ah-meek who was angry, an’ the catfish people who were hungry, charged on the lynx; but the lynx was not far enough from the shore for them, an’ while the catfish people pinched him an’ ah-meek, the beaver, clawed him, the lynx crawled out on the bank an’ was safe.
but moh-ivwa met the lynx when he crawled out of the yellowstone looking like dah-hin-dah, the bull-frog, an’ moh-kwa picked him up with his paws to throw him back.
but a second new thought came; an’ although the catfish people screamed at him an’ ah-meek who had lost his bulrushes was black with anger, moh-kwa did not throw the lynx back into the river but stood him on his feet an’ told him what to do. an’ when moh-kwa gave him the orders, the lynx promised to obey.
moh-kwa killed a fawn; an’ the lynx took its heart in his hand an’ went with it to coldheart an’ said it was the heart of young wolf. an’ coldheart roasted it an’ ate it, thinking it was young wolf’s heart.
for a day was the coldheart glad, for he felt strong an’ warm with the thought that now he was revenged against openhand; an’ coldheart longed to tell openhand that he had eaten his son’s heart. but coldheart was too wise to make this boast; he knew that openhand whether with knife or lance or arrow would give him at once to pau-guk, an’ that would end his revenge.
still coldheart thought he would go to open-hand’s lodge an’ feed his eyes an’ ears with open-hand’s groans an’ mournings when now his son, the young wolf, was gone. but when coldheart came to the lodge of openhand, he was made sore to meet the young wolf who was starting forth to hunt. coldheart spoke with the young wolf to make sure he had been cheated; an’ then he went back to kill the lynx.
but coldheart was too late; the lynx had not waited; now he was gone with his squaws an’ his ponies an’ his blankets to become a pawnee. the lynx was tired of being a sioux.
when the widow’s sleep was out, moh-kwa sent her to hide in the lodge of coldheart to hear what next he would plan. the widow went gladly, for moh-kwa promised four more small young owls just out of the egg. the widow lay under the buffalo robe an’ heard the words of coldheart. in a week, she came back to moh-kwa an’ told him what coldheart planned.
coldheart had sent twenty ponies to the black-foot chief, dull knife, where he lived on the banks of the little bighorn. also, coldheart sent these words in the mouth of his runner:
“my son and the son of my enemy will come to your camp in one moon. you will marry the rosebud, your daughter, to my son, while the son of my enemy you will tie an’ give to your young men to shoot at with their arrows until he be dead, an’ afterward until they have had enough sport. my son will bring you a white arrow; the son of my enemy will bring you a black arrow.” moh-kwa laughed when he heard this from the widow’s lips; an’ because she had been faithful, moh-kwa gave her the four small owls just from the egg. an’ the older owls took it quietly an’ only whispered their anger; for moh-kwa said that if they screamed an’ shouted when now he must sit an’ think until his head ached, he would knock down every nest.
when his plan was ripe, coldheart put on a good face an’ went to the lodge of openhand an’ gave him a red blanket an’ said he was openhand’s friend. an’ openhand an’ all the sioux said this must be true talk because of the red blanket; for coldheart was never known to give anything away before.
openhand an’ coldheart sat down an’ smoked; for moh-kwa had never told how coldheart had sent the lynx for the young wolf’s heart. moh-kwa never told tales; moreover moh-kwa had also his own plans as well as coldheart.
when openhand an’ coldheart came to part, an’ coldheart was to go again to his own lodge, he asked that openhand send his son, young wolf, with the blackbird who would go to wed the young squaw, rosebud, where she dwelt with dull knife, her father, in their camp on the little bighorn. an’ openhand did not hesitate, but said, “yes;” an’ the young wolf himself was glad to go, like all boys who hope to see new scenes.
as young wolf an’ the blackbird next day rode away, coldheart stuck a black arrow in the cow-skin quiver of young wolf, an’ a white arrow in that of the blackbird, saying:
“give these to the dull knife that he may know you are my sons an’ come from me, an’ treat you with much love.”
many days the young men traveled to reach dull knife’s camp on the little bighorn. in the night of their last camp, moh-kwa came silently, an’ while the young men slept swapped coldheart’s arrows; an’ when they rode to the lodge of dull knife, an’ while the scowling blackfeet gathered about--for the sight of a sioux gives a blackfoot a hot heart--the black arrow was in the quiver of the blackbird an’ the white arrow in that of young wolf.
“how!” said the young men to dull knife. “how! how!” said dull knife. “an’ now, my sons, where are the arrows which are your countersigns?”
when the young men took out the arrows they saw that they had been changed; but they knew not their message an’ thought no difference would come. so they made no talk since that would lose time; an’ young wolf gave dull knife the white arrow while the blackbird gave him the black arrow.
an’ holding an arrow in each hand--one white, one black--dull knife said:
“for the twenty ponies which we have got, the blackfeet will carry forth the word of cold-heart; for the blackfeet keep their treaties, being honest men.”
an’ so it turns that the blackbird is shot full of arrows until he bristles like the quills on the back of kagh, the hedgepig. but young wolf is taken to the rosebud, an’ they are married. the young wolf would have said: “no!” for he did not understand; but dull knife showed him first a war-axe an’ next the rosebud. an’ the rosebud was more beautiful in the eye of youth than any war-axe; besides young wolf was many days march from the lodge of his father, openhand, an’ marriage is better than death. thinking all of which, the young wolf did not say “no” but said “yes,” an’ at the wedding there was a great feast, for the dull knife was a big chief an’ rich.
ma-ma, the woodpecker, stood on the top of a dead tree an’ saw the wedding; an’ when it was over, he flew straight an’ told moh-kwa so that moh-kwa might know.
when young wolf an’ the rosebud on their return were a day’s ride from the sioux, moh-kwa went to the lodge of coldheart an’ said:
“come, great plotter, an’ meet your son an’ his new squaw.”
an’ coldheart came because moh-kwa took him by his belts an’ ran with him; for moh-kwa was so big an’ strong he could run with a pony an’ its rider in his mouth.
moh-kwa told coldheart how the blackbird gave dull knife the black arrow an’ was shot with all the arrows of five quivers. coldheart groaned like the buffalo when he dies. then moh-kwa showed him where young wolf came on with the beautiful rosebud; and that he was followed by twenty pack-ponies which carried the presents of dull knife for his daughter an’ his new son.
“an’ now,” said moh-kwa, “you have seen enough; for you have seen that you have made your foe happy an’ killed your own son. also, i have cheated the catfish people twice; once with the big medicine elk an’ once with the lynx, both of whom i gave to the catfish people an’ took back. it is true, i have cheated the good catfish folk who were once my friends, an’ now they speak hard of me an’ call me a ‘pawnee,’ the whole length of the yellowstone from the missouri to the falls. however, moh kwa has something for the catfish people this time which he will not take back, an’ by to-morrow’s sun, the river will ring with moh-kwa’s praises.”
moh-kwa carried coldheart to the yellowstone, an’ he sang an’ shouted for all the catfish people to come. then moh-kwa took coldheart to a deep place in the river a long way from the bank. an’ moh-kwa held coldheart while the chief of the catfish got a strong hold, an’ his squaw--who was four times bigger than the catfish chief--got also a strong hold; an’ then what others of the catfish people were there took their holds. when every catfish was ready moh-kwa let coldheart slip from between his paws, an’ with a swish an’ a swirl, the catfish people snatched coldheart under the water an’ tore him to pieces. for many days the yellowstone was bank-full of good words for moh-kwa; an’ all the catfish people said he was a sioux an’ no cheat of a pawnee who gives only to take back.
that night in his cavern moh-kwa sat by ish-koo-dah, the fire, an’ smoked an’ told the widow the story, an’ how it all began by openhand bringing the fire back to be his friend when they had quarreled an’ the fire had gone out an’ would not return. an’ while moh-kwa told the tale to the widow, not an owl said a word or even whispered, but blinked in silence each on his perch; for the widow seemed lean an’ slim as she lay by the fire an’ listened; an’ the owls thought it would be foolish to remind moh-kwa of their presence.
“now, do you know,” said the red nosed gentleman, with his head on one side as one who would be deemed deeply the critic, “these indian stories are by no means bad.” then leaning across to the old cattleman, he asked: “does our sioux friend make them up?”
“them tales,” said the old cattleman, lighting a new cigar, “is most likely as old as the yellowstone itse’f. the squaws an’ the old bucks tell ’em to the children, an’ so they gets passed along the line. sioux sam only repeats what he’s done heard from his mother.”
“and now,” remarked the jolly doctor, addressing the sour gentleman, “what say you? how about that story of the customs concerning which you whetted our interest by giving us the name. it is strange, too, that while my interest is still as strong as ever, the name itself has clean slipped through the fingers of my memory.” at this the jolly doctor glared about the circle as though in wonder at the phenomenon of an interest which remained when the reason of it had faded away.
“i will willingly give you the story,” said the sour gentleman. “that name you search for is ‘the emperor’s cigars.’”
chapter xvi.--the emperor’s cigars.
it is not the blood which flows at the front, my friends, that is the worst of war; it is the money corruption that goes on at the rear. in old sparta, theft was not theft unless discovered in process of accomplishment, and those larcenous morals taught of lycurgus would seem, on the tails of our own civil war, to have found widest consent and adoption throughout every department of government. the public hour reeled with rottenness, and you may be very sure the new york customs went as staggeringly corrupt as the rest.
it is to my own proper shame that i should have fallen to have art or part or lot in such iniquities. yet i went into them with open eyes and hands, and a heart--hungry as a pike’s--for whatever of spoil chance or skilfully constructed opportunity might place within my reach. my sole defense, and that now sounds slight and trivial even to my partial ears, was the one i advanced the other day; my two-ply hatred of government both for injuries done my region of the south as well as the personal ruin visited on me when my ill-wishers struck down that enterprise of steamed tobacco which was making me rich. that is all i may urge in extenuation, and i concede its meager insufficiency.
as i’ve said, i obtained an appointment as an inspector of customs, and afterward worked side by side, and i might add hand and glove, with our old friends, quin and lorns of the story of the smuggled silks. that fearsome honest chief inspector who so put my heart to a trot had been dismissed--for some ill-timed integrity, i suppose--sharply in the wake of that day he frightened me; and when i took up life’s burdens as an officer of the customs, my companions, together with myself, were all black sheep together. was there by any chance an honest man among us, he did not mention it, surely; nor did he lapse into act or deed that might have been evidence to prove him pure. yes, forsooth! ignorance could be overlooked, drunkenness condoned, indolence reproved; but for that officer of our customs who in those days was found honest, there shone no ray of hope. he was seized on and cast into outer unofficial darkness, there to exercise his dangerous probity in private life. there was no room for such among us; no peace nor safety for the rest while he remained. wherefore, we of a proper blackness, were like so many descendants of diogenes, forever searching among ourselves to find an honest man; but with fell purpose when discovered, of his destruction. we maintained a strictest quarantine against any infection of truth, and i positively believe, with such success, that it was excluded from our midst. that honest chief inspector was dismissed, i say; lorns told me of it before i’d been actively in place an hour, and the news gave me deepest satisfaction.
that gentleman who was official head of the coterie of revenue hunters to which i was assigned was peculiarly the man unusual. his true name, if i ever heard it, i’ve forgot; among us of the customs, he was known as betelnut jack. lorns took me into his presence and made us known to one another early in my revenue career. i had been told stories of this man by both lorns and quin. they deeply reverenced him for his virtues of courage and cunning, and the praises of betelnut jack were constant in their mouths.
betelnut jack was at his home in the bowery. jack, in years gone by, had been a hardy member of one of those volunteer fire companies which in that hour notably augmented the perils of an urban life. jack was a doughty fighter, and with a speaking trump in one hand and a spanner-wrench in the other, had done deeds of daring whereof one might still hear the echo. and he became for these strong-hand reasons a tower of strength in politics; and obtained that eminence in the customs which was his when first we met.
betelnut jack received lorns and myself in his dingy small coop of a parlor. he was unmarried--a popular theory in accounting for this being that he’d been crossed in love in his youth. besides the parlor, jack’s establishment contained only one room, a bedroom it was, a shadow larger than the bed.
betelnut jack himself was wiry and dark, and with a face which, while showing marks of former wars, shone the seat of kindly good-humor.
there had been an actor, chanfrau, who played “mose, the fireman.” betelnut jack resembled in dress his bowery brother of the stage. his soiled silk hat stood on a dresser. he wore a long skirted coat, a red shirt, a belt which upheld--in a manner so absent-minded that one feared for the consequences--his trousers; these latter garments in their terminations were tucked inside the gaudy tops of calfskin boots; small and wrinkleless these, and fitting like a glove, with the yellow seams of the soles each day carefully re-yellowed to the end that they be admired of men. betelnut jack’s dark hair, a shade of gray streaking it in places, was crisp and wavy; and a long curl, carefully twisted and oiled, was brought down as low as the angle of his jaw just forward of each ear.
“be honest, young man!” said betelnut jack, at the close of a lecture concerning my duties; “be honest! but if you must take wrong money, take enough each time to pay for the loss of your job. do you see this?” and jack’s hand fell on a large morocco-bound copy of “josephus” which lay on his table. “well, lorns will tell you what stories i look for in that.”
and lorns, as we came away, told me. once a week it was the practice of each inspector to split off twenty per cent, of his pillage. he would, thus organized, pay a visit to his chief, the worthy betel-nut jack. as they gossiped, jack’s ever-ready hospitality would cause him to retire for a moment to the bedroom in search of a demijohn of personal whisky. while alone in the parlor, the visiting inspector would place his contribution between the leaves of “josephus,” and thereby the humiliating, if not dangerous, passage of money from hand to hand was missed.
there existed but one further trait of caretaking forethought belonging with the worthy betelnut jack. it would have come better had others of that crooked clique of customs copied betelnut jack in this last cautious characteristic. justice is a tortoise, while rascality’s a hare; yet justice though shod with lead wins ever the race at last. betelnut jack knew this; and while getting darkly rich with the others, he was always ready for the fall. while his comrades drove fast horses, or budded brown-stone fronts, or affected extravagant opera and supper afterward with those painted lilies, in whose society they delighted, betelnut jack clung to his old rude bowery nest of sticks and straws and mud, and lived on without a change his bowery life. he suffered no improvements whether of habit or of habitat, and provoked no question-asking by any gilded new prosperities of life.
as fast as betelnut jack got money, he bought united states bonds. with each new thousand, he got a new bond, and tucked it safely away among its fellows. these pledges of government he kept packed in a small hand-bag; this stood at his bed’s head, ready for instant flight with him. when the downfall did occur, as following sundry years of loot and customs pillage was the desperate case, betelnut jack with the earliest whisper of peril, stepped into his raiment and his calfskin boots, took up his satchel of bonds, and with over six hundred thousand dollars of those securities--enough to cushion and make pleasantly sure the balance of his days--saw the last of the bowery, and was out of the country and into a corner of safety as fast as ship might swim.
but now you grow impatient; you would hear in more of detail concerning what went forward behind the curtains of customs in those later ’60’s. for myself, i may tell of no great personal exploits. i did not remain long in revenue service; fear, rather than honesty, forced me to resign; and throughout that brief period of my office holding, youth and a lack of talent for practical iniquity prevented my main employment in those swart transactions which from time to time took place. i was liked, i was trusted; i knew what went forward and in the end i had my share of the ill profits; but the plans and, usually, the work came from others of a more subtile and experienced venality.
in this affair of the emperor’s cigars, the story was this. i call them the emperor’s cigars because they were of a sort and quality made particularly for the then imperial ruler of the french. they sold at retail for one dollar each, were worth, wholesale, seventy dollars a hundred, and our aggregate harvest of this one operation was, as i now remember, full sixty thousand dollars.
my first knowledge was when lorns told me one evening of the seizure--by whom of our circle, and on what ship, i’ve now forgotten--of one hundred thousand cigars. they were in proper boxes, concealed i never knew how, and captured in the very act of being smuggled and just as they came onto our wharf. in designating the seizure, and for reasons which i’ve given before, they were at once dubbed and ever afterwards known among us as the emperor’s cigars.
these one hundred thousand cigars were taken to the customs depot of confiscated goods. the owners, as was our rule, were frightened with black pictures of coming prison, and then liberated, never to be seen of us again. they were glad enough to win freedom without looking once behind to see what became of their captured property.
it was one week later when a member of our ring, from poorest tobacco and by twenty different makers, caused one hundred thousand cigars, duplicates in size and appearance of those emperor’s cigars, to be manufactured. these cost two and one-half cents each; a conscious difference, truly! between that and those seventy cents, the wholesale price of our spoil. well, the emperor’s cigars were removed from their boxes and their aristocratic places filled by the worthless imitations we had provided. then the boxes were again securely closed; and to look at them no one would suspect the important changes which had taken place within.
the emperor’s cigars once out of their two thousand boxes were carefully repacked in certain zinc-lined barrels, and reshipped as “notions” to havana to one of our folk who went ahead of the consignment to receive them. in due course, and in two thousand proper new boxes they again appeared in the port of new york; this time they paid their honest duty. also, they had a proper consignment, came to no interrupting griefs; and being quickly disposed of, wrought out for us that sixty thousand dollar betterment of which i’ve spoken.
as corollary of this particular informality of the emperor’s cigars, there occurred an incident which while grievous to the victims, made no little fun for us; its relation here may entertain you, and because of its natural connection with the main story, will come properly enough. at set intervals, the government held an auction of all confiscated goods. at these markets to which the public was invited to appear and bid, the government asserted nothing, guaranteed nothing. in disposing of such gear as these cigars, no box was opened; no goods displayed. one saw nothing but the cover, heard nothing but the surmise of an auctioneer, and thereupon, if impulse urged, bid what he pleased for a pig in a poke.
thus it came to pass that on the occasion when the emperor’s cigars were held aloft for bids, the garrulous lecturer employed in selling the collected plunder of three confiscation months, took up one of the two thousand boxes as a sample, and said:
“i offer for sale a lot of two thousand packages, of which the one i hold in my hand is a specimen. each package is supposed to contain fifty cigars. what am i bid for the lot? what offer do i hear?”
at last those celebrated marketeers, grove and filtord, received the lot--one hundred thousand of the emperor’s cigars--for forty-five thousand dollars. what thoughts may have come to them later, when they searched their bargain for its merits, i cannot say. not one word of inquiry, condemnation or complaint came from grove and filtord. whatever their discoveries, or whatever their deductions, they maintained a profound taciturnity. probably they did not care to court the laughter of fellow dealers by disclosures of the trap into which they had so blindly bid their way. surely, they must in its last chapters have been aware of the swindle! to have believed in the genuineness of the goods would have dissipated what remnant of good repute might still have clung to that last of the napoleons who was their inventor, and justified the coming destruction of his throne and the birth of the republic which arose from its ruins. as i say, however, not one syllable of complaint came floating back from grove and filtord. they took their loss, and were dumb.
my own pocket was joyfully gorged with much fat advantage of this iniquity--for inside we were like whalers, each having a prearranged per cent, of what oil was made, no one working for himself alone--long prior to that bidding which so smote on grove and filtord. the ring had no money interest in the confiscation sales; those proceeds went all to government. we divided the profits of our own disposal of the right true emperor’s cigars on the occasion of their second appearance in port; and that business was ended and over and division done sundry weeks prior to the grove and filtord disaster.
that is the story of the emperor’s cigars; there came still one little incident, however, which was doubtless the seed of those apprehensions which soon drove me to quit the customs. i had carried his double tithes to betelnut jack. this was no more the work of policy than right. the substitution of the bogus wares, the reshipment to cuba of the emperor’s cigars, even the zinc-lined barrels, the repackage and second appearance and sale of our prizes, were one and all by direction of betelnut jack. he planned the campaign in each least particular. to him was the credit; and to him came the lion’s share, as, in good sooth! it should if there be a shadow of that honor among rogues whereof the proverb tells.
on the evening when i sought betelnut jack, we sat and chatted briefly of work at the wharfs. not one word, mind you! escaped from either that might intimate aught of customs immorality. that would have been a gross breach of the etiquette understood by our flock of customs cormorants. no; betelnut jack and i confined discussion to transactions absolutely white; no other was so much as hinted at.
then came betelnut jack’s proposal of his special willow run; he retired in quest of the demijohn; this was my cue to enrich “josephus,” ready on the dwarf center table to receive the goods. my present to betelnut jack was five one-hundred-dol-lar bills.
somewhat in haste, i took these from my pocket and opened “josephus” to lay them between the pages. any place would do; betelnut jack would know how to discover the rich bookmark. as i parted the book, my eye was arrested by a sentence. as i’ve asserted heretofore, i’m not superstitious; yet that casual sentence seemed alive and to spring upon me from out “josephus” as a threat:
“and these men being thieves were destroyed by the king’s laws; and their people rended their garments, put on sackcloth, and throwing ashes on their heads went about the streets, crying out.”
that is what it said; and somehow it made my heart beat quick and little like a linnet’s heart. i put in my contribution and closed the book. but the words clung to me like ivy; i couldn’t free myself. in the end, they haunted me to my resignation; and while i remained long enough to share in the affair of the german girl’s diamonds, and in that of the filibusterer, when the hand of discovery fell upon lorns and quin, and others of my one-time comrades, i was far away, facing innocent, if sometimes dangerous, problems on our western plains.
“with a profound respect for you,” observed the jolly doctor to the sour gentleman when that raconteur had ended, “and disavowing a least imputation personal to yourself, i must still say that i am amazed by the corruption which your tale discloses of things beyond our customs doors. to be sure, you speak of years ago; and yet you leave one to wonder if the present be wholly free from taint.”
“it will be remarkable,” returned the sour gentleman, “when any arm of government is exerted with entire integrity and no purpose save public good, and every thought of private gain eliminated. the world never has been so virtuous, nor is it like to become so in your time or mine. government and those offices which, like the works of a watch, are made to constitute it, are the production of politics, and politics, mind you, is nothing save the collected and harmonised selfishness of men. the fruit is seldom better than the tree, and when a source is foul the stream will wear a stain.” here the sour gentleman sighed as though over the baseness of the human race.
“while there’s to be no doubt,” broke in the red nosed gentleman, “concerning the corruption existing in politics and the offices and office holders bred therefrom, i am free to say that i’ve encountered as much blackness, and for myself i have been swindled oftener among merchants plying their reputable commerce of private scales and counters as in the administration of public affairs.”
the red nosed gentleman here looked about with a challenging eye as one who would note if his observation is to meet with contradiction. finding none, he relapsed into silence and burgundy.
“speakin’ of politics,” said the old cattleman, who had listened to the others as though he found their discourse instructive, “it’s the one thing i’ve seen mighty little of. the only occasion on which i finds myse’f immersed in politics is doorin’ the brief sojourn i makes in missouri, an’ when in common with all right-thinkin’ gents, i whirls in for old stewart.”
“would you mind,” remarked the jolly doctor in a manner so amiable it left one no power to resist, “would you mind giving us a glimpse of that memorable campaign in which you bore doubtless no inconsiderable part? we should have time for it, before we retire.”
chapter xvii.--the great stewart campaign.
as i states, i saveys nothin’ personal of politics. thar’s mighty little politics gets brooited about wolfville, an’ i ain’t none shore but it’s as well. the camp’s most likely a heap peacefuller as a com-moonity. shore, colonel sterett discusses politics in that coyote paper he conducts; but none of it’s nearer than washin’ton, an’ it all seems so plumb dreamy an’ far away that while it’s interestin’, it can’t be regyarded as replete of the harrowin’ excitement that sedooces a public from its nacheral rest an’ causes it to set up nights an’ howl.
rummagin’ my mem’ry, i never does hear any politics talked local but once, an’ that’s by dan boggs. it’s when the colonel asks dan to what party he adheres in principle--for thar ain’t no real shore-enough party lurkin’ about in arizona much, it bein’ a territory that a-way an’ mighty busy over enterprises more calc’lated to pay--an’ dan retorts that he’s hooked up with no outfit none as yet, but stands ready as far as his sentiments is involved to go buttin’ into the first organization that’ll cheapen nose-paint, ’liminate splits as a resk in faro-bank, an’ raise the price of beef. further than them tenets, dan allows he ain’t got no principles.
man an’ boy i never witnesses any surplus of politics an’ party strife. in tennessee when i’m a child every decent gent has been brought up a andy jackson man, an’ so continyoos long after that heroic captain is petered. as you-all can imagine, politics onder sech conditions goes all one way like the currents of the cumberland. thar’s no bicker, no strife, simply a vast andy jackson yooniformity.
the few years i puts in about arkansaw ain’t much different. leastwise we-all don’t have issues; an’ what contests does arise is gen’rally personal an’ of the kind where two gents enjoys a j’int debate with their bowies or shows each other how wrong they be with a gun. an’ while politics of the variety i deescribes is thrillin’, your caution rather than your intellects gets appealed to, while feuds is more apt to be their frootes than any draw-in’ of reg’lar party lines. wherefore i may say it’s only doorin’ the one year i abides in missouri when i experiences troo politics played with issues, candidates, mass-meetin’s an’ barbecues.
for myse’f, my part is not spectacyoolar, bein’ i’m new an’ raw an’ young; but i looks on with relish, an’ while i don’t cut no hercoolean figger in the riot, i shore saveys as much about what’s goin’ on as the best posted gent between the ozarks an’ the iowa line.
what you-all might consider as the better element is painted up to beat old stewart who’s out sloshin’ about demandin’ re-election to jeff city for a second term. the better element says old stewart drinks. an’ this accoosation is doubtless troo a whole lot, for i’m witness myse’f to the following colloquy which takes place between old stewart an’ a jack-laig doctor he crosses up with in st. joe. old stewart’s jest come forth from the tavern, an’ bein’ on a joobilee the evenin’ before, is lookin’ an’ mighty likely feelin’ some seedy.
“doc,” says old stewart, openin’ his mouth as wide as a young raven, an’ then shettin’ it ag’in so’s to continyoo his remarks, “doc, i wish you’d peer into this funnel of mine.”
then he opens his mouth ag’in in the same egree-gious way, while the scientist addressed scouts about tharin with his eyes, plenty owley. at last the doc shows symptoms of bein’ ready to report.
“which i don’t note nothin’ onusual, gov’nor, about that mouth,” says the doc, “except it’s a heap voloominous.”
“don’t you discern no signs or signal smokes of any foreign bodies?” says old stewart, a bit pettish, same as if he can’t onderstand sech blindness.
“none whatever!” observes the doc.
“it’s shore strange,” retorts old stewart, still in his complainin’ tones; “thar’s two hundred niggers, a brick house an’ a thousand acres of bottom land gone down that throat, an’ i sort o’ reckons some traces of ’em would show.”
that’s the trouble with old stewart from the immacyoolate standpint of the better classes; they says he overdrinks. but while it’s convincin’ to sooperior folks an’ ones who’s goin’ to church an’ makin’ a speshulty of it, it don’t sep’rate old stewart from the warm affections of the rooder masses--the catfish an’ quinine aristocracy that dwells along the missouri; they’re out for him to the last sport.
“suppose the old gov’nor does drink,” says one, “what difference does that make? now, if he’s goin’ to try sootes in co’t, or assoome the pressure as a preacher, thar’d be something in the bluff. but it don’t cut no figger whether a gov’nor is sober or no. all he has to do is pardon convicts an’ make notaries public, an’ no gent can absorb licker s’fficient to incapac’tate him for sech trivial dooties.”
one of the argyments they uses ag’in old stewart is about a hawg-thief he pardons. old stewart is headin’ up for the state house one mornin’, when he caroms on a passel of felons in striped clothes who’s pesterin’ about the grounds, tittivatin’ up the scenery. old stewart pauses in front of one of ’em.
“what be you-all in the pen’tentiary for?” says old stewart, an’ he’s profoundly solemn.
tharupon the felon trails out on a yarn about how he’s a innocent an’ oppressed person. he’s that honest an’ upright--hear him relate the tale--that you’d feel like apol’gizin’. old stewart listens to this victim of intrigues an’ outrages ontil he’s through; then he goes romancin’ along to the next. thar’s five wronged gents in that striped outfit, five who’s as free from moral taint or stain of crime as dave tutt’s infant son, enright peets tutt.
but the sixth is different. he admits he’s a miscreant an’ has done stole a hawg.
“however did you steal it, you scoundrel?” demands old stewart.
“i’m outer meat,” says the crim’nal, “an’ a band of pigs comes pi rootin’ about, an’ i nacherally takes my rifle an’ downs one.”
“was it a valyooable hawg?”
“you-all can gamble it ain’t no runt,” retorts the crim’nal. “i shore ain’t pickin’ out the worst, an’ i’m as good a jedge of hawgs as ever eats corn pone an’ cracklin’.”
at this old stewart falls into a foamin’ rage an’ turns on the two gyards who’s soopervisin’ the captives.
“whatever do you-all mean,” he roars, “bringin’ this common an’ confessed hawg-thief out yere with these five honest men? don’t you know he’ll corrupt ’em?”
tharupon old stewart reepairs to his rooms in the state house an’ pardons the hawg convict with the utmost fury.
“an’ now, pull your freight,” says old stewart, to the crim’nal. “if you’re in jeff city twenty-four hours from now i’ll have you shot at sunrise. the idee of compellin’ five spotless gents to con-tinyoo in daily companionship with a low hawg-thief! i pardons you, not because you merits mercy, but to preserve the morals of our prison.”
the better element concloods they’ll take advantage of old stewart’s willin’ness for rum an’ make a example of him before the multitoode. they decides they’ll construct the example at a monstrous meetin’ that’s schedyooled for hannibal, where old stewart an’ his opponent--who stands for the better element mighty excellent, seein’ he’s worth about a million dollars with a home-camp in st. looey, an’ never a idee above dollars an’ cents--is programmed for one of these yere j’int debates, frequent in the politics of that era. the conspiracy is the more necessary as old stewart, mental, is so much swifter than the better element’s candidate, that he goes by him like a antelope. only two days prior at the town of fulton, old stewart comes after the better element’s candidate an’ gets enough of his hide, oratorical, to make a saddle-cover. the better element, alarmed for their gent, resolves on measures in hannibal that’s calc’lated to redooce old stewart to a shorething. they don’t aim to allow him to wallop their gent at the hannibal meetin’ like he does in old callaway. with that, they confides to a trio of hannibal’s sturdiest sots--all of ’em acquaintances an’ pards of old stewart--the sacred task of gettin’ that statesman too drunk to orate.
this yere hannibal barbecue, whereat old stewart’s goin’ to hold a open-air discussion with his aristocratic opponent, is set down for one in the afternoon. the three who’s to throw old stewart with copious libations of strong drink, hunts that earnest person out as early as sun-up at the tavern. they invites him into the bar-room an’ bids the bar-keep set forth his nourishment.
gents, it works like a charm! all the mornin’, old stewart swings an’ rattles with the plotters an’ goes drink for drink with ’em, holdin’ nothin’ back.
for all that the plot falls down. when it’s come the hour for old stewart to resort to the barbecue an’ assoome his share in the exercises, two of the hannibal delegation is spread out cold an’ he’pless in a r’ar room, while old stewart is he’pin’ the third--a gent of whom he’s partic’lar fond--upstairs to old stewart’s room, where he lays him safe an’ serene on the blankets. then old stewart takes another drink by himse’f, an’ j’ins his brave adherents at the picnic grounds. old stewart is never more loocid, an’ ag’in he peels the pelt from the better element’s candidate, an’ does it with graceful ease.
old stewart, however, is regyarded as in peril of defeat. he’s mighty weak in the big towns where the better element is entrenched, an’ churches grow as thick as blackberries. even throughout the rooral regions, wherever a meetin’ house pokes up its spire, it’s onderstood that old stewart’s in a heap of danger.
it ain’t that old stewart is sech a apostle of nose-paint neither; it ain’t whiskey that’s goin’ to kill him off at the ballot box. it’s the fact that the better element’s candidate--besides bein’ rich, which is allers a mark of virchoo to a troo believer--is a church member, an’ belongs to a congregation where he passes the plate, an’ stands high up in the papers. this makes the better element’s gent a heap pop’lar with church folk, while pore old stewart, who’s a hopeless sinner, don’t stand no show.
this grows so manifest that even old stewart’s most locoed supporters concedes that he’s gone; an’ money is offered at three to one that the better element’s entry will go over old stewart like a joone rise over a tow-head. old stewart hears these yere misgivin’s an’ bids his folks be of good cheer.
“i’ll fix that,” says old stewart. “by election day, my learned opponent will be in sech disrepoote with every church in missouri he won’t be able to get dost enough to one of ’em to give it a ripe peach.” old stewart onpouches a roll which musters fifteen hundred dollars. “that’s mighty little; but it’ll do the trick.”
old stewart’s folks is mystified; they can’t make out how he’s goin’ to round up the congregations with so slim a workin’ cap’tal. but they has faith in their chief; an’ his word goes for all they’ve got. when he lets on he’ll have the churches arrayed ag’inst the foe, his warriors takes heart of grace an’ jumps into the collar an’ pulls like lions refreshed.
it’s the fourth sunday before election when old stewart, by speshul an’ trusted friends presents five hundred dollars each to a church in st. looey, an’ another in st. joe, an’ still another in hannibal; said gifts bein’ in the name an’ with the compliments of his opponent an’ that gent’s best wishes for the christian cause.
thar’s not a doubt raised; each church believes it-se’f favored five hundred dollars’ worth from the kindly hand of the millionaire candidate, an’ the three pastors sits pleasantly down an’ writes that amazed sport a letter of thanks for his moonificence. he don’t onderstand it none; but he decides it’s wise to accept this accidental pop’larity, an’ he waxes guileful an’ writes back an’ says that while he don’t clearly onderstand, an’ no thanks is his doo, he’s tickled to hear he’s well bethought of by the good christians of st. looey, st. joe an’ hannibal, as expressed in them missives. the better element’s candidate congratulates himse’f on his good luck, stands pat, an’ accepts his onexpected wreaths. that’s jest what old stewart, who is as cunnin’ as a fox, is aimin’ at.
in two days the renown of them five-hundred-dollar gifts goes over the state like a cat over a back roof. in four days every church in the state hears of these largesses. an’ bein’ plumb alert financial, as churches ever is, each sacred outfit writes on to the better element’s candidate an’ desires five hundred dollars of that onfortunate publicist. he gets sixty thousand letters in one week an’ each calls for five hundred.
gents, thar’s no more to be said; the better element’s candidate is up ag’inst it. he can’t yield to the fiscal demands, an’ it’s too late to deny the gifts. whereupon the other churches resents the favoritism he’s displayed about the three in st. looey, st. joe an’ hannibal. they regyards him as a hoss-thief for not rememberin’ them while his weaselskin is in his hand, an’ on election day they comes down on him like a pan of milk from a top shelf! you hear me, they shorely blots that onhap-py candidate off the face of the earth, an’ old stewart is gov’nor ag’in.
on the fourth evening of our companionship about the tavern fire, it was the red nosed gentleman who took the lead with a story.
“you spoke,” said the red nosed gentleman, addressing the jolly doctor, “of having been told by a friend a story you gave us. not long ago i was in the audience while an old actor recounted how he once went to the aid of an individual named connelly. it was not a bad story, i thought; and if you like, i’ll tell it to-night. the gray thespian called his adventure the rescue of connelly, and these were his words as he related it. we were about a table in browne’s chop house when he told it.”
chapter xviii.--the rescue of connelly.
equipped as we are for the conquest of comfort with fresh pipes, full mugs, and the flavor of a best of suppers still extant within our mouths, it may be an impertinence for one to moralize. and yet, as i go forward to this incident, i will premise that, in every least exigency of life, ill begets ill, while good springs from good and follows the doer with a profit. such has been my belief; such, indeed, has been my unbroken experience; and the misfortunes of connelly, and my relief of them, small matters in themselves, are in proof of what i say.
at sixty i look back with envy on that decade which followed my issuing forth from trinity college, when, hopeless, careless, purposeless beyond the moment, i wandered the face of the earth and fed or starved at the hands of chance-born opportunity. i was up or down or rich or poor, and, with an existence which ran from wine to ditch water and back again to wine, was happy. i recall how in those days of checkered fortune, wherein there came a proportion of one hour of shadow to one moment of sun, i was wont to think on riches and their possession. i would say to myself: “and should it so befall that i make my millions, i’ll have none about me but broken folk: i’ll refuse to so much as permit the acquaintance of a rich man.” i’ve been ever deeply controlled by the sentiment therein expressed. sure it is, i’ve been incapable of the example of the levite, and could never keep to the other side of the way when distress appealed.
my youth was wild, and staid folk called it “vicious.” i squandered my fortune; melted it, as august melteth ice, while still at trinity. it was my misfortune to reach my majority before i reached my graduation, and those two college years which ensued after i might legally write myself “man” and the wild days that filled them up, brought me to face the world with no more shillings than might take me to australia. however, they were gay though graceless times--those college years; and dublin, from smock alley to sackville street, may still remember them.
but for the main, i drifted to the theaters and lived by the drama. doubtless i was a wretched actor--albeit i felt myself a kemble--but the stage was so far good to me it finally brought me--as an underling of much inconsequence--to the fair city of new york. i did but little for the drama, but it did much for me; it led me to america. and now that i’ve come to new york in this story, i’ve come to connelly.
as strange to the land and its courtesies as i was to connelly, i hesitated for a moment to speak. i was loth to be looked upon as one who, from a motive of curiosity, would insult another in bad luck. but i took courage from my virtue and at last made bold to accost him:
“why do you stand shivering here?” i said. “why don’t you go home?”
“it’s a boarding-house,” said connelly. “i owe the old lady thirty dollars and if i go back she’ll hold me prisoner for it.”
then he told me his name, and that the trouble with him came from too much rum. connelly had a dublin accent and it won on me; moreover, i also had had troubles traceable to rum.
“come home,” i said; “you can’t stand here all night. come home; i’ll go with you and have a talk with the old lady myself. perhaps i’ll find a way to soften her or make her see reason.”
“she’s incapable of seeing reason,” said connelly; “incapable of seeing anything save money. she understands nothing but gold. she’ll hold me captive a week; then if i don’t pay, she’ll have me arrested. you don’t know the ‘old lady:’ she’s a demon unless she’s paid.”
however, i led connelly over to sixth avenue and restored his optimism with strong drink. then i bought a quart of whiskey; thus sustained, connelly summoned courage and together we sought his quarters. in his little room we sat all night, discussing the whiskey and dublin and connelly’s hard fate.
with the morning i was presented to the “old lady,”--an honor to make one quake. when i reviewed her acrid features, i knew that connelly was right. nothing could move that stony heart but money. i put off, therefore, those gallantries and blandishments i might otherwise have introduced, and came at once to the question.
“how much does connelly owe?”
there was a baleful gleam, too, in the jadestone eye. clearly, connelly had read the signs aright. he might regard himself as a prisoner until the “old lady” was paid.
that iron landlady went away to her duties and i counted my fortunes. they assembled but twenty-four dollars--a slim force and not one wherewith to storm the citadel of connelly’s troubles. how should i augment my capital? i knew of but one quick method and that flowed with risks--it was the races.
i turned naturally to the horses, for it was those continuous efforts which i put forth to name winners that had so dissipated my patrimony. about the time i might have selected a victor now and then, my wealth was departed away. it is always thus. sinister yet satirical paradox! the best judges of racing have ever the least money!
there was no new way open to me, however, in this instance of connelly. i must pay his debt that day if i would redeem him from this bastile of a boarding-house, and the races were my single chance. i explained to connelly; obtained him the consolation of a second quart wherewith to cure the sharper cares of his bondage, and started for the race-course. i knew nothing of american horses and less of american tracks, but i held not back for that. in the transaction of a work of virtue i would trust to lucky stars.
as i approached the race-course gates, my eyes were pleased with the vision of that excellent pugilist, joe coburn. i had known this unworthy in melbourne; he had graced the ringside on those bustling occasions when i pulled shirt over head and held up my hands for the stakes and the honor of old ireland. grown too fat for fisticuffs, coburn struggled with the races for his daily bread. as he was very wise of horses, and likewise very crooked, i bethought me that coburn’s advice might do me good. if there were a trap set, coburn should know; and he might aid a former fellow-gladiator to have advantage thereof and show the road to riches.
are races ever crooked? man! i whiles wonder at the age’s ignorance! crooked? indubitably crooked. there was never rascal like your rascal of sport; there’s that in the word to disintegrate integrity. i make no doubt it was thus in every time and clime and that even the olympian games themselves were honeycombed with fraud, and the sacred altis wherein they were celebrated a mere hotbed of robbery. however, to regather with the doubtful though sapient coburn.
“who’s to win the first race?” i asked.
“play blue bells!” and coburn looked at me hard and as one who held mysterious knowledge.
blue bells!--i put a cautious five-dollar piece on blue bells. i saw her at the start. vilest of beasts, she never finished--never met my eye again. i asked someone what had become of her. he said that, taking advantage of sundry missing boards over on the back-stretch, blue bells had bolted and gone out through the fence. this may have been fact or it may have been sarcasmal fiction; the truth important is, i lost my wager.
still true to a first impression--though i confess to confidence a trifle shaken--i again sought coburn.
“that was a great tip you gave me!” i said. “that suggestion of blue bells was a marvel! what do you pick for the next?”
“get tambourine!” retorted coburn. “it’s a sure thing.”
another five i placed on tambourine; not without misgivings. but what might i do better? my judgment was worthless where i did not know one horse from another. i might as well take coburn’s advice; the more since he went often wrong and might name a winner by mistake. five, therefore, on tambourine; and when he started my hopes and connelly--whose consoling quart must be a pint by now--went with him.
at the worst i may so far compliment tambourine as to say that i saw him again. he finished far in the rear; but at least he had the honesty to go around the course. yet it was five dollars lost. when tambourine went back to his stable, my capital was reduced by half, and connelly and liberty as far apart as when we started.
following the disaster of tambourine i sought no more the coburn. clearly it was not that philosopher’s afternoon for naming winners. or if it were, he was keeping their names a secret.
thus ruminating, i sat reading the race card, when of a blinking sudden my eye was caught by the words “bill breen.” the title seemed a suggestion. bill breen had been my roommate--my best friend in the days of old trinity. i pondered the coincidence.
“if this bill breen,” i reflected, “is half as fast as my bill breen, he’s fit to carry cæsar and his fortunes.”
the more i considered, the more i was impressed. it was like sinking in a quicksand. in the end i was caught. i waxed reckless and placed ten dollars--fairly my residue of riches--on bill breen in one of those old-fashioned french mutual pools common of that hour; having done so, i crept away to a lonesome seat in the grandstand and trembled. it was now or never, and bill breen would race freighted with the fate of connelly.
about two seats to my right, and with no one between, sat a round, bloated body of a man. he looked so much like a pig that, had he been put in a sty, you would have had nothing save the fact that he wore a hat to distinguish him from the other inmates. and yet i could tell by the mien of him, and his airs of lofty isolation and superiority, that he knew all about a horse--knew so much more than common folk that he despised them and withdrew from their society. it was like tempting the skies to speak to him, so wrapped was he in the dignity of his vast knowledge, but my quaking solicitude over bill breen and the awful stakes he ran for in poor connelly’s evil case, emboldened me. with a look, deprecatory at once and apologetic, i turned to this oracle:
“do you know a horse named bill breen?” i asked.
“i do,” he replied coldly. then ungrammatically: “that’s him walking down the track to the scales for the ‘jock’ to weigh in,” and he pointed to a greyhound-shaped chestnut.
“can he race?” i said, with a gingerly air of merest curiosity.
“he can race, but he won’t,” and the swinish man twined the huge gold chain about his right fore-hoof. “i lost fifty dollars on him choosday. the horse can race, but he won’t; he’s crazy.”
“he looks well,” i observed timidly.
“sure! he looks well,” assented the swinish one; “but never mind his looks; he won’t win.”
then came the start and the horses got away on the first trial. they went off in a bunch, and it gave me some color of satisfaction to note bill breen well to the front.
“he has a good start,” i ventured.
“hang the start!” derided the swinish one.
“he won’t win, i tell you; he’ll go and jump over the fence and never come back.”
as the horses went from the quarter to the half mile post, bill breen, running easily, was strongly in the lead and increasing. my blood began to tingle.
“he’s ahead at the half mile.”
“and what of it?” retorted the swinish one, disgustedly. “now keep your eye on him. in ten seconds he’ll fly up in the air and stay there. he won’t win; the horse is crazy.”
as the field swung into the homestretch and each jockey picked his route for the run to the wire, bill breen was going like a bird, twenty yards to the good if a foot. the swinish one placed the heavy member that had been caressing the watch-chain on my shoulder. he did not wait for any comment from me.
“sit still,” he howled; “sit still. he won’t win. if he can’t lose any other way, he’ll stop back beyant on the stretch and bite the boy off his back. that’s what he’ll do; he’ll bite the jockey off his back.”
connelly was saved.
as the horses were being dismissed, and “bill breen” was hung from the judges’ stand as “first,” the swinish one contemplated me gravely and in silence.
“have you a ticket on him?”
“i have,” i replied.
“then you’ll win a million dollars.” this with a toss as he arose to go. “you’ll win a million dollars. you’re the only fool who has.”
it’s like the stories you read. the swinish one was so nearly correct in his last remark that i found but two tickets besides my own on bill breen. it has the ring of fable, but i was richer by eleven hundred and thirty-two dollars when that race was over. blue bells and tambourine were forgotten; bill breen had redeemed the day! it was pleasant when i had cashed my ticket to observe me go about recovering the lost connelly.
“now, there,” cried the jolly doctor, “there is a story which tells of a joy your rich man never knows--the joy of being rescued from a money difficulty.”
“and do you think a rich man is for that unlucky?” asked the sour gentleman.
“verily, do i,” returned the jolly doctor, earnestly. “i can conceive of nothing more dreary than endless riches--the wealth that is by the cradle--that from birth to death is as easy to one’s hand as water. how should he know the sweet who has not known the bitter? man! the thorn is ever the charm of the rose.”
it was discovered in the chat which followed the red nosed gentleman’s tale that sioux sam might properly be regarded as the one who should next take up the burden of the company’s entertainment. it stood a gratifying characteristic of our comrade from the yellowstone that he was not once found to dispute the common wish. he never proffered a story; but he promptly told one when asked to do so. he was taciturn, but he was no less ready for that, and the moment his name was called he proceeded with the fable of “moh-kwa and the three gifts.”
chapter xix.--moh-kwa and the three gifts.
this is in the long time ago when the sun is younger an’ not so big an’ hot as now, an’ kwa-sind, the strong man, is a chief of the upper yellowstone sioux. it is on a day in the moon-of-the-first-frost an’ moh-kwa, the wise bear, is gathering black-berries an’ filling his mouth. as moh-kwa pulls the bush towards him, he pierces his paw with a great thorn so that it makes him howl an’ shout, for much is his rage an’ pain. moh-kwa cannot get the great thorn out; because moh-kwa’s claws while sharp an’ strong are not fingers to pull out a thorn; an’ the more moh-kwa bites his paw to get at the thorn, the further he pushes it in. at last moh-kwa sits growling an’ looking at the thorn an’ wondering what he is to do.
while moh-kwa is wondering an’ growling, there comes walking shaw-shaw, the swallow, who is a young man of the sioux. the swallow has a good heart; but his spirit is light an’ his nature as easily blown about on each new wind as a dead leaf. so the sioux have no respect for the swallow but laugh when he comes among them, an’ some even call him shau-goh-dah-wah, the coward, for they do not look close, an’ mistake lightness for fear.
when the swallow came near, moh-kwa, still growling, held forth his paw an’ showed the swallow how the thorn was buried in the big pad so that he could not bite it out an’ only made it go deeper. an’ with that the swallow, who had a good heart, took moh-kwa’s big paw between his knees an’ pulled out the great thorn; for the swallow had fingers an’ not claws like moh-kwa, an’ the swallow’s fingers were deft an’ nimble to do any desired deed.
when moh-kwa felt the relief of that great thorn out of his paw, he was grateful to the swallow an’ thought to do him a favor.
“you are laughed at,” said moh-kwa to the swallow, “because your spirit is light as dead leaves an’ too much blown about like a tumbleweed wasting its seeds in foolish travelings to go nowhere for no purpose so that only it goes. your heart is good, but your work is of no consequence, an’ your name will win no respect; an’ with years you will be hated since you will do no great deeds. already men call you shau-goh-dah-wah, the coward. i am moh-kwa, the wise bear of the yellowstone, an’ i would do you a favor for taking my paw an’ the thorn apart. but i cannot change your nature; only pau-guk, the death, can do that; an’ no man may touch pau-guk an’ live. yet for a favor i will give you three gifts, which if you keep safe will make you rich an’ strong an’ happy; an’ all men will love you an’ no longer think to call you shau-goh-dah-wah, the coward.”
moh-kwa when he had ended this long talk, licked his paw where had been the great thorn, an’ now that the smart was gone an’ he could put his foot to the ground an’ not howl, he took the swallow an’ carried him to his house in the rocks. an’ moh-kwa gave the swallow a knife, a necklace of bear-claws, an’ a buffalo robe.
“while you carry the knife,” said moh-kwa, “all men will respect an’ fear you an’ the squaws will cherish you in their hearts. while you wear the bear-claws, you will be brave an’ strong, an’ whatever you want you will get. as for the skin of the buffalo, it is big medicine, an’ if you sit upon it an’ wish, it will carry you wherever you ask to go.”
“for,” said moh-kwa, “your nature is light like dead leaves, an’ such as you seek ever to be a fool about a cunning squaw.”
when the swallow came again among the sioux he wore the knife an’ the bear-claws that moh-kwa had given him; an’ in his lodge he spread the big medicine robe. an’ because of the knife an’ the bear-claws, the warriors respected an’ feared him, an’ the squaws loved him in their hearts an’ followed where he went with their eyes. also, when he wanted anything, the swallow ever got it; an’ as he was swift an’ ready to want things, the swallow grew quickly rich among the sioux, an’ his lodge was full of robes an’ furs an’ weapons an’ new dresses of skins an’ feathers, while more than fifty ponies ate the grass about it.
now, this made kwa-sind, the strong man, angry in his soul’s soul; for kwa-sind was a mighty sioux, an’ had killed a pawnee for each of his fingers, an’ a blackfoot an’ a crow for each of his toes, an’ it made his breast sore to see the swallow, who had been also called shau-goh-dah-wah, the coward, thought higher among the sioux an’ be a richer man than himself. yet kwa-sind was afraid to kill the swallow lest the sioux who now sung the swallow’s praises should rise against him for revenge.
kwa-sind told his hate to wah-bee-noh, who was a medicine man an’ juggler, an’ agreed that he would give wah-bee-noh twenty ponies to make the swallow again as he was so that the sioux would laugh at him an’ call him shau-goh-dah-wah, the coward.
wah-bee-noh, the medicine man, was glad to hear the offer of kwa-sind, for he was a miser an’ thought only how he might add another pony to his herd. wah-bee-noh told kwa-sind he would surely do as he asked, an’ that the swallow within three moons would be despised among all the sioux.
wah-bee-noh went to his lodge an’ made his strongest medicine an’ called jee-bi, the spirit. an’ jee-bi, the spirit, told wah-bee-noh of the swallow’s knife an’ bear-claws an’ the medicine robe.
an’ now wah-bee-noh made a plan an’ gave it to his daughter who was called oh-pee-chee, the robin, to carry out; for the robin was full of craft an’ cunning, an’ moreover, beautiful among the young girls of the sioux.
the robin dressed herself until she was like the red bird; an’ then she walked up an’ down in front of the lodge of the swallow. an’ when the swallow saw her, his nature which was light as dead leaves at once became drawn to the robin, an’ the swallow laughed an’ made a place by his side for the robin to sit down. with that the robin came an’ sat by his side; an’ after a little she sang to him ewah-yeah, the sleep-song, an’ the swallow was overcome; his eyes closed an’ slumber settled down upon him like a night-fog.
the robin went back, an’ finding the swallow still asleep on the medicine robe, lay down by his side; an’ soon she too fell asleep, for the robin was a very tired squaw since to be cunning an’ full of craft is hard work an’ soon wearies one.
when the swallow woke up he missed his knife an’ bear-claws. also, he remembered that moh-kwa had warned him for the lightness of his spirit to beware of a cunning squaw. when these thoughts came to the swallow, an’ seeing the robin still sleeping by his side, he knew well that she had stolen his knife an’ bear-claws.
now, the swallow fell into a great anger an’ thought an’ thought what he should do to make the robin return the knife an’ bear-claws she had stolen. without them the sioux would laugh at him an’ despise him as before, an’ many would again call him shau-goh-dah-wah, the coward, an’ the name bit into the swallow’s heart like a rattlesnake an’ poisoned it with much grief.
while the swallow thought an’ the robin still lay sleeping, a plan came to him; an’ with that, the swallow seeing he was with the robin lying on the medicine robe, sat up an’ wished that both himself an’ the robin were in a far land of rocks an’ sand where a great pack of wolves lived.
like the flash an’ the flight of an arrow, the swallow with the robin still asleep by his side, an’ with the medicine robe still beneath them on the ground, found himself in a desolate land of rocks an’ sands, an’ all about him came a band of wolves who yelped an’ showed their teeth with the hunger that gnawed their flanks.
because the wolves yelped, the robin waked up; an’ when she saw their white teeth shining with hunger she fell down from a big fear an’ cried an’ twisted one hand with the other, thinking pau-guk, the death, was on his way to get her. the robin wept an’ turned to the swallow an’ begged him to put her back before the lodge of wah-bee-noh, her father.
but the swallow, with the anger of him who is robbed, spoke hard words out of his mouth.
“give me back the knife an’ the bear-claws you have stolen. you are a bad squaw, full of cunning an’ very crafty; but here i shall keep you an’ feed you--legs an’ arms an’ head an’ body--to my wolf-friends who yelp an’ show their teeth out yonder, unless i have my knife an’ bear-claws again.”
this brought more fear on the robin, an’ she felt that the swallow’s words were as a shout for pau-guk, the death, to make haste an’ claim her; yet her cunning was not stampeded but stood firm in her heart.
the robin said that the swallow must give her time to grow calm an’ then she would find the knife an’ bear-claws for him. while the swallow waited, the robin still wept an’ sobbed for fear of the white teeth of the wolves who stood in a circle about them. but little by little, the crafty robin turned her sobs softly into ewah-yeah, the sleep-song; an’ soon slumber again tied the hands an’ feet an’ stole the eyes of the swallow.
now the robin did not hesitate. she tore the big medicine robe from beneath the swallow; throwing herself into its folds, the robin wished herself again before wah-bee-noh’s lodge, an’ with that the robe rushed with her away across the skies like the swoop of a hawk. the swallow was only awake in time to see the robin go out of sight like a bee hunting its hive.
now the swallow was so cast down with shame that he thought he would call pau-guk, the death, an’ give himself to the wolves who sat watching with their hungry eyes. but soon his heart came back, an’ his spirit which was light as dead leaves, stirred about hopefully in his bosom.
while he considered what he should now do, helpless an’ hungry, in this desolate stretch of rocks an’ sand an’ no water, the thorn which had been in moh-kwa’s paw pricked his foot where it lay sewed in his moccasin. with that the swallow wished he might only see the wise bear to tell him his troubles.
as the swallow made this wish, an’ as if to answer it, he saw moh-kwa coming across the rocks an’ the sand. when the wolves saw moh-kwa, they gave a last howl an’ ran for their hiding places.
moh-kwa himself said nothing when he came up, an’ the swallow spoke not for shame but lay quiet while moh-kwa took him by the belt which was about his middle an’ throwing him over his shoulder as if the swallow were a dead deer, galloped off like the wind for his own house.
when moh-kwa had reached his house, he gave the swallow a piece of buffalo meat to eat. then moh-kwa said:
“because you would be a fool over a beautiful squaw who was cunning, you have lost my three gifts that were your fortune an’ good fame. still, because you were only a fool, i will get them back for you. you must stay here, for you cannot help since your spirit is as light as dead leaves, an’ would not be steady for so long a trail an’ one which calls for so much care to follow.”
then moh-kwa went to the door of his house an’ called his three friends, sug-gee-mah, the mosquito, sub-bee-kah-shee, the spider, an’ wah-wah-tah-see, the firefly; an’ to these he said:
“because you are great warriors an’ fear nothing in your hearts i have called you.”
moh-kwa gave his orders to his three friends; an’ with that sub-bee-kah-shee, crept to the side of kwa-sind where he slept an’ bit him on the cheek; an’ kwa-sind turned first gray an’ then black with the spider’s venom, an’ then died in the hands of pau-guk, the death, who had followed the spider to kwa-sind’s lodge.
while this was going forward, wah-wah-tah-see, the firefly, came as swift as wing could carry to the lodge where wah-bee-noh was asleep rolled up in a bear-skin. wah-bee-noh was happy, for with the big medicine robe which the robin had brought him, he already had bought the eight further ponies from kwa-sind an’ they then grazed in wah-bee-noh’s herd. as wah-bee-noh laughed in his sleep because he dreamed of the twenty ponies he had earned from kwa-sind, the firefly stooped an’ stung him inside his mouth. an’ so perished wah-bee-noh in a flame of fever, for the poison of wah-wah-tah-see, the firefly, burns one to death like live coals.
sug-gee-mah, the mosquito, found nee-pah-win, the sleep, holding the robin fast. but sug-gee-mah was stout, an’ he stooped an’ stung the sleep so hard he let go of the robin an’ stood up to fight.
all night an’ all day an’ all night, an’ yet many days an’ nights, did sug-gee-mah, the ‘bold mosquito, an’ nee-pah-win, the sleep, fight for the robin. an’ whenever nee-pah-win, the sleep, would take the robin in his arms, ‘sug-gee-mah, the mosquito, would strike him with his little lance. for many days an’ nights did sug-gee-mah, the mosquito, hold nee-pah-win, the sleep, at bay; an’ in the end the robin turned wild an’ crazy, for unless nee-pah-win, the sleep, takes each man an’ woman in his arms when the sun goes down it is as if they were bitten by the evil polecats who are rabid; an’ the men an’ women who are not held in the arms of nee-pah-win go mad an’ rave like starved wolves till they die. an’ thus it was with the robin. after many days an’ nights, pau-guk, the death, came for her also, an’ those three who had done evil to the swallow were punished.
moh-kwa, collecting the knife, the bear-claws an’ the big medicine robe from the lodge of kwa-sind, gave them to the swallow again. this time the swallow stood better guard, an’ no squaw, however cunning, might make a fool of him--though many tried--so he kept his knife, the bear-claws, an’ the big medicine robe these many years while he lived.
as for sub-bee-kah-shee, the spider, an’ wah-wah-tah-see, the firefly, an’ sug-gee-mah, the brave mosquito, moh-kwa, the wise bear, for a reward gave them an’ their countless squaws an’ papooses forever that fine swamp where apuk-wah, the bulrush, grows thick an’ green, an’ makes a best hunting grounds for the three little warriors who killed kwa-sind, wah-bee-noh, an’ the robin on that day when moh-kwa called them his enemies. an’ now when every man was at peace an’ happy, moh-kwa brought the sioux together an’ re-named the swallow “thorn-puller;” an’ by that name was he known till he died.
“how many are there of these sioux folk-lore tales?” asked the jolly doctor of sioux sam.
“how many leaves in june?” asked sioux sam. “if our great medicine”--so he called the jolly doctor--“were with the dakotahs, the old men an’ the squaws would tell him a fresh one for every fresh hour of his life. there is no end.”
while the jolly doctor was reflecting on this reply, the red nosed gentleman, raising his glass of burgundy to the sour gentleman who returned the compliment in whiskey, said:
“my respects to you, sir; and may we hope you will now give us that adventure of the german girl’s diamonds?”
“i shall have the utmost pleasure,” responded the sour gentleman. “you may not consider it of mighty value as a story, but perhaps as a chapter in former custom’s iniquity one may concede it a use.”
chapter xx.--the german girl’s diamonds.
it cannot be said, my friends, that i liked my position in that sink of evil, the new york customs. i was on good terms with my comrades, but i founded no friendships among them. it has been and still is a belief of mine, and one formed at an early age, that everybody wears suggestive resemblance to some bird or fish or beast. i’ve seen a human serpent’s face, triangular, poisonous, menacing with ophidian eyes; i’ve seen a dove’s face, soft, gentle, harmless, and with lips that cooed as they framed and uttered words. and there are faces to remind one of dogs, of sheep, of apes, of swine, of eagles, of pike--ravenous, wide-mouthed, swift. i’ve even encountered a bear’s face on broadway--one full of a window-peering curiosity, yet showing a contented, sluggish sagacity withal. and every face about me in the customs would carry out my theory. as i glanced from lorns to quin, and from quin to another, and so to the last upon the list, i beheld reflected as in a glass, a hawk, or an owl, or a wolf, or a fox, or a ferret, or even a cat. but each rapacious; each stamped with the instinct of predation as though the word “wolf” were written across his forehead. even betelnut jack gave one the impression that belongs with some old, rusty black-eagle with worn and tumbled plumage. i took no joy of my comrades; saw no more of them than i might; despised my trade of land-pirate--for what better could it be called?--and following that warning from “josephus” was ever haunted of a weird fear of what might come. still, i remained and claimed my loot with the rest. and you ask why? when all is said, i was as voracious as the others; i clinked the coins in my pocket, and consoled myself against the foul character of such profits with that thought of vespasian: “the smell of all money is sweet.”
following my downfall of tobacco, i had given up my rich apartments in twenty-second street; and while i retained my membership, i went no more to the two or three clubs into which i’d been received. in truth, these custom house days i seldom strolled as far northward as twenty-third street; but taking a couple of moderate rooms to the south of washington square, i stuck to them or to the park in front as much as ever i might; passing a lonely life and meeting none i’d known before.
one sun-filled september afternoon, being free at that hour, i was occupying a bench in washington square, amusing my idleness with the shadows chequered across the walk by an overspreading tree. a sound caught my ear; i looked up to be mildly amazed by the appearance of betelnut jack. it was seldom my chief was found so far from his eyrie in the bowery; evidently he was seeking me. his first words averred as much.
“i was over to your rooms,” remarked betelnut jack; “they told me you were here.”
then he gave me a pure havana--for we of the customs might smoke what cigars we would--lighted another and betook himself to a few moments of fragrant, wordless tranquility. i was aware, of course, that betelnut jack had a purpose in coming; but curiosity was never among my vices, and i did not ask his mission. with a feeling of indifference, i awaited its development in his own good way and time.
betelnut jack continued touching his career in new york; always with caution, however, slurring some parts and jumping others; from which i argued that portions of my chief’s story were made better by not being divulged. it occurred, too, as a deduction drawn from his confidences that betelnut jack had been valorous as a know-nothing; and he spoke with rapture of the great prize-fighter, tom hyer, who beat yankee sullivan; and then of the fistic virtues of the brave bill poole, coming near to tears as he set forth the latter’s murder in stanwix hall.
also, i gathered that betelnut jack had been no laggard at hurling stones and smashing windows in the astor place riot of 1849.
“and the soldiers killed one hundred and thirty-four,” sighed betelnut jack, when describing the battle; “and wounded four times as many more. and all, mind you! for a no-good english actor with an irish name!” this last in accents of profound disgust.
in the end betelnut jack began to wax uneasy; it was apparent how he yearned for his nest in the familiar bowery. with that he came bluntly to the purpose.
“to-morrow, early,” he said, “take one of the women inspectors and go down to quarantine. some time in the course of the day, the steamship ‘wolfgang,’ from bremen, will arrive. go aboard at once. in the second cabin you will find a tall, gray, old german; thin, with longish hair. he may have on dark goggles; if he hasn’t, you will observe that he is blind of the right eye. his daughter, a girl of twenty-three, will be with him. her hair will be done up in that heavy roll which hair-dressers call the ‘waterfall,’ and hang in a silk close-meshed net low on her neck. hidden in the girl’s hair are diamonds of a berlin value of over one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. you will search the old man, and have the woman inspector search the girl. don’t conduct yourselves as though you knew what you were looking for. tell your assistant to find the girl’s diamonds naturally; let her work to them by degrees, not swoop on them.”
then betelnut jack disposed himself for homeward flight. i asked how he became aware of the jewels and the place of their concealment.
“never mind that now,” was his reply; “you’ll know later. but get the diamonds; they’re there and you must not fail. i’ve come for you, as you’re more capable of doing the gentleman than some of the others, and this is a case where a dash of refinement won’t hurt the trick.”
with that betelnut jack lounged over to fourth street and disappeared towards broadway and the bowery further east.
following my chief’s departure, i continued in idle contemplation of the shadows. this occupation did not forbid a mental looking up and down of what would be my next day’s work. the prospect was far from refreshing. when one is under thirty, a proposal to plunder a girl--a beautiful girl, doubtless--of her diamonds, does not appeal to one. there would be woe, tears, lamentations, misery with much wringing of hands. i began to call myself a villain.
then, as against her, and defensive of myself, i argued the outlaw character of the girl’s work. be she beautiful or be she favored ill, still she is breaking the law. it was our oath to seize the gems; whatever of later wrong was acted, at best or worst, it was no wrong done her. in truth! when she was at last left free and at liberty, she would be favored beyond her deserts; for those customs laws which she was cheating spoke of grates and keys and bars and bolts.
in this wise, and as much as might be, i comforted myself against the disgrace of an enterprise from which i naturally recoiled, hardening myself as to the poor girl marked to be our prey. i confess i gained no great success; say what i might, i contemned myself.
while thus ruminating that dishonor into which i conceived myself to have fallen, i recalled a story written by edgar allen poe. it is a sketch wherein a wicked man is ever followed and thwarted by one who lives his exact semblance in each line of face and form. this doppel-ganger, as the germans name him, while the same with himself in appearance and dress, is his precise opposite in moral nature. this struggle between the haunted one and his weird, begins in boyhood and continues till middle age. at the last, frantic under a final opposition, the haunted one draws sword and slays his enemy. too late, as he wipes the blood from his blade, he finds that he has killed his better self; too late he sees that from that time to the end, the present will have no hope, the future hold no heaven; that he must sink and sink and sink, until he is grasped by those hands outstretched of hell to forever have him for their horrid own. i wondered if i were not like that man unhappy; i asked if i did not, by these various defenses and apologies which i made ever for my wickedness, work towards the death of my better nature whose destruction when it did come would mean the departure forever of my soul’s chance.
i stood up and shook myself in a canine way. decidedly, loneliness was making me morbid! however that may have been, i passed a far from happy afternoon.
fairly speaking, these contentions shook me somewhat in my resolves. there were moments when i determined to refuse my diamond-hunting commission and resign my place. i even settled the style of my resignation; it should be full of sarcasm.
but alas! these white dreams faded; in the end i was ready to execute the orders of betelnut jack; and that which decided me was surely the weakest thought of all. somehow, i had in my thoughts put down the coming german maiden as beautiful; betelnut jack had said her age was twenty-three, which helped me to this thought of girlish loveliness. thus, my imaginings worked in favor of the girl.
but next the thought fell blackly that she would some day--probably a near day--love some man unknown and marry him. possibly this lover she already knew; perhaps he was here and she on her way to meet him! this will sound like jest; it will earn derision from healthful, balanced spirits; and yet i tell but the truth.
i experienced a vague, resentful jealousy, hated this imagined lover of a girl i’d never met, and waxed contemptuous of aught of leniency towards one or both. i would do as betelnut jack ordered; i would go down to quarantine on the morrow; and i would find the diamonds.
it was late in the afternoon when with a woman assistant, i boarded the “wolfgang” in the narrows. my aged german was readily picked up; his daughter was with him. and her beauty was as i’d painted on the canvas of my thoughts. yet when i beheld the loveliness which should have melted me, i recalled that lover to whose arms she might be coming and was hardened beyond recall. i told the inspectress to take her into her private room and find the diamonds. with that, i turned my back and strolled to the forward deck. even at that distance i heard the shriek of the girl when her treasure was discovered.
“there will be less for the lover!” i thought.
when my woman assistant--accomplice might be the truer term--joined me, she had the jewels. they were in a long eel-skin receptacle, sewed tightly, and had been secreted in the girl’s hair as described by betelnut jack. i took the gems, and buttoning them in my coat, told my aide--who with a feminine fashion of bitterness seemed exultant over having deprived another of her gew-gaws--to arrest the girl, hold her until the boat docked, frighten her with tales of fetters and dungeons and clanging bars, and at the last to lose her on the wharf. it would be nine o’clock of the night by then, and murk dark; this loss of her prisoner would seem to come honestly about.
if i were making a romance, rather than bending to a relation of cold, gray, hard, untender facts, i would at this crisis defy betelnut jack, rescue the beautiful girl, restore her jewels, love her, win her, wed her, and with her true, dear arms about me, live happy ever after. as it was, however, i did nothing of that good sort. my aide obeyed directions in a mood at once thorough, blithe, and spiteful, and never more did i set eyes on the half-blind father or the tearful, pretty, poor victim of our diamond hunting. lost in the crush and bustle of the wharf, they were never found, never looked for, and never rendered themselves.
i had considered what profit from these jewels might accrue to the ring and the means by which it would be arrived at. i took it for granted that some substitutional arts--when paste would take the places of old mine gems--would be resorted to as in the excellent instance of the emperor’s cigars. but betelnut jack shook his careful head; there would be no hokus-pokus of substitution; there were good reasons. also, there was another way secure. if our profits were somewhat shaved, our safety would be augmented; and betelnut jack’s watchword was “safety first!” i was bound to acquiesce; i the more readily did so since, like lorns and quin, i had grown to perfect confidence in the plans of betelnut jack. however, when now i had brushed aside etiquette and broken the ice of the matter with my chief, i asked how he meant to manoeuver in the affair.
“wait!” retorted betelnut jack, and that was the utmost he would say.
in due time came the usual auction and the gems were sold. they were snapped up by a syndicate of wise folk of maiden lane who paid therefor into the hands of the government the even sum of one hundred thousand dollars.
still i saw not how our ring would have advantage; no way could open for us to handle those one hundred thousand dollars in whole or in part. i was in error; a condition whereof i was soon to be made pleasantly aware.
on the day following the sale, and while the price paid still slept unbanked in the customs boxes of proof-steel, there came one to see our canny chief. it is useless to waste description on this man. suffice it that he was in fact and in appearance as skulkingly the coward scoundrel as might anywhere be met. this creeping creature was shown into the private rooms of betelnut jack. a moment later, i was sent for.
betelnut jack was occupying a chair; he wore an air of easy confidence; and over that, a sentiment of contempt for his visitor. this latter was posed in the middle of the room; and while an apprehension of impending evil showed on his face, he made cringing and deprecatory gestures with shoulders hunched and palms turned outward.
“sit down,” observed betelnut jack, pushing a chair towards me. when i was seated, he spoke on. “since it was you who found the diamonds, i thought it right to have you present now. you asked me once how i knew in advance of those gems and their scheme of concealment. to-day you may learn. this is the gentleman who gave me the information. he did it to obtain the reward--to receive that great per cent, of the seizure’s proceeds which is promised the informer by the law. his information was right; he is entitled to the reward. that is what he is here for; he has come to be paid.” then to the hangdog, cringing one: “pretty good day’s work for you, eh? over fifty thousand dollars for a little piece of information is stiff pay!” the hangdog one bowed lower and a smirk of partial confidence began to broaden his face. “and now you’ve come for your money--fifty odd thousand!”
“if you please, sir! yes, sir!” more and wider smirks.
“all right!” retorted betelnut jack. “you shall have it, friend; but not now--not to-day.”
“then when?” and the smirk fled.
“to-morrow,” said betelnut jack. “to-morrow, next day, any day in fact when you bring before me to be witnesses of the transaction the father, the sister, and your wife.”
across the face of the hangdog one spread a pallor that was as the whiteness of death. there burned the fires of a hot agony in his eyes as though a dirk had slowly pierced him. his voice fell in a husky whisper.
“you would cheat me!”
“no; i would do you perfect justice,” replied betelnut jack. “not a splinter do you finger until you bring your people. your wife and her sister and their father shall know this story, and stand here while the money is paid. not a stiver else! now, go!”
betelnut jack’s tones were as remorseless as a storm; they offered nothing to hope; the hangdog one heard and crept away with a look on his face that was but ill to see. once the door was closed behind him, betelnut jack turned with a cheerful gleam to me.
“that ends him! it’s as you guess. this informer is the son-in-law of the old german. he married the elder daughter. they came over four years ago and live in hoboken. then the father and the younger sister were to come. they put their whole fortune into the diamonds, aiming to cheat the customs and manage a profit; and the girl wrote their plans and how they would hide the jewels to her sister. it was she who told her husband--this fellow who’s just sneaked out. he came to me and betrayed them; he was willing to ruin the old man and the girl to win riches for himself. but he’s gone; he’ll not return; we’ve seen and heard the last of them; one fears the jail, the other the wrath of his wife; and that’s the end.” then betelnut jack, as he lighted a cigar, spoke the word which told to folk initiate of a division of spoil on the morrow. as i arose, he said: “ask lorns to come here.”
“well,” remarked the old cattleman when the sour gentleman was done, “i don’t want to say nothin’ to discourage you-all, but if i’d picked up your hand that time i wouldn’t have played it. i shorely would have let that dutch girl keep her beads. didn’t the thing ha’nt you afterwards?”
“it gave me a deal of uneasiness,” responded the sour gentleman. “i am not proud of my performance. and yet, i don’t see what else i might have done. those diamonds were as good as in the hands of betelnut jack from the moment the skulking brother-in-law brought him the information.”
“it’s one relief,” observed the red nosed gentleman, “to know how that scoundrel came off no richer by his treachery.”
“what i observes partic’lar in the narration,” said the old cattleman, “is how luck is the predominatin’ feacher throughout. the girl an’ her old pap has bad luck in losin’ the gewgaw’s. you-all customs sharps has good luck in havin’ the news brought to your hand as to where them diamonds is hid, by a coyote whom you can bluff plumb outen the play at the finish. as for the coyote informer, why he has luck in bein’ allowed to live.
“an’ speakin’ of luck, seein’ that in this yere story-tellin’ arrangement that seems to have grown up in our midst, i’m the next chicken on the roost, i’ll onfold to you gents concernin’ ‘the luck of cold-sober simms.’”
chapter xxi.--the luck of cold-sober simms.
which this yere tale is mighty devious, not to say disjointed, because, d’you see! from first to last, she’s all the truth. now, thar is folks sech as injuns an’ them sagacious sports which we-all terms philosophers, who talks of truth bein’ straight. injuns will say a liar has a forked tongue, while philosophers will speak of a straight ondeviatin’ narrative, meanin’ tharby to indooce you to regyard said story as the emanation of honesty in its every word. for myse’f i don’t subscribe none to these yere phrases. in my own experience it’s the lies that runs in a straight line like a bullet, whereas the truth goes onder an’ over, an’ up an’ down, doubles an’ jumps sideways a dozen times before ever it finally finds its camp in what book-sharps call the “climax.” which i says ag’in that this tale, bein’ troo, has nacherally as many kinks in it as a new lariat.
bein’ thoughtful that a-way, an’ preyed on by a desire to back-track every fact to its fountain-head, meanwhile considerin’ how different the kyards would have fallen final if something prior had been done or left on done, has ever been my weakness. it’s allers so with me. i can recall as a child how back in tennessee i deevotes hours when fish-in’ or otherwise uselessly engaged, to wonderin’ whoever i’d have been personal if my maw had died in her girlhood an’ pap had wedded someone else. it’s plumb too many for me; an’ now an’ then when in a sperit of onusual cog’tation, i ups an’ wonders where i’d be if both my maw an’ pap had cashed in as colts, i’d jest simply set down he’pless, on-qualified to think at all. it’s plain that in sech on-toward events as my two parents dyin’, say, at the age of three, i sort o’ wouldn’t have happened none. this yere solemn view never fails to give me the horrors.
i fixes the time of this story easy as bein’ that eepock when jim east an’ bob pierce is sheriffs of the panhandle, with headquarters in tascosa, an’ bob roberson is chief of the lit ranch. these yere evidences of merit on the parts of them three gents has not, however, anything to do with how cold-sober simms gets rich at farobank; how two hold-ups plots to rob him; how he’s saved by the inadvertent capture of a bob-cat who’s strange to him entire; an’ how the two hold-ups in their chagrin over cold-sober’s escape an’ the mootual doubts it engenders, pulls on each other an’ relieves the stranglers from the labor of stringin’ ’em to a cottonwood.
but locoed charlie don’t go to sleep; he lays thar drunk an’ disgruntled an’ hungerin’ to play even. as a good revengeful scheme, locoed charlie allows he’ll get up an’ secrete the mailbag, thinkin’ tharby to worry old scotty till he sweats blood. locoed charlie packs the mailbag over among some rocks which is thick grown with cedar bresh. when it comes sun-up an’ locoed charlie is sober an’ repents, an’ tells old scotty of his little game, neither he nor scotty can find that mailbag nohow. locoed charlie shore hides her good.
locoed charlie an’ scotty don’t dare go on without it, but stays an’ searches; cold-sober simms--who is given this yere nom-de-guerre, as colonel sterett terms it, because he’s the only sport in the panhandle who don’t drink--stays with ’em to help on the hunt. at last, failin’ utter to discover the missin’ mail, locoed charlie an’ old scotty returns to tascosa in fear an’ tremblin’, not packin’ the nerve to face mcallister, who manages for the lee-scott, an’ inform him of the yoonique disposition they makes of his outfit’s letters. this return to tascosa is, after all, mere proodence, since mcallister is a mighty emotional manager, that a-way, an’ it’s as good as even money he hangs both of them culprits in that first gust of enthoosiasm which would be shore to follow any explanation they can make. so they returns; an’ because he can’t he’p himse’f none, bein’ he’s only a passenger on that buckboard, cold-sober simms returns with ’em. no, the mailbag is found a week later by a lee-scott rider, an’ for the standin’ of locoed charlie an’ scotty it’s as well he does.
cold-sober is some sore at bein’ baffled in his trip to the lee-scott since he aims to go to work thar as a rider. to console himse’f, he turns in an’ bucks a faro game that a brace of onknown black-laigs who shows in tascosa from fort elliot the day prior, has onfurled in james’ s’loon. as sometimes happens, cold-sober plays in all brands an’ y’earmarks of luck, an’ in four hours breaks the bank. it ain’t overstrong, no sech institootion of finance in fact as cherokee hall’s faro game in wolfville, an’ when cold-sober calls the last nine-king turn for one hundred, an’ has besides a hundred on the nine, coppered, an’ another hundred open on the king, tharby reapin’ six hundred dollars as the froots of said feat, the sharp who’s deal-in’ turns up his box an’ tells cold-sober to set in his chips to be cashed. cold-sober sets ’em in; nine thousand five hundred dollars bein’ the roundup, an’ the dealer-sharp hands over the dinero. then in a sperit of resentment the dealer-sharp picks up the faro-box an’ smashes it ag’in the wall.
“thar bein’ nothin’ left,” he says to his fellow black-laig, who’s settin’ in the look-out’s chair, “for you an’ me but to prance out an’ stand up a stage, we may as well dismiss that deal-box from our affairs. i knowed that box was a hoodoo ever since black morgan gets killed over it in mobeetie; an’ so i tells you, but you-all wouldn’t heed.”
“which if i was you-all,” says johnny cook of the lit outfit, “i’d shore sally forth an’ buy nose-paint with that treasure while a peso remained.” but cold-sober turns down these divers proposals an’ allows he’ll pack said roll in his pocket a whole lot, which he accordin’ does.
cold-sober’s stay with chepp is brief as i states; in a week he gets restless ag’in for work; whereupon he hooks up with roberson, an’ goes p’intin’ south across the canadian on a l i t hoss to hold down one of that brand’s sign-camps in mitchell’s canyon. it’s only twenty miles, an’ lie’s thar in half a day--him an’ wat peacock who’s to be his mate. an’ cold-sober packs with him that fortune of ninety-five hundred.
the two black-laigs who’s been depleted that away still hankers about tascosa; but as mighty likely they don’t own the riches to take ’em out o’ town, not much is thought. nor does it ruffle the feathers of commoonal suspicion when the two disappears a few days after cold-sober goes ridin’ away to assoome them lit reesponsibilities in mitchell’s canyon. the public is too busy to bother itse’f about ’em. it comes out later, however, that the goin’ of cold-sober has everything to do with the exodus of them hold-ups, an’ that they’ve been layin’ about since they loses their roll on a chance of get-tin’ it back. when cold-sober p’ints south for mitchell’s that time, it’s as good as these outlaws asks. they figgers on trailin’ him to mitchell’s an’ hidin’ out ontil some hour when peacock’s off foolin’ about the range; when they argues cold-sober would be plumb easy, an’ they’ll kill an’ skelp him an’ clean him up for his money, an’ ride away.
“in fact,” explains the one cold-sober an’ peacock finds alive, “it’s our idee that the killin’ an’ skelpin’ an’ pillagin’ of cold-sober would get layed to peacock, which would mean safety for us an’ at the same time be a jest on peacock that would be plumb hard to beat.” that was the plan of these outlaws; an’ the cause of its failure is the followin’ episode, to wit:
it looks like this doc chepp is locoed to collect wild anamiles that a-way.
“which i wants,” says this shorthorn chepp, “a speciment of every sort o’ the fauna of these yere regions, savin’ an’ exceptin’ polecats. i knows enough of the latter pungent beast from an encounter i has with one, to form notions ag’in ’em over which not even the anxious cry of science can preevail. polecats is barred from my c’llec-tions. but,” an’ said chepp imparts this last to cold-sober as the latter starts for mitchell’s, “if by any sleight or dexterity you-all accomplishes the capture of a bob-cat, bring the interestin’ creature to me at once. an’ bring him alive so i may observe an’ note his pecooliar traits.”
it’s the third mornin’ in mitchell’s when a bobcat is seen by cold-sober an’ peacock to go sa’nter-in’ up the valley. mebby this yere bob-cat’s homeless; mebby he’s a dissoloote bob-cat an’ has been out all night carousin’ with other bob-cats an’ is simply late gettin’ in; be the reason of his appearance what it may, cold-sober remembers about doc chepp’s wish to own a bob-cat, an’ him an’ peacock lets go all holds, leaps for their ponies an’ gives chase. thar’s a scramblin’ run up the canyon; then peacock gets his rope onto it, an’ next cold-sober fastens with his rope, an’ you hear me, gents, between ’em they almost rends this yere onhappy bobcat in two. they pauses in time, however, an’ after a fearful struggle they succeeds in stuffin’ the bob-cat into peacock’s leather laiggin’s, which the latter gent removes for that purpose. bound hand an’ foot, an’ wropped in the laiggin’s so tight he can hardly squawl, that bob-cat’s put before cold-sober on his saddle; an’ this bein’ fixed, cold-sober heads for tascosa to present him to his naturalist friend, chepp, peacock scamperin’ cheerfully along like a drunkard to a barbecue regyardin’ the racket as a ondeniable excuse for gettin’ soaked.
this adventure of the bob-cat is the savin’ clause in the case of cold-sober simms. as the bobcat an’ him an’ peacock rides away, them two malefactors is camped not five miles off, over by the serrita la cruz, an’ arrangin’ to go projectin’ ’round for cold-sober an’ his ninety-five hundred that very evenin’. in truth, they execootes their scheme; but only to find when they jumps his camp in mitchell’s that cold-sober’s done vamosed a whole lot.
it’s then trouble begins to gather for the two rustlers. the one who deals the game that time is so overcome by cold-sober’s absence, he peevishly puts it up that his pard gives cold-sober warnin’ with the idee of later whackin’ up the roll with him by way of a reward for his virchoo. nacherally no se’f-respectin’ miscreant will submit to sech impeachments, an’ the accoosed makes a heated retort, punctuatin’ his observations with his gun. thar-upon the other proceeds to voice his feelin’s with his six-shooter; an’ the mootual remarks of these yere dispootants is so well aimed an’ ackerate that next evenin’ when cold-sober an’ peacock returns, they finds one dead an’ t’other dyin’ with even an’ exact jestice broodin’ over all.
as cold-sober an’ peacock is settin’ by their fire that night, restin’ from their labors in plantin’ the two hold-ups, cold-sober starts up sudden an’ says:
“yereafter i adopts a bob-cat for my coat-o’-arms. also, i changes my mind about howard, an’ to-morry i’ll go chargin’ into tascosa an’ leave said ninety-five hundred in his iron box. thar’s more ‘bad men’ at fort elliot than them two we plants, an’ mebby some more of ’em may come a-weavin’ up the canadian with me an’ my wealth as their objective p’int.”
peacock endorses the notion enthoosiastic, an’ declar’s himse’f in on the play as a body-guard; for he sees in this yere second expedition a new o’casion for another drunk, an’ peacock jest nacherally dotes on a debauch.
“and what did your cold-sober simms,” asked the sour gentleman, “finally do with his money? did he go into the cattle business?”
“never buys a hoof,” returned the old cattleman. “no, indeed; he loses it ag’in monte in kelly’s s’loon in dodge. charley bassett who’s marshal at the time tries to git cold-sober to pass up that monte game. but thar ain’t no headin’ him; he would buck it, an’ so the sharp who’s deal-in’, butcher knife bill it is--turns in an’ knocks cold-sober’s horns plumb off.”
the sudden collapse of the volatile cold-sober’s fortunes was quite a dampener to the sour gentleman; he evidently entertained a hope that the painted images, which is the more likely, then he had resort to the phantasmagoric magic lantern, rolling upon a small track. pushing this contrivance backwards and forwards caused the images to lessen or increase, to recede or advance.
robertson realized quite a snug fortune out of his ghost exhibition and other inventions. his automaton speaking figure, called le phonorganon, uttered two hundred words of the french language. another interesting piece of mechanism was his trumpeter. these two machines formed part of a beautiful cabinet de physique in his house, the hotel d’ yorck, boulevard montmartre, no. 12 paris. he has left some entertaining memoirs, entitled mémoires récréatifs et anecdotifs (1830–1834), copies of which are exceedingly rare. he was a great aeronaut and invented the parachute which has been wrongly attributed to garnerin.
robertson, as commandant des aerostiers, served in the french army, and rendered valuable service with his balloons in observing the movements of the enemy in the campaigns in belgium and holland, under general jourdain. in the year 1804 he wrote a treatise on ballooning, entitled, la minerve, vaisseau aérien destiné aux découvertes, et proposé, à toutes les académies de l’europe, published at vienna. he died at batignolles (paris) in 1837.
in his memoirs, robertson describes a species of optical toy called the phantascope, for producing illusions on a small scale. this may give a clue to his spectres of the capuchin convent. he also offers an explanation of nostradamus’ famous feat of conjuring up the likeness of francis i. in a magic mirror, for the edification of the beautiful marie de médici.
we now come to the greatest of all ghost-shows, that of the polytechnic institute, london. in the year 1863 letters patent {93} were granted to professor john henry pepper, professor of chemistry in the london polytechnic institute, and henry dircks, civil engineer, for a device “for projecting images of living persons in the air.” here were no concave mirrors, no magic lanterns, simply a large sheet of unsilvered glass. the effect is founded on a well-known optical illusion. “in the evening carry a lighted candle to the window and you will see reflected in the pane, not only the image of the candle, but that of your hand and face as well. a sheet of glass, inclined at a certain angle, is placed on a stage between the actors and spectators. beneath the stage and just in front of the glass, is a person robed in a white shroud, and illuminated by the brilliant rays of the electric or the oxy-hydrogen light. the image of the actor who plays the part of spectre, being reflected by the glass, becomes visible to the spectators, and stands, apparently, just as far behind the glass as its prototype is placed in front of it. this image is only visible to the audience. the actor who is on the stage sees nothing of it, and in order that he may not strike at random in his attacks on the spectre, it is necessary to mark beforehand on the boards the particular spot at which, to the eyes of the audience, the phantom will appear. care must be taken to have the theatre darkened and the stage very dimly lighted.”
at the polytechnic institute the ghost was admirably produced. the stage represented the room of a mediaeval student who was engaged in burning the midnight oil. looking up from his black-letter tome he beheld the apparition of a skeleton. resenting the intrusion he arose from his chair, seized a sword which was ready to his hand, and aimed a blow at the figure, which vanished, only to return again and again.
the assistant who manipulated the spectre wore a cover of black velvet. he held the real skeleton in his arms, and made the fleshless bones assume the most grotesque attitudes. he had evidently studied holbein’s “dance of death.” the lower part of the skeleton, from the pelvis downward, was dressed in white linen, presumably a shroud. to the audience the figure seemed to vanish and reappear through the floor. {94}
this ghost-making apparatus has been used with splendid success in the dramatizations of dickens’ christmas carol and haunted man; bulwer’s strange story; and alexander dumas’ corsican brothers.
“but before the trick was in working order at its new destination, several of the parisian theatres, in the face of letters patent duly granted to m. pepper, had already advertised performances wherein it was included.
“m. hostein had no means of preventing the piracy; unluckily for himself, and still more so for the inventor, the plagiarists had discovered among the french official records a patent taken out, ten years before, by a person named séguin for a toy called the polyoscope, which was founded on the same principle as the ghost illusion.”
professor pepper claims to have been totally unaware of the existence of m. séguin’s polyoscope. in his true history of the ghost, pepper describes the toy as follows:
“it consisted of a box with a small sheet of glass placed at an angle of forty-five degrees, and it reflected a concealed table, with plastic figures, the spectres of which appeared behind the glass, and which young people who possessed the toy invited their companions to take out of the box, when they melted away, as it were, in their hands and disappeared.”
in france, at that time, all improvements on a patent fell to the original patentee, and pepper found himself out-of-court. {95}
the conjurer robin claims, on very good authority, to have been the original inventor of the ghost illusion. he writes as follows:
“i first had the idea of producing the apparitions in 1845. meeting innumerable difficulties in carrying out my invention i was obliged to wait until 1847 before reaching a satisfactory result. in that year i was able to exhibit the ‘spectres’ to the public in the theatres of lyons and saint etienne under the name of ‘the living phantasmagoria.’ to my great astonishment i produced little effect. the apparitions still were in want of certain improvements which i have since added. after succeeding in perfecting them i met with great success in exhibiting them in venice, rome, munich, vienna and brussels, but as my experiments were very costly i was obliged to lay them aside for some time.”
he further declares that m. séguin, who had been employed by him to paint phantasmagoric figures, had based his toy, the polyoscope, upon the principle of his (robin’s) spectres. robin was one of the managers who brought out the illusion in paris, despite the protests of m. hostein. he opposed hostein with the patent of the polyoscope and some of his old theatre posters of the year 1847, advertising the “living phantasmagoria.”
houdin is rather severe on m. robin when he classes him among the plagiarists and pirates. but the two conjurers were great rivals. m. caroly, editor of the illusioniste, in an article on robin, suggests that perhaps pepper had seen and examined a polyoscope, and built upon it the theatrical illusion of the ghost. my personal belief is that professor pepper was ignorant of the existence of the toy as well as of robin’s former exhibitions of phantasmagoria, and independently thought out the ghost illusion. this frequently happens among inventors, as every one knows, who has dealings with the u. s. patent office.
in the year 1868, there was exhibited in paris, at the ambigu theatre, the melodrama of “la czarine,” founded on robert-houdin’s story of kempelen’s automaton chess player. in this play was a remarkable use of the “ghost illusion,” arranged by houdin, as well as a chess-playing automaton. i quote as {96} follows from houdin’s les secrets de la prestidigitation et de la magie, chapter vi: “my collaborators, messrs. adenis and gastineau, had asked me to arrange a ‘ghost effect’ for the last act. i had recourse to the ‘ghost illusion’, but i presented it in such guise as to give it a completely novel character, as the reader will be enabled to judge from the following description: the scene is laid in russia, in the reign of catherine ii. in the last act, an individual named pougatcheff, who, on the strength of a personal likeness to peter iii, attempts to pass himself off as the deceased monarch, is endeavoring to incite the russian populace to dethrone catherine. a learned man, m. de kempelen, who is devoted to the czarina, succeeds, by the aid of scientific expedients, in neutralizing the villainous designs of the sham prince.
“the scene is a savage glen, behind which is seen a background of rugged rocks. pougatcheff appears, surrounded by a crowd of noisy adherents. m. de kempelen comes forward, denounces the impostor, and declares that, to complete his confusion, he will call up the spirit of the genuine peter iii. at his command a sarcophagus appears from the solid rock; it stands upright on end. the lid opens, and exhibits a corpse covered with a winding sheet. the tomb falls to the ground, but the phantom remains erect. the sham czar, though a good deal frightened, makes a pretence of defying the apparition, which he treats as a mere illusion. but the upper part of the winding sheet falls aside, and reveals the livid and moulding features of the late sovereign. pougatcheff, thinking that he can hardly be worsted in a fight with a corpse, draws his sword, and with one blow cuts off its head, which falls noisily to the ground; but at the very same moment the living head of peter iii appears on the ghostly shoulders. pougatcheff, driven to frenzy by these successive apparitions, makes at the figure, seizes it by its garments, and thrusts it violently back into the tomb. but the head remains suspended in space, rolling its eyes in a threatening manner, and appearing to offer defiance to its persecutor. the frenzy of pougatcheff reaches its culminating point. grasping his sword with both hands, he tries to cleave in twain the {97} head of his mysterious adversary; but his blade only passes through a shadowy being, who laughs to scorn his impotent rage. again he raises his sword, but at the same moment the body of peter iii, in full imperial costume, and adorned with all the insignia of his rank, becomes visible beneath the head. the re-animate czar hurls the impostor violently back, exclaiming, in a voice of thunder. ‘hold sacrilegious wretch!’ pougatcheff, terror-stricken, and overwhelmed with confusion, confesses his imposture, and the phantom vanishes.
“the stage arrangements to produce these effects are as follows: an actor, robed in the brilliant costume of peter iii, reclines against the sloped support beneath the stage. his body is covered with a wrapper of black velvet, which is designed to prevent, until the proper moment, any reflection in the glass. his head alone is uncovered, and ready to be reflected in the glass so soon as the rays of the electric light shall be directed upon it.
“the phantom which originally comes out of the sarcophagus is a dummy, whose head is modeled from that of the actor who plays the part of czar. this head is made readily detachable from the body.
“everything is placed and arranged in such manner that the dummy image of peter iii shall precisely correspond in position with the person of the actor who plays the part of ghost.
“at the same moment that the head of the former falls to the ground, the electric light is gradually made to shine on the head of the actor who plays the part of peter iii, which being reflected in the glass, appears to shape itself on the body of the dummy ghost. after this latter is hurled to the ground, the veil which hides the body of the actor czar is quickly and completely drawn away, and the sudden flood of the electric light reflects his whole body where his head alone was previously visible.”
as a clever producer of the living and impalpable spectres, robin had no equal. i will describe two of his effects. the curtain rose, showing a cemetery with tombstones and cenotaphs. it was midnight. a lover entered and stood weeping over the tomb of his dead fiancée. suddenly she appeared before him {98} arrayed in a winding sheet which she threw aside, revealing herself in the dress of a bride. he endeavored to embrace her. his arms passed unimpeded through the spectre. gradually the vision melted away, leaving him grieving and desolate.
the impression produced by this illusion was profound and terrifying. amid cries of astonishment and fright resounding through the hall, many women fainted or made their escape.
robin devised another scene which he called “the demon of paganini.” an actor made up to resemble the famous violin virtuoso, paganini, tall, gaunt, with flowing locks, and dressed in shabby black, was seen reclining upon a couch. a devil, habited in green and red, and armed with a violin, made its appearance and clambered upon the sleeper, installing himself comfortably on the violinist’s stomach. then the demon gave himself up to a violin solo which was not in the least interrupted by the frantic gestures of the nightmare ridden sufferer, whose hands attempted in vain to seize the weird violin and bow. the demon, {99} sometimes sitting, sometimes kneeling on the body of his victim, continued his musical selection.
the demon of paganini was mounted on a special support by which he could be elevated and depressed at pleasure. the violinist, who was the real player, stood below the stage, but in the shade, at one side of the electric lamp which illuminated the demon. the sound issued from the opening in front of the glass. the glass used by robin measured 5 by 4 meters, in a single piece. it was placed with great care, for the least deviation would be followed by a displacement of the image.
it should be remarked that robin’s auditorium comprised only a sloping parterre surrounded by a range of small boxes. there was no gallery. the spectators, consequently, were not elevated sufficiently to perceive the opening in the stage.
when, in 1866, robin’s spectres were taken to a large theatre in paris, the châtelet, he was obliged to devise a different arrangement, for the spectators in the galleries above were able {100} to see, at the same time, both the actor and his reflection. robin had been obliged to place his actor on a lower level because he had no room at the side of his little stage. at the châtelet, however, space permitted a much more convenient arrangement, for it allowed the actor, who furnished the reflection, to move about freely on a horizontal plane. the glass was placed vertically and formed, on the plane, an angle of about 45° with the longitudinal axis of the theatre. the actor was hidden behind a wing; his reflection appeared in the center of the stage toward the back-drop; visible, nevertheless, to all the spectators. his field of movement, necessarily restricted, was marked out in advance upon the floor.
robin was able to preserve for a considerable time the secret of the ghost illusion; just enough to pique the curiosity of the public. it was guessed at last that he made use of unsilvered glass. the fact became known and several wags proved the presence of the glass by throwing inoffensive paper balls which struck the obstacle and fell, arrested in their flight. robin was greatly vexed at these occurrences but the trick was none the less exposed.
pepper eventually brought out a new illusion called “metempsychosis,” the joint invention of himself and a mr. walker. it is a very startling optical effect, and is thus described by me in my american edition of stanyon’s magic: “one of the cleverest illusions performed with the aid of mirrors is that known as the ‘blue room’, which has been exhibited in this country by kellar. it was patented in the united states by the inventors. the object of the apparatus is to render an actor, or some inanimate thing, such as a chair, table, suit of armor, etc., visible or invisible at will. ‘it is also designed,’ says the specification in the patent office, ‘to substitute for an object in sight of the audience the image of another similar object hidden from direct vision without the audience being aware that any such substitution has been made.’ for this purpose employ a large mirror—either an ordinary mirror or for some purposes, by preference, a large sheet {101} of plate-glass—which is transparent at one end and more and more densely silvered in passing from this toward the other end. mount this mirror or plate so that it can, at pleasure, be placed diagonally across the stage or platform. as it advances, the glass obscures the view of the actor or object in front of which it passes, and substitutes the reflection of an object in front of the glass, but suitably concealed from the direct view of the audience.
fig. 1. apparatus.
fig. 2. armor scene.
“when the two objects or sets of objects thus successively presented to the view are properly placed and sufficiently alike, the audience will be unaware that any change has been made. in some cases, in place of a single sheet of glass, two or more sheets may be employed.”
by consulting fig. 1, the reader will understand the construction of the illusion, one of the best in the repertoire of the {102} conjurer. the shaded drawing in the left upper part, represents a portion of the mirror, designed to show its graduated opacity.
“a is a stage. it may be in a lecture-room or theatre. bb, the seats for the audience in front of the stage. cc is a small room—eight or ten feet square and eight high will often be sufficiently large; but it may be of any size. it may advantageously be raised and approached by two or three steps from the stage a.
“d is a vertical mirror, passing diagonally across the chamber c and dividing it into two parts, which are exact counterparts the one of the other. the mirror d is so mounted that it can be rapidly and noiselessly moved diagonally across the chamber in the path represented by the dotted line d^1, and be withdrawn whenever desired. this can conveniently be done by running it in guides and upon rollers to and from a position where it is hidden by a screen, e, which limits the view of the audience in this direction.
“in consequence of the exact correspondence of the two parts of the chamber c, that in front and that behind the mirror, the audience will observe no change in appearance when the mirror is passed across.
“the front of the chamber is partially closed at cx by a shield or short partition-wall, either permanently or whenever required. this is done in order to hide from direct view any object which may be at or about the position c^1.
“the illusions may be performed in various ways—as, for example, an object may, in the sight of the audience, be passed from the stage to the position c^2, near the rear short wall or counterpart shield f, diagonally opposite to and corresponding with the front corner shield cx, and there be changed for some other. this is done by providing beforehand a dummy at c^1, closely resembling the object at c^2. then when the object is in its place, the mirror is passed across without causing any apparent change. the object, when hidden, is changed for another object externally resembling the first, the mirror is withdrawn, and the audience may then be shown in any convenient way that the object now before them differs from that which their eyesight would lead them to suppose it to be. {103}
“we prefer, in many cases, not to use an ordinary mirror, d, but one of graduated opacity. this may be produced by removing the silvering from the glass in lines; or, if the glass be silvered by chemical deposition, causing the silver to be deposited upon it in lines, somewhat as represented in fig. 1. near one side of the glass the lines are made fine and open, and progressively in passing toward the other side they become bolder and closer until a completely-silvered surface is reached. other means for obtaining a graduated opacity and reflecting power may be resorted to.
“by passing such a graduated mirror between the object at c^2 and the audience, the object may be made to fade from the sight, or gradually to resolve itself into another form.”
hopkins in his fine work on magic, stage illusions, etc., to which i contributed the introduction and other chapters, thus describes one of the many effects which can be produced by the blue room apparatus. the curtain rises, showing “the stage set as an artist’s studio. through the centre of the rear drop scene is seen a small chamber in which is a suit of armor standing upright. the floor of this apartment is raised above the level of the stage and is approached by a short flight of steps. when the curtain is raised a servant makes his appearance and begins to dust and clean the apartments. he finally comes to the suit of armor, taking it apart, cleans and dusts it, and finally reunites it. no sooner is the armor perfectly articulated than the soulless mailed figure deals the servant a blow. the domestic, with a cry of fear, drops his duster, flies down the steps into the large room, the suit of armor pursuing him, wrestling with him, and kicking him all over the stage. when the armor considers that it has punished the servant sufficiently, it returns to its original position in the small chamber, just as the master of the house enters, brought there by the noise and cries of the servant, from whom he demands an explanation of the commotion. upon being told, he derides the servant’s fear, and, to prove that he was mistaken, takes the suit of armor apart, throwing it piece by piece upon the floor.”
it is needless, perhaps, to explain that the armor which becomes endowed with life has a man inside of it. when the {104} curtain rises a suit of armor is seen in the blue room, at h, (fig. 2). at i is a second suit, concealed behind the proscenium. it is the duplicate of the visible one. when the mirror is shoved diagonally across the room, the armor at h becomes invisible, but the mirror reflects the armor concealed at i, making it appear to the spectators that the suit at h is still in position. an actor dressed in armor now enters behind the mirror, removes the suit of armor at h, and assumes its place. when the mirror is again withdrawn, the armor at h becomes endowed with life. again the mirror is shoved across the apartment, and the actor replaces the original suit of armor at h. it is this latter suit which the master of the house takes to pieces and casts upon the floor, in order to quiet the fears of the servant. this most ingenious apparatus is capable of many novel effects. those who have witnessed professor kellar’s performance will bear witness to the statement. when the illusion was first produced in england a sketch entitled curried prawns was written for it by the famous comic author, burnand, editor of punch.
an old gentleman, after having partaken freely of a dish of curried prawns, washed down by copious libations of wine, retires to bed, and very naturally “sees things.” who would not under such circumstances? he has a dreadful nightmare, during which ghosts, goblins, vampires and witches visit him. the effects are produced by the mirror.
when i was searching among the books of the bibliothèque nationale, paris, for material concerning robertson and others, a very remarkable ghost show was all the rage in the montmartre quarter of the city, based on the pepper illusion. i will endeavor to describe it. it was held at the cabaret du néant, or tavern of the dead. “anything for a new sensation” is the motto of the boulevardier. death is no laughing matter, but the gay parisian is ready to mock even at the grim tyrant, hence the vogue of the tavern of the dead. i went to this lugubrious cabaret in company with a student of medicine. he seemed to {105} think the whole affair a huge joke, but then he was a hair-brained, thoughtless young fellow.
the inn of death was located in the rue cujas, near by the rue champollion. over its grim black-painted portal burned an ashy blue and brimstone flame. it seemed like entering a charnel house. my student friend led the way down a gloomy passage into a room hung with funeral cloth. coffins served as tables, and upon each was placed a lighted taper. from the ceiling hung a grewsome-looking chandelier, known as “robert macaire’s chandelier.” it was formed of skulls and bones. in the skulls were placed lights. the waiters of the cabaret were garbed like croque-morts (undertaker’s men). in sepulchral tones one of these gloomy-looking garçons, a trifle more cadaverous than his confrères, sidled up to us like a huge black raven and croaked out, “name your poison, gentlemen. we have on tap distilled grave-worms, deadly microbes, the bacteria of all diseases under the sun,” etc. whatever one called for in this undertaking establishment, the result was the same—beer of doubtful quality. after drinking a bock we descended a flight of grimy stairs to another apartment which was hung with black cloth, ornamented with white tears, like the decorations furnished by the pompes funèbres (undertakers’ trust) of paris, on state occasions. here we were solemnly greeted by a couple of quasi capuchin monks with the words: “voilà des machabées!” we seated ourselves on a wooden bench and waited for the séance to begin. among the spectators were several students and their grisettes, a little piou-piou (soldier), and a fat gentleman with a waxed moustache and imperial, who might have been a chef de cuisine in disguise or a member of the académie française. a curtain at one end of the room was pulled aside, revealing a stage set to represent a mouldy crypt, in the center of which stood upright an empty coffin. a volunteer being called for, my medical friend agreed to stand in the grim box for the dead. one of the monks wrapped about the young man’s body a winding sheet. a strong light was turned on him. presently a deathly pallor overcame the ruddy hue of health on his cheeks. his face assumed the waxen color of death. his eyes resolved themselves {106} into cavernous sockets; his nose disappeared; and presently his visage was metamorphosed into a grinning skull. the illusion was perfect. during this ghastly transformation the monks intoned: “voilà machabæus! he dies! he wastes away! dust to dust! the eternal worm awaits you all!” a church bell was solemnly tolled and an organ played. the scene would have delighted that stern genius, hans holbein, whose dance of death has chilled many a human heart. we looked again, and the skeleton in the coffin vanished. “he has risen to heaven!” cried the capuchins.
in a little while the figure reappeared. the fleshless skull was merged into the face of my friend. he stepped out of the box, throwing aside the shroud, and greeted me with a merry laugh. other people volunteered to undergo the death scene. after the exhibition was over one of the capuchins passed around a skull for penny contributions, and we left the place.
now for an explanation of the illusion.
a sheet of glass is placed obliquely across the stage in front of the coffin. at the side of this stage, hidden by the proscenium, is another coffin containing a skeleton robed in white. when the electric lights surrounding the first coffin are turned off and the casket containing the skeleton highly illuminated, the spectators see the reflection of the latter in the glass and imagine that it is the coffin in which the volunteer has been placed. to resurrect the man the lights are reversed.
the romance of automata.
“ ‘what!’ i said to myself, ‘can it be possible that the marvelous science which raised vaucanson’s name so high—the science whose ingenious combinations can animate inert matter, and impart to it a species of existence—is the only one without its archives?’ ”—robert-houdin.
automata have played an important part in the magic of ancient temples, and in the séances of mediæval sorcerers. who has not read of the famous “brazen head,” constructed by friar bacon, and the wonderful machines of albertus magnus? modern conjurers have introduced automata into their entertainments with great effect, as witness pinetti’s “wise little turk,” kempelen’s “chess player,” houdin’s “pastry cook of the palais royal,” kellar’s “hindoo clock,” maskelyne’s “psycho,” etc. but these automata have been such in name only, the motive power usually being furnished by the conjurer’s alter ego, or concealed assistant.
the so-called automaton chess player is enveloped with a halo of romance. it had a remarkable history. it was constructed in the year 1769 by the baron von kempelen, a hungarian nobleman and mechanician, and exhibited by him at the leading courts of europe. the empress maria theresa of austria played a game with it. in 1783 it was brought to paris and shown at the café de la regence, the rendezvous of chess lovers and experts, after which it was taken to london. kempelen died on the 26th of march, 1804, and his son sold the chess player to j. n. maelzel, musician, inventor and mechanician, who was born at ratisbon, bavaria, in 1772. his father was a celebrated organ-builder. {108}
maelzel was the inventor of the metronome (1815), a piece of mechanism known to all instructors of music: the automaton trumpeter (1808), and the pan-harmonicum (1805). he had a strange career as the exhibitor of the chess player. after showing the automaton in various cities of europe, maelzel sold it to napoleon’s step-son, eugène beauharnais, the viceroy of the kingdom of italy. but the old love of “adventurous travel with the turbaned turk” took possession of him, and he succeeded in buying back the chess player from its royal owner. he went to paris with it in 1817 and 1818, afterwards to london, meeting everywhere with success. in 1826 he brought it to america. the chess player excited the greatest interest throughout the united states. noted chess experts did their best to defeat it, but rarely succeeded.
now for a description of the automaton.
the audience was introduced into a large room, at one end of which hung crimson curtains. these curtains being drawn aside, maelzel rolled forward a box on castors. behind the box or {109} table, which was two feet and a half high, three feet and a half long, and two feet wide, was seated cross-legged, the figure of a turk. the chair on which the figure was affixed was permanently attached to the box. at the top of the box was a chess-board. the figure had its eyes fixed intently upon this board, its right hand and arm being extended towards the board, its left, which was somewhat raised, holding a long pipe.
four doors, two in front, and two in the rear of the box, were opened, and a lighted candle thrust into the cavities. nothing was to be seen except cog wheels, levers, and intricate machinery. a long drawer, which contained the chessmen and a cushion, was pulled out. two doors in the turk’s body were thrown open, and the candle held inside, to satisfy the spectators that nothing but machinery was contained therein.
maelzel wound up the automaton with a large key, took away the pipe, and placed the cushion under the arm of the figure. curious to relate the automaton played with its left hand. in von kempelen’s day, the person selected to play with the figure, sat at the same chess-board with it, but maelzel altered this. a rope separated the machine from the audience, and the player sat at a small table, provided with a chess-board, some ten or twelve feet away from the turk.
the automaton invariably chose the white chess-men, and made the first move, its fingers opening as the hand was extended towards the board, and the piece picked up and removed to its proper square.
when his antagonist had made his move, the automaton paused and appeared to study the game, before proceeding further. it nodded its head to indicate check to the king. if a false move was made by its opponent, it rapped on the table, and replaced the piece, claiming the move for itself. maelzel, acting for the human player, repeated his move on the chess-board of the turk, and when the latter moved, made the corresponding move on the board of the challenger. the whirring of machinery was heard during the progress of the game, but this was simply a blind. it subserved two purposes: first, to induce the spectators to believe that the automaton was really operated by ingenious mechanism, {110} second, to disguise the noise made by the concealed confederate as he shifted himself from one compartment to the other, as the various doors were opened and shut in succession. no machine could possibly be constructed to imitate the human mind when engaged in playing chess, or any other mental operation where the indeterminate enters and which requires knowledge and reflection. but the majority of people who saw the automaton did not realize this fact, and pronounced it a pure machine.
signor blitz, the conjurer, who was intimate with maelzel, having frequently given entertainments in conjunction with him, was possessed of the secret of the turk. in his memoirs, he says: “the chess player was ingeniously constructed—a perfect counterpart of a magician’s trick-table with a variety of partitions and doors, which, while they removed every possible appearance of deception, only produced greater mystery, and provided more security to the invisible player. the drawers and closets were so arranged as to enable him to change his position according to circumstances: at one moment he would be in this compartment; the next in that; then in the body of the turk.”
he says this concealed assistant was named schlumberger.
william schlumberger was a native of alsace, a remarkable chess expert and linguist. maelzel picked him up in the café de la regence, paris, where he eked out a meagre living as a teacher of chess.
occasionally, schlumberger would over-indulge in wine, and as a result would be beaten, while acting as the motive power of the turk. “on one occasion,” says professor allen, “just as maelzel was bringing the turk out from behind the curtain, a strange noise was heard to proceed from his interior organization, something between a rattle, a cough, and a sneeze. maelzel pushed back his ally in evident alarm, but presently brought him forward again, and went on with the exhibition as if nothing had happened.” {111}
schlumberger not only acted as confederate, but served his employer as secretary and clerk.
edgar allen poe, who wrote an exposé of the automaton when it visited richmond, remarked: “there is a man, schlumberger, who attends him (maelzel) wherever he goes, but who has no ostensible occupation other than that of assisting in packing and unpacking of the automaton. whether he professes to play chess or not, we are not informed. it is quite certain, however, that he is never to be seen during the exhibition of the chess player, although frequently visible just before and after the exhibition. moreover, some years ago maelzel visited richmond with his automaton. schlumberger was suddenly taken ill, and during his illness there was no exhibition of the chess player. these facts are well known to many of our citizens. the reason assigned for the suspension of the chess player’s performances was not the illness of schlumberger. the inferences from all this we leave, without further comment, to the reader.”
edgar allen poe, the apostle of mystery, certainly hit the nail on the head here, and solved the problem of the automaton.
maelzel, in addition to the chess player, exhibited his own inventions, which were really automatons, also the famous panorama, “the burning of moscow.” after a splendid tour throughout the states, he went to havana, cuba, where poor schlumberger died of yellow fever. on the return trip maelzel himself died, and was buried at sea. this was in 1838.
the famous turk, with other of maelzel’s effects, was sold {112} at public auction in philadelphia. the automaton was bought by dr. j. k. mitchell, reconstructed, and privately exhibited by him for the amusement of his friends. finally it was deposited in the chinese museum, where it remained for fourteen years, with the dust accumulating upon it. here the chess player rested from his labors, a superannuated, broken down pensioner, dreaming, if automatons can dream, of his past adventures, until the year 1854. on july 5 of that year a great fire destroyed the museum, and the turbaned turk was burnt to ashes. better such a fate than rotting to pieces in the cellar of some old warehouse, forgotten and abandoned.
now for houdin’s entertaining story of the chess player. in the year 1796, a revolt broke out in a half-russian, half-polish regiment stationed at riga, capital of livonia, russia. at the head of the rebels was an officer named worousky, a man of talent and energy. he was of short stature, but well built. the revolutionists were defeated in a pitched battle and put to flight {113} by the russians. worousky had both thighs shattered by a cannon ball and fell on the battle field. however, he escaped from the general massacre of his comrades by casting himself into a ditch near a hedge, not far from the house of a doctor named osloff. at nightfall he dragged himself with great difficulty to the house, and was taken in by the benevolent physician, who promised to conceal him. osloff eventually had to amputate both of worousky’s legs, close to the body. the operation was successful. during this time, the famous baron von kempelen came to russia, and paid dr. osloff a visit. he also took compassion upon the crippled polish officer. it seems that worousky was a master of the game of chess, and repeatedly defeated osloff and kempelen. kempelen then conceived the idea of the automaton chess player, as a means of assisting worousky to escape from russia, and immediately set about building it. it was completed in june, 1796. in order to avert suspicion osloff and kempelen determined to play at several of the smaller towns and cities before reaching the frontier.
the first performance was given at toula. says houdin: “i possess a copy of the original bill, which was given me by m. hessler, nephew of dr. osloff, who also supplied me with all these details. worousky won every game he played at toula, and the papers were full of praises of the automaton. assured of success by the brilliancy of their début, m. de kempelen and his companion proceeded towards the frontier.”
worousky was concealed from sight, while traveling, in the enormous chest which held the chess player. air holes were made in the sides of the chest to enable him to breathe. they arrived without adventure at vitebsk, on the road to the prussian frontier, when a letter came summoning them to the imperial palace at st. petersburg. the empress catherine ii, having heard of the automaton’s wonderful talent, desired to play a game with it. they dared not refuse this demand. worousky, who had a price set on his head, was the coolest of the three, and seemed delighted at the idea of playing with the empress. after fifteen days travel they reached st. petersburg. kempelen had the automaton carried to the palace in the same chest in which {114} it traveled, thereby secretly conveying worousky thither. the chess player was set up in the library, and at the appointed hour catherine ii, followed by a numerous suite, entered and took her place at the chess-board. the members of the court took their places behind the empress. kempelen never allowed anyone to pass behind the automaton, and would not consent to begin the game till all the spectators were in front of the board.
“the chest and the turk’s body were then examined, and when all were perfectly convinced they contained nothing but clockwork, the game began. it proceeded for some time in perfect silence, but catherine’s frowning brow speedily revealed that the automaton was not very gallant towards her, and fully deserved the reputation it had gained. the skillful mussulman captured a bishop and a knight, and the game was turning much to the disadvantage of the lady, when the turk, suddenly forgetting his dignified gravity, gave a violent blow on his cushion, and pushed back a piece his adversary had just moved.
“catherine ii had attempted to cheat; perhaps to try the skill of the automaton, or for some other reason. at any rate the haughty empress, unwilling to confess her weakness, replaced the piece on the same square, and regarded the automaton with an air of imperious authority. the result was most unexpected—the turk upset all the pieces with a blow of his hand, and immediately the clock work, which had been heard during the whole game, stopped. it seemed as if the machinery had got out of repair. pale and trembling, m. de kempelen, recognizing in this worousky’s impetuous temper, awaited the issue of this conflict between the insurgent and his sovereign.
“ ‘ah, ah! my good automaton! your manners are rather rough,’ the empress said, good humoredly, not sorry to see a game she had small chance of winning end thus. ‘oh! you are a famous player, i grant; but you were afraid of losing the game, and so prudently upset the pieces. well, i am now quite convinced of your skill and your violent character.’
“m. de kempelen began to breathe again, and regaining courage, tried to remove the unfavorable impression which the little {115} respect shown by the automaton must have produced. hence he said, humbly:
“ ‘will your majesty allow me to offer an explanation of what has just happened?’
“ ‘by no means, m. de kempelen,’ catherine said, heartily,—‘by no means; on the contrary, i find it most amusing, and your automaton pleases me so much that i wish to purchase it. i shall thus always have near me a player, somewhat quick perhaps, but yet able to hold his own. you can leave it here tonight, and come tomorrow morning to arrange the price.’
“there is strong reason to believe that catherine wished to commit an indiscretion when she evinced a desire that the figure should remain at the palace till next morning. fortunately, the skillful mechanician managed to baffle her feminine curiosity by carrying worousky off in the big chest. the automaton remained in the library, but the player was no longer there.
“the next day catherine renewed her proposition to purchase the chess player, but kempelen made her understand that, as the figure could not perform without him, he could not possibly sell it. the empress allowed the justice of these arguments; and, while complimenting the mechanician on his invention, made him a handsome present.
“three months after the automaton was in england, under the management of mr. anthon, to whom kempelen had sold it. i know not if worousky was still attached to it, but i fancy so, owing to the immense success the chess player met with. mr. anthon visited the whole of europe, always meeting with the same success; but, at his death, the celebrated automaton was purchased by maelzel, who embarked with it for new york. it was then, probably, worousky took leave of his hospitable turk, for the automaton was not nearly so successful in america. after exhibiting his mechanical trumpeter and chess player for some time, maelzel set out again for france, but died on the passage, of an attack of indigestion. his heirs sold his apparatus, and thus cronier obtained his precious relic.” the chess player caused the greatest amount of discussion in its time. at the solicitation of a leading theatrical manager of paris, houdin {116} arranged the trick for a melodrama, in which catherine ii of russia was one of the characters.
i now come to the celebrated inventions of maskelyne which were exhibited at egyptian hall, london. first on the list comes the automaton whist player, “psycho,” which far exceeds the chess player of von kempelen in ingenious construction. its secret has never been divulged.
says the encyclopedia britannica: “in 1875 maskelyne and cooke produced at the egyptian hall, in london, an automaton whist player, ‘psycho,’ which from the manner in which it is placed upon the stage, appears to be perfectly isolated from any {117} mechanical communication from without . . . the arm has all the complicated movements necessary for chess or draught playing; and ‘psycho’ calculates any sum up to a total of 99,000,000. . . . ‘psycho’, an oriental figure, sitting cross-legged on a box, is supported by a single large cylinder of clear glass, which as originally exhibited, stood upon the carpet of the stage, but was afterwards set loose upon a small stool, having solid wood feet; moreover, this automaton may be placed in almost any number of different ways. . . . it may be mentioned that in the same year in which ‘psycho’ appeared, the joint inventors patented a method of controlling the speed of clockwork mechanism by compressed air or gas stored in the pedestal of an automaton, this compressed air acting upon a piston in a cylinder and also upon a rotating fan when a valve is opened by ‘an electrical or other connection worked by the foot of the performer or an assistant.’ but it is not known whether the principle obscurely described in the specification was applicable in any way to the invisible agency employed in ‘psycho,’ or whether it had reference to some other invention which has never been realized.”
a very clever exposé of “psycho” was published in an english newspaper, november, 1877. that it is the correct one, i am by no means certain. but an ingenious mechanic by carrying out its provisions would be enabled to construct an excellent imitation of the maskelyne so-called automaton.
“a sheet of plate glass is exhibited freely to the audience and proved to contain no electric wires or mechanism. this glass plate is then suspended horizontally in the center of the stage by four cords hooked to its corners. an ordinary looking music-box is then brought in by the assistant. it is opened, so that {120} the audience can see the usual mechanism within. the music-box is now placed on the glass plate and the performer comes down among the spectators. notwithstanding the isolation of the box the command of the performer suffices to cause it to play, or cease, in obedience to his will. it matters not in what part of the room the conjurer goes—his word is enough to make silence or harmony issue from the box, always beginning where it left off and never skipping a note. the simple cause of this marvelous effect lies in the mechanism of the box and in its mode of suspension.
“a small music box of this kind is shown in fig. 5. the box is seen with its mechanism removed and resting upon it. in addition to the usual cylinder, comb and wheel-work, there is a device for starting and stopping the box when it is tilted slightly endwise. this consists of a light shaft delicately pivoted and carrying at one end a lead weight (seen just in front of the cylinder), and at the other end an arm of light wire whose far end is bent down so as to engage the fly of the wheel-work. in fig. 5 the mechanism is tilted so that the wire arm is raised; the fly is now free to revolve and the box plays.
“a front view of the mechanism is shown in fig. 6. here the arm is down, arresting the motion of the fly and producing {121} silence. when the box is resting on the glass plate an assistant behind the scenes causes the plate to tilt slightly up or down by raising or lowering the cords which support one end. the mechanism of the box is so delicately adjusted that an imperceptible motion of the plate is sufficient to control its playing.”
john nevil maskelyne, a descendant of nevil maskelyne, the eminent astronomer and physicist, was born in cheltenham, england, and like houdin was apprenticed to a watchmaker. at an early age, he manifested a wonderful aptitude for mechanics. he employed most of his spare time while working at the trade of horology in devising and building optical and mechanical apparatus for show purposes. in this respect his career exactly parallels that of robert-houdin. he was likewise interested in sleight of hand tricks, but never carried the art to perfection like the french magician. later in life he abandoned legerdemain entirely and devoted himself exclusively to the construction of mechanical illusions. in this line, he has no equal. most of the really clever and original illusions brought out within the past twenty years have emanated from his fertile brain. houdin, maskelyne, and buatier de kolta are the three great inventors of magic tricks and illusions. one day the davenport brothers came to cheltenham and gave an exhibition of their alleged mediumistic powers at the town hall. young maskelyne was selected as one of a committee to tie the brothers and examine their mystic cabinet. the falling of a piece of drugget, used to exclude light from one of the windows of the hall, enabled maskelyne to see ira davenport eject some of the musical instruments from the cabinet, and re-secure himself with the ropes. delighted at discovering the trick, the young watchmaker soon devised an imitation of the davenport exhibition. aided by a mr. cooke, afterwards his partner in the show business, he gave an exposé of the davenport business, first at cheltenham, and afterwards throughout england. subsequently he located at st. james hall, and afterwards at egyptian hall, london. mr. {122} maskelyne was called as an expert witness in the trial of the impostor, dr. henry slade, and performed in the witness-box all of the medium’s “slate tests,” to the great astonishment of the court. as a consequence of these revelations, dr. slade was sentenced to three months in jail, but he escaped imprisonment owing to legal technicalities interposed by his attorneys, and fled to the continent. mr. maskelyne has written a clever exposé of gambling devices, entitled, sharps and flats, and various magazine articles on conjuring.
in the year 1904, he and mr. cooke moved their show to st. george’s hall, having outgrown the old quarters at egyptian hall. since that time mr. cooke died at an advanced age. associated with mr. maskelyne and his son is david devant, a good sleight of hand performer.
robert-houdin—conjurer, author and ambassador.
“robert-houdin was a man of remarkable ingenuity and insight. his autobiography is throughout interesting and psychologically valuable, and his conjuring precepts abound in points of importance to the psychologist.”—joseph jastrow: “fact and fable in psychology.”
“to robert-houdin i feel i owe a double debt; first, for the great satisfaction i have had in such slight skill as i have acquired in his art, and, secondly, for such an insight into its underlying principles as to keep me clear of all danger from evanescent delusions which follow one another in fashion.”—brander matthews: “books that have helped me.”
nostradamus is said to have constructed a magic mirror of great power. in its shining surface, he conjured up many remarkable visions. but i know of a more wonderful wizard’s glass than that of the french necromancer. it is the “mirror of the mind”—that mystery of mysteries. i am able, at will, to evoke in it a phantasmagoria of the past. i need no aid from cabalistic spells, no burning of incense. presto!—a picture appears radiant with light and life. i see a wainscoted room in a quaint old mansion. logs are ablaze on the hearthstone. a boy is ensconced in the deep embrasure of the window. he is immersed in a book, and entirely oblivious of the scene without, where the snow king is busy laying a white pall upon the frozen earth. snow flakes like white butterflies skim hither and thither. the wind rumbles mournfully in the chimneys like a lost spirit. it is the witching christmas tide, when of old the magi led by the burning star (the weird pentagram of the initiates) came from afar to visit the lowly cradle of the nazarene {124} child. beautiful old legend! it still haunts these later years of mine, breathing joy and peace ineffable; for is it not an allegory of the search for, and the discovery of, the lost word of the adepts of the temples—the word that signifies eternal life?
let us take a peep over the reader’s shoulder, at the volume in his hand. it is the autobiography of “robert-houdin, conjurer, author, and ambassador.” and the reader is myself. o vanished years of boyhood: you still live in the magic mirror of memory! and intimately associated with those years is the mystic book of robert-houdin. can i ever forget the enjoyment i had in poring over the faded yellow leaves of that fascinating work? happy the youth who early dips into its golden pages. the arabian nights forms a fitting prologue to it. i followed houdin in the conjurer’s caravan; rejoiced in his successes at the palais royal; and in far-off algeria, watched him exhibiting his magic feats before the marabouts.
speaking of this autobiography, professor brander matthews of columbia college, new york, says: “these confidences of a prestidigitateur are worthy of comparison with all but the very best autobiographies—if not with cellini’s and franklin’s, at least with cibber’s and goldoni’s. robert-houdin’s life of himself, quite as well as any of the others, would justify longfellow’s assertion that ‘autobiography is what biography ought to be.’ ”
in my humble opinion houdin’s autobiography is worthy to be classed with the best, even that of cellini and franklin; yes, even with chateaubriand’s superb memories beyond the tomb. it is replete with interesting information about old time necromancers; constructors of automata; good stories of contemporary magicians; exposés of marabout miracles; and last, but not least, the fascinating adventures of houdin himself,—the archmaster of modern magic. it bears the stamp of truth on every page, and should be placed in the hands of all students of psychology and pedagogy. his trickeries of the greeks, an exposé of gambling devices, is also an interesting work and should be read in conjunction with his stage magic and conjuring and magic.
the confidences end with houdin’s retirement from the stage to his villa at st. gervais, near blois. the book on {125} conjuring and magic gives us a slight sketch of his villa and the ingenious contrivances arranged therein for the amusement and mystification of visitors. the curtain, alas, then rings down on the scene. the theatre is left dark and cold. we are told nothing more concerning the great conjurer’s life, or the manner of his death. all is a blank. through my own efforts, however, and those of my friends made in recent years, at my instigation, i have been able to supply the missing data. it is very entertaining indeed. but let us begin at the beginning.
on a certain day in the year 1843, the count de l’escalopier, a scion of the old régime of france, and a great lover of curios, was strolling along the rue de vendôme, in the marais quarter, of paris. he stopped to look at some mechanical toys displayed in the window of a dark little shop, over the door of which was painted the following modest sign: “m. robert-houdin, pendules de précision.” this sign noted the fact that the proprietor was a watchmaker, and that his wares were distinguished for precise running. what particularly attracted the nobleman’s attention was a peculiar looking clock of clearest crystal that ran apparently without works, the invention of m. robert-houdin. the count, who was a great lover of science amusante, or science wedded to recreation, purchased the magic clock, and better than that, made the acquaintance of the inventor, the obscure watchmaker, who was destined to become a great prestidigitateur, author, and ambassador. the count became a frequent visitor at houdin’s shop, to watch the construction of various automata, which the inventor intended some day to use in public performances. says houdin: “a kind of intimacy having thus become established between m. de l’escalopier and myself, i was naturally led to talk to him of my projects of appearing in public; and, in order to justify them, i had given him, on more than one occasion, specimens of my skill in sleight of hand. prompted doubtless by his friendly feelings, my spectator steadily applauded me, and gave me the warmest encouragement to put my schemes into actual practice. count de l’escalopier, who was the {126} possessor of a considerable fortune, lived in one of those splendid houses which surround the square which has been called royale, or des vosges, according to the color of the flag of our masters of the time being. i myself lived in a humble lodging in the rue de vendôme, in the marais, but the wide disproportion in the style of our respective dwelling-places did not prevent the nobleman and the artist from addressing each other as ‘my dear neighbor,’ or sometimes even as ‘my dear friend.’
“my neighbor then being, as i have just stated, warmly interested in my projects, was constantly talking of them; and in order to give me opportunities of practice in my future profession, and to enable me to acquire that confidence in which i was then wanting, he frequently invited me to pass the evening in the company of a few friends of his own, whom i was delighted to amuse with my feats of dexterity. it was after a dinner given by m. de l’escalopier to the archbishop of paris, monseigneur affre, with whom he was on intimate terms, that i had the honor of being presented to the reverend prelate as a mechanician and future magician, and that i performed before him a selection of the best of my experiments.
“at that period—i don’t say it in order to gratify a retrospective vanity—my skill in sleight of hand was of a high order. i am warranted in this belief by the fact that my numerous audiences exhibited the greatest wonderment at my performance, and that the archbishop himself paid me, in his own handwriting, a compliment which i can not refrain from here relating.
“i had reserved for the last item of my programme a trick which, to use a familiar expression, i had at my fingers’ ends. in effect it was shortly as follows:—after having requested the spectators carefully to examine a large envelope sealed on all sides, i handed it to the archbishop’s grand vicar, begging him to keep it in his own possession. next, handing to the prelate himself a small slip of paper, i requested him to write thereon, secretly, a sentence, or whatever he might choose to think of; the paper was then folded in four, and (apparently) burnt. but scarcely was it consumed and the ashes scattered to the winds, than, handing the envelope to the archbishop, i requested him to open it. the first envelope being removed a second was found, sealed in like manner; then another, until a dozen envelopes, one inside another, had been opened, the last containing the scrap of paper restored intact. it was passed from hand to hand, and each read as follows:—
“ ‘though i do not claim to be a prophet, i venture to predict, sir, that you will achieve brilliant success in your future career.’ {128}
“i begged monseigneur affre’s permission to keep the autograph in question, which he very graciously gave me.”
poor archbishop affre; he was killed at the barricades in the revolution of 1848. though he confessed that he was no prophet, yet his prediction was fulfilled to the letter. houdin became the foremost conjurer of his age, of any age in fact, and has left to posterity more than a name:—his fascinating memoirs, and several works in which the psychology of deception is treated in a masterly manner. the slip of paper given to him by the archbishop he preserved as a religious relic. “i kept it,” he said, “in a secret corner of my pocket-book which i always carried about my person. during my travels in algeria i had the misfortune to lose both this pocket-book and the precious object it contained.”
after the séance recorded above, the count de l’escalopier urged houdin continually to abandon the watchmaking and mechanical-toy trade and go on the stage as a prestidigitateur. finally houdin confessed his inability to do so, owing to lack of means, whereupon the kind-hearted nobleman exclaimed: “mon cher ami, i have at home, at this very moment, ten thousand francs or so, which i really don’t know what to do with. do me the favor to borrow them for an indefinite period: you will be doing me an actual service.”
but houdin would not accept the offer, for he was loth to risk a friend’s money in a theatrical speculation. the count in a state of pique left the shop and did not return for many days. then he rushed excitedly into the workroom, sank upon a chair, and exclaimed:
“my dear neighbor, since you are determined not to accept a favor from me, i have now come to beg one of you. this is the status of the case. for the last year my desk has been robbed from time to time of very considerable sums of money. in vain have i endeavored to ascertain the thief. i have sent away my servants, one after another. i have had the place watched, changed the locks, and placed secret fastenings on the doors, but none of these safeguards and precautions have foiled the cunning of the miscreant. this very morning a couple of thousand {129} franc-notes disappeared. think of the frightful position the entire family is placed in. can you not come to my assistance?”
“count,” replied houdin, “i fail to see how i can help you in the present instance. my magic power, unfortunately, extends only to my finger tips.”
“that is true,” said the count, “but you have a mighty aid in mechanics.”
“mechanics,” exclaimed the magician. “stop a bit! i remember when i was a boy at school that i invented a primitive piece of apparatus to apprehend a rascal who was in the habit of stealing my boyish possessions. i will improve upon that idea. come to see me in a few days.”
from his inner consciousness he evolved a singularly ingenious contrivance, designed not only to discover a thief, but to brand him indelibly for his crime. in brief let me describe it. it was an apparatus to be fastened to the inside of a desk. when the desk was unlocked, and the lid raised ever so little, a pistol was discharged; at the same time a claw-like arrangement, attached to a light rod and impelled by a spring, came sharply down on the back of the hand which held the key. this claw was a tatooing instrument. it consisted of “a number of very short but sharp points, so arranged as to form the word robber. these points were brought through a pad impregnated with nitrate of silver, a portion of which was forced by the blow into the punctures, and made the scars indelible for life.”
when the count saw this apparatus at work, the inventor using a heavily-padded glove to prevent being wounded by the claw, he objected to it strenuously, remarking that he had no right to brand a criminal. that was the province of justice. he also argued that it would be wrong from a humanitarian standpoint. a poor wretch thus branded could only get rid of it by a horrible self-mutilation. if he failed in his endeavor, it might close the door of repentance forever against him, and class him permanently among the enemies of the social order. “worse than that,” said the count, “suppose some member of {130} my family by inadvertence, or through some fatal mistake, should fall a victim to our stern precautions; and then⸺”
“you are quite right!” said houdin. “i had not thought of those objections. i was carried away by my enthusiasm as an inventor. you are quite right! i will alter the apparatus at once.”
in the place of the branding contrivance, he inserted a kind of cat’s-claw, which would make a slight scratch on the hand—a mere superficial wound, readily healed. the count was satisfied with the alteration, and the apparatus was secretly fixed to the desk in the nobleman’s bed-room.
in order to stimulate the cupidity of the robber, the count drew considerable money from his bankers. he even made a pretence of leaving paris on a trip to a short distance. but the bait did not take. sixteen days passed away. the count had almost despaired of catching the culprit, when one morning while reading in his library, which was some little distance from the bed-room, he heard the report of a pistol.
“ah,” he exclaimed, excitedly. “the robber at last.” picking up the first weapon to hand, a battle axe from a stand of ancestral armor near by, he ran quickly to the bed-room. there stood his trusted valet, bernard, who had been in his household for many years.
“what are you doing here?” asked the count.
with great coolness and audacity, bernard explained that he had been brought thither by the noise of the explosion, and had just seen a man making his escape down the back stairs. the count rushed down the stairs only to find the door locked. a frightful thought overcame him: “could bernard be the thief?” he returned to the bed-room. the valet, he noticed, kept his right hand behind him. the count dragged it forcibly in sight, and saw that it was covered with blood.
“infamous scoundrel!” said the nobleman, as he flung the man from him in disgust.
“mercy, mercy!” cried the criminal, falling upon his knees. {131}
“how long have you been robbing me?” asked the count, sternly.
“for nearly two years.”
“and how much have you taken?”
“i cannot tell exactly. perhaps 15,000 francs, or thereabouts.”
“we will call it 15,000 francs. you may keep the rest. what have you done with the money?”
“i have invested it in government stock. the scrip is in my desk.”
the thief yielded up the securities to the amount of fifteen thousand francs, and wrote a confession of his guilt, which he signed in the presence of a witness. the kind-hearted nobleman, bidding the valet repent of his crime, forthwith dismissed him from his employ, agreeing not to prosecute him provided he led an honest life. one year from that date, the wretched bernard died. remorse hastened his end.
m. de l’escalopier took the money thus recovered to houdin, saying: “i do hope, my dear friend, that you will no longer refuse me the pleasure of lending you this sum, which i owe entirely to your ingenuity and mechanical skill. take it, return it to me just when you like, with the understanding that it is to be repaid only out of the profits of your theatre.”
overcome by emotion at the generosity of his benefactor, houdin embraced the count. “this embrace,” he says, “was the only security which m. de l’escalopier would accept from me.”
this was the turning point of the conjurer’s life. “it is an ill wind that blows nobody good.”
with this money houdin without further delay built in the palais royal a little theatre. “the galleries which surround the garden of the palais royal are divided,” says houdin, “into successive arches, occupied by shops. above these arches there are, on the first floor, spacious suites of apartments, used as public assembly rooms, clubs, cafés, etc. it was in the space occupied by one of these suites, at no. 164 of the rue de valois, {132} that i built my theatre, which extended, in width, over three of the above-mentioned arches; and in length the distance between the garden of the palais royal and the rue de valois, or, in other words, the whole depth of the building.” the dimensions of this miniature theatre were very limited. it would not seat over two hundred people. though the seats were few in number, their prices were tolerably high. children were paid for as grown persons.
the palais royal was formerly the residence of cardinal richelieu, the “red duke,” and afterwards became the home of the orléans family. the regent d’orléans, in the reign of louis xv, experimented with magic mirrors in this building. it was in the palais royal that the french revolution was hatched. could a more favorable place have been selected in which to start a revolution in conjuring? i think not.
the following is the announcement of houdin’s first performance, which appeared on the bill-boards of paris:
aujourd’hui jeudi, 3 juillet 1845. première représentation des soirées fantastiques de robert-houdin.
“on this day,” says houdin, “by a strange coincidence, the hippodrome and the ‘fantastic soirées’ of robert-houdin, the largest and smallest stage in paris, were opened to the public. the 3d of july, 1845, saw two bills placarded on the walls of paris; one enormous belonging to the hippodrome, while the other of far more modest proportions, announced my performances. still as in the fable of the reed and the oak, the large theatre, in spite of the skill of the managers, has undergone many changes of fortune; while the smaller one has continually enjoyed the public favor. i have sacredly kept a proof of my first bill, the form and color of which have always remained the same since that date. i copy it word for word here, both to {133} furnish an idea of its simplicity, and to display the programme of the experiments i then offered to the public:”—
the fantastic soirées
automata, sleight of hand, magic
the performance will be composed of entirely novel experiments invented by m. robert-houdin
among them being:
the cabalistic clock auriol and debureau the orange-tree the mysterious bouquet the handkerchief pierrot in the egg obedient cards the miraculous fish the fascinating owl the pastrycook of the palais royal
to commence at eight o’clock
box-office open at half-past seven
price of places: upper boxes, 1 fr. 50 c.; stalls, 3 fr.; boxes, 4 fr.; dress circle, 5 fr.
these fantastic evenings soon became popular. when the revolution of 1848 ruined the majority of parisian theater managers, houdin simply locked the door of his hall, and retired to his little workshop to invent new tricks and automata. his loss was very slight, for he was under no great expense. when order was restored, he resumed the soirées magiques. the newspapers rallied to his assistance and made playful allusions to his {134} being related to the family of robert le diable. the leading illustrated journals sent artists to draw pictures of his stage. houdin found time, amid all his labors, to edit a little paper which he called cagliostro, full of bon mots and pleasantries, to say nothing of cartoons. copies of this petit journal pour rire were distributed among the spectators at each performance.
as each theatrical season opened, houdin had some new marvel to present to his audiences. his maxims were: “it is more difficult to support admiration than to excite it.” “the fashion an artist enjoys can only last as long as his talent daily increases.” houdin had but few, if any, rivals in his day. his tricks were all new, or so improved as to appear new. he swept everything before him. when he went to london for a prolonged engagement, anderson, the “wizard of the north,” who was a great favorite with the public, retired into the provinces with his antique repertoire. what had the english conjurer to offer alongside of such unique novelties as the second sight, aerial suspension, inexhaustible bottle, mysterious portfolio, crystal cash box, shower of gold, light and heavy chest, orange tree, the crystal clock, and the automaton figures auriol and debureau, the pastry cook of the palais royal, etc., etc.
jean-eugène robert (houdin) was born on december 6, 1805, in the quaint old city of blois, the birth-place of louis xii. and of papin, the inventor of the steam engine. napoleon was at the zenith of his fame, and had just fought the bloody battle of austerlitz.
luckily for the subject of this sketch, he was born too late to serve as food for powder. he lived to grow to man’s estate and honorable old age, and became the veritable napoleon of necromancy. his career makes fascinating reading. houdin’s father was a watchmaker, and from him he inherited his remarkable mechanical genius. at the age of eleven, jean-eugène was sent to college at orleans. on the completion of his studies, he entered a notary’s office at blois, but spent most of his time inventing little mechanical toys and devices, instead of engrossing {135} dusty parchment, so the notary advised him to abandon the idea of becoming a lawyer and take up a mechanical trade. houdin joyfully took up his father’s occupation of watchmaking, for which he had a decided bent. one evening the young apprentice went to a bookseller’s shop in blois and asked for a work on horology by berthoud. the shopman by mistake handed him a couple of odd volumes of the encyclopédie, which somewhat resembled berthoud’s book. jean-eugène went home to his attic, lit a candle, and prepared to devote an evening to hard study, but judge of his surprise to find that the supposed treatise on watchmaking was a work on natural magic and prestidigitation, under the head of scientific amusements. he was delighted at the revelations contained in the mystic volume, which told how to perform tricks with the cards, to cut off a pigeon’s head and restore it again, etc., etc. here was an introduction to the new arabian nights of enchantment. he slept with the book under his pillow, and possibly dreamed of african wizards, genii, and all sorts of incantations. this little incident brought about great changes in houdin’s life. he secretly vowed to become a prestidigitateur,—a rôle for which he was eminently fitted, psychologically and physically. the principles of sleight of hand houdin had to create for himself, for the mystic volume, though it revealed the secrets of the tricks, gave the neophyte no adequate idea of the subtle passes and misdirection required to properly execute them.
though an ardent devotee of legerdemain, houdin did not neglect his trade of watchmaker. when his apprenticeship was over, he went to tours as a journeyman, in the shop of m. noriet, who afterwards became a noted sculptor. while in the employ of m. noriet, houdin was poisoned by eating a ragôut cooked in a stew pan in which there chanced to be verdigris. he was very ill, and his life was saved with difficulty. possessed with the idea that he was soon to die, he escaped one day from his nurse and doctor and set out for blois to bid adieu to his family before he departed from this sublunary sphere. a most singular adventure befell him, which reads like a romance. those who believe in destiny have here a curious example of its {136} strange workings. the jolting of the lumbering old diligence gave houdin great pain. he was burning with fever and delirious. without any one knowing it, he opened the door of the rotonde, in which he happened to be the only passenger, and leaped out on the high road, where he lay unconscious. when he recovered his senses, he found himself lying in a comfortable bed. an unknown man with a phial of medicine in his hand bent over him. by the strangest luck, houdin had fallen into the hands of a traveling conjurer named torrini, who went about the country in a sort of house on wheels, which was drawn by a pair of big norman horses. this unique vehicle which was six yards in length could be converted into a miniature theatre twice its size by an ingenious mechanical arrangement. the body was telescopic and could be drawn out, the projection being supported by trestles. torrini early in life had been a physician and was able to tend his patient with intelligence and skill. finding the young watchmaker a clever mechanician, torrini gave him some magical automata to repair, and houdin was introduced for the first time to the little harlequin that jumps out of a box and performs various feats at the mandate of the conjurer. a delightful friendship began between the watchmaker and the wizard. torrini, who was an expert with cards, initiated houdin into the secrets of many clever tricks performed with the pasteboards. he also corrected his pupil’s numerous mistakes in legerdemain, into which all self-educated amateurs fall. it was a fascinating life led in this conjurer’s caravan. besides torrini and houdin there was antonio, the assistant, and man of all work. torrini related many amusing adventures to his young pupil, which the latter has recorded in his admirable autobiography. it was he, the ci-devint, comte de grisy who performed the famous watch trick before pius vii. and had so unique revenge upon the chevalier pinetti.
torrini’s son was accidentally shot by a spectator in the gun trick during a performance at strasburg, as has been explained in the chapter on the “history of natural magic and prestidigitation.” overcome with grief at the loss of his only child and at the subsequent death of his wife, he abandoned the great cities {137} and wandered about the french provinces attended by has faithful assistant and brother-in-law, antonio. but to return to robert-houdin.
one day at aubusson the conjurer’s caravan collided with an enormous hay cart. houdin and antonio escaped with light contusions, but the master had a leg broken and an arm dislocated. the two horses were killed; as for the carriage, only the body remained intact; all the rest was smashed to atoms. during torrini’s illness, houdin, assisted by antonio, gave a conjuring performance at the town hall to replete the exchequer. houdin succeeded very well in his first attempt, with the exception that he ruined a gentleman’s chapeau while performing the trick of the omelet in the hat.
soon after this houdin bid adieu to torrini and returned to his parents at blois. he never saw torrini again in this life. after following watchmaking at blois for quite a little while, he proceeded to paris, with his wife,—for he had not only taken unto himself a spouse, but had adopted her name, houdin, as part of his own cognomen. he was now jean-eugène robert-houdin, master-watchmaker. his recontre with the count de l’escalopier and the result have already been given.
houdin completely revolutionized the art of conjuring. prior to his time, the tables used by magicians were little else than huge confederate boxes. conjuring under such circumstances was child’s play, as compared with the difficulties to be encountered with the apparatus of the new school. in addition, houdin discarded the long, flowing robes of many of his predecessors, and appeared in evening dress. since his time all first-class prestidigitateurs have followed his example, both as to dress and tables.
houdin’s center-table was a marvel of mechanical skill and ingenuity. concealed in the body were “vertical rods, each arranged to rise and fall in a tube, according as it was drawn down by a spiral spring or pulled up by a whip-cord which passed over a pulley at the top of the tube and so down the table-leg to the hiding-place of the confederate.” there were “ten of these pistons, and ten cords passing under the floor of the stage, {138} terminating at a key-board. various ingenious automata were actuated by this means of transmitting motion.”
now for a few of the tricks of this classic prestidigitateur. his greatest invention was the “light and heavy chest.” speaking of this remarkable experiment he wrote: “i do not think, modesty apart, that i ever invented anything so daringly ingenious.” the magician came forward with a little wooden box, {139} to the top of which was attached a metal handle. he addressed the audience as follows: “ladies and gentlemen. i have a cash-box which possesses strange properties. it becomes heavy or light at will. i place in it some banknotes for safekeeping and deposit it here on the ‘run-down’ in sight of all. will some gentleman test the lightness of the box?”
when the volunteer had satisfied the audience that the box could be lifted with the little finger, houdin executed some pretended mesmeric passes over it, and bade the gentleman lift it a second time. but try as he might, the volunteer would prove unequal to the task. at a sign from houdin the box would be restored to its pristine lightness. this trick was performed with a powerful electro-magnet with conducting wires reaching behind the scenes to a battery. at a signal from the performer an operator turned on the electric current, and the box, which had an iron plate let into its bottom, covered with mahogany-colored paper, clung to the magnet with supernatural attraction. in the year 1845, the phenomena of electro-magnetism were unknown to the general public, hence the spirit cash-box created the most extraordinary sensation. when the subject of electricity became better known, houdin made an addition to the feat which threw his spectators off the scent. after first having shown the trick on the “run-down,” he hooked the box to one end of a cord which passed over a pulley attached to the ceiling of the hall. a spectator was requested to take hold of the other end of the cord and keep the chest suspended.
“just at present,” remarked the conjurer, “the chest is extremely light; but as it is about to become, at my command, very heavy, i must ask five or six other persons to help this gentleman, for fear the chest should lift him off his feet.”
no sooner was this done than the chest came heavily to the ground, dragging along and sometimes lifting off their feet all the spectators who were holding the cord. the explanation is this: on a casual inspection of the pulley and block everything appears to indicate that, as usual in such cases, the cord passes straight over the pulley, in on one side and out on the other; but such is not really the fact, as will be seen upon tracing the course {140} of the dotted lines (fig. 1), which, passing through the block and through the ceiling, are attached on either side to a double pulley fixed in the room above. to any one who has the most elementary acquaintance with the laws of mechanics, it will be obvious that the strength of the person who holds the handle of the windlass above is multiplied tenfold, and that he can easily overcome even the combined resistance of five or six spectators.
the “bust of socrates” was another favorite experiment with houdin. in this illusion a living bust with the features of socrates was suspended in the middle of the stage without visible support. the performer, habited as an athenian noble, addressed questions to the mutilated philosopher and received replies in stanzas of elegiac verse. the mise en scène is represented in fig. 2. houdin explains the illusion as follows:
“a, b, c, d, (fig. 3) represent a section of the stage on which the trick is exhibited. a sheet of silvered glass, g, g, occupying the whole width of the stage, is placed in a diagonal position, extending from the upper part of the stage at the rear, down to the footlights, so as to form an angle of forty-five degrees with the floor. in the center of the glass is an opening through which {141} the actor passes his head and shoulders, as shown in the figure. it should be further mentioned that the ceiling and the two sides of the stage are hung with wall-paper of the same pattern, and are brilliantly illuminated, either by means of footlights at c, or by gas-jets placed behind the border a. such being the condition of things, the effect is as follows: the ceiling a is reflected in the mirror, and its reflection appears to the spectators to be the paper of the wall b, d, which in reality is hidden by the glass.
“by means of this reflection, of which he is of course unaware, the spectator is led to believe that he sees three sides of the stage; and there being nothing to suggest to his mind the presence of the glass, he is led to believe that the bust is suspended in mid-air and without any support.”
“aerial suspension” was one of houdin’s inventions. it has been a favorite trick since his time. in the original illusion houdin had one of his young sons, who was dressed as a page, stand on a small stool. the performer then placed a walking-stick under the extended right arm of the boy, near the elbow, and one under the left arm. first the stool was knocked away and the youthful assistant was suspended in the air, held up only by the two frail sticks, which were in themselves inadequate to support such a weight. then the left stick was removed, but the boy did not fall. to the astonishment of every one, the youth {142} was placed in a horizontal position. he remained in a perfectly rigid attitude with his head leaning on his arm, the top of the cane under his elbow.
this very ingenious trick was suggested to houdin on reading stories about the alleged levitation of hindoo fakirs. the walking-stick that supported the right arm of the assistant was of iron, painted to resemble wood. it fitted into a slot in the stage; its top connected with a bar concealed in the sleeve of the boy. this bar formed part of a strong steel framework worn under the assistant’s clothing. thus was the page suspended in the air.
houdin’s trick of the “orange-tree” was a capital one. the tree blossomed and bore fruit at the command of the conjurer. all the oranges were distributed among the spectators except one on the topmost branch of the tree. in this orange the magician caused a handkerchief to appear, which had been previously borrowed. the handkerchief was made to vanish from the hands of the performer. “hey, presto!” the orange fell apart in four sections, whereupon two butterflies sprang out and fluttered upward with the handkerchief. the explanation of this beautiful trick is as follows: the tree was a clever piece of mechanism, so closely fashioned to resemble a plant that it was impossible to detect the difference. the blossoms, constructed of white silk, were pushed up through the hollow branches by pistons rising in the table and operating upon similar rods contained in the tree. when these pedals were relaxed the blossoms disappeared, and the fruit was slowly developed. real oranges were stuck on iron spikes protruding from the branches of the tree, and were concealed from the spectators by hemispherical wire screens painted green. the screens were also partly hidden by the artificial foliage. by means of cords running down through the branches of the tree and off behind the scenes, an assistant caused the screens to make a half-turn, thereby developing the fruit. the borrowed handkerchief was exchanged for a dummy belonging to the conjurer, and passed to an assistant who placed it in the mechanical orange. the tree was now brought forward. after the real fruit had been distributed, the magician called attention to the orange on the top (the mechanical one). by {143} means of sleight of hand the handkerchief was made to vanish, to be discovered in the orange. the butterflies, which were fastened by wires to the stalk and fixed on delicate spiral springs, invisible at a little distance, flew out of the orange of their own accord, carrying with them the handkerchief, as soon as the fruit fell apart.
in the year 1846 houdin was summoned to the palace of saint-cloud to give a performance before louis philippe and his court, whereupon he invented his remarkable trick of the enchanted casket, which created great excitement in the parisian journals, and gained him no little fame. he had six days to prepare for the séance magique. early on the appointed morning a van from the royal stables came to convey him and his son, together with the magic paraphernalia, to the palace of the king. a stage had been erected in one of the handsome salons of st. cloud, the windows of which opened out on an orangery lined with double rows of orange-trees, “each growing in its square box on wheels. a sentry was placed at the door to see that the conjurer was not disturbed in his preparations. the king himself dropped in once to ask the entertainer if he had everything necessary.”
at four o’clock in the afternoon, a brilliant company assembled in the hall to witness the performance. the pièce de résistance of the séance was cagliostro’s casket, the effect of which is best described in houdin’s own words:
“i borrowed from my noble spectators several handkerchiefs, which i made into a parcel, and laid on the table. then, at my request, different persons wrote on blank cards the names of places whither they desired their handkerchiefs to be invisibly transported.
“when this had been done, i begged the king to take three of the cards at hazard, and choose from them the place he might consider most suitable.
“ ‘let us see,’ louis philippe said, ‘what this one says: “i desire the handkerchiefs to be found beneath one of the {144} candelabra on the mantelpiece.” that is too easy for a sorcerer; so we will pass to the next card: “the handkerchiefs are to be transported to the dome of the invalides.” that would suit me, but it is much too far, not for the handkerchiefs, but for us, ‘ah, ah!’ the king added, looking at the last card, ‘i am afraid, monsieur robert-houdin, i am about to embarrass you. do you know what this card proposes?’
“ ‘will your majesty deign to inform me?’
“ ‘it is desired that you should send the handkerchiefs into the chest of the last orange-tree on the right of the avenue.’
“ ‘only that, sir? deign to order, and i will obey.’
“ ‘very good, then; i should like to see such a magic act: i, therefore, choose the orange-tree chest.’
“the king gave some orders in a low voice, and i directly saw several persons run to the orange-tree, in order to watch it and prevent any fraud.
“i was delighted at this precaution, which must add to the effect of my experiment, for the trick was already arranged, and the precaution hence too late.
“i had now to send the handkerchiefs on their travels, so i placed them beneath a bell of opaque glass, and, taking my wand, i ordered my invisible travelers to proceed to the spot the king had chosen.
“i raised the bell; the little parcel was no longer there, and a white turtle-dove had taken its place.
“the king then walked quickly to the door, whence he looked in the direction of the orange-tree, to assure himself that the guards were at their post; when this was done, he began to smile and shrug his shoulders.
“ ‘ah! monsieur houdin,’ he said, somewhat ironically, ‘i much fear for the virtue of your magic staff.’ then he added, as he returned to the end of the room, where several servants were standing, ‘tell william to open immediately the last chest at the end of the avenue, and bring me carefully what he finds there—if he does find anything.’
“william soon proceeded to the orange-tree, and though much astonished at the orders given him, he began to carry them out. {145}
“he carefully removed one of the sides of the chest, thrust his hand in, and almost touched the roots of the tree before he found anything. all at once he uttered a cry of surprise, as he drew out a small iron coffer eaten by rust.
“this curious ‘find,’ after having been cleansed of the mould, was brought in and placed on a small ottoman by the king’s side.
“ ‘well, monsieur robert-houdin,’ louis philippe said to me, with a movement of impatient curiosity, ‘here is a box; am i to conclude it contains the handkerchiefs?’
“ ‘yes, sire,’ i replied, with assurance, ‘and they have been there, too, for a long period.’
“ ‘how can that be? the handkerchiefs were lent you scarce a quarter of an hour ago.’
“ ‘i cannot deny it, sire; but what would my magic powers avail me if i could not perform incomprehensible tricks? your majesty will doubtless be still more surprised, when i prove to your satisfaction that this coffer, as well as its contents, was deposited in the chest of the orange-tree sixty years ago.’
“ ‘i should like to believe your statement,’ the king replied, with a smile; ‘but that is impossible, and i must, therefore, ask for proofs of your assertion.’
“ ‘if your majesty will be kind enough to open this casket they will be supplied.’
“ ‘certainly; but i shall require a key for that.’
“ ‘it only depends on yourself, sire, to have one. deign to remove it from the neck of this turtle-dove, which has just brought it to you.’
“louis philippe unfastened a ribbon that held a small rusty key, with which he hastened to unlock the coffer.
“the first thing that caught the king’s eye was a parchment on which he read the following statement:
“ ‘this day, the 6th june, 1786, this iron box, containing six handkerchiefs, was placed among the roots of an orange-tree by me, balsamo, count of cagliostro, to serve in performing an act of magic, which will be executed on the same day sixty years hence before louis philippe of orleans and his family.’
“ ‘there is decidedly witchcraft about this,’ the king said, more and more amazed. ‘nothing is wanting, for the seal and signature of the celebrated sorcerer are placed at the foot of this statement, which, heaven pardon me, smells strongly of sulphur.’
“at this jest the audience began to laugh.
“ ‘but,’ the king added, taking out of the box a carefully sealed packet, ‘can the handkerchiefs by possibility be in this?’
“ ‘indeed, sire, they are; but, before opening the parcel, i would request your majesty to notice that it also bears the impression of cagliostro’s seal.’
“this seal once rendered so famous by being placed on the celebrated alchemist’s bottles of elixir and liquid gold, i had obtained from torrini, who had been an old friend of cagliostro’s.
“ ‘it is certainly the same,’ my royal spectator answered, after comparing the two seals. still, in his impatience to learn the contents of the parcel, the king quickly tore open the envelope and soon displayed before the astonished spectators the six handkerchiefs which, a few moments before, were still on my table.
“this trick gained me lively applause.”
robert-houdin never revealed the secret of this remarkable experiment in natural magic, but the acute reader, especially if he be a student of legerdemain, will be able to give a pretty shrewd guess as to the modus operandi. the best analysis of this trick has been lately given by professor brander matthews. he writes as follows (scribner’s magazine, may, 1903):
“nothing more extraordinary was ever performed by any mere conjurer; indeed, this feat is quite as startling as any of those attributed to cagliostro himself, and it has the advantage of being accurately and precisely narrated by the inventor. not only is the thing done a seeming impossibility, but it stands forth the more impressively because of the spectacular circumstances of its performance,—a stately palace, a lovely garden, the assembled courtiers, and the royal family. the magician had to depend on his wits alone, for he was deprived of all advantages of his own theatre and of all possibility of aid from a confederate mingled amid the casual spectators. {147}
“robert-houdin was justified in the gentle pride with which he told how he had thus astonished the king of the french. he refrained from any explanation of the means whereby he wrought his mystery, believing that what is unknown is ever the more magnificent. he did no more than drop a hint or two, telling the reader that he had long possessed a cast of cagliostro’s seal, and suggesting slyly that when the king sent messengers out into the garden to stand guard over the orange-tree the trick was already done and all precautions were then futile.
“yet, although the inventor chose to keep his secret, any one who has mastered the principles of the art of magic can venture an explanation. robert-houdin has set forth the facts honestly; and with the facts solidly established, it is possible to reason out the method employed to accomplish a deed which, at first sight, seems not only impossible but incomprehensible.
“the first point to be emphasized is that robert-houdin was as dexterous as he was ingenious. he was truly a prestidigitateur, capable of any sleight of hand. nothing was simpler for so accomplished a performer than the substitution of one package for another, right before the eyes of all the spectators. and it is to be remembered that although the palace was the king’s the apparatus on the extemporized stage was the magician’s. therefore, when he borrowed six handkerchiefs and went up on the stage and made them up into a package which remained on a table in sight of everybody, we can grant without difficulty that the package which remained in sight did not then contain the borrowed handkerchiefs.
“in fact, we may be sure that the borrowed handkerchiefs had been conveyed somehow to robert-houdin’s son who acted as his assistant. when the handkerchiefs were once in the possession of the son out of sight behind the scenery or hangings of the stage, the father would pick up his package of blank visiting-cards and distribute a dozen of them or a score, moving to and fro in very leisurely fashion, perhaps going back to the stage to get pencils which he would also give out as slowly as possible, filling up the time with playful pleasantry, until he should again {148} catch sight of his son. then, and not until then, would he feel at liberty to collect the cards and take them over to the king. when the son had got possession of the handkerchiefs, he would smooth them swiftly, possibly even ironing them into their folds. then he would put them into the parchment packet which he would seal twice with cagliostro’s seal. laying this packet in the bottom of the rusty iron casket, he would put on top the other parchment which had already been prepared, with its adroit imitation of cagliostro’s handwriting. snapping down the lid of the casket, the lad would slip out into the corridor and steal into the garden, going straight to the box of the appointed orange-tree. he could do this unobserved, because no one was then suspecting him and because all the spectators were then engaged in thinking up odd places to which the handkerchiefs might be transported. already, in the long morning, probably while the royal household was at its midday breakfast, the father or the son had loosened one of the staples in the back of the box in which the designated orange-tree was growing. the lad now removed this staple and thrust the casket into the already prepared hole in the center of the roots of the tree. then he replaced the staple at the back of the box, feeling certain that whoever should open the box in front would find the soil undisturbed. this most difficult part of the task once accomplished, he returned to the stage, or at least in some way he signified to his father that he had accomplished his share of the wonder, in the performance of which he was not supposed to have any part.
“on seeing his son, or on receiving the signal that his son had returned, robert-houdin would feel himself at liberty to collect the cards on which various spectators had written the destinations they proposed for the package of handkerchiefs which was still in full sight. he gathered up the cards he had distributed; but as he went toward the king, he substituted for those written by the spectators others previously prepared by himself,—a feat of sleight of hand quite within the reach of any ordinary performer. of these cards, prepared by himself, he forced three {149} on the sovereign; and the forcing of cards upon a kindly monarch would present little difficulty to a prestidigitateur of robert-houdin’s consummate skill.
“when the three cards were once in the king’s hands, the trick was done, for robert-houdin knew louis philippe to be a shrewd man in small matters. therefore, it was reasonably certain that when the king had to make a choice out of three places, one near and easy, a second remote and difficult, and a third both near and difficult, louis philippe would surely select the third which was conveniently at hand and which seemed to be at least as impossible as either of the others.
“the event proved that the conjurer’s analysis of the king’s character was accurate: yet one may venture the opinion that the magician had taken every needed precaution to avoid failure even if the monarch had made another selection. probably robert-houdin had one little parchment packet hidden in advance somewhere in the dome of the invalides and another tucked up out of sight in the base of one of the candelabra on the chimney-piece; and if either of the other destinations had been chosen, the substitute packet would have been produced and the magician would then have offered to transport it also into the box of the orange-tree. and thus the startling climax of the marvel would have been only a little delayed.
“when so strange a wonder can be wrought under such circumstances by means so simple, we cannot but feel the force of dr. lodge’s warning that an unwavering scepticism ought to be the attitude of all honest investigators toward every one who professes to be able to suspend the operation of a custom of nature. no one of the feats attributed to home, the celebrated medium who plied his trade in paris during the second empire, was more abnormal than this trick of cagliostro’s casket, and no one of them is so well authenticated. it may be that certain of the customs of nature are not inexorable and that we shall be able to discover exceptions now and again. but the proof of any alleged exception, the evidence in favor of any alleged violation of the custom of nature, ought to be overwhelming.” {150}
the greatest event of houdin’s life was his embassy to algeria, “at the special request of the french government, which desired to lessen the influence of the marabouts, whose conjuring tricks, accepted as actual magic by the arabs, gave them too much influence.” he went to play off his tricks against those of arab priests, or holy men, and, by “greater marvels than they could show, destroy the prestige which they had acquired. he so completely succeeded that the arabs lost all faith in the miracles of the marabouts, and thus was destroyed an influence very dangerous to the french government.” his first performance was given at the leading theatre of algiers, before a great assemblage of arabs, who had been summoned to witness the soirée magique, by the mandate of the marshall-governor of algeria. houdin’s “light and heavy chest” literally paralyzed the arabs with astonishment. he altered the mise en scène, and pretended to be able to make the strongest man so weak that he would be unable to lift a small box from the floor. he says in his memoirs:
“i advanced with my box in my hand, to the center of the ‘practicable,’ communicating from the stage to the pit; then addressing the arabs, i said to them:
“ ‘from what you have witnessed, you will attribute a supernatural power to me, and you are right. i will give you a new proof of my marvelous authority, by showing that i can deprive the most powerful man of his strength and restore it at my will. any one who thinks himself strong enough to try the experiment may draw near me.’ (i spoke slowly, in order to give the interpreter time to translate my words).
“an arab of middle height, but well built and muscular, like many of the arabs are, came to my side with sufficient assurance.
“ ‘are you very strong?’ i said to him, measuring him from head to foot.
“ ‘oh yes!’ he replied carelessly.
“ ‘are you sure you will always remain so?’
“ ‘quite sure.’
“ ‘you are mistaken, for in an instant i will rob you of your strength, and you shall become like as a little child.’ {151}
“the arab smiled disdainfully, as a sign of his incredulity.
“ ‘stay,’ i continued; ‘lift up this box.’
“the arab stooped, lifted up the box, and said to me, ‘is this all?’
“ ‘wait ⸺!’ i replied.
“then with all possible gravity, i made an imposing gesture and solemnly pronounced the words:
“ ‘behold! you are weaker than a woman; now, try to lift the box.’
“the hercules, quite cool as to my conjuration, seized the box once again by the handle, and gave it a violent tug, but this time the box resisted, and spite of his most vigorous attacks, would not budge an inch.
“the arab vainly expended on this unlucky box a strength which would have raised an enormous weight, until at length exhausted, panting, and red with anger, he stopped, became thoughtful, and began to comprehend the influences of magic.
“he was on the point of withdrawing; but that would be allowing his weakness, and that he, hitherto respected for his vigor, had become as a little child. this thought rendered him almost mad.
“deriving fresh strength from the encouragements his friends offered him by word and deed, he turned a glance around them, which seemed to say, ‘you will see what a son of the desert can do.’
“he bent once again over the box: his nervous hands twined around the handle, and his legs, placed on either side like two bronze columns, served as a support for the final effort.
“but, wonder of wonders! this hercules, a moment since so strong and proud, now bows his head; his arms, riveted to the box, undergo a violent muscular contraction; his legs give way, and he falls on his knees with a yell of agony.
“an electric shock, produced by an induction apparatus, had been passed, on a signal from me, from the further end of the stage into the handle of the box. hence the contortions of the poor arab!
“it would have been cruelty to prolong this scene. {152}
“i gave a second signal, and the electric current was immediately intercepted. my athlete, disengaged from his terrible bondage, raised his hands over his head.
“ ‘allah! allah’ he exclaimed, full of terror; then, wrapping himself up quickly in the folds of his burnous, as if to hide his disgrace, he rushed through the ranks of the spectators and gained the front entrance.
“with the exception of the dignitaries occupying the stage boxes and the privileged spectators, in the body of the house, who seemed to take great pleasure in this great experiment, my audience had become grave and silent, and i heard the words ‘shaitan!’ ‘djenoum!’ passing in a murmur round the circle of credulous men, who, while gazing on me, seemed astonished that i possessed none of the physical qualities attributed to the angel of darkness.”
the marabout priests constantly boasted of their invulnerability. they were reputed to be possessed of powerful talismans which caused loaded weapons to flash in the pan when fired at them. houdin counteracted these claims by performing his celebrated bullet-catching feat, in which a marked bullet apparently shot from a gun is caught by the magician in a plate or between his teeth. there are two ways of accomplishing this trick. one is by substituting a bullet of hollow wax for the real leaden bullet. the explosion scatters the wax into minute fragments which fly in all directions and do not come in contact with the person shot at; provided he stands at a respectable distance from the individual who handles the pistol or gun. the second method is to insert into the barrel of the weapon a small tube open at one end. into this receptacle the bullet falls, and the tube is withdrawn from the gun in the act of ramming it, forming as it were a part of the ramrod. the performer, once in possession of the little tube, secretly extracts the marked bullet and produces it at the proper time. houdin had recourse to both ways of performing this startling trick. sometimes he filled the wax bullet with blood, extracted from his thumb. when the bullet smashed against a white wall it left a red splash. houdin, after traveling into the interior of algeria, visiting many prominent chieftains, returned to france, and settled down at st. gervais, a suburb {153} of blois. he relinquished his theatre to his brother-in-law, pierre chocat (m. hamilton), and devoted himself to scientific work, and writing his confidences and other works on natural magic.
houdin called his villa at st. gervais the “priory,” a rather monastic title. it was a veritable palace of enchantments. electrical devices played an important part in its construction, as well as automata. the pepper ghost illusion was rigged up in a small pavilion on the grounds. a mechanical hermit welcomed guests to a grotto: houdin’s friends jestingly called the place “l’abbaye de l’attrape (la trappe),” or “catch’em abbey.” the pun is almost untranslatable. “attrape” is a trap, in french. you have a trappist monastery. i need say no more. during the franco-prussian war, houdin’s neighbors brought their valuables to him to be concealed. he had a hiding place built which defied detection. but the prussians never bothered him.
says william manning (recollections of robert-houdin, london, 1891):
“robert-houdin’s employment of electricity, not only as a moving power for the performance of his illusions, but for domestic purposes, was long in advance of his time. the electric bell, so common to us now, was in every-day use for years in his own house, before its value was recognized by the public.
“he had a favorite horse, named fanny, for which he entertained great affection, and christened her ‘the friend of the family.’ she was of gentle disposition and was growing old in his service; so he was anxious to allow her every indulgence, especially punctuality at meals and full allowance of fodder.
“such being the case, it was a matter of great surprise that fanny grew daily thinner and thinner, till it was discovered that her groom had a great fancy for the art formerly practised by her master and converted her hay into five-franc pieces! so houdin dismissed the groom and secured a more honest lad, but to provide against further contingencies and neglect of duty he had {154} a clock placed in his study, which with the aid of an electrical wire worked a food supply in the stable, a distance of fifty yards from the house. the distributing apparatus was a square funnel-shaped box which discharged the provender in prearranged quantities. no one could steal the oats from the horse after they had fallen, as the electric trigger could not act unless the stable door was locked. the lock was outside, and if any one entered before the horse finished eating his oats, a bell would immediately ring in the house.
“this same clock in his study also transmitted the time to two large clock-faces, placed one on the top of the house, the other on the gardener’s lodge, the former for the benefit of the villagers.
“in his bell-tower he had a clockwork arrangement of sufficient power to lift the hammer at the proper moment. the daily winding of the clock was performed automatically by communication with a swing-door in his kitchen, and the winding-up apparatus of the clock in the clock-tower was so arranged that the servants in passing backward and forward on their domestic duties unconsciously wound up the striking movement of the clock.”
the priory is now a partial ruin. it has passed out of his family. houdin died there june 13, 1871, after an illness of ten days. his death was caused by pneumonia. the following is an extract of the notice of his decease, taken from the registers of the civil authorities of st. gervais:
william manning was an intimate friend of houdin. when the famous conjurer went to london to exhibit, he lodged at the house of manning’s father. william was a young man at the time and deeply enamored with conjuring exhibitions. {155} houdin showed him many favors and presented him with a number of souvenirs, among them being a magic clock, a harlequin-in-the-box, etc., also a photograph of himself, a copy of which mr. manning sent to me a few years ago, during the course of a correspondence i had with him concerning houdin. up to the time of his death the great conjurer exchanged letters with his friend, then a grown man. houdin’s closing years were saddened by the tragic death of his son, eugène, who was killed at reichshoffen in the franco-prussian war. he was a sub-lieutenant in the french army and a graduate of the military school at st. cyr. he assisted his father on the stage, but abandoned conjuring for a military career. in a letter to william manning, dated september 11, 1870, houdin describes the affair at reichshoffen: . . . . “my son was 33 years old; he was captain since 1866; he belonged to the 1st zouaves and was considered one of the bravest in that brave corps. you can judge of it by the following extract from an article in the figaro, of sept. 3, entitled ‘an episode of reichshoffen,’ an extract from a private letter. this letter was undoubtedly written by a soldier in my son’s company; it is signed with an x. i omit the harrowing incidents which preceded this sad retreat. . . . ‘the line had received orders to break up and were defeated, 35,000 against 140,000! my company (1st zouaves) was drawn up on the battle-field, to be used as sharp-shooters, alone, without artillery; we were to resist the retreat. upon the order of captain robert-houdin, lieutenant girard advanced with two men to reconnoitre the enemy. he took three steps, and fell, crying: ’do not give up the coucou, (a familiar expression applied to the flag). we carried him away and the captain shouted ‘fire!’ the order to retreat came, but we did not hear it, and continued to beat against a wall of fire which illuminated our ranks. soon our captain fell, saying: ‘tell them . . . that i fell facing the enemy.’ a bullet had pierced his breast. he was taken in the ambulance to reichshoffen where he died, four days later, from his wound.”
“my dear manning, would you believe it, my brave son, mortally wounded as he was, had the heroic courage amidst {156} flying shot to take from his pocket a pencil and a card and to write these words: ‘dear father, i am wounded, but be reassured, it is only a trifle.’ he could not sign this. the card and the envelope are stained with his blood. this precious relic was sent to me from reichshoffen after my son’s death.”
emile, the elder son who distinguished himself in the “second-sight trick,” as soon as his father retired from the stage, became a watchmaker. he published a work on horology to which his father wrote the following preface:
“i have often been asked why my son did not follow the career i had opened for him in prestidigitation, but preferred instead the study of horology. my answer to the question may be used fitly as a preface to this pamphlet.
“if you believe in hereditary vocations, here is a case for their just application. my son’s maternal great-grandfather, nicolas houdin, was a watchmaker of great merit in the last century. j. f. houdin, his son, has gained, as is well known, a prominent place among the most distinguished watchmakers of his time. a certain modesty, which you will understand, prevents me from praising my father as highly; i shall only say {157} that he was a very skilful and ingenious watchmaker. before devoting myself to the art of conjuring, based on mechanism, i, too, was for a long time a watchmaker and achieved some success.
“with such genealogy, should one not be predestined to horology? therefore my son was irresistibly drawn to his {158} vocation, and he took up the art which berthoud and bréguet have made famous. it was from the latter of the two celebrated masters that he learned the elements of the profession of his forefathers.”
the only surviving members of the family are madame emile robert-houdin, widow of the elder son, and a daughter who is married to m. lemaitre robert-houdin, a municipal officer of blois, who has adopted the name of houdin. robert-houdin is interred in the cemetery of blois. a handsome monument marks his grave.
at the paris exhibition of 1844, houdin was awarded a medal for the ingenious construction of automata; at the exhibition of 1855 he received a gold medal for his scientific application of electricity to clocks. he invented an ophthalmoscope to enable the operator to examine the interior of his own eye. from important papers in the possession of m. lemaitre it seems more than probable that houdin had worked out the secret of the modern telephone before it had been made known to the world at large.
houdin has been considered of such importance and interest in france that in didot’s nouvelle biographie générale a whole page is given him. his personal appearance is thus described in larousse’s encyclopédie: “he was a man of small stature. his manners were engaging and vivacious. his face was clean-shaven, showing a large and eloquent mouth. in his old age, {159} his head was covered with snow white hair. his eyes up to the last retained the fire and brilliancy of a man of twenty-five.”
on december 6, 1905, the french society of magicians celebrated the hundredth anniversary of houdin’s birth. the exercises were held at the theatre robert-houdin, boulevard des italiens, paris. the little theatre was crowded with conjurers and their friends. among the wielders of the magic staff were caroly, the editor of illusioniste, m. and mme. de gago, folletto, m. and mme. talazac, and m. raynaly. m. and mme. talazac, in their “mind-reading” act, evoked great applause. m. miliès, the manager of the house, exhibited the automaton, “antonio diavolo,” invented by robert-houdin. m. renaly, the well-known drawing-room conjurer, read a poem in honor of the great master, at the close of which a bust of robert-houdin, which stood upon the stage, was crowned with a wreath of laurel. strange to say, not a word of this interesting event was recorded in the newspapers.
houdin was the first conjurer to be employed in an official capacity by a civilized power. the second case we have record of was on the occasion of the english mission to the late sultan of morocco when mr. douglas beaufort was appointed conjurer to the party by the british government. the object was to surprise the arabs with the skill of an anglo-saxon prestidigitateur. during the journey to fez from the coast, mr. beaufort gave a number of séances. the news of his necromantic powers soon spread like wild-fire among the natives. when the embassy reached the arab capital, the sultan refused to see the “devil man,” as he termed the conjurer. he imagined that the british proposed to cast a spell over him. for eight weeks he held out, but finally curiosity got the better of him. the grand vizier was ordered to produce the disciple of beelzebub at the royal palace. the performance of mr. beaufort so delighted the ruler of morocco that he presented him with a silver dagger, a fine arabian steed from the royal stable, and a bag containing 500 dollars, as a token of esteem and regard.
some old-time conjurers.
“as in agrippa’s magic glass, the loved and lost arose to view.”—whittier: the mermaid.
i love to read about the old-time conjurers, the contemporaries of robert-houdin, or his immediate successors. literature on the subject is very sparse indeed. in his memoirs, houdin gives us a few thumbnail sketches of his rivals in the mystic art, and then dismisses them with a kindly, vale. he has something to say about bosco’s personal appearance and performances, but makes no mention of the romantic incidents in the great magician’s career. i shall try, in this chapter, to sketch the lives of some of these men, basing my information on rare brochures contained in the ellison library, and from information picked up by mr. harry houdini in europe. the great encyclopedic dictionary of larousse—a monument of french erudition—contains something about phillippe, robin and comte. mr. ellis stanyon, a conjurer of london, and author of several valuable little treatises on magic, has kindly furnished me with interesting data; the files of old newspapers in the british museum, and the library of congress have also been drawn upon, also the fine collection of old programmes of mr. arthur margery, the english magician. let us begin with
louis apollinaire comte was a magician of great skill, a mimic and ventriloquist. he was born in geneva, switzerland, june 22, 1788, and died at rueil, france, november 25, 1859. on one occasion he was denounced by some superstitious swiss peasants as a sorcerer, set upon and beaten with clubs, and was {161} about to be thrown into a lime kiln. his ventriloquial powers saved his life. he caused demoniacal voices to proceed from the kiln, whereupon his tormentors fled from the spot in affright, imagining that they were addressed by the powers of darkness.
when summoned to appear before louis xviii, at the palace of the tuilleries, comte arranged a clever mystification to amuse his royal patron. during the course of the entertainment he requested the king to select a card from a pack. by his address, he caused the monarch to draw the king of hearts. placing the card in a pistol, comte fired it at a bouquet of flowers on a table, declaring that the pasteboard would appear in the bouquet. immediately, a bust of the king was seen among the flowers.
“what does this mean?” said louis xviii, with a sarcastic smile. “i fancy, sir, your trick has not ended as you stated.”
“i beg your majesty’s pardon,” comte replied, with a profound bow. “i have quite kept my promise. i pledged myself that the king of hearts should appear in that bouquet of flowers, and i appeal to all frenchmen whether that bust does not represent the king of all hearts.
the experiment was applauded to the echo by those present. the royal journal of the 20th of december, 1814, thus describes the affair.
“the whole audience exclaimed in reply to m. comte, ‘we recognize him—it is he—the king of all hearts! the beloved of the french—of the whole universe—louis xviii, the august descendant of henri quatre?’
“the king, much affected by these warm acclamations, complimented m. comte on his skill.
“ ‘it would be a pity,’ he said to him, ‘to order such a talented sorcerer to be burnt alive. you have caused us too much pleasure for us to cause you pain. live many years, for yourself in the first place, and then for us.’ ”
comte was an adept at the art of flattery. perhaps all the while, he and the fickle courtiers of the tuilleries were secretly laughing at the poor old bourbon king, the scion of a race that had all but ruined france, and were wishing back from elba that thunderbolt of war—napoleon the great. {162}
comte was made a chevalier of the legion of honor by louis philippe.
robert-houdin in his memoirs, gives a brief but pointed sketch of phillippe. on page 163 i reproduce one of his unique programmes (london, march, 1846).
new strand theatre lessee, m. phillippe, 4 strand lane
phillippe’s soirées mystérieuses
the entertainments will commence with m. phillippe’s celebrated and unrivalled tours de physique and astounding feats of magical delusion! which he has exhibited in paris, vienna, berlin, st. petersburgh, and before all the courts of europe, with truly unparalleled success.
the entertainment will be divided into two parts
part first will comprise peculiar and unequalled metamorphoses and delusions! and astonishing deceptions!
the miller of amsterdam the obedient cards il diavolo the rose tree of granada the flying watches the modern confectioner the enchanted handkerchief the grand distribution the accomplished harlequin new method of making coffee
concluding with the universally admired and elegant tour d’addresse, entitled the national flag
there will be an interval of fifteen minutes between the parts
a night in the palace of pekin!
in which mons. phillippe will perform some of the most extraordinary and startling indian and chinese experiments ever attempted by any european, comprising
the turtle dove and the flying handkerchiefs la fille des fleurs kitchen of parapharagaramus pas de caractere by la fille des fleurs the inexhaustible hat
and concluding with the celebrated delusion les bassins de neptune et les poissons d’or and the grand menagerie!
unanimously pronounced to be the most inexplicable and surprising tour de physique ever witnessed
the journal la france said in its issue of january 19, 1863: “the stage is large and square in form, the curtain rises upon {165} a brilliantly lighted salon showing much gilding, filled with strange objects, electrical apparatus of all sizes, mysterious chests, revolving tables, articulated animals which as far surpass the automatons of vaucanson as an everard or pleyel piano is superior to an old fashioned spinet. there were peacocks which paraded up and down and could tell you the name of any city you might think of; drums which beat the retreat without a drummer; christmas trees which shook their branches, powdered with snow, and covered themselves with lighted candles, bonbons, flowers and toys; inexhaustible bottles, invisible bells, etc. altogether it was the strange, supernatural and fantastic world of prestidigitation, magic and sorcery.
“all at once, from the bottom of a magic casket, leaped out a harlequin about ten inches high but so well proportioned in its figure, so well made, so nimble and supple, so intelligent and spirituel, that the whole audience uttered a cry of pleasure and admiration. this pretty little manikin does everything belonging to its character. it dances, smokes, frisks about, takes off and puts on its mask, bows to the company and plays the flageolet. one is tempted to say—‘it only needs speech to be human.’ well, it has speech. it talks and answers all questions addressed to it like a real person. it even tells stories, making them up as it goes along.”
besides the show of magic an “agioscope” was to be seen which projected upon a screen the history of creation in forty-five pictures. robin also performed experiments in physics and chemistry and an exhibition of the ghost illusion closed the entertainment.
when the davenport brothers, pretended spiritualists, came to paris, robin duplicated all their tricks at his theatre. he did much to discredit the charlatans. about 1869 he gave up his theatre, and became the proprietor of a hotel on the boulevard mazas.
robin left three works, copies of which are very rare, viz: l’almanach illustré de cagliostro; histoire des spectres vivants et impalpables; secret de la physique amusante (paris, 1864). he was also the inventor of a railroad for ascending mount rigi in switzerland. the motor in this system was a balloon which, by its ascentional force compelled the car to climb the ascent guided by four iron rails. a model of this contrivance was exhibited at robin’s theatre, 49 boulevard du temple.
i look again into the magic mirror of the past. who is this portly figure enveloped in a befrogged military cloak? he has the mobile visage of an italian. there is an air of pomposity about him. his eyes are bold and piercing. he has something of the appearance of a russian nobleman, or general under the empire. ah, that is the renowned bosco, the conjurer!
bosco was a wonderful performer of the cup-and-ball trick. he also possessed great skill with cards and coins. he traveled all over europe. he gave an exhibition before marie louise, the widow of napoleon i, on the 27th of april, 1836. his sonorous, bizarre name has become a byword in france for deception, whether in conjuring or politics. the statesman thiers was called the “bosco of the tribune.” many of bartolomeo bosco’s imitators assumed his cognomen. at the present day there is a french magician touring the music halls of europe, who calls himself bosco. the original bosco, like alexander herrmann, was in the habit of advertising himself by giving impromptu exhibitions of his skill in cafés, stage {169} coaches, hotels, etc. he was wonderfully clever at this. a parisian newspaper thus announced one of his entertainments: “the famous bosco, who can conjure away a house as easily as a nutmeg, is about to give his performances at paris, in which some miraculous tricks will be executed.” this illusion to the nutmeg has reference to the magician’s cup-and-ball trick; nutmegs frequently being used instead of cork balls. houdin describes bosco’s stage as follows:
“i entered the little theatre and took my seat. according to the idea i had formed of a magician’s laboratory, i expected to find myself before a curtain whose large folds, when withdrawn, would display before my dazzled eyes a brilliant stage ornamented with apparatus worthy of the celebrity announced; but my illusions on this subject soon faded away.
“a curtain had been considered superfluous, and the stage was open. before me was a long three-storied sideboard, entirely covered with black serge. this lugubrious buffet was adorned with a number of wax candles, among which glistened the apparatus. at the topmost point of this strange étagère was a death’s-head, much surprised, i have no doubt, at finding itself at such a festival, and it quite produced the effect of a funeral service.
“in front of the stage, and near the spectators, was a table covered by a brown cloth, reaching to the ground, on which five brass cups were symmetrically arranged. finally, above this table hung a copper ball, which strangely excited my curiosity.
“for the life of me i could not imagine what this was for, so i determined to wait till bosco came to explain it. the silvery sound of a small bell put an end to my reverie, and bosco appeared upon the stage.
“the artiste wore a little black velvet jacket, fastened round the waist by a leathern belt of the same color. his sleeves were excessively short, and displayed a handsome arm. he had on loose black trousers, ornamented at the bottom with a ruche of lace, and a large white collar round his neck. this strange attire bore considerable resemblance to the classical costume of the scapins in our plays. {170}
“after making a majestic bow to his audience, the celebrated conjurer walked silently and with measured steps up to the famous copper ball. after convincing himself it was solidly hung, he took up his wand, which he wiped with a white handkerchief, as if to remove any foreign influence; then, with imperturbable gravity, he struck the ball thrice with it, pronouncing, amid the most solemn silence, this imperious sentence: spiriti mei infernali, obedite. {171}
“i, like a simpleton, scarce breathed in my expectation of some miraculous result, but it was only an innocent pleasantry, a simple introduction to the performance with the cups.”
john henry anderson was born in aberdeenshire, scotland, july 14, 1814. he began life as an actor. after witnessing a performance in england by signor blitz, his mind was struck with the resources of magic as a means of entertaining the public, and adding to his own exchequer. so he abandoned the histrionic stage for conjuring, though he occasionally performed in melodrama as a side issue. he was very fine in the title rôle of “rob roy,” and as william, in “black-eyed susan.” his professional sobriquet in his early career was that of the “calidonian necromancer.” on one occasion he gave an exhibition {172} of his skill at abbotsford, and the genial sir walter scott said to him, “they call me the ‘wizard of the north,’ but this is a mistake—it is you, not i, who best deserve the title.” mr. anderson was not slow in adopting the suggestion of the wizard of the pen, and ever after called himself the great wizard of the north.
he displayed a great collection of apparatus, which he described as “a most gorgeous and costly apparatus of solid silver, the mysterious mechanical construction of which is upon a secret principle, hitherto unknown in europe.” he claimed to have been the inventor of the gun trick, but this was not so, as torrini and others exhibited it on the continent in the latter {173} part of the 18th century. all that anderson did was to invent his own peculiar method of working the illusion. “the extraordinary mystery of the trick,” he said, “is not effected by the aid of any accomplice, or by inserting a tube in the muzzle of the gun, or by other conceivable devices (as the public frequently, and in some instances, correctly imagine), but any gentleman may really load the gun in the usual manner, inserting, himself, a marked real leaden ball! the gun being then fired off at the wizard, he will instantly produce and exhibit the same bullet in his hand.” the marked leaden bullet, however, was exchanged for one composed of an amalgam of tinfoil and quicksilver, which was as heavy as lead, but was broken into bits and dispersed in firing. he once played a private engagement at the winter palace, st. petersburg, before the czar nicholas and a brilliant audience of grand dukes and grand duchesses. his exhibition of second sight was an excellent one. he was asked by the czar to describe the watch he had in his pocket. to the profound astonishment of the emperor, anderson announced that it was encircled with one hundred and twenty brilliants around its face, and a portrait on enamel of the emperor paul at the back. he also said that the watch carried by the empress did not go, which was a fact, it being a very old one, a relic of peter the great. it was only worn as an ornament. the wizard never claimed supernatural powers. he undoubtedly obtained his information about the chronometers from some member of the czar’s household, and worked upon the imagination and credulity of the spectators.
anderson had an indomitable spirit which no misfortune could daunt. he received the “bludgeonings of fate” like a hero, and was “captain of his soul” through a thousand and one vicissitudes of life. he built on glasgow green one of the largest theatres in scotland, and it was burnt to the ground, three months after its erection. a fortune was lost in the terrible fire. in 1851 he came to america and met with unbounded success. returning to england in 1856, he engaged covent garden theatre. in march of that year this great play-house was destroyed by fire, and anderson lost his splendid and costly {174} apparatus. on top of this disaster came the bankruptcy of the royal british bank, and that event completely swallowed up the remains of the wizard’s fortune. but he was undaunted. borrowing funds from his friends, he bought new paraphernalia, and toured the world. after an absence of five years he returned to england, january 11, 1863. he had traveled 235,000 miles and “had passed through his hands the enormous sum of £157,000 sterling.” he died at darlington, scotland, on tuesday, february 3, 1874. in accordance with a wish expressed during his last illness, he was buried at aberdeen, in the same grave with his beloved mother. no inscription on the tombstone records the fact that the wizard of the north lies beneath.
what was the secret of anderson’s success?
he was not a great magician in the sense of the word—that is to say, an adept at legerdemain, an original creative genius like houdin, robin, and the elder herrmann. but he was an actor who played the role of necromancer with great effect. he surrounded himself with costly and brilliant apparatus which dazzled the eyes of the groundlings. his baggage weighed tons and filled many trunks and boxes. he believed in heavy artillery, like napoleon i. the dashing hussar style was not his. that branch of conjuring belongs to frikell and de kolta. strange to say, in spite of the revolution in the art of magic since anderson’s day, we are coming back to the big paraphernalia of the old school. the public is tired of small tricks. a discussion of this subject will be found in the article on frikell.
i doubt whether a greater advertiser than anderson ever lived. bosco cannot be compared to him. alexander herrmann depended on his social qualities and his laughable adventures in street cars, cafés, and clubs to boom his reputation. anderson adopted the methods of the patent-medicine manufacturers. he would have made an excellent advance agent for a new panacea. he literally plastered the streets and walls of london with his advertising devices. some of them were highly ingenious and amusing and kept the public on the qui vive with excitement. in this line of puffing, people are willing to overlook charlatanry. one of his posters was a caricature imitation of the famous {175} painting, “napoleon’s return from elba.” it was of gigantic size. houdin describes it and other advertising schemes as follows:
“in the foreground anderson was seen affecting the attitude of the great man; above his head fluttered an enormous banner, bearing the words ‘the wonder of the world,’ while, behind him, and somewhat lost in the shade, the emperor of russia and several other monarchs stood in a respectful posture. as in the original picture, the fanatic admirers of the wizard embraced his knees, while an immense crowd received him triumphantly. in the distance could be seen the equestrian statue of the iron duke, who, hat in hand, bowed before him, the great wizard; and, lastly, the very dome of st. paul’s bent towards him most humbly.
“at the bottom was the inscription,
‘return of the napoleon of necromancy.’
“regarded seriously, this picture would be found a puff in very bad taste: but, as a caricature, it is excessively comic. besides, it had the double result of making the london public laugh, and bringing a great number of shillings into the skillful puffer’s pockets.
“when anderson is about to leave a town where he has exhausted all his resources, and has nothing more to hope, he still contrives to make one more enormous haul.
“he orders from the first jeweller in the town a silver vase, worth twenty or twenty-five pounds; he hires, for one evening only, the largest theatre or room in the town, and announces that in the wizard’s parting performance the spectators will compete to make the best pun.
“the silver vase is to be the prize of the victor.
“a jury is chosen among the chief people of the town to decide with the public on the merits of each pun.
“it is agreed that they will applaud if they think a pun good; they will say nothing to a passable one, but groan at a bad one.
“the room is always crowded, for people come less to see the performance, which they know by heart, than to display their wit publicly. each makes his jest, and receives a greeting more or less favorable; and, lastly, the vase is decreed to the cleverest among them. {176}
“any other than anderson would be satisfied with the enormous receipts his performance produces; but the great wizard of the north has not finished yet. before the audience leaves the house he states that a short-hand writer has been hired by him to take down all the puns, and that they will be published as a miscellany.
“as each spectator who has made a joke likes to see it in print, he purchases a copy of the book for a shilling. an idea of the number of these copies may be formed from the number of puns they contain. i have one of these books in my possession, printed in glasgow in 1850, in which there are 1091 of these facetiæ.”
here is one of anderson’s typical programmes, dated 1854:
music hall, leeds
20,139 of the inhabitants of leeds have surrendered to marshal professor anderson during the past fortnight.
last 11 nights of the great wizard
all leeds more astonished than the russians were at sebastopol!
☛ in order to avoid being incommoded, visitors to the front seats are respectfully requested to secure places at the hall during the day.
begs respectfully to inform the inhabitants of leeds, that in consequence of having made arrangements to perform in st. george’s hall, bradford, on monday, october 23rd, he cannot possibly appear in leeds after saturday, october 21st.—the following will be the order of
the last eleven days of wonders
this evening, monday, oct. 9th, 1854, last night but 10. tuesday, october 10th, last night but 9. wednesday, october 11th, last night but 8. thursday, october 12th, last night but 7. friday, october 13th, last night but 6. saturday, october 14th, last night but 5. monday, october 16th, last night but 4. tuesday, october 17th, last night but 3. (wednesday, october 18th, no performance, the hall being pre-engaged.) thursday, october 19th, last night but 2. friday, october 20th, last night but 1. and saturday, october 21st, the last grand and final farewell night! {177}
☛ remember you cannot look upon his like again!
professor anderson begs to inform his patrons that his performances are not superhuman, as supposed, but the result of science, applied in a new way to produce the delusive results, in connection with his ambidexterological powers, which make the “eyes the fools o’ the other senses,” and will this evening be the “head and front of his offending.”
the annihilation and recuperation or grand hydraulic experiment, the scrap book with original and yankee scraps showing the economy of space. second sight, or clairvoyance with the crystal casket, vulgarly called the devil’s box. the great chemical analysis with evaporating handkerchiefs oh! my hat! great pot pourri of handkerchiefs in the magic laundry, and that bottle brandy, scotch whiskey, geneva, irish whiskey, rum, english gin, the new cradle, or mesmeric sleep, strongly recommended for the nursery, where there are “squalls.”
interval of ten minutes
during the interval, the wizard’s handbook of magic, price 1s., with an explanation of upwards of 250 magical delusions, an exposee of gambling, spirit rapping, table turning, &c., illustrated with upwards of 100 diagrams, &c., showing the construction of the necessary apparatus; also, the wizard in paris, being professor anderson’s narrative of a recent visit to the french capital, descriptive of the place, and throwing new light upon the people.—a guide for all who are going there, and a pleasant book for those who have been. may be had of professor anderson’s assistants
the wizard will again enter his “psychomanteum,” and commence part two with his great
mechanical automaton or fortune teller, in connection with the spirit rapping bell and table!
although the wizard is not a great orator or lecturer, he will deliver a few remarks on what is called
spiritualism! or humbug of the first water, proving that there are still greater humbugs in england than himself, for which he is very sorry, he thinking that he was the ne plus ultra in that particular line of business.
the great watch wonder
proving the thickness of some skulls, with the astounding miracle, “anderson’s” (not pandora’s) box. the whole of this unparalleled entertainment will conclude with the
magic evaporation, or disappearance extraordinary
signor antonio blitz was born june 21, 1810, in a little village of moravia. at an early age he picked up, unknown to anyone, “a few adroit tricks from certain gypsies, who visited his native town.” he began to exhibit these feats for the amusement of himself and friends. he made his professional début at hamburg when but thirteen years of age, and was known to the public as the “mysterious boy.” his first appearance in this country was at the music hall, broadway, new york. he had many imitators. not less than thirteen people traveled the united states using his name, circulating a verbatim copy of his handbill and advertisement—“not only assuming to be the original blitz, but in many instances claiming to be a son or nephew.” “i have been,” says blitz, in his memoirs, fifty years in the magic circle, (hartford, conn., 1871), “in constant receipt of bills of their contracting, for, not content with taking my name, they have not even honor enough to pay their debts.” the thirteen impostors exhibited under the following and other names:
signor blitz. signor blitz, jr. signor blitz, the original. signor blitz’s son. signor blitz’s nephew. signor blitz, the wonderful. signor blitz, the great. signor blitz, the unrivalled. signor blitz, the mysterious. signor blitz, by purchase. signor blitz, the great original.
blitz was not only a magician, but a ventriloquist and trainer of birds. he relates an amusing encounter with the great but eccentric genius, the italian violinist, paganini, whose romantic life is known to all lovers of music. the adventure took place in the city of glasgow, scotland, where paganini was giving a concert. says blitz: “he, paganini, was tall and awkward-looking, cadaverous in features, ungainly in form, with long {179} black hair, said to be very wealthy, and characterized as extremely penurious. no instance was ever known of his contributing a penny to the distressed, or to a benevolent institution. one morning i called and found him quietly seated in his room alone. after conversing with him a short time i noticed his violin case lying upon the table, when suddenly the cry of a child issued from therein.
“ ‘who is that?’ said paganini, quickly looking around.
“ ‘it is me, with the babe,’ answered a womanly voice.
“ ‘my god! what is this?’ inquired the astonished violinist.
“ ‘you well know,’ plaintively answered the woman, at the same time the infant again commenced crying.
“ ‘we know you are a bad woman,’ vehemently declared the excited man.
“ ‘and did you not make me so, you old italian fiddler?’
“after this there was apparently a commotion in the box, when paganini became alarmed and was about to leave the room when i unmasked myself and explained that he had been a victim to the vagaries of ventriloquism; which, on hearing, delighted him prodigiously, and grasping me by the hand he exclaimed, ‘bravo, signor!—bravo!’ ”
signor blitz retired from the stage with a fortune and settled in philadelphia. his home was on green street near 18th street. he taught magic and gave private entertainments for some years before his death, which took place february, 1877. one of his daughters was the famous opera singer, madame vanzant, who at the present writing lives in europe. these facts i obtained from mr. thomas yost.
alexander heimbürger was born december 4, 1819, in germany. he performed under the nom de théâtre of herr alexander. he toured europe, north and south america with great success for a number of years, and retired to his native land with a large fortune. he is at present residing at munster, an old man of eighty-four, with snow-white hair and beard, and bent over with age. he was long supposed to be dead by the fraternity of magicians, but mr. houdini, in his tour of germany in 1903, discovered that he still lived, and his whereabouts. alexander had many strange stories to relate of his adventures in america and other places. he was personally acquainted with houdin, frikell, bosco, anderson, blitz, the original bamberg of amsterdam, etc. he performed several times at the white house before president polk, and hobnobbed with henry clay, webster and calhoun. {181} with letters from polk he visited brazil, and was admitted into the most aristocratic circles. on leaving new york in 1847 he was presented with a heavy gold medal, cast in the united states mint at washington. this medal has his portrait on one side, and on the reverse the following inscription:
“presented to herr alexander as a token of esteem from his friends. new york, 1847.”
mr. houdini writes as follows about the old magician (mahatma, june, 1903): “he was a welcome guest at the palace of the king of brazil. he showed me letters to him from king pedro ii and his wife, dated brazil, 1850. after an absence of ten years from his native country he returned, and married. he is blessed with six children, two sons and four daughters. {182} one is in new york at the present time. while in new york, alexander was approached by an illusionist named orzini, who had a cabinet of mystery. he was in hard circumstances and came to alexander for assistance. the genial german gave him ten dollars. orzini secured an engagement at the park theatre, but alas, only played one night, as his act did not suit, so he was closed after his first performance. said alexander to me, and the statement caused me infinite surprise: ‘this orzini was the man who threw the bomb at napoleon iii in paris, trying to kill the emperor, but was himself killed; also blowing up several bystanders, and wounding the horses of napoleon’s carriage. the reporters discovered that orzini had just arrived from america, and in his lodgings they found some kind of a mysterious glass house, which must have been the illusion cabinet. in this affair napoleon escaped with his life and a few scratches.’ ”
this is a strange story. i am of the opinion that herr alexander is laboring under a mistake in trying to identify the illusionist orzini with the celebrated revolutionist orsini. in the first place, there is the different spelling of the names—“orzini” and “orsini”; but mr. houdini may have incorrectly reported alexander in this respect. there is no record of orsini having come to the united states. again, he was not killed in the attempted assassination of napoleon iii, in the rue lepelletier, paris, january 14, 1858. he was captured and suffered imprisonment, and was guillotined march 13, 1858. while in prison he wrote his memoirs.
herr alexander is the author of a work entitled der moderne zauberer (“the modern magician”).
wiljalba frikell was born in scopio, a village of finland, in 1818. his family was well-to-do and gave him advantages in the way of education. he graduated at the high school of munich in 1840, in his twenty-second year. during his scholastic days he became interested in legerdemain, and read with avidity every work on the subject he could find. he attended {183} the performances of all conjurers who came to munich. refusing to study for one of the learned professions, greatly to the disappointment of his parents, he went on the stage, and visited the principal cities of europe, after which he journeyed to egypt. in the land of the pyramids frikell had the honor of performing before mehemit ali, who presented him with a gold medal. returning to europe he visited greece, italy, and spain. subsequently he went to india and investigated the thaumaturgy of the fakirs. he made his first appearance in london in 1851, and performed before queen victoria and the royal family, at windsor castle. his broken german and peculiarity of manner caused him to be described by punch as “a comic charles matthews.” the same journal also compared him to “a monster raven in full dress for evening party.” his success was marked. the czar of russia presented frikell with a diamond ring of great value, and the king of denmark made him a knight of dannebrog. just when this remarkable man retired from the stage i have been unable to ascertain. in his old age he became {184} a recluse and denied himself to visitors. in fact, it was supposed by the profession that he was dead, until mr. houdini discovered his whereabouts in krotschenbroda, a few miles from dresden, germany, february, 1903, and called at his villa, but did not succeed in obtaining an interview. nine months later frikell died. he contemplated writing his memoirs à la robert-houdin, but, alas, death cut short the undertaking. that they would have been extremely entertaining and full of curious incidents of travel, admits of no doubt. an extract from a letter written by mr. houdini to his american friend, h. s. thompson, of chicago, will prove of interest to the reader.
“dresden, oct. 20, 1903.
“i have some news for you that may be of interest. you may remember that i sought an interview last february with dr. wiljalba frikell, but was unable to meet him. since then we have been in correspondence, and he wrote me that if i ever came to dresden he would be pleased to see me. on arriving in dresden i sent him word that i would call upon him on october 10th last. i accordingly went to the villa frikell about 1 o’clock, and you can imagine with what sorrow and astonishment i learned that dr. frikell had died of heart failure three hours before. he was awaiting my arrival at the time. fate willed it that i should see herr frikell, but that we should not speak to each other.
“he was buried on october 13th. i attended the funeral and laid two large wreaths on his grave; one on behalf of the society of american magicians, and the other from myself. the s. a. m. wreath was the largest and handsomest there.
“herr frikell was 87 years old and had made all arrangements to live to 100. he always claimed he would live to over 100 years and would tell why he expected to reach that age. too bad we could not have held a conversation ere he departed this life.
frikell was an innovator in the art of magic. he dispensed with apparatus. in his lessons in magic, he says: “the use of complicated and cumbersome apparatus, to which modern conjurers have become addicted, not only greatly diminishes the amount of astonishment they are enabled to produce,—a defect which is not compensated by the external splendor and imposing effect of such paraphernalia,—but the useful lesson, how fallible our senses are, by means the most ordinary and at everybody’s command, is entirely lost. it has been my object {185} in my performances to restore the art to its original province, and to extend that to a degree which it has, i believe, never yet hitherto reached. i banish all such mechanical and scientific preparations from my own practice, confining myself for the most part to the objects and materials of every day life. the success i have met with emboldens me to believe that i have followed the right path.”
there is more or less truth in what frikell says. but one can go to extremes in the avoidance of magic paraphernalia. the happy course is the middle one—a combination of sleight of hand and apparatus. i quote, as follows, from an article by prof. hoffmann (mahatma): “the scientific school of conjuring, of which robert-houdin was the originator, had its drawbacks. it involved the use of costly and cumbersome paraphernalia, which grew and grew in quantity, till we find anderson, the wizard of the north, traveling with seven tons of luggage! further, a trick, which, like robert-houdin’s automatic figures, obviously depends upon ingenious mechanism, palls upon the spectator. such figures, at the present day, would be no more regarded as magic than the strasburg clock. lastly his electrical tricks produced an extraordinary effect, because very few persons in his day were acquainted with the properties of electricity, but now that there are electric bells in every household, and electrical motor cars in every street, its magical prestige exists no longer.
“hence a reaction to a severer and simpler school of conjuring, of which wiljalba frikell was the earliest exponent, the school which professes, so far as the public is concerned, to work without apparatus and which in fact reduces its apparatus to the smallest possible dimensions. many high class performers now give what is known in england as a ‘carpet bag’ show, and will keep an audience wonder bound for a couple of hours, using no more apparatus than can be carried in an ordinary gripsack.
st. james’ theatre (london, 1854) professor wiljalba frikell
appointed physicien to their majesties the emperor and empress of russia
new entertainment of physical and natural magic (without the aid of any apparatus)
entitled two hours of illusions
1.—the secret power and wonderful appearance 2.—you shall and must laugh 3.—the drunken bracelet 4.—something for everybody and the pleasant pastime 5.—time in a fix
1.—the little devil and the secret dispatch 2.—aladdin’s magic lamp 3.—grand military manœuvre, or the courage of prof. frikell 4.—das geheimnisz, and flight in the air 5.—the children’s delight and christmas presents of prof. wiljalba frikell
“broadly speaking this is undoubtedly an advance, for of two performers, the one who can produce by the magic of his own fingers the same degree of illusion for which the other needs elaborate apparatus, the former is surely the greater artist. but {187} the striving for simplicity may be overdone. the performer is apt to lose his feeling for breadth of effect, and to fritter away his skill over illusions too minute and too soon over to make any permanent impression. one of the most skilful sleight of hand performers we have ever seen throws away half the value of his work by going too fast, and producing small effects, individually brilliant, so rapidly that his audience has not time fairly to appreciate one before another is presented. the spectator, under such circumstances, takes away with him a mere blurred impression, rather than a clear mental photograph of what he has seen, and the show suffers in his estimation accordingly.
“another danger attending the non-apparatus school lies in the fact that the performer is apt, by carrying the principle to needless lengths, unduly to limit his methods.
“on the whole we are inclined to think that the most successful magician of the future will be one who judiciously combines apparatus and non-apparatus tricks; such apparatus, however, to be of a simple and homely kind and not made admittedly for the purpose of the trick. the ideal entertainment, from the standpoint of the spectator, will be one in which feats of dexterity or supposed dexterity, are worked in conjunction with brilliant stage effects of a more spectacular kind, such as are exhibited by mr. maskelyne at the egyptian hall, london.”
and so i ring down the curtain on the old-time conjurers. they played their parts in the great drama of life, and enriched the history of the stage with their adventures. what could be more romantic than the career of the incomparable bosco?
the prestidigitateur makes things appear and disappear to our great wonderment, until finally death, the greatest of all necromancers, waves his wand, and the mortal fades away from view, amid the shadows of the tomb. tom masson, that charming writer of verse de societé, says—
the secrets of second sight.
“then second-sighted sandy said, ‘we’ll do nae good at a’, willie.’ ”
—child’s ballads, vii. 265.
i went on one occasion to dine with mr. francis j. martinka, and while waiting for the repast to be served, seated myself upon an old-fashioned sofa in his drawing-room.
“pardon me,” said my host, gaily, “while i put a bottle of wine on ice. i will be back in a little while. in the meantime, you may amuse yourself looking over these photos of eminent conjurers. and, by the way, you are seated on the very sofa {189} which robert heller used in his second-sight trick. examine it carefully and you will see where the wires and electric battery were located. i came into possession of the relic after the death of heller.”
so saying he went out to look after the wine.
and so the piece of furniture i was seated on was the veritable up-to-date tripod of that high priestess of delphi, miss haidie heller, who assisted robert heller, acting the part of clairvoyant. it called up a flood of memories to me.
the magician of the arabian nights transported himself from bagdad to damascus upon a piece of carpet. in imagination that old sofa carried me back thirty years into the past. i was seated in the gallery of the old national theatre, washington, d. c., at a soirée magique of the famous heller. i shall never forget his second-sight trick. it was the most wonder-provoking, the most mysterious experiment i have ever seen. in his hands, it was perfect. robert heller saw houdin give an exhibition of this feat of mental magic in london. his acute mind divined the secret, and he set about devising a code for working the experiment. he added many new effects. nothing seemed to puzzle him and his assistant.
at an entertainment given in boston, and described by henry hermon in his work on hellerism, a coin was handed to heller. he glanced at it and requested miss heller to name the object.
“a coin,” she quickly answered.
“here, see if you can tell the name of the country, and all about it?” he next asked.
without a moment’s hesitation she replied: “it is a large copper coin—a coin of africa, i think. yes, it is of tripoli. the inscriptions on it are in arabic; one side reads ‘coined at tripoli;’ the other side, ‘sultan of two lands, sultan by inheritance, and the son of a sultan.’ ”
“very well,” said heller, “that is correct. but look, what is the date, now?”
“the date is 1‐2‐2‐0, one thousand two hundred and twenty of the hegira, or mohammedan year, which corresponds to 1805 of the christian year.” {190}
tremendous applause greeted this feat.
mr. fred hunt, who was for a number of years robert heller’s assistant, revealed the secret of second sight soon after heller’s death. the performer has first to be initiated into a new alphabetical arrangement, which is as follows:
a is h; b is t; c is s; d is g; e is f; f is e; g is a; h is i; i is b; j is l; k is pray; l is c; m is o; n is d; o is v; p is j; q is w; r is m; s is n; t is p; u is look; v is y; w is r; x is see this; y is q; z is hurry. “hurry up” means to repeat the last letter. for example, the initials or name in a ring is wanted. say it is “anna.” by the alphabetical arrangement h stands for a. d for n. the exclamation “hurry up” always means a repetition of the last letter, and again h will give the answer when put as follows:
attention is paid only to the first letter of every sentence, and it will be perceived that the name of anna is spelled.
after the alphabet we have the numbers, which are arranged as follows: 1 is say or speak; 2 is be, look or let; 3 is can or can’t; 4 is do or don’t; 5 is will or won’t; 6 is what; 7 is please or pray; 8 is are or ain’t; 9 is now; 10 is tell; 0 is hurry or come. “well” is to repeat the last figure. now for an example: the number 1,234 is needed. the conjurer remarks: “say the number. look at it. can you see it? do you know?”
suppose the number called for is 100.
“tell me the number. hurry!”
so much, dear reader, for the spelling of proper names and conveying numbers to the clairvoyant on the stage. in regard to colors, metals, precious stones, countries, materials, fabrics, makers of watches, playing cards, society emblems, coins, bills, jewelry, wearing apparel, surgical instruments, etc., etc., heller had them arranged in sets of ten. the first question he asked gave the clue to the set; the second question to the number of the article in the set. thus but two short questions were necessary to elicit the proper reply from the assistant. {191} miscellaneous articles were divided into nineteen sets. i will give examples of two:
what article is this?
1. handkerchief. 2. neckerchief. 3. bag. 4. glove. 5. purse. 6. basket. 7. beet. 8. comforter. 9. headdress. 10. fan.
what is this?
1. watch. 2. bracelet. 3. guard. 4. chain. 5. breastpin. 6. necklace. 7. ring. 8. rosary. 9. cross. 10. charm.
supposing a spectator handed a rosary to the conjurer. he would call out to his assistant, “what is this?” (clue to the second set.) then he would exclaim, “are you ready?” the word are would give the clue to number 8. and so on.
the clues to the sets were worded very nearly alike, so as to make the spectators believe that the same questions were being constantly asked.
evoking the aid of electricity, robert heller was enabled to convey the cue words and numbers of the sets to miss heller without speaking a word. it was this wonderful effect that so puzzled everybody. a confederate sat among the spectators, near the center aisle of the theatre, and the wires of an electric battery were connected with his chair, the electric push button being under the front part of his seat. heller gave the cue to the set in which the article was, its number, etc., by some natural movement of his body or arms; and the confederate, rapidly interpreting the secret signals, telegraphed them to the clairvoyant on the stage. the receiving instrument was attached to the sofa upon which miss heller sat. the interchangeable use of the two methods of conveying information—spoken and unspoken—during an evening, completely bewildered the spectators. it was indeed a sphinx problem.
robert heller, or william henry palmer, was born in canterbury, england, in 1833. at the age of fourteen he won a scholarship at the royal academy of music. in the year 1852 {192} he made his début in new york city at the chinese assembly rooms. on this occasion he wore a black wig and spoke with a gallic accent, believing that a french conjurer would be better received in this country than an english magician. he failed to make a success, and eventually drifted to washington, where he taught music for a number of years. all this time he was perfecting himself in legerdemain. finally he reappeared in new york and won unbounded success. he visited europe and india, returning to the united states in 1875. his last performance was given at concert hall, philadelphia, on november 25, 1878. he died in the same city on november 28, 1878. soon after his death an absurd story went the rounds of the {193} press that he had directed his executors to destroy his automata and magical paraphernalia. such is not the case. mr. francis j. martinka, of new york, possesses a number of his tricks. heller was a magnificent pianist and always gave a short recital of his own compositions and those of the masters during his entertainment. he used to append the following effusion to his posters:
“shakespeare wrote well; dickens wrote weller; anderson was— but the greatest is heller.”
the following is one of heller’s programmes (salt lake city, utah, may 23, 1867):
fourth performance of the renowned conjurer, illusionist and pianist
mr. robert heller!
the selections of wonders and marvels! for these performances will embrace many of his most famous inventions in magical art!
the musical selections will be rendered upon chickering’s grand piano, attached to the theatre.
mr. robert heller will make his fourth appearance this evening
1.—with a candle. 2.—with a watch—the watches of the audience made to strike the hour. 3.—the cannon balls. 4.—with 30 pieces of silver. 5.—mocha—an utter impossibility. 6.—a photograph.
1.—caprice on airs from “il trovatore,” including the famous anvil chorus.—heller. 2.—“home, sweet home.”—heller. 3.—“storm and sunshine.”—a musical story.
part iii.—the great mystery of second sight!
the most startling phenomenon of this country.
heller’s original and wonderful band of
the most perfect set of blockheads in the world, who will introduce their most popular overtures, choruses, &c.
a curious exhibition of silent second sight was that of the svengali trio. the effect as described by the new york herald, august 11, 1904, is as follows:
“two persons (lady and gentleman) are on the stage, both with their backs toward the audience. a third one goes into the auditorium, with his back towards the stage, to receive the wishes of the audience. if the name of any international celebrity is whispered to him, with lightning rapidity the thought is transmitted. the gentleman on the stage turns round immediately and appears in features, bearing and dress as the desired personage—with wonderfully startling resemblance.
“one can likewise whisper to the gentleman in the auditorium the name of an international opera, operetta or international song. the thought flies like lightning, and the lady sings what is wanted, instantly accompanying herself on the piano.
“the secret of this trick is as follows: when the curtain rises, the master of ceremonies walks to the front of the stage and in a pleasing voice begins: ‘ladies and gentlemen—i have the pleasure of introducing to you, etc., etc. i will call your attention to the fact that the spectators must confine their whispered wishes to international celebrities, names of well-known personages, songs and operas of international fame,’ etc.
“this limitation of choice is the key to the performance. they have lists of these ‘international celebrities,’ rulers, statesmen, diplomats, great writers and musical composers; songs of world-wide reputation, popular selections from the operas, etc. and the secret of the evening is that all of these carefully selected names, titles, etc., are numbered, as in the following examples:
statesmen and rulers.
1. bismarck. 2. king humbert of italy. 3. napoleon bonaparte. 4. king edward vii. 5. paul kruger. 120. lincoln.
1. “home, sweet home.” 2. “last rose of summer.” 3. “marseillaise.” 4. “the jewel song in faust.” 5. “walter’s prize song.” 101. “comin’ thro’ the rye.” {195}
1. “faust.” 2. “lohengrin.” 3. “bohemian girl.” 4. “lucia di lammermoor.” 5. “carmen.” 120. “trovatore.”
1. thackeray. 2. victor hugo. 3. dickens. 4. george eliot. 5. shakespeare. 101. dante.
how the signals are concealed.
“the manager reiterates that if only names of international reputation are given the responses will be correct nine hundred and ninety-nine times in a thousand. then he descends from the stage, and, smiling right and left, inclines his ear to catch the whispered wishes as he moves slowly up the aisle, generally with his back to the stage. an auditor whispers to him, ‘bismarck.’
“herr svengali, gesticulating freely but naturally, pressing his eyes with his fingers for an instant as if going into a momentary trance—only a second or two, just enough to impress the audience—then thrusts a hand into the air, wipes the moisture from his face with his handkerchief or leans toward a spectator, seeking his attention, when a voice from the stage says, ‘bismarck.’
“ ‘right,’ responds the man who whispered that illustrious name. then there is a craning of necks and crushing of programmes, all eyes fixed on the stage, where the impersonator, standing before a cabinet of costume pigeonholes, with the aid of an assistant has donned wig and uniform in his lightning change and whirls around disguised as bismarck, while the girl at the piano plays ‘the watch on the rhine.’ it is all the work of a few seconds and makes a great impression upon the spectator.
“the next man calls for an opera air, ‘bohemian girl,’ and the piano plays ‘i dreamt that i dwelt in marble halls,’ etc. another man suggests the magic name ‘sheridan.’ it is echoed aloud from the stage, while the audience applauds and the girl plays ‘the star spangled banner.’
“the few experts present pay little attention to the stage. their eyes are fixed on the man svengali in the aisle, noting every move he makes. it is observed that his numerous gestures, his frequent use of his handkerchief, the pressure of his {196} fingers on his eyes, as if to hypnotize his assistant on the stage, are natural movements, attracting no attention, yet necessary to hide the vital signals in the cipher code of the show.
“in the programme and show bills it is emphasized that the lady and gentleman on the stage have their backs to the audience, while svengali, down in the aisle, has his back to the stage, making collusion apparently impossible. this makes a profound impression on the public.
“a confederate behind a screen.
“but not a word is said of that curious screen panel, bearing a double-headed eagle—the austrian coat of arms—surmounting a large cabinet of costumes occupying so much space on the stage. the programme does not explain that this screen panel is transparent from behind and that an accomplice with a strong magnifying lens reads every move made by svengali and repeats his signals to the pretty girl at the piano and the impersonator at the cabinet.
“the systems explained.
“here is an illustration of how the figure system can be worked. as explained above, the famous personages, popular songs and operas are on numbered lists. svengali in the aisle, with his code of signals, has all these numbers committed to memory.
“when a spectator whispers ‘dickens’ svengali knows it is no. 4, and he signals accordingly.
“by touching his head, chin, or breast, or that particular part of his body designated in the signal code of the svengali company. the diagram given herewith illustrates the system of communication by numbers, nine figures and a cipher (0), by which all the wealth of the world may be measured, and any number of words may be communicated without a word of speech. one has but to map out a square on his face, breast or body, and number it with these nine figures, with an extra space for the cipher, to be ready for the svengali business. that is, when he has memorized the names and the numbers representing them. {197}
“say the human head is used for this purpose. imagine the top of the head, right hand side, as no. 1, the right ear as no. 2, the jaw as no. 3, and the neck as the cipher; the forehead no. 4, the nose no. 5, the chin no. 6, the top of the head on the left side as no. 7, the left ear no. 8, and the left side of the jaw no. 9.
“thus you have the code system by which operators can communicate volumes by using a codified list of numbered words or sentences.
“if you label the lord’s prayer no. 4, and the declaration of independence no. 5, you may instantly telegraph the mighty literature through wireless space—enough literature to save all europe from anarchy—by two natural movements of the hand.
“you can label your eyes, your movements or even your glances, making them take the places of the nine omnipotent numbers. again: glance upward to the right for no. 1, straight upward for no. 2, and upward to the left for no. 3. repeating, glancing horizontally for nos. 4, 5 and 6. repeating the same again, by glancing downward for nos. 7, 8 and 9, and stroking your chin for the cipher (0).
“with your back to the audience, you can telegraph in a similar way, using your arm and elbow to make the necessary signals. let the right arm, hanging down, represent no. 1; the elbow, projecting from the side, no. 2; elbow raised, no. 3. repeat {198} with the left arm for nos. 4, 5 and 6; with either hand placed naturally behind you, on the small of the back, above the belt and over your shoulder for nos. 7, 8 and 9, and on the back of your head or neck for the cipher (0).”
it is an interesting fact to note that the chevalier pinetti was the first exhibitor of the second-sight trick. houdin revived (or re-invented) it.
on the 12th of december, 1846, he announced in his bill, “in this programme, m. robert-houdin’s son, who is gifted with marvelous second sight, after his eyes have been covered with a thick bandage, will designate every object presented to him by the audience.” in his memoirs he thus describes how he came to invent the trick:
“my two children were playing one day in the drawing-room at a game they had invented for their own amusement. the younger had bandaged his elder brother’s eyes, and made him guess at the objects he touched, and when the latter happened to guess right, they changed places. this simple game suggested to me the most complicated idea that ever crossed my mind.
“pursued by the notion, i ran and shut myself up in my workroom, and was fortunately in that happy state when the mind {199} follows easily the combinations traced by fancy. i rested my head in my hands, and, in my excitement, laid down the first principles of second sight.”
houdin never revealed his method of working the trick.
robert heller’s successors in mental magic are max berol and wife, and the zancigs. among other feats berol is able to memorize over two hundred words called out by the spectators and written down on a slip of paper by some gentleman. berol will then write these words backwards and forwards without hesitation and name any one of them by its number in the list. the zancigs are marvels in the art of second sight. they were born in copenhagen, denmark, but are naturalized citizens of the united states. clever advertisers, they lay claim to occult powers, as the following notice in the washington post, april 30, 1905, will testify:
“although prof. zancig and mme. zancig, who will be at chase’s this week, are naturalized americans, they come from denmark. they first developed their transmission of thought from one mind to another—or what is known as telepathy—while journeying through the orient. they found that quite a number of the orientals had found it possible to control ‘thought waves’ and transmit them to the minds of others, just as marconi, with his wireless telegraphy, controls electric waves and transmits them to an objective point. prof. zancig discovered that mme. zancig was inceptive, and he could readily transmit to her mind the thoughts of his own. the tests were continued, and became so positive and conclusive that it was decided to give public exhibitions.
“while in india, prof. and mme. zancig saw some astonishing telepathic exhibitions, which encouraged them to still greater efforts. they gave exhibitions before the maharajah, near delhi; before the chinese minister at hongkong, and before the japanese officials of highest grades, who took great interest in the mental tests. one remarkable incident occurred at potchefstroom, south africa, where the natives are extremely superstitious. the exhibition had been extensively advertised, and the house was full. the entertainment created a sensation. as long as prof. zancig remained on the stage everything was all right, {200} but when he went among the audience and read dates of coins, inscriptions on letters, and performed other remarkable feats, the audience suddenly became panic-stricken, and there was a mad rush for windows, doors, or any other means of exit. in five minutes the hall was empty, and nothing could induce the people to return. after concluding his tour abroad, prof. zancig and his wife returned to america, and began an american tour which has been uninterruptedly successful and will extend to every section of the united states.”
two clever performers of the second-sight trick are harry and mildred rouclere. mr. rouclere gives a very pleasing magical entertainment.
the confessions of an amateur conjurer.
“if this be magic, let it be an art.”—shakespeare.
at the theatre not long ago, i heard the orchestra play mendelssohn’s exquisite “spring song,” and immediately i was carried back in fancy to my boyhood days under the old roof-tree at glen willow, on the heights of georgetown, d. c., where i spent such happy years. the rain is gently pattering upon the shingled roof; the distant woods are waxing green under the soft influences of the season; the blackbirds are calling in the tree tops. o sweet springtide of youth, made more beautiful still by the associations of books, by the free play of the imagination in realms of poetry and fantasie—
“a boy’s will is the wind’s will. and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
the intervening years are all blotted out. i am young again, and have just returned to the old home, after witnessing an exhibition of magic by wyman the wizard at the town hall. to a boy fresh from the delights of the arabian nights this is a wonderful treat. my mind is agitated with a thousand thoughts. i, too, will become a conjurer, and hold the groundlings spellbound; bring bowls of goldfish from a shawl; cook puddings in a borrowed hat; pull rabbits from old gentlemen’s pockets.
dear old wyman, ventriloquist as well as prestidigitateur, old-time showman, and the delight of my boyhood—what a weary pilgrimage you had of it in this world; wandering up and down, never at rest, traveling thousands of miles by stagecoach, steamboat, and railroad, giving entertainments in little villages {202} and towns all over the united states, and welcomed everywhere by happy children. the big cities you left to your more ambitious brethren. but what of that? you brought thereby more pleasure into humble lives than all of the old conjurers put together. well have you earned your rest. though your name is quite forgotten by the present generation, a few old boys and girls still hold you in loving remembrance.
wyman retired from the stage eventually, and lived in philadelphia for several years at 612 north eleventh street. afterwards he moved to burlington, new jersey, where he bought an imposing country place. he owned considerable real estate. he died july 31, 1881. a few days before his death he called to see his old friend thomas w. yost, the manufacturer of magical apparatus, of philadelphia. he must have had a premonition of his demise, for he remarked to mr. yost, as he left the store: “you will not see me again. this is the last of wyman.” in a few days he was dead. he was buried at fall river, massachusetts, the home of his wife. wyman’s show consisted of ventriloquism, magic, and an exhibition of italian fantochini (puppets). he was one of the best entertainers of his day.
i took to magic at an early age—not the magic of the sleight of hand artist, however, but the real goetic or black magic, {204} as black as any old grimoire of mediæval days could make it. aye, darker in hue than any inveighed against in the famous dæmonologie of king james i. of protestant memory. i believed firmly in witches, ghosts, goblins, voodoo spells, and conjure doctors. but what can you expect of a small boy surrounded by negro servants, the relics of the old régime of slavery, who still held tenaciously to the devil-lore of their ancestors of the african jungle? at nightfall i dared not go near the smoke-house for fear of the witches who held their revels there. one day my father brought home a book for his library. it was mackey’s extraordinary popular delusions; or, the madness of crowds. that work of absorbing interest opened my eyes to the unreality of the old superstitions. i read it with avidity. it became a sort of bible to me. it lies on the table before me, as i pen these lines; a much-thumbed, faded, old book.
the first amateur sleight of hand show i ever took part in, was given by a boy named albert niblack. the matinée magique was held in a stable attached to my father’s house. the entrance fee was three pins, orchestra chairs ten pins. the stage was erected in the carriage house, and the curtain consisted of a couple of sheets surreptitiously borrowed from the household linen closet. i acted as the conjurer’s assistant. the success of the entertainment was phenomenal. the audience consisted of some thirty children, with a sprinkling of negro nurses who came to preserve order among the smaller fry, and an old horse who persisted in sticking his head through a window near the stage, his stall being in an adjoining compartment. he occupied the only private box in the theatre. among other tricks on the programme, young niblack produced a small canary bird from an egg which had been previously examined and declared to be the real product of the hen by all the colored experts present, who tested it on their teeth. one fat old mammy, with her head picturesquely done up in a red bandana handkerchief, was so overcome by the trick that she shouted out: “fo de lawd sake! dat boy mus’ be kin to de debbil sho,’ ” and regretted the fact that she did not have a rabbit’s foot with her, to ward off the spells. years have passed since then. young niblack is now lieut. commander niblack, u. s. n., erstwhile naval attaché {205} of the american embassy at berlin, etc. i wonder if he still practises magic. he obtained his insight into the mysteries of conjuring from a little book of sleights, puzzles and chemical experiments, a cheap affair and very crude. like houdin, he had to create the principles of legerdemain himself, for the book contained no real information on the subject. it was manufactured to sell in two senses of the word, and to the best of my belief, was purchased at the circus. among that audience were several children who have since become famous, to a greater or less extent. there was umei tsuda, a diminutive japanese girl, sent to this country to be educated, and who now presides over a great normal school in japan; waldemar bodisco (son of count bodisco, the russian minister to the united states), now an officer in the czar’s navy; and, if i mistake not, agustin de iturbide, the adopted son of the ill-fated maximilian, who attempted to found an empire in mexico, bolstered up by french bayonets. young iturbide’s mother, after the tragic death of maximilian, came to georgetown to reside and educate her son, the heir to the throne of mexico. poor fellow, he was a prince, but he did not plume himself because of the fact, for he was in reality a “boy without a country.” we were classmates in the preparatory department of georgetown college. his career is one of the romances of history. he is now living an exile in an old country house in the district of columbia, where he spends his time reading and dreaming.
i entered upon the practise of sleight of hand in the year 1877, after reading hoffmann’s modern magic. i adopted houdin’s method of carrying a pack of cards and other articles in my pockets. on my way to school, over a long country road, i put in some hard practise, learning to sauter le coupe, and palm most any small object. while in class one day, i was caught in flagrante delicto, with a pack of cards in my hand, by the dignified old latin professor. i was sent to the principal of the academy for punishment, which i received like a stoic, but vowing vengeance on the latin pedagogue, who was a very {206} orthodox religionist, the principal of a baptist sunday school, and consequently held cards in abhorrence. i often heard him remark that cards were the “devil’s looking glasses.” one day, i slipped a couple of packs of cards in the sleeve of the professor’s overcoat, which hung upon the wall back of his desk, and tipped the wink to the boys. they were astounded at my audacity. when the class was dismissed, the scholars lingered around to see the fun. the professor went to put on his coat, whereupon the cards flew about the room in a shower, being propelled by the impact of his arm, which he thrust violently into the sleeve. the boys, with a great shout, began picking up the scattered pasteboards, which they presented to the teacher, commiserating with him in his trouble. the old man, who was very angry, disclaimed ownership of the detested cards, and got out of the room as speedily as possible. perhaps it is needless to remark that i failed miserably in the latin examinations that year. but it may have been owing to my stupidity and not to any animus on the professor’s part. let us hope so.
after long practise in legerdemain, i determined to give an entertainment, and selected as my assistant, my school chum, edward l. dent, a boy who possessed great mechanical genius. later in life he graduated with honors as a mechanical engineer {207} from stevens’ institute, new jersey, and founded a great iron mill in georgetown. poor fellow, he met with business reverses and lost a fortune. he died some five or six years ago. young dent lived in a historical mansion on the heights of georgetown, surrounded by a great park of oaks. it was the home of john c. calhoun, when he was secretary of state of the united states. in the great attic of the house, judge dent had fitted up a superb carpenter shop and forge for his son.
amateur magicians are called upon to exhibit their skill in all sorts of places. i once gave a performance in a pullman car, going at full speed. it was on the occasion of a pilgrimage to the scottish rite temples of the southwest, with a party of eminent members of the fraternity. this was in the spring of 1904. among those who went on the journey were the hon. james daniel richardson, 33°, sovereign grand commander of the ancient and accepted scottish rite of freemasonry for the southern jurisdiction of the united states, and admiral winfield scott schley, 32°, the “hero of santiago,” a most genial traveling companion and raconteur. mr. richardson had jocularly appointed me hierophant of the mysteries, so i took along with me a box full of magic apparatus, to amuse the initiates when time hung heavy on their hands. my first performance was given while speeding across the state of kentucky. at one end of an observation car i arranged my table and paraphernalia. in honor of the admiral, i got up an impromptu trick, which i called, “after the battle of santiago.” borrowing a silk hat, and showing it empty, i began as follows:
i waved the flag in the air, amid the plaudits of the spectators. just then the car gave a terrific lurch, while rounding a curve; i lost my balance and was precipitated head first like a battering ram against the capacious stomach of an old gentleman, seated in the front row. he doubled up with pain.
“say, what kind of a trick do you call that?” he gasped out.
“that,” said i, “is a representation of a sailor on board of the brooklyn falling overboard.”
“i call it a monkey trick,” he groaned. his dignity and digestive apparatus had been sadly upset. from that time on, he eyed me with suspicion whenever i gave a show, and always took a chair in the back row of seats.
the study of natural magic is wonderfully fascinating. it possesses, too, a decided pedagogic value, which eminent scholars have not been slow to recognize. those who obtain an insight into its principles are preserved against infection from the many psychical epidemics of the age. the subject is of interest to scientists. dr. g. stanley hall, at one time professor of experimental psychology at the johns hopkins university, baltimore, md., at present president of clarke university, worcester, massachusetts, used to exhibit conjuring tricks to his classes, to illustrate the illusions of the senses. an eminent german scientist, dr. max dessoir, has written learnedly on the psychology of legerdemain. prof. joseph jastrow, of the university of wisconsin, subjected the conjurers, herrmann and kellar, to a series of careful tests, to ascertain their “tactile sensibility, sensitiveness to textures, accuracy of visual perception, quickness of movement, mental processes,” etc. the results of these tests were printed in science, vol. iii, page 685–689, under the title of “psychological notes upon sleight-of-hand experts.”
the literature of natural magic is not extensive. thirty years ago, first-class works in english on legerdemain were rare. houdin’s secrets de la prestidigitation et de la magie, which was published in 1868, was out of print, and, says prof. hoffmann, “the possession of a copy was regarded among professors of magic as a boon of the highest possible value.” hoffmann picked up an old second-hand copy of the work in paris, and translated it in the year 1877. to-day, books on sleight of hand have been multiplying rapidly. every professor of the art thinks it incumbent upon him to publish a treatise on magic. strange to say, the good works on the subject have been written by amateurs. prof. hoffmann (angelo lewis), a member of the london bar, has written the best book, following him have come edwin sachs and c. lang neill. the autobiography of that arch-master of magic, robert-houdin, was translated, in 1859, by dr. r. shelton mackenzie, of philadelphia. thomas frost, in 1881, produced an interesting work on the lives of the conjurers, but it is now quite out of date. i know of no really scholarly treatise extant to-day on the history of prestidigitation. {211}
i have been very fortunate in my researches in the history of magic, to have had access to several private collections of books, old playbills, programmes, prints, etc., relating to the subject. i myself have been an indefatigable collector of books and pamphlets treating of magic and magicians. but my library pales into insignificance beside that of my friend, dr. saram r. ellison, of new york city. dr. ellison is a practising physician and, like many others of his profession, a great lover of escamotage, perhaps because of its relationship to psychology. he has {212} in his collection of books, many rare volumes picked up in europe and elsewhere. at the present writing his library contains nearly one thousand two hundred titles, among them being rare copies of decremps (1789–1793), pinetti (1785), breslaw (1812), porta (1658), kosmann (1817), witgeest (1773), naudeus (1657), etc., etc. in the year 1902, kellar visited the ellison library. he endeavored to purchase the collection for $2,000. dr. ellison refused to part with his beloved books. in his will he has left the collection to columbia university, new york city. one of the doctor’s fads is the collection of wands of famous magicians. he possesses over sixty rods of the modern magi, and has often contemplated sending an expedition to egypt to discover the wands used by moses and aaron. among his collection are wands formerly wielded by carl, leon, alexander and mme. herrmann (four representatives of one family), willmann, anderson, blitz, de kolta, hoffmann, goldin, maskelyne, powell, mcallister, robinson, kellar, fox, etc. each of the wands is accompanied by a story, which will be published in the near future.
when the citizen-king, louis philippe, ruled over the destinies of la belle france, there resided in paris an old man, by the name of m. roujol, familiarly known among his confrères as “father” roujol. he kept a modest shop in the rue richelieu for the manufacture and sale of magical apparatus. the professional and amateur conjurers of the french capital made roujol’s their meeting place. “the duc de m⸺,” says robert-houdin, “did not disdain to visit the humble emporium of the mystic art, and remain for hours conversing with roujol and his associates.” it was here that houdin became acquainted with jules de rovère, of noble birth, a conjurer who abandoned the title of escamoteur, as beneath his aristocratic dignity, and coined for himself the pompous cognomen, prestidigitateur, from presti digiti (activity of the fingers). the french academy sanctioned the formation of this word, thus handing it down to posterity. jules de rovère also called himself physicien du roi. old father roujol is dust long ago. we have replicas of his {213} quaint place in new york, chicago, boston and philadelphia. on sixth avenue, not far from thirtieth street, new york city, is the shop of the martinka brothers. it is located on the ground floor of a dingy old building. in front is a tiny window, with a variety of magical apparatus displayed therein. above the door, in tarnished gold letters, is the sign, “palace of magic.” the second floor is occupied by a chinese restaurant. the occident and orient exist here cheek-by-jowl. the chinaman concocts mysterious dishes to tickle the jaded palates of the boulevardiers; the proprietors of the aladdin palace of up-to-date enchantments invent ingenious tricks and illusions to astound the eyes of their patrons. here i met robinson, de kolta, kellar, and many other conjurers of note. the society of american magicians holds its meetings at martinka’s.
this society owes its foundation to two practising physicians of new york, dr. w. golden mortimer, an ex-conjurer, and dr. saram r. ellison, the collector of magic literature. ellison suggested the name, mortimer wrote the ritual of the order, and {214} the two of them called the meeting for the formation of the society. the first idea of such a fraternity of magicians was formulated by the writer of this book, who endeavored to found a society called the “sphinx,” but it proved abortive. the leading conjurers of the united states and europe are enrolled among the members of the s. a. m. the meetings are held once a month, at martinka’s, usually followed by exhibitions of skill on the stage of the bijou theatre, attached to the place. robert-houdin, in the closing chapter of his secrets of conjuring and magic, remarks that it would be a superb sight to witness a performance by magicians, where each would show his chef d’oeuvre in the art. at martinka’s this is realized. here you may see the very perfection of digital dexterity, mental magic, and the like. mr. francis j. martinka possesses many interesting relics of celebrated performers: alexander herrmann’s wand, robert heller’s orange tree, and photographs galore of magicians, living and dead. some of the most important illusions of the day have been built in the shop of the martinka brothers. other manufacturers in new york city are witmark & sons, and mr. beadle, a veteran mechanic and erstwhile assistant to robert heller.
in boston we have the magic emporiums of w. d. leroy and c. milton chase; and in chicago, that of a. roterberg. both leroy and roterberg are fine sleight-of-hand performers. mr. roterberg is the author of a clever work on card conjuring, which ranks very high in the estimation of the profession, also several little brochures on up-to-date legerdemain. in philadelphia, mr. thomas yost, a veteran manufacturer of magical apparatus, holds forth. he has built many fine illusions and tricks. in london, we have the well-known firm of hamley & co.; in paris, caroly and de vere. there is no dearth of periodicals devoted to the art of magic. among the leading ones are: mahatma, brooklyn, new york; the sphinx, kansas city, missouri; magic and the wizard, london; the magician, liverpool; l’illusioniste, paris; and der zauberspiegel, berlin.
a day with alexander the great.
hemans: address to fancy.
they come back to me, those old days in the newspaper office in baltimore. i can shut my eyes and see the long, dingy room with its ink-splattered tables and flaring gas jets. the printers’ devils rushing in and out with wet proof-sheets. reporters come and go. look! there is joe kelly, lefevre, jarrett and john monroe. and here comes ludlam, familiarly known as “lud,” the prince of bohemian newsgatherers; a cross between dickens’ alfred jingle and murger’s rodolph. he is always “down on his luck,” but nothing can phase his natural gaiety and bonhomie. he snaps his fingers at fate, and mocks at the world. on his death bed he made bon mots. poor old ludlam, he is forever associated with my introduction to alexander the great.
i look back across the years that separate me from my journalistic experiences, and see myself seated at a reporter’s table, on a certain morning in january, waiting for an assignment from the city editor; a fire, a murder, political interview, i knew not what, and therein lies the ineffable charm of newspaper reporting. enter ludlam, jaunty and debonaire. the snow encrusts his faded coat with powdery flakes. he strikes a theatrical attitude, and exclaims: “philosophers say that the devil is dead! gentlemen, don’t you believe them. i have just had an interview with his satanic majesty, and he is very much alive. he was beautifully perfumed with sulphur (or was it cigarette smoke?); and wore a fur-lined overcoat. coming from a tropical climate, {216} he finds this cold weather very disagreeable. he turned my watch into a turnip and back again. he took a roll of greenbacks from my coat pocket. that was sure enough witchcraft. i defy any other person than beelzebub to get money from my clothes. he extracted a hard-boiled egg from my nose, and a rabbit from my hat. but seeing is believing. here he is now!”
with that he threw open the green baize door with a crash, and in walked alexander herrmann, the magician, smiling and bowing. this little comedy had been arranged by the irrepressible ludlam. he was a great practical joker. we shouted with laughter. this was my first introduction to alexander the great, who was making his periodical visit to the newspaper offices, and he came to the news first, because it was an afternoon journal. he was to play that night at ford’s opera house. he performed a number of capital tricks for us with watches, coins, handkerchiefs and rings, and was pronounced a royal good fellow by the entire outfit—editors, reporters, typesetters and devils. being the only amateur magician on the paper, i was detailed to accompany the famous conjurer on his “swing around the {217} magic circle.” i was delighted with my assignment. we traversed the markets; visited the stock exchange, where a howling mob of brokers danced a carmagnole about us; and the police stations. herrmann was received everywhere with acclamations. his impromptu feats of magic evoked shouts of laughter. on one of the street cars the following scene took place, which i hugely enjoyed:
the conductor, a cadaverous, solemn looking man, who took the world and himself seriously, came around to collect the fares. he accosted the conjurer first.
“fare.” exclaimed herrmann, with an expressive shrug of the shoulders. “why, i paid mine long ago.”
“no such thing!” snapped the conductor.
“but, my dear fellow—!”
“you can’t come that game on me!” said the conductor. “i demand your fare, at once, or off you go.”
“nonsense, man, i gave you a five-dollar gold piece, but you did not return the change. you said, ‘wait until’—. but here is the gold coin sticking in your scarf.” so saying, the conjurer proceeded to extract a coin from the muffler which the conductor wore about his neck. “and worse than that, you’ve robbed me.” then seizing hold of the coat of the dumbfounded man, he took from his breast pocket a large bundle of what seemed to be greenbacks. these, herrmann scattered about the car. on each note was printed his portrait and an advertisement of his show. at a trifling distance these advertisements resembled greenbacks. they were more or less facsimiles of u. s. treasury certificates. the occupants of the car picked them up, and laughed heartily at the mystification. herrmann then paid his fare, presented the conductor and driver with passes to the theater, and in a little while we got off at barnum’s hotel, where we had luncheon. the negro waiters of the establishment eyed him with fear and trembling, for he had played many practical jokes on them, and they never knew when he would break out in a new spot. he had a capital trick of raising a glass of wine to his lips as if about to partake of it, when with a dash of the hand upwards the glass would vanish, wine and all, only to be reproduced a minute later from somebody’s coat tail. {218}
the following is a charming anecdote related by herrmann in the north american review, some years ago:
“in march, 1885, while in madrid, i appeared at the sasuella theatre quite successfully, for the house was filled every evening with hidalgos and noble senoras, and king alphonso xii. was kind enough to view my performance from a box. he was so pleased that i was asked to the palace, and knowing him to be a great sportsman, i presented him with a silver-mounted saddle which i had brought with me from buenos ayres. he was exceedingly kind, and after i had performed a mathematical trick with cards, which pleased him greatly, he kept asking me continually if he could not be of some service to me. at first i did not accept, but a little while afterwards i thought it would be a great {219} thing if i could make the king of spain my confederate in a trick. he consented, laughingly, and it was so arranged that from the stage i was to ask one of the audience to write a number, when the king was to get up and say, ‘i will write it,’ and do it. of course, with such a confederate, the trick was accomplished with the greatest effect. the first thing i did in beginning the second part of my performance was to take a blank piece of paper. this i handed to the king, asking him to sign it at the bottom. he did so readily, and the paper was passed from hand to hand and given to me. i conjured up all the spirits that have been or will be, and lo and behold! the paper was closely written from the top to the place where his majesty’s signature was affixed. it was handed back to him, and, while he laughed very heartily, he said, ‘i will not deny my signature to this document, which appoints alexander herrmann prestidigitateur to the king of spain, and, as the spirits have done so, i heartily acquiesce.’ ”
those who are acquainted with the peculiar properties of sympathetic inks will readily understand the modus operandi of the above trick. for example: copper sulphate in very dilute solution will produce an invisible handwriting, which will turn light blue when subjected to the vapor of ammonia. again, write with a weak solution of sulphuric acid and the chirography will appear in black letters when the paper is submitted to a strong heat. to obtain the requisite heat, all you have to do is to lay the sheet of paper on a small table which has a top of thin sheet iron or tin. beneath this top, concealed in the body of the table, is a spirit lamp—not a lamp run by spooks, but “spirits of wine.” ample time for the chemical operation to take place is afforded by the patter of the conjurer.
another clever trick, bordering on the supernatural, was herrmann’s “thibetan mail,” the effect of which was as follows: handing a sheet of note paper to various persons in the audience, herrmann requested them to write sentences upon it, one under the other. when this was accomplished, he tore the paper into halves, and requested some gentleman to retain one half. the other half the magician thrust into the flame of a candle and burned it to ashes. flinging the ashes in the air, he cried: “i send this message to the mighty mahatma who dwells in the {220} great temple of lhassa. let him restore the paper intact and return it to me by spiritual post.” no sooner said than done. immediately a district messenger boy rushed into the theatre, down the center aisle, waving in his hand a sealed letter. handing this to some one in the audience, herrmann requested him to break the seal and examine the contents of the envelope. inside of the envelope he found a second one, and within that a third and fourth, etc. in the last envelope the half sheet of paper was revealed perfectly restored. its identity was proved by matching it with the half-sheet of writing retained by the first spectator, whereupon they were found to fit exactly, and the writing to correspond. the modus operandi of this astounding feat, like all good things in magic, is very simple, but it requires adroitness on the part of the performer to execute properly. the conjurer does not burn the piece of paper which contains the writing, but exchanges it for a dummy which he thrusts into the flame of the candle. the original half-sheet of paper is secretly transferred to an assistant, usually in the following manner: the magician calls for a candle and matches, which the assistant brings in upon a salver. the slip of paper is “worked off” to the assistant in the act of taking the candle and matches from the tray. the confederate then goes behind the scenes, slips the paper into a “nest of envelopes,” seals them simultaneously, and gives the package to a stage hand habited as a messenger boy, who runs to the front part of the house to await the cue from the conjurer. this trick was intended as a burlesque on madame blavatsky’s indian mail feat.
i remember very well performing this experiment at an amateur show at the home of mr. o― h―, of baltimore, some eighteen years ago, before a company of interested spectators, among whom was the charming daughter of the house, miss alice, now the countess andrezzi bernini, of rome, italy. my stage was situated in an alcove at one end of the splendid drawing room, and it had a window opening on a side street. my district messenger boy, hired for the occasion, and privately instructed how to act, was stationed beneath this window, and threatened with all the penalties of dante’s inferno if he went asleep at his post. my brother, walter dorsey evans, {221} afterwards a skillful amateur prestidigitateur, acted as my assistant, and adroitly threw the sealed note out of the window to the boy. great was the surprise of my audience when the door bell rang and the stately butler of the establishment brought into the parlor the messenger boy with his sealed letter.
“where did you get this?” asked the host, as he doubtfully fingered the envelope and examined the address, which read, “to sahib o― h―, baltimore, md.”
“please, sir, an old man dressed in a yellow robe came into the office, and asked that the letter be delivered at once.”
“a mahatma, i presume!” said the lawyer, ironically.
“he had no hat on, sir, only a turbot wrapped round his head.”
“a turban, i suppose you mean.”
“that’s it, sir—a turbing like the turks wear.”
“that will do, young man. you may go.”
the boy left. may he be forgiven the lies uttered in my behalf. but all is fair in love, war, and conjuring. he was well tutored what to say in the event of his being questioned, but he performed his part so naturally and lied so artistically and with such a front of brass as to have deceived the most incredulous. i have often speculated upon the subsequent career of that lad. possibly today he is representing his country abroad in an important diplomatic post, or manufacturing sensational news for the yellow press. had i been a professional conjurer, i would have hired him on the spot as an assistant.
alexander herrmann was born in paris, february 11, 1844. information concerning his family is somewhat meagre. his father, samuel herrmann, was a german jew, a physician, who had come to france to reside, and there married a breton lady. sixteen children were born of this union, of whom carl was the oldest of the eight boys and alexander the youngest. samuel herrmann was an accomplished conjurer, but rarely performed in public. he gave private séances before napoleon i, who presented him with a superb watch. this timepiece descended to alexander, and is in possession of his widow. {222}
carl herrmann was born in hanover, germany, january 23, 1816. despite parental opposition he became a sleight-of-hand artist, and was known as the “first professor of magic in the world.” in 1848 he made his first bow to the english people, at the adelphi theatre, london, where he produced the second-sight trick, which he copied from houdin in france. early in the sixties he made a tour of america, with great success. at his farewell performance in new york city, he introduced his brother alexander as his legitimate successor. carl then retired with a fortune to vienna, where he spent the remainder of his days in collecting rare antiquities. his death occurred at carlsbad, june, 1887, at the age of seventy-two. he was a great favorite with czar nicholas and the sultan of turkey and frequently performed at their palaces.
here is one of carl herrmann’s german programmes:
dienstag den 8 juni 1886 zweite und letzte gastvorstellung des berühmten prestidigitateur
prof. c. herrmann
aus wien unter der direction des herrn a. morini
1. wo wünschen sie es? 2. die billard-kugel 3. das schlangentuch 4. die fliegenden gegenstände 5. der banquier 6. der fischfang und das gegenstück
1. der sack 2. die plantation 3. die tasche 4. der kegel 5. der ring in gefahr 6. eine improvisation
alle oben ausgeführten experimente sind erfindungen des herrn prof. herrmann und werden ohne jedweden apparat und sonstige hilfsmittel ausgeführt.
the following is one of carl’s characteristic english programmes. i consider it of great interest to the profession: {223}
theatre royal, hay-market.
mr. b. webster, sole lessee and manager, old brompton.
morning performances. matinées magique commencing at two o’clock. the wonder of the world!
this morning, wednesday may 3rd, 1848, and during the week,
m. herrmann (of hanover), premier prestidigitateur of france, and the acknowledged first professor of magic in the world,
respectfully announces to the nobility, gentry and the public in general that he will give
four farewell performances,
previous to his departure to the provinces, and will introduce
six new extraordinary tricks,
never before exhibited!
l’album hanoverien; the hanoverian album. les chapeaux diaboliques; the diabolical hats. le coffre infernale; the infernal chest. le vase d’armide; ou, l’horlogerie de geneve; armida’s vase; or the geneva clockwork. la multiplication des indes; indian multiplication. les mysteres de paris; the mysteries of paris.
mad^e. herrmann will also exhibit her extraordinary powers of second sight; or anti-magnetism, by divining, with closed eyes, any objects that may be submitted to this proof, which has astonished the most scientific.
le volage des cartes; illusions with cards. le miroir des dames; the lady’s looking glass. la bouteille inepuisable; the inexhaustible bottle. robin le sorcier (piece mecanique); robin the sorcerer. la poche marveilleuse; the marvellous pocket. le noces de canaes; the nuptials of cana. satan et son mouchoir; satan and his kerchief. les colombes sympathetiques; the sympathetic doves. le cadran mathematicien; the mathematical clock. le timbre isole (piece mecanique); the isolated clock bell. le pain de sucre magique; the magic sweetcake. plusieurs tours de cartes nouveaux et de magie blanche; new illusions with cards and white magic. la naissance des poissons rouges, execute en habit de ville; the birth of gold fish; performed in an evening dress.
grand new illusions from india, le suspension ethereenne by ether le double vue! or, second sight, by madame herrmann, with various new illusions with cards and magie blanche! and a concert in imitation of various birds, by m. herrmann.
alexander was destined by his father to the practice of medicine, but fate willed otherwise.
when quite a boy, he ran away and joined carl, acting as his assistant. he remained with his brother six years, when his parents placed him in college at vienna. he did not complete his scholastic studies, but went to spain in 1859 and began his career as a magician. he appeared in america in 1861, but returned a year later to europe, and made an extended tour. he played an engagement of 1,000 consecutive nights at egyptian hall, london. in 1875 he married adelaide scarsez, a beautiful and clever danseuse, who assisted him in his soirées magiques. herrmann became a naturalized citizen of the united states in 1876. he died of heart failure in his private car, december 11, 1896, while traveling from rochester, n. y., to bradford, penn., and was buried with masonic honors in woodlawn cemetery, just outside of new york city. he made and lost several fortunes. unsuccessful theatrical speculations were largely responsible for his losses. he aspired in vain to be the manager and proprietor of a chain of theatres. he introduced the celebrated trewey, the french fantaisiste, to the american public. herrmann was an extraordinary linguist, a raconteur and wit. several chivalric orders were conferred upon him by european potentates. he usually billed himself as the chevalier alexander herrmann. his mephistophelean aspect, his foreign accent, and histrionic powers, coupled with his wonderful sleight of hand, made him indeed the king of conjurers. he had a wrist of steel and a palm of velvet. he performed tricks wherever he went, in the street cars, cafés, clubs, hotels, newspaper offices, and markets, imitating in this respect the renowned bosco. these impromptu entertainments widely advertised his art. he rarely changed his repertoire, but old tricks in his hands were invested with the charm of newness. i can remember as a boy with what emotion i beheld the rising of the curtain, in his fantastic soirées, and saw him appear, in full court costume, smiling and bowing. hey, presto! i expected every moment to see him metamorphosed into the mephisto of goethe’s “faust,” habited in the traditional red costume, with red cock’s feather in his pointed cap, and clanking rapier by his side; sardonic, {225} and full of subtleties. he looked the part to perfection. he was mephisto in evening dress. when he performed the trick of the inexhaustible bottle, which gave forth any liquor called for by the spectators, i thought of him as mephisto in that famous drinking scene in auerbach’s cellar, boring holes in an old table, and extracting from them various sparkling liquors as well as flames. in his nervous hands articles vanished and reappeared with surprising rapidity. everything material, under the spell of his flexible fingers, seemed to be resolved into a fluidic state, as elusive as pellets of quicksilver. he was indeed the alexander the great of magic, who had conquered all worlds with his necromancer’s wand—theatrical worlds; and he sighed because there were no more to dominate with his legerdemain. one of his posters always fascinated my boyish imagination. it was {226} night in the desert. the sphinx loomed up majestically under the black canopy of the egyptian sky. in front of the giant figure stood herrmann, in the center of a magic circle of skulls and cabalistic figures. incense from a brazier ascended and circled about the head of the sphinx. herrmann was depicted in the act of producing rabbits and bowls of gold fish from a shawl, while mephisto, the guardian of the weird scene, stood near by, dressed all in red, and pointing approvingly at his disciple in the black art. in this picture were symbolized egyptian mystery and necromancy, mediæval magic, and the sorcery of science and prestidigitation.
when herrmann came to baltimore, he always put up at barnum’s hotel, a quaint, old caravansary that had sheltered beneath its hospitable roof such notables as charles dickens, thackeray and jenny lind. alas, the historic hostelry was torn down years ago to make room for improvements. it stood on the southwest corner of calvert and fayette streets, within a stone’s throw of the battle monument. i spent some happy hours with herrmann in this ancient hotel, listening to his rich store of anecdotes. i received from him many valuable hints in conjuring. there was something exotic about his tastes. he loved to surround himself with oriental luxuries, rare curios picked up in the bazaars of constantinople, cairo, and damascus; nargilehs, swords of exquisite workmanship; carved ivory boxes; richly embroidered hangings, and the like. his private yacht, “fra diavolo,” and his pullman car were fitted up regardless of expense. habited in a turkish dressing gown which glowed with all the colors of the rainbow; his feet thrust into red morocco slippers; the inevitable cigarette in his mouth, herrmann resembled a pasha of the east. he was inordinately fond of pets and carried with him on his travels a mexican dog, a persian cat, cages full of canaries, a parrot and a monkey. his rooms looked like a small zoo. he seemed to enjoy the noises made by his pets. his opinions concerning his art were interesting. {227}
“a magician is born, not made!” was his favorite apothegm. “he must possess not only digital dexterity, but be an actor as well.”
“what is the greatest illusion in the repertoire of the conjurer?” i asked him.
“the vanishing lady of m. buatier de kolta,” was the unhesitating reply.
“why so?” i inquired.
“because of its simplicity. the great things of magic are always the simple things. the ‘vanishing lady’ trick has the most transcendant effect when properly produced, but, alas, the secret is now too well known. its great success proved its ruin. irresponsible bunglers took it up and made a fiasco of it. in the hands of de kolta it was perfection itself. there was nothing wanting in artistic finish.”
herrmann related to me some amusing episodes of his varied career. in the year 1863 he was playing an engagement in constantinople. he received a summons to appear before the sultan and his court. at the appointed hour there came to the hotel where he was staying a turkish officer, who drove him in a handsome equipage to a palace overlooking the gleaming waters of the golden horn, where “ships that fly the flags of half the world” ride at anchor. it was a lovely afternoon in april. herrmann was ushered into a luxuriously furnished apartment and invited to be seated on a divan. the officer then withdrew. presently a couple of tall arabs entered. one carried a lighted chibouk; the other a salver, upon which was a golden pot full of steaming hot mocha coffee, and a tiny cup and saucer of exquisite porcelain. the slaves knelt at his feet and presented the tray and pipe to him.
“a faint suspicion,” said herrmann, “crossed my mind that perhaps the tobacco and coffee were drugged with a pinch or two of hasheesh—that opiate of the east, celebrated by monte cristo; the drug that brings forgetfulness and elevates its votaries to the seventh heaven of spiritual ecstasy. i thought, ‘what if the sultan were trying some of his sleight-of-hand tricks on me for the amusement of the thing. sultans have been known to do such things.’ now i wanted to keep cool and have all of my wits {228} about me. my reputation as a prestidigitateur was at stake. it was very silly, i suppose, to entertain such ideas. but once possessed of this absurd obsession i could not get rid of it. so i waved off the attendants politely and signified by gestures that i did not desire to indulge in coffee or tobacco. but they persisted, and i saw that i could not rid myself of them without an effort. happy thought! i just took a whiff of the pipe and a sip of the coffee, when, hey, presto!—i made the chibouk and cup vanish by my sleight of hand and caused a couple of small snakes, which i carried upon my person for use in impromptu tricks, to appear in my hands. the astonishment on the faces of those two arabs was something indescribable. they gazed up at the gilded ceiling and down at the carpet, puzzled to find out where the articles had gone, but finding no solution to the problem and beholding the writhing serpents in my hands, fled incontinently from the room. these simple sons of the desert evidently thought that i had just stepped out of the arabian nights entertainments. at this juncture a chamberlain entered and in french bade me welcome, informing me that his imperial majesty was ready to receive me. he conducted me to a superb salon with a platform at one end. i looked around me, but saw only one person, a black-bearded gentleman, who sat in an armchair in the middle of the apartment. i recognized in him the famous ‘sick man of europe.’ i bowed low to the sultan abdul aziz.
“ ‘well, monsieur, begin,’ he said in french.
“and so this was my audience. no array of brilliantly garbed courtiers and attendants; no music. only a fat gentleman, languidly polite, waiting to be amused. how was it possible to perform with any élan under such depressing conditions? it takes a large and enthusiastic audience to inspire a performer. i began my tricks. as i progressed with my programme, however, i became aware of the presence of other persons in the room besides the ruler of the ottoman empire. the laughter of women rippled out from behind the gilded lattice work and silken curtains that surrounded the salon. the harem was present though invisible to me. i felt like another being and executed my tricks with more than usual effect. the sultan was charmed and paid me many compliments. a couple of weeks after the {229} séance, i was invited to accompany him on a short cruise in the royal yacht. on this occasion i created a profound sensation by borrowing the sultan’s watch, which i (apparently) threw overboard. his face fairly blazed with anger; his hand involuntarily sought the handle of his jeweled sword. never before had the commander of the faithful been treated so cavalierly. seeing his agitation, i hastened to explain. ‘don’t be alarmed, your majesty, for the safety of your timepiece. it will be restored to you intact. i pledge my honor as a magician.’ he sneered incredulously, but vouchsafed no reply. ‘permit me to throw overboard this hook and line and indulge in a little fishing.’ so saying, i cast into the sea the line, and after a little while brought up a good sized fish. cutting it open, i produced from its body the missing watch. this feat, bordering so closely on the sorcery of the arabian nights, made a wonderful impression on the spectators. i was the lion of the hour. constantinople soon rang with my fame. in the cafés and bazaars the ignorant populace discussed my marvelous powers with bated breath. the watch trick, however, proved my undoing. one morning i was sitting in my room at my hotel, idly smoking a cigarette and building palaces as unsubstantial as those erected by the genii in the story of ‘aladdin and his wonderful lamp,’ when a messenger from his imperial majesty was announced. he made a low obeisance and humbly laid at my feet a bag containing 5,000 piastres, after which he handed me an envelope inscribed with turkish characters and sealed with large seals.
“ ‘ah,’ i said to myself, ‘the sultan is going to confer upon me the coveted order of the medjidie.’ my heart swelled with pride. i was like the foolish alnaschar, who, while indulging in day dreams of greatness, unconsciously overturned his stock of glassware in the market, thereby ruining himself. i prolonged opening the envelope in order to indulge my extravagant fancies. finally i broke the seals and read the enclosed letter, which was written in french:
“ ‘it would be better for you to leave constantinople at once.’
“my budding hopes were crushed. i left the city that afternoon in a british steamer bound for a grecian port. either {230} watch tricks were unpopular in the orient, or i was encroaching upon the preserves of the dervishes—a close corporation for the working of pious frauds. but things have changed in turkey since then.”
whatever m. reinach’s argument may be worth, he and müllenhoff are unquestionably right in one sense: the british isles, taken as a whole, were the only islands from which the ancients derived tin. but this truism did not require demonstration. the question is, whether the identification of the cassiterides with the british isles can be reconciled with what was written about them by the ancient geographers.
ii. ictis and the british trade in tin
let us now consider the british trade in tin.
i submit that whoever is right, mr. clement reid is wrong, because the only equipment which he brings to the discussion is the special knowledge of the geologist. doubtless he has proved the former existence of a causeway between hampshire and the isle of wight; but it does not follow that the isle of wight was ictis unless it can be proved that ‘st. michael’s mount must have been an isolated rock rising out of a swampy wood’.
it is clear then that the case for the isle of wight rests upon the geological evidence, such as it is, that at the time when ictis was a trading station, st. michael’s mount was ‘an isolated rock rising out of a swampy wood’. common sense and the historical evidence are all on the other side. if st. michael’s mount had not been available, there would have been nothing to prevent the traders from shipping the tin at falmouth or in plymouth sound; and acceptance of mr. reid’s theory involves, besides other insuperable difficulties, the assumption that the tin-merchants were ignorant of the first principles of business.
i freely admit that the testimony of festus avienus is not conclusive; but i see no reason for rejecting the statement of strabo that the phoenicians traded directly for tin with the cassiterides--that is to say, the british isles--and that they originally monopolized the trade.
of the various theories which have been published as to the object of dene-holes three only are worth considering, namely, that they were granaries; that they were refuges; and that they were sunk in order to obtain chalk.
the coast between calais and the somme in the time of caesar
the configuration of the coast of kent in the time of caesar
this volume is not a treatise upon the physical geography of ancient britain; and i am only concerned with geographical questions in so far as they are essential to a right understanding of the history. it is impossible to understand the narrative of caesar’s invasions of britain without considering how far the physical geography of that part of the island which was the theatre of his operations differed from what it is now.
i. between ramsgate and sandown castle
ii. between sandown castle and walmer castle
when we endeavour to trace the shore-line, as it existed in caesar’s time, opposite deal and walmer, we find that the writers who have dealt with the question differ widely among themselves; while dowker again shows himself a most troublesome witness. unfortunately this meritorious geologist, who laboured hard to elucidate the geographical questions connected with the ancient history of east kent, was a bad writer, and sometimes failed to make his meaning clear.
the conclusion appears to be this. there is no reason to suppose that the coast-line between sandown castle and walmer castle was very different in caesar’s time from that which is depicted on the ordnance map; and there is positive proof that between walmer castle and deal castle, at some period of the roman occupation, it was nearly the same. on the other hand, it is certain that since caesar landed a great deal of shingle has accumulated along this part of the coast, especially at walmer; and it may be inferred that the beach was less steep then than it is now.
iii. the goodwin sands
before we attempt to inquire what was the condition of the goodwin sands in the time of caesar, it will be well to state the relevant facts which have been ascertained since exact observations began to be recorded.
reproduced from the map facing page liii of t. lewin’s “invasion of britain by julius cæsar,” 2nd. edit. showing what lands would have been covered by the sea at high water (medium spring tides) before the construction of the rhee wall. the figures denote the depth in feet, according to levels taken by j. elliott, of the present surface below the high-water mark of spring tides.
as (according to t. lewin’s final view) it was certainly in the
time of the saxons
probably in the
time of the romans
and perhaps in the
vi. between dover and sandgate
vii. romney marsh
between hythe and dungeness, on the other hand, there has been complete transformation. there, within the brief span of historical time, wind, tide, and river, and finally the labour of man, have wrought changes as remarkable as those that in other regions required the lapse of ages which the imagination fails to conceive. the antiquary who walks from westenhanger station to the brow of lympne hill, and looks out over the vast field of shingle that extends seaward, and, on his left, towards hythe, and then over the broad level of the marsh that stretches away on his right between the wealden upland and dymchurch wall, will easily picture to himself the scene that once was there.
i am not concerned to dispute dowker’s theory that the sea was excluded from the marsh on the south by sand-hills before the shingle beach was formed, though the mere presence of patches of blown sand near west hythe and near romney does not justify him in connecting them by ‘a hypothetical line extending from rye to hythe’; nor does he offer any theory to account for the disappearance of this hypothetical line after it began to be protected by a barrier of shingle. the important point is that the fact of the erection of the rhee wall proves that before it existed romney marsh proper was liable to be flooded by high tides.
‘many centuries’ is a vague expression; but for ‘many’ substitute ‘three’, and, even for the time of caesar, the argument still holds good,--unless elliott’s theory of the formation of the marsh is to be rejected.
perhaps. but the date of the construction of the dam is not known. may it not have been made after, or simultaneously with, the erection of the rhee wall, to secure romney marsh against all possibility of inundation, not to protect duck marsh, which, according to lewin’s earlier view, was originally overflowed by hythe harbour? in other words, is it not possible that when the dam was made hythe harbour extended westward as far as west hythe oaks? this, as i have already said, was not merely lewin’s original view: it was also the view which elliott, his friend and adviser, retained after the publication of the article in archaeologia. at all events this view finds expression in a map which elliott prepared for furley’s history of the weald of kent, which was not published until 1871, five years after the appearance of lewin’s article. that being the case, and considering that lewin did not explain the reasons which led him to change his opinion, i am unable to follow him.
6. the conclusions which we have now reached are, first, that the rother did not, in the time of caesar, enter the sea at lympne, but debouched into the estuary near appledore; secondly, that the marsh was then closed at west hythe oaks, and therefore that there was no harbour at lympne; thirdly, that the rhee wall had not then been built, and therefore that the marsh was still flooded at spring tides by the inrush of the sea between romney and lydd; fourthly, that the portus lemanis was a pool harbour extending from west hythe to a point nearly opposite shorncliffe; and, lastly, that the rhee wall was built in roman times.
but, as the reader will hereafter see, if these conclusions are erroneous, the error will not lead us astray when we have to determine the place where caesar landed in britain.
i. review of the controversy
evidently, then, unless the problem is to be abandoned in despair, there is room for another treatise. but this treatise must justify its existence. i have not ‘the implicit faith of local topographers’: but there are more data than mommsen had leisure to examine; and the locality can be determined with absolute certainty.
there is indeed a summary way of dealing with the question which has long since satisfied practical men: doubt is confined to the minds of scholars and of those who look to them for guidance. men who are familiar with war and who have a sufficient knowledge of the conditions of navigation in the straits of dover know that there was only one port on the north-eastern coast of gaul which would have answered all caesar’s requirements, and that caesar would not have made a foolish choice. accordingly the greatest of modern soldiers affirmed without hesitation that the greatest soldier of rome had sailed to britain from boulogne. but this reasoning, perhaps because of its simplicity, has not seemed conclusive to the learned world.
ii. the data furnished by caesar, strabo, and ptolemy
iii. caesar sailed from the portus itius on both his expeditions
but to timid reasoners this may appear too summary a method of disposing of airy’s theory. let us then hear what he has to say.
furthermore, the distance from the mouth of the somme to pevensey level is about twice the distance from boulogne to dover, to hythe, or to lympne; and caesar says that the reason why he marched for the country of the morini was that the passage from their country to britain was the shortest.
but long is not the only writer who maintains that the portus itius was not a port properly so called; and this question is so important that we must fairly examine the arguments that have been adduced in support of long’s view.
it is clear, then, that long failed to establish the identity of the portus itius with wissant. let us see what better informed advocates of the same theory have to say.
the reason which dr. guest gives for the choice of boulogne is sound enough as far as it goes; but what support does it lend to the theory that caesar used wissant as a temporary harbour? the sterility of the neighbourhood would hardly have recommended it. it must have had some great advantage to compensate for this defect if it was really to be preferred, even as a temporary harbour, to boulogne. but it is impossible to point out one single advantage which wissant could have had, for caesar’s purpose, over boulogne, save only that, as the crow flies, it was a little nearer to britain.
lastly, even if heller’s explanation of the word relictam were correct, the argument which he builds upon it would be unsound; for obviously that argument would only hold good if caesar had drifted north of the latitude of the north foreland. heller himself admits that he had hardly drifted so far north as the latitude of ramsgate; and at this point, on heller’s own theory, he could no more have said that he had left the northern coast of britain behind than if he had been in the latitude of deal.
every argument which has been adduced in favour of wissant has now been examined; and if i could have accepted them or any one of them, i would gladly have done so, for i myself once argued that the portus itius was at wissant. but my knowledge was then imperfect. it is not possible to prove that the portus itius was at wissant: it is possible to prove that it was not.
let us, however, assume that sangatte may conceivably have possessed a harbour in caesar’s time. even so, it is impossible to admit that sangatte can have been the superior portus. for, if the eighteen ships which carried the cavalry had started from sangatte, the conditions of wind and tide which would have rendered a voyage from wissant to kent less favourable than from boulogne would obviously have been more unfavourable still.
it has now been demonstrated that caesar did not sail from wissant. that it was the point of departure of his first expedition is out of the question; for in that case the portus ulterior, from which the cavalry transports set sail, must have been sangatte; and we have seen that they could not have returned to sangatte when they were dispersed by the gale. the portus ulterior can only have been ambleteuse; and therefore caesar sailed in 55 b.c. from boulogne. but nobody will believe that, having had experience of the advantages of boulogne, he would have discarded it in favour of a place which, for his purpose, was in all respects inferior.
nevertheless, to satisfy doubters, i shall state the case for and against boulogne.
the reasons which point to the identification of the portus itius with boulogne are, speaking generally, that boulogne, and boulogne only, satisfies all the requirements of caesar’s narrative.
it remains only to consider the objections which have been made to the identification of the portus itius with boulogne.
if this inquiry had merely established the probability of the identification of the portus itius with the harbour of boulogne, it would not be possible to justify the labour which has been expended upon it except on the ground that it will save those who may wish to inform themselves a vast amount of research, and provide them with complete equipment for arriving at an independent conclusion. but that conclusion, if it is reached conscientiously by an unbiassed mind, can only be one.
the place of caesar’s landing in britain
ii. the data furnished by caesar and other ancient writers
the natives, divining his intention, had sent on ahead their cavalry and charioteers, who were followed by the rest of the forces. the important points in caesar’s description of the disembarkation are as follows:--some of the enemy, in opposing it, threw missiles from the shore; others advanced a little way into the water, riding or driving their horses. the transports, on account of their relatively considerable draught, had necessarily grounded in deep water; and on this account the roman soldiers hesitated before jumping into the sea to wade ashore. during the conflict caesar made some of his war-galleys sheer off a little from the transports, and take up a position on the enemy’s exposed flank; and later on, when legionaries who had just dropped into the sea and gathered in small groups were being hard pressed, he manned the small fast-sailing craft and the small boats belonging to the galleys, and sent them to the rescue. the enemy derived an advantage from their knowledge of the places where the water was shallow. caesar concludes his description of the landing by saying that it was impossible to pursue the enemy far, because ‘the cavalry had not been able to keep their course and make the island’.
in a storm which occurred on the following night most of the ships were driven ashore, about 40 being totally wrecked; and in order to prevent a repetition of this disaster, the ships were all hauled up on dry land and ‘connected with the camp by one entrenchment’ (cum castris una munitione coniungi).
iii. the day on which caesar landed in 55 b.c.
it may be objected that if caesar had landed in britain on the 26th of august, and if his transports had set sail on the night of the 29th, but after midnight--say between 2 and 3 a.m.--he would have said that they set sail not on the fourth but on the fifth day after his landing. i will take note of this objection, but i doubt whether it is valid. in the thirty-third chapter of the second book of the commentaries, after describing the sortie made by the aduatuci, which took place in the third watch of the night, that is to say after midnight, and their repulse, he goes on to say that ‘on the following day the gates were broken open’ (postridie eius diei refractis portis &c.); in other words, he loosely reckoned the third watch of the night as part of the day that preceded the one which he calls postridie eius diei. it is therefore at least possible, i think it probable, that he landed on the fifth day before the moon which he described as full.
nevertheless, i assure the reader that this uncertainty matters nothing. if he will bear with me to the end, he will see that we shall be able, notwithstanding, to determine the place of landing.
it is hardly necessary to add that before his fleet hove in sight in 54 b.c. the britons assembled in great force to oppose his landing: in other words, they felt sure that he would attempt to land at or near the place where he had landed the year before.
vi. the question of the tides
i have submitted these remarks to sir george darwin, the author of the articles on the tides in the ninth edition of the encyclopaedia britannica and the supplement to that edition. ‘in my opinion,’ he replies, ‘airy is absolutely right and burrows and the others wrong. a channel from sandwich to reculver could not have made any sensible change, and so also it would be impossible to detect the difference if goodwin sands were an island. all the phenomena now observed must have occurred at the same times within, say, a minute, and with an intensity measurably identical in the days of caesar. even if you were in a position to indicate exactly the nature of the changes in the channel since that time, it would be impossible to compute the nature of the excessively minute changes in the currents.’
this decisive answer will not be seriously gainsaid. evidently the divergence of opinion is between those who are not and those who are qualified to judge.
this pronouncement is certainly calculated to overawe the timid inquirer. nevertheless, i venture to suggest that a man who knows little or nothing about the tides should refrain from patting on the back one who knew a great deal, but who did not think it necessary for his purpose to tell all that he knew.
it may be said that, in order to refute the dogma of airy and lewin, i have supposed an extreme case. i can only say that i did not start with the intention either of refuting or defending that dogma: i merely examined it, and found that it would not bear examination. and i am justified in supposing an extreme, or rather an exceptional, case because airy and lewin have both affirmed that it is absolutely impossible that in the ninth hour on the day of caesar’s first landing in britain the tidal stream can have been running towards the east. but, supposing that it did not turn eastward until after the ninth hour, still the theory that caesar must have sailed in the opposite direction will not stand. for the reader, if he has patience to bear with me to the end, will convince himself, from caesar’s own words, that caesar did not stir from his anchorage until after the ninth hour had passed.
vii. the theory that caesar landed at pevensey
but if any one is not convinced, let him hear airy plead his own cause.
i confess that i do not know whether more to admire the audacity and resource which airy displayed in controversy, or the sublime lack of humour which permitted him to translate summa tranquillitas by ‘a stiff north-west wind’.
so much for the late astronomer royal. if i do not ignore the arguments of professor ridgeway, it is because i am unwilling to appear wanting in due respect for his reputation. but i would ask him to explain one little difficulty which he has left unnoticed,--namely, how caesar’s cavalry transports could have contrived to return, as, on his theory, they must have done, from a point near pevensey to sangatte, that is to say, to steer e. 9° n. in the teeth of a gale which unquestionably blew from some point east of north? let the professor consult any seafaring man, and he will learn that such a feat would have been absolutely, absurdly impossible.
viii. the theory that caesar landed at lympne or hythe
the reader now understands that, according to the theory of the ancient configuration of romney marsh which lewin adopted in his appendix and illustrated in the map facing page liii of his book, it would have been impossible for caesar to land opposite lympne, because on that theory the marsh between lympne hill and the shingle beach was flooded by the sea at high tide. nevertheless, i shall consider the arguments by which lewin defended his original view--that caesar landed opposite lympne--because distinguished scholars still hold that there was a harbour there in roman times.
such are a few of the absurdities in which lewin’s theory plunges him. however, he shall be heard in his own defence.
part of the blows gran’pa received on his left arm, the others slid harmlessly off his cane.
gran’pa backed away from the magician and his face was worried, for the blow upon his head had made gran’pa weak in the knees.
but although he dodged and gave ground gran’pa waited for an opening and at last, as the magician missed a swing at gran’pa’s head, gran’pa drew his cane back over his shoulder and brought it down with all his might upon old jingles’ crown.
the blow was of such force it would have broken the magician’s head if the cane had not split in two, and as it was the wicked man staggered from the blow.
gran’pa, with but the handle of his cane in his hand, jumped forward to strike again, but he missed his footing and went rolling down the stone steps.
when gran’pa fell in front of the magician, the princess, janey and mrs. tiptoe started running.
“run for your lives!” cried the princess. “he will change all of us into animals! run!”
the magician staggered after gran’pa who had rolled clear to the bottom of the long flight of steps. the magician in his anger did not see johnny or the chief of detectives, who still sat in a daze part of the way down the steps, so as he passed them, johnny stuck his foot out and tripped up the magician.
down the long flight of steps the magician fell, his long arms and legs hitting the steps and his crooked stick flying high in the air as he turned over and over.
johnny, though still dazed, got to his feet and started down the steps, hoping he could get the magician’s crooked stick.
the magician rolled to the bottom of the steps and he found gran’ma there to meet him; for as soon as the others had started to run, they had released gran’ma.
so gran’ma waited until old jingles had stopped rolling, then she rushed at him, and, catching his long nose in her hands, she gave it a tweak.
with one scream of pain, the magician lay still, and as johnny raised the crooked stick to bring it down upon jingles’ head, gran’ma stopped him.
“i said i’d tweak his nose,” gran’ma cried, “and i’ll tweak it again just as soon as he awakens!”
gran’pa sat up and looked around.
“give me another sack of peanuts,” he said.
the magician showed signs of awakening, so gran’ma gave his long nose another tweak which made him lie still.
the princess called to the people still standing around the door of the castle.
“call the guards!” she shouted. “we’ll tie him and keep him chained up for ever!”
the voice of their princess seemed to arouse the people from their numbness and fear and eight guards came running out from behind the great doors where they had hidden themselves.
when the guards came to pick up the magician to carry him away gran’ma pushed them back.
“no you don’t!” she told them. “he stays right here while i tweak his nose until he never has another speck of magic in him!”
and as the magician stirred again, gran’ma gave his long nose another hard tweek.
“but gran’ma,” janey cried, “the princess must be obeyed! she wants the wicked creature put in chains and in prison!”
“now, you let me be!” gran’ma said. “i’m boss here and here he stays until i—”
just as this moment the dancing master rushed down the steps and blew a puff from the magic bellows upon the face of old jingles. it first formed a puffy white cloud, then it settled grain by grain. there was a breathless silence.
gran’ma did not finish what she was about to say, for as the magic powder touched the magician’s face, his long nose disappeared, his wicked eyes changed and his face took on the appearance of a young man. and as they all watched in wonder and amazement they saw his long, thin fingers change into young hands, and the thin form beneath the torn, dusty clothes alter until a fine young man lay before them.
the dancing master blew another puff of the powder upon the prostrate form and the old torn clothes changed into silk and velvet.
“dear me!” gran’ma cried. “perhaps we have made a mistake! it isn’t old jingles!”
and when the strange young man opened his eyes and saw the crowd standing around him, he ran his hand across his forehead as if trying to recollect something.
“where am i?” he asked.
“you are in the city of nite,” answered the princess. “guards, assist him into the castle!”
“i believe i can walk,” said the strange young man, “but i cannot imagine how i got here, for i have never heard of the city of nite before.” and with this he stood upon his feet.
“this is indeed strange,” said the princess. “let us all go into the castle.” and as the people drew aside to let them pass, the princess, mrs. tiptoe, gran’ma and janey went up the steps, followed by the strange young man, the tiptoe brothers, gran’pa and johnny.
“my name is david,” the strange young man said, when all had taken chairs in the princess’ drawing room and he saw that they looked to him for an explanation, “and my home is in dayland, or at least,” he continued, “it used to be there.”
“dayland is on the other side of the moon!” said the princess. “my father and mother and i visited there once!”
“if dayland is on the other side of the moon,” said david, “this must be the land back of the moon.”
“it is,” the princess replied. “if you looked through the moon you would see it. it’s the magical land of noom.”
“how strange that i should be here!” and david passed his hand over his forehead in a puzzled manner. “i faintly remember strange rhymes and jingles of which i dreamed.”
“you did not dream them,” gran’ma hastened to explain. “you were old jingles the magician until a few moments ago, then mr. tiptoe puffed the magic powder on you and changed you back to your own self.”
“dear me,” sighed david. “if this is true tell me how long i have been in this strange shape, for i speak truly when i tell you that i am really at a loss to account for the cruel and wicked things which i must have done while i was not myself.”
“you first came to the city of nite as a witch and said you were the princess,” the chief of detectives told him.
“but you will remember,” the princess said, turning to the chief of detectives, “that i met him first as old jingles, when i saw the queer horse who had eaten his head off, and that was over eighty years ago.”
“dear me,” david sighed. “then there is no telling how long i have been old jingles or the witch. i’m awfully sorry,” he told the princess. “i wouldn’t have harmed you for the world.”
“isn’t it just like a fairy tale!” janey cried.
“perhaps it is,” david smiled, “but it seems like a disagreeable dream to me and until i get back to my own country, i really cannot explain how it all came about.”
“what is the last thing you remember?” johnny asked.
“let me see! we were having a great ball or something at the castle and i had just stepped outside the door to look at the sun when—when—well, that is the last thing i can recall, except the queer dreams about rhymes and jingles.”
“you don’t remember what you did with our flying boat, do you?” johnny asked.
“no, i can not recall a flying boat, at all,” david answered.
“that was the only way we had of returning to the earth,” gran’ma said, a little sadly, “and i feel that we should return as soon as we can.”
when gran’pa had told him of the children’s flying boat and how he had made one to follow the children to the moon, david said, “perhaps you could make another and so return to the earth! perhaps you could take me to my home in it, first.”
gran’pa asked the princess if he could build another flying boat and although the princess wished them to stay at the castle with her always, she realized that they must be as anxious to return to the earth as she had been to return to the city of nite. so the princess sent word to the royal carpenter to bring boards and nails to the castle roof and there gran’pa superintended the building of the new flying boat.
while this was being built, the princess took her friends to visit her father and mother, with whom they spent two happy weeks, seeing the sights and having dances and dinners given in their honor.
when they returned to the city of nite, the flying boat had been completed and stood upon the castle roof all ready to sail. it was a sturdy, beautifully built machine—quite the nicest one that has ever been made.
there were tears in the eyes of the princess and mrs. tiptoe as david, gran’ma, gran’pa and the children took their seats in the boat.
“good-bye! good-bye!” they cried. “do not forget that we shall be most happy to have you visit us again!” and the princess gave gran’ma, gran’pa, janey and johnny each a beautiful ring in which was set a wonderful moonstone.
then when she had kissed them all good-bye again gran’pa turned the little knob marked “start” and the new flying boat rose slowly from the roof of the castle and sailed away.
the princess and the people of nite watched the flying boat until it was out of sight, and then the princess and mrs. tiptoe and the tiptoe brothers went into the castle.
“i wished for them to stay,” said the princess. “didn’t you love them all?”
“indeed i did,” mrs. tiptoe answered as she wiped her eyes. “they were all so kind and unselfish.”
“it is nice to know and love them,” said mr. tiptoe, “and while i know they had many unpleasant experiences in the magical land of noom, i am so glad they came.”
“yes,” replied the princess, “we owe all our present happiness to them and i hope they will come again to visit us soon.”
“let’s all write a long letter and send it to them,” the chief of detectives suggested.
“how?” the others inquired.
“let us write the letter, then address it care of the earth and puff the magic powder upon it. they will be sure to receive it!”
“that is an excellent idea!” the princess cried joyfully. “we will start it right away.”
so they all set to work on the letter, so as to send it off at once.
chapter xiii everybody goes home
when the flying boat was out of sight of the city of nite, gran’pa pressed the speed button and the new craft shot through the air like a comet, passing over the mountains and valleys in a flash. in a very few moments it had covered a distance that had taken the travelers long hours to walk.
the new flying boat whizzed around the bend in the moon and flew over the side which is always turned towards the earth.
“this must be the dayland in which you live!” gran’pa said to david.
“it is!” david answered. “see, there is the earth!”
by shading their eyes from the sun, gran’ma, gran’pa and the children could see a blue-green star winking and blinking in the sky and could faintly make out the shape of the land and the oceans upon its surface.
as they sped along above the moon, they watched the wonderful changes in coloring below them. they saw many cities and villages and looked into enormous craters of extinct volcanoes.
at last they saw in the distance a city of white with wonderful steeples and towers on the great building standing in the center. it was a regular fairy book castle with glistening windows and hanging gardens.
“there it is!” david shouted. “guide the flying boat to the balcony at the right of the palace!” and as gran’pa brought the flying boat to rest as directed, many people rushed out of the palace, and knelt before david. “our king has returned!” they shouted. “long live the king!” and they all came and kissed his hand.
when david saw gran’ma and gran’pa and janey and johnny looking at him in astonishment he put his arms around them and helped them from the boat.
“we did not know you were a king!” exclaimed janey.
the king laughed for the first time and it was such a cheery, pleasant laugh they almost forgot that he was a king and gran’ma gave his hand a squeeze.
as the king led them inside the palace all the bells in the city began chiming. “you must at least stay and have dinner with me,” he said.
the king wished them to stay until he had learned how he came to change characters, but as soon as they had finished dinner, gran’ma said they must leave.
“if i can discover just what happened when i walked out to look at the sun,” the king laughed as he said good-bye, “i will write to you and try to find a way to get the letter into your hands.”
“it seems as if you could make a little flying boat and put the letter in it and send it to us,” johnny said.
“then you can expect to hear from me,” the king replied, as he waved good-bye to them.
gran’ma and the children took a nap while gran’pa guided the flying boat on its return trip and when he finally awakened them, the new flying boat stood in the back yard near the kitchen door at gran’pa’s home.
“well,” said gran’ma as she jumped out of the boat, “the castle of the princess was comfortable and beautiful and king david’s palace was magnificent, but our little old home is the best of all!”
“be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home!” gran’pa sang as he helped janey from the boat.
“i hope the moths haven’t got in the carpets!” gran’ma said, as she opened the back door.
johnny ran to the chicken shed and came back with six or seven eggs.
janey helped gran’ma set the table and gran’pa built the kitchen fire. then gran’pa went to the smoke-house and brought in a large ham.
“we’ll have some good old ham and eggs!” he said.
gran’ma made the fluffiest biscuits she had ever baked and they sat down to a breakfast which they all enjoyed more than they had ever enjoyed a breakfast before.
“now that we are back home again, doesn’t it all seem far away and strange, like a fairy tale one has read a long time ago?” gran’ma suggested.
“yes, and like a real fairy tale, it has turned out very happily,” gran’pa smiled.
“i wonder if we shall ever hear from the princess or from the king,” johnny said.
“wouldn’t it be wonderful if the king should marry the beautiful princess, just as all pretty fairy tales end?” mused gran’ma.
1. silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. 2. archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. 3. enclosed italics font in underscores.
by wilbur s. peacock
one man had to die on uranus' frozen crust, so that the other might live--and bart caxton had a gun.
the yellow gauge clicked with a tiny sound, and the oxygen tank went dry. the relay ratchetted slowly, automatically coupled on the next tank, and the needle on the gauge climbed to high-pressure again.
bart caxton watched the needle swing, and beads of perspiration rode high on his cheekbones. he twisted the metal mug in his hands, and his voice was ragged with welling emotion.
"three weeks," he said viciously. "and we're five weeks from the shipping lanes. there isn't enough oxygen to carry us back."
"shut up!" tom headley's tone was thin with suppressed anger. "all the damned talking in the world won't change things. we've got to land now, have got to find the kronalium, or we'll never get back."
he leaned against the wall, searching the cloud-shrouded ground below the ship, feeling the uneven drumming of the rockets driving the ship forward. nerves crawled his back, and sweat slimed his hands. he shuddered, imagining the horrors that might lie below.
the mug banged against the floor, and caxton was standing, half-crouched, his heavy face set and stony, his hands riding the butts of his twin dis-guns.
"i say we go back," he snarled through set teeth.
headley laughed, and the sound was the only thing that could have broken the tension of the moment. he tilted his head and laughed until the tears ran from his eyes; and slowly the rage faded from caxton's face, and his shoulders sagged in weary futility.
"okay, you win," caxton said sullenly. "i know i can't force you to turn around, since you're the only one of us that can recognize and work kronalium for the stern jets. but," and his eyes were swirling pools of flaming hate. "when we do get back, i'm going to blow a hole through your back some night."
tom headley turned away, the fear piling in his mind until it was a choking cloud that stifled all thought.
"if we get back," he said dully.
he slid his hands over the control panel, adjusting the studs and levers with a delicate familiarity, striving to bring another ounce of power from the single rocket-bank that still functioned. but there was only the uneven beat of the rockets vibrating the floor as they had done for three days now, and no adjustment of the controls could make them function better.
bart caxton sat again, fumbled a cigarette from his pocket, then dropped it to the floor. his face was white beneath its tan, and there was a haunted desperation in the tightness of his bulky body.
"how long will it take?" he asked. "will we make it back to earth before--" his voice thickened. "--before we smother to death?"
tom headley shrugged. "it'll be tight," he said slowly. "we'll be on half oxygen-rations the full trip back. but it can be done; i went three months on half-rations once--and then got drunk on earth's air for two days after i landed."
"to hell with you and your fancy trips!" the madness was building again in caxton's mind. "you've been everywhere--but you ain't been here; you don't know what uranus is like, nobody does."
he lunged to his feet, pressed close to the port. his breath clouded the quartzite pane, and he polished the glass impatiently.
"look at that," he said thinly. "that's the place we were going to explore; that's the place where it is so cold and the pressure so great, air collapses and can't be breathed. we were going to do what the early explorers failed to do; try to find life and minerals. they failed because their space suits could not stand the cold. now we'll be marooned there because a damned meteor busted our stern rockets all to hell!"
"don't blame me for that," headley said, and instantly regretted the words.
"okay!" caxton spun back to his seat. "i let the force-screen die for a couple of hours while i slept. but don't think i'm taking the blame for the whole mess, even at that. this was your screwy idea."
headley nodded. "if we succeed, our reputations will be big enough to gain us backing for almost anything." he grinned, and some of the fear was gone from his mind. "hell, what if we are cooped up here for a few days? i'll fix the rockets, we'll do a bit of exploring, and then high-tail it back for more oxygen. we'll live in vac-suits and save our air; and the suits hold enough rations to last us for three months."
"and if the rockets aren't fixed?"
tom headley forced the thought from his mind. "they'll be fixed," he said quietly.
bart caxton slumped into a sullen silence, his slitted eyes watching the profile of his companion. slowly, cunning crept into his face, and his right hand slid along his thigh toward one belt-gun.
"i wouldn't," headley said without moving. "you can't fix the ship, and help won't be sent for us for at least three months. a man couldn't live that long, on the oxygen we have left, i don't believe."
"i might make the oxygen last for me until i got back to a regular traffic lane."
headley swung about, and anger paled his face. "damn it, caxton," he said brittlely, "we'll get out of this! probably, because of the pressure and cold on the planet, we'll find frozen air which can be thawed out; we'll look for it along with the kronalium." he watched the stillness of his partner's hand. "murder won't solve anything!" he finished softly.
bart caxton nodded slowly. "sorry, headley," he said. "it's just that i've never been in a jam like this before."
tom headley grinned. "we'll see it through--together," he said.
"okay!" caxton's tone was sullenly agreeable, but small fires of cunning still swirled in his eyes.
"get ready for a shock-landing," headley said relievedly, reached for the controls.
the icy wind roared like ten million furies about the grounded ship, sucking up the powdery snow, smashing it against the gleaming alumisteel hull. great boulders of snow and ice tumbled playfully about the rubbly landscape, splashed in foamy explosions into the semi-frozen pools of liquid that dotted the planet's surface.
tom headley shivered involuntarily, turned back from the port.
"colder than the hinges of hell out there," he said worriedly. "i can understand how the first crude vac-suits couldn't stand up for very long."
"yeah!" caxton glanced up from sealing the zipper slit at the front of his suit. "i only hope these suits can take it."
"they can; they're made for absolute-zero work in space. here, the only trouble lies in the super-gravity and the wind. either might rupture the outfits."
caxton watched snow pile against a huge boulder, then saw it whisked instantly away by the force of the wind. he glanced at his vac-suit against the wall, and fear rode the sullenness of his eyes.
"who's going out to do the exploring?"
he shrugged his shoulders into the suit, closed the air-tight zipper. caxton turned slowly, lifted his suit, carefully fitted it to his stocky body. his fingers shook slightly, and his face was white.
tom headley watched his partner silently for a moment, then shrugged and checked the oxy-cylinder pressure-gauge. the needle pressed tight against its rest-pin. he lifted the glassite helmet, swung it idly in his hand for a moment. he knew the grimness of the moment, knew that the tank on his back held less than six hours of life-saving oxygen. when that was gone, if he were not back at the ship, he would die. a wry smile lifted the corners of his mobile mouth. within the suit were enough concentrates and vitamin capsules to last him for months, and a special apparatus made it possible for water to be drawn from the air he breathed. he grinned at the thought; without air, the rest was superfluous.
"okay," caxton said finally, "let's take a look." he slipped on the helmet, cogged it to his shoulder-plates, left the visi-port open. cunning still burned in his eyes, and his gaze dropped when he caught the full impact of headley's distrust.
metal squealed beneath headley's hands; then the cogs were loose. headley braced his shoulder against the port, strained mightily, was joined by his partner. together, their strength was sufficient to force the door open against pressure of the air outside.
the air gushed in with incredible force, shoved the men forcefully against the metal wall, then subsided as the pressure was equalized. headley stepped forward, felt the icy crystals of snow tapping against his suit. he thrust one arm through the port, gasped, as gravity jerked it groundward. he leaned back, sighed. inside the ship, with its inertia-stasis gravity, normal movement was possible; but outside, with the super-gravity, even slow walking would be a job.
"set your suit control for three graves," he ordered. "that way, we'll have enough weight to stay on the ground, and will still be able to move."
bart caxton growled an unintelligible reply, drew his right arm from the semi-rigid sleeve of his suit, made an adjustment on the suit's control-panel. instantly, weight descended with pile-driving force, and muscles corded in his legs to counteract the tripled gravity.
headley adjusted his gravity control, then connected himself to caxton with a ten-foot length of cable. carefully, he lowered himself from the port, stood erect in the howling wind and snow, waited until caxton had clambered down to his side. reaching upward, they closed the port, leaving it uncogged, so that they could easily reenter.
headley checked his radi-compass bearings, then braced the full force of the wind, caxton pressing forward at his side. they struggled toward the ice-sheathed cliff a hundred yards away, each step an agony of effort, clumsily dodging a huge boulder that rolled a lazy path of death toward them.
snow smashed at them, made vision difficult, went whirling away. even through the radi-heated layers of their suits, they could feel the implacable cold plucking at their lives with skeletal fingers of death. minutes passed, as they fought through the drifting snow, each minute an age of effort; and when headley glanced back, he felt a vague surprise to find that they had travelled so short a distance. he grinned at caxton.
"like trying to run in a slow-motion dream," he said, frowned slightly when he heard his partner's sullen growl of acknowledgment.
they struggled forward again, approaching the cliff of ice and rock that towered overhead. headley splashed heedlessly through a small pool of semi-liquid, halted with a tiny cry of excitement.
"look!" he said. "that rock's alive."
bart caxton tilted his gaze to where several clay-colored rocks lay at the edge of the pool.
"you're nuts," he said. "they're just rocks."
"i'll swear i saw one move out of the way of my foot," headley insisted stubbornly, bent and lifted the first of the rocks.
it was heavy in his hands, and he had the uncanny sensation that it squirmed impatiently as he lifted it. he examined it carefully, ignoring caxton's impatient words for them to hurry. and even as he watched, he saw the living rock split in his hands, opening down the side, disclosing gill-like fringed flesh that looked like slivers of whitish ice.
"it is alive!" he exclaimed excitedly, then dropped the stone as sudden giddiness clutched at his senses.
caxton caught at his drooping body. "what's wrong?" he snapped.
headley blinked his eyes. "nothing!" he disclaimed. "just a combination of pressure and lack of oxygen." he reached for his suit's panel, opened the oxygen valve another quarter turn.
he shook his head slightly, then bent to study the rock he had dropped. it had not moved, nor had its mouth-like opening closed. it lay at his feet in the shallow liquid, resembling nothing more than a ruptured rock.
"to hell with it!" caxton said disagreeably. "let's find the kronalium."
headley nodded, stumbled after caxton. but jubilation was in his heart. when he and caxton returned, they would take back several of the rock-creatures as living proof of the success of their mission.
he glanced back, saw squat legs flick from the opening in the rock, saw the creature scurry back to the few others of its kind that rested at the side of the semi-frozen pool of liquid. he grinned again, then pressed forward to lead the way to the cliff.
they rested in the lee of the escarpment, safe from the howling wind, huddling out of the way of the rocks and snow-clots that went spinning by from the fury of the storm.
"now what?" caxton asked.
tom headley glanced at the gauges below the level of his chin, watched the needles carefully.
"god!" he said. "this place is a storehouse of minerals and elements. we'll have no trouble getting money for an expedition."
"damn it!" rage knotted caxton's voice until it was a thin screech. "who cares about that; do you find any traces of kronalium?"
headley watched a single dial, turned slowly, studying the line of cliff-base at his left. "close by," he said. "it must be a big deposit, for the needle doesn't waver."
"then let's get to it!" caxton came to his feet, towered over his squatting partner.
headley struggled upright, fighting the super-gravity, led the way down the edge of the escarpment. time and again, he fell, tripped by the gravity, whirled aside by the smashing wind. each time, he struggled erect, forced himself to go forward again.
he watched the needle floating in its case, followed its point unerringly toward a shallow recess in the cliff's base. using his belt pick, he chopped at the layer of ice and snow, let out a shout of relief when a strip of reddish metal appeared.
"this is it," he announced. "now the repair job will be simple."
bart caxton nodded, seeing the metal, and for a brief second his hand hovered over the single gun strapped to his suit. then he relaxed, caught his pick in his right hand, bent forward to help smash away great chunks of the metal.
"it's almost anticlimactic," he said shortly, "finding this stuff so easily."
tom headley grinned. "it would have been more anticlimactic," he said, "not to have found it. i've found traces of it on every planet i've visited."
then they worked without further conversation, digging loose a great pile of the metal, making staggering trips to the ship with the precious element that was the only metal with which their rocket tubes could be repaired. hours later, they cogged the port shut on their ship, exhausted the tainted air, released a breathable atmosphere.
they worked in shifts, eating and sleeping when they could, caxton doing the crude work, headley putting the final touches upon the delicate task that was theirs.
and forty hours later they stood in admiration of the job they had done. new metal tubes glowed redly in the light of the radi-lamps, ready to send the ship hurtling back toward inhabited space. they still sparkled from the heat generated when headley had given them a trial burst of power.
"and that's that," headley said. his face was grim and lined, and his smile was a trifle forced.
"let's blast off," he said.
tom headley grinned. "not yet," he said. "there's five hundred pounds of kronalium back there that we're taking along. and i want several of those rock animals for living proof that we've been here."
anger distorted caxton's features. his hand sought the gun at his waist, then dropped beneath the steadiness of headley's gaze.
"all right," he agreed sullenly. "but let's hurry."
five trips they made, carrying the metal back to the ship, knowing that each trip made them more wealthy, so scarce was the metal in great quantities.
and then, on the sixth trip, caxton snatched the single gun from headley's waist. he laughed as he did so, and the sound was thin and strained with triumph.
"it's you or me, headley," he snarled. "and i figure it's going to be me."
headley felt horror welling into his mind, but he forced his voice to be absolutely calm and unemotional.
"don't be a fool, man," he said. "both of us can make it back, by going on short oxy-rations."
caxton shook his head. "i'm going back," he said viciously. "i'm taking the ship, the kronalium, and a couple of those damned animals for evidence. i'll say that you died on uranus." his voice was suddenly flat and deadly. "sucker!"
a cone of blackness flared from the gun in his hand, caught tom headley, dropped him in his tracks. he twitched silently, lay where he had fallen, his right arm splashing liquid from the tiny pool at his feet.
bart caxton tossed the gun aside, leaned over, unscrewed the hinged valve on headley's oxygen tank, then callously dumped the unconscious man into the pool.
he laid the rock animals in a dark corner of the tank room, then walked heavily back to the control room and removed his suit. grinning, he sank into the pilot's seat, and his hands raced over the controls.
rockets drummed, and the ship fled into space on a tail of flaming gasses.
bart caxton watched the gauges, then reached out and adjusted the oxygen valve. he would have to go on three-quarters' rations, but there would still be oxygen left when he struck the spacelanes.
and back on uranus, tom headley stirred out of his unconsciousness. he gasped, struggled to his feet. metal banged on his shoulder, and a reaching hand found the opened valve. he instinctively screwed it shut, dull horror and terror piling in his mind.
he knew that he had but seconds to live, and the utter futility of his predicament made the situation even more horrible. true, he had his radio--but its range was less than a hundred miles; it would bring rescue only if a rescue party landed. he laughed a bit, grimly, ironically, remembering the great supply of food tablets that were in his suit. all that he lacked to live was air.
then he frowned, seeing the oxygen gauge in his suit. the needle pressed tight against its stop-post. he tapped it, then checked another gauge. and sudden understanding came to his eyes--and he fought against the hysterical laughter that filled his throat.
bart caxton had failed in his murder attempt.
for tom headley's shoulder tank was full of liquid oxygen. he had fallen into a pool of oxygen, liquesced by the tremendous pressure of uranus, and the pressure of the atmosphere had forced the oxygen into his tank.
now there were but the interminable weeks of waiting that were to come before a rescue expedition was sent to save him.
and on the ship speeding back to the spacelanes, bart caxton clawed at his shirt collar. he gasped, trying to get oxygen from the dying air. he read the gauges with incredulous eyes, then came to his feet and lurched down the corridor. he swung through the door of the tank room, swayed there, his eyes straining into the semi-darkness.
and a terrible scream ripped at his constricted throat. for he knew then the thing that headley would shortly discover. the pools of semi-frozen liquid on uranus were of liquid oxygen--and the animals in those pools lived on pure oxygen.
even as he watched, one animal turned from the last tank of oxygen, ran frantically about on short legs, then collapsed, its split mouth gaping in death.
caxton screamed, felt nausea cramping at his body. he remembered then the liquid into which he had rolled headley's body, and he knew the other man would live to see earth again. and he knew then that the animals in the ship had used in minutes the life-giving gas that should have lasted for days.
and even as he screamed, he fell. and the last sight he had was of the rock-animals' split mouths laughing at him and his plans in an awful mocking silence.
the institute of industrial research
allerton s. cushman, a. m., ph. d., director, in charge division metallurgical problems.
henry a. gardner, assistant director, in charge division of paint technology.
n. monroe hopkins, ph. d., in charge division of electrical engineering and electrochemistry.
chas. a. crampton, m. d., ph. g., in charge division of food and drug products.
g. w. coggeshall, ph. d., in charge division of mill problems.
chas. baskerville, ph. d., f. c. s., in charge technology of the rarer elements.
copyright, 1911, the institute of industrial research
the institute of industrial research
exterior of wooden buildings
allerton s. cushman, director the institute of industrial research
henry a. gardner, asst. director in charge division of paint technology, the institute of industrial research
for a number of years the writers have been making a study of industrial problems and have been publishing the information which they have acquired, regarding the value of various structural materials, for the benefit of consumers as well as producers. the institute of industrial research has received so many requests recently for information in regard to just what paints should be selected for the protection and decoration of houses and other buildings that it has seemed best to sum up the subject in the form of a special pamphlet or bulletin. it is only after years of investigation work carried on by the authors, both separately and in co-operation, that any review of the work has seemed possible, for only recently have the results of tests carried on in a number of different localities seemed to justify a definite opinion in regard to the best selection of exterior paints. no attack on any one paint material is here included, but the value of each has been carefully weighed, and the attempt is made to discuss them in the light of experience and knowledge. it is the authors' intention in this bulletin to put into the hands of architects and paint users who may not be thoroughly familiar with the technical properties of paint materials, information which will enable them to make a proper and intelligent selection of paints for the preservation and decoration of the exterior of wooden buildings.
the preservation of the exterior of wooden buildings
lumber and its relation to paints: the proper choice and treatment of lumber is one of the most important problems which the builder as well as the painter has to face. when about to build a dwelling, barn, or other structure made principally of wood, the question is sure to arise in regard to what variety to select so as to get the maximum service and money value. the locality in which the structure is to be built must often have a bearing upon this question. while it is true that the painting of each type of wood demands the special consideration of the painter, it is also true that the study of paints for wood protection points toward the production of a paint that will give satisfactory results under all conditions and on all grades. it is the writers' opinion that a paint may be made that will be perfectly well suited for the preservation of every species of wood, provided the paint is properly treated in the hands of the skillful and intelligent painter, who can produce lasting results on almost every type by varying the proportion of thinners and oil in the various coats. the painter who uses the same paint on soft pine, and again on hard pine, without making a special study of how to reduce the priming coat for the hard pine, will be likely to get inferior results on the latter. in case of failure, the natural impulse is often to place the blame upon the paint, whereas the real responsibility may rest upon the painter's lack of knowledge.
note.--for a more detailed account of the lumber question, see "modern lumber as a problem for the painter," read by john dewar, at the convention of master house painters' and decorators' association of pennsylvania, january, 1911, pittsburg, pa.
photographs showing different forms of decay exhibited by improperly made paints
signs of paint failure: those who are responsible for the care and maintenance of property are familiar with the condition of surface presented by almost all wooden buildings or structures which have been improperly painted with inferior paints. "chalking" or "flouring" are terms used to describe the condition of a paint surface which has deteriorated within the paint film. the formation of minute fissures, generally spoken of as "checking," as well as the effects best described as cracking, scaling, peeling, and blistering, are other signs of failure which cause paint coatings to present an unsightly appearance, and which point inevitably either to the use of improperly made paints or to improper application. the cause of these conditions is not difficult to understand when even a brief study of the character of the materials entering into the composition of a paint has been made. it is, however, a fortunate circumstance that the proper admixture of different types of pigments enables us to correct the strong tendency exhibited by special pigments to rapidly deteriorate in an oil film. this point will be more fully discussed in a later paragraph.
requisites of a good paint: progressive manufacturers are aiming to produce a paint which will show, under the widest range of conditions, good hiding power, adhesiveness, freedom from internal strains, permanency of color, relatively high imperviousness to moisture, sufficient elasticity to prevent scaling or cracking when subjected to expansion or contraction, and freedom from the chemical action which results in deep checking or excessive chalking. such a product as this cannot be attained, in the writers' opinion, by the use of any one pigment in linseed oil. in order to meet all the demands as stated above, there should be in an economical and durable paint a proper percentage of the various pigments which, united, will tend to correct each other's faults, and thus produce a durable paint coating of maximum efficiency.
the composition of paints: as is well known, a paint is a mixture of one or more pigments and a vehicle which acts the part of the spreading and binding medium. up to the present time the vehicle portion of paints has generally been made of linseed oil, admixed with some volatile thinner, such as turpentine. the subject of oils and paint vehicles will be discussed more fully later on.
white leads: white lead, either of the corroded or sublimed type, is perhaps the most generally used of all the white pigments as a paint base. corroded white lead is a basic carbonate of lead, while sublimed white lead is a basic sulphate of the same metal. both of these types are white, and admirably adapted as painting materials. they take relatively the same amount of oil and spread easily, producing paint films which are highly opaque and which, therefore, hide efficiently the surface upon which they are placed. sublimed white lead is a relatively finer pigment than corroded white lead, and seems to show a tendency to chalk to a greater extent upon exposure to the weather. corroded white lead is more alkaline, however, than sublimed white lead, and when used alone with linseed oil generally shows a tendency to chalk to a considerable extent in a short time and to show deep checking, thus permitting the admission of moisture. the alkaline nature of this pigment produces considerable action upon certain tinting colors and results in fading or darkening, when mixed with delicate greens or blues.
the use of white lead has been condemned in some parts of this country as well as abroad, because of its alleged poisonous properties. while it is true that lead poisoning may occasionally occur in some factories where the workman and his conditions are not properly safeguarded, it is, nevertheless, a fact that lead poisoning very seldom occurs among painters of experience and cleanly habits. carelessness in mixing white lead is, fortunately, a practice almost obsolete among modern painters. the use of paints already ground in oil by means of machinery to a pasty condition, allowing easy working and reducing, obviates the danger of lead poisoning from any such cause as this, even though the percentage of lead in such paints is in preponderance. recent efforts that have been made by the legislatures of certain states to brand lead paints as poisonous are not only unnecessary, but show a complete ignorance of the problem.
zinc pigments: another pigment which has proved itself of great value to the painter is zinc oxide. the use of this pigment may be said to have almost revolutionized the paint industry of the world, and its increased consumption during the last ten years is sufficient evidence of its value as a painting material. zinc oxide is produced by oxidation and sublimation of zinc ores and is not only extremely fine, but of great whiteness. it has good hiding power, although not quite so great as that shown by the white leads. it tends to produce a glossy surface, making it especially valuable for use on interior work and in enamels. when used alone it has the effect of hardening the oil film in which it is enveloped, and upon long exposure causes cracking and scaling. however, when the sublimed or corroded white leads are properly combined with zinc oxide, a more durable surface is produced, the shortcomings of each pigment being overbalanced by the good properties of the other. the proper combining properties of zinc oxide with white lead may be said to vary between 20 to 55 per cent of zinc oxide for paints designed for exterior use. in the opinion of the authors, lead and zinc pigments in the above percentage, properly blended and ground, make paints of far better wearing value than can be produced with either white lead or zinc oxide used alone.
zinc lead: zinc lead, a pigment sublimed from mixed lead and zinc ores and containing about equal proportions of zinc oxide and lead sulphate intimately combined, as well as leaded zinc, a produce similarly produced, but with the zinc oxide running about 75 per cent, are white base pigments of value, which are used to a considerable extent. they are generally slightly off color, however, and are therefore used most largely in paints which are to be tinted in various colors.
lithopone: lithopone, a pigment produced by precipitation, and consisting of zinc sulphide and barium sulphate, is of great value in the manufacture of interior paints. on account of its liability to darken and disintegrate, however, it is seldom used on exterior work, although recent tests have shown that when used in combination with zinc oxide and whiting, it gives very promising results.
crystalline pigments and their use: barytes (barium sulphate), silex (silica), whiting (calcium carbonate), gypsum (calcium sulphate), asbestine (silicate of magnesia), and china clay (silicate of alumina) are white crystalline pigments which, when ground in oil, become transparent. all of these pigments possess the property of strengthening a paint film made of white lead and zinc oxide, and often increase the durability of such a paint. barytes, silica, and china clay are especially valuable for this purpose. asbestine, because of its needle-like structure and low gravity, prevents settling and acts as a reinforcer of paint films. whiting or calcium carbonate should be used when zinc oxide is in excess in a paint, so that the hardness of the paint may be overcome.
a white paint must be possessed of sufficient opacity to efficiently hide the surface upon which it is placed, when three coats are applied for new work or two coats for repainting work. mixtures of the white leads and zinc oxide, with the latter pigment running not over 55 per cent, will easily produce such a result and wear well. it is generally deemed advisable, however, by most manufacturers to take advantage of the excessive opacity of such mixtures, which allows the introduction of moderate percentages of those inert pigments which give greater strength and other desirable features to a paint. the percentage of natural crystalline inert pigments to add to a white paint made of lead and zinc must, however, be moderate and insufficient to detract materially from the hiding power of the paint.
note.--pigments such as silica, barytes, china clay, and asbestine are thoroughly inert. recent investigations have proved that they accelerate the drying of linseed oil, but this is not due to any chemical action they exert, but rather to their physical action in distributing the mass of oil in which they are ground, and thus allowing a greater surface to be exposed to the oxygen of the air.
it is also possible that some of the inert pigments may stimulate oxidation by catalytic or contact action, although they are not chemically active in themselves.
white-paint formulas: from these conclusions which have come from wide experience in the testing of paints under actual service conditions, there can be recommended to the buyer of paints and to the manufacturer and master painter those machine-mixed paints in white, made by reputable manufacturers, the composition of which will show a mixture of white lead and zinc oxide, with the latter pigment within limits of between 15 to 55 per cent, and especially the same mixtures reinforced with the moderate percentage of crystalline inert pigments referred to above.
tinted paints possess greater hiding power than white paints, and the above proportions would be somewhat changed for a tinted paint containing any percentage of coloring material. tinted paints are, moreover, far more serviceable than white paints, as will be shown later.
mill vs. paddle: the mixtures under consideration should be ground in linseed oil by the manufacturer, through stone or steel mills, to a very fine condition, as it is only through proper grinding that the pigments can be properly blended. the mixing of paint by hand is, fortunately, to a large extent a thing of the past. the uneven lumping of hand-mixed paints are often the cause of their failure. such ancient and crude practice should be avoided by every painter, for it is more economical to obtain semi-paste paints, properly ground by machinery, to such a condition that they may be easily broken up and tempered. such paints may be reduced to the proper consistency with oil and volatile thinner for application to any kind of wood.
in the opinion of the writers, a majority of the paints sold by reputable dealers and made by reputable manufacturers in this country are not only made from the best linseed oil and highest-grade pigments obtainable, but are put up in a form ready for the painter to thin down with full oil or turpentine reductions, either for priming work or to be used without reductions for finishing coats. the large metropolitan painter who wishes to make his own tints and shades may, however, prefer to have his mixed pigment paint ground by the manufacturer in heavy paste form for certain purposes.
results of field tests: a careful analysis of the results of field tests which have been carried on in different parts of the country would be far too voluminous for insertion in this bulletin. the official findings of special committees of inspection have already been published in special reports. whereas there may still remain ground for some difference of opinion in regard to the interpretation of the results obtained on the various test fences, there can be no doubt that considerable information of the highest value has been yielded, both to the producers and consumers of paints. one of the principal results obtained from these tests has led to the opinion expressed above by the writers, that better results can be obtained by a proper mixture of selected pigments than by the use of any one pigment in linseed oil. this conclusion has also been reached by engineers of the united states navy, and, as a result, the specifications of the bureau of yards and docks for paints made of straight white lead and oil have recently been changed to call for white lead combined with upwards of 50 per cent of zinc oxide. many engineers and master painters have interpreted the results of the tests in the same way, and the attention of the authors has been called to a number of opinions which show that the tendency of demand among those who are properly informed is for a high-grade combination type of paint rather than for any single pigment paint.
color: the selection of the color for a dwelling or other structure is a matter that depends largely upon the good judgment and taste of the owner, combined with the advice of the painter. one point, however, should be impressed upon the mind of both, namely, that practically all shades or tints made upon a good white paint base, through the use of permanent tinting colors, will better withstand exposure to the atmosphere than the white base used alone. owing to the cheerful effect produced by the use of white paint on dwellings, a very large quantity of white will continue to be used. if these white paints are designed in line with the suggestions brought out above--that is to say, if the white lead bases are properly reinforced with zinc oxide and other pigmentary materials--better results will undoubtedly be obtained, as far as appearance and durability is concerned, than if white lead had been used alone. the consumer should remember, however, that more durable results will be obtained by the use of tinted paints.
reductions and thinners: turpentine, with its sweet odor, high solvent action, and wonderful oxidizing value, has always taken first place among the volatile liquids used for thinning paints. wood turpentines, produced from the steam distillation of fine-cut fat pinewood or from the destructive distillation of stumpage and sawdust, have been refined in some cases, by elimination of odor and toxic effects, to such purity that they are equally as good as the purest grades of gum turpentine, and their use is bound to increase in the paint industry.
the painter and manufacturer have come to understand that certain grades of asphaltum and paraffine distillates are equally as satisfactory as turpentine for use in paints for exterior purposes. those volatile oils which are distilled from crude oil with either a paraffine or asphaltum base and possessed of boiling point, flash point, color, and evaporative value approximating similar constants of turpentine, are excellently suited to partly, and in some cases wholly, replace turpentine in exterior paints. a little additional drier added to paints thinned with these materials will cause oxidation to take place in the proper time.
oils: the increasing cost of linseed oil has raised the interesting question as to whether or not it is good practice to use an admixture of other oils in connection with it, in high grade paint coatings. strong differences of opinion will probably be found in regard to this question, and undoubtedly further investigation work is necessary in order to decide it. a number of different oils have been proposed for the purpose, of which, perhaps, soya bean oil is the one which has been most prominently discussed. no definite formulas, however, should be recommended until the results of investigations which are now being carried on are in hand. a systematic series of test panels is now being erected in washington, d. c., on the grounds of the institute of industrial research, which are designed to gather data covering just this point.
the flax crop conditions have been most discouraging during the past two years, and the natural shortage of seed has caused a rise in the price of linseed oil, which has necessitated a rise in the price of paint. the added protection to be secured, however, through the frequent application of paint far outweighs any increased cost which has been caused by the rise in price of the raw commodities entering into the composition of paint.
this ebook was produced by david widger
the right of way
by gilbert parker
old debts for new
jo portugtais was breaking the law of the river--he was running a little raft down the stream at night, instead of tying up at sundown and camping on the shore, or sitting snugly over cooking-pot by the little wooden caboose on his raft. but defiance of custom and tradition was a habit with jo portugais. he had lived in his own way many a year, and he was likely to do so till the end, though he was a young man yet. he had many professions, or rather many gifts, which he practised as it pleased him. he was river-driver, woodsman, hunter, carpenter, guide, as whim or opportunity came to him. on the evening when charley steele met with his mishap he was a river-driver--or so it seemed. he had been up nor'west a hundred and fifty miles, and he had come down-stream alone with his raft- which in the usual course should take two men to guide it--through slides, over rapids, and in strong currents. defying the code of the river, with only one small light at the rear of his raft, he voyaged the swift current towards his home, which, when he arrived opposite the cote dorion, was still a hundred miles below. he had watched the lights in the river-drivers' camps, had seen the men beside the fires, and had drifted on, with no temptation to join in the songs floating out over the dark water, to share the contents of the jugs raised to boisterous lips, or to thrust his hand into the greasy cooking-pot for a succulent bone.
he drifted on until he came opposite charlemagne's tavern. here the current carried him inshore. he saw the dim light, he saw dark figures in the bar-room, he even got a glimpse of suzon charlemagne. he dropped the house behind quickly, but looked back, leaning on the oar and thinking how swift was the rush of the current past the tavern. his eyes were on the tavern door and the light shining through it. suddenly the light disappeared, and the door vanished into darkness. he heard a scuffle, and then a heavy splash.
"there's trouble there," said jo portugais, straining his eyes through the night, for a kind of low roar, dwindling to a loud whispering, and then a noise of hurrying feet, came down the stream, and he could dimly see dark figures running away into the night by different paths.
"some dirty work, very sure," said jo portugais, and his eyes travelled back over the dark water like a lynx's, for the splash was in his ear, and a sort of prescience possessed him. he could not stop his raft. it must go on down the current, or be swerved to the shore, to be fastened.
"god knows, it had an ugly sound," said jo portugais, and again strained his eyes and ears. he shifted his position and took another oar, where the raft-lantern might not throw a reflection upon the water. he saw a light shine again through the tavern doorway, then a dark object block the light, and a head thrust forward towards the river as though listening.
at this moment he fancied he saw something in the water nearing him. he stretched his neck. yes, there was something.
"it's a man. god save us--was it murder?" said jo portugais, and shuddered. "was it murder?"
the body moved more swiftly than the raft. there was a hand thrust up-- two hands.
"he's alive!" said jo portugais, and, hurriedly pulling round his waist a rope tied to a timber, jumped into the water.
three minutes later, on the raft, he was examining a wound in the head of an insensible man.
as his hand wandered over the body towards the heart, it touched something that rattled against a button. he picked it up mechanically and held it to the light. it was an eye-glass.
"my god!" said jo portugais, and peered into the man's face. "it's him." then he remembered the last words the man had spoken to him-- "get out of my sight. you're as guilty as hell!" but his heart yearned towards the man nevertheless.
the way in and the way out
in his own world of the parish of chaudiere jo portugais was counted a widely travelled man. he had adventured freely on the great rivers and in the forests, and had journeyed up towards hudson's bay farther than any man in seven parishes.
jo's father and mother had both died in one year--when he was twenty- five. that year had turned him from a clean-shaven cheerful boy into a morose bearded man who looked forty, for it had been marked by his disappearance from chaudiere and his return at the end of it, to find his mother dead and his father dying broken-hearted. what had driven jo from home only his father knew; what had happened to him during that year only jo himself knew, and he told no one, not even his dying father.
a mystery surrounded him, and no one pierced it. he was a figure apart in chaudiere parish. a dreadful memory that haunted him, carried him out of the village, which clustered round the parish church, into vadrome mountain, three miles away, where he lived apart from all his kind. it was here he brought the man with the eye-glass one early dawn, after two nights and two days on the river, pulling him up the long hill in a low cart with his strong faithful dogs, hitching himself with them and toiling upwards through the dark. in his three-roomed hut he laid his charge down upon a pile of bear-skins, and tended him with a strange gentleness, bathing the wound in the head and binding it again and again.
the next morning the sick man opened his eyes heavily. he then began fumbling mechanically on his breast. at last his fingers found his monocle. he feebly put it to his eye, and looked at jo in a strange, questioning, uncomprehending way.
"i beg--your pardon," he said haltingly, "have i ever--been intro--" suddenly his eyes closed, a frown gathered on his forehead. after a minute his eyes opened again, and he gazed with painful, pathetic seriousness at jo. this grew to a kind of childish terror; then slowly, as a shadow passes, the perplexity, anxiety and terror cleared away, and left his forehead calm, his eyes unvexed and peaceful. the monocle dropped, and he did not heed it. at length he said wearily, and with an incredibly simple dependence:
"i am thirsty now."
jo lifted a wooden bowl to his lips, and he drank, drank, drank to repletion. when he had finished he patted jo's shoulder.
"i am always thirsty," he said. "i shall be hungry too. i always am."
jo brought him some milk and bread in a bowl. when the sick man had eaten and drunk the bowlful to the last drop and crumb, he lay back with a sigh of content, but trembling from weakness and the strain, though jo's hand had been under his head, and he had been fed like a little child.
all day he lay and watched jo as he worked, as he came and went. sometimes he put his hand to his head and said to jo: "it hurts." then jo would cool the wound with fresh water from the mountain spring, and he would drag down the bowl to drink from it greedily.
it was as though he could never get enough water to drink. so the first day in the hut at vadrome mountain passed without questioning on the part of either charley steele or his host.
with good reason. jo portugais saw that memory was gone; that the past was blotted out. he had watched that first terrible struggle of memory to reassert itself, as the eyes mechanically looked out upon new and strange surroundings, but it was only the automatic habit of the sight, the fumbling of the blind soul in its cell-fumbling for the latch which it could not find, for the door which would not open. the first day on the raft, as charley had opened his eyes upon the world again after that awful night at the cote dorion, jo. had seen that same blank uncomprehending look--as it were, the first look of a mind upon the world. this time he saw, and understood what he saw, and spoke as men speak, but with no knowledge or memory behind it--only the involuntary action of muscle and mind repeated from the vanished past.
charley steele was as a little child, and having no past, and comprehending in the present only its limited physical needs and motions, he had no hope, no future, no understanding. in three days he was upon his feet, and in four he walked out of doors and followed jo into the woods, and watched him fell a tree and do a woodsman's work. indoors he regarded all jo did with eager interest and a pleased, complacent look, and readily did as he was told. he seldom spoke--not above three or four times a day, and then simply and directly, and only concerning his wants. from first to last he never asked a question, and there was never any inquiry by look or word. a hundred and twenty miles lay between him and his old home, between him and kathleen and billy and jean jolicoeur's saloon, but between him and his past life the unending miles of eternity intervened. he was removed from it as completely as though he were dead and buried.
a month went by. sometimes jo went down to the village below, and then, at first, he locked the door of the house behind him upon charley. against this charley made no motion and said no word, but patiently awaited jo's return. so it was that, at last, jo made no attempt to lock the door, but with a nod or a good-bye left him alone. when charley saw him returning he would go to meet him, and shake hands with him, and say "good-day," and then would come in with him and help him get supper or do the work of the house.
since charley came no one had visited the house, for there were no paths beyond it, and no one came to the vadrome mountain, save by chance. but after two months had gone the cure came. twice a year the cure made it a point to visit jo in the interests of his soul, though the visits came to little, for jo never went to confession, and seldom to mass. on this occasion the cure arrived when jo was out in the woods. he discovered charley. charley made no answer to his astonished and friendly greeting, but watched him with a wide-eyed anxiety till the cure seated himself at the door to await jo's coming. presently, as he sat there, charley, who had studied his face as a child studies the unfamiliar face of a stranger, brought him a bowl of bread and milk and put it in his hands. the cure smiled and thanked him, and charley smiled in return and said: "it is very good."
as the cure ate, charley watched him with satisfaction, and nodded at him kindly.
when jo came he lied to the cure. he said he had found charley wandering in the woods, with a wound in his head, and had brought him home with him and cared for him. forty miles away he had found him.
the cure was perplexed. what was there to do? he believed what jo said. so far as he knew, jo had never lied to him before, and he thought he understood jo's interest in this man with the look of a child and no memory: jo's life was terribly lonely; he had no one to care for, and no one cared for him; here was what might comfort him! through this helpless man might come a way to jo's own good. so he argued with himself.
what to do? tell the story to the world by writing to the newspaper at quebec? jo pooh-poohed this. wait till the man's memory came back? would it come back--what chance was there of its ever coming back? jo said that they ought to wait and see--wait awhile, and then, if his memory did not return, they would try to find his friends, by publishing his story abroad.
chaudiere was far from anywhere: it knew little of the world, and the world knew naught of it, and this was a large problem for the cure. perhaps jo was right, he thought. the man was being well cared for, and what more could be wished at the moment? the cure was a simple man, and when jo urged that if the sick man could get well anywhere in the world it would be at vadrome mountain in chaudiere, the cure's parochial pride was roused, and he was ready to believe all jo said. he also saw reason in jo's request that the village should not be told of the sick man's presence. before he left, the cure knelt down and prayed, "for the good of this poor mortal's soul and body."
as he prayed, charley knelt down also, and kept his eyes-calm unwondering eyes-full fixed on the good m. loisel, whose grey hair, thin peaceful face, and dark brown eyes made a noble picture of patience and devotion.
when the cure shook him by the hand, murmuring in good-bye, "god be gracious to thee, my son," charley nodded in a friendly way. he watched the departing figure till it disappeared over the crest of the hill.
this day marked an epoch in the solitude of the hut on vadrome mountain. jo had an inspiration. he got a second set of carpenter's tools, and straightway began to build a new room to the house. he gave the extra set of tools to charley with an encouraging word. for the first time since he had been brought here, charley's face took on a look of interest. in half-an-hour he was at work, smiling and perspiring, and quickly learning the craft. he seldom spoke, but he sometimes laughed a mirthful, natural boy's laugh of good spirits and contentment. from that day his interest in things increased, and before two months went round, while yet it was late autumn, he looked in perfect health. he ate moderately, drank a great deal of water, and slept half the circle of the clock each day. his skin was like silk; the colour of his face was as that of an apple; he was more than ever beauty steele. the cure came two or three times, and charley spoke to him but never held conversation, and no word concerning the past ever passed his tongue, nor did he have memory of what was said to him from one day to the next. a hundred ways jo had tried to rouse his memory. but the words cote dorion had no meaning to him, and he listened blankly to all names and phrases once so familiar. yet he spoke french and english in a slow, passive, involuntary way. all was automatic, mechanical.
the weeks again wore on, and autumn became winter, and then at last one day the cure came, bringing his brother, a great parisian surgeon lately arrived from france on a short visit. the cure had told his brother the story, and had been met by a keen, astonished interest in the unknown man on vadrome mountain. a slight pressure on the brain from accident had before now produced loss of memory--the great man's professional curiosity was aroused: he saw a nice piece of surgical work ready to his hand; he asked to be taken to vadrome mountain.
now the cure had lived long out of the world, and was not in touch with the swift-minded action and adventuring intellects of such men as his brother, marcel loisel. was it not tempting providence, a surgical operation? he was so used to people getting ill and getting well without a doctor--the nearest was twenty miles distant--or getting ill and dying in what seemed a natural and preordained way, that to cut open a man's head and look into his brain, and do this or that to his skull, seemed almost sinful. was it not better to wait and see if the poor man would not recover in god's appointed time?
in answer to his sensitively eager and diverse questions, marcel loisel replied that his dear cure was merely mediaeval, and that he had sacrificed his mental powers on the altar of a simple faith, which might remove mountains but was of no value in a case like this, where, clearly, surgery was the only providence.
at this the cure got to his feet, came over, laid his hand on his brother's shoulder, and said, with tears in his eyes:
"marcel, you shock me. indeed you shock me!"
then he twisted a knot in his cassock cords, and added "come then, marcel. we will go to him. and may god guide us aright!"
that afternoon the two grey-haired men visited vadrome mountain, and there they found charley at work in the little room that the two men had built. charley nodded pleasantly when the cure introduced his brother, but showed no further interest at first. he went on working at the cupboard under his hand. his cap was off and his hair was a little rumpled where the wound had been, for he had a habit of rubbing the place now and then--an abstracted, sensitive motion--although he seemed to suffer no pain. the surgeon's eyes fastened on the place, and as charley worked and his brother talked, he studied the man, the scar, the contour of the head. at last he came up to charley and softly placed his fingers on the scar, feeling the skull. charley turned quickly.
there was something in the long, piercing look of the surgeon which seemed to come through limitless space to the sleeping and imprisoned memory of charley's sick mind. a confused, anxious, half-fearful look crept into the wide blue eyes. it was like a troubled ghost, flitting along the boundaries of sight and sense, and leaving a chill and a horrified wonder behind. the surgeon gazed on, and the trouble in charley's eye passed to his face, stayed an instant. then he turned away to jo portugais. "i am thirsty now," he said, and he touched his lips in the way he was wont to do in those countless ages ago, when, millions upon millions of miles away, people said: "there goes charley steele!"
"i am thirsty now," and that touch of the lip with the tongue, were a revelation to the surgeon.
a half-hour later he was walking homeward with the cure. jo accompanied them for a distance. as they emerged into the wider road-paths that began half-way down the mountain, the cure, who had watched his brother's face for a long time in silence, said:
"what is in your mind, marcel?" the surgeon turned with a half-smile.
"he is happy now. no memory, no conscience, no pain, no responsibility, no trouble--nothing behind or before. is it good to bring him back?"
the cure had thought it all over, and he had wholly changed his mind since that first talk with his brother. "to save a mind, marcel!" he said.
"then to save a soul?" suggested the surgeon. "would he thank me?"
"it is our duty to save him."
"body and mind and soul, eh? and if i look after the body and the mind?"
"his soul is in god's hands, marcel."
"but will he thank me? how can you tell what sorrows, what troubles, he has had? what struggles, temptations, sins? he has none now, of any sort; not a stain, physical or moral."
"that is not life, marcel."
"well, well, you have changed. this morning it was i who would, and you hesitated."
"i see differently now, marcel."
the surgeon put a hand playfully on his brother's shoulder.
"did you think, my dear prosper, that i should hesitate? am i a sentimentalist? but what will he say?
"we need not think of that, marcel."
"but yet suppose that with memory come again sin and shame--even crime?"
"we will pray for him." "but if he isn't a catholic?"
"one must pray for sinners," said the curb, after a silence.
this time the surgeon laid a hand on the shoulder of his brother affectionately. "upon my soul, dear prosper, you almost persuade me to be reactionary and mediaeval."
the curb turned half uneasily towards jo, who was following at a little distance. this seemed hardly the sort of thing for him to hear.
"you had better return now, jo," he said.
"as you wish, m'sieu'," jo answered, then looked inquiringly at the surgeon.
"in about five days, portugais. have you a steady hand and a quick eye?"
jo spread out his hands in deprecation, and turned to the curb, as though for him to answer.
"jo is something of a physician and surgeon too, marcel. he has a gift. he has cured many in the parish with his herbs and tinctures, and he has set legs and arms successfully."
the surgeon eyed jo humorously, but kindly. "he is probably as good a doctor as some of us. medicine is a gift, surgery is a gift and an art. you shall hear from me, portugais." he looked again keenly at jo. "you have not given him 'herbs and tinctures'?"
"very sensible. good-day, portugais."
"good-day, my son," said the priest, and raised his fingers in benediction, as jo turned and quickly retraced his steps.
"why did you ask him if he had given the poor man any herbs or tinctures, marcel?" said the priest.
"because those quack tinctures have whiskey in them."
"what do you mean?"
"whiskey in any form would be bad for him," the surgeon answered evasively.
but to himself he kept saying: "the man was a drunkard--he was a drunkard."
the raising of the curtain
m. marcel loisel did his work with a masterly precision, with the aid of his brother and portugais. the man under the instruments, not wholly insensible, groaned once or twice. once or twice, too, his eyes opened with a dumb hunted look, then closed as with an irresistible weariness. when the work was over, and every stain or sign of surgery removed, sleep came down on the bed--a deep and saturating sleep, which seemed to fill the room with peace. for hours the surgeon sat beside the couch, now and again feeling the pulse, wetting the hot lips, touching the forehead with his palm. at last, with a look of satisfaction, he came forward to where jo and the cure sat beside the fire.
"it is all right," he said. "let him sleep as long as he will." he turned again to the bed. "i wish i could stay to see the end of it. is there no chance, prosper?" he added to the priest.
so it was that marcel loisel, the great surgeon, was compelled to leave chaudiere before he knew that the memory of the man who had been under his knife had actually returned to him. he had, however, no doubt in his own mind, and he was confident that there could be no physical harm from the operation. sleep was the all-important thing. in it lay the strength for the shock of the awakening--if awakening of memory there was to be.
before he left he stooped over charley and said musingly: "i wonder what you will wake up to, my friend?" then he touched the wound with a light caressing finger. "it was well done, well done," he murmured proudly.
a moment afterwards he was hurrying down the hill to the open road, where a cariole awaited the cure and himself.
for a day and a half charley slept, and jo watched him with an affectionate solicitude. once or twice, becoming anxious, because of the heavy breathing and the motionless sleep, he had forced open the teeth, and poured a little broth between.
just before dawn on the second morning, worn out and heavy with slumber, jo lay down by the piled-up fire and dropped into a sleep that wrapped him like a blanket, folding him away into a drenching darkness.
for a time there was a deep silence, troubled only by jo's deep breathing, which seemed itself like the pulse of the silence. charley appeared not to be breathing at all. he was lying on his back, seemingly lifeless. suddenly on the snug silence there was a sharp sound. a tree outside snapped with the frost.
charley awoke. the body seemed not to awake, for it did not stir, but the eyes opened wide and full, looking straight before them--straight up to the brown smoke-stained rafters, along which were ranged guns and fishing-tackle, axes and bear-traps. full clear blue eyes, healthy and untired as a child's fresh from an all-night's drowse, they looked and looked. yet, at first, the body did not stir; only the mind seemed to be awakening, the soul creeping out from slumber into the day. presently, however, as the eyes gazed, there stole into them a wonder, a trouble, an anxiety. for a moment they strained at the rafters and the crude weapons and implements there, then the body moved, quickly, eagerly, and turned to see the flickering shadows made by the fire and the simple order of the room.
a minute more, and charley was sitting on the side of his couch, dazed and staring. this hut, this fire, the figure by the hearth in a sound sleep-his hand went to his head: it felt the bandage there!
he remembered now! last night at the cote dorion! last night he had talked with suzon charlemagne at the cote dorion; last night he had drunk harder than he had ever drunk in his life, he had defied, chaffed, insulted the river-drivers. the whole scene came back: the faces of suzon and her father; suzon's fingers on his for an instant; the glass of brandy beside him; the lanterns on the walls; the hymn he sang; the sermon he preached--he shuddered a little; the rumble of angry noises round him; the tumbler thrown; the crash of the lantern, and only one light left in the place! then jake hough and his heavy hand, the flying monocle, and his disdainful, insulting reply; the sight of the pistol in the hand of suzon's father; then a rush, a darkness, and his own fierce plunge towards the door, beyond which were the stars and the cool night and the dark river. curses, hands that battered and tore at him, the doorway reached, and then a blow on the head and--falling, falling, falling, and distant noises growing more distant, and suddenly and sweetly--absolute silence.
again he shuddered. why? he remembered that scene in his office yesterday with kathleen, and the one later with billy. a sensitive chill swept all over him, making his flesh creep, and a flush sped over his face from chin to brow. to-day he must pick up all these threads again, must make things right for billy, must replace the money he had stolen, must face kathleen again he shuddered. was he at the cote dorion still? he looked round him. no, this was not the sort of house to be found at the cote dorion. clearly this was the hut of a hunter. probably he had been fished out of the river by this woodsman and brought here. he felt his head. the wound was fresh and very sore. he had played for death, with an insulting disdain, yet here he was alive.
certainly he was not intended to be drowned or knifed--he remembered the knives he saw unsheathed--or kicked or pummelled into the hereafter. it was about ten o'clock when he had had his "accident"--he affected a smile, yet somehow he did not smile easily--it must be now about five, for here was the morning creeping in behind the deer-skin blind at the window.
strange that he felt none the worse for his mishap, and his tongue was as clean and fresh as if he had been drinking milk last night, and not very doubtful brandy at the cote dorion. no fever in his hands, no headache, only the sore skull, so well and tightly bandaged but a wonderful thirst, and an intolerable hunger. he smiled. when had he ever been hungry for breakfast before? here he was with a fine appetite: it was like coals of fire heaped on his head by nature for last night's business at the cote dorion. how true it was that penalties did not always come with-- indiscretions. yet, all at once, he flushed again to the forehead, for a curious sense of shame flashed through his whole being, and one charley steele--the charley steele of this morning, an unknown, unadventuring, onlooking charley steele--was viewing with abashed eyes the charley steele who had ended a doubtful career in the coarse and desperate proceedings of last night. with a nervous confusion he sought refuge in his eye-glass. his fingers fumbled over his waistcoat, but did not find it. the weapon of defence and attack, the symbol of interrogation and incomprehensibility, was gone. beauty steele was under the eyes of another self, and neither disdain, nor contempt, nor the passive stare, were available. he got suddenly to his feet, and started forward, as though to find refuge from himself.
the abrupt action sent the blood to his head, and feeling a blindness come over him, he put both hands up to his temples, and sank back on the couch, dizzy and faint.
his motions waked jo portugais, who scrambled from the floor, and came towards him.
"m'sieu'," he said, "you must not. you are faint." he dropped his hands supportingly to charley's shoulders.
"whew! that was good!" he said, and looked up at jo with a smile. "thank you, my friend; i haven't the honour of your acquaintance, but--"
he stopped suddenly and stared at jo. inquiry, mystification, were in his look.
"have i ever seen you before?" he said. "who knows, m'sieu'!"
since jo had stood before charley in the dock near six years ago he had greatly changed. the marks of smallpox, a heavy beard, grey hair, and solitary life had altered him beyond charley's recognition.
jo could hardly speak. his legs were trembling under him, for now he knew that charley steele was himself again. he was no longer the simple, quiet man-child of three days ago, and of these months past, but the man who had saved him from hanging, to whom he owed a debt he dare not acknowledge. jo's brain was in a muddle. now that the great crisis was over, now that the expected thing had come, and face to face with the cure, he had neither tongue, nor strength, nor wit. his words stuck in his throat where his heart was, and for a minute his eyes had a kind of mist before them.
meanwhile charley's eyes were upon him, curious, fixed, abstracted.
"is this your house?"
"it is, m'sieu'."
"you fished me out of the river by the cote dorion?" he still held his head with his hands, for it throbbed so, but his eyes were intent on his companion.
charley's hand mechanically fumbled for his monocle. jo turned quickly to the wall, and taking it by its cord from the nail where it had been for these long months, handed it over. charley took it and mechanically put it in his eye. "thank you, my friend," he said. "have i been conscious at all since you rescued me last night?" he asked.
"in a way, m'sieu'."
"ah, well, i can't remember, but it was very kind of you--i do thank you very much. do you think you could find me something to eat? i beg your pardon--it isn't breakfast-time, of course, but i was never so hungry in my life!"
"in a minute, m'sieu'--in one minute. but lie down, you must lie down a little. you got up too quick, and it makes your head throb. you have had nothing to eat."
"nothing, since yesterday noon, and very little then. i didn't eat anything at the cote dorion, i remember." he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. the throbbing in his head presently stopped, and he felt that if he ate something he could go to sleep again, it was so restful in this place--a whole day's sleep and rest, how good it would be after last night's racketing! here was primitive and material comfort, the secret of content, if you liked! here was this poor hunter-fellow, with enough to eat and to drink, earning it every day by every day's labour, and, like robinson crusoe no doubt, living in a serene self- sufficiency and an elysian retirement. probably he had no responsibilities in the world, with no one to say him nay, himself only to consider in all the universe: a divine conception of adequate life. yet himself, charley steele, an idler, a waster, with no purpose in life, with scarcely the necessity to earn his bread-never, at any rate, until lately--was the slave of the civilisation to which he belonged. was civilisation worth the game?
his hand involuntarily went to his head. it changed the course of his thoughts. he must go back to-day to put billy's crime right, to replace the trust-moneys billy had taken by forging his brother-in-law's name. not a moment must be lost. no doubt he was within driving distance of his office, and, bandaged head or no bandaged head, last night's disgraceful doings notwithstanding, it was his duty to face the wondering eyes--what did he care for wondering eyes? hadn't he been making eyes wonder all his life?--face the wondering eyes in the little city, and set a crooked business straight. fool and scoundrel certainly billy was, but there was kathleen!
his lips tightened; he had a strange anxious flutter of the heart. when had his heart fluttered like this? when had he ever before considered kathleen's feelings as to his personal conduct so delicately? well, since yesterday he did feel it, and a sudden sense of pity sprang up in him--vague, shamefaced pity, which belied the sudden egotistical flourish with which he put his monocle to his eye and tried futilely to smile in the old way.
his head did not throb now, and he drew himself up slowly on his elbow- then, after a moment, lifted himself to a sitting posture.
"what is your name, my friend?" he said.
"how long will it take us to get to town? can we do it this morning?"
"not this morning, m'sieu'," said jo, in a sort of hoarse whisper.
"how many hours would it take?"
he was gathering the last crumbs of his feast with his hand, and looking casually down at the newspaper spread as a table-cloth.
all at once his hand stopped, his eyes became fixed on a spot in the paper. he gave a hoarse, guttural cry, like an animal in agony. his lips became dry, his hand wiped a blinding mist from his eyes.
jo watched him with an intense alarm and a horrified curiosity. he felt a base coward for not having told charley what this paper contained. never had he seen such a look as this. he felt his beads, and told them over and over again, as charley steele, in a dry, croaking sort of whisper, read, in letters that seemed monstrous symbols of fire, a record of himself:
charley snatched at the top of the paper and read the date "tenth of february, 18-!" it was august when he was at the cote dorion, the 5th august, 18-, and this paper was february 10th, 18-. he read on, in the month-old paper, with every nerve in his body throbbing now: a fierce beating that seemed as if it must burst the heart and the veins:
"--captain thomas fairing, of the royal fusileers, whose career in our midst has been marked by an honourable sense of public and private duty. our fellow-citizens will unite with us in congratulating the bride, whose previous misfortunes have only increased the respect in which she is held. if all remember the obscure death of her first husband (though the body was not found, there has never been a doubt of his death), and the subsequent discovery that he had embezzled trust-moneys to the extent of twenty-five thousand dollars, thereby setting the final seal of shame upon a misspent life, destined for brilliant and powerful uses, all have conspired to forget the association of our beautiful and admired townswoman with his career. it is painful to refer to these circumstances, but it is only within the past few days that the estate of the misguided man has been wound up, and the money he embezzled restored to its rightful owners; and it is better to make these remarks now than repeat them in the future, only to arouse painful memories in quarters where we should least desire to wound.
"in her new life, blessed by a romantic devotion known and admired by all, mrs. fairing and her husband will be followed by the affectionate good wishes of the whole community."
the man on the hearth-stone shrank back at the sight of the still, white face, in which the eyes were like sparks of fire. his impulse had been to go over and offer the hand of sympathy to the stricken man, but his simple mind grasped the fact that no one might, with impunity, invade this awful quiet. charley was frozen in body, but his brain was awake with the heat of "a burning fiery furnace."
seven months of unconscious life-seven months of silence--no sight, no seeing, no knowing; seven months of oblivion, in which the world had buried him out of ken in an unknown grave of infamy! seven months--and kathleen was married again to the man she had always loved. to the world he himself was a rogue and thief. billy had remained silent--billy, whom he had so befriended, had let decent men heap scorn and reproaches on his memory. here was what the world thought of him--he read the lines over again, his eyes scorching, but his finger steady, as it traced the lines slowly: "the obscure death . . . . ." "embezzled trustmoneys . . . . ." "the final seal of shame upon a misspent life!"
these were the epitaphs on the tombstone of charley steele; dead and buried, out of sight, out of repute, soon to be out of mind and out of memory, save as a warning to others--an old example raked out of the dust-bin of time by the scavengers of morality, to toss at all who trod the paths of dalliance.
what was there to do? go back? go back and knock at kathleen's door, another enoch arden, and say: "i have come to my own again?" return and tell tom fairing to go his way and show his face no more? break up this union, this marriage of love in which these two rejoiced? summon kathleen out of her illegal intercourse with the man who had been true to her all these years?
to what end? what had he ever done for her that he might destroy her now? what sort of spartan tragedy was this, that the woman who had been the victim of circumstances, who had been the slave to a tie he never felt, yet which had been as iron-bound to her, should now be brought out to be mangled body and soul for no fault of her own? what had she done? what had she ever done to give him right to touch so much as a hair of her head?
go back, and bring billy to justice, and clear his own name? go back, and send kathleen's brother, the forger, to jail? what an achievement in justice! would not the world have a right to say that the only decent thing he could do was to eliminate himself from the equation? what profit for him in the great summing-up, that he was technically innocent of this one thing, and that to establish his innocence he broke a woman's heart and destroyed a boy's life? to what end! it was the murderer coming back as a ghost to avenge himself for being hanged. suppose he went back--the death's-head at the feast--what would there be for himself afterwards; for any one for whom he was responsible? living at that price?
to die and end it all, to disappear from this petty life where he had done so little, and that little ill? to die?
no. there was in him some deep, if obscure, fatalism after all. if he had been meant to die now, why had he not gone to the bottom of the river that yesterday at the cote dorion? why had he been saved by this yokel at the fire, and brought here to lie in oblivion in this mountain hut, wrapped in silence and lost to the world? why had his brain and senses lain fallow all these months, a vacuous vegetation, an empty consciousness? was it fate? did it not seem probable that the great machine had, in its automatic movement, tossed him up again on the shores of time because he had not fallen on the trap-door predestined for his eternal exit?
it was clear to him that death by his own hand was futile, and that if there were trap-doors set for him alone, it were well to wait until he trod upon them and fell through in his appointed hour in the movement of the great machine.
what to do--where to live--how to live?
he got slowly to his feet and took a step forward half blindly. the man on the bench stirred. crossing the room he dropped a hand on the man's shoulder. "open the blind, my friend."
jo portugais got to his feet quickly, eyes averted--he did not dare look into charley's face--and went over and drew back the deer-skin blind. the clear, crisp sunlight of a frosty morning broke gladly into the room. charley turned and blew out the candle on the table where he had eaten, then walked feebly to the window. standing on the crest of the mountain the hut looked down through a clearing, flanked by forest trees.
it was a goodly scene. the green and frosted foliage of the pines and cedars; the flowery tracery of frost hanging like cobwebs everywhere; the poudre sparkle in the air; the hills of silver and emerald sloping down to the valley miles away, where the village clustered about the great old parish church; the smoke from a hundred chimneys, in purple spirals, rising straight up in the windless air; over all peace and a perfect silence.
charley mechanically fixed his eye-glass and stood with hands resting on the window-sill, looking, looking out upon a new world.
at length he turned.
"is there anything i can do for you, m'sieu'?" said jo huskily.
charley held out his hand and clasped jo's. "tell me about all these months," he said.
the coming of rosalie
charley steele saw himself as he had been through the eyes of another. he saw the work that he had done in the carpentering shed, and had no memory of it. the real charley steele had been enveloped in oblivion for seven months. during that time a mild phantom of himself had wandered, as it were in a somnambulistic dream, through the purlieus of life. open-eyed, but with the soul asleep, all idiosyncrasy laid aside, all acquired impressions and influences vanished, he had been walking in the world with no more complexity of mind than a new-born child, nothing intervening between the sight of the eyes and the original sense.
now, when the real charley steele emerged again, the folds of mind and soul unrolling to the million-voiced creation and touched by the antenna of a various civilisation, the phantom charley was gone once more into obscurity. the real charley could remember naught of the other, could feel naught, save, as in the stirring industrious day, one remembers that he has dreamed a strange dream the night before, and cannot recall it, though the overpowering sense of it remains.
he saw the work of his hands, the things he had made with adze and plane, with chisel and hammer, but nothing seemed familiar save the smell of the glue pot, which brought back in a cloudy impression curious unfamiliar feelings. sights, sounds, motions, passed in a confused way through his mind as the smell of the glue crept through his nostrils; and he struggled hard to remember. but no--seven months of his life were gone for ever. yet he knew and felt that a vast change had gone over him, had passed through him. while the soul had lain fallow, while the body had been growing back to childlike health again, and nature had been pouring into his sick senses her healing balm; while the medicaments of peace and sleep and quiet labour had been having their way with him, he had been reorganised, renewed, flushed of the turgid silt of dissipation. for his sins and weaknesses there had been no gall and vinegar to drink.
as charley stood looking round the workshop, jo entered, shaking the snow from his moccasined feet. "the cure, m'sieu' loisel, has come," he said. charley turned, and, without a word, followed jo into the house. there, standing at the window and looking down at the village beneath, was the cure. as charley entered, m. loisel carne forward with outstretched hand.
"i am glad to see you well again, monsieur," he said, and his cool thin hand held charley's for a moment, as he looked him benignly in the eye.
with a kind of instinct as to the course he must henceforth pursue, charley replied simply, dropping his eye-glass as he met that clear soluble look of the priest--such a well of simplicity he had never before seen. only naked eye could meet that naked eye, imperfect though his own sight was.
"it is good of you to feel so, and to come and tell me so," he answered quietly. "i have been a great trouble, i know."
there was none of the old pose in his manner, none of the old cryptic quality in his words.
"we were anxious for your sake--and for the sake of your friends, monsieur."
charley evaded the suggestion. "i cannot easily repay your kindness and that of jo portugais, my good friend here," he rejoined.
"m'sieu'," replied jo, his face turned away, and his foot pushing a log on the fire, "you have repaid it."
charley shook his head. "i am in a conspiracy of kindness," he said. "it is all a mystery to me. for why should one expect such treatment from strangers, when, besides all, one can never make any real return, not even to pay for board and lodging!"
"'i was a stranger and ye took me in,"' said the cure, smiling by no means sentimentally. "so said the friend of the world."
charley looked the curb steadily in the eyes. he was thinking how simply this man had said these things; as if, indeed, they were part of his life; as though it were usual speech with him, a something that belonged, not an acquired language. there was the old impulse to ask a question, and he put the monocle to his eye, but his lips did not open, and the eye-glass fell again. he had seen familiarity with sacred names and things in the uneducated, in excited revivalists, worked up to a state clairvoyant and conversational with the creator; but he had never heard an educated man speak as this man did.
at last charley said: "your brother--portugais tells me that your brother, the surgeon, has gone away. i should have liked to thank him --if no more."
"i have written him of your good recovery. he will be glad, i know. but my brother, from one stand-point--a human stand-point--had scruples. these i did not share, but they were strong in him, monsieur. marcel asked himself--" he stopped suddenly and looked towards jo.
charley saw the look, and said quickly: "speak plainly. portugais is my friend."
jo turned slowly towards him, and a light seemed to come to his eyes--a shining something that resolved itself into a dog-like fondness, an utter obedience, a strange intense gratitude.
"marcel asked himself," the cure continued, "whether you would thank him for bringing you back to--to life and memory. i fear he was trying to see what i should say--i fear so. marcel said, 'suppose that he should curse me for it? who knows what he would be brought back to--to what suffering and pain, perhaps?' marcel said that."
"and you replied, monsieur le cure?"
"i replied that nature required you to answer that question for yourself, and whether bitterly or gladly, it was your duty to take up your life and live it out. besides, it was not you alone that had to be considered. one does not live alone or die alone in this world. there were your friends to consider."
"and because i had no friends here, you were compelled to think for me!" answered charley calmly. "truth is, it was not a question of my friends, for what i was during those seven months, or what i am now, can make no difference to them."
he looked the cure in the eyes steadily, and as though he would convey his intentions without words. the curb understood. the habit of listening to the revelations of the human heart had given him something of that clairvoyance which can only be pursued by the primitive mind, unvexed by complexity.
"it is, then, as though you had not come to life again? it is as though you had no past, monsieur?"
"it is that, monsieur."
jo suddenly turned and left the room, for he heard a step on the frosty snow without.
"you will remain here, monsieur?" said the cure. "i cannot tell."
the cure had the bravery of simple souls with a duty to perform. he fastened his eyes on charley. "monsieur, is there any reason why you should not stay here? i ask it now, man to man--not as a priest of my people, but as man to man."
charley did not answer for a moment. he was wondering how he should put his reply. but his look did not waver, and the cure saw the honesty of the gaze. at length he replied: "if you mean, have i committed any crime which the law may punish?--i answer no, monsieur. if you mean, have i robbed or killed, or forged--or wronged a woman as men wrong women? no. these, i take it, are the things that matter first. for the rest, you can think of me as badly as you will, or as well, for what i do henceforth is the only thing that really concerns the world, monsieur le cure."
the cure came forward and put out his hand with a kindly gesture. "monsieur, you have suffered," he said.
"never, never at all, monsieur. never for a moment, until i was dropped down here like a stone from a sling. i had life by the throat; now it has me there--that is all."
"you are not a catholic, monsieur?" asked the priest, almost pleadingly, and as though the question had been much on his mind.
the cure made no rejoinder. if he was not a catholic, what matter what he was? if he was not a catholic, were he buddhist, pagan, or protestant, the position for them personally was the same. "i am very sorry," he said gently. "i might have helped you had you been a catholic."
the eye-glass came like lightning to the eye, and a caustic, questioning phrase was on the tongue, but charley stopped himself in time. for, apart from all else, this priest had been his friend in calamity, had acted with a charming sensibility. the eye-glass troubled the cure, and the look on charley's face troubled him still more, but it passed as charley said, in a voice as simple as the cure's own:
"you may still help me as you have already done. i give you my word, too"--strange that he touched his lips with his tongue as he did in the old days when his mind turned to jean jolicoeur's saloon--"that i will do nothing to cause regret for your humanity and--and christian kindness." again the tongue touched the lips--a wave of the old life had swept over him, the old thirst had rushed upon him. perhaps it was the force of this feeling which made him add, with a curious energy, "i give you my word, monsieur le cure." at that moment the door opened and jo entered.
"m'sieu'," he said to charley, "a registered parcel has come for you. it has been brought by the postmaster's daughter. she will give it to no one but yourself."
charley's face paled, and the cure's was scarcely less pale. in charley's mind was the question, who had discovered his presence here? was he not, then, to escape? who should send him parcels through the post?
the cure was perturbed. was he, then, to know who this man was--his name and history? was the story of his life now to be told?
charley broke the silence. "tell the girl to come in." instantly afterwards the postmaster's daughter entered. the look of the girl's face, at once delicate and rosy with health, almost put the question of the letter out of his mind for an instant. her dark eyes met his as he came forward with outstretched hand.
"this is addressed, as you will see, 'to the sick man at the house of jo portugais, at vadrome mountain.' are you that person, monsieur?" she asked.
as she handed the parcel, charley's eyes scanned her face quickly. how did this habitant girl come by this perfect french accent, this refined manner? he did not know the handwriting on the parcel; he hastily tore it open. inside were a few dozen small packets. here also was a sheet of paper. he opened and read it quickly. it said:
monsieur, i am not sure that you have recovered your memory and your health, and i am also not sure that in such case you will thank me for my work. if you think i have done you an injury, pray accept my profound apologies. monsieur, you have been a drunkard. if you would reverse the record now, these powders, taken at opportune moments, will aid you. monsieur, with every expression of my good- will, and the hope that you will convey to me without reserve your feelings on this delicate matter, i append my address in paris, and i have the honour to subscribe myself, with high consideration, monsieur, yours faithfully, marcel loisel.
the others looked at him with varied feelings as he read. curiosity, inquiry, expectation, were common to them all, but with each was a different personal feeling. the cure's has been described. jo portugais' mind was asking if this meant that the man who had come into his life must now go out of it; and the girl was asking who was this mysterious man, like none she had ever seen or known.
without hesitation charley handed over the letter to the cure, who took it with surprise, read it with amazement, and handed it back with a flush on his face.
"thank you," said charley to the girl. "it is good of you to bring it all this way. may i ask--"
"she is mademoiselle rosalie evanturel," said the cure smiling.
"i am charles mallard," said charley slowly. "thank you. i will go now, monsieur mallard," the girl said, lifting her eyes to his face. he bowed. as she turned and went towards the door her eyes met his. she blushed.
"wait, mademoiselle; i will go back with you," said the cure kindly. he turned to charley and held out his hand. "god be with you, monsieur-- charles," he said. "come and see me soon." remembering that his brother had written that the man was a drunkard, his eyes had a look of pity. this was the man's own secret and his. it was a way to the man's heart; he would use it.
as the two went out of the door, the girl looked back. charley was putting the surgeon's letter into the fire, and did not see her; yet she blushed again.
how charley went adventuring and what he found
twice in one week did this fever surge up in him, and it caught him in those moments when, exhausted by the struggle of his mind to adapt itself to the new conditions, his senses were delicately susceptible. visions of jolicoeur's saloon came to his mind's eye. with a singular separateness, a new-developed dual sense, he saw himself standing in the summer heat, looking over to the cool dark doorway of the saloon, and he caught again the smell of the fresh-drawn beer. he was conscious of watching himself do this and that, of seeing himself move here and there. he began to look upon charley steele as a man he had known--he, charles mallard, had known--while he had to suffer for what charley steele had done. then, all at once, as he was thinking and dreaming and seeing, there would seize upon him the old appetite, coincident with the seizure of his brain by the old sense of cynicism at its worst--such a worst as had made him insult jake hough when the rough countryman was ready to take his part that wild night at the cote dorion.
kathleen was now sitting at another man's table--no, probably at his own table--his, charley steele's own table in his own house--the house he had given her by deed of gift the day he died. tom fairing was sitting where he used to sit, talking across the table--not as he used to talk--looking into kathleen's face as he had never looked. he was no more to them than a dark memory. "well, why should i be more?" he asked himself. "i am dead, if not buried. they think me down among the fishes. my game is done; and when she gets older and understands life better, kathleen will say, 'poor charley--he might have been anything!' she'll be sure to say that some day, for habit and memory go round in a circle and pass the same point again and again. for me--they take me by the throat--" he put his hand up as if to free his throat from a grip, his tongue touched his lips, his hands grew restless.
"it comes back on me like a fit of ague, this miserable thirst. if i were within sight of jolicoeur's saloon, i should be drinking hard this minute. but i'm here, and--" his hand felt his pocket, and he took out the powders the great surgeon had sent him.
"he knew--how did he know that i was a drunkard? does a man carry in his face the tale he would not tell? jo says i didn't talk of the past, that i never had delirium, that i never said a word to suggest who i was, or where i came from. then how did the doctor--man know? i suppose every particular habit carries its own signal, and the expert knows the ciphers." he opened the paper containing the powders, and looked round for water, then paused, folded the paper up, and put it in his pocket again. he went over to the window and looked out. his shoulders set square. "no, no, no, not a speck on my tongue!" he said. "what i can't do of my own will is not worth doing. it's too foolish, to yield to the shadow of an old appetite. i play this game alone--here in chaudiere."
he looked out and down. the sweet sun of early spring was shining hard, and the snow was beginning to pack, to hang like a blanket on the branches, to lie like a soft coverlet over all the forest and the fields. far away on the frozen river were saplings stuck up to show where the ice was safe--a long line of poles from shore to shore--and carioles were hurrying across to the village. being market-day, the place was alive with the cheerful commerce of the habitant. the bell of the parish church was ringing. the sound of it came up distantly and peacefully. charley drew a long breath, turned away to a pail of water, filled a dipper half full, and drank it off gaspingly. then he returned to the window with a look of relief.
"that does it," he said. "the horrible thing is gone again--out of my brain and out of my throat."
as he stood there, jo came up the hill with a bundle in his arms. charley watched him for a moment, half whimsically, half curiously. yet he sighed once too as portugais opened the door and came into the room. "well done, jo!" said he. "you have 'em?"
"yes, m'sieu'. a good suit, and i believe they'll fit. old trudel says it's the best suit he's made in a year. i'm afraid he'll not make many more suits, old trudel.
"he's very bad. when he goes there'll be no tailor--ah, old trudel will be missed for sure, m'sieu'!"
jo spread the clothes out on the table--a coat, waistcoat, and trousers of fulled cloth, grey and bulky, and smelling of the loom and the tailor's iron. charley looked at them interestedly, then glanced at the clothes he had on, the suit that had belonged to him last year--grave- clothes.
he drew himself up as though rousing from a dream. "come, jo, clear out, and you shall have your new habitant in a minute," he said. portugais left the room, and when he came back, charley was dressed in the suit of grey fulled cloth. it was loose, but comfortable, and save for the refined face--on which a beard was growing now--and the eye-glass, he might easily have passed for a farmer. when he put on the dog-skin fur cap and a small muffler round his neck, it was the costume of the habitant complete.
yet it was no disguise, for it was part of the life that charles mallard, once charley steele, should lead henceforth.
he turned to the door and opened it. "good-bye, portugais," he said.
jo was startled. "where are you going, m'sieu'?"
"to the village."
"what to do, m'sieu'?"
"you will come back?" jo asked anxiously.
"before sundown, jo. good-bye!"
this was the first long walk he had taken since he had become himself again. the sweet, cold air, with a bracing wind in his face, gave peace to the nerves but now strained and fevered in the fight with appetite. his mind cleared, and he drank in the sunny air and the pungent smell of the balsams. his feet light with moccasins, he even ran a distance, enjoying the glow from a fast-beating pulse.
as he came into the high-road, people passed him in carioles and sleighs. some eyed him curiously. what did he mean to do? what object had he in coming to the village? what did he expect? as he entered the village his pace slackened. he had no destination, no object. he was simply aware that his new life was beginning.
he passed a little house on which was a sign, "narcisse dauphin, notary." it gave him a curious feeling. it was the old life before him. "charles mallard, notary?"--no, that was not for him. everything that reminded him of the past, that brought him in touch with it, must be set aside. he moved on. should he go to the cure? no; one thing at a time, and today he wanted his thoughts for himself. more people passed him, and spoke of him to each other, though there was no coarse curiosity--the habitant has manners.
presently he passed a low shop with a divided door. the lower half was closed, the upper open, and the winter sun was shining full into the room, where a bright fire burned.
"i knew they'd fit," he said, with a snarl. "drove me hard, too!"
charley had an inspiration. he opened the halfdoor, and entered.
"do you want help?" he said, fixing his eyes on the tailor's, steady and persistent.
"what's the good of wanting--i can't get it," was the irritable reply, as he uncrossed his legs.
charley took the iron out of his hand. "i'll press, if you'll show me how," he said.
"i don't want a fiddling ten-minutes' help like that."
"it isn't fiddling. i'm going to stay, if you think i'll do."
"you are going to stop-every day?" the old man's voice quavered a little.
"precisely that." charley wetted a seam with water as he had often seen tailors do. he dropped the hot iron on the seam, and sniffed with satisfaction.
"who are you?" said the tailor.
"a man who wants work. the cure knows. it's all right. shall i stay?"
the tailor nodded, and sat down with a colour in his face.
rosalie, charley, and the man the widow plomondon jilted
from the moment there came to the post-office the letter addressed to "the sick man at the house of jo portugais at vadrome mountain," rosalie evanturel dreamed dreams. mystery, so fascinating a thing in all the experiences of life, took hold of her. the strange man in the lonely hut on the hill, the bandaged head, the keen, piercing blue eyes, the monocle, like a masked battery of the mind, levelled at her--all appealed to that life she lived apart from the people with whom she had daily commerce. her world was a world of books and dreams, and simple, practical duties of life. most books were romance to her, for most were of a life to which she had not been educated. even one or two purely protestant books of missionary enterprise, found in a box in her dead mother's room, had had all the charms of poetry and adventure. it was all new, therefore all delightful, even when the protestant sentiments shocked her as being not merely untrue, but hurting that aesthetic sense never remote from the mind of the devout catholic.
she had blushed when monsieur had first looked at her, in the hut on vadrome mountain, not because there was any soft sentiment about him in her heart--how could there be for a man she had but just seen!--but because her feelings, her imagination, were all at high temperature; because the man compelled attention. the feeling sprang from a deep sensibility, a natural sense, not yet made incredulous by the ironies of life. these had never presented themselves to her in a country, in a parish, where people said of fortune and misfortune, happiness and sorrow, "c'est le bon dieu!"--always "c'est le bon dieu!"
in some sense it was a pity that she had brains above the ordinary, that she had had a good education and nice tastes. it was the cultivation of the primitive and idealistic mind, which could not rationalise a sense of romance, of the altruistic, by knowledge of life. as she sat behind the post-office counter she read all sorts of books that came her way. when she learned english so as to read it almost as easily as she read french, her greatest joy was to pore over shakespeare, with a heart full of wonder, and, very often, eyes full of tears--so near to the eyes of her race. her imagination inhabited chaudiere with a different folk, living in homes very unlike these wide, sweeping-roofed structures, with double windows and clean-scrubbed steps, tall doors, and wide, uncovered stoops. her people--people of bright dreaming--were not quarrelsome, or childish, or merely traditional, like the habitants. they were picturesque and able and simple, doing good things in disguise, succouring distress, yielding their lives without thought for a cause, or a woman, and loving with an undying love.
charley was of these people--from the first instant she saw him. the cure, the avocat, and the seigneur were also of them, but placidly, unimportantly. "the sick man at jo portugais' house" came out of a mysterious distance. something in his eyes said, "i have seen, i have known," told her that when he spoke she would answer freely, that they were kinsfolk in some hidden way. her nature was open and frank; she lived upon the house-tops, as it were, going in and out of the lives of the people of chaudiere with neighbourly sympathy and understanding. yet she knew that she was not of them, and they knew that, poor as she was, in her veins flowed the blood of the old nobility of france. for this the cure could vouch. her official position made her the servant of the public, and she did her duty with naturalness.
she had been a figure in the parish ever since the day she returned from the convent at quebec, and took her dead mother's place in the home and the parish. she had a quick temper, but there was not a cheerless note in her nature, and there was scarce a dog or a horse in the parish but knew her touch, and responded to it. squirrels ate out of her hand, she had even tamed two partridges, and she kept in her little garden a bear she had brought up from a cub. her devotion to her crippled father was in keeping with her quick response to every incident of sorrow or joy in the parish--only modified by wilful prejudices scarcely in keeping with her unselfishness.
as mrs. flynn, the seigneur's irish cook, said of her: "shure, she's not made all av wan piece, the darlin'! she'll wear like silk, but she's not linen for everybody's washin'." and mrs. flynn knew a thing or two, as was conceded by all in chaudiere. no gossip was mrs. flynn, but she knew well what was going on in the parish, and she had strong views upon all subjects, and a special interest in the welfare of two people in chaudiere. one of these was the seigneur, who, when her husband died, leaving behind him a name for wit and neighbourliness, and nothing else, proposed that she should come to be his cook. in spite of her protest that what was "fit for teddy was not fit for a gintleman of quality," the seigneur had had his way, never repenting of his choice. mrs. flynn's cooking was not her only good point. she had the rarest sense and an unfailing spring of good-nature--life bubbled round her. it was she that had suggested the crippled m. evanturel to the seigneur when the office of postmaster became vacant, and the seigneur had acted on her suggestion, henceforth taking greater interest in rosalie.
it was mrs. flynn who gave rosalie information concerning charley's arrival at the shop of louis trudel the tailor. the morning after charley came, mrs. flynn had called for a waistcoat of the seigneur, who was expected home from a visit to quebec. she found charley standing at a table pressing seams, and her quick eye took him in with knowledge and instinct. she was the one person, save rosalie, who could always divert old louis, and this morning she puckered his sour face with amusement by the story of the courtship of the widow plomondon and germain boily the horse-trainer, whose greatest gift was animal-training, and greatest weakness a fondness for widows, temporary and otherwise. before she left the shop, with the stranger's smile answering to her nod, she had made up her mind that charley was a tailor by courtesy only. so she told rosalie a few moments afterwards.
"'tis a man, darlin', that's seen the wide wurruld. 'tis himisperes he knows, not parrishes. fwhat's he doin' here, i dun'no'. fwhere's he come from, i dun'no'. french or english, i dun'no'. but a gintleman born, i know. 'tis no tailor, darlin', but tailorin' he'll do as aisy as he'll do a hunderd other things anny day. but how he shlipped in here, an' when he shlipped in here, an' what's he come for, an' how long he's stayin', an' meanin' well, or doin' ill, i dun'no', darlin', i dun' no'."
"i don't think he'll do ill, mrs. flynn," said rosalie, in english.
"an' if ye haven't seen him, how d'ye know?" asked mrs. flynn, taking a pinch of snuff.
"aisy, aisy, darlin'. at jo portugais'--that's a quare place for a stranger. 'tis not wid jo's introducshun i'd be comin' to chaudiere."
"he comes with the cure's introduction."
"an' how d'ye know that, darlin'?"
"the curb was at jo portugais' with monsieur when i went there."
"you wint there!"
"to take him a letter--the stranger." "what's his name, darlin'?"
"the letter i took him was addressed, 'to the sick man at jo portugais' house at vadrome mountain.'"
"ah, thin, the cure knows. 'tis some rich man come to get well, and plays at bein' tailor. but why didn't the letther come to his name, i wander now? that's what i wander."
"how manny times have ye seen him?"
"only once;" answered rosalie truthfully. she did not, however, tell mrs. flynn that she had thrice walked nearly to vadrome mountain in the hope of seeing him again; and that she had gone to her favourite resort, the rest of the flax-beaters, lying in the way of the riverpath from vadrome mountain, on the chance of his passing. she did not tell mrs. flynn that there had scarcely been a waking hour when she had not thought of him.
"what portugais knows, he'll not be tellin'," said mrs. flynn, after a moment. "an' 'tis no business of ours, is it, darlin'? shure, there's jo comin' out of the tailor-shop now!"
they both looked out of the window, and saw jo encounter filion lacasse the saddler, and maximilian cour the baker. the three stood in the middle of the street for a minute, jo talking freely. he was usually morose and taciturn, but now he spoke as though eager to unburden his mind--charley and he had agreed upon what should be said to the people of chaudiere.
the sight of the confidences among the three was too much for mrs. flynn. she opened the door of the post office and called to jo. "like three crows shtandin' there!" she said. "come in--ma'm'selle says come in, and tell your tales here, if they're fit to hear, jo portugais. who are you to say no when ma'm'selle bids!" she added.
very soon afterwards jo was inside the post-office, telling his tale with the deliberation of a lesson learned by heart.
"it's all right, as ma'm'selle knows," he said. "the cure was there when ma'm'selle brought a letter to m'sieu' mallard. the cure knows all. m'sieu' come to my house sick-and he stayed there. there is nothing like the pine-trees and the junipers to cure some things. he was with me very quiet some time. the cure come and come. he knows. when m'sieu' got well, he say, 'i will not go from chaudiere; i will stay. i am poor, and i will earn my bread here.' at first, when he is getting well, he is carpent'ring. he makes cupboards and picture-frames. the cure has one of the cupboards in the sacristy; the frames he puts on the stations of the cross in the church."
"that's good enough for me!" said maximilian cour. "did he make them for nothing?" asked filion lacasse solemnly.
"not one cent did he ask. what's more, he's working for louis trudel for nothing. he come through the village yesterday; he see louis old and sick on his bench, and he set down and go to work."
"that's good enough for me," said the saddler. "if a man work for the church for nothing, he is a christian. if he work for louis trudel for nothing, he is a fool--first-class--or a saint. i wouldn't work for louis trudel if he give me five dollars a day."
"tiens! the man that work for louis trudel work for the church, for all old louis makes goes to the church in the end--that is his will. the notary knows," said maximilian cour.
as she spoke, the barber and his companion suddenly turned their faces to the street, and started forward with startled exclamations, the grocer following. they all ran out from the post-office. not far up the street a crowd was gathering. rosalie locked the office-door and followed the others quickly.
in front of the hotel trois couronnes a painful thing was happening. germain boily, the horse-trainer, fresh from his disappointment with the widow plomondon, had driven his tamed moose up to the trois couronnes, and had drunk enough whiskey to make him ill-tempered. he had then begun to "show off" the animal, but the savage instincts of the moose being roused, he had attacked his master, charging with wide-branching horns, and striking with his feet. boily was too drunk to fight intelligently. he went down under the hoofs of the enraged animal, as his huge boar- hound, always with him, fastened on the moose's throat, dragged him to the ground, and tore gaping wounds in his neck.
filion lacasse's gun was now at disposal, but who would fire it? jo portugais was an expert shot, and he reached out a hand for the weapon.
as he did so, rosalie evanturel cried: "wait, oh, wait!" before any one could interfere she moved along the open space to the mad beast, speaking soothingly, and calling his name.
the crowd held their breath. a woman fainted. some wrung their hands, and jo portugais, with blanched face, stood with gun half raised. with assured kindness of voice and manner, rosalie walked deliberately over to the hound. at first the animal's bristles came up, and he prepared to spring, but murmuring to him, she held out her hand, and presently laid it on his huge head. with a growl of subjection, the dog drew from the body of his master, and licked rosalie's fingers as she knelt beside boily and felt his heart. she put her arm round the dog's neck, and said to the crowd, "some one come--only one--ah, yes, you, monsieur!" she added, as charley, who had just arrived on the scene, came forward. "only you, if you can lift him. take him to my house."
her arm still round the dog, she talked to him, as charley came forward, and, lifting up the body of the little horse-trainer, drew him across his shoulder. the hound at first resented the act, but under rosalie's touch became quiet, and followed at their heels towards the post-office, licking the wounded man's hands as they hung down. inside m. evanturel's house the injured man was laid upon a couch. charley examined his wounds, and, finding them severe, advised that the cure be sent for, while he and jo portugais set about restoring him to consciousness. jo had skill of a sort, and his crude medicaments were efficacious.
when the cure came, the injured man was handed over to his care, and he arranged that in the evening boily should be removed to his house, to await the arrival of the doctor from the next parish.
this was charley's public introduction to the people of chaudiere, and it was his second meeting with rosalie evanturel.
the incident brought him into immediate prominence. before he left the post-office, filion lacasse, maximilian cour, and mrs. flynn had given forth his history, as related by jo portugais. the village was agog with excitement.
but attention was not centred on himself, for rosalie's courage had set the parish talking. when the notary stood on the steps of the saddler's shop, and with fine rhetoric proposed a vote of admiration for the girl, the cheering could be heard inside the post-office, and it brought mrs. flynn outside.
"'tis for her, the darlin'--for ma'm'selle rosalie--they're splittin' their throats!" she said to charley as he was making his way from the sick man's room to the street door. "did ye iver see such an eye an' hand? that avil baste that's killed two injins already--an' all the men o' the place sneakin' behind dures, an' she walkin' up cool as leaf in mornin' dew, an' quietin' the divil's own! did ye iver see annything like it, sir--you that's seen so much?"
"madame, it is not touch of hand alone, or voice alone," answered charley.
"shure, 'tis somethin' kin in baste an' maid, you're manin' thin?"
"quite so, madame."
"simple like, an' understandin' what noah understood in that ark av his --for talk to the bastes he must have, explainin' what was for thim to do."
"like that, madame."
"thrue for you, sir, 'tis as you say. there's language more than tongue of man can shpake. but listen, thin, to me"--her voice got lower-- "for 'tis not the furst time, a thing like that, the lady she is-- granddaughter of a seigneur, and descinded from nobility in france! 'tis not the furst time to be doin' brave things. just a shlip of a girl she was, three years ago, afther her mother died, an' she was back from convint. a woman come to the parish an' was took sick in the house of her brother--from france she was. small-pox they said at furst. 'twas no small-pox, but plague, got upon the seas. alone she was in the house --her brother left her alone, the black-hearted coward. the people wouldn't go near the place. the cure was away. alone the woman was-- poor soul! who wint--who wint and cared for her? who do ye think, sir?"
"none other. 'go tell mrs. flynn,' says she, 'to care for my father till i come back,' an' away she wint to the house of plague. a week she stayed, an' no one wint near her. alone she was with the woman and the plague. 'lave her be,' said the cure when he come back; "tis for the love of god. god is with her--lave her be, and pray for her,' says he. an' he wint himself, but she would not let him in. ''tis my work,' says she. ''tis god's work for me to do,' says she. 'an' the woman will live if 'tis god's will,' says she. 'there's an agnus dei on her breast,' says she. 'go an' pray,' says she. pray the cure did, an' pray did we all, but the woman died of the plague. all alone did rosalie draw her to the grave on a stone-boat down the lane, an' over the hill, an' into the churchyard. an' buried her with her own hands at night, no one knowin' till the mornin', she did. so it was. an' the burial over, she wint back an' burned the house to the ground--sarve the villain right that lave the sick woman alone! an' her own clothes she burned, an' put on the clothes i brought her wid me own hand. an' for that thing she did, the love o' god in her heart, is it for widdy flynn or cure or anny other to forgit? shure the cure was for iver broken-hearted, for that he was sick abed for days an' could not go to the house when the woman died, an' say to rosalie, 'let me in for her last hour.' but the word of rosalie --shure 'twas as good as the words of a praste, savin' the cure prisince wheriver he may be!"
this was the story of rosalie which mrs. flynn told charley, as he stood at the street door of the post-office. when she had finished, charley went back into the room where rosalie sat beside the sick man's couch, the hound at her feet. she came forward, surprised, for he had bade her good-bye but a few minutes before.
"may i sit and watch for an hour longer, mademoiselle?" he said. "you will have your duties in the post-office."
"monsieur--it is good of you," she answered.
for two hours charley watched her going in and out, whispering directions to mrs. flynn, doing household duty, bringing warmth in with her, and leaving light behind her.
it was afternoon when he returned to his bench in the tailor-shop, and was received by old louis trudel in peevish silence. for an hour they worked in silence, and then the tailor said:
"a brave girl--that. we will work till nine to-night!"
the mark in the paper
chaudiere was nearing the last of its nine-days' wonder. it had filed past the doorway of the tailor-shop; it had loitered on the other side of the street; it had been measured for more clothes than in three months past--that it might see charley at work in the shop, cross-legged on a bench, or wielding the goose, his eye glass in his eye. here was sensation indeed, for though old m. rossignol, the seigneur, had an eye- glass, it was held to his eye--a large bone-bound thing with a little gold handle; but no one in chaudiere had ever worn a glass in his eye like that. also, no one in chaudiere had ever looked quite like "m'sieu'"--for so it was that, after the first few days (a real tribute to his importance and sign of the interest he created) charley came to be called "m'sieu'," and the mallard was at last entirely dropped.
presently people came and stood at the tailor's door and talked, or listened to louis trudel and m'sieu' talking. and it came to be noised abroad that the stranger talked as well as the cure and better than the notary. by-and-by they associated his eye-glass with his talent, so that it seemed, as it were, to be the cause of it. yet their talk was ever of simple subjects, of everyday life about them, now and then of politics, occasionally of the events of the world filtered to them through vast tracts of country. there was one subject which, however, was barred; perhaps because there was knowledge abroad that m'sieu' was not a catholic, perhaps because charley himself adroitly changed the conversation when it veered that way.
though the parish had not quite made up its mind about him, there were a number of things in his favour. in the first place, the cure seemed satisfied; secondly, he minded his own business. also, he was working for louis trudel for nothing. these things jo portugais diligently impressed on the minds of all who would listen.
from above the frosted part of the windows of the post-office, in the corner where she sorted letters, rosalie could look over at the tailor's shop at an angle; could sometimes even see m'sieu' standing at the long table with a piece of chalk, a pair of shears, or a measure. she watched the tailor-shop herself, but it annoyed her when she saw any one else do so. she resented--she was a woman and loved monopoly--all inquiry regarding m'sieu', so frequently addressed to her.
one afternoon, as charley came out, on his way to the house on vadrome mountain, she happened to be outside. he saw her, paused, lifted his fur cap, and crossed the street to her.
"have you, perhaps, paper, pens, and ink for sale, mademoiselle?"
"yes, oh yes; come in, monsieur mallard."
"ah, it is nice of you to remember me," he answered. "i see you every day--often," she answered.
"of course, we are neighbours," he responded. "the man--the horse- trainer--is quite well again?"
"he has gone home almost well," she answered. she placed pens, paper, and ink before him. "will these do?"
"perfectly," he answered mechanically, and laid a few pens and a bottle of ink beside the paper.
"you were very brave that day," he said--they had not talked together since, though seeing each other so often.
"oh, no; i knew he would make friends with me--the hound."
"of course," he rejoined.
"we should show animals that we trust them," she said, in some confusion, for being near him made her heart throb painfully.
he did not answer. presently his eye glanced at the paper again, and was arrested. he ran his fingers over it, and a curious look flashed across his face. he held the paper up to the light quickly, and looked through it. it was thin, half-foreign paper, without lines, and there was a water-mark in it-large, shadowy, filmy--kathleen.
it was paper made in the mills which had belonged to kathleen's uncle. this water-mark was made to celebrate their marriage-day. only for one year had this paper been made, and then the trade in it was stopped. it had gone its ways down the channels of commerce, and here it was in his hand, a reminder, not only of the old life, but, as it were, the parchment for the new. there it was, a piece of plain good paper, ready for pen and ink and his letter to the cure's brother in paris--the only letter he would ever write, ever again until he died, so he told himself; but hold it up to the light and there was the name over which his letter must be written--kathleen, invisible but permanent, obscured, but brought to life by the raising of a hand.
the girl caught the flash of feeling in his face, saw him holding the paper up to the light, and then, with an abstracted air, calmly lay it down.
"that will do, thank you," he said. "give me the whole packet." she wrapped it up for him without a word, and he laid down a two-dollar note, the last he had in the world.
"how much of this paper have you?" he asked. the girl looked under the counter. "six packets," she said. "six, and a few sheets over."
"i will take it all. but keep it for me, for a week, or perhaps a fortnight, will you?" he did not need all this paper to write letters upon, yet he meant to buy all the paper of this sort that the shop contained. but he must get money from louis trudel--he would speak about it to-morrow.
"monsieur does not want me to sell even the loose sheets?"
"no. i like the paper, and i will take it all."
"very good, monsieur."
her heart was beating hard. all this man did had peculiar significance to her. his look seemed to say: "do not fear. i will tell you things."
she gave him the parcel and the change, and he turned to go. "you read much?" he asked, almost casually, yet deeply interested in the charm and intelligence of her face.
"why, yes, monsieur," she answered quickly. "i am always reading."
he did not speak at once. he was wondering whether, in this primitive place, such a mind and nature would be the wiser for reading; whether it were not better to be without a mental aspiration, which might set up false standards.
"what are you reading now?" he asked, with his hand on the door.
"antony and cleopatra, also enoch arden," she answered, in good english, and without accent.
his head turned quickly towards her, but he did not speak.
"enoch arden is terrible," she added eagerly. "don't you think so, monsieur?"
"it is very painful," he answered. "good-night." he opened the door and went out.
she ran to the door and watched him go down the street. for a little she stood thinking, then, turning to the counter, and snatching up a sheet of the paper he had bought, held it up to the light. she gave a cry of amazement.
"kathleen!" she exclaimed.
she thought of the start he gave when he looked at the water-mark; she thought of the look on his face when he said he would buy all this paper she had.
"who was kathleen?" she whispered, as though she was afraid some one would hear. "who was kathleen!" she said again resentfully.
madame dauphin has a mission
one day charley began to know the gossip of the village about him from a source less friendly than jo portugais. the notary's wife, bringing her boy to be measured for a suit of broadcloth, asked charley if the things jo had told about him were true, and if it was also true that he was a protestant, and perhaps an englishman. as yet, charley had been asked no direct questions, for the people of chaudiere had the consideration of their temperament; but the notary's wife was half english, and being a figure in the place, she took to herself more privileges than did old madame dugal, the cure's sister.
to her ill-disguised impertinence in english, as bad as her french and as fluent, charley listened with quiet interest. when she had finished her voluble statement she said, with a simper and a sneer-for, after all, a notary's wife must keep her position--"and now, what is the truth about it? and are you a protestant?"
there was a sinister look in old trudel's eyes as, cross-legged on his table, he listened to madame dauphin. he remembered the time, twenty- five years ago, when he had proposed to this babbling woman, and had been rejected with scorn--to his subsequent satisfaction; for there was no visible reason why any one should envy the notary, in his house or out of it. already trudel had a respect for the tongue of m'sieu'. he had not talked much the few days he had been in the shop, but, as the old man had said to filion lacasse the saddler, his brain was like a pair of shears-- it went clip, clip, clip right through everything. he now hoped that his new apprentice, with the hand of a master-workman, would go clip, clip through madame's inquisitiveness. he was not disappointed, for he heard charley say:
"one person in the witness-box at a time, madame. till jo portugais is cross-examined and steps down, i don't see what i can do!"
"but you are a protestant!" said the woman snappishly. this man was only a tailor, dressed in fulled cloth, and no doubt his past life would not bear inspection; and she was the notary's wife, and had said to people in the village that she would find out the man's history from himself.
"that is one good reason why i should not go to confession," he replied casually, and turned to a table where he had been cutting a waistcoat-- for the first time in his life.
"do you think i'm going to stand your impertinence? do you know who i am?"
charley calmly put up his monocle. he looked at the foolish little woman with so cruel a flash of the eye that she shrank back.
"i should know you anywhere," he said.
"come, stephan," she said nervously to her boy, and pulled him towards the door.
on the instant charley's feeling changed. was he then going to carry the old life into the new, and rebuke a silly garish woman whose faults were generic more than personal? he hurried forward to the door and courteously opened it for her.
"permit me, madame," he said.
she saw that there was nothing ironical in this politeness. she had a sudden apprehension of an unusual quality called "the genteel," for no storekeeper in chaudiere ever opened or shut a shop-door for anybody. she smiled a vacuous smile; she played "the lady" terribly, as, with a curious conception of dignity, she held her body stiff as a ramrod, and with a prim merci sailed into the street.
this gorgeous exit changed her opinion of the man she had been unable to catechise. undoubtedly he had snubbed her--that was the word she used in her mind--but his last act had enabled her, in the sight of several habitants and even of madame dugal, "to put on airs," as the charming madame dugal said afterwards.
thinking it better to give the impression that she had had a successful interview, she shook her head mysteriously when asked about m'sieu', and murmured, "he is quite the gentleman!" which she thought a socially distinguished remark.
when she had gone, charley turned to old louis.
"i don't want to turn your customers away," he said quietly, "but there it is! i don't need to answer questions as a part of the business, do i?"
there was a sour grin on the face of old trudel. he grunted some inaudible answer, then, after a pause, added: "i'd have been hung for murder, if she'd answered the question i asked her once as i wanted her to."
he opened and shut his shears with a sardonic gesture.
charley smiled, and went to the window. for a minute he stood watching madame dauphin and rosalie at the post-office door. the memory of his talk with rosalie was vivid to him at the moment. he was thinking also that he had not a penny in the world to pay for the rest of the paper he had bought. he turned round and put on his coat slowly.
"what are you doing that for?" asked the old man, with a kind of snarl, yet with trepidation.
"i don't think i'll work any more to-day."
"not work! smoke of the devil, isn't sunday enough to play in? you're not put out by that fool wife of dauphin's?"
"oh no--not that! i want an understanding about wages."
to louis the dread crisis had come. he turned a little green, for he was very miserly-for the love of god.
"i don't need much, i don't want a great deal," continued charley when the tailor did not answer, "but i have to pay for my bed and board, and i can't do it on nothing."
"how have you done it so far?" peevishly replied the tailor.
"by working after hours at carpentering up there"--he made a gesture towards vadrome mountain. "but i can't go on doing that all the time, or i'll be like you too soon."
"be like me!" the voice of the tailor rose shrilly.
"be like me! what's the matter with me?"
"only that you're in a bad way before your time, and that you mayn't get out of this hole without stepping into another. you work too hard, monsieur trudel."
"what do you want--wages?"
charley inclined his head. "if you think i'm worth them."
the tailor viciously snipped a piece of cloth. "how can i pay you wages, if you stand there doing nothing?" "this is my day for doing nothing," charley answered pleasantly, for the tailor-man amused him, and the whimsical mental attitude of his past life was being brought to the surface by this odd figure, with big spectacles pushed up on a yellow forehead, and shrunken hands viciously clutching the shears.
"you don't mean to say you're not going to work to-day, and this suit of clothes promised for to-morrow night--for the manor house too!"
with a piece of chalk charley idly made heads on brown paper. "after all, why should clothes be the first thing in one's mind--when they are some one else's! it's a beautiful day outside. i've never felt the sun so warm and the air so crisp and sweet--never in all my life."
"then where have you lived?" snapped out the tailor with a sneer. "you must be a yankee--they have only what we leave over down there!" --he jerked his head southward. "we don't stop to look at weather here. i suppose you did where you come from?"
charley smiled in a distant sort of way. "where i came from, when we weren't paid for our work we always stopped to consider our health--and the weather. i don't want a great deal. i put it to you honestly. do you want me? if you do, will you give me enough to live on--enough to buy a suit of clothes a year, to pay for food and a room? if i work for you for nothing, i have to live on others for nothing, or kill myself as you're doing."
there was no answer at once, and charley went on: "i came to you because i saw you wanted help badly. i saw that you were hard-pushed and sick--"
"i wasn't sick," interrupted the tailor with a snarl.
"well, overworked, which is the same thing in the end. i did the best i could: i gave you my hands--awkward enough they were at first, i know, but--"
"it's a lie. they weren't awkward," churlishly cut in the tailor.
"well, perhaps they weren't so awkward, but they didn't know quite what to do--"
"you knew as well as if you'd been taught," came back in a growl.
"well, then, i wasn't awkward, and i had a knack for the work. what was more, i wanted work. i wanted to work at the first thing that appealed to me. i had no particular fancy for tailoring--you get bowlegged in time!"--the old spirit was fighting with the new--"but here you were at work, and there i was idle, and i had been ill, and some one who wasn't responsible for me--a stranger-worked for me and cared for me. wasn't it natural, when you were playing the devil with yourself, that i should step in and give you a hand? you've been better since--isn't that so?" the tailor did not answer.
"but i can't go on as we are, though i want only enough to keep me going," charley continued.
"and if i don't give you what you want, you'll leave?"
"no. i'm never going to leave you. i'm going to stay here, for you'll never get another man so cheap; and it suits me to stay--you need some one to look after you."
a curious soft look suddenly flashed into the tailor's eyes.
"will you take on the business after i'm gone?" he asked at last. "it's along time to look ahead, i know," he added quickly, for not in words would he acknowledge the possibility of the end.
"i should think so," charley answered, his eyes on the bright sun and the soft snow on the trees beyond the window.
the tailor snatched up a pattern and figured on it for a moment. then he handed it to charley. "will that do?" he asked with anxious, acquisitive look, his yellow eyes blinking hard.
charley looked at it musingly, then said "yes, if you give me a room here."
"i meant board and lodging too," said louis trudel with an outburst of eager generosity, for, as it was, he had offered about one-half of what charley was worth to him.
charley nodded. "very well, that will do," he said, and took off his coat and went to work. for a long time they worked silently. the tailor was in great good-humour; for the terrible trial was over, and he now had an assistant who would be a better tailor than himself. there would be more profit, more silver nails for the church door, and more masses for his soul.
"the cure says you are all right. . . . when will you come here?" he said at last.
"to-morrow night i shall sleep here," answered charley.
so it was arranged that charley should come to live in the tailor's house, to sleep in the room which the tailor had provided for a wife twenty-five years before--even for her that was now known as madame dauphin.
all morning the tailor chuckled to himself. when they sat down at noon to a piece of venison which charley had prepared himself--taking the frying-pan out of the hands of margot patry, the old servant, and cooking it to a turn--louis trudel saw his years lengthen to an indefinite period. he even allowed himself to nervously stand up, bow, shake charley's hand jerkingly, and say:
"m'sieu', i care not what you are or where you come from, or even if you're a protestant, perhaps an englishman. you're a gentleman and a tailor, and old louis trudel will not forget you. it shall be as you said this morning--it is no day for work. we will play, and the clothes for the manor can go to the devil. smoke of hell-fire, i will go and have a pipe with that, poor wretch the notary!"
so, a wonderful thing happened. louis trudel, on a week-day and a market-day, went to smoke a pipe with narcisse dauphin, and to tell him that m. mallard was going to stay with him for ever, at fine wages. he also announced that he had paid this whole week's wages in advance; but he did not tell what he did not know--that half the money had already been given to old margot, whose son lay ill at home with a broken leg, and whose children were living on bread and water. charley had slowly drawn from the woman the story of her life as he sat by the kitchen fire and talked to her, while her master was talking to the notary.
the tailor makes a midnight foray
since the day charley had brought home the paper bought at the post- office, and water-marked kathleen, he had, at odd times, written down his thoughts, and promptly torn the paper up again or put it in the fire. in the repression of the new life, in which he must live wholly alone, so far as all past habits of mind were concerned, it was a relief to record his passing reflections, as he had been wont to do when the necessity for it was less. writing them here was like the bursting of an imprisoned stream; it was relaxing the ceaseless eye of vigilance; freeing an imprisoned personality. this personality was not yet merged into that which must take its place, must express itself in the involuntary acts which tell of a habit of mind and body--no longer the imitative and the histrionic, but the inherent and the real.
on the afternoon of the day that old louis agreed to give him wages, and went to smoke a pipe with the notary, charley scribbled down his thoughts on this matter of personality and habit.
"who knows," he wrote, "which is the real self? a child comes into the world gin-begotten, with the instinct for liquor in his brain, like the scent of the fox in the nostrils of the hound. and that seems the real. but the same child caught up on the hands of chance is carried into another atmosphere, is cared for by ginhating minds and hearts: habit fastens on him--fair, decent, and temperate habit--and he grows up like the cure yonder, a brother of aaron. which is the real? is the instinct for the gin killed, or covered? is the habit of good living mere habit and mere acting, in which the real man never lives his real life, or is it the real life?
"who knows! here am i, born with a question in my mouth, with the ever- present 'non possumus' in me. here am i, to whom life was one poor futility; to whom brain was but animal intelligence abnormally developed; to whom speechless sensibility and intelligence was the only reality; to whom nothing from beyond ever sent a flash of conviction, an intimation, into my soul--not one. to me god always seemed a being of dreams, the creation of a personal need and helplessness, the despairing cry of the victims of futility--and here am i flung like a stone from a sling into this field where men believe in god as a present and tangible being; who reply to all life's agonies and joys and exultations with the words 'c'est le bon dieu.' and what shall i become? will habit do its work, and shall i cease to be me? shall i, in the permanency of habit, become like unto this tailor here, whose life narrows into one sole cause; whose only wish is to have the church draw the coverlet of forgiveness and safety over him; who has solved all questions in a blind belief or an inherited predisposition--which? this stingy, hard, unhappy man--how should he know what i am denied! or does he know? is it all illusion? if there is a god who receives such devotion, to the exclusion of natural demand and spiritual anxieties, why does not this tailor 'let his light so shine before men that they may see his good works, and glorify his father which is in heaven?' that is it. therefore, wherefore, tailor- man? therefore, wherefore, god? show me a sign from heaven, tailor- man!"
seated on his bench in the shop, with his eyes ever and anon raised towards the little post-office opposite, he wrote these words. afterwards he sat and thought till the shadows deepened, and the tailor came in to supper. then he took up the pieces of paper, and, going to the fire, which was still lighted of an evening, thrust them inside.
louis trudel saw the paper burning, and, glancing down, he noticed that one piece--the last--had slipped to the floor and was lying under the table. he saw the pencil still in charley's hand. forthwith his natural suspicion leaped up, and the cunning of the monomaniac was upon him. with all his belief in le bon dieu and the church, louis trudel trusted no one. one eye was ever open to distrust man, while the other was ever closed with blind belief in heaven.
as charley stooped to put wood in the fire, the tailor thrust a foot forward and pushed the piece of paper further under the table.
his eyes dilated, his yellow cheeks took on spots of unhealthy red, his hand trembled. anger seized him, and he mumbled the words over and over again to himself. twice or thrice, as the paper lay in one hand, he struck it with the clinched fist of the other, muttering and distraught.
"this tailor here. . . . this stingy, hard, unhappy man. . . . if there is a god! . . . therefore, wherefore, tailor-man? . . . therefore, wherefore, god? . . . show me a sign from heaven, tailor- man!"
hatred of himself, blasphemy, the profane and hellish humour of--of the infidel! a protestant heretic--he was already damned; a robber--you could put him in jail; a spy--you could shoot him or tar and feather him; a murderer--you could hang him. but an infide--this was a deadly poison, a black danger, a being capable of all crimes. an infidel--"therefore, wherefore, tailor-man? . . . therefore, wherefore, god? . . . show me a sign from heaven, tailor-man!"
the devil laughing--the devil incarnate come to mock a poor tailor, to sow plague through a parish where all were at peace in the bosom of the church. the tailor had three ruling passions--cupidity, vanity, and religion. charley had now touched the three, and the whole man was alive. his cupidity had been flattered by the unpaid service of a capable assistant, but now he saw that he was paying the devil a wage. his vanity was overwhelmed by a satanic ridicule. his religion and his god had been assaulted in so shameful a way that no punishment could be great enough for the man of hell. in religion he was a fanatic; he was a demented fanatic now.
louis trudel scarcely knew why he had listened, why he had opened the door and stood looking at the figure in the bed, barely definable in the semi-darkness of the room. if he had meant harm to the helpless man, he had brought no weapon; if he had been curious, there the man was peacefully sleeping!
his sick, morbid imagination was so alive, that he scarcely knew what he did. as he stood there listening, hatred and horror in his heart, a voice said to him: "thou shalt do no murder." the words kept ringing in his ears. yet he had not thought of murder. the fancied command itself was his first temptation towards such a deed. he had thought of raising the parish, of condign punishment of many sorts, but not this. as he closed the door softly, killing entered his mind and stayed there. "thou shalt not" had been the first instigation to "thou shalt."
the more he thought of it, the more charley's face came before him, with the monocle shining and hard in the eye. the monocle haunted him. that was the infidel's sign. "show me a sign from heaven, tailor-man!" what sign should he show?
presently he sat up straight in bed. in another minute he was out and dressing. five minutes later he was on his way to the parish church. when he reached it he took a tool from his pocket and unscrewed a small iron cross from the front door. it was a cross which had been blessed by the pope, and had been brought to chaudiere by the beloved mother of the cure, now dead.
the stealing of the cross
if charley had been less engaged with his own thoughts, he would have noticed the curious baleful look in the eyes of the tailor; but he was deeply absorbed in a struggle that had nothing to do with louis trudel.
the old fever of thirst and desire was upon him. all morning the door of jolicoeur's saloon was opening and shutting before his mind's eye, and there was a smell of liquor everywhere. it was in his nostrils when the hot steam rose from the clothes he was pressing, in the thick odour of the fulled cloth, in the melting snow outside the door.
time and again he felt that he must run out of the shop and away to the little tavern where white whiskey was sold to unwise habitants. but he fought on. here was the heritage of his past, the lengthening chain of slavery to his old self--was it his real self? here was what would prevent him from forgetting all that he had been and not been, all the happiness he might have had, all that he had lost--the ceaseless reminder. he was still the victim to a poison which gave not only a struggle of body, but a struggle of soul--if he had a soul.
"if he had a soul!" the phrase kept repeating itself to him even as he fought the fever in his throat, resisting the temptation to take that medicine which the curb's brother had sent him.
"if he had a soul!" the thinking served as an antidote, for by the ceaseless iteration his mind was lulled into a kind of drowse. again and again he went to the pail of water that stood on the window-sill, and lifting it to his lips, drank deep and full, to quench the wearing thirst.
"if he had a soul!" he looked at louis trudel, silent and morose, the clammy yellow of a great sickness in his face and hands, but his mind only intent on making a waistcoat--and the end of all things very near! the words he had written the night before came to him: "therefore, wherefore, tailor-man? therefore, wherefore, god? . . . show me a sign from heaven, tailor-man!" as if in reply to his thoughts there came the sound of singing, and of bells ringing in the parish church.
a procession with banners was coming near. it was a holy day, and chaudiere was mindful of its duties. the wanderers of the parish had come home for easter. all who belonged to chaudiere and worked in the woods or shanties, or lived in big cities far away, were returned--those who could return--to take the holy communion in the parish church. yesterday the parish had been alive with a pious hilarity. the great church had been crowded beyond the doors, the streets had been full of cheerily dressed habitants. there had, however, come a sudden chill to the seemly rejoicings--the little iron cross blessed by the pope had been stolen from the door of the church!
the fact had been told to the cure as he said the mass, and from the altar steps, before going to the pulpit, he referred to the robbery with poignant feeling; for the relic had belonged to a martyr of the church, who, two centuries before, had laid down his life for the master on the coast of africa.
louis trudel had heard the cure's words, and in his place at the rear of the church he smiled sourly to himself. in due time the little cross should be returned, but it had work to do first. he did not take the holy communion this easter day, or go to confession as was his wont. not, however, until a certain day later did the cure realise this, though for thirty years the tailor had never omitted his easter-time duties.
the people guessed and guessed, but they knew not on whom to cast suspicion at first. no sane catholic of chaudiere could possibly have taken the holy thing. presently a murmur crept about that m'sieu' might have been the thief. he was not a catholic, and--who could tell? who knew where he came from? who knew what he had been? perhaps a jail- bird-robber-murderer! charley, however, stitched on, intent upon his own struggle.
the procession passed the doorway: men bearing banners with sacred texts, acolytes swinging censers, a figure of the saviour carved in wood borne aloft, the cure under a silk canopy, and a long line of habitants following with sacred song. people fell upon their knees in the street as the procession passed, and the cure's face was bent here and there, his hand raised in blessing.
old louis got up from his bench, and, putting on a coat over his wool jacket, hastened to the doorway, knelt down, made the sign of the cross, and said a prayer. then he turned quickly towards charley, who, looking at the procession, then at the tailor, then back again at the procession, smiled.
charley was hardly conscious of what he did. his mind had ranged far beyond this scene to the large issues which these symbols represented. was it one universal self-deception? was this "religion" the pathetic, the soul-breaking make-believe of mortality? so he smiled--at himself, at his own soul, which seemed alone in this play, the skeleton in armour, the thing that did not belong. his own words written that fateful day before he died at the cote dorion came to him:
"sacristan, acolyte, player, or preacher, each to his office, but who holds the key? death, only death, thou, the ultimate teacher, wilt show it to me!"
he was suddenly startled from his reverie, through which the procession was moving--a cloud of witnesses. it was the voice of louis trudel, sharp and piercing:
"don't you believe in god and the son of god?"
"god knows!" answered charley slowly in reply--an involuntary exclamation of helplessness, an automatic phrase deflected from its first significance to meet a casual need of the mind. yet it seemed like satire, like a sardonic, even vulgar, humour. so it struck louis trudel, who snatched up a hot iron from the fire and rushed forward with a snarl. so astounded was charley that he did not stir. he was not prepared for the sudden onslaught. he did not put up his hand even, but stared at the tailor, who, within a foot of him, stopped short with the iron poised.
louis trudel repented in time. with the cunning of the monomaniac he realised that an attack now might frustrate his great stroke. it would bring the village to his shop door, precipitate the crisis upon the wrong incident.
as it chanced, only one person in chaudiere saw the act. that was rosalie evanturel across the way. she saw the iron raised, and looked for m'sieu' to knock the tailor down; but, instead, she beheld the tailor go back and put the iron on the fire again. she saw also that m'sieu' was speaking, though she could hear no words.
charley's words were simple enough. "i beg your pardon, monsieur," he said across the room to old louis; "i meant no offence at all. i was trying to think it out in a human sort of way. i suppose i wanted a sign from heaven--wanted too much, no doubt."
the tailor's lips twitched, and his hand convulsively clutched the shears at his side.
"it is no matter now," he answered shortly. "i have had signs from heaven; perhaps you will have one too!"
"it would be worth while," rejoined charley musingly. charley wondered bitterly if he had made an irreparable error in saying those ill-chosen words. this might mean a breach between them, and so make his position in the parish untenable. he had no wish to go elsewhere--where could he go? it mattered little what he was, tinker or tailor. he had now only to work his way back to the mind of the peasant; to be an animal with intelligence; to get close to mother earth, and move down the declivity of life with what natural wisdom were possible. it was his duty to adapt himself to the mind of such as this tailor; to acquire what the tailor and his like had found--an intolerant belief and an inexpensive security, to be got through yielding his nature to the great religious dream. and what perfect tranquillity, what smooth travelling found therein.
gazing across the street towards the little post-office, he saw rosalie evanturel at the window. he fell to thinking about her. rosalie, on her part, kept wondering what old louis' violence meant.
presently she saw a half-dozen men come quickly down the street, and, before they reached the tailorshop, stand in a group talking excitedly. afterwards one came forward from the others quickly--filion lacasse the saddler. he stopped short at the tailor's door. looking at charley, he exclaimed roughly:
"if you don't hand out the cross you stole from the church door, we'll tar and feather you, m'sieu'." charley looked up, surprised. it had never occurred to him that they could associate him with the theft. "i know nothing of the cross," he said quietly. "you're the only heretic in the place. you've done it. who are you? what are you doing here in chaudiere?"
"working at my trade," was charley's quiet answer. he looked towards louis trudel, as though to see how he took this ugly charge.
old louis responded at once. "get away with you, filion lacasse," he croaked. "don't come here with your twaddle. m'sieu' hasn't stole the cross. what does he want with a cross? he's not a catholic."
"if he didn't steal the cross, why, he didn't," answered the saddler; "but if he did, what'll you say for yourself, louis? you call yourself a good catholic--bah!--when you've got a heretic living with you."
"what's that to you?" growled the tailor, and reached out a nervous hand towards the iron. "i served at the altar before you were born. sacre! i'll make your grave-clothes yet, and be a good catholic when you're in the churchyard. be off with you. ach," he sharply added, when filion did not move, "i'll cut your hair for you!" he scrambled off the bench with his shears.
filion lacasse disappeared with his friends, and the old man settled back on his bench.
charley, looking up quietly from his work, said "thank you, monsieur."
he did not notice what an evil look was in louis trudel's face as it turned towards him, but rosalie evanturel, standing outside, saw it; and she stole back to the post-office ill at ease and wondering.
all that day she watched the tailor's shop, and even when the door was shut in the evening, her eyes were fastened on the windows.
etext editor's bookmarks:
is the habit of good living mere habit and mere acting suspicion, the bane of sick old age
note: images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/guestoneeyed00gunniala
text enclosed by underscores is in italics (italics).
guest the one-eyed
by the same author
the sworn brothers
a tale of the early days of iceland by the most noted of living icelandic novelists. “to read it is like being struck in the face on a sultry day with a breeze fresh from the glaciated mountains of the viking north.”
“gunnarsson has made his characters so genuine, so red-blooded and so masculine that they stand out like living men.”
new york: alfred a. knopf
guest the one-eyed
translated from the danish of
by w. w. worster
copyright, 1915, by gunnar gunnarsson
copyright, 1922, by alfred a. knopf, inc.
set up and printed by the vail-ballou co., binghamton, n. y. paper furnished by w. f. etherington & co., new york, n. y. bound by the h. wolff estate, new york, n. y.
manufactured in the united states of america
book i ormarr ørlygsson
snow, snow, snow!
below and above—here, there, and everywhere! up to his knees in snow, pall à seyru struggled across the wind-swept heights. the snow whirled down in great downy flakes, making it impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. stooping, with heavy, weary steps, he tramped on, an empty sack slung across his shoulders.
he had come from the trading station, and was on his way home to his own hut in the mountains; the store-keeper had refused to grant him further credit, and in consequence, he had chosen to return by this lonely track across the hills, where he was sure of meeting no one on his way. it was hard to come home at christmas-time with empty hands to empty pots and hungry mouths.
his only comfort was the snow. it fell so thickly as to shut out all around, and seemed to numb even the poor peasant’s despair within the dismal prison of his mind.
now and again he heard a sound—the whir and cackle of ptarmigan flying overhead.
suddenly a gust of wind sent the snow flying over the ground. another—and then gust followed gust, growing at last to a veritable hurricane, that swept the very snow-clouds from the sky. and as if by magic, a vast plain of snow lay open to his eyes.
all hofsfjordur was suddenly visible. pall turned, and saw the last of the clouds sweep down into the dark blue-green of the sea. to the south-east, the peaks of the hof mountains rose out of the water, and over the eastern landscape towered a long range of rocky mountains that gradually merged into the great south-western plateau. his eye rested for a moment on the vicarage farm of hof—a few straggling buildings clinging to the mountain-side, among which the black church itself loomed out, right at the mouth of the fjord. the houses of the trading station he could not see; they lay beyond, on the northern shore of the fjord, safely sheltered behind the rocky walls of the islets that offered such fine harbourage—to any ship that managed to reach so far.
the parish itself lay between him and the hof mountains. a valley two miles farther up was divided into two narrow dales by the borgasfjall, a steep and rocky height. the rivulets from the two valleys—now but streaks of smooth ice—met lower down, making part of the valley into a peninsula. the southern stream was named hofsa, and its valley hofsardalur; the northernmost borgara, and its valley borgardalur; but the rivulets, from their confluence to the outflow into hofsfjordur, still went by the name of borgara, and the broad valley was called borgardalur.
to the north, on the farther side of a narrow valley, likewise belonging to the parish, were the faint outlines of broad, slowly rising hills—the dark mountains. the ridge where pall now stood was borgarhals, and ran for a long way between borgardalur and nordurdalen, in the heart of the mountains, leading to the little glen where his cottage lay, close to a brook, and not far from the lake. there were trout in the water there, to be taken by net in summer, and in winter by fishing with lines through holes in the ice. wild geese, swans, and ducks were there in plenty, from early spring to late autumn.
but pall’s thoughts had wandered far from all this, settling, as did his glance, on a row of stately gables that rose above a low hill in the centre of the peninsula, formed by the waters of borgara and hofsa.
from three of the chimneys a kindly smoke ascended. the storm had abated, and folk were beginning to move about here and there among the outbuildings round the large walled farmyard. already flocks of sheep were on their way to the winter pasture at the foot of the hills, where some dwarfed growth was still to be found.
suddenly pall’s cheeks flushed with a happy thought. it had crossed his mind that he might call at borg. all knew that ørlygur the rich never sent a poor man empty away. but then he realized that today was not the first time the thought had come to him. no, better to give it up; he had turned for help to borg too many times before; he could not well ask again.
with bowed head, and face grey as before, he dragged himself along the almost impassable track; he was exhausted; his limbs seemed heavy as if in chains.
from early morning to about ten o’clock, while the storm raged, the farm hands and servants of borg gathered in the women’s hall upstairs. the men had come from their quarters, and sat about on the beds waiting for the storm to abate before starting out to their work. the cowman alone was forced to brave the elements and tend his cattle.
ørlygur had opened the door to his own room. he sat with his two-year-old son ketill on his knees, and talked quietly with his men, exchanging views, or giving them advice about the work of the place. he always treated them as his equals. the men sat with their breakfast-plates on their knees, eating as they talked. some of the womenfolk went to and fro with food or heavy outdoor clothing; others were darning socks or mending shoes.
ormarr, who was nearing his fourteenth year, sat in his father’s room, on the edge of the bed, facing ørlygur. it was in his mind that things were beginning to be like they had been before his mother’s death, two years ago. he sat with his hands on his knees, swinging his legs by way of accompaniment to his thoughts.
never before had he missed his mother so sorely as this morning, when every one else seemed to have forgotten her; never before had he felt her loss so keenly. he sighed, checked the swinging of his legs, and sat motionless for a while. tears rose to his eyes. he felt he must go out, or he would be crying openly in a minute, and disturb the comfort of the rest. for a moment he sat pondering where to go, then he remembered that the cowman would by now have finished work in the shed, and taking down an old violin from a rack, he left the room.
reaching the cowshed, he sat down in his accustomed place, on a board between two empty chests, and commenced tuning his instrument. it was an old thing that had been in the family for generations, but no one could remember having heard it played. then, seven years before, ormarr had been taught the rudiments of music by a wandering fiddler, an adventurous soul, who tramped the country with his fiddle slung over his shoulder in a calfskin bag. since then, ormarr had given all his spare time to the music.
his father had marked with grief how this one interest had gradually swallowed up all else; the boy cared nothing for the management of the estate, or indeed for any other work. possibly it was this which had led ørlygur, in spite of the doctor’s advice, to wish for another son. and his wife had sacrificed her life in giving him what he wished.
hard and self-willed as he was in many ways, ørlygur had yet a profound belief in the right of every human being to determine his own life, to follow his own nature and develop his gifts as long as it involved no actual harm to others. and he made no attempt to coerce the boy; ormarr had his way.
about ten o’clock, when the snow had ceased, ormarr slung his gun across his shoulder and walked off toward borgarhals to shoot ptarmigan.
on the way, he met einar à gili, a troublesome fellow, who, in defiance of the general feeling, had so little respect for the uncrowned king of borg that he had several times thrashed his son ormarr without the slightest provocation. it was the more unpardonable, since einar was about ten years older, and strong as a giant. and now, at sight of him, ormarr’s fingers fumbled in passionate helplessness at the trigger of his gun.
einar hailed him, to all appearance innocent as could be. “hey, ormarr, out shooting? let’s go together?”
ormarr had no desire to go out shooting with einar, but was curious to know why the other had suggested it.
“then we can see who’s the best shot.”
this was irresistible. einar was a proverbially bad shot with a gun, and ormarr knew it. he made no protest, and they went on together.
every time he fired, ormarr brought down two or three birds. einar got at the most one bird at a shot, and often sent the birds fluttering away with broken wings.
nevertheless, einar picked up all the birds that fell, and stuffed them into his own bag. ormarr demanded his share.
“oh, you’ve no bag, and there’s no sense wasting time tying your birds together at every shot. wait till we’ve done.”
ormarr had his suspicions, but said nothing.
after a while they came to a good-sized rock, with two paths round. ormarr knew that the paths to the south was the longer.
“let’s go round and meet on the other side. i’ll go this way,” he said, taking the northern path. and einar agreed.
when they met, neither had any more birds to show.
“but you fired, i heard you,” said einar.
“i missed,” said ormarr shortly. einar laughed, but he took no notice.
“look, there’s one sitting on that rock,” said ormarr suddenly, pointing to a boulder some hundred yards away. “i’ll take him.”
“no hurry,” said einar; “i’ll bag that one myself. we needn’t go on any longer—i’m going home now.”
“how many have we got?”
“good, then give me mine.”
“ah, yes—next time we meet! i’m off. my love to the cattle at home.”
somewhat to his disappointment, ormarr did not seem to be greatly annoyed, but merely walked off, calling quietly over his shoulder: “mind you don’t miss that bird, mr. clever-with-your-gun.”
einar turned round angrily. “don’t shout like that—you’ll scare it away. that’s my twenty-first.”
“all right. it’s too frightened of you to move. go and see.”
einar took careful aim—his hand shook a little, but only because he was inwardly chuckling over the trick he had played ormarr, and the thought of telling what he had done. though, indeed, he might get little credit for it all; people were rather apt to side with the lordly folk from borg. still, it was good to have fooled that brat ormarr again.
the bird was sitting close on the rock. einar fired, and, raising his gun, saw that the bird was still in the same position. seeing no feathers fly, he thought he must have missed, and loaded again. then creeping cautiously forward, he rested his gun on a stone, and fired again. the ptarmigan did not move. einar felt sure his shot must have taken effect. he went right up to it. the bird was dead enough, but what was more, it was cold. and lifting it, he saw a piece of paper tied to one of its legs, with a few words in pencil. “clever shot, aren’t you? thanks for a pleasant day’s sport.—ormarr.”
“curse the little jackanapes!”
einar never told any one after all how he had scored off ormarr that day.
“puh—i’m warm enough, for all it’s fifteen degrees of frost. you look half frozen.”
pall muttered something, and tried to hide his empty sack, which had the effect of drawing ormarr’s attention to it.
“what’s that—going back home with an empty bag? won’t bjarni let you have things any more?”
“i’m in debt there already. and i couldn’t promise to pay before next autumn.”
“but at christmas-time—and you’re not a rich man.”
“that makes but little difference in his books.”
“ho—who says that—you?”
“’twas bjarni said so.”
“and you had to go and ask him—beg of him—like that?”
“our cow didn’t calve, and we’ve no milk. and there’s no food in the place beyond.”
“h’m. what were you going this way round for? ’tisn’t any short way home.”
“i didn’t want to meet anyone.”
“and going back empty-handed? why didn’t you come to us?”
“i’ve been a burden to many this long time—to your folk more than any. and i’ll not ask for help from the parish.”
something in the man’s face made ormarr catch his breath. the blood left his cheeks, and in a hushed voice he asked:
pall nodded. “yes. there’s times when it seems better than living on this way.”
ormarr sprang to his feet.
“pall ... here, take these birds—just from me. and come home and talk to father. you must. he’ll be just as glad to do anything as you could be for it. as for bjarni, he’s a cur. you can tell him so from me next time you see him.”
pall was silenced, and tears rose to his eyes. ormarr understood, and said no more. they divided the birds into two lots, though ormarr would gladly have carried the whole, and in silence they started off down the slope.
ormarr slept in a bed next to his father’s. it had been his mother’s bed. when the light was put out that night, ormarr had not yet found courage to tell what he had been thinking of since his meeting with pall that day. nor did he know what had passed between his father and pall.
half an hour later, perceiving that his father was still awake, he managed to whisper, softly and unsteadily:
it was as if ørlygur had been waiting for this. he rose, and seated himself at the boy’s bedside.
“’twas well you met pall this morning, lad. his wife and two little children were waiting for him to come home.”
the words gave ormarr the courage he had lacked.
“father, may i give him blesa? his cow won’t calve for six weeks, and they’ve no milk.”
“i’ve promised pall to send him skjalda, and a few loads of hay the first fine day the roads are passable. and i am going to take little gudrun to live here—they’ve enough to do as it is.”
ormarr’s heart was full of thankfulness to his father for his kindness to pall. but he was shy of speaking; words might say less than he meant. and there must be no misunderstanding between his father and himself—this thought was always in ormarr’s mind, for he loved his father deeply. now in the darkness of the room, he could hardly distinguish his features, but in his mind’s eye he saw him clearly, sitting there on the bedside. he knew every line in the calm, composed face, finely framed in the dark hair and brown beard. often he had been told that there was not a handsomer man to be found than his father. he had the physique of an athlete, and ormarr knew his every movement and attitude. he strove now to breathe all his love towards the loved figure, vaguely seen in reality, yet clear as ever to his mind. he felt that his father could not fail to perceive the mute expression of his loving gratitude.
for a while both were silent. then ørlygur rose, and smoothing his son’s hair, he said:
he went back to his bed, and a moment after, spoke again.
“ormarr, you remember how generous your mother always was. you seem to grow more like her every day. i think she would have been very happy tonight.”
when he awoke next morning, he felt for the first time since his mother’s death as if she were invisibly present among them—as a link between his father and himself.
and he was filled with a proud sense of having entered into a secret covenant with his father; it gave him a feeling of manhood, of responsibility.
bjarni jonsson, the trader, and daniel sveisson, the parish priest,—sera daniel, as he was called,—sat drinking in bjarni jonsson’s front parlour. they were seated by the window, looking out over the fjord.
the sun was setting, and the shadow of the house was flung far out over the smooth sea. the smoke from the chimney had already reached the rocky haunt of the eider duck. the cliff was the home of immense flocks of many-coloured birds, for it was spring, and the breeding season was at its height. numbers of gorgeous drakes were swimming round the rock, and amongst them a few plump and comely eider duck, taking an hour’s rest from their duties before sunset, leaving the nest and eggs to the care of the father birds.
sera daniel enjoyed the view, for he was looking out over his property. the eider-duck cliffs, even those farther out, were by ancient custom regarded as belonging to the living. and they brought him in a very nice little sum.
he puffed away at his long pipe in silence.
bjarni noticed his contented air, and was not pleased. surely it would be more reasonable that the revenue from the eider-duck cliffs should come to him, bjarni, as owner of the shore lands. but priests were all alike, a greedy lot! for ages past they had been petted and spoiled with all sorts of unjust privileges and unreasonable perquisites. and what did they do for it all? nothing in the least degree useful, nor ever had—unless it were something useful to grow fat themselves in a comfortable cure.
no, in his inmost heart bjarni detested the priest; the portly figure of the man was a continual eyesore to him. sera daniel was a man of imposing presence, there was dignity and calm authority in his carriage and bearing, and bjarni, having no such attributes himself, found herein further cause for jealousy.
it would be hard to find a less imposing specimen of the human male than bjarni jonsson, trader, of hofsfjordur. outwardly, he resembled more an ill-nourished errand boy than anything else. his face was grey and angular, the top of his head was covered with a growth of colourless hair, and his pale blue eyes were as a rule void of expression, for the reason that he was in constant fear of betraying his ever-present jealousy of every one and everything round him. and the struggle had marked his face, his eyes, every movement of his puny, stunted body, with a stamp of servile cunning. his clothes hung about him like the rags of a scarecrow in the field, the draggled moustache that hid most of his mouth added to the general impression of meanness and insincerity.
at a first glance, sera daniel presented a complete contrast.
his burly, well-fed body seemed to exhale an atmosphere of cordiality——an ecclesiastical cheerfulness which gave his whole bearing something of the stamp of the prelate. his fair hair carefully brushed back from the broad, arched forehead, the blue, beaming eyes, the frank expression of his clean-shaven face, which, however, never for a moment relapsed from the bright, superior, yet mild professional mask of dignity, of healthy godliness attained through inward strife and by the grace of heaven; the placid, yet telling gestures of his somewhat large, plump hands; the sonorous voice with its echo of sanctity; and last, not least, his faultless black attire—in short, his whole outward appearance seemed to combine human forbearance and lofty understanding with the rare power of living a full and yet exemplary life, kindly chastening himself as well as others—all the qualities that go to the making of a true servant of the lord.
but the simple, canny folk among whom he lived, and from whom he himself was sprung, had not been long in penetrating beneath these externals. they realized that he played his part well, and with a suitable mask, which they tolerated, even respecting him for the same—at any rate, in his presence, or when young people were about. but the elders among themselves were not afraid of unmasking sera daniel with a sly wink, as it were, in a manner of which he would certainly not have approved, nor found consistent with the respect due to their spiritual guide.
men played their parts well in the parish of hofsfjordur.
and in the opinion of his parishioners, sera daniel was not the only one who played a part at variance with the character behind the mask, though sera daniel himself might have believed so.
there was one family, or more exactly, a single figure, that did not fit in with the cast of the local comedy. a keen observer could not have failed to notice that the life of the community centred round this one man: a dominant figure among the rest, who knew how to shape their views according to his will. and he was a source of much annoyance to the actors proper, more especially those who had cast themselves for leading rôles. that man was ørlygur à borg.
ørlygur was in his forty-second year. from early youth he had been the natural leader among his fellows; first and foremost, of course, as only son and heir to borg, but also by virtue of his personality, which was excellently suited to bear the rank and wealth and responsibility inherited from his forebears, who had, as far back as the memory of man, been the self-appointed and generally respected leaders of the community.
ørlygur à borg, apart from being the greatest landowner in the district, was also chairman of the local council, and led the singing in church—in short, all that an icelander combining wealth with intellect and personality could attain.
moreover—and this was perhaps the corner-stone in the edifice of his absolute authority—he was a conscientious adviser, an untiring and disinterested helper of the poor, and an experienced and successful, albeit unlicensed, veterinary surgeon. in this last capacity he was consulted not only by the district, but also by many from other counties, who were glad of his unfeed advice and skilful aid.
it was generally recognized that ørlygur à borg was ever ready to serve and assist any one, however humble, provided they accepted him as a ruler. he never tolerated any attempt to place others on a footing of equality with himself, or any violation of his privileges, however slight. to those who submitted to his sway, he was a mild and gracious god; to those who forgot the deference he demanded, he was a merciless tyrant, swooping down on them in defiance of all generally accepted notions of justice—though he would forget and forgive readily enough when it was over.
the peasants did not mind this. to them, ørlygur à borg was a kind of human providence—no less inevitable, and probably more pleasant, than the divine. they knew, of course, that there was a king who ruled over all, including the king of borg. but they were nevertheless inclined to place both on the same level. in the event of conflict arising, doubtless ørlygur à borg would be a match for the other—even to gaining for himself the armlet of sovereign power, as halldor snorrason had done in the fight with harold hardrada. ørlygur was equal to that at least.
their faith in him amounted almost to a religion. they felt themselves, under his protection, secure and well provided for.
some few there were, however, who did not approve of the unlimited power generally conceded to ørlygur à borg, and disliked what they considered his unjustifiable assumption of superiority. this spring, there were at least three such discontented souls within the parish. two of them we have met already—sera daniel and the trader, drinking their grog in the parlour looking over the sea. and the third of the rebels was the doctor, whom they were expecting to join them in a hand at cards.
the priest and the trader, when alone together, spoke but little. they had no interests in common. their intellectual sphere was very limited, and both had the same characteristic of the narrow-minded: concentrating every atom of thought and will each on his own well-being. consequently, all talk between the two was obviously insincere; so much so, that even these two not very sensitive beings realized the fact, and instinctively shrank from any intimacy of conversation.
on this occasion, as ill-luck would have it, the doctor kept them waiting longer than usual, and bjarni, as host, could not well sit all the time without a word. at last, by way of saying something, he asked how the wool was getting on.
“dry and packed three days ago,” answered sera daniel.
bjarni’s eyes flashed, and a smile flickered for a moment over his wooden face.
sera daniel read that smile, and marked the scorn of it. but as the scorn, he knew, applied no less to the smiler than to himself he refrained, on principle, from taking offence.
bjarni looked him straight in the face, and their eyes met. then suddenly both realized that this innocent and haphazard attempt at casual conversation had opened up common ground between them, an unexpected community of interest where each had only thought to find the altogether unwished-for company of the other.
bjarni did not quite know how to improve the opportunity at first. he decided on a gambit of innocent raillery.
“yes, we’re ready to weigh it now, i suppose ... that is, of course....”
sera daniel looked searchingly at him, unwilling as yet to take any definite step himself.
“what are you paying this season?”
“sixty-five for best white, forty-two for black and mixed.”
sera daniel glanced at him with a curious smile. “is that—ah—the ordinary price, or what you are paying ørlygur à borg?”
the trader’s face flushed violently; the hand holding the glass trembled a little. without waiting for an answer, sera daniel made another shot.
“or perhaps you are thinking of paying the same price to all—for once?”
bjarni eyed him awhile in silence. he seemed to be turning over something in his mind. the priest felt the glance, and knew what lay behind it, but evinced no discomfiture. on the contrary, he met the trader’s eyes with a smile of irritating calm.
at last bjarni spoke.
“yes,” he said slowly, “if you can let me have your wool tomorrow morning.”
silently, filled with emotion, ormarr gazed at the beauty and peace of the spring night. the sky was clear and blue, and bright as day.
below him flowed the crystal rivulets, and farther off, above green mountain slopes veiled in the glistening web of dew, rose stark grey cliffs, furrowed by glimmering waters, higher up again, the luminous white of the snow peaks, tinted all the night through with the gold of dancing sun rays.
from his childhood ormarr had claimed the privilege of keeping guard during the spring nights. in the earlier part of the season, he took his post on the freshly growing pasture lands, keeping the sheep and horses from straying in to nibble off the first blades of the young grass. later, when the sheep were shorn and driven up to the mountains, he mounted guard over the wool, keeping a keen look-out for prowling vagabonds, and covering up the heaps with tarpaulin in case of sudden rain.
to him, the vigils of these quiet nights were as hours of devotion. during the lonely watches, he bared his soul in worship of the majesty of nature, free of the restraint he always felt in the presence of others. he drank in the fresh night air, with its sweetness of spring, like a precious draught. and at times, the depth of his feeling brought great tears to his eyes. alone, he could allow himself to some extent thus to give way to emotion, yet even then not without a certain sense of shame.
tonight he was sadder than ever. it would be fine tomorrow, the last of the wool would dry during the day, in time to be fetched away before evening.
that meant it was his last night’s watch this spring.
his eyes took leave of the wild duck swimming in the stream near their nests, that he had cared for and protected; several times he had waded out to see how they fared. he looked the hillside up and down, bidding good-bye to the buttercups and dandelions—every morning he had watched their opening, a solitary witness, as they unfolded at the gracious bidding of the sun. he noted, too, the great clusters of tiny-flowered forget-me-nots that grew everywhere around.
at five o’clock he rose to go. from one of the chimneys smoke was already rising, thin and clear as from a censer; old ossa had hung the big kettle over the fire for early coffee. a big plate of new bread would be waiting for him, with butter, meat, cheese, and a steaming cup of coffee—a delicious meal.
from force of habit he glanced round before moving off; counted the chimneys from which smoke was rising, and looked about for any other signs of life. then suddenly he realized that something unusual was going on. with trembling hands he adjusted the telescope he always carried, and looked towards the spot.
a moment later he lowered the glass and stared in bewilderment towards the fjord. in a flash he realized what was happening, and set off home at full speed.
heedless of ossa and the meal she had already waiting for him, he dashed up to his father’s room, not even stopping, as was his wont, to caress the fair curly head of tiny gudrun, the three-year-old daughter of pall à seyru, whom ørlygur had adopted. ormarr loved the child.
he did not stop till he reached his father’s bed. when ørlygur opened his eyes, he saw ormarr standing before him, very pale, and breathless with his speed. the sight startled even the king of borg out of his habitual calm; he sat up with a start. realizing instinctively that something was wrong, he reached out for his clothes at once.
“what is it, my son?”
“father ... sera daniel ... carting his wool in already to the station....”
ørlygur was already getting into his clothes. he stopped motionless for a second; then a faint smile passed over his face, and he seemed to be thinking. in less than a minute he had made up his mind.
ormarr did not wait for any further order. he hurried out of the room, snatched up a bridle, and ran out calling:
“gryla, køput, kondut!”
barking and delighted, the farm dogs clustered round him, and followed him out into the paddock, where he caught his father’s horse and vaulted into the saddle.
ten minutes later, forty horses were stamping and neighing ready for work. swiftly they were brought round, the pack-saddle put on, and loaded up with the finished wool.
ormarr had overheard his father’s brief, sharp orders to the foreman, a man he could trust. he had kept close at hand all the time, listening eagerly to what was said. at last, when all was ready for the start, he looked up earnestly.
ørlygur à borg looked at his son in surprise.
“you? nay, lad, i’m afraid that would hardly do.”
but his voice was not so decided, harsh almost, as it was wont to be when he refused a request. he even glanced inquiringly, as it were, at the foreman, who smiled back merrily in return. that seemed to settle it. ormarr’s eyes were bright with anticipation.
ørlygur laid one hand on his son’s shoulder—not patting his head or cheek as he generally did—and said:
“good. you can do the talking. you heard what is to be said and done—you are sure you understand?”
ormarr did not give himself time to answer. but his leap into the saddle was enough; evidently he had grasped the spirit of his father’s commands.
they did not take the usual route to the trading station; anything moving along that road would be visible from below for the greater part of the way. and they were to come unexpectedly. therefore they took the road across borgarhals and nordurdal, so as to reach the station before any knew of their coming.
it was the unwritten law of the district that no wool should be brought to the station before the king of borg had sent in his. the custom dated back further than any could remember, it was part of the traditional precedence generally conceded to the masters of borg. at first, it had sprung from a natural desire among the people to show their respect for their chieftain and benefactor. then, when it had grown to be a time-honoured custom, the men of borg had taken care to have it maintained, regarding any violation as a personal affront, a challenge—and none had ever known such challenge to remain unpunished.
there was, moreover, another custom in connection with the sales of wool—to wit, that ørlygur à borg fixed his own price for his, while the others who had wool to sell had to be satisfied with what the trader chose to pay them. ørlygur took no heed of ruling market prices, but based his figures on the prices he had to pay during the past year for goods he himself had bought from the trader.
no one grumbled at the arrangement. ørlygur always paid cash for what he ordered, while every one else found it necessary to take goods on credit; all had an account, great or small, with bjarni, and were in consequence dependent on his good-will. they knew, that in the event of bjarni’s good-will failing, there was always ørlygur, ever ready to help whoever asked.
truth to tell, bjarni, the trader, was not a little nervous when sera daniel arrived with his wool early in the morning. he did his best, however, to conceal his uneasiness, but the false jocularity with which he strove to hide it was belied by the anxious glances wherewith he scanned every now and then the road from borg.
the weighing in was done in the big warehouse. sera daniel was smiling and confident as usual, though his eyes showed signs of having slept ill the night before.
“well, sera daniel,” said bjarni, who was watching the weighing with mock earnestness, “this is a bold stroke of yours indeed.” he glanced hurriedly in the direction of borg as he spoke. “frankly i was not at all sure that you would have ventured, when it came to the point. anyhow, i fancy this marks the end of ‘the king’s’ supremacy.”
the doctor came up, yawning, and rubbing his eyes.
“aha—this looks nice,” he observed. and then, referring to bjarni’s last remark, he went on: “and it’s high time we did start acting for ourselves. rebellion, eh? i tell you what, i’ll stand drinks all round when you’ve finished here.”
there was great commotion at the station; folk hung about in crowds outside the stockroom. a few only dared to enter; the rest preferred to wait and see what happened. they were not without a certain satisfaction at the act of rebellion, albeit aware that it was their duty to feel indignant. there was a general atmosphere of excitement—what would happen next?
“and this year the price of wool is the same to all,” said bjarni exultantly to the doctor. “if he doesn’t care to deal with me, he can go to jon borgari.”
the doctor laughed loudly, and sera daniel smiled approval. jon borgari was a man of sixty, who had set up on his own account in a small way, some five years back. on payment of fifty kroner, he had acquired a licence to trade. his store was a mean little place, his whole stock-in-trade hardly amounted to more than one of ørlygur’s ordinary purchases from bjarni. he had found it impossible to do any considerable business, as the peasants were all in debt to bjarni already, and could not transfer their custom elsewhere. jon was considerably older than bjarni, but the latter’s business was of longer standing. bjarni had moved to hofsfjordur twelve years before, and partly, at least, by his industry and smartness, he had compelled an old-established house in the place, a branch of a foreign firm, to close down. this he could never have done had it not been for the patronage of ørlygur à borg.
it was commonly supposed that jon borgari had saved a good sum in his time—and the idea was further supported by his recent marriage to a maiden of eighteen, who had accepted him in preference to many eager suitors of the younger generation. but no one ever dreamed of considering jon borgari as a possible “purveyor to the king.”
bjarni’s warehousemen were busy weighing in the priest’s consignment. there was still no sign of life on the road from borg. and gradually even bjarni himself began to forget his fears.
then suddenly the blow fell. ormarr with his five men, and the laden horses, came galloping up: ørlygur à borg had sent his wool.
bjarni was struck with amazement; for a moment he could not grasp the situation. sera daniel retired prudently to the back of the room. the doctor joined him, with an expression of pleasant anticipation on his puffy face. this was going to be amusing. and, fortunately, he himself had nothing to do with the affair.
when the first shock had passed off, bjarni realized with a feeling of relief that ørlygur himself had stayed at home. to the onlooker this was a wonder in itself. never before had ørlygur à borg sent in his wool without accompanying it in person.
for a moment all sorts of wild conjectures passed through bjarni’s brain. and then—he committed the fatal error of coming to the conclusion which best suited himself; ørlygur must have stayed away in order to avoid being present at his own defeat, in the setting aside of ancient custom.
ormarr did not dismount. he rode straight up to the trader, and said:
“my father has given orders that his wool is to be weighed in at once.”
he spoke without the slightest trace of emotion; as if it were a matter of course that the trader should stop the weighing of any one else’s wool and attend to ørlygur’s forthwith.
bjarni again indulged in an erroneous inference: ørlygur à borg had stayed away because he feared his demands might be refused. and if “the king” himself thought that possible—why, then, it could be done!
a wave of joy swept over bjarni. he felt as if he had already won a decisive battle against heavy odds. and his reply was given in a tone more overbearing than usual—though he regretted it the moment he had spoken.
“we can’t very well stop weighing in this lot now. what do you say, sera daniel?”
sera daniel said nothing at all. his friend bjarni would have to carry the matter through without assistance.
bjarni turned to ormarr once more—the boy was still in the saddle—and adopting a fatherly tone, went on:
“but it won’t take very long, you know. if you start unloading the horses now, and get the bales undone, while we’re finishing this, there won’t be much time lost.”
but before any one could say more, a new development occurred. ørlygur à borg, on his snorting, fiery mount, sleipnir, dashed into the stockroom.
bjarni, sera daniel, and the doctor greeted him in servile fashion; he answered with an impatient gesture, as of a sovereign in ungracious mood towards importunate underlings. then riding up to ormarr, he asked quietly:
“what are you waiting for?”
“they are weighing in sera daniel’s wool.”
“has bjarni refused to take over mine at once?”
“yes. he asked us to unload and wait.”
“good. we will take it back to borg.”
then, without a word of farewell, he turned his back on the speechless and astonished trio, and with a cheery smile to the crowd, rode homeward, followed by his men.
that day messengers were sent out from borg to all the farmers round, to say that ørlygur à borg was willing to buy wool for cash, at the same prices as offered by the trader.
next morning, he sent off one of his men with a letter and a saddle-horse to jon borgari. jon read the letter, mounted at once, and rode back to borg, where he was closeted with ørlygur for some time. when he left the place, he looked as if ten years had fallen from his shoulders.
the farmers understood that ørlygur’s offer to buy their wool for cash was equivalent to a command—they must choose between him and the trader. and they did not hesitate a moment.
ørlygur paid them in gold and silver. then, with his help, they wrote out the lists of the goods they required, the lists being subsequently handed to jon borgari. jon was now ørlygur’s ally, and in a very short time his unpretending little store was threatening the trade of bjarni jonsson’s own.
bjarni jonsson’s trick had recoiled upon himself. he got sera daniel’s wool—but not a pound from any one beside.
one burning hot afternoon, late in the summer, ormarr was sitting up on the edge of a high ridge of borgarfjall, to the west of borg. a great flock of sheep grazed on the plateau below.
ormarr, as shepherd, found his task light. it was just after lambing-time, and for the first two or three days the sheep had been difficult to handle. full of anxiety, and bleating piteously, they rushed about in all directions, vainly seeking their offspring. now, however, they had more or less accustomed themselves to the new state of things, and kept fairly well together, so that ormarr was free to devote most of his time to his favourite pursuits: playing the violin, and dreaming.
he made a curious picture, this fourteen-year-old peasant lad, as he sat there, clad in rough homespun, his clothes fitting clumsily, and hiding the lithe beauty of his frame. the clear-cut face, the strong chin resting on the violin, and the lean hand with its supple fingers running over the strings, contrasted strangely with the everyday coat, darned and patched in many places.
often he fell into a reverie, his dark eyes gazing on the distant mountains, the fingers relaxing, and the slender brown hand with the bow resting on his knee. the face, too thin for a boy of his age, bore a grave and thoughtful expression, with a touch of melancholy. the black masses of curling, unruly hair, and the faint coppery tinge in the skin, suggested celtic descent.
yet despite the trace of something foreign in his appearance, he was at heart a true child of his country. the wistful, dreamy thoughts that burned in his dark, passionate eyes, betrayed that rich and abundant imagination peculiar to the sons of iceland, fostered by the great solitude and desolate yet fertile grandeur of the land itself. so deeply is the sense of that grandeur rooted in their hearts, that even those who have roamed the world over, and lived most of their lives in milder and richer climes, will yet declare that iceland is the most beautiful of all.
another typical trait in ormarr’s nature was the melancholy that consumed his soul—a product of youthful self-absorption without the corresponding experience.
his descent from the ancient and noble race of borg was apparent in his chariness of words, in his credulity,—it was a thing inconceivable, that he or any of his should tell a falsehood,—in his self-reliance, and strong belief that he was in the right, as long as he followed the dictates of his own conscience. young as he was, every look, every feature, betrayed the born chieftain in him.
this was evident most of all in his music—which consisted mainly of dreams and fantasies he had himself composed. from the first day he had learned to hold the instrument, he had thrown into his music a burning interest and an overwhelming love. it gave him the only possible outlet for the longing that filled him.
loneliness and despair sobbed in the sweet and passionate strains; the strings vibrated with a deep desire, that yet had no conscious aim, but the sound brought relief, though never satisfying to the full.
his playing revealed his soul as a wanderer in the wilderness—as a giant whose strength is doomed to slumber under the weight of unbreakable shackles; it showed that, to him, life was a slow, consuming pain, the purpose of which he could not grasp; that he was born with a wealth of power, yet found no single thing to which he could devote it. here he was, heir to the estate, and yet—perhaps for that very reason—born in bondage.
despite his youth, ormarr was alive to the danger of his changing moods, which, as he often thought, bordered on insanity. proud as he was of being heir to borg, he nevertheless felt a smouldering hatred of his heritage, since it fettered him from birth. with all these longings in his soul, he was conscious of being himself part and parcel of borg; something told him that here, and here alone, was the soil in which his personality and varying moods could grow into one harmonious and united whole. he had only to follow in the steps of his fathers. but this, again, seemed too easy a solution of the riddle of life—he preferred a struggle to the death. it was as if his descent, and his natural prospects, excluded him from all the adventures he longed for; the part for which he seemed cast was beneath the level of his strength and ability.
but he realized that any outward expression of such thoughts would compromise him, and bring disgrace upon his family: he must conceal them, hide them in silence, never breathe a word of it all to any other. only in his music, where he could speak without betraying himself by words, could he venture to ease his heart of its burden.
he felt like a galley slave, chained to the oar for life, without hope of escape. the idea of rebellion, of emancipation, had never crossed his mind. had any one suggested such a thing, he would have risen up in arms against it at once, for, in spite of all, he felt himself so at one with his race that to desert it thus would be nothing less than to betray himself.
that same afternoon an unexpected event took place at borg. the vicar, sera daniel, accompanied by bjarni jonsson, came to call.
ørlygur à borg was resting on his bed, which in the daytime was covered, like a couch, with a many-coloured rug, when news was brought him of the visit. the girl informed him that she had asked the visitors into the big hall. ørlygur smiled when he heard their names. he had just returned from a sale of driftwood, held at the instance of one of the farmers whose lands ran down to the shore, and who yearly gathered in large stocks of washed-up timber, which was subsequently sold, either privately or by auction. he was tired, and felt too comfortable where he was to care about moving.
“let them come in here if they have anything to say,” he told the girl.
the two men exchanged glances when the message was brought them. each found a certain satisfaction in witnessing the humiliation of the other, as these artists suffer under opprobrium and try to avoid it by touching the field of the faux bon, their work becomes more and more refined and genteel. the broadness, rough play, vitality, diminish gradually until a sort of drama league seriousness and church-sociable good form are both satisfied. and all the more’s the pity, for the thinning out of our lives goes on from day to day and these lively arts are the only things which can keep us hard and robust and gay. in america, where there is no recognized upper class to please, no official academic requirements to meet, the one tradition of gentility is as lethal as all the conventions of european society, and unlike those of europe our tradition provides no nourishment for the artist. it is negative all the way through.
in spite of gentility the lively arts have held to something a little richer and gayer than the polite ones. they haven’t dared to be frank, for a spurious sense of decency is backed by the police, and this limitation has hurt them; but it has made them sharp and clever by forcing their wit into deeper channels. there still exists a broadness in slap-stick comedy and in burlesque, and once in a while vast figures of rabelaisian comedy occur. for the most part the lively arts are inhibited by the necessity to provide “nice clean fun for the whole family”--a regrettable, but inevitable penalty for their universal appeal. for myself, i should like to see a touch more of grossness and of license in these arts; it would be a sign that the blood hadn’t gone altogether pale, and that we can still roar cheerfully at dirty jokes, when they are funny.
what europeans feel about american art is exactly the opposite of what they feel about american life. our life is energetic, varied, constantly changing; our art is imitative, anæmic (exceptions in both cases being assumed). the explanation is that few europeans see our lively arts, which are almost secret to us, like the mysteries of a cult. here the energy of america does break out and finds artistic expression for itself. here a wholly unrealistic, imaginative presentation of the way we think and feel is accomplished. no single artist has yet been great enough to do the whole thing--but together the minor artists of america have created the american art. and if we could for a moment stop wanting our artistic expression to be necessarily in the great arts--it will be that in time--we should gain infinitely.
appendix to “i am here to-day”
“the egregious merit of chaplin,” says t. s. eliot, “is that he has escaped in his own way from the realism of the cinema and invented a rhythm. of course the unexplored opportunities of the cinema for eluding realism must be very great.”
it amused me once, after seeing the pawnshop, to write down exactly what had happened. later i checked up the list, and i print it here. i believe that chaplin is so great on the screen, his effect so complete, that few people are aware, afterward, of how much he has done. nor can they be aware of how much of chaplin’s work is “in his own way”--even when he does something which another could have done he adds to it a touch of his own. i do not pretend that the following analysis is funny; it may be useful:
charlot enters the pawnshop; it is evident that he is late. he compares his watch with the calendar pad hanging on the wall, and hastily begins to make up for lost time by entering the back room and going busily to work. he takes a duster out of a valise and meticulously dusts his walking-stick. then proceeding to other objects, he fills the room with clouds of dust, and when he begins to dust the electric fan, looking at something else, the feathers are blown all over the room. he turns and sees the plucked butt of the duster--and carefully puts it away for to-morrow.
with the other assistant he takes a ladder and a bucket of water and goes out to polish the three balls and the shop sign. after some horseplay he rises to the top of the ladder and reaches over to polish the sign; the ladder sways, teeters, with charlot on top of it. a policeman down the street looks aghast, and sways sympathetically with the ladder. yet struggling to keep his balance, charlot is intent on his work, and every time the ladder brings him near the sign he dabs frantically at it until he falls.
he makes a tragic appeal to be reinstated. he says he has eleven children, so high, and so high, and so high--until the fourth one is about a foot taller than himself. the boss relents only as charlot’s stricken figure is at the door. as he is pardoned, charlot leaps upon the old boss, twining his legs around his abdomen; he is thrown off and surreptitiously kisses the old man’s hand. he goes into the kitchen to help the daughter and passes dishes through the clothes wringer to dry them--passes a cup twice, as it seems not to be dry the first time. then his hands. the jealous assistant provokes a fight; charlot has a handful of dough and is about to throw it when the boss appears. with the same motion charlot flings the dough into the wringer, passes it through as a pie crust, seizes a pie plate, trims the crust over it, and goes out to work.
at the pawnshop counter pass a variety of human beings. charlot is taken in by a sob story about a wedding ring; he tries to test the genuineness of goldfish by dropping acid on them. sent to the back room, he takes his lunch out of the safe, gets into another fight, in which he is almost beating his rival to death when the girl enters. charlot falls whimpering to the floor and is made much of. he returns to the counter and the episode of the clock begins.
a sinister figure enters, offering a clock in pawn. charlot looks at it; then takes an auscultator and listens to its heart-beat; then taps it over crossed fingers for its pulmonary action; then taps it with a little hammer to see the quality, as with porcelain; then snaps his thumb on the bell. he takes an augur and bores a hole in it; then a can-opener, and when he has pried the lid off he smells the contents and with a disparaging gesture makes the owner smell them, too. he then does dentistry on it, with forceps; then plumbing. finally he screws a jeweler’s magnifying glass into his eye and hammers what is left in the clock, shakes out the contents, measures the mainspring from the tip of his nose to arm’s length, like cloth, squirts oil on the debris to keep it quiet, and, lifting the man’s hat from his head, sweeps the whole mess into it and returns it with a sad shake of the head.
all of this takes about thirty minutes. i have put down nearly everything, for chaplin is on the scene virtually all of the time. i am fairly certain that ninety per cent. of this film could not have been made, even badly, by anyone else. analysis of a dog’s life would give the same result: the arrival at the climax being a little more certain and the drama of the climax (the curtain scene--compared with the clock scene above) being more involved in the course of action.
here follows a complete list of all of the pictures in which charlie chaplin has appeared--all of those officially recognized by him:
keystone--1914: making a living, mabel’s strange predicament, the kid auto racers, his favorite pastime, the film johnny, the cruel cruel love, the dogcatcher, mabel at the wheel, the star boarder, twenty minutes of love, caught in the rain, tillie’s punctured romance, the rounders, the knockout, caught in the cabaret, a gentleman of nerve, mabel’s busy day, mabel’s married life, dough & dynamite, his trysting place, laughing gas, his prehistoric past, half reel--scenic yosemite valley.
essanay film company--1915–16: his new job, a night out, the champion, the tramp, the jitney elopement, in the park, by the sea, the woman, the bank, work, a night in the show, shanghaied, carmen, police.
mutual film company--1916–17: the floorwalker, the fireman, the vagabond, one a. m., the count, behind the screen, the rink, the pawnshop, easy street, the cure, the immigrant, the adventurer.
first national--1918–23: shoulder arms, sunnyside, the idle class, pay day, a dog’s life, the kid, a day’s pleasure, the pilgrim.
“bananas” and other songs
it was not my happiness to have heard yes; we have no bananas first in america: and to understand phenomena one must know them in their natural setting. the phrase itself was created, or brought to notice, by tad; as i have said in my wholly inadequate reference to his work, he is a master of slang and a creator of it; some acknowledgment to him might well appear on the cover of the song. his use of it was immeasurably more delicate and more amusing than the song, because he used it as a contradiction of all the blah and high-hat nonsense in the world; it is in his hands fantastic, funny, and impertinently pertinent. in the song i can’t see it; nor am i exceptionally taken with the music, which is largely synthetic.
however, if i cannot understand the success of the song (or misunderstand it, for it seems to me to be “merely” popular) there are those who understand better. i do not think that my quite secondary powers of analysis would have risen to the following, by j. w. t. mason, correspondent of the london daily express, in new york:
new york slang usually changes monthly. of late there has been a falling off in inspiration, and picturesque argot culled from the city’s polyglot interminglings has fallen sadly behind new york’s quick-witted reputation. at last, however, after months of waiting a creative effort has been made, and one of the most effective phrases descriptive of life in new york has resulted.
one hears it on the stage, in the drawing-room, in the kitchen, on the streets, everywhere: “yes; we have no bananas.” a song has been written about it, and is the musical rage of the moment.
cardboard imitations of bunches of bananas are making their appearance bearing the legend, “yes; we have no bananas.” business men hang these ornaments in their offices, as a reminder that, after all, there must be a way out of every difficulty. the phrase originated in the fruit shops kept in new york by greeks, italians, and jews, whose knowledge of the english language is limited in verbiage, but not in volubility, nor in willingness to try.
these ancient races come to the new world for profit, and never like to turn a customer away. so they have evolved a curious positive and negative for the same sentence. why the slangmakers hit on bananas has not been discovered. it might as well have been any other commodity. but the phrase means that one having asked for bananas in a fruit shop where there are none, the anxious proprietor, seeking to be ingratiating and not desiring to displease, answers: ‘yes; we have no bananas.’ thereupon he may seek to sell a cabbage or a bunch of beets instead, since most fruit shops in new york are vegetable establishments as well.
the phrase is a tribute to the optimism of the newly arrived immigrant; to his earnest fight to master the language of his temporary country, and so, somehow, is supposed to take on the american characteristic of “getting there,” even though by way of an affirmative in a negative sentence.
it is, i believe, a generation at least since the english began to say “yes i don’t think.” and they talk about the cable having brought the two countries closer together. o god! o montreal!
an incomplete list of the songs written by irving berlin
when i lost you when i leave the world behind alexander’s ragtime band oh, how i hate to get up in the morning (from yip-yip-yap-hank) everybody’s doing it i want to go back to michigan ragtime violin when that midnight choo-choo leaves for alabam’ mysterious rag yiddle, on your fiddle my wife’s gone to the country that mesmerizing mendelssohn tune kiss me call me up some rainy afternoon grizzly bear i want to be in dixie keep away from the fellow who owns an automobile international rag in my harem snooky-ookums somebody’s coming to my house you’ve got your mother’s big blue eyes araby my bird of paradise this is the life they’re on their way to mexico he’s a devil in his own home town he’s a rag-picker along came ruth sadie salome, go home wild cherry next to your mother who do you love sweet italian love piano man when i’m alone i’m lonesome ragtime soldier boy goody - goody - goody - goody - good pullman porters on parade at the devil’s ball old maids’ ball san francisco bound if you don’t want me, why do you hang around down in chattanooga when it’s night time down in dixieland if that’s your idea of a wonderful time, take me home { the hula-hula { girl on the magazine cover { i love a piano { the ragtime melodrama { when i get back to the u. s. a. (from stop! look! and listen!) i’m gonna pin my medal on the girl i left behind settle down in a one-horse town (from watch your step) mandy (from ziegfeld follies) a pretty girl is like a melody (from ziegfeld follies) some one else may be there while i’m gone my sweetie good-bye, france the hand that rocked my cradle rules my heart i’ve got my captain working for me now you’d be surprised if i’d have my way (i’d be a farmer) nobody knows and nobody seems to care i never knew homesick all by myself some sunny day when you walked out music box revue, 1922: say it with music everybody step music box revue, 1923: lady of the evening crinoline days pack up your sins
good-bye to dear old alaska
by john murray anderson and irving cæsar
the scene it is alaska and beneath the setting sun we see a brave young miner toiling there. he’s thinking of the home folks and when his day’s work is done, to a humble little shack he doth repair. he’s dreaming of the happy days when he was but a boy, the places he frequented long ago; on memories’ wings he flies again to his dear mother’s knee. ’tis then we hear him whisper soft and low.
good-bye to dear old alaska. i’m going across the sea, back to the dear old home land, my country, the land of the free. i can picture a love nest at twilight where the old folks for me sit and pine, so good-bye, alaska, for i’m going home to that old-fashioned mother of mine.
once again the scene is changed, he’s on a special train and lands down at the battery safe and sound. he wends his way on broadway and on every side again the old familiar faces can be found.
he lingers but a moment as he passes city hall, and there he hears the national anthem sung, and just to prove he’s yankee, aye, yankee through and through, he sings the chorus in his native tongue.
--sung by jack hazzard in “the greenwich village follies,” with dissolving views by walter hoban.
heaven will protect the working girl
words by edgar smith. music by a. baldwin sloane. copyright, 1909, by charles k. harris. british copyright secured.
a village maid was leaving home, with tears her eyes were wet. her mother dear was standing near the spot; she says to her: “neuralgia dear, i hope you won’t forget that i’m the only mother you have got. the city is a wicked place, as any one can see, and cruel dangers ’round your path may hurl; so ev’ry week you’d better send your wages back to me, for heaven will protect a working girl.
“you are going far away, but remember what i say, when you are in the city’s giddy whirl, from temptations, crimes, and follies, villains, taxicabs and trolleys, oh! heaven will protect the working girl.”
her dear old mother’s words proved true, for soon the poor girl met a man who on her ruin was intent; he treated her respectful as those villains always do, and she supposed he was a perfect gent.
but she found different when one night she went with him to dine into a table d’hôte so blithe and gay. and he says to her: “after this we’ll have a demi-tasse!” then to him these brave words the girl did say:
“stand back, villain; go your way! here i will no longer stay, although you were a marquis or an earl; you may tempt the upper classes with your villainous demi-tasses, but heaven will protect the working girl.”
appendix to “these, too ...”
i cannot write about eva tanguay--not in the way of aleister crowley, at any rate. here are fragments from his appreciation:
eva tanguay! it is the name which echoed in the universe when the sons of the morning sang together and shouted for joy, and the stars cried aloud in their courses! i have no words to hymn her glory, nay, not if i were shelley and swinburne and myself in one--i must write of her in cold prose, for any art of mine would be but a challenge; i rather make myself passive and still, that her divine radiance may be free to illumine the theme. voco! per nomen nefandum voco. te voco! eva veni!
eva tanguay is the soul of america as its most desperate eagle-flight. her spirit is tense and quivering, like the violin of paganini in its agony, or like an arrow of artemis--it is my soul that she hath pierced!
the american genius is unlike all others. the “cultured” artist, in this country, is always a mediocrity. longfellow, bryant, emerson, washington irving, hawthorne, a thousand others, all prove that thesis....
eva tanguay is the perfect american artist. she is alone. she is the unknown goddess. she is ineffably, infinitely sublime; she is starry chaste in her colossal corruption. in europe men obtain excitement through venus, and prevent venus from freezing by invoking bacchus and ceres, as the poet bids. but in america sex-excitement has been analyzed; we recognize it to be merely a particular case of a general proposition, and we proceed to find our pleasure in the wreck of the nervous system as a whole, instead of a mere section of it. the daily rush of new york resembles the effect of cocaine; it is a universal stimulation, resulting in a premature general collapse; and eva tanguay is the perfect artistic expression of this. she is manhattan, most loved, most hated, of all cities, whose soul is a delirium beyond time and space. wine? brandy? absinthe? bah! such mother-milk is for the babes of effete europe; we know better. drunkenness is a silly partial exaltation, feeble device of most empirical psychology; it cannot compare with the adult, the transcendental delights of pure madness.... why titillate one poor nerve? why not excite all together? leave sentiment to teutons, passion and romance to latins, spirituality to slavs; for us is cloudless, definite, physiological pleasure!
eva tanguay is--exactly and scientifically--this soul of america. she steps upon the stage, and i come into formal consciousness of myself in accurate detail as the world vanishes. she absorbs me, not romantically, like a vampire, but definitely, like an anæsthetic, soul, mind, body, with her first gesture. she is not dressed voluptuously, as others dress; she is like the hashish dream of a hermit who is possessed of the devil. she cannot sing, as others sing; or dance, as others dance. she simply keeps on vibrating, both limbs and vocal chords without rhythm, tone, melody, or purpose. she has the quality of eternity; she is metaphysical motion. she eliminates repose. she has my nerves, sympathetically irritated, on a razor-edge which is neither pleasure nor pain, but sublime and immedicable stimulation. i feel as if i were poisoned by strychnine, so far as my body goes; i jerk, i writhe, i twist, i find no ease; and i know absolutely that no ease is possible. for my mind, i am like one who has taken an overdose of morphine and, having absorbed the drug in a wakeful mood, cannot sleep, although utterly tired out. and for my soul? oh! oh!--oh! “satan prends pitié de ma longue misère!” other women conform to the general curve of nature, to the law of stimulation followed by exhaustion; and by recuperation after rest. not so she, the supreme abomination of ecstasy! she is perpetual irritation without possibility of satisfaction, an avatar of sex-insomnia. solitude of the soul, the worm that dieth not; ah, me! she is the vulture of prometheus, and she is the music of mitylene. she is the one perfect artist in this way of ineffable grace which is damnation. marie lloyd in england, yvette guilbert in france, are her sisters in art: but they both promise rest in the end. the rest of marie lloyd is sleep, and that of yvette guilbert death; but the lovers of eva tanguay may neither sleep nor die. i could kill myself at this moment for the wild love of her....
and so on--until french intervenes.
the krazy kat ballet
mr john alden carpenter has been good enough to permit me to reprint the programme note attached to his ballet of krazy kat, performed friday, january 20, 1922, at the town hall, in new york, and several times thereafter. the piano transcription of the score, decorated with many attractive designs by herriman, is published. the note is:
to all lovers of mr herriman’s ingenious and delightful cartoons it must have seemed inevitable that sooner or later krazy kat and ignatz mouse would be dragged by some composer into music. i have tried to drag them not only into music but on to the stage as well, by means of what i have called, for obvious reasons, a jazz pantomime.
to those who have not mastered mr herriman’s psychology it may be explained that krazy kat is the world’s greatest optimist--don quixote and parsifal rolled into one. it is therefore possible for him to maintain constantly at white heat a passionate affair with ignatz mouse, in which the gender of each remains ever a delightful mystery. ignatz, on the other hand, condenses in his sexless self all the cardinal vices. if krazy blows beautiful bubbles, ignatz shatters them; if he builds castles in spain, ignatz is there with a brick. in short, he is meaner than anything, and his complex is cats.
after a few introductory bars the curtain is raised and krazy is discovered asleep under a tree. officer pup passes, swinging his club. all is well. then comes bill poster, a canine relative of officer pup, with his bucket and brush, and pastes upon the wall an announcement of the grand ball which will shortly be given for all the animals. the job finished, bill departs.
krazy wakes up; he rubs his eyes and reads the exciting poster. he is moved to try his steps; he finds his feet heavy and numerous. of a sudden he spies on a clothes line which the moving scenery has brought into view, a ballet skirt. undoubtedly it is his costume for the ball. he approaches the clothes line, first with restraint, then with eagerness. he snatches the skirt from the line, claps it on, and comes bounding forward in high abandon.
he is interrupted by the appearance of old joe stork, drilling by with his bundle on his back. he passes on, but he has carelessly dropped his pack. krazy sniffs at it, filled with curiosity. he picks it up and carries it triumphantly to his tree in the corner. he opens the bundle, and finds that it contains not what you thought it would, but a vanity case, mirror, rouge, powder-puff, lip-stick and all, complete, including a beautiful pair of white cotton gloves.
further note on the fratellini
the fratellini are so ingenious and so full of surprises that it is useless to try to keep up with them. i have seen them a dozen times since first writing about them, sometimes three times in a week with a still growing delight. some of the stunts demand to be mentioned. there is one as good as the photographer--it is based on the idea that a saxophone player who cannot play the saxophone, is engaged because he has a starving family; another, concealed in a box, does the actual playing in the test before the manager of the house. the complications can easily be guessed; but it is impossible to guess the combination of delicacy and uproariousness with which they are rendered. at the end of this act alberto, the grotesque with the square painted windows over his eyes, hides in a sack and you have one of the everlasting sources of children’s humour carried to its supreme conclusion. still another stunt is a dancing act, first as a burlesque of ballet, and then as a straight tango, with francesco as a rather wicked old dowager in a green dress, and alberto with complete facial make-up, but otherwise extremely chic, dancing exquisitely. finally, i mention another entrance, superior to the one described in the text. francesco, very much the english gentleman, arrives on the scene, followed by his two servants, paulo and alberto, the former with a ludicrous exaggeration of the englishman’s travelling rug, the latter with a wicker hamper of unimaginable proportions. as these two stagger after their master he tries to get out, as if he had come into the wrong place. finally he addresses himself to an attendant, at the same time ordering his servants to drop their impedimenta. before these two have time to light cigarettes, francesco is off again, they must lift the huge burdens and follow him; again he orders them to discharge and enters into conversation; and this goes on until it works itself into a fury, the master always walking in one direction while the servants are so far behind him that they are walking in the opposite one. the human basis of the event, the skill with which it is done, and the intensity of it, are combined to make a miracle. at the end alberto is so exhausted that he sees visions and begins to fight a duel with his own shadow; he leaps back, guards, and finally falls upon it and beats it to death.
it may not be inappropriate to mention here the name of another clown also appearing, although not regularly, at the medrano. he is one of the three oréas, the other two being quite exceptional acrobats on the trapeze. the clown oréas does not create as the fratellini do; he parodies acrobatics and uses an amazingly physical adaptability for immense fun. to be sure he falls off and on the bars; but he is also capable of mounting a ladder in a series of march steps, and of missing the support, as he swings from the bar, sliding round it with his arm on the upright, and slipping down on his bottom, in a movement of great grace. his little trick of taking a glass full of beer out of his pocket at the end of each tumble is not new, but he does it extremely well, and he has the sense of gait as well as the sense of costume and impression.
the cinema novel
i do not know whether seeing new opportunities and developing them quickly are the best signs of degeneracy, for i seem to remember reading about these things in the advertisements, where nothing as irrevocable as degeneracy is permitted. the adaptability of the moving picture scenario to something besides moving pictures was a thing easy to guess; the thing has been done in both america and england in burlesque of the films--an adaptation requiring and receiving very little intelligence.
it may be slightly beside the point, but it is interesting to note that the cinema influence in literature in france is almost exactly opposite to what it is here. there it seems to make for brevity, hardness, clarity, brilliance. you will find it in the extraordinary stories of paul morand and louis aragon; and you will find in neither of these those characteristic sloppinesses which american authors are beginning to blame on the movies. if they would take the trouble of studying the pictures, instead of trying to make money out of them, and discover the elements in the cinema technique which are capable of making their own work fruitful, we might have better novels, and we certainly would have a few less bad pictures.
two frenchmen have, at the same time, used the scenario as a method of fiction, and each of them has written a highly ironic piece which is capable of being transferred to the film, but which reads sufficiently well to be considered as an end in itself.
blaise cendrars, poet, responsible for the anthologie nègre, is the author of la fin du monde and of la perle fièvreuse; the second of these is running as a serial in a belgian magazine, signaux. both are called novels; the third instalment of the pearl adding the word cinematographic. the end of the world is a cosmic cinema-novel in fifty-five swift, concisely told scenes.
it deals with a sort of deity, resident on a planet accessible to all the mechanical comforts of this earth, who is induced to travel to mars as a propagandist for his own religion. like many propagandists he errs in his psychology and, in a billy sunday frenzy of the imagination, shows the martians all the cruelties his religion is capable of. too late he learns that “the martians are disillusioned and confirmed pacifists, iodophages living on the peptonic vapours of human blood, but incapable of bearing the sight of the least cruelty.” the mission failing, he decides to make good on certain prophecies uttered in his name. the following scenes are left a little in the air; continuity is lacking. one begins again with the sculptured angel on notre dame blowing a blast on her trumpet and the whole world rushing towards paris and crumbling into dust. thereafter, with the aid of retarded and accelerated projection, we see the world slowly dissolving into its elements, through those stages so graphically presented to us by h. g. wells. there is chaos, and then annihilation.
and then, by an accident in the projection room, the film begins to reverse and so, naturally, one gropes upward out of the slime and returns to the first scene--to which is added the single phrase “it’s bankruptcy.” it opens with the deity “at his american (roll-top) desk. he hastily signs innumerable letters. he is in his shirt sleeves with a green eye-shade on his forehead. he rises, lights a big cigar, looks at his watch, strides nervously up and down the room.... he makes notes on his pad and blows away the ash which falls from his cigar between the leaves. suddenly he snatches the telephone and begins to ’phone furiously....”
that is american movie technique which m cendrars has evidently learned all too well, because he uses it, in all its tedious detail, in la perle fièvreuse, for which he is publishing not a scenario but a director’s script, with the cutbacks and visions and close-ups all numbered and marked. it is in the manner of the old biograph movies with what may turn out to be not such innocent fun at the expense of the detective film. among its characters are max trick, director of trick’s criminal courier, the great daily which specializes in criminal news. he is marked “type: le president taft” and is first shown in his office with twenty-five telephones in front of him; among his collaborators are nick carter and arsène lupin, conan doyle and maurice leblanc.
what jules romains has accomplished is much more remarkable, for he has pushed the method of the cinema forward a long and significant step, and, while using everything it can give, he has produced a first class work of fiction. the plot of donogoo-tonka you will see at once, is entirely suitable to filming; it is not perhaps suitable to commercial success, but that can be, if it isn’t, another matter.
it begins in paris with the unfortunate lamendin, who is about to commit suicide. a friend gives him a card with the legend: “before committing suicide ... don’t fail to read the other side,” and on the reverse is the advertisement of professor miguel rufisque, director of the institute of biometric psychotherapy, who guarantees to give you, within seven days, a violent love of life. lamendin goes to the consulting room and after a fantastic examination is given certain instructions which eventually land him in the library of prof. yves trouhadec, a geographer. trouhadec would be certain of election to the geographic institute if he hadn’t, many years before, placed on a map of south america the wholly imaginary town of donogoo-tonka, in the gold-mining area. lamendin now proposes to float a company, start an expedition, and insure the professor’s election by actually creating the place.
in the second reel donogoo-tonka is launched; in the third we have adventurers in all parts of the world preparing to rush the gold fields, while lamendin tarries at home making fake moving pictures of the place. at the end of the reel the adventurers have penetrated into the heart of the south american desert and, too wearied to go forward, aware of the deception practised upon them, encamp where they are. derisively they call the place donogoo-tonka.
later, a second group of adventurers comes. they are disappointed in the look of the place. but they are interested to hear that gold is being found; and while lamendin at last sets sail, the donogoo-tonka central bar and the london & donogoo-tonka’s splendid hotel are going up; it is obviously the intention of the earlier arrivals to mulct the later.
and then, of course, gold really is found in the river bed and the price of all provisions goes up fifty per cent.
regrettably, en voyage, lamendin tells his pioneers that donogoo does not exist. on his arrival at rio de janeiro he receives a cable from the professor, demanding immediate results; and as he turns in despair he reads the announcement by agence meyer-kohn, of the next caravan to the gold fields of donogoo-tonka. he arrives; he takes possession; he founds an empire, in which the religion of scientific error is established. trouhadec, still living, is deified; he becomes trouhadec, father of his country. the utility of geography is one of the prescribed subjects for public lectures.
that is a slightly more intelligent plot than most of the adventure things one sees in the movies. it is in the detail and in the presentation of an idea, the idea of scientific error, that m romains has pressed beyond the professional technique of the moving picture without once exceeding its natural limitations. for instance in the waiting room where lamendin sits with the other would-be suicides:
“absurdity, given off by so many brains, becomes palpable. one begins to distinguish a sort of very subtle exhalation which disengages itself from the human bodies and little by little charges the atmosphere.” the settings in this scene are very much in the manner of caligari. or there is the debate in the soul of professor trouhadec who knows that he will profit by a fraud. from the beginning the spectator must realize that the debate is only on the surface; that in his heart trouhadec is going to accept; the spectator is to see him thinking of truth with a capital t and, much deeper down, of himself as a member of the institute. just as in the exploitation of donogoo-tonka we see a man coming up the steps of a subway station with the words donogoo-tonka written on every step; until, as he emerges, his skull ceases to be opaque, and we see the twelve little letters dancing in his brain. m romains has even carried the thing over into keystone farce, so sure is he of his medium. during one of the lectures “his eloquence is so persuasive, his thought opens such penetrating channels into human nature that, little by little, little by little, a soft down begins to sprout on the bald head” of a man in the audience. ça c’est du cinema, as m cendrars says.
m romains has also a complete understanding of projection. he protests, in a preface, against the monotonous speeding-up of pictures and urges that this one be taken and shown in the rhythm of ordinary life, with a shading toward slow, especially in the scenes “where the only events which pass before us are the thoughts of the characters” (required reading for mr griffith and mr de mille for one year is in those words). in the scenes which exploit the shares in donogoo-tonka we enter into the minds of individuals, of groups, of crowds; at the end the very framework of a building succumbs to the madness of the idea. and then, with a technical mastery not yet put into practise, m romains directs that the various scenes just projected be shown again, side by side, with a gradually accelerated rhythm. in the scenes of the adventurers we get glimpses at marseilles, london, naples, porto, singapore, san francisco; then we see the groups starting out; the lines of their voyage converge. these scenes are projected first in succession and then simultaneously. each time we see them we recognize some of the individuals we have seen before. “and when by chance the faces are turned towards us, we have a feeling that they, too, recognize us.” the cinema has not yet accomplished that; chiefly, i fancy, because it never has been asked to.
m romains is the prophet of unanisme, and it would be remarkable if he did not use the moving picture to push his point. the end of donogoo-tonka is pure poetry.
“as if, yielding to friendly pressure, the world has renounced for one evening its concept of space and all its habits.”
i owe so much to others in connexion with this book that if i were to set down the names and the reasons it would appear, quite properly, that i have done little except collect and theorize about material presented to me; it might also appear that i wish to make others responsible. virtually everyone i know has contributed something--and in many cases they did so before i had thought of writing this book. i can therefore make only specific acknowledgments. above all to two managing editors, john peale bishop and edmund wilson, jr., of vanity fair and to their editor, frank crowninshield; they published several essays which later served as the raw material for chapters here, published portions of other chapters written expressly for this book, and otherwise encouraged and prospered me--to such an extent that i owe to them and to my fellow-editors of the dial the holiday which made it possible for me to write at all. except as otherwise acknowledged, the illustrations are reproduced with the permission of the artists; in addition, i have to thank the editors of the two journals mentioned for joining their permission in the case of work they originally reproduced, the firm of albert and charles boni for the liberal use of frueh’s stage folk, and h. t. parker of the boston transcript for letting me reprint a conversation in old athens. for technical information and exceptionally painstaking criticism i am indebted to sara and gerald murphy, martin brown, alexander steinert, deems taylor, lewis galantière, h. k. moderwell, and dorothy butler; for the material in the appendix to charles chaplin, irving berlin, bushnell dimond, walter hoban, and sophie wittenberg. my indebtedness to those whom i do not know--those i have written about--is too apparent to need emphasis, and too great to be adequately acknowledged.
index of principal names
index of principal names
astaires, the, 272 f
dickson, dorothy, 272 f
hyson, carl, 272 f
milhaud, darius, 85, 100, 304 f
moderwell, h. k., 131 f
taylor, deems, 242, 328 f
punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they were not changed.
simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left unbalanced.
illustrations in this ebook have been positioned between paragraphs and outside quotations. in versions of this ebook that support hyperlinks, the page references in the list of illustrations lead to the corresponding illustrations.
halftone patterns in some illustrations could not be entirely obscured.
footnotes, originally at the bottoms of pages, have been collected, renumbered, and placed just before the index.
the index was not checked for proper alphabetization or correct page references. it was not always possible to determine whether or not some references were in boldface.
“strawinsky” is spelled that way throughout this book.
page 209: “surexcess” was printed that way.
page 219: “gettings” was printed that way.
page 379: “indominatable” was printed that way.
page 395: “cæsar, irving” was mispelled here, but spelled correctly on the referenced page.
by permission of the late thomas threlfall, esq.
by beryl de sélincourt and may sturge henderson
illustrated by reginald barratt of the royal water-color society
copyright, 1907, by dodd, mead and company
“venice herself is poetry, and creates a poet out of the dullest clay.” it was a poet who spoke, and his clay was instinct with the breath of genius. but it is true that venice lends wings to duller clay; it has been her fate to make poets of many who were not so before--a responsibility that entails loss on her as well as gain.
she has lived--she has loved and suffered and created; and the echoes of her creation are with us still; the pulse of the life which once she knew continues to throb behind the loud and insistent present. the story of venice has been often written; the bride of the adriatic, in her decay as in her youthful and her mature beauty, has been the beloved of many men. “wo betide the wretch,” cries landor through the mouth of machiavelli, “who desecrates and humiliates her; she may fall, but she shall rise again.” venice even then had passed her zenith; the path she had entered, though blazing with a glory which had not attended on her dawn of life, was yet a path of decline, the resplendent, dazzling path of the setting sun. and now a second attilla, as napoleon vaunted himself, has descended upon her. she has been desecrated, but she has never been dethroned. she could not, if she would, take the ring off her finger. no hand of man, however potent, can destroy that once consummated union, however the stranger and her traitor sons may abase her from within.
no mystics have sprung from venice. her sons have been artists of life, not dreamers, though the sea, that great weaver of dreams, has been ever around them. or rather it is truer to say that the dreamers of venice have also been men of action; strong, capable and intensely practical. they have not turned their back on the practice of life; they have loved it in all its forms. even when they speak through the medium of allegory, of symbols, the art of carpaccio and of tintoretto is a supreme record of the interests of the greatest venetians in the actions of everything living in this wonderful world, and in particular--they are not ashamed to own it--in their supremely wonderful city of venice. there are dreamers among those crowds of carpaccio, of gentile bellini; but their hands can grasp the weapons and the tools of earth; their heads and hearts can wrestle with the problems and passions of earth. compare them with the dreamers of perugino’s school: you feel at once that a gulf lies between them; the fabric of their dream is of another substance. the great venetians are giants; like the sea’s, their embrace is vast and powerful, endowed also with the gentleness of strength. the history of venetian greatness in art, in politics, in theology, is the history of men who have accepted life and strenuously devoted themselves to mastering its laws. they were not iconoclasts, because they were not idolaters: the faculties of temperance and restraint are apparent in their very enthusiasms. venice did not fall because she loved life too well, but because she had lost the secret of living. pride became to her more beautiful than truth, and finally more worshipful than beauty.
much has, with truth, been said about the destruction of venice. even in those who have not known her as she was, who in presence of her wealth remaining are unconscious of the greatness of her loss, there constantly stirs indignant sorrow at the childish wantonness of her inhabitants, which loves to destroy and asks only a newer and brighter plaything. but much persists that is indestructible; and though venice has become a spectacle for strangers, for those who are her lovers the old spirit lingers still near the form it once so gloriously inhabited, wakened into being, perchance, by a motion, an echo, a light upon the waters, and once wakened never again lost or out of mind. does not the silent swiftness of the ten still haunt the sandolo of the water police, as it steals in the darkness with unlighted lamp under the shadow of larger craft moored beside the fondamenta, visible only when it crosses the path of a light from house or garden? it is in her water that venice eternally lives; it is thus that we think always of her image--elusive, unfathomable, though plumbed so often by no novice hand. it is the wonder of venice within her waters which justifies the renewal of the old attempt to reconstruct certain aspects of a career which has been a challenge to the world, a mystery on which it has never grown weary of speculating. and as the light falling from a new angle on familiar features may reveal some grace hidden heretofore in shadow or unobserved, so, perchance, the vision of venice may be renewed or kindled through the medium of a new personality.
venice is inexhaustible, and it is from her waters that her mine of wealth is drawn. they give her wings; without them she would be fettered like other cities of the land. but venice with her waters is never dead. the sun may fall with cruel blankness on calle, piazza and fondamenta, but nothing can kill the water; it is always mobile, always alive. imagine the thoroughfare of an inland city on such a day as is portrayed in manet’s grand canal de venise; heart and eye would curse the sunshine. but in the luminous truth of manet’s picture, as in venice herself, the heat quivers and lives. above ground, blue sky beating down on blue canal, on the sleepy midday motion of the gondolas, on the brilliant blue of the striped gondola posts, which appear to stagger into the water; and under the surface, the secret of venice, the region where reflections lurk, where the long wavering lines are carried on in the deep, cool, liquid life below. when venice is weary, what should she do but dive into the water as all her children do? if we look down, when we can look up no longer, still she is there; a city more shadowy but not less real, her elements all dissolved that at our pleasure we may build them again;
and so not build at all, and therefore build for ever.
and if in the middle day we realise this priceless dowry of venice, it is in the twilight of morning or evening that her treasury is unlocked and she invites us to enter. turner’s approach to venice is a vision, a dream, but not more divinely lovely than the reality of venice in these hours, even as she appears to duller eyes. pass down the grand canal in the twilight of an august evening, the full moon already high and pouring a lustre from her pale green halo on the broad sweeping path of the canal. the noble curves of the houses to west and south shut out the light; day is past, the reign of night has begun. then cross to the zattere: you pass into another day. a full tide flows from east to west, blue and swelling like the sea, dyed in the west a shining orange where the euganean hills rise in clear soft outline against the afterglow, while to the east the moon has laid her silver bridle upon the dim waters. cross to the giudecca and pass along the narrow, crowded quay into the old palace, which in that deserted corner shows one dim lamp to the canal. the great hall opens at the further end on a bowery garden where a fountain drips in the darkness and the cicalas begin their piping. mount the winding stair, past the kitchen and the great key-shaped reception room, and look out over the city--across the whole sweep of the magnificent giudecca canal and the basin of san marco. the orange glow is fading and the euganean hills are dying into the night, while near at hand one great golden star is setting behind the church of the redentore, and the moon shines with full brilliance upon the swaying waters, upon the ducal palace and the churches of the zattere, with the salute as their chief. the night of venice has begun; she has put on her jewels and is blazing with light. at the back of the house, where the lagoons lie in the shimmering moonlight, is a silent waste of waters under the stars, broken only by the lights of the islands. this also is venice, this mystery of moonlit water no less than the radiance of the city. and it is possible to come still nearer to the lagoon. passing along a dark rio little changed from the past, we may cross a bridge into one of the wonderful gardens for which the giudecca is famous. the families of the silvi, barbolini and istoili, banished in the ninth century for stirring up tumult in the republic, when at last they were recalled by intercession of emperor ludovico, inhabited this island of spinalunga or giudecca and laid out gardens there. this one seems made for the night. the moonlight streams through the vine pergolas which cross it in every direction, lights the broad leaves of the banana tree and the dome of the salute behind the dark cypress-spire, and stars the grass with shining petals. the night is full of the scent of haystacks built along the edge of the lagoon, beside the green terrace which runs the length of the water-wall. then, as darkness deepens, we leave to the cicalas their moonlit paradise, and glide once more into the grand canal. it is at this hour, more than at any other, that, sweeping round the curves of that marvellous waterway, it possesses us as an idea, a presence that is not to be put by, so compelling, so vitally creative, is its beauty. truly venice is poetry, and would create a poet out of the dullest clay.
every one will remember that a few years ago an enterprising man of business attempted with sublime self-confidence to transfer venice to london, to enclose her within the walls of a great exhibition. many of us delighted in the miniature market of rialto, in gliding through the narrow waterways, in the cry of the gondoliers, and the sound of violin and song across the water. but one gift in the portion of venice was forgotten, a gift which she shares indeed with other cities, but which she alone can put out to interest and increase a thousandfold. the sky is the roof of all the world, but venice alone is paved with sky; and the streets of venice with no sky above them are like the wings of the butterfly without the sun. tintoret and turner saw venice as the offspring of sky and water: that is the spirit in which they have portrayed her; that is the essence of her life. it has penetrated everything she has created of enduring beauty. go into san marco and look down at what your feet are treading. venice, whose streets are paved with sky, must in her church also have sky beneath her feet. it is impossible to imagine a more wonderful pavement than the undulating marbles of san marco; its rich and varied colours bound together with the rarest inspiration; orient gems captured and imprisoned and constantly lit with new and vivid beauty from the domes above. the floor of san marco is one of the glories of venice--of the world; and it is surely peculiarly expressive of the inspiration which worked in venice in the days of her creative life. san marco, indeed, in its superb and dazzling harmonies of colour, is almost the only living representative of the venice of pomegranate and gold which created the cà d’oro, of the city of carpaccio and gentile bellini, whose cornice-mouldings were interwoven with glittering golden thread, while every side canal gave back a glow of colour from richly-tinted walls. the banners of the lion in the piazza no longer wave in solemn splendour of crimson and gold above a pavement of pale luminous red; in their place the tricolour of italy flaunts over colourless uniformity. the gold is fading from the palace of the doges, and only in a few rare nooks, such as the scuola of the shoemakers in the campo san tomà, do we find the original colours of an old relief linger in delicate gradation over window or door.
day after day some intimate treasure is torn from the heart of venice. since ruskin wrote, one leaf after another has been cut from the missal which “once lay open upon the waves, miraculous, like st. cuthbert’s book, a golden legend on countless leaves.” those leaves are numbered now. year by year some familiar object disappears from bridge or doorway, to be labelled and hoarded in a distant museum among aliens and exiles like itself. and here, in venice itself, a sentiment of distress, the fastidio of the italians, comes over us as we ponder upon the sculptured relics in the cortile of the museo civico. what meaning have they here? it is atmosphere that they need--the natural surroundings that would explain and vivify their forms. many also of the venetian churches are despoiled, and their paintings hung side by side with alien subjects in a light they were never intended to bear. the austrian had less power to hurt venice than she herself possesses. in those of her sons who understand her malady there flows an undercurrent of deep sadness, as if day by day they watched the ebbing of a life in which all their hope and all their love had root. they cannot sever themselves from venice: they cannot save her. venice pretending to share in the vulgar life of to-day, venice recklessly discarding one glory after another for the poor exchange of coin, still has a power over us not wielded by the inland cities of italy, happier in the untroubled beauty of their decay. for, as you are turning with sorrow from some fresh sign of pitiless destruction, of a sudden she will flash upon you a new facet of her magic stone, will draw you spell-bound to her waters and weave once more that diaphanous web of radiant mystery:
za per dirtelo,--o catina, la campagna me consola; ma venezia è la sola che me possa contentar.
each of us, face to face with venice, has a new question to ask of her, and, as he alone framed the question, the answer will be given to him alone. every stone has not yielded up its secret: in some there may still be a mark yet unperceived beneath the dust. here and there in her manuscript there may lurk between the lines a word for the skilled or the fortunate. venice is not yet dumb: every day and every night the sun and moon and star make music in her that has not yet been heard: with patience and love we may redeem here and there a chord of those divine musicians, or at least a tone which shall make her harmony more full.
o venezia benedetta, no te vogio più lassar.
phantoms of the lagoons
we have called them the phantoms of the lagoons, those islands that lie like shadows among the silver waters; for it is in this likeness that they appear to us of the city--strangely mirrored, remote, a group of clustering spirits, whose common halo is the sea. they are a choir of spirits, yet each has a mute music of its own, and accosting them one by one--slowly and in the silence entering into their life--we may come to know and love the several members of this company of the blest, till our senses grow alive to their harmony as they sing together, sometimes in the clear, cold light of the spreading dawn, sometimes in the evening twilight--when peak after peak is lit with the flame of sacrifice and, in the titanic memory of the sunset cloud, the great fire lit on earth burns up with solemn flames into the sky.
all the languors, the fierce passions, of venice, her vitality and her mysticism, are mirrored in the lagoons; there is no pulse of venice that does not beat in them; in swift sequence, as in a lighter element, they reflect the phases of her being. and the islands of the lagoons are, as it were, the footsteps of young venice. as she was passing into her kingdom, she set her feet here and there among the waters, and where she trod a life was born. her roots are far back in the past, far up upon the mainland, where still remain some fragments of the giant growth, which, grafted in the lagoons, was to expand there into a new fulness of beauty and life. it is as if the genius that conceived jesolo, torcello, the madonna of san donato, had undergone a sea-change as it moved towards the adriatic, as if some vision had passed before it and shaken it, as if the immutable had felt the first touch of mutability--had been endowed with a new sense born of the ebb and flow of ocean tides. in malamocco she stepped too near the sea, and left behind the mystery of a city submerged; but no one can receive into his mind the peerless blue and green of the open water beyond the lido, with the foam upon it, or the sound of its incessant sweep against the shore, without feeling that the spirit that had thus embraced the sea had received a new pulse into her being--a nerve of desire, of expansion, of motion, which her mountain infinitudes had not inspired. and with the new life came new dreams to venice, dreams she was not slow to realise, and into them were woven materials for which we should seek in vain among the islands, except in so far as the reflex of her later activities fell also upon them. the madonna of san donato is the goddess of the lagoons; and if there are children of venice who creep also for blessing and for protection to the borders of her dusky garment, they are but few. the mystic beauty of that madonna was not the beauty that inspired venice when she built upon the seas. the robe of her divinity was more akin to the dazzling incomparable blue of the bay that lies within the curve of the schiavoni, as we may see it from the palazzo ducale on a morning of sunshine and east wind; that indomitable intensity of colour, unveiled, resplendent, filled to the brim with the whole radiance and strength and glory of the day--that is the girdle of venice, the cup she drank of in her strength. but it is clear that she had bowed to a new dominion: with the ocean she wedded the world.
the lagoons are full of mysteries of light; they are a veritable treasure ground of illusion. they are not one expanse of water over which the light broods with equable influence; they form a region of various circles, as it were, of various degrees of remoteness or tangibility. almost one feels that each circle must be inhabited by a spirit appropriate to itself, and that a common language could not be between them, so sharp are the limits set by the play of light. on an early autumn morning when the sky is clear and the sun streams full and level upon the clear blue expanse that separates venice and mestre, we seem to have a firm foothold on this dancing water. it is a substantial glory; but as our eye flits on from jewel to jewel in the clear blue paving, a sudden line is drawn beyond which it may not pass. the rich flood of vital colour has its bound, and beyond it lies a region bathed in light so intense that even colour is refined into a mystic whiteness--a mirror of crystal, devoid of substance, infinitely remote; and above it, suspended in that lucent unearthly atmosphere, hover the towers of torcello and burano, like a mirage of the desert, midway between the water and the sky. they hang there in completest isolation, yet with a precise definition, a startling clearness of contour. there is no vestige of other buildings or of the earth on which they stand, only the dome and campanile of murano, the leaning spire of burano and mazzorbo’s lightning-blasted tower, their reflections distinctly mirrored in a luminous medium, half mist, half water. there is an immense awe in the vision of these phantoms, caught up into a region where the happy radiant colour dares not play; and yet not veiled--clearer in what they choose to reveal than the near city strong and splendid in the unreserve of the young day, but so unearthly, so magical, that our morning spirits scarcely dare accost them. what boat shall navigate that shining nothingness that divides them from our brave and brilliant water?
venice, indeed, at times falls under the phantom spell. in those mornings of late autumn when the duel between the sun and the scirocco seems as if it could not end till day is done and night calls up her reinforcements of mist, venice is herself the ghost, her goblet brimming with a liquor that seems the drink of death, a perilous, grey, steely vapour. one only of her islands looms out of the enfolding, foggy blanket: it is san michele, the island of the dead. on such a morning we may visit this abode of shadows, not at this hour more strange, more ghostly, than the city. to-day a veil is hung upon the hard, bare outline of its boundary wall, which in sunny weather is a glaring eye-sore as you travel towards murano over the lagoon. here, in the cloisters where once fra mauro dreamed and studied his famous mappamondo, there is nothing to terrify the spirit on this morning of the mist. the black and tinsel drapings, the strange, unprofitable records of devotion and bereavement, the panoply of death--all these are veiled, and only the wild grasses glisten with their dewdrops on the graves of the very poor, or autumn leaves and flowers gleam from less humble graves, while the cypresses raise their solemn spires into the faintly dawning blue. but the cemetery island of san michele together with the islands of the giudecca and san giorgio maggiore, of san pietro di castello and sant’ elena, with many lesser islands close to venice, have become absorbed for us in the life of the city itself. their bells and hers sound together; we see them as one with her, and from them look out to the wider lagoon, where the remoter islands, the true phantoms, wander. many of those near to venice have had their vicissitudes, their sometime glorious past, their pomp and solemn festival. but, bit by bit, it has been stolen from them, and the treasures which once they stored have been destroyed or gathered into the city. now they serve only as shelters for those whose life is done--as places of repose for the dead or for the sick in mind and body. one only has passed from humble service into a fuller and happier present. san lazzaro, once the shelter of lepers from the east, has become under the armenian benedictines a haunt of active, cultured life. it has a living industry, printing the ancient trade of venice, and is in daily commerce with the east.
torcello is a città morta, but scarcely a cemetery or a ruin. relics of a past older than even torcello has known are gathered into the humble urn of her museum; beside it stands abandoned, but not in ruins, the group of the cathedral buildings and the vast secular campanile; beyond this there is nothing but the soil--the golden gardens of vine and pomegranate, the fields of maize and artichokes between their narrow canals. the intervening period has entirely vanished; it is like a dream. the page of populous palatial torcello has been blotted out as if it had had no existence. no vestige remains of the churches which in the old maps flourished along the chief canal, of the names which in the documents have no unsubstantial sound. none now can remember the time when the spoiler was busy among the ruined palaces; he too has passed into the shadows, and the very stones of torcello are scattered far and wide. there is something mysterious in this complete wiping out of a page of history, so that not time only, but even the mourners of time have disappeared. there is something unique in the isolation of the cathedral and the campanile, rising thus out of the far past--this mighty masonry alone among the herbs of the field. of her great history torcello brings only the first page and the last, the duomo, the peasants’ houses and the thatch shelters of their boats. wandering along the grassy paths beside the vineyards, the pomegranates, the golden thorn bushes of torcello, we seem in a sleepy pastoral land where the sun always shines. torcello seems ripe, rich ground for a new life rather than the cemetery of an old; and we may feed the fancy as we will, for she does not refuse her doom; she has no hard contrasts of the old and new.
the few natives whom foreign gold supports upon this island of malaria, have their chief haunts in the cathedral campo, keeping guard over the treasures of the past. for here upon the campo stands the urn where torcello keeps the ashes of her ancestors--strange relics of old altinum, pathetic household gods, forks and spoons and safety-pins, keys and necklaces, lamps and broken plates and vases, chains and girdles and mighty bracelets, some of delicate and some of coarser make, with more ambitious works of mosaic and relief, greek and roman and oriental. there is little in all; yet as we stand here in the museum, looking out through the sunny window on the hazy autumn gold of earth and the shimmering water beyond, this little speaks eloquently to the mind. even to torcello, the aged, these things are ancestral; their life was in the old altinum when torcello lay still undreamed-of in the womb of time. climb the campanile, and you will wonder no more at the passing of the city at its feet; it is so mighty, so self-contained and now so voiceless with any tongue that earth can hear and understand; almost it seems as if that iron clapper, lying mute below the bell, were symbol of torcello’s farewell to the busy populous world that needs the call to prayer. the great tower is given up to mighty musings, and we upon its summit speculate no more on the forgotten middle age; we are content in the golden earth beneath our feet, in the soft dreamy azure of the encircling lagoon, where in the low tide the deep tracks wind and writhe like glistening water-snakes, or lie, like the faint transparent veining of a leaf, upon that smooth expanse of interchanging marsh and water, the uncertain dominion over which torcello towers. for the campanile, in its vast simplicity of structure, its loneliness, its duration, is of kin with those great sentinels of the desert in which the egyptians embodied their giant dreams of power. it is here that the soul of torcello still abides, to dream out upon the mystery of day and night to the mountains and the city and the sea. and even if the sunlight is rich and jubilant in the yellow fields below, where the autumn has such fitting habitation, it spreads upon the waters a broad path of silver that gleams mysteriously like moonlight upon the distant spaces of the ocean shield, waking points of light out of the immense surrounding dimness. and it is most of all in the deep night that the gulf of the centuries may be bridged. the monotonous piping of the cicalas rises even to this height in the darkness, but no other sound is heard. it is a strangely moving, melancholy landscape, half hidden, half revealed, still holding in its patient, silent heart the tragic sorrows, the hopes and shattered longings, the courageous struggle of the past ages, the fierce cry of desolation, the flames of cities doomed to destruction in the darkness of night, and their ruins outspread beneath the unsparing sun. it has lain now so long deserted, a presence from which the stream of life has flowed away, carrying with it all the agitations of joy and sorrow, that among the fluctuating marshes the key for its deciphering has been lost.
as we have said, whole pages are torn from the history of torcello. fragments only remain. but here and there is a word or two that may be gathered into a sentence. if we approach the island from the east, by the waterway between sant’ erasmo and tre porti instead of by the narrow channels of the inner lagoon, we may receive some impression of the relation it once bore to the mainland. we may see how torcello stands as the entrance of the lagoon north of venice, the last outpost of the mainland, the first-fruits of a new career--recognise that she was once through the portus torcellus in closest touch with the high seas. in the ninth century it was one rustico of torcello who combined with buono of malamocco to carry the bones of st. mark from alexandria to venice. in 1268 torcello is specially mentioned by da canale among the “contrees, que armerent lor navie, et vindrent a lor signor mesire laurens teuple (lorenzo tiepolo) li haut dus de venise, et a madame la duchoise” on the occasion of tiepolo’s election. torcello contributed three galleys completely equipped for the genoese war, and in 1463 sent one hundred crossbowmen in the service of the republic against trieste.
what is left of this city, which shared the early glory if not the later pomp of venice? where are her palaces, her gardens, her bridges, her waterways? where are her piazzas and calles and fondamentas, her churches and rich convents? we pass their names in the old chronicles: piazza del duomo, rio campo di san giovanni, fondamenta dei borgognoni, calle santa margherita, fondamenta bobizo, ponte di chà delfino, ponte de pino, and the rest. many of these were of very old foundation: their stones and traces of their construction have been discovered from time to time under the mud of the canals. in the poor houses of the peasants traces still remain of original windows, cornices and pillars; the main canal is still spanned by the beautiful ruined bridge of the diavolo. but for the rest the grass piazza with its little group of buildings, its museum flanked by the cathedral, is the sole echo, itself no more than an echo of the past.
when altinum and her neighbouring cities roused themselves from the crushing desolation of conquest which had driven them forth to the remote borders of the mainland, they began to desire to live anew in the lagoons. there is no reason to question dandolo’s statement that torcello and the group of surrounding islands, burano, mazzorbo, constanziana, amoriana and ammiana, were named from the gates of altinum--a pathetic attempt to perpetuate the ruined city. nuovo altino was indeed the name for torcello, and when the terror of invasion had momentarily passed, the fugitives ventured back to the mainland, and brought down to the soft-soiled island the stones of their ancient city. torcello was built from the stones of altinum; her very stones were veterans, the stamp of old times was upon them, the stamp of thoughts that were often sealed for those men of a later day who built them anew into their temples. the steps up to the pulpit in the duomo are perhaps the most striking instance of this ingrafting of the old upon the new, the naïve earnestness, perhaps the urgent haste and need of builders who did not fear to set an old pagan relief to do service in this temple of their christian god. there are various theories as to the meaning of the wonderful relief which forms the base of the pulpit stair, cut like its companion slabs to meet the requirements of the stair without regard to its individual existence. we cannot help pausing before it; for it is unique among the monuments of the estuary, so unique that it seems incredible it should have been the work of those late greek artists who executed the wonderful beasts and birds of the sanctuary screen. on the right is a woman’s figure, of egyptian rather than greek or roman mould, standing with averted face and head resting on her arms, in melancholy thought. beside her a man, like her resigned and meditative in attitude, but not yet with the resignation of despair, raises his left arm as if to ward off a blow. the blow is dealt left-handed by one who in his right hand holds a pair of scales and advances swiftly on winged wheels. he, again, is met in his advance by a fourth figure whom we only see in part, his right side having been almost completely cut away. he is fronting us, however--his feet planted firmly on the ground, his right hand folded on his breast, while with his left he grasps the forelock of the impetuous figure of the winged wheels and balances. thanks to the happy discovery by professor cattaneo of part of the fragment missing to the design, we know that a woman’s figure stood beyond him, holding in her left hand a palm and in her right a crown which she raises to the stalwart conqueror’s head. it is a simple but daring and most spirited composition. it seems to belong to a far remoter past than that of the earliest building of torcello. professor cattaneo explains it as an allegory of the passage of time, who on his winged wheels has already passed one man by, as he stands stroking his beard, while tears and sorrow await him in the form of the woman on his right in mourning guise and posture; the stalwart man on the left is he who faces time and takes him by the forelock, and for him the crown and palm of victory are in waiting. but professor cattaneo seems to give a needlessly limited significance to the idea of time. it is to him the time which god offers to man that he may do what is just and combat his own evil passions; this seems to him to be expressed by the scales and the stick he grasps in his hand. perhaps it is enough to think merely of the club as that with which a more familiar time is wont to deal back-handed blows at those who are so idle or so sluggish as to let him pass. at any rate the men of torcello could comprehend this language of the rough stone. what matter if the oracles were dumb? which of them had not wept to see the face of time averted, which of them had not felt the weight of his backward blow? and yet this symbol of old time must have been mute to them before the great solemn madonna in the dusky, golden circle of the apse; she looks beyond all fortunes and vicissitudes of man. how should they dare to pray to her? worship they may, and rise with strength to contend with time and conquer him, with a weapon to face the mystery of life; but they meet here no smile of comfort, no companionable grace. to those men who dreamed this figure, to us who look upon her and worship, the dominion of time is a forgotten thing; we ask no pity for our human woes; they have passed, they have crumbled: she gives us a better gift than pity, insight into the hidden things of life and of art; she wings with hope, if with stern hope, our dream of beauty. the mosaics on the west wall of the cathedral have the same stern character, with less of beauty than the madonna of the apse: the great angels on either side the weird central christ in the upper division have a strangely oriental effect. they might be indian gods. they hold the christian symbols, but with how abstracted, how remote a gaze they look out from their aureoles! they are at one with the noble simplicity and strength and greatness of the spirit of the building they adorn. somehow they seem to us the oldest thing within it; we begin to be drawn by them into mysteries older than the caves of greece whence the pillars of this duomo came; we begin to share their watch over a vast desert where all the faiths and imaginings of men may move and mingle, and find a common altar under the dome of the evening sky.
greater than torcello, and still maintaining, as near neighbour to venice, something of its old activities, murano lives, none the less, a phantom life. we would choose, as a fitting atmosphere for murano, a day of delicate lights and pale, lucent water, with faint fine tints within the water and the sky: a day of the falling year, not expectant, only acceptant, pausing in the dim quiet of its decay. even the hot sunshine, though it irradiates the features of murano, cannot penetrate to that spent heart. the marvellous fascination of its grand canal, with its swift and unaccustomed current of blue waters, cannot draw us from the sadness, or disperse the spectral melancholy which invades the spirit and surrounds it as an atmosphere. the sun infects the dirty children with a desire to shine, and prompts somersaults for a soldino; but the weary women, the old, crouching men, still creep about the fondamenta impervious to his rays. murano is not less disinherited, not less phantasmal, because the daylight comes to pierce the semblance of her life. it is strangely invasive and possessing, this sentiment of a life outlived, a body whose soul is fled. the long vine gardens that spread to the lagoon, dispossessed, but still apparently doing service and rich in vegetables and fruit, seem as if they would persuade us of their reality; but their walls are ruined, their ways are low and narrow; it was not thus they looked when bembo and navagero paced here in an earthly paradise, a haunt of nymphs and demigods. the living population of murano seems to have fallen under the same spell. if we bestow on them more than a cursory glance as we pass along the fondamenta, we seem to detect in their faces an indescribable sense of weariness and sorrow and decay. there seem many old among them, and on the young toil and privation have already laid their hand. the strange habitual chant of priest and women and young girls, going up from tired nerveless throats in the twilight of san pietro martire, seemed a symbol of the voice of murano, melancholy, mechanical, the phantom of a voice--an echo struck with the hand or by a breath of wind from a fallen instrument, an instrument that has lost its virtue and its ring, an instrument unstrung. we have seen murano in festa. she can pay her tribute to free italy. ponte lungo was hung with lamps, and the desolate campi had their share in the illumination. in the very piazza of san donato a hawker was winding elastic strings of golden treacle, while women and children in gay dresses hurried to and fro. in another square, under the clock tower, a demagogue addressed the crowd excitedly: there was plentiful noise, plentiful determination to enjoy. the campanile looked down and wondered. o roma o morte. had it been rome then and not death? rome and freedom, freedom to destroy the historic and the old? it was a grand triumph, a triumph justly commemorated, and yet the conquerors themselves might grieve over the italy of to-day. mazzini, we know, struck a note of melancholy out of that proud exultation. italy, if she lives, lives among ruins, and for the most part she is careless of her decay.
murano is full of corners where gothic and byzantine have combined to beautify portico, pillar and arch. in the asilo dei vecchii are two of the most ancient fireplaces known in venice, and at venice fireplaces were very early in use. one is a deep square hollowed in the wall, and furnished with doors that shut upon it like a panelling, while two little windows, as usual, open out behind. the other projects into the room, with sloping roof and little seats within on either side. murano, it is well known, was the pleasure-ground of the venetians in happier days; it was here that the men of the great republic had their gardens elect for solace and for beauty. but with the republic murano fell; the patrimonies of the patricians were scattered--gradually their palaces were snatched away, piece by piece, and fell into irrecoverable ruin. one only now retains some image of its former splendour, the famous cà da mula, upon the fine sweep of the grand canal. the madonna of san donato has looked down on the spoliation of her temple; she still looks on its slow decay. she has shared the proud sorrows of the campanile; in colloquy through the night what may he not have told of the passing of murano? they have little, these solemn guardians of the past, in common with the exuberant renaissance, but perhaps a common fate, the unifying hand of time, may have bound their spirits in a confraternity of grief. the heart of the old campanile would be stirred with pity for the fate of those deserted palaces, the sublime madonna would turn an eye not of scorn but of sorrow on the fading forms of those radiant women, so splendid on the frescoed palace fronts, so alluring in the smooth mirror of the canal. the work of the spoiler, so far as it was a work of violence, of a human spoiler, is done; but the slower work of nature still proceeds.
long before murano became a venetian pleasure-ground, she had been famous for her painters, for her ships, for her furnaces. like torcello, she sent vessels to the triumph of the doge lorenzo tiepolo, and she was conspicuous among the others, as da canale says: “for you must know that those of murano had on their vessels living cocks, so that they might be known and whence they came.” molmenti thinks that carpaccio himself belonged to a shipbuilding family of murano, and this is the more interesting in view of the frequency and detail of shipping operations in his pictures. murano was indeed the birthplace of venetian art, and the riches of its furnaces glow in the garments of those early painters, vivarini, andrea and quirico. from the end of the eleventh century the glass works had begun to flourish; by the thirteenth the industry was transferred wholly to murano. the legend runs that a certain cristoforo briani, hearing from marco polo of the monopoly of agates, chalcedony and other precious stones on the coast of guiana, set about imitating them. with domenico miotto to help him he succeeded, and the latter carried the art to still greater perfection, which resulted at last in the imitation of the pearl. in 1528 andrea vidoare received a special mariegola or charter for the fame of his wonderful pearls, polished and variegated by him to a degree unknown before. in the middle of the fifteenth century the first crystals came from the furnaces, and the following century was the golden period of the art--a period coinciding with the greatest patrician glory of the island. murano still burns with its secular fire, winning from the old world its secrets, the old, wise world that worshipped fire, to fuse them once more in its crucible for the wonder of the new; secrets of crystal, pearl and ruby, and of the blue of the deepest ocean depths or the impenetrable night sky, imprisoning them in those transparent cenotaphs in forms of infinite harmony and grace. and it is not only in the revival of ancient memories and forgotten mysteries that the furnaces of murano play their part; they contribute also to the present renewal of venice: for it is here that the units of the mosaicist’s art are made. in murano is laid the foundation-stone of its success--the quality of the colour, the depth and richness of the gold. the period of decadence in the venetian arts is accurately reflected in its mosaics; with the decadence of conception we note also the decadence of colour. those hard blatant tones that characterise the late mosaics of san marco are records, too permanent, alas! of a time when the furnaces had lost their cunning, or rather when the master minds were blunted and the secret of the ancient colourists allowed to lie unquestioned under the dust of time.
there is a humbler department of the glass works which we must not pass by. it lies away from the furnaces devoted to rare and subtle texture and design, behind san pietro martire, among the gardens: a manufactory of common glass for daily use, tumblers and water-bottles and other humble ware. here there is the swift operation of machinery, at least among the coarser glasses, and a noise of the very inferno with countless sweating fiends--little black-faced grinning boys, grateful for a package full of grapes or juicy figs; there is little mystery in the production of this coarser glass, or rather few of the obvious accessories of mystery, the delicate slow fashioning, the infusion of colours. instead, the constant noise of machinery, deafening and exhausting in its incessant motion, though even here the reign of machinery is limited: the finer tumblers must go a longer journey to be filed by a slower, more gradual process, the direct handiwork of man. there is an upper circle to which we gladly pass from this inferno, almost a paradise if we contrast it with the turmoil and heat below; to reach it we pass by the troughs of grey sand which all day men are trampling with the soles of their bare feet, to mould into fit temper for the furnace. the floor of the room above is covered and the walls lined with strange creations of cold, grey earth, fashioned by hand, roll after roll of clay, ungainly forms to be inhabited by fire. this upper attic, with its company of mute grey moulds, opens out upon the vineyards of murano, with water shimmering through the long golden alleys, and the city visible beyond. the gardens of the palazzo da mula and of san cipriano are beside us. the bustle of the new world has invaded the peaceful seclusion of a spot once sacred to the student aristocracy of venice.
for this island, famed for so glorious an industry, was beloved and honoured by the noblest of venetian names, trifone gabriele and pietro bembo and andrea navagero. here navagero founded one of the first botanic gardens of europe--“a terrestrial paradise, a place of nymphs and demigods”; here gabriele wandered for hours under the thick vine pergola walled with jessamine against the sun. and it was not only as a temporary pleasure-ground that they loved murano: they clung to it as their resting-place in death. bernardo giustiniani desired to be buried by his palace, at the foot of ponte lungo, and andrea navagero in the church of san martino in the same quarter where his house was built. murano was honoured by at least one royal guest. it was here that henry iii of france, on his passage through venice from polonia, was given his first lodging, and the palace which witnessed the first transports of this rapturous monarch, the palace of bartolomeo capello, still exists, close beside the church of santa maria degli angeli, at the extreme western point of the city. it would thus form the most convenient landing-place, besides commanding a view of extreme beauty; to the left, the fine torrent-like sweep of the chief canal, with the noble cà da mula a little lower on the opposite bank and its gardens immediately over the water; venice filling the horizon clear across the lagoon, where the south curve of murano ends to-day in a meadow of rough grass and fragrant herbs; to the right the convent of the angeli, leading on the eye across the lagoon to the mainland and the distant mountains beyond. traces of fresco remain on the outer walls of the palazzo, and the upper hall still stretches through the whole breadth of the house. it is on the balcony of this central hall that henry must have stood when he appeared before dinner to gratify the crowds on the fondamenta and in the boats below. the view of venice in the evening light is exquisitely lovely, with the lagoon spread like a mirror to reflect the delicate opaline of the sunset sky. in this hall hung with cloth of gold and cremosine, and perhaps with the colours of veronese, looking over a paradise of gardens and water to the immortal city, henry kept his court, received the legates from the pope and said a thousand graceful things about his holiness, rejoiced the natives by his noble bearing, his perfumed gloves, his frank pleasure in their tribute, his decision to go on foot to the angeli to morning mass. thus was he initiated to the magical city and its enchantments by that wise providence of the venetians, who made their islands always stepping-stones, outer courts of the central shrine, where their pilgrim must pause awhile to shake the dust of the mainland off his feet, that the spell might permeate his being and fill his senses with desire.
the fondamenta below henry’s palace, leading to the church of the angeli, is one of the most desolate in murano; the wide green campo of the cemetery which opens from it is deserted and bare, save for a few fowls that humbly commemorate the proud old shield. the dirt of the children is indescribable, as they press close begging a soldino. but their dirt is dearer to them. a bargain for a washed face, even when the reward rings cheerily on the pavement, brings no response but laughter and surprise. we are reminded by contrast of the tribute of andrea calmo, a popular poet of the sixteenth century:
e voio tanto bene a quel muran, che, per diroelo certo in veritæ, son in pensier de vender le mie intræ. e venir la per starmene pì san. quei horti a pieni de herbe uliose e quel canal cusi chiaro e pulio con quelle belle casi si aierose, con tante creature che par riose liogo che l’ha stampao domenedio.
there is an island where we cannot think of death, where decay dare not come; though the water plants smell faint upon its shores, and the cypresses that clothe it rise black against the sky. it is the island that sheltered one of the most joyful spirits that has ever walked the world, the island where the larks once sang in such prolonged impulsive harmony of joy that the sound of their singing has never passed away; it may seem to lie silent as a veil upon the water, but the tremor of the sunshine will waken it to renewed harmonics of delight--san francesco del deserto. we rejoice to think that the poverello set foot in the lagoons, that he left here in the lonely waters the blossom of his love. st. francis of the desert can wake no thoughts of melancholy, and indeed this is no deserted place, nor in the morning of his coming, after the night of storm, can it have seemed a place of desolation; for nothing is more wonderful, more prodigally full of the mysterious rapture of life, than the flowing in of day upon the lagoons after the tumult of rain and hurricane. they say that st. francis, coming from the holy land on a venetian ship, was driven by the storm to cast anchor near torcello; that as he prayed, the storm subsided, and a great calm fell on the lagoon. then as the poverello set foot upon this cypress-covered shore, the sun came out--the sun of the early summer dawn--and shone through the dripping branches of the cypresses, covering them with glistening crystals, and shone on the damp feathered creatures among the branches and on the larks among the reedy grass, and as he shone a choir of voices woke in the lonely island and a chorus of welcome burst from ten thousand throats. and the sun shone in the heart of st. francis also, and it overflowed with joy; and st. francis said to his companion, “the little birds, our brothers, praise their creator with joy; and we also as we walk in the midst of them--let us sing the praises of god.” and then as st. bonaventura relates the legend, the birds sang so clamorously on the branches that st. francis had to entreat their silence till he had sung the lauds; but we may read another story if we will, and say that the dewy matin song of the birds was not so clamorous as to disturb the quiet morning gladness of the poverello, that they sang together in the dawn. san francesco del deserto is not an island of sorrow. in the little convent inhabited still by a few quiet franciscans, the narrow gloomy corner is to be seen which they name st. francis’s bed: in the convent garden there rises a stone memorial round the tree that flowered from the saint’s planted staff. we know these familiar symbols of the franciscan convents: the brothers cling to them as to some fragmentary testament that their eyes can read and their hand grasp when the living spirit has fled away; everywhere among the mountain or the valley solitudes where st. francis dwelt, the same dark relics of that luminous spirit are to be found, the story even of birds banished for ever by the command of that prince of singers, as if his own voice chanting eternal litanies could be his sole delight. they are strange stories; we pass them by, and go out to find the poverello where the cones of the cypresses gleam silver-grey against the blue. his spirit has taken happy root among the waters of the lagoons; a new joy and glory is added to the mountains as they rise in the calm dawn, clear and luminous from the departing rain cloud; there is joy and peace in the raised grass walk between the cypress trees; the island is indeed a place of life and not of death for those who have felt the suffering and the joy of love, and who worship beauty in their hearts.
o beata solitudo, o sola beatitudo.
there are still solitudes in the desert of the lagoon where some of us have dreamed of beginning a new day. in the hour when the last gold has faded from the sun-path--when those dancing gems he flings to leap and sport upon the water have been slowly gathered in, when the churches and palaces of the city are folded under one soft clinging veil, which softens the outline that it does not obscure, when torcello and burano lean in pallid solitude above the level disc of the marsh, and the lido lies like a sea-serpent coiled on itself, its spires reflected in the motionless mirror far south to chioggia--they steal out, these island phantoms, faint, alluring, upon the still mosaic of the lagoon, like black pearls in that shell-like surface of tenderest azure and rose. shall we not dare to wander among those lovely paths, those dimly burning gems? none visits them, unless it be the golden stars and the dreaming lover of endymion: their roof is the broad rainbow spread above them by the setting sun. they seem sometimes to welcome a spirit that should come and dwell among them silently; one that should tread them with loving reverence and quiet hope, seeking to set free the fantasies with which earth has stored it, but which no power of earth may help it to disburden.
the nuptials of venice
until the fall of the venetian republic the rite of the sporalizio del mare, the wedding of venice with the sea, continued to be celebrated annually at the feast of the ascension. long after the fruits of the espousal had been gathered, when its renewal had become no more than a ceremonious display, there stirred a pulse of present life in the embrace; and in a sense, the significance of the ceremony never can be lost while one stone remains upon another in the city of the sea.
for the earliest celebration of the nuptials there was need of no golden bucintoro, no feast of red wine and chestnuts, no damask roses in a silver cup, not so much as a ring to seal the bond. for it was no vaunt of sovereignty; it was a humble oblation, a prayer to the creator that his creature might be calm and tranquil to all who travelled over it, an oblation to the creature that it might be pleased to assist the gracious and pacific work of its creator. the regal ceremony of later times was inaugurated by the doge pietro orseolo ii who, having largely increased the sea dominion of venice and made himself lord of the adriatic, welded his achievement into the fabric of the state by the ceremony of the espousal. the ring was not introduced till the year 1177, when pope alexander iii, being present at the festival, bestowed it on the doge, as token of the papal sanction of the ceremony, with the words, “receive it as pledge of the sovereignty that you and your successors shall maintain over the sea.” but the true importance of the festival, whether in its primitive form or in its later elaboration, is the development of venetian policy which it signified--a development which, for the purposes of this chapter, will best be considered in relation to events separated by nearly two centuries, but united in their acknowledgment of the growing importance of venice on the waters. the first is pietro orseolo’s dalmatian campaign, followed in 1001 by the secret visit of the german emperor otho iii, and the second the famous concordat of pope alexander iii and the emperor frederick barbarossa, concluded under the auspices of venetian statecraft in 1177.
pietro orseolo ii appears as one of the most potent interpreters of the venetian spirit. he combined qualities which enabled him to gather together the threads which the genius of venice and the exigencies of her position were weaving, and to fashion from them a substantial web on which her industry might operate. he was a soldier, a great statesman and a patriot. all the subtlety, all the ambition, all the dreams of glory with which his potent and spacious mind was endowed, were at his country’s service, and the material in which he had to work was plastic to his touch. venice lay midway between the kingdoms of the east and west, and from the earliest times this fact had determined her importance: she might rise to greatness or she might be annihilated; she could not be ignored. the venice of orseolo was instinct with vitality and teeming with energies, but she was divided against herself. the foundations of her greatness were already laid, but her general aim and tendency were not determined. she was in need of a leader of commanding mind and capacious imagination, who could envisage her future, and who should possess the power of inspiring others with confidence in his dreams. such a man was pietro orseolo ii. venice had been threatened with destruction by the division of the two interests which, interwoven, were the basis of her power. before the final settlement at rialto she had been torn hither and thither by the factions of the east and west, the party favouring constantinople and the party favouring the frankish king; and at any moment still the doge’s policy might be wrecked by the rivalries of the two parties, if he proved lacking in insight or capacity for uniting in his service the interests of both.
for some time dalmatia had been a thorn in the side of venice, a refuge for the disloyal, and, through the agency of the hordes of pirates infesting the coast, a real menace to her commerce. venice had attempted to purchase immunity from the pirates by payment of an annual indemnity. orseolo decided at once to put an end to this payment, but he realised that the price of the decision was a foothold in dalmatia that would need to be obtained by force of arms. for this end it was necessary to secure harmony within the city itself, and, knowing this, he exercised his powers to obtain approval of his expedition from the authorities of east and of west, from the emperors of germany and byzantium. he was successful in this, and circumstances combined further to aid his designs. the croatians and narentines, by wreaking on northern dalmatia their anger at the loss of the venetian indemnity, had prepared the minds of the dalmatians to look on the prospect of venetian supremacy as one of release rather than of subjugation. it is said that they even went so far as to send a message to orseolo encouraging his coming. their province was nominally under the emperor of byzantium, but their overlord had decided to look favourably on a means of securing peace and safe passage to his province at so small an expense to himself. orseolo set sail on ascension day, after a service in the cathedral of olivolo (now san pietro di castello), fortified by the good will of east and of west, and the united acclamations of all parties in venice. pride and vigorous hope must have swelled the hearts of these warriors. it was summer, and their songs must have travelled across the dazzling blue of the great basin of st. mark, and echoed and re-echoed far out on the crystal waters of the lagoon. triumph was anticipated, and triumph was their portion. orseolo’s expedition was little less than a triumphal progress; the coast towns of dalmatia from zara to ragusa rendered him their homage. a new and immensely rich province was acquired by venice, and the title of duke of dalmatia accorded to himself.
soon after orseolo’s return from this campaign, venice, unknown to herself, was to receive the homage of one of the emperors she had made it her business to propitiate. there is something that stirs the imagination in this secret visit of otho iii to the doge. according to the ingenuous account of john the deacon, venetian ambassador at the emperor’s court, it was merely one of those visits of princely compliment which the age knew so well how to contrive, and loved so well to recount--a visit in disguise for humility or greater freedom, like that of st. louis to brother giles at perugia, where host and guest embrace in fellowship too deep for words. the emperor, john the deacon tells us, was overcome with admiration of orseolo’s achievements in dalmatia, and filled with longing to see so great a man, and the chronicler was despatched to venice to arrange a meeting. the doge, while acknowledging the compliment of otho’s message, could not believe in its reality, and consequently kept his own counsel about it--“tacitus sibi in corde servabat.” however, when otho on his travels had come down to ravenna for lent, john the deacon was again despatched, and this time from doge to emperor.
it was ultimately arranged that after the easter celebration otho with a handful of followers should repair, under pretext of a “spring-cure,” to the abbey of santa maria in the isle of pomposa at the mouth of the po. he pretended to be taking up his quarters here for several days, but at nightfall he secretly embarked in a small boat prepared by john the deacon, and set sail with him and six followers for venice. all that night and all the following day the little boat battled with the tempest, and the storm was still unabated the next evening, when it put in at the island of san servolo and found itself harboured at last in the waters of st. mark. venice knew nothing of this arrival; her royal guest had taken her unawares, and her waterways had prepared him no welcome. we may picture the anxiety of orseolo, alone with the secret of his expected guest, on the island of san servolo. the journey may well have been perilous for so small a boat even within the sheltering wall of the lido, and we may imagine his relief when it could at last be descried beating towards the island through the tempestuous waters of the lagoon. in impenetrable night, concealed from one another’s eyes by the thick darkness, emperor and doge embraced. otho was invited to rest for an hour or two at the convent of san zaccaria, but he repaired before dawn to the ducal palace and the lodging made ready for him in the eastern tower. there is a fascination in attempting to imagine the two sovereigns moving amid the shadows of venetian night, in thinking of the emperor watching from the vantage of his tower for daybreak over the city. there are wonders to be seen from this eastern aspect, but after the discomfort of his voyage to venice the royal captive may well have felt a longing for a sight of the city from within. it is all rather like a children’s game--orseolo’s feigned first meeting with an embassy from otho, his inquiry as to the emperor’s health and whereabouts, and the public dinner with the ambassadors. venice is robbed of a pageant, and one most dear to her, the fêting of a royal guest; the guest is deprived of all festivities beyond a christening of the doge’s daughter; yet the pleasurable excitement of john the chronicler communicates itself and disarms our criticism; and it is not till gifts have been offered and refused--“ne quis cupiditatis et non sancti marci tuæque dilectionis causa me hac venisse asserat”--till tears and kisses have been exchanged, and the emperor, this time preceding his companions by a day, has set sail once more for the island of pomposa, that we break from the spell of the chronicler and begin to cavil at the strange conditions of the visit.
modern historians have laid a probing hand on the sentimentality of john the deacon’s tale; they do not doubt the kisses or the tears, but the unparalleled eccentricity of secrecy seems to demand an urgent motive. why this strange coyness of the emperor? might he not have thought more to honour venice and her doge by coming with imperial pomp than by stealing in and out of the triumphant city like a thief in the night? and why did the persons concerned make public boast of the success of their freak immediately after its occurrence? for john tells us that when three days had passed, the people were assembled by the doge at his palace to hear of his achievement, “and praised no less the faith of the emperor than the skill of their leader.” the probable solution of the various enigmas rather rudely shatters the romance. gfrörer lays on orseolo the responsibility of the incognito, attributing it partly to a memory of the fate that overtook the candiani’s personal relations with an imperial house, partly to his desire to treat with the emperor unobserved. he recalls point by point the precautions taken by orseolo to preclude otho from contact with other venetians, and comes to the conclusion that in those private interviews in the tower the “eternal dreamer” was feasted on the milk and honey of promises, food of which no third person could have been allowed to partake. “what lies,” he exclaims, “were invented, what assurances vouchsafed of the most unbounded devotion to imperial projects in general and the longed-for reconstitution of the roman empire in particular! never was prince so shamefully abused as otho iii at venice.” it is not necessary to abandon our belief in otho’s personal feelings for the doge, augmented by orseolo’s recent campaign, to realise that there must have been another side to the picture. gulled the royal guest in all probability was, but there is little doubt that he had an axe of his own to be ground on this visit to venice--that the journey had for its aim something beyond his delectation in a sight of the doge and his obeisance to the lion. for the furtherance of his schemes of empire otho needed a fleet. he had, gfrörer tells us, “an admiral already in view for it. nothing was wanted but cables, anchors, equipments; in short there were not even ships, nor the necessary money, and above all, there were no sailors. i believe that otho iii undertook the journey to venice precisely to procure for himself these necessary trifles. who knows how many times already he had urged the doge to hasten his sending of the long-promised fleet; but in place of ships nothing had yet come but letters or embassies carrying specious excuses.” if the historian’s motivisation is accurate, otho must have found, like so many after him, venice more capable of exercising persuasion than of submitting to it. for our uses, however, the original or the revised versions of the tale serve the same purpose. as an act of spontaneous homage or an act of practical policy, the visit of otho, full as it is of speculative possibilities, was an imperial tribute to the position orseolo had given to venice, an imperial recognition of her progress towards supremacy in the adriatic.
orseolo’s achievement and the rite which symbolised it were confirmed two centuries later when, in the spring and summer of 1177, venice was the meeting place of pope alexander iii and the emperor frederick barbarossa. tradition has woven a curious romance round the fact of the pope’s sojourn in venice before the coming of the emperor. by a manipulation of various episodes, he is brought as a fugitive to creep among the tortuous by-ways of the city, sleeping on the bare ground, and going forward as chance might direct till he is received as a chaplain--or, to enhance the thrill of agony, as a scullion--in the convent of santa maria della carità, and after some months have elapsed is brought to the notice of the doge, when a transformation scene of the cinderella type is effected. it is inevitable that melodramatic touches should have been added to so important an episode, and the accounts of the manner of alexander’s arrival and his bearing in venice are many and varied. none the less, it is clear that splendour and not secrecy, ceremony not intimacy, are the general colouring of the event. frederick had shown himself disposed to make peace and to accept the mediation of venice, and in the early days of the pope’s visit the venetians had acted as counsellors, pending the agreement as to a meeting place. significant terms are used by the chroniclers to account for the ultimate choice, and the note which they strike is repeated again and again in the chorus of praise that throughout the centuries was to wait upon venice. “pope and emperor sent forth their mandates to divers parts of the world, that archbishops, bishops, abbots, ecclesiastics and secular princes should repair to venice; for venice is safe for all, fertile and abounding in supplies, and the people quiet and peace-loving.” secure among the lagoons, venice is aloof from the disturbances of the mainland cities, and though her inhabitants are proved warriors they are peaceable citizens. many of the glories of gentile bellini’s procession of the cross would be present in the procession in which the doge and the magnates of venice formally conducted alexander iii to the city--patriarch, bishops, clergy, and finally the pope himself, all in their festival robes. ecclesiastical and secular princes of germany, france, england, spain, hungary and the whole of italy were crowding to venice. the occasion gave scope for her fascinations, and they were exerted. no opportunity for display was neglected; ceremony was heaped upon ceremony.
for over a fortnight venice was the centre of correspondence daily renewed between emperor and pope, of embassies hastening to and fro, of endless postponements and uncertainties. the pope retires for a few days to ferrara; then he is back again to be received as before. but venice, the indomitable, is secure of her will, and preparations for the coming of the emperor are growing apace. in july the doge’s son is despatched to meet the royal guest at ravenna and conduct him to venice by way of chioggia. no tempests disturbed his arrival. he was conducted in triumph up the lagoon by the galleys of “honest men” and cardinals who had gone forth to chioggia to meet him. slowly the islands of the lido would unfold themselves to his eyes, pellestrina in shining curves, malamocco with its long reaches of bare shore and reeds. the group clustered round venice itself--san servolo, la grazia, san lazzaro, poveglia--would be green and smiling then, living islands, not desolated as now for the most part by magazine or asylum. san nicolo del lido welcomed the guest, and he was borne thence on the ducal boat to the city and landed at the riva. through the acclamations of an “unheard-of multitude” his way was made to san marco, where the pope in all his robes, amid a throng of gorgeous ecclesiastics and laymen, was waiting on the threshold. as he passed out of the brilliant and garish day into the solemn mosaiced glory of san marco and moved to the high altar between pope and doge singing a te deum, “while all gave thanks to god, rejoicing and exulting and weeping,” even an emperor and a barbarossa may well have surrendered his pride. even we, spectators removed by time, find ourselves exalted on the tide of colour and of sound, and crying to the venetians, with the strangers who thronged in their streets, “blessed are ye, that so great a peace has been able to be established in the midst of you! this shall be a memorial to your name for ever.” peace was secured and venice had accomplished her task. she had devoted the subtleties of her statecraft to its performance, but perhaps the splendour of this hour in san marco was her crowning achievement. she asked the recognition of a pope, and she brought the temporal sovereign to his side in a church which is one of the wonders of christendom. she polished and gilded every detail of her worldly magnificence, and poured it as an oblation at the altar. her reinforcements to the cause of alexander iii were drawn from far back in the ages, from the inspiration of the men who had fashioned her temple; and may there not be some deeper signification than merely that of frederick’s stubbornness in the “not to thee, but to st. peter,” traditionally attributed to him as he prostrated himself at his enemy’s feet?
to venice there remained, beside the praise of all christendom, many tangible tokens of the events of the summer. emperor and pope vied with each other in evincing their gratitude. alexander formally sanctioned and confirmed the title of venice as sovereign and queen of the adriatic, and bestowed on the doge a consecrated ring for use at the nuptials. and henceforth the ceremony at san nicolo del lido, the place of arrival and departure for the high seas and for dalmatia and the east, was increased in magnificence. no trace now remains of the church where the rites were performed; but the grassy squares of san nicolo and the wooded slopes of its canal, looking on one side to the city, on the other to the sea, are beautiful still. the ocean calls to the lagoon, and the calm waters of the lagoon sway themselves in answer; while, outside the lido, line beyond line of snowy-crested waves, ever advancing, bear in to venice, bride of the adriatic, the will of the high sea.
venice in festival
the treaty signed in 1573 between venice and constantinople, though it marked no real rise in her fortunes, gave her a respite from the petty and fruitless warfare with the turk, in which she had so long been engaged. that conflict had drained the resources of the republic without affording compensating gains. the loss and horrors of famagosta might seem to have been revenged by the battle of lepanto, where the triumph of venice and her allies was complete; but owing to the dilatoriness and inaction of don john of austria, brother of philip of spain, the opportunity of annihilating the turkish forces was allowed to escape, and victory was reduced to little more than the name. so flagrant had been the character of don john’s disloyalty that the venetians no longer could mistake his intentions. spain was an ally of venice; but tommaso morosini was but voicing the general conviction when he exclaimed, “we must face the fact that there will be no profitable progress, seeing that the victory already gained by the forces of the league against the turk was great in the number of ships captured, rare in the number of slaves set free, famous by reason of the power it broke, formidable for the numbers killed by the sword, glorious for the pride it laid low, terrible in the fame acquired by it. and, none the less, no single foot of ground was gained. oh, incomparable ignominy and shame of the allies, that whatever honour they obtained in consequence of the victory, they lost by not following it up!” though nominally in league with her against the turk, spain, owing to her jealousy of venice, was unwilling that the war should be ended. the league of cambray, formed in 1508 by the european powers unfriendly to venice, should have made it clear to the republic that she had over-reached her own interests by interference in the politics of europe. moreover, a severe blow had been dealt to the commerce of venice by the discovery of the cape route to the east. yet, though her decline had begun, she still formed a subject for envy, and there is justice in morosini’s conclusion as to the causes of the growing enmity of spain. “ruling,” he says of the spaniards, “a good part of europe, having passed into africa, having discovered new territory, dominating most of italy, and seeing the republic, the single part, the only corner of italy, to be free and without the least burden of slavery, they envy it, envying it they hate it, and hating it they lay snares for it.”
though the terms of the peace with constantinople were humiliating in the extreme (venice relinquished the whole of cyprus, a fortress in albania, and agreed within three years to pay an indemnity of one hundred thousand ducats) it set her hands free for awhile and gave her a breathing space in which to return to her pageants. and for the next few years she laid herself out more completely than ever before to impress the world by her splendour. it is not easy to determine the beginnings of decadent luxury in venetian history. venice had always been a pleasure-house, a place of entertainment for kings and emperors, a temple of solemn festival. perhaps the broad difference between the splendours of the early and late renaissance is that one achieved that perfection of taste which robes luxury in apparent simplicity, while the other was more obvious and expansive--the difference between the madonnas of bellini and of titian, between the interiors of carpaccio and paul veronese. there is a real and discernible difference in aspect between venice of the fifteenth and venice of the sixteenth century, but it is not the difference between asceticism and luxury. venice was never ascetic, no prophet ever drew her citizens round a sacrificial bonfire on the piazza. on the other hand it is said that a venetian merchant was burnt in effigy on savonarola’s pile because he had attempted to purchase some of the doomed florentine treasures. in the course of the fifteenth century isolated voices were indeed raised in protest against the luxury of venice, and the authorities themselves, as the state coffers grew empty, tried by oratorical appeal and detailed legislation to curb the extravagance of private citizens. but their protests were, in the main, quite ineffectual. venice could not resist the influences that wove for her each day a magical dress; she could not refuse the treasures of the east: it was her function to be beautiful, to accept and love every wonder, to turn her face against nothing that could glorify. she had always appeared as a miracle to men, she had always lavished her treasures on her guests; the vital difference between the period of her decline and that of her greatness lies in the gradual relaxation of the ties binding her to the sources of her wealth. with the ebbing of her trade her citizens begin to barter their landed estates and their treasures. morosini’s acute and interesting prophecy as to the private banks into which venetian money began to be diverted provides us with a background to some of the almost fabulous expenditure of the cinquecento--“the banker,” he says, “with a chance of obliging many friends in their need, and acquiring others by such a service, and with power to do so without spending money, simply by making a brief entry, is easily persuaded to satisfy many. when the opportunity arises of buying some valuable piece of furniture or decoration, clothes, jewels and similar things of great price, he is easily persuaded to please himself, simply ordering a line or two to be written in his books--reassuring, or rather, deceiving himself with the thought that one year being passed in this way, he can carry time forward, and pass many years in the same manner, scheming that such an affair or such an investment as he has in hand, when it has come to perfection, ought to prove most useful, and that through its means he may be able to remedy other disorders; which hope proving fallacious shows with how little security walks one who places his thoughts and hopes in the uncertain and inconstant issues of events.”
the fabric of sixteenth-century venice was too largely founded on the “uncertain and inconstant issues of events,” but none the less it was as radiant a fabric as any that man has yet fashioned. something at least of its nature may be learned from the details of the entertainment of henry iii in venice, and his lodging and reception in the then fashionable suburb of murano. henry came to venice in the early summer of 1574, on his way from poland to take possession of the throne of france vacated by the death of his brother charles ix. he came at a moment when venice was rich in artists to do him honour--tintoretto, paolo veronese, palladio and claudio merulo: he was crowned with the laurels of war; while the republic was able to clothe herself in the glory of lepanto and the respite of her newly concluded peace with the turk and, superficially at least, appeared peculiarly fitted to welcome him. the young king was gracious, and greedy to drink his fill of life, and venice was unique in her celebration. the visit was one of the most spontaneous, the most joyful to host and guest, of any that are recorded in her annals. all the territory of venice was prepared to honour him, and his journey was a triumphal progress. there is something joyous still about the little inland cities of his route, echoes of festival still linger in their streets, romance still dwells in their hearts. at treviso, where the young king was welcomed with peculiar pomp, the lion of st. mark, portrayed by three successive ages, rules still, his majesty sustained by the sturdiness of life that moves in the city. the winding cobbled streets are full of bustle and interchange, the arcades are full of people, vital and busily employed. treviso is not a museum. its ancient palace of the cavallieri is still in use, though its loggia with traces of rich fresco is filled with lumber. but we are not critical of small details at treviso; we thank it for its winding streets and for its leaping azure river; we thank it for its countless ancient roofs and painted rafters; for its houses high and low, harmonious though endless in variation, for the remnants of fresco, shadows no doubt of what once they were, but companionable shadows--horses with still distinguishable motions, graceful maidens both of land and sea. these glories are fading but they have substance still, and on a day of mid-autumn we are well able to imagine a kingly procession on the road from treviso to mestre. it seems a pageant, a progress of pomp and colour, as we pass between the vineyards and maize fields and the great gardens and pastures of the villas, down the avenue of plane trees set like gold banners on silvery flagstaffs with carpets of fallen leaves at their feet. behind them are ranked dark cypresses, pale groups of willow, or companies of poplar. and these are often garlanded to their very summits by crimson creepers, and interspersed with statues, not perhaps great in workmanship, but tempered and harmonised into beauty by the seasons. here and there is a lawn flanked by dark shrubbery, or a terrace ablaze with dahlias and salvia. and, among them, baron franchetti of the cà d’oro has a home even more worthy of the golden title than is his palace on the shores of the grand canal--a place where the sun reveals miraculous hangings in the shrubberies, sumptuously furnished with scarlet and crimson and gold.
some such festival of colour, in banners and trappings, would be henry’s preparation for the pageant of the lagoons. for he was met at marghera, half way between mestre and venice, by a troop of senators and noblemen and ambassadors, and escorted to the palace of bartolomeo capello at murano. of the young king’s lodging at murano we have spoken elsewhere--of the hall hung with gold brocade, with golden baldaquin, green velvet and silk, its entrance guarded by sixty halberdiers armed for the occasion with gilt spears borrowed from the chambers of the council of ten. forty noble youths, in glorious attire, had been told off to wait on the king. but, “although a most sumptuous supper was prepared, none the less his majesty, when the senators were gone, showed himself a short while at the windows dressed in cloth of gold and silk; after which he went to supper, and the princes arrived, so that it was most glorious with abundant supply of exquisite viands and most delicate foods.” the hearts of the venetians were won by the king’s beauty and youth, by his delicate person and grave aspect, by his majestic bearing and his eagerness to please and be pleased. he was in mourning for his brother, but his mourning did not shadow venice by its gloom. “his majesty appeared in public dressed all in purple (which is his mourning) with a flemish cloak, a cap on his head in the italian mode, with long veil and mantle reaching to his feet, slashed jerkin, stockings and leather collar, and a large shirt-frill most becomingly worn, with perfumed gloves in his hand, and wearing on his feet shoes with heels à la mode française.”
it would be tedious to relate the details of the splendid entertainments that each day were provided for his delectation; of salutes that made the earth and water tremble, of fireworks glowing all night beneath the windows of the cà foscari, of the blaze of light from the candles set in every window and cornice and angle of the buildings along the grand canal, of the gilded lilies and pyramids and wheels reflected in the water, “so that the canal seemed like another starry sky.” it was a veritable gala for henry; he paid a private visit to the doge to the great satisfaction of that prince and his senate, he went about incognito in a gondola alone with the duke of ferrara, “so that when they thought he was in his room, he was in some other part of the city, returning home at an exceedingly late hour accompanied by many torches, and immensely enjoying the liberty of this town; and on account of his charm and courtesy, the whole place gave vent to the lasting joy and satisfaction it felt in continually seeing him.” he spent three hours in the arsenal, engrossed in viewing the vast preparation for war and the spoils won from the turk “in the sea battle on the day of the great victory”; and then in the chamber of the council of ten, within the arsenal, he was provided with a sugar feast, with sugar dishes, knives and forks, so admirably counterfeit that his majesty only realised their nature when his sugar napkin crumbled and a piece of it fell to the ground. is there not something contributive to our picture of venice the entertainer, in this feast of sugar given by the terrible council of ten within the walls of the arsenal itself? there is naturally much vague repetition in the chronicles of the time, but here and there are vital touches which bring the young king to life before our eyes. at the banquet given in his honour in the sala del gran consiglio, having eaten sufficiently himself, he brought the meal to an end before half of the courses had appeared, by adroitly causing the dukes of savoy and ferrara to rise in their places at his side, and calling for water for his hands during the disturbance caused by the lords and ambassadors as they followed the example of the dukes. he told giovanni michele that of all the entertainments he had witnessed in venice none had pleased him more than the “guerra dei ponti,” and that if he had known of it earlier he would have prayed to have had the spectacle repeated several times, for he “could have asked nothing better than this.” the guerra dei ponti were wrestling matches that took place on certain bridges over the canals, and pages of description might not have told us as much of the nature of the man who lived behind the scented gloves and purple mantle, as this single expression of preference.
the convent of sant’ elena was the vantage point chosen for looking on venice, and at the moment the army of barges and brigantines reached it, they spread out in front of his majesty, and a salute broke from them all; “to which the galleys in the train of the king replied in such ordered unity that his majesty rose to his feet with great curiosity to see them, praising exceedingly so wonderful a sight, admiring to his right the fair and famous city marvellously built upon the salt waters, and on the left a forest of so many ships and vessels with so great noise of artillery and arquebuses, and of trumpets and drums, that he remained astounded; while he openly showed himself not less merry than content, seeing so rare a thing as was never before seen of him.” henry’s arrival at the lido is portrayed in the sala delle quattro porte in the ducal palace. he is seen advancing with sprightly step, between two dignitaries of the church, up a temporary wooden bridge towards the triumphal arch and temple of palladio. this arch was decorated with paintings by paolo and tintoretto, and in connexion with it ridolfi tells a delightful story of the painting of henry’s portrait. “tintoretto,” says ridolfi, “was longing to paint the king’s portrait, and in consequence begged paolo to finish the arch by himself; and, taking off his toga, tintoretto dressed himself as one of the doge’s equerries, and took his place among them in the bucintoro as it moved to meet the king, thus furtively procuring a chalk sketch of the proposed portrait, which he was afterwards to enlarge to life size; and having made friends with m. bellagarda, the king’s treasurer, he was introduced with much difficulty, owing to the frequent visits of the doge, into the royal apartments to retouch the portrait from life. now whilst he stood painting, and the king with great courtesy admiring, there entered presumptuously into the apartments at smith of the arsenal, presenting an ill-done portrait by himself, and saying that, while his majesty was dining in the arsenal, he had done the likeness of him. his presumption was humbled by a courtier who snatched it from his hand, and ripping it up with his dagger threw it into the neighbouring grand canal: which incident, on account of the whispering it produced, made it difficult for the painter to carry out his intention. tintoretto had also observed on that occasion that from time to time certain persons were introduced to the king, whom he touched lightly on the shoulder with his rapier, adding other ceremonies. and pretending not to understand the meaning, he asked it of bellagarda, who said that they were created knights by his majesty, and that he, tintoretto, might prepare himself to receive that degree; for he had discussed the matter with the king, to whom tintoretto’s conditions were known and who had shown himself disposed, in attestation of his powers, to create him also a knight; but our painter, not being willing to subject himself to any title, modestly rejected the offer.” when the portrait was finished and presented to the king, it was acclaimed by him as a marvellous likeness, and we may safely conclude from this that it was fair to look on. the king presented it to the doge. perhaps the picture from the first had been intended as a present for mocenigo, and this was the explanation of the secrecy observed in regard to it.
the climax of entertainment was reached in the festa at the ducal palace on the second sunday after henry’s arrival (his visit lasted ten days). the glories of venice were gathered in that marvellous hall still hung with the paintings of carpaccio and gentile bellini, and the exquisite paradise of guariento; for it was yet a year previous to the great fire which was to give scope to the contemporary giants. the later victories of venice were as yet unchronicled except in the hearts of living men. there was no thought of sumptuary laws on this day at least of the great festival. ladies were there clothed all in ormesine, adorned with jewels and pearls of great size, not only in strings on their necks, but covering their head-dresses and the cloaks on their shoulders. “and in their whiteness, their beauty and magnificence, they formed a choir not so much of nymphs as of very goddesses. they were set one behind the other in fair order upon carpeted benches stretching round the whole hall, leaving an ample space in the centre, at the head of which was set a royal seat with a covering of gold and entirely covered with a baldaquin from top to bottom, and round it yellow and blue satin.” all the splendours of venetian and oriental cloths were lavished on the hall of the great council and the sala del scrutinio adjoining. the king as usual entered whole-heartedly into the festivity. his seat was raised that he might look over the company, “but he chose nevertheless to go round and salute all the ladies with much grace and courtesy, raising his cap as he went along.” after a time musical instruments were heard, the ladies were carried off by the gentlemen, and forming into line they began to dance a slow measure, passing before the king and bowing as they passed. “and he stood the whole while cap in hand.” the french courtiers were permitted by their master to lay aside their mourning for the time, and they danced with great merriment, vying with the most famous dancers of venice. but the great feature of the evening was the tragedy by cornelio frangipani--a mythological masque in honour of the most christian king and of venice herself--with proteus, iris, mars, amazons, pallas and mercury as protagonists. to the first printed edition of his masque frangipani prefixed an apology for his title of tragedy, with the usual appeal to classic precedent. “this tragedy of mine,” he says, “was recited in such a way as most nearly to approach to the form of the ancients; all the players sang in sweetest harmony, now accompanied, now alone; and finally the chorus of mercury was composed of players who had so many various instruments as were never heard before. the trumpets introduced the gods on to the appointed scene with the machinery of tragedy, but this could not be used to effect on account of the great concourse of people; and the ancients could not have been initiated into the musical compositions in which claudio merulo had reached a height certainly never attained by the ancients.” the masque is in reality a mere masque of occasion, comparable to countless english productions in the elizabethan age, though lacking in the lyrical grace they generally possess. henry is addressed as the slayer of monsters, the harbinger of peace, the herald of the age of gold--
pregamo questo domator de’ mostri ch’eterno al mondo viva, perchè in pregiata oliva ha da cangiar d’ alloro e apportar l’ antica età del’ oro.
the masque is without literary merit, but we need not regard it in the cold light of an after day, caged and with clipped wings. to that glorious assembly, illumined by the great deeds fresh in men’s minds and the presence of a royal hero, frangipani’s words may well have been kindled into flame. for if time and place were ever in conspiracy to wing pedestrian thoughts and words, it must have been at this fêting of the most christian king of france in the city of the sea.
pens were busy in venice during the days of henry’s stay. unsalaried artists, independent of everything except a means of livelihood, exacted toll from the royal guest. from the 16,000 scudi of largess distributed by the king, payments are enumerated “to writers and poets who presented to his majesty latin works and poems made in praise of his greatness and splendour.” gifts, as well as compliments were exchanged on all hands. the duke of savoy presented the doge’s wife with a girdle studded with thirty gold rosettes each containing four pearls and a precious jewel in the centre, worth 1,800 scudi. and henry’s final token of gratitude to his entertainers was to send after the doge, who had accompanied him to fusina, a magnificent diamond ring, begging that mocenigo should wear it continually in token of their love. most of these offerings and acknowledgments, without doubt, would be merely ceremonial. yet the young king’s delight in his visit had been genuine, and his frank enjoyment of all venice offered had won him her sympathy and even her affection. memories of the freedom of his stay went with him to the routine of his kingship, and he looked backwards with delight to her winged pleasures. she had spread gifts out before him, as she does before all, but in his own hands he had carried the key of her inmost treasures; for his spirit was joyful and joy is the key to the unlocking of her heart.
a merchant of venice
and what can we say of the ends to which she directed her success, the scope of her arts, the nature of her pleasures? it must be admitted by all that the soul of venice was capacious, unique in its harmony of imagination and political acumen; unique in its power of commanding and retaining respect. a great soul was in the men of venice; it was present in all their activities, in their commerce as in their art. the two were most intimately allied. again and again the chroniclers of venice crown their catalogue of her glories with the reminder that their foundation is in commerce, that the venetians are a nation of shopkeepers, and “you have only come to such estate by reason of the trade done by your shipping in various parts of the world.” even in the fifteenth century it was deemed complimentary to say to a newly elected doge, “you have been a great trader in your young days.” the greatness of venice was coincident with the greatness of her trade. she was lit, it is true, with the ancient stars of her splendour after the mortal blow had been struck at her commerce by the discovery of the cape route to the east, but the old unity of her strength had been lost--the firm foundations of the days when the nobles of venice had been the directors of her enterprise. and at the end of the fifteenth century they no longer sat, in their togas, behind the counters in rialto, or made the basements of their houses into stores. they had ceased to apprentice their sons to the merchants on the sea-going galleys. they still acted as commanders of the ships in times of war, but in intervals of peace the gulf between noble and merchant was constantly being enlarged. the commercial traveller was no longer considered one of the most distinguished of citizens. the corner stone had been taken from the building of rialto; it had begun to crumble to the dissolution lamented by grevembroch in his strange book on venetian costumes. in the great days of venice her commerce was great, and she knew how to robe it in glory, how to attract to it the noblest, and not the meanest, of her sons. her shops were the objects of her proudest solicitude, and the well-being of her merchants the first of her cares. the hostels provided for foreign traders ranked with the most sumptuous of her palaces, and the rules framed for their guidance were amongst the most liberal in her legislature.
the calculations of venice, growing with her growth, impressed on her national consciousness the importance of her position midway between the east and the west--her geographical qualification for becoming the mart of the world. with steady and concentrated purpose she devoted her energy to opening up fresh channels of communication. sometimes by the marriage of a son or daughter of the doge with the heir of a kingdom or a prince of constantinople, sometimes by the subjugation of a common foe, venice wove new threads of intercourse with the east. she always took payment for benefits she conferred in wider trading advantages. her merchant vessels were not private adventures, they represented state enterprise and were under the control of the central government, travelling with the fleet and capable of reinforcing it at need. seven merchant convoys left venice annually for roumania, azof, trebizond, cyprus, armenia, france, england, flanders, spain, portugal and egypt. by means of these vessels the glories of the orient found their way to the lands of the west; venice was mistress of the treasures of arabia, and became their dispenser to europe. and she was not merely a mart, a counter of interchange; she tested the goods at their source; she was not at the mercy of valuers, her citizen travellers came into touch with the goods on the soil that produced them. the east, to which the art of venice owes much of its material--its gold, its gems, its colours--was not an unfathomed mine but, in a certain sense, a pleasure-ground for her citizens; they passed to and fro familiarly, guests of its greatest potentates. they stood face to face with cublay kaan, the monarch of mystery.
but marco’s pack held stories of a more tangible kind--tales of the palace of cublay kaan, with its hall that held six thousand men, the inside walls covered with gold and silver and pictures of great beasts, and the outside rainbow-coloured, shining like crystal in the sun, and a landmark far and wide. and within the circuit of the palace walls was a green pleasure mound covered with trees from all parts and with a green palace on its summit. “and i tell you that the mound and the trees and the palace are so fair to see that all who see them have joy and gladness, and therefore has the great sire had them made, to have that beautiful view and to receive from it joy and solace.” he tells of the wonderful zecca where coins of the great kaan are stamped--not made of metal, but of black paper--which may be refused nowhere throughout the kaan’s dominions on pain of death. all who are possessed of gold and treasure are obliged to bring goods several times in the year, and receive coins of bark in exchange; and therefore, marco explains, “is cublay richer than all else in the world.” he describes the posting system, the rich palaces built for the housing of messengers, the trees planted along the merchant routes to act as signposts on the road; “for,” he says, “you will find these trees along the desert way, and they are a great comfort to merchant and messenger.” visitors to the chapel of san giorgio dei schiavoni will recall the use that carpaccio has made of these palm-tree signposts in the death of st. jerome and the victory of st. george. marco tells of magnificent feasts made by the great kaan on his birthday and on new year’s day. he delights in stories of the chase within the domain of cublay’s palace of chandu (perhaps the xanadu of coleridge) the walls of which enclosed a sixteen-mile circuit, with fountains and rivers and lawns and beasts of every kind. he describes in detail, as of special interest to his hearers, the size and construction of the rods of which the palace of canes was built and the two hundred silken cords with which it was secured during the summer months of its existence. he speaks of the “weather magic” by which rain and fog are warded off from this palace; and of the great kaan’s fancy that the blood of a royal line should not be spilt upon the ground to be seen of sun and air, and of his consequent device for the murder of his uncle nayan, whom he tossed to death in a carpet. baudas (baghdad), he says, is the chief city of the saracens. a great river flows through it to the indian ocean, which may be reached in eighteen days. the city is full of merchants and of traffic; it produces nasich and nac and cramoisy, and gold and silver brocades richly embroidered with design of birds and of beasts; and the woods of bastra, between baudas and the sea, produce the finest dates in the world. he recounts the taking of this baudas in the year 1255 by alaü, the great kaan’s brother, who, when he had taken it, discovered therein a tower belonging to the caliph full of gold and silver and other treasure, so that there never was so much seen at one time in one place. when alaü beheld the great heap of treasure, he was amazed and sent for the caliph into his presence and asked him why he had amassed so great a treasure and what he had intended to do with it. “did you not know that i was your enemy and coming to lay you waste?” he demanded. “why, therefore, did you not take your treasure and give it to knights and soldiers to defend you and your city?” the caliph replied nothing, for he did not know what to answer. so alaü continued, “caliph, i see you love your treasure so much, i will give you this treasure of yours to eat.” so he had the caliph shut up in the tower and commanded that nothing should be given him to eat or drink, saying, “caliph, eat now as much treasure as you will, for you shall never eat or drink anything else.” and he left the caliph in the tower, where, at the end of four days, he died. marco must have opened up to his listeners in venice horizons of lands almost comparable in extent to the sea-spaces familiar to their thoughts from infancy. he spoke of deserts of many days’ journey, of the port of hormos at the edge of one of the most beautiful of the plains--a city whence precious stones and spices and cloths of silver and gold brought by the merchants from india were shipped to all parts of the world.
but the poli brought more tangible trophies than the most circumstantial of tales in their pack. foolish artists might have held themselves rich with these, but the honour of their family would demand better credentials before welcoming fantastically arrayed strangers into its bosom. the courtyard of the house behind the malibran, at which on their return from their travels they demanded admission, is known still as the corte del milione, and its walls are still enriched with byzantine cornice and moulding, and with sculptured beasts as strange as any to be met with in cublay’s preserves. the three travellers had the appearance of tartars, and from long disuse of their language they spoke in broken italian. tradition tells of the way in which they heaped exploit upon exploit in the attempt to convince their incredulous relatives of their identity; and at last, according to ramusio, they invited a number of their relations to a superb banquet, at which they themselves appeared in long robes of crimson satin. when the guests were set down, these robes were torn into strips and distributed amongst the servants. through various metamorphoses of damask and velvet they came at last to the common dresses in which they had arrived. and when the tables were moved and the servants had gone, marco, as being the youngest, began to rip up the seams and welts of these costumes and take out from them handfuls of rubies and sapphires, carbuncles, diamonds and emeralds. there was no longer any doubt or delay; the shaggy tartar beards had lost all their terrors. these men, who had suddenly displayed “infinite riches in a little room,” must undoubtedly be what they claimed to be; happy the family to which the magicians belonged; the doge’s palace need not be afraid to welcome them; they must be set high in the state.
yet the accumulation of treasure was by no means the most noteworthy act of their drama. the poli had been more than mere traders; from the first they had been diplomatists of a high order. their career seems to give us the key to some of the wonderful faces that appear in the crowds pictured by venetian painters, especially those of carpaccio. they are the faces of men who have met the crisis of life unalarmed, by virtue of a combination of daring and wisdom which is no common possession. they are not cold; if they are severe they are full of feeling--sensitive to the pathos and humour as well as the sternness of reality. the poli had been obliged to furnish themselves with patience in lands where the transit of a plain is measured in weeks; three years’ residence in a city of persia is mentioned as a matter of detail. we are not told the reason of delay, only that they could not go before or behind. they had travelled in the true spirit of adventure. on that first journey, when marco was not of the company, the great kaan’s messengers, who came to request an interview for their master, who had never set eyes on a latin, had found the two brothers open-minded and trustful. they had acquitted themselves well in cublay’s presence, answering all his questions wisely and in order. he had inquired as to the manners and customs of europe, and particularly as to western methods of government and the christian church and its head. he had been “glad beyond measure” at what he had heard of the deeds of the latins, and decided to send a request to the christian apostle for one hundred men learned in the christian law and the seven arts and capable of teaching his people that their household gods were works of the devil and why the faith of the west was better than theirs. the thought of the lamp burning before the sepulchre of god in jerusalem had stirred his imagination, and he craved some of its oil for the light of his temple, or, maybe, his pleasure dome. so the two venetians had set out for europe on his strange embassy. they were provided with a golden tablet on which the kaan had inscribed orders for the supplying of their needs, food, horses, escorts in all the countries through which they should pass. at the end of three years, after long delays on account of the snows, they arrived at the port of layas in armenia, and from layas they had come to acre in april of the year 1269. at acre they had found that pope clement iv was dead, and no new election had as yet been made. venetian history teems with dramatic situations, but it would be difficult to find any stranger than that in which the polo brothers now found themselves placed. merchants of venice, they came as ambassadors from the lord of all the tartars to demand missionaries from the father of christendom, who was not able to supply them because he was not in existence. in their dilemma at acre they consulted theobald of piacenza, legate of egypt, who advised them to await the new pope’s election and meanwhile to return to their homes. his advice was accepted, and the two brothers made their way onwards to venice, where one of them, nicolas, discovered his son, young marco, a lad of fifteen years old. they remained in venice for two years, but when, at the end of that time, no pope had yet been elected, the brothers felt their return to the kaan could be deferred no longer. there is something touching in their fidelity to the pledge they had given and the constancy of their merchant faith. they prepared to set out again. this time little marco went with them on an absence that lasted for seventeen years, and was to gather a greater treasure for the world than any diamonds and rubies and velvets to be prodigally scattered on the floor of the corte del milione. at acre they obtained theobald’s permission to fetch some of the holy oil desired by the kaan from jerusalem. the journey to jerusalem performed, they returned once more to acre, and finally set forth on their return journey to the kaan with a letter from theobald testifying that they had done all in their power, “but since there was no apostle, they could not carry the embassy.” but when they had gone as far on their journey as layas, they were followed by letters from theobald, who was now pope gregory of piacenza, begging their return. they complied with great joy and set sail for acre in a galley provided for their use by the king of armenia. this was the hour of their triumph, for they were received by the pope with great honour, given costly presents for the kaan, and provided with two friars of very great learning. the names of these two are possibly better withheld, for they were more learned than courageous. when they had come as far on their journey as layas, their incipient fears of the land of the tartars were wrought to a pitch by the sight of the saracen army which was being brought against armenia by the sultan of babylon, and they insisted on handing their credentials over to the poli and returning at once to italy. and the brothers were forced to go on their way with worse than no preachers of their faith, with tidings of their defection.
for three and a half years they journeyed on, detained often by floods and bad weather. the news of their coming travelled before them to the kaan, and he sent his servants forty days’ journey to meet them. the kaan received them with joy, was graciously pleased with the letters and credentials sent by the pope, and accepted young marco as his liegeman and responsible messenger. marco sped well in learning the language, customs and writing of the tartars, but it is clear he must have acquired other than scholastic accomplishments. he was endowed with tact and power of observation, and returned from his first embassy full of news of the men and customs he had encountered; “for he had seen on several occasions that when the messengers the great kaan had sent into various parts of the world returned and told him the results of the embassy on which they had gone, and could tell him no other news of the countries where they had been, the kaan said they were ignorant fools.” for seventeen years young messer marco was employed in continual coming and going. he was learned in many strange and hidden things, and was placed in honour high above the barons--the darling of cublay’s heart. again and again the three venetians asked for leave of absence to visit their country, but so great was the love cublay bore to them that he could not bear to be parted from them; until at last an embassy arrived from argon, king of levant, asking for a new wife of the lineage of his dead wife bolgana, and the kaan is persuaded by argon’s messengers to allow marco and his two uncles to depart with them in charge of the lady. they set out by sea, and after some twenty months’ sailing and many disasters arrived at their destination. king argon was dead, and the lady cocachin was bestowed on his son. of the six hundred followers who had set out with them on their journey only eighteen had survived it. their mission accomplished, the poli made their way to trebizond, from trebizond to constantinople and from constantinople to venice. this was in the year 1295.
venice of crusade and pilgrimage
the story of venice and the crusades forms one of the most interesting pages of her history in relation to the east. the gradual awakening of her consciousness to the fact that the pilgrimages to the holy land might be of close significance to herself culminates in her attitude towards the great fourth crusade at the opening of the thirteenth century. the crusades were, in fact, a commercial speculation for venice, but a speculation into which she infused all the vitality and fulness of her nature. and she became, not merely a place of passage for the east, but a superb depository of relics to detain pilgrims on their outward way; a hostel so royally fitted with food for their senses, their religious cravings and their mystic imaginings, that one and another may well have been beguiled into delaying their departure for more strenuous sanctities. the narratives of the pilgrims, with their enthusiasms, their details of relics, their records of venetian ceremonies, religious, commercial or domestic, coloured by their quaintly intimate personal impressions, form one of the most picturesque pages of venetian chronicle.
pietro casola, a milanese pilgrim of the late fifteenth century, gives us a picture of a city that is sumptuous and rich in all its dealings, yet pervaded by a harmony and decorum that has stamped itself on the face of each individual citizen. we feel that pietro casola has really had a vision of the meaning of venice, when, among the inventory of wonders of the mass for the pilgrims on corpus christi day, of the velvets, crimson and damask and scarlet, the cloth of gold and togas sweeping the ground, each finer than the last, he pauses to add, “there was great silence, greater than is ever observed at such festivals, even in the gathering of so many venetian gentlemen, so that you could hear everything. and it seemed to me that everything was ruled by one alone, who was obeyed by each man without resistance. and at this i wondered greatly, for never had i seen so great obedience at such spectacles.” in the record of this arresting impression, more even than in the description of many coloured drapery and white cloths spread on the piazza, of the groves of oak-trees bordering the route of the procession and the candles lit among them, we seem to see before us the rhythmic solemnity of that unique procession on the piazza of gentile bellini. we need only casola’s other observant characterisation of the venetian gentleman to complete the picture. “i have considered,” he says, “the quality of these venetian gentlemen, who for the most part are fair men and tall, astute and most subtle in their dealings; and you must needs, if you would treat with them, keep your eyes and ears open. they are proud; i think it is on account of their great rule. and when a son is born to a venetian, they say among themselves, ‘a signor is born into the world.’ in their way of living at home they are sparing and very modest; outside they are very liberal. the city of venice retains its old manner of dress, and they never change it; that is to say, they wear a long garment of whatever colour they choose. no one ever goes out by day without his toga, and for the most part a black one, and they have carried this custom to such a point that all nations of the world who are lodging here in venice, from the greatest to the least, observe this style, beginning from the gentlemen to the mariners and galleymen; a dress certainly full of confidence and gravity. they look like doctors of law, and if any were to appear outside his house without his toga he would be thought a fool.” without doors the women also belonged to this sober company, or at least the marriageable maidens and those who were no longer of the number of the “belle giovani”; so sombrely were they covered when outside their houses, and especially in church, that casola says he at first mistook them all for widows, or nuns of the benedictine order. but for the “belle giovani” it is another matter; they give relief to the week-day sobriety of these venetians, so decorous and black when off duty, though revelling in such richness of velvet and brocade when the trumpet of a public function stirs their blood.
we are indebted to casola for a picture of a venetian domestic festival at the birth of a child to the delfini family. he realised fully that he was admitted, together with the orator of the king of france, in order that he might act as reporter of venetian magnificence. it was in a room “whose chimney-piece was all of carrara marble shining as gold, so subtly worked with figures and leaves, that praxiteles and pheidias could not have exceeded it. the ceiling of the room was so finely decorated with gold and ultramarine, and the walls so richly worked, that i cannot make report of it. one desk alone was valued at five hundred ducats, and the fixtures of the room were in the venetian style, such beautiful and natural figures, so much gold everywhere, that i know not if in the time of solomon, who was king of the jews, when silver was reputed more vile than carrion, there was such abundance as was here seen. of the ornaments of the bed and of the lady ... i have thought best rather to keep silence than to speak for fear i should not be believed. another thing i will speak the truth about, and perhaps i shall not be believed--a matter in which the ducal orator would not let me lie. there were in the said room twenty-five venetian damsels, each one fairer than the last, who were come to visit the lady who had borne a child. their dress was most discreet, as i said above, alla veneziana: they showed no more than four to six finger breadths of bare neck below their shoulders back and front. these damsels had so many jewels on their heads and round their necks and on their hands--namely, gold, precious stones and pearls--that it was the opinion of those who were there that they were worth a hundred thousand ducats. their faces were superbly painted, and so also the rest of them that was bare.” the account of this sumptuous interior is peculiarly valuable when we realise the date to which it belongs, the period of the first greatness of venetian art, a period which has been sometimes regarded as one of almost naïve simplicity. casola, with his customary exactitude, dwells on the frugality of venetian gentlemen in the matter of food--a frugality that caused the guest to reflect that the venetians cared more to feed the eye than the palate. it was not yet the period of the sumptuous living deplored by calmo only half a century later.
casola was a more secularly minded pilgrim than the priest of florence, ser michele, who paid five visits to the bones of the holy innocents at murano, and only at the fifth visit was counted worthy, as he humbly deemed, to see the relics: providence, in the form of the sacristan, having till then failed him. the more festive casola--who paid repeated visits to rialto, “which seemed to be the source of all the gardens in the world,” who spent one day in vain attempts to count the multitudinous boats in and about the city, and who was so frivolous, for all his long white beard, as to buy a false front on the piazza--in the midst of his expatiations on the venetian maidens, pulls himself suddenly together with a sense of incongruity between his diversions and his goal, and shakes himself free from the allurements of venice, crying: “but i am a priest, in the way of the saints; i did not try to look into their lives any further. to me it seemed better, as i have said above, to go in search of the churches and monasteries and to see the relics of which there are so many. and this seemed to me a good work for a pilgrim who was awaiting the departure of the vessel to go to the holy sepulchre, bringing the time to an end as well as he could.” in the accademia at venice there is a curious little painting, attributed to carpaccio, of the assembly of the martyrs of mount ararat in the church of sant’ antonio di castello, which stood once on the site of the public gardens. it was a familiar sight for venice, the dedication of pilgrims that is represented here; and there is a strange pathos in the slim, small figures as they move in two lines half-wavering up the aisle, each wearing a crown of thorns, perhaps in prophecy of coming martyrdom. they are not marching confidently to victory like an army; their crosses are held at all angles, forming errant patterns among themselves. some are girt for their journey in short vestments under their long robes. it is curiously unlike a procession native to the city; there is a dreamlike, mystic quality about it and a lack of body in its motion which is enhanced, perhaps, by the extreme detail with which the interior of the church is transcribed--the models of vessels in the rafters; the votive limbs and bones hung on the wooden screen, offerings of the diseased cured by miracle, as they may be seen in san giovanni e paolo to-day; the coiled rope of the lamp-pulley; the board with a church notice printed on it; and everywhere, winding in and out of the picture, seen through the portal of entrance, disappearing behind the sanctuary screen, the interminable procession of the ten thousand little pilgrims.
in 1198 the lords of france flocked with enthusiasm to a crusade preached by foulques de nuilly under the authority of innocent iii. after much discussion of practical ways and means, with which they were less amply provided than with spiritual enthusiasm, they made choice of six ambassadors who should procure the necessities of the enterprise, jofroi de villeharduin, mareschal of champagne, miles li brabant, coëns de bethune, alars magnarians, jean de friaise, and gautiers de gaudonville. venice was decided on by them as the state most likely to provide what they stood in need of--ships for the journey--and they departed to sound the mind of the republic, arriving in the first week of lent in the year 1201. venice, in the person of the doge, henry dandolo, opened the negotiations; the messengers were made to feel it was no light thing they asked. they were received and lodged with highest honour, but they were made to wait for a council to assemble, which should consider the matter of their request. after some days they were admitted to the ducal palace to deliver their message; and its purport was this: “sir, we are come to you from the high barons of france who have taken the sign of the cross to avenge the shame of jesus christ, and to conquer jerusalem if god will grant it them; and because they know that no people have such power as you and your people, they pray you for god’s sake to have pity on the land over seas and the avenging of the shame of jesus christ, so that they may have ships and the other things necessary.” the spiritual and sentimental appeal is left unanswered by the doge. he asks simply, “in what way?” “in all ways,” say the messengers, “that you recommend or advise, which they would be able to fulfil.” again the doge expresses wonder at the magnitude of what they ask, bidding them not marvel if another eight days’ waiting is required of them before the final answer can be given. at the date fixed by the doge they returned to the palace. villeharduin excuses himself from telling all the words that were said and unsaid, but the gist of the doge’s offer was this, that it depended on the consent of the great council and the rest of the republic. venice should provide vessels of transport for four thousand five hundred horses and squires and twenty thousand foot soldiers, and viands to last the whole company nine months. the agreement was to hold good for a year from the time of starting, and the sum total of the provision was to be eighty-five thousand marks. but venice would go further, for the love of god, and launch fifty galleys at her own expense on condition of receiving the half of all the conquests that were made by land and sea. nothing remained but to win the consent of the great council and ask a formal ratification from the people. full ten thousand persons assemble in “the chapel of san marco, the fairest that ever was,” and the doge recommends them to hear the mass, and to pray god’s counsel concerning the request of the envoys. it will be seen that all is practically accomplished before the question is put to the people or god’s grace asked on the undertaking, but no item of the formality is omitted. the envoys are sent for by the doge that they may themselves repeat their request humbly before the people, and they came into the church “much stared at by the crowd who had never seen them.” again the appeal is made, jofroi de villeharduin taking up the word by the agreement and desire of the other envoys. we can picture the strange thrill that ran through the great multitude as that single voice broke the silence of st. mark’s with its burden of passionate tribute to the greatness of venice: “‘therefore have they chosen you because they know that no people accustomed to going on the seas have such power as you and your people; and they commanded us to throw ourselves at your feet and not to rise until you had consented to have pity on the holy land beyond the seas.’ now the six messengers knelt, weeping bitterly, and the doge and all the others cried out with one voice and raised their hands on high and said, ‘we grant it, we grant it.’ and the noise and tumult and lament of it were so great that never had any man known a greater.” then the doge himself mounted the lectern and put before the people the meaning of the alliance that had been sought with them in preference to all other peoples by “the best men of the world.” “i cannot tell you,” says villeharduin, “all the good and fair words that the doge spoke. at last the matter was ended, and the following day the charters were drawn up and made and sealed.”
but at this moment an event occurred that changed, or rather diverted into a new channel the current of the crusade, providing in fact, as our chronicler villeharduin remarks, the true occasion of his book. into the midst of the pilgrims assembled at verona on their way to venice there came alexius, son of isaac the deposed emperor of constantinople, in quest of help against his usurping uncle. what more opportune than the neighbouring host of “the most valiant men on earth” for aiding in the recovery of his lost kingdom and the reinstatement of his tortured father. to the crusaders, and especially we may believe, to the venetians, this new motive did not come amiss. it is startlingly like life, this fourth crusade, with its original aim thus gradually becoming but a secondary purpose in a far more complicated scheme, a middle distance in an increasingly extended horizon. the relief of the holy sepulchre, the avenging of the shame of christ, assume in fact a rather shadowy outline in a prospect dominated by zara and constantinople.
the departure from venice did not mark the term of the obstructions to which the crusade was fated. the disgraceful contest between the french and the venetians within the streets of zara, the defection of a number of the pilgrims, the death of others at the hands of the wild inland inhabitants of dalmatia--all these causes reduced the already meagre company before it had well started on its way. the pope was placed in the dilemma of strongly disapproving the secular turn given to the crusade, while realising that the venetian fleet was the only means for accomplishing his ends in palestine. his solution was to absolve the barons for the siege of zara, permitting them still to use the fleet--though the devil’s instrument--while venice, the provider, remained under interdict. we here come into contact with an element of singular interest in the relations of venice and the east--her attitude towards the papacy. the independence of san marco was one of the essential articles of the venetian creed. in spiritual matters none could more devoutly bow to the apostle of christendom; but the spiritual supremacy was an inland sea to venice: it must be stable, fixed, defined; it must not flow with a tide upon the temporal shores where her heart and treasure lay. the authority of san marco was a political principle. all state ceremonies were bound up with san marco; the ducal palace itself was subsidiary to the palace of st. mark. how should a state that had sheltered, traditionally at least, a pope “stando occulto propter timorem” that had acted as mediator between pope and emperor and seen the emperor’s head bowed to the ground on the pavement of san marco--how should such a state be subordinate to any rule but its own complete self-consciousness? venice always followed the eminently practical rule of allowing much freedom in non-essentials in order to preserve more closely her control over the really material issues. the attitude always maintained by her with regard to the inquisition is so closely parallel to her relations with the east and the pagans of the east, constantly deprecated by the pope, that we may fitly quote here paolo sarpi’s admirable reply to the papal protests against conferring the doctorate in padua on protestants; the principle is the same, though limited in that instance to a particular and seemingly divergent issue. “if anyone openly declared his intention of conferring the doctorate on heretics, or admitted anyone to it who openly and with scandal professed himself to be such, it might be said that he had failed to persecute heresy; but, it being the opinion of the most serene republic that heretics and those who are known for such should not be admitted to the doctorate, and it being our duty to consider catholic anyone who does not profess the contrary, no smallest scandal can accrue to the religion even though it should chance that one not known for such were to receive the doctorate. the doctorate in philosophy and medicine is a testimonial that the scholar is a good philosopher and physician and that he may be admitted to the practise of that art, and to say that a heretic is a good doctor does not prejudice the catholic faith; certainly it would prejudice it if anyone were to say that such a man was a good theologian.” this was the position of venice with regard to her pagan allies, the meaning of her superbly fitted lodges for turk, infidel and heretic. the saracen, the turk and the infidel might not be a good theologian, but he was a good trader, a channel for the glories with which venice loved to clothe and crown herself. he was a part of her life more essentially and more irrevocably than the prelates of holy church; his ban would have been more terrible to venice than papal thunders. it was not primarily as hot sons of the church, consumed with fire for the shame of the holy sepulchre that the venetians with such generous provision prepared their ships for the crusade: it was as men of business with no small strain of fire in their blood and a high sense of the glorious worth and destiny of their city.
there were moments of inspiration for the crusaders amid all their toils and internal strife, and not least was the first view of constantinople which had been for so long the emporium of venice. the fleet had harboured at the abbey of st. etienne, three miles from constantinople, and villeharduin describes the wonder and enthusiasm of those who saw then for the first time the marvellous city “that was sovereign over all others,” with its rich towers and palaces and churches and high encircling walls. “and you must know there was no heart there so daring but trembled.” we are reminded of this picture of constantinople when we stand face to face with carpaccio’s city in the combat of st. george. it so successfully combines solidity and strength with the airy joy of watch-towers and towers of pleasure, that at first we have only the impression of fantastic play of architecture; but by degrees we come to feel the seacoast country of carpaccio, that at first seemed so wild and unmanned, to be in fact bristling with defence and preparation. it is immensely strong in fortifications, no dream or fairy citadel. it is begirt with towers and walls along the water; strongholds lurk among the loftiest crags; towers of defence and battlements peer over the steep hillside; and, if we look closer, we see the towers are thronged with men. we remember villeharduin’s note, “there were so many men on the walls and on the towers that it seemed as if they were made of nothing but people.” it is a sumptuous city, too, that we see in glimpses through the gateway, the city of a great oriental potentate.
we cannot follow villeharduin through the vicissitudes of the siege and counter-siege. he himself confesses in the relation of one point alone that sixty books would not be able to recount all the words that were spoken, and the counsels that were given and taken. in the simple, terse and trenchant style that frenchmen, and especially the frenchmen of the old chronicles, know how to wield so perfectly, he tells us of the doge’s wise counsel that the city should be approached by way of the surrounding islands whence they might gather stores; of the lords’ neglect of this counsel, “just as if no one of them had ever heard of it”; of their investment of the palace of alexius in the place named chalcedony, that was “furnished with all the delights of the human body that could be imagined befitting the dwelling of a prince”; of the capture of the city and the ravishing of its treasures that were so great “that no man could come to an end of counting the silver and the gold and plate and precious stones and samite and silken cloth and dresses vaire and grey, and ermines and all precious things that were ever found on earth. and jofroi de villeharduin, the marshall of champagne, will bear good witness that to his knowledge since the centuries began there was never so great gain in a single city.” the division of the booty necessarily occasioned heart-burning and revealed certain vices of “covetoise” undreamed before. and as time went on and still the passage to palestine was delayed the sanctuaries of the greek church were treated with barbarous irreverence and despoiled of their treasure and sacred vessels. then with the retaking of constantinople from marzuflo there followed a time of abandonment of men and leaders to their fiercest passions and the almost total destruction of the city. here again venice stepped in, as the merchant had stepped in to rescue treasure from the pile of savonarola, to enrich herself from the ruins of constantinople.
the taking of constantinople opened another door into the eastern garden from which venice had already begun to gather so rich an harvest. picture the freights that venetian vessels were bearing home in these years of crusade and conquest, to be gathered finally into the garner of st. mark’s! it is strangely thrilling to imagine the first welcome of the four bronze horses, travel-dimmed no doubt, who only found their way to their present station on the forefront of st. mark’s after standing many times in peril of being melted down in the arsenal where they first were stored. but at last, says sansovino, their beauty was recognised and they were placed on the church. it is only by degrees that we come to accost and know the exiles one by one. the more outstanding spoils, the pala d’oro, the great pillars of acri, the bronze doors, the horses, the four embracing kings, these are among the first letters of st. mark’s oriental alphabet; but there are many lesser exiles which have found a shelter in the port of venice, which as we wander among the glorious precincts of san marco impress themselves upon us one by one; such is the grave-browed, noble head of porphyry that keeps solitary watch towards the waters from the south corner of the outer gallery of san marco, as if it had been set down a moment by its sculptor and forgotten on the white, marble balustrade. the whole being of san marco is bound up with the east, and it is another token of the magic of venice that she has been able to embrace and furnish with a life-giving soil those plants that had been ruthlessly uprooted and had made so long and perilous a journey. the official records, that tell of the arrival from one expedition and another of eastern vestures for the clothing of san marco, are not mere inventories to us who have walked upon the variegated pavement between the solemn pillars and seen the sunlight illumine one by one the marbles of the walls, with their imbedded sculpture and mosaic, or gild the depths of the storied cupolas and the luxuriant harmonies of colour and design on the recesses of the windows. they are significant, these records, like the entry in a parish register of the birth of some one whom we love; for the church of san marco, though in fact a museum of many treasures, is not a museum of foreign treasures. her spoils are not hung up in her as aliens like the spoils that conquerors bore to ancient temples; they found her a foster-mother of their own blood and kin. she herself is sprung from a plant whose first flowering was not among the floating marshes of the lagoon.
by permission of the hon. john collier.
turn, on a sunny day, from the molo towards san marco, passing below the portico of the ducal palace adjoining the piazzetta. framed by the pointed arch at the end is a portion of the wall which once formed the west tower of the ducal palace. this delicate harmony of coloured marbles and sculptured stone seems a rare and beautiful creation, not of stone but of something more plastic, more mobile, so responsive is it to the light, so luminous, so full of feeling. as we draw nearer and it becomes more clearly defined, we see great slabs of marble sawn and spread open like the pages of a book, corresponding in pattern as the veining of a leaf. they are linked by marble rope-work, and between them are inserted smaller slabs of delicately sculptured stone and a wonderful coil of mosaic. it is a veritable patchwork wall, but no less beautiful in its effect of harmony than in its details--the four porphyry figures of embracing kings its corner-stone. this wall is truly a key to the fabric of the church itself; it is like a window into st. mark’s, that treasury of eastern spoil; the east is in every vein, in every heart-beat of it. the spoil of the temples of ancient gods furnished forth the church of san marco as it furnished the saint himself. in this one angle we have cipollino and porphyry, serpentine and verd-antico, marmo greco and eastern mosaic, pillars of granite profound and glittering, breccia africana and paonazetto. the weight of centuries is upon it all; ages of lives have gone to its making, and it came to venice only when generations had passed over its head. for the human race it has never been but old; the mind loses itself in speculation on that stupendous past that lies between us and the time when stone was not. and yet how strangely through that long, enchanted silence, when the centuries were endowing it with an immensity of strength and hardness and endurance for which we have no word of parallel but in its own nature, it has kept the similitude and mobility of life, at once withholding and revealing the riches of its beauty. how can we wonder that da contarini, the strange and learned dreamer of the cinquecento, burst out into a rapture of mystic joy in the presence of san marco, “that golden church, built by the eternal gods, of our protector, messer san marco”? he celebrates the pinnacles and shining columns, the throng of glittering figures that burn like golden spirits in the sunlight, the sculptured marbles polished with soft ethiopian sand. “it might be said that it has been gathered together from all parts of the world.” he then proceeds to seek among the marbles of san marco those mysterious correspondences which the wonder of men has always felt to exist between human nature and the nature of the stone; he loses himself in contemplation of one after another of the precious marbles that in wide surface or minute mosaic form the priceless garment of st. mark’s temple: diaspro, which must be seen in broad extent to realise its strange radiance, like flocks of cloudlets fleeting before the wind in the full illumination of the setting sun, dazzling our eyes with light; or that other adamantine marble of africa, the breccia adriana di tegoli, a harmony of greens before which serpentine and verd-antico must bow; or the most precious porpora of deep and glowing red; or that queen of all the stones, imperial in its beauty, a magnetic stone indeed, drawing the spirit into its luminous depths, weaving round it an enchanted web of secrecy, of divine inter-relations, till the human soul seems to commune with the very soul of colour--diaspro sanguinoso. what would not sir thomas browne have read in those eloquent and secret pages where wave follows wave of colour, deep ocean green, pure carmine, translucent amethyst. diaspro sanguinoso! in the setting of a ring, in the mosaic of a pavement, it is seen a dense green stone spotted with crimson--bloodstone. it is as if you saw the human eye in one of those weird, symbolic paintings of old time, isolated in its socket without the illumination of the human countenance about it. this sanguinary jasper is too subtle, too delicate, too mystical to belong to that titanic family of the stones of africa. the dreaming soil of egypt might have given it birth; it might own kinship with the myth of aurora’s kiss; but to us it seems fraught with the magic of a more distant east.
there have been many vindicators of the freedom of venice; many assertors that, though in appearance subject some time to byzantium, she has always been politically independent. to us it seems a matter of lesser moment; but whether, in fact or in form, venice were or were not ever politically dependent on byzantium, the fact of her artistic dependence is one which she cannot deny without perjuring herself before a thousand witnesses. document after document more durable than parchment--though many have already perished and many perish daily--attests the debt of venice to the east. till she perish altogether at the hands of a relentless, unregarding tyrant--a bastard child of time misnamed progress--she must continue to bear witness to her debt. so long as she breathes, each breath confesses it and the east will lay her tribute on the tomb of venice dead--lamenting as for one of her own children.
two venetian statues
in two of the public squares of venice the statues, in bronze, of two of her heroes are set up, the one of a man of war, the other of a comedian: in the campo di ss. giovanni e paolo the statue of bartolomeo colleoni, in the campo di san bartolomeo that of carlo goldoni. the first is a warrior on horseback in full armour, uplifted high above the square, disdaining the companionship of the puny mortals who saunter without a purpose to and fro under his feet. horse and rider stand self-sufficient and alone; one spirit breathes in both: in the contour of the stern face of the warrior, with its massive chin and proudly disdainful lip, in his throat with the muscles standing out like ropes upon it, and in the sweep of his capacious brow, under which the keenly penetrating eyes hold their object in a grip of iron; and, for the horse, in every line of his superbly curving neck, in the acute serenity of his down-looking eye, and in each curling lock of his mane that seem as if moved together by one controlling impulse. how clear the outline of his skull, everywhere visible beneath its fine covering of flesh and muscle! and his body, like the body of his master, how perfectly responsive an instrument it is! there is nothing here of that wild disorder of the beast untamed, which is mistaken sometimes for strength. the hand of colleoni is light upon the bridle, the horse glories in a subjection that is itself a triumph: he and his master are one. do but compare this for a moment with the prodigious mass, the plunging man and beast, that overlook the riva degli schiavoni--victor emanuel on horseback. it is not altogether an arbitrary contrast; the two great monuments seem to represent venice before the fall and venice after. what unity of purpose, what hope of conquest is there in those monstrous figures on the riva? beneath this redundancy of flesh and armour how shall they prevail against the world? they are not only different in degree, they are of a different species from verocchio’s horse and rider. the spirit of the first renaissance is in every line of his great statue--its strength, agility and decorative skill. how studied is the symmetry, the static perfection of the whole! how strongly and yet how delicately he emphasises the rectangular framework of the design! the rod of colleoni, the trappings of his horse, the tail and legs and body-line--each is made contributive, while the backward poise of the rider balances the forward motion of the horse, and all is thus drawn into the scheme. it is all willed, but with that spontaneity of will which men call inspiration.
this statue, which so marvellously sums up in sculpture the central aim of venice as a state in the fifteenth century, offers an instructive contrast to that in the campo di san bartolomeo, where the comedian goldoni, though raised above the level of the square, still seems a companionable part of the life that passes around him, moving in its midst as he moved amid the life of the eighteenth century in venice, meditating upon it, observing, loving it, faithfully and fearlessly recording it. marked by a realistic fidelity and insight worthy of a greater age, dal zotto’s statue of goldoni is in its own way itself a masterpiece and one of the noblest works of modern art in venice, full of sympathy and understanding and admirable in execution. the sculptor might seem to have lived as an intimate with goldoni, and the realism of his treatment suits the subject singularly well. the comedian is not aloft upon a pedestal, remote from men, in glorious aloofness; he is raised but slightly above our heads, not much observed of the crowd, but observing all. briskly he steps along, in buckled shoes, frilled shirt and neckerchief, his coat flying open, and a book or manuscript bulging from the pocket of it, his waistcoat slackly buttoned, his cocked hat tipped jauntily upon his forehead over his powdered periwig. as he goes he crushes his gloves with one hand at his back and with the other marks progress with his cane. it is a strong, taut little figure, tending to roundness, with a world of suggestiveness in every motion, an admirable mingling of thought and humour in the face that laughs down on this strange, grotesque, conventional, lovable venice. what a strange contrast is this, of the slippered sage of the eighteenth century, who houses the swallows in the loose folds of his slouch hat, and the armed hero of the fifteenth, whose every muscle is alert, responsive to the stern controlling will! goldoni is a sage upon a different platform, meditating upon a different world. his venice is the venice of longhi; she has become pedestrian; she has become a theme for comedy. comedy might have found plentiful food, no doubt, in the venice that employed colleoni, the venice of the first great painters. there is a fund of humour and whimsicality in the strangely fascinating faces of carpaccio’s citizens. yet try to picture them held up to ridicule by one of themselves upon the stage, and the imagination faints; the thing is inconceivable. in goldoni’s age the interest of life was shifted to another field, and he stands as the central figure, the leader in a new campaign, representative not of its vices or its vanities or its follies, but of the solid virtues of which these are the shady side. he is one of those happy spirits which the reactionary age of small things produced, not only in italy but everywhere in the eighteenth century; a spirit of clear, calm insight and capable judgment, neither enamoured of the life of his small circle nor embittered against it, content to live in the midst of it in serenity and truth.
goldoni, colleoni, each is representative of a period in the history of the republic, periods widely separated in temper and in time, and yet related intimately; so intimately indeed that the period of which goldoni is the master-spirit is actually foreshadowed in the very presence of the superb warrior of the other public square. to study the process of the growth and the decadence of the republic is to find that there is no convenient preconceived theory with which it will fit in; it rebels against such manipulation, as everything individual rebels against the ready-made. we need rather to look upon venice as upon a plant that springs and comes to its perfection and fades slowly away, changing and developing in indefinable gradations, showing at every stage some surprising revival from the past, some strange anticipation of the future. in the fifteenth century itself, while the earliest artists were at work for venice at murano, and carpaccio was as yet unborn, venice already bore about with her the seeds of her decay. in fact, the growth of her art coincides with the slow relaxation of her hold upon the bulwarks of her policy both at home and abroad. the election of foscari as doge in 1423 marks a moment of change in venetian life and government, indicated by the substitution of the title signoria for that of commune venetiarum, and by the abolition of the arengo--yet carpaccio has still his grave citizens to portray, and ursula sleeping the sleep of infancy. among the exhortations which tradition has handed down to us as addressed from time to time to the venetians by doge or by ambassador is that supposed to have been spoken on his death-bed by foscari’s precursor, the doge tommaso mocenigo. it might have been spoken for our instruction, instead of as a reminder to his own subjects of what they knew so well, so vivid an impression is to be derived from it of the inner life of venice during the first thirty years of the fifteenth century. whether legendary or not, these exhortations have something significant and individual about them which really illuminates; it is as if a light were suddenly flashed into a vast room, pressing our vision upon one point, providing a nucleus of knowledge about which scattered ideas and impressions may group themselves intelligibly. whatever they are, they are not the fabrication of a later time which has lost understanding of the spirit that animated the past. if the portrait they give is imaginary, they have seized upon the salient features and endowed them with a vitality which the photograph, however literal, too often lacks. mocenigo’s farewell address is an impressive portico opening upon a new period in the career of venice, a strange trumpet-note of ill omen on the threshold of her greatest glory. behold, he says, the fulness of the life you have achieved, of the riches you have stored; turn now and preserve it; there is peril in the path beyond; there is twilight and decay and death. your eyes, full of the light, have no knowledge of the shadow; but mine, dim now with age, have known it, and its grip is upon my limbs. venice heard but might not heed his warnings. the sun himself must rise and fulfil his day and set. decay is in each breath that the plant draws in; it cannot crystallise the moment; inexorably it is drawn onwards to maturity and death. it was inevitable for venice that as her strength increased her responsibilities should increase with it; perforce she must turn her face to land as well as sea. she could not remain alone, intent only on nourishing and developing her individual life. in proportion to her greatness she must attract others to her, and the circle of her influence must widen till it passed beyond her own control. the dying words of mocenigo came too late. a temporary delay there might have been; there was no turning back. venice had been drawn already into the vortex of european mainland politics, and she could not stand aside. in our own colonial policy we are continually confronted with the problem of aggression and defence. in reality there is no boundary between the two, or the boundary, if it exists, is so fine that the events of a moment may obliterate it. st. theodore carries his shield in his right hand and his spear in the left; and an old chronicler of venetian glory interprets the action as symbolising the predominance of defence in his warrior’s ideal. doge tommaso mocenigo would have approved the interpretation. but spear and shield cannot exchange their functions. until the spear is laid aside, it will insist on leading; and venice had not laid aside the spear, she had furnished herself anew.
“in my time,” says mocenigo, after a pathetic preliminary avowal of his obligations to venice and of the humble efforts he had made to discharge them, “in my time, our loan has been reduced by four millions of ducats, but six millions still are lacking for the debt incurred in the war with padua, vicenza, verona.... this city of ours sends out at present ten million ducats every year for its trade in different parts of the world, with ships and galleys and the necessary appointments to the value of not less than two million ducats. in this city are three thousand vessels of from one to two hundred anforas burden, carrying sixteen thousand mariners: there are three hundred vessels which alone carry eight thousand mariners more. every year sail forty-five galleys, counting small and great craft, and these take eleven thousand mariners, three thousand captains and three thousand calkers. there are three thousand weavers of silk garments and sixteen thousand of fustian.... there are one thousand gentlemen with incomes ranging from seven hundred to four thousand ducats. if you go on in this way, you will increase from good to better, you will be lords of riches and of christendom. but beware, as of fire, of taking what belongs to others and making unjust war, for these are errors that god cannot tolerate in princes. it is known to all that the war with the turk has made you brave and valorous by sea, ... and in these years you have so acted that the world has judged you the leaders of christendom. you have many men experienced in embassies and government, men who are perfect orators. you have many doctors in diverse sciences, lawyers above all, and for this reason many foreigners come to you for judgement in their differences and abide by your decisions. take heed, therefore, how you govern such a state as this, and be careful to give it your counsel and your warning, lest ever by negligence it suffer loss of power. and it behoves you earnestly to advise whoever succeeds me in this place, because through him the republic may receive much good and much harm. many of you incline to messer marino caravello; he is a worthy man and for his worthy qualities deserves that rank. messer francesco bembo is an honest man, and so is messer giacomo trevisan. messer antonio contarini, messer faustin michiel, messer alban badoer, all these are wise and merit it. many incline to messer francesco foscari, not knowing that he is an ambitious man and a liar, without a basis to his actions. his intellect is flighty; he embraces much and holds little. if he is doge, you will always be at war. the possessor of ten thousand ducats will be master but of one. you will spend gold and silver. you will be robbed of your reputation and your honour. you will be vassals of infantry and captains and men-at-arms. i could not restrain myself from giving you my opinion. god help you to choose the best, and rule and keep you in peace.”
mocenigo’s warning was disregarded. but although foscari was made doge, venice did not rush into war. in spite of repeated efforts on the part of the florentines to secure an alliance, the traditions of the old peace policy were tenaciously adhered to during the first years of the new reign. it was the temptation to secure carmagnola as leader of her forces which finally overcame her scruples. foscari’s discourse on this occasion, as reported by romanin, is a curiously specious mingling of philanthropy and self-interest. reading between the lines, we understand from it something of mocenigo’s fears at the prospect of his election. the passion of empire is in his heart. venice, whom eulogists loved to represent as the bulwark of europe against the infidel, is now to be the champion of down-trodden florence. it is the sword of justice that she is to wield. we are reminded of veronese’s allegory--venice seated upon the world, robed in ermine and scarlet, her silver and her gold about her, her breast clasped with a jewelled buckler, round her neck the rich pearls of her own island fabric, on her head the royal crown. her face is in the shadow of her gilded throne and of the folds of the stiff rose satin curtain, as she looks out over the world, over the universe, from her lofty seat on the dark azure globe. the lion, the sword and the olive branch are at her feet. what is she dreaming of, this venice of the soft, round, shadowed face? is it of peace, or of new empire? is it to the olive bough or to the sword of justice that she inclines? in a neighbouring fresco, neptune, brooding in profound abstraction beside his trident, deputes to the lion his watch; but mars of the mainland is alert, on foot, and his charger’s head from above him breathes fire upon his brow.
“you will be the vassals of captains and men-at-arms.” there was a note of prophecy in mocenigo’s closing words, and it is indeed a question, in face of verocchio’s superb warrior--who was the prince and who the vassal, who the servant and who the master. colleoni’s triumph at his grand reception in venice can scarcely have been the triumph of a mere man-at-arms. studying the magnificent reserve of strength in his grandly moulded face and neck, we feel venice must rather have acknowledged that an emperor had descended in her midst. little wonder that such a man dared ask a place on the piazza of st. mark itself! the period of his command embraced some of the most brilliant successes of the venetian arms on land. difficulties and perils that seemed insurmountable were yet surmounted by a mind possessed of supreme qualities of judgment, daring and nobility. singularly akin, indeed, to venice herself was this man who had a key to the minds of his antagonists, who read their secrets and forestalled their actions: it is not strange that he was dear to her. though a professional soldier and no venetian born, he could act as a worthy representative of venice, and there might seem small fear of ruin for a republic that could so choose her servants. but colleoni had fought against the lion and set his foot upon its neck, and the lion had been constrained to turn and ask his service of him, the highest tribute it could offer, the completest confession of its defeat. and colleoni could respect and be faithful to such a paymaster: for twenty years he led the republic on land, and was never called to render an account before her judgment-seat. magnanimously at his death he absolves her of all her debts to him, makes her two grand donations, then, by his own wish, towers over venice, a paid alien, her virtual master, yet such a master as she was proud to serve. we wonder if this thought came ever to the mind of verocchio, the florentine, as he moulded the great figure of the hero: did the imagination please him of venice the vassal, venice subjected beneath the horse and his rider?
there was a fête given in honour of colleoni at venice in 1455, on the occasion of the bestowing on him the staff of supreme command. to spino, colleoni’s enthusiastic biographer and fellow citizen, the episode was portentous, as to one unfamiliar with venetian traditions in this respect. it had, indeed, a significance he did not dream of; it was the reception not of a victorious fleet, not of an admiring monarch or fugitive pope, but of an army of mercenaries and their leader. spino tells how colleoni was accompanied by an escort of the chief citizens of bergamo, brescia and other cities of the kingdom that had been committed to his charge; how barges over a thousand were sent from venice to fetch him and his party from marghera; how the venetians came out in flocks to meet him in gondolas and sandolos to the sound of trumpets and other instruments of music, preceded by three ships called bucintori, “of marvellous workmanship and grandeur,” in which were the doge and signoria, the senate and other magistrates; and how ambassadors of kings and princes and subject states came to do homage to the new serenissimo pasqual malipiero. he tells, as all the chroniclers of festivals at venice tell, of the throngs, not only on windows and upon the fondamentas, but upon the house roofs along the grand canal; of colleoni’s reception at san marco and the display of the sacred treasures at the high altar; and how, as he knelt before the doge, the staff of his office was bestowed upon him with these words, “by the authority and decree of the most excellent city of venice, of us the doge and of the senate, ruler and captain-general of all our men and arms on land shalt thou be. take from our hands this military staff, with good presage and fortune, as emblem of thy power, to maintain and defend the majesty, the faith and the judgments of this state with dignity and with decorum by thy care and charge.” for ten days the festivals continued with jousts and tournaments and feats of arms. but all was not fêting and merriment. colleoni held grave discourses also with the padri, and “their spirits were confirmed by him,” says spino, “in safety and great confidence.”
the venice who could thus do honour to colleoni her general was a superb venice, superb as colleoni himself who in his castle of malpaga received not only embassies from kings but kings themselves; who, at the visit of cristierino, king of dacia, came out to meet him “on a great courser, caparisoned and equipped for war, and he, all but his head, imperially clad in complete armour, attended only by two standard-bearers carrying his helm and lance, while a little further behind followed his whole company of six hundred horse in battle array, with his condottieri and his squadrons, all gloriously and most nobly armed and mounted, with flags flying and the sound of trumpets”; who, besides making rich provision for all his children, built churches, endowed monasteries and left to the venetians, after cancelling all their debts to him, one hundred thousand ducats of gold. the venice that employed colleoni was superb--we have a record of her living features in gentile bellini’s marvellous presentment of the procession in st. mark’s square--the brain as flexible, the jaws as rigid as those of the mighty warrior verocchio conceived. yet spino’s comment on the last tribute paid by the venetians to their general gives us pause--“confessing to have lost the defender of their liberty.” it was a confession which could still clothe itself triumphantly in the great bronze statue, but there is an omen in the words. in this confession of 1496 is foreshadowed the fall of 1796.
much has been written of the social life of this venice of the fall; there are countless sources for its history in the letters, diaries and memoirs of its citizens and of its visitors, reputable and disreputable; richest sources of all, there are the pictures of longhi, the comedies of goldoni. but of the venice that lay behind this small round of conventions and refinements, laxity and tyranny, perhaps less has been said. of many avenues by which it might be approached we shall choose one, and since the praise of colleoni has drawn our attention to the foundations of venetian power on land, nothing will better serve our purpose than the foundation of her power by sea, that arsenal which sansovino described as “the basis and groundwork of the greatness of this republic, as well as the honour of all italy.” the arsenal was, next to san marco, perhaps the sanctuary of venetian faith. it was far more than a mere manufactory of arms and battleships. in the celebration of the sensa its workmen held the post of honour, the rowing of the bucintoro. its officers were among the most reputed in the state. the council of ten had a room within its precincts. it was entered by a superb triumphal arch, a sight which none who visited venice must miss. the condition of the arsenal may well be taken as an index to the condition of venice herself.
we may set side by side two pictures of the arsenal, one drawn from a curious little work of early seventeenth century, a time at which, though venice was moving down the path of her decay, the glorious traditions of the past still found renewal in her present life, and the venetian fleet was still a triumphant symbol of venetian greatness; the other from the reports of her officials in the last years before her death. luca assarino was one of many guests who had to say to venice, or to the doge her representative, “my intellect staggers under the weight of a memory laden with surpassing favours. you received me into your house, did me honour, assisted me, protected me. you clothed yourself in my desires, and promoted them on every occasion; and this not only without having had of me any cause to honour me so highly, but even without having ever seen me.” he feels he cannot better discharge the burden of his gratitude than by shaping some of the emotions inspired in him by his visit to the arsenal. there is a touch of sympathy and sometimes even a touch of truth and insight under the extravagantly symbolic garb of his appreciation. “admiring first of all an immense number of porticoes, where as in vast maternal wombs i saw in embryo the galleys whose bodies were being framed, i realised that i was in the country of vessels, the fatherland of galleons, and that those masses were so formidable as to show themselves warriors even in their birth, fortifying themselves with countless nails and arming thus their very vitals with iron. i considered them as wandering islands, which, united, compose the continent of venetian glory, the mainland of the rule of christendom. i admired with joy the height of their masts and the size of their sailyards, and i called them forests under whose shade the empire of the sea reposed and the hopes of the catholic religion were fortified. and who, i said to myself, can deny that this republic has subjugated the element of water, when none of her citizens can walk abroad, but that the water, as if vanquished, kisses his feet at every step?” like all recorders of the glories of venice, he is struck dumb at certain points by fear of the charge of fabling, but, collecting himself, he proceeds to speak of the trophies and relics, the rows of cuirasses, helmets and swords that remained as “iron memorials to arm the years against oblivion of venetian greatness. what revolutions of the world, what accidents, what mutations of state, what lakes of tears and blood did not the dim lightnings of those fierce habiliments present to the eye of the observer?... i saw the remains of the venetian fleet, vessels, that, as old men, weighted no less with years than glory, reposed under the magnificence of the arches which might well be called triumphal arches. i saw part of those galleons to which christianity confesses the debt of her preservation.... and last, i saw below the water so great a quantity of the planks from which vessels afterwards are made, that one might truly call it a treasury hidden in the entrails of a lake. i perceived that these, as novices in swimming, remained first a century below the surface, to float after for an eternity of centuries; and i remarked that they began by acquiring citizenship in that lake, to end by showing themselves patricians throughout the seas, and that there was good reason they should plant their roots well under water, for they were the trees on which the liberty of venice was to flower.” in his peroration the eulogist strikes a deeper note. “may it please almighty god to preserve you to a longest eternity; and as of old the nations surrounding you had so high an opinion of your integrity and justice that they came to you for judgment of their weightiest and most important cases, so may heaven grant that the whole of christendom may resort always to your threshold to learn the laws of good government.”
we think sadly of his prayer among the records of abuse and corruption in the arsenal of two centuries later; the venetian lawyers were still renowned among the lawyers of the world, but the state was no longer capable of teaching the laws of good government to christendom. the theatre, the coffee-house, the ridotto, the gay villeggiatura were now the main channels of her activity; the tide of life had flowed back from the arsenal and left it a sluggish marsh. in the arts of shipbuilding no advance had been made, and the cause lay chiefly in an extraordinary slackness of discipline by which workmen were first allowed to serve in alternation and in the end were asked for only one day’s service in the month. many youths who had not even seen the arsenal were in receipt of a stipend as apprentices, in virtue of hereditary right. martinelli tells of porters, valets, novices and even of a pantaloon in a troop of comic actors who were thus pleasantly provided for. there was a scarcity of tools, and even the men in daily attendance at the arsenal spent their time in idle lounging and often in still more mischievous occupations for lack of anything better to do; disobedience and disloyalty were rife. the arsenal was used by many as a place of winter resort, as workhouses by the tramps of to-day, and the wood stored for shipbuilding was consumed in fires for warming these unbidden guests, or made up into articles of furniture for sale in the open market. the report of the inquisitors of the arsenal, dated march 1, 1874, which martinelli quotes, is indeed a terrible confession: “one sad experience clearly shows that the smallest concession ... becomes rapidly transformed into unbridled licence. not to mention the immense piles of shavings, from sixty to seventy thousand vast bundles of wood disappear annually. the wastage of so great a mass of wood, more than the equivalent of the complete outfit of ten or twelve entire ships of the line, is not to be accounted for under legitimate refuse of normal work, but points plainly to the voluntary destruction of undamaged and precious material.” it is scarcely surprising that with so little care for the preservation of discipline in the arsenal and for the efficiency of its workmen venice fell behind. the arsenal had indeed become, as martinelli says, “a monument of the generous conceptions of the past--a monument, like the church and campanile of san marco, beautiful, admirable, glorious, but as completely incapable as they of offering any service to the state.” similar abuses existed also in the manning of the ships. the officers were for the most part idle and incompetent, and the despatches of the provveditori are a tissue of lamentable statements as to the depression of that which had been, and while venice was to retain her supremacy, must ever be, the mainstay of her power. there is desertion among the crews and operatives; the outfit provided for them is unsuitable and inadequate. nicolò erizzo, provveditor extraordinary to the islands of the levant, concludes a despatch, dated october 30, 1764, as follows: “thus it comes about that your excellencies have no efficient and capable officers of marine, and if an occasion were ever to arise when it were necessary to send them to some distant part, let me not be deemed presumptuous if i venture frankly to assure you that they would be in great straits. i had a proof of the truth of this when i launched the galley recently built; for the officers themselves begged me to put a ship’s captain on board, since at a little distance from land they did not trust themselves, nor did they blush to confess it in making this request.”
it was ten years earlier, in 1744, that the ridotto, or great public gaming-house, was closed in venice by order of the great council, and the venetians, their chief occupation gone, were reduced to melancholy peregrination of the piazza. “they have all become hypochondriacs,” writes madame sara gondar. “the jews are as yellow as melons; the mask-sellers are dying of starvation; and wrinkles are growing on the hands of many a poor old nobleman who has been in the habit of dealing cards ten hours a day. vice is absolutely necessary to the activity of a state.” this then is the venice against which goldoni stands out; and after all, the essential difference between the world reflected in his comedies and that world of gentile bellini and carpaccio, which was colleoni’s world, is a difference of horizon. there is an epic grandeur about carpaccio’s world: heroes stride across it, with lesser men and lesser interests in their train. the small affairs of life are not neglected. there is the company of the stocking, who discuss their peculiar device and the articles of their order with the grave elaboration of state councillors. venice was always interested in matters of detail. but in colleoni’s day the same seriousness of purpose was available when larger issues were discerned: in goldoni’s the power to discern larger issues has disappeared. the venetians, lords once of the sea, can still take interest in their stockings, but they can take interest in nothing else. the lilliputians are in possession. goldoni does not quarrel with his age for not being monumental, and we shall do well to follow his example and make our peace with it. he looks upon the clubs of freemasons, the pedantic literary reformers, the false romanticists, the bourgeois tyrants and masquerading ladies, with a serene and indulgent smile. in his famous literary dispute with gozzi he maintains before his fiery opponent the calm and level countenance of truth. the battles rage around him, but he stands firm and unassailable, as colleoni himself may once have stood in the midst of battles how different, waged in how different a world!
“because you look a good deal like the pictures of rupert brooke.”
to some extent amory tried to play rupert brooke as long as he knew eleanor. what he said, his attitude toward life, toward her, toward himself, were all reflexes of the dead englishman’s literary moods. often she sat in the grass, a lazy wind playing with her short hair, her voice husky as she ran up and down the scale from grantchester to waikiki. there was something most passionate in eleanor’s reading aloud. they seemed nearer, not only mentally, but physically, when they read, than when she was in his arms, and this was often, for they fell half into love almost from the first. yet was amory capable of love now? he could, as always, run through the emotions in a half hour, but even while they revelled in their imaginations, he knew that neither of them could care as he had cared once before—i suppose that was why they turned to brooke, and swinburne, and shelley. their chance was to make everything fine and finished and rich and imaginative; they must bend tiny golden tentacles from his imagination to hers, that would take the place of the great, deep love that was never so near, yet never so much of a dream.
one poem they read over and over; swinburne’s “triumph of time,” and four lines of it rang in his memory afterward on warm nights when he saw the fireflies among dusky tree trunks and heard the low drone of many frogs. then eleanor seemed to come out of the night and stand by him, and he heard her throaty voice, with its tone of a fleecy-headed drum, repeating:
“is it worth a tear, is it worth an hour, to think of things that are well outworn; of fruitless husk and fugitive flower, the dream foregone and the deed foreborne?”
they were formally introduced two days later, and his aunt told him her history. the ramillys were two: old mr. ramilly and his granddaughter, eleanor. she had lived in france with a restless mother whom amory imagined to have been very like his own, on whose death she had come to america, to live in maryland. she had gone to baltimore first to stay with a bachelor uncle, and there she insisted on being a debutante at the age of seventeen. she had a wild winter and arrived in the country in march, having quarrelled frantically with all her baltimore relatives, and shocked them into fiery protest. a rather fast crowd had come out, who drank cocktails in limousines and were promiscuously condescending and patronizing toward older people, and eleanor with an esprit that hinted strongly of the boulevards, led many innocents still redolent of st. timothy’s and farmington, into paths of bohemian naughtiness. when the story came to her uncle, a forgetful cavalier of a more hypocritical era, there was a scene, from which eleanor emerged, subdued but rebellious and indignant, to seek haven with her grandfather who hovered in the country on the near side of senility. that’s as far as her story went; she told him the rest herself, but that was later.
often they swam and as amory floated lazily in the water he shut his mind to all thoughts except those of hazy soap-bubble lands where the sun splattered through wind-drunk trees. how could any one possibly think or worry, or do anything except splash and dive and loll there on the edge of time while the flower months failed. let the days move over—sadness and memory and pain recurred outside, and here, once more, before he went on to meet them he wanted to drift and be young.
there were days when amory resented that life had changed from an even progress along a road stretching ever in sight, with the scenery merging and blending, into a succession of quick, unrelated scenes—two years of sweat and blood, that sudden absurd instinct for paternity that rosalind had stirred; the half-sensual, half-neurotic quality of this autumn with eleanor. he felt that it would take all time, more than he could ever spare, to glue these strange cumbersome pictures into the scrap-book of his life. it was all like a banquet where he sat for this half-hour of his youth and tried to enjoy brilliant epicurean courses.
dimly he promised himself a time where all should be welded together. for months it seemed that he had alternated between being borne along a stream of love or fascination, or left in an eddy, and in the eddies he had not desired to think, rather to be picked up on a wave’s top and swept along again.
“the despairing, dying autumn and our love—how well they harmonize!” said eleanor sadly one day as they lay dripping by the water.
“the indian summer of our hearts—” he ceased.
“tell me,” she said finally, “was she light or dark?”
“was she more beautiful than i am?”
“i don’t know,” said amory shortly.
one night they walked while the moon rose and poured a great burden of glory over the garden until it seemed fairyland with amory and eleanor, dim phantasmal shapes, expressing eternal beauty in curious elfin love moods. then they turned out of the moonlight into the trellised darkness of a vine-hung pagoda, where there were scents so plaintive as to be nearly musical.
“light a match,” she whispered. “i want to see you.”
the night and the scarred trees were like scenery in a play, and to be there with eleanor, shadowy and unreal, seemed somehow oddly familiar. amory thought how it was only the past that ever seemed strange and unbelievable. the match went out.
“it’s black as pitch.”
“we’re just voices now,” murmured eleanor, “little lonesome voices. light another.”
“that was my last match.”
suddenly he caught her in his arms.
“you are mine—you know you’re mine!” he cried wildly... the moonlight twisted in through the vines and listened... the fireflies hung upon their whispers as if to win his glance from the glory of their eyes.
the end of summer
“no wind is stirring in the grass; not one wind stirs... the water in the hidden pools, as glass, fronts the full moon and so inters the golden token in its icy mass,” chanted eleanor to the trees that skeletoned the body of the night. “isn’t it ghostly here? if you can hold your horse’s feet up, let’s cut through the woods and find the hidden pools.”
“it’s after one, and you’ll get the devil,” he objected, “and i don’t know enough about horses to put one away in the pitch dark.”
“but my uncle has got to drive me to the station with this old plug at seven o’clock.”
“don’t be a spoil-sport—remember, you have a tendency toward wavering that prevents you from being the entire light of my life.”
amory drew his horse up close beside, and, leaning toward her, grasped her hand.
“say i am—quick, or i’ll pull you over and make you ride behind me.”
she looked up and smiled and shook her head excitedly.
“oh, do!—or rather, don’t! why are all the exciting things so uncomfortable, like fighting and exploring and ski-ing in canada? by the way, we’re going to ride up harper’s hill. i think that comes in our programme about five o’clock.”
“you little devil,” amory growled. “you’re going to make me stay up all night and sleep in the train like an immigrant all day to-morrow, going back to new york.”
“hush! some one’s coming along the road—let’s go! whoo-ee-oop!” and with a shout that probably gave the belated traveller a series of shivers, she turned her horse into the woods and amory followed slowly, as he had followed her all day for three weeks.
the summer was over, but he had spent the days in watching eleanor, a graceful, facile manfred, build herself intellectual and imaginative pyramids while she revelled in the artificialities of the temperamental teens and they wrote poetry at the dinner-table.
when vanity kissed vanity, a hundred happy junes ago, he pondered o’er her breathlessly, and, that all men might ever know, he rhymed her eyes with life and death: “thru time i’ll save my love!” he said... yet beauty vanished with his breath, and, with her lovers, she was dead... —ever his wit and not her eyes, ever his art and not her hair: “who’d learn a trick in rhyme, be wise and pause before his sonnet there”... so all my words, however true, might sing you to a thousandth june, and no one ever know that you were beauty for an afternoon.
so he wrote one day, when he pondered how coldly we thought of the “dark lady of the sonnets,” and how little we remembered her as the great man wanted her remembered. for what shakespeare must have desired, to have been able to write with such divine despair, was that the lady should live... and now we have no real interest in her.... the irony of it is that if he had cared more for the poem than for the lady the sonnet would be only obvious, imitative rhetoric and no one would ever have read it after twenty years....
this was the last night amory ever saw eleanor. he was leaving in the morning and they had agreed to take a long farewell trot by the cold moonlight. she wanted to talk, she said—perhaps the last time in her life that she could be rational (she meant pose with comfort). so they had turned into the woods and rode for half an hour with scarcely a word, except when she whispered “damn!” at a bothersome branch—whispered it as no other girl was ever able to whisper it. then they started up harper’s hill, walking their tired horses.
“good lord! it’s quiet here!” whispered eleanor; “much more lonesome than the woods.”
“i hate woods,” amory said, shuddering. “any kind of foliage or underbrush at night. out here it’s so broad and easy on the spirit.”
“the long slope of a long hill.”
“and the cold moon rolling moonlight down it.”
“and thee and me, last and most important.”
it was quiet that night—the straight road they followed up to the edge of the cliff knew few footsteps at any time. only an occasional negro cabin, silver-gray in the rock-ribbed moonlight, broke the long line of bare ground; behind lay the black edge of the woods like a dark frosting on white cake, and ahead the sharp, high horizon. it was much colder—so cold that it settled on them and drove all the warm nights from their minds.
the breeze freshened and eleanor pulled her cape around her and shivered.
“are you very cold?” asked amory.
“no, i’m thinking about myself—my black old inside self, the real one, with the fundamental honesty that keeps me from being absolutely wicked by making me realize my own sins.”
they were riding up close by the cliff and amory gazed over. where the fall met the ground a hundred feet below, a black stream made a sharp line, broken by tiny glints in the swift water.
“rotten, rotten old world,” broke out eleanor suddenly, “and the wretchedest thing of all is me—oh, why am i a girl? why am i not a stupid—? look at you; you’re stupider than i am, not much, but some, and you can lope about and get bored and then lope somewhere else, and you can play around with girls without being involved in meshes of sentiment, and you can do anything and be justified—and here am i with the brains to do everything, yet tied to the sinking ship of future matrimony. if i were born a hundred years from now, well and good, but now what’s in store for me—i have to marry, that goes without saying. who? i’m too bright for most men, and yet i have to descend to their level and let them patronize my intellect in order to get their attention. every year that i don’t marry i’ve got less chance for a first-class man. at the best i can have my choice from one or two cities and, of course, i have to marry into a dinner-coat.
“listen,” she leaned close again, “i like clever men and good-looking men, and, of course, no one cares more for personality than i do. oh, just one person in fifty has any glimmer of what sex is. i’m hipped on freud and all that, but it’s rotten that every bit of real love in the world is ninety-nine per cent passion and one little soupcon of jealousy.” she finished as suddenly as she began.
“of course, you’re right,” amory agreed. “it’s a rather unpleasant overpowering force that’s part of the machinery under everything. it’s like an actor that lets you see his mechanics! wait a minute till i think this out....”
he paused and tried to get a metaphor. they had turned the cliff and were riding along the road about fifty feet to the left.
“you see every one’s got to have some cloak to throw around it. the mediocre intellects, plato’s second class, use the remnants of romantic chivalry diluted with victorian sentiment—and we who consider ourselves the intellectuals cover it up by pretending that it’s another side of us, has nothing to do with our shining brains; we pretend that the fact that we realize it is really absolving us from being a prey to it. but the truth is that sex is right in the middle of our purest abstractions, so close that it obscures vision.... i can kiss you now and will. ...” he leaned toward her in his saddle, but she drew away.
“i can’t—i can’t kiss you now—i’m more sensitive.”
“you’re more stupid then,” he declared rather impatiently. “intellect is no protection from sex any more than convention is...”
amory looked up, rather taken aback.
“that’s your panacea, isn’t it?” she cried. “oh, you’re just an old hypocrite, too. thousands of scowling priests keeping the degenerate italians and illiterate irish repentant with gabble-gabble about the sixth and ninth commandments. it’s just all cloaks, sentiment and spiritual rouge and panaceas. i’ll tell you there is no god, not even a definite abstract goodness; so it’s all got to be worked out for the individual by the individual here in high white foreheads like mine, and you’re too much the prig to admit it.” she let go her reins and shook her little fists at the stars.
“if there’s a god let him strike me—strike me!”
“talking about god again after the manner of atheists,” amory said sharply. his materialism, always a thin cloak, was torn to shreds by eleanor’s blasphemy.... she knew it and it angered him that she knew it.
“and like most intellectuals who don’t find faith convenient,” he continued coldly, “like napoleon and oscar wilde and the rest of your type, you’ll yell loudly for a priest on your death-bed.”
eleanor drew her horse up sharply and he reined in beside her.
“will i?” she said in a queer voice that scared him. “will i? watch! i’m going over the cliff!” and before he could interfere she had turned and was riding breakneck for the end of the plateau.
he wheeled and started after her, his body like ice, his nerves in a vast clangor. there was no chance of stopping her. the moon was under a cloud and her horse would step blindly over. then some ten feet from the edge of the cliff she gave a sudden shriek and flung herself sideways—plunged from her horse and, rolling over twice, landed in a pile of brush five feet from the edge. the horse went over with a frantic whinny. in a minute he was by eleanor’s side and saw that her eyes were open.
“eleanor!” he cried.
she did not answer, but her lips moved and her eyes filled with sudden tears.
“eleanor, are you hurt?”
“no; i don’t think so,” she said faintly, and then began weeping.
“my horse dead?”
“oh!” she wailed. “i thought i was going over. i didn’t know—”
he helped her gently to her feet and boosted her onto his saddle. so they started homeward; amory walking and she bent forward on the pommel, sobbing bitterly.
“i’ve got a crazy streak,” she faltered, “twice before i’ve done things like that. when i was eleven mother went—went mad—stark raving crazy. we were in vienna—”
all the way back she talked haltingly about herself, and amory’s love waned slowly with the moon. at her door they started from habit to kiss good night, but she could not run into his arms, nor were they stretched to meet her as in the week before. for a minute they stood there, hating each other with a bitter sadness. but as amory had loved himself in eleanor, so now what he hated was only a mirror. their poses were strewn about the pale dawn like broken glass. the stars were long gone and there were left only the little sighing gusts of wind and the silences between... but naked souls are poor things ever, and soon he turned homeward and let new lights come in with the sun.
a poem that eleanor sent amory several years later
a poem amory sent to eleanor and which he called “summer storm”
“faint winds, and a song fading and leaves falling, faint winds, and far away a fading laughter... and the rain and over the fields a voice calling... our gray blown cloud scurries and lifts above, slides on the sun and flutters there to waft her sisters on. the shadow of a dove falls on the cote, the trees are filled with wings; and down the valley through the crying trees the body of the darker storm flies; brings with its new air the breath of sunken seas and slender tenuous thunder... but i wait... wait for the mists and for the blacker rain— heavier winds that stir the veil of fate, happier winds that pile her hair; again they tear me, teach me, strew the heavy air upon me, winds that i know, and storm. there was a summer every rain was rare; there was a season every wind was warm.... and now you pass me in the mist... your hair rain-blown about you, damp lips curved once more in that wild irony, that gay despair that made you old when we have met before; wraith-like you drift on out before the rain, across the fields, blown with the stemless flowers, with your old hopes, dead leaves and loves again— dim as a dream and wan with all old hours (whispers will creep into the growing dark... tumult will die over the trees) now night tears from her wetted breast the splattered blouse of day, glides down the dreaming hills, tear-bright, to cover with her hair the eerie green... love for the dusk... love for the glistening after; quiet the trees to their last tops... serene... faint winds, and far away a fading laughter...”
chapter 4. the supercilious sacrifice
atlantic city. amory paced the board walk at day’s end, lulled by the everlasting surge of changing waves, smelling the half-mournful odor of the salt breeze. the sea, he thought, had treasured its memories deeper than the faithless land. it seemed still to whisper of norse galleys ploughing the water world under raven-figured flags, of the british dreadnoughts, gray bulwarks of civilization steaming up through the fog of one dark july into the north sea.
amory looked down into the street below. a low racing car had drawn to a stop and a familiar cheerful face protruded from the driver’s seat.
“come on down, goopher!” cried alec.
amory called a greeting and descending a flight of wooden steps approached the car. he and alec had been meeting intermittently, but the barrier of rosalind lay always between them. he was sorry for this; he hated to lose alec.
“mr. blaine, this is miss waterson, miss wayne, and mr. tully.”
“how d’y do?”
“amory,” said alec exuberantly, “if you’ll jump in we’ll take you to some secluded nook and give you a wee jolt of bourbon.”
“that’s an idea.”
“step in—move over, jill, and amory will smile very handsomely at you.”
amory squeezed into the back seat beside a gaudy, vermilion-lipped blonde.
“hello, doug fairbanks,” she said flippantly. “walking for exercise or hunting for company?”
“i was counting the waves,” replied amory gravely. “i’m going in for statistics.”
“don’t kid me, doug.”
when they reached an unfrequented side street alec stopped the car among deep shadows.
“what you doing down here these cold days, amory?” he demanded, as he produced a quart of bourbon from under the fur rug.
amory avoided the question. indeed, he had had no definite reason for coming to the coast.
“do you remember that party of ours, sophomore year?” he asked instead.
“do i? when we slept in the pavilions up in asbury park—”
“lord, alec! it’s hard to think that jesse and dick and kerry are all three dead.”
“don’t talk about it. these dreary fall days depress me enough.”
jill seemed to agree.
“doug here is sorta gloomy anyways,” she commented. “tell him to drink deep—it’s good and scarce these days.”
“what i really want to ask you, amory, is where you are—”
“why, new york, i suppose—”
“i mean to-night, because if you haven’t got a room yet you’d better help me out.”
“you see, tully and i have two rooms with bath between at the ranier, and he’s got to go back to new york. i don’t want to have to move. question is, will you occupy one of the rooms?”
amory was willing, if he could get in right away.
“you’ll find the key in the office; the rooms are in my name.”
declining further locomotion or further stimulation, amory left the car and sauntered back along the board walk to the hotel.
he was in an eddy again, a deep, lethargic gulf, without desire to work or write, love or dissipate. for the first time in his life he rather longed for death to roll over his generation, obliterating their petty fevers and struggles and exultations. his youth seemed never so vanished as now in the contrast between the utter loneliness of this visit and that riotous, joyful party of four years before. things that had been the merest commonplaces of his life then, deep sleep, the sense of beauty around him, all desire, had flown away and the gaps they left were filled only with the great listlessness of his disillusion.
“to hold a man a woman has to appeal to the worst in him.” this sentence was the thesis of most of his bad nights, of which he felt this was to be one. his mind had already started to play variations on the subject. tireless passion, fierce jealousy, longing to possess and crush—these alone were left of all his love for rosalind; these remained to him as payment for the loss of his youth—bitter calomel under the thin sugar of love’s exaltation.
in his room he undressed and wrapping himself in blankets to keep out the chill october air drowsed in an armchair by the open window.
he remembered a poem he had read months before:
“oh staunch old heart who toiled so long for me, i waste my years sailing along the sea—”
yet he had no sense of waste, no sense of the present hope that waste implied. he felt that life had rejected him.
when he awoke it was very late and quiet. the blanket had slipped partly off his shoulders and he touched his skin to find it damp and cold.
then he became aware of a tense whispering not ten feet away.
he became rigid.
“don’t make a sound!” it was alec’s voice. “jill—do you hear me?”
“yes—” breathed very low, very frightened. they were in the bathroom.
then his ears caught a louder sound from somewhere along the corridor outside. it was a mumbling of men’s voices and a repeated muffled rapping. amory threw off the blankets and moved close to the bathroom door.
“my god!” came the girl’s voice again. “you’ll have to let them in.”
suddenly a steady, insistent knocking began at amory’s hall door and simultaneously out of the bathroom came alec, followed by the vermilion-lipped girl. they were both clad in pajamas.
“amory!” an anxious whisper.
“what’s the trouble?”
“it’s house detectives. my god, amory—they’re just looking for a test-case—”
“well, better let them in.”
“you don’t understand. they can get me under the mann act.”
the girl followed him slowly, a rather miserable, pathetic figure in the darkness.
amory tried to plan quickly.
“you make a racket and let them in your room,” he suggested anxiously, “and i’ll get her out by this door.”
“they’re here too, though. they’ll watch this door.”
“can’t you give a wrong name?”
“no chance. i registered under my own name; besides, they’d trail the auto license number.”
“say you’re married.”
“jill says one of the house detectives knows her.”
the girl had stolen to the bed and tumbled upon it; lay there listening wretchedly to the knocking which had grown gradually to a pounding. then came a man’s voice, angry and imperative:
“open up or we’ll break the door in!”
in the silence when this voice ceased amory realized that there were other things in the room besides people... over and around the figure crouched on the bed there hung an aura, gossamer as a moonbeam, tainted as stale, weak wine, yet a horror, diffusively brooding already over the three of them... and over by the window among the stirring curtains stood something else, featureless and indistinguishable, yet strangely familiar.... simultaneously two great cases presented themselves side by side to amory; all that took place in his mind, then, occupied in actual time less than ten seconds.
the first fact that flashed radiantly on his comprehension was the great impersonality of sacrifice—he perceived that what we call love and hate, reward and punishment, had no more to do with it than the date of the month. he quickly recapitulated the story of a sacrifice he had heard of in college: a man had cheated in an examination; his roommate in a gust of sentiment had taken the entire blame—due to the shame of it the innocent one’s entire future seemed shrouded in regret and failure, capped by the ingratitude of the real culprit. he had finally taken his own life—years afterward the facts had come out. at the time the story had both puzzled and worried amory. now he realized the truth; that sacrifice was no purchase of freedom. it was like a great elective office, it was like an inheritance of power—to certain people at certain times an essential luxury, carrying with it not a guarantee but a responsibility, not a security but an infinite risk. its very momentum might drag him down to ruin—the passing of the emotional wave that made it possible might leave the one who made it high and dry forever on an island of despair.
... amory knew that afterward alec would secretly hate him for having done so much for him....
... all this was flung before amory like an opened scroll, while ulterior to him and speculating upon him were those two breathless, listening forces: the gossamer aura that hung over and about the girl and that familiar thing by the window.
sacrifice by its very nature was arrogant and impersonal; sacrifice should be eternally supercilious.
weep not for me but for thy children.
that—thought amory—would be somehow the way god would talk to me.
“do what i say, alec—do what i say. do you understand?”
alec looked at him dumbly—his face a tableau of anguish.
“you have a family,” continued amory slowly. “you have a family and it’s important that you should get out of this. do you hear me?” he repeated clearly what he had said. “do you hear me?”
“i hear you.” the voice was curiously strained, the eyes never for a second left amory’s.
“alec, you’re going to lie down here. if any one comes in you act drunk. you do what i say—if you don’t i’ll probably kill you.”
there was another moment while they stared at each other. then amory went briskly to the bureau and, taking his pocket-book, beckoned peremptorily to the girl. he heard one word from alec that sounded like “penitentiary,” then he and jill were in the bathroom with the door bolted behind them.
“you’re here with me,” he said sternly. “you’ve been with me all evening.”
she nodded, gave a little half cry.
in a second he had the door of the other room open and three men entered. there was an immediate flood of electric light and he stood there blinking.
“you’ve been playing a little too dangerous a game, young man!”
the leader of the trio nodded authoritatively at a burly man in a check suit.
“all right, olson.”
“i got you, mr. o’may,” said olson, nodding. the other two took a curious glance at their quarry and then withdrew, closing the door angrily behind them.
the burly man regarded amory contemptuously.
“well,” said amory rather impatiently, “what do you want us to do?”
“anybody else here?” demanded olson, trying to look keen and ferret-like.
“fellow who had the rooms,” said amory carelessly. “he’s drunk as an owl, though. been in there asleep since six o’clock.”
“i’ll take a look at him presently.”
“how did you find out?” asked amory curiously.
“night clerk saw you go up-stairs with this woman.”
amory nodded; jill reappeared from the bathroom, completely if rather untidily arrayed.
“now then,” began olson, producing a note-book, “i want your real names—no damn john smith or mary brown.”
“wait a minute,” said amory quietly. “just drop that big-bully stuff. we merely got caught, that’s all.”
olson glared at him.
“name?” he snapped.
amory gave his name and new york address.
“and the lady?”
“say,” cried olson indignantly, “just ease up on the nursery rhymes. what’s your name? sarah murphy? minnie jackson?”
“oh, my god!” cried the girl cupping her tear-stained face in her hands. “i don’t want my mother to know. i don’t want my mother to know.”
“come on now!”
“shut up!” cried amory at olson.
an instant’s pause.
“stella robbins,” she faltered finally. “general delivery, rugway, new hampshire.”
olson snapped his note-book shut and looked at them very ponderously.
“by rights the hotel could turn the evidence over to the police and you’d go to penitentiary, you would, for bringin’ a girl from one state to ’nother f’r immoral purp’ses—” he paused to let the majesty of his words sink in. “but—the hotel is going to let you off.”
“it doesn’t want to get in the papers,” cried jill fiercely. “let us off! huh!”
a great lightness surrounded amory. he realized that he was safe and only then did he appreciate the full enormity of what he might have incurred.
“however,” continued olson, “there’s a protective association among the hotels. there’s been too much of this stuff, and we got a ’rangement with the newspapers so that you get a little free publicity. not the name of the hotel, but just a line sayin’ that you had a little trouble in ’lantic city. see?”
“you’re gettin’ off light—damn light—but—”
“come on,” said amory briskly. “let’s get out of here. we don’t need a valedictory.”
olson walked through the bathroom and took a cursory glance at alec’s still form. then he extinguished the lights and motioned them to follow him. as they walked into the elevator amory considered a piece of bravado—yielded finally. he reached out and tapped olson on the arm.
“would you mind taking off your hat? there’s a lady in the elevator.”
olson’s hat came off slowly. there was a rather embarrassing two minutes under the lights of the lobby while the night clerk and a few belated guests stared at them curiously; the loudly dressed girl with bent head, the handsome young man with his chin several points aloft; the inference was quite obvious. then the chill outdoors—where the salt air was fresher and keener still with the first hints of morning.
“you can get one of those taxis and beat it,” said olson, pointing to the blurred outline of two machines whose drivers were presumably asleep inside.
“good-by,” said olson. he reached in his pocket suggestively, but amory snorted, and, taking the girl’s arm, turned away.
“where did you tell the driver to go?” she asked as they whirled along the dim street.
“if that guy writes my mother—”
“he won’t. nobody’ll ever know about this—except our friends and enemies.”
dawn was breaking over the sea.
“it’s getting blue,” she said.
“it does very well,” agreed amory critically, and then as an after-thought: “it’s almost breakfast-time—do you want something to eat?”
“food—” she said with a cheerful laugh. “food is what queered the party. we ordered a big supper to be sent up to the room about two o’clock. alec didn’t give the waiter a tip, so i guess the little bastard snitched.”
jill’s low spirits seemed to have gone faster than the scattering night. “let me tell you,” she said emphatically, “when you want to stage that sorta party stay away from liquor, and when you want to get tight stay away from bedrooms.”
he tapped suddenly at the glass and they drew up at the door of an all-night restaurant.
“is alec a great friend of yours?” asked jill as they perched themselves on high stools inside, and set their elbows on the dingy counter.
“he used to be. he probably won’t want to be any more—and never understand why.”
“it was sorta crazy you takin’ all that blame. is he pretty important? kinda more important than you are?”
“that remains to be seen,” he answered. “that’s the question.”
the collapse of several pillars
two days later back in new york amory found in a newspaper what he had been searching for—a dozen lines which announced to whom it might concern that mr. amory blaine, who “gave his address” as, etc., had been requested to leave his hotel in atlantic city because of entertaining in his room a lady not his wife.
then he started, and his fingers trembled, for directly above was a longer paragraph of which the first words were:
“mr. and mrs. leland r. connage are announcing the engagement of their daughter, rosalind, to mr. j. dawson ryder, of hartford, connecticut—”
he dropped the paper and lay down on his bed with a frightened, sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. she was gone, definitely, finally gone. until now he had half unconsciously cherished the hope deep in his heart that some day she would need him and send for him, cry that it had been a mistake, that her heart ached only for the pain she had caused him. never again could he find even the sombre luxury of wanting her—not this rosalind, harder, older—nor any beaten, broken woman that his imagination brought to the door of his forties—amory had wanted her youth, the fresh radiance of her mind and body, the stuff that she was selling now once and for all. so far as he was concerned, young rosalind was dead.
a day later came a crisp, terse letter from mr. barton in chicago, which informed him that as three more street-car companies had gone into the hands of receivers he could expect for the present no further remittances. last of all, on a dazed sunday night, a telegram told him of monsignor darcy’s sudden death in philadelphia five days before.
he knew then what it was that he had perceived among the curtains of the room in atlantic city.
chapter 5. the egotist becomes a personage
“a fathom deep in sleep i lie with old desires, restrained before, to clamor lifeward with a cry, as dark flies out the greying door; and so in quest of creeds to share i seek assertive day again... but old monotony is there: endless avenues of rain. oh, might i rise again! might i throw off the heat of that old wine, see the new morning mass the sky with fairy towers, line on line; find each mirage in the high air a symbol, not a dream again... but old monotony is there: endless avenues of rain.”
under the glass portcullis of a theatre amory stood, watching the first great drops of rain splatter down and flatten to dark stains on the sidewalk. the air became gray and opalescent; a solitary light suddenly outlined a window over the way; then another light; then a hundred more danced and glimmered into vision. under his feet a thick, iron-studded skylight turned yellow; in the street the lamps of the taxi-cabs sent out glistening sheens along the already black pavement. the unwelcome november rain had perversely stolen the day’s last hour and pawned it with that ancient fence, the night.
the silence of the theatre behind him ended with a curious snapping sound, followed by the heavy roaring of a rising crowd and the interlaced clatter of many voices. the matinee was over.
he stood aside, edged a little into the rain to let the throng pass. a small boy rushed out, sniffed in the damp, fresh air and turned up the collar of his coat; came three or four couples in a great hurry; came a further scattering of people whose eyes as they emerged glanced invariably, first at the wet street, then at the rain-filled air, finally at the dismal sky; last a dense, strolling mass that depressed him with its heavy odor compounded of the tobacco smell of the men and the fetid sensuousness of stale powder on women. after the thick crowd came another scattering; a stray half-dozen; a man on crutches; finally the rattling bang of folding seats inside announced that the ushers were at work.
new york seemed not so much awakening as turning over in its bed. pallid men rushed by, pinching together their coat-collars; a great swarm of tired, magpie girls from a department-store crowded along with shrieks of strident laughter, three to an umbrella; a squad of marching policemen passed, already miraculously protected by oilskin capes.
the rain gave amory a feeling of detachment, and the numerous unpleasant aspects of city life without money occurred to him in threatening procession. there was the ghastly, stinking crush of the subway—the car cards thrusting themselves at one, leering out like dull bores who grab your arm with another story; the querulous worry as to whether some one isn’t leaning on you; a man deciding not to give his seat to a woman, hating her for it; the woman hating him for not doing it; at worst a squalid phantasmagoria of breath, and old cloth on human bodies and the smells of the food men ate—at best just people—too hot or too cold, tired, worried.
he pictured the rooms where these people lived—where the patterns of the blistered wall-papers were heavy reiterated sunflowers on green and yellow backgrounds, where there were tin bathtubs and gloomy hallways and verdureless, unnamable spaces in back of the buildings; where even love dressed as seduction—a sordid murder around the corner, illicit motherhood in the flat above. and always there was the economical stuffiness of indoor winter, and the long summers, nightmares of perspiration between sticky enveloping walls... dirty restaurants where careless, tired people helped themselves to sugar with their own used coffee-spoons, leaving hard brown deposits in the bowl.
it was not so bad where there were only men or else only women; it was when they were vilely herded that it all seemed so rotten. it was some shame that women gave off at having men see them tired and poor—it was some disgust that men had for women who were tired and poor. it was dirtier than any battle-field he had seen, harder to contemplate than any actual hardship moulded of mire and sweat and danger, it was an atmosphere wherein birth and marriage and death were loathsome, secret things.
he remembered one day in the subway when a delivery boy had brought in a great funeral wreath of fresh flowers, how the smell of it had suddenly cleared the air and given every one in the car a momentary glow.
“i detest poor people,” thought amory suddenly. “i hate them for being poor. poverty may have been beautiful once, but it’s rotten now. it’s the ugliest thing in the world. it’s essentially cleaner to be corrupt and rich than it is to be innocent and poor.” he seemed to see again a figure whose significance had once impressed him—a well-dressed young man gazing from a club window on fifth avenue and saying something to his companion with a look of utter disgust. probably, thought amory, what he said was: “my god! aren’t people horrible!”
never before in his life had amory considered poor people. he thought cynically how completely he was lacking in all human sympathy. o. henry had found in these people romance, pathos, love, hate—amory saw only coarseness, physical filth, and stupidity. he made no self-accusations: never any more did he reproach himself for feelings that were natural and sincere. he accepted all his reactions as a part of him, unchangeable, unmoral. this problem of poverty transformed, magnified, attached to some grander, more dignified attitude might some day even be his problem; at present it roused only his profound distaste.
he walked over to fifth avenue, dodging the blind, black menace of umbrellas, and standing in front of delmonico’s hailed an auto-bus. buttoning his coat closely around him he climbed to the roof, where he rode in solitary state through the thin, persistent rain, stung into alertness by the cool moisture perpetually reborn on his cheek. somewhere in his mind a conversation began, rather resumed its place in his attention. it was composed not of two voices, but of one, which acted alike as questioner and answerer:
question.—well—what’s the situation?
answer.—that i have about twenty-four dollars to my name.
q.—you have the lake geneva estate.
a.—but i intend to keep it.
q.—can you live?
a.—i can’t imagine not being able to. people make money in books and i’ve found that i can always do the things that people do in books. really they are the only things i can do.
a.—i don’t know what i’ll do—nor have i much curiosity. to-morrow i’m going to leave new york for good. it’s a bad town unless you’re on top of it.
q.—do you want a lot of money?
a.—no. i am merely afraid of being poor.
a.—just passively afraid.
q.—where are you drifting?
a.—don’t ask me!
q.—don’t you care?
a.—rather. i don’t want to commit moral suicide.
q.—have you no interests left?
a.—none. i’ve no more virtue to lose. just as a cooling pot gives off heat, so all through youth and adolescence we give off calories of virtue. that’s what’s called ingenuousness.
q.—an interesting idea.
a.—that’s why a “good man going wrong” attracts people. they stand around and literally warm themselves at the calories of virtue he gives off. sarah makes an unsophisticated remark and the faces simper in delight—“how innocent the poor child is!” they’re warming themselves at her virtue. but sarah sees the simper and never makes that remark again. only she feels a little colder after that.
q.—all your calories gone?
a.—all of them. i’m beginning to warm myself at other people’s virtue.
q.—are you corrupt?
a.—i think so. i’m not sure. i’m not sure about good and evil at all any more.
q.—is that a bad sign in itself?
q.—what would be the test of corruption?
a.—becoming really insincere—calling myself “not such a bad fellow,” thinking i regretted my lost youth when i only envy the delights of losing it. youth is like having a big plate of candy. sentimentalists think they want to be in the pure, simple state they were in before they ate the candy. they don’t. they just want the fun of eating it all over again. the matron doesn’t want to repeat her girlhood—she wants to repeat her honeymoon. i don’t want to repeat my innocence. i want the pleasure of losing it again.
q.—where are you drifting?
this dialogue merged grotesquely into his mind’s most familiar state—a grotesque blending of desires, worries, exterior impressions and physical reactions.
the street numbers of riverside drive were obscured by the mist and dripping trees from anything but the swiftest scrutiny, but amory had finally caught sight of one—one hundred and twenty-seventh street. he got off and with no distinct destination followed a winding, descending sidewalk and came out facing the river, in particular a long pier and a partitioned litter of shipyards for miniature craft: small launches, canoes, rowboats, and catboats. he turned northward and followed the shore, jumped a small wire fence and found himself in a great disorderly yard adjoining a dock. the hulls of many boats in various stages of repair were around him; he smelled sawdust and paint and the scarcely distinguishable fiat odor of the hudson. a man approached through the heavy gloom.
“hello,” said amory.
“got a pass?”
“no. is this private?”
“this is the hudson river sporting and yacht club.”
“oh! i didn’t know. i’m just resting.”
“well—” began the man dubiously.
“i’ll go if you want me to.”
the man made non-committal noises in his throat and passed on. amory seated himself on an overturned boat and leaned forward thoughtfully until his chin rested in his hand.
“misfortune is liable to make me a damn bad man,” he said slowly.
in the drooping hours
while the rain drizzled on amory looked futilely back at the stream of his life, all its glitterings and dirty shallows. to begin with, he was still afraid—not physically afraid any more, but afraid of people and prejudice and misery and monotony. yet, deep in his bitter heart, he wondered if he was after all worse than this man or the next. he knew that he could sophisticate himself finally into saying that his own weakness was just the result of circumstances and environment; that often when he raged at himself as an egotist something would whisper ingratiatingly: “no. genius!” that was one manifestation of fear, that voice which whispered that he could not be both great and good, that genius was the exact combination of those inexplicable grooves and twists in his mind, that any discipline would curb it to mediocrity. probably more than any concrete vice or failing amory despised his own personality—he loathed knowing that to-morrow and the thousand days after he would swell pompously at a compliment and sulk at an ill word like a third-rate musician or a first-class actor. he was ashamed of the fact that very simple and honest people usually distrusted him; that he had been cruel, often, to those who had sunk their personalities in him—several girls, and a man here and there through college, that he had been an evil influence on; people who had followed him here and there into mental adventures from which he alone rebounded unscathed.
usually, on nights like this, for there had been many lately, he could escape from this consuming introspection by thinking of children and the infinite possibilities of children—he leaned and listened and he heard a startled baby awake in a house across the street and lend a tiny whimper to the still night. quick as a flash he turned away, wondering with a touch of panic whether something in the brooding despair of his mood had made a darkness in its tiny soul. he shivered. what if some day the balance was overturned, and he became a thing that frightened children and crept into rooms in the dark, approached dim communion with those phantoms who whispered shadowy secrets to the mad of that dark continent upon the moon....
amory smiled a bit.
“you’re too much wrapped up in yourself,” he heard some one say. and again—
“get out and do some real work—”
he fancied a possible future comment of his own.
“yes—i was perhaps an egotist in youth, but i soon found it made me morbid to think too much about myself.”
suddenly he felt an overwhelming desire to let himself go to the devil—not to go violently as a gentleman should, but to sink safely and sensuously out of sight. he pictured himself in an adobe house in mexico, half-reclining on a rug-covered couch, his slender, artistic fingers closed on a cigarette while he listened to guitars strumming melancholy undertones to an age-old dirge of castile and an olive-skinned, carmine-lipped girl caressed his hair. here he might live a strange litany, delivered from right and wrong and from the hound of heaven and from every god (except the exotic mexican one who was pretty slack himself and rather addicted to oriental scents)—delivered from success and hope and poverty into that long chute of indulgence which led, after all, only to the artificial lake of death.
there were so many places where one might deteriorate pleasantly: port said, shanghai, parts of turkestan, constantinople, the south seas—all lands of sad, haunting music and many odors, where lust could be a mode and expression of life, where the shades of night skies and sunsets would seem to reflect only moods of passion: the colors of lips and poppies.
once he had been miraculously able to scent evil as a horse detects a broken bridge at night, but the man with the queer feet in phoebe’s room had diminished to the aura over jill. his instinct perceived the fetidness of poverty, but no longer ferreted out the deeper evils in pride and sensuality.
there were no more wise men; there were no more heroes; burne holiday was sunk from sight as though he had never lived; monsignor was dead. amory had grown up to a thousand books, a thousand lies; he had listened eagerly to people who pretended to know, who knew nothing. the mystical reveries of saints that had once filled him with awe in the still hours of night, now vaguely repelled him. the byrons and brookes who had defied life from mountain tops were in the end but flaneurs and poseurs, at best mistaking the shadow of courage for the substance of wisdom. the pageantry of his disillusion took shape in a world-old procession of prophets, athenians, martyrs, saints, scientists, don juans, jesuits, puritans, fausts, poets, pacifists; like costumed alumni at a college reunion they streamed before him as their dreams, personalities, and creeds had in turn thrown colored lights on his soul; each had tried to express the glory of life and the tremendous significance of man; each had boasted of synchronizing what had gone before into his own rickety generalities; each had depended after all on the set stage and the convention of the theatre, which is that man in his hunger for faith will feed his mind with the nearest and most convenient food.
women—of whom he had expected so much; whose beauty he had hoped to transmute into modes of art; whose unfathomable instincts, marvellously incoherent and inarticulate, he had thought to perpetuate in terms of experience—had become merely consecrations to their own posterity. isabelle, clara, rosalind, eleanor, were all removed by their very beauty, around which men had swarmed, from the possibility of contributing anything but a sick heart and a page of puzzled words to write.
amory based his loss of faith in help from others on several sweeping syllogisms. granted that his generation, however bruised and decimated from this victorian war, were the heirs of progress. waving aside petty differences of conclusions which, although they might occasionally cause the deaths of several millions of young men, might be explained away—supposing that after all bernard shaw and bernhardi, bonar law and bethmann-hollweg were mutual heirs of progress if only in agreeing against the ducking of witches—waiving the antitheses and approaching individually these men who seemed to be the leaders, he was repelled by the discrepancies and contradictions in the men themselves.
there was, for example, thornton hancock, respected by half the intellectual world as an authority on life, a man who had verified and believed the code he lived by, an educator of educators, an adviser to presidents—yet amory knew that this man had, in his heart, leaned on the priest of another religion.
and monsignor, upon whom a cardinal rested, had moments of strange and horrible insecurity—inexplicable in a religion that explained even disbelief in terms of its own faith: if you doubted the devil it was the devil that made you doubt him. amory had seen monsignor go to the houses of stolid philistines, read popular novels furiously, saturate himself in routine, to escape from that horror.
and this priest, a little wiser, somewhat purer, had been, amory knew, not essentially older than he.
amory was alone—he had escaped from a small enclosure into a great labyrinth. he was where goethe was when he began “faust”; he was where conrad was when he wrote “almayer’s folly.”
amory said to himself that there were essentially two sorts of people who through natural clarity or disillusion left the enclosure and sought the labyrinth. there were men like wells and plato, who had, half unconsciously, a strange, hidden orthodoxy, who would accept for themselves only what could be accepted for all men—incurable romanticists who never, for all their efforts, could enter the labyrinth as stark souls; there were on the other hand sword-like pioneering personalities, samuel butler, renan, voltaire, who progressed much slower, yet eventually much further, not in the direct pessimistic line of speculative philosophy but concerned in the eternal attempt to attach a positive value to life....
amory stopped. he began for the first time in his life to have a strong distrust of all generalities and epigrams. they were too easy, too dangerous to the public mind. yet all thought usually reached the public after thirty years in some such form: benson and chesterton had popularized huysmans and newman; shaw had sugar-coated nietzsche and ibsen and schopenhauer. the man in the street heard the conclusions of dead genius through some one else’s clever paradoxes and didactic epigrams.
life was a damned muddle... a football game with every one off-side and the referee gotten rid of—every one claiming the referee would have been on his side....
progress was a labyrinth... people plunging blindly in and then rushing wildly back, shouting that they had found it... the invisible king—the elan vital—the principle of evolution... writing a book, starting a war, founding a school....
amory, even had he not been a selfish man, would have started all inquiries with himself. he was his own best example—sitting in the rain, a human creature of sex and pride, foiled by chance and his own temperament of the balm of love and children, preserved to help in building up the living consciousness of the race.
in self-reproach and loneliness and disillusion he came to the entrance of the labyrinth.
another dawn flung itself across the river, a belated taxi hurried along the street, its lamps still shining like burning eyes in a face white from a night’s carouse. a melancholy siren sounded far down the river.
amory kept thinking how monsignor would have enjoyed his own funeral. it was magnificently catholic and liturgical. bishop o’neill sang solemn high mass and the cardinal gave the final absolutions. thornton hancock, mrs. lawrence, the british and italian ambassadors, the papal delegate, and a host of friends and priests were there—yet the inexorable shears had cut through all these threads that monsignor had gathered into his hands. to amory it was a haunting grief to see him lying in his coffin, with closed hands upon his purple vestments. his face had not changed, and, as he never knew he was dying, it showed no pain or fear. it was amory’s dear old friend, his and the others’—for the church was full of people with daft, staring faces, the most exalted seeming the most stricken.
the cardinal, like an archangel in cope and mitre, sprinkled the holy water; the organ broke into sound; the choir began to sing the requiem eternam.
all these people grieved because they had to some extent depended upon monsignor. their grief was more than sentiment for the “crack in his voice or a certain break in his walk,” as wells put it. these people had leaned on monsignor’s faith, his way of finding cheer, of making religion a thing of lights and shadows, making all light and shadow merely aspects of god. people felt safe when he was near.
of amory’s attempted sacrifice had been born merely the full realization of his disillusion, but of monsignor’s funeral was born the romantic elf who was to enter the labyrinth with him. he found something that he wanted, had always wanted and always would want—not to be admired, as he had feared; not to be loved, as he had made himself believe; but to be necessary to people, to be indispensable; he remembered the sense of security he had found in burne.
life opened up in one of its amazing bursts of radiance and amory suddenly and permanently rejected an old epigram that had been playing listlessly in his mind: “very few things matter and nothing matters very much.”
on the contrary, amory felt an immense desire to give people a sense of security.
the big man with goggles
on the day that amory started on his walk to princeton the sky was a colorless vault, cool, high and barren of the threat of rain. it was a gray day, that least fleshly of all weathers; a day of dreams and far hopes and clear visions. it was a day easily associated with those abstract truths and purities that dissolve in the sunshine or fade out in mocking laughter by the light of the moon. the trees and clouds were carved in classical severity; the sounds of the countryside had harmonized to a monotone, metallic as a trumpet, breathless as the grecian urn.
the day had put amory in such a contemplative mood that he caused much annoyance to several motorists who were forced to slow up considerably or else run him down. so engrossed in his thoughts was he that he was scarcely surprised at that strange phenomenon—cordiality manifested within fifty miles of manhattan—when a passing car slowed down beside him and a voice hailed him. he looked up and saw a magnificent locomobile in which sat two middle-aged men, one of them small and anxious looking, apparently an artificial growth on the other who was large and begoggled and imposing.
“do you want a lift?” asked the apparently artificial growth, glancing from the corner of his eye at the imposing man as if for some habitual, silent corroboration.
“you bet i do. thanks.”
the chauffeur swung open the door, and, climbing in, amory settled himself in the middle of the back seat. he took in his companions curiously. the chief characteristic of the big man seemed to be a great confidence in himself set off against a tremendous boredom with everything around him. that part of his face which protruded under the goggles was what is generally termed “strong”; rolls of not undignified fat had collected near his chin; somewhere above was a wide thin mouth and the rough model for a roman nose, and, below, his shoulders collapsed without a struggle into the powerful bulk of his chest and belly. he was excellently and quietly dressed. amory noticed that he was inclined to stare straight at the back of the chauffeur’s head as if speculating steadily but hopelessly some baffling hirsute problem.
the smaller man was remarkable only for his complete submersion in the personality of the other. he was of that lower secretarial type who at forty have engraved upon their business cards: “assistant to the president,” and without a sigh consecrate the rest of their lives to second-hand mannerisms.
“going far?” asked the smaller man in a pleasant disinterested way.
“quite a stretch.”
“hiking for exercise?”
“no,” responded amory succinctly, “i’m walking because i can’t afford to ride.”
“are you looking for work? because there’s lots of work,” he continued rather testily. “all this talk of lack of work. the west is especially short of labor.” he expressed the west with a sweeping, lateral gesture. amory nodded politely.
“have you a trade?”
no—amory had no trade.
no—amory was not a clerk.
“whatever your line is,” said the little man, seeming to agree wisely with something amory had said, “now is the time of opportunity and business openings.” he glanced again toward the big man, as a lawyer grilling a witness glances involuntarily at the jury.
amory decided that he must say something and for the life of him could think of only one thing to say.
“of course i want a great lot of money—”
the little man laughed mirthlessly but conscientiously.
“that’s what every one wants nowadays, but they don’t want to work for it.”
“a very natural, healthy desire. almost all normal people want to be rich without great effort—except the financiers in problem plays, who want to ‘crash their way through.’ don’t you want easy money?”
“of course not,” said the secretary indignantly.
“but,” continued amory disregarding him, “being very poor at present i am contemplating socialism as possibly my forte.”
both men glanced at him curiously.
“these bomb throwers—” the little man ceased as words lurched ponderously from the big man’s chest.
“if i thought you were a bomb thrower i’d run you over to the newark jail. that’s what i think of socialists.”
“what are you,” asked the big man, “one of these parlor bolsheviks, one of these idealists? i must say i fail to see the difference. the idealists loaf around and write the stuff that stirs up the poor immigrants.”
“well,” said amory, “if being an idealist is both safe and lucrative, i might try it.”
“what’s your difficulty? lost your job?”
“not exactly, but—well, call it that.”
“what was it?”
“writing copy for an advertising agency.”
“lots of money in advertising.”
amory smiled discreetly.
“oh, i’ll admit there’s money in it eventually. talent doesn’t starve any more. even art gets enough to eat these days. artists draw your magazine covers, write your advertisements, hash out rag-time for your theatres. by the great commercializing of printing you’ve found a harmless, polite occupation for every genius who might have carved his own niche. but beware the artist who’s an intellectual also. the artist who doesn’t fit—the rousseau, the tolstoi, the samuel butler, the amory blaine—”
“who’s he?” demanded the little man suspiciously.
“well,” said amory, “he’s a—he’s an intellectual personage not very well known at present.”
the little man laughed his conscientious laugh, and stopped rather suddenly as amory’s burning eyes turned on him.
“what are you laughing at?”
“these intellectual people—”
“do you know what it means?”
the little man’s eyes twitched nervously.
“why, it usually means—”
“it always means brainy and well-educated,” interrupted amory. “it means having an active knowledge of the race’s experience.” amory decided to be very rude. he turned to the big man. “the young man,” he indicated the secretary with his thumb, and said young man as one says bell-boy, with no implication of youth, “has the usual muddled connotation of all popular words.”
“you object to the fact that capital controls printing?” said the big man, fixing him with his goggles.
“yes—and i object to doing their mental work for them. it seemed to me that the root of all the business i saw around me consisted in overworking and underpaying a bunch of dubs who submitted to it.”
“here now,” said the big man, “you’ll have to admit that the laboring man is certainly highly paid—five and six hour days—it’s ridiculous. you can’t buy an honest day’s work from a man in the trades-unions.”
“you’ve brought it on yourselves,” insisted amory. “you people never make concessions until they’re wrung out of you.”
“your class; the class i belonged to until recently; those who by inheritance or industry or brains or dishonesty have become the moneyed class.”
“do you imagine that if that road-mender over there had the money he’d be any more willing to give it up?”
“no, but what’s that got to do with it?”
the older man considered.
“no, i’ll admit it hasn’t. it rather sounds as if it had though.”
“in fact,” continued amory, “he’d be worse. the lower classes are narrower, less pleasant and personally more selfish—certainly more stupid. but all that has nothing to do with the question.”
“just exactly what is the question?”
here amory had to pause to consider exactly what the question was.
amory coins a phrase
“when life gets hold of a brainy man of fair education,” began amory slowly, “that is, when he marries he becomes, nine times out of ten, a conservative as far as existing social conditions are concerned. he may be unselfish, kind-hearted, even just in his own way, but his first job is to provide and to hold fast. his wife shoos him on, from ten thousand a year to twenty thousand a year, on and on, in an enclosed treadmill that hasn’t any windows. he’s done! life’s got him! he’s no help! he’s a spiritually married man.”
amory paused and decided that it wasn’t such a bad phrase.
“he’s the natural radical?”
“yes,” said amory. “he may vary from the disillusioned critic like old thornton hancock, all the way to trotsky. now this spiritually unmarried man hasn’t direct power, for unfortunately the spiritually married man, as a by-product of his money chase, has garnered in the great newspaper, the popular magazine, the influential weekly—so that mrs. newspaper, mrs. magazine, mrs. weekly can have a better limousine than those oil people across the street or those cement people ’round the corner.”
“it makes wealthy men the keepers of the world’s intellectual conscience and, of course, a man who has money under one set of social institutions quite naturally can’t risk his family’s happiness by letting the clamor for another appear in his newspaper.”
“but it appears,” said the big man.
“where?—in the discredited mediums. rotten cheap-papered weeklies.”
“all right—go on.”
“well, my first point is that through a mixture of conditions of which the family is the first, there are these two sorts of brains. one sort takes human nature as it finds it, uses its timidity, its weakness, and its strength for its own ends. opposed is the man who, being spiritually unmarried, continually seeks for new systems that will control or counteract human nature. his problem is harder. it is not life that’s complicated, it’s the struggle to guide and control life. that is his struggle. he is a part of progress—the spiritually married man is not.”
the big man produced three big cigars, and proffered them on his huge palm. the little man took one, amory shook his head and reached for a cigarette.
“go on talking,” said the big man. “i’ve been wanting to hear one of you fellows.”
“modern life,” began amory again, “changes no longer century by century, but year by year, ten times faster than it ever has before—populations doubling, civilizations unified more closely with other civilizations, economic interdependence, racial questions, and—we’re dawdling along. my idea is that we’ve got to go very much faster.” he slightly emphasized the last words and the chauffeur unconsciously increased the speed of the car. amory and the big man laughed; the little man laughed, too, after a pause.
“every child,” said amory, “should have an equal start. if his father can endow him with a good physique and his mother with some common sense in his early education, that should be his heritage. if the father can’t give him a good physique, if the mother has spent in chasing men the years in which she should have been preparing herself to educate her children, so much the worse for the child. he shouldn’t be artificially bolstered up with money, sent to these horrible tutoring schools, dragged through college... every boy ought to have an equal start.”
“all right,” said the big man, his goggles indicating neither approval nor objection.
“next i’d have a fair trial of government ownership of all industries.”
“that’s been proven a failure.”
“no—it merely failed. if we had government ownership we’d have the best analytical business minds in the government working for something besides themselves. we’d have mackays instead of burlesons; we’d have morgans in the treasury department; we’d have hills running interstate commerce. we’d have the best lawyers in the senate.”
“they wouldn’t give their best efforts for nothing. mcadoo—”
“no,” said amory, shaking his head. “money isn’t the only stimulus that brings out the best that’s in a man, even in america.”
“you said a while ago that it was.”
“it is, right now. but if it were made illegal to have more than a certain amount the best men would all flock for the one other reward which attracts humanity—honor.”
the big man made a sound that was very like boo.
“that’s the silliest thing you’ve said yet.”
“no, it isn’t silly. it’s quite plausible. if you’d gone to college you’d have been struck by the fact that the men there would work twice as hard for any one of a hundred petty honors as those other men did who were earning their way through.”
“kids—child’s play!” scoffed his antagonist.
“not by a darned sight—unless we’re all children. did you ever see a grown man when he’s trying for a secret society—or a rising family whose name is up at some club? they’ll jump when they hear the sound of the word. the idea that to make a man work you’ve got to hold gold in front of his eyes is a growth, not an axiom. we’ve done that for so long that we’ve forgotten there’s any other way. we’ve made a world where that’s necessary. let me tell you”—amory became emphatic—“if there were ten men insured against either wealth or starvation, and offered a green ribbon for five hours’ work a day and a blue ribbon for ten hours’ work a day, nine out of ten of them would be trying for the blue ribbon. that competitive instinct only wants a badge. if the size of their house is the badge they’ll sweat their heads off for that. if it’s only a blue ribbon, i damn near believe they’ll work just as hard. they have in other ages.”
“i don’t agree with you.”
“i know it,” said amory nodding sadly. “it doesn’t matter any more though. i think these people are going to come and take what they want pretty soon.”
a fierce hiss came from the little man.
“ah, but you’ve taught them their use.”
the big man shook his head.
“in this country there are enough property owners not to permit that sort of thing.”
amory wished he knew the statistics of property owners and non-property owners; he decided to change the subject.
but the big man was aroused.
“when you talk of ‘taking things away,’ you’re on dangerous ground.”
“how can they get it without taking it? for years people have been stalled off with promises. socialism may not be progress, but the threat of the red flag is certainly the inspiring force of all reform. you’ve got to be sensational to get attention.”
“russia is your example of a beneficent violence, i suppose?”
“quite possibly,” admitted amory. “of course, it’s overflowing just as the french revolution did, but i’ve no doubt that it’s really a great experiment and well worth while.”
“don’t you believe in moderation?”
“you won’t listen to the moderates, and it’s almost too late. the truth is that the public has done one of those startling and amazing things that they do about once in a hundred years. they’ve seized an idea.”
“what is it?”
“that however the brains and abilities of men may differ, their stomachs are essentially the same.”
the little man gets his
“if you took all the money in the world,” said the little man with much profundity, “and divided it up in equ—”
“oh, shut up!” said amory briskly and, paying no attention to the little man’s enraged stare, he went on with his argument.
“the human stomach—” he began; but the big man interrupted rather impatiently.
“i’m letting you talk, you know,” he said, “but please avoid stomachs. i’ve been feeling mine all day. anyway, i don’t agree with one-half you’ve said. government ownership is the basis of your whole argument, and it’s invariably a beehive of corruption. men won’t work for blue ribbons, that’s all rot.”
when he ceased the little man spoke up with a determined nod, as if resolved this time to have his say out.
“there are certain things which are human nature,” he asserted with an owl-like look, “which always have been and always will be, which can’t be changed.”
amory looked from the small man to the big man helplessly.
“listen to that! that’s what makes me discouraged with progress. listen to that! i can name offhand over one hundred natural phenomena that have been changed by the will of man—a hundred instincts in man that have been wiped out or are now held in check by civilization. what this man here just said has been for thousands of years the last refuge of the associated mutton-heads of the world. it negates the efforts of every scientist, statesman, moralist, reformer, doctor, and philosopher that ever gave his life to humanity’s service. it’s a flat impeachment of all that’s worth while in human nature. every person over twenty-five years old who makes that statement in cold blood ought to be deprived of the franchise.”
the little man leaned back against the seat, his face purple with rage. amory continued, addressing his remarks to the big man.
“these quarter-educated, stale-minded men such as your friend here, who think they think, every question that comes up, you’ll find his type in the usual ghastly muddle. one minute it’s ‘the brutality and inhumanity of these prussians’—the next it’s ‘we ought to exterminate the whole german people.’ they always believe that ‘things are in a bad way now,’ but they ‘haven’t any faith in these idealists.’ one minute they call wilson ‘just a dreamer, not practical’—a year later they rail at him for making his dreams realities. they haven’t clear logical ideas on one single subject except a sturdy, stolid opposition to all change. they don’t think uneducated people should be highly paid, but they won’t see that if they don’t pay the uneducated people their children are going to be uneducated too, and we’re going round and round in a circle. that—is the great middle class!”
the big man with a broad grin on his face leaned over and smiled at the little man.
“you’re catching it pretty heavy, garvin; how do you feel?”
the little man made an attempt to smile and act as if the whole matter were so ridiculous as to be beneath notice. but amory was not through.
“the theory that people are fit to govern themselves rests on this man. if he can be educated to think clearly, concisely, and logically, freed of his habit of taking refuge in platitudes and prejudices and sentimentalisms, then i’m a militant socialist. if he can’t, then i don’t think it matters much what happens to man or his systems, now or hereafter.”
“i am both interested and amused,” said the big man. “you are very young.”
“which may only mean that i have neither been corrupted nor made timid by contemporary experience. i possess the most valuable experience, the experience of the race, for in spite of going to college i’ve managed to pick up a good education.”
“you talk glibly.”
“it’s not all rubbish,” cried amory passionately. “this is the first time in my life i’ve argued socialism. it’s the only panacea i know. i’m restless. my whole generation is restless. i’m sick of a system where the richest man gets the most beautiful girl if he wants her, where the artist without an income has to sell his talents to a button manufacturer. even if i had no talents i’d not be content to work ten years, condemned either to celibacy or a furtive indulgence, to give some man’s son an automobile.”
“but, if you’re not sure—”
“so you’ll go along crying that we must go faster.”
“that, at least, is true,” amory insisted. “reform won’t catch up to the needs of civilization unless it’s made to. a laissez-faire policy is like spoiling a child by saying he’ll turn out all right in the end. he will—if he’s made to.”
“but you don’t believe all this socialist patter you talk.”
“i don’t know. until i talked to you i hadn’t thought seriously about it. i wasn’t sure of half of what i said.”
“you puzzle me,” said the big man, “but you’re all alike. they say bernard shaw, in spite of his doctrines, is the most exacting of all dramatists about his royalties. to the last farthing.”
“well,” said amory, “i simply state that i’m a product of a versatile mind in a restless generation—with every reason to throw my mind and pen in with the radicals. even if, deep in my heart, i thought we were all blind atoms in a world as limited as a stroke of a pendulum, i and my sort would struggle against tradition; try, at least, to displace old cants with new ones. i’ve thought i was right about life at various times, but faith is difficult. one thing i know. if living isn’t a seeking for the grail it may be a damned amusing game.”
for a minute neither spoke and then the big man asked:
“what was your university?”
the big man became suddenly interested; the expression of his goggles altered slightly.
“i sent my son to princeton.”
“perhaps you knew him. his name was jesse ferrenby. he was killed last year in france.”
“i knew him very well. in fact, he was one of my particular friends.”
“he was—a—quite a fine boy. we were very close.”
amory began to perceive a resemblance between the father and the dead son and he told himself that there had been all along a sense of familiarity. jesse ferrenby, the man who in college had borne off the crown that he had aspired to. it was all so far away. what little boys they had been, working for blue ribbons—
the car slowed up at the entrance to a great estate, ringed around by a huge hedge and a tall iron fence.
“won’t you come in for lunch?”
amory shook his head.
“thank you, mr. ferrenby, but i’ve got to get on.”
the big man held out his hand. amory saw that the fact that he had known jesse more than outweighed any disfavor he had created by his opinions. what ghosts were people with which to work! even the little man insisted on shaking hands.
“good-by!” shouted mr. ferrenby, as the car turned the corner and started up the drive. “good luck to you and bad luck to your theories.”
“same to you, sir,” cried amory, smiling and waving his hand.
“out of the fire, out of the little room”
eight hours from princeton amory sat down by the jersey roadside and looked at the frost-bitten country. nature as a rather coarse phenomenon composed largely of flowers that, when closely inspected, appeared moth-eaten, and of ants that endlessly traversed blades of grass, was always disillusioning; nature represented by skies and waters and far horizons was more likable. frost and the promise of winter thrilled him now, made him think of a wild battle between st. regis and groton, ages ago, seven years ago—and of an autumn day in france twelve months before when he had lain in tall grass, his platoon flattened down close around him, waiting to tap the shoulders of a lewis gunner. he saw the two pictures together with somewhat the same primitive exaltation—two games he had played, differing in quality of acerbity, linked in a way that differed them from rosalind or the subject of labyrinths which were, after all, the business of life.
“i am selfish,” he thought.
“this is not a quality that will change when i ‘see human suffering’ or ‘lose my parents’ or ‘help others.’
“this selfishness is not only part of me. it is the most living part.
“it is by somehow transcending rather than by avoiding that selfishness that i can bring poise and balance into my life.
“there is no virtue of unselfishness that i cannot use. i can make sacrifices, be charitable, give to a friend, endure for a friend, lay down my life for a friend—all because these things may be the best possible expression of myself; yet i have not one drop of the milk of human kindness.”
the problem of evil had solidified for amory into the problem of sex. he was beginning to identify evil with the strong phallic worship in brooke and the early wells. inseparably linked with evil was beauty—beauty, still a constant rising tumult; soft in eleanor’s voice, in an old song at night, rioting deliriously through life like superimposed waterfalls, half rhythm, half darkness. amory knew that every time he had reached toward it longingly it had leered out at him with the grotesque face of evil. beauty of great art, beauty of all joy, most of all the beauty of women.
after all, it had too many associations with license and indulgence. weak things were often beautiful, weak things were never good. and in this new loneness of his that had been selected for what greatness he might achieve, beauty must be relative or, itself a harmony, it would make only a discord.
in a sense this gradual renunciation of beauty was the second step after his disillusion had been made complete. he felt that he was leaving behind him his chance of being a certain type of artist. it seemed so much more important to be a certain sort of man.
his mind turned a corner suddenly and he found himself thinking of the catholic church. the idea was strong in him that there was a certain intrinsic lack in those to whom orthodox religion was necessary, and religion to amory meant the church of rome. quite conceivably it was an empty ritual but it was seemingly the only assimilative, traditionary bulwark against the decay of morals. until the great mobs could be educated into a moral sense some one must cry: “thou shalt not!” yet any acceptance was, for the present, impossible. he wanted time and the absence of ulterior pressure. he wanted to keep the tree without ornaments, realize fully the direction and momentum of this new start.
the afternoon waned from the purging good of three o’clock to the golden beauty of four. afterward he walked through the dull ache of a setting sun when even the clouds seemed bleeding and at twilight he came to a graveyard. there was a dusky, dreamy smell of flowers and the ghost of a new moon in the sky and shadows everywhere. on an impulse he considered trying to open the door of a rusty iron vault built into the side of a hill; a vault washed clean and covered with late-blooming, weepy watery-blue flowers that might have grown from dead eyes, sticky to the touch with a sickening odor.
amory wanted to feel “william dayfield, 1864.”
he wondered that graves ever made people consider life in vain. somehow he could find nothing hopeless in having lived. all the broken columns and clasped hands and doves and angels meant romances. he fancied that in a hundred years he would like having young people speculate as to whether his eyes were brown or blue, and he hoped quite passionately that his grave would have about it an air of many, many years ago. it seemed strange that out of a row of union soldiers two or three made him think of dead loves and dead lovers, when they were exactly like the rest, even to the yellowish moss.
long after midnight the towers and spires of princeton were visible, with here and there a late-burning light—and suddenly out of the clear darkness the sound of bells. as an endless dream it went on; the spirit of the past brooding over a new generation, the chosen youth from the muddled, unchastened world, still fed romantically on the mistakes and half-forgotten dreams of dead statesmen and poets. here was a new generation, shouting the old cries, learning the old creeds, through a revery of long days and nights; destined finally to go out into that dirty gray turmoil to follow love and pride; a new generation dedicated more than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success; grown up to find all gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken....
amory, sorry for them, was still not sorry for himself—art, politics, religion, whatever his medium should be, he knew he was safe now, free from all hysteria—he could accept what was acceptable, roam, grow, rebel, sleep deep through many nights....
there was no god in his heart, he knew; his ideas were still in riot; there was ever the pain of memory; the regret for his lost youth—yet the waters of disillusion had left a deposit on his soul, responsibility and a love of life, the faint stirring of old ambitions and unrealized dreams. but—oh, rosalind! rosalind!...
“it’s all a poor substitute at best,” he said sadly.
and he could not tell why the struggle was worth while, why he had determined to use to the utmost himself and his heritage from the personalities he had passed....
he stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky.
“i know myself,” he cried, “but that is all.”
the primary feature of edition 11 is restoration of em-dashes which are missing from edition 10. (my favorite instance is “i won’t belong” rather than “i won’t be—long”.)
characters which are 8-bit in the printed text were misrepresented in edition 10. edition 10 had some end-of-paragraph problems. a handful of other minor errors are corrected.
two volumes served as reference for edition 11: a 1960 reprint, and an undated reprint produced sometime after 1948. there are a number of differences between the volumes. evidence suggests that the 1960 reprint has been somewhat “modernized”, and that the undated reprint is a better match for the original 1920 printing. therefore, when the volumes differ, edition 11 more closely follows the undated reprint.
in edition 11, underscores are used to denote words and phrases italicized for emphasis.
there is a section of text in book 2, chapter 3, beginning with “when vanity kissed vanity,” which is referred to as “poetry” but is formatted as prose.
i considered, but decided against introducing an 8-bit version of edition 11, in large part because the bulk of the 8-bit usage (as found in the 1960 reprint) consists of words commonly used in their 7-bit form:
aeschylus blase cafe debut debutante elan elite encyclopaedia matinee minutiae paean regime soupcon unaesthetic
less-commonly-used 8-bit word forms in this book include:
anaemic bleme coeur manoeuvered mediaevalist tete-a-tete and the name “borge”.
distributed proofing team
by kate milner rabb
to my mother.
this volume is intended for an introduction to the study of the epics. while the simplicity and directness of the epic style seem to make such a book unnecessary, the fact that to many persons of literary tastes some of these great poems are inaccessible, and that to many more the pleasure of exploring for themselves "the realms of gold" is rendered impossible by the cares of business, has seemed sufficient excuse for its being. though the beauty of the original is of necessity lost in a condensation of this kind, an endeavor has been made to preserve the characteristic epithets, and to retain what mr. arnold called "the simple truth about the matter of the poem." it is believed that the sketch prefacing each story, giving briefly the length, versification, and history of the poem, will have its value to those readers who have not access to the epics, and that the selections following the story, each recounting a complete incident, will give a better idea of the epic than could be formed from passages scattered through the text.
the epic originated among tribes of barbarians, who deified departed heroes and recited legends in praise of their deeds. as the hymn developed, the chorus and strophe were dropped, and the narrative only was preserved. the word "epic" was used simply to distinguish the narrative poem, which was recited, from the lyric, which was sung, and from the dramatic, which was acted.
as the nation passed from childhood to youth, the legends of the hero that each wandering minstrel had changed to suit his fancy, were collected and fused into one by some great poet, who by his power of unification made this written epic his own.
this is the origin of the hindu epics, the "iliad" and the "odyssey," the "kalevala," the "shah-nameh," "beowulf," the "nibelungen lied," the "cid," and the "song of roland."
the conditions for the production of the primitive epic exist but once in a nation's growth. its later epics must be written on subjects of national importance, chosen by the poet, who arranges and embellishes his material according to the rules of the primitive epic. to this class belong the "aeneid," the "jerusalem delivered," and the "lusiad." dante's poem is broader, for it is the epic of mediaeval christianity. milton likewise sought "higher argument" than
"wars, hitherto the only argument heroic deemed,"
and crystallized the religious beliefs of his time in "paradise lost."
the characteristics both of the primitive and the modern epic are their uniform metre, simplicity of construction, concentration of action into a short time, and the use of episode and dialogue. the main difference lies in the impersonality of the primitive epic, whose author has so skillfully hidden himself behind his work that, as some one has said of homer, "his heroes are immortal, but his own existence is doubtful."
although the historical events chronicled in the epics have in every case been so distorted by the fancy of the poets that they cannot be accepted as history, the epics are storehouses of information concerning ancient manners and customs, religious beliefs, forms of government, treatment of women, and habits of feeling.
constructed upon the noblest principles of art, and pervaded by the eternal calm of the immortals, these poems have an especial value to us, who have scarcely yet realized that poetry is an art, and are feverish from the unrest of our time. if by the help of this volume any reader be enabled to find a portion of the wisdom that is hidden in these mines, its purpose will have been accomplished.
my thanks are due to mr. john a. wilstach for the use of selections from his translation of the "divine comedy;" to prof. j. m. crawford, for the use of selections from his translation of the "kalevala;" to henry holt & co., for the use of selections from rabillon's translation of "la chanson de roland;" to roberts brothers, for the use of selections from edwin arnold's "indian idylls;" to prof. j. c. hall, for the use of selections from his translation of "beowulf;" and to a. c. armstrong & son, for the use of selections from conington's translation of the "aeneid." the selections from the "iliad" and the "odyssey" are used with the permission of and by special arrangement with houghton, mifflin & co., publishers of bryant's translations of the "iliad" and the "odyssey." special thanks are due to miss eliza g. browning of the public library of indianapolis, to miss florence hughes of the library of indiana university, and to miss charity dye, of indianapolis.
k. m. r.
indianapolis, ind., september, 1896.
the hindu epic: the ramâyâna
the hindu epic: the mahâ-bhârata
the greek epic: the iliad
the greek epic: the odyssey
the finnish epic: the kalevala
the roman epic: the aeneid
the saxon epic: beowulf
the german epic: the nibelungen lied
the french epic: the song of roland
the persian epic: the shah-nameh
the spanish epic: the poem of the cid
the italian epic: the divine comedy
the italian epic: the orlando furioso
the portuguese epic: the lusiad
the italian epic: the jerusalem delivered
the english epic: paradise lost
the english epic: paradise regained
from paradise lost: satan apostrophe to light
from paradise regained: the temptation of the vision of the kingdoms of the earth
"he who sings and hears this poem continually has attained to the highest state of enjoyment, and will finally be equal to the gods."
the râmâyana, the hindu iliad, is variously ascribed to the fifth, third, and first centuries b.c., its many interpolations making it almost impossible to determine its age by internal evidence. its authorship is unknown, but according to legend it was sung by kuça and lava, the sons of rama, to whom it was taught by valmiki. of the three versions now extant, one is attributed to valmiki, another to tuli das, and a third to vyasa.
its historical basis, almost lost in the innumerable episodes and grotesque imaginings of the hindu, is probably the conquest of southern india and ceylon by the aryans.
the râmâyana is written in the sanskrit language, is divided into seven books, or sections, and contains fifty thousand lines, the english translation of which, by griffith, occupies five volumes.
the hero, rama, is still an object of worship in india, the route of his wanderings being, each year, trodden by devout pilgrims. the poem is not a mere literary monument,--it is a part of the actual religion of the hindu, and is held in such reverence that the mere reading or hearing of it, or certain passages of it, is believed to free from sin and grant his every desire to the reader or hearer.
bibliography and criticism, the râmâyana.
john dowson's classical dictionary of hindu mythology, religion, geography, history, and literature, 1879;
maj.-gen. vans kennedy's researches into hindu mythology, 1831;
f. max müller's ancient sanskrit literature, 1859;
j. t. wheeler's history of india, 4 vols., 1876, vol. ii.;
sir monier williams's indian wisdom, 1863, indian epic poetry, 1863;
article on sanskrit literature in encyclopædia britannica;
standard english translations, the râmâyana.
the râmâyana, tr. by r. t. h. griffith, 5 vols., 1870-1874 (follows bombay ed., translated into metre of "lady of the lake");
extracts from the râmâyana, tr. by sir william jones (in his works, vol. 13);
iliad of the east, f. richardson, 1873 (popular translations of a set of legends from the râmâyana);
the râmâyana translated into english prose, edited and published by naumatha nath dutt, 7 vols., calcutta, 1890-1894.
the story of the râmâyana.
brahma, creator of the universe, though all powerful, could not revoke a promise once made. for this reason, ravana, the demon god of ceylon, stood on his head in the midst of five fires for ten thousand years, and at the end of that time boldly demanded of brahma as a reward that he should not be slain by gods, demons, or genii. he also requested the gift of nine other heads and eighteen additional arms and hands.
these having been granted, he began by the aid of his evil spirits, the rakshasas, to lay waste the earth and to do violence to the good, especially to the priests.
at the time when ravana's outrages were spreading terror throughout the land, and brahma, looking down from his throne, shuddered to see the monster he had gifted with such fell power, there reigned in ayodhya, now the city of oude, a good and wise raja, dasaratha, who had reigned over the splendid city for nine thousand years without once growing weary. he had but one grief,--that he was childless,--and at the opening of the story he was preparing to make the great sacrifice, asva-medha, to propitiate the gods, that they might give him a son.
the gods, well pleased, bore his request to brahma in person, and incidentally preferred a request that he provide some means of destroying the monster ravana that was working such woe among their priests, and disturbing their sacrifices.
brahma granted the first request, and, cudgeling his brains for a device to destroy ravana, bethought himself that while he had promised that neither gods, genii, nor demons should slay him, he had said nothing of man. he accordingly led the appealing gods to vishnu, who proclaimed that the monster should be slain by men and monkeys, and that he would himself be re-incarnated as the eldest son of dasaratha and in this form compass the death of ravana.
in course of time, as a reward for his performance of the great sacrifice, four sons were born to dasaratha, rama by kausalya, his oldest wife, bharata, whose mother was kaikeyi, and twin sons, lakshmana and satrughna, whose mother was sumitra.
rama, the incarnation of vishnu, destined to destroy ravana, grew daily in grace, beauty, and strength. when he was but sixteen years old, having been sent for by a sage to destroy the demons who were disturbing the forest hermits in their religious rites, he departed unattended, save by his brother lakshmana and a guide, into the pathless forests, where he successfully overcame the terrible rakshasa, tarika, and conveyed her body to the grateful sage.
while he was journeying through the forests, destroying countless rakshasas, he chanced to pass near the kingdom of mithila and heard that its king, janaka, had offered his peerless daughter, sita, in marriage to the man who could bend the mighty bow of siva the destroyer, which, since its owner's death, had been kept at janaka's court.
rama at once determined to accomplish the feat, which had been essayed in vain by so many suitors. when he presented himself at court janaka was at once won by his youth and beauty; and when the mighty bow, resting upon an eight-wheeled car, was drawn in by five thousand men, and rama without apparent effort bent it until it broke, he gladly gave him his beautiful daughter, and after the splendid wedding ceremonies were over, loaded the happy pair with presents to carry back to ayodhya.
when dasaratha, who had attended the marriage of his son at mithila, returned home, he began to feel weary of reigning, and bethought himself of the ancient hindu custom of making the eldest son and heir apparent a yuva-raja,--that is appointing him assistant king. rama deserved this honor, and would, moreover, be of great assistance to him.
his happy people received the announcement of his intention with delight; the priests approved of it as well, and the whole city was in the midst of the most splendid preparations for the ceremony, when it occurred to dasaratha that all he lacked was the congratulations of his youngest and favorite wife, kaikeyi, on this great event. the well-watered streets and the garlanded houses had already aroused the suspicions of kaikeyi,--suspicions speedily confirmed by the report of her maid. angered and jealous because the son of kausalya and not her darling bharata, at that time absent from the city, was to be made yuva-raja, she fled to the "chamber of sorrows," and was there found by the old raja.
though kaikeyi was his youngest and most beautiful wife, her tears, threats, and entreaties would have been of no avail had she not recalled that, months before, the old raja, in gratitude for her devoted nursing during his illness, had granted her two promises. she now demanded the fulfilment of these before she would consent to smile upon him, and the consent won, she required him, first, to appoint bharata yuva-raja; and, second, to exile rama for fourteen years to the terrible forest of dandaka.
the promise of a hindu, once given, cannot be revoked. in spite of the grief of the old raja, of kausalya, his old wife, and of all the people, who were at the point of revolt at the sudden disgrace of their favorite prince, the terrible news was announced to rama, and he declared himself ready to go, to save his father from dishonor.
he purposed to go alone, but sita would not suffer herself to be thus deserted. life without him, she pleaded, was worse than death; and so eloquent was her grief at the thought of parting that she was at last permitted to don the rough garment of bark provided by the malicious kaikeyi.
the people of ayodhya, determined to share the fate of their favorites, accompanied them from the city, their tears laying the dust raised by rama's chariot wheels. but when sleep overcame them, rama, sita, and lakshmana escaped from them, dismissed their charioteer, and, crossing the ganges, made their way to the mountain of citra-kuta, where they took up their abode.
no more beautiful place could be imagined. flowers of every kind, delicious fruits, and on every side the most pleasing prospects, together with perfect love, made their hermitage a paradise on earth. here the exiles led an idyllic existence until sought out by bharata, who, learning from his mother on his return home the ruin she had wrought in the raj, had indignantly spurned her, and hastened to dandaka. the old raja had died from grief soon after the departure of the exiles, and bharata now demanded that rama should return to ayodhya and become raja, as was his right, as eldest son.
when rama refused to do this until the end of his fourteen years of exile, bharata vowed that for fourteen years he would wear the garb of a devotee and live outside the city, committing the management of the raj to a pair of golden sandals which he took from rama's feet. all the affairs of state would be transacted under the authority of the sandals, and bharata, while ruling the raj, would pay homage to them.
soon after the departure of bharata the exiles were warned to depart from their home on citra-kuta and seek a safer hermitage, for terrible rakshasas filled this part of the forest. they accordingly sought the abode of atri the hermit, whose wife anasuya was so pleased with sita's piety and devotion to her husband that she bestowed upon her the crown of immortal youth and beauty. they soon found a new abode in the forest of pancarati, on the banks of the river godavari, where lakshmana erected a spacious bamboo house.
their happiness in this elysian spot was destined to be short-lived. near them dwelt a horrible rakshasa, surpanakha by name, who fell in love with rama. when she found that he did not admire the beautiful form she assumed to win him, and that both he and lakshmana laughed at her advances, she attempted to destroy sita, only to receive in the attempt a disfiguring wound from the watchful lakshmana. desiring revenge for her disfigured countenance and her scorned love, she hastened to the court of her brother ravana, in ceylon, and in order to induce him to avenge her wrongs, dwelt upon the charms of the beautiful wife of rama.
some days after, sita espied a golden fawn, flecked with silver, among the trees near their home. its shining body, its jewel-like horns, so captivated her fancy that she implored rama, if possible, to take it alive for her; if not, at least to bring her its skin for a couch. as rama departed, he warned lakshmana not to leave sita for one moment; he would surely return, since no weapon could harm him. in the depths of the forest the fawn fell by his arrow, crying as it fell, "o sita! o lakshmana!" in rama's very tones.
when sita heard the cry she reproached lakshmana for not going to his brother's aid, until he left her to escape her bitter words. he had no sooner disappeared in the direction of the cry than a hermit appeared and asked her to minister unto his wants.
sita carried him food, bathed his feet, and conversed with him until, able no longer to conceal his admiration for her, he revealed himself in his true form as the demon god of ceylon.
when she indignantly repulsed him he seized her, and mounting his chariot drove rapidly towards ceylon.
when rama and lakshmana returned home, soon after, they found the house empty. as they searched through the forest for traces of her they found a giant vulture dying from wounds received while endeavoring to rescue the shrieking sita. going farther, they encountered the monkey king sugriva and his chiefs, among whom sita had dropped from the chariot her scarf and ornaments.
sugriva had been deposed from his kingdom by his brother bali, who had also taken his wife from him. rama agreed to conquer bali if sugriva would assist in the search for sita; and, the agreement made, they at once marched upon kishkindha, together slew bali, and gained possession of the wealthy city and the queen tara. they were now ready to search for the lost sita.
in his quest through every land, hanuman, the monkey general, learned from the king of the vultures that she had been carried to ceylon. he immediately set out for the coast with his army, only to find a bridgeless ocean stretching between them and the island. commanding his soldiers to remain where they were, hanuman expanded his body to enormous proportions, leaped the vast expanse of water, and alighted upon a mountain, from which he could look down upon lanka, the capital city of ceylon. perceiving the city to be closely guarded, he assumed the form of a cat, and thus, unsuspected, crept through the barriers and examined the city. he found the demon god in his apartments, surrounded by beautiful women, but sita was not among them. continuing his search, he at last discovered her, her beauty dimmed by grief, seated under a tree in a beautiful asoka grove, guarded by hideous rakshasas with the faces of buffaloes, dogs, and swine.
assuming the form of a tiny monkey, hanuman crept down the tree, and giving her the ring of rama, took one from her. he offered to carry her away with him, but sita declared that rama must himself come to her rescue. while they were talking together, the demon god appeared, and, after fruitless wooing, announced that if sita did not yield herself to him in two months he would have her guards "mince her limbs with steel" for his morning repast.
in his rage, hanuman destroyed a mango grove and was captured by the demon's guards, who were ordered to set his tail on fire. as soon as this was done, hanuman made himself so small that he slipped from his bonds, and, jumping upon the roofs, spread a conflagration through the city of lanka.
he leaped back to the mainland, conveyed the news of sita's captivity to rama and sugriva, and was soon engaged in active preparations for the campaign.
as long as the ocean was unbridged it was impossible for any one save hanuman to cross it. in his anger at being so thwarted, rama turned his weapons against it, until from the terrified waves rose the god of the ocean, who promised him that if nala built a bridge, the waves should support the materials as firmly as though it were built on land.
terror reigned in lanka at the news of the approach of rama. vibishana, ravana's brother, deserted to rama, because of the demon's rage when he advised him to make peace with rama. fiercely fought battles ensued, in which even the gods took part, vishnu and indra taking sides with rama, and the evil spirits fighting with ravana.
after the war had been carried on for some time, with varying results, it was decided to determine it by single combat between ravana and rama. then even the gods were terrified at the fierceness of the conflict. at each shot rama's mighty bow cut off a head of the demon, which at once grew back, and the hero was in despair until he remembered the all-powerful arrow given him by brahma.
as the demon fell by this weapon, flowers rained from heaven upon the happy victor, and his ears were ravished with celestial music.
touched by the grief of ravana's widows, rama ordered his foe a splendid funeral, and then sought the conquered city.
sita was led forth, beaming with happiness at finding herself re-united to her husband; but her happiness was destined to be of short duration. rama received her with coldness and with downcast eyes, saying that she could no longer be his wife, after having dwelt in the zenana of the demon. sita assured him of her innocence; but on his continuing to revile her, she ordered her funeral pyre to be built, since she would rather die by fire than live despised by rama. the sympathy of all the bystanders was with sita, but rama saw her enter the flames without a tremor. soon agni, the god of fire, appeared, bearing the uninjured sita in his arms. her innocence thus publicly proved by the trial by fire, she was welcomed by rama, whose treatment she tenderly forgave.
the conquest made, the demon destroyed, and sita restored, rama returned in triumph to ayodhya, and assumed the government. the city was prosperous, the people were happy, and for a time all went well. it was not long, however, before whispers concerning sita's long abode in ceylon spread abroad, and some one whispered to rama that a famine in the country was due to the guilt of sita, who had suffered the caresses of the demon while in captivity in ceylon. forgetful of the trial by fire, forgetful of sita's devotion to him through weal and woe, the ungrateful rama immediately ordered her to the forest in which they had spent together the happy years of their exile.
without a murmur the unhappy sita, alone and unbefriended, dragged herself to the forest, and, torn with grief of body and spirit, found the hermitage of valmiki, where she gave birth to twin sons, lava and kuça. here she reared them, with the assistance of the hermit, who was their teacher, and under whose care they grew to manhood, handsome and strong.
it chanced about the time the youths were twenty years old, that rama, who had grown peevish and disagreeable with age, began to think the gods were angered with him because he had killed ravana, who was the son of a brahman. determined to propitiate them by means of the great sacrifice, he caused a horse to be turned loose in the forest. when his men went to retake it, at the end of the year, it was caught by two strong and beautiful youths who resisted all efforts to capture them. in his rage rama went to the forest in person, only to learn that the youths were his twin sons, lava and kuça. struck with remorse, rama recalled the sufferings of his wife sita, and on learning that she was at the hermitage of valmiki, ordered her to come to him, that he might take her to him again, having first caused her to endure the trial by fire to prove her innocence to all his court.
sita had had time to recover from the love of her youth, and the prospect of life with rama, without the couleur de rose of youthful love, was not altogether pleasant. at first, she even refused to see him; but finally, moved by the appeals of valmiki and his wife, she clad herself in her richest robes, and, young and beautiful as when first won by rama, she stood before him. not deigning to look in his face, she appealed to the earth. if she had never loved any man but rama, if her truth and purity were known to the earth, let it open its bosom and take her to it. while the armies stood trembling with horror, the earth opened, a gorgeous throne appeared, and the goddess of earth, seated upon it, took sita beside her and conveyed her to the realms of eternal happiness, leaving the too late repentant rama to wear out his remaining years in shame and penitence.
selections from the râmâyana.
the descent of the ganges.
sagara, an early king of ayodhya, had sixty thousand sons, whom he sent out one day to recover a horse that had been designed for the great sacrifice, but had been stolen by a rakshasa. having searched the earth unsuccessfully, they proceeded to dig into the lower regions.
cloven with shovel and with hoe, pierced by axes and by spades, shrieked the earth in frantic woe; rose from out the yawning shades yells of anguish, hideous roars from the expiring brood of hell,-- serpents, giants, and asoors, in the deep abyss that dwell. sixty thousand leagues in length, all unweary, full of wrath, through the centre, in their strength, clove they down their hellward path. and downward dug they many a rood, and downward till they saw aghast, where the earth-bearing elephant stood, ev'n like a mountain tall and vast. 't is he whose head aloft sustains the broad earth's forest-clothed round, with all its vast and spreading plains, and many a stately city crowned. if underneath the o'erbearing load bows down his weary head, 't is then the mighty earthquakes are abroad, and shaking down the abodes of men. around earth's pillar moved they slowly, and thus in humble accents blest him the lofty and the holy, that bears the region of the east. and southward dug they many a rood, until before their shuddering sight the next earth-bearing elephant stood, huge mahapadmas' mountain height. upon his head earth's southern bound, all full of wonder, saw they rest. slow and awe-struck paced they round, and him, earth's southern pillar, blest. westward then their work they urge, king sagara's six myriad race, unto the vast earth's western verge, and there in his appointed place the next earth-bearing elephant stood, huge saumanasa's mountain crest; around they paced in humble mood, and in like courteous phrase addrest, and still their weary toil endure, and onward dig until they see last earth-bearing himapandure, glorying in his majesty.
at last they reach the place where vishnu appears with the horse. a flame issues from the mouth of the indignant deity and destroys the six myriad sons of sagara, the adventure devolves on their brother ansuman, who achieves it with perfect success. he is permitted to lead away the horse, but the ashes of his brothers cannot be purified by earthly water; the goddess ganga must first be brought to earth, and having undergone lustration from that holy flood, the race of sagara are to ascend to heaven. brahma at last gives his permission to ganga to descend. king bhagiratha takes his stand on the top of gokarna, the sacred peak of himavan (the himalaya), and here--
down on sankara's holy head, down the holy fell, and there, amid the entangling meshes spread, of his loose and flowing hair, vast and boundless as the woods upon the himalaya's brow, nor ever may the struggling floods rush headlong to the earth below. opening, egress was not there, amid those winding, long meanders. within that labyrinthine hair, for many an age, the goddess wanders.
by the penances of the king, siva is propitiated, and the stream, by seven channels, finds its way to the plains of india.
up the raja at the sign upon his glittering chariot leaps, instant ganga the divine follows his majestic steps. from the high heaven burst she forth first on siva's lofty crown, headlong then, and prone to earth thundering rushed the cataract down, swarms of bright-hued fish came dashing; turtles, dolphins in their mirth, fallen or falling, glancing, flashing, to the many-gleaming earth. and all the host of heaven came down, spirits and genii, in amaze, and each forsook his heavenly throne, upon that glorious scene to gaze. on cars, like high-towered cities, seen, with elephants and coursers rode, or on soft swinging palanquin, lay wondering each observant god. as met in bright divan each god, and flashed their jewell'd vestures' rays, the coruscating aether glow'd, as with a hundred suns ablaze. and with the fish and dolphins gleaming, and scaly crocodiles and snakes, glanc'd the air, as when fast streaming the blue lightning shoots and breaks: and in ten thousand sparkles bright went flashing up the cloudy spray, the snowy flocking swans less white, within its glittering mists at play. and headlong now poured down the flood, and now in silver circlets wound, then lake-like spread all bright and broad, then gently, gently flowed around, then 'neath the caverned earth descending, then spouted up the boiling tide, then stream with stream harmonious blending, swell bubbling up and smooth subside. by that heaven-welling water's breast, the genii and the sages stood, its sanctifying dews they blest, and plung'd within the lustral flood. whoe'er beneath the curse of heaven from that immaculate world had fled, to th' impure earth in exile driven, to that all-holy baptism sped; and purified from every sin, to the bright spirit's bliss restor'd, th' ethereal sphere they entered in, and through th' empyreal mansions soar'd. the world in solemn jubilee beheld those heavenly waves draw near, from sin and dark pollution free, bathed in the blameless waters clear. swift king bhagiratha drave upon his lofty glittering car, and swift with her obeisant wave bright ganga followed him afar. milman's translation.
the death of yajnadatta.
the raja dasaratha was compelled to banish his favorite son rama, immediately after his marriage to sita, because his banishment was demanded by the raja's wife kaikeyi, to whom he had once promised to grant any request she might make. his grief at the loss of his son is described in this selection.
scarce rama to the wilderness had with his younger brother gone, abandoned to his deep distress, king dasaratha sate alone. upon his sons to exile driven when thought that king, as indra bright, darkness came o'er him, as in heaven when pales th' eclipsed sun his light. six days he sate, and mourned and pined for rama all that weary time. at midnight on his wandering mind rose up his old forgotten crime. his queen, kausalya, the divine, addressed he, as she rested near: "kausalya, if thou wakest, incline to thy lord's speech thy ready ear. whatever deed, or good or ill, by man, o blessed queen, is wrought. its proper fruit he gathers still, by time to slow perfection brought. he who the opposing counsel's weight compares not in his judgment cool, or misery or bliss his fate, among the sage is deemed a fool. as one that quits the amra bower, the bright palasa's pride to gain mocked by the promise of its flower, seeks its unripening fruit in vain, so i the lovely amra left for the palasa's barren bloom, through mine own fatal error 'reft of banished rama, mourn in gloom. kausalya! in my early youth by my keen arrow, at his mark aimed with too sure and deadly truth, was wrought a deed most fell and dark. at length, the evil that i did, hath fallen upon my fated head, as when on subtle poison hid an unsuspecting child hath fed; even as that child unwittingly hath made the poisonous fare his food, even so, in ignorance by me was wrought that deed of guilt and blood. unwed wert thou in virgin bloom, and i in youth's delicious prime, the season of the rains had come,--that soft and love enkindling time. earth's moisture all absorbed, the sun through all the world its warmth had spread, turned from the north, its course begun, where haunt the spirits of the dead: gathering o'er all the horizon's bound on high the welcome clouds appeared, exulting, all the birds flew round,--cranes, cuckoos, peacocks, flew and veered. and all down each wide-watered shore the troubled, yet still limpid floods, over their banks began to pour, as o'er them hung the bursting clouds. and, saturate with cloud-born dew, the glittering verdant-mantled earth, the cuckoos and the peacocks flew, disputing as in drunken mirth.--
"in such a time, so soft, so bland, oh beautiful! i chanced to go. with quiver and with bow in hand, where clear sarayu's waters flow, if haply to the river's brink at night the buffalo might stray, or elephant, the stream to drink,--intent my savage game to slay. then of a water cruse, as slow it filled, the gurgling sound i heard, nought saw i, but the sullen low of elephant that sound appeared. the swift well-feathered arrow i upon the bowstring fitting straight, towards the sound the shaft let fly, ah, cruelly deceived by fate! the winged arrow scarce had flown, and scarce had reached its destined aim, 'ah me, i'm slain,' a feeble moan in trembling human accents came. 'ah, whence hath come this fatal shaft against a poor recluse like me, who shot that bolt with deadly craft,--alas! what cruel man is he? at the lone midnight had i come to draw the river's limpid flood, and here am struck to death, by whom? ah whose this wrongful deed of blood? alas! and in my parents' heart, the old, the blind, and hardly fed, in the wild wood, hath pierced the dart, that here hath struck their offspring dead. ah, deed most profitless as worst, a deed of wanton useless guilt: as though a pupil's hand accurs'd his holy master's blood had spilt. but not mine own untimely fate,--it is not that which i deplore. my blind, my aged parents' state--'tis their distress afflicts me more. that sightless pair, for many a day, from me their scanty food have earned; what lot is theirs when i'm away, to the five elements returned? alike, all wretched they, as i--ah, whose this triple deed of blood? for who the herbs will now supply,--the roots, the fruit, their blameless food?' my troubled soul, that plaintive moan no sooner heard, so faint and low, trembled to look on what i'd done, fell from my shuddering hand my bow. swift i rushed up, i saw him there, heart-pierced, and fallen the stream beside, the hermit boy with knotted hair,--his clothing was the black deer's hide. on me most piteous turned his look, his wounded breast could scarce respire, and these the words, o queen, he spoke, as to consume me in his ire: 'what wrong, o kshatriya, have i done, to be thy deathful arrow's aim, the forest's solitary son, to draw the limpid stream i came. both wretched and both blind they lie, in the wildwood all destitute, my parents, listening anxiously to hear my home-returning foot. by this, thy fatal shaft, this one, three miserable victims fall, the sire, the mother, and the son--ah why? and unoffending all. how vain my father's life austere, the veda's studied page how vain, he knew not with prophetic fear his son would fall untimely slain. but had he known, to one as he, so weak, so blind, 't were bootless all, no tree can save another tree by the sharp hatchet marked to fall. but to my father's dwelling haste, o raghu's son, lest in his ire thy head with burning curse he blast, as the dry forest tree the fire. thee to my father's lone retreat will quickly lead yon onward path, oh, haste his pardon to entreat, or ere he curse thee in his wrath. yet first that gently i may die, draw forth the barbed steel from hence, allay thy fears, no brahmin i, not thine of brahmin blood the offence. my sire, a brahmin hermit he, my mother was of sudra race.' so spake the wounded boy, on me while turned his unreproaching face. as from his palpitating breast i gently drew the mortal dart, he saw me trembling stand, and blest that boy's pure spirit seemed to part. as died that holy hermit's son, from me my glory seemed to go, with troubled mind i stood, cast down t' inevitable endless woe. that shaft that seemed his life to burn like serpent venom, thus drawn out, i, taking up his fallen urn, t' his father's dwelling took my route. there miserable, blind, and old, of their sole helpmate thus forlorn, his parents did these eyes behold, like two sad birds with pinions shorn. of him in fond discourse they sate, lone, thinking only of their son, for his return so long, so late, impatient, oh by me undone. my footsteps' sound he seemed to know, and thus the aged hermit said, 'o yajnadatta, why so slow?--haste, let the cooling draught be shed. long on the river's cooling brink hast thou been sporting in thy joy. thy mother's fainting spirits sink in fear for thee; but thou, my boy, if aught to grieve thy gentle heart thy mother or thy sire do wrong, bear with us, nor, when next we part, on the slow way thus linger long, the feet of those that cannot move, of those that cannot see the eye, our spirits live but in thy love,--oh wherefore, dearest, no reply?'
"my throat thick swollen with bursting tears, my power of speech that seemed to choke, with hands above my head, my fears breaking my quivering voice, i spoke: the kshatriya dasaratha i, o hermit sage, 't is not thy son! most holy ones, unknowingly a deed of awful guilt i've done. with bow in hand i took my way along sarayu's pleasant brink, the savage buffalo to slay, or elephant come down to drink.
"a sound came murmuring to my ear,--'twas of the urn that slowly filled, i deemed some savage wild-beast near,--my erring shaft thy son had killed. a feeble groan i heard, his breast was pierced by that dire arrow keen: all trembling to the spot i pressed, lo there thy hermit boy was seen. flew to the sound my arrow, meant the wandering elephant to slay, toward the river brink it went,--and there thy son expiring lay. the fatal shaft when forth i drew, to heaven his parting spirit soared, dying he only thought of you, long, long, your lonely lot deplored. thus ignorantly did i slay your child beloved, o hermit sage! turn thou on me, whose fated day is come, thy all-consuming rage!' he heard my dreadful tale at length, he stood all lifeless, motionless; then deep he groaned, and gathering strength, me the meek suppliant did address. 'kshatriya, 't is well that thou hast turned, thy deed of murder to rehearse, else over all thy land had burned the fire of my wide-wasting curse. if with premeditated crime the unoffending blood thou 'dst spilt, the thunderer on his throne sublime had shaken at such tremendous guilt. against the anchorite's sacred head, hadst, knowing, aimed thy shaft accursed, in th' holy vedas deeply read, thy skull in seven wide rents had burst. but since, unwitting, thou hast wrought that deed of death, thou livest still, o son of taghu, from thy thought dismiss all dread of instant ill. oh lead me to that doleful spot where my poor boy expiring lay, beneath the shaft thy fell hand shot, of my blind age the staff, the stay. on the cold earth 'twere yet a joy to touch my perished child again, (so long if i may live) my boy in one last fond embrace to strain his body all bedewed with gore, his locks in loose disorder thrown, let me, let her but touch once more, to the dread realm of yama gone.' then to that fatal place i brought alone that miserable pair; his sightless hands and hers i taught to touch their boy that slumbered there. nor sooner did they feel him lie, on the moist herbage coldly thrown, but with a shrill and feeble cry upon the body cast them down. the mother as she lay and groaned, addressed her boy with quivering tongue, and like a heifer sadly moaned, just plundered of her new-dropped young:
"'was not thy mother once, my son, than life itself more dear to thee? why the long way thou hast begun, without one gentle word to me? one last embrace, and then, beloved, upon thy lonely journey go! alas! with anger art thou moved, that not a word thou wilt bestow?'
"the miserable father now with gentle touch each cold limb pressed, and to the dead his words of woe, as to his living son addressed: 'i too, my son, am i not here?--thy sire with thy sad mother stands; awake, arise, my child, draw near, and clasp each neck with loving hands. who now, 'neath the dark wood by night, a pious reader shall be heard? whose honeyed voice my ear delight with th' holy veda's living word? the evening prayer, th' ablution done, the fire adored with worship meet, who now shall soothe like thee, my son, with fondling hand, my aged feet? and who the herb, the wholesome root, or wild fruit from the wood shall bring? to us the blind, the destitute, with helpless hunger perishing? thy blind old mother, heaven-resigned, within our hermit-dwelling lone, how shall i tend, myself as blind, now all my strength of life is gone? oh, stay, my child, oh. part not yet, to yama's dwelling go not now, to-morrow forth we all will set,--thy mother and myself and thou: for both, in grief for thee, and both so helpless, ere another day, from this dark world, but little loath, shall we depart, death's easy prey! and i myself, by yama's seat, companion of thy darksome way, the guerdon to thy virtues meet from that great judge of men will pray. because, my boy, in innocence, by wicked deed thou hast been slain, rise, where the heroes dwell, who thence ne'er stoop to this dark world again. those that to earth return no more, the sense-subdued, the hermits wise, priests their sage masters that adore, to their eternal seats arise. those that have studied to the last the veda's, the vedanga's page, where saintly kings of earth have passed, nahusa and yayati sage; the sires of holy families, the true to wedlock's sacred vow; and those that cattle, gold, or rice, or lands, with liberal hands bestow; that ope th' asylum to th' oppressed, that ever love, and speak the truth; up to the dwellings of the blest, th' eternal, soar thou, best-loved youth. for none of such a holy race within the lowest seat may dwell; but that will be his fatal place by whom my only offspring fell.'
"so groaning deep, that wretched pair, the hermit and his wife, essayed the meet ablution to prepare, their hands their last faint effort made. divine, with glorious body bright, in splendid car of heaven elate, before them stood their son in light, and thus consoled their helpless state: 'meed of my duteous filial care, i've reached the wished for realms of joy; and ye, in those glad realms, prepare to meet full soon your dear-loved boy. my parents, weep no more for me, yon warrior monarch slew me not, my death was thus ordained to be, predestined was the shaft he shot.' thus as he spoke, the anchorite's son soared up the glowing heaven afar, in air his heavenly body shone, while stood he in his gorgeous car. but they, of that lost boy so dear the last ablution meetly made, thus spoke to me that holy seer, with folded hands above his head. 'albeit by thy unknowing dart my blameless boy untimely fell, a curse i lay upon thy heart, whose fearful pain i know too well. as sorrowing for my son i bow, and yield up my unwilling breath, so, sorrowing for thy son shalt thou at life's last close repose in death.' that curse dread sounding in mine ear, to mine own city forth i set, nor long survived that hermit seer, to mourn his child in lone regret. this day that brahmin curse fulfilled hath fallen on my devoted head, in anguish for my parted child have all my sinking spirits fled. no more my darkened eyes can see, my clouded memory is o'ercast, dark yama's heralds summon me to his deep, dreary realm to haste. mine eye no more my rama sees, and grief-o'erborne, my spirits sink, as the swoln stream sweeps down the trees that grow upon the crumbling brink. oh, felt i rama's touch, or spake one word his home-returning voice, again to life i should awake, as quaffing nectar draughts, rejoice, but what so sad could e'er have been, celestial partner of my heart, as rama's beauteous face unseen, from life untimely to depart? his exile in the forest o'er, him home returned to oude's high town, oh happy those, that see once more, like indra from the sky come down. no mortal men, but gods i deem,--moonlike, before whose wondering sight my rama's glorious face shall beam, from the dark forest bursting bright. happy that gaze on rama's face with beauteous teeth and smile of love, like the blue lotus in its grace, and like the starry king above. like to the full autumnal moon, and like the lotus in its bloom, that youth who sees returning soon,--how blest shall be that mortal's doom." dwelling in that sweet memory, on his last bed the monarch lay, and slowly, softly seemed to die, as fades the moon at dawn away. "ah, rama! ah, my son!" thus said, or scarcely said, the king of men, his gentle hapless spirit fled in sorrow for his rama then, the shepherd of his people old at midnight on his bed of death, the tale of his son's exile told, and breathed away his dying breath. milman's translation.
"it is a deep and noble forest, abounding in delicious fruits and fragrant flowers, shaded and watered by perennial springs."
though parts of the mahâ-bhârata, or story of the great war, are of great antiquity, the entire poem was undoubtedly collected and re-written in the first or second century a. d. tradition ascribes the mahâ-bhârata to the brahman krishna dwaipayana vyasa.
the mahâ-bhârata, unlike the râmâyana, is not the story of some great event, but consists of countless episodes, legends, and philosophical treatises, strung upon the thread of a single story. these episodes are called upakhyanani, and the five most beautiful are called, in india, the five precious stones.
its historical basis is the strife between the aryan invaders of india and the original inhabitants, illustrated in the strife between the sons of the raja pandu and the blind raja, dhrita-rashtra, which forms the main story of the poem.
though marred by the exaggerations peculiar to the hindu, the poem is a great treasure house of indian history, and from it the indian poets, historical writers, and philosophers have drawn much of their material.
the mahâ-bhârata is written in the sanskrit language; it is the longest poem ever written, its eighteen cantos containing two hundred thousand lines.
it is held in even higher regard than the râmâyana, and the reading of it is supposed to confer upon the happy reader every good and perfect gift.
bibliography and criticism, the mahâ-bhârata.
john dowson's classical dictionary of hindu mythology, religion, geography, history, and literature, 1879;
f. max müller's ancient sanskrit literature, 1859 (introduction);
j. t. wheeler's history of india, 4 vols., 1876, vol. ii.;
j. peile's notes on the tales of nala, 1882;
standard english translations, the mahâ-bhârata.
the mahâ-bhârata, selections from the tr. by sir edwin arnold, in his indian poetry, 1886; in his indian idylls, 1883;
nala and damayanti and other poems, tr. from the mahâ-bhârata by h. h. milman, (his translation of the story of nala is edited with notes by monier williams, 1879);
last days of krishna, tr. from the mahâ-bhârata price (oriental translation fund: miscellaneous translations);
the mahâ-bhârata, an english prose translation with notes, by protap chandra roy, published in one hundred parts, 1883-1890;
the story of the mahâ-bhârata.
long ago there dwelt in india two great rajas who were brothers, the raja pandu and the blind raja, dhritarashtra. the former had five noble sons called the pandavas, the eldest of whom was yudhi-sthira, the second bhima, the third arjuna, and the youngest, twin sons, nakalu and sahadeva. all were girted in every way, but arjuna was especially noble in form and feature.
the blind raja had a family of one hundred sons, called the kauravas from their ancestor, kura. the oldest of these was duryodhana, and the bravest, dhusasana.
before the birth of pandu's sons, he had left his kingdom in charge of dhrita-rashtra, that he might spend his time in hunting in the forests on the slopes of the himalayas. after his death dhrita-rashtra continued to rule the kingdom; but on account of their claim to the throne, he invited the pandavas and their mother to his court, where they were trained, together with his sons, in every knightly exercise.
there was probably jealousy between the cousins from the beginning, and when their teacher, drona, openly expressed his pride in the wonderful archery of arjuna, the hatred of the kauravas was made manifest. no disturbance occurred, however, until the day when drona made a public tournament to display the prowess of his pupils.
the contests were in archery and the use of the noose and of clubs. bhima, who had been endowed by the serpent king with the strength of ten thousand elephants, especially excelled in the use of the club, nakalu was most skillful in taming and driving the horse, and the others in the use of the sword and spear. when arjuna made use of the bow and the noose the plaudits with which the spectators greeted his skill so enraged the kauravas that they turned the contest of clubs, which was to have been a friendly one, into a degrading and blood-shedding battle. the spectators left the splendid lists in sorrow, and the blind raja determined to separate the unfriendly cousins before further harm could come from their rivalry.
before this could be done, another event increased their hostility. drona had agreed to impart to the kauravas and the pandavas his skill in warfare, on condition that they would conquer for him his old enemy, the raja of panchala. on account of their quarrel the cousins would not fight together, and the kauravas, marching against the raja, were defeated. on their return, the pandavas went to panchala, and took the raja prisoner.
after yudhi-sthira had been appointed yuva-raja, a step dhrita-rashtra was compelled by the people of hastinapur to take, the kauravas declared that they could no longer remain in the same city with their cousins.
a plot was laid to destroy the pandavas, the raja's conscience having been quieted by the assurances of his brahman counsellor that it was entirely proper to slay one's foe, be he father, brother, or friend, openly or by secret means. the raja accordingly pretended to send his nephews on a pleasure-trip to a distant province, where he had prepared for their reception a "house of lac," rendered more combustible by soaking in clarified butter, in which he had arranged to have them burned as if by accident, as soon as possible after their arrival.
all hastinapur mourned at the departure of the pandavas, and the princes themselves were sad, for they had been warned by a friend that dhrita-rashtra had plotted for their destruction. they took up their abode in the house of lac, to which they prudently constructed a subterranean outlet, and one evening, when a woman with five sons attended a feast of their mother's, uninvited, and fell into a drunken sleep, they made fast the doors, set fire to the house, and escaped to the forest. the bodies of the five men and their mother were found next day, and the assurance was borne to hastinapur that the pandavas and their mother kunti had perished by fire.
the five princes, with their mother, disguised as brahmans, spent several years wandering through the forests, having many strange adventures and slaying many demons. while visiting ekachakra, which city they freed from a frightful rakshasa, they were informed by the sage vyasa that draupadi, the lovely daughter of the raja draupada of panchala, was going to hold a svayamvara in order to select a husband. the suitors of a princess frequently attended a meeting of this sort and took part in various athletic contests, at the end of which the princess signified who was most pleasing to her, usually the victor in the games, by hanging around his neck a garland of flowers.
vyasa's description of the lovely princess, whose black eyes were large as lotus leaves, whose skin was dusky, and her locks dark and curling, so excited the curiosity of the pandavas that they determined to attend the svayamvara. they found the city full of princes and kings who had come to take part in the contest for the most beautiful woman in the world. the great amphitheatre in which the games were to take place was surrounded by gold and jewelled palaces for the accommodation of the princes, and with platforms for the convenience of the spectators.
after music, dancing, and various entertainments, which occupied sixteen days, the contest of skill began. on the top of a tall pole, erected in the plain, was placed a golden fish, below which revolved a large wheel. he who sent his arrow through the spokes of the wheel and pierced the eye of the golden fish was to be the accepted suitor of draupadi.
when the princes saw the difficulty of the contest, many of them refused to enter it; as many tried it only to fail, among them, the kaurava duryodhana. at last arjuna, still in his disguise, stepped forward, drew his bow, and sent his arrow through the wheel into the eye of the golden fish.
immediately a great uproar arose among the spectators because a brahman had entered a contest limited to members of the kshatriya, or warrior class. in the struggle which ensued, however, arjuna, assisted by his brothers, especially bhima, succeeded in carrying off the princess, whose father did not demur.
when the princes returned to their hut they went into the inner room and informed their mother that they had brought home a prize. supposing that it was some game, she told them it would be well to share it equally. the mother's word was law, but would the gods permit them to share draupadi? their troubled minds were set at rest by vyasa, who assured them that draupadi had five different times in former existences besought siva for a good husband. he had refused her requests then, but would now allow her five husbands at once. the princes were well satisfied, and when the raja draupada learned that the brahmans were great princes in disguise, he caused the five weddings to be celebrated in great state.
not satisfied with this, the raja at once endeavored to make peace between the pandavas and their hostile cousins, and succeeded far enough to induce dhrita-rashtra to cede to his nephews a tract of land in the farthest part of his kingdom, on the river jumna, where they set about founding a most splendid city, indra-prastha.
here they lived happily with draupadi, conquering so many kingdoms and accumulating so much wealth that they once more aroused the jealousy of their old enemies, the kauravas. the latter, knowing that it would be impossible to gain the advantage of them by fair means, determined to conquer them by artifice, and accordingly erected a large and magnificent hall and invited their cousins thither, with a great show of friendliness, to a gambling match.
the pandavas knew they would not be treated fairly, but as such an invitation could not be honorably declined by a kshatriya, they went to hastinapur. yudhi-sthira's opponent was shakuni, the queen's brother, an unprincipled man, by whom he was defeated in every game.
yudhi-sthira staked successively his money, his jewels, and his slaves; and when these were exhausted, he continued to play, staking his kingdom, his brothers, and last of all his peerless wife, draupadi.
at this point, when the excitement was intense, the brutal dhusasana commanded draupadi to be brought into the hall, and insulted her in every way, to the great rage of the helpless pandavas, until dhrita-rashtra, affrighted by the evil omens by which the gods signified their disapproval, rebuked dhusasana for his conduct, and giving draupadi her wish, released her husbands and herself and sent them back to their kingdom.
to prevent the pandavas from gaining time to avenge their insult, the kauravas induced their father to invite their cousins to court to play a final game, this time the conditions being that the losing party should go into exile for thirteen years, spending twelve years in the forest and the thirteenth in some city. if their disguise was penetrated by their enemies during the thirteenth year, the exile was to be extended for another thirteen years.
though they knew the outcome, the pandavas accepted the second invitation, and in consequence again sought the forest, not departing without the most terrible threats against their cousins.
in the forest of kamyaka, yudhi-sthira studied the science of dice that he might not again be defeated so disastrously, and journeyed pleasantly from one point of interest to another with draupadi and his brothers, with the exception of arjuna, who had sought the himalayas to gain favor with the god siva, that he might procure from him a terrible weapon for the destruction of his cousins.
after he had obtained the weapon he was lifted into the heaven of the god indra, where he spent five happy years. when he rejoined his wife and brothers, they were visited by the god krishna and by the sage markandeya, who told them the story of the creation and destruction of the universe, of the flood, and of the doctrine of karma, which instructs one that man's sufferings here below are due to his actions in former and forgotten existences. he also related to them the beautiful story of how the princess sâvitrî had wedded the prince satyavan, knowing that the gods had decreed that he should die within a year; how on the day set for his death she had accompanied him to the forest, had there followed yama, the awful god of death, entreating him until, for very pity of her sorrow and admiration of her courage and devotion, he yielded to her her husband's soul.
the thirteenth year of their exile they spent in the city of virata, where they entered the service of the raja,--yudhi-sthira as teacher of dice-playing, bhima as superintendent of the cooks, arjuna as a teacher of music and dancing to the ladies, nakalu as master of horse, and sahadeva as superintendent of the cattle. draupadi, who entered the service of the queen, was so attractive, even in disguise, that bhima was forced to kill the queen's brother, kechaka, for insulting her. this would have caused the pandavas' exile from virata had not their services been needed in a battle between virata and the king of the trigartas.
the kauravas assisted the trigartas in this battle, and the recognition, among the victors, of their cousins, whose thirteenth year of exile was now ended, added to the bitterness of their defeat.
their exile over, the pandavas were free to make preparations for the great war which they had determined to wage against the kauravas. both parties, anxious to enlist the services of krishna, sent envoys to him at the same time. when krishna gave them the choice of himself or his armies, arjuna was shrewd enough to choose the god, leaving his hundreds of millions of soldiers to swell the forces of the kauravas.
when their preparations were completed, and the time had come to wreak vengeance on their cousins, the pandavas were loath to begin the conflict. they seemed to understand that, war once declared, there could be no compromise, but that it must be a war for extinction. but the kauravas received their proposals of peace with taunts, and heaped insults upon their emissary.
when the pandavas found that there was no hope of peace, they endeavored to win to their side karna, who was really a son of kunti, and hence their half-brother, though this fact had not been made known to him until he had long been allied with the kauravas. in anticipation of this war, the gods, by a bit of trickery, had robbed karna of his god-given armor and weapons. however, neither celestial artifice, the arguments of krishna, nor the entreaties of kunti were able to move karna from what he considered the path of duty, though he promised that while he would fight with all his strength, he would not slay yudhi-sthira, bhima, and the twins.
the forces of the two armies were drawn up on the plain of kuruk-shetra. the army of the kauravas was under the command of the terrible bhishma, the uncle of pandu and dhrita-rashtra, who had governed the country during the minority of pandu.
each side was provided with billions and billions of infantry, cavalry, and elephants; the warriors were supplied with weapons of the most dangerous sort. the army of the kauravas was surrounded by a deep trench fortified by towers, and further protected by fireballs and jars full of scorpions to be thrown at the assailants.
as night fell, before the battle, the moon's face was stained with blood, earthquakes shook the land, and the images of the gods fell from their places.
the next morning, when arjuna, from his chariot, beheld the immense army, he was appalled at the thought of the bloodshed to follow, and hesitated to advance. krishna insisted that it was unnecessary for him to lament, setting forth his reasons in what is known as the bhagavat-gita, the divine song, in which he said it was no sin to slay a foe, since death is but a transmigration from one form to another. the soul can never cease to be; who then can destroy it? therefore, when arjuna slew his cousins he would merely remove their offensive bodies; their souls, unable to be destroyed, would seek other habitations. to further impress arjuna, krishna boasted of himself as embodying everything, and as having passed through many forms. faith in krishna was indispensable, for the god placed faith above either works or contemplation. he next exhibited himself in his divine form to arjuna, and the warrior was horror-stricken at the terrible divinity with countless arms, hands, and heads, touching the skies. having been thus instructed by krishna, arjuna went forth, and the eighteen days' battle began.
the slaughter was wholesale; no quarter was asked or given, since each side was determined to exterminate the other. flights of arrows were stopped in mid-air by flights of arrows from the other side. great maces were cut in pieces by well-directed darts. bhima, wielding his great club with his prodigious strength, wiped out thousands of the enemy at one stroke, and arjuna did the same with his swift arrows. nor were the kauravas to be despised. hundreds of thousands of the pandavas' followers fell, and the heroic brothers were themselves struck by many arrows.
early in the battle the old bhishma was pierced by so many arrows that, falling from his chariot, he rested upon their points as on a couch, and lay there living by his own desire, until long after the battle.
after eighteen days of slaughter, during which the field reeked with blood and night was made horrible by the cries of the jackals and other beasts of prey that devoured the bodies of the dead, the kauravas were all slain, and the five pandavas, reconciled to the blind raja, accompanied him back to hastinapur, where yudhi-sthira was crowned raja, although the raj was still nominally under the rule of his old uncle.
yudhi-sthira celebrated his accession to the throne by the performance of the great sacrifice, which was celebrated with the utmost splendor. after several years the unhappy dhrita-rashtra retired with his wife to a jungle on the banks of the ganges, leaving yudhi-sthira in possession of the kingdom. there the pandavas visited him, and talked over the friends who had fallen in the great war. one evening the sage vyasa instructed them to bathe in the ganges and then stand on the banks of the river. he then went into the water and prayed, and coming out stood by yudhi-sthira and called the names of all those persons who had been slain at kuruk-shetra. immediately the water began to foam and boil, and to the great surprise and terror of all, the warriors lost in the great battle appeared in their chariots, at perfect peace with one another, and cleansed of all earthly stain. then the living were happy with the dead; long separated families were once more united, and the hearts that had been desolate for fifteen long years were again filled with joy. the night sped quickly by in tender conversation, and when morning came, all the dead mounted into their chariots and disappeared. those who had come to meet them prepared to leave the river, but with the permission of vyasa, the widows drowned themselves that they might rejoin their husbands.
not long after his return to hastinapur, yudhi-sthira heard that the old raja and his wife had lost their lives in a jungle-fire; and soon after this, tidings came to him of the destruction of the city of the yadavas, the capital of krishna, in punishment for the dissipation of its inhabitants.
yudhi-sthira's reign of thirty-six years had been a succession of gloomy events, and he began to grow weary of earth and to long for the blessings promised above. he therefore determined to make the long and weary pilgrimage to heaven without waiting for death. according to the mahâ-bhârata, the earth was divided into seven concentric rings, each of which was surrounded by an ocean or belt separating it from the next annular continent. the first ocean was of salt water; the second, of the juice of the sugar-cane; the third, of wine; the fourth, of clarified butter; the fifth, of curdled milk; the sixth, of sweet milk; the seventh, of fresh water. in the centre of this vast annular system mount meru rose to the height of sixty-four thousand miles.
upon this mountain was supposed to rest the heaven of the hindus, and thither yudhi-sthira proposed to make his pilgrimage. his brothers and their wife draupadi insisted on going with him, for all were equally weary of the world. their people would fain have accompanied them, but the princes sent them back and went unaccompanied save by their faithful dog. they kept on, fired by their high resolves, until they reached the long and dreary waste of sand that stretched before mount meru. there draupadi fell and yielded up her life, and yudhi-sthira, never turning to look back, told the questioning bhima that she died because she loved her husbands better than all else, better than heaven. next sahadeva fell, then nakalu, and afterwards arjuna and bhima. yudhi-sthira, still striding on, informed bhima that pride had slain the first, self-love the second, the sin of arjuna was a lie, and bhima had loved too well the good things of earth.
followed by the dog, yudhi-sthira pushed across the barren sand until he reached the mount and stood in the presence of the god. well pleased with his perseverance, the god promised him the reward of entering into heaven in his own form, but he refused to go unless the dog could accompany him. after vainly attempting to dissuade him, the god allowed the dog to assume its proper form, and lo! it was dharma, the god of justice, and the two entered heaven together.
but where were draupadi and the gallant princes, her husbands? yudhi-sthira could see them nowhere, and he questioned only to learn that they were in hell. his determination was quickly taken. there could be no heaven for him unless his brothers and their wife could share it with him. he demanded to be shown the path to hell, to enter which he walked over razors, and trod under foot mangled human forms. but joy of joys! the lotus-eyed draupadi called to him, and his brothers cried that his presence in hell brought a soothing breeze that gave relief to all the tortured souls.
yudhi-sthira's self-sacrifice sufficiently tested, the gods proclaimed that it was all but an illusion shown to make him enjoy the more, by contrast, the blisses of heaven. the king yudhi-sthira then bathed in the great river flowing through three worlds, and, washed from all sins and soils, went up, hand in hand with the gods, to his brothers, the pandavas, and
"lotus-eyed and loveliest draupadi, waiting to greet him, gladdening and glad."
selections from the mahâ-bhârata.
sâvitri, or love and death.
the beautiful princess sâvitri of her own choice wedded the prince satyavan, son of a blind and exiled king, although she knew that he was doomed by the gods to die within a year. when the year was almost gone, she sat for several days beneath a great tree, abstaining from food and drink, and imploring the gods to save him from death. on the fateful day she accompanied him to the forest to gather the sacred wood for the evening sacrifice. as he struck the tree with the axe he reeled in pain, and exclaiming, "i cannot work!" fell fainting.
up started she, with beating heart, and joined her palms for supplication, and spake thus in accents tremulous: "thou seem'st some god; thy mien is more than mortal; make me know what god thou art, and what thy purpose here."
and yama said (the dreadful god of death): "thou art a faithful wife, o sâvitrî, true to thy vows, pious, and dutiful; therefore i answer thee. yama i am! this prince thy lord lieth at point to die; him will i straightway bind and bear from life; this is my office, and for this i come."
then sâvitrî spake sadly: "it is taught thy messengers are sent to fetch the dying; why is it, mightiest, thou art come thyself?"
in pity of her love, the pityless answered--the king of all the dead replied: "this was a prince unparalleled, thy lord; virtuous as fair, a sea of goodly gifts, not to be summoned by a meaner voice than yama's own: therefore is yama come."
with that the gloomy god fitted his noose and forced forth from the prince the soul of him-- subtile, a thumb in length--which being reft, breath stayed, blood stopped, the body's grace was gone, and all life's warmth to stony coldness turned. then, binding it, the silent presence bore satyavan's soul away toward the south.
but sâvitrî the princess followed him; being so bold in wifely purity, so holy by her love; and so upheld, she followed him.
presently yama turned. "go back," quoth he. "pay for him funeral dues. enough, o sâvitrî, is wrought for love; go back! too far already hast thou come."
then sâvitrî made answer: "i must go where my lord goes, or where my lord is borne; naught other is my duty. nay, i think, by reason of my vows, my services, done to the gurus, and my faultless love, grant but thy grace, i shall unhindered go. the sages teach that to walk seven steps one with another, maketh good men friends; beseech thee, let me say a verse to thee:--
"be master of thyself, if thou wilt be servant of duty. such as thou shall see not self-subduing, do no deeds of good in youth or age, in household or in wood. but wise men know that virtue is best bliss, and all by some one way may reach to this. it needs not men should pass through orders four to come to knowledge: doing right is more than any learning; therefore sages say best and most excellent is virtue's way."
spake yama then: "return! yet i am moved by those soft words; justly their accents fell, and sweet and reasonable was their sense. see now, thou faultless one. except this life i bear away, ask any boon from me; it shall not be denied."
sâvitrî said: "let, then, the king, my husband's father, have his eyesight back, and be his strength restored, and let him live anew, strong as the sun."
"i give this gift," yama replied. "thy wish, blameless, shall be fulfilled. but now go back; already art thou wearied, and our road is hard and long. turn back, lest thou, too, die."
the princess answered: "weary am i not, so i walk near my lord. where he is borne, thither wend i. most mighty of the gods, i follow wheresoe'er thou takest him. a verse is writ on this, if thou wouldst hear:--
"there is naught better than to be with noble souls in company: there is naught better than to wend with good friends faithful to the end. this is the love whose fruit is sweet, therefore to bide within is meet."
spake yama, smiling: "beautiful! thy words delight me; they are excellent, and teach wisdom unto the wise, singing soft truth. look, now! except the life of satyavan, ask yet another--any--boon from me."
sâvitrî said: "let, then, the pious king, my husband's father, who hath lost his throne, have back the raj; and let him rule his realm in happy righteousness. this boon i ask."
"he shall have back the throne," yama replied, "and he shall reign in righteousness: these things will surely fall. but thou, gaining thy wish, return anon; so shalt thou 'scape sore ill."
"ah, awful god! who hold'st the world in leash," the princess said, "restraining evil men, and leading good men--even unconscious--there, where they attain, hear yet those famous words:--
"the constant virtues of the good are tenderness and love to all that lives--in earth, air, sea--great, small--below, above; compassionate of heart, they keep a gentle thought for each, kind in their actions, mild in will, and pitiful of speech; who pitieth not, he hath not faith; full many an one so lives, but when an enemy seeks help, a good man gladly gives."
"as water to the thirsty," yama said, "princess, thy words melodious are to me. except the life of satyavan, thy lord, ask one boon yet again, for i will grant."
answer made sâvitrî: "the king, my sire, hath no male child. let him see many sons begotten of his body, who may keep the royal line long regnant. this i ask."
"so shall it be," the lord of death replied; "a hundred fair preservers of his race thy sire shall boast. but this wish being won, return, dear princess; thou hast come too far."
"it is not far for me," quoth sâvitrî, "since i am near my husband; nay, my heart is set to go as far as to the end; but hear these other verses, if thou wilt:--
"by that sunlit name thou bearest, thou, vaivaswata! art dearest; those that as their lord proclaim thee, king of righteousness do name thee: better than themselves the wise trust the righteous. each relies most upon the good, and makes friendship with them. friendship takes fear from hearts; yet friends betray, in good men we may trust alway."
"sweet lady," yama said, "never were words spoke better; never truer heard by ear; lo! i am pleased with thee. except this soul, ask one gift yet again, and get thee home."
"i ask thee then," quickly the princess cried, "sons, many sons, born of my body; boys; satyavan's children; lovely, valiant, strong; continuers of their line. grant this, kind god."
"i grant it," yama answered; "thou shalt bear these sons thy heart desireth, valiant, strong. therefore go back, that years be given thee. too long a path thou treadest, dark and rough."
but sweeter than before, the princess sang:--
"in paths of peace and virtue always the good remain; and sorrow shall not stay with them, nor long access of pain; at meeting or at parting joys to their bosom strike; for good to good is friendly, and virtue loves her like. the great sun goes his journey by their strong truth impelled; by their pure lives and penances is earth itself upheld; of all which live and shall live upon its hills and fields, pure hearts are the protectors, for virtue saves and shields.
"never are noble spirits poor while their like survive; true love has gems to render, and virtue wealth to give. never is lost or wasted the goodness of the good; never against a mercy, against a right, it stood; and seeing this, that virtue is always friend to all, the virtuous and true-hearted, men their protectors call."
"line for line, princess, as thou sangest so," quoth yama, "all that lovely praise of good, grateful to hallowed minds, lofty in sound, and couched in dulcet numbers--word by word-- dearer thou grew'st to me. o thou great heart, perfect and firm! ask any boon from me,-- ask an incomparable boon!"
she cried swiftly, no longer stayed: "not heaven i crave, nor heavenly joys, nor bliss incomparable, hard to be granted, even by thee; but him, my sweet lord's life, without which i am dead; give me that gift of gifts! i will not take aught less without him,--not one boon--no praise, no splendors, no rewards,--not even those sons whom thou didst promise. ah, thou wilt not now bear hence the father of them and my hope! make thy free word good; give me satyavan alive once more."
and thereupon the god-- the lord of justice, high vaivaswata-- loosened the noose and freed the prince's soul, and gave it to the lady, saying this, with eyes grown tender: "see, thou sweetest queen of women, brightest jewel of thy kind! here is thy husband. he shall live and reign side by side with thee, saved by thee,--in peace and fame and wealth, and health, many long years, for pious sacrifices world-renowned. boys shalt thou bear to him, as i did grant,-- kshatriya kings, fathers of kings to be, sustainers of thy line. also thy sire shall see his name upheld by sons of sons, like the immortals, valiant, mâlavas."
arnold: indian idylls.
from "the great journey."
the shadow of the great war hung over king yudhi-sthira, whose reign was one long succession of gloomy events, culminating in the death of the blind raja and his wife in a jungle fire, and the destruction of the capital city of krishna because of the dissipation of its inhabitants.
on tidings of the wreck of vrishni's race, king yudhi-sthira of the pandavas was minded to be done with earthly things, and to arjuna spake: "o noble prince, time endeth all; we linger, noose on neck, till the last day tightens the line, and kills. let us go forth to die, being yet alive." and kunti's son, the great arjuna, said: "let us go forth! time slayeth all. we will find death, who seeketh other men." and bhimasena, hearing, answered: "yea, we will find death!" and sahadev cried: "yea!" and his twin brother nakalu; whereat the princes set their faces for the mount.
so ordering ere he went, the righteous king made offering of white water, heedfully, to vasudev, to rama, and the rest,-- all funeral rites performing; next he spread a funeral feast....
and all the people cried, "stay with us, lord!" but yudhi-sthira knew his time was come, knew that life passes and that virtue lasts, and put aside their love....
so, with farewells tenderly took of lieges and of lords, girt he for travel with his princely kin, great yudhi-sthira, dharma's royal son. crest-gem and belt and ornaments he stripped from off his body, and for broidered robe a rough dress donned, woven of jungle bark; and what he did--o lord of men!--so did arjuna, bhima, and the twin-born pair, nakalu with sahadev, and she,--in grace the peerless,--draupadi. lastly those six,-- thou son of bharata!--in solemn form made the high sacrifice of naishtiki, quenching their flames in water at the close; and so set forth, midst wailing of all folk and tears of women, weeping most to see the princess draupadi--that lovely prize of the great gaming, draupadi the bright-- journeying afoot; but she and all the five rejoiced because their way lay heavenward.
seven were they, setting forth,--princess and king, the king's four brothers and a faithful dog. those left hastinapur; but many a man, and all the palace household, followed them the first sad stage: and ofttimes prayed to part,
put parting off for love and pity, still sighing, "a little farther!" till day waned; then one by one they turned.
thus wended they, pandu's five sons and loveliest draupadi, taking no meat and journeying due east, on righteousness their high hearts fed, to heaven their souls assigned; and steadfast trod their feet-- by faith upborne--past nullah ran, and wood, river and jheel and plain. king yudhi-sthir walked foremost, bhima followed, after him arjuna, and the twin-born brethren next, nakalu with sahadev; in whose still steps-- o best of bharat's offspring!--draupadi, that gem of women paced, with soft dark face,-- clear-edged like lotus petals; last the dog following the pandavas.
while yet those heroes walked, now to the northward banding, where long coasts shut in the sea of salt, now to the north, accomplishing all quarters, journeyed they; the earth their altar of high sacrifice, which these most patient feet did pace around till meru rose.
at last it rose! these six, their senses subjugate, their spirits pure, wending along, came into sight--far off in the eastern sky--of awful himavat; and midway in the peaks of himavat, meru, the mountain of all mountains, rose, whose head is heaven; and under himavat glared a wide waste of sand, dreadful as death.
then, as they hastened o'er the deathly waste, aiming for meru, having thoughts at soul infinite, eager,--lo! draupadi reeled, with faltering heart and feet; and bhima turned, gazing upon her; and that hero spake to yudhi-sthira: "master, brother, king! why doth she fail? for never all her life wrought our sweet lady one thing wrong, i think. thou knowest; make us know, why hath she failed?"
then yudhi-sthira answered: "yea, one thing. she loved our brothers better than all else,-- better than heaven: that was her tender sin, fault of a faultless soul: she pays for that."
so spake the monarch, turning not his eyes, though draupadi lay dead,--striding straight on for meru, heart-full of the things of heaven, perfect and firm. but yet a little space and sahadev fell down; which bhima seeing, cried once again: "o king, great madri's son stumbles and sinks. why hath he sunk?--so true, so brave and steadfast, and so free from pride!"
"he was not free," with countenance still fixed, quoth yudhi-sthira; "he was true and fast and wise; yet wisdom made him proud; he hid one little hurt of soul, but now it kills."
so saying, he strode on, kunti's strong son, and bhima; and arjuna followed him, and nakalu and the hound; leaving behind sahadev in the sands. but nakalu, weakened and grieved to see sahadev fall-- his dear-loved brother--lagged and stayed; and then prone on his face he fell, that noble face which had no match for beauty in the land,-- glorious and godlike nakalu! then sighed bhima anew: "brother and lord! the man who never erred from virtue, never broke our fellowship, and never in the world was matched for goodly perfectness of form or gracious feature,--nakalu has fallen!"
but yudhi-sthira, holding fixed his eyes,-- that changeless, faithful, all-wise king,--replied: "yea, but he erred! the god-like form he wore beguiled him to believe none like to him, and he alone desirable, and things unlovely, to be slighted. self-love slays our noble brother. bhima, follow! each pays what his debt was."
which arjuna heard, weeping to see them fall; and that stout son of pandu, that destroyer of his foes, that prince, who drove through crimson waves of war, in old days, with his milk-white chariot-steeds, him, the arch hero, sank! beholding this,-- the yielding of that soul unconquerable,
fearless, divine, from sakra's self derived, arjuna's--bhima cried aloud: "o king! this man was surely perfect. never once, not even in slumber, when the lips are loosed, spake he one word that was not true as truth. ah, heart of gold! why art thou broke? o king! whence falleth he?"
and yudhi-sthira said, not pausing: "once he lied, a lordly lie! he bragged--our brother--that a single day should see him utterly consume, alone, all those his enemies,--which could not be. yet from a great heart sprang the unmeasured speech, howbeit a finished hero should not shame himself in such a wise, nor his enemy, if he will faultless fight and blameless die: this was arjuna's sin. follow thou me!"
so the king still went on. but bhima next fainted, and stayed upon the way, and sank; but, sinking, cried behind the steadfast prince: "ah, brother, see! i die! look upon me, thy well beloved! wherefore falter i, who strove to stand?"
and yudhi-sthira said: "more than was well the goodly things of earth pleased thee, my pleasant brother! light the offence and large thy spirit; but the o'erfed soul plumed itself over others. pritha's son, for this thou fallest, who so near didst gain."
thenceforth alone the long-armed monarch strode, not looking back,--nay, not for bhima's sake,-- but walking with his face set for the mount; and the hound followed him,--only the hound.
after the deathly sands, the mount! and lo! sakra shone forth,--the god,--filling the earth and heavens with the thunders of his chariot wheels. "ascend," he said, "with me, pritha's great son!" but yudhi-sthira answered, sore at heart for those his kinsfolk, fallen on the way: "o thousand-eyed, o lord of all the gods, give that my brothers come with me, who fell! not without them is swarga sweet to me. she too, the dear and kind and queenly,--she whose perfect virtue paradise must crown,-- grant her to come with us! dost thou grant this?"
the god replied: "in heaven thou shalt see thy kinsmen and the queen--these will attain-- and krishna. grieve no longer for thy dead, thou chief of men! their mortal coverings stripped, these have their places; but to thee, the gods allow an unknown grace: thou shalt go up, living and in thy form, to the immortal homes."
but the king answered: "o thou wisest one, who know'st what was, and is, and is to be, still one more grace! this hound hath ate with me, followed me, loved me; must i leave him now?"
"monarch," spake indra, "thou art now as we,-- deathless, divine; thou art become a god; glory and power and gifts celestial, and all the joys of heaven are thine for aye: what hath a beast with these? leave here thy hound."
yet yudhi-sthira answered: "o most high, o thousand-eyed and wisest! can it be that one exalted should seem pitiless? nay, let me lose such glory: for its sake i cannot leave one living thing i loved."
then sternly indra spake: "he is unclean, and into swarga such shall enter not. the krodhavasha's wrath destroys the fruits of sacrifice, if dog defile the fire. bethink thee, dharmaraj; quit now this beast! that which is seemly is not hard of heart."
still he replied: "'tis written that to spurn a suppliant equals in offence to slay a twice-born; wherefore, not for swarga's bliss quit i, mahendra, this poor clinging dog,-- so without any hope or friend save me. so wistful, fawning for my faithfulness; so agonized to die, unless i help who among men was called steadfast and just."
quoth indra: "nay, the altar flame is foul where a dog passeth; angry angels sweep the ascending smoke aside, and all the fruits of offering, and the merit of the prayer of him whom a hound toucheth. leave it here! he that will enter heaven must enter pure. why didst thou quit thy brethren on the way, and krishna, and the dear-loved draupadi, attaining firm and glorious to this mount through perfect deeds, to linger for a brute? hath yudhi-sthira vanquished self, to melt with one pure passion at the door of bliss? stay'st thou for this, who did not stay for them,-- draupadi, bhima?"
straight as he spake, brightly great indra smiled; vanished the hound, and in its stead stood there the lord of death and justice, dharma's self! sweet were the words which fell from those dread lips, precious the lovely praise: "o thou true king, thou that dost bring to harvest the good seed of pandu's righteousness; thou that hast ruth as he before, on all which lives!--o son!
"hear thou my word! because thou didst not mount this car divine, lest the poor hound be shent who looked to thee, lo! there is none in heaven shall sit above thee, king! bharata's son! enter thou now to the eternal joys, living and in thy form. justice and love welcome thee, monarch! thou shalt throne with us!" arnold: indian idylls.
the iliad, or story of the fall of ilium (troy), is supposed to have been written by homer, about the tenth century b. c. the legendary history of homer represents him as a schoolmaster and poet of smyrna, who while visiting in ithaca became blind, and afterwards spent his life travelling from place to place reciting his poems, until he died in ios. seven cities, smyrna, chios, colophon, ithaca, pylos, argos, and athens, claimed to be his birthplace.
in 1795, wolf, a german scholar, published his "prolegomena," which set forth his theory that homer was a fictitious character, and that the iliad was made up of originally unconnected poems, collected and combined by pisistratus.
though for a time the wolfian theory had many advocates, it is now generally conceded that although the stories of the fall of troy were current long before homer, they were collected and recast into one poem by some great poet. that the iliad is the work of one man is clearly shown by its unity, its sustained simplicity of style, and the centralization of interest in the character of achilles.
the destruction of troy, for a time regarded as a poetic fiction, is now believed by many scholars to be an actual historical event which took place about the time of the æolian migration.
the whole story of the fall of troy is not related in the iliad, the poem opening nine years after the beginning of the war, and closing with the death of hector.
the iliad is divided into twenty-four books, and contains nineteen thousand four hundred and sixty-five lines.
as a work of art the iliad has never been excelled; moreover, it possesses what all works of art do not,--"the touches of things human" that make it ours, although the centuries lie between us and its unknown author, who told his stirring story in such swift-moving verses, with such touches of pathos and humor, and with such evident joy of living. another evidence of the perfection of homer's art is that while his heroes are perfect types of greeks and trojans, they are also typical men, and for that reason, still keep their hold upon us. it is this human interest, simplicity of style, and grandeur of treatment that have rendered homer immortal and his work imperishable.
bibliography and criticism, the iliad.
h. bonitz's origin of the homeric poems, tr. 1880;
r. c. jebb's introduction to homer, 1887;
a. lang's homer and the epic, 1893;
w. leaf's companion to the iliad for english readers, 1892;
j. a. symonds's studies in greek poets, ed. 3, 1893.
standard english translations, the iliad.
the iliad, tr. into english blank verse by w. c. bryant, 2 vols., 1871 (primitive in spirit, like homer. union of literalness with simplicity);
the iliad, tr. by william cowper (very literal and inattentive to melody, but has more of simple majesty and manner of homer than pope);
the iliad, rendered into english blank verse by the earl of derby, 2 vols., 1864;
the story of the iliad.
for nine years a fleet of one thousand one hundred and eighty-six ships and an army of more than one hundred thousand greeks, under the command of agamemnon, lay before king priam's city of troy to avenge the wrongs of menelaus, king of sparta, and to reclaim helen, his wife, who had been carried away by priam's son paris, at the instigation of venus.
though they had not succeeded in taking troy, the greeks had conquered many of the surrounding cities. from one of these, agamemnon had taken as his share of the booty chryseis, the beautiful daughter of the priest chryses; and when her father had come to ransom her, he had been insulted and driven away by the king. chryses had prayed to apollo for revenge, and the god had sent upon the greeks a pestilence which was slaying so many thousands that a meeting was called to consult upon what to do to check the plague and conciliate the god.
calchas the seer had declared that the plague was sent because of the detention of chryseis, and agamemnon, though indignant with the priest, announced that he would send her back to save his army from destruction. "note, however," said he, "that i have now given up my booty. see that i am recompensed for what i lose."
then rose the leader of the myrmidons, swift-footed achilles, in his wrath, and denounced agamemnon for his greediness.
"thou hast ever had thy share and more of all the booty, and thou knowest well that there is now no common store from which to give thee spoil. but wait until troy town is sacked, and we will gladly give thee three and fourfold thy recompense."
the angry agamemnon declared that if he were not given the worth of what he had lost he would seize the maidens of ajax and ulysses, or achilles' maid, briseis.
achilles was beside himself with rage. he had not come to troy to contribute to agamemnon's glory. he and his followers had long borne the brunt of battle only to see the largest share of booty given to agamemnon, who lay idle in his ships. sooner than endure longer such indignity he would return home to phthia.
"go!" replied agamemnon. "i detest thee and thy ways. go back over the sea and rule over thy myrmidons. but since phoebus has taken away my maid, i will carry off thy prize, thy rosy-cheeked briseis, that thou may'st learn that i am indeed king."
warned by pallas athene, achilles took his hand from his sword hilt, and contented himself with telling agamemnon that he would see the day when he would fret to think he had driven achilles from the grecian ranks.
though the persuasive orator, nestor, endeavored to make peace between the chiefs, agamemnon could not be softened. as soon as the black ship bearing chryseis set sail, he sent his unwilling men to where achilles sat by his tent, beside the barren deep, to take the fair briseis, whom achilles ordered to be led forth to them. then the long days dragged by in the tent where the chief sat eating his heart out in idleness, while his men engaged in athletic sports, and the rest of the greeks fought before troy.
both armies, worn out with indecisive battles, gladly hailed hector's proposal that a combat between paris and menelaus should decide the war.
as the armies stood in silence, watching the preparations for the combat, helen, summoned by iris, left her room in priam's palace, where she was weaving among her maidens, and, robed and veiled in white, and shedding tears at the recollection of her former home and husband, went down to the scaean gates, where sat priam and the men too old for war. when they saw bright-haired helen they whispered among themselves that it was little wonder that men warred for her sake, so fair was she, so like unto the deathless goddesses.
in response to priam's tender greeting she seated herself beside him and pointed out the greek heroes,--agamemnon, ruler over wide lands, crafty ulysses, and the mighty ajax; but she strained her eyes in vain for a sight of her dearly loved brothers, castor and pollux, not knowing that they already lay dead in pleasant lacedaemon.
in the single combat between paris and menelaus, the spear of the greek was fixed in paris's buckler, and his sword was shivered on his helmet without injury to the trojan. but, determined to overcome his hateful foe, menelaus seized paris by the helm and dragged him towards the grecian ranks. great glory would have been his had not the watchful venus loosed the helm and snatched away the god-like paris in a cloud. while the greeks demanded helen and her wealth as the price of menelaus's victory, pandarus, prompted by pallas, broke the truce by a shot aimed at menelaus, and the battle soon raged with greater fury than before.
diomed, having received new strength and courage from pallas, rushed madly over the field, falling upon the affrighted trojans like a lion in the sheepfold; then, made more presumptuous by his success, and forgetful of the few years promised the man who dares to meet the gods in battle, the arrogant warrior struck at venus and wounded her in the wrist, so that, shrieking with pain, she yielded æneas to apollo, and fled to olympus.
perceiving that the trojans were unable to withstand the fury of diomed, assisted as he was by pallas and juno, hector hastened homeward to order a sacrifice to pallas that she might look with more favor upon their cause.
having instructed his mother to lay her richest robe on pallas's shrine, hector sought his wife, the white-armed andromache, and their babe, astyanax. andromache entreated hector to go forth no more to battle, to lose his life and leave their babe fatherless; but hector, upon whom the cares of war sat heavily, bade her a tender farewell, and kissing the babe, returned with paris to the field.
incited by pallas and apollo, helenus suggested to his brother hector that he should challenge the bravest of the greeks to single combat. the lot fell to ajax the greater, and the two mighty heroes contested with spears and stones until twilight fell, and they were parted by a herald.
that night the greeks feasted, and when, the next morning, a trojan messenger offered them the treasures of helen if they would withdraw from troy, and proposed a truce, they indignantly rejected the offer, declaring that they would not even accept helen herself, but agreed upon a truce in which to bury the dead.
when the battle was renewed, jupiter forbade the gods to take part. opposed by no celestial foes, the trojans were this day successful, and having pursued the greeks to the ships, sat all night, full of hope, around their thousand watch fires, waiting for the morn.
in the grecian camp, however, a different scene was being enacted. disheartened by their defeat, agamemnon proposed that the armies give up the siege and return to greece.
angry at his weakness, diomed thus reproached him:--
"the gods have granted thee high rank and rule, but thou hast no fortitude. return if thou desirest. still enough long-haired achaians will remain to take the city. if they desire to go as well, at least sthenelus and i will remain until troy is ours. we have the gods with us."
at the suggestion of nestor a banquet was spread, and after the hunger of all was appeased, the peril of the greeks was discussed in the council of the elders. here nestor showed agamemnon that the trouble began at the hour when he drove achilles from their ranks by appropriating briseis.
ill fortune had humbled the haughty agamemnon, and he confessed that he had done wrong. "for this wrong, however," said he, "i am ready to make ample amends. priceless gifts i will send to achilles: seven tripods, six talents of pure gold, twenty shining caldrons, twelve steeds, seven damsels, among them briseis; not only this, when priam's citadel falls, he shall be the first to load his galley down with gold and silver and with trojan maidens. better yet, i will unite him to me by the ties of marriage. i will give him my daughter for a wife, and with her for a dower will go seven cities near the sea, rich in flocks and herds. then let him yield, and join us in taking troy."
joyfully the messengers--ajax, ulysses, and the aged phoenix, carefully instructed by nestor--set forth on their embassy. as they neared the tents of the myrmidons their ears were struck by the notes of a silver harp touched by achilles to solace him in his loneliness. his friend patroclus sat beside him in silence. achilles and patroclus greeted the messengers warmly, mingled the pure wine, and spread a feast for them. this over, ulysses, at a nod from ajax, drank to achilles' health, and then told him of the sore need of the greeks, pressed by the trojans. if he did not come to their aid, he whose very name frightened the enemy, the time would surely come when he would greatly lament his idleness.
achilles' passion, the greater for its fifteen days' repression, burst forth in his reply: "i will say what i have in my heart," he cried, "since concealment is hateful to me. what thanks does the victor in countless battles gain? he and the idler are equally honored, and die the same death. many nights' slumber have i lost on the battle field; many cities have i conquered, abroad and here upon the trojan coast, and of the spoil, the greater part has gone to agamemnon, who sat idle in his fleet; yet from me, who suffered much in fighting, he took my prize, my dearly loved briseis; now let him keep her. let him learn for himself how to conquer hector,--this hector, who, when i went out against him, was afraid to leave the shelter of the scaean gates. to-morrow, if you but watch, you will see my galleys sailing upon the hellespont on our return to phthia. evil was the hour in which i left its fertile coasts for this barren shore, where my mother thetis foretold i should win deathless renown but bitter death.
"tell agamemnon that i will never wed a child of his. on my return to phthia my father will select a bride for me with whom, on his broad fields, i can live the life i have dreamed of."
the entreaties of the aged phoenix, who had helped to rear achilles, and his arguments against his mercilessness, were of no avail; neither were the words of ajax. however, he at last sent the message that he would remain by the sea watching the course of the war, and that he would encounter hector whenever he approached to set fire to the galleys of the myrmidons.
that night sleep did not visit the eyes of agamemnon. long he reflected on the reply of achilles, and wondered at the watch fires on the plain before troy. the other chiefs were likewise full of anxiety, and when nestor offered a reward to any one who would go as a spy to the trojan camp, diomed quickly volunteered. selecting the wary ulysses as his companion, he stole forth to where the trojans sat around their camp fires. the pair intercepted and slew dolon the spy, and finding rhesus and his thracian band wrapped in slumber, slew the king with twelve of his chiefs, and carried away his chariot and horses.
encouraged by this bold deed, the greeks went forth to battle the next morning. fortune still favored the trojans, however, and many greeks fell by the hand of hector, until he was checked by ulysses and diomed. in the fight, agamemnon was wounded, and diomed, ulysses, and machaon. and when achilles from his tent saw the physician borne back from battle wounded, in the chariot of nestor, he sent patroclus to inquire of his injury. nestor sent word that ulysses, agamemnon, diomed, machaon, and eurypylus were wounded; perhaps these tidings would induce achilles to forget his grievances, and once more go forth to battle. if not, he urged patroclus to beseech achilles to permit him, patroclus, to go forth with the myrmidons, clad in achilles' armor, and strike terror to the hearts of the trojans.
the trojans, encouraged by their success, pushed forward to the trench which the greeks had dug around the wall thrown up before the ships, and, leaving their chariots on the brink, went on foot to the gates. after a long struggle,--because the trojans could not break down the wall and the greeks could not drive back the trojans,--hector seized a mighty stone, so large that two men could scarcely lift it, and bearing it in one hand, battered the bolted gates until they gave way with a crash; and the trojans sprang within, pursuing the affrighted greeks to the ships.
from the heights of olympus the gods kept a strict watch on the battle; and as soon as neptune discovered that jove, secure in the belief that no deity would interfere with the successful trojans, had turned away his eyes, he went to the aid of the greeks. juno, also, furious at the sight of the greeks who had fallen before the mighty hector, determined to turn the attention of jove until neptune had had an opportunity to assist the greeks. jove sat upon the peaks of mount ida, and thither went juno, after rendering herself irresistible by borrowing the cestus of venus. jove, delighted with the appearance of his wife, and still further won by her tender words and caresses, thought no longer of the armies fighting at the grecian wall.
great was his anger when, after a time, he again looked towards troy and saw that neptune had employed his time in aiding the greeks, and that hector had been wounded by ajax. by his orders neptune was quickly recalled, hector was healed by apollo, and the trojans, strengthened again by jupiter, drove back the greeks to the ships, and attempted to set fire to the fleet.
seeing the greeks in such desperate straits, achilles at last gave his consent that patroclus should put on his armor, take his myrmidons, and drive the trojans from the ships, stipulating, however, that he should return when this was done, and not follow the trojans in their flight to troy.
the appearance of the supposed achilles struck fear to the hearts of the trojans, and patroclus succeeded in driving them from the fleet and in slaying sarpedon. intoxicated by his success, he forgot achilles' warning, and pursued the fleeing trojans to the walls of troy. the strength of the trojans was not sufficient to cope with that of patroclus; and troy would have been taken had not apollo stood upon a tower to thrust him down each time he attempted to scale the walls. at last hector and patroclus encountered each other, and fought furiously. seeing the peril of hector, apollo smote patroclus's helmet off, broke his spear, and loosed his buckler. still undaunted, the hero fought until he fell, and died with the boasting words of hector in his ears.
speedily the swift-footed antilochus conveyed to achilles the tidings of his friend's death. enveloped in "a black cloud of sorrow," achilles rolled in the dust and lamented for his friend until warned by iris that the enemy were about to secure patroclus's body. then, without armor,--for hector had secured that of patroclus and put it on,--he hastened to the trench, apart from the other greeks, and shouted thrice, until the men of troy, panic-stricken, fell back in disorder, and the body of his friend was carried away by the triumphant greeks.
through the long night the achaians wept over patroclus; but deeper than their grief was the sorrow of achilles, for he had promised menoetius to bring back his son in honor, laden with spoils, and now the barren coast of troy would hold the ashes of both. then achilles made a solemn vow not to celebrate the funeral rites of patroclus until he brought to him the head and arms of hector, and had captured on the field twelve trojan youths to slaughter on his funeral pile. the hated hector slain and patroclus's funeral rites celebrated, he cared not for the future. the fate his mother had foretold did not daunt him. since, by his own folly, his dearest friend had been taken from him, the sooner their ashes rested together the better. if he was not to see the rich fields of phthia, his was to be, at least, a deathless renown.
to take the place of the arms which hector had taken from patroclus, vulcan, at thetis's request, had fashioned for achilles the most beautiful armor ever worn by man. brass, tin, silver, and gold composed the bright corselet, the solid helm, and the wondrous shield, adorned with such pictures as no mortal artist ever wrought.
after having feasted his eyes on this beautiful armor, whose clanking struck terror even to the hearts of the myrmidons, achilles sought out the greeks and agamemnon, and in the assembly acknowledged his fault. "let these things belong to the dead past," said he. "my wrath is done. let us now stir the long-haired greeks to war."
"fate, not i, was the cause of our trouble," replied agamemnon. "the goddess of discord created the dissension, that até who troubled even the gods on olympus until expelled by jupiter. but i will make amends with liberal gifts."
peace having been made between the chiefs, achilles returned to his tent without partaking of the banquet spread by agamemnon, as he had vowed not to break his fast until he had avenged his friend. agamemnon's gifts were carried to the tents of achilles by the myrmidons, and with them went briseis, who, when she saw the body of patroclus, threw herself upon it and wept long for the one whose kindness to her--whose lot had been sorrow upon sorrow--she could never forget. all the women mourned, seemingly for patroclus, really for their own griefs. achilles likewise wept, until, strengthened by pallas, he hastened to put his armor on and urge the greeks to battle.
as he mounted his chariot he spoke thus to his fleet steeds, xanthus and balius: "bring me back when the battle is over, i charge you, my noble steeds. leave me not on the field, as you left patroclus."
then xanthus, with the long-flowing mane, endowed with power of speech by juno, thus spake: "this day, at least, we will bring thee home, achilles; but the hour of thy death is nigh, and, since the fates have decreed it, we could not save thee, were we swift as the winged winds. nor was it through fault of ours that patroclus fell."
angry at the reminder of his doom, achilles drove hurriedly to the field, determined to fight until he had made the trojans sick of war.
knowing that the war was drawing rapidly to a close, jupiter gave permission to the gods to take part in it, and a terrible combat ensued. juno, pallas, neptune, hermes, and vulcan went to the fleet of the greeks, while mars, apollo, diana, latona, venus, and xanthus arrayed themselves with the trojans. when the gods joined in the combat and neptune shook the earth and jupiter thundered from above, there was such tumult in the air that even the dark god of the underworld was terrified. in the battle of the gods, apollo encountered neptune, pallas fought against mars, diana and juno opposed each other, hermes was pitted against latona, and xanthus or scamander, the river god, strove against vulcan. it was not long before jupiter's fear was realized, and the mortals needed the aid of the gods. æneas, encouraged by apollo to confront achilles, was rescued only by the intervention of neptune, who, remembering that it was the will of fate that æneas should be spared to perpetuate the dardan race, snatched him away in a cloud, although he was himself aiding the greeks.
mad with rage and spattered with blood, achilles pursued the flying trojans about the plain, sparing none except the twelve youths who were to be butchered on the funeral pile of patroclus. he stood in the river, filling it with slaughtered bodies until, indignant at the insults offered him, the river god scamander caused his waters to rush after achilles so that he fled for his life. far across the plain it chased him, and was only stopped by the fires of vulcan, summoned by juno.
by an artifice of apollo, achilles was decoyed away from the gates of troy long enough to allow the trojans to enter. hector, however, stayed without, unmoved by the prayers of priam and hecuba. too late he saw his error in not heeding the advice of polydamas to keep within the walls after the re-appearance of achilles; he feared the reproaches of the trojan warriors and dames, and determined to meet his fate, whatever it might be. even death at the hands of achilles would be preferable to the insults and reproaches that might await him within the walls.
when he saw achilles approach in his god-given armor, fear seized the noble hector, and he fled from his enemy. thrice around the walls he fled, achilles pursuing, and the gods looked down from heaven in sorrow, for, according to the decrees of fate, hector must fall this day by the hand of achilles. to hasten the combat, pallas assumed the form of hector's brother deiphobus, and stood by his side, encouraging him to turn and meet his foe.
hector soon perceived the deception, but boldly faced achilles, who sprang at him, brandishing his awful spear. quickly stooping, hector avoided the weapon and hurled his spear at achilles. it was an unequal conflict. the armor of achilles was weapon proof, and pallas stood at his elbow to return to him his weapons. achilles knew well the weak spots in his old armor worn by hector, and selecting a seam unguarded by the shield, he gave hector a mortal wound, and insulted him as he lay dying at his feet.
tears and wailing filled the city as the trojans watched the combat; and despair fell upon them when they saw the body of hector fastened to the chariot of achilles and dragged thrice around the trojan walls. from her chamber where she sat weaving, unaware of the mortal combat waged before the walls, andromache came forth to see great hector fallen and his corpse insulted by his enemy.
while priam sat in his palace with dust strewn on his head, and the wailings of the women filled the streets of troy, the greeks were hastening to their camps to celebrate the funeral rites of patroclus, whose body had been saved from corruption by thetis. a massive funeral pile was constructed of wood brought from the forests on mount ida. the chiefs in their chariots and thousands of men on foot followed the body of patroclus. the comrades of the dead warrior cut off their long hair and strewed it on the dead, and achilles sheared his yellow hair and placed the locks in patroclus's hands. he had suffered the flowing curls to grow long because of a vow made by his father to the river sperchius that he would sacrifice these locks to him on his son's return home, a useless vow, since now he was to lose his life by this dark blue sea.
next the sacrifice was offered, many fatlings of the flock, and countless oxen, noble steeds, dogs, jars of honey, and lastly the bodies of the twelve trojan youths were heaped upon the fire.
after the flames had consumed the pile, achilles and his friends quenched the ashes with red wine, and gathered the bones of patroclus in a golden vase which achilles commanded his friends not to bury until he, too, fell before troy, that their ashes might be mingled and buried under one mound by the remaining greeks.
after the funeral rites were celebrated, the funeral games were held, in which the warriors vied with each other in chariot racing, boxing, wrestling, foot racing, throwing the spear, and archery.
so ended the funeral of patroclus, and the gods, looking down from heaven, sorrowed for hector, whose corpse achilles was treating with such indignity, intending that the dogs should destroy it. the gods had kept the body unstained, and now they determined to soften achilles' heart, that he might restore it to priam.
iris descended from heaven, and standing at the side of priam as he sat with dust-strewn head, in his palace halls, gave him jove's command that he should take gifts and visit achilles, to ransom hector's body. heeding not the prayers of hecuba, priam gathered together whatever was most choice, talents of pure gold, beautiful goblets, handsome robes and tunics, and seating himself in his polished car, drawn by strong-hoofed mules, set forth unaccompanied save by an aged herald. above him soared jove's eagle, in token of the god's protection.
priam had not gone far when he met mercury in the guise of a greek youth, who guided him unseen through the slumbering greek lines to the tent of achilles.
the hero was just finishing his repast when the old king entered, fell on his knees, kissed the cruel hands that had slain so many of his sons, and prayed him to give up the body of his loved hector in return for the ransom he had brought with him. achilles, recognizing the fact that priam had made his way there uninjured only by the assistance and protection of some god, and touched by the thought of his own aged father, whom he should never again gladden by his return to phthia, granted the request, and bade priam seat himself at the table and banquet with him. he also granted a twelve days' truce for the celebration of the funeral rites of hector, and then invited priam to pass the night in his tent. warned by mercury, priam rose early in the morning, and, unseen by the greeks, conveyed hector's body back to troy.
when the polished car of priam entered the city of troy, great were the lamentations and wailings over the body of hector. hecuba and andromache vied with each other in the bitterness of their grief, and helen lamented because the only friend she had in troy had departed, and no one who remained would be kind to her.
during the twelve days granted as a truce, wood was brought from ida, and the funeral rites of hector were celebrated as befitted the son of a great king.
selections from the iliad.
helen at the scaean gates.
paris, moved by the reproaches of hector, proposed that the nine years' indecisive war be settled by single combat between himself and menelaus, the victor to take helen and the treasure. greeks and trojans agreed to this proposition, and the tidings of the approaching combat were borne to helen by iris.
in the heart of helen woke dear recollections of her former spouse and of her home and kindred. instantly she left her chamber, robed and veiled in white, and shedding tender tears; yet not alone, for with her went two maidens,--aethra, child of pitheus, and the large-eyed clymene. straight to the scaean gates they walked, by which panthoüs, priam, and thymoetes sat, lampus and clytius, hicetaon sprung from mars, antenor and ucalegon, two sages,--elders of the people all. beside the gates they sat, unapt, through age, for tasks of war, but men of fluent speech, like the cicadas that within the wood sit on the trees and utter delicate sounds. such were the nobles of the trojan race who sat upon the tower. but when they marked the approach of helen, to each other thus with winged words, but in low tones, they said:--
"small blame is theirs, if both the trojan knights and brazen-mailed achaians have endured so long so many evils for the sake of that one woman. she is wholly like in feature to the deathless goddesses. so be it: let her, peerless as she is, return on board the fleet, nor stay to bring disaster upon us and all our race."
so spake the elders. priam meantime called to helen: "come, dear daughter, sit by me. thou canst behold thy former husband hence, thy kindred and thy friends. i blame thee not; the blame is with the immortals who have sent these pestilent greeks against me. sit and name for me this mighty man, the grecian chief, gallant and tall. true, there are taller men; but of such noble form and dignity i never saw: in truth, a kingly man."
bryants translation, book iii.
the parting of hector and andromache.
the single combat between paris and menelaus broke up in a general battle unfavorable to the trojans, and hector returned to troy to order the trojan matrons to sacrifice to pallas. he then sought his dwelling to greet his wife and child, but learned from one of the maids that andromache, on hearing that the greeks were victorious, had hastened to the city walls with the child and its nurse,
hector left in haste the mansion, and retraced his way between the rows of stately dwellings, traversing the mighty city. when at length he reached the scaean gates, that issue on the field, his spouse, the nobly-dowered andromache, came forth to meet him,--daughter of the prince eëtion, who among the woody slopes of placos, in the hypoplacian town of thebè, ruled cilicia and her sons, and gave his child to hector great in arms. she came attended by a maid, who bore a tender child--a babe too young to speak-- upon her bosom,--hector's only son, beautiful as a star, whom hector called scamandrius, but all else astyanax,-- the city's lord,--since hector stood the sole defence of troy. the father on his child looked with a silent smile. andromache pressed to his side meanwhile, and, all in tears, clung to his hand, and, thus beginning, said:--
"too brave! thy valor yet will cause thy death. thou hast no pity on thy tender child nor me, unhappy one, who soon must be thy widow. all the greeks will rush on thee to take thy life. a happier lot were mine,
other women wear blue cotton jackets, in the fronts and back of which are many artistic embroidered designs. their hemp cloth skirts, like those of the bagobo, are made tube-like and are held at the waist by means of belts. they are very careless about the hang of these garments and one side may be above the calf of the leg while the other drags on the ground (plate lxvii). no head coverings are worn, but quite elaborate combs (fig. 48) are thrust into the knots of hair at the back of the head. wooden ear plugs (fig. 49) ornamented with incised silver plates and with bead and silver pendants fit into openings in the lobes of the ears. like the men they wear necklaces of beads, sweet smelling herbs, and seeds. many of the latter are considered to have medicinal value and are eaten to cure pains in the stomach. one or more silver disks are worn on the chest or over the breasts, while anklets, such as are used by the women of the other tribes, are frequently seen. both sexes are fond of bracelets of brass, shell, or vines, as well as of finger rings of tortoise shell and silver (plate lxxi).
fig. 48. woman's comb.
fig. 49. far plugs with bell pendants.
none of the garments contain pockets, and in order to make up for this deficiency the men carry bags (plate lxx) suspended on their backs by means of bands which pass over the shoulders. in these they carry their betel-nut outfits, tobacco, and the like. small covered waterproof baskets (plate lxviii) serve the same purpose for the women and are carried at the back or at the side.
"the clothing worn by the men and woman was nothing but the 'lavalava,' a scarf of sea-grass fiber about 18 inches wide and five feet long. this was worn around the loins.
"the banca, which was of very curious construction, was taken to zamboanga last year by general pershing, to be placed in moro province museum."
after the advent of the spaniards into their territory a considerable number of this people were converted to the christian faith and were induced to settle in villages. there they met and intermarried with visayan and other emigrants who had followed the spaniards to the south. during the time of the spanish rule these settlements were partially destroyed by moro raiders, and following the spanish-american war these attacks became so frequent that many of the inhabitants deserted their homes and returning to their mountain kinsmen again took up the old life. the effect of this return is especially noticeable in the vicinity of caraga where as late as 1885 there were 596 mandaya converts.
several attempts were also made to colonize the mandaya near the mouths of the tagum and hijo rivers, but the restlessness of the natives or the hostility of the moro was always sufficient to cause the early break up of the new settlements.
the last great influence on this tribe has come through american planters who have prevailed upon the more venturesome members to come down to the coast plantations and there adopt the life of the christianized natives. many of these adventurers have returned to their mountain homes, carrying with them new ideas and artifacts and, in some cases, wives from other tribes. with all these influences at work there has been considerable modification of the life in many districts, particularly along the pacific coast. this description will attempt to give the old life of the tribe as it still exists in the more isolated districts, or as it was related by older people of the coast settlements.
mythology and religion.
in order to enter into a full understanding of the social, economic, and aesthetic life we must have some knowledge of the mythology and religious beliefs, for these pervade every activity.
several stories accounting for natural phenomena and the origin of the tribe were heard. one of these relates that the sun and moon were married and lived happily together until many children had been born to them. at last they quarreled and the moon ran away from her husband who has since been pursuing her through the heavens. after the separation of their parents the children died, and the moon gathering up their bodies cut them into small pieces and threw them into space. those fragments which fell into water became fish, those which fell on land were converted into snakes and animals, while "those which fell upward" remained in the sky as stars.
according to this tale the stars had quite a different origin than that just related, "in the beginning of things there was only one great star, who was like a man in appearance. he sought to usurp the place of of the sun and the result was a conflict in which the latter was victorious. he cut his rival into small bits and scattered him over the whole sky as a woman sows rice."
the earth was once entirely flat but was pressed up into mountains by a mythical woman, agusanan. it has always rested on the back of a great eel whose movements cause earthquakes. sometimes crabs or other small animals annoy him until, in his rage, he attempts to reach them, then the earth is shaken so violently that whole mountains are thrown into the sea.
a great lake exists in the sky and it is the spray from its waves which fall to the earth as rain. when angered the spirits sometimes break the banks of this lake and allow torrents of water to fall on the earth below.
according to mr. maxey, the mandaya of cateel believe that many generations ago a great flood occurred which caused the death of all the inhabitants of the world except one pregnant woman. she prayed that her child might be a boy. her prayer was answered and she gave birth to a son whose name was uacatan. he, when he had grown up, took his mother for his wife and from this union have sprung all the mandaya.
the people do not make offerings to this bird, neither do they regard it as a spirit, but rather as a messenger from the spirit world. the old men were certain that anyone who molested one of these birds would die.
there is in each community one or more persons, generally women, who are known as ballyan. these priestesses, or mediums, are versed in all the ceremonies and dances which the ancestors have found effectual in overcoming evil influences, and in retaining the favor of the spirits. they, better than all others, understand the omens, and often through them the higher beings make known their desires. so far as could be learned the ballyan is not at any time possessed, but when in a trance sees and converses with the most powerful spirits as well as with the shades of the departed. this power to communicate with supernatural beings and to control the forces of nature, is not voluntarily sought by the future ballyan, but comes to the candidate either through one already occupying such a position or by her being unexpectedly seized with a fainting or trembling fit, in which condition she finds that she is able to communicate with the inhabitants of the spirit world. having been thus chosen she at once becomes the pupil of some experienced ballyan from whom she learns all the secrets of the profession and the details of ceremonies to be made.
when about to converse with the spirits the ballyan places an offering before her and begins to chant and wail. a distant stare comes into her eyes, her body begins to twitch convulsively until she is shivering and trembling as if seized with the ague. in this condition she receives the messages of the spirits and under their direction conducts the ceremony.
"they erect a sort of small altar on which they place the manaugs or images of the said gods which are made of the special wood of the bayog tree, which they destine exclusively for this use. when the unfortunate hog which is to serve as a sacrifice is placed above the said altar, the chief bailana approaches with balarao or dagger in hand which she brandishes and drives into the poor animal, which will surely be grunting in spite of the gods and the religious solemnity, as it is fearful of what is going to happen to it; and leaves the victim weltering in its blood. then immediately all the bailanas drink of the blood in order to attract the prophetic spirit to themselves and to give their auguries or the supposed inspirations of their gods. scarcely have they drunk the blood, when they become as though possessed by an infernal spirit which agitates them and makes them tremble as does the body of a person with the ague or like one who shivers with the cold."
the following spirits are known to the ballyan of the mayo district:
from this testimony it appears that in a part of the mandaya territory the spirit diwata, at least, is represented by images.
2. asuang. this name is applied to a class of malevolent spirits who inhabit certain trees, cliffs and streams. they delight to trouble or injure the living, and sickness is usually caused by them. for this reason, when a person falls ill, a ballyan offers a live chicken to these spirits bidding them "to take and kill this chicken in place of this man, so that he need not die." if the patient recovers it is understood that the asuang have agreed to the exchange and the bird is released in the jungle.
there are many spirits who are known as asuang but the five most powerful are here given according to their rank, (a) tagbanua, (b) tagamaling, (c) sigbinan, (d) lumaman, (e) bigwa. the first two are of equal importance and are only a little less powerful than diwata. they sometimes inhabit caves but generally reside in the bud-bud (baliti) trees. the ground beneath these trees is generally free from undergrowth and thus it is known that "a spirit who keeps his yard clean resides there." in clearing ground for a new field it sometimes becomes necessary to cut down one of these trees, but before it is disturbed an offering of betel-nut, food, and a white chicken is carried to the plot. the throat of the fowl is cut and its blood is allowed to fall in the roots of the tree. meanwhile one of the older men calls the attention of the spirits to the offerings and begs that they be accepted in payment for the dwelling which they are about to destroy. this food is never eaten, as is customary with offerings made to other spirits. after a lapse of two or three days it is thought that the occupant of the tree has had time to move and the plot is cleared.
in former times it was the custom for a victorious war party to place the corpses of their dead, together with their weapons, at the roots of a baliti tree. the reason for this custom seems now to be lost.
4. omayan, or kalaloa nang omay, is the spirit of the rice. he resides in the rice fields, and there offerings are made to him before the time of planting and reaping.
7. kalaloa. each person has one spirit which is known by this name. if this kalaloa leaves the body it decays, but the spirit goes to dagkotanan--"a good place, probably in the sky." such a spirit can return to its former haunts for a time and may aid or injure the living, but it never returns to dwell in any other form.
in addition to those just mentioned governor bolton gives the following list of spirits known to the mandaya of the tagum river valley. none of these were accepted by the people of mayo district. according to rank they are mangkokiman, mongungyahn, mibucha andepit, mibuohn, and ebu--who made all people from the hairs of his head.
for the neighboring mangwanga he gives, likedanum as the creator and chief spirit, dagpudanum and macguliput as gods of agriculture, and manamoan--a female spirit who works the soil and presides over childbirth. all of these are unknown to the mandaya of the pacific coast.
while in the salug river valley governor bolton witnessed a most interesting ceremony which, so far as the writer is aware, is quite unknown to the balance of the tribe. his quotation follows: "one religious dance contained a sleight of hand performance, considered by the people as a miracle, but the chiefs were evidently initiated. a man dressed himself as a woman, and with the gongs and drums beaten rapidly he danced, whirling round and round upon a mat until weak and dizzy, so that he had to lean on a post. for a time he appeared to be in a trance. after resting a few minutes he stalked majestically around the edge of the mat, exaggerating the lifting and placing of his feet and putting on an arrogant manner. after walking a minute or two he picked up a red handkerchief, doubled it in his hand so that the middle of the kerchief projected in a bunch above his thumb and forefinger; then he thrust this into the flame of an almaciga torch. the music started anew and he resumed his frantic dance until the flame reached his hand when he slapped it out with his left hand, and stopped dancing; then catching the kerchief by two corners he shook it out showing it untouched by fire. the daughter of bankiaoan next went into a trance lying down and singing the message of tagbusau and other gods to the assemblage. the singing was done in a small inclosed room, the singer slipping in and out without my seeing her."
"miminsad, miminsad si mansilatan
opod si badla nga magadayao nang dumia
"mansilatan has come down, has come down.
later (will come) badla, who will preserve the earth.
bailanas, dance; bailanas, turn ye round about."
the tungud movement
the before-mentioned ballyan direct the religious observances of the tribe. their mysterious powers give them great influence among their fellows but, nevertheless, they are subservient to the local ruler.
instances are known where the old men have conferred the title of bagani upon the son of some deceased warrior. in such a case the recipient of the honor starts at once to fulfil the requirements of election, for otherwise he brings disgrace to himself and family. in his own settlement the oldest of the bagani becomes supreme ruler, and if powerful enough he may extend his influence to a considerable distance. in a few cases on the east coast the holders of the title have so instilled fear of themselves into the neighboring districts that they have been able to levy blackmail, even on the christianized natives. war parties are led by these wearers of the red garments, and they also enforce the laws handed down from their forefathers.
the day a warrior is elevated to this order he is in a large measure cut away from his fellows. he no longer associates with them as equals but eats his meals alone, unless it happens that other bagani are present.
below the bagani in rank come the warriors, a class which includes practically all the able-bodied free men; and still below them are the slaves. slavery was an ancient institution with this people when the spaniards first visited their country, and it has continued to flourish up to the present, in all districts a little removed from the influence of the white man. the great majority of slaves are secured by capture, but until recent years the moro of the coast have carried on a lucrative slave trade with this tribe. girls and women become members of their master's household, but their children are treated as slaves. captive boys and men aid their masters in the chase and in the fields, and in most cases it would be hard indeed for a stranger to pick servant from master. sometimes the people of a neighboring village ransom one of their fellows and in such a case the freed slave may return to his old home or he may become a free member of the community in which he has been serving.
the insecurity of life resulting from the conditions described has caused the people to build their homes high in the branches of trees, often so situated on the edge of cliffs that they can be approached only from one direction (plates lxxiii-lxxiv).
two sorts of dwellings are commonly seen. of these, the rudest rest on the limbs of trees, and conform in size and shape to the nature of the supporting branches. some few houses of this kind have horizontal sides and sloping roofs, but more frequently a roof which slopes directly from a central ridge pole to the edges of the platform does away with the necessity of side walls.
entrance to the dwelling is gained by means of bamboo or rattan ladders. these are drawn up at night, and with all means of access thus removed the inhabitants need have little fear of a surprise attack. if enemies do attempt to dislodge them the defenders have the advantage of their elevated position in the use of their weapons.
generally, each house contains only one room which varies in size according to the number of inhabitants. frequently two or three families are found living in one house, for it is the custom for the suitors, and often for the husbands of the married daughters, to live with the girls' people.
the people of a community build their houses within a short distance of one another, yet seldom so close together as to form a village. however, village life is not entirely unknown, for in the vicinity of cateel governor bolton found six houses, partially surrounded by palisades, perched on the top of a conical hill.
lieutenant youngblood gives the following description of the people and dwellings seen by him near the upper waters of the agusan river:
"the people seemed to be living in an atmosphere of fear as far as intercourse with the world outside their crater-like valley was concerned. they believed it was death to look upon the sea, of which they had heard disjointed tales, but which none of them had ever seen. they feared the coast people with a mortal fear, justified perhaps by the experiences of occasional meetings in times gone by. they fear each other to a certain extent, especially men who live further north of the headwaters of the agusan. this ever-present state of fear gives coloring to their whole life. they take to the brush at the least unwonted sound. they make their clearings on the steep mountainsides and in these build two or three of their houses in strategic positions. in the very construction of their dwellings the idea of security in case of attack is predominant.
"the houses in this section are generally built in clearings on the sawn-off trunk of some giant tree and placed from the ground some forty or fifty feet. numerous posts help support the structure, entrance to which is gained by a notched pole firmly set in the ground and held in place by tightly wound bejuca. oftentimes this stair pole is bowed outwards slightly, which gives it a peculiar appearance and requires a considerable amount of skill in climbing. the front and only door to these houses consists of a section of the floor composed of hewn plank, hinged at one end. one end of this is raised by a bejuca rope during the day, while at night it is let down forming a solid floor throughout the house.
"the roof is of shingles made from mountain cane; the floor and sides of hand-hewn logs and planks; the roof is at no place more than seven feet from the floor and is blackened on the inside from smoke. the largest house visited in this locality was that of chief leuanan, and this was some twenty feet square. these houses consist of one room and are inhabited by two or more families."
when the harvest time is near at hand the men repair the old granaries or build new and then, when all is ready for the crop, an old man or woman goes alone, in the middle of the night, to the fields and there cuts a few stalks of the rice. should this be neglected the crop is sure to be small and will vanish quickly. this grain is not used as an offering, nor are any gifts made to the spirits until the crop has been harvested and the people are ready to eat of the new rice. at that time a little of the recently harvested grain is placed on a dish, together with other food and betel-nut, and is carried to the granary, where it is presented to the spirit "in order that the granary may always be full." when the grain is needed for use it is removed from the straw by pounding it with wooden pestles, it is then placed in a wooden mortar and is again pounded until the husks are loosened. this accomplished, the grain is freed from chaff by tossing it in a winnower. if a greater amount has been cleared than is needed it is stored in gourds or water-proof baskets (fig. 50). a month or two after the harvest a great celebration is held, the principal features of which are a feast and dance but no offerings are then made to the spirits.
fig. 50. gourd rice holder.
the small crop of sugar-cane is made into an alcoholic drink, which is sometimes indulged in at meal time but is generally reserved for festive occasions. the juice is boiled with a plant called palba, similar to ginger, and is stored away in bamboo tubes until it has reached a suitable stage of fermentation. another drink is made by boiling strained honey with the palba and allowing it to ferment.
hunting and fishing
a considerable portion of the food supply is secured by hunting and fishing. small birds are captured by placing a sticky substance on bare limbs of fruit-bearing trees, or by fastening gummed sticks in places frequented by birds. when a victim alights on this it is held securely until captured by the hunter. fig. 51 shows another method of securing such small game. a cord with a noose at one end is attached to a bent limb. in the center of this cord is tied a short stick which acts as a trigger. this trigger is placed with the top end pressing against an arched twig a, while the other end draws b against the sides of the arch. other sticks rest on b and on them is a covering of leaves on which is placed bait and the open noose. the weight of a bird or small animal on the cross-piece is sufficient to release the trigger and then the bent limb draws the noose taut.
fig. 51. bird snare.
deer and pig are sometimes hunted by large parties with the aid of dogs. in such cases an attempt is made to drive the animals past concealed hunters, or to dispatch them with spears when brought to bay by the dogs. the more successful method, however, is by means of traps several types of which were seen by the writer. the first and most common is a dead fall consisting of a heavy log so arranged in the runway of the game that a passing animal will cause it to fall. next in favor with the hunters is the bayatik. one end of a sapling is tied horizontally to a tree and is then bent back like a spring. it is held in place by means of a trigger which is released when an animal disturbs a vine stretched across the runway. against the free end of the spring a long bamboo spear or arrow is placed in such a manner that it is thrown with great force against the animal which has released the trigger. this trap is frequently used in warfare to protect the retreat of a war party, or to surprise an enemy.
sharpened bamboo sticks, two or three feet long, planted at points where animals are accustomed to jump or run down steep inclines, are wonderfully efficient in securing game. sticks and leaves cover pits in which sharpened poles are planted and into these unsuspecting animals or members of a hostile party often fall. all these last named devices are exceedingly dangerous and it is unadvisable for a traveler in the jungle to try to penetrate a strange region unless accompanied by a native who knows the position of the traps and pits.
mention has already been made of the use of pits and traps in warfare. in addition to these it is customary for a returning war party to conceal in the trail many saoñag, small stiletto-shaped bamboo sticks, which pierce the feet of those in pursuit. a night camp is effectively protected in the same manner against barefooted enemies.
the arms used are spears, fighting knives with wide bellied blades, daggers, narrow shields with which weapons are defected (fig. 52), and in some sections bows and arrows. the fighting knives and daggers (plates lxxv-lxxvi) deserve more than casual notice. the heavy bellied blades of the knives are highly tempered, and not infrequently are bored through and inlaid with silver, in which instances they are known as binuta,--blind (plate lxxva). the sheaths, with their sharply upturned ends, are made of light wood on which are carved decorations, attached or inlaid bands of silver, or stained designs. the handles of the weapons are also decorated with incised silver bands.
fig. 52. wooden shields.
much as the fighting knives are prized, the dagger, bayadau or badau, is in even greater favor. it is worn on the front left-hand part of the body in ready reach of the right hand, and is never removed unless the owner is in the company of trusted relatives. a light thread, easily broken, holds the dagger in its sheath and the slightest disturbance is enough to cause the owner to draw his weapon.
individual warriors lie in ambush for their foes, but when a great raid is planned the party is under the command of a bagani. these attacks are arranged to take place during the full moon and the warriors usually assault a settlement which they think can be taken by surprise, and hence unprepared. it is very seldom that these people fight in the open, and invaders do not attempt a combat unless they feel sure of the outcome. if they find a house well protected they may attempt to fire it by attaching a torch to an arrow and shooting it into the grass roof, the occupants being slaughtered as they rush out. if one of the enemy puts up an especially good fight his body is opened and the warriors eat a portion of his heart and liver, thinking thus to gain in valor.
mr. maxey mentions the use of poisoned weapons in the neighborhood of cateel, but the mandaya of the south seem to be entirely ignorant of this custom, maxey's account of the preparation of the poison is as follows:
a very little brass casting is done by the mandaya of one district, but it is evidently a crude copy of moro work. by far the greater part of the brass betel boxes, and ornaments of that metal, as well as spear heads, are purchased from the coast mohammedans.
iron working is an ancient art with this people and the beauty and temper of their knives and daggers is not excelled by the output of any other philippine tribe. in the manufacture of these weapons they employ the same methods as their neighbors to the south and west.
no wild tribe in the archipelago has made so much use of silver in the production of ornaments as has the mandaya. thin silver plates are rolled into small tubes and are attached to the woman's ear plugs (fig. 49), finger rings of the same metal are produced in great numbers, but the finest work appears in the large silver ornaments worn on the breasts by both sexes (fig. 53). silver coins are beaten into thin disks, in the center of which a hole is cut. about this opening appear beautiful intricate designs, some engraved, others stamped with metal dies.
fig. 53. silver breast ornaments.
all work in metal is limited to a few skilled men, but many lesser industries, such as shaping tortoise shell rings and shell bracelets, carving of spoons, and making baskets, are carried on by other members of the tribe during their leisure hours.
in each district there are one or two mid wives, known as managamon. they are women past middle life who are versed in the medicines and rites which should be employed at the time of birth. they are not considered as ballyan, yet they talk to the spirits upon certain occasions.
frequently parents arrange matches for their children while they are still very young, but in the majority of cases the matter is left until after the age of puberty when the wishes of the young people are taken into consideration. the youth or his father having chosen a suitable girl takes or sends a spear, knife, or other acceptable present to her father. if this offering is accepted it indicates approval of the match, and soon thereafter a feast is prepared to which friends of both families are invited. at this feast the price to be paid for the girl and the time of marriage are agreed upon, and at least partial payment is made. as is the case with the neighboring tribes, a part of the value of this gift is returned. following the agreement the boy enters the service of his fiancee's father and for a year or more lives as a member of the family. even after the marriage a considerable amount of service is expected from him at the time of planting, harvesting, or building.
should anything occur to prevent the marriage, after the payment for the girl has been made, the gifts must be returned or service equal to their value must be rendered.
unfaithfulness on the part of the woman seems to be the one cause for a separation and this is uncommon, for unless her admirer purchases her for a sum equal to the amount her husband spent in obtaining her, the divorced woman remains as a slave in the home of her former husband.
polygamy is permitted and is quite common, but a man may not take a second wife until a child has been born to the first. in addition to his wives a man may have as many concubines as he can afford to purchase.
it is said to be a grave offense for a man to embrace a married woman, or even to touch the breasts, elbows, or heels of any woman he does not intend to marry. an unmarried woman who permits such familiarities is considered as good as married. despite this assertion, the writer knows of several cases where young people openly lived together without being considered married, and later the parents arranged marriages between these girls and other suitors.
according to several informants, incest is punished by the sacrifice of the guilty parties. they are tied to a tree with their hands drawn backward around the trunks and are then speared to death. this seems to be the one and only occasion when human sacrifice is practiced by members of this tribe.
sickness and death.
returning from the burial all the people partake of a feast and then set fire to the dwelling "because we do not like the asuang which killed the man in that house." during the ensuing nine days the spouse of the dead dresses in black and for a month following, or until they can purchase a slave, the whole family is barred from merry-making. two reasons for the purchase of this slave were advanced by members of the tribe. one was that the family could be happy if they were still rich enough to purchase a slave. the second, that they thus replaced the dead man with another, "for the slaves are like members of our own family."
the decorative art of the mandaya is similar in many respects to that of the bagobo and bila-an, yet in part it differs greatly from both. as is true with the other tribes, the weavers make use of many figures which they do not associate with any living forms, but which, nevertheless, strongly suggest that they may have been derived from realistic designs. in addition to such patterns they frequently employ figures which are intentional copies of human or animal forms. of these the most common are those representing a man and a crocodile; these sometimes appear together, sometimes alone. the requirements of the space to be filled, as well as readiness of the worker to alter any part in order to give a more pleasing effect to the design have resulted in many distorted and conventionalized figures which can only be explained by the artist. the accompanying drawings are taken from articles collected by the writer and now in the field museum of natural history.
fig. 54a to h. designs representing the human form.
we have already learned that the crocodile is held in great regard and in some sections there is evidence of its more or less sacred character. its importance in the minds of the people is well shown by the frequency with which it appears in their decorative designs. fig. 55a shows one of these animals which has just eaten a man. both figures are so realistic that the intention of the weaver is apparent. in b, d, e, and f, the animal is still realistic, but the man disappears, and in his place is a formless object or straight lines which are identified as "something eaten."
fig. 55a to h. crocodile designs.
the pattern g is given as the next step in the conventionalization. here the legs, feet, and "something eaten" have assumed undue proportions, while nearly every trace of likeness has vanished. this figure is multiplied five times to obtain the highly conventionalized form shown in h.
by referring to g it is possible to see how the complicated designs in i and j have been derived, although they bear little resemblance to the original crocodile form.
fig. 56 was identified as a crocodile but was not regarded as a step in the conventionalization shown. many other figures such as 57 appear so closely related to the designs just described that it seems certain they must have had a common origin, yet this was denied by all the weavers, who insisted that such decorations were added only to make the garments pretty.
fig. 56. crocodile design.
fig. 57. design used in weaving.
going from weaving to designs cut in wood, something of the same state of affairs is encountered. pattern a on the bamboo comb (fig. 48) is identified as the crocodile, yet the very similar figures shown on a bamboo lime holder (fig. 58) and on a wooden clothes-hanger (fig. 59) are not so recognized.
fig. 58. incised designs on a bamboo lime holder.
fig. 59. clothes hanger.
figs. 60 and 61 show characteristic designs which are embroidered on jackets or carrying bags. all these are added with the one idea of beautifying the garment, without any thought of copying some living form. this is true also of the incised zigzag lines, scrolls, and meander patterns seen on the silver breast disks (fig. 53), and those stained on palm bark hats (fig. 47).
fig. 62. tobacco pouches.
from the material now at our disposal certain general conclusions can be drawn.
a comparison of the physical measurements indicates that no group is of pure race. there are significant variations between members of different tribes, but these occur also between individuals of the same village. the average person in each group is short-headed, yet long-headed individuals are found in every tribe and variations just as great as this appear in the other measurements and observations.
the facts indicate that the tribes now found in davao district did not reach the coasts of mindanao at the same time, but rather that they represent several periods of migration, of which the kulaman is the last. this tribe, which only a few generations ago seems to have been made up of seafarers, has not yet entirely adapted itself to a settled existence and it is only within the lifetime of the present generation that its members have taken seriously to agriculture.
it appears that the bila-an once inhabited the district about lake buluan, but the pressure of the moro has forced most of them from that region toward the mountains to the south and east. they have taken possession of both sides of this mountain range, except for the lower eastern slopes where they have encountered the tagakaolo.
the other tribes probably landed on the southern or southeastern coast of the island, from whence they have gradually moved to their present habitats.
intermarriage between the tribes, moro raids, warfare with the accompanying capture of slaves, and the possible influence of boat-loads of castaways, all have to be considered in dealing with the types found in davao district. we have already seen that the physical measurements indicate a complex racial history.
after giving full credit to all these influences, however, it does not appear to the writer that such radical differences exist between the tribes as will justify us in assigning to them different ancestry or places of origin. the summarized description of the bagobo given on page 56 would, with only, slight modification, apply to all the other tribes, with the exception of certain groups of the ata in which the negrito element is very pronounced. in brief, the various influences that have been at work on one group have influenced all the others, since their arrival on the island of mindanao.
this conclusion is further justified by the language in which a large per cent of the words in daily use are common to all the groups. even the bila-an dialect, which differs more from all the others than do any of those from one another, has so many words in common with the coast tongues and is so similar in structure that one of my native boys, who never before had seen a bila-an, was able freely to carry on a conversation within a few days after his arrival in one of their most isolated settlements.
except for the cotton garments recently adopted by the kagan branch of the tagakaolo, and the suits worn by the mandaya men, the clothing seen throughout the district is very similar. a few ornaments, such as the silver rings and breast disks of the mandaya, have only a limited distribution, but for the most part the decorations worn by the different tribes differ only in the number of beads, bells, and shell disks used in their manufacture.
in the ornamentation of their garments certain groups have specialized until the bead work of the bagobo excels all such work found in the philippines. the same can be said of the intricate and beautifully embroidered designs seen in the garments of the bila-an or the oversewed fabrics of the kulaman, while the crudely embroidered patterns of the mandaya are wonderfully effective. yet, despite apparent dissimilarities, there is such a likeness in many forms of ornamentation, as well as in the technique of the methods of production, that there seems to be ample proof of free borrowing, or of a common origin.
the training of a public speaker
by grenville kleiser
formerly instructor in public speaking at yale divinity school, yale university. author of "how to speak in public," "great speeches and how to make them," "complete guide to public speaking," "how to build mental power," "talks on talking," etc., etc.
funk & wagnalls company
new york and london
copyright, 1920, by
the power of eloquence to move and persuade men is universally recognized. to-day the public speaker plays a vital part in the solution of every great question and problem. oratory, in the true sense, is not a lost art, but a potent means of imparting information, instruction, and persuasion.
eloquence is still "the appropriate organ of the highest personal energy." as one has well said, "the orator is not compelled to wait through long and weary years to reap the reward of his labors. his triumphs are instantaneous."
and again, "to stand up before a vast assembly composed of men of the most various callings, views, passions, and prejudices, and mold them at will; to play upon their hearts and minds as a master upon the keys of a piano; to convince their understandings by the logic, and to thrill their feelings by the art of the orator; to see every eye watching his face, and every ear intent on the words that drop from his lips; to see indifference changed to breathless interest, and aversion to rapturous enthusiasm; to hear thunders of applause at the close of every period; to see the whole assembly animated by the feelings which in him are burning and struggling for utterance; and to think that all this is the creation of the moment, and has sprung instantaneously from his fiery brain and the inspiration imparted to it by the circumstances of the hour;--this, perhaps, is the greatest triumph of which the human mind is capable, and that in which its divinity is most signally revealed."
the aims and purposes of speaking to-day have radically changed from former times. deliberative bodies, composed of busy men, meet now to discuss and dispose of grave and weighty business. there is little necessity nor scope for eloquence. time is too valuable to permit of prolonged speaking. men are tacitly expected to "get to the point," and to be reasonably brief in what they have to say.
under these circumstances certain extravagant types of old-time oratory would be ineffectual to-day. the stentorian and dramatic tones, with hand inserted in the breast of the coat, with exaggerated facial expression, and studied posture, would make a speaker to-day an object of ridicule.
this applies equally to speech in the law court, pulpit, on the lecture platform, and in other departments of public address. the implicit demand everywhere is that the speaker should say what he has to say naturally, simply, and concisely.
this does not mean, however, that he must confine himself to plain statement of fact, with no manifestation of feeling or earnestness. men are still influenced and persuaded by impassioned speech. there is nothing incompatible between deep feeling and clear-cut speech. a man having profound convictions upon any subject of importance will always speak on it with fervor and sincerity.
the widespread interest in the subject of public speaking has suggested this adaptation of quintilian's celebrated work on the education of the orator. this work has long been regarded as one of the most valuable treatises ever written on oratory, but in its original form it is ponderous and inaccessible to the average reader. in the present abridged and modernized form it may be read and studied with benefit by earnest students of the art of public speaking.
a brief account of quintilian says: "quintilianus, m. fabius, was born at calagurris, in spain, a. d. 40. he completed his education at rome, and began to practise at the bar about 68. but he was chiefly distinguished as a teacher of eloquence, bearing away the palm in his department from all his rivals, and associating his name, even to a proverb, with preeminence in the art. by domitian he was invested with the insignia and title of consul, and is, moreover, celebrated as the first public instructor who, in virtue of the endowment by vespasian, received a regular salary from the imperial exchequer. he is supposed to have died about 118. the great work of quintilian is a complete system of rhetoric, in twelve books, entitled de institutione oratoria libre xii, or sometimes institutiones oratoriæ, dedicated to his friend marcellus victorius, himself a celebrated orator, and a favorite at court. this production bears throughout the impress of a clear, sound judgment, keen discrimination, and pure taste, improved by extensive reading, deep reflection, and long practise."
the text used for this condensation is from the version of j. patsall, a.m., london, 1774, according to the paris edition by professor rollin. many parts of the original work have been re-written or abridged, while several chapters have been entirely omitted.
grenville kleiser. new york city, august, 1919.
rhetoric and eloquence
what rhetoric is
rhetoric has been commonly defined as "the power of persuading." this opinion originated with isocrates, if the work ascribed to him be really his; not that he intended to dishonor his profession, tho he gives us a generous idea of rhetoric by calling it the workmanship of persuasion. we find almost the same thing in the gorgias of plato, but this is the opinion of that rhetorician, and not of plato. cicero has written in many places that the duty of an orator is to speak in "a manner proper to persuade"; and in his books of rhetoric, of which undoubtedly he does not approve himself, he makes the end of eloquence to consist in persuasion.
but does not money likewise persuade? is not credit, the authority of the speaker, the dignity of a respectable person, attended with the same effect? even without speaking a word, the remembrance of past services, the appearance of distress, a beautiful aspect, make deep impressions on minds and are decisive in their favor.
did antonius, pleading the cause of m. aquilius, trust to the force of his reasons when he abruptly tore open his garment and exposed to view the honorable wounds he received fighting for his country? this act of his forced streams of tears from the eyes of the roman people, who, not able to resist so moving a spectacle, acquitted the criminal. sergius galba escaped the severity of the laws by appearing in court with his own little children, and the son of gallus sulpitius, in his arms. the sight of so many wretched objects melted the judges into compassion. this we find equally attested by some of our historians and by a speech of cato. what shall i say of the example of phryne, whose beauty was of more service in her cause than all the eloquence of hyperides; for tho his pleading was admirable in her defense, yet perceiving it to be without effect, by suddenly laying open her tunic he disclosed the naked beauty of her bosom, and made the judges sensible that she had as many charms for them as for others. now, if all these instances persuade, persuasion, then, can not be the end of rhetoric.
some, therefore, have seemed to themselves rather more exact who, in the main of the same way of thinking, define rhetoric as the "power of persuading by speaking." it is to this that gorgias, in the book above cited, is at last reduced by socrates. theodectes does not much differ from them, if the work ascribed to him be his, or aristotle's. in this book the end of rhetoric is supposed to be "the leading of men wherever one pleases by the faculty of speaking." but this definition is not sufficiently comprehensive. many others besides the orator persuade by their words and lead minds in whatever direction they please.
some, therefore, as aristotle, setting aside the consideration of the end, have defined rhetoric to be "the power of inventing whatever is persuasive in a discourse." this definition is equally as faulty as that just mentioned, and is likewise defective in another respect, as including only invention, which, separate from elocution, can not constitute a speech.
it appears from plato's gorgias that he was far from regarding rhetoric as an art of ill tendency, but that, rather it is, or ought to be, if we were to conceive an adequate idea of it inseparable from virtue. this he explains more clearly in his phædrus, where he says that "the art can never be perfect without an exact knowledge and strict observance of justice." i join him in this opinion, and if these were not his real sentiments, would he have written an apology for socrates and the eulogium of those brave citizens who lost their lives in the defense of their country? this is certainly acting the part of an orator, and if in any respect he attacks the profession, it is on account of those who make ill use of eloquence. socrates, animated with the same spirit, thought it unworthy of him to pronounce the speech lysias had composed for his defense, it being the custom of the orators of those times to write speeches for arraigned criminals, which the latter pronounced in their own defense; thus eluding the law that prohibited pleading for another. plato, likewise, in his phædrus, condemns the masters that separated rhetoric from justice, and preferred probabilities to truth.
such are the definitions of rhetoric which have been principally set forth. to go through all of them is not my purpose, nor do i think it possible, as most writers on arts have shown a perverse dislike for defining things as others do or in the same terms as those who wrote before them. i am far from being influenced by a like spirit of ambition, and far from flattering myself with the glory of invention, and i shall rest content with that which seems most rational, that rhetoric is properly defined as "the science of speaking well." having found what is best, it is useless to seek further.
accepting this definition, therefore, it will be no difficult matter to ascertain its end, for if it be "the science of speaking well," then "to speak well" will be the end it proposes to itself.
the use of rhetoric
the next question is on the utility of rhetoric, and from this point of view some direct the bitterest invectives against it, and what is very unbecoming, exert the force of eloquence against eloquence, saying that by it the wicked are freed from punishment, and the innocent opprest by its artifices; that it perverts good counsel, and enforces bad; that it foments troubles and seditions in states; that it arms nations against each other, and makes them irreconcilable enemies; and that its power is never more manifest than when error and lies triumph over truth.
comic poets reproach socrates with teaching how to make a bad cause good, and plato represents lysias and gorgias boasting the same thing. to these may be added several examples of greeks and romans, and a long list of orators whose eloquence was not only the ruin of private persons, but even destructive to whole cities and republics; and for this reason it was that eloquence was banished from sparta and so restricted at athens that the orator was not allowed to make appeal to the passions.
granting all this as sound argument, we must draw this necessary inference, that neither generals of armies, nor magistrates, nor medicine, nor philosophy, will be of any use. flaminius, an imprudent general, lost one of our armies. the gracchi saturninus, and glaucia, to raise themselves to dignity, put rome into an uproar. physicians often administer poisons, and among philosophers some have been found guilty of the most enormous crimes. let us not eat of the meats with which our tables are spread, for meats frequently have caused disease. let us never go into houses; they may fall and crush us to death. let not our soldiers be armed with swords; a robber may use the same weapon against us. in short, who does not know that the most necessary things in life, as air, fire, water, nay, even the celestial bodies, are sometimes very injurious to our well-being?
but how many examples can be quoted in our favor? did not appius the blind, by the force of his eloquence dissuade the senate from making a shameful peace with pyrrhus? did not cicero's divine eloquence appear more popular than the agrarian law he attacked? did it not disconcert the audacious measures of cataline? and did not he, even in his civil capacity, obtain by it honors that are conferred on only the most illustrious conquerors? is it not the orator who strengthens the soldier's drooping courage, who animates him amidst the greatest dangers, and inspires him to choose a glorious death rather than a life of infamy?
the example of the romans, among whom eloquence always has been held in the greatest veneration, shall have a higher place in my regard than that of the spartans and athenians. it is not to be supposed that the founders of cities could have made a united people of a vagabond multitude without the charms of persuasive words, nor that law-givers, without extraordinary talent for speaking, could have forced men to bend their necks to the yoke of the laws. even the precepts of moral life, tho engraved on our hearts by the finger of nature, are more efficacious to inspire our hearts with love for them when their beauty is displayed by the ornaments of eloquent speech. tho the arms of eloquence may harm and benefit equally, we must not, therefore, look on that as bad which may be put to a good use. doubts of this kind may well be entertained by such as make "the force persuasion the end of eloquence," but we who constitute it "the science of speaking well," resolved to acknowledge none but the good man an orator, must naturally judge that its advantage is very considerable.
the value of the gift of speech
if, then, the beneficent creator of the world has not imparted to us a greater blessing than the gift of speech, what can we esteem more deserving of our labor and improvement, and what object is more worthy of our ambition than that of raising ourselves above other men by the same means by which they raise themselves above beasts, so much the more as no labor is attended with a more abundant harvest of glory? to be convinced of this we need only consider by what degrees eloquence has been brought to the perfection in which we now see it, and how far it might still be perfected. for, not to mention the advantage and pleasure a good man reaps from defending his friends, governing the senate by his counsels, seeing himself the oracle of the people, and master of armies, what can be more noble than by the faculty of speaking and thinking, which is common to all men, to erect for himself such a standard of praise and glory as to seem to the minds of men not so much to discourse and speak, but, like pericles, to make his words thunder and lightning.
the art of speaking
there would be no end were i to expatiate to the limit of my inclination on the subject of the gift of speech and its utility. i shall pass, therefore, to the following question, "whether rhetoric be an art?" those who wrote rules for eloquence doubted so little its being so, that they prefixt no other title to their books than "the art of speaking." cicero says that what we call rhetoric is only an artificial eloquence. if this were an opinion peculiar to orators, it might be thought that they intended it as a mark of dignity attached to their studies, but most philosophers, stoics as well as peripatetics, concur in this opinion. i must confess i had some doubt about discussing this matter, lest i might seem diffident of its truth; for who can be so devoid of sense and knowledge as to find art in architecture, in weaving, in pottery, and imagine that rhetoric, the excellence of which we have already shown, could arrive at its present state of grandeur and perfection without the direction of art? i am persuaded that those of the contrary opinion were so more for the sake of exercising their wit on the singularity of the subject than from any real conviction.
is eloquence a gift of nature?
some maintain that rhetoric is a gift of nature, yet admit that it may be helped by exercise. antonius, in cicero's books of the orator, calls it a sort of observation and not an art. but this opinion is not there asserted as truth, but only to keep up the character of antonius, who was a connoisseur at concealing art. lysias seems to be of the same opinion, which he defends by saying that the most simple and ignorant people possess a kind of rhetoric when they speak for themselves. they find something like an exordium, they make a narration, they prove, refute, and their prayers and entreaties have the force of a peroration. lysias and his adherents proceed afterward to vain subtleties. "that which is the effect of art," say they, "could not have existed before art. in all times men have known how to speak for themselves and against others, but masters of rhetoric have been only of a late date, first known about the time of tisias and corax; therefore oratorical speech was prior to art, consequently it could not be the result of art, and therefore, rhetoric is not an art." we shall not endeavor to enquire into the time when rhetoric began to be taught, but this we may say, that it is certain homer makes mention not only of phoenix, who was a master, skilled in both speaking and fighting, but also of many other orators. we may observe likewise from homer, that all the parts of a discourse are found in the speech of the three captains deputed to achilles, that several young men dispute for the prize of eloquence, and that among other ornaments of sculpture on the buckler of achilles, vulcan did not forget law-causes and the pleaders of them.
it will be sufficient, however, to answer that "everything perfected by art has its source in nature." if it were not so, we should exclude medicine from the catalog of arts, the discovery of which was owing to observations made on things conducive or harmful to public health, and in the opinion of some it is wholly grounded on experiments. before it was reduced to an art, tents and bandages were applied to wounds, rest and abstinence cured fever; not that the reason of all this was then known, but the nature of the ailment indicated such curative methods and forced men to this regimen. in like manner architecture can not be an art, the first men having built their cottages without its direction. music must undergo the same charge, as every nation has its own peculiarities in dancing and singing. now, if by rhetoric be meant any kind of speech, i must own it prior to art; but if not everyone who speaks is an orator, and if in the primitive ages of the world men did not speak orator-like, the orator, consequently, must have been made so by art, and therefore could not exist before it.
rhetoric and misrepresentation
the object of a speech
it is again objected that "every art proposes to itself an end; but rhetoric has no end, or does not put into execution the end it proposes to itself." this is false, as is shown from what already has been said concerning the end of rhetoric and in what it consists. the orator will never fail to obtain this end, for he always will speak well. this objection, therefore, can affect only those who make persuasion the end of rhetoric; but our orator, and our definition of art, are not restricted to events. an orator, indeed, strives to gain his cause; but suppose he loses it, as long as he has pleaded well he fulfils the injunctions of his art. a pilot desires to come safe into port, but if a storm sweeps away his ship, is he, on that account, a less experienced pilot? his keeping constantly to the helm is sufficient proof that he was not neglecting his duty. a physician tries to cure a sick person, but if his remedies are hindered in their operation by either the violence of the disease, the intemperance of the patient, or some unforeseen accident, he is not to be blamed, because he has satisfied all the directions of his art. so it is with the orator, whose end is to speak well; for it is in the act, and not in the effect, that art consists, as i shall soon make clear. therefore, it is false to say that "art knows when it has obtained its end, but rhetoric knows nothing of the matter," as if an orator could be ignorant of his speaking well and to the purpose.
but it is said, further, that rhetoric, contrary to the custom of all other arts, adopts vice, because it countenances falsehood and moves the passions. neither of these are bad practises, and consequently not vicious, when grounded on substantial reasons. to disguise truth is sometimes allowable even in the sage, and if a judge can not be brought to do justice except by means of the passions, the orator must necessarily have recourse to them. very often the judges appointed to decide are ignorant, and there is necessity for changing their wrongly conceived opinions, to keep them from error. should there be a bench, a tribunal, an assembly of wise and learned judges whose hearts are inaccessible to hatred, envy, hope, fear, prejudice, and the impositions of false witnesses, there would be little occasion for the exertions of eloquence and all that might seem requisite would be only to amuse the ear with the harmony of cadence. but if the orator has to deal with light, inconstant, prejudiced, and corrupt judges, and if many embarrassments must be removed in order to throw light upon truth, then artful stratagem must fight the battle, and set all its engines to work, for he who is beaten out of the straight road can not get into it again except by another turnabout.
eloquence acquired by study and practise
these are the principal objections which have been made against rhetoric. there are others of less moment but derived from the same source. that rhetoric is an art is thus briefly demonstrated. if art, as cleanthes thinks, is a power which prepares a way and establishes an order, can it be doubted that we must keep to a certain way and a certain order for speaking well? and if, according to the most generally accepted opinion, we ought to call art, everything which by a combination of agreeing and co-exercised principles conducts to a useful end, have we not already shown that nothing of all this is lacking in rhetoric? has it not, likewise, the two constituent parts of other arts, theory and practise? again, if dialect be an art, as it is granted, for the same reason; so is rhetoric an art, the chief difference lying not so much in the genus as in the species. but we must not forget this observation, that art must be where a thing is done according to rule, and not at random; and art must be where he who has learned succeeds better than he who has not learned. but in matter of eloquence not only will the ignorant person be surpassed by the learned, but also the learned by the more learned; otherwise we should not have so many rules nor so many excellent masters. this ought to be acknowledged by all, but more especially by us who do not separate eloquence from the man of integrity.
the exordium or introduction
the exordium, or introduction, is that part of the discourse which is pronounced before the subject is entered upon. as musicians make a prelude for obtaining silence and attention before they play their selections, so orators, before they begin their cause, have specified by the same application that which they say by way of preface for securing for themselves a kindly feeling in the listeners.
the purpose of the introduction
the reason for an exordium is to dispose the auditors to be favorable to us in the other parts of the discourse. this, as most authors agree, is accomplished by making them friendly, attentive, and receptive, tho due regard should be paid to these three particulars throughout the whole of a speech.
sometimes the exordium is applicable to the pleader of the cause, who, tho he ought to speak very little of himself, and always modestly, will find it of vast consequence to create a good opinion of himself and to make himself thought to be an honest man. so it is he will be regarded not so much as a zealous advocate, as a faithful and irreproachable witness. his motives for pleading must, therefore, appear to proceed not from tie of kindred, or friendship, but principally from a desire to promote the public good, if such motive can be urged, or any other important consideration. this conduct will befit plaintiffs in a much greater degree, that they may seem to have brought their action for just and weighty reasons, or were even compelled to do it from necessity.
as nothing else gives so great a sanction to the authority of the speaker as to be free from all suspicion of avarice, hatred, and ambition, so, also, there is a sort of tacit recommendation of ourselves if we profess our weak state and inability for contending with the superior genius and talents of the advocate of the other side. we are naturally disposed to favor the weak and opprest, and a conscientious judge hears an orator willingly whom he presumes not to be capable of making him swerve from his fixt purpose of doing justice. hence the care of the ancients for concealing their talents.
ideas to avoid and to include
all contemptuous, spiteful, haughty, calumniating expressions must be avoided and not so much as even insinuated to the defamation of any particular person or rank, much less against those to whom an affront would alienate the minds of the judges. to be so imprudent as to attack judges themselves, not openly, but in any indirect manner, would be most unwise.
the advocate for the other side may likewise furnish sufficient matter for an exordium. sometimes honorable mention may be made of him, as when we pretend to be in dread of his interest and eloquence in order to make them suspected by the judges, and sometimes by casting odium on him, altho this must be done very seldom. i rather think, from the authority of the best authors, that whatever affects the orator, affects also the cause he patronizes, as it is natural for a judge to give more credit to those whom he more willingly hears.
we shall procure the favor of the judge not so much by praising him, which ought to be done with moderation, and is common to both sides, but rather by making his praise fitting, and connecting it with the interest of our cause. thus, in speaking for a person of consequence, we may lay some stress on the judge's own dignity; for one of mean condition, on his justice; for the unhappy, on his mercy; for the injured, on his severity.
studying your hearers
it also would not be amiss to become acquainted, if possible, with his character. for, according as his temper is, harsh or mild, pleasant or grave, severe or easy, the cause should be made to incline toward the side which corresponds with his disposition, or to admit some mitigation or softening where it runs counter to it.
it may happen sometimes, too, that the judge is our enemy, or the opponent's friend. this is a circumstance requiring the circumspection of both parties, yet i think the favored advocate should behave with great caution, for a judge of a biased disposition will sometimes choose to pass sentence against his friends, or in favor of those to whom he bears enmity, that he may not appear to act with injustice.
judges have also their private opinions and prejudices, which we must either strengthen or weaken, according as we see necessary. fear, too, sometimes must be removed, as cicero, in his defense of milo, endeavors to assure the judges that pompey's army, drawn up about the forum, is for their protection; and sometimes there will be an occasion to intimidate them, as the same orator does in one of his pleadings against verres.
there are two ways of proceeding in this last case, the first plausible, and frequently used, as when it is hinted to them that the roman people might entertain an ill opinion of them, or that there might be an appeal from their judgment; the other desperate, and not so much used, as when threatened with prosecution themselves if they suffer themselves to be corrupted. this is a hazardous point, and is conducted with more safety to the orator when in a large assembly where corrupt judges are restrained by fear, and the upright have the majority. but i would never counsel this before a single judge, unless every other resource was wanting. if necessity requires it, i can not say that it is the business of the art of oratory to give directions in the matter, any more than to lodge an appeal, tho that, too, is often of service, or to cite the judge in justice before he passes sentence, for to threaten, denounce, or indict may be done by any one else as well as the orator.
if the cause itself should furnish sufficient reason for gaining the good will of the judge, out of this whatever is most specious and favorable may be inserted in the exordium. it will be unnecessary to enumerate all the favorable circumstances in causes, they being easily known from the state of facts; besides, no exact enumeration can take place on account of the great diversity of law-suits. it is the cause itself, therefore, that must teach us to find and improve these circumstances; and, in like manner, with a circumstance that may make against us the cause will inform us how it may either be made entirely void, or at least invalidated.
from the cause compassion also sometimes arises, whether we have already suffered or are likely to suffer anything grievous. for i am not of the opinion of those who to distinguish the exordium from the peroration, will have the one to speak of what is past and the other of what is to come. they are sufficiently distinguished without this discrimination. in the exordium the orator ought to be more reserved, and ought only to throw out some hints of the sentiments of compassion he designs to excite in the minds of the judges; whereas in the peroration he may pour out all the passions, introduce persons speaking, and make the dead to come forth, as it were, out of their graves, and recommend to the judges the care of their dearest pledges. all these particulars are seldom executed in the exordium. but the manner just pointed out, it will be very proper to observe in it, and to wear down all impressions to the contrary made by the opposite side, that as our situation will be deplorable if we should be defeated in our expectations, so, on the other hand, the behavior of our opponent would be insolent and haughty.
material for the introduction
besides persons and causes, the exordium likewise is sometimes taken from their adjuncts, that is, from things relating to the cause and persons. to persons are applicable not only the pledges above mentioned, but affinities, friendships, sometimes cities and whole countries are also likely to suffer by the person's misfortunes.
theophrastus adds another kind of exordium, taken from the pleading of the orator who speaks first. such seems to be that of demosthenes for ctesiphon, in which he requests the judges to please permit him to reply as he thinks suitable rather than to follow the rules prescribed by the accuser.
as the confidence observable in some orators may easily pass for arrogance, there are certain ways of behavior which, tho common, will please, and therefore ought not to be neglected, to prevent their being used by the opposing side: these are wishing, warding off suspicion, supplicating, and making a show of trouble and anxiety.
the judge's attention is secured by inducing him to believe that the matter under debate is new, important, extraordinary, or of a heinous nature, or that it equally interests him and the public. then his mind is to be roused and agitated by hope, fear, remonstrance, entreaty, and even by flattery, if it is thought that will be of any use. another way of procuring attention may be to promise that we shall take up but little of their time, as we shall confine ourselves to the subject.
from what has been said, it appears that different causes require to be governed by different rules; and five kinds of causes are generally specified, which are said to be, either honest, base, doubtful, extraordinary, or obscure. some add shameful, as a sixth kind, which others include in base or extraordinary. by extraordinary is understood that which is contrary to the opinion of men. in a doubtful cause the judge should be made favorable; in an obscure, docile; in a base, attentive. an honest cause is sufficient of itself to procure favor. extraordinary and base causes lack remedies.
two types of introductions
some, therefore, specify two kinds of exordiums, one a beginning, the other an insinuation. in the first the judges are requested openly to give their good will and attention; but as this can not take place in the base kind of cause, the insinuation must steal in upon their minds, especially when the cause does not seem to appear with a sufficiently honest aspect, either because the thing itself is wicked, or is a measure not approved by the public. there are many instances of causes of unseemly appearance, as when general odium is incurred by opposing a patriot; and a like hostility ensues from acting against a father, a wretched old man, the blind, or the orphan.
this may be a general rule for the purpose, "to touch but slightly on the things that work against us, and to insist chiefly on those which are for our advantage." if the cause can not be so well maintained, let us have recourse to the goodness of the person, and if the person is not condemnable, let us ground our support on the cause. if nothing occurs to help us out, let us see what may hurt the opponent. for, since to obtain more favor is a thing to be wished, so the next step to it is to incur less hatred.
in things that can not be denied, we must endeavor to show that they are greatly short of what they are reported to be, or that they have been done with a different intention, or that they do not in any wise belong to the present question, or that repentance will make sufficient amends for them, or that they have already received a proportionate punishment. herein, therefore, it will be better and more suitable for an advocate to act than for the person himself; because when pleading for another he can praise without the imputation of arrogance, and sometimes can even reprove with advantage.
insinuation seems to be not less necessary when the opponent's action has pre-possest the minds of the judges, or when they have been fatigued by the tediousness of the pleading. the first may be got the better of by promising substantial proofs on our side, and by refuting those of the opponent. the second, by giving hopes of being brief, and by having recourse to the means prescribed for making the judge attentive. in the latter case, too, some seasonable pleasantry, or anything witty to freshen the mind will have a good effect. it will not be amiss, likewise, to remove any seeming obstruction. as cicero says of himself, he is not unaware that some will find it strange that he, who for so many years had defended such a number of people, and had given no offense to anyone, should undertake to accuse verres. afterward he shows that if, on the one hand, he accuses verres, still, on the other, he defends the allies of the roman people.
how to select the right beginning
the orator should consider what the subject is upon which he is to speak, before whom, for whom, against whom, at what time, in what place, under what conditions, what the public think of it, what the judges may think of it before they hear him, and what he himself has to desire, and what to apprehend. whoever makes these reflections will know where he should naturally begin. but now orators call exordium anything with which they begin, and consider it of advantage to make the beginning with some brilliant thought. undoubtedly many things are taken into the exordium which are drawn from other parts of the cause or at least are common to them, but nothing in either respect is better said than that which can not be said so well elsewhere.
the value of naturalness
there are many very engaging things in an exordium which is framed from the opponent's pleading, and this is because it does not seem to favor of the closet, but is produced on the spot and comes from the very thing. by its easy, natural turn, it enhances the reputation of genius. its air of simplicity, the judge not being on his guard against it, begets belief, and tho the discourse in all other parts be elaborate and written with great accuracy, it will for the most part seem an extempore oration, the exordium evidently appearing to have nothing premeditated.
but nothing else will so well suit an exordium as modesty in the countenance, voice, thoughts, and composition, so that even in an uncontrovertible kind of cause, too great confidence ought not to display itself. security is always odious in a pleader, and a judge who is sensible of his authority tacitly demands respect.
an orator must likewise be exceedingly careful to keep himself from being suspected, particularly in that regard; therefore, not the least show of study should be made, because all his art will seem exerted against the judge, and not to show this is the greatest perfection of art. this rule has been recommended by all authors, and undoubtedly with good reason, but sometimes is altered by circumstances, because in certain causes the judges themselves require studied discourses, and fancy themselves thought mean of unless accuracy appears in thought and expression. it is of no significance to instruct them; they must be pleased. it is indeed difficult to find a medium in this respect, but the orator may so temper his manner as to speak with justness, and not with too great a show of art.
the need of simplicity of expression
another rule inculcated by the ancients is not to admit into the exordium any strange word, too bold a metaphor, an obsolete expression, or a poetical turn. as yet we are not favorably received by the auditors, their attention is not entirely held, but when once they conceive an esteem and are warmly inclined toward us, then is the time to hazard this liberty, especially when we enter upon parts the natural fertility of which does not allow the liberty of expression to be noticed amidst the luster spread about it.
the style of the exordium ought not to be like that of the argument proper and the narration, neither ought it to be finely spun out, or harmonized into periodical cadences, but, rather, it should be simple and natural, promising neither too much by words nor countenance. a modest action, also, devoid of the least suspicion of ostentation, will better insinuate itself into the mind of the auditor. but these ought to be regulated according to the sentiments we would have the judges imbibe from us.
it must be remembered, however, that nowhere is less allowance made than here for failing in memory or appearing destitute of the power of articulating many words together. an ill-pronounced exordium may well be compared to a visage full of scars, and certainly he must be a bad pilot who puts his ship in danger of sinking, as he is going out of port.
in regard to the length of the exordium, it ought to be proportionate to the nature of the cause. simple causes admit of a shorter exordium; the complex, doubtful, and odious, require a longer exordium. some writers have prescribed four points as laws for all exordiums,--which is ridiculous. an immoderate length should be equally avoided, lest it appear, as some monsters, bigger in the head than in the rest of the body, and create disgust where it ought only to prepare.
"tying up" the introduction
as often as we use an exordium, whether we pass next to the narration, or immediately to the proofs, we ought always to preserve a connection between what follows and what goes before. to proceed from one part to another, by some ingenious thought which disguises the transition, and to seek applause from such a studied exertion of wit, is quite of a piece with the cold and childish affectation of our declaimers. if a long and intricate narration must follow, the judge ought naturally to be prepared for it. this cicero often does, as in this passage: "i must proceed pretty high to clear up this matter to you, which i hope, gentlemen, you will not be displeased at, because its origin being known will make you thoroughly acquainted with the particulars proceeding from it."
there are causes so short as to require rather to be proposed than told. it is sometimes the case with two contending sides, either that they have no exposition to make, or that agreeing on the fact, they contest only the right. sometimes one of the contending parties, most commonly the plaintiff, need only propose the matter, as most to his advantage, and then it will be enough for him to say: "i ask for a certain sum of money due to me according to agreement; i ask for what was bequeathed to me by will." it is the defendant's business to show that he has no right to such a debt or legacy. on other occasions it is enough, and more advisable, for the plaintiff to point out merely the fact: "i say that horatius killed his sister." this simple proposition makes known the whole crime, but the details and the cause of the fact will suit better the defendant. let it be supposed, on the other hand, that the fact can not be denied or excused; then the defendant, instead of narrating, will best abide by the question of right. some one is accused of sacrilege for stealing the money of a private person out of a temple. the pleader of the cause had better confess the fact than give an account of it. "we do not deny that this money was taken out of the temple. it was the money of a private person, and not set apart for any religious use. but the plaintiff calumniates us by an action for sacrilege. it is, therefore, your business, gentlemen, to decide whether it can properly be specified as sacrilege."
the two kinds of narration
there are two kinds of narration in judicial matters, the one for the cause, the other for things belonging to it. "i have not killed that man." this needs no narration. i admit it does not; but there may be a narration, and even somewhat long, concerning the probable causes of innocence in the accused, as his former integrity of life, the opponent's motives for endangering the life of a guiltless person, and other circumstances arguing the incredibility of the accusation. the accuser does not merely say, "you have committed that murder," but shows reasons to evince its credibility; as, in tragedies, when teucer imputes the death of ajax to ulysses, he says that "he was found in a lonely place, near the dead body of his enemy, with his sword all bloody." ulysses, in answer, not only denies the crime, but protests there was no enmity between him and ajax, and that they never contended but for glory. then he relates how he came into that solitary place, how he found ajax dead, and that it was ajax's own sword he drew out of his wound. to these are subjoined proofs, but the proofs, too, are not without narration, the plaintiff alleging, "you were in the place where your enemy was found killed." "i was not," says the defendant, and he tells where he was.
how to make the conclusion
the end of the narration is rather more for persuading than informing. when, therefore, the judges might not require information, yet, if we consider it advisable to draw them over to our way of thinking, we may relate the matter with certain precautions, as, that tho they have knowledge of the affair in general, still would it not be amiss if they chose to examine into every particular fact as it happened. sometimes we may diversify the exposition with a variety of figures and turns; as, "you remember"; "perhaps it would be unnecessary to insist any longer on this point"; "but why should i speak further when you are so well acquainted with the matter."
a subject of frequent discussion is to know whether the narration ought immediately to follow the exordium. they who think it should, seem to have some reason on their side, for as the design of the exordium is to dispose the judges to hear us with all the good will, docility, and attention, we wish, and as arguments can have no effect without previous knowledge of the cause, it follows naturally that they should have this knowledge as soon as it can conveniently be given to them.
purposes of the narration
if the narration be entirely for us, we may content ourselves with those three parts, whereby the judge is made the more easily to understand, remember, and believe. but let none think of finding fault if i require the narration which is entirely for us, to be probable tho true, for many things are true but scarcely credible, as, on the contrary, many things are false tho frequently probable. we ought, therefore, to be careful that the judge should believe as much what we pretend as the truth we say, by preserving in both a probability to be credited.
those three qualities of the narration belong in like manner to all other parts of the discourse, for obscurity must be avoided throughout, and we must everywhere keep within certain bounds, and all that is said must be probable; but a strict observance of these particulars ought to be kept more especially in that part wherein the judge receives his first information, for if there it should happen that he either does not understand, remember, or believe, our labor in all other parts will be to no purpose.
the qualities needed for success
the narration will be clear and intelligible if, first, it be exprest in proper and significant words, which have nothing mean and low, nothing far-fetched, and nothing uncommon. second, if it distinguishes exactly things, persons, times, places, causes; all of which should be accompanied with a suitable delivery, that the judge may retain the more easily what is said.
this is a quality neglected by most of our orators, who, charmed by the applause of a rabble brought together by chance, or even bribed to applaud with admiration every word and period, can neither endure the attentive silence of a judicious audience, nor seem to themselves to be eloquent unless they make everything ring about them with tumultuous clamor. to explain simply the fact, appears to them too low, and common, and too much within the reach of the illiterate, but i fancy that what they despise as easy is not so much because of inclination as because of inability to effect it. for the more experience we have, the more we find that nothing else is so difficult as to speak in such a manner that all who have heard us may think they could acquit themselves equally as well. the reason for the contrary notion is that what is so said is considered as merely true and not as fine and beautiful. but will not the orator express himself in the most perfect manner, when he seems to speak truth? now, indeed, the narration is laid out as a champion-ground for eloquence to display itself in; the voice, the gesture, the thoughts, the expression, are all worked up to a pitch of extravagance, and what is monstrous, the action is applauded, and yet the cause is far from being understood. but we shall forego further reflections on this misguided notion, lest we offend more by reproving faults, than gratify by giving advice.
the narration will have its due brevity if we begin by explaining the affair from the point where it is of concern to the judge; next, if we say nothing foreign to the cause; and last, if we avoid all superfluities, yet without curtailing anything that may give insight into the cause or be to its advantage. there is a certain brevity of parts, however, which makes a long whole: "i came to the harbor, i saw a ship ready for sailing, i asked the price for passengers, i agreed as to what i should give, i went aboard, we weighed anchor, we cleared the coast, and sailed on briskly." none of these circumstances could be exprest in fewer words, but it is sufficient to say, "i sailed from the port." and as often as the end of a thing sufficiently denotes what went before, we may rest satisfied with it as facilitating the understanding of all other circumstances.
but often when striving to be short, we become obscure, a fault equally to be avoided, therefore it is better that the narration should have a little too much, than that it should lack enough. what is redundant, disgusts; what is necessary is cut down with danger. i would not have this rule restricted to what is barely sufficient for pronouncing judgment on, because the narration may be concise, yet not, on that account, be without ornament. in such cases it would appear as coming from an illiterate person. pleasure, indeed, has a secret charm; and the things which please seem less tedious. a pleasant and smooth road, tho it be longer, fatigues less than a rugged and disagreeable short cut. i am not so fond of conciseness as not to make room for brightening a narration with proper embellishments. if quite homely and curtailed on all sides, it will be not so much a narration as a poor huddling up of things together.
getting your statements accepted
the best way to make the narration probable is to first consult with ourselves on whatever is agreeable to nature, that nothing may be said contrary to it; next, to find causes and reasons for facts, not for all, but for those belonging to the question; and last, to have characters answerable to the alleged facts which we would have believed; as, if one were guilty of theft, we should represent him as a miser; of adultery, as addicted to impure lusts; of manslaughter, as hot and rash. the contrary takes place in defense, and the facts must agree with time, place, and the like.
sometimes a cause may be prepared by a proposition, and afterward narrated. all circumstances are unfavorable to three sons who have conspired against their father's life. they cast lots who shall strike the blow. he on whom the lot falls, enters his father's bed-chamber at night, with a poniard, but has not courage to put the design into execution. the second and the third do the same. the father wakes. all confess their wicked purpose, and by virtue of a law made and provided for such case, they are to be disinherited. but should the father, who has already made a partition of his estate in their favor, plead their cause, he may proceed thus: "children are accused of parricide, whose father is still alive, and they are sued in consequence of a law that is not properly applicable to their case. i need not here give an account of a transaction that is foreign to the point of law in question. but if you require a confession of my guilt, i have been a hard father to them, and rather too much occupied in hoarding up the income of my estate, which would have been better spent in necessaries for them." afterward he may say that they did not form this plan by themselves, that they were instigated to it by others who had more indulgent parents, that the result clearly showed they were not capable of so unnatural an action, that there was no necessity for binding themselves by oath if in reality they could have had such an inclination, nor of casting lots if each did not want to avoid the perpetration of such a crime. all these circumstances, such as they are, will be favorably received, softened in some measure by the short defense of the previous propositions.
the order of the narration
i am not of the opinion of those who think that the facts ought always to be related in the same order in which they happened. that manner of narration is best which is of most advantage to the cause, and it may, not improperly, call in the aid of a diversity of figures. sometimes we may pretend that a thing has been overlooked, so that it may be better exprest elsewhere than it would be in its own order and place; assuring the judges at the same time that we shall resume the proper order, but that the cause in this way will be better understood. sometimes, after explaining the whole affair, we may subjoin the antecedent causes. and thus it is that the art of defense, not circumscribed by any one invariable rule, must be adapted to the nature and circumstances of the cause.
it will not be amiss to intimate that nothing enhances so much the credibility of a narration as the authority of him who makes it, and this authority it is our duty to acquire, above all, by an irreproachable life, and next, by the manner of enforcing it. the more grave and serious it is, the more weight it will have. here all suspicion of cunning and artifice should, therefore, be particularly avoided, for the judges, ever distrustful, are here principally on their guard, and, likewise, nothing should seem a pure fiction, or the work of study, which all might rather be believed to proceed from the cause than the orator. but this we can not endure, and we think our art lost unless it is seen; whereas it ceases to be art if it is seen.
division and argument
some are of the opinion that division should always be used, as by it the cause will be more clear and the judge more attentive and more easily taught when he knows of what we speak to him and of what we intend afterward to speak. others think this is attended with danger to the orator, either by his sometimes forgetting what he has promised, or by something else occurring to the judge or auditor, which he did not think of in the division. i can not well imagine how this may happen, unless with one who is either destitute of sense or rash enough to plead without preparation. in any other respect, nothing else can set a subject in so clear a light as just division. it is a means to which we are directed by the guidance of nature, because keeping in sight the heads on which we propose to speak, is the greatest help the memory can have.
the mistake of too many divisions
but if division should seem requisite, i am not inclined to assent to the notion of those who would have it extend to more than three parts. indeed, when the parts are too many, they escape the judge's memory and distract his attention; but a cause is not scrupulously to be tied down to this number, as it may require more.
disadvantages of divisions
there are reasons for not always using division, the principal reason being that most things are better received when seemingly of extempore invention and not suggestive of study, but arising in the pleading from the nature of the thing itself. whence such figures are not unpleasing as, "i had almost forgotten to say"; "it escaped my memory to acquaint you"; and "you have given me a good hint." for if the proofs should be proposed without something of a reputation of this kind, they would lose, in the sequel, all the graces of novelty.
the distinguishing of questions, and the discussing of them, should be equally avoided. but the listeners' passions ought to be excited, and their attention diverted from its former bias, for it is the orator's business not so much to instruct as to enforce his eloquence by emotion, to which nothing can be more contrary than minute and scrupulously exact division of a discourse into parts.
when the division is desirable
if many things are to be avoided or refuted, the division will be both useful and pleasing, causing everything to appear in the order in which it is to be said. but if we defend a single crime by various ways, division will be superfluous, as, "i shall make it clear that the person i defend is not such as to make it seem probable that he could be guilty of murder; it shall also be shown that he had no motives to induce him to do it; and lastly, that he was across the sea when this murder took place." whatever is cited and argued before the third point must seem quite unnecessary, for the judge is in haste to have you come to that which is of most consequence, and the patient, will tacitly call upon you to acquit yourself of your promise, or, if he has much business to dispatch, or his dignity puts him above your trifling, or he is of a peevish humor, he will oblige you to speak to the purpose, and perhaps do so in disrespectful terms.
pitfalls in argument
many doubt the desirability of this kind of defense: "if i had killed him, i should have done well; but i did not kill him." where is the occasion, say they, for the first proposition if the second be true? they run counter to each other, and whoever advances both, will be credited in neither. this is partly true, for if the last proposition be unquestionable, it is the only one that should be used. but if we are apprehensive of anything in the stronger, we may use both. on these occasions persons seem to be differently affected; one will believe the fact, and exculpate the right; another will condemn the right, and perhaps not credit the fact. so, one dart may be enough for an unerring hand to hit the mark, but chance and many darts must effect the same result for an uncertain aim. cicero clears up this matter in his defense of milo. he first shows clodius to be the aggressor, and then, by a superabundance of right, adds that tho he might not be the aggressor, it was brave and glorious in milo to have delivered rome of so bad a citizen.
tho division may not always be necessary, yet when properly used it gives great light and beauty to a discourse. this it effects not only by adding more perspicuity to what is said, but also by refreshing the minds of the hearers by a view of each part circumscribed within its bounds; just so milestones ease in some measure the fatigue of travelers, it being a pleasure to know the extent of the labor they have undergone, and to know what remains encourages them to persevere, as a thing does not necessarily seem long when there is a certainty of coming to the end.
essentials of good argument
every division, therefore, when it may be employed to advantage, ought to be first clear and intelligible, for what is worse than being obscure in a thing, the use of which is to guard against obscurity in other things? second, it ought to be short, and not encumbered with any superfluous word, because we do not enter upon the subject matter, but only point it out.
if proofs be strong and cogent, they should be proposed and insisted on separately; if weak, it will be best to collect them into a body. in the first case, being persuasive by themselves, it would be improper to obscure them by the confusion of others: they should appear in their due light. in the second case, being naturally weak, they should be made to support each other. if, therefore, they are not greatly effective in point of quality, they may be in that of number, all of them having a tendency to prove the same thing; as, if one were accused of killing another for the sake of inheriting his fortune: "you did expect an inheritance, and it was something very considerable; you were poor, and your creditors troubled you more than ever; you also offended him who had appointed you his heir, and you know that he intended to alter his will." these proofs taken separately are of little moment, and common; but collectively their shock is felt, not as a peal of thunder, but as a shower of hail.
the judge's memory, however, is not always to be loaded with the arguments we may invent. they will create disgust, and beget distrust in him, as he can not think such arguments to be powerful enough which we ourselves do not think sufficient. but to go on arguing and proving, in the case of self-evident things, would be a piece of folly not unlike that of bringing a candle to light us when the sun is in its greatest splendor.
to these some add proofs which they call moral, drawn from the milder passions; and the most powerful, in the opinion of aristotle, are such as arise from the person of him who speaks, if he be a man of real integrity. this is a primary consideration; and a secondary one, remote, indeed, yet following, will be the probable notion entertained of his irreproachable life.
the best order of the argument
it has been a matter of debate, also, whether the strongest proofs should have place in the beginning, to make an immediate impression on the hearers, or at the end, to make the impression lasting with them, or to distribute them, partly in the beginning and partly at the end, placing the weaker in the middle, or to begin with the weakest and proceed to the strongest. for my part i think this should depend on the nature and exigencies of the cause, yet with this reservation, that the discourse might not dwindle from the powerful into what is nugatory and frivolous.
let the young orator, for whose instruction i make these remarks, accustom himself as much as possible to copy nature and truth. as in schools he often engages in sham battles, in imitation of the contests of the bar, let him even then have an eye to victory, and learn to strike home, dealing moral blows and putting himself on his defense as if really in earnest. it is the master's business to require this duty, and to commend it according as it is well executed. for if they love praise to the degree of seeking it in their faults, which does them much harm, they will desire it more passionately when they know it to be the reward of real merit. the misfortune now is that they commonly pass over necessary things in silence, considering what is for the good of the cause as of little or no account if it be not conducive to the embellishment of the discourse.
the peroration, called by some the completion, by others the conclusion, of a discourse, is of two kinds, and regards either the matters discust in it or the moving of the passions.
the repetition of the matter and the collecting it together, which is called by the greeks recapitulation, and by some of the latins enumeration, serves for refreshing the judge's memory, for placing the whole cause in one direct point of view, and for enforcing in a body many proofs which, separately, made less impression. it would seem that this repetition ought to be very short, and the greek term sufficiently denotes that we ought to run over only the principal heads, for if we are long in doing it, it will not be an enumeration that we make, but, as it were, a second discourse. the points which may seem to require this enumeration, however, ought to be pronounced with some emphasis, and enlivened with opposite thoughts, and diversified by figures, otherwise nothing will be more disagreeable than a mere cursory repetition, which would seem to show distrust of the judge's memory.
rules for the peroration
this seems to be the only kind of peroration allowed by most of the athenians and by almost all the philosophers who left anything written on the art of oratory. the athenians, i suppose, were of that opinion because it was customary at athens to silence, by the public crier, any orator who should attempt to move the passions. i am less surprized at this opinion among philosophers, every perturbation of the mind being considered by them as vicious; nor did it seem to them compatible with sound morality to divert the judge from truth, nor agreeable to the idea of an honest man to have recourse to any sinister stratagem. yet moving the passions will be acknowledged necessary when truth and justice can not be otherwise obtained and when public good is concerned in the decision. all agree that recapitulation may also be employed to advantage in other parts of the pleading, if the cause is complicated and requires many arguments to defend it, and, on the other hand, it will admit of no doubt that many causes are so short and simple as to have no occasion in any part of them for recapitulation. the above rules for the peroration apply equally to the accuser and to the defendant's advocate.
they, likewise, use nearly the same passions, but the accuser more seldom and more sparingly, and the defendant oftener and with greater emotions; for it is the business of the former to stir up aversion, indignation, and other similar passions in the minds of the judges, and of the latter to bend their hearts to compassion. yet the accuser is sometimes not without tears, in deploring the distress of those in whose behalf he sues for satisfaction, and the defendant sometimes complains with great vehemence of the persecution raised against him by the calumnies and conspiracy of his enemies. it would be best, therefore, to distinguish and discuss separately the different passions excited on the parts of the plaintiff and defendant, which are most commonly, as i have said, very like what takes place in the exordium, but are treated in a freer and fuller manner in the peroration.
purposes of the peroration
the favor of the judges toward us is more sparingly sued for in the beginning, it being then sufficient to gain their attention, as the whole discourse remains in which to make further impressions. but in the peroration we must strive to bring the judge into that disposition of the mind which it is necessary for us that he should retain when he comes to pass judgment. the peroration being finished, we can say no more, nor can anything be reserved for another place. both of the contending sides, therefore, try to conciliate the judge, to make him unfavorable to the opponent, to rouse and occasionally allay his passions; and both may find their method of procedure in this short rule, which is, to keep in view the whole stress of the cause, and finding what it contains that is favorable, odious, or deplorable, in reality or in probability, to say those things which would make the greatest impression on themselves if they sat as judges.
i have already mentioned in the rules for the exordium how the accuser might conciliate the judges. yet some things, which it was enough to point out there, should be wrought to a fulness in the peroration, especially if the pleading be against some one universally hated, and a common disturber, and if the condemnation of the culprit should redound as much to the honor of the judges as his acquittal to their shame. thus calvus spoke admirably against vatinius:
"you know, good sirs, that vatinius is guilty, and no one is unaware that you know it." cicero, in the same way, informs the judges that if anything is capable of reestablishing the reputation of their judgment, it must be the condemnation of verres. if it be proper to intimidate the judges, as cicero likewise does, against verres, this is done with better effect in the peroration than in the exordium. i have already explained my sentiments on this point.
how to arouse emotions
in short, when it is requisite to excite envy, hatred, or indignation there is greater scope for doing this to advantage in the peroration than elsewhere. the interest in the accused may naturally excite the judge's envy, the infamy of his crimes may draw upon him his hatred, the little respect he shows him may rouse his indignation. if he is stubborn, haughty, presumptuous, let him be painted in all the glaring colors that aggravate such vicious temper, and these manifested not only from his words and deeds, but from face, manner, and dress. i remember, on my first coming to the bar, a shrewd remark of the accuser of cossutianus capito. he pleaded in greek before the emperor, but the meaning of his words was: "might it not be said that this man disdains even to respect cæsar."
the accuser has recourse frequently to the arousing of compassion, either by setting forth the distrest state of him for whom he hopes to find redress, or by describing the desolation and ruin into which his children and relations are likely thereby to be involved. he may, too, move the judges by holding out to them a prospect of what may happen hereafter if injuries and violence remain unpunished, the consequence of which will be that either his client must abandon his dwelling and the care of his effects, or must resolve to endure patiently all the injustice his enemy may try to do him.
the persons concerned are very proper objects for affecting the mind of the judge, for the judge does not seem to himself to hear so much the orator weeping over others' misfortunes, as he imagines his ears are smitten with the feelings and voice of the distrest. even their dumb appearance might be a sufficiently moving language to draw tears, and as their wretchedness would appear in lively colors if they were to speak it themselves, so proportionately it must be thought to have a powerful effect when exprest, as it were, from their own mouths. just so, in theatrical representations, the same voice, and the same emphatic pronunciation, become very interesting under the masks used for personating different characters. with a like view cicero, tho he gives not the voice of a suppliant to milo, but, on the contrary, commends his unshaken constancy, yet does he adapt to him words and complaints not unworthy of a man of spirit: "o my labors, to no purpose undertaken! deceiving hopes! useless projects!"
tears are excited not only by words but by doing certain things, whence it is not unusual to present the very persons who are in danger of condemnation, in a garb suitable to their distress, together with their children and relations. accusers, too, make it a custom to show a bloody sword, fractured bones picked out of wounds, and garments drenched in blood. sometime, likewise, they unbind wounds to show their condition, and strip bodies naked to show the stripes they have received. these acts are commonly of mighty efficacy, as fully revealing the reality of the occurrence. thus it was that cæsar's robe, bloody all over, exposed in the forum, drove the people of rome into an excess of madness. it was well known that he was assassinated; his body also lay in state, until his funeral should take place; yet that garment, still dripping with blood, formed so graphic a picture of the horrible murder that it seemed to them to have been perpetrated that very instant.
it will not be amiss to hint that the success of the peroration depends much on the manner of the parties in conforming themselves to the emotions and action of their advocates. stupidity, rusticity, and a want of sensibility and attention, as it is said, throw cold water on a cause against which the orator can not be too well provided. i have, indeed, often seen them act quite contrary to their advocate's instructions. not the least show of concern could be observed in their countenance. they laughed foolishly and without reason, and made others laugh by some ridiculous gesticulation or grimace, especially when the heat of a debate exhibited anything akin to theatrical action.
an orator of slender ability will acquit himself better if he allows the judges by themselves to feel the compassion with which his subject may naturally inspire them, especially since the appearance, and voice, and studied air of the advocate's countenance are often ridiculed by such as are not affected by them. let the orator make an exact estimate of his powers, therefore, and be conscious of the burden he undertakes. here there is no middle state; he must either make his hearers weep, or expect to be laughed at.
it should not be imagined, as some have thought, that all exciting of the passions, all sentimental emotions, ought to be confined to the exordium and peroration. in them they are most frequent, yet other parts admit them likewise, but in a shorter compass, as their greatest stress should be reserved for the end. for here, if anywhere, the orator may be allowed to open all the streams of eloquence. if we have executed all other parts to advantage, here we take possession of the minds of the judges, and having escaped all rocks, may expand all our sails for a favorable gale; and as amplification makes a great part of the peroration, we then may raise and embellish our style with the choicest expressions and brightest thoughts. and, indeed, the conclusion of a speech should bear some resemblance to that of tragedy and comedy, wherein the actor courts the spectator's applause. in other parts the passions may be touched upon, as they naturally rise out of the subject, and no horrible or sorrowful thing should be set forth without accompanying it with a suitable sentiment. when the debate may be on the quality of a thing, it is properly subjoined to the proofs of each thing brought out. when we plead a cause complicated with a variety of circumstances, then it will be necessary to use many perorations, as it were; as cicero does against verres, lending his tears occasionally to philodamus, to the masters of ships, to the crucified roman citizens, and to many others.
passion and persuasion
it may well be imagined that nothing else is so important in the whole art of oratory as the proper use of the passions. a slender genius, aided by learning or experience, may be sufficient to manage certain parts to some advantage, yet i think they are fit only for instructing the judges, and as masters and models for those who take no concern beyond passing for good speakers. but to possess the secret of forcibly carrying away the judges, of moving them, as we please, to a certain disposition of mind, of inflaming them with anger, of softening them to pity, so as to draw tears from them, all this is rare, tho by it the orator is made most distinguished and by it eloquence gains empire over hearts. the cause itself is naturally productive of arguments, and the better share generally falls to the lot of the more rightful side of the question, so that whichever side wins by dint of argument, may think that so far they did not lack an advocate. but when violence is to be used to influence the minds of the judges, when they are to be turned from coolly reflecting on the truth that works against us, then comes the true exercise of the orator's powers; and this is what the contending parties can not inform us of, nor is it contained in the state of their cases. proofs, it is true, make the judges presume that our cause is the better, but passion makes them wish it to be such, and as they wish it, they are not far from believing it to be so. for as soon as they begin to absorb from us our passions of anger, favor, hatred, or pity, they make the affair their own. as lovers can not be competent judges of beauty, because love blinds them, so here a judge attentive to the tumultuous working of a passion, loses sight of the way by which he should proceed to inquire after the truth. the impetuous torrent sweeps him away, and he is borne down in the current. the effect of arguments and witnesses is not known until judgment has been passed, but the judge who has been affected by the orator, still sitting and hearing, declares his real sentiments. has not he who is seen to melt into tears, already pronounced sentence? such, then, is the power of moving the passions, to which the orator ought to direct all his efforts, this being his principal work and labor, since without it all other resources are naked, hungry, weak, and unpleasing. the passions are the very life and soul of persuasion.
qualities needed in the orator
what we require in the orator is, in general, a character of goodness, not only mild and pleasing, but humane, insinuating, amiable, and charming to the hearer; and its greatest perfection will be if all, as influenced by it, shall seem to flow from the nature of things and persons, that so the morals of the orator may shine forth from his discourse and be known in their genuine colors. this character of goodness should invariably be maintained by those whom a mutual tie ought to bind in strict union, whenever it may happen that they suffer anything from each other, or pardon, or make satisfaction, or admonish, or reprimand, but far from betraying any real anger or hatred.
a sentiment very powerful for exciting hatred may arise when an act of submission to our opponents is understood as a silent reproach of their insolence. our willingness to yield must indeed show them to be insupportable and troublesome, and it commonly happens that they who have desire for railing, and are too free and hot in their invectives, do not imagine that the jealousy they create is of far greater prejudice to them than the malice of their speech.
all this presupposes that the orator himself ought to be a good and humane man. the virtues which he commends, if he possibly can, in his client, he should possess, or be supposed to possess, himself. in this way will he be of singular advantage to the cause he undertakes, the good opinion he has created of himself being a prejudice in its favor. for if while he speaks he appears to be a bad man, he must in consequence plead ill, because what he says will be thought repugnant to justice. the style and manner suitable on these occasions ought, therefore, to be sweet and insinuating, never hot and imperious, never hazarded in too elevated a strain. it will be sufficient to speak in a proper, pleasing, and probable way.
the orator's business in regard to the passions should be not only to paint atrocious and lamentable things as they are, but even to make those seem grievous which are considered tolerable, as when we say that an injurious word is less pardonable than a blow, and that death is preferable to dishonor. for the powers of eloquence do not consist so much in forcing the judge into sentiments which the nature of the matter itself may be sufficient to inspire him with, as they do in producing and creating, as it were, the same sentiments when the subject may seem not to admit them. this is the vehemence of oratorical ability which knows how to equal and even to surpass the enormity and indignity of the facts it exposes, a quality of singular consequence to the orator, and one in which demosthenes excelled all others.
the secret of moving the passions
the great secret for moving the passions is to be moved ourselves, for the imitation of grief, anger, indignation, will often be ridiculous if conforming to only our words and countenance, while our heart at the same time is estranged from them. what other reason makes the afflicted exclaim in so eloquent a manner during the first transports of their grief? and how, otherwise, do the most ignorant speak eloquently in anger, unless it be from this force and these mental feelings?
in such passions, therefore, which we would represent as true copies of real ones, let us be ourselves like those who unfeignedly suffer, and let our speech proceed from such a disposition of mind as that in which we would have the judge be. will he grieve who hears me speak with an expressionless face and air of indifference? will he be angry when i, who am to excite him to anger, remain cool and sedate? will he shed tears when i plead unconcerned? all this is attempting impossibilities. nothing warms nor moistens but that which is endued with the quality of heat or moisture, nor does anything give to another a color it has not itself. the principal consideration, then, must be that we, ourselves, retain the impression of which we would have the judges susceptible, and be ourselves affected before we endeavor to affect others.
the power of mental imagery
but how shall we be affected, the emotions or passions being not at our command? this may be done by what we may call visions, whereby the images of things absent are so represented to the mind that we seem to see them with our eyes and have them present before us. whoever can work up his imagination to an intuitive view of this kind, will be very successful in moving the passions.
if i deplore the fate of a man who has been assassinated, may i not paint in my mind a lively picture of all that probably happened on the occasion? shall not the assassin appear to rush forth suddenly from his lurking place? shall not the other appear seized with horror? shall he not cry out, beg for his life, or fly to save it? shall i not see the assassin dealing the deadly blow, and the defenseless wretch falling dead at his feet? shall i not picture vividly in my mind the blood gushing from his wounds, his ghastly face, his groans, and the last gasp he fetches?
when there is occasion for moving to compassion, we should believe and, indeed, be persuaded that the distress and misfortunes of which we speak have happened to ourselves. let us place ourselves in the very position of those for whom we feel sorrow on account of their having suffered such grievous and unmerited treatment. let us plead their cause, not as if it were another's, but taking to ourselves, for a short time, their whole grief. in this way we shall speak as if the case were our own. i have seen comedians who, when they have just appeared in a mournful character, often make their exit with tears in their eyes. if, then, the expression given to imaginary passions can affect so powerfully, what should not orators do, whose inner feelings ought to sympathize with their manner of speaking, which can not happen unless they are truly affected by the danger to which their clients are exposed.
rules for practise
in the declamatory exercises of schools it would be expedient, likewise, to move the passions and imagine the scene as a real one in life, and it is the more important as there the part is performed rather of a pleader against some person, than an advocate for some person. we represent a person who has lost his children, or has been shipwrecked, or is in danger of losing his life, but of what significance is it to personate such characters, unless we also assume their real sentiments. this nature, and these properties of the passions, i thought it incumbent on me not to conceal from the reader, for i, myself, such as i am, or have been (for i flatter myself that i have acquired some reputation at the bar), have often been so affected that not only tears, but even paleness, and grief, not unlike that which is real, have betrayed my emotions.
the study of words
what now follows requires special labor and care, the purpose being to treat of elocution, which in the opinion of all orators is the most difficult part of our work, for m. antonius says that he has seen many good speakers, but none eloquent. he thinks it good enough for a speaker to say whatever is necessary on a subject, but only the most eloquent may discuss it with grace and elegance. if down to the time he lived in, this perfection was not discoverable in any orator, and neither in himself nor in l. crassus, it is certain that it was lacking in them and their predecessors only on account of its extreme difficulty. cicero says that invention and disposition show the man of sense, but eloquence the orator. he therefore took particular pains about the rules for this part, and that he had reason for so doing the very name of eloquence sufficiently declares. for to be eloquent is nothing else than to be able to set forth all the lively images you have conceived in your mind, and to convey them to the hearers in the same rich coloring, without which all the principles we have laid down are useless, and are like a sword concealed and kept sheathed in its scabbard.
this, then, is what we are principally to learn; this is what we can not attain without the help of art; this ought to be the object of our study, our exercise, our imitation; this may be full employment for our whole life; by this, one orator excels another; and from this proceeds diversity of style.
the proper value of words
it should not be inferred from what is said here that all our care must be about words. on the contrary, to such as would abuse this concession of mine, i declare positively my disapprobation of those persons who, neglecting things, the nerves of causes, consume themselves in a frivolous study about words. this they do for the sake of elegance, which indeed is a fine quality when natural but not when affected. sound bodies, with a healthy condition of blood, and strong by exercise, receive their beauty from the very things from which they receive their strength. they are fresh-colored, active, and supple, neither too much nor too little in flesh. paint and polish them with feminine cosmetics, and admiration ceases; the very pains taken to make them appear more beautiful add to the dislike we conceive for them. yet a magnificent, and suitable, dress adds authority to man; but an effeminate dress, the garb of luxury and softness, lays open the corruption of the heart without adding to the ornament of the body. in like manner, translucent and flashy elocution weakens the things it clothes. i would, therefore, recommend care about words, but solicitude about things.
the choicest expressions are for the most part inherent in things, and are seen in their own light, but we search after them as if always hiding and stealing themselves away from us. thus we never think that what ought to be said is at hand; we fetch it from afar, and force our invention. eloquence requires a more manly temper, and if its whole body be sound and vigorous, it is quite regardless of the nicety of paring the nails and adjusting the hair.
the danger of verbiage
it often happens, too, that an oration becomes worse by attending to these niceties, because simplicity, the language of truth, is its greatest ornament, and affectation the reverse. the expressions that show care, and would also appear as newly formed, fine, and eloquent, lose the graces at which they aim, and are far from being striking and well received, because they obscure the sense by spreading a sort of shadow about it, or by being too crowded they choke it up, like thick-sown grain that must run up too spindling. that which may be spoken in a plain, direct manner we express by paraphrase; and we use repetitions where to say a thing once is enough; and what is well signified by one word, we load with many, and most things we choose to signify rather by circumlocution than by proper and pertinent terms.
a proper word, indeed, now has no charms, nothing appearing to us fine which might have been said by another word. we borrow metaphors from the whims and conceits of the most extravagant poets, and we fancy ourselves exceedingly witty, when others must have a good deal of wit to understand us. cicero is explicit in his views in this respect. "the greatest fault a speech can have," says he, "is when it departs from the common way of discourse and the custom of common sense." but cicero would pass for a harsh and barbarous author, compared to us, who make little of whatever nature dictates, who seek not ornaments, but delicacies and refinements, as if there were any beauty in words without an agreement with things, for if we were to labor throughout our whole life in consulting their propriety, clearness, ornament, and due placing, we should lose the whole fruit of our studies.
acquiring a practical vocabulary
yet many are seen to hesitate at single words, even while they invent, and reflect on and measure what they invent. if this were done designedly to use always the best, this unhappy temper would still be detestable, as it must check the course of speaking and extinguish the heat of thought by delay and diffidence. for the orator is wretched, and, i may say, poor, who can not patiently lose a word. but he will lose none who first has studied a good manner of speaking, and by reading well the best authors has furnished himself with a copious supply of words and made himself expert in the art of placing them. much practise will so improve him afterward that he always will have them at hand and ready for use, the thought fitting in naturally with the proper manner of expression.
but all this requires previous study, an acquired faculty, and a rich fund of words. for solicitude in regard to inventing, judging, and comparing, should take place when we learn, and not when we speak. otherwise they who have not sufficiently cultivated their talents for speaking will experience the fate of those who have made no provision for the future. but if a proper stock of words is already prepared, they will attend as in duty bound, not so much in the way of answering exigencies as always to seem inherent in the thought and to follow as a shadow does a body.
how to choose the right words
yet this care should not exceed its due bounds, for when words are authorized by use, are significant, elegant, and aptly placed, what more need we trouble ourselves about? but some eternally will find fault, and almost scan every syllable, who, even when they have found what is best, seek after something that is more ancient, remote, and unexpected, not understanding that the thought must suffer in a discourse, and can have nothing of value, where only the words are commendable. let us, therefore, pay particular regard to elocution, yet, at the same time be convinced that nothing is to be done for the sake of words, they having been invented solely for the sake of things. the most proper words always will be those which are best expressive of the ideas in our mind, and which produce in the ideas of the judges the effect we desire. such undoubtedly will make a speech both admirable and pleasing, but not so admirable as are prodigies, nor pleasing by a vicious and unseemly pleasure, but a pleasure reflecting dignity with praise.
elegance and grace
the orator will recommend himself particularly by the embellishments he adopts, securing in other ways the approbation of the learned, and in this also the favor of popular applause.
not so much with strong as with shining armor did cicero engage in the cause of cornelius. his success was not due merely to instructing the judges, and speaking in a pure and clear style. these qualities would not have brought him the honor of the admiration and applause of the roman people. it was the sublimity, magnificence, splendor, and dignity of his eloquence that forced from them signal demonstrations of their amazement. nor would such unusual eulogies have been given him if his speech had contained nothing extraordinary, nothing but what was common. and, indeed, i believe that those present were not completely aware of what they were doing, and that what they did was neither spontaneous, nor from an act of judgment, but that filled with a sort of enthusiasm, and not considering the place they were in, they burst forth with unrestrained excitement.
the value of beauty of expression
these ornaments of speech, therefore, may be thought to contribute not a little to the success of a cause, for they who hear willingly are more attentive and more disposed to believe. most commonly it is pleasure that wins them over, and sometimes they are seized and carried away with admiration. a glittering sword strikes the eyes with some terror, and thunder would not so shock us if its crash only, and not its lightning, was dreaded. therefore cicero, with good reason, says in one of his epistles to brutus: "the eloquence which does not excite admiration, i regard as nothing." aristotle, too, would have us endeavor to attain this perfection.
but this embellishment, i must again and again repeat, ought to be manly, noble, and modest; neither inclining to effeminate delicacy, nor assuming a color indebted to paint, but glistening with health and spirits.
let none of those who build up their reputation on a corrupt manner of eloquence, say that i am an enemy to such as speak with elegance. i do not deny that it is a perfection, but i do not ascribe it to them. shall i think a piece of ground better laid out and improved, in which one shall show me lilies and violets and pleasing cascades, than one where there is a full harvest or vines laden with grapes? shall i esteem a barren planetree and shorn myrtles beyond the fruitful olive and the elm courting the embraces of the vine? the rich may pride themselves on these pleasures of the eye, but how little would be their value if they had nothing else?
but shall no beauty, no symmetry, be observed in the care of fruit trees? undoubtedly there should, and i would place them in a certain order, and keep a due distance in planting them. what is more beautiful than the quincunx, which, whatever way you look, retains the same direct position? planting them out so will also be of service to the growth of the trees, by equally attracting the juices of the earth. i should lop off the aspiring tops of my olive; it will spread more beautifully into a round form, and will produce fruit on more branches. a horse with slender flanks is considered handsomer than one not framed in that manner, and the same quality also shows that he excels in swiftness. an athlete whose arms from exercise show a full spring and play of the muscles, is a beautiful sight, and he, likewise, is best fitted as a combatant. thus the true species is never without its utility, as even a meager judgment easily may discern.
developing variety of style
but it will be of more importance to observe that this decent attire ought to be varied according to the nature of the subject. to begin with our first division, the same style will not suit equally demonstrative, deliberative, and judicial causes. the first, calculated for ostentation, aims at nothing but the pleasure of the auditory. it, therefore, displays all the riches of art, and exposes to full view all the pomp of eloquence; not acting by stratagem, nor striving for victory, but making praise and glory its sole and ultimate end. whatever may be pleasing in the thought, beautiful in the expression, agreeable in the turn, magnificent in the metaphor, elaborate in the composition, the orator will lay open for inspection and, if it were possible, for handling, as a merchant exposes his wares; for here the success wholly regards him and not the cause.
but when the serious part of a trial is on hand, and the contest is truly in earnest, care of reputation ought to be the orator's last concern. for this reason, when everything in a way is at stake, no one ought to be solicitous about words. i do not say that no ornaments ought to have place in them, but that they should be more modest and severe, less apparent, and above all suited to the subject. for in deliberations the senate require something more elevated; the assemblies of the people, something more spirited; and at the bar, public and capital causes, something more accurate. but a private deliberation, and causes of trivial consequence, as the stating of accounts and the like, need little beyond the plain and easy manner of common discourse. would it not be quite shameful to demand in elaborate periods the payment of money lent, or appeal to the emotions in speaking of the repairs of a gutter or sink?
the choice of words
as the ornament, as well as perspicuity, of speech consists either in single words or in many together, we shall consider what they require separately and what in conjunction. tho there is good reason for saying that perspicuity is best suited by proper words, and ornament by metaphorical, yet we should always know that an impropriety is never ornamental. but as many words very often signify the same thing, and therefore are called synonymous, some of these must be more sublime, more bright, more agreeable, and sweeter and fuller in pronunciation than others. as the more clear-sounding letters communicate the same quality to the syllables they compose, so the words composed of these syllables become more sonorous, and the greater the force or sound of the syllables is, the more they fill or charm the ear. what the junction of syllables makes, the copulation of words makes also, a word sounding well with one, which sound badly with another.
there is a great diversity in the use of words. harsh words best express things of an atrocious nature. in general, the best of simple words are believed to be such as sound loudest in exclamation, or sweetest in a pleasing strain. modest words will ever be preferred to those that must offend a chaste ear, and no polite discourse ever makes allowance for a filthy or sordid expression. magnificent, noble, and sublime words are to be estimated by their congruity with the subject; for what is magnificent in one place, swells into bombast in another; and what is low in a grand matter, may be proper in a humble situation. as in a splendid style a low word must be very much out of place and, as it were, a blemish to it, so a sublime and pompous expression is unsuited to a subject that is plain and familiar, and therefore must be reputed corrupt, because it raises that which ought to find favor through its native simplicity.
the manner of delivery
i shall pass now to the construction of words, observing that their ornamental use may be considered from two points of view; first, as it regards the elocution we conceive in our minds; second, the manner of expressing it. it is of particular consequence that we should be clear as to what ought to be amplified or diminished; whether we are to speak with heat or moderation; in a florid or austere style; in a copious or concise manner; in words of bitter invective, or in those showing placid and gentle disposition; with magnificence or plainness; gravity or politeness. besides which it is equally important to know what metaphors, what figures, what thoughts, what manner, what disposition, are best suited for effecting our purpose.
faults of expression to avoid
in speaking of the ornaments of a discourse, it may not be amiss to touch first upon qualities contrary to them, because the principal perfection consists in being free from faults. we, therefore, must not expect ornament that is not probable, in a discourse. cicero calls that kind of ornament probable which is not more nor less than it ought to be. not that it should not appear neat and polished, for this is a part of ornament, but because too much in anything is always a fault. he would have authority and weight in words, and thoughts that are sensible, or conformable to the opinions and manners of men. these inviolably retained and adhered to, he makes ample allowance for whatever else may contribute to illustrate a discourse. and thus it is that metaphors, superlatives, epithets, compound, and synonymous words, if they seem to express the action and fully represent things, seldom fail to please.
we should avoid the fault which makes a sentence appear not full enough, on account of something defective, tho this is rather a vice of obscurity than want of ornament in speech. but when it is done for some particular reason, then it becomes a figure of speech. we should likewise be aware of tautology, which is a repetition of the same word or thought, or the use of many similar words or thoughts. tho this does not seem to have been much guarded against by some authors of great note, it is, notwithstanding, a fault, and cicero himself often falls into it.
similarity of expression is a still greater vice, because the mind is wearied by lack of the graces of variety, and the discourse being all of one color, shows a great deficiency in the art of oratory. it, besides, creates loathing, and at length becomes insupportable, both to the mind and ear, through the tedious repetition of the same cold thoughts, figures, and periods.
there is another fault, that of being over-nice, which is caused by extreme anxiety to be exact, but which is as far distant from exactness as superstition is from true religion. in short, every word that contributes neither to perspicuity nor ornament, may be called vicious.
a perverse affectation is faulty in all respects. all bombast, and flimsiness, and studied sweetness, and redundancies, and far-fetched thoughts, and witticisms, fall under the same denomination. thus whatever stretches beyond the bounds of perfection, may be called affectation, and this happens as often as the genius is lacking in judgment, and suffers itself to be deceived by an appearance of good. it is the worst of vices in matters of eloquence, for even when others are avoided, this is sought after, and its whole trespass is against elocution. there are vices incident to things, which come from being devoid of sense, or from being common, or contrary, or unnecessary, and a corrupt style consists principally in impropriety of words, in their redundancy, in their obscure import, in a weak composition, and in a puerile hunting after synonymous or equivocal words. but every perverse affectation is false in consequence of its idea, tho not everything that is false is an affectation, the latter saying a thing otherwise than as nature will have it, and than it ought to be, and than is sufficient.
use of vivid description
there can not be a greater perfection than to express the things we speak of in such lively colors as to make them seem really to take place in our presence. our words are lacking in full effect, they assume not that absolute empire they ought to have, when they strike only the ear, and when the judge who is to take cognizance of the matter is not sensible of its being emphatically exprest.
one manner of representation consists in making out of an assemblage of circumstances the image we endeavor to exhibit. an example of this we have in cicero's description of a riotous banquet; he being the only one who can furnish us with examples of all kinds of ornaments: "i seemed to myself to see some coming in, others going out; some tottering with drunkenness, others yawning from yesterday's carousing. in the midst of these was gallius, bedaubed with essences, and crowned with flowers. the floor of their apartment was all in a muck of dirt, streaming with wine, and strewed all about with chaplets of faded flowers, and fish-bones." who could have seen more had he been present?
in this manner pity grows upon us from hearing of the sacking of a town. undoubtedly he who acquaints us of such an event, comprehends all the incidents of so great a calamity, yet this cursory piece of intelligence makes but a languid impression upon the mind. but if you enter into descriptive pictures of all that was included in one word, as it were, flames will appear spreading through houses and temples; the crash of falling houses will be heard; and one confused noise formed out of all together. some will be seen striving to escape the danger, but know not where to direct their flight; others embracing for the last time their parents and relations; here the dismal shrieks of women and piercing cries of children fill one with pity; there the sighs and groans of old men, lamenting their unhappy fate for having lived so long as to be witnesses of their country's desolation. a further addition to these scenes of woe is the plunder of all things, sacred as well as profane; the avidity of the soldier prowling after and carrying away his prey; the wretched citizens dragged away in chains before their haughty conquerors; mothers struggling to keep with them their children; and slaughter still exercising its cruelties wherever there is the least expectation of booty. tho all these details are comprehended in the idea of the sacking of a town, yet it is saying less to state merely that the town was sacked than to describe its destruction in this circumstantial manner.
such circumstances may be made to appear vivid if they retain a likeness to truth. they may not have happened in reality, yet, as they are possible, the descriptive evidence is not objectionable. the same evidence will arise also from accidents, as in the following examples:
this perfection, the greatest, in my opinion, a discourse can have, is very easily acquired by only considering and following nature. for eloquence is a picture of the happenings of human life, every one applying to himself what he hears, by making the case in some measure his own, and the mind receives very willingly that with which it has become familiar.
to throw light, also, upon things, similes have been invented, some of which by way of proof are inserted among arguments, and others are calculated for expressing the images of things, the point we are here explaining.
how to employ similes and metaphors
we must be exceedingly cautious in regard to similitudes, that we do not use such as are either obscure or unknown. for that which is assumed for the sake of illustrating another thing, ought indeed to be clearer than that which it so illustrates.
in speaking of arguments i mentioned a kind of similitude which, as an ornament to a discourse, contributes to make it sublime, florid, pleasing, and admirable. for the more far-fetched a similitude is, the more new and unexpected it will appear. some may be thought commonplace, yet will avail much for enforcing belief; as, "as a piece of ground becomes better and more fertile by cultivation, so does the mind by good institutions." "as physicians prescribe the amputation of a limb that manifestly tends to mortification, so would it be necessary to cut off all bad citizens, tho even allied to us in blood." here is something more sublime: "rocks and solitudes echo back the melody, and the fiercest beasts are often made more gentle, being astonished by the harmony of music." but this kind of similitude is often abused by the too great liberties our declaimers give themselves; for they use such as are false, and they do not make a just application of them to the subjects to which they would compare them.
in every comparison the similitude either goes before, and the thing follows; or the thing goes before, and the similitude follows. but the similitude sometimes is free and separate: sometimes, which is best, it is connected with the thing of which it is the image, this connection being made to aid and correspond mutually on both sides. cicero says in his oration for murena: "they who have not a genius for playing on the lyre, may become expert at playing on the flute (a proverbial saying among the greeks to specify the man who can not make himself master of the superior sciences): so among us they who can not become orators, turn to the study of the law." in another passage of the same oration, the connected comparison is conceived in a sort of poetical spirit. "as storms are often raised by the influence of some constellation, and often suddenly and from some hidden cause which can not be accounted for, so the stormy agitations we sometimes behold in the assemblies of the people are often occasioned by a malign influence easily discoverable by all; and often their cause is so obscure as to seem merely the effect of chance." there are other similes, which are very short, as this, "strolling and wandering through forests like beasts." and that of cicero against clodius, "from which judgment we have seen him escape naked, like a man from his house on fire." such similes constantly occur in common discourse.
of a similar kind is an ornament which not only represents things, but does so in a lively and concise manner. undoubtedly a conciseness in which nothing is lacking, is deservedly praised; that which says precisely only what is necessary, is less estimable; but that which expresses much in a few words is of all the most beautiful.
eloquence does not think it enough to show of what it speaks, in a clear and evident manner; it uses, besides, a variety of other expedients for embellishing a discourse. thus it is that a simple and unaffected style is not without beauty, but it is a beauty entirely pure and natural, such as is admired in women. beauty is also annexed to propriety and justness of expression, and this beauty is the more elegant as it shows but little care. there is an abundance that is rich, an abundance that smiles amidst the gaiety of flowers, and there is more than one sort of power, for whatever is complete in its kind can not be destitute of its proper strength and efficacy.
composition and style
i well know that there are some who will not sanction any care in composition, contending that our words as they flow by chance, however uncouth they may sound, are not only more natural, but likewise more manly. if what first sprang from nature, indebted in nowise to care and industry, be only what they deem natural, i admit that the art of oratory in this respect has no pretensions to that quality. for it is certain that the first men did not speak according to the exactness of the rules of composition; neither were they acquainted with the art of preparing by an exordium, informing by a narration, proving by arguments, and moving by passions. they were deficient in all these particulars, and not in composition only; and if they were not allowed to make any alterations for the better, of course they would not have exchanged their cottages for houses, nor their coverings of skins for more decent apparel, nor the mountains and forests in which they ranged for the abode of cities in which they enjoy the comforts of social intercourse. and, indeed, what art do we find coeval with the world, and what is there of which the value is not enhanced by improvement? why do we restrain the luxuriance of our vines? why do we dig about them? why do we grub up the bramble-bushes in our fields? yet the earth produces them. why do we tame animals? yet are they born with intractable dispositions. rather let us say that that is very natural which nature permits us to meliorate in her handiwork.
the power of skilful composition
how can a jumble of uncouth words be more manly than a manner of expression which is well joined and properly placed? if some authors weaken the subjects of which they treat, by straining them into certain soft and lascivious measures, we must not on that account judge that this is the fault of composition. as the current of rivers is swifter and more impetuous in a free and open channel than amidst an obstruction of rocks breaking and struggling against the flow of their waters, an oration that is properly connected flows with its whole might, and is far preferable to one that is craggy and desultory by reason of frequent interruptions. why, then, should it be thought that strength and beauty are incompatible, when, on the contrary, nothing has its just value without art, and embellishment always attends on it? do not we observe the javelin which has been cleverly whirled about, dart through the air with the best effect; and in managing a bow and arrow, is not the beauty of the attitude as much more graceful as the aim is more unerring? in feats of arms, and in all the exercises of the palæstra, is not his attitude best calculated for defense or offense, who uses a certain art in all his motions, and keeps to a certain position of the feet? composition, therefore, in my opinion, is to thoughts and words what the dexterous management of a bow or string may be for directing the aim of missive weapons; and i may say that the most learned are convinced that it is greatly conducive not only to pleasure, but also to making a good impression on others. first, because it is scarcely possible that anything should affect the heart, which begins by grating on the ear. secondly, because we are naturally affected by harmony, otherwise the sounds of musical instruments, tho they express no words, would not excite in us so great a variety of pleasing emotions. in sacred canticles, some airs are for elating the heart into raptures, others to restore the mind to its former tranquillity. the sound of a trumpet is not the same when it is the signal for a general engagement, and when on defeat it implores the conqueror's mercy; neither is it the same when an army marches up to give battle, and when it is intent on retreating. it was a common practise with the pythagoric philosophers, on arising in the morning, to awake their minds by an air on the lyre, in order to make them more alert for action; and they had recourse to the same musical entertainment for disposing them to sleep, believing it to be a means for allaying all tumultuous thoughts which might in any way have ruffled them in the course of the day.
if, then, so great a power lies in musical strains and modulations, what must it be with eloquence, the music of which is a speaking harmony? as much, indeed, as it is essential for a thought to be exprest in suitable words, it is equally necessary for the same words to be disposed in proper order by composition, that they may flow and end harmoniously. some things of little consequence in their import, and requiring but a moderate degree of elocution, are commendable only by this perfection; and there are others which appear exprest with so much force, beauty, and sweetness, that if the order in which they stand should be changed or disturbed, all force, beauty, and sweetness would vanish from them.
the essentials of good composition
there are three things necessary in every kind of composition, and these are order, correction, and number.
we shall speak first of order, which applies to words considered separately or joined together. in regard to the former, care must be taken that there be no decrease by adding a weaker word to a stronger, as accusing one of sacrilege, and giving him afterward the name of thief; or adding the character of wanton fellow to that of a highwayman. the sense ought to increase and rise, which cicero observes admirably where he says: "and thou, with that voice, those lungs, and that gladiator-like vigor of thy whole body." here each succeeding thing is stronger than the one before; but if he had begun with the whole body, he could not with propriety have descended to the voice and lungs. there is another natural order in saying men and women, day and night, east and west.
words in prose not being measured, as are the feet which compose verse, they are, therefore, transferred from place to place, that they may be joined where they best fit, as in a building where the irregularity, however great, of rough stones is both suitable and proper. the happiest composition language can have, however, is to keep to a natural order, just connection, and a regularly flowing cadence.
sometimes there is something very striking about a word. placed in the middle of a sentence, it might pass unnoticed, or be obscured by the other words that lie about it, but when placed at the end the auditor can not help noting it and retaining it in his mind.
juncture follows, which is equally requisite in words, articles, members, and periods, all these having their beauty and faults, in consequence of their manner of connection. it may be a general observation that in the placing of syllables, their sound will be harsher as they are pronounced with a like or different gaping of the mouth. this, however, is not to be dreaded as a signal fault, and i know not which is worse here, inattention or too great care. too scrupulous fear must damp the heat and retard the impetuosity of speaking, while at the same time it prevents the mind from attending to thoughts which are of greater moment. as, therefore, it is carelessness to yield to these faults, so it is meanness to be too much afraid of them.
numbers are nowhere so much lacking, nor so remarkable, as at the end of periods; first, because every sense has its bounds, and takes up a natural space, by which it is divided from the beginning of what follows: next, because the hearers following the flow of words, and drawn, as it were, down the current of the oration, are then more competent judges, when that impetuosity ceases and gives time for reflection. there should not, therefore, be anything harsh nor abrupt in that ending, which seems calculated for the respite and recreation of the mind and ear. this, too, is the resting-place of the oration, this the auditor expects, and here burst forth all his effusions of praise.
the composition of periods
the beginning of periods demands as much care as the closing of them, for here, also, the auditor is attentive. but it is easier to observe numbers in the beginning of periods, as they are not depending on, nor connected with, what went before. but the ending of periods, however graceful it may be in composition and numbers, will lose all its charm if we proceed to it by a harsh and precipitate beginning.
as to the composition of the middle parts of a period, care must be taken not only of their connection with each other, but also that they may not seem slow, nor long, nor, what is now a great vice, jump and start from being made up of many short syllables, and producing the same effect on the ear as the sounds from a child's rattle. for as the ordering of the beginning and ending is of much importance, as often as the sense begins or ends; so in the middle, too, there is a sort of stress which slightly insists; as the feet of people running, which, tho they make no stop, yet leave a track. it is not only necessary to begin and end well the several members and articles, but the intermediate space, tho continued without respiration, ought also to retain a sort of composition, by reason of the insensible pauses that serve as so many degrees for pronunciation.
cicero gives many names to the period, calling it a winding about, a circuit, a comprehension, continuation, and circumscription. it is of two kinds; the one simple when a single thought is drawn out into a considerable number of words; the other compound, consisting of members and articles which include several thoughts.
wherever the orator has occasion to conduct himself severely, to press home, to act boldly and resolutely, he should speak by members and articles. this manner has vast power and efficacy in an oration. the composition is to adapt itself to the nature of things, therefore, even rough things being conceived in rough sounds and numbers, that the hearer may be made to enter into all the passions of the speaker. it would be advisable, for the most part, to make the narration in members; or if periods are used, they ought to be more loose and less elaborate than elsewhere. but i except such narrations as are calculated more for ornament than for giving information.
the use of periods
the period is proper for the exordiums of greater causes, where the matter requires solicitude, commendation, pity. also in common places and in every sort of amplification; but if you accuse, it ought to be close and compact; if you praise, it should be full, round, and flowing. it is likewise of good service in perorations, and may be used without restriction wherever the composition requires to be set off in a somewhat grand and noble manner, and when the judge not only has a thorough knowledge of the matter before him, but is also captivated with the beauty of the discourse and, trusting to the orator, allows himself to be led away by the sense of pleasure.
history does not so much stand in need of a periodical flow of words, as it likes to move around in a sort of perpetual circle, for all its members are connected with each other, by its slipping and gliding along from one subject to the next, just as men, strengthening their pace, hold and are held, by grasping each other by the hand. whatever belongs to the demonstrative kind has freer and more flowing numbers. the judicial and deliberative, being varied in their matter, occasionally require a different form of composition.
fitting expression to thought
who doubts that some things are to be exprest in a gentle way, others with more heat, others sublimely, others contentiously, and others gravely? feet composed of long syllables best suit grave, sublime, and ornamental subjects. the grave will take up a longer space in the pronunciation, and the sublime and ornamental will demand a clear and sonorous expression. feet of short syllables are more agreeable in arguments, division, raillery, and whatever partakes of the nature of ordinary conversation.
the composition of the exordium will differ, therefore, as the subject may require. for the mind of the judge is not always the same, so that, according to the time and circumstances, we must declare our mournful plight, appear modest, tart, grave, insinuating; move to mercy and exhort to diligence. as the nature of these is different, so their composition must be conducted in a different way.
let it be in some measure a general observation that the composition ought to be modeled on the manner of pronunciation. in exordiums are we not most commonly modest, except when in a cause of accusation we strive to irritate the minds of the judges? are we not copious and explicit in narration; in arguments animated and lively, even showing animation in our actions; in common places and descriptions, exuberant and lavish of ornaments; and in perorations, for the most part weighed down by distress? of the variety which ought to be in a discourse, we may find another parallel instance in the motions of the body. with all of them, do not the circumstances regulate their respective degrees of slowness and celerity? and for dancing as well as singing, does not music use numbers of which the beating of the time makes us sensible? as our voice and action are indeed expressive of our inner feelings in regard to the nature of the things of which we speak, need we, then, be surprized if a like conformity ought to be found in the feet that enter into the composition of a piece of eloquence? ought not sublime matters be made to walk in majestic solemnity, the mild to keep in a gentle pace, the brisk and lively to bound with rapidity, and the nice and delicate to flow smoothly?
faults in composition
if faults in composition be unavoidable, i should rather give preference to that which is harsh and rough than to that which is nerveless and weak, the results of an affected style that many now study, and which constantly corrupts, more and more, by a wantonness in numbers more becoming a dance than the majesty of eloquence. but i can not say that any composition is good, however perfect otherwise, which constantly presents the same form, and continually falls into the same feet. a constant observing of similar measures and cadences, is a kind of versification, and all prose in which this fault is discoverable, can have no allowance made for it, by reason of its manifest affectation (the very suspicion of which ought to be avoided), and its uniformity, which, of course, must fatigue and disgust the mind. this vice may have some engaging charms at first sight, but the greater its sweets are, the shorter will be their continuance; and the orator once detected of any anxious concern in this respect, will instantly lose all belief that has been placed in him, and vainly will he strive to make on others' minds the impressions he expected to make; for how is it to be expected that a judge will believe a man, or permit himself to feel grief or anger on account of one whom he observes to have attended to nothing more than the display of such trifles? some of the connections of smooth composition ought, therefore, to be designedly broken, and it is no small labor to make them appear not labored.
let us not be such slaves to the placing of words as to study transpositions longer than necessary, lest what we do in order to please, may displease by being affected. neither let a fondness for making the composition flow with smoothness, prevail on us to set aside a word otherwise proper and becoming; as no word, in reality, can prove disagreeable enough to be wholly excluded, unless it be that in the avoiding of such words we consult mere beauty of expression rather than the good of composition.
to conclude, composition ought to be graceful, agreeable, varied. its parts are three: order, connection, number. its art consists in adding, retrenching, changing. its qualities are according to the nature of the things discust. the care in composition ought to be great, but not to take the place of care in thinking and speaking. what deserves to be particularly attended to is the concealing of the care of composition, that the numbers may seem to flow of their own accord, and not with the least constraint or affectation.
copiousness of words
eloquence will never be solid and robust, unless it collects strength and consistence from much writing and composing; and without examples from reading, that labor will go astray for lack of a guide; and tho it be known how everything ought to be said, yet the orator who is not possest of a talent for speaking, always ready to exert himself on occasion, will be like a man watching over a hidden treasure.
our orator, who we suppose is familiar with the way of inventing and disposing things, of making a choice of words, and placing them in proper order, requires nothing further than the knowledge of the means whereby in the easiest and best manner he may execute what he has learned. it can not, then, be doubted that he must acquire a certain stock of wealth in order to have it ready for use when needed, and this stock of wealth consists of a plentiful supply of things and words.
the right word in the right place
things are peculiar to each cause, or common to few; but a provision of words must be made indiscriminately for all subjects. if each word were precisely significant of each thing, our perplexity would be less, as then words would immediately present themselves with things, but some being more proper than others, or more ornamental, or more emphatic, or more harmonious, all ought not only to be known but to be kept ready and in sight, as it were, that when they present themselves for the orator's selection, he easily may make a choice of the best.
i know that some make a practise of classing together all synonymous words and committing them to memory, so that out of so many at least one may more easily come to mind; and when they have used a word, and shortly after need it again, to avoid repetition they take another of the same significance. this is of little or no use, for it is only a crowd that is mustered together, out of which the first at hand is taken indifferently, whereas the copiousness of language of which i speak is to be the result of acquisition of judgment in the use of words, with the view of attaining the true expressive force of eloquence, and not empty volubility of speech. this can be affected only by hearing and reading the best things; and it is only by giving it our attention that we shall know not only the appellations of things, but what is fittest for every place.
the value of hearing speakers
with some eloquent compositions we may derive more profit by reading them, but with some others, more by hearing them pronounced. the speaker keeps awake all our senses, and inspires us by the fire that animates him. we are struck, not by the image and exterior of things, but by the things themselves. all is life and motion, and with solicitude for his success, we favorably receive all he says, its appeal to us lying in the charm of novelty. together with the orator, we find ourselves deeply interested in the issue of the trial and the safety of the parties whose defense he has undertaken. besides these we find that other things affect us: a fine voice, a graceful action corresponding with what is said, and a manner of pronunciation, which perhaps is the most powerful ornament of eloquence; in short, everything conducted and managed in the way that is most fitting.
the advantages of reading
in reading, our judgment goes upon surer ground, because often our good wishes for the speaker, or the applause bestowed on him, surprizes us into approbation. we are ashamed to differ in opinion from others, and by a sort of secret bashfulness are kept from believing ourselves more intelligent than they are; tho indeed we are aware, at the same time, that the taste of the greater number is vicious, and that sycophants, even persons hired to applaud, praise things which can not please us; as, on the other hand, it also happens that a bad taste can have no relish for the best things. reading is attended, besides, with the advantage of being free, and not escaping us by the rapidity which accompanies action; and we may go over the same things often, should we doubt their accuracy, or wish to fix them in our memories. repeating and reviewing will, therefore, be highly necessary; for as meats are chewed before they descend into the stomach, in order to facilitate their digestion, so reading is fittest for being laid up in the memory, that it may be an object of imitation when it is no longer in a crude state but has been softened and elaborated by long meditation.
how to read most profitably
none, however, but the best authors, and such as we are least liable to be deceived in, demand this care, which should be diligent and extended even almost to the point of taking the pains to transcribe them. nor ought judgment to be passed on the whole from examining a part, but after the book has been fully perused, it should have a second reading; especially should this be done with an oration, the perfections of which are often designedly kept concealed. the orator, indeed, often prepares, dissembles, lies in wait, and says things in the first part of the pleading which he avails himself of in the last part. they may, therefore, be less pleasing in their place, while we still remain ignorant of the purpose for their being said. for this reason, after a due consideration of particulars, it would not be amiss to re-read the whole.
what to read
theophrastus says that the reading of poetry is of vast service to the orator. many, and with good reason, are of the same opinion, as from the poets may be derived sprightliness in thought, sublimity in expression, force and variety in sentiment, propriety and decorum in character, together with that diversion for cheering and freshening minds which have been for any time harassed by the drudgery of the bar.
let it be remembered, however, that poets are not in all things to be imitated by the orator, neither in the liberty of words, nor license of figures. the whole of that study is calculated for ostentation. its sole aim is pleasure, and it invariably pursues it, by fictions of not only what is false, but of some things that are incredible. it is sure, also, of meeting with partizans to espouse its cause, because, since it is bound down to a certain necessity of feet it can not always use proper words, and being driven out of the straight road, must turn into byways of speaking, and be compelled to change some words, and to lengthen, shorten, transpose and divide them. as for orators, they must stand their ground completely armed in the order of battle, and having to fight for matters of the highest consequence, must think of nothing but gaining the victory.
still would i not have their armor appear squalid and covered with rust, but retain rather a brightness that dismays, such as of polished steel, striking both the mind and eyes with awe, and not the splendor of gold and silver, a weak safeguard, indeed, and rather dangerous to the bearer.
history, likewise, by its mild and grateful sap may afford kind nutriment to an oratorical composition. yet the orator should so read history as to be convinced that most of its perfections ought to be avoided by him. it nearly borders upon poetry, and may be held as a poem, unrestrained by the laws of verse. its object is to narrate, and not to prove, and its whole business neither intends action nor contention, but to transmit facts to posterity, and enhance the reputation of its author.
in the reading of history there is another benefit, and indeed the greatest, but one not relative to the present subject. this proceeds from the knowledge of things and examples, which the orator ought to be well versed in, so that not all his testimonies may be from the parties, but many of them may be taken from antiquity, with which, through history, he will be well acquainted; these testimonies being the more powerful, as they are exempt from suspicion of prejudice and partiality.
i shall venture to say that there are few which have stood the test of time, that may not be read with some profit by the judicious. cicero himself confesses that he received great help from old authors, who were, indeed, very ingenious but were deficient in art. before i speak of the respective merit of authors, i must make, in a few words, some general reflections on the diversity of taste in regard to matters of eloquence. some think that the ancients deserve to be read, believing that they alone have distinguished themselves by natural eloquence and that strength of language so becoming men. others are captivated with the flowery profusion of the orators of the present age, with their delicate turns, and with all the blandishments they skilfully invent to charm the ears of an ignorant multitude. some choose to follow the plain and direct way of speaking. others take to be sound and truly attic whatever is close, neat, and departs but little from ordinary conversation. some are delighted with a more elevated, more impetuous, and more fiery force of genius. others, and not a few, like a smooth, elegant, and polite manner. i shall speak of this difference in taste more fully when i come to examine the style which may seem most proper for the orator.
qualities of classic writers
we may begin properly with homer.
he it is who gave birth to, and set the example for all parts of eloquence, in the same way, as he himself says, as the course of rivers and springs of fountains owe their origin to the ocean. no one, in great subjects, has excelled him in elevation; nor in small subjects, in propriety. he is florid and close, grave and agreeable, admirable for his concise as well as for his copious manner, and is not only eminent for poetical, but likewise oratorical, abilities.
æschylus is the one who gave birth to tragedy. he is sublime, and grave, and often pompous to a fault. but his plots are mostly ill-contrived and as ill-conducted. for which reason the athenians permitted the poets who came after him to correct his pieces and fit them for the stage, and in this way many of these poets received the honor of being crowned.
sophocles and euripides
sophocles and euripides brought tragedy to greater perfection; but the difference in their manner has occasioned dispute among the learned as to their relative poetic merits. for my part, i shall leave the matter undecided, as having nothing to do with my present purpose. it must be confest, nevertheless, that the study of euripedes will be of much greater value to those who are preparing themselves for the bar; for besides the fact that his style comes nearer the oratorical style, he likewise abounds in fine thoughts, and in philosophic maxims is almost on an equality with philosophers, and in his dialog may be compared with the best speakers at the bar. he is wonderful, again, for his masterly strokes in moving the passions, and more especially in exciting sympathy.
thucydides and herodotus
there have been many famous writers of history, but all agree in giving the preference to two, whose perfections, tho different, have received an almost equal degree of praise. thucydides is close, concise, and ever pressing on. herodotus is sweet, natural, and copious. one is remarkable for his animated expression of the more impetuous passions, the other for gentle persuasion in the milder: the former succeeds in harangues and has more force; the other surpasses in speeches of familiar intercourse, and gives more pleasure.
a numerous band of orators follows, for athens produced ten of them, contemporary with one another. demosthenes was by far the chief of them, and in a manner held to be the only model for eloquence; so great is his force; so closely together are all things interwoven in his discourse, and attended with a certain self-command; so great is his accuracy, he never adopting any idle expression; and so just his precision that nothing lacking, nothing redundant, can be found in him. æschines is more full, more diffusive, and appears the more grand, as he has more breadth. he has more flesh, but not so many sinews.
lysias and isocrates
lysias, older than these, is subtle and elegant, and if it is enough for the orator to instruct, none could be found more perfect than he is. there is nothing idle, nothing far-fetched in him; yet is he more like a clear brook than a great river. isocrates, in a different kind of eloquence, is fine and polished, and better adapted for engaging in a mock than a real battle. he was attentive to all the beauties of discourse, and had his reasons for it, having intended his eloquence for schools and not for contentions at the bar. his invention was easy, he was very fond of graces and embellishments, and so nice was he in his composition that his extreme care is not without reprehension.
among philosophers, by whom cicero confesses he has been furnished with many resourceful aids to eloquence, who doubts that plato is the chief, whether we consider the acuteness of his dissertations, or his divine homerical faculty of elocution? he soars high above prose, and even common poetry, which is poetry only because comprised in a certain number of feet; and he seems to me not so much endowed with the wit of a man, as inspired by a sort of delphic oracle.
what shall i say of xenophon's unaffected agreeableness, so unattainable by any imitation that the graces themselves seem to have composed his language? the testimony of the ancient comedy concerning pericles, is very justly applicable to him, "that the goddess of persuasion had seated herself on his lips."
aristotle and theophrastus
and what shall i say of the elegance of the other disciples of socrates? what of aristotle? i am at a loss to know what most to admire in him, his vast and profound erudition, or the great number of his writings, or his pleasing style and manner, or the inventions and penetration of his wit, or the variety of his works. and as to theophrastus, his elocution has something so noble and so divine that it may be said that from these qualities came his name.
in regard to our roman authors, we can not more happily begin than with vergil, who of all their poets and ours in the epic style, is without any doubt the one who comes nearest to homer. tho obliged to give way to homer's heavenly and immortal genius, yet in vergil are to be found a greater exactness and care, it being incumbent on him to take more pains; so that what we lose on the side of eminence of qualities, we perhaps gain on that of justness and equability.
i proceed to our orators, who likewise may put roman eloquence upon a par with the grecian. cicero i would strenuously oppose against any of them, tho conscious of the quarrel i should bring upon myself by comparing him with demosthenes in a time so critical as this; especially as my subject does not oblige me to it, neither is it of any consequence, when it is my real opinion that demosthenes ought to be particularly read, or, rather, committed to memory.
i must say, notwithstanding, that i judge them to be alike in most of the great qualities they possest; alike in design, disposition, manner of dividing, of preparing minds, of proving, in short in everything belonging to invention. in elocution there is some difference. the one is more compact, the other more copious; the one closes in with his opponent, the other allows him more ground to fight in; the one is always subtle and keen in argument, the other is perhaps less so, but often has more weight; from the one nothing can be retrenched, neither can anything be added to the other; the one has more study, the other more nature.
still ought we to yield, if for no other reason than because demosthenes lived before cicero, and because the roman orator, however great, is indebted for a large part of his merit to the athenian. for it seems to me that cicero, having bent all his thoughts on the greeks, toward forming himself on their model, had at length made constituents of his character the force of demosthenes, the abundance of plato, and the sweetness of isocrates. nor did he only, by his application, extract what was best in these great originals, but by the happy fruitfulness of his immortal genius he himself produced the greater part, or rather all, of these same perfections. and to make use of an expression of pindar, he does not collect the water from rains to remedy a natural dryness, but flows continually, himself, from a source of living waters, and seems to have existed by a peculiar gift of providence, that in him eloquence might make trial of her whole strength and her most powerful exertions.
for who can instruct with more exactness, and move with more vehemence? what orator ever possest so pleasing a manner that the very things he forcibly wrests from you, you fancy you grant him; and when by his violence he carries away the judge, yet does the judge seem to himself to obey his own volition, and not to be swept away by that of another? besides, in all he says there is so much authority and weight that you are ashamed to differ from him in opinion; and it is not the zeal of an advocate you find in him, but rather the faith and sincerity of a witness or judge. and what, at the same time, is more admirable, all these qualities, any one of which could not be attained by another without infinite pains, seem to be his naturally; so that his discourses, the most charming, the most harmonious, which possibly can be heard, retain, notwithstanding, so great an air of happy ease that they seem to have cost him nothing.
with good reason, therefore, is he said by his contemporaries to reign at the bar, and he has so far gained the good graces of posterity that cicero is now less the name of a man than the name of eloquence itself. let us then keep him in view, let him be our model, and let that orator think he has made considerable progress who has once conceived a love and taste for cicero.
if cæsar had made the bar his principal occupation, no other of our orators could better have disputed the prize of eloquence with cicero. so great is his force, so sharp his wit, so active his fire, that it plainly appears he spoke with as much spirit as he fought. a wonderful elegance and purity of language, which he made his particular study, were a further embellishment of all these talents for eloquence.
it remains only to speak of those who have written on subjects of philosophy. hitherto we have had but few of this kind. cicero, as in all other respects, so also in this, was a worthy rival of plato. brutus has written some excellent treatises, the merit of which is far superior to that of his orations. he supports admirably well the weight of his matter, and seems to feel what he says. cornelius celsus, in the manner of the skeptics, has written a good many tracts, which are not without elegance and perspicuity. plancus, among the stoics, may be read with profit, for the sake of becoming acquainted with the things he discusses. catius, an epicurean, has some levity in his way, but in the main is not an unpleasing author.
i have designedly omitted speaking hitherto of seneca,--who was proficient in all kinds of eloquence,--on account of the false opinion people entertained that i not only condemned his writings, but also personally hated him. i drew this aspersion upon myself by my endeavor to bring over eloquence to a more austere taste, which had been corrupted and enervated by very many softnesses and delicacies. then seneca was almost the only author young people read with pleasure. i did not strive to exclude him absolutely, but could not bear that he should be preferred to others much better, whom he took all possible pains to cry down, because he was conscious that he had taken to a different manner from their way of writing, and he could not otherwise expect to please people who had a taste for these others. it was seneca's lot, however, to be more loved than imitated, and his partizans run as wide from him as he himself had fallen from the ancients. yet it were to be wished that they had proved themselves like, or had come near, him. but they were fond of nothing in him but his faults, and every one strove to copy them if he could. then priding themselves on speaking like seneca, of course they could not avoid bringing him into disgrace.
his perfections, however, were many and great. his wit was easy and fruitful, his erudition considerable, his knowledge extensive--in which last point he sometimes was led into mistakes, probably by those whom he had charged to make researches for him. there is hardly a branch of study on which he has not written something; for we have his orations, his poems, epistles, and dialogs. in philosophic matters he was not so accurate, but was admirable for his invectives against vice.
he has many bright thoughts, and many things are well worth reading in him for improvement of the moral character; but his elocution is, for the most part, corrupt, and the more dangerous because its vices are of a sweet and alluring nature. one could wish he had written with his own genius and another's judgment. for if he had rejected some things, if he had less studiously affected some engaging beauties, if he had not been overfond of all his productions, if he had not weakened the importance of his matter by frivolous thoughts, he would have been honored by the approbation of the learned rather than by the love of striplings.
however, such as he is, he may be read when the taste is formed and strengthened by a more austere kind of eloquence, if for no other reason than because he can exercise judgment on both sides. for, as i have said, many things in him are worthy of praise, worthy even of admiration if a proper choice had been made, which i wish he had made himself, as indeed that nature is deserving of an inclination to embrace what is better, which has ability to effect anything to which it inclines.
knowledge and self-confidence
knowledge of the civil law will, likewise, be necessary for the orator whom we have described, and together with it knowledge of the customs and religion of the commonwealth of which he may take charge, for how shall he be able to give counsel in public and private deliberations if ignorant of the many things which happen together particularly to the establishment of the state? and must he not falsely aver himself to be the patron of the causes he undertakes, if obliged to borrow from another what is of greatest consequence in these causes, in some measure like those who repeat the writings of poets? and how will he accomplish what he has so undertaken if the things which he requires the judge to believe, he shall speak on the faith of another, and if he, the reputed helper of his clients, shall himself stand in need of the help of another?
thorough information indispensable
but we will suppose him not reduced to this inconvenience, having studied his cause sufficiently at home, and having thoroughly informed himself of all that he has thought proper to lay before the judges: yet what shall become of him when unforeseen questions arise, which often are suddenly started on the back of pleadings? will he not with great unseemliness look about him? will he not ask the lower class of advocates how he shall behave? can he be accurate in comprehending the things then whispered to him, when he is to speak on them instantly? can he strongly affirm, or speak ingenuously for his clients? grant that he may in his pleadings, but what shall be his fate in altercation, when he must have his answer ready and he has no time for receiving information? and what if a person learned in the law is not assisting? what if one who knows little of the matter tells him something that is wrong? and this is the greatest mischief in ignorance, to believe such a monitor intelligent.
now, as we suppose the orator to be a particularly learned and honest man, when he has made sufficient study of that which naturally is best, it will give him little trouble if a lawyer dissents from him in opinion, since even they are admitted to be of different opinions among themselves. but if he desires to know their sentiments on any point of law, he need only read a little, which is the least laborious part of study. if many men who despaired of acquiring the necessary talents for speaking in public, have engaged in the study of law, with how much more ease will the orator effect this, which may be learned by those who from their own confession could not be orators?
m. cato was as much distinguished by his great eloquence as by his great learning in the law. scævola and servius sulpitius, both eminent lawyers, were also very eloquent. cicero not only in pleading never appeared at a loss in knowledge of the law, but also began to write some tracts on it. from all these examples it appears that an orator may not less attend to the teaching than the learning of it.
the manner of the speaker
i would not have him who is to speak rise unconcerned, show no change of color, and betray no sense of danger,--if they do not happen naturally, they ought at least to be pretended. but this sense should proceed from solicitude for performing well our duty, not from a motive of fear; and we may decently betray emotion, but not faint away. the best remedy, therefore, for bashfulness, is a modest assurance, and however weak the forehead may be, it ought to be lifted up, and well it may by conscious merit.
the need of good delivery
there are natural aids, as specified before, which are improved by care, and these are the voice, lungs, a good presence, and graceful action, which are advantages sometimes so considerable as to beget a reputation for wit. our age produced orators more copious than trachallus, but when he spoke he seemed to surpass them all, so great was the advantage of his stature, the sprightliness of his glance, the majesty of his aspect, the beauty of his action, and a voice, not as cicero desires it should be, but almost like that of tragedians, and surpassing all the tragedians i ever heard. i well remember that when he once pleaded in the julian hall before the first bench of judges, and there also, as usual, the four classes of judges were then sitting, and the whole place rang with noise, he was not only heard distinctly from the four benches, but also was applauded, which was a disparagement to those who spoke after him. but this is the accumulation of what can be wished for, and a happiness hard to be met with, and as it can not fall to every one's lot, let the orator strive at least to make himself heard by those before whom he speaks.
the test of an oration
above all, as happens to a great many, let not desire for temporary praise keep our orator from having an eye to the interest of the cause he has undertaken. for as generals in waging wars do not always march their armies over pleasant plains, but often must climb rugged hills, must lay siege to forts and castles raised on steep rocks and mountains, and fortified both by nature and by art: so an orator will be pleased with an opportunity to make great excursions, and when he engages on champion ground, he will display all his forces so as to make an exceedingly fine appearance; but if under the necessity of unraveling the intricacies of some points of law, or placing truth in a clear light from amidst the obscurity thrown around it, he will not then ostentatiously ride about, nor will he use a shower of pointed sentences, as missive weapons; but he will carry on his operations by frustrating his enemy; by mines, by ambuscade, and by stratagem: all of which are not much to be commended while they are being used, but after they have been practised. whence those men benefit themselves most, who seem least desirous of praise; for when the frivolous parade of eloquence has ceased its bursts of thunder among its own applauders, the more potent applause of true talents will appear in genuine splendor; the judges will not conceal the impressions which have been made on them; the sense of the learned will outweigh the opinion of ignorance: so true it is that it is the winding up of the discourse, and the success attending it, that must prove its true merit.
it was customary with the ancients to hide their eloquence; and m. antonius advises orators so to do, in order that they may be the more believed, and that their stratagems may be less suspected. but the eloquence of those times could well be concealed, not yet having made an accession of so many luminaries as to break out through every intervening obstacle to the transmission of their light. but indeed all art and design should be kept concealed, as most things when once, discovered lose their value. in what i have hitherto spoken of, eloquence loves nothing else so much as privacy. a choice of words, weight of thought, elegance of figures, either do not exist, or they appear. but because they appear, they are not therefore to be displayed with ostentation. or if one of the two is to be chosen, let the cause rather than the advocate be praised; still the issue will justify him, by his having pleaded excellently a very good cause. it is certain that no one else pleads so ill as he who endeavors to please, while his cause displeases; because the things by which he pleases must necessarily be foreign to his subject.
the orator ought not to be so particular and vain as not to undertake the pleading of the smaller kind of causes, as beneath him, or as if a matter of less consequence should in any respect lessen the reputation he has acquired. duty indeed is a just motive for his undertaking them, and he should wish that his friends were never engaged in any other kind of suits, which in the main are set off with sufficient eloquence when he has spoken to the purpose.
do not abuse your opponent
some are very liberal in abuse of the advocate of the opposing party, but unless he has brought it upon himself, i think it is acting very ungenerously by him, in consideration of the common duties of the profession. add to this that these sallies of passion are of no advantage whatever to him who pleads, the opponent having, in his turn, an equal right to abuse; and they may even be harmful to the cause, because the opponent, spurred on to become a real enemy, musters together all the forces of wit to conquer if possible. above all, that modesty is irrecoverably lost which procures for the orator so much authority and belief, if once departing from the character of a good man, he degenerates into a brawler and barker, conforming himself not to the disposition of the judge, but to the caprice and resentment of the client.
taking liberties of this kind frequently leads the orator to hazard some rash expressions not less dangerous to the cause than to himself. pericles was accustomed to wish, with good reason, that no word might ever enter his mind which could give umbrage to the people. but the respect he had for the people ought in my opinion to be had for all, who may have it in their power to do as much hurt; for the words that seemed strong and bold when exprest, are called foolish when they have given offense.
thorough preparation essential
as every orator is remarkable for his manner, the care of one having been imputed to slowness, and the facility of another to rashness, it may not be amiss to point out here a medium. let him come for pleading prepared with all possible care, as it must argue not only neglect, but also a wicked and treacherous disposition in him, to plead worse than he can in the cause he undertakes, therefore he should not undertake more causes than he is well able to handle.
he should say things, studied and written, in as great a degree as the subject can bear, and, as demosthenes says, deeply engraven, if it were possible, on his memory, and as perfect as may be. this may be done at the first pleading of a cause, and when in public judgments a cause is adjourned for some time before it comes to a rehearsing. but when a direct reply is to be made, due preparations are impracticable; and even they who are not so ready find what they have written to be rather a prejudice to them if anything unexpectedly is brought forward; for it is with reluctance that they part with what they have prepared, and keeping it in mind during the whole pleading, they are forced to continually wonder if anything can be taken from it to be included in what they are obliged to speak extempore. and tho this may be done, there will still be a lack of connection, and the incoherence will be discoverable from the different coloring and inequality of style. thus there is neither an uninterrupted fluency in what they say extempore, nor a connection between it and what they recite from memory, for which reason one must be a hindrance to the other, for the written matter will always bring to it the attention of the mind, and scarcely ever follow it. therefore in these actions, as country-laboring men say, we must stand firmly on our legs. for, as every cause consists of proving and refuting, whatever regards the first may be written, and whatever it is certain the opponent will answer, as sometimes it is certain what he will, may be refuted with equal care and study.
knowing the cause well is one essential point for being prepared in other respects, and listening attentively to all the opponent states, is another. still we may previously think of many particular incidents and prepare the mind for all emergencies, this being of special advantage in speaking, the thought being thereby the more easily transmitted and transferred.
but when in answering or otherwise there may be necessity for extempore speaking, the orator will never find himself at a loss and disconcerted, who has been prepared by discipline, and study, and exercise, with the powers of facility, and who, as always under arms and ready for engaging, will no more lack a sufficient flow of speech in the pleading of causes than he does in conversation on daily and domestic occurrences; neither will he ever, for lack of coming duly prepared, decline burdening himself with a cause, if he has time to learn the state of it, for with anything else he always will be well acquainted.
the orator having distinguished himself by these perfections of eloquence at the bar, in counsels, in the assemblies of the people, in the senate, and in all the duties of a good citizen, ought to think, likewise, of making an end worthy of an honest man and the sanctity of his ministry: not that during the course of his life he ought to cease being of service to society, or that, endowed with such integrity of mind and such talent of eloquence, he can continue too long in the exercise of so noble an employment; but because it is fitting that he should guard against degrading his character, by doing anything which may fall short of what he has already done. the orator is indebted for what he is, not only to knowledge, which increases with his years, but to his voice, lungs, and strength of body; and when the latter are impaired by years, or debilitated by infirmities, it is to be feared that something might be lacking in this great man, either from his stopping short through fatigue, and out of breath at every effort, or by not making himself sufficiently heard, or, lastly, by expecting, and not finding, him to be what he formerly was.
when the orator does sound a retreat, no less ample fruits of study will attend on him. he either will write the history of his time for the instruction of posterity, or he will explain the law to those who came to ask his advice, or he will write a treatise on eloquence, or that worthy mouth of his will employ itself in inculcating the finest moral precepts. as was customary with the ancients, well-disposed youth will frequent his house, consulting him as an oracle on the true manner of speaking. as the parent of eloquence will he form them, and as an old experienced pilot will he give them an account of shores, and harbors, and what are the presages of storms, and what may be required for working the ship in contrary or favorable winds. to all this will he be induced not only by a duty of humanity common to mankind, but also by a certain pleasure in it; for no one would be glad to see an art going into decay, in which he himself excelled, and what is more laudable than to teach others that in which one is perfectly skilled?
for all i know, the happiest time in an orator's life is when he has retired from the world to devote himself to rest; and, remote from envy, and remote from strife, he looks back on his reputation, as from a harbor of safety; and while still living has a sense of that veneration which commonly awaits only the dead; thus anticipating the pleasure of the noble impression posterity will conceive of him. i am conscious that to the extent of my poor ability, whatever i knew before, and whatever i could collect for the service of this work, i have candidly and ingenuously made a communication of, for the instruction of those who might be willing to reap any advantage from it: and it is enough for an honest man to have taught what he knows.
to be good men, which is the first and most important thing, consists chiefly in the will, and whoever has a sincere desire to be a man of integrity, will easily learn the arts that teach virtue; and these arts are not involved in so many perplexities, neither are they of such great number, as not to be learned by a few years' application. the ordering of an upright and happy life is attainable by an easy and compendious method, when inclination is not lacking. nature begot us with the best dispositions, and it is so easy to the well-inclined to learn that which is good, that we can not help being surprized, on making a due estimate of things, how there can be so many bad persons in the world. for, as water is naturally a proper element for fish, dry land for quadrupeds, and air for birds, so indeed it ought to be more easy to live according to the prescript of nature than to infringe her laws.
as to the rest, tho we might measure our age, not by the space of more advanced years, but by the time of youth, we should find that we had quite years enough for learning, all things being made shorter by order, method, and the manner of application. to bring the matter home to our oratorical studies, of what significance is the custom which i see kept up by many, of declaiming so many years in schools, and of expending so much labor on imaginary subjects, when in a moderate time the rules of eloquence may be learned, and pursuant to their directions, a real image framed of the contests at the bar? by this i do not mean to hint in the least that exercises for speaking should ever be discontinued, but rather that none should grow old in any one particular exercise for that purpose, for we may require the knowledge of many sciences, and learn the precepts of morality, and exercise ourselves in such causes as are agitated at the bar, even while we continue in the state of scholars. and indeed the art of oratory is such as need not require many years for learning it. each of the arts i have mentioned may be abridged into few books, there being no occasion to consider them so minutely and so much in detail. practise remains, which soon makes us well skilled in them. knowledge of things is increasing daily, and yet books are not so many; it is necessary to read in order to acquire this knowledge, of which either examples as to the things themselves may be met with in history, or the eloquent expression of them may be found in orators. it is also necessary that we should read the opinions of philosophers and lawyers, with some other things deserving of notice.
taking time for study
now, tho one should despair of reaching to the height of perfection, a groundless hope even in a person of genius, health, talent, and with masters to assist him; yet it is noble, as cicero says, to have a place in the second, or third, rank. he who can not rival the glory of achilles in military exploits, shall not therefore have a mean opinion of the praise due to ajax, or diomedes, and he who can not approach homer, need not despise the fame of tyrteus. if men were to yield to the thought of imagining none capable of exceeding such eminent persons as went before them, then they even who are deemed excellent would not have been so. vergil would not have excelled lucretius and macer; nor cicero, crassus and hortensius; and no one for the future would pretend to any advantage over his predecessor.
tho the hope of surpassing these great men be but faint, yet it is an honor to follow them. have pollio and messala, who began to appear at the bar when cicero was already possest of the empire of eloquence, acquired little dignity in their life-time, and left but a small degree of glory for the remembrance of posterity? true it is that arts brought to perfection would deserve very ill of human affairs if afterward they could not at least be kept to the same standard.
the rewards of eloquence
add to this that a moderate share of eloquence is attended with no small advantage, and if measured by the fruits gathered from it, will almost be on a par with that which is perfect. it would be no difficult matter to show from many ancient or modern examples that no other profession acquires for men, greater honors, wealth, friendship, present and future glory, were it not degrading to the honor of letters to divert the mind from the contemplation of the most noble object, the study and possession of which is such a source of contentment, and fix it on the less momentous rewards it may have, not unlike those who say they do not so much seek virtue as the pleasure resulting from it.
let us therefore with all the zealous impulses of our heart endeavor to attain the very majesty of eloquence, than which the immortal gods have not imparted anything better to mankind, and without which all would be mute in nature, and destitute of the splendor of a perfect glory and future remembrance. let us likewise always make continued progress toward perfection, and by so doing we shall either reach the height, or at least shall see many beneath us.
this is all, as far as in me lies, i could contribute to the promoting and perfecting of the art of eloquence; the knowledge of which, if it does not prove of any great advantage to studious youth, will, at least, what i more heartily wish for, give them a more ardent desire for doing well.
how to read and declaim
a course of instruction in reading and declamation having as its prime object the cultivation of taste and refinement
by grenville kleiser
formerly instructor in public speaking at yale divinity school; author of "how to speak in public," etc.
this eminently practical book is divided into five parts:
part one--preparatory course: twenty lessons on naturalness, distinctness, vivacity, confidence, simplicity, deliberateness, and kindred topics.
part two--advance course: twenty lessons on thought values, thought directions, persuasion, power, climax, etc., etc.
part three--articulation and pronunciation.
part four--gesture and facial expression.
part five--the most up-to-date and popular prose and poetic selections anywhere to be found.
it is a book to beget intelligent reading, so as to develop in the student mental alertness, poise, and self-confidence.
funk & wagnalls company, publishers
new york and london
kleiser's complete guide to public speaking
by grenville kleiser
famous author of many practical books and courses
the only extensive, comprehensive, encyclopedic work of its kind ever issued. how to speak, develop vocabulary, write, train memory, gesture, etc. the best advice by the world's great authorities upon every phase of public speaking.
of great worth to the public speaker
"i consider it a compendium of particularly valuable information to all men who are called upon to address public audiences."--josephus daniels, secretary of the navy.
"full of the best sort of instruction."--evening sun, new york.
a storehouse of practical information
"in that one volume is stored an amazing amount of practical information of success-winning sort."--hudson maxim.
royal 8vo, cloth, over 700 pages, $5.00 net. full flexible leather, $7.00 net; carriage 24 cents extra
funk & wagnalls company, publishers
new york and london
author of "phillida," "the choice of theodora,"
"the anger of olivia," etc.
mills & boon, limited
49 rupert street
my best of friends.
i late for dinner ii mark explains iii bridget iv bridget at grandison square v colonel faversham vi concerning birthdays vii the excursion viii a proposal ix mark returns x confidences xi mark reports progress xii sybil xiii a walk abroad xiv the wooing o't xv mark makes a beginning xvi buying a carpet--and after xvii hasty words xviii how it happened xix an appointment xx in sight of port xxi jimmy sets to work xxii incriminating himself xxiii having it out xxiv a hot scent xxv open confession xxvi lawrence sums it up xxvii "mrs. jimmy" xxviii exeunt omnes
late for dinner
concerning bridget there was from the outset considerable difference of opinion. mark driver, for instance, always showed a tendency to something more than tolerance, and even carrissima faversham, in spite of a manifestly unfavourable bias, strove to hold the balance even. it was her brother lawrence who took the most adverse view; insisting that miss rosser was neither more nor less than an adventuress--"a pretty woman on the make" was his expression, uttered, it is true, before he had an opportunity of seeing her face.
her entrance on the scene was heralded by mark driver one evening towards the end of march, when he had accepted an invitation to dine with his sister and lawrence in charteris street, s.w.
carrissima's maid found her so exacting that evening, that she might have been going to an important party, instead of merely to a quiet dinner with her brother and his wife; but then, expecting mark to make a fourth, she wished to look her very best, and flattered herself she had succeeded.
although she sometimes longed for the power to add a few inches to her stature, she realized that she had already much to be thankful for. suppose, for example, that her eyebrows had been as fair as her hair, or even worse, her eyelashes, which as it happened were satisfactorily black.
mr. lawrence faversham, barrister-at-law, was thirty-two years of age, and rather short, although he always held his head in the air as if he were doing his best to appear taller. hearing the street door bell ring, mrs. lawrence faversham waylaid carrissima on the stairs and insisted on taking her to gaze at little victor, aged two, peacefully sleeping in the nursery.
"mark's late as usual," exclaimed lawrence, as his sister presently sailed into the drawing-room. "ten minutes past eight," he added, taking her hand.
he had fair hair, a long narrow face and sloping shoulders. whether he was sitting down or standing up, there always seemed to be something stiff, self-important and formal about him.
"mark wasn't due at king's cross until tea-time," said phoebe, a pretty brunette, several inches taller than her husband and seven years younger. "i wanted him to sleep here to-night, and really i cannot imagine why he refused."
"not very complimentary to us," answered lawrence, "to prefer to go to an hotel!"
"and," phoebe explained, "he is off to paris to-morrow morning."
"well, i wish to goodness he would come soon if he's coming at all," grumbled lawrence.
"oh, of course, he's certain to be here," urged phoebe, not liking to begin dinner without her brother, who might provokingly arrive as soon as they sat down; while on the other hand, her three years' experience of married life had taught her that it was undesirable to keep lawrence waiting. when half-past eight struck, however, she could restrain his impatience no longer; the three went to the dining-room, and carrissima, with a sense of profound disappointment, sat down at the round table opposite the empty chair.
although phoebe did her utmost to spin out the meal by eating with tantalizing and hygienic slowness, it ended without any sign of the absentee, and at last she felt bound to return to the drawing-room, where she was followed ten minutes later by lawrence, who had stayed to smoke a cigarette.
"the worst of it is," he said, standing before the fire, "you never know quite where you are with mark."
"i suppose," suggested carrissima, "the simple fact of the matter is that he missed his train."
"in that case," returned her brother, "surely he might have run to sixpence for a telegram. for a steady-going fellow mark is about as erratic as they're made."
"how extremely inconsistent!" exclaimed carrissima.
"not at all!" said lawrence, frowning, as he took a chair. "a man may drive crookedly without exceeding the limit. although there are things you can swear mark would never dream of doing, you never know what folly he will be up to next."
as lawrence was speaking in his rather pompous manner, the door opened and mark driver entered the room: tall, broad-shouldered, with a handsome, alert, shaven face and an obvious appearance of haste.
on leaving cambridge he had gone to saint bartholomew's, and having completed his course there, taken a post as house surgeon at saint josephine's, a small hospital in a southeastern suburb. mark remained there two years and left at christmas; after spending a few weeks idly in london he went to take charge of doctor bunbury's practice in yorkshire, principally for the sake of being near to his own people, and having passed two months, more occupied by sport than patients, returned this afternoon.
"why didn't you come in time for dinner?" demanded phoebe, as he kissed her cheek.
"upon my word, i am most awfully sorry," he replied, and turned at once to carrissima, who was striving to hide her satisfaction on seeing his face again. never, perhaps, during their long acquaintance, had they been so many months apart; but while mark was in london between christmas and his departure for the north of england, carrissima had been on a long visit to devonshire.
"i didn't expect to meet you this evening," said mark. "phoebe told me in her letter last week that you were staying in shropshire with colonel faversham."
"so i was," returned carrissima. "but i never had the least intention to live there for the remainder of my life."
"she took us all completely by surprise," explained phoebe, "by coming home the day before yesterday."
"i really cannot understand even now," said lawrence, "why in the world you couldn't stay to return with father!"
"oh well, it's an ill-wind that blows no one any good," cried mark, while carrissima sat with her eyes averted, hoping that nobody would suspect her actual object.
but she had known of his intention to depart for paris the next morning, to spend a month with his old friend wentworth before finally settling down in london. if she had waited for colonel faversham's return to grandison square she must, obviously, have missed mark driver again. one of the chief purposes of carrissima's life seemed to be the disguise of motives, concerning which she scarcely knew whether she ought to feel ashamed or not.
"well," suggested lawrence, "we haven't heard why you didn't turn up in time."
"i hope i didn't keep you waiting," said mark, at last shaking hands with his brother-in-law.
"you see," mark explained, "i dined at belloni's."
"good gracious!" answered lawrence, with evident annoyance, "if you could go to belloni's, why in the world couldn't you come here as you promised?"
"i meant to come," said mark, looking somewhat embarrassed, as he glanced at carrissima. "you see, i went to duffield's hotel in craven street direct from the station. i thought i would just potter about and smoke a pipe or so till it was time to change."
"but you haven't changed!" exclaimed lawrence, with a disapproving frown at mark's blue serge jacket. it no doubt suited his long, athletic figure admirably; but, nevertheless, was very much out of place in present circumstances.
"no, of course not," said mark. "the fact is i altered my mind. instead of hanging about at duffield's, i thought i would go to golfney place."
"what on earth for?"
"oh well, to see bridget, you know," answered mark, and once more he glanced at carrissima, whose eyes met his own.
"who is bridget?" asked phoebe, whereupon mark swung round to face her, his hands thrust deep in his jacket pockets, his face slightly flushed.
"miss rosser," he said. "you remember bridget rosser, phoebe! when we stayed at crowborough four years ago."
"five," suggested lawrence, with his usual meticulous exactitude.
"you were not there," said mark.
"but still," answered lawrence, "i remember going down with father to look at the house before he made up his mind to take it."
"i recollect bridget perfectly well," said carrissima in her most cheerful tone. "her father was david rosser the novelist."
"he died in paris about ten months ago," explained mark, "and bridget was his only daughter."
"a rather nice-looking girl, with reddish hair!" said phoebe.
"the most wonderful hair!" exclaimed mark. "i have never seen anything like it. oh, she's wonderful altogether!"
"where did you come across miss rosser again?" inquired lawrence, while carrissima wished that her cheeks would not tingle so uncomfortably.
"at the old masters' about three months ago--just after christmas," replied mark. "i had lately left saint josephine's, you know. i should never have recognized her, but she happened to drop her purse; i naturally picked it up, and then she asked whether my name wasn't driver."
"isn't golfney place chiefly lodging-houses?" asked carrissima.
"number five is one, anyhow."
"does miss rosser live with her mother?" suggested phoebe.
"then," demanded lawrence, "whom does she live with?"
see sign language.
manual alphabet method, 285-287.
manual method, 285-287.
maryland, education in, 141, 172, 173, 176n, 183, 202-205, 219.
marriages of deaf, advisability of, 46, 54-56; laws to prohibit, 56n; partners in, 55; possibilities of deaf offspring, 46-52. see congenital deafness.
massachusetts, education in, 130, 138, 171, 173, 184, 191, 193n, 219, 305. see clarke school; horace mann school; new england industrial school; sarah fuller home.
medical bodies and prevention of deafness, 25, 26. see adventitious deafness.
mendicancy, see alms-seekers.
methodist church, work of, see church work.
methods of instruction, 193, 205, 277-287.
michigan, education in, 183, 191, 192, 202, 221, 301.
middle ages, education in, 120.
minnesota, education in, 183, 184, 191, 193, 222.
mississippi, education in, 182, 223.
missions, see church work for deaf; legislation in aid of deaf.
missouri, education in, 142n, 144, 183, 191, 193, 202, 223.
montana, education in, 176, 182, 183, 184, 224, 300.
montans, peter, 124.
"mute", see "deaf".
national college, see gallaudet college.
national educational association, 114.
national government, granting land for schools, 137, 141, 162, 299, 300; creating gallaudet college, 206-208. see district of columbia.
nebraska, education in, 183, 224.
negroes, education of, 172, 176n, 185n, 268n.
nelson philip, 129.
nevada, education in, 171, 185, 224.
new england school, 306. see massachusetts.
new england states, interest in american school, 136, 137, 138.
new hampshire, education in, 138, 171, 185, 225.
new jersey, education in, 140, 141, 184, 191, 192, 225.
new mexico, education in, 182, 185n, 225.
new york, education in, 131, 139, 140, 148n, 171, 173, 183, 184, 191-193, 204, 226-229, 305. see le couteulx st. mary's institution; new york institution; new york institution for improved instruction; st. joseph's institution.
new york institution, 131, 132n, 139, 140, 161n, 187n, 280n, 306. see new york.
new york institution for improved instruction, 281, 306. see new york.
north carolina, education in, 143, 172, 176n, 183, 184, 229.
north dakota, education in, 183, 230, 297, 300.
occupations of deaf, see economic condition.
offspring, deaf, see marriages of deaf.
ohio, education in, 142, 143n, 157n, 183, 191, 192, 202, 205, 230.
oklahoma education in, 172, 176, 183, 184, 185n, 231.
opinions of deaf, see charity; economic condition; legal exceptions.
oral method, 187n, 193, 205, 279-287, 296n.
oregon, education in, 183, 185n, 191, 232.
papers of deaf, 97, 116; of schools, 116, 292. see publications for deaf.
parents, deaf, and offspring, see marriages of deaf.
parents' associations, 109.
partially deaf, 3n.
pay pupils, see fees.
pennsylvania, education in, 140, 141, 171, 173, 183, 202-204, 233, 234, 305. see pennsylvania institution; western pennsylvania institution.
pennsylvania institution, 140, 141, 181, 187n, 306. see pennsylvania.
politics in schools, 185n, 322.
ponce de leon, pedro, 122.
popular conceptions of deaf, 99-106, 313, 314.
prevention of deafness, see adventitious deafness; congenital deafness.
principals, conference of, 113, 114.
private benefactions, 135, 136, 140, 142, 158, 160, 161, 163, 173-176, 179, 181, 281, 295, 296, 301, 303-308, 321. see denominational and private schools; homes; private organizations; states, provision in.
private organizations for deaf, 107-116. see denominational schools; semi-public schools.
private schools, see denominational and private schools.
property, value of, 293.
protestant episcopal church, work of, see church work.
public appropriations, see appropriations.
public schools, deaf in, see day schools.
publications for deaf, 115, 307n. see papers; volta bureau.
pupils, at beginning, 165; number of, 288; proportion in attendance, 268-270. see clothing; fees; gradations; restrictions.
quasi-public schools, see semi-public schools.
rae, luzerne, 156n.
raphel, georges, 125.
relatives, deaf, see congenital deafness.
relief for needy deaf, 69, 95, 112.
religious work, see church work; denominational schools.
restrictions, 157, 166, 262, 263, 318. see fees; age-limits.
rhode island, education in, 138, 184, 234.
st. francis de sales, 124.
st. joseph's institution, 306. see new york.
sarah fuller home, 306. see denominational and private schools; massachusetts.
schott, gaspard, 125.
seixas, david, 140.
self-supporting, the deaf as, see economic condition.
"semi-deaf", 9n, 286n.
"semi-mute", 9n, 286n.
semi-public schools, 156, 172-176, 180, 181, 295n, 297, 303.
sensational accounts of deaf, 105n.
settlements, social, work of, 107n.
sibscota, george, 123.
sign language, 11, 12, 92, 187n, 277-279. see manual alphabet.
societies for deaf, see private organizations.
social organization of deaf, 91-98.
societies of the deaf, 92-96; desirability, 93; purposes, 94-96.
solidarity of deaf, 78n, 94, 95.
south carolina, education in, 138, 144, 176, 182, 184, 235.
south dakota, education in, 183, 204n, 235, 300.
spain, early education in, 122, 123.
speech, 8-12, 279-284; ability of deaf in, 8, 9, 284; growth of teaching of, 282-284; relation to sense of hearing, 3, 4. see oral method.
stanford, john, 131, 139.
state, action of, see law, attitude of.
states, provision in, 209-241; lands given by, 301; without schools, procedure in, 169, 171, 185, 297. see appropriations; charity; constitutional provisions; government of institutions.
stone, collins, 156n.
strange class, deaf as a, 99.
subsidies, see appropriations; semi-public schools.
support of schools, see cost.
tax, exemptions of deaf from, 65, 69.
taxation for schools, special, 163, 172, 297.
teachers, see instructors.
tennessee, education in, 143, 182, 183, 184, 236.
terms, see admission into schools.
terzi, lana, 124.
texas, education in, 172, 176n, 182, 236.
thornton, william, 133n.
totally deaf, see "deaf".
trades, see industrial training; economic condition.
transportation, see clothing.
trustees of schools, 163, 169, 180-184, 185n. see homes; denominational schools; states, provision in.
turner, william w., 156n.
unhappy class, deaf as, 102.
united states, number of deaf in, 5. see american possessions.
utah, education in, 176, 182, 185n, 236, 300.
vagrants, see impostors.
value of property, see property.
van helmont, jan baptista, 124.
van nostrand, jacob, 156n.
vermont, education in, 138, 173, 176, 237.
virginia, education in, 131-133, 142, 172, 176, 183, 184, 237.
volta bureau, 108, 109, 115.
"volta review", 109, 115.
wages paid to deaf, see economic condition.
wallis, john, 123.
washington, education in, 183, 185n, 191, 192, 238.
weld, louis, 156n.
west virginia, education in, 172n, 176, 183, 185n, 238.
western pennsylvania institution, 187n, 188n, 306. see pennsylvania.
wills of deaf, 65, 72, 73.
wisconsin, education in, 144, 183, 188n, 191, 192, 202, 239.
witness, the deaf as, 72.
writing as means of communication, 11, 12, 285, 286.
wyoming, education in, 171, 185, 240.
young men's christian association, work of, 107n.
page 19. chapter ii. "ceramen" to cerumen. impacted cerumen
page 19n. chapter ii. "ceramen" to cerumen. ... ear trouble, impacted cerumen is usually found ...
page 69. chapter iii. "is" to in. thus in missouri we find a statute of 1843 allowing ...
page 128n. chapter viii. "appendicies" to appendices. ... mississippi school, appendices, 1907, 1909, 1911 ...
page 158. chapter ix. "nucleii" to nuclei. ... schools were thus often the nuclei of the ...
page 202n. chapter xii. "nucleii" to nuclei. ... which were the nuclei of the state ...
page 253. chapter xvi. "superintendant" to superintendent ... by one superintendent it has been stated ...
page 259. chapter xvi. "rosolved" to resolved. resolved, that the deaf youth of our land ...
page 304. chapter xxii. "suffcient" to sufficient. ... are quite sufficient to enable us to ...
page 320. chapter xxiii. "educaton" to education. ... work of the education of the deaf ...
page 329. appendix b. "annez" to annex. public school, queens, (annex to school 47, manhattan)
page 334. index. "giralamo" to girolamo. cardano, girolamo, 121.
page 335, 337 & 340. index. "provisions" to provision. see ... states, provision in ...
page 340. index. "schools" to institutions. see ... government of institutions.
page 340. index. "of pupils" to into schools. terms, see admission into schools.
henry drummond. f.r.s.e.: f.g.s.
new york: hurst & co., publishers, 122 nassau st.
argyle press printing and bookbinding, 24 & 26 wooster st., n. y.
minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. greek text appears as originally printed, except for two significant errors as noted at the end of the text.
no class of works is received with more suspicion, i had almost said derision, than those which deal with science and religion. science is tired of reconciliations between two things which never should have been contrasted; religion is offended by the patronage of an ally which it professes not to need; and the critics have rightly discovered that, in most cases where science is either pitted against religion or fused with it, there is some fatal misconception to begin with as to the scope and province of either. but although no initial protest, probably, will save this work from the unhappy reputation of its class, the thoughtful mind will perceive that the fact of its subject-matter being law--a property peculiar neither to science nor to religion--at once places it on a somewhat different footing.
the real problem i have set myself may be stated in a sentence. is there not reason to believe that many of the laws of the spiritual world, hitherto regarded as occupying an entirely separate province, are simply the laws of the natural world? can we identify the natural laws, or any one of them, in the spiritual sphere? that vague lines everywhere run through the spiritual world is already beginning to be recognized. is it possible to link them with those great lines running through the visible universe which we call the natural laws, or are they fundamentally distinct? in a word, is the supernatural natural or unnatural?
i may, perhaps, be allowed to answer these questions in the form in which they have answered themselves to myself. and i must apologize at the outset for personal references which, but for the clearness they may lend to the statement, i would surely avoid.
it has been my privilege for some years to address regularly two very different audiences on two very different themes. on week days i have lectured to a class of students on the natural sciences, and on sundays to an audience consisting for the most part of working men on subjects of a moral and religious character. i cannot say that this collocation ever appeared as a difficulty to myself, but to certain of my friends it was more than a problem. it was solved to me, however, at first, by what then seemed the necessities of the case--i must keep the two departments entirely by themselves. they lay at opposite poles of thought; and for a time i succeeded in keeping the science and the religion shut off from one another in two separate compartments of my mind. but gradually the wall of partition showed symptoms of giving way. the two fountains of knowledge also slowly began to overflow, and finally their waters met and mingled. the great change was in the compartment which held the religion. it was not that the well there was dried; still less that the fermenting waters were washed away by the flood of science. the actual contents remained the same. but the crystals of former doctrine were dissolved; and as they precipitated themselves once more in definite forms, i observed that the crystalline system was changed. new channels also for outward expression opened, and some of the old closed up; and i found the truth running out to my audience on the sundays by the week-day outlets. in other words, the subject-matter religion had taken on the method of expression of science, and i discovered myself enunciating spiritual law in the exact terms of biology and physics.
now this was not simply a scientific coloring given to religion, the mere freshening of the theological air with natural facts and illustrations. it was an entire re-casting of truth. and when i came seriously to consider what it involved, i saw, or seemed to see, that it meant essentially the introduction of natural law into the spiritual world. it was not, i repeat, that new and detailed analogies of phenomena rose into view--although material for parable lies unnoticed and unused on the field of recent science in inexhaustible profusion. but law has a still grander function to discharge toward religion than parable. there is a deeper unity between the two kingdoms than the analogy of their phenomena--a unity which the poet's vision, more quick than the theologian's, has already dimly seen:--
the function of parable in religion is to exhibit "form by form." law undertakes the profounder task of comparing "line by line." thus natural phenomena serve mainly an illustrative function in religion. natural law, on the other hand, could it be traced in the spiritual world, would have an important scientific value--it would offer religion a new credential. the effect of the introduction of law among the scattered phenomena of nature has simply been to make science, to transform knowledge into eternal truth. the same crystallizing touch is needed in religion. can it be said that the phenomena of the spiritual world are other than scattered? can we shut our eyes to the fact that the religious opinions of mankind are in a state of flux? and when we regard the uncertainty of current beliefs, the war of creeds, the havoc of inevitable as well as of idle doubt, the reluctant abandonment of early faith by those who would cherish it longer if they could, is it not plain that the one thing thinking men are waiting for is the introduction of law among the phenomena of the spiritual world? when that comes we shall offer to such men a truly scientific theology. and the reign of law will transform the whole spiritual world as it has already transformed the natural world.
i confess that even when in the first dim vision, the organizing hand of law moved among the unordered truths of my spiritual world, poor and scantily-furnished as it was, there seemed to come over it the beauty of a transfiguration. the change was as great as from the old chaotic world of pythagoras to the symmetrical and harmonious universe of newton. my spiritual world before was a chaos of facts; my theology, a pythagorean system trying to make the best of phenomena apart from the idea of law. i make no charge against theology in general. i speak of my own. and i say that i saw it to be in many essential respects centuries behind every department of science i knew. it was the one region still unpossessed by law. i saw then why men of science distrust theology; why those who have learned to look upon law as authority grow cold to it--it was the great exception.
i have alluded to the genesis of the idea in my own mind partly for another reason--to show its naturalness. certainly i never premeditated anything to myself so objectionable and so unwarrantable in itself, as either to read theology into science or science into theology. nothing could be more artificial than to attempt this on the speculative side; and it has been a substantial relief to me throughout that the idea rose up thus in the course of practical work and shaped itself day by day unconsciously. it might be charged, nevertheless, that i was all the time, whether consciously or unconsciously, simply reading my theology into my science. and as this would hopelessly vitiate the conclusions arrived at, i must acquit myself at least of the intention. of nothing have i been more fearful throughout than of making nature parallel with my own or with any creed. the only legitimate questions one dare put to nature are those which concern universal human good and the divine interpretation of things. these i conceive may be there actually studied at first-hand, and before their purity is soiled by human touch. we have truth in nature as it came from god. and it has to be read with the same unbiased mind, the same open eye, the same faith, and the same reverence as all other revelation. all that is found there, whatever its place in theology, whatever its orthodoxy or heterodoxy, whatever its narrowness or its breadth, we are bound to accept as doctrine from which on the lines of science there is no escape.
i would, however, carefully point out that though their unsystematic arrangement here may create the impression that these papers are merely isolated readings in religion pointed by casual scientific truths, they are organically connected by a single principle. nothing could be more false both to science and to religion than attempts to adjust the two spheres by making out ingenious points of contact in detail. the solution of this great question of conciliation, if one may still refer to a problem so gratuitous, must be general rather than particular. the basis in a common principle--the continuity of law--can alone save specific applications from ranking as mere coincidences, or exempt them from the reproach of being a hybrid between two things which must be related by the deepest affinities or remain forever separate.
to the objection that even a basis in law is no warrant for so great a trespass as the intrusion into another field of thought of the principles of natural science, i would reply that in this i find i am following a lead which in other departments has not only been allowed but has achieved results as rich as they were unexpected. what is the physical politic of mr. walter bagehot but the extension of natural law to the political world? what is the biological sociology of mr. herbert spencer but the application of natural law to the social world? will it be charged that the splendid achievements of such thinkers are hybrids between things which nature has meant to remain apart? nature usually solves such problems for herself. inappropriate hybridism is checked by the law of sterility. judged by this great law these modern developments of our knowledge stand uncondemned. within their own sphere the results of mr. herbert spencer are far from sterile--the application of biology to political economy is already revolutionizing the science. if the introduction of natural law into the social sphere is no violent contradiction but a genuine and permanent contribution, shall its further extension to the spiritual sphere be counted an extravagance? does not the principle of continuity demand its application in every direction? to carry it as a working principle into so lofty a region may appear impracticable. difficulties lie on the threshold which may seem, at first sight, insurmountable. but obstacles to a true method only test its validity. and he who honestly faces the task may find relief in feeling that whatever else of crudeness and imperfection mar it, the attempt is at least in harmony with the thought and movement of his time.
that these papers were not designed to appear in a collective form, or indeed to court the more public light at all, needs no disclosure. they are published out of regard to the wish of known and unknown friends by whom, when in a fugitive form, they were received with so curious an interest as to make one feel already that there are minds which such forms of truth may touch. in making the present selection, partly from manuscript, and partly from articles already published, i have been guided less by the wish to constitute the papers a connected series than to exhibit the application of the principle in various directions. they will be found, therefore, of unequal interest and value, according to the standpoint from which they are regarded. thus some are designed with a directly practical and popular bearing, others being more expository, and slightly apologetic in tone. the risk of combining two objects so very different is somewhat serious. but, for the reason named, having taken this responsibility, the only compensation i can offer is to indicate which of the papers incline to the one side or to the other. "degeneration," "growth," "mortification," "conformity to type," "semi-parasitism," and "parasitism" belong to the more practical order; and while one or two are intermediate, "biogenesis," "death," and "eternal life" may be offered to those who find the atmosphere of the former uncongenial. it will not disguise itself, however, that, owing to the circumstances in which they were prepared, all the papers are more or less practical in their aim; so that to the merely philosophical reader there is little to be offered except--and that only with the greatest diffidence--the introductory chapter.
in the introduction, which the general reader may do well to ignore, i have briefly stated the case for natural law in the spiritual world. the extension of analogy to laws, or rather the extension of the laws themselves so far as known to me, is new; and i cannot hope to have escaped the mistakes and misadventures of a first exploration in an unsurveyed land. so general has been the survey that i have not even paused to define specially to what departments of the spiritual world exclusively the principle is to be applied. the danger of making a new principle apply too widely inculcates here the utmost caution. one thing is certain, and i state it pointedly, the application of natural law to the spiritual world has decided and necessary limits. and if elsewhere with undue enthusiasm i seem to magnify the principle at stake, the exaggeration--like the extreme amplification of the moon's disc when near the horizon--must be charged to that almost necessary aberration of light which distorts every new idea while it is yet slowly climbing to its zenith.
i can scarcely now say whether in those moments i was more overcome with thankfulness that nature was so like revelation, or more filled with wonder that revelation was so like nature. nature, it is true, is a part of revelation--a much greater part doubtless than is yet believed--and one could have anticipated nothing but harmony here. but that a derived theology, in spite of the venerable verbiage which has gathered round it, should be at bottom and in all cardinal respects so faithful a transcript of "the truth as it is in nature" came as a surprise and to me at least as a rebuke. how, under the rigid necessity of incorporating in its system much that seemed nearly unintelligible, and much that was barely credible, theology has succeeded so perfectly in adhering through good report and ill to what in the main are truly the lines of nature, awakens a new admiration for those who constructed and kept this faith. but however nobly it has held its ground, theology must feel to-day that the modern world calls for a further proof. nor will the best theology resent this demand; it also demands it. theology is searching on every hand for another echo of the voice of which revelation also is the echo, that out of the mouths of two witnesses its truths should be established. that other echo can only come from nature. hitherto its voice has been muffled. but now that science has made the world around articulate, it speaks to religion with a twofold purpose. in the first place it offers to corroborate theology, in the second to purify it.
if the removal of suspicion from theology is of urgent moment, not less important is the removal of its adulterations. these suspicions, many of them at least, are new; in a sense they mark progress. but the adulterations are the artificial accumulations of centuries of uncontrolled speculation. they are the necessary result of the old method and the warrant for its revision--they mark the impossibility of progress without the guiding and restraining hand of law. the felt exhaustion of the former method, the want of corroboration for the old evidence, the protest of reason against the monstrous overgrowths which conceal the real lines of truth, these summon us to the search for a surer and more scientific system. with truths of the theological order, with dogmas which often depend for their existence on a particular exegesis, with propositions which rest for their evidence upon a balance of probabilities, or upon the weight of authority; with doctrines which every age and nation may make or unmake, which each sect may tamper with, and which even the individual may modify for himself, a second court of appeal has become an imperative necessity.
science, therefore, may yet have to be called upon to arbitrate at some points between conflicting creeds. and while there are some departments of theology where its jurisdiction cannot be sought, there are others in which nature may yet have to define the contents as well as the limits of belief.
what i would desire especially is a thoughtful consideration of the method. the applications ventured upon here may be successful or unsuccessful. but they would more than satisfy me if they suggested a method to others whose less clumsy hands might work it out more profitably. for i am convinced of the fertility of such a method at the present time. it is recognized by all that the younger and abler minds of this age find the most serious difficulty in accepting or retaining the ordinary forms or belief. especially is this true of those whose culture is scientific. and the reason is palpable. no man can study modern science without a change coming over his view of truth. what impresses him about nature is its solidity. he is there standing upon actual things, among fixed laws. and the integrity of the scientific method so seizes him that all other forms of truth begins to appear comparatively unstable. he did not know before that any form of truth could so hold him; and the immediate effect is to lessen his interest in all that stands on other bases. this he feels in spite of himself; he struggles against it in vain; and he finds perhaps to his alarm that he is drifting fast into what looks at first like pure positivism. this is an inevitable result of the scientific training. it is quite erroneous to suppose that science ever overthrows faith, if by that is implied that any natural truth can oppose successfully any single spiritual truth. science cannot overthrow faith; but it shakes it. its own doctrines, grounded in nature, are so certain, that the truths of religion, resting to most men on authority, are felt to be strangely insecure. the difficulty, therefore, which men of science feel about religion is real and inevitable, and in so far as doubt is a conscientious tribute to the inviolability of nature it is entitled to respect.
the application of similia similibus curantur was never more in point. if this is a disease, it is the disease of nature, and the cure is more nature. for what is this disquiet in the breasts of men but the loyal fear that nature is being violated? men must oppose with every energy they possess what seems to them to oppose the eternal course of things. and the first step in their deliverance must be not to "reconcile" nature and religion, but to exhibit nature in religion. even to convince them that there is no controversy between religion and science is insufficient. a mere flag of truce, in the nature of the case, is here impossible; at least, it is only possible so long as neither party is sincere. no man who knows the splendor of scientific achievement or cares for it, no man who feels the solidity of its method or works with it, can remain neutral with regard to religion. he must either extend his method into it, or, if that is impossible, oppose it to the knife. on the other hand, no one who knows the content of christianity, or feels the universal need of a religion, can stand idly by while the intellect of his age is slowly divorcing itself from it. what is required, therefore, to draw science and religion together again--for they began the centuries hand in hand--is the disclosure of the naturalness of the supernatural. then, and not till then, will men see how true it is, that to be loyal to all of nature, they must be loyal to the part defined as spiritual. no science contributes to another without receiving a reciprocal benefit. and even as the contribution of science to religion is the vindication of the naturalness of the supernatural, so the gift of religion to science is the demonstration of the supernaturalness of the natural. thus, as the supernatural becomes slowly natural, will also the natural become slowly supernatural, until in the impersonal authority of law men everywhere recognize the authority of god.
to those who already find themselves fully nourished on the older forms of truth, i do not commend these pages. they will find them superfluous. nor is there any reason why they should mingle with light which is already clear the distorting rays of a foreign expression.
but to those who are feeling their way to a christian life, haunted now by a sense of instability in the foundation of their faith, now brought to bay by specific doubt at one point raising, as all doubt does, the question for the whole, i would hold up a light which has often been kind to me. there is a sense of solidity about a law of nature which belongs to nothing else in the world. here, at last, amid all that is shifting, is one thing sure; one thing outside ourselves, unbiased, unprejudiced, uninfluenced by like or dislike, by doubt or fear; one thing that holds on its way to me eternally, incorruptible, and undefiled. this more than anything else, makes one eager to see the reign of law traced in the spiritual sphere. and should this seem to some to offer only a surer, but not a higher faith; should the better ordering of the spiritual world appear to satisfy the intellect at the sacrifice of reverence, simplicity, or love; especially should it seem to substitute a reign of law and a lawgiver for a kingdom of grace and a personal god, i will say, with browning,--
"i spoke as i saw. i report, as a man may of god's work--all's love, yet all's law. now i lay down the judgeship he lent me. each faculty tasked, to perceive him, has gained an abyss where a dewdrop was asked."
analysis of introduction.
natural law in the spiritual sphere.
1. the growth of the idea of law.
2. its gradual extension throughout every department of knowledge.
3. except one. religion hitherto the great exception. why so?
4. previous attempts to trace analogies between the natural and spiritual spheres. these have been limited to analogies between phenomena; and are useful mainly as illustrations. analogies of law would also have a scientific value.
5. wherein that value would consist. (1) the scientific demand of the age would be met; (2) greater clearness would be introduced into religion practically; (3) theology, instead of resting on authority, would rest equally on nature.
the law of continuity.
a priori argument for natural law in the spiritual world.
1. the law discovered.
4. the objection answered that the material of the natural and spiritual worlds being different they must be under different laws.
5. the existence of laws in the spiritual world other than the natural laws (1) improbable, (2) unnecessary, (3) unknown. qualification.
6. the spiritual not the projection upward of the natural; but the natural the projection downward of the spiritual.
"this method turns aside from hypotheses not to be tested by any known logical canon familiar to science, whether the hypothesis claims support from intuition, aspiration or general plausibility. and, again, this method turns aside from ideal standards which avow themselves to be lawless, which profess to transcend the field of law. we say, life and conduct shall stand for us wholly on a basis of law, and must rest entirely in that region of science (not physical, but moral and social science), where we are free to use our intelligence in the methods known to us as intelligible logic, methods which the intellect can analyze. when you confront us with hypotheses, however sublime and however affecting, if they cannot be stated in terms of the rest of our knowledge, if they are disparate to that world of sequence and sensation which to us is the ultimate base of all our real knowledge, then we shake our heads and turn aside."--frederick harrison.
"ethical science is already forever completed, so far as her general outline and main principles are concerned, and has been, as it were, waiting for physical science to come up with her."--paradoxical philosophy.
natural law is a new word. it is the last and the most magnificent discovery of science. no more telling proof is open to the modern world of the greatness of the idea than the greatness of the attempts which have always been made to justify it. in the earlier centuries, before the birth of science, phenomena were studied alone. the world then was a chaos, a collection of single, isolated, and independent facts. deeper thinkers saw, indeed, that relations must subsist between these facts, but the reign of law was never more to the ancients than a far-off vision. their philosophies, conspicuously those of the stoics and pythagoreans, heroically sought to marshal the discrete materials of the universe into thinkable form, but from these artificial and fantastic systems nothing remains to us now but an ancient testimony to the grandeur of that harmony which they failed to reach.
with copernicus, galileo, and kepler the first regular lines of the universe began to be discerned. when nature yielded to newton her great secret, gravitation was felt to be not greater as a fact in itself than as a revelation that law was fact. and thenceforth the search for individual phenomena gave way before the larger study of their relations. the pursuit of law became the passion of science.
what that discovery of law has done for nature, it is impossible to estimate. as a mere spectacle the universe to-day discloses a beauty so transcendent that he who disciplines himself by scientific work finds it an overwhelming reward simply to behold it. in these laws one stands face to face with truth, solid and unchangeable. each single law is an instrument of scientific research, simple in its adjustments, universal in its application, infallible in its results. and despite the limitations of its sphere on every side law is still the largest, richest, and surest source of human knowledge.
the natural laws then are great lines running not only through the world, but, as we now know, through the universe, reducing it like parallels of latitude to intelligent order. in themselves, be it once more repeated, they may have no more absolute existence than parallels of latitude. but they exist for us. they are drawn for us to understand the part by some hand that drew the whole; so drawn, perhaps, that, understanding the part, we too in time may learn to understand the whole. now the inquiry we propose to ourselves resolves itself into the simple question, do these lines stop with what we call the natural sphere? is it not possible that they may lead further? is it probable that the hand which ruled them gave up the work where most of all they were required? did that hand divide the world into two, a cosmos and a chaos, the higher being the chaos? with nature as the symbol of all of harmony and beauty that is known to man, must we still talk of the super-natural, not as a convenient word, but as a different order of world, an unintelligible world, where the reign of mystery supersedes the reign of law?
this question, let it be carefully observed, applies to laws not to phenomena. that the phenomena of the spiritual world are in analogy with the phenomena of the natural world requires no restatement. since plato enunciated his doctrine of the cave or of the twice-divided line; since christ spake in parables; since plotinus wrote of the world as an image; since the mysticism of swedenborg; since bacon and pascal; since "sartor resartus" and "in memoriam," it has been all but a commonplace with thinkers that "the invisible things of god from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made." milton's question--
"what if earth be but the shadow of heaven, and things therein each to other like more than on earth is thought?"
but analogies between phenomena bear the same relation to analogies of law that phenomena themselves bear to law. the light of law on truth, as we have seen, is an immense advance upon the light of phenomena. the discovery of law is simply the discovery of science. and if the analogies of natural law can be extended to the spiritual world, that whole region at once falls within the domain of science and secures a basis as well as an illumination in the constitution and course of nature. all, therefore, that has been claimed for parable can be predicated a fortiori of this--with the addition that a proof on the basis of law would want no criterion possessed by the most advanced science.
but, fortunately, we are spared all discussion on this worn subject, for two cogent reasons. for one thing, we do not demand of nature directly to prove religion. that was never its function. its function is to interpret. and this, after all, is possibly the most fruitful proof. the best proof of a thing is that we see it; if we do not see it, perhaps proof will not convince us of it. it is the want of the discerning faculty, the clairvoyant power of seeing the eternal in the temporal, rather than the failure of the reason, that begets the sceptic. but secondly, and more particularly, a significant circumstance has to be taken into account, which, though it will appear more clearly afterward, may be stated here at once. the position we have been led to take up is not that the spiritual laws are analogous to the natural laws, but that they are the same laws. it is not a question of analogy but of identity. the natural laws are not the shadows or images of the spiritual in the same sense as autumn is emblematical of decay, or the falling leaf of death. the natural laws, as the law of continuity might well warn us, do not stop with the visible and then give place to a new set of laws bearing a strong similitude to them. the laws of the invisible are the same laws, projections of the natural not supernatural. analogous phenomena are not the fruit of parallel laws, but of the same laws--laws which at one end, as it were, may be dealing with matter, at the other end with spirit. as there will be some inconvenience, however, in dispensing with the word analogy, we shall continue occasionally to employ it. those who apprehend the real relation will mentally substitute the larger term.
the reign of law has gradually crept into every department of nature, transforming knowledge everywhere into science. the process goes on, and nature slowly appears to us as one great unity, until the borders of the spiritual world are reached. there the law of continuity ceases, and the harmony breaks down. and men who have learned their elementary lessons truly from the alphabet of the lower laws, going on to seek a higher knowledge, are suddenly confronted with the great exception.
in the recent literature of this whole region there nowhere seems any advance upon the position of "nature and the supernatural." all are agreed in speaking of nature and the supernatural. nature in the supernatural, so far as laws are concerned, is still an unknown truth.
this is the secret of the present decadence of religion in the world of science. for science can hear nothing of a great exception. constructions on unique lines, "portions cut off by an insurmountable barrier from the domain of scientific inquiry," it dare not recognize. nature has taught it this lesson, and nature is right. it is the province of science to vindicate nature here at any hazard. but in blaming theology for its intolerance, it has been betrayed into an intolerance less excusable. it has pronounced upon it too soon. what if religion be yet brought within the sphere of law? law is the revelation of time. one by one slowly through the centuries the sciences have crystallized into geometrical form, each form not only perfect in itself, but perfect in its relation to all other forms. many forms had to be perfected before the form of the spiritual. the inorganic has to be worked out before the organic, the natural before the spiritual. theology at present has merely an ancient and provisional philosophic form. by-and-by it will be seen whether it be not susceptible of another. for theology must pass through the necessary stages of progress, like any other science. the method of science-making is now fully established. in almost all cases the natural history and development are the same. take, for example, the case of geology. a century ago there was none. science went out to look for it, and brought back a geology which, if nature were a harmony, had falsehood written almost on its face. it was the geology of catastrophism, a geology so out of line with nature as revealed by the other sciences, that on a priori grounds a thoughtful mind might have been justified in dismissing it as a final form of any science. and its fallacy was soon and thoroughly exposed. the advent of modified uniformitarian principles all but banished the word catastrophe from science, and marked the birth of geology as we know it now. geology, that is to say, had fallen at last into the great scheme of law. religious doctrines, many of them at least, have been up to this time all but as catastrophic as the old geology. they are not on the lines of nature as we have learned to decipher her. if any one feel, as science complains that it feels, that the lie of things in the spiritual world as arranged by theology is not in harmony with the world around, is not, in short, scientific, he is entitled to raise the question whether this be really the final form of those departments of theology to which his complaint refers. he is justified, moreover, in demanding a new investigation with all modern methods and resources; and science is bound by its principles not less than by the lessons of its own past, to suspend judgment till the last attempt is made. the success of such an attempt will be looked forward to with hopefulness or fearfulness just in proportion to one's confidence in nature--in proportion to one's belief in the divinity of man and in the divinity of things. if there is any truth in the unity of nature, in that supreme principle of continuity which is growing in splendor with every discovery of science, the conclusion is foregone. if there is any foundation for theology, if the phenomena of the spiritual world are real, in the nature of things they ought to come into the sphere of law. such is at once the demand of science upon religion and the prophecy that it can and shall be fulfilled.
the botany of linnæus, a purely artificial system, was a splendid contribution to human knowledge, and did more in its day to enlarge the view of the vegetable kingdom than all that had gone before. but all artificial systems must pass away. none knew better than the great swedish naturalist himself that his system, being artificial, was but provisional. nature must be read in its own light. and as the botanical field became more luminous, the system of jussieu and de candolle slowly emerged as a native growth, unfolded itself as naturally as the petals of one of its own flowers, and forcing itself upon men's intelligence as the very voice of nature, banished the linnæan system forever. it were unjust to say that the present theology is as artificial as the system of linnæus; in many particulars it wants but a fresh expression to make it in the most modern sense scientific. but if it has a basis in the constitution and course of nature, that basis has never been adequately shown. it has depended on authority rather than on law; and a new basis must be sought and found if it is to be presented to those with whom law alone is authority.
what is wanted is simply a unity of conception, but not such a unity of conception as should be founded on an absolute identity of phenomena. this latter might indeed be a unity, but it would be a very tame one. the perfection of unity is attained where there is infinite variety of phenomena, infinite complexity of relation, but great simplicity of law. science will be complete when all known phenomena can be arranged in one vast circle in which a few well known laws shall form the radii--these radii at once separating and uniting, separating into particular groups, yet uniting all to a common center. to show that the radii for some of the most characteristic phenomena of the spiritual world are already drawn within that circle by science is the main object of the papers which follow. there will be found an attempt to restate a few of the more elementary facts of the spiritual life in terms of biology. any argument for natural law in the spiritual world may be best tested in the a posteriori form. and although the succeeding pages are not designed in the first instance to prove a principle, they may yet be entered here as evidence. the practical test is a severe one, but on that account all the more satisfactory.
and what will be gained if the point be made out? not a few things. for one, as partly indicated already, the scientific demand of the age will be satisfied. that demand is that all that concerns life and conduct shall be placed on a scientific basis. the only great attempt to meet that at present is positivism.
we do not say, as already hinted, that the proposal includes an attempt to prove the existence of the spiritual world. does that need proof? and if so, what sort of evidence would be considered in court? the facts of the spiritual world are as real to thousands as the facts of the natural world--and more real to hundreds. but were one asked to prove that the spiritual world can be discerned by the appropriate faculties, one would do it precisely as one would attempt to prove the natural world to be an object of recognition to the senses--and with as much or as little success. in either instance probably the fact would be found incapable of demonstration, but not more in the one case than in the other. were one asked to prove the existence of spiritual life, one would also do it exactly as one would seek to prove natural life. and this perhaps might be attempted with more hope. but this is not on the immediate programme. science deals with known facts; and accepting certain known facts in the spiritual world we proceed to arrange them, to discover their laws, to inquire if they can be stated "in terms of the rest of our knowledge."
at the same time, although attempting no philosophical proof of the existence of a spiritual life and a spiritual world, we are not without hope that the general line of thought here may be useful to some who are honestly inquiring in these directions. the stumbling-block to most minds is perhaps less the mere existence of the unseen than the want of definition, the apparently hopeless vagueness, and not least, the delight in this vagueness as mere vagueness by some who look upon this as the mark of quality in spiritual things. it will be at least something to tell earnest seekers that the spiritual world is not a castle in the air, of an architecture unknown to earth or heaven, but a fair ordered realm furnished with many familiar things and ruled by well-remembered laws.
it is scarcely necessary to emphasize under a second head the gain in clearness. the spiritual world as it stands is full of perplexity. one can escape doubt only by escaping thought. with regard to many important articles of religion perhaps the best and the worst course at present open to a doubter is simple credulity. who is to answer for this state of things? it comes as a necessary tax for improvement on the age in which we live. the old ground of faith, authority, is given up; the new, science, has not yet taken its place. men did not require to see truth before; they only needed to believe it. truth, therefore, had not been put by theology in a seeing form--which, however, was its original form. but now they ask to see it. and when it is shown them they start back in despair. we shall not say what they see. but we shall say what they might see. if the natural laws were run through the spiritual world, they might see the great lines of religious truth as clearly and simply as the broad lines of science. as they gazed into that natural-spiritual world they would say to themselves, "we have seen something like this before. this order is known to us. it is not arbitrary. this law here is that old law there, and this phenomenon here, what can it be but that which stood in precisely the same relation to that law yonder?" and so gradually from the new form everything assumes new meaning. so the spiritual world becomes slowly natural; and, what is of all but equal moment, the natural world becomes slowly spiritual. nature is not a mere image or emblem of the spiritual. it is a working model of the spiritual. in the spiritual world the same wheels revolve--but without the iron. the same figures flit across the stage, the same processes of growth go on, the same functions are discharged, the same biological laws prevail--only with a different quality of βιος. plato's prisoner, if not out of the cave, has at least his face to the light.
"the earth is cram'd with heaven, and every common bush afire with god."
lest this proclamation of mystery should seem alarming, let us add that this mystery also is scientific. the one subject on which all scientific men are agreed, the one theme on which all alike become eloquent, the one strain of pathos in all their writing and speaking and thinking, concerns that final uncertainty, that utter blackness of darkness bounding their work on every side. if the light of nature is to illuminate for us the spiritual sphere, there may well be a black unknown, corresponding, at least at some points, to this zone of darkness round the natural world.
but the final gain would appear in the department of theology. the establishment of the spiritual laws on "the solid ground of nature," to which the mind trusts "which builds for aye," would offer a new basis for certainty in religion. it has been indicated that the authority of authority is waning. this is a plain fact. and it was inevitable. authority--man's authority, that is--is for children. and there necessarily comes a time when they add to the question, what shall i do? or, what shall i believe? the adult's interrogation--why? now this question is sacred, and must be answered.
true indeed; religion has never realized how impregnable are many of its positions. it has not yet been placed on that basis which would make them impregnable. and in a transition period like the present, holding authority with one hand, the other feeling all around in the darkness for some strong new support, theology is surely to be pitied. whence this dread when brought face to face with science? it cannot be dread of scientific fact. no single fact in science has ever discredited a fact in religion. the theologian knows that, and admits that he has no fear of facts. what then has science done to make theology tremble? it is its method. it is its system. it is its reign of law. it is its harmony and continuity. the attack is not specific. no one point is assailed. it is the whole system which when compared with the other and weighed in its balance is found wanting. an eye which has looked at the first cannot look upon this. to do that, and rest in the contemplation, it has first to uncentury itself.
herbert spencer points out further, with how much truth need not now be discussed, that the purification of religion has always come from science. it is very apparent at all events that an immense debt must soon be contracted. the shifting of the furnishings will be a work of time. but it must be accomplished. and not the least result of the process will be the effect upon science itself. no department of knowledge ever contributes to another without receiving its own again with usury--witness the reciprocal favors of biology and sociology. from the time that comte defined the analogy between the phenomena exhibited by aggregations of associated men and those of animal colonies, the science of life and the science of society have been so contributing to one another that their progress since has been all but hand-in-hand. a conception borrowed by the one has been observed in time finding its way back, and always in an enlarged form, to further illuminate and enrich the field it left. so must it be with science and religion. if the purification of religion comes from science, the purification of science, in a deeper sense, shall come from religion. the true ministry of nature must at last be honored, and science take its place as the great expositor. to men of science, not less than to theologians,
but the gift of science to theology shall be not less rich. with the inspiration of nature to illuminate what the inspiration of revelation has left obscure, heresy in certain whole departments shall become impossible. with the demonstration of the naturalness of the supernatural, scepticism even may come to be regarded as unscientific. and those who have wrestled long for a few bare truths to ennoble life and rest their souls in thinking of the future will not be left in doubt.
it is impossible to believe that the amazing succession of revelations in the domain of nature during the last few centuries, at which the world has all but grown tired wondering, are to yield nothing for the higher life. if the development of doctrine is to have any meaning for the future, theology must draw upon the further revelation of the seen for the further revelation of the unseen. it need, and can, add nothing to fact; but as the vision of newton rested on a clearer and richer world than that of plato, so, though seeing the same things in the spiritual world as our fathers, we may see them clearer and richer. with the work of the centuries upon it, the mental eye is a finer instrument, and demands a more ordered world. had the revelation of law been given sooner, it had been unintelligible. revelation never volunteers anything that man could discover for himself--on the principle, probably, that it is only when he is capable of discovering it that he is capable of appreciating it. besides, children do not need laws, except laws in the sense of commandments. they repose with simplicity on authority, and ask no questions. but there comes a time, as the world reaches its manhood, when they will ask questions, and stake, moreover, everything on the answers. that time is now. hence we must exhibit our doctrines, not lying athwart the lines of the world's thinking, in a place reserved, and therefore shunned, for the great exception; but in their kinship to all truth and in their law-relation to the whole of nature. this is, indeed, simply following out the system of teaching begun by christ himself. and what is the search for spiritual truth in the laws of nature but an attempt to utter the parables which have been hid so long in the world around without a preacher, and to tell men at once more that the kingdom of heaven is like unto this and to that?
the law of continuity having been referred to already as a prominent factor in this inquiry, it may not be out of place to sustain the plea for natural law in the spiritual sphere by a brief statement and application of this great principle. the law of continuity furnishes an a priori argument for the position we are attempting to establish of the most convincing kind--of such a kind, indeed, as to seem to our mind final. briefly indicated, the ground taken up is this, that if nature be a harmony, man in all his relations--physical, mental, moral, and spiritual--falls to be included within its circle. it is altogether unlikely that man spiritual should be violently separated in all the conditions of growth, development, and life, from man physical. it is indeed difficult to conceive that one set of principles should guide the natural life, and these at a certain period--the very point where they are needed--suddenly give place to another set of principles altogether new and unrelated. nature has never taught us to expect such a catastrophe. she has nowhere prepared us for it. and man cannot in the nature of things, in the nature of thought, in the nature of language, be separated into two such incoherent halves.
the spiritual man, it is true, is to be studied in a different department of science from the natural man. but the harmony established by science is not a harmony within specific departments. it is the universe that is the harmony, the universe of which these are but parts. and the harmonies of the parts depend for all their weight and interest on the harmony of the whole. while, therefore, there are many harmonies, there is but one harmony. the breaking up of the phenomena of the universe into carefully guarded groups, and the allocation of certain prominent laws to each, it must never be forgotten, and however much nature lends herself to it, are artificial. we find an evolution in botany, another in geology, and another in astronomy, and the effect is to lead one insensibly to look upon these as three distinct evolutions. but these sciences, of course, are mere departments created by ourselves to facilitate knowledge--reductions of nature to the scale of our own intelligence. and we must beware of breaking up nature except for this purpose. science has so dissected everything, that it becomes a mental difficulty to put the puzzle together again; and we must keep ourselves in practice by constantly thinking of nature as a whole, if science is not to be spoiled by its own refinements. evolution being found in so many different sciences, the likelihood is that it is a universal principle. and there is no presumption whatever against this law and many others being excluded from the domain of the spiritual life. on the other hand, there are very convincing reasons why the natural laws should be continuous through the spiritual sphere--not changed in any way to meet the new circumstances, but continuous as they stand.
but to the exposition. one of the most striking generalizations of recent science is that even laws have their law. phenomena first, in the progress of knowledge, were grouped together, and nature shortly presented the spectacle of a cosmos, the lines of beauty being the great natural laws. so long, however, as these laws were merely great lines running through nature, so long as they remained isolated from one another, the system of nature was still incomplete. the principle which sought law among phenomena had to go further and seek a law among the laws. laws themselves accordingly came to be treated as they treated phenomena, and found themselves finally grouped in a still narrower circle. that inmost circle is governed by one great law, the law of continuity. it is the law for laws.
probably the most satisfactory way to secure for one's self a just appreciation of the principle of continuity is to try to conceive the universe without it. the opposite of a continuous universe would be a discontinuous universe, an incoherent and irrelevant universe--as irrelevant in all its ways of doing things as an irrelevant person. in effect, to withdraw continuity from the universe would be the same as to withdraw reason from an individual. the universe would run deranged; the world would be a mad world.
there used to be a children's book which bore the fascinating title of "the chance world." it described a world in which everything happened by chance. the sun might rise or it might not; or it might appear at any hour, or the moon might come up instead. when children were born they might have one head or a dozen heads, and those heads might not be on their shoulders--there might be no shoulders--but arranged about the limbs. if one jumped up in the air it was impossible to predict whether he would ever come down again. that he came down yesterday was no guarantee that he would do it next time. for every day antecedent and consequent varied, and gravitation and everything else changed from hour to hour. to-day a child's body might be so light that it was impossible for it to descend from its chair to the floor; but to-morrow, in attempting the experiment again, the impetus might drive it through a three-story house and dash it to pieces somewhere near the center of the earth. in this chance world cause and effect were abolished. law was annihilated. and the result to the inhabitants of such a world could only be that reason would be impossible. it would be a lunatic world with a population of lunatics.
but it is unnecessary to multiply illustrations. having defined the principle we may proceed at once to apply it. and the argument may be summed up in a sentence. as the natural laws are continuous through the universe of matter and of space, so will they be continuous through the universe of spirit.
if this be denied, what then? those who deny it must furnish the disproof. the argument is founded on a principle which is now acknowledged to be universal; and the onus of disproof must lie with those who may be bold enough to take up the position that a region exists where at last the principle of continuity fails. to do this one would first have to overturn nature, then science, and last, the human mind.
it may seem an obvious objection that many of the natural laws have no connection whatever with the spiritual world, and as a matter of fact are not continued through it. gravitation for instance--what direct application has that in the spiritual world? the reply is threefold. first, there is no proof that it does not hold there. if the spirit be in any sense material it certainly must hold. in the second place, gravitation may hold for the spiritual sphere although it cannot be directly proved. the spirit may be armed with powers which enable it to rise superior to gravity. during the action of these powers gravity need be no more suspended than in the case of a plant which rises in the air during the process of growth. it does this in virtue of a higher law and in apparent defiance of the lower. thirdly, if the spiritual be not material it still cannot be said that gravitation ceases at that point to be continuous. it is not gravitation that ceases--it is matter.
this point, however, will require development for another reason. in the case of the plant just referred to, there is a principle of growth or vitality at work superseding the attraction of gravity. why is there no trace of that law in the inorganic world? is not this another instance of the discontinuousness of law? if the law of vitality has so little connection with the inorganic kingdom--less even than gravitation with the spiritual, what becomes of continuity? is it not evident that each kingdom of nature has its own set of laws which continue possibly untouched for the specific kingdom but never extend beyond it?
it is quite true that when we pass from the inorganic to the organic, we come upon a new set of laws. but the reason why the lower set do not seem to act in the higher sphere is not that they are annihilated, but that they are overruled. and the reason why the higher laws are not found operating in the lower is not because they are not continuous downward, but because there is nothing for them there to act upon. it is not law that fails, but opportunity. the biological laws are continuous for life. wherever there is life, that is to say, they will be found acting, just as gravitation acts wherever there is matter.
we have purposely, in the last paragraph, indulged in a fallacy. we have said that the biological laws would certainly be continuous in the lower or mineral sphere were there anything there for them to act upon. now laws do not act upon anything. it has been stated already, although apparently it cannot be too abundantly emphasized, that laws are only modes of operation, not themselves operators. the accurate statement, therefore, would be that the biological laws would be continuous in the lower sphere were there anything there for them, not to act upon, but to keep in order. if there is no acting going on, if there is nothing being kept in order, the responsibility does not lie with continuity. the law will always be at its post, not only when its services are required, but wherever they are possible.
attention is drawn to this, for it is a correction one will find one's self compelled often to make in his thinking. it is so difficult to keep out of mind the idea of substance in connection with the natural laws, the idea that they are the movers, the essences, the energies, that one is constantly on the verge of falling into false conclusions. thus a hasty glance at the present argument on the part of any one ill-furnished enough to confound law with substance or with cause would probably lead to its immediate rejection. for, to continue the same line of illustration, it might next be urged that such a law as biogenesis, which, as we hope to show afterward, is the fundamental law of life for both the natural and spiritual worlds, can have no application whatsoever in the latter sphere. the life with which it deals in the natural world does not enter at all into the spiritual world, and therefore, it might be argued, the law of biogenesis cannot be capable of extension into it. the law of continuity seems to be snapped at the point where the natural passes into the spiritual. the vital principle of the body is a different thing from the vital principle of the spiritual life. biogenesis deals with βιος, with the natural life, with cells and germs, and as there are no exactly similar cells and germs in the spiritual world, the law cannot therefore apply. all which is as true as if one were to say that the fifth proposition of the first book of euclid applies when the figures are drawn with chalk upon a blackboard, but fails with regard to structures of wood or stone.
the proposition is continuous for the whole world, and, doubtless, likewise for the sun and moon and stars. the same universality may be predicated likewise for the law of life. wherever there is life we may expect to find it arranged, ordered, governed according to the same law. at the beginning of the natural life we find the law that natural life can only come from preëxisting natural life; and at the beginning of the spiritual life we find that the spiritual life can only come from preëxisting spiritual life. but there are not two laws; there is one--biogenesis. at one end the law is dealing with matter, at the other with spirit. the qualitative terms natural and spiritual make no difference. biogenesis is the law for all life and for all kinds of life, and the particular substance with which it is associated is as indifferent to biogenesis as it is to gravitation. gravitation will act whether the substance be suns and stars, or grains of sand, or raindrops. biogenesis, in like manner, will act wherever there is life.
the conclusion finally is, that from the nature of law in general, and from the scope of the principle of continuity in particular, the laws of the natural life must be those of the spiritual life. this does not exclude, observe, the possibility of there being new laws in addition within the spiritual sphere; nor does it even include the supposition that the old laws will be the conspicuous laws of the spiritual world, both which points will be dealt with presently. it simply asserts that whatever else may be found, these must be found there; that they must be there though they may not be seen there; and that they must project beyond there if there be anything beyond there. if the law of continuity is true, the only way to escape the conclusion that the laws of the natural life are the laws, or at least are laws, of the spiritual life, is to say that there is no spiritual life. it is really easier to give up the phenomena than to give up the law.
two questions now remain for further consideration--one bearing on the possibility of new law in the spiritual; the other, on the assumed invisibility or inconspicuousness of the old laws on account of their subordination to the new.
let us begin by conceding that there may be new laws. the argument might then be advanced that since, in nature generally, we come upon new laws as we pass from lower to higher kingdoms, the old still remaining in force, the newer laws which one would expect to meet in the spiritual world would so transcend and overwhelm the older as to make the analogy or identity, even if traced, of no practical use. the new laws would represent operations and energies so different, and so much more elevated, that they would afford the true keys to the spiritual world. as gravitation is practically lost sight of when we pass into the domain of life, so biogenesis would be lost sight of as we enter the spiritual sphere.
we must first separate in this statement the old confusion of law and energy. gravitation is not lost sight of in the organic world. gravity may be, to a certain extent, but not gravitation; and gravity only where a higher power counteracts its action. at the same time it is not to be denied that the conspicuous thing in organic nature is not the great inorganic law.
but the objection turns upon the statement that reasoning from analogy we should expect, in turn, to lose sight of biogenesis as we enter the spiritual sphere. one answer to which is that, as a matter of fact, we do not lose sight of it. so far from being invisible, it lies across the very threshold of the spiritual world, and, as we shall see, pervades it everywhere. what we lose sight of, to a certain extent, is the natural βιος. in the spiritual world that is not the conspicuous thing, and it is obscure there just as gravity becomes obscure in the organic, because something higher, more potent, more characteristic of the higher plane, comes in. that there are higher energies, so to speak, in the spiritual world is, of course, to be affirmed alike on the ground of analogy and of experience; but it does not follow that these necessitate other laws. a law has nothing to do with potency. we may lose sight of a substance, or of an energy, but it is an abuse of language to talk of losing sight of laws.
are there, then, no other laws in the spiritual world except those which are the projections or extensions of natural laws? from the number of natural laws which are found in the higher sphere, from the large territory actually embraced by them, and from their special prominence throughout the whole region, it may at least be answered that the margin left for them is small. but if the objection is pressed that it is contrary to the analogy, and unreasonable in itself, that there should not be new laws for this higher sphere, the reply is obvious. let these laws be produced. if the spiritual nature, in inception, growth, and development, does not follow natural principles, let the true principles be stated and explained. we have not denied that there may be new laws. one would almost be surprised if there were not. the mass of material handed over from the natural to the spiritual, continuous, apparently, from the natural to the spiritual, is so great that till that is worked out it will be impossible to say what space is still left unembraced by laws that are known. at present it is impossible even approximately to estimate the size of that supposed terra incognita. from one point of view it ought to be vast, from another extremely small. but however large the region governed by the suspected new laws may be that cannot diminish by a hair's-breadth the size of the territory where the old laws still prevail. that territory itself, relatively to us though perhaps not absolutely, must be of great extent. the size of the key which is to open it, that is, the size of all the natural laws which can be found to apply, is a guarantee that the region of the knowable in the spiritual world is at least as wide as these regions of the natural world which by the help of these laws have been explored. no doubt also there yet remain some natural laws to be discovered, and these in time may have a further light to shed on the spiritual field. then we may know all that is? by no means. we may only know all that may be known. and that may be very little. the sovereign will which sways the scepter of that invisible empire must be granted a right of freedom--that freedom which by putting it into our wills he surely teaches us to honor in his. in much of his dealing with us also, in what may be called the paternal relation, there may seem no special law--no law except the highest of all, that law of which all other laws are parts, that law which neither nature can wholly reflect nor the mind begin to fathom--the law of love. he adds nothing to that, however, who loses sight of all other laws in that, nor does he take from it who finds specific laws everywhere radiating from it.
with regard to the supposed new laws of the spiritual world--those laws, that is, which are found for the first time in the spiritual world, and have no analogies lower down--there is this to be said, that there is one strong reason against exaggerating either their number or importance--their importance at least for our immediate needs. the connection between language and the law of continuity has been referred to incidentally already. it is clear that we can only express the spiritual laws in language borrowed from the visible universe. being dependent for our vocabulary on images, if an altogether new and foreign set of laws existed in the spiritual world, they could never take shape as definite ideas from mere want of words. the hypothetical new laws which may remain to be discovered in the domain of natural or mental science may afford some index of these hypothetical higher laws, but this would of course mean that the latter were no longer foreign but in analogy, or, likelier still, identical. if, on the other hand, the natural laws of the future have nothing to say of these higher laws, what can be said of them? where is the language to come from in which to frame them? if their disclosure could be of any practical use to us, we may be sure the clue to them, the revelation of them, in some way would have been put into nature. if, on the contrary, they are not to be of immediate use to man, it is better they should not embarrass him. after all, then, our knowledge of higher law must be limited by our knowledge of the lower. the natural laws as at present known, whatever additions may yet be made to them, give a fair rendering of the facts of nature. and their analogies or their projections in the spiritual sphere may also be said to offer a fair account of that sphere, or of one or two conspicuous departments of it. the time has come for that account to be given. the greatest among the theological laws are the laws of nature in disguise. it will be the splendid task of the theology of the future to take off the mask and disclose to a waning scepticism the naturalness of the supernatural.
in discussing the relations of the natural and spiritual kingdom, it has been all but implied hitherto that the spiritual laws were framed originally on the plan of the natural; and the impression one might receive in studying the two worlds for the first time from the side of analogy would naturally be that the lower world was formed first, as a kind of scaffolding on which the higher and spiritual should be afterward raised. now the exact opposite has been the case. the first in the field was the spiritual world.
it is not necessary to reproduce here in detail the argument which has been stated recently with so much force in the "unseen universe." the conclusion of that work remains still unassailed, that the visible universe has been developed from the unseen. apart from the general proof from the law of continuity, the more special grounds of such a conclusion are, first, the fact insisted upon by herschel and clerk-maxwell that the atoms of which the visible universe is built up bear distinct marks of being manufactured articles; and, secondly, the origin in time of the visible universe is implied from known facts with regard to the dissipation of energy. with the gradual aggregation of mass the energy of the universe has been slowly disappearing, and this loss of energy must go on until none remains. there is, therefore, a point in time when the energy of the universe must come to an end; and that which has its end in time cannot be infinite, it must also have had a beginning in time. hence the unseen existed before the seen.
"what we require is no new revelation, but simply an adequate conception of the true essence of christianity. and i believe that, as time goes on, the work of the holy spirit will be continuously shown in the gradual insight which the human race will attain into the true essence of the christian religion. i am thus of opinion that a standing miracle exists, and that it has ever existed--a direct and continued influence exerted by the supernatural on the natural."--paradoxical philosophy.
"he that hath the son hath life, and he that hath not the son of god hath not life."--john.
"omne vivum ex vivo."--harvey.
this announcement called into the field a phalanx of observers, and the highest authorities in biological science engaged themselves afresh upon the problem. the experiments necessary to test the matter can be followed or repeated by any one possessing the slightest manipulative skill. glass vessels are three-parts filled with infusions of hay or any organic matter. they are boiled to kill all germs of life, and hermetically sealed to exclude the outer air. the air inside, having been exposed to the boiling temperature for many hours, is supposed to be likewise dead; so that any life which may subsequently appear in the closed flasks must have sprung into being of itself. in bastian's experiments, after every expedient to secure sterility, life did appear inside in myriad quantity. therefore, he argued, it was spontaneously generated.
but the phalanx of observers found two errors in this calculation. professor tyndall repeated the same experiment, only with a precaution to insure absolute sterility suggested by the most recent science--a discovery of his own. after every care, he conceived there might still be undestroyed germs in the air inside the flasks. if the air were absolutely germless and pure, would the myriad-life appear? he manipulated his experimental vessels in an atmosphere which under the high test of optical purity--the most delicate known test--was absolutely germless. here not a vestige of life appeared. he varied the experiment in every direction, but matter in the germless air never yielded life.
the other error was detected by mr. dallinger. he found among the lower forms of life the most surprising and indestructible vitality. many animals could survive much higher temperatures than dr. bastian had applied to annihilate them. some germs almost refused to be annihilated--they were all but fire-proof.
for much more than two hundred years a similar discussion has dragged its length through the religious world. two great schools here also have defended exactly opposite views--one that the spiritual life in man can only come from preëxisting life, the other that it can spontaneously generate itself. taking its stand upon the initial statement of the author of the spiritual life, one small school, in the face of derision and opposition, has persistently maintained the doctrine of biogenesis. another, larger and with greater pretension to philosophic form, has defended spontaneous generation. the weakness of the former school consists--though this has been much exaggerated--in its more or less general adherence to the extreme view that religion had nothing to do with the natural life; the weakness of the latter lay in yielding to the more fatal extreme that it had nothing to do with anything else. that man, being a worshiping animal by nature, ought to maintain certain relations to the supreme being, was indeed to some extent conceded by the naturalistic school, but religion itself we looked upon as a thing to be spontaneously generated by the evolution of character in the laboratory of common life.
the difference between the two positions is radical. translating from the language of science into that of religion, the theory of spontaneous generation is simply that a man may become gradually better and better until in course of the process he reaches that quantity of religious nature known as spiritual life. this life is not something added ab extra to the natural man; it is the normal and appropriate development of the natural man. biogenesis opposes to this the whole doctrine of regeneration. the spiritual life is the gift of the living spirit. the spiritual man is no mere development of the natural man. he is a new creation born from above. as well expect a hay infusion to become gradually more and more living until in course of the process it reached vitality, as expect a man by becoming better and better to attain the eternal life.
the advocates of biogenesis in religion have founded their argument hitherto all but exclusively on scripture. the relation of the doctrine to the constitution and course of nature was not disclosed. its importance, therefore, was solely as a dogma; and being directly concerned with the supernatural, it was valid for those alone who chose to accept the supernatural.
yet it has been keenly felt by those who attempt to defend this doctrine of the origin of the spiritual life, that they have nothing more to oppose to the rationalistic view than the ipse dixit of revelation. the argument from experience, in the nature of the case, is seldom easy to apply, and christianity has always found at this point a genuine difficulty in meeting the challenge of natural religions. the direct authority of nature, using nature in its limited sense, was not here to be sought for. on such a question its voice was necessarily silent; and all that the apologist could look for lower down was a distant echo or analogy. all that is really possible, indeed, is such an analogy; and if that can now be found in biogenesis, christianity in its most central position secures at length a support and basis in the laws of nature.
up to the present time the analogy required has not been forthcoming. there was no known parallel in nature for the spiritual phenomena in question. but now the case is altered. with the elevation of biogenesis to the rank of a scientific fact, all problems concerning the origin of life are placed on a different footing. and it remains to be seen whether religion cannot at once reaffirm and re-shape its argument in the light of this modern truth.
if the doctrine of the spontaneous generation of spiritual life can be met on scientific grounds, it will mean the removal of the most serious enemy christianity has to deal with, and especially within its own borders, at the present day. the religion of jesus has probably always suffered more from those who have misunderstood than from those who have opposed it. of the multitudes who confess christianity at this hour how many have clear in their minds the cardinal distinction established by its founder between "born of the flesh" and "born of the spirit?" by how many teachers of christianity even is not this fundamental postulate persistently ignored? a thousand modern pulpits every seventh day are preaching the doctrine of spontaneous generation. the finest and best of recent poetry is colored with this same error. spontaneous generation is the leading theology of the modern religious or irreligious novel; and much of the most serious and cultured writing of the day devotes itself to earnest preaching of this impossible gospel. the current conception of the christian religion in short--the conception which is held not only popularly but by men of culture--is founded upon a view of its origin which, if it were true, would render the whole scheme abortive.
let us first place vividly in our imagination the picture of the two great kingdoms of nature, the inorganic and organic, as these now stand in the light of the law of biogenesis. what essentially is involved in saying that there is no spontaneous generation of life? it is meant that the passage from the mineral world to the plant or animal world is hermetically sealed on the mineral side. this inorganic world is staked off from the living world by barriers which have never yet been crossed from within. no change of substance, no modification of environment, no chemistry, no electricity, nor any form of energy, nor any evolution can endow any single atom of the mineral world with the attribute of life. only by the bending down into this dead world of some living form can these dead atoms be gifted with the properties of vitality, without this preliminary contact with life they remain fixed in the inorganic sphere forever. it is a very mysterious law which guards in this way the portals of the living world. and if there is one thing in nature more worth pondering for its strangeness it is the spectacle of this vast helpless world of the dead cut off from the living by the law of biogenesis and denied forever the possibility of resurrection within itself. so very strange a thing, indeed, is this broad line in nature, that science has long and urgently sought to obliterate it. biogenesis stands in the way of some forms of evolution with such stern persistency that the assaults upon this law for number and thoroughness have been unparalleled. but, as we have seen, it has stood the test. nature, to the modern eye, stands broken in two. the physical laws may explain the inorganic world; the biological laws may account for the development of the organic. but of the point where they meet, of that strange borderland between the dead and the living, science is silent. it is as if god had placed everything in earth and heaven in the hands of nature, but reserved a point at the genesis of life for his direct appearing.
where now in the spiritual spheres shall we meet a companion phenomena to this? what in the unseen shall be likened to this deep dividing-line, or where in human experience is another barrier which never can be crossed?
there is such a barrier. in the dim but not inadequate vision of the spiritual world presented in the word of god, the first thing that strikes the eye is a great gulf fixed. the passage from the natural world to the spiritual world is hermetically sealed on the natural side. the door from the inorganic to the organic is shut, no mineral can open it; so the door from the natural to the spiritual is shut, and no man can open it. this world of natural men is staked off from the spiritual world by barriers which have never yet been crossed from within. no organic change, no modification of environment, no mental energy, no moral effort, no evolution of character, no progress of civilization can endow any single human soul with the attribute of spiritual life. the spiritual world is guarded from the world next in order beneath it by a law of biogenesis--except a man be born again ... except a man be born of water and of the spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of god.
it is not said, in this enunciation of the law, that if the condition be not fulfilled the natural man will not enter the kingdom of god. the word is cannot. for the exclusion of the spiritually inorganic from the kingdom of the spiritually organic is not arbitrary. nor is the natural man refused admission on unexplained grounds. his admission is a scientific impossibility. except a mineral be born "from above"--from the kingdom just above it--it cannot enter the kingdom just above it. and except a man be born "from above," by the same law, he cannot enter the kingdom just above him. there being no passage from one kingdom to another, whether from inorganic to organic, or from organic to spiritual, the intervention of life is a scientific necessity if a stone or a plant or an animal or a man is to pass from a lower to a higher sphere. the plant stretches down to the dead world beneath it, touches its minerals and gases with its mystery of life, and brings them up ennobled and transformed to the living sphere. the breath of god, blowing where it listeth, touches with its mystery of life the dead souls of men, bears them across the bridgeless gulf between the natural and the spiritual, between the spiritually inorganic and the spiritually organic, endows them with its own high qualities, and develops within them these new and secret faculties, by which those who are born again are said to see the kingdom of god.
what is the evidence for this great gulf fixed at the portals of the spiritual world? does science close this gate, or reason, or experience, or revelation? we reply, all four. the initial statement, it is not to be denied, reaches us from revelation. but is not this evidence here in court? or shall it be said that any argument deduced from this is a transparent circle--that after all we simply come back to the unsubstantiality of the ipse dixit? not altogether, for the analogy lends an altogether new authority to the ipse dixit. how substantial that argument really is, is seldom realized. we yield the point here much too easily. the right of the spiritual world to speak of its own phenomena is as secure as the right of the natural world to speak of itself. what is science but what the natural world has said to natural men? what is revelation but what the spiritual world has said to spiritual men? let us at least ask what revelation has announced with reference to this spiritual law of biogenesis; afterward we shall inquire whether science, while indorsing the verdict, may not also have some further vindication of its title to be heard.
it is clear that a remarkable harmony exists here between the organic world as arranged by science and the spiritual world as arranged by scripture. we find one great law guarding the thresholds of both worlds, securing that entrance from a lower sphere shall only take place by a direct regenerating act, and that emanating from the world next in order above. there are not two laws of biogenesis, one for the natural, the other for the spiritual; one law is for both. wherever there is life, life of any kind, this same law holds. the analogy, therefore, is only among the phenomena; between laws there is no analogy--there is continuity. in either case, the first step in peopling these worlds with the appropriate living forms is virtually miracle. nor in one case is there less of mystery in the act than in the other. the second birth is scarcely less perplexing to the theologian than the first to the embryologist.
we are now in a better position to follow out the more practical bearings of biogenesis. there is an immense region surrounding regeneration, a dark and perplexing region where men would be thankful for any light. it may well be that biogenesis in its many ramifications may yet reach down to some of the deeper mysteries of the spiritual life. but meantime there is much to define even on the surface. and for the present we shall content ourselves by turning its light upon one or two points of current interest.
it must long ago have appeared how decisive is the answer of science to the practical question with which we set out as to the possibility of a spontaneous development of spiritual life in the individual soul. the inquiry into the origin of life is the fundamental question alike of biology and christianity. we can afford to enlarge upon it, therefore, even at the risk of repetition. when men are offering us a christianity without a living spirit, and a personal religion without conversion, no emphasis or reiteration can be extreme. besides, the clearness as well as the definiteness of the testimony of nature to any spiritual truth is of immense importance. regeneration has not merely been an outstanding difficulty, but an overwhelming obscurity. even to earnest minds the difficulty of grasping the truth at all has always proved extreme. philosophically one scarcely sees either the necessity or the possibility of being born again. why a virtuous man should not simply grow better and better until in his own right he enter the kingdom of god is what thousands honestly and seriously fail to understand. now philosophy cannot help us here. her arguments are, if anything, against us. but science answers to the appeal at once. if it be simply pointed out that this is the same absurdity as to ask why a stone should not grow more and more living till it enters the organic world, the point is clear in an instant.
what now, let us ask specifically, distinguishes a christian man from a non-christian man? is it that he has certain mental characteristics not possessed by the other? is it that certain faculties have been trained in him, that morality assumes special and higher manifestations, and character a nobler form? is the christian merely an ordinary man who happens from birth to have been surrounded with a peculiar set of ideas? is his religion merely that peculiar quality of the moral life defined by mr. matthew arnold as "morality touched by emotion?" and does the possession of a high ideal, benevolent sympathies, a reverent spirit, and a favorable environment account for what men call his spiritual life?
the distinction between them is the same as that between the organic and the inorganic, the living and the dead. what is the difference between a crystal and an organism, a stone and a plant? they have much in common. both are made of the same atoms. both display the same properties of matter. both are subject to the physical laws. both may be very beautiful. but besides possessing all that the crystal has, the plant possesses something more--a mysterious something called life. this life is not something which existed in the crystal only in a less developed form. there is nothing at all like it in the crystal. there is nothing like the first beginning of it in the crystal, not a trace or symptom of it. this plant is tenanted by something new, an original and unique possession added over and above all the properties common to both. when from vegetable life we rise to animal life, here again we find something original and unique--unique at least as compared with the mineral. from animal life we ascend again to spiritual life. and here also is something new, something still more unique. he who lives the spiritual life has a distinct kind of life added to all the other phases of life which he manifests--a kind of life infinitely more distinct than is the active life of a plant from the inertia of a stone. the spiritual man is more distinct in point of fact than is the plant from the stone. this is the one possible comparison in nature, for it is the widest distinction in nature; but compared with the difference between the natural and the spiritual the gulf which divides the organic from the inorganic is a hair's-breadth. the natural man belongs essentially to this present order of things. he is endowed simply with a high quality of the natural animal life. but it is life of so poor a quality that it is not life at all. he that hath not the son hath not life; but he that hath the son hath life--a new and distinct and supernatural endowment. he is not of this world. he is of the timeless state, of eternity. it doth not yet appear what he shall be.
the difference between the spiritual man and the natural man is not a difference of development, but of generation. it is a distinction of quality not of quantity. a man cannot rise by any natural development from "morality touched by emotion," to "morality touched by life." were we to construct a scientific classification, science would compel us to arrange all natural men, moral or immoral, educated or vulgar, as one family. one might be high in the family group, another low; yet, practically, they are marked by the same set of characteristics--they eat, sleep, work, think, live, die. but the spiritual man is removed from this family so utterly by the possession of an additional characteristic that a biologist, fully informed of the whole circumstances, would not hesitate a moment to classify him elsewhere. and if he really entered into these circumstances it would not be in another family but in another kingdom. it is an old-fashioned theology which divides the world in this way--which speaks of men as living and dead, lost and saved--a stern theology all but fallen into disuse. this difference between the living and the dead in souls is so unproved by casual observation, so impalpable in itself, so startling as a doctrine, that schools of culture have ridiculed or denied the grim distinction. nevertheless the grim distinction must be retained. it is a scientific distinction. "he that hath not the son hath not life."
now it is this great law which finally distinguishes christianity from all other religions. it places the religion of christ upon a footing altogether unique. there is no analogy between the christian religion and, say, buddhism or the mohammedan religion. there is no true sense in which a man can say, he that hath buddha hath life. buddha has nothing to do with life. he may have something to do with morality. he may stimulate, impress, teach, guide, but there is no distinct new thing added to the souls of those who profess buddhism. these religions may be developments of the natural, mental, or moral man. but christianity professes to be more. it is the mental or moral man plus something else or some one else. it is the infusion into the spiritual man of a new life, of a quality unlike anything else in nature. this constitutes the separate kingdom of christ, and gives to christianity alone of all the religions of mankind the strange mark of divinity.
shall we next inquire more precisely what is this something extra which constitutes spiritual life? what is this strange and new endowment in its nature and vital essence? and the answer is brief--it is christ. he that hath the son hath life.
three things are clear from these statements: first, they are not mere figures of rhetoric. they are explicit declarations. if language means anything these words announce a literal fact. in some of christ's own statements the literalism is if possible still more impressive. for instance, "except ye eat the flesh of the son of man and drink his blood, ye have no life in you. whoso eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood hath eternal life; and i will raise him up at the last day. for my flesh is meat indeed, and my blood is drink indeed. he that eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood dwelleth in me and i in him."
we must expect to find this denied. besides a proof from revelation, this is an argument from experience. and yet we shall still be told that this spiritual life is a force. but let it be remembered what this means in science, it means the heresy of confounding force with vitality. we must also expect to be told that this spiritual life is simply a development of ordinary life--just as dr. bastian tells us that natural life is formed according to the same laws which determine the more simple chemical combinations. but remember what this means in science. it is the heresy of spontaneous generation, a heresy so thoroughly discredited now that scarcely an authority in europe will lend his name to it. who art thou, lord? unless we are to be allowed to hold spontaneous generation there is no alternative: life can only come from life: "i am jesus."
a hundred other questions now rush into the mind about this life: how does it come? why does it come? how is it manifested? what faculty does it employ? where does it reside? is it communicable? what are its conditions? one or two of these questions may be vaguely answered, the rest bring us face to face with mystery. let it not be thought that the scientific treatment of a spiritual subject has reduced religion to a problem of physics, or demonstrated god by the laws of biology. a religion without mystery is an absurdity. even science has its mysteries, none more inscrutable than around this science of life. it taught us sooner or later to expect mystery, and now we enter its domain. let it be carefully marked, however, that the cloud does not fall and cover us till we have ascertained the most momentous truth of religion--that christ is in the christian.
not that there is anything new in this. the churches have always held that christ was the source of life. no spiritual man ever claims that his spirituality is his own. "i live," he will tell you; "nevertheless it is not i, but christ liveth in me." christ our life has indeed been the only doctrine in the christian church from paul to augustine, from calvin to newman. yet, when the spiritual man is cross-examined upon this confession it is astonishing to find what uncertain hold it has upon his mind. doctrinally he states it adequately and holds it unhesitatingly. but when pressed with the literal question he shrinks from the answer. we do not really believe that the living christ has touched us, that he makes his abode in us. spiritual life is not as real to us as natural life. and we cover our retreat into unbelieving vagueness with a plea of reverence, justified, as we think, by the "thus far and no farther" of ancient scriptures. there is often a great deal of intellectual sin concealed under this old aphorism. when men do not really wish to go farther they find it an honorable convenience sometimes to sit down on the outermost edge of the holy ground on the pretext of taking off their shoes. yet we must be certain that, making a virtue of reverence, we are not merely excusing ignorance; or, under the plea of mystery, evading a truth which has been stated in the new testament a hundred times, in the most literal form, and with all but monotonous repetition. the greatest truths are always the most loosely held. and not the least of the advantages of taking up this question from the present standpoint is that we may see how a confused doctrine can really bear the luminous definition of science and force itself upon us with all the weight of natural law.
what is mystery to many men, what feeds their worship, and at the same time spoils it, is that area round all great truth which is really capable of illumination, and into which every earnest mind is permitted and commanded to go with a light. we cry mystery long before the region of mystery comes. true mystery casts no shadows around. it is a sudden and awful gulf yawning across the field of knowledge; its form is irregular, but its lips are clean cut and sharp, and the mind can go to the very verge and look down the precipice into the dim abyss--
"where writhing clouds unroll, striving to utter themselves in shapes."
we have gone with a light to the very verge of this truth. we have seen that the spiritual life is an endowment from the spiritual world, and that the living spirit of christ dwells in the christian. but now the gulf yawns black before us. what more does science know of life? nothing. it knows nothing further about its origin in detail. it knows nothing about its ultimate nature. it cannot even define it. there is a helplessness in scientific books here, and a continual confession of it which to thoughtful minds is almost touching. science, therefore, has not eliminated the true mysteries from our faith, but only the false. and it has done more. it has made true mystery scientific. religion in having mystery is in analogy with all around it. where there is exceptional mystery in the spiritual world it will generally be found that there is a corresponding mystery in the natural world. and, as origen centuries ago insisted, the difficulties of religion are simply the difficulties of nature.
one question more we may look at for a moment. what can be gathered on the surface as to the process of regeneration in the individual soul? from the analogies of biology we should expect three things: first, that the new life should dawn suddenly; second, that it should come "without observation;" third, that it should develop gradually. on two of these points there can be little controversy. the gradualness of growth is a characteristic which strikes the simplest observer. long before the word evolution was coined christ applied it in this very connection--"first the blade, then the ear, then the full corn in the ear." it is well known also to those who study the parables of nature that there is an ascending scale of slowness as we rise in the scale of life. growth is most gradual in the highest forms. man attains his maturity after a score of years; the monad completes its humble cycle in a day. what wonder if development be tardy in the creature of eternity? a christian's sun has sometimes set, and a critical world has seen as yet no corn in the ear. as yet? "as yet," in this long life, has not begun. grant him the years proportionate to his place in the scale of life. "the time of harvest is not yet."
again, in addition to being slow, the phenomena of growth are secret. life is invisible. when the new life manifests itself it is a surprise. thou canst not tell whence it cometh or whither it goeth. when the plant lives whence has the life come? when it dies whither has it gone? thou canst not tell ... so is every one that is born of the spirit. for the kingdom of god cometh without observation.
yet once more--and this is a point of strange and frivolous dispute--this life comes suddenly. this is the only way in which life can come. life cannot come gradually--health can, structure can, but not life. a new theology has laughed at the doctrine of conversion. sudden conversion especially has been ridiculed as untrue to philosophy and impossible to human nature. we may not be concerned in buttressing any theology because it is old. but we find that this old theology is scientific. there may be cases--they are probably in the majority--where the moment of contact with the living spirit though sudden has been obscure. but the real moment and the conscious moment are two different things. science pronounces nothing as to the conscious moment. if it did it would probably say that that was seldom the real moment--just as in the natural life the conscious moment is not the real moment. the moment of birth in the natural world is not a conscious moment--we do not know we are born till long afterward. yet there are men to whom the origin of the new life in time has been no difficulty. to paul, for instance, christ seems to have come at a definite period of time, the exact moment and second of which could have been known. and this is certainly, in theory at least, the normal origin of life, according to the principles of biology. the line between the living and the dead is a sharp line. when the dead atoms of carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen, are seized upon by life, the organism at first is very lowly. it possesses few functions. it has little beauty. growth is the work of time. but life is not. that comes in a moment. at one moment it was dead; the next it lived. this is conversion, the "passing," as the bible calls it, "from death unto life." those who have stood by another's side at the solemn hour of this dread possession have been conscious sometimes of an experience which words are not allowed to utter--a something like the sudden snapping of a chain, the waking from a dream.
"the present state of knowledge furnishes us with no link between the living and the not-living."--huxley, "encyclopædia britannica" (new ed.). art. "biology."
"whoever recalls to mind the lamentable failure of all the attempts made very recently to discover a decided support for the generatio æquivoca in the lower forms of transition from the inorganic to the organic world, will feel it doubly serious to demand that this theory, so utterly discredited, should be in any way accepted as the basis of all our views of life."--virchow: "the freedom of science in the modern state."
"i went by the field of the slothful, and by the vineyard of the man void of understanding; and lo, it was all grown over with thorns, and nettles had covered the face thereof, and the stone wall thereof was broken down. then i saw and considered it well; i looked upon it and received instruction."--solomon.
"how shall we escape if we neglect so great salvation?"--hebrews.
"we have as possibilities either balance, or elaboration, or degeneration."--e. ray lankester.
in one of his best known books, mr. darwin brings out a fact which may be illustrated in some such way as this: suppose a bird fancier collects a flock of tame pigeons distinguished by all the infinite ornamentations of their race. they are of all kinds, of every shade of color, and adorned with every variety of marking. he takes them to an uninhabited island and allows them to fly off wild into the woods. they found a colony there, and after the lapse of many years the owner returns to the spot. he will find that a remarkable change has taken place in the interval. the birds, or their descendants rather, have all become changed into the same color. the black, the white and the dun, the striped, the spotted, and the ringed, are all metamorphosed into one--a dark slaty blue. two plain black bands monotonously repeat themselves upon the wings of each, and the loins beneath are white; but all the variety, all the beautiful colors, all the old graces of form it may be, have disappeared. these improvements were the result of care and nature, of domestication, of civilization; and now that these influences are removed, the birds themselves undo the past and lose what they had gained. the attempt to elevate the race has been mysteriously thwarted. it is as if the original bird, the far remote ancestor of all doves, had been blue, and these had been compelled by some strange law to discard the badges of their civilization and conform to the ruder image of the first. the natural law by which such a change occurs is called the principle of reversion to type.
it is a proof of the universality of this law that the same thing will happen with a plant. a garden is planted, let us say, with strawberries and roses, and for a number of years is left alone. in process of time it will run to waste. but this does not mean that the plants will really waste away, but that they will change into something else, and, as it invariably appears, into something worse; in the one case, namely, into the small, wild strawberry of the woods, and in the other into the primitive dog-rose of the hedges.
if we neglect a garden plant, then, a natural principle of deterioration comes in, and changes it into a worse plant. and if we neglect a bird, by the same imperious law it will be gradually changed into an uglier bird. or if we neglect almost any of the domestic animals, they will rapidly revert to wild and worthless forms again.
now the same thing exactly would happen in the case of you or me. why should man be an exception to any of the laws of nature? nature knows him simply as an animal--sub-kingdom vertebrata, class mammalia, order bimana. and the law of reversion to type runs through all creation. if a man neglect himself for a few years he will change into a worse man and a lower man. if it is his body that he neglects, he will deteriorate into a wild and bestial savage--like the de-humanized men who are discovered sometimes upon desert islands. if it is his mind, it will degenerate into imbecility and madness--solitary confinement has the power to unmake men's minds and leave them idiots. if he neglect his conscience, it will run off into lawlessness and vice. or, lastly, if it is his soul, it must inevitably atrophy, drop off in ruin and decay.
we have here, then, a thoroughly natural basis for the question before us. if we neglect, with this universal principle staring us in the face, how shall we escape? if we neglect the ordinary means of keeping a garden in order, how shall it escape running to weeds and waste? or, if we neglect the opportunities for cultivating the mind, how shall it escape ignorance and feebleness? so, if we neglect the soul, how shall it escape the natural retrograde movement, the inevitable relapse into barrenness and death?
it is not necessary, surely, to pause for proof that there is such a retrograde principle in the being of every man. it is demonstrated by facts, and by the analogy of all nature. three possibilities of life, according to science, are open to all living organisms--balance, evolution, and degeneration. the first denotes the precarious persistence of a life along what looks like a level path, a character which seems to hold its own alike against the attacks of evil and the appeals of good. it implies a set of circumstances so balanced by choice or fortune that they neither influence for better nor for worse. but except in theory this state of equilibrium, normal in the inorganic kingdom, is really foreign to the world of life; and what seems inertia may be a true evolution unnoticed from its slowness, or likelier still a movement of degeneration subtly obliterating as it falls the very traces of its former height. from this state of apparent balance, evolution is the escape in the upward direction, degeneration in the lower. but degeneration, rather than balance or elaboration, is the possibility of life embraced by the majority of mankind. and the choice is determined by man's own nature. the life of balance is difficult. it lies on the verge of continual temptation, its perpetual adjustments become fatiguing, its measured virtue is monotonous and uninspiring. more difficult still, apparently, is the life of ever upward growth. most men attempt it for a time, but growth is slow; and despair overtakes them while the goal is far away. yet none of these reasons fully explains the fact that the alternative which remains is adopted by the majority of men. that degeneration is easy only half accounts for it. why is it easy? why but that already in each man's very nature this principle is supreme? he feels within his soul a silent drifting motion impelling him downward with irresistible force. instead of aspiring to conversion to a higher type he submits by a law of his nature to reversion to a lower. this is degeneration--that principle by which the organism, failing to develop itself, failing even to keep what it has got, deteriorates, and becomes more and more adapted to a degraded form of life.
all men who know themselves are conscious that this tendency, deep-rooted and active, exists within their nature. theologically it is described as a gravitation, a bias toward evil. the bible view is that man is conceived in sin and shapen in iniquity. and experience tells him that he will shape himself into further sin and ever deepening iniquity without the smallest effort, without in the least intending it, and in the most natural way in the world if he simply let his life run. it is on this principle that, completing the conception, the wicked are said further in the bible to be lost. they are not really lost as yet, but they are on the sure way to it. the bias of their lives is in full action. there is no drag on anywhere. the natural tendencies are having it all their own way; and although the victims may be quite unconscious that all this is going on, it is patent to every one who considers even the natural bearings of the case that "the end of these things is death." when we see a man fall from the top of a five-story house, we say the man is lost. we say that before he has fallen a foot; for the same principle that made him fall the one foot will undoubtedly make him complete the descent by falling another eighty or ninety feet. so that he is a dead man, or a lost man from the very first. the gravitation of sin in a human soul acts precisely in the same way. gradually, with gathering momentum it sinks a man further and further from god and righteousness, and lands him, by the sheer action of a natural law, in the hell of a neglected life.
but the lesson is not less clear from analogy. apart even from the law of degeneration, apart from reversion to type, there is in every living organism a law of death. we are wont to imagine that nature is full of life. in reality it is full of death. one cannot say it is natural for a plant to live. examine its nature fully, and you have to admit that its natural tendency is to die. it is kept from dying by a mere temporary endowment which gives it an ephemeral dominion over the elements--gives it power to utilize for a brief span the rain, the sunshine, and the air. withdraw this temporary endowment for a moment and its true nature is revealed. instead of overcoming nature it is overcome. the very things which appeared to minister to its growth and beauty now turn against it and make it decay and die. the sun which warmed it, withers it; the air and rain which nourished it, rot it. it is the very forces which we associate with life which, when their true nature appears, are discovered to be really the ministers of death.
this law, which is true for the whole plant-world, is also valid for the animal and for man. air is not life, but corruption--so literally corruption that the only way to keep out corruption, when life has ebbed, is to keep out air. life is merely a temporary suspension of these destructive powers; and this is truly one of the most accurate definitions of life we have yet received--"the sum total of the functions which resist death."
spiritual life, in like manner, is the sum total of the functions which resist sin. the soul's atmosphere is the daily trial, circumstance, and temptation of the world. and as it is life alone which gives the plant power to utilize the elements, and as, without it, they utilize it, so it is the spiritual life alone which gives the soul power to utilize temptation and trial; and without it they destroy the soul. how shall we escape if we refuse to exercise these functions--in other words, if we neglect?
this destroying process, observe, goes on quite independently of god's judgment on sin. god's judgment on sin is another and a more awful fact of which this may be a part. but it is a distinct fact by itself, which we can hold and examine separately, that on purely natural principles the soul that is left to itself unwatched, uncultivated, unredeemed, must fall away into death by its own nature. the soul that sinneth "it shall die." it shall die, not necessarily because god passes sentence of death upon it, but because it cannot help dying. it has neglected "the functions which resist death" and has always been dying. the punishment is in its very nature, and the sentence is being gradually carried out all along the path of life by ordinary processes which enforce the verdict with the appalling faithfulness of law.
there is an affectation that religious truths lie beyond the sphere of the comprehension which serves men in ordinary things. this question at least must be an exception. it lies as near the natural as the spiritual. if it makes no impression on a man to know that god will visit his iniquities upon him, he cannot blind himself to the fact that nature will. do we not all know what it is to be punished by nature for disobeying her? we have looked round the wards of a hospital, a prison, or a madhouse, and seen there nature at work squaring her accounts with sin. and we knew as we looked that if no judge sat on the throne of heaven at all there was a judgment there, where an inexorable nature was crying aloud for justice, and carrying out her heavy sentences for violated laws.
the first is the positive law, and deals with sins of commission. the other, which we are now discussing, is the negative, and deals with sins of omission. it does not say anything about sowing but about not sowing. it takes up the case of souls which are lying fallow. it does not say, if we sow corruption we shall reap corruption. perhaps we would not be so unwise, so regardless of ourselves, of public opinion, as to sow corruption. it does not say, if we sow tares we shall reap tares. we might never do anything so foolish as sow tares. but if we sow nothing, it says, we shall reap nothing. if we put nothing into the field, we shall take nothing out. if we neglect to cultivate in summer, how shall we escape starving in winter?
now the bible raises this question, but does not answer it--because it is too obvious to need answering. how shall we escape if we neglect? the answer is, we cannot. in the nature of things we cannot. we cannot escape any more than a man can escape drowning who falls into the sea and has neglected to learn to swim. in the nature of things he cannot escape--nor can he escape who has neglected the great salvation.
now why should such fatal consequences follow a simple process like neglect? the popular impression is that a man, to be what is called lost, must be an open and notorious sinner. he must be one who has abandoned all that is good and pure in life, and sown to the flesh with all his might and main. but this principle goes further. it says simply, "if we neglect." any one may see the reason why a notoriously wicked person should not escape; but why should not all the rest of us escape? what is to hinder people who are not notoriously wicked escaping--people who never sowed anything in particular? why is it such a sin to sow nothing in particular?
there must be some hidden and vital relation between these three words, salvation, neglect, and escape--some reasonable, essential, and indissoluble connection. why are these words so linked together as to weight this clause with all the authority and solemnity of a sentence of death?
the explanation has partly been given already. it lies still further, however, in the meaning of the word salvation. and this, of course, is not at all salvation in the ordinary sense of forgiveness of sin. this is one great meaning of salvation, the first and the greatest. but this is spoken to people who are supposed to have had this. it is the broader word, therefore, and includes not only forgiveness of sin but salvation or deliverance from the downward bias of the soul. it takes in that whole process of rescue from the power of sin and selfishness that should be going on from day to day in every human life. we have seen that there is a natural principle in man lowering him, deadening him, pulling him down by inches to the mere animal plane, blinding reason, searing conscience, paralyzing will. this is the active destroying principle, or sin. now to counteract this, god has discovered to us another principle which will stop this drifting process in the soul, steer it round, and make it drift the other way. this is the active saving principle, or salvation. if a man find the first of these powers furiously at work within him, dragging his whole life downward to destruction, there is only one way to escape his fate--to take resolute hold of the upward power, and be borne by it to the opposite goal. and as this second power is the only one in the universe which has the slightest real effect upon the first, how shall a man escape if he neglect it? to neglect it is to cut off the only possible chance of escape. in declining this he is simply abandoning himself with his eyes open to that other and terrible energy which is already there, and which, in the natural course of things, is bearing him every moment further and further from escape.
from the very nature of salvation, therefore, it is plain that the only thing necessary to make it of no effect is neglect. hence the bible could not fail to lay strong emphasis on a word so vital. it was not necessary for it to say, how shall we escape if we trample upon the great salvation, or doubt, or despise, or reject it. a man who has been poisoned only need neglect the antidote and he will die. it makes no difference whether he dashes it on the ground, or pours it out of the window, or sets it down by his bedside, and stares at it all the time he is dying. he will die just the same, whether he destroys it in a passion, or coolly refuses to have anything to do with it. and as a matter of fact probably most deaths, spiritually, are gradual dissolutions of the last class rather than rash suicides of the first.
this, then, is the effect of neglecting salvation from the side of salvation itself; and the conclusion is that from the very nature of salvation escape is out of the question. salvation is a definite process. if a man refuse to submit himself to that process, clearly he cannot have the benefits of it. as many as received him to them gave he power to become the sons of god. he does not avail himself of this power. it may be mere carelessness or apathy. nevertheless the neglect is fatal. he cannot escape because he will not.
turn now to another aspect of the case--to the effect upon the soul itself. neglect does more for the soul than make it miss salvation. it despoils it of its capacity for salvation. degeneration in the spiritual sphere involves primarily the impairing of the faculties of salvation and ultimately the loss of them. it really means that the very soul itself becomes piecemeal destroyed until the very capacity for god and righteousness is gone.
the soul, in its highest sense, is a vast capacity for god. it is like a curious chamber added on to being, and somehow involving being, a chamber with elastic and contractile walls, which can be expanded, with god as its guest, illimitably, but which without god shrinks and shrivels until every vestige of the divine is gone, and god's image is left without god's spirit. one cannot call what is left a soul; it is a shrunken, useless organ, a capacity sentenced to death by disuse, which droops as a withered hand by the side, and cumbers nature like a rotted branch. nature has her revenge upon neglect as well as upon extravagance. misuse, with her, is as mortal a sin as abuse.
there are certain burrowing animals--the mole for instance--which have taken to spending their lives beneath the surface of the ground. and nature has taken her revenge upon them in a thoroughly natural way--she has closed up their eyes. if they mean to live in darkness, she argues, eyes are obviously a superfluous function. by neglecting them these animals made it clear they do not want them. and as one of nature's fixed principles is that nothing shall exist in vain, the eyes are presently taken away, or reduced to a rudimentary state. there are fishes also which have had to pay the same terrible forfeit for having made their abode in dark caverns where eyes can never be required. and in exactly the same way the spiritual eye must die and lose its power by purely natural law if the soul choose to walk in darkness rather than in light.
this is the meaning of the favorite paradox of christ, "from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath;" "take therefore the talent from him." the religious faculty is a talent, the most splendid and sacred talent we possess. yet it is subject to the natural conditions and laws. if any man take his talent and hide it in a napkin, although it is doing him neither harm nor good apparently, god will not allow him to have it. although it is lying there rolled up in the darkness, not conspicuously affecting any one, still god will not allow him to keep it. he will not allow him to keep it any more than nature would allow the fish to keep their eyes. therefore, he says, "take the talent from him." and nature does it.
this man's crime was simply neglect--"thou wicked and slothful servant." it was a wasted life--a life which failed in the holy stewardship of itself. such a life is a peril to all who cross its path. degeneration compasses degeneration. it is only a character which is itself developing that can aid the evolution of the world and so fulfill the end of life. for this high usury each of our lives, however small may seem our capital, was given us by god. and it is just the men whose capital seems small who need to choose the best investments. it is significant that it was the man who had only one talent who was guilty of neglecting it. men with ten talents, men of large gifts and burning energies, either direct their powers nobly and usefully, or misdirect them irretrievably. it is those who belong to the rank and file of life who need this warning most. others have an abundant store and sow to the spirit or the flesh with a lavish hand. but we, with our small gift, what boots our sowing? our temptation as ordinary men is to neglect to sow at all. the interest on our talent would be so small that we excuse ourselves with the reflection that it is not worth while.
it is no objection to all this to say that we are unconscious of this neglect or misdirection of our powers. that is the darkest feature in the case. if there were uneasiness there might be hope. if there were, somewhere about our soul, a something which was not gone to sleep like all the rest; if there were a contending force anywhere; if we would let even that work instead of neglecting it, it would gain strength from hour to hour, and waken up one at a time each torpid and dishonored faculty till our whole nature became alive with strivings against self, and every avenue was open wide for god. but the apathy, the numbness of the soul, what can be said of such a symptom but that it means the creeping on of death? there are accidents in which the victims feel no pain. they are well and strong they think. but they are dying. and if you ask the surgeon by their side what makes him give this verdict, he will say it is this numbness over the frame which tells how some of the parts have lost already the very capacity for life.
nor is it the least tragic accompaniment of this process that its effects may even be concealed from others. the soul undergoing degeneration, surely by some arrangement with temptation planned in the uttermost hell, possesses the power of absolute secrecy. when all within is festering decay and rottenness, a judas, without anomaly, may kiss his lord. this invisible consumption, like its fell analogue in the natural world, may even keep its victim beautiful while slowly slaying it. when one examines the little crustacea which have inhabited for centuries the lakes of the mammoth cave of kentucky, one is at first astonished to find these animals apparently endowed with perfect eyes. the pallor of the head is broken by two black pigment specks, conspicuous indeed as the only bits of color on the whole blanched body; and these, even to the casual observer, certainly represent well-defined organs of vision. but what do they with eyes in these stygian waters? there reigns an everlasting night. is the law for once at fault? a swift incision with the scalpel, a glance with a lens, and their secret is betrayed. the eyes are a mockery. externally they are organs of vision--the front of the eye is perfect; behind, there is nothing but a mass of ruins. the optic nerve is a shrunken, atrophied and insensate thread. these animals have organs of vision, and yet they have no vision. they have eyes, but they see not.
exactly what christ said of men: they had eyes, but no vision. and the reason is the same. it is the simplest problem of natural history. the crustacea of the mammoth cave have chosen to abide in darkness. therefore they have become fitted for it. by refusing to see they have waived the right to see. and nature has grimly humored them. nature had to do it by her very constitution. it is her defence against waste that decay of faculty should immediately follow disuse of function. he that hath ears to hear, he whose ears have not degenerated, let him hear.
men tell us sometimes there is no such thing as an atheist. there must be. there are some men to whom it is true that there is no god. they cannot see god because they have no eye. they have only an abortive organ, atrophied by neglect.
all this, it is commonplace again to insist, is not the effect of neglect when we die, but while we live. the process is in full career and operation now. it is useless projecting consequences into the future when the effects may be measured now. we are always practicing these little deceptions upon ourselves, postponing the consequences of our misdeeds as if they were to culminate some other day about the time of death. it makes us sin with a lighter hand to run an account with retribution, as it were, and delay the reckoning time with god. but every day is a reckoning day. every soul is a book of judgment and nature, as a recording angel, marks there every sin. as all will be judged by the great judge some day, all are judged by nature now. the sin of yesterday, as part of its penalty, has the sin of to-day. all follow us in silent retribution on our past, and go with us to the grave. we cannot cheat nature. no sleight-of-heart can rob religion of a present, the immortal nature of a now. the poet sings--
"i looked behind to find my past, and lo, it had gone before."
but no, not all. the unforgiven sins are not away in keeping somewhere to be let loose upon us when we die; they are here, within us, now. to-day brings the resurrection of their past, to-morrow of to-day. and the powers of sin, to the exact strength that we have developed them, nearing their dreadful culmination with every breath we draw, are here, within us, now. the souls of some men are already honey-combed through and through with the eternal consequences of neglect, so that taking the natural and rational view of their case just now, it is simply inconceivable that there is any escape just now. what a fearful thing it is to fall into the hands of the living god! a fearful thing even if, as the philosopher tells us, "the hands of the living god are the laws of nature."
whatever hopes of a "heaven" a neglected soul may have, can be shown to be an ignorant and delusive dream. how is the soul to escape to heaven if it has neglected for a lifetime the means of escape from the world and self? and where is the capacity for heaven to come from if it be not developed on earth? where, indeed, is even the smallest spiritual appreciation of god and heaven to come from when so little of spirituality has ever been known or manifested here? if every godward aspiration of the soul has been allowed to become extinct, and every inlet that was open to heaven to be choked, and every talent for religious love and trust to have been persistently neglected and ignored, where are the faculties to come from that would ever find the faintest relish in such things as god and heaven give?
these three words, salvation, escape, and neglect, then, are not casually, but organically and necessarily connected. their doctrine is scientific, not arbitrary. escape means nothing more than the gradual emergence of the higher being from the lower, and nothing less. it means the gradual putting off of all that cannot enter the higher state, or heaven, and simultaneously the putting on of christ. it involves the slow completing of the soul and the development of the capacity for god.
should any one object that from this scientific standpoint the opposite of salvation is annihilation, the answer is at hand. from this standpoint there is no such word.
what these lines are may, in closing, be indicated in a word. the true problem of the spiritual life may be said to be, do the opposite of neglect. whatever this is, do it, and you shall escape. it will just mean that you are so to cultivate the soul that all its powers will open out to god, and in beholding god be drawn away from sin. the idea really is to develop among the ruins of the old a new "creature"--a new creature which, while the old is suffering degeneration from neglect, is gradually to unfold, to escape away and develop on spiritual lines to spiritual beauty and strength. and as our conception of spiritual being must be taken simply from natural being, our ideas of the lines along which the new religious nature is to run must be borrowed from the known lines of the old.
there is, for example, a sense of sight in the religious nature. neglect this, leave it undeveloped and you never miss it. you simply see nothing. but develop it and you see god. and the line along which to develop it is known to us. become pure in heart. the pure in heart shall see god. here, then, is one opening for soul-culture--the avenue through purity of heart to the spiritual seeing of god.
then there is a sense of sound. neglect this, leave it undeveloped, and you never miss it. you simply hear nothing. develop it, and you hear god. and the line along which to develop it is known to us. obey christ. become one of christ's flock. "the sheep hear his voice, and he calleth them by name." here, then, is another opportunity for the culture of the soul--a gateway through the shepherd's fold to hear the shepherd's voice.
and there is a sense of touch to be acquired--such a sense as the woman had who touched the hem of christ's garment, that wonderful electric touch called faith, which moves the very heart of god.
"the origin of species." by charles darwin, f.r.s. london: john murray. 1872.
"degeneration." by e. ray lankester, f.r.s. london: macmillan. 1880.
"der ursprung der wirbelthiere und das princip des functions wechsels." dr. a. dorhn. leipzig: 1875.
"lessons from nature." by st. george mivart, f.r.s. london: john murray. 1876.
"the natural conditions of existence as they affect animal life." karl semper. london: c. kegan paul & co. 1881.
"is not the evidence of ease on the very front of all the greatest works in existence? do they not say plainly to us, not 'there has been a great effort here,' but 'there has been a great power here?' it is not the weariness of mortality but the strength of divinity, which we have to recognize in all mighty things; and that is just what we now never recognize, but think that we are to do great things by help of iron bars and perspiration; alas! we shall do nothing that way, but lose some pounds of our own weight."--ruskin.
"consider the lilies of the field how they grow."--the sermon on the mount.
"nunquam aliud natura, aliud sapientia dicit."--juvenal.
what gives the peculiar point to this object-lesson from the lips of jesus is, that he not only made the illustration, but made the lilies. it is like an inventor describing his own machine. he made the lilies and he made me--both on the same broad principle. both together, man and flower, he planted deep in the providence of god; but as men are dull at studying themselves he points to this companion-phenomenon to teach us how to live a free and natural life, a life which god will unfold for us, without our anxiety, as he unfolds the flower. for christ's words are not a general appeal to consider nature. men are not to consider the lilies simply to admire their beauty, to dream over the delicate strength and grace of stem and leaf. the point they were to consider was how they grew--how without anxiety or care the flower woke into loveliness, how without weaving these leaves were woven, how without toiling these complex tissues spun themselves, and how without any effort or friction the whole slowly came ready-made from the loom of god in its more than solomon-like glory. "so," he says, making the application beyond dispute, "you care-worn, anxious men must grow. you, too, need take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat or what ye shall drink or what ye shall put on. for if god so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, o ye of little faith?"
this nature-lesson was a great novelty in its day; but all men now who have even a "little faith" have learned this christian secret of a composed life. apart even from the parable of the lily, the failures of the past have taught most of us the folly of disquieting ourselves in vain, and we have given up the idea that by taking thought we can add a cubit to our stature.
but no sooner has our life settled down to this calm trust in god than a new and graver anxiety begins. this time it is not for the body we are in travail, but for the soul. for the temporal life we have considered the lilies, but how is the spiritual life to grow. how are we to become better men? how are we to grow in grace? by what thought shall we add the cubits to the spiritual stature and reach the fullness of the perfect man? and because we know ill how to do this, the old anxiety comes back again and our inner life is once more an agony of conflict and remorse. after all, we have but transferred our anxious thoughts from the body to the soul. our efforts after christian growth seem only a succession of failures, and instead of rising into the beauty of holiness our life is a daily heartbreak and humiliation.
now the reason of this is very plain. we have forgotten the parable of the lily. violent efforts to grow are right in earnestness, but wholly wrong in principle. there is but one principle of growth both for the natural and spiritual, for animal and plant, for body and soul. for all growth is an organic thing. and the principle of growing in grace is once more this, "consider the lilies how they grow."
in seeking to extend the analogy from the body to the soul there are two things about the lilies' growth, two characteristics of all growth, on which one must fix attention. these are--
i. spontaneousness. there are three lines along which one may seek for evidence of the spontaneousness of growth. the first is science. and the argument here could not be summed up better than in the words of jesus. the lilies grow, he says, of themselves; they toil not, neither do they spin. they grow, that is, automatically, spontaneously, without trying, without fretting, without thinking. applied in any direction, to plant, to animal, to the body or to the soul this law holds. a boy grows, for example, without trying. one or two simple conditions are fulfilled, and the growth goes on. he thinks probably as little about the condition as about the result; he fulfills the conditions by habit, the result follows by nature. both processes go steadily on from year to year apart from himself and all but in spite of himself. one would never think of telling a boy to grow. a doctor has no prescription for growth. he can tell me how growth may be stunted or impaired, but the process itself is recognized as beyond control--one of the few, and therefore very significant, things which nature keeps in her own hands. no physician of souls, in like manner, has any prescription for spiritual growth. it is the question he is most often asked and most often answers wrongly. he may prescribe more earnestness, more prayer, more self-denial, or more christian work. these are prescriptions for something, but not for growth. not that they may not encourage growth; but the soul grows as the lily grows, without trying, without fretting, without ever thinking. manuals of devotion, with complicated rules for getting on in the christian life, would do well sometimes to return to the simplicity of nature; and earnest souls who are attempting sanctification by struggle instead of sanctification by faith might be spared much humiliation by learning the botany of the sermon on the mount. there can indeed be no other principle of growth than this. it is a vital act. and to try to make a thing grow is as absurd as to help the tide to come in or the sun rise.
another argument for the spontaneousness of growth is universal experience. a boy not only grows without trying, but he cannot grow if he tries. no man by taking thought has ever added a cubit to his stature; nor has any man by mere working at his soul ever approached nearer to the stature of the lord jesus. the stature of the lord jesus was not itself reached by work, and he who thinks to approach its mystical height by anxious effort is really receding from it. christ's life unfolded itself from a divine germ, planted centrally in his nature, which grew as naturally as a flower from a bud. this flower may be imitated; but one can always tell an artificial flower. the human form may be copied in wax, yet somehow one never fails to detect the difference. and this precisely is the difference between a native growth of christian principle and the moral copy of it. the one is natural, the other mechanical. the one is a growth, the other an accretion. now this, according to modern biology, is the fundamental distinction between the living and the not living, between an organism and a crystal. the living organism grows, the dead crystal increases. the first grows vitally from within, the last adds new particles from the outside. the whole difference between the christian and the moralist lies here. the christian works from the center, the moralist from the circumference. the one is an organism, in the center of which is planted by the living god a living germ. the other is a crystal, very beautiful it may be; but only a crystal--it wants the vital principle of growth.
and one sees here also, what is sometimes very difficult to see, why salvation in the first instance is never connected directly with morality. the reason is not that salvation does not demand morality, but that it demands so much of it that the moralist can never reach up to it. the end of salvation is perfection, the christ-like mind, character and life. morality is on the way to this perfection; it may go a considerable distance toward it, but it can never reach it. only life can do that. it requires something with enormous power of movement, of growth, of overcoming obstacles, to attain the perfect. therefore the man who has within himself this great formative agent, life, is nearer the end than the man who has morality alone. the latter can never reach perfection; the former must. for the life must develop out according to its type; and being a germ of the christ-life, it must unfold into a christ. morality, at the utmost, only develops the character in one or two directions. it may perfect a single virtue here and there, but it cannot perfect all. and especially it fails always to give that rounded harmony of parts, that perfect tune to the whole orchestra, which is the marked characteristic of life. perfect life is not merely the possessing of perfect functions, but of perfect functions perfectly adjusted to each other and all conspiring to a single result, the perfect working of the whole organism. it is not said that the character will develop in all its fullness in this life. that were a time too short for an evolution so magnificent. in this world only the cornless ear is seen; sometimes only the small yet still prophetic blade. the sneer at the godly man for his imperfections is ill-judged. a blade is a small thing. at first it grows very near the earth. it is often soiled and crushed and downtrodden. but it is a living thing. that great dead stone beside it is more imposing; only it will never be anything else than a stone. but this small blade--it doth not yet appear what it shall be.
seeing now that growth can only be synonymous with a living automatic process, it is all but superfluous to seek a third line of argument from scripture. growth there is always described in the language of physiology. the regenerate soul is a new creature. the christian is a new man in christ jesus. he adds the cubits to his stature just as the old man does. he is rooted and built up in christ; he abides in the vine, and so abiding, not toiling or spinning, brings forth fruit. the christian in short, like the poet, is born not made; and the fruits of his character are not manufactured things but living things, things which have grown from the secret germ, the fruits of the living spirit. they are not the produce of this climate, but exotics from a sunnier land.
ii. but, secondly, besides this spontaneousness there is this other great characteristic of growth--mysteriousness. upon this quality depends the fact, probably, that so few men ever fathom its real character. we are most unspiritual always in dealing with the simplest spiritual things. a lily grows mysteriously, pushing up its solid weight of stem and leaf in the teeth of gravity. shaped into beauty by secret and invisible fingers, the flower develops we know not how. but we do not wonder at it. every day the thing is done; it is nature, it is god. we are spiritual enough at least to understand that. but when the soul rises slowly above the world, pushing up its delicate virtues in the teeth of sin, shaping itself mysteriously into the image of christ, we deny that the power is not of man. a strong will, we say, a high ideal, the reward of virtue, christian influence--these will account for it. spiritual character is merely the product of anxious work, self-command, and self-denial. we allow, that is to say, a miracle to the lily, but none to the man. the lily may grow; the man must fret and toil and spin.
now grant for a moment that by hard work and self-restraint a man may attain to a very high character. it is not denied that this can be done. but what is denied is that this is growth, and that this process is christianity. the fact that you can account for it proves that it is not growth. for growth is mysterious; the peculiarity of it is that you cannot account for it. mysteriousness, as mozley has well observed, is "the test of spiritual birth." and this was christ's test. "the wind bloweth where it listeth. thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh or whither it goeth, so is every one that is born of the spirit." the test of spirituality is that you cannot tell whence it cometh or whither it goeth. if you can tell, if you can account for it on philosophical principles, on the doctrine of influence, on strength of will, on a favorable environment, it is not growth. it may be so far a success, it may be a perfectly honest, even remarkable, and praiseworthy imitation, but it is not the real thing. the fruits are wax, the flowers artificial--you can tell whence it cometh and whither it goeth.
the conclusion is, then, that the christian is a unique phenomenon. you cannot account for him. and if you could he would not be a christian. mozley has drawn the two characters for us in graphic words: "take an ordinary man of the world--what he thinks and what he does, his whole standard of duty is taken from the society in which he lives. it is a borrowed standard: he is as good as other people are; he does, in the way of duty, what is generally considered proper and becoming among those with whom his lot is thrown. he reflects established opinion on such points. he follows its lead. his aims and objects in life again are taken from the world around him, and from its dictation. what it considers honorable, worth having, advantageous and good, he thinks so too and pursues it. his motives all come from a visible quarter. it would be absurd to say that there is any mystery in such a character as this, because it is formed from a known external influence--the influence of social opinion and the voice of the world. 'whence such a character cometh' we see; we venture to say that the source and origin of it is open and palpable, and we know it just as we know the physical causes of many common facts."
now we have all met these two characters--the one eminently respectable, upright, virtuous, a trifle cold perhaps, and generally, when critically examined, revealing somehow the mark of the tool; the other with god's breath still upon it, an inspiration; not more virtuous, but differently virtuous; not more humble, but different, wearing the meek and quiet spirit artlessly as to the manner born. the other-worldliness of such a character is the thing that strikes you; you are not prepared for what it will do or say or become next, for it moves from a far-off center, and in spite of its transparency and sweetness that presence fills you always with awe. a man never feels the discord of his own life, never hears the jar of the machinery by which he tries to manufacture his own good points, till he has stood in the stillness of such a presence. then he discerns the difference between growth and work. he has considered the lilies, how they grow.
we have now seen that spiritual growth is a process maintained and secured by a spontaneous and mysterious inward principle. it is a spontaneous principle even in its origin, for it bloweth where it listeth; mysterious in its operation, for we can never tell whence it cometh; obscure in its destination, for we cannot tell whence it goeth. the whole process therefore transcends us; we do not work, we are taken in hand--"it is god which worketh in us, both to will and to do of his good pleasure." we do not plan--we are "created in christ jesus unto good works, which god hath before ordained that we should walk in them."
there may be an obvious objection to all this. it takes away all conflict from the christian life? it makes man, does it not, mere clay in the hands of the potter? it crushes the old character to make a new one, and destroys man's responsibility for his own soul?
now we are not concerned here in once more striking the time-honored "balance between faith and works." we are considering how lilies grow, and in a specific connection, namely, to discover the attitude of mind which the christian should preserve regarding his spiritual growth. that attitude, primarily, is to be free from care. we are not lodging a plea for inactivity of the spiritual energies, but for the tranquillity of the spiritual mind. christ's protest is not against work, but against anxious thought; and rather, therefore, than complement the lesson by showing the other side, we take the risk of still further extending the plea in the original direction.
what is the relation, to recur again to analogy, between growth and work in a boy? consciously, there is no relation at all. the boy never thinks of connecting his work with his growth. work in fact is one thing and growth another, and it is so in the spiritual life. if it be asked therefore, is the christian wrong in these ceaseless and agonizing efforts after growth? the answer is, yes, he is quite wrong, or at least, he is quite mistaken. when a boy takes a meal or denies himself indigestible things, he does not say, "all this will minister to my growth;" or when he runs a race he does not say, "this will help the next cubit of my stature." it may or it may not be true that these things will help his stature, but, if he thinks of this, his idea of growth is morbid. and this is the point we are dealing with. his anxiety here is altogether irrelevant and superfluous. nature is far more bountiful than we think. when she gives us energy she asks none of it back to expend on our own growth. she will attend to that. "give your work," she says, "and your anxiety to others; trust me to add the cubits to your stature." if god is adding to our spiritual stature, unfolding the new nature within us, it is a mistake to keep twitching at the petals with our coarse fingers. we must seek to let the creative hand alone. "it is god which giveth the increase." yet we never know how little we have learned of the fundamental principle of christianity till we discover how much we are all bent on supplementing god's free grace. if god is spending work upon a christian, let him be still and know that it is god. and if he wants work, he will find it there--in the being still.
not that there is no work for him who would grow, to do. there is work, and severe work--work so great that the worker deserves to have himself relieved of all that is superfluous during his task. if the amount of energy lost in trying to grow were spent in fulfilling rather the conditions of growth, we should have many more cubits to show for our stature. it is with these conditions that the personal work of the christian is chiefly concerned. observe for a moment what they are, and their exact relation. for its growth the plant needs heat, light, air, and moisture. a man, therefore, must go in search of these, or their spiritual equivalents, and this is his work? by no means. the christian's work is not yet. does the plant go in search of its conditions? nay, the conditions come to the plant. it no more manufactures the heat, light, air, and moisture, than it manufactures its own stem. it finds them all around it in nature. it simply stands still with its leaves spread out in unconscious prayer, and nature lavishes upon it these and all other bounties, bathing it in sunshine, pouring the nourishing air over and over it, reviving it graciously with its nightly dew. grace, too, is as free as the air. the lord god is a sun. he is as the dew to israel. a man has no more to manufacture these than he has to manufacture his own soul. he stands surrounded by them, bathed in them, beset behind and before by them. he lives and moves and has his being in them. how then shall he go in search of them? do not they rather go in search of him? does he not feel how they press themselves upon him? does he not know how unweariedly they appeal to him? has he not heard how they are sorrowful when he will not have them? his work, therefore, is not yet. the voice still says, "be still."
the conditions of growth, then, and the inward principle of growth being both supplied by nature, the thing man has to do, the little junction left for him to complete, is to apply the one to the other. he manufactures nothing; he earns nothing; he need be anxious for nothing; his one duty is to be in these conditions, to abide in them, to allow grace to play over him, to be still therein and know that this is god.
the conflict begins and prevails in all its life-long agony the moment a man forgets this. he struggles to grow himself instead of struggling to get back again into position. he makes the church into a workshop when god meant it to be a beautiful garden. and even in his closet, where only should reign silence--a silence as of the mountains whereon the lilies grow--is heard the roar and tumult of machinery. true, a man will often have to wrestle with his god--but not for growth. the christian life is a composed life. the gospel is peace. yet the most anxious people in the world are christians--christians who misunderstand the nature of growth. life is a perpetual self-condemning because they are not growing. and the effect is not only the loss of tranquillity to the individual. the energies which are meant to be spent on the work of christ are consumed in the soul's own fever. so long as the church's activities are spent on growing there is nothing to spare for the world. a soldier's time is not spent in earning the money to buy his armor, in finding food and raiment, in seeking shelter. his king provides these things that he may be the more at liberty to fight his battles. so, for the soldier of the cross all is provided. his government has planned to leave him free for the kingdom's work.
"what could be easier than to form a catena of the most philosophical defenders of christianity, who have exhausted language in declaring the impotence of the unassisted intellect? comte has not more explicitly enounced the incapacity of man to deal with the absolute and the infinite than the whole series of orthodox writers. trust your reason, we have been told till we are tired of the phrase, and you will become atheists or agnostics. we take you at your word; we become agnostics."--leslie stephen.
"to be carnally minded is death."--paul.
"i do not wonder at what men suffer, but i wonder often at what they lose."--ruskin.
"death," wrote faber, "is an unsurveyed land, an unarranged science." poetry draws near death only to hover over it for a moment and withdraw in terror. history knows it simply as a universal fact. philosophy finds it among the mysteries of being, the one great mystery of being not. all contributions to this dead theme are marked by an essential vagueness, and every avenue of approach seems darkened by impenetrable shadow.
but modern biology has found it part of its work to push its way into this silent land, and at last the world is confronted with a scientific treatment of death. not that much is added to the old conception, or much taken from it. what it is, this certain death with its uncertain issues, we know as little as before. but we can define more clearly and attach a narrower meaning to the momentous symbol.
the interest of the investigation here lies in the fact that death is one of the outstanding things in nature which has an acknowledged spiritual equivalent. the prominence of the word in the vocabulary of revelation cannot be exaggerated. next to life the most pregnant symbol in religion is its antithesis, death. and from the time that "if thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die" was heard in paradise, this solemn word has been linked with human interests of eternal moment.
notwithstanding the unparalleled emphasis upon this term in the christian system, there is none more feebly expressive to the ordinary mind. that mystery which surrounds the word in the natural world shrouds only too completely its spiritual import. the reluctance which prevents men from investigating the secrets of the king of terrors is for a certain length entitled to respect. but it has left theology with only the vaguest materials to construct a doctrine which, intelligently enforced, ought to appeal to all men with convincing power and lend the most effective argument to christianity. whatever may have been its influence in the past, its threat is gone for the modern world. the word has grown weak. ignorance has robbed the grave of all its terror, and platitude despoiled death of its sting. death itself is ethically dead. which of us, for example, enters fully into the meaning of words like these: "she that liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth?" who allows adequate weight to the metaphor in the pauline phrase, "to be carnally minded is death;" or in this, "the wages of sin is death?" or what theology has translated into the language of human life the terrific practical import of "dead in trespasses and sins?" to seek to make these phrases once more real and burning; to clothe time-worn formulæ with living truth; to put the deepest ethical meaning into the gravest symbol of nature, and fill up with its full consequence the darkest threat of revelation--these are the objects before us now.
what, then, is death? is it possible to define it and embody its essential meaning in an intelligible proposition?
the most recent and the most scientific attempt to investigate death we owe to the biological studies of mr. herbert spencer. in his search for the meaning of life the word death crosses his path, and he turns aside for a moment to define it. of course what death is depends upon what life is. mr. herbert spencer's definition of life, it is well known, has been subjected to serious criticism. while it has shed much light on many of the phenomena of life, it cannot be affirmed that it has taken its place in science as the final solution of the fundamental problem of biology. no definition of life, indeed, that has yet appeared can be said to be even approximately correct. its mysterious quality evades us; and we have to be content with outward characteristics and accompaniments, leaving the thing itself an unsolved riddle. at the same time mr. herbert spencer's masterly elucidation of the chief phenomena of life has placed philosophy and science under many obligations, and in the paragraphs which follow we shall have to incur a further debt on behalf of religion.
the essential characteristic of a living organism, according to these definitions, is that it is in vital connection with its general surroundings. a human being, for instance, is in direct contact with the earth and air, with all surrounding things, with the warmth of the sun, with the music of birds, with the countless influences and activities of nature and of his fellow-men. in biological language he is said thus to be "in correspondence with his environment." he is, that is to say, in active and vital connection with them, influencing them possibly, but especially being influenced by them. now it is in virtue of this correspondence that he is entitled to be called alive. so long as he is in correspondence with any given point of his environment, he lives. to keep up this correspondence is to keep up life. if his environment changes he must instantly adjust himself to the change. and he continues living only as long as he succeeds in adjusting himself to the "simultaneous and successive changes in his environment" as these occur. what is meant by a change in his environment may be understood from an example, which will at the same time define more clearly the intimacy of the relation between environment and organism. let us take the case of a civil-servant whose environment is a district in india. it is a region subject to occasional and prolonged droughts resulting in periodical famines. when such a period of scarcity arises, he proceeds immediately to adjust himself to this external change. having the power of locomotion, he may remove himself to a more fertile district, or, possessing the means of purchase, he may add to his old environment by importation the "external relations" necessary to continued life. but if from any cause he fails to adjust himself to the altered circumstances, his body is thrown out of correspondence with his environment, his "internal relations" are no longer adjusted to his "external relations," and his life must cease.
in ordinary circumstances, and in health, the human organism is in thorough correspondence with its surroundings; but when any part of the organism by disease or accident is thrown out of correspondence, it is in that relation dead.
this death, this want of correspondence, may be either partial or complete. part of the organism may be dead to a part of the environment, or the whole to the whole. thus the victim of famine may have a certain number of his correspondences arrested by the change in his environment, but not all. luxuries which he once enjoyed no longer enter the country, animals which once furnished his table are driven from it. these still exist, but they are beyond the limit of his correspondence. in relation to these things therefore he is dead. in one sense it might be said that it was the environment which played him false; in another, that it was his own organization--that he was unable to adjust himself, or did not. but, however caused, he pays the penalty with partial death.
with the help of these plain biological terms we may now proceed to examine the parallel phenomenon of death in the spiritual world. the factors with which we have to deal are two in number as before--organism and environment. the relation between them may once more be denominated by "correspondence." and the truth to be emphasized resolves itself into this, that spiritual death is a want of correspondence between the organism and the spiritual environment.
what is the spiritual environment? this term obviously demands some further definition. for death is a relative term. and before we can define death in the spiritual world we must first apprehend the particular relation with reference to which the expression is to be employed. we shall best reach the nature of this relation by considering for a moment the subject of environment generally. by the natural environment we mean the entire surroundings of the natural man, the entire external world in which he lives and moves and has his being. it is not involved in the idea that either with all or part of the environment he is in immediate correspondence. whether he correspond with it or not, it is there. there is in fact a conscious environment and an environment of which he is not conscious; and it must be borne in mind that the conscious environment is not all the environment that is. all that surrounds him, all that environs him, conscious or unconscious, is environment. the moon and stars are part of it, though in the daytime he may not see them. the polar regions are parts of it, though he is seldom aware of their influence. in its widest sense environment simply means all else that is.
now it will next be manifest that different organisms correspond with this environment in varying degrees of completeness or incompleteness. at the bottom of the biological scale we find organisms which have only the most limited correspondence with their surroundings. a tree, for example, corresponds with the soil about its stem, with the sunlight, and with the air in contact with its leaves. but it is shut off by its comparatively low development from a whole world to which higher forms of life have additional access. the want of locomotion alone circumscribes most seriously its area of correspondence, so that to a large part of surrounding nature it may truly be said to be dead. so far as consciousness is concerned, we should be justified indeed in saying that it was not alive at all. the murmur of the stream which bathes its roots affects it not. the marvelous insect-life beneath its shadow excites in it no wonder. the tender maternity of the bird which has its nest among its leaves stirs no responsive sympathy. it cannot correspond with those things. to stream and insect and bird it is insensible, torpid, dead. for this is death, this irresponsiveness.
the bird, again, which is higher in the scale of life, corresponds with a wider environment. the stream is real to it, and the insect. it knows what lies behind the hill; it listens to the love-song of its mate. and to much besides beyond the simple world of the tree this higher organism is alive. the bird we should say is more living than the tree; it has a correspondence with a larger area of environment. but this bird-life is not yet the highest life. even within the immediate bird-environment there is much to which the bird must still be held to be dead. introduce a higher organism, place man himself within this same environment, and see how much more living he is. a hundred things which the bird never saw in insect, stream, and tree appeal to him. each single sense has something to correspond with. each faculty finds an appropriate exercise. man is a mass of correspondences, and because of these, because he is alive to countless objects and influences to which lower organisms are dead, he is the most living of all creatures.
the relativity of death will now have become sufficiently obvious. man being left out of account, all organisms are seen as it were to be partly living and partly dead. the tree, in correspondence with a narrow area of environment, is to that extent alive; to all beyond, to the all but infinite area beyond, it is dead. a still wider portion of this vast area is the possession of the insect and the bird. their's also, nevertheless, is but a little world, and to an immense further area insect and bird are dead. all organisms likewise are living and dead--living to all within the circumference of their correspondences, dead to all beyond. as we rise in the scale of life, however, it will be observed that the sway of death is gradually weakened. more and more of the environment becomes accessible as we ascend, and the domain of life in this way slowly extends in ever-widening circles. but until man appears there is no organism to correspond with the whole environment. till then the outermost circles have no correspondents. to the inhabitants of the innermost spheres they are as if they were not.
now follows a momentous question. is man in correspondence with the whole environment? when we reach the highest living organism, is the final blow dealt to the kingdom of death? has the last acre of the infinite area been taken in by his finite faculties? is his conscious environment the whole environment? or is there, among these outermost circles, one which with his multitudinous correspondences he fails to reach? if so, this is death. the question of life or death to him is the question of the amount of remaining environment he is able to compass. if there be one circle or one segment of a circle which he yet fails to reach, to correspond with, to know, to be influenced by, he is, with regard to that circle or segment, dead.
what then, practically, is the state of the case? is man in correspondence with the whole environment or is he not? there is but one answer. he is not. of men generally it cannot be said that they are in living contact with that part of the environment which is called the spiritual world. in introducing this new term spiritual world, observe, we are not interpolating a new factor. this is an essential part of the old idea. we have been following out an ever-widening environment from point to point, and now we reach the outermost zones. the spiritual world is simply the outermost segment, circle, or circles of the natural world. for purposes of convenience we separate the two just as we separate the animal world from the plant. but the animal world and the plant world are the same world. they are different parts of one environment. and the natural and spiritual are likewise one. the inner circles are called the natural, the outer the spiritual. and we call them spiritual simply because they are beyond us or beyond a part of us. what we have correspondence with, that we call natural; what we have little or no correspondence with, that we call spiritual. but when the appropriate corresponding organism appears, the organism, that is, which can freely communicate with these outer circles, the distinction necessarily disappears. the spiritual to it becomes the outer circle of the natural.
now of the great mass of living organisms, of the great mass of men, is it not to be affirmed that they are out of correspondence with this outer circle? suppose, to make the final issue more real, we give this outermost circle of environment a name. suppose we call it god. suppose also we substitute a word for "correspondence" to express more intimately the personal relation. let us call it communion. we can now determine accurately the spiritual relation of different sections of mankind. those who are in communion with god live, those who are not are dead.
the extent or depth of this communion, the varying degrees of correspondence in different individuals, and the less or more abundant life which these result in, need not concern us for the present. the task we have set ourselves is to investigate the essential nature of spiritual death. and we have found it to consist in a want of communion with god. the unspiritual man is he who lives in the circumscribed environment of this present world. "she that liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth." "to be carnally minded is death." to be carnally minded, translated into the language of science, is to be limited in one's correspondences to the environment of the natural man. it is no necessary part of the conception that the mind should be either purposely irreligious, or directly vicious. the mind of the flesh, φρόνημα τῆς σαρκὸς, by its very nature, limited capacity, and time-ward tendency, is θάνατος, death. this earthly mind may be of noble caliber, enriched by culture, high toned, virtuous and pure. but if it know not god? what though its correspondences reach to the stars of heaven or grasp the magnitudes of time and space? the stars of heaven are not heaven. space is not god. this mind certainly, has life, life up to its level. there is no trace of death. possibly, too, it carries its deprivation lightly, and, up to its level, lies content. we do not picture the possessor of this carnal mind as in any sense a monster. we have said he may be high-toned, virtuous, and pure. the plant is not a monster because it is dead to the voice of the bird; nor is he a monster who is dead to the voice of god. the contention at present simply is that he is dead.
we do not need to go to revelation for the proof of this. that has been rendered unnecessary by the testimony of the dead themselves. thousands have uttered themselves upon their relation to the spiritual world, and from their own lips we have the proclamation of their death. the language of theology in describing the state of the natural man is often regarded as severe. the pauline anthropology has been challenged as an insult to human nature. culture has opposed the doctrine that "the natural man receiveth not the things of the spirit of god, for they are foolishness unto him: neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned." and even some modern theologies have refused to accept the most plain of the aphorisms of jesus, that "except a man be born again he cannot see the kingdom of god." but this stern doctrine of the spiritual deadness of humanity is no mere dogma of a past theology. the history of thought during the present century proves that the world has come round spontaneously to the position of the first. one of the ablest philosophical schools of the day erects a whole antichristian system on this very doctrine. seeking by means of it to sap the foundation of spiritual religion, it stands unconsciously as the most significant witness for its truth. what is the creed of the agnostic, but the confession of the spiritual numbness of humanity? the negative doctrine which it reiterates with such sad persistency, what is it but the echo of the oldest of scientific and religious truths? and what are all these gloomy and rebellious infidelities, these touching, and too sincere confessions of universal nescience, but a protest against this ancient law of death?
the christian apologist never further misses the mark than when he refuses the testimony of the agnostic to himself. when the agnostic tells me he is blind and deaf, dumb, torpid and dead to the spiritual world, i must believe him. jesus tells me that. paul tells me that. science tells me that. he knows nothing of this outermost circle; and we are compelled to trust his sincerity as readily when he deplores it as if, being a man without an ear, he professed to know nothing of a musical world, or being without taste, of a world of art. the nescience of the agnostic philosophy is the proof from experience that to be carnally minded is death. let the theological value of the concession be duly recognized. it brings no solace to the unspiritual man to be told he is mistaken. to say he is self-deceived is neither to compliment him nor christianity. he builds in all sincerity who raises his altar to the unknown god. he does not know god. with all his marvelous and complex correspondences, he is still one correspondence short.
it is a point worthy of special note that the proclamation of this truth has always come from science rather than from religion. its general acceptance by thinkers is based upon the universal failure of a universal experiment. the statement, therefore, that the natural man discerneth not the things of the spirit, is never to be charged against the intolerance of theology. there is no point at which theology has been more modest than here. it has left the preaching of a great fundamental truth almost entirely to philosophy and science. and so very moderate has been its tone, so slight has been the emphasis placed upon the paralysis of the natural with regard to the spiritual, that it may seem to some to have been intolerant. no harm certainly could come now, no offence could be given to science, if religion asserted more clearly its right to the spiritual world. science has paved the way for the reception of one of the most revolutionary doctrines of christianity; and if christianity refuses to take advantage of the opening it will manifest a culpable want of confidence in itself. there never was a time when its fundamental doctrines could more boldly be proclaimed, or when they could better secure the respect and arrest the interest of science.
what is the inference? that this poor rush-light by itself was never meant to lend the ray by which man should read the riddle of the universe. the mystery is too impenetrable and remote for its uncertain flicker to more than make the darkness deeper. what indeed if this were not a light at all, but only part of a light--the carbon point, the fragment of calcium, the reflector in the great lantern which contains the light of the world?
it is at this point accordingly that our subject comes into intimate contact with religion. the proposition that "to be carnally minded is death" even the moralist will assent to. but when it is further announced that "the carnal mind is enmity against god" we find ourselves in a different region. and when we find it also stated that "the wages of sin is death," we are in the heart of the profoundest questions of theology. what before was merely "enmity against society" becomes "enmity against god;" and what was "vice" is "sin." the conception of a god gives an altogether new color to worldliness and vice. worldliness it changes into heathenism, vice into blasphemy. the carnal mind, the mind which is turned away from god, which will not correspond with god--this is not moral only but spiritual death. and sin, that which separates from god, which disobeys god, which can not in that state correspond with god--this is hell.
but whichever of these views of sin we emphasize, we find both equally connected with death. if sin is estrangement from god, this very estrangement is death. it is a want of correspondence. if sin is selfishness, it is conducted at the expense of life. its wages are death--"he that loveth his life," said christ, "shall lose it."
"if, by tying its main artery, we stop most of the blood going to a limb, then, for as long as the limb performs its functions, those parts which are called into play must be wasted faster than they are repaired: whence eventual disablement. the relation between due receipt of nutritive matters through its arteries, and due discharge of its duties by the limb, is a part of the physical order. if instead of cutting off the supply to a particular limb, we bleed the patient largely, so drafting away the materials needed for repairing not one limb but all limbs, and not limbs only but viscera, there results both a muscular debility and an enfeeblement of the vital functions. here, again, cause and effect are necessarily related.... pass now to those actions more commonly thought of as the occasions for rules of conduct."--herbert spencer.
"mortify therefore your members which are upon earth."--paul.
"o star-eyed science! hast thou wandered there to waft us home the message of despair?"--campbell.
the definition of death which science has given us is this: a falling out of correspondence with environment. when, for example, a man loses the sight of his eyes, his correspondence with the environing world is curtailed. his life is limited in an important direction; he is less living than he was before. if, in addition, he loses the senses of touch and hearing, his correspondences are still further limited; he is therefore still further dead. and when all possible correspondences have ceased, when the nerves decline to respond to any stimulus, when the lungs close their gates against the air, when the heart refuses to correspond with the blood by so much as another beat, the insensate corpse is wholly and forever dead. the soul, in like manner, which has no correspondence with the spiritual environment is spiritually dead. it may be that it never possessed the spiritual eye or the spiritual ear, or a heart which throbbed in response to the love of god. if so, having never lived, it cannot be said to have died. but not to have these correspondences is to be in the state of death. to the spiritual world, to the divine environment, it is dead--as a stone which has never lived is dead to the environment of the organic world.
having already abundantly illustrated this use of the symbol death, we may proceed to deal with another class of expressions where the same term is employed in an exactly opposite connection. it is a proof of the radical nature of religion that a word so extreme should have to be used again and again in christian teaching, to define in different directions the true spiritual relations of mankind. hitherto we have concerned ourselves with the condition of the natural man with regard to the spiritual world. we have now to speak of the relations of the spiritual man with regard to the natural world. carrying with us the same essential principle--want of correspondence--underlying the meaning of death, we shall find that the relation of the spiritual man to the natural world, or at least to part of it, is to be that of death.
when the natural man becomes the spiritual man, the great change is described by christ as a passing from death unto life. before the transition occurred, the practical difficulty was this, how to get into correspondence with the new environment? but no sooner is this correspondence established than the problem is reversed. the question now is, how to get out of correspondence with the old environment? the moment the new life is begun there comes a genuine anxiety to break with the old. for the former environment has now become embarrassing. it refuses its dismissal from consciousness. it competes doggedly with the new environment for a share of the correspondences. and in a hundred ways the former traditions, the memories and passions of the past, the fixed associations and habits of the earlier life, now complicate the new relation. the complex and bewildered soul, in fact, finds itself in correspondence with two environments, each with urgent but yet incompatible claims. it is a dual soul living in a double world, a world whose inhabitants are deadly enemies, and engaged in perpetual civil-war.
the position of things is perplexing. it is clear that no man can attempt to live both lives. to walk both in the flesh and in the spirit is morally impossible. "no man," as christ so often emphasized, "can serve two masters." and yet, as matter of fact, here is the new-born being in communication with both environments? with sin and purity, light and darkness, time and eternity, god and devil, the confused and undecided soul is now in correspondence. what is to be done in such an emergency? how can the new life deliver itself from the still-persistent past?
a ready solution of the difficulty would be to die. were one to die organically, to die and "go to heaven," all correspondence with the lower environment would be arrested at a stroke. for physical death of course simply means the final stoppage of all natural correspondences with this sinful world.
but this alternative, fortunately or unfortunately, is not open. the detention here of body and spirit for a given period is determined for us, and we are morally bound to accept the situation. we must look then for a further alternative.
actual death being denied us, we must ask ourselves if there is nothing else resembling it--no artificial relation, no imitation or semblance of death which would serve our purpose. if we cannot yet die absolutely, surely the next best thing will be to find a temporary substitute. if we cannot die altogether, in short, the most we can do is to die as much as we can. and we now know this is open to us, and how. to die to any environment is to withdraw correspondence with it, to cut ourselves off, so far as possible, from all communication with it. so that the solution of the problem will simply be this, for the spiritual life to reverse continuously the processes of the natural life. the spiritual man having passed from death unto life, the natural man must next proceed to pass from life unto death. having opened the new set of correspondences, he must deliberately close up the old. regeneration in short must be accompanied by degeneration.
now it is no surprise to find that this is the process everywhere described and recommended by the founders of the christian system. their proposal to the natural man, or rather to the natural part of the spiritual man, with regard to a whole series of inimical relations, is precisely this. if he cannot really die, he must make an adequate approach to it by "reckoning himself dead." seeing that, until the cycle of his organic life is complete he cannot die physically, he must meantime die morally, reckoning himself morally dead to that environment which, by competing for his correspondences, has now become an obstacle to his spiritual life.
the variety of ways in which the new testament writers insist upon this somewhat extraordinary method is sufficiently remarkable. and although the idea involved is essentially the same throughout, it will clearly illustrate the nature of the act if we examine separately three different modes of expression employed in the later scriptures in this connection. the methods by which the spiritual man is to withdraw himself from the old environment--or from that part of it which will directly hinder the spiritual life--are three in number:--
first, suicide. second, mortification. third, limitation.
it will be found in practice that these different methods are adapted, respectively, to meet three different forms of temptation; so that we possess a sufficient warrant for giving a brief separate treatment to each.
first, suicide. stated in undisguised phraseology, the advice of paul to the christian, with regard to a part of his nature, is to commit suicide. if the christian is to "live unto god," he must "die unto sin." if he does not kill sin, sin will inevitably kill him. recognizing this, he must set himself to reduce the number of his correspondences--retaining and developing those which lead to a fuller life, unconditionally withdrawing those which in any way tend in an opposite direction. this stoppage of correspondences is a voluntary act, a crucifixion of the flesh, a suicide.
now the least experience of life will make it evident that a large class of sins can only be met, as it were, by suicide. the peculiar feature of death by suicide is that it is not only self-inflicted but sudden. and there are many sins which must either be dealt with suddenly or not at all. under this category, for instance, are to be included generally all sins of the appetites and passions. other sins, from their peculiar nature, can only be treated by methods less abrupt, but the sudden operation of the knife is the only successful means of dealing with fleshly sins. for example, the correspondence of the drunkard with his wine is a thing which can be broken off by degrees only in the rarest cases. to attempt it gradually may in an isolated case succeed, but even then the slightly prolonged gratification is no compensation for the slow torture of a gradually diminishing indulgence. "if thine appetite offend thee cut it off," may seem at first but a harsh remedy; but when we contemplate on the one hand the lingering pain of the gradual process, on the other its constant peril, we are compelled to admit that the principle is as kind as it is wise. the expression "total abstinence" in such a case is a strictly biological formula. it implies the sudden destruction of a definite portion of environment by the total withdrawal of all the connecting links. obviously of course total abstinence ought thus to be allowed a much wider application than to cases of "intemperance." it's the only decisive method of dealing with any sin of the flesh; the very nature of the relations makes it absolutely imperative that every victim of unlawful appetite, in whatever direction, shall totally abstain. hence christ's apparently extreme and peremptory language defines the only possible, as well as the only charitable, expedient: "if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee. and if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee."
suppose a drunkard were advised to take off one portion from his usual allowance the first week, another the second, and so on! or suppose at first, he only allowed himself to become intoxicated in the evenings, then every second evening, then only on saturday nights, and finally only every christmas? how would a thief be reformed if he slowly reduced the number of his burglaries, or a wife-beater by gradually diminishing the number of his blows? the argument ends with an ad absurdum. "let him that stole steal no more," is the only feasible, the only moral, and the only humane way. this may not apply to every case, but when any part of man's sinful life can be dealt with by immediate suicide, to make him reach the end, even were it possible, by a lingering death, would be a monstrous cruelty. and yet it is this very thing in "sudden conversion," that men object to--the sudden change, the decisive stand, the uncompromising rupture with the past, the precipitate flight from sin as of one escaping for his life. men surely forget that this is an escaping for one's life. let the poor prisoner run--madly and blindly if he like, for the terror of death is upon him. god knows, when the pause comes, how the chains will gall him still.
it is a peculiarity of the sinful state, that as a general rule men are linked to evil mainly by a single correspondence. few men break the whole law. our natures, fortunately, are not large enough to make us guilty of all, and the restraints of circumstances are usually such as to leave a loophole in the life of each individual for only a single habitual sin. but it is very easy to see how this reduction of our intercourse with evil to a single correspondence blinds us to our true position. our correspondences, as a whole, are not with evil, and in our calculations as to our spiritual condition we emphasize the many negatives rather than the single positive. one little weakness, we are apt to fancy, all men must be allowed, and we even claim a certain indulgence for that apparent necessity of nature which we call our besetting sin. yet to break with the lower environment at all, to many, is to break at this single point. it is the only important point at which they touch it, circumstances or natural disposition making habitual contact at other places impossible. the sinful environment, in short, to them means a small but well-defined area. now if contact at this point be not broken off, they are virtually in contact still with the whole environment. there may be only one avenue between the new life and the old, it may be but a small and subterranean passage, but this is sufficient to keep the old life in. so long as that remains the victim is not "dead unto sin," and therefore he cannot "live unto god." hence the reasonableness of the words, "whatsoever shall keep the whole law, and yet offend at one point, he is guilty of all." in the natural world it only requires a single vital correspondence of the body to be out of order to insure death. it is not necessary to have consumption, diabetes, and an aneurism to bring the body to the grave if it have heart-disease. he who is fatally diseased in one organ necessarily pays the penalty with his life, though all the others be in perfect health. and such, likewise, are the mysterious unity and correlation of functions in the spiritual organism that the disease of one member may involve the ruin of the whole. the reason, therefore, with which christ follows up the announcement of his doctrine of mutilation, or local suicide, finds here at once its justification and interpretation: "if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell. and if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell."
from the nature of the case as here stated it is evident that no sudden process could entirely transfer a man from the old into the new relation. to break altogether, and at every point, with the old environment, is a simple impossibility. so long as the regenerate man is kept in this world, he must find the old environment at many points a severe temptation. power over very many of the commonest temptations is only to be won by degrees, and however anxious one might be to apply the summary method to every case, he soon finds it impossible in practice. the difficulty in these cases arises from a peculiar feature of the temptation. the difference between a sin of drunkenness, and, let us say, a sin of temper, is that in the former case the victim who would reform has mainly to deal with the environment, but in the latter with the correspondence. the drunkard's temptation is a known and definite quantity. his safety lies in avoiding some external and material substance. of course, at bottom, he is really dealing with the correspondence every time he resists; he is distinctly controlling appetite. nevertheless it is less the appetite that absorbs his mind than the environment. and so long as he can keep himself clear of the "external relation," to use mr. herbert spencer's phraseology, he has much less difficulty with the "internal relation." the ill-tempered person, on the other hand, can make very little of his environment. however he may attempt to circumscribe it in certain directions, there will always remain a wide and ever-changing area to stimulate his irascibility. his environment, in short, is an inconstant quantity, and his most elaborate calculations and precautions must often and suddenly fail him.
what he has to deal with, then, mainly is the correspondence, the temper itself. and that, he well knows, involves a long and humiliating discipline. the case now is not at all a surgical but a medical one, and the knife is here of no more use than in a fever. a specific irritant has poisoned his veins. and the acrid humors that are breaking out all over the surface of his life are only to be subdued by a gradual sweetening of the inward spirit. it is now known that the human body acts toward certain fever-germs as a sort of soil. the man whose blood is pure has nothing to fear. so he whose spirit is purified and sweetened becomes proof against these germs of sin. "anger, wrath, malice and railing" in such a soil can find no root.
the difference between this and the former method of dealing with sin may be illustrated by another analogy. the two processes depend upon two different natural principles. the mutilation of a member, for instance, finds its analogue in the horticultural operation of pruning, where the object is to divert life from a useless into a useful channel. a part of a plant which previously monopolized a large share of the vigor of the total organism, but without yielding any adequate return, is suddenly cut off, so that the vital processes may proceed more actively in some fruitful parts. christ's use of this figure is well-known: "every branch in me that beareth not fruit he purgeth it that it may bring forth more fruit." the strength of the plant, that is, being given to the formation of mere wood, a number of useless correspondences have to be abruptly closed while the useful connections are allowed to remain. the mortification of a member, again, is based on the law of degeneration. the useless member here is not cut off, but simply relieved as much as possible of all exercise. this encourages the gradual decay of the parts, and as it is more and more neglected it ceases to be a channel for life at all. so an organism "mortifies" its members.
thirdly, limitation. while a large number of correspondences between man and his environment can be stopped in these ways, there are many more which neither can be reduced by a gradual mortification nor cut short by sudden death. one reason for this is that to tamper with these correspondences might involve injury to closely related vital parts. or, again, there are organs which are really essential to the normal life of the organism, and which therefore the organism cannot afford to lose even though at times they act prejudicially. not a few correspondences, for instance, are not wrong in themselves but only in their extremes. up to a certain point they are lawful and necessary; beyond that point they may become not only unnecessary but sinful. the appropriate treatment in these and similar cases consists in a process of limitation. the performance of this operation, it must be confessed, requires a most delicate hand. it is an art, moreover, which no one can teach another. and yet, if it is not learned by all who are trying to lead the christian life, it cannot be for want of practice. for, as we shall see, the christian is called upon to exercise few things more frequently.
an easy illustration of a correspondence which is only wrong when carried to an extreme, is the love of money. the love of money up to a certain point is a necessity; beyond that it may become one of the worst of sins. christ said: "ye cannot serve god and mammon." the two services, at a definite point, become incompatible, and hence correspondence with one must cease. at what point, however, it must cease each man has to determine for himself. and in this consists at once the difficulty and the dignity of limitation.
there is another class of cases where the adjustments are still more difficult to determine. innumerable points exist in our surroundings with which it is perfectly legitimate to enjoy, and even to cultivate, correspondence, but which privilege, at the same time, it were better on the whole that we did not use. circumstances are occasionally such--the demands of others upon us, for example, may be so clamant--that we have voluntarily to reduce the area of legitimate pleasure. or, instead of it coming from others, the claim may come from a still higher direction. man's spiritual life consists in the number and fullness of his correspondences with god. in order to develop these he may be constrained to insulate them, to inclose them from the other correspondences, to shut himself in with them. in many ways the limitation of the natural life is the necessary condition of the full enjoyment of the spiritual life.
in this principle lies the true philosophy of self-denial. no man is called to a life of self-denial for its own sake. it is in order to a compensation which, though sometimes difficult to see, is always real and always proportionate. no truth, perhaps, in practical religion is more lost sight of. we cherish somehow a lingering rebellion against the doctrine of self-denial--as if our nature, or our circumstances, or our conscience, dealt with us severely in loading us with the daily cross. but is it not plain after all that the life of self-denial is the more abundant life--more abundant just in proportion to the ampler crucifixion of the narrower life? is it not a clear case of exchange--an exchange however where the advantage is entirely on our side? we give up a correspondence in which there is a little life to enjoy a correspondence in which there is an abundant life. what though we sacrifice a hundred such correspondences? we make but the more room for the great one that is left. the lesson of self-denial, that is to say of limitation, is concentration. do not spoil your life, it says, at the outset with unworthy and impoverishing correspondences; and if it is growing truly rich and abundant, be very jealous of ever diluting its high eternal quality with anything of earth. to concentrate upon a few great correspondences, to oppose to the death the perpetual petty larceny of our life by trifles--these are the conditions for the highest and happiest life. it is only limitation which can secure the illimitable.
the penalty of evading self-denial also is just that we get the lesser instead of the larger good. the punishment of sin is inseparably bound up with itself. to refuse to deny one's self is just to be left with the self undenied. when the balance of life is struck, the self will be found still there. the discipline of life was meant to destroy this self, but that discipline having been evaded--and we all to some extent have opportunities, and too often exercise them, of taking the narrow path by the shortest cuts--its purpose is balked. but the soul is the loser. in seeking to gain its life it has really lost it. this is what christ meant when he said: "he that loveth his life shall lose it, and he that hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal."
why does christ say: "hate life?" does he mean that life is a sin? no. life is not a sin. still, he says we must hate it. but we must live. why should we hate what we must do? for this reason: life is not a sin, but the love of life may be a sin. and the best way not to love life is to hate it. is it a sin then to love life? not a sin exactly, but a mistake. it is a sin to love some life, a mistake to love the rest. because that love is lost. all that is lavished on it is lost. christ does not say it is wrong to love life. he simply says it is loss. each man has only a certain amount of life, of time, of attention--a definite measurable quantity. if he gives any of it to this life solely it is wasted. therefore christ says, hate life, limit life, lest you steal your love for it from something that deserves it more.
now this does not apply to all life. it is "life in this world" that is to be hated. for life in this world implies conformity to this world. it may not mean pursuing worldly pleasures, or mixing with worldly sets; but a subtler thing than that--a silent deference to worldly opinion; an almost unconscious lowering of religious tone to the level of the worldly-religious world around; a subdued resistance to the soul's delicate promptings to greater consecration, out of deference to "breadth" or fear of ridicule. these, and such things, are what christ tells us we must hate. for these things are of the very essence of worldliness. "if any man love the world," even in this sense, "the love of the father is not in him."
there are two ways of hating life, a true and a false. some men hate life because it hates them. they have seen through it, and it has turned round upon them. they have drunk it, and come to the dregs; therefore they hate it. this is one of the ways in which the man who loves his life literally loses it. he loves it till he loses it, then he hates it because it has fooled him. the other way is the religious. for religious reasons a man deliberately braces himself to the systematic hating of his life. "no man can serve two masters, for either he must hate the one and love the other, or else he must hold to the one and despise the other." despising the other--this is hating life, limiting life. it is not misanthropy, but christianity.
this principle, as has been said, contains the true philosophy of self-denial. it also holds the secret by which self-denial may be most easily borne. a common conception of self-denial is that there are a multitude of things about life which are to be put down with a high hand the moment they make their appearance. they are temptations which are not to be tolerated, but must be instantly crushed out of being with pang and effort.
so life comes to be a constant and sore cutting off of things which we love as our right hand. but now suppose one tried boldly to hate these things? suppose we deliberately made up our minds as to what things we were henceforth to allow to become our life? suppose we selected a given area of our environment and determined once for all that our correspondences should go to that alone, fencing in this area all round with a morally impassable wall? true, to others, we should seem to live a poorer life; they would see that our environment was circumscribed, and call us narrow because it was narrow. but, well-chosen, this limited life would be really the fullest life; it would be rich in the highest and worthiest, and poor in the smallest and basest correspondences. the well-defined spiritual life is not only the highest life, but it is also the most easily lived. the whole cross is more easily carried than the half. it is the man who tries to make the best of both worlds who makes nothing of either. and he who seeks to serve two masters misses the benediction of both. but he who has taken his stand, who has drawn a boundary line, sharp and deep about his religious life, who has marked off all beyond as forever forbidden ground to him, finds the yoke easy and the burden light. for this forbidden environment comes to be as if it were not. his faculties falling out of correspondence, slowly lose their sensibilities. and the balm of death numbing his lower nature releases him for the scarce disturbed communion of a higher life. so even here to die is gain.
"supposing that man, in some form, is permitted to remain on the earth for a long series of years, we merely lengthen out the period, but we cannot escape the final catastrophe. the earth will gradually lose its energy of relation, as well as that of revolution round the sun. the sun himself will wax dim and become useless as a source of energy, until at last the favorable conditions of the present solar system will have quite disappeared.
"but what happens to our system will happen likewise to the whole visible universe, which will, if finite, become a lifeless mass, if indeed it be not doomed to utter dissolution. in fine, it will become old and effete, no less truly than the individual. it is a glorious garment, this visible universe, but not an immortal one. we must look elsewhere if we are to be clothed with immortality as with a garment."--the unseen universe.
"this is life eternal--that they might know thee, the true god, and jesus christ whom thou hast sent."--jesus christ. unaccountable liveliness. his short holiday had not served to rest and invigorate him as much as might have been expected; it had left him consumed with a hopeless longing for something unattainable. his thirst for distinction had returned in an aggravated form, and he had cut himself off now from the only means of slaking it. as that day wore on, and with each day that succeeded it, he felt a wearier disgust with himself and his surroundings.
it was christmas week, and mrs. langton and her daughters were sitting, late one afternoon, in the drawing-room where we saw them first. dolly was on a low stool at her mother's feet, submitting, not too willingly, to have the bow in her hair smoothed and arranged for her. 'it must be all right now, mother!' she said, breaking away rebelliously at last.
'it's worse than ever, dolly,' said mrs. langton plaintively; 'it's slipped over to the left now!'
'but it doesn't matter, it never will keep straight long.'
'well, if you like to run about like a little wild child,' was the resigned answer.
'little wild children don't wear bows in their hair; they wear--well, they don't wear anything they've got to be careful and tidy about. i think that must be rather nice,' said dolly, turning round from where she knelt on the hearthrug. 'wake up, frisk, and be good-tempered directly. mother, on christmas day i'm going to tie a christmas card round frisk's neck, and send him into papa's dressing-room to wish him a merry christmas, the first thing in the morning--you won't tell him before the time, will you?'
'not if you don't wish it, darling,' said mrs. langton, placidly.
'i mightn't have had him to tie a card to,' said dolly, taking the dog up and hugging him fondly, 'if that gentleman had not fetched him out of the train for me; and i never said "thank you" to him either. i forgot somehow, and when i remembered he was gone. should you think he will come to see me, mabel; you told him that mother would be glad to thank him some time, didn't you, on the paper you gave the guard for him?'
'yes, dolly,' said mabel, turning her head a little away; 'but you see he hasn't come yet.'
'my dear,' said her mother, 'really i think he shows better taste in keeping away; there was no necessity to send him a message at all, and i hope he won't take any advantage of it. thanking people is so tiresome and, after all, they never think you have said enough about it. it was very kind of the young man, of course, very--though i can't say i ever quite understood what it was he did--it was something in a fog, i know,' she concluded vaguely.
'we told you all about it, mother,' explained dolly; 'i'll tell you all over again. there was a fog and our train stopped, and we all got out, and i left frisk behind, and there he was in the carriage all alone, and then the gentleman ran back and got him out and brought him to me. and another train came up behind and stopped too.'
'dolly tells it rather tamely,' said mabel, her cheeks flushing again. 'at the time he ran back for the dog, we could all hear the other train rushing up in the fog, mamma, and nobody knew whether there might not be a frightful collision in another minute.'
'then i think it was an extremely rash thing for him to do, my dear; and if i were his mother i should be very angry with him.'
'he was very good-looking, wasn't he, mabel?' said dolly, irrelevantly.
'was he, dolly? well, yes, i suppose he was, rather,' said mabel, with much outward indifference, and an inward and very vivid picture of mark's face as he leaned by the stile, his fine eyes imploring her not to leave him.
'well, perhaps, he doesn't care about being thanked, or doesn't want to see us again,' said dolly; 'if he did, he'd call, you know; you wrote the address on the paper.'
mabel had already arrived at the same conclusion, and was secretly a little piqued and hurt by it; she had gone slightly out of her way to give him an opportunity of seeing her again if he wished, and he had not chosen to take advantage of it; it had not seriously disturbed her peace of mind, but her pride was wounded notwithstanding. at times she was ready to believe that there had been some mistake or miscarriage with her message, otherwise it was strange that the admiration which it had not been difficult to read in his eyes should have evaporated in this way.
'why, here's papa--home already!' cried dolly, as the door opened and a tall man entered. 'how do you do, papa? you've rumpled my bow--you didn't think i meant it, did you? you can do it again if you like--i don't mind a bit; mother does.'
he had duly returned the affectionate hug with which dolly had greeted him, but now he put her aside with a rather preoccupied air, and went to his wife's chair, kissing the smooth forehead she presented, still absently.
'you are early, gerald,' she said; 'did the courts rise sooner to-day?'
'no,' he said conscientiously, 'it's the vacation now--i left chambers as soon as i could get away,' and he was folding and unfolding the evening paper he had brought in with him, as he stood silent before the fire.
mr. langton was not much over fifty, and a handsome man still, with full clear eyes, a well-cut chin and mouth, iron-grey whiskers, and a florid complexion which years spent in stifling law-courts and dust and black laden chambers had not done much to tone down. young barristers and solicitors' clerks were apt to consider him rather a formidable personage in lincoln's inn; and he was certainly imposing as he rustled along new square or chancery lane, his brows knitted, a look of solemn importance about his tightly-closed lips, and his silk gown curving out behind him like a great black sail. he had little imperious ways in court, too, of beckoning a client to come to him from the well, or of waving back a timid junior who had plucked his gown to draw his attention to some suggestion with a brusque 'not now--i can't hear that now!' which suggested immeasurable gulfs between himself and them. but at home he unbent, a little consciously, perhaps, but he did unbend--being proud and fond of his children, who at least stood in no fear of him. long years of successful practice had had a certain narrowing effect upon him; the things of his profession were almost foremost in his mind now, and when he travelled away from them he was duller than he once promised to be--his humour had slowly dwindled down until he had just sufficient for ordinary professional purposes, and none at all for private consumption.
in his favour it may be added that he was genial to all whom he did not consider his inferiors, a good though not a demonstrative husband; that as a lawyer he was learned without the least pedantry; and that he was a bencher of his inn, where he frequently dined, and a member of parliament, where he never spoke, even on legal matters.
mabel's quick eyes were the first to notice a shade on his face and a constraint in his manner; she went to his side and said in an undertone, 'you are not feeling ill, papa, are you, or has anything worried you to-day?'
'i am quite well. i have news to tell you presently,' he said in the same tone.
'come and see my christmas cards before i do them up,' said dolly from a side-table; 'i'm going to send one to each of my friends, except clara haycraft, or if i do send her one,' she added thoughtfully, 'it will be only a penny one, and i shall write her name on the back so that she can't use it again. clara has not behaved at all well to me lately. if i sent one to vincent now, papa, would he get it in time?'
'no--no,' said her father, a little sharply, 'and look here, pussy, run away now and see how colin is getting on.'
'and come back and tell you?' inquired dolly; 'very well, papa.'
'don't come back till i send for you,' he said. 'mind that now, dolly, stay in the schoolroom.'
he shut the door carefully after her, and then, turning to his wife and daughter, he said, 'you haven't either of you seen the papers to-day, i suppose?'
'no,' said mrs. langton; 'you know i never read daily papers. gerald,' she cried suddenly, with a light coming into her eyes, 'is another judge dead?' visions of her husband on the bench, a town-house in a more central part of london, an increase of social consideration for herself and daughters, began to float into her brain.
'it's not that--if there was, i'm not likely to be offered a judgeship just yet; it's not good news, belle, i'm afraid it's very bad,' he said warningly, 'very bad indeed.'
'oh, papa,' cried mabel, 'please don't break it to us--tell it at once, whatever it is!'
'you must let me choose my own course, my dear; i am coming to the point at once. the "globe" has a telegram from lloyd's agent reporting the total loss of the "mangalore."'
'vincent's ship!' said mabel. 'is--is he saved?'
'we cannot be certain of anything just yet--and--and these disasters are generally exaggerated in the first accounts, but i'm afraid there is very grave reason to fear that the poor boy went down with her--not many passengers were on board at the time, and only four or five of them were saved, and they are women. we can hope for the best still, but i cannot after reading the particulars feel any confidence myself. i made inquiries at the owners' offices this afternoon, but they could tell me very little just yet, though they will have fuller information by to-morrow--but from what they did say i cannot feel very hopeful.'
mabel hid her face, trying to realise that the man who had sat opposite to her there scarcely a month ago, with the strange, almost prophetic, sadness in his eyes, was lying somewhere still and white, fathoms deep under the sea--she was too stunned for tears just yet.
'my dear belle,' said her husband, 'we can't foresee these things, it--it was to be, i suppose.'
'is nothing more known?' said mabel, with a strong effort to control her voice.
'here is the account--stay, i can give you the effect of it. it was in the indian ocean, not long after leaving bombay, somewhere off the malabar coast; and the ship seems to have grazed a sunken reef, which ripped a fearful hole in her side, without stopping her course. they were not near enough to the land to hope to reverse the engines and back her on shore at full speed. she began to settle down fast by the head, and their only chance was in the boats, which unfortunately had nearly all become jammed in the davits. every one appears to have behaved admirably. they managed at last to launch one of the boats, and to put the women into it; and they were trying to get out the others, when the vessel went down suddenly, not a quarter of an hour after striking the reef.'
'vincent could swim, papa,' said mabel, with gleaming eyes.
'he was not a first-rate swimmer,' said mr. langton, 'i remember that, and even a first-rate swimmer would have found it hard work to reach the shore, if he had not been drawn down with the ship, as seems to have been the fate of most of the poor fellows. still of course there is always hope.'
'and he is dead! vincent dead! it seems so hard, so very, very sad,' said mabel, and began to cry softly.
'cry, darling,' said mrs. langton, 'it will do you good. i'm sure i wish i could cry like that, it would be such a relief. but you know papa says we may hope yet; we won't give up all hope till we're obliged to; we must be brave. you really don't care about coming in to dinner? you won't have a little something sent up to your room? well, i feel as if food would choke me myself, but i must go in to keep papa company. will you tell this sad news to dolly and colin, and ask fräulein to keep them with her till bedtime? i can't bear to see them just yet.'
mr. langton's decorous concern did not interfere with his appetite, and mrs. langton seemed rather relieved at being able to postpone her grief for the present, and so mabel was left to break the disaster, and the fate there was too much reason to fear for vincent, to her younger brother and sister--a painful task, for holroyd had been very dear to all three of them. fräulein mozer, too, wept with a more than sentimental sorrow for the young man she had tried to help, who would need her assistance never again.
the tidings had reached mark early that same afternoon. he was walking home through the city from some 'holiday-classes' he had been superintending at st. peter's, when the heading 'loss of a passenger steamer with ---- lives' on the contents-sheets of the evening papers caught his eye, and led him, when established with a 'globe' in one of the underground railway carriages, to turn with a languid interest to the details. he started when he saw the name of the vessel, and all his indifference left him as he hurriedly read the various accounts of the disaster, and looked in vain for vincent's name amongst the survivors.
vincent was certainly not amongst those in the boat, while, as appeared from the agent's list, he was evidently on board when the ship left bombay. it was possible to hope no longer after that, and mark left the offices with the knowledge that holroyd and he had indeed taken their last walk together; that he would see his face and take his hand no more.
it came to him with a shock, the unavoidable shock which a man feels when he has suddenly to associate the idea of death with one with whom he has had any intimacy. he told himself he was sorry, and for a moment vincent's fate seemed somehow to throw a sort of halo round his memory, but very soon the sorrow faded, until at last it became little more than an uneasy consciousness that he ought to be miserable and was not.
genuine grief will no more come at command than genuine joy, and so mark found, not without some self-reproach; he even began to read 'in memoriam' again with the idea of making that the keynote for his emotions, but the passionate yearning of that lament was pitched too high for him, and he never finished it. he recognised that he could not think of his lost friend in the way their long intimacy seemed to demand, and solved the difficulty by not thinking of him at all, compounding for his debt of inward mourning by wearing a black tie, which, as he was fond of a touch of colour in his costume, and as the emblem in question was not strictly required of him, he looked upon as, so to speak, a fairly respectable dividend.
caffyn heard the news with a certain satisfaction. a formidable rival had been swept out of his path, and he could speak of him now without any temptation to depreciate his merits, so much so that when he took an opportunity one day of referring to his loss, he did it so delicately that mabel was touched, and liked him better for this indication of feeling than she had ever been able to do before.
her own sorrow was genuine enough, requiring no artificial stimulus and no outward tokens to keep it alive, and if vincent could have been assured of this it would have reconciled him to all else. no callousness nor forgetfulness on the part of others could have had power to wound him so long as he should live on in the memory of the girl he had loved.
but it is better far for those who are gone that they should be impervious alike to our indifference and our grief, for the truest grief will be insensibly deadened by time, and could not long console the least exacting for the ever-widening oblivion.
mark came down to the little back parlour at malakoff terrace one dull january morning to find the family already assembled there, with the exception of mrs. ashburn, who was breakfasting in bed--an unusual indulgence for her.
'mark,' said trixie, as she leaned back in her chair, and put up her face for his morning greeting, 'there's a letter for you on your plate.'
it was not difficult to observe a suppressed excitement amongst all the younger members of his family concerning this letter; they had finished their breakfast and fallen into some curious speculations as to mark's correspondent before he came in. now three pairs of eyes were watching him as he strolled up to his seat; mr. ashburn alone seemed unconscious or indifferent.
of late mark had not had very many letters, and this particular one bore the name of 'chilton & fladgate' on the flap of the envelope. the ashburns were not a literary family, but they knew this as the name of a well-known firm of publishers, and it had roused their curiosity.
mark read the name too. for a moment it gave him a throb of excitement, the idea coming to him that, somehow, the letter concerned his own unfortunate manuscripts. it was true that he had never had any communication with this particular firm, but these wild vague impressions are often independent of actual fact; he took it up and half began to open it.
then he remembered what it probably was, and, partly with the object of preserving vincent's secret still as far as possible, but chiefly, it must be owned, from a malicious pleasure he took in disappointing the expectation he saw around him, put the letter still unopened in his pocket.
'why don't you open it?' asked trixie impatiently, who was cherishing the hope that some magnificent literary success had come at last to her favourite brother.
'manners,' explained mark, laconically.
'nonsense,' said trixie, 'you don't treat us with such ceremony as all that.'
'not lately,' said mark; 'that's how it is--it's bad for a family to get lax in these little matters of mutual courtesy. i'm going to see if i can't raise your tone--this is the beginning.'
'i'm sure we're very much obliged to you,' from martha; 'i'm quite satisfied with my own tone, it's quite high enough for me, thank you.'
'yes, i forgot,' said mark, 'i've heard it very high indeed sometimes. i wronged you, martha. still, you know, we might (all except you, martha) be more polite to one another without causing ourselves any internal injury, mightn't we?'
'well, mark,' said trixie, 'all you have to do is to ask our leave to open the letter, if you're really so particular.'
'is that in the etiquette book?' inquired mark.
'don't be ridiculous--why don't you ask our leave?'
'i suppose because i want to eat my breakfast--nothing is so prejudicial, my love, to the furtherance of the digestive process as the habit of reading at meals, any medical man will tell you that.'
'perhaps,' suggested martha, 'mark has excellent reasons for preferring to read his letter alone.'
'do you know, martha,' said mark, 'i really think there's something in that?'
'so do i,' said martha, 'more than you would care for us to know, evidently; but don't be afraid, mark, whether it's a bill, or a love-letter, or another publisher's rejection; we don't want to know your secrets--do we, cuthbert?'
'very amiable of you to say so,' said mark. 'then i shan't annoy you if i keep my letter to myself, shall i? because i rather thought of doing it.'
'eh? doing what? what is mark saying about a letter?' broke in mr. ashburn. he had a way of striking suddenly like this into conversations.
'somebody has written me a letter, father,' said mark; 'i was telling martha i thought i should read it--presently.'
but even when he was alone he felt in no hurry to possess himself of the contents. 'i expect it's the usual thing,' he thought. 'poor vincent is out of all that now. let's see how they let him down!' and he read:--
'dear sir,--we have read the romance entitled "glamour" which you have done us the honour to forward some time since. it is a work which appears to us to possess decided originality and merit, and which may be received with marked favour by the public, while it can hardly fail in any case to obtain a reception which will probably encourage its author to further efforts. of course, there is a certain risk attending its reception which renders it impossible for us to offer such terms for a first book as may be legitimately demanded hereafter for a second production by the same pen. we will give you ...' (and here followed the terms, which struck mark as fairly liberal for a first book by an unknown author). 'should you accept our offer, will you do us the favour to call upon us here at your earliest convenience, when all preliminary matters can be discussed. 'we are, &c., 'chilton & fladgate.'
mark ran hurriedly through this letter with a feeling, first of incredulous wonder, then of angry protest against the bull-headed manner in which fortune had dealt out this favour.
vincent had been saved the dreary delays, the disappointments and discouragements, which are the lot of most first books; he had won a hearing at once--and where was the use of it? no praise or fame among men could reach him now.
if he had been alive, mark thought bitterly; if a letter like this would have rescued him from all he detested, and thrown open to him the one career for which he had any ambition, he might have waited for it long and vainly enough. but he began by being indifferent, and, if fortune had required any other inducement to shower her gifts on him, his death had supplied it.
he chafed over this as he went up to the city, for there was another holiday-class that day at st. peter's; he thought of it at intervals during the morning, and always resentfully. what increased his irritation above everything was the fact that the publishers evidently regarded him as the author of the book, and he would have the distasteful task put upon him of enlightening them.
'what are you going to do with yourself, ashburn, now?' said mr. shelford in his abrupt way as they went along. 'going to be a schoolmaster and live on the crambe repetita all your life, hey?'
'i don't know,' said mark sullenly; 'very likely.'
'take my advice (i'm old enough to offer it unasked); give yourself a chance while you can of a future which won't cramp and sour and wear you as this will. if you feel any interest in the boys----'
'which i don't,' put in mark.
'exactly, which you don't--but if you did--i remember i did once, in some of 'em, and helped 'em on, and spoke to the headmaster about 'em, and so on. well, they'll pass out of your class and look another way when they meet you afterwards. as for the dullards, they'll be always with you, like the poor, down at the bottom like a sediment, sir, and much too heavy to stir up! i can't manage 'em now, and my temper gets the better of me, god forgive me for it, and i say things i'm sorry for and that don't do me or them any good, and they laugh at me. but i've got my parish to look after; it's not a large one, but it acts as an antidote. you're not even in orders, so there's no help for you that way; and the day will come when the strain gets too much for you, and you'll throw the whole thing up in disgust, and find yourself forced to go through the same thing somewhere else, or begin the world in some other capacity. choose some line in which hard work and endurance for years will bring you in a more substantial reward than that.'
'well,' said mark, for whom this gloomy view of his prospects reflected his own forebodings, 'i am reading for the bar. i went up for my call-examination the other day.'
'ah, is that so? i'm glad to hear of it; a fine profession, sir; constant variety and excitement--for the pleader, that is to say' (mr. shelford shared the lay impression that pleading was a form of passionate appeal to judge and jurymen), 'and of course you would plead in court. the law has some handsome prizes in its disposal, too. but you should have an attorney or two to push you on, they say. perhaps you can count on that?'
'i wish i could,' said mark, 'but the fact is my ambition doesn't lie in a legal direction at all. i don't care very much about the bar.'
'do you care very much about anything? does your ambition lie anywhere?'
'not now; it did once--literature, you know; but that's all over.'
'i remember, to be sure. they rejected that christmas piece of yours, didn't they? well, if you've no genuine talent for it, the sooner you find it out the better for you. if you feel you've something inside of you that must out in chapters and volumes, it generally comes, and all the discouragement in the world won't keep it down. it's like those stories of demoniacal possession in the "anatomy"--you know your burton, i daresay? some of the possessed brought "globes of hair" and "such-like baggage" out of themselves, but others "stones with inscriptions." if the demon gets too strong for you, try and produce a stone with a good readable inscription on it--not three globes of hair for the circulating libraries.'
'we shall see,' said mark laughing. 'i must leave you here. i have an appointment with chilton & fladgate just by.'
'ay, ay,' said the old gentleman, wagging his head; 'publishers, aren't they? don't tell me your ambition's dead if it's taken you as far as that. but i won't ask any more questions. i shall hope to be able to congratulate you shortly. i won't keep you away from your publishers any longer.'
'they are not my publishers yet,' said mark; 'they have made me some proposals, but i have not accepted them at present.'
he knew what a false impression this would leave with his companion, bare statement of fact as it was, but he made it deliberately, feeling almost as much flattered by the unconscious increase of consideration in the other's voice and manner as if there had been the slightest foundation for it.
they said good-bye, and the old clergyman went on and was swallowed up in the crowd, thinking as he went, 'publishing, eh? a good firm, too. i don't think he could afford to do it at his own expense. perhaps there's more ballast in him after all than i gave him credit for. i can't help liking the young fellow somehow, too. i should like to see him make a good start.'
mark, having sent up his name by one of the clerks behind the imposing mahogany counters, was shown through various swinging glass doors into a waiting-room, where the magazines and books symmetrically arranged on the table gave a certain flavour of dentistry to the place.
mark turned them over with a quite unreasonable nervousness, but the fact was he shrank from what he considered the humiliation of explaining that he was a mere agent; it occurred to him for the first time, too, that holroyd's death might possibly complicate matters, and he felt a vague anger against his dead friend for leaving him in such a position.
the clerk returned with a message that mr. fladgate would be happy to see mark at once, and so he followed upstairs and along passages with glimpses through open doors of rooms full of clerks and desks, until they came to a certain room into which mark was shown--a small room with a considerable litter of large wicker trays filled with proofs, packets and rolls of manuscripts of all sizes, and piles of books and periodicals, in the midst of which mr. fladgate was sitting with his back to the light, which was admitted through windows of ground-glass.
he rose and came forward to meet mark, and mark saw a little reddish-haired and whiskered man, with quick eyes, and a curious perpendicular fold in the forehead above a short, blunt nose, a mobile mouth, and a pleasantly impulsive manner.
'how do you do, mr. beauchamp?' he said heartily, using the nom de plume with an air of implied compliment; 'and so you've made up your mind to entrust yourself to us, have you? that's right. i don't think you'll find any reason to regret it, i don't indeed.'
mark said he was sure of that.
'well, now, as to the book,' continued mr. fladgate; 'i've had the pleasure of looking through it myself, as well as mr. blackshaw, our reader, and i must tell you that i agree with him in considering that you have written a very remarkable book. as we told you, you know, it may or may not prove a pecuniary success, but, however that may be, my opinion of it will remain the same; it ought, in my judgment, to ensure you a certain standing at once--at once.'
mark heard this with a pang of jealousy. long before, he had dreamed of just such an interview, in which he should be addressed in some such manner--his dream was being fulfilled now with relentless mockery!
'but there is a risk,' said mr. fladgate, 'a decided risk, which brings me to the subject of terms. are you satisfied with the offer we made to you? you see that a first book----'
'excuse me for one moment,' said mark desperately, 'i'm afraid you imagine that--that i wrote the book?'
'that certainly was my impression,' said mr. fladgate, with a humorous light in his eye; 'the only address on the manuscript was yours, and i came to the not unnatural conclusion that mr. ashburn and mr. beauchamp were one and the same. am i to understand that is not the case?'
'the book,' said mark--what it cost him to say this,--'the book was written by a friend of mine, who went abroad some time ago.'
'indeed? well, we should prefer to treat with him in person, of course, if possible.'
'it isn't possible,' said mark, 'my friend was lost at sea, but he asked me to represent him in this matter, and i believe i know his wishes.'
'i've no doubt of it; but you see, mr.--mr. ashburn, this must be considered a little. i suppose you have some authority from him in writing, to satisfy us (merely as a matter of business) that we are dealing with the right person?'
'i have not indeed,' said mark, 'my friend was very anxious to retain his incognito.'
'he must have been--very much so,' said mr. fladgate, coughing; 'well, perhaps you can bring me some writing of his to that effect? you may have it among your papers, eh?'
'no,' said mark, 'my friend did not think it necessary to give me one--he was anxious to----'
'oh, quite so--then you can procure me a line or two perhaps?'
'i told you that my friend was dead,' said mark a little impatiently.
'ah, so you did, to be sure, i forgot. i thought--but no matter. well, mr. ashburn, if you can't say anything more than this--anything, you understand, which puts you in a position to treat with us, i'm afraid--i'm afraid i must ask time to think over this. if your friend is really dead, i suppose your authority is determined. perhaps, however, his--ahem--anxiety to preserve his incognito has led him to allow this rumour of his death to be circulated?'
'i don't think that is likely,' said mark, wondering at an undercurrent of meaning in the publisher's tone, a meaning which had nothing sinister in it, and yet seemed urging him to contradict himself for some reason.
'that is your last word, then?' said mr. fladgate, and there was a sharp inflection as of disappointment and irritation in his voice, and the fold in his forehead deepened.
'it must be,' said mark, rising, 'i have kept you too long already.'
'if you really must go,' said mr. fladgate, not using the words in their conventional sense of polite dismissal. 'but, mr. ashburn, are you quite sure that this interview might not be saved from coming to nothing, as it seems about to do? might not a word or two from you set things right again? i don't wish to force you to tell me anything you would rather keep concealed--but really, this story you tell about a mr. vincent beauchamp who is dead only ties our hands, you understand--ties our hands!'
'if so,' said mark, uncomfortably, 'i can only say i am very sorry for it--i don't see how i can help it.'
he was beginning to feel that this business of holroyd's had given him quite trouble enough.
'now, mr. ashburn, as i said before, i should be the last man to press you--but really, you know, really--this is a trifle absurd! i think you might be a little more frank with me, i do indeed. there is no reason why you should not trust me!'
was this man tempting him, thought mark. could he be so anxious to bring out this book that he was actually trying to induce him to fabricate some story which would get over the difficulties that had arisen?
as a mere matter of fact, it may be almost unnecessary to mention that no such idea had occurred to worthy mr. fladgate, who, though he certainly was anxious to secure the book if he could, by any legitimate means, was anything but a publishing mephistopheles. he had an object, however, in making this last appeal for confidence, as will appear immediately; but, innocent as it was, mark's imagination conjured up a bland demon tempting him to some act of unspeakable perfidy; he trembled--but not with horror. 'what do you mean?' he stammered.
mr. fladgate gave a glance of keen amusement at the pale troubled face of the young man before him. 'what do i mean?' he repeated. 'come, i've known sensitive women try to conceal their identity, and even their sex, from their own publishers; i've known men even persuade themselves they didn't care for notoriety--but such a determined instance of what i must take leave to call the literary ostrich i don't think i ever did meet before! i never met a writer so desperately anxious to remain unknown that he would rather take his manuscript back than risk his secret with his own publisher. but don't you see that you have raised (i don't use the term in the least offensively) the mask, so to speak--you should have sent somebody else here to-day if you wished to keep me in the dark. i've not been in business all these years, mr. ashburn, without gaining a little experience. i think, i do think, i am able to know an author when i see him--we are all liable to error, but i am very much mistaken if this mr. vincent beauchamp (who was so unfortunately lost at sea) is not to be recovered alive by a little judicious dredging. do think if you can't produce him; come, he's not in very deep water--bring him up, mr. ashburn, bring him up!'
'you make this very difficult for me,' said mark, in a low voice; he knew now how greatly he had misjudged the man, who had spoken with such an innocent, amiable pride in his own surprising discernment; he also felt how easy and how safe it would be to take advantage of this misunderstanding, and what a new future it might open to him--but he was struggling still against the temptation so unconsciously held out to him.
'i might retort that, i think. now, be reasonable, mr. ashburn. i assure you the writer, whoever he may be, has no cause to be ashamed of the book--the time will come when he will probably be willing enough to own it. still, if he wishes to keep his real name secret, i tell him, through you, that he may surely be content to trust that to us. we have kept such secrets before--not very long, to be sure, as a general rule; but then that was because the authors usually relieved us from the trouble--the veil was never lifted by us.'
'i think you said,' began mark, as if thinking aloud, 'that other works by--by the same author would be sure of acceptance?'
'i should be very glad to have an opportunity, in time, of producing another book by mr. vincent beauchamp--but mr. beauchamp, as you explained, is unhappily no more. perhaps these are earlier manuscripts of his?'
mark had been seized with the desire of making one more attempt, in spite of his promise to his uncle, to launch those unhappy paper ships of his--'sweet bells jangled' and 'one fair daughter.' for an instant it occurred to him that he might answer this last question in the affirmative; he had little doubt that if he did his books would meet with a very different reception from that of messrs. leadbitter and gandy; still, that would only benefit holroyd--not himself, and then he recollected, only just in time, that the difference in handwriting (which was very considerable) would betray him. he looked confused and said nothing.
mr. fladgate's patience began to tire. 'we don't seem to be making any way, do we?' he said, with rather affected pleasantry. 'i'm afraid i must ask you to come to a decision on this without any more delay. here is the manuscript you sent us. if the real author is dead we are compelled to return it with much regret. if you can tell me anything which does away with the difficulty, this is the time to tell it. of course you will do exactly as you please, but after what you have chosen to tell us we can hardly see our way, as i said, to treat with you without some further explanation. come, mr. ashburn, am i to have it or not?'
'give me a little time,' said mark faintly, and the publisher, as he had expected, read the signs of wavering in his face, though it was not of the nature he believed it to be.
mark sat down again and rested his chin on his hand, with his face turned away from the other's eyes. a conflict was going on within him such as he had never been called upon to fight before, and he had only a very few minutes allowed him to fight it.
perhaps in these crises a man does not always arrange pros and cons to contend for him in the severely logical manner with which we find him doing it in print. the forces on the enemy's side can generally be induced to desert. all the advantages which would follow if he once allowed himself to humour the publisher's mistake were very prominently before mark's mind--the dangers and difficulties kept in the background. he was incapable of considering the matter coolly; he felt an overmastering impulse upon him, and he had never trained himself to resist his impulses for very long. there was very little of logical balancing going on in his brain; it began to seem terribly, fatally easy to carry out this imposition. the fraud itself grew less ugly and more harmless every instant.
he saw his own books, so long kept out in the cold by ignorant prejudice, accepted on the strength of holroyd's 'glamour,' and, once fairly before the public, taking the foremost rank in triumph and rapidly eclipsing their forerunner. he would be appreciated at last, delivered from the life he hated, able to lead the existence he longed for. all he wanted was a hearing; there seemed no other way to obtain it; he had no time to lose. how could it injure holroyd? he had not cared for fame in life; would he miss it after his death? the publishers might be mistaken; the book might be unnoticed altogether; he might prove to be the injured person.
but, as mr. fladgate seemed convinced of its merit, as he would evidently take anything alleged to come from the same source without a very severe scrutiny, there was nothing for it but to risk this contingency.
mark was convinced that publishers were influenced entirely by unreasoning prejudices; he thoroughly believed that his works would carry all before them if any firm could once overcome their repugnance to his powerful originality, and here was one firm at least prepared to lay that aside at a word from him. why should he let it go unsaid?
the money transactions caused him the most hesitation. if he took money for another man's work, there was a name, and a very ugly name, for that. but he would not keep it. as soon as he learnt the names of holroyd's legal representatives, whoever they might be, he would pay the money over to them without mentioning the exact manner in which it had become due. in time, when he had achieved a reputation for himself, he could give back the name he had borrowed for a time--at least he told himself he could do so.
he stood in no danger of detection, or, if he did, it was very slight. vincent was not the man to confide in more than one person; he had owned as much. he had been reticent enough to conceal his real surname from his publishers, and now he could never reveal the truth.
all this rushed through his mind in a hurried, confused form; all his little vanities and harmless affectations and encouragements of false impressions had made him the less capable of resisting now.
'well?' said mr. fladgate at last.
mark's heart beat fast. he turned round and faced the publisher. 'i suppose i had better trust you,' he said awkwardly, and with a sort of shamefaced constraint that was admirably in keeping with his confession, though not artificial.
'i think so. then you are the man--this book "glamour"'s your own work?'
'if you must have it--yes,' said mark desperately.
the words were spoken now, and for good or ill he must abide by them henceforth to the end.
no sooner had mark declared himself the author of his dead friend's book than he would have given anything to recall his words, not so much from conscience (though he did feel he had suddenly developed into a surprisingly finished scoundrel), as from a fear that his lie might after all be detected. he sat staring stupidly at mr. fladgate, who patted him on the shoulder with well-meant encouragement; he had never seen quite so coy an author before. 'i'm very glad to make mr. vincent beauchamp's acquaintance--at last,' he said, beaming with honest pride at the success of his tactics, 'and now we can come to terms again.'
he did not find mark more difficult to deal with than most budding authors, and in this case mark was morbidly anxious to get the money part of the transaction over as soon as possible; he could not decide whether his conscience would be better or worse satisfied if he insisted on the best pecuniary terms he could obtain, so in his indecision he took the easier course of agreeing to everything.
'about the title now?' said mr. fladgate, when the terms had been reduced to a formal memorandum. 'i don't think i quite like your present one; too moonshiny, eh?'
mark owned that it did sound a little moonshiny.
'i think, too, i rather think, there's something very like it out already, and that may lead to unpleasantness, you know. now, can you suggest something else which will give a general idea of the nature of the book?'
as mark had absolutely no idea what the book was about, he could not.
'well, mr. blackshaw suggested something like "enchantment," or "witchery."'
'i don't care about either of those,' said mark, who found this sort of dissembling unexpectedly easy.
'no,' said mr. fladgate, 'no. i think you're right. now, i had a notion--i don't know what you will think of it--but i thought you might call it "a modern merlin," eh?'
'"a modern merlin,"' repeated mark thoughtfully.
'yes, it's not quite the right thing, perhaps, but it's taking, i think, taking.'
mark said it was taking.
'of course your hero is not exactly a magician, but it brings in the "vivien" part of the story, don't you see?' of course mark did not see, but he thought it best to agree. 'well,' continued mr. fladgate, who was secretly rather proud of his title, 'how does it strike you now? it seems to me as good a title as we are likely to hit upon.'
after all, mark thought, what did it matter? it wasn't his book, except in name. 'i think it's excellent,' he said, 'excellent; and, by the way, mr. fladgate,' he added, 'i should like to change the nom de plume: it's a whim of mine, perhaps, but there's another i've been thinking lately i should like better.'
'by all means,' said the other, taking up a pencil to make the necessary alteration on the manuscript, 'but why not use your real name? i prophesy you'll be proud of that book some day; think over it.'
'no,' said mark, 'i don't wish my real name to appear just yet' (he hardly knew why; perhaps a lingering sense of shame held him back from this more open dishonesty). 'will you strike out "vincent beauchamp," and put in "cyril ernstone," please?' for 'cyril ernstone' had been the pseudonym which he had chosen long ago for himself, and he wished to be able to use it now, since he must not use his own.
'very well, then, we may consider that settled. we think of bringing out the book as soon as possible, without waiting for the spring season; it will go to press at once and we will send you the proofs as soon as we get them in.'
'there's one thing, perhaps, i'd better mention,' said mark suddenly; after he had turned to go a new danger had occurred to him, 'the handwriting of the manuscript is not mine. i--i thought it as well to tell you that beforehand; it might lead to mistakes. i had it copied out for me by--by a friend.'
mr. fladgate burst out laughing. 'pardon me,' he said, when he had finished, 'but really i couldn't help it, you do seem to have been so bent on hoodwinking us.'
'and yet you have found me out, you see,' said mark, with a very unmirthful smile.
mr. fladgate smiled, too, making a little gesture of his hand, thinking very possibly that few precautions could be proof against his sagacity, and they parted.
mark went down the stairs and through the clerks' room into the street, with a dazed and rather awestruck feeling upon him. he hardly realised the treachery he had been guilty of, the temptation had burst upon him so suddenly, his fall had been made so easy for him, that he scarcely felt his dishonour, nor was he likely to feel it very keenly so long as only good results should flow from it. but he was vaguely conscious that he was not the same mark ashburn who had parted from old shelford not an hour ago in the street there; he was a man with a new hope in his breast, and it might be a new fear, but the hope was near and bright, the fear shadowy and remote as yet: he had only to keep his own counsel and be patient for a while, and the course of events would assuredly bring him the stake he had played so high for.
at home that evening he took down his manuscript novels (which of course he had not burnt) and read them again carefully. yes; there was power in them, he felt it, a copious flow of words, sparkling wit, and melting pathos. the white heat at which the lines were written surprised even himself. it was humiliating to think that without the subterfuge that had been forced upon him he might have found it impossible to find publishers who would appreciate these merits, for after messrs. leadbitter & gandy's refusal he had recognised this to the full; but now, at least, they were insured against any such fate. a careful reading was absolutely necessary to a proper estimation of them, and a careful reading they had never had as yet, and would receive at last, or, if they did not, it would only be because the reputation he had appropriated would procure them a ready acceptance without any such preliminary ordeal. the great point gained was that they would be published, and after that he feared nothing.
if anything whispered to him that he might have accomplished even this by honourable means; that in time and with economy he could have produced them at his own expense; that perhaps a little more perseverance might even have discovered a firm with sufficient faith to take the risk upon themselves; if these doubts suggested themselves to him he had little difficulty in arguing them down. they might have had some weight once, but they came too late; the thing was done now and could never be recalled; his whole interest lay in persuading himself that what he had done was the only thing that could be done, unless he was content to resign his ambition for ever, and mark succeeded in persuading himself of this.
very soon his chief feeling was one of impatience for holroyd's book to come out and make way for his own: then any self-reproach he might still feel would be drowned in a sense of triumph which would justify the means he had taken; so he waited eagerly for the arrival of the first proofs.
they arrived at last. as he came back one evening to malakoff terrace, trixie ran to meet him, holding up two tightly rolled parcels, with a great curiosity in her eyes. 'they came this afternoon,' she whispered, 'and oh, mark, i couldn't help it; i tore one end a little and peeped; are they really part of a book--is it yours?'
mark thought he had better accustom himself to this kind of thing as early as possible. 'yes, trixie,' he said, 'they're the first proofs of my book.'
'o-oh!' cried trixie, with a gasp of delight, 'not "sweet bells jangled," mark?'
'no, not "sweet bells jangled," it--it's a book you don't know about--a little thing i don't expect very much from, but my publishers seem to like it, and i can follow it up with the "bells" afterwards.'
he was turning over the rough greyish pages as he spoke, and trixie was peeping greedily at them, too, with her pretty chin dug into his shoulder.
'and did you really write all that?' she said; 'how interesting it looks, you clever boy! you might have told me you were doing it, though. what's it about?'
'how can i tell you before i know myself,' said mark, quite forgetting himself in his impatience. 'i--i mean, trixie, that i can't correct these proofs as they ought to be corrected while you stay here chattering.'
'i'll go in a minute, mark; but you won't have time to correct them before dinner, you know. when did you write it?'
'what does it matter when i wrote it!' said mark irritably; 'if it hadn't been written the proofs wouldn't be here, would they? is there anything else you would like to know--how i wrote it, where i wrote it, why i wrote it? you seem to think it a most extraordinary thing that anything i write should be printed at all, trixie.'
'i don't know why you should speak like that, mark,' said trixie, rather hurt; 'you know a little while ago you never expected such a thing yourself. i can't help wanting to know all i can about it. what will you say to uncle solomon?' she added, with a little quiver of laughter in her voice. 'you promised him to give up literature, you know.'
'don't you remember the arab gentleman in the poem?' said mark lightly. 'he agreed to sell his steed, but when the time came it didn't come off--he didn't come off, either--he "flung them back their gold," and rode away. i shall fling uncle solomon back his gold, metaphorically, and gallop off on my pegasus.'
'ma won't like that,' prophesied trixie, shaking her head wisely.
'no; mother objects to that kind of horse-exercise, and, ahem, trixie, it might be as well to say nothing about it to any of them just at present. there will only be a fuss about it, and i can't stand that.'
trixie promised silence. 'i'm so glad about it, though, you can't think, mark,' she said; 'and this isn't one of your great books, either, you said, didn't you?'
'no,' said mark; 'it's not one of them. i haven't put my best work into it.'
'you put your best work into the two that came back, didn't you?' asked trixie naively. 'but they won't come back any more, will they? they'll be glad of them if this is a success.'
'fladgate will be glad of them, i fancy, in any case. i've got a chance at last, trixie. a chance at last!'
later that night he locked himself in the room which he used as a sitting-room and bedroom combined, and set himself, not without repugnance, to go steadily through the proofs, and make the acquaintance of the work he had made his own.
much has been said of the delight with which an author reads his first proofs, and possibly the sensation is a wholly pleasurable one to some; to others it is not without its drawbacks. ideas that seemed vivid and bright enough when they were penned have a bald tame look in the new form in which they come back. the writer finds himself judging the work as a stranger's, and forming the worst opinions of it. he sees hideous gaps and crudities beyond all power of correction, and for the first time, perhaps, since he learned that his manuscript was accepted, his self-doubts return to him.
but mark's feelings were much more complicated than this; all the gratified pride of an author was naturally denied to him, and it was thoroughly distasteful to him to carry out his scheme of deception by such sordid details as the necessary corrections of printers' errors.
but he was anxiously eager to find out what kind of a literary bantling was this which he had fathered so fraudulently; he had claimed it in blind reliance on the publisher's evident enthusiasm--had he made a mistake after all? what if it proved something which could do him no credit whatever--a trap into which his ambition had led him! the thought that this might be so made him very uneasy. poor holroyd, he thought, was a very good fellow--an excellent fellow, but not exactly the man to write a book of extraordinary merit--clever, perhaps, but clever in an unobtrusive way--and mark's tendency was to judge, as he expected to be judged himself, by outsides.
with these misgivings crowded upon him, he sat down to read the opening chapters; he was not likely to be much overcome by admiration in any case, for his habitual attitude in studying even the greatest works was critical, as he felt the presence of eccentricities or shortcomings which he himself would have avoided.
but at least, as he read on, his greatest anxiety was set at rest--if he could judge by the instalment before him, and the book was not in any danger of coming absolutely to grief--it would do his reputation no harm. it was not, to be sure, the sort of book he would have written himself, as he affected the cynical mode of treatment and the indiscriminate satire which a rather young writer feels instinctively that the world expects from him. still, it was not so bad. it was slightly dreamy and mystical in parts, the work of a man who had lived more amongst books than in the world, but some of the passages glowed with the rich imagery of a true poet, and here and there were indications of a quiet and cultivated humour which would recommend itself to all who do not consider the humorous element in literature as uncanny, if not personally offensive. the situations were strong, too, and as nearly new as situations can be and retain any probability in this over-plagiarised world; and at least one of the characters was obviously studied from life with a true and tender observation.
all of this mark did not see, nor was he capable of seeing, but he thought that, with a little 'weeding' and 'writing-up,' the book would do, and set himself to supply what was wanting with a laudable self-devotion. his general plan of accomplishing this may be described here once for all.
he freshened up chapters with touches of satire, and gave them a more scholarly air by liberal allusions to the classics; he rewrote some of the more descriptive and romantic passages, putting his finest and most florid epithets into them with what he felt was very like disinterestedness, and a reckless waste of good material. and he cut down the dialogue in places, or gave it a more colloquial turn, so as to suit the tastes of the average reader, and he worked up some of the crises which struck him as inadequately treated.
after that he felt much easier; either considering that these improvements constituted a sort of atonement, or that they removed any chance of failure. as this book was to go forth and herald his own, it was vitally important that it should make as imposing an appearance as possible.
one afternoon, early in the year, mark had betaken himself to the 'cock,' where he was to lunch with his uncle by appointment before going with him to the steward's office of his inn to pay his fees for the privilege of being called to the bar. for mark had duly presented himself for the not very searching ordeal by which the public is guaranteed against the incompetence of practitioners, and, rather to his own surprise, had not been required to try again. 'call night' was announced in the windows of the law wig-makers, and uncle solomon, in high delight, resolved that his nephew should join the next batch of barristers, had appointed this day for choosing the wig and gown and settling all other preliminaries--he had been so much pleased, in fact, as to inclose a handsome cheque in the letter which conveyed his desires.
so mark waited by the hoardings of the new law courts, until his relative should join him. mark was not at ease--he was nerving himself to make a statement which he felt would come upon his uncle as a far from gratifying surprise--he had put it off from time to time, out of weakness, or, as he had told himself, from diplomacy. now he could do so no longer. uncle solomon had hinted terrible things in his letter of a certain brief with which his own solicitor was to entrust the brand-new barrister the morning after his call! but for this, mark might have let things drift, as he would strongly have preferred to do, but this threat of immediate employment drove him to declare himself. he firmly believed that his true vocation was the one he had secured at such cost to his self-respect; he was willing enough to bear the title of barrister, but he had no intention of devoting himself seriously to the profession; he saw little more attraction in the bar than in teaching, and the most self-confident man might have recoiled at having work thrust into his hands before he had undergone the slightest practical training for conducting it. and mark's imagination saw his first brief bringing others in its train, until he should sink in a sea of blue foolscap, helpless and entangled in clinging tentacles of red-tape. perhaps this was a groundless alarm, but he had planned out a particular career for himself, a career of going about and observing (and it is well known that what a man of genius calls 'observing' is uncommonly like ordinary people's enjoyment), being famous and flattered, and sitting down in moments of inspiration to compose with a clear head and a mind unhampered by all other considerations. now the responsibility of legal work would hamper him--he felt his muse to be of that jealous disposition which will suffer no rival--if he meant to be free at all, he must strike the blow at once. and so, as has been said, he was not at his ease.
mr. lightowler appeared as st. clement danes struck half-past one; he was in high good-humour, jubilant, and ruddy. 'well, master barrister,' he said, chuckling; 'to think o' my living to see you figurin' about in a wig and gown--you must cut off that moustache of yours, though, mark: none of the young barrister fellows i see goin' up in the train of a mornin' wear 'em. i'm told the judges don't consider too much 'air respectful, hey? well, s'pose we go in and have a bit of something, eh? the "cock" is it? ah, i haven't been in here--i haven't been in here not since i was a young man "on the road," as we used to call it. i don't mean i was ever in the dick turpin line, but a commercial gentleman, you know. well, i've made my way since. you'll have to make yours, with more help than i ever had, though.'
mark led the way up a steep little passage and into the well-known room, with its boxes darkened by age, its saw-dusted floor and quaint carved jacobean mantelpiece. he chose a compartment well down at the bottom of the room.
'what's your partickler preference, eh?' said uncle solomon, rather as if he was treating a schoolboy. 'what's their speciality 'ere, now? well, you can give me,' he added to the waiter, with the manner of a man conferring a particular favour, 'you can give me a chump chop, underdone, and a sausage. and bring this young gentleman the same. i don't care about anything 'eavier at this time o' day,' he explained.
mark talked on all kinds of topics with desperate brilliancy for some time; he wanted time before approaching the subject.
uncle solomon broached it for him. 'you'll want a regler set o' chambers by-and-by,' he said; 'i've seen a room down middle temple lane that'll do for you for the present. when the briefs begin to come in, we'll see about something better. i was talkin' about you to ferret the other day,' he went on. 'it'll be all right; he's goin' to instruct their london agent to send you in a little something that you can try your 'prentice hand at directly. isn't that be'aving like an uncle to you, eh? i hope you will go and do me credit over it; that's the only way you can pay me back a little--i ask but that of you, mark.'
for all his bumptiousness and despotism, there was a real kindness, possibly not of the purest and most unselfish order, but still kindness in his manner, and mark felt a pang at having to reward it as he must.
the meal was over now, and uncle solomon was finishing the glass of whisky and water before him. 'well,' he said, as he set it down, 'we'd better be off to the place where i'm to pay the fees for you. ah, what you young fellows cost to start nowadays!'
'that's it,' said mark; 'i--i would rather not cost you anything, uncle.'
'it's rather late in the day to be partickler about that, i should say.'
'it is. i feel that; but i mean, i don't want to cost you any more.'
'what d'ye mean by that?'
'i mean that i don't care about being called to the bar at present.'
'don't you? well, i do, so let that be enough for you. if i'm willing to pay, i don't see what you 'ave to say against it. all you've got to do is to work.'
'uncle,' said mark in a low voice, 'i must tell you what i feel about this. i--i don't want to cause you to spend your money on false pretences.'
'you'd better not: that's all i can tell you!'
'precisely,' said mark; 'so i'll be quite frank with you beforehand. if you set your mind on it, i will take my call to the bar.'
'will yer, though? that's very affable of you, now!'
'yes, i will; but i shall never practise; if ferret's agent sends me this brief, i shall decline it.'
'i would; that's the way to get on at the bar; you're a sharp feller, you are!'
'i don't want to get on at the bar. i don't mean to take it up; there, if you choose to be angry, i can't help it. i've told you.'
'then may i take the liberty of inquirin' 'ow you purpose to live?' demanded uncle solomon.
'i mean to live by literature,' said mark; 'i know i promised i wouldn't write any more: well, as far as that goes, i've kept my word; but--but a former book of mine has been accepted on very liberal terms, i see my way now to making a living by my pen, and though i'm sorry, of course, if it disappoints you, i mean to choose my life for myself, while i can.'
it must be highly annoying when one has, after infinite labour, succeeded in converting a clown, to see him come to chapel with a red-hot poker and his pockets full of stolen sausages; but even that shock is nothing to uncle solomon's.
he turned deadly pale and sank back in the box, glaring at mark and opening his mouth once or twice with a fish-like action, but without speaking. when he could articulate, he called the waiter, giving mark reason for a moment to fear that he was going to pour out his rage and disappointment into the ears of one of the smug and active attendants.
'take for me and this young man, will yer?' was all he said, however. when the waiter had reckoned up the sum in the time-honoured manner and departed, uncle solomon turned and began to struggle into his great-coat. 'let me help you,' said mark, but mr. lightowler indignantly jerked himself away. 'i don't want to be helped into my coat by you,' he said; 'you've helped me into my grave by what you've done this day, you have; let that be sufficient for you!'
when he had rendered himself rather conspicuous by his ineffectual attempts to put on the coat, and was reduced to accept the assistance of two waiters who shook him into it obsequiously, he came back to the box where mark was sitting in a relieved but still vaguely uncomfortable frame of mind.
'i don't want to 'ave many words with you about this,' he began with a sternness that was not unimpressive. 'if i was to let myself out in 'ere, i should go too far. i'll only just tell you this much; this is the second time you've played me this trick, and it's the last! i warned you before that i should have done with you if you did it again: you'll 'ave no more chances like the last, so mind that. take care of that cheque, you needn't fear i shall stop it, but you won't get many more out o' me. and now i'll bid you good-day, young gentleman; i'm goin' to kensington, and then i shall do a little littery composing on my own account, since it's so pop'lar, and get ferret to help me with it. i'm not one of your littery men, but i dessey i can compose something yet that'll be read some day with a good deal of interest; it won't be pleasant reading for you, though, i can tell yer!'
he went noisily out, the waiters staring after him and the people looking up from their boxes as he passed, and mark was left to his own reflections, which were of a mixed order.
he had accomplished his main object--his slavery was over, and he felt an indescribable relief at the thought; still, he could not avoid the suspicion that his freedom might have been dearly purchased. his uncle's words had pointed to a state of things in which he would have benefited to a considerable extent under his will, and that was over now. would it not have been worth while to endure a little longer--but mark felt strongly that it would not. with such prospects as he now saw opening before him, the idea of submitting himself to an old man's ambitious whims for the sake of a reward which might, after all, be withheld at last was utterly revolting. he felt a certain excitement, too, at the idea of conquering the world single-handed.
when he left the 'cock' he walked slowly and irresolutely down the strand. 'if i go home now i shall find him blustering there. i don't feel equal to any more of him just now,' he thought.
he had no club to go to at that time, so he went and read the papers, and drank coffee at a cigar divan until it was late enough to dine, and after dinner tried to drown his care by going to see one of those anomalous productions--a 'three-act burlesque'--at a neighbouring theatre, which he sat through with a growing gloom, in spite of the pretty faces and graceful dances which have now, with some rare exceptions, made plot and humour so unnecessary. each leading member of the clever company danced his or her special pas seul as if for a competitive examination, but left him unthrilled amidst all the enthusiasm that thundered from most parts of the house. it is true that there were faces there--and young men's faces--quite as solemn as his own, but then theirs was the solemnity of an enjoyment too deep for expression, while mark's face was blank from a depression he could not shake off.
he went away at the end of the second act with a confused recollection of glowing groups of silk-clad figures, forming up into a tableau for no obvious dramatic reason, and, thinking it better to face his family before the morning, went straight home to malakoff terrace. he could not help a slight nervousness as he opened the gate and went up the narrow path of flagstones. the lower window was dark, but there were no lights in the upper rooms, so that he guessed that the family had not retired. mrs. ashburn was entirely opposed to the latch-key as a domestic implement, and had sternly refused to allow such a thing to pass her threshold, so that mark refrained from making use of the key--which of course he had--in all cases where it was not absolutely necessary, and he knocked and rang now.
trixie came to the door and let him in. 'they've sent ann to bed,' she whispered, 'but ma and pa are sitting up for you.'
'are they though?' said mark grimly, as he hung up his hat.
'yes,' said trixie; 'come in here for a minute, mark, while i tell you all about it. uncle solomon has been here this afternoon and stayed to dinner and he's been saying, oh, such dreadful things about you. why weren't you here?'
'i thought i should enjoy my dinner more if i dined out,' said mark. 'well, and what's the end of it all, trixie?'
'i'm sure i don't know what it will be. uncle solomon actually wanted me to come and live with him at chigbourne, and said he would make it worth my while in the end, if i would promise not to have anything more to do with you.'
'ah, and when are you going?' said mark, with a cynicism that was only on the surface.
'when!' said trixie indignantly, 'why, never. horrid old man! as if i cared about his money! i told him what i thought about things, and i think i made him angrier. i hope so, i'm sure.'
'did he make the same offer to martha or cuthbert?' asked mark; 'and were they indignant too?'
'they weren't asked. i don't think uncle solomon cares about them much; you're his favourite, mark.'
'yes, i'm his favourite,' said mark; 'but i'm not proud, trixie. besides, i rather think all that is over now.'
here the door of the next room opened, and mrs. ashburn's voice was heard saying, 'trixie, tell your brother mark that, if he is in a condition to be spoken to, his father and i have something to say to him at once.'
'encouraging that,' said mark. 'well, trixie, here goes. you'd better go to bed. i'm afraid we are going to have a scene in there.'
he went in with a rather overdone cheerfulness. 'well, mother,' he began, attempting to kiss her, 'i didn't dine at home to-night because----'
'i know why you didn't dine at home,' she said. 'i wish for no kisses from you, mark. we have seen your uncle.'
'so have i,' said mark; 'i lunched with him.'
'it is useless to trifle now,' she said; 'we know all.'
'i assure you i did lunch with him; we had chops,' said mark, who sometimes found the bland and childlike manner very useful in these emergencies. it did not serve him then, however.
'how could you deceive your uncle in such a manner?' she resumed.
'i didn't. i undeceived him.'
'you have disappointed all his plans for you; thrown up the bar, your position at st. peter's, all your prospects in life--and for what?'
'for fun, of course, mother. i don't know what i'm fit for or what i want; it's pure idiotic recklessness, isn't it?'
'it is; but don't talk to me in that ribald tone, mark; i have enough to bear as it is. once for all i ask you, is it true what my brother tells me, that you have returned to the mire like the sow in the scriptures; that you are going to let your name be connected with--with a novel, after all you have promised?'
'quite true,' said mark; 'i hope to be connected with many novels.'
'mark,' said his mother, 'you know what i think about that. i implore you to pause while there's time still, before doing what you can never recall. it's not only from worldly motives that i ask it. surely you can sacrifice a contemptible vanity to your duty towards your mother. i may be wrong in my prejudices, but still i have a right to expect you to regard them. i ask you once more to withdraw from this. are you going to refuse me?'
mrs. ashburn's harsh tones carried a very genuine feeling and concern. she truly believed that the paths of fiction would lead to her son's spiritual as well as his material ruin, and mark had sense enough to recognise the reality of this belief of hers, and drop the levity he had assumed for defensive purposes.
his father had, as usual, taken no part in the interview; he sat looking dolefully at the fire, as if anxious to remain neutral as long as possible; he had long been a mere suzerain, and, like some other suzerains, felt a very modified resentment at a rebellion against an authority that was only nominally his own.
so mark addressed himself to his mother only. 'i'm sorry if it grieves you, mother,' he said, gently enough; 'but you really must let me go my own way in this--it is no use at all asking me to withdraw now.... i have gone too far.... some day you will see that i was not so very foolish after all. i promise you that. wouldn't you rather think of me as living the life i could be happy in--being famous, perhaps, even, some day--than dragging out my days in a school or slaving at a profession i can never care for? of course you would! and a novel isn't such an awful thing, if you could only bring yourself to think so. you never will read one, you know, so you can't be a very impartial judge.'
mrs. ashburn read very little of any literature; what she did read being chiefly the sermons and biographies of dissenting divines, and she had never felt any desire to stimulate her imagination by anything much more exciting, especially by accounts of things that never happened, and were consequently untruthful. her extreme horror of fiction was a form of bigotry now almost extinct, but she had grown up in it and retained it in all the old puritan vigour.
she showed no signs of being at all impressed by mark's remonstrance; her eyes were severely cold, and her voice measured and loud as she replied, without looking at him.
'you won't make me change my opinion in the least, mark, if you were to talk till daylight. if you set yourself against my wishes in this, we have quite made up our minds how to act, have we not, matthew?'
'yes, quite,' said mr. ashburn, uneasily, 'quite; but i hope, mark, my boy, i hope you won't cross your mother in this, when you see how strongly she feels about it. i want to keep my children about me while i can; i don't wish anyone to go if it can be arranged--if it can be arranged.'
'do you mean, mother, that if i don't do as uncle solomon and you wish, i am to go?' asked mark.
'i do,' said his mother. 'i won't encourage any son of mine against my conscience and my principles. if you choose to live a life of frivolity and idleness, you shall not lead it under my roof; so you know what to expect if you persist in disobeying me--us, i mean.'
'mark, don't be headstrong--don't let your passion get the better of you!' cried his mother, moved out of all her stoniness--for she had not quite expected this, believing that the amount of mark's salary and his expenses made him practically dependent on her. she had forgotten his uncle's cheque, and did not believe in any serious profits to be gained from literature.
'i'm not in the least angry,' he said; 'i don't wish to go, if you wish me to stay, but if you meant what you said just now, i have no choice.'
his mother was much too proud to weaken her authority by retracting. she still hoped that he would yield if she remained firm, but yielding was out of the question with mark then, and, besides, independence had its charms, though he would not have been the first to loosen the tie.
'blame your wicked pride and selfishness, mark, not your mother, who is only anxious for your good. go, if you will, but don't dare to expect a blessing on your disobedience.'
'do you say go, too, father?' said mark.
'you hear what your mother says. what else can i say?' he answered feebly; 'it's very painful to me--all this--but you must take your own course.'
'i see i must,' said mark, and left the room.
'you've been very hard with the boy, jane,' said her husband, when they were alone, and she had sat for some time with a book open but unread before her; 'i really do think you've been very hard.'
'do you want to encourage him against his mother?' she asked.
'no, no, you know i don't, jane. anything you think right--but i think you were hard.'
'if i was, it was for his good,' she said; 'i have done what i thought right, and we have sat up long enough. we can do no good by talking over it any more, matthew. perhaps mark will think differently to-morrow.'
trixie had been waiting for mark in the adjoining room into which she beckoned him as he passed the door. 'how did it end?' she whispered. 'you were very quiet in there; is it settled?'
'yes, it's settled,' he said, 'i'm to go, trixie; i shall have to shift for myself. they won't have me here any longer!'
'oh, mark!' cried trixie. 'take me with you, do, it will be so horrid at home with only martha and cuthbert. you and i always got on together; let me come too!'
'i can't,' said mark, 'not yet--by-and-by, perhaps, trixie, when i'm a rich man, you know, we can manage it--just now i shall hardly be able to keep myself.'
'i'll work hard at my drawing and get into the academy. i've begun features already, and i shall soon get into the antique--then we can be famous together, you know.'
'we shall see,' said mark; 'and in the meantime, trixie, i think we had better both go to bed.'
when he was alone again and had time to think over the day which had proved so eventful, he could not find it in him to regret what had happened. he had got rid of uncle solomon, he had cast off the wig and gown which were to him as the garb of slavery, and the petty restraints of his home life were gone as well; he had no sentimental feelings about his banishment, the bosom of his family had not been a very appreciative or sympathetic one, and he had always intended to go forth from it as soon as he could afford it.
if he had really committed the offence for which he was to be driven from home, he could have considered himself a most interesting martyr; he did his best to do so as it was, but not with complete success. betraying a dead man's trust is scarcely heroic, and even mark felt that dimly, and could not dwell on his ill-treatment as he would dearly like to have done.
but there was something exciting for him, notwithstanding, in the future; he was to go out into the world and shift for himself, and conquer; he would have a part, and it might be a difficult one, to play for a season; but after that he could resume his own character and take the place he meant to fill in the world, feeling at last that the applause he won was his by right.
vincent holroyd had been unselfish in life; mark had always recognised that trait in his character, though the liking he had for the man had not been much the stronger on that account--if now vincent could see any brief and fleeting fame which his book might gain used as the stepping-stone to his friend's advancement, surely, mark told himself, he would scarcely grudge it.
but he hardly cared to justify to himself what he had done by any casuistry of this kind; he preferred to shut his eyes resolutely to the morality of the thing; he might have acted like the basest scoundrel, very likely he had. still, no one did, no one need, suspect him. all he had to do was to make the best use of the advantage he had snatched; when he could feel that he had done that, then he would feel justified; meanwhile he must put up with a few natural twinges of conscience now and then, when he was not feeling well.
the next morning breakfast passed without any reference to the scene of the night before; martha and cuthbert both knew of what had happened, but kept silence, and if mrs. ashburn had any hopes that mark would recant, she was disappointed.
that evening he informed them that he had taken rooms, and should not remain at malakoff terrace for more than a few days longer; his announcement being met by a grim 'very well, mark, just as you please,' from his mother; and though her heart sank at his words, and her last hope of prevailing died away, she never returned to the charge in any way, recognising that it was useless.
when the day for his departure came, there were no scenes; even trixie, who felt it most, was calm, for, after all, mark would not be so very far away, he had said she might come and see him sometimes; the other two were civil, and cold, there being that curious latent antipathy between them and him which sometimes exists between members of a family.
mr. ashburn had mumbled his good-byes with a touch of emotion and even shame in his manner as he shuffled away to his office. 'i don't want you to feel we've cast you off,' he had said nervously. 'your mother says rather more than she exactly feels at times; but it's better for you to go, my boy, better for all parties concerned. only, if you find yourself in--in any difficulties, come back to us, or--that is,' he amended, 'write, or come to me at the office, that will be better, perhaps.'
but mrs. ashburn's last words were, 'good-bye, mark. i never thought to part with a son of mine in anger; we may never meet again, but you may live to be sorry for the grief you have caused your mother, when you stand one day over her grave.'
this would have been more impressive if mrs. ashburn had not been so much addicted to indulging in such doleful predictions on less adequate occasions that she had discounted much of the effect that properly belonged to them; even as it was, however, they cut mark for the moment; he half offered to embrace his mother, but she made no response, and after waiting for a while, and finding that she made no sign, he went out with a slight shrug of expostulation.
when he had left the room, she half rose as if to follow, but stopped half way irresolute, while the cab which he had engaged to take himself and his luggage to his new quarters drove off, and then she went upstairs and shut herself in her bedroom for half-an-hour, and the maid, who was 'doing the rooms' hard by, reported afterwards to the cook that she had 'heard missus takin' on awful in there, a-sobbin', and groanin', and prayin' she was, all together like, it quite upset her to 'ear it.'
there were no traces of emotion on her face, however, when she came down again, and only an additional shade of grimness in her voice and manner to tell of the half-hour's agony in which her mother's heart had warred against her pride and her principles.
mark had now cut himself adrift and established himself in rooms in one of the small streets about connaught square, where he waited for his schemes to accomplish themselves. he still retained his mastership at st. peter's, although he hoped to be able to throw that up as soon as he could do so with any prudence, and the time that was not occupied by his school duties he devoted to the perfecting of his friend's work. it was hardly a labour of love, and he came to it with an ever-increasing weariness; all the tedious toiling through piles of proofs and revised proofs, the weeding out of ingenious perversions which seemed to possess a hydra-like power of multiplication after the first eradication, began to inspire him with an infinite loathing of this book which was his and not his own.
it had never interested him; he had never been able to feel the slightest admiration for any part of it, and at times he ceased to believe in it altogether, and think that, after all, he had transgressed to no purpose, and that his own book would have been a stronger staff to lean upon than this reed he had borrowed. but he had to go on with it now, and trust to his good-luck for the consequences; but still there were moments when he trembled at what he had done, and could not bear to be so constantly reminded of it.
there was a little story in the book which one of the subordinate characters told to a child, the distressing history of a small sugar prince on a twelfth-cake, who believed himself to be a fairy and was taken tenderly away from a children's party by a little girl who, as the prince supposed, would restore him somehow to his proper position in fairyland; instead of which, however, she took him home to an ordinary nursery and ate him.
mark was doubtful of the wisdom of retaining this story in the book at all--it seemed to him out of place there--but as he had some scruples about cutting it out, he allowed it to remain, a decision which was not without after-effect upon his fortunes.
the title of the book underwent one more change, for mr. fladgate's mind misgave him at the last moment as to his own first suggestion, and it was finally settled that the book should be called 'illusion,' which suited mark quite as well as anything else.
and so in due time mark read, with a certain curious thrill, the announcement that 'illusion,' a romance by cyril ernstone, was 'now ready at all libraries;' he sent no presentation copies, not even to trixie--he had thought of doing so, but when it came to the point he could not.
it was early one saturday afternoon in march, mark had walked back by a long round from the school to his lodgings through the parks, and the flower-beds were gay with the lilac, yellow and white of crocus and snowdrop, the smoke-blackened twigs were studded with tiny spikes of tender green, and the air was warm and subtly aromatic with the promise of spring--even in the muddy tainted streets the lent-lilies and narcissus flowers in the street-sellers' baskets gave touches of passing sweetness to the breeze.
mark felt a longing to get further away from the town and enjoy what remained of the afternoon on higher ground and in purer air; he would go up to hampstead, he thought, and see the lights sweeping over the rusty bracken on the heath, or walk down over highgate hill, and past the quaint old brick houses with their high-trim laurel hedges and their last century wrought-iron gateways and lamps in which the light of other days no longer burns.
but he did not go to either place that afternoon, for when he ran up to his rooms to change his hat and coat, he saw that on his table which made him forget his purpose altogether. it was a packet inclosed in a wrapper which bore the name of his publishers on the outside, and he knew at once before opening it that it contained reviews. he tore off the wrapper eagerly, for now at last he would learn whether he had made a bold and successful stroke, or only a frightful mistake.
beginners have taken up reviews before now, cowering in anticipation before the curse of balaam, to receive an unexpected benediction; but perhaps no one could be quite so unprepared for this pleasant form of surprise as mark, for others have written the works that are criticised, and though they may have worked themselves up into a surface ferment of doubt and humility, deep down in their hearts there is a wonderfully calm acceptance, after the first shock, of the most extravagant eulogy.
the opening paragraphs of the first critique were enough to relieve mark's main anxiety; holroyd's book was not a failure--there could be no doubt of that--it was treated with respectful consideration as the work of a man who was entitled to be taken seriously; if reviews had any influence (and it can scarcely be questioned that a favourable review has much) this one alone could not fail to bring 'illusion' its fair share of attention.
mark laid down the first paper with a sense of triumph. if a very ordinary book like poor holroyd's was received in this way, what might he not expect when he produced his own!
then he took up the next. here the critic was more measured in his praise. the book he pronounced to be on the whole a good and very nearly a great one, a fine conception fairly worked out, but there was too strong a tendency in parts to a certain dreamy mysticism (here mark began to regret that he had not been more careful over the proofs), while the general tone was a little too metaphysical, and the whole marred by even more serious blemishes.
'the author,' continued the reviewer, 'whose style is for the most part easy and dignified, with a praiseworthy absence of all inflation or bombast, seems at times to have been smitten by a fatal desire to "split the ears of the groundlings" and produce an impression by showy parades of a not overwhelmingly profound scholarship; and the effect of these contrasts would be grotesque in the extreme, were it not absolutely painful in a work of such high average merit. what, for instance, will be thought of the taste of a writer who could close a really pathetic scene of estrangement between the lovers by such a sentence as the following?...'
the sentence which followed was one of those which mark had felt it due to himself to interpolate. this was but one example, said the inexorable critic, there were other instances more flagrant still--and in all of these the astonished mark recognised his own improvements!
to say that this was for the moment an exceedingly unpleasant shock to his self-satisfaction is to state a sufficiently obvious fact; but mark's character must have been very imperfectly indicated if it surprises anyone to hear that it did not take him long to recover from the blow.
perhaps he had been wrong in grafting his own strong individuality on an entirely foreign trunk--he had not been careful enough to harmonise the two styles--it was merely an odd coincidence that the reviewer, struck naturally enough by the disparity, should have pitched upon him as the offender. by-and-by he grew to believe it a positive compliment that the reviewer (no doubt a dull person) had simply singled out for disapproval all the passages which were out of his depth--if there had been nothing remarkable about them, they would not have been noticed at all.
and so, as it is a remarkable peculiarity in the mind of man, that it can frequently be set at ease by some self-constructed theory which would not bear its own examination for a minute--as if a quack were to treat himself with his own bread-pills and feel better--mark, having convinced himself that the reviewer was a crass fool whose praise and blame were to be read conversely, found the wound to his self-love begin to heal from that moment.
that same saturday afternoon mabel was sitting in the little room at the back of the house, in which she received her own particular friends, wrote her letters, and read; just then she was engaged in the latter occupation, for the books had come in from the library that day, and she had sat down after luncheon to skim them through before selecting any which seemed worth more careful reading.
mabel had grown to be fastidious in the matter of fiction, the natural result of a sense of humour combined with an instinctive appreciation of style. there had been a time of course, when, released from the strict censorship of a boarding-school under which all novels on the very lengthy index expurgatorius had to be read in delicious stealth, she had devoured eagerly any literature which was in bright covers and three volumes--but that time was past now.
she could not cry over cheap pathos, or laugh at secondhand humour, or shudder at sham cynicism any longer--desperate escapes and rescues moved her not, and she had wearied of beautiful wicked fiends and effeminate golden-haired guardsmen, who hold a titanic strength in reserve as their one practical joke, but the liberty she had enjoyed had done her no particular harm, even if many mothers might have thought it their duty to restrict it, which mrs. langton was too languid or had too much confidence in her daughter to think of attempting.
mabel had only returned to the works of the great masters of this century with an appreciation heightened by contrast, and though her new delight in them did not blind her--as why should it?--to the lesser lights in whom something may be found to learn or enjoy, she now had standards by which she could form her opinions of them.
amongst the books sent in that week was 'illusion,' a romance by cyril ernstone, and mabel had looked at its neat grey-green covers and red lettering with a little curiosity, for somebody had spoken of it to her the day before, and she took it up with the intention of reading a chapter or two before going out with her racket into the square, where the tennis season had already set in on the level corner of the lawn.
but the afternoon wore on, and she remained by the window in a low wicker chair, indifferent to the spring sunshine outside, to the attractions of lawn tennis, or the occasional sounds of callers, reading on with parted lips and an occasional little musical laugh or involuntary sigh, as holroyd had once dreamed of seeing his book read by her.
his strong and self-contained nature had unfolded all its deepest tenderness and most cherished fancies in that his first book, and the pages had the interest of a confession. mabel felt that personal affection for the unknown writer which to have aroused must be the crown of crowns to those who love their art.
the faults of style and errors of taste here and there which jarred upon her were still too rare or too foreign to the general tone of the book to prejudice her seriously, and she put down the book half finished, not from weariness but with an unusual desire to economise the pleasure it gave her.
'i wonder what "cyril ernstone" is like,' she thought, half unconsciously.
perhaps, by the way, a popular but plain author who finds it necessary to cultivate society, would discover, if he would go about veiled or engage a better-looking man to personate him, a speedy increase in the circulation of his next work, and, if at all sensitive as to his own shortcomings, he would certainly be spared a considerable amount of pain, for it is trying for a man who rather enjoys being idolised to be compelled to act as his own iconoclast.
while mabel was speculating on the personal appearance of the author of 'illusion,' dolly darted in suddenly. 'oh, there you are, mabel,' she said, 'how lazy of you! mother thought you were playing tennis, and some people have called, and she and i had to do all the talking to them!'
'come and rest then, dolly,' said mabel, putting an arm up and drawing her down to a low stool by her chair.
'i've got my new sash on,' said dolly warningly.
'i'll be careful,' said mabel, 'and i've found a little story in this book i am going to read to you, dolly, if you care about it.'
'not a long story, is it, mab?' inquired dolly rather dubiously. but she finally settled herself comfortably down to listen, with her bright little face laid against mabel's side, while she read the melancholy fate of the sugar fairy prince.
dolly heard it all out in silence, and with a growing trouble in her eyes. when it was all over, and the heartless mortal princess had swallowed the sugar prince, she turned half away and said softly, 'mabel, that was me.'
mabel laughed. 'what do you mean, dolly?' she said.
'i thought he was plain sugar,' dolly protested piteously; 'how was i to know? i never heard of sugar fairies before. and he did look pretty at first, but i spilt some tea over him, and the colour got all mixed up, just as the story says it did, and so i ate him.'
'it's only a story, dolly, you know; you needn't make yourself unhappy about it--it isn't true really.'
'but it must be true, it's all put down exactly as it happened.... and it was me.... i've eaten up a real fairy prince.... mabel, i'm a greedy pig. if i hadn't done it, perhaps we could have got him out of the sugar somehow, and then colin and i would have had a live fairy to play with. that's what he expected me to do, and i ate him instead. i know he was a fairy, mabel, he tasted so nice.... poor, poor little prince!'
dolly was so evidently distressed that mabel tried hard to convince her that the story was about another little girl, the prince was only a sugar one, and so on; but she did not succeed, until the idea struck her that a writer whose book seemed to indicate a sympathetic nature would not object to the trouble of removing the childish fears he had aroused, and she said: 'listen, dolly; suppose you write a letter to mr. ernstone--at his publishers', you know--i'll show you how to address it, but you must write the rest yourself, and ask him to tell you if the sugar prince was really a fairy, and then you will know all about it; but my own belief is, dolly, that there aren't any fairies--now, at any rate.'
'if there weren't,' argued dolly, 'people wouldn't write books about them. i've seen pictures of them lots of times.'
'and they dance in rows at the pantomime, don't they, dolly?' said mabel.
'oh, i know those aren't fairies--only thin little girls,' said dolly contemptuously. 'i'm not a baby, mabel, but i would write to mr.--what you said just now--only i hate letter-writing so--ink is such blotty, messy stuff--and i daresay he wouldn't answer after all.'
'try him, dear,' said mabel.
dolly looked obstinate and said nothing just then, and mabel did not think it well to refer to the matter again. but the next week, from certain little affectations of tremendous mystery on dolly's part, and the absence of the library copy of 'illusion' from the morning-room during one whole afternoon, after which it reappeared in a state of preternatural inkiness, mabel had a suspicion that her suggestion was not so disregarded as it had seemed.
and a few days afterwards mark found on his breakfast table an envelope from his publisher, which proved to contain a letter directed to 'mr. ciril ernstone,' at the office. the letter was written in a round childish hand, with scrapings here and there to record the fall of a vanquished blot.
'dear mr. ciril ernstone,' it ran, 'i want you to tell me how you knew that i ate that sugar prince in your story, and if you meant me really. perhaps you made that part of it up, or else it was some other girl, but please write and tell me who it was and all about it, because i do so hate to think i've eaten up a real fairy without knowing it.--dorothy margaret langton.'
this poor little letter made mark very angry; if he had written the story he would, of course, have been amused if not pleased by the naïve testimony to his power; but, as it was, it annoyed him to a quite unreasonable extent.
he threw dolly's note pettishly across the table; 'i wish i had cut that sugar prince story out; i can't tell the child anything about it. langton, too--wonder if it's any relation to my langton--sister of his, perhaps--he lives at notting hill somewhere. well, i won't write; if i do i shall put my foot in it somehow.... it's quite likely that vincent knew this child. she can't be seriously unhappy about such a piece of nonsense, and if she is, it's not my fault.'
mark had never quite lost the memory of that morning in the fog, his brief meeting with mabel, and the untimely parting by the hedge. subsequent events had naturally done something to efface the impression which her charm and grace had made upon him then; but even yet he saw her face at times as clearly as ever, and suffered once more the dull pain he had felt when he first knew that she had gone from him without leaving him the faintest hope of being ever privileged to know her more intimately or even see her again.
sometimes, when he dreamed most wildly of the brilliant future that was to come to him, he saw himself, as the author of several famous and successful works (amongst which 'illusion' was entirely obscured), meeting her once more, and marking his sense of her past ingratitude by a studied coldness. but this was a possibility that never, even in his most sanguine moments, was other than remote.
if he had but known it, there had long been close at hand--in the shape of young langton--a means which, judiciously managed, might have brought that part of his dream to pass immediately, and now he had that which would realise it even more surely and effectually.
but he did not know, and let the appeal lie unanswered that was due to mabel's suggestion--'the moral of which,' as alice's duchess might say, is that one should never neglect a child's letter.
a 'thorn and flower piece.'
'illusion' had not been very long published before mark began to have uncomfortable anticipations that it might be on the way to achieve an unexpected success, and he was nearer the truth in this than he himself believed as yet. it might not become popular in the wider and coarser sense of the word, being somewhat over the heads of the large class who read fiction for the 'story;' it might never find its way to railway bookstalls (though even this, as will appear, befell it in time,) or be considered a profitable subject for transatlantic piracy; but it was already gaining recognition as a book that people of any culture should, for their own sakes, at least assume to have read and appreciated.
mark was hailed by many judges of such things as a new and powerful thinker, who had chosen to veil his theories under the garb of romance, and if the theory was dissented from in some quarters, the power and charm of the book were universally admitted. at dinner parties, and in all circles where literature is discussed at all, 'illusion' was becoming a standard topic; friendships were cemented and intimacies dissolved over it; it became a kind of 'shibboleth.'
at first mark had little opportunity of realising this to the full extent, for he went out seldom if at all. there had been a time in his life--before he had left cambridge, that is--when he had mixed more in society; his undergraduate friends had been proud to present to their family circle a man with his reputation for general brilliancy, and so his engagements in the vacations had been frequent. but this did not last; from a feeling that his own domestic surroundings would scarcely bear out a vaguely magnificent way he had of alluding to his 'place' and his 'people'--a way which was not so much deliberate imposition as a habit caught from associates richer and higher up in the social scale--from this feeling, he never offered to return any of these hospitalities, and though this was not rigorously expected of him, it did serve to prevent any one of his numerous acquaintanceships from ripening into something more. when the crash came, and it was generally discovered that the reputed brilliant man of his year was a very ordinary failure, mark found himself speedily forgotten, and in the first soreness of disappointment was not sorry to remain in obscurity for a season.
but now a reaction in his favour was setting in; his publishers were already talking of a second edition of 'illusion,' and he received, under his name of 'cyril ernstone,' countless letters of congratulation and kindly criticism, all so pleasantly and cordially worded, that each successive note made him angrier, the only one that consoled him at all being a communication in a female hand which abused the book and its writer in the most unmeasured terms. for his correspondent's estimate of the work was the one which he had a secret wish to see more prevalent (so long, of course, as it did not interfere with the success of his scheme), and he could almost have written to thank her--had she not, by some unfortunate oversight, forgotten to append her name and address.
the next stage in the career of the book was a discovery on someone's part that the name of its author was an assumed one, and although there are many who would as little think of looking for the name of the man who wrote the play they see or the book they read as they would for that of the locomotive behind which they travel, there are still circles for whom the first two matters at least possess an interest.
and so several set out to run the actual author to earth, well assured that, as is fabled of the fox, he himself would enjoy the sport as much as his pursuers; and it is the fact that mark might have given them a much longer run had he been anxious to do so, but, though he regretted it afterwards, the fruits of popularity were too desirable to be foregone.
there were some false cries at first. a 'london correspondent' knew for a fact that the book was written by an old lady at a lunatic asylum in her lucid intervals; while a ladies' journal had heard that the author was a common carpenter and entirely self-educated; and there were other similar discoveries. but before they had time to circulate widely, it became somehow common knowledge that the author was a young schoolmaster, and that his real name was mark ashburn.
and mark at once began to reap the benefit. his old friends sought him out once more; men who had passed him in the streets with a careless nod that was almost as bad as a cut direct, or without even the smallest acknowledgment that a time had been when they were inseparables, now found time to stop him and ask if the rumours of his début in literature were really true.
by-and-by cards began to line his mantelpiece as in the old days; he went out once more, and met everywhere the kindness and courtesy that the world of london, whatever may be said against it, is never chary of showing towards the most insignificant person who has once had the good fortune to arouse its interest.
mark liked it all at first, but as he saw the book growing more and more in favour, and the honours paid to himself increasing, he began to be uneasy at his own success.
he would not have objected to the book's securing a moderate degree of attention, so as to prepare the public mind for the blaze of intellect he had in reserve for it--that he had expected, or at least hoped for--but the mischief of this ridiculous enthusiasm which everyone he met seemed to be affecting over this book of holroyd's was that it made an anticlimax only too possible when his own should see the light.
mark heard compliments and thanks with much the annoyance a practised raconteur must feel with the feeble listener who laughs heartily, while the point of the story he is being told is still in perspective.
and soon he wished heartily that the halo he felt was burning round his undeserving head could be moderated or put out, like a lamp--it was such an inconvenience. he could never escape from holroyd's book; people would talk to him about it.
sooner or later, while talking to the most charming persons, just when he was feeling himself conversationally at his very best, he would see the symptoms he dreaded warning him that the one fatal topic was about to be introduced, which seemed to have the effect of paralysing his brain. he would struggle hard against it, making frantic efforts to turn the subject, and doubling with infinite dexterity; but generally his interlocutor was not to be put off, 'running cunning,' as it were, like a greyhound dead to sporting instincts, and fixing him at once with a 'now, mr. ashburn, you really must allow me to express to you some of the pleasure and instruction i have received from your book,' and so on; and then mark found himself forced to listen with ghastly smiles of sham gratification to the praises of his rival, as he now felt holroyd was after all becoming, and had to discuss with the air of a creator this book which he had never cared to understand, and soon came cordially to detest.
if he had been the real author, all this would of course have been delightful to him; it was all so kind and so evidently sincere for the most part, that only a very priggish or cynical person could have affected to undervalue it, and any other, even if he felt it overstrained now and then, would have enjoyed it frankly while it lasted, remembering that, in the nature of things, it could not last very long.
but unfortunately, mark had not written 'illusion,' which made all the difference. no author could have shrunk more sensitively in his inmost soul than he did from the praise of his fellow-men, and his modesty would have been more generally remarked had he not been wise enough to perceive that modesty, in a man, is a virtue with a dangerous streak of the ridiculous about it.
and so he braced himself to go through with it and play out his part. it would not be for long; soon he would have his own book to be complimented upon and to explain. meanwhile he worked hard at 'illusion,' until he came to have a considerable surface acquaintance with it; he knew the names of all the more important characters in it now, and hardly ever mixed them up; he worked out most of the allusions, and made a careful analysis of the plot and pedigrees of some of the families. it was much harder work than reading law, and quite as distasteful; but then it had to be done if he meant to preserve appearances at all.
his fame had penetrated to st. peter's, where his fellow-masters treated him with an unaccustomed deference, only partially veiled by mild badinage on the part of the younger men; while even the boys were vaguely aware that he had distinguished himself in the outer world, and mark found his authority much easier to maintain.
'how's that young rascal--what's his name? langton?--the little scamp who said he called me "prawn," but not "shellfish," the impident fellow! how's he getting on, hey?' said mr. shelford to mark one day about this time.
mark replied that the boy had left his form now, but that he heard he was doing well, and had begun to acquire the graceful art of verse-making. 'verse-making? ay, ay; is he indeed? you know, ashburn, i often think it's a good thing there are none of the old romans alive now. they weren't a yumorous nation, taken as a whole; but i fancy some of our prize latin verses would set the stiffest of 'em sniggering. and we laugh at "baboo english," as they call it! but you tell langton from me, when you see him, that if he likes to try his hand at a set of elegiacs on a poor old cat of mine that died the other day, i'll look 'em over if he brings them to me after school some day, and if they're what i consider worthy of the deceased's many virtues, i'll find some way of rewarding him. she was a black persian and her name was "jinks," but he'll find it latinise well as "jinxia," tell him. and now i think of it,' he added, 'i never congratulated you on the effort of your muse. it's not often i read these things now, but i took your book up, and--maybe i'm too candid in telling you so--but it fairly surprised me. i'd no idea you had it in you.'
mark found it difficult to hit the right expression of countenance at such a compliment, but he did it. 'there are some very fine things in that book, sir,' continued mr. shelford, 'some very noble words; remarkable for so young a man as you must be. you have lived, ashburn, it's easy to see that!'
'oh, well,' said mark, 'i--i've knocked about, you know.'
'ah, and you've knocked something into you, too, which is more to the purpose. i'd like to know now when you found time to construct your theories of life and conduct.'
mark began to find this embarrassing; he said he had hit upon them at odd times ('very odd times,' he could not help remembering), and shifted his ground a little uneasily, but he was held fast by the buttonhole. 'they're remarkably sound and striking, i must say that, and your story is interesting, too. i found myself looking at the end, sir, ha, ha! to see what became of your characters. ah, i knew there was something i wanted to ask you. there's a heading you've got for one of your chapters, a quotation from some latin author, which i can't place to my satisfaction; i mean that one beginning "non terret principes."'
'oh, that one?' repeated mark blankly.
'yes, it reads to me like later latin; where did you take it from? one of the fathers?'
'one of them, i forget which,' said mark quickly, wishing he had cut the quotations out.
'that ægritudo, now, "ægritudo superveniens," you know--how do you understand that?'
mark had never troubled himself to understand it at all, so he stared at his interrogator in rather a lost way.
'i mean, do you take it as of the mind or body (that's what made me fancy it must be later latin). and then there's the correxit?'
mark admitted that there was the 'correxit.' 'it's mind,' he said quickly. 'oh, decidedly the mind, not body, and--er--i think that's my 'bus passing. i'll say good-bye;' and he escaped with a weary conviction that he must devote yet more study to the detested 'illusion.'
this is only a sample of the petty vexations to which he had exposed himself. he had taken over a business which he did not understand, and naturally found the technicalities troublesome, for though, as has been seen, his own tendencies were literary, he had not soared so high as a philosophical romance, while his scholarship, more brilliant than profound, was not always equal to the 'unseen passages' from out-of-the-way authors with which holroyd had embellished his chapters.
but a little more care made him feel easier on this score, and then there were many compensations; for one unexpected piece of good fortune, which will be recorded presently, he had mainly to thank his friend's book.
he had met an old acquaintance of his, a certain young herbert featherstone, who had on any previous chance encounter seemed affected by a kind of trance, during which his eyes lost all power of vision, but was now completely recovered, so much so indeed as to greet mark with a quite unexpected warmth.
was it true that he had written this new book? what was its name--'delusion' or something? fellows were saying he had; hadn't read it himself; his mother and sister had; said it was a devilish good book, too. where was he hanging out now, and what was he doing on the 10th? could he come to a little dance his people had that night? very well, then, he should have a card.
mark was slightly inclined to let the other understand that he knew the worth of this resuscitated friendliness, but he refrained. he knew of the featherstones as wealthy people, with the reputation of giving the pleasantest entertainments in london. he had his way to make in the world, and could not afford, he thought, to neglect these opportunities. so he went to the dance and, as he happened to dance well, enjoyed himself, in spite of the fact that two of his partners had read 'illusion,' and knew him as the author of it. they were both pretty and charming girls, but mark did not enjoy either of those particular valses. in the course of the evening he had a brief conversation with his hostess, and was fortunate enough to produce a favourable impression. mrs. featherstone was literary herself, as a reputedly strong-minded lady who had once written two particularly weak-minded novels would necessarily be. she liked to have a few rising young literary men in her train, with whom she might discuss subjects loftier than ordinary society cares to grasp; but she was careful at the same time that her daughter should not share too frequently in these intellectual privileges, for gilda featherstone was very handsome, and literary men are as impressionable as other people.
mark called one saturday afternoon at the featherstones' house in grosvenor place, as he had been expressly invited to do on the occasion of the dance, and found mrs. featherstone at home. it was not her regular day, and she received him alone, though mark heard voices and laughter now and then from behind the hangings which concealed the end room of the long suite.
'and now let us talk about your delightful "illusion," mr. ernstone,' she said graciously. 'do you know, i felt when i read your book that some of my innermost thoughts, my highest aspirations, had been put into words--and such words--for me! it was soul speaking to soul, and you get that in so few novels, you know! what a rapture literary creation is! don't you feel that? i am sure, even in my own poor little way--you must know that i have scribbled once upon a time--even in my own experience, i know what a state of excitement i got into over my own stories. one's characters get to be actual living companions to one; they act by themselves, and all one has to do is just to sit by and look on, and describe.'
this seemed to mark to prove a vividness of imagination on mrs. featherstone's part to which her literary productions had not, so far as he knew, done full credit. but he was equal to the occasion.
'your characters, mrs. featherstone, are companions to many more than their creator. i must confess that i, for one, fell hopelessly in love with your gwendoline vane, in "mammon and moonshine."' mark had once read a slashing review of a flabby little novel with a wooden heroine of that name, and turned it to good account now, after his fashion.
'now, how nice of you to say that,' she said, highly pleased. 'i am very fond of gwendoline myself--my ideal, you know. i won't quote that about "praise from sir hubert," because it's so very trite, but i feel it. but do you really like gwendoline better than my magdalen harwood, in "strawberries and cream."'
here mark got into deep water once more; but he was no mean conversational swimmer, and reached dry land without any unseemly floundering.
'it has been suggested to me, do you know,' she said when her own works had been at last disposed of, 'that your "illusion" would make such an admirable play; the central motive really so dramatic. of course one would have to leave the philosophy out, and all the beautiful reflections, but the story would be left. have you ever thought of dramatising it yourself, mr. ashburn?'
mark had not. 'ah, well,' she said, 'if ever i have time again to give to literature, i shall ask your permission to let me see what i can do with it. i have written some little charades for drawing-room theatricals, you know, so i am not quite without experience.'
mark, wondering inwardly how holroyd would relish this proposal if he were alive, said that he was sure the story would gain by her treatment; and presently she proposed that they should go to the further room and see 'how the young people were getting on,' which mark received with an immense relief, and followed her through the portière to the inner room, in which, as will be seen, an unexpected stroke of good fortune was to befall him.
they found the young people, with a married sister of mrs. featherstone, sitting round a small table on which was a heap of cartes-de-visite, as they used to be called for no very obvious reason.
gilda featherstone, a lively brunette, with the manner of a young lady accustomed to her own way, looked up from the table to welcome mark. 'you've caught us all at a very frivolous game, mr. ashburn. i hope you won't be shocked. we've all had our feelings outraged at least once, so we're going to stop now, while we're still on speaking terms.'
'but what is it?' said mrs. featherstone. 'it isn't cards, gilda dearest, is it?'
'let me explain, mrs. featherstone,' said caffyn, who liked to drop in at grosvenor place occasionally, where he was on terms of some intimacy. 'i don't know if you're acquainted with the game of "nap"?' mrs. featherstone shook her head, not too amiably, for she had been growing alarmed of late by a habit her daughter had acquired of mentioning or quoting this versatile young man whom her husband persisted so blindly in encouraging. 'ah!' said caffyn, unabashed. 'well, anyway, this is modelled on it. we take out a selection of photographs, the oldest preferred, shuffle them, and deal round five photographs to each player, and the ugliest card in each round takes the trick.'
'i call it a most ill-natured game,' said the aunt, who had seen an old and unrecognised portrait of herself and the likenesses of several of her husband's family (a plain one) voted the master-cards.
'oh, so much must be said for it,' said caffyn; 'it isn't a game to be played everywhere, of course; but it gives great scope for the emotions. think of the pleasure of gaining a trick with the portrait of your dearest friend, and then it's such a capital way of ascertaining your own and others' precise positions in the beauty scale, and all the plain people acquire quite a new value as picture-cards.'
he had played his own very cautiously, having found his amusement in watching the various revelations of pique and vanity amongst the others, and so could speak with security.
'my brothers all took tricks,' said one young lady, who had inherited her mother's delicate beauty, while the rest of the family resembled a singularly unhandsome father--which enabled her to speak without very deep resentment.
'so did poor dear papa,' said gilda, 'but that was the one taken in fancy dress, and he would go as dante.'
'nothing could stand against gurgoyle,' observed caffyn. 'he was a sure ace every time. he'll be glad to know he was such a success. you must tell him, miss featherstone.'
'now i won't have poor mr. gurgoyle made fun of,' said mrs. featherstone, but with a considerable return of amiability. 'people always tell me that with all his plainness he's the most amusing young man in town, though i confess i never could see any signs of it myself.'
the fact was that an unlucky epigram by the mr. gurgoyle in question at mrs. featherstone's expense, which of course had found its way to her, had produced a coolness on her part, as caffyn was perfectly well aware.
'"ars est celare artem," as mr. bancroft remarks at the haymarket,' he said lightly. 'gurgoyle is one of those people who is always put down as witty till he has the indiscretion to try. then they put him down some other way.'
'but why is he considered witty then, if he isn't?' asked gilda featherstone.
'i don't know. i suppose because we like to think nature makes these compensations sometimes, but gurgoyle must have put her out of temper at the very beginning. she's done nothing in that way for him.'
mrs. featherstone, although aware that the verdict on the absent gurgoyle was far from being a just one, was not altogether above being pleased by it, and showed it by a manner many degrees more thawed than that she had originally prescribed to herself in dealing with this very ineligible young actor.
'mr. ashburn,' said miss featherstone, after one or two glances in the direction of caffyn, who was absorbed in following up the advantage he had gained with her mother, 'will you come and help me to put these photos back? there are lots of bertie's cambridge friends here, and you can tell me who those i don't know are.'
so mark followed her to a side table, and then came the stroke of good fortune which has been spoken of; for, as he was replacing the likenesses in the albums in the order they were given to him, he was given one at the sight of which he could not avoid a slight start. it was a vignette, very delicately and artistically executed, of a girl's head, and as he looked, hardly daring to believe in such a coincidence, he was almost certain that the pure brow, with the tendrils of soft hair curling above it, the deep clear eyes, and the mouth which for all its sweetness had the possibility of disdain in its curves, were those of no other than the girl he had met months ago, and had almost resigned himself never to meet again.
his voice trembled a little with excitement as he said 'may i ask the name of this lady?'
'that is mabel langton. i think she's perfectly lovely; don't you? she was to have been at our dance the other night, and then you would have seen her. but she couldn't come at the last moment.'
'i think i have met miss langton,' said mark, beginning to see now all that he had gained by learning this simple surname. 'hasn't she a little sister called dorothy?'
'dolly? oh yes. sweetly pretty child--terribly spoilt. i think she will put dear mabel quite in the shade by the time she comes out; her features are so much more regular. yes; i see you know our mabel langton. and now, do tell me, mr. ashburn, because of course you can read people's characters so clearly, you know, what do you think of mabel, really and truly?'
miss featherstone was fond of getting her views on the characters of her friends revised and corrected for her by competent male opinion, but it was sometimes embarrassing to be appealed to in this way, while only a very unsophisticated person would permit himself to be entirely candid, either in praise or detraction.
'well, really,' said mark, 'you see, i have only met her once in my life.'
'oh, but that must be quite enough for you, mr. ashburn! and mabel langton is always such a puzzle to me. i never can quite make up my mind if she is really as sweet as she seems. sometimes i fancy i have noticed--and yet i can't be sure--i've heard people say that she's just the least bit, not exactly conceited, perhaps, but too inclined to trust her own opinion about things and snub people who won't agree with her. but she isn't, is she? i always say that is quite a wrong idea about her. still perhaps---- oh, wouldn't you like to know mr. caffyn? he is very clever and amusing, you know, and has just gone on the stage, but he's not as good there as we all thought he would be. he's coming this way now.' here caffyn strolled leisurely towards them, and the introduction was made. 'of course you have heard of mr. ashburn's great book, "illusion"?' gilda featherstone said, as she mentioned mark's name.
'heard of nothing else lately,' said caffyn. 'after which i am ashamed to have to own i haven't read it, but it's the disgraceful truth.'
mark felt the danger of being betrayed by a speech like this into saying something too hideously fatuous, over the memory of which he would grow hot with shame in the night-watches, so he contented himself with an indulgent smile, perhaps, in default of some impossible combination of wit and modesty, his best available resource.
besides, the new acquaintance made him strangely uneasy; he felt warned to avoid him by one of those odd instincts which (although we scarcely ever obey them) are surely given us for our protection; he could not meet the cold light eyes which seemed to search him through and through.
'mr. ashburn and i were just discussing somebody's character,' said miss featherstone, by way of ending an awkward pause.
'poor somebody!' drawled caffyn, with an easy impertinence which he had induced many girls, and gilda amongst them, to tolerate, if not admire.
'you need not pity her,' said gilda, indignantly; 'we were defending her.'
'ah!' said caffyn, 'from one another.'
'no, we were not; and if you are going to be cynical, and satirical, and all that, you can go away. well, sit down, then, and behave yourself. what, must you go, mr. ashburn? good-bye, then. mr. caffyn, i want you to tell me what you really think about----'
mark heard no more than this; he was glad to escape, to get away from caffyn's scrutiny. 'he looked as if he knew i was a humbug!' he thought afterwards; and also to think at his leisure over this new discovery, and all it meant for him.
he knew her name now; he saw a prospect of meeting her at some time or other in the house he had just left; but perhaps he might not even have to wait for that.
this little girl, whose childish letter he had tossed aside a few days since in his blindness, who else could she be but the owner of the dog after which he had clambered up the railway slope? and he had actually been about to neglect her appeal!
well, he would write now. who could say what might not come of it? at all events, she would read his letter.
that letter gave mark an infinite deal of trouble. after attentively reading the little story to which it referred, he sat down to write, and tore up sheet after sheet in disgust, for he had never given much study to the childish understanding, with its unexpected deeps and shallows, and found the task of writing down to it go much against the grain. but the desire of satisfying a more fastidious critic than dolly gave him at last a kind of inspiration, and the letter he did send, with some misgiving, could hardly have been better written for the particular purpose.
he was pleasantly reassured as to this a day or two later by another little note from dolly, asking him to come to tea at kensington park gardens on any afternoon except monday or thursday, and adding (evidently by external suggestion) that her mother and sister would be pleased to make his acquaintance.
mark read this with a thrill of eager joy. what he had longed for had come to pass, then; he was to see her, speak with her, once more. at least he was indebted to 'illusion' for this result, which a few months since seemed of all things the most unlikely. this time, perhaps, she would not leave him without a word or sign, as when last they met; he might be allowed to come again; even in time to know her intimately.
and he welcomed this piece of good fortune as a happy omen for the future.
in the spring.
mark lost no time in obeying dolly's summons, and it was with an exhilaration a little tempered by a nervousness to which he was not usually subject that he leaped into the dipping and lurching hansom that was to carry him to kensington park gardens.
as mark drove through the park across the serpentine, and saw the black branches of the trees looking as if they had all been sprinkled with a feathery green powder, and noticed the new delicacy in the bright-hued grass, he hailed these signs as fresh confirmation of the approach of summer--a summer that might prove a golden one for him.
but as he drew nearer notting hill, his spirits sank again. what if this opportunity were to collapse as hopelessly as the first? mabel would of course have forgotten him--would she let him drop indifferently as before? he felt far from hopeful as he rang the bell.
he asked for miss dorothy langton, giving his name as 'mr. ernstone,' and was shown into a little room filled with the pretty contrivances which the modern young lady collects around her. he found dolly there alone, in a very stately and self-possessed mood.
'you can bring up tea here, champion,' she said, 'and some tea-cake--you like tea-cake of course,' she said to mark, with something of afterthought. 'mother and mabel are out, calling or something,' she added, 'so we shall be quite alone. and now sit down there in that chair and tell me everything you know about fairies.'
mark's heart sank--this was not at all what he had hoped for; but dolly had thrown herself back in her own chair, with such evident expectation, and a persuasion that she had got hold of an authority on fairy-lore, that he did not dare to expostulate--although in truth his acquaintance with the subject was decidedly limited.
'you can begin now,' said dolly calmly, as mark stared blankly into his hat.
'well,' he said, 'what do you want to know about them?'
'all about them,' said dolly, with the air of a little person accustomed to instant obedience; mark's letter had not quite dispelled her doubts, and she wanted to be quite certain that such cases as that of the sugar prince were by no means common.
'well,' said mark again, clearing his throat, 'they dance round in rings, you know, and live inside flowers, and play tricks with people--that is,' he added, with a sort of idea that he must not encourage superstition, 'they did once--of course there are no such things now.'
'then how was it that that little girl you knew--who was not me--ate one up?'
'he was the last one,' said mark.
'but how did he get turned into sugar? had he done anything wrong?'
'that's how it was.'
'what was it--he hadn't told a story, had he?'
'it's exactly what he had done,' said mark, accepting this solution gratefully; 'an awful story!'
'what was the story?' dolly demanded at this, and mark floundered on, beginning to consider dolly, for all her pretty looks and ways, a decided little nuisance.
'he--he said the queen of the fairies squinted,' he stammered in his extremity.
'then it was she who turned him into sugar?'
'of course it was,' said mark.
'but you said he was the last fairy left!' persisted the terrible dolly.
'did i?' said mark miserably; 'i mean the last but one--she was the other.'
'then who was there to tell the story to?' dolly cross-examined, and mark quailed, feeling that any more explanation would probably land him in worse difficulties.
'i don't think you know very much about it, after all,' she said with severity. 'i suppose you put all you knew into the story. but you're quite sure there was no fairy inside the figure i ate, aren't you?'
'oh yes,' said mark, 'i--i happen to know that.'
'that's all right, then,' said dolly, with a little sigh of relief. 'was that the only fairy story you know?'
'yes,' mark hastened to explain, in deadly fear lest he might be called upon for another.
'oh,' said dolly, 'then we'd better have tea'--for the door had opened.
'it's not champion after all,' she cried; 'it's mabel. i never heard you come back, mabel.'
and mark turned to realise his dearest hopes and find himself face to face once more with mabel.
she came in, looking even lovelier, he thought, in her fresh spring toilette than in the winter furs she had worn when he had seen her last, bent down to kiss dolly, and then glanced at him with the light of recognition coming into her grey eyes.
'this is mr. ernstone, mab,' said dolly.
the pink in mabel's cheeks deepened slightly; the author of the book which had stirred her so unusually was the young man who had not thought it worth his while to see any more of them. probably had he known who had written to him, he would not have been there now, and this gave a certain distance to her manner as she spoke.
'we have met before, mr. ernstone,' she said, giving him her ungloved hand. 'very likely you have forgotten when and how, but i am sure dolly had not, had you, dolly?'
but dolly had, having been too much engrossed with her dog on the day of the breakdown to notice appearances, even of his preserver, very particularly. 'when did i see him before, mabel?' she whispered.
'oh, dolly, ungrateful child! don't you remember who brought frisk out of the train for you that day in the fog?' but dolly hung her head and drooped her long lashes, twining her fingers with one of those sudden attacks of awkwardness that sometimes seize the most self-possessed children. 'you never thanked him then, you know,' continued mabel; 'aren't you going to say a word to him now?'
'thank you very much for saving my dog,' murmured dolly, very quickly and without looking at him; when mabel, seeing that she was not at her ease, suggested that she should run and fetch frisk to return thanks in person, which dolly accepted gladly as permission to escape.
mark had risen, of course, at mabel's entrance, and was standing at one corner of the curtained mantelpiece; mabel was at the other, absently smoothing the fringe with delicate curves of her hand and with her eyes bent on the rug at her feet. both were silent for a few moments. mark had felt the coldness in her manner. 'she remembers how shabbily she treated me,' he thought, 'and she's too proud to show it.'
'you must forgive dolly,' said mabel at last, thinking that if mark meant to be stiff and disagreeable, there was no need at least for the interview to be made ridiculous. 'children have short memories--for faces only, i hope, not kindnesses. but if you had cared to be thanked we should have seen you before.'
'rather cool that,' mark thought. 'i am only surprised,' he said, 'that you should remember it; you gave me more thanks than i deserved at the time. still, as i had no opportunity of learning your name or where you lived--if you recollect we parted very suddenly, and you gave me no permission----'
'but i sent a line to you by the guard,' she said; 'i gave you our address and asked you to call and see my mother, and let dolly thank you properly.'
she was not proud and ungracious after all, then. he felt a great joy at the thought, and shame, too, for having so misjudged her. 'if i had ever received it,' he said, 'i hope you will believe that you would have seen me before this; but i asked for news of you from that burly old impostor of a guard, and he--he gave me no intelligible message' (mark remembered suddenly the official's extempore effort), 'and certainly nothing in writing.'
mark's words were evidently sincere, and as she heard them, the coldness and constraint died out of mabel's face, the slight misunderstanding between them was over.
'after all, you are here, in spite of guards,' she said, with a gay little laugh. 'and now we have even more to be grateful to you for.' and then, simply and frankly, she told him of the pleasure 'illusion' had given her, while, at her gracious words, mark felt almost for the first time the full meanness of his fraud, and wished, as he had certainly never wished before, that he had indeed written the book.
but this only made him shrink from the subject; he acknowledged what she said in a few formal words, and attempted to turn the conversation, more abruptly than he had done for some time on such occasions. mabel was of opinion, and with perfect justice, that even genius itself would scarcely be warranted in treating her approval in this summary fashion, and felt slightly inclined to resent it, even while excusing it to herself as the unintentional gaucherie of an over-modest man.
'i ought to have remembered perhaps,' she said, with a touch of pique in her voice, 'that you must long ago have tired of hearing such things.'
he had indeed, but he saw that his brusqueness had annoyed her, and hastened to explain. 'you must not think that is so,' he said, very earnestly; 'only, there is praise one cannot trust oneself to listen to long----'
'and it really makes you uncomfortable to be talked to about "illusion"?' said mabel.
'i will be quite frank, miss langton,' said mark (and he really felt that he must for his own peace of mind convince her of this); 'really it does. because, you see, i feel all the time--i hope, that is--that i can do much better work in the future.'
'and we have all been admiring in the wrong place? i see,' said mabel, with apparent innocence, but a rather dangerous gleam in her eyes.
'oh, i know it sounds conceited,' said mark, 'but the real truth is, that when i hear such kind things said about a work which--which gave me so very little trouble to produce, it makes me a little uncomfortable sometimes, because (you know how perversely things happen sometimes), because i can't help a sort of fear that my next book, to which i really am giving serious labour, may be utterly unnoticed, or--or worse!'
there was no possibility of mistaking this for mock-modesty, and though mabel thought such sensitiveness rather overstrained, she liked him for it notwithstanding.
'i think you need not fear that,' she said; 'but you shall not be made uncomfortable any more. and you are writing another book? may i ask you about that, or is that another indiscretion?'
mark was only too delighted to be able to talk about a book which he really had written; it was at least a change; and he plunged into the subject with much zest. 'it deals with things and men,' he concluded, 'on rather a larger scale than "illusion" has done. i have tried to keep it clear of all commonplace characters.'
'but then it will not be quite so lifelike, will it?' suggested mabel; 'and in "illusion" you made even commonplace characters interesting.'
'that is very well,' he said, a little impatiently, 'for a book which does not aim at the first rank. it is easy enough to register exactly what happens around one. anybody who keeps a diary can do that. the highest fiction should idealise.'
'i'm afraid i prefer the other fiction, then,' said mabel. 'i like to sympathise with the characters, and you can't sympathise with an ideal hero and heroine. i hope you will let your heroine have one or two little weaknesses, mr. ernstone.'
'now you are laughing at me,' said mark, more humbly. 'i must leave you to judge between the two books, and if i can only win your approval, miss langton, i shall prize it more than i dare to say.'
'if it is at all like "illusion----" oh, i forgot,' mabel broke off suddenly. 'that is forbidden ground, isn't it? and now, will you come into the drawing-room and be introduced to my mother? we shall find some tea there.'
mrs. langton was a little sleepy after a long afternoon of card-leaving and call-paying, but she was sufficiently awake to be gracious when she had quite understood who mark was.
'so very kind of you to write to my little daughter about such nonsense,' she said. 'of course i don't mean that the story itself was anything of the kind, but little girls have such silly fancies--at least mine seem to have. you, were just the same at dolly's age, mabel.... now i never recollect worrying myself about such ideas.... i'm sure i don't know how they get it. but i hear it is such a wonderful book you have written, mr. ernstone. i've not read it yet. my wretched health, you know. but really, when i think how clever you must be, i feel quite afraid to talk to you. i always consider it must require so much cleverness and--and perseverance--you know, to write any book.'
'oh, mabel, only think,' cried dolly, now quite herself again, from one of the window-seats, 'frisk has run away again, and been out ever since yesterday morning. i forgot that just now. so mr. ernstone can't see him after all!'
and mabel explained to her mother that they had recognised in the author of 'illusion' the unknown rescuer of dolly's dog.
'you mustn't risk such a valuable life as yours is now any more,' said mrs. langton, after purring out thanks which were hazily expressed, owing to an imperfect recollection of the circumstances. 'you must be more selfish after this, for other people's sakes.'
'i'm afraid such consideration would not be quite understood,' said mark, laughing.
'oh, you must expect to be misunderstood, else there would be no merit in it, would there?' said mrs. langton, not too lucidly. 'dolly, my pet, there's something scratching outside the door. run and see what it is.'
mark rose and opened the door, and presently a ridiculous little draggled object, as black as a cinder, its long hair caked and clotted with dried mud, shuffled into the room with the evident intention of sneaking into a warm corner without attracting public notice--an intention promptly foiled by the indignant dolly.
'o-oh!' she cried; 'it's frisk. look at him, everybody--do look at him.'
the unhappy animal backed into the corner by the door with his eyes on dolly's, and made a conscience-stricken attempt to sit up and wave one paw in deprecation, doubtless prepared with a plausible explanation of his singular appearance, which much resembled that of 'mr. dolls' returning to jenny wren after a long course of 'three-penn'orths.'
'aren't you ashamed of yourself?' demanded dolly. '(don't laugh, mr. ernstone, please--it encourages him so.) oh, i believe you're the very worst dog in notting hill.'
the possessor of that bad eminence sat and shivered, as if engaged in a rough calculation of his chances of a whipping; but dolly governed him on these occasions chiefly by the moral sanction--an immunity he owed to his condition.
'and this,' said dolly, scathingly, 'this is the dog you saved from the train, mr. ernstone! there's gratitude! the next time he shall be left to be killed--he's not worth saving!'
soon after this sounds were heard in the hall, as of a hat being pitched into a corner, and a bag with some heavy objects in it slammed on a table to a whistling accompaniment. 'that's colin,' said dolly, confidentially. 'mother says he ought to be getting more repose of manner, but he hasn't begun yet.'
and soon after colin himself made his appearance. 'hullo, mabel! hullo, mother! yes, i've washed my hands and i've brushed my hair. it's all right, really. well, dolly. what, mr. ashburn here!' he broke off, staring a little as he went up to shake hands with mark.
'i ought to have explained, perhaps,' said mark. 'ernstone is only the name i write under. and i had the pleasure of having your son in my form at st. peter's for some time. hadn't i, colin?'
'yes, sir,' said colin, shyly, still rather overcome by so unexpected an apparition, and thinking this would be something to tell 'the fellows' next day.
mabel laughed merrily. 'mr. ashburn, i wonder how many more people you will turn out to be!' she said. 'if you knew how afraid i was of you when i used to help colin with his latin exercises, and how angry when you found me out in any mistakes! i pictured you as a very awful personage indeed.'
'so i am,' said mark, 'officially. i'm sure your brother will agree to that.'
'i don't think he will,' said mabel. 'he was so sorry when they moved him out of your form, that you can't have been so very bad.'
'i liked being in the middle third, sir,' said colin, regaining confidence. 'it was much better fun than old--i mean mr. blatherwick's is. i wish i was back again--for some things,' he qualified conscientiously.
when the time came to take his leave, mrs. langton asked for his address, with a view to an invitation at no distant time. a young man, already a sort of celebrity, and quite presentable on other accounts, would be useful at dances, while he might serve to leaven some of her husband's slightly heavy professional dinners.
mabel gave him her hand at parting with an air of entire friendliness and good understanding which she did not usually display on so short a probation. but she liked this mr. ashburn already, who on the last time she had met him had figured as a kind of hero, who was the 'swell' master for whom, without having seen him, she had caught something of colin's boyish admiration, and who, lastly, had stirred and roused her imagination through the work of his own.
perhaps, after all, he was a little conceited, but then it was not an offensive conceit, but one born of a confidence in himself which was fairly justified. she had not liked his manner of disparaging his first work, and she rather distrusted his idealising theories; still, she knew that clever people often find it difficult to do justice to their ideas in words. he might produce a work which would take rank with the very greatest, and till then she could admire what he had already accomplished.
and besides he was good-looking--very good-looking; his dark eyes had expressed a very evident satisfaction at being there and talking to her--which of course was in his favour; his manner was bright and pleasant: and so mabel found it agreeable to listen to her mother's praise of their departed visitor.
'a very charming young man, my dear. you've only to look at him to see he's a true genius; and so unaffected and pleasant with it all. quite an acquisition, really.'
'i found him, mother,' interrupted dolly; 'he wouldn't have come but for me. but i'm rather disappointed in him myself; he didn't seem to care to talk to me much; and i don't believe he knows much about fairies.'
'don't be ungrateful, dolly,' said mabel. 'who saved frisk for you?'
'oh, he did; i know all that; but not because he liked frisk, or me either. it was because--i don't know why it was because.'
'because he is a good young man, i suppose,' said mrs. langton instructively.
'no, it wasn't that; he doesn't look so very good; not so good as poor vincent did; more good than harold, though. but he doesn't care about dogs, and he doesn't care about me, and i don't care about him!' concluded dolly, rather defiantly.
as for mark, he left the house thoroughly and helplessly in love. as he walked back to his rooms he found a dreamy pleasure in recalling the different stages of the interview. mabel's slender figure as she stood opposite him by the mantelpiece, her reserve at first, and the manner in which it had thawed to a frank and gracious interest; the suspicion of a critical but not unkindly mockery in her eyes and tone at times--it all came back to him with a vividness that rendered him deaf and blind to his actual surroundings. he saw again the group in the dim, violet-scented drawing-room, the handsome languid woman murmuring her pleasant commonplaces, and the pretty child lecturing the prodigal dog, and still felt the warm light touch of mabel's hand as it had lain in his for an instant at parting.
this time, too, the parting was not without hope; he might look forward to seeing her again after this. a summer of golden dreams and fancies had indeed begun for him from that day, and as he thought again that he owed these high privileges to 'illusion,' events seemed more than ever to be justifying an act which was fast becoming as remote and unreproachful as acts will, when the dread of discovery--that great awakener of conscience--is sleeping too.
harold caffyn makes a discovery.
harold caffyn had not found much improvement in his professional prospects since we first made his acquaintance; his disenchantment was in fact becoming complete. he had taken to the stage at first in reliance on the extravagant eulogies of friends, forgetting that the standard for amateurs in any form of art is not a high one, and he was very soon brought to his proper level. a good appearance and complete self-possession were about his sole qualifications, unless we add the voice and manner of a man in good society, which are not by any means the distinctive advantages that they were a few years ago. the general verdict of his fellow-professionals was, 'clever enough, but no actor,' and he was without the sympathy or imagination to identify himself completely with any character and feelings opposed to his own; he had obtained one distinct success, and one only--at a matinée, when a new comedy was presented in which a part of some consequence had been entrusted to him. he was cast for a cool and cynical adventurer, with a considerable dash of the villain in him, and played it admirably, winning very favourable notices from the press, although the comedy itself resulted as is not infrequent with matinées, in a dismal fiasco. however, the matinée proved for a time of immense service to him in the profession, and even led to his being chosen by his manager to represent the hero of the next production at his own theatre--a poetical drama which had excited great interest before its appearance--and if caffyn could only have made his mark in it, his position would have been assured from that moment. but the part was one of rather strained sentiment, and he could not, rather than would not, make it effective. in spite of himself, his manner suggested rather than concealed any extravagances in the dialogue, and, worse still, gave the impression that he was himself contemptuously conscious of them; the consequence being that he repelled the sympathies of his audience to a degree that very nearly proved fatal to the play. after that unlucky first night the part was taken from him, and his engagement, which terminated shortly afterwards, was not renewed.
caffyn was not the man to overcome his deficiencies by hard and patient toil; he had counted upon an easy life with immediate triumphs, and the reality baffled and disheartened him. he might soon have slid into the lounging life of a man about town, with a moderate income, expensive tastes, and no occupation, and from that perhaps even to shady and questionable walks of life. but he had an object still in keeping his head above the social waters, and the object was mabel langton.
he had long felt that there was a secret antagonism on her side towards himself, which at first he had found amusement in provoking to an occasional outburst, but was soon piqued into trying to overcome and disarm, and the unexpected difficulty of this had produced in him a state of mind as nearly approaching love as he was capable of.
he longed for the time when his wounded pride would be salved by the consciousness that he had at last obtained the mastery of this wayward nature, when he would be able to pay off the long score of slights and disdains which he had come to exaggerate morbidly; he was resolved to conquer her sooner or later in defiance of all obstacles, and he had found few natures capable of resisting him long after he had set himself seriously to subdue them.
but mabel had been long in showing any sign of yielding. for some time after the loss of the 'mangalore' she had been depressed and silent to a degree which persuaded caffyn that his old jealousy of holroyd was well-grounded, and when she recovered her spirits somewhat, while she was willing to listen and laugh or talk to him, there was always the suggestion of an armistice in her manner, and any attempt on his part to lead the conversation to something beyond mere badinage was sure to be adroitly parried or severely put down, as her mood varied.
quite recently, however, there had been a slight change for the better; she had seemed more pleased to see him, and had shown more sympathy and interest in his doings. this was since his one success at the matinée, and he told himself triumphantly that she had at last recognised his power; that the long siege was nearly over.
he would have been much less complacent had he known the truth, which was this. at the matinée mabel had certainly been at first surprised almost to admiration by an unexpected display of force on caffyn's part. but as the piece went on, she could not resist an impression that this was not acting, but rather an unconscious revelation of his secret self; the footlights seemed to be bringing out the hidden character of the man as though it had been written on him in sympathetic ink.
as she leaned back in the corner of the box he had sent them, she began to remember little traits of boyish malice and cruelty. had they worked out of his nature, as such strains sometimes will, or was this stage adventurer, cold-blooded, unscrupulous, with a vein of diabolical humour in his malevolence, the real harold caffyn?
and then she had seen the injustice of this and felt almost ashamed of her thoughts, and with the wish to make some sort of reparation, and perhaps the consciousness that she had not given him many opportunities of showing her his better side, her manner towards him had softened appreciably.
caffyn only saw the effects, and argued favourably from them. 'now that fellow holroyd is happily out of the way,' he thought, 'she doesn't care for anybody in particular. i've only to wait.'
there were considerations other than love or pride which made the marriage a desirable one to him. mabel's father was a rich man, and mabel herself was entitled independently to a considerable sum on coming of age. he could hardly do better for himself than by making such a match, even from the pecuniary point of view.
and so he looked about him anxiously for some opening more suitable to his talent than the stage-door, for he was quite aware that at present mabel's father, whatever mabel herself might think, would scarcely consider him a desirable parti.
caffyn had been lucky enough to impress a business friend of his with a firm conviction of his talents for business and management, and this had led to a proposal that he should leave the stage and join him, with a prospect of a partnership should the alliance prove a success.
the business was a flourishing one, and the friend a young man who had but recently succeeded to the complete control of it, while caffyn had succeeded somehow in acquiring a tolerably complete control of him. so the prospect was really an attractive one, and he felt that now at last he might consider the worst obstacles to his success with mabel were disposed of.
he had plenty of leisure time on his hands at present, and thought he would call at kensington park gardens one afternoon, and try the effect of telling mabel of his prospects. she had been so cordial and sympathetic of late that it would be strange if she did not express some sort of pleasure, and it would be for him to decide then whether or not his time had come to speak of his hopes.
mrs. and miss langton were out, he was told at the door. 'miss dolly was in,' added champion, to whom caffyn was well known.
'then i'll see miss dolly,' said caffyn, thinking that he might be able to pass the time until mabel's return. 'in the morning-room is she? all right.'
he walked in alone, to find dolly engaged in tearing off the postage stamp from a letter. 'hallo, miss juggins, what mischief are you up to now?' he began, as he stood in the doorway.
'it's not mischief at all,' said dolly, hardly deigning to look up from her occupation. 'what have you come in for, harold?'
'for the pleasure of your conversation,' said caffyn. 'you know you always enjoy a talk with me, dolly.' (dolly made a little mouth at this.) 'but what are you doing with those scissors and that envelope, if i'm not indiscreet in asking?'
dolly was in a subdued and repentant mood just then, for she had been so unlucky as to offend colin the day before, and he had not yet forgiven her. it had happened in this way. it had been a half-holiday, and colin had brought home an especial friend of his to spend the afternoon, to be shown his treasures and, in particular, to give his opinion as an expert on the merits of colin's collection of foreign postage-stamps.
unhappily for colin's purpose, however, dolly had completely enslaved the friend from the outset. charmed by his sudden interest in the most unboyish topics, she had carried him off to see her doll's house, and, in spite of colin's grumbling dissuasion, the base friend had gone meekly. worse still, he had remained up there listening to dolly's personal anecdotes and reminiscences and seeing frisk put through his performances, until it was too late to do anything like justice to the stamp album, over which colin had been sulkily fuming below, divided between hospitality and impatience.
dolly had been perfectly guiltless of the least touch of coquetry in thus monopolising the visitor, for she was not precocious in this respect, and was merely delighted to find a boy who, unlike colin, would condescend to sympathise with her pursuits; but perhaps the boy himself, a susceptible youth, found dolly's animated face and eager confidences more attractive than the rarest postal issues.
when he had gone, colin's pent-up indignation burst out on the unsuspecting dolly. she had done it on purpose. she knew dickinson major came to see his stamps. what did he care about her rubbishy dolls? and there she had kept him up in the nursery for hours wasting his time! it was too bad of her, and so on, until she wept with grief and penitence.
and now she was seizing the opportunity of purchasing his forgiveness by an act of atonement in kind, in securing what seemed to her to be probably a stamp of some unknown value--to a boy. but she did not tell all this to caffyn.
'do you know about stamps--is this a rare one?' she said, and brought the stamp she had removed to caffyn. the postmark had obliterated the name upon it.
'let's look at the letter,' said caffyn; and dolly put it in his hand.
he took it to the window, and gave a slight start. 'when did this come?' he said sharply.
'just now,' said dolly; 'a minute or two before you came. i heard the postman, and i ran out into the hall to see the letters drop in the box, and then i saw this one with the stamp, and the box wasn't locked, so i took it out and tore the stamp off. why do you look like that, harold? it's only for mabel, and she won't mind.'
caffyn was still at the window; he had just received a highly unpleasant shock, and was trying to get over it and adjust himself to the facts revealed by what he held in his hand.
and the letter had that moment arrived. he saw no other possible conclusion than that, by some extraordinary chance, holroyd had escaped the fate which was supposed to have befallen him. he was alive; a more dangerous rival after this than ever. this letter might even contain a proposal!
'no use speaking to mabel after she has once seen this. confound the fellow! why the deuce couldn't he stay in the sea? it's just my infernal luck!'
as he thought of the change this letter would work in his prospects, and his own complete powerlessness to prevent it, the gloom and perplexity on his face deepened. he had been congratulating himself on the removal of this particular man as a providential arrangement made with some regard to his own convenience. and to see him resuscitated, at that time of all others, was hard indeed to bear. and yet what could he do?
as caffyn stood by the window with holroyd's letter in his hand, he felt an insane temptation for a moment to destroy or retain it. time was everything just then, and even without the fragment he had been able to read, he could, from his knowledge of the writer, conclude with tolerable certainty that he would not write again without having received an answer to his first letter. 'if i was only alone with it!' he thought impatiently. but he was a prudent young man, and perfectly aware of the consequences of purloining correspondence; and besides, there was dolly to be reckoned with--she alone had seen the thing as yet. but then she had seen it, and was not more likely to hold her tongue about that than any other given subject. no, he could do nothing; he must let things take their own course and be hanged to them!
his gloomy face filled dolly with a sudden fear; she forgot her dislike, and came timidly up to him and touched his arm. 'what's the matter, harold?' she faltered. 'mabel won't be angry. i--i haven't done anything wrong, have i, harold?'
he came out of his reverie to see her upturned face raised to his--and started; his active brain had in that instant decided on a desperate expedient, suggested by the sight of the trouble in her eyes. 'by jove, i'll try!' he thought; 'it's worth it--she's such a child--i may manage it yet!'
'wrong!' he said impressively, 'it's worse than that. my poor dolly, didn't you really know what you were doing?'
'n--no,' said dolly; 'harold, don't tease me--don't tell me what isn't true ... it--it frightens me so!'
'my dear child, what can i tell you? surely you know that what you did was stealing?'
'stealing!' echoed dolly, with great surprised eyes. 'oh, no, harold--not stealing. why, of course i shall tell mabel, and ask her for the stamp afterwards--only if i hadn't torn it off first, she might throw it away before i could ask, you know!'
'i'm afraid it was stealing all the same,' said caffyn, affecting a sorrowfully compassionate tone; 'nothing can alter that now, dolly.'
'mabel won't be angry with me for that, i know,' said dolly; 'she will see how it was really.'
'if it was only mabel,' said caffyn, 'we should have no reason to fear; but mabel can't do anything for you, poor dolly! it's the law that punishes these things. you know what law is?--the police, and the judges.'
the piteous change in the child's face, the dark eyes brimming with rising tears, and the little mouth drawn and trembling, might have touched some men; indeed, even caffyn felt a languid compunction for what he was doing. but his only chance lay in working upon her fears; he could not afford to be sentimental just then, and so he went on, carefully calculating each word.
'oh, i won't believe it,' cried dolly, with a last despairing effort to resist the effect his grave pity was producing; 'i can't. harold, you're trying to frighten me. i'm not frightened a bit. say you are only in fun!'
but caffyn turned away in well-feigned distress. 'do i look as if it was fun, dolly?' he asked, with an effective quiver in his low voice; he had never acted so well as this before. 'is that this morning's paper over there?' he asked, with a sudden recollection, as he saw the sheet on a little round wicker table. 'fetch it, dolly, will you?'
'i must manage the obstinate little witch somehow,' he thought impatiently, and turned to the police reports, where he remembered that morning to have read the case of an unhappy postman who had stolen stamps from the letters entrusted to him.
he found it now and read it aloud to her. 'if you don't believe me,' he added, 'look for yourself--you can read. do you see now--those stamps were marked. well, isn't this one marked?'
'oh, it is!' cried dolly, 'marked all over! yes, i do believe you now, harold. but what shall i do? i know--i'll tell papa--he won't let me go to prison!'
'why, papa's a lawyer--you know that,' said caffyn; 'he has to help the law--not hinder it. whatever you do, i shouldn't advise you to tell him, or he would be obliged to do his duty. you don't want to be shut up for years all alone in a dark prison, do you, dolly? and yet, if what you've done is once found out, nothing can help you--not your father, not your mamma--not mabel herself--the law's too strong for them all!'
this strange and horrible idea of an unknown power into whose clutches she had suddenly fallen, and from which even love and home were unable to shield her, drove the poor child almost frantic; she clung to him convulsively, with her face white as death, terrified beyond tears. 'harold!' she cried, seizing his hand in both hers, 'you won't let them! i--i can't go to prison, and leave them all. i don't like the dark. i couldn't stay in it till i was grown up, and never see mabel or colin or anybody. tell me what to do--only tell me, and i'll do it!'
again some quite advanced scoundrels might have hesitated to cast so fearful a shadow over a child's bright life, and the necessity annoyed caffyn to some extent, but his game was nearly won--there would not be much more of it.
'i mustn't do anything for you,' he said; 'if i did my duty, i should have to give you up to---- no, it's all right, dolly, i should never dream of doing that. but i can do no more. still, if you choose, you can help yourself--and i promise to say nothing about it.'
'how do you mean?' said dolly; 'if--if i stuck it together and left it?'
'do you think that wouldn't be seen? it would, though! no, dolly, if anyone but you and i catches sight of that letter, it will all be found out--must be!'
'do you mean?--oh, no, harold, i couldn't burn it!'
there was a fire in the grate, for the morning, in spite of the season, had been chilly.
'don't suppose i advise you to burn it,' said caffyn. 'it's a bad business from beginning to end--it's wrong (at least it isn't right) to burn the letter. only--there's no other way, if you want to keep out of prison. and if you make up your mind to burn it, dolly, why you can rely on me to keep the secret. i don't want to see a poor little girl shut up in prison if i can help it, i can tell you. but do as you like about it, dolly; i mustn't interfere.'
dolly could bear it no more; she snatched the flimsy foreign paper, tore it across and flung it into the heart of the fire. then, as the flames began to play round the edges, she repented, and made a wild dart forward to recover the letter. 'it's mabel's,' she cried; 'i'm afraid to burn it--i'm afraid!'
but caffyn caught her, and held her little trembling hands fast in his cool grasp, while the letter that holroyd had written in ceylon with such wild secret hopes flared away to a speckled grey rag, and floated lightly up the chimney. 'too late now, dolly!' he said, with a ring of triumph in his voice. 'you would only have blistered those pretty little fingers of yours, my child. and now,' he said, indicating the scrap of paper which bore the stamp, 'if you'll take my advice, you'll send that thing after the other.'
for the sake of this paltry bit of coloured paper dolly had done it all, and now that must go!--she had not even purchased colin's forgiveness by her wrong--and this last drop in her cup was perhaps the bitterest. she dropped the stamp guiltily between two red-hot coals, watched that too as it burnt, and then threw herself into an arm-chair and sobbed in passionate remorse.
'oh, why did i do it?' she wailed; 'why did you make me do it, harold?'
'come, dolly, i like that,' said caffyn, who saw the necessity for having this understood at once. 'i made you do nothing, if you please--it was all done before i came in. i may think you were very sensible in getting rid of the letter in that way--i do--but you did it of your own accord--remember that.'
'i was quite good half an hour ago,' moaned the child, 'and now i'm a wicked girl--a--a thief! no one will speak to me any more--they'll send me to prison!'
'now don't talk nonsense,' said caffyn, a little alarmed, not having expected a child to have such strong feelings about anything. 'and for goodness' sake don't cry like that--there's nothing to cry about now.... you're perfectly safe as long as you hold your tongue. you don't suppose i shall tell of you, do you?' (and it really was highly improbable). 'there's nothing to show what you've done. and--and you didn't mean to do anything bad, i know that, of course. you needn't make yourself wretched about it. it's only the way the law looks at stealing stamps, you know. come, i must be off now; can't wait for mabel any longer. but i must see a smile before i go--just a little one, juggins--to thank me for helping you out of your scrape, eh?' (dolly's mouth relaxed in a very faint smile.) 'that's right--now you're feeling jolly again; cheer up, you can trust me, you know.' and he went out, feeling tolerably secure of her silence.
'it's rough on her, poor little thing!' he soliloquised as he walked briskly away; 'but she'll forget all about it soon enough--children do. and what the deuce could i do? no, i'm glad i looked in just then. our resuscitated friend won't write again for a month or two--and by that time it will be too late. and if this business comes out (which i don't imagine it ever will) i've done nothing anyone could lay hold of. i was very careful about that. i must have it out with mabel as soon as i can now--there's nothing to be gained by waiting!'
would dolly forget all about it? she did not like harold caffyn, but it never occurred to her to disbelieve the terrible things he had told her. she was firmly convinced that she had done something which, if known, would cut her off completely from home and sympathy and love; she who had hardly known more than a five minutes' sorrow in her happy innocent little life, believed herself a guilty thing with a secret. henceforth in the shadows there would lurk something more dreadful even than the bogeys with which some foolish nursemaids people shadows for their charges--the gigantic hand of the law, ready to drag her off at any moment from all she loved. and there seemed no help for her anywhere--for had not harold said that if her father or anyone were to know, they would be obliged to give her up to punishment.
perhaps if caffyn had been capable of fully realising what a deadly poison he had been instilling into this poor child's mind, he might have softened matters a little more (provided his object could have been equally well attained thereby), and that is all that can be said for him. but, as it was, he only saw that he must make as deep an impression as he could for the moment, and never doubted that she would forget his words as soon as he should himself.
but if there was some want of thought in the evil he had done, the want of thought in this case arose from a constitutional want of heart.
a change of front.
'well, jane,' said mr. lightowler one evening, when he had invited himself to dine and sleep at the house in malakoff terrace, 'i suppose you haven't heard anything of that grand young gentleman of yours yet?'
the ashburns, with the single exception of trixie, had remained obstinately indifferent to the celebrity which mark had so suddenly obtained; it did not occur to most of them indeed that distinction was possible in the course he had taken. perhaps many of mahomet's relations thought it a pity that he should abandon his excellent prospects in the caravan business (where he was making himself so much respected), for the precarious and unremunerative career of a prophet.
trixie, however, had followed the book's career with wondering delight; she had bought a copy for herself, mark not having found himself equal to sending her one, and she had eagerly collected reviews and allusions of all kinds, and tried hard to induce martha at least to read the book.
martha had coldly declined. she had something of her mother's hard, unimaginative nature, and read but little fiction; and besides, having from the first sided strongly against mark, she would not compromise her dignity now by betraying so much interest in his performances. cuthbert read the book, but in secret, and as he said nothing to its discredit, it may be presumed that he could find no particular fault with it. mrs. ashburn would have felt almost inclined, had she known the book was in the house, to order it to be put away from among them like an evil thing, so strong was her prejudice; and her husband, whatever he felt, expressed no interest or curiosity on the subject.
so at mr. lightowler's question, which was put more as a vent for his own outraged feelings than any real desire for information, mrs. ashburn's face assumed its grimmest and coldest expression as she replied--'no, solomon. mark has chosen his own road--we neither have nor expect to have any news of him. at this very moment he may be bitterly repenting his folly and disobedience somewhere.'
upon which cuthbert observed that he considered that extremely probable, and mr. ashburn found courage to ask a question. 'i--i suppose he hasn't come or written to you yet, solomon?' he said.
'no, matthew,' said his brother-in-law, 'he has not. i'd just like to see him coming to me; he wouldn't come twice, i can tell him! no, i tell you, as i told him, i've done with him. when a young man repays all i've spent on him with base ingratitude like that, i wash my hands of him--i say deliberately--i wash my 'ands. why, he might have worked on at his law, and i'd a' set him up and put him in the way of making his living in a few years; made him a credit to all connected with him, i would! but he's chosen to turn a low scribbler, and starve in a garret, which he'll come to soon enough, and that's what i get for trying to help a nephew. well, it will be a lesson to me, i know that. young men have gone off since my young days; a lazy, selfish, conceited lot they are, all of 'em.'
'not all, solomon,' said his sister. 'i'm sure there are young men still who--cuthbert, how long was it you stayed at the office after hours to make up your books? of his own free will, too, solomon! and he's never had anyone to encourage him, or help him on, poor boy!'
mrs. ashburn was not without hopes that her brother might be brought to understand in time that the family did not end with mark, but she might have spared her pains just then.
'oh,' he said, with a rather contemptuous toss of the head, 'i wasn't hinting. i've nothing partickler against him--he's steady enough, i dessay. one of the other kind's enough in a small family, in all conscience! ah, jane, if ever a man was regularly taken in by a boy, i was by his brother mark--a bright, smart, clever young chap he was as i'd wish to see. give that feller an education and put him to a profession, thinks i, and he'll be a credit to you some of these days. and see what's come of it!'
'it's very sad--very sad for all of us, i'm sure,' sighed mrs. ashburn.
at this, trixie, who had been listening to it all with hot cheeks and trembling lips, could hold out no longer.
'you talk of mark--uncle and all of you,' she said, looking prettier for her indignation, 'as if he was a disgrace to us all! you seem to think he's starving somewhere in a garret, and unknown to everybody. but he's nothing of the sort--he's famous already, whether you believe it or not. you ought to be proud of him.'
'beatrix, you forget yourself,' said her mother; 'before your uncle, too.'
'i can't help it,' said trixie; 'there's no one to speak up for poor mark but me, ma, and i must. and it's all quite true. i hear all about books and things from--at the art school where i go, and mark's book is being talked about everywhere! and you needn't be afraid of his coming to you for money, uncle, for i was told that mark will be able to get as much money as ever he likes for his next books; he will be quite rich, and all just by writing! and nobody but you here seems to think the worse of him for what he has done! i'll show you what the papers say about him presently. why, even your paper, ma, the "weekly horeb," has a long article praising mark's book this week, so i should think it can't be so very wicked. wait a minute, and you shall see!'
and trixie burst impetuously out of the room to fetch the book in which she had pasted the reviews, leaving the others in a rather crestfallen condition, uncle solomon especially looking straight in front of him with a fish-like stare, being engaged in trying to assimilate the very novel ideas of a literary career which had just been put before him.
mrs. ashburn muttered something about trixie being always headstrong and never given to serious things, but even she was a little shaken by the unexpected testimony of her favourite oracle, the 'horeb.'
'look here, uncle,' said trixie, returning with the book and laying it down open before him. 'see what the ---- says, and the ----; oh, and all of them!'
'i don't want to see 'em,' he said, sulkily pushing the book from him. 'take the things away, child; who cares what they say? they're all at the same scribbling business themselves; o' course they'd crack up one another.'
but he listened with a dull, glazed look in his eyes, and a grunt now and then, while she read extracts aloud, until by-and-by, in spite of his efforts to repress it, a kind of hard grin of satisfaction began to widen his mouth.
'where's this precious book to be got?' he said at last.
'are you so sure he's disgraced you, now, uncle?' demanded trixie triumphantly.
'men's praise is of little value,' said mrs. ashburn, harshly. 'your uncle and we look at what mark has done from the christian's standpoint.'
'well, look here, y' know. suppose we go into the matter now; let's talk it out a bit,' said uncle solomon, coming out of a second brown study. 'what 'ave you got against mark?'
'what have i got against him, solomon?' echoed his sister in supreme amazement.
'yes; what's he done to set you all shaking your heads at?'
'why, surely there's no need to tell you? well, first there's his ingratitude to you, after all you've done for him!'
'put me out of the question!' said mr. lightowler, with a magnanimous sweep of his hand, 'i can take care of myself, i should 'ope. what i want to get at is what he's done to you. what do you accuse the boy of doing, matthew, eh?'
poor little mr. ashburn seemed completely overwhelmed by this sudden demand on him. 'i? oh, i--well, jane has strong views, you know, solomon, decided opinions on these subjects, and--and so have i!' he concluded feebly.
'um,' said mr. lightowler, half to himself, 'shouldn't a' thought that was what's the matter with you! well, jane, then i come back to you. what's he done? come, he hasn't robbed a church, or forged a cheque, has he?'
'if you wish me to tell you what you know perfectly well already, he has, in defiance of what he knows i feel on this subject, connected himself with a thing i strongly disapprove of--a light-minded fiction.'
'now you know, jane, that's all your confounded--i'm speaking to you as a brother, you know--your confounded narrer-minded nonsense! supposing he has written a "light-minded fiction," as you call it, where's the harm of it?'
'with the early training you received together with me, solomon, i wonder you can ask! you know very well what would have been thought of reading, to say nothing of writing, a novel in our young days. and it cuts me to the heart to think that a son of mine should place another stumbling-block in the hands of youth.'
'stumbling grandmother!' cried mr. lightowler. 'in our young days, as you say, we didn't go to playhouses, and only read good and improving books, and a dull time we 'ad of it! i don't read novels myself now, having other things to think about. but the world's gone round since then, jane. even chapel-folk read these light-minded fictions nowadays, and don't seem to be stumblin' about more than usual.'
'if they take no harm, their own consciences must be their guide; but i've a right to judge for myself as well as they, i think, solomon.'
'exactly, but not for them too--that's what you're doin', jane. who the dickens are you, to go about groaning that mark's a prodigal son, or a lost sheep, or a goat, or one of those uncomplimentary animals, all because he's written a book that everyone else is praising? why are you to be right and all the rest of the world wrong, i'd like to know? here you've gone and hunted the lad out of the house, without ever consulting me (who, i think, jane, i do think, have acted so as to deserve to be considered and consulted in the matter), and all for what?'
'i'm sure, solomon,' said mrs. ashburn, with one or two hard sniffs which were her nearest approach to public emotion; 'i'm sure i never expected this from you, and you were quite as angry with mark as any of us.'
'because i didn't know all--i was kep' in the dark. from what you said i didn't know but what he'd written some rubbish which wouldn't keep him in bread and cheese for a fortnight, and leave him as unknown as it found him. naterally i didn't care about that, when i'd hoped he'd be a credit to me. but it appears he is being a credit to me--he's making his fortune, getting famous, setting the upper circles talking of him. i thought sir andrew, up at the manor house, was a-chaffing me the other day when he began complimenting me on my nephew, and i answered him precious short; but i begin to think now as he meant it, and i went and made a fool of myself! all i ever asked of mark was to be a credit to me, and so long as he goes and is a credit to me, what do i care how he does it? not that!'
at sentiments of such unhoped-for breadth, trixie was so far carried away with delight and gratitude as to throw her arms round her uncle's puffy red neck, and bestow two or three warm kisses upon him. 'then you won't give him up after all, will you, uncle?' she cried; 'you don't think him a disgrace to you!'
uncle solomon looked round him with the sense that he was coming out uncommonly well. 'there's no narrermindedness about me, trixie, my girl,' he said; 'i never have said, nor i don't say now, that i have given your brother mark up; he chose not to take the advantages i offered him, and i don't deny feeling put out by it. but what's done can't be helped. i shall give a look into this book of his, and if i see nothing to disapprove of in it, why i shall let him know he can still look to his old uncle if he wants anything. i don't say more than that at present. but i do think, jane, that you've been too 'ard on the boy. we can't be all such partickler baptists as you are, yer know!'
'i'm glad to hear you say that, solomon,' quavered mr. ashburn; 'because i said as much to jane (if you recollect my mentioning it, my dear?) at the time; but she has decided views, and she thought otherwise.'
the unfortunate jane, seeing herself deserted on all sides, began to qualify, not sorry in her inmost heart to be able to think more leniently, since the 'weekly horeb' sanctioned it, of her son's act of independence.
'i may have acted on imperfect knowledge,' she said; 'i may have been too hasty in concluding that mark had only written some worldly and frivolous love-tale to keep minds from dwelling on higher subjects. if so, i'm willing to own it, and if mark was to come to me----'
but mr. lightowler did not care to lose his monopoly of magnanimity in this way. 'that comes too late now, jane,' he said; 'he won't come back to you now, after the way you've treated him. you've taken your line, and you'll have to keep to it. but he shan't lose by that while i live--or afterwards, for that matter--he was always more of a son to me than ever you made of him!'
and when he went to bed, after some elaboration of his views on the question, he left the family, with one exception, to the highly unsatisfactory reflection that they had cut themselves off from all right to feel proud and gratified at mark's renown, and that the breach between them was too wide now to be bridged.
in which mark makes an enemy and recovers a friend.
mark's fame was still increasing, and he began to have proofs of this in a pleasanter and more substantial form than empty compliment. he was constantly receiving letters from editors or publishers inviting him to write for them, and offering terms which exceeded his highest expectations. several of these proposals--all the more tempting ones, in fact--he accepted at once; not that he had anything by him in manuscript just then of the kind required from him, but he felt a vague sense of power to turn out something very fine indeed, long before the time appointed for the fulfilment of his promises.
but, so far, he had not done any regular literary work since his defection: he was still at st. peter's, which occupied most of his time, but somehow, now that he could devote his evenings without scruple to the delights of composition, those delights seemed to have lost their keenness, and besides, he had begun to go out a great deal.
he had plenty of time before him, however, and his prospects were excellent; he was sure of considerable sums under his many agreements as soon as he had leisure to set to work. there could be no greater mistake than for a young writer to flood the market from his inkstand--a reflection which comforted mark for a rather long and unexpected season of drought.
chilton and fladgate had begun to sound him respecting a second book, but mark could not yet decide whether to make his coup with 'one fair daughter' or 'sweet bells jangled.' at first he had been feverishly anxious to get a book out which should be legitimately his own as soon as possible, but now, when the time had come, he hung back.
he did not exactly feel any misgivings as to their merits, but he could not help seeing that with every day it was becoming more and more difficult to put 'illusion' completely in the shade, and that if he meant to effect this, he could afford to neglect no precautions. new and brilliant ideas, necessitating the entire reconstruction of the plots, were constantly occurring to him, and he set impulsively to work, shifting and interpolating, polishing and repolishing, until he must have invested his work with a dazzling glitter--and yet he could not bring himself to part with it.
he was engaged in this manner one wednesday afternoon in his rooms, when he heard a slow heavy step coming up the stairs, followed by a sharp rap at the door of his bedroom, which adjoined his sitting-room. he shouted to the stranger to come in, and an old gentleman entered presently by the door connecting the two rooms, in whom he recognised mr. lightowler's irascible neighbour. he stood there for a few moments without a word, evidently overcome by anger, which mark supposed was due to annoyance at having first blundered into the bedroom. 'it's old humpage,' he thought. 'what can he want with me?' the other found words at last, beginning with a deadly politeness. 'i see i am in the presence of the right person,' he began. 'i have come to ask you a plain question.' here he took something from his coat-tail pocket, and threw it on the table before mark--it was a copy of 'illusion.' 'i am told you are in the best position to give me information on the subject. will you kindly give me the name--the real name--of the author of this book? i have reasons, valid reasons for requiring it.' and he glared down at mark, who had a sudden and disagreeable sensation as if his heart had just turned a somersault. could this terrible old person have detected him, and if so what would become of him?
instinct rather than reason kept him from betraying himself by words. 'th-that's a rather extraordinary question, sir,' he gasped faintly.
'perhaps it is,' said the other; 'but i've asked it, and i want an answer.'
'if the author of the book,' said mark, 'had wished his real name to be known, i suppose he would have printed it.'
'have the goodness not to equivocate with me, sir. it's quite useless, as you will understand when i tell you that i happen to know'--(he repeated this with withering scorn)--'i happen to know the name of the real author of this--this precious production. i had it, let me tell you, on very excellent authority.'
'who told you?' said mark, and his voice seemed to him to come from down stairs. had holroyd made a confidant of this angry old gentleman?
'a gentleman whose relation i think you have the privilege to be, sir. come, you see i know you, mr.--mr. cyril ernstone,' he sneered. 'are you prepared to deny it?'
mark drew a long sweet breath of relief. what a fright he had had! this old gentleman evidently supposed he had unearthed a great literary secret; but why had it made him so angry?
'certainly not,' he replied, firm and composed again now. 'i am mr. cyril ernstone. i'm very sorry if it annoys you.'
'it does annoy me, sir. i have a right to be annoyed, and you know the reason well enough!'
'do you know,' said mark languidly, 'i'm really afraid i don't.'
'then i'll tell you, sir. in this novel of yours you've put a character called--wait a bit--ah, yes, called blackshaw, a retired country solicitor, sir.'
'very likely,' said mark, who had been getting rather rusty with 'illusion' of late.
'i'm a retired country solicitor, sir! you've made him a man of low character; you show him up all through the book as perpetually mixing in petty squabbles, sir; on one occasion you actually allow him to get drunk now what do you mean by it?'
'good heavens,' said mark, with a laugh, 'you don't seriously mean to tell me you consider all this personal?'
'i do very seriously mean to tell you so, young gentleman,' said mr. humpage, showing his teeth with a kind of snarl.
'there are people who will see personalities in a proposition of euclid,' said mark, now completely himself again, and rather amused by the scene; 'i should think you must be one of them, mr. humpage. will it comfort you if i let you know that i--that this book was written months before i first had the pleasure of seeing you.'
'no, sir, not at all. that only shows me more clearly what i knew already. that there has been another hand at work here. i see that uncle of yours behind your back here.'
'do you though?' said mark. 'he's not considered literary as a general rule.'
'oh, he's quite literary enough to be libellous. just cast your eye over this copy. your uncle sent this to me as a present, the first work of his nephew. i thought at first he was trying to be friendly again, till i opened the book! just look at it, sir!' and the old man fumbled through the leaves with his trembling hands. 'here's a passage where your solicitor is guilty of a bit of sharp practice--underlined by your precious uncle! and here he sets two parties by the ears--underlined by your uncle, in red ink, sir; and it's like that all through the book. now what do you say?'
'what can i say?' said mark, with a shrug. 'you must really go and fight it out with my uncle; if he is foolish enough to insult you, that's not exactly a reason for coming here to roar at me.'
'you're as bad as he is, every bit. i had him up at sessions over that gander, and he hasn't forgotten it. you had a hand in that affair, too, i remember. your victim, sir, was never the same bird again--you'll be pleased to hear that--never the same bird again!'
'very much to its credit, i'm sure,' said mark. 'but oblige me by not calling it my victim. i don't suppose you'll believe me, but the one offence is as imaginary as the other.'
'i don't believe you, sir. i consider that to recommend yourself to your highly respectable uncle, you have deliberately set yourself to blacken my character, which may bear comparison with your own, let me tell you. no words can do justice to such baseness as that!'
'i agree with you. if i had done such a thing no words could; but as i happen to be quite blameless of the least idea of hurting your feelings, i'm beginning to be rather tired of this, you see, mr. humpage.'
'i'm going, sir, i'm going. i've nearly said my say. you have not altered my opinion in the least. i'm not blind, and i saw your face change when you saw me. you were afraid of me. you know you were. what reason but one could you have for that?'
of course mark could have explained even this rather suspicious appearance, but then he would not have improved matters very much; and so, like many better men, he had to submit to be cruelly misunderstood, when a word might have saved him, although in his case silence was neither quixotic nor heroic.
'i can only say again,' he replied in his haughtiest manner, 'that when this book was written, i had never seen you, nor even heard of your existence. if you don't believe me, i can't help it.'
'you've got your own uncle and your own manner to thank for it if i don't believe you, and i don't. there are ways of juggling with words to make them cover anything, and from all i know of you, you are likely enough to be apt at that sort of thing. i've come here to tell you what i think of you, and i mean to do it before i go. you've abused such talents as you've been gifted with, sir; gone out of your way to attack a man who never did you any harm. you're a hired literary assassin--that's my opinion of you! i'm not going to take any legal proceeding against you--i'm not such a fool. if i was a younger man, i might take the law, in the shape of a stout horse-whip, into my own hands; as it is, i leave you to go your own way, unpunished by me. only, mark my words--you'll come to no good. there's a rough sort of justice in this world, whatever may be said, and a beginning like yours will bring its own reward. some day, sir, you'll be found out for what you are! that's what i came to say!'
and he turned on his heel and marched downstairs, leaving mark with a superstitious fear at his heart at his last words, and some annoyance with holroyd for having exposed him to this, and even with himself for turning craven at the first panic.
'i must look up that infernal book again!' he thought. 'holroyd may have libelled half london in it for all i know.'
now it may be as well to state here that vincent holroyd was as guiltless as mark himself of any intention to portray mr. humpage in the pages of 'illusion'; he had indeed heard of him from the langtons, but the resemblances in the imaginary solicitor to dolly's godfather were few and trivial enough, and, like most of such half-unconscious reminiscences, required the aid of a malicious dulness to pass as anything more than mere coincidences.
but the next day, while mark was thinking apprehensively of 'illusion' as a perfect mine of personalities, the heavy steps were heard again in the passage and up the staircase; he sighed wearily, thinking that perhaps the outraged mr. humpage had remembered something more offensive, and had called again to give him the benefit of it.
however, this time the visitor was mr. solomon lightowler, who stood in the doorway with what he meant to be a reassuring smile on his face--though, owing to a certain want of flexibility in his uncle's features, mark misunderstood it.
'oh, it's you, is it?' he said bitterly. 'come in, uncle, come in. you undertook when i saw you last never to speak to me again, but i don't mind if you don't. i had a thorough good blackguarding yesterday from your friend humpage, so i've got my hand in. will you curse me sitting down or standing? the other one stood!'
'no, no, it ain't that, my boy. i don't want to use 'ard words. i've come to say, let bygones be bygones. mark, my boy, i'm proud of yer!'
'what, of a literary man! my dear uncle, you can't be well--or you've lost money.'
'i'm much as usual, thanky, and i haven't lost any money that i know of, and--and i mean it, mark, i've read your book.'
'i know you have--so has humpage,' said mark.
uncle solomon chuckled. 'you made some smart 'its at 'umpage,' he said. 'when i first saw there was a country solicitor in the book, i said to myself, "that's goin' to be 'umpage," and you 'ad him fine, i will say that. i never thought to be so pleased with yer.'
'you need not have shown your pleasure by sending him a marked copy.'
'i was afraid he wouldn't see it if i didn't,' explained mr. lightowler, 'and i owed him one over that gander, which he summonsed me for, and got his summons dismissed for his trouble. but i've not forgotten it. p'r'aps it was going rather far to mark the places; but there, i couldn't 'elp it.'
'well, i suppose you know that amounts to libel?' said mark, either from too hazy a recollection of the law on the subject of 'publication' or the desire to give his uncle a lesson.
'libel! why, i never wrote anything--only underlined a passage 'ere and there. you don't call that libelling!'
'a judge might, and, any way, uncle, it's deuced unpleasant for me. he was here abusing me all the afternoon--when i never had any idea of putting the hot-headed old idiot into a book. it's too bad--it really is!'
''umpage won't law me--he's had enough of that. don't you be afraid, and don't show yourself poor-spirited. you've done me a good turn by showing up 'umpage as what i believe him to be--what's the good of pretending you never meant it--to me? you don't know how pleased you've made me. it's made a great difference in your prospects, young man, i can tell yer!'
'so you told me at the "cock,"' said mark.
'i don't mean that way, this time. i dessay i spoke rather 'asty then; i didn't know what sort of littery line you were going to take up with, but if you go on as you've begun, you're all right. and when i have a nephew that makes people talk about him and shows up them that makes themselves unpleasant as neighbours, why, what i say is, make the most of him! and that brings me to what i've come about. how are you off in the matter o' money, hey?'
mark was already beginning to feel rather anxious about his expenses. his uncle's cheque was by this time nearly exhausted, his salary at st. peter's was not high and, as he had already sent in his resignation, that source of income would dry up very shortly. he had the money paid him for 'illusion,' but that of course he could not use; he had not sunk low enough for that, though he had no clear ideas what to do with it. he would receive handsome sums for his next two novels, but that would not be for some time, and meanwhile his expenses had increased with his new life to a degree that surprised himself, for mark was not a young man of provident habits.
so he gave his uncle to understand that, though he expected to be paid some heavy sums in a few months, his purse was somewhat light at present.
'why didn't you come to me?' cried his uncle; 'you might a' known i shouldn't have stinted you. you've never found me near with you. and now you're getting a big littery pot, and going about among the nobs as i see your name with, why, you must keep up the position you've made--and you shall too! you're quite right to drop the schoolmastering, since you make more money with your scribbling. your time's valuable now. set to and scribble away while you're the fashion; make your 'ay while the sun shines, my boy. i'll see yer through it. i want you to do me credit. i want everyone to know that you're not like some of these poor devils, but have got a rich old uncle at your back. you let 'em know that, will yer?'
and, quite in the manner of the traditional stage uncle, he produced his cheque book and wrote a cheque for a handsome sum, intimating that that would be mark's quarterly allowance while he continued to do him credit, and until he should be independent of it. mark was almost too astounded for thanks at first by such very unexpected liberality, and something, too, in the old man's coarse satisfaction jarred on him and made him ashamed of himself. but he contrived to express his gratitude at last.
'it's all right,' said uncle solomon; 'i don't grudge it yer. you just go on as you've begun.' ('i hope that doesn't mean "making more hits at humpage,"' thought mark.) 'you thought you could do without me, but you see you can't; and look here, make a friend of me after this, d'ye hear? don't do nothing without my advice. i'm a bit older than you are, and p'r'aps i can give you a wrinkle or two, even about littery matters, though you mayn't think it. you needn't a' been afraid your uncle would cast you off, mark--so long as you're doing well. as i told your mother the other day, there's nothing narrerminded about me, and if you feel you've a call to write, why, i don't think the worse of you for it. i'm not that kind of man.'
and after many more speeches of this kind, in the course of which he fully persuaded himself, and very nearly his nephew, that his views had been of this broad nature from the beginning, and were entirely uninfluenced by events, he left mark to think over this new turn of fortune's wheel, by which he had provoked a bitter foe and regained a powerful protector, without deserving one more than the other.
he thought lightly enough of the first interview now; it was cheaply bought at the price of the other. 'and after all,' he said to himself, 'what man has no enemies?'
but only those whose past is quite stainless, or quite stained, can afford to hold their enemies in calm indifference, and although mark never knew how old mr. humpage's enmity was destined to affect him, it was not without influence on his fortunes.
a dinner party.
mrs. langton did not forget mark; and before many days had gone by since his call, he received an invitation to dine at kensington park gardens on a certain saturday, to which he counted the days like a schoolboy. the hour came at last, and he found himself in the pretty drawing-room once more. there were people there already; a stout judge and his pretty daughter, a meek but eminent conveyancer with a gorgeous wife, and a distinguished professor with a bland subtle smile, a gentle voice and a dangerous eye. other guests came in afterwards, but mark hardly saw them. he talked a little to mrs. langton, and mrs. langton talked considerably to him during the first few minutes after his entrance, but his thoughts kept wandering, like his eyes, to mabel as she moved from group to group in her character of supplementary hostess, for mrs. langton's health did not allow her to exert herself on these occasions.
mabel was looking very lovely that evening, in some soft light dress of pale rose, with a trail of pure white buds and flowers at her shoulder. mark watched her as she went about, now listening with pretty submission to the gorgeous woman in the ruby velvet and the diamond star, who was laying down some 'little new law' of her own, now demurely acknowledging the old judge's semi-paternal compliments, audaciously rallying the learned professor, or laughing brightly at something a spoony-looking, fair-haired youth was saying to her.
somehow she seemed to mark to be further removed than ever from him; he was nothing to her amongst all these people; she had not even noticed him yet. he began to be jealous of the judge, and the professor too, and absolutely to hate the spoony youth.
but she came to him at last. perhaps she had seen him from the first, and felt his dark eyes following her with that pathetic look they had whenever things were not going perfectly well with him. she came now, and was pleased to be gracious to him for a few minutes, till dinner was announced.
mark heard it with a pang. now they would be separated, of course; he would be given to the ruby woman, or that tall, keen-faced girl with the pince-nez; he would be lucky if he got two minutes' conversation with mabel in the drawing-room later on. but he waited for instructions resignedly.
'didn't papa tell you?' she said; 'you are to take me in--if you will?' if he would! he felt a thrill as her light fingers rested on his arm; he could scarcely believe his own good fortune, even when he found himself seated next to her as the general rustle subsided, and might accept the delightful certainty that she would be there by his side for the next two hours at least.
he forgot to consult his menu; he had no very distinct idea of what he ate or drank, or what was going on around him, at least as long as mabel talked to him. they were just outside the radius of the big centre lamp, and that and the talk around them produced a sort of semi-privacy.
the spoony young man was at mabel's right hand, to be sure, but he had been sent in with the keen-faced young lady who came from girton, where it was well known that the marks she had gained in one of the great triposes under the old order, would--but for her sex--have placed her very high indeed in the class list. somebody had told the young man of this, and, as he was from cambridge too, but had never been placed anywhere except in one or two walking races at fenner's, it had damped him too much for conversation just yet.
'have you been down to chigbourne lately?' mabel asked mark suddenly, and her smile and manner showed him that she remembered their first meeting. he took this opportunity of disclaiming all share in the treatment of the unfortunate gander, and was assured that it was quite unnecessary to do so.
'i wish your uncle, mr. humpage, thought with you,' he said ruefully, 'but he has quite made up his mind that i am a villain of the deepest dye;' and then, encouraged to confide in her, he told the story of the old gentleman's furious entry and accusation.
mabel looked rather grave. 'how could he get such an idea into his head?' she said.
'i'm afraid my uncle had something to do with that,' said mark, and explained mr. lightowler's conduct.
'it's very silly of both of them,' she said; 'and then to drag you into the quarrel, too! you know, old mr. humpage is not really my uncle--only one of those relations that sound like a prize puzzle when you try to make them out. dolly always calls him uncle anthony--he's her godfather. but i wish you hadn't offended him, mr. ashburn, i do really. i've heard he can be a very bitter enemy. he has been a very good friend to papa; i believe he gave him almost the very first brief he ever had; and he's kind to all of us. but it's dangerous to offend him. perhaps you will meet him here some day,' she added, 'and then we may be able to make him see how mistaken he has been.'
'how kind of you to care about it!' said he, and his eyes spoke his gratitude for the frank interest she had taken in his fortunes.
'of course i care,' said mabel, looking down as she spoke. 'i can't bear to see anyone i like and respect--as i do poor uncle anthony--persist in misjudging anybody like that.'
mark had hoped more from the beginning of this speech than the conclusion quite bore out, but it was delightful to hear her talking something more than society nothings to him. however, that was ended for the present by the sudden irruption of the spoony young man into the conversation; he had come out very shattered from a desperate intellectual conflict with the young lady from girton, to whom he had ventured on a remark which, as he made it, had seemed to him likely to turn out brilliant. 'you know,' he had announced solemnly, 'opinions may differ, but in these things i must say i don't think the exception's always the rule--eh? don't you find that?' and his neighbour replied that she thought he had hit upon a profound philosophical truth, and then spoilt it by laughing. after which the young man, thinking internally 'it sounded all right, wonder if it was such bosh as she seems to think,' had fled to mabel for sanctuary and plunged into an account of his university disasters.
'i should have floored my "general" all right, you know,' he said, 'only i went in for too much poetry.'
'poetry?' echoed mabel, with a slight involuntary accent of surprise.
'rhymes, you know, not regular poetry!'
'but, mr. pidgely, i don't quite see; why can't you floor generals with rhymes which are not regular poetry? are they so particular in the army?'
'it isn't an army exam.; it's at cambridge; and the rhymes are all the chief tips done into poetry--like "paley" rhymes, y' know. paley rhymes give you, for instance, all the miracles or all the parables right off in about four lines of gibberish, and you learn the gibberish and then you're all right. i got through my little-go that way, but i couldn't the general. fact is, my coach gave me too many rhymes!'
'and couldn't you recollect the--the tips without rhymes?'
'couldn't remember with 'em,' he said. 'i could have corked down the verses all right enough, but the beggars won't take them. i forgot what they were all about, so i had to show up blank papers. and i'd stayed up all one long too!'
'working?' asked mabel, with some sympathy.
'well--and cricketing,' he said ingenuously. 'i call it a swindle.'
'he talks quite a dialect of his own,' thought mabel surprised. 'vincent didn't. i wonder if mr. ashburn can.'
mr. ashburn, after a short period of enforced silence spent in uncharitable feelings respecting fair-haired mr. pidgely, had been suddenly attacked by the lady on his left, a plump lady with queer comic inflections in her voice, the least touch of brogue, and a reputation for daring originality.
'i suppose now,' she began, 'ye've read the new book they're talking so much about--this "illusion"? and h'wat's your private opinion? i wonder if i'll find a man with the courage to agree with me, for i said when i'd come to the last page, "well, they may say what they like, but i never read such weary rubbish in all me life," and i never did!'
mark laughed--he could not help it--but it was a laugh of real enjoyment, without the slightest trace of pique or wounded vanity in it. 'i'll make a confession,' he said. 'i do think myself that the book has been luckier than it deserves--only, as the--the man who wrote it is a--a very old friend of mine--you see, i mustn't join in abusing it.'
mabel heard this and liked mark the better for it. 'i suppose he couldn't do anything else very well without making a scene,' she thought, 'but he did it very nicely. i hope that woman will find out who he is though; it will be a lesson to her!' here mabel was not quite fair, perhaps, for the lady had a right to her opinion, and anything is better than humbug. but she was very needlessly pitying mark for having to listen to such unpalatable candour, little dreaming how welcome it was to him, or how grateful he felt to his critic. when mark was free again, after an animated discussion with his candid neighbour, in which each had amused the other and both were on the way to becoming intimate, he found the spoony youth finishing the description of a new figure he had seen in a cotillon. 'you all sit down on chairs, don't you know,' he was saying, 'and then the rest come through doors;' and mabel said, with a spice of malice (for she was being excessively bored), that that must be very pretty and original.
mr. langton was chatting ponderously at his end of the table, and mrs. langton was being interested at hers by an account the judge's lady was giving of a protégé of hers, an imbecile, who made his living by calling neighbours who had to be up early.
'perhaps it's prejudice,' said mrs. langton, 'but i do not think i should like to be called by an idiot; he might turn into a maniac some day. they do quite suddenly at times, don't they?' she added, appealing to the professor, 'and that wouldn't be nice, you know, if he did. what would you do?' she inquired generally.
'shouldn't get up,' said a rising young barrister.
'i should--under the bed, and scream,' said the lively young lady he had taken down. and so for some minutes that end of the table applied itself zealously to solving the difficult problem of the proper course to take on being called early by a raving maniac.
meanwhile mabel had succeeded in dropping poor mr. pidgely and resuming conversation with mark; this time on ordinary topics--pictures, books, theatres, and people (especially people); he talked well, and the sympathy between them increased.
then as the dessert was being taken round, dolly and colin came in. 'i've had ices, mabel,' said the latter confidentially in her ear as he passed her chair on his way to his mother; but dolly stole quietly in and sat down by her father's side without a word.
'do you notice any difference in my sister dolly?' mabel asked mark, with a little anxious line on her forehead.
'she is not looking at all well,' said mark, following the direction of her glance. there certainly was a change in dolly; she had lost all her usual animation, and sat there silent and constrained, leaving the delicacies with which her father had loaded her plate untouched, and starting nervously whenever he spoke to her. when good-natured mr. pidgely displayed his one accomplishment of fashioning a galloping pig out of orange-peel for her amusement, she seemed almost touched by his offering, instead of slightly offended, as the natural dolly would have been.
'i don't think she is ill,' said mabel, 'though i was uneasy about that at first. fräulein and i fancy she must be worrying herself about something, but we can't get her to say what it is, and i don't like to tease her; very likely she is afraid of being laughed at if she tells anybody. but i do so wish i could find out; children can make themselves so terribly wretched over mere trifles sometimes.'
but the hour of 'bereavement,' as mr. du maurier calls it, had come; gloves were being drawn on, the signal was given. mr. pidgely, after first carefully barricading the path on his side of the table with his chair, opened the door, and the men, left to themselves, dropped their hypocritical mask of resigned regret as the handle turned on mrs. langton's train, and settled down with something very like relief.
mark, of course, could not share this, though it is to be feared that even he found some consolation in his cigarette; the sound of mabel's voice had not ceased to ring in his ears when her father took him by the arm and led him up to be introduced to the professor, who was standing before a picture. the man of science seemed at first a little astonished at having an ordinary young man presented to him in this way, but when his host explained that mark was the author of the book of which the professor had been speaking so highly, his manner changed, and he overwhelmed him with his courtly compliments, while the other guests gathered gradually nearer, envying the fortunate object of so marked a distinction.
but the object himself was horribly uncomfortable; for it appeared that the professor in reading 'illusion' had been greatly struck by a brilliant simile drawn from some recent scientific discoveries with which he had had some connection, and had even discovered in some passages what he pronounced to be the germ of a striking theory that had already suggested itself to his own brain, and he was consequently very anxious to find out exactly what was in mark's mind when he wrote. before mark knew where he was, he found himself let in for a scientific discussion with one of the leading authorities on the subject, while nearly everyone was listening with interest for his explanation. his forehead grew damp and cold with the horror of the situation--he almost lost his head, for he knew very little about science. thanks, however, to his recent industry, he kept some recollection of the passages in question, and without any clear idea of what he was going to say, plunged desperately into a long and complicated explanation. he talked the wildest nonsense, but with such confidence that everyone in the room but the professor was impressed. mark had the mortification of seeing, as the great man heard him out with a quiet dry smile, and a look in his grey eyes which he did not at all like, that he was found out. but the professor only said at the end, 'well, that's very interesting, mr. ashburn, very interesting indeed--you have given me a really considerable insight into your--ah--mental process.' and for the rest of the evening he talked to his host. as he drove home with his wife that night, however, his disappointment found vent: 'never been so taken in in my life,' he remarked; 'i did think from his book that that young ernstone and i would have something in common; but i tried him but got nothing out of him but rubbish; probably got the whole thing up out of some british association speech and forgotten it! i hate your shallow fellows, and 'pon my word i felt strongly inclined to show him up, only i didn't care to annoy langton!'
'i'm glad you didn't, dear,' said his wife; 'i don't think dinner-parties are good places to show people up in, and really mr. ernstone, or ashburn, whatever his name is, struck me as being so very charming--perhaps you expected too much from him.'
'h'm, i shall know better another time,' he said.
but the incident, even as it was, left mark with an uncomfortable feeling that his evening had somehow been spoilt, particularly as he did not succeed in getting any further conversation with mabel in the drawing-room afterwards to make him forget the unpleasantness. vincent holroyd's work was still proving itself in some measure an avenger of his wrongs.
about a week after the dinner recorded in the last chapter, mark repaired to the house in kensington park gardens to call as in duty bound, though, as he had not been able to find out on what afternoon he would be sure of finding mrs. langton at home, he was obliged to leave this to chance. he was admitted, however--not by the stately champion, but by colin, who had seen him from the window and hastened to intercept him.
'mabel's at home, somewhere,' he said, 'but will you come in and speak to dolly first? she's crying awfully about something, and she won't tell me what. perhaps she'd tell you. and do come, sir, please; it's no fun when she's like that, and she's always doing it now!' for colin had an unlimited belief, founded as he thought on experience, in the persuasive powers of his former master.
mark had his doubts as to the strict propriety of acceding to this request--at all events until it had been sanctioned by some higher authority than colin--but then he remembered mabel's anxiety on the night of the dinner; if he could only set this child's mind at ease, would not that excuse any breach of conventionality--would it not win a word of gratitude from her sister? he could surely take a little risk and trouble for such a reward as that; and so, with his usual easy confidence, he accepted a task which was to cost him dear enough. 'you'd better leave me to manage this, young man,' he said at the door. 'run off to your sister mabel and explain things, tell her where i am and why, you know.' and he went into the library alone. dolly was crouching there in an arm-chair, worn out by sobbing and the weight of a terror she dared not speak of, which had broken her down at last. mark, who was good-natured enough in his careless way, was touched by the utter abandonment of her grief; for the first time he began to think it must be something graver than a mere childish trouble, and, apart from all personal motives, longed sincerely to do something, if he could, to restore dolly to her old childish self. he forgot everything but that, and the unselfish sympathy he felt gave him a tact and gentleness with which few who knew him best would have credited him. gradually, for at first she would say nothing, and turned away in lonely hopelessness, he got her to confess that she was very unhappy; that she had done something which she must never, never tell to anybody.
then she started up with a flushed face and implored him to go away and leave her. 'don't make me tell you!' she begged piteously. 'oh, i know you mean to be kind, i do like you now--only i can't tell you, really. please, please go away--i'm so afraid of telling you.'
'but why?' said mark. 'i'm not very good myself, dolly--you need not be afraid of me.'
'it isn't that,' said dolly, with a shudder; 'but he said if i told anyone they would have to send me to prison.'
'who dared to tell you a wicked lie like that?' said mark indignantly, all the manhood in him roused by the stupid cruelty of it. 'it wasn't colin, was it, dolly?'
'no, not colin; it was harold--harold caffyn. oh, mr. ashburn,' she said, with a sudden gleam of hope, 'wasn't it true? he said papa was a lawyer, and would have to help the law to punish me----'
'the infernal scoundrel!' muttered mark to himself, but he saw that he was getting to the bottom of the mystery at last. 'so he told you that, did he?' he continued; 'did he say it to tease you, dolly?'
'i don't know. he often used to tease, but never like that before, and i did do it--only i never never meant it.'
'now listen to me, dolly,' said mark. 'if all you are afraid of is being sent to prison, you needn't think any more about it. you can trust me, can't you? you know i wouldn't deceive you. well, i tell you that you can't have done anything that you would be sent to prison for--that's all nonsense. do you understand? harold caffyn said that to frighten you. no one in the world would ever dream of sending you to prison, whatever you'd done. are you satisfied now?'
rather to mark's embarrassment, she threw her arms round his neck in a fit of half-hysterical joy and relief. 'tell me again,' she cried; 'you're sure it's true--they can't send me to prison? oh, i don't care now. i am so glad you came--so glad. i will tell you all about it now. i want to!'
but some instinct kept mark from hearing this confession; he had overcome the main difficulty--the rest was better left in more delicate hands than his, he thought. so he said, 'never mind about telling me, dolly; i'm sure it wasn't anything very bad. but suppose you go and find mabel, and tell her; then you'll be quite happy again.'
'will you come too?' asked dolly, whose heart was now completely won.
so mark and she went hand-in-hand to the little boudoir at the back of the house where they had had their first talk about fairies, and found mabel in her favourite chair by the window; she looked round with a sudden increase of colour as she saw mark.
'i mustn't stay,' he said, after shaking hands. 'i ought not to come at all, i'm afraid, but i've brought a young lady who has a most tremendous secret to confess, which she's been making herself, and you too, unhappy about all this time. she has come to find out if it's really anything so very awful after all.'
and he left them together. it was hard to go away after seeing so little of mabel, but it was a sacrifice she was capable of appreciating.
a declaration--of war.
on the morning of the day which witnessed dolly's happy deliverance from the terrors which had haunted her so long, mabel had received a note from harold caffyn. he had something to say to her, he wrote, which could be delayed no longer--he could not be happy until he had spoken. if he were to call some time the next morning, would she see him--alone?
these words she read at first in their most obvious sense, for she had been suspecting for some time that an interview of this kind was coming, and even felt a little sorry for harold, of whom she was beginning to think more kindly. so she wrote a few carefully worded lines, in which she tried to prepare him as much as possible for the only answer she could give, but before her letter was sent dolly had told her story of innocent guilt.
mabel read his note again and tore up her reply with burning cheeks. she must have misunderstood him--it could not be that; he must have felt driven to repair by confession the harm he had done. and she wrote instead--'i shall be very willing to hear anything you may have to say,' and took the note herself to the pillar-box on the hill.
harold found her answer on returning late that night to his room, and saw nothing in it to justify any alarm. 'it's not precisely gushing,' he said to himself, 'but she couldn't very well say more just yet. i think i am pretty safe.' so the next morning he stepped from his hansom to the langtons' door, leisurely and coolly enough. perhaps his heart was beating a little faster, but only with excitement and anticipation of victory, for after mabel's note he could feel no serious doubts.
he was shown into the little boudoir looking out on the square, but she was not there to receive him--she even allowed him to wait a few minutes, which amused him. 'how like a woman!' he thought. 'she can't resist keeping me on the tenterhooks a little, even now.' there was a light step outside, she had come at last, and he started to his feet as the door opened. 'mabel!' he cried--he had meant to add 'my darling'--but something in her face warned him not to appear too sure of her yet.
she was standing at some distance from him, with one hand lightly resting on a little table; her face was paler than usual, she seemed rather to avoid looking at him, while she did not offer to take his outstretched hand. still he was not precisely alarmed by all this. whatever she felt, she was not the girl to throw herself at any fellow's head; she was proud and he must be humble--for the present.
'you had something to say to me--harold?' with what a pretty shy hesitation she spoke his name now, he thought, with none of the sisterly frankness he had found so tantalising; and how delicious she was as she stood there in her fresh white morning dress. there was a delightful piquancy in this assumed coldness of hers--a woman's dainty device to delay and heighten the moment of surrender! he longed to sweep away all her pretty defences, to take her to his arms and make her own that she was his for ever. but somehow he felt a little afraid of her; he must proceed with caution. 'yes,' he said, 'there is something i must say to you--you will give me a hearing, mabel, won't you?'
'i told you i would hear you. i hope you will say something to make me think of you differently.'
he did not understand this exactly, but it did not sound precisely encouraging.
'i hoped you didn't think me a very bad sort of fellow,' he said. and then, as she made no answer, he plunged at once into his declaration. he was a cold lover on the stage, but practice had at least given him fluency, and now he was very much in earnest--he had never known till then all that she was to him: there was real passion in his voice, and a restrained power which might have moved her once.
but mabel heard him to the end only because she felt unable to stop him without losing control over herself. she felt the influence of his will, but it made her the more thankful that she had so powerful a safeguard against it.
he finished and she still made no response, and he began to feel decidedly awkward; but when at last she turned her face to him, although her eyes were bright, it was not with the passion he had hoped to read there.
'and it really was that, after all!' she said bitterly. 'do you know, i expected something very different.'
'i said what i feel. i might have said it better perhaps,' he retorted, 'but at least tell me what you expected me to say, and i will say that.'
'yes, i will tell you. i expected an explanation.'
'an explanation!' he repeated blankly; 'of what?'
'is there nothing you can remember which might call for some excuse if you found i had heard of it? i will give you every chance, harold. think--is there nothing?'
caffyn had forgotten the stamp episode as soon as possible, as a disagreeable expedient to which he had been obliged to resort, and which had served its end, and so he honestly misunderstood this question.
'upon my soul, no,' he said earnestly. 'i don't pretend to have been any better than my neighbours, but since i began to think of you, i never cared about any other woman. if you've been told any silly gossip----'
mabel laughed, but not merrily. 'oh, it is not that--really it did not occur to me to be jealous at any time--especially now. harold, dolly has told me everything about that letter,' she added, as he still looked doubtful.
he understood now at all events, and took a step back as if to avoid a blow. everything! his brain seemed dulled for an instant by those words; he thought that he had said enough to prevent the child from breathing a syllable about that unlucky letter, and now mabel knew 'everything!'
but he recovered his power of thought almost directly, feeling that this was no time to lose his head. 'i suppose i'm expected to show some emotion,' he said lightly; 'it's evidently something quite too terrible. but i'm afraid i want an explanation this time.'
'i think not, but you shall have it. i know that you came in and found that poor child tearing off the stamp from some old envelope of mine, and had the wickedness to tell her she had been stealing. do you deny it?'
'some old envelope!' the worst of caffyn's fear vanished when he heard that. she did not know that it contained an unread letter then; she did not guess--how could she, when dolly herself did not know it--where the letter had come from. he might appease her yet!
caffyn's first inference, it may be said, was correct; in dolly's mind her guilt had consisted in stealing a marked stamp, and her hurried and confused confession had, quite innocently and unconsciously, left mabel ignorant of the real extent and importance of what seemed to her a quite imaginary offence.
'deny it!' he said, 'of course not; i remember joking her a little over something of the sort. is that all this tremendous indignation is about--a joke?'
'a joke!' she said indignantly; 'you will not make anyone but yourself merry over jokes like that. you set to work deliberately to frighten her; you did it so thoroughly that she has been wretched for days and days, ill and miserable with the dread of being sent to prison. you did threaten her with a prison, harold; you told her she must even be afraid of her own father--of all of us.... who can tell what she has been suffering, all alone, my poor little dolly! and you dare to call that a joke!'
'i never thought she would take it all so literally,' he said.
'oh, you are not stupid, harold; only a cruel fool could have thought he was doing no harm. and you have seen her since again and again; you must have noticed how changed she was, and yet you had no pity on her! can't you really see what a thing you have been doing? do you often amuse yourself in that way, and with children?'
'hang it, mabel,' said caffyn uneasily, 'you're very hard on me!'
'why were you hard on my darling dolly?' mabel demanded. 'what had she done to you--how could you find pleasure in torturing her? do you hate children--or only dolly?'
he made a little gesture of impatient helplessness. 'oh, if you mean to go on asking questions like that--' he said, 'of course i don't hate your poor little sister. i tell you i'm sorry she took it seriously--very sorry. and--and, if there's anything i can do to make it up to her somehow; any--any amends, you know----'
the hardship, as he felt at the time, of his peculiar position was that it obliged him to offer such a lame excuse for his treatment of dolly. without the motive he had had for his conduct, it must seem dictated by some morbid impulse of cruelty--whereas, of course, he had acted quite dispassionately, under the pressure of a necessity--which, however, it was impossible to explain to mabel.
'i suppose "amends" mean caramels or chocolates,' said mabel; 'chocolates to compensate for making a child shrink for days from those who loved her! she was fretting herself ill, and we could do nothing for her: a very little more and it might have killed her. perhaps your sense of humour would have been satisfied by that? if it had not been for a friend--almost a stranger--who was able to see what we were all blind to, that a coward had been practising on her fears, we might never have guessed the truth till--till it was too late!'
'i see now,' he said; 'i thought there must be someone at the bottom of this; someone who, for purposes of his own, has contrived to put things in the worst light for me. if you can condescend to listen to slanderers, mabel, i shall certainly not condescend to defend myself.'
'oh, i will tell you his name,' she said, 'and then even you will have to own that he had no motive for doing what he did but natural goodness and kindness. i doubt even if he has ever met you in his life; the man who rescued our dolly from what you had made her is mr. mark ashburn, the author of 'illusion' (her expression softened slightly, from the gratitude she felt, as she spoke his name, and caffyn noted it). 'if you think he would stoop to slander you---- but what is the use of talking like that? you have owned it all. no slander could make it any worse than it is!'
'if you think as badly of me as that,' said caffyn, who had grown deadly pale, 'we can meet no more, even as acquaintances.'
'that would be my own wish,' she replied.
'do you mean,' he asked huskily, 'that--that everything is to be over between us? has it really come to that, mabel?'
'i did not know that there ever was anything between us, as you call it,' she said. 'but of course, after this, friendship is impossible. we cannot help meeting. i shall not even tell my mother of this, for dolly's sake, and so this house will still be open to you. but if you force me to protect dolly or myself, you will come here no more.'
her scornful indifference only filled him with a more furious desire to triumph over it; he had felt so secure of her that morning, and now she had placed this immeasurable distance between them. he had never felt the full power of her beauty till then, as she stood there with that haughty pose of the head and the calm contempt in her eyes; he had seen her in most moods--playfully perverse, coldly civil, and unaffectedly gracious and gentle--and in none of them had she made his heart ache with the mad passion that mastered him now.
'it shall not end like this!' he said violently; 'i won't let you make a mountain of a molehill in this way, mabel, because it suits you to do so. you have no right to judge me by what a child chooses to imagine i said!'
'i judge you by the effects of what you did say. i can remember very well that you had a cruel tongue as a boy--you are quite able to torture a child with it still.'
'it is your tongue that is cruel!' he retorted; 'but you shall be just to me. i love you, mabel--whether you like it or not--you shall not throw me off like this. do you hear? you liked me well enough before all this! i will force you to think better of me; you shall own it one day. no, i'm mad to talk like this--i only ask you to forgive me--to let me hope still!'
he came forward as he spoke and tried to take her hands, but she put them quickly behind her. 'don't dare to come nearer!' she said; 'i thought i had made you feel something of what i think of you. what can i say more? hope! do you think i could ever trust a man capable of such deliberate wickedness as you have shown by that single action?--a kind of malice that i hardly think can be human. no, you had better not hope for that. as for forgiving you, i can't even do that now; some day, perhaps, when dolly has quite forgotten, i may be able to forget too, but not till then. have i made you understand yet? is that enough?'
caffyn was still standing where she had checked his advance; his face was very grey and drawn, and his eyes were fixed on the eastern rug at his feet. he gave a short savage laugh. 'well, yes,' he said, 'i think perhaps i have had enough at last. you have been kind enough to put your remarks very plainly. i hope, for your own sake, i may never have a chance of making you any return for all this.'
'i hope so too,' she said; 'i think you would use it.'
'thanks for your good opinion,' he said, as he went to the door. 'i shall do my best, if the time comes, to deserve it.'
she had never faltered during the whole of this interview. a righteous anger had given her courage to declare all the scorn and indignation she felt. but now, as the front door closed upon him, the strength that had sustained her so long gave way all at once; she sank trembling into one of the low cushioned chairs, and presently the reaction completed itself in tears, which she had not quite repressed when dolly came in to look for her.
'has he gone?' she began; and then, as she saw her sister's face, 'mabel! harold hasn't been bullying you?'
'no, darling, no,' said mabel, putting her arms round dolly's waist. 'it's silly of me to cry, isn't it? for harold will not trouble either of us again after this.'
meanwhile harold was striding furiously down the other side of the hill in the direction of kensal green, paying very little heed where his steps might be leading him, in the dull rage which made his brain whirl.
mabel's soft and musical voice, for it had not ceased to be that, even when her indignation was at its highest, rang still in his ears. he could not forget her bitter scornful speeches; they were lashing and stinging him to the soul.
he had indeed been hoist with his own petard; the very adroitness with which he had contrived to get rid of an inconvenient rival had only served to destroy his own chances for ever.
he knew that never again would mabel suffer him to approach her on the old friendly footing--it would be much if she could bring herself to treat him with ordinary civility--he had lost her for ever, and hated her accordingly from the bottom of his heart. 'if i can ever humble you as you have humbled me to-day, god help you, my charming mabel!' he said to himself. 'to think that that little fool of a child should have let out everything, at the very moment when i had the game in my own hands! i have to thank that distinguished novelist, mr. mark ashburn, for that, though; he must trouble himself to put his spoke in my wheel, must he? i shan't forget it. i owe you one for that, my illustrious friend, and you're the sort of creditor i generally do pay in the long run.'
only one thing gave him a gleam--not of comfort, precisely, but gloomy satisfaction; his manoeuvre with the letter had at least succeeded in keeping holroyd apart from mabel. 'he's just the fellow to think he's jilted, and give her up without another line,' he thought; 'shouldn't wonder if he married out there. miss mabel won't have everything her own way!'
he walked on, past the huge gasometers and furnaces of the gas company, and over the railway and canal bridges, to the harrow road, when he turned mechanically to the right. his eyes saw nothing--neither the sluggish barges gliding through the greasy black stream on his right, nor the doleful string of hearses and mourning coaches which passed him on their way to or from the cemetery. it was with some surprise that, as he began to take note of his surroundings again, he found himself in bayswater, and not far from his own rooms. he thought he might as well return to them as not, and as he reached the terrace in which he had taken lodgings, he saw a figure coming towards him that seemed familiar, and in whom, as he drew nearer, he recognised his uncle, mr. antony humpage. he was in no mood to talk about indifferent topics just then, and if his respected uncle had only had his back instead of his face towards him, caffyn would have made no great effort to attract his attention. as it was, he gave him the heartiest and most dutiful of welcomes. 'you don't mean to say you've actually been looking me up?' he began; 'how lucky that i came up just then--another second or two and i should have missed you. come in, and let me give you some lunch?'
'no, my boy, i can't stay long. i was in the neighbourhood on business, and i thought i'd see if you were at home. i won't come up again now, i must get back to my station. i waited for some time in those luxurious apartments of yours, you see, thinking you might come in. suppose you walk a little way back with me, eh? if you've no better engagement.'
'couldn't have a better one,' said caffyn, inwardly chafing; but he always made a point of obliging his uncle, and for once he had no reason to consider his time thrown away. for, as they walked on together in the direction of the edgware road, where the old gentleman intended to take the underground to king's cross, mr. humpage, after some desultory conversation on various subjects, said suddenly, 'by the way, you know a good many of these writing fellows, harold--have you ever come across one called mark ashburn?'
'i've met him once,' said caffyn, and his brows contracted. 'wrote this new book, "illusion," didn't he?'
'yes, he did--confound him!' said the other warmly, and then launched into the history of his wrongs. 'perhaps i oughtn't to say it at my age,' he concluded, 'but i hate that fellow!'
'do you though?' said caffyn with a laugh; 'it's a singular coincidence, but so do i.'
'there's something wrong about him, too,' continued the old man; 'he's got a secret.'
'i saw it in the fellow's face; no young man with a clear record ever has such a look as he had when i came in. he was green with fear, sir; perfectly green!'
'is that all?' and caffyn was slightly disappointed. 'you know, i don't think much of that. he might have taken you for a dun, or an indignant parent, or something of that sort; he may be one of those nervous fellows who start at anything, and you came there on purpose to give him a rowing, didn't you?'
'don't talk to me,' said the old man impatiently; 'there's not much nervousness about him--he's as cool and impudent a rascal as ever i saw when he's nothing to fear. it was guilt, sir, guilt. you remember that picture of the railway station, and the look on the forger's face when the detectives lay hold of him at the carriage door? i saw that very look on young ashburn's face before i'd spoken a dozen words.'
'what were the words?' said caffyn. 'proceed, good uncle, as we say in our profession; you interest me much!'
'i'm sure i forget what i said--i was out of temper, i remember that. i think i began by asking him for the real name of the author of the book.'
again caffyn was disappointed. 'of course he was in a funk then; he knew he had put you into it. so you say at least; i've not read the book myself.'
'it wasn't that at all, i tell you,' persisted the old man obstinately; 'you weren't there, and i was. d'ye think i don't know better than you? he's not the man to care for that. when he found what i'd really come about he was cool enough. no, no, he's robbed, or forged, or something, at some time or other, take my word for it--and i only hope i shall live to see it brought home to him!'
'i hope it will find him at home when it is,' said caffyn; 'these things generally find the culprits "out" in more senses than one, to use an old joe miller. he would look extremely well in the old bailey dock. but this is utopian, uncle.'
'well--we shall see. i turn off here, so good-bye. if you meet that libelling scoundrel again, you remember what i've told you.'
'yes, i will,' thought caffyn as he walked back alone. 'i must know more of my dear ashburn; and if there happens to be a screw loose anywhere in my dear ashburn's past, i shall do my humble best to give it a turn or two. it's a charming amusement to unmask the perfidious villain, as i suppose i must call myself after to-day, but it was hardly safe to do it if he has his reasons for wearing a domino himself. if i could only think that excellent uncle of mine had not found a mare's nest! and if i can only put that screw on!'
a parley with the enemy.
mr. fladgate was one of those domestically inclined bachelors who are never really at ease in rooms or chambers, and whose tastes lead them, as soon as they possess the necessary means, to set up a substantial and well-regulated household of their own. he had a large old-fashioned house in the neighbourhood of russell square, where he entertained rather frequently in a solid unpretentious fashion. at his sunday dinners especially, one or two of the minor celebrities of the day were generally to be met, and it was to one of these gatherings that mark was invited, as one of the natural consequences of the success of 'illusion.' he found himself, on arriving, in company with several faces familiar to him from photographs, and heard names announced which were already common property. there were some there who had been famous once and were already beginning to be forgotten, others now obscure who were destined to be famous some day, and a few, and these by no means the least gifted, who neither had been nor would be famous at any time. there were two or three constellations of some magnitude on this occasion, surrounded by a kind of 'milky way' of minor stars, amongst which the bar, the studios, and the stage were all more or less represented.
mark, as a rising man who had yet to justify a first success, occupied a position somewhere between the greater and lesser division, and mr. fladgate took care to make him known to many of the leading men in the room, by whom he found himself welcomed with cordial encouragement.
presently, when he had shifted for a moment out of the nearest focus of conversation, his host, who had been 'distributing himself,' as the french say, amongst the various knots of talkers, came bustling up to him. 'er--mr. ashburn,' he began, 'i want you to know a very clever young fellow here--known him from a boy--he's on the stage now, and going to surprise us all some of these days. you'll like him. come along and i'll introduce him to you; he's very anxious to know you.' she let fall her hands and looked at him eagerly, but he did not pursue the subject.
“tell me, how did i come here, nanea?”
“nahoon and his companions carried you, inkoos.”
“indeed, i begin to be thankful to the leopard that struck me down. well, nahoon is a brave man, and he has done me a great service. i trust that i may be able to repay it—to you, nanea.”
this was the first meeting of nanea and hadden; but, although she did not seek them, the necessities of his sickness and of the situation brought about many another. never for a moment did the white man waver in his determination to get into his keeping the native girl who had captivated him, and to attain his end he brought to bear all his powers and charm to detach her from nahoon, and win her affections for himself. he was no rough wooer, however, but proceeded warily, weaving her about with a web of flattery and attention that must, he thought, produce the desired effect upon her mind. without a doubt, indeed, it would have done so—for she was but a woman, and an untutored one—had it not been for a simple fact which dominated her whole nature. she loved nahoon, and there was no room in her heart for any other man, white or black. to hadden she was courteous and kindly but no more, nor did she appear to notice any of the subtle advances by which he attempted to win a foothold in her heart. for a while this puzzled him, but he remembered that the zulu women do not usually permit themselves to show feeling towards an undeclared suitor. therefore it became necessary that he should speak out.
“wait here,” he said laughing; “i will bring it to you full.”
“nay, inkoos,” she remonstrated, “that is a woman’s work.”
“among my people,” he said, “the men love to work for the women,” and he started for the spring, leaving her wondering.
before he reached her again, he regretted his gallantry, for it was necessary to carry the handleless gourd upon his shoulder, and the contents of it spilling over the edge soaked him. of this, however, he said nothing to nanea.
“there is your water, nanea, shall i carry it for you to the kraal?”
“nay, inkoos, i thank you, but give it to me, you are weary with its weight.”
“stay awhile, and i will accompany you. ah! nanea, i am still weak, and had it not been for you i think that i should be dead.”
“it was nahoon who saved you—not i, inkoos.”
“nahoon saved my body, but you, nanea, you alone can save my heart.”
“you talk darkly, inkoos.”
“then i must make my meaning clear, nanea. i love you.”
she opened her brown eyes wide.
“you, a white lord, love me, a zulu girl? how can that be?”
“i do not know, nanea, but it is so, and were you not blind you would have seen it. i love you, and i wish to take you to wife.”
“nay, inkoos, it is impossible. i am already betrothed.”
“ay,” he answered, “betrothed to the king.”
“no, betrothed to nahoon.”
“but it is the king who will take you within a week; is it not so? and would you not rather that i should take you than the king?”
“it seems to be so, inkoos, and i would rather go with you than with the king, but most of all i desire to marry nahoon. it may be that i shall not be able to marry him, but if that is so, at least i will never become one of the king’s women.”
“how will you prevent it, nanea?”
“there are waters in which a maid may drown, and trees upon which she can hang,” she answered with a quick setting of the mouth.
“that were a pity, nanea, you are too fair to die.”
“fair or foul, yet i die, inkoos.”
“no, no, come with me—i will find a way—and be my wife,” and he put his arm about her waist, and strove to draw her to him.
without any violence of movement, and with the most perfect dignity, the girl disengaged herself from his embrace.
“you have honoured me, and i thank you, inkoos,” she said quietly, “but you do not understand. i am the wife of nahoon—i belong to nahoon; therefore, i cannot look on any other man while nahoon lives. it is not our custom, inkoos, for we are not as the white women, but ignorant and simple, and when we vow ourselves to a man, we abide by that vow till death.”
“indeed,” said hadden; “and so now you go to tell nahoon that i have offered to make you my wife.”
“no, inkoos, why should i tell nahoon your secrets? i have said ‘nay’ to you, not ‘yea,’ therefore he has no right to know,” and she stooped to lift the gourd of water.
hadden considered the situation rapidly, for his repulse only made him the more determined to succeed. of a sudden under the emergency he conceived a scheme, or rather its rough outline. it was not a nice scheme, and some men might have shrunk from it, but as he had no intention of suffering himself to be defeated by a zulu girl, he decided—with regret, it is true—that having failed to attain his ends by means which he considered fair, he must resort to others of more doubtful character.
“nanea,” he said, “you are a good and honest woman, and i respect you. as i have told you, i love you also, but if you refuse to listen to me there is nothing more to be said, and after all, perhaps it would be better that you should marry one of your own people. but, nanea, you will never marry him, for the king will take you; and, if he does not give you to some other man, either you will become one of his ‘sisters,’ or to be free of him, as you say, you will die. now hear me, for it is because i love you and wish your welfare that i speak thus. why do you not escape into natal, taking nahoon with you, for there as you know you may live in peace out of reach of the arm of cetywayo?”
“that is my desire, inkoos, but nahoon will not consent. he says that there is to be war between us and you white men, and he will not break the command of the king and desert from his army.”
“then he cannot love you much, nanea, and at least you have to think of yourself. whisper into the ear of your father and fly together, for be sure that nahoon will soon follow you. ay! and i myself with fly with you, for i too believe that there must be war, and then a white man in this country will be as a lamb among the eagles.”
“if nahoon will come, i will go, inkoos, but i cannot fly without nahoon; it is better i should stay here and kill myself.”
“surely then being so fair and loving him so well, you can teach him to forget his folly and to escape with you. in four days’ time we must start for the king’s kraal, and if you win over nahoon, it will be easy for us to turn our faces southwards and across the river that lies between the land of the amazulu and natal. for the sake of all of us, but most of all for your own sake, try to do this, nanea, whom i have loved and whom i now would save. see him and plead with him as you know how, but as yet do not tell him that i dream of flight, for then i should be watched.”
“in truth, i will, inkoos,” she answered earnestly, “and oh! i thank you for your goodness. fear not that i will betray you—first would i die. farewell.”
“farewell, nanea,” and taking her hand he raised it to his lips.
late that night, just as hadden was beginning to prepare himself for sleep, he heard a gentle tapping at the board which closed the entrance to his hut.
“enter,” he said, unfastening the door, and presently by the light of the little lantern that he had with him, he saw nanea creep into the hut, followed by the great form of nahoon.
“inkoos,” she said in a whisper when the door was closed again, “i have pleaded with nahoon, and he has consented to fly; moreover, my father will come also.”
“is it so, nahoon?” asked hadden.
“it is so,” answered the zulu, looking down shamefacedly; “to save this girl from the king, and because the love of her eats out my heart, i have bartered away my honour. but i tell you, nanea, and you, white man, as i told umgona just now, that i think no good will come of this flight, and if we are caught or betrayed, we shall be killed every one of us.”
“caught we can scarcely be,” broke in nanea anxiously, “for who could betray us, except the inkoos here——”
“which he is not likely to do,” said hadden quietly, “seeing that he desires to escape with you, and that his life is also at stake.”
“that is so, black heart,” said nahoon, “otherwise i tell you that i should not have trusted you.”
hadden took no notice of this outspoken saying, but until very late that night they sat there together making their plans.
on the following morning hadden was awakened by sounds of violent altercation. going out of his hut he found that the disputants were umgona and a fat and evil-looking kaffir chief who had arrived at the kraal on a pony. this chief, he soon discovered, was named maputa, being none other than the man who had sought nanea in marriage and brought about nahoon’s and umgona’s unfortunate appeal to the king. at present he was engaged in abusing umgona furiously, charging him with having stolen certain of his oxen and bewitched his cows so that they would not give milk. the alleged theft it was comparatively easy to disprove, but the wizardry remained a matter of argument.
“you are a dog, and a son of a dog,” shouted maputa, shaking his fat fist in the face of the trembling but indignant umgona. “you promised me your daughter in marriage, then having vowed her to that umfagozan—that low lout of a soldier, nahoon, the son of zomba—you went, the two of you, and poisoned the king’s ear against me, bringing me into trouble with the king, and now you have bewitched my cattle. well, wait, i will be even with you, wizard; wait till you wake up in the cold morning to find your fence red with fire, and the slayers standing outside your gates to eat up you and yours with spears——”
at this juncture nahoon, who till now had been listening in silence, intervened with effect.
“good,” he said, “we will wait, but not in your company, chief maputa. hamba! (go)——” and seizing the fat old ruffian by the scruff of his neck, he flung him backwards with such violence that he rolled over and over down the little slope.
hadden laughed, and passed on towards the stream where he proposed to bathe. just as he reached it, he caught sight of maputa riding along the footpath, his head-ring covered with mud, his lips purple and his black face livid with rage.
“there goes an angry man,” he said to himself. “now, how would it be——” and he looked upwards like one seeking an inspiration. it seemed to come; perhaps the devil finding it open whispered in his ear, at any rate—in a few seconds his plan was formed, and he was walking through the bush to meet maputa.
“go in peace, chief,” he said; “they seem to have treated you roughly up yonder. having no power to interfere, i came away for i could not bear the sight. it is indeed shameful that an old and venerable man of rank should be struck into the dirt, and beaten by a soldier drunk with beer.”
“shameful, white man!” gasped maputa; “your words are true indeed. but wait a while. i, maputa, will roll that stone over, i will throw that bull upon its back. when next the harvest ripens, this i promise, that neither nahoon nor umgona, nor any of his kraal shall be left to gather it.”
“and how will you manage that, maputa?”
“i do not know, but i will find a way. oh! i tell you, a way shall be found.”
hadden patted the pony’s neck meditatively, then leaning forward, he looked the chief in the eyes and said:—
“what will you give me, maputa, if i show you that way, a sure and certain one, whereby you may be avenged to the death upon nahoon, whose violence i also have seen, and upon umgona, whose witchcraft brought sore sickness upon me?”
“what reward do you seek, white man?” asked maputa eagerly.
“a little thing, chief, a thing of no account, only the girl nanea, to whom as it chances i have taken a fancy.”
“i wanted her for myself, white man, but he who sits at ulundi has laid his hand upon her.”
“that is nothing, chief; i can arrange with him who ‘sits at ulundi.’ it is with you who are great here that i wish to come to terms. listen: if you grant my desire, not only will i fulfil yours upon your foes, but when the girl is delivered into my hands i will give you this rifle and a hundred rounds of cartridges.”
maputa looked at the sporting martini, and his eyes glistened.
“it is good,” he said; “it is very good. often have i wished for such a gun that will enable me to shoot game, and to talk with my enemies from far away. promise it to me, white man, and you shall take the girl if i can give her to you.”
“you swear it, maputa?”
“i swear it by the head of chaka, and the spirits of my fathers.”
“good. at dawn on the fourth day from now it is the purpose of umgona, his daughter nanea, and nahoon, to cross the river into natal by the drift that is called crocodile drift, taking their cattle with them and flying from the king. i also shall be of their company, for they know that i have learned their secret, and would murder me if i tried to leave them. now you who are chief of the border and guardian of that drift, must hide at night with some men among the rocks in the shallows of the drift and await our coming. first nanea will cross driving the cows and calves, for so it is arranged, and i shall help her; then will follow umgona and nahoon with the oxen and heifers. on these two you must fall, killing them and capturing the cattle, and afterwards i will give you the rifle.”
“what if the king should ask for the girl, white man?”
“then you shall answer that in the uncertain light you did not recognise her and so she slipped away from you; moreover, that at first you feared to seize the girl lest her cries should alarm the men and they should escape you.”
“good, but how can i be sure that you will give me the gun once you are across the river?”
“thus: before i enter the ford i will lay the rifle and cartridges upon a stone by the bank, telling nanea that i shall return to fetch them when i have driven over the cattle.”
“it is well, white man; i will not fail you.”
so the plot was made, and after some further conversation upon points of detail, the two conspirators shook hands and parted.
“that ought to come off all right,” reflected hadden to himself as he plunged and floated in the waters of the stream, “but somehow i don’t quite trust our friend maputa. it would have been better if i could have relied upon myself to get rid of nahoon and his respected uncle—a couple of shots would do it in the water. but then that would be murder and murder is unpleasant; whereas the other thing is only the delivery to justice of two base deserters, a laudable action in a military country. also personal interference upon my part might turn the girl against me; while after umgona and nahoon have been wiped out by maputa, she must accept my escort. of course there is a risk, but in every walk of life the most cautious have to take risks at times.”
as it chanced, philip hadden was correct in his suspicions of his coadjutor, maputa. even before that worthy chief reached his own kraal, he had come to the conclusion that the white man’s plan, though attractive in some ways, was too dangerous, since it was certain that if the girl nanea escaped, the king would be indignant. moreover, the men he took with him to do the killing in the drift would suspect something and talk. on the other hand he would earn much credit with his majesty by revealing the plot, saying that he had learned it from the lips of the white hunter, whom umgona and nahoon had forced to participate in it, and of whose coveted rifle he must trust to chance to possess himself.
an hour later two discreet messengers were bounding across the plains, bearing words from the chief maputa, the warden of the border, to the “great black elephant” at ulundi.
chapter v the doom pool
fortune showed itself strangely favourable to the plans of nahoon and nanea. one of the zulu captain’s perplexities was as to how he should lull the suspicions and evade the vigilance of his own companions, who together with himself had been detailed by the king to assist hadden in his hunting and to guard against his escape. as it chanced, however, on the day after the incident of the visit of maputa, a messenger arrived from no less a person than the great military induna, tvingwayo ka marolo, who afterwards commanded the zulu army at isandhlwana, ordering these men to return to their regiment, the umcityu corps, which was to be placed upon full war footing. accordingly nahoon sent them, saying that he himself would follow with black heart in the course of a few days, as at present the white man was not sufficiently recovered from his hurts to allow of his travelling fast and far. so the soldiers went, doubting nothing.
then umgona gave it out that in obedience to the command of the king he was about to start for ulundi, taking with him his daughter nanea to be delivered over into the sigodhla, and also those fifteen head of cattle that had been lobola’d by nahoon in consideration of his forthcoming marriage, whereof he had been fined by cetywayo. under pretence that they required a change of veldt, the rest of his cattle he sent away in charge of a basuto herd who knew nothing of their plans, telling him to keep them by the crocodile drift, as there the grass was good and sweet.
all preparations being completed, on the third day the party started, heading straight for ulundi. after they had travelled some miles, however, they left the road and turning sharp to the right, passed unobserved of any through a great stretch of uninhabited bush. their path now lay not far from the pool of doom, which, indeed, was close to umgona’s kraal, and the forest that was called home of the dead, but out of sight of these. it was their plan to travel by night, reaching the broken country near the crocodile drift on the following morning. here they proposed to lie hid that day and through the night; then, having first collected the cattle which had preceded them, to cross the river at the break of dawn and escape into natal. at least this was the plan of his companions; but, as we know, hadden had another programme, whereon after one last appearance two of the party would play no part.
during that long afternoon’s journey umgona, who knew every inch of the country, walked ahead driving the fifteen cattle and carrying in his hand a long travelling stick of black and white umzimbeet wood, for in truth the old man was in a hurry to reach his journey’s end. next came nahoon, armed with a broad assegai, but naked except for his moocha and necklet of baboon’s teeth, and with him nanea in her white bead-bordered mantle. hadden, who brought up the rear, noticed that the girl seemed to be under the spell of an imminent apprehension, for from time to time she clasped her lover’s arm, and looking up into his face, addressed him with vehemence, almost with passion.
curiously enough, the sight touched hadden, and once or twice he was shaken by so sharp a pang of remorse at the thought of his share in this tragedy, that he cast about in his mind seeking a means to unravel the web of death which he himself had woven. but ever that evil voice was whispering at his ear. it reminded him that he, the white inkoos, had been refused by this dusky beauty, and that if he found a way to save him, within some few hours she would be the wife of the savage gentleman at her side, the man who had named him black heart and who despised him, the man whom he had meant to murder and who immediately repaid his treachery by rescuing him from the jaws of the leopard at the risk of his own life. moreover, it was a law of hadden’s existence never to deny himself of anything that he desired if it lay within his power to take it—a law which had led him always deeper into sin. in other respects, indeed, it had not carried him far, for in the past he had not desired much, and he had won little; but this particular flower was to his hand, and he would pluck it. if nahoon stood between him and the flower, so much the worse for nahoon, and if it should wither in his grasp, so much the worse for the flower; it could always be thrown away. thus it came about that, not for the first time in his life, philip hadden discarded the somewhat spasmodic prickings of conscience and listened to that evil whispering at his ear.
observing that their expected guests had arrived, the men knocked out the dakka pipe, replaced the snuff boxes in the slits made in the lobes of their ears, and secured the four of them.
“what is the meaning of this, o king’s soldiers?” asked umgona in a quavering voice. “we journey to the kraal of u’cetywayo; why do you molest us?”
“indeed. wherefore then are your faces set towards the south? does the black one live in the south? well, you will journey to another kraal presently,” answered the jovial-looking captain of the party with a callous laugh.
“i do not understand,” stammered umgona.
“then i will explain while you rest,” said the captain. “the chief maputa yonder sent word to the black one at ulundi that he had learned of your intended flight to natal from the lips of this white man, who had warned him of it. the black one was angry, and despatched us to catch you and make an end of you. that is all. come on now, quietly, and let us finish the matter. as the doom pool is near, your deaths will be easy.”
nahoon heard the words, and sprang straight at the throat of hadden; but he did not reach it, for the soldiers pulled him down. nanea heard them also, and turning, looked the traitor in the eyes; she said nothing, she only looked, but he could never forget that look. the white man for his part was filled with a fiery indignation against maputa.
“you wicked villain,” he gasped, whereat the chief smiled in a sickly fashion, and turned away.
then they were marched along the banks of the stream till they reached the waterfall that fell into the pool of doom.
hadden was a brave man after his fashion, but his heart quailed as he gazed into that abyss.
“are you going to throw me in there?” he asked of the zulu captain in a thick voice.
“you, white man?” replied the soldier unconcernedly. “no, our orders are to take you to the king, but what he will do with you i do not know. there is to be war between your people and ours, so perhaps he means to pound you into medicine for the use of the witch-doctors, or to peg you over an ant-heap as a warning to other white men.”
hadden received this information in silence, but its effect upon his brain was bracing, for instantly he began to search out some means of escape.
by now the party had halted near the two thorn trees that hung over the waters of the pool.
“who dives first,” asked the captain of the chief maputa.
“the old wizard,” he replied, nodding at umgona; “then his daughter after him, and last of all this fellow,” and he struck nahoon in the face with his open hand.
“come on, wizard,” said the captain, grasping umgona by the arm, “and let us see how you can swim.”
at the words of doom umgona seemed to recover his self-command, after the fashion of his race.
“no need to lead me, soldier,” he said, shaking himself loose, “who am old and ready to die.” then he kissed his daughter at his side, wrung nahoon by the hand, and turning from hadden with a gesture of contempt walked out upon the platform that joined the two thorn trunks. here he stood for a moment looking at the setting sun, then suddenly, and without a sound, he hurled himself into the abyss below and vanished.
“that was a brave one,” said the captain with admiration. “can you spring too, girl, or must we throw you?”
“i can walk my father’s path,” nanea answered faintly, “but first i crave leave to say one word. it is true that we were escaping from the king, and therefore by the law we must die; but it was black heart here who made the plot, and he who has betrayed us. would you know why he has betrayed us? because he sought my favour, and i refused him, and this is the vengeance that he takes—a white man’s vengeance.”
“wow!” broke in the chief maputa, “this pretty one speaks truth, for the white man would have made a bargain with me under which umgona, the wizard, and nahoon, the soldier, were to be killed at the crocodile drift, and he himself suffered to escape with the girl. i spoke him softly and said ‘yes,’ and then like a loyal man i reported to the king.”
“you hear,” sighed nanea. “nahoon, fare you well, though presently perhaps we shall be together again. it was i who tempted you from your duty. for my sake you forgot your honour, and i am repaid. farewell, my husband, it is better to die with you than to enter the house of the king’s women,” and nanea stepped on to the platform.
here, holding to a bough of one of the thorn trees, she turned and addressed hadden, saying:—
“black heart, you seem to have won the day, but me at least you lose and—the sun is not yet set. after sunset comes the night, black heart, and in that night i pray that you may wander eternally, and be given to drink of my blood and the blood of umgona my father, and the blood of nahoon my husband, who saved your life, and whom you have murdered. perchance, black heart, we may yet meet yonder—in the house of the dead.”
then uttering a low cry nanea clasped her hands and sprang upwards and outwards from the platform. the watchers bent their heads forward to look. they saw her rush headlong down the face of the fall to strike the water fifty feet below. a few seconds, and for the last time, they caught sight of her white garment glimmering on the surface of the gloomy pool. then the shadows and mist-wreaths hid it, and she was gone.
“now, husband,” cried the cheerful voice of the captain, “yonder is your marriage bed, so be swift to follow a bride who is so ready to lead the way. wow! but you are good people to kill; never have i had to do with any who gave less trouble. you——” and he stopped, for mental agony had done its work, and suddenly nahoon went mad before his eyes.
with a roar like that of a lion the great man cast off those who held him and seizing one of them round the waist and thigh, he put out all his terrible strength. lifting him as though he had been an infant, he hurled him over the edge of the cliff to find his death on the rocks of the pool of doom. then crying:—
“black heart! your turn, black heart the traitor!” he rushed at hadden, his eyes rolling and foam flying from his lips, as he passed striking the chief maputa from his horse with a backward blow of his hand. ill would it have gone with the white man if nahoon had caught him. but he could not come at him, for the soldiers sprang upon him and notwithstanding his fearful struggles they pulled him to the ground, as at certain festivals the zulu regiments with their naked hands pull down a bull in the presence of the king.
“cast him over before he can work more mischief,” said a voice. but the captain cried out, “nay, nay, he is sacred; the fire from heaven has fallen on his brain, and we may not harm him, else evil would overtake us all. bind him hand and foot, and bear him tenderly to where he can be cared for. surely i thought that these evil-doers were giving us too little trouble, and thus it has proved.”
so they set themselves to make fast nahoon’s hands and wrists, using as much gentleness as they might, for among the zulus a lunatic is accounted holy. it was no easy task, and it took time.
“the white thief, he has stolen my horse, and the gun too, the gun that he promised to give me.”
hadden, who by this time was a hundred yards away, heard him clearly, and a rage filled his heart. this man had made an open murderer of him; more, he had been the means of robbing him of the girl for whose sake he had dipped his hands in these iniquities. he glanced over his shoulder; maputa was still running, and alone. yes, there was time; at any rate he would risk it.
pulling up the pony with a jerk, he leapt from its back, slipping his arm through the rein with an almost simultaneous movement. as it chanced, and as he had hoped would be the case, the animal was a trained shooting horse, and stood still. hadden planted his feet firmly on the ground and drawing a deep breath, he cocked the rifle and covered the advancing chief. now maputa saw his purpose and with a yell of terror turned to fly. hadden waited a second to get the sight fair on his broad back, then just as the soldiers appeared above the rise he pressed the trigger. he was a noted shot, and in this instance his skill did not fail him; for, before he heard the bullet tell, maputa flung his arms wide and plunged to the ground dead.
three seconds more, and with a savage curse, hadden had remounted the pony and was riding for his life towards the river, which a while later he crossed in safety.
chapter vi the ghost of the dead
when nanea leapt from the dizzy platform that overhung the pool of doom, a strange fortune befell her. close in to the precipice were many jagged rocks, and on these the waters of the fall fell and thundered, bounding from them in spouts of spray into the troubled depths of the foss beyond. it was on these stones that the life was dashed out from the bodies of the wretched victims who were hurled from above. but nanea, it will be remembered, had not waited to be treated thus, and as it chanced the strong spring with which she had leapt to death carried her clear of the rocks. by a very little she missed the edge of them and striking the deep water head first like some practised diver, she sank down and down till she thought that she would never rise again. yet she did rise, at the end of the pool in the mouth of the rapid, along which she sped swiftly, carried down by the rush of the water. fortunately there were no rocks here; and, since she was a skilful swimmer, she escaped the danger of being thrown against the banks.
for a long distance she was borne thus till at length she saw that she was in a forest, for trees cut off the light from the water, and their drooping branches swept its surface. one of these nanea caught with her hand, and by the help of it she dragged herself from the river of death whence none had escaped before. now she stood upon the bank gasping but quite unharmed; there was not a scratch on her body; even her white garment was still fast about her neck.
but though she had suffered no hurt in her terrible voyage, so exhausted was nanea that she could scarcely stand. here the gloom was that of night, and shivering with cold she looked helplessly to find some refuge. close to the water’s edge grew an enormous yellow-wood tree, and to this she staggered—thinking to climb it, and seek shelter in its boughs where, as she hoped, she would be safe from wild beasts. again fortune befriended her, for at a distance of a few feet from the ground there was a great hole in the tree which, she discovered, was hollow. into this hole she crept, taking her chance of its being the home of snakes or other evil creatures, to find that the interior was wide and warm. it was dry also, for at the bottom of the cavity lay a foot or more of rotten tinder and moss brought there by rats or birds. upon this tinder she lay down, and covering herself with the moss and leaves soon sank into sleep or stupor.
how long nanea slept she did not know, but at length she was awakened by a sound as of guttural human voices talking in a language that she could not understand. rising to her knees she peered out of the hole in the tree. it was night, but the stars shone brilliantly, and their light fell upon an open circle of ground close by the edge of the river. in this circle there burned a great fire, and at a little distance from the fire were gathered eight or ten horrible-looking beings, who appeared to be rejoicing over something that lay upon the ground. they were small in stature, men and women together, but no children, and all of them were nearly naked. their hair was long and thin, growing down almost to the eyes, their jaws and teeth protruded and the girth of their black bodies was out of all proportion to their height. in their hands they held sticks with sharp stones lashed on to them, or rude hatchet-like knives of the same material.
while she wondered thus, one of the dreadful-looking little creatures advanced to the fire, and taking from it a burning bough, held it over the thing that lay upon the ground, to give light to a companion who was about to do something to it with the stone knife. next instant nanea drew back her head from the hole, a stifled shriek upon her lips. she saw what it was now—it was the body of a man. yes, and these were no ghosts; they were cannibals of whom when she was little, her mother had told her tales to keep her from wandering away from home.
but who was the man they were about to eat? it could not be one of themselves, for his stature was much greater. oh! now she knew; it must be nahoon, who had been killed up yonder, and whose dead body the waters had brought down to the haunted forest as they had brought her alive. yes, it must be nahoon, and she would be forced to see her husband devoured before her eyes. the thought of it overwhelmed her. that he should die by order of the king was natural, but that he should be buried thus! yet what could she do to prevent it? well, if it cost her her life, it should be prevented. at the worst they could only kill and eat her also, and now that nahoon and her father were gone, being untroubled by any religious or spiritual hopes and fears, she was not greatly concerned to keep her own breath in her.
slipping through the hole in the tree, nanea walked quietly towards the cannibals—not knowing in the least what she should do when she reached them. as she arrived in line with the fire this lack of programme came home to her mind forcibly, and she paused to reflect. just then one of the cannibals looked up to see a tall and stately figure wrapped in a white garment which, as the flame-light flickered on it, seemed now to advance from the dense background of shadow, and now to recede into it. the poor savage wretch was holding a stone knife in his teeth when he beheld her, but it did not remain there long, for opening his great jaws he uttered the most terrified and piercing yell that nanea had ever heard. then the others saw her also, and presently the forest was ringing with shrieks of fear. for a few seconds the outcasts stood and gazed, then they were gone this way and that, bursting their path through the undergrowth like startled jackals. the esemkofu of zulu tradition had been routed in their own haunted home by what they took to be a spirit.
poor esemkofu! they were but miserable and starving bushmen who, driven into that place of ill omen many years ago, had adopted this means, the only one open to them, to keep the life in their wretched bodies. here at least they were unmolested, and as there was little other food to be found amid that wilderness of trees, they took what the river brought them. when executions were few in the pool of doom, times were hard for them indeed—for then they were driven to eat each other. that is why there were no children.
as their inarticulate outcry died away in the distance, nanea ran forward to look at the body that lay on the ground, and staggered back with a sigh of relief. it was not nahoon, but she recognised the face for that of one of the party of executioners. how did he come here? had nahoon killed him? had nahoon escaped? she could not tell, and at the best it was improbable, but still the sight of this dead soldier lit her heart with a faint ray of hope, for how did he come to be dead if nahoon had no hand in his death? she could not bear to leave him lying so near her hiding-place, however; therefore, with no small toil, she rolled the corpse back into the water, which carried it swiftly away. then she returned to the tree, having first replenished the fire, and awaited the light.
at last it came—so much of it as ever penetrated this darksome den—and nanea, becoming aware that she was hungry, descended from the tree to search for food. all day long she searched, finding nothing, till towards sunset she remembered that on the outskirts of the forest there was a flat rock where it was the custom of those who had been in any way afflicted, or who considered themselves or their belongings to be bewitched, to place propitiatory offerings of food wherewith the esemkofu and amalhosi were supposed to satisfy their spiritual cravings. urged by the pinch of starvation, to this spot nanea journeyed rapidly, and found to her joy that some neighbouring kraal had evidently been in recent trouble, for the rock of offering was laden with cobs of corn, gourds of milk, porridge and even meat. helping herself to as much as she could carry, she returned to her lair, where she drank of the milk and cooked meat and mealies at the fire. then she crept back into the tree, and slept.
for nearly two months nanea lived thus in the forest, since she could not venture out of it—fearing lest she should be seized, and for a second time taste of the judgment of the king. in the forest at least she was safe, for none dared enter there, nor did the esemkofu give her further trouble. once or twice she saw them, but on each occasion they fled from her presence—seeking some distant retreat, where they hid themselves or perished. nor did food fail her, for finding that it was taken, the pious givers brought it in plenty to the rock of offering.
but, oh! the life was dreadful, and the gloom and loneliness coupled with her sorrows at times drove her almost to insanity. still she lived on, though often she desired to die, for if her father was dead, the corpse she had found was not the corpse of nahoon, and in her heart there still shone that spark of hope. yet what she hoped for she could not tell.
when philip hadden reached civilised regions, he found that war was about to be declared between the queen and cetywayo, king of the amazulu; also that in the prevailing excitement his little adventure with the utrecht store-keeper had been overlooked or forgotten. he was the owner of two good buck-waggons with spans of salted oxen, and at that time vehicles were much in request to carry military stores for the columns which were to advance into zululand; indeed the transport authorities were glad to pay £90 a month for the hire of each waggon and to guarantee the owners against all loss of cattle. although he was not desirous of returning to zululand, this bait proved too much for hadden, who accordingly leased out his waggons to the commissariat, together with his own services as conductor and interpreter.
he was attached to no. 3 column of the invading force, which it may be remembered was under the immediate command of lord chelmsford, and on the 20th of january, 1879, he marched with it by the road that runs from rorke’s drift to the indeni forest, and encamped that night beneath the shadow of the steep and desolate mountain known as isandhlwana.
that day also a great army of king cetywayo’s, numbering twenty thousand men and more, moved down from the upindo hill and camped upon the stony plain that lies a mile and a half to the east of isandhlwana. no fires were lit, and it lay there in utter silence, for the warriors were “sleeping on their spears.”
with that impi was the umcityu regiment, three thousand five hundred strong. at the first break of dawn the induna in command of the umcityu looked up from beneath the shelter of the black shield with which he had covered his body, and through the thick mist he saw a great man standing before him, clothed only in a moocha, a gaunt wild-eyed man who held a rough club in his hand. when he was spoken to, the man made no answer; he only leaned upon his club looking from left to right along the dense array of innumerable shields.
“who is this silwana (wild creature)?” asked the induna of his captains wondering.
the captains stared at the wanderer, and one of them replied, “this is nahoon-ka-zomba, it is the son of zomba who not long ago held rank in this regiment of the umcityu. his betrothed, nanea, daughter of umgona, was killed together with her father by order of the black one, and nahoon went mad with grief at the sight of it, for the fire of heaven entered his brain, and mad he has wandered ever since.”
“what would you here, nahoon-ka-zomba?” asked the induna.
then nahoon spoke slowly. “my regiment goes down to war against the white men; give me a shield and a spear, o captain of the king, that i may fight with my regiment, for i seek a face in the battle.”
so they gave him a shield and a spear, for they dared not turn away one whose brain was alight with the fire of heaven.
when the sun was high that day, bullets began to fall among the ranks of the umcityu. then the black-shielded, black-plumed umcityu arose, company by company, and after them arose the whole vast zulu army, breast and horns together, and swept down in silence upon the doomed british camp, a moving sheen of spears. the bullets pattered on the shields, the shells tore long lines through their array, but they never halted or wavered. forward on either side shot out the horns of armed men, clasping the camp in an embrace of steel. then as these began to close, out burst the war cry of the zulus, and with the roar of a torrent and the rush of a storm, with a sound like the humming of a billion bees, wave after wave the deep breast of the impi rolled down upon the white men. with it went the black-shielded umcityu and with them went nahoon, the son of zomba. a bullet struck him in the side, glancing from his ribs, he did not heed; a white man fell from his horse before him, he did not stab, for he sought but one face in the battle.
he sought—and at last he found. there, among the waggons where the spears were busiest, there standing by his horse and firing rapidly was black heart, he who had given nanea his betrothed to death. three soldiers stood between them, one of them nahoon stabbed, and two he brushed aside; then he rushed straight at hadden.
but the white man saw him come, and even through the mask of his madness he knew nahoon again, and terror took hold of him. throwing away his empty rifle, for his ammunition was spent, he leaped upon his horse and drove his spurs into its flanks. away it went among the carnage, springing over the dead and bursting through the lines of shields, and after it came nahoon, running long and low with head stretched forward and trailing spear, running as a hound runs when the buck is at view.
hadden’s first plan was to head for rorke’s drift, but a glance to the left showed him that the masses of the undi barred that way, so he fled straight on, leaving his path to fortune. in five minutes he was over a ridge, and there was nothing of the battle to be seen, in ten all sounds of it had died away, for few guns were fired in the dread race to fugitive’s drift, and the assegai makes no noise. in some strange fashion, even at this moment, the contrast between the dreadful scene of blood and turmoil that he had left, and the peaceful face of nature over which he was passing, came home to his brain vividly. here birds sang and cattle grazed; here the sun shone undimmed by the smoke of cannon, only high up in the blue and silent air long streams of vultures could be seen winging their way to the plain of isandhlwana.
the ground was very rough, and hadden’s horse began to tire. he looked over his shoulder—there some two hundred yards behind came the zulu, grim as death, unswerving as fate. he examined the pistol in his belt; there was but one undischarged cartridge left, all the rest had been fired and the pouch was empty. well, one bullet should be enough for one savage: the question was should he stop and use it now? no, he might miss or fail to kill the man; he was on horseback and his foe on foot, surely he could tire him out.
a while passed, and they dashed through a little stream. it seemed familiar to hadden. yes, that was the pool where he used to bathe when he was the guest of umgona, the father of nanea; and there on the knoll to his right were the huts, or rather the remains of them, for they had been burnt with fire. what chance had brought him to this place, he wondered; then again he looked behind him at nahoon, who seemed to read his thoughts, for he shook his spear and pointed to the ruined kraal.
on he went at speed for here the land was level, and to his joy he lost sight of his pursuer. but presently there came a mile of rocky ground, and when it was past, glancing back he saw that nahoon was once more in his old place. his horse’s strength was almost spent, but hadden spurred it forward blindly, whither he knew not. now he was travelling along a strip of turf and ahead of him he heard the music of a river, while to his left rose a high bank. presently the turf bent inwards and there, not twenty yards away from him, was a kaffir hut standing on the brink of a river. he looked at it, yes, it was the hut of that accursed inyanga, the bee, and standing by the fence of it was none other than the bee herself. at the sight of her the exhausted horse swerved violently, stumbled and came to the ground, where it lay panting. hadden was thrown from the saddle but sprang to his feet unhurt.
“ah! black heart, is it you? what news of the battle, black heart?” cried the bee in a mocking voice.
“help me, mother, i am pursued,” he gasped.
“what of it, black heart, it is but by one tired man. stand then and face him, for now black heart and white heart are together again. you will not? then away to the forest and seek shelter among the dead who await you there. tell me, tell me, was it the face of nanea that i saw beneath the waters a while ago? good! bear my greetings to her when you two meet in the house of the dead.”
hadden looked at the stream; it was in flood. he could not swim it, so followed by the evil laugh of the prophetess, he sped towards the forest. after him came nahoon, his tongue hanging from his jaws like the tongue of a wolf.
now he was in the shadow of the forest, but still he sped on following the course of the river, till at length his breath failed, and he halted on the further side of a little glade, beyond which a great tree grew. nahoon was more than a spear’s throw behind him; therefore he had time to draw his pistol and make ready.
“halt, nahoon,” he cried, as once before he had cried; “i would speak with you.”
the zulu heard his voice, and obeyed.
“listen,” said hadden. “we have run a long race and fought a long fight, you and i, and we are still alive both of us. very soon, if you come on, one of us must be dead, and it will be you, nahoon, for i am armed and as you know i can shoot straight. what do you say?”
nahoon made no answer, but stood still at the edge of the glade, his wild and glowering eyes fixed on the white man’s face and his breath coming in short gasps.
“will you let me go, if i let you go?” hadden asked once more. “i know why you hate me, but the past cannot be undone, nor can the dead be brought to earth again.”
still nahoon made no answer, and his silence seemed more fateful and more crushing than any speech; no spoken accusation would have been so terrible in hadden’s ear. he made no answer, but lifting his assegai he stalked grimly toward his foe.
when he was within five paces hadden covered him and fired. nahoon sprang aside, but the bullet struck him somewhere, for his right arm dropped, and the stabbing spear that he held was jerked from it harmlessly over the white man’s head. but still making no sound, the zulu came on and gripped him by the throat with his left hand. for a space they struggled terribly, swaying to and fro, but hadden was unhurt and fought with the fury of despair, while nahoon had been twice wounded, and there remained to him but one sound arm wherewith to strike. presently forced to earth by the white man’s iron strength, the soldier was down, nor could he rise again.
“now we will make an end,” muttered hadden savagely, and he turned to seek the assegai, then staggered slowly back with starting eyes and reeling gait. for there before him, still clad in her white robe, a spear in her hand, stood the spirit of nanea!
“think of it,” he said to himself, dimly remembering the words of the inyanga, “when you stand face to face with the ghost of the dead in the home of the dead.”
there was a cry and a flash of steel; the broad spear leapt towards him to bury itself in his breast. he swayed, he fell, and presently black heart clasped that great reward which the word of the bee had promised him.
nahoon heard and opened his eyes to look and his madness left him.
“welcome, wife,” he said faintly, “now i will live since death has brought you back to me in the house of the dead.”
to-day nahoon is one of the indunas of the english government in zululand, and there are children about his kraal. it was from the lips of none other than nanea his wife that the teller of this tale heard its substance.
the bee also lives and practises as much magic as she dares under the white man’s rule. on her black hand shines a golden ring shaped like a snake with ruby eyes, and of this trinket the bee is very proud.
the irish twins, by lucy fitch perkins.
in this short book the author conveys a very good image of the lives of irish country children at the end of the nineteenth century. the images drawn by the very talented author are also very good. there is just enough of the irish manner of speech to convey the flavour of the way the twins and their relatives would have spoken, had they done so in english. of course in reality it is likely that such children would have spoken in the irish language, instead of just occasionally using an irish word. but the book not only has a good story-line, but also conveys to its target audience, american children, something of the background of their irish compatriots. it is supposed to be a grade v reader, and, published in 1913, is the third of the twins series.
there is one blunder, as kathleen, the daughter of the earl of elsmore, is referred to as lady kathleen. her father would have had to be a duke or a marquess for that address to be correct. her actual title does not sound so good, so perhaps perkins can be forgiven for this solecism.
the irish twins, by lucy fitch perkins.
grannie malone and the twins.
one day of the world, when it was young summer in ireland, old grannie malone sat by her fireplace knitting. she was all alone, and in her lap lay a letter.
sometimes she took the letter in her hands, and turned it over and over, and looked at it. then she would put it down again with a little sigh.
"if i but had the learning," said grannie malone to herself, "i could be reading michael's letters without calling in the priest, and 'tis long since he passed this door. 'tis hard work waiting until some one can tell me what at all is in it."
she stooped over and put a bit of peat on the fire, and because she had no one else to talk to, she talked to the tea-kettle. "there now," she said to it, "'tis a lazy bit of steam that's coming out of the nose of you! i'll be wanting my tea soon, and no water boiling."
she lifted the lid and peeped into the kettle. "'tis empty entirely!" she cried, "and a thirsty kettle it is surely, and no one but myself to fetch and carry for it!"
she got up slowly, laid her knitting and the letter on the chair, took the kettle off the hook, and went to the door.
there was but one door and one window in the one little room of her cabin, so if the sun had not been shining brightly it would have been quite dark within.
but the upper half of the door stood open, and the afternoon sun slanted across the earthen floor and brightened the dishes that stood on the old dresser. it even showed grannie malone's bed in the far end of the room, and some of her clothes hanging from the rafters overhead.
there was little else in the room to see, except her chair, a wooden table, and a little bench by the fire, a pile of peat on the hearth, and a bag of potatoes in the corner. grannie malone opened the lower half of the door and stepped out into the sunshine. some speckled hens that had been sunning themselves on the doorstep fluttered out of the way, and then ran after her to the well. "shoo--get along with you!" cried grannie malone. she flapped her apron at them. "'tis you that are always thinking of something to eat! sure, there are bugs enough in ireland, without your always being at my heels to be fed! come now,-- scratch for your living like honest hens, and i'll give you a sup of water if it's dry you are." the well had a stone curb around it, and a bucket with a rope tied to it stood on the curb. grannie let the bucket down into the well until she heard it strike the fresh spring water with a splash. then she pulled and pulled on the rope. the bucket came up slowly and water spilled over the sides as grannie lifted it to the curb.
she poured some of the water into the dish for the hens, filled her kettle, and then straightened her bent back, and stood looking at the little cabin and the brown bog beyond.
"sure, it's old we all are together," she said to herself, nodding her head. "the old cabin with the rain leaking through the thatch of a wet day, and the old well with moss on the stones of it. and the hens themselves, too old to cook, and too old to be laying,--except on the doorstep in the sunshine, the creatures!--but 'tis home, thanks be to god."
she lifted her kettle and went slowly back into the house. the hens followed her to the door, but she shut the lower half of it behind her and left them outside.
she went to the fireplace and hung the kettle on the hook, blew the coals to a blaze with a pair of leaky bellows, and sat down before the fire once more to wait for the water to boil.
she knit round and round her stocking, and there was no sound in the room but the click-click of her needles, and the tick-tick of the clock, and the little purring noise of the fire on the hearth.
just as the kettle began to sing, there was a squawking among the hens on the doorstep, and two dark heads appeared above the closed half of the door.
a little girl's voice called out, "how are you at all, grannie malone?"
and a little boy's voice said, "we've come to bring you a sup of milk that mother sent you."
grannie malone jumped out of her chair and ran to the door. "och, if it's not the mcqueen twins--the two of them!" she cried. "bless your sweet faces! come in, larry and eileen! you are as welcome as the flowers of spring. and how is your mother, the day? may god spare her to her comforts for long years to come!" she swung the door open as she talked, took the jug from eileen's hand, and poured the milk into a jug of her own that stood on the dresser.
"sure, mother is well. and how is yourself, grannie malone?" eileen answered, politely.
"barring the rheumatism and the asthma, and the old age in my bones, i'm doing well, thanks be to god," said grannie malone. "sit down by the fire, now, till i wet a cup of tea and make a cakeen for you! and indeed it's yourselves can read me a letter from my son michael, that's in america! it has been in the house these three days waiting for some one with the learning to come along by."
she ran to the chair and picked up the letter. the twins sat down on a little bench by the fireplace, and grannie malone put the letter in their hands.
"we've not got all the learning yet," larry said. "we might not be able to read it."
"you can try," said grannie malone.
then she opened the letter, and a bit of folded green paper with printing on it fell out. "god bless the boy," she cried, "there's one of those in every letter he sends me! 'tis money that is! can you make out the figures on it, now?"
larry and eileen looked it over carefully. "there it is, hiding in the corner," said larry. he pointed to a "5" on the green paper.
"five pounds it is!" said grannie malone. "sure it's a fortune! oh, it's himself is the good son to me! what does the letter say?"
the twins spread the sheet open and studied it, while grannie hovered over them, trembling with excitement.
"sure, that's dear, isn't it?" said eileen, pointing to the first word.
"sure," said larry; "letters always begin like that."
"dear g-r-a-n-n-i-e," spelt eileen. "what could that be but grannie?"
"'tis from my grandson, young patrick, then," cried grannie. "indeed, he's but the age of yourselves! how old are you at all?"
"we're seven," said the twins.
"patrick might be eight," said his grandmother, "but surely the clever children like yourselves and the two of you together should be able to make it out. there's but one of patrick, and there should be more learning between the two of you than in one alone, even though he is a bit older! try now."
larry and eileen tried. this was the letter. it was written in a large staggery hand.
"will you listen to that now!" cried grannie malone. "is it taking me back to america, he'd be! 'tis a terrible journey altogether, and a strange country at the end of it, for me to be laying my old bones in! but i'd be a proud woman to see my own son, in any country of the world, and he an alderman!"
there was a letter from michael himself in the envelope also, but the twins could not read that, however much they tried.
so grannie was obliged to put the two letters and the green paper under the clock over the fireplace, to wait until the priest should pass that way.
"sure, this is a fine day for me, altogether," said grannie malone as she got out her bit of flour to make the cake. "i can wait for the letter from himself, the way i know they're in health, and have not forgotten their old mother. troth, we'll have a bit of a feast over it now," she said to the twins. "while i'm throwing the cakeen together do you get some potatoes from the bag, eileen, and put them down in the ashes, and you, larry, stir up the fire a bit, and keep the kettle full. sure, 'tis singing away like a bird this instant minute! put some water in it, avic, and then shut up the hens for me."
eileen ran to the potato bag in the corner and took out four good-sized potatoes. "there's but three of us," she said to herself, "but larry will surely be wanting two, himself."
she got down on her knees and buried the potatoes in the burning peat. then she took a little broom that stood near by, and tidied up the hearth.
larry took the kettle to the well for more water. he slopped a good deal of it as he came back. it made great spots of mud, for there was no wooden floor--only hard earth with flat stones set in it.
"arrah now, larry, you do be slopping things up the equal of a thunderstorm," eileen said to him.
"never you mind that, now, larry," said grannie malone. "it might have been that the kettle leaked itself, and no fault of your own at all! sure, a bit of water here or there does nobody any harm."
she hung the tea-kettle on the hook over the fire again. then she brought the cakeen and put it into a small iron baking-kettle, and put a cover over it. she put turf on top of the cover. "'twill not be long until it's baked," said grannie, "and you can be watching it, eileen, while i set out the table."
she pulled a little wooden table out before the fire, put three plates and three cups on it, some salt, and the jug of milk. meanwhile larry was out trying to shut the hens into the little shelter beside the house. but he couldn't get them all in. one old speckled hen ran round the house to the door. larry ran after her. the hen flew up on top of the half-door. she was very much excited. "cut-cut-cut," she squawked.
"cut-cut yourself now!" cried grannie malone.
she ran toward the door, waving her spoon. "shoo along out of this with your bad manners!" she cried.
just that minute larry came up behind the hen and tried to catch her by the legs.
"did you ever see the likes of that old speckle, now?" cried grannie malone. she ran for the broom. "sure she must be after thinking i was lonesome for a bit of company! do you think i'd be wanting you at all, you silly, when i have the twins by me?" she said to the hen. she shook the broom at her, but old speckle wasn't a bit afraid of grannie; she didn't move.
then grannie malone put the broom under her and tried to lift her from her perch, but old speckle had made up her mind to stay. so she flew across to another rafter, and lit on grannie malone's black coat that she wore to mass on sundays. she thought it a pleasant warm place and sat down again.
"bad luck to you for an ill-favoured old thief!" screamed grannie. "get off my sunday cloak with your muddy feet! it's ruined you'll have me entirely!"
she shook the cloak. then old speckle, squawking all the way, flew over to grannie's bed! she ran the whole length of it. she left a little path clear across the patchwork quilt. larry stood in one corner of the room waving his arms. eileen was flapping her apron in another, while grannie malone chased old speckle with the broom. at last, with a final squawk, she flew out of the door, and ran round to the shelter where the other hens were, and went in as if she thought home was the best place for a hen after all. larry shut her in.
as soon as the hen was out of the house, eileen screamed, "i smell something burning!"
"'tis the cakeen," cried grannie.
she and eileen flew to the fireplace. eileen got there first. she knocked the cover off the little kettle with the tongs, and out flew a cloud of smoke.
"och, murder! 'tis destroyed entirely!" poor grannie groaned.
"i'll turn it quick," said eileen.
she was in such a hurry she didn't wait for a fork or stick or anything! she took right hold of the little cakeen, and lifted it out of the kettle with her hand!
the little cake was hot! "ow! ow!" shrieked eileen, and she dropped it right into the ashes! then she danced up and down and sucked her fingers.
"the saints help us! the cakeen is bewitched," wailed poor grannie. she picked it up, and tossed it from one hand to the other, while she blew off the ashes.
then she dropped it, burned side up, into the kettle once more, clapped on the cover, and set it where it would cook more slowly.
when that was done, she looked at eileen's fingers. "it's not so bad at all, mavourneen, praise be to god," she said. "sure, i thought i had you killed entirely, the way you screamed!"
"eileen is always burning herself," said larry. "mother says 'tis only when she's burned up altogether that she'll learn to keep out of the fire at all!"
"'twas all the fault of that disgraceful old hen," grannie malone said. "sure, i'll have to be putting manners on her! she's no notion of behaviour at all, at all. reach the sugar bowl, larry, avic, and sit down by the table and rest your bones. i'll have the tea ready for you in a minute. sit you down, too, eileen, while i get the potatoes." she took the tongs and drew out the potatoes, blew off the ashes, and put them on the table. then she poured the boiling water over the tea-leaves, and set the tea to draw, while she took the cakeen from the kettle.
"'tis not burned so much, after all," she said, as she looked it over. "sure, we can shut our eyes when we eat it."
she drew her own chair up to the table; the twins sat on the bench on the other side. grannie malone crossed herself, and then they each took a potato, and broke it open. they put salt on it, poured a little milk into the skin which they held like a cup, and it was ready to eat.
grannie poured the tea, and they had milk and sugar in it. the little cakeen was broken open and buttered, and, "musha, 'tis fit for the queen herself," said larry, when he had taken his first bite.
and eileen said, "indeed, ma'am, it's a grand cook you are entirely."
"sure, i'd need to be a grand cook with the grand company i have," grannie answered politely, "and with the fine son i have in america to be sending me a fortune in every letter! 'tis a great thing to have a good son, and do you be that same to your mother, the both of you, for 'tis but one mother that you'll get in all the world, and you've a right to be choice of her."
"sure, i'll never at all be a good son to my mother," laughed eileen.
"well, then," said grannie, "you can be a good daughter to her, and that's not far behind. whist now, till i tell you the story of the little cakeen, and you'll see that 'tis a good thing entirely to behave yourselves and grow up fine and respectable, like the lad in the tale. it goes like this now:--"
"`i've given you your living as long as ever i can, and it's you must go out into the wide world and seek your fortune.'
"`mother, i will,' says he.
"`and will you take a big cake with my curse, or a little cake with my blessing?' says she.
"`a big cake, sure,' says he.
"so she baked a big cake and cursed him, and he went away laughing! by and by, he came forninst a spring in the woods, and sat down to eat his dinner off the cake, and a small, little bird sat on the edge of the spring.
"`give me a bit of your cake for my little ones in the nest,' said she; and he caught up a stone and threw at her.
"`i've scarce enough for myself,' says he, and she being a fairy, put her beak in the spring and turned it black as ink, and went away up in the trees. and whiles he looked for a stone for to kill her, a fox went away with his cake!
"so he went away from that place very mad, and next day he stopped, very hungry, at a farmer's house, and hired out for to tend the cows.
"`be wise,' says the farmer's wife, `for the next field is belonging to a giant, and if the cows get into the clover, he will kill you dead as a stone.'
"but the bad son laughed and went out to watch the cows; and before noontime he went to sleep up in the tree, and the cows all went in the clover. and out comes the giant and shook him down out of the tree and killed him dead, and that was the end of the bad son.
"and the next year the poor widow woman says to the good son:--
"`you must go out into the wide world and seek your fortune, for i can keep you no longer,' says the mother.
"`mother, i will,' says he.
"`and will you take a big cake with my curse or a little cake with my blessing?'
"`a little cake,' says he.
"so she baked it for him and gave him her blessing, and he went away, and she a-weeping after him fine and loud. and by and by he came to the same spring in the woods where the bad son was before him, and the small, little bird sat again on the side of it.
"`give me a bit of your cakeen for my little ones in the nest,' says she.
"`i will,' says the good son, and he broke her off a fine piece, and she dipped her beak in the spring and turned it into sweet wine; and when he bit into his cake, sure, it was turned into fine plum-cake entirely; and he ate and drank and went on light-hearted. and next day he comes to the farmer's house.
"`will ye tend the cows for me?' says the farmer.
"`i will,' says the good son.
"`be wise,' says the farmer's wife, `for the clover-field beyond is belonging to a giant, and if you leave in the cows, he will kill you dead.'
"`never fear,' says the good son, `i don't sleep at my work.'
"and he goes out in the field and lugs a big stone up in the tree, and then sends every cow far out in the clover-fields and goes back again to the tree! and out comes the giant a-roaring, so you could hear the roars of him a mile away, and when he finds the cow-boy, he goes under the tree to shake him down, but the good little son slips out the big stone, and it fell down and broke the giant's head entirely. so the good son went running away to the giant's house, and it being full to the eaves of gold and diamonds and splendid things.
"so you see what fine luck comes to folks that is good and honest! and he went home and fetched his old mother, and they lived rich and contented, and died very old and respected."
"do you suppose your son michael killed any giants in america, the way he got to be an alderman?" asked eileen, when grannie had finished her story.
"i don't rightly know that," grannie answered. "maybe it wasn't just exactly giants, but you can see for yourself that he is rich and respected, and he with a silk hat, and riding in a procession the same as the lord-mayor himself!"
"did you ever see a giant or a fairy or any of the good little people themselves, grannie malone?" larry asked.
"i've never exactly seen any of them with my own two eyes," she answered, "but many is the time i've talked with people and they having seen them. there was mary o'connor now,--dead long since, god rest her. she told me this tale herself, and she sitting by this very hearth. wait now till i wet my mouth with a sup of tea in it, and i'll be telling you the tale the very same way she told it herself."
note 1. adapted from "marygold house," in play-days, by sarah orne jewett.
the tale of the leprechaun.
grannie reached for the teapot and poured herself a cup of tea. as she sipped it, she said to the twins, "did you ever hear of the leprechauns? little men they are, not half the bigness of the smallest baby you ever laid your two eyes on. long beards they have, and little pointed caps on the heads of them.
"and it's forever making the little brogues (shoes) they are, and you can hear the tap-tap of their hammers before you ever get sight of them at all. and the gold and silver and precious things they have hidden away would fill the world with treasures.
"but they have the sharpness of the new moon, that's sharp at both ends, and no one can get their riches away from them at all. they do be saying that if you catch one in your two hands and never take your eyes off him, you can make him give up his money.
"but they've the tricks of the world to make you look the other way, the leprechauns have. and then when you look back again, faith, they're nowhere at all!"
"did mary o'connor catch one?" asked eileen.
"did she now!" cried grannie. "listen to this. one day mary o'connor was sitting in her bit of garden, with her knitting in her hand, and she was watching some bees that were going to swarm.
"it was a fine day in june, and the bees were humming, and the birds were chirping and hopping, and the butterflies were flying about, and everything smelt as sweet and fresh as if it was the first day of the world.
"well, all of a sudden, what did she hear among the bean-rows in the garden but a noise that went tick-tack, tick-tack, just for all the world as if a brogue-maker was putting on the heel of a pump!
"`the lord preserve us,' says mary o'connor; `what in the world can that be?'
"so she laid down her knitting, and she went over to the beans. now, never believe me, if she didn't see sitting right before her a bit of an old man, with a cocked hat on his head and a dudeen (pipe) in his mouth, smoking away! he had on a drab-coloured coat with big brass buttons on it, and a pair of silver buckles on his shoes, and he working away as hard as ever he could, heeling a little pair of pumps!
"you may believe me or not, larry and eileen mcqueen, but the minute she clapped her eyes on him, she knew him for a leprechaun.
"and she says to him very bold, `god save you, honest man! that's hard work you're at this hot day!' and she made a run at him and caught him in her two hands!
"`and where is your purse of money?' says she.
"`money!' says he; `money is it! and where on top of earth would an old creature like myself get money?' says he.
"`maybe not on top of earth at all, but in it,' says she; and with that she gave him a bit of a squeeze. `come, come,' says she. `don't be turning your tricks upon an honest woman!'
"and then she, being at the time as good-looking a young woman as you'd find, put a wicked face on her, and pulled a knife from her pocket, and says she, `if you don't give me your purse this instant minute, or show me a pot of gold, i'll cut the nose off the face of you as soon as wink.'
"the little man's eyes were popping out of his head with fright, and says he, `come with me a couple of fields off, and i'll show you where i keep my money!'
"so she went, still holding him fast in her hand, and keeping her two eyes fixed on him without so much as a wink, when, all of a sudden, what do you think?
"she heard a whiz and a buzz behind her, as if all the bees in the world were humming, and the little old man cries out, `there go your bees a-swarming and a-going off with themselves like blazes!'
"she turned her head for no more than a second of time, but when she looked back there was nothing at all in her hand.
"and she never got the gold at all," sighed eileen.
"never so much as a ha'penny worth," said grannie malone.
"i believe i'd rather get rich in america than try to catch leprechauns for a living," said larry.
"and you never said a truer word," said grannie. "'tis a poor living you'd get from the leprechauns, i'm thinking, rich as they are."
by this time the teapot was empty, and every crumb of the cakeen was gone, and as larry had eaten two potatoes, just as eileen thought he would, there was little left to clear away.
it was late in the afternoon. the room had grown darker, and grannie malone went to the little window and looked out.
"now run along with yourselves home," she said, "for the sun is nearly setting across the bog, and your mother will be looking for you. here, put this in your pocket for luck." she gave larry a little piece of coal. "the good little people will take care of good children if they have a bit o' this with them," she said; "and you, eileen, be careful that you don't step in a fairy ring on your way home, for you've a light foot on you like a leaf in the wind, and `the people' will keep you dancing for dear knows how long, if once they get you."
"we'll keep right in the boreen (road), won't we, larry? good-bye, grannie," said eileen.
the twins started home. grannie malone stood in her doorway, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking after them until a turn in the road hid them from sight. then she went into her little cabin and shut the door.
note 1. adapted from thomas keightley's fairy mythology.
after larry and eileen had gone around the turn in the road there were no houses in sight for quite a long distance.
on one side of the road stretched the brown bog, with here and there a pool of water in it which shone bright in the colours of the setting sun. it was gay, too, with patches of yellow buttercups, of primroses, and golden whins. the whins had been in bloom since easter, for larry and eileen had gathered the yellow flowers to dye their easter eggs. on the other side of the road the land rose a little, and was so covered with stones that it seemed as if there were no earth left for things to grow in. yet the mountain fern took root there and made the rocks gay with its green fronds.
the sun was so low that their shadows stretched far across the bogland beside them as the twins trudged along.
three black ravens were flying overhead, and a lark was singing its evening song.
eileen looked up in the sky. "there's the ghost of a moon up there! look, larry," she said.
larry was still looking up in the sky for the little lark, when eileen suddenly seized his arm. "whist, larry," she whispered. "look before you on the road!"
"'tis the tinkers!" whispered larry. he took eileen's hand and pulled her with him behind a heap of stones by the road. then they crept along very quietly and climbed over the wall into a field.
from behind the wall they could peep between the stones at the tinkers' camp without being seen.
the twins were afraid of tinkers. everybody is in ireland, because the tinkers wander around over the country without having any homes anywhere.
they go from house to house in all the villages mending the pots and pans, and often they steal whatever they can lay their hands on.
at night they sleep on the ground with only straw for a bed, and they cook in a kettle over a camp-fire.
the twins were so badly scared that their teeth chattered.
eileen was the first to say anything.
"however will we g-g-g-get home at all?" she whispered. "they've a dog with them, and he'll b-b-b-bark at us surely. maybe he'll bite us!"
"if the dog comes after us," said larry, "i'd drop a stone on him, out of a tree, just the way the good son did in the story, and kill him dead."
"but there's never a tree anywhere about," said eileen. "sure, that is no plan at all."
"that's a true word," said larry, when he had looked all about for a tree, and found none. "we'll have to think of something else."
then he thought and thought. "we might go back to grannie's," he said after a while.
"that would be no better," eileen whispered, "for, surely, our mother would go crazy with worrying if we didn't come home, at all, and we already so late."
"well, then," larry answered, "we must just bide here until it's dark, and creep by, the best way we can. anyway, i've the piece of coal in my pocket, and grannie said no harm would come to us at all, and we having it."
"the saints preserve us," whispered eileen, "if those aren't our own two geese! do you see those black feathers in their wings?"
"he's the thief of the world," said larry.
he forgot to be frightened because he was so angry, and he spoke right out loud! he stood up and shook his fist at the tinker. his head showed over the top of the wall. eileen jerked him down.
"whist now, larry darling," she begged. "if the dog sees you once he'll tear you to pieces."
larry dropped behind the wall again, and they watched the tinker's wife loosen the string about the legs of the geese, and tie them by a long cord to the bush, beside the little pig. then all the tinker people gathered around the pot and began to eat their supper.
the baby and the dog were on the ground playing together. the twins could hear the shouts of the baby, and the barks of the dog.
it was quite dusk by this time, but the moon grew brighter and brighter in the sky, and the flames of the tinkers' fire glowed more and more red, as the night came on.
"sure, it isn't going to get real dark at all," whispered larry.
"then we'd better be going now," said eileen, "for the tinkers are eating their supper, and their backs are towards the road, and we'll make hardly a taste of noise with our bare feet."
they crept along behind the rocks, and over the wall. "now," whispered larry, "slip along until we're right beside them, and then run like the wind!"
the twins took hold of hands. they could hear their hearts beat. they walked softly up the road.
the tinkers were still laughing and talking; the baby and the dog kept on playing.
"whatever is the matter with you, now?" said the tinker's wife to the geese. "can't you be quiet?" the dog stopped romping with the baby, sniffed the air, and growled. "lie down," said the woman; "there's a bone for your supper." she threw the dog a bone. he sprang at it and began to gnaw it.
larry and eileen had crouched behind a rock the minute the geese began to squawk. "i believe they know us," whispered eileen.
they waited until everything was quiet again. then larry whispered, "run now, and if you fall, never wait to rise but run till we get to tom daly's house!"
then they ran! the soft pat-pat of their bare feet on the dirt road was not heard by the tinkers, and soon another turn in the road hid them from view, but, for all that, they ran and ran, ever so far, until some houses were in sight.
they could see the flicker of firelight in the windows of the nearest house. it was tom daly's house. they could see tom's shadow as he sat at his loom, weaving flax into beautiful white linen cloth. they could hear the clack! clack! of his loom. it made the twins feel much safer to hear this sound and see tom's shadow, for tom was a friend of theirs, and they often went into his house and watched him weave his beautiful linen, which was so fine that the queen herself used it. up the road, in the window of the last house of all, a candle shone.
"sure, mother is watching for us," said larry. "she's put a candle in the window."
they went on more slowly now, past tom daly's, past the maguires' and the o'briens' and several other houses on the way, and when they were quite near their own home larry said, "sure, i'll never travel again without a bit of coal in my pocket. look at all the danger we've been in this night, and never the smallest thing happening to us."
and eileen said, "indeed, musha, 'tis well we're the good children! sure, the good little people would never at all let harm come to the likes of us, just as grannie said."
the twins get home.
when they were nearly home, the twins saw a dark figure hurrying down the road, and as it drew near, their mother's voice called to them, "is it yourselves, larry and eileen, and whatever kept you till this hour? sure, you've had me distracted entirely with wondering what had become of you at all! and your dada sits in the room with a lip on him as long as to-day and to-morrow!"
the twins both began to talk at once. their mother clapped her hands over her ears.
"can't you hold your tongues and speak quietly now--one at a time like gentlemen and ladies?" she said. "come in to your father and tell him all about it."
the twins each took one of her hands, and they all three hurried into the house. they went into the kitchen. their father was sitting by the chimney, with his feet up, smoking his pipe when they came in. he brought his feet to the floor with a thump, and sat up straight in his chair.
"where have you been, you spalpeens?" he said. "it's nine o'clock this instant minute."
the twins both began again to talk. their mother flew about the kitchen to get them a bite of supper.
"come now," said the father, "i can't hear myself at all with the noise of you. do you tell the tale, larry."
then larry told them about the cakeen, and the silk hat, and michael malone, and the tinkers, while his mother said, "the saints preserve us!" every few words, and eileen interrupted to tell how brave larry had been--"just like the good son in grannie malone's tale, for all the world."
but when they came to the geese part of the story, the father said, "blathers," and got up and hurried out to the place where the fowls were kept, in the yard behind the house.
in a few minutes he came in again. "the geese are gone," he said, "and that's the truth or i can't speak it!"
"bad luck to the thieves, then," cried the mother. "the back of my hand to them! sure, i saw a rough, scraggly man with a beard on him like a rick of hay, come along this very afternoon, and i up the road talking with mrs maguire! i never thought he'd make that bold, to carry off geese in the broad light of day! and me saving them against christmastime, too!"
"wait till i get that fellow where beating is cheap, and i'll take the change out of him!" said the father.
eileen began to cry and larry's lip trembled.
"come here now, you poor dears," their mother said. "sit down on the two creepeens by the fire, and have a bite to eat before you go to bed. indeed, you must be starved entirely, with the running, and the fright, and all. i'll give you a drink of cold milk, warmed up with a sup of hot water through it, and a bit of bread, to comfort your stomachs."
while the twins ate the bread and drank the milk, their father and mother talked about the tinkers. "sure, they are as a frost in spring, and a blight in harvest," said mrs mcqueen. "i wonder wherever they got the badness in them the way they have."
"i've heard said it was a tinker that led saint patrick astray when he was in ireland," said mr mcqueen. "i don't know if it's true or not, but the tale is that he was brought here a slave, and that it would take a hundred pounds to buy his freedom. one day, when he was minding the sheep on the hills, he found a lump of silver, and he met a tinker and asked him the value of it.
"`wirra,' says the tinker, `'tis naught but a bit of solder. give it to me!' but saint patrick took it to a smith instead, and the smith told him the truth about it, and saint patrick put a curse on the tinkers, that every man's face should be against them, and that they should get no rest at all but to follow the road."
"some say they do be walking the world forever," said mrs mcqueen, "and i never in my life met any one that had seen a tinker's funeral."
"there'll maybe be one if i catch the tinker that stole the geese!" mr mcqueen said grimly.
she helped them undress and popped them into their beds in the next room; then she barred the door, put out the candle, covered the coals in the fireplace, and went to bed in the room on the other side of the kitchen. last of all, mr mcqueen knocked the ashes from his pipe against the chimney-piece, and soon everything was quiet in their cottage, and in the whole village of ballymora where they lived.
how they went to the bog.
the next morning when the twins woke up, the sun was shining in through the one little square window in the bedroom, and lay in a bright patch of yellow on the floor. eileen sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. then she stuck her head out between the curtains of her bed. "is it to-day or to-morrow? i don't know," she said.
larry sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes. he peeped out from his curtains. "it isn't yesterday, anyway," he said, "and glad i am for that. do you mind about the tinkers, eileen?"
"i do so," said eileen, "and the geese."
their mother heard them and came to the door. "sure, i thought i'd let you sleep as late as ever you liked," she said, "for there's no school to-day, but you're awake and clacking, so how would you like to go with your dada to the bog to cut turf? himself will put a bit of bread in his pocket for you, and you can take a sup of milk along."
"oh, wirra!" cried eileen. "what have we done but left the milk-jug at grannie malone's!"
"you can take the milk in the old brown jug, then," said the mother, "and come along home by way of grannie's, and get the jug itself. i'd like your father to get a sight of the tinkers' camp, and maybe of that thief of the world that stole the geese on us."
it didn't take the twins long to dress. they wore few clothes, and no shoes and stockings, and their breakfast of bread and potatoes was soon eaten. the mother had already milked the cow, and when they had had a drink of fresh milk they were ready to start.
mr mcqueen was at the door with "colleen," the donkey, and when larry and eileen came out, he put them both on colleen's back, and they started down the road toward the bog.
when they came to the place where the tinkers' camp should be, there was no camp there at all! they looked east and west, but no sign of the tinkers did they see.
"if it were not for the two geese gone, i'd think you had been dreaming!" said mr mcqueen to the twins.
"look there, then," said larry. "sure, there's the black mark on the ground where their fire was!"
the twins slid off colleen's back, and ran to the spot where the camp had been. there, indeed, was the mark of a fire, and near by were some wisps of straw. there were the marks of horses' feet, too, and eileen found a white goose feather by the thorn-bush, and a piece of broken rope.
"they were here surely," mr mcqueen said, "and far enough away they are by this time, no doubt. it's likely the police were after them."
they went back to the road, and the twins got up again on colleen's back, and soon they had reached the near end of the bog.
the twins and the donkey started along the road. everything went well until colleen spied a tuft of green thistles, on a high bank beside the road. colleen loved thistles, and she made straight for them. the first thing the twins knew they were sliding swiftly down the donkey's back, while colleen stood with her fore feet high on the bank and her hind feet in the road.
"i may be soft to fall on," said larry, "but i'm the easier squashed for that! look at me now! it's out of shape i am entirely, with the print of yourself on me!"
then--"whatever will we do with colleen?" eileen said. "she's got her nose in the thistles and we'll never be able to drag her away from them."
they pulled on the halter, but colleen refused to budge. larry got up on the bank and pushed her. he even pulled her backward by the tail! colleen didn't seem to mind it at all. she kept right on eating the thistles.
at last larry said, "you go on with yourself to grannie malone's for the jug, eileen, and i'll stay here until she finishes the thistles."
so he sat down by the road on a stone and eileen trotted off to grannie's.
when eileen got back with the jug, she found larry still sitting beside the road. he was talking with a freckled-faced boy, and colleen's head was still in the thistles.
"the top of the morning to you, dennis maguire," eileen called to the freckled boy when she saw him. "and does it take the two of you to watch one donkey at his breakfast? come along and let's play in the bog!"
"but however shall we leave colleen? she might run away on us," said larry.
"she's tethered by hunger fast enough," said eileen. "ropes would not drag her away. but you could throw her halter over a stone, to be sure."
larry slipped the halter over a stone, they set the milk-jug in a safe place, and the three children ran off into the bog.
the bogland was brown and dark. tufts of coarse grass grew here and there, and patches of yellow gorse. there were many puddles, and sometimes there were deep holes, where the turf had been cut out.
mr mcqueen was a thrifty man, and got his supply of turf early in the season. he would cut it out in long black blocks, like thick mud, and leave it in the sun to dry. when it was quite dry he would carry it home on colleen's back, pile it in a high turf-stack near the kitchen door, and it would burn in the fireplace all winter.
the children were barefooted, so they played in the puddles as much as ever they liked.
by and by eileen said, "let's play we are deirdre and the sons of usnach."
"and who were they, indeed?" said dennis.
"it was grannie told us about them," said eileen, "and sure it's the sorrowfullest story in ireland."
"then let's not be playing it," said dennis.
"but there's kings in it, and lots of fighting!"
"well, then, it might not be so bad, at all. tell the rest of it," dennis answered.
"well, listen to that now," said dennis.
"and she had silver dishes and golden cups, and everything fine and elegant, and she the most beautiful creature you ever laid your two eyes on."
"sure, i don't see much fighting in the tale, at all," said dennis.
"whist now, and i'll come to it," eileen answered.
"so she calls in the sons of usnach, though the old woman is scared to have her, and she tells naisi she's going to marry him.
"and naisi says, says he, `i'll never be one to refuse a lady, but there'll be murder the day conchubar finds it out!' says he.
"so they went away that same night, and the old woman fair distraught with fear. soon along comes conchubar to see deirdre, for to marry her. and he had many men with him. when he finds deirdre gone, `it's that naisi,' says he, `that stole her away.' and he cursed him. and all his men and himself went out for to chase naisi and his two brothers. but they never caught up with them at all for ten years, and naisi and deirdre living all the time as happy as two birds in the springtime."
"no fighting at all yet," said dennis, "and ten years gone by. musha, indeed, 'tis not much of a tale at all."
"there was fighting enough when the years were up," eileen said. "the men of conchubar pursued them up hill and down dale, and when they finally caught them, there was fighting that made the ground red with the blood spilled.
"and when naisi and his brothers were all caught together, and conchubar was after killing them, sure, didn't deirdre put an end to herself entirely, and the four of them were buried together in one grave."
"but however will we play it at all?" said larry.
"listen, now," said eileen. "i'll be deirdre, of course. you can just be naisi, larry, and dennis can be conchubar, and he after us, and we running as fast as ever we can, to get away from him. you must give us a start, dennis."
larry and eileen took hold of hands, and began running as fast as they could. they jumped from one tuft of grass to another. dennis came splashing through the puddles after them. he had almost caught them, when all of a sudden, larry stopped and listened.
"what's that now?" he said. eileen and dennis listened too. they heard a faint squealing sound.
they looked all around. there was nothing in sight but the brown bog, and the stones, and the blue hills far beyond. they were a little bit scared.
"do you suppose it might be a leprechaun?" eileen whispered.
"'tis a tapping noise they make; not a crying noise at all," larry answered.
"maybe it's a banshee," dennis said. "they do be crying about sometimes before somebody is going to die."
"'tis no banshee whatever," eileen declared. "they only cry at night."
they heard the squealing sound again.
"'tis right over there," cried eileen, pointing to a black hole in the bog where turf had been cut out. "indeed, and it might be a beautiful baby like deirdre herself! let's go and see."
they crept up to the bog-hole, and peeped over the edge. the hole was quite deep and down in the bottom of it was a little pig! dennis rolled over on the ground beside the bog-hole and screamed with laughter.
"sure, 'tis the beautiful child entirely!" he said.
"'tis the little pig the tinkers had!" cried eileen.
"it broke the rope and ran away with itself," shouted larry.
"however will we get it out?" said eileen. "the hole is too deep entirely!"
"the poor little thing is nearly destroyed with hunger," larry said. "i'll go down in the hole and lift her out."
"however will you get out yourself, then, larry darling?" cried eileen.
"the two of you can give me your hands," said larry, "and i'll be up in no time."
then larry jumped down into the hole. he caught the little pig in his arms. the little pig squealed harder than ever and tried to get away, but larry held it up as high as he could.
eileen and dennis reached down and each got hold of one of the pig's front feet. "now then for you!" cried larry.
he gave the pig a great shove. he shoved so hard that eileen and dennis both fell over backwards into a puddle! but they held tight to the pig, and there the three of them were together, rolling in the bog with the pig on top of them!
"hold her, hold her!" shrieked larry. by standing on tiptoe his nose was just above the edge of the bog-hole, so he could see them.
"i've got her," eileen cried. "run back for the bit of rope the tinkers left, dennis, and tie her, hard and fast!"
dennis ran for the rope while eileen sat on the ground and held the little pig in her arms. the little pig squealed and kicked and tried every minute to get away. she kicked even after her hind legs were tied together. but eileen held on!
"you'll have to get larry out alone, dennis, while i never let go of this pig," cried eileen, breathlessly. "she's that wild, she'll be running away with herself on her two front legs, alone."
dennis reached down, and took both of larry's hands and pulled and pulled until he got him out.
larry was covered with mud from the bog-hole, and eileen and dennis were wet and muddy from falling into the puddle.
but they had the pig!
"sure, she is a beautiful little pig, and we'll call her deirdre, because we found her in the bog just in the same way as conchubar himself," said larry.
"indeed, deirdre was too beautiful altogether to be naming a pig after her," eileen said.
"isn't she a beautiful little pig, then?" larry answered.
"well, maybe we might be calling her `diddy,' for short, and no offence to herself at all," eileen agreed.
the poor little pig was so tired out with struggling, and so hungry, that she was fairly quiet while dennis carried her on his shoulder to the road. eileen walked behind dennis and fed her with green leaves.
she was so quiet that larry said: "we'll tie the rope to one of diddy's hind legs, and she'll run home herself in front of us."
so when they reached the road he and dennis tied the rope securely to diddy's left hind leg and set her down.
larry woke her. then he said, "eileen, come now, you take the jug, and get on colleen's back. dennis can lead her, and i'll drive the pig myself."
he hadn't heard them coming, though what with the pig squealing, and the children all speaking at once, they made noise enough. but mr mcqueen had his head down digging, and he was in a bog-hole besides, so when they came up right beside him, with the pig, he almost fell over with astonishment.
he stopped his work and leaned on his clete, while they told him all about the pig, and how they found it, and got it out of the hole, and how the tinkers must have lost it. and when they were all done, he only said, "the saints preserve us! we'll take it home to herself and let her cosset it up a bit!"
so the children hurried off to take the pig to their mother without even stopping to eat their bit of lunch. mr mcqueen came, too.
when they got home, they found mrs mcqueen leaning on the farmyard fence. when she saw them coming with the pig, she ran out to meet them.
"wherever did you find the fine little pig?" she cried. then she threw up her hands. "look at the mud on you!" she said.
then the twins and dennis told the story all over again, and mrs mcqueen took the little pig in her apron. "the poor little thing!" she said. "its heart is beating that hard, you'd think its ribs would burst themselves. i'll get it some milk right away this minute when once you've looked in the yard."
mr mcqueen and dennis and the twins went to the fence. there in the yard were the two geese with the black feathers in their wings! "faith, and the luck is all with us this day," said mr mcqueen. "however did you get them back at all?"
"'twas this way, if you'll believe me," said mrs mcqueen. she scratched the little pig's back with one hand as she talked. "i was just after churning my butter when what should i see looking in the door but that thief of a tinker with the beard like a rick of hay! thinks i to myself, sure, my butter will be bewitched and never come at all with the bad luck of a stranger, and he a tinker, coming in the house!
"but he comes in and gives one plunge to the dasher for luck and to break the spell, and says he, very civil, `would you be wanting to buy any fine geese to-day?'
"my heart was going thumpity-thump, but i says to him, `i might look at them, maybe,' and with that i go to the door, for the sake of getting him out of it, and if there weren't our own two geese, with the legs of them tied together!"
"the impudence of that!" cried mr mcqueen. "get along with your tale, woman! surely you never paid the old thief for your own two geese!"
"trust me!" replied mrs mcqueen. "i'm coming around to the point of my tale gradual, like an old goat grazing around its tethering stump! i says to him, `they look well enough, but i'm wishful to see them standing up on their own two legs. that one looks as if it might be a bit lame, and the cord so tight on it! and meanwhile, will you be having a bit of a drink on this hot day?'
"then i gave him a sup of milk, in a mug, and with that he thanks me kindly, loosens the cord, and sets the geese up on their legs for me to see. in a minute of time i stood between him and the geese, and `shoo!' says i to them, and to him i says, `get along with you before i call the man working behind the house to put an end to your thieving entirely!'
"and upon that he went in great haste, taking the mug along with him, but it was cracked anyway!"
"woman, woman, but you've the clever tongue in your head," said mr mcqueen with admiration.
"'tis mighty lucky we have," said mrs mcqueen, "for it's little else women have in this world to help themselves with!"
then she put the little pig down in the empty pig-pen in the farmyard and went to fetch it some milk.
mr mcqueen was a good farmer, but at the time he lived in ireland, farmers could not own their farms.
the land was all owned by rich landlords, who did not do any work themselves. these landlords very often lived away in england or france, and did not know much about how the poor people lived at home, or how hard they had to work to get the money for the rent of their farms.
sometimes, when they did know, they didn't care. what they wanted was all the money they could get, so they could live in fine houses and wear beautiful clothes, and go where they pleased, without doing any work.
when the landlords were away, they had agents to collect the rents for them.
the business of these agents was to get all the rent money they could, and they made life very hard for the farmers.
sometimes when the farmers couldn't pay all the rent, the agent would turn them out of their houses. this was called "evicting" them. the farm that mr mcqueen lived on, as well as the village and all the country roundabout, was owned by the earl of elsmore, who lived most of the year in great style in england. the agent who collected rents was mr conroy. nobody liked mr conroy very much, but everybody was afraid of him, because he could do so much to injure them.
so one morning when mr mcqueen came back very early from his potato-field, he was not glad to see mr conroy's horse standing near his door, and mr conroy himself, leaning on the farmyard fence, looking at the fowls.
"well enough, mr conroy," said mr mcqueen.
"and you're doing well with the farm, too, it seems," said mr conroy. "those are good-looking fowls you have, and the pig is fine and fat. how many cows have you, now?"
"two, and a heifer," said mr mcqueen.
"you drained that field over by the bog this year, didn't you, and have it planted to turnips?" went on mr conroy. "i'm glad to see you so prosperous, mcqueen. of course, now, the farm is worth more than it was when you first took it, and so you'll not be surprised that i'm raising the rent on you."
"if the farm is worth more, 'tis my work that has made it so," said mr mcqueen, "and i shouldn't be punished for that. the house is none too good at all, and the place is not worth more. last year was the drought and all manner of bad luck, and next year may be no better. truly, mr conroy, if you press me, i don't know how i can scrape more together than i'm paying now."
"well, then," said mr conroy. "you must just find a way, for this is one of the best farms about here, and you should pay as much as any one."
"you can't get money by shaking a man with empty pockets," said mr mcqueen.
but mr conroy only laughed and said:
"you'll have five pounds in yours when next rent-day comes around, or 'twill be the worse for you. you wouldn't like to be evicted, i'm sure."
then he mounted his horse and rode away.
mr mcqueen went into the house with a heavy heart, and told his wife the bad news.
"faith," said mrs mcqueen, "i'd not be in that man's shoes for all you could offer. it's grinding down the faces of the poor he is, and that at the telling of some one else! not even his badness is his own! he does as he's bid."
"he gets fat on it," said mr mcqueen.
"faith, we'll get along somehow," said mrs mcqueen. "we always have, though 'tis true it's been scant fare we've had now and again."
mr mcqueen didn't answer. he went back to his work in the fields. mrs mcqueen got the twins started off to school, with their lunch in a little tin bucket, and began her washing, but she did not sing at her work that day as she sometimes did.
larry and eileen knew that something was wrong, though their father and mother had not said anything to them about it.
they had seen mr conroy talking with their father in the yard. "and it's never a sign of anything good to see mr conroy," eileen said.
larry was thinking the same thing, for he said:--
"when i'm a man, i'm going to be rich, and then i'll give you and mother and dada a fine house, and fine clothes, and things in plenty."
"however will you get the money?" asked eileen.
"oh! giants or something," larry answered, "or maybe being an alderman."
"blathers!" said eileen. "i've a better plan in my head. you know dada and mother said we could have diddy for our very own, because we found her ourselves."
"i do," said larry.
"well, then," said eileen, "i know it's about the rent they are bothered, for it always is the rent that bothers them. now, when the fair-time comes we'll coax dada to let us take diddy to the fair. she'll be nice and fat by that time, and we'll sell her, and give the money to dada for the rent!"
"sure, it will be hard parting with diddy, that's been like one of our own family since the day we found her crying in the bog," said larry.
"indeed, and it will," said eileen, "but we think more of our parents than of a pig, surely."
"but however will we get her to the fair to sell her?" said larry.
"we'll get dada to take her for us, but we'll never tell him we mean the money to go for the rent until we put it in his hands," eileen answered, "and we won't tell any one else at all. it's a secret."
"i'd like to be telling dennis, maybe," said larry.
"we can tell dennis and grannie malone, but no one else at all," eileen agreed.
by this time they had reached the schoolhouse. the schoolmaster was standing in the door calling the children to come in.
he was a tall man dressed in a worn suit of black. he wore glasses on his nose, and carried a stick in his hand.
the schoolhouse had only one room, with four small windows, and larry hung his cap and eileen her shawl, on nails driven into the wall.
the schoolroom had benches for the children to sit on, with long desks in front of them. on the wall hung a printed copy of the ten commandments. at one side there was a fireplace, but, as it was summer, there was no fire in it.
the master rapped on his desk, which was in the front of the room, and the children all hurried to their seats. larry sat on one side of the room, with the boys. eileen sat on the other, with the girls.
the master called the roll. there were fifteen boys and thirteen girls. when the roll was called and the number marked down on a slate in front of the school, the master said, "first class in reading."
all the little boys and girls of the size of larry and eileen came forward and stood in a row. there were just three of them: larry and eileen and dennis.
"larry, you may begin," said the master.
larry read the first lines of the lesson. they were, "to do ill is a sin.
"can you run far?"
larry wondered who it was that had done ill, and if he were running away because of it, and who stopped him to ask, "can you run far?" he was thinking about it when eileen read the next two sentences.
they were, "is he friend or foe?
"did you hurt your toe?"
this did not seem to larry to clear the mystery.
"next!" called the master.
dennis stood next. he read, "he was born in a house on the hill.
"is rice a kind of corn?
"get me a cork for the ink jar."
just at this point the master went to the open door to drive away some chickens that wanted to come in, and as dennis had not been told to stop he went right on. dennis was eight, and he could read quite fast if he kept his finger on the place. this is what he read:--
"the morn is the first part of the day.
"this is my son, i hope you will like him.
"sin not, for god hates sin.
"can a worm walk?
"did you meet fred in the street?
"weep no more."
by this time the chickens were frightened away and dennis was nearly out of breath.
the master came back. then eileen had a turn. they could almost say the lessons by heart, they knew them so well.
after the reading-lesson they went back to their benches, and studied in loud whispers, but larry was thinking of something else. he drew a pig with a curly tail on his slate--like this--
he held it up for dennis to see. he wanted to tell him about diddy and the fair, but the master saw what he had done. "come here, larry mcqueen, and bring your slate," he said. "sure, i'll teach you better manners. get up on this stool now, and show yourself." he put a large paper dunce-cap on larry's head, and made him sit up on a stool before the whole school!
the other children laughed, all but eileen. she hid her face on her desk, and two little tears squeezed out between her fingers. but larry didn't cry. he pretended he didn't care at all. he sat there for what seemed a very long time, while other children recited other lessons in reading, and grammar, and arithmetic. the master gave him this poem to learn by heart:--
"i thank the goodness and the grace that on my birth have smiled, and made me in these christian days, a happy english child."
larry wondered why he was called an english child, when he knew he was irish. and he wasn't so sure either about the "christian days"; but he learned it and said it to the teacher before he got down off the stool. it seemed to him that it was about three days before noontime came. at last they were dismissed, and the twins went out with the other children into the schoolyard to eat their luncheon. dennis ate his with them, and larry told him the secret.
after lunch they went back into the dark, smoky little schoolroom for more lessons, and when three o'clock came, how glad they were to go dancing out into the sunshine again, and walk home along the familiar road, with the air sweet about them, and the little birds singing in the fields.
for many weeks eileen and larry kept the secret. they told no one but dennis and grannie malone, and they both promised they would never, never tell.
mr mcqueen worked hard--early and late--over his turnips and cabbages and potatoes, and larry and eileen helped by feeding the pig and chickens, and driving the cows along the roadsides, where they could get fresh sweet grass to eat.
one evening mr mcqueen said to his wife. "rent-day comes soon, and next week will be the fair."
larry and eileen heard him say it. they looked at each other and then eileen went to her father and said, "dada, will you take larry and me to the fair with you? we want to sell our pig."
"you sell your pig!" cried mr mcqueen. "you mean you want to sell it yourselves?"
"you can help us," eileen answered; "but it's our pig and we want to sell it, don't we, larry?"
larry nodded his head up and down very hard with his mouth tight shut. he was so afraid the secret would jump out of it!
"well, i never heard the likes of that!" said mcqueen. he slapped his knee and laughed.
"we've got it all planned," said eileen. she was almost ready to cry because her father laughed at her. "we've fed the pig and fed her, until she's so fat she can hardly walk, and we are going to wash her clean, and i have a ribbon to tie on her ear. diddy will look so fine and stylish, i'm sure some one will want to buy her!"
mrs mcqueen was just setting away a pan of milk. she stopped with the pan in her hand.
"leave them go," she said.
mr mcqueen smoked awhile in silence. at last he said:--
"it's your own pig, and i suppose you can go, but you'll have a long day of it."
"the longer the better," said the twins.
all that week they carried acorns, and turnip-tops, and everything they could find that was good for pigs to eat, and fed them to diddy, and she got fatter than ever.
the day before the fair, they took the scrubbing-pail and the broom, and some water, and scrubbed her until she was all pink and clean. then they put her in a clean place for the night, and went to bed early so they would be ready to get up in the morning.
when the first cock crowed, before daylight the next morning, eileen's eyes popped wide open in the dark. the cock crowed again. cock-a-doodle-doo!
"wake up, larry darling," cried eileen from her bed. "the morn is upon us, and we are not ready for the fair."
larry bounded out of bed, and such a scurrying around as there was to get ready! mrs mcqueen was already blowing the fire on the hearth in the kitchen into a blaze, and the kettle was on to boil. the twins wet their hair and their mother parted it and then they combed it down tight on the sides of their heads. but no matter how much they wet their hair, the wind always blew it about their ears again in a very little while. they put on their best clothes, and then they were ready for breakfast.
mr mcqueen was up long before the twins. he had harnessed colleen and had loaded the pig into the cart somehow, and tied her securely. this must have been hard work, for diddy had made up her mind she wasn't going to the fair.
mr mcqueen had found room, too, for some crocks of butter, and several dozen eggs carefully packed in straw.
when breakfast was over, mrs mcqueen brought a stick with notches cut in it and gave it to mr mcqueen.
she explained what each notch meant. "there's one notch, and a big one, for selling the pig," she said, "and mind you see that the twins get a good price for the creature. and here's another for selling the butter and eggs. and this is a pound of tea for grannie malone. she's been out of tea this week past, and she with no one to send. and this notch is for mrs maguire's side of bacon that you're to be after bringing her with her egg money, which is wrapped in a piece of paper in your inside pocket, and by the same token don't you be losing it.
"and for myself, there's so many things i'm needing, that i've put all these small notches close together. there's yarn for stockings for the twins, and some thread for myself, to make crochet, that might turn me a penny in my odd moments, and a bit of flour, and some yellow meal. now remember that you forget nothing of it all!" mr mcqueen shook his head sadly. "faith, there's little pleasure in going to the fair with so many things on my mind," he said.
the sun was just peeping over the distant hills, when colleen started up the road, pulling the cart with diddy in it, squealing "like a dozen of herself" mrs mcqueen said. mr mcqueen led the donkey, and larry and eileen followed on foot. they had on shoes and stockings, and eileen had on a clean apron and a bright little shawl, so they looked quite gay.
they walked miles and miles, beside bogs, and over hills, along country roads bordered by hedgerows or by stone walls. at last they saw the towers of the castle which belonged to the earl of elsmore. it was on top of a high hill.
the towers stood up strong and proud against the sky. smoke was coming out of the chimneys.
"do you suppose the earl himself is at home?" eileen asked her father.
"'tis not unlikely," mr mcqueen answered. "he comes home sometimes with parties of gentlemen and ladies for a bit of shooting or fishing."
"maybe he'll come to the fair," eileen said to larry.
"sure, he'd never miss anything so grand as the fair and he being in this part of the world," said larry.
some distance from the castle they could see a church spire, and the roofs of the town, and nearer they saw a little village of stalls standing in the green field, like mushrooms that had sprung up overnight.
"the fair! the fair!" cried the twins.
how they sold the pig.
although they had come so far, they were among the earliest at the fair. people were hurrying to and fro, carrying all sorts of goods and arranging them for sale on counters in little stalls, around an open square in the centre of the grounds.
cattle were being driven to their pens, horses were being brushed and curried, sheep were bleating, cows were lowing, and even the hens and ducks added their noise to the concert. diddy herself squealed with all her might.
larry and eileen had never seen so many people together before in all their lives.
they had to think very hard about the secret in order not to forget everything but the beautiful things they saw in the different stalls.
there were vegetables and meats, and butter and eggs. there were hats and caps. there were crochet-work, and bed-quilts, and shawls with bright borders, spread out for people to see.
there were hawkers going about with trays of things to eat, pies and sweets, toffee and sugar-sticks. this made the twins remember that they were dreadfully hungry after their long walk, but they didn't have anything to eat until quite a while after that, because they had so much else to do. they followed their father to the corner where the pigs were. a man came to tell them where to put diddy.
"you can talk with these two farmers," said mr mcqueen. he brought the twins forward. "it's their pig."
then larry and eileen told the man about finding diddy in the bog, and that their father had said they could have her for their own, and so they had come to the fair to sell her.
"and whatever will you do with all the money?" asked the man.
the twins almost told! the secret was right on the tip end of their tongues, but they clapped their hands over their mouths, quickly, so it didn't get out.
the man laughed. "anyway, it's a fine pig, and you've a right to get a good price for her," he said. and he gave them the very best pen of all for diddy.
when she was safely in the pen, eileen and larry tied the red ribbon, which eileen had brought in her pocket, to diddy's ear, and another to her tail. diddy looked very gay.
when the twins had had a bite to eat, they stood up before diddy's pen, where the man told them to, and diddy stood up on her hind legs with her front feet on the rail, and squealed. larry and eileen fed her with turnip-tops.
there were a great many people in the fairgrounds by that time. they were laughing and talking, and looking at the things in the different booths. every single one of them stopped to look at diddy and the twins, because the twins were the very youngest farmers in the whole fair.
everybody was interested, but nobody offered to buy, and the twins were getting discouraged when along came some farmers with ribbons in their hands. they were the judges!
the twins almost held their breath while the judges looked diddy over. then the head man said, "that's a very fine pig, and young. she is a thoroughbred. wherever did you get her, mr mcqueen?"
mr mcqueen just said, "ask them!" pointing to the twins.
the twins were very much scared to be talking to the judges, but they told about the tinkers and how they found diddy in the bog, and the judges nodded their heads and looked very wise, and finally the chief one said, "faith, there's not her equal in the whole fair! she gets the blue ribbon, or i'm no judge."
just then there was the gay sound of a horn. tara, tara, tara! it sang, and right into the middle of the fairground drove a great tally-ho coach, with pretty young ladies and fine young gentlemen riding on top of it.
everybody turned away from diddy and the twins to see this grand sight!
the footman jumped down and helped down the ladies, while the driver, in livery, stood beside the horses' heads with his hand on their bridles.
then all the young gentlemen and ladies went about the fair to see the sights.
"'tis a grand party from the castle," said mr mcqueen to the twins. "and sure, that's the earl's daughter, the lady kathleen herself, with the pink roses on her hat! i haven't seen a sight of her since she was a slip of a girl, the size of yourselves."
lady kathleen and her party came by just at that moment, and when she saw diddy with her ribbons and the twins beside her, the lady kathleen stopped.
the twins could hardly take their eyes off her sweet face and her pretty dress, and the flowered hat, but she asked them all sorts of questions, and finally they found themselves telling her the story of how they found the pig.
"and what is your pig's name?" said lady kathleen.
"sure, ma'am, it's deirdre, but we call her diddy for short," eileen answered.
all the young gentlemen and ladies laughed. the twins didn't like to be laughed at--they were almost ready to cry.
"and why did you call her deirdre?" asked lady kathleen.
"it was because of finding her in the bog all alone with herself, the same as deirdre when she was a baby and found by the high king of emain," eileen explained.
"a very good reason, and it's the finest story in ireland," said lady kathleen. "i'm glad you know it so well, and she is such a fine pig that i'm going to buy her from you myself."
all the young ladies seemed to think this very funny, indeed. but lady kathleen didn't laugh. she called one of the footmen. he came running. "do you see that this pig is sent to the castle when the fair is over," she said.
"i will, your ladyship," said the footman. then lady kathleen took out her purse. "what is the price of your pig?" she said to the twins.
they didn't know what to say, but the judge, who was standing near, said, "she is a high-bred pig, your ladyship, and worth all of three pounds."
"three pounds it is, then," said the lady kathleen. she opened her purse and took out three golden sovereigns.
she gave them to the twins and then almost before they found breath to say, "thank you, ma'am," she and her gay company had gone on to another part of the fair. the judge made a mark on diddy's back to show that she had been sold.
the twins gave the three golden sovereigns to their father to carry for them, and he put them in the most inside pocket he had, for safe keeping! then while he stayed to sell his butter and eggs, and to do his buying, the twins started out to see the fair by themselves.
what they saw.
the first person they stopped to watch was a juggler doing tricks. it was quite wonderful to see him keep three balls in the air all at the same time, or balance a pole on the end of his nose. but when he took out a frying-pan from behind his stall, and said to the twins, who were standing right in front of him, "now, i'll be after making you a bit of an omelet without any cooking," their eyes were fairly popping out of their heads with surprise.
the juggler broke an egg into the frying-pan. then he clapped on the cover, waved the pan in the air, and lifted the cover again. instead of an omelet there in the frying-pan was a little black chicken crying "peep, peep," as if it wanted its mother!
the juggler looked very much surprised himself, and the twins were simply astonished.
"will you see that now!" larry whispered to eileen. "sure, if only old speckle could be learning that trick, 'twould save her a deal of sitting."
"indeed, then, 'tis magic," eileen answered back, "and there's no luck in that same! do you come away now, larry mcqueen, or he might be casting his spells on yourself and turning you into something else entirely, a goat maybe, or a leprechaun!"
this seemed quite likely to larry, too, so they slipped hurriedly out under the elbows of the crowd just as the juggler was in the very act of finding a white rabbit in the crown of his hat. they never stopped running until they found themselves in the middle of a group of people in a distant part of the fairgrounds.
this crowd had gathered around a rough-looking man with a bundle of papers under his arm. he was waving a leaflet in the air and shouting, "ladies and gentlemen--whist now till i sing you a song of old ireland. 'tis the ballad of the census taker!" then he began to sing in a voice as loud as a clap of thunder. this was the first verse of the song:--
"oh, they're taking of the census in the country and the town. have your children got the measles? are your chimneys tumbling down?"
every one seemed to think this a very funny song and at the end of the second verse they all joined in the chorus. the ballad singer sang louder than all the rest of the people put together.
"musha, the roars of him are like the roars of a giant," eileen said to larry. "indeed, i'm fearing he'll burst himself with the noise that's in him."
the moment the song ended, the ballad singer passed the hat, and the crowd began to melt away. "there you go, now," cried the singer, "lepping away on your two hind legs like scared rabbits! come along back now, and buy the ballad of `the peeler and the goat.' sure, 'tis a fine song entirely and one you'll all be wanting to sing yourselves when once you've heard it." he seized a young man by the arm. "walk up and buy a ballad now," he said to him. "troth, you've the look of a fine singer yourself, and dear knows what minute you may be needing one, and none handy. come now, buy before 'tis too late."
the young man turned very red. "i don't think i'll be wanting any ballads," he said, and tried to pull away.
"you don't think!" shouted the ballad singer. "of course, you don't think, you've nothing whatever to do it with!"
the crowd laughed. the poor young man bought a ballad.
"there now," cried the singer, "you're the broth of a boy after all! who'll be after buying the next one off of me?"
his eyes lighted on the twins. they shook in their shoes. "he'll be clapping one of them on us next," larry said to eileen. "we'd best be going along;" and they crept out of the crowd just as he began to roar out a new song.
an old woman, with a white cap and a shawl over her head and a basket on her arm, smiled at them as they slipped by. she jerked her thumb over her shoulder at the ballad singer. "melodious is the closed mouth," she said.
"indeed, ma'am, i've often heard my mother say so," eileen answered politely. she curtsied to the old woman.
the old woman looked pleased. "will you come along with me out of the sound of this--the both of you?" she said. "and i'll take you to hear things that will keep the memory of ireland green while there's an irishman left in the world."
when he had finished, another man took his place and told the story of deirdre and naisi, and another told the fate of the four children of lir that were turned into four beautiful swans by their cruel stepmother.
and when the stories were finished a prize was given for the best one, and the twins were glad that it was for the story of deirdre, for that tale was like an old friend to them.
after that there was music, and the dances of old ireland--the reel and the lilt. and when last of all came the irish jig, the old woman put her basket down on the ground.
"sure, the music is like the springtime in my bones," she said to the twins. "be-dad, i'd the foot of the world on me when i was a girl and i can still shake one with the best of them, if i do say it myself."
she put her hands on her hips and began to dance! the music got into everybody else's bones, too, and soon everybody around the platform, and on it, too,--old and young, large and small,--was dancing gayly to the sound of it.
the twins danced with the rest, and they were having such a good time that they might have forgotten to go home at all if all of a sudden, larry hadn't shaken eileen's arm and said, "look there!"
"where?" eileen said. "there!" said larry. "the rough man with the brown horse."
the moment eileen saw the man with the brown horse she took larry's hand and they both ran as fast as they could back to their father.
"we saw the tinker!" they cried the moment they saw mr mcqueen.
"then we'd as well be starting home," said mr mcqueen. "i'd rather not be meeting the gentleman on the road after dark." he got colleen and put her into the cart once more. then he and the twins had something to eat. they bought a ginger cake shaped like a rabbit, and another like a man from one of the hawkers, and they bought some sugar-sticks, too, and these, with what they had brought from home, made their supper.
then mr mcqueen brought out his notched stick. "we've sold the pig," he said, with his finger on the first notch, "and the butter and eggs was the second notch." then he went over all the other notches. "and besides all else i've bought herself a shawl," he said to the twins.
the twins wanted to get home because the secret was getting so big inside of them, they knew they couldn't possibly hold it in much longer, and they didn't want to let it out until they were at home and could tell their father and mother both at the same time. so they said good-bye to diddy, and eileen took off the ribbons and kept them to remember her by. then they hurried away.
it was after dark when at last they drove into the yard. mrs mcqueen came running to the door to greet them and hear all about the fair.
eileen and larry told her about the prize, and about lady kathleen buying the pig, and about seeing the tinker, while their father was putting up colleen.
then when he came in with all his bundles, and took the three golden sovereigns out of his pocket, to show to the mother, the twins couldn't keep still another minute. "it's for you! to pay the rent!" they cried.
the father and mother looked at each other. "now, what are they at all," said mrs mcqueen, "but the best children in the width of the world? wasn't i after telling you that we'd make it out somehow? and to think of her being a thoroughbred like that, and we never knowing it at all." she meant the pig!
but mr mcqueen never said a word. he just gave larry and eileen a great hug. then mr mcqueen went over all the errands with his wife, and last of all he brought out the shawl. "there, old woman," he said, "is a fairing for you!"
"the saints be praised for this day!" cried mrs mcqueen. "the rent paid, and me with a fine new shawl the equal of any in the parish."
it was a happy family that went to bed in the little farmhouse that night. only mrs mcqueen didn't sleep well. she got up a number of times in the night to be sure there were no tinkers prowling about. "for one can't be too careful with so much money in the house," she said to herself.
the next sunday all the mcqueen family went to mass and mrs mcqueen wore her new shawl. the chapel was quite a distance away, and as they walked and all the neighbours walked, too, they had a pleasant time talking together along the way.
dennis and the twins walked together, and larry and eileen told dennis all about the fair, and about selling the pig to the lady kathleen, and "begorra," said dennis, "but that little pig was after bringing you all the luck in the world, wasn't she?" all the other boys and girls wanted to hear about it. most of them had never been to a fair. so eileen and larry talked all the way to church, and that was two miles and a half of talk, the shortest way you could go.
just as they neared the church, what should they see but grannie malone, coming in grandeur, riding on a jaunting-car! beside her was a big man with a tall hat on his head.
"'tis her son michael, back from the states!" cried the twins. "he said in a letter he was coming."
they ran as fast as they could to reach the church door in time to see them go in. everybody else stopped, too, they were so surprised, and everybody said to everybody else, "well, for dear's sake, if that's not michael malone come back to see his old mother!"
and then they whispered among themselves, "look at the grand clothes on him, and the scarf pin the bigness of a ha'penny piece, and the hat! sure, america must be the rich place entirely."
and when michael got out of the cart and helped out his old mother, there were many hands held out for him to shake, and many old neighbours for him to greet.
"this is a proud day for you, grannie malone," said mrs mcqueen.
"it is," said grannie, "and a sad day, too, for he's after taking me back to america, and 'tis likely i'll never set my two eyes on old ireland again, when once the width of the sea comes between us."
she wiped her eyes as she spoke. then the bell rang to call the people into the chapel. it was little the congregation heard of the service that day, for however much they tried they couldn't help looking at the back of michael's head and at grannie's bonnet.
and afterward, when all the people were outside the church door, grannie malone said to different old friends of michael, "come along to my house this afternoon, and listen to himself telling about the states!"
that afternoon when the mcqueens had finished their noon meal, the whole family walked up the road to grannie's house. there were a good many people there before them. grannie's little house was full to the door. michael stood by the fireplace, and as the mcqueens came in he was saying, "it's the truth i'm telling you! there are over forty states in the union, and many of them bigger than the whole of ireland itself! there are places in it where you could travel as far as from dublin to belfast without ever seeing a town at all; just fields without stones or trees lying there begging for the plough, and sorrow a person to give it them!"
"will you listen to that now?" said grannie.
"and more than that, if you'll believe me," michael went on, "there do be places in america where they give away land, let alone buying it! just by going and living on it for a time and doing a little work on it, you can get one hundred and sixty acres of land, for your own, mind you!"
"the saints preserve us, but that might be like heaven itself, if i may make bold to say so," said mrs maguire.
"you may well say that, mrs maguire," michael answered, "for there, when a man has bent his back, and put in sweat and labour to enrich the land, it is not for some one else he does it, but for himself and his children. of course, the land that is given away is far from big cities, and it's queer and lonely sometimes on the distant farms, for they do not live in villages, as we do, but each farmhouse is by itself on its own land, and no neighbours handy. so for myself, i stayed in the big city."
"you seem to have prospered, michael," said mr mcqueen.
"i have so," michael answered. "there are jobs in plenty for the willing hands. sure, no irishman would give up at all when there's always something new to try. and there's always somebody from the old sod there to help you if the luck turns on you. do you remember patrick doran, now? he lived forninst the blacksmith shop years ago. well, patrick is a great man. he's a man of fortune, and a good friend to myself. one year when times were hard, and work not so plenty, i lost my job, and didn't patrick help me to another the very next week? not long after that patrick ran for alderman, and myself and many another like me, worked hard for to get him elected, and since then i've been in politics myself. first patrick got me a job on the police force, and then i was captain, and since then, by one change and another, if i do say it, i'm an alderman myself!"
"it's wonderful, sure," mr maguire said, when michael had finished, "but i'm not wishful for to change. sure, old ireland is good enough for me, and i'd not be missing the larks singing in the spring in the green fields of erin, and the smell of the peat on the hearth in winter. it's queer and lonesome i'd be without these things, and that's the truth."
he threw his head back and began to sing. everybody joined in and sang, too. this is the song they sang:--
"old ireland you're my jewel sure, my heart's delight and glory, till time shall pass his empty glass your name shall live in story.
"and this shall be the song for me, the first my heart was learning, when first my tongue its accents flung, old ireland, you're my darling!
"from dublin bay to cork's sweet cove, old ireland, you're my darling my darling, my darling, from dublin bay to cork's sweet cove; old ireland, you're my darling."
mr mcqueen makes up his mind.
michael sang with the others. and when the song was ended, he said, "'tis a true word, mr maguire, that there's no place like old ireland; and you'll not find an irishman anywhere in america that wouldn't put the man down that said a word against her. but what with the landlords taking every shilling you can scrape together and charging you higher rent whenever you make a bit of an improvement on your farm, there's no chance at all to get on in the world. and with the children, god bless them, coming along by sixes and dozens, and little for them to do at home, and no place to put them when they grow up, sure, it's well to go where they've a better chance.
"look at the schools now! if you could see the school that my patrick goes to, you'd never rest at all until your children had the same! sure, the schoolhouses are like palaces over there, and as for learning, the children pick it up as a hen does corn!"
"and are there no faults with america, whatever?" mr mcqueen said to michael.
"there do be faults with her," michael answered, "and i'll never be the man to say otherwise. there's plenty of things to be said about america that would leave you thinking 'tis a long way this side of heaven. but whatever it is that's wrong, 'tis the people themselves that make it so, and by the same token it is themselves that can cure the trouble when they're so minded. it's not like having your troubles put down on you by the people that's above you, and that you can't reach at all for to be correcting them! all i say is there's a better chance over there for yourself and the children."
by and by grannie came to the door and called them. "come in, every one of you," she cried, "and have a fine bit of cake with currants in it! sure, michael brought the currants and all the things for to make it yesterday, thinking maybe there'd be neighbours in. and maybe 'tis the last bit of cake i'll be making for you at all, for 'tis but two weeks now until we start across the water." she wiped her eyes on her apron.
mr mcqueen was very quiet as he walked home with mrs mcqueen and the twins. and that evening, after the children were in bed, he sat for a long time silent, with his pipe in his mouth. his pipe went out and he did not notice it. by and by he said to mrs mcqueen, "i've made up my mind--"
"the lord save us! to what?" said mrs mcqueen.
"to go to america," said mr mcqueen.
mrs mcqueen hid her face in her hands and rocked back and forth and cried. "to be leaving the place i was born, and where my father and mother were born before me, and all the neighbours, and this old house that's been home since ever i married you--'twill break the heart in my body," she said.
"i like that part of it no better than yourself," said mr mcqueen, "but when i think of the years to come, and larry and eileen growing up to work as hard as we have worked without getting much at all, and think of the better chance altogether they'll have over there, sure, i can't be thinking of the pain, but only of the hope there is in it for them."
"i've seen this coming ever since the children told us about grannie malone's letter," said mrs mcqueen. "'tis michael has put this in your head."
"'tis not michael alone," said mr mcqueen; "'tis also other things. to-morrow i pay conroy the rent money. and it will take all that the pig brought and all i've been able to rake and scrape myself, and nothing left over at all. and there's but ourselves and the twins, and the year has not been a bad one. we have had the pig, which we wouldn't be having another year. and what would it be like if there were more of us to feed, and no more pigs to be found in the bog like manna from heaven, to be helping us out?"
"sure, if it's for the children," sobbed mrs mcqueen, "i'd go anywhere in the world, and that you know well."
"i do know it," said mr mcqueen. "and since we're going at all, let it be soon. we'll go with grannie and michael."
"in two weeks' time?" cried mrs mcqueen.
"we will so," said mr mcqueen. "i've no debts behind me, and we can sell the cows and hens, and take with us whatever we need from the house. michael malone will lend me the money and find me a job when we get there. the likes of this chance will never befall us again, and faith, we'll take it."
"did he tell you so?" asked mrs mcqueen.
"he did, indeed."
"well, then, i've no other word to say, and if it must be done, the sooner the better," said mrs mcqueen.
that night she lay awake a long time. she was planning just what they should take with them to their new home, and trying to think what the new home would be like.
mr mcqueen pays the rent.
the next morning mr mcqueen went to mr conroy and paid the rent. then he said, "this is the last rent i'll be paying you, mr conroy!"
mr conroy was surprised. "what do you mean by that?" he said.
"i mean that i'm going to leave old ireland," said mr mcqueen.
"well, now!" cried mr conroy. "to think of a sensible man like yourself leaving a good farm to go off, dear knows where! and you not knowing what you'll do when you get there as like as any way! i thought you had better sense, mcqueen."
"it's because of my better sense that i'm going," said mr mcqueen. "faith, do you think i'd be showing the judgment of an old goat to stay where every penny i can get out of the land i have to pay back in rent? i'm going to america where there'll be a chance for myself."
"i thought michael malone would be sowing the seeds of discontent in this parish, with his silk hats and his grand talk," said mr conroy angrily, "but i didn't think you were the fish to be caught with fine words!"
"if the seeds of discontent have been sown in this parish, terence conroy," said mr mcqueen, "'tis you and the likes of you that have ploughed and harrowed the ground ready for them! do you think we're wishful to be leaving our old homes and all our friends? but 'tis you that makes it too hard entirely for people to stay. and i can tell you that if you keep on with others as you have with me, raising the rent when any work is done to improve the farm, you'll be left in time with no tenants at all. and then where will you be yourself, terence conroy?"
mr conroy's face was red with anger, but he said, "while i'm not needing you to teach me my duty, i will say this, mcqueen. you're a good farmer, and i hate to see you do a foolish thing for yourself. if you'll stay on the farm, i'll not raise the rent on you."
"you're too late, altogether," said mr mcqueen; "and as you said yourself i'm not the fish to be caught with fine words. i know better than to believe you. i'll be sailing from queenstown in two weeks' time."
and with that he stalked out of the room and slammed the door, leaving mr conroy in a very bad state of mind.
all that larry and eileen could remember of the next two weeks was a queer jumble of tears and good-byes, of good wishes and blessings, and strange, strange feelings they had never had before. their mother went about with a white face and red eyes, and their father was very silent as he packed the few household belongings they were to take with them to their new home.
"vein of my heart, from the lone mountain the smoke of the turf will die. and the stream that sang to the young children run down alone from the sky-- on the doorstone, grass--and the cloud lying where they lie in the old country."
mr mcqueen and the twins stood still with their bundles in their hands until she had finished and risen from her knees, then they went quietly out the door, all four together, and closed it after them.
mrs mcqueen stooped to gather a little bunch of shamrock leaves which grew by the doorstone, and then the mcqueen family was quite, quite ready for the long journey.
mr maguire had bought colleen and the cows, and he was to have the few hens that were left for taking the mcqueen family to the train.
larry and eileen saw him coming up the road, "here comes mr maguire with the cart!" they cried, "and dennis is driving the jaunting-car with michael and grannie on it."
they soon reached the little group by the roadside, and then the luggage was loaded into the cart. mrs mcqueen got up with grannie on one side of the jaunting-car and eileen sat between them. michael and mr mcqueen were on the other side with larry. the small bags and bundles were put in the well of the jaunting-car.
"get up!" cried dennis, and off they started. mrs mcqueen looked back at the old house, and cried into her new shawl. grannie was crying, too. but michael said, "wait until you see your new home, and sure, you'll be crying to think you weren't in it before!" and that cheered them up again, and soon a turn in the road hid the old house from their sight forever.
the luggage was heavy, and colleen was slow. so it took several hours to reach the railroad. it took longer, too, because all the people in the village ran out of their houses to say good-bye. when they passed the schoolhouse, the master gave the children leave to say good-bye to the twins. he even came out to the road himself and shook hands with everybody.
but for all that, when the train came rattling into the station, there they all were on the platform in a row ready to get on board. when it stopped, the guard jumped down and opened the door of a compartment. he put grannie in first, then mrs mcqueen and the twins. they were dreadfully afraid the train would start before mr mcqueen and michael and all the luggage were on board.
it was the first time grannie had ever seen a train, or the twins either. but at last they were all in, and the guard locked the door. larry and eileen looked out of the window and waved their hands to mr maguire and dennis. the engine whistled, the wheels began to turn, and above the noise the twins heard dennis call out to them, "sure, i'll be coming along to america myself some day."
"we'll be watching for you," eileen called back.
then they passed the station, and were soon racing along over the open fields at what seemed to poor grannie a fearful rate of speed.
"murder! murder!" she screamed. "is it for this i left my cabin? to be broken in bits on the track like a piece of old crockery! wirra, wirra, why did i ever let myself be persuaded at all? ochanee, but it is himself has the soothering tongue in his mouth to coax his old mother away for to destroy her entirely!"
michael laughed and patted her arm, and "whist now," he said, "sure, i'd never bring you where harm would come to you, and that you know well. look out of the window, for 'tis the last you'll be seeing of old ireland."
grannie dried her eyes, but still she clung to michael's arm, and when the train went around a curve she crossed herself and told her beads as fast as she could.
the twins were not frightened. they were busy seeing things. and besides, larry had grannie's piece of coal in his pocket. from the window they caught glimpses of distant blue hills, and of lakes still more blue. they passed by many a brown bog, and many a green field with farmers and farmers' wives working in them. the hillsides were blue with blossoming flax, and once they passed a field all spread with white linen bleaching in the sun.
they flew by little towns with queer names, like ballygrady and ballylough, and once when they were quite near cork they saw the towers of blarney castle.
at last the train rattled into a great station. there was so much noise from puffing engines and rumbling trucks and shouting men, that the twins could only take hold of their mother's hands and keep close behind their father as he followed michael, with grannie clinging to him, to another train. then there were more flying fields, and a city and more fields still, until they reached queenstown.
the next thing they knew they were walking across a gangplank and on to a boat. the twins had never seen anything larger than a rowboat before, and this one looked very big to them, though it was only a lighter. this lighter was to carry luggage and passengers from the dock to the great steamer lying outside the harbour in the deep water of the main channel.
when they were all safely on board the lighter, and michael had counted their bundles to be sure they had not lost anything, the twins and their father and mother, with michael and grannie, stood by the deck rail and looked back at the dock. it was crowded with people running to and fro. there were groups of other emigrants like themselves, surrounded by great piles of luggage--waiting for the next lighter, for one boat would not carry all who wanted to go.
there was no friend to see them off, but when they saw people crying all about them, the twins cried a little, too, for sympathy, and even mr mcqueen's eyes were red along the rims.
at last the gangplanks were drawn in, and the cables thrown off. the screws began to churn the green water into white foam, and the boat moved slowly out of the harbour.
the twins and their father and mother, with grannie and michael, stood by the rail for a long time, and watched the crowd on the pier until it grew smaller and smaller, and at last disappeared entirely from sight around a bend in the channel.
they stood there until the lighter reached the great ship that was waiting to take them across the water to a new world.
and when at last they were safely on board, and the lighters had gone back empty into the harbour, they stood on the wide deck of the ship, with their faces turned toward ireland, until all they could see of it in the gathering dusk was a strip of dark blue against the eastern sky, with little lights in cottage windows twinkling from it like tiny stars.
then they turned their faces toward the bright western sky.
note 1. copyright of this poem by herbert trench, held by john lane.
twenty years after.
in the middle of one of the busiest crossings in chicago, there stands a big man in a blue uniform. his eyes are blue, and there are wrinkles in the corners of them, the marks of many smiles.
on his head is a blue cap, and under the edge of the cap you catch a glimpse of dark hair. there are bands of gold braid on his sleeve, and on his breast is a large silver star.
he is king of the crossing. when he blows his whistle, all the street-cars and automobiles and carriages--even if it were the carriage of the mayor himself--stop stock-still. then he waves his white-gloved hands and the stream of people pours across the street.
if there is a very small boy among them, the king of the crossing sometimes lays a big hand on his shoulder and goes with him to the curb. and he has been known to carry a small girl across on his shoulder and set her safely down on the other side.
when the people are all across, he goes back to the middle of the street once more, and blows twice on his little whistle.
then all the wheels that have been standing as still as if they had gone to sleep suddenly wake up, and go rolling down the street, while those that have just been turning stop and wait while the big man helps more people over the crossing the other way.
all day long the king of the crossing stands there, blowing his whistle, waving his white-gloved hands, and turning the stream of people up first one street, then the other.
everybody minds him. if everybody didn't, they might get run over and wake up in a hospital. oh, he must be minded, the king of the crossing, or nobody would be safe!
when the long day is over, he looks up the street and sees another big man coming. this man wears a blue uniform, too, and a silver star, and when the hands on the big clock at the corner point to five, he steps into the place of the king of the crossing and reigns in his stead.
then the king jumps on to the platform of a passing street-car, and by and by, when it has gone several miles, he jumps off again, and walks up the street to a little house that's as neat as neat can be.
it stands back from the street in a little green yard. the house is painted white, and the front door is green. but he doesn't go to the front door. he goes round by the sidewalk to the kitchen door, and there he doesn't even knock.
he opens the door and walks right in. through the open door comes the smell of something good cooking, and he sees a plump woman with blue eyes that have smile wrinkles in the corners, just like his own, and crinkly dark hair, just like his own, too, bending over the stove. she is just tasting the something that smells so good, with a spoon.
when she sees the big man in the door she tastes so quickly that she burns her tongue! but she can use it just the same even if it is burned.
she runs to the big man and says, "and is that yourself, now, larry darling? sure, i'm that glad to see you, i've scalded myself with the soup!"
the big man has just time to say, "sure, eileen, you were always a great one for burning yourself. do you remember that day at grannie malone's"--when out into the kitchen tumble a little larry and a little eileen, and a baby. they have heard his voice, and they fall upon the king of the crossing as if he weren't a king at all--but just a plain ordinary uncle.
they take off his cap and rumple his hair. they get into his pockets and find some peppermints there. and the baby even tries to get the silver star off his breast to put into her mouth.
"look at that now," cries uncle larry. "get along with you! is it trying to take me off the force, you are? sure, that star was never intended by the city for you to cut your teeth on."
"she'll poison herself with the things she's always after putting in her mouth," cries the mother. she seizes the baby and sets her in a safe corner by herself, gives her a spoon and says, "there now--you can be cutting your teeth on that."
and when the children have quite worn uncle larry out, he sits upon the floor, where they have him by this time, and runs his fingers through his hair, which is standing straight up, and says to the mother, "sure, eileen, when you and i were children on the old sod, we were never such spalpeens as the likes of these! they have me destroyed entirely, and me the biggest policeman on the force! is it american they are, or irish, i want to know?"
"it's irish-american we are," shouts little larry.
"and with the heft of both countries in your fists," groans big larry.
and then the mother, who has been laying the table, meanwhile, interferes. "come off of your poor uncle," she says, "and be eating your soup, like gentlemen and ladies. it's getting cold on you waiting for you to finish your antics. your poor uncle larry won't come near you at all, and you all the time punishing him like that."
and then the baby, still sucking her spoon, is lifted into her high chair. a chair is placed for uncle larry, and they all eat their soup around the kitchen table, just as the very last rays of the summer sun make long streaks of light across the kitchen floor.
"where's dennis?" says uncle larry, while the children are quiet for a moment.
"oh, it's himself is so late that i feed the children and put them to bed before he gets home at all," says the mother. "it's little he sees of them except of a sunday."
"it's likely he'll live the longer for that," says uncle larry. he looks reproachfully at the children and rubs his head.
and then--"mother, tell us, what kind of a boy was uncle larry when you and he were twins and lived in ireland," says little eileen.
"the best in the width of the world," says her mother promptly. "weren't you, larry? speak up and tell them now."
and uncle larry laughs and says, "sure, i was too good entirely! it wouldn't be modest to tell you the truth about myself."
"tell us about mother, then," says little eileen. "was she the best in the width of the world, too?"
"sure, i'll never be telling tales on my only twin sister," says uncle larry, "beyond telling you that there was many another in green old ireland just like her, whatever kind she was. but i can't stay here wearing out my tongue! look out the window! the chickens have gone to roost, and the sun is down. so get along with you to your beds."
when he had gone, and the children were in bed, and the house quiet, the mother sat down by the light in the kitchen with a basket of mending beside her.
and while she darned and mended and waited for himself to come home, she remembered and remembered about when she was little eileen, herself, and the king of the crossing was just her twin brother larry.
and this book is what she remembered.
suggestions to teachers.
like the author's earlier books--"the dutch twins" and "the japanese twins"--this reader aims to foster a kindly feeling and a deserved respect for a country whose children have come to form a numerous portion of our own population.
to arouse the children's interest and thus to make the reading of this story most valuable as a school exercise, it is suggested that at the outset the children be allowed to look at the pictures in the book in order to get acquainted with "larry" and "eileen" and with the scenes illustrating their home life and surroundings.
during the reading, point out ireland on a map of the world or on a globe, and tell the children something about the unique character of the country, thus connecting this supplementary reading material with the work in geography.
the text is so simply written that any fourth or fifth grade child can read it without much preparation. in the fourth grade it may be well to have the children read it first in a study period in order to work out the pronunciation of the more difficult words. in the fifth grade the children can usually read it at sight, without the preparatory study. give little attention to the expressions in dialect. let the children read them naturally and they will enhance the dramatic effect of the story. the possibilities in the story for dramatisation and for language and constructive work will be immediately apparent.
in connection with the reading of the book, teachers should read or tell to the children stories of irish life and from irish folk-lore; for example, "the story of the little rid hin," "the dagda's harp," and "the tailor and the three beasts," in sara cone bryant's stories to tell to children; and "billy beg and his bull," in the same author's how to tell stories to children. material which may readily be adapted to this use will be found in johnston and spencer's ireland's story. let the children bring to class postcards and other pictures of scenes in ireland.
the unique illustrations in "the irish twins" should be much used, both in the reading of the story and in other ways. children will enjoy sketching some of them; their simple treatment makes them especially useful for this purpose.
the book is printed on paper which will take water colour well, and where books are individually owned some of the sketches could be used for colouring in flat washes. they also afford suggestions for action sketching by the children.
an excellent oral language exercise would be for the children, after they have read the story, to take turns telling the story from the illustrations; and a good composition exercise would be for each child to select the illustration that he would like to write upon, make a sketch of it, and write the story in his own words.
these are only a few of the many ways that will occur to resourceful teachers for making the book a valuable as well as an enjoyable exercise in reading.
home life in germany
by mrs. alfred sidgwick
the chautauqua press chautauqua, new york mcmxii
translations of foreign words and phrases in this book will be found in the appendix at the back of the volume.
home life in germany
some of these books i have read with ardent and respectful interest; and always as i read, my own little venture seemed to wither and vanish in the light of a profounder knowledge and a wider judgment than i shall ever attain. for i have not visited workhouses and factories, i know little more about german taxes than about english ones, and i have no statistics for the instruction and entertainment of the intelligent reader. i can take him inside a german home, but i can give him no information about german building laws. i know how german women spend their days, but i know as little about the exact function of a bürgermeister as about the functions of a mayor. in short, my knowledge of germany, like my knowledge of england, is based on a series of life-long, unclassified, more or less inchoate impressions, and the only excuse i have for writing about either country i find in my own and some other people's trivial minds.
when i read of a country unknown or only slightly known, i like to be told all the insignificant trifles that make the common round of life. it is assuredly desirable that the great movements should be watched and described for us; but we want pictures of the people in their homes, pictures of them at rest and at play, as well as engaged in those public works that make their public history. for no reason in the world i happen to be interested in china, but i am still waiting for just the gossip i want about private life there. we have pierre loti's exquisite dream pictures of his deserted palace at pekin, and we have many useful and expert accounts of the roads, mines, railways, factories, laws, politics, and creeds of the celestial empire. but the book i ask for could not be written by anyone who was not of chinese birth, and it would probably be written by a woman. it might not have much literary form or value, but it would enter into those minutiæ of life that the masculine traveller either does not see or does not think worth notice. the author of such a small-beer chronicle must have been intimate from childhood with the chinese point of view, though her home and her friends were in a foreign land. she would probably not know much about her ancestral laws and politics, but she would have known ever since she could hear and speak just what chinese people said to each other when none but chinese were by, what they ate, what they wore, how they governed their homes, the relationship between husband and wife, parents and children, master and servant; in what way they fought the battle of life, how they feasted and how they mourned. if circumstances took her over and over again to different parts of china for long stretches of time, she would add to her traditions and her early atmosphere some experience of her race on their own soil and under their own sun. what she could tell us would be of such small importance that she would often hesitate to set it down; and again, she would hesitate lest what she had to say should be well known already to those amongst her readers who had sojourned in her father's country. she would do well, i think, to make some picture for herself of the audience she could hope to entertain, and to fix her mind on these people while she wrote her book. she would know that in the country of her adoption there were some who never crossed their own seas, and others who travelled here and there in the world but did not visit china or know much about its people. she would write for the ignorant ones, and not for any others; and she would of necessity leave aside all great issues and all vexed questions. her picture would be chiefly, too, a picture of the nation's women; for though they have on the whole no share in political history, they reckon with the men in any history of domestic life and habit.
germans often maintain that their country is more diverse than any other, and on that account more difficult to describe: a country of many races and various rules held loosely together by language and more tightly of late years by the bond of empire. but the truth probably is, that in our country we see and understand varieties, while in a foreign one we chiefly perceive what is unlike ourselves and common to the people we are observing. for from the flux and welter of qualities that form a modern nation certain traits survive peculiar to that nation: specialities of feature, character, and habit, some seen at first sight, others only discovered after long and intimate acquaintance. it is undoubtedly true that no one person can be at home in every corner of the german empire, or of any other empire.
there are many germanys. the one we hear most of in england nowadays is armed to the teeth, set wholly on material advancement, in a dangerously warlike mood, hustling us without scruple from our place in the world's markets, a model of municipal government and enterprise, a land where vice, poverty, idleness, and dirt are all unknown. we hear so much of this praiseworthy but most unamiable wunderkind amongst nations, that we generally forget the germany we know, the germany still there for our affection and delight, the dear country of quaint fancies, of music and of poetry. that germany has vanished, the wiseacres say, the dreamy unworldly german is no more with us, it is sheer sentimental folly to believe in him and to waste your time looking for him. but how if you know him everywhere, in the music and poetry that he could not have given us if they had not burned within him, and in the men and women who have accompanied you as friends throughout life,--how if you still find him whenever you go to germany? not, to be sure, in the shape of the wholly unpractical fool who preceded the modern english myth; but, for instance, in some of the mystical plays that hold his stage, in many of his toys and pictures, and above all in the kindly, lovable, clever people it is your pleasure to meet there. you may perhaps speak with all the more conviction of this attractive germany if you have never shut your eyes and ears to the germany that does not love us, and if you have often been vexed and offended by the anglophobia that undoubtedly exists. this germany makes more noise than the friendly element, and it is called into existence by a variety of causes not all important or political. it flourished long before the transvaal war was seized as a convenient stick to beat us with. in some measure the anglicised germans who love us too well are responsible, for they do not always love wisely. they deny their descent and their country, and that justly offends their compatriots. i do not believe that the englishman breathes who would ever wish to call himself anything but english; while it is quite rare for germans in england, america, or france to take any pride in their blood. the second generation constantly denies it, changes its name, assures you it knows nothing of germany. they have not the spirit of a touchstone, and in so far they do their country a wrong.
in another more material sense, too, there are many germanys, so that when you write of one corner you may easily write of ways and food and regulations that do not obtain in some other corner, and it is obviously impossible to remind the reader in every case that the part is not the whole. wine is dear in the north, but it has sometimes been so plentiful in the south that barrels to contain it ran short, and anyone who possessed an empty one could get the measure of wine it would hold in exchange. every town and district has its special ways of cooking. there is great variety in manner of life, in entertainments, and in local law. there are protestant and catholic areas, and there are areas where protestants, catholics, and jews live side by side. the peasant proprietor of baden is on a higher level of prosperity and habit than the peasant serf of eastern prussia; and the jews on the russian frontier, those strange oriental figures in a special dress and wearing earlocks and long beards, have as little in common with the jews of mannheim or frankfort as with the jews of the london stock exchange. it would, in fact, be impossible for any one person to enter into every shade and variety of german life. you can only describe the side you know, and comment on the things you have seen. so you bring your mite to the store of knowledge which many have increased before you, and which many will add to again.
in germany the storks bring the children. "i know the pond in which all the little children lie waiting till the storks come to take them to their parents," says the mother stork in andersen's story. "the stork has visited the house," people say to each other when a child is born; and if you go to a christening party you will find that the stork has come too: in sugar on a cake, perhaps, or to be handed round in the form of ice cream. most of the kindly intimate little jests about babies have a stork in them, and a stranger might easily blunder by presenting an emblem of the bird where it would not be welcome. the house on which storks build is a lucky one, and people regret the disappearance of their nests from the large towns.
when the baby has come it is not allowed out of doors for weeks. air and sunlight are considered dangerous at first, and so is soap and even an immoderate use of water. for eight weeks it lies day and night in the steckkissen, a long bag that confines its legs and body but not its arms. the bag is lined with wadding, and a german nurse, who was showing me one with great pride, assured me that while a child's bones were soft it was not safe to lift it in any other way. these bags are comparatively modern, and have succeeded the swaddling clothes still used in some parts of germany. they are bandages wrapping the child round like a mummy, and imprisoning its arms as well as its legs. a german doctor told me that as these wickelkinder had never known freedom they did not miss it; but he seemed to approve of the modern compromise that leaves the upper limbs some power of movement.
well-to-do german mothers rarely nurse their children. when you ask why, you hear of nerves and anæmia, and are told that at any rate in cities women find it impossible. i have seen it stated in a popular book about germany that mothers there are little more than "aunts" to their children; and the steckkissen and the foster-mother were about equally blamed for this unnatural state of affairs. from our point of view there is not a word to be said in favour of the steckkissen, but it really is impossible to believe that a bag lined with wadding can undermine a mother's affection for her child. your german friends will often show you a photograph of a young mother holding her baby in her arms, and the baby, if it is young enough, will probably be in its bag. but unless you look closely you will take the bag for a long robe, it hangs so softly and seems so little in the mother's way. it will be as dainty as a robe too, and when people have the means as costly; for you can deck out your bag with ribbons and laces as easily as your robe. the objection to foster-mothers has reality behind it, but the evils of the system are well understood, and have been much discussed of late. formerly every mother who could afford it hired one for her child, and peasant women still come to town to make money in this way. but the practice is on the wane, now that doctors order sterilised milk. the real ruler of a german nursery is the family doctor. he keeps his eye on an inexperienced mother, calls when he sees fit, watches the baby's weight, orders its food, and sees that its feet are kept warm.
a day nursery in the english sense of the word is hardly known in germany. people who can afford it give up two rooms to the small fry, but where the flat system prevails, and rents are high, this is seldom possible. one room is usually known as the kinderstube, and here the children sleep and play. but it must be remembered that rooms are big, light, and high in germany, and that such a kinderstube will not be like a night nursery in a small english home. besides, directly children can walk they are not as much shut up in the nursery as they are in england. the rooms of a german flat communicate with each other, and this in itself makes the segregation to which we are used difficult to carry out. during the first few days of a sojourn with german friends, you are constantly reminded of a pantomime rally in which people run in and out of doors on all sides of the stage; and if they have several lively children you sometimes wish for an english room with one door only, and that door kept shut. even when you pay a call you generally see the children, and possibly the nurse or the mamsell with them. but a typical middle-class german family recognises no such foreign body as a nurse. it employs one maid of all work, who helps the housewife wherever help is needed, whether it is in the kitchen or the nursery. the mother spends her time with her children, playing with them when she has leisure, cooking and ironing and saving for them, and for her husband all through her busy day. modern germans like to tell you that young women no longer devote themselves to these simple duties, but if you use your eyes you will see that most women do their work as faithfully as ever. there is an idle, pleasure-loving, money-spending element in germany as there is in other countries, and it makes more noise than the steady bulk of the nation, and is an attractive target there as here for the darts of popular preachers and playwrights. but it is no more preponderant in germany than in england. on the whole, the german mother leaves her children less to servants than the english mother does, and in some way works harder for them. that is to say, a german woman will do cooking and ironing when an englishwoman of the same class would delegate all such work to servants. this is partly because german servants are less efficient and partly because fewer servants are employed.
the fashionable nurses in germany are either english or peasant girls in costume. it is considered smart to send out your baby with a young woman from the spreewald if you live in berlin, or from one of the black forest valleys if you live in the duchy of baden. in some quarters of berlin you see the elaborate skirts and caps of the spreewald beside every other baby-carriage, but it is said that these girls are chiefly employed by the rich jews, and you certainly need to be as rich as a jew to pay their laundry bills. the young children of the poor are provided for in berlin, as they are in other cities, by crêches, where the working mother can leave them for the day. several of these institutions are open to the public at certain times, and those i have seen were well kept and well arranged.
everyone who is interested in children and their education, and who happens to be in berlin, goes to see the pestalozzi fröbel haus, the great model kindergarten where children of the working classes are received for fees varying from sixpence to three shillings a month, according to the means of the parents. there are large halls in which the children drill and sing, and there are classrooms in which twelve to sixteen children are taught at a time. every room has some live birds or other animals and some plants that the children are trained to tend; the walls are decorated with pictures and processions of animals, many painted and cut out by the children themselves, and every room has an impressive little rod tied with blue ribbons. but the little ones do not look as if they needed a rod much. they are cheerful, tidy little people, although many of them come from poor homes. in the middle of the morning they have a slice of rye bread, which they eat decorously at table on wooden platters. they can buy milk to drink with the bread for 5 pf., and they dine in school for 10 pf. they play the usual kindergarten games in the usual systematised mechanical fashion, and they study nature in a real back garden, where there are real dejected-looking cocks and hens, a real cow, and a lamb. what happens to the lamb when he becomes a sheep no one tells you. perhaps he supplies mutton to the school of cookery in connection with the kindergarten. some of the children have their own little gardens, in which they learn to raise small salads and hardy flowers. there are carpentering rooms for the boys, and both boys and girls are allowed in the miniature laundry, where they learn how to wash, starch, and iron doll's clothes. you may frequently see them engaged in this business, apparently without a teacher; but, as a matter of fact, the children are always under a teacher's eye, even when they are only digging in a sand heap or weeding their plots of ground. each child has a bath at school once a week, and at first the mothers are uneasy about this part of the programme, lest it should give their child cold. but they soon learn to approve it, and however poor they are they do their utmost to send a child to school neatly shod and clad.
as a rule german children of all classes are treated as children, and taught the elementary virtue of obedience. das recht des kindes is a new cry with some of the new people, but nevertheless germany is one of the few remaining civilised countries where the elders still have rights and privileges. i heard of an englishwoman the other day who said that she had never eaten the wing of a chicken, because when she was young it was always given to the older people, and now that she was old it was saved for the children. if she lived in germany she would still have a chance, provided she kept away from a small loud set, who in all matters of education and morality would like to turn the world upside down. in most german homes the noisy, spoilt american child would not be endured for a moment, and the little tyrant of a french family would be taught its place, to the comfort and advantage of all concerned. i have dined with a large family where eight young ones of various ages sat at an overflow table, and did not disturb their elders by a sound. it was not because the elders were harsh or the young folk repressed, but because germany teaches its youth to behave. the little girls still drop you a pretty old-fashioned curtsey when they greet you; just such a curtsey as miss austen's heroines must have made to their friends. the little boys, if you are staying in the house with them, come and shake hands at unexpected times,--when they arrive from school, for instance, and before they go out for a walk. at first they take you by surprise, but you soon learn to be ready for them. they play many of the same games as english children, and i need hardly say that they are brought up on the same fairy stories, because many of our favourites come from germany. the little boys wear sensible carpenters' aprons indoors, made of leather or american cloth; and the little girls still wear bib aprons of black alpaca. their elders do not play games with them as much as english people do with their children. they are expected to entertain and employ themselves; and the immense educational value of games, the training they are in temper, skill, and manners, is not understood or admitted in germany as it is here. the kindergarten exercises are not competitive, and do not teach a child to play a losing game with effort and good grace.
german children go to day schools. this is not to say that there are no boarding schools in germany; but the prevailing system throughout the empire is a system of day schools. the german mother does not get rid of her boys and girls for months together, and look forward to the holidays as a time of uproar and enjoyment. she does not wonder anxiously what changes she will see in them when they come back to her. they are with her all the year round,--the boys till they go to a university, the girls till they marry. any day in the streets of a german city you may see troops of children going to school, not with a maid at their heels as in paris, but unattended as in england. they have long tin satchels in which they carry their books and lunch, the boys wear peaked caps, and many children of both sexes wear spectacles.
except at the kindergarten, boys and girls are educated separately and differently in germany. in some rare cases lately some few girls have been admitted to a boys' gymnasium, but this is experimental and at present unusual. it may be found that the presence of a small number in a large boys' school does not work well. in addition to the elementary schools, there are four kinds of public day school for boys in germany, and they are all under state supervision. there is the gymnasium, the real-gymnasium, the ober-real-schule, and the real-schule. until 1870 the gymnasiums were the only schools that could send their scholars to the universities; a system that had serious disadvantages. it meant that in choosing a child's school, parents had to decide whether at the end of his school life he was to have a university education. children with no aptitude for scholarship were sent to these schools to receive a scholar's training; while boys who would have done well in one of the learned professions could not be admitted to a university, except for science or modern languages, because they had not attended a gymnasium.
a boy who has passed through one of these higher schools has had twelve years' education. he began latin at the age of ten, and greek at thirteen. he has learned some french and mathematics, but no english unless he paid for it as an extra. his school years have been chiefly a preparation for the university. if he never reaches the higher classes he leaves the gymnasium with a stigma upon him, a record of failure that will hamper him in his career. the higher official posts and the professions will be closed to him; and he will be unfitted by his education for business. this at least is what many thoughtful germans say of their classical schools; and they lament over the unsuitable boys who are sent to them because their parents want a professor or a high official in the family. it is considered more sensible to send an average boy to a real-gymnasium or to an ober-real schule, because nowadays these schools prepare for the university, and any boy with a turn for scholarship can get the training he needs. the ober-real schule professedly pays most attention to modern languages; and it is, in fact, only since 1900 that their boys are received at a university on the classical side. they still prepare largely for technical schools and for a commercial career.
at a real-schule, the fourth grade of higher school, the course only lasts six years. they do not prepare for the abiturienten examination, and their scholars cannot go from them to a university. they prepare for practical life, and they admit promising boys from the elementary schools. a boy who has been through any one of these higher schools successfully need only serve in the army for one year; and that in itself is a great incentive to parents to send their children. a real-schule in prussia only costs a hundred marks a year, and a gymnasium a hundred and thirty-five marks. in some parts of germany the fees are rather higher, in some still lower. the headmasters of these schools are all university men, and are themselves under state supervision. in an entertaining play called flachsmann als erzieher the headmaster had not been doing his duty, and has allowed the school to get into a bad way. the subordinates are either slack or righteously rebellious, and the children are unruly. the state official pays a surprise visit, discovers the state of things, and reads the riot act all round. the wicked headmaster is dismissed, the eager young reformer is put in his place, the slackers are warned and given another chance.... blessed be st. bureaukrazius ... says the genial old god out of a machine, when by virtue of his office he has righted every man's wrongs. the school in the play must be an elementary one, for children and teachers are of both sexes, but a master at a gymnasium told me that the picture of the official visit was not exaggerated in its importance and effect. there was considerable excitement in germany over the picture of the evil headmaster, his incompetent staff, and the neglected children; and i was warned before i saw the play that i must not think such a state of affairs prevailed in german schools. the warning was quite unnecessary. an immoral, idle, and ignorant class of men could not carry on the education of a people as it is carried on throughout the german empire to-day.
i have before me the annual report of a gymnasium in berlin, and it may interest english people to see how many lessons the teachers in each subject gave every week. there were thirty teachers in the school.
the headmaster took latin for seven hours every week, and greek for three hours. a professor who came solely for religious teaching came for ten hours every week. but most of the masters taught from sixteen to twenty-four hours, while one who is down for reading, writing, arithmetic, gymnastics, german, singing, and natur could not get through all he had to do in less than thirty hours. on looking into the hours devoted to each subject by the various classes, you find that the lowest class had three hours religious instruction every week, and the other classes two hours. there were 407 boys in the school described as evangelisch, 47 jews, and 23 catholics; but in germany parents can withdraw their children from religious instruction in school, provided they satisfy the authorities that it is given elsewhere. the two highest classes had lessons on eight chapters of st. paul's epistle to the romans, on the epistle to the philippians, and on the confessions of st. augustine. some classes were instructed in the gospel according to st. john, and the little boys learned bible history. so germans are not without orthodox theological teaching in their early years, whatever opinions they arrive at in their adolescence.
every boy in the school spent two or three hours each week on german composition, and, like boys in other countries, handled themes they could assuredly not understand, probably, like other boys, without a scruple or a hesitation.
"why does the ghost of banquo appear to macbeth, and not the ghost of duncan?"
"how are the unities of time, place, and action treated in schiller's ballads?"
"discuss the antitheses in lessing's laokoon."
"what can you say about the representation of concrete objects in goethe's hermann and dorothea?"
these examples are taken at random from a list too long to quote completely; but no one need be impressed by them. boys perform wonderful feats of this kind in england too. however, i once heard a german professor say that the english boy outdid the german in gesunder menschenverstand (sound common sense), but that the german wins in the race when it comes to the abstract knowledge (wissen) that he and his countryfolk prize above all the treasures of the earth. no one who knows both countries can doubt for a single moment that the professor was right, and that he stated the case as fairly as it can be stated. in an emergency or in trying circumstances the english boy would be readier and more self-reliant: but when you meet him where entertainment is wanted rather than resource, his ignorance will make you open your eyes. this, at any rate, is the kind of story told and believed of englishmen in germany. a student who was working at science in a german university had been there the whole winter, and though the city possessed many fine theatres he had only visited a variety show. at last his friends told him that it was his duty to go to the schauspielhaus and see a play by goethe or schiller. "goethe! schiller!" said my englishman, "was ist das?"
the education of girls in germany is in a transition state at present. important changes have been made of late years, and still greater ones, so the reformers say, are pending. formerly, if a girl was to be educated at all she went to a höhere töchterschule, or to a private school conducted on the same lines, and, like the official establishment, under state supervision. when she had finished with school she had finished with education, and began to work at the useful arts of life, more especially at the art of cooking. what she had learned at school she had learned thoroughly, and it was considered in those days quite as much as was good for her. the officials who watched and regulated the education of boys had nothing to do with girls' schools. these were left to the staff that managed elementary schools, and kept on much the same level. girls learned history, geography, elementary arithmetic, two modern languages, and a great deal of mythology. the scandalous ignorance of mythology displayed by englishwomen still shocks the right-minded german. if a woman asked for more than this because she was going to earn her bread, she spent three years in reading for an examination that qualified her for one of the lower posts in the school. the higher posts were all in the hands of men. of late years women have been able to prepare for a teacher's career at one of the teachers' seminaries, most of which were opened in 1897.
more than forty years ago the english princess in berlin was not satisfied with what was done in germany for the education of women; and one of the many monuments to her memory is the victoria lyceum. this institution was founded at her suggestion by miss archer, an english lady who had been teaching in berlin for some years, and who was greatly liked and respected there. at first it only aimed at giving some further education to girls who had left school, and it was not easy to get men of standing to teach them. but as it was the outcome of a movement with life in it the early difficulties were surmounted, and its scope and usefulness have grown since its foundation thirty-eight years ago. it is not a residential college, and it has no laboratories. during the winter it still holds courses of lectures for women who are not training for a definite career; but under its present head, fräulein von cotta, the chief work of the victoria lyceum has become the preparation of women for the ober lehrerin examination. this is a state examination that can only be passed five years after a girl has qualified as lehrerin, and two of these five years must have been spent in teaching at a german school. to qualify as lehrerin, a girl must have spent three years at a seminary for teachers after she leaves school, and she usually gets through this stage of her training between the ages of fifteen and eighteen. therefore a woman must have three years special preparation for a subordinate post and eight years for a higher post in a german girls' school.
the whole question of women's education is in a ferment in germany at present, and though everyone interested is ready to talk of it, everyone tells you that it is impossible to foresee exactly what reforms are coming. there are to be new schools established, lyceen and ober-lyceen, and ober-lyceen will prepare for matriculation. when girls have matriculated from one of these schools they will be ready for the university, and will work for the same examinations as men. baden was the first german state that allowed women to matriculate at its universities. it did so in 1900, and in 1903 bavaria followed suit. in 1905 there were eighty-five women at the universities who had matriculated in germany; but there are hundreds working at the universities without matriculating first. at present the professors are free to admit women or to exclude them from their classes; but the right of exclusion is rarely exercised. before long it will presumably be a thing of the past.
an englishwoman residing at berlin, and engaged in education, told me that in her opinion no german woman living had done as much for her countrywomen as helene lange, the president of the allgemeine deutsche frauenverein. nineteen years ago she began the struggle that is by no means over, the struggle to secure a better education for women and a greater share in its control. in english ears her aim will sound a modest one, but english girls' schools are not entirely in the hands of men, with men for principals and men to teach the higher classes. she began in 1887 by publishing a pamphlet that made a great sensation, because it demanded, what after a mighty tussle was conceded, women teachers for the higher classes in girls' schools, and for these women an academic education. in 1890 she founded, together with auguste schmidt and marie loeper-housselle, the allgemeine deutsche lehrerinnen-verein, which now has 80 branches and 17,000 members. but the pluckiest thing she did was to fight prussian officialdom and win. in 1889 she opened real-kurse für mädchen und frauen, classes where women could work at subjects not taught in girls' schools, latin for instance, and advanced mathematics; for the state in germany has always decided how much as well as how little women may learn. it would not allow people as ignorant as squeers to keep a school because it offered an easy livelihood. it organised women's education carefully and thoroughly in the admirable german way; but it laid down the law from a to z, which is also the german way. when, therefore, helene lange opened her classes for women, the officials came to her and said that she was doing an illegal thing. she replied that her students were not schoolgirls under the german school laws, but grown-up women free to learn what they needed and desired. the officials said that an old law of 1837 would empower them to close the classes by force if helene lange did not do so of her own accord. after some reflection and in some anxiety she decided to go on with them. by this time public opinion was on her side and came to her assistance; for public opinion does count in germany even with the officials. the classes went on, and were changed in 1893 to gymnasialkurse. in 1896 the first german women passed the abiturienten examination, the difficult examination young men of eighteen pass at the end of a nine years' course in one of the classical schools. even to-day you may hear german men argue that women should not be admitted to universities because they have had no classical training. helene lange was the first to prove that even without early training women can prepare themselves for an academic career. her experiment led to the establishment of gymnasialkurse in many german cities; and even to the admission of girls in some few cases to boys' gymnasium schools.
to-day helene lange and her associates are contending with the schoolmasters, who desire to keep the management of girls' schools in their own hands. she calls the höhere töchterschule the failure of german school organisation, and she says that the difference of view taken by men and women teachers as to the proper work of girls' schools makes it most difficult to come to an understanding. consciously or not, men form an ideal of what they want and expect of women, and try to educate them up to it; while women think of the claims life may make on a girl, and desire the full development of her powers. "the higher daughter," she says, "must vanish, and her place must be taken by the girl who has been thoroughly prepared for life, who can stand on her own feet if circumstances require it, or who brings with her as housewife the foundations of further self-development, instead of the pretentiousness of the half educated." in one of her many articles on the subject of school reform she points to three directions where reform is needed. what she says about the teaching of history is so characteristic of her views and of the modern movement in germany, that i think the whole passage is worth translation:--
"all those subjects that help to make a woman a better citizen must be taken more seriously," she says. "it can no longer be the proper aim of history teaching to foster and strengthen in women a sentimental attachment to her country and its national character: its aim must be to give her the insight that will enable her to understand the forces at work, and ultimately play an active part in them. many branches of our social life await the work of women, civic philanthropy to begin with; and as our public life becomes more and more constitutional, it demands from the individual both a ripe insight into the good of the community and a living sense of duty in regard to its destiny; and, on the other hand, the foundations of this insight and sense of duty must be in our times more and more laid by the mother, since the father is often entirely prevented by his work from sharing in the education of his children. therefore, both on her own account and in consideration of the task before her, a woman just as much as a man should understand and take a practical interest in public life, and it is the business of the school to see that she does so. over and over again those who are trying to reform girls' schools insist that history teaching should lead the student to understand the present time; that it should recognise those economic conditions on which the history of the world, especially in our day, depends in so great a measure; that it should pay attention not only to dates and events, but also to the living process of civilisation, since it is only from the latter inquiry that we can arrive at the principles of individual effort in forwarding social life."
nowadays in germany helene lange is considered one of the "moderates," but it will be seen from the above quotation that she has travelled far from the old ideals which invested women with many beautiful qualities, but not with the sense and knowledge required of useful public citizens. she proceeds in the same article to say that scientific and mathematical teaching should reach a higher standard in girls' schools; and thirdly, that certain branches of psychology, physiology, and hygiene should receive greater attention, because a woman is a better wife and mother when she fulfils her duties with understanding instead of by mere instinct. nor will education on this higher plane deprive women of any valuable feminine virtues if it is carried out in the right way. but to this end women must direct it, and in great measure take it into their own hands. she would not shut men out of girls' schools, but she would place women in supreme authority there, and give them the lion's share of the work.
it seems to the english onlooker that this contest can only end in one way, and that if the women of germany mean to have the control of girls' schools they are bound to get it. some of the evils of the present system lie on the surface. "it is a fact," said a schoolmaster, speaking lately at a conference,--"it is a fact that a more intimate, spiritual, and personal relationship is developed between a schoolgirl and her master than between a schoolgirl and her mistress." this remark, evidently made in good faith, was received with hilarity by a large mixed audience of teachers; and when one reflects on the unbridled sentiment of some "higher daughters" one sees where it must inevitably find food under the present anomalous state of things. but the schoolmaster's argument is the argument brought forward by many men against the reforms desired by helene lange and her party. they insist that girls would deteriorate if they were withdrawn throughout their youth from masculine scholarship and masculine authority in school. they talk of the emasculation of the staff as a future danger. they do not seem to talk of their natural reluctance to cede important posts to women, but this must, of course, strengthen their pugnacity and in some cases colour their views.
meanwhile many parents prefer to send their daughters to one of the private schools that have a woman at the head, and where most of the teaching is done by women; or to a stift, a residential school of the conventual type, which may be either protestant or catholic. a girl who had spent some years at a well-known protestant stift described her school life to me as minutely as possible, and it sounded so like the life in a good english boarding-school thirty years ago that it is difficult to pick out points of differences. that only means, of course, that the differences were subtle and not apparent in rules and time-tables. the girls wore a school uniform, were well fed and taught, strictly looked after, taken out for walks and excursions, allowed a private correspondence, shown how to mend their clothes, made to keep their rooms tidy, encouraged in piety and decorum. in these strenuous times it sounds a little old-fashioned, and as a matter of fact a school of this kind fits a girl for a sheltered home but not for the open road. for everyone concerned about the education of women the interesting spectacle in germany to-day is the campaign being carried on by helene lange and her party, the support they receive from the official as well as from the unofficial world, and the progress they make year by year to gain their ends.
the education of the poor
there are no people in the world who need driving to school less than the germans. there are no people in the world who set so high a value on knowledge. in the old days, when they lived with jove in the clouds, they valued knowledge solely for its own sake, and did not trouble much about its practical use in the world. it is absurd to say, as people often do now, that this spirit is dead in the nation. you cannot be long in the society of germans without recognising that it survives wherever the stress of modern life leaves room for it. you see that when a german makes money his sons constantly enter the learned and the artistic professions with his full approval, though they are most unlikely to make a big income in this way. you are told by people who work amongst the poor, that parents will make any sacrifices year after year in order to send a boy to one of the higher schools. you know that the scotsmen who live on oatmeal while they acquire learning have their counterparts in the german universities, where many a student would not dine at all if private or organised charity did not give him a dinner so many days a week. sometimes you have heard it said of such and such a great german, that he was so poor when he was young that he had to accept these free dinners given in every german university town to penniless students. the fact would be remembered, but it would never count against a man in germany. the dollar is not almighty there.
to say, therefore, that education is compulsory throughout the empire is not to say that it is unpopular. a teacher in an elementary school was once telling me how particular the authorities were that every child, even the poorest, should come to school properly clothed and shod. "for instance," she said, "if a child comes to school in house-shoes he is sent straight home again." "but do the parents mind that?" i asked from my english point of view, for the teacher was speaking of people who in england would live in slums and care little whether their children were educated or not. but in germany even the poorest of the poor do care, and to refuse a child admission to school is an effective punishment. at any rate, you may say this of the majority. no doubt if school was not compulsory the dregs of the nation would slip out of the net, especially in those parts of the empire where the prevalent character is shiftless and easy going. "when you english think that we hold the reins too tight, it is because you do not understand what a mixed team we have to drive," a north german said to me. "we should not get on, we should not hold together long, if our rule was slack and our attention careless."
at the last census only one in 10,000 could not read or write, and these dunces were all slavs. but how even a slav born under the eye of the eagle can remain illiterate is a mystery. in 1905 there were 59,348 elementary schools in the empire, and their organisation is as elaborate and well planned as the organisation of the army. in berlin alone there are 280. all the teachers at these schools have been trained to teach at special seminaries, and have passed state examinations that qualify them for their work. in germany many men and women, entitled both by class and training to teach in the higher grade schools, have taken up work in the elementary ones from choice. i know one lady whose certificates qualify her to teach in a höhere töchterschule and who elects to teach a large class of backward children in a volkschule. her ambition is to teach those children described in germany as nicht völlig normal: children we should describe as "wanting." she says that her backward children repay her for any extra trouble they give by their affection and gratitude. she knows the circumstances of every child in her class, and where there is real need she can get help from official sources or from philanthropic organisations, because a teacher's recommendation carries great weight in germany. this lady gets up every day in summer at a quarter past five, in order to be in school by seven. her school hours are from seven to eleven in summer, and from eight till twelve in winter; but she has a great deal of work to prepare and correct after school. her salary is raised with every year of service, and when she is past work she will be entitled to a state pension of thirty pounds.
children have to attend school from the age of six and to stay till they are fourteen; and in their school years they are not allowed to work at a trade without permission. they do not learn foreign languages, but they are thoroughly grounded in german, and they receive religious instruction. of course, they learn history, geography, and arithmetic. in the new schools every child is obliged to have a warm bath every week, but it is not part of a teacher's duties to superintend it. probably the women who clean the school buildings do so. in the old schools, where there are no bathrooms, the children are given tickets for the public bathing establishments. the state does not supply free food, but there are philanthropic societies that supply those children who need it with a breakfast of bread and milk in winter. everyone connected with german schools says that no child would apply for this if his parents were not destitute, and one teacher told me a story of the headmaster's boy being found, to his father's horror and indignation, seated with the starving children and sharing their free lunch. he had brought his own lunch with him, but it was his first week at school, and he thought that a dispensation of bread and milk in the middle of the morning was part of the curriculum.
school books are supplied to children too poor to buy them, and it seems that no trouble is given by applications for this kind of relief by people not entitled to it. gymnastics are compulsory for both boys and girls in the lower classes, and choral singing is taught in every school. teachers must all be qualified to accompany singing on the violin. most of the elementary schools in prussia are free. some few charge sixpence a month. a child can even have free teaching in its own home if it is able to receive instruction, but not to attend school. medical inspection is rigorously carried out in german elementary schools. the doctor not only watches the general health of the school, but he registers the height, weight, carriage, state of nourishment, and vaccination marks of each child on admission; the condition of the eyes and ears and any marked constitutional tendency he can discover. every child is examined once a month, when necessary once a fortnight. in this way weak or wanting children are weeded out, and removed to other surroundings, the short-sighted and the deaf are given places in the schoolroom to suit them. the system protects the child and helps the teacher, and has had the best results since it was introduced into prussia in 1888.
attendance at continuation schools is now compulsory on boys and girls for three years after leaving the elementary school, where they have had eight years steady education. they must attend from four to six hours weekly; instruction is free, and is given in the evening, when the working day is over. certain classes of the community are free, but about 30,000 students attend these schools in berlin. the subjects taught are too many to enumerate. they comprise modern languages, history, law, painting, music, mathematics, and various domestic arts, such as ironing and cooking. more boys than girls attend these schools, as girls are more easily exempt. it is presumably not considered so necessary for them as for their brothers to continue their education after the age of fourteen.
one of the most interesting experiments being made in germany at present is the "open air" school, established for sickly children during the summer months. the first one was set up by the city of charlottenberg at the suggestion of their schulrat and their school doctor, and it is now being imitated in other parts of germany. from charlottenberg the electric cars take you right into the pine forest, far beyond the last houses of the growing city. the soil here is loose and sandy, and the air in summer so soft that it wants strength and freshness. but as far out as this it is pure, and the medical men must deem it healing, for they have set up three separate ventures close together amongst the pine trees. one belongs to the society of the red cross, and here sick and consumptive women come with their children for the day, and are waited on by the red cross sisters. we saw some of them lying about on reclining chairs, and some, less sickly, were playing croquet. the second establishment is for children who are not able to do any lessons, children who have been weeded out by the school doctor because they are backward and sickly. there are a hundred and forty children in this school, and there is a crêche with twenty beds attached to it for babies and very young children. one airy room with two rows of neat beds was for rickety children.
the third and largest of the settlements was the waldschule, open every day, sundays included, from the end of april to the middle of october, and educating two hundred and forty delicate children chosen from the elementary schools of charlottenberg. we arrived there just as the children were going to sit down to their afternoon meal of bread and milk, and each child was fetching its own mug hanging on a numbered hook. the meals in fine weather are taken at long tables in the open air. when it rains they are served in big shelters closed on three sides. dotted about the forest there were mushroom-shaped shelters with seats and tables beneath them, sufficient cover in slight showers; and there were well lighted, well aired class-rooms, where the children are taught for twenty-five minutes at a time.
all the buildings are on the doecker system, and were manufactured by messrs. christoph & unmark of niesky. this firm makes a speciality of schools and hospitals, built in what we should call the bungalow style. of course, this style exactly suits the needs of the school in the forest. there is not a staircase in the place, there is no danger of fire, no want of ventilation, and very little work for housemaids or charwomen. the school furniture is simple and carefully planned. some of it was designed by richard riemerschmid of munich, the well-known artist.
each child has two and a half hours' work each day; all who are strong enough do gymnastics, and all have baths at school. each child has its own locker and its own numbered blanket for use out of doors on damp or chilly days. the doctor visits the school twice a week, and the weight of each child is carefully watched. the busy sister who superintends the housekeeping and the hygienic arrangements seemed to know how much each child had increased already; and she told us what quantities of food were consumed every day. the kitchen and larder were as bright and clean as such places always are in germany. when the children arrive in the morning at half-past seven they have a first breakfast of griesbrei. at ten o'clock they have rolls and butter. their dinner consists of one solid dish. the day we were there it had been pork and cabbage, a combination germans give more willingly to delicate children than we should; the next day it was to be nudelsuppe and beef. at four o'clock they have bread and milk, and just before they go home a supper like their early breakfast of milk-soup, and bread. 260 litres of milk are used every day, 50 to 60 lbs. of meat, 2 cwts. potatoes, 30 big rye loaves, 280 rolls, and when spinach, for instance, is given, 80 lbs. of spinach. we asked whether the children paid, and were told that those who could afford it paid from 25 to 45 pf. a day. the school is kept open throughout the summer holidays, but no work is done then, and two-thirds of the teachers are away. although the children are at play for the greater part of the day in term time, and all day in the holidays, the headmaster told us that they gave no trouble. there was not a dirty or untidy child to be seen, nor one with rough manners. they are allowed to play in the light, sandy soil of the forest, much as english children play at the seaside, and we saw the beginning of an elaborate chain of fortresses defended by toy guns and decorated with flowers. we heard a lesson in mental arithmetic given in one of the class-rooms, the boys sitting on one side of the room and the girls on the other; and we found that these young sickly children were admirably taught and well advanced for their age. to be a teacher in one of these open-air schools is hard work, because the strain is never wholly relaxed. all day long, and a german day is very long, the children must be watched and guarded, sheltered from changes in the weather and prevented from over-tiring themselves. many of them come from poor cramped homes, and to spend the whole summer in the forest more at play than at work makes them most happy. i met germans who did not approve of the waldschule who considered it a fantastic extravagant experiment, too heavy for the rate-payers to bear. this is a side of the question that the rate-payers must settle for themselves; but there is no doubt about the results of the venture on the children sent to school in the forest. they get a training that must shape their whole future, moral and physical, a training that changes so many unsound citizens into sound ones every year for the german empire. if the rate-payers can survive the strain it seems worth while.
the word is untranslatable, though my dictionary translates it. backfisch, m. fried fish; young girl; says the dictionary. in germany a woman does not arrive at her own gender till she marries and becomes somebody's frau. woman in general, girl, and miss are neuter; and the fried-fish girl is masculine. but if one little versed in german wished to tell you that he liked a fried sole, and said ich liebe einen backfisch, it might lead to misunderstandings. the origin of the word in this application is dubious. some say it means fish that are baked in the oven because they are too small to fry in pans; but this does not seem a sensible explanation to anyone who has seen white-bait cooked. others say it means fish the anglers throw back into the water because they are small. at any rate, the word used is to convey an impression of immaturity. a backfisch is what english and american fashion papers call a "miss." you may see, too, in german shop windows a printed intimation that special attention is given to backfisch moden. it is a girl who has left school but has not cast off her school-girl manners; and who, according to her nation and her history, will require more or less last touches.
miss betham-edwards tells us that a french girl is taught from babyhood to play her part in society, and that the exquisite grace and taste of frenchwomen are carefully developed in them from the cradle. an english girl begins her social education in the nursery, and is trained from infancy in habits of personal cleanliness and in what old-fashioned english people call "table manners." an englishwoman, who for many years lived happily as governess in a german country house, told me how on the night of her arrival she tried out of politeness to eat and drink as her hosts did; and how the mistress of the house confided to her later that she had disappointed everyone grievously. there were daughters in the family, and they were to learn to behave at table in the english way. that was why the father, arriving from berlin, had on his own initiative brought them an english governess; for the english are admitted by their continental friends to excel in this special branch of manners, while their continental enemies charge them with being "ostentatiously" well groomed and dainty. the truth is, that if you have lived much with both english and germans, and desire to be fair and friendly to both races, you find that your generalisations will not often weigh on one side. the english child learns to eat with a fork rather than with a spoon, and never by any chance to put a knife in its mouth, or to touch a bone with its fingers. the german child learns that it must never wear a soiled or an unmended garment or have untidy hair. i have known a german scandalised by the slovenly wardrobe of her well-to-do english pupil, and i have heard english people say that to hear germans eat soup destroyed their appetite for dinner. english girls are not all slovens, and nowadays decently bred germans behave like other people at table. but untidiness is commoner in england than in germany, and you may still stumble across a german any day who, abiding by old customs, puts his knife in his mouth and takes his bones in his hands. he will not only do these things, but defend them vociferously. in that case you are strongly advised not to eat a dish of asparagus in his company.
your modern german backfisch may be a person of finish and wide culture. you may find that she insists on her cold tub every morning, and is scandalised by your offer of hot water in it. she has seen salome as a play and heard salome as an opera. she has seen plays by g.b.s. both in berlin and london. she does not care to see shakespeare in london, because, as she tells you, the english know nothing about him. besides, he could not sound as well in english as in german. she has read carlyle, and is now reading ruskin. she adores byron, but does not know keats, shelley, or rossetti. tennyson she waves contemptuously away from her, not because she has read him, but because she has been taught that his poetry is "bourgeois." her favourite novels are dorian gray and misunderstood. she dresses with effect and in the height of fashion, she speaks french and english fluently, she has travelled in italy and switzerland, she plays tennis well, she can ride and swim and skate, and she would cycle if it was not out of fashion. in fact, she can do anything, and she knows everything, and she has been everywhere. your french and english girls are ignorant misses in comparison with her, and you say to yourself as you watch her and humbly listen to her opinions, delivered without hesitation and expressed without mistakes: "where is the german backfisch of yesteryear?"
"did you ever read backfischchen's leiden und freuden?" you say to her; for the book is in its 55th edition, and you have seen german girls devouring it only last week; german girls of a different type, that is, from your present glittering companion.
"that old-fashioned inferior thing," she says contemptuously. "i believe my mother had it. that is not literature."
you leave her to suppose you could not have made that discovery for yourself, and you spend an amusing hour over the story again, for there are occasions when a book that is not "literature" will serve your purpose better than a masterpiece. the little book has entertained generations of german girls, and is presumably accepted by them, just as little women is accepted in america or the daisy chain in england. the picture was always a little exaggerated, and some of its touches are now out of date; yet as a picture of manners it still has a value. it narrates the joys and sorrows of a young girl of good family who leaves her country home in order to live with an aunt in berlin, a facetious but highly civilised aunt who uses a large quantity of water at her morning toilet. all the stages of this toilet are minutely described, and all the mistakes the poor countrified backfisch makes the first morning. she actually gets out of bed before she puts on her clothes, and has to be driven behind the bed curtains by her aunt's irony. this is an incident that is either out of date or due to the genius and imagination of the author, for i have never seen bed curtains in germany. however, gretchen is taught to perform the early stages of her toilet behind them, and then to wash for the first time in her life in a basin full of water. she is sixteen. her aunt presents her with a sponge, and observes that the civilisation of a nation is judged by the amount of soap it uses. "in much embarrassment i applied myself to this unaccustomed task," continues the ingenuous backfisch, "and i managed it so cleverly that everything around me was soon swimming. to make matters worse, i upset the water-jug, and now the flood spread to the washstand, the floor, the bed curtains, even to my clothes lying on the chair. if only this business of dressing was over," she sighs as she is about to brush her teeth, with brushes supplied by her aunt. but it is by no means over. she is just going to slip into a dressing-gown, cover her unbrushed hair with a cap, and so proceed to breakfast, when this exacting aunt stops her: actually desires her to plait and comb her hair at this hour of the morning, and to put on a tidy gown. gretchen's gown is extremely untidy, and on that account i will not admit that the portrait is wholly lifelike. in fact, the author has summed up the sins of all the backfisch tribe, and made a single backfisch guilty of them. but caricature, if you know how to allow for it, is instructive. mr. stiggins is a caricature, yet he stands for failings that exist among us, though they are never displayed quite so crudely. "go and brush your nails," says the aunt to the niece when the girl attempts to kiss her hand; and the backfisch uses a nail-brush for the first time in her life.
then the two ladies sit down to breakfast. gretchen fills the cups too full, soaks her roll in her coffee, and drinks out of her saucer. her aunt informs her that "coffee pudding" is not polite, and can only be allowed when they are by themselves; also that she must not drink out of the saucer. "but we children always did it at home," says gretchen. "i can well believe it," says the aunt. "everything is permitted to children." the italics are mine.
an aunt who has such ideas about the education of the young is naturally not surprised when at dinner-time she has to admonish her niece not to wipe her mouth with her hand, not to speak with her mouth full, to eat her soup quietly, to keep her elbows off the table, not to put her fingers in her plate or her knife in her mouth, and not to take her chicken into her hands on ceremonial occasions.
"my treasure," says the aunt, "as you know, we are going to dinner with the dunkers to-morrow. be good enough not to take your chicken into your hands. here at home i don't object to it, but the really correct way is to separate the meat from the bone with the knife and fork."
and presently flossie entered, tripping, shrugging up her shoulders and throwing back her mane, and wonderfully innocent.
"this is flossie, who is always late," albert introduced her to hilda.
"am i really?" said flossie, in a very low, soft voice, with a bright and apparently frightened smile.
dark flossie was of amy’s age and supposed to be amy’s particular friend. she was the daughter of young clara’s music mistress. the little girl’s prestige in the benbow house was due to two causes. first she was graceful and rather stylish in movement--qualities which none of the benbow children had, though young clara was pretty enough; and second her mother had rather more pupils than she could comfortably handle, and indeed sometimes refused a pupil.
flossie with her physical elegance was like a foreigner among the benbows. she had a precocious demeanour. she shook hands and embraced like a woman, and she gave her birthday gift to bert as if she were distributing a prize. it was a lead-pencil, with a patent sharpener. bert would have preferred a bicycle, but the patent sharpener made an oasis in his day. his father pointed out to him that as the pencil was already sharpened he could not at present use the sharpener. amy thereupon furtively passed him the stump of a pencil to operate upon, and then his mother told him that he had better postpone his first sharpening until he got into the garden, where bits of wood would not be untidy. flossie carefully settled her very short white skirts on a chair, smiling all the time, and enquired about two brothers whom she had been told were to be among the guests. albert informed her with solemnity that these two brothers were both down with measles, and that auntie hamps and auntie hilda had come to make up for their absence.
"poor things!" murmured flossie sympathetically.
hilda laughed, and flossie screwing up her eyes and shrugging up her shoulders laughed too, as if saying: "you and i alone understand me."
"what a pretty flower!" flossie exclaimed, in her low soft voice, indicating the flower in the vase in front of amy.
"there’s half a crumb left," said albert, passing the cake-plate to flossie carefully. "we thought we’d better keep it for you, though we don’t reckon to keep anything for little girls that come late."
"amy," whispered her mother, leaning towards the fat girl. "wouldn’t it be nice of you to give your flower to flossie?" amy started.
"i don’t want to," she whispered back, flushing.
the flower was a gift to amy from bert, out of the birthday bunch presented to him by rupert. mysterious relations existed between bert and the benignant, acquiescent amy.
"oh! amy!" her mother protested, still whispering, but shocked.
tears came into amy’s eyes. these tears amy at length wiped away, and, straightening her face, offered the flower with stiff outstretched arm to her friend flossie. and flossie smilingly accepted it.
"it is kind of you, you darling!" said flossie, and stuck the flower in an interstice of her embroidered pinafore.
amy, gravely lacking in self-control, began to whimper again.
"that’s my good little girl!" muttered clara to her, exhibiting pride in her daughter’s victory over self, and rubbed the child’s eyes with her handkerchief. the parents were continually thus "bringing up" their children. hilda pressed her lips together.
immediately afterwards it was noticed that flossie was no longer eating.
"i’ve had quite enough, thank you," said she in answer to expostulations.
"no jam, even? and you’ve not finished your tea!"
"i’ve had quite enough, thank you," said she, and folded up her napkin.
"please, father, can we go and play in the garden now?" bert asked.
albert looked at his wife.
"yes, i think they might," said clara. "go and play nicely." they all rose.
"now quietly, qui-etly!" albert warned them.
and they went from the room quietly, each in his own fashion,--flossie like a modest tsarina, young clara full of virtue and holding rupert by the hand, amy lumpily, tiny lucy as one who had too soon been robbed of the privilege of being the youngest, and bert in the rear like a criminal who is observed in a suspicious act. and albert blew out wind, as if getting rid of a great weight.
"finished your greengage, auntie?" asked clara, after the pause which ensued while the adults were accustoming themselves to the absence of the children.
and it was maggie who answered, rather eagerly:
"no, she hasn’t. she’s left it to the tender mercies of that maria. she wouldn’t let me stay, and she wouldn’t stay herself."
these were almost the first words, save murmurings as to cups of tea, quantities of sugar and of milk, etc., that the taciturn maggie had uttered since hilda’s arrival. she was not sulky, she had merely been devoting herself and allowing herself to be exploited, in the vacuous manner customary to her,--and listening receptively--or perhaps not even receptively--offering no remark. save that the smooth-working mechanism of the repast would have creaked and stopped at her departure, she might have slipped from the room unnoticed as a cat. but now she spoke as one capable of enthusiasm and resentment on behalf of an ideal. to her it was scandalous that greengage jam should be jeopardised for the sake of social pleasures, and suddenly it became evident she and her auntie had had a difference on the matter.
mrs. hamps said stoutly and defiantly, with grandeur:
"well, i wasn’t going to have my eldest grand-nephew’s twelfth birthday party interfered with for any jam."
"hear, hear!" said hilda, liking the terrific woman for an instant.
but mild maggie was inflexible.
clara, knowing that in maggie very slight symptoms had enormous significance, at once changed the subject. albert went to the back window, whence by twisting his neck he could descry a corner of the garden.
said clara, smiling:
"i hear you’re going to have some musical evenings, hilda ... on sunday nights."
malice and ridicule were in clara’s tone. on the phrase "musical evenings" she put a strange disdainful emphasis, as though a musical evening denoted something not only unrighteous but snobbish, new-fangled, and absurd. yet envy also was in her tone.
hilda was startled.
"ah! who told you that?"
"never mind! i heard," said clara darkly.
hilda wondered where the benbows, from whom seemingly naught could be concealed, had in fact got this tit-bit of news. by tacit consent she and edwin had as yet said nothing to anybody except the orgreaves, who alone, with tertius ingpen and one or two more intimates, were invited, or were to be invited, to the first evening. relations between the orgreaves and the benbows scarcely existed.
"we’re having a little music on sunday night," said hilda, as it were apologetically, and scorning herself for being apologetic. why should she be apologetic to these base creatures? but she couldn’t help it; the public opinion of the room was too much for her. she even added: "we’re hoping that old mrs. orgreave will come. it will be the first time she’s been out in the evening for ever so long." the name of mrs. orgreave was calculated by hilda to overawe them and stop their mouths.
no name, however, could overawe mrs. hamps. she smiled kindly, and with respect for the caprices of others; she spoke in a tone exceptionally polite,--but what she said was: "i’m sorry ... i’m sorry."
the deliverance was final. auntie hamps was almost as deeply moved about the approaching desecration of the sabbath as maggie had been about the casual treatment of jam. in earlier years she would have said a great deal more--just as in earlier years she would have punctuated bert’s birthday mouthfuls with descants upon the excellence of his parents and moral exhortations to himself; but auntie hamps was growing older, and quieter, and "i’m sorry ... i’m sorry" meant much from her.
hilda became sad, disgusted, indignant, moody. the breach which separated her and edwin from the rest of the family was enormous, as might be seen in the mere fact that they had never for a moment contemplated asking anybody in the family to the musical evening, nor had the family ever dreamed of an invitation. it was astonishing that edwin should be so different from the others. but after all, was he? she could see in him sometimes bits of maggie, of clara, and even of the unspeakable. she was conscious of her grievances against edwin. among these was that he never, or scarcely ever, praised her. at moments, when she had tried hard, she felt a great need of praise. but edwin would watch her critically, with the damnable grim detachment of the five towns towards a stranger or a returned exile.
as she sat in the stuffy dining-room of the benbows, surrounded by hostilities and incomprehensions, she had a sensation of unreality, or at any rate of a vast mistake. why was she there? was she not tied by intimate experience to a man at that very instant in prison? (she had a fearful vision of him in prison,--she, sitting there in the midst of maggie, clara, and auntie hamps!) was she not the mother of an illegitimate boy? victimised or not, innocent or not, she, a guest at bert’s intensely legitimate birthday fête, was the mother of an illegitimate boy. incredible! she ought never to have married into the clayhangers, never to have come back to this cackling provincial district. all these people were inimical towards her,--because she represented the luxury and riches and worldly splendour of the family, and because her illegitimate boy had tempted the heir of the benbows to blasphemous wickedness, and because she herself had tempted a weak edwin to abandon chapel and to desecrate the sabbath, and again because she, without a penny of her own, had stepped in and now represented the luxury and riches and worldly splendour of the family. and all the family’s grievances against edwin were also grievances against her. once, long ago, when he was yet a bachelor, and had no hope of hilda, edwin had prevented his father, in dotage, from lending a thousand pounds to albert upon no security. the interference was unpardonable, and hilda would not be pardoned for it.
such was marriage into a family. such was family life.... yes, she felt unreal there, and also unsafe. she had prevaricated about george and the penknife; and she had allowed clara to remain under the impression that her visit to the house was a birthday visit. auntie hamps and destiny, between them, would lay bare all this lying. the antipathy against her would increase. but let it increase never so much, it still would not equal hilda’s against the family, as she thrilled to it then. their narrow ignorance, their narrow self-conceit, their detestation of beauty, their pietism, their bigotry--revolted her. in what century had they been living all those years? was this married life? had albert and clara ever felt a moment of mutual passion? they were nothing but parents, eternally preoccupied with "oughts" and "ought nots" and forbiddances and horrid reluctant permissions. they did not know what joy was, and they did not want anybody else to know what joy was. even on the outskirts of such a family, a musical evening on a sunday night appeared a forlorn enterprise. and all the families in all the streets were the same. hilda was hard enough on george sometimes, but in that moment she would have preferred george to be a thoroughly bad rude boy and to go to the devil, and herself to be a woman abandoned to every licence, rather than that he and she should resemble clara and her offspring. all her wrath centred upon clara as the very symbol of what she loathed.
"hello!" cried the watchful albert from the window. "what’s happening, i wonder?"
in a moment rupert ran into the room, and without a word scrambled on his mother’s lap, absolutely confident in her goodness and power.
"what’s amiss, tuppenny?" asked his father.
"tired," answered rupert, with a faint, endearing smile.
he laid himself close against his mother’s breast, and drew up his knees, and clara held his body in her arms, and whispered to him.
"amy ’udn’t play with me," he murmured.
"wouldn’t she? naughty amy!"
"mammy tired too," he glanced upwards at his mother’s eyes in sympathy.
auntie hamps enquired fondly:
"what does he mean--’mother tired too’?"
"well," said clara, "the fact is some of ’em were so excited they stopped my afternoon sleep this afternoon. i always do have my nap, you know,"--she looked at hilda. "in here! when this door’s closed they know mother mustn’t be disturbed. only this afternoon lucy or amy--i don’t know which, and i didn’t enquire too closely--forgot.... he’s remembered it, the little turk."
"is he asleep?" hilda demanded in a low voice.
"fast. he’s been like that lately. he’ll play a bit, and then he’ll stop, and say he’s tired, and sometimes cry, and he’ll come to me and be asleep in two jiffs. i think he’s been a bit run down. he said he had toothache yesterday. it was nothing but a little cold; they’ve all had colds; but i wrapped his face up to please him. he looked so sweet in his bandage, i assure you i didn’t want to take it off again. no, i didn’t.... i wonder why amy wouldn’t play with him? she’s such a splendid playmate--when she likes. full of imagination! simply full of it!"
albert had approached from the window.
with an air of important conviction, he said to hilda:
"yes, amy’s imagination is really remarkable." as no one responded to this statement, he drummed on the table to ease the silence, and then suddenly added: "well, i suppose i must be getting on with my dictionary reading! i’m only at s; and there’s bound to be a lot of words under u--beginning with un, you know. i saw at once there would be." he spoke rather defiantly, as though challenging public opinion to condemn his new dubious activity.
"oh!" said clara. "albert’s quite taken up with missing words nowadays."
but instead of conning his dictionary, albert returned to the window, drawn by his inexhaustible paternal curiosity, and he even opened the window and leaned out, so that he might more effectively watch the garden. and with the fresh air there entered the high, gay, inspiriting voices of the children.
when albert brought his head once more into the room he suddenly discovered the stuffiness of the atmosphere, and with the large, free gestures of a mountaineer and a sanitarian threw open both windows as wide as possible. the bleak wind from the moorlands surged in, fluttering curtains, and lowering the temperature at a run.
"won’t rupert catch cold?" hilda suggested, chilled.
"he’s got to be hardened, rupert has!" albert replied easily. "fresh air! nothing like it! does ’em good to feel it!"
"pity you didn’t think so a bit earlier!"
her countenance was too expressive. albert divined some ironic thought in her brain, and turned on her with a sort of parrying jeer:
"and how’s the great man getting along?"
in this phrase, which both he and clara employed with increasing frequency, albert let out not only his jealousy of, but his respect for, the head of the family. hilda did not like it, but it flattered her on edwin’s behalf, and she never showed her resentment of the attitude which prompted it.
"edwin? oh, he’s all right. he’s working." she put a slight emphasis on the last pronoun, in order revengefully to contrast edwin’s industry with albert’s presence during business hours at a children’s birthday party. "he said to me as he went out that he must go and earn something towards maggie’s rent." she laughed softly.
clara smiled cautiously; maggie smiled and blushed a little; albert did not commit himself; only auntie hamps laughed without reserve.
"edwin will have his joke," said she.
although hilda had audaciously gone forth that afternoon with the express intention of opening negotiations, on her own initiative, with maggie for the purchase of the house, she had certainly not meant to discuss the matter in the presence of the entire family. but she was seized by one of her characteristic impulses, and she gave herself up to it with the usual mixture of glee and apprehension. she said:
"i suppose you wouldn’t care to sell us the house, would you, maggie?"
"indeed i should!" maggie answered, with a deepening flush, and all were astonished at her decisiveness, and at the warmth of her tone. "i never wanted the house. only it was arranged that i should have it, so of course i took it." the long-silent victim was speaking. money was useless to her, for she was incapable of turning it into happiness; but she had her views on finance and property, nevertheless; and though in all such matters she did as she was told, submissively accepting the decisions of brother or brother-in-law as decrees of fate, yet she was quite aware of the victimhood. the assemblage was surprised and even a little intimidated by her mild outburst.
"but you’ve got a very good tenant, maggie," said auntie hamps enthusiastically.
"she’s got a very good tenant, admitted!" albert said judicially and almost sternly. "but she’d never have any difficulty in finding a very good tenant for that house. that’s not the point. the point is that the investment really isn’t remunerative. maggie could do much better for herself than that. very much better. why, if she went the right way about it she could get ten per cent on her money! i know of things.... and i bet she doesn’t get three and a half per cent clear from the house. not three and a half." he glanced reproachfully at hilda.
"do you mean the rent’s too low?" hilda questioned boldly.
he hesitated, losing courage.
"i don’t say it’s too low. but maggie perhaps took the house over at too big a figure."
maggie looked up at her brother-in-law.
"and whose fault was that?" she asked sharply. the general surprise was intensified. no one could understand maggie. no one had the wit to perceive that she had been truly annoyed by auntie hamps’s negligence in regard to jam, and was momentarily capable of bitterness. "whose fault was that?" she repeated. "you and clara and edwin settled it between you. you yourself said over and over again it was a fair figure."
"i thought so at the time! i thought so at the time!" said albert quickly. "we all acted for the best."
"i’m sure you did," murmured auntie hamps.
"i should think so, indeed!" murmured clara, seeking to disguise her constraint by attentions to the sleeping rupert.
"is edwin thinking of buying, then?" albert asked hilda in a quiet, studiously careless voice.
"we’ve discussed it," responded hilda.
"because if he is, he ought to take it over at the price mag took it at. she oughtn’t to lose on it. that’s only fair."
"i’m sure edwin would never do anything unfair," said auntie hamps.
hilda made no reply. she had already heard the argument from edwin, and albert now seemed to her more tedious and unprincipled than usual. her reason admitted the force of the argument as regards maggie, but instinct opposed it.
nevertheless she was conscious of sudden sympathy for maggie, and of a weakening of her prejudice against her.
"hadn’t we better be going, auntie?" maggie curtly and reproachfully suggested. "you know quite well that jam stands a good chance of being ruined."
"i suppose we had," auntie hamps concurred with a sigh, and rose.
"i shall be able to carry out my plan," thought hilda, full of wisdom and triumph. and she saw edwin, owner of the house, with his wild lithographic project scotched. and the realisation of her own sagacity thus exercised on behalf of those she loved, made her glad.
at the same moment, just as albert was recommencing his flow, the door opened and edwin entered. he had glimpsed the children in the garden and had come into the house by the back way. there were cries of stupefaction and bliss. both albert and clara were unmistakably startled and flattered. indeed, several seconds elapsed before albert could assume the proper grim, casual air. auntie hamps rejoiced and sat down again. maggie disclosed no feeling, and she would not sit down again. hilda had a serious qualm. she was obliged to persuade herself that in opening the negotiations for the house she had not committed an enormity. she felt less sagacious and less dominant. who could have dreamt that edwin would pop in just then? it was notorious, it was even a subject of complaint, that he never popped in. in reply to enquiries he stammered in his customary hesitating way that he happened to be in the neighbourhood on business and that it had occurred to him, etc., etc. in short, there he was.
"aren’t you coming, auntie?" maggie demanded.
"let me have a look at edwin, child," said auntie hamps, somewhat nettled. "how set you are!"
"then i shall go alone," said maggie.
"yes. but what about this house business?" albert tried to stop her.
he could not stop her. finance, houses, rents, were not real to her. she owned but did not possess such things. but the endangered jam was real to her. she did not own it, but she possessed it. she departed.
"what’s amiss with her to-day?" murmured mrs. hamps. "i must go too, or i shall be catching it; my word i shall!"
"what house business?" edwin asked.
"well," said albert. "i like that! aren’t you trying to buy her house from her? we’ve just been talking it over."
edwin glanced swiftly at hilda, and hilda knew from the peculiar constrained, almost shamefaced, expression on his features, that he was extremely annoyed. he gave a little nervous laugh.
"oh! have ye?" he muttered.
although edwin discussed the purchase of the house quite calmly with albert, and appeared to regard it as an affair practically settled, hilda could perceive from a single gesture of his in the lobby as they were leaving, that his resentment against herself had not been diminished by the smooth course of talking. nevertheless she was considerably startled by his outburst in the street.
"it’s a pity maggie went off like that," she said quietly. "you might have fixed everything up immediately."
then it was that he turned on her, glowering angrily.
"why on earth did you go talking about it, without telling me first?" he demanded, furious.
"but it was understood, dear----" she smiled, affecting not to perceive his temper, and thereby aggravating it.
he almost shouted:
"nothing of the kind! nothing of the kind!"
"maggie was there. i just happened to mention it." hilda was still quite placid.
"you went down on purpose to tell her, so you needn’t deny it. do you take me for a fool?"
her placidity was undiminished.
"of course i don’t take you for a fool, dear. i assure you i hadn’t the slightest idea you’d be annoyed."
"but you told me i could mention it to her."
"no, i didn’t."
"you did, edwin. do be just."
"i didn’t say you could go and plunge right into it at once. these things have to be thought out. houses aren’t bought like that. a house isn’t a pound of tea, and it isn’t a hat."
"i’m very sorry."
"no, you aren’t. and you know jolly well you aren’t. your scheme was simply to tie my hands."
she knew the truth of this, and her smile became queer. nevertheless the amiable calm which she maintained astonished even herself. she was not happy, but certainly she was not unhappy. she had got, or she was going to get, what she wanted; and here was the only fact important to her; the means by which she had got it, or was going to get it, were negligible now. it cost her very little to be magnanimous. she wondered at edwin. was this furious brute the timid, worshipping boy who had so marvellously kissed her a dozen years earlier--before she had fallen into the hands of a scoundrel? were these scenes what the exquisite romance of marriage had come to? ... well, and if it was so, what then? if she was not happy she was elated, and she was philosophic, and she had the terrific sense of realities of some of her sex. she was out of the benbow house; she breathed free, she had triumphed, and she had her man to herself. he might be a brute--the five towns (she had noticed as a returned exile) were full of brutes whose passions surged and boiled beneath the phlegmatic surface--but he existed, and their love existed. and a peep into the depth of the cauldron was exciting.... the injustice or the justice of his behaviour did not make a live question.
moreover, she did not in truth seriously regard him as a brute. she regarded him as an unreasonable creature, something like a baby, to be humoured in the inessentials of a matter of which the essentials were now definitely in her favour. his taunt that she went blundering into a thing, and that she knew naught of business, amused her. she knew her own business, and knew it profoundly. the actual situation was a proof of that. as for abstract principles of business, the conventions and etiquette of it--her lips condescendingly curled. after all, what had she done to merit this fury? nothing! nothing! what could it matter whether the negotiations were begun instantly or in a week’s or a month’s time? (edwin would have dilly-dallied probably for three months, or six). she had merely said a few harmless words, offered a suggestion. and now he desired to tear her limb from limb and eat her alive. it was comical! impossible for her to be angry, in her triumph! it was too comical! she had married an astounding personage.... but she had married him. he was hers. she exulted in the possession of him. his absurd peculiarities did not lower him in her esteem. she had a perfect appreciation of his points, including his general wisdom. but she was convinced that she had a special and different and superior kind of wisdom.
"and a nice thing you’ve let maggie in for!" edwin broke out afresh after a spell of silent walking.
"let maggie in for?" she exclaimed lightly.
"albert ought never to have known anything of it until it was all settled. he will be yarning away to her about how he can use her money for her, and what he gets hold of she’ll never see again,--you may bet your boots on that. if you’d left it to me i could have fixed things up for her in advance. but no! in you must go! up to the neck! and ruin everything!"
"oh!" she said reassuringly. "you’ll be able to look after maggie all right."
he sniffed, and settled down into embittered disgust, quickening somewhat his speed up the slope of acre lane.
"please don’t walk so fast, edwin," she breathed, just like a nice little girl. "i can’t keep up with you."
in spite of his enormous anger he could not refuse such a request. she was getting the better of him again. he knew it; he could see through the devices. with an irritated swing of his body he slowed down to suit her.
she had a glimpse of his set, gloomy, savage, ruthless face, the lower lip bulging out. really it was grotesque! were they grown up, he and she? she smiled almost self-consciously, fearing that passers-by might notice his preposterous condition. all the way up acre lane and across by st. luke’s churchyard into trafalgar road they walked thus side by side in silence. by strange good luck they did not meet a single acquaintance, and as edwin had a latchkey, no servant had to come and open the door and behold them.
edwin, throwing his hat on the stand, ran immediately upstairs. hilda passed idly into the drawing-room. she was glad to be in her own drawing-room again. it was a distinguished apartment, after clara’s. there lay the dvorak music on the piano.... the atmosphere seemed full of ozone. she rang for ada and spoke to her with charming friendliness about master george. master george had returned from an informal cricket match in the manor fields, and was in the garden. yes, ada had seen to his school-clothes. everything was in order for the new term shortly to commence. but master george had received a blow from the cricket-ball on his shin, which was black and blue.... had ada done anything to the shin? no, master george would not let her touch it, but she had been allowed to see it.... very well, ada.... there was something beatific about the state of being mistress of a house. without the mistress, the house would simply crumble to pieces.
hilda went upstairs; she was apprehensive, but her apprehensiveness was agreeable to her.... no, edwin was not in the bedroom.... she could hear him in the bathroom. she tried the door. it was bolted. he always bolted it.
"what is it?"
he opened the door. he was in his shirt sleeves and had just finished with the towel. she entered, and shut the door and bolted it. and then she began to kiss him. she kissed him time after time, on his cheek so damp and fresh.
"poor dear!" she murmured.
she knew that he could not altogether resist those repeated kisses. they were more effective than the best arguments or the most graceful articulate surrenders. thus she completed her triumph. but whether the virtue of the kisses lay in their sensuousness or in their sentiment, neither he nor she knew. and she did not care.... she did not kiss him with abandonment. there was a reserve in her kisses, and in her smile. indeed she went on kissing him rather sternly. her glance, when their eyes were very close together, was curious. it seemed to imply: "we are in love. and we love. i am yours. you are mine. life is very fine after all. i am a happy woman. but still--each is for himself in this world, and that’s the bedrock of marriage as of all other institutions." her sense of realities again! and she went on kissing, irresistibly.
and he had to kiss her.
whereupon she softened to him, and abandoned herself to the emanations of his charm, and her lips became almost liquid as she kissed him again; nevertheless there was still a slight reserve in her kisses.
at tea she chattered like a magpie, as the saying is. between her and george there seemed to be a secret instinctive understanding that edwin had to be humoured, enlivened, drawn into talk,--for although he had kissed her, his mood was yet by no means restored to the normal. he would have liked to remain, majestic, within the tent of his soul. but they were too clever for him. then, to achieve his discomfiture, entered johnnie orgreave, with a suggestion that they should all four--edwin, hilda, janet, and himself--go to the theatre at hanbridge that night. hilda accepted the idea instantly. since her marriage, her appetite for pleasure had developed enormously. at moments she was positively greedy for pleasure. she was incapable of being bored at the theatre, she would sooner be in the theatre of a night than out of it.
"oh! do let’s go!" she cried.
edwin did not want to go, but he had to concur. he did not want to be pleasant to johnnie orgreave or to anybody, but he had to be pleasant.
"be on the first car that goes up after seven fifteen," said johnnie as he was departing.
"you understand, teddy? the first car that goes up after seven fifteen."
"all right! all right!"
blithely hilda went to beautify herself. and when she had beautified herself and made herself into a queen of whom the haughtiest master-printer might be proud, she despatched ada for master george. and master george had to come to her bedroom.
"let me look at that leg," she said. "sit down."
devious creature! during tea she had not even divulged that she had heard of the damaged shin. master george was taken by surprise. he sat down. she knelt, and herself unloosed the stocking and exposed the little calf. the place was black and blue, but it had a healthy look.
"it’s nothing," she said.
and then, all in her splendid finery, she kissed the dirty discoloured shin. strange! he was only two years old and just learning to talk.
"now then, missis! here’s the tram!" edwin yelled out loudly, roughly, from below. he would have given a sovereign to see her miss the car, but his inconvenient sense of justice forced him to warn her.
she kissed master george on the mouth eagerly, and george seemed, unusually, to return the eagerness. she ran down the darkening stairs, ecstatic.
in the dusky road, edwin curtly signalled to the vast ascending steam-car, and it stopped. those were in the old days, when people did what they liked with the cars, stopping them here and stopping them there according to their fancy. the era of electricity and fixed stopping-places, and soulless, conscienceless control from london had not set in. edwin and hilda mounted. two hundred yards further on the steam-tram was once more arrested, and johnnie and janet joined them. hilda was in the highest spirits. the great affair of the afternoon had not been a quarrel, but an animating experience which, though dangerous, intensified her self-confidence and her zest.
the events of the portentous week-end which included the musical evening began early on the saturday, and the first one was a chance word uttered by george.
breakfast was nearly over in the clayhanger dining-room. hilda sat opposite to edwin, and george between them. they had all eaten with appetite, and the disillusion which usually accompanies the satisfaction of desire was upon them. they had looked forward to breakfast, scenting with zest its pleasing odours, and breakfast was over, save perhaps for a final unnecessary piece of toast or half a cup of chilled coffee.
hilda did not want to move, because she did not care for the saturday morning task of shopping and re-victualling and being bland with fellow-shoppers in the emporiums. the house-doors were too frequently open on saturday mornings, and errand-boys thereat, and a wind blowing through the house, and it was the morning for specially cleaning the hall--detestable and damp operation--and servants seemed loose on saturday morning, and dinner was apt to be late. but hilda knew she would have to move. to postpone was only to aggravate. destiny grasped her firm. george was not keen about moving, because he had no plan of campaign; the desolating prospect of resuming school on monday had withered his energy; he was in a mood to be either a martyr or a villain. edwin was lazily sardonic, partly because the leisure of breakfast was at an end, partly because he hated the wage-paying slackness of saturday morning at the shop, and partly because his relations with hilda had remained indefinite and disquieting, despite a thousand mutual urbanities and thoughtful refinements, and even some caresses. a sense of aimlessness dejected him; and in the central caves of his brain the question was mysteriously stirring: what is the use of all these things,--success, dignity, importance, luxury, love, sensuality, order, moral superiority? he foresaw thirty years of breakfasts, with plenty of the finest home-cured bacon and fresh eggs, but no romance.
before his marriage he used to read the paper honestly and rudely at breakfast. that is to say, he would prop it up squarely in front of him, hiding his sister maggie, and anyhow ignoring her; and maggie had to "like it or lump it"; she probably lumped it. but upon marriage he had become a chevalier; he had nobly decided that it was not correct to put a newspaper between yourself and a woman who had denied you nothing. nevertheless, his appetite for newspapers being almost equal to his appetite for bacon, he would still take nips at the newspaper during breakfast, hold it in one hand, glance at it, drop it, pick it up, talk amiably while glancing at it, drop it, pick it up again. so long as the newspaper was held aside and did not touch the table, so long as he did not read more than ten lines at a time, he considered that punctilio was satisfied, and that he was not in fact reading the newspaper at all. but towards the end of breakfast, when the last food was disappearing, and he had lapped the cream off the news, he would hold the newspaper in both hands--and brazenly and conscientiously read. his chief interest, just then, was political. like most members of his party, he was endeavouring to decipher the party programme and not succeeding, and he feared for his party and was a little ashamed for it. grave events had occurred. the substructure of the state was rocking. a newly elected supporter of the government, unaware that he was being admitted to the best club in london, had gone to the house of commons in a tweed cap and preceded by a brass-band. serious pillars of society knew that the time had come to invest their savings abroad. edwin, with many another ardent liberal, was seeking to persuade himself that everything was all right after all. the domestic atmosphere--hilda’s baffling face, the emptied table, the shadow of business, repletion, early symptoms of indigestion, the sound of a slop-pail in the hall--did not aid him to optimism. in brief the morning was a fair specimen of a kind of morning that seemed likely to be for him an average morning.
"can’t i leave the table, mother?" asked george discontentedly.
george gave a coarse sound of glee.
"george! ... that’s so unlike you!" his mother frowned.
instead of going directly towards the door, he must needs pass right round the table, behind the chair of his occupied uncle. as he did so, he scanned the newspaper and read out loudly in passing for the benefit of the room:
the words meant nothing to george. they had happened to catch his eye. he read them as he might have read an extract from the books of euclid, and noisily and ostentatiously departed, not without a further protest from hilda.
and edwin and hilda, left alone together, were self-conscious.
"lively kid!" murmured edwin self-consciously.
and hilda, self-consciously:
"you never told me that case was on."
"i didn’t know till i saw it here."
"what’s the result?"
"not finished.... here you are, if you want to read it."
"thanks," hilda amiably and negligently murmured.
useless for hilda to take that casual tone! useless for edwin to hum! the unconcealable thought in both their minds was--and each could divine the other’s thought and almost hear its vibration:
"we might end in the divorce court, too."
hence their self-consciousness.
the thought was absurd, irrational, indefensible, shocking, it had no father and no mother, it sprang out of naught; but it existed, and it had force enough to make them uncomfortable.
the etches couple, belonging to the great, numerous, wealthy, and respectable family of etches, had been married barely a year.
edwin rose and glanced at his well-tended fingernails. the pleasant animation of his skin caused by the bath was still perceptible. he could feel it in his back, and it helped his conviction of virtue. he chose a cigarette out of his silver case,--a good cigarette, a good case--and lit it, and waved the match into extinction, and puffed out much smoke, and regarded the correctness of the crease in his trousers (the vertical trouser-crease having recently been introduced into the district and insisted on by that tailor and artist and seeker after perfection, shillitoe), and walked firmly to the door. but the self-consciousness remained.
just as he reached the door, his wife, gazing at the newspaper, stopped him:
he did not move from the door, and she did not look up from the newspaper.
"seen your friend big james this morning?"
edwin usually went down to business before breakfast, so that his conscience might be free for a leisurely meal at nine o’clock. big james was the oldest employee in the business. originally he had been foreman compositor, and was still technically so described, but in fact he was general manager and edwin’s majestic vicegerent in all the printing-shops. "ask big james," was the watchword of the whole organism.
"no," said edwin. "why?"
"oh, nothing! it doesn’t matter."
edwin had made certain resolutions about his temper, but it seemed to him that such a reply justified annoyance, and he therefore permitted himself to be annoyed, failing to see that serenity is a positive virtue only when there is justification for annoyance. the nincompoop had not even begun to perceive that what is called "right-living" means the acceptance of injustice and the excusing of the inexcusable.
"now then," he said, brusquely. "out with it." but there was still a trace of rough tolerance in his voice.
"no. it’s all right. i was wrong to mention it."
her admission of sin did not in the least placate him.
he advanced towards the table.
"you haven’t mentioned it," he said stiffly.
their eyes met, as hilda’s quitted the newspaper. he could not read hers. she seemed very calm. he thought as he looked at her: "how strange it is that i should be living with this woman! what is she to me? what do i know of her?"
she said with tranquillity:
"if you do see big james you might tell him not to trouble himself about that programme."
"programme? what programme?" he asked, startled.
"oh! edwin!" she gave a little laugh. "the musical evening programme, of course. aren’t we having a musical evening to-morrow night?"
more justification for annoyance! why should she confuse the situation by pretending that he had forgotten the musical evening? the pretence was idiotic, deceiving no one. the musical evening was constantly being mentioned.
reports of assiduous practising had reached them; and on the previous night they had had quite a subdued altercation over a proposal of hilda’s for altering the furniture in the drawing-room.
"this is the first i’ve heard of any programme," said edwin. "do you mean a printed programme?"
of course she could mean nothing else. he was absolutely staggered at the idea that she had been down to his works, without a word to him, and given orders to big james, or even talked to big james, about a programme. she had no remorse. she had no sense of danger. had she the slightest conception of what business was? imagine maggie attempting such a thing! it was simply not conceivable. a wife going to her husband’s works, and behind his back giving orders----! it was as though a natural law had suspended its force.
"why, edwin," she said in extremely clear, somewhat surprised, and gently benevolent accents. "what ever’s the matter with you? there is a programme of music, i suppose?" (there she was, ridiculously changing the meaning of the word programme! what infantile tactics!) "it occurred to me all of a sudden yesterday afternoon how nice it would be to have it printed on gilt-edged cards, so i ran down to the shop, but you weren’t there. so i saw big james."
"you never said anything to me about it last night. nor this morning."
"didn’t i? ... well, i forgot."
"well, what did big james say?"
"oh! don’t ask me. but if he treats all your customers as he treated me ... however, it doesn’t matter now. i shall write the programme out myself."
"what did he say?"
"it wasn’t what he said.... but he’s very rude, you know. other people think so too."
"what other people?"
"oh! never mind who! of course, i know how to take it. and i know you believe in him blindly. but his airs are preposterous. and he’s a dirty old man. and i say, edwin, seeing how very particular you are about things at home, you really ought to see that the front shop is kept cleaner. it’s no affair of mine, and i never interfere,--but really...!"
not a phrase of this speech but what was highly and deliberately provocative. assuredly no other person had ever said that big james was rude. (but had someone else said so, after all? suppose, challenged, she gave a name!) big james’s airs were not preposterous; he was merely old and dignified. his apron and hands were dirty, naturally.... and then the implication that big james was a fraud, and that he, edwin, was simpleton enough to be victimised by the fraud, while the great all-seeing hilda exposed it at a single glance! and the implication that he, edwin, was fussy at home, and negligent at the shop! and the astounding assertion that she never interfered!
he smothered up all his feelings, with difficulty, as a sailor smothers up a lowered sail in a high wind, and merely demanded, for the third time:
"what did big james say?"
"i was given to understand," said hilda roguishly, "that it was quite, quite, quite impossible. but his majesty would see! ... well, he needn’t ’see.’ i see how wrong i was to suggest it at all."
edwin moved away in silence.
"are you going, edwin?" she asked innocently.
"you haven’t kissed me."
she did not put him to the shame of returning to her. no, she jumped up blithely, radiant. her make-believe that nothing had happened was maddening. she kissed him lovingly, with a smile, more than once. he did not kiss; he was kissed. nevertheless somehow the kissing modified his mental position and he felt better after it.
"don’t work yourself up, darling," she counselled him, with kindness and concern, as he went out of the room. "you know how sensitive you are." it was a calculated insult, but an insult which had to be ignored. to notice it would have been a grave tactical error.
when he reached the shop, he sat down at his old desk in the black-stained cubicle, and spied forth and around for the alleged dust which he would tolerate in business but would not tolerate at home. it was there. he could see places that had obviously not been touched for weeks, withdrawn places where the undisturbed mounds of stock and litter had the eternal character of roman remains or vestiges of creation. the senior errand-boy was in the shop, snuffling over a blue-paper parcel.
"boy," said edwin. "what time do you come here in the morning?"
"’a’ past seven, sir."
"well, on monday morning you’ll be here at seven and you’ll move everything--there and there and there--and sweep and dust properly. this shop’s like a pigstye. i believe you never dust anything but the counters."
he was mild but firm. he knew himself for a just man; yet the fact that he was robbing this boy of half-an-hour’s sleep and probably the boy’s mother also, and upsetting the ancient order of the boy’s household, did not trouble him, did not even occur to him. for him the boy had no mother and no household, but was a patent self-causing boy that came miraculously into existence on the shop doorstep every morning and achieved annihilation thereon every night.
the boy was a fatalist, but his fatalism had limits, because he well knew that the demand for errand-boys was greater than the supply. though the limits of his fatalism had not yet been reached, he was scarcely pleased.
"if i come at seven who’ll gi’ me th’ kays, sir?" he demanded rather surlily, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
"i’ll see that you have the keys," said edwin, with divine assurance, though he had not thought of the difficulty of the keys.
the boy left the shop, his body thrown out of the perpendicular by the weight of the blue-paper parcel.
"you ought to keep an eye on this place," said edwin quietly to the young man who combined the function of clerk with that of salesman to the rare retail customers. "i can’t see to everything. here, check these wages for me." he indicated small piles of money.
"yes, sir," said the clerk with self-respect, but admitting the justice of the animadversion.
edwin seldom had difficulty with his employees. serious friction was unknown in the establishment.
he went out by the back-entrance, thinking:
"it’s no affair whatever of hers. moreover the shop’s as clean as shops are, and a damned sight cleaner than most. a shop isn’t a drawing-room.... and now there’s the infernal programme."
he would have liked to bury and forget the matter of the programme. but he could not. his conscience, or her fussiness, would force him to examine into it. there was no doubt that big james was getting an old man, with peculiar pompous mannerisms and a disposition towards impossibilism. big james ought to have remembered, in speaking to hilda, that he was speaking to the wife of his employer. that hilda should give an order, or even make a request, direct was perhaps unusual, but--dash it!--you knew what women were, and if that old josser of a bachelor, big james, didn’t know what women were, so much the worse for him. he should just give big james a hint. he could not have big james making mischief between himself and hilda.
but the coward would not go straight to big james. he went first up to what had come to be called "the litho room," partly in order to postpone big james, but partly also because he had quite an affectionate proud interest in the litho room. in edwin’s childhood this room, now stripped and soiled into a workshop, had been the drawing-room of the clayhanger family; and it still showed the defect which it had always shown; the window was too small and too near the corner of the room. no transformation could render it satisfactory save a change in the window. old darius clayhanger had vaguely talked of altering the window. edwin had thought seriously of it. but nothing had been done. edwin was continuing the very policy of his father which had so roused his disdain when he was young: the policy of "making things do." instead of entering upon lithography in a manner bold, logical, and decisive, he had nervously and half-heartedly slithered into it. thus at the back of the yard was a second-hand "newsom" machine in quarters too small for it, and the apparatus for the preliminary polishing of the stones; while up here in the ex-drawing-room were grotesquely mingled the final polishing process and the artistic department.
the artist who drew the designs on the stone was a german, with short fair hair and moustache, a thick neck and a changeless expression. edwin had surprisingly found him in hanbridge. he was very skilled in judging the amount of "work" necessary on the stone to produce a desired result on the paper, and very laborious. without him the nascent lithographic trade could not have prospered. his wages were extremely moderate, but they were what he had asked, and in exchange for them he gave his existence. edwin liked to watch him drawing, slavishly, meticulously, endlessly. he was absolutely without imagination, artistic feeling, charm, urbanity, or elasticity of any sort,--a miracle of sheer gruff positiveness. he lived somewhere in hanbridge, and had once been seen by edwin on a sunday afternoon, wheeling a perambulator and smiling at a young enceinte woman who held his free arm. an astounding sight, which forced edwin to adjust his estimates! he grimly called himself an englishman, and was legally entitled to do so. on this morning he was drawing a ewer and basin, for the illustrated catalogue of an earthenware manufacturer.
"not a very good light to-day," murmured edwin.
"not a very good light."
"no," said karl sourly and indifferently, bent over the stone, and breathing with calm regularity. "my eyesight is being de-stroit."
behind, a young man in a smock was industriously polishing a stone.
edwin beheld with pleasure. it was a joy to think that here was the sole lithography in bursley, and that his own enterprise had started it. nevertheless he was ashamed too,--ashamed of his hesitations, his half-measures, his timidity, and of karl’s impaired eyesight. there was no reason why he should not build a proper works, and every reason why he should; the operation would be remunerative; it would set an example; it would increase his prestige. he grew resolute. on the day of the party at the benbows’ he had been and carefully inspected the plot of land at shawport, and yesterday he had made a very low offer for it. if the offer was refused, he would raise it. he swore to himself he would have his works.
then big james came into the litho room.
"i was seeking ye, sir," said big james majestically, with a mysterious expression.
edwin tried to look at him anew, as it were with hilda’s eyes. certainly his bigness amounted now to an enormity, for proportionately his girth more than matched his excessive height. his apron descended from the semicircle of his paunch like a vast grey wall. the apron was dirty, this being saturday, but it was at any rate intact; in old days big james and others at critical moments of machining used to tear strips off their aprons for machine-rags.... yes, he was conceivably a grotesque figure, with his spectacles, which did not suit him, his heavy breathing, his mannerisms, and his grandiose air of atlas supporting the moral world. a woman might be excused for seeing the comic side of him. but surely he was honest and loyal. surely he was not the adder that hilda with an intonation had suggested!
"i’m coming," said edwin, rather curtly.
he felt just in the humour for putting big james "straight." still his reply had not been too curt, for to his staff he was the opposite of a bully; he always scorned to take a facile advantage of his power, often tried even to conceal his power in the fiction that the employee was one man and himself merely another. he would be far more devastating to his wife and his sister than to any employee. but at intervals a bad or careless workman had to meet the blaze of his eye and accept the lash of his speech.
"it’s about that little job for the mistress, sir," said big james in a soft voice, when they were out on the landing.
edwin gave a start. the ageing man’s tones were so eager, so anxiously loyal! his emphasis on the word ’mistress’ conveyed so clearly that the mistress was a high and glorious personage to serve whom was an honour and a fearful honour! the ageing man had almost whispered, like a boy, glancing with jealous distrust at the shut door of the room that contained the german.
"oh!" muttered edwin, taken aback.
"i set it up myself," said big james, and holding his head very high looked down at edwin under his spectacles.
"why!" said edwin cautiously. "i thought you’d given mrs. clayhanger the idea it couldn’t be done in time."
"bless ye, sir! not if i know it! i intimated to her the situation in which we were placed, with urgent jobs on hand, as in duty bound, sir, she being the mistress. ye know how slow i am to give a promise, sir. but not to do it--such was not my intention. and as i have said already, sir, i’ve set it up myself, and here’s a rough pull."
he produced a piece of paper.
edwin’s ancient affection for big james grew indignant. the old fellow was the very mirror of loyalty. he might be somewhat grotesque and mannered upon occasion, but he was the soul of the clayhanger business. he had taught edwin most of what he knew about both typesetting and machining. it seemed not long since that he used to call edwin "young sir," and to enter into tacit leagues with him against the dangerous obstinacies of his decaying father. big james had genuinely admired darius clayhanger. assuredly he admired darius’s son not less. his fidelity to the dynasty was touching; it was wistful. the order from the mistress had tremendously excited and flattered him in his secret heart.... and yet hilda must call him names, must insinuate against his superb integrity, must grossly misrepresent his attitude to herself. whatever in his pompous old way he might have said, she could not possibly have mistaken his anxiety to please her. no, she had given a false account of their interview,--and edwin had believed it! edwin now swerved violently back to his own original view. he firmly believed big james against his wife. he reflected: "how simple i was to swallow all hilda said without confirmation! i might have known!" and that he should think such a thought shocked him tremendously.
"it’s all right. but i doubt if mrs. clayhanger’ll care for all these fancy founts," implying that it was a pity, of course, that big james’s fancy founts would not be appreciated at their true value, but women were women. "i should almost be inclined to set it all again in old-face. i’m sure she’d prefer it. do you mind?"
"with the greatest of pleasure, sir," big james heartily concurred, looking at his watch. "but i must be lively."
he conveyed his immense bulk neatly and importantly down the narrow stairs.
edwin sat in his cubicle again, his affection for big james very active. how simple and agreeable it was to be a man among men only! the printing-business was an organism fifty times as large as the home, and it worked fifty times more smoothly. no misunderstandings, no secrecies (at any rate among the chief persons concerned), and a general recognition of the principles of justice! even the errand-boy had understood. and the shop-clerk by his tone had admitted that he too was worthy of blame. the blame was not overdone, and common-sense had closed the episode in a moment. and see with what splendid good-will big james, despite the intense conservatism of old age, had accepted the wholesale condemnation of his idea of a programme! the relations of men were truly wonderful, when you come to think about it. and to be at business was a relief and even a pleasure. edwin could not remember having ever before regarded the business as a source of pleasure. a youth, he had gone into it greatly against his will, and by tradition he had supposed himself still to hate it.
why had hilda misled him as to big james? for she had misled him. yes, she had misled him. what was her motive? what did she think she could gain by it? he was still profoundly disturbed by this deception. "why!" he thought, "i can’t trust her! i shall have to be on my guard! i’ve been in the habit of opening my mouth and swallowing practically everything she says!" his sense of justice very sharply resented her perfidy to big james. his heart warmed to the defence of the excellent old man. what had she got against big james? since the day when the enormous man had first shown her over the printing shops, before their original betrothal, a decade and more ago, he had never treated her with anything but an elaborate and sincere respect. was she jealous of him, because of his, edwin’s, expressed confidence in and ancient regard for him, and because edwin and he had always been good companions? or had she merely taken a dislike to him,--a physical dislike? edwin had noticed that some women had a malicious detestation for some old men, especially when the old men had any touch of the grotesque or the pompous.... well, he should defend big james against her. she should keep her hands off big james. his sense of justice was so powerful in that moment that if he had had to choose between his wife and big james he would have chosen big james.
she would return. as she had receded gradually, so she would gradually approach the shop again with her delicious, exciting, exasperating menace. and he had a scheme for running out to her and with candour inviting her in and explaining to her in just the right tone of good-will that loyalty to herself simply hummed and buzzed in the shop and the printing-works, and that big james worshipped her, and that though she was perfect in sagacity she had really been mistaken about big james. and he had a vision of her smiling kindly and frankly upon big james, and big james twisting upon his own axis in joyous pride. nothing but good-will and candour was required to produce this bliss.
but he knew that he would never run out to her and invite her to enter. the enterprise was perilous to the point of being foolhardy. with a tone, with a hesitation, with an undecipherable pout, she might, she would, render it absurd.... and then, his pride! ... at that moment young alec batchgrew, perhaps then the town’s chief mooncalf, came down duck bank in dazzling breeches on a superb grey horse. and edwin went abruptly back to work lest the noodle should rein in at the shop door and talk to him.
when he returned home, a few minutes before the official hour of one o’clock, he heard women’s voices and laughter in the drawing-room. and as he stood in the hall, fingering the thin little parcel of six programmes which he had brought with him, the laughter overcame the voices and then expended itself in shrieks of quite uncontrolled mirth. the drawing-room door was half open. he stepped quietly to it.
the weather, after being thunderous, had cleared, and the part of the drawing-room near the open window was shot with rays of sunshine.
janet orgreave, all dressed in white, lay back in an easy chair; she was laughing and wiping the tears from her eyes. at the piano sat very upright a seemingly rather pert young woman, not laughing, but smiling, with arch sparkling eyes fixed on the others; this was daisy marrion, a cousin of mrs. tom orgreave, and the next to the last unmarried daughter of a large family up at hillport. standing by the piano was a young timid girl of about sixteen, whom edwin, who had not seen her before, guessed to be janet’s niece, elaine, eldest daughter of janet’s elder sister in london; elaine’s approaching visit had been announced. these other two, like janet, were in white. lastly there was hilda, in grey, with a black hat, laughing like a child. "they are all children," he thought as, unnoticed, he watched them in their bright fragile frocks and hats, and in their excessive gaiety, and in the strange abandon of their gestures. "they are a foreign race encamped among us men. fancy women of nearly forty giggling with these girls as janet and hilda are giggling!" he felt much pleasure in the sight. it could not have happened in poor old maggie’s reign. it was delicious. it was one of the rewards of existence, for the grace of these creatures was surpassing. but at the same time it was hysterical and infantile. he thought: "i’ve been taking women too seriously." and his heart lightened somewhat.
elaine saw him first. a flush flowed from her cheeks to her neck. her body stiffened. she became intensely self-conscious. she could not speak, but she leaned forward and gazed with a passion of apprehension at janet, as if murmuring: "look! the enemy! take care!" the imploring silent movement was delightful in its gawky ingenuousness.
"do tell us some more, daisy," hilda implored weakly.
"there is no more," said daisy, and then started: "oh, mr. clayhanger! how long have you been there?"
he entered the room, yielding himself, proud, masculine, acutely aware of his sudden effect on these girls. for even hilda was naught but a girl at the moment; and janet was really a girl, though the presence of that shy niece, just awaking to her own body and to the world, made janet seem old in spite of her slimness and of that smoothness of skin that was due to a tranquil, kind temperament. the shy niece was enchantingly constrained upon being introduced to edwin, whom she was enjoined to call uncle. only yesterday she must have been a child. her marvellously clear complexion could not have been imitated by any aunt or elder sister.
"and now perhaps you’ll tell me what it’s all about," said edwin.
"janet’s called about tennis. it seems they’re sick of the new hillport club. i knew they would be. and so next year janet’s having a private club on her lawn----"
"bad as it is," said janet.
"where the entire conversation won’t be remarks by girls about other girls’ frocks and remarks by men about the rotten inferiority of other men."
"this is all very sound," said edwin, rather struck by hilda’s epigrammatic quality. "but what i ask is--what were you laughing at?"
"oh, nothing!" said daisy marrion.
"very well then," said edwin, going to the door and shutting it. "nobody leaves this room till i know.... now, niece elaine!"
elaine went crimson and squirmed on her only recently hidden legs, but she did not speak.
"tell him, daisy," said janet.
daisy sat still straighter.
"it was only about alec batchgrew, mr. clayhanger; i suppose you know him."
alec was the youngest scion of the great and detested plutocratic family of batchgrew,--enormously important in his nineteen years.
"yes, i know him," said edwin. "i saw him on his new grey horse this morning."
"his ’orse," janet corrected. they all began to laugh again loudly.
"he’s taken a terrific fancy to maud, my kiddie sister," said daisy. "she’s sixteen. yesterday afternoon at the tennis club he said to maud: ’look ’ere. i shall ride through the town to-morrow morning on my ’orse, while you’re all marketing. i shan’t take any notice of any of the other girls, but if you bow to me i’ll take my ’at off to you.’" she imitated the batchgrew intonation.
"that’s a good tale," said edwin calmly. "what a cuckoo! he ought to be put in a museum."
daisy, made rather nervous by the success of her tale, bent over the piano, and skimmed pianissimo and rapidly through the "clytie" waltz. elaine moved her shoulders to the rhythm.
janet said they must go.
"here! hold on a bit!" said edwin, through the light film of music, and undoing the little parcel he handed one specimen of the programme to hilda and another to janet, simultaneously.
"oh, so my ideas are listened to, sometimes!" murmured hilda, who was, however, pleased.
a malicious and unjust remark, he thought. but the next instant hilda said in a quite friendly natural tone:
"janet’s going to bring elaine. and she says tom says she is to tell you that he’s coming whether he’s wanted or not. daisy won’t come."
"why?" asked edwin, but quite perfunctorily; he knew that the marrions were not interested in interesting music, and his design had been to limit the audience to enthusiasts.
"church," answered daisy succinctly.
"come after church."
she shook her head.
"and how’s the practising?" edwin enquired from janet.
"pretty fair," said she. "but not so good as this programme. what swells we are, my word!"
"hilda’s idea," said edwin generously. "your mother coming?"
"oh, yes, i think so."
as the visitors were leaving, hilda stopped janet.
"don’t you think it’ll be better if we have the piano put over there, and all the chairs together round here, janet?"
"it might be," said janet uncertainly.
hilda turned sharply to edwin:
"there! what did i tell you?"
"well," he protested good-humouredly, "what on earth do you expect her to say, when you ask her like that? anyhow i may announce definitely that i’m not going to have the piano moved. we’ll try things as they are, for a start, and then see. why, if you put all the chairs together over there, the place’ll look like a blooming boarding-house."
the comparison was a failure in tact, which he at once recognised but could not retrieve. hilda faintly reddened, and the memory of her struggles as manageress of a boarding-house was harshly revived in her.
"some day i shall try the piano over there," she said, low.
and edwin concurred, amiably:
"all right. some day we’ll try it together, just to see what it is like."
the girls, the younger ones still giggling, slipped elegantly out of the house, one after another.
dinner passed without incident.
the next day, sunday, edwin had a headache; and it was a bilious headache. hence he insisted to himself and to everyone that it was not a bilious headache, but just one of those plain headaches which sometimes visit the righteous without cause or excuse; for he would never accept the theory that he had inherited his father’s digestive weakness. a liability to colds he would admit, but not on any account a feeble stomach. hence, further, he was obliged to pretend to eat as usual. george was rather gnat-like that morning, and hilda was in a susceptible condition, doubtless due to nervousness occasioned by the novel responsibilities of the musical evening--and a sabbath musical evening at that! after the one o’clock dinner, edwin lay down on the sofa in the dining-room and read and slept; and when he woke up he felt better, and was sincerely almost persuaded that his headache had not been and was not a bilious headache. he said to himself that a short walk might disperse the headache entirely. he made one or two trifling adjustments in the disposition of the drawing-room furniture--his own disposition of it, and immensely and indubitably superior to that so pertinaciously advocated by hilda--and then he went out. neither hilda nor george was visible. possibly during his rest they had gone for a walk; they had fits of intimacy.
he walked in the faint september sunshine down trafalgar road into the town. except for a few girls in dowdy finery and a few heavy youths with their black or dark-blue trousers turned up round the ankles far enough to show the white cotton lining, the street was empty. the devout at that hour were either dozing at home or engaged in sunday school work; thousands of children were concentrated in the hot sunday schools. as he passed the bethesda chapel and school he heard the voices of children addressing the lord of the universe in laudatory and intercessory song. near the bethesda chapel, by the duke of cambridge vaults, two men stood waiting, their faces firm in the sure knowledge that within three hours the public-houses would again be open. thick smoke rose from the chimneys of several manufactories and thin smoke from the chimneys of many others. the scheme of a sunday musical evening in that land presented itself to edwin as something rash, fantastic, and hopeless,--and yet solacing. were it known it could excite only hostility, horror, contempt, or an intense bovine indifference; chiefly the last.... breathe the name of chopin in that land!...
something unfamiliar in the aspect of the breakfast-room as glimpsed through the open door from the hall, drew him within. hilda had at last begun to make it into "her" room. she had brought an old writing-desk from upstairs and put it between the fireplace and the window. edwin thought: "doesn’t she even know the light ought to fall over the left shoulder, not over the right?" letter paper and envelopes and even stamps were visible; and a miscellaneous mass of letters and bills had been pushed into the space between the flat of the desk and the small drawers about it. there was also an easy-chair, with a freshly-covered cushion on it; a new hearthrug that edwin neither recognised nor approved of; several framed prints, and other oddments. his own portrait still dominated the mantelpiece, but it was now flanked by two brass candle-sticks. he thought: "if she’d ask me, i could have arranged it for her much better than that." nevertheless the idea of her being absolute monarch of the little room, and expressing her individuality in it and by it, both pleased and touched him. nor did he at all resent the fact that she had executed her plan in secret. she must have been anxious to get the room finished for the musical evening.
thence he passed into the drawing-room,--and was thunderstruck. the arrangement of the furniture was utterly changed, and the resemblance to a boarding-house parlour after all achieved. the piano had crossed the room; the chairs were massed together in the most ridiculous way; the sofa was so placed as to be almost useless. his anger was furious but cold. the woman had considerable taste in certain directions, but she simply did not understand the art of fixing up a room. whereas he did. each room in the house (save her poor little amateurish breakfast-room or "boudoir") had been arranged by himself, even to small details,--and well arranged. everyone admitted that he had a talent for interiors. the house was complete before she ever saw it, and he had been responsible for it. he was not the ordinary inexperienced ignorant husband who "leaves all that sort of thing to the missis." interiors mattered to him; they influenced his daily happiness. the woman had clearly failed to appreciate the sacredness of the status quo. he appreciated it himself, and never altered anything without consulting her and definitely announcing his intention to alter. she probably didn’t care a fig for the status quo. her conduct was inexcusable. it was an attack on vital principles. it was an outrage. doubtless, in her scorn for the status quo, she imagined that he would accept the fait accompli. she was mistaken. with astounding energy he set to work to restore the status quo ante. the vigour with which he dragged and pushed an innocent elephantine piano was marvellous. in less than five minutes not a trace remained of the fait accompli. he thought: "this is a queer start for a musical evening!" but he was triumphant, resolute, and remorseless. he would show her a thing or two. in particular he would show that fair play had to be practised in his house. then, perceiving that his hands were dirty, and one finger bleeding, he went majestically, if somewhat breathless, upstairs to the bathroom, and washed with care. in the glass he saw that, despite his exertions, he was pale. at length he descended, wondering where she was, where she had hidden herself, who had helped her to move the furniture, and what exactly the upshot would be. there could be no doubt that he was in a state of high emotion, in which unflinching obstinacy was shot through with qualms about disaster.
he revisited the drawing-room to survey his labours. she was there. whence she had sprung, he knew not. but she was there. he caught sight of her standing by the window before entering the room.
when he got into the room he saw that her emotional excitement far surpassed his own. her lips and her hands were twitching; her nostrils dilated and contracted; tears were in her eyes.
"edwin," she exclaimed very passionately, in a thick voice, quite unlike her usual clear tones, as she surveyed the furniture, "this is really too much!"
evidently she thought of nothing but her resentment. no consideration other than her outraged dignity would have affected her demeanour. if a whole regiment of their friends had been watching at the door, her demeanour would not have altered. the bedrock of her nature had been reached.
"it’s war, this is!" thought edwin.
he was afraid; he was even intimidated by her anger; but he did not lose his courage. the determination to fight for himself, and to see the thing through no matter what happened, was not a bit weakened. an inwardly feverish but outwardly calm vindictive desperation possessed him. he and she would soon know who was the stronger.
at the same time he said to himself:
"i was hasty. i ought not to have acted in such a hurry. before doing anything i ought to have told her quietly that i intended to have the last word as regards furniture in this house. i was within my rights in acting at once, but it wasn’t very clever of me, clumsy fool!"
aloud he said, with a kind of self-conscious snigger:
"what’s too much?"
hilda went on:
"you simply make me look a fool in my own house, before my own son and the servants."
"you’ve brought it on yourself," said he fiercely. "if you will do these idiotic things you must take the consequences. i told you i didn’t want the furniture moved, and immediately my back’s turned you go and move it. i won’t have it, and so i tell you straight."
"you’re a brute," she continued, not heeding him, obsessed by her own wound. "you’re a brute!" she said it with terrifying conviction. "everybody knows it. didn’t maggie warn me? you’re a brute and a bully. and you do all you can to shame me in my own house. who’d think i was supposed to be the mistress here? even in front of my friends you insult me."
"don’t act like a baby. how do i insult you?"
"talking about boarding-houses. do you think janet and all of them didn’t notice it?"
"well," he said. "let this be a lesson to you."
she hid her face in her hands and sobbed, moving towards the door.
"she’s beaten. she knows she’s got to take it."
then he said:
"do i go altering furniture without consulting you? do i do things behind your back? never!"
"that’s no reason why you should try to make me look a fool in my own house. i told ada how i wanted the furniture, and george and i helped her. and then a moment afterwards you give them contrary orders. what will they think of me? naturally they’ll think i’m not your wife, but your slave. you’re a brute." her voice rose.
"i didn’t give any orders. i haven’t seen the damned servants and i haven’t seen george."
she looked up suddenly:
"then who moved the furniture?"
"who helped you?"
"nobody helped me."
"but i was here only a minute or two since."
"well, do you suppose it takes me half a day to move a few sticks of furniture?"
she was impressed by his strength and his swiftness, and apparently silenced; she had thought that the servants had been brought into the affair.
"you ought to know perfectly well," he proceeded, "i should never dream of insulting you before the servants. nobody’s more careful of your dignity than i am. i should like to see anybody do anything against your dignity while i’m here."
she was still sobbing.
"i think you ought to apologise to me," she blubbered. "yes, i really do."
"why should i apologise to you? you moved the furniture against my wish. i moved it against yours. that’s all. you began. i didn’t begin. you want everything your own way. well, you won’t have it."
she blubbered once more:
"you ought to apologise to me."
and then she wept hysterically.
he meditated sourly, harshly. he had conquered. the furniture was as he wished, and it would remain so. the enemy was in tears, shamed, humiliated. he had a desire to restore her dignity, partly because she was his wife and partly because he hated to see any human being beaten. moreover, at the bottom of his heart he had a tremendous regard for appearances, and he felt fears for the musical evening. he could not contemplate the possibility of visitors perceiving that the host and hostess had violently quarrelled. he would have sacrificed almost anything to the social proprieties. and he knew that hilda would not think of them, or at any rate would not think of them effectively. he did not mind apologising to her, if an apology would give her satisfaction. he was her superior in moral force, and naught else mattered.
"i don’t think i ought to apologise," he said, with a slight laugh. "but if you think so i don’t mind apologising. i apologise. there!" he dropped into an easy-chair.
to him it was as if he had said:
"you see what a magnanimous chap i am."
she tried to conceal her feelings, but she was pleased, flattered, astonished. her self-respect returned to her rapidly.
"thank you," she murmured, and added: "it was the least you could do."
at her last words he thought:
"women are incapable of being magnanimous."
she moved towards the door.
"hilda," he said.
"come here," he commanded with gentle bluffness.
she wavered towards him.
"come here, i tell you," he said again.
he drew her down to him, all fluttering and sobbing and wet, and kissed her, kissed her several times; and then, sitting on his knees, she kissed him. but, though she mysteriously signified forgiveness, she could not smile; she was still far too agitated and out of control to be able to smile.
the scene was over. the proprieties of the musical evening were saved. her broken body and soul huddled against him were agreeably wistful to his triumphant manliness.
but he had had a terrible fright. and even now there was a certain mere bravado in his attitude. in his heart he was thinking:
"by jove! has it come to this?"
the sunday musical evening, beyond its artistic thrills and emotional quality, proved to be exciting as a social manifestation. those present at it felt as must feel russian conspirators in a back room of some big grey house of a petrograd suburb when the secret printing-press begins to function before their eyes. this concert of profane harmonies, deliberately planned and pouring out through open windows to affront the ears of returners from church and chapel, was considered by its organisers as a remarkable event; and rightly so. the clayhanger house might have been a fortress, with the blood-red standard of art and freedom floating from a pole lashed to its chimney. of course everybody pretended to everybody else that the musical evening was a quite ordinary phenomenon.
it was a success, and a flashing success, yet not unqualified. the performers--tertius ingpen on the piano, on the fiddle, and on the clarinet, janet orgreave on the piano, and very timidly in a little song by grieg, tom orgreave on the piano and his contralto wife in two famous and affecting songs by schumann and also on the piano, and edwin sick but obstinate as turner-over of pages--all did most creditably. the music was given with ardent sympathy, and in none of it did any marked pause occur which had not been contemplated by the composer himself. but abstentions had thinned the women among the audience. elaine hill did not come, and, far more important, mrs. orgreave did not come. her husband, old osmond orgreave, had not been expected, as of late (owing to the swift onset of renal disease, hitherto treated by him with some contempt) he had declined absolutely to go out at night; but edwin had counted on mrs. orgreave. she simply sent word that she did not care to leave her husband, and that elaine was keeping her company. disappointment, keen but brief, resulted. edwin’s severe sick headache was also a drawback. it did, however, lessen the bad social effect of an altercation between him and hilda, in which edwin’s part was attributed to his indisposition. this altercation arose out of an irresponsible suggestion from somebody that something else should be played instead of something else. now, for edwin, a programme was a programme,--sacred, to be executed regardless of every extrinsic consideration. and seeing that the programme was printed...! edwin negatived the suggestion instantly, and the most weighty opinion in the room agreed with him, but hilda must needs fly out: "why not change it? i’m sure it will be better," etc. whereas she could be sure of nothing of the sort, and was incompetent to offer an opinion. and she unreasonably and unnecessarily insisted, despite tertius ingpen, and the change was made. it was astounding to edwin that, after the shattering scene of the afternoon, she should be so foolhardy, so careless, so obstinate. but she was. he kept his resentment neatly in a little drawer in his mind, and glanced at it now and then. and he thought of tertius ingpen’s terrible remark about women at ingpen’s first visit. he said to himself: "there’s a lot in it, no doubt about that."
at the close of the last item, two of brahms’s hungarian dances for pianoforte duet (played with truly electrifying brio by little wizening tom orgreave and his wife), both tertius ingpen and tom fussed consciously about the piano, triumphant, not knowing quite what to do next, and each looking rather like a man who has told a good story, and in the midst of the applause tries to make out by an affectation of casualness that the story is nothing at all.
"of course," said tom orgreave carelessly, and glancing at the ground as he usually did when speaking, "fine as those dances are on the piano, i should prefer to hear them with the fiddle."
"why?" demanded ingpen challengingly.
"because they were written for the fiddle," said tom orgreave with finality.
"written for the fiddle? not a bit of it!"
with superiority outwardly unruffled, tom said:
"pardon me. brahms wrote them for joachim. i’ve heard him play them."
"so have i," said tertius ingpen, lightly but scornfully. "but they were written originally for pianoforte duet, as you played them to-night. brahms arranged them afterwards for joachim."
tom orgreave shook under the blow, for in musical knowledge his supremacy had never been challenged in bleakridge.
"surely----!" he began weakly.
"my dear fellow, it is so," said ingpen impatiently.
"look it up," said edwin, with false animation, for his head was thudding. "george, fetch the encyclopædia b--and j too."
delighted, george ran off. he had been examining johnnie orgreave’s watch, and it was to johnnie he delivered the encyclopædia, amid mock protests from his uncle edwin. more than one person had remarked the growing alliance between johnnie and young george.
but the encyclopædia gave no light.
then the eldest swetnam (who had come by invitation at the last moment) said:
"i’m sure ingpen is right."
he was not sure, but from the demeanour of the two men he could guess, and he thought he might as well share the glory of ingpen’s triumph.
the next instant tertius ingpen was sketching out future musical evenings at which quartets and quintets should be performed. he knew men in the orchestra at the theatre royal, hanbridge; he knew girl-violinists who could be drilled, and he was quite certain that he could get a ’cello. from this he went on to part-songs, and in answer to scepticism about local gift for music, he said that during his visits of inspection to factories he had heard spontaneous part-singing "that would knock spots off the savoy chorus." indeed, since his return to it, ingpen had developed some appreciation of certain aspects of his native district. he said that the kindly commonsense with which as an inspector he was received on pot-banks, surpassed anything in the whole country.
"talking of pot-banks, you’ll get a letter from me about the palace porcelain company," tom orgreave lifting his eyebrows muttered to edwin with a strange gloomy constraint.
"i’ve had it," said edwin. "you’ve got some nice clients, i must say."
in a moment, though tom said not a word more, the palace porcelain company was on the carpet, to edwin’s disgust. he hated to talk about a misfortune. but others beside himself were interested in the palace porcelain company, and the news of its failure had boomed mysteriously through the sabbath air of the district.
hilda and janet were whispering together. and edwin, gazing at them, saw in them the giggling tennis-playing children of the previous day,--specimens of a foreign race encamped among the men.
suddenly hilda turned her head towards the men, and said:
"of course edwin’s been let in!"
it was a reference to the palace porcelain company. how ungracious! how unnecessary! how unjust! and somehow edwin had been fearing it. and that was really why he had not liked the turn of the conversation,--he had been afraid of one of her darts!
useless for tom swetnam to say that a number of business men quite as keen as edwin had been "let in"! from her disdainful silence it appeared that hilda’s conviction of the unusual simplicity of her husband was impregnable.
"i hear you’ve got that shawport land," said johnnie orgreave.
the mystic influences of music seemed to have been overpowered.
"who told ye?" asked edwin in a low voice, once more frightened of hilda.
"young toby hall. met him at the conservative club last night."
but hilda had heard.
"what land is that?" she demanded curtly.
"’what land is that?’" johnnie mimicked her. "it’s the land for the new works, missis."
hilda threw her shoulders back, glaring at edwin with a sort of outraged fury. happily most of the people present were talking among themselves.
"you never told me," she muttered.
"i only knew this afternoon."
her anger was unmistakable. she was no longer a fluttering feminine wreck on his manly knee.
"well, good-bye," said janet orgreave startlingly to him. "sorry i have to go so soon."
"you aren’t going!" edwin protested with unnatural loudness. "what about the victuals? i shan’t touch ’em myself. but they must be consumed. here! you and i’ll lead the way."
half playfully he seized her arm. she glanced at hilda uncertainly.
"edwin," said hilda very curtly and severely, "don’t be so clumsy. janet has to go at once. mr. orgreave is very ill--very ill indeed. she only came to oblige us." then she passionately kissed janet.
it was like a thunderclap in the room. johnnie and tom confirmed the news. of the rest only tom’s wife and hilda knew. janet had told hilda before the music began. osmond orgreave had been taken ill between five and six in the afternoon. dr. stirling had gone in at once, and pronounced the attack serious. everything possible was done; even a nurse was obtained instantly, from the clowes hospital by the station. from reasons of sentiment, if from no other, janet would have stayed at home and foregone the musical evening. but those orgreaves at home had put their heads together and decided that janet should still go, because without her the entire musical evening would crumble to naught. here was the true reason of the absence of mrs. orgreave and elaine--both unnecessary to the musical evening. the boys had come, and tom’s wife had come, because, even considered only as an audience, the orgreave contingent was almost essential to the musical evening. and so janet, her father’s especial favourite and standby, had come, and she had played, and not a word whispered except to hilda. it was wondrous. it was impressive. all the orgreaves departed, and the remnant of guests meditated in proud, gratified silence upon the singular fortitude and heroic commonsense that distinguished their part of the world. the musical evening was dramatically over, the refreshments being almost wasted.
hilda was climbing on to the wooden-seated chair in the hall to put out the light there when she heard a noise behind the closed door of the kitchen, which she had thought to be empty. she went to the door and pushed it violently open. not only was the gas flaring away in an unauthorised manner, not only were both servants (theoretically in bed) still up, capless and apronless and looking most curious in unrelieved black, but the adventurous and wicked george was surreptitiously with them, flattering them with his aristocratic companionship, and eating blanc-mange out of a cut-glass dish with a tablespoon. twice george had been sent to bed. once the servants had been told to go to bed. the worst of carnivals is that the dregs of the population, such as george, will take advantage of them to rise to the surface and, conscienceless and mischievous, set at defiance the conventions by which society protects itself.
she merely glanced at george; the menace of her eyes was alarming. his lower lip fell; he put down the dish and spoon, and slunk timorously past her on his way upstairs.
then she said to the servants:
"you ought to be ashamed of yourselves, encouraging him! go to bed at once." and as they began nervously to handle the things on the table, she added, more imperiously: "at once! don’t keep me waiting. i’ll see to all this."
and they followed george meekly.
she gazed in disgust at the general litter of broken refreshments, symbolising the traditional inefficiency of servants, and extinguished the gas.
the three criminals were somewhat the victims of her secret resentment against edwin, who, a mere martyrised perambulating stomach, had retired. edwin had defeated her in the afternoon; and all the evening, in the disposition of the furniture, the evidence of his victory had confronted her. by prompt and brutal action, uncharacteristic of him and therefore mean, he had defeated her. true he had embraced and comforted her tears, but it was the kiss of a conqueror. and then, on the top of that, he had proved his commercial incompetence by making a large bad debt, and his commercial rashness by definitely adopting a scheme of whose extreme danger she was convinced. one part of her mind intellectually knew that he had not wilfully synchronised these events in order to wound her, but another part of her mind felt deeply that he had. she had been staggered by the revelation that he was definitely committed to the project of lithography and the new works. not one word about the matter had he said to her since their altercation on the night of the reception; and she had imagined that, with his usual indecision, he was allowing it to slide. she scarcely recognised her edwin. now she accused him of a malicious obstinacy, not understanding that he was involved in the great machine of circumstance and perhaps almost as much surprised as herself at the movement of events. at any rate she was being beaten once more, and her spirit rebelled. through all the misfortunes previous to her marriage that spirit, if occasionally cowed, had never been broken. she had sat grim and fierce against even bum-bailiffs in her time. yes, her spirit rebelled, and the fact that others had known about the shawport land before she knew made her still more mutinous against destiny. she looked round dazed at the situation. what? the mild edwin defying and crushing her? it was scarcely conceivable. the tension of her nerves from this cause only was extreme. add to it the strain of the musical evening, intensified by the calamity at the orgreaves’!
a bell rang in the kitchen, and all the ganglions of her spinal column answered it. had edwin rung? no. it was the front-door.
"pardon me," said tertius ingpen, when she opened. "but all my friends soon learn how difficult it is to get rid of me."
"come in," she said, liking his tone, which flattered her by assuming her sense of humour.
"as i’m sleeping at the office to-night, i thought i might as well take one or two of my musical instruments after all. so i came back."
"you’ve been round?" she asked, meaning round to the orgreaves’.
"what is it, really?"
"well, it appears to be pericarditis supervening on renal disease. he lost consciousness, you know."
"yes, i know. but what is pericarditis?"
"pericarditis is inflammation of the pericardium."
"and what’s the pericardium?"
they both smiled faintly.
"the pericardium is the membrane that encloses the heart. i don’t mind telling you that i’ve only just acquired this encyclopædic knowledge from stirling,--he was there."
"and is it supposed to be very dangerous?"
"i don’t know. doctors never want to tell you anything except what you can find out for yourself."
after a little hesitating pause they went into the drawing-room, where the lights were still burning, and the full disorder of the musical evening persisted, including the cigarette-ash on the carpet. tertius ingpen picked up his clarinet case, took out the instrument, examined the mouthpiece lovingly, and with tenderness laid it back.
"do sit down a moment," said hilda, sitting limply down. "it’s stifling, isn’t it?"
"let me open the window," he suggested politely.
as he returned from the window, he said, pulling his short beard:
"it was wonderful how those orgreaves went through the musical evening, wasn’t it? makes you proud of being english.... i suppose janet’s a great friend of yours?"
his enthusiasm touched her, and her pride in janet quickened to it. she gave a deliberate, satisfied nod in reply to his question. she was glad to be alone with him in the silence of the house.
"ed gone to bed?" he questioned, after another little pause.
already he was calling her husband ed, and with an affectionate intonation!
she nodded again.
"he stuck it out jolly well," said ingpen, still standing.
"he brings these attacks on himself," said hilda, with the calm sententiousness of a good digestion discussing a bad one. she was becoming pleased with herself--with her expensive dress, her position, her philosophy, and her power to hold the full attention of this man.
ingpen replied, looking steadily at her:
"we bring everything on ourselves."
then he smiled, as a comrade to another.
she shifted her pose. a desire to discuss edwin with this man grew in her, for she needed sympathy intensely.
"what do you think of this new scheme of his?" she demanded somewhat self-consciously.
"the new works? seems all right. but i don’t know much about it."
"well, i’m not so sure." and she exposed her theory of the entire satisfactoriness of their present situation, of the needlessness of fresh risks, and of edwin’s unsuitability for enterprise. "of course he’s splendid," she said. "but he’ll never push. i can look at him quite impartially--i mean in all those things."
ingpen murmured as it were dreamily:
"have you had much experience of business yourself?"
"it depends what you call business. i suppose you know i used to keep a boarding-house." she was a little defiant.
"no, i didn’t know. i may have heard vaguely. did you make it pay?"
"it did pay in the end."
"but not at first? ... any disasters?"
she could not decide whether she ought to rebuff the cross-examiner or not. his manner was so objective, so disinterested, so innocent, so disarming, that in the end she smiled uncertainly, raising her thick eyebrows.
"oh yes," she said bravely.
"and who came to the rescue?" ingpen proceeded.
"i see," said ingpen, still dreamily.
"i believe you knew all about it," she remarked, having flushed.
"pardon me! almost nothing."
"of course you take edwin’s side."
"are we talking man to man?" he asked suddenly, in a new tone.
"most decidedly!" she rose to the challenge.
"then i’ll tell you my leading theory," he said in a soft, polite voice. "the proper place for women is the harem."
"no, no!" he soothed her, but firmly. "we’re talking man to man. i can whisper sweet nothings to you, if you prefer it, but i thought we were trying to be honest. i hold a belief. i state it. i may be wrong, but i hold that belief. you can persecute me for my belief if you like. that’s your affair. but surely you aren’t afraid of an idea! if you don’t like the mere word, let’s call it zenana. call it the drawing-room and kitchen."
"so we’re to be kept to our sphere!"
"now don’t be resentful. naturally you’re to be kept to your own sphere. if edwin began dancing around in the kitchen, you’d soon begin to talk about his sphere. you can’t have the advantages of married life for nothing--neither you nor he. but some of you women nowadays seem to expect them gratis. let me tell you, everything has to be paid for on this particular planet. i’m a bachelor. i’ve often thought about marrying, of course. i might get married some day. you never know your luck. if i do----"
"you’ll keep your wife in the harem, no doubt! and she’ll have to accept without daring to say a word all the risks you choose to take."
"there you are again!" he said. "this notion that marriage ought to be the end of risks for a woman is astonishingly rife, i find. very curious! very curious!" he seemed to address the wall. "why, it’s the beginning of them. doesn’t the husband take risks?"
"he chooses his own. he doesn’t have business risks thrust upon him by his wife."
"doesn’t he? what about the risk of finding himself tied for life to an inefficient housekeeper? that’s a bit of a business risk, isn’t it? i’ve known more than one man let in for it."
"and you’ve felt so sorry for him!"
"no, not specially. you must run risks. when you’ve finished running risks you’re dead and you ought to be buried. if i was a wife i should enjoy running a risk with my husband. i swear i shouldn’t want to shut myself up in a glass case with him out of all the draughts! why, what are we all alive for?"
the idea of the fineness of running risks struck her as original. it challenged her courage, and she began to meditate.
"yes," she murmured. "so you sleep at the office sometimes?"
"a certain elasticity in one’s domestic arrangements." he waved a hand, seeming to pooh-pooh himself lightly. then, quickly changing his mood, he bent and said good-night, but not quite with the saccharine artificiality of his first visit--rather with honest, friendly sincerity, in which were mingled both thanks and appreciation. hilda jumped up responsively. and, the clarinet-case under his left arm, and the fiddle-case in his left hand, leaving the right arm free, ingpen departed.
she did not immediately go to bed. now that ingpen was gone she perceived that though she had really said little in opposition to edwin’s scheme, he had at once assumed that she was a strong opponent of it. hence she must have shown her feelings far too openly at the first mention of the affair before anybody had left. this annoyed her. also the immense injustice of nearly all ingpen’s argument grew upon her moment by moment. she was conscious of a grudge against him, even while greatly liking him. but she swore that she would never show the grudge, and that he should never suspect it. to the end she would play a man’s part in the man-to-man discussion. moreover her anger against edwin had not decreased. nevertheless, a sort of zest, perhaps an angry joy, filled her with novel and intoxicating sensations. let the scheme of the new works go forward! let it fail! let it ruin them! she would stand in the breach. she would show the whole world that no ordeal could lower her head. she had had enough of being the odalisque and the queen, reclining on the soft couch of security. her nostrils scented life on the wind.... then she heard a door close upstairs, and began at last rapidly, as it were cruelly, to put out the lights.
the incubus and humiliations of a first-class bilious attack are not eternal. edwin had not retired very long before the malignant phase of the terrible malady passed inevitably, by phenomena according with all clinical experience, into the next phase. and the patient, who from being chiefly a stomach, had now become chiefly a throbbing head, lay on his pillow exhausted but once more capable of objective thought. his resentment against his wife on account of her gratuitous disbelief in his business faculty, and on account of her interference in a matter that did not concern her, flickered up into new flame. he was absolutely innocent. she was absolutely guilty; no excuse existed or could be invented for her rude and wounding attitude. he esteemed tertius ingpen, bachelor, the most fortunate of men.... women--unjust, dishonourable, unintelligent, unscrupulous, giggling, pleasure-loving! their appetite for pleasure was infantile and tigerish. he had noticed it growing in hilda. previous to marriage he had regarded hilda as combining the best feminine with the best masculine qualities. in many ways she had exhibited the comforting straightforward characteristics of the male. but since marriage her mental resemblance to a man had diminished daily, and now she was the most feminine woman he had ever met, in the unsatisfactory sense of the word. women ... still, the behaviour of janet and hilda during the musical evening had been rather heroic. impossible to dismiss them as being exclusively of the giggling race! they had decided to play a part, and they had played it with impressive fortitude.... and the house of the orgreaves--was it about to fall? he divined that it was about to fall. no death had so far occurred in the family, which had seemed to be immune through decades and forever. he wondered what would have happened to the house of orgreave in six months’ time.... then he went back into the dark origins of his bilious attack.... and then he was at inexcusable hilda again.
at length he heard her on the landing.
she entered the bedroom, and quickly he shut his eyes. he felt unpleasantly through his eyelids that she had turned up the gas. then she was close to him, sat down on the edge of the bed. she asked him a question, calmly, as to occurrences since his retirement. he nodded an affirmative.
"your forehead’s all broken out," she said, moving away.
in a few moments he was aware of the delicious, soothing, heavenly application to his forehead of a handkerchief drenched in eau de cologne and water. the compress descended upon his forehead with the infinite gentleness of an endearment and the sudden solace of a reprieve. he made faint, inarticulate noises.
the light was extinguished for his ease.
he murmured weakly:
"are you undressed already?"
"no," she said quietly. "i can undress all right in the dark."
he opened his eyes, and could dimly see her moving darkly about, brushing her hair, casting garments. then she came towards him, a vague whiteness against the gloom, and, bending, felt for his face, and kissed him. she kissed him with superb and passionate violence; she drew his life out of him, and poured in her own. the tremendous kiss seemed to prove that there is no difference between love and hate. it contained everything--surrender, defiance, anger and tenderness.
neither of them spoke. the kiss dominated and assuaged him. its illogicalness overthrew him. he could never have kissed like that under such circumstances. it was a high and bold gesture. it expressed and transmitted confidence. she had explained nothing, justified nothing, made no charge, asked no forgiveness. she had just confronted him with one unarguable fact. and it was the only fact that mattered. his pessimism about marriage lifted. if his spirit was splendidly romantic enough to match hers, marriage remained a feasible state. and he threw away logic and the past, and in a magic vision saw that success in marriage was an affair of goodwill and the right tone. with the whole force of his heart he determined to succeed in marriage. and in the mighty resolve marriage presented itself to him as really rather easy after all.
the orgreave calamity
on the following saturday afternoon--that is, six days later--edwin had unusually been down to the shop after dinner, and he returned home about four o’clock. ada, hearing his entrance, came into the hall and said:
"please, sir, missis is over at miss orgreave’s and will ye please go over?"
"where’s master george?"
"in missis’s own room, sir."
the "mistress’s own room" was the new nomenclature adopted by the kitchen, doubtless under suggestion, for the breakfast-room or boudoir. edwin opened the door and glanced in. george, apparently sketching, sat at his mother’s desk, with the light falling over his right shoulder.
he looked up quickly in self-excuse:
"mother said i could! mother said i could!"
for the theory of the special sanctity of the boudoir had mysteriously established itself in the house during the previous eight or ten days. george was well aware that even edwin was not entitled to go in and out as he chose.
"keep calm, sonny," said edwin, teasing him.
"i’m going to lane end house," he said.
"can i come?"
the same overhanging spirit of a great event which had somehow justified him in being curt to the boy, rendered him self-conscious and furtive as he stood in the porch of the orgreaves, waiting for the door to open. along the drive that curved round the oval lawn under the high trees were wheel-marks still surviving from the previous day. the house also survived; the curtains in all the windows, and the plants or the pieces of furniture between the curtains, were exactly as usual. yet the solid building and its contents had the air of an illusion.
a servant appeared.
"good afternoon, selina."
he had probably never before called her by name, but to-day his self-consciousness impelled him to do uncustomary things.
"good afternoon, sir," said selina, whose changeless attire ignored even the greatest events. and it was as if she had said:
"ah, sir! to what have we come!"
she too was self-conscious and furtive.
aloud she said:
"miss orgreave and mrs. clayhanger are upstairs, sir. i’ll tell miss orgreave."
coughing nervously, he went into the drawing-room, the large obscure room, crowded with old furniture and expensive new furniture, with books, knickknacks, embroidery, and human history, in which he had first set eyes on hilda. it was precisely the same as it had been a few days earlier; absolutely nothing had been changed, and yet now it had the archæological and forlorn aspect of a museum.
he dreaded the appearance of janet and hilda. what could he say to janet, or she to him? but he was a little comforted by the fact that hilda had left a message for him to join them.
on the previous tuesday osmond orgreave had died, and within twenty-four hours mrs. orgreave was dead also. on the friday they were buried together. to-day the blinds were up again; the funereal horses with their artificially curved necks had already dragged other corpses to the cemetery; the town existed as usual; and the family of orgreave was scattered once more. marian, the eldest daughter, had not been able to come at all, because her husband was seriously ill. alicia hesketh, the youngest daughter, far away in her large house in devonshire, had not been able to come at all, because she was hourly expecting her third child; nor would harry, her husband, leave her. charlie, the doctor at ealing, had only been able to run down for the funeral, because, his partner having broken his leg, the whole work of the practice was on his shoulders. and to-day tom, the solicitor, was in his office exploring the financial side of his father’s affairs; johnnie was in the office of orgreave and sons, busy with the professional side of his father’s affairs; jimmie, who had made a sinister marriage, was nobody knew precisely where; tom’s wife had done what she could and gone home; jimmie’s wife had never appeared; elaine, marian’s child, was shopping at hanbridge for janet; and janet remained among her souvenirs. an epoch was finished, and the episode that concluded it, in its strange features and its swiftness, resembled a vast hallucination.
certain funerals will obsess a whole town. and the funeral of mr. and mrs. osmond orgreave might have been expected to do so. not only had their deaths been almost simultaneous, but they had been preceded by superficially similar symptoms, though the husband had died of pericarditis following renal disease, and the wife of hyperæmia of the lungs following increasingly frequent attacks of bronchial catarrh. the phenomena had been impressive, and rumour had heightened them. also osmond orgreave for half a century had been an important and celebrated figure in the town; architecturally a large portion of the new parts of it were his creation. yet the funeral had not been one of the town’s great feverish funerals. true, the children would have opposed anything spectacular; but had municipal opinion decided against the children, they would have been compelled to yield. again and again prominent men in the town had as it were bought their funeral processions in advance by the yard--processions in which their families, willing or not, were reduced to the rôle of stewards.
tom and janet, however, had ordained that nobody whatever beyond the family should be invited to the funeral, and there had been no sincere protest from outside.
the fact was that osmond orgreave had never related himself to the crowd. he was not a freemason; he had never been president of the society for the prosecution of felons; he had never held municipal office; he had never pursued any object but the good of his family. he was a particularist. his charm was kept chiefly for his own home. and beneath the cordiality of his more general connections, there had always been a subtle reservation--on both sides. he was admired for his cleverness and his distinction, liked where he chose to be liked, but never loved save by his own kin. further, he had a name for being "pretty sharp" in business. clients had had prolonged difficulties with him--edwin himself among them. the town had made up its mind about osmond orgreave, and the verdict, as with most popular verdicts, was roughly just so far as it went, but unjust in its narrowness. the laudatory three-quarters of a column in the signal and the briefer effusive notice in the new half-penny morning paper, both reflected, for those with perceptions delicate enough to understand, the popular verdict. and though edwin hated long funerals and the hysteria of a public woe, he had nevertheless a sense of disappointment in the circumstances of the final disappearance of osmond orgreave.
the two women entered the room, silently. hilda looked fierce and protective. janet orgreave, pale and in black, seemed very thin. she did not speak. she gave a little nod of greeting.
edwin, scarcely controlling his voice and his eyes, murmured:
they would not shake hands; the effort would have broken them. all remained standing, uncertainly. edwin saw before him two girls aged by the accumulation of experience. janet, though apparently healthy, with her smooth fair skin, was like an old woman in the shell of a young one. her eyes were dulled, her glance plaintive, her carriage slack. the conscious wish to please had left her, together with her main excuse for being alive. she was over thirty-seven, and more and more during the last ten years she had lived for her parents. she alone among all the children had remained absolutely faithful to them. to them, and to nobody else, she had been essential--a fountain of vigour and brightness and kindliness from which they drew. to see her in the familiar and historic room which she had humanised and illuminated with her very spirit, was heartrending. in a day she had become unnecessary, and shrunk to the unneeded, undesired virgin which in truth she was. she knew it. everybody knew it. all the waves of passionate sympathy which hilda and edwin in their different ways ardently directed towards her broke in vain upon that fact.
"and only the other day she was keen on tennis!"
"edwin," said hilda. "don’t you think she ought to come across to our place for a bit? i’m sure it would be better for her not to sleep here."
"most decidedly," edwin answered, only too glad to agree heartily with his wife.
"but johnnie?" janet objected.
"pooh! surely he can stay at tom’s."
"she can come with you. heaps of room for two."
"i couldn’t leave the servants all alone. i really couldn’t. they wouldn’t like it," janet persisted. "moreover, i’ve got to give them notice."
edwin had to make the motion of swallowing.
"well," said hilda obstinately. "come along now--for the evening, anyhow. we shall be by ourselves."
"yes, you must," said edwin, curtly.
"i--i don’t like walking down the street," janet faltered, blushing.
"you needn’t. you can get over the wall," said edwin.
"of course you can," hilda concurred. "just as you are now. i’ll tell selina."
she left the room with decision, and the next instant returned with a telegram in her hand.
"open it, please. i can’t," said janet.
"mother and boy both doing splendidly. harry."
janet dropped onto a chair and burst into tears.
"i’m so glad. i’m so glad," she spluttered. "i can’t help it."
then she jumped up, wiped her eyes, and smiled.
for a few yards the clayhanger and the orgreave properties were contiguous, and separated by a fairly new wall, which, after much procrastination on the part of owners, had at last replaced an unsatisfactory thorn-hedge. while selina put a chair in position for the ladies to stand on as a preliminary to climbing the wall, edwin suddenly remembered that in the days of the untidy thorn-hedge janet had climbed a pair of steps in order to surmount the hedge and visit his garden. he saw her balanced on the steps, and smiling and then jumping, like a child. now, he preceded her and hilda on to the wall, and they climbed carefully, and when they were all up selina handed him the chair and he dropped it on his own side of the wall so that they might descend more easily.
"be careful, edwin. be careful," cried hilda, neither pleasantly nor unpleasantly.
and as he tried to read her mood in her voice, the mysterious and changeful ever-flowing undercurrent of their joint life bore rushingly away his sense of janet’s tragedy; and he knew that no events exterior to his marriage could ever overcome for long that constant secret preoccupation of his concerning hilda’s mood.
when they came into the house, ada met them with zest and calamity in her whispering voice:
"please ’m, mr. and mrs. benbow are here. they’re in the drawing-room. they said they’d wait a bit to see if you came back."
ada had foreseen that, whatever their superficially indifferent demeanour as members of the powerful ruling caste, her master and mistress would be struck all of a heap by this piece of news. and they were. for the benbows did not pay chance calls; in the arrangement of their lives every act was neatly planned and foreordained. therefore this call was formal, and behind it was an intention.
"i can’t see them. i can’t possibly, dear," janet murmured, as it were intimidated. "i’ll run back home."
hilda replied with benevolent firmness:
"no you won’t. come upstairs with me till they’re gone. edwin, you go and see what they’re after."
janet faltered and obeyed, and the two women crept swiftly upstairs. they might have been executing a strategic retirement from a bad smell. the instinctive movement, and the manner, were a judgment on the ideals of the benbows so terrible and final that even the benbows, could they have seen it, must have winced and doubted for a moment their own moral perfection. it came to this, that the stricken fled from their presence.
"’what they’re after’!" edwin muttered to himself, half resenting the phrase; because clara was his sister; and though she bored and exasperated him, he could not class her with exactly similar boring and exasperating women.
and, throwing down his cap, he went with false casual welcoming into the drawing-room.
young bert benbow, prodigiously solemn and uncomfortable in his birthday spectacles, was with his father and mother. immense satisfaction, tempered by a slight nervousness, gleamed in the eyes of the parents. and the demeanour of all three showed instantly that the occasion was ceremonious. albert and clara could not have been more pleased and uplifted had the occasion been a mourning visit of commiseration or even a funeral.
the washed and brushed schoolboy, preoccupied, did not take his share in the greetings with sufficient spontaneity and promptitude.
clara said, gently shocked:
"bert, what do you say to your uncle?"
"good afternoon, uncle."
"i should think so indeed!"
clara of course sprang at once to the luscious first topic, as to a fruit:
"how is poor janet bearing up?"
edwin was very characteristically of the five towns in this,--he hated to admit, in the crisis itself, that anything unusual was happening or had just happened. thus he replied negligently:
"oh! all right!"
as though his opinion was that janet had nothing to bear up against.
"i hear it was a very quiet funeral," said clara, suggesting somehow that there must be something sinister behind the quietness of the funeral.
"yes," said edwin.
"didn’t they ask you?"
there was a silence, save for faint humming from albert. and then, just as clara was mentioning her name, in rushed hilda.
"what’s the matter?" the impulsive hilda demanded bluntly.
this gambit did not please edwin, whose instinct was always to pretend that nothing was the matter. he would have maintained as long as anybody that the call was a chance call.
after a few vague exchanges, clara coughed and said:
"it’s really about your george and our bert.... haven’t you heard? ... hasn’t george said anything?"
clara looked at her husband expectantly, and albert took the grand male rôle.
"i gather they had a fight yesterday at school," said he.
the two boys went to the same school, the new-fangled higher grade school at hanbridge, which had dealt such a blow at the ancient educational foundations at oldcastle. that their bert should attend the same school as george was secretly a matter of pride to the benbows.
"oh," said edwin. "we’ve seen no gaping wounds, have we, hilda?"
albert’s face did not relax.
"you’ve only got to look at bert’s chin," said clara.
bert shuffled under the world’s sudden gaze. undeniably there was a small discoloured lump on his chin.
"i’ve had it out with bert," albert continued severely. "i don’t know who was in the wrong--it was about that penknife business, you know--but i’m quite sure that bert was not in the right. and as he’s the older we’ve decided that he must ask george’s forgiveness."
"yes," eagerly added clara, tired of listening. "albert says we can’t have quarrels going on like this in the family--they haven’t spoken friendly to each other since that night we were here--and it’s the manly thing for bert to ask george’s forgiveness, and then they can shake hands."
"that’s what i say." albert massively corroborated her.
"i suppose these people imagine they’re doing something rather fine."
whatever they imagined they were doing, they had made both edwin and hilda sheepish. either of them would have sacrificed a vast fortune and the lives of thousands of sunday school officers in order to find a dignified way of ridiculing and crushing the expedition of albert and clara; but they could think of naught that was effective.
hilda asked, somewhat curtly, but lamely:
"where is george?"
"he was in your boudoir a two-three minutes ago, drawing," said edwin.
clara’s neck was elongated at the sound of the word "boudoir."
"boudoir?" said she. and edwin could in fancy hear her going down trafalgar road and giggling at every house-door: "did ye know mrs. clayhanger has a boudoir? that’s the latest." still he had employed the word with intention, out of deliberate bravado.
"breakfast-room," he added, explanatory.
"i should suggest," said albert, "that bert goes to him in the breakfast-room. they’ll settle it much better by themselves." he was very pleased by this last phrase, which proved him a man of the world after all.
"so long as they don’t smash too much furniture while they’re about it," murmured edwin.
"now, bert, my boy," said albert, in the tone of a father who is also a brother.
and, as hilda was inactive, bert stalked forth upon his mission of manliness, smiling awkwardly and blushing. he closed the door after him, and not one of the adults dared to rise and open it.
"had any luck with missing words lately?" albert asked, in a detached airy manner, showing that the bert-george affair was a trifle to him, to be dismissed from the mind at will.
"no," said edwin. "i’ve been off missing words lately."
"of course you have," clara agreed with gravity. "all this must have been very trying to you all.... albert’s done very well of course."
"i was on ’politeness,’ my boy," said albert.
"didn’t you know?" clara expressed surprise.
"sixty-four pounds nineteen shillings per share," said albert tremendously.
edwin appreciatively whistled.
"had the money?"
"no. cheques go out on monday, i believe. of course," he added, "i go in for it scientifically. i leave no chances, i don’t. i’m making a capital outlay of over five pounds ten on next week’s competition, and i may tell you i shall get it back again, with interest."
at the same moment, bert re-entered the room.
"he’s not there," said bert. "his drawing’s there, but he isn’t."
this news was adverse to the cause of manly peace.
"are you sure?" asked clara, implying that bert might not have made a thorough search for george in the boudoir.
hilda sat grim and silent.
"he may be upstairs," said the weakly amiable edwin.
hilda rang the bell with cold anger.
"is master george in the house?" she harshly questioned ada.
"no’m. he went out a bit since."
the fact was that george, on hearing from the faithful ada of the arrival of the benbows, had retired through the kitchen and through the back-door, into the mountainous country towards bleakridge railway-station, where kite-flying was practised on immense cinder-heaps.
"ah! well," said albert, undefeated, to edwin. "you might tell him bert’s been up specially to apologise to him. oh! and here’s that penknife!" he looked now at hilda, and, producing tertius ingpen’s knife, he put it with a flourish on the mantelpiece. "i prefer it to be on your mantelpiece than on ours," he added, smiling rather grandiosely. his manner as a whole, though compound, indicated with some clearness that while he adhered to his belief in the efficacy of prayer, he could not allow his son to accept from george earthly penknives alleged to have descended from heaven. it was a triumphant hour for albert benbow, as he stood there dominating the drawing-room. he perceived that, in addition to silencing and sneaping the elder and richer branch of the family, he was cutting a majestic figure in the eyes of his own son.
in an awful interval, clara said with a sweet bright smile:
"by the way, albert, don’t forget about what maggie asked you to ask."
"oh, yes! by the way," said albert, "maggie wants to know how soon you can complete the purchase of this house of yours."
edwin moved uneasily.
"i don’t know," he mumbled.
"can you stump up in a month? say the end of october anyway, at latest." albert persisted, and grew caustic. "you’ve only got to sell a few of your famous securities."
"certainly. before the end of october," hilda replied, with impulsive and fierce assurance.
edwin was amazed by this interference on her part. was she incapable of learning from experience? let him employ the right tone with absolutely perfect skill, marriage would still be impossible if she meant to carry on in this way! what did she know about the difficulties of completing the purchase? what right had she to put in a word apparently so decisive? such behaviour was unheard of. she must be mad. nevertheless he did not yield to anger. he merely said feebly and querulously:
"that’s all very well! that’s all very well! but i’m not quite so sure as all that. will she let some of it be on mortgage?"
"no, she won’t," said albert.
"because i’ve got a new security for the whole amount myself."
edwin glanced at his wife and his resentful eyes said: "there you are! all through your infernal hurry and cheek maggie’s going to lose eighteen hundred pounds in a rotten investment. i told you albert would get hold of that money if he heard of it. and just look!"
at this point albert, who knew fairly well how to draw an advantage from his brother-in-law’s characteristic weaknesses, perceived suddenly the value of an immediate departure. and amid loud enquiries of all sorts from clara, and magnificent generalities from albert, and gloomy, stiff salutations from uncomfortable bert, the visit closed.
but destiny lay in wait at the corner of the street for albert benbow’s pride. precisely as the benbows were issuing from the portico, the front-door being already closed upon them, the second swetnam son came swinging down trafalgar road. he stopped, raising his hat.
"hallo, mr. benbow," he said. "you’ve heard the news, i suppose?"
"missing word competitions."
it is a fact that albert paled.
"injunction in the high court this morning. all the money’s impounded, pending a hearing as to whether the competitions are illegal or not. at the very least half of it will go in costs. it’s all over with missing words."
"who told you?"
"i’ve had a wire to stop me from sending in for next week’s."
albert benbow gave an oath. his wife ought surely to have been horrorstruck by the word; but she did not blench. flushing and scowling she said:
"what a shame! we’ve sent ours in."
the faithful creature had for days past at odd moments been assisting her husband in the dictionary and as a clerk.... and lo! at last, confirmation of those absurd but persistent rumours to the effect that certain busybodies meant if they could to stop missing word competitions on the ground that they were simply a crude appeal to the famous "gambling instincts" of mankind and especially of englishmen!
albert had rebutted the charge with virtuous warmth, insisting on the skill involved in word-choosing, and insisting also on the historical freedom of the institutions of his country. he maintained that it was inconceivable that any english court of justice should ever interfere with a pastime so innocent and so tonic for the tired brain. and though he had had secret fears, and had been disturbed and even hurt by the comments of a religious paper to which he subscribed, he would not waver from his courageous and sensible english attitude. now the fearful blow had fallen, and albert knew in his heart that it was heaven’s punishment for him. he turned to shut the gate after him, and noticed bert. it appeared to him that in hearing the paternal oath, bert had been guilty of a crime, or at least an indiscretion, and he at once began to make bert suffer.
meanwhile swetnam had gone on, to spread the tale which was to bring indignation and affliction into tens of thousands of respectable homes.
janet came softly and timidly into the drawing-room.
"they are gone?" she questioned. "i thought i heard the front-door."
"yes, thank goodness!" hilda exclaimed candidly, disdaining the convention (which edwin still had in respect) that a weakness in family ties should never be referred to, beyond the confines of the family, save in urbane terms of dignity and regret excusing so far as possible the sinner. but in this instance the immense ineptitude of the benbows had so affected edwin that, while objecting to his wife’s outbreak, he could not help giving a guffaw which supported it. and all the time he kept thinking to himself:
"imagine that d----d pietistic rascal dragging the miserable shrimp up here to apologise to george!"
he was ashamed, not merely of his relatives, but somehow of all humanity. he could scarcely look even a chair in the face. the benbows had left behind them desolation, and this desolation affected everything, and could be tasted on the tongue. janet of course instantly noticed it, and felt that she ought not to witness the shaming of her friends. moreover, her existence now was chiefly an apology for itself.
"nonsense!" said hilda, sharply. "with three servants in the house, i suppose johnnie won’t starve! now just sit down. sit down!" her tone softened. "my dear, you’re worse than a child.... tell edwin." she put a cushion behind janet in the easy chair. and the gesture made janet’s eyes humid once more.
edwin had the exciting, disquieting, vitalising sensation of being shut up in an atmosphere of women. not two women, but two thousand, seemed to hem him in with their incalculable impulses, standards, inspirations.
"janet wants to consult you," hilda added; and even hilda appeared to regard him as a strong saviour.
"after all, then, i’m not the born idiot she’d like to make out. now we’re getting at her real opinion of me!"
"it’s only about father’s estate," said janet.
"why? hasn’t he made a will?"
"oh yes! he made a will over thirty years ago. he left everything to mother and made her sole executor or whatever you call it. just like him, wasn’t it? ... d’you know that he and mother never had a quarrel, nor anything near a quarrel?"
"well," edwin, nodding appreciatively, answered with an informed masculine air. "the law provides for all that. tom will know. did your mother make a will?"
"no. dear thing! she would never have dreamt of it."
"then letters of administration will have to be taken out," said edwin.
janet began afresh:
"father was talking of making a new will two or three months ago. he mentioned it to tom. he said he should like you to be one of the executors. he said he would sooner have you for an executor than anybody."
an intense satisfaction permeated edwin, that he should have been desired as an executor by such an important man as osmond orgreave. he felt as though he were receiving compensation for uncounted detractions.
"really?" said he. "i expect tom will take out letters of administration, or tom and johnnie together; they’ll make better executors than i should."
"it doesn’t seem to make much difference who looks after it and who doesn’t," hilda sharply interrupted. "when there’s nothing to look after."
"nothing to look after?" edwin repeated.
"nothing to look after!" said hilda in a firm and clear tone. "according to what janet says."
"but surely there must be something!"
janet answered mildly:
"i’m afraid there isn’t much."
it was hilda who told the tale. the freehold of lane end house belonged to the estate, but there were first and second mortgages on it, and had been for years. debts had always beleaguered the orgreave family. a year ago money had apparently been fairly plentiful, but a great deal had been spent on re-furnishing. jimmie had had money, in connection with his sinister marriage; charlie had had money in connection with his practice, and tom had enticed mr. orgreave into the palace porcelain company. mr. orgreave had given a guarantee to the bank for an overdraft, in exchange for debentures and shares in that company. the debentures were worthless, and therefore the shares also, and the bank had already given notice under the guarantee. there was an insurance policy--one poor little insurance policy for a thousand pounds--whose capital well invested might produce an income of twelve or fifteen shillings a week; but even that policy was lodged as security for an overdraft on one of osmond’s several private banking accounts. there were many debts, small to middling. the value of the orgreave architectural connection was excessively dubious--so much of it had depended upon osmond orgreave himself. the estate might prove barely solvent; on the other hand it might prove insolvent; so johnnie, who had had it from tom, had told janet that day, and janet had told hilda.
"your father was let in for the palace porcelain company?" edwin breathed, with incredulous emphasis on the initial p’s. "what on earth was tom thinking of?"
"that’s what johnnie wants to know," said janet. "johnnie was very angry. they’ve had some words about it."
except for the matter of the palace porcelain company, edwin was not surprised at the revelations, though he tried to be. the more closely he examined his attitude for years past to the orgreave household structure, the more clearly he had to admit that a suspicion of secret financial rottenness had never long been absent from his mind--not even at the period of renewed profuseness, a year or two ago, when furniture-dealers, painters, and paperhangers had been enriched. his resentment against the deceased charming osmond and also against the affectionate and blandly confident mother, was keen and cold. they had existed, morally, on janet for many years; monopolised her, absorbed her, aged her, worn her out, done everything but finish her,--and they had made no provision for her survival. in addition to being useless, she was defenceless, helpless, penniless, and old; and she shivered now that the warmth of her parents’ affection was withdrawn by death.
"you see," said janet. "father was so transparently honest and generous."
edwin said nothing to this sincere outburst.
"have you got any money at all, janet?" asked hilda.
"there’s a little household money, and by a miracle i’ve never spent the ten-pound note poor dad gave me on my last birthday."
"well," said edwin, sardonically imaging that ten-pound note as a sole defence for janet against the world. "of course johnnie will have to allow you something out of the business--for one thing."
"i’m sure he will, if he can," janet agreed. "but he says it’s going to be rather tight. he wants us to clear out of the house at once."
"take my advice and don’t do it," said edwin. "until the house is let or sold it may as well be occupied by you as stand empty--better in fact, because you’ll look after it."
"that’s right enough, anyway," said hilda, as if to imply that by a marvellous exception a man had for once in a while said something sensible.
"you needn’t use all the house," edwin proceeded. "you won’t want all the servants."
"i wish you’d say a word to johnnie," breathed janet.
"i’ll say a word to johnnie, all right," edwin answered loudly. "but it seems to me it’s tom that wants talking to. i can’t imagine what he was doing to let your father in for that palace porcelain business. it beats me."
janet quietly protested:
"i feel sure he thought it was all right."
"oh, of course!" said hilda, bitterly. "of course! they always do think it’s all right. and here’s my husband just going into one of those big dangerous affairs, and he thinks it’s all right, and nothing i can say will stop him from going into it. and he’ll keep on thinking it’s all right until it’s all wrong and we’re ruined, and perhaps me left a widow with george." her lowered eyes blazed at the carpet.
janet, troubled, glanced from one to the other, and then, with all the tremendous unconscious persuasive force of her victimhood and her mourning, murmured gently to edwin:
"oh! don’t run any risks! don’t run any risks!"
edwin was staggered by the swift turn of the conversation. two thousand women hemmed him in more closely than ever. he could do nothing against them except exercise an obstinacy which might be esteemed as merely brutal. they were not accessible to argument--hilda especially. argument would be received as an outrage. it would be impossible to convince hilda that she had taken a mean and disgraceful advantage of him, and that he had every right to resent her behaviour. she was righteousness and injuredness personified. she partook, in that moment, of the victimhood of janet. and she baffled him.
"all that’s not the business before the meeting," he said as lightly as he could. "d’you think if i stepped down now i should catch johnnie at the office?"
and all the time, while his heart hardened against hilda, he kept thinking:
"suppose i did come to smash!"
janet had put a fear in his mind, janet who in her wistfulness and her desolating ruin seemed to be like only a little pile of dust--all that remained of the magnificent social structure of a united and numerous orgreave family.
edwin met tertius ingpen in the centre of the town outside the offices of orgreave and sons, amid the commotion caused by the return of uplifted spectators from a football match in which the team curiously known to the sporting world as "bursley moorthorne" had scored a broken leg and two goals to nil.
"hello!" ingpen greeted him. "i was thinking of looking in at your place to-night."
"do!" said edwin. "come up with me now."
"can’t! ... why do these ghastly louts try to walk over you as if they didn’t see you?" then in another tone, very quietly, and nodding in the direction of the orgreave offices: "been in there? ... what a week, eh! ... how are things?"
"bad," edwin answered. "in a word, bad!"
ingpen lifted his eyebrows.
they turned away out of the crowd, up towards the tranquillity of the turnhill road. they were manifestly glad to see each other. edwin had had a satisfactory interview with johnnie orgreave,--satisfactory in the sense that johnnie had admitted the wisdom of all that edwin said and promised to act on it.
"i’ve just been talking to young johnnie for his own good," said edwin.
and in a moment, with eagerness, with that strange deep satisfaction felt by the carrier of disastrous tidings, he told ingpen all that he knew of the plight of janet orgreave.
"if you ask me," said he, "i think it’s infamous."
"infamous," ingpen repeated the word savagely. "there’s no word for it. what’ll she do?"
"well, i suppose she’ll have to live with johnnie."
"and where will mrs. chris come in, then?" ingpen asked in a murmur.
"mrs. chris hamson?" exclaimed edwin startled. "oh! is that affair still on the carpet? ... cheerful outlook!"
ingpen pulled his beard.
"anyhow," said he, "johnnie’s the most reliable of the crew. charlie’s the most agreeable, but johnnie’s the most reliable. i wouldn’t like to count much on tom, and as for jimmie, well of course----!"
"i always look on johnnie as a kid. can’t help it."
"there’s no law against that, so long as you don’t go and blub it out to mrs. chris," ingpen laughed.
"i don’t know her."
"you ought to know her. she’s an education, my boy."
"i’ve been having a fair amount of education lately," said edwin. "only this afternoon i was practically told that i ought to give up the idea of my new works because it has risks and the palace porcelain co. was risky and janet hasn’t a cent. see the point?"
he was obliged to talk about the affair, because it was heavily on his mind. a week earlier he had persuaded himself that the success of a marriage depended chiefly on the tone employed to each other by the contracting parties. but in the disturbing scene of the afternoon, his tone had come near perfection, and yet marriage presented itself as even more stupendously difficult than ever. ingpen’s answering words salved and strengthened him. the sensation of being comprehended was delicious. intimacy progressed.
"i say," said edwin, as they parted. "you’d better not know anything about all this when you come to-night."
"right you are, my boy."
their friendship seemed once more to be suddenly and surprisingly intensified.
when edwin returned, janet had vanished again. like an animal which fears the hunt and whose shyness nothing can cure, she had fled to cover at the first chance. according to hilda she had run home because it had occurred to her that she must go through her mother’s wardrobe and chest of drawers without a moment’s delay.
edwin’s account to his wife of the interview with johnnie orgreave was given on a note justifiably triumphant. in brief he had "talked sense" to johnnie, and johnnie had been convicted and convinced. hilda listened with respectful propriety. edwin said nothing as to his encounter with tertius ingpen, partly from prudence and partly from timidity. when ingpen arrived at the house, much earlier than he might have been expected to arrive, edwin was upstairs, and on descending he found his wife and his friend chatting in low and intimate voices close together in the drawing-room. the gas had been lighted.
"here’s mr. ingpen," said hilda, announcing a surprise.
"how do, ingpen?"
"how do, ed?"
ingpen did not rise. nor did they shake hands, but in the five towns friends who have reached a certain degree of intimacy proudly omit the ceremony of handshaking when they meet. it was therefore impossible for hilda to divine that edwin and tertius had previously met that day, and apparently ingpen had not divulged the fact. edwin felt like a plotter.
the conversation of course never went far away from the subject of the orgreaves--and janet in particular. ingpen’s indignation at the negligence which had left janet in the lurch was more than warm enough to satisfy hilda, whose grievance against the wicked carelessness of heads of families in general seemed to be approaching expression again. at length she said:
"it’s enough to make every woman think seriously of where she’d be--if anything happened."
ingpen smiled teasingly.
"now you’re getting personal."
"and what if i am? with my headstrong husband going in for all sorts of schemes!" hilda’s voice was extraordinarily clear and defiant.
edwin nervously rose.
"i’ll just get some cigarettes," he mumbled.
hilda and ingpen scarcely gave him any attention. already they were exciting themselves. although he knew that the supply of cigarettes was in the dining-room, he toured half the house before going there; and then lit the gas and with strange deliberation drew the blinds; next he rang the bell for matches, and, having obtained them, lit a cigarette.
when he re-entered the drawing-room, ingpen was saying with terrific conviction:
"you’re quite wrong, as i’ve told you before. it’s your instinct that’s wrong, not your head. women will do anything to satisfy their instincts, simply anything. they’ll ruin your life in order to satisfy their instincts. yes, even when they know jolly well their instincts are wrong!"
"well, if these two mean to have a row, it’s no affair of mine."
but hilda, seemingly overfaced, used a very moderate tone to retort:
"you’re very outspoken."
tertius ingpen answered firmly:
"i’m only saying aloud what every man thinks.... mind--every man."
"and how comes it that you know so much about women?"
"i’ll tell you sometime," said ingpen, shortly, and then smiled again.
edwin, advancing, murmured:
"here. have a cigarette."
a few moments later ingpen was sketching out a beethoven symphony unaided on the piano, and holding his head back to keep the cigarette-smoke out of his eyes.
when the hour struck for which hilda had promised a sandwich supper edwin and tertius ingpen were alone in the drawing-room, and ingpen was again at the piano, apparently absorbed in harmonic inventions of his own. no further word had been said upon the subject of the discussion between ingpen and hilda. on the whole, despite the reserve of hilda’s demeanour, edwin considered that marriage at the moment was fairly successful, and the stream of existence running in his favour. at five minutes after the hour, restless, he got up and said:
"i’d better be seeing what’s happened to that supper."
ingpen nodded, as in a dream.
edwin glanced into the dining-room, where the complete supper was waiting in illuminated silence and solitude. then he went to the boudoir. there, the two candlesticks from the mantelpiece had been put side by side on the desk, and the candles lit the figures of hilda and her son. hilda, kneeling, held a stamped and addressed letter in her hand, the boy was bent over the desk at his drawing, which his mother regarded. edwin in his heart affectionately derided them for employing candles when the gas would have been so much more effective; he thought that the use of candles was "just like" one of hilda’s unforeseeable caprices. but in spite of his secret derision he was strangely affected by the group as revealed by the wavering candle-flames in the general darkness of the room. he seldom saw hilda and george together; neither of them was very expansive; and certainly he had never seen hilda kneeling by her son’s side since a night at the orgreaves’ before her marriage, when george lay in bed unconscious and his spirit hesitated between earth and heaven. he knew that hilda’s love for george had in it something of the savage, but, lacking demonstrations of it, he had been apt to forget its importance in the phenomena of their united existence. kneeling by her son, hilda had the look of a girl, and the ingenuousness of her posture touched edwin. the idea shot through his brain like a star, that life was a marvellous thing.
as the door had been ajar, they scarcely heard him come in. george turned first.
and then ada was standing at the door.
"oh! ada! just run across with this letter to the pillar, will you?"
"you’ve missed the post, you know," said edwin.
hilda got up slowly.
"it doesn’t matter. only i want it to be in the post."
as she gave the letter to ada he speculated idly as to the address of the letter, and why she wanted it to be in the post. anyhow, it was characteristic of her to want the thing to be in the post. she would delay writing a letter for days, and then, having written it, be "on pins" until it was safely taken out of the house; and even when the messenger returned she would ask: "did you put that letter in the post?"
ada had gone.
"what’s he drawing, this kid?" asked edwin, genially.
nobody answered. standing between his wife and the boy he looked at the paper. the first thing he noticed was some lettering, achieved in an imitation of architect’s lettering: "plan for proposed new printing-works to be erected by edwin clayhanger, esq., upon land at shawport. george edwin clayhanger, architect." and on other parts of the paper, "ground-floor plan" and "elevation." the plan at a distance resembled the work of a real architect. only when closely examined did it reveal itself as a piece of boyish mimicry. the elevation was not finished.... it was upon this that, with intervals caused by the necessity of escaping from bores, george had been labouring all day. and here was exposed the secret and the result of his chumminess with johnnie orgreave. yet the boy had never said a word to edwin in explanation of that chumminess; nor had johnnie himself.
"he’s been telling me he’s going to be an architect," said hilda.
"is this plan a copy of johnnie’s, or is it his own scheme?" asked edwin.
"oh, his own!" hilda answered, with a rapidity and an earnestness which disclosed all her concealed pride in the boy.
edwin was thrilled. he pored over the plan, making remarks and putting queries, in a dull matter-of-fact tone; but he was so thrilled that he scarcely knew what he was saying or understood the replies to his questions. it seemed to him wondrous, miraculous, overwhelming, that his own disappointed ambition to be an architect should have re-flowered in his wife’s child who was not his child. he was reconciled to being a printer, and indeed rather liked being a printer, but now all his career presented itself to him as a martyrisation. and he passionately swore that such a martyrisation should not happen to george. george’s ambition should be nourished and forwarded as no boyish ambition had ever been nourished and forwarded before. for a moment he had a genuine conviction that george must be a genius.
hilda, behind the back of proud, silent george, pulled edwin’s face to hers and kissed it. and as she kissed she gazed at edwin and her eyes seemed to be saying: "have your works; i have yielded. perhaps it is george’s plan that has made me yield, but anyhow i am strong enough to yield. and my strength remains."
and edwin thought: "this woman is unique. what other woman could have done that in just that way?" and in their embrace, intensifying and complicating its significance, were mingled the sensations of their passion, his triumph, her surrender, the mysterious boy’s promise, and their grief for janet’s tragedy.
"old ingpen’s waiting for his supper, you know," said edwin tenderly. "george, you must show that to mr. ingpen."
edwin, sitting behind a glazed door with the word "private" elaborately patterned on the glass, heard through the open window of his own office the voices of the benbow children and their mother in the street outside.
"oh, mother! what a big sign!"
"yes. isn’t uncle edwin a proud man to have such a big sign?"
"it wasn’t up yesterday."
"l, i, t, h, o,----"
"my word, rupy! you are getting on!"
"they’re such large letters, aren’t they, mother? ... ’lithographic’ ... ’lithographic printing. edwin clayhanger’."
"hsh! ... bert, how often do you want me to tell you about your shoe-lace?"
"i wonder if george has come."
"mother, can’t i ring the bell?"
all the children were there, with their screeching voices. edwin wondered that rupert should have been brought. where was the sense of showing a three-year-old infant like rupert over a printing-works? but clara was always like that. the difficulty of leaving little rupert alone at home did not present itself to the august uncle.
edwin rose, locked a safe that was let into the wall of the room, and dropped the key into his pocket. the fact of the safe being let into the wall gave him as much simple pleasure as any detail of the new works; it was an idea of johnnie orgreave’s. he put a grey hat carelessly at the back of his head, and, hands in pockets, walked into the next and larger room, which was the clerks’ office.
both these rooms had walls distempered in a green tint, and were fitted and desked in pitchpine. their newness was stark, and yet in the clerks’ office the irrational habituating processes of time were already at work. on the painted iron mantelpiece lay a dusty white tile, brought as a sample long before the room was finished, and now without the slightest excuse for survival. nevertheless the perfunctory cleaner lifted the tile on most mornings, dusted underneath it, and replaced it; and edwin and his staff saw it scores of times daily and never challenged it, and gradually it was acquiring a prescriptive right to exist just where it did. and the day was distant when some inconvenient, reforming person would exclaim:
"what’s this old tile doing here?"
what edwin did notice was that the walls and desks showed marks and even wounds; it seemed to him somehow wrong that the brand new could not remain forever brand new. he thought he would give a mild reproof or warning to the elder clerk, (once the shop-clerk in the ancient establishment at the corner of duck bank and wedgwood street) and then he thought: "what’s the use?" and only murmured:
"i’m not going off the works."
and he passed out, with his still somewhat gawky gait, to the small entrance-hall of the works. on the outer face of the door, which he closed, was painted the word "office." he had meant to have the words "counting-house" painted on that door, because they were romantic and fine-sounding; but when the moment came to give the order he had quaked before such romance; he was afraid as usual of being sentimental and of "showing off," and with assumed satire had publicly said: "some chaps would stick ’counting-house’ as large as life all across the door." he now regretted his poltroonery. and he regretted sundry other failures in courage connected with the scheme of the works. the works existed, but it looked rather like other new buildings, and not very much like the edifice he had dreamed. it ought to have been grander, more complete, more dashingly expensive, more of an exemplar to the slattern district. he had been (he felt) unduly influenced by the local spirit for half-measures. and his life seemed to be a life of half-measures, a continual falling-short. once he used to read studiously on tuesday, thursday and saturday evenings. he seldom read now, and never with regularity. scarcely a year ago he had formed a beautiful vague project of being "musical." at hilda’s instigation he had bought a book of musical criticism by hubert parry, and hilda had swallowed it in three days, but he had begun it and not finished it. and the musical evenings, after feeble efforts to invigorate them, had fainted and then died on the miserable excuse that circumstances were not entirely favourable to them. and his marriage, so marvellous in its romance during the first days...!
then either his commonsense or his self-respect curtly silenced these weak depreciations. he had wanted the woman and he had won her,--he had taken her. there she was, living in his house, bearing his name, spending his money! the world could not get over that fact, and the carper in edwin’s secret soul could not get over it either. he had said that he would have a new works, and, with all its faults and little cowardices, there the new works was! and moreover it had just been assessed for municipal rates at a monstrous figure. he had bought his house (and mortgaged it); he had been stoical to bad debts; he had sold securities--at rather less than they cost him; he had braved his redoubtable wife; and he had got his works! his will, and naught else, was the magic wand that had conjured it into existence.
the black and gold sign that surmounted its blue roofs could be seen from the top of acre lane and half way along shawport lane, proclaiming the progress of lithography and steam-printing, and the name of edwin clayhanger. let the borough put that in its pipe and smoke it! he was well aware that the borough felt pride in his works. and he had orders more than sufficient to keep the enterprise handsomely going. even in the five towns initiative seemed to receive its reward.
life might be as profoundly unsatisfactory as you pleased, but there was zest in it.
the bell had rung. he opened the main door, and there stood clara and her brood. and edwin was the magnificent, wonderful uncle. the children entered, with maternal precautions and recommendations. every child was clean and spruce: bert clumsy, clara minxlike, amy heavy and benignant, lucy the pretty little thing, and rupert simply adorable--each representing a separate and considerable effort of watchful care. the mother came last, worn, still pretty, with a slight dragging movement of the limbs. in her glittering keen eyes were both envy and naïve admiration of her brother. "what a life!" thought edwin, meaning what a narrow, stuffy, struggling, conventional, unlovely existence was the benbows’! he and they lived in different worlds of intelligence. nevertheless he savoured the surpassing charm of rupert, the goodness of amy, the floral elegance of lucy, and he could appreciate the unending labours of that mother of theirs, malicious though she was. he was bluff and jolly with all of them. the new works being fairly close to the benbow home, the family had often come en masse to witness its gradual mounting, regarding the excursions as a sort of picnic. and now that the imposing place was inaugurated and the signs up, uncle edwin had been asked to show them over it in a grand formal visit, and he had amiably consented.
"has george come, uncle edwin?" asked bert.
george had not come. a reconciliation had occurred between the cousins (though by no means at the time nor in the manner desired by albert); they were indeed understood by the benbows to be on the most touching terms of intimacy, which was very satisfactory to the righteousness of albert and clara; and george was to have been of the afternoon party; but he had not arrived. edwin, knowing the unknowableness of george, suspected trouble.
"machines! machines!" piped tiny white-frocked rupert, to whom wondrous tales had been told.
"you’ll see machines all right," said edwin promisingly. it was not his intention to proceed straight to the machine-room. he would never have admitted it, but his deliberate intention was to display the works dramatically, with the machine-room as a culmination. the truth was, the man was full of secret tricks, contradicting avuncular superior indifference. he was a mere boy--he was almost a school-girl.
he led them through a longish passage, and up steps and down steps--steps which were not yet hollowed, but which would be hollowed--into the stone-polishing shop, which was romantically obscure, with a specially dark corner where a little contraption was revolving all by itself in the process of smoothing a stone. young clara stared at the two workmen, while the rest stared at the contraption, and edwin, feeling ridiculously like a lecturer, mumbled words of exposition. and then next, after climbing some steps, they were in a lofty apartment with a glass roof, sunshine-drenched and tropical. here lived two more men, including karl the german, bent in perspiration over desks, and laboriously drawing. round about were coloured designs, and stones covered with pencilling, and boards, and all sorts of sheets of paper and cardboard.
"ooh!" murmured bert, much impressed by the meticulous cross-hatching of karl’s pencil on a stone.
and edwin said:
"this is the drawing-office."
"oh yes!" murmured clara vaguely. "it’s very warm, isn’t it?"
none of them except bert was interested. they gazed about dully, uncomprehendingly, absolutely incurious.
"machines!" rupert urged again.
"come on, then," said edwin going out with assumed briskness and gaiety.
at the door stood tertius ingpen, preoccupied and alert, with all the mien of a factory inspector in full activity.
"don’t mind me," said ingpen, "i can look after myself. in fact i prefer to."
"my sister, mrs. benbow--mr. ingpen. mr. ingpen is her majesty’s inspector of factories, so we must mind what we’re about," said edwin.
clara gave a bright, quick smile as she limply shook hands. the sinister enchantment which precedes social introduction was broken. and clara, overcome by the extraordinary chivalry and deference of ingpen’s customary greeting to women, decided that he was a particularly polite man; but she reserved her general judgment on him, having several times heard albert inveigh against the autocratic unreasonableness of this very inspector, who, according to albert, forgot that even an employer had to live, and that that which handicapped the employer could not possibly help the workman--"in the long run."
"machines!" rupert insisted.
they all laughed; the other children laughed suddenly and imitatively, and an instant later than the elders; and tertius ingpen, as he grasped the full purport of the remark, laughed more than anyone. he turned sideways and bent slightly in order to give vent to his laughter, which, at first noiseless and imprisoned, gradually grew loud in freedom. when he had recovered, he said thoughtfully, stroking his soft beard:
"now it would be very interesting to know exactly what that child understands by ’machines’--what his mental picture of them is. very interesting! has he ever seen any?"
"no," said clara.
"ah! that makes it all the more interesting," ingpen added roguishly: "i suppose you think you do know, mrs. benbow?"
clara smiled the self-protective, non-committal smile of one who is not certain of having seen the point.
"it’s very hot in here, edwin," she said, glancing at the door. the family filed out, shepherded by edwin.
"i’ll be back in a sec," said he to clara, on the stairs, and returned to the drawing-office.
ingpen was in apparently close conversation with karl.
"yes," murmured ingpen, thoughtfully tapping his teeth. "the whole process is practically a contest between grease and water on the stone."
"yes," said karl gruffly, but with respect.
and edwin could almost see the tentacles of ingpen’s mind feeling and tightening round a new subject of knowledge, and greedily possessing it. what a contrast to the vacuous indifference of clara, who was so narrowed by specialisation that she could never apply her brain to anything except the welfare and the aggrandizement of her family! he dwelt sardonically upon the terrible results of family life on the individual, and dreamed of splendid freedoms.
"mr. clayhanger," said ingpen, in his official manner, turning.
the two withdrew to the door. invisible, at the foot of the stairs, could be heard the family, existing.
"haven’t seen much of lithography, eh?" said edwin, in a voice discreetly restrained.
ingpen, ignoring the question, murmured:
"i say, you know this place is much too hot."
"well," said edwin. "what do you expect in august?"
"but what’s the object of all that glass roof?"
"i wanted to give ’em plenty of light. at the old shop they hadn’t enough, and karl, the teuton there, was always grumbling."
"why didn’t you have some ventilation in the roof?"
"we did think of it. but johnnie orgreave said if we did we should never be able to keep it watertight."
"it certainly isn’t right as it is," said ingpen. "and our experience is that these skylighted rooms that are too hot in summer are too cold in winter. how should you like to have your private office in here?"
"oh!" protested edwin. "it isn’t so bad as all that."
ingpen said quietly:
"i should suggest you think it over--i mean the ventilation."
"but you don’t mean to say that this shop here doesn’t comply with your confounded rules?"
"that may or may not be. but we’re entitled to make recommendations in any case, and i should like you to think this over, if you don’t mind. i haven’t any thermometer with me, but i lay it’s ninety degrees here, if not more." in ingpen’s urbane, reasonable tone there was just a hint of the potential might of the whole organised kingdom.
"all serene," said edwin, rather ashamed of the temperature after all, and loyally responsive to ingpen’s evident sense of duty, which somehow surprised him; he had not chanced, before, to meet ingpen at work; earthenware manufactories were inspected once a quarter, but other factories only once a year. the thought of the ameliorating influence that ingpen must obviously be exerting all day and every day somewhat clashed with and overset his bitter scepticism concerning the real value of departmental administrative government,--a scepticism based less upon experience than upon the persuasive tirades of democratic apostles.
they walked slowly towards the stairs, and ingpen scribbled in a notebook.
"you seem to take your job seriously," said edwin, teasing.
"while i’m at it. did you imagine that i’d dropped into a sinecure? considering that i have to keep an eye on three hundred and fifty potbanks, over a thousand other factories, and over two thousand workshops of sorts, my boy...! and you should see some of ’em. and you should listen to the excuses."
"no wonder," thought edwin, "he hasn’t told me what a fine and large factory mine is! ... still, he might have said something, all the same. perhaps he will."
when, after visiting the composing-room, and glancing from afar at the engine-house, the sight-seeing party reached the machine-room, rupert was so affected by the tremendous din and the confusing whir of huge machinery in motion that he began to cry, and, seizing his mother’s hand, pressed himself hard against her skirt. the realisation of his ambition had overwhelmed him. amy protectingly took lucy’s hand. bert and clara succeeded in being very casual.
in the great lofty room there were five large or fairly large machines, and a number of small ones. the latter had chiefly to do with envelope and bill-head printing and with bookbinding, and only two of them were in use. of the large machines, three were functioning--the cylinder printing-machine which had been the pride of edwin’s father, the historic "old machine," also his father’s, which had been so called ever since edwin could remember and which was ageless, and edwin’s latest and most expensive purchase, the "smithers" litho-printer. it was on the guarded flank of the smithers, close to the roller-racks, that edwin halted his convoy. the rest of the immense shop with its complex masses of metal revolving, sliding, or paralysed, its shabby figures of men, boys, and girls shifting mysteriously about, its smell of iron, grease, and humanity, and its fearful racket, was a mere background for the smithers in its moving might.
the smithers rose high above the spectators, and at one end of it, higher even than the top parts of the machine, was perched a dirty, frowsy, pretty girl. with a sweeping gesture of her bare arms this girl took a wide sheet of blank paper from a pile of sheets, and lodged it on the receiving rack, whereupon it was whirled off, caught into the clutches of the machine, turned, reversed, hidden away from sight among revolving rollers red and black, and finally thrust out at the other end of the machine, where it was picked up by a dirty, frowsy girl, not pretty, smaller and younger than the high-perched creature, indeed scarcely bigger than amy. and now on the sheet was printed four times in red the words "knype mineral water mnfg. co. best and cheapest. trademark." clara screeched a question about the trademark, which was so far invisible. edwin made a sign to the lower dirty, frowsy girl, who respectfully but with extreme rapidity handed him a sheet as it came off the machine, and he shouted through the roar in explanation that the trademark, a soda-water syphon in blue, would be printed on the same sheet later from another stone, and the sheets cut into fours, each quarter making a complete poster. "i thought it must be like that," replied clara superiorly. from childhood she had been well accustomed to printing processes, and it was not her intention to be perplexed by "this lithography." edwin made a gesture to hand back the sheet to the machine-girl, but the machine would not pause to allow her to take it. she was the slave of the machine; so long as it functioned, every second of her existence was monopolised, and no variation of conduct permissible. the same law applied to the older girl up near the ceiling. he put the sheet in its place himself, and noticed that to do so required appreciable care and application of the manipulative faculty.
these girls, and the other girls at their greasy task in the great shaking interior which he had created, vaguely worried him. exactly similar girls were employed in thousands on the pot-banks, and had once been employed also at the pit-heads and even in the pits; but until lately he had not employed girls, nor had his father ever employed girls; and these girls so close to him, so dependent on him, so submissive, so subjugated, so soiled, so vulgar, whose wages would scarcely have kept his wife in boots and gloves, gave rise to strange and disturbing sensations in his heart--not merely in regard to themselves, but in regard to the whole of the workpeople. a question obscure and lancinating struck upwards through his industrial triumph and through his importance in the world, a question scarcely articulate, but which seemed to form itself into the words: is it right?
"is what right?" his father would have snapped at him. "is what right?" would have respectfully demanded big james, who had now sidled grandiosely to the smithers, and was fussing among the rollers in the rack. neither of them would have been capable of comprehending his trouble. to his father an employee was an employee, to be hired as cheaply as possible, and to be exploited as completely as possible. and the attitude of big james towards the underlings was precisely that of his deceased master. they would not be unduly harsh, they would often be benevolent, but the existence of any problem, and especially any fundamental problem, beyond the direct inter-relation of wages and work could not conceivably have occurred to them. after about three quarters of a century of taboo trade-unions had now for a dozen years ceased to be regarded as associations of anarchistic criminals. big james was cautiously in favor of trade-unions, and old darius clayhanger in late life had not been a quite uncompromising opponent of them. as for edwin, he had always in secret sympathised with them, and the trade-unionists whom he employed had no grievance against him. yet this unanswerable, persistent question would pierce the complacency of edwin’s prosperity. it seemed to operate in a sort of fourth dimension; few even amongst trade-unionists themselves would have reacted to it. but edwin lived with it more and more. he was indeed getting used to it. though he could not answer it, he could parry it, thanks to scientific ideas obtained from darwin and spencer, by the reflection that both he and his serfs, whatever their sex, were the almost blind agencies of a vast process of evolution. and this he did, exulting with pride sometimes in the sheer adventure of the affair, and sharing his thoughts with none.... strange that once, and not so many years ago either, he had been tempted to sell the business and live inert and ignobly secure on the interest of invested moneys! but even to-day he felt sudden fears of responsibility; they came and went.
the visitors, having wandered to and fro, staring, trailed out of the machine-room, led by edwin. a wide door swung behind them, and they were in the abrupt, startling peace of another corridor. clara wiped rupert’s eyes, and he smiled, like a blossom after a storm. the mother and the uncle exchanged awkward glances. they had nothing whatever to say to each other. edwin could seldom think of anything that he really wanted to say to clara. the children were very hot and weary of wonders.
"well," said clara, "i suppose we’d better be moving on now." she had somewhat the air of a draught-animal about to resume the immense labour of dragging a train. "it’s very queer about george. he was to have come with us for tea."
"oh! was he?"
"of course he was," clara replied sharply. "it was most distinctly arranged."
at this moment tertius ingpen and hilda appeared together at the other end of the corridor. hilda’s unsmiling face seemed enigmatic. ingpen was talking with vivacity.
edwin thought apprehensively:
"what’s up now? what’s she doing here, and not george?"
and when the sisters-in-law, so strangely contrasting, shook hands, he thought:
"is it possible that albert looks on his wife as something unpredictable? do those two also have moods, and altercations and antagonisms? are they always preoccupied about what they are thinking of each other? no! it’s impossible. their life must be simply fiendishly monotonous." and clara’s inferiority before the erect, flashing individuality of hilda appeared to him despicable. hilda bent and kissed rupert, lucy, amy and young clara, as it were with passion. she was marvellous as she bent over rupert. she scarcely looked at edwin. ingpen stood aside.
"i’m very sorry," said hilda perfunctorily. "i had to send george on an errand to hanbridge at the last moment."
nothing more! no genuine sign of regret! edwin blamed her severely. "send george on an errand to hanbridge!" that was hilda all over! why the devil should she go out of her way to make unpleasantness with clara? she knew quite well what kind of a woman clara was, and that the whole of clara’s existence was made up of domestic trifles, each of which was enormous for her.
"will he be down to tea?" asked clara.
"i doubt it."
"well ... another day, then."
clara, gathering her offspring, took leave at a door in the corridor which gave on to the yard. mindful to the last of mr. ingpen’s presence (which hilda apparently now ignored), she smiled sweetly as she went. but behind the smile, edwin with regret, and hilda with satisfaction, could perceive her everlasting grudge against their superior splendour. even had they sunk to indigence clara could never have forgiven edwin for having towards the end of their father’s life prevented albert from wheedling a thousand pounds out of old darius, nor hilda for her occasional pricking, unanswerable sarcasms.... still, rupert, descending two titanic steps into the yard, clung to his mother as to an angel.
"and what errand to hanbridge?" edwin asked himself mistrustfully.
scarcely a minute later, when edwin, with hilda and ingpen, was back at the door of the machine-room, the office boy could be seen voyaging between roaring machines across the room towards his employer. the office boy made a sign of appeal, and edwin answered with a curt sign that the office boy was to wait.
"what’s that ye say?" edwin yelled in ingpen’s ear.
ingpen laughed, and made a trumpet with his hands:
"i was only wondering what your weekly running expenses are."
even ingpen was surprised and impressed by the scene, and edwin was pleased now, after the flatness of clara’s inspection, that he had specially arranged for two of the machines to be running which strictly need not have been running that afternoon. he had planned a spectacular effect, and it had found a good public.
"ah!" he hesitated, in reply to ingpen. then he saw hilda’s face, and his face showed confusion and he smiled awkwardly.
hilda had caught ingpen’s question. she said nothing. her expressive, sarcastic, unappeasable features seemed to say: "running expenses! don’t mention them. can’t you see they must be enormous? how can he possibly make this place pay? it’s a gigantic folly--and what will be the end of it?"
after all, her secret attitude towards the new enterprise was unchanged. arguments, facts, figures, persuasions, brutalities had been equally and totally ineffective. and edwin thought:
"she is the bitterest enemy i have."
"i like that girl up there on the top of that machine. and doesn’t she just know where she is! what a movement of the arms, eh?"
edwin nodded, appreciative, and then beckoned to the office boy.
"what is it?"
"please, sir, mrs. ’amps in the office to see you."
"all right," he bawled, casually. but in reality he was taken aback. "it’s auntie hamps now!" he said to the other two. "we shall soon have all bursley here this afternoon."
hilda raised her eyebrows.
"d’you know ’auntie hamps’?" she grimly asked ingpen. her voice, though she scarcely raised it, was plainer than the men’s when they shouted. as ingpen shook his head, she added: "you ought to."
edwin did not altogether care for this public ridicule of a member of the family. auntie hamps, though possibly a monster, had her qualities. hilda, assuming the lead, beckoned with a lift of the head. and edwin did not care for that either, on his works. ingpen followed hilda as though to a menagerie.
auntie hamps, in her black attire, which by virtue of its changeless style amounted to a historic uniform, was magnificent in the private office. the three found her standing in wait, tingling with vitality and importance and eagerness. she watched carefully that edwin shut the door, and kept her eye not only on the door but also on the open window. she received the presentation of mr. tertius ingpen with grandeur and with high cordiality, and she could appreciate even better than clara the polished fealty of his greeting.
"sit down, auntie."
"no, i won’t sit down. i thought clara was here. i told her i might come if i could spare a moment. i must say, edwin"--she looked around the small office, and seemed to be looking round the whole works in a superb glance--"you make me proud of you. you make me proud to be your auntie."
"well," said edwin, "you can be proud sitting down."
she smiled. "no, i won’t sit down. i only just popped in to catch clara. i was going to tea with her and the chicks." then she lowered her voice: "i suppose you’ve heard about mr. john orgreave?" her tone proved, however, that she supposed nothing of the kind.
"no. what about johnnie?"
"he’s run away with mrs. chris hamson."
her triumph was complete. it was perhaps one of her last triumphs, but it counted among the greatest of her career as a watchdog of society.
the thing was a major event, and the report was convincing. useless to protest "never!" "surely not!" "it can’t be true!" it carried truth on its face. useless to demand sternly: "who told you?" the news had reached auntie hamps through a curious channel--the stationmaster at latchett. heaven alone could say how auntie hamps came to have relations with the stationmaster at latchett. but you might be sure that, if an elopement was to take place from latchett station, auntie hamps would by an instinctive prescience have had relations with the station-master for twenty years previously. latchett was the next station, without the least importance, to shawport on the line to crewe. johnnie orgreave had got into the train at shawport, and mrs. chris had joined it at latchett, her house being near by. once on the vast platforms of crewe, the guilty couple would be safe from curiosity, lost in england, like needles in a haystack.
the orgreave-hamson flirtation had been afoot for over two years, but had only been seriously talked about for less than a year. mrs. chris did not "move" much in town circles. she was older than johnnie, but she was one of your blonde, slim, unfruitful women, who under the shade of a suitable hat-brim are ageless. mr. chris was a heavy man, "glumpy" as they say down there, a moneymaker in pots, and great on the colonial markets. he made journeys to america and to australia. his australian journey occupied usually about four months. he was now on his way back from sydney, and nearly home. mrs. chris had not long since inherited a moderate fortune. it must have been the fortune, rendering them independent, that had decided the tragic immoralists to abandon all for love. the time of the abandonment was fixed for them by circumstance, for it had to occur before the husband’s return.
imagine the orgreave business left in the hands of an incompetent irresponsible like jimmie orgreave! and then, what of that martyr, janet? janet and johnnie had been keeping house together--a tiny house. and janet had had to "have an operation." women, talking together, said exactly what the operation was, but the knowledge was not common. the phrase "have an operation" was enough in its dread. as a fact the operation, for calculus, was not very serious; it had perfectly succeeded, and janet, whom hilda had tenderly visited, was to emerge from the nursing home at knype vale within three days. could not johnnie and his mrs. chris have waited until she was re-established? no, for the husband was unpreventibly approaching, and romantic love must not be baulked. nothing could or should withstand romantic love. janet had not even been duly warned; hilda had seen her that very morning, and assuredly she knew nothing then. perhaps johnnie would write to her softly from some gay seaside resort where he and his leman were hiding their strong passion. the episode was shocking; it was ruinous. the pair could never return. even johnnie alone would never dare to return.
"he was a friend of yours, was he not?" asked auntie hamps in bland sorrow of tertius ingpen.
he was a friend, and a close friend, of all three of them. and not only had he outraged their feelings--he had shamed them, irretrievably lowered their prestige. they could not look auntie hamps in the face. but auntie hamps could look them in the face. and her glance, charged with grief and with satisfaction, said: "how are the mighty fallen, with their jaunty parade of irreligion, and their musical evenings on sundays, with the windows open while folks are coming home from chapel!" and there could be no retort.
"another good man ruined by women!" observed tertius ingpen, with a sigh, stroking his beard.
hilda sprang up; and all her passionate sympathy for janet, and her disappointment and disgust with johnnie, the victim of desire, and her dissatisfaction with her husband and her hatred of auntie hamps, blazed forth and devastated the unwise ingpen as she scathingly replied:
"mr. ingpen, that is a caddish thing to say!"
she despised convention; she was frankly and atrociously rude; and she did not care. edwin blushed. tertius ingpen blushed.
"i’m sorry," said ingpen, keeping his temper. "i think i ought to have left a little earlier. good-bye, ed. mrs. hamps--" he bowed with extreme urbanity to the ladies, and departed.
shortly afterwards auntie hamps also departed, saying that she must not be late for tea at dear clara’s. she was secretly panting to disclose the whole situation to dear clara. what a scene had clara missed by leaving the works too soon!
"what was that telegram you had this afternoon, hilda?"
the question was on edwin’s tongue as he walked up acre lane from the works by his wife’s side. but it did not achieve utterance. a year had passed since he last walked up acre lane with hilda; and now of course he recalled the anger of that previous promenade. in the interval he had acquired to some extent the habit of containing his curiosity and his criticism. in the interval he had triumphed, but hilda also had consolidated her position, so that despite the increase of his prestige she was still his equal; she seemed to take strength from him in order to maintain the struggle against him.
during the final half-hour at the works the great, the enormous problem in his mind had been--not whether such and such a plan of action for janet’s welfare in a very grave crisis would be advisable, but whether he should demand an explanation from hilda of certain disquieting phenomena in her boudoir. in the excitement of his indecision janet’s tragic case scarcely affected his sensibility. for about twelve months hilda had, he knew, been intermittently carrying on a correspondence as to which she had said no word to him; she did not precisely conceal it, but she failed to display it. lately, so far as his observation went, it had ceased. and then to-day he had caught sight of an orange telegraph-envelope in her wastepaper basket. alone in the boudoir, and glancing back cautiously and guiltily at the door, he had picked up the little ball of paper and smoothed it out, and read the words: "mrs. edwin clayhanger." in those days the wives of even prominent business men did not customarily receive such a rain of telegrams that the delivery of a telegram would pass unmentioned and be forgotten. on the contrary, the delivery of a telegram was an event in a woman’s life. the telegram which he had detected might have been innocently negligible, in forty different ways. it might, for example, have been from janet, or about a rehearsal of the choral society, or from a tradesman at oldcastle, or about rooms at the seaside. but supposing that it was not innocently negligible? supposing that she was keeping a secret? ... what secret? what conceivable secret? he could conceive no secret. yes, he could conceive a secret. he had conceived and did conceive a secret, and his private thoughts elaborated it.... he had said to himself at the works: "i may ask her as we go home. i shall see." but, out in the street, with the disturbing sense of her existence over his shoulder, he knew that he should not ask her. partly timidity and partly pride kept him from asking. he knew that, as a wise husband, he ought to ask. he knew that commonsense was not her strongest quality, and that by diffidence he might be inviting unguessed future trouble; but he would not ask. in the great, passionate war of marriage they would draw thus apart, defensive and watchful, rushing together at intervals either to fight or to kiss. the heat of their kisses had not cooled; but to him at any rate the kisses often seemed intensely illogical; for, though he regarded himself as an improving expert in the science of life, he had not yet begun to perceive that those kisses were the only true logic of their joint career.
then another grievance was that she had sent george to hanbridge, knowing that george, according to a solemn family engagement, ought to have been at the works. she was conscienceless. a third grievance, naturally, was her behaviour to ingpen. and a fourth came back again to george. why had she sent george to hanbridge at all? was it not to despatch a telegram which she was afraid to submit to the inquisitiveness of the post office at bursley? a daring supposition, but plausible; and if correct, of what duplicity was she not guilty! the mad, shameful episode of johnnie orgreave, the awful dilemma of janet--colossal affairs though they were--interested him less and less as he grew more and more preoccupied with his relations to hilda. and he thought, not caring:
"something terrific will occur between us, one of these days."
and then his bravado would turn to panic.
they passed along wedgwood street, and hilda preceded him into the chief poulterer-and-fishmonger’s. here was another slight grievance of edwin’s; for the chief poulterer-and-fishmonger’s happened now to be the clayhanger shop at the corner of wedgwood street and duck bank. positively there had been competitors for the old location! why should hilda go there and drag him there? could she not comprehend that he had a certain fine delicacy about entering? ... the place where the former sign had been was plainly visible on the brickwork above the shop-front. rabbits, fowl, and a few brace of grouse hung in the right-hand window, from which most of the glass had been removed; and in the left, upon newly-embedded slabs of sicilian marble, lay amid ice the curved forms of many fish, and behind them was the fat white-sleeved figure of the chief poulterer-and-fishmonger’s wife with her great, wet hands. he was sad. he seriously thought yet again: "things are not what they were in this town, somehow." for this place had once been a printer’s; and he had a conviction that printing was an aristocrat among trades. indeed, could printing and fishmongering be compared?
the saleswoman greeted them with deference, calling edwin "sir," and yet with a certain complacent familiarity, as an occupant to ex-occupants. edwin casually gave the short shake of the head which in the district may signify "good-day," and turned, humming, to look at the hanging game. it seemed to him that he could only keep his dignity as a man of the world by looking at the grouse with a connoisseur’s eye. why didn’t hilda buy grouse? the shop was a poor little interior. it smelt ill. he wondered what the upper rooms were like, and what had happened to the decrepit building at the end of the yard. the saleswoman slapped the fish about on the marble, and running water could be heard.
"edwin," said hilda, with enchanting sweetness and simplicity, "would you like hake or turbot, dear?"
impossible to divine from her voice that the ruin of their two favourite orgreaves was complete, that she was conducting a secret correspondence, and that she had knowingly and deliberately offended her husband!
both women waited, moveless, for the decision, as for an august decree.
when the transaction was finished, the saleswoman handed over the parcel into hilda’s gloved hands; it was a rough-and-ready parcel, not at all like the neat stiff paper-bag of the modern age.
"very hot, isn’t it, ma’am?" said the saleswoman.
and hilda, utterly distinguished in gesture and tone, replied with calm, impartial urbanity:
"very. good afternoon."
"i’d better take that thing," said edwin outside, in spite of himself.
she gave up the parcel to him.
"tell cook to fry it," said hilda. "she always fries better than she boils."
"’tell cook to fry it.’ what’s up now?" his tone challenged.
"i must go over and see janet at once. i shall take the next car."
he lifted the end of his nose in disgust. there was no end to the girl’s caprices.
"why at once?" the superior male demanded. disdain and resentment were in his voice. hundreds of times, when alone, he had decided that he would never use that voice--first, because it was unworthy of a philosopher, second, because it never achieved any good result, and third, because it often did harm. yet he would use it. the voice had an existence and a volition of its own within his being; he marvelled that the essential mechanism of life should be so clumsy and inefficient. he heard the voice come out, and yet was not displeased, was indeed rather pleasantly excited. a new grievance had been created for him; he might have ignored it, just as he might ignore a solitary cigarette lying in his cigarette case. both cigarettes and grievances were bad for him. but he could not ignore them. the last cigarette in the case magnetised him. useless to argue with himself that he had already smoked more than enough,--the cigarette had to emerge from the case and be burnt; and the grievance too was irresistible. in an instant he had it between his teeth and was darkly enjoying it. of course hilda’s passionate pity for janet was a fine thing. granted! but therein was no reason why she should let it run away with her. the worst of these capricious, impulsive creatures was that they could never do anything fine without an enormous fuss and upset. what possible difference would it make whether hilda went to break the news of disaster to janet at once or in an hour’s time? the mere desire to protect and assuage could not properly furnish an excuse for unnecessarily dislocating a household and depriving oneself of food. on the contrary, it was wiser and more truly kind to take one’s meals regularly in a crisis. but hilda would never appreciate that profound truth--never, never!
moreover, it was certain that johnnie had written to janet.
"i feel i must go at once," said hilda.
he spoke with more marked scorn:
"and what about your tea?"
"oh, it doesn’t matter about my tea."
"of course it matters about your tea. if you have your tea quietly, you’ll find the end of the world won’t have come, and you can go and see janet just the same, and the whole house won’t have been turned upside down."
she put her lips together and smiled mysteriously, saying nothing. the racket of the hanbridge and knype steam-car could be heard behind them. she did not turn her head. the car overtook them, and then stopped a few yards in front. but she did not hail the conductor. the car went onwards.
he had won. his argument had been so convincing that she could not help being convinced. it was too powerful for even her obstinacy, which as a rule successfully defied any argument whatever.
did he smile and forgive? did he extend to her the blessing of his benevolence? no. he could not have brought himself to such a point. after all, she had done nothing to earn approval; she had simply refrained from foolishness. she had had to be reminded of considerations which ought ever to have been present in her brain. doubtless she thought that he was hard, that he was incapable of her divine pity for janet. but that was only because she could not imagine a combination of emotional generosity and calm commonsense; and she never would be able to imagine it. hence she would always be unjust to him.
when they arrived home, she was still smiling mysteriously to herself. she did not take her hat off--sign of disturbance! he moved with careful tranquillity through the ritual that preceded tea. he could feel her in the house, ordering it, softening it, civilising it. he could smell the fish. he could detect the subservience of ada to her mistress’s serious mood. he went into the dining-room. ada followed him with a tray of hot things. hilda followed ada. then george entered, cleaner than ordinary. edwin savoured deeply the functioning of his home. and his wife had yielded. her instinct had compelled her not to neglect him; his sagacity had mastered her. in her heart she must admire his sagacity, whatever she said or looked, and her unreasoning passion for him was still the paramount force in her vitality.
"now, are you two all right?" said hilda, when she had poured out the tea, and edwin was carving the fish.
"i don’t want any tea," she said. "i couldn’t touch it."
she bent and kissed george, took her gloves from the sideboard, and left the house, the mysterious smile still on her face.
edwin controlled his vexation at this dramatic move. it was only slight, and he had to play the serene omniscient to george. further, the attractive food helped to make him bland.
"didn’t you know your mother had to go out?" said edwin, with astounding guile.
"yes, she told me upstairs," george murmured, "while she was washing me. she said she had to go and see auntie janet again."
the reply was a blow to edwin. she had said nothing to him, but she had told the boy. still, his complacency was not overset. boy and stepfather began to talk, with the mingled freedom and constraint practised by males accustomed to the presence of a woman, when the woman is absent. each was aware of the stress of a novel, mysterious, and grave situation. each also thought of the woman, and each knew that the other was thinking of the woman. each, over a serious apprehension, seemed to be lightly saying: "it’s rather fun to be without her for a bit. but we must be able to rely on her return." nothing stood between them and domestic discomfort. possible stupidity in the kitchen had no check. as regards the mere household machine, they had a ridiculous and amusing sense of distant danger.
edwin had to get up in order to pour out more tea. he reckoned that he could both make tea and pour it out with more exactitude than his wife, who often forgot to put the milk in first. but he could not pour it out with the same grace. his brain, not his heart, poured the tea out. he left the tray in disorder. the symmetry of the table was soon wrecked.
"glad you’re going back to school, i suppose?" said edwin satirically.
"yes, i’m glad," he answered.
"oh! you’re glad, are you?"
"well, i’m glad in a way. a boy does have to go to school, doesn’t he, uncle? and the sooner it’s over the better. i tell you what i should like--i should like to go to school night and day and have no holidays till it was all done. i sh’d think you could save at least three years with that."
"a bit hard on the masters, wouldn’t it be?"
"i never thought of that. of course it would never be over for them. i expect they’d gradually die."
"then you don’t like school?"
george shook his head.
"did you like school, uncle?"
edwin shook his head. they both laughed.
"uncle, can i leave school when i’m sixteen?"
"i’ve told you once."
"yes, i know. but did you mean it? people change so."
"i told you you could leave school when you’re sixteen if you pass the london matric."
"but what good’s the london matric to an architect? mr. orgreave says it isn’t any good, anyway."
"when did he tell you that?"
"but not so long since you were all for being a stock-breeder!"
"ah! i was only pretending to myself!" george smiled.
"well, fetch me my cigarettes off the mantelpiece in the drawing-room."
the boy ran off, eager to serve, and edwin’s glance followed him with affection. george’s desire to be an architect had consistently strengthened, save during a brief period when the show of the north staffordshire agricultural society, held with much splendour at hanbridge, had put another idea into his noddle--an idea that fed itself richly on glorious bulls and other prize cattle for about a week, and then expired. indeed, already it had been in a kind of way arranged that the youth should ultimately be articled to johnnie orgreave. among many consequences of johnnie’s defiance to society would probably be the quashing of that arrangement. and there was johnnie, on the eve of his elopement, chatting to george about the futility of the london matriculation! edwin wondered how george would gradually learn what had happened to his friend and inspirer, john orgreave.
he arrived with the cigarettes, and offered them, and lit the match, and offered that.
"and what have you been doing with yourself all afternoon?" edwin enquired, between puffs of smoke.
"oh, nothing much!"
"i thought you were coming to the works and then going down to auntie clara’s for tea."
"so i was. but mother sent me to hanbridge."
"oh," murmured edwin casually. "so your mother packed you off to hanbridge, did she?"
"i had to go to the post office," george continued. "i think it was a telegram, but it was in an envelope, and some money."
"indeed!" said edwin, with a very indifferent air.
he was, however, so affected that he jumped up abruptly from the table, and went into the darkening, chill garden, ignoring george. george, accustomed to these sudden accessions of interest and these sudden forgettings, went unperturbed his ways.
about half past eight hilda returned. edwin was closing the curtains in the drawing-room. the gas had been lighted.
"johnnie has evidently written to alicia," she burst out somewhat breathless. "because alicia’s telegraphed to janet that she must positively go straight down there and stay with them when she leaves the home."
"what, on dartmoor?" edwin muttered, in a strange voice. the very word "dartmoor" made him shake.
"it isn’t actually on the moor," said hilda. "and so i shall take her down myself. i’ve told her all about things. she wasn’t a bit surprised. they’re a strange lot."
she tried to speak quite naturally, but he knew that she was not succeeding. their eyes would not meet. edwin thought:
"how far away we are from this morning!" hazard and fate, like converging armies, seemed to be closing upon him.
it was a wet morning. hilda, already in full street attire, save for her gloves, and with a half empty cup of tea by her side, sat at the desk in the boudoir. she unlocked the large central drawer immediately below the flap of the desk, with a peculiar, quick, ruthless gesture, which gesture produced a very short snappy click that summed up all the tension spreading from hilda’s mind throughout the house and even into the town. it had been decided that in order to call for janet at the nursing home and catch the crewe train at knype for the bristol and southwest of england connexion, hilda must leave the house at five minutes to nine.
this great fact was paramount in the minds of various people besides hilda. ada upstairs stood bent and flushed over a huge portmanteau into which she was putting the last things, while george hindered her by simultaneously tying to the leather handle a wet label finely directed by himself in architectural characters. the cook in the kitchen was preparing the master’s nine o’clock breakfast with new solicitudes caused by a serious sense of responsibility; for hilda, having informed her in moving tones that the master’s welfare in the mistress’s absence would depend finally on herself, had solemnly entrusted that welfare to her--had almost passed it to her from hand to hand, with precautions, like a jewel in a casket. ada, it may be said, had immediately felt the weight of the cook’s increased importance. edwin and the clerks at the works knew that edwin had to be home for breakfast at a quarter to nine instead of nine, and that he must not be late, as mrs. clayhanger had a train to catch, and accordingly the morning’s routine of the office was modified. and, finally, a short old man in a rainy stable-yard in acre parade, between acre lane and oldcastle street, struggling to force a collar over the head of a cab-horse that towered above his own head, was already blasphemously excited by those pessimistic apprehensions about the flight of time which forty years of train-catching had never sufficed to allay in him. as for janet, she alone in her weakness and her submissiveness was calm; the nurse and hilda understood one another, and she was "leaving it all" to them.
hilda opened the drawer, half lifting the flap of the desk to disclose its contents. it was full of odd papers, letters, bills, blotting-paper, door-knobs, finger-plates, envelopes, and a small book or two. a prejudiced observer, such as edwin, might have said that the drawer was extremely untidy. but to hilda, who had herself put in each item separately, and each for a separate reason, the drawer was not untidy, for her intelligence knew the plan of it, and every item as it caught her eye suggested a justifying reason, and a good one. nevertheless, she formed an intention to "tidy out" the drawer (the only drawer in the desk with a safe lock), upon her return home. she felt at the back of the drawer, drew forth the drawer a little further, and felt again, vainly. a doubt of her own essential orderliness crossed her mind. "surely i can’t have put those letters anywhere else? surely i’ve not mislaid them?" then she closed the flap of the desk, and pulled the drawer right out, letting it rest on her knees. yes, the packet was there, hidden, and so was another packet of letters--in the handwriting of edwin. she was reassured. she knew she was tidy, had always been tidy. and edwin’s innuendos to the contrary were inexcusable. jerking the drawer irregularly back by force into its place, she locked it, reopened the desk, laid the packet on the writing-pad, and took a telegram from her purse to add to the letters in the packet.
the letters were all in the same loose, sloping hand, and on the same tinted notepaper. the signature was plain on one of them, "charlotte m. cannon," and then after it, in brackets "(canonges),"--the latter being the real name of george cannon’s french father, and george cannon’s only legal name. the topmost letter began: "dear madam, i think it is my duty to inform you that my husband still declares his innocence of the crime for which he is now in prison. he requests that you shall be informed of this. i ought perhaps to tell you that, since the change in my religious convictions, my feelings--" the first page ended there. hilda turned the letters over, preoccupied, gazing at them and deciphering chance phrases here and there. the first letter was dated about a year earlier; it constituted the beginning of the resuscitation of just that part of her life which she had thought to be definitely interred in memory.
hilda had only once--and on a legal occasion--met mrs. canonges (as with strict correctness she called herself in brackets)--a surprisingly old lady, with quite white hair, and she had thought: "what a shame for that erotic old woman to have bought and married a man so much younger than herself! no wonder he ran away from her!" she had been positively shocked by the spectacle of the well-dressed, well-behaved, quiet-voiced, prim, decrepit creature with her aristocratic voice. and her knowledge of the possibilities of human nature was thenceforth enlarged. and when george cannon (known to the law only as canonges) had received two years’ hard labour for going through a ceremony of marriage with herself, she had esteemed, despite all her resentment against him, that his chief sin lay in his real first marriage, not in his false second one, and that for that sin the old woman was the more deserving of punishment. and when the old woman had with strange naïvete written to say that she had become a convert to roman catholicism and that her marriage and her imprisoned bigamous husband were henceforth to her sacred, hilda had reflected sardonically: "of course it is always that sort of woman that turns to religion, when she’s too old for anything else!" and when the news came that her deceiver had got ten years’ penal servitude (and might have got penal servitude for life) for uttering a forged bank-of-england note, hilda had reflected in the same strain: "of course, a man who would behave as george behaved to me would be just the man to go about forging bank notes! i am not in the least astonished. what an inconceivable simpleton i was!"
a very long time had elapsed before the letter arrived bearing the rumour of cannon’s innocence. it had not immediately produced much effect on her mind. she had said not a word to edwin. the idea of reviving the shames of that early episode in conversation with edwin was extremely repugnant to her. she would not do it. she had not the right to do it. all her proud independence forbade her to do it. the episode did not concern edwin. the effect on her of the rumour came gradually. it was increased when mrs. cannon wrote of evidence, a petition to the home secretary, and employing a lawyer. mrs. cannon’s attitude seemed to say to hilda: "you and i have shared this man, we alone in all the world." mrs. cannon seemed to imagine that hilda would be interested. she was right. hilda was interested. her implacability relented. her vindictiveness forgave. she pondered with almost intolerable compassion upon the vision of george cannon suffering unjustly month after long month interminably the horrors of a convict’s existence. she read with morbidity reports of assizes, and picked up from papers and books and from mrs. cannon pieces of information about prisons. when he was transferred to parkhurst in the isle of wight on account of ill-health, she was glad, because she knew that parkhurst was less awful than portland, and when from parkhurst he was sent to dartmoor she tried to hope that the bracing air would do him good. she no longer thought of him as a criminal at all, but simply as one victim of his passion for herself; she, hilda, had been the other victim. she raged in secret against the british judicature, its delays, its stoniness, its stupidity. and when the principal witness in support of cannon’s petition died, she raged against fate. the movement for cannon’s release slackened for months. of late it had been resumed, and with hopefulness. one of cannon’s companions had emerged from confinement (due to an unconnected crime), and was ready to swear affidavits. lastly, mrs. cannon had written stating that she was almost beggared, and suggesting that hilda should lend her ten pounds towards the expenses of the affair. hilda had not ten pounds. that very day hilda, seeing janet in the nursing home, had demanded: "i say jan, i suppose you haven’t got ten pounds you can let me have for about a day or so?" and had laughed self-consciously. janet, flushing with eager pleasure, had replied: "of course! i’ve still got that ten-pound note the poor old dad gave me. i’ve always kept it in case the worst should happen." janet was far too affectionate to display curiosity. hilda had posted the bank-note late at night. the next day had come a telegram from mrs. cannon: "telegraph if you are sending money." not for a great deal would hilda have despatched through the hands of the old postmaster at bursley--who had once been postmaster at turnhill and known her parents--a telegram such as hers addressed to anybody named "cannon." the fear of chatter and scandal was irrational, but it was a very genuine fear. she had sent her faithful george with the telegram to hanbridge--it was just as easy.
hilda now, after hesitation, put the packet of letters in her handbag, to take with her. it was a precaution of secrecy which she admitted to be unnecessary, for she was quite certain that edwin never looked into her drawers; much less would he try to open a locked drawer; his incurious confidence in her was in some respects almost touching. certainly nobody else would invade the drawer. still, she hid the letters in her handbag. then, in her fashion, she scribbled a bold-charactered note to mrs. cannon, giving a temporary address, and this also she put in the handbag.
her attitude to mrs. cannon, like her attitude to the bigamist, had slowly changed, and she thought of the old woman now with respect and sympathetic sorrow. mrs. cannon, before she knew that hilda was married to edwin, had addressed her first letter to hilda, "mrs. cannon," when she would have been justified in addressing it, "miss lessways." in the days of her boarding-house it had been impossible, owing to business reasons, for hilda to drop the name to which she was not entitled and to revert to her own. the authentic mrs. cannon, despite the violence of her grievances, had respected hilda’s difficulty; the act showed kindly forbearance and it had aroused hilda’s imaginative gratitude. further, mrs. cannon’s pertinacity in the liberation proceedings, and her calm, logical acceptance of all the frightful consequences of being the legal wife of a convict, had little by little impressed hilda, who had said to herself: "there is something in this old woman." and hilda nowadays never thought of her as an old woman who had been perverse and shameless in desire, but as a victim of passion like george cannon. she said to herself: "this old woman still loves george cannon; her love was the secret of her rancour against him, and it is also the secret of her compassion." these constant reflections, by their magnanimity, and their insistence upon the tremendous reality of love, did something to ennoble the clandestine and demoralising life of the soul which for a year hilda had hidden from her husband and from everybody.
it still wanted twenty minutes to nine o’clock. she was too soon. the night before, edwin had abraded her sore nerves by warning her not to be late--in a tone that implied habitual lateness on her part. hilda was convinced that she was an exact woman. she might be late--a little late--six times together, but as there was a sound explanation of and excuse for each shortcoming, her essential exactitude remained always unimpaired in her own mind. but edwin would not see this. he told her now and then that she belonged to that large class of people who have the illusion that a clock stands still at the last moment while last things are being done. she resented the observation, as she resented many of edwin’s assumptions concerning her. edwin seemed to forget that she had been one of the first women-stenographers in england, that she had been a journalist-secretary and accustomed to correct the negligences of men of business, and finally that she had been in business by herself for a number of years. edwin would sweep all that away, and treat her like one of your mere brainless butterflies. at any rate, on the present occasion she was not late. and she took pride, instead of shame, in her exaggerated earliness. she had the air of having performed a remarkable feat.
she left the boudoir to go upstairs and superintend ada, though she had told the impressed ada that she should put full trust in her, and should not superintend her. however, as she opened the door she heard the sounds of ada and george directing each other in the joint enterprise of bringing a very large and unwieldy portmanteau out of the bedroom. the hour for superintendence was therefore past. hilda went into the drawing-room, idly, nervously, to wait till the portmanteau should have reached the hall. the french window was ajar, and a wet wind entered from the garden. the garden was full of rain. two workmen were in it, employed by the new inhabitants of the home of the orgreaves. those upstarts had decided that certain branches of the famous orgreave elms were dangerous and must be cut, and the workmen, shirt sleeved in the rain, were staying one of the elms with a rope made fast to the swing in the clayhanger garden. hilda was unreasonably but sincerely antipathetic to her new neighbours. the white-ended stumps of great elm-branches made her feel sick. useless to insist to her on the notorious treachery of elms! she had an affection for those elms, and, to her, amputation was an outrage. the upstarts had committed other sacrilege upon the house and grounds, not heeding that the abode had been rendered holy by the sacraments of fate. hilda stared and stared at the rain. and the prospect of the long, jolting, acutely depressing drive through the mud and the rain to knype vale, and of the interminable train journey with a tragic convalescent, braced her.
george stood behind her.
"well, have you got the luggage down?" she frowned, but george knew her nervous frown and could rightly interpret it.
"ought i to put ’dartmoor’ on the luggage-label?"
she gave a negative sign.
why should he ask such a question? she had never breathed the name of dartmoor. why should he mention it? edwin also had mentioned dartmoor. "what, on dartmoor?" edwin had said. did edwin suspect her correspondence? no. had he suspected he would have spoken. she knew him. and even if edwin had suspected, george could not conceivably have had suspicions, of any sort.... there he stood, the son of a convict, with no name of his own. he existed--because she and the convict had been unable to keep apart; his ignorance of the past was appalling to think of, the dangers incident to it dreadful; his easy confidence before the world affected her almost intolerably. she felt that she could never atone to him for having borne him.
a faint noise at the front-door reached the drawing-room.
"here’s nunks," exclaimed george, and ran off eagerly.
this was his new name for his stepfather.
hilda returned quickly to the boudoir. as she disappeared therein, she heard george descanting to edwin on the beauties of his luggage-label, and edwin rubbing his feet on the mat and removing his mackintosh.
she came back to the door of the boudoir.
he came into the boudoir, wiping the rain off his face.
"shut the door, will you?"
her earnest, self-conscious tone stirred into activity the dormant secret antagonisms that seemed ever to lie between them. she saw them animating his eyes, stiffening his pose.
pointing to the cup and saucer on the desk, edwin said, critically:
"that all you’ve had?"
"can you let me have ten pounds?" she asked bluntly, ignoring his implication that in the matter of nourishment she had not behaved sensibly.
"ten pounds? more?" he was on the defensive, as it were crouching warily behind a screen of his suspicions.
she nodded, awkwardly. she wanted to be graceful, persuasive, enveloping, but she could not. it was to repay janet that she had need of the money. she ought to have obtained it before, but she had postponed the demand, and she had been wrong. janet would not require the money, she would have no immediate use for it, but hilda could not bear to be in debt to her; to leave the sum outstanding would seem so strange, so sinister, so equivocal; it would mar all their intercourse.
"but look here, child," said edwin, protesting, "i’ve given you about forty times as much as you can possibly want already."
he had never squarely refused any demand of hers for money; he had almost always acceded instantly and without enquiry to her demands. obviously he felt sympathy with the woman who by eternal custom is forced to ask, and had a horror of behaving as the majority of husbands notoriously behaved in such circumstances; obviously he was anxious not to avail himself of the husband’s overwhelming economic advantage. nevertheless the fact that he earned and she didn’t was ever mysteriously present in his relatively admirable attitude. and sometimes--perhaps not without grounds, she admitted--he would hesitate before a request, and in him a hesitation was as humiliating as a refusal would have been from another man. and hilda resented, not so much his attitude, as the whole social convention upon which it was unassailably based. he earned--she knew. she would not deny that he was the unique source and that without him there would be naught. but still she did not think that she ought to have to ask. on the other hand she had no alternative plan to offer. her criticism of the convention was destructive, not constructive. and all edwin’s careful regard for a woman’s susceptibilities seemed only to intensify her deep-hidden revolt. it was a mere chance that he was thus chivalrous. and whether he was chivalrous or not, she was in his power; and she chafed.
"i should be glad if you could let me have it," she said, grimly.
the appeal, besides being unpersuasive in manner, was too general; it did not particularize. there was no frankness between them. she saw his suspicions multiplying. what did he suspect? what could he suspect? ... ah! and why was she herself so timorous, so strangely excited, about going even to the edge of dartmoor? and why did she feel tsistsaki, coming in, heard my remark. she turned to my uncle. "so, man mine, we go to the on-the-other-side bear river country, do we? yes? oh, i am glad! down there grow plenty of plums. i shall gather quantities of them for our winter use!"
we went out, mounted our horses, and hurried home and to bed. that is, tsistsaki and i did; my uncle worked all night, writing out his trade-goods orders. the steamboat men worked all night, too, unloading freight for the fort, and when i awoke in the morning the boat had left with its load of company furs.
when we were eating breakfast, my uncle said to us, "well, woman, well, youngster, we start upon a new trail now, a trail of my own making, and i feel that it is going to be a trail easy and worth blazing. all that i have in the world, about twenty thousand dollars, i am putting into the venture, and on top of that i am asking for more than ten thousand dollars' worth of goods on a year's time. thomas, we have just got to pay that bill when it comes due, fourteen months from now, or wesley fox's name will become a byword in st. louis."
"we shall pay it, sir," i said.
"absolutely, we shall pay it, if i have to beg robes and beaver skins from my people to make up the amount!" tsistsaki declared.
looking back at it after all these years, i see that the dissolution of the american fur company was an historical event. its founders and its later owners, the chouteaus, had been the first to profit by the discoveries of the lewis and clark expedition, and year by year they had built a string of trading-posts along the missouri, which did an enormous business in trading with the various tribes of indians for their buffalo robes and beaver and other furs. but little by little the richness and vastness of the missouri river country became known to the outside world; first came various opposition fur-traders, then settlers upon the rich bottom lands of the river.
before the settlers the indians and the buffaloes fled, and the income of the company correspondingly decreased. the chouteaus simply could not brook opposition, or trade with penny-saving settlers, profitable as that might have been; so in this year of 1865 they went out of business. at the time only two of the company posts, fort union, at the mouth of the yellowstone, and fort benton were in what may be termed still virgin country; that is, country still rich in buffaloes and fur animals and controlled by various powerful tribes of indians. it was fear of the indians that kept the settlers back.
we were to embark for the mouth of the musselshell upon the next steamboat that arrived, and my uncle was very busy getting together our necessary equipment and engaging the help that we should need. i helped him as much as i could, but found time to ride over to the camp on the teton and ask pitamakan to go down-river with us. his father objected to his going, on the ground that he was needed in camp to herd the large band of horses that belonged to the family, and in which i had then about forty head, my very own horses. but finally a youth was found to take his place, and pitamakan was free to come with us. on the last day of may the second steamboat of the season tied up at the river-bank in front of the fort, and in the afternoon of the following day we went aboard it with our outfit and were off upon our new adventure. the outfit comprised ten engagés, all of them with their wives, women of the pikuni, several of whom had children; six work-horses and two heavy wagons; three ordinary saddle-horses, property of the engagés, and three fast buffalo-runners, one of which was is-spai-u, the spaniard, the most noted, the most valuable buffalo-horse in all the northwest; eleven indian lodges, one to each family; tools of all kinds; some provisions; a six-pounder cannon with a few balls and plenty of grapeshot; and of course our own personal weapons.
the women were tremendously excited over their first ride in a steamboat; they marveled at the swiftness with which it sped down the river and cried out in terror every time the boilers let off their surplus steam with a loud roaring. soon after passing the mouth of the shonkin, a few miles below the fort, we sighted buffaloes, and from there on to our destination we were never out of sight of them grazing in the bottom lands, filing down the precipitous sides of the valley to water and climbing out to graze upon the wide plains.
other kinds of game were also constantly in sight, elk, white-tailed deer and mule deer, antelopes, bighorns upon the cliffs, wolves and coyotes, and now and then a grizzly.
shortly before noon the next day the boat landed us and our outfit at the mouth of the musselshell river. there was a fine grove of cottonwoods bordering the stream, but we had no thought of taking advantage of its cool, shady shelter. instead we put up our lodges in the open bottom on the west side of the musselshell, about three hundred yards from it and something like fifty yards back from the shore of the missouri. my uncle declared that we had too many of them and made one lodge suffice for three families. we therefore put up four lodges, as closely together as possible, and cut and hauled logs for a barrier round them. we completed the barrier that evening and felt that we were fairly well protected from the attacks of war parties. as pitamakan truly said, we were camped right upon one of the greatest war trails in the country. crows, cheyennes, and arapahoes going north, and assiniboins, crees, and yanktonnais going south, here came to cross the missouri upon the wide and shallow ford just below the mouth of the musselshell. had my uncle been unable to buy the six-pounder cannon from carroll and steell, i doubt whether he would have ventured to build a post at this place. we felt that "thunder mouth" would be of as much service to us in a fight with a war party as fifty experienced plainsmen would be, could they be obtained. the indians were terribly afraid of cannon, not so much because of the execution they did, i have often thought, as because of the tremendous roar of their discharge. to the mind of the red man it was too much like the fearful reverberations of their dread thunder bird, wanton slayer of men and animals, shatterer of trees and of the very rocks of the mountains.
taking no chances with our horses, we picketed them that evening with long ropes close to our barricade, and at bedtime pitamakan and i went out and slept in their midst; but nothing happened to disturb our rest. at daylight we arose and turned the work-horses loose to graze near by until we needed them. the day broke clear and warm. up in the pine-clad bad-land breaks that formed the east side of the musselshell valley we could see numerous bands of buffaloes, and there were more in the valley itself and in the bottom of the missouri directly across from us. hundreds of antelopes were with the buffaloes, and elk and deer were moving about in the edge of the timber bordering the smaller stream. we went over to the musselshell and bathed, and then heard tsistsaki calling us to come and eat.
"now, then, you youngsters," my uncle said to us when we were seated, "the engagés have their instructions, and here are yours. you are not to lift a hand toward the building of this fort, for i have three other uses for you. you are to take good care of the horses, keep the camp well supplied with meat, and be ever on the lookout for war parties."
"easy enough!" pitamakan exclaimed. "with so little to do, i see us growing fat, and with fat comes laziness. i see this camp going hungry before many moons have passed."
"you needn't joke," said my uncle, very seriously. "this is no joking matter. upon the alertness and watchfulness of you two depend our lives and the success of this undertaking!"
"i take shame to myself," pitamakan said. "as you say, this is important work that you charge us with. if trouble comes, it shall be through no fault of ours!"
a hostile tribe leaves footprints
by the time pitamakan and i had finished breakfast the engagés had hitched up the teams and gone to cut logs, and my uncle was marking out the site for the fort on level ground just behind our barricade. he had drawn the plan for it while we were coming down the river. it was to be in the form of a square. the south, west, and north sides were each to be formed by the walls of a building eighty feet long, twenty feet wide, nine feet high. the roof was to be of poles heavily covered with well-packed earth. at the southwest and northeast corners there were to be bastions with portholes for the cannon and for rifles. the east side of the square was to be a high stockade of logs with a strong gate in it.
leaving my uncle at his work, pitamakan and i watered the saddle-horses and then, saddling two, rode out after meat. we could, of course, have gone into the timber just above the log-cutters and killed some deer or elk, but we wanted first to explore the valley. here and there were narrow groves of timber with growths of willows between them; and again long stretches where the grass grew to the very edge of the banks.
we carefully examined the dusty game trails and every sandbar and mud slope of the river for signs of man, but not a single moccasin track did we see. that was no proof, however, that war parties had not recently passed up or down the valley. instead of following the course of the river, they were far more likely to keep well up in the breaks on the east side of the valley, from which they could constantly see far up and down it.
i was not very keen for hunting that morning, because i was worrying about my uncle's charge to us. "almost-brother," i said presently as i brought my horse to a stand, "the load that far thunder has put upon us is too heavy for our backs. look, now, at this great country; this brush and timber-bordered stream; those deep, pine-clad bad-land breaks; the great plain to the west, seamed with coulees; the heavily timbered valley of the big river. we cannot possibly watch it all. we have not the eyes of the gods to see right through the trees and brush and discover what they conceal. watch as we may, a war party can easily come right down to the mouth of this stream and attack the log-cutters or charge our barricade, and we never know of their approach until we hear their shots and yells!"
"what you say is plain truth!" pitamakan exclaimed. "but well you know that far thunder is a wise chief. he does not expect us to do the impossible; his heavy talk was just to make us as watchful and careful as we possibly can be. but come, we waste time. we have to provide meat for the middle-of-the-day eating!"
"all right, we go," i answered, "but i am uneasy. when we return to camp i shall say a few words to far thunder."
not far ahead a band of a hundred and more buffaloes were filing down a sharp, bare ridge of the bad lands to water. under cover of the brush we rode to the point they would strike and awaited their coming. they were thirsty; the big cow in front was stepping faster and faster as she neared the foot of the slope; then, scenting the water, she broke into a lope. the whole band came thundering after her, raising a cloud of fine, light dust.
we let our eager horses go when the buffaloes were about fifty yards from us. pitamakan shot down the old lead cow, and i a fat two-year-old bull; then what a scattering there was!
drawing my six-shooter, i turned my horse after another two-year-old bull and gained upon it, but just as i was about to fire it sprang sharply round and dodged back past me. my horse turned, too, with a suddenness that all but unseated me. he had the bit in his teeth. i could not have checked him if i would, and he was determined that the bull should not escape. nor did it. i overtook and downed it after a chase of several hundred yards, but was then, of course, out of the run. away up the flat pitamakan was still in the thick of the fleeing band. i saw him shoot twice, and then he, too, came to a stand. in all we had shot six fine animals, meat enough to last our camp for some time. we carefully butchered them all, cutting the carcasses into portions that could be easily loaded into the wagon that would come for them, and then, packing upon our horses several sets of the boss ribs for dinner, we started back.
the day was now very hot; so we rode in the shade of the timber bordering the stream and in a short time entered the big grove at the mouth of it. we could plainly hear the incessant thudding of axes and the crash of the big cottonwood as it struck the ground. i told pitamakan that the men were working like beavers, and then he laughed. it was a simile quite new to him.
there was here dense underbrush, much of which was higher than our heads and penetrable only by the well-worn zigzag trails of game. we were following what seemed to be the most direct of the trails and were now so near the choppers that we could plainly hear several of them talking, but still, owing to the dense, high brush, we were unable to see any of them. then suddenly, right in front of us, a shot rang out; and in answer to it, pitamakan brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired at something that i could dimly see tearing away from us through a thick growth of rosebushes. "enemies! my horse is hit! look out!"
simultaneously we heard a piercing shriek of pain and fear, the well-known voice of louis, the cordelier, he who had bewailed the death of the company and the loss of his promised pension. "help! help! i am shot! i die! help, messieurs! ze enemy, he comes, tousans of heem!"
"i am shot! me, i die!" louis cried.
"he thought us enemies. he fired at pitamakan and got shot himself," i explained.
"let us see the wound," my uncle demanded.
"no use! i die!"
"throw him down, men, throw him down! we'll see how badly he is hurt!" my uncle ordered; and down he went.
"huh! just as i thought! nothing but a bullet scratch! get up, you crazy scamp! get up! go to the river and wash yourself, and then come back to work!" said my uncle disgustedly.
"where is his rifle?" some one asked.
"dropped right where he fired it," i hazarded; and there it was found.
"wal, now, me, i call louis's hittin' that hoss a plumb miracle!" exclaimed an american engagé, illinois joe, so called because he was always talking about the glories of that state. "to my certain knowledge that there is the fust time louis ever come nigh hittin' what he aimed to kill!"
the men resumed their work, and my uncle went to the camp with us. we unloaded the boss ribs and picketed our horses, pitamakan rubbing some marrow grease into the wound of his animal. i then told my uncle that i thought that we could not possibly guard the men from sudden surprise by the enemy.
"you will do the best you can, and that is all i ask from you," he answered. "from now on, one of the engagés shall stand guard while the others work, and i will take a turn at it myself. you have meat up there? take a team and wagon and bring it in."
we had the meat in camp by two o'clock; then my uncle advised us to ride out upon discovery. as pitamakan's runner would be of no service for some time to come, i borrowed is-spai-u and let him have my fast horse. we could, of course, have ridden the scrub horses of the engagés, but did not care to trust our lives to their slow running in case we should be surprised by a war party.
is-spai-u was a horse with a history. four summers before, in the spring of 1861, a war party of seven of the pikuni, led by one horn, a noted warrior and medicine man, had gone south on a raid with the avowed intention never to turn back until they had penetrated far into the always-summer land and taken fine horses from the spanish settlers of that country. that meant a journey southward on foot of all of fifteen hundred miles and an absence from us of at least a year. they chose to go on foot because they could thus most surely pass through that long stretch of hostile country without being discovered by the enemy.
fifty--yes, a hundred--warriors begged one horn to be allowed to join his party, but he had had a dream in which the seven persons, as the constellation of the great bear was called, had appeared and advised him what to do, and he would take only six men. each one of the six was a man of proved valor and intelligence.
the summer passed and the winter. one horn and his party were to return in the moon of full-grown leaves, but they came not. with the appearance of the berries-ripe moon they were long overdue, and some said that without doubt their bones were whitening on the sands of the grassless plains far to the south. still, hoping against hope, the old medicine man prayed on for them at setting of the sun, and all the people prayed with him.
it was in the moon of falling leaves--october--that we in fort benton noticed a lone horseman fording the river and wondered who he could be. then we saw that it was one horn. he approached the gate, mournfully calling over and over the names of his six companions; and we knew that they were dead, and the women set up a great wailing for them. when he rode slowly into the court we thought that we had never seen so thin and careworn a man; he was just bones covered with wrinkled skin, and across his breast was a tightly drawn bandage of what had evidently been his buffalo-leather leggings.
we were so painfully struck with his forlorn appearance that we did not at first notice the horse he rode; but when he slipped from it and staggered into the outstretched arms of the crying women, antoine, the stableman, stepped up to it to lead it away, and he cried out, "see, my frien's, dis horse so beautiful!" we almost cried out with him. the animal was shining black and in good flesh, clean-limbed, of powerful build, gentle and proud.
"a thoroughbred, if ever there was one!" said my uncle, who was standing beside me. "unquestionably of andalusian stock!"
tsistsaki had one horn carried into our quarters and a robe couch made up for him. a woman brought in some soup hot from her hearth, but he would take only a few sups of it. my uncle cut away the bandage round his breast and disclosed a jagged wound several inches long, partly healed, but badly discolored and suppurating at the lower end.
"it was all healed over, then it got bad again," one horn whispered.
my uncle shook his head. "mortification has set in; i fear there is no hope for him," he said in english to tsistsaki and me.
then he carefully washed the wound, medicated it, and put a clean, soft bandage upon it.
when the wounded man awoke that evening, my uncle asked him to tell us his adventures on the long south trail.
nor did he ever speak again. he soon became unconscious and died before midnight.
now, my uncle wesley was a great sportsman and loved more than anything else the excitement of a buffalo run with a good horse under him, a bow in his hand, and a quiver full of arrows at his back. "you can have your rifle and your six-shooters for the chase," he would often say, "but the bow for me. while you are fooling away time reloading your weapons, i shall be slipping arrows into good, fat cows!"
several months after the death of one horn, a herd of buffaloes drifted into the upper end of the bottom and gave him a chance to try is-spai-u. word spread that my uncle was going to run the buffaloes, and when he rode out from the fort all the men followed him who had horses or could borrow them. i shall not go into the details of that run, but will simply say that when it ended twenty-seven buffaloes lay strung along the plain with my uncle's arrows in them! it was the best run ever made in the whole northwest, so far as was known, and the success of it was owing more to the swiftness and endurance of is-spai-u than to the skill of my uncle with the bow. the reputation of the black horse was established. through visiting kootenay indians it spread to all the west-side tribes, the kalispels, nez percés, and snakes. when bands from the blackfoot tribes came into the fort at different times in order to trade, the first request of the chiefs and warriors was for a sight of the wonderful animal.
in time our engagés took word of him to our different forts along the river, and thus all the other tribes, sioux, assiniboins, crows, crees, and yanktonnais, came to know about him. deputations from all the tribes that were at peace with the blackfeet came to the fort and made fabulous offers for the animal. at the risk of their lives, some snakes brought in one hundred and ten good ordinary horses that they wanted to trade for the black runner. a chief of the yanktonnais, then trading mostly with the hudson's bay company at their assiniboin river post, sent word that he would give two hundred horses for him. my uncle's one answer to all of the would-be purchasers was that the black was not for sale. we soon heard that many a warrior of the tribes hostile to the blackfeet had vowed to get the horse in one way or another. within a year three desperate attempts were made to steal him right out from the fort, and the last raiders, three assiniboins, paid for the attempt with their lives.
on the evening before we left fort benton george steell had begged my uncle to leave is-spai-u in his care. "you know how flies swarm about a molasses keg. well, so will the hostiles swarm about you down there when they learn that the runner is with you. be sensible for once, wesley, and let me have him until your fort is completed."
"george, i know you mean well," my uncle replied, "but, consarn it, you're too reckless! you would cripple him in no time. is-spai-u goes with me!"
half angry at that, steell shrugged his shoulders and turned away from us without another word. my uncle had been right in refusing him the use of the animal; he was the most reckless, hard-riding buffalo hunter in all the country.
after this explanation, you can imagine my pride and happiness in mounting is-spai-u for the first time. he was eager to go; i let him have the bit.
"well, almost-brother," i said to pitamakan, "we are off upon discovery. which way shall we go?"
"first, straight to the head of the breaks yonder, from which we can see far up and down big river and the plains to the north of it," he answered.
"well, what else can you expect? i should not be astonished if some enemies already have their eyes upon it," he answered.
after watching for some time the valley of the missouri and the great plains to the north of it we turned south along the heads of the breaks and traveled at a good pace for an hour or more along a rolling plain. we then turned westward into the valley of the musselshell and saw across it the narrow and sparsely timbered valley of a small stream putting in from the moccasin mountains, the eastern end of which, black butte, seemed very near to us. i had read the journal of the lewis and clark expedition many times, and so recognized that small and generally dry watercourse by their description of it.
the sun was near setting when we struck the small grove of timber at the junction of the two streams, and there in a dusty game trail we found the moccasined footprints of men--a war party, of course--traveling north. we could not determine how recently they had passed, but upon following the trail to the shore of the river we saw where they had sat down to remove their moccasins and leggings, and we found the tracks of their bare feet in the mud at the edge of the stream. in several of the footprints the water was still muddy; in others the mud had settled.
"they have crossed here since we left the head of the breaks!" pitamakan exclaimed.
"yes!" i said. "we must get to camp with the news as fast as our horses can carry us!"
far thunder rids the plains of a rascal
"oh, be still, windy!" sol abbott growled at him. "you make us all tired! be a man!"
solomon abbott, a lank, red-haired missourian six feet two inches in height, a famous plainsman and trapper and a brave and kindly fellow, was our best man. he was helping in our work only because of his great liking for my uncle. as soon as our post was built, he would again go out with his woman upon his lone pursuit of the beaver. the blackfeet had affectionately named him great hider, because he was so crafty in escaping from the enemy. he had had many thrilling escapes from the assiniboins, the sioux, and the crows, and had killed so many of them that they had come to believe that he was proof against their arrows and bullets.
"well, sol," said my uncle to him now, "it is best to have the horses right here in the barricade with us this night, don't you think?"
"sure thing! right in here, and some of us on guard all night!" he answered.
some of the men were sent to bring in the animals that were picketed near by, and tsistsaki called pitamakan and me to eat. abbott presently came into our lodge, and my uncle and he decided upon the different watches for the night. pitamakan, my uncle, and i were to take our turn at two o'clock and watch until daylight, about four o'clock, when the horses were to be taken out to graze. a night in the stockade would be no hardship to them, for the new grass was so luxuriant that they would eat all that they could hold.
another point of discussion was whether the cannon should be loaded and made ready for the expected attack. pitamakan and i were asked how many we thought there might be in the war party and replied that there were between fifteen and twenty men, certainly not more than twenty-five.
"well, we'll load the cannon, because it should be loaded and kept loaded and the touch-hole well protected from dampness," said my uncle, "but we will not fire it at any small war party; our rifles can take care of them. we will just keep the cannon cached, as a surprise when a big war party comes."
the lodge fires did not burn long that night. pitamakan and i went to sleep while our elders were still smoking and talking.
promptly on time abbott came into our lodge and awakened us, and my uncle, pitamakan, and i were soon in our places at the edge of the barricade. there was a piece of a moon, the stars were very bright, and in the north there was a perceptible whitish glow in the sky, as if from some far distant aurora playing upon the snow and ice of the always-winter land. pitamakan, coming and standing at my side, said that cold-maker was dancing up there and making medicine for the attack upon the sun that he would begin a few moons hence.
"the old men, our wise ones, say," he went on, "that cold-maker may sometime obtain what he is ever seeking, a medicine so powerful that it will enable him to drive the sun far, far into the south and keep him there. think how terrible it would be! our beautiful prairies and mountains would become an always-winter land! the game, the trees and brush and grasses, would all die off, and we, of course, should perish with them!"
"don't you worry about that!" i told him. "sun has a certain trail to follow, and he is all-powerful. let him make what medicine he may, old cold-maker cannot halt his course!"
"ha! that is my thought, too. wise though our old men are, they certainly don't know all about what is going on up there in the sky!"
off to the south of us i heard my uncle mutter something about youthful philosophers and then laugh quietly.
from where we stood, with our shoulders and heads concealed by some brush stuck into the barricade, we could see the black mass of the grove and the silvery gleam of the river sweeping by it. the hush and quiet of the night were almost unbroken; not even an owl was hooting. the only sound that we could hear at all was the murmur of the river close under the cutbank on our left. the missouri is a deceptive river. though its heaving, eddying, swift flow is apparently without obstructions, yet it has a voice--an insistent, deep, plaintive voice that rises and falls and makes the listener imagine things; that seems to be trying to tell all the strange scenes and changes it has witnessed down through the countless ages of its being.
"do you hear it, the voice, the singing of the river? isn't it beautiful?" i said.
"it is terrible, heart-chilling. what you hear is not the voice of the river; it is the singing of the dread under-water people who live down there in its depths and ever watch for a chance to drag us down to our death!"
my uncle slipped up behind us so quietly that we were startled. "you youngsters quit talking; use your eyes instead of your mouths!" he whispered, and stole back to his stand on the south side of the enclosure.
"we were and we are using our eyes, but maybe we were talking too loud; we will whisper from now on," said pitamakan.
"do you think that the war party discovered our camp last evening?" i asked.
an hour passed, perhaps more; and then from the direction of the grove we saw a dark form slowly approaching us; then came more forms, all upon hands and knees, sneaking through the grass like so many wolves.
pitamakan nudged me with his elbow. "don't shoot until they come quite close," he whispered. i answered him by pressing his arm.
meantime my uncle had also discovered the enemy and now came to us, crouching low and stepping noiselessly; he got between us and whispered: "aim at men at right and at left. i will shoot at a center man. pull trigger when i say now!"
i selected my mark, the man at the extreme end of the line nearest the river, and anxiously awaited the word to fire. i thought that my uncle would never give it; the longer i aimed at my mark the worse my rifle seemed to wabble; the bead sight made circles all round the outline of the creeping man. at last, "now!" or rather, "kyi!" my uncle said and pulled the trigger as he said it. the flash from his gun blinded me for a moment, and i did not fire. but pitamakan's rifle cracked, even a little before my uncle fired, and we heard a groan and a sharp cry of pain. my vision came back to me. i saw fifteen or twenty men running from us, making for the grove. i fired at one of them, and missed. after all my experience in shooting at night at the word of command, i had been too slow!
right after i fired, the aroused men came running with weapons in hand, and the women, crouching low within the lodges, hushed the children as best they could.
"what is up? what did you fire at? where is the enemy?" the men cried, crowding close to us. my uncle was hurriedly answering them when, from down near the grove, ten or twelve guns spit fire at us, and we heard several balls thud into the logs in front of us, and one ripped through the leather skin of a lodge. we ducked, and the men returned the enemy fire.
"well, wesley, i call this downright mean of you!" sol abbott said to my uncle reproachfully. "why on earth didn't you let us in on this? why didn't you call me, anyhow? pluggin' these here cut-throat night raiders is my long suit, and you know it! here you've had all the sport yourself! 'twasn't fair, by gum!"
"oh, well, they were but few. i knew that they would run as soon as we fired. i didn't think it worth while to awaken you. i really believe that i never gave you a thought."
"you got one of them!" some one exclaimed.
"two! two of them are lying out there in the grass," i said. i had had my eyes upon them all the time i was reloading my rifle.
"perhaps they are not dead; we'll go out and soon finish them off," abbott proposed.
"you shall not!" my uncle exclaimed. but he was too late; pitamakan was already over the barricade and running to the enemy that he had shot. we saw him stoop over the fallen man, then rise with a bow and a shield that he waved aloft with his free hand.
"i count coup upon this enemy. i call upon you, far thunder, and you, almost-brother, to witness that i take these weapons from this enemy that i have killed!"
"we hear you!" i answered.
"far thunder," he called to my uncle, "come and take the weapons of your kill!"
my uncle laughed. "i am past all that," he began, but never finished what he intended to say.
"far thunder, my man," tsistsaki interrupted, "think how proud of you i shall be when those weapons out there are hung with the others that you have taken upon the walls of the home that we are building here! as you love me, go out and count your coup!"
so, to please her, and, i doubt not, with no little pride in what he had accomplished, my uncle went out to his fallen enemy and leaned over him; then, with a flintlock gun in his hand, he suddenly straightened up and cried, in the blackfoot tongue, of course:
"i call upon you all to witness that i killed this man! i count coup upon one of our greatest enemies, a chief of the assiniboins, sliding beaver!"
oh, how we shouted when we heard that name! we could hardly believe our ears. and tsistsaki sprang over the barricade and ran toward my uncle, crying, "are you sure?" we all followed her and gathered round the fallen man, forgetting in the excitement of the moment that we were offering a large and compact mark to the guns of his followers. day was beginning to break, and we could see the man's features fairly well--the massive, big-nosed, cruel-mouthed face, with the broad scar across the forehead, mark of the lance of our chief, big lake.
"he is sliding beaver and no other!" sol abbott cried. "wesley, my old friend, here's to you! you sure have rid these plains of the most blood-thirsty rascal, the meanest, low-down murderer, that ever traipsed across them."
"a great chief is far thunder! oho! aha! our enemy he has killed! he has killed sliding beaver, the cut-throat chief!"
"well, what shall we do with him--and the other one?" i asked.
"into the river they go!" abbott answered. and in they went with big splashes. as they sank, pitamakan cried out, "under-water people! we give to you these bodies! if you can injure them still more than we have done, we pray you to do so!"
it was now broad daylight. after the enemy had fired their lone, long-range volley at us we heard no more from them, nor could we see them; they were doubtless down in the grove. we returned to the stockade, and my uncle told a couple of the men to take the horses out to graze; but they did not go far out with them. the women hurried into the lodges and began preparing breakfast, singing, many of them, the song of victory. they were happy over the death of the dread assiniboin chief. we remained outside, watching the valley and counting up the record of his terrible deeds, so far as we knew them. trading entirely with the hudson's bay company in canada, he had always been an enemy of the american fur company and at various times had waylaid and killed eight of its trappers. pitamakan said that he had killed four men and seven women of his tribe, and then recounted the well-known tale of his fight with big lake.
leading about a hundred mounted warriors, sliding beaver had approached a camp of the pikuni and signaled that he had come to fight its chief. the challenge was accepted, and presently big lake, armed with only a lance, rode out to meet him. the assiniboin was carrying a gun and a bow and had no lance.
"you proposed this fight, so you must use the weapons of my choice; go get a lance from your warriors."
sliding beaver rode back to them, left his gun and bow, borrowed a lance, and, raising the assiniboin war song in his terrible voice,--a thunderous voice it was,--wheeled his horse about and rode straight at big lake, who likewise charged at him. they neared each other at tremendous speed, and big lake tried to force his horse right against the other animal; but at the last sliding beaver turned the animal aside and they swept past. they lunged out with their lances, and big lake slightly wounded the assiniboin in his shoulder, getting not even a scratch in return. then again they charged, and big lake, sure that his enemy would not meet him fairly, swerved his horse to the right just as the other was doing likewise, dodged sliding beaver's thrust, and with his spear gave him a glancing blow on the forehead that laid open the skin, but failed to pierce the bone. but sliding beaver reeled in his saddle from the force of it, and a mighty shout went up from the pikuni, for they thought he would fall from his horse.
he recovered his seat, however, and fled far, far out across the plain. big lake, try as he would, could not overtake him. his followers fled as soon as they saw that he was running away, and the pikuni killed a number of them. the victory was without question with big lake; he had not only wounded sliding beaver in fair combat, but in the presence of a hundred of his warriors had proved him to be a coward.
"i'll bet he told his warriors he had broken his lance and had to flee, and that he did break it against a rock before his men overtook him!" my uncle exclaimed.
long afterwards we learned he had done that very thing.
the women presently called us all to eat. we washed and went inside, and tsistsaki said to my uncle, "chief, and chief-killer, be seated. eat the food of chiefs!" setting before him a huge dish of boiled boss ribs and a piece of berry pemmican as large as my two fists, she served pitamakan and me equally large portions of the rich food, and gave us cups of strong coffee and slices of sour-dough bread. we ate with tremendous appetite, having been up so long, but i could see that my uncle was worried about something; i surmised what it was before he said: "well, thomas, our troubles begin. without doubt sliding beaver's followers are cached down there in the grove. i dare not take the men to work this morning."
"what did he say?" pitamakan asked tsistsaki. she told him.
"i can see no help for it," said my uncle; "the men must remain in camp to-day, for those cut-throats are doubtless in the grove lying in wait."
"yes, and they may remain there more than one day; they may hold up our work many days," tsistsaki put in.
just then we heard a woman cry, "oh, look! look! the cut-throats are going!"
we all ran outside and looked where she was pointing. below the mouth of the musselshell, the missouri bent toward the south and swept the base of a high, cut bluff. the enemy were ascending it, heading, apparently, for the next bottom below. we counted seventeen men, about the number that we thought there should be.
"ha! all is well!" my uncle cried. "men, finish your breakfast and let us get to work!"
we went back to our lodge, and when tsistsaki had poured us fresh coffee pitamakan said to my uncle: "far thunder, those cut-throats could have sneaked away without our knowing it. i believe that they wanted us to see them going. why? because they intend to sneak back, perhaps to-day, maybe to-morrow, and surprise the men when they are working down there in the timber."
abbott had come in. my uncle turned to him and said: "you heard what he said. what do you think about it? what do you advise?"
"well, how would it do for thomas and pitamakan to go down and watch that trail running over the bluff and on down the river, and for me to watch the breaks of the musselshell and its valley above the grove? then, if the cut-throats should come sneaking back, either the boys or i would discover them in time to warn you and the men."
"you have said it!" my uncle exclaimed. "you boys, take some middle-of-the-day food, saddle your horses, and go watch that trail!"
"do i ride is-spai-u?" i asked.
"not to-day. ride the men's horses, you two. any old plug is fast enough to keep out of the way of a war party on foot."
pitamakan and i were not long in getting off. we rode down through the head of the grove, crossed the musselshell and went on, not upon the trail that the enemy had followed, but above it along the steep bad-land slope, until we could see the whole length of the trail from the junction of the two rivers on down into the next bottom, where there was a thin fringe of cottonwoods and willows.
"the gods are with us; they make the animals do scout work for us!" pitamakan exclaimed.
"i am wholly of the opinion that the cut-throats are upon their homeward way," i said, "and that they will return with a couple of hundred warriors and try to wipe us out!"
"yes, sooner or later we are in for a fight with them. but something tells me we are not yet through with sliding beaver's men."
we sprang to our feet. the west wind brought plainly to our ears the sound of shots and yells up in the big grove and the frightened cries of women in our camp above it.
"there! what did i tell you!" pitamakan exclaimed.
"how in the world could they have got back in there without our knowing it?" i cried.
the steamboat refuses to stop
"our men are pursuing them! we've got them! come on!" pitamakan shouted back to me.
we were perhaps a hundred yards from the foot of the bluff, and on our right, about the same distance off, was the cutbank of the river. we rode on faster than ever and saw the two men crouch, one with ready bow and the other with pointed gun. then, as we arrived at the foot of the slope, they suddenly sprang up and retreated out of our sight, and pitamakan yelled again to me, "we've got them! come on!"
our horses panted up the slope, groaning and grunting their protests at every whack of our ropes. we topped the rise, and pitamakan's horse shied at a couple of robes lying close to the trail. beyond, a couple of hundred yards away, we saw my uncle and his men running toward us; he stopped at sight of us and signed, "go out! they went down off the end of the bluff!"
we loped to the end of the bank and looked down. it was not a perpendicular bluff; it sloped to the river at an angle of about eighty degrees. two fresh streaks in the dark and crumbling surface showed where the cut-throats had slid down into the water.
we looked out upon the swift-running river, but could not see the men. presently they appeared in the center fully three hundred yards downstream, swimming swiftly and powerfully toward the far shore. we sprang from our horses in order to take steady aim at them, but both dived before we could fire. holding our weapons ready, we watched eagerly for them to reappear. but, incredible as it may seem, we never saw them again until they emerged on the shore five hundred yards below. they turned and waved their arms at us derisively, and then slowly walked into the willows that lined the edge of the river.
"oh, how disappointed i am! when they turned back from us there at the top of the rise, i was sure that i should soon count another coup," pitamakan lamented.
we turned now to meet the men who were hurrying toward us and who were almost winded by their steep climb. "where are they?" my uncle gasped.
"across the river!" i answered.
"abbott, no doubt, quieting the women," said my uncle, and added in blackfoot so that pitamakan would understand, "well, they killed the curlew! shot him in the back of the head, poor fellow!"
"poor louis! his troubles are over," i said. i was sorry that we were never again to hear him bewailing in his falsetto voice the loss of his pension and his endless other worries.
my uncle went on to explain to us just what had happened. the assiniboins had climbed out of the valley in plain view of us, leaving two of their number, who were probably near relatives of sliding beaver, to avenge the chief's death. those two had lain concealed in the thick willows at the upper end of the chopping. arriving in the timber, all of our men except louis, who had gone farther up in the grove to trim and cut into proper lengths a cottonwood that he had previously felled, had begun loading logs on the wagons. then a gun had boomed right behind louis; he had toppled over, dead, and the two cut-throats had rushed out to scalp him. the men had fired and had driven them back into the willows before they had accomplished their purpose, and they had run toward the river trail with my uncle and some of his men after them.
it was evident that the two had not seen or heard pitamakan and me ride past the head of the grove toward the river trail; we believed that it had been planned to kill as many of our men in the grove as they could, and to decoy us down the river, where we might be ambushed by the main party.
by the time we got back into the grove the men who had been left with the teams had dug a grave for poor louis, and one of them had been to camp with the news of his passing. we buried him while his woman mourned for him and the other women cried in sympathy.
my uncle had the men knock off work early that afternoon so that the horses should have ample time to eat before we brought them into the stockade for the night. then, while waiting for our evening meal, my uncle, abbott, pitamakan, and i held a war council out by the river-bank, where the men would not overhear our talk. they were a timid lot, french engagés all of them, and we did not want them to suspect how serious we thought our situation to be.
"the older i grow the less sense i have! i should have known better than to come down here with these few timid engagés to build a fort upon the most traveled war trail in the country," said my uncle. "i should have had ten--yes, twenty--more men. i shall send by the next up-river boat for all the men that can be engaged in fort benton."
"yes, we are in a risky position," said abbott. "this war party may be right back at us to-night; they may keep hanging round until they get more of us. if they have started home, they will be coming again as fast as they can get here with a big war party. we do need a lot more men, but i doubt whether even ten more can be engaged in fort benton."
"far thunder! almost-brother! listen to me!" pitamakan exclaimed. "not uselessly are we members of the pikuni; we have but to let our people know what danger we are in, and a hundred of them will come to help us as fast as their horses can carry them. they are just two days' ride from fort benton at their camp on bear river. send for them, far thunder, and we will do our best to survive the dangers here until they join us."
"ha! that is a life-saving plan you have in that good head of yours! i will get a letter about it ready right away; a steamboat may turn the bend down there at any moment! carroll and steell will lose no time in getting a messenger off to camp for us!"
"one more thing," abbott interposed as my uncle rose to leave us. "if those cut-throats are going to sneak back into the grove again to-night and attack us, we have to know it. i propose that these two boys and i stand watch down there until morning."
my uncle agreed to that, and we went in to eat supper.
more than once during the night our hearts went thumpety-thump at the approach of dim and shadowy objects, but the objects always proved to be elk or deer. pitamakan watched the river trail, i the breaks from the middle edge of the grove; abbott had his stand at the upper end. along toward morning i got a real scare when an animal that i thought was a stray buffalo proved to be a big grizzly coming straight toward me. i did not know what to do. if i ran, he would probably chase me; if i fired at him, i might only wound him--it was too dark to shoot accurately. i looked about for a tree small enough to climb, saw one, and was on the point of running to it, when the bear turned off sharply and i heard him slosh through the river.
we maintained our watch until my uncle came down with the men in the morning and stationed some of them to take our places. we thus had only six men at work; at that rate we should be all summer and winter building the fort! as we three were starting toward camp, my uncle told us that tsistsaki was to stand watch there over the picketed horses and that we were to sleep as long as we could.
at about four o'clock in the afternoon, tsistsaki roused us from our heavy sleep with the news that the smoke of a steamboat was in sight down the river. springing from our couches and running outside, we saw the black column of smoke about two miles away, and i went down into the grove to notify my uncle. he hurried back to camp with me and got ready his letter to carroll and steell, and put it into a sack with a stone, so that he could throw it aboard; then we all went out to the bank of the river and waited for the boat to come in close at our hail. it presently rounded the bend a mile or more below and headed up the center of the broad, straight stretch. how interested i was in watching it, this freighter from far st. louis! it had left the city only thirty or forty days before; what a lot we could learn of the news in the states if we could have a chat with its crew! i said as much to abbott, and he exclaimed, "oh, shucks! who wants to know about the hide-bound, cut-and-dried, two-penny affairs and doings in the states! here is where life is real life! why, a fellow can get more excitement here in a day than in a lifetime back there!"
the steamboat came steadily on against the swift current, and as soon as it had passed the bar below the mouth of the musselshell we fired several shots, and pitamakan waved his blanket to attract the attention of the captain and the pilot; but the boat never changed its course, and after a few moments of anxious suspense my uncle exclaimed, "is it possible that the captain does not intend to come in to us? fire a couple more shots! pitamakan, wave your blanket again."
we fired, waved our blanket and arms, and shouted. the crew on the lower deck and a few passengers on the hurricane deck came to the rail and waved greeting to us, and the man standing beside the pilot, evidently the captain, stuck his head out of the side window of the wheelhouse and looked at us, but still the boat held its course well over toward the farther shore; the captain intended to pay no attention to our signals. that he should not do so was almost unbelievable! my uncle turned red with anger. "the hounds! they are going to pass me! me! a company man! that captain shall smart for this! can you make out the name?"
i read the name on the wheelhouse. "it is the pittsburgh," i told him.
"ha! that explains it," he said. "it is not a company boat. this is its first trip up the river. the captain is sure a mean man; he will never get any of my custom!"
"but, wesley, seems to me you've just got to get that letter aboard," said abbott.
"yes, i have to! it can be done, and it must! thomas, pitamakan, saddle up, you two, chase that boat, and when it ties up for the night--"
"i had better go with them, don't you think? there's no telling what they may run up against," abbott said to him.
my uncle scratched his chin and frowned as he always did when perplexed, and after some thought exclaimed, "well, i can't let the three of you go! the men down there in the timber are about as timid a set of sheep as ever was. no, abbott, you'll have to help me here, and the boys must do the best they can."
pitamakan ran for the horses. i did not ask whether i were to ride is-spai-u; i just brought him in and put the saddle on him. pitamakan saddled my runner, for, as you know, his fast horse had had his shoulder gashed by a bullet. my uncle handed me the letter and told us to be very cautious, but to get it aboard the boat at any cost. tsistsaki came running out and handed us some sandwiches, and we were off.
the upper missouri valley is the worst country in all the west for the rider. it is fine enough going in the wooded or grassy bottoms of varying lengths, but between the bottoms are steep slopes and ridges that break abruptly off into the winding river, and that are so seamed with coulees, many of them with quicksand beds, that they are well-nigh impassable.
i did not intend that we should follow the valley until obliged to do so. on leaving camp we rode on the plain and followed it from breakhead to breakhead. occasionally we got a glimpse of the valley far below and of the smoke of the steamboat puffing its way up the river. we were soon in the lead of it, for, while we were making seven or eight miles an hour on a straight course, it was going no faster than that on a course as crooked as the body of a writhing snake. from the time we topped the rise above camp we were continually pushing into great herds of buffaloes and antelopes.
on and on we rode until the lowering sun warned us that we must keep close track of the progress of the steamboat. we turned down a little way into the breaks, looking for a well-worn game trail to follow, and soon found one. i never went along one of those bad-land trails without wondering how far back in the remote past it had been broken by a band of thirsty buffaloes heading down from the plains to water. since that time how many, many thousands of them had traveled it!
when part way down the long incline, and still all of two miles from the river, we came to a sharp turn in the ridge, and from it saw the smoke of the steamboat, not, as we had expected, somewhere down the river, but all of three or four miles above the point where we should enter the bottom.
"almost-brother, we have some hard traveling to do!" i said.
"we each have good legs. when our horses fail us, we will use them," pitamakan answered.
"we shall have to make a quick run for it!" pitamakan called back to me.
the horses slipped and frantically pawed upward in a strenuous effort to avoid plunging down into the river. we made it and, gasping for breath, found ourselves upon the gently sloping ground of the next bottom.
"almost we went into the river!" pitamakan exclaimed.
"don't talk about it!" i replied.
"the under-water people almost got us!"
"oh, do be quiet! mount and lead on, or let me lead!" i cried.
we went on up through that bottom, across a point, through another bottom and over a very rough point seamed with coulees. in the next bottom i called a halt. "the boat must be somewhere close ahead. we can no longer travel outside the timber; from here on we have to see both shores of the river--"
"it will be impossible for us to see the far shore," pitamakan broke in.
"of course. but the boat has lights burning all night long. we shall see them," i explained.
we mounted, and i took the lead into the timber close ahead. i let my horse pick his way, reining him only sufficiently to keep him close to the river and guiding myself by its sullen murmur. we groped our way through the timber of that bottom and of another; then from the next bare point we saw the lights of the boat some little distance up the river against the blackness of the north shore.
we rode through a belt of cottonwoods and some willows to the head of the bottom and then out upon a sandy shore right opposite the boat. white though it was, we could see nothing of it except its two lights, and they were so faint that we knew the river was of great width. we dismounted, and i told pitamakan that i would fire my rifle to attract the attention of the watchman, and then shout to him, as loudly as possible, to send a small boat across for us.
i fired the shot; it boomed loudly across the water and echoed sharply against the other shore. "ahoy, there! we want to come aboard!" i shouted, waited for an answer, and got none. again i shouted, with the same result.
"now you fire your rifle!" i told pitamakan.
he fired it, and then we did get an answer. the flash of a dozen guns for an instant illuminated the white paint of the boat, and with the dull booming of them we heard several bullets strike in the trees behind us!
two crows raise their right hands
we got back into the timber in no time.
"the crazy ones! they think that we are enemies!"
"well," i said in answer to this dismayed exclamation of pitamakan's, "you know what we have to do now; swim across with our letter."
"and be shot as soon as we are seen!"
"not a shot will be fired at us. i'll see to that. come, let us picket the horses outside the timber and hunt for a couple of dry logs for a raft," i told him.
let me tell you that it was no fun blundering along that shore in the darkness, testing the logs we stumbled against for their dryness and trying to roll them into the water, always with the fear of feeling rattlesnake fangs burn into our hands. at last we got two logs of fair size into the water side by side and lashed them firmly together with willow withes. lashing our clothing and weapons on top of a pile of brush in the center, we pushed out into the current--but not until pitamakan had called upon his gods to protect us from the dread under-water people. he clung to the front end of the unwieldy logs with one hand, pawed the water with the other, and kicked rapidly. i did likewise at the rear of the raft, but for all our efforts we could make the raft go toward the other shore little faster than the current would take it.
it was absolutely certain that the raft would not waterlog and sink during the time that we had use for it, yet it was with feelings of dread and suspense that we worked our way well out into the center of the stream. then pitamakan suddenly yelled to me: "the under-water people! they are after us! kick hard! hard!"
"oh, no! you are mistaken!" i told him.
"i am sure that they are after us!" he cried. "i touched one of them with my hand, and he hit me in my side. o sun, pity us! help us to survive this danger!"
"take courage! so long as we cling to the logs they can't drag us down," i told him.
"oh, you don't understand about these under-water people! they can do terrible things. they are medicine."
he said no more, nor did i. it was useless for me to tell him that he had encountered a big catfish or sturgeon swimming lazily near the surface.
from where we pushed out into the river to the point where we landed must have been all of a mile. we dragged the raft out upon the sand as far as we could in case we should want to use it again and then put on our clothes and started off up the shore. in a little while, looking out through the brush and timber, we saw the ghostly outline of the steamboat close upon our left. silently we stole to the edge of the sloping bank and looked down upon it. a reflector lantern lighted the lower deck and the boilers, flanked with cordwood, and there was a light shining through the windows of the engine-room; but no one was in sight, not even the watchman. i believed that a number of men were on guard and did not intend to take any chances with them. i whispered to pitamakan that the time had not come for us to make our presence known, and we sat down right where we were in the brush.
presently a big clock somewhere abaft the boilers struck the hour of three, and a tall, lank, black-whiskered man came out into the light of the lower deck and began to arouse men sitting or lying behind the rows of cordwood. "it is three o'clock," i heard him snarl. "git a move on you! light the fires under them boilers!"
three or four men sprang to obey the command, and another went up to the hurricane deck to arouse the cook and his helpers.
"hi, there, mate, throw out the gangplank and let us aboard!" i shouted.
black whiskers jumped as if he had been shot and dodged behind a boiler; the men crouched in the shelter of the cordwood.
"don't be afraid and don't shoot at us again. let us aboard!" i said.
"who be you?" the mate shouted from his shelter. "git down there into the light and show yourself!"
i told pitamakan to remain where he was, and, going down to the edge of the shore where the light streamed upon me, i explained that i was thomas fox, that i had an indian with me, and that i had a letter to deliver into the captain's care.
"sounds fishy to me," the mate began; then from the upper deck a deep voice called, "slim, you let that boy and his friend on board! i know him!" and to me, "hello, thomas, my boy! i'm dressing. come up to my room as soon as you get aboard and tell me all about it!"
"that i will, mr. page," i answered. i knew as soon as he spoke that it was henry page, long a pilot for the american fur company, and now, of course, piloting boats for the independents.
out came the gangplank. i called to pitamakan, and we went aboard and straight up to mr. page, while the mate and his men stared after us. in a few words i explained why we were there.
"i knew," he said, "it was your uncle wesley and his outfit there at the mouth of the musselshell. i learned at fort union that he is starting a fort there, but the captain wouldn't let me turn in when you signaled. i'll bet you had a rough time coming up here and getting across the river." then he lowered his voice. "this captain--wiggins is his name--is the meanest steamboat man that ever headed up this river!"
"maybe he will not set us across the river, nor even deliver the letter," i hazarded.
"give me the letter. i'll deliver it, and i'll put you across right now," he replied, and led the way down to the lower deck and ordered a boat put into the water.
on our way across i explained to our good friend the danger we were in from a grand attack upon us by the assiniboins and how urgent it was that the pikuni should get our call for help without delay.
"well, i believe i have good news for you and your uncle," he said. "i happened to hear in fort union that the assiniboins are encamped over on the assiniboin river in canada; so they are farther from the mouth of the musselshell than your pikuni over on the marias river are. i feel sure that your friends will be with you in good time for the big battle, if there is to be one."
"in that letter to carroll and steell that you have my uncle also asks them to send him any loose men that can be engaged in fort benton. i hope that your captain will give them passage and land them at our place."
"he has to land passengers wherever they wish to go. i'll try, myself, to engage some men for you," he replied.
then we struck the shore and with a few last words parted from our good friend.
"it wouldn't do any harm to have a short sleep before we start back," said pitamakan.
"no sleep for me until i strike my couch in our lodge," i told him.
by that time day was breaking. we went out through the timber to our horses and found that we had picketed them upon really good grass and plenty of it. we saddled them and watered them at the river, and as we rode away from it the steamboat slipped her moorings and went on upstream.
without adventure upon the way we arrived in camp at noon just as the men were returning to it for their dinner.
"did you deliver the letter?" my uncle shouted eagerly.
"we did!" i shouted.
later, while we were eating, i told the adventures of the night while pitamakan held tsistsaki and the other women spellbound with his description of the dangers that we had encountered. they made no comment other than a casual "kyai-yo!" when he told of the steamboat men's firing at us, but his description of our swim and his encounter with the under-water person brought forth cries of horror.
my listeners were loud in their denunciation of the steamboat captain. my uncle vowed that the pittsburgh should never carry a bale of his furs to st. louis or bring up freight for him.
"well, boys," my uncle said to the men as they were starting back to work, "there's this much about it: help is sure coming to us. we'll just peg along the best we can and trust to luck that all will be well with us."
abbott was asleep, having been on guard all night. pitamakan and i soon lay down and slept. at supper-time we got up and had a refreshing bath in the river, where abbott joined us, and toward dusk we three went to guard the grove during the night. my uncle arranged with the engagés to stand watch in the barricade by turns, for he was completely worn out by his day-and-night work and had to have one night of complete rest.
according to my uncle's plan of the fort, three hundred and ten logs, twenty feet long and a foot in diameter, were required for the walls and the roof supports, and for the two bastions ninety logs twelve feet long were required. of that large number only a few more than a hundred had been hauled out. with our present force we could not possibly build the fort in less than three months. at abbott's suggestion that he build upon a much smaller scale, my uncle had replied, "no, sir! this place calls for a real fort, a commodious fort. i am going to have it or none at all."
on that day pitamakan and i slept until noon and after dinner saddled is-spai-u and my runner and rode out for meat, i, of course, upon the black.
off to the south lay country unknown to me. "come! let us ride out upon discovery," i said to pitamakan.
"i knew that was in your mind by the way you used your knife on our kills," he replied.
we rode out upon the west rim of the valley, following it to the mouth of the sacajawea creek, which we crossed, then again along the rim for perhaps five miles to the top of a flat butte from which we had a wonderful view of the country. pitamakan pointed out to me where flat willow creek and box elder creek, at the nearest point about forty miles to the south of us, broke into the musselshell from the snowy mountains. both streams, he said, were from their mouths to their heads just one beaver pond after another.
we had, of course, disturbed numerous bands of buffaloes and antelopes along our way up the rim, and now, turning down into the valley of the musselshell on our homeward course, we alarmed more of them.
"if any war parties are cached along here in the timber," said pitamakan, "these running herds are putting them upon their guard!"
"let us keep well out from the timber," i proposed.
i had no more than spoken when two men came walking slowly out from a grove about two hundred yards ahead of us, each with his right hand raised above his head, the sign for peace.
"ha! maybe they mean that, and maybe they are setting a trap for us; we must be cautious," said pitamakan.
we advanced slowly until we were about a hundred yards from the signalers and brought our horses to a stand.
"who are you?" i signed to them.
one of them, dropping his bow and arrows, extended his arms and rapidly raised and lowered them several times in imitation of the wings of a bird, the sign for the crow tribe. then he waved his right hand above his shoulder, the query sign that i had made.
"we want nothing to do with them," pitamakan said to me hurriedly.
i signed that i was white.
"the rider with you, who is he? where are you camped? let us be friends and go together to your camp," the crow signed. then his companion added, "come, let us meet and sit and smoke a peace pipe. we are two, you are two. it will be good for the four of us to be friends and smoke."
"what a lie! now i am sure they want to trap us! signing to us that they are but two! close behind them the timber is full of crows!" pitamakan muttered.
"what shall we do?" i asked him. "cross the river, ride off beyond the breaks, where they can't see us, and then turn homeward?"
"it would be useless to do that. they are bound north and will see our camp; we may as well make a straight ride to it."
"well, then, we go," i said and pressed a heel against is-spai-u's side.
away we went, circling out from the grove; and our horses had not made four jumps when a number of crows--at least twenty, we thought--sprang from the timber and discharged their few guns at us while the bow-and-arrow men raised the crow war cry and uselessly flourished their weapons. several of the bullets whizzed uncomfortably close to us.
pitamakan was about to return their fire when i checked him. "don't fire! we have enough trouble to face!" i cried.
our swift horses carried us out of their range before they could load and fire their guns again.
"more trouble for us, i'm sure!" my uncle exclaimed, as we halted our sweating horses in front of the barricade just before sunset.
"yes, a war party of twenty or twenty-five crows fired at us. they seem to be heading this way," i replied, and told him and the men all about our meeting them, while pitamakan answered the women's questions.
when i had finished, the engagés, abbott excepted, of course, wore pretty long faces. they all went into henri robarre's lodge as we, with abbott, answered tsistsaki's call to supper.
we had barely finished eating, when robarre came to the door of our lodge and asked my uncle to step outside. we all went out and found the men lined up near the passageway in the barricade.
"huh! still more trouble!" my uncle muttered. then to them he said, "well, my men, what is it?"
they looked at one another and at us hesitatingly, and several of them nudged henri robarre. after much urging he stepped forward and said to my uncle:
"sare, m'sieu' reynard! we hare mos' respec' hask dat we have hour discharge. dat we hembark for fort benton on ze firs' boat dat weel take hus."
"ha! you want to quit, do you? what is the trouble? am i not treating you well?"
"wait! they are to have a big surprise," said tsistsaki and turned from us back to the lodges.
"sare, m'sieu' reynard," henry continued, "eet ees no you. you hare one fine mans. les sauvages, assiniboins, crows, many more zat wee' come, he are ze troub', m'sieu'."
"but you can't go back on your contracts!" my uncle exclaimed. "you all agreed to come down here and work for me a year; you signed contracts to that effect."
"sare, honneur, we hare no sign eet ze pap' for fight heem, les sauvages. we no sign eet ze pap' for work all days and watch for les sacrés sauvages hall ze nights. pretty soon we hall gets keel, m'sieu'. we hare no pour le combat; we hare jus' pauvre cordeliers, engagés in ze forts. m'sieu', you weel let hus go?"
i knew by the set expression of my uncle's face what his answer was to be, but he never gave it. out came the women; their eyes were blazing, long braids were streaming, and they carried lodge-fire sticks in their hands. they charged upon their men, crying, "cowards! you shall not desert our chief! stay in the lodge and do our work; we'll build the fort! give us your clothing; you shall wear our gowns!"
never shall i forget that scene! the poor engagés shrank from the attack. wild-eyed, they begged the women to desist, all the while getting painful whacks from their sticks and the most terrible tongue-lashing that could be given in the blackfoot language! my uncle and abbott laughed at their plight, and pitamakan and i actually rolled upon the ground in a perfect frenzy of joy. when, at last, we sat up and wiped our eyes, there were the engagés heading for their lodges, and each one was followed by his woman, still shrieking out her candid opinion of him.
"well, i guess that settles it!" abbott exclaimed.
it did! when my uncle called the men together and gave out the detail of the night watch, not one of them made objection, and never again did they ask for their discharge.
with the setting of the sun, abbott, pitamakan, and i went down into the grove to our accustomed place, abbott at the head of the grove and we at its east side. we fully expected that the crow war party, repeating the tactics of the assiniboins, would sneak into the grove during the night with the intention of making a surprise attack upon the men when they resumed work in it in the morning. it was agreed that, if they did come, we were to withdraw without letting them know, if possible, that we had seen them. that would mean, as my uncle remarked with a heavy sigh, that the grove would be given over to the enemy for an indefinite time, during which work on the fort would, of course, be suspended. pitamakan said that, in his opinion, the war party, having had a good view of is-spai-u and doubtless believing him to be the wonderful buffalo-runner they had heard about, would be far more likely to try to sneak him out of our camp than they would be to ambush us in the grove.
to our great astonishment the night passed without the crows appearing either at the grove or at the barricade. we did not know what to think. was it possible, abbott asked, that the party was homeward bound to the crow country across the yellowstone after an unsuccessful raid north of the missouri?
"war parties seldom go home on foot," pitamakan well replied.
the third day after our meeting the crows came. after watering and picketing the saddle-horses close to the barricade, the men hitched up the teams as usual and came into the grove, and pitamakan, abbott, and i went to camp, had our morning meal, and as usual took to our couches. we had not been asleep more than three hours, when tsistsaki came into the lodge and shook us by turns until we were wide-awake. "take your gun and hurry out!" she said with suppressed excitement. "several clumps of sagebrush are moving upon us!"
abbott fires into a clump of sagebrush
"what do you mean? sagebrush can't move," i said to her.
"oh, yes, it can when enemies are behind it, pushing it along!" she cried. "hurry! follow me and stoop low so that you cannot be seen over the top of the barricade."
tsistsaki led us to the south side of the barricade, and, lining us up beside her to look through the narrow space between the top log and the one next it, told us to watch the sagebrush beyond the picketed saddle-horses.
at the same time pitamakan exclaimed: "she is right! sagebrush can move. behind every one of those tall bushes is an enemy!"
"sneaking in after is-spai-u!" i said.
"there are twenty or more of them. if they knew that we are but three guns here, they would rush in upon us in no time!" said abbott.
"oh, you talk, talk! quick! do something! save is-spai-u!" tsistsaki hoarsely whispered.
"if we rush out there," said pitamakan, "the enemy will know that they are discovered and will charge in and fight us for the horses. almost-brother, you and i will wander out there, just as if we were going to water the horses. the enemy will surely think that is our intention, but we will lead them toward the river, then bring them round the north side of the barricade and into it."
"now, that is a sure wise plan. go ahead, you two, and meanwhile tsistsaki and i will get the loud-mouthed gun across to this south-side firing-place," said abbott.
there was here, as in a number of places round the barricade, a brush-covered space through which the six-pounder could be pointed. the women of the engagés were in their lodges, and tsistsaki whispered to us that she had not told them of her discovery for fear some of them would make an outcry.
pitamakan and i sneaked back into the lodge for our blankets and put them on, first, however, sticking our rifles under our belts and pressing them close along the left side and leg; then we walked carelessly out through the passageway of the barricade. we were talking and laughing, but you may be sure our laughter was forced. when we were twenty or thirty feet from the barricade he said to me, "let us pause here and have a look at the country."
we halted and looked first to the north, then down to the grove, from which both teams were emerging with wagons loaded with logs. there were three engagés with the outfit. i pointed to them. "what would they do if they knew what is ahead of them?"
"they would fly! their fear would be so great that it would give them power to grow wings instantly!" pitamakan grimly answered.
fear! well, i was afraid, and so was my almost-brother. who would not be afraid in such a situation--just three of us against twenty or more enemies watching and planning how to get away with our horses and our scalps, too?
we turned to face the south and scrutinized the tall, thick clumps of sagebrush standing among the shorter, scattered growth. they never moved, not so much as a quiver of their slender, pale-green tops.
pitamakan broke out with a quick-time dance-song of his people and danced a few steps to it as we neared the horses. i sauntered up to is-spai-u, he to his fast runner, and we unfastened and coiled their ropes. leading them, we moved on to one after another of the other four horses, ever with watchful eyes upon those clumps of sage, the nearest of which was not more than a hundred yards away. we feared every moment to see them thrown down and the enemy come charging upon us; but at last we had all the horses in lead and with fast-beating hearts and rising hopes started toward the river, never once looking back, much though we wanted to. pitamakan seemed to know my thought, for he said cheerily: "never mind; you don't need to look back. if they make a rush, great hider and tsistsaki will shout before they can make two jumps toward us."
ha! what a long, long way those few yards were to the shelter of the stockade. at last we rounded it. breathing freer, we passed along the north side, led the horses in through the passageway, turned them loose, and put up the bars across it. then we pretended to go into our lodge, but crouched away from the doorway and sneaked over to the two watchers kneeling at either side of the cannon and looking out across the flat.
"you made it! my! that little song and dance of pitamakan's, that sure fooled 'em! he is some actor, that boy," abbott said.
"well, what are we to do now--fire the cannon at them? give them a big scare?" i asked.
"i don't know what to say. if only far thunder were here--" abbott began.
"he is coming. look!" said tsistsaki.
sure enough, he was on his way to dinner with three men, leaving three to guard the grove, as usual. the teams were almost to the site of the fort. i went out to meet them and told the men to take the horses into the barricade.
"but the horses, they should be heat ze grass. yes?" one of them said, and all looked at me questioningly.
"well, maybe we shall have a fight before we eat. a war party is cached out there in the sagebrush," i replied; and they shrank back as if i had struck them. at the same time i heard some slight commotion within the barricade. at abbott's suggestion tsistsaki was warning the women of our impending trouble and commanding them to make no outcry.
"shut your mouth!" i hissed to one of the teamsters, who with upflung arms was beginning to make great outcry. "not a word from any of you now. just get those horses inside; then pretend to go to your lodges, but sneak across to the south side and remain there."
i stood by the passageway until the others arrived, and when i had told them, too, what to do, my uncle said to me as we went crouching in across the barricade, "the war party is undoubtedly the crow outfit that you met the other day."
we joined the others, and abbott said to him, "we've had a pretty close call, wesley."
"just where are the rascals? let me see them!" my uncle demanded. he laughed grimly when we had pointed out to him the tall brush here and there concealing them. "i'll bet that they are some tired, lying there in the hot sun and straining themselves to keep the brush upright and motionless!" after a moment of thought he added, "tsistsaki, bring me a couple of firers for this loud-mouth gun."
"i have them already," she answered and handed him a fuse. he stuck it into the touch-hole of the cannon and poured some fine powder from his horn in round it. "i will attend to this," he said to us then. "now, you, henri robarre! you being about as poor a shot as ever cordelled up this river, you fire at the foot of one of those bunches of tall sage, just to start this surprise party. you others then do the best you can."
he waited until tsistsaki had interpreted his words to pitamakan and then told henri to fire. henri did so. none of us saw where the ball struck, and i doubt whether he himself knew where he aimed. the loud boom of the gun echoed across the valley and died away; the smoke from it lifted, but none of the enemy made a move; not one of their shelters even quivered.
"just what i expected! abbott, let us see what you can do," said my uncle.
abbott stood up, head and shoulders above the barricade, took quick aim and fired at a bunch of the brush; down it fell as the man behind it let go his hold upon it and with loud yells of warning or command to his companions ran straight away from us. at that all the others sprang from their places of concealment like so many jumping-jacks, and those with guns fired at us before they turned to run. when we fired at them three went down at once, and two more staggered on a little way before they fell. at that our engagés took heart and yelled defiance at the enemy as they hastily began reloading their guns. i heard abbott calling himself names for having failed to kill the man behind the brush that he had fired into.
the enemy, twenty or more of them, were drawing together as they went leaping through the sagebrush, straight up the valley; and presently they halted and faced about and with yells of hatred and defiance fired several more desultory shots at us. that was the opportunity for which my uncle was waiting. he hastily sighted the cannon at them and lighted the fuse. the old gun went off with a tremendous roar, and with wild shrieks of fear the enemy ran on faster than ever, if that were possible--all but two whom the grapeshot had struck.
"help, here! powder and a solid shot!" my uncle yelled.
those, too, tsistsaki had ready for us. abbott and i rammed the charges in; tsistsaki inserted a fresh fuse. we wheeled the gun round into place, and my uncle again sighted it and touched it off. we waited and waited, and at last saw a cloud of dust and bits of sagebrush puff into the air close to the left of the fleeing enemy. as one man they leaped affrightedly to the right and headed for the mouth of a coulee that entered the valley from the west. before we could load the cannon again they had turned up into the coulee and were gone from our sight.
"well," my uncle exclaimed, "i guess that settles our trouble with that outfit!" almost at the same moment a heated argument arose among our engagés, every one of whom asserted that he had killed an enemy. "here, you, the way for you all to settle your claims is to go out there and show which one of the enemy you each downed!"
not one of them made answer to that; not one of them wanted to go out there, perhaps to face a wounded and desperate man. pitamakan stared at them, muttered something about cowardly dog-faces, and leaped over the barricade. abbott, my uncle, tsistsaki, and i followed his move, but we had gone out some distance before the engagés began to follow, moving slowly well in our rear.
we, of course, did not proceed without due caution. the very first one of the dead that we approached was one of the two crows who had tried to entice pitamakan and me into a peace smoke with them, which would have been our last. we were glad enough that he was one of the dead.
"i killed him," said pitamakan as we passed on. "i killed him; he dropped when i fired, but i cannot count coup upon him."
"why not?" tsistsaki asked.
"because of that!" he replied, turning and pointing to the engagés. they had come to the body of the crow and three were pretending to have fired the bullet that laid the enemy low. "i cannot prove that i killed him," he added sorrowfully.
now the three engagés who had been left on guard in the grove came to us, out of breath and excited, and my uncle promptly ordered them back to their places. we made the round of the dead, the engagés taking their weapons and various belongings; then we went back to the barricade for dinner, first, however, watering and picketing the hungry horses. later on, when the teams were again hitched, the engagés drove about and gathered up the dead and consigned them to the depths of the big river.
that evening as pitamakan, abbott, and i were preparing to go down into the grove for our nightly watch the engagés were celebrating our victory of the day. they had all assembled in henri robarre's lodge, singing quaint songs, boasting of their bravery and accurate shooting, and calling loudly for the women to prepare a little feast, for they were going to dance. the women! they were gathered in another lodge, laughing at their men. otter woman, henri robarre's wife, who was a wonderful mimic, was making the others ache from laughing as she repeated her man's futile protests and his gait when she had driven him home from the gathering of the men who requested their discharge.
"those women have a whole lot more sense than their men," abbott remarked.
the night passed quietly. late in the following afternoon, just after we three had ended our daily sleep, the women cried out that they could see the smoke from a down-river steamboat, and tsistsaki ran to the grove to let my uncle know of its coming.
he hurried up to the barricade and eagerly watched the approaching smoke. "we shall have help now; you boys will not have to stand night watch much longer. that old tub is bringing plenty of men!"
the boat soon rounded the bend above and drew in to our landing. two men leaped ashore, and the roustabouts threw their rolls of bedding after them. from the pilot-house henry page tossed out to us a weighted sack. "i'm sorry, wesley, that we couldn't get more men for you. there's a letter that explains it all!" he called. "well, keep up a good heart; your blackfeet will soon be with you. so long!" then the surly captain, standing beside him, rang some bells, page whirled his big wheel, and the boat went on. the two men came up the bank and greeted us. i had been so intent upon our few words with the pilot that i had not noticed who they were.
now i was glad when i saw the rugged, smooth-shaven faces of the tennessee twins, as they were called all up and down the river. the baxters, lem and josh, were independent bachelor trappers who roamed where they willed, despite the hostile war parties of various tribes that were ever trying to get their scalps. they seemed to bear charmed lives. as a rule the american fur company had not been friendly toward independent trappers, but those two men were so big-hearted and had done us so many favors that we all thought highly of them; and pierre chouteau himself had given orders to all the factors up and down the river that they were to be treated with every consideration.
"well, wesley, here we are," said lem baxter after we had shaken hands all round.
"you don't mean that you have come to work for me?" my uncle exclaimed.
"that's about the size of it," josh put in.
"you see, 't was this way," lem went on. "when we heard of the trouble you were in, and carroll and steell couldn't engage any men for you, we saw it were our plain duty to come down and lend you a hand."
"who said that we were in trouble?"
"why, that there steamboat captain, wiggins," lem answered. "you see, 't was this way: henry page bawled the captain out fer not allowin' him to put in here in answer to your hail. so to kind of play even the low-down sneak begins to blow about the battle you are expectin' to have with the assiniboins. yes, sir, makes a regular holler about it as soon as his boat ties up in front of the fort. well, i guess you know them french engagés. the minute they hear about the assiniboins carroll and steell can't hire nary a one of 'em for you."
"well, now, that wiggins man is a real friendly kind of chap, isn't he?" my uncle exclaimed. by the tone of his voice i knew that that captain was in for trouble when the two should meet.
"still, wesley, you're in luck," lem went on. "who but your own brother-in-law, white wolf, should happen to be in the fort when page delivered your letter to steell. as soon as he was told what was up he said to us, 'you tell far thunder that we shall all be with him for that battle with the cut-throats! tell him to look for us to come chargin' down by the crooked creek trail!' then he lit out for his camp as fast as he could go."
"ha! down sacajawea creek. they will cross the river at fort benton. down the north side would have been the shorter way," said my uncle.
"we mentioned that to him, and he answered that better time could be made on the south-side trail," said josh.
"and there you be! don't worry!" cried lem. "now, wesley, is it sartin sure that you plunked that there slidin' beaver?"
"his body is somewhere down there in the river!" i replied.
"you bet! wesley finished him!" abbott exclaimed.
"glory be! look how near that there cut-throat got me!" cried lem, and pointed to a bullet crease in the side of his neck.
"hurry! tell me the news they brought!" pitamakan demanded of me as we all turned toward the barricade. he fairly danced round me when he learned that his own father had taken word of our need to the pikuni and that the warriors would come to us as soon as possible by the south-side trail.
presently tsistsaki called us to supper. during the meal we told the twins all that had happened to us since we landed there at the mouth of the musselshell. then, having learned the details of our day-and-night watch, they declared that they wanted to stand watch in the grove that night and laughed when we said that we thought three men were needed to guard it.
we three were only too glad to let them have their way. however, we relieved the engagés from watch duty in the barricade, dividing the night between us, and they were therefore in good shape the next morning for a day of real work. beginning that day, they were all ordered to cut and haul logs while the rest of us performed what guard duty had been their share. in consequence the heaps of logs round the site of the fort grew rapidly, and we began to look forward to the day when we should begin work upon the walls. my uncle said that at least one side of the fort must soon be put up, in which to store the trade goods that would surely be landed for us within six weeks.
a day came soon, but not too soon for pitamakan and me, when the camp required more meat. i asked to be allowed to ride is-spai-u, but my uncle shook his head.
as we were saddling our horses, the men started for the grove and henri robarre called out to us: "eet is halways ze buf' dat you keel! why not sometames ze helk, ze deer, ze hantelopes?"
"kyai-yo!" tsistsaki exclaimed. "he knows that real meat is the best; it is only that he must be continually making objections that he talks that way. pay no attention to him; kill real meat for us as usual."
"oh, kill elk or deer along with the buffalo! kill some badgers if they want them! anything for peace in camp!" my uncle exclaimed.
now, we did not want to ride into the brush-filled groves along the river in quest of elk and deer, for as likely as not we should be ambushed by some wandering war party. we therefore turned back through the grove in which the men were at work and thence went on down the big game trail running from the mouth of the musselshell down the missouri valley. where it entered the first of the narrow bottoms we turned off. we had gone no more than a couple of hundred yards when four bull elk rose out of a patch of junipers on the hill to our right and inquisitively stared at us. i slipped from my horse, took careful aim, and shot one of them.
we tethered our horses close to my kill and were butchering it when we were startled by a loud but distant hail and sprang for our rifles, which were leaning against some brush several steps away. we looked down into the bottom under us and there, just outside the narrow grove that fringed the river, we saw five indians standing all in a row.
"ha! another war party, and no doubt another invitation to a smoke that would be the end of us!" pitamakan exclaimed indignantly.
lame wolf prays to his raven
"ha! it is well-planned deception, but i shall take no chances with them. i am sure that the brush behind them is full of warriors!" pitamakan replied.
i somehow believed that for once he was mistaken, and when a moment later the five men started toward us, all making the peace sign and singing a strange, quaint, melancholy song, so weird, so strangely affecting, that it almost brought tears to my eyes, pitamakan himself said, "i was mistaken! they are men of peace! i believe that they are men of the earth-houses people."
we met the strangers at the foot of the slope. they continued their quaint song until we were face to face with them; then their leader, first making the sign that he was one of the earth-houses people, as the blackfeet call the mandans, embraced me and pitamakan, and so did the others, each in his turn.
"we are glad to meet you this good day," said the leader to me in the sign language. "we have often heard about you. we know that you are the fox, the young relative of far thunder. we know that your companion is the young pikuni, running eagle. we have come a long way to see and talk with far thunder. his camp is close by, there where the two rivers meet, is it not? yes? we are glad!"
"our hearts are the same as yours," i replied. "we are glad to meet you this good day. just up there we have killed an elk. wait for us until we have butchered it and loaded the meat upon our horses; then we will go with you to far thunder."
with due formality my uncle got out his huge pipe, filled it with a mixture of l'herbe and tobacco and passed it to the old leader of the party to light. the old man capped it with a coal from the fire, muttered a short prayer, and, blowing great mouthfuls of smoke to the four points of the compass, started it upon its journey round the circle. the mandans made no mention of the object of the visit to us, but said that, having heard from the men of the first down-river fire boat that my uncle was building a fort on the great war trail where it crossed big river, they had thought that a visit of peace should be paid to him. in turn, my uncle asked how the mandans were faring and told of our troubles with the crows and assiniboins. the news of the passing of sliding beaver was good news to them; they greeted it with loud clapping of hands and with broad smiles. "far thunder," their leader signed, "you must surely have strong medicine. the gods have been very good to you to give you the power to wipe out that terrible, bad man, worst of all the men of the cut-throat tribe. far thunder, for what you have done the earth-houses people owe you much!"
"i wish that they were all here, all your warriors, for i am expecting to have a big fight with the cut-throats!" my uncle signed.
"we have sent for the warriors of my people to hurry down here and help us, but fear that they will not arrive before the cut-throats appear," pitamakan put in.
"you are very generous. we will talk about that later. just now you are to eat. i see that the food is ready for you," my uncle replied; and tsistsaki passed to them plates piled with boiled meat, hard bread and dried-apple sauce, and huge bowls of sweetened coffee.
the men now came up from the grove for their dinner. in the afternoon our guests rested, and it was not until evening that we learned the real object of their visit to us. "far thunder," the old leader then signed, when we were all gathered in our lodge, "no doubt you wonder why we five old men have come the long way through dangerous country to enter your lodge. it is because we are old and are soon to die that we chose to take the place of young and useful men on a mission to you from our people, to bring you gifts and to ask a gift from you."
"ha! now i know what is coming; they are after is-spai-u!" pitamakan whispered.
"we all agreed that this plan should be followed. messengers were selected to take our decision to the spotted-horses people. and then--but wait, far thunder--"
the old man turned and spoke to his companions. they began to unwrap the bundles that they had carried and soon displayed to our admiring eyes a cream-white cow buffalo robe beautifully embroidered with porcupine quillwork of gorgeous colors upon its flesh side; a war suit of fine buckskin, quill embroidered and hung with white weasel skins; a fine shield fringed with eagle tail feathers; and a handsomely carved red stone pipe with feather and fur ornaments on its long stem. one by one the old leader took them as they were opened to view and impressively laid them upon the end of my uncle's couch. then, straightening up in his seat, he continued:
"those, far thunder, are gifts to you from your friends, the earth-houses people!
"the messengers were about to start to the camp of the spotted-horses people," he said, resuming his story. "then the first fire boat of the summer came back down the river, and we learned from its men that you and yours were coming down to the mouth of this little river, to this great war-trail crossing of big river, where you were to build a fort, and that you had with you your fast, black buffalo-runner. again we counseled together. this is what we said: 'far thunder is a man of generous heart. we will go to him with our trouble; we will ask him to give the one thing that will enable us to wipe out the shame that the spotted-horses people have put upon us.' far thunder, pity us! give us your black buffalo-runner!"
the eyes of all five of the old men were now upon my uncle, eyes full of wistful anxiety, and he hesitated not a moment to give his reply to their request, the one reply that he could make.
"my friends," he signed, "i must tell you about my black horse. a dying man gave him to me, the man who seized him in the far south country. with his last breath that man--you knew him, one horn--asked me to promise that i would always keep the horse. i promised. i called upon the sun to witness that i would keep my promise!"
the old men slumped down in their seats in utter dejection, and oh, how sorry we were for them! their long and dangerous journey, their gifts of their most valued possessions, were all for nothing!
finally, the old leader spoke a few words to the others; one by one they answered, and several of them spoke at some length and with increasing animation. we wondered what they were saying, in that strange, soft-sounding language. at last the old leader turned again to my uncle.
"i am glad that you will stay with us and help fight the cut-throats. these valuable things that you have laid here, you will take them back," my uncle replied.
"no! we give, but do not take back!"
it was all very affecting. there was a lump in my throat as i looked at those old men, simple-minded, kind-hearted, still eager in their old, old age to face once more their bitter enemies and, if need be, to die. tsistsaki threw her shawl over her head and cried a little in sympathy with them. they presently broke out in a cheerful song of war.
pitamakan and i took up our rifles and went out to our guard duty. "those ancient ones, what real men they are!" he said to me.
the night passed quietly. in the morning when the tennessee twins came from guard duty in the grove and learned about our evening talk with the old men, they shook hands with them one by one. "you are the strong hearts! we shall be glad to fight alongside with you," josh signed to them.
the leader of the old men, lame wolf, was a medicine man and had with him his complete medicine outfit, the main symbol of which was a stuffed raven, to the legs of which were attached bits of human scalp-locks of varying lengths. to pitamakan, who became a great favorite with him, the old man said that the raven was his dream, his sacred vision, and very powerful. it had by its great power brought him safe through many a battle with the enemy and had four times in his dreams warned him of the approach of enemies, so that he and his warriors had been able to surprise them and count many coups upon them. every evening now he prayed the raven to give him a revealing vision of the cut-throats and any other enemies who might be approaching us, and his companions joined him in singing the songs to his medicine.
"far thunder, my man," said tsistsaki, the first evening that we heard the old men praying and singing, "i feel that the gods are with us in this matter of our fort-building upon this hostile war trail. as fast as our troubles have come we have conquered them, and now come these five old men, whose leader is favored of the gods, to help us. i have great faith in his raven medicine."
"all right. you put your faith in that raven skin. i put mine in our watchfulness and in our rifles," my uncle laughed.
"ah, well," she answered, "the day will come when your eyes will be opened to these sacred things."
during the next few days three different steamboats passed up the river en route to fort benton, and when the first of them came down it answered our hail and put in to shore. the captain had intended to put in, anyhow, for he had a letter to us from carroll and steell. my uncle handed him a letter for the fort union traders, asking them to tell the mandans that their five old men were staying with us to help fight the assiniboins, and that they were unable to get far thunder's fast runner because of his vow to the sun that he would never part with it. he had prepared the letter at the request of lame wolf, and the old man heaved a sigh of satisfaction when he saw it pass into the captain's hands.
our letter apprised us that the pikuni, the whole tribe, warriors and all, had forded the river at fort benton, on their way to us, only four days before. that news made us low-hearted, for, if the warriors continued on with the tribe at the slow rate it was obliged to travel, we feared that they would never arrive in time to help us in the big fight that every rising sun brought nearer to us.
my uncle declared that, short of logs as we still were, a beginning must be made at once upon the walls of the fort; and after dinner pitamakan, abbott, and i went out to assist him in laying the first four logs of what was to be the southwest corner building of the fort, the one that was to be my uncle's quarters, and pitamakan's and mine as well. we rolled the two bottom logs into place and made them level by putting flat stones under the ends; and then abbott, with quick and skillful axe, saddled the ends; that is, cut deep notches in them. we then rolled on them two end logs and cut notches in the ends to match the saddles in the others. the first fitted snugly down into place; the second did not fit well and was notched deeper at one end; and then, when it fitted into place and we rested, tsistsaki, who had come to watch, raised her hands to the sky and cried out: "o sun! this home that we are starting to build, let it be a home of peace and plenty; a home of happy days and nights. have pity upon us all, o sun. give us, we pray you, long life upon these, your rich and beautiful plains!"
"well, say it!" i cried. "what do you want us to do about it?"
"night-herd them. night-herd the whole outfit, saddle-horses and all, up west on the high plains where the feed is good. leave here after dark so that any wandering war party hanging about will not know just what way you are going or be able to follow you."
"oh, my man!" tsistsaki exclaimed, "i do not like them to do that. think! just they two against all the travelers upon this great war trail!"
"many are the hunters of the fox; he eludes them all," said pitamakan.
"we shall strike out with the outfit as soon as it is dark," i said to my uncle, and that settled the matter.
"say it! we are all but asleep now," pitamakan answered from his couch.
"it is this: you must not take your horses to-night to feed where you had them last night; every night you must drive them to a different place."
"as if we didn't know enough to do that! we decided upon to-night's grazing-ground when we were coming in this morning!" pitamakan exclaimed.
"wise almost-mother. what good care you have for us!" i told her.
and what a loving, cheerful smile she gave me! ah, that was a woman, let me tell you!
there was too much going on in our lodge for us to sleep well; so we took a robe and a blanket apiece and sneaked quietly into the lodge of the old mandans, who were sleeping after their night watch in the barricade.
at about four o'clock the old men aroused us, and lame wolf signed that they were going to bathe; would we go with them? we did, and were refreshed. then, after we were back in the lodge and dressed, old lame wolf painted our faces with red-earth paint, the sacred color, and prayed for us. we could not, of course, understand what he said, for he did not accompany the prayer with signs, but pitamakan said that made no difference; it was, of course, good and powerful prayer.
at supper that evening we talked about the big fight we were expecting to have with the assiniboins, and wondered whether our people would arrive in time for it. it was possible that the warriors were coming on ahead, and if they were they might come riding down at any moment.
"if we could only figure the probable time of the coming of the cut-throats as well as we can that of our people!" my uncle exclaimed.
"wal, now, wesley, you're goin' to know what i've had in my think-box for some time; i can't keep it shut any longer," abbott said. "we've heard that the assiniboin camp is away off on the assiniboin river. but you can hear a lot that ain't so. maybe it is nowhere like that far off. ag'in, that there war party that we routed don't have to go clear home to get help to try to wipe us out; the assiniboins and the yanktonnais are about the same breed of pups--both sioux stock. all those pals of slidin' beaver's have to do is to let the yanktonnais know that we have that there is-spai-u horse with us, and they'll come a-runnin' after him, even if they don't care shucks about avengin' the death of slidin' beaver. i'll lay four bits that the yanktonnais camp is a long way this side of the assiniboin river. let's look the thing in the face. it's possible, fellers, that the ball may open this very night!"
"let her come; we're here first!" josh exclaimed.
"you bet you! i'm jest a-achin' for a scrap with those cut-throats!" his twin chimed in.
the mandans sing their victory song
my uncle was not anxious for a fight with our enemies. i had never seen him so worried. when abbott and the twins had gone out of the lodge, he said to us: "i was too eager for this undertaking. carroll and steell warned me of its dangers, but i wouldn't listen. i shouldn't have come down here until i had engaged thirty or forty men to build the fort. we may all be wiped out! what would become of you, my woman, and of you, thomas, if i were to go under now with the load of debt that i have incurred in st. louis? and after all my years of endeavor, what a bad name would be mine!"
"now, far thunder, just you quit that worrying, for everything is going to come out right for us. i know it! i just know that the gods are with us," said my almost-mother.
i could think of nothing to say. as i nodded to pitamakan and we went out to drive the horses to their night-grazing i wished that i were not so tongue-tied.
"what was he saying?" pitamakan asked me. i told him, and back to the lodge he went, thrust his head inside the doorway and said: "far thunder, you have overlooked our main helper. that loud-mouthed gun of ours can defeat the cut-throats and all their brother tribes, too."
"maybe so, if they give us time to point and fire it at them," my uncle answered; and my almost-brother came back to me lightly humming his favorite war song.
a cloudy sky made the night very dark. we mounted and drove the loose stock straight west out of the valley, then went southwest for a couple of miles and hobbled them. we picketed is-spai-u and my runner, which pitamakan had saddled that evening. we then drew back outside of the sweep of the long ropes, and were about to spread our buffalo robe and lie down when we heard the whir of a rattlesnake close in front of us and another at our right. "ha! this is worse than facing a war party!" pitamakan exclaimed. at the sound of his voice the snakes rattled again, and a third somewhere close on our left answered them. we were afraid to move lest we step upon one of the rattlers and get a jab in our moccasined feet from its poisonous fangs.
"we must get back upon our horses and move on," i said.
"well, you have matches. begin lighting them and we will do that," said pitamakan.
i felt in the pocket of my buckskin shirt where i usually carried a few matches wrapped in paper and waterproof bladder skin. the pocket was empty. i felt in my ball pouch and in my trousers pockets, although i knew it was useless to do so, and pitamakan groaned, "you have lost them?"
"we just have to pray the gods to guide us," he said.
as we turned, it seemed to our straining ears that snakes rattled upon all sides of us.
"go slowly!" pitamakan cautioned. "stamp the ground hard, and keep swinging your rifle out in front of you."
thus step by step we drew away from the rattlers, fearing all the time that we should encounter one that would strike before warning us of its presence.
at last we came to is-spai-u, a dim shadow in the darkness, and took up his rope and led him on to the other picketed animal. our scare was still with us as we went among the horses and removed their hobbles, but, getting into our saddles, we drove the stock on for fully a mile. before hobbling them again, we circled round and round and made sure that we were not occupying another patch of snake-infested plain.
"well, we survived that danger! i believe it is a sign that we are not to be bitten by the two-legged snakes that will soon attack us," said pitamakan after we had spread our robe and were resting comfortably upon it.
since i was no believer in signs, i did not say anything on the subject.
"you sleep; i'll take the first watch," i told him.
the heavy clouds soon disappeared, the moon came up, and i could see our surroundings very well. the horses were ripping off great mouthfuls of rich bunch-grass and lustily chewing it. their deep, satisfied breathing gave me a glad feeling. all round us wolves were howling and coyotes were yelping in high falsetto voices. how different were these two branches of the great wolf family, i thought. the wolves were of a serious, dignified nature; they seemed never to howl except to communicate with one another. the coyotes gathered in bands and wandered aimlessly from ridge to ridge, stopping frequently and raising their sharp, pointed noses to the sky and yelping.
my thoughts were not long upon the wolves. i remembered how worried my uncle was when i had left our lodge; how serious was the expression of abbott's eyes when he predicted that the attack by the cut-throats was about to take place.
i stared at the faint, moonlit outlines of the moccasin mountains, away off to the southwest. somewhere along the trail at the foot of them the pikuni were doubtless camping that night. unwittingly i cried out in blackfoot, "oh, hurry! hurry to us, you men of the pikuni, else you will come too late!"
"what? what did you say? do you see enemies?" pitamakan whispered as he sat up suddenly at my side.
"oh, nothing. i was just calling to our people to hurry to us. i am so afraid that they may not get here in time to help us," i answered.
"you forget that the loud-mouthed gun is of great strength. it can shoot one of those big, hard metal balls a long way. and at short range just think what it can do with a sackful of our small, soft balls!"
"yes, true enough. but think how long it takes to move and sight and fire it! loud-mouth is now pointing out the south side of the barricade. should the cut-throats suddenly attack us from the north side, we should never even get a chance to fire it!"
"ha! what a crazy head i am, never to have thought about that! loud-mouths are of sure help only when there are two of them, each in a little outsetting house of its own, at opposite corners of a fort. almost-brother, far thunder should send us at once to meet our people and get the warriors here as fast as their horses can carry them."
"you have spoken my thought, too. we will tell him about it in the morning," i answered.
"yes, we will do that. let us drive the horses in very early."
after a time we detected off to the west a dark, wide, cloud-like mass slowly moving over the plain. it was composed of buffaloes, of course, a large herd of them grazing straight toward the horses. it would not do to let them come on, for in the stampede that was sure to occur the frightened horses might go with them. we went slowly and silently toward them and suddenly sprang forward, waving our blankets. they paused, stared at us for a moment, then turned and went thundering off to the south. there must have been a thousand of them, judging by the noise that they made.
"where was it?" he asked.
"off to the north," i answered.
"that last one was from far thunder's rifle!" pitamakan exclaimed.
"yes. great rider's words have come true: the cut-throats are attacking camp!"
"there is no more shooting!" i exclaimed.
"not another shot! it looks bad to me! maybe our people are wiped out!" pitamakan answered.
when at last we looked down upon the camp, i could have yelled my relief. i saw smoke peacefully rising from the lodges and a couple of women going from the barricade to the river for water. then we heard the old mandans singing a song that we had not heard before, a triumphant song in quick, strongly marked time.
"all is well!" i exclaimed.
"yes, something pleasant has happened. what can it be?"
with light hearts we turned back to our loose stock, drove them down near the barricade, and let them go to graze as they would until it was time for the work of the day to begin. i was in the lead as we drove into the barricade to unsaddle, and as i passed through the entrance is-spai-u gave a sudden turning leap that nearly unseated me, and then stood staring and snorting at a huge grizzly that lay at one side of the path. my uncle and abbott came out of our lodge and grinned broadly at us.
"well, boys," said my uncle, "that's a real bear, isn't it!"
"we've had some excitement here, and 't isn't all over yet. listen to the old boys in there, singin'!" said abbott.
"we heard the shots and thought that you were all wiped out, they ceased so suddenly," i said.
we unsaddled and followed the men into the lodge, where tsistsaki, who was preparing breakfast, gave us cheerful greeting.
"this is what happened, as near as we can make out from the old mandans and from what we saw of it," my uncle said to us.
"it was about an hour back when old lame wolf, who was on guard at the north side of the barricade, saw a big bear close in front of him. it was a chance to count a coup that he couldn't resist. taking good aim with his old fuke, he fired and let out a yell. but his yell wasn't so loud as the roar of the bear when the bullet spatted into his side. we all waked and rushed outside, but the other old watchers were ahead of us. they ran to lame wolf, and the first of them fired at the bear, which was growling and biting at its wound. at that, the bear came with a rush over the logs right in among them. he was badly hurt, but would surely have mauled and killed some of them had it not been for the powder smoke from their fukes, which blinded him and made him cough. the old men were running away in all directions, but he couldn't see them. he sat up to get his bearings, and just then the smoke lifted; and there he was, a mountain of a bear close in front of me. i took quick sight at him and broke his neck. it all happened so quickly, and the old men were so intent upon getting out of reach of the bear, that they never knew that i gave him the finishing shot. one of them, looking back, shouted something to the others, and all turned and ran to the bear; and old lame wolf tapped him on the head with the barrel of his fuke and counted coup on him. he claimed it, no doubt, because he had fired the first shot into his carcass."
"and what did the engagés do?" pitamakan asked.
"what did they do! you should have heard henri robarre praying to be saved. the others joined in and ran about among the lodges, carrying their guns as though they were so many sticks!" abbott exclaimed.
"they did better than that in our sliding beaver fight," i said.
"so they did, and they probably will be of some help when another real fight takes place. i have just given them my opinion of their actions in a way they will not soon forget," said my uncle.
that day pitamakan and i had tsistsaki waken us shortly before noon, and when my uncle and abbott returned to the lodge for dinner we proposed that we be allowed to go to meet the pikuni and bring them on--a part of the warriors, at any rate--with all haste.
abbott said he thought we should do that, but my uncle decided against it. if we did not night-herd the horses, he said, they could not work. he thought that the pikuni would arrive in time to fight the cut-throats.
"i think you are making a mistake, wesley; you had better let them go for help; we'll probably be needing it sooner than you think," abbott told him.
if my uncle had a fault, it was that he relied too much upon his own judgment. in reply to abbott he merely said: "no, we'll take a chance on another day of good, hard work. then if the pikuni don't show up, the boys can go look for them."
pitamakan and i had not much enthusiasm for the afternoon work, and when, about two o'clock, the old mandans came to us and told us that they were going to scatter out upon discovery we so longed to go with them that we fairly hated our log-laying. tsistsaki stood by, watching us with pitying eyes, but my uncle, never noticing our dissatisfaction, whistled as he skillfully swung his axe.
"thomas, boy," he said, "this log-laying reminds me of a church-raising that i attended long ago, 'way back in the states. it was a little log meeting-house that they were putting up, and your father and i lent a hand with the chinking. your grandfather was the preacher of that sparse congregation, and a mighty man with the axe as well as with the word."
"how did you happen to leave the states?" i asked.
"your father and i were different," he answered. "somehow, the farm life there did not appeal to us. we made a break for the west. your father, poor fellow, never got beyond st. louis. if he had only come on with me! how he would have enjoyed this life!"
"you know well why he didn't come," i said.
"of course. it was your mother, dear soul! he promised her that he would never engage in the far west trade, and he was a man of his word."
during the afternoon we brought the walls of the building up to a height of five logs,--about the height of my shoulder,--and as we knocked off work my uncle said, "two more rounds of logs, well chinked, and we'll have a pretty respectable defense against the enemy."
returning to the barricade, we found that three of the mandans had come back, unnoticed by us. they reported that they had been some distance up the musselshell valley and had seen no signs of enemies. later, while we were eating supper, old lame wolf and his companion came in, and the moment they passed through the doorway i knew from the expression of their faces that they had something important to tell. they hurriedly took seats upon my couch, and lame wolf signed to my uncle: "far thunder, chief, enemies are here! we climbed to the top of the point between the two valleys, the point there across from the grove, and upon the very top of it found where enemies have been lying, looking down and watching us!"
"probably a small war party, too small to attack us and gone upon their way," my uncle answered.
"not so! decidedly not so!" the old man signed on. "they have watched there for several days--at least five men. they sneaked away when they saw us coming. why did they do that when they could easily have surprised and killed us? because they are the scouts of a multitude coming to attack us, and are to tell the chiefs just how to do it."
"i believe that the old man is right!" abbott exclaimed.
"he may be, but i doubt it," said my uncle. "up there is the lookout place for all the war parties passing along this great trail. i doubt not that one was recently there. i can't believe, however, that five or six enemies withdrew from the point upon the approach of these two old men. had they been there at that time, they would certainly never have overlooked such an easy opportunity to count two coups."
"well, whether you believe they are right or not, i advise you to keep a good guard round the barricade to-night and to keep the horses in, too," said abbott.
"the horses must go out to feed as usual. in any event, they will be safe off there upon the dark plain."
abbott threw out his hands with a gesture of despair. "all right, you for it! i've said my say."
old lame wolf, of course, understood nothing of what was being said. he waited until the talk apparently was ended, got my uncle's attention once more and signed, "what shall you do?"
"we shall some of us stand watch with you to-night," my uncle answered.
"that is good. be sure that the loud-mouthed gun is well loaded and ready to fire," the old man concluded, and the two went out to their evening meal.
when supper was over, my uncle called the engagés together, told them the old mandans believed that the enemy might attack us during the night, and ordered them to look well to their guns. he then called the names of those he wanted for extra guard duty, and of those who were to help him with the cannon. but to this plan tsistsaki made strong objection.
"no," she said; "let each man use his rifle. we will help with the gun." and my uncle promised that she should have her way.
as pitamakan and i were preparing to take the horses out, i had a last word with my uncle.
"if you are attacked to-night, what shall we do?" i asked.
"i would not be sending you out if i believed that was to happen. however, if it does happen, you must do the best you can; your own judgment must guide you," he answered.
big lake calls a council
it was quite dark when pitamakan and i drove the horses out from the barricade for their night-grazing. we flicked them into a lope up the rise to the plain, but when we were nearly to the top they suddenly shied at something ahead and dashed sharply off to the left. i was riding is-spai-u as usual, and he was so frightened that it was all i could do to keep him from running ahead of the loose stock. pitamakan and i went some distance before we managed to head the horses up the slope; and as soon as we were well out on the plain i asked pitamakan what he thought had frightened our animals.
"i will tell you my real belief," he answered. "it was the enemy, maybe a number of them, lying there to see in what direction we would drive the horses, so that they could trail on and take them from us."
"it may have been a bear."
"if a bear had been there, we should have seen him; there is starlight enough for that. the low, sweet sage growth along the slope could not have hidden a bear from us, but it is high enough to conceal men lying flat in it. almost-brother, i believe with old lame wolf that trouble is about to break upon us!"
"well, they shall not get these horses," i declared.
about midnight we nearly started for the west and southwest and the pikuni, but we decided to wait a little longer and listen for the boom of the cannon. we watched the seven persons swinging round in the northern sky, and at last they warned us that day was not far off. the attack upon camp had not opened; so we decided to urge my uncle to allow us to go at once in search of the pikuni. we unhobbled the loose stock and drove them in with a rush. there was only a faint lightening of the eastern horizon when we arrived at the barricade, and abbott, standing on watch at the passageway, let down the bars for us.
"you are in plenty early this mornin'," he said as we drove past him.
"we have reason for it. we want to persuade my uncle to let us start right now after the pikuni," i answered.
"you said it! that is just what he should have you do!" he exclaimed.
as we got down from our horses we saw dimly here and there the other watchers approaching to learn whether we had anything to tell of the night. then in the direction of the grove we all heard the patter of feet striking harshly upon the stony ground.
"it's the twins!" abbott exclaimed.
"behind them the cut-throats!" said pitamakan, and at the same time our ears caught the faint thudding of many moccasined feet.
then the twins loomed up hugely in the dusk. they dashed in through the passageway, and josh gasped out, "they're right at our tails! run that cannon out!"
the cannon was in the center of the barricade, loaded with trade balls, fused, and covered with a piece of canvas to protect it from the weather. as abbott, the twins, and i ran to it, pitamakan hurried on to our lodge to rouse my uncle; and the engagés, who had been on watch with the mandans, quietly slipped round awakening the inmates of the other lodges. i flipped the cover on the cannon, and, just as we got it into the passageway, the fight opened with shots and yells on the west side of the barricade. the thought flashed into my mind that pitamakan had been right. it had been some of the enemy, lying concealed upon the slope, that our horses had shied from when we were driving them out to graze.
"never mind the racket back there; our job is right here! now! swing her round!" abbott shouted to us, and he had to shout in order to make himself heard.
we swung the gun round. i kept hold on the tailpiece while abbott sighted and called, "to the right a little! left a trifle! there!"
as he lighted the fuse i sprang out of the way of the recoil and for the first time looked ahead. out of the dusk of the morning, less than a hundred yards away, a horde of warriors were coming toward us swiftly yet with cautious, catlike steps. there was something terribly sinister in their approach, far more so than if they had come with the usual war songs and shouts of an indian attack. boom! went the cannon. the flash of it blinded us; the smoke drifted into our faces. lem, who was carrying our rifles in his arms, shouted to us to take them.
"no! lay 'em down! help load! where's the powder for this gun?" abbott yelled.
"right here!" cried my uncle as he and tsistsaki and a couple of other women joined us. "use your rifles!"
we snatched them from lem, and, lo! as the smoke drifted away we could see no one to shoot at, nor could we hear anything but the hollow murmur of the river, as if it were mocking us.
"by gum! they've just flew away!" lem exclaimed.
"not they!" said my uncle, proceeding to thrust a charge powder into the cannon and ram it home. "just step over to the river-bank and look down, and you'll see them."
"ha! so that's their scheme, is it? goin' to shut us off from water! i might have knowed it! what beats me is, why didn't they come on? if they had, 't would have been all over with us in about two minutes!" said lem.
"what say they?" pitamakan asked me, and i told him.
the mandans and the engagés now came to us from the other side of the stockade, with the women and children trailing after them.
"the cut-throats ran down over the river-bank," old lame wolf signed to my uncle.
"sare, m'sieu' reynard," henri robarre said to him, "hon our side ze cut-throats were but few. zey holler much, zey fire deir guns no at us. zey shoot hup at ze stars, an' zen run hide behin' ze bank of ze riv' m'sieu', what hit means, dat strange conducts?"
"i don't understand it myself, except that when the twins discovered them their plan of attack went all wrong," my uncle answered in a puzzled voice.
"i know all about it," pitamakan said in the sign language so that the mandans should understand.
"well, let us hear," said my uncle.
"this is it," he went on. "the cut-throats want our scalps, but they want also is-spai-u. a few of them laid in wait for my almost-brother and me, hoping to seize the runner when we drove the herd out last night; but they failed. the chiefs then planned to wait until we should bring the horses back into the barricade and kill us in a surprise attack as we all stood fighting their few men on the west side. thus they would take no chances of shooting the black runner. they would have wiped us out, had not the twins discovered them down there in the timber. now they plan to make us go mad from want of water and then wipe us out."
"you women, how much water have you?" tsistsaki asked.
one by one they answered; there was not a bucketful in any lodge!
"far thunder, it is now time for my almost-brother and me to go after our people," pitamakan said to my uncle impressively.
"it is! go--as fast as you can!" he replied.
"i ride is-spai-u," i said.
"you do not! he is our shield, it seems. you ride your own runner!"
we had saddled up and were ready to start within five minutes. day had come. to the west and east there was not a single body of the enemy. abbott could hardly believe his eyes.
tsistsaki, ever thoughtful of us, had tied little sacks of food to our saddles, and now we mounted our runners. nowhere along the bank of the river was there the least sign of the enemy, but we were certain that many a pair of eyes was watching the barricade from clumps of rye grass and sweet sage.
"you'll better lie low on yer horses an' go out flyin'; they'll prob'ly shoot at you," abbott warned us.
my uncle came and grasped my hand. "it is a terrible risk you are taking. i wish i could take it for you, but my place seems to be here. i've got you all in a bad fix, my boy, but i hope you and pitamakan will pull us out of it." his voice was unsteady.
"we'll do our best," i answered.
"go, i am praying for you both!" tsistsaki called out to us.
as we rode on we kept looking for the trail of dust raised by thousands of dragging, sharp-pointed lodge poles and travois and horses' hoofs, that would mark the advance of the pikuni. we were not long in reaching crooked creek, and there at the rim of the valley we parted, pitamakan to go due west toward the buttes of it-crushed-them creek, i to follow up the stream. at the head of it, close to the foot of the mountains, he said, i should find the deep, well-worn trail of the pikuni, which ran straight east past the foot of black butte to the musselshell. if i should fail to meet the pikuni along crooked creek i was to go west along the trail until i found them or the place where they had turned northeast in the direction of the buttes toward which he was heading.
it was about four o'clock in the afternoon when i struck the big east-and-west trail at the head of the creek, not more than a mile from the foot of the moccasin mountains. my horse went on more easily in one of the broad, smooth tracks, and i was more expectant. the pikuni could not be far from me now, i thought.
toward sundown i topped a long, wide, sloping ridge and looked back along the way i had come--more than forty miles. my horse was showing the strain of the long, hot ride. my throat was burning hot from want of water; my lips were cracking.
a mile or two ahead were low, pine-capped hills, and between two of them i saw a patch of the bright green foliage of cottonwoods, a sure sign of water. it was growing dusk when i arrived at the place. i slid from my horse and held his rope as he stepped into the narrow stream. he all but fought me when i pulled him away from it and picketed him near by. then i drank and had a hard fight with myself to stop long before i had had enough.
i fell asleep, and my dream was worse than my waking vision. i saw our camp within the barricade a wreck, with smouldering heaps of lodges, and scalped bodies strewn among them. the dream was so real, so terrible that the force of it woke me and i came to myself standing and tensely gripping my rifle.
i looked up to the north and was astonished. the seven persons had nearly completed their nightly course; morning was at hand. how could i have slept so long? i sprang up and saddled my horse, watered him, and, mounting in the light of the half-moon, again took up the trail to the west.
when i had gone two or three miles from my camping-place my horse raised his head and neighed loudly. i angrily checked his attempt to neigh again and probably betray my presence to some enemy near by. when he pulled on his bit and pranced sidewise, eager to go on, i fought his attempts and looked up and down the rise in front of me as far as i could see in the moonlight. i listened and heard the far-off but unmistakable howling of dogs. how my heart rose at the sound of it! ahead was the camp of the pikuni, i was sure. crows or other enemies would not dare bring their women and children so far into blackfoot country. i let my eager horse go. we fairly flew up over the next rise and then over another, and there at the foot of it, in the light of breaking day, scattered up and down a willow-fringed streamlet, were the lodges of my people and their herds of horses blackening the valley.
smoke was rising from several of the lodges as i rushed into the camp, sprang from my horse in front of white wolf's lodge, and dived into it.
"hurry! hurry! call the warriors! the cut-throats are at our camp! oh, why were you so slow in coming?" i all but shouted.
"now, calm yourself! excited ones can't talk straight--" white wolf began.
but his head wife interrupted him by springing to my side, grabbing my arm, and fiercely crying, "my son--pitamakan! what of him?"
"somewhere near here, looking for you," i answered; and with a queer, choking croon of relief she sank back upon her couch.
"if we are too late, it is far thunder's fault," white wolf said to me sternly. "his message was that the cut-throats were encamped upon their own river in the north. why should we hurry, then, when they were more than twice as far from you as we were? well, tell us how it is!"
i explained our situation in a few words, but, few as they were, they set white wolf afire. "there is no time to lose! come! quick to big lake's lodge!"
we ran and burst in upon the head chief, who was still lying under his robes. i had not half finished telling why i had come when he had one of his women running for the camp-crier. five minutes later the crier and several volunteers were hurrying up and down the long camp calling out the warriors and ordering the clan chiefs and the chiefs of the bands of the all friends society to hurry to a council in big lake's lodge.
the boys and the old men were running in the herds as white wolf and i returned to his lodge. i told one of the women to catch for me two certain horses in our band and fell upon the food that was set before me. then, just as we began eating, we heard a great outcry near by, and pitamakan came in and sat beside his father, who fondly patted him on the shoulder. his horse had played out at the it-crushed-them creek buttes, and he had remained there all night.
now the warriors were beginning to gather out in front of the center of the camp, each band round its chief. we soon joined them with our fresh mounts. raising the war song, and followed by the cries of the women calling upon us to be of good courage and win, we set out upon our ride to the musselshell.
the river takes its toll
pitamakan and i rode in the lead with the chiefs, because in a way we were the guides of the relief party. behind us came the different bands of the i-kun-uh-kah-tsi, or all friends society, each one herding its extra horses. our pace was so fast that there was little opportunity for talk; and pitamakan and i had no desire to do so. our thoughts were with our little camp of besieged people.
at noon we halted for a short rest. the chiefs at once gathered in a circle and began to plan just what should be done at the mouth of the musselshell; that is, if far thunder and his engagés still held the barricade. pitamakan and i told how they would be suffering from want of water and urged that we ride as straight as we could to their relief.
then up spoke heavy runner, chief of the braves, and the war chief of the pikuni:
"it is true," he said, "that far thunder and his people, if still alive, must be choking from need of water, but for their own good and the good of all the blackfoot tribes they must choke a little longer. should we go charging straight to their barricade, the enemy would see us from far off and have plenty of time to retreat from the bank of the river into the grove, and there make a good fight, kill many of us, perhaps, and escape in the darkness. what we must try to do is to give the cut-throats a lesson that they and their children and their children's children will remember as long as the sun makes the days. i therefore propose that we ride down crooked creek into upon-the-other-side bear river, right into the stream bed, and follow it to the edge of the big grove. there half of us will leave our horses and go on and surprise the enemy under the edge of the bank of big river and drive them out upon the open flat away from the grove. there we afoot and the other half of us on horseback and far thunder with his loud-mouth gun will just let one or two of the cut-throats escape to tell his people what the pikuni did to their warriors."
without exception the chiefs approved this plan, but pitamakan and i made objections. "it is a roundabout way," said pitamakan, "to go clear to the mouth of this creek and then down the winding bed of the other stream. we haven't the time to do it."
"if far thunder and those with him are still alive, their sufferings from need of water are something terrible," i said. "chiefs, let us leave crooked creek right here and strike straight across the plain as soon as possible!"
"i shall say a few words about this!" white wolf exclaimed. "i have a big interest in that little party down there in the barricade; my own sister is there. and yet i say that as she is suffering, so must she suffer a little longer for the good of the pikuni. but not much longer. in a time like this what is one horse to any of us? nothing! we will leave our tired horses right here, and if a crow or other war party comes along and takes them--well, we shall probably recover them some day. upon our fresh horses we can go this roundabout way and certainly arrive at the head of the big grove before sundown. then we will wipe out those cut-throats, every last one of them, before it becomes too dark for us to shoot straight. come! let us hurry on!"
"yes! we will do that! there's nothing the matter with the bird's head!" cried heavy runner as he sprang up, and all laughed and cheered as we mounted our fresh horses. the chief's slang expression was a favorite one of the blackfeet, and equivalent to our saying, "i don't care; everything goes with me!"
away we went, leaving behind us more than three hundred fine horses, fast buffalo-runners every one of them. occasionally during the afternoon we cut bends, but for the most part we followed the straight northeast course of the valley and at about five o'clock entered the valley of the musselshell.
now we had to proceed more slowly, but even when fording, we never went at a pace slower than a trot; and so toward sundown we approached the grove. heavy runner brought us to a halt about three hundred yards from it and told pitamakan to dismount and sneak out to see whether our little camp was still standing. he went, climbing the bank with flying leaps, and then upon hands and knees disappeared from our view into the tall, thick-growing sagebrush. at last he returned, and, as soon as he came in sight, thrust his right hand above the point of his shoulder, with the index finger extended and the others closed. "they survive!"
i almost yelled out my relief when i saw him make that sign!
during his absence the chiefs had decided which of our bands were to go on foot into the grove and which were to remain upon their horses where we were until the battle opened. i was more than glad that the band of which pitamakan and i were members, the kit-foxes, was one of those chosen to go into the grove. only the doves, tails, and mosquitoes were to form the follow-up party on horseback.
"not all the cut-throats are under the river-bank in front of the barricade," said heavy runner to us as we were starting. "probably most of them are resting in this grove. as soon as they discover our approach, we must charge and do our very best to drive them from the timber toward the barricade. when the first shot is fired, we charge!"
we soon entered the grove by way of the stream bed. on and on we went, hearing nothing of the enemy until we were almost at the mouth of the stream. there we smelled smoke, and heavy runner brought us to a stand, then signed us to move out into the timber to the west. we climbed the bank and, looking through the willows, saw several small groups of the enemy sitting and lying about small fires that they had built. they were all unconscious of our approach, and the nearest were not more than fifty yards from us. out of the corner of my eye i saw pitamakan on my left raising his rifle, and i raised mine and quickly sighted it at one of the reclining figures. of pity there was not an atom in my heart; as the cut-throats would do to that little band of sufferers in the barricade, so must we do to them, i thought.
i believe that pitamakan was the first to fire and i second; and then all up and down our line guns boomed and bowstrings twanged. with wild yells of, "now, kit-foxes!" "now, crazy dogs!" "now, soldiers!" we rushed out into the open timber after the fleeing enemy. i noticed several of them dead as we passed their camp-fires. if shots had been fired at us i had not heard them. we had stampeded the cut-throats by our sudden attack, and they were running in the one direction that they could go, straight for the bank of the missouri at the upper edge of the grove. there, for several moments, they made a stand and killed one of our men and wounded three. but we kept pressing closer, and the right of our line gained the edge of the grove at the river, from which they obtained a clear view of the bank and the shore. numbers of the enemy still under the bank came running down the shore toward the grove to join their comrades who were in the point of it. some of them fell as our right fired into them. the river-bank was no longer a shelter for them; they had not the courage to attempt to force us back, although, had they known it, they far outnumbered us and could have broken through our line. there seemed to remain but one thing for them to do, and they did it: they broke out from the point of the grove and headed up the valley, intending no doubt to gain the shelter of the tall sagebrush, in which they might stand us off until nightfall and then in the darkness make their escape.
we all halted at the edge of the timber and let them go, well knowing what was about to take place. hurriedly we reloaded our weapons. as i rammed home a ball on top of a charge of powder poured in by guess i looked out at our barricade and saw the lodges standing in it intact.
"pitamakan, our relatives survive!" i cried.
"of course! i so signed to you! see, they are wheeling the loud-mouth out from the passageway!"
but i had no time to look. our mounted party had followed on after us pretty closely and now broke out from the timber and charged at the enemy. how we yelled when the enemy came to an abrupt stand and then turned and headed back toward the river, shedding their robes, pouches, ropes, everything they carried except their weapons! right then was my uncle's one chance to fire into them without our being in the line of his aim, and he seized the opportunity. boom! went the old cannon, and bang! bang! bang! sounded the rifles of his men. though the enemy were far from him, several of them went down.
on sped the others toward the river while we fired into them. meanwhile our riders were rapidly gaining on them, but not rapidly enough to overtake them before they went leaping down the bank and into the water with furious pawings and kickings and cries of terror and despair. our whole force soon lined the bank and fired at them, but the treacherous, sand-laden, swirling current of the river took more toll of their number than our shots did.
i could not shoot at the defenseless swimmers; so i called to pitamakan and we left the bank and ran toward the barricade.
there at the passageway a strange sight met our eyes. my uncle, with parched lips and bloodshot eyes, stood guard with his rifle over tsistsaki, who doled out a cupful of water to one after another of the engagés, while they, crazed from want of it, alternately called him bad names and cried and begged for more. now and then one of them ran to scale the barricade and go to the river, only to be forced back by abbott and the twins.
"look at 'em! look at the pigs!" josh was exclaiming. "they'd just natcherly drink 'emselves to death if we'd let 'em!"
my uncle turned and saw us at his side.
"ha! here are my faithful boys!" he exclaimed in a hoarse, cracked voice.
"through you we survive!" tsistsaki said to us, and we could barely hear her strangely pitched voice.
behind the engagés were their women and children; they, it seemed, had been served first from the two buckets of water that abbott had brought from the river as soon as the bank was clear of the enemy. i looked over the little crowd, missed the mandans and asked for them.
"they are down at the river; they will not kill themselves drinking, as these worthless rascals would if they could git to it!" said abbott.
"there! they have all drunk," said tsistsaki, taking the cup from henri robarre, who was begging wildly for just a little more of the water. turning, she held a cupful up to my uncle.
"no! you first," he signed. she drank and then he did. then his voice came back to him and he hoarsely roared to the engagés: "now, then, you all get back out of my sight until you are called to drink again! i am mighty sick of you and your contemptible whinings!"
"leave 'em to us, wesley; we'll herd 'em for you!" lem called; and with a sigh of relief my uncle turned away from them.
some of the women were leading the half-dead horses toward us.
"look at that! they've got a whole lot more heart than their men, those women have!" abbott exclaimed.
my uncle took tsistsaki by the hand, and we all four went out to the river-bank. the fight was over, and the pikuni on horseback and on foot were going about counting the dead cut-throats and counting coup upon them, too. whereupon pitamakan cried, "how could i have forgotten? i have a coup to count down there in the timber."
he went from us as fast as he could run.
abbott and the women came to the head of the water trail with the horses and began relieving their torment with a bucketful all round. back in the barricade we could hear the engagés begging the twins to turn them loose. the five old mandans came up from the water and one by one gravely shook my hand.
"we survive!" lame wolf signed to me. "i knew that you would bring the pikuni in time; my medicine told me that you would be here before the setting of this sun. and here you are! the sun is good to us!"
"yes. good to us!" i answered.
i had no more than told my uncle and tsistsaki briefly of our ride in quest of the pikuni and listened to a short account of their trials with the thirst-crazed engagés when in the gathering dusk white wolf and heavy runner and the other chiefs came up to us. they all knew the old mandans and affectionately greeted them. tsistsaki ran to her brother, white wolf, and embraced him and cried a little with joy at seeing him again. we then all turned to the stockade, and my uncle called out to the twins, "josh, lem, let those rascals go now! if they waterlog themselves it will not be my funeral!"
they made a wild onset upon the bucket of water that the twins were guarding, upset it, and with strange, wild cries leaped the barricade and rushed to the river. they were just animals, those old-time french creole engagés! perhaps it would be better and a little nearer the truth to say that they were just irresponsible children of man's size.
tsistsaki started a little fire in our lodge; then we all gathered in it. outside the women were employing every pot in camp to cook meat and boil coffee for our guests. we had to provide for the chiefs and a few of the head warriors only; the others were gathering about fires of their own in the grove, and would have no food until they could kill some meat in the morning. my uncle regretted that we had nothing except coffee to send down to them.
"it doesn't matter," heavy runner told him. "they are so happy over what they have done to the cut-throats that they are not thinking about food."
presently pitamakan came in, much excited. "here is news for you, chiefs!" he said. "we have counted forty-one dead, and of that number only seven are cut-throats; the rest are parted hairs!" (kai-spa: parted hair: the yanktonnais sioux.)
"ha! that accounts for it!" white wolf exclaimed. "your message, far thunder, was that we were to help you fight the cut-throats who would come from their far north river; therefore we did not hurry, since we had only half as long a trail to travel."
"that was the word i sent you. i could not know that instead of going back to their people for help to wipe us out, sliding beaver's war party would turn to the nearest parted hairs," my uncle answered.
heavy runner laughed. "all they had to do was to tell the parted hairs that you had your is-spai-u horse here, and they came running."
"and their shadows, ha! how many of them are now on the dreary trail to shadow land!" some one exclaimed.
"there must be a hundred, perhaps two hundred, dead in the river; and of us but two are dead and three wounded!" said pitamakan.
pitamakan's estimate of the loss of the enemy proved to be not far from correct. the following spring we learned in a roundabout way from the hudson's bay company post on the assiniboin river that the total loss of the enemy was one hundred and eighty-two out of the four hundred and more men who had so confidently started south to wipe us out and take our black racer. of that number one hundred and forty-one had been shot or drowned in the river, and not one of the survivors had reached the shore with his weapons.
pitamakan and i were so utterly worn-out that we could not take part in the talk and the rejoicings over the defeat of the enemy. as soon as we had finished eating, we took some bedding and went some distance west of the barricade, where we lay down and fell asleep listening to the thunderous triumphant singing of the warriors round their camp-fires down in the grove. we had not recovered our saddle-horses, but well knew that some of our friends were caring for them.
on the following morning every member of our little party of fort-builders awoke with the feeling that our troubles were ended. in honor of the occasion my uncle gave the engagés a holiday and turned the horses out to graze wherever they would. the chiefs remained with us; some of the warriors went back to meet the oncoming caravan of the pikuni; others scattered to hunt, and still others remained in the grove, resting, singing, talking over with one another every detail of the battle.
i did "bear a hand." the engagés, relieved of all fear of the enemy and anxious to move into snug, log-walled quarters, worked as i had never seen them work before. when in due time the yellowstone ii arrived with our large shipment of goods, we had a long stock-room and a trade-room ready to receive it; and in the early part of october the fort was completed, bastions and all, and the engagés were told to get in the winter firewood. at about that time the other tribes of the blackfeet and our allies, the gros ventres, arrived and went into camp at various points along the musselshell and the missouri. crow foot, chief of the blackfoot tribe, brought us a letter from carroll and steell. i remember word for word a sentence or two in it: "well, wesley, by this time you have completed your war-trail fort, and you have done it by the merest scratch. had the pikuni been a day or two longer in arriving at the mouth of the musselshell, your scalp would now be hanging in a yanktonnais lodge. aren't you the lucky man!"
"i certainly am! and thankful, too, to the good god for all his mercies!" exclaimed my uncle when he had read it. from that remark you will see that he had not altogether forgotten his early religious training.
perhaps you can imagine how pitamakan and i kicked up our heels when, one fine october morning, my uncle announced that we were free to roam wherever we pleased. the pikuni were going to hunt and trap along the foot of the snowy mountains and the upper reaches of the musselshell and its tributaries, and we went with them and had great adventures. at christmas-time we returned to the fort with more than our full share of beaver pelts.
from then until spring i was kept busy in the fort day after day helping in the trade for the furs and robes that came to us in a perfect stream. in the following june our shipment totaled seven thousand fine head-and-tail buffalo robes; twenty-one hundred beaver pelts; four thousand elk, deer, and antelope skins; and about three thousand wolf pelts. after receiving the statement of the sale of them in st. louis my uncle clapped his hands and laughed and cried out: "tsistsaki, thomas, this is how we stand: all our bills are paid, and we are ahead one good fort and forty-two thousand dollars in cash!"
"ha! what happiness is ours!" my almost-mother exclaimed.
"and," said i, "we are not asking for goods on credit for next winter's trade, are we?"
the riverside press cambridge, massachusetts u. s. a.
minor punctuation inconsistencies have been silently repaired. variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. words in italics are presented this way.
by guy wetmore carryl.
the lieutenant-governor. crown 8vo, $1.50.
zut and other parisians. narrow 12mo.
grimm tales made gay. illustrated by albert levering. square crown 8vo, $1.50, net. postpaid, $1.62.
houghton, mifflin & company, boston and new york.
and other parisians
guy wetmore carryl
and other parisians
copyright 1903 by guy wetmore carryl all rights reserved
c. f. g.
mon cher ami:
en souvenir de maints beaux jours dont tu as partagé l'allégresse: en attendant d'autres à venir: de ceux-là encore dont tu as adouci la souffrance et l'ennui: par reconnaissance de conseils qu'on n'oublie jamais et de prévoyances dont on se souvient toujours: je te dédie les contes suivants. tu y retrouveras beaucoup d'amis et peut-être autant d'inconnus: tu les acceuilleras assurément, les uns et les autres, avec cette belle hospitalité qui ne s'est jamais démentie, et qui m'a rendu et me rendra encore--espérons-le!--ton obligé et reconnaissant
g. w. c.
side by side, on the avenue de la grande armée, stand the épicerie of jean-baptiste caille and the salle de coiffure of hippolyte sergeot, and between these two there is a great gulf fixed, the which has come to be through the acerbity of alexandrine caille (according to espérance sergeot), through the duplicity of espérance sergeot (according to alexandrine caille). but the veritable root of all evil is zut, and zut sits smiling in jean-baptiste's doorway, and cares naught for anything in the world, save the sunlight and her midday meal.
when hippolyte found himself in a position to purchase the salle de coiffure, he gave evidence of marked acumen by uniting himself in the holy--and civil--bonds of matrimony with the retiring patron's daughter, whose dot ran into the coveted five figures, and whose heart, said hippolyte, was as good as her face was pretty, which, even by the unprejudiced, was acknowledged to be forcible commendation. the installation of the new establishment was a nine days' wonder in the quartier. it is a busy thoroughfare at its western end, is the avenue de la grande armée, crowded with bicyclists and with a multitude of creatures fearfully and wonderfully clad, who do incomprehensible things in connection with motor-carriages. also there are big cafés in plenty, whose waiters must be smoothly shaven: and moreover, at the time when hippolyte came into his own, the porte maillot station of the métropolitain had already pushed its entrée and sortie up through the soil, not a hundred metres from his door, where they stood like atrocious yellow tulips, art nouveau, breathing people out and in by thousands. there was no lack of possible custom. the problem was to turn possible into probable, and probable into permanent; and here the seven wits and the ten thousand francs of espérance came prominently to the fore. she it was who sounded the progressive note, which is half the secret of success.
"pour attirer les gens," she said, with her arms akimbo, "il faut d'abord les épater."
in her creed all that was worth doing at all was worth doing gloriously. so, under her guidance, hippolyte journeyed from shop to shop in the faubourg st. antoine, and spent hours of impassioned argument with carpenters and decorators. in the end, the salle de coiffure was glorified by fresh paint without and within, and by the addition of a long mirror in a gilt frame, and a complicated apparatus of gleaming nickel-plate, which went by the imposing title of appareil antiseptique, and the acquisition of which was duly proclaimed by a special placard that swung at right angles to the door. the shop was rechristened, too, and the black and white sign across its front which formerly bore the simple inscription "kilbert, coiffeur," now blazoned abroad the vastly more impressive legend "salon malakoff." the window shelves fairly groaned beneath their burden of soaps, toilet waters, and perfumery, a string of bright yellow sponges occupied each corner of the window, and, through the agency of white enamel letters on the pane itself, public attention was drawn to the apparently contradictory facts that english was spoken and "schampoing" given within. then hippolyte engaged two assistants, and clad them in white duck jackets, and his wife fabricated a new blouse of blue silk, and seated herself behind the desk with an engaging smile. the enterprise was fairly launched, and experience was not slow in proving the theories of espérance to be well founded. the quartier was épaté from the start, and took with enthusiasm the bait held forth. the affairs of the salon malakoff prospered prodigiously.
but there is a serpent in every eden, and in that of the sergeot this rôle was assumed by alexandrine caille. the worthy épicier himself was of too torpid a temperament to fall a victim to the gnawing tooth of envy, but in the soul of his wife the launch, and, what was worse, the immediate prosperity of the salon malakoff, bred dire resentment. her own establishment had grown grimy with the passage of time, and the annual profits displayed a constant and disturbing tendency toward complete evaporation, since the coming of the big cafés, and the resultant subversion of custom to the wholesale dealers. this persistent narrowing of the former appreciable gap between purchase and selling price rankled in alexandrine's mind, but her misguided efforts to maintain the percentage of profit by recourse to inferior qualities only made bad worse, and, even as the sergeot were steering the salon malakoff forth upon the waters of prosperity, there were nightly conferences in the household next door, at which impending ruin presided, and exasperation sounded the keynote of every sentence. the resplendent façade of hippolyte's establishment, the tide of custom which poured into and out of his door, the loudly expressed admiration of his ability and thrift, which greeted her ears on every side, and, finally, the sight of espérance, fresh, smiling, and prosperous, behind her little counter,--all these were as gall and wormwood to alexandrine, brooding over her accumulating debts and her decreasing earnings, among her dusty stacks of jars and boxes. once she had called upon her neighbor, somewhat for courtesy's sake, but more for curiosity's, and since then the agreeable scent of violet and lilac perfumery dwelt always in her memory, and mirages of scrupulously polished nickel and glass hung always before her eyes. the air of her own shop was heavy with the pungent odors of raw vegetables, cheeses, and dried fish, and no brilliance redeemed the sardine and biscuit boxes which surrounded her. life became a bitter thing to alexandrine caille, for if nothing is more gratifying than one's own success, surely nothing is less so than that of one's neighbor. moreover, her visit had never been returned, and this again was fuel for her rage.
but the sharpest thorn in her flesh--and even in that of her phlegmatic husband--was the base desertion to the enemy's camp of abel flique. in the days when madame caille was unmarried, and when her ninety kilos were fifty still, abel had been youngest commis in the very shop over which she now held sway, and the most devoted suitor in all her train. even after his prowess in the black days of '71 had won him the attention of the civil authorities, and a grateful municipality had transformed the grocer-soldier into a guardian of law and order, he still hung upon the favor of his heart's first love, and only gave up the struggle when jean-baptiste bore off the prize and enthroned her in state as presiding genius of his newly acquired épicerie. later, an unwittingly kindly prefect had transferred abel to the seventeenth arrondissement, and so the old friendship was picked up where it had been dropped, and the ruddy-faced agent found it both convenient and agreeable to drop in frequently at madame caille's on his way home, and exchange a few words of reminiscence or banter for a box of sardines or a minute package of tea. but, with the deterioration in his old friends' wares, and the almost simultaneous appearance of the salon malakoff, his loyalty wavered. flique sampled the advantages of hippolyte's establishment, and, being won over thereby, returned again and again. his hearty laugh came to be heard almost daily in the salle de coiffure, and because he was a brave homme and a good customer, who did not stand upon a question of a few sous, but allowed hippolyte to work his will, and trim and curl and perfume him to his heart's content, there was always a welcome for him, and a smile from madame sergeot, and occasionally a little present of brillantine or perfumery, for friendship's sake, and because it is well to have the good-will of the all-powerful police.
from her window madame caille observed the comings and goings of abel with a resentful eye. it was rarely now that he glanced into the épicerie as he passed, and still more rarely that he greeted his former flame with a stiff nod. once she had hailed him from the doorway, sardines in hand, but he had replied that he was pressed for time, and had passed rapidly on. then indeed did blackness descend upon the soul of alexandrine, and in her deepest consciousness she vowed to have revenge. neither the occasion nor the method was as yet clear to her, but she pursed her lips ominously, and bided her time.
in the existence of madame caille there was one emphatic consolation for all misfortunes, the which was none other than zut, a white angora cat of surpassing beauty and prodigious size. she had come into alexandrine's possession as a kitten, and, what with much eating and an inherent distaste for exercise, had attained her present proportions and her superb air of unconcern. it was from the latter that she derived her name, the which, in parisian argot, at once means everything and nothing, but is chiefly taken to signify complete and magnificent indifference to all things mundane and material: and in the matter of indifference zut was past-mistress. even for madame caille herself, who fed her with the choicest morsels from her own plate, brushed her fine fur with excessive care, and addressed caressing remarks to her at minute intervals throughout the day, zut manifested a lack of interest that amounted to contempt. as she basked in the warm sun at the shop door, the round face of her mistress beamed upon her from the little desk, and the voice of her mistress sent fulsome flattery winging toward her on the heavy air. was she beautiful, mon dieu! in effect, all that one could dream of the most beautiful! and her eyes, of a blue like the heaven, were they not wise and calm? mon dieu, yes! it was a cat among thousands, a mimi almost divine.
jean-baptiste, appealed to for confirmation of these statements, replied that it was so. there was no denying that this was a magnificent beast. and of a chic. and caressing--(which was exaggeration). and of an affection--(which was doubtful). and courageous--(which was wholly untrue.) mazette, yes! a cat of cats! and was the boy to be the whole afternoon in delivering a cheese, he demanded of her? and madame caille would challenge him to ask her that--but it was a good, great beast all the same!--and so bury herself again in her accounts, until her attention was once more drawn to zut, and fresh flattery poured forth. for all of this zut cared less than nothing. in the midst of her mistress's sweetest cajolery, she simply closed her sapphire eyes, with an inexpressibly eloquent air of weariness, or turned to the intricacies of her toilet, as who should say: "continue. i am listening. but it is unimportant."
but long familiarity with her disdain had deprived it of any sting, so far as alexandrine was concerned. passive indifference she could suffer. it was only when zut proceeded to an active manifestation of ingratitude that she inflicted an irremediable wound. returning from her marketing one morning, madame caille discovered her graceless favorite seated complacently in the doorway of the salon malakoff, and, in a paroxysm of indignation, bore down upon her, and snatched her to her breast.
"unhappy one!" she cried, planting herself in full view of espérance, and, while raining the letter of her reproach upon the truant, contriving to apply its spirit wholly to her neighbor. "what hast thou done? is it that thou desertest me for strangers, who may destroy thee? name of a name, hast thou no heart? they would steal thee from me--and above all, now! well then, no! one shall see if such things are permitted! vagabond!" and with this parting shot, which passed harmlessly over the head of the offender, and launched itself full at madame sergeot, the outraged épicière flounced back into her own domain, where, turning, she threatened the empty air with a passionate gesture.
"vagabond!" she repeated. "good-for-nothing! is it not enough to have robbed me of my friends, that you must steal my child as well? we shall see!"--then, suddenly softening--"thou art beautiful, and good, and wise. mon dieu, if i should lose thee, and above all, now!"
now there existed a marked, if unvoiced, community of feeling between espérance and her resentful neighbor, for the former's passion for cats was more consuming even than the latter's. she had long cherished the dream of possessing a white angora, and when, that morning, of her own accord, zut stepped into the salon malakoff, she was received with demonstrations even warmer than those to which she had long since become accustomed. and, whether it was the novelty of her surroundings, or merely some unwonted instinct which made her unusually susceptible, her habitual indifference then and there gave place to animation, and her satisfaction was vented in her long, appreciative purr, wherewith it was not once a year that she vouchsafed to gladden her owner's heart. espérance hastened to prepare a saucer of milk, and, when this was exhausted, added a generous portion of fish, and zut then made a tour of the shop, rubbing herself against the chair-legs, and receiving the homage of customers and duck-clad assistants alike. flique, his ruddy face screwed into a mere knot of features, as hippolyte worked violet hair-tonic into his brittle locks, was moved to satire by the apparition.
"tiens! it is with the cat as with the clients. all the world forsakes the caille."
strangely enough, the wrathful words of alexandrine, as she snatched her darling from the doorway, awoke in the mind of espérance her first suspicion of this smouldering resentment. absorbed in the launching of her husband's affairs, and constantly employed in the making of change and with the keeping of her simple accounts, she had had no time to bestow upon her neighbors, and, even had her attention been free, she could hardly have been expected to deduce the rancor of madame caille from the evidence at hand. but even if she had been able to ignore the significance of that furious outburst at her very door, its meaning had not been lost upon the others, and her own half-formed conviction was speedily confirmed.
"what has she?" cried hippolyte, pausing in the final stage of his operations upon the highly perfumed flique.
"do i know?" replied his wife with a shrug. "she thinks i stole her cat--i!"
"quite simply, she hates you," put in flique. "and why not? she is old, and fat, and her business is taking itself off, like that! you are young and"--with a bow, as he rose--"beautiful, and your affairs march to a marvel. she is jealous, c'est tout! it is a bad character, that."
"but, mon dieu!"--
"but what does that say to you? let her go her way, she and her cat. au r'voir, 'sieurs, 'dame."
and, rattling a couple of sous into the little urn reserved for tips, the policeman took his departure, amid a chorus of "merci, m'sieu', au r'voir, m'sieu'," from hippolyte and his duck-clad aids.
but what he had said remained behind. all day madame sergeot pondered upon the incident of the morning and abel flique's comments thereupon, seeking out some more plausible reason for this hitherto unsuspected enmity than the mere contrast between her material conditions and those of madame caille seemed to her to afford. for, to a natural placidity of temperament, which manifested itself in a reluctance to incur the displeasure of any one, had been lately added in espérance a shrewd commercial instinct, which told her that the fortunes of the salon malakoff might readily be imperiled by an unfriendly tongue. in the quartier, gossip spread quickly and took deep root. it was quite imaginably within the power of madame caille to circulate such rumors of sergeot dishonesty as should draw their lately won custom from them and leave but empty chairs and discontent where now all was prosperity and satisfaction.
suddenly there came to her the memory of that visit which she had never returned. mon dieu! and was not that reason enough? she, the youngest patronne in the quartier, to ignore deliberately the friendly call of a neighbor! at least it was not too late to make amends. so, when business lagged a little in the late afternoon, madame sergeot slipped from her desk, and, after a furtive touch to her hair, went in next door to pour oil upon the troubled waters.
madame caille, throned at her counter, received her visitor with unexampled frigidity.
"ah, it is you," she said. "you have come to make some purchases, no doubt."
"eggs, madame," answered her visitor, disconcerted, but tactfully accepting the hint.
"the best quality--or--?" demanded alexandrine, with the suggestion of a sneer.
"the best, evidently, madame. six, if you please. spring weather at last, it would seem."
to this generality the other made no reply. descending from her stool, she blew sharply into a small paper bag, thereby distending it into a miniature balloon, and began selecting the eggs from a basket, holding each one to the light, and then dusting it with exaggerated care before placing it in the bag. while she was thus employed zut advanced from a secluded corner, and, stretching her fore legs slowly to their utmost length, greeted her acquaintance of the morning with a yawn. finding in the cat an outlet for her embarrassment, espérance made another effort to give the interview a friendly turn.
"he is beautiful, madame, your matou," she said.
"it is a female," replied madame caille, turning abruptly from the basket, "and she does not care for strangers."
this second snub was not calculated to encourage neighborly overtures, but madame sergeot had felt herself to be in the wrong, and was not to be so readily repulsed.
"we do not see monsieur caille at the salon malakoff," she continued. "we should be enchanted"--
"my husband shaves himself," retorted alexandrine, with renewed dignity.
"but his hair"--ventured espérance.
"i cut it!" thundered her foe.
here madame sergeot made a false move. she laughed. then, in confusion, and striving, too late, to retrieve herself--"pardon, madame," she added, "but it seems droll to me, that. after all, ten sous is a sum so small"--
"all the world, unfortunately," broke in madame caille, "has not the wherewithal to buy mirrors, and pay itself frescoes and appareils antiseptiques! the eggs are twenty-four sous--but we do not pride ourselves upon our eggs. perhaps you had better seek them elsewhere for the future!"
for sole reply madame sergeot had recourse to her expressive shrug, and then laying two francs upon the counter, and gathering up the sous which alexandrine rather hurled at than handed her, she took her way toward the door with all the dignity at her command. but madame caille, feeling her snub to have been insufficient, could not let her go without a final thrust.
"perhaps your husband will be so amiable as to shampoo my cat!" she shouted. "she seems to like your 'salon'!"
but espérance, while for concord's sake inclined to tolerate all rudeness to herself, was not prepared to hear hippolyte insulted, and so, wheeling at the doorway, flung all her resentment into two words.
"gueuse!" screamed alexandrine from the desk. and so they parted.
now, even at this stage, an armed truce might still have been preserved, had zut been content with the evil she had wrought, and not thought it incumbent upon her further to embitter a quarrel that was a very pretty quarrel as it stood. but, whether it was that the milk and fish of the salon malakoff lay sweeter upon her memory than any of the familiar dainties of the épicerie caille, or that, by her unknowable feline instinct, she was irresistibly drawn toward the scent of violet and lilac brillantine, her first visit to the sergeot was soon repeated, and from this visit other visits grew, until it was almost a daily occurrence for her to saunter slowly into the salle de coiffure, and there receive the food and homage which were rendered as her undisputed due. for, whatever was the bitterness of espérance toward madame caille, no part thereof descended upon zut. on the contrary, at each visit her heart was more drawn toward the sleek angora, and her desire but strengthened to possess her peer. but white angoras are a luxury, and an expensive one at that, and, however prosperous the salon malakoff might be, its proprietors were not as yet in a position to squander eighty francs upon a whim. so, until profits should mount higher, madame sergeot was forced to content herself with the voluntary visits of her neighbor's pet.
madame caille did not yield her rights of sovereignty without a struggle. on the occasion of zut's third visit, she descended upon the salon malakoff, robed in wrath, and found the adored one contentedly feeding on fish in the very bosom of the family sergeot. an appalling scene ensued.
"if," she stormed, crimson of countenance, and threatening espérance with her fist, "if you must entice my cat from her home, at least i will thank you not to give her food. i provide all that is necessary; and, for the rest, how do i know what is in that saucer?"
and she surveyed the duck-clad assistants and the astounded customers with tremendous scorn.
"you others," she added, "i ask you, is it just? these people take my cat, and feed her--feed her--with i know not what! it is overwhelming, unheard of--and, above all, now!"
but here the peaceful hippolyte played trumps.
"it is the privilege of the vulgar," he cried, advancing, razor in hand, "when they are at home, to insult their neighbors, but here--no! my wife has told me of you and of your sayings. beware! or i shall arrange your affair for you! go! you and your cat!"
and, by way of emphasis, he fairly kicked zut into her astonished owner's arms. he was magnificent, was hippolyte!
this anecdote, duly elaborated, was poured into the ears of abel flique an hour later, and that evening he paid his first visit in many months to madame caille. she greeted him effusively, being willing to pardon all the past for the sake of regaining this powerful friend. but the glitter in the agent's eye would have cowed a fiercer spirit than hers.
"you amuse yourself," he said sternly, looking straight at her over the handful of raisins which she tendered him, "by wearying my friends. i counsel you to take care. one does not sell inferior eggs in paris without hearing of it sooner or later. i know more than i have told, but not more than i can tell, if i choose."
"our ancient friendship"--faltered alexandrine, touched in a vulnerable spot.
"--preserves you thus far," added flique, no less unmoved. "beware how you abuse it!"
and so the calls of zut were no longer disturbed.
but the rover spirit is progressive, and thus short visits became long visits, and finally the angora spent whole nights in the salon malakoff, where a box and a bit of carpet were provided for her. and one fateful morning the meaning of madame caille's significant words "and above all, now!" was made clear.
the prosperity of hippolyte's establishment had grown apace, so that, on the morning in question, the three chairs were occupied, and yet other customers awaited their turn. the air was laden with violet and lilac. a stout chauffeur, in a leather suit, thickly coated with dust, was undergoing a shampoo at the hands of one of the duck-clad, and, under the skillfully plied razor of the other, the virgin down slid from the lips and chin of a slim and somewhat startled youth, while from a vaporizer hippolyte played a fine spray of perfumed water upon the ruddy countenance of abel flique. it was an eloquent moment, eminently fitted for some dramatic incident, and that dramatic incident zut supplied. she advanced slowly and with an air of conscious dignity from the corner where was her carpeted box, and in her mouth was a limp something, which, when deposited in the immediate centre of the salon malakoff, resolved itself into an angora kitten, as white as snow!
"epatant!" said flique, mopping his perfumed chin. and so it was.
there was an immediate investigation of zut's quarters, which revealed four other kittens, but each of these was marked with black or tan. it was the flower of the flock with which the proud mother had won her public.
"and they are all yours!" cried flique, when the question of ownership arose. "mon dieu, yes! there was such a case not a month ago, in the eighth arrondissement--a concierge of the avenue hoche who made a contrary claim. but the courts decided against her. they are all yours, madame sergeot. my felicitations!"
now, as we have said, madame sergeot was of a placid temperament which sought not strife. but the unprovoked insults of madame caille had struck deep, and, after all, she was but human.
so it was that, seated at her little desk, she composed the following masterpiece of satire:
chère madame,--we send you back your cat, and the others--all but one. one kitten was of a pure white, more beautiful even than its mother. as we have long desired a white angora, we keep this one as a souvenir of you. we regret that we do not see the means of accepting the kind offer you were so amiable as to make us. we fear that we shall not find time to shampoo your cat, as we shall be so busy taking care of our own. monsieur flique will explain the rest.
we pray you to accept, madame, the assurance of our distinguished consideration,
hippolyte and espérance sergeot.
it was abel flique who conveyed the above epistle, and zut, and four of zut's kittens, to alexandrine caille, and, when that wrathful person would have rent him with tooth and nail, it was abel flique who laid his finger on his lip, and said,--
"concern yourself with the superior kitten, madame, and i concern myself with the inferior eggs!"
to which alexandrine made no reply. after flique had taken his departure, she remained speechless for five consecutive minutes for the first time in the whole of her waking existence, gazing at the spot at her feet where sprawled the white angora, surrounded by her mottled offspring. even when the first shock of her defeat had passed, she simply heaved a deep sigh, and uttered two words,--
the which, in parisian argot, at once means everything and nothing.
deus ex machina
the studio was tucked away in the extreme upper northeast corner of 13 ter rue visconti, higher even than that cinquième, dearly beloved of the impecunious, and of whoso, between stairs and street odors, chooses the lesser evil, and is more careful of lungs than legs. after the six long flights had been achieved, around a sharp corner and up a little winding stairway, was the door which bore the name of pierre vauquelin. inside, after stumbling along a narrow hall, as black as erebus, and floundering through a curtained doorway, one came abruptly into the studio, and, in all probability, fell headlong over a little rattan stool, or an easel, or a box of paints, and was picked up by the host, and dusted, and put to rights, and made much of, like a bumped child. thus restored to equanimity one was better able to appreciate what pierre called la boîte.
the box was a room eight metres in width by ten in length, with a skylight above, and a great, square window in the north wall, which latter sloped inward from floor to ceiling, by reason of the mansarde roof. of what might be called furniture there was but little, a norman cupboard of black wood, heavily carved, a long divan, contrived from various packing boxes and well-worn rugs, a large, square table, a half dozen chairs, three easels, and a repulsive little stove with an interminable pipe, which, with its many twists and turns, gave one the impression of a thick, black snake, that had, a moment before, been swaying about in the room, and had suddenly found a hole in the roof through which to thrust its head.
but of minor things the box was full to overflowing. the norman cupboard was crammed with an assortment of crockery, much of it sadly nicked and cracked, the divan was strewn with boxes of broken pastels, paint-brushes, and palettes coated with dried colors, the table littered with papers, sketches, and books, and every chair had its own particular trap for the unwary, in the form of thumb-tacks or a glass half full of cloudy water: and in the midst of this chaos, late on a certain mid-may afternoon, stood the painter himself, with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his corduroy trousers, and his back turned upon the portrait upon which he had been at work. it was evident that something untoward was in the air, because pierre, who always smoked, was not smoking, and pierre, who never scowled, was scowling.
in the quartier--that quartier which alone, of them all, is spelt with a capital q--there was, in ordinary, no gayer, more happy-go-lucky type than this same pierre. he lived, as did a thousand of his kind, on eighty sous a day (there were those who lived on less, pardi!), and breakfasted, and dined, at that,--yes, and paid himself an absinthe at the deux magots at six o'clock, and a package of green cigarettes, into the bargain. for the rest of the time, he was understood to be working on a portrait in his studio, and, what is more surprising, often was. there was nothing remarkable about pierre's portraits, except that occasionally he sold one, and for money--for actual money, the astonishing animal! but if any part of the modest proceeds of such a transaction remained, after the rent had been paid and a new canvas purchased, it was not the caisse d'épargne which saw it, be sure of that! for pierre lived always for the next twenty-four hours, and let the rest of time and eternity look out for themselves.
yet he took his work seriously. that was the trouble. even admitting that, thus far, his orders had come only from the more prosperous tradesmen of the quartier, did that mean, par exemple, that they would not come in time from the millionaires of the sixteenth arrondissement? by no means, whatever, said pierre. to be sure, he had never had the salon in the palm of his hand, so to speak, but what of that? jean-paul himself would tell you that it was all favoritism! so pierre toiled away at his portrait painting, and made a little competency, but, if the truth were told, no appreciable progress from year's beginning to year's end.
for once, however, his luck had played him false. the fat restaurateur, whose wife's portrait he had finished that afternoon and carried at top speed, with the paint not yet dry, to the rue du bac, was out of town on business, and would not return until the following evening; and that, so far as pierre was concerned, was quite as bad as if he were not expected until the following year. pierre's total wealth amounted to one five-franc piece and three sous, and he had been relying upon the restaurateur's four louis, to enable him to fulfill his promise to mimi. for the next day was her fête, and they were to have breakfasted in the country, and taken a boat upon the seine, and returned to dine under the trees. not at suresnes or st. cloud, ah, non! something better than that--the true country, sapristi! at poissy, twenty-eight kilometres from paris. all of which meant at least a louis, and, no doubt, more! and where, demanded pierre of the great north window, where was a louis to be found?
for there was a tacit understanding among the comrades in the quartier that there must be no borrowing and lending of money. it was a clause of their creed, which had been adopted in the early days of their companionship, for what was, clearly, the greatest general good, the chances being that no one of them would ever possess sufficient surplus capital either to accommodate another or to repay an accommodation. for a moment, to be sure, the thought had crossed pierre's mind, but he had rejected it instantly as impracticable. aside from the unwritten compact, there was no one of them all who could have been of service, had he so willed. even jacques courbet, who possessed a disposition which would have impelled him to chop off his right hand with the utmost cheerfulness, if thereby he could have gratified a friend, was worse than useless in this emergency. had it been a matter of forty sous--but a louis! as well have asked him for the vénus de milo, and had done with it.
so it was that, with the premonition of mimi's disappointed eyes cutting great gaps in his tender heart, pierre had four times shrugged his shoulders, and quoted to himself this favorite scrap of his remarkable philosophy,--"oh, lala! all this will arrange itself!" and four times had paused, in the act of lighting a cigarette, and plunged again into the depths of despondent reverie. as he was on the point of again repeating this entirely futile operation, a distant clock struck six, and pierre, remembering that mimi must even now be waiting for him at the west door of st. germain-des-prés, clapped on his cap, and sallied forth into the gathering twilight.
it was apéritif hour at the café des deux magots, and the long, leather-covered benches against the windows, and the double row of little marble-topped tables in front were rapidly filling, as pierre and mimi took their places, and ordered two turins à l'eau. a group of american beaux arts men at their right were chattering in their uncouth tongue, with occasional scraps of quartier slang, by way of local color, and now and again hailing a newcomer with exclamations, apparently of satisfaction, which began with "hello!" the boulevard st. germain was alive with people, walking past with the admirable lack of haste which distinguishes the parisian, or waiting, in patient, voluble groups, for a chance to enter the constantly arriving and departing trams and omnibuses; and an unending succession of open cabs filed slowly along the curb, their drivers scanning the terrasse of the café for a possible fare. the air was full of that mingled odor of wet wood pavements and horse-chestnut blossoms, which is the outward, invisible sign of that most wonderful of inward and spiritual combinations--paris and spring! and, at the table directly behind pierre and mimi sat caffiard.
there was nothing about caffiard to suggest a deus ex machina, or anything else, for that matter, except a preposterously corpulent old gentleman with an amiable smile. but in nothing were appearances ever more deceitful than in caffiard. for it was he, with his enormous double chin, and his general air of harmless fatuity, who edited the little colored sheet entitled la blague, which sent half paris into convulsions of merriment every thursday morning, and he who knew every caricaturist in town, and was beloved of them all for the heartiness of his appreciation and the liberality of his payments. in the first regard he was but one of many parisian editors: but in the second he stood without a peer. caran d'ache, léandre, willette, forain, hermann paul, abel faivre--they rubbed their hands when they came out of caffiard's private office, and if the day chanced to be saturday, there was something in their hands worth rubbing. a fine example, caffiard!
"voyons donc, my pierrot!" she said. "it is not a funeral to which we go to-morrow, at least! thou must be gay, for we have much to talk of, thou knowest. one dines at la boîte?"
"the dinner is there, such as it is," replied pierre gloomily.
"what it is now, is not the question," said mimi, with confidence, "but what i make of it--pas? and then there is to-morrow! oh, lala, lalala! what a pleasure it will be, if only the good god gives us beautiful weather. dis, donc, great thunder-cloud, dost thou know it, this poissy?"
pierre had begun a caricature on the back of the wine-card, glancing now and again at his model, an old man selling newspapers on the curb. he shook his head without replying.
"eh, b'en, my little one, thou mayest believe me that it is of all places the most beautiful! one eats at the esturgeon, on the seine,--but on the seine, with the water quite near, like that chair. he names himself jarry, the proprietor, and it is a good type--fat and handsome. i adore him! art thou jealous, species of thinness of a hundred nails? b'en, afterwards, one takes a boat, and goes, softly, softly, down the little arm of the seine, and creeps under the willows, and, perhaps, fishes. but no, for it is the closed season. but one sings, eh? what does one sing? voyons!"
she bent forward, and, in a little voice, like an elf's, very thin and sweet, hummed a snatch of a song they both knew.
"c'est votre ami pierrot qui vient vous voir: bonsoir, madame la lune!"
"and then," she went on, as pierre continued his sketch in silence, "and then, one disembarks at villennes and has a turin under the arbors of bodin. another handsome type, bodin! flut! what a man!"
mimi paused suddenly, and searched his cloudy face with her earnest, tender little eyes.
"pierrot," she said, softly, "what hast thou? thou art not angry with thy gosseline?"
pierre surveyed the outline of the newspaper vender thoughtfully, touched it, here and there, with his pencil-point, squinted, and then pushed the paper toward the girl.
"not bad," he said, replacing his pencil in his pocket.
but mimi had no eyes for the caricature, and merely flicked the wine-card to the ground.
vauquelin plunged his hands in his pockets and looked at her.
"well, then," he announced, almost brutally, "we do not go to-morrow."
it was going to be much worse than he had supposed, this little tragedy. bon dieu, how pretty she was, with her startled, hurt eyes, already filling with tears, and her parted lips, and her little white hand, that had flashed up to her cheek at his words! oh, much worse than he had supposed! but she must be told: there was nothing but that. so pierre put his elbows on the table, and his chin in his hands, and brought his face close to hers.
"voyons!" he explained, "thou dost not believe me angry! mais non, mais non! but listen. it is i who am the next to the last of idiots, since i have never a sou in pocket, never! and the imbecile restaurateur, whose wife i have been painting, will not return until to-morrow, and so i am not paid. voilà!"
he placed his five-franc piece upon the table, and shrugged his shoulders.
"one full moon!" he said, and piled the three sous upon it. "and three soldiers. as i sit here, that is all, until to-morrow night. we cannot go!"
brave little mimi! already she was winking back her tears, and smiling.
"but that--that is nothing!" she answered. "i do not care to go. no--but truly! look! we shall spend the day in the studio, and breakfast on the balcony, and pretend the rue visconti is the seine."
"i am an empty siphon!" said pierre, yielding to desperation.
"non!" said mimi firmly.
"i am a pierced basket, a box of matches!"
"non! non!" said mimi, with tremendous earnestness. "thou art pierrot, and i love thee! let us say no more. i shall go back and prepare the dinner, and thou shalt remain and drink a pernod. it will give thee heart. but follow quickly. give me the key."
she laid her wide-spread hand on his, palm upward, like a little pink starfish.
"we go together, and i adore thee!" said pierre, and kissed her in the sight of all men, and was not ashamed.
caffiard leaned forward, picked up the fallen wine-card, pretended to consult it, and ponderously arose. as pierre was turning the key in the door of the little apartment, they heard a sound of heavy breathing, and the deus ex machina came lumbering up the winding stair.
"monsieur is seeking some one?" asked the painter politely.
there was no breath left in caffiard. he was only able, by way of reply, to point at the top button of pierre's coat, and nod helplessly: then, as mimi ran ahead to light the gas, he labored along the corridor, staggered through the curtained doorway, stumbled over a rattan stool, was rescued by pierre, and, finally, established upon the divan, very red and gasping.
for a time there was silence, pierre and mimi busying themselves in putting the studio to rights, with an instinctive courtesy which took no notice of their visitor's snorts and wheezes; and caffiard taking note of his surroundings with his round, blinking eyes. opposite him, against the wall, reposed the portrait of the restaurateur's wife, as dry and pasty as a stale cream cheese upon the point of crumbling, and on an easel was another--that of monsieur pantin, the rich shirt-maker of the boulevard st. germain--on which pierre was at work. a veritable atrocity this, with a green background which trespassed upon monsieur pantin's hair, and a featureless face, gaunt and haggard with yellow and purple undertones. there was nothing in either picture to refute one's natural suspicion that soap had been the medium employed. caffiard blinked harder still as his eyes rested upon the portraits, and he secretly consulted the crumpled wine-card in his hand. then he seemed to recover his breath by means of a profound sigh.
"monsieur makes caricatures?" he inquired.
"ah, monsieur," said pierre, "at times, and for amusement only. i am a portraitist." and he pointed proudly to the picture against the wall.
for they are all alike, these painters--proudest of what they do least well!
"ah! then," said caffiard, with an air of resignation, "i must ask monsieur's pardon, and descend. i am not interested in portraits. when it comes to caricatures"--
"they are well enough in their way," put in pierre, "but as a serious affair--to sell, for instance--well, monsieur comprehends that one does not debauch one's art!"
oh, yes, they are all alike, these painters!
"what is serious, what is not serious?" answered caffiard. "it is all a matter of opinion. one prefers to have his painting glued to the wall of the salon, next the ceiling, another to have his drawing on the front page of la blague."
"oh, naturally la blague," protested pierre.
"i am its editor," said caffiard superbly.
"eigh!" exclaimed pierre. for mimi had cruelly pinched his arm. before the sting had passed, she was seated at caffiard's side, tugging at the strings of a great portfolio.
"are they imbeciles, these painters, monsieur?" she was saying. "now you shall see. this great baby is marvelous, but marvelous, with his caricatures. not léandre himself--it is i who assure you, monsieur!--and to hear him, one would think--but thou tirest me, pierrot!--with his portraits! no, it is too much!"
she spread the portfolio wide, and began to shuffle through the drawings it contained.
caffiard's eyes glistened as he saw them. even in her enthusiasm, mimi had not overshot the mark. they were marvelous indeed, these caricatures, mere outlines for the most part, with a dot, here and there, of red, or a little streak of green, which lent them a curious, unusual charm. the subjects were legion. here was loubet, with a great band of crimson across his shirt bosom, here waldeck-rousseau, with eyes as round and prominent as agate marbles, or yvette, with a nose on which one might have hung an overcoat, or chamberlain, all monocle, or wilhelmina, growing out of a tulip's heart, and as pretty as an old print, with her tight-fitting dutch cap and broidered bodice. and then a host of types--cochers, grisettes, flower women, camelots, heaven knows what not!--the products of half a hundred idle hours, wherein great-hearted, foolish pierre had builded better than he knew!
caffiard selected five at random, and then, from a waistcoat pocket that clung as closely to his round figure as if it had been glued thereto, produced a hundred-franc note.
"i must have these for la blague, monsieur," he said. "bring me two caricatures a week at my office in the rue st. joseph, and you shall be paid at the same rate. it is not much, to be sure. but you will have ample time left for your--for your portrait-painting, monsieur!"
for a moment the words of caffiard affected pierre and mimi as the stairs had affected caffiard. they stared at him, opening and shutting their mouths and gasping, like fish newly landed. then, suddenly, animated by a common impulse, they rushed into each other's arms, and set out, around the studio, in a mad waltz, which presently resolved itself into an impromptu can-can, with mimi skipping like a fairy, and pierre singing: "hi! hi!! hi!!!" and snapping at her flying feet with a red-bordered handkerchief. after this mimi kissed caffiard twice: once on the top of his bald head, and once on the end of his stubby nose. it was like being brushed by the floating down of a dandelion. and, finally, nothing would do but that he must accompany them upon the morrow; and she explained to him in detail the plan which had so nearly fallen through, and the deus ex machina did not betray by so much as a wink that he had heard the entire story only half an hour before.
but, in the end, he protested. but she was insane, the little one, completely! had he then the air of one who gave himself into those boats there, name of a pipe? but let us be reasonable, voyons! he was not young like pierre and mimi--one comprehended that these holidays did not recommence when one was sixty. what should he do, he demanded of them, trailing along, as one might say, he and his odious fatness? ah, non! for la belle jeunesse was la belle jeunesse, there was no means of denying it, and it was not for a species of dried sponge to be giving itself the airs of a fresh flower. "but no! but no!" said caffiard, striving to rise from the divan. "in the morning i have my article to do for the figaro, and i am going with caran to longchamp, en auto, for the races in the afternoon. but no! but no!"
it was plain that caffiard had known mimi no more than half an hour. one never said, "but no! but no!" to mimi, unless it was for the express purpose of having one's mouth covered by the softest little pink palm to be found between the seine and the observatoire,--which, to do him justice, caffiard was quite capable of scheming to bring about, if only he had known! he had accepted the little dandelion-down kisses in a spirit of philosophy, knowing well that they were given not for his sake, but for pierre's. but now his protests came to an abrupt termination, for mimi suddenly seated herself on his lap, and put one arm around his neck.
it was nothing short of an achievement, this. even caffiard himself had not imagined that such a thing as his lap was still extant. yet here was mimi, actually installed thereon, with her cheek pressed against his, and her breath, which was like clover, stirring the ends of his moustache. but she was smiling at pierre, the witch! caffiard could see it out of the corner of his eye.
"mais non!" he repeated, but more feebly.
"mais non! mais non! mais non!" mocked mimi. "great farceur! will you listen, at least? eh b'en, voilà! here is my opinion. as to insanity, if for any one to propose a day in the country is insanity, well then, yes,--i am insane! soit! and, again, if you wish to appear serious,--in paris, that is to say--soit, également! but when you speak of odious fatness, you are a type of monsieur extremely low of ceiling, do you know! moreover, you are going. voilà! it is finished. as for caran, let him go his way and draw his caricatures--though they are not like pierre's, all the world knows!--and, without doubt, his auto will refuse to move beyond the porte dauphine, yes, and blow up, bon dieu! when he is in the act of mending it. one knows these boxes of vapors, what they do. and as for the figaro, b'en, flut! evidently it will not cease to exist for lack of your article--eh, l'ami? and it is mimi who asks you,--mimi, do you understand, who invites you to her fête. and you would refuse her--toi!"
"but no! but no!" said caffiard hurriedly. and meant it.
at this point pierre wrapped five two-sou pieces in a bit of paper, and tossed them, out of a little window across the hallway, to a street-singer whimpering in the court below. pierre said that they weighed down his pockets. they were in the way, the clumsy doublins, said wonderful, spendthrift pierre!
for the wide sky of the quartier is forever dotted with little clouds, scudding, scudding, all day long. and when one of these passes across the sun, there is a sudden chill in the air, and one walks for a time in shadow, though the comrade over there, across the way, is still in the warm and golden glow. but when the sun has shouldered the little cloud aside again, ah, that is when life is good to live, and goes gayly, to the tinkle of glasses and the ripple of laughter, and the ring of silver bits. and when the street-singer in the court receives upon his head a little parcel of coppers that are too heavy for the pocket, and smiles to himself, who knows but what he understands?
for what is also true of the quartier is this--that, in sunshine or shadow, one finds a soft little hand clasping his, firm, warm, encouraging and kindly, and hears a gay little voice that, in foul weather, chatters of the bright hours which it is so sweet to remember, and, in fair, says never a word of the storms which it is so easy to forget!
the veriest bat might have foreseen the end, when once mimi had put her arm around the neck of caffiard. before the deus ex machina knew what he was about, he found his army of objections routed, horse, foot, and dragoons, and had promised to be at the gare st. lazare at eleven the following morning.
and what a morning it was! surely the bon dieu must have loved mimi an atom better than other mortals, for in the blue-black crucible of the night he fashioned a day as clear and glowing as a great jewel, and set it, blazing with warm light and vivid color, foremost in the diadem of the year. and it was something to see mimi at the carriage window, with pierre at her side and her left hand in his, and in her right a huge bouquet--caffiard's contribution--while the deus ex machina himself, breathing like a happy hippopotamus, beamed upon the pair from the opposite corner. so the train slipped past the fortifications, swung through a trim suburb, slid smoothly out into the open country. it was a wednesday, and there was no holiday crowd to incommode them. they had the compartment to themselves; and the half hour flew like six minutes, said mimi, when at last they came to a shuddering standstill, and two guards hastened along the platform in opposite directions, one droning "poiss-y-y-y-y!" and the other shouting "poiss'! poiss'! poiss'!" as if he had been sneezing. it was an undertaking to get caffiard out of the carriage, just as it had been to get him in. but finally it was accomplished, a whistle trilled from somewhere as if it had been a bird, another wailed like a stepped-on kitten, the locomotive squealed triumphantly, and the next minute the trio were alone in their glory.
it was a day that caffiard never forgot. they breakfasted at once, so as to have a longer afternoon. mimi was guide and commander-in-chief, as having been to the esturgeon before, so the table was set upon the terrasse overlooking the seine, and there were radishes, and little individual omelettes, and a famous matelote, which monsieur jarry himself served with the air of a lucullus, and, finally, a great dish of quatre saisons, and, for each of the party, a squat brown pot of fresh cream. and, moreover, no ordinaire, but st. emilion, if you please, with a tin-foil cap which had to be removed before one could draw the cork, and a bottle of source badoit as well. and caffiard, who had dined with the russian ambassador on monday and breakfasted with the nuncio on tuesday, and been egregiously displeased with the fare in both instances, consumed an unprecedented quantity of matelote, and went back to radishes after he had eaten his strawberries and cream: while, to cap the climax, pierre paid the addition with a louis,--and gave all the change as a tip! but it was unheard-of!
afterwards they engaged a boat, and, with much alarm on the part of mimi, and satirical comment from caffiard, and severe admonitions to prudence by pierre, pushed out into the stream and headed for villennes, to the enormous edification of three small boys, who hung precariously over the railing of the terrace above them, and called caffiard a captive balloon.
they made the three kilometres at a snail's pace, allowing the boat to drift with the current for an hour at a time, and, now and again creeping in under the willows at the water's edge until they were wholly hidden from view, and the voice of mimi singing was as that of some river nixie invisible to mortal eyes. she sang "bonsoir, madame la lune," so sweetly and so sadly that caffiard was moved to tears. it was her favorite song, because--oh, because it was about pierrot! and her own pierrot responded with a gay soldier ballad, a chanson de route which he had picked up at the noctambules; and even caffiard sang--a ridiculous ditty it was, which scored the english and went to a rollicking air. they all shouted the refrain, convulsed with merriment at the drollery of the sound:--
"qu'est ce qui quitte ses père et mère afin de s'en aller s'faire taper dans le nez? c'est le soldat d'angleterre! dou-gle-di-gle-dum! avec les ba-a-a-alles dum-dum!"
caffiard was to leave them at villennes after they should have taken their apéritifs. they protested, stormed at him, scolded and cajoled by turns, and called him a score of fantastic names--for by this time they knew him intimately--as they sat in monsieur bodin's arbor and sipped amer-menthe, but all in vain. pierre had mimi's hand, as always, and he had kissed her a half-hundred times in the course of the afternoon. mimi had a way of shaking her hair out of her eyes with a curious little backward jerk of her head when pierre kissed her, and then looking at him seriously, seriously, but smiling when he caught her at it. caffiard liked that. and pierre had a trick of turning, as if to ask mimi's opinion, or divine even her unspoken wishes whenever a question came up for decision--a choice of food or drink, or direction, or what-not. and caffiard liked that.
he looked across the table at them now, dreamily, through his cigarette smoke.
"pierrot," he said, after he had persuaded them to let him depart in peace when the train should be due,--"pierrot. yes, that is it. you, with your garret, and your painting, and your songs, and your black, black sadness at one moment, and your laughter the next, and, above all, your pierrette, your bon-bon of a pierrette:--you are pierrot, the spirit of paris in powder and white muslin! eigho! my children, what a thing it is, la belle jeunesse! tiens! you have given me a taste of it to-day, and i thank you. i thought i had forgotten. but no, one never forgets. it all comes back,--youth, and strength, and beauty, love, and music, and laughter,--but only like a breath upon a mirror, my children, only like a wind-ripple on a pool; for i am an old man."
he paused, looking up at the vine-leaves on the trellis-roof, and murmured a few words of mimi's song:--
"pierrette en songe va venir me voir: bonsoir, madame la lune!"
then his eyes came back to her face.
"i must be off," he said. "why, what hast thou, little one? there are tears in those two stars!"
"c'est vrai?" asked mimi, smiling at him and then at pierre, and brushing her hand across her eyes, "c'est vrai? well then, they are gone as quickly as they came. voilà! without his tears pierrot is not pierrot, and without pierrot"--
she turned to pierre suddenly, and buried her face on his shoulder.
"je t'aime!" she whispered. "je t'aime!"
the next corner
anthony cazeby was a man whom the felicitous combination of an adventurous disposition, sufficient ready money, and a magnificent constitution had introduced to many and various sensations, but he was conscious that, so far as intensity went, no one of them all had approached for a moment that with which he emerged from the doorway of the automobile club, and, winking at the sting of the keen winter air, looked out across the place de la concorde, with its globes of light, swung, like huge pearls on invisible strings, across the haze of the january midnight. he paused for a moment, as if he would allow his faculties to obtain a full and final grasp of his situation, and motioned aside the trim little club chasseur who stood before him, with one cotton-gloved hand stretched out expectantly for a supposititious carriage-check.
"va, mon petit, je vais à pied!"
afoot! cazeby smiled to himself at the tone of sudden caprice which rang in his voice, and, turning his fur collar high up about his ears, swung off rapidly toward the cours la reine. after all, the avenue d'eylau was only an agreeable stroll's length distant. why not go home afoot? but then, on the other hand, why go home at all? as this thought leaped suddenly at cazeby's throat out of the void of the great unpremeditated, he caught his breath, stopped suddenly in the middle of the driveway, and then went on more slowly, thinking hard.
it had been that rarissima avis of social life, even in paris, a perfect dinner. cazeby had found himself wondering, at more than one stage of its smooth and imposing progress, how the flints could afford to do it. but on each recurrence of the thought he dismissed it with a little frown of vexation. if there was one thing more than another upon which cazeby prided himself, it was originality of thought, word, and deed, and he was annoyed to find himself, even momentarily, on a mental level with the gossips of the american and english colonies, whose time is equally divided between wondering how the choses can afford to do what they do, and why the machins cannot afford to do what they leave undone.
people had said many things of hartley flint, and still more of his wife, but no one had ever had the ignorance or the perversity to accuse them of inefficiency in the matter of a dinner. moreover, on this particular occasion, they were returning the hospitality of the baroness klemftt, who had, at the close of the exposition, impressed into her service the chef of the roumanian restaurant, and whose dinners were, in consequence, the wonder and despair of four foreign colonies. after her latest exploit hartley flint had remarked to his wife that it was "up to them to make good," which, being interpreted, was to say that it was at once his duty and his intention to repay the baroness in her own sterling coin. the fact that the men of the party afterwards commended hartley's choice of wines, and that the women expressed the opinion that "kate flint looked really pretty!" would seem to be proof positive that the operation of "making good" had been an unqualified success.
now, cazeby was wondering whether he had actually enjoyed it all. under the circumstances it seemed to him incredible, and yet he could not recall a qualm of uneasiness from the moment when the maître d'hôtel had thrown open the doors of the private dining room, until the baroness had smiled at her hostess out of a cloud of old valenciennes, and said, "now there are two of us who give impeccable dinners, madame flint." even now, even facing his last ditch, cazeby was conscious of a little thrill of self-satisfaction. he had said the score of clever things which each of his many hostesses expected of him, and had told with great effect his story of the little german florist, which had grown, that season, under the persuasive encouragement of society's applause, from a brief anecdote into a veritable achievement of teutonic dialect. also, he had worn a forty franc orchid, and had left it in his coffee-cup because it had begun to wilt. in brief, he had been anthony cazeby at his extraordinary best, a mixture of brilliancy and eccentricity, without which, as mrs. flint was wont to say, no dinner was complete.
but the sublime and the ridiculous are not the only contrasting conditions that lie no further than a step apart, and cazeby was painfully conscious of having, in the past five minutes, crossed the short interval which divides gay from grave. reduced to its lowest terms, his situation lay in his words to the little chasseur. with the odor of the rarest orchid to be found in vaillant-rozeau's whole establishment yet clinging to his lapel, anthony cazeby was going home on foot because the fare from the concorde to the avenue d'eylau was one franc fifty, and one franc fifty precisely ninety centimes more than he possessed in the world. for a moment he straightened himself, threw back his head, and looked up at the dull saffron of the low-hanging sky, in an attempt to realize this astounding fact, and then went back to his thinking.
well, it was not surprising. the life of a popular young diplomat with extravagant tastes is not conducive to economy, and the forty thousand dollars which had come to cazeby at the beginning of his twenty-eighth year had proved but a bad second best in the struggle with parisian gayety. his bibelots, his servants, auteuil, longchamp, his baccarat at the prince de tréville's, a dancer at the folies-marigny, monte carlo, aix, trouville,--they had all had their share, and now the piper was waiting to be paid and the exchequer was empty. it was an old story. other men of his acquaintance had done the same, but they had had some final resource. the trouble was, as cazeby had already noted, that, in his case, the final resource was not, as in theirs, pecuniary. quite on the contrary, it was a tidy little weapon, of smith and wesson make, which lay in the upper right hand drawer of his marqueterie desk. he had looked long at it that same afternoon, with all his worldly wealth, in the shape of forty-two francs sixty, spread out beside it. that was before he had taken a fiacre to vaillant-rozeau's.
somehow, in none of his calculations had the idea of invoking assistance ever played a part. naturally, as a reasoning being, he had foreseen the present crisis for some months, but at the time when the inevitable catastrophe first became clear to him it was already too late to regain his balance, since the remainder of his inheritance was so pitifully small that any idea of retrieving his fortunes through its instrumentality was simply farcical. the swirl of the rapids, as he had then told himself, had already caught his boat. all that was left to do was to go straight on to the sheer of the fall, with his pennant flying and himself singing at the helm. then, on the brink, a well-placed bullet--no bungling for anthony cazeby!--and the next day people would be talking of the shocking accident which had killed him in the act of cleaning his revolver, and saying the usual things about a young man with a brilliant future before him and everything in life for which to live.
and this plan he had carried out in every detail--save the last, to which he was now come; and his was the satisfying conviction that not one of the brilliant, careless men and women, among whom he lived, and moved, and had his being, suspected for a moment that the actual circumstances differed in the least from the outward appearances. he thought it all over carefully now, and there was no play in the entire game that he felt he would have liked to have changed.
sentiment had no part in the makeup of anthony cazeby. lacking from early childhood the common ties of home affection, and by training and profession a diplomat, he added to a naturally undemonstrative nature the non-committal suavity of official poise. but that was not all. he had never been known to be ill at ease. this was something which gained him a reputation for studious self-control. as a matter of fact it was due to nothing of the sort. no one had ever come fairly at the root of his character except cazeby père, who once said, in a fit of passion, "you don't care a brass cent, sir, whether you live and are made president of the united states, or die and are eternally damned!" and that was exactly the point.
something of all this had passed through cazeby's mind, when he was suddenly aroused to an appreciation of his whereabouts by the sound of a voice, to find that the curious instinct of direction which underlies advanced inebriety and profound preoccupation alike, had led him up the avenue du trocadéro, and across the place, and that he had already advanced some little way along the avenue d'eylau in the direction of his apartment. the street was dimly lighted, but, just behind him, the windows of a tiny wine-shop gave out a subdued glow, and from within came the sound of a violin. then cazeby's attention came around to the owner of the voice. this was a youngish man of medium stature, in the familiar street dress of a french laborer, jacket and waistcoat of dull blue velveteen, peg-top trousers of heavy corduroy, a crimson knot at his throat, and a dark tam o'shanter pulled low over one ear. as their eyes met, he apparently saw that cazeby had not heard his first remark, and so repeated it.
"i have need of a drink!"
there was nothing of the beggar in his tone or manner. both were threatening, rather; and, as soon as he had spoken, he thrust his lower jaw forward, in the fashion common to the thug of any and every nationality when the next move is like to be a blow. but, for once, these manifestations of hostility failed signally of effect. cazeby was the last person in the world to select as the object of sudden attack, with the idea that panic would make him easy prey. in his present state of mind he went further than preserving his equanimity: he was even faintly amused. it was not that he did not comprehend the other's purpose, but, to his way of thinking, there was something distinctly humorous in the idea of holding up a man with only sixty centimes to his name, and menacing him with injury, when he himself was on his way to the upper right hand drawer of the marqueterie desk.
"i have need of a drink," repeated the other, coming a step nearer. "thou art not deaf, at least?"
"a vitriol for me," he said.
cazeby had not passed three years in paris for nothing. he received this remarkable request with the unconcern of one to whom the slang of the exterior boulevards is sufficiently familiar, and, as the proprietor leaned across the nickled slab of his narrow counter with an air of interrogation, duplicated his companion's order.
the proprietor, vouchsafing the phrase a grin of appreciation, lumbered heavily around to the table, filled two small glasses from a bottle of cheap cognac, and stood awaiting payment, hands on hips.
"di-ze sous," he said.
"have you also need of a cigarette?" he inquired, politely, tendering the other his case.
for some minutes, as they smoked, the diplomat and the vagabond took stock of each other in silence. in many ways they were singularly alike. there was in both the same irony of lip line, the same fair chiseling of chin and nostril and brow, the same weariness of eye. the difference was one of dress and bearing alone, and, in those first moments of mutual analysis, cazeby realized that there was about this street-lounger a vague air of the gentleman, a subtle suggestion of good birth and breeding, which even his slouching manner and coarse speech were not wholly able to conceal: and his guest was conscious that in cazeby he had to deal with no mere society puppet, but with one in whom the limitations of position had never wholly subdued the devil-may-care instincts of the vagabond. the one was a finished model of a man of the world, the other a caricature, but the clay was the same.
"i am also hungry," said the latter suddenly.
"in that respect," responded cazeby, in the same tone of even politeness, "i am, unfortunately, unable to assist you, unless you will accept the hospitality of my apartment. it is but a step, and i am rather an expert on bacon and eggs. also," he added, falling into the idiom of the faubourgs, "there is a means there of remedying the dryness of the sponge in one's throat. my name is antoine."
"i am bibi-la-raie," said the other shortly. then he continued, with instinctive suspicion, "it is a strange fashion thou hast of introducing a type to these gentlemen."
"as a matter of fact," said cazeby, "i do not live over a poste. but whether or not you will come is something for you to decide. it is less trouble to cook eggs for one than for two."
bibi-la-raie reflected briefly. finally he had recourse to his characteristic shrug.
"after all, what difference?" he said. "as well now as another time. i follow thee!"
the strangely assorted companions entered cazeby's apartment as the clock was striking one, and pressure of an electric button, flooding the salon with light, revealed a little tea-table furnished with cigarettes and cigars, decanters of scotch whiskey and liqueurs, and venetian goblets of oddly tinted glass. cazeby shot a swift glance at his guest as this array sprang into view, and was curiously content to observe that he manifested no surprise. bibi-la-raie had flung himself into a great leather chair with an air of being entirely at ease.
"not bad, thy little box," he observed. "is it permitted?"
he indicated the table with a nod.
"assuredly," said cazeby. "do as if you were at home. i shall be but a moment with the supper."
when he returned from the kitchen, bearing a smoking dish of bacon and eggs, butter, rye bread, and swiss cheese, bibi-la-raie was standing in rapt contemplation before an etching of the "last judgment."
"what a genius, this animal of a michel ange!" he said.
"rather deft at times," replied cazeby, arranging the dishes on the larger table.
"je te crois!" said bibi, enthusiastically. "without him--what? evidently, it was not léon treize who built saint pierre!"
the eggs had been peculiarly obstinate, as it happened, and a growing irritability had taken possession of anthony. as they ate in silence, the full force of his tragic position returned to him. even the unwontedness of his chance encounter with bibi-la-raie had not wholly dispelled the cloud that had been gradually settling around him since he emerged from the automobile club, and, as they finished the little repast, he turned suddenly upon his guest, in a burst of irritation.
"who are you?" he said. "and what does all this mean? was i mistaken, when you first spoke to me, in thinking you a mere voyou? surely not! you meant to rob me. you speak the argot of the fortifications. yet here i find you discoursing on michel angelo as though you were the conservateur of the uffizzi! what am i to think?"
bibi-la-raie lit another cigarette, blew forth the smoke in a thin, gray wisp, and thrust his thumbs into the arm-holes of his velveteen waistcoat.
"and you," he said, slowly, abandoning the familiar address he had been using, "who are you? no, you were not mistaken in thinking i meant to rob you. such is my profession. but does a gentleman reply, in ordinary, to the summons of a thief by paying that thief a drink? does he invite him to his apartment and cook a supper for him? what am i to think?"
there was a brief pause, and then he faced his host squarely.
"are you absolutely resolved to put an end to it all to-night?" he demanded.
cazeby made a small sign of bewilderment.
"ah, mon vieux," continued the other. "that, you know, is of no use with me. you ask me who i am. for one thing, i am one who has lived too long in touch with desperate men not to know the look in the eyes when the end has come. you think you are going to blow out your brains to-night."
"your wits are wandering; that's all," said cazeby, compassionately.
"oh, far from it!" said bibi-la-raie, with a short laugh. "but one does when you have reached the stage where you feel the promptings of the higher reason, and live in accordance therewith, you will say with carpenter:
"let a little sunshine in."
the young people's song--good "new thought" doctrine--plenty of sunshine in life, if you look for it--don't make a dark dungeon of your mind--throw open the windows of your soul--how to let a little sunshine in.
the other night, just as i was dropping off to sleep, a crowd of young people passed along, returning from some social gathering. they were bubbling over with mirth and joy, and every girl seemed to be talking at the same time, the voices of the young men serving merely to punctuate the sentences of their fair companions. just after they passed my window, some one started up a song, and the rest joined in. i do not know the song they sang, but the chorus went something like this:
"let a little sunshine in; let a little sunshine in; open wide the windows, open wide the doors, and let a little sunshine in."
i listened with pleasure to the words and cheerful air of the song and said to myself: "well, that's good enough 'new thought' doctrine for me."
the young people went on their way singing. i, now wide awake, listened and thought. the song grew fainter and fainter as the distance between us grew greater, and at last i could not clearly distinguish the words they sang, but the faint vibrations of the tune still reached me, and i imagined that i could just hear the last words of the refrain:
"let a little sunshine in."
oh, if only those young people--and all young people--and all people young or old--would take to their hearts these words, and "let a little sunshine in." it is not sufficient that you merely agree that the advice is good--that you merely repeat the words mechanically--you must make thought take form in action, and not only say the words--not only think them--but you must act them. make them a part of your life--incorporate the idea in your being--train yourself into the habit of opening yourself to the sunshine of life--get into the way of letting it flow in.
"let a little sunshine in."
there is plenty of sunshine in life, if you only look for it. and there is plenty of shadow in life, if you only look for it. but in the things that seem all shadow to others, you will be able to find the sunshine if you but train yourself to always look for it. and in that which may seem bright sunshine to some, others will find nothing but shade--they are troubled with a mental cataract that shuts out all the rays of the sunshine of life.
"let a little sunshine in."
and when you learn to love the sunshine and look forward to seeing it always, you seem to draw it to you. the law of attraction brings to you your share of the sunshine with which the world is plentifully supplied. and, if you fall into the habit of looking for and expecting the shadow, the shadow will always be found.
"let a little sunshine in."
it is astonishing what a change the mental attitude of the person will make. change your mental attitude, and the whole world seems to change. it is like taking off the smoked glasses that have caused the world to seem dark and gloomy, and seeing the brightness and colors of the world.
"let a little sunshine in."
many of you have been making dark dungeons of your minds. you have steadily shut out the sun, and your minds have become musty, damp and mildewed. across the floor crawl noxious creatures. the slimy form of fear drags itself slowly along, leaving its track behind; the hideous shape of jealousy eyes you from one corner--a creature of darkness; the venomous reptile hate shows its fangs; the vampire worry flits across the chamber. fearful shapes are there glowering in the darkness--frightful forms crouch in corners and recesses. all is gloom, darkness, horror. a fit breeding place for the foul creatures who fear the light--a fit nursery for monsters. look within the dark chambers of your mind--see what it really is--see what it generates. look within--look within. ah, you see at last. no wonder you shriek with terror--no wonder you turn away with horror. no, no, do not turn away--look and see yourself as you are. you need the lesson. now that you see what you have been carrying around with you, and are sickened at the sight, start to work to remedy the evil. throw wide open the doors; throw open the windows of the soul.
"let a little sunshine in."
ah, yes, never fear, there is plenty of sunshine in the universe. plenty for all of you. there is an infinite supply. draw it to you. take it freely. it is there for you. it is your own--your very own. it is as free as air and the material sunshine. there is no tariff on it. it is not controlled by any trust or combine. it is not adulterated. it is everywhere, everywhere. ho! ye who are dwelling in darkness! here is life and happiness for you! here is peace for you! here is joy for you! joy, comrades, joy! open wide your windows; open wide your doors.
"let a little sunshine in."
yes, yes! i hear you say that you cannot dispel the gloom with which you are surrounded. nonsense. do you not know that darkness is not a positive thing--it is the essence of negation. it is not a real thing at all--it is merely the absence of light. and here you have been for all these years, believing that the darkness was a real thing that you could not get rid of. just stop for a moment and think. if a room in your house is dark and gloomy, do you hire a man to shovel out the darkness--do you attempt to do it yourself in your desire for light? no, no, of course you do not. you just raise the shades, and throw open the shutters and the sunshine pours in and lo! the darkness has vanished. so it is with the gloom of the soul, the darkness of the mind. it is a waste of energy to attempt to dig away the darkness--to cast out the shadows. you'll never get light in that way. all that you need to do is to recognize the advantage of light--the fact that light is to be had--that there is plenty of it anxiously waiting to be let in. then all that you need to do is to
"let a little sunshine in; let a little sunshine in; open wide the windows, open wide the doors, and let a little sunshine in."
the hunger of the soul.
the soul, as well as the body and mind, requires nourishment--the want, a promise of the fulfillment--the law of unfoldment--nourishment provided when it is needed--provided for in the divine plan--the feast of good things.
the soul, as well as the body and the mind, requires nourishment. we have felt that hunger for spiritual knowledge which transcended our hunger for bread--exceeded our craving for mental sustenance. we have felt soul-hungry and knew not with what to appease it. the soul has cried out for food. it has been fed upon the husks of the physical plane for so long that it is fairly starving for the proper nourishment. it seeks this way and that way for the bread of life and finds it not. it has asked this authority and that authority for information as to where this food may be had--where could be obtained the food that would nourish the soul--but it has been given nothing but the stone of dogma and creeds. at last it sank exhausted and felt that perhaps there was no bread to be had. it has felt faint and weary and almost believed that all was a delusion and a will-o'-the-wisp of the mind--that there was no reality to it. it felt the chill of despair creeping over it and all seemed lost.
but we must not lose sight of the fact that just as the hunger of the body implies that somewhere in the world is to be found that which will satisfy it--that just as the hunger of the mind implies that somewhere is to be found mental nourishment--so the mere fact that this soul-hunger exists is a proof that somewhere there is to be found that which the absolute has intended to satisfy it. the want is the prophecy of the fulfillment. yes, and the want and its recognition afford the means of obtaining that which will satisfy the want. when, in the course of unfoldment either on the physical, mental or spiritual plane, it becomes necessary for the well-being of the unfolding ego to draw to itself certain things which it requires in the process of evolution, the first step toward the obtaining of that necessary thing is the consciousness of a great and pressing want--the birth of a strong desire. and then the desire grows stronger and stronger, until the ego becomes desperate and determines to obtain the necessary thing at any cost. the obtaining of that thing becomes the prime object in life. students of evolution realize this fact perhaps more than the rest of us. the subconsciousness of the plant or animal becomes surcharged with this great desire, and all the conscious and subconscious power of the living thing is put forth to obtain that which is necessary for its development.
and on the mental plane the same thing is true. the hunger for knowledge, when it once possesses a man, will cause him to cut loose from old environments, surroundings and everything else which has held him, and he forces himself to the place where that knowledge may be obtained--and he obtains it. if he only wants it hard enough he gets it. when we think of lincoln in his boyhood days, painfully and laboriously striving for knowledge, lying on his side before the log fire and reading his book by the light of its flames--and this after a hard day's work such as only the boy on the farm knows--when we think of this we may understand the effects of a strong desire possessing the mind of man or boy, woman or girl.
and this hunger for spiritual knowledge and growth, from whence comes it? when we understand the laws of spiritual unfoldment we begin to understand that the ego is growing and developing--unfolding and casting off old worn-out sheaths. it is calling into operation new faculties--exploring new regions of the mind. in the super-conscious regions of the soul are many faculties lying dormant, awaiting the evolutionary hour of manifestation along conscious lines. as the faculties approach the hour of birth into the new plane they manifest an uneasiness which is communicated to the subconscious and conscious planes of the mind, causing a restlessness and uneasiness which is quite disturbing to the individual in whom they are manifesting. there is a straining for expression--a reaching forward for development--a desire for growth which produces something akin to pain. all growth and development is accompanied by more or less pain. we speak of the beautiful growth of the plant--of the lily--and wish that we could grow as easily and as painlessly as it does. but we forget that all growth means a breaking down--a tearing away--as well as a building up and adding to. the lily's growth appears painless to us, but if we were endowed with keen enough vision--with clear enough sight--with a power enabling us to feel that which is going on within its organism, we would be made aware that there is a constant change going on--a tearing down of tissue, a using up of cells, a pressing upon and breaking through of confining sheaths--all meaning growth, development and unfoldment. we see only the birth of the new parts and lose sight of the pain and destruction preceding it. all through life is manifested the "growing pains" of development. all birth is attended with pain.
and so it is with the birth into consciousness of these unfolding spiritual faculties. we feel an uneasiness, dissatisfaction, yea, even pain, as we strive to call into conscious life these children of the soul. we feel that desire for something needed by our inner self and we seek for it in all directions. we exhaust all of the pleasures of life, so-called, and find no satisfaction there. we then endeavor to find comfort and solace in intellectual pursuits, but without obtaining that which we seek. we pore over the writing of the philosophers and learned writers of the past and present, but find them as but husks to the hungering soul. we seek in creeds and dogmas that comforting something, the need of which we feel, but of the nature of which we are ignorant--but we find no satisfaction there. we, perhaps, go from creed to creed, from philosophy to philosophy, from one scientific theory to another scientific theory, but still we hunger. at last we get to a position in which we feel that life is not worth the living and that all is a ghastly mockery. and so we go on and on, seeking--ever seeking--but the quest is fruitless.
man on the physical plane has a comparatively easy time of it. he lives as does the animal--he thinks as does the animal--he dies as does the animal. the problems of life fret him not. he does not even know of the existence of the problems of life. he is happy in his way, and it almost seems a pity that he must be disturbed from his state of animal content. but he must be disturbed, not by you or by me perhaps, but by the inevitable law, which is working around and about him, and in him. sooner or later in the course of his development he must be awakened. and he awakens upon the mental plane, and here his troubles begin. on the mental plane everything seems beautiful for a time. man finds himself a new being and he goes on and on, feeling himself a very god and reveling in his intellectual powers. but after a time these things cease to satisfy him. the unfolding of the higher faculties begin to annoy him, particularly as he cannot explain them. his intellectual training has perhaps taught him to believe that there was nothing higher than the mind--that religious feelings were nothing but the result of the emotional nature and that he had outgrown all that. but still he feels that something within, never ceasing to annoy him--never ceasing to intrude upon his intellectual consciousness certain feelings entirely contrary to his theories. he has grown to doubt the existence of a supreme being, and having read haekel's "riddle of the universe" feels that the question has been satisfactorily settled for all time, and that the answer to all of life's problems may be found in the tenets of his creed--materialism.
but, somehow, he is not at ease. he feels the pressure of the growing something within and becomes quite restless. this goes on from time to time and he seeks the truth in all directions, rushing from one thing to another in his desire to satisfy the cravings of the soul, but all the time denying that there is anything to be found. after a time he becomes aware of a new state of consciousness developing within him, and in spite of his mental revolts against any good thing coming from within, he is forced to accept himself in his growing state, and to realize that he may possess a knowing other than that of the intellect. it may take him a long time to accept this, but so long as he rebels against it and struggles, so long will he feel pain. and only when he catches a glimpse of the true state of affairs does he open himself up to the divine unfoldment going on in his soul, and joyfully welcome the tearing away of confining mental sheaths, which destruction enables the newly born faculty to force its way into the conscious mentality. he learns to even aid in the unfoldment by holding the thoughts conducive to spiritual development, and thus assists in the bringing forth of the new leaf or flower of the soul. it has always been so. man has gone through stage after stage of unfoldment, suffering pain each time as the old sheaths are burst asunder and discarded. he is prone to hold on to the old sheaths and to cherish them long after they have served their purpose in his growth. and it is only when he has reached the stage that many men are now coming into a knowledge of that he understands the process of growth and is willing and glad to aid in the development instead of attempting to oppose it. he falls in with the workings of the law instead of trying to defeat it.
life is motion. we are moving onward and upward throughout the ages. man has passed over miles of the path, but he will have to travel many more before he sees the reason of the journey. but he has now reached the stage where he may see that it all means something--all is a part of a mighty plan--that this is a necessary stage of the journey, and that around the bend of the road are to be found shady trees, and a brook at which he may quench his thirst and wash away the dust of the last few miles.
this hunger of the soul is a real thing. do not imagine that it is an illusion--do not endeavor to deny it. if you feel it you may rest assured that your time is coming, and that there will be provided that which will satisfy it. do not waste your energy in running hither and thither seeking for bread. the bread will be provided when it is most needed. there is no such thing in life as spiritual starvation. but instead of seeking without for that which will nourish you, look within. at each stage of the journey the traveler will find enough to nourish him for the hour--enough to sustain him until he reaches the next stage. you cannot be denied this nourishment. it is part of the divine plan that it be provided for you. if you will look for it in the right place you will always find it, and will be saved much seeking and worrying. do not be impatient because the feast is not set before you at this stage. be satisfied with that which is given, for it suffices your needs at the present moment. by and by you will reach the stage when the feast of good things will have been earned, and you will be invited to feast and rest until you are ready for the next stage of the journey.
the great spiritual wave which is now sweeping over the world brings with it great wants, but it also carries with it the means of satisfying those wants. do not despair.
the old sailor's advice--the warning cry--peace and content--mental balance recovered--the glory of the universe--all governed by law--the law manifests everywhere--a reverent feeling of calm, peaceful faith--look aloft.
i recently heard a little tale about a boy who went to sea, in the old days of the sailing vessel. one day he was ordered to go aloft, and was urged on until he reached the highest possible point on the mast. when he found that he could go no farther, he glanced down. the sight terrified him and almost caused him to lose his grip and fall headlong on the deck, far below. he felt dizzy and sick, and it seemed almost impossible for him to maintain his hold on the mast. far below was the deck, looking so small as compared to the wide expanse of water on all sides of it. the motion made him feel as if he was suspended between heaven and earth, with nothing substantial to support him. he felt his brain reeling and his senses leaving him, and all seemed lost, when far away from the deck below, he heard an old sailor cry, "look aloft, lad! look aloft!" turning his eyes from the scene below the boy gazed upward. he saw the blue sky, the fleecy clouds passing peacefully along, looking just the same as they did when he had looked at them while lying on his back on the green grass of the meadows in his country home. a strange feeling of peace and content came over him, and the feeling of dread, terror and despair passed away. his strength and presence of mind came back to him, and soon he was able to slide down the mast until he grasped a friendly rope, thence to the lower rigging, and on until the deck was again reached.
he never forgot the old sailor's advice given in the hour of need, and when he would feel dazed and fearful of danger, he would invariably look aloft until he recovered his mental balance.
we may well take a leaf from the old sailor's note-book, and impress his wisdom upon our minds. there's nothing so good in hours of trial, doubt, sorrow and pain, as to "look aloft." when we feel that we cannot see clearly with our spiritual vision--that our spiritual sight is blurred and dim--that we lose faith and confidence, hope and courage--that we feel the deadly sensation of despair and hopelessness creeping over us and benumbing our senses, stilling our heart--then is the time for us to listen to the warning shout: "look aloft, lad; look aloft!"
when all seems lost--when darkness is closing around us--when we seem to have lost our foothold and have no way of regaining it--when all appears hopeless, gloomy and dreadful--when faith seems to have deserted us, and the chill of unbelief is on us--then is the time for us to shout to ourselves, "look aloft--look aloft!"
when we try to solve the riddle of the universe--the problem of existence--by the aid of the intellect, unsupported by faith. when we ask our intellects, "whence come i? whither go i? what is the object of my existence? what does life mean?" when we travel round and round the weary path of intellectual reasoning, and find that it has no ending. when we shout aloud the question of life, and hear no answer but the despairing echo of our own sad cry. when life seems a mockery--when life seems to be without reason--when life seems a torment devised by a fiend--when we lose the feeling of nearness to the infinite power that has supported us in the past--when we lose the touch of the unseen hand. these are the times for us to look upward to the source of wisdom and light. these are the times for us to heed the cry of the soul: "look aloft; look aloft; look aloft!"
some clear night, when the moon is not shining, go out into the darkness, and gaze upward at the stars. you will see countless bright spots, each of which is a sun equaling or exceeding in size the sun which gives light and life to our little earth--each sun having its circling worlds, many of the worlds having moons revolving around them, in turn. look all over the heavens, as far as the eye can reach, and endeavor to grasp the idea of the countless suns and worlds. then try to imagine that in space, far beyond the reach of human vision, even aided by the telescope, are millions upon millions of other worlds and suns--on all sides of us, on and on and on throughout the universe, reaching into infinity. and then remember that all these worlds hold their places and revolve according to law. and then remember that the microscope shows that law manifests itself in the smallest thing that can be seen by its use. all around you you will see nothing but the manifestations of law. and then, remembering that the infinite, which has us all in charge, takes note of the fall of the sparrow, what has become of your fears and doubts and worries? gone is your despair and unbelief, and in their place is found a reverent feeling of calm, peaceful faith.
aye, there is much good sense in the old sailor's maxim. "when you get rattled, look aloft!"
the work and cares of to-day easy if we do not worry about those of to-morrow--the mysterious to-morrow and its terrors--the way to meet the cares of to-morrow--to-morrow's opportunities will come as surely as to-morrow's cares--law supreme--no need to be afraid--the real to-morrow.
the work of each day would be a pleasure if we would refrain from attempting to perform at the same time the work of to-morrow. the cares of to-day would cease to disturb us, if we would refuse to anticipate the cares of to-morrow. the work of to-day is easily performed, notwithstanding the fact that we spoiled the pleasure of yesterday by fretting about the tasks of the coming day. the cares of to-day do not seem half so terrible as they appeared viewed from the distance of yesterday, nor do we suffer nearly as much from to-day's burdens as we did yesterday in bearing these burdens in anticipation.
to-day is comparatively easy for us, but oh, to-morrow. aye, there's the trouble--to-morrow. the past is gone, and its sorrows, cares, troubles, misfortunes and work do not seem so terrible viewed from this distance--the misfortunes of the past are now often known as blessings in disguise. to-day is here, and we seem to be getting along fairly well--excepting fearing the dawn of to-morrow. but to-morrow--oh! mysterious to-morrow--that delight of the child--that bugaboo of the "grown up"--what shall we say of to-morrow? who knows what terrible monsters are lurking in its gloomy recesses--what frightful cares are slumbering there--what dreadful shapes are there crouching, with glowering eyes, awaiting our coming? no frightful tale of childhood begins to compare in horror with this fantasy of maturity--to-morrow.
yesterday, with all its troubles--to-day, with its pressing tasks--affright us not, but to-morrow, ah! to-morrow. tell us of the morrow! who knows what a day may bring forth? tell us how to meet the terrors of to-morrow! forsooth, an easy task, good friends. the way to meet the terrors of to-morrow is to--wait until to-morrow.
the cares of to-morrow indeed! 'twould be laughable if it were not so pitiful. to-morrow's cares may come, will come, must come, but what of to-morrow's opportunities, to-morrow's strength, to-morrow's chances, circumstances, helpers? don't you know that the supply of good things does not cease with the close of to-day? don't you know that in the womb of the future sleep opportunities intended for your use when the time comes? don't you know that an earnest, confident expectation of the good things to come will cause these good things to grow for your use in the future? well, it's so; they'll grow and grow and grow, and then when you need them you will find them ripe and ready to pick. water them with faith; surround them with the rich soil of hope; let them receive the full rays of the sun of love, and the nourishing fruit of opportunity will be your reward--to-morrow.
did you ever shiver with dread at the thought of what would happen if the sun should not rise to-morrow? did you ever doubt that the grass would grow and the trees take on leaves next spring? did you ever fear that perhaps the summer would not come? oh, no, of course not! these things have always happened and you have sufficient faith to know that they will occur again. yes, but you have been fearing that opportunities, chances, circumstances, may not be present to-morrow. oh, ye of little faith do you not know that this is no world of chance? do you not know that you are working under the operations of a great law, and that these things are as much amenable to that law as are the seasons, the crops, the motion of the earth, the planets, this and countless other solar systems, the universe!
the law which regulates the motions of the millions of worlds, and whose jurisdiction extends over space--that space the abstract idea of which cannot be grasped by the puny intellect of man of to-day--also takes cognizance of the tiny living organism too small to be seen through our strongest microscope. the sparrow's fall comes under the law as well as the building of a magnificent series of solar systems. and yet, man fears to-morrow.
of all living beings, man alone fears to-morrow. children, lovers and philosophers escape the curse. the first two look forward to it with joy and confidence, having the love that casteth out fear; the philosopher's reason teaches him that which the intuition of the other two has grasped. the child intuitively recognizes that the infinite supply is inexhaustible and naturally expects to-morrow's supply as he does to-morrow's sun. he has faith in the law, until fear is suggested into his receptive mind by those who have grown old enough to fear. the child knows that "there are just as good fish in the sea as ever were caught," but the "grown-up" fears that to-day's fish is the last in the sea, and fails to appreciate to-day's haul by reason of his worry about the possible future failure of the fishing industry.
oh no! i do not believe in just sitting down and folding my hands and waiting for "mine own to come to me." i know that "mine own will come to me," because i am doing well the work that the law has placed before me to do--that which lies nearest to my hand to-day. i believe in work, good work, honest work, cheerful work, hopeful work, confident work. i believe in the joy of work--the pleasure of creating. and i believe that he who does his best work one day at a time working with faith, hope and confidence in the morrow, with fear eliminated from his mind and replaced with courage--i believe, i say, that such a man will never find his cupboard empty, nor will his children want for bread.
and furthermore, i believe that to-morrow is what we make it by our thoughts to-day. i believe that we are sowing thought-seeds to-day, which will grow up over night and bear fruit to-morrow. i believe that "thought takes form in action," and that we are, and will be, just what we think ourselves into being. i believe that our minds and bodies are constantly being molded by our thoughts, and that the measure of man's success is determined by the character of his thoughts. and i believe that when man will throw off the incubus of fear, the frightful vision of the night will vanish, and, opening his eyes, in the place of the monster he will see the fair form and smiling face of a radiant creature, who, bending over him with love-lit eyes, will softly whisper, "i am to-morrow."
in the depths of the soul.
stores of information; rich mines of knowledge; uncut gems and precious metal awaiting the discoverer--psychic and spiritual faculties--strange attraction of soul to soul--the rock of ages--the voice of the soul.
deep down in the soul are stores of information awaiting to be brought to the surface of consciousness. rich mines of knowledge are there--uncut gems rest there awaiting the day when they will be uncovered and brought into the bright light of consciousness--rich veins of precious metals are there awaiting in patience the day when some divine adventurer will search for them and bring them to light. the human mind is a wonderful storehouse, concealing all sorts of treasures and precious things, only a fraction of which have been discovered so far.
we have faculties not yet recognized by the science of the day--psychic and spiritual faculties--just as real as the recognized faculties, playing an important part in our everyday lives, particularly when we have been made aware of their existence. in many of us these faculties are scarcely recognized, and many of us doubt and deny their very existence. others have a faint perception of their existence, but do not know how to use them, and get but the slightest benefit from them. others have awakened to the wonderful faculties which are developing and unfolding within them, and a few have gone so far as to aid in this development of these higher faculties of the mind, and have been almost startled at the results obtained. the orientals have their ways of development of these faculties, and we occidentals have ours. each best serves the purposes of the particular people using it.
as we bring these faculties out of the realm of the super-conscious into the field of consciousness, life takes on an entirely different meaning, and many things heretofore dark are seen plainly and understood. no one can understand the oneness of things until his spiritual faculties are sufficiently developed to make him conscious of it. blind belief or reliance upon the words of another will never do for the seeker after truth that which is accomplished by a single gleam of consciousness resting upon some of the hidden treasures of the soul. one glimpse into the depths of the soul will do more than the reading of thousands of books, the teaching of hundreds of teachers. this glimpse, once had, will never be forgotten. its reality may be questioned at times--at other times the memory may seem dim and unreliable--but it will return in all its freshness and brightness, and even in the moment of doubt we cannot entirely escape it.
our real knowledge of the existence of god is not obtained from the intellect. we can take up the subject of god and reason about it all our life, only to find ourselves, in the end, in a worse muddle than when we started. and yet one single ray of consciousness reaching down into the depths of our inner being will bring to us such a complete certainty of god's existence and being, that nothing afterward will ever shake our faith in the reality and existence of the supreme power. we will not understand the nature of his being--his existence--his power--but we will know that he exists, and will feel that peacefulness and infinite trust in him which always come with the glimpse of the truth. we will not understand any better the many theories of man regarding god and his works; in fact, we will be more apt to turn away, wearied, from man's discussion of the subject--the attempt of the finite to describe and limit the infinite. but we will know that at the center of things is to be found that universal presence, and we feel that we can safely rest ourselves on his bosom--trust ourselves in his hands. the cares, sorrows and trials of life seem very small indeed when viewed from the absolute position, although from the relative position this world often seems to be a very hell.
another glimpse into the recesses of the soul reveals to us the oneness of things. we see god as the great center of things, and all the universe as but one. the oneness of all life becomes apparent to us and we feel in touch not only with all mankind, but with all life. the petty distinctions of class, race, rank, caste, nationality, language, country fade away and we see all men as brothers. and we feel a kindly feeling and love toward the lesser manifestations of life. even the rocks and the stones are seen as parts of the whole and we no longer feel a sense of separateness from any thing. we realize what the universe is, and in our imagination visit the most distant stars and instinctively know that we would find nothing foreign to us there--all would be but bits of the same thing.
and we begin to understand those strange attractions of soul to soul, instances of which have come to all of us. we realize that it is possible to entertain a feeling of love for every living creature--to every man or woman, the manifestations, of course, varying in degree and kind, according to sex and closeness of soul relation. it makes us more tolerant and causes us to see but ignorance in many things in which we saw but sin before. it makes us feel pity rather than hate. ah, these little glimpses into the inmost recesses of the soul they teach us many new lessons.
and one of the greatest lessons that we may acquire in this way is the recognition of the eternal life of the soul. we may believe, with greater or less earnestness, in the doctrine of the immortality of the soul, our beliefs and conceptions depending more or less upon the teachings which we have received from early childhood, but until we become conscious of that which lies within us, we are never really certain--we do not know. many good people will deny this statement, and will say that they have never doubted the life of the soul after death, but see how they act. when death comes into their houses they mourn and cry aloud in their agony, and demand of god why he has done this thing. they drape themselves in mourning and mourn and weep as if the loved one had been destroyed and annihilated. all of their actions and conduct go to prove that they have no abiding sense of the reality of the continuance of life beyond the grave. they speak of the dead as if they were lost forever--as if a sponge had been passed over the slate of life and naught remained. how cold and hollow sounds the would-be comforting words of friends and relatives, who assure the mourning ones that the being who has just laid aside the body is "better off now," and that all is "for the best," and all the rest of conventional expressions that we make use of. i tell you that one who has had a glimpse into what lies within him knows so well that he is eternal that he finds it impossible to look upon death in the ordinary way, and if he is not very careful he will be regarded as heartless and unfeeling for the sorrows of others. and he will be regarded as a fool in his views of life by those around him who attend church regularly every sunday, and who profess a full belief in all its doctrines. if he considers that he himself is his soul, and that he is as much an immortal being now as he ever will be--that his body is but as a garment to cover him, or an instrument through which he manifests himself--if he considers that he is in eternity now just as much as he ever will be; that he cannot be destroyed by mt. pelee eruptions or railroad accidents--if, in short, he feels these things so strongly that they have become a part of his real everyday life--why, he is looked upon as "queer" by those who hear these things taught them every sunday, and who would feel horrified if they were accused of harboring a doubt regarding them. this is one of the things that go to show the difference between "believing" a thing and "being conscious" of it.
now, don't run away and say that i held that the church-goers have no conception of the reality of the immortality of the soul, for i haven't said any such thing. there are many church-goers who have experienced a full realization of the feeling i mention, and there are many more church-goers who have not. and there are many men and women who scarcely ever enter within the walls of a church who have had this experience, and it means more to them than all the preachments they have ever listened to. it is not a matter of being "in-church" or "out-of-church," it is a matter of spiritual development, that's all. i attend churches of all denominations, and i find all of them good. the service of the catholic church appeals to me, and so does the meeting of some old-fashioned methodist congregation. i do not accept all the doctrines and theories i hear in the various churches, but i manage to get some good out of all. if i have any preference whatever, it is for an old-fashioned quaker meeting, where, perhaps, not a word is said from beginning to close, but where there is undoubtedly a strong spiritual power manifested. i have even found much good in attending a certain orthodox church, where the venerable preacher, who does not believe in the "higher criticism" or creed revision, often gives us a delightful sermon on the horrors of hell and the state of the damned, including the unbaptized infants. i can listen to a sermon like this with a thrill of delight--a feeling of intense joy which comes to me because i have been given the inward assurance that there exists a god who is love, instead of the hating, wrathful, vengeful creature that the poor preacher tries to make us believe is the infinite power--the universal presence--the loving father. oh, no, i am not condemning churches--i like them all, and think that each one is doing the best possible work for the particular people who are attracted to it. i have listened to the exercises of the salvation army, and have seen much good in it. how many of you new thought people, or you high-toned church members, would make half the sacrifices for what you consider truth that the salvation army soldier or the hallelujah lassie make every day of their lives? stop a moment before you laugh at them. some of these people have more spirituality in their little finger than many of us have in our whole bodies.
there are times when we feel disturbed and full of unrest. we seek to use our intellects and solve all the problems of life. we fret and chafe under the restrictions which have been placed upon us. we wish to know all things. we reason this way and that way, follow up every lane, alley and street in the city of thought, but, alas, we find not that which we seek. and in our search we are apt to forget that we have within us an assurance that all is well with the world, and with us. we rebel against the leadings of the spirit--against the knowledge that has come from the inner self--and we want to get our knowledge over the old channels--by means of the intellect. well, at such times we storm and fume and fret, and complain at our inability to solve the problem. we set up ideas only to tear them down again. we assume and then abandon one position after another, until there is nothing left. and the end of all the intellectual debauch is to say finally, "i do not know." and then, after the struggle is over, we see, just as plainly as ever before, the glimpse of truth that has come to us from within--we hear the words of the soul--we have the same old consciousness. we say to ourselves, "i may not get this thing intellectually, but i know it is true. i cannot doubt the voice of the soul."
this knowledge which comes from within is like the rock against which beat the storms of the sea--against which dash the waves which completely cover it and which hide it from sight, until it seems that it has disappeared forever from view, carried away by the attacking waves. the lightning flashes, the thunder rolls, the fury of the tempest seems concentrated against this rock, and the demon of the storm seems intent upon destroying every particle of it--of tearing it to little bits with which to strew the shores. all is darkness--all is blackness--all is fury, raging and terror. after hours, the storm subsides, and then later morning comes, and the first rays of the rising sun kiss lovingly the rock which has stood the fury of the storm, and has emerged unhurt, a witness to its superiority to the elements.
storm away, ye who would destroy this rock--dash your waves of doubt, logic, criticism, unbelief, dogma, theory, against this rock of the spirit. exert yourself to the utmost--expend all the force that is within you--do your best--do your worst. tear and twist, pull and wrench, beat and pound, and what have you accomplished? after the storm has passed away--after the clouds have dispersed--when the sky again is blue and the sun again is shining--the rock still stands, undisturbed, unchanged, unshaken. and stand it will for ages and ages. and man shall begin to know of the stability and firmness of this rock. he will begin to realize just what it means to him, and he will know that while the waves that beat upon it are good and needful, and not to be despised, that only upon the rock can he safely build.
do not despise the intellect and its teachings, but know that ye have within ye another source of knowledge--that ye have spiritual faculties which are developing and which you can use. and trust the work of these faculties--listen to the voice of the soul.
why worry about the past?--hugging old sorrows to your bosom--what to do with them--don't poison your life--pain brings experience--learning your lesson--how to get rid of a gloomy thought--throw it away--forget it.
one can often get some useful lesson from the slang and current phrases of the day. there is something particularly attractive to me about slang, and the pat phrases that are passed along from one to another on the streets. many of these phrases condense in a few words certain practical truths that one could use as a basis for a sermon, an essay, or even a book. they are the practical experiences of the people crystallized in a catchy phrase. the phrase which i hear so frequently on the street just now, "forget it," seems to me to contain much practical common sense, and if people would put it into practice there would be many more brighter faces--many more lighter hearts. what's the use, anyhow, of carrying around a long face or a heavy heart, just because away back in the past something "went wrong" with us, or even if we "went wrong" ourselves (and most of us have--i have, i know)? what's the use? forget it!
of course you will not forget the experiences of the past, and you do not want to. that's one of the things we are living for--gaining experience. when we have once really learned a thing through experience, we never forget it--it is a part of us. but why bother about the memory of the pain, the mortification, the "slip-up," the heartache, the wounded feelings, the misplaced confidence, the thing done in the wrong way, the chance you let slip by, the folly, the sin, the misery, the "might-have-beens," and all the rest. oh what's the use? forget it i say, forget it.
if one is to worry about all the things that went wrong--all the things that didn't come right--in the past; if he has to take out each memory every day, and after carefully dusting it off, fondle and caress it, and hug it close to his bosom; if he has to raise up these ghosts from the past--these phantoms of long ago--these musty, moth-eaten things--why he will have no time for the affairs of to-day. he will lose all the joy of the now--all the pleasure of life of the moment--all the interest in the things of to-day. oh, dear, dear, what's the use? forget it--forget it.
some people are not happy unless they have some old faded sorrow hugged up close to their bosoms, and they feel guilty if they happen to smile and forget the old thing for even a moment. oh, how they do gloat over their own revamped unhappiness--how they enjoy the relieving of the pains and sorrows, mistakes and ignorance of years gone by. how they love to hold the fox to their sides and let it eat out their heart. these people are really happy in the unhappiness, and life would not be worth living if they were deprived of their pet sorrows. of course, if these people are really happy because they are unhappy, i have no objection. every man or woman has the right to pursue happiness in his or her own way, and i suppose that that is as good a way as any other, and i should not find fault if somebody else's way is different from mine. but doesn't it seem like a pity to see people wasting their time, energy, thoughts and life on these old sorrows? if they must think of the past, why not think of the bright things that came into their lives, instead of the dark ones? think of the moments of happiness, not of the moments of sorrow. don't make a tomb of your mind. don't let that particular painful experience poison your present life. don't do it--don't do it. what's the use? forget it.
every bit of pain that has happened you has brought its experience to you--you are better, wiser and broader for it. look at it in that way, and you will cease to mourn and wail and wring your hands over the fact that in the past you "have done those things which you ought not to have done, and have left undone those things which you ought to have done." nonsense! you have gained the experience and know better now. if you were placed back in the same old position, and lacked the experience that you have gained by just such things, you would do the same old thing over again, and in the same old way. you couldn't help it, because you would be the same old person. what you would like to do would be to be placed back in the same position, and face the same old temptation or problem, but you would want to take with you the experience you have gained by your former mistake. you want the cake and the penny at the same time. you want the experience without the pain. oh, yes, you do, now, that's just what you want--i've been through it myself, and know all about it. you've gained the experience, be satisfied. some day you'll need that experience, and will be glad you have it, and will see that it was worth all you've paid for it. no, you don't see it that way? well, maybe you haven't had enough of it--haven't learned your lesson yet. if that is the case, some of these days the law will drop you back into the pot, until you're well done. the law is not satisfied with underdone people. oh, you're making a big mistake. forget it--forget it.
the people who carry these old things around with them generally get themselves into the mental attitude that draws other things of the same sort to them. misery likes company, and a miserable thought also likes companionship, and almost always manages to attract some other miserable thing to it, to keep it from being lonesome. the only way to get rid of a thought of this kind is to--forget it.
now if you have some pet thing that is gnawing out your vitals--is corroding your heart--is poisoning your mind--take it out and look at it for the last time. give it a last long lingering gaze. kiss it good-bye. weep over it if you like, for this is the last you will see of it. then throw open the window of your mind and pitch it out into the outer darkness.
"the kindergarten of god."
life a great school--man a child learning his lesson--preparing for higher grades--the game-task--what it all means--things as they are--the rules wise and good--each task means something--greeting the kindergartner.
i see life as a great school--man as a tiny child, learning his little lessons, performing his little tasks, playing his little games, enjoying his little pleasures, suffering his little pains, disappointments, trials and sorrows.
i feel that we are in but the kindergarten stage of existence, learning the first lessons of life--fitting ourselves for the grander, broader, fuller life in store for us. and i feel that this little kindergarten experience will continue until we have learned its lessons well--have firmly grasped the principles designed for our baby minds. and i feel that when we have proven our ability to weave our little mats--build our little blocks--draw our little pictures--mold our little clay forms--sing our little songs--then, and not until then, will we pass into a higher grade, where we will spell out the lines of the primer of life, and acquire the elementary principles of cosmic mathematics. and i feel that each little lesson must be learned, thoroughly, before the next step is taken. and i feel that every one of us must perform his own task--must memorize his own lesson--before he can gain the experience--can profit by the knowledge acquired in the performance of the task. we may be inspired by some brighter pupil--be encouraged by the loving sympathy of some fellow-scholar, but the task is ours to perform, sooner or later--and ours is the joy of accomplishment.
i believe that as some children, even whilst fascinated by the game-task of the kindergarten, know that it is only a childish task and not the real thing of life, so may we come to a point, where, whilst enjoying the constantly changing play of life, we will realize that it is but the training for greater things, and important only in that sense. the perception of this fact by the child need not interfere with his interest in the game--need not prevent him from feeling the joy of doing, creating, working, gaining new experiences; nor need it prevent us from playing the kindergarten games of grown-up life with a zest and interest, not alone because we realize that we are learning valuable lessons, but, yea, even from the very excitement and joy of the game itself.
when we realize just what this view of life means, we will find new pleasures in everyday life--will learn to laugh with childish glee at our little successes in molding the clay into the desired shape--in the clever weaving of the mat. and we will learn to smile, through our tears, if our little mat happens to tear in two--if our little clay sphere drops to the floor and is shattered--if the hour's work is destroyed.
we, like the child, often wonder what is the use of it all--fret over our enforced tasks--chafe at the confinement--rage at the restrictions, and, failing to comprehend it all, indulge in complaints, protests, rebellion. and, like the child, we cannot expect to understand the whyness of it all, certainly not until we pass beyond the kindergarten stage of existence and reach the higher grades.
when one begins to realize what he is--begins to be conscious of the i am--begins to know things as they are--he gradually learns to appreciate things at their true worth, and, although not released from the necessity of playing out his kindergarten game tasks, is able to, practically, stand aside and watch himself play them out. he knows that he is gaining knowledge--is mastering his lessons--is living-out, and out-living, his desires--is acquiring and storing up new experiences--but he values things only at their final worth, and is not deceived by the apparent value of the moment. he begins to see things in their proper relations. he does not take himself (or things) too seriously. he enjoys the pleasure of the game--but he knows it to be but the play and pleasure of the child--he laughs, but is not deceived. he suffers, also, the sorrow, grief, disappointment, humiliation and chagrin of the child-nature--but even though the tears are falling he, knowing, smiles. he laughs with joy--with pain he cries, but he knows--he knows. he enjoys the playthings, gifts, rewards, but he knows them for what they are--he knows. he plays the games with the children who do not know--and well he plays--but he knows. his disillusionment spoils not the sport--he plays on (for play he must), knowing, but enjoying. yes, enjoying because of the knowing. he knows that the child-things are good--but he sees them as but shadows of the good to come. he knows that he "cannot escape from his own good." and he knows that the good is also in store for his playmates (though they know it not) and, being full of love, he rejoices.
he feels that the rules of the school are wise and good, and that, though he cannot see it clearly now, infinite justice rules all, as will in the end appear. he knows that promotion will be gained, just as soon as earned. he knows that just as soon as he is able to master a task, that task will be set before him--not a moment before. and he knows that no task will be allotted him even one moment before the possibility of its accomplishment.
he knows that he is being tested, trained and strengthened, day by day--that every unpleasant and disagreeable task has an important end in view. and he knows that every task placed before him is in accordance with a law that takes cognizance of his powers, failings, capabilities, short-comings--that understands him better than he does himself. he knows that the very allotment of the task is a guarantee of his ability to perform it. he knows that within him are latent powers, potential forces, hidden knowledge, which will well forth from his sub-conscious mentality when bidden by the confident expectation of intelligent faith.
and, knowing these things, he is filled with courage--and presses forth eagerly to the tasks of the day. and, knowing, he casts off all fear, worry, discouragement and discontent, and, with the smile of love on his face and the joy of faith in his heart, he greets the kindergartner with confidence and trust.
the human wet blanket.
sees no good in anything--expects the bad and gets it--attracts it to him--depresses everything and everyone--carries an aura of negative depressing thought--clammy--puts out the fire of energy--take warning.
did you ever meet the human wet blanket?
to start with, he sees no good in anything. to him every man is a rogue--every woman a schemer trying to pull the wool over the eyes of some man. he looks for the bad--expects to find it--and find it he does. one generally gets what he looks for. he attracts to him that for which he looks, and he cannot see any other qualities than those possessed by himself. everyone is trying to cheat him, and out-wit him, so he thinks, and i have no doubt that the law brings him a fair share of people of this kind. in order to prevent other people from taking advantage of him, he endeavors to take advantage of them in the same small way that he fears they will use on him. the consequence is the people with whom he has dealings are apt to give him a dose of his own medicine. he trusts no man. he's so shrewd that he measures off a spool of thread in order to be sure that the storekeeper has not robbed him of a yard or two. and the funny thing is, that he sets in motion the law which causes the one short-measure spool in the case to fall into his hands. he just draws these things to him. he thinks himself a marvel of cunning, and endeavors to manifest it in petty practices, the result being that he attracts to himself all the little schemers, and some of the big ones, who happen to be within the radius of his attracting power, while the other type of people are repelled by his mental attitude and thought-force. funny, isn't it?
then he sees nothing but disaster ahead in any plan, and, sure, enough, if he gets near enough to the plan to contaminate it, trouble is sure to happen. as an attractor of negative thought he is a glittering success. he seems to have a positive genius for doing things the wrong way. and yet, he doesn't believe in the attractive power of thought or "any such nonsense." he's too shrewd to take any stock in such ridiculous theories, although he exhibits in his life a most convincing proof of the truth of new thought teachings.
he never says "i can and i will," and if he hears anyone around him indulging in such heretical notions, he promptly proceeds to squelch him by a few "supposings," "buts," "what ifs," and two or three gloomy shakes of the head, and a few sighs. his motto seems to be "there's no use trying, you can't do it." with him the country seems always to be going to the dogs, and the poorhouse is constantly looming up before him.
i need scarcely add that fear, worry, jealousy, and suspicion are his bosom friends. he holds these thoughts constantly, and they and the rest of the negative brood are devouring him. they are making their home in his mentality and are increasing rapidly, besides frequently inviting their friends for a visit.
of course, it's nobody's business if he likes this sort of thing, but it is not pleasant to come in contact with him. he is surrounded with an aura of negative, depressing, gloomy, thought-force, which is manifest to all with whom he comes in contact. turn him loose in a roomful of cheerful people, and in a few minutes the conversation has lagged, the warmth of love and friendship has disappeared and things begin to feel damp and chilly, and someone will begin to make inquiry regarding the furnace or the steam radiators, and wondering why the janitor does not keep up the fire on such a day. approach him when you feel fired with energy, ambition and push--when you feel that you can go out and conquer any obstacle--and you will feel the clammy wet blanket thrown over you, putting out your fire of energy, and in a moment or two you will wonder "what's the use." that is, unless you understand your business, and know how to throw off the influence of the negative thought-waves emanating from this man. look out for him.
from the bottom of my heart, i pity this man and his kind. he gets none of the sweet things of life--he doesn't see them lying around. he misses the joy of living. he sees everything through jaundiced eyes. he knows nothing of the happiness of the clear head, warm heart, and brotherly hand. he is so occupied in looking for the spoiled fruit on the ground that he does not see the perfect fruit on the branches above his head, begging to be picked. he is so much engrossed in the mud upon the road, that he does not see the bright blue sky above his head; the beautiful landscape; the children playing on the grass; the mother nursing her babe; the old couple trudging along hand in hand. these things do not exist for him. his mind is so full of fear, suspicion, distrust, and petty spite, that love finds no room. but even this is good--for many find their way to optimism only by first sinking to the depths of extreme pessimism. they reach the celestial city by the road that winds through the valley of the shadow of death. even these things shall pass away.
fear attracts, as well as desire--learn to aim straight and aim at the right thing--examples--the bowler--the bicyclist and the car--the bicyclist and the post--the boy and the marbles--wisdom from the babe--look straight; think straight; shoot straight.
a strong desire or a strong fearthought is an aim at the thing desired or feared. and in proportion to the degree of desire or fear, will we be carried toward the thing at which we aim. confident expectation is manifested in a fearthought as well as in an earnest desire, and when we confidently expect a thing to happen we are carried toward it by an irresistible force. it may seem strange to you to hear that fear is akin to desire, but this is the truth. it matters not whether we call it desire or fear, the gist of the matter lies in the confident expectation. a faint hope and a lurking fear have about the same attractive force--a desire coupled with a firm belief in its realization attracts strongly, but no more strongly than does a fear coupled with a feeling of certainty of its realization. the thing upon which your thought is firmly fixed or drawn toward, will be the thing you will realize. therefore aim straight.
we have heard much of the attractive power of thought as applied to desire. i will now say something to you about the same force called into operation by fearthought. it is far more pleasant for me to speak of the bright side of the question, but i would be neglecting my duty toward you if i failed to direct your attention to the reverse of the shield. when you thoroughly realize that thought-force works both ways, you will know how to handle it, and will understand many things that have heretofore been dark to you. you will learn to aim straight, but will also learn to be careful at what you aim. you will learn to avoid the aim inspired by fear, and will hereafter use all your energies to pointing your mental arrow at the bull's-eye of happiness and success.
let us take a few facts from the physical plane in order to illustrate things as they are on the mental plane of effort. life has its correspondences on all its planes, and by taking examples from one plane, we will be able to more readily understand the workings of the law on other planes.
some time ago, i was talking to a number of people about this subject, and gleaned from each an illustration of the workings of the law of attraction on the physical plane. and each example although on the physical plane, showed the power of mind behind it. i will tell you what some of these people said, and you can see for yourself just what i mean.
the first man was a printer, who after hours spent much time in bowling, and who was looked upon as an expert in that game. he said that some time before he was playing a game, and at a critical point when he was taking aim and endeavoring to put the ball in between the 1 and 2 pins (a specially advantageous shot), his opponent spoke up and said "just watch him hit the 4 pin." i do not know anything about bowling, but it seems that to hit the 4 pin is about the worst thing that can happen to a bowler, outside of missing the pins altogether. well, to go on with the story, with the remark of his rival, fearthought entered the mind of the printer, and he couldn't get the 4 pin out of his mind. he kept on looking at the place he wanted to hit, but his mind was on the 4 pin, and he feared that he would hit it. to use his own words, he "got rattled," and away went the ball striking the 4 pin fair and square. he concluded the story by saying: "and so instead of making a 'ten strike' i got only a 'split.'" maybe you understand those terms better than do i, but at any rate you will see what a fearthought brought to this typographical bowler in his little game of ten-pins. moral: when you wish to place the ball energy between the 1 and 2 pins of life, don't allow fearthoughts to switch you off to the 4 pin, thereby giving you a "split" instead of the coveted "ten-strike."
another friend told me that, a few days before, he had been riding on the front bench of a grip-car on a chicago cable-line. hearing the gripman break into the vernacular in a vigorous style, he looked up, and saw a colored man on a bicycle trying to cross the track "on the bias," as the girls say, just ahead of the car. there was plenty of time--plenty of room--for the man to get across, but when he reached the middle of the track fearthought got hold of him, and in spite of himself his wheel turned and he headed straight for the car. he headed straight for the gripcar, just as if he had aimed at it, and the next moment he went "bang" right into it. he escaped injury, but his wheel was wrecked. when asked about it, he said that from the moment he got afraid of the car his wheel "ran away with him," right into the thing he feared. moral: keep your mind fixed on the thing you want--not on the thing you don't want.
but the best example was given by a boy who had kept his eyes open and his thinker working. maybe i had better tell you in his own words. this is what he said, just as he said it:
"oh, pshaw!" said the boy, "you're making a big fuss over nothing. every feller knows that you've got to think about a thing if you want to hit it, and if you think about the wrong thing, why, you'll hit the wrong thing. if i fire a stone at a tin can, why, i just look square at the can and think about the can for all i'm worth, and the can's a dead one, sure. if i happen to let my mind wander to the cat what's on the shed over to the left of the can--well, so much the worse for the cat, that's all. to shoot straight, you've got to aim straight; and to aim straight you've got to look straight; and to look straight you've got to think straight. every kid knows that, or he couldn't even play marbles. if i get my heart set on a beauty marble in the ring, i just want it the worst way and says i to myself, 'you're my marble.' then i look at him strong and steady-like and don't think about nothing else in the world but that beauty. maybe i'm late for school, but i clean forget it. i don't see nothing--nor think nothing--but that there marble what i want. as the piece in my reader says, it's my 'heart's desire,' and i don't care whether school keeps or not, just so as i get it. then i shoot, and the marble's mine. and, at school, when our drawing teacher tells us how to draw a straight line, she makes two dots, several inches away from each other. then she makes us put our pencils on the first dot and look steady at the other and move our pencil towards it. the more you keep thinking about the far off dot, and the less you think about the starting dot or your hand, the straighter you're going to get your line. wonst i looked straight at the far-off dot with my eyes, but i kept thinking about a red-headed girl on the other side of the room, and what do you think, the line i was drawing slanted away off in her direction, although i had kept my eyes glued on the far-away dot and never even peeped in the kid's direction. that shows, sure, that it's the thinking as well as the looking. see?"
all of the examples above given contain within them the principles of a mighty truth--a working illustration of a great law of life. if we are wise we will profit by them. many things are happening around us every day, from which we might gain lessons if we would only think a little, instead of playing "follow my leader" and accepting other people's thought, ready made. we have gotten so accustomed to these "hand-me-down" thoughts, that we have almost forgotten how to turn out thoughts for ourselves. the day has come when we are required to do a little thinking on our own account, instead of humbly bowing before moth-eaten authority perched upon a crumbling base. the time has arrived when we must strike out for ourselves, instead of following a musty precedent which has "seen better days." this is the age of the individual. this the time for the "i" to assert itself.
i wish you would pay attention to what the boy said. it is not the first time that we have gone to the babe for wisdom. although a child has an imagination beyond our comprehension, he, at the same time, is painfully and even brutally, matter of fact. he is continually asking: "why," and when we grown-ups are unable to answer him he answers the question himself, often better than we could have done. he doesn't theorize, but gets down to business, and works things out for himself. this boy knew all about the thinking part of the problems, and had put it into practical application, while we were theorizing about it. he had discovered that in order to get things we must first earnestly desire them; then confidently expect that we would get them; then go to work to procure them. that's the true philosophy of getting things. he tells us, about the marble, that he first "wanted it the worst way" and "didn't care whether school kept or not" just so he got the marble. then he "looked strong and steady-like" at the marble, saying: "you're my marble." then he shot, and the marble was his. can any of you describe the process of getting things better than this? if we grown-ups would only put into our daily tasks the interest and attention that the boy put into his game of marbles, we would "get the marble" oftener than we have been doing.
of course, it may be true, that the principal joy is in the getting of things rather than in the possession of them--that the game of life is like the game of marbles in that respect, but what of that? that needn't spoil the game. the boy knows enough to enjoy playing for a few marbles that may be obtained for a penny-a-fistful at the corner store--but that fact doesn't bother him at all. he knows that when he gets the marble it will not seem half so beautiful in the hand as it did in the ring--but he gets ready to shoot for the next one with just as much zest and enjoyment. he finds a joy in living; acting; doing; expressing; growing and outgrowing, gaining experiences. take a lesson from the boy--while you are in the great game, take a boy's interest in it; play with a zest; play your level best, and get the marble. the boy instinctively knows that the joy of life consists of living, while we poor grown-ups vainly imagine that our pleasure will come only in the trophies of the game--the glass-marbles of life--and look upon the playing of the game as drudgery and work imposed upon us as a punishment of the sins of our forefathers. the boy lives in the now, and enjoys every moment of his existence--his winnings, his losings, his victories, his defeats, while we, his elders and superiors in wisdom groan at the heat of the day and the rigor of the game and are only reconciled to our tasks by the thought of how we will enjoy the possession of the marbles, when we get them at the end of the game. the boy sucks his orange and extracts every particle of its sweet contents, while we throw away the juicy meat and aim only to secure the pips. oh, yes! the boy not only knows how to "get there," but he has also a sane philosophy of life. many of us grown-ups are now re-learning that which we lost with our youth.
you will notice that the bowler, the bicyclists and the others, got what they didn't want, because they were afraid of it, and allowed it to distract their thoughts from the object of their desire. to fear a thing is akin to desiring it--in either case you are attracted toward it, or it to you. it's a rule that works both ways. you must think about the thing you want--not about the thing you don't want, for the thoughts you are thinking are the ones that are going to take form in action, as the boy said: "you've got to think about a thing if you want to hit it, and if you think about the wrong thing, why, you're going to hit the wrong thing." watch your ideal, not your bugbear. concentrate on your ideal--fix your thought and gaze upon it, like the boy upon his marble--and don't allow fearthought to sidetrack you. select the thing you want to be, and then grow steadily into it. pick out the thing you want, and then go straight and steadily to it. replace your old whine: "i fear," with the new thought shout: "i can, and i will." then you will experience an illustration of "thought taking form in action."
look straight; think straight; shoot straight; in these three things lie the secret of success.
don't be afraid--you are at home--not here by chance--you belong here--you are the soul--you cannot be hurt--you cannot be banished--you are right in the universe, and there is no outside--great things are before you--make yourself at home.
don't be afraid. you're living in your own home. this universe was built for you to inhabit--to occupy--to enjoy. do not feel strange--make yourself at home. the wonderful laws of nature--those which have been discovered, and those which remain to be discovered--are all laws for your use, when you grow large enough to understand how to make use of them.
do you long for another home? do you fret and chafe at the trials and troubles of this world, and imagine that somewhere else things will be better? well, they'll never be better for you until you have met and conquered the trials and troubles of this place. you are just where you belong. you are surrounded with just the things you need. you are getting just what you deserve. and until you learn the truth of this, you will have the same surroundings--the same environments. and then when you learn that the things around you are all right--that you are being treated justly--that you are getting just what you have attracted, and are attracting, to yourself--then you will be ready for the next step in the journey, and you will have new surroundings and new environments--new tasks--new lessons--new pleasures.
i hear some of you talking about death. you seem to think that you will be another order of being as soon as you take your last breath upon earth. you talk about being a "spirit," bye-and-bye. do i believe this? of course, i believe it. i know it. but i also know something else, and that is that you are a spirit now, just as much as you will be in another world. did you think that some wonderful essence was going to grow from you, and that that essence would be what you call a spirit? nonsense! you are the spirit, and the not-you part which will be discarded never was you. the you which says i am is the real thing--the real self--and the rest of you is but tools and instruments which you are using. why can't you see this? you talk about "my soul," "my spirit," and so on. you make me tired. why, the thing which is thinking and speaking--you--is the "soul" or "spirit" of which you are talking. you talk as if the physical part of you, which is changing continually, was you. you are like the boy with the old knife. he was continually having the knife repaired. he had had seven new blades and three new handles put on it, and yet it was the same old knife. why, you could step right out of your body (and maybe you do, more than you have any idea of) and it would be the same old you. you could discard your body just as you do your clothes, and yet you would be the same individual. there is a wonderful difference between individuality and personality. one you cannot get rid of; the other may be changed.
and you talk about time and eternity. why, you're in eternity right now. you are right in it this moment. it is always to-day--to-morrow never comes. and you are right at home in the universe, and always will be. you are always there, for there's nowhere else to go.
so what's the use in being afraid? who's going to hurt you? they can't kill you. they can't put you out of existence. they cannot expel you from the universe. so what are they going to do about it anyhow? and, after all, who are "they?" you talk as if there were outside forces and influences antagonistic to you. outside of what? no matter what beings of earth or air there may be, they are creatures like yourself. they are all a part of the whole thing--all made of the same material--all come from the hand of the same maker--you are all cut from the same piece of goods. the apparent differences are illusions--the difference and separateness is only relative, and not actual.
so, make yourself at home. take a look around and see what a nice bit of the universe you have to live in. some of your family have been trying to occupy the whole house instead of only their share of it, but those things are gradually working out, and all will be better within a comparatively short time. this is going to be a better world to live in when men take time to think a little. and you'll be around to enjoy it when it comes--never fear. you cannot get away, even if you want to.
and, what's the use of waiting for to-morrow. there's lots of things in which you can find happiness to-day, if you will only stop worrying about to-morrow. the little child knows more about enjoying life than you do. the little child feels at home anywhere and starts in to enjoy it, and get the most out of it, until he grows old enough to be hypnotized by the race belief.
you are at home here. just as much at home as is the fish in the sea--the bird in the air. realize this, and make the most of it. stop being afraid. stop fretting. stop worrying. realize that yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow, you are here in the universe. it's a good universe, and it grows better as man grows in wisdom to take advantage of its goodness. and it is not yet "sun-up" here. great things are before us. and you will see them and take part in them. make yourself at home, for you're going to be around here for some time.
the solitude of the soul.
lorado taft's group--description--each stands alone--each is in touch with every other--soul communion in silence--silence is the sanctuary of the soul--the oneness of life and its apparent separateness--the message.
around a large rock, stand four human figures--two men and two women. they are so placed that but one figure is in full sight from any given point of view, although the connection between any figure and the two on each side of it may be seen. it is necessary to walk completely around the group to see the idea of the sculptor--to read the story that he has written into the marble.
each figure has an individuality. each stands alone. and yet each is in touch with the one behind, and the one before. each one is connected with all, yet each one stands alone. one figure extends a hand to her brother just ahead of her, and on her shoulder rests the tired head of the brother following her. hand in hand, or head on shoulder stand they, each giving to the other that human touch and contact so dear to the soul craving that companionship of one who understands.
each face shows sorrow, pain, and longing--that longing for that complete union of soul with soul--that longing that earth-life cannot satisfy. and each feels and knows that the other has the same longing. and each gives to the other that comforting touch that says "i know--i know." each face shows a great human love mingled with its pain. each face shows resignation mingled with its grief. it is the old story of human love and human limitations. it is also a story of deeper import--the story of the soul.
every lip is closed. each man and woman is silent. and yet each understands the other. soul is communing with soul, in the silence. and in the silence alone can soul converse with soul. words cheapen the communication of soul to soul. with those who understand us well, we can best commune in silence. hand in hand--cheek to cheek--sit those who love well. the tale of love is told and re-told without a word. words serve their purpose in conveying the commonplaces of life, but seem strangely inadequate to express the deeper utterances of the soul. the tale of love--the story of sorrow--needs no words. the soul understands the message of the soul--mind flashes the message to mind--and all is known. the fondest memory of the one whom you loved and lost, is not of moments in which he spoke even the most endearing words. the memory most sacred to you is that of some great silence lived out with the loved one--some moment in which each soul drew aside its veil and gazed with awe into the depths of the other soul. silence is the sanctuary of the soul. enter it only with due reverence. uncover the head--tread softly.
each figure stands alone, and yet in touch with all the rest. each is apparently separate and yet each is but a part of the whole. each feels the frightful solitude which comes to the soul when first it recognizes what it is. and yet, in that dreadful moment each knows itself to be in touch with all of life. each feels that intense longing for a closer soul union--a reunion of the separated parts of the whole. and yet each realizes the impossibility of the consummation of that desire at this time--and they show their grief--they place the head upon the shoulder of the other--they clasp the hand of the other--they touch the flesh of the other--all as a symbol of the desire for the union of the soul.
i wonder if the sculptor saw it all, or whether he chiseled better than he knew. sometimes the divine in man causes him to write better--paint better--cut better--than he realizes. others see much more in his essays, stories, poems, paintings, statuary, than the maker knew was there. and the man himself, after years have past again views his work, and wonders at the new story he reads there. he feels dazed at having portrayed truths of which he dreamt not while he worked. there are within us unexplored depths, of the existence of which we do not dream. and from these depths, now and then, rise into our consciousness beautiful thoughts--beautiful images--which we reproduce on paper--canvas--marble. we do not understand these things, and we join with others in the feeling of wonder inspired by the sight of the reproduction of that which came from the depths of our mental being. and some, who have grown closer to the real self within them, see beauties in our work to which we are blind. not until the scales fall from our eyes, do we realize the full meaning of our work.
some call this inspiration. but those who have pierced the veil know that it is inspiration from within, not from without. it is the voice of the divine spark within man, whispering to the consciousness which is struggling to know better that higher self--a whisper of encouragement and good cheer--a portent of the future--a glimpse of the distant light--a bestowal of a few crumbs from the table of the spirit.
i know not, i say, whether lorado taft knew what he chiseled. i know not whether he is a man of deep spiritual insight. but this i do know, that this group, "the solitude of the soul" is the work of the spirit within this man. and his work carries a deep spiritual message to those who are ready to receive it. and in years to come this message will be understood by thousands, for everyone who receives it to-day. this work shall live long after its maker has forsaken the earthly body that he now uses as an instrument. it will live because it carries a message--because it conveys a mighty truth.
jerry and the bear.
the law's plan of developing an individual--folly of clinging to old worn out sheaths--the story of jerry and the bear--who jerry was--he meets the bear--the fight--the result--the consequences--the change in jerry--the moral.
the law, in its efforts to develop man into a self-reliant being--into an individual--first tries the simpler plan of bringing a steady pressure to bear in the direction of gradual progress and growth, impelling the man to think and act himself into a more positive condition each day. after a while the man, feeling behind him the steady push of life, and being conscious of the attracting power of the absolute drawing him to higher things--leading him up the mountain path of attainment--learns to trust the propelling and attracting power, and, ceasing his resistance, moves along in the direction of gradual unfoldment and growth. he casts off sheath after sheath--and grows. he does not attempt to impede or interfere with his development, but cheerfully and joyfully presses forward to his unfoldment. he finds pleasure in each stage, and should pain manifest itself he knows it as the growing pains of the child--a promise of greater things.
there are some, however, who seem determined to cling to their old sheaths, and resist the pressure of growth to the utmost. they are unable to withstand the steady pressure, and the attracting power, carrying them forward, and their resistance brings them much pain and friction, and they are pushed this way and that by the pressure of the growing self, resisting and struggling all the time. the law has several ways of dealing with these people, for their own good, and often, with a supreme effort, tears them from the surrounding sheath to which they are clinging and forces them into a broader and wider life, against their wishes and in spite of their struggles and cries.
many of us, looking back over our past lives, smile as we recognize how we were forced into new fields of work and endeavor--how we were broadened out in spite of ourselves--how we were torn from our old surroundings and environments, in spite of our lamentations, reproaches, and cries, and placed amid new scenes and faces. this thing is repeated over and over again, until we learn the lesson and cease to be unduly attached to persons and things, and become willing to yield ourselves to the onward moving force and co-operate with the law instead of opposing it.
many men and women who steadily refuse to stand erect and assert their independence, are deliberately worked into a position where they must declare their freedom from the things upon which they have been leaning, and are forced to stand up and face conditions from which they have shrunk all their lives. the law has a way of picking up those shivering mortals who stand around the river's edge, and throwing them into the stream, bidding them to strike out and swim. it prefers the easier way of teaching you to swim by degrees--of acquiring knowledge by easy stages--but if you refuse to learn in this way, it will resort to the vigorous plan just mentioned--but swim you must, one way or the other.
i am going to tell you a story--not a particularly pretty one, but one that will give you an idea of what i mean, and how the plan works. it's about animals--but many a truth has been conveyed by fables in which animals were the actors, and this homely little tale from the wilderness may convey to your minds the point of this talk better than do my words. here's the story:
once upon a time a man, away up in one of the northwestern states, owned a dog named "jerry." he was not very much on looks--and less in good qualities. he was not of any fancy breed--just dog, that's all. he had drifted on to the farm from somewhere and had been kicked and cuffed around in his early youth, until he was afraid to claim a right to live at all. he grew up into a worthless animal--snapped at by smaller dogs--bullied by those of his own size--looked down upon by all. he expected to be kicked by everybody in sight--and, of course, got kicked. (men and dogs who go around expecting to be abused, always draw upon them the thing they fear and expect.) his tail seemed a magnet which attracted all the tin cans around that neighborhood. pitying did not seem to do him any good--it only made him more miserable and abject than ever, just as it acts in the case of some people. the poor chap gradually dropped down to the lowest state of dogdom, and his case seemed hopeless. the farmer would drive to town every once in a while, and jerry would sneak along under the wagon, in manner seeming to apologize for taking up even that space. his appearance would be the signal for all the dogs of the several farms along the road to chase down to the wagon, rout him out, and roll him over in the dust, the performance being repeated at every farm to and from the town. the farmer, at last, feeling that the dog was bringing his establishment into disrepute, and knowing that "hopkins' jerry" was becoming a township jest, determined to put an end to the animal's unhappy career. but destiny intervened--possibly in order to give me a tale to point the moral of this talk--and to give you something to remember in trying circumstances.
jerry strayed away from the farm one evening, being chased a part of the distance by some of the smaller dogs who delighted in bullying him. he traveled some distance from home and entered the woods. bear tracks had been discovered in that region, and some of the boys had dug a pit, baiting it with some choice tid-bit pleasing to his bearship, and covering it over with a thin roof which would yield to a light weight. jerry started across the roof, and in he went. some hours after a young bear came sniffing around, and he, too, dropped in the pit. then the trouble commenced.
the bear feeling infuriated by his unceremonious drop, reached out for jerry and gave him a scratch which caused him to yell. the bear, seeing that there was no fight in his opponent, chased him round and round the pit, until it seemed only a matter of a few minutes more until the dog would be relieved of his misery. things took an unexpected turn, however. the bear knocked jerry over on his back, and began giving him the finishing touches. this seemed to bring to life the last remaining touch of self-respect left in the poor brute, and with a mighty effort he sprang straight at the bear's throat and gave him a bite in which was concentrated all the repressed bites of a lifetime. the bear, with a roar, sprang back to the other side of the pit. it was hard to tell which was the most surprised of the two, the bear at the sudden courage of his opponent, or jerry at the fact that he could fight bear. the dog's self-respect and confidence went up nearly to par. the bear's caution adjusted itself accordingly. after a bit the bear cautiously worked his way over toward jerry, but the dog snarled fiercely and showed his teeth. they had several rounds before things quieted down, and each time jerry showed his mettle, and although he was badly scratched he had bestowed upon the bear several tokens of his valor. his self-respect and confidence was now an assured thing, and the bear treated him with considerable deference and consideration. after matters adjusted themselves, the bear and the dog each retired to their respective sides of the pit, and declared a truce.
in the morning the boys came to the pit, shot the bear and lifted jerry out and carried him home. his tail was several inches shorter, and one ear was missing, and his body was scarred and scratched like the face of a heidelberg student, but away down in his heart he felt good--and he showed it. the farmer, feeling proud of the animal, carefully nursed him until he was able to move around the house, and then allowed him to go out of doors. as soon as he appeared the other dogs made a rush for him, but something in his look caused them to keep at a safe distance, and they contented themselves with barking at him and keeping out of reach. he did not seem anxious to fight, but he had that look of confidence in his eyes that kept them where they belonged. he had ceased to fear. his tail no longer drooped between his legs, but was held aloft as is the tail of every self-respecting dog. and somehow, that tail did not have the attracting power for tin cans that had formerly marked it. the boys recognized that jerry had advanced in the scale, and there was something about him that they liked and respected.
about ten days after the dog got well, the farmer took a trip to town, and jerry accompanied him, trotting along in an unconcerned manner, alongside, behind, or any other place that suited him. as the first farmhouse was reached the dogs came rushing down to have some fun with our friend. they pitched into him as of yore. something happened. the pack ran yelping back to the house for surgical attention--and jerry trotted on just the same. this scene was repeated at every farm along the road, jerry repeating the object lesson each time, finishing up his task by rolling into the dust the big bull terrier in front of the postoffice, who, heretofore, had been the terror of the town. the homeward trip was a triumphal progress for the dog, and all his old foes vied with each other in tail-wagging and other demonstrations designed to let jerry know that they were proud to be his friends. but he paid little attention to them--he had developed into a canine philosopher. after that he led a happy life. he was not seeking fight, but no boy or dog seemed to seek fight with him. he had cast out fearthought. he feared nothing that walked on legs. he had met bear.
now, some of my critics will call the attention of their readers to the fact that i am advising fight. not so, good friends. i am using this dog story as an illustration, and am trying to show you how the law will sometimes force a man into tight quarters in order to bring out his courage and self-confidence. it knows the man "has it in him," and it proceeds to use vigorous methods to bring it out into action providing, always, that the man has not developed it before. when a man has been placed in a position where he faces the worst, and is compelled to grapple with the bear, he finds that he has reserve force within him of which he never dreamt before, and he puts forth all his energy to save himself. he finds that when he boldly faces the difficulty the difficulty seems as much afraid of him as he had been of it. he gains more confidence, until at last he beats off the foe, and rests secure in his own strength. he finds that to the man who has abolished fear and who can smilingly face any situation, fate is very respectful and obliging, although to the man who fears it is a tormentor. in proportion to a man's fear will be his troubles. when he reaches the position when he can laugh in the face of fortune, he will find her ceasing her coquetries and falling desperately in love with him.
and after the man has met the great difficulty--fought the mighty fight--he finds that he has ceased to fear the little troubles and trials of life--he feels his strength--he knows his source of power. he holds his head erect and breathes in the pure air of heaven, and feels the warm blood tingling through his veins. he has found himself. he has met bear.
the unseen hand.
the consciousness of the hand--when it first was felt--always there--now as the hand of a father--now as that of a mother--a lover--a brother--always guiding--always leading--a mystery--some day we will know the owner of the hand.
i have felt the unseen hand--have been guided by it--have felt the kind but steady urge in the direction which it knew to be best, though my intellect failed to see the beauty of the road toward which the hand was directing me. for a time i rebelled against the impertinent interference of that which seemed to be a thing apart from me--a meddler--an unasked for helper. i had emerged from the dependent state--the state in which i thought it necessary to lean upon others. i gloried in my independence--my freedom--my ability to stand alone. finding that it was good to stand alone--reveling in the joy of my new found freedom--rejoicing in the fact that the i am within me was a reality--feeling within me the ecstasy that comes from the recognition of the reality of individuality--i resented any interference from outside. but the pressure of the hand was still here--it would take my unwilling fingers within its own and lead me on--and lead me on.
finding that i could not get rid of this unseen helper--realizing that it was intent upon guiding me in spite of my repeated assertions that i was able to take care of myself--that i was big enough to walk alone--i began to study the something that was so determined to take an active part in the affairs of my life--i started in to become acquainted with it.
i found that it had always been with me more or less, but that i had not before recognized its presence. so long as i felt that i was not able to stand erect upon my feet--so long as i feared--so long as i failed to recognize the i am--i was scarcely aware of this invisible helper. but when i began to realize what i was--what was my place in the universal order of things--what were my possibilities--my future--the presence of this unseen hand began to be manifest. when i at length threw off the last fetter that had bound me--when i threw back my shoulders and drew my first free breath--when i shouted aloud with joy at my freedom and strength--when i realized the power that was within me and at my command--when i started out to accomplish that which my awakened mind told me was possible of attainment--when i started to do these things all by myself--then i felt for the first time the firm clasp of the unseen hand.
now gently guiding--now leading--now kindly restraining--now giving a gentle urge toward people, things and conditions--now drawing me back from the edge of a precipice--now directing toward a better path--now giving me a gentle, firm pressure to reassure me of its presence when i doubted--now allowing me to rest my weight upon it when i felt tired--always there.
at times this hand has placed before me conditions that seemed to me to be anything but good. at times it has brought me pain. but i have learned to trust it--have learned to trust it. the conditions that have seemed to me to be undesirable have brought me to desirable things. the pain that i have suffered has brought me pleasure. the experiences that have come to me i would not wish to part with--the more pain, the more experience; the more experience, the more knowledge.
i have learned to love this hand. and the owner of the hand seems to feel and return this love, and now and then, by a sympathetic little clasp, lets me know that i am understood. this hand sometimes seems to be that of a father--strong and firm--leading on with a confident air. again it seems to be that of a mother--gentle and kind--leading me as does the mother lead her child. again it seems as the hand of a woman who loves me--clinging and warm--neither leading nor being led--just moving on clasped in mine--no words--but with a perfect understanding. the owner of this hand seems to combine within itself the qualities of both sexes--seems to have within itself all the attributes of father, mother, lover, brother, sister. it seems to respond to the human need, in every direction. it seems always the hand of love--even while giving me pain.
i have never seen the face of the owner of this hand. i have never looked into its eyes. i have never seen its form, if form it has. but i have been conscious, at times, of being lifted up in its arms and being pressed close to its breast. i have felt the impulse of the child, at such times, and have felt for the breast of the mother, and have been conscious of the answering mother pressure as i was drawn up close to the body of the owner of the hand. and, at times, have i felt rebellious at the confining clasp, and have struggled and have even beat against the breast with my puny fists as i insisted that i be released from the clasping arms. but, mother-like, the owner of the hand only drew me closer to the breast until i could feel the very heart-throbs within the mother-body--could feel the vibrations emanating from its life--could feel the warm breath upon my cheek as the invisible face bent over me impelled by the mother love.
again, it takes on the father-form, and i place my little hand within it, and feeling like the boy whose father is taking him on a journey, i say "lead thou me on," and go cheerfully and with faith into new lands--new surroundings--new fields. why should i fear, have i not hold of my father's hand? and the hand at such times rests upon my shoulder, every once in a while, and i realize that the father feels a pride in his son, and sees him growing in strength and knowing--that the father looks forward to a time when he will be able to talk with the boy who will then have grown in knowledge, and will be able to understand some of the secrets of life that the father will then unfold to him.
and, still again, the hand is that of the loving woman who is walking along the path of life with the man she loves. it is a tender clasp--the fingers tingle with love--the arm presses close to mine. i hear no voice--no words are needed--soul talks to soul in the silence. we walk on and on and on. we understand.
and, still again, the hand seems that of a brother--a twin brother. neither the protection of the father--the loving tenderness of the mother--the thrill of the lover's touch--is there. i feel not that the hand is that of a stronger being--i am conscious only of the brotherly clasp--the touch of comradeship--the presence of an equal. i feel by my side a helper--someone who will back me up in time of need. and i stroll along by his side and laugh with joy. the joy of the boy is again mine. the joy of companionship is again mine. and, lo the hand of the brother seems to grow--he and i are again men. and something in his hand-clasp seems to say to me, "come, brother, let us go forth into the unknown future. let us have faith. there are lands awaiting our coming. let us enjoy them. let us explore them. let us be filled with the spirit of adventure, and go forth. let us see--let us feel--let us know." and i return the clasp, and say, "aye, brother, let us go forth. whither thou goest there will i go. thy joys shall be my joy--thy pain my pain. let us go forth--let us go forth to the divine adventure."
shall i ever know the owner of this hand? shall i ever see its face? shall i ever understand the mystery of its existence? i know not. but faith whispers in my ear, "wait! all is well! when the pupil is ready the master appears. when your eyes have a clear vision and can bear the sight, then shall you see the face of the owner of the hand. you have entered the path and there is no turning back. go on--go on in faith, courage and confidence. why should you doubt--have you not felt the pressure of the hand?"
aye, why should i doubt or question? have i not felt the pressure of the unseen hand? open your hands, friends, that the hand may clasp yours as it has mine. while your hand is clenched in anger and hate--while it clutches tight the gold it has snatched from the hand of another--while the fingers are drawn together with fear--it cannot receive the unseen hand. open it wide--reach it out--offer it in friendly clasp--and you will feel within it the touch of that which you seek.
the unseen hand is waiting to clasp yours. give it welcome--give it welcome.
how success comes.
seeking success through mental powers--holding the thought alone not sufficient--how to get the real benefit of thought-force--fall in with the workings of the law--stand on your own feet--one step at a time--"i do" as well as "i am."
many of the men and women who have been seeking prosperity by means of the powers of the mind, have done so by "holding the thought," and then folding their hands and calmly waiting for some "lucky" event to happen, or in other words, for the long sought for prize to drop down into the laps, from out of the nowhere. now, i have heard of a number of cases in which things apparently came about in this way, although i have always felt that a little investigation would have shown some good and natural cause behind it all, but as a rule the law does not work in this way--it does not leave the old beaten road of cause and effect. it is no aladdin's lamp which has merely to be rubbed in order that glittering gems, and showers of gold, be poured out into the lap of the owner, as he lies back on his cushions, lazily rubbing the lamp with the tip of his little finger. the law expects from the man who would invoke its mighty aid, a little honest work on his part.
i think that the majority of those who have met with a greater share of success by means of the wonderful power of thought, have met with such success not by having it fall from the skies, but by following out the ideas, impulses, yes, inspiration, if you will, that have come to them. the man who has turned his back upon the old negative mental attitude--who has turned his face toward the rising sun--who has allowed the voice of faith again to be heard--who knows that the law which rules the motions of the worlds and still takes note of the sparrow's fall, has his interest at heart and asks but for faith--that man, i say, finds that from time to time ideas will come into his mind just when they are needed; will find that the law takes cognizance of all human needs and has prepared a way to satisfy them. he finds that new ways are pointed out to him--avenues of escape from unbearable conditions--signboards pointing out the right road, but he must have faith in these little hints from the infinite, and must follow them. the law will open the door to you, but will not push you in. and when it finds that you refuse to see the open door, it softly closes it, and not until many weary years have passed do you recognize what you have missed. and the law insists upon doing its work in its own good way--not in your way. you may know what you want, but you may not know just the right way to get it, although you think you do. the law will give you many a hint, and many a gentle push in the proper direction, but it always leaves you the liberty of choice--the right to refuse. it does not insist upon your love, your faith; that is, it does not make you love and have faith, but until you do love and have faith you are not conscious of the promptings of the spirit, or, at most, dismiss them as beneath your notice. oh, ye of little faith, when will ye learn.
the man who understands the workings of the law, acts upon the tender impulses imparted to him, without resistance. he does not ask to see the end of the journey, but he sees the step just ahead of him very plainly, and he hesitates not about taking it. he does not expect the law to bring results and place them in his hand. all he asks and desires is that the way be pointed out to him, and he is willing and ready to do the rest himself. the true man or woman does not wish to be fed with a spoon. all they ask is that they may have a fair chance to reach the source of supply, and they can manage to handle the spoon themselves. if any man think that the law is an incubator of parasites--of leeches--of vampires--he is greatly mistaken. the lesson of the law is to teach every man to stand upon his own feet--to lean not upon another--but at the same time to feel that he is guided by the great law of which he himself is a part, which manifests within him as well as without him, and that, consequently, while placing his trust in the law, he trusts in himself. not paradoxical at all, when you have the key.
yes, yes, the law expects every man to do well the work that lies to his hand--and to do it well, whether it is irksome or distasteful or otherwise; and as soon as he ceases to rebel and beat his wings against the bars of the cage, the way is opened for the next step; and if he does not take that step, he must work away until he learns to take it. and so on, and on, the lesson of each task to be learned before the next is presented. work? why certainly you must work. everything in the universe works unceasingly. when you learn to look upon work as a joy and not a curse, then you are beginning to see your way out of the grinding process. then you are getting a glimpse of the promised land. why bless your hearts, work is the best friend you have, the only trouble is that you have treated it as an enemy and it has paid you back in your own coin. when you learn to treat it as a friend, it will be only too glad to make up, and you will get along like two old cronies.
now, you people who have been sitting with folded hands and "calmly waiting," and complaining that your own has not come to you, listen: you are mistaken. your own has come to you--that's just the trouble. your own is the thing you attract, and you have been attracting just what has come to you. start in to-day, determined to fall in with the workings of the law, and pay attention to the "i do" side of things as well as the "i am," and you will receive new light. great things are just ahead of you, but you must reach out for them--they're not going to drop into folded hands. this is the law.
the man with the southern exposure.
southern exposure as good a thing in a man as in a room--the man who faces the sun--lives one day at a time and does the best he knows how, and is kind--finds joy and carries it to others--simple, loving, kind--open yourself to the sun.
did you ever go house hunting? then you remember how the agent laid much stress on the fact that certain rooms had a "southern exposure." no matter how many other good qualities the house had, all was subordinated to the fact that the best rooms faced the south--had the longed for "southern exposure." the very words conveyed to your mind the sensation of balmy breezes--the freedom from the rude blasts of the north--the cheering rays of the sun--plenty of light and healthful vibrations coming from old sol. ah, that "southern exposure"--how much the words convey.
now, if this "southern exposure" is such a good thing in a room, why isn't it a good thing in a man? did you ever meet the man with the "southern exposure"--the man who faces the sun? do you recall how he brought with him the inspiring solar vibrations? do you remember how the wrinkles and frowns disappeared from the faces of those in his presence? do you remember how, long after he had departed, the memory of his presence cheered you--the thrill of his thought vibrations remained to stimulate? we all know this man with the "southern exposure," god bless him. we couldn't get along without him. there are a number of him, and he is scattered all over the globe. we call him by different names, but he is always the same man. after we have felt the cold northern chill emanating from some of the cold, despondent, negative people with whom we have come in contact, what a relief it is to meet some one who carries with him the mellowing sunny, vibrations of the south wind--the man with the "southern exposure." as the vibrations of the sun bring life, energy, and strength to all things having life, so this sunny man brings positive, bright, cheerful and happy thoughts to us, and stimulates, encourages and strengthens us. he actually radiates sunshine and cheer in all directions, and thaws out the natures that have become well nigh frozen from contact with people of the other type. oh, it's a great thing, this "southern exposure" in a man or woman.
this man faces the sun. he is an optimist. he looks on the bright side of things, and gets all there is in life--he lives. he manages to extract "fun" out of the most unpromising conditions and things, and goes on his way with a smile, and a cheerful song, an abiding faith in the absolute. he lives his life, one day at a time, loving all of god's creatures and letting the creatures know it--carrying a message of hope, and courage, and a helpful suggestion to all mankind. he is the salt of the earth, and life would lose its flavor if he were taken from us. and how smooth the pathway of life seems made for him. it matters not in what station he may be placed--what seemingly small degree of material prosperity may come to him--what may be his surroundings and environments--he makes the best of everything--he still catches the rays of the sun, and rejoices--he has the "southern exposure."
he is broad and tolerant--merciful and forgiving--devoid of hate, envy and malice--free from fear and worry. he minds his own business, and grants you the same privilege. he is full of love, and radiates it to all the world. he goes through life in his own sunny way, meeting cheerfully the things that drive others to despair and misery--somehow things seem to be smoothed out for him, and he passes over the stony road, unharmed. his peace comes from within--and all who meet him feel his presence. he does not seek after friends or love--friendship and love come to him as a right--he attracts them. people are glad to see him come, and sorry to see him go. little children and animals are drawn to him, and know him as their friend and lover. he is as much at home in the tenement of the laborer as in the palace of the wealthy--both places seem home to him, and their occupants on a level. brother to both saint and sinner is he, and he loves one as much as the other, for he somehow feels that each is doing his best. he looks for the good in the sinner--not for the sin in the saint--although he knows that both exist. he is not a pharisee--he recognizes within himself all that is within both saint and sinner--he knows that he is not without sin, so he dares not cast the first stone. the outcast recognizes in him a brother--the woman who has passed through the fiery furnace trusts him and is not afraid, for she knows that he understands. he, being near the sun, knows that it shines alike on saint and sinner--he feels that when god withholds his sunbeams from his most disobedient child, then may he withhold his love from his most degraded brother or sister. until that time comes he sees fit to love them. he does not condemn--he lets god exercise that prerogative, if he sees fit--he does not feel fit to act as judge. he believes that the universe is conducted on sound business principles--that god knows just what he is about and does not require any gratuitous advice from man.
he works, and works well. he finds joy in his work--pleasure in the humblest tasks. he likes to create things--and he is proud of that desire, for he feels that it is an inheritance from his father. he does not seem to hurry--nor is he rushed. he has plenty of time--eternity lasts a long while, and he is in it now. he is not afraid of death--or even life--he knows them as one.
he goes about his way--doing his best--and letting the other fellow alone.
he has an abiding faith in the absolute--he believes in infinite justice and ultimate good. he does not fear his father--he cannot find room for fear where love abides. he does not believe that there is a bottomless pit into which his loving father intends to plunge him--he has too much confidence in his father to think that. he believes that there is enough hell on earth to burn away the mistakes and ignorance of man. and he believes that all the burning ones will eventually emerge purged of their dross. he knows that his father is near him, for he has felt the pressure of his hand. in the darkness of the night he has felt the father's presence--by the glare of the lightning flash he has seen his form, for a moment, and that memory is burned into his brain. he faces the sun--this man with the "southern exposure."
he is simple, loving, kind. he is of the elect. he is a prophecy of the future. and he is on the increase. on the tree of life are many promising buds, which the sun of the spirit is nursing into beautiful blossoms that will yet fill the world with the delicious fragrance of love.
there are certain people who have come into our midst silently and without announcement. they have found places waiting for them. they have come to prepare the way for their brothers and sisters who are in the womb of the future--they are working quietly to prepare a home for their unborn brothers and sisters when they come. they are the forerunners of the coming race. smiled at--sneered at--persecuted--reviled--pitied--it matters not. god has sent them--they have his message to deliver--that's why they are here. the world may raise its eyebrows--shrug its shoulders--tap its forehead significantly--but these new people smile, they know, they know. they see the misunderstanding multitude as mere babes in the spiritual knowing--many of them babes unborn--and they heed them not.
take notice of these people--they are making their presence felt. they are wielding a silent powerful influence, and are molding public opinion far more than are the blatant reformers, the boastful leaders, the bespangled figures strutting at the front of the stage. the people who are thus being used--instruments in god's hands--are these quiet men and women who are facing the sun--these people with the "southern exposure."
if you feel the call to join the ranks of these people--do not resist, but answer cheerfully "i hear; i obey; i come." allow the seed to grow into the plant, the plant to put forth leaves--bud and blossom. when you feel the impulse, do not resist--open yourself to the sun--receive its vibrations--and all will be well. be not afraid--have within you that love which casteth out fear--place your hand in that of the absolute and say "lead thou me on." after long ages of wandering, you are coming home.
an individualist--wearing no ticket or label--no one has a corner on truth--enough to go around--the infinite power back of all things--the real self is spirit--the law of attraction--fearthought--the brotherhood of man.
i believe that there is an infinite power in, and of, all things. i believe that, although to-day we have but the faintest idea of that power, still we will steadily grow to comprehend it more fully--will get in closer touch with it. even now, we have momentary glimpses of its existence--a momentary consciousness of oneness with the absolute. i believe that the greatest happiness consists in maintaining toward the absolute the attitude of the trusting child, who, feeling no doubt of the parent's love--no doubt of his wisdom--places his little hand in that of the parent, and says: "lead thou me on." i believe that he who feels towards the absolute, the trustfulness of the babe which places its little tired head close to the breast of the mother, will also be conscious of the tender answering pressure, as the babe is drawn just a little closer to the mother heart. i believe these things--i have felt them.
i believe that man is immortal--that the real self is spirit, which uses mind and body as its tools, and manifests itself according to the fitness of the tools. i believe that man is rapidly growing into a new plane of consciousness, in which he will know himself as he is--will recognize the i am--the something within. many are having glimpses of the truth every day--the first glimpses of the light of the great dawn are even now being perceived by those who are awake and watching.
i believe that the mind of man contains the greatest of all forces--that thought is one of the greatest manifestations of energy. i believe that the man who understands the use of thought-force can make of himself practically what he will. i believe that not only is one's body subject to the control of the mind, but that, also, one may change environment, "luck," circumstances, by positive thought taking the place of negative. i know that the "i can and i will" attitude will carry one forward to success that will seem miraculous to the man on the "i can't" plane. i believe that "thoughts are things," and that the law of attraction in the thought world will draw to one just what he desires or fears.
i believe that fearthought is the root of more misery, unhappiness, disease, crime, failure and other undesirable things than any one thing in the world. i intend to attack this monster most vigorously, through these columns. i intend going for him with the grace of god in my heart, and a good hickory club in my hand. i will cause many of you to tear out fear by the roots--you don't need it about you. i will preach the gospel of fearlessness. there is nothing in the world (or out of it) to fear except--fear.
i will also preach the gospel of backbone to you--will insist upon your inserting a steel-rod vertebra in the place of that india-rubber affair that some of you are carrying around with you. you doubt this, do you?--well, just you wait and see.
i believe in the brotherhood of man. i believe in being kind. i believe in everyone minding his own business--and allowing everyone else the same privilege. i believe that we have no right to condemn--"let him who is without sin cast the first stone." i believe that he who hates, is an assassin; that he who covets, is a thief; that he who lusts, is an adulterer; that the gist of a crime is in its desire. seeing this--looking into our own hearts--how can we condemn? i believe that evil is but ignorance. i believe that "to know all is to forgive all." i believe that there is good in every man; let us help him to manifest it. i believe in the absolute equality of the man and the woman--sometimes i think that the odds are slightly in favor of the woman. i believe in the sacredness of sex--but i also believe that sex manifests on the spiritual and mental planes, as well as on the physical. and i believe that to the pure all things are pure.
i also believe in the gospel of work--in "hustling." i believe in the i do, as well as the i am. i know that the man who will take advantage of the power of the mind, and who will manifest that power in action, will go forward to success as surely and as steadily as the arrow from the bow of the skilled archer.
next to marriage, partnership is the most important association--mental partnerships--be careful whom you choose as your mental partners--get into partnership with the best thoughts--dissolve partnership with the other kind--"i can, i will; i do, i dare."
next to marriage, a partnership arrangement is the most important association into which a man or woman may enter. its consequences are far-reaching and difficult to escape, and to a very considerable extent one is bound by the acts of his partners. this being the case, it is of the utmost importance that one should exercise the greatest diligence and care in selecting partners. if any of my readers were to contemplate entering into a partnership agreement with others, he would be sure to select those who were possessed of the most desirable qualities, and those most conducive to success. he would carefully avoid those possessed of lack of confidence, fear, worry, discouragement and others of the "i can't" class. he would seek out the courageous, confident, "i can and i will" men. he would keep away from those in whom hate, malice, jealousy, envy, bigotry and other traits of ignorance were strongly manifest. he would, in short, choose those who possessed to the greatest possible degree the qualities most conducive to success and would as carefully avoid those possessed of opposite qualities. there is no doubt of the truth of what i have just said--every one of you will admit it.
now, i do not purpose telling you about business partnerships of the ordinary kind--you know all about those--but i will call your attention to the fact that you are every day forming partnerships of a most important character and far-reaching in their effects, but of which you probably have been unaware. when your attention is once called to the matter, many things will seem clear to you that have heretofore appeared quite dark, and you will be able to avoid mistakes, in the future, that have been quite common in the past. this is an important lesson, and i trust that you will give heed to what i say.
when you approach a man on business, with your mind laden with thoughts of fear, lack of confidence, etc., you strike a similar keynote in that man, and he instinctively feels that he has no confidence in you or your business, and if he is a man whose predominant note is courage, he will feel the inharmony and get rid of you as soon as he can. if, on the contrary, he is also a "i can't" man he will feel a fellow feeling for you, but it will do you no good; it will be a case of "misery loves company," and the first thing you know you will find yourself and that man in an earnest conversation about "dull times," "poor crops," "the country is going to the dogs," "no chance for a man nowadays," "we're all going to the poorhouse," etc., etc. i've seen it happen many a time, haven't you?
but if you are an "i can and i will" man, and he is the same, see how different things are. he will warm up to you and will feel that he understands you, and sooner or later you and he will do business with each other, in fact, the arrangement is begun with your first meeting. if you can get yourself in something like the same mental attitude of a man with whom you wish to do business, you will get along with him, never fear.
when you have something in mind upon which you are working, and you are at the same time maintaining the proper mental attitude, you are placing yourself in psychic touch with every other man in the same line who is holding the same mental attitude. you draw inspiration from them, and both parties to the mental partnership share in the profits. both will share, to a certain extent, in each other's progress and both will draw largely from the mental stock of those who are working along the same lines, but who are holding a negative mental attitude. in fact, the whole store of knowledge and progress along those lines will be tapped by these partners holding the positive mental attitude. new plans, ideas, combinations, schemes, devices will spring into being in their minds, and they will not only help each other, but will draw upon the less positive people. this seems a hard law, but it is like all of nature's laws, so severe that we are forced sooner or later to learn the lesson. we learn by experience only. this operation of the law of mental attraction is a good example of one of the meanings of that saying, so dark to many: "to him that hath shall be given; to him that hath not shall be taken away, even that which he hath." at any rate, that is the way the law works.
and it is not only in the matter of success that this mental partnership works. its operations are manifest everywhere. you will notice that the negative emotions draw to themselves people, thoughts and things upon which they can feed. let a man or woman manifest jealousy, and, lo! as if from the earth spring apparent causes for that jealous feeling. all sorts of things seem to conspire to feed "the green-eyed monster" into a state of fatness. and let a man or woman get a notion that people are trying to "slight" them, and let them continue to hold this thought, and it will soon seem to the poor victim of fearthought as if everybody in the world was determined to snub, slight and tread upon him and hurt his feelings. if he persists in this attitude, life will become a burden too heavy to bear, and there will be no possible relief for him except a change of mental front. let one imagine that everyone is trying to cheat him, and he will be a lucky man if he does not find that the things he feared have come upon him. let a man cherish thoughts of hate and malice, and sooner or later he will become involved in all sorts of hateful, malicious schemes and occurrences, with his partners whom he has drawn to him. "he who lives by the sword shall die by the sword," is proven every day. he who thinks every man is a rogue will see enough rogues to justify him in his belief, and will probably end up by having people think of him as a rogue--he will draw all sorts of roguish people, things and circumstances to him.
did you ever start in the morning feeling cross and crabbed? well, if you did you probably found that after the inevitable domestic row over the buckwheat cakes and coffee--after you had left your wife with tears in her eyes, and the children in good shape to get into trouble in school--that everyone seemed to "have it in for you." some fellow in the train seemed to deliberately tread on your pet corn, another jostled you, and so on. when you got down to business, everything went wrong, and unless you brought yourself up with a short turn you had a dreadful time of it all day, and were glad when night came that you might sleep it off. you will always find that there are plenty of people waiting to go into mental partnership with you in such cases. if you are looking for fight, you will get it.
i tell you, friends, that people are all more or less in psychic touch with each other, and the sooner we recognize this fact the better it will be for us. this law of mental attraction works either good or bad for us, according to the uses we make of it. if we run contrary to the law we will be taught lesson after lesson, until we learn something. but if we fall in with the workings of the law we will reap the benefits that come to man when he masters and controls any of nature's great forces.
now, don't make partnerships of an undesirable kind. if you do you will have to bear the consequences. if you have already formed such a partnership, dissolve it at once and go into liquidation. after a while you will have cleared up the old debts and straightened matters out and will begin to do business on another basis. and i want to tell you right here that you can get into the best mental firms in the world if you only go about it right. they will not object to you if you are a fit member, and, in fact, they could not keep you out even if they wished. the doors will open at the magic touch of the spoken word backed up by the proper mental attitude. cut loose from the old thought associations and form new connections. get in touch with the right kind of thought-waves, people and things. cultivate the proper mental attitude and demand an entrance to the firm you wish. good men are scarce in all branches of business, trades and professions. there's room for you--away up at the top, too. get what belongs to you; do not be cheated out of your heritage. assert yourself. join to-day that good, hustling firm, whose name on the signboard reads: "i can, i will, i do, i dare."
the secret of life--the riddle of existence--sought now as ever--the whyness of things--attempts to answer the riddle--the seekers--fantastic creeds and queer philosophies--revamping old ideas--the story of the man and the stars--the answer to be found within the soul.
"i laugh at the lore and the pride of man, at the sophist schools and the learned clan, for what are they all, in their high conceit, when man in the bush with god may meet?"
man is trying to reason out now as in the past, the secret of life--the riddle of existence. he seeks to know from whence he comes, whither he goes, and what is the object of his existence. he wants to know the whyness of things--what it all means. he is like the squirrel in the cage, which exhausts itself in traveling the long road of the wheel, only to find itself at the end of its journey just where it started. or worse still, like the newly-caged wild bird, he dashes against the bars of his prison, again and again, in his efforts to regain his freedom, until at last he lies weak and bleeding, a captive still.
it has ever been so, from the childhood of the race until the present time. sages, seers, prophets and philosophers have endeavored to reason out the problem, but their labors have availed nothing, and the riddle remains unanswered. man has traveled over and over the circular road of thought, only to discover that it has no beginning--no ending. he thinks that he has explained things, but he has merely given them names. all the scientific research, all the theological and metaphysical speculation, has failed even to explain the sprouting of the mustard seed. life and death is a mystery to the most brilliant man of this civilization, as it was to the ignorant creature of the stone age. races, nations, civilizations rise and fall; creeds are born, grow strong, weaken and die, but the secret remains a secret still.
the present day seems to have reawakened the latent desire of man to see behind the veil. the pendulum which carried so many thinkers to the materialistic extreme is beginning to swing in the opposite direction, and is causing a strange and wonderful revival of ancient creeds and philosophies. those who have long since turned their backs upon the accepted creeds now find themselves in the company of those who still claim allegiance to the church, but who feel themselves cramped by the creeds fashioned for them by their fathers.
the leader of the new thought, reaching the top of the mountain, often finds himself face-to-face with a scientific savant who has reached the same place by climbing up the other side of the hill. and the scientist and the new thought man need not be surprised to find a leader of advanced religious thought claiming a foothold on the top of the same hill. but the trio, after they have congratulated themselves upon reaching the summit and ending their journey look around them, and lo! their mountain is but a foothill, and far above them, towering higher and higher, rise range after range of the real mountains, the highest peaks being hidden among the clouds!
one has but to look around him to see how strenuous has grown the search for the answer to the riddle. new creeds, philosophies, cults and schools confront us at every turn. the past has been ransacked for its discarded philosophies, which have been renovated and trimmed anew for modern use. the dust has been brushed off many an old and almost forgotten creed, which is pushed to the front under a new name and with new trimmings. plato is worked overtime to furnish the twentieth century creed promoters with material to be done over. the wildest dreams of the ancients are toned down a little, and boldly offered to the eager multitude as the long sought for solution of it all. priests and teachers of all the religions of all lands are among us vying with the priests and priestesses of the new philosophies and creeds of our own land, and bidding for public favor. and these new home-made philosophies, how frightfully and wonderfully are they made! the old philosophies of greece and rome are skilfully dovetailed with the creeds of the orient, and the result is a thing differing from anything ever seen before by gods or men.
brahmins, buddhists, confucians, mahommedans and sun worshippers claim thousands of followers in our land, and isis and osiris will before long again be given a place and duly installed in the new pantheon. thor and odin will doubtless be revamped, and the rites of the druids revived. we are looking every day for the arrival on our shores of the advance agent of the joss propaganda from the celestial kingdom.
and the home product is, if possible, more fantastic and bizarre than the imported article. the wildest claims and statements are made with an air of authority, and are accepted as "gospel" by the adherents of the several sects. one does not know whether to sigh or weep as he watches some of the modern prophets and prophetesses strutting their little stage and cutting fantastic capers before high heaven, thus adding to the gayety of the nations. the demand for these things has been created, and nothing seems too highly spiced for the devotees of the latter day creeds.
and the followers of those strange prophets, what of them? many of them are mere excitement hunters; others that class of people possessed of a consuming thirst for something new; some are honest seekers for the truth; and others are those who have cut away from their old moorings and are drifting about, rudderless and without an anchor, at the mercy of any stray current which may sweep them along. there are thousands of people who never heard of the philosophies and creeds of the ancients, who are now dazzled by the revamped doctrines expounded by the modern prophets, and who, being impressed with the strangeness and novelty of the (to them) new truths, accept them as inspired and emanating from the absolute. new gods have arisen and also new devils. the "malicious mental magnetism" of the christian scientists is as much a devil to them as was the orthodox devil of one hundred years ago to our forefathers.
the new cults usually begin by performing cures by means of the power of the mind and other natural laws, which they attribute to the principles and teachings of their particular sects. many of them now, however, frankly admit that they are past the healing stage, and look down upon the mere healing of disease as a thing too nearly allied to the detested "material" plane to be seriously considered. the time of the leaders is now principally occupied in announcing and elucidating wonderful, high, spiritual truths for the seekers, soaring away up in the clouds of transcendentalism, leaving their followers behind, gaping upwards like a crowd at a country balloon ascension.
once upon a time there was a reformer who attended a public meeting, and took part in an exciting debate on an important question of the day. at last, heated, wearied and disgusted by the fruitless struggle, he left the hall and started for home. it was a beautiful, cold winter's night, and the heavens were studded with stars shining bright through the clear frosty atmosphere. pausing for a moment in his rapid walk, he glanced upward. the stars were twinkling away merrily. they did not seem to be at all disturbed by what had been going on in the meeting. they appeared just the same as when, in years past, as a boy he had looked at them with wondering eyes. as he gazed, a peaceful calm came over him, and his worry, doubts and fears seemed very petty. at last one little star appeared to notice him, and he thought he could see it cast a good-natured glance downward, saying, in a cheerful voice, "why so hot, little man?"
when we feel cast down with doubt, torn with anxiety, weak from loss of faith, faint with fear, let us look aloft at the stars. when we see those distant points of light, knowing them to be centers of solar systems, knowing that beyond, beyond and beyond are countless other suns and world, let us pluck up a little courage and realize that we are a part of a mighty law, a stupendous plan. let us know that the power which called these things into life, and which is able to manage them, and even greater things, has us in charge and will not allow us to be destroyed. let us know that we are but in the kindergarten stage of existence and that we shall go on and on and on, from plane to plane, ever onward and upward in the scale, until at last we shall be able to spell out the lines of the primer of life, and learn the multiplication table of the universe.
let us in the meanwhile live on in trust and hope; one day at a time; living our own lives; doing our best work; getting the joy which comes from the simple, human life; lending a helping hand. let us abolish fear and hate, and replace them with courage, confidence and love. let us look for good rather than evil. let us know failure as merely a lesson in success. let us look upon death as birth. let us do the best we can with this world, knowing that the next world will find us prepared for its task. let us know that we are in eternity right now. let us know that god is not so far away as we have been taught, for is it not true that in him "we live and move and have our being!"
let us preserve our sense of humor--for it will guard us against many a fear, many a folly, many a delusion.
and, finally, let us keep out of the throng which is rushing wildly hither and thither, after leaders, prophets, sages, seers. let us look within ourselves and see the little flame which burns steadily there. let us know that we have within us the light of the spirit which naught can extinguish. and let us say with good old newman:
"lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom lead thou me on. the night is dark, and i am far from home; lead thou me on. keep thou my feet; i do not ask to see the distant scene; one step enough for me. lead thou me on."
"i hang bright pictures in my mind"--bright pictures encourage one; gloomy ones depress--get rid of your old gloomy mental pictures--make a bonfire of them--get rid of the particularly miserable one, first of all--then put bright ones in their places.
"i now hang bright pictures in my mind," said a friend to me, recently. her remark explained to me without the necessity of further words, the cause of her bright, cheerful and happy disposition, so greatly in contrast with that of the despondent, fretful woman i had known a few months ago. the change seemed so remarkable that one would have almost expected her to have claimed some startling occurrence as the cause of the wondrous transformation, instead of giving so commonplace an explanation.
but just think how much there is in this thought: "i hang bright pictures in my mind." stop a moment, and let the thought sink deep into your inner consciousness. "bright pictures in the mind," why not, indeed? if we wish to make a chamber, or office, bright and cheery, we see that nothing but pictures representing bright, cheerful subjects are hung there. they may be the choicest engravings or paintings, or they may be some little inexpensive things, but just so they are bright and cheery the purpose is accomplished, and the room somehow seems a happier, more joyous place than before.
if we were preparing a new room for the occupancy of some dear one, would we place there any but the brightest picture? would we hang there pictures of pain and misery, hate and murder, jealousy and revenge, sickness, suffering and death, failure and discouragement? would we do this thing i ask you? would you do it? and if not, why not, pray? simply because you instinctively feel that the gloomy, hateful subjects would react upon the loved one. and you know, is the same way that the bright, cheerful, inspiring subjects are likely to uplift, stimulate, encourage and make better the occupant of the chamber.
have you ever noticed that some rooms always seem to exert a beneficial effect upon you, while others seem to depress you? certainly you have. well, the next time you go into these rooms, look around a little and see if the explanation of your moods is not to be found in the character of the pictures on the walls. you may not have specially noticed them before, but your sub-conscious mental faculties have taken up the impression, and the reflex action has affected you. who can resist the "fetching" qualities of a bright, baby face, smiling from a little picture on the mantel, or on the wall? not i, for one. and who can help feeling the sense of comradeship for the kindly st. bernard whose great, affectionate eyes look down upon you from the engraving on the other side of the room. and on the other hand, who could--but, now i'm not going to describe the other kind of pictures in this article.
but now to get back to the "pictures in the mind." if the gloomy pictures on the wall affect people, what do you suppose will be the effect of carrying around gloomy, fearful, hateful, jealous, envious, despondent mental pictures? can any good come of lugging this trash around with you? come, now, be honest. why don't you bundle up these horrible chromos of the mind, and then make a bonfire of the lot. now is the time for a mental house-cleaning--get to work and clean out these miserable daubs, and replace them with nice bright, cheerful, happy, sunny, mental works of art. do it to-day. you can't afford to put it off until to-morrow--indeed you can't.
oh, yes, i know that you have grown attached to some of these old mental pictures--you've had 'em around so long that you hate to part with them. there's that particular miserable one at which you're so fond of looking--you know which one i mean. you see, i know all about it. you've been in the habit of standing before it with folded hands, and gazing, and gazing, and gazing at it. and the more you gazed, the more miserable you grew, until at last you felt that you would like to lie down and die, only that there was some work to do around the house, and you couldn't spare the time. yes, that's the picture i mean. take it down and put it on top of the bonfire pile, and touch off the whole lot. then go back into the house and hang up all the new ones to be found, and the brightest one of the lot must hang in the place of that dear old miserable one that you threw out last--that one which was so hard to part with (the meanest one in the lot, always).
and after you have done these things, how good you will feel. see how bright and cheerful the sun is shining; how pure and fresh the air seems--take a good long draught of it; look out the window and see the fleecy white clouds floating across the sky; the sky itself--how blue it is; and just listen to the bluebirds down by the old gate--spring must be coming. ah, how good it is to be alive!
don't retail your woes.
a miserable habit--it grows as it is fed--a nuisance to friends and neighbors--it brings to you more of the same kind--you will get what you look for--looking for trouble brings it--don't imagine that you are being "put upon"--don't retail your woes.
don't retail your woes. do you think that it does you any good to go around with a long face, telling your tale of woe to everyone whom you can induce to listen to you? do you think that it does you any good? do you think it helps you to overcome your troubles, or makes your burden any lighter? no, i don't believe that you think any such things. all your experience teaches you that people do not like to listen to long-drawn-out tales of your troubles--they have enough of their own. even those who are always ready to lend a helping hand and to give what aid they can to one who needs it resent being made targets for a continuous fusillade of troubles, woes, griefs, etc. and you know very well that a constant repetition of your own woes will only make them seem greater and more real to you. and then the chronic retailer of woe grows to be like the journalist--develops a keen scent for matter to be dished out to others--she needs it in her business. when one gets into this habit of carrying about tales to her friends, she runs out of ready material, and eagerly looks around for more with which to supply the demand. she becomes quite an adept at discovering insults, sneers, double-meaning remarks, etc., on the part of her friends and relatives, where nothing of the kind was intended, and she rolls these things over and over in her mind like sweet morsels before she serves them up with appropriate trimmings, to her listeners.
you will notice that i say "her," in speaking of the victim of this demoralizing habit, and some of my readers of that sex will undoubtedly take me to task for blaming it on the woman instead of the man. well, you all know my ideas about the equality of the sexes--about their being different, but one being as good as the other, with the odds a little in favor of the woman. but i feel justified in saying that this habit is one that seems to have a special liking for women, and it generally picks out a woman for its victim in preference to a man. when a man acquires this habit, he becomes such a nuisance to his friends and associates that sooner or later he will notice that they avoid him, and the chances are that some blunt fellow will tell him that he has no time for listening to tales of this kind, and that if he, the complainer, would display the same energy in attending to his business that he does to peddling around tales about how badly he has been used, he would not need any sympathy. but woman, god bless her, does not like to hurt the feelings of others in this way--she suffers the infliction in silence, and then tells her friends how she has been bored. she will listen to her woe-retailing friend, and seem to sympathize with her, and say, "oh, isn't it dreadful;" "how could she speak so harshly of you;" "you poor dear, how you must have suffered;" "how could he have treated you so unjustly," and other things of that kind. but when the visitor goes, she yawns and says, "dear me, if mrs. groan would only try to say something more cheerful; she gives me the horrors with her tales about her husband, her relatives, her friends, and everybody else." but mrs. groan never seems to see the point, and she adds to her list of people who have "put upon her," as she goes along, her tired-out friends being added to the number, as their patience wears out.
and then the effect upon the woman herself. you know the effect of holding certain lines of thoughts; of auto-suggestion; of the attractive power of thought, and you can readily see how this woman makes things worse for herself all the time. she goes around with her mind fixed upon the idea that everybody's hand is against her, and she carries about with her an aura that attracts to her all the unpleasant things in the neighborhood. she goes around looking for trouble, and, of course, she gets it. did you ever notice a man or a woman looking for trouble, and how soon they found it? the man looking for fight is generally accommodated. the woman looking for "slights" always gets them, whether the giver intends them or not. this sort of mental attitude fairly draws out the worst in those with whom we come in contact. and the predominant thought draws to itself all the corresponding thought within its radius. one who dwells upon the fancied fact that everybody is going around trying to injure him, treat him unkindly, sneer at him, "slight" him, and generally use him up, is pretty sure to find that he has attracted to him enough people who will humor his fancy, and give him what he expects.
in "thought force" you will remember, i tell the story of the two dogs. the one dog, dignified and self-respecting, whom no boy ever thinks of bothering. the other dog, who expects to be kicked by every passing boy, and who draws himself up, and places his tail between his legs, and actually suggests the kick to the passing boy. of course he gets kicked. it's wrong for the boy to do it, i know, but the dog's attitude is too much for the nature of the average boy. and "grown-ups" are built upon the same plan. these people who are going around in the mental attitude which invites unkind treatment, generally manage to find someone who will have his natural meanness drawn out to such a convenient lightning rod. and, in fact, such people often generate harsh feelings in persons who scarcely ever manifest them. like attracts like in the world of thought, and one draws upon him the things he fears, in many cases.
some of this class of people seem to take a particular delight in bringing upon their head the harsh words and "slights" of others. now, i really mean this. i have seen people go around with that "i'm a worm of the dust, please tread on me" air, and the same expression as that in the eyes of the dog which expected to be kicked. and when somebody would be nagged into saying or doing something that they would not otherwise have thought of, the woe-seeker's eyes would assume an expression of "i told you so," and "it's only poor me," and "it's all i can expect, everybody wishes to crush me," and a few other assorted thoughts of that kind. and then she will go to her room and moan and weep, and dwell upon her miseries until they seem to be as large as a mountain. and then the first chance she gets she will run around the corner to a friend, and will retail all the new stock of woes which she has accumulated, with fancy trimmings, you may feel sure, and the friend will try hard to avoid showing that she is bored at the tale she has so often heard, but will say nice little things, until the mourner is sure that the whole world sympathizes with her, and she feels a glow of righteous indignation, self-pity and martyrdom. oh, the pity of it all! these people go through the world, making things harder for themselves, their friends, their relatives, and everyone else with whom they come in contact. they are constantly seeking to keep their stock fresh and attractive, and display more energy in their retailing than the average man or woman does in business.
this thing of looking for trouble is a very unfortunate thing in families. as a rule, i think that woman gets the worst of it in family troubles. the economic position places her at a disadvantage, and she often suffers all sorts of horrible things, rather than have her troubles made public. but i must say that some women bring upon themselves all that they get. i have known them to get in a frame of mind in which they could see nothing but unkindness, where the utmost kindness was meant. man is not an angel--far from it--but the attitude of some women is enough to bring out all the qualities other than angelic. they assume that they are "put upon" and live up to that idea. every word that the man says is twisted and distorted into something entirely different from what he intended. the mental attitude produces moral astigmatism, and things are seen at the wrong angle. all the little things that happen are promptly retailed to some mischief-making neighbor, who is in the game for the excitement it affords her, and who laughs at the wife behind her back, and talks about her in turn to some third person. and the wife fairly draws upon herself all sort of things that never would have happened otherwise. she knows that her neighbor is waiting for to-day's budget of news, and she, almost unconsciously, shapes things so that the facts justifying the news are forthcoming. did you ever notice that woman who keeps her troubles to herself does not have nearly as much bickering and strife in her household as the one who has acquired the retailing habit?
don't retail your woes. keep them to yourself, and they will die, but spread them, and they will grow like weeds. you are making things worse for yourself--are drawing things to you--and are spoiling your mind, disposition and character by this miserable business of retailing woes.
there is in each of us a potential something for expression--the something within--the plant of life--no use trying to repress it, for develop it must--life has a meaning--growth, development and unfoldment--the lesson of life.
there is in each of us a potential something, pressing forth for expression and growth in the direction of ultimate good--casting off sheath after sheath in its progressive development and unfoldment--impelled by the impulse imparted by the primal cause--attracted upward by the absolute.
failing to understand this impulse of the growing something--seeking relief from its steady pressure--we look upon it as an intruder, and instead of allowing it to develop and grow naturally, we endeavor to kill it, or to train its growth after our own petty notions. we fail to see that this something is like unto the plant which grows on steadily and surely, from seed to blossom, until its potentialities are fully expressed. we do not realize that this plant of life should be allowed to grow as does the lily, freely and without restraint, unfolding leaf after leaf, until the plant stands in its complete beauty, crowned with its divine flower.
we would train the plant into some fantastic shape--dwarf it as the chinese do the oak, that it may become the pretty ornament of the parlor instead of the noble monarch of the forest. we would have it grow our way, not according to the law of its being. we fancy that we know what is best for it, losing sight of the fact that deep down in the subconscious depths of its being reposes that which directs its every effort toward the good--forgetting that its attraction toward the absolute is drawing it steadily and irresistibly in the right direction. we forget that the plant will fulfill these impulses so long as there remains in it one atom of life. the seed in the ground will express itself in its little shoot, often moving weights a thousand times heavier than itself in its efforts to reach the rays of the sun. the sapling may be bent and confined to the ground, but its branches, following the laws of its being will instinctively shoot upward. restrict the growth of the plant, if you can, but, nevertheless, it will move along the lines of least resistance and grow toward the sun, in spite of your efforts.
and so it is with the plant of life--the something within us. we are afraid to allow it to grow according to the laws of its being, but wish to model it and shape it in accordance with the theories of ourselves or others (more frequently the latter, for most of our ideas on the subject are borrowed). we seem to imagine that the intelligence that thought the plant into existence did not understand its business, and we are afraid that without the assistance of our mighty intellect the poor thing will grow into a misshapen and unsightly thing. we would alter the shape designed by its maker, and would twist it into the form approved of by the passing fashion of the hour. we would substitute for the beauty and symmetry of nature, our own fantastic ideas of form.
but, like the plant, this something of ours will not submit to the confining bonds--will not conform to the false standards which we would set up for it. submitting as long as it must, it stores up reserve strength day by day and keeps up a continuous steady pressure in the direction of its desire, and some day, by a supreme effort, it throws off the interfering obstacles, and, obeying the laws of its being, again grows toward the sun.
life is growth. it moves along, pressing this way and that way, along the lines of least resistance, drawing to itself that which it needs for its complete expression and growth, using this thing and that thing to-day, and discarding them to-morrow, after they have served their purpose--after their helpful qualities have been extracted. it assumes many forms in its growth, discarding sheath after sheath as outgrown. any attempt to compel it to retain a sheath, which has become outgrown, will cause its life nature to revolt, and, in the end, with a mighty effort, it will burst forth, tearing the confining sheath into fragments. this something may be restrained temporarily, but its growth is as sure as the rising of to-morrow's sun, and its attempted restraint only results, in the end, in a violent assertion of its right to unfold and develop according to law.
when we finally come to realize that life has a meaning--that we are here for a purpose--that the process of spiritual evolution is being expressed in us and through us--that our growth is in accordance with law--that the absolute understands its business--then will we cease to attempt to meddle with the great plan. we will then cease our futile efforts to mold to our absurd and arbitrary shapes that which is intended to grow in the beautiful form of nature's designing. we will realize that the power which called into being this life of ours, knew just what it was about--that this power placed within that life the energy which is expressing itself in changing form and color, but which has but one real object--growth toward the sun, and when we realize this truth we will begin to have faith, and will trust the law to do that which is best to be done--will realize the folly of imagining that the weight of the universe rests upon our shoulders. some of these days we will awaken to the fact that ours is the conceit of the fly resting upon the mighty revolving wheel, imagining that the fanning of his wings causes the wheel to revolve. some of these times the fly, tired with its exertions, will stop to rest for a few moments, when it will find that the wheel continues to revolve quite well, thank you, without its active assistance. we have been taking our little selves quite seriously, indeed. the something within is moving steadily and surely toward its goal, and much of the pain of life comes to us by reason of our efforts to restrict it--our efforts to change its motion, direction, speed. it is a mighty aid to those who understand and move along with it--but woe unto those who get in its way and endeavor to obstruct its progress. if unobstructed, there is no friction--if interfered with it manifests friction, which means pain.
this pain is the notice given us by the law to the effect that we are obstructing the growth of the life plant, and, if we are wise, we will heed the warning. by conforming to the growth we will find that there is little or no friction, and life begins to take on new pleasures. by co-operating with the law, and moving along with it, we will find that things will "come our way" in a most unexpected manner. the law is a good friend and helper, and is of the greatest assistance to us, if we but trust it to do its work well, in its own good way. we can use its growing force to aid us in our daily pursuits, if we will trust it and move along with it, but we must heed the first sign of friction and understand that we are in some way interfering with its natural growth. by living in accordance with the law, instead of attempting to oppose it, we will find that we are guided in the direction of places, people and occupations best suited to develop us and to impart to us the experience needed to round out our lives. a realization of this fact by those who have experienced it, has given rise to the saying "nothing ever happens." we find the teachers and helpers that we require, and they find us. if we need certain information, we will find it in some person or book, and will thus be placed upon the track of that which we seek.
the law will sometimes accomplish its results in ways far different from that which we would have supposed to be the best, but after time has passed we can look back and will see that the way by which the results were accomplished was the best possible under all the circumstances. we may meet with some bitter disappointments, losses, sorrows, but in the end these things will be seen as good--will be seen as having been necessary to give us the experience needed--to round out our characters--to enable us to understand.
there are none who would be willing to part with the experience gained from even the most painful events of their lives. after, say, ten years have elapsed no man would be willing to have the memory and recollection of his greatest pain eradicated; if at the same time he would have to part with the experience and knowledge which have come to him by reason of that pain. the pain and its resulting experience have become a part of us, and we are not willing to be robbed of our own.
and we will realize, in looking backward, that if we had been living in accordance with the law in the past--if we had understood its workings--these very sorrows, disappointments, losses, would have been considered only in view of their ultimate good, and the very sting of the pain would thus have been removed. when we learn to regard the pain of to-day as we now do the pain of ten years ago, we may feel that we are beginning to understand something of the operation of the law of good. and when we reach this stage, we will find that the pain is no longer pain, but only a form of good. when we cease to cause friction, friction no longer exists for us.
the lessons of life must be learned, sooner or later. it depends upon us whether they shall be forced upon us, in spite of our resistance, with much pain, or accepted by us, understandingly, with knowledge. in one case we will have the pain which comes from opposing the law; in the other, we will learn the lesson equally well, without the pain of the birching. the lesson must be well learned in either case. choose your method.
now, i do not wish to be understood as meaning that we should simply fold our hands and wait for the law to bring all things to us without any labor on our part. try this way, though, if you like, and see how quickly the law will rap you over the knuckles to remind you that a task is set before you. the proper way is to take up the task that lies nearest your hand (and some task is always there) and do it well, with the knowledge that the task has been placed there in accordance with the law. if the task is not to your liking, you will know that that is the very reason that it has been placed before you--you have a lesson to learn from it. when the time comes for a change you will find a strong desire for a something else full-grown within you. now is your chance. trust to the law to aid you in working out your desire. the desire is there in accordance with the law--its very existence is a promise of its fulfillment. with the aid of the law you will work out your desire. it is true that when you attain the object of your desire, it may not be just what you had thought it--may not be at all what you want. well, what of that? you have learned the necessary lesson--have lived out the desire and will now outlive it. something else will take its place. and you will be surprised at the way that law has brought about the accomplishment of your desire. you will learn another lesson in this.
when you have learned to work on, merrily--doing your best--living out each day's life--with faith and trust, confidence and fearlessness--accepting the development of each day as meaning ultimate good--seeing and feeling that the law of good is in full operation--being willing to accept whatever it may bring you--then, and not until then, good friend, will you begin to know what is life.
let us have faith.
faith necessary in every human undertaking--you have faith in man, but are afraid to trust god--the universe if governed by law--the law is in operation everywhere--don't be afraid--you are a part of the plan--fall in with the law--have faith, have faith.
when you take a journey by rail, you step into the car, settle yourself, take out a book and read, and give little or no thought to the engine or engineer in charge of the train. you go rushing across the country at the rate of fifty miles an hour, with no thought of possible disaster or accident, and for the time forgetting that there is such a person in existence as the engineer. you have absolute faith in the careful management of the road, and in the intelligence of the man who has been placed in the engine. the lives of yourself and hundreds of fellow passengers are practically in the hands of one man, and that man is a stranger to you--you have never seen him--you know nothing of his qualifications--you only know that the management has picked him out to safely conduct you across the country.
you take a steamship to europe and place yourselves in the hands of a few men who are total strangers to you. you stake your life on their skill, judgment and intelligence. you feel that they would not be where they are unless the management of the line considered them competent. it is all a matter of trust--of confidence. the same thing is true when you take your seat on a trolley car or on the elevated railroad, or even in a stage coach or a private carriage. in each case you place yourself in the charge of another person in whom you have a certain amount of confidence, although he may be comparatively, or wholly, unknown to you.
you place your wealth in a bank, having confidence in its management. you have business dealings with men whom you scarcely know, trusting to their honesty of purpose. in every transaction in life you are compelled to have confidence in people. your lawyer, your physician, your grocer, your clerks are all taken on faith. one cannot get away from it. if confidence were destroyed the wheels of modern life would stop in a minute. the so-called hard-headed practical man may sneer at faith, but it underlies every manifestation of the life of this civilization.
man has faith and confidence in man, but is afraid to trust god. he looks about him and sees millions of worlds, each in its appointed place, each revolving in its own orbit. he has faith that at a certain time each world will be in a certain position, which position may be calculated centuries in advance--but he lacks faith in the power that created these worlds and keeps them in their places. he has faith in certain laws--but he doubts the existence of the law-maker. he sees the wondrous manifestation of life in great and small. he takes advantage of the telescope and the microscope and explores new regions, and finds the law in operation everywhere--but he doubts the existence of a great law which governs his life--his incomings and his outgoings--his great deeds and his petty acts--he fails to realize the truth of the saying that the hairs on his head are numbered, and that not a sparrow may fall unnoticed.
he seems to think that if there is a god, he must have made the world and then ran away and left it to take care of itself. he fails to see that law must govern man's life as it governs the unfolding of the leaf, the development of the lily. he fails to see that law is in full operation within him as well as without him. he fails to see that as he opposes the operation of law, pain comes by reason of the friction. he fails to see that the only true philosophy is that which teaches one to fall in with the operations of law, and to let it work in him and through him.
do you think for a moment that god does not know what he is about? do you doubt the supreme intelligence which knows all things and is conscious of all things? do you doubt the supreme power which manifests itself in all forms of power? do you doubt the universal presence which is in all places at all times? do you suppose that the manifestation is everything, and the manifestor nothing? poor man!
either the universe is without law--without meaning--without reason, or it is the manifestation of supreme and infinite reason. either it is the work of a demon who sits somewhere and grins and gloats over our misfortunes--our trials--our troubles--our pain--our follies, or it is the work of an all-knowing--all-powerful--all-present intelligence-power-presence which has taken into consideration everything within the universe, down to the tiniest thing--down to the merest detail. and if this last be true, then everything that happens must be in accordance with law--everything that happens to us must be the very best thing that could happen to us at that particular time and that particular place.
things are not run by blind chance--there is law under everything. everything has some connection with every other thing--every person has a relationship with every other person. all is one--the manifestations are varied, but there is but one reality. there is a great plan underlying all life, and life itself is in accordance with that plan. nothing ever happens. every occurrence has a bearing on every other occurrence. chance has no part in the plan--everything is in accord with well ordered laws. there is always an end in view in every thought, word or act. we are constantly being used for the benefit of the whole. there is no escape--and when we get to know we cease to wish to escape. he who understands not law is constantly struggling, striving, fighting and contending against it, and, producing friction, he feels pain. he who understands something of law ceases to contend against it--he lets it work through him, and is carried along with a mighty force, doing each day the best he knows how, expressing himself in the best possible manner, sailing to the right and to the left, with the wind and against the wind, but still being borne on by the mighty current and resisting it not. he enjoys every mile of the journey, seeing new sights and hearing new sounds--moving on ever. he who understands not, rebels at being swept along--he wishes to stay where he is, but there is no such thing as staying--life is motion--life is growth. if you prefer to pull against the tide--to row up stream--by all means do so. after a while you will grow tired and weary, and will rest on your oars. then you will find that you are moving on just the same toward the unknown seas, and you will find that it is much easier work rowing or sailing with the current, or from one side of the river to another, than to attempt to stay in the same place or to pull up the stream.
all this fretting--all this worrying--all this contention and strife, comes from a lack of faith. we may assert fervently that we know that all is good, and that all is best for us, etc., etc., but have we enough faith to manifest it in our lives? see how we endeavor to tie on to things, people, and environments. how we resist the steady pressure that is tearing us loose, often with pain, from the places to which we have wished to stay fastened like a barnacle. the life force is back of us, urging us along--pushing us along--and move we must. the process of growth, development and unfoldment is going on steadily. what's the use of attempting to resist it? you are no more than a water-bug on the surface of the river. you may dart here and there, and apparently are running things to suit yourself without reference to the current, but all the time you are moving along with it. the water-bug plan is all right, just so long as we do not attempt to stop the current or to swim right against it--when we try this we find out very quickly that the current has something to say about it, and before long we get so tired that we are willing to fall in with the law behind the current. and yet even the opposition is good, for it teaches us that the current is there--we gain by experience. the new thought does not teach people to stem the current or to swim up stream, although some teachers and some students seem to be of that opinion. on the contrary, the real new thought teaches us of the existence of the stream, and that it is moving steadily toward the sea of good. it teaches us how to fall in with it, and be borne further along, instead of attempting to hold back and become barnacles, or to try to push back up the stream. it also teaches us to live in the now--to enjoy the darting backward and forward over the face of the waters. it also tells us of the direction in which the current is moving, that we may move along that way, without wasting our energies in trying to go the other. it teaches us co-operation with law, instead of opposition to it.
why do we not have faith? why do we not see the great plan behind it all? why do we not recognize law? as we have seen, we place our confidence in the engineer of the train--the pilot--the captain--the coach-driver, and the other guiding hands and yet we hesitate to trust ourselves in the hands of the infinite. of course, it makes no difference to the infinite whether or not we repose trust in it. it moves along just the same, guiding and directing--steering and regulating speed--it minds not our doubts and obstructions any more than does the great driving-wheel mind the fly who is perched upon it and who does not like the movement and attempts to stop it by spreading out its wings and buzzing. the great wheel of the universe is moving around, steadily and mightily. let us go with it. and while we are going let us spare ourselves the trouble and folly of the buzzing, wing-spreading business.
let us part with fear and worry. let us cease our imagining that we can run the universe better than the engineer who has his hand on the throttle. let us cease imagining that god needs advice on the subject. let us stop this folly of saying "poor god, with no one to help him run things." let us trust the engineer. let us have faith--let us have faith.
do it now.
do to-day's tasks now--don't try to do to-morrow's work to-day, but be sure and do the day's work now--the baneful effects of procrastination--not fair to yourself--demoralization attendant upon putting off things--the world looking for people who can do things now.
if you have anything to do--do it. if you have any task to perform to-day--do it now. if the matter cannot possibly be performed to-day, stop bothering about it, and get to work doing the things of to-day. but don't get into that miserable habit of putting off things until later in the day, or later in the week--do them now. the old proverb: "procrastination is the thief of time," is true, but it does not go far enough. procrastination is not only the thief of time, but the thief of energy--the thief of efficiency--the thief of success.
we have had much to say about living in the now--about not dwelling in the past or fretting about the future. and all this is true, and i will probably say it over and over again during the year, because i believe in it, and wish you to get acquainted with the idea. but living in the now does not merely mean the thinking of the thoughts of to-day--the carrying of the burdens of to-day--the meeting of the problems of to-day. it also means the doing of the work of to-day.
to attempt to carry last year's burdens--or next week's burdens--to-day, is folly of the worst kind, as you well know. but it is equally foolish to put off to-day's work until to-morrow. it's not treating to-morrow right--not giving it a chance. the self of to-morrow is not exactly the self of to-day. that is, it has grown a little and is the self of to-day plus the added experience of the day. and it is just as selfish for the self of to-day to attempt to throw his burdens upon the self of to-morrow as it would be for you to attempt to throw your burdens upon your brother or sister. it is not only selfish, but it is hurtful to you--it impedes your growth. to-day's work is set before you because of the lesson it contains, and if you refuse to accept your lesson, you are the loser. you cannot get away from the task. it will be placed before you again and again until it is performed, and you might as well do it at once, and get your lesson at the proper time, and not be compelled like the schoolboy to "catch-up" in his work. by putting off things until to-morrow, you are simply heaping up troubles for yourself to-morrow, as to-morrow's own work will have to be done as well as your leftover tasks, and the chances are that neither of them will be done properly. there's no sense whatever in this habit of procrastinating. it is folly of the worst kind.
and not only in the immediate effects is procrastination hurtful to one. one of the worst features of the case is the demoralizing effect it has upon the whole mental attitude of the man. it cultivates laziness, indecision, shiftlessness, slackness and many other undesirable habits of thought and action. it manifests itself in numberless ways in the character of the man who has allowed himself to be tangled in it. it impairs his efficiency--affects his value.
then again, you are really unfair to yourself if you get in the way of putting off things. you never have any time to yourself if you have a number of old matters demanding your attention. the man who procrastinates is never able to spare time for mental improvement, because he always has some old loose ends to wind up--some old tangle to straighten out. and he loses all idea of the value of time--of getting the most out of every hour, every minute. the procrastinator is the veriest drudge--he has his nose to the grindstone all the time. he never has any time he can call his own. he is a slave to his own habit of "laying things aside." poor man.
i am satisfied that half the failures of life--yes, three-quarters of them--are due to the failure of persons to do the thing now. not only because of what they lose directly by this habit, but because of the effect it produces upon their character. the shiftless habit of thought manifests itself in action. the thought and action, long persisted in, will lead to a demoralization of the entire character of the individual. he soon forgets how to do things right. and that is where so many people fail. the world is looking for people who can do things--and who can do them now.
if you are one of the procrastinating kind, start in at once and get over it. put up a sign before your desk, your sewing machine, your work-bench, or wherever you spend most of your time, and have these words in big black letters on the sign:--"do it now!" by carrying the thought of this now way of doing things, and letting it manifest itself in action as frequently as possible, you will find that before long your entire mental attitude regarding work has changed, and you will find yourself doing things when they should be done, without any particular effort on your part. the mind can be trained and taught to do things right. it needs a little courage, a little perseverance, a little will-power, but the result will pay you for your trouble. start in to cure yourself of this bad habit. start in at once. do it now.
get in tune.
marconi's wireless messages--vibrations reach only the instruments attuned to the sender--the same law in operation on the mental plane--the correct pitch is the thing--get in tune with the proper vibrations--get the messages from the best senders.
i have just finished reading an account of marconi's wireless telegraphy. it seems that when a message is sent from the marconi transmitter, the vibrations travel in all directions, and not alone in the direction of the person to whom the message is sent. it would seem to the reader, at first, that any instrument, in any direction from the sender, could and would be affected by the vibrations and would take up and record them. but such is not the case, for marconi finds that he can attune his receiving instrument to a certain pitch, and that the instrument will receive and record only vibrations emanating from a sending instrument attuned to the same pitch. this is true no matter how near the instruments may be to each other, or in what direction they may be from each other. and all instruments, irrespective of number, that may be within sending distance, will receive the message providing they are attuned to the same pitch.
now just notice how much this corresponds to what we know of the working of thought-force. people whose minds are attuned to a certain pitch will receive the vibrations from the minds of others whose mental keynote is the same. and if one maintains a high positive keynote, he will not be affected by the vibrations emanating from the mind of another who may have a low negative pitch. the nearer to our pitch the mind of another may be, the more we feel the sympathetic vibrations in our own mind; the greater the difference in the pitch, the less we will feel in sympathy with him. this will account for the instinctive likes or dislikes that many of us experience when coming into the presence of other people. and how soon do people of kindred vibrations seek out and find each other in a mixed assembly. many likes, unexplainable by any theory of personal appearance, etc., arise from this cause.
and as the marconi instruments may have their pitch changed, so are our mental keynotes changed from time to time as we adjust ourselves to new conditions--as we grow. this will explain why two people, who at one time seemed to be in perfect attunement with each other, will drift apart until at last they seem to have scarcely a thought or feeling in common, and yet both of them may be good people, really anxious to be helpful to the other.
but this is not the only way in which the working of the marconi system resembles the workings of the mind. i have often called your attention to the fact that the holding of certain mental attitudes resulted in the attraction to oneself of thought vibrations corresponding to the general character or the thought held in the mind of the person. let a man be filled with the spirit of jealousy, and everything seems to feed that feeling. he hears of cases of faithlessness on the part of other persons; every circumstance seems to confirm him in his belief. the actions of the loved one seem doubly suspicious--signs of guilt are seen in every expression, every move. he draws to himself the thought-waves of other minds vibrating on the same pitch--like attracts like. let a man drop into the fearthought condition, and immediately he feels the rush of fear to his mind. let him cast aside fear, and attune himself to the fearless pitch, and he feels an influx of courage, fearlessness, confidence, energy and other positive thoughts.
and according to the character of your thoughts, will you draw to yourself people calculated to co-operate with you and be of assistance to you. even things seem to shape themselves to fit in with the keynote you have sounded.
not only do you attract to yourself people and things corresponding with your mental pitch, but you send out thought-waves affecting others creating impressions upon them. go into the presence of an "i can and i will" man, and, if you are of the same kind, he will instantly perceive it and will be glad to talk to you. on the other hand, approach a man of this kind, with your mind full of "i can't," and he will be conscious of inharmony and will want to be rid of your presence at once. be a man with the southern exposure, such as i described to you in another article, and you will find that you will extract and draw to yourself all the sunniness in the nature of people with whom you come in contact. be a human wet blanket, such as i have described in another article, and you will find that you will get the meanest qualities inherent in the nature of people with whom you come in contact--in fact you will be able to attract only that kind of people who are as musty and unwholesome as yourself.
get rid of the old negative notes. start in and cultivate the positive, joyous, active vibrations, until you reach the steady mental pitch of the "new thought" man. then will all the negative vibrations pass you by, finding no encouragement to enter your mentality--then will you receive the bright, cheerful, happy, fearless vibrations coming from others who have reached the same plane of thought.
get in tune--get in tune.
mental toxin and anti-toxin.
a new toxin--the microbes in the thoughts we think--the new anti-toxin--thoughts may poison--fear causes paralysis--hate causes insanity--fear and hate have killed their thousands--gates' experiments--how to overcome the poison of bad-thinking.
in these days of toxin and anti-toxin--of poison in sausages, oysters, canned beef, ice cream--of anti-toxin serums (that often are more deadly than the original toxin) for the prevention and cure of tuberculosis, leprosy, pneumonia, typhoid fever, tetanus, bubonic plague, diphtheria, and the rest of the list, it requires courage to call the attention of the public to a new "toxin," even if at the same time we furnish an anti-toxin that "anti-toxicates."
we shudder at the thought of microbes and bacilli--and thereby attract them to us; we filter our drinking water, after boiling all the life out of it; we develop into microbe hunters, and see poison in everything we wear, eat, drink or breathe. but we overlook the microbes in the thoughts we think. we encourage the enterprising doctor in his giddy chase after the nimble dollar, as he produces anti-toxin serums to order. the poor, broken-down cart horse is worked overtime in producing filthy pus and serum for the serum-maniac to inject into our circulation. but we overlook the pure, harmless, powerful anti-toxin obtained fresh from the cells of the brain--right thinking.
that thoughts may poison, is a well-proven fact. depressing thoughts interfere with the cerebral circulation, impairing the nutrition of the cells and nerve centers. the result is that the organs and tissues manifest lost or impaired function--loss of general nutrition follows--and a break-down is inevitable. fear, worry, anger, envy, jealousy, and other negative thoughts, reflect themselves most disastrously in the human system. fear has paralyzed nerve centers, and turned the hair white over night. a mother's milk has been poisoned by a fit of anger. fear and hate--father and son--have produced insanity, idiocy, paralysis, cholerina, jaundice, sudden decay of teeth, fatal anaemia, skin diseases, erysipelas, and eczema. epidemics owe their rapid spread and heavy death rate to fear and ignorance. epidemics may kill their dozens--fear kills its thousands. all the brood of negative, fearful, selfish, hateful thoughts manifest themselves in physical conditions. stigmata or marks upon the body, caused by fear or desire, are quite common in the annals of medical science and psychology.
professor gates, of the smithsonian institution, washington, d.c., in his investigation of the effect of mental states upon the body, found that irascible, malevolent and depressing emotions generated in the system injurious compounds, some of which were extremely poisonous; he also found that agreeable, happy emotions, generated chemical compounds of nutritious value, which stimulated the cells to manufacture energy. he says: "bad and unpleasant feelings create harmful chemical products in the body which are physically injurious. good, pleasant, benevolent feelings create beneficial chemical products which are physically healthful. these products may be detected by chemical analysis in the perspiration and secretions of the individual. more than forty of the good, and as many of the bad, have been detected. suppose half a dozen men in a room. one feels depressed, another remorseful, another ill-tempered, another jealous, another cheerful, another benevolent. samples of their perspiration are placed in the hands of the psycho-physicist. under his examination they reveal all these emotional conditions distinctly and unmistakably." remember, this is not "the airy fancy of some enthusiastic mental scientist," but is the testimony of a leading scientific investigator in the laboratories of the smithsonian institution, one of the best known scientific institutions of the world. "chemical analysis," mind you--not "transcendental imaginings."
now i have said enough about the toxin and some little about the anti-toxin of the mind. i might go on for hours, stating example after example; illustration after illustration, but the tale would be just the same. now what are you going to do about it? are you going to keep on poisoning yourself and those around you with vile, malignant thoughts reeking with the miasmatic effluvia of hate--emitting the noxious exhalation of fear and worry? or will you cease being a psychic pest-house, and begin to fumigate and disinfect your mind? and after getting rid of all the microbes of fear and worry and the bacilli of hate, jealousy and envy, open wide the windows of the mind and admit the bright sunshine of love, and the bracing air of confidence and fearlessness.
come, friends, let us get out of this habit of poisoning the air with fear, worry and hate thought. let us join the ranks of the don't worry company--the fearless brigade--the invincible, conquering army of love. let us be bright, cheerful and happy--the other things are not worth while. let us be confident, expectant, hopeful and fearless--these things are winners. let us be filled with love for all men--and we will find that life is one sweet song. love, faith and fearlessness, are the ingredients of life's great anti-toxin. try it and be blessed.
ella wheeler wilcox
undertakes new work.
favorite author becomes associate editor of the new thought magazine. best writing she has ever done now appearing in that bright publication.
the many friends and admirers of ella wheeler wilcox will be interested to learn that this gifted author and thinker has connected herself, in the capacity of associate editor, with the new thought magazine, and that hereafter her writings will appear regularly in that bright publication, of which the aim is to aid its readers in the cultivation of those powers of the mind which bring success in life. mrs. wilcox's writings have been the inspiration of many young men and women. her hopeful, practical, masterful views of life give the reader new courage in the very reading, and are a wholesome spur to flagging effort. she is in perfect sympathy with the purpose of the new thought magazine. the magazine is having a wonderful success, and the writings of mrs. wilcox for it, along the line of the new movement, are among her best. words of truth, so vital that they live in the memory of every reader and cause him to think--to his own betterment and the lasting improvement of his own work in the world, in whatever line it lies--flow from this talented woman's pen.
the magazine is being sold on all news stands for five cents. it is the brightest, cleanest and best publication in its class, and its editors have hit the keynote of all sound success. the spirit of every bit of print from cover to cover of the magazine is the spirit of progress and upbuilding--of courage, persistence and success. virile strength and energy, self-confidence, the mastery of self and circumstances are its life and soul, and even the casual reader feels the contagion of its vigor and its optimism.
free.--the publishers will be pleased to send a handsome portrait of mrs. wilcox, with extracts from her recent writings on the new thought, free. address, the new thought, 100, the colonnades, vincennes ave., chicago.
a full list
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~thought-force~ (in business and every-day life)
by william walker atkinson
a wonderfully vivid book answering the questions: can i make my life more happy and successful through mental control? how can i affect my circumstances by my mental effort? just how shall i go about it to free myself from my depression, failure, timidity, weakness and care? how can i influence those more powerful ones from whom i desire favor? how am i to recognize the causes of my failure and thus avoid them?
can i make my disposition into one which is active, positive, high strung and masterful? how can i draw vitality of mind and body from an invisible source? how can i directly attract friends and friendship? how can i influence other people by mental suggestion? how can i influence people at a distance by my mind alone? how can i retard old age, preserve health and good looks? how can i cure myself of illness, bad habits, nervousness, etc.
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~nuggets of the new thought~ (in press)
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a series of essays by this forceful writer, constituting the cream of his magazine articles upon new thought topics. the famous "i can and i will" essay forms the opening chapter. "the secret of the i am," of which 40,000 copies have been sold, is also contained in this volume. we heartily commend this book as interpretative of the higher teaching. a most suitable gift book.
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~the law of the new thought~
by william walker atkinson
this is a plain answer to the oft repeated questions. "what is the new thought?" "what does it mean?" "what principles does it stand for?" "is it different from what is called mental science, or christian science?" the new thought is quite different. it is so broad and comprehensive in its bearing upon human life and human happiness that it can only be defined by its name, new thought. mr. atkinson's new book not only explains what the law is upon which new thought is based, but teaches how it may be used to the greatest good of men.
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~the heart of the new thought~ (in press)
by ella wheeler wilcox
a new book of original essays by this gifted woman dealing with the new thought in practice. this book will be off the press about the beginning of december. a first edition of 50,000 copies has been ordered. it deals with the practice of new thought in our daily lives. a helpful and inspiring book, fully equal to the very best work this author has done.
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~mesmerism in india~
by james esdaile, m.d.
a classic from the pen of a surgeon in the british army, stationed in india fifty years ago. a most fascinating work for the student of practical psychology, containing the plainest description of the methods then in vogue of inducing the artificial coma for the performance of painless surgical operations.
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a clear and practical work, fully illustrated, for home use, explaining the theory and practice of osteopathy, massage and manual therapeutics, and illustrating all the different movements. the only complete work of the kind ever published.
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a masterly work dealing with two phases of development: the mental showing forth in self-control and force of character: and the spiritual as taught through zoism, the new mental science. this book makes plain that which is known as the law of mental currents, and teaches much that is new to the student of metaphysics. it is clearly and simply written and has been warmly endorsed by ella wheeler wilcox.
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this is a book for physicians, dentists, osteopaths and professional nurses particularly, inasmuch as it deals with the theory and practice both of suggestive therapeutics and magnetic healing. it is intensely practical, and gives the clearest directions how to proceed to induce the state of passivity necessary for the curing of diseases by these means. it is considered by all authorities to be the most complete work, written purely for instruction's sake, ever put out. it is well illustrated.
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this little book, if we are to judge by the testimony of those who have paid for and read it, exactly fills the need of the many men and women who are now looking to the mail-order field as a means of starting in business for themselves in a small way. this book is very practical, very simple, very much to the point. it teaches how to enter the mail-order field, manufacture goods, buy, sell and advertise articles, keep a card-check system, set of books, etc., in short, how to conduct a small mail-order business on a limited capital.
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~the mind's attainment~ (in press)
by uriel buchanan
every reader of new thought literature is familiar with the charming literary style of mr. buchanan. this book, which will be ready by the end of november, expresses more nearly the high ideals of the author than anything he has hitherto published. it gives the essence of a beautiful and uplifting philosophy that cannot fail to benefit and instruct humanity.
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the pony rider boys in new england
an exciting quest in the maine wilderness
frank gee patchin
author of the pony rider boys in the rockies, the pony rider boys in texas, the pony rider boys in montana, the pony rider boys in the ozarks, the pony rider boys in the alkali, the pony rider boys in new mexico, the pony rider boys with the texas rangers, the pony rider boys on the blue ridge, etc., etc.
philadelphia henry altemus company copyrighted, 1924, by howard e. altemus
printed in the united states of america
chapter i--a bitter disappointment the original wonder of chillicothe. tad makes a sacrifice for his mother's sake. plotters get their heads together. a pony rider boy left behind. a dash to the open country.
chapter iv--baiting the honey bees the indian's pack lands on chunky. "i'm killed! i'm killed!" cale vaughn shows the boys how to lure the bees. stacy gets a new idea. tad learns to walk up a tree.
chapter v--new tricks in woodcraft camp making a science. how to make a browse-bed. how to cache food so animals cannot get it. why the boy's fire always failed. making a fire in the rain. the woodsman's trick.
chapter vi--the fat boy's revenge in the heart of the big woods. coons hold nightly conversations. stacy loses himself six times in one morning. oil of anise draws unwelcome visitors. bees in force attack the indian.
chapter vii--stampeded by an intruder a bear come to camp on the anise trail. charlie john up a tree. what happened when the bear kissed chunky. "fat boy him up a tree." tad ropes mr. bruin; then the fun begins.
chapter x--blazing a forest trail "every time you turn around the scenery has shifted." learning to live in the woods. birch bark lights the way. "silver face is calling me." a difficult job done well.
chapter xi--facing new obstacles camping in the rain in the dark of night. "don't be scared, boys, i'm going to shoot!" stacy decides that he has had enough. tad butler noses out the way.
chapter xii--chunky meets a bull moose "indians have sharp eyes." stacy beholds a terrifying sight. charged by an angry moose. too frightened to yell. the bull bumps his head against a tree.
chapter xiii--an exciting day in camp the fat boy slays his helpless victim. "i did it with my knife." chunky's boasts are loud and vigorous. tad butler makes a little investigation on his own hook. the guide holds opinions about stacy's bravery.
chapter xiv--laid up by an accident broken bones put the guide out of business. first aid to the injured. chunky lets the cat out of the bag. the timber cruiser hears the story of the fat boy's prowess. "i guess i've got a right to talk about myself if i want to."
chapter xv--a disastrous journey bears strip the camp food. charlie john and stacy set out for town. "i'd like to see the place where chunky could not get into trouble." the indian returns alone. "chunky is in jail at matungamook!"
chapter xvi--bad news from the front pony rider boys go to their chum's assistance. a grilling night journey. charlie john leads the way. the arrival at the scene of trouble. twittering birds the harbingers of an eventful day.
chapter xvii--chunky in a predicament a frying pan awakens the indian. "game warden git fat boy!" what came of stacy's bragging. called before the bar of justice. "where is the prisoner?"
chapter xviii--the verdict of the court "stacy did not leave much to the imagination, did he?" the same old moose with new trimmings. "stacy brown, stand up!" the fat boy brags to the court. the professor voices his indignation. "one hundred dollars and costs! pay your fine or go to jail!"
chapter xix--paying the fiddler "can you cross my palm for $128.50?" not money enough in the outfit to pay chunky's fine. stacy loses his pony. looks like a week of fasting for the pony rider boys. dead broke in the maine woods. the wolf at the door.
chapter xx--"look who's here!" tad and ned get a job and earn fifty cents. his companions punish the fat boy. cale vaughn hears the news and hurried to town. the guide proves himself a friend in need.
chapter xxi--young woodsmen on the trail again "i don't want to be like other folks." blaze marks lead the boys astray. tad follows a year-old trail. on the verge of a panic. "we are lost!" declares butler.
chapter xxii--lost in the big woods "when you are lost sit down and think it over." tad and stacy find themselves in a predicament. "there is nothing like being a cheerful idiot." "get ready for trouble!"
chapter xxiv--the signal smoke tad rounds up the live stock. "chunky would hoodoo the best organized force in the world." cale vaughn on the trail of the lost. "heap big smoke!" charlie john makes a discovery. the end of the long trail.
a bitter disappointment
"here's tad. he'll tell us," cried walter perkins. "oh, tad, how long a trip is it to the maine woods from here?"
"that depends upon whether you walk or ride," answered tad butler, walking slowly up to the barn of banker perkins where three brown-faced boys were sitting in the doorway, polishing bridles, mending saddles and limbering up their lassos.
"of course you know what we mean," urged ned rector with a grin.
"yes, i know what you mean."
"he isn't mean. you're the mean one," interjected stacy brown, otherwise known among his fellows as chunky, the fat boy.
"chunky, remember we are at home in chillicothe now and are supposed to set examples to our less fortunate fellow citizens. any fellow who can get into the village paper the way you have done ought to hold his head pretty high," chuckled rector.
stacy threw out his chest.
"you mean that lion-catching article?"
"yes, that was a pretty swell article. they think i'm the original wonder here in chillicothe."
"you are. there can be no doubt of that," laughed tad.
"i'm glad you've come, tad," continued ned, turning to young butler. "we are planning for the new trip to the maine woods. i shall be glad to get east. i've never been far east. any of the rest of you been east?"
"well, i have been out to skinner's farm. that's east of the village," declared stacy brown.
"please, please!" begged ned, a pained expression appearing on his face. "leave all that sort of nonsense to entertain us after we get into the woods. we don't mind so much your playing the fool when we are away from home, but here it is different. we don't want to be disgraced in this town where we are--"
"some pumpkins," finished chunky.
"well, yes; that's it, i guess," agreed ned.
"we were waiting for you to talk over what we should take along," declared walter. "i have been studying and reading and talking with abe parkinson, who, you know, used to live up in maine. he says we must travel very light; that going is hard up there in the woods. he says we don't want an ounce of excess baggage, or we'll never get anywhere. do you know anything about it, tad?"
"yes. i guess mr parkinson is right about that. it will be real roughing, perhaps more so than anything you fellows ever have experienced, for you will be a long way from civilization."
"but we'll get plenty to eat, won't we?" begged stacy, glancing anxiously at tad.
"you usually do."
"chunky can browse on green leaves if we get out of food," chuckled rector.
"now, i call that real mean," complained the fat boy. "what did i ever do to you to merit such a fling as that?"
"you made a noise like a rattlesnake once and got me dumped into the bushes. remember that?"
chunky did. an appreciative grin spread over his round face.
"i haven't got even with you for that, but i shall some day and mine will be a terrible revenge. br-r-r!"
"oh, fudge!" scoffed the fat boy. "you talk easily, but no one is afraid of you."
"we aren't here to fight," reproved walter. "we are here to talk over our journey, and now that tad has arrived let's get to business, as father would say."
"especially if you owed him money and couldn't pay it," laughed stacy.
"are you all ready, tad?"
tad's face grew serious.
"boys, i'm afraid i can't go with you this time," answered butler in a low tone.
"can't go?" exploded the boys.
"no, i think not, this time. some other time, perhaps."
"nonsense! is this some kind of joke?" demanded rector.
"it's no joke, ned. i mean it."
"i'll tell you, boys."
"don't tell us. we can't bear to hear disagreeable things," mourned stacy.
"go on, tad, we want to know," urged walter.
"well, the whole thing is that mother isn't well. she hasn't been well all winter. she is not so well now as she was a month ago, and--"
tad swallowed and moistened his lips with his tongue.
"i couldn't think of leaving her alone, just now; no, not for anything."
"then you won't go?" questioned stacy.
tad shook his head.
"that settles it. neither will i," decided chunky.
"oh, yes you will. you will go on just the same as before, and you will have just as good a time. after you get out into the open again you'll forget that i am not along."
"what! do you think i would trust my precious person to these savages?" demanded the fat boy with a gesture that took in ned rector and walter perkins. "why, i'd never come back!"
"no great loss if you didn't," muttered rector.
"you are old enough to take care of yourself, chunky. you will have the professor to protect you in case anything goes wrong."
"no, we can't have it that way," declared perkins, with a slow shake of the head. "if you don't go, we don't. but really, i don't see why you can't. my folks will look after mrs. butler, and--"
tad shook his head with emphasis.
"my mind is made up," he said.
"oh, that's too bad," groaned the lads. "that's a burning shame," added stacy. "i'm hot all over. that's why i know it's a burning shame."
"leave off joking," commanded ned savagely. "this isn't anything to laugh about. what appears to be the matter with your mother, tad?"
"i--i think it's her lungs," replied the boy a bit unsteadily.
"what she needs is mountain air," declared chunky. "i know. she ought to go to the mountains."
"i agree with you," said tad. "it is my idea that i can get her to go with me, for part of the summer at least, and then--"
"what's the matter with taking her along with us?" interrupted rector.
"no, that wouldn't do," answered tad. "she couldn't stand it."
"of course she couldn't. that shows how much you know, ned rector," scoffed stacy brown.
"what do you propose to do all summer, tad?" asked ned thoughtfully.
"oh, i shall work at something. i'm not going to be idle. perhaps mr. perkins will have something to do that will keep me out of mischief for the summer after i get back," answered butler with a faint smile.
"it's my opinion that this is all foolishness," declared ned. "i'm going to see your mother."
tad laid a hand on ned's arm. "please say nothing to my mother about it. my mind is made up, and that's all there is to it. of course, it will be a bitter disappointment to me not to go with you, but i guess i shall get over it. it would be more bitter to me if anything--anything happened to mother."
"and professor is coming on next week," muttered walter. "i guess we had better give it up for this season, fellows."
"no. i won't have it that way," urged tad. "you'll make me feel worse about it if you do anything like that. your plans are made."
"yes, we will let things stand as they are for the present," agreed rector. "but i shan't give up the idea that you are going with us. why--but what's the use in talking about it? walt, is your father at home?"
"he is at the bank."
"then i'm going over to see him."
"what about?" questioned tad suspiciously.
"i've got a little matter of business that i want to talk over with him."
"want to borrow some money, eh?" grinned chunky.
"no, we'll leave that business to you."
"that reminds me, tad, could you--could you cross my palm for five cents this afternoon?" asked the fat boy solemnly.
"eh? do what?"
"cross my palm for five cents?"
"say, this is a new habit, isn't it, this borrowing money?"
"oh, i'll pay you back when i get my allowance," protested stacy.
"i wasn't thinking about that. take my word for it, this borrowing business is bad business," rebuked tad.
"didn't i always pay you back everything i borrowed of you?" protested stacy indignantly.
"yes, yes, but--here's five cents. will that be enough?"
"well," reflected the fat boy, "you might make it twenty-five if you are flush today."
tad passed over a quarter, the other boys regarding the proceeding with disapproving eyes.
"now that you have made a touch, is it permissible to ask what you are going to do with all that money?" inquired rector.
"they've got a lot of fresh buns over at the bakery. i can get thirty-six of them for a quarter. it's a bargain, too."
"buns!" growled ned in a tone of disgust. "don't you ever think of anything but something to eat?"
"yes--something that i haven't got to eat."
"go get your buns and pass them around," suggested walter smilingly.
"i guess not. there won't be more than enough for me," answered stacy.
"there's selfishness for you," nodded ned.
but ned did stacy an injustice. the fat boy was simply teasing the others. he intended to bring back the "bargain" and share it with his companions, which he did shortly after that, though tad was not there to help eat the hot buns that stacy brought.
little more was said on the subject nearest to the hearts of the boys, but their disappointment was keen at tad's decision not to accompany them on their visit to the maine woods, for which place they were to start within a few days.
"i can't wait for the buns," said tad. "i must be getting home, but i will help you boys get ready for the trip and see you off."
"no, you won't see us off," shouted ned. "you will see yourself off along with the rest of us."
to this young butler merely shook his head as he turned away, retracing his steps towards home. for a few minutes after tad's departure, ned rector and walter perkins sat with heads closed together, talking earnestly. finally walter got up and started for his father's place of business at a brisk walk. later in the afternoon there was a conference between walter and his parents.
in the meantime, tad had gone home. he had been insistent that he would not leave his mother, and mrs. butler was fully as insistent that he should accompany his companions on their coming journey. but tad was firm. it was the first time he ever had opposed his mother so stubbornly. mrs. butler had been ailing for some time and tad was greatly worried over her condition. it was this concern for the mother that was on the boy's mind now, rather than his disappointment at not being able to go with his friends. there was only one encouraging factor; his mother, while not well-to-do, was far from being in want. though she did not feel that she should incur the expense of going away, tad was determined that she should.
late in the afternoon banker perkins and his wife called at the butler home and had a long talk with mrs. butler. tad had ridden out of town on his pony to bring in some horses that had been shipped in from the west to be sold. there were some "tough ones" in the bunch of western stock, and none of the town boys could be induced to help corral and drive in the stock for the owner. this work was a recreation for tad, and the five dollars a day that he received for his services during the sale, in cutting out, roping and riding mustangs for prospective buyers, he considered the easiest money he had ever earned. besides this, tad's riding was an exhibition in itself, and it drew scores of spectators. the result was that the five dollars a day paid to tad was a most excellent investment for the owner.
the coast being clear for the rest of the afternoon, mr. perkins and his wife were uninterrupted in their talk with mrs. butler. mrs. butler, like her son, possessed a mind of her own, and the banker had some difficulty in bringing her around to his point of view, but before the perkinses left the butler home mrs. butler had agreed to their plans, not so much on her own account as that of the boy of whom she was so justly proud. it was decided between them, however, to leave matters as they were for the present.
"i want to try the boy a little further," added the banker. "of course, i know him pretty well now, but if he goes through with what he has declared he will, you need never worry about his success in life. a boy who can do that is all right in every way."
the week drew to a close. tad had completed his work with the horse dealer and collected his money, which he turned over to his mother on saturday night.
"at this rate i'll be able to retire by and by," smiled the lad.
"you will have more money to spend on your trip this summer," was the reply.
"yes. my trip with you to the mountains."
"oh, no, i didn't mean that. you know what i mean, tad."
"will it be much of a disappointment to you if you do not go with your friends?"
"now, you know it won't," replied tad playfully, as he passed an arm around his mother's waist. "what fun could i possibly have that would compare with going away with you and seeing you grow back into perfect health?"
a few days later the other boys decided that they would go on without tad if they must, though they grumbled a good deal. tad butler came forward, taking a hearty interest in all their preparations for this hike in the saddle. he put their kits in shape, made a new lariat for ned rector, mended the tents, and in general threw himself as heartily into all the advanced work as though he were going himself. on the day of their departure professor zepplin arrived to take charge of the party, as he had been doing for several seasons past.
three of the boys and the professor rode to the station, there to car their stock, tad plodding along on foot, feeling strangely unfamiliar with himself at such a time. yet, from young butler's face, one would have thought him the happiest of all the party that gathered at the station, and perhaps down in his heart he was happy, knowing that he was doing what he knew to be his duty to the mother that he loved so well. there was a real shadow, however, on the happiness of his companions--the inability of tad to go with them on their summer's outing.
mr. perkins was at the station to see the boys off. he, with tad and half a hundred villagers, stood on the platform waving their hats and shouting their good-byes to the departing pony rider boys. as the train pulled out, stacy brown was observed hanging over the railing of the rear coach wiping his eyes and pretending to weep, while the spectators laughed at the funny sight.
mr. perkins turned inquiringly to tad.
"well, tad, i suppose this isn't a particularly happy occasion for you?" he said.
"why not sir?"
"don't you feel the least bit disappointed that you are not on that train yonder?"
"of course i am disappointed, but i am satisfied that i have done right. that's the best sort of happiness after all. don't you think so, mr. perkins?"
reaching the yard, tad walked around to the stable, which he entered, and stepping into the stall of his pony, he patted the little animal affectionately.
the pony whinnied appreciatively.
"well, old boy," said tad, "you are disappointed just the same as am i. but we'll have a good many nice rides this summer. we'll ride out every night to fetch deacon skinner's cows home, and maybe we'll rope one now and then just to keep our hands in. shall we have a little ride now just to forget, you know? all right, come along then."
the pony backed from its stall as if fully understanding the words of its master. a few moments later tad was galloping away from town, the little hoofs of his pet mount throwing up a cloud of dust on the broad highway that led to the open country and the fresh green fields.
camping on the piscataqui
a full week had passed since the departure of the pony rider boys from chillicothe. during that time they had leisurely made their way toward their destination, having gone by way of new york and up long island sound on a boat. eventually they had reached bangor, on the penobscot, whence they proceeded in a northwesterly direction to dover, a short distance from where they were now encamped on the banks of the piscataqui river.
at dover they had been joined by the guide who was to accompany them. the latter was cale vaughn, a raw-boned, jolly-faced yankee, much more talkative than had been most of the guides on their previous wanderings. cale, it was said, was the best woodsman in the north, a man who simply could not be hopelessly lost in the woods. professor zepplin was asking the guide about this same thing as they lounged at their campfire after having eaten their breakfast on this cool but glorious spring morning. the professor wanted to know if it were possible for a man to be so good a woodsman that he could not be lost.
"if there is such a man i'd like to set eyes on him," answered the guide.
"have you ever been lost in the big woods?" questioned stacy, hoping to draw out some of cale's experiences.
"more times than i've got hairs in my head."
"then there isn't much hope for us after we reach the forest yonder," declared ned rector, nodding toward the faint fringe of deep green that lay to the northwest of them.
"it's easy enough to keep track of yourself if you follow a few simple rules," answered vaughn.
"and what are they?" asked walter.
"water always runs down hill," reminded the guide with a significant smile.
"eh? of course it does," scoffed stacy. "did anyone ever see it run uphill?"
"i've known folks that thought it did," chuckled the guide.
"why, i can show you watercourses where you'd be willing to stake your life the water was running in a certain direction, whereas it's going the other way."
"humph!" grunted chunky. "they couldn't fool me that way."
"you think so?" laughed cale.
"i know so," retorted stacy.
"well, now suppose we were standing beside a stream, say like the river before us, only in a place where the direction of the current deceived you. i said the water was running that way, the way it does, and you declared it was moving in the other direction, how would you prove whether you were right or wrong?"
stacy puffed up with importance.
"well, answer mr. vaughn's question," commanded the professor.
"why, i'd throw ned rector's hat into the water. if it floated that way, i'd win. if it floated the other way, mr. vaughn would win. in either case ned would lose," answered the fat boy solemnly.
"you win," grinned the guide.
"he wouldn't win if he threw my hat in the water," growled rector. "don't let me catch you tossing my hat overboard."
"oh, i'd see to it that you didn't catch me," jeered the fat boy.
"that's funny. even tad would have laughed at that," spoke up walter.
"i am afraid tad isn't laughing just now," said ned.
"no, i'm laughing for him. ha, ha, ha! haw, haw!" brayed stacy.
"you were speaking of getting lost," professor zepplin reminded the guide.
"yes. another important thing to keep in mind is that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. by keeping these things in mind you are likely to find your way."
"provided you know where you are going in the first place," observed stacy. "i don't. i'm lost before i find myself when i get in the woods."
"we will take a few lessons in woodcraft when we get into the spruce forest," promised cale.
"by the way, we don't seem to be making much headway in that direction," answered rector. "we have been loafing here for a whole day. why the delay?"
"we are waiting for charlie john," replied the guide.
charlie john, it may be explained here, was a half-breed indian whom the party was taking along to do the rough work, to bear the extra burdens, to help cut a path for them when they found themselves in a thicket too dense to permit the passage of the ponies. none of them, except the guide, had seen charlie, but cale said the fellow was all right so far as behavior was concerned, though charlie was not overburdened with brains.
"we've got too much of that here already," replied ned. "that's what's the trouble with our outfit."
stacy strolled over to rector, gravely snipped off the latter's hat and holding it top-up shook the hat vigorously.
"nothing doing," said the fat boy, replacing the hat on the head of its owner, while ned's face flushed, and the others laughed.
"i decline to be disturbed by chunky's antics," howled ned. "he thinks he's funny, but no one else does. when do you think that lazy half-breed will be along, mr. vaughn?"
"he should be here some time today," answered cale. "if you boys want something to do why don't you go fishing? there's plenty of fish in the river here."
"let chunky do the fishing," drawled ned. "it needs a lazy man to make a good fisherman."
"oh!" cried stacy, his face breaking out into a broad smile. "now i understand. remember that fine mess of trout that ned caught when we were in the rockies? i wish i could fish like that. i'd be willing to be called a lazy one."
"i know what you are going to get, young man," answered rector, slowly getting to his feet.
"what am i going to get?"
"you're going to get the opportunity to prove whether you are lazy or not, for i'm going to throw you into the river right now."
"you can't do it," retorted stacy belligerently.
"i'll show you whether i can or not."
the professor opened his mouth to reprove the two boys, then closed it again, a smile curling his lips, causing the bristling beard to bristle still more fiercely.
with arms about each other, struggling, red of face, perspiring, ned rector and stacy brown staggered down the sloping bank towards the river, each striving with all his strength to get the upper hand of the other.
the two boys disappeared in the water.
"can they swim?" asked the guide, glancing a bit anxiously at the professor.
"like fish," answered professor zepplin tersely.
about that time two bobbing heads appeared above the water, only to disappear again, leaving some froth and a sea of bubbles on the surface. when next they appeared they were a long way from shore, but were swimming toward the bank, each with a hand on the other's coat collar, swimming with one hand.
"look at the twin fish," howled walter.
the swimmers did not answer him. they were too busy looking after themselves. ned started to get to his feet as they reached shallow water, but stacy was ahead of him. the fat boy butted ned in the stomach, whereupon stacy very calmly sat down on his companion's head, which was under water.
"let him up!" cried walter.
"get off! he'll drown!" shouted the guide.
"don't get excited. it will do him a lot of good to drown a few times. i've always observed that drowned persons are extremely well behaved persons."
"i--i slipped," explained ned between chokes.
"so i observed," replied stacy solemnly.
"that was very rough and ungentlemanly, stacy," rebuked the professor.
"rough on ned, yes, sir. you would have thought so if i'd been sitting on your head under water."
"never mind, prof--professor. i'll take--take care of him," coughed rector.
"you tried to a little while ago. mr. vaughn, who won that bout?"
"you win on points," laughed the guide.
"if i had been a fish i'd have won in every other way. i'll tell you what, ned. you said i was the lazy man and i ought to do the fishing. i'll do it and give you a chance to show how active you are. i will fix up a hook and line, then you jump in the water and swim around the bait just like a trout. you can make a grab for the hook once in a while it you want to. if i catch you by the upper lip i'm a good fisherman. if i don't, you are a good fish. what do you say?"
the others did the saying before rector had a chance to speak. chunky's proposition was too much even for the gravity of professor zepplin, whose body shook with laughter.
"think i'm a trout?" growled ned.
"no, you're a clam."
ned started for stacy, really angry now, but he was halted by the stern voice of the professor.
"young gentlemen, this thing has gone far enough. you will lose your tempers, then there will be trouble."
"lose our tempers?" demanded stacy. "why, i'm so mad now that i'm speechless. look out for me. somebody hold me!"
"we miss tad butler. he was the one who held you in check, as i see the matter now," nodded the professor.
"i wasn't aware, professor, that chunky had ever been in check," smiled walter.
"that's what i say," agreed ned. "it is high time something were done to curb him. there is no telling what he may not do now that tad isn't here. i wish he were."
stacy did not answer for the moment. he was gazing off over the rugged landscape with wondering eyes. finally he turned, thrusting both hands in his trousers pockets, his chest swelling with importance.
"you win," he said.
"win what?" demanded ned sullenly.
"i haven't made any wish. what did i wish?"
"you wished tad butler were here."
"huh! i wish my wish might come true."
"i told you it had."
"what do you mean, chunky?" questioned walter suddenly.
"why, tad's here now. you fellows don't use your eyes. you can't any of you see beyond the ends of your noses."
the eyes of professor zepplin were twinkling. cale vaughn was regarding the lads quizzically. all at once walter perkins uttered a wild yell and bounding to his feet started off at a lively sprint. ned rubbed his eyes, scarcely believing what they saw.
a horseman was galloping toward them at a fast gait. the figure of the horseman was slight, clad in khaki, a broad-brimmed sombrero waving in one hand.
"whoo-oo-pee!" yelled the horseman, his voice coming to them faintly.
"it is tad!" howled ned, then he too started off at a run.
"they are a lively crowd, sir," observed the guide, turning to the professor.
"you will think so before you get through with this job," answered the professor grimly. "i have had several seasons of it, and i'm thankful to be able to say that i am still able to be about, though i have been on the verge of nervous prostration more than once."
walter and tad were nearing each other, when the former stumbled and fell.
walt landed astride of the pony just behind the rider, and at touch of spur the little pony straightened out and reached for the camp at a full run, nearly bowling over ned rector, who barely got out of the way in time to save himself from being run down.
"well, what do you think of that?" exclaimed the guide. "i never saw anything like that outside of a circus."
a joyful reunion
"howdy, fellows," greeted tad laughingly as he leaped from his pony, followed by walter who, less gracefully, fell off. "didn't look for me just yet, did you?"
professor zepplin had hurried forward; his face was wreathed in smiles as he grasped the hand of the pony rider boy.
"this is mr. vaughn, our guide," announced the professor.
"i am very glad to know you, sir," answered tad, smiling up into the strong face of cale vaughn, winning that gentleman's regard on the instant.
"and, ahem! this is mr. stacy brown, the handy man," announced chunky, pushing his way to the front and extending a hand to tad.
"hello, chunky. not growing thin, are you?"
"be kind enough not to call attention to my superfluities. i am somewhat sensitive, you know."
"i beg your pardon," answered tad gravely.
just then ned rector came running in, puffing and blowing.
"is that the way you treat me after i have run a mile more or less to welcome you?" demanded ned, as tad gripped him in a bear-like embrace.
"my, you're wet!" laughed tad, holding rector off to look at him.
"yes, he's been in bathing with his clothes on," observed the fat boy solemnly. "something ought to be done to break him of such slovenly habits. but how do you happen to be here, if i may be so bold as to inquire?"
"don't you know?" questioned tad, glancing at the smiling faces around him.
stacy shook his head.
"come over and sit down, and i'll tell you about it. by the way, have you folks anything to eat? i'm starving."
"you're not getting chunky's disease, are you?" sneered ned, trying to appear greatly displeased, but not making much of a success of the attempt.
"i am afraid i am, boys. well, mr. and mrs. perkins fixed it up to have mother go with them to the mountains. you see, mrs. perkins is rather delicate and mr. perkins wanted her to go to the mountains, where he had taken a cottage for the summer. of course he couldn't be with her all the time, having to attend to his business at home, so he asked mother to go along for company. in fact, i guess he insisted. mother agreed. i think she did so that i might join you boys. i came with them as far as utica, n.y. you see, they went to the adirondacks. i had to come on after they had made those plans. i think mr. perkins fixed it up on purpose, so we would all be satisfied. i knew mother would be in good hands and i knew she would feel better about it if i came on and joined you."
"but how did you find us?" urged rector.
"why, they told me, at the village, that you were camping out here. they gave me directions so i couldn't miss you."
"hm-m-m!" mused the fat boy, screwing up his features and regarding tad narrowly. "how did you know we were in this part of the country?"
"everybody in new england knows that," laughed tad.
"yes, they know chunky is here," agreed ned.
"it strikes me that there is a gentleman of color in the woodpile," observed stacy. "in fact, i might say there are several of them hidden in the stove wood."
"yes, i reckon you're right. and you didn't know a thing about it?" chuckled butler.
stacy shook his head.
"but we may have had our suspicions--our suspicions, you understand?" said the fat boy. "still, there are several things that need explanation."
"professor, you knew about this all the time, didn't you?" demanded ned.
the professor stroked his beard.
"i see no harm in saying that i did."
"he was in the conspiracy, boys, but i didn't know a thing about it until the day before i left chillicothe," said tad.
"then professor zepplin knew about it before we left home, eh?" questioned stacy.
"i guess he did," admitted walter.
stacy fixed a stern gaze on the smiling walter perkins.
"you in this thing, too, walt?" he demanded.
"i plead guilty," answered perkins, flushing violently.
"well, i call it a shame to deceive innocent boys like that. but, sir," added chunky, turning pompously to tad butler, "i welcome you in the name of the pony rider boys. we will now kill the fatted calf."
"in other words, stacy brown," interjected rector. "it's a good thing you are here, tad. there is no holding chunky. why, you have no idea how he is acting. am i right, professor?"
"i will admit that stacy is at times inclined to be rude," nodded professor zepplin.
"everyone is against me," growled stacy. "everything i do is the wrong thing and nothing that i do is right. you fellows don't stop to think what tame affairs these trips would be without somebody to poke fun at. i am the mark for everyone. the trouble with me is that i am not valued at my true worth. mr. vaughn, have you learned to know me well enough to realize how valuable i am to this company?"
"i'll confess that i should be lonesome without you," agreed the guide with a nod.
"there, i'm glad someone in this outfit has the sense to recognize a good thing when he sees it. how about a fire for cooking?"
"i will build the fire," cried tad, proceeding at once to heap the sticks into a little pyramid under the crane that cale had arranged. butler eyed the contrivance critically. "it is plain to be seen that someone has been camping before. that is an excellent idea."
tad soon had a blazing fire going. in the meantime, stacy had hastened to fill the kettle, while vaughn got out the edibles, the others busying themselves in setting the table, which in this instance was a blanket stretched over four stakes driven into the ground, with saplings for stringers, and over which the blanket was stretched taut.
none of these arrangements escaped the keen eyes of tad butler. soon the odor of boiling coffee and frying bacon was in the air, and though the campers had had their breakfast only an hour or so before, each began to sniff the air appreciatively.
"smells good, doesn't it?" grinned stacy. "sort of gives me an appetite, too."
"i don't think you need an odor to give you an appetite, unless you have changed a great deal since i saw you last," answered tad butler.
all were soon gathered about the table, and though the forenoon was not yet half ended, each seemed to possess a midday appetite. tad told them about the trip from chillicothe, which had been uneventful, then made them tell him all about their experiences since they left home. cale vaughn found so much amusement in the conversation that every little while he forgot to eat. stacy always reminded him that he wasn't doing his duty by the food.
"do we move today?" asked tad.
"we are waiting for the indian," said the guide.
"the who?" wondered tad.
"oh, a fellow with two handles to his name, but without any name to nail them to," answered stacy.
"he means charlie john," explained ned.
"charlie john? that is a funny name," smiled butler.
"it might be handy, too. in case you woke up and wanted to say something to him in a hurry, it wouldn't make any difference whether you called him john charlie or charlie john or just plain charlie or just plain john," said chunky. "handy kind of name, isn't it?"
tad agreed that it was, especially for lazy folks, to which ned and walter also agreed most heartily.
"when is this man with the double-back-action name expected?" asked tad.
"oh, today sometime," replied vaughn. "today with charlie means any time between midnight last night and midnight tonight, so we might as well make up our minds to remain here until tomorrow. we shall get an early start in the morning and make a good bit of a hike tomorrow, and we'll be in the woods some time tomorrow."
"over yonder?" asked tad, nodding toward the dark blue ridge on the horizon. "how far it it?"
"about twenty miles as the crow flies."
"or the hawk flops," added the fat boy, who, by this time, under the influence of the hot sun and the hotter victuals, was perspiring freely.
tad regarded stacy quizzically.
"chunky, you look like a steamed pudding," he laughed.
"yes, an underdone one," suggested ned.
"that may be," agreed stacy solemnly. "but i can keep on baking till i am done, while you are so tough on the outside that the inside of you never would get done."
"ned, i guess that one reached the spot," chuckled walter.
"never touched me," grinned rector.
"there! what did i tell you?" demanded stacy triumphantly. "his outside shell is so thick that you couldn't break through it with a mall."
"did father send any word to me?" asked walter, for the time being putting an end to the argument.
"oh, yes, i forgot. i have a letter for you in my pocket," replied tad, flushing. "how careless of me."
"had i done that you fellows wouldn't have stopped talking about it for a month," complained stacy.
walter perkins was too deeply engrossed in his letter to give heed, but after he had read it through he read the letter aloud to his companions.
"you haven't any letters for me secreted about your person, have you, tad?" questioned chunky humbly.
"no; that is the only letter i have, or had," answered tad.
"chunky, perhaps you will get yours in the next mail," suggested ned.
"yes; i expect that it will come by airplane route, but i hope it isn't a package. it might hit someone when it fell."
"you wouldn't object were it a package of food, would you?" questioned tad teasingly.
"well, that might make a difference," agreed stacy. "in that event perhaps i could stand having it land on my head."
tad, during the afternoon, got better acquainted with cale vaughn. he found the guide to be a well-read and intelligent man, different from the type of guide that the pony rider boys had known on their previous summer outings in the saddle. cale was less taciturn, too, and seemed to take the keenest possible delight in the jokes and pranks of the boys that he was to guide through the maine wilderness.
vaughn was not much of a horseman, and he had brought a pony along, not because he expected to ride much, but because he needed something to carry his pack. when cale was looking over tad's pony, "silver face," the boy discovered that the man knew little about horses, though tad was too polite to mention the fact.
that evening they gathered about the campfire with all hands relating experiences. stacy brown recounted, for cale's benefit, how he had seen visually just before the plate happened to be put in and reproduced by it unmistakably. upon the many images thirty-eight canals were counted in all, and one of them, the nilokeras, double. thus did the canals at last speak for their own reality themselves.
the canals in action
so far in our account of the phenomena we have regarded the lines, the spots, and everything that is theirs solely from the point of view of their appearance at any one time. in other words, we have viewed them only from a static standpoint. in this we have followed the course of the facts, since in this way were the canals first observed. we now come to a different phase of the matter,—the important disclosure, with continued looking, that these strange things show themselves to be subject to change. that is, they take on a kinematic character. this at once opens a fresh field of inquiry concerning them and widens the horizon of research. it increases the complexity of the problem, but at the same time makes it more determinate. for while it greatly augments the number of facts which must be collected toward an explanation of what the things are, these once acquired, it narrows the solution which can apply to them.
the fact of change in the martian markings forces itself upon any one who will diligently study the planet. he will be inclined at first to attribute it to observational mistakes of his own or his predecessor’s making, preferably the latter. but eventually his own delineations will prove irreconcilable with one another, and he will then realize the injustice of his inference and will put the cause, where indeed it rightly belongs, on the things themselves. confronted by this fact he will the more fully appreciate how long and systematic must be the study of him who would penetrate the planet’s peculiarity. just as the recognition of something akin to seasonal change came to schiaparelli, because of his attending to the planet with an assiduity unknown to his predecessors; so it became evident that to learn the laws of these changes and from them the meaning of the markings, there was necessary as full and as continuous a record of them as it was possible to obtain. for this end it was not enough to get observations from time to time, however good these might be, but to secure as nearly as might be a complete succession of such, day after day, month after month, and opposition after opposition. the outcome justified the deduction. and it is specially gratifying to realize that to no one have the method and the results thus obtained appealed with more force than to schiaparelli himself.
perseverance in scanning the disk long after the casual observer had considered it too far away for observational purposes, resulted in schiaparelli’s detection of the canals, and this through a characteristic of theirs destined to play a great part in their history, their susceptibility to change. he tells us in his memoria i how aeria and the adjoining regions showed blank of any markings while the planet was near in 1877 and the disk large and well shown, and then how, to his surprise, as the planet got farther away and the disk shrank, lines began to come out in the region with unmistakable certainty. thus to the very variability which had hidden them to others was due in schiaparelli’s hands their initial recognition.
flux affecting the canals was apparent from the outset of my own observations. no less the subject of transformation than the large dark regions was the network of tenuous lines that overspread them. at times they were very hard to make out, and then again they were comparatively easy. distance, instead of rendering them more difficult, frequently did the reverse. nor was the matter one of veiling. neither our own atmosphere nor that of mars showed itself in any way responsible for their temporary disappearance. it was not always when our atmospheric conditions were best that the lines stood out most clearly, and as to martian meteorology there was no sign that it had anything whatever to do with the obliteration. long before the canals were dreamt of, veiling by martian clouds or mist had been considered the cause of those changes in the planet’s general features, which are too extensive and deep-toned wholly to escape observation even though none too clearly seen. it was early evident to me that they were not the cause of general topographic change, and equally clearly as inoperative in those that affected the canals. in short, nothing extrinsic to the canal caused its disappearance; whatever the change was, its action lay intrinsic to the canal itself.
on occasion canals in whole regions appeared to be blotted out. the most careful scrutiny would fail to disclose them, where some time before they had been perfectly clear. and this though distance was at its minimum and definition at its best. even the strongest marked of the strange pencil lines would show at times only as ghosts of their former selves, while for their more delicate companions it taxed one’s faith to believe that they could ever really have existed. illumination was invoked to account for this, and plays a part in the effect undoubtedly. for at plumb opposition the centre of the disk for two or three years has shown less detail than before and after that event. this is probably due not, as with the moon, to the withdrawal of shadows, but to the greater glare to which the disk is then subjected. but this is not the chief cause of the change.
still more striking and unaccountable was the fact that each canal had its own times and seasons for showing or remaining hid. each had its entrances upon the scene and its exits from it. what dated the one left another unaffected. the nilokeras was to be seen when the chrysorrhoas was invisible, and the jamuna perfectly evident when the indus could scarcely be made out.
so much shows in the two drawings here reproduced. the increase of the ganges and the advent of the chrysorrhoas are noticeable in the second over the first.
seasonal changes seemed the only thing to account for the phenomena. and in a general sense this was undoubtedly the explanation. to learn more about the matter, to verify it if it existed, and to particularize it if possible, i determined to undertake an investigation permitting of quantitative precision in the case. a method of doing this occurred to me which would yield results deserving of consideration from the amount of data upon which each was based and capable of being compared with one another upon an equal footing from which relative information could be derived. it seemed wise to determine from the drawings the degree of visibility of a given canal at different seasons of the martian year, and then to do this for every important canal during the same period of time. the great number of the drawings suggested this use to which they might be put. for from a great accumulation of data a set of statistics on the subject could be secured in which accident or bias would be largely eliminated and the telling effect of averages make itself felt.
to render this possible it was necessary that the drawings should be alike numerous, consecutive, and extended in time. these conditions were fulfilled by the drawings made by me at the opposition of 1903. three hundred and seventy-two drawings had then been secured, and they covered between them a period of six months and a half. they were also as consecutive as it was possible to secure. during a part of the period the planet was seen and drawn at every twenty-four hours, from april 5, namely, to may 26, or for forty-six consecutive days. though the rest of the time did not equal this perfection, no great gap occurred, and one hundred and forty-three nights were utilized in all. furthermore, as these drawings were all made by one man, the personal equation of the observer—a very important source of deviation where drawings are to be compared—was eliminated.
but even this does not give an idea of the mass of the data. for by the method employed about 100 drawings were used in the case of each canal, and as 109 canals were examined this gave 10,900 separate determinations upon which the ultimate result depended. that each of these determinations was independent of the others will appear from a description of the method itself on which the investigation was conducted. to understand that method one must begin a little way back.
as the two planets, mars and the earth, turn on their axes the parts of their surfaces they present to each other are constantly changing. for a feature on mars to be visible from a given post on earth, observer and observed must confront each other, and, furthermore, it must be day there when it is night here. but, as mars takes about forty minutes longer to turn than the earth, such confronting occurs later and later each night by about forty minutes, until finally it does not occur at all while mars is suitably above the horizon; then the feature passes from sight to remain hidden till the difference of the rotations brings it round into view again. there are thus times when a given region is visible, times when it is not, and these succeed each other in from five to six weeks, and are called presentations. for about a fortnight at each presentation a region is centrally enough placed to be well seen; for the rest of the period either ill-placed or on the other side of the planet.
if a marking were always salient enough it would appear in every drawing made of the disk during the recurrent fortnights of its display. if it were weaker than this, it might appear on some drawings and not on others, dependent upon its own strength and upon the definition at the moment, and we should have a certain percentage of visibility for it at that presentation. while if it changed in strength between one presentation and the next, the percentage of its recording would change likewise. definition of course is always varying, but if its value be noted at the time of each drawing this factor may be allowed for more or less successfully. making such allowance, together with other corrections to produce extrinsic equality, such as the planet’s distance, which we need not enter upon here, we are left with only the marking’s intrinsic visibility to affect the percentages; that is, the percentages tell of the changes it has successively undergone and give us a history of its wax and wane.
from drawings accurately made it is possible to add to the accuracy of the percentage by noting in each, not only the presence or absence of the marking, but the degree of strength with which it is represented. this was done on the final investigation in the present case, and it was interesting to note how little difference it made in the result.
the longitude of each canal was known, and the longitude of the central meridian of each drawing was always calculated and tabulated with the drawing, so that it was possible to tell which drawings might have shown the canal. only when the position of the canal was within a certain number of degrees of the centre of the drawing (60°) was the drawing used in the result, allowance being duly made for the loss upon the phase side. each drawing, it should be remembered, was as nearly an instantaneous picture of the disk as possible. it covered only a few minutes of observation, and was made practically as if the observer had never seen the planet before. in other words, the man was sunk in the manner. such mental effacement is as vital to good observation as mental assertion is afterward to pregnant reasoning. for a man should be a machine in collecting his data, a mind in coördinating them. to reverse the process, as is sometimes done, is not conducive to science.
when the successive true percentages of visibility of a given canal had thus been found, they were plotted vertically at points along a horizontal line corresponding in distance from the origin to the number of days after (or before) the summer solstice of the martian northern hemisphere. the horizontal distance thus measured the time while the vertical height gave the relative visibility. the points so plotted were then joined by a smooth curve. this curve reproduced the continuous change in visibility undergone by the canal during the period under observation. it gave a graphic picture of the canal’s change of state. it seemed, therefore, proper to call it the canal’s cartouche or sign manual.
in this manner were obtained the cartouches of 109 canals. now, as the presence or absence of any canal in any drawing was entirely irrespective of the presence or absence of another, each such datum spoke only for itself, and was an entirely independent observation. the whole investigation thus rested on 10,900 completely separate determinations, each as unconditioned by the others as if it existed alone.
as every factor outside of the canal itself which could affect the latter’s visibility was taken account of, and the correction due to it as nearly as possible applied before the cartouches were deduced, the latter represent the visibility of the canal due to intrinsic change alone. in other words, they give not the apparent only but the real history of the canal for the period concerned.
important disclosures result from inspection of the cartouches. this we shall perceive by considering what different curves mean in the case. if the canal were an unchangeable phenomenon, for any reason whatever, its cartouche would be a straight line parallel to the horizon of the diagram. this is evident from the fact that the visibility would then never vary. if, on the other hand, it were waxing and waning, and the wax or wane were uniform, the cartouche would be a straight line inclined to the horizontal; rising if the canal were increasing, falling when it decreased. lastly, if the rate of change itself varied, the cartouche would be a curve concave or convex to the line denoting the time, according as the rate of change of the growth or decay grew greater or less.
to see this the more clearly, we may set over against the cartouche the canal character it signalizes:—
if the cartouche first falls and then rises, this shows the canal to have passed through a minimum state at the time denoted by the point of inflection; if it rises first and falls afterward, this betokens in the same way a maximum. thus the cartouches reveal to us the complete history of the canals,—what changes they underwent and the times at which these occurred. the cartouche, then, is the graphic portrayal of the canal’s behavior. it not only distinguishes at once between the dead and the living, as we may call the effect of intrinsic change, but it tells the exact character of this change,—the way it varied from time to time, the epoch at which the development was at its minimum or its maximum for any given canal, and lastly, its actual strength at any time, thus giving its relative importance in the canal system. for the height of the curve above the diagrammatic horizon marks the absolute as well as the relative visibility and enables us to rank the canals between themselves.
now, the first point it furnishes a criterion for is the real or illusory character of the canals. if a line be due to illusion, whether optical or physical, it can vary only from extrinsic cause, since it has no intrinsic existence. if, therefore, all extrinsic cause be allowed for, the cartouche of this ghost must needs be a horizontal straight line. even if the extrinsic factors to its production be imperfectly accounted for, their retention could only cause systematic variations from the straight line in all the lines, which would themselves vary systematically, and these factors could therefore be detected.
this criterion is absolute. unless all the cartouches were approximately straight lines, no illusion theory of any kind whatever could explain the facts. even then the lines might all be real; for unchangeable reality would produce the same effect on the cartouches as illusion. in the case therefore of horizontal straight line cartouches, we should have no guarantee on that score of reality or illusion; but, on the other hand, curves or inclined straight lines in them would be instantly fatal to all illusion theories.
turning now to the 109 cartouches obtained in 1903, the first point to strike one’s notice is that all but three of them are curves and that even these three must be accepted with a caveat. here, then, the cartouches dispose once and for all of any and every illusion theory. they show conclusively that the canals are real objects which wax and wane from some intrinsic cause.
the second result afforded by the cartouches is not of a destructive, negative character,—however valuable the destruction of bars to knowledge may be,—but of a constructive, positive one. it does not, like the first, follow from mere inspection, but is brought to light only by comparison of all the cartouches. in a positive way, therefore, its testimony is as conclusive as it was in a negative direction. for that 10,900 separate and independent data should result in a general law of development through either conscious or unconscious bias, when those data would have to be combined in so complicated a manner for the result to emerge as is here the case, is impossible. chance could not do it and consciousness would require a coördinate memory, to which murphy’s nine games of chess at once would be child’s play.
of the 109 canals examined 106 showed by their cartouches that they had been during the whole or a part of the period in a state of change. but the change was not the same for all. in some the minimum came early; in others, late. some decreased to nothing and stayed there; others increased from zero and were increasing still at the time observations closed.
latitude proved the means of bringing comparative order out of the chaos. when the canals were ranged according to their latitude on the planet, a law in their development came to light. to understand it, the circumstances under which the canals were presented must be considered as regards the then season of the planet’s year. in 1903 the planet passed on february 28 through the point of its orbit where the summer solstice of the northern hemisphere occurs. one hundred and twenty-six days later took place the first snowfall in the arctic and subarctic regions, an event that denoted the beginning of the new polar cap; from which date the snow there gradually increased. its autumnal equinox the planet did not reach till august 29. now, the canals were observed from thirty-six days before the summer solstice of the northern hemisphere to one hundred and forty-seven days after that event. we may tabulate the dates as follows:—
the vernal longitude is the longitude of the planet in its orbit reckoned from the vernal equinox. from the table it appears that the cartouches cover the development of the canals from about june 6 to september 1 of the martian northern hemisphere for the current but to us undated year, ab marte condita.
the 109 canals included all the more conspicuous canals on the planet at that opposition, all those that lent themselves by the sufficient frequency with which they were seen to a statistical result. they lay spread all the way between the edge of the polar cap in latitude 87° north to the extreme limit south, at which the then tilt of the north pole toward the earth permitted of canal recognition. this southern limit was in about latitude 35° south. farther south than this vision became too oblique, amounting as it did, with an adverse tilt of twenty-five degrees to start with, to something over sixty degrees, for detection of such fine markings to be possible. between the two limits thus imposed, by the perpetual snow on the one side and the observational tilt on the other, the 109 canals were distributed by zones as follows:—
as the latitude of a canal in the investigation was taken as that of its mid-point, such being the mean value of its successive parts, the latitudes about which information was obtained lay within the limits given above, the most northern canal, the jaxartes n having for its mid-latitude 78° north, and the most southern, the nectar, that of 27° south.
the curves of all the canals in a given zone have been combined into a mean curve or cartouche for that zone; and then the cartouches for the several zones have been represented and ranged according to latitude on the accompanying plate. consideration of these mean canal cartouches is very instructive. in the first place not one of them is a straight line, either horizontal or inclined. all are curves and, with the exception of the top one, all show a minimum or lowest point during the period under observation. from this point they rise with the time, or to the right on the plate. a black star marks this minimum, and is found farther and farther to the right as one goes down the plate; that is, as one travels from the neighborhood of the arctic regions down to the equator and then over into the planet’s southern hemisphere. drawing now a line approximately through the stars and remembering that the minimum means the date at which the canal started to develop, we see that the canal development began at the border of the north polar cap and thence continued down the disk over the planet’s surface, as far as observation permitted the surface to be seen, which was some thirty-five degrees into the other hemisphere. this is the first broad fact disclosed by the cartouches.
furthermore, the development took place at an approximately uniform rate. this is shown by the fact that the line passing through the black stars is approximately straight; for such straightness means that progression down the disk as measured by the latitude bore throughout the same ratio to the time elapsed.
looking at them again we notice that the three topmost cartouches, those of the north polar, arctic, and sub-arctic canals respectively, dip at the right before the end of the observations, while the other seven were still rising when those observations were brought to a close. a reason for this, or at least a significant coincidence, is to be found in the dotted line pendent from the top of the table and labelled “first frosts.” this dotted line denotes the date at which the first extensive frost occurred in the polar regions; for even before this time patches of white had appeared north of the mare acidalium, denoting the on-coming of the cold. the frost did not last but came and went and came again just as it does on earth, growing more insistent and long-lived at each fresh fall. its sphere of operation was confined to the three zones in question. even these zones it by no means covered, merely blotching them in places with fungi-like patches of frost. beyond them south it never extended during the period of the observations; indeed, it hardly entered the sub-arctic zone at all at this very beginning of the polar winter. for it was only august 20 then. the coincidence of the isotherm as betrayed by the deposition of frost with the dividing line between the canal-development curves that dip down at this season and those that still continue to rise is suggestive.
these three cartouches furthermore show each a maximum, and what is significant the maximum occurs later in time for each, according as the zone lies remote from the pole. a red star marks this maximum and shows that the time of greatest development for the three zones was respectively:—
41 days after the summer solstice for the north polar. 61 days after the summer solstice for the arctic. 95 days after the summer solstice for the sub-arctic.
we now pass to the other curves, those that were unaffected by cold. though in these the minima themselves show the law of latitudinal progression, the wavelike character of the advance is even better disclosed by the curves. as the eye follows them down the page, the advance of the wave to the right is plainly apparent. the slope of the wave is much the same for all, implying that a like force was at work successively down the latitudes.
it will be noticed next that in all the mean cartouches the gradient is greater after the minimum than before it. the curves fall gently to their lowest points and rise more steeply from them. such profile indicates that the effects of a previous force were slowly dying out down to the minimum and that then an impulse started in to act afresh. this explains the attitude of the canals that died out. in them the effect of the old force shows as in the others, but no impulse came in their case to resuscitation.
it seems possible to trace this force to an origin at the south. for beginning with the north sub-tropic zone the gradient on the left shows less and less steep southward to the south sub-tropic zone. such a dying-down swell is what should be looked for in an impulse which had travelled from the south northward, since the wave would affect the more northern zones last, and less of a calm period would intervene between the two impulses from opposite poles.
the cartouches, then, state that the canals began to develop after the greatest melting of the polar cap had occurred; that this development proceeded down the latitudes to the equator, and then not stopping there advanced up the latitudes of the other hemisphere. in the next place they show that in the arctic region the development was arrested and devolution or decay set in as it began to get cold there, the most northern canals being affected first. finally, that a similar wave of evolution had occurred from the opposite pole some time before and had then passed away. and this evidence of the cartouches is direct, and independent of any theory.
as an interesting instance of the law of development we may take the career of the brontes during this same martian year; the brontes witnessing individually to the same evolutionary process that the canals collectively exhibit.
the brontes is one of the most imposing canals upon the planet. it is not so much its length which renders it a striking object, though this length is enough to entitle it to consideration, being no less than 2440 miles. its direction is what singles it out to notice, for it runs almost north and south. for this reason it swings into a position to hold the centre of the stage for a time with the precision of a meridian, as the planet’s rotation turns its longitude into view. the points which it connects help also to add to its distinction. for the sinus titanum at its southern end and the propontis at its northern are both among the conspicuous points of the disk. the latter is but twelve degrees farther east than the former, while it is sixty-six degrees farther north. this long distance,—from nearly the line of the tropics in the southern hemisphere to mid-temperate regions of the northern,—the canal runs in an absolutely straight course.
its north and south character commends it for any investigation of canal development, since it runs in the general direction that development takes. its great latitudinal stretch further fits it for a recorder of changes sweeping down the disk; so that both in direction and length it stands well circumstanced for a measure of latitudinal variations. the fact that it is usually a fairly conspicuous canal does not detract from its virtue in this respect. it was first recognized at flagstaff in 1894. but once realized, so to speak, it was possible to identify it with a canal seen by schiaparelli and supposed by him to be the titan; indeed, it played hide and seek with that canal throughout his drawings. in 1894 both it and the titan were so well seen that its separate existence was unmistakable, causing it to be both recognized and named. it is, like the titan, one of the sheaf of canals descending the disk from the sinus titanum, and lies just to the east of the titan in the bunch. in 1896 it was also prominent; and at both these oppositions most so from its southern end, its northern one being more or less indefinite, especially in 1894.
in 1901 it was not the same. instead of being the conspicuous canal it had been in earlier years, it was now so faint as with difficulty to be made out. it remained so to the close of observations. it was now under suspicion. its behavior in 1896-1897 had led to the supposition that not only were seasonal changes taking place in it, but that those changes were such as to point to a law in the case with which its conduct in 1901 fayed in. the suspicion did not, however, become a certainty till the opposition of 1903. the length of time during which the disk was then kept under scrutiny resulted in the method of its metamorphosis being discovered.
at the very start of observations its longitude chanced to be nearly central and it was made out; but so far off was the planet that only its northern part could be detected, because, as afterward appeared, this part was the stronger, the canal being decidedly inconspicuous, whereas other canals, the northern and even the pallene and the dis, were strongly marked. at the next presentation the planet was nearer, and details previously hidden for the distance now came out. among them was the brontes, which, showing better than in january, could be traced all the way to the sinus titanum. a drawing (i) made on february 25 and reproduced in the text shows its appearance at the time. its emergence under neared conditions only served to accentuate its relative inconspicuousness, for it showed now notably inferior to the northern canals, and this not only in the matter of general visibility, but in the character it displayed. it was a line of hazy definition, contrasting thus with the sharp dark forms of its northern neighbors.
as the planet steadily approached the earth, and the canals to the north became better and better seen, the brontes instead of sharing in the general improvement did exactly the opposite. it grew less visible when it should have grown more so, if distance had been the cause of its appearance. it was now only to be seen at the north, even when it was seen at all; a state of things exemplified in drawings ii and iii.
as the planet now went away and detail should have dimmed, the brontes proceeded to do the opposite. one had almost said it was actuated by a spirit of contrariety. for now when it had reason to grow faint it grew in conspicuousness; just as, before, when it should have become evident, it had declined. distinctly farther off and smaller as the planet was at the next presentation, the brontes had clearly developed both in tone and in the amount of it visible. this was in may (drawings iv and v). in june bad seeing prevented good observations, but in july, drawing vi, when the region again came round, the brontes, in spite of the then greatly increased distance, asserted itself so strongly that even in not very good seeing its presence could not be passed by.
this contrariety of behavior had about it one very telling feature. that the canal waxed or waned in exact opposition to distance and even toward the last to seeing too, showed conclusively that neither distance nor definition could in any way be held responsible for its metamorphoses. a very fortunate circumstance, this of the observations, for it directly eliminated size of disk, phase, and seeing, for which correction are none too easy to make, and which in the minds of the sceptical could always remain as unexplained possibilities of error.
the mean-canal cartouches show synthetically, and all the more conclusively for being composite, the laws of the flux of the canals. something more of vividness, however, is imparted by the actual look of one of the constituents during the process. it is the difference between seeing a composite picture made from a given group of men and the gazing on the actual features of any one of them. so much is gained by the drawings across the page of the brontes at different stages of its evolution during the period here concerned. but in another way, too, the one canal may be made to yield a more lifelike representation of the process than a number taken together are capable of affording. in the mean-canal cartouches each canal is treated as an entity; but it is possible to consider a canal by parts, and by so doing to see it in action, as it were. it occurred to me to treat the brontes in this way. for this purpose i divided the canal into sections, five of them in all, between the point where it left the propontis, at a spot called the propropontis, to where it ended in the sinus titanum. the first, the most northern, extended as far as semnon lucus, the southernmost outpost of the propontis congeries of spots. the second continued on from these to eleon, the junction where the erebus crossed. the third thence to utopia, where the canal met the orcus; the fourth to an arbitrary point in latitude 8° south, and the fifth and last to the sinus titanum. the lengths of these sections were respectively: 12°, 16°, 15°, 12°, and 13°. each of the sections was then treated as if it were a separate canal and its cartouche found. to the cartouches’ determination there were available drawings:
the cartouches are given in the plate opposite, which is constructed precisely like the one for the mean canal cartouches presented on page 298. the mid-latitude of the section and its mid-longitude are given in the margin with its description.
showing successive development south
examining them now we note a family resemblance between the successive cartouches. all sink slowly on the left to rise sharply from their lowest point to the right. such resemblance betokens the action of one and the same cause.
next, although the curves are resemblant, each has been, as it were, sheered to the right as one reads down; that is, the action took place later and later as the latitude was north.
lastly, the dying out of a previous impulse can be traced in the cartouches, which shows that the canals were quickened six months previously from the south polar cap, as they were now being quickened from the north polar one.
hibernation of the canals
connected with the conduct of the canals is a phenomenon, examples of which were early noted in a general way by schiaparelli and later, but of which the full import and exhibition only came to light during the opposition of 1903 by a very striking metamorphosis: what may be called the hibernation of a canal for a longer or shorter term of years. what observation discloses is certainly curious. for several successive oppositions a canal will be seen in a definite locality, as regular in seasonal recurrence as it is permanent in place, a well-recognized feature of the disk. then to one’s surprise, with the next return of the planet, it will fail to appear, and will proceed to remain obliterate without assignable cause for many martian years, until as unexpectedly it will be found what and where it was before. neither to deposition of hoar-frost, such as frequently whitens whole regions of mars, nor to other circumstances can be attributed its disappearance. without apparent reason it simply ceases to be and then as simply comes back again.
such bopeep behavior is quite beyond and apart from the seasonal change in visibility, to which all the canals are by their nature subject. for being creatures of the semi-annual unlocking of the water congealed about the polar caps, they quicken into growth and visibility, each in its season, and as regularly die out again. different, however, is the phenomenon to which i now refer. in it not a seasonal but a secular change is concerned. the season proper to the canal’s increase will recur in due course, and the canals round about it will start to life, yet the canal remains unquickened. nothing responds where in years the response was immediate and invariable. the canal lies dormant spite of seasonal solicitation to stir.
such curious hibernation was early hinted to the keenness of schiaparelli, and most incomprehensible as well as difficult of verification at that stage the phenomenon was. that the absence was a fact, however, he assured himself, although he was not able to prove an alibi. but at the last opposition an event of the sort occurred which, from the length of time the planet was kept under observation, combined with continued suitableness of the seeing, unmasked the process. in the light of what then happened, taken in connection with the side-lights thrown upon it by the canal’s past and by the knowledge we have meanwhile gained of the planet’s physical condition, the riddle of the phenomenon may in part at least be read, and most interesting and instructive the reading proves to be.
among the initial canals detected by schiaparelli, in 1877, was a tricrural set of lines recalling the heraldic design of three flexed legs joined equiangularly above the knees. it lay to the east of the syrtis major, and he called its three members the thoth, the triton, and the nepenthes. starting from the head of his gulf of alcyonius, at a point now known to be occupied by the oasis called aquae calidae, the thoth started south inclining westward as it went, till in longitude 267° and latitude 15° north, it met the triton, which had come from the syrtis minor with similar westward inclination. to the same point in the same manner came the nepenthes. part way along the course of the latter was to be seen a small dark spot, the lucus moeris, which he estimated at four degrees in diameter. some of the markings were easier than others, the easiest of all being the lucus tritonis, a largish dark spot at the common intersection of all three canals; but that none of the markings were remarkably difficult is sufficiently shown by their detection at this early stage of schiaparelli’s observations. it is worth noting also that he discovered the southern ones first; the thoth not being seen till march, 1878. as his then recognition of these canals witnesses, they must have been among the most evident on the disk. and the point is emphasized by the fact that he failed at this opposition to detect the phison and the euphrates as separate markings.
much the same the three canals appeared to him at the next opposition of 1879, the thoth being seen at its several presentations from october 5, 1879, to january 11, 1880.
at the next opposition a noteworthy alteration occurred, the full significance of which escaped recognition. schiaparelli saw, at the place where the thoth had been, two lines which he took for a gemination of that canal, one of which followed the course of the old thoth, while the other went straight from the sinus alcyonius to the little syrtis, or, more precisely, to the junction of the triton and the lethes. it was not the thoth, however, but something unsuspected, of more importance.
in 1884 the thoth showed really double, the western line being much the stronger, “una delle piu grosse linee que si vedessero sul disco.” that neither branch went farther than the meeting-place with the nepenthes argues that it was indeed the thoth that was seen. schiaparelli himself had no doubt on the subject, although he drew the double canal he saw due north and south from the tip of the sinus alcyonius to the junction, but nevertheless along the 263° meridian.
in 1886 and 1888 the system was in all essentials, what it had been in 1877 and 1879, except that the thoth and nepenthes were double and were more minutely seen.
here, then, was a system of canals and spots which for six martian years had been a persistent and substantially invariable feature of the martian surface. any changes in it had been of a secondary order of importance, while its general visibility was of the first. it is possible, then, to judge of my perplexity when in beginning my observations in 1894 no sign of the system could i detect. of neither the thoth, the triton, the nepenthes, nor the lucus moeris was there trace. and yet, from the other canals visible, it was evident that the disk was quite as well seen as it had been by schiaparelli. not only were practically all his canals there, but many much smaller ones were to be made out. and the same was true of the spots, a host of such not figured by him appearing here and there over the planet’s surface.
nor was this all. instead of the thoth, another canal showed straight down the disk from the syrtis minor to the aquae calidae. this canal was as unmistakable as the thoth had been before to schiaparelli. it was among the first to be detected, and continued no less conspicuous to the end, the dates at which it was seen being july 10, august 14, and october 21. i called it the amenthes, identifying it with the canal so named in schiaparelli’s chart published in himmel und erde, of the ensemble of his observations from 1877 to 1888. but in his memoirs he never called it so, seeing it, indeed, only in 1881-1882, and deeming it then the thoth. nevertheless, in 1894, it was the conspicuous canal of the region, and, what is more, had come, as it proved, to stay.
the invisibility of the thoth continued for me the same during the succeeding oppositions of 1896-1897 and 1901. at the former opposition i drew it in 1896 on july 28, august 26, september 2, october 5-9, seeing it single; and in 1897 on january 12-19, february 21, and march 1. it was single but with suspicions of doubling in january, and was indubitably double in february. as for the thoth, i had come to consider it and the amenthes one, attributing their diversity of depiction to errors in drawing. for while the thoth remained obstinately invisible, the amenthes presented itself as substitute so insistently as to make one of the most obvious canals upon the disk.
one exception only was there to this state of things. on june 16, 1901, my notes contain this adumbration of a something else: “amenthes sometimes appeared with a turn to it two-thirds way up; two canals concave to the syrtis major.”
so matters opened at the opposition of 1903. with the advent of the planet and the presentation in due course of libya in february, the amenthes duly appeared, much as it had showed at the opposition before, only less salient. it was a confused and seemingly narrower double. suspected on the 16th of that month, it was definitely seen from the 18th to the 23d. of the thoth no mention is made either in the notes or in the drawings. when the region came round again, in march, the amenthes was still there, showing more feebly, however, than it had in february, in spite of better seeing and the fact that the planet had considerably neared. clearly the canal was fading out; a fact further witnessed to by the following note made on march 25: “throughout this opposition thus far the dark triangle tipped by aquae calidae has been sharply divided in intensity from the amenthes, which is very narrow and exceedingly faint.” still was there no trace of the thoth.
with the april presentation entered a new order of things. when the region first became visible, on the 16th, the amenthes could still be seen and alone; but on the 19th, as the relative falling back of the martian longitudes swung the region nearer the centre of the disk, the thoth appeared alongside of it. on the 20th the thoth showed alone. unmistakable it was and just as schiaparelli had drawn it, accompanied by the triton and the curved nepenthes. the thing was a revelation. what before i had seen only in the spirit of another’s drawings stood there patent to me in the body of my own; while the amenthes, to which i had so long been accustomed, had vanished into thin air. only a trace of it was now and then to be made out. so startlingly strange was the metamorphosis that i could not at first trust my eyes, and questioned the broken line, which had replaced the straight, for some ocular deception. but nothing i could do would rectify it. the amenthes was gone and the thoth stood in its stead.
at the next presentation, may 26 to june 8, the phenomena were repeated, and with increasing clarity. and then of a sudden, on may 29, i saw the long-given-up lucus moeris. there it was indubitably. and its definiteness was the most astonishing part of the affair. it was no question of difficult detection. indeed, i had not been on the lookout for it, having searched the region too often fruitlessly before to have left incentive to search again. and so, when i was not searching, the thing of its own accord stepped forth to sight. it was a small round dot, like to any other oasis, and showed, as it were, a black pearl pendent by the nepenthes from the syrtis’s ear. for the libyan bay made a dark projection of the sort high up on the syrtis’s eastern side, from which the nepenthes, precisely as schiaparelli had drawn it, curved down to the point where the thoth and triton met. all three canals were geminated, the gemination being about three degrees wide.
and now occurred the last act in the drama. in july the amenthes reappeared, showing alongside of the thoth-nepenthes, and thus removing any possible doubt as to their separate identity. it had, indeed, become the stronger of the two, having gained in strength in the interval between june and july and the thoth-nepenthes having lost. the lines were in process of relapsing into the status quo ante. had these three presentations not been watched, the brief apparition of the thoth-nepenthes had been missed and with it the revealing of its curious character, and of certain deductions thereupon.
first among these is a truth of which i have long been convinced; to wit, that when a seeming discordance arises between the portrayals of a canal, it is commonly not a case of mistake nor of change, but one of separate identity. the canal has not shifted its place, nor has an error been committed; the fact is that one canal has been observed at one time, another at another.
so it was here, and thus were the old and the new observations reconciled. there had been no mistake in either. two separate canals accounted for the discrepancy, and only an unfounded distrust of the accuracy possible in such observations was to blame for any failure to recognize the fact.
now, scrutiny of the notes upon the appearance of the two canals, together with their labeling by the seasonal longitudes of the planet at the dates they were made, discloses a curious relation between the two. the seasonal longitudes are important, as they date the phenomena according to the martian calendar. ordered thus, the successive aspects reveal first a seasonal change in each canal and then over and above this a secular one. and this secular change was such as to cause the two canals to alternate in visibility. when the one was present the other was not, and vice versa.
curves of visibility
we shall see this more clearly and at the same time bring out a curious relation between the two systems, the broken bow of the thoth-nepenthes-triton and the straight arrow of the amenthes, while looking at the cartouches of the thoth, the amenthes, and a combination of both given in the plate on previous page.
the antithetical character of the two canals is apparent. but what is further interesting, the combination cartouche of both bears a singular resemblance to that of the mean canal of the north tropic zone, the zone to which both canals belong. here, then, is a combination which is perfectly regular while each of its constituents is anomalous.
and now we come to something as important: at the opposition of 1905 the curious alternation metamorphosis was enacted anew. the amenthes appeared, disappeared to be replaced by the thoth, and then reappeared again beside the other. this corroboration of behavior showed the previous observations to have been due to no mistake, and only served to deepen the interest in this last and more singular phase of canal conduct.
arctic canals and polar rifts
last in time but not least in importance of the details of canal development to be detected is one that connects these strange features directly with the melting of the polar caps. the cartouches showed that such connection was to be inferred; the facts now to be recorded depict it by an identity of place between certain phenomena of the two subjects following one another in order of time.
at the next opposition more rifts were detected, one in especial on december 27, running from arethusa lucus, then upon the edge of the cap, athwart the snow in a northwesterly direction.
in the forepart of the opposition of 1901, which in its martian season corresponded to that in 1897, when the rift had been observed, many rifts were detected in the cap, and among them one traversing the cap north-northeasterly in longitude 136°.
so far the season when the cap had been observed was that when the rifts were in process of forming. the ground they and the snow-cap covered had not yet at any opposition been uncovered.
impressed by the identity, i examined all the other rifts seen early in 1901, comparing them with the arctic canals seen later, to the finding of no less than five cases of the same coinciding positions.
the importance of the identification here made of an arctic canal with a previous rift in the polar cap has led me to make a list of the canals thus identified at this opposition.
if it be asked why these canals do not appear recorded at the march presentation as either the one phenomenon or the other, the answer is twofold. first, because they showed as shadings lost amidst a shaded mass; and, secondly, the observations at several oppositions indicate a great amount of haze over the region at that season of the martian year.
we may now go back to the very first rift, that of 1897. the martian season grew later with each succeeding opposition, and it so chanced, abetted by this fact, that the delaying snow was never seen covering that part of the planet again and so, of course, not the rift. the martian summer in those high latitudes came on, and with it brought the great arctic canal, the jaxartes, into conspicuousness. the canal in consequence had been observed for some time before it proclaimed itself the apotheosis of a rift and that of the first and most important rift of all. comparison of position, however, entirely confirmed the conjecture and added another and the most striking of all to the list.
these six canals, on the whole the largest which run into the northern cap, have thus a dual character. starting originally as rifts, they later come out unmistakably as canals. so that we may say in general that the two phenomena are different seasonal states of the same thing. this instantly explains the rifts, the origin of which we found of so difficult, not to say impossible, interpretation before in these pages, and incidentally it confirms what we deduced on other grounds as the character of the canals; to wit, strips of vegetation. for if the cap covered desert and fertility alike, it is precisely over the latter that it would first melt.
this quite unexpected identity of two seemingly diverse phenomena, and the unsolicited support its only explanation lends to the general theory, is an instance of what is constantly occurring as observation of the planet is pushed farther and farther. facts every little while arise which prove to fit into place in the scheme when neither the facts nor their fitness could have been foreseen.
subject to change also are the oases; and in the same manner apparently as the canals. they grow less evident at a like season of the martian year. they do this seemingly by decreasing in size. whereas in the full expanse of their maturity they show as round spots of appreciable diameter, as the season wanes they contract to the smallest discernible of dots. all but the kernel, as it were, fades out, and even this may disappear from sight. the phœnix lake in its summer time is a very dark circular spot, small indeed yet of definite extension; in its winter it shrinks to a pin point, and is often not visible at all. sometimes the husk apparently persists, a ghostlike reminiscence of what it was, with the kernel showing dark-pointed in its centre. thus the lucus lunae appeared at the opposition of 1905. a faint wash betokened the presence of the lucus, through which now and again a black pin-point pierced.
in this visible decrease of size we get a revelation as to what takes place impossible in the case of the canals, the tenuous character of which precludes more than inference as to the process.
like the canals, latitude, together with the suitable season of the planet’s year, are the determining factors in their development. in what corresponded to our july of the northern hemisphere the oases in the sub-arctic and north temperate zones were conspicuous; black spots that showed in profusion along the parallels of 40°, 50°, and 60° north. at the same time the equatorial ones, those along the eumenides-orcus, which had been most evident in 1894, hardly came out. it had been their time then as it was that of the others now. the law of development is not so simple as on the earth, depending, like that of the canals, not only upon the return of the sun, but upon the advent of the water let loose from about the polar caps. thus the equatorial oases are subject to two seasonal quickenings, one from the north, the other from the south.
in regard to their method of evolution or devolution a most curious observation happened to me in 1903. usually the oases are of solid tone throughout; equally sombre from centre to circumference. but in this case such uniform complexion found exception. on march 1, 1903, the ascraeus lucus came out strangely differentiated, a dark rim inclosing a less dark kernel. the sight was odd enough to command comment in the shape of a sketch which accompanied the note, and the further remark that other spots had similarly that year affected the like look. that the effect was optical did not seem to me the case. other spots at other times showed nothing of the sort. if it was due to objective cause it gathers circumstance from what was then the martian time of year. for the season was such that the spot should then have been in process of waning; and the effect would indicate that in so doing the tone of the centre went first, that of the circumference fading last. this would be in accordance with a growth proceeding outward and a decay that followed in its steps.
when to this we add the look of the oases at the antithetic season,—often a faint shading only, with or without a darker pin-point at its core,—we are led to the belief that the area of the oasis is unchangeable and that its growth means a deepening of tint.
so far, then, as it is possible to particularize them, the oases develop from a small nucleus, perhaps twenty miles in diameter, perhaps less, and from this spread radially till they attain a width of seventy-five or one hundred miles. if the oasis be associated with a double canal, this maximum width exactly fits the space between the twin lines. even when no double enters the oasis, the size is about the same. this size attained, they hold it for some months. then they proceed to fade out to their initial nucleus, and after a sufficient rest the process starts over again.
with the carets something of the same sort seems to take place—if we may consider as betokening a general law the fact that in 1894 the carets at the mouths of the phison and euphrates developed before their affiliated canals. but about them much less is yet known, and we must be content to say that the observations of 1905 made at the opposite season of the canal’s year seem to bear this out.
constitution of the canals and oases
as rational science does not rest content with raw results, it now becomes obligatory, by marshaling the facts to suitable discussion, to seek to find out what they mean. now, so soon as we scan these phenomena for some self-interpretation, we perceive one characteristic of the lines which at once appears to direct us to their nature and justifies itself as a signpost with increasing certainty as we read on. this trait is the very simple yet most significant one of showing intrinsic change: the lines alter in visibility with time. this primary proclivity we do not even need the cartouches to establish. that the lines change is palpable to any one who will watch them long enough. schiaparelli was struck by the fact early in his study of the planet, and it forces itself on the notice of any careful observer who compares his own observations with one another at intervals. but though the cartouches are not needed to a first revelation of mutability, they serve to certify and precise it to much further information on the subject. for, that these changes are not extrinsic, that is, are not caused by varying definition, distance, or illumination, they make patent even to those who have never seen the things themselves by disclosing respective differences of behavior in lines similarly circumstanced optically. the change is therefore intrinsic, and the question arises to what can such intrinsic change be due.
in searching for cause, attention is at once attracted by another series of transmutations that manifests itself upon the disk, in the orderly melting of the polar caps. for the existence of the two sets of metamorphoses suggests the possibility of a connection between them. the inference is strengthened when we note that not only are both periodic, but that furthermore the period of the two is the same. each polar cap runs through its gamut of change in a martian year; the canals also complete their cycle of growth and decay in a martian twelvemonth. the only difference between the two is that each polar cap has but one maximum and one minimum in the course of this time, while most of the canals have two of each, though the maxima are not alike nor the minima either.
not only is the period of the two series of changes the same, but the one follows the other. for the development of the canals does not begin till the melting of the polar cap is well under way. now, as the polar cap disintegrates it gives rise, as we have seen, to a dark belt of blue-green which fringes its outer edge and retreats with it as it shrinks. this tells, directly or indirectly, of a product let loose. after this belt has been formed the canals nearest to it proceed to darken, then those a little farther off follow suit, and so the wave of visibility rolls in regular routine down the disk. here, then, at the outset we have a chronic connection between the two phenomena, the disintegration of the cap and the integration of the canals.
of water we saw that the caps were undoubtedly composed, and to water, then, let loose by the melting of the cap, we may inferably ascribe the thaumaturgy in the development of the canals. but it is not necessary to suppose that this is done directly. that the increased visibility of the canals can be due to a bodily transference of water seems doubtful, if for no other reason than the delay in the action. considerable time intervenes between the disappearance of the cap and the appearance of the canals, except in the case of such as have been covered by it. transformation consequent upon transference, however, would account for hesitancy. a quickening to vegetal growth would produce the counterpart of what we see. if, set free from the winter locking up, the water accumulated in the cap then percolated equatorward, starting vegetation in its course, this would cause the increased visibility of the canals and at the same time explain the seeming delay, by allowing for the time necessary for this vegetation to sprout. this is certainly the most satisfactory explanation of the phenomena.
thus started, the vegetal quickening would pass down the planet’s surface and give rise to what we mark as seasonal change. but, though in one sense of seasonal character, a little consideration will show that it would be quite unlike the seasonal change which we know on earth.
could we see our earth from some standpoint in space, we should mark, with the advent of spring, a wave of verdure sweep over its face. if freedom from cloud permitted of an unimpeded view, this flush of waking from winter’s sleep would be quite evident and could be seen to spread. starting from the equator so soon as the sun turned north, it, too, would travel northward, and, distancing the sun, arrive by midsummer well into the arctic zone. here, then, we should note, much as we note it on mars, a tint of blue-green superpose itself successively upon the ochre ground; but the mundane and the martian vegetal awakening would differ in one fundamental respect; the earthly wave would be seen to travel from equator to pole, while the arian travels from pole to equator. though clearly seasonal in character, both of them, the transformations would be opposite in action. some other cause, then, must be at work from what we are familiar with on earth. this other cause is the presence or absence of moisture.
two factors are necessary to the begetting of vegetal life, the raw material and the reacting agent. oxygen, nitrogen, water, and a few salts make up the first desideratum, the sun supplies the second. unless both be present, the quickening to life never comes. now, the one may be there and the other not, or the other there and the one not. on earth the material including water is, except in certain destitute localities, always present; the sun it is that periodically withdraws. observant upon the return of the sun is therefore the annual recurrence of vegetal growth.
on mars, on the contrary, water is lacking. this we now know conclusively from other phenomena the disk presents which have no connection with the present investigation and are, therefore, unprejudiced witnesses to the fact. no permanent bodies of water stud its surface. that the so-called seas are traversed by dark lines permanent in place is one of several proofs of this. the only surface water the planet knows comes from the melting of its polar caps. vegetation cannot start until this water reaches it. consequently, though the sun be ready, vegetation must wait upon the coming of the water, and starting from near the pole follow the frugal flood equatorward.
now, such contrariety of progression to what we should observe in the case of the earth could we view it from afar is exactly what the curves of visibility of the canals exhibit. timed primarily, not to the return of the sun but to the advent of the water, vegetal quickening there follows, not the former up the latitudes but the latter down the disk. for better understanding, the two curves of phenological quickening, the mundane and the martian, are shown in the diagrams. the plates represent the surfaces of the two planets, that of the earth being shown upside down with south at the top so as to agree with the telescopic depiction of the topography of mars. the stars mark the epoch of the dead-point of vegetation at successive latitudes; the time increasing toward the right. the curves, it will be noticed, are bowed in opposite ways. the bowed effect is due in part to mercator’s projection; in part it may represent a real decrease in speed with time. but what is strikingly noticeable is the opposite character of the advance to the right, the one curve running up the disk, the other down it. this shows that the development of vegetation proceeded in opposite directions over the surface.
thus is the opposed action upon the two planets accounted for, and we are led to the conclusion that the canals are strips of vegetation fed by water from the polar caps, and that the floral seasons there as affecting the canals are conditioned, not as they would be with us, directly upon the return of the sun, but indirectly so through its direct effect upon the polar snows.
once adventured on the idea of vegetation, we find that it explains much more than the time taken by the wave of canal-development down the disk. it accounts at once for the behavior of the canals in the three northern zones: the polar, arctic, and sub-arctic. the mean cartouches of these three zones dip down at their latter end instead of rising there, as is the case with the cartouches of the mean canals farther south. this dip denotes that the most northern canals were waning already by the middle of their august, though the others showed no such tendency; while the date of the deposition of the frost in these northern latitudes shows that they were started upon their course toward extinction before the snow itself had covered them. in other words, they were not obliterated but snuffed out. that their decline was thus preparatory to the coming of the first snowfall or frost-fall, sufficiently severe to whiten the ground so that it did not melt the next day, is suggestive of their constitution. it is clear that they were not abruptly cut off by the frost, but were timed by nature to such extinction. vegetation would behave in just this way, since evolution would accommodate the career of a plant to its environment.
that we note such canals is therefore not only not subversive, but actually corroboratory, of the law it seems at first to shake. that all the canals of these zones do not show a like cartouche-profile is not necessary, a part of them being dependent, not upon the earlier, but upon the later liberated flow, and thus partaking in the general law, which grows uniform lower down the latitudes.
as the action from one polar cap proceeds, not only down to the equator, but across it into the planet’s other hemisphere, it appears that much, at least, of the surface of mars has two seasons of vegetal growth, the one quickened of the north polar cap, the other of the southern. how far the polar spheres of action overlap it is not possible at present to affirm, as the canals at this opposition were only visible to 35° south latitude. that the north polar quickening goes down so far is vouched for, and it is probable from other observed phenomena that it goes farther.
the alternate semi-annual quickening also discloses itself directly in the cartouches; the previous semestral growth from the south polar cap actually showing in them before the impulse from the north began. the slow falling of their curves to the minimum preceding their later rise is nothing less than the dying out of the effect started six months before from the south. the gentler gradient of their fall proclaims a gradual lapse, just as the subsequent sharper rise points to the advent of a fresh impulse. and this deduction seems to be borne out by another circumstance. there is some evidence of decrease in the pre-minimal gradient southward. this is telling testimony to the source whence the impulse came. for if it originated at the south and traveled northward, the southern canals would be the first to be affected and the first to die out, and thus show a longer dead season, exhibited in the cartouches as a more level stretch.
lastly, the explanation of the canals as threads of vegetation fays in with the one which has been found to meet the requirements of the blue-green areas; while the fact that they prove to develop as they do, reversely to what would take place on earth, is exactly what all we have latterly learnt about the surface conditions of the planet would lead us to expect.
from what has just been said we see that the latest observations at flagstaff confirm the earlier ones, and, what is especially corroborative, they do so along another line. the former were chiefly static, the latter kinematic. in other words, the behavior of the canals in action bears out the testimony of their appearance at rest.
study of the fundamental features of martian topography has disclosed, as we have seen, the existence of vegetation on the planet as the only rational explanation of the dark markings there, considered not simply on the score of their appearance momentarily, but judged by the changes that appearance undergoes at successive seasons of the martian year. thus we are assured that plant life exists on the planet. we are made aware of the fact in more ways than one, but most unanswerably for that trait to which vegetation owes its very name,—its periodic quickening to life. thus the characteristic which has seemed here most distinctive of this phase of the organic, so that man even christened it in accordance, has proved equally telltale there.
important as a conclusion this is no less pregnant as a premise. for the assurance that plant life exists on mars leads to a further step in extramundane acquaintance of far-reaching import. it introduces us at once to the probability of life there of a higher and more immediately appealing kind, not with the vagueness of general analogy, but with the definiteness of specific deduction. for the presence of a flora is itself ground for suspecting a fauna.
of a bond connecting the two we get our first hint the moment we look inquiringly into the world about us, that of our own earth. common experience witnesses to a coexistence which grows curious and compelling as we consider it. for it is not confined to life of any special order, but extends through the whole range of organisms of both kinds from the lowest to the highest. algæ and monera, orchid and mammal, occur side by side and with a certain considerate poverty or richness, as the case may be. luxuriance in the one is matched by abundance in the other; while a scanty flora means a poor fauna. this of which we have been aware in regions round about us from childhood grows in universality as we explore. wherever man penetrates out of his proper sphere he finds the same dual possession of the land or the sea, and a similar curtailing or expanding of both tenantries together. no mountain top so cold but that if it grow plants, it supports insects and animals, too, after its kind; no desert so arid but that creeping things find it as possible a habitat as life that does not stir. even in almost boiling geysers animalcula and confervæ share and share alike. only where extreme conditions preclude the one do they equally debar the other.
proceeding now from the fact to its factors we perceive reasons for this tenure in common of the land by the vegetal and animal kingdoms. examination proves the two great divisions of the organic to be inextricably connected. it strikes our notice first in the relation of plants to animals. it is of everyday notoriety that animals eat plants, though it is less universally understood that in the ultimate they exist on nothing else. plants furnish the food of animals; not as a matter of partial preference but of fundamental necessity. for the plant is the indispensable intermediary in the process of metabolism. without plants animals would soon cease to exist, since they are unable to manufacture their own plasm out of the raw material offered by inorganic nature. they must make it out of the already prepared plasm of plants or out of other animals who have made it from plants. so that in the end it all comes back to plant production. the plant is able to build its plasm out of chemical substances; the animal cannot, except in the case of the nitro-bacteria, begin thus at the lowest rung of the alimentary ladder.
but the converse of this dependence is also largely true. plants are beholden to animals for processes that in return make their own life possible. the latter minister to the former with unconscious service all the time, and with no more arrogant independence than do our domestics generally nowadays. the inconspicuous earthworm is the fieldhand of nature’s crops, who gets his own living by making theirs. without this day and night laborer the soil for want of stirring had remained less capable of grass. above ground it is the same story. deprived of the ministrations of insects many kinds of plants would incontinently perish. by the solicited visits of bees and other hymenoptera—what generically may be classed by the layman as flutter-bys—is the plant’s propagation made possible. peculiarly well named, indeed, are the hymenoptera, seeing that they are the great matrimonial go-betweens, carrying pollen from one individual to another and thus uniting what otherwise could not meet. spectacular as this widespread commerce is, it forms but portion of the daily drama in which animals and plants alike take part. from forthright bargainings of honey for help, we pass to less direct but no less effective alliance where plants are beholden to animals for life by the killing of their enemies or the weeding-out of their competitors, and from this to generic furtherance where the interdependence becomes broadcast. in the matter of metabolism the advantage is not all upon one side. in the katabolic process of that which each discards are the two classes of life mutually complimentary,—the waste of the one being the want of the other,—carbonic acid gas being given off by the animal, oxygen by the plant. in biologic economy it is daily more demonstrable that both are necessary constituents to an advancing whole, and that each pays for what it gets by what it gives in return.
that they are thus ancillary as well as coexistent today leads us to confront for them a community of origin in the past; and further study confirms the inference. both paleontology and entomology, or the science of the aged and the science of the young, prove such ancestry to be a fact. by going back from the present into the past, or, what amounts to substantially the same thing, by descending in the scale of life to the lowest known forms of organism, we find proof of concomitance, cogent because congenital. at the time when inorganic chemical compounds first passed by evolution into organic ones, the change was of so general a character that even such tardy representatives of it as survive today tax erudition to tell to which of the two great kingdoms they belong, the vegetal or the animal. simplest and most primitive of known organisms are the chromacea, unnucleated single cells as haeckel has shown, and next to them in order come many of the bacteria, also of simple unnucleated plasm. so little do the majority of the bacteria differ morphologically from the chromacea, that on the score of structure the two are not to be catalogued apart. both are as elemental as anything well can be, which only their diet serves to divide. each is an organism without organs, thus belying the dictionary definition of both animals and plants. etymologically they are not organic yet manifestly are alive, and only in their action are unlike. the chromacea are plasm-forming beings, and therefore they are plants; the bacteria are plasm-eating beings, and so are animals. even this distinction is not always preserved. as haeckel tells us: “the nitro-bacteria which dwell in the earth having the vegetal property of converting ammonia by oxidation into nitrous acid and this into nitric acid, using as their source of carbon the carbonic acid gas of the atmosphere. they feed, like the chromacea, on simple inorganic compounds.” here, then, we have, close to the threshold of organic life, unorganized organisms, roughly speaking coeval and differing in a sense but little, either of them, from inorganic crystals; and yet the one is an animal, the other a plant. progenitors of the two great divisions of life, they were themselves concomitantly evolved, either side by side or as offshoots both of a common stock. now, if the ancestors of the two great organic kingdoms were thus simultaneously produced here, we are warranted in believing that they would similarly be produced elsewhere, given conditions suitably alike. in consequence, if we detect the presence of the one, we already have an argument for inferring the other. not to complete our syllogism would be to flaunt a lack of logic in nature’s face.
rationally viewed, then, the general problem of life in other worlds reduces itself to a question of conditions. since certain physical results follow inevitably upon certain physical premises, if we can assure ourselves of the proper premises we may look to nature for their conclusion. a priori, then, the possibility of life becomes one of habitat. if the environment be suitable life will ensue. what makes for such a mediary milieu is, like most cosmic processes, in its fundamentals of interesting simplicity; for the production of a proper nidus depends primarily upon the mere size of the body parentally concerned. if a planet be big enough it will inevitably bring forth life, because of conditions suitable to its generating; if too small it will remain sterile to the end of time.
that size should be the determining factor whether a planet shall be fecund or barren may seem at first thought strange. yet that it is so admits of no rational doubt. all that we see of bodies about us shows its truth, and what we have learnt of cosmic process enables us in some sort to discern why. in order for evolution, such as we mark it upon the earth, to be possible, the parent body must have been at one time at a high temperature, since only under great heat can the primal processes occur. but for this generation of caloric the aggregate mass of the particles, the falling together of which makes the planet, and their stoppage its internal heat, must be large. the sun’s rays alone are insufficient to cause the necessary temperature; the heat must come from within, though it be helped from without. even here the action is abetted by a large body. for a planet to entrap the sun’s rays or even to preserve its own internal warmth, an atmosphere is needed, and it takes a large body to retain an atmospheric covering sufficiently long. yet without it not only would there be no suitable state, but no medium in which organic or even inorganic reactions could go on. lastly, water, the essential nidus for the organism’s early stages, has its presence similarly conditioned. for this, like the atmosphere, would from a small body speedily vanish away. thus the planet itself is the life-producing body, although the sun furthers the process when once begun.
that the needed substances are planetarily present, what we know of the distribution of matter astronomically sufficiently attests. what we find in meteorites shows that the catastrophe which preceded our present solar system’s birth scattered its elemental constituents throughout its domain, and thus when they came to be gathered up again into planets that these must have been materially the same. the manner, not the matter, then, is alone that about which we are concerned.
now, if the mass of matter gravitating together to form a planet be sufficient to produce the proper inorganic conditions, the organic must follow as a matter of course. that the organic springs from the inorganic is not only shown by what has taken place on earth, but is the necessary logical deduction from its decay back into the inorganic again. as nägeli admirably observes: “the origin of the organic from the inorganic is, in the first place, not a question of experience and experiment, but a fact deduced from the law of the constancy of matter and force. if all things in the material world are causally related, if all phenomena proceed on natural principles, organisms which are formed of and decay into the same matter must have been derived originally from inorganic compounds.”
just as the two behave analogically alike in their own action, so do they observe a like attitude toward nature. they thus point to their common origin. the monera are resemblant of chemical compounds in their superiority to external influences. to outward conditions of temperature and humidity the chromacea are much as sticks and stones. some species may remain for long frozen in ice, haeckel observes, and yet wake to activity so soon as it thaws. others may be completely desiccated, and then resume their life when put in water after a lapse of several years. thus both in their deathlike lives and in their living immortality the chromacea are close to inorganic things.
from preference, however, these lowest forms of life affect what to us would be unbearable temperatures. many of the chromacea live in hot springs at temperatures of 123° to 176° fahrenheit, in which no other, that is, no higher, organism can dwell. this choice of habitat is in line with the other details of their evolutionary career. for it, too, is in keeping with the conditions of crystalline growth, halfway as it were on the road to them; the forming of crystals beginning at a temperature higher still. and we perceive from it that the passing of the inorganic into the organic is brought about by a lowering of the temperature of the parent planet. this again, is in line with the evolution of chemical complexity. let the heat become less, and higher and higher chemical compounds, finally the organic ones, become possible. that evolution is nothing else than such a gradually increasing chemical synthesis is forced on one by study of the facts. once started, life, as paleontology shows, develops along both the floral and the faunal lines side by side, taking on complexity with time. it begins so soon as secular cooling has condensed water vapor to its liquid state; chromacea and confervæ coming into being high up toward the boiling-point. then, with lowering temperature come the seaweeds and the rhizopods, then the land plants and the lunged vertebrates. hand in hand the fauna and flora climb to more intricate perfecting, life rising as temperature lowers.
we perceive then that, considered a priori, the possibility of life on a planet is merely a question of the planet’s size; and then pursuantly that the character of that life is a matter of the planet’s age. but age again is a question of size. for the smaller its mass the quicker the body cools, and with a planet, growing cold means growing old. within the bounds that make life possible, the smaller the body the quicker it ages and the more advanced its denizens must be. just how far the advance goes we may not assert dogmatically in a given case, since not relative age alone but absolute time as well is concerned in it. it may be that nature’s processes cannot be hurried, and that for want of time development may in part be missed. but from general considerations the limit of the time needed seems well within most planetary careers.
now, the aspect of the surface of mars shows that both these conditions have been fulfilled. mars is large enough to have begotten vegetation and small enough to be already old. all that we know of the physical state of the planet points to the possibility of both vegetal and animal life existing there, and furthermore, that this life should be of a relatively high order is possible. nothing contradicts this, and the observations of the last ten years have rendered the conclusion then advanced only the more conclusive. even the evidence of the past state of the planet confirms that given by its present one. that with us life came out of the seas finds its possible parallel in the fact that seas seem once to have existed there, leaving their mark discernible to-day. life, then, had there as here the wherewith to begin. that we find air and water in both shows that it had the means to continue once begun. that it then ran a like course is further witnessed by what we now detect. the necessary premises, then, are there. more than this. one half of the conclusion, vegetal life, gives evidence of itself.
of the existence of animal life upon a far planet any evidence must, of necessity, assume a different guise from what its flora would present. plant life should be, as on mars we perceive it is, recognizable as part and parcel of the main features of the planet’s face. in no such forthright manner could we expect an animal revelation. the sort of testimony which would render the one patent would leave the other obstinately hid.
so long as animate life was in the lowest sense animal, it would not be seen at all, though it were as widespread as the vegetal life all about it. reason for this lies in their receptive character. plants are fixtures; where they start they stay; while from the nature of their food, derived directly from the soil and from the air, and conditioned chiefly by warmth and moisture, like forms inhabit large areas and by their massed effect make far impression. with animals it is otherwise. they feed by forage, from beetle to buffalo, roaming the land for sustenance. thus, both for paucity of number and from not abiding in one stay they must escape notice at a distance such that as individuals they fail to show; to say nothing of the fact that the flora usually overtop the fauna, and so help to hide the latter while appearing itself distinct. any far view of our earth gives instance of this. seen from some panoramic height, forest and moorland lie patently outspread to view, yet imagination is taxed to believe them tenanted at all. unless man have marred the landscape not a sign appears of any living thing. one must be near indeed to note even such unusual sights as a herd of buffalo in the plains or those immense flights of pigeons, that in former years occurred like clouds darkening the air. from the standpoint of another planet, through any such direct showing animal existence would still remain unknown.
not until the creatures had reached a certain phase in evolution would their presence become perceptible; and not then directly, but by the results such presence brought to pass. occupancy would be first evidenced by its imprint on the land; discernible thus initially not so much by the bodily as by the mind’s eye. for not till the animal had learnt to dominate nature and fashion it to his needs and ends would his existence betray itself. by the transformation he wrought in the landscape would he be known. it is thus we should make our own far acquaintance; and by the disarrangement of nature first have inkling of man.
that it is thus we should betray ourselves, a consideration of man’s history will show. while he still remained of savage simplicity, a mere child of nature, he might come and go unmarked by an outsider, but so soon as he started in to possess the earth his handicraft would reveal him. from the moment he bethought him to till the ground, he entered upon a course of world-subjugation of which we cannot foresee the end; but he has already advanced far enough to give us an idea of the process. it began with agriculture. deforestation with its subsequent quartering of crops signalized his acquisition of real estate. his impress at first was sporadic and irregular, and in so far followed that of nature itself; but as it advanced it took on a methodism of plan. husbandry begot thrift, and augmented wants demanded an increasing return for toil; and to this desirable end systematization became a necessity. at the same time gregariousness grew and still further emphasized the need for economy of space and time. in part unconsciously, man learnt the laws that govern the expenditure of force and more and more consciously applied them. geometry, unloosed of euclid, became a part of everyday life as insidiously as m. jourdain found that he had been talking prose. regularity rules to-day, to the lament of art. the railroad is straighter than the turnpike, as that is straighter than the trail. communication is now too urgent in its demands to know anything but law and take other than the shortest path to its destination. tillage has undergone a like rectification. to one used to the patchwork quilting of the crops in older lands the methodical rectangles of the farms of the great west are painfully exact. yet it is more than probable that these material manifestations would be the first signs of intelligence to one considering the earth from far. our towns would in all likelihood constitute the next; and, lastly, the great arteries of travel that minister to their wants. their scale, too, would render them the first objects to be observed. farming as now practiced in kansas or dakota gives it a certain cosmical concern; fields for miles turning in hue with the rhythm of the drilled should impress an eye, if armed with our appliances, many millions of miles away.
even now we should know ourselves cosmically by our geometrical designs. to interplanetary understanding it is this quality that would speak. still more so will it tell as time goes on. as yet we are but at the beginning of our subjugation of the globe. we have hardly explored it all, still less occupied it. when we do so, and space shall have become enhancedly precious, directness of purpose with economy of result will have partitioned so regularly the surface of the earth as to impart to it an artificiality of appearance, and it becomes one vast coördinated expanse subservient entirely to the wants of its possessors. centres of population and lines of communication, with tillage carried on in the most economic way; to this it must come in the end.
nor is this outcome in any sense a circumstance accidental to the earth; it is an inevitable phase in the evolution of organisms. as the organism develops brain it is able to circumvent the adversities of condition; and by overcoming more pronounced inhospitality of environment not only to survive but spread. evidence of this thought will be stamped more and more visibly upon the face of its habitat. on earth, for all our pride of intellect, we have not yet progressed very far from the lowly animal state that leaves no records of itself. it is only in the last two centuries that our self-registration upon our surroundings has been marked. with another planet the like course must in all probability be pursued, and the older the life relatively to its habitat the more its signs of occupation should show. intelligence on other worlds could then only make its presence known by such material revelation, and the sign-manuals of itself would appear more artificial in look as that life was high in rank. given the certainty of plant-life, such markings are what one would look to find. criticism which refuses to credit detail of the sort because too bizarre to be true writes itself down as unacquainted with the character of the problem. for it is precisely such detail which should show if any evidence at all were forthcoming.
though the earth and mars agree in being planets, they differ constitutionally in several important respects. even to us the curious network that enshrouds the martian disk suggests handicraft; it implies it much more when considered from a martian standpoint.
the husbanding of water
that the canals and oases are of artificial origin is thus suggested by their very look; when we come to go further and inquire into what may be their office in the planet’s economy, we find that the idea in addition to its general probability now acquires particular support. for this we are indebted in part to study of their static aspect, but chiefly to what has been learnt of their kinematic action.
dearth of water is the key to their character. water is very scarce on the planet. we know this by the absence of any bodies of it of any size upon the surface. so far as we can see the only available water is what comes from the semi-annual melting at one or the other cap of the snow accumulated there during the previous winter. beyond this there is none except for what may be present in the air. now, water is absolutely essential to all forms of life; no organisms can exist without it.
but as a planet ages, it loses its oceans as has before been explained, and gradually its whole water supply. life upon its surface is confronted by a growing scarcity of this essential to existence. for its fauna to survive it must utilize all it can get. to this end it would be obliged to put forth its chief endeavors, and the outcome of such work would result in a deformation of the disk indicative of its presence. lines of communication for water purposes, between the polar caps, on the one hand, and the centres of population, on the other, would be the artificial markings we should expect to perceive.
now, it is not a little startling that the semblance of just such signs of intelligent interference with nature is what we discern on the face of mars,—in the canals and oases. so dominant in its mien is the pencil-like directness of the canals as to be the trait that primarily strikes an unprejudiced observer who beholds this astounding system of lines under favorable definition for the first time, and its impressiveness only grows on him with study of the phenomena. that they suggested rule and compass, schiaparelli said of them long ago, without committing himself as to what they were. in perception the great observer was, as usual, quite right; and the better they are seen the more they justify the statement. punctilious in their precision, they outdo in method all attempts of freehand drawing to copy them. often has the writer tried to represent the regularity he saw, only to draw and redraw his lines in vain. nothing short of ruling them could have reproduced what the telescope revealed. strange as their depiction may look in the drawings, the originals look stranger still. indeed, that they should look unnatural when properly depicted is not unnatural if they are so in fact. for it is the geodetic precision which the lines exhibit that instantly stamps them to consciousness as artificial. the inference is so forthright as to be shared by those who have not seen them to the extent of instant denial of their objectivity. drawings of them look too strange to be true. so scepticism imputes to the draughtsman their artificial fashioning, not realizing that by so doing it bears unconscious witness to their character. for in order to disprove the deduction it is driven to deny the fact. now the fact can look after itself and will be recognized in time. for that the lines are as i have stated is beyond doubt. each return of the planet shows them more and more geometric as sites are bettered and training improves.
suggestive of design as their initial appearance is, the idea of artificiality receives further sanction from more careful consideration, even from a static point of view, on at least eight counts:—
1. their straightness;
2. their individually uniform size;
3. their extreme tenuity;
4. the dual character of some of them;
5. their position with regard to the planet’s fundamental features;
6. their relation to the oases;
7. the character of these spots; and, finally,
8. the systematic networking by both canals and spots of the whole surface of the planet.
now, no natural phenomena within our knowledge show such regularity on such a scale upon any one of these eight counts, a fortiori upon all. when one considers that these lines run for thousands of miles in an unswerving direction, as far relatively as from london to bombay, and as far actually as from boston to san francisco, the inadequacy of natural explanation becomes glaring.
these several counts become more expressive of design the farther one looks into them. straightness upon a sphere means the following of an arc of a great circle. the lines, then, are arcs of great circles. now, the great circle course is the shortest distance connecting two given points. the canals of mars, then, practice this economy; they connect their terminals by the shortest, that is, other things equal, by the quickest and least wasteful path. their preserving a uniform width throughout this distance is an equally unnatural feature for any natural action to exhibit, but a perfectly natural one for an unnatural agent. for means of communication for whatever cause would probably be fashioned of like countenance throughout. their extreme tenuity is a third trait pointing to artificiality; inasmuch as the narrower they are, the more probable is their construction by local intelligence. even more inexplicable, except from intent, is their dual character. for them to parallel one another like the twin rails of a railway track, seems quite beyond the powers of natural causation. enigmatic, indeed, from a natural standpoint, they cease to be so enigmatic viewed from an artificial one; and this the more by reason of what has lately been learnt of the character of their distribution. that they are found most plentifully near the equator, where the latitudinal girth is greatest, and thence diminish in numbers to about latitude 60°, where they disappear,—and this not relatively to the amount of surface but actually,—is very significant. it is quite incapable of natural explanation, and can only be accounted for on some theory of design such as lines of communication, or canals conducting water down the latitudes for distribution. so that this distribution of the doubles is in keeping with the law of development disclosed by the canals en masse. channels and return-channels the two lines of the pair may be, but about this we can at present posit nothing. the relation may be of still greater complexity, and we must carefully distinguish between surmise and deduction.
the position of the canals, with regard to the main features of the disk, has a cogency of its own, an argument from time. the places from which the lines start and to which they go are such as to imply a dependence of the latter upon the former chronologically. the lines are logically superposed upon the natural features; not as if they had grown there, but as if they had been placed there for topographic cause. those termini are used which we should ourselves select for stations of intercommunication. for the lines not only leave important geodetic points, but they travel directly to equally salient ones.
the connection of the canals with the oases is no less telltale of intent. the spots are found only at junctions, clearly the seal and sanction of such rendezvous. their relation to the canals that enter them bespeaks method and design. centring single lines, they are inclosed by doubles, a disposition such as would be true did they hold a pivotal position in the planet’s economy.
the shape of the oases also suggests significance. their form is round, a solid circle of shading of so deep a tone as to seem black, although undoubtedly in truth blue-green. now, a circular area has this peculiar property, that it incloses for a given length of perimeter the maximum of space. any other area has a longer inclosing boundary for the surface inclosed. considering each area to be made up of onion-like envelops to an original core, each similar in shape to the kernel, we see that the property in question means that the average distance for points of the circular area from the centre is less than the same distance for those of any other figure. this has immediate bearing on the possible fashioning of such areas. for sufficient intelligence in the fashioners would certainly lead to a construction, where the greatest area could be attended to at the least expenditure of force. this would be where the distance to be traveled from the centre to all the desired points was on the average least; that is, the area would be round.
but last and all-embracing in its import is the system which the canals form. instead of running at haphazard, the canals are interconnected in a most remarkable manner. they seek centres instead of avoiding them. the centres are linked thus perfectly one with another, an arrangement which could not result from centres, whether of explosion or otherwise, which were themselves discrete. furthermore, the system covers the whole surface of the planet, dark areas and light ones alike, a world-wide distribution which exceeds the bounds of natural possibility. any force which could act longitudinally on such a scale must be limited latitudinally in its action, as witness the belts of jupiter or the spots upon the sun. rotational, climatic, or other physical cause could not fail of zonal expression. yet these lines are grandly indifferent to such compelling influences. finally, the system after meshing the surface in its entirety runs straight into the polar caps.
it is, then, a system whose end and aim is the tapping of the snow-cap for the water there semiannually let loose; then to distribute it over the planet’s face.
function of this very sort is evidenced by the look of the canals. further study during the last eleven years as to their behavior leads to a like conclusion, while at the same time it goes much farther by revealing the action in the case. this action proves to be not only in accord with the theory, but interestingly explanatory of the process.
in the first place, the canals have shown themselves, as they showed to schiaparelli, to be seasonal phenomena. this negatives afresh the possibility of their being cracks. but furthermore, their seasonal behavior turns out to follow a law quite different from what we know on earth and betokens that they are indebted to the melting of the polar cap for their annual growth, even more directly than to the sun, and that vegetation is the only thing that satisfactorily accounts for their conduct. but again this is not all. their time of quickening proceeds with singular uniformity down the disk, not only to, but across the equator. now, this last fact has peculiar significance.
so large are the planetary masses that no substance can resist the strains due to the cosmic forces acting on them to change their shape till it becomes one of stable equilibrium. thus a body of planetary size, if unrotating, becomes a sphere except for solar tidal deformation; if rotating, it takes on a spheroidal form exactly expressive, as far as observation goes, of the so-called centrifugal force at work. mars presents such a figure, being flattened out to correspond to its axial rotation. its surface, therefore, is in fluid equilibrium, or, in other words, a particle of liquid at any point of its surface at the present time would stay where it was, devoid of inclination to move elsewhere.
now, the water which quickens the verdure of the canals moves from the neighborhood of the pole down to the equator as the season advances. this it does, then, irrespective of gravity. no natural force propels it, and the inference is forthright and inevitable that it is artificially helped to its end. there seems to be no escape from this deduction. water flows only downhill, and there is no such thing as downhill on a surface already in fluid equilibrium. a few canals might presumably be so situated that their flow could, by inequality of terrane, lie equatorward, but not all. as we see on the earth, rivers flow impartially to all points of the compass, dependent only upon unevenness of the local surface conditions. now, it is not in particular but by general consent that the canal system of mars develops from pole to equator.
from the respective times at which the minima take place, it appears that the canal-quickening occupies fifty-two days, as evidenced by the successive vegetal darkenings to descend from latitude 72° north to latitude 0°, a journey of 2650 miles. this gives for the water a speed of fifty-one miles a day, or 2.1 miles an hour. the rate of progression is remarkably uniform; and this abets the deduction as to assisted transference. the simple fact that it is carried from near the pole to the equator is sufficiently telltale of extrinsic aid, but the uniformity of the action increases its significance.
but the fact is more unnatural yet. the growth pays no regard to the equator, but proceeds across it as if it did not exist into the planet’s other hemisphere. here is something still more telling than its travel to this point. for even if we suppose, for the sake of argument, that natural forces took the water down to the equator, their action must there be certainly reversed and the equator prove a dead-line to pass which were impossible.
that mars is inhabited by beings of some sort or other we may consider as certain as it is uncertain what those beings may be. the theory of the existence of intelligent life on mars may be likened to the atomic theory in chemistry in that in both we are led to the belief in units which we are alike unable to define. both theories explain the facts in their respective fields and are the only theories that do, while as to what an atom may resemble we know as little as what a martian may be like. but the behavior of chemic compounds points to the existence of atoms too small for us to see, and in the same way the aspect and behavior of the martian markings implies the action of agents too far away to be made out.
but though in neither case can we tell anything of the bodily form of its unit, we can in both predicate a good deal about their workings. apart from the general fact of intelligence implied by the geometric character of their constructions, is the evidence as to its degree afforded by the cosmopolitan extent of the action. girdling their globe and stretching from pole, to pole, the martian canal system not only embraces their whole world, but is an organized entity. each canal joins another, which in turn connects with a third, and so on over the entire surface of the planet. this continuity of construction posits a community of interest. now, when we consider that though not so large as the earth the world of mars is one of 4200 miles diameter and therefore containing something like 212,000,000 of square miles, the unity of the process acquires considerable significance. the supposed vast enterprises of the earth look small beside it. none of them but become local in comparison, gigantic as they seem to us to be.
the first thing that is forced on us in conclusion is the necessarily intelligent and non-bellicose character of the community which could thus act as a unit throughout its globe. war is a survival among us from savage times and affects now chiefly the boyish and unthinking element of the nation. the wisest realize that there are better ways for practicing heroism and other and more certain ends of insuring the survival of the fittest. it is something a people outgrow. but whether they consciously practice peace or not, nature in its evolution eventually practices it for them, and after enough of the inhabitants of a globe have killed each other off, the remainder must find it more advantageous to work together for the common good. whether increasing common sense or increasing necessity was the spur that drove the martians to this eminently sagacious state we cannot say, but it is certain that reached it they have, and equally certain that if they had not they must all die. when a planet has attained to the age of advancing decrepitude, and the remnant of its water supply resides simply in its polar caps, these can only be effectively tapped for the benefit of the inhabitants when arctic and equatorial peoples are at one. difference of policy on the question of the all-important water supply means nothing short of death. isolated communities cannot there be sufficient unto themselves; they must combine to solidarity or perish.
from the fact, therefore, that the reticulated canal system is an elaborate entity embracing the whole planet from one pole to the other, we have not only proof of the world-wide sagacity of its builders, but a very suggestive side-light, to the fact that only a universal necessity such as water could well be its underlying cause.
possessed of important bearing upon the possibility of life on mars is the rather recent appreciation that the habitat of both plants and animals is conditioned not by the minimum, nor by the mean temperature of the locality, but by the maximum heat attained in the region. not only is the minimum thermometric point no determinator of a dead-line, but even a mean temperature does not measure organic capability. the reason for this is that the continuance of the species seems to depend solely upon the possibility of reproduction, and this in turn upon a suitable temperature at the critical period of the plant’s or animal’s career. contrary to previous ideas on the subject, merriam found this to be the case with the fauna of the san francisco peak region in northern arizona. the region was peculiarly fitted for a test, because of rising a boreal island of life out of a sub-tropic sea of desert. it thus reproduced along its flanks the conditions of climates farther north, altitude taking the part of latitude, one succeeding another until at the top stood the arctic zone. merriam showed that the existence of life there was dependent solely upon a sufficiency of warmth at the breeding season. if that were enough the animal or plant propagated its kind, and held its foothold against adverse conditions during the rest of the year. this it did by living during its brief summer and then going into hibernation the balance of the time. nature in short suspended its functions to a large extent for months together, enabling it to resurrect when the conditions turned.
hibernation proves thus to be a trait acquired by the organism in consequence of climatic conditions. like all such it can only be developed in time, since nature is incapable of abrupt transition. an animal suddenly transported from the tropic to a sub-arctic zone will perish, because it has not yet learnt the trick of winter sleeping. while still characterized by seasonal insomnia it is incapable of storing its energies and biding its time. but given time enough to acquire the art, its existence is determined solely by the enjoyment of heat enough at some season to permit of the vital possibility of reproducing its kind.
diurnal shutting off of the heat affects the process but little, provided the fall be not below freezing at the hottest season. so much is shown by the fauna of our arctic and sub-arctic zones, but still more pertinently to mars by the zones of the san francisco peak region, since the thinner air of altitude, through which a greater amount of heat can radiate off, is there substituted for the thicker one of latitudinally equal isotherms. here again with the diurnal as before with the seasonal it is the maximum, not the mean, or, till low, even the minimum temperature, that tells.
now, with mars the state of things is completely in accord with what is thus demanded for the existence of life. the martian climate is one of extremes, where considerable heat treads on the heels of great cold. and the one of these two conditions is as certain as the other, as the condition of the planet’s surface shows conclusively. in summer and during the day it must be decidedly hot, certainly well above any possible freezing, a thinner air blanket actually increasing the amount of heat that reaches the surface, though affecting the length of time of its retention unfavorably. the maximum temperature, therefore, cannot be low. the minimum of course is; but as we have just seen, it is the maximum that regulates the possibility of life. in spite, therefore, of a winter probably longer and colder than our own, organic life is not in the least debarred from finding itself there.
indeed, the conditions appear to be such as to put a premium upon life of a high order. the martian year being twice as long as our own, the summer is there proportionately extended. even in the southern hemisphere, the one where the summer is the shortest, it lasts for 158 days, while at the same latitudes our own is but 90 days. this lengthening of the period of reproduction cannot but have an elevating effect upon the organism akin to the prolongation of childhood pointed out by john fiske as playing so important a part in the evolution of the highest animals. day and night, on the other hand, alternate there with approximately the same speed as here, and except for what is due to a thinner air covering reproduce our own terrestrial diurnal conditions, which as we saw are not inimical to life.
in this respect, then, mars proves to be by no means so bad a habitat. it offers another example of how increasing knowledge widens the domain that life may occupy. just as we have now found organic existence in abyssal depths of sea and in excessive degrees of both heat and cold, so do we find from exploration of our island mountains, which more than any other locality on earth facsimile the martian surface, its possession there as well.
another point, too, is worth consideration. in an aging world where the conditions of life have grown more difficult, mentality must characterize more and more its beings in order for them to survive, and would in consequence tend to be evolved. to find, therefore, upon mars highly intelligent life is what the planet’s state would lead one to expect.
to some people it may seem that the very strangeness of martian life precludes for it an appeal to human interest. to me this is but a near-sighted view. the less the life there proves a counterpart of our earthly state of things, the more it fires fancy and piques inquiry as to what it be. we all have felt this impulse in our childhood as our ancestors did before us, when they conjured goblins and spirits from the vasty void, and if our energy continue we never cease to feel its force through life. we but exchange, as our years increase, the romance of fiction for the more thrilling romance of fact. as we grow older we demand reality, but so this requisite be fulfilled the stranger the realization the better we are pleased. perhaps it is the more vivid imagination of youth that enables us all then to dispense with the hall-mark of actuality upon our cherished visions; perhaps a deeper sense of our own oneness with nature as we get on makes us insist upon getting the real thing. whatever the reason be, certain it is that with the years a narration, no matter how enthralling, takes added hold of us for being true. but though we crave this solid foothold for our conceptions, we yield on that account no jot or tittle of our interest for the unexpected.
good reason we have for the allurement we feel toward what is least like us. for the wider the separation from the familiar, the greater the parallax the new affords for cosmic comprehension. that which differs little yields little to the knowledge already possessed. just as a longer base line gives us a better measure of the distance of the sun, so here the more diverse the aspects, the farther back they push the common starting-point and furnish proportionately comprehensive insight into the course by which each came to be what it is. by studying others we learn about ourselves, and though from the remote we learn less easily, we eventually learn the more. even on the side, then, that touches most men, the personal, the strangeness of the subject should to the far-seeing prove all the greater magnet.
one of the things that makes mars of such transcendent interest to man is the foresight it affords of the course earthly evolution is to pursue. on our own world we are able only to study our present and our past; in mars we are able to glimpse, in some sort, our future. different as the course of life on the two planets undoubtedly has been, the one helps, however imperfectly, to better understanding of the other.
another, more abstract but no less alluring, appeals to that desire innate in man to know about the cosmos of which he forms a part and which we call by the name of science. study of mars responds to this craving both directly by revelation of the secrets of another world and indirectly by the bearing of what we thus learn upon our understanding of the laws of the universe. for the facts thus acquired broaden our conceptions in every branch of science. some day our own geology, meteorology, and the rest will stand indebted to study of the planet mars for advance along their respective lines. already the most alert of those professing them are lending ear to information from this source, and such cosmopolitanism can but increase as the years roll on. today what we already know is helping to comprehension of another world; in a not distant future we shall be repaid with interest, and what that other world shall have taught us will redound to a better knowledge of our own, and of that cosmos of which the two form part.
adamas, unmistakable double in 1903, 214.
aeria, white in, 76; ruddy color of, 148.
air (see atmosphere), 86; necessity of, to life, 166, 167; as important to astronomical calculations, 7.
air-waves, 250, 251, 273.
albedo, low, 162, 167.
amenthes, hibernation of, 317-324.
animalcula, in almost boiling geysers, 349.
aonium sinus, two doubles suspected in, 242.
aquae calidae, 208, 253, 315.
archæan age of the earth, 132, 133, 138.
areography, 20-31; beginning and progress of, 109; three periods in, 24.
arizona, 16; in desert belt, 13; plateau of, 18.
arnon, convergent double, 240.
artificiality, of canal system, 366, 368, 369, 370, 374; of oases, 366, 371.
ascraeus lucus, 331; embraced by the double gigas, 257.
astaboras, connection with lucus ismenius, 260-263.
atmosphere, of mars, 62, 63, 71, 78, 79, 87; shown to exist, 80, 82, 83, 84, 163, 167; rare, 85, 86, 162, 167; effect on temperature, 80; constituents of, 162, 164, 166, 168.
autumn, length of martian, in northern hemisphere, 35, 48; in southern, 35, 48.
axial tilt, 34, 36, 55, 155, 161; determinations of, 34, 36, 155; determines character of seasons, 34, 36; effect of, on presentation of arctic and antarctic regions, 70; effect of, on temperature of arctic and temperate regions, 88.
bacteria, plasm-eating beings, 353.
barometric pressure, 63, 85.
beer, 23, 26, 109.
bilateralism, 208; inherent attribute of canals, 209.
blue band, surrounding polar caps, 39, 40, 42, 43, 56, 61, 63, 71, 161, 162, 168, 338, 339.
blue-green areas (see dark regions), 32, 67, 163; taken for seas, 110.
british nautical almanac, 35.
brontes, development of, 304-312.
cambrian era of earth, 139.
camera, the, 272; advantage of, 273; slower than the eye, 273; stars the peculiar province of, 273, 274.
canals, 11, 32, 163; discovery of, 24, 26; considered straits, 27; regularity of, 28, 29; unnatural in look, 173; manner of introduction of, 174; conditions necessary to seeing of, 174-177, 282, 283; pencil-like lines, 177, 179, 367; definite in direction, 178; name, 180; width of, 179, 180, 182; length of, 183; visible by virtue of length, 181; oddities of, 183; number of, 184; systematic arrangement of, 184, 185, 187-191, 248; connect with polar caps, 325, 339, 373; import of system of, 338, 372, 373; intrinsic change in, 283, 284, 337, 338; what they are not, 185-187, 373; zonal distribution of, 188, 189; departure-points, 190; dependent on general topography, 191; of later origin than main features, 191, 247; kinematic character of, 281-303; effect on, of illumination, 284; drawings of, numerous and consecutive, 286; coördination of data, 288, 289; curves of visibility of (see cartouches), 289, 290; geometricism of, 175, 206, 365, 367, 368; polar, 327.
canals in the dark regions, 30, 31, 243-248; of the southern hemisphere, 245; of the northern hemisphere, 246, 247; detection of, 243, 245; deprived seas of marine character, 243; part of canal system, 244, 245, 247.
caps (see polar caps).
carbon dioxide, 39, 161, 164-168.
carbonic era of earth, 134, 141, 142.
carets, 265-270; natural formations, 231, 232; form and position of, 266, 267; reason for shape of, 268; associated with canals, 267, 269; help in solution of riddle, 270; act like oases, 333.
cartouches of the canals, 289-303; interpretation of, 291-293, 299-303, 344-347; arranged by latitudes, 294; showing first frosts, 299; minimum points of, 297, 344; maximum point of, 301; mean canal, 297, 298.
cenozoic times, 144.
cerberus, obliterated by white spot, 75.
change, 4, 281; shown in polar caps, 37, 338; in blue-green areas, 113, 114, 115, 120, 122-127, 163, 164; in canals, 168, 169, 205, 283-285, 314, 337, 338; in oases, 250-252, 330, 331, 337, 338.
chromacea, 352; plasm-forming beings, 353; close to inorganic things, 357; in hot springs, 357, 358.
chryse, 90, 102.
climate, 82-89; one of extremes, 87; temperature, theoretic and observed, 87; non-glaciation the rule, 88.
clouds, 55, 71, 73, 89, 163, 165, 283, 284; but few exist, 83, 165; none over blue-green areas, 92; of tawny dust color, 106; probably dust storms, 165; prove existence of atmosphere, 167.
cold, 87, 167, 299.
coloe palus, in connection with double canals, 257, 258, 263.
color, 74, 148; of mare erythraeum, 122.
confervæ, in almost boiling geysers, 349, 358.
cretaceous era of the earth, 136, 143, 151, 152.
crystals, conditions of formation, 357.
dana, 131, 139, 140.
dark regions, 122-125; thought to be seas, 110, 111; named in accordance, 110, 113; change in aspect cast doubt on marine character of, 113, 114; change in, considered seasonal, 115, 120, 127, 163, 164; marine character lost, 30, 115-118, 163, 164; vegetation tracts, 119-127, 163, 164, 168, 169, 170; below level of surrounding surface, 130, 164; former ocean basins, 120, 129, 131; latitudinal development in, 123, 124, 126, 127.
dawes, 21, 23, 249, 250, 268.
day, martian, length of, 34, 160, 166.
desert regions of the earth, 13, 149-155; as observatory sites, 12, 13; help explain mars, 16, 17, 156; color of, 149, 151; compared with color of mars, 150, 163; vegetation in, 150; position of, 153, 154; due to winds, 154.
desertism, 16, 89, 153-158.
deserts (see reddish-ochre regions).
development of canals, latitudinal law of, 299, 302, 375; follows melting of polar caps, 302, 338-340; across equator, 373, 375.
devonian era of the earth, 141.
diaphragm, the great, 265.
djihoun, narrowest double, 228-230; embouchure of, 219-220; connection with luci ismenii, 260, 262.
double canals, first seen by schiaparelli, 28, 192; impression of, 193, 204; two classes of, 224; require steady definition, 194; phenomena of, 194, 205, 208, 212, 213; physical bond between the constituents of, 226; connection with bays, 232; optical theories of, 196-203; not illusions, 195-203, 209; widths of, 205, 206, 221-224, 229, 230, 233; length of, 205; seasonal change in, 205; constituents of, 204; original line of, 216, 217; number of, 205, 209; list of, 210, 211; gemination period of, 212, 213; direction of, 234-236; zonal distribution of, 236-239, 370; distribution in longitude, 236; tropical phenomena, 239, 240, 241, 242; compared with single canals, 240; convergent, 240; avoid blue-green areas, 241; connect with blue-green areas, 242.
dust storms, 90, 165.
earth, tilt of axis of, 34; seasons on, 35; polar caps of, 38, 41, 44, 45, 51, 54, 69; rainfall on, 79; viewed from space, 340; vegetal quickening opposite to that on mars, 344.
eccentricity of orbit, effect on seasons, 46, 48, 52.
elevations on limb, 96, 97; measurement of, 98.
elysium, white in, 75, 76.
eocene era of the earth, 144.
eopaleozoic era, 140.
euphrates, 221, 231, 249, 258-261, 266, 267, 316; continuously double, 213; curious relation to the portus sigaeus and phison, 218, 219.
evolution, 362, 366, 367; planetary, 363, 364; advance in, dependent on environment, 145, 146.
exploration, polar, 54.
eye, relation to camera, 272-274.
farms in kansas and dakota, 363.
fastigium aryn, 269; origin of longitudes, 23, 74.
fauna, 361; of northern arizona, 18; linked with flora, 349, 350, 358.
flagstaff, arizona, 16.
flammarion, 21, 23, 202.
flora, 361; linked with fauna, 349, 350, 358; fixtures, 360.
focal length, of objective in photographing canals, 275.
franz joseph land, 45.
frosts, first arctic, 299, 300, 345; suggestive of, 87.
galileo, 20, 39.
ganges, 270; peculiar development of, 226-228; widest double, 228, 229.
gemination, 214-221; seasonal phenomenon, 212, 213; conditioned by convenience, 218-221.
geology, shows the growing of the land, 131-138.
gigas, embracing the ascraeus lucus, 257.
gihon, embouchure of, 232.
gravitation, law of, 160.
gravity, effect on atmosphere, 62; force of, on mars, 63.
green, 21, 23, 24.
haeckel, 352, 353, 357.
haze, at melting of caps, 56, 64-66, 90, 93, 165; recurrent, 94.
heat, 46, 47, 50, 146, 155.
hellas, 81, 90, 91; in winter, 58, 59; ruddy color of, 148.
herschel, sir w., 34, 37.
hibernation of canals, 313-324, 379.
hiddekel, embouchure of, 232; connection with luci ismenii, 260-262.
hippalus, identical with rift, 326, 327.
hoarfrost, 78, 79, 81; at equator, 79; in southern hemisphere, 80, 92.
huyghens, 23, 26, 108.
ice sheet, effect of, 52.
illumination, oblique, 97; for measuring elevations, 98.
illusion theories of canals, disproved, 293.
image of sun, not reflected from dark areas, 112.
insolation, 47, 79, 91.
intelligence on other worlds, method of making itself known, 364.
islands south, 91, 244; effect of, on isothermal lines, 92.
jamuna, original line of, 216, 217.
jaxartes, polar canal, 328.
jupiter, 33, 372.
jurassic era of the earth, 136, 143, 144.
juturna fons, a square oasis, 263.
kaiser, 21, 23, 249.
kinetic theory of gases, 83, 146, 147, 164.
kison, convergent double, 240.
lacus hyperboreus, 246.
lampland, 197, 225, 275.
lick observatory, 100.
life, necessity of air and water to, 17, 166, 167, 341; thin cold air no bar to, 18; maximum temperature determinative of, 19, 378, 380.
life on earth, 349-353; dependent on conditions, 349-355, 357, 379, 380.
life on mars, 169, 376; vegetal, 348, 359; probably of high order, 348, 359, 377, 378, 381, 382; evidence of, 360-365.
limb-light, evidence of atmosphere, 84, 162, 167.
longitudes, origin of, 23, 74.
lowell observatory, annals, 31, 81; bulletin, 201.
lucus ismenius, 19, 258; only double oasis, 259; association with canals, 260, 261.
lucus lunae, 330.
lucus moeris, 208.
maedler, 21, 23, 26, 109.
maps, of mars, 20-24, 26-29.
mare acidalium, 115, 242, 246-252; white in, 80; darker than the mare erythraeum, 127.
mare cimmerium, 267.
mare erythraeum, 113; irregular lines in, 30; in 1903, 122-124; in 1905, 124-126.
mare icarium, 207.
mare sirenum, 92, 110, 114, 267.
maria, on the moon, 109, 111; not seas, 112, 113; on mars, 110; not seas, 117; southern hemisphere, 31.
matter, distribution of, 355.
mercator’s projection, 22, 344.
merriam, 18, 19, 379.
mesozoic times of the earth, 135, 142, 144, 151.
meteorology of mars, 63, 93.
moisture, 86, 154.
monera, 349, 357; suggestive of crystals, 356.
months, martian, different from our own, 36.
mountains, not visible on mars, 100; measurement of, 97-100; limit of height visible, 100; on moon, 98, 99.
naarmalcha, association with luci ismenii, 260, 261.
naval observatory at washington, 16.
nectar, shows white, 59.
neopaleozoic times of the earth, 140.
nicks in the coastline (see carets).
nilokeras, double, 209; photographed, 225.
nilosyrtis, unlike other canals, 262.
nitro-bacteria, 350, 353.
nitrogen, 83, 164, 166, 341.
nix olympica, 74, 78.
north america, geologic history of, 133-137.
oases, detected later than canals, 30, 249; three stages in appearance of, 250-252; number of, 252; kinds of, 252-254, 263; shape of, 253, 371; position of, 254-257, 263; connected with canals, 256, 257, 262, 371; disprove diplopic theory, 258; objectivity of, 263; in dark regions, 163, 244, 263, 264; kinematic character of, 330-333; latitudinal progress of change in oases, 331; evolution of, 331, 332; intrinsic change in, 337, 338; at junction of canals only, 255, 371.
observations, mutual corroboration of, 165, 166; among mountains, 7.
organic evolution, origin of, 356.
orology, of mars, 62.
oxygen, 83, 164, 166, 167, 341.
paleozoic times on the earth, 135.
permian period, 142.
personal equation, eliminated, 287.
phenological quickening, on earth, 342; on mars, 343.
phison, 221, 231, 249, 258, 266, 267, 316; continuously double, 213; connection with euphrates and portus sigaeus, 218, 219.
phœnix lake, 330.
photographs of the canals, 225, 275-277.
photography, celestial, 271-277.
physiographic conditions, on mars, 68, 128.
pickering, w. h., 330.
polar caps, phenomena of, 37, 41, 61; key to comprehension of planet, 37; compared with those of earth, 41, 46; composition of, 39, 161, 168, 339; making of new, 94; position of, 68; aspect of, 56, 57; maxima and minima of, 38, 41-44, 47-53, 55-57, 66-68, 162; fission of, 61.
polar seas (see blue band); fresh water, 162.
poles, martian, determination of, 36.
pons hectoris, 78.
portus sigaeus, nicks in the coastline, 207, 266, 267; embouchure to phison and euphrates, 218.
precipitation, 51, 79, 154, 155; effect on glaciation, 52.
presentation, a, defined, 287, 288.
probability, law of, 160.
projections on the terminator, 77, 81, 96, 100, 104, 165; color of, 102; cause of, 104-107; great one of 1903, 101-104; of 1900, 104.
propontis, the, 242; canals in, 247; oases in, 256.
protonilus, association with luci ismenii, 260.
pseboas lucus, 207, 250, 253, 263; anomalous position of, 262.
quaternary epoch of the earth, 137.
reddish-ochre regions, 153, 155; deserts, 149, 156, 163; variations of tint in, 32, 148, 149, 151.
rifts in polar cap, 61-63, 67, 162, 325-329; permanent in place, 61, 62; not depressions, 62, 63, 162; coincide with canals, 326-328; explanation of, 328, 329.
rotation, early noted, 108, 109; how determined, 34; time of, 34, 160; disclosed by markings, 32-34, 108.
sabaeus sinus, 23, 207, 268, 269.
san francisco peaks, 18, 19, 149, 379, 380.
scepticism, 27, 28, 204.
schiaparelli, 11, 15, 21, 23, 24, 26, 27, 29, 30, 31, 34, 68, 74, 75, 81, 114, 115, 120, 121, 173, 177, 186, 192, 212, 217, 221, 247, 249, 265, 282, 313, 314, 325, 337, 367, 373.
seas (see dark regions). southern, 92; formerly on mars and the moon, 129; internal absorption of, 147.
seasonal change, metabolic, 169; in canals, 168, 169, 285, 373.
seasons, like our own, 34, 35, 166; length of, 48, 79, 161; of vegetal growth, 346, 347.
secular change, in canals, 314.
silurian era of the earth, 134, 138, 140.
sky, blotting out of, 14; measure of extinction of, 16.
sky, martian, 89; clear, 165.
slipher, 101, 103.
snow, 345; limits of, on earth and mars, 108.
solis lacus, 23, 242.
spring, martian, 35, 48; haze in, 94.
s.s. challenger, concerning south polar cap of earth, 45.
s.s. pagoda, 45.
subsidiary snow patches, 67, 73.
summer, martian, length of, 35, 48, 381.
surface, relatively flat, 62, 76, 97, 164; covered by canal network, 243; clear-cut in good air, 258; in fluid equilibrium, 374; indicative of thin air, 162, 167.
surface features, reality of, proved, 26, 33.
syrtis major, 22; first marking made out, 23.
tempe, white in, 77, 80.
temperature, 78, 147, 165, 166; effect on life, 358.
terminator, projections on, 77, 81, 96, 100-107, 114, 165; depressions on, 164.
terrane, 108, 265.
terraqueousness, shown by earth, 128, 131.
terrestriality, follows terraqueousness, 129, 131, 137, 144-146; earth’s oceans contracting in size, 131; inevitably, 131, 146; as shown by mars and the moon, 128, 130, 131; as shown by the geologic history of earth, 131-137; as shown by paleontology, 138-144; making a better habitat, 145, 146.
tertiary times of the earth, 137, 151.
thoth-nepenthes, peculiar course of, 208; hibernation of, 315-324.
triassic era, 136, 142, 152.
trivium charontis, canals and oases in, 251, 252, 256.
twilight arc, shows thin air, 85, 162.
vegetation, 79, 119-127, 163, 166, 169, 301; color of mare erythraeum, 122-126; proof of, 170; theory supported by rifts in polar cap, 329; most satisfactory explanation of phenomena of canals, 339, 341, 344, 345, 347, 348, 373; two seasons of growth of, 346; melts snow, 328.
water, dearth of, 128, 161, 163, 166, 168, 169, 341, 366; loss of, inevitable, 131; speed of flow of, 375; from polar caps, 340, 374.
water-vapor, from polar caps, 83; in atmosphere, 162, 168.
weather, 66, 89, 95.
wedge of casius, 242; canals in, 247; oases in, 251, 252, 256.
welkin, man-manufactured, 13-15.
white spots, 32, 165; similar in look to polar caps, 73; location and season of, 74, 76-79, 80, 81;
white spots, permanency of, 73, 76; indication of temperature, 80, 165.
winter, martian, 35, 48.
world, mars another, 4, 5, 169; evolution of a, 16, 128, 131, 155-158, 358.
year, of earth, 35; of mars, 35, 161.
a compendium of spherical astronomy with its applications to the determination and reduction of positions of the fixed stars by simon newcomb
part i. preliminary subjects
chapter i. introductory. notes and references.
chapter ii. differences, interpolation, and development. notes and references.
chapter iii. the method of least squares. section i. mean values of quantities. ii. determination of probable errors. iii. equations of condition. notes and references.
part ii. the fundamental principles of spherical astronomy
chapter vi. parallax and related subjects. section i. figure and dimensions of the earth. ii. parallax and semi-diameter.
chapter vii. aberration.
chapter viii. astronomical refraction. section i. the atmosphere as a refracting medium. ii. elementary exposition of atmospheric refraction. iii. general investigation of astronomical refraction. notes and references to refraction.
chapter ix. precession and nutation. section i. laws of the precessional motion. ii. relative positions of the equator and equinox at widely separated epochs. iii. nutation. notes and references to precession and nutation.
part iii. reduction and determination of positions of the fixed stars
chapter x. reduction of mean places of the fixed stars from one epoch to another. section i. the proper motions of the stars. ii. trigonometric reduction for precession. iii. development of the coördinates in the powers of the time. notes and references.
chapter xii. method of determining the positions of stars by meridian observations. section i. method of determining right ascensions. ii. the determination of declinations.
chapter xiii. methods of deriving the positions and proper motions of the stars from published results of observations. section i. historical review. ii. reduction of catalogue positions of stars to a homogeneous system. iii. methods of combining star catalogues.
notes and references
list of independent star catalogues. catalogues made at northern observatories. catalogues made at tropical and southern observatories.
the macmillan company, 64-66 fifth avenue, new york
ditto marks have been replaced by the text they represent.
some presumed printer's errors have been corrected, including normalizing punctuation. further corrections are listed below:
essays on the greek romances
by elizabeth hazelton haight professor emeritus of latin, vassar college
new york longmans, green and co. m d cccc xliii
haight essays on the greek romances
copyright · 1943 by longmans, green and co., inc.
all rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or any portion thereof, in any form
published simultaneously in the dominion of canada by longmans, green and co., toronto
printed in the united states of america
to blanche ferry hooker in honor and friendship
if all the world loves a lover, as the old proverb says, then this my book should win wide fame. for these greek romances of the first to the fourth century of our era seem still to be singing the immemorial refrain from the old spring-time song of “the vigil of venus”:
cras amet qui numquam amavit, quique amavit cras amet.
“let those love now, who never lov’d before; let those who always lov’d, now love the more.”
at a time when fiction is the most popular form of literature, these wonderful old greek stories of love, adventure and worship are half forgotten and rarely read except by the scholar. yet here, as in epic, lyric, elegy, drama, oratory and history, the greeks were pioneers. in the second and third centuries they had created four different types of romance (of love, of adventure, the pastoral, the satiric) which were to have great influence on french, italian and english fiction. the student of comparative literature, the student of the history of fiction cannot afford to neglect these pioneer greek novels.
their appeal, however, should be just as great for the general reader as for the scholar. for here are stories that mirror the life of the mediterranean world in the roman empire with all its new excitements of travel, piracy, kidnapping, the new feminism, the new religious cults. and through all the different types of romance except the satiric the love-god holds supreme sway over the hearts of men. so human, so vivacious are the love-stories that i offer to my readers longus’ assurance of profit in his introduction to his pastoral romance:
my hope in writing on the greek romances is that i may lure readers back to them. my essays aim to be guideposts pointing the way. i venture to suggest that along with my book readers should peruse at least four novels of different types for which good translations are available. these are chariton’s chaereas and callirhoe by warren e. blake (beautiful in english and format) and three volumes of the loeb classical library: daphnis and chloe by longus, lucian’s true history (in lucian vol. i) and the latin novel which combines the different greek types into one great synthesis, apuleius’ metamorphoses. if i can win new readers for these my favorites, my writing will be as successful as it has been happy!
it is a pleasure once again to express grateful thanks to publishers and authors who have allowed me to quote material. i am indebted to the harvard university press for its courtesy in allowing me to quote freely from volumes in the loeb classical library; to the clarendon press, oxford for the use of material from r. m. rattenbury, “romance: the greek novel,” in new chapters in the history of greek literature, third series, from f. a. todd, some ancient novels, from j. s. phillimore, “greek romances” in english literature and the classics, and from the works of lucian of samosata translated by h. w. fowler and f. g. fowler; to longmans, green and co., for the use of a quotation from f. g. allinson, lucian satirist and artist; to the university of michigan press for the use of warren e. blake’s translation of chariton; to the columbia university press for permission to quote from s. l. wolff’s the greek romances in elizabethan prose fiction; and for generous permissions for quotations from professor m. rostovtzeff and professor b. e. perry.
my writing has been greatly facilitated by the cooperation of the staff of the vassar library, especially of miss fanny borden, librarian, who has provided me with a study in the library, patiently borrowed many books from other libraries for me and shown unfailing interest in my work. a constant stimulus to my writing has been the appreciation of my colleagues and students expressed in invitations to read different chapters of this volume to the classical journal club and to the classical society. finally my profound gratitude is due to the donors of the funds which made possible the publication of these essays.
essays on the greek romances
i the greek romances and their re-dating
the term “greek romances” is applied to long stories in greek prose, written from the end of the first to the beginning of the fourth century before christ and later imitated by byzantine writers. it was one of these last, nicetas eugenianus, who prefixed to his own romance a prelude of verses which described their content:
the subjects listed in these lines are typical of nearly all the novels. an author selected new names for his hero and heroine and portrayed the same quest for love and adventure. the young pair always marvellously handsome fall desperately in love and plight their eternal fidelity in a sacred oath. soon they are separated by misadventure or the cruel will of fortune and suffer alone every misfortune and temptation, but by superhuman effort and often by the aid of the gods, they at last emerge triumphant and chaste and fall in exultation into each other’s arms.
it was just because of this similarity of pattern that it became the fashion for critics to belittle these melodramas, to emphasize their similarities, and to disregard their individual characteristics and enthralling style. erwin rohde’s great critical study, der griechische roman, was perhaps the first to treat them with the serious consideration which they deserve. now rohde’s theories have to be in large part rejected because of new discoveries in papyri which have necessitated the re-dating of the extant novels and adding to their study fragments of novels hitherto unknown which help establish new types and give a basis for a new critique.
my own discussion is to be concerned with the novels themselves, their individual characteristics, their literary qualities, viewed on the basis of their new dating. for this reason i shall spend little time on the famous theories of the origins of the greek romances and on their precursors. for my purpose of intensive, literary study it is enough to present these in outline.
a philippus of amphipolis, which suidas mentioned. in his study he took into account the novelle or short stories which rohde believed had no influence on the novel, and studied the μιλησιακά, the short love romances of parthenius, the fragment of the aitia of callimachus, acontius and cydippe. he showed that rohde had entirely neglected the important influence of the novella in the greek romance and had been mistaken in his insistence on the fundamentally different character of the two. rohde claimed that the novella was realistic, the romance idealistic and hence declared that any derivation of the romance from the novella was impossible. lavagnini recognized other influences in the development of the romance, especially those of satire and of the new comedy, but he maintained that an essential feature was the historical. he admitted that in the use of his local legends the events are projected into an ideal and remote past.
parthenius of nicaea wrote a collection of short love romances of a very different type. this greek elegiac poet of the augustan age wrote his love romances in greek prose as a storehouse for his friend, cornelius gallus, to draw upon for material for epic or elegiac verse; and for this reason he put them forth in the briefest and simplest form possible. most of them are unfamiliar stories even when they are about well-known mythological characters. in many the love tales are set against a background of war. short as they are, both their subject matter and style are significant for the development of greek prose fiction.
ninus and the maiden were both equally anxious for an immediate marriage. neither of them dared to approach their own mothers—thambe and derceia, two sisters, the former ninus’ mother, the latter the mother of the girl—but preferred each to address themselves to the mother of the other: for each felt more confidence towards their aunts than towards their own parents. so ninus spoke to derceia: “mother,” said he, “with my oath kept true do i come into thy sight and to the embrace of my most sweet cousin. this let the gods know first of all—yes, they do know it, and i will prove it to you now as i speak. i have travelled over so many lands and been lord over so many nations, both those subdued by my own spear and those who, as the result of my father’s might, serve and worship me, that i might have tasted of every enjoyment to satiety—and, had i done so, perhaps my passion for my cousin would have been less violent: but now that i have come back uncorrupted i am worsted by the god of love and by my age; i am, as thou knowest, in my seventeenth year, and already a year ago have i been accounted as having come to man’s estate. up to now i have been nought but a boy, a child: and if i had had no experience of the power of aphrodite, i should have been happy in my firm strength. but now that i have been taken prisoner—thy daughter’s prisoner, in no shameful wise, but agreeably to the desires both of thee and her, how long must i bear refusal?
“that men of this age of mine are ripe for marriage, is clear enough: how many have kept themselves unspotted until their fifteenth year? but i am injured by a law, not a written law, but one sanctified by foolish custom, that among our people virgins generally marry at fifteen years. yet what sane man could deny that nature is the best law for unions such as this? why, women of fourteen years can conceive, and some, i vow, even bear children at that age. then is not thy daughter to be wed? ‘let us wait for two years,’ you will say: let us be patient, mother, but will fate wait? i am a mortal man and betrothed to a mortal maid: and i am subject not merely to the common fortunes of all men—diseases, i mean, and that fate which often carries off those who stay quietly at home by their own fire-sides; but sea-voyages are waiting for me, and wars after wars, and i am not the one to shew any lack of daring and to employ cowardice to afford me safety, but i am what you know i am, to avoid vulgar boasting. let the fact that i am a king, my strong desire, the unstable and incalculable future that awaits me, let all these hasten our union, let the fact that we are each of us only children be provided for and anticipated, so that if fate wills us anything amiss, we may at least leave you some pledge of our affection. perhaps you will call me shameless for speaking to you of this: but i should indeed have been shameless if i had privily approached the maiden, trying to snatch a secret enjoyment, and satisfying our common passion by the intermediaries of night or wine, or servants, or tutors: but there is nothing shameful in me speaking to thee, a mother, about thy daughter’s marriage that has been so long the object of thy vows, and asking for what thou hast promised, and beseeching that the prayers both of our house and of the whole kingdom may not lack fulfilment beyond the present time.”
so did he speak to the willing derceia, and easily compelled her to come to terms on the matter: and when she had for a while dissembled, she promised to act as his advocate. meanwhile although the maiden’s passion was equally great, yet her speech with thambe was not equally ready and free; she had ever lived within the women’s apartments, and could not so well speak for herself in a fair shew of words: she asked for an audience—wept, and desired to speak, but ceased as soon as she had begun. as soon as she had shewn that she was desirous of pleading, she would open her lips and look up as if about to speak, but could finally utter nothing: she heaved with broken sobs, her cheeks reddened in shame at what she must say, and then as she tried to improvise a beginning, grew pale again: and her fear was something between alarm and desire and shame as she shrank from the avowal; and then, as her affections got the mastery of her and her purpose failed, she kept swaying with inward disturbance between her varying emotions. but thambe wiped away her tears with her hands and bade her boldly speak out whatever she wished to say. but when she could not succeed, and the maiden was still held back by her sorrow, “this,” cried thambe, “i like better than any words thou couldst utter. blame not my son at all: he has made no over-bold advance, and he has not come back from his successes and his victories like a warrior with any mad and insolent intention against thee: i trust that thou hast not seen any such intention in his eyes. is the law about the time of marriage too tardy for such a happy pair? truly my son is in all haste to wed: nor needest thou weep for this that any will try to force thee at all”: and at the same time with a smile she embraced and kissed her. yet not even then could the maiden venture to speak, so great was her fear (or, her joy), but she rested her beating heart against the other’s bosom, and kissing her more closely still seemed almost ready to speak freely of her desires through her former tears and her present joy. the two sisters therefore met together, and derceia spoke first. “as to the actual (marriage?),” said she....”
in fragment b the seventeen-year-old warrior is found marshalling his forces, “seventy thousand chosen assyrian foot and thirty thousand horse, and a hundred and fifty elephants,” and at the end beginning the advance at the head of his cavalry:
“the impetuous but honest ninus reappears clearly enough in the theagenes of heliodorus, and the lovesick maiden of unassailable virtue and almost intolerable modesty might be the heroine of any greek romance.”
ninus pledges his faith as later heroes take an oath. he like them is the toy of eros or aphrodite. in the extant romances,
“the characters, the treatment, and even the plots are almost stereotyped; and yet one difference is observable—a tendency to abandon an ostensibly historical background in favour of a purely fictitious setting. the relative dates of the authors are by no means certain, but the fortunate discovery of papyrus fragments of charito and achilles tatius supports the view, probable on other grounds, that charito is to be considered the earliest, and achilles tatius the latest. it is therefore of interest to notice that charito, though his hero and heroine are creatures of his imagination, introduces some historical characters and some historical events; his main story is fictitious, but he seems to have been at pains to lend it a historical flavour. heliodorus, somewhat later, presents a picture of a fairly definite historical period, but no more; his characters are all fictitious and there is no historical authority for the sequence of events which he describes. achilles tatius degrades romance from the realm of princes to the level of the bourgeoisie. his story is frankly fictitious, and he evidently had no feeling that romance should be related to history.”
the sum total of all the fragments discovered up to date gives convincing evidence of two important facts: first, the extant greek romances are only a small part of the output of this genre; second, the dating of all the fragments places them between the end of the first and the beginning of the fourth century of our era. the ninus romance is the earliest fragment, chariton’s the earliest complete romance, that of achilles tatius the latest. on this framework a chronological list of the extant novels arranged on the basis of proved data and the probabilities of internal evidence and comparisons, shapes like this:
it is to be observed that from internal evidence xenophon of ephesus probably came before heliodorus. longus is sui generis, and so stands apart from the typical genre of the novels; in fact is a unique specimen of another type, the pastoral romance.
the time has now come for a literary study in english which will make available foreign criticism and present perhaps some new ideas. i plan to discuss in successive chapters chariton, xenophon of ephesus, heliodorus, achilles tatius and longus, and to suggest something of their influence. then i shall take up the λούκιος ἢ ὄνος attributed to lucian and his true history and finally i shall show the synthesis of the novel of adventure and the true greek romance of love in the great latin novel, apuleius’ metamorphoses.
ii chariton’s chaereas and callirhoe
“in view of the complete absence in ancient literature of any certain allusion to chariton, he was long supposed to be the latest of the authors of greek romance, and was dated, purely by conjecture, about 500 a.d. but by a turn of fortune as truly remarkable as any attributed by chariton himself to that fickle goddess, three scraps of his book have been turned up in egypt during the last forty years. one of these scraps was found in company with some business documents which date from about the end of the second century of our era. inasmuch as the place of discovery was a small country town to which new works of literature would not likely penetrate immediately on publication, and since in any case an expensive book is almost sure to be preserved longer than day-by-day business papers, we seem quite justified in setting the date of publication back some twenty-five or even fifty years. thus it is probable that this novel was written at least as early as the middle of the second century, only about one hundred years later than most of the books of the new testament.”
the identity of the author is made known by the first sentence: “i am chariton of aphrodisia, secretary to the advocate athenagoras.” aphrodisia was a town in caria in southern asia minor. its locality helps little in expanding the autobiography of the author out of this one crisp sentence. but the romance itself reveals more of his personality. his fondness for court-room scenes and his elaborate descriptions of them are what we would expect from a secretary to a ῥήτωρ or advocate. his learning is evident from his many literary and mythological references. and occasionally he steps out of the role of the impersonal narrator into his own character and speaks in the first person to his reader. we will come to feel rather sure of his interests and tastes as we read his πάθος ἐρωτικόν.
before proceeding to outline the plot of the eight books of this romance, it will be well to clarify the story by presenting a list of the characters.
the chief characters are:
chaereas, the handsome young greek hero, son of ariston of syracuse callirhoe, the beautiful young greek heroine, daughter of hermocrates, a famous general of syracuse polycharmus, a young greek, the devoted friend of chaereas hermocrates, the general of syracuse theron, a pirate dionysius, the governor of miletus mithridates, satrap of caria artaxerxes, king of the persians statira, his wife, queen of the persians pharnaces, the governor of lydia and ionia rhodogyne, the sister of pharnaces, daughter of zopyrus, wife of megabyzus, a persian beauty.
the minor characters of importance are:
leonas, a slave-dealer of miletus plangon, a female slave of dionysius phocas, slave and overseer of dionysius, husband of plangon artaxates, the eunuch of artaxerxes hyginus, a servant of mithridates.
the list of characters reveals at once a connection of chariton’s novel with the ninus romance because of the use of historical characters. hermocrates, the great general of syracuse who defeated the athenians in the naval battle, 414 b.c., is the father of the heroine and is referred to repeatedly with the greatest pride. artaxerxes, the king of the persians, appears in person in courts and in wars. historical events too are mentioned as if to give a background of reality: the contests between the syracusans and the athenians; the war between the greeks and the persians; the rebellion of egypt against persia; the merit of cyrus the great in organizing the army.
against such a background of plausible reality, the plot develops along three main lines of interest: love, adventure and religion. the story begins with the introduction of the radiant young hero and heroine of syracuse when they fall in love at first sight at a festival of aphrodite. almost immediately they are married, but their ecstatic happiness is short, for callirhoe’s many other suitors, angry at her choice, plot revenge. they make her husband jealous by false stories of a lover whom his bride favors, and, by staging a surreptitious admission to his house of a lover of callirhoe’s maid, convince chaereas that his wife is faithless. in passionate fury he dashes to his wife’s room and when callirhoe overjoyed at his unexpected return rushes to meet him, he kicks her with such violence in the middle of her body that she falls down, to all appearance dead. chaereas is tried for murder and pleads for his own condemnation, but is acquitted against his will by the appeal of hermocrates.
callirhoe is now given a magnificent funeral and buried with much treasure. the heroine, however, who had only fainted, soon revives, but while she is bemoaning her sad fate, a band of pirates, led by theron, breaks open the tomb, steals the treasure, kidnaps the girl, then sets sail with all speed for the east. at miletus, theron sells callirhoe as a slave to dionysius, a noble ionian prince. he soon falls in love with his slave, but learning her story (except the fact that she was already married which callirhoe omits) respects her tragic position and woos her with delicacy and consideration. callirhoe, on finding that she is two months with child, decides to accept the advice of the maid plangon and marry dionysius to give her baby a father. plangon assures callirhoe that the child will be considered a premature seven months baby, and she secures from dionysius a promise to bring up as his honored children any sons of the marriage. book iii tells how chaereas found the tomb empty; how theron was captured, forced to tell the truth by torture and crucified; how chaereas and his bosom friend polycharmus went on a warship to miletus in search of callirhoe but were captured and sold as slaves to mithridates, satrap of caria.
now mithridates too had fallen in love with callirhoe on seeing her at miletus. on returning to caria he discovers the identity of his slave chaereas just in time to save him from crucifixion because of an uprising of his fellow-slaves, and tells him that his wife is now married to dionysius. chaereas writes a letter to callirhoe full of penitence and of love and mithridates forwards it by hyginus, his faithful slave, adding another letter of his own promising chaereas and callirhoe his aid. unfortunately these letters fall into the hands of dionysius himself and that noble prince, in his mad passion for his wife, conceals from her the news that chaereas is alive and makes a plot for the protection of his own interests. he appeals to pharnaces, governor of lydia and ionia, who is also in love with callirhoe, to help a scheme he has made. pharnaces thus prompted writes a letter to artaxerxes, king of the persians, accusing mithridates of trying to corrupt dionysius’ wife. the great king then summons mithridates to a trial for plotting adultery and sends also for dionysius and callirhoe.
the king’s passion makes him postpone the court trial a month on the pretext of a dream which demanded sacrifice to the gods. his eunuch tries to persuade the heroine to do herself the honor of submitting to the king’s embraces, but only horrifies and offends her purity. now fortune again takes a hand in separating once more chaereas and callirhoe, for a revolt of the egyptians is announced, the king must be off to war, and as usual the queen and her suite go with him. callirhoe accompanies the queen by royal orders.
dionysius of course serves as one of the king’s generals. he has a crafty piece of news conveyed to chaereas that in reward for his faithful service the king had given him callirhoe. chaereas, believing this false story, and no longer caring to live, enlists with the faithful polycharmus in the egyptian army to fight against his rival. he is allowed to collect an army of three hundred greeks in memory of thermopylae and with them captures tyre. news of this loss makes the persian king so anxious that he decides not to travel with all his retinue, but to leave the women on the little island of aradus. chaereas who is proving a valiant warrior soon takes the island and discovers callirhoe among his captives. both faint on seeing each other but since joy never kills, they soon recover and reunited tell all and forgive all.
word suddenly comes that the persian king has defeated the egyptians and their king is dead. chaereas and his men decide to sail home to syracuse, but first in response to the plea of callirhoe chaereas sends his prisoner, the queen statira, back to the king because she had befriended callirhoe in her woes. callirhoe without the knowledge of chaereas writes a beautiful and affectionate letter of farewell to dionysius, intrusting to him the care of her son. (dionysius still believes he is the boy’s father!) the ship of chaereas is driven by fair winds to sicily where hermocrates and the people of syracuse receive the hero and heroine in amazement and joy. chaereas tells the story of all their adventures and callirhoe ends the tale with a prayer to aphrodite: “i beg thee, never again part me from chaereas, but grant us both a happy life, and death together.”
with this simple outline of the plot before us let us study the way in which the story is told. notable first of all are the shifting scenes, for the action moves rapidly from syracuse, to miletus, to caria, to babylon, to the sea, to tyre, to the island of aradus and then at last back to syracuse after the full circle of adventures. the contrast between the free greek city of syracuse and the oriental kingdoms is constantly emphasized, but it is the love of adventure for adventure’s sake that spices the narrative. the settings include, besides picturesque descriptions of localities, court-room scenes which are full of contrasts: the murder-trial of chaereas in syracuse and the trial of theron also; the arraignment of mithridates for adultery before the great king in babylon. pageantry of weddings and of religious ceremonies also enrich the plot.
the characters are painted in bold, rich colors. hero and heroine are so beautiful that they can be compared only to great works of art: chaereas resembles the pictures and statues of achilles, nireus, hippolytus, alcibiades. callirhoe is now aphrodite incarnate, now artemis. love is enflamed by their great beauty and enters through their eyes at their first sight of each other. chaereas is proud and arrogant because of his looks and so passionate that he is unrestrained in his anger when he believes callirhoe false. the kick which he gave his bride is a blot on his character which the reader finds harder to condone than callirhoe did. she declares that cruel fortune forced her husband to this act, for he never before had struck even a slave. he is also so mercurial that he repeatedly gives way to despair and is repeatedly saved from committing suicide by his devoted friend and companion, polycharmus. he appears in more heroic guise as a warrior when he joins the egyptians against artaxerxes and dionysius, resolved to die in battle, and wins a great naval victory. he is generous in sending the captive queen back to her lord. and he fulfills the ideals of romantic chivalry by declaring to callirhoe at the end that she is the mistress of his soul.
callirhoe like helen had the gift of fatal beauty so that all men who saw her fell in love with her and she incurred for a time the jealousy of aphrodite. but in spite of every temptation her spirit remained virginal and she was persuaded to marry dionysius only to give a nominal father to her unborn child. she meets misfortune with natural tears, but with more fortitude than chaereas shows. and she rules her anger even when the eunuch of king artaxerxes makes insulting proposals to her by remembering that she had been well brought up and as a greek taught self-control. she handles difficult situations with a woman’s intuitive tact as when she writes a consoling farewell letter to dionysius, without letting her husband have the pain of knowing of it and its tenderness. by it she secures dionysius’ care for the son he still believes his own. she wins from chaereas with gentle tact a promise to send back the captives statira and the beautiful rhodogyne to the persians. and in meek devotion at the end she essays to win even the goddess aphrodite to complete reconciliation.
polycharmus is a type more than an individual, for he is to chaereas what achates was to aeneas, the faithful friend who accompanies him through all adventures. with boyish zeal, he hides from his parents in syracuse his plan to go with chaereas on his search for callirhoe, but he appears on the stern of the ship as it sails in time to wave a farewell to his father and mother. his chief function is to encourage chaereas and prevent his suicide. at the end on their return to syracuse he is rewarded by being given chaereas’ sister for a bride and a part of the spoils of war for a dowry.
dionysius is a sympathetic and noble character; indeed his sins are all for love. he is in deep mourning for his dead wife when callirhoe is purchased as a slave by his manager. although he believes that no person who is not free-born can be truly beautiful, he is overwhelmed with love at the first sight of callirhoe. with tactful sympathy he draws out her story and believes it. he never forces his passion upon her, but woos her delicately through his maid-servant, plangon, and is overjoyed when callirhoe finally consents to legal marriage for the purpose of raising a family. even then in spite of his desire he delays the marriage that he may do callirhoe the honor of a great wedding in the city. his happiness is complete to his mind when after seven months a son is born. so it is because of his sincere love that when he hears that a syracusan warship has arrived to demand callirhoe back, he commends his slave phocas who out of loyalty to his master had persuaded barbarians to destroy the ship and its crew. dionysius’ only anxiety is that since some of the men escaped, chaereas may still be alive. this last fact he conceals from callirhoe and to comfort her for chaereas’ supposed death persuades her to erect a cenotaph to her first husband’s memory. later when he receives the intercepted letter of chaereas to callirhoe, he faints with grief and fear, but coming to he believes the letter forged as part of a plot of mithridates to win the favor of his bride, so he accuses mithridates to the great king. summoned to babylon to the trial he is in constant terror, for “he looked on all men as his rivals” knowing the devastating effects of callirhoe’s beauty. when chaereas is produced alive in the trial, he argues valiantly for the retention of his wife with some telling thrusts at chaereas, but finally when he has lost his love, he bears his grief like a man, having remarkable self-control, treasuring callirhoe’s affectionate letter as true solace, and devoting himself to her son. dionysius, as callirhoe reminds him once, is a greek with a greek education.
among the orientals, resplendent princes appear often only to be numbered among the disconsolate lovers of callirhoe and because of their passion to assist in furthering the complications of the plot. such are mithridates and pharnaces. more individualized portraits are painted of king artaxerxes and queen statira. oriental magnificence is the aura of the great king’s personality whether he appears presiding in the court-room, or hunting in tyrian purple with golden dagger and elegant bow and arrow on his caparisoned horse, or riding to war with his great army and his retinue: his queen, her attendants, his eunuchs, all their gold and silver and fine raiment. yet through this rich setting appears a wise ruler who takes counsel of his advisers in times of crises, listens judiciously to evidence in the court-room, and in war follows the military traditions of cyrus the great. but he has his human side: is influenced by wine, loneliness and the dark, and succumbs to callirhoe’s beauty though he is married to a great and subtle queen. hoping to win the object of his passion he is not above machinations with his eunuch who acts as his go-between and with optimistic hope of success even has callirhoe taken along with the queen when he goes to war. yet when statira is restored to him by chaereas’ magnanimity, he welcomes her warmly although her news that callirhoe is with chaereas is like “a fresh blow upon an old wound.” he appears most human after hearing statira’s story of all that happened, for he is filled with varied emotions: wrath at the capture of his dear ones, sorrow at the departure of chaereas, and final gratitude that chaereas had ended the possibility of his seeing callirhoe. out of his own conflict of emotions, he breaks gently to dionysius the news of his loss of callirhoe and calls him away from personal sorrow by giving him higher responsibility in the realm. artaxerxes is really made to appear in the novel as the great king.
statira is no less the queen. she is delighted when her husband suddenly intrusts callirhoe to her care, regarding his action as an honor and a sign of confidence. she encourages callirhoe with tactful sympathy and secures needed rest for her, keeping away the curious ladies who hurry to the palace to call. after a few days statira can not resist asking callirhoe which husband she preferred, but her curiosity is not rewarded for callirhoe only weeps. as time goes on statira’s jealousy is aroused because callirhoe’s beauty outshines her own and because she is fully aware of the significance of the king’s more frequent visits to the women’s quarters. so when artaxerxes is preparing to start off for war, the queen does not ask what will become of callirhoe because she does not wish to have to take her, but the king at the end demands her presence. apparently statira never betrayed her jealousy to callirhoe, for after chaereas took captive all the women in aradus, callirhoe has only praise for her kindness to relate to chaereas and calls statira her dearest friend. her generous happiness in being able to return statira’s courtesy by sending her back to her husband wins from statira a just encomium: “you have shown a noble nature, one that is worthy of your beauty. it was a happy sponsorship indeed which the king intrusted to me.” callirhoe on parting commends her child to the queen’s care and secretly consigns to the queen her letter to dionysius. statira is still a subtle enough woman to enjoy telling the king at once on her return without her rival: “you have me as a gift from callirhoe.”
set off against the great king of the persians is hermocrates, the general of syracuse who defeated the athenians. his greatness as an admiral is matched by his leadership as a citizen. at the trial of chaereas for the murder of callirhoe it is hermocrates whose generous plea in his daughter’s name secures from the people a vote of acquittal. he listens to the wish of the people assembled when they urge him to marry his daughter to chaereas. when theron, the pirate, is captured and the crowd at syracuse is milling about him, hermocrates insists on a public trial for him in accordance with the laws and after the evidence is presented it is by a vote of the people that he is condemned. then hermocrates asks the people to vote to send a ship in search of his kidnapped daughter as a reward for his patriotic services. callirhoe’s pride centers in her father no less than in her greek blood. her reunion with her father at the end of the romance is almost as moving as her restoral to chaereas. hermocrates shines forth in untarnished glory as a patriotic admiral, a leader of thought in a democratic state, and a devoted father.
the minor parts are painted with less subtlety. theron, the villain of the story, is a black-hearted pirate dominated only by gain and self-interest, ready to save his life at the expense of his fellow-sailors. slaves are presented as vivaciously as they are in comedy. plangon, the maid of dionysius, is a shrewd, cunning opportunist, ready to serve her master’s interests but not without kindness to the distraught callirhoe in her plight of pregnancy. artaxates, the eunuch of artaxerxes, is venal, wily, complaisant and low-minded. as the confidant of artaxerxes he takes his cues from his master’s words, and solicits his favor by an attempt to seduce callirhoe’s heart for him. as a eunuch, a slave and a barbarian (says chariton) he could not conceive that callirhoe would not yield to the wishes of the king. when he is unable to persuade her by flattery, he threatens her with the king’s vengeance. and when her words betray her love for chaereas, artaxates can call her only a poor, foolish girl for preferring a slave to the great king of the persians.
the use of the crowd by chariton is another link between his romance and drama, for it often fulfills the function assumed by the chorus in tragedy, that is, the part of the spectator who comments on the action and interprets it. it is the people of syracuse in assembly that persuades hermocrates to wed his daughter to chaereas. the crowd votes the crucifixion of theron and attends it. at miletus the crowd joins in dionysius’ prayer to aphrodite to protect callirhoe and her son. the crowd at babylon is struck dumb with amazement at the radiance of callirhoe. and when the great king is to decide whether chaereas or dionysius is to be her husband, all babylon becomes a court-room as the people discuss the rival partners. at the end of the romance, all the harbor of syracuse is filled with men to watch the ship come in, and when chaereas and callirhoe are revealed on it, the crowd bursts into tears. all rush to the theater and demand that there at once chaereas tell them his adventures. “tell us everything,” they keep shouting. they groan at his misfortunes. they offer prayers for the future of his son. they shout assent to his proposal to make his three hundred valiant greek soldiers fellow-citizens of syracuse. indeed the crowd is constantly the background of the action of the romance.
various mechanical devices used in the development of the plot show chariton’s art of narration. conversation as any novel demands is constantly used. soliloquies are introduced frequently: at some emotional crisis, chariton, instead of describing the thoughts and feelings of his characters, has them burst into speech to themselves. callirhoe on hearing of the supposed loss of chaereas with the warship laments his death and the destruction of her father’s gallant vessel. later beside the euphrates river when she can no longer see “the ocean which led back to syracuse,” she upbraids cruel fortune for driving her farther and farther from home. again, in horror at the proposals of the eunuch, she laments all her misfortunes and expresses her resolve to die as befits hermocrates’ daughter rather than become the mistress of the great king. so too dionysius on the return of chaereas, after attempts at self-control, bursts forth with despair and jealousy into a lament over the imminent loss of his love. at the same time chaereas, believing that callirhoe loves dionysius and will never return to him from the wealthy ionian, utters a bitter lament before attempting to hang himself.
“furthermore, i think that this last book will be the most pleasant of all to my readers, and in fact will serve as an antidote to the tragic events of the former ones. no more piracy or slavery or court trials or battles or suicide or war or capture here, but true love and lawful marriage! and so i am going to tell you how the goddess brought the truth to light and revealed the unsuspecting lovers to each other.”
the happy ending which chariton here forecasts is an essential feature of a greek romance. for in this type of literature in which chariton is a pioneer, virtue must triumph. the ethics demands that the hero and heroine must be noble in character as well as in station and that therefore justice must be done to virtue. the hero we have seen must possess personal courage and military courage. he must be capable of emotional devotion, first of all to his lady, then to his friend, and always to his father. his faults are those of pride, arrogance and passion and his moments of brutality are condoned by his contemporaries on account of his passionate temperament. he can be generous to his foes. he can show pity to the unfortunate. but his sympathies, even when the type is embodied in as noble a character as dionysius, are evoked by the free-born in distress, rarely by slaves. the virtues of the heroine are first of all chastity, then loyal devotion to parents, husband and child, pride of family, generosity of spirit and sympathy. she is capable of resolute decision and heroic action if her chastity is menaced or her dear ones are in danger. standards different from our own best ones appear in the general attitude towards slaves as an inferior class and in the brutality manifested in the hero’s kick, in executions on the cross, in torture of witnesses. cleverness and deception are traits which are prized more highly than we admit now. the noblest sentiments expressed are in behalf of liberty and patriotism.
religion plays so important a part in the romance that it demands a full treatment. chariton’s novel is dominated by two cults: the worship of the abstract goddess fortune, the worship of the goddess of love, aphrodite. at the end of book i callirhoe, just after she has been sold as a slave, in a soliloquy, upbraids cruel fortune for all her troubles, for the goddess made her lover her murderer, surrendered her to tomb-robbers and now has let her be sold as a slave. again callirhoe, when she finds that she is pregnant, reproaches fortune for letting her bear a child to be a slave. and on the banks of the euphrates in another soliloquy callirhoe again charges fortune with all her miseries and blames her for taking “delight in persecuting one lone girl.” mithridates tells chaereas: “the whims of fortune have involved you in this melancholy drama.” queen statira, when captured, exclaims that fortune has preserved her to see this day of slavery. and the author of the romance as well as the characters repeatedly attributes to fortune the strange and sad misadventures of his hero and heroine. callirhoe, chariton says, “was overcome by the stratagems of fortune, against whom alone human reason has no power. she is a divinity who loves opposition, and there is nothing which may not be expected of her.” throughout the romance fortune seems to be conceived not as blind chance, but as a baleful goddess, who takes delight in cruelty and torture.
the final consideration about chariton must be the style of his work. and first of all the inquiry rises to our lips: how did the secretary of athenagoras become so distinguished in the art of narration? homer, i am convinced, is the master from whom, as dante from vergil, he took his beautiful style. the romance is rich in literary allusions, but beyond all others homer is quoted repeatedly (twenty-four times indeed) and with great effectiveness. sometimes a mere transitional phrase is adopted:
in descriptions the brevity and simplicity of homer are used with such nicety that the language often trails off naturally into the very words of the epic. in the thirty day festival at babylon
men are pictured fighting and in their close array
and as the conflict joined and chaereas rushed against his enemies, he
when callirhoe came into the court-room in babylon,
“her knees and heart were unstrung,”
when chaereas is determined to set sail in winter in search of his kidnapped bride, his mother begged him to take her with him and cried in homer’s words:
when dionysius suddenly learned at a banquet that chaereas was alive from reading his letter to callirhoe,
when artaxerxes was smitten with love for callirhoe, he lay awake all night,
when chaereas and callirhoe had their ecstatic reunion on aradus,
“when they had had their fill of tears and story-telling, embracing each other,
other literary influences are apparent. the milesian tales may have suggested miletus as the locality for the love-story of dionysius. the ninus romance is the precursor of the historical element which paints a background of realism through the use of historical characters, notably hermocrates and artaxerxes, and through allusions to actual wars. drama contributed the language of the stage to the description of the action. and at one crisis when chaereas, who is believed dead, is produced by mithridates in court, chariton explains:
all these different literary forces combined to produce a style of narration in chariton which is at the same time simple and ingenuous, yet rhetorical. his startling baroque effects are achieved by just this variation from simple concise epic narrative with strong homeric coloring, to intense dramatic moments of high tragedy, to comic scenes of slaves’ intrigues, to love passages which before had found expression only in poetry. probably chariton learned the effective use of parallelism, contrast and surprise from the schools of rhetoric, but he wields all his various tools with such success that he has carved out a new form of literature in his prose romance.
iii the ephesiaca or habrocomes and anthia by xenophon of ephesus
“let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove:
love’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle’s compass come; love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom. if this be error and upon me prov’d, i never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.”
shakespeare’s famous cxvi sonnet is the lyric credo of those who believe that love can triumph over adversity, old age and even death itself. the lines just quoted are the quintessence of lyric romance.
a young greek who has been seeking over the world his kidnapped bride has come to sicily, his resources nearly gone. an old fisherman aegialeus gives him hospitality. it is night. the young man and the old man tell each other their sad love stories. the old man is now speaking:
“i was a wealthy young spartan and loved a spartan girl, thelxinoe. she returned my love and presently we had, no one knowing it, our heart’s desire. but my darling’s parents proposed to marry her to another spartan. so we fled secretly together and sparta pronounced sentence of death on us both. we managed to travel to sicily. here we lived in dire poverty, but in our happiness we forgot all else because we were together. soon my dear died, but her body was not buried. i have her with me and i love her always and i am with her.” after these words he led habrocomes into an inner room and showed him the mummy that had been thelxinoe. she was old now, but she appeared beautiful to her husband. “to her,” said he, “i always talk as if she were alive. i sleep here with her; i eat near her. if i come back tired from my fishing, the sight of her comforts me. for i do not see her as you do, my son. i see her as she was in lacedemon, as she was when we fled. i see the night of our first love. i see our flight together.”
the young greek exclaims:
“o my own dearest love, shall i ever find you even dead? here to aegialeus the body of thelxinoe is the great comfort of his life. now i have learned that age sets no bounds to true love.”
the novel itself is simple in language and brief in scope, but complicated in plot from many kaleidoscopic changes of scenes. there are so many exits and reentries of the characters that we lose track of them. the brevity of the narrative, the laconic expressions of emotion in it have made certain critics maintain the theory that it is only an epitome of a story, or a kind of scenario written as a preliminary sketch of a longer work. it seems to me possibly an intentionally short romance written briefly and simply by an author whose taste was akin to that of chariton and who perhaps was intentionally showing a definite reaction against the verbosity of other novelists.
partly because of the brevity of the romance a synopsis of the plot has to be long. so much is crowded into small space, so many rapid transitions from scene to scene are made, that a full sequential outline must be given before we can study the significance and color of the romance. here then is the plot. the chief characters are:
habrocomes of ephesus, the handsome hero anthia of ephesus, the beautiful heroine apsyrtos, a pirate chieftain manto, the daughter of apsyrtos moeris, a syrian, husband of manto lampon, a goatherd, slave of manto hippothoos, a brigand perilaos, a high police official of cilicia eudoxos, a physician psammis, a rajah of india araxos, an old soldier in egypt cyno, his wicked wife aegialeus, a syracusan who kept a mummy polyidos, a captain in egypt rhenaea, his jealous wife a procurer of taras leucon, a male slave of habrocomes and anthia rhode, a female slave, his wife
in ephesus lived a lad named habrocomes who was sixteen years old. the beauty of his person was matched by the nobility of his soul. he had one great fault, pride. and he scorned eros as less handsome than himself and unable to control a man against his will. eros enraged armed himself against this arrogant boy. it was the time of the festival of artemis. at this festival it was the custom to select fiancés. there was a great procession of young men and women. anthia, daughter of megamedes and evippe, led the girls, and she was garbed as artemis. she was so beautiful that the crowd forgot handsome habrocomes though a few exclaimed: “what a couple habrocomes and anthia would make!” here was eros’ opportunity. after the procession broke up and all were attending the sacrifice in the temple, the two saw each other and were vanquished.
day by day, night by night love dominated them until both were worn out by longing. their parents not knowing what this strange malady was sent embassies to the oracle of apollo at claros. the god diagnosed their illnesses as the same, needing the same cure; he foretold long suffering for both, dangerous travel by sea, kidnapping, imprisonment, death and burial, but he promised final salvation through the goddess isis and happy days.
the parents of habrocomes and anthia, puzzled and grieved by the oracle, decided that at least they must use the remedy suggested by the god. so habrocomes and anthia were married, and they did not fear the future because of their present joy. as time went on, however, it seemed necessary to the happy pair and to their parents that they should fulfill the oracle by going on a journey. on the ensuing voyage both swore mighty oaths (anthia by artemis) to be faithful to each other always. next they put in at rhodes for rest. habrocomes and anthia hand in hand visited all the city and dedicated golden armor to the sun-god in his temple. then they sailed to egypt, but the ship was becalmed and one night habrocomes had a frightful dream. a giantess clad in red appeared to him who set fire to the ship, destroyed all the sailors and saved only himself and anthia. he awoke in terror and terror became reality. phoenician pirates arriving in a great trireme boarded the ship and drove the sailors into the sea where they drowned. then they fired the ship, but took captive habrocomes and anthia and bore them off to the country near tyre. corymbos, one of the pirates, became enamored of habrocomes; his bosom companion fell in love with anthia, but before they could accomplish their wicked designs on them, the chief of the pirate band apsyrtos arrived and appropriating the handsome young pair as part of his booty took them to tyre.
this was the beginning of worse troubles, for while apsyrtos was away on business, his daughter manto fell in love with habrocomes and made advances to him through a slave and a letter. when he refused to satisfy her desires, for vengeance she accused him to her father of having tried to rape her. apsyrtos had habrocomes flogged, tortured and cast into prison. anthia contriving a secret visit to her husband told him she had been given as a slave to manto and must accompany her to syria, where manto’s newly acquired husband moeris lived. the two slaves of habrocomes and anthia, leucon and rhode, were sold into a distant land. manto to disgrace anthia as much as possible married her to one of her humblest slaves, lampon, a goatherd. but lampon pitying anthia on hearing from her own lips her story respected her and never made her his actual wife. in tyre apsyrtos happened to find the love-letter which his daughter had written to habrocomes. learning from it his unjust treatment of habrocomes he released him from prison, gave him his freedom, and made him steward of his house.
meanwhile in syria anthia’s fatal beauty had inflamed manto’s husband moeris with a mad passion for her. he confided this to the goatherd lampon begging for his aid. lampon to save anthia went secretly and told manto her husband’s designs. manto in jealous fury ordered lampon to kill the woman. in sorrow he told anthia all and together they planned that instead of killing her he should sell her as a slave in some remote district. he managed to hide this transaction and saved her life by selling her to some cilician merchants. but their ship was wrecked in a storm. a few (among them anthia) came to land on a raft and after wandering all night in the woods were captured by the brigand hippothoos.
manto meanwhile wrote to her father a letter made up of truth and lies, saying that the slave anthia had been so troublesome she had given the girl to a goatherd and afterwards when moeris became enamored of the woman, she had sold both the goatherd and his wife in syria. habrocomes at once started out in search for anthia and finding lampon and learning the true story from him, he set forth for cilicia.
there, however, anthia had been in great danger. hippothoos and his brigands were about to sacrifice her to ares, but she was rescued by a high police official of the district, perilaos, who captured all the brigands except hippothoos. he took her to tarsus and of course soon fell in love with her. he offered her honorable marriage, wealth, children and she fearing his violent passion forced herself to consent but asked for a month’s delay.
now habrocomes riding through cilicia on his quest met by chance hippothoos who begged to be allowed to travel with him. they went into cappadocia and there dining together told each other their life histories, hippothoos his love of a beautiful lad and the loss of him, habrocomes his love for the beautiful anthia and his loss of her. the description of anthia made hippothoos relate his capture of a fair maiden and her rescue. habrocomes, convinced that the girl was anthia, persuaded hippothoos to join him in his search.
but the preparations for the wedding of perilaos and anthia were going on apace, and it would have been consummated had not anthia found a friend in an ephesian physician eudoxos to whom she confided her tragedy. she begged him to give her poison so that she might die faithful. she promised him silver so that he might return to ephesus. eudoxos gave her not poison but a sleeping potion, then hurriedly departed. the very night of her wedding, in the nuptial chamber, anthia took what she believed poison. perilaos coming to his bride found a corpse. to do her all honor, the bereft bridegroom had her placed in a magnificent tomb with splendid funeral gifts.
robbers broke in the tomb for the treasure just as anthia awoke. they carried her off with them to alexandria. no one else knew she was alive. habrocomes heard from an old woman the story of anthia’s death, of the pillaging of her tomb and the carrying off of her body. so leaving hippothoos he started off alone by ship for egypt hoping to find the brigands who had committed such sacrilege. the bandits had already sold anthia to a rajah named psammis, but anthia saved herself from his amorousness by telling him that she was a consecrated priestess of isis so he respected her.
habrocomes’ ship missed its course to alexandria and landed in phoenicia. there the inhabitants set upon the strangers and capturing them sold them as slaves at pelusium, habrocomes to an old soldier, araxos. this soldier had a hideous and wicked wife cyno who, falling in love with habrocomes, offered to kill her husband and marry him. when he refused, she herself killed her husband and accused habrocomes of the murder. he was sent to alexandria to be tried. hippothoos meanwhile had gathered a new band and in his travels had come to egypt and made the mountains near the frontiers of ethiopia his center for expeditions. habrocomes was condemned to death by the prefect of egypt, but his execution was twice frustrated by miracles caused by the nile river when he appealed to the sun-god helios for aid against injustice. so he was cast into prison.
at this time psammis started home to india with a great camel train taking anthia with him. at memphis anthia offered prayers to isis begging her aid. as they neared the borders of ethiopia, hippothoos with his band fell upon their caravan and, slaying psammis and many men, seized his treasure and took captive anthia. hippothoos and anthia did not recognize each other.
the prefect of egypt, on giving habrocomes a new hearing, was convinced of his innocence, freed him and gave him money. so habrocomes took ship again and went to italy to make inquiries there about anthia. cyno was executed.
anthia was again in danger because of the lust of one of the bandits, anchialos. he, while hippothoos was away, tried to do violence to her, but she stabbed him fatally with a sword which she had found. hippothoos on his return decided, in vengeance for the death of his companion, to kill her in a horrible way: to put her in a deep trench with two fierce dogs. but the bandit set to guard the trench from pity secretly conveyed food to her so that she fed and tamed the beasts.
habrocomes on arriving at syracuse in sicily lived with a poor old fisherman named aegialeus who treated him like a son and told him his own sad love-story. this is the story of the mummy in the house. hippothoos left ethiopia to go to alexandria and believing anthia dead made no inquiries about her. the bandit left to guard her, now in love with her, hid in a cave with a good store of provisions until the caravan had gone, then released anthia and the devoted dogs. he swore by the sun and the gods of egypt to respect her until she voluntarily came to his arms, so dogs and all they started on their travels.
the prefect of egypt had sent a company of soldiers under polyidos to disperse the bandits of whose marauding he had heard. hippothoos’ band was broken up; indeed he alone escaped. he embarked on a ship for sicily. polyidos next captured anthia and her escort. polyidos although he had a wife in alexandria at once fell in love with anthia and when they reached memphis, tried to rape her, but she fled to the temple of isis as a suppliant. polyidos then swore that he would respect her if she would return to him, saying that to see her and speak to her would satisfy his love, so she went back to his care. on their arrival at alexandria, rhenaea the wife of polyidos was nearly insane with jealousy of the girl her husband had brought home. one day in her husband’s absence she beat and reviled poor anthia, then gave her to a faithful slave with orders to take her to italy and sell her there to a procurer. this he did at taras.
hippothoos by this time had reached sicily and was staying at tauromenium. habrocomes at syracuse in despair planned to go to italy and if he found no news of anthia there, to return to ephesus. the parents of the young pair in their anxiety over them had died. the slaves leucon and rhode who had been sold in lycia had, on the death of their master, inherited his wealth. they were on their way back to ephesus but were staying at rhodes.
the procurer now forced anthia to stand in front of his brothel, magnificently arrayed, to attract customers. when many had gathered because of her beauty, anthia feigned a seizure and fell down in the sight of all in convulsions. later when she declared to the procurer that she had had this malady since childhood, he treated her kindly.
hippothoos in tauromenium had come into great need. so when an elderly woman fell in love with him, constrained by poverty, he married her. very shortly she died, leaving him all her possessions. so he set sail for italy always hoping to find his dear habrocomes. arriving at taras he saw anthia in the slave market where the procurer because of her illness was exhibiting her for sale. hippothoos, recognizing her, learned from her lips her story, pitied her, bought her and offered her marriage. finally anthia told him that she was the wife of habrocomes whom she had lost. hippothoos on hearing this revealed his devotion to habrocomes and promised to help her find her husband.
habrocomes also had come to italy, but in despair had given up his quest and started back to ephesus. stopping at rhodes on his voyage he was discovered by leucon and rhode, who now took care of him. next hippothoos also arrived at rhodes, for he was taking anthia back to ephesus. it was the time of a great festival to helios. at the temple anthia dedicated locks of her hair with an inscription:
“in behalf of her husband habrocomes anthia dedicates her locks to the god.”
this inscription was seen by leucon and rhode and the next day they found anthia herself in the temple and told her that habrocomes was alive and near and faithful. the good news spread through the city. a rhodian carried the word to habrocomes and he came running like a madman through the crowd, crying: “anthia!” near the temple of isis he found her, and they fell into each other’s arms. then while the people cheered, they went into the temple of isis and offered thanks to the goddess for their salvation. then they went to the house of leucon and at a banquet that night told all their adventures.
when at last habrocomes and anthia were got to bed, they assured each other that they had kept their oaths of faithfulness. the next day all sailed to ephesus. there in the temple of artemis habrocomes and anthia offered prayers and sacrifices; also they put up an inscription telling what they had suffered and achieved. they erected magnificent sepulchres for their parents. and they passed the rest of their lives together as though every day were a festival. leucon and rhode shared all their happiness and hippothoos too established himself in ephesus to be near them.
the course of this true love was proverbially unsmooth and after the pair were separated, the plot seesaws between the adventures of hero and heroine. these are varied, exciting and often closely paralleled. both were assailed by amorous lovers, anthia by at least nine, habrocomes by corymbos, a pirate, by manto, daughter of the chief of the pirate band, and by cyno, the lewd wife of an old soldier. both were shipwrecked, anthia twice. both nearly met death: anthia as a human sacrifice, by taking poison, by being thrown in a trench with fierce dogs; habrocomes by crucifixion and pyre. bandits and pirates captured both. both were nearly executed for murder, anthia for actually killing a bandit who attacked her, habrocomes on the false charge of cyno. both were sold into slavery, habrocomes once, anthia over and over again. strangely enough among their adventures war played little part: the only wars described are official expeditions against bandits.
“what happened, mother?” he asked.
“yes,” said stephen.
“she is a wonderful creature,” his mother continued. “such personality, such life! and wasn't it a remarkable offer for a southern woman to make? they feel so bitterly, and--and i do not blame them.” the good lady put down on her lap the night-shirt she was making. “i saw how it happened. the girl was carried away by her pity. and, my dear, her capability astonished me. one might have thought that she had always been a nurse. the experience was a dreadful one for me--what must it have been for her. after the operation was over, i followed her downstairs to where she was standing with her father in front of the building, waiting for their carriage. i felt that i must say something to her, for in all my life i have never seen a nobler thing done. when i saw her there, i scarcely knew what to say. words seemed so inadequate. it was then three o'clock, and she had been working steadily in that place since morning. i am sure she could not have borne it much longer. sheer courage carried her through it, i know, for her hand trembled so when i took it, and she was very pale. she usually has color, i believe. her father, the colonel, was with her, and he bowed to me with such politeness. he had stood against the wall all the while we had worked, and he brought a mattress for us. i have heard that his house is watched, and that they have him under suspicion for communicating with the confederate leaders.” mrs. brice sighed. “he seems such a fine character. i hope they will not get into any trouble.”
“i hope not, mother,” said stephen.
far from the land of his birth, among those same oaks on bloody hill where brave lyon fell, he had gladly given up his life for the new country and the new cause he had made his own.
that afternoon in the cemetery, as the smoke of the last salute to a hero hung in the flickering light and drifted upward through the great trees, as the still air was yet quivering with the notes of the bugle-call which is the soldiers requiem, a tall figure, gaunt and bent, stepped out from behind the blue line of the troops. it was that of judge whipple. he carried in his hand a wreath of white roses--the first of many to be laid on richter's grave.
poor richter! how sad his life had been! and yet he had not filled it with sadness. for many a month, and many a year, stephen could not look upon his empty place without a pang. he missed the cheery songs and the earnest presence even more than he had thought. carl richter,--as his father before him,--had lived for others. both had sacrificed their bodies for a cause. one of them might be pictured as he trudged with father jahn from door to door through the rhine country, or shouldering at sixteen a heavy musket in the landwehr's ranks to drive the tyrant napoleon from the beloved fatherland later, aged before his time, his wife dead of misery, decrepit and prison-worn in the service of a thankless country, his hopes lived again in carl, the swordsman of jena. then came the pitiful revolution, the sundering of all ties, the elder man left to drag out his few weary days before a shattered altar. in carl a new aspiration had sprung up, a new patriotism stirred. his, too, had been the sacrifice. happy in death, for he had helped perpetuate that great union which should be for all time the refuge of the oppressed.
one chilling day in november, when an icy rain was falling on the black mud of the streets, virginia looked out of the window. her eye was caught by two horses which were just skeletons with the skin stretched over them. one had a bad sore on his flank, and was lame. they were pulling a rattle-trap farm wagon with a buckled wheel. on the seat a man, pallid and bent and scantily clad, was holding the reins in his feeble hands, while beside him cowered a child of ten wrapped in a ragged blanket. in the body of the wagon, lying on a mattress pressed down in the midst of broken, cheap furniture and filthy kitchen ware, lay a gaunt woman in the rain. her eyes were closed, and a hump on the surface of the dirty quilt beside her showed that a child must be there. from such a picture the girl fled in tears. but the sight of it, and of others like it, haunted her for weeks. through those last dreary days of november, wretched families, which a year since had been in health and prosperity, came to the city, beggars, with the wrecks of their homes. the history of that hideous pilgrimage across a state has never been written. still they came by the hundred, those families. some brought little corpses to be buried. the father of one, hale and strong when they started, died of pneumonia in the public lodging-house. the walls of that house could tell many tales to wring the heart. so could mr. brinsmade, did he choose to speak of his own charities. he found time, between his labors at the big hospital newly founded, and his correspondence, and his journeys of love,--between early morning and midnight,--to give some hours a day to the refugees.
throughout december they poured in on the afflicted city, already overtaxed. all the way to springfield the road was lined with remains of articles once dear--a child's doll, a little rocking-chair, a colored print that has hung in the best room, a bible text.
anne brinsmade, driven by nicodemus, went from house to house to solicit old clothes, and take them to the crowded place of detention. christmas was drawing near--a sorry christmas, in truth. and many of the wanderers were unclothed and unfed.
more battles had been fought; factions had arisen among union men. another general had come to st. louis to take charge of the department, and the other with his wondrous body-guard was gone.
the most serious problem confronting the new general--was how to care for the refugees. a council of citizens was called at headquarters, and the verdict went forth in the never-to-be-forgotten orders no. 24.
“inasmuch,” said the general, “as the secession army had driven these people from their homes, secession sympathizers should be made to support them.” he added that the city was unquestionably full of these.
indignation was rife the day that order was published. sixty prominent “disloyalists” were to be chosen and assessed to make up a sum of ten thousand dollars.
“they may sell my house over my head before i will pay a cent,” cried mr. russell. and he meant it. this was the way the others felt. who were to be on this mysterious list of “sixty”? that was the all-absorbing question of the town. it was an easy matter to pick the conspicuous ones. colonel carvel was sure to be there, and mr. catherwood and mr. russell and mr. james, and mr. worington the lawyer. mrs. addison colfax lived for days in a fermented state of excitement which she declared would break her down; and which, despite her many cares and worries, gave her niece not a little amusement. for virginia was human, and one morning she went to her aunt's room to read this editorial from the newspaper:-- “for the relief of many palpitating hearts it may be well to state that we understand only two ladies are on the ten thousand dollar list.”
“jinny,” she cried, “how can you be so cruel as to read me that, when you know that i am in a state of frenzy now? how does that relieve me? it makes it an absolute certainty that madame jules and i will have to pay. we are the only women of importance in the city.”
that afternoon she made good her much-uttered threat, and drove to bellegarde. only the colonel and virginia and mammy easter and ned were left in the big house. rosetta and uncle ben and jackson had been hired out, and the horses sold,--all save old dick, who was running, long-haired, in the fields at glencoe.
christmas eve was a steel-gray day, and the sleet froze as it fell. since morning colonel carvel had sat poking the sitting-room fire, or pacing the floor restlessly. his occupation was gone. he was observed night and day by federal detectives. virginia strove to amuse him, to conceal her anxiety as she watched him. well she knew that but for her he would long since have fled southward, and often in the bitterness of the night-time she blamed herself for not telling him to go. ten years had seemed to pass over him since the war had begun.
all day long she had been striving to put away from her the memory of christmas eves past and gone of her father's early home-coming from the store, a mysterious smile on his face; of captain lige stamping noisily into the house, exchanging uproarious jests with ned and jackson. the captain had always carried under his arm a shapeless bundle which he would confide to ned with a knowing wink. and then the house would be lighted from top to bottom, and mr. russell and mr. catherwood and mr. brinsmade came in for a long evening with mr. carvel over great bowls of apple toddy and egg-nog. and virginia would have her own friends in the big parlor. that parlor was shut up now, and icy cold.
then there was judge whipple, the joyous event of whose year was his christmas dinner at colonel carvel's house. virginia pictured him this year at mrs. brice's little table, and wondered whether he would miss them as much as they missed him. war may break friendships, but it cannot take away the sacredness of memories.
the sombre daylight was drawing to an early close as the two stood looking out of the sitting-room window. a man's figure muffled in a greatcoat slanting carefully across the street caught their eyes. virginia started. it was the same united states deputy marshal she had seen the day before at mr. russell's house.
“pa,” she cried, “do you think he is coming here?”
“i reckon so, honey.”
“the brute! are you going to pay?”
“then they will take away the furniture.”
“i reckon they will.”
“pa, you must promise me to take down the mahogany bed in your room. it--it was mother's. i could not bear to see them take that. let me put it in the garret.”
the colonel was distressed, but he spoke without a tremor.
“no, jinny. we must leave this house just as it is.” then he added, strangely enough for him, “god's will be done.”
the bell rang sharply. and ned, who was cook and housemaid, came in with his apron on.
“does you want to see folks, marse comyn?”
the colonel rose, and went to the door himself. he was an imposing figure as he stood in the windy vestibule, confronting the deputy. virginia's first impulse was to shrink under the stairs. then she came out and stood beside her father.
“are you colonel carvel?”
“i reckon i am. will you come in?”
“colonel carvel,” said he, “by order of major general halleck, i serve you with this notice to pay the sum of three hundred and fifty dollars for the benefit of the destitute families which the rebels have driven from their homes. in default of payment within a reasonable time such personal articles will be seized and sold at public auction as will satisfy the demand against you.”
the colonel took the paper. “very well, sir,” he said. “you may tell the general that the articles may be seized. that i will not, while in my right mind, be forced to support persons who have no claim upon me.”
it was said in the tone in which he might have refused an invitation to dinner. the deputy marvelled. he had gone into many houses that week; had seen indignation, hysterics, frenzy. he had even heard men and women whose sons and brothers were in the army of secession proclaim their loyalty to the union. but this dignity, and the quiet scorn of the girl who had stood silent beside them, were new. he bowed, and casting his eyes to the vestibule, was glad to escape from the house.
the colonel shut the door. then he turned toward virginia, thoughtfully pulled his goatee, and laughed gently. “lordy, we haven't got three hundred and fifty dollars to our names,” said he.
the climate of st. louis is capricious. that fierce valley of the missouri, which belches fitful blizzards from december to march, is sometimes quiet. then the hot winds come up from the gulf, and sleet melts, and windows are opened. in those days the streets will be fetlock deep in soft mud. it is neither summer, nor winter, nor spring, nor anything.
it was such a languorous afternoon in january that a furniture van, accompanied by certain nondescript persons known as united states police, pulled up at the curb in front of mr. carvel's house. eugenie, watching at the window across the street, ran to tell her father, who came out on his steps and reviled the van with all the fluency of his french ancestors.
mammy easter opened the door, and then stood with her arms akimbo, amply filling its place. her lips protruded, and an expression of defiance hard to describe sat on her honest black face.
“is this colonel carvel's house?”
“yassir. i 'low you knows dat jes as well as me.” an embarrassed silence, and then from mammy, “whaffor you laffin at?”
“is the colonel at home?”
“now i reckon you knows dat he ain't. ef he was, you ain't come here 'quirin' in dat honey voice.” (raising her own voice.) “you tink i dunno whaffor you come? you done come heah to rifle, an' to loot, an' to steal, an' to seize what ain't your'n. you come heah when young marse ain't to home ter rob him.” (still louder.) “ned, whaffor you hidin' yonder? ef yo' ain't man to protect marse comyn's prop-ty, jes han' over marse comyn's gun.”
the marshal and his men had stood, half amused, more than half baffled by this unexpected resistance. mammy easter looked so dangerous that it was evident she was not to be passed without extreme bodily discomfort.
“is your mistress here?”
this question was unfortunate in the extreme.
“you--you white trash!” cried mammy, bursting with indignation. “who is you to come heah 'quiring fo' her! i ain't agwine--”
“yas'm! yas, miss jinny.” mammy backed out of the door and clutched at her bandanna.
“mammy, what is all this noise about?” the torrent was loosed once more.
“these heah men, miss jinny, was gwine f'r t' carry away all yo' pa's blongin's. i jes' tol' 'em dey ain't comin' in ovah dis heah body.”
the deputy had his foot on the threshold. he caught sight of the face of miss carvel within, and stopped abruptly.
“i have a warrant here from the provost marshal, ma'am, to seize personal property to satisfy a claim against colonel carvel.”
virginia took the order, read it, and handed it back. “i do not see how i am to prevent you,” she said. the deputy was plainly abashed.
“i'm sorry, miss. i--i can't tell you how sorry i am. but it's got to be done.”
virginia nodded coldly. and still the man hesitated. “what are you waiting for?” she said.
the deputy wiped his muddy feet. he made his men do likewise. then he entered the chill drawing-room, threw open the blinds and glanced around him.
“i expect all that we want is right here,” he said. and at the sight of the great chandelier, with its cut-glass crystals, he whistled. then he walked over to the big english rothfield piano and lifted the lid.
the man was a musician. involuntarily he rested himself on the mahogany stool, and ran his fingers over the keys. they seemed to virginia, standing motionless in the ball, to give out the very chords of agony.
the piano, too, had been her mother's. it had once stood in the brick house of her grandfather colfax at halcyondale. the songs of beatrice lay on the bottom shelf of the what-not near by. no more, of an evening when they were alone, would virginia quietly take them out and play them over to the colonel, as he sat dreaming in the window with his cigar,--dreaming of a field on the borders of a wood, of a young girl who held his hand, and sang them softly to herself as she walked by his side. and, when they reached the house in the october twilight, she had played them for him on this piano. often he had told virginia of those days, and walked with her over those paths.
the deputy closed the lid, and sent out to the van for a truck. virginia stirred. for the first time she heard the words of mammy easter.
“come along upstairs wid yo' mammy, honey. dis ain't no place for us, i reckon.” her words were the essence of endearment. and yet, while she pronounced them, she glared unceasingly at the intruders. “oh, de good lawd'll burn de wicked!”
the men were removing the carved legs. virginia went back into the room and stood before the deputy.
“isn't there something else you could take? some jewellery?” she flushed. “i have a necklace--”
“no, miss. this warrant's on your father. and there ain't nothing quite so salable as pianos.”
she watched them, dry-eyed, as they carried it away. it seemed like a coffin. only mammy easter guessed at the pain in virginia's breast, and that was because there was a pain in her own. they took the rosewood what-not, but virginia snatched the songs before the men could touch them, and held them in her arms. they seized the mahogany velvet-bottomed chairs, her uncle's wedding present to her mother; and, last of all, they ruthlessly tore up the brussels carpet, beginning near the spot where clarence had spilled ice-cream at one of her children's parties.
she could not bear to look into the dismantled room when they had gone. it was the embodied wreck of her happiness. ned closed the blinds once more, and she herself turned the key in the lock, and went slowly up the stairs.
“stephen,” said the judge, in his abrupt way, “there isn't a great deal doing. let's go over to the secesh property sales.”
stephen looked up in surprise. the seizures and intended sale of secession property had stirred up immense bitterness and indignation in the city. there were unionists (lukewarm) who denounced the measure as unjust and brutal. the feelings of southerners, avowed and secret, may only be surmised. rigid ostracism was to be the price of bidding on any goods displayed, and men who bought in handsome furniture on that day because it was cheap have still, after forty years, cause to remember it.
it was not that stephen feared ostracism. anne brinsmade was almost the only girl left to him from among his former circle of acquaintances. miss carvel's conduct is known. the misses russell showed him very plainly that they disapproved of his politics. the hospitable days at that house were over. miss catherwood, when they met on the street, pretended not to see him, and eugenie renault gave him but a timid nod. the loyal families to whose houses he now went were mostly southerners, in sentiment against forced auctions.
however, he put on his coat, and sallied forth into the sharp air, the judge leaning on his arm. they walked for some distance in silence.
“stephen,” said he, presently, “i guess i'll do a little bidding.”
stephen did not reply. but he was astonished. he wondered what mr. whipple wanted with fine furniture. and, if he really wished to bid, stephen knew likewise that no consideration would stop him.
“you don't approve of this proceeding, sir, i suppose,” said the judge.
“yes, sir, on large grounds. war makes many harsh things necessary.”
“then,” said the judge, tartly, “by bidding, we help to support starving union families. you should not be afraid to bid, sir.”
“i am not afraid to bid, judge whipple.” he did not see the smile on the judge's face.
there was silence again, for the space of a whole block. finally, stephen managed to say:-- “you'll have to excuse me, sir. i do not care to do that.”
“what?” cried the judge, stopping in the middle of a cross-street, so that a wagon nearly ran over his toes.
“i was once a guest in colonel carvel's house, sir. and--”
neither the young man nor the old knew all it was costing the other to say these things. the judge took a grim pleasure in eating his heart. and as for stephen, he often went to his office through locust street, which was out of his way, in the hope that he might catch a glimpse of virginia. he had guessed much of the privations she had gone through. he knew that the colonel had hired out most of his slaves, and he had actually seen the united states police drive across eleventh street with the piano that she had played on.
the judge was laughing quietly,--not a pleasant laugh to hear,--as they came to morgan's great warerooms. a crowd blocked the pavement, and hustled and shoved at the doors,--roughs, and soldiers off duty, and ladies and gentlemen whom the judge and stephen knew, and some of whom they spoke to. all of these were come out of curiosity, that they might see for themselves any who had the temerity to bid on a neighbor's household goods. the long hall, which ran from street to street, was packed, the people surging backward and forward, and falling roughly against the mahogany pieces; and apologizing, and scolding, and swearing all in a breath. the judge, holding tightly to stephen, pushed his way fiercely to the stand, vowing over and over that the commotion was a secession trick to spoil the furniture and stampede the sale. in truth, it was at the judge's suggestion that a blue provost's guard was called in later to protect the seized property.
how many of those mahogany pieces, so ruthlessly tumbled about before the public eye, meant a heartache! wedding presents of long ago, dear to many a bride with silvered hair, had been torn from the corner where the children had played--children who now, alas, were grown and gone to war. yes, that was the brussels rug that had lain before the fire, and which the little feet had worn in the corner. those were the chairs the little hands had harnessed, four in a row, and fallen on its side was the armchair--the stage coach itself. there were the books, held up to common gaze, that a beloved parent had thumbed with affection. yes, and here in another part of the hall were the family horses and the family carriage that had gone so often back and forth from church with the happy brood of children, now scattered and gone to war.
as stephen reached his place beside the judge, mr. james's effects were being cried. and, if glances could have killed, many a bidder would have dropped dead. the heavy dining-room table which meant so much to the family went for a song to a young man recently come from yankeeland, whose open boast it was--like eliphalet's secret one--that he would one day grow rich enough to snap his fingers in the face of the southern aristocrats. mr. james was not there. but mr. catherwood, his face haggard and drawn, watched the sideboard he had given his wife on her silver wedding being sold to a pawnbroker.
stephen looked in vain for colonel carvel--for virginia. he did not want to see them there. he knew by heart the list of things which had been taken from their house. he understood the feeling which had sent the judge here to bid them in. and stephen honored him the more.
when the auctioneer came to the carvel list, and the well-known name was shouted out, the crowd responded with a stir and pressed closer to the stand. and murmurs were plainly heard in more than one direction.
he struck a base note of the keys, then a treble, and they vibrated in the heated air of the big hall. had he hit the little c of the top octave, the tinkle of that also might have been heard.
“gentlemen and ladies, we have to begin somewheres. what am i bid?”
a menacing murmur gave place to the accusing silence. some there were who gazed at the rothfield with longing eyes, but who had no intention of committing social suicide. suddenly a voice, the rasp of which penetrated to st. charles street, came out with a bid. the owner was a seedy man with a straw-colored, drunkard's mustache. he was leaning against the body of mrs. russell's barouche (seized for sale), and those about him shrank away as from smallpox. his hundred-dollar offer was followed by a hiss. what followed next stephen will always remember. when judge whipple drew himself up to his full six feet, that was a warning to those that knew him. as he doubled the bid, the words came out with the aggressive distinctness of a man who through a long life has been used to opposition. he with the gnawed yellow mustache pushed himself clear of the barouche, his smouldering cigar butt dropping to the floor. but there were no hisses now.
and this is how judge whipple braved public opinion once more. as he stood there, defiant, many were the conjectures as to what he could wish to do with the piano of his old friend. those who knew the judge (and there were few who did not) pictured to themselves the dingy little apartment where he lived, and smiled. whatever his detractors might have said of him, no one was ever heard to avow that he had bought or sold anything for gain.
a tremor ran through the people. could it have been of admiration for the fine old man who towered there glaring defiance at those about him? “give me a strong and consistent enemy,” some great personage has said, “rather than a lukewarm friend.” three score and five years the judge had lived, and now some were beginning to suspect that he had a heart. verily he had guarded his secret well. but it was let out to many more that day, and they went home praising him who had once pronounced his name with bitterness.
this is what happened. before he of the yellow mustache could pick up his cigar from the floor and make another bid, the judge had cried out a sum which was the total of colonel carvel's assessment. many recall to this day how fiercely he frowned when the applause broke forth of itself; and when he turned to go they made a path for him, in admiration, the length of the hall, down which he stalked, looking neither to the right nor left. stephen followed him, thankful for the day which had brought him into the service of such a man.
and so it came about that the other articles were returned to colonel carvel with the marshal's compliments, and put back into the cold parlor where they had stood for many years. the men who brought them offered to put down the carpet, but by virginia's orders the rolls were stood up in the corner, and the floor left bare. and days passed into weeks, and no sign or message came from judge whipple in regard to the piano he had bought. virginia did not dare mention it to the colonel.
stephen had of late found enough to do in st. louis. he was the kind of man to whom promotions came unsought, and without noise. in the autumn he had been made a captain in the halleck guards of the state militia, as a reward for his indefatigable work in the armories and his knowledge of tactics. twice his company had been called out at night, and once they made a campaign as far as the merimec and captured a party of recruits who were destined for jefferson davis. some weeks passed before mr. brinsmade heard of his promotion and this exploit, and yet scarcely a day went by that he did not see the young man at the big hospital. for stephen helped in the work of the sanitary commission too, and so strove to make up in zeal for the service in the field which he longed to give.
after christmas mr. and mrs. brinsmade moved out to their place on the bellefontaine road. this was to force anne to take a rest. for the girl was worn out with watching at the hospitals, and with tending the destitute mothers and children from the ranks of the refugees. the brinsmade place was not far from the fair grounds,--now a receiving camp for the crude but eager regiments of the northern states. to mr. brinsmade's, when the day's duty was done, the young union officers used to ride, and often there would be half a dozen of them to tea. that house, and other great houses on the bellefontaine road with which this history has no occasion to deal, were as homes to many a poor fellow who would never see home again. sometimes anne would gather together such young ladies of her acquaintance from the neighbor hood and the city as their interests and sympathies permitted to waltz with a union officer, and there would be a little dance. to these dances stephen brice was usually invited.
one such occasion occurred on a friday in january, and mr. brinsmade himself called in his buggy and drove stephen to the country early in the afternoon. he and anne went for a walk along the river, the surface of which was broken by lumps of yellow ice. gray clouds hung low in the sky as they picked their way over the frozen furrows of the ploughed fields. the grass was all a yellow-brown, but the north wind which swayed the bare trees brought a touch of color to anne's cheeks. before they realized where they were, they had nearly crossed the bellegarde estate, and the house itself was come into view, standing high on the slope above the withered garden. they halted.
“the shutters are up,” said stephen. “i understood that mrs. colfax had come out here not long a--”
“she came out for a day just before christina,” said anne, smiling, “and then she ran off to kentucky. i think she was afraid that she was one of the two women on the list of sixty.”
“it must have been a blow to her pride when she found that she was not,” said stephen, who had a keen remembrance of her conduct upon a certain sunday not a year gone.
impelled by the same inclination, they walked in silence to the house and sat down on the edge of the porch. the only motion in the view was the smoke from the slave quarters twisting in the wind, and the hurrying ice in the stream.
“poor jinny!” said anne, with a sigh, “how she loved to romp! what good times we used to have here together!”
“do you think that she is unhappy?” stephen demanded, involuntarily.
“oh, yes,” said anne. “how can you ask? but you could not make her show it. the other morning when she came out to our house i found her sitting at the piano. i am sure there were tears in her eyes, but she would not let me see them. she made some joke about spencer catherwood running away. what do you think the judge will do with that piano, stephen?”
he shook his head.
“the day after they put it in his room he came in with a great black cloth, which he spread over it. you cannot even see the feet.”
there was a silence. and anne, turning to him timidly, gave him a long, searching look.
“it is growing late,” she said. “i think that we ought to go back.”
they went out by the long entrance road, through the naked woods. stephen said little. only a little while before he had had one of those vivid dreams of virginia which left their impression, but not their substance, to haunt him. on those rare days following the dreams her spirit had its mastery over his. he pictured her then with a glow on her face which was neither sadness nor mirth,--a glow that ministered to him alone. and yet, he did not dare to think that he might have won her, even if politics and war had not divided them.
“the boy doesn't remember me,” said the gentleman, in quick tones, smiling at mr. brinsmade.
“yes, sir, i do,” stephen made haste to answer. he glanced at the star on the shoulder strap, and said. “you are general sherman.”
“first rate!” laughed the general, patting him. “first rate!”
“now in command at camp benton, stephen,” mr. brinsmade put in. “won't you sit down, general?”
“no,” said the general, emphatically waving away the chair. “no, rather stand.” then his keen face suddenly lighted with amusement,--and mischief, stephen thought. “so you've heard of me since we met, sir?” “yes, general.”
“humph! guess you heard i was crazy,” said the general, in his downright way.
stephen was struck dumb.
stephen, who had in truth read the stories in question a month or two before, could not conceal his embarrassment he looked at the man in front of him,--alert, masterful intelligent, frank to any stranger who took his fancy,--and wondered how any one who had talked to him could believe them.
mr. brinsmade smiled. “they have to print something, general,” he said.
“i'll give 'em something to print later on,” answered the general, grimly. then his expression changed. “brinsmade, you fellows did have a session with fremont, didn't you? anderson sent me over here last september, and the first man i ran across at the planters' house was appleton. '--what are you in town for?' says he. 'to see fremont,' i said. you ought to have heard appleton laugh. 'you don't think fremont'll see you, do you?' says he. 'why not?' 'well,' says tom, 'go 'round to his palace at six to-morrow morning and bribe that hungarian prince who runs his body-guard to get you a good place in the line of senators and governors and first citizens, and before nightfall you may get a sight of him, since you come from anderson. not one man in a hundred,' says appleton, i not one man in a hundred, reaches his chief-of-staff.' next morning,” the general continued in a staccato which was often his habit, “had breakfast before daybreak and went 'round there. place just swarming with californians--army contracts.” (the general sniffed.) “saw fremont. went back to hotel. more californians, and by gad--old baron steinberger with his nose hanging over the register.”
“fremont was a little difficult to get at, general,” said mr. brinsmade. “things were confused and discouraged when those first contracts were awarded. fremont was a good man, and it wasn't his fault that the inexperience of his quartermasters permitted some of those men to get rich.”
“no,” said the general. “his fault! certainly not. good man! to be sure he was--didn't get along with blair. these court-martials you're having here now have stirred up the whole country. i guess we'll hear now how those fortunes were made. to listen to those witnesses lie about each other on the stand is better than the theatre.”
stephen laughed at the comical and vivid manner in which the general set this matter forth. he himself had been present one day of the sittings of the court-martial when one of the witnesses on the prices of mules was that same seedy man with the straw-colored mustache who had bid for virginia's piano against the judge.
“come, stephen,” said the general, abruptly, “run and snatch one of those pretty girls from my officers. they're having more than their share.”
“they deserve more, sir,” answered stephen. whereupon the general laid his hand impulsively on the young man's shoulder, divining what stephen did not say.
“nonsense!” said be; “you are doing the work in this war, not we. we do the damage--you repair it. if it were not for mr. brinsmade and you gentlemen who help him, where would our western armies be? don't you go to the front yet a while, young man. we need the best we have in reserve.” he glanced critically at stephen. “you've had military training of some sort?”
“he's a captain in the halleck guards, sir,” said mr. brinsmade, generously, “and the best drillmaster we've had in this city. he's seen service, too, general.”
stephen reddened furiously and started to protest, when the general cried:-- “it's more than i have in this war. come, come, i knew he was a soldier. let's see what kind of a strategist he'll make. brinsmade, have you got such a thing as a map?” mr. brinsmade had, and led the way back into the library. the general shut the door, lighted a cigar with a single vigorous stroke of a match, and began to smoke with quick puffs. stephen was puzzled how to receive the confidences the general was giving out with such freedom.
when the map was laid on the table, the general drew a pencil from his pocket and pointed to the state of kentucky. then he drew a line from columbus to bowling green, through forts donelson and henry.
“now, stephen,” said he, “there's the rebel line. show me the proper place to break it.”
stephen hesitated a while, and then pointed at the centre.
“good!” said the general. “very good!” he drew a heavy line across the first, and it ran almost in the bed of the tennessee river. he swung on mr. brinsmade. “very question halleck asked me the other day, and that's how i answered it. now, gentlemen, there's a man named grant down in that part of the country. keep your eyes on him. ever heard of him, brinsmade? he used to live here once, and a year ago he was less than i was. now he's a general.”
the recollection of the scene in the street by the arsenal that may morning not a year gone came to stephen with a shock.
“i saw him,” he cried; “he was captain grant that lived on the gravois road. but surely this can't be the same man who seized paducah and was in that affair at belmont.”
“by gum!” said the general, laughing. “don't wonder you're surprised. grant has stuff in him. they kicked him around springfield awhile, after the war broke out, for a military carpet-bagger. then they gave him for a regiment the worst lot of ruffians you ever laid eyes on. he fixed 'em. he made 'em walk the plank. he made 'em march halfway across the state instead of taking the cars the governor offered. belmont! i guess he is the man that chased the rebs out of belmont. then his boys broke loose when they got into the town. that wasn't grant's fault. the rebs came back and chased 'em out into their boats on the river. brinsmade, you remember hearing about that.
“grant did the coolest thing you ever saw. he sat on his horse at the top of the bluff while the boys fell over each other trying to get on the boat. yes, sir, he sat there, disgusted, on his horse, smoking a cigar, with the rebs raising pandemonium all around him. and then, sir,” cried the general, excitedly, “what do you think he did? hanged if he didn't force his horse right on to his haunches, slide down the whole length of the bank and ride him across a teetering plank on to the steamer. and the rebs just stood on the bank and stared. they were so astonished they didn't even shoot the man. you watch grant,” said the general. “and now, stephen,” he added, “just you run off and take hold of the prettiest girl you can find. if any of my boys object, say i sent you.”
the next monday stephen had a caller. it was little tiefel, now a first lieutenant with a bristly beard and tanned face, come to town on a few days' furlough. he had been with lyon at wilson's creek, and he had a sad story to tell of how he found poor richter, lying stark on that bloody field, with a smile of peace upon his face. strange that he should at length have been killed by a sabre!
it was a sad meeting for those two, since each reminded the other of a dear friend they would see no more on earth. they went out to sup together in the german style; and gradually, over his beer, tiefel forgot his sorrow. stephen listened with an ache to the little man's tales of the campaigns he had been through. so that presently tiefel cried out:
“why, my friend, you are melancholy as an owl. i will tell you a funny story. did you ever hear of one general sherman? he that they say is crazy?”
“he is no more crazy than i am,” said stephen, warmly--
“is he not?” answered tiefel, “then i will show you a mistake. you recall last november he was out to sedalia to inspect the camp there, and he sleeps in a little country store where i am quartered. now up gets your general sherman in the middle of the night,--midnight,--and marches up and down between the counters, and waves his arms. so, says he, 'land so,' says he, 'sterling price will be here, and steele here, and this column will take that road, and so-and-so's a damned fool. is not that crazy? so he walks up and down for three eternal hours. says he, 'pope has no business to be at osterville, and steele here at sedalia with his regiments all over the place. they must both go into camp at la mine river, and form brigades and divisions, that the troops may be handled.'”
“himmel!” exclaimed little tiefel. but he spoke in admiration.
it was not a month after that that sherman's prophecy of the quiet general who had slid down the bluff at belmont came true. the whole country bummed with grant's praises. moving with great swiftness and secrecy up the tennessee, in company with the gunboats of commodore foote, he had pierced the confederate line at the very point sherman had indicated. fort henry had fallen, and grant was even then moving to besiege donelson.
mr. brinsmade prepared to leave at once for the battlefield, taking with him too paducah physicians and nurses. all day long the boat was loading with sanitary stores and boxes of dainties for the wounded. it was muggy and wet--characteristic of that winter--as stephen pushed through the drays on the slippery levee to the landing.
“good-by, stephen,” he said.
“good-by, general,” said stephen, shifting his basket to shake hands. “are you going away?”
“ordered to paducah,” said the general. he pulled stephen off the guards into an empty cabin. “brice,” said he, earnestly, “i haven't forgotten how you saved young brinsmade at camp jackson. they tell me that you are useful here. i say, don't go in unless you have to. i don't mean force, you understand. but when you feel that you can go in, come to me or write me a letter. that is,” he added, seemingly inspecting stephen's white teeth with approbation, “if you're not afraid to serve under a crazy man.”
it has been said that the general liked the lack of effusiveness of stephen's reply.
chapter vi. eliphalet plays his trumps
summer was come again. through interminable days, the sun beat down upon the city; and at night the tortured bricks flung back angrily the heat with which he had filled them. great battles had been fought, and vast armies were drawing breath for greater ones to come.
“jinny,” said the colonel one day, “as we don't seem to be much use in town, i reckon we may as well go to glencoe.”
virginia, threw her arms around her father's neck. for many months she had seen what the colonel himself was slow to comprehend--that his usefulness was gone. the days melted into weeks, and sterling price and his army of liberation failed to come. the vigilant union general and his aides had long since closed all avenues to the south. for, one fine morning toward the end of the previous summer, when the colonel was contemplating a journey, he had read that none might leave the city without a pass, whereupon he went hurriedly to the office of the provost marshal. there he had found a number of gentlemen in the same plight, each waving a pass made out by the provost marshal's clerks, and waiting for that officer's signature. the colonel also procured one of these, and fell into line. the marshal gazed at the crowd, pulled off his coat, and readily put his name to the passes of several gentlemen going east. next came mr. bub ballington, whom the colonel knew, but pretended not to.
“going to springfield?” asked the marshal, genially.
“yes,” said bub.
“not very profitable to be a minute-man, eh?” in the same tone.
the marshal signs his name, mr. ballington trying not to look indignant as he makes for the door. a small silver bell rings on the marshal's desk, the one word: “spot!” breaks the intense silence, which is one way of saying that mr. ballington is detained, and will probably be lodged that night at government expense.
“well, colonel carvel, what can i do for you this morning?” asked the marshal, genially.
the colonel pushed back his hat and wiped his brow. “i reckon i'll wait till next week, captain,” said mr. carvel. “it's pretty hot to travel just now.”
the provost marshal smiled sweetly. there were many in the office who would have liked to laugh, but it did not pay to laugh at some people. colonel carvel was one of them.
in the proclamation of martial law was much to make life less endurable than ever. all who were convicted by a court-martial of being rebels were to have property confiscated, and slaves set free. then there was a certain oath to be taken by all citizens who did not wish to have guardians appointed over their actions. there were many who swallowed this oath and never felt any ill effects. mr. jacob cluyme was one, and came away feeling very virtuous. it was not unusual for mr. cluyme to feel virtuous. mr. hopper did not have indigestion after taking it, but colonel carvel would sooner have eaten, gooseberry pie, which he had never tasted but once.
that summer had worn away, like a monster which turns and gives hot gasps when you think it has expired. it took the arkansan just a month, under virginia's care, to become well enough to be sent to a northern prison he was not precisely a southern gentleman, and he went to sleep over the “idylls of the king.” but he was admiring, and grateful, and wept when he went off to the boat with the provost's guard, destined for a northern prison. virginia wept too. he had taken her away from her aunt (who would have nothing to do with him), and had given her occupation. she nor her father never tired of hearing his rough tales of price's rough army.
his departure was about the time when suspicions were growing set. the favor had caused comment and trouble, hence there was no hope of giving another sufferer the same comfort. the cordon was drawn tighter. one of the mysterious gentlemen who had been seen in the vicinity of colonel carvel's house was arrested on the ferry, but he had contrived to be rid of the carpet-sack in which certain precious letters were carried.
throughout the winter, mr. hopper's visits to locust street had continued at intervals of painful regularity. it is not necessary to dwell upon his brilliant powers of conversation, nor to repeat the platitudes which he repeated, for there was no significance in mr. hopper's tales, not a particle. the colonel had found that out, and was thankful. his manners were better; his english decidedly better.
it was for her father's sake, of course, that virginia bore with him. such is the appointed lot of women. she tried to be just, and it occurred to her that she had never before been just. again and again she repeated to herself that eliphalet's devotion to the colonel at this low ebb of his fortunes had something in it of which she did not suspect him. she had a class contempt for mr. hopper as an uneducated yankee and a person of commercial ideals. but now he was showing virtues,--if virtues they were,--and she tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. with his great shrewdness and business ability, why did he not take advantage of the many opportunities the war gave to make a fortune? for virginia had of late been going to the store with the colonel,--who spent his mornings turning over piles of dusty papers, and mr. hopper had always been at his desk.
after this, virginia even strove to be kind to him, but it was uphill work. the front door never closed after one of his visits that suspicion was not left behind. antipathy would assert itself. could it be that there was a motive under all this plotting? he struck her inevitably as the kind who would be content to mine underground to attain an end. the worst she could think of him was that he wished to ingratiate himself now, in the hope that, when the war was ended, he might become a partner in mr. carvel's business. she had put even this away as unworthy of her.
once she had felt compelled to speak to her father on the subject.
“i believe i did him an injustice, pa,” she said. “not that i like him any better now. i must be honest about that. i simply can't like him. but i do think that if he had been as unscrupulous as i thought, he would have deserted you long ago for something more profitable. he would not be sitting in the office day after day making plans for the business when the war is over.”
she remembered how sadly he had smiled at her over the top of his paper.
“you are a good girl, jinny,” he said.
toward the end of july of that second summer riots broke out in the city, and simultaneously a bright spot appeared on virginia's horizon. this took the form, for northerners, of a guerilla scare, and an order was promptly issued for the enrollment of all the able-bodied men in the ten wards as militia, subject to service in the state, to exterminate the roving bands. whereupon her britannic majesty became extremely popular,--even with some who claimed for a birthplace the emerald isle. hundreds who heretofore had valued but lightly their british citizenship made haste to renew their allegiance; and many sought the office of the english consul whose claims on her majesty's protection were vague, to say the least. broken heads and scandal followed. for the first time, when virginia walked to the store with her father, eliphalet was not there. it was strange indeed that virginia defended him.
“i don't blame him for not wanting to fight for the yankees,” she said.
the colonel could not resist a retort.
“then why doesn't he fight for the south he asked”
“fight for the south!” cried the young lady, scornfully. “mr. hopper fight? i reckon the south wouldn't have him.”
“i reckon not, too,” said the colonel, dryly.
for the following week curiosity prompted virginia to take that walk with the colonel. mr. hopper being still absent, she helped him to sort the papers--those grimy reminders of a more prosperous time gone by. often mr. carvel would run across one which seemed to bring some incident to his mind; for he would drop it absently on his desk, his hand seeking his chin, and remain for half an hour lost in thought. virginia would not disturb him.
meanwhile there had been inquiries for mr. hopper. the colonel answered them all truthfully--generally with that dangerous suavity for which he was noted. twice a seedy man with a gnawed yellow mustache had come in to ask eliphalet's whereabouts. on the second occasion this individual became importunate.
“you don't know nothin' about him, you say?” he demanded.
“no,” said the colonel.
the man took a shuffle forward.
“my name's ford,” he said. “i 'low i kin 'lighten you a little.”
“good day, sir,” said the colonel.
“i guess you'll like to hear what i've got to say.”
“ephum,” said mr. carvel in his natural voice, “show this man out.”
mr. ford slunk out without ephum's assistance. but he half turned at the door, and shot back a look that frightened virginia.
“oh, pa,” she cried, in alarm, “what did he mean?”
“i couldn't tell you, jinny,” he answered. but she noticed that he was very thoughtful as they walked home. the next morning eliphalet had not returned, but a corporal and guard were waiting to search the store for him. the colonel read the order, and invited them in with hospitality. he even showed them the way upstairs, and presently virginia heard them all tramping overhead among the bales. her eye fell upon the paper they had brought, which lay unfolded on her father's desk. it was signed stephen a. brice, enrolling officer.
that very afternoon they moved to glencoe, and ephum was left in sole charge of the store. at glencoe, far from the hot city and the cruel war, began a routine of peace. virginia was a child again, romping in the woods and fields beside her father. the color came back to her cheeks once more, and the laughter into her voice. the two of them, and ned and mammy, spent a rollicking hour in the pasture the freedom of which dick had known so long, before the old horse was caught and brought back into bondage. after that virginia took long drives with her father, and coming home, they would sit in the summer house high above the merimec, listening to the crickets' chirp, and watching the day fade upon the water. the colonel, who had always detested pipes, learned to smoke a corncob. he would sit by the hour, with his feet on the rail of the porch and his hat tilted back, while virginia read to him. poe and wordsworth and scott he liked, but tennyson was his favorite. such happiness could not last.
one afternoon when virginia was sitting in the summer house alone, her thoughts wandering back, as they sometimes did, to another afternoon she had spent there,--it seemed so long ago,--when she saw mammy easter coming toward her.
“honey, dey's comp'ny up to de house. mister hopper's done arrived. he's on de porch, talkin' to your pa. lawsey, look wha he come!”
in truth, the solid figure of eliphalet himself was on the path some twenty yards behind her. his hat was in his hand; his hair was plastered down more neatly than ever, and his coat was a faultless and sober creation of a franklin avenue tailor. he carried a cane, which was unheard of. virginia sat upright, and patted her skirts with a gesture of annoyance--what she felt was anger, resentment. suddenly she rose, swept past mammy, and met him ten paces from the summer house.
“how-dy-do, miss virginia,” he cried pleasantly. “your father had a notion you might be here.” he said fayther.
virginia gave him her hand limply. her greeting would have frozen a man of ardent temperament. but it was not precisely ardor that eliphalet showed. the girl paused and examined him swiftly. there was something in the man's air to-day.
“so you were not caught?” she said.
her words seemed to relieve some tension in him. he laughed noiselessly.
“i just guess i wahn't.”
“how did you escape?” she asked, looking at him curiously.
“well, i did, first of all. you're considerable smart, miss jinny, but i'll bet you can't tell me where i was, now.”
“i do not care to know. the place might save you again.”
he showed his disappointment. “i cal'lated it might interest you to know how i dodged the sovereign state of missouri. general halleck made an order that released a man from enrolling on payment of ten dollars. i paid. then i was drafted into the abe lincoln volunteers; i paid a substitute. and so here i be, exercising life, and liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
“so you bought yourself free?” said virginia. “if your substitute gets killed, i suppose you will have cause for congratulation.”
eliphalet laughed, and pulled down his cuffs. “that's his lookout, i cal'late,” said he. he glanced at the girl in a way that made her vaguely uneasy. she turned from him, back toward the summer house. eliphalet's eyes smouldered as they rested upon her figure. he took a step forward.
“miss jinny?” he said.
“i've heard considerable about the beauties of this place. would you mind showing me 'round a bit?” virginia started. it was his tone now. not since that first evening in locust street had it taken on such assurance, and yet she could not be impolite to a guest.
“oh, mr. hopper!” she cried. “please, not in here.” he drew back, staring in astonishment at the crimson in her face.
“why not?” he asked suspiciously--almost brutally. she had been groping wildly for excuses, and found none.
“because,” she said, “because i ask you not to.” with dignity: “that should be sufficient.”
“well,” replied eliphalet, with an abortive laugh, “that's funny, now. womenkind get queer notions, which i cal'late we've got to respect and put up with all our lives--eh?”
her anger flared at his leer and at his broad way of gratifying her whim. and she was more incensed than ever at his air of being at home--it was nothing less.
the man's whole manner was an insult. she strove still to hide her resentment.
“there is a walk along the bluff,” she said, coldly, “where the view is just as good.”
but she purposely drew him into the right-hand path, which led, after a little, back to the house. despite her pace he pressed forward to her side.
“miss jinny,” said he, precipitately, “did i ever strike you as a marrying man?”
virginia stopped, and put her handkerchief to her face, the impulse strong upon her to laugh. eliphalet was suddenly transformed again into the common commercial yankee. he was in love, and had come to ask her advice. she might have known it.
“i never thought of you as of the marrying kind, mr. hopper,” she answered, her voice quivering.
indeed, he was irresistibly funny as he stood hot and ill at ease. the sunday coat bore witness to his increasing portliness by creasing across from the buttons; his face, fleshy and perspiring, showed purple veins, and the little eyes receded comically, like a pig's.
“well, i've been thinking serious of late about getting married,” he continued, slashing the rose bushes with his stick. “i don't cal'late to be a sentimental critter. i'm not much on high-sounding phrases, and such things, but i'd give you my word i'd make a good husband.”
“please be careful of those roses, mr. hopper.”
“beg pardon,” said eliphalet. he began to lose track of his tenses--that was the only sign he gave of perturbation. “when i come to st. louis without a cent, miss jinny, i made up my mind i'd be a rich man before i left it. if i was to die now, i'd have kept that promise. i'm not thirty-four, and i cal'late i've got as much money in a safe place as a good many men you call rich. i'm not saying what i've got, mind you. all in proper time.
“i'm a pretty steady kind. i've stopped chewing--there was a time when i done that. and i don't drink nor smoke.”
“that is all very commendable, mr. hopper,” virginia said, stifling a rebellious titter. “but,--but why did you give up chewing?”
“i am informed that the ladies are against it,” said eliphalet,--“dead against it. you wouldn't like it in a husband, now, would you?”
this time the laugh was not to be put down. “i confess i shouldn't,” she said.
“thought so,” he replied, as one versed. his tones took on a nasal twang. “well, as i was saying, i've about got ready to settle down, and i've had my eye on the lady this seven years.”
“marvel of constancy!” said virginia. “and the lady?”
“the lady,” said eliphalet, bluntly, “is you.” he glanced at her bewildered face and went on rapidly: “you pleased me the first day i set eyes on you in the store i said to myself, 'hopper, there's the one for you to marry.' i'm plain, but my folks was good people. i set to work right then to make a fortune for you, miss jinny. you've just what i need. i'm a plain business man with no frills. you'll do the frills. you're the kind that was raised in the lap of luxury. you'll need a man with a fortune, and a big one; you're the sort to show it off. i've got the foundations of that fortune, and the proof of it right here. and i tell you,”--his jaw was set,--“i tell you that some day eliphalet hopper will be one of the richest men in the west.”
he had stopped, facing her in the middle of the way, his voice strong, his confidence supreme. at first she had stared at him in dumb wonder. then, as she began to grasp the meaning of his harangue, astonishment was still dominant,--sheer astonishment. she scarcely listened. but, as he finished, the thatch of the summer house caught her eye. a vision arose of a man beside whom eliphalet was not worthy to crawl. she thought of stephen as he had stood that evening in the sunset, and this proposal seemed a degradation. this brute dared to tempt her with money. scalding words rose to her lips. but she caught the look on eliphalet's face, and she knew that he would not understand. this was one who rose and fell, who lived and loved and hated and died and was buried by--money.
for a second she looked into his face as one who escapes a pit gazes over the precipice, and shuddered. as for eliphalet, let it not be thought that he had no passion. this was the moment for which he had lived since the day he had first seen her and been scorned in the store. that type of face, that air,--these were the priceless things he would buy with his money. crazed with the very violence of his long-pent desire, he seized her hand. she wrung it free again.
“how--how dare you!” she cried.
he staggered back, and stood for a moment motionless, as though stunned. then, slowly, a light crept into his little eyes which haunted her for many a day.
“you--won't--marry me?” he said.
“oh, how dare you ask me!” exclaimed virginia, her face burning with the shame of it. she was standing with her hands behind her, her back against a great walnut trunk, the crusted branches of which hung over the bluff. even as he looked at her, eliphalet lost his head, and indiscretion entered his soul.
“you must!” he said hoarsely. “you must! you've got no notion of my money, i say.”
“oh!” she cried, “can't you understand? if you owned the whole of california, i would not marry you.” suddenly he became very cool. he slipped his hand into a pocket, as one used to such a motion, and drew out some papers.
“i cal'late you ain't got much idea of the situation, miss carvel,” he said; “the wheels have been a-turning lately. you're poor, but i guess you don't know how poor you are,--eh? the colonel's a man of honor, ain't he?”
for her life she could not have answered,--nor did she even know why she stayed to listen.
“well,” he said, “after all, there ain't much use in your lookin' over them papers. a woman wouldn't know. i'll tell you what they say: they say that if i choose, i am carvel & company.”
“i cal'late you despise me, don't you?” he went on, as if that, too, gave him pleasure. “but i tell you the colonel's a beggar but for me. go and ask him if i'm lying. all you've got to do is to say you'll be my wife, and i tear these notes in two. they go over the bluff.” (he made the motion with his hands.) “carvel & company's an old firm,--a respected firm. you wouldn't care to see it go out of the family, i cal'late.”
he paused again, triumphant. but she did none of the things he expected. she said, simply:--“will you please follow me, mr. hopper.”
and he followed her,--his shrewdness gone, for once.
save for the rise and fall of her shoulders she seemed calm. the path wound through a jungle of waving sunflowers and led into the shade in front of the house. there was the colonel sitting on the porch. his pipe lay with its scattered ashes on the boards, and his head was bent forward, as though listening. when he saw the two, he rose expectantly, and went forward to meet them. virginia stopped before him.
“pa,” she said, “is it true that you have borrowed money from this man?”
eliphalet had seen mr. carvel angry once, and his soul had quivered. terror, abject terror, seized him now, so that his knees smote together. as well stare into the sun as into the colonel's face. in one stride he had a hand in the collar of eliphalet's new coat, the other pointing down the path.
“it takes just a minute to walk to that fence, sir,” he said sternly. “if you are any longer about it, i reckon you'll never get past it. you're a cowardly hound, sir!” mr. hopper's gait down the flagstones was an invention of his own. it was neither a walk, nor a trot, nor a run, but a sort of sliding amble, such as is executed in nightmares. singing in his head was the famous example of the eviction of babcock from the store,--the only time that the colonel's bullet had gone wide. and down in the small of his back eliphalet listened for the crack of a pistol, and feared that a clean hole might be bored there any minute. once outside, he took to the white road, leaving a trail of dust behind him that a wagon might have raised. fear lent him wings, but neglected to lift his feet.
the colonel passed his arm around his daughter, and pulled his goatee thoughtfully. and virginia, glancing shyly upward, saw a smile in the creases about his mouth: she smiled, too, and then the tears hid him from her.
strange that the face which in anger withered cowards and made men look grave, was capable of such infinite tenderness,--tenderness and sorrow. the colonel took virginia in his arms, and she sobbed against his shoulder, as of old.
“jinny, did he--?”
“lige was right, and--and you, jinny--i should never have trusted him. the sneak!”
virginia raised her head. the sun was slanting in yellow bars through the branches of the great trees, and a robin's note rose above the bass chorus of the frogs. in the pauses, as she listened, it seemed as if she could hear the silver sound of the river over the pebbles far below.
“honey,” said the colonel,--“i reckon we're just as poor as white trash.”
virginia smiled through her tears.
“honey,” he said again, after a pause, “i must keep my word and let him have the business.”
she did not reproach him.
“there is a little left, a very little,” he continued slowly, painfully. “i thank god that it is yours. it was left you by becky--by your mother. it is in a railroad company in new york, and safe, jinny.”
“oh, pa, you know that i do not care,” she cried. “it shall be yours and mine together. and we shall live out here and be happy.”
but she glanced anxiously at him nevertheless. he was in his familiar posture of thought, his legs slightly apart, his felt hat pushed back, stroking his goatee. but his clear gray eyes were troubled as they sought hers, and she put her hand to her breast.
“virginia,” he said, “i fought for my country once, and i reckon i'm some use yet awhile. it isn't right that i should idle here, while the south needs me, your uncle daniel is fifty-eight, and colonel of a pennsylvania regiment.--jinny, i have to go.”
virginia said nothing. it was in her blood as well as his. the colonel had left his young wife, to fight in mexico; he had come home to lay flowers on her grave. she knew that he thought of this; and, too, that his heart was rent at leaving her. she put her hands on his shoulders, and he stooped to kiss her trembling lips.
they walked out together to the summer-house, and stood watching the glory of the light on the western hills. “jinn,” said the colonel, “i reckon you will have to go to your aunt lillian. it--it will be hard. but i know that my girl can take care of herself. in case--in case i do not come back, or occasion should arise, find lige. let him take you to your uncle daniel. he is fond of you, and will be all alone in calvert house when the war is over. and i reckon that is all i have to say. i won't pry into your heart, honey. if you love clarence, marry him. i like the boy, and i believe he will quiet down into a good man.”
virginia did not answer, but reached out for her father's hand and held its fingers locked tight in her own. from the kitchen the sound of ned's voice rose in the still evening air.
“sposin' i was to go to n' orleans an' take sick and die, laik a bird into de country ma spirit would fly.”
and after a while down the path the red and yellow of mammy easter's bandanna was seen.
“supper, miss jinny. laws, if i ain't ramshacked de premises fo' you bof. de co'n bread's gittin' cold.”
that evening the colonel and virginia thrust a few things into her little leather bag they had chosen together in london. virginia had found a cigar, which she hid until they went down to the porch, and there she gave it to him; when he lighted the match she saw that his hand shook.
half an hour later he held her in his arms at the gate, and she heard his firm tread die in the dust of the road. the south had claimed him at last.
chapter vii. with the armies of the west
the forefathers of some of these gentlemen were in old egypt under pharaoh--for whom they could have had no greater respect and fear than their descendants had in new egypt for grant or sherman. yankees were there likewise in abundance. and a certain acquaintance of ours materially added to his fortune by selling in boston the cotton which cost him fourteen cents, at thirty cents.
one day the shouting and the swearing and the running to and fro came to a climax. those floating freaks which were all top and drew nothing, were loaded down to the guards with army stores and animals and wood and men,--men who came from every walk in life.
whistles bellowed, horses neighed. the gunboats chased hither and thither, and at length the vast processions paddled down the stream with naval precision, under the watchful eyes of a real admiral.
residents of memphis from the river's bank watched the pillar of smoke fade to the southward and ruminated on the fate of vicksburg. the general paced the deck in thought. a little later he wrote to the commander-in-chief at washington, “the valley of the mississippi is america.”
vicksburg taken, this vast confederacy would be chopped in two.
night fell to the music of the paddles, to the scent of the officers' cigars, to the blood-red vomit of the tall stacks and the smoky flame of the torches. then christmas day dawned, and there was vicksburg lifted two hundred feet above the fever swamps, her court-house shining in the morning sun. vicksburg, the well-nigh impregnable key to america's highway. when old vick made his plantation on the walnut hills, he chose a site for a fortress of the future confederacy that vauban would have delighted in.
yes, there were the walnut hills, high bluffs separated from the mississippi by tangled streams and bayous, and on their crests the parrotts scowled. it was a queer christmas day indeed, bright and warm; no snow, no turkeys nor mince pies, no wine, but just hardtack and bacon and foaming brown water.
on the morrow the ill-assorted fleet struggled up the sluggish yazoo, past impenetrable forests where the cypress clutched at the keels, past long-deserted cotton fields, until it came at last to the black ruins of a home. in due time the great army was landed. it spread out by brigade and division and regiment and company, the men splashing and paddling through the chickasaw and the swamps toward the bluffs. the parrotts began to roar. a certain regiment, boldly led, crossed the bayou at a narrow place and swept resistless across the sodden fields to where the bank was steepest. the fire from the battery scorched the hair of their heads. but there they stayed, scooping out the yellow clay with torn hands, while the parrotts, with lowered muzzles, ploughed the slope with shells. there they stayed, while the blue lines quivered and fell back through the forests on that short winter's afternoon, dragging their wounded from the stagnant waters. but many were left to die in agony in the solitude.
like a tall emblem of energy, general sherman stood watching the attack and repulse, his eyes ever alert. he paid no heed to the shells which tore the limbs from the trees about him, or sent the swamp water in thick spray over his staff. now and again a sharp word broke from his lips, a forceful home thrust at one of the leaders of his columns.
“what regiment stayed under the bank?”
“sixth missouri, general,” said an aide, promptly.
the general sat late in the admiral's gunboat that night, but when he returned to his cabin in the forest queen, he called for a list of officers of the sixth missouri. his finger slipping down the roll paused at a name among the new second lieutenants.
“did the boys get back?” he asked. “yes, general, when it fell dark.”
“let me see the casualties,--quick.”
that night a fog rolled up from the swamps, and in the morning jack-staff was hid from pilot-house. before the attack could be renewed, a political general came down the river with a letter in his pocket from washington, by virtue of which he took possession of the three army core, and their chief, subpoenaed the fleet and the admiral, and went off to capture arkansas post.
vicksburg had a breathing spell.
three weeks later, when the army was resting at napoleon, arkansas, a self-contained man, with a brown beard arrived from memphis, and took command. this way general u. s. grant. he smoked incessantly in his cabin. he listened. he spoke but seldom. he had look in his face that boded ill to any that might oppose him. time and labor be counted as nothing, compared with the accomplishment of an object. back to vicksburg paddled the fleet and transports. across the river from the city, on the pasty mud behind the levee's bank were dumped sherman's regiments, condemned to week of ditch-digging, that the gunboats might arrive at the bend of the mississippi below by a canal, out of reach of the batteries. day in and day out they labored, officer and men. sawing off stumps under the water, knocking poisonous snakes by scores from the branches, while the river rose and rose and rose, and the rain crept by inches under their tent flies, and the enemy walked the parapet of vicksburg and laughed. two gunboats accomplished the feat of running the batteries, that their smiles might be sobered.
to the young officers who were soiling their uniform with the grease of saws, whose only fighting was against fever and water snakes, the news of an expedition into the vicksburg side of the river was hailed with caps in the air. to be sure, the saw and axe, and likewise the levee and the snakes, were to be there, too. but there was likely to be a little fighting. the rest of the corps that was to stay watched grimly as the detachment put off in the little 'diligence' and 'silver wave'.
all the night the smoke-pipes were batting against the boughs of oak and cottonwood, and snapping the trailing vines. some other regiments went by another route. the ironclads, followed in hot haste by general sherman in a navy tug, had gone ahead, and were even then shoving with their noses great trunks of trees in their eagerness to get behind the rebels. the missouri regiment spread out along the waters, and were soon waist deep, hewing a path for the heavier transports to come. presently the general came back to a plantation half under water, where black bayou joins deer creek, to hurry the work in cleaning out that bayou. the light transports meanwhile were bringing up more troops from a second detachment. all through the friday the navy great guns were heard booming in the distance, growing quicker and quicker, until the quivering air shook the hanging things in that vast jungle. saws stopped, and axes were poised over shoulders, and many times that day the general lifted his head anxiously. as he sat down in the evening in a slave cabin redolent with corn pone and bacon, the sound still hovered among the trees and rolled along the still waters.
the general slept lightly. it was three o'clock saturday morning when the sharp challenge of a sentry broke the silence. a negro, white eyed, bedraggled, and muddy, stood in the candle light under the charge of a young lieutenant. the officer saluted, and handed the general a roll of tobacco.
“i found this man in the swamp, sir. he has a message from the admiral--”
the general tore open the roll and took from it a piece of tissue paper which he spread out and held under the candle. he turned to a staff officer who had jumped from his bed and was hurrying into his coat.
“porter's surrounded,” he said. the order came in a flash. “kilby smith and all men here across creek to relief at once. i'll take canoe through bayou to hill's and hurry reenforcements.”
the staff officer paused, his hand on the latch of the door.
“but your escort, general. you're not going through that sewer in a canoe without an escort!”
“i guess they won't look for a needle in that haystack,” the general answered. for a brief second he eyed the lieutenant. “get back to your regiment, brice, if you want to go,” he said.
stephen saluted and went out. all through the painful march that followed, though soaked in swamp water and bruised by cypress knees, he thought of sherman in his canoe, winding unprotected through the black labyrinth, risking his life that more men might be brought to the rescue of the gunboats.
the story of that rescue has been told most graphically by sherman himself. how he picked up the men at work on the bayou and marched them on a coal barge; how he hitched the barge to a navy tug; how he met the little transport with a fresh load of troops, and captain elijah brent's reply when the general asked if he would follow him. “as long as the boat holds together, general.” and he kept his word. the boughs hammered at the smoke-pipes until they went by the board, and the pilothouse fell like a pack of cards on the deck before they had gone three miles and a half. then the indomitable sherman disembarked, a lighted candle in his hand, and led a stiff march through thicket and swamp and breast-deep backwater, where the little drummer boys carried their drums on their heads. at length, when they were come to some indian mounds, they found a picket of three, companies of the force which had reached the flat the day before, and had been sent down to prevent the enemy from obstructing further the stream below the fleet.
“the admiral's in a bad way, sir,” said the colonel who rode up to meet the general. “he's landlocked. those clumsy ironclads of his can't move backward or forward, and the rebs have been peppering him for two days.”
just then a fusillade broke from the thickets, nipping the branches from the cottonwoods about them.
“form your line,” said the general. “drive 'em out.”
the force swept forward, with the three picket companies in the swamp on the right. and presently they came in sight of the shapeless ironclads with their funnels belching smoke, a most remarkable spectacle. how porter had pushed them there was one of the miracles of the war.
then followed one of a thousand memorable incidents in the life of a memorable man. general sherman, jumping on the bare back of a scrawny horse, cantered through the fields. and the bluejackets, at sight of that familiar figure, roared out a cheer that might have shaken the drops from the wet boughs. the admiral and the general stood together on the deck, their hands clasped. and the colonel astutely remarked, as he rode up in answer to a summons, that if porter was the only man whose daring could have pushed a fleet to that position, sherman was certainly the only man who could have got him out of it.
“colonel,” said the general, “that move was well executed, sir. admiral, did the rebs put a bullet through your rum casks? we're just a little tired. and now,” he added, wheeling on the colonel when each had a glass in his hand, “who was in command of that company on the right, in the swamp? he handled them like a regular.”
“he's a second lieutenant, general, in the sixth missouri. captain wounded at hindman, and first lieutenant fell out down below. his name is brice, i believe.”
“i thought so,” said the general.
some few days afterward, when the troops were slopping around again at young's point, opposite vicksburg, a gentleman arrived on a boat from st. louis. he paused on the levee to survey with concern and astonishment the flood of waters behind it, and then asked an officer the way to general sherman's headquarters. the officer, who was greatly impressed by the gentleman's looks, led him at once to a trestle bridge which spanned the distance from the levee bank over the flood to a house up to its first floor in the backwaters. the orderly saluted.
“who shall i say, sir?”
the officer looked inquiringly at the gentleman, who gave his name.
the officer could not repress a smile at the next thing that happened. out hurried the general himself, with both hands outstretched.
“bless my soul!” he cried, “if it isn't brinsmade. come right in, come right in and take dinner. the boys will be glad to see you. i'll send and tell grant you're here. brinsmade, if it wasn't for you and your friends on the western sanitary commission, we'd all have been dead of fever and bad food long ago.” the general sobered abruptly. “i guess a good many of the boys are laid up now,” he added.
“i've come down to do what i can, general,” responded mr. brinsmade, gravely. “i want to go through all the hospitals to see that our nurses are doing their duty and that the stores are properly distributed.”
“you shall, sir, this minute,” said the general. he dropped instantly the affairs which he had on hand, and without waiting for dinner the two gentlemen went together through the wards where the fever raged. the general surprised his visitor by recognizing private after private in the cots, and he always had a brief word of cheer to brighten their faces, to make them follow him with wistful eyes as he passed beyond them. “that's poor craig,” he would say, “corporal, third michigan. they tell me he can't live,” and “that's olcott, eleventh indiana. good god!” cried the general, when they were out in the air again, “how i wish some of these cotton traders could get a taste of this fever. they keep well--the vultures--and by the way, brinsmade, the man who gave me no peace at all at memphis was from your city. why, i had to keep a whole corps on duty to watch him.”
“what was his name, sir?” mr. brinsmade asked.
“hopper!” cried the general, with feeling. “eliphalet hopper. as long as i live i shall never forget it. how the devil did he get a permit? what are they about at washington?”
“you surprise me,” said mr. brinsmade. “he has always seemed inoffensive, and i believe he is a prominent member of one of our churches.”
“i guess that's so,” answered the general, dryly. “i ever i set eyes on him again, he's clapped into the guardhouse. he knows it, too.”
“speaking of st. louis, general,” said mr. brinsmade, presently, “have you ever heard of stephen brice? joined your army last autumn. you may remember talking to him one evening at my house.”
“he's one of my boys!” cried the general. “remember him? guess i do!” he paused on the very brink of relating again the incident at camp jackson, when stephen had saved the life of mr. brinsmade's own son. “brinsmade, for three days i've had it on my mind to send for that boy. i'll have him at headquarters now. i like him,” cried general sherman, with tone and gesture there was no mistaking. and good mr. brinsmade, who liked stephen, too, rejoiced at the story he would have to tell the widow. “he has spirit, brinsmade. i told him to let me know when he was ready to go to war. no such thing. he never came near me. the first thing i hear of him is that he's digging holes in the clay of chickasaw bluff, and his cap is fanned off by the blast of a parrott six feet above his head. next thing he turns up on that little expedition we took to get porter to sea again. when we got to the gunboats, there was brice's company on the flank. he handled those men surprisingly, sir--surprisingly. i shouldn't have blamed the boy if one or two rebs got by him. but no, he swept the place clean.” by this time they had come back to the bridge leading to headquarters, and the general beckoned quickly to an orderly.
“my compliments to lieutenant stephen brice, sixth missouri, and ask him to report here at once. at once, you understand!”
it so happened that mr. brice's company were swinging axes when the orderly arrived, and mr. brice had an axe himself, and was up to his boot tops in yellow mud.
the orderly, who had once been an iowa farmer, was near grinning when he gave the general's message and saw the lieutenant gazing ruefully at his clothes.
entering headquarters, stephen paused at the doorway of the big room where the officers of the different staffs were scattered about, smoking, while the negro servants were removing the dishes from the table. the sunlight, reflected from the rippling water outside, danced on the ceiling. at the end of the room sat general sherman, his uniform, as always, a trifle awry. his soft felt hat with the gold braid was tilted forward, and his feet, booted and spurred, were crossed. small wonder that the englishman who sought the typical american found him in sherman.
the sound that had caught stephen's attention was the general's voice, somewhat high-pitched, in the key that he used in telling a story. these were his closing words.
“sin gives you a pretty square deal, boys, after all. generally a man says, 'well, i can resist, but i'll have my fun just this once.' that's the way it happens. they tell you that temptation comes irresistibly. don't believe it. do you, mr. brice? come over here, sir. here's a friend of yours.”
stephen made his way to the general, whose bright eyes wandered rapidly over him as he added:
“this is the condition my officers report in, brinsmade,--mud from head to heel.”
stephen had sense enough to say nothing, but the staff officers laughed, and mr. brinsmade smiled as he rose and took stephen's hand.
“i am delighted to see that you are well, sir,” said he, with that formal kindliness which endeared him to all. “your mother will be rejoiced at my news of you. you will be glad to hear that i left her well, stephen.”
stephen inquired for mrs. brinsmade and anne.
“they are well, sir, and took pleasure in adding to a little box which your mother sent. judge whipple put in a box of fine cigars, although he deplores the use of tobacco.”
“and the judge, mr. brinsmade--how is he?”
the good gentleman's face fell.
“he is ailing, sir, it grieves me to say. he is in bed, sir. but he is ably looked after. your mother desired to have him moved to her house, but he is difficult to stir from his ways, and he would not leave his little room. he is ably nursed. we have got old nancy, hester's mother, to stay with him at night, and mrs. brice divides the day with miss jinny carvel, who comes in from bellegarde every afternoon.”
“miss carvel?” exclaimed stephen, wondering if he heard aright. and at the mention of her name he tingled.
“none other, sir,” answered mr. brinsmade. “she has been much honored for it. you may remember that the judge was a close friend of her father's before the war. and--well, they quarrelled, sir. the colonel went south, you know.”
“when--when was the judge taken ill, mr. brinsmade?” stephen asked. the thought of virginia and his mother caring for him together was strangely sweet.
“two days before i left, sir, dr. polk had warned him not to do so much. but the doctor tells me that he can see no dangerous symptoms.”
stephen inquired now of mr. brinsmade how long he was to be with them.
“i am going on to the other camps this afternoon,” said he. “but i should like a glimpse of your quarters, stephen, if you will invite me. your mother would like a careful account of you, and mr. whipple, and--your many friends in st. louis.”
“you will find my tent a little wet, air,” replied stephen, touched.
“that's hospitality for you, brinsmade!”
stephen and mr. brinsmade made their way across plank and bridge to stephen's tent, and his mess servant arrived in due time with the package from home. but presently, while they sat talking of many things, the canvas of the fly was thrust back with a quick movement, and who should come stooping in but general sherman himself. he sat down on a cracker box. stephen rose confusedly.
“well, well, brice,” said the general, winking at mr. brinsmade, “i think you might have invited me to the feast. where are those cigars mr. brinsmade was talking about?”
stephen opened the box with alacrity. the general chose one and lighted it.
“don't smoke, eh?” he inquired. “why, yes, sir, when i can.”
“then light up, sir,” said the general, “and sit down, i've been thinking lately of court-martialing you, but i decided to come 'round and talk it over with you first. that isn't strictly according to the rules of the service. look here, mr. brice, why did you leave st. louis?”
“they began to draft, sir, and i couldn't stand it any longer.”
“but you wouldn't have been drafted. you were in the home guards, if i remember right. and mr. brinsmade tells me you were useful in many ways what was your rank in the home guards?”
“lieutenant colonel, sir.”
“and what are you here?”
“a second lieutenant in temporary command, general.” “you have commanded men?”
“not in action, sir. i felt that that was different.”
“couldn't they do better for you than a second-lieutenancy?”
stephen did not reply at once, mr. brinsmade spoke up, “they offered him a lieutenant-colonelcy.”
the general was silent a moment: then he said “do you remember meeting me on the boat when i was leaving st. louis, after the capture of fort henry?”
stephen smiled. “very well, general,” he replied, general sherman leaned forward.
“and do you remember i said to you, 'brice, when you get ready to come into this war, let me know.' why didn't you do it?”
stephen thought a minute. then he said gravely, but with just a suspicion of humor about his mouth:-- “general, if i had done that, you wouldn't be here in my tent to-day.”
like lightning the general was on his feet, his hand on stephen's shoulder.
“by gad, sir,” he cried, delighted, “so i wouldn't.”
chapter viii. a strange meeting
the story of the capture of vicksburg is the old, old story of failure turned into success, by which man is made immortal. it involves the history of a general who never retraced his steps, who cared neither for mugwump murmurs nor political cabals, who took both blame and praise with equanimity. through month after month of discouragement, and work gone for naught, and fever and death, his eyes never left his goal. and by grace of the wisdom of that president who himself knew sorrow and suffering and defeat and unjust censure, general grant won.
boldness did it. the canal abandoned, one red night fleet and transports swept around the bend and passed the city's heights, on a red river. the parrotts and the dahlgrens roared, and the high bluffs flung out the sound over the empty swamp land.
then there came the landing below, and the cutting loose from a base--unheard of. corps behind cursed corps ahead for sweeping the country clear of forage. battles were fought. confederate generals in mississippi were bewildered.
one night, while crossing with his regiment a pontoon bridge, stephen brice heard a shout raised on the farther shore. sitting together on a log under a torch, two men in slouch hats were silhouetted. that one talking with rapid gestures was general sherman. the impassive profile of the other, the close-cropped beard and the firmly held cigar that seemed to go with it,--stephen recognized as that of the strange captain grant who had stood beside him in the street by the arsenal he had not changed a whit. motionless, he watched corps after corps splash by, artillery, cavalry, and infantry, nor gave any sign that he heard their plaudits.
at length the army came up behind the city to a place primeval, where the face of the earth was sore and tortured, worn into deep gorges by the rains, and flung up in great mounds. stripped of the green magnolias and the cane, the banks of clay stood forth in hideous yellow nakedness, save for a lonely stunted growth, or a bare trunk that still stood tottering on the edge of a banks its pitiful withered roots reaching out below. the may weather was already sickly hot.
first of all there was a murderous assault, and a still more murderous repulse. three times the besiegers charged, sank their color staffs into the redoubts, and three times were driven back. then the blue army settled into the earth and folded into the ravines. three days in that narrow space between the lines lay the dead and wounded suffering untold agonies in the moist heat. then came a truce to bury the dead, to bring back what was left of the living.
the doomed city had no rest. like clockwork from the mississippi's banks beyond came the boom and shriek of the coehorns on the barges. the big shells hung for an instant in the air like birds of prey, and then could be seen swooping down here and there, while now and anon a shaft of smoke rose straight to the sky, the black monument of a home.
here was work in the trenches, digging the flying sap by night and deepening it by day, for officers and men alike. from heaven a host of blue ants could be seen toiling in zigzags forward, ever forward, along the rude water-cuts and through the hills. a waiting carrion from her vantage point on high marked one spot then another where the blue ants disappeared, and again one by one came out of the burrow to hurry down the trench,--each with his ball of clay.
in due time the ring of metal and sepulchred voices rumbled in the ground beneath the besieged. counter mines were started, and through the narrow walls of earth commands and curses came. above ground the saps were so near that a strange converse became the rule. it was “hello, reb!” “howdy, yank!” both sides were starving, the one for tobacco and the other for hardtack and bacon. these necessities were tossed across, sometimes wrapped in the vicksburg news-sheet printed on the white side of a homely green wall paper. at other times other amenities were indulged in. hand-grenades were thrown and shells with lighted fuses rolled down on the heads of acquaintances of the night before, who replied from wooden coehorns hooped with iron.
the union generals learned (common item in a siege) that the citizens of vicksburg were eating mule meat. not an officer or private in the vicksburg armies who does not remember the 25th of june, and the hour of three in an afternoon of pitiless heat. silently the long blue files wound into position behind the earth barriers which hid them from the enemy, coiled and ready to strike when the towering redoubt on the jackson road should rise heavenwards. by common consent the rifle crack of day and night was hushed, and even the parrotts were silent. stillness closed around the white house of shirley once more, but not the stillness it had known in its peaceful homestead days. this was the stillness of the death prayer. eyes staring at the big redoubt were dimmed. at last, to those near, a little wisp of blue smoke crept out.
then the earth opened with a quake. the sun was darkened, and a hot blast fanned the upturned faces. in the sky, through the film of shattered clay, little black dots scurried, poised, and fell again as arms and legs and head less trunks and shapeless bits of wood and iron. scarcely had the dust settled when the sun caught the light of fifty thousand bayonets, and a hundred shells were shrieking across the crater's edge. earth to earth, alas, and dust to dust! men who ran across that rim of a summer's after-noon died in torture under tier upon tier of their comrades,--and so the hole was filled.
an upright cannon marks the spot where a scrawny oak once stood on a scarred and baked hillside, outside of the confederate lines at vicksburg. under the scanty shade of that tree, on the eve of the nation's birthday, stood two men who typified the future and the past. as at donelson, a trick of fortune's had delivered one comrade of old into the hands of another. now she chose to kiss the one upon whom she had heaped obscurity and poverty and contumely. he had ceased to think or care about fortune. and hence, being born a woman, she favored him.
the two armies watched and were still. they noted the friendly greeting of old comrades, and after that they saw the self-contained northerner biting his cigar, as one to whom the pleasantries of life were past and gone. the south saw her general turn on his heel. the bitterness of his life was come. both sides honored him for the fight he had made. but war does not reward a man according to his deserts.
the next day--the day our sundered nation was born vicksburg surrendered: the obstinate man with the mighty force had conquered. see the gray regiments marching silently in the tropic heat into the folds of that blue army whose grip has choked them at last. silently, too, the blue coats stand, pity and admiration on the brick-red faces. the arms are stacked and surrendered, officers and men are to be parolled when the counting is finished. the formations melt away, and those who for months have sought each other's lives are grouped in friendly talk. the coarse army bread is drawn eagerly from the knapsacks of the blue, smoke quivers above a hundred fires, and the smell of frying bacon brings a wistful look into the gaunt faces. tears stand in the eyes of many a man as he eats the food his yankee brothers have given him on the birthday of their country.
within the city it is the same. stephen brice, now a captain in general lauman's brigade, sees with thanksgiving the stars and stripes flutter from the dome of that court-house which he had so long watched from afar.
later on, down a side street, he pauses before a house with its face blown away. on the verge of one of its jagged floors is an old four-posted bed, and beside it a child's cot is standing pitifully,--the tiny pillow still at the head and the little sheets thrown across the foot. so much for one of the navy's shells.
while he was thinking of the sadness of it all, a little scene was acted: the side door of the house opened, a weeping woman came out, and with her was a tall confederate colonel of cavalry. gallantly giving her his arm, he escorted her as far as the little gate, where she bade him good by with much feeling. with an impulsive movement he drew some money from his pocket, thrust it upon her, and started hurriedly away that he might not listen to her thanks. such was his preoccupation that he actually brushed into stephen, who was standing beside a tree. he stopped and bowed.
“excuse me, seh,” he said contritely. “i beg your pardon, seh.”
“certainly,” said stephen, smiling; “it was my fault for getting in your way.”
“not at all, seh,” said the cavalry colonel; “my clumsiness, seh.” he did not pass on, but stood pulling with some violence a very long mustache. “damn you yankees,” he continued, in the same amiable tone, “you've brought us a heap of misfortune. why, seh, in another week we'd been fo'ced to eat niggers.”
the colonel made such a wry face that stephen laughed in spite of himself. he had marked the man's charitable action, and admired his attempt to cover it. the colonel seemed to be all breadth, like a card. his shoulders were incredible. the face was scant, perchance from lack of food, the nose large, with a curved rim, and the eyes blue gray. he wore clay-flecked cavalry boots, and was six feet five if an inch, so that stephen's six seemed insignificant beside him.
“captain,” he said, taking in stephen's rank, “so we won't qua'l as to who's host heah. one thing's suah,” he added, with a twinkle, “i've been heah longest. seems like ten yeahs since i saw the wife and children down in the palmetto state. i can't offer you a dinner, seh. we've eaten all the mules and rats and sugar cane in town.” (his eye seemed to interpolate that stephen wouldn't be there otherwise.) “but i can offer you something choicer than you have in the no'th.”
whereupon he drew from his hip a dented silver flask. the colonel remarked that stephen's eyes fell on the coat of arms.
“prope'ty of my grandfather, seh, of washington's army. my name is jennison,--catesby jennison, at your service, seh,” he said. “you have the advantage of me, captain.”
“my name is brice,” said stephen.
the big colonel bowed decorously, held out a great, wide hand, and thereupon unscrewed the flask. now stephen had never learned to like straight whiskey, but he took down his share without a face. the exploit seemed to please the colonel, who, after he likewise had done the liquor justice, screwed on the lid with ceremony, offered stephen his arm with still greater ceremony, and they walked off down the street together. stephen drew from his pocket several of judge whipple's cigars, to which his new friend gave unqualified praise.
on every hand vicksburg showed signs of hard usage. houses with gaping chasms in their sides, others mere heaps of black ruins; great trees felled, cabins demolished, and here and there the sidewalk ploughed across from curb to fence.
“lordy,” exclaimed the colonel. “lordy i how my ears ache since your damned coehorns have stopped. the noise got to be silence with us, seh, and yesterday i reckoned a hundred volcanoes had bust. tell me,” said he “when the redoubt over the jackson road was blown up, they said a nigger came down in your lines alive. is that so?”
“yes,” said stephen, smiling; “he struck near the place where my company was stationed. his head ached a mite. that seemed to be all.”
“i reckon he fell on it,” said colonel catesby jennison, as if it were a matter of no special note.
“and now tell me something,” said stephen. “how did you burn our sap-rollers?”
this time the colonel stopped, and gave himself up to hearty laughter.
“why, that was a yankee trick, sure enough,” he cried. “some ingenious cuss soaked port fire in turpentine, and shot the wad in a large-bore musket.”
“we thought you used explosive bullets.”
the colonel laughed again, still more heartily. “explosive bullets!--good lord, it was all we could do to get percussion caps. do you know how we got percussion caps, seh? three of our officers--dare-devils, seh--floated down the mississippi on logs. one fellow made his way back with two hundred thousand. he's the pride of our vicksburg army. not afraid of hell. a chivalrous man, a forlorn-hope man. the night you ran the batteries he and some others went across to your side in skiffs--in skiffs, seh, i say--and set fire to the houses in de soto, that we might see to shoot. and then he came back in the face of our own batteries and your guns. that man was wounded by a trick of fate, by a cussed bit of shell from your coehorns while eating his dinner in vicksburg. he's pretty low, now, poor fellow,” added the colonel, sadly.
“where is he?” demanded stephen, fired with a desire to see the man.
“indeed i am not,” said stephen.
“no,” said the colonel, thoughtfully, as to himself, “you don't look like the man to fool.”
whereupon he set out with great strides, in marked contrast to his former languorous gait, and after a while they came to a sort of gorge, where the street ran between high banks of clay. there stephen saw the magazines which the confederates had dug out, and of which he had heard. but he saw something, too, of which he had not heard, colonel catesby jennison stopped before an open doorway in the yellow bank and knocked. a woman's voice called softly to him to enter.
they went into a room hewn out of the solid clay. carpet was stretched on the floor, paper was on the walls, and even a picture. there was a little window cut like a port in a prison cell, and under it a bed, beside which a middle-aged lady was seated. she had a kindly face which seemed to stephen a little pinched as she turned to them with a gesture of restraint. she pointed to the bed, where a sheet lay limply over the angles of a wasted frame. the face was to the wall.
“hush!” said the lady,--“it is the first time in two days that he has slept.”
but the sleeper stirred wearily, and woke with a start. he turned over. the face, so yellow and peaked, was of the type that grows even more handsome in sickness, and in the great fever-stricken eyes a high spirit burned. for an instant only the man stared at stephen, and then he dragged himself to the wall.
the eyes of the other two were both fixed on the young union captain.
“my god!” cried jennison, seizing stephen's rigid arm, “does he look as bad as that? we've seen him every day.”
“i--i know him,” answered stephen. he stepped quickly to the bedside, and bent over it. “colfax!” he said. “colfax!”
“this is too much, jennison,” came from the bed a voice that was pitifully weak; “why do you bring yankees in here?”
“captain brice is a friend of yours, colfax,” said the colonel, tugging at his mustache.
“brice?” repeated clarence, “brice? does he come from st. louis?”
“do you come from st. louis, sir?”
“yes. i have met captain colfax--”
“colonel colfax, before the war! and if he would like to go to st. louis, i think i can have it arranged at once.”
in silence they waited for clarence's answer stephen well knew what was passing in his mind, and guessed at his repugnance to accept a favor from a yankee. he wondered whether there was in this case a special detestation. and so his mind was carried far to the northward to the memory of that day in the summer-house on the meramee heights. virginia had not loved her cousin then--of that stephen was sure. but now,--now that the vicksburg army was ringing with his praise, now that he was unfortunate--stephen sighed. his comfort was that he would be the instrument.
the lady in her uneasiness smoothed the single sheen that covered the sick man. from afar came the sound of cheering, and it was this that seemed to rouse him. he faced them again, impatiently.
“i have reason to remember mr. brice,” he said steadily. and then, with some vehemence, “what is he doing in vicksburg?”
stephen looked at jennison, who winced.
“the city has surrendered,” said that officer.
they counted on a burst of anger. colfax only groaned.
“then you can afford to be generous,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “but you haven't whipped us yet, by a good deal. jennison,” he cried, “jennison, why in hell did you give up?”
“colfax,” said stephen, coming forward, “you're too sick a man to talk. i'll look up the general. it may be that i can have you sent north to-day.”
“you can do as you please,” said clarence, coldly, “with a--prisoner.”
the blood rushed to stephen's face. bowing to the lady, he strode out of the room. colonel jennison, running after him, caught him in the street.
“you're not offended, brice?” he said. “he's sick--and god almighty, he's proud--i reckon,” he added with a touch of humility that went straight to stephen's heart. “i reckon that some of us are too derned proud--but we ain't cold.”
stephen grasped his hand.
“offended!” he said. “i admire the man. i'll go to the general directly. but just let me thank you. and i hope, colonel, that we may meet again--as friends.” “hold on, seh,” said colonel catesby jennison; “we may as well drink to that.”
fortunately, as stephen drew near the court house, he caught sight of a group of officers seated on its steps, and among them he was quick to recognize general sherman.
“brice,” said the general, returning his salute, “been celebrating this glorious fourth with some of our rebel friends?”
“yes, sir,” answered stephen, “and i came to ask a favor for one of them.” seeing that the general's genial, interested expression did not change, he was emboldened to go on. “this is one of their colonels, sir. you may have heard of him. he is the man who floated down the river on a log and brought back two hundred thousand percussion caps--”
“good lord,” interrupted the general, “i guess we all heard of him after that. what else has he done to endear himself?” he asked, with a smile.
“well, general, he rowed across the river in a skiff the night we ran these batteries, and set fire to de soto to make targets for their gunners.”
“i'd like to see that man,” said the general, in his eager way. “where is he?”
“what i was going to tell you, sir. after he went through all this, he was hit by a piece of mortar shell, while sitting at his dinner. he's rather far gone now, general, and they say he can't live unless he can be sent north. i--i know who he is in st. louis. and i thought that as long as the officers are to be paroled i might get your permission to send him up to-day.”
“what's his name?”
the general laughed. “i know the breed,” said he, “i'll bet he didn't thank you.”
“no, sir, he didn't.”
“i like his grit,” said the general, emphatically, “these young bloods are the backbone of this rebellion, brice. they were made for war. they never did anything except horse-racing and cock-fighting. they ride like the devil, fight like the devil, but don't care a picayune for anything. walker had some of 'em. crittenden had some. and, good lord, how they hate a yankee! i know this colfax, too. he's a cousin of that fine-looking girl brinsmade spoke of. they say he's engaged to her. be a pity to disappoint her--eh?”
“why, captain, i believe you would like to marry her yourself! take my advice, sir, and don't try to tame any wildcats.”
“i'm glad to do a favor for that young man,” said the general, when stephen had gone off with the slip of paper he had given him. “i like to do that kind of a favor for any officer, when i can. did you notice how he flared up when i mentioned the girl?”
this is why clarence colfax found himself that evening on a hospital steamer of the sanitary commission, bound north for st. louis.
chapter xi. bellegarde once more
supper at bellegarde was not the simple meal it had been for a year past at colonel carvel's house in town. mrs. colfax was proud of her table, proud of her fried chickens and corn fritters and her desserts. how virginia chafed at those suppers, and how she despised the guests whom her aunt was in the habit of inviting to some of them! and when none was present, she was forced to listen to mrs. colfax's prattle about the fashions, her tirades against the yankees.
“i'm sure he must be dead,” said that lady, one sultry evening in july. her tone, however, was not one of conviction. a lazy wind from the river stirred the lawn of virginia's gown. the girl, with her hand on the wicker back of the chair, was watching a storm gather to the eastward, across the illinois prairie.
“i don't see why you say that, aunt lillian,” she replied. “bad news travels faster than good.”
“and not a word from comyn. it is cruel of him not to send us a line, telling us where his regiment is.”
virginia did not reply. she had long since learned that the wisdom of silence was the best for her aunt's unreasonableness. certainly, if clarence's letters could not pass the close lines of the federal troops, news of her father's texas regiment could not come from red river.
“how was judge whipple to-day?” asked mrs. colfax presently.
“very weak. he doesn't seem to improve much.”
“i can't see why mrs. brice,--isn't that her name?--doesn't take him to her house. yankee women are such prudes.”
virginia began to rock slowly, and her foot tapped the porch.
“mrs. brice has begged the judge to come to her. but he says he has lived in those rooms, and that he will die there,--when the time comes.”
“how you worship that woman, virginia! you have become quite a yankee yourself, i believe, spending whole days with her, nursing that old man.”
“the judge is an old friend of my father's; i think he would wish it,” replied the girl, in a lifeless voice.
her speech did not reveal all the pain and resentment she felt. she thought of the old man racked with pain and suffering in the heat, lying patient on his narrow bed, the only light of life remaining the presence of the two women. they came day by day, and often margaret brice had taken the place of the old negress who sat with him at night. worship margaret brice! yes, it was worship; it had been worship since the day she and her father had gone to the little whitewashed hospital. providence had brought them together at the judge's bedside. the marvellous quiet power of the older woman had laid hold of the girl in spite of all barriers.
often when the judge's pain was eased sufficiently for him to talk, he would speak of stephen. the mother never spoke of her son, but a light would come into her eyes at this praise of him which thrilled virginia to see. and when the good lady was gone, and the judge had fallen into slumber, it would still haunt her.
was it out of consideration for her that mrs. brice would turn the judge from this topic which he seemed to love best? virginia could not admit to herself that she resented this. she had heard stephen's letters to the judge. they came every week. strong and manly they were, with plenty of praises for the southern defenders of vicksburg. only yesterday virginia had read one of these to mr. whipple, her face burning. well that his face was turned to the window, and that stephen's mother was not there!
“he says very little about himself,” mr. whipple complained. “had it not been for brinsmade, we should never know that sherman had his eye on him, and had promoted him. we should never have known of that exploit at chickasaw bluff. but what a glorious victory was grant's capture of vicksburg, on the fourth of july! i guess we'll make short work of the rebels now.”
no, the judge had not changed much, even in illness. he would never change. virginia laid the letter down, and tears started to her eyes as she repressed a retort. it was not the first time this had happened. at every union victory mr. whipple would loose his tongue. how strange that, with all his thought of others, he should fall short here!
one day, after unusual forbearance, mrs. brice had overtaken virginia on the stairway. well she knew the girl's nature, and how difficult she must have found repression. margaret brice had taken her hand.
“my dear,” she had said, “you are a wonderful woman.” that was all. but virginia had driven back to bellegarde with a strange elation in her heart.
some things the judge had forborne to mention, and for this virginia was thankful. one was the piano. but she had overheard shadrach telling old nancy how mrs. brice had pleaded with him to move it, that he might have more room and air. he had been obdurate. and colonel carvel's name had never once passed his lips.
many a night the girl had lain awake listening to the steamboats as they toiled against the river's current, while horror held her. horror lest her father at that moment be in mortal agony amongst the heaps left by the battle's surges; heaps in which, like mounds of ashes, the fire was not yet dead. fearful tales she had heard in the prison hospitals of wounded men lying for days in the southern sun between the trenches at vicksburg, or freezing amidst the snow and sleet at donelson.
was her bitterness against the north not just? what a life had been colonel carvel's! it had dawned brightly. one war had cost him his wife. another, and he had lost his fortune, his home, his friends, all that was dear to him. and that daughter, whom he loved best in all the world, he was perchance to see no more.
mrs. colfax, yawning, had taken a book and gone to bed. still virginia sat on the porch, while the frogs sang of rain, and the lightning quivered across the eastern sky. she heard the crunch of wheels in the gravel.
a bar of light, peopled by moths, slanted out of the doorway and fell on a closed carriage. a gentleman slowly ascended the steps. virginia recognized him as mr. brinsmade.
“your cousin clarence has come home, my dear,” he said. “he was among the captured at vicksburg, and is paroled by general grant.”
virginia gave a little cry and started forward. but he held her hands.
“he has been wounded!”
“yes,” she exclaimed, “yes. oh, tell me, mr. brinsmade, tell me--all--”
“no, he is not dead, but he is very low. mr. russell has been kind enough to come with me.”
she hurried to call the servants. but they were all there in the light, in african postures of terror,--alfred, and sambo, and mammy easter, and ned. they lifted the limp figure in gray, and carried it into the hall chamber, his eyes closed, his face waxen under a beard brown and shaggy. heavily, virginia climbed the stairs to break the news to her aunt.
there is little need to dwell on the dark days which followed--clarence hanging between life and death. that his life was saved was due to virginia and to mammy easter, and in no particle to his mother. mrs. colfax flew in the face of all the known laws of nursing, until virginia was driven to desperation, and held a council of war with dr. polk. then her aunt grew jealous, talked of a conspiracy, and threatened to send for dr. brown--which dr. polk implored her to do. by spells she wept, when they quietly pushed her from the room and locked the door. she would creep in to him in the night during mammy easter's watches and talk him into a raging fever. but virginia slept lightly and took the alarm. more than one scene these two had in the small hours, while ned was riding post haste over the black road to town for the doctor.
'twas he who brought virginia daily news of judge whipple. bad news, alas! for he seemed to miss her greatly. he had become more querulous and exacting with patient mrs. brice, and inquired for her continually.
she would not go. but often, when he got into his buggy the doctor found the seat filled with roses and fresh fruit. well he knew where to carry them.
what virginia's feelings were at this time no one will ever know. god had mercifully given her occupation, first with the judge, and later, when she needed it more, with clarence. it was she whom he recognized first of all, whose name was on his lips in his waking moments. with the petulance of returning reason, he pushed his mother away. unless virginia was at his bedside when he awoke, his fever rose. he put his hot hand into her cool one, and it rested there sometimes for hours. then, and only then, did he seem contented.
the wonder was that her health did not fail. people who saw her during that fearful summer, fresh and with color in her cheeks, marvelled. great-hearted puss russell, who came frequently to inquire, was quieted before her friend, and the frank and jesting tongue was silent in that presence. anne brinsmade came with her father and wondered. a miracle had changed virginia. her poise, her gentleness, her dignity, were the effects which people saw. her force people felt. and this is why we cannot of ourselves add one cubit to our stature. it is god who changes,--who cleanses us of our levity with the fire of trial. happy, thrice happy, those whom he chasteneth. and yet how many are there who could not bear the fire--who would cry out at the flame.
little by little clarence mended, until he came to sit out on the porch in the cool of the afternoon. then he would watch for hours the tassels stirring over the green fields of corn and the river running beyond, while the two women sat by. at times, when mrs. colfax's headaches came on, and virginia was alone with him, he would talk of the war; sometimes of their childhood, of the mad pranks they played here at bellegarde, of their friends. only when virginia read to him the northern account of the battles would he emerge from a calm sadness into excitement; and he clenched his fists and tried to rise when he heard of the capture of jackson and the fall of port hudson. of love he spoke not a word, and now that he was better he ceased to hold her hand. but often when she looked up from her book, she would surprise his dark eyes fixed upon her, and a look in them of but one interpretation. she was troubled.
the doctor came but every other day now, in the afternoon. it was his custom to sit for a while on the porch chatting cheerily with virginia, his stout frame filling the rocking-chair. dr. polk's indulgence was gossip--though always of a harmless nature: how mr. cluyme always managed to squirm over to the side which was in favor, and how maude catherwood's love-letter to a certain dashing officer of the confederate army had been captured and ruthlessly published in the hateful democrat. it was the doctor who gave virginia news of the judge, and sometimes he would mention mrs. brice. then clarence would raise his head; and once (she saw with trepidation) he had opened his lips to speak.
one day the doctor came, and virginia looked into his face and divined that he had something to tell her. he sat but a few moments, and when he arose to go he took her hand.
“i have a favor to beg of you, jinny,” he said, “judge has lost his nurse. do you think clarence could spare you for a little while every day? i shouldn't ask it,” dr. polk continued, somewhat hurriedly for him, “but the judge cannot bear a stranger near him, and i am afraid to have him excited while in this condition.”
“mrs. brice is ill?” she cried. and clarence, watching, saw her color go.
“no,” replied dr. polk, “but her son stephen has come home from the army. he was transferred to lauman's brigade, and then he was wounded.” he jangled the keys in his pocket and continued “it seems that he had no business in the battle. johnston in his retreat had driven animals into all the ponds and shot them, and in the hot weather the water was soon poisoned. mr. brice was scarcely well enough to stand when they made the charge, and he is now in a dreadful condition he is a fine fellow,” added the doctor, with a sigh, “general sherman sent a special physician to the boat with him. he is--” subconsciously the doctor's arm sought virginia's back, as though he felt her swaying. but he was looking at clarence, who had jerked himself forward in his chair, his thin hands convulsively clutching at the arms of it. he did not appear to see virginia.
“stephen brice, did you say?” he cried, “will he die?”
in his astonishment the doctor passed his palm across his brow, and for a moment he did not answer. virginia had taken a step from him, and was standing motionless, almost rigid, her eyes on his face.
“die?” he said, repeating the word mechanically; “my god, i hope not. the danger is over, and he is resting easily. if he were not,” he said quickly and forcibly, “i should not be here.”
the doctor's mare passed more than one fleet--footed trotter on the road to town that day. and the doctor's black servant heard his master utter the word “fool” twice, and with great emphasis.
for a long time virginia stood on the end of the porch, until the heaving of the buggy harness died on the soft road, she felt clarence gaze upon her before she turned to face him.
“virginia!” he had called her so of late. “yes, dear.”
“virginia, sit here a moment; i have something to tell you.”
she came and took the chair beside him, her heart beating, her breast rising and falling. she looked into his eyes, and her own lashes fell before the hopelessness there but he put out his fingers wasted by illness, and she took them in her own.
he began slowly, as if every word cost him pain.
“virginia, we were children together here. i cannot remember the time when i did not love you, when i did not think of you as my wife. all i did when we played together was to try to win your applause. that was my nature i could not help it. do you remember the day i climbed out on the rotten branch of the big pear tree yonder to get you that pear--when i fell on the roof of alfred's cabin? i did not feel the pain. it was because you kissed it and cried over me. you are crying now,” he said tenderly. “don't, jinny. it isn't to make you sad that i am saying this.
“i have had a great deal of time to think lately, jinny, i was not brought up seriously,--to be a man. i have been thinking of that day just before you were eighteen, when you rode out here. how well i remember it. it was a purple day. the grapes were purple, and a purple haze was over there across the river. you had been cruel to me. you were grown a woman then, and i was still nothing but a boy. do you remember the doe coming out of the forest, and how she ran screaming when i tried to kiss you? you told me i was good for nothing. please don't interrupt me. it was true what you said, that i was wild and utterly useless, i had never served or pleased any but myself,--and you. i had never studied or worked, you were right when you told me i must learn something,--do something,--become of some account in the world. i am just as useless to day.”
“clarence, after what you have done for the south?”
he smiled with peculiar bitterness.
“what have i done for her?” he added. “crossed the river and burned houses. i could not build them again. floated down the river on a log after a few percussion caps. that did not save vicksburg.”
“and how many had the courage to do that?” she exclaimed.
“pooh,” he said, “courage! the whole south has it, courage! if i did not have that, i would send sambo to my father's room for his ebony box and blow my brains out. no, jinny, i am nothing but a soldier of fortune. i never possessed any quality but a wild spirit for adventure, to shirk work. i wanted to go with walker, you remember. i wanted to go to kansas. i wanted to distinguish myself,” he added with a gesture. “but that is all gone now, jinny. i wanted to distinguish myself for you. now i see how an earnest life might have won you. no, i have not done yet.”
she raised her head, frightened, and looked at him searchingly.
“one day,” he said, “one day a good many years ago you and i and uncle comyn were walking along market street in front of judge whipple's office, and a slave auction was going on. a girl was being sold on whom you had set your heart. there was some one in the crowd, a yankee, who bid her in and set her free. do you remember him?”
he saw her profile, her lips parted, her look far away, she inclined her head.
“yes,” said her cousin, “so do i remember him. he has crossed my path many times since, virginia. and mark what i say--it was he whom you had in mind on that birthday when you implored me to make something of myself, it was stephen brice.”
her eyes flashed upon him quickly.
“oh, how dare you?” she cried.
“i dare anything, virginia,” he answered quietly. “i am not blaming you. and i am sure that you did not realize that he was the ideal which you had in mind.”
“the impression of him has never left it. fate is in it. again, that night at the brinsmades', when we were in fancy dress, i felt that i had lost you when i got back. he had been there when i was away, and gone again. and--and--you never told me.”
“it was a horrible mistake, max,” she faltered. “i was waiting for you down the road, and stopped his horse instead. it--it was nothing--”
“it was fate, jinny. in that half-hour i lost you. how i hated that man,” he cried, “how i hated him?”
“hated!” exclaimed virginia, involuntarily. “oh, no!”
“yes,” he said, “hated! i would have killed him if i could. but now--”
“now he has saved my life. i have not--i could not tell you before: he came into the place where i was lying in vicksburg, and they told him that my only chance was to come north, i turned my back upon him, insulted him. yet he went to sherman and had me brought home--to you, virginia. if he loves you,--and i have long suspected that he does--”
“oh, no,” she cried, hiding her face “no.”
“i know he loves you, jinny,” her cousin continued calmly, inexorably. “and you know that he does. you must feel that he does. it was a brave thing to do, and a generous. he knew that you were engaged to me. he thought that he was saving me for you. he was giving up the hope of marrying you himself.”
virginia sprang to her feet. unless you had seen her then, you had never known the woman in her glory.
“marry a yankee!” she cried. “clarence colfax, have you known and loved me all my life that you might accuse me of this? never, never, never!” transformed, he looked incredulous admiration.
“jinny, do you mean it?” he cried.
in answer she bent down with all that gentleness and grace that was hers, and pressed her lips to his forehead. long after she had disappeared in the door he sat staring after her.
but later, when mammy easter went to call her mistress for supper, she found her with her face buried in the pillows.
chapter x. in judge whipple's office
“my dear,” he said, smiling admiration, “forgive an old bear. a selfish old bear, jinny; my only excuse is my love for the union. when you are not here, i lie in agony, lest she has suffered some mortal blow unknown to me, jinny. and if god sees fit to spare our great country, the day will come when you will go down on your knees and thank him for the inheritance which he saved for your children. you are a good woman, my dear, and a strong one. i have hoped that you will see the right. that you will marry a great citizen, one unwavering in his service and devotion to our republic.” the judge's voice trembled with earnestness as he spoke. and the gray eyes under the shaggy brows were alight with the sacred fire of his life's purpose. undaunted as her spirit was, she could not answer him then.
once, only once, he said to her: “virginia, i loved your father better than any man i ever knew. please god i may see him again before i die.”
he never spoke of the piano. but sometimes at twilight his eyes would rest on the black cloth that hid it.
virginia herself never touched that cloth to her it seemed the shroud upon a life of happiness that was dead and gone.
virginia had not been with judge whipple during the critical week after stephen was brought home. but anne had told her that his anxiety was a pitiful thing to see, and that it had left him perceptibly weaker. certain it was that he was failing fast. so fast that on some days virginia, watching him, would send ned or shadrach in hot haste for dr. polk.
at noon anne would relieve virginia,--anne or her mother,--and frequently mr. brinsmade would come likewise. for it is those who have the most to do who find the most time for charitable deeds. as the hour for their coming drew near, the judge would be seeking the clock, and scarce did anne's figure appear in the doorway before the question had arisen to his lips--“and how is my young captain to-day?”
that is what he called him,--“my young captain.” virginia's choice of her cousin, and her devotion to him, while seemingly natural enough, had drawn many a sigh from anne. she thought it strange that virginia herself had never once asked her about stephen's condition and she spoke of this one day to the judge with as much warmth as she was capable of.
“jinny's heart is like steel where a yankee is concerned. if her best friend were a yankee--”
judge whipple checked her, smiling.
“she has been very good to one yankee i know of,” he said. “and as for mrs. brice, i believe she worships her.”
“but when i said that stephen was much better to-day, she swept out of the room as if she did not care whether he lived or died.”
“well, anne,” the judge had answered, “you women are a puzzle to me. i guess you don't understand yourselves,” he added.
that was a strange month in the life of clarence colfax,--the last of his recovery, while he was waiting for the news of his exchange. bellegarde was never more beautiful, for mrs. colfax had no whim of letting the place run down because a great war was in progress. though devoted to the south, she did not consecrate her fortune to it. clarence gave as much as he could.
whole afternoons virginia and he would sit in the shaded arbor seat; or at the cool of the day descend to the bench on the lower tier of the summer garden, to steep, as it were, in the blended perfumes of the roses and the mignonettes and the pinks. he was soberer than of old. often through the night he pondered on the change in her. she, too, was grave. but he was troubled to analyze her gravity, her dignity. was this merely strength of character, the natural result of the trials through which she had passed, the habit acquired of being the helper and comforter instead of the helped and comforted? long years afterward the brightly colored portrait of her remained in his eye,--the simple linen gown of pink or white, the brown hair shining in the sunlight, the graceful poise of the head. and the background of flowers--flowers everywhere, far from the field of war.
sometimes, when she brought his breakfast on a tray in the morning, there was laughter in her eyes. in the days gone by they had been all laughter.
they were engaged. she was to be his wife. he said it over to himself many, many times in the day. he would sit for a space, feasting his eyes upon her until she lifted her look to his, and the rich color flooded her face. he was not a lover to sit quietly by, was clarence. and yet, as the winged days flew on, that is what he did, it was not that she did not respond to his advances, he did not make them. nor could he have told why. was it the chivalry inherited from a long life of colfaxes who were gentlemen? not wholly. something of awe had crept into his feeling for her.
and day by day that power seemed to grow more intense,--invulnerable. among her friends and in the little household it had raised virginia to heights which she herself did not seem to realize. she was become the mistress of bellegarde. mrs. colfax was under its sway, and doubly miserable because clarence would listen to her tirades no more.
“when are you to be married?” she had ventured to ask him once. nor had she taken pains to hide the sarcasm in her voice.
his answer, bringing with it her remembrance of her husband at certain times when it was not safe to question him, had silenced her. addison colfax had not been a quiet man. when he was quiet he was dangerous.
“whenever virginia is ready, mother,” he had replied. whenever virginia was ready! he knew in his heart that if he were to ask her permission to send for dr. posthelwaite to-morrow that she would say yes. tomorrow came,--and with it a great envelope, an official, answer to clarence's report that he was fit for duty once more. he had been exchanged. he was to proceed to cairo, there to await the arrival of the transport indianapolis, which was to carry five hundred officers and men from sandusky prison, who were going back to fight once more for the confederacy. o that they might have seen the north, all those brave men who made that sacrifice. that they might have realized the numbers and the resources and the wealth arrayed against them!
it was a cool day for september, a perfect day, an auspicious day, and yet it went the way of the others before it. this was the very fulness of the year, the earth giving out the sweetness of her maturity, the corn in martial ranks, with golden plumes nodding. the forest still in its glory of green. they walked in silence the familiar paths, and alfred, clipping the late roses for the supper table, shook his white head as they passed him. the sun, who had begun to hurry on his southward journey, went to bed at six. the few clothes clarence was to take with him had been packed by virginia in his bag, and the two were standing in the twilight on the steps of the house, when ned came around the corner. he called his young mistress by name, but she did not hear him. he called again.
she started as from a sleep, and paused.
“yes, mr. johnson,” said she, and smiled. he wore that air of mystery so dear to darkeys.
“gemmen to see you, miss jinny.”
“a gentleman!” she said in surprise. “where?”
the negro pointed to the lilac shrubbery.
“what's all this nonsense, ned?” said clarence, sharply: “if a man is there, bring him here at once.”
“reckon he won't come, marse clarence.” said ned, “he fearful skeered ob de light ob day. he got suthin very pertickler fo' miss jinny.”
“do you know him?” clarence demanded.
“no sah--yessah--leastwise i'be seed 'um. name's robimson.”
the word was hardly out of his mouth before virginia had leaped down the four feet from the porch to the flower-bed and was running across the lawn toward the shrubbery. parting the bushes after her, clarence found his cousin confronting a large man, whom he recognized as the carrier who brought messages from the south.
“what's the matter, jinny?” he demanded.
“pa has got through the lines,” she said breathlessly. “he--he came up to see me. where is he, robinson?”
“he went to judge whipple's rooms, ma'am. they say the judge is dying. i reckoned you knew it, miss jinny,” robinson added contritely.
“clarence,” she said, “i must go at once.”
“i will go with you,” he said; “you cannot go alone.” in a twinkling ned and sambo had the swift pair of horses harnessed, and the light carriage was flying over the soft clay road toward the city. as they passed mr. brinsmade's place, the moon hung like a great round lantern under the spreading trees about the house. clarence caught a glimpse of his cousin's face in the light. she was leaning forward, her gaze fixed intently on the stone posts which stood like monuments between the bushes at the entrance. then she drew back again into the dark corner of the barouche. she was startled by a sharp challenge, and the carriage stopped. looking out, she saw the provost's guard like black card figures on the road, and ned fumbling for his pass.
on they drove into the city streets until the dark bulk of the court house loomed in front of them, and ned drew rein at the little stairway which led to the judge's rooms. virginia, leaping out of the carriage, flew up the steps and into the outer office, and landed in the colonel's arms.
“oh, pa!” she cried. “why do you risk your life in this way? if the yankees catch you--”
“they won't catch me, honey,” he answered, kissing her. then he held her out at arm's length and gazed earnestly into her face. trembling, she searched his own. “pa, how old you look!”
“i'm not precisely young, my dear,” he said, smiling. his hair was nearly white, and his face scared. but he was a fine erect figure of a man, despite the shabby clothes he wore, and the mud-bespattered boots.
“pa,” she whispered, “it was foolhardy to come here. why did you come to st. louis at all?”
“i came to see you, jinny, i reckon. and when i got home to-night and heard silas was dying, i just couldn't resist. he's the oldest friend i've got in st. louis, honey and now--now--”
“pa, you've been in battle?”
“yes,” he said.
“and you weren't hurt; i thank god for that,” she whispered. after a while: “is uncle silas dying?”
“yes, jinny; dr. polk is in there now, and says that he can't last through the night. silas has been asking for you, honey, over and over. he says you were very good to him,--that you and mrs. brice gave up everything to nurse him.”
“she did,” virginia faltered. “she was here night and day until her son came home. she is a noble woman--”
“her son?” repeated the colonel. “stephen brice? silas has done nothing the last half-hour but call his name. he says he must see the boy before he dies. polk says he is not strong enough to come.”
“oh, no, he is not strong enough,” cried virginia. the colonel looked down at her queerly. “where is clarence?” he asked.
she had not thought of clarence. she turned hurriedly, glanced around the room, and then peered down the dark stairway.
“why, he came in with me. i wonder why he did not follow me up?”
“virginia, are you happy?”
“why, yes, pa.”
“are you going to marry clarence?” he asked.
“i have promised,” she said simply.
then after a long pause, seeing her father said nothing, she added, “perhaps he was waiting for you to see me alone. i will go down to see if he is in the carriage.”
the colonel started with her, but she pulled him back in alarm.
“you will be seen, pa,” she cried. “how can you be so reckless?”
he stayed at the top of the passage, holding open the door that she might have light. when she reached the sidewalk, there was ned standing beside the horses, and the carriage empty.
“yass'm, miss jinny.”
“where's mr. clarence?”
“he done gone, miss tinny.”
“yass'm. fust i seed was a man plump out'n willums's, miss jinny. he was a-gwine shufflin' up de street when marse clarence put out after him, pos' has'e. den he run.”
she stood for a moment on the pavement in thought, and paused on the stairs again, wondering whether it were best to tell her father. perhaps clarence had seen--she caught her breath at the thought and pushed open the door.
“oh, pa, do you think you are safe here?” she cried. “why, yes, honey, i reckon so,” he answered. “where's clarence?”
“ned says he ran after a man who was hiding in an entrance. pa, i am afraid they are watching the place.”
“i don't think so, jinny. i came here with polk, in his buggy, after dark.”
virginia, listening, heard footsteps on the stairs, and seized her father's sleeve.
“think of the risk you are running, pa,” she whispered. she would have dragged him to the closet. but it was too late. the door opened, and mr. brinsmade entered, and with him a lady veiled.
at sight of mr. carvel mr. brinsmade started back in surprise. how long he stared at his old friend virginia could not say. it seemed to her an eternity. but mrs. brice has often told since how straight the colonel stood, his fine head thrown back, as he returned the glance. then mr. brinsmade came forward, with his hand outstretched.
“comyn,” said he, his voice breaking a little, “i have known you these many years as a man of unstained honor. you are safe with me. i ask no questions. god will judge whether i have done my duty.”
mr. carvel took his friend's hand. “thank you, calvin,” he said. “i give you my word of honor as a gentleman that i came into this city for no other reason than to see my daughter. and hearing that my old friend was dying, i could not resist the temptation, sir--”
mr. brinsmade finished for him. and his voice shook.
“to come to his bedside. how many men do you think would risk their lives so, mrs. brice?”
“not many, indeed, mr. brinsmade,” she answered. “thank god he will now die happy. i know it has been much on his mind.”
the colonel bowed over her hand.
“and in his name, madam,--in the name of my oldest and best friend,--i thank you for what you have done for him. i trust that you will allow me to add that i have learned from my daughter to respect and admire you. i hope that your son is doing well.”
“he is, thank you, colonel carvel. if he but knew that the judge were dying, i could not have kept him at home. dr. polk says that he must not leave the house, or undergo any excitement.”
just then the door of the inner room opened, and dr. polk came out. he bowed gravely to mrs. brice and mr. brinsmade, and he patted virginia.
“the judge is still asleep,” he said gently. “and--he may not wake up in this world.”
what was that upon the sleeper's face from which they drew back? a smile? yes, and a light. the divine light which is shed upon those who have lived for others, who have denied themselves the lusts of the flesh, for a long space, perhaps an hour, they stayed, silent save for a low word now and again from the doctor as he felt the judge's heart. tableaux from the past floated before virginia's eyes. of the old days, of the happy days in locust street, of the judge quarrelling with her father, and she and captain lige smiling nearby. and she remembered how sometimes when the controversy was finished the judge would rub his nose and say:
“it's my turn now, lige.”
whereupon the captain would open the piano, and she would play the hymn that he liked best. it was “lead, kindly light.”
what was it in silas whipple's nature that courted the pain of memories? what pleasure could it have been all through his illness to look upon this silent and cruel reminder of days gone by forever? she had heard that stephen brice had been with the judge when he had bid it in. she wondered that he had allowed it, for they said that he was the only one who had ever been known to break the judge's will. virginia's eyes rested on margaret brice, who was seated at the head of the bed, smoothing the pillows the strength of stephen's features were in hers, but not the ruggedness. her features were large, indeed, yet stanch and softened. the widow, as if feeling virginia's look upon her, glanced up from the judge's face and smiled at her. the girl colored with pleasure, and again at the thought which she had had of the likeness between mother and son.
still the judge slept on, while they watched. and at length the thought of clarence crossed virginia's mind.
why had he not returned? perhaps he was in the office without. whispering to her father, she stole out on tiptoe. the office was empty. descending to the street, she was unable to gain any news of clarence from ned, who was becoming alarmed likewise.
perplexed and troubled, she climbed the stairs again. no sound came from the judge's room perhaps clarence would be back at any moment. perhaps her father was in danger. she sat down to think,--her elbows on the desk in front of her, her chin in her hand, her eyes at the level of a line of books which stood on end.--chitty's pleadings, blackstone, greenleaf on evidence. absently; as a person whose mind is in trouble, she reached out and took one of them down and opened it. across the flyleaf, in a high and bold hand, was written the name, stephen atterbury brice.
it was his desk! she was sitting in his chair!
she dropped the book, and, rising abruptly, crossed quickly to the other side of the room. then she turned, hesitatingly, and went back. this was his desk--his chair, in which he had worked so faithfully for the man who lay dying beyond the door. for him whom they all loved--whose last hours they were were to soothe. wars and schisms may part our bodies, but stronger ties unite our souls. through silas whipple, through his mother, virginia knew that she was woven of one piece with stephen brice. in a thousand ways she was reminded, lest she drive it from her belief. she might marry another, and that would not matter.
she sank again into his chair, and gave herself over to the thoughts crowding in her heart. how the threads of his life ran next to hers, and crossed and recrossed them. the slave auction, her dance with him, the fair, the meeting at mr. brinsmade's gate,--she knew them all. her love and admiration for his mother. her dreams of him--for she did dream of him. and now he had saved clarence's life that she might marry her cousin. was it true that she would marry clarence? that seemed to her only a dream. it had never seemed real. again she glanced at the signature in the book, as if fascinated by the very strength of it. she turned over a few pages of the book, “supposing the defendant's counsel essays to prove by means of--” that was his writing again, a marginal, note. there were marginal notes on every page--even the last was covered with them, and then at the end, “first reading, february, 1858. second reading, july, 1858. bought with some of money obtained by first article for m. d.” that capacity for work, incomparable gift, was what she had always coveted the most. again she rested her elbows on the desk and her chin on her hands, and sighed unconsciously.
she had not heard the step on the stair. she had not seen the door open. she did not know that any one wage in the room until she heard his voice, and then she thought that she was dreaming.
“yes?” her head did not move. he took a step toward her.
slowly she raised her face to his, unbelief and wonder in her eyes,--unbelief and wonder and fright. no; it could not be he. but when she met the quality of his look, the grave tenderness of it, she trembled, and our rendered her own to the page where his handwriting quivered and became a blur.
he never knew the effort it cost her to rise and confront him. she herself had not measured or fathomed the power which his very person exhaled. it seemed to have come upon him suddenly. he needed not to have spoken for her to have felt that. what it was she could not tell. she knew alone that it was nigh irresistible, and she grasped the back of the chair as though material support might sustain her.
she was breathing hard.
“no,” she said. “not--not yet, they are waiting for the end.”
“and you?” he asked in grave surprise, glancing at the door of the judge's room.
then she remembered clarence.
“i am waiting for my cousin,” she said.
even as she spoke she was with this man again at the brinsmade gate. those had been her very words! intuition told her that he, too, was thinking of that time. now he had found her at his desk, and, as if that were not humiliation enough, with one of his books taken down and laid open at his signature. suffused, she groped for words to carry her on.
“i am waiting for clarence, mr. brice. he was here, and is gone somewhere.”
he did not seem to take account of the speech. and his silence--goad to indiscretion--pressed her to add:-- “you saved him, mr. brice. i--we all--thank you so much. and that is not all i want to say. it is a poor enough acknowledgment of what you did,--for we have not always treated you well.” her voice faltered almost to faintness, as he raised his hand in pained protest. but she continued: “i shall regard it as a debt i can never repay. it is not likely that in my life to come i can ever help you, but i shall pray for that opportunity.”
he interrupted her.
“i did nothing, miss carvel, nothing that the most unfeeling man in our army would not do. nothing that i would not have done for the merest stranger.”
“you saved him for me,” she said.
o fateful words that spoke of themselves! she turned away from him for very shame, and yet she heard him saying:-- “yes, i saved him for you.”
his voice was in the very note of the sadness which has the strength to suffer, to put aside the thought of self. a note to which her soul responded with anguish when she turned to him with the natural cry of woman.
“oh, you ought not to have come here to-night. why did you come? the doctor forbade it. the consequences may kill you.”
“it does not matter much,” he answered. “the judge was dying.”
“how did you know?”
“i guessed it,--because my mother had left me.”
“oh, you ought not to have come!” she said again.
“the judge has been my benefactor,” he answered quietly. “i could walk, and it was my duty to come.”
“you did not walk!” she gasped.
he smiled, “i had no carriage,” he said.
with the instinct of her sex she seized the chair and placed it under him. “you must sit down at once,” she cried.
“but i am not tired,” he replied.
“oh, you must sit down, you must, captain brice.” he started at the title, which came so prettily from her lips, “won't you please!” she said pleadingly.
he sat down. and, as the sun peeps out of a troubled sky, she smiled.
“it is your chair,” she said.
he glanced at the book, and the bit of sky was crimson. but still he said nothing.
“it is your book,” she stammered. “i did not know that it was yours when i took it down. i--i was looking at it while i was waiting for clarence.”
“it is dry reading,” he remarked, which was not what he wished to say.
“and yet you have read it twice.” the confession had slipped to her lips.
she was sitting on the edge of his desk, looking down at him. still he did not look at her. all the will that was left him averted his head. and the seal of honor was upon his speech. and he wondered if man were ever more tempted.
then the evil spread its wings, and soared away into the night. and the moment was past. peace seemed to come upon them both, quieting the tumult in their hearts, and giving them back their reason. respect like wise came to the girl,--respect that was akin to awe. it was he who spoke first.
“my mother has me how faithfully you nursed the judge, miss carvel. it was a very noble thing to do.”
“not noble at all,” she replied hastily, “your mother did the most of it, and he is an old friend of my father--”
“it was none the less noble,” said stephen, warmly, “and he quarrelled with colonel carvel.”
“my father quarrelled with him,” she corrected. “it was well that i should make some atonement. and yet mine was no atonement, i love judge whipple. it was a--a privilege to see your mother every day--oh, how he would talk of you! i think he loves you better than any one on this earth.”
“tell me about him,” said stephen, gently.
virginia told him, and into the narrative she threw the whole of her pent-up self. how patient the judge had been, and the joy he had derived from stephen's letters. “you were very good to write to him so often,” she said. it seemed like a dream to stephen, like one of the many dreams of her, the mystery of which was of the inner life beyond our ken. he could not recall a time when she had not been rebellious, antagonistic. and now--as he listened to her voice, with its exquisite low tones and modulations, as he sat there in this sacred intimacy, perchance to be the last in his life, he became dazed. his eyes, softened, with supreme eloquence cried out that she, was his, forever and forever. the magnetic force which god uses to tie the worlds together was pulling him to her. and yet the puritan resisted.
then the door swung open, and clarence colfax, out of breath, ran into the room. he stopped short when he saw them, his hand fell to his sides, and his words died on his lips. virginia did not stir.
it was stephen who rose to meet him, and with her eyes the girl followed his motions. the broad and loosely built frame of the northerner, his shoulders slightly stooping, contrasted with clarence's slighter figure, erect, compact, springy. the southerner's eye, for that moment, was flint struck with the spark from the steel. stephen's face, thinned by illness, was grave. the eyes kindly, yet penetrating. for an instant they stood thus regarding each other, neither offering a hand. it was stephen who spoke first, and if there was a trace of emotion in his voice, one who was listening intently failed to mark it.
“i am glad to see that you have recovered, colonel colfax,” he said.
“i should indeed be without gratitude if i did not thank captain brice for my life,” answered clarence. virginia flushed. she had detected the undue accent on her cousin's last words, and she glanced apprehensively at stephen. his forceful reply surprised them both.
“miss carvel has already thanked me sufficiently, sir,” he said. “i am happy to have been able to have done you a good turn, and at the same time to have served her so well. it was she who saved your life. it is to her your thanks are chiefly due. i believe that i am not going too far, colonel colfax,” he added, “when i congratulate you both.”
before her cousin could recover, virginia slid down from the desk and had come between them. how her eyes shone and her lip trembled as she gazed at him, stephen has never forgotten. what a woman she was as she took her cousin's arm and made him a curtsey.
“what you have done may seem a light thing to you, captain brice,” she said. “that is apt to be the way with those who have big hearts. you have put upon colonel colfax, and upon me, a life's obligation.”
when she began to speak, clarence raised his head. as he glanced, incredulous, from her to stephen, his look gradually softened, and when she had finished, his manner had become again frank, boyish, impetuous--nay, penitent. he seized stephen's hand.
“forgive me, brice,” he cried. “forgive me. i should have known better. i--i did you an injustice, and you, virginia. i was a fool--a scoundrel.” stephen shook his head.
“no, you were neither,” he said. then upon his face came the smile of one who has the strength to renounce, all that is dearest to him--that smile of the unselfish, sweetest of all. it brought tears to virginia. she was to see it once again, upon the features of one who bore a cross,--abraham lincoln. clarence looked, and then he turned away toward the door to the stairway, as one who walks blindly, in a sorrow.
his hand was on the knob when virginia seemed to awake. she flew after him:
“wait!” she whispered.
then she raised her eyes, slowly, to stephen, who was standing motionless beside his chair.
“yes,” he answered.
“my father is in the judge's room,” she said.
“your father!” he exclaimed. “i thought--”
“that he was an officer in the confederate army. so he is.” her head went up as she spoke.
stephen stared at her, troubled. suddenly her manner, changed. she took a step toward him, appealingly.
“oh, he is not a spy,” she cried. “he has given mr brinsmade his word that he came here for no other purpose than to see me. then he heard that the judge was dying--”
“he has given his word to mr. brinsmade?
“then,” said stephen, “what mr. brinsmade sanctions is not for me to question.”
she gave him yet another look, a fleeting one which he did not see. then she softly opened the door and passed into the room of the dying man. stephen followed her. as for clarence, he stood for a space staring after them. then he went noiselessly down the stairs into the street.
chapter xi. lead, kindly light
when the judge opened his eyes for the last time in this world, they fell first upon the face of his old friend, colonel carvel. twice he tried to speak his name, and twice he failed. the third time he said it faintly.
“comyn, what are you doing here?
“i reckon i came to see you, silas,” answered the colonel.
“to see me die,” said the judge, grimly.
colonel carvel's face twitched, and the silence in that little room seemed to throb.
“comyn,” said the judge again, “i heard that you had gone south to fight against your country. i see you here. can it be that you have at last returned in your allegiances to the flag for which your forefathers died?”
poor colonel carvel
“i am still of the same mind, silas,” he said.
the judge turned his face away, his thin lips moving as in prayer. but they knew that he was not praying, “silas,” said mr. carvel, “we were friends for twenty years. let us be friends again, before--”
“before i die,” the judge interrupted, “i am ready to die. yes, i am ready. i have had a hard life, comyn, and few friends. it was my fault. i--i did not know how to make them. yet no man ever valued those few more than! but,” he cried, the stern fire unquenched to the last, “i would that god had spared me to see this rebellion stamped out. for it will be stamped out.” to those watching, his eyes seemed fixed on a distant point, and the light of prophecy was in them. “i would that god had spared me to see this union supreme once more. yes, it will be supreme. a high destiny is reserved for this nation--! i think the highest of all on this earth.” amid profound silence he leaned back on the pillows from which he had risen, his breath coming fast. none dared look at the neighbor beside them.
it was stephen's mother who spoke. “would you not like to see a clergyman, judge?” she asked.
the look on his face softened as he turned to her.
“no, madam,” he answered; “you are clergyman enough for me. you are near enough to god--there is no one in this room who is not worthy to stand in the presence of death. yet i wish that a clergyman were here, that he might listen to one thing i have to say. when i was a boy i worked my way down the river to new york, to see the city. i met a bishop there. he said to me, 'sit down, my son, i want to talk to you. i know your father in albany. you are senator whipple's son.' i said to him, 'no, sir, i am not senator whipple's son. i am no relation of his.' if the bishop had wished to talk to me after that, mrs. brice, he might have made my life a little easier--a little sweeter. i know that they are not all like that. but it was by just such things that i was embittered when i was a boy.” he stopped, and when he spoke again, it was more slowly, more gently, than any of them had heard him speak in all his life before. “i wish that some of the blessings which i am leaving now had come to me then--when i was a boy. i might have done my little share in making the world a brighter place to live in, as all of you have done. yes, as all of you are now doing for me. i am leaving the world with a better opinion of it than i ever held in life. god hid the sun from me when i was a little child. margaret brice,” he said, “if i had had such a mother as you, i would have been softened then. i thank god that he sent you when he did.”
the widow bowed her head, and a tear fell upon his pillow.
“i have done nothing,” she murmured, “nothing.”
“so shall they answer at the last whom he has chosen,” said the judge. “i was sick, and ye visited me. he has promised to remember those who do that. hold up your head, my daughter. god has been good to you. he has given you a son whom all men may look in the face, of whom you need never be ashamed. stephen,” said the judge, “come here.”
stephen made his way to the bedside, but because of the moisture in his eyes he saw but dimly the gaunt face. and yet he shrank back in awe at the change in it. so must all of the martyrs have looked when the fire of the faggots licked their feet. so must john bunyan have stared through his prison bars at the sky.
“stephen,” he said, “you have been faithful in a few things. so shall you be made ruler over many things. the little i have i leave to you, and the chief of this is an untarnished name. i know that you will be true to it because i have tried your strength. listen carefully to what i have to say, for i have thought over it long. in the days gone by our fathers worked for the good of the people, and they had no thought of gain. a time is coming when we shall need that blood and that bone in this republic. wealth not yet dreamed of will flow out of this land, and the waters of it will rot all save the pure, and corrupt all save the incorruptible. half-tried men wilt go down before that flood. you and those like you will remember how your fathers governed,--strongly, sternly, justly. it was so that they governed themselves.
“be vigilant. serve your city, serve your state, but above all serve your country.”
he paused to catch his breath, which was coming painfully now, and reached out his bony hand to seek stephen's. “i was harsh with you at first, my son,” he went on. “i wished to try you. and when i had tried you i wished your mind to open, to keep pace with the growth of this nation. i sent you to see abraham lincoln that you might be born again--in the west. you were born again. i saw it when you came back--i saw it in your face. o god,” he cried, with sudden eloquence. “i would that his hands--abraham lincoln's hands--might be laid upon all who complain and cavil and criticise, and think of the little things in life: i would that his spirit might possess their spirit!”
he stopped again. they marvelled and were awed, for never in all his days had such speech broken from this man. “good-by, stephen,” he said, when they thought he was not to speak again. “hold the image of abraham lincoln in front of you. never forget him. you--you are a man after his own heart--and--and mine.”
the last word was scarcely audible. they started for ward, for his eyes were closed. but presently he stirred again, and opened them.
“brinsmade,” he said, “brinsmade, take care of my orphan girls. send shadrach here.”
the negro came forth, shuffling and sobbing, from the doorway.
“you ain't gwine away, marse judge?”
“yes, shadrach, good-by. you have served me well, i have left you provided for.”
shadrach kissed the hand of whose secret charity he knew so much. then the judge withdrew it, and motioned to him to rise. he called his oldest friend by name. and colonel carvel came from the corner where he had been listening, with his face drawn.
“good-by, comyn. you were my friend when there was none other. you were true to me when the hand of every man was against me. you--you have risked your life to come to me here, may god spare it for virginia.”
at the sound of her name, the girl started. she came and bent over him. and when she kissed him on the forehead, he trembled.
“uncle silas!” she faltered.
weakly he reached up and put his hands on her shoulders. he whispered in her ear. the tears came and lay wet upon her lashes as she undid the button at his throat.
there, on a piece of cotton twine, hung a little key, she took it off, but still his hands held her.
“i have saved it for you, my dear,” he said. “god bless you--” why did his eyes seek stephen's?--“and make your life happy. virginia--will you play my hymn--once more--once more?”
they lifted the night lamp from the piano, and the medicine. it was stephen who stripped it of the black cloth it had worn, who stood by virginia ready to lift the lid when she had turned the lock. the girl's exaltation gave a trembling touch divine to the well-remembered chords, and those who heard were lifted, lifted far above and beyond the power of earthly spell.
“lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom lead thou me on the night is dark, and i am far from home; lead thou me on. keep thou my feet! i do not ask to see the distant scene; one step enough for me.”
a sigh shook silas whipple's wasted frame, and he died.
chapter xii. the last card
mr. brinsmade and the doctor were the first to leave the little room where silas whipple had lived and worked and died, mr. brinsmade bent upon one of those errands which claimed him at all times. he took shadrach with him. virginia sat on, a vague fear haunting her,--a fear for her father's safety. where was clarence? what had he seen? was the place watched? these questions, at first intruding upon her sorrow, remained to torture her.
softly she stirred from the chair where she had sat before the piano, and opened the door of the outer office. a clock in a steeple near by was striking twelve. the colonel did not raise his head. only stephen saw her go; she felt his eyes following her, and as she slipped out lifted hers to meet them for a brief instant through the opening of the door. then it closed behind her.
first of all she knew that the light in the outer office was burning dimly, and the discovery gave her a shock. who had turned it down? had clarence? was he here? fearfully searching the room for him, her gaze was held by a figure in the recess of the window at the back of the room. a solid, bulky figure it was, and, though uncertainly outlined in the semi-darkness, she knew it. she took a step nearer, and a cry escaped her.
the man was eliphalet hopper. he got down from the sill with a motion at once sheepish and stealthy. her breath caught, and instinctively she gave back toward the door, as if to open it again.
“hold on!” he said. “i've got something i want to say to you, miss virginia.”
his tones seemed strangely natural. they were not brutal. but she shivered and paused, horrified at the thought of what she was about to do. her father was in that room--and stephen. she must keep them there, and get this man away. she must not show fright before him, and yet she could not trust her voice to speak just then. she must not let him know that she was afraid of him--this she kept repeating to herself. but how to act? suddenly an idea flashed upon her.
virginia never knew how she gathered the courage to pass him, even swiftly, and turn up the gas. he started back, blinking as the jet flared. for a moment she stood beside it, with her head high; confronting him and striving to steady herself for speech.
“why have you come here?” she said. “judge whipple--died--to-night.”
the dominating note in his answer was a whine, as if, in spite of himself, he were awed.
“i ain't here to see the judge.”
she was pale, and quite motionless. and she faltered now. she felt her lips moving, but knew not whether the words had come.
“what do you mean?”
he gained confidence. the look in his little eyes was the filmy look of those of an animal feasting.
“i came here to see you,” he said, “--you.” she was staring at him now, in horror. “and if you don't give me what i want, i cal'late to see some one else--in there,” said mr. hopper.
he smiled, for she was swaying, her lids half closed. by a supreme effort she conquered her terror and looked at him. the look was in his eyes still, intensified now.
“how dare you speak to me after what has happened! she said. if colonel carvel were here, he would--kill you.”
he flinched at the name and the word, involuntarily. he wiped his forehead, hot at the very thought.
“i want to know!” he exclaimed, in faint-hearted irony. then, remembering his advantage, he stepped close to her.
“he is here,” he said, intense now. “he is here, in that there room.” he seized her wrists. virginia struggled, and yet she refrained from crying out. “he never leaves this city without i choose. i can have him hung if i choose,” he whispered, next to her.
“oh!” she cried; “oh, if you choose!”
still his body crept closer, and his face closer. and her strength was going.
“there's but one price to pay,” he said hoarsely, “there's but one price to pay, and that's you--you. i cal'late you'll marry me now.”
delirious at the touch of her, he did not hear the door open. her senses were strained for that very sound. she heard it close again, and a footstep across the room. she knew the step--she knew the voice, and her heart leaped at the sound of it in anger. an arm in a blue sleeve came between them, and eliphalet hopper staggered and fell across the books on the table, his hand to his face. above him towered stephen brice. towered was the impression that came to virginia then, and so she thought of the scene ever afterward. small bits, like points of tempered steel, glittered in stephen's eyes, and his hands following up the mastery he had given them clutched mr. hopper's shoulders. twice stephen shook him so that his head beat upon the table.
“you--you beast!” he cried, but he kept his voice low. and then, as if he expected hopper to reply: “shall i kill you?”
again he shook him violently. he felt virginia's touch on his arm.
“stephen!” she cried, “your wounds! be careful! oh, do be careful!”
she had called him stephen. he turned slowly, and his hands fell from mr. hopper's cowering form as his eyes met hers. even he could not fathom the appeal, the yearning, in their dark blue depths. and yet what he saw there made him tremble. she turned away, trembling too.
“please sit down,” she entreated. “he--he won't touch me again while you are here.”
eliphalet hopper raised himself from the desk, and one of the big books fell with a crash to the floor. then they saw him shrink, his eyes fixed upon some one behind them. before the judge's door stood colonel carvel, in calm, familiar posture, his feet apart, and his head bent forward as he pulled at his goatee.
“what is this man doing here, virginia?” he asked. she did not answer him, nor did speech seem to come easily to mr. hopper in that instant. perhaps the sight of colonel carvel had brought before him too, vividly the memory of that afternoon at glencoe.
all at once virginia grasped the fulness of the power in this man's hands. at a word from him her father would be shot as a spy--and stephen brice, perhaps, as a traitor. but if colonel carvel should learn that he had seized her,--here was the terrible danger of the situation. well she knew what the colonel would do. would. stephen tell him? she trusted in his coolness that he would not.
a thought seemed to strike him. he strode to the open window at the back of the office, and looked out, there was a roof under it.
“the sneak got in here,” he said. “he knew i was waiting for him in the street. so you're the spy, are you?”
mr. hopper passed a heavy hand across the cheek where stephen had struck him.
“no, i ain't the spy,” he said, with a meaning glance at the colonel.
“then what are you doing here?” demanded clarence, fiercely.
“i cal'late that he knows,” eliphalet replied, jerking his head toward colonel carvel. “where's his confederate uniform? what's to prevent my calling up the provost's guard below?” he continued, with a smile that was hideous on his swelling face.
it was the colonel who answered him, very quickly and very clearly.
“nothing whatever, mr. hopper,” he said. “this is the way out.” he pointed at the door. stephen, who was watching him, could not tell whether it were a grim smile that creased the corners of the colonel's mouth as he added. “you might prefer the window.”
mr. hopper did not move, but his eyes shifted to virginia's form. stephen deliberately thrust himself between them that he might not see her.
“what are you waiting for?” said the colonel, in the mild voice that should have been an ominous warning. still mr. hopper did not move. it was clear that he had not reckoned upon all of this; that he had waited in the window to deal with virginia alone. but now the very force of a desire which had gathered strength in many years made him reckless. his voice took on the oily quality in which he was wont to bargain.
“let's be calm about this business, colonel,” he said. “we won't say anything about the past. but i ain't set on having you shot. there's a consideration that would stop me, and i cal'late you know what it is.”
then the colonel made a motion. but before he had taken a step virginia had crossed the room swiftly, and flung herself upon him.
“oh, don't, pa!” she cried. “don't! tell him that i will agree to it. yes, i will. i can't have you--shot.” the last word came falteringly, faintly.
“let me go,--honey,” whispered the colonel, gently. his eyes did not leave eliphalet. he tried to disengage himself, but her fingers were clasped about his neck in a passion of fear and love. and then, while she clung to him, her head was raised to listen. the sound of stephen brice's voice held her as in a spell. his words were coming coldly, deliberately, and yet so sharply that each seemed to fall like a lash.
“mr. hopper, if ever i hear of your repeating what you have seen or heard in this room, i will make this city and this state too hot for you to live in. i know you. i know how you hide in areas, how you talk sedition in private, how you have made money out of other men's misery. and, what is more, i can prove that you have had traitorous dealings with the confederacy. general sherman has been good enough to call himself a friend of mine, and if he prosecutes you for your dealings in memphis, you will get a term in a government prison, you ought to be hung. colonel carvel has shown you the door. now go.”
and mr. hopper went.
chapter xiii. from the letters of major stephen brice
of the staff of general sherman on the march to the sea, and on the march from savannah northward.
dear mother: the south carolina campaign is a thing of the past. i pause as i write these words--they seem so incredible to me. we have marched the four hundred and twenty-five miles in fifty days, and the general himself has said that it is the longest and most important march ever made by an organized army in a civilized country. i know that you will not be misled by the words “civilized country.” not until the history of this campaign is written will the public realize the wide rivers and all but impassable swamps we have crossed with our baggage trains and artillery. the roads (by courtesy so called) were a sea of molasses and every mile of them has had to be corduroyed. for fear of worrying you i did not write you from savannah how they laughed at us for starting at that season of the year. they said we would not go ten miles, and i most solemnly believe that no one but “uncle billy” and an army organized and equipped by him could have gone ten miles. nothing seems to stop him. you have probably remarked in the tone of my letters ever since we left kingston for the sea, a growing admiration for “my general.”
it seems very strange that this wonderful tactician can be the same man i met that day going to the arsenal in the streetcar, and again at camp jackson. i am sure that history will give him a high place among the commanders of the world. certainly none was ever more tireless than he. he never fights a battle when it can be avoided, and his march into columbia while threatening charleston and augusta was certainly a master stroke of strategy.
i think his simplicity his most remarkable trait. you should see him as he rides through the army, an erect figure, with his clothes all angular and awry, and an expanse of white sock showing above his low shoes. you can hear his name running from file to file; and some times the new regiments can't resist cheering. he generally says to the colonel:--“stop that noise, sir. don't like it.”
on our march to the sea, if the orders were ever given to turn northward, “the boys” would get very much depressed. one moonlight night i was walking my horse close to the general's over the pine needles, when we overheard this conversation between two soldiers:-- “say, john,” said one, “i guess uncle billy don't know our corps is goin' north.”
“i wonder if he does,'” said john. “if i could only get a sight of them white socks, i'd know it was all right.”
the general rode past without a word, but i heard him telling the story to mower the next day.
i can find little if any change in his manner since i knew him first. he is brusque, but kindly, and he has the same comradeship with officers and men--and even the negroes who flock to our army. but few dare to take advantage of it, and they never do so twice. i have been very near to him, and have tried not to worry him or ask many foolish questions. sometimes on the march he will beckon me to close up to him, and we have a conversation something on this order:-- “there's kenesaw, brice.”
pointing with his arm.
“went beyond lines there with small party. rebel battery on summit. had to git. fired on. next day i thought rebels would leave in the night. got up before daylight, fixed telescope on stand, and waited. watched top of kenesaw. no rebel. saw one blue man creep up, very cautious, looked around, waved his hat. rebels gone. thought so.”
this gives you but a faint idea of the vividness of his talk. when we make a halt for any time, the general officers and their staffs flock to headquarters to listen to his stories. when anything goes wrong, his perception of it is like a lightning flash,--and he acts as quickly.
by the way, i have just found the letter he wrote me, offering this staff position. please keep it carefully, as it is something i shall value all my life.
gaylesville, alabama, october 25, 1864.
major stephen a. brice:
w. t. sherman, major general.
one night--at cheraw, i think it was--he sent for me to talk to him. i found him lying on a bed of spanish moss they had made for him. he asked me a great many questions about st. louis, and praised mr. brinsmade, especially his management of the sanitary commission.
“brice,” he said, after a while, “you remember when grant sent me to beat off joe johnston's army from vicksburg. you were wounded then, by the way, in that dash lauman made. grant thought he ought to warn me against johnston.
“'he's wily, sherman,' said he. 'he's a dangerous man.'
“'grant,' said i, 'you give me men enough and time enough to look over the ground, and i'm not afraid of the devil.'”
nothing could sum up the man better than that. and now what a trick of fate it is that he has johnston before him again, in what we hope will prove the last gasp of the war! he likes johnston, by the way, and has the greatest respect for him.
we arrived at this pretty little town yesterday, so effecting a junction with schofield, who got in with the 3d corps the day before. i am writing at general schofield's headquarters. there was a bit of a battle on tuesday at bentonville, and we have come hither in smoke, as usual. but this time we thank heaven that it is not the smoke of burning homes,--only some resin the “johnnies” set on fire before they left.
i must close. general sherman has just sent for me.
on board despatch boat “martin.” at sea, march 25, 1865.
dear mother: a most curious thing has happened. but i may as well begin at the beginning. when i stopped writing last evening at the summons of the general, i was about to tell you something of the battle of bentonville on tuesday last. mower charged through as bad a piece of wood and swamp as i ever saw, and got within one hundred yards of johnston himself, who was at the bridge across mill creek. of course we did not know this at the time, and learned it from prisoners.
as i have written you, i have been under fire very little since coming to the staff. when the battle opened, however, i saw that if i stayed with the general (who was then behind the reserves) i would see little or nothing; i went ahead “to get information” beyond the line of battle into the woods. i did not find these favorable to landscape views, and just as i was turning my horse back again i caught sight of a commotion some distance to my right. the rebel skirmish line had fallen back just that instant, two of our skirmishers were grappling with a third man, who was fighting desperately. it struck me as singular that the fellow was not in gray, but had on some sort of dark clothes.
“we've got a spy, sir,” he said excitedly.
“a spy! here?”
“yes, major. he was hid in the thicket yonder, lying flat on his face. he reckoned that our boys would run right over him and that he'd get into our lines that way. tim foley stumbled on him, and he put up as good a fight with his fists as any man i ever saw.”
just then a regiment swept past us. that night i told the general, who sent over to the headquarters of the 17th corps to inquire. the word came back that the man's name was addison, and he claimed to be a union sympathizer who owned a plantation near by. he declared that he had been conscripted by the rebels, wounded, sent back home, and was now about to be pressed in again. he had taken this method of escaping to our lines. it was a common story enough, but general mower added in his message that he thought the story fishy. this was because the man's appearance was very striking, and he seemed the type of confederate fighter who would do and dare anything. he had a wound, which had been a bad one, evidently got from a piece of shell. but they had been able to find nothing on him. sherman sent back word to keep the man until he could see him in person. it was about nine o'clock last night when i reached the house the general has taken. a prisoner's guard was resting outside, and the hall was full of officers. they said that the general was awaiting me, and pointed to the closed door of a room that had been the dining room. i opened it.
two candles were burning in pewter sticks on the bare mahogany table. there was the general sitting beside them, with his legs crossed, holding some crumpled tissue paper very near his eyes, and reading. he did not look up when i entered. i was aware of a man standing, tall and straight, just out of range of the candles' rays. he wore the easy dress of a southern planter, with the broad felt hat. the head was flung back so that there was just a patch of light on the chin, and the lids of the eyes in the shadow were half closed.
my sensations are worth noting. for the moment i felt precisely as i had when i was hit by that bullet in lauman's charge. i was aware of something very like pain, yet i could not place the cause of it. but this is what since has made me feel queer: you doubtless remember staying at hollingdean, when i was a boy, and hearing the story of lord northwell's daredevil royalist ancestor,--the one with the lace collar over the dull-gold velvet, and the pointed chin, and the lazy scorn in the eyes. those eyes are painted with drooping lids. the first time i saw clarence colfax i thought of that picture--and now i thought of the picture first.
the general's voice startled me.
“major brice, do you know this gentleman?” he asked.
“who is he?”
“his name is colfax, sir--colonel colfax, i think”
“thought so,” said the general.
i have thought much of that scene since, as i am steaming northward over green seas and under cloudless skies, and it has seemed very unreal. i should almost say supernatural when i reflect how i have run across this man again and again, and always opposing him. i can recall just how he looked at the slave auction, which seem, so long ago: very handsome, very boyish, and yet with the air of one to be deferred to. it was sufficiently remarkable that i should have found him in vicksburg. but now--to be brought face to face with him in this old dining room in goldsboro! and he a prisoner. he had not moved. i did not know how he would act, but i went up to him and held out my hand, and said.--“how do you do, colonel colfax?”
i am sure that my voice was not very steady, for i cannot help liking him and then his face lighted up and he gave me his hand. and he smiled at me and again at the general, as much as to say that it was all over. he has a wonderful smile.
“we seem to run into each other, major brice,” said he.
the pluck of the man was superb. i could see that the general, too, was moved, from the way he looked at him. and he speaks a little more abruptly at such times.
“guess that settles it, colonel,” he said.
“i reckon it does, general,” said clarence, still smiling. the general turned from him to the table with a kind of jerk and clapped his hand on the tissue paper.
“these speak for themselves, sir,” he said. “it is very plain that they would have reached the prominent citizens for whom they were intended if you had succeeded in your enterprise. you were captured out of uniform you know enough of war to appreciate the risk you ran. any statement to make?”
“call captain vaughan, brice, and ask him to conduct the prisoner back.”
“may i speak to him, general?” i asked. the general nodded.
i asked him if i could write home for him or do anything else. that seemed to touch him. some day i shall tell you what he said.
then vaughan took him out, and i heard the guard shoulder arms and tramp away in the night. the general and i were left alone with the mahogany table between us, and a family portrait of somebody looking down on us from the shadow on the wall. a moist spring air came in at the open windows, and the candles flickered. after a silence, i ventured to say:
“i hope he won't be shot, general.”
“don't know, brice,” he answered. “can't tell now. hate to shoot him, but war is war. magnificent class he belongs to--pity we should have to fight those fellows.”
he paused, and drummed on the table. “brice,” said he, “i'm going to send you to general grant at city point with despatches. i'm sorry dunn went back yesterday, but it can't be helped. can you start in half an hour?”
“you'll have to ride to kinston. the railroad won't be through until to-morrow: i'll telegraph there, and to general easton at morehead city. he'll have a boat for you. tell grant i expect to run up there in a day or two myself, when things are arranged here. you may wait until i come.”
i turned to go, but clarence colfax was on my mind “general?”
“general, could you hold colonel colfax until i see you again?”
it was a bold thing to say, and i quaked. and he looked at me in his keen way, through and through “you saved his life once before, didn't you?”
“you allowed me to have him sent home from vicksburg, sir.”
he answered with one of his jokes--apropos of something he said on the court house steps at vicksburg. perhaps i shall tell it to you sometime.
“well, well,” he said, “i'll see, i'll see. thank god this war is pretty near over. i'll let you know, brice, before i shoot him.”
i rode the thirty odd miles to kinston in--little more than three hours. a locomotive was waiting for me, and i jumped into a cab with a friendly engineer. soon we were roaring seaward through the vast pine forests. it was a lonely journey, and you were much in my mind. my greatest apprehension was that we might be derailed and the despatches captured; for as fast as our army had advanced, the track of it had closed again, like the wake of a ship at sea. guerillas were roving about, tearing up ties and destroying bridges.
there was one five-minute interval of excitement when, far down the tunnel through the forest, we saw a light gleaming. the engineer said there was no house there, that it must be a fire. but we did not slacken our speed, and gradually the leaping flames grew larger and redder until we were upon them.
not one gaunt figure stood between them and us. not one shot broke the stillness of the night. as dawn broke i beheld the flat, gray waters of the sound stretching away to the eastward, and there was the boat at the desolate wharf beside the warehouse, her steam rising white in the chill morning air.
headquarters armies of the united states, city point, virginia, march 28, 1865.
dear mother: i arrived here safely the day before yesterday, and i hope that you will soon receive some of the letters i forwarded on that day. it is an extraordinary place, this city point; a military city sprung up like a mushroom in a winter. and my breath was quite taken away when i first caught sight of it on the high table-land. the great bay in front of it, which the appomattox helps to make, is a maze of rigging and smoke-pipes, like the harbor of a prosperous seaport. there are gunboats and supply boats, schooners and square-riggers and steamers, all huddled together, and our captain pointed out to me the 'malvern' flying admiral porter's flag. barges were tied up at the long wharves, and these were piled high with wares and flanked by squat warehouses. although it was sunday, a locomotive was puffing and panting along the foot of the ragged bank.
high above, on the flat promontory between the two rivers, is the city of tents and wooden huts, the great trees in their fresh faint green towering above the low roofs. at the point of the bluff a large flag drooped against its staff, and i did not have to be told that this was general grant's headquarters.
there was a fine steamboat lying at the wharf, and i had hardly stepped ashore before they told me she was president lincoln's. i read the name on her--the 'river queen'. yes, the president is here, too, with his wife and family.
there are many fellows here with whom i was brought up in boston. i am living with jack hancock, whom you will remember well. he is a captain now, and has a beard.
but i must go on with my story. i went straight to general grant's headquarters,--just a plain, rough slat house such as a contractor might build for a temporary residence. only the high flagstaff and the stars and stripes distinguish it from many others of the same kind. a group of officers stood chatting outside of it, and they told me that the general had walked over to get his mail. he is just as unassuming and democratic as “my general.” general rankin took me into the office, a rude room, and we sat down at the long table there. presently the door opened, and a man came in with a slouch hat on and his coat unbuttoned. he was smoking a cigar. we rose to our feet, and i saluted.
it was the general-in-chief. he stared at me, but said nothing.
“general, this is major brice of general sherman's staff. he has brought despatches from goldsboro,” said rankin.
he nodded, took off his hat and laid it on the table, and reached out for the despatches. while reading them he did not move, except to light another cigar. i am getting hardened to unrealities,--perhaps i should say marvels, now. our country abounds in them. it did not seem so strange that this silent general with the baggy trousers was the man who had risen by leaps and bounds in four years to be general-in-chief of our armies. his face looks older and more sunken than it did on that day in the street near the arsenal, in st. louis, when he was just a military carpet-bagger out of a job. he is not changed otherwise. but how different the impressions made by the man in authority and the same man out of authority!
he made a sufficient impression upon me then, as i told you at the time. that was because i overheard his well-merited rebuke to hopper. but i little dreamed that i was looking on the man who was to come out of the west and save this country from disunion. and how quietly and simply he has done it, without parade or pomp or vainglory. of all those who, with every means at their disposal, have tried to conquer lee, he is the only one who has in any manner succeeded. he has been able to hold him fettered while sherman has swept the confederacy. and these are the two men who were unknown when the war began.
when the general had finished reading the despatches, he folded them quickly and put them in his pocket.
“sit down and tell me about this last campaign of yours, major,” he said.
i talked with him for about half an hour. i should rather say talked to him. he is a marked contrast to sherman in this respect. i believe that he only opened his lips to ask two questions. you may well believe that they were worth the asking, and they revealed an intimate knowledge of our march from savannah. i was interrupted many times by the arrival of different generals, aides, etc. he sat there smoking, imperturbable. sometimes he said “yes” or “no,” but oftener he merely nodded his head. once he astounded by a brief question an excitable young lieutenant, who floundered. the general seemed to know more than he about the matter he had in hand.
when i left him, he asked me where i was quartered, and said he hoped i would be comfortable.
jack hancock was waiting for me, and we walked around the city, which even has barber shops. everywhere were signs of preparation, for the roads are getting dry, and the general preparing for a final campaign against lee. poor lee! what a marvellous fight he has made with his material. i think that he will be reckoned among the greatest generals of our race.
of course, i was very anxious to get a glimpse of the president, and so we went down to the wharf, where we heard that he had gone off for a horseback ride. they say that he rides nearly every day, over the corduroy roads and through the swamps, and wherever the boys see that tall hat they cheer. they know it as well as the lookout tower on the flats of bermuda hundred. he lingers at the campfires and swaps stories with the officers, and entertains the sick and wounded in the hospitals. isn't it like him?
he hasn't changed, either. i believe that the great men don't change. away with your napoleons and your marlboroughs and your stuarts. these are the days of simple men who command by force of character, as well as knowledge. thank god for the american! i believe that he will change the world, and strip it of its vainglory and hypocrisy.
in the evening, as we were sitting around hancock's fire, an officer came in.
“the president sends his compliments, major, and wants to know if you would care to pay him a little visit.”
if i would care to pay him a little visit! that officer had to hurry to keep up with the as i walked to the wharf. he led me aboard the river queen, and stopped at the door of the after-cabin.
mr. lincoln was sitting under the lamp, slouched down in his chair, in the position i remembered so well. it was as if i had left him but yesterday. he was whittling, and he had made some little toy for his son tad, who ran out as i entered.
when he saw me, the president rose to his great height, a sombre, towering figure in black. he wears a scraggly beard now. but the sad smile, the kindly eyes in their dark caverns, the voice--all were just the same. i stopped when i looked upon the face. it was sad and lined when i had known it, but now all the agony endured by the millions, north and south, seemed written on it.
“don't you remember me, major?” he asked.
the wonder was that he had remembered me! i took his big, bony hand, which reminded me of judge whipple's. yes, it was just as if i had been with him always, and he were still the gaunt country lawyer.
“yes, sir,” i said, “indeed i do.”
he looked at me with that queer expression of mirth he sometimes has.
“are these boston ways, steve?” he asked. “they're tenacious. i didn't think that any man could travel so close to sherman and keep 'em.”
“they're unfortunate ways, sir,” i said, “if they lead you to misjudge me.”
he laid his hand on my shoulder, just as he had done at freeport.
“i know you, steve,” he said. “i shuck an ear of corn before i buy it. i've kept tab on you a little the last five years, and when i heard sherman had sent a major brice up here, i sent for you.”
what i said was boyish. “i tried very hard to get a glimpse of you to-day, mr. lincoln. i wanted to see you again.”
he was plainly pleased.
“i'm glad to hear it, steve,” he said. “then you haven't joined the ranks of the grumblers? you haven't been one of those who would have liked to try running this country for a day or two, just to show me how to do it?”
“no, sir,” i said, laughing.
“good!” he cried, slapping his knee. “i didn't think you were that kind, steve. now sit down and tell me about this general of mine who wears seven-leagued boots. what was it--four hundred and twenty miles in fifty days? how many navigable rivers did he step across?” he began to count on those long fingers of his. “the edisto, the broad, the catawba, the pedee, and--?”
“the cape fear,” i said.
“is--is the general a nice man?” asked mr. lincoln, his eyes twinkling.
“yes, sir, he is that,” i answered heartily. “and not a man in the army wants anything when he is around. you should see that army of the mississippi, sir. they arrived in goldsboro' in splendid condition.”
he got up and gathered his coat-tails under his arms, and began to walk up and down the cabin.
“what do the boys call the general?” he asked.
i told him “uncle billy.” and, thinking the story of the white socks might amuse him, i told him that. it did amuse him.
“well, now,” he said, “any man that has a nickname like that is all right. that's the best recommendation you can give the general--just say 'uncle billy.'” he put one lip over the other. “you've given 'uncle billy' a good recommendation, steve,” he said. “did you ever hear the story of mr. wallace's irish gardener?”
“well, when wallace was hiring his gardener he asked him whom he had been living with.
“'misther dalton, sorr.'
“'have you a recommendation, terence?'
“'a ricommindation is it, sorr? sure i have nothing agin misther dalton, though he moightn't be knowing just the respict the likes of a first-class garthener is entitled to.'”
he did not laugh. he seldom does, it seems, at his own stories. but i could not help laughing over the “ricommindation” i had given the general. he knew that i was embarrassed, and said kindly:-- “now tell me something about 'uncle billy's bummers.' i hear that they have a most effectual way of tearing up railroads.”
i told him of poe's contrivance of the hook and chain, and how the heaviest rails were easily overturned with it, and how the ties were piled and fired and the rails twisted out of shape. the president listened to every word with intense interest.
“by jing!” he exclaimed, “we have got a general. caesar burnt his bridges behind him, but sherman burns his rails. now tell me some more.”
he helped me along by asking questions. then i began to tell him how the negroes had flocked into our camps, and how simply and plainly the general had talked to them, advising them against violence of any kind, and explaining to them that “freedom” meant only the liberty to earn their own living in their own way, and not freedom from work.
i thought of those wonderfully limpid speeches of his: of the freeport debates, and of the contrast between his style and douglas's. and i understood the reason for it at last. i understood the supreme mind that had conceived the freeport question. and as i stood before him then, at the close of this fearful war, the words of the gospel were in my mind. 'so the last shall be first, and the first, last; for many be called, but few chosen.'
how i wished that all those who have maligned and tortured him could talk with him as i had talked with him. to know his great heart would disarm them of all antagonism. they would feel, as i feel, that his life is so much nobler than theirs, and his burdens so much heavier, that they would go away ashamed of their criticism.
he said to me once, “brice, i hope we are in sight of the end, now. i hope that we may get through without any more fighting. i don't want to see any more of our countrymen killed. and then,” he said, as if talking to himself, “and then we must show them mercy--mercy.”
i thought it a good time to mention colfax's case. he has been on my mind ever since. mr. lincoln listened attentively. once he sighed, and he was winding his long fingers around each other while i talked.
“i saw the man captured, mr. lincoln,” i concluded, “and if a technicality will help him out, he was actually within his own skirmish line at the time. the rebel skirmishers had not fallen back on each side of him.”
“brice,” he said, with that sorrowful smile, “a technicality might save colfax, but it won't save me. is this man a friend of yours?” he asked.
that was a poser.
“i think he is, mr. lincoln. i should like to call him so. i admire him.” and i went on to tell of what he had done at vicksburg, leaving out, however, my instrumentality in having him sent north. the president used almost sherman's words.
“by jing!” he exclaimed. (that seems to be a favorite expression of his.) “those fellows were born to fight. if it wasn't for them, the south would have quit long ago.” then he looked at me in his funny way, and said, “see here, steve, if this colfax isn't exactly a friend of yours, there must be some reason why you are pleading for him in this way.”
“well, sir,” i said, at length, “i should like to get him off on account of his cousin, miss virginia carvel. and i told him something about miss carvel, and how she had helped you with the union sergeant that day in the hot hospital. and how she had nursed judge whipple.”
“she's a fine woman,” he said. “those women have helped those men to prolong this war about three years.”
“and yet we must save them for the nation's sake. they are to be the mothers of our patriots in days to come. is she a friend of yours, too, steve?”
what was i to say?
“not especially, sir,” i answered finally. “i have had to offend her rather often. but i know that she likes my mother.”
“why!” he cried, jumping up, “she's a daughter of colonel carvel. i always had an admiration for that man. an ideal southern gentleman of the old school,--courteous, as honorable and open as the day, and as brave as a lion. you've heard the story of how he threw a man named babcock out of his store, who tried to bribe him?”
“i heard you tell it in that tavern, sir. and i have heard it since.” it did me good to hear the colonel praised.
“i always liked that story,” he said. “by the way, what's become of the colonel?”
“he got away--south, sir,” i answered. “he couldn't stand it. he hasn't been heard of since the summer of '63. they think he was killed in texas. but they are not positive. they probably never will be,” i added. he was silent awhile.
“too bad!” he said. “too bad. what stuff those men are made of! and so you want me to pardon this colfax?”
“it would be presumptuous in me to go that far, sir,” i replied. “but i hoped you might speak of it to the general when he comes. and i would be glad of the opportunity to testify.”
he took a few strides up and down the room.
“well, well,” he said, “that's my vice--pardoning, saying yes. it's always one more drink with me. it--” he smiled--“it makes me sleep better. i've pardoned enough rebels to populate new orleans. why,” he continued, with his whimsical look, “just before i left washington, in comes one of your missouri senators with a list of rebels who are shut up in mcdowell's and alton. i said:-- “'senator, you're not going to ask me to turn loose all those at once?'
“he said just what you said when you were speaking of missouri a while ago, that he was afraid of guerilla warfare, and that the war was nearly over. i signed 'em. and then what does he do but pull out another batch longer than the first! and those were worse than the first.
“'what! you don't want me to turn these loose, too?'
“'yes, i do, mr. president. i think it will pay to be merciful.'
“'then durned if i don't,' i said, and i signed 'em.”
steamer “river queen.” on the potomac, april 9, 1865.
dear mother: i am glad that the telegrams i have been able to send reached you safely. i have not had time to write, and this will be but a short letter.
you will be surprised to see this heading. i am on the president's boat, in the president's party, bound with him for washington. and this is how it happened: the very afternoon of the day i wrote you, general sherman himself arrived at city point on the steamer 'russia'. i heard the salutes, and was on the wharf to meet him. that same afternoon he and general grant and admiral porter went aboard the river queen to see the president. how i should have liked to be present at that interview! after it was over they all came out of the cabin together general grant silent, and smoking, as usual; general sherman talking vivaciously; and lincoln and the admiral smiling and listening. that was historic! i shall never expect to see such a sight again in all my days. you can imagine my surprise when the president called me from where i was standing at some distance with the other officers. he put his hand on my shoulder then and there, and turned to general sherman.
“major brice is a friend of mine, general,” he said. “i knew him in illinois.”
“he never told me that,” said the general.
“i guess he's got a great many important things shut up inside of him,” said mr. lincoln, banteringly. “but he gave you a good recommendation, sherman. he said that you wore white socks, and that the boys liked you and called you 'uncle billy.' and i told him that was the best recommendation he could give anybody.”
i was frightened. but the general only looked at me with those eyes that go through everything, and then he laughed.
“brice,” he said, “you'll have my reputation ruined.”
“sherman,” said mr. lincoln, “you don't want the major right away, do you? let him stay around here for a while with me. i think he'll find it interesting.” he looked at the general-in-chief, who was smiling just a little bit. “i've got a sneaking notion that grant's going to do something.”
then they all laughed.
“certainly, mr. lincoln,” said my general, “you may have brice. be careful he doesn't talk you to death--he's said too much already.”
that is how i came to stay.
i have no time now to tell you all that i have seen and heard. i have ridden with the president, and have gone with him on errands of mercy and errands of cheer. i have been almost within sight of what we hope is the last struggle of this frightful war. i have listened to the guns of five forks, where sheridan and warren bore their own colors in the front of the charge, i was with mr. lincoln while the battle of petersburg was raging, and there were tears in his eyes.
then came the retreat of lee and the instant pursuit of grant, and--richmond. the quiet general did not so much as turn aside to enter the smoking city he had besieged for so long. but i went there, with the president. and if i had one incident in my life to live over again, i should choose this. as we were going up the river, a disabled steamer lay across the passage in the obstruction of piles the confederates had built. mr. lincoln would not wait. there were but a few of us in his party, and we stepped into admiral porter's twelve-oared barge and were rowed to richmond, the smoke of the fires still darkening the sky. we landed within a block of libby prison.
with the little guard of ten sailors he marched the mile and a half to general weitzel's headquarters,--the presidential mansion of the confederacy. you can imagine our anxiety. i shall remember him always as i saw him that day, a tall, black figure of sorrow, with the high silk hat we have learned to love. unafraid, his heart rent with pity, he walked unharmed amid such tumult as i have rarely seen. the windows filled, the streets ahead of us became choked, as the word that the president was coming ran on like quick-fire. the mob shouted and pushed. drunken men reeled against him. the negroes wept aloud and cried hosannas. they pressed upon him that they might touch the hem of his coat, and one threw himself on his knees and kissed the president's feet.
still he walked on unharmed, past the ashes and the ruins. not as a conqueror was he come, to march in triumph. not to destroy, but to heal. though there were many times when we had to fight for a path through the crowds, he did not seem to feel the danger.
was it because he knew that his hour was not yet come?
to-day, on the boat, as we were steaming between the green shores of the potomac, i overheard him reading to mr. sumner:--
“duncan is in his grave; after life's fitful fever he sleeps well; treason has done his worst; nor steel, nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, can touch him further.”
willard's hotel, washington, april 10, 1865.
i have looked up the passage, and have written it in above. it haunts me.
the train was late--very late. it was virginia who first caught sight of the new dome of the capitol through the slanting rain, but she merely pressed her lips together and said nothing. in the dingy brick station of the baltimore and ohio railroad more than one person paused to look after them, and a kind-hearted lady who had been in the car kissed the girl good-by.
“you think that you can find your uncle's house, my dear?” she asked, glancing at virginia with concern. through all of that long journey she had worn a look apart. “do you think you can find your uncle's house?”
virginia started. and then she smiled as she looked at the honest, alert, and squarely built gentleman beside her.
“captain brent can, mrs. ware,” she said. “he can find anything.”
whereupon the kind lady gave the captain her hand. “you look as if you could, captain,” said she. “remember, if general carvel is out of town, you promised to bring her to me.”
“yes, ma'am,” said captain lige, “and so i shall.”
“kerridge, kerridge! right dis-a-way! no sah, dat ain't de kerridge you wants. dat's it, lady, you'se lookin at it. kerridge, kerridge, kerridge!”
virginia tried bravely to smile, but she was very near to tears as she stood on the uneven pavement and looked at the scrawny horses standing patiently in the steady downpour. all sorts of people were coming and going, army officers and navy officers and citizens of states and territories, driving up and driving away.
and this was washington!
she was thinking then of the multitude who came here with aching hearts,--with heavier hearts than was hers that day. how many of the throng hurrying by would not flee, if they could, back to the peaceful homes they had left? but perhaps those homes were gone now. destroyed, like her own, by the war. women with children at their breasts, and mothers bowed with sorrow, had sought this city in their agony. young men and old had come hither, striving to keep back the thoughts of dear ones left behind, whom they might never see again. and by the thousands and tens of thousands they had passed from here to the places of blood beyond.
“kerridge, sah! kerridge!”
“do you know where general daniel carvel lives?”
“yes, sah, reckon i does. i street, sah. jump right in, sah.”
virginia sank back on the stuffy cushions of the rattle-trap, and then sat upright again and stared out of the window at the dismal scene. they were splashing through a sea of mud. ever since they had left st. louis, captain lige had done his best to cheer her, and he did not intend to desist now.
“this beats all,” he cried. “so this is washington, why, it don't compare to st. louis, except we haven't got the white house and the capitol. jinny, it would take a scow to get across the street, and we don't have ramshackly stores and nigger cabins bang up against fine houses like that. this is ragged. that's what it is, ragged. we don't have any dirty pickaninnies dodging among the horses in our residence streets. i declare, jinny, if those aren't pigs!”
virginia laughed. she could not help it.
“lordy, jinny,” said the captain, “i'd put up with a good deal more than this for the sake of going anywhere with you.”
“even to such a doleful place as this?” she sighed.
“this is all right, if the sun'll only come out and dry things up and let us see the green on those trees,” he said, “lordy, how i do love to see the spring green in the sunlight!”
she put out her hand over his.
“lige,” she said, “you know you're just trying to keep up my spirits. you've been doing that ever since we left home.”
“no such thing,” he replied with vehemence. “there's nothing for you to be cast down about.”
“oh, but there is!” she cried. “suppose i can't make your black republican president pardon clarence!”
“pooh!” said the captain, squeezing her hand and trying to appear unconcerned. “your uncle daniel knows mr. lincoln. he'll have that arranged.”
just then the rattletrap pulled up at the sidewalk, the wheels of the near side in four inches of mud, and the captain leaped out and spread the umbrella. they were in front of a rather imposing house of brick, flanked on one side by a house just like it, and on the other by a series of dreary vacant lots where the rain had collected in pools. they climbed the steps and rang the bell. in due time the door was opened by a smiling yellow butler in black.
“does general carvel live here?”
“yas, miss, but he ain't to home now. done gone to new york.”
“oh,” faltered virginia. “didn't he get my telegram day before yesterday? i sent it to the war department.”
“he's done gone since saturday, miss.” and then, evidently impressed by the young lady's looks, he added hospitably, “kin i do anything fo' you, miss?”
“i'm his niece, miss virginia carvel, and this is captain brent.”
“come right in, miss jinny, done heerd de general speak of you often--yas'm. de general'll be to home dis a'ternoon, suah. 'twill do him good ter see you, miss jinny. he's been mighty lonesome. walk right in, cap'n, and make yo'selves at home. lizbeth--lizbeth!”
a yellow maid came running down the stairs. “heah's miss jinny.”
“lan' of goodness!” cried lizbeth. “i knows miss jinny. done seed her at calve't house. how is you, miss jinny?”
“very well, lizbeth,” said virginia, listlessly sitting down on the hall sofa. “can you give us some breakfast?”
“yas'm,” said lizbeth, “jes' reckon we kin.” she ushered them into a walnut dining room, big and high and sombre, with plush-bottomed chairs placed about--walnut also; for that was the fashion in those days. but the captain had no sooner seated himself than he shot up again and started out.
“where are you going, lige?”
“to pay off the carriage driver,” he said.
“let him wait,” said virginia. “i'm going to the white house in a little while.”
“what--what for?” he gasped.
“to see your black republican president,” she replied, with alarming calmness.
“now, jinny,” he cried, in excited appeal, “don't go doin' any such fool trick as that. your uncle dan'l will be here this afternoon. he knows the president. and then the thing'll be fixed all right, and no mistake.”
her reply was in the same tone--almost a monotone--which she had used for three days. it made the captain very uneasy, for he knew when she spoke in that way that her will was in it.
“and to lose that time,” she answered, “may be to have him shot.”
“but you can't get to the president without credentials,” he objected.
“what,” she flashed, “hasn't any one a right to see the president? you mean to say that he will not see a woman in trouble? then all these pretty stories i hear of him are false. they are made up by the yankees.”
poor captain lige! he had some notion of the multitude of calls upon mr. lincoln, especially at that time. but he could not, he dared not, remind her of the principal reason for this,--lee's surrender and the approaching end of the war. and then the captain had never seen mr. lincoln. in the distant valley of the mississippi he had only heard of the president very conflicting things. he had heard him criticised and reviled and praised, just as is every man who goes to the white house, be he saint or sinner. and, during an administration, no man at a distance may come at a president's true character and worth. the captain had seen lincoln caricatured vilely. and again he had read and heard the pleasant anecdotes of which virginia had spoken, until he did not know what to believe.
as for virginia, he knew her partisanship to, and undying love for, the south; he knew the class prejudice which was bound to assert itself, and he had seen enough in the girl's demeanor to fear that she was going to demand rather than implore. she did not come of a race that was wont to bend the knee.
“well, well,” he said despairingly, “you must eat some breakfast first, jinny.”
she waited with an ominous calmness until it was brought in, and then she took a part of a roll and some coffee.
“this won't do,” exclaimed the captain. “why, why, that won't get you halfway to mr. lincoln.”
she shook her head, half smiling.
“you must eat enough, lige,” she said.
he was finished in an incredibly short time, and amid the protestations of lizbeth and the yellow butler they got into the carriage again, and splashed and rattled toward the white house. once virginia glanced out, and catching sight of the bedraggled flags on the houses in honor of lee's surrender, a look of pain crossed her face. the captain could not repress a note of warning.
“jinny,” said he, “i have an idea that you'll find the president a good deal of a man. now if you're allowed to see him, don't get him mad, jinny, whatever you do.”
virginia stared straight ahead.
“if he is something of a man, lige, he will not lose his temper with a woman.”
captain lige subsided. and just then they came in sight of the house of the presidents, with its beautiful portico and its broad wings. and they turned in under the dripping trees of the grounds. a carriage with a black coachman and footman was ahead of them, and they saw two stately gentlemen descend from it and pass the guard at the door. then their turn came. the captain helped her out in his best manner, and gave some money to the driver.
“i reckon he needn't wait for us this time, jinny,” said be. she shook her head and went in, he following, and they were directed to the anteroom of the president's office on the second floor. there were many people in the corridors, and one or two young officers in blue who stared at her. she passed them with her head high.
but her spirits sank when they came to the anteroom. it was full of all sorts of people. politicians, both prosperous and seedy, full faced and keen faced, seeking office; women, officers, and a one-armed soldier sitting in the corner. he was among the men who offered virginia their seats, and the only one whom she thanked. but she walked directly to the doorkeeper at the end of the room. captain lige was beside her.
“can we see the president?” he asked.
“have you got an appointment?” said the old man.
“then you'll have to wait your turn, sir,” he said, shaking his head and looking at virginia. and he added. “it's slow work waiting your turn, there's so many governors and generals and senators, although the session's over. it's a busy time, miss.”
virginia went very close to him.
“oh, can't you do something?” she said. and added, with an inspiration, “i must see him. it's a matter of life and death.”
she saw instantly, with a woman's instinct, that these words had had their effect. the old man glanced at her again, as if demurring.
“you're sure, miss, it's life and death?” he said.
“oh, why should i say so if it were not?” she cried.
“the orders are very strict,” he said. “but the president told me to give precedence to cases when a life is in question. just you wait a minute, miss, until governor doddridge comes out, and i'll see what i can do for you. give me your name, please, miss.”
she remained standing where she was. in a little while the heavy door opened, and a portly, rubicund man came out with a smile on his face. he broke into a laugh, when halfway across the room, as if the memory of what he had heard were too much for his gravity. the doorkeeper slipped into the room, and there was a silent, anxious interval. then he came out again.
“the president will see you, miss.”
captain lige started forward with her, but she restrained him.
“wait for me here, lige,” she said.
she swept in alone, and the door closed softly after her. the room was a big one, and there were maps on the table, with pins sticking in them. she saw that much, and then--!
could this fantastically tall, stooping figure before her be that of the president of the united states? she stopped, as from the shock he gave her. the lean, yellow face with the mask-like lines all up and down, the unkempt, tousled hair, the beard--why, he was a hundred times more ridiculous than his caricatures. he might have stood for many of the poor white trash farmers she had seen in kentucky--save for the long black coat.
“is--is this mr. lincoln?” she asked, her breath taken away.
he bowed and smiled down at her. somehow that smile changed his face a little.
“i guess i'll have to own up,” he answered.
“my name is virginia carvel,” she said. “i have come all the way from st. louis to see you.”
“miss carvel,” said the president, looking at her intently, “i have rarely been so flattered in my life. i--i hope i have not disappointed you.”
virginia was justly angry.
“oh, you haven't,” she cried, her eyes flashing, “because i am what you would call a rebel.”
the mirth in the dark corners of his eyes disturbed her more and more. and then she saw that the president was laughing.
“and have you a better name for it, miss carvel?” he asked. “because i am searching for a better name--just now.”
she was silent--sternly silent. and she tapped her foot on the carpet. what manner of man was this? “won't you sit down?” said the president, kindly. “you must be tired after your journey.” and he put forth a chair.
“no, thank you,” said virginia; “i think that i can say what i have come to say better standing.”
“well,” said mr. lincoln, “that's not strange. i'm that way, too. the words seem to come out better. that reminds me of a story they tell about general buck tanner. ever heard of buck, miss carvel? no? well, buck was a character. he got his title in the mormon war. one day the boys asked him over to the square to make a speech. the general was a little uneasy.
“'i'm all right when i get standing up, liza,' he said to his wife. then the words come right along. only trouble is they come too cussed fast. how'm i going to stop 'em when i want to?'
“'well, i du declare, buck,' said she, 'i gave you credit for some sense. all you've got to do is to set down. that'll end it, i reckon.'
“'boys,' said he, 'it's jest every bit as bad for me as it is for you. you'll have to hand up a chair, boys, because i'm never going to get shet of this goldarned speech any anther way.'”
mr. lincoln had told this so comically that virginia was forced to laugh, and she immediately hated herself. a man who could joke at such a time certainly could not feel the cares and responsibilities of his office. he should have been a comedian. and yet this was the president who had conducted the war, whose generals had conquered the confederacy. whilst the pagans in mournful procession carried the headless trunk of their recent champion into regall, smith was triumphantly escorted back to the camp of the besiegers. he ordered the head of tur pasha to be borne to the quarters of prince moyses, who was pleased to accept the grizzly trophy. the spoils of victory were not unacceptable to john, but he had no desire to trick himself out in the fancy armor with its trimmings, and these he sold for a good round sum. the horse, however, he was glad to keep, for he had long wished for an extra mount for light service, but heretofore his slender means had denied him that advantage. in the wars of the time, captains who could afford to do so kept two or more horses during a campaign, one to carry them on the march and another to ride in battle, for a man in armor was no light burden, and a beast that had borne its master ten or twelve miles would not be fit at the end of the journey for great exertion, although the life of its owner might depend upon its rendering spirited service. captain smith now had the satisfaction of knowing that he was one of the best mounted men in the army, for the arab was a marvel of speed and agility and the norman had been thoroughly trained by himself and was a perfect battle-horse.
the chief mourner in regall was one grualgo, a fierce warrior, who had been the bosom friend of the slain pasha. when the funeral rites had been performed after the muhammadan custom, grualgo sent a message to captain john smith proposing to redeem his friend’s head at the risk of his own. he also offered to pledge his horse, arms and accoutrements on the issue. it is hardly necessary to say that the challenge was accepted with alacrity. flushed with his recent victory and more than ever confident in his skill, our champion was delighted at this early chance for another display of his prowess. the consent of the general was readily obtained. prince moyses was greatly pleased at the cheering effect smith’s success had worked upon the troops and he was no longer doubtful of the briton’s ability to uphold the honor of the christian army. the preparations were made as before, and the next day was appointed for the combat.
once more the walls were lined with the fair dames of regall and in their shadow assembled the garrison, more subdued than on the former occasion but buoyed by hopes of better fortune. the christians, on their part, lined up, exultant and strong in the expectation of another victory for their champion.
grualgo entered the lists almost as splendidly mounted and equipped as the pasha had been. captain smith wore the same plain but serviceable suit of armor and rode his trusty norman charger. he had again exercised his right as the challenged to name the lance as the principal weapon of the combat.
at the trumpet signal, the combatants spurred forward at full speed, each with his weapon well and firmly aimed at his opponent’s breast. they met in mid-career with a crash that resounded over the field. the lances flew into pieces. the horses fell back upon their haunches. both riders reeled under the shock but each contrived to keep his seat. casting aside the splintered spears, they drew their pistols from the saddle pockets. smith was the first to fire, but at the instant of the discharge the turk’s horse swerved and the bullet hummed harmlessly by his master’s head. grualgo had reserved his shot and now took careful aim. the norman, in response to the pressure of his rider’s legs, was gathering himself for a spring out of the line of fire when the report of the turk’s pistol rang out. the ball struck john’s headpiece fair in the centre of the forehead but failed to penetrate the steel. our hero was stunned and sight suddenly forsook him. the bridle dropped from his nerveless fingers and he swayed in his seat. he gave himself up for lost as he felt his senses deserting him. then came the thought that he was the champion of the christian army, that they were watching him, depending upon him to secure victory for them. exerting all the will at his command, he set his teeth together and fought back the inclination to swoon.
grualgo seeing his enemy at his mercy, smiled with grim satisfaction as he drew his second pistol, intending to dispatch the christian youth with deliberate and sure aim. but the trusty norman had not been trained to battle for nothing. the loose seat in the saddle and the relaxed grip of the bridle told him that his master was in distress and depended upon him to save his life. with quick but easy action, so as not to unseat the rider, the intelligent beast strode out of range. the turk wheeled and galloped after him. his was the swifter steed and he had no difficulty in overtaking smith’s charger, but each time as he levelled his weapon to fire, the norman darted away at an angle. in this manner the gallant animal contrived to prolong the combat for many minutes. meanwhile smith’s senses and his strength were fast reviving. it gladdened the noble steed to feel the returning firmness of seat and grasp of the bridle, and his master, as his sight cleared, began to lend his guidance to the clever tactics of the animal.
when captain smith fully realized the situation, he made up his mind that success could be secured only by bold and daring action. in his weakened state he could not hope to overcome the turk in a prolonged fight. he must rely upon surprising the other and bringing the affair to an issue by a sudden attack. grualgo would not risk his last shot until he could make sure of his aim. he probably believed our hero to be sorely wounded and had no thought of his reviving or resuming the offensive.
in one of his horse’s evasive rushes, smith bent forward upon the animal’s neck as though overcome by sudden pain, but the movement was made to enable him to stealthily draw his loaded pistol from the holster. holding it concealed behind the high pommel of his saddle, he braced his nerves for the final effort. once more grualgo approached his foe but this time, instead of allowing his horse to spring aside, john urged him forward, straight at the astonished turk. before the latter could recover his presence of mind sufficiently to use his weapon, the englishman’s pistol was discharged full in his face, and he fell to the ground in a dying state. smith dismounted and gave the turk his coup de grace, or finishing stroke, and then cut off his head.
this second defeat was a severe blow to the defenders of regall. their two foremost champions had been vanquished and by a beardless boy, for captain smith at this time had barely passed his twenty-first year. there were no more challenges from the disheartened garrison. they lost all desire to afford pastime for the ladies and they ceased to find the christians subjects for contemptuous jests as they had done in the early days of the siege. their sallies were now of rare occurrence and were easily repelled, so that the work of preparation for the final assault upon the city went forward with little interruption.
our hero, in whom love of action was second nature, chafed sorely under the slow and tedious engineering operations. at length he sought and obtained permission from prince moyses to send a challenge into the city. this message was couched in the most courteous terms and was addressed to the ladies of regall, our hero shrewdly suspecting that in this way he would more quickly touch the honor of the men. captain john smith begged to assure the ladies of regall that he was not so enamored of the heads of their servants, but that he was ready to restore them upon proper terms. he urged the ladies to send forth a champion who would risk his head in the effort to regain those of the vanquished turks. captain smith concluded by expressing his willingness that his own head should accompany the others in case the champion of the ladies proved the victor in the proposed combat. in due time an acceptance of this challenge was received from one boni mulgro, and a day was set for the trial of arms.
the conditions of this third duel were similar to those that governed the two preceding combats, with the exception of one important particular. john smith, being the challenger on this occasion, the choice of weapons rested with his adversary. mulgro had no stomach for a contest with the lance, of which smith had proved himself a master. he chose to fight with the pistol, battle axe and falchion. in the use of these weapons, and especially the battle axe, he was expert. this wise decision of the turk came near to undoing our hero as the sequel will show.
at the signal of attack, the combatants advanced upon each other but not at the charge as would have been the case had lances been their weapons. instead, they caused their horses to curvet and prance and change suddenly from one direction to another. these manœuvres, resembling those of two wrestlers, were designed to disconcert the aim, and in the present instance did so with such complete effect that each of the champions emptied two pistols without touching his enemy.
they now resorted to the battle axe, on which the turk rested his hope of success. he found in captain john smith an antagonist little less proficient than himself. for a while the strife waxed warm and fast without any perceptible advantage to either. heavy blows were aimed and fended without ceasing, leaving neither, as smith tells us, with “scarce sense enough to keep his saddle.” at length a hard blow delivered by the turk struck john’s weapon near the head and it flew from his hand. at the sight of this advantage gained by their champion, the people of regall set up such a shout as to shake the walls of the city.
it was a critical moment. smith was disarmed. the turk was within arm’s length of him. he raised his battle axe to strike a crushing blow. before it could descend the norman charger had sprung aside and the weapon cut the air harmlessly. but the danger was only averted for a moment. the turk pressed close upon his adversary, striving to strike, but each time the axe was raised the good horse reared suddenly or sprung away.
meanwhile captain smith had succeeded in drawing his falchion. hardly had its point cleared the scabbard, when mulgro again came on with an incautious rush. as the turk raised his arm to swing the heavy weapon, smith thrust with full force and ran his sword through the body of boni mulgro.
the christian army was fairly wild with delight at this third victory of captain john smith, and the commander ordered a pageant in his honor. with an escort of six thousand men-at-arms, the three turk’s heads and the spoils of the three combats borne before him, captain smith was conducted to the pavilion of the general, who received him surrounded by his principal officers. prince moyses embraced our hero in the presence of the troops and, after complimenting him warmly on his valiant deeds, presented him with a splendid charger richly caparisoned, a beautiful scimitar of damascus steel and a belt containing three hundred ducats.
but more highly than these gifts john valued the distinction bestowed upon him by his old commander. count meldritch, truly proud of his young protégé, there and then appointed him a major-captain in his regiment.
nor were these the only rewards that fell to the lot of captain john smith on account of his prowess at the siege of regall. at a later period, when the knowledge of his conduct came to duke sigismund bathor of transylvania, he presented our hero with a picture of himself set in gold, conferred upon him a yearly pension of three hundred ducats--a snug sum in those days--and capped all with a patent of nobility. this patent entitled captain john smith to a coat of arms, bearing three turks’ heads in a shield.
john smith’s patent of nobility, setting forth the deeds for which it was conferred, may be seen in the college of heralds, london, where, in its original latin form, it was officially recorded august 19th, 1625, by sir william segar, garter king-at-arms.
brave hearts and true
regall is bombarded and taken by assault--the earl of meldritch leads an army of thirty thousand into wallachia--fierce fighting and a retreat through the enemy’s country--the “master of stratagem” commands the vanguard and clears a pass--the earl’s depleted army makes a last stand in the fateful valley of veristhorne--forty thousand tartars lay before them and in their rear thirty thousand turks--the christians make a splendid but hopeless defense--they attempt to cut their way out and a mere handful escape--john smith is left on the field covered with wounds--he is found by the enemy and tended--sold for a slave at axopolis and sent to constantinople.
although the defeat of their champions naturally had a depressing effect upon the garrison, they continued to maintain a strong defence. the approaches, upon which the besiegers had been at work for weeks were now, however, completed and their guns brought within close range of the walls of regall. for fifteen days a constant fire was kept up by twenty-six pieces of artillery and at the end of that time two large breaches afforded ample avenues for assault.
when the christian army entered the town a terrific conflict ensued, but after two days of hand to hand fighting through the streets the citadel fell and with the capture of that inner stronghold all opposition ceased. prince moyses set his men to repair the fortifications and when that had been accomplished left a garrison in the place and proceeded to the reduction of a number of neighboring towns. at the close of these minor operations the prince’s army was broken up and captain john smith went with the earl of meldritch into wallachia.
the earl opened the campaign in wallachia with a body of thirty thousand veteran troops, of which his own regiment was the pick. opposed from the first to great odds, they performed magnificent service until finally annihilated in the fatal valley of veristhorne. but the army of meldritch had many a hard fought fight before that dreadful day. there was one great battle in wallachia which closed with twenty-five thousand dead upon the field. they lay so thick that “there was scarce ground to stand upon,” says smith, “but upon the dead carcasses.” though the turks were defeated in this affair, the victory had been purchased at such a heavy cost that the earl decided to retreat upon the fortified town of rothenthrum, and this with as little delay as possible because fresh bodies of the enemy were moving against him from every direction.
the march of the retiring army was hampered at every step by the enemy, who hung upon its rear and flanks and engaged portions of it in frequent skirmishes. the men were thus wearied and their progress retarded. the special object of these tactics on the part of the turks became apparent when the christian commander learned that a strong force had thrown itself across his path. it was posted in a pass through which meldritch must necessarily go in order to reach rothenthrum. nor was this all, for the same news-bearer informed the general that an army of forty thousand tartars was moving rapidly to join the turks in the defile.
in the meanwhile our hero’s busy brain had been at work, and when the troops came to a halt he had a simple but well-devised plan to propose to his commander. he lost no time in repairing to the spot where the general stood consulting with his leading officers. although no more than a major-captain, smith could always gain the ear of his superiors, who had long since learned to respect his judgment and shrewd resourcefulness.
“way there for my ‘master of stratagem,’” cried the earl banteringly, as our hero approached. “now i warrant he hath some bold proposal to advance that shall give us easement in this difficulty. thou art always welcome captain smith, for methinks dame fortune dances close attendance on thee.”
smith revealed his scheme and immediately received the consent of the commander to its execution.
“by my halidame!” said the pleased general, “this powder-magician of ours would rout the forces of pluto and distract his realm with horrible contrivances. take what men you need and make what arrangements your judgment prompts, captain smith. tonight the van is under your command.”
the leader of the vanguard was decidedly the post of honor in such an action as was about to begin, and as our captain rode forward in the dark at the head of three hundred picked horsemen, he felt justly proud of the position assigned to him. each of his men carried a spear on the head of which was fastened a bunch of fireworks, designed to make as much noise and splutter as possible. when they had arrived within a few hundred yards of the turks who lay in waiting at the entrance to the pass, each man lighted the combustibles at the end of his lance and charged with it thrust in front of his horse’s head. the effect upon the enemy was immediate and decisive. panic seized their ranks. they turned and fled, falling over one another in their terrified haste to escape the demons by which they supposed themselves to be beset. the horses of their cavalry, no less alarmed by the strange sight, plunged wildly amongst them, increasing the confusion.
into this disordered mass rode smith’s horsemen followed by the main body, slaying as they went. so they cut their way through the pass and emerged on the other side without losing a score of their number. it was a great achievement, but meldritch’s little army was still in very grave danger. the tartars were close at hand if not already in the way. the earl pushed forward, but he dared not urge his troops to their utmost speed, in case he should come upon the enemy with his horses exhausted. furthermore, the night was unusually dark and the men had to keep to the road and proceed cautiously for fear of falling or losing their way.
with the first streaks of dawn, the anxious earl, riding at the head of the column, began to gaze forward with straining eyes. they were entering the valley of veristhorne and the refuge they sought was scarce three miles distant. presently the general, looking across the valley, dimly discerned the black bulk of rothenthrum upon the farther side. but the cry of joy that started from his lips was cut short by the sight of a huge dark mass stretched across the middle ground. it was too late. forty thousand tartars lay before them and in their rear thirty thousand turks were advancing.
the earl of meldritch was one of those rare combinations--a dashing leader and a sound general. his inclination would have prompted him to charge the horde of barbarians that lay in his path, but such a course would have been suicidal. instead, he led his troops to the base of a mountain where he immediately began dispositions to withstand an attack. the tartars commenced to form their ranks at sunrise but, fortunately for the christians, did not advance until noon. this unexpected respite enabled meldritch, not only to rest his men and horses after their all-night march, but also to make some rough defences. the tartar cavalry were the greater proportion of their army and that most to be feared. in order to check their charges, the earl surrounded his position, except where it rested upon the mountain, with a cordon of sharpened stakes, driven firmly into the ground.
the sun was high in the heavens when the tartar horsemen advanced to the discordant clamor of drums, trumpets and hautboys. in dense ranks they stretched far beyond each flank of the small christian army and looked as though they might envelop and swallow it with ease. behind them came a horde of foot-soldiers armed with bows and bills. by this time detached bodies of turks began to appear on the surrounding hills where they complacently sat down to watch the combat in the arena below, prepared, if necessary, to reinforce the tartars. these additional enemies amounted to about fifteen thousand in number, so that meldritch’s ten thousand were hopelessly overpowered. the earl realized that his little force was doomed but, like a good and brave commander, he had made the best disposition possible of them and was determined to fight to the last.
when the tartar horse had advanced to within a half mile of his position, meldritch launched a body of his cavalry under nederspolt against them. these veteran troopers made a most brilliant charge and threw the enemy into confusion, but the numbers of the christians were too small to permit them to follow up this advantage and they wisely retired within their lines. the tartars now advanced their foot, whilst their horsemen reformed on either flank. the sky was presently darkened by flight after flight of countless arrows which, however, did comparatively little harm. the christians retaliated with another charge, breaking the centre of the enemy and checking his advance. with ten thousand more cavalry meldritch might have swept the ill disciplined assailants from the field, but he was too weak to venture upon aggressive tactics and once again had to retire his men in face of a success.
in anticipation of a renewal of the attack by the tartar horsemen, meldritch had formed his infantry, under veltus, just beyond the palisade of stakes. they were ordered to hold their ground as long as possible and then to fall back behind the defence. the tartars, confident in their superior numbers, as well they might be, charged repeatedly. each time they were gallantly repulsed, but at length veltus had lost so many men that he was forced to fall back. the enemy, brandishing their spears and yelling exultantly, followed close upon the retiring foot-soldiers and came quite unawares upon the rows of sharpened stakes. in a moment a mass of struggling men and horses lay at the mercy of meldritch’s troops who slew two thousand of them.
this splendid success on the part of the pitiful handful of christians now reduced to half their original number, dampened the ardor of the tartars. there was a momentary cessation in the attack and the defence might have been maintained until darkness set in, perhaps, but the bodies of turks which we have mentioned as surveying the field in readiness to render assistance if needed, now began to descend to the valley. the earl realized that once these auxiliaries joined forces with the tartars, all would be lost. he determined to seize the moment of hesitancy on the part of the latter to make an attempt to break through them and gain the town of rothenthrum. accordingly, he quickly formed his cavalry in the van and advanced to the attack. it was a forlorn hope but no better prospect offered. five thousand men threw themselves upon thirty thousand with the desperation of despair. the earl, upon his great white charger, rode in the lead, followed by his own regiment in which captain smith was now the senior officer. straight at the tartar cavalry they went and cut their way through the front ranks as though they had been but paper barricades. but rank after rank confronted them and with each fresh contact they left numbers of their own men behind. the slaughter was indescribable. soon they were the centre of a maelstrom of frenzied human beings with scarce more chance for escape than has a canoe in the vortex of a whirlpool. they fought like heroes to the death and made fearful havoc among their enemies. the gallant earl and a few hundred followers made their way as by a miracle through the surrounding mass and swimming the river altus, escaped.
the setting sun looked down upon thirty thousand dead and dying strewn over the valley of veristhorne, but lying in gory heaps where the last desperate flower of that splendid army of thirty thousand veterans that the earl of meldritch had proudly led into wallachia a few months before and amongst them almost all his leading officers. “give me leave,” says captain smith, in his account of the affair, “to remember the names of my own countrymen in these exploits, that, as resolutely as the best, in the defense of christ and his gospel ended their days; as baskerfield, hardwicke, thomas milmer, robert molineux, thomas bishop, francis compton, george davison, nicholas williams and one john, a scot, did what men could do; and when they could do no more left there their bodies, in testimony of their minds. only ensign carleton and sergeant robinson escaped.”
these men were members of smith’s company and their captain lay among them where he had fallen covered with wounds. but he was not quite dead. the turks and tartars going over the field in search of spoils were attracted to him by the superiority of his armor. this led them to believe that he was a man of rank, and finding that he still lived they carried him into their camp with a view to preserving his life for the sake of ransom. his hurts were tended and he was nursed with care. when sufficiently recovered to travel, he was sent down to the slave market at axopolis. here smith was put up to auction together with a number of other poor wretches who had escaped death on the field of battle to meet with a worse fate, perhaps, at the hands of cruel masters.
our hero fetched a good price, as much on account of his vigorous appearance as because there seemed to be a prospect of profit in the purchase if he should turn out to be a nobleman as was suspected. he was bought by the pasha bogall and sent by him as a present to his affianced at constantinople. smith tells us that “by twenty and twenty, chained by the necks, they marched in files to this great city, where they were delivered to their several masters, and he to the young charatza tragabigzanda.”
slavery and a sea-fight
john smith is delivered to the lady charatza, his future mistress--he falls into kind hands and excites the turkish maiden’s interest--her mother intervenes and he is sent to an outlying province--he finds a brutal master and is subjected to treatment “beyond the endurance of a dog”--he slays the cruel timariot and escapes upon his horse--wanders about for weeks and at length reaches a christian settlement--adventures in africa--a trip to sea with captain merham--the britisher fights two spanish ships and holds his own--smith renders good service in the fight and employs one of his novel “stratagems”--return to england.
john smith had never found himself in worse straits than now, as shackled to a fellow slave he tramped along the road between axopolis and the turkish capital. hopeless as the situation seemed to be, he did not give himself up to despair, nor wear himself by repining over a condition which was beyond his power to remedy. he had learned from experience that the sun is apt to break through the clouds of the darkest day and when we are least expecting it. so, with the philosophy that is characteristic of the true soldier of fortune, he determined to await the turn of events with patience, and meanwhile found entertainment for his mind in a study of the strange people and places that came to his notice on the way. he has left an interesting account of these, but as they had no direct bearing upon the actual events of his life, we will pass them over.
the pasha bogall appears to have been a character somewhat like sir john falstaff, the hero of imaginary military exploits. he prepared the lady charatza--as smith calls her--for the reception of his gift by a letter. in this fanciful missive the giaour was described as a bohemian nobleman whom the valiant bogall had defeated in single combat and made prisoner. in his desire to exalt himself in the mind of his mistress, the turk fell into two errors. he took it for granted that the slave and the turkish damsel would be unable to converse with each other and he expatiated on smith’s prowess in order to enhance by comparison his own valor in overcoming him.
the fair charatza was naturally curious to see this noble and unfortunate slave for whom she could hardly fail to entertain feelings of compassion. when they met, the lady was more impressed than she would have cared to acknowledge by the bearing and address of the handsome captain. they found a ready means of communication in italian which both understood and spoke with tolerable fluency. questioned as to the combat in which the pasha had defeated him, smith laughed and declared that he had never set eyes on the doughty turk until they met in the market place of axopolis. as to being a bohemian nobleman, he claimed no greater distinction than that of an english gentleman and a captain of horse.
charatza did not doubt the truth of captain smith’s statement to her, but she caused inquiry to be made about him amongst the other captives who had been distributed here and there in the city. thus she learned that her slave, whilst in truth no more than a captain in rank, was one of the most renowned soldiers in the army of the emperor, and indeed had no equal among men of his age. the story of the three turks reached her through the same sources and aroused admiration where curiosity and compassion had before been excited. the outcome was something like that in the story of othello and desdemona.
the turkish lady, young and romantic, found the stories of captain smith’s adventures so interesting that she insisted upon his telling them over and over again. in order to enjoy this pleasure, without arousing criticism of her unusual familiarity with a male slave, she had him assigned to work in her private garden which formed a part of the extensive grounds attached to the mansion. there undisturbed, hours were spent daily by the captive in reciting to his fair owner stories of his varied experiences and in giving her accounts of different places and peoples in the wonderful world of which she knew almost nothing.
thus several weeks passed and our hero, who was well fed and comfortably lodged meanwhile, fast regained his wonted strength and energy. it may be asked, why did he not attempt to escape? the thought of course entered his mind, but investigation soon satisfied him that the difficulties in the way were almost insurmountable. the place was surrounded by high walls which were guarded day and night by armed eunuchs. smith had no clothes but his own nor any means of securing others. even if he gained the streets he would be marked as a foreigner and suspected of being an escaped slave. under the circumstances he determined to abide his time in the hope that his fair mistress might become willing to release him and aid in his escape.
but affairs took a turn that neither of the young people, who were beginning to feel a strong regard for each other, had looked for. the mother of charatza, informed by a jealous turkish servant of the meetings between her daughter and the giaour, came upon them one day and expressed her indignation in stinging terms. she declared her determination to sell the english slave immediately and would have carried her threat into effect but for the suggestion of charatza that the pasha might not be pleased at such disposition of his gift. finally a compromise was agreed upon. the brother of charatza was a timariot, that is a turkish feudal chieftain, at nalbrits, in a distant province. it was decided that smith should be sent there, charatza hoping to be able to contrive his return, and indeed having some idea that the captive might be induced to turn muhammadan and enter the sultan’s army.
so john smith was sent to nalbrits and at the same time charatza despatched a letter to her brother in which she begged him to treat the young englishman kindly and to give him the lightest sort of work. any good effect that might have accrued from this well-intentioned but ill-advised letter was prevented by another which went forward at the same time. in it the pasha’s mother told of the extraordinary interest charatza had displayed in the infidel slave and expressed a suspicion that the young girl’s affections had become fastened upon him. this of course enraged the haughty and fanatical turk and the unfortunate smith immediately felt the weight of his new master’s displeasure. within an hour of his arrival at nalbrits he was stripped naked, his head and face were shaved “as smooth as the palm of his hand” and he was put into a garment of undressed goat-skin with an iron ring round his neck.
our hero now entered upon a life too miserable for description and, as he expresses it, “beyond the endurance of a dog.” he was subjected to the hardest and vilest tasks and, being the latest comer among hundreds of slaves, became slave to the whole herd, for such was the custom which he was in no position to contest. he found his companions a poor lot, broken in body and spirit, and sunk in apathetic resignation to their condition. he endeavored to discover among them a few with sufficient courage and enterprise to plan an uprising, but soon abandoned the idea. it was clear that any chance that might arise for escape would be impaired by the co-operation of such hopelessly sunken wretches. during the months that he remained in this terrible bondage his main effort was to sustain his own spirits and to combat the tendency to fall into despair. few men could have succeeded in this, but john smith combined with great physical strength and the highest courage an unshakable trust in providence. the event justified his confidence and he fully deserved the good fortune which ultimately befell him.
when he had been several months at nalbrits, it happened that smith was put to work on the threshing floor at a country residence of the pasha. here he labored with a long heavy club, the flail not being known to the people of those parts. the pasha seems to have entertained a feeling of positive hatred for the slave, fanned no doubt by frequent letters from charatza, who could have no knowledge of his condition. it was a favorite pastime with the turk to stand over smith whilst at his labor and taunt him. at such times, it was with the greatest difficulty that the captain restrained the desire to leap upon his persecutor and strangle him. he knew, however, that to have raised his hand against his cruel master would have entailed torture and probably a lingering death.
smith’s first impulse was to ride as fast as possible in the opposite direction to nalbrits, and this he did, continuing his career until night overtook him. he entered a wood at some distance from the road and there passed the hours of darkness. he never failed to keep a clear head in the most critical emergencies and in the haste of departure had not neglected to secure the pasha’s weapons and to snatch up a sack of corn from the threshing floor. the latter would preserve his life for some time and with the former he proposed to sell it dearly if overtaken. he had no idea as to what direction to take in order to reach a christian community. daybreak found him in this condition of perplexity, and he resumed his wandering flight with less impetuosity and a careful regard to avoid every locality that appeared to be inhabited. at a distance his costume might prove a protection, but on closer inspection a beholder could not fail to note the iron collar that proclaimed him a slave.
smith had ridden about aimlessly for three days and nights, not knowing where he was nor how far from nalbrits, when he suddenly chanced upon one of the great caravan roads that traversed asia and connected with the main highways of europe. he knew that if he followed this road far enough westward he must come eventually into some christian country, but caution was more necessary than ever, for these were much travelled routes. he concluded to skirt the road by day and ride upon it only after dark. at the close of the fourth day after his escape he came to the meeting point of several crossroads and then learned the peculiar method employed by the people of those parts to direct travellers. the sign posts were painted with various designs to indicate the directions of different countries. for instance, a half moon pointed to the country of the crim tartars, a black man to persia, a sun to china, and a cross--which our hero perceived with joy--distinguished the road leading to the christian realm of muscovy, the russia of today.
after sixteen days’ riding, without encountering a mishap, smith arrived safely at a muscovite settlement on the don where he was warmly received. the galling badge of bondage was filed from his neck and he felt then, but not before, once more a free man. his wants were supplied and he was furnished with sufficient money to enable him to continue his journey in comfort. he proceeded into transylvania where his old comrades welcomed him as one from the grave, having lamented him as among the dead at rothenthrum. the earl of meldritch was delighted to meet his old captain and “master of stratagem” once more and regretted that the existing state of peace prevented their fighting together again. that condition determined our hero to seek service in africa where he heard that a war was in progress. before his departure, prince sigismund presented him with fifteen hundred ducats, and so he set out with a well-filled purse and a light heart.
captain smith journeyed to barbary in company with a french adventurer who, like himself, cared little where he went so that the excursion held out a prospect of fighting and new experiences. on this occasion, however, they were disappointed in their hope of military service. they found the conditions such as they were not willing to become involved in. the sultan of barbary had been poisoned by his wife, and two of his sons, neither of whom had a right to the succession, were contending for the throne. our adventurers considered this state of things more akin to murder than to war and declined to take any part in it, although they might without doubt have enriched themselves by doing so.
they were soon rewarded by intercepting a portuguese trader laden with wine from teneriffe. this they eased of its cargo and allowed to go its way. the next day they espied two sails some miles distant and proceeded to overhaul them. they did this with such success that they were within small-arm range of the ships before they perceived them to be spanish men-of-war, either superior to themselves in armament and probably in men. seeing himself so greatly overmatched, merham endeavored to escape, and a running fight was maintained for hours. at length, towards sunset, the spaniards damaged the britisher’s rigging and coming up with him, boarded from either side. merham’s ship must have been captured by the enemy, who greatly outnumbered his own men, but whilst the fight on deck was in progress, captain smith secured “divers bolts of iron”--cross-bars, probably--with which he loaded one of the guns. the charge tore a hole so large in one of the spanish ships that it began to sink. at this both the attacking vessels threw off their grappling irons and withdrew.
the spaniards were busy for two or more hours repairing the breach in their ship and merham was occupied as long in putting his sailing gear in order, so that he could not profit by the damage to the enemy. when at length he did get under way the spaniards were in condition to follow and the chase was continued all night. with the break of day the fight was resumed, but not before the spanish senior officer had offered the british captain quarter if he would surrender. merham answered this proposal with his cannon and hove to with the intention of fighting it out.
the spaniards realized that they were no match for the britisher in gun-play and they therefore lost no time in grappling. a fierce hand to hand conflict ensued and lasted for an hour with varying success, but the odds were beginning to tell against merham’s men when their captain turned the tide by a clever stratagem. he sent some sailors aloft to unsling the mainsail and let it fall on the top of a number of spaniards beneath. whilst these were struggling to get clear of the canvas, about twenty of them were killed. this disheartening occurrence induced the attacking ships to disengage. the cannonading continued on both sides, however, and after a while the spanish captains once more boarded with all the men available.
whilst merham was engaged in putting out the fire the spaniards kept their guns playing upon him, ceasing only at intervals to make proposals for surrender, at all of which the british captain laughed. when the flames were extinguished he invited the spanish officers with mock ceremony to come on board his vessel again, assuring them that captain smith was yearning to afford them further entertainment. but the spaniards had no longer any stomach for boarding parties and contented themselves with firing at long range until nightfall when they sailed away.
captain merham took his crippled ship back to saffi to undergo repairs and there our hero left him, after expressing his gratification for the diversion the privateersman had afforded him, and took ship for england.
the american colonist
a bad beginning
john smith becomes interested in american colonization--devotes his money and his services to the virginia venture--sails with an expedition to the new world composed of an ill-assorted company of adventurers--they fall into dissensions at the outset--each is jealous of others and all of john smith--he is placed under arrest and a gallows erected for his accommodation--the emigrants grow weary of the adventure--when almost within sight of the continent they plan to put about and return to england--a storm decides the matter by sweeping them into chesapeake bay--a party is landed and has an early conflict with the indians.
the life of john smith naturally divides itself into two parts, each covering about twenty-five years. we have followed him through the former period with its exciting episodes and varying scenes. during this term he is the soldier of fortune, seeking to satisfy his love of adventure and to gain knowledge and experience. beyond these motives he has no definite purpose in view. he is ready to enlist in any cause that offers opportunity for honorable employment. this early stage of his activity has developed his mind and body and strengthened that stability of character for which he was distinguished. he returns to england, bronzed and bearded, somewhat disgusted with the horrors of war and dissatisfied at the futility of the life of the mere adventurer. his energy is in no degree abated but he longs to find some purposeful direction for his enterprise. fortunately for him, for his country, and for us, the opportunity awaited the man.
up to this time, all the efforts of englishmen to plant colonies in america had resulted in failure. the movement began with the voyages and discoveries of the cabots in the reign of henry the seventh and for a century was pursued with difficulty in the face of the superior naval strength of spain, which nation claimed exclusive right to the entire continent. the defeat of the “invincible armada” afforded freedom of the seas to english navigators and marked the beginning of a new era in american exploration and settlement. the majority of the men who engaged in this field of enterprise were actuated by no better motive than the desire to gain wealth or satisfy a love of adventure. there were, however, not a few who entered into the movement with patriotic motives and of these the gallant and ill-fated raleigh is the most conspicuous. he devoted his fortune to exploration of the western hemisphere and spent in this endeavor more than a million dollars. in 1584 his vessels under amidas and barlow made a landing in the carolinas, took possession in the name of queen elizabeth, and called the country “virginia.” in the following year a colony of one hundred and eight men was sent out under sir ralph lane. a settlement was made upon the island of roanoke but the enterprise was soon abandoned and the colonists returned to england. in 1586, sir richard grenville left fifty men at the deserted settlement, only to be massacred by the indians. but raleigh persisted in his efforts. another party of emigrants was sent out and this time it was sought to encourage home-making in the new land by including women in the colonists. the fate of these pioneers who are commonly referred to as the “lost colony” is a blank. a later expedition found the site of the settlement deserted and no trace of its former occupants could ever be discovered.
the unfortunate results of these efforts dampened the ardor for american colonization and for twelve years there was a cessation of the attempts to people virginia. raleigh had exhausted his means and his later explorations were made with borrowed money and directed to the discovery of gold mines in guiana. in 1602, bartholomew gosnold made a successful voyage to virginia, returning with a cargo of sassafras. several other expeditions followed which, although they made no settlements, revived public interest in the american possession and made the route a comparatively familiar one. when john smith returned to his native land he found the colonization of virginia occupying a prominent place in the minds of his countrymen. it was a project precisely fitted to satisfy the nobler ambition which now fired him to devote his talents and energies to his country’s service. it promised to combine with a useful career a sufficient element of novelty and adventure, and he lost no time in allying himself with the chief promoters of the movement.
the territory of virginia had been granted to sir walter raleigh by queen elizabeth. the latter died in 1603, the year before smith’s return to england, and her successor, james the first, imprisoned raleigh on a charge of high treason and confiscated his possessions. in 1606, the king issued a charter for the colonization of virginia to a company, which smith joined with five hundred pounds of his own money. but previous to this he had been one of the most diligent workers in the promotion of the scheme, inducing merchants and noblemen to support the project with capital and persuading desirable men to volunteer as colonists. neither object was easy of attainment and the latter was the more difficult. numerous broken-down gentlemen of indifferent character were eager to embrace the chance of retrieving their fortunes in a new land, and hundreds of dissolute soldiers out of employment offered their services to the promoters. but the need was for farmers, mechanics, and laborers, and few of these could be induced to leave their homes in the prosperous state of the country at that time. consequently the organizers of the expedition had to content themselves with a poor assortment of colonists who, but for the presence of captain john smith among them, would assuredly have added one more to the list of failures connected with north american colonization. it was due to him mainly, and almost solely, that the settlement at jamestown survived and became the root from which branched the united states of america.
the expedition, when at length it was organized, consisted of three vessels carrying, aside from their crews, one hundred and five colonists. the largest of the ships, named the susan constant, was barely one hundred tons burden, the second, named the godspeed, was somewhat smaller, and the third, the discovery, no more than twenty tons. their commanders were captain christopher newport, captain bartholomew gosnold and john ratcliffe respectively. other important members of the expedition were edward wingfield, a man with little but his aristocratic connections to recommend him; robert hunt, a clergyman, whose name should be linked with that of john smith as one of the saviours of the colony, and a few whose introduction we may defer until circumstances bring them prominently upon the scene. for the rest, forty-eight were gentlemen of little account, about thirty were men of lower estate, but no greater usefulness, and only a score belonged to the artisan and mechanic class. smith had engaged and fitted out a few men with whose quality he had some acquaintance, including carlton and robinson, the only two englishmen of his own command who had escaped from the disaster in the valley of veristhorne.
in the last days of the year 1606, this ill-assorted company sailed out of the thames under conditions calculated to create dissensions from the outset. king james, one of the most feeble monarchs who ever occupied the english throne, had reserved to himself the right to select the council by which the colony should be governed, allowing to that body the privilege of electing its president. but for some reason, which it is impossible to surmise, the choice of the monarch was kept secret and names of the council enclosed in a box which was to be opened only when the party reached its destination. thus they started upon the voyage without a commander or any recognized authority among them, and each man of prominence, feeling satisfied that the king could not have overlooked his superior claims to a place in the council, assumed the tone and bearing of an accepted leader whilst resenting similar action on the part of others.
the need of acknowledged authority was felt from the outset. newport, gosnold, and ratcliffe, were, for the nonce, merely sailing masters and had as much as they could well do to fulfill their duties in that capacity. the expedition emerged from the thames to encounter contrary winds and stormy weather, so that it was forced to beat about off the coast of england for weeks without making any progress. the emigrants began to quarrel, and among the principal men of the party there broke out a spirit of jealousy which was never allayed. this was directed chiefly against captain smith. his companions were forced to admit to themselves that this self-possessed and confident young man was their superior in all those qualities that would be of most account in the strange land for which they were destined, and they had sufficient discernment to realize that no matter who might become the nominal president of the colony, john smith would be its master spirit and actual leader. this was made manifest in these first few weeks of trying delay. did one of the ship-captains need assistance? john smith was a practical navigator and could both handle a vessel and read the charts. in the dispositions for defence in case of attack, he had to be relied upon as the best gunner and leader of fighting men among them. when the voyagers became troublesome none but john smith could effectually quiet them. a few words in his calm firm tones would quickly quell a disturbance. some of these men had served under him and had learned to respect his character. the others instinctively felt that he was a man of sense and strength--one of those rare creatures who rise to every emergency and lift their subordinates with them.
men of broad and generous minds would have rejoiced to think that they had among them one who was capable of steering them through all their difficulties and whose experience would help them to avoid many a pitfall and disaster. there were a few among the gentlemen, such as george percy, parson hunt and scrivener, who took this sensible view of the situation. on the other hand, wingfield, kendall, ratcliffe, archer and several more, conscious of their own inferiority, became possessed by an insane jealousy of our hero. this grew with the progress of the voyage and constant discussion of their silly suspicions, until at length they had fully persuaded themselves that captain john smith was a dark conspirator who entertained designs against themselves and contemplated treason against his king and country. they believed, or professed to believe, that he had distributed creatures of his own throughout the three vessels with the intention of seizing the expedition and proclaiming himself king of the new country as soon as they should arrive at it. with this excuse they made him a close prisoner when the vessels were in mid-atlantic.
when the party charged with this disgraceful office approached him on the deck of the susan constant, smith handed to them his sword without a word and went below smiling grimly. he had long since fathomed the weakness and the incompetence of these self-constituted leaders. he knew that the time would come when his services would be indispensable to them and he was content to abide it in patience. they should have realized that, if their suspicions were just, he had but to raise his voice and the vessels would be instantly in mutiny. but they had not sufficient intelligence to perceive that if john smith was the dangerous character they assumed him to be their best course was to propitiate him rather than to arouse his enmity. instead of being impressed by the self-confident manner in which he yielded to confinement in the hold they gained courage from the incident and actually thought that they might go to any extreme without resistance on his part. so, when the vessels made land at the west indies, these masterful gentry erected a gallows for the purpose of hanging our hero, or, perhaps, of frightening him. now we know that they could not have undertaken a more difficult task than that of attempting to strike fear into the heart of john smith, and as to actual hanging, whilst he had a considerable sense of humor, it did not carry him so far as taking part in a performance of that sort. when they brought him on deck and solemnly informed him that the gallows awaited him, he laughed in their faces and told them that it was a shame to waste good timber, for he had not the remotest thought of using the contrivance. in fact, he took the matter with such careless assurance that they wisely concluded to abandon the project and sailing away, left their useless gallows standing.
steering for that portion of the mainland where the former ill-fated colonies had been planted, the vessels were soon out of their reckoning and beat about for several days without sight of land. they had been already four months upon a voyage that should have occupied no more than two and had made serious inroads into the stock of provisions which was calculated to furnish the store of the settlers. they began to grow fearful and discontented. many wished to put about and sail homeward, and even ratcliffe, the captain of the discovery, favored such a course. whilst they were debating the proposition, a violent storm arose and luckily drove them to their destination. on the twenty-sixth day of april, 1607, they entered the bay of chesapeake.
eager to see the new land of promise, a party of the colonists went ashore that day. they wandered through forest and glade, cheered by the genial warmth of the southern clime and delighted with the beautiful scenery and luxuriant vegetation. but before they returned to the ships they were reminded that this natural paradise was in possession of a savage people who could hardly be expected to respect king james’s gift of their land to strangers. as the exploring party made their way back to the shore they fell into an ambush--the first of many which they were destined to experience. they had not seen a human being since landing, and the shower of arrows that proclaimed the presence of the indians came as a complete surprise. neither redman nor paleface was quite prepared for intimate acquaintance at this time, and the sound of the muskets sent the former scurrying to the hills whilst the latter hurried to the shelter of the ships, carrying two men who had been severely wounded.
thus the jamestown colonists came to america. how little they were qualified for the work before them we have already seen. as we progress with our story we shall see how often they brought misfortune upon themselves and how the wisdom and energy of one man saved the undertaking from utter failure.
powhatan and his people
the president and council are established and a settlement made at jamestown--newport and smith go on an exploring expedition--they meet powhatan, the great werowance of the country--they are feasted and fêted by the old chief--a quick return to jamestown and a timely arrival--the indians attack the settlers and take them unawares--gallant stand made by the gentlemen adventurers--the appearance of newport and his men prevents a massacre--a fort and stockade are hurriedly erected--smith is tried on a charge of treason and triumphantly acquitted--captain newport returns to england with the two larger ships.
it was, indeed, a fair land to which the white men had journeyed from over the seas. smith says of it: “heaven and earth never agreed better to frame a place for man’s habitation. here are mountains, hills, plains, rivers, and brooks, all running most pleasantly into a fair bay, compassed, but for the mouth, with fruitful and delightsome land.” the country was covered, for the most part, with virgin forest. here and there a small clearing afforded a site for a cluster of wigwams around which lay fields of maize or other cereals. the birds and animals that we prize most highly as table delicacies abounded in the wilds, and the waters swarmed with fish.
a very small proportion of the land was occupied. the indian villages were few and miles apart. the country round about the jamestown settlement was in the possession of the algonquin tribe, divided into many bands, generally numbering not more than a few hundred souls, each band under its own chief and all owning allegiance to a king or werowance named powhatan. there was constant intercourse between the villages, and their men joined together for purposes of war, or the chase. rough forest trails formed the only roads between the different centres, whilst blazed trees marked by-paths that led to springs, favorite trapping grounds, or other localities of occasional resort.
the royal orders permitted the opening of the box of instructions as soon as the colonists should have reached virginia, and they lost no time in satisfying their anxiety to learn the membership of the council. it appeared that the king had selected for that distinction and responsibility, edward wingfield, bartholomew gosnold, christopher newport, john ratcliffe, george kendall and john smith. the last named was still in irons and his fellow-councilmen were, with the possible exception of newport, unfriendly to him. it was decided that he should not be admitted to the body, and the remaining members proceeded to elect wingfield, smith’s arch-enemy, to the position of president.
for the next two weeks and more, the colonists remained upon the ships. meanwhile they explored the surrounding country for a favorable site on which to settle. the indians with whom they came in contact during this time treated them with the utmost kindness, freely furnishing food and tobacco, which latter few of the settlers had ever smoked, although raleigh had introduced the leaf into england some years earlier. everything was so strange to the adventurers, many of whom were absent from their native land for the first time, that they forgot for a while their discontent and jealousies in the interest and wonder excited by new sights and scenes.
we can imagine, for instance, the mixed sensations of the strangers when a band of rappahonacks marched towards them, headed by their chief playing upon a reed flute. they were all fantastically trimmed, we will say, for their only dress was a coat of paint. the chief, as befitted his rank, was the most grotesque figure of all, but the effect was equally hideous and awesome and the englishmen were divided between merriment and fear. on one side of his head the chief wore a crown of deer’s hair dyed red and interwoven with his own raven locks; on the other side, which was shaven, he wore a large plate of copper, whilst two long feathers stood up from the centre of his crown. his body was painted crimson and his face blue. around his neck was a chain of beads, and strings of pearls hung from his ears which were pierced to hold bird’s claws set in gold. he and his followers each carried a bow and arrows and a tomahawk with stone head.
at length it was decided to settle upon a little peninsula jutting into the river. there was a great deal of disagreement about this site. smith favored it, mainly because its comparative isolation made it easier to defend than a location further inland, but he was allowed no voice in the selection. it was, however, an unfortunate choice, for the ground was low and marshy and no doubt a great deal of the later mortality was due to the unhealthy situation of the infant settlement of jamestown. here, however, the colonists landed on the thirteenth day of may and set up the tents in which they lived for some time thereafter. there is too much to be done to justify the absence of an available strong arm and smith, although virtually a prisoner still, is allowed to join in the general labor and this he does cheerfully without any show of resentment on account of his past treatment.
the president gave evidence of his incapacity from the very outset. relying implicitly upon the friendly attitude of the indians he refused to allow any defences to be considered, and even went so far as to decline to unpack the arms which had been brought from england, declaring that to do so would be a display of distrust which the savages might resent. the latter, who were permitted to go in and out of the camp with their weapons, were no doubt for a time divided in mind as to whether the white men were superhuman beings invulnerable to arrows or only a species of foolish and confiding fellow-creatures such as they had never known. wingfield had most of his men busy felling trees and making clapboards with which to freight the vessels on their return, for it must be understood that these colonists were practically employees of the company that had been at the expense of sending them out and which expected to make a profit on the investment. it was necessary therefore to secure cargoes for shipment to england, but the position should have been fortified and houses erected before all else.
newport was anxious to have more extensive information of the country to report to his employers who entertained the belief--absurd as it seems to us--that by penetrating one or two hundred miles farther westward the settlers would come upon the pacific and open a short route to india. newport therefore organized an expedition to explore the river. he took twenty men and was glad to include smith in the party. there was no opposition on the part of the council to the arrangement. indeed, it was entirely to their liking. none of them was over keen to penetrate the unknown with its possible dangers and each was reluctant to leave the settlement for the further reason that he distrusted his fellow-members of the council and was jealous of them. as to smith, they had made up their minds to send him back to england a prisoner, to be tried on charges of treason, conspiracy, and almost anything else their inventive minds could conceive.
so captain newport and his party proceeded slowly up the river in their shallop, greeted kindly by the indians in the various villages along the banks and feasted by them. the travellers in their turn bestowed upon their entertainers presents of beads, nails, bottles, and other articles, trifling in themselves but almost priceless to the savages who had never seen anything of the kind. at length the party arrived at a village named powhatan. it was located very near the present situation of richmond, and perhaps exactly where the old home of the mayo family--still called “powhatan”--stands. this village was governed by a son of the great werowance. the capital of the latter was at werowocomico, near the mouth of the york river, but he happened to be at powhatan at the time of newport’s arrival. i say that he happened to be there, but it is much more likely that he had been informed of the expedition and had gone overland to his son’s village with the express intention of meeting the strangers, about whom he must have been keenly curious.
powhatan was the chief of all the country within a radius of sixty miles of jamestown, and having a population of about eight thousand, which included two thousand or more warriors. although over seventy years of age, he was vigorous in mind and body. his tall, well-proportioned frame was as straight as an arrow. his long gray hair flowed loose over his shoulders and his stern and wrinkled countenance expressed dignity and pride. the english learned to know him for a keen and subtle schemer, to whom the common phrase, “simple savage,” would be altogether misapplied. he was sufficiently sagacious to realize from the first that in the white men he had a superior race to deal with and he made up his mind that the most effective weapon that he could use against them would be treachery.
on this occasion, he dissembled the feelings of anger and fear that he must have felt against the intruders and received them with every sign of amity. to his people, who began to murmur at their presence and displayed an inclination to do them harm, he declared:
“they can do us no injury. they desire no more than a little land and will pay us richly for it. it is my pleasure that you treat them kindly.”
in the meanwhile, his keen penetrating glance was taking in every detail of his visitors’ appearance, scrutinizing their weapons and dress, and closely examining their faces as they spoke, for the settlers had picked up a little of the language.
when the voyagers, after being feasted and fêted at the village of powhatan, continued their journey up the river, the “emperor,” as the early writers call him, furnished them with a guide, whose chief duty doubtless was to act as spy and report their movements to him. newport proceeded up the river until it became too shallow to admit of further progress. he then turned and commenced the descent. he had not gone many days’ journey when he began to notice a change in the attitude of the indians which prompted him to hasten on to the settlement with all speed. it was well that he did so for the settlers were in a critical situation.
we have seen that wingfield altogether neglected to place the colonists in a position to defend themselves from attack. during the absence of the exploring expedition he had so far departed from his foolish attitude as to permit captain kendall to erect a paltry barricade of branches across the neck of the little peninsula, but this was the only measure of safety he could be induced to take. the indians were permitted to come and go as freely as ever and the arms were left in the packing cases. of course it was only a matter of time when the indians would take advantage of such a constantly tempting opportunity to attack the newcomers.
the gallant stand made by the gentlemen adventurers only checked the indians for a moment, and there is no doubt that every man of the defenders must have been slain had not the ships created a diversion by opening fire with their big guns. even this assistance effected but temporary relief, for the indians would have renewed the attack at nightfall, with complete success in all probability, but the appearance of newport at this juncture with his twenty picked and fully armed men put a different complexion on affairs. the reinforcement sallied against the attacking savages and drove them to retreat.
it is hardly necessary to state that all hands were now engaged with feverish zeal in erecting a fort and stockade. some demi-culverins were carried ashore from the ships and mounted. the arms were uncased and distributed and certain men were daily drilled in military exercises, whilst a constant guard was maintained throughout the day and night. from this time the intercourse between the whites and indians was marked on both sides by caution and suspicion.
when the defences had been completed, captain newport made preparations for an immediate departure and then the council informed smith that he was to be returned to england a prisoner for trial. fortunately for the future of the colony, our hero rebelled against such an unjust proceeding, saying, with reason, that since all persons cognizant of the facts were on the spot, it was on the spot that he should be tried, if anywhere. his contention was so just, and the sentiment in his favor so strong, that the council was obliged to accede to his demand. he protested against a moment’s delay, declaring that, if found guilty by a jury of his peers, he would willingly return to england in chains with captain newport and take the consequences.
the trial resulted in a triumphant acquittal. there was not one iota of real evidence adduced against the prisoner. wingfield and others had nothing but their bare suspicions to bring forward. it did transpire, however, in the course of the proceedings that the president had not only been moved by malice but that he had endeavored to induce certain persons to give false evidence against his enemy. on the strength of these revelations, the jury not only acquitted captain smith but sentenced the president to pay him two hundred pounds in damages, which sum, or its equivalent, for it was paid in goods, our hero promptly turned into the common fund.
smith accepted his acquittal with the same calm indifference that had characterized his behavior since his arrest and showed a readiness to forget past differences and encourage harmony among the leaders. mr. hunt also strove to produce peace and goodwill in the settlement but the efforts were useless. when newport left them in june, the colony was divided into two factions, the supporters of wingfield and those of smith, who was now of course free of his seat at the council board. and so it remained to the end of our story--jealousy, meanness, incompetence and even treachery, hazarding the lives and the fortunes of the little band of pioneers who should have been knit together by common interests and common dangers.
treason and treachery
the colonists experience hard times and a touch of starvation--fever seizes the settlement and one-half the settlers die--the entire charge of affairs devolves upon captain smith--president wingfield is deposed and ratcliffe appointed in his place--smith leads an expedition in search of corn--returns to find trouble at jamestown--the blacksmith to be hanged for treason--at the foot of the gallows he divulges a spanish plot--captain kendall, a councilman, is involved--his guilt is established--he seizes the pinnace and attempts to sail away--smith trains a cannon upon the boat and forces the traitor to land--he is hanged.
just before the departure of captain newport with the two larger ships--the pinnace, discovery, was left for the use of the colonists--mr. hunt had administered the communion to the company in the hope that the joint participation in the holy sacrament might create a bond of amity between them. on that occasion captain smith had modestly addressed the assembled settlers, urging them to forget past disagreement, as he was ready to do, and address themselves energetically to the important business of the community.
“you that of your own accord have hazarded your lives and estates in this adventure, having your country’s profit and renown at heart,” he said with earnestness, “banish from among you cowardice, covetousness, jealousies, and idleness. these be enemies to the raising your honors and fortunes and put in danger your very lives, for if dissension prevail among us, surely we shall become too weak to withstand the indians. for myself, i ever intend my actions shall be upright and regulated by justice. it hath been and ever shall be my care to give every man his due.”
the plain, frank speech moved his hearers, but in the evil times that quickly fell upon them good counsel was forgotten and strife and ill-nature resumed their sway.
the colonists had arrived too late in the year to plant and they soon began to experience a shortage of provisions. the grain which had lain six months in the holds of leaky vessels was wormy and sodden, unfit for horses and scarcely eatable by men. nevertheless, for weeks after newport left, a small allowance of this formed the principal diet of the unfortunate settlers. the woods abounded in game, it is true, but they were yet unskilled in hunting and dared not venture far from their palisades, whilst the unaccustomed sounds of axe and hammer had driven every beast and most of the birds from the neighborhood. they must have starved but for the sturgeon that they secured from the river. on these they dined with so little variation that their stomachs at last rebelled at the very sight of them. one of this miserable company, describing their condition, says with melancholy humor: “our drink was water; our lodgings castles in the air.”
but lack of food was only one of the hardships which befell the poor wretches. there were but few dwellings yet constructed, and being forced to lie upon the low damp ground, malarial fever and typhoid broke out among them and spread with such fearful rapidity that not one of them escaped sickness. hardly a day passed but one at least of their number found a happy release from his sufferings in death. fifty in all--just half of them--died between june and september. the unaccustomed heat aided in prostrating them, so that at one time there were scarce ten men able to stand upon their feet. and all this time the indians kept up a desultory warfare and only refrained from a determined attack upon the settlement for fear of the firearms. had they assaulted the stockade, instead of contenting themselves with shooting arrows into it from a distance, the colonists could have made no effective defence against them.
shortly, the whole weight of authority and the entire charge of the safety of the settlement fell upon captain smith. he was sick like the rest, but kept his feet by sheer strength of will, knowing that otherwise they would all fall victims to the savages in short order. gosnold was under the sod. wingfield, martin and ratcliffe were on the verge of death. kendall was sick and, moreover, had been deposed from his place in the council. in fact, all the chief men of the colony were incapacitated, “the rest being in such despair that they would rather starve and rot with idleness than be persuaded to do anything for their own relief without constraint.” in this strait the courage and resolution of one man saved them as happened repeatedly afterward. he nursed the sick, distributed the stores, stood guard day and night, coaxed and threatened the least weak into exerting themselves, cunningly hid their real condition from the indians, and, by the exercise of every available resource, tided over the terrible months of july and august.
early in september, wingfield was deposed from the presidency. his manifest incompetency had long been the occasion of discontent which was fanned to fever heat when the starving settlers discovered that the leader, who was too fine a gentleman to eat from the common kettle, had been diverting the best of the supplies from the public store to his private larder. the climax which brought about his downfall, however, was reached when it transpired that the president had made arrangements to steal away in the pinnace and return to england, leaving the settlement in the lurch. ratcliffe was elected to fill his place. he was a man of no greater capacity than his predecessor, but it happened that conditions improved at about this time and the undiscerning colonists were willing to give him credit for the change.
early fall brings ripening fruit and vegetables in the south. the indians, who fortunately had no idea of the extremity to which the colony had been reduced, began to carry corn and other truck to the fort, glad to trade for beads, little iron chisels or other trifles. wild fowl came into the river in large numbers and, with these welcome additions to their hitherto scanty diet, the sick soon began to recover health and strength. smith, so soon as he could muster a boat’s crew, made an excursion up the river and returned with some thirty bushels of corn to famine-stricken jamestown. having secured ample supplies for immediate needs, our hero, who was by this time generally recognized as the actual leader of the colony, put as many men as possible to work building houses and succeeded so far as to provide a comfortable dwelling for every one but himself.
the council readily agreed to the proposed expedition in search of provisions, but it was not in their mind to give the command to captain smith. far from being grateful to the man who had saved the settlement in the time of its dire distress and helplessness, they were more than ever jealous of his growing influence with the colonists. none of them was willing to brave the dangers and hardships of the expedition himself nor did they dare, in the face of smith’s popularity, to appoint another to the command. in this difficulty they pretended a desire to be fair to the other gentlemen adventurers by putting a number of their names into a lottery from which the commander should be drawn. the hope was that by this means some other might be set up as a sort of competitor to smith. there were those among the gentlemen who penetrated this design and had sufficient sense to circumvent it. george percy, a brother of the earl of northumberland, and scrivener, were among our hero’s staunch adherents. percy contrived that he should draw the lot from the hat that contained the names. the first paper that he drew bore upon it the words: “the honorable george percy.” without a moment’s hesitation he showed it to scrivener, as though for confirmation, and crumpling it in his hand, cried:
“captain john smith draws the command,” and the announcement was received with a shout of approval.
“thou hast foregone an honor and the prospect of more,” said scrivener, as they walked away together.
“good master scrivener,” replied the young nobleman, with a quizzical smile, “one needs must have a head to carry honors gracefully and i am fain to confess that i deem this poor caput of mine safer in the keeping of our doughty captain than in mine own.”
it was early in november when smith, taking the barge and seven men, started up the chickahominy. the warriors were absent from the first village he visited and the women and children fled at the approach of his party. here he found the store-houses filled with corn, but there was no one to trade and, as he says, he had neither inclination nor commission to loot, and so he turned his back upon the place and came away empty-handed. now, if we consider the impression that must have been made upon those indians by this incident, we must the more keenly regret that so few others were moved by similar principles of wisdom and honesty in their dealings with the savages. in his treatment of the indian down to the present day the white man appears in a very poor light, and most of the troubles between the two races have been due to the greed and injustice of the latter. john smith set an example to later colonists which, had they followed it, would have saved them much bloodshed and difficulty.
proceeding along the narrow river, the expedition arrived at other villages where the conditions better favored their purpose. the indians seem to have gained some inkling of the impoverished state of the jamestown store, for at first they tendered but paltry quantities of grain for the trinkets which smith offered to exchange. but they had to deal with one who was no less shrewd than themselves. the captain promptly turned on his heel and marched off towards his boat. this independent action brought the redskins crowding after him with all the corn that they could carry and ready to trade on any terms. in order to allay their suspicions as to his need, smith declined to accept more than a moderate quantity from any one band, but by visiting many, contrived without difficulty to fill the barge and, as he says, might have loaded the pinnace besides if it had been with him.
we will now leave captain smith and his party bringing their boat down the river towards home and see what is going on at jamestown in the meanwhile. we shall find throughout our story that the master spirit of the colony never leaves the settlement but that some trouble breaks out in his absence. this occasion was no exception to the rule. one day, shortly before the return of the expedition, ratcliffe, the president, fell into an altercation with the blacksmith, and in the heat of passion struck the man. the blow was returned, as one thinks it should have been, but in those days the distinction between classes was much more marked than in these and the unfortunate artisan was immediately clapped in jail.
to have struck a gentleman was bad enough, but the hot-headed north-country blacksmith had raised his hand against the representative of the sacred majesty of the king and that constituted high treason. a jury of his fellows found him guilty and he was sentenced to be hanged without delay. a gallows was quickly erected and the brawny blacksmith, after receiving the ministrations of mr. hunt, was bidden to mount. but the condemned man craved the usual privilege of making a dying speech, and the request was granted. to the consternation of the assembled colonists he declared that he was in possession of a plot to betray the settlement to the spaniards, and offered to divulge the details on condition that his life should be spared. this was granted. indeed, it is difficult to understand how the colonists could have entertained the design to hang almost the most useful man among them.
in order to appreciate the blacksmith’s revelation, we should understand that although spain had some years previously entered into a treaty of peace with england, she remained keenly jealous of the growing power of the latter nation and never ceased to employ underhand methods to check it. spanish spies were numerous in england and were to be found among all classes, for some of the catholic nobility were not above allowing their religious zeal to outrun their sense of patriotism. in particular was spain concerned about the new ardor for american colonization, of which one of the earliest manifestations was the settlement at jamestown, and it is more than probable that she had sent several of her secret agents out with the expedition from england. however that may be, captain kendall, erstwhile member of council, was the only one accused by the reprieved man. a search of the traitor’s quarters disclosed papers that left no doubt as to his guilt.
the searching party had just returned to the council room with the incriminating documents when captain smith landed his party and entered the fort to find the settlement in the greatest state of excitement. he at once joined the council and was in deliberation with the other members when a man burst in upon them shouting:
“captain kendall hath seized the pinnace and is about sailing away in her.”
the councilmen rushed from the chamber without ceremony and made towards the shore. there, sure enough, was the pinnace in mid-stream and captain kendall hoisting her sail to catch a stiff breeze which was blowing out of the river. the spectators stood open-mouthed in speechless dismay, or bewailed the escape that they seemed to consider accomplished. that was not the view of captain smith. he took in the situation at a glance and as quickly decided upon counteraction. running back to the fort he had a gun trained on the pinnace in a trice and shouted to its occupant to come ashore or stay and sink and to make his decision instanter. one look at the determined face peering over the touch-hole of the cannon sufficed the spy. he brought the boat ashore and within the hour was shot.
captive to the indians
peace and plenty at the settlement--smith sets out to discover the source of the chickahominy--he falls into an ambush and has a running fight with two hundred warriors--walks into a swamp and is forced to surrender--opechancanough the chief of the pamaunkes--smith is put to a test of courage--he figures in a triumphal procession--has suspicions that he is being fattened for the table--he sends a timely warning to jamestown and diverts a projected attack by the indians--smith is dealt with by the medicine men--a strange, wild ceremony enacted by hideously painted and bedecked creatures.
the close of the year 1607 found the settlement in good circumstances. the store was well stocked with maize, peas and beans, smoked venison and fish, dried fruits and nuts. warm coats and coverings had been made from fur and feathers and a large quantity of wood had been cut and stacked for fuel. there did not appear to be any danger of hardship in jamestown during the ensuing winter, although such a careless and incompetent lot as our settlers were apt to create trouble for themselves out of the most favorable conditions. there were only three persons in authority--ratcliffe, martin and smith. the first was a man of mean ability and doubtful integrity. martin, honest and well-meaning, was a constant invalid and incapable of any degree of activity. smith was by this time recognized by all as the true leader of the colony and the only man in it who could secure obedience and maintain discipline. when he was in jamestown, order prevailed and work progressed. when he left, the settlers scarcely pretended to heed the orders of the other members of the council. indeed, percy and scrivener, who were known to be in full accord with smith, had greater influence with the rank and file than ratcliffe or martin. in fact the north-country nobleman and the londoner played the part of faithful watchdogs during the captain’s absence, and it was arranged that one at least of them should always remain at jamestown when smith went abroad.
as we know, inaction was positively abhorrent to our hero and, the settlement being now thoroughly quiet and quite prepared for the winter, he determined on an expedition designed to trace the chickahominy to its source. exploration was one of the chief duties of the colonists and smith, as he tells us, hoped that he might soon discover “some matters of worth to encourage adventurers in england.” the indians along the river had been so friendly during his foraging trip the month before that he felt safe in making the present journey, but his military training and natural prudence would not permit him to relax his usual precautions. but there was one important feature of indian tactics with which the american colonists had not become familiar. they had yet to learn how large bodies of redskins would watch a settlement, or track a party on the move, for days and weeks without allowing their presence to be known. ever since their landing, the settlers had been under the sleepless eye of spies lying hidden in grass or behind trees, and from the moment captain smith left jamestown his progress had been flanked by a body of savages moving stealthily through the woods.
the barge proceeded fifty miles up the river without incident, but presently the stream became too shallow to admit of its going farther. a canoe was secured from a village in the vicinity, with two indians to paddle it. in this smith decided to push on to the head of the river, taking with him two of his men. the remainder he left in the barge, instructing them not to go on shore and to keep a sharp lookout until his return. twenty miles onward the canoe travelled when an obstruction of fallen trees brought the party to a halt. it seemed probable that the source of the stream could be but a few miles beyond and smith determined to seek it on foot accompanied by one of the indians. the other and the two englishmen he left in the canoe, cautioning them to keep their matches burning, and at the first sign of danger to fire an alarm.
the situation would have suggested surrender to the ordinary man. there could be no use in smith’s contending against such numbers and to retreat to the river would be no less futile, since his men in the canoe must have been captured. it was not, however, in our hero’s nature to give up until absolutely obliged to do so. he could see no possibility of escape but he proposed to make it as difficult as possible for the savages to capture him. with this thought he placed the guide before him as a shield and prepared, with a pistol in each hand, to meet an onrush of the warriors. but they had no mind to rush upon those fearful fire-spitting machines and kept off, discharging their arrows from a distance that rendered them harmless. seeing this, smith began to retire, keeping his face towards the enemy and holding his human buckler in place. the indians responded to this movement by cautiously advancing and at the same time they sought to induce the englishman to lay down his arms, promising to spare his life in case he should do so. smith positively declined the proposition, insisting that he would retain his weapons but promising not to make further use of them if he should be permitted to depart in peace; otherwise he would use them and kill some of his assailants without delay. the indians continuing to advance upon him, smith let go both his pistols at them and took advantage of the hesitation that followed to retreat more rapidly.
of course this combat was of the most hopeless character and our hero must ultimately have been shot to death had not an accident suddenly put an end to his opposition. still stepping backward and dragging his captive with him he presently walks into a deep morass and reaches the end of his journey in more than one sense, for it is in this swamp that the chickahominy rises and he has fulfilled his undertaking to find the head of the river. it was at once clear to the dauntless explorer that he must yield, and that quickly, for he and his indian were fast sinking in the icy ooze of the bog. he threw his pistols away in token of surrender and his savage adversaries rushed up and extricated him from his perilous situation.
it was with feelings of curiosity and interest on either side that captain john smith, the leader of the colonists, and opechancanough, the chief of the pamaunkes, confronted each other. both men of noble bearing and fearless character, they must have been mutually impressed at the first encounter. the chief’s erect and well-knit frame towered above the forms of his attendant warriors and, together with the dignity and intelligence of his countenance, marked him as a superior being. in later years he played an important part in colonial history and met a shameful death by assassination whilst a captive in the hands of the authorities of virginia.
smith, whose presence of mind never deserted him, immediately addressed himself to the task of diverting the chieftain’s mind from the recent unpleasant circumstances and with that end in view produced his pocket compass and presented it to the savage. the pamaunke was readily attracted by the mystery of the twinkling needle which lay in sight but beyond touch, and when our hero showed how it pointed persistently to the north, the wonder of the savage increased. having thus excited the interest of his captors, smith went on to hold their attention with a more detailed explanation of the uses of the instrument. he described, in simple language and with the aid of signs, the shape and movement of the earth and the relative positions of sun, moon and stars. this strange astronomical lecture, delivered in the depths of the forest, at length wearied the auditors and they prepared to set out on the return journey, for they had no thought of killing the captive at that time. he was a man of too much importance to be slain off-hand and without learning the pleasure of the great powhatan in the matter. they did, however, tie him to a tree and make a pretence of drawing their bows upon him but, as the paleface met the threatened death without so much as blinking, the savages derived little satisfaction from the amusement. before taking the march, smith was given food and led to a fire, beside which lay the body of emery, one of the men he had left in the canoe, stuck full of arrows.
the return of opechancanough to the settlement of the pamaunkes was in the nature of a triumphal procession. as the band approached a village they gave vent to their piercing war-whoop and entered it chanting their song of victory. in the midst of the procession walked the chief with smith’s weapons borne before him and the captive, guarded by eight picked warriors, following. a ceremonial dance took place before the party dispersed to their various lodgings for the night. the captive was well treated and had an excellent opportunity to study the natives and their habits, for opechancanough carried his prize on a circuit of many villages before finally bringing him to the capital of powhatan. nor did the peril of his situation prevent our hero from exercising his usual keen powers of observation, for he has left us a minute account of his strange experiences during these weeks of captive wandering.
every morning bread and venison were brought to the englishman in sufficient quantity to have satisfied ten men. his captors never by any chance ate with him and, remembering the reluctance of eastern peoples to partake of food with those whom they designed to harm, this fact excited his apprehensions. these indians were not cannibals but he had not that consoling knowledge, and the insistent manner in which they pressed meat upon him raised a disagreeable suspicion that they were fattening him for the table. the thought of death--even with torture--he could endure calmly, but the idea of being eaten afterwards caused him to shudder with horror. we can not help thinking, however, that the sinewy captain might have visited his enemies with a posthumous revenge had they recklessly subjected him to such a fate and themselves to such grave hazard of acute indigestion.
but the captive’s concern for the settlement at jamestown outweighed all other considerations. he surmised with reason, that having him in their power, the indians would endeavor to overcome the colonists, whose natural incapacity to take care of themselves would be enhanced by the belief that their leader was dead. he was racking his brain to devise some means of communicating with them, when chance threw an opportunity to him. it seems that in the encounter preceding his surrender to opechancanough smith had seriously wounded one of the indians. he was now called upon to cure his victim and replied that he might be able to do so if in possession of certain medicine which could be obtained from jamestown. the chief agreed that two messengers should bear a letter to the settlement, although he could not believe that a few lines scrawled upon paper would convey any meaning, much less elicit the desired response.
the messengers journeyed to the fort with all speed, and as they were not permitted to approach closely, left the note in a conspicuous place and there received the reply. of course smith took the opportunity to warn the settlers of the projected attack, and prayed them to be constantly on their guard. he also suggested that some show of strength, as a salvo from the big guns, might have a salutary effect upon the messengers. the latter, after they had received the medicine requested, and turned homewards, were treated to such a thunderous discharge of cannon and musketry that they ran for miles in terror of their lives and arrived at the village well-nigh scared out of their wits. their account of this terrible experience decided the indians not to attempt a descent upon jamestown and their respect increased for a man who could convey his thoughts and wishes by means of such a mysterious medium as a letter appeared to them to be.
although the indians had smith unarmed and completely in their power, they were not at all satisfied of his inability to harm them, and the question seems to have caused them considerable anxiety. the medicine men of the tribe undertook by incantations and other species of deviltry to ascertain whether the captive’s intentions towards them were good or otherwise. smith was led in the morning to a large house in the centre of which a fire burned. here he was left alone, and presently to him entered a hideous creature making unearthly noises in his throat to the accompaniment of a rattle, whilst he danced about the astonished englishman in grotesque antics. this merry-andrew’s head was decorated with dangling snake-skins and his body painted in a variety of colors. after a while he was joined by three brother-priests who set up a discordant chorus of shrieks and yells, whirling and skipping about the house the while. they were painted half in black and half in red with great white rings round their eyes. shortly these were joined by three more medicine men equally fantastic in appearance and actions. the ceremony was maintained by these seven throughout the day, much to the disgust of smith, who soon found it tiresome and uninteresting and particularly so as it involved an absolute fast from dawn to sundown. in the evening women placed great mounds of food upon the mats of the house and invited smith to eat, but the priests refrained from doing so until he had finished.
this performance was repeated on the two successive days, but we are not told what conclusion was reached by all the fuss.
pocahontas to the rescue
after a weary circuit of the indian villages smith is brought to werowocomico--he is received by powhatan in the “king’s house”--the chiefs in council decide to put him to death--he is bound and laid out, preparatory to being killed--pocahontas intervenes at the critical moment--powhatan’s dilemma and opechancanough’s determination--“the council has decreed the death of the paleface”--“i, pocahontas, daughter of our king, claim this man for my brother”--the indian maiden prevails--smith is reprieved and formally adopted into the tribe--they wish him to remain with them and lead them against his own people.
one morning, shortly after the episode of the medicine men, captain smith learned, to his great relief, that commands had been received for his removal at once to the capital. he had no idea what, if any fate had been determined upon for him, but he was heartily tired of the weary wanderings and suspense of the past weeks and ready to face the worst rather than prolong the uncertainty. werowocomico, the principal seat of the “emperor” powhatan, was short of a day’s journey distant, and opechancanough, with his illustrious prisoner, reached the town as the early winter night was setting in. the capital of the werowance consisted of about thirty large wigwams, or “houses,” as the earlier writers called them, and a number of smaller ones. these for the nonce were reinforced by the tepees, or tents, of the many indians who had come in from distant villages for the occasion which was no ordinary one. the large wigwams were made in the form of the rounded tops of the wagons called “prairie schooners,” which in the days before railroads were used upon the continent of north america for long-distance travel. these wagon tops were sometimes taken off and placed upon the ground to serve as tents, when the occupants would be lying in a contrivance exactly like the ancient wigwam in shape. the latter was commonly big enough to contain a whole family and sometimes harbored an entire band of fifty or sixty natives. in that case it had two rows of apartments running along the sides and a common hall in the middle. the structure was composed of a framework of boughs covered with the bark of trees or with skins--sometimes a combination of both.
smith’s captors approached the capital in triumphal fashion, chanting their song of victory and flourishing their weapons in exultant pride. the town was prepared to give them the reception usually accorded to victorious warriors returning from battle. great fires burned at frequent points illuming the scene with a garish light in which the bedaubed and bedizened savages looked doubly hideous. chiefs and people were attired in all their fantastic finery and even the children made some show of tawdry ornament. the women had prepared food with even more than ordinary profusion and had laid the mats in anticipation of the prospective feasting. a double line of fully armed and foully painted warriors--“grim courtiers,” smith calls them--formed an avenue to the “king’s house” along which the captive passed into the presence of the great werowance, whilst the spectators “stood wondering at him as he had been a monster.”
at the farther end of the wigwam, upon a platform, before which a large fire blazed, reclined the aged but still vigorous chieftain, upon a heap of furs. on either side of him stood the principal chiefs and medicine men of the tribe, whilst the women of his family grouped themselves behind. two dense walls of warriors lined along the sides of the wigwam leaving a space in the centre which was covered by a mat. upon this smith took his stand and calmly surveyed the scene which was not without an element of rude beauty. a loud shout had greeted his entrance. in the profound silence that followed, two women--“the queen of appamatuck and another”--came forward with food which they placed before him and signed to him to eat. our hero’s appetite and his curiosity never failed him under any circumstances. he had a habit of living in the present moment and not concerning himself unduly about the uncertain future. so, in this crisis, when the ordinary man would have been too much preoccupied with the thought of his fate to attend to the needs of his stomach, smith addressed himself in leisurely fashion to the pile of food and at the same time studied the details of his surroundings with a retentive eye. meanwhile, the savages stood silent and stock still as statues until he had finished.
when at length our hero rose refreshed and ready to face his fate, powhatan also stood up and beckoned to him to approach the royal dais. powhatan was arrayed in his state robe of raccoon skins. a band of pearls encircled his brow and a tuft of eagle’s feathers surmounted his head. smith was impressed by the dignity and forcefulness of the old chief who addressed him in a deep bass voice.
“the paleface has abused the hospitality of powhatan and requited his kindness with treachery,” said the chieftain in slow and solemn tones. “the paleface and his brethren came to powhatan’s country when the summer was young and begged for food and land that they might live. my people would have slain them but i commanded that grain be given to the palefaces and that they be allowed to live in peace in the village which they had made. was this not enough? did not powhatan thus prove his friendship and good will to the strangers in his land?”
we know that all this was a mixture of falsehood and sophistry. as such smith recognized it, of course, but, as he did not wish to arouse the chief’s anger by contradicting him, he decided to keep silence and an immovable countenance. after a pause, during which he endeavored without success to read the effect of his words in the prisoner’s face, powhatan continued:
“powhatan’s people have given the palefaces abundance of food--venison and fowls and corn. they have furnished them with warm furs. they have shown them the springs of the forest. they have taught them to trap the beasts and to net the fish. and the palefaces, scorning the kindness of powhatan and his people, turn their fire-machines upon them and slay them. you--their werowance--they send to spy out the land of powhatan so that they may make war upon his villages in the night time. now my people cry for your blood. what shall i say to them? how shall i again deny my warriors whose brothers you yourself have slain?”
“the powhatan mistakes the purpose of myself and my people,” replied smith. “it is our wish and intent to treat our red brothers with justice and friendliness. if we have killed some it hath been in defence of our own lives. our fire-machines have spoken only when the bow was drawn against us. it is not in our minds to make war upon the great powhatan nor yet to rob him of his lands. whatsoever we ask at his hands we are ready to pay for. if the great werowance allows the clamor of his warriors for my life to override his own good judgment, so be it. but i would warn powhatan and his chiefs that my death will be the signal for relentless war against their people, for i am the subject of a mighty king whose rule extends over lands many times greater than those of powhatan, whose soldiers are as numerous as the stars in the heavens and whose ships sail the seas in every direction. he will surely avenge my death with a bitter vengeance.”
smith had no idea of committing himself to an argument and wisely contented himself with a brief statement of the facts, adding a threat that he hoped might give the savages pause. it was clear from powhatan’s remarks that he was determined to place the prisoner in the wrong, and contradiction could have no good effect. finding that his captive had nothing more to say, the werowance sent him to a nearby wigwam with instructions that he should be made comfortable and allowed to rest. meanwhile, the chiefs went into council over his fate.
smith’s words had made a strong impression upon powhatan, who was the most sagacious indian of his tribe. he was altogether averse to putting the prisoner to death because he was forced in his mind to acknowledge the white men as superior beings with whom it would be dangerous to evoke a war. doubtless they would soon send another chief to replace smith and more would be gained by holding him for ransom than by killing him. but powhatan’s wise conclusions were not shared by the other members of the council. with hardly an exception they were in favor of smith’s death by the usual torturous methods. one of the chiefs was a brother of the man who had died as the result of a pistol wound inflicted by smith in the skirmish preceding his capture. he was implacable in the demand for the usual satisfaction of a life for a life, and was warmly supported by opechancanough who, to the day of his death at their hands, maintained an unappeasable hatred for the whole race of white men. now opechancanough was, after the great werowance, the most influential chief in the tribe, and rather than incur his displeasure and that of the others, powhatan yielded against his better judgment. he did this, however, only after having expressed his opinion to the contrary, and the real respect which he felt for smith led him to stipulate that the captive should not be put to the torture but should be executed by the more humane and speedy means employed by the savages with members of their own tribe.
this conclusion of the council having been reached, smith was brought again into the king’s house and informed of it. he bowed with courage and dignity to the decision which he felt that it would be futile to protest against and calmly held out his arms to the warriors who came forward to bind him. whilst these tightly bound his hands to his sides and tied his feet together, others rolled into the centre of the wigwam a large stone. when this had been placed, the prisoner was required to kneel and lay his head upon it. this he did with the serene self-possession that had not been shaken in the least during this trying ordeal. at the same time he silently commended his spirit to his maker, believing that the next moment would be his last on earth. the executioners stood, one on either side, their clubs poised ready for the signal to dash out his brains.
powhatan was in the act of raising his hand in the fatal gesture that would have stamped our hero’s doom, when a young girl, as graceful as a doe and not less agile, burst through the throng that surrounded the werowance and sprang to the prisoner’s side. waving back the executioners with the haughty dignity derived from a long line of noble ancestors, she drew her slim and supple figure to its full height and faced the group of chieftains with head erect and flashing eyes.
“pardon, powhatan! pardon, my father!” she cried in a rich voice quivering with emotion. “pocahontas craves the life of the captive, and claims the right to adopt him as a brother according to the immemorial custom of our tribe.”
powhatan was in a quandary. pocahontas was his favorite daughter, his pet, and the comfort of his old age. he had never denied her anything, nor ever thought to do so. he had a strong inclination to grant her request, but as he looked round the circle of angry faces and heard the subdued mutterings of his chiefs he hesitated to incur their discontent.
“the council has decreed the death of the paleface. it can not be, my daughter,” he said. but there was an unusual trace of indecision in his voice.
“it must be, my father!” cried the girl, with spirit. “is a princess, and your child, to be denied the right that every woman of our tribe enjoys? any woman of the powhatans may redeem a condemned prisoner by adopting him, and i--i, pocahontas, daughter of our king, claim this man for my brother.”
powhatan was deeply moved by the dignified and earnest plea of the girl and was about to accede to it when opechancanough leaned forward and whispered in his ear. the words of the chief of the pamaunkes, whatever they were, seemed to be decisive, for powhatan, with a gesture of mingled annoyance and regret, signed to the executioners to perform their task. the eyes of pocahontas had been anxiously fixed upon her father during this pause in the proceedings and, as she saw his sign of submission to the argument of the pamaunke, she threw herself upon the head of smith and entwined her arms about his neck.
she had nothing further to say, realizing that words would have no effect, but, with the quick wit of a woman, she had advanced an argument which was unanswerable. the executioners dropped their clubs and looked perplexedly towards the werowance. the assembled warriors gazed expectantly in the same direction. the affair had reached an impasse. none there dared lay a hand on the girl save the powhatan, and he had no thought of doing so. he gazed at her with proud satisfaction for a few moments, whilst a presentiment took possession of his mind that this slip of a girl had unwittingly saved her tribe from a world of possible troubles.
“let be!” he said with an air of weariness. “the paleface shall be adopted into the tribe to make hatchets for me and beads for his little sister.”
with that smith was unbound and taken to a wigwam where they brought him food and left him to wonder at the marvellous workings of providence and pass a peaceful night.
the savages had entertained the hope that after the adoption smith would remain with them and they even thought to induce him to lead them against jamestown. it is needless to say that he firmly declined to do either. powhatan being at length convinced of smith’s friendly intentions agrees to his return but, in satisfaction of his own desire as well as to appease the disappointment of his people, he exacts a ransom to consist of two of the largest guns in the fort and the biggest grindstone.
fire and starvation
powhatan by excessive greed overreaches himself--smith is allowed to return to the settlement--he finds the colonists, as usual, disturbed by dissensions--arrives just in time to prevent ratcliffe and others from deserting--newport arrives with the “first supply”--the indians continue to treat smith as a tribal chief--fire destroys jamestown completely--newport and smith visit powhatan--the purple beads “fit only for the use of kings”--the astute indian chief meets his match in captain john smith--the settlers are smitten with the gold fever--captain newport sails for england with a wonderful cargo.
had powhatan been less specific in his demand, or less greedy in his desire, captain smith might have found it difficult to agree to his proposal. but, when the werowance made a point of exacting the “two largest guns and the biggest grindstone” in the fort, smith had no hesitation in saying that he would permit powhatan’s messengers to carry away the articles mentioned. this point having been settled to their mutual satisfaction, the chief detailed twelve men to guide and guard our hero on the road to jamestown which, being but twelve miles from werowocomico, they reached by easy marches. the indian escort was treated with all the kindness smith could command for them. each was given a present and they were charged with the delivery of a package to powhatan, containing a number of the things most highly prized by the savages. when the time for their departure came they asked for the guns and grindstone which they were to carry back to their chief.
“certes! they be yours if you can carry them,” replied smith, pointing, with a quizzical smile, at two demi-culverins each weighing more than four tons and a huge grindstone which four men could hardly raise on edge. the baffled savages looked on these ponderous things with dismay and had to admit that they could not be carried to werowocomico though the whole tribe came after them. smith was not willing that his visitors should leave without gaining some impression of the power as well as the size of the ordnance and so he loaded one of the guns with small stones and discharged it into the trees where the icicle-laden boughs were thickest. the smoke and racket that followed filled the indians with terror and they took their leave hurriedly, doubtless glad that the roaring, fire-spitting monster was not to accompany them.
the great majority of the settlers welcomed captain smith, whom they had never expected to see again, with genuine joy. once more he had arrived just in the nick of time, for the affairs of the colony had been going from bad to worse during his absence and were now on the point of a crisis that, had it not been averted, would have probably effected the ruin of the colony. there had been no improvement in the government. ratcliffe had become justly unpopular in the presidency and archer, a pettifogging lawyer and mischief-maker, had been admitted to the council. martin, feeble in health and mind, had fallen under the complete domination of the other two and with them and other malcontents had entered into a conspiracy which the return of captain smith was just in time to frustrate. he no sooner heard of their plot to sail to england in the pinnace and desert the settlement than he bearded them in the council room.
“so,” he cried, indignation and contempt showing in every tone and gesture. “so! these be the gallant gentlemen who contended among themselves for leadership of our enterprise! by my halidame! a fine pack of leaders--tufftaffaty humorists rather! ye mind me of one falstaffe--a cowardly, gluttonous braggart he--i once saw depicted at the globe playhouse. not one of you has hazarded his skin beyond musket-shot of the fort but now, having fattened and reposed yourselves through the winter, ye would return to england and brag of your brave deeds and feats of arms. but--and i mistake not--we shall find a different conclusion for your plot. i hold the king’s commission to maintain the flag of england in this country and whilst my arm and brain serve me that will i do in good faith and count all such as oppose the commands of his most gracious majesty, enemies of the realm and traitors to their country. take heed then how ye proceed in this matter, for i will see to it that the guns are manned day and night by good and true men with instructions to sink the pinnace at the first show of sinister design.”
with that smith clapped his hat upon his head and strode out of the council room.
if the conspirators had entertained any thought of pursuing their project in the face of captain smith’s opposition, the ringing shout with which he was greeted by the waiting crowd outside was sufficient to banish it. word of what was going forward had drawn the settlers to the council house and much of smith’s harangue, delivered in a voice strong with anger, had penetrated to them. they were almost to a man in sympathy with him, for the cowardly plotters belonged exclusively to the “gentleman” class among the colonists, men who arrogated to themselves superior privileges and rights whilst unwilling to bear even their share of hardship and toil. these poor creatures should not be considered representative of the gentlemen of england, who in those stirring times produced many of the bravest and most self-sacrificing leaders in the chronicles of christendom.
the settlers had almost begun to despair of newport’s return when one day, in early january, he sailed into the river with a well-laden ship and upwards of one hundred new colonists. his appearance put an end to a pretty scheme which the attorney archer had concocted to encompass smith’s downfall. direct from england, with authority superior to that of any man in jamestown, newport instituted an inquiry into the government of the colony during his absence and determined that wingfield and archer should return with him, to answer to the company. scrivener he appointed to the council and thus assured smith of one firm ally in that body. newport had started for america with two vessels. these became separated in mid-ocean and the phœnix, commanded by captain francis nelson, did not arrive until considerably later.
the relations between the indians and the colonists now became very friendly, owing to the adoption of smith by the tribe. after his return to jamestown, pocahontas and some of the other women of werowocomico came to the settlement twice or three times a week laden with provisions, these being smith’s share, as a chief, of the tribal stores. on these occasions, men would also bring foodstuff to be disposed of in trade. these supplies were very timely, for the settlement had again approached the verge of starvation when smith returned after his seven weeks of captivity, and captain newport’s arrival did not greatly mend that matter, for the larger part of the edible supplies sent from england were upon the tardy vessel. in the barter with the savages, smith established a scale of exchange based upon the values set by the indians themselves upon the wares of the foreigners. this was of course fair enough, but his enemies, more than ever jealous of the great influence he evidently enjoyed with the indians, sought to undermine it by giving them very much more than they asked for their grain and venison. the result was that in a short while a pound of copper would scarce purchase as much as an ounce had secured under smith’s regulation. the schemers had the satisfaction of seeing smith fall in the regard of the indians, who naturally thought that he had been cheating them.
the newcomers were of course a welcome accession to the depleted colony, but they brought misfortune upon it at the outset. they had been little more than a week within the stockade when one of them through carelessness set fire to the house in which he was lodged. the flames spread and in a few short hours all the buildings and even the fortifications were consumed. nothing could be saved but the clothes upon the men’s backs, and the supplies which newport had landed went with the rest. in this extremity the settlers must have perished of cold and starvation, or fallen under the arrows of the savages, but for the amicable relations which had been brought about by captain smith. as it was, the indians hastened to bring furs and food to the relief of the miserable white men who were prostrated body and soul by the sudden misfortune. they sat about the ruins of jamestown, bewailing their lot and praying captain newport to carry them home to england. this would have been impossible at the time, even had he a mind to do so, for there was not enough food on the ship to serve such a numerous company as far as the west indies.
smith was ashamed at the cowardice of his countrymen and fearful lest their puerile exhibition of weakness should lower them in the estimation of the indians, many of whom were on hand, for the flames of jamestown had been plainly visible at werowocomico. seconded by mr. hunt, newport, percy and scrivener, he went among the whimpering colonists persuading, threatening, cajoling--in short, using any means to make them bestir themselves.
“see yonder dominie, good master hunt, how, with exhortation, he hearteneth the afflicted,” he cried seeking to shame them by the exhibition of a good example. “yet no man among us hath suffered so great loss as he. for not only his chattels and clothes have been destroyed but also his books on which he set more store than upon gold or aught else. yet hath no moaning or complaint issued from him, but he beareth himself bravely and with composure as becometh a true gentleman and a servant of god.”
these efforts at length moved the settlers to action and, with the aid of the sailors and some indians who were hired to assist, rude structures were hastily raised in sufficient numbers to afford shelter to all. the work of rebuilding jamestown in a permanent fashion was necessarily deferred.
smith now proposed that newport should pay a visit to powhatan. during his captivity our hero had taken pains to impress the chief with an idea of newport’s importance and power. indeed, he had addressed himself to this task with such enthusiasm that the savages conceived of newport as “captain smith’s god,” and by that title he was known among them. taking an escort of forty men, smith, newport and scrivener reached werowocomico without any mishap and received a warm welcome. powhatan awaited them in the same “long house” which had been the scene of our hero’s stirring adventure. it was a state occasion, as smith’s former appearance there had been, and the assemblage presented much the same aspect. but now, in place of scowling faces and angry mutterings, smith and his companions were met with smiles and cries of friendly greeting. after formal salutations had been exchanged, a great feast was set out in which they all partook. this was followed by dancing, singing, and mimic combats.
smith’s prime object in suggesting this visit of newport to the chief of the powhatans lay in a hope that it might tend to cement the friendly relations existing between the redmen and the settlers. he was not, however, forgetful of the needs of the settlement, always on the verge of starvation, and proposed to take advantage of the opportunity to secure as much food as possible from the ample stores of werowocomico. he warned newport to part with his wares on the best terms obtainable and to show but few things at a time and those with a pretence at reluctance. but newport’s eagerness to play the part of “big chief” and powhatan’s shrewdness came near to upsetting smith’s plans. when newport had presented a very generous gift to the werowance, intimating that the rest of the goods were to be disposed of in trade, the wily powhatan decided to circumvent him by an appeal to his pride.
“it is not seemly,” he said, “that two great werowances such as you and i should haggle over the details of trade. lay out your wares then, that i may see them and what pleases me i will take, paying to you a fair price according to my judgment.”
smith could scarce keep a straight countenance when he heard this naïve speech of the old chieftain, but his amusement soon gave way to deep concern as he saw the infatuated newport spread out his entire stock before powhatan.
smith had serious cause for apprehension. the influence of the settlers over the indians and, indeed, their very lives depended upon the copper, glass, beads and similar trifles which the indians coveted so greedily. if these became cheapened in their eyes, the colonists would have nothing with which to propitiate them, nor with which to pay for the provisions so constantly needed. and here was the reckless newport permitting powhatan to help himself on condition of paying what he pleased for what he should take. the rates of exchange set by smith had already, as we know, been ruinously enhanced in favor of the indians, and this transaction was calculated to still more greatly raise them. he did not dare to protest, for fear of arousing powhatan’s anger, but fortunately his quick wit enabled him to save the situation without creating any unpleasantness.
among the many things displayed for the inspection of the great werowance, smith noted some beads of a different tint to any others there. he quietly abstracted the package, taking care that powhatan should see him do so. when at length the chief had indicated all the things he wished to retain, he fixed a price on them which, as smith had anticipated, was not more than one-tenth as much as the indians had usually paid for such articles. having settled that business to his entire satisfaction, the greedy chief turned to smith and asked to be shown the package which the latter had put aside. powhatan suspected that it contained something of unusual value and smith cunningly confirmed this suspicion by pretending the greatest reluctance to exhibit the articles. presently, however, he showed them, saying:
“these be as you see different in color from all the other beads. they be purple--the royal color in the countries beyond the seas--and fit only for the use of kings.”
of course powhatan was consumed with a desire to possess them and equally of course smith did not readily yield to him. at last the werowance received the coveted purple beads on the payment of six times as much for them as he had given for all the things secured from newport. it was immediately decreed that purple beads might only be worn by the powhatan and his family but opechancanough was allowed a few as a mark of special favor.
after five days of entertainment and friendly intercourse, the englishmen returned to the settlement. it was newport’s intention to load up his vessel with cedar and depart for england as soon as possible. just at this time, however, a trivial accident gave an entirely new and unfortunate turn to the affairs of the colony. one of the settlers discovered some yellow dust shining in the bottom of a stream near the settlement. immediately, the whole colony was smitten with the gold-fever. neglecting all else they gave themselves up to the pursuit of the precious metal. as one of them says: “there was no talk, no hope, but dig gold, wash gold, refine gold, load gold; such a bruit of gold that one mad fellow, a wag, desired to be buried in the sands lest they should, by their art, make gold of his bones.” the outcome of all this was that, after several weeks delay, newport sailed away with a ship laden with mica dust.
a turn in the tide
captain nelson arrives in the phœnix with reinforcements and supplies--powhatan becomes disgruntled--smith yields to pocahontas what he had refused to her father--smith sets out to explore chesapeake bay--the expedition meets with storm and shipwreck--the party is led into an ambush--they find the indians everywhere unfriendly and learn of powhatan’s treachery--the susquehannocks and their giant chief--they propose to make smith the head of the tribe--ratcliffe is deposed and scrivener assumes the presidency--the colony is put in good condition--newport returns bent on fanciful schemes--the coronation of powhatan.
smith, scrivener and a few other men of balanced minds had escaped the gold-fever. they doubted in the first place whether the stuff was worth anything and realized that, even if it should prove to be gold indeed, the time occupied in the search of it had better have been employed in the urgent affairs of the settlement. they were very glad, therefore, to see newport at last take his departure, and immediately set men at work rebuilding the town and fortifications and breaking ground preparatory to planting corn. the settlers were thus engaged when, quite unexpectedly, the phœnix arrived with captain nelson and one hundred and twenty emigrants. as usual, the reinforcement included two or more gentlemen for every laborer or artisan. smith’s disappointment on this account was, however, offset by the fact that captain nelson brought six months’ provisions which were sorely needed by the settlers.
hardly had newport gone than the colony began to reap the fruit of his unwise traffic with the indians. smith had always been careful to prevent the natives from securing any of the european weapons, or even pieces of iron from which they might fashion swords. newport was less cautious, perhaps because the consequences could entail no hazard to himself. just before his departure he gave powhatan twenty cutlasses for as many turkeys, despite the earnest protests of smith. powhatan was not long in learning the superiority of these weapons over his own and, thinking to secure more of them, he sent messengers to smith, asking for swords in exchange for fowls. it is needless to say that the demand was flatly refused, although smith was loath to displease the chieftain. powhatan was keenly disappointed, for he had thought that, as a member of the tribe, smith would be more amenable to his wishes. he was also seriously offended, and sought to gain his point by stealth. some of his people were sent to the settlement with instructions to steal whatever they could and, in particular, to purloin as many weapons as possible.
as indians were frequent visitors to jamestown and of late had been permitted to go about the settlement freely, it was comparatively easy for powhatan’s emissaries to carry on their pilferings for some time without detection. at length, however, several of them were caught in the act and imprisoned. fearing that they were about to be put to death they revealed a conspiracy against the colony on the part of powhatan and his principal chiefs. thus forewarned of the intended treachery, smith hastened the work on the defences of the place and kept a vigorous guard day and night. in the meanwhile he held possession of his prisoners much to the uneasiness of the great werowance. repeated requests for their release were denied, although the messengers came laden with presents. opechancanough came in person but had no better success. at length powhatan sent pocahontas with expressions of his regret for the untoward actions of his subjects and assurances of his future goodwill. this appeal was effective. smith yielded, not to the chief but to the girl who had saved his life.
there had been a great deal of discussion about the freighting of the phœnix. ratcliffe, martin, and, in fact, the majority were for loading the vessel with the delusive dust which had formed newport’s cargo. smith and scrivener protested against another shipment of what they strongly suspected to be no more than “glittering dirt.” captain nelson took the same view of the matter and in the end the phœnix sailed out of the james with an honest lading of good virginia cedar. this was on june the second, 1608. the same day smith left the settlement in an open barge of three tons’ burden, accompanied by fifteen men. most of these were newcomers, who were not a little set up on account of an experience they had gained with newport during his recent visit. that able seaman generally contrived to make himself ridiculous when he transferred the scene of his activities to dry land. he had brought out a large boat in five sections designed to be carried across the mountains in his projected journey to the south sea. the expedition started with a great flourish of trumpets and after being gone two and a half days returned to jamestown and abandoned the enterprise. now those of smith’s force who had been in newport’s company thought that the latter’s expedition was a fair sample of exploration. they were eager for adventure and very much feared that smith, in an open boat committed to the sea, would not journey far enough to satisfy their appetite. the leader heard these doubts expressed and promised himself some amusement at the expense of his eager adventurers.
smith’s determination was to thoroughly explore chesapeake bay. it was no light undertaking. the region was quite unknown to him and peopled by indian tribes with which he had not yet come in contact. the mere matter of navigation involved grave dangers, for the bay being wide and open, is subject to almost the full force of wind and tide. but in the face of all these difficulties, and many more that arose with the progress of the exploration, smith accomplished his purpose and that so effectually that his map of the bay was the best in existence until recent times, and is still acknowledged to be an excellent one. the work was at that time of course of the utmost importance and, although it took the authorities at home some time to see it, information of the country and inhabitants of virginia was of much greater value than fanciful stories of gold mines and short cuts to the south sea.
our adventurers soon found that exploring with captain smith was a very different thing from a picnic expedition with captain newport. they encountered rough weather from the outset. their hands blistered and their backs ached with rowing against a strong wind. the briny waves drenched their clothes and soaked their bread. their water keg was broached by some accident and before they could replenish it they came so near to being famished that they “would have refused two barrels of gold for one of puddle water.” this was their condition when a terrible storm struck them, carrying away their masts and sails. by good fortune, rather than any effort of their own, they contrived to gain the shelter of an uninhabited island where they went ashore.
the men who had been fearful lest captain smith should not venture far enough, were now all for returning to jamestown, but their leader had no mind to turn back. opposition and difficulty ever increased his determination and nerved him to greater effort.
“gentlemen,” said smith to the disheartened company, “remember the example of sir ralph lane’s company in worse straits, how they begged him to proceed in the discovery of moratico, saying that they had yet a dog that would sustain them for a while. then what shame would it be to us to return, having ample provision of a sort, and scarce able to say where we have been, nor yet heard of that we were sent to seek. you can not say but i have shared with you in the worst that is past; and for what is to come, of lodging, diet, or whatsoever, i am content you allot the worst part to me. as to your apprehensions that i will lose myself in these unknown large waters, or be swallowed up in some stormy gust, abandon these childish fears, for worse than is past is not likely to happen, and to return would be as dangerous as to proceed. regain, therefore, your old spirits, for return i will not--if god please--till i have seen the massawomekes, found patawomek, or the head of this bay which you imagine to be endless.”
they remained two days upon the island, and when the storm abated resumed their journey with fresh sails fashioned from their shirts.
the exploring party had been out just two weeks when they came across the mouth of the potomac--or patawomek, as smith called it. they sailed thirty miles up the river without sight of human being, when two indians appeared from nowhere, after their mysterious manner, and offered to serve them as guides. pretending to take them to a village at the head of a creek, the wily savages neatly led them into an ambuscade. suddenly the english found themselves in the centre of three or four hundred indians, “strangely painted, grimed and disguised, shouting, yelling and crying, as so many spirits from hell could not have showed more terrible.” had they discharged their arrows at once, instead of wasting time in capering about, the explorers must have been killed to a man. but these indians, who had not yet become acquainted with the dreadful “spit-fires” of the strangers, thought that they had them entirely at their mercy and doubtless proposed to reserve them for the torture. smith ordered his men to fire a volley in the air and the effect of the discharge of fifteen muskets at once was all that could be wished. many of the savages fled into the forest, others threw themselves prone upon the ground and all cast aside their weapons in sign of surrender. smith learned that messengers from powhatan had instigated these people to attack the expedition and had urged upon them, above all, to secure the white men’s weapons. had they known the terrible nature of those weapons they certainly would not have indulged in any such foolishness and they did not think kindly of their brothers, the powhatans, for having egged them on to it. smith established friendly relations with these people who never occasioned further trouble.
in their progress the voyagers found the indians almost everywhere in arms and ready to attack them, having been prompted thereto by the emissaries from werowocomico. in most cases, however, the natives were converted to peaceful good-will without bloodshed, the flash and report of the fire-arm proving to be a powerful pacifier. wherever they went, the explorers heard of the massawomekes. they seem to have been a particularly warlike tribe, situated near the head of the bay, who were dreaded and hated by all their neighbors. smith was very anxious to see these people and proceeded up the bay with the intention of visiting their country. but his men were succumbing so fast to the fatigue and exposure that, when at length there were but five left fit for active service, he deemed it wise to defer the exploration of the head of the bay. before turning homeward, however, he sent a messenger inland to the country of the susquehannocks who had the reputation of being a tribe of giants.
after a delay of a few days a deputation of sixty warriors from the susquehannocks visited the camp of the englishmen. they were bigger and more warlike than any indians that the settlers had encountered up to that time, and it was agreeable to smith to find that they had come prepared to make an alliance with him and, indeed, to adopt him into the tribe as a chief. in token of their good-will they presented him with a bear’s skin cloak, such as was only worn by great werowances, eighteen mantles, a chain of beads weighing six or seven pounds and a number of other gewgaws. their chief was a man of extraordinary size, even for a susquehannock. smith thus describes him:
“the calf of his leg was three-quarters of a yard about, and all the rest of his limbs so answerable to that proportion that he seemed the goodliest man we had ever beheld. his hair on one side was long, the other shorn close with a ridge over his crown like a cock’s comb. his arrows were five quarters of a yard long, headed with flints or splinters of stone in form like a heart, an inch broad and an inch and a half or more long. these he wore at his back in a wolf’s skin for his quiver, his bow in the one hand and his club in the other.”
these people proposed that smith should assume the headship of the tribe and lead them in war against the massawomekes and other enemies. had our hero entertained any such ambition as that with which he was charged by wingfield and his supporters, here was an excellent opportunity to set up a kingdom. the susquehannocks were not only exceptionally warlike, but also one of the most numerous tribes in that part of america. no doubt, with a man like smith at their head, they could soon have established sovereignty over hundreds of miles of territory. it is needless to say, however, that the offer was declined as tactfully as possible and the expedition turned homeward.
smith arrived in jamestown just as another crisis in the affairs of the colony had been reached. ratcliffe, the president, had shamefully abused his office for some time past. he had taken for his private use the best things in the public stores, he had beaten several of the settlers, with little or no provocation, and had diverted a number of laborers from useful employment to the task of building him a pleasure-house in the woods. smith appeared on the scene when the wrath of the colonists had almost risen beyond bounds. had he not arrived when he did they would probably have taken ratcliffe’s life. as it was, they would hear of nothing short of his deposition and invited smith to take his place at the head of the government. smith, however, who was the active instrument in disposing of the obnoxious officer, hardly thought that he could accept the proposal with a good grace and so persuaded them to allow him to substitute scrivener for himself. so, with this change, the summer passed in peace, and satisfactory progress was made in the rebuilding of the settlement.
the colony had never been in a better condition than now to make good progress. the settlers were well content with the rule of smith and scrivener, who always knew just what they wanted to do and how to do it. work and rations were fairly apportioned. gentlemen were required to take their turn at labor with the rest. a military company was formed and drilled, and the indians were kept in check by the practice of diplomacy and a show of force. this happy state of things was completely upset by the return of newport with instructions from his employers to discover the south sea, to bring back gold, and to search for the survivors of the lost roanoke colony. but this was not the sum of newport’s mad mission. he was also charged with the coronation of powhatan, to whom king james sent a present of a wash-basin and pitcher and an elizabethan bed with its furnishings. newport failed to bring the food and other things of which the settlers stood in such constant need, but instead landed seventy dutchmen and poles for the purpose of establishing manufactories of “pitch, tar, glass and soap-ashes.” by this time, smith had been regularly elected president. he was thoroughly disgusted with the foolish instructions of the london company, and when newport undertook to undo much of the good work that had been accomplished with so great trouble, even going so far as to restore ratcliffe to the presidency, smith bluntly gave him his choice of immediately taking himself and his ship off, or of being detained for a year that he might gain the experience that he was sadly in need of. newport wisely chose the former alternative and sailed away, having, as before, sown the seeds of trouble from which the colonists were to reap a bitter crop before long.
diamond cut diamond
smith goes on a foraging expedition and engages in a contest of wits with powhatan--doctor russell and captain smith get into a tight place--and get out again--powhatan plans to murder his adopted son--pocahontas warns the captain of the intended treachery--the feast and the disappointed waiters--how eight designing indians afford goodly entertainment to three englishmen--and how they are neatly laid by the heels by their intended victims--“the english sleep like the village dog, with one eye cocked”--how the ambushers were ambushed and the captors captured--“if there be one among you bold enough to essay a single combat, let him come out!”
with the approach of winter the colony of jamestown found itself in hardly better condition than at the same time in the previous year. it is true that their health was now better but they had many more mouths to feed and rather less chance of obtaining provisions from the indians. these, as we know, had been unfriendly for some months past, due to newport’s reckless generosity towards them and particularly to his foolish gift of swords, which smith refused to duplicate. the more experienced among the settlers had protested strongly against the crowning of powhatan, fearing that the savage would interpret the ceremony as a measure of propitiation and a sign of dread on the part of the english. and this proved to be the case. it was soon evident that the great werowance had risen mightily in self-esteem in consequence of the silly coronation and that his respect for the settlers had fallen in proportion. the neighboring bands, acting on his orders, refused to furnish corn on any terms, and messengers sent to werowocomico returned empty handed, telling of having been treated with a high-handed contempt. after scrivener and percy had made futile expeditions, it became clear that, as usual, smith must attend to the matter in person if the colony was to be saved from starvation.
smith immediately began preparations for a visit to the capital of powhatan, whose spies doubtless gave him early information of the fact, for, just at this time, an embassy arrived from the newly-crowned “emperor” demanding workmen to build him an english house to contain the gorgeous bedstead that his brother, the king of england, had sent to him. he also asked for fifty swords, as many muskets, a cock and hen, a large quantity of copper and a bushel of beads. this modest requisition he expected would be filled forthwith, and in return for his compliance he promised to give captain smith a shipload of corn, provided he came for it in person. here was a very palpable trap and something like a veiled defiance. smith was as little prone to shirk danger as he was to decline a challenge, and he returned answer that he should presently be at werowocomico. in the meanwhile he was sending three germans and two englishmen to build the projected palace, but, for the rest of the request, he thought that he had better bring the things mentioned by the chief himself, for he feared that the messengers might hurt themselves with the swords and muskets.
leaving scrivener in charge of the settlement, smith, with forty-six volunteers, embarked in the pinnace and two barges. george percy commanded one of the latter and francis west, brother of lord delaware, the other. the journey by water was a tolerably long one for open boats, and they broke it by a stay of two or three days at kecoughten, a village occupying the site of the present town of hampton. the chief received them with genuine friendliness and warned smith that powhatan contemplated treachery. here the party “kept christmas among the savages, where they were never more merry, nor fed on more plenty of good oysters, fish, flesh, wild fowl and good bread; nor never had better fires in england than the dry, smoky houses of kecoughten.” the enthusiasm with which the chroniclers among the colonists expatiate upon such simple comforts as these when it happens to be their good fortune to experience them, gives us a very good idea of the miserable condition that generally prevailed at jamestown.
when at length the party arrived at werowocomico, they found the river frozen over to a distance of half a mile from shore. smith overcame this obstruction by leaving his boats and wading to land with a squad of men. the entire absence of welcome was a sinister indication, but smith, unabashed, took possession of a deserted wigwam on the bank and sent messengers to powhatan for provisions. these were forthcoming, and the chieftain agreed to meet the english captain the next morning in a formal pow-wow.
before noon the following day, captain smith and his handful of men went up to the town, putting a bold face on what they all believed to be a very bad matter. once more the two chiefs met in the famous “king’s house.” powhatan received smith with the utmost coolness, and it was noticeable that he did not address him by his tribal name. when the matter of food supplies came up, he declared that he had so little to spare that he was loath to exchange it for copper which his people could not eat. as a special favor to the english and in consideration of their great need he would stretch a point to let them have thirty bushels in exchange for as many swords, but he was really not at all anxious to make the trade. indeed, so short was the food supply at werowocomico that he hoped that the english would speedily depart for he could ill afford to entertain so many hungry stomachs.
“as to that,” replied smith, “we have come at your invitation, and will delay no longer than is necessary to effect our purpose, which is to secure, at a fair price, so much corn and venison as you can readily spare from the well-filled stores of werowocomico.”
each had intimated that he was well acquainted with the actual conditions at the headquarters of the other, but smith was at a loss to determine whether powhatan had merely guessed at the urgent needs of the colonists, or whether he was really informed of the state of things at jamestown. as yet he had no suspicion of the truth, which was that the dutchmen sent to build the chief’s house had betrayed the colony. tempted by the abundant food and comfortable lodgings at the capital of the powhatans, they had secretly sold their allegiance to the chief, intending to remain with the indians and marry into their tribe.
powhatan continued the negotiations in the same independent tone, declaring that he would exchange corn for swords and muskets and for nothing else. at length this persistent attitude provoked smith to a decisive reply.
“let me speak the werowance plain as i would that he should speak to me. we will part with our swords and muskets no sooner than we will with our clothes. why, indeed, should we do so, when by a use of these same we can readily get all the corn we want and still retain them? we came here as honest and well-meaning men to get provisions and get them we will, if not by fair means then by foul. if blood be shed in this matter, upon your head be it, for i am, and ever have been, willing, in good faith, to uphold the friendship which we plighted to one another.”
this language was too plain to be misunderstood and powhatan proceeded upon another tack. he assured his dear son that his intention in the matter had been misunderstood. there were, it was true, no spare supplies in werowocomico, but messengers should at once be sent into the surrounding country to collect foodstuff and the english werowance would in good time be furnished with as much as he desired. of course this was only a ruse to gain time, and as such smith recognized it, but he was not himself averse to postponing conclusions, since his boats and men could not join him for some days. he immediately set gangs of indians to work in breaking up the ice, explaining that he would need the pinnace to load his supplies upon when they arrived. powhatan was not in the least deceived by this explanation and himself sent to the various chiefs under his dominion for reinforcements. in the meantime, wishing to establish an alibi in connection with the murder of captain smith, which he had planned, he withdrew to a neighboring village.
the next day, there were few indians in evidence, although several hundreds of them lay concealed within arrow shot. smith’s men were engaged on the bank of the river, whilst he and doctor russell were consulting together in a wigwam at some distance. suddenly they became aware of the approach of scores of silent savages from every direction. they were armed, and a glance was sufficient to perceive that their intentions were evil. two or three carried torches with which they proposed to fire the wigwam and then brain the white men as they should run out. russell was for instantly rushing upon the foe, but smith, who never lost his head in any emergency, checked him.
“nay,” he said, laying his hand upon the other’s arm. “rest we here until they be close upon the house when they durst not shoot their arrows for fear of slaying one the other. then will we sally against them and fend ourselves from their tomahawks as best we can.”
the advice was excellent, for had they exposed themselves otherwise they must have been killed at the first discharge. each had his pistols with him, and these they quietly primed and with composure awaited the oncoming savages. at length they were within a few yards of the house, and at the word from smith, doctor russell sprang out at his side. four indians fell at the discharge of the pistols which were fired in their very faces. those in front hastily leaped out of the line of the smoking weapons, making a lane into which the englishmen dashed, swinging their swords right and left. the sortie was so sudden and unexpected that smith and his companion were clear through the circle of savages and speeding towards the river before the indians could recover from their surprise. they might easily have overtaken the englishmen, being much more fleet of foot, but the appearance of smith’s men, who had been warned by the pistol reports, checked all thought of pursuit.
this episode made it evident that powhatan had determined upon desperate measures, and it also satisfied smith that he could no longer look for any immunity on account of his membership in the tribe. the next morning powhatan, his plot having failed, returned to the town and sent a messenger to smith with a strip of wampum in token of peace. he was exceedingly sorry that some of his people had rashly taken advantage of his temporary absence on the business of the captain’s supplies to attack their brother chief. the culprits, fearing his wrath, had taken to the woods, but on their return they should be severely punished. tomorrow powhatan would load the ship of the english werowance with corn and he hoped that they would part good friends. to all of this smith contented himself by replying that he should be ready to receive the corn when it arrived and to pay a fair price for it in any commodity but weapons.
smith thought it hardly possible that powhatan would venture another attack now that the pinnace with reinforcements was close at hand, and he might have been taken by surprise but for a timely warning. as he lay in his wigwam late that night, thinking over the many weighty affairs depending upon his disposition, he heard his name called softly as out of the ground. at length he realized that some one was whispering under the edge of the wigwam. going out cautiously, he found pocahontas awaiting him. she had come at the risk of her life to warn him, for she declared that if her father learned that she had betrayed his secret, he would kill her with his own hand. in agitated whispers, broken by her tears, she informed her adopted brother that it had been arranged to delay the loading on the following day, so that smith would be unexpectedly compelled to spend another night on shore. that after dark, a feast would be borne to him by eight men who would wait upon him and the two gentlemen who usually supped with him. that, at a favorable opportunity, the attendant indians would seize the arms of the englishmen and give a signal to the band of warriors by whom the wigwam would be surrounded. having told her story, the indian maiden vanished silently into the night.
smith of course laid his plans to circumvent his astute adoptive father, but he made no effort to expedite the loading which was delayed as he had been led to expect, so that night fell before it had been completed. smith, doctor russell and george percy sat down to supper as usual that night, just as eight unarmed, but stalwart, indians, who looked little like waiters, came to the wigwam laden with viands which powhatan begged his dear son and friends to accept. they were pleased to do so, and proceeded to attack the bountiful supply of good things without delay. but, to the dismay of the waiters, the englishmen did not lay aside their arms. on the contrary, each of them had four pistols in his belt and a fifth cocked and primed by his side upon the ground. furthermore, they lined themselves with their backs against the side of the wigwam, so that they constantly faced their anxious attendants who had thus no chance to spring upon them unawares. the indians were plainly nonplussed and disconcerted. the feasters, whilst eating leisurely, enjoyed to the full the discomfiture of their intended captors. smith vowed that it was the goodliest entertainment he had had since landing in virginia. when our adventurers had filled their stomachs, they quietly levelled their pistols at the waiters and signed to them to keep silence and to lie down. they then bound each with cord, allowing them sufficient freedom of the legs to hobble. pushing two of these before him as a shield, smith threw back the skin flap and stood in the entrance of the wigwam.
“warriors of the powhatans!” he cried, addressing the concealed savages, to whom he knew that the light of the fire at his back made him plainly visible. “warriors of the powhatans! the english sleep like the village dog, with one eye cocked, but you think to find us snoring like old women when you steal upon us in the night. we also have learned something of the ambuscade since coming among you. what ho, my men!”
an answering shout ran along in the rear of the line of lurking savages, conveying to them the uncomfortable announcement that they had lain shadowed by a band of english.
“back to your wigwams, valiants!” continued smith derisively, “and dream of conquests that ye are not fit to achieve. if there be one among you bold enough to essay a single combat let him come out with his club and i with my bare hands will meet him. no? then away with you! your brother assassins will i hold in surety of a peaceful night’s slumber.” with that he re-entered the wigwam, pulling his bound indians after him.
the pinnace was loaded without hitch the next morning. indeed, the indians, who appeared to be much depressed, had no greater desire than to see the strangers depart. when all was ready, smith handed to them a liberal recompense for the provisions they had supplied, although their repeated treacheries would have fully justified him, one would think, in refusing payment. the barges were yet empty and smith determined to go on to pamaunke, the seat of his old enemy opechancanough, and see if he could not induce that chief to complete the supply.
the expedition had no sooner left werowocomico, than two of the renegade dutchmen journeyed with all haste to jamestown. there they purported to deliver a message from the president, and by means of this ruse secured a number of weapons, tools, and other useful articles, besides persuading six of their countrymen to desert the colony and, like themselves, throw in their lot with the indians.
smith pays a visit to opechancanough and declines to walk into a trap--“drop your arms on the instant or your chief’s life is forfeit”--smith affords the pamaunkes an object lesson and reads them a lecture--a messenger with sad news from jamestown--smith loses an old friend and a faithful ally--the indians set a trap for the white werowance and fall into it themselves--smith loads his boats and returns to jamestown--he finds the settlement in a condition of anarchy and threatened with starvation--and promptly proceeds to restore law and order--the colonists are given to understand that “he that will not work shall not eat.”
at pamaunke, opechancanough resorted to the same species of dalliance and subterfuge that powhatan had practised so ineffectually. he claimed to have but a few bushels of corn to spare and set the price up so high that smith laughed in his face. this fencing was carried on for several days, the real object being to permit the return of a number of warriors who happened to be absent from the village, likely enough being part of the reinforcements that powhatan had summoned from his under-chiefs. when these had arrived, opechancanough promised to have a more satisfactory quantity of supplies for the english captain on the following day. smith, accompanied by sixteen men, accordingly went up to a large house at the time appointed, prepared to negotiate the exchange. opechancanough received the party with the appearance of utmost cordiality and declared that he had at great pains collected a large quantity of provisions for his guests. in token of his friendship to smith he had prepared for him a personal present contained in a heap of baskets stacked up outside the wigwam. the chief invited his white brother to step out and inspect the gift. smith went to the door and looked around. his quick eye, sharpened by suspicion, detected a score or more of arrow heads projecting from over the top of a fallen tree at about twenty yards distance. the bows were drawn ready to let fly at him as soon as he appeared in the open.
smith turned to the treacherous chief and in no uncertain terms taxed him with his perfidy. he asked him if he were not ashamed to stoop to such dirty tricks, so ill-becoming a man and a brave. he professed himself willing to believe that opechancanough possessed the courage that repute gave him credit for and proposed to afford him an opportunity to prove it. let them two, suggested smith, go upon a barren island in the middle of the river and settle their difference whilst yet their people had not come to blows. each should take the goods about which they experienced so much difficulty in coming to an understanding and the victor would be entitled to the whole. in this way might they reach a conclusion like honorable gentlemen and avoid much needless trouble. this proposal was not at all to the liking of the indian, who desired nothing so little as to harm his brother the werowance of the english, whose groundless suspicions deeply pained him.
“opechancanough!” replied smith to these lying protestations, “it is not meet that we should waste time in idle badinage, for whether your words be spoken in jest or mere deceit they do not serve to further my purpose. your plenty is well beknown to me and a reasonable part of it i must have and am willing to pay you therefor a reasonable compensation. when last i visited pamaunke you promised to provide me with all the provisions i might ask when i should come again. now i claim the fulfillment of that promise, nor will i abide any refusal though it be couched in honeyed words. here are my wares. take you your choice of them. the rest i will barter with your people on fair terms.”
smith had hardly completed this politic and not unreasonable speech, when doctor russell, who had been left with the boats, hastily entered the house, and going to smith’s side warned him that the place was surrounded by hundreds of armed warriors, who were evidently only awaiting a signal to make an attack. smith looked at opechancanough who was evidently disconcerted by russell’s appearance and the whispered conference that followed. there was no doubt whatever in the captain’s mind about the indian chieftain’s evil intentions. to parley farther would be worse than useless. to sally forth in the face of the awaiting bowmen would surely be to lose some of his men. decisive action was necessary and that without an instant’s delay. smith’s mind was quickly made up and his design executed with equal celerity.
on one side of the wigwam were grouped the englishmen. on the other opechancanough stood in the midst of forty of his tallest warriors, himself towering above them all. whilst smith had carried on his hurried conversation with the doctor, the pamaunke engaged in excited debate with his braves. smith watched his formidable adversary like a hawk and at a favorable opportunity bounded into the midst of the surrounding warriors and, before a hand could be raised, had the chief fast by the scalp-lock and a pistol presented at his breast. not an indian dared interfere as smith dragged his captive to the other side of the house whilst he cried to percy and west to guard the doors.
“drop your arms on the instant or your chief’s life is forfeit!” cried smith to the amazed warriors. they obeyed with little hesitation and the englishmen gathered up their weapons.
still with his fingers entwined in opechancanough’s hair, captain smith drew him out of the house and into the presence of the warriors waiting in ambush. some of his men carried out the seized weapons and threw them in a heap before the captain and his captive, whilst the disarmed braves were made to form a group behind them. this humiliating spectacle had an instantaneous effect upon the spectators. overcome with shame and apprehension they bowed their heads in despair and allowed their weapons to drop from their hands.
the indians expressed their willingness to abide by these conditions and declared that every soul in the band should be immediately engaged in the task of loading the vessel, leaving the matter of payment to be decided by the english werowance later.
“so be it!” said smith. “your chief and brethren are free. they may take their weapons and go. but beware! for if again you play me false i shall show no such mercy upon you.”
the band now set to work to load the barges with all possible speed, for, like the men of werowocomico after trying conclusions with our captain, they were only too anxious to have the english begone. they were just at the point of departure when there arrived a tattered and footsore white man, pinched with hunger and cold. he had reached the extremity of his endurance when he staggered into the camp of his people at pamaunke. this brave fellow was master richard wyffin, one of the gentlemen adventurers who had arrived with captain nelson in the phœnix. after being fed and warmed, he told his story to smith. it appeared that some two weeks previous scrivener, the acting president, together with captain waldo and anthony gosnold, newly appointed members of the council, and eight men, had left the settlement on a visit to hog island, where the colonists kept some swine that had been imported from the west indies. a sudden storm overtook the party and capsized their boat. all were drowned and their bodies some days later were recovered by indians. wyffin, at the grave hazard of his life, had set out alone to carry the sad tidings to the president. after wandering out of his way for several days, the messenger reached werowocomico, where he expected to find smith. here he would have fallen a prey to the vengeance of powhatan’s warriors had not pocahontas hidden him and, when opportunity served, set him upon the road to pamaunke. smith was much affected by the news of the death of scrivener, for whom he had a strong regard and whose value to the colony he fully appreciated.
during the loading of the barges smith had had a heart to heart talk with opechancanough. that chief, now thoroughly subdued in spirit and persuaded that frankness might better serve his interests than deception, gave the englishman a fairly truthful account of the actual state of affairs. from this and his own observation, smith reached the conclusion that the stores of pamaunke could not well stand the strain of freighting both his barges. he decided, therefore, to be satisfied with one barge load, determining to return to werowocomico for the second. this he felt quite justified in doing, for it was well known to him that powhatan’s garners were always overflowing, for the great werowance exacted a heavy tribute from the minor chiefs of the tribe. moreover, smith was willing to punish his adoptive father as the author of all the trouble that had befallen the expedition. accordingly, after leaving pamaunke, the boats turned their prows upstream and started back to werowocomico.
“surely they take us for barn-yard fowls and think that we will run to a handful of grain held out in a sieve. the grain we will take but in no such simple fashion.”
he had no doubt that a hundred or more stout bowmen lay hidden behind the innocent looking crowd which greeted him with eager offers to trade. dissembling his suspicions, smith declared that the day was too far spent for trading. he would lie-to for the night, he said, and in the morning would come ashore unarmed as they demanded.
when darkness had set in smith picked twenty-five men and placed them under the commands of percy and west. these officers were directed to take the force in one of the barges several miles farther up the river and there to land twenty of them. the remaining five were to bring back the boat that its absence might not excite the suspicions of the savages on the morrow. percy and west were then to proceed through the forest with their men and dispose them before daylight in the rear of the indian ambuscade. it was quite dark when the barge, with muffled oars, pulled upstream, but some hours later a clear moon arose, enabling the party to carry out its instructions to the letter.
the next morning, the unarmed indians were on the bank as before with their baskets of corn, and smith went ashore as he had promised with a squad of men, all of whom had left their weapons in the pinnace. no sooner had they set foot on land than the would-be traders scattered and fled into the surrounding forest, leaving their baskets upon the ground. at the same instant a band of warriors rose from the cover in which they had lain hidden and drew their bows upon the english.
“stay your hands, powhatans, and look to your backs!” cried smith with extended forefinger.
the warriors glanced behind them to see percy’s men drawn up with levelled muskets. uttering a howl of dismay, they plunged into the thicket and disappeared. the baskets of corn were carried aboard the barges and the party continued its journey.
they found werowocomico completely deserted. powhatan had fled, taking his renegade dutchmen and emptying his stores. however, thanks to the attempted ambuscade, smith had now nearly as great a quantity of provisions as his boats could carry and he returned to the fort. the expedition had been absent six weeks. in that time its members had been exposed to much hardship and many dangers of which we have made no mention. they had relieved the settlement, during a period of great stringency, of the keep of forty-six men and now they returned with five hundred bushels of corn and two hundred pounds of meat. furthermore, not a man was missing from the party. this was, indeed, an achievement to be proud of, but it was not of the kind to impress the proprietors at home. had smith come back with empty boats and the loss of some lives, so that he had learned some fanciful rumor of a gold mine in a mythical country, they would have been better pleased with him.
the president found the colony in a bad way. the food supply was almost exhausted and the settlers were within sight of starvation. the councilmen, who should never have all left jamestown at the same time, had been drowned together. in the absence of all authority, discipline naturally disappeared and disaffection spread. this as we shall see later had developed into treason and conspiracy before the president’s arrival. there had been some attempted desertions and doubtless would have been more but for the contemplation of the fate of scrivener and his companions. work of all descriptions had entirely ceased and the men spent their days in loafing and quarrelling.
smith took the situation in hand with his usual decision and firmness. he determined to check the demoralization at any cost but wisely decided to employ genial measures where they would avail. calling the settlers together, he gave them a clear understanding of his attitude at the outset. standing on the steps of the council house, he addressed them in the following words, his tone and gesture carrying conviction to his hearers.
“countrymen! the long experience of our late miseries should be sufficient to persuade everyone to correct his errors and determine to play the man. think not, any of you, that my pains, nor the adventurers’ purse, will maintain you in idleness and sloth. i speak not thus to you all, for well i know that divers of you deserve both honor and reward, but the greater part must be more industrious or starve. it hath heretofore been the policy of the council to treat alike the diligent and the idle, so that a man might work not at all yet was he assured of warm lodging and a full belly--at least as much of these comforts as was enjoyed by them that toiled for the betterment of the colony. such a condition will not i maintain. you see that power now resteth wholly in myself. you must obey this now for a law, that he that will not work--except by sickness he is disabled--shall not eat. the labors of thirty or forty industrious men shall not be consumed to maintain a hundred and fifty idle loiterers. that there is disaffection among you i know. i hope that it will cease forthwith, but if not, i warn you that i shall hesitate not to take the life of any man who seeks to sow the seeds of treason in this his majesty’s colony of virginia. i would wish you, therefore, without contempt of my authority, to study to observe the orders that i here set down, for there are now no more councillors to protect you and to curb my endeavors. he that offendeth, therefore, shall most assuredly meet due punishment.”
a curious combat
the settlement is reduced to order and industry--the renegade dutchmen and their friends in the fort--smith stalks a traitor through the forest--captures him and brings him back to be hanged--the chief of the paspaheghs enters upon a dangerous enterprise--he finds smith ready to try a conclusion with him--the indian giant and the englishman engage in a wrestling match--the bout ends in the discomfiture of the paspahegh--he cuts “a sorry figure squirming like a toad under a harrow”--he is carried captive to the fort and held for exchange with the traitorous dutchmen--but smith’s heart is touched by the appeal of the warriors and he releases the chief.
the uncompromising attitude of the president had a good effect upon even the worst members of the colony who, even though they were not moved thereby to honest endeavor, were at least restrained by fear from active interference. there was now in the public store enough provision to carry the settlement, with prudent use, over to the time of harvest. their minds were therefore relieved of what was usually the most pressing anxiety, and they were free to devote their labors to internal improvement. smith divided the settlers into squads of ten or fifteen, to each of which was assigned a particular duty every day. six hours a day, with the exception of the sabbath, were given to work. the remaining time was consumed in pastimes which tended to cheer the spirits whilst preserving the health of the men. smith himself was constantly on duty and seemed to have a hundred pair of eyes, for nothing escaped his notice. passing from one group of laborers to another, he directed their work, cheered the weak, praised the industrious, reproved the unhandy and punished the shirkers. under the new regulations, the erection of public buildings and the construction of fortifications progressed rapidly and at the same time the health and temper of the colonists greatly improved.
smith was of course ere this fully informed of the defection of the three dutchmen whom he had sent to powhatan, but he had yet to learn that these renegados had many sympathizers and some active confederates at jamestown among the seventy foreigners exported by the company. for some time after the institution of the new regulations, it had been apparent that a clever system of thievery was being carried on in the fort. arms, ammunition and tools disappeared from time to time and no trace of the offenders could be had. the persons entrusted by smith with the task of detecting the thieves having utterly failed to discover them, he determined to undertake the matter himself. it was certain that the stolen articles were conveyed out of the fort after dark, and smith therefore took to spending his nights on watch. at length his vigils were rewarded by the sight of five men scaling the palisades over which they hauled a number of heavy packages. he followed them stealthily. they took the rough road leading from jamestown to the glass factory, a mile distant, which they reached in about half an hour. as they approached the house, a number of indians came out to meet them, and among these smith recognized by his voice a certain franz, who was painted and bedecked to represent a redskin. smith lay concealed close at hand during the transfer of the goods and heard the entire conversation of the conspirators. the party from the fort wasted no time in returning, and smith let them go upon their way without interference. his mind was set on capturing the traitor franz.
after the dutchmen had left, the indians distributed the burden among themselves and set out in the opposite direction. smith rightly surmised that they would not go far before encamping, and that, knowing that there was no party abroad from the settlement, they would not deem it necessary to maintain a guard when they slept. but he kept well in the rear for fear of alarming them, for the savage is alive to the breaking of a twig or the rustling of a leaf on a still night. their camp-fire would guide him to them when they stopped.
the band proceeded along the trail for a few miles and then suddenly struck into the depths of the forest, but soon halted and prepared for the night by building a fire. round this they sat for a while talking and eating dried venison and bread. one by one they stretched themselves out by the blazing wood until at length all were sunk in deep slumber. smith had crept near before this and had marked the position of franz who, being more susceptible to cold than his companions, was wrapped in a long fur. for fully an hour after the last man had lain down smith waited patiently with his eyes fixed on the fur-robed figure of the dutchman. at last he thought it safe to advance, and gradually stole forward until he stood over the recumbent form of the traitor. it would have been an easy matter to stab the sleeping man to the heart, but, although he richly deserved such a fate, the thought was repugnant to our hero, who preferred, even at the risk of his own life, to make the other captive.
had smith attempted to seize franz, or in any other way to awaken him suddenly, no doubt the man would have alarmed his companions. smith, therefore, proceeded with calm deliberation to bring his victim gradually to his senses. kneeling beside him, with a cocked pistol in one hand, he set to brushing his face lightly with a wisp of grass. the sleeping man began to breathe more rapidly as the slight irritation excited him, then he turned restlessly several times and at last slowly opened his eyes upon smith and the threatening pistol. the captain’s eyes, readable in the light of the fire, spoke more eloquently than words could have done. franz realized that death would follow the first sound he should make. in obedience to the signs of his captor he rose quietly and stepped out of the ring of light into the gloom of the surrounding forest. smith’s hand grasped his hair whilst the pistol was pressed against the nape of his neck. in his character of indian, franz had carried no weapons but a bow and arrow and these lay where he had slept, so that he was quite powerless to resist. when they had proceeded cautiously until safely beyond earshot, smith urged his prisoner forward with all speed and within an hour after his capture had him safely lodged in the jail of the fort.
the proof of this dutchman’s guilt being so absolute, the jury before whom he was tried found him guilty without hesitation and he was hanged forthwith. it would be interesting to know how the indians accounted for the complete disappearance of the disguised dutchman who had lain down to sleep with them. they may have supposed that he had wandered from the camp in the night and lost his way. it is quite as likely, however, that they decided that the god of the english angered at his perfidy had carried him off. of course it was not long before they learned the truth, but smith took immediate measures to suppress the illicit dealings that had been carried on between the indians and the traitors in the fort. a blockhouse was erected at the neck of the peninsula upon which jamestown stood and neither redman nor white was thereafter permitted to pass it during day or night without giving an account of himself. but the affair of franz was not the end of the trouble with the foreign settlers, as we shall see.
shortly after the incident of franz, the german, or the dutchman, as the early writers called him, smith received a message from the chief of the paspaheghs, who declared that he was in possession of a number of stolen articles which he desired to return to the white werowance in person. he proposed that the latter should meet him at a designated place some miles from jamestown and take over the purloined property. smith was getting a little tired of these transparent subterfuges, but as they invariably turned to his advantage it seemed to be inadvisable to neglect such an opportunity. accordingly he went to the appointed place, taking with him a guard of ten men fully armed. there they found the chief, attended by fifty warriors. he was a man of gigantic stature, being even taller than opechancanough. smith wished to come at once to the purpose of the meeting, but the chief seemed disposed to palaver and consume time. at length he expressed a desire to speak to the captain privately and apart. to this request smith acceded and walked aside with the paspahegh, keeping a sharp lookout the while.
it would seem that this indian, who had only encountered our hero in his most genial moods, was sufficiently bold and enterprising to venture upon an attempt to dispose of him single handed. the idea may have been suggested to his mind by noticing that smith, contrary to his custom, was on this occasion armed only with a falchion. no doubt the paspahegh had a right to rely greatly upon his superior size but had he consulted opechancanough before entering upon this hazardous undertaking, he might have received some deterrent advice.
the two leaders continued to walk away until they were completely beyond the sight of their followers. smith had instructed his men not to follow him, feeling confident that as long as he had the chief within arm’s length he could control the situation, and with that idea he kept close by the paspahegh’s side. the indian seemed to find the proximity unsuited to his plans, for he attempted several times to edge away. these attempts were not lost upon smith who took care to frustrate them, for the chief carried a bow and arrows which he could not use with effect except at some distance from his intended victim.
at length the paspahegh lost patience, or gave up hope of eluding the vigilance of his companion. suddenly he sprang to one side and turned on smith with his bow drawn taut and an arrow fitted in it. but before he could loose the shaft our hero was upon him and had grasped him in a wrestler’s hold. the chief dropped his useless weapon and addressed himself to the task of overthrowing his antagonist. he dared not cry for help, for to do so would be to bring the english to the assistance of their leader. smith, on the other hand, was not inclined to court interference. to “try a conclusion” by single combat was always to his liking, and he thoroughly enjoyed the present situation.
for a while the clasped figures swayed to and fro, the indian striving by sheer weight to crush his smaller adversary to the ground. smith, on his part, contented himself at first with the effort necessary to keep his feet, but, when he felt the savage tiring from his great exertions, decided to try offensive tactics. the indian was no wrestler and, moreover, he had secured but a poor hold. smith held his antagonist firmly round the waist where he had seized him at the onset and now he suddenly dropped his hold to the savage’s knees. with a tight grip and a mighty heave upwards he threw the paspahegh over his head and turned to fall upon him. but the indian was agile despite his great size. he had broken his fall with his hands, and, regaining his feet quickly and without injury, immediately grappled with smith. it was no eagerness for the combat that prompted the paspahegh to re-engage with such alacrity but the knowledge that unless he closed at once his opponent might draw his sword and run him through. smith would rather have continued the duel on equal terms, but the chivalrous instinct that could prefer such a condition to slaying a helpless enemy was entirely beyond the comprehension of the savage.
the paspahegh seems to have been the most manly of the chieftains with whom smith came in conflict. he accepted his imprisonment with uncomplaining dignity and calmly awaited the fate which he had every reason to believe would be death. smith, however, had never entertained thought of killing his captive. it was in his mind to hold the chief for exchange with the dutchmen but, with his usual clemency, he allowed him to depart with a deputation of his tribesmen who shortly appeared at the settlement. these professed repentance and promised good behavior in the future. they declared that their chief had been instigated to treachery by another--meaning powhatan. that he had always been kindly disposed towards smith and at the time of his captivity had been one of the few chiefs in favor of sparing his life. finally they agreed to clear and plant an extra field of corn for the english against the next harvest. smith yielded, assured them of his future friendship as long as they deserved it and giving to each a present sent them upon their way contented.
a humbled chieftain
powhatan stirs his dutch allies to reluctant activity--they concoct a conspiracy to seize jamestown and massacre the english--the movement fails and all powhatan’s warriors fall into the hands of smith--“it is within my power to cut off the powhatans root and branch!”--the old chief is bowed in shame and repentance--a very righteous fate befalls the perfidious dutchmen--friendly relations are again established between the whites and the indians--a grand scheme of government which has a bad inception--ratcliffe, archer and other mischief-makers return to virginia--smith is seriously injured and returns to england.
the dutchmen at werowocomico had been living on the fat of the land. they were installed as honored members of the tribe and granted many unusual privileges. powhatan was well pleased with their work in the erection of his english house and their success in stealing from the settlement. but he expected much more from these white allies, who came to him boasting that they would show him how to subdue the english and drive them into the sea. the traitors would have been well content to have powhatan forget those idle promises and allow them to continue in peace the life of ease and comfort into which they had settled. they were mechanics, quite ignorant of military matters. they could steal muskets but were unable to drill the savages in the use of them and, indeed, through their faulty instructions caused a number of the indians to be blown up by gunpowder. however, powhatan was insistent that they should redeem their promises and it became necessary to bestir themselves.
smith had effectually put a stop to the traffic between the thieves in the fort and their confederates among the indians, but it would have been quite impossible to prevent communications, since there was constant intercourse between the settlers and the natives of the surrounding country. the dutchmen, therefore, had no difficulty in laying plans with certain of their countrymen in jamestown. a scheme was at length conceived that appeared to present some prospect of success and met with the approval of powhatan. on a certain night the conspirators within the fort were to blow up the arsenal and set fire to the settlement at several points simultaneously. in the confusion that would follow two thousand indians would rush into the enclosure and massacre the surprised settlers. there was one point about this arrangement that was not quite satisfactory to the plotters. their contemplated rush might be effectually checked by a few faithful and determined men in control of the big guns. these were always handled by experienced english gunners and it would be necessary to seduce some of these from their allegiance. with this view, the schemers approached douse and mallard, whose posts were at the main entrance. to them they promised rich rewards and high favor with powhatan on condition of disabling the guns on the night of the attack and deserting to the enemy. the gunners apparently fell in with this proposal and the conspirators congratulated themselves on having their plans arranged beyond the possibility of miscarriage.
on the appointed night two thousand warriors under picked chiefs crept up to within half a mile of the fort and lay in waiting for the signal flames that were to call them to the attack. hour after hour passed without a sign from jamestown. the settlement was apparently sunk in peaceful slumber, but, as a matter of fact, every man within the stockade was wide awake and standing silently to his arms ready to repel an attack, whilst the conspirators lay snug and safe in the jail. at the first streak of dawn, the disappointed indians prepared to return, when they found themselves face to face with a body of musketeers. they were ordered to lay down their arms and did so without delay. contention would have been useless for they lay between two bodies of the english and were completely cut off. captain percy, in command of the ambuscade, now demanded the surrender of the renegade white men. the indians were unable to comply with this request for those worthies, realizing that something was wrong, had sneaked off some hours earlier and were on their way to werowocomico.
the warriors were rounded up and marched into the fort, and smith immediately selected one of their chiefs to act as a messenger and sent him, under the escort of master richard whyffin and serjeant ford, to powhatan.
the following day the indian messenger and the two englishmen returned, but they were unaccompanied by the dutchmen. from powhatan the chief brought this message:
“powhatan is bowed in anguish and his gray hairs sweep the dust. he prays the great english werowance to hear these his words for they are spoken in truth and all sincerity from the bottom of his heart. powhatan pleads for mercy and the friendship of captain smith. never again, so long as powhatan lives, will he or any of his people raise hand against the english. this is no idle talk, powhatan swears it by the name of his gods and the god of the strangers and will give ample hostages to insure his good faith. why should captain smith slay the warriors who but obeyed the commands of their werowance? would he visit his wrath upon the squaws and children of the powhatans who sit wailing in their wigwams? if the fields of werowocomico, of pamaunke and of oropaks, yield no harvest in the coming fall, where will the english procure corn to stay their hunger? but if the white werowance must satisfy his just wrath, then let him come to werowocomico and sate it upon me. i am here alone and unguarded and will bow my head to the stroke of his sword. then let him return and release my warriors so that the wailing of my people may not reach my ears in the happy hunting grounds of my fathers.
“as to the renegados, who betrayed me as they had betrayed you, it is not in powhatan’s power to return them to you for they were slain before your messengers arrived in werowocomico. the hungry curs slunk back to their wigwams in time for the morning meal. this i gave them in plenty--for it is not our custom to send a man fasting to the spirit-land--but afterwards their brains were dashed out by my orders and their bodies have been seen by the english captains who came with your messenger.
“powhatan has spoken the last word. let the english werowance decide. powhatan here awaits his death at the hands of captain smith, if it will redeem his people, but if his warriors must be doomed, then let powhatan come and join them in their death so that all may go together to the happy hunting grounds.”
it is needless to say that captain smith was profoundly touched by the pitiful appeal of the old chief. he did not doubt his present sincerity, nor had he cause to do so. powhatan was completely humbled and his words were, as he said, “spoken from the bottom of his heart.” so long as smith remained in the colony the old werowance maintained his plight and neither he nor his people committed an unfriendly act against the english. the warriors who returned with their arms carried away an impression of the might and justice of captain smith that became a tradition in the tribe. for many years after his death the exploits of the white werowance were related in wigwam and around camp fire. at this time his influence over the indians of virginia was supreme and founded upon respect no less than upon fear. his wishes were promptly complied with and the chiefs frequently consulted him about the affairs of the tribe. the most amicable relations were established between the whites and the natives. the former went about the country freely and without fear of harm. the latter came to the fort with their wares and provisions, glad to trade on a fixed scale which was once again established. the settlers learned how to plant corn in the indian fashion--a method which is followed in virginia to this day. the indians taught them how to net fish and snare animals. thus the colony progressed in the most useful direction and before smith left them many of the settlers were as adept in the practices of woodcraft as any indian.
what might have been the outcome had the affairs of the settlement been left in the hands of the man who showed time and again that he had such an understanding of the situation as none of the other leaders possessed, it is impossible to surmise. certain it is, however, that in such a case, the later experience of the settlers as well as the indians would have been a much more happy one. as it was, smith had no sooner reduced conditions to the favorable state which has been described, than another influx of “gentlemen,” vested with authority that they were quite incapable of exercising wisely, tended to undo much of the good which he had accomplished at such great pains.
in the early part of 1609, the london company secured a new charter, under which they proposed to exploit virginia on a scale of grandeur which was in itself a proof of their utter ignorance of the real conditions and needs of the colony. the company, as reorganized, was composed of twenty-one peers and innumerable knights and gentlemen. officers were appointed with high-sounding titles. lord delaware was made captain-general of virginia; sir thomas gates, lieutenant-captain-general; sir george somers, admiral; captain newport, vice-admiral; sir thomas dale, high-marshal; sir ferdinando wainman, general of the horse. just think of it! general of the horse in virginia! keeper of the hogs, or master of the poultry, or superintendent of the fish seines, would have been more to the purpose. what a humble and insignificant individual plain “captain john smith” must have appeared to these grand gentlemen!
this “lewd rout,” as one of the contemporary chroniclers terms them, were ripe for mischief and, led on by ratcliffe and archer, they plunged into all manner of license and disorder. it was their impression that in the absence of the commissioners the colony was without recognized authority and they might therefore do as they pleased without let or hindrance. they were never more mistaken, however. smith took the view, rightly without question, that until a commission superseding him arrived, he remained at the head of affairs. he gave these gentry warning that unless they mended their ways he should deal sternly with them. this had the effect of moving them to plots and stratagems designed to put him out of the way. forced to extreme measures, smith seized the ringleaders, including those meanest of mortals, ratcliffe and archer, and confined them in prison. order was speedily restored, and, the better to preserve it, smith divided the colonists, who were in any event too numerous to live in jamestown, into several parties which he sent into different quarters of the surrounding country to establish settlements. despite the friendly attitude of the indians these newcomers contrived to create trouble with them almost immediately, and more lives were thus needlessly sacrificed in a week than had been lost in smith’s troublous dealings with the indians in the course of a year.
at this juncture an accident--some think that it was the result of design--put a sudden end to smith’s career in virginia. one night as he slept his powder bag exploded, severely injuring him. for several weeks he lay in dreadful pain, unable to rise from his couch. when, at length, he was sufficiently recovered to be carried on board ship, he turned over the government to captain percy, and in the autumn of 1609 sailed from virginia, which he was never to see again.
a sorrowing group of his faithful followers watched the vessel until its ensign dropped below the horizon. one of them has said: “thus we lost him that in all his proceedings made justice his first guide and experience his second; ever hating baseness, sloth, pride and unworthiness more than dangers; that never allowed more for himself than his soldiers with him; that upon no danger would send them where he would not lead them himself; that would never see us want what he had or by any means could get us; that would rather want than borrow, or starve than not pay; that loved action more than words, and hated falsehood and covetousness worse than death; whose adventures were our lives, and whose loss our deaths.”
the literal truth of the last words was soon to be proven.
a dismal tale
what befell jamestown after captain john smith left it--a score of rival leaders create disorder and encourage license--the indians overcome the white men and put them to flight--ratcliffe falls into a trap and with his men is massacred--winter finds them sick and starving--“now we all felt the want of captain smith”--reinforcements arrive but it is determined to abandon the colony--the appearance of lord delaware frustrates the move--jamestown is restored and prospers for a spell--the tobacco craze and what it led to--opechancanough directs a great massacre--the colony of virginia is at last firmly planted.
it is a dismal tale, the recital of what befell the five hundred colonists of virginia after the departure of captain john smith, but no more striking vindication of his management of affairs could be found than in the rapid wreck of the colony when his guiding hand was removed from the helm. almost at once a condition of anarchy set in. percy was honest and not unwise but he lacked the iron will and indomitable energy of smith, and nothing less was needed to cope with the situation. there were soon, in the words of an eye-witness, “twenty presidents,” each with his particular followers, forming a faction at variance with all the others. strife and dissension pervaded the settlement. idleness and waste prevailed. the indians were treated as though the chief aim of the settlers had been to create their enmity. the more prudent of the older colonists sought to divert their fellows from the destruction upon which they were plainly heading, but without avail. percy, depressed by anxiety, fell ill of a fever which confined him to his bed, and, with the last vestige of authority removed, the colonists gave themselves up unrestrainedly to riot and feasting.
the fruits of their wicked recklessness were soon visited upon these miserable incompetents. the indians attacked the various settlements beyond jamestown and with almost invariable success. martin, at nansemond, had been kindly received by the chief of the band of that name. this treatment he requited by suddenly falling upon the village and seizing its contents. the indians recovering from their surprise assaulted the whites and routed them. martin fled to jamestown, having lost many of his men and--crowning shame!--nearly all their arms. shortly after this episode, ratcliffe and west went to werowocomico with two ships, each carrying thirty fully armed men--a greater force than smith ever took upon an expedition. powhatan, by this time moved to anger and contempt, practised against the newcomers the tactics he had so ineffectually tried against smith. ratcliffe and his men fell into the indian’s trap with childish readiness and all save one were massacred. west fled and turned his prow towards england where he and his company eventually arrived in safety. similar occurrences at last produced an astounding condition. the white colonists became actually afraid of the indians, who treated them with well-merited contempt and almost domineered over them. gradually, the entire stock of arms and ammunition found its way into the hands of the savages.
when things had reached this pass it would have been an easy matter for the indians to have exterminated the whites. it is probable that they were only deterred from doing so by the prospect of the speedy starvation of the colony. they had consumed their provisions with blind improvidence and had made absolutely no attempt to secure a harvest. the fields had been given up to weeds and the plows allowed to rust. the indians refused to give a grain for charity and would only trade on the most exorbitant terms. beads and playthings were a drug in the market. arms and ammunition were now demanded and readily obtained by the indians, in whose minds the memory of smith’s reception of similar proposals was fresh. says one of the ill-fated colonists:
“now we all felt the want of captain smith yea his greatest maligners could then curse his loss. now for corn, provisions and contribution from the savages, we had nothing but mortal wounds with clubs and arrows.”
the cold of winter found them too weak and fearful to venture beyond the palisades in quest of firewood; besides, there was scarce an axe left in jamestown. in this extremity, they burned the buildings and even tore down the stockade to feed the fires. they died like flies and presently the survivors were reduced to cannibalism. first an indian who had been killed in a skirmish was eaten and then the poor wretches gave themselves up without restraint to devouring their fellows.
on the twenty-third day of may, 1610, the party which had been wrecked on the bermudas sailed into the james in two vessels which they had constructed with infinite labor. sixty emaciated creatures, little more than skeletons and hardly better than idiots, crawled out to greet the arrivals, whose coming was barely in time to save the lives of this pitiful remnant of the colony which smith had left at jamestown. that place was reduced to ruins. many of the buildings had been torn to pieces and great gaps yawned in the palisades. so dismal was the picture and so fearful the stories of the ragged wretches who represented the prosperous colonists the newcomers had expected to meet, that somers and gates determined to return to england and abandon the settlement. the sixty starving and half demented men were taken on board the ships, which set sail down the river. the exultant savages who stood upon the banks congratulated themselves that once more the white intruder was forced to leave their land. but a strange incident suddenly turned the tide of affairs.
the departing ships no sooner cleared the mouth of the river than they perceived three vessels approaching and flying the flag of england. they proved to be reinforcements under lord delaware who had come out as governor of virginia. somers and gates of course put about and returned to jamestown. the conditions of affairs quickly changed. lord delaware, though not a man of equal force of character and resource with captain smith, was nevertheless one of sound judgment and considerable energy. he had an ample supply to tide over a year and, together with somers’s men, who had thrived on the food and climate of the bermudas, several hundred strong and healthy colonists. he set them to work repairing the fortifications and buildings, tilling the fields, and performing other useful labors. rule and order were established and strictly maintained. smith’s policy of firm but just dealing with the indians was resumed and they ceased to give trouble.
thus, when sickness compelled lord delaware to return to england in the following march, he left jamestown thoroughly resuscitated and on the highroad to prosperity. on the way home, the retiring governor passed sir thomas dale coming to the colony with three ships and a full year’s supplies. if he did not make much progress, dale at least preserved the advance which had been effected by delaware until, at the beginning of august, gates’s return as governor marked the inception of a new era for virginia.
gates brought out three large ships, a number of cattle, horses, three hundred men, and so great a quantity of supplies as to put the question of starvation out of mind, for the first time in the history of the colony. gates was well adapted by character, if not by experience, to rule the american possession. his emigrants were, for the most part, of a sort to benefit the settlement--men of good morals, accustomed to work and adept at various handicrafts. there were now a number of women in the country and family life began to make its appearance. jamestown soon assumed the appearance of an orderly town, with a public hall, a church, store-house and neat dwellings. along the river banks farms, plantations and cattle ranches appeared in time.
the rapid spread of the practice of smoking in england brought about the greatest changes in the condition of the colony of virginia. tobacco commanded good prices, with a constantly increasing demand, and soon every other enterprise in the colony was abandoned in favor of the production of the narcotic plant. the settlers went tobacco mad as in earlier days they had given themselves up to the gold frenzy. nothing else was thought of. fields were neglected, buildings and fortifications were allowed to fall into decay. it was said in england that the very streets of jamestown were planted in tobacco. every man saw in the leaf a prospect of speedy wealth, and readily sacrificed the demands of the present to the pursuit of a golden future. the company was delighted with the rich cargos that poured into england and promised to fill their coffers to overflowing. every encouragement was given the colonists to persist in their short-sighted policy. smith, with true wisdom, warned the proprietors and the public that the result could not be anything but disaster, but he was scouted as a croaker, envious of the good fortune of his successors.
during the four years that the tobacco madness was at its height the former discipline was utterly relaxed. there was little disorder because everyone was busy in the tobacco fields from morning till night. but the defences were entirely neglected and no guard was maintained by day or night. indeed, there did not appear to be any need for such precaution. the indians had been friendly for years and many of them lived in the fort and even in the homes of the settlers. opechancanough was now the chief of the tribe, powhatan being dead. the former was ever the implacable enemy of the whites but had up to this time hidden his true feelings under a cloak of cordiality. secretly and patiently, meanwhile, the cunning savage was plotting the destruction of all the whites in virginia, now numbering several thousands of men, women and children, scattered over a wide range of country.
the blow fell suddenly. on the same day the indians attacked the settlers at different points and found them quite unprepared for resistance. nearly four hundred were slain, and the massacre would have been much more extensive but for the fact that in many cases natives who had acquired a real regard for their white neighbors warned them in time and in some instances defended them. the tobacco planters now huddled in jamestown, anxious only for their lives. hurriedly the place was put in better condition to withstand assault and provisioned against a siege. but opechancanough was too astute to attack jamestown and an armed peace ensued.
the tidings of the massacre horrified england. the company was panic-stricken and at a loss what to do. smith called upon them with a proposal for the effective defence of the colony, and offered to go out and put it into operation himself. the proprietors hesitated to incur the expense and, in the meanwhile, their perplexity was relieved by the cancellation of their charter. the colony was attached to the crown and the settlers were left to their own resources. under these conditions they seem to have fared better than when subject to proprietary interests at home, for from the year of the massacre, 1622, virginia enjoyed a century and a half of uneventful prosperity.
--text in italics is enclosed by underscores (italics).
--punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
--archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
--variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
ships at work
copyright 1946, 1953 by duenewald printing corporation. lithographed in the united states of america.
ships at work
ships at work
by mary elting
garden city books
garden city, n.y.
ships and men
a ship is a marvellous thing. it took ships--and the men who sail them--to circle the world and tie it all together into one round ball. brave seamen from a thousand ports have faced storms and unknown dangers, first to make the world a bigger place for people to live in, then to bring all people close together.
no matter how dangerous the voyage nor what she carries, a ship is always “she” to a seagoing man. he never calls a freighter or a tanker or any large vessel a boat. only shoreside people who have never been to sea make the mistake of calling a ship a boat. and shoreside people never know the excitement and fun--and the long, hard work--that the skillful men of the sea know every day of their lives.
jim is a sailor on a freighter carrying cargo across the atlantic ocean. every morning at half-past three, someone comes into the forecastle. that’s the seamen’s name for their sleeping quarters. they pronounce it “foke-sull.”
now he’s wide awake, and so are the other men in the forecastle. jim swings his legs over the side of his bunk, in a hurry to get dressed in well-washed blue dungarees, a turtleneck sweater instead of a shirt, thick socks and a heavy woolen pea coat. that’s a sailor’s winter jacket with pockets that slant in sideways. he makes sure his sharp knife is dangling from a snap on his belt. no telling when it might come in handy. then he sticks a knitted blue stocking cap on his head and reaches for his fleece-lined mittens.
jim wants to be warm. he knows the wind will be sharp, even though his ship is headed for the warm mediterranean sea. it’s wintertime and still cold out on the atlantic ocean.
jim and the three men who share his bunkroom are ready for work--almost ready. first they go down the passageway to the mess, which is their word for dining room. there they have coffee from a big steaming urn that is always kept full and hot. in another minute jim steps out onto the leeward side of the deck--the side away from the wind. although he’s in a hurry, he waits there sheltered from the wind for a few minutes while his eyes get used to the dark. jim is going to stand his watch. that means he will work for four hours.
jim is an ab--an able bodied seaman. an ab works out on deck instead of down inside the ship in the engine room or in the kitchen, which he calls the galley. all the men who work on a ship are seamen. only deckhands are called sailors. and only those sailors who have passed examinations and have been at sea for a certain length of time are ab’s. the other sailors are called ordinary seamen or ordinaries for short.
in good weather he would go to the bow and stand there, watching for anything there might be in the ocean ahead. but tonight waves may splash over the bow. an unexpected wave can knock a man down or even wash him overboard. it will be safer high up in the crow’s nest above the deck. besides he can see farther from up there. so jim climbs to the little enclosed platform high on the foremast.
in a very bad storm jim would not go outside. he would stand watch in the wheelhouse. this is a room with a big window high above the deck in the part of the ship called the house. the room gets its name because the wheel that steers the ship is in it.
jim knows it is good manners always to be a little early when you go to take the place of another seaman whose watch is over. so he doesn’t waste any time as he scrambles up the steel rungs in the ladder on the mast.
he pokes his head through the hole in the floor of the crow’s nest. there he finds juan, who is cold and glad enough to climb down and get into his warm bunk.
juan has a telephone strapped on his head. he uses it to talk with the third mate, the officer in charge of the ship who works in the wheelhouse. when juan sees jim, he says into the telephone, “crow’s nest to wheelhouse--being properly relieved, sir.” now the mate, listening to the loudspeaker in the wheelhouse, knows that jim is the lookout in the crow’s nest.
jim puts the telephone on his head and leans against the rail around the small platform that sways far to one side, then to the other. soon he hears the ship’s bell, a faint sound above the storm--“ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding.” eight bells. it is exactly four o’clock. at four-thirty the bell rings again, just once. two bells will be five o’clock, and so on until eight, when there will be eight bells again.
for a long time there is nothing for jim to see but great gray waves rising and lifting the ship, and once in a while splashing over the decks way down below. then far ahead and to the right jim sees a tiny speck of light.
“crow’s nest to wheelhouse,” he calls into the phone. “white light two points on the starboard bow.” the mate knows from this where to look for the light. the diagram on page 16 shows the words jim will use when he tells the mate to look in other directions.
now and then spray from the waves blows all the way to the crow’s nest, and jim is glad of a protecting shield that comes up almost as high as his face. but he can feel the wind anyway, and he can hear it roar through the rigging. he almost has to shout into the phone so the mate can hear him.
the safety of the ship depends on jim. even in the darkness he can see a great deal from his high perch. he may notice the white foam of waves ahead behaving in a strange way. this could be the wreck of a half-sunken ship that would tear a hole in his own ship and send her to the bottom. if he dozed off, he might fail to sight some danger. so he must keep alert every minute. he’s responsible for the lives of all his shipmates, and he takes his job seriously.
the wheelhouse is dark, so that the mate can see through the big windows anything that the lookout reports. the only light comes from instruments, such as the compass. jim watches the compass to make sure he is steering in the right direction. the mate tells him what direction the captain has ordered the ship to go. but the compass can’t be their only guide.
when you guide yourself by a compass on a hike across a wide meadow, you can keep going in a straight line because nothing pushes you to one side or the other. but at sea the wind is always pushing against a ship, making it slip sideways. currents in the water push, too. the current may be going one way and the wind in another. there are no trees or mountains on the ocean to help seamen know exactly where they are. so they can use the sun and stars as their guides.
of course, the sun, stars and moon keep moving. but they travel in an orderly way. if a seaman knows the rules about their motion, he can look at them through special instruments and figure out where he is. he can navigate.
more than two hundred and fifty years ago, an american boy named nathaniel bowditch went to sea and discovered that sailors didn’t have any good, accurate rules for steering by the stars. he decided to do something about the problem. before long he had worked out a set of rules that were so good that every man in his crew could navigate--even the cook!
the mate on jim’s ship has instruments with which he looks at the sun and stars. and he still uses the book that nathaniel bowditch wrote so long ago.
besides the wheel and the compass, there are other instruments in the wheelhouse. one is the engine room telegraph. the mate uses this when he wants the ship to go faster or slower, forward or backward. he moves the handle of the telegraph, and a bell jangles in the engine room. another telegraph there, exactly like the one in the wheelhouse, shows the engineer at what speed the ship should go. to let the mate know he has received the order, the engineer sends the same signal back on the telegraph, and a bell in the wheelhouse jangles, too.
a little before noon he is up again. the storm was not a bad one. the sun is shining, and it is warm out on deck. jim has all afternoon until four o’clock to himself. this is how he spends it: first he gets a bucket of cold water and puts it under a little faucet that brings up steam from the engine room. he runs steam into the water, and it’s hot in a few seconds. out on the afterdeck, sailors have rigged up a washboard.
jim spreads his dirty clothes on the board and scrubs them with a brush and soap and his steam-heated water. seamen do a lot of washing. they like to keep their clothes clean. often they do their own mending, too.
while jim’s clothes dry on a regular clothesline on the afterdeck, he gets out his ditty bag which holds all kinds of odds and ends, including needles and thread and a sailor’s palm. the palm is what a sailor uses instead of a thimble for pushing a big needle through heavy canvas. in the old days when ships had sails to be mended, these palms were very necessary, but nowadays most sailors only use them the way jim does. he is making a sea bag to take the place of his old one that has worn out. the sea bag is his trunk. he carries it on his shoulder whenever he changes ships.
these sailor songs are called chanteys--pronounced shantys. on old sailing vessels men sang them as they worked together, and the rhythm of their work set the rhythm of the music. here is a chantey that helped them pull together on the rope that lifted a sail:
way! haul away! we’ll haul away the bowline. way! haul away! we’ll haul away, joe.
in those days, before there were engines to do work, men used a hand-turned machine called a capstan to raise the anchor or tighten heavy lines. they turned it round and round by pushing against long bars called capstan bars. as they pushed, they sang:
yo, heave ho! round the capstan go. heave, men, with a will. tramp, and stamp it still! the anchor must be weighed, the anchor must be weighed. yo-ho! heave ho! yo-ho! heave ho!
now, while the singing goes on, jim takes his turn at having a haircut. for a barber’s chair he uses a bitt. that’s a round piece of steel that sticks up out of the deck at just the right height. it’s used at times for holding big ropes that seamen call hawsers.
the barber is a man from the black gang. that means he works in the engine room. when he is off watch, he likes to make a little extra money cutting hair. so he puts a sheet around jim and starts to work. chiquita, the ship’s cat, takes a playful swipe at a dangling corner of the sheet, and then goes off in search of a rat that may have come aboard in port.
just before four o’clock, jim goes to mess again. then he’s on watch for four more hours to put in the rest of his eight hours of work in a twenty-four hour day. he stands lookout again for two hours and takes the wheel for two more. now his day is done.
when jim first went to sea, he found that seamen speak a language of their own. a floor is always a deck. a partition between rooms is a bulkhead. a ceiling is the overhead. stairs are always a ladder. the opening onto a deck at the head of the steps is a companionway. almost all ropes are called lines.
one day another seaman said to jim: “the bosun wants you to break out the handy billy in the forepeak and take it aft to chips. he’s abaft the mizzenmast.” this is what all those words mean:
the bosun is a man who acts as foreman, giving orders to deckhands. “break out” means “take from its regular storage place.” the handy billy is a combination of small wheels called blocks with a line running around them. it is handy for moving heavy weights. the forepeak is a storeroom under the main deck at the bow where the bosun keeps tools and equipment. chips is the ship’s carpenter. aft means toward the stern of the ship, and abaft means “behind, in the direction of the stern.” the mizzenmast is the third mast, counting from bow to stern.
jim also had to learn that anything toward the bow of the ship is forward. anything toward the middle is amidships, and anything crosswise is athwart or thwartships. anything on the windy side of a ship is to windward. (a good sailor never spits to windward.) anything on the side away from the wind is to leeward--pronounced “loo-urd.” when jim goes up on deck he goes topside; when he climbs a mast, he goes aloft.
suppose the mate says to jim, “mind your rudder.” that means jim must steer carefully or get ready for a new order. “steady as you go” means keep on going just as you are.
the wheelhouse is sometimes called the pilot house. the pilot is a man who specializes in guiding ships in and out of harbors. a small boat brings him out from shore. usually he climbs aboard on an accommodation ladder, a whole flight of stairs which is lowered from a deck. but sometimes he has to climb a jacob’s ladder, which is simply wooden steps fastened to ropes that hang down the ship’s side.
the pictures explain some more words jim had to learn. a pier or a wharf is a platform sticking out into the water. ships tie up alongside it. seamen sometimes call a pier a dock, but a dock is really the water between piers.
a hatch or hatchway is an opening in the deck of a vessel. people can go down a hatch, and so can cargo. big strong poles called booms raise and lower cargo through hatches. booms are attached to single masts on some ships; on others, to pairs of posts called king posts or samson posts or goal posts. when seamen fasten heavy layers of canvas over the hatches, they say they “batten down the hatches.”
backstay, stay and shroud are all wire ropes that brace the masts. the poop deck is a deck at the stern. taffrail is the rail around the stern. the taffrail log is a kind of speedometer that tells how far the ship has travelled. it is made up of a line attached to a little propeller which measures miles as it is dragged through the water.
a sailor knows how to do many things besides stand lookout and steer. if a line breaks, he can mend it by splicing the ends together with a tool called a marlinspike. if lines wear thin, he puts in new ones--and lines are needed in a great many places on even the most modern ships.
sailors know how to tie many different kinds of knots. each one is good for special kinds of work. for instance, a sheepshank is made in a line to shorten it. jim calls a bad knot a gilligan hitch.
painting is something else that sailors do all the time. on one trip jim painted the mizzenmast. for this job he sat in a bosun’s chair. you’ll see a picture of it on page 31. when he works high above the deck he always has his paint brush tied to his wrist. then, if it slips out of his hand, it can’t fall and hit anyone below.
all the sailors get their orders from the bosun, whom they call “boats.” that’s because the real spelling of bosun is boatswain. the bosun gets his orders from the mate on watch who gets his orders from the captain. the captain is in charge of everything. seamen call him the skipper or the master or the old man.
the “chief” (chief engineer) and his three assistant engineers get orders from the skipper, too. the firemen in the engine room help the engineer carry out the orders. when they are on watch, they look through little peep holes into the oil burning furnaces to make sure the fires are burning just right. they keep an eye on the steam pressure gauges.
at the same time, men called oilers keep every part of the ship’s huge engines and other machinery well oiled. on some ships there is a big piston, like the driving rod on railroad engine wheels. one end of it moves in a circle. the oiler has to squirt oil in a little cup at the end of the piston. every time the cup swings up where he can reach it, he aims his oil can. he is very careful to aim straight. if he misses the cup, oil splashes all over.
no matter how careful he is, some oil does get spilled and spattered around. it is the job of the oiler to wipe it up and to polish all the brass fixtures, which he calls the brightwork. on deck, ordinary seamen polish the brightwork.
the radio man sends and receives all radio messages. he is called sparks.
all the seamen who work on cargo vessels, and on passenger vessels, too, are divided up the same way into the deck department, the engine department and the steward’s department.
as the great engine deep down in jim’s ship pushes her through the calm blue water of the mediterranean sea, he stands watch in the bow. now he begins to catch sight of small sailing vessels. when his ship enters the port of alexandria at the mouth of the nile river in egypt, he is close to the place where much of the story of ships began.
papyrus reed canoe. the people of egypt discovered long ago that bundles of papyrus reed would hold up a man’s weight in the water. later, they tied the bundles into a canoe shape which was easy to handle.
egyptian dugout. a log hollowed out in the shape of a reed canoe was stronger, and it lasted longer. by adding boards to a dugout along the top of each side, egyptians had a vessel that could carry bigger loads. paddles and their own muscles were all they had for power.
egyptian sailing vessel. here the power of wind was added to the power of oarsmen. luckily the winds of egypt blew from north to south and helped push sailing vessels up the nile.
galleys. greeks and romans used sail-and-oar vessels called galleys. slaves, chained to their seats, rowed in rhythm. there were many slaves, so their masters could get extra muscle-power by seating two, three or more banks of oarsmen on each side. a ship with two banks was a bireme; with three, a trireme.
dhow. other people around the mediterranean sea discovered they could do away with oarsmen by making better use of windpower. they invented triangular sails called lateen sails to take the place of square ones. lateen-rigged dhows are still used. columbus had both square and lateen sails on the santa maria. all three of his ships together were not as long as jim’s freighter.
new things begin to happen as jim’s ship nears port. he goes down into the forepeak under the deck in the bow. there, all around, are neat coils of hawser which is as thick as his arm. he and other sailors shove one end of a hawser up the ladder. men on deck grab it and wrap it around a sort of spool called a winch head. now the winch turns the spool and does the work of lifting out the heavy line. the deckhands lay it neatly on the decks ready to use when the ship ties up at a pier.
next jim goes up to the bow and helps chips, the carpenter, break cement out of the hawse pipes. a hawse pipe is a hole in the ship’s side. an anchor chain runs through it. whenever a ship raises, or weighs, its anchors and starts on a long trip, chips plugs up the hawse pipes with cement. this keeps water from splashing up through the pipes in a storm.
on modern ships, a machine called a windlass raises and lowers the anchors. in the old days, when sailors had to raise anchors by turning the capstan by hand, they had a phrase for officers who worked their way up from being deckhands. they said these officers came up “through the hawse pipe.” officers who got their knowledge from going to school and studying books were said to “come in through the cabin window.”
after the cement is out of the hawse pipe, jim takes the devil’s claws off the anchor chains and releases the riding pawls. these are two brakes on the anchor chain which you can see in the picture. now only the brake on the windlass holds the anchor chain in position over the wildcat, which is the wheel on the windlass.
after the ship ties up, the captain orders watches broken. the men no longer work four hours and rest eight. now most of them work eight hours during the day and have the remaining time off, just the way shoreside people do. there is no need for the routine of the sea. egyptian longshoremen will unload the cargo.
jim puts on a suit he has kept hanging pressed in his locker. then he and juan go down the gangplank. they are off to see the sights in the fascinating egyptian city--and to buy souvenirs.
but before they have gone very far from the waterfront where a tangle of masts and booms and stacks marks the skyline, they meet lars, an old shipmate of theirs. that’s not so strange as you might think. a sailor often changes ships, and he gets to have many friends who travel just as much as he does. while they eat an egyptian meal in an egyptian restaurant, lars says he’s on a tanker now. she’s in alexandria getting her rudder repaired. it broke in a storm, but the men fixed up something to take its place. they called it a jury rudder.
lars’s tanker looks very different from a freighter. she is long and low and has two houses. one is midships, and the officers’ quarters and wheelhouse are there. the crew lives in the other house at the stern.
between the two houses the deck is so low that waves often wash over it, and so there has to be a high bridge called a walkaway or a catwalk.
like most seamen, lars has travelled all over the world. in china he has seen junks and sampans. he has seen fishing boats in portugal with big eyes painted on the bows because sailors thought that helped the boats to see their way. eyes of the same kind have been painted on ships for hundreds of years in many other places, even in chesapeake bay.
outrigger. long ago south sea islanders sailed great distances, guiding themselves by the stars. the outrigger at the side gives their small vessel balance in rough water.
junk. the sails of this chinese ship are made of bamboo slats braced by bamboo rods. the rudder is so big that often a dozen men have to work on it. many junks have colored sails.
lars used to work on a tanker that brought oil from the persian gulf. when he went ashore there, he saw boats just like the earliest ones that men invented thousands of years ago. he saw boats that were really big, round clay pots, built by people in places where there was plenty of clay but very little wood. he saw huge basket boats woven from a kind of grass and waterproofed with a covering of tar. some of the basket boats were big enough to carry twenty passengers--or several men and three horses!
smaller basket boats were used as lighters. (a lighter is any craft that helps to unload freight from another.) here on the tigris river, the freight was carried on a large raft supported by animal skins blown up like balloons. a little raft floating downstream sometimes carried its owner, his donkey and the grain he had to sell. after selling the grain, the boatman took the skins from under the raft, let the air out, piled them on the donkey’s back and walked back home upriver.
all of these things interest lars. he grew up by the sea in norway, and his people have been seamen since the days of the vikings. but best of all he likes the clean, modern, comfortable tankers. he is not only going somewhere himself when he is on a tanker. he is also helping to carry a cargo that helps other people to go places.
lars’s tanker was built to do a very special kind of job. so were many other kinds of ships. look at the seatrain, which carries fully loaded freight cars--a hundred of them at a time.
to load a seatrain, the railroad locomotive pushes a string of cars out onto a long pier. a derrick lifts the cars up one by one, swings them over an open hatch, and lowers them neatly onto tracks in the ship’s hold. after the holds are filled, there’s still room for more cars on the main deck outside.
it seems queer for trains to travel by ship, but sometimes that’s the best way to send cargo. freight cars can be filled with sugar on the island of cuba and brought across the water to the united states, without any extra loading and unloading. it’s often cheaper for freight cars to go by ship than by rail from new york to savannah or new orleans or texas city.
banana boats do their own particular kind of work, too. actually, they aren’t boats, although they do carry bananas. they are refrigerator ships. seamen call them reefers--just as railroad men call a refrigerator car a reefer. everything about a banana boat is arranged to keep her cargo cool. she is even painted white, because white things reflect some of the sun’s rays into the air instead of absorbing their heat. inside the ship, blowers send cool air circulating around the bananas all the time. it isn’t enough just to chill them once and leave them there. bananas actually make heat themselves. so a constant cool breeze is needed to carry their heat away. the ships that bring bananas from central america do keep them in the refrigerator.
a banana boat sailor does just about the same things that sailors on other cargo vessels do. he steers and stands lookout and works on deck. and like all sailors he has lifeboat drills. every ship that sails the seas must have lifeboats. look for them on some high deck, where they are easy to get at in emergencies. canvas covers on the boats keep out rain and snow and protect the things stowed inside.
a lifeboat is equipped with everything that you may need if you have to float around on the open sea after your ship has gone down. there are water-tight containers full of food, drinking water and matches. there are oars and sails and life jackets, first-aid equipment and ropes. there are flares to light, so that rescuers can locate the boat, and pistols that shoot signal flares like roman candles high into the air. there are scoops called bailers for dipping water out of the boat. and each lifeboat carries a supply of storm oil. when this oil is spread out on the water, it keeps stormy waves from breaking near the boat. if a wave breaks too close, it may fill the boat with water and sink it.
the can of storm oil fits inside a cone-shaped canvas bag called a sea anchor. the sea anchor floats ahead of the boat and keeps it pointed toward the wind, while the oil drips slowly out and calms the waves. it’s important to be pointed into the wind, because a boat that bobs around sidewise can easily be tipped over by a wave. long ago sailors discovered what a wonderful help oil can be in stormy weather, and that’s where the expression “oil on troubled waters” came from. it means to calm things down.
a blast from the ship’s whistle tells seamen when it’s time for lifeboat drill. every man knows which boat he’s supposed to use. he runs first for his life jacket, then up the ladders by the shortest route to his boat. all the knots and fastenings on the boat are made so that they can be loosened with one jerk. quickly the men work machines called davits that are always in perfect order, ready to swing the lifeboat out over the water. in a real emergency, the boats would be lowered into the sea, and the men would scramble down rope ladders which are kept ready on deck. but in a drill, seamen just test the davits and lines.
most lifeboats are double-enders. this means that the bow and stern are rounded and look just alike. the rounded shape helps keep waves from tumbling in at either end. lifeboats are modeled after the old-time boats in which sailors rowed away from sailing vessels when they went out to harpoon whales.
“thar she blows”
the stern of the factory ship is open. a ramp leads up from the water to the ship’s after deck. machinery pulls the whale up the ramp and onto the deck. there men with knives that look like big hockey sticks cut up the blubber and throw it into vats where the whale oil is boiled out.
when at last the factory ship again has all the oil she can hold, she steams off toward home. for seven or eight months her crew has not been ashore.
now, as well as in the old days, men on whaling vessels proudly bring home scrimshaw. that is carving they have done on the teeth or jawbones of whales. it is often very delicate and beautiful.
on the return trip the factory ship’s speed is much less than when she started out--and not just because her tanks are full. in june her hull was smooth and freshly painted, and it slipped easily through the water. now in february she has barnacles all over the hull under water--such a rough coat of barnacles that she’s held back a great deal.
barnacles are tiny sea creatures that grow by the millions. they attach themselves to anything under water and form hard little shells. they hold so tightly to the ship that they must be chipped off. that’s a job to be done in a place called drydock.
all ships go to drydock for regular cleaning and repairing and painting. this is what happens: the ship noses into a place surrounded by three concrete walls. huge water-tight gates swing shut behind her, penning her in. mooring lines hold her steady in the exact center of the dock, and pumps go to work taking out all the water in which she floats. slowly the ship settles into a sort of cradle that has been prepared on the floor of the dock to fit her hull just right. when the water is all out, there she stands, balanced and braced. now men can work under her and all over her--and inside. they scrape off the barnacles, paint the hull, and repair any parts that have begun to wear out. to reach some parts of the hull painters use long-handled brushes--really long. they’re often three times as tall as a man!
experts go over the ship as carefully as doctors examine people. but many men work at top speed in shifts around the clock, and a ship often spends only twenty-four hours in drydock. then the gates open. water flows back into the dock. the ship floats again, ready to go to sea.
big ships need help getting in and out of the narrow spaces between piers in a harbor. if they used only their own power, they might either smash themselves up or crush the piers. tugs, working together, can push a little here, pull a little there, and ease a huge vessel gently into place.
a tugboat captain must have a great deal of knowledge about the harbor in which he works. in order to pass his captain’s examination, he has to draw a map of the harbor from memory, showing every pier and marker and even the rocks, hills and valleys underwater. most important, he must have a feel for what a ship is going to do when he nudges her at a certain point or when he reverses his propeller and pulls.
for all his skill and responsibility, the captain wouldn’t think of wearing a uniform at work. he prefers old work clothes, and he sits down with the crew when the cook serves up jumbo-sized meals.
the cook goes on duty in the galley at any time from one o’clock in the morning on, depending on what time the tug must start work. breakfast may be at three or four, but the usual time is six. and often the cook’s job isn’t over at four in the afternoon when he serves supper. if the tug is working overtime, he fixes a meal called a “midnight snack” which the men eat perhaps around seven o’clock. there’s enough food in the snack to feed a shoreside person for a whole day.
this is what happens: an ab aboard the ship holds a coil of light line, called a heaving line. at the end of the line is a ball-shaped knot called a monkey fist. the ab gives a big swing and sends the monkey fist and line flying down to the tug. the deckhand on the tug grabs for the line. he’s not an outfielder trying to catch the ball. the monkey fist is there only to make the line uncoil and go straight.
for pushing jobs the tug has a thick pad called a bow fender made of heavy rope hung over the bow. after the fender has been used a while, it gets worn and shaggy and is often called a “beard.” it protects any ship the tug is pushing. there are fenders along each side of a tug, too. sometimes they are made of rope. sometimes they are old automobile tires or just logs hung loosely over the side. the logs get so much banging around that they may have to be replaced every few days.
very often a tug has something on its bridge that looks like a gun. it’s not. it’s a water nozzle attached to a pump, and it’s there to help fight fires on ships.
the kind of tug that you can see on the mississippi river is called a towboat. she doesn’t tug, and she
doesn’t tow. she just pushes. a mississippi towboat gets behind a whole string of flat-bottomed barges and shoves them up and down rivers. she often pushes ten barges at a time, loaded with twice as much cargo as an ordinary seagoing freighter can carry.
many towboats have all of the latest inventions for quick and safe travelling in water that is often more tricky than the open sea. there’s a lot of traffic to watch out for on the mississippi, and the river sweeps around in many bends. mud collects on the river bottom, so the captain can’t always know how deep the water is going to be. uprooted trees and other big things that could damage vessels often come floating downstream. and when it’s pitch dark, or when a thick fog hangs over the water, all these problems get much worse.
radar is one of the inventions that help towboats avoid danger. radar sends out radio waves which bounce back to the towboat from anything they hit. in the towboat’s pilothouse is a radarscope, which is a little like a television screen. the returning radio waves show up as spots of light called pips on the radarscope. by looking at the pips, the pilot can locate the shores of the river, other vessels, floating trees and anything else that’s dangerous.
another wonderful invention, called a depth recorder, tells the pilot how deep the water is under the head barge in his tow. if the river seems to be getting shallow, he can steer the whole tow into safer water. the depth recorder works by sending out sound waves and making a record of them when they bounce back from the river bottom.
in the old days, river craft had a leadman who measured depth with a line tied to a lead weight. knots and pieces of leather marked the line. even at night the leadman could tell by feel how deep the water was. for instance, if his fingers felt that the line was wet up to a place where there were two strips of leather, he would know that two fathoms (twelve feet) of water lay underneath. two markers at two fathoms. “by the mark twain,” the leadman would call out to the captain.
there was once a mississippi river pilot named samuel clemens who, like all pilots, loved to hear that call. it meant that there was enough water to keep his vessel afloat. later, when he began to write books, he signed them with the name mark twain.
in mark twain’s time, the mississippi river boats were driven by huge paddle wheels. as the wood-burning steam engine turned the wheels, the paddles pushed against the water and shoved the boat forward.
steam engines began working in rivers very quickly after the first successful paddle boat, the clermont, proved that she could push upstream. river boatmen needed engines more than seafaring men did, because winds seldom blow upstream as they do on the nile.
before there were paddleboats, men took cargo down the mississippi in keelboats. then they had to get the boats up-river again almost entirely by muscle-power. pushing against the bottom with poles, or pulling with ropes from the shore, river boatmen worked the whole way up from new orleans to pittsburgh.
a river boatman still works hard, but in a very different way. in his time off, he may listen to radio or even watch television on board the towboat. in the old days, he would have caught fish and fried them over a fire built in a pile of sand on the keelboat deck. today the cook takes food from a freezer, prepares it on an electric range, and stows the dirty dishes in an automatic dishwasher.
in the old days, the river was the quickest way for passengers to travel, and for freight, too. people now go faster by bus or train or plane. but there’s more and more cargo for the barges to carry on the mississippi and the other rivers that flow into it. oil, coal, grain, steel, ore, sulfur are some of the things that move along ahead of the powerful streamlined towboats.
great lakes ships
grain, coal, ore and limestone for making steel travel on great lakes ships, too. so do many other kinds of cargo. long ago, explorers believed that the enormous sea-like lakes would lead them all the way around the world to china. one man even wore chinese clothes as he paddled westward in an indian canoe, so he would be properly dressed when he arrived!
for nearly three hundred years since then, vessels have used these great inland waterways to carry goods and the most precious cargo of all--people. settlers by the thousand from germany, sweden, scotland and other countries filled the decks of sailing vessels and paddle steamboats that took them right up to the frontier. today almost five hundred modern cargo vessels shuttle back and forth on the lakes, carrying the wealth that the descendants of those pioneers have created.
for eight months each year, the lake ships keep hurrying back and forth between detroit, cleveland, buffalo, chicago, duluth and other port cities. there’s hardly a time when a man can’t see smoke from other vessels on the horizon. then winter comes, and the lakes freeze over. lake sailors tie up their ships and go ashore. most of them have been on the water day and night through the whole season.
sometimes a ship stays out too late in the year and can’t get to port because ice has locked her in. then a ship called an ice breaker comes to her rescue. an ice breaker smashes up ice early in the spring, too, so that ships can begin to move.
american merchant ships
merchant seamen man all the different kinds of cargo ships you see in the pictures on these two pages. their jobs take great skill and patience and very often courage. it has always been that way with men who follow the sea. some of the things they do are as old as ships themselves. but many things are different now.
on old sailing vessels, the crew had to get their sleep wherever they could find a place to lie down. they might curl up on a coil of rope or on the cargo in the hold. later, they were given one room, the forecastle, for the whole crew. everybody was on watch at least twelve hours a day. it is only in the last twenty years that seamen have worked eight regular hours a day.
almost all ships now have more comfortable bunkrooms, with only two or four men in each one. instead of living on old-fashioned salt meat and salt fish and crackers called hardtack, seamen have almost the same things that they eat ashore. in the old days, seamen often got a disease called scurvy because they had no fresh food. then the british discovered that lime juice prevented scurvy, and every one of their ships carried barrels of it. that’s why american seamen still call british seamen limeys.
there are laws and regulations now that provide for better food and working hours and pay on ships. seamen in their unions have worked hard to get the laws and rules that have made life better for them.
fishermen have always been among the most daring and hardworking men of the sea. for thousands of years they have experimented and invented, always in search of the boats and ships and nets that will do the best job for them. new england fishermen used to be great whittlers of ship models. they carved out their models partly for fun, partly to give shipbuilders new ideas for improving their designs.
one of the great fishing towns is gloucester, massachusetts, and there’s a story about it that goes this way: almost two hundred and fifty years ago, a ship builder in gloucester launched a vessel that everyone admired. on the day when she first slid into the water, a big crowd gathered to watch. she was graceful and light, and she fairly skimmed along--the way a flat stone does when a boy skips it over the water. in those days in new england, some people called skipping “scooning.”
all at once, someone in the crowd called out, “see how she scoons!” the builder called back, “a scooner let her be!” and according to the story, the name schooner--a new spelling--has stuck to this very day.
a modern schooner still has sails, but not so many as the early ones. an engine now gives her power, so that she can make fast time to and from the fishing grounds, and her sails are used mostly to steady her in the sea while the men work. the engine also helps with the heavy work of handling the nets.
each kind of fish has its own habits, and the fishermen know them well. some fish, such as cod and flounder, live down near the floor of the sea. they are caught in drag nets which are towed at the right speed behind the vessel. men haul the net in, dump the catch into ice-cooled bins in the hold, then drag the net again.
mackerel behave differently. they swim along in huge groups called schools near the surface of the water. the lookout man on the mast keeps his eye on the sea till he can yell, “school o!” quickly the men lower a boat that sets a huge net called a purse-seine. at first the net is really a fence. hundreds of floating corks at the top, and lead weights at the bottom, hold it in place, while the seine-boat draws it into a circle around the fish. then, at a signal, a motor in the seine-boat pulls on a sort of drawstring in the bottom of the net, closing it and turning it into a kind of giant sack. the seine is “pursed” with the fish trapped inside.
this is what happens on a lucky day. but mackerel can be very irritating fish. sometimes the whole school will suddenly dive and race away to safety, just the moment before the trap closes. fishermen must have patience as well as skill.
before engines went to sea, the men had to purse the seine by hand. since their schooner carried no ice, they cleaned the fish, salted them and packed them into barrels as fast as possible. everybody, including the skipper, worked at top speed. even the cook lent a hand, and he was often a boy of ten who hung his pots in an open fireplace or smoked some of the mackerel in the chimney.
fleets of fishing vessels go out together when the season is right. there’s a race for the fishing grounds, and then a race back to deliver the catch to market. in fishing towns all around the seacoasts, small forests of masts fill the harbors when the fleets are in.
among the schooners you can also see sturdily-built trawlers, which are usually driven by steam-power. newest of all are the vessels that work like quick-freeze factories. machines on board clean the fish, cut them up, package them and freeze them right where they are caught. or the fishermen may quick-freeze the whole fish, then bring them back to be thawed and sent to market.
people in fishing towns are proud of their fleets, and there’s a warm welcome for the vessel that comes in first with a big load.
the united states building. pretty soon he will make a hole. father gabriel, the hegoumenos, he see this. he shout through the roar of the cannon: 'shall we die, my children, or shall we yield?' they say all together 'we shall die!'"
lindbohm was striding up and down before the speaker. the demarch still held the rattan cane, but the lieutenant was making home thrusts with his closed fist.
"father gabriel he stretch out his arms. they all fall on their knees, the women, the children, the old men. the hegoumenos blesses them; he say, 'father, into thy hands i commit these souls!' then he goes down cellar. they know where he gone. the women hug their babies tight and begin to sing the hymn of liberty, and the men join in. they are all looking to the sky and chanting--" and michali sang:
"from the bones of the greeks upspringing, who died that we might be free, and the strength of thy strong youth bringing-- hail, liberty, hail to thee!
"every moment a bullet comes through and kills somebody, but they know nothing, now, except the song 'hail, liberty.' then the wall falls and in rush the turks and begin to kill, when 'boom' the powder magazine roars like one gun, and all are dead--greeks, turks, all dead--ah! all dead together!--two hundred turks!"
but the demarch, not understanding all this, was unable to enter fully into the enthusiasm of the others. he was anxious to continue with his picture gallery.
"this," he said, "is the lordos beeron, who, being descended from the ancient greeks, came over to this country to fight for his native land."
curtis, despite his enthusiasm for byron, did not rise. he had seen that woodcut before, in athens. it represented the youthful poet wearing a brass cavalry helmet with a sublime plume. this is the byron honored among the uneducated classes in greece, who know him as soldier and not as poet. with nodding plume and warlike eye he frowns terribly down from the dingy walls of a thousand khans and wayside inns. in this apotheosis he no longer holds high converse with shelley and tom moore; he hobnobs with ypsilanti, botsares and admiral miaoules.
"this," continued kyr' nikolaki, "is the most beautiful woman in the world. i have never found any one who knew her name, but all agree that she is a greek--probably a sphakiote."
lindbohm and michali gazed earnestly at the cheap engraving, but no name was visible. curtis arose, and, placing his hand on the mayor's shoulder, hopped across the room.
"an american actress, by jove!" he exclaimed. "she's a beauty, indeed, but she's an american, old man." and in greek to the mayor: "she's an american--ah--i can't think of the word for 'actor.' michali, tell him her picture is to be found in every nook and cranny of the civilized globe. i can't say 'nook' and 'cranny' in greek."
the first of may
all the morning of april thirtieth curtis saw nothing of panayota. she was gone into the fields and upon the hillsides with the other women and the children of the village to gather flowers for the may-day festival. late in the afternoon the whole town set out for hepta-miloi, or seven-mills, the place in the mountains where, year after year, they were accustomed to hold this innocent and beautiful celebration, one of the most fragrant and lovely of all the inheritances from the days of the aesthetic old gods. laughing, singing, shouting merry sallies and replies, the procession scrambled up the stony, winding street of the village, laden with baskets and gayly colored bags filled with provisions. everybody, too, carried flowers--flowers in baskets, in aprons, in the hands. there were donkeys and dogs innumerable. some of the donkeys carried tables strapped to their backs, with the four legs sticking up into the air, and giving the impression that, if one of the animals should keel a somerset into a ravine, he would be sure to light upon one or the other of his two sets of feet. upon others of these nodding, shambling little animals rode such of the villagers as could not make so arduous a journey on foot: a picturesque old man in holiday costume, resplendent in bright, new fez, ruffled shirt and gaudy sash; here and there an old woman who had made the same journey every year for the last forty years; and several strings of small children, four and five on a donkey's backbone, like monkeys on a limb or kidneys on a spit. the demarch, in accordance with the dignity of his office, rode at the head of the procession, side by side, when the road was not too narrow, with papa-maleko, whose animal was nearly covered by his flowing black robe, and who held an umbrella over his tall hat. lindbohm had refused the luxury of a mount and strode sturdily along with his hand upon curtis' saddle. up and up they climbed beyond the last plumed outposts of olive groves into the kingdom of the pines. at times they walked by the side of a deep chasm at whose bottom swirled, darted and leapt a stream of molten silver or of ink, according as it flashed in the setting sun or crept beneath the shadow of dank ferns or deep green trees. at such times curtis' moth-eaten, blue-gray beast walked upon the ticklish, imminent edge of destruction, loosening rocks and bits of earth that went scurrying into the waters far below. entreaty, threats, blows upon the side of the head with the rope that did service as a bridle, were of no effect to make him walk elsewhere.
"look here, lindbohm," cried curtis, "i've told you my address. if i plunge down yonder giddy height, write to my governor, will you? and don't trouble to pick up the pieces."
"what's the matter?" shouted the demarch, looking back.
"this donkey will surely fall with me."
"bah! let him have his head. he knows his business. no donkey ever falls."
"what if he does? cannot a stork fly?" asked a black-eyed, roguish maiden, who possibly thought that the american could learn good greek from more than one pair of lips. this sally evoked such an inordinate peal of good-natured laughter that curtis was unable to think of an appropriate reply, and contented himself with pulling a rose from the basket hanging at his saddle and throwing it at the saucy girl.
in the purple twilight they came in sight of the first of the seven mills. a tall, slanting barrel of masonry received the water that turned the stone wheel that lay upon its face in a small building covered with reddish brown tiles. the miller and his wife, dusty as moths, came out to greet the merry throng that poured into his little plateau with much shouting and singing and strumming of guitars. two or three shock-headed youngsters peeped from behind the building, and a girl, probably three years old, clothed only in a flour sack that reached to the middle of her stomach, ran, like a frightened chicken, to cover in the folds of her mother's dress. the child was glowing with health and beautiful as an infant dionysus from the broken arm of a hermes carved by praxiteles himself. and now they were come into a region of rank, water-loving trees, great ferns and streams of water that slipped smoothly and silently through square sluices of white masonry. the mills were close together. at the fourth in number they stopped and found that brave preparation had already been made. the plateau before the mill-house was here larger than ordinary and in its midst grew a wide-spreading oak from a lower branch of which hung a powerful lamp, protected from the wind by a glass cage. at the foot of a shielding wall of rock, several lambs were fragrantly roasting upon long wooden spits, and by each an old man squatted, so intent upon turning the carcass that he scarcely looked up to welcome the gay and noisy villagers.
"how go the lambs, barba yanne?"
"is it tender, think you, barba spiro?"
"are they nearly done, kosta? holy virgin, what an appetite i've got!"
with a perfect babble of such exclamations, mingled with much laughter, and many shouted orders and directions, ambellaki took possession of the place where it had elected to outwear the night with song and feasting and to welcome the first of may. the tables were unstrapped from the backs of the donkeys and set in line. cloths were spread and candles were lighted in candlesticks surmounted by protecting glass globes. chairs were taken down from others of the donkeys, and two or three long benches were produced by the miller. a dozen pairs of strong hands were extended to curtis and he was assisted from the back of his wilful beast to a comfortable seat.
"whew! i'm glad to get down from there," he exclaimed to lindbohm. "i think i'll stay here till my foot gets well and walk back. looks jolly, doesn't it? and how good those lambs smell! i believe i could eat one all by myself."
plates, bottles containing oil floating upon vinegar, decanters of wine, great piles of crisp salad, loaves of brown bread, sardellas arranged upon plates like the spokes of a wheel, tiny snow drifts of country cheese--began to appear upon the table. lindbohm entered into the spirit of the occasion with genial enthusiasm. although he could not speak a word of greek, he blundered everywhere, eager to assist. he lifted the children from the donkeys, pulled plates and provisions from the baskets, and washed the long tender lettuce at a place where the water leapt from one conduit to another. all this time the old men were patiently turning the lambs. every now and then one of them would dip half a lemon into a plate of melted butter and rub it over the brown, sizzling flesh. beneath each of the lambs was a shallow bed of ashes. the coals that glowed there were not visible, for, in roasting meat à la palikari, the best effects are obtained if it be slowly done. the proper roasting of a lamb is a matter of supreme importance. reputations are won thereby in a single day, and as easily lost. the meat must be done clear through, evenly and just to a turn--not one turn of the spit too many nor too few; it must be so tender that it is just ready to drop from the bone, and have that delicious flavor which is imparted from the coals of the fragrant wild thyme, but it must not taste smoky. verily a great art this, and the old men who sat squat at the cranks of the spits had no time for social distractions. everything was ready now except the lambs, and a great silence fell upon the company. one young fellow, who offered to lay a small wager that barba yanne would be the first man ready, was sternly rebuked by the priest:
"silence! do you not know that this is the critical moment, and you may spoil everything by distracting their attention?"
so they waited for a seeming eternity, sniffing the delicious aroma and watching the appetizing contest with hungry eyes. at last the young man of the wager broke the spell by crying:
"na! i should have won." for barba yanne was indeed rising slowly to his feet, painfully straightening out the hinges of his aged knees.
"praise god!" shouted a chorus of voices.
"do you not see that it is ready?" asked barba yanne reproachfully.
half a dozen men sprang towards the fire, but lindbohm, comprehending the action, was before them all. lifting the lamb by one end of the spit, he advanced towards the tables, and looked inquiringly about.
"what shall i do with it?" he asked michali. "there is no plate big enough, and if i lay it on the table it will spoil the cloth."
shouts of laughter greeted the swede's evident perplexity, and even the bare teeth of the spitted animal seemed grinning at him in derision.
the demarch now approached lindbohm and laughingly offered him a cretan knife and a huge fork.
"he wants you to carve," explained michali. "it is a great honor."
"no! no!" cried the swede, pushing the demarch playfully back. "i do not know how. besides, i am too weak from hunger. moreover, i haven't the time." and he seated himself resolutely at the table. the demarch therefore carved, and piled the meat upon plates which the girls held for him. before he had finished, barba spiro brought his lamb and solemnly stuck it up by its partly carved mate.
"shall i cut up this one, too?" asked kyr' nikolaki; he had finished with number one. "or shall we eat what we have first?"
"we will begin on this one," said the priest, "and i will carve the second." after a playful struggle he dispossessed the mayor of the knife and fork and led him to the head of the table. then the good priest reverently bent his head and made the sign of the cross, and all of his flock followed his example. even lindbohm and curtis, watching carefully, did as the others. and now the feast was on in earnest, silently at first, till the sharpest pangs of hunger were appeased, with song and laughter later in its course. the three guests and the older members of the community sat at the table. the others and the children found seats upon the ground, in the doorway of the mill-house, on the water troughs. conversation began in full-mouthed remarks as to the quality of the lamb.
"this is marvellous!"
"a miracle. done just to a turn. neither too much nor too little."
"bravo, barba yanne," said the mayor, in judicial tones, raising his glass meanwhile.
"barba yanne! barba yanne!" shouted the entire board, and there was a great clinking of glasses. the old man swelled and flushed with pleasure.
"i ought to know how to roast a lamb," he said. "i have done it this thirty years."
a girl brought the head of barba spiro's lamb and laid it before the demarch, who plucked out one of the eyes with a fork and passed the morsel to curtis, who took it and looked inquiringly at michali.
"what am i to do with it?" he asked.
"eat it. it is the most delicate tid-bit of the whole lamb--sweet, juicy, delicious."
"i've no doubt it's juicy," replied curtis, "but i couldn't eat it to save my life. it looks as though it could see. excuse me, kyr' demarche," he continued in greek, "i do not care for the eye. if you will give me a little more of the meat, please--" and he passed his plate.
"not like the eye!" shouted everybody in astonishment. lindbohm took the succulent morsel from curtis' hand, and swallowed it with a loud sipping sound, as though it were an oyster.
"kalo! kalo!" he exclaimed, smacking his lips.
and so the feast wore on. when it was not possible for anybody to eat another mouthful, turkish coffee was prepared over the miller's foufous, two or three little portable stoves, circular and made of sheet iron; and cigarettes were lighted. under the soothing influence of the mild cretan tobacco silence fell again, disturbed only by the soft splashing of waters. through a rift in the branches of the giant oak curtis could see the bright, silver bow of the new moon, and, far below, a glittering star, like the tip of an arrow shot athwart the night. the girls were tumbling the flowers into a pile beneath the lamp: bright red geraniums, clusters of the fragrant heliotrope, april roses, small, red and very sweet; aromatic basil, myrtle with its bridal green. then they sat down about the heap and began to weave garlands, using the myrtle as a background for the pied coloring of the blossoms. a nightingale sang somewhere among the trees behind the old mill, the waters never ceased to murmur and gurgle in the moonlight, and a faint breeze from the far sea brought a message of cherry trees in bloom. a young man sitting on the ground with his back against the tree played a few chords upon a guitar, and sang, with much feeling, one line of a couplet:
"my little angel, sugar sweet, angelic honey maiden"--
that he was not improvising was evident from the fact that all the greeks present joined him in the second line:
"oh sweeter than cold water is, that angels drink in eden!"
for several moments he strummed the strings softly and then sang:
"if i should die at last of love, my grave with basil cover;"--
and again came the response,
"and when you water it perchance you'll weep for your poor lover!"
the words even in greek did not mean much, but they sounded very beautiful to those simple peasants, for they were associated with many such scenes as this; they carried the memories of some back to childhood, of others perhaps to their wedding day. they made panayota think of the little cottage among the sphakiote mountains, and of her mother singing as she paddled the white clothes at the brook. the words contained the untranslatable spirit of poetry, the power to move the heart by association rather than by their meaning.
some one proposed a dance; one by one the sturdy mountaineers took their places in a line and soon, hands linked, they were bounding beneath the flickering lamp in the wild pyrrhic. loud calls were made for different members of the company, famous as leaders, and these led the line in turn, vying with one another in difficulty of steps executed. when lindbohm arose from his seat and took his place at the tail of the line, he was welcomed with shouts of "bravo! bravo!" he had observed the simpler steps of the minor performers carefully, and acquitted himself with so much credit, that the girls, their hands full of flowers and half-finished wreaths, arose and came forward, clapping their palms and shrieking with delight. and when the handkerchief was handed to him and he was motioned to the head of the line, he did not refuse, but leapt into the air, whirled about under the arm of his nearest neighbor, snapped his fingers in time to the music and cut other terpsichorean pranks, to everybody's intense delight.
but dancing is hard work, and even youth will tire. the last capable leader had done his part, and even the girls, with much laughter and many feminine shrieks and protests, had been pulled to their feet and given a turn, when michali was asked to tell again the story of the shipwreck, as many there present had only heard it at second hand. he complied, and his vivid and picturesque narrative held his audience in rapt attention. when he had finished many were fairly carried away with excitement, and a loud-voiced and indignant clamor arose concerning the state of crete, the action of the powers and matters of like import.
"silence! silence!" cried the mayor, rising to his feet and hammering on the table. "these are not matters for the may festival. our village, moreover, is in no danger from the turks. we have always dwelt quietly and peacefully behind our mountains, making our cheese, harming no one, suffering no harm. however that may be, this is not a suitable occasion to discuss war and politics."
"true! true!" shouted his faithful constituency.
"i am to blame," said michali, "for the manner in which i told the story. i will, therefore, make amends by singing a song, quite suitable, i think, to the occasion. spiro, play me the accompaniment."
after the applause had died, revived, and died away several times like flames that are brought to life by vagrant gusts of wind, spiro, the owner of the guitar, offered to sing.
"mind that it's perfectly proper for the ears of the ladies," cautioned papa-maleko, as the young man seated himself in a chair and prepared to play.
"he has a fine voice," said curtis in greek, when spiro had finished.
"o, spiro is one of our most famous singers," replied the demarch. "and now, kyr' yanne, it's your turn."
"he means you," said michali in english. "yanne is the greek for john. he means to be very friendly, to show that you are one of us."
"i will sing you," replied curtis, without the least hesitation, "a greek song that i have myself written," and turning to michali, "i can't quite explain that in greek: it is an american college song that i have translated into greek. i have read it over two or three times to panayota and she says she understands it. indeed, she has changed it a little." and he sang in a baritone voice of indifferent timbre, but with great spirit, the following words to the tune of "the man who drinks his whiskey clear":
"tell them," said lindbohm to michali, "that i cannot sing in greek, but that i desire to do my share and, with their permission, i will sing a little song in my own language, appropriate, i assure you, to the occasion." michali translated and there was no doubt as to the reception of the proposition. lindbohm had not gone farther than the first line before smothered "ahs!" of admiration were heard. he was a singer. his voice was mellow, pleading, tender, rich. the song was evidently something pathetic, for it brought tears to the eyes of the impressionable greeks. the last, deep, vibrating note died upon a couch of silence. a long interval ensued, for to the cretans it seemed profane to reward such beautiful sound with a rude clatter of hands. at length panayota rose from her place, and walking straight up to lindbohm, laid a wreath of red roses and myrtle upon his brow.
they packed the mules and started home long before daylight. the procession wound down a rocky path and into the gray town in the silver dawn, with a chill breeze blowing from the sea, and one great, white star glowing in the heavens like a drop of dew. the wreaths had been threaded upon the roasting-spits, and the girls, two and two, carried them. before sunrise a fresh wreath was hanging over the door of every house in ambellaki.
a demand, and a coward
"hello!" cried lindbohm, "what's the hubbub?"
it was the morning of the second of may. curtis and his two friends were sitting in the mayor's café, drinking muddy black coffee, served in tiny cups.
noisy voices, as of an increasing and excited throng, were audible. michali, the mayor and the swede rushed to the door, but were almost immediately swept back on the crest of an angry human wave. two or three tall young shepherds, with long crooks in their left hands and with hairy cloaks thrown over their shoulders, were flinging their fists in the air and shouting hoarsely. papa-maleko, fully as tall as they, and looming above them by the height of his priest's hat, was flourishing angrily a bit of letter paper, and evidently attempting to out-yell them. his head was thrown back and his great black beard, jerked by his rapidly moving chin, twitched and danced upon his breast. every moment more men, women and children crowded into the café, until it became thronged to suffocation. curtis seized the little table that stood before him firmly with both hands and pulled it over his lame foot.
the demarch, clambering upon a bench, shouted and gesticulated, evidently for order. his efforts, at first unavailing, at last resulted in partial quiet, and he began to speak. he finished and stepped down. then one of the shepherds jumped upon the improvised platform. he was no orator, but with few and hesitating words, told his story. it was evidently a case where facts were eloquent, for his voice was soon drowned in an inextinguishable roar, in the midst of which papa-maleko sprang upon another bench and commenced to speak, still shaking the bit of paper. silence again fell. curtis could understand scarcely anything. each of the speakers talked so rapidly that the words seemed all joined together into one word of interminable length. he only knew that he was listening to an outburst of wild, crude eloquence--the eloquence of passion--the exultation of righteous indignation. when the priest had finished he tore the paper into little bits, and threw them into the air with thumbs and fingers extended like the ribs of a fan, the greek gesture of a curse.
"na!" he cried.
in the moment of silence, of evident perplexity, which followed, curtis arose, and, seizing michali firmly by the shoulder, pulled him nearer.
"what in heaven's name is all this?" he asked.
"bad, very bad," replied the cretan. "kostakes effendi, with two hundred and fifty men, has two villages destroyed on other side of mountain, and kill many people. he write letter and say we send him panayota, the priest's daughter, for his harem, he go 'way. if no, he come through the pass, burn, kill."
curtis sank upon the seat and stared dumbly at the broad back of the villager just before him. it expanded into the front of a whitewashed cottage, with a laughing greek girl standing beneath a porch of vines. she had soft brown hair, large chestnut eyes and a low, broad forehead. as he looked, a frightened expression crept into the eyes, and she turned them upon him appealingly.
"by god, they shan't have her!" he cried aloud, smiting the table with his fist. rising without thinking of his foot, he began to shout the situation excitedly into lindbohm's ear. the latter listened with apparent stolidity, but, making a thrust with the imaginary sword, punched the broad back viciously with his fist.
another of the shepherds mounted the bench. papa-maleko surged through the crowd and shook his fist at the speaker. this last orator was about forty years of age, sturdy and florid. he had small, keen eyes and a conciliatory manner.
"what does he say?" asked lindbohm of michali.
"he say, send the girl. we have but little ammunition, few guns. kostakes effendi have plenty men, plenty guns. better one suffer than all. kostakes, he say is no genuine turk anyway. his mother was a greek--he probably marry the girl."
then an unexpected thing happened. the orator was having a visible effect on a portion of his audience. he was dispersing the patriotic exaltation of the weaker minded, and was causing even the boldest to feel the hopelessness of their condition. at this critical moment the swede, who had grown deathly pale, gave way to frenzy. he threw the listening throng to right and left as easily as though he were walking through a field of tall wheat. reaching the bench of the astonished orator, he kicked it from under him. the cretan sprang to his feet and drew his knife. lindbohm seized the uplifted wrist and twisted it until the weapon fell to the floor. then he savagely hustled the orator through the crowd, too astonished to interfere, to the door, the entire throng surging into the open air after him. curtis forgot his foot, but was sharply reminded of it, by putting it on the floor in his eagerness to follow. when he finally reached the door, lindbohm was bounding merrily after the escaping coward, beating him over the back with his own staff. some of the cretans were laughing and others were shouting "bravo!"
"he will go to join the turks," said michali to curtis.
"that's where he ought to be," replied the american.
smoke by day and fire by night
the peaceful village was transformed into a scene of tumult. an invisible thundercloud seemed hovering in the clear sky. the frightened children and the timid women, running about the streets, reminded curtis of the sudden motherward flurry of chickens, at the shadow of the swooping hawk. he was left alone in the deserted inn. he dragged a bench to the open door and sat down. those rapid preparations for defense were going on which suggest themselves instinctively to people bred and reared in a land of strife. a group of sturdy mountaineers soon collected on the square, wearing well-filled cartridge belts and carrying gras rifles. the throng grew, and every new arrival was greeted affectionately by his first name, "bravo, kyr' yanne!" or "bravo, kyr' george!" the demarch formed the nucleus of the group, the red marks under his eyes blushing like new cut slashes.
a rapid jingling of bells, and the sound as of animals running, were heard, and a sentinel goat appeared on the edge of a distant rock. he cast an agitated glance back over his wethers, and slid down, his four hoofs together, his back humped into a semicircle, his bucolic beard thrust outward. others appeared and slid over, as though borne on the crest of a torrent. then two tall shepherds were sketched for an instant on a background of mountains and sky, swinging their crooked staves. but they, too, were caught by the invisible torrent and swept into the town. boys were dispatched into the surrounding hills, and within an hour the streets were filled with bleating flocks. the group of armed men grew to fifty. lindbohm and michali had both been provided with guns. the swede had been induced to discard the straw hat as too conspicuous a mark, and to bind a dark handkerchief about his head. curtis felt himself one of them, and yet knew that he was not.
"if i had a gun, i might get up there among the rocks and do something," he muttered. "i can shoot just as well if i am lame, if i could only get into position. pshaw! what's the matter with me? this isn't my fight. i'm a non-combatant, i am."
the priest came down, leading panayota by the hand and carrying a cross. the girl was white, even to the lips, but there was a proud smile on her face and her eyes were shining. she wore a short cretan knife in her belt. papa-maleko held aloft the cross and solemnly blessed the waiting warriors, after which he presented the sacred symbol to the lips of each in turn. lindbohm strode over to panayota and pulling the handkerchief from his head, bowed low, with his hand upon his heart.
"before they get you," he said, "they must yust take us all."
curtis shouted "that's right!" but was not aware of the fact until the little army turned and looked at him inquiringly.
"i'll make a fool of myself here yet," he said, sinking back on the bench.
lindbohm was in his element.
"there was," he understood, "no way for the enemy to get in from the land side except through the pass. they might approach with difficulty from the seashore, but there was only one place where they could land. men were watching that, and a smoke by day or a fire by night would warn the villagers. very good. fifty men might defend this pass against two hundred and fifty, but they must lose no men and must make every shot count. how much ammunition had they?"
"not much. only their belts full, and possibly as much again, curses on the english!"
"very well. we must use it the more carefully. we must not get excited. kostakes effendi cannot possibly reach the ravine before nightfall--can he get through without a guide?"
"no," replied the demarch, "impossible."
this was the name of the cowardly shepherd whom lindbohm had driven from the town.
"is there any way to build fires so as to light up narrow places in the ravine?"
there were two or three such places where bonfires could be located that would make the pass as light as day. people standing behind the rocks in positions of comparative safety could easily feed the flames by tossing wood into them.
"send out the boys and girls then to prepare these fires and to pile up brushwood enough behind the rocks to keep them burning all night," commanded the swede. "build one fire at the mouth of the pass--" but here he was interrupted by a chorus of protest. "let the turks get into the pass and then we will kill them," cried his listeners.
"very well, but see that they don't get through."
papa-maleko had a suggestion to make. the sphakiotes often got the turks into narrow defiles and rolled stones down upon their heads. there were half a dozen precipitous places in the gorge where this could be effectively done.
"capital idea," assented lindbohm. "let some more women go to those places and pile up heaps of the biggest stones they can carry." lindbohm suggested that the men, who now numbered sixty, should take their places near the mouth of the defile. in a few brief words he also laid the foundation of an effective commissariat. the mayor's brother, too old a man to fight, was instructed to superintend the sending of food twice a day, in case the siege should be protracted, and above all, water, which could not be found up among the rocks. women and boys were to act as carriers.
a messenger was sent to korakes, an insurgent chief, who, with three hundred men, had established his headquarters near the village of alikiano.
"we might be able to hold out for a week," said lindbohm to curtis, "and korakes will surely come to our aid. at any rate, we must yust take our chances."
awaiting the signal
curtis was left alone in the priest's house. papa-maleko had gone up the ravine.
"if one of my boys were wounded," he said, "and i were not there to comfort him, god might forgive me, but i should never forgive myself."
as the time wore on, curtis found himself leaning forward in the darkness, listening for the sound of distant shots. he wondered if the turks would attack that night and if he could hear the shots if they did.
he went to the door and called to an old man who was talking in a low tone, but excitedly, to the woman across the way. the babe had been put to bed. they both came running, and he asked them, framing his sentence with much care:
"has the fighting begun? can the guns be heard from here?"
they replied in concert, volubly and at great length. then they held a conference and withdrew.
"that's the trouble with a foreign tongue," mused curtis. "you can talk to them all right, but they talk so fast that you can't understand what they say to you. now, i said it correctly," and he repeated the sentence.
after about half an hour the old man returned, bringing some bread, cheese, halva and a glass of dark wine. curtis repeated the greek word for "thank you" half a dozen times, and then fell upon the food voraciously. "the more i see of these people, the better i like them," he muttered. "now, i call that thoughtful of the old man."
after he had finished eating he tried his foot, bearing his weight on it until he could endure the pain no longer.
"i believe it's better," he soliloquized, and then cried inconsequentially:
"by jove! i wonder if that old blockhead thought i was asking for something to eat? panayota would have understood me in a minute. why, she and i get along all right together in greek. but then, i mustn't judge the rest of these people by her."
he wound up his watch at ten o'clock, and lay down upon the divan.
"there's going to be no fight to-night," he muttered. "and, at any rate, it wouldn't be my fight if there was."
he fell asleep, and dreamed of panayota, gigantic in size, standing on a cliff by a wan, heaving sea. she was hurling jagged pieces of rock down at a line of ant-like turks, crawling far below. the wind was blowing her hair straight out from her forehead, and he could only see her mouth and chin, but he knew it was panayota. he ran to help her, when the demarch seized him to hold him back. he awoke, and found that an old man was shaking his arm and crying excitedly in greek, "fire! fire!"
curtis' first thought was that the house was burning. he put his hand on the old man's shoulder and jumped over to the door. half a dozen people were standing in the moonlight, pointing toward the hills. two women, one holding a very young babe in her arms, were crossing themselves hysterically and calling on the name of the virgin. an old man of eighty, whom curtis had frequently seen bent nearly double and walking with a cane, now stood erect, fingering the trigger of a rifle. a stripling of twelve was shaking his fist toward a red eye of flame that glowed among the rocks, high up and far away.
war in earnest
that was one of lindbohm's bonfires, sure enough. perhaps a battle was going on at that moment.
"mother of god, save my man!" cried the woman with the baby. "save him, save him!"
"mother of god, save my boy, my cypress tree, my petro!" groaned the old man.
"curse the turks! may their fathers roast in hell!" shrieked the lad. "give me a gun, i'm old enough to shoot."
for three hours they stood watching the fire, as though they could actually see what was taking place there. at times they stood silent for many minutes together, listening, listening for the sound of guns; but they could hear nothing. at last a shout was heard in the distance:
"what is it? what is it?" the watchers asked, hoarsely, looking at one another with pale faces.
again "oo-hoo! oo-hoo!" nearer.
at last footsteps were heard, as of one running and stumbling among loose rocks, and at length little spiro kaphtakes staggered up to the group and stood panting before them. his trousers were torn, and blood was flowing from his legs. the women and the old man stared at him open-mouthed for a long minute, and then, pouncing upon him, began to shake him.
"what is it? what news?"
"is my petro safe?"
"how goes it with my yanne?"
others ran up out of dark alleys and from the doorways of distant houses, and soon twenty or more surrounded the poor boy, gesticulating, screaming. they could not wait for him to get his breath. his tongue lolled out like that of a chinese idol, and he swallowed the air instead of breathing, rolling his eyes about helplessly the while. at length, with a supreme effort, he gasped:
the woman with the babe reeled as though the earth were slipping from beneath her-feet. a neighbor caught the child and the mother fell limply to the ground. then, while friends dashed water upon her face and rubbed her hands, the boy talked rapidly, shrilly, flinging his arms about with loose-elbowed gestures. the woman opened her eyes and two of the men helped her to her feet. she tottered for a moment, disheveling her hair with despairing hands and whispering hoarsely:
"yanne! yanne! what shall i do? what shall i do?"
but suddenly the brave woman-soul asserted itself and her frail body straightened, tense, defiant, ready for any effort. clasping the babe to her breast she kissed it tenderly many times. holding it for a moment at arm's length, she looked at it hungrily, and then turned her eyes away. a neighbor took the child.
"come!" said the mother, and she ran lightly up the ravine, followed by the boy. the babe bleated "mama! mama!" like a frightened lamb, but the woman did not look back. hopping two or three steps from the doorway, curtis seized a woman by the arm.
"killed?" he asked in greek.
unfortunately, everybody understood, and all commenced talking at once.
"i don't understand," shouted curtis. "silence! killed? killed?"
"silence!" cried the old man with the musket, raising his right hand in a commanding gesture above the heads of the too-willing talkers.
"no," he replied to curtis, slowly and distinctly, "not killed. badly wounded."
"thanks," replied the american. "thanks, thanks, i understand."
just before sunrise michali, with his leg broken, was brought in on a donkey.
an amateur surgeon
they laid the wounded cretan on the lounge in the parsonage. he was pale as death from loss of blood, and kept snapping at his under lip with his teeth, but he did not groan.
"we are a pair of storks now," he said, smiling at curtis, and then he fainted away. curtis cut the trouser from the wounded leg. a ball had struck the shin.
"it's not badly splintered, old man," said the american, as michali opened his eyes again. "i don't know anything about surgery, but i should think the proper thing would be to wash it, support it with some splints and bind it up tight. shall i try it?"
"what you need?" asked michali.
"some warm water, two or three straight sticks and a piece of cloth that i can tear up into strips."
the wounded man called for the necessary articles and they were soon brought. curtis washed the blood away carefully.
the end of a piece of bone pushed against the skin from beneath and made a sharp protuberance.
"i'm awfully sorry, old man, but i've got to hurt you--like the devil, i'm afraid."
"all right, my friend," replied michali, "only do not be long."
"no, only a minute. here, lie on your back. that's right. now take hold of the sides of the lounge and hang on tight. that'll help you. i know it from having teeth filled. now, tell this old man to take hold of your ankle so, with both hands, and pull, slowly, carefully, till i say 'stop,' and not to commence pulling till i say 'now.' you'd better explain--your greek is some better than mine."
"does he understand?"
curtis put his hand about the broken shin in such a way that he could push the fragment of bone into place.
"this can't be wrong," he reflected. "at any rate, there's nothing else to do."
looking at the old man he nodded.
"jesus! jesus! jesus!" gurgled michali, as though the words were being pulled from his throat with a hook. there was so much agony in them, they meant so much more than the screams of a weaker person would have meant, that the amateur surgeon felt sick at his stomach and it cost him a tremendous effort to see through a sort of blindness that settled like a cloud before his eyes. but the two ends of the bone came together and he resolutely pushed the splinter into place.
still holding the leg tightly he looked at michali. great drops of sweat were standing on the cretan's face and his underlip was bleeding, but he smiled bravely.
"all over," said curtis. "now for the sticks and the strips."
fortunately for the success of the operation the boy who had led the mule was outside, giving an account of the progress of the battle. he proved a greater attraction even than the broken leg. curtis, finding himself alone with his patient, shut and locked the door.
curtis sat quietly for some time in the semi-darkness of the room, listening to the chatter of the boy outside, punctuated by the excited exclamations of the listeners. he glanced at the drawn face of michali, which had a ghastly hue in the wan light. the wounded man's eyes were open, but he made no sound.
"he's a plucky beggar," thought curtis. "i wonder if it would do him any harm to talk? i say, michali," he asked aloud, "how is it going? what are they doing up there?"
"they tried to come through about eleven o'clock--but how can i tell you, since you do not the ravine know? it begins wide on the other side--a deep, steep valley, with many pine trees, and paths along the sides. near the top of the mountain the ravine becomes narrow, between walls of rock, what you call it?--perpendicular. if the turk ever gets over the summit we are lost. very well--that devil ampates! lindbohm should have killed him!"
"why, what did he do?"
"without him the turk never could have found the best path. well, we have men on all the paths with dogs--good dogs, hear half a mile, bark--o, like the devil! we stay high up, most of us, where ravine is narrow, so not to scatter out too much. we hide behind the rocks on both sides of the ravine, on the other side the mountain. we listen and listen, o, how we listen! nothing. the wind in the pine trees. for hours we listen. my ears get very wide awake. i think i hear the wind among the stars. then, all at once, we sit up very straight, holding our guns ready. 'boo! boo! woo!' it is old spire's dog, down below. we sit very still. perhaps the dog made a mistake. perhaps he bark at the moon. but no. 'bang!' goes old spiro's gun. then we know. that was the signal--ah, mother of god!"
no greek can talk without violent gesticulations, that frequently bring all the muscles of his body into play. michali forgot the leg in his excitement, and gave a little jump that wrenched it slightly.
"never mind, old man. don't talk any more--you'd better lie quiet," said curtis. "you drove 'em back, did you?"
"twenty men went down to the mouth of the pass. we stayed back the narrow part to guard, high up, behind the rocks. pretty soon they commence shooting and yelling. it was moonlight there, you see, but dark like--like--"
"like a pocket," suggested curtis.
"like a pocket in the ravine, where we were. they keep shooting--'biff, bang, biff, bang'--then all at once--'r-r-r-r-r!' more than a hundred guns at once. 'that's the turks,' said lindbohm. 'by damn! they must not get through. michali, twenty men must come down with me, twenty stay here.' i pick out twenty, and down we go, and hide. then the women light the fire. whoof! the light jumps up and slashes open the ravine. there they come, there come the turks, running, running. the boys keep shooting from above, 'ping! ping!' but they not hit much, straight down so. one, two, three drop, but the rest keep coming. we lay our rifles across the rocks and take aim. lindbohm, he keep saying, very low, 'not yet, not yet, steady, boys, steady--'"
"steady, boys, steady!" cried curtis; "that's old lindbohm--yes, yes?"
"my god! i think the turks get right on top of us, when 'bang!' lindbohm shoot right by my ear and blow a hole through a turk. then we all shoot, shoot, shoot, but every time one turk die, two new ones come around the corner. and i think they get through, but the women pry off big piece of rock. o, most as big as this house, and it kill two turks. then the turks turn and run--"
"hurrah!" sobbed curtis.
"hurrah!" echoed michali. "we killed thirty-four damned turks!"
"how many men did you lose?" asked curtis.
"one, shoot through the head. he high up and fall down into the ravine. turks laugh very loud. another here, through the stomach. he die pretty soon--he with us. his name yanne. and me, i get this little wound in the leg. how they hit my leg, i don't know."
as they were talking the church bell began to ring.
"still i say unto you, courage"
"hello! what's that for?" asked curtis.
michali shrugged his shoulders. "who knows?" he replied.
curtis hopped to the door, unlocked it and looked out. the church stood across the road on the top of a big, flat rock. though small, it boasted a byzantine dome. the bell hung in a frame erected over the porch, and the rope was tied about a wooden pillar, to prevent its being blown out of reach by the wind.
"why, it's papa-maleko himself," cried the american.
the priest gave the rope two or three more decisive jerks, and then, leaving the end dangling, started for the house. his stately black robe was rent down the front, and the wind blew the pieces out behind, exposing his voluminous cretan breeches and his yellow boots. his long hair had writhed loose from its fastenings and had fallen down his back. it was beautiful and reminded curtis of panayota. his tall hat was battered at the side, so that the roof looked as though it were slipping off. he spoke a few words to michali, and then, opening the trunk studded with brass nails, he took out and donned his sacerdotal vestments, a sleeveless cloak with a cross in the middle of the back and a richly embroidered stole. running his fingers through his long, glossy hair and shaking it out as a lion shakes his mane, he strode back to the little church, into which the people were already excitedly pouring.
"i'm going across," said curtis.
"can you walk so far?" asked michali.
"o, yes; with this crutch i can get over there all right."
though the church was crowded, there was absolute, solemn silence. these simple people believed that they were in the very presence of god. kindly hands seized curtis and assisted him into one of the high-backed, narrow seats ranged along the walls. two tall candles threw a flickering light on a crude st. george and the dragon, of mammoth size, painted on the screen. every new comer kissed the face of a florid virgin that looked up out of a gaudy frame, reposing on the slanting top of a tall stand near the door. numerous eikons in gilded frames hung about the wall, and a silent throng of forgotten saints, painted on the dome above, peered dimly down upon the worshippers. the windows were narrow, but enough sunlight straggled in to give a ghostly look to the candles, lighted here and there. papa-maleko's voice was musical and tender. he commenced chanting in a low, pleading tone, but as the glorious words of the litany gradually took possession of his soul, the melodious, full-voweled greek syllables rolled more and more confidently from his tongue. the poor, frightened mothers and children of his flock raised their faces and sniffed the wholesome incense that now pervaded the building. the spirit of the scene carried curtis away. he was awed and mysteriously refreshed, as one who, in a noisome cavern, feels the cool, sweet air blowing upon him from the darkness. he found himself beating the arm of his seat and chanting inaudibly, again and again, the sublime words, "ein' feste burg ist unser gott."
"ah, yes, god will protect us! he is our very present help in time of trouble."
and now, papa-maleko is blessing his flock, one by one. down the aisle he passes, holding a little cross to the eager lips, speaking words of comfort.
"courage, courage, my children," he says; "when god is with us who can be against us? christ is fighting for us and the holy virgin and all the saints. courage, courage."
they seized his hand and kissed it. women sobbed in an exaltation of faith. mothers pressed the cross to the lips and foreheads of their wondering babes.
"the virgin is our helper," they said.
"christ and the virgin be with you," responded the priest.
so he stood, his left hand lifted in blessing, his right extending the cross; stately in his flowing robes, calm in the dignity of his exalted message.
"have courage, my children," he repeated, smiling benignly. "it came to me there in the mountains, like a voice from god. 'ye are christians; why do ye not call upon the god of hosts?'"
in an instant the whole congregation had turned and were looking towards the door. there stood a tall shepherd with a rifle in his hand. his face was blackened with powder and he seemed covered with blood.
"what is it? what is it?" shrieked a dozen voices.
"there is a terrible fight. loukas and spiro are killed--"
the words of the priest rang out clear and strong:
"our god is a very present help--courage, my children!"
"my left arm is broken. the turks got on top of the hill, where the girls were, but the girls all jumped off, laughing. all killed, paraskeve, elene, maria--"
the speaker's voice was drowned in a pandemonium of shrieks and sobs.
but again the priest was heard, reverently, distinctly, firmly, like the voice of christ calming the waters.
"they are with christ in paradise. still i say unto you, courage. since god is with us who shall stand against us?"
"panayota was with them, but her dress caught in a thorn bush, and before she could tear herself loose the turks had her."
every eye in the church was riveted upon the priest. the cross rattled to the floor, and his arm dropped to his side. his lips were white and there was a terrible look in the large brown eyes.
"panayota! panayota!" he called hoarsely. his voice sounded far away now. suddenly he tore off his sacred vestments and flung them in a heap on the floor. striding to the wounded shepherd, he snatched the gun from his hand. looking from the window, curtis saw him running toward the hills, his long hair streaming on the wind. the flock poured out after him and the american was sitting in the deserted house of god, gazing at a pile of sacred robes and muttering stupidly:
the brave thing to do
"hark!" said curtis, who was sitting in the door of the parsonage. "what's that?"
"i didn't hear anything," replied michali.
"i did. i believe it was a gun. it was a faint throb in the air. there it goes again. there they go!"
no mistake was possible this time.
"they're coming through," said michali, rising upon his elbow. "the turks will be here pretty quick, now, i think."
"hello," cried curtis, "there comes the demarch. there he goes into that house. now he comes out--there he goes into another--what's up, i wonder? here he comes!"
kyr' nikolaki looked in at the door. his face was flabby with fatigue and his under lids had drooped perceptibly, enlarging the red pits beneath his eyes into semicircles.
"what is it? what is it?" asked curtis, who had not clearly understood the few hurried words addressed by the demarch to michali.
"they're nearly out of cartridges. they can't hold the pass over an hour longer. they're going to send the flocks and the women and children down to the sea. the village owns a lot of caiques there. then the men will retreat last, fighting, shooting all the time."
"but what are you quarreling about?"
"o, nothing. nothing at all."
a mother dashed by the house with a babe under her left arm and a bundle over her right shoulder. another dragged two frightened children along the stony street, clutching tight a tiny wrist with each hand. an aged couple doddered by, the man with feeble and palsied hand striving to support the woman, who clung to a frame containing two bridal wreaths. from amid the faded orange blossoms smiled the youthful eyes of a shy mountain girl and a stout pallikari--man's work lasts so much better than man himself.
the confusion grew to frenzy. a parrot-like chatter and screaming of women filled the air. a florid housewife stumbled and wheezed down the street, carrying a pair of long-handled coffee stew pans. she did not know what they were, but had seized them through force of habit. another bore a cheap chromo, representing skin-clad hunters thrusting spears into a number of colossal polar bears. she fell and jabbed her knee through the picture, but picked up the frame and ran on with that. scrips, or bags of pied and brightly-colored wool, of which two or more are to be found in every cretan peasant's house, were hanging from the arms and shoulders of many of the fugitives.
the demarch came in again, accompanied by lindbohm and a stalwart mountaineer. the swede had a gun in his left hand. in the grime of his powder-blackened face his eyes looked unnaturally blue. but they were no longer childlike. it was rather the blue of an angry sea.
"panayota's taken," he said to curtis.
"i know it."
"there's nothing to be done now except to rally the men and rescue her." the swede did not talk like a man in despair. he seemed, on the contrary, exalted by a great resolve.
"we will get together and fall upon kostakes like a thunderbolt. we'll not let him go far. and if he harms a hair of her head--" he doubled his ponderous fist and shook it. then he whirled about briskly and gazed at michali.
"we'll take you somehow," he said. "we'll be as careful as we can. they'll kill you if you stay here."
"i not go," replied michali. "i have said it to the demarch. take two strong men to carry me. they better be fighting. leave a gun with me. when they find me i will kill two, three turks. ha! by god, i surprise them! so i die!"
"come, no more of this foolishness," said lindbohm. "i take him on my back, and the shepherd here take you," turning to curtis.
but curtis had been thinking very fast, and the bright image of his beautiful and high-spirited hostess in the hands of the turks had sharpened his wits to an extraordinary degree.
"i would not have asked it," he said, "but it is the brave thing to do. ah, tell the officer you're a newspaper correspondent. that's the safest thing."
the firing had ceased entirely for several minutes. now rapid footsteps were heard. looking toward the door curtis saw a cretan shepherd fling by. he was running low to the ground, carrying his gun horizontally, like a man hunting--or being hunted. another and another passed.
"we have five minutes now," said lindbohm, holding out his arms to michali. "they have given up the pass. come! must i take you, or will you come on my back?"
"i come," replied michali, "to the wine cave."
lindbohm kneeled by the divan and michali put his arms about his neck. the swede arose, wrenching from the cretan's throat a groan that ended in a low, sharp shriek.
lindbohm strode from the door, followed by the demarch and the shepherd, the last mentioned carrying curtis.
five or six shots, followed by a persistent fusillade, were heard.
"now i think they come through," muttered lindbohm, breaking into a run. michali was breathing in tremulous, faint groans between set teeth. then, mercifully, he fainted, and remained unconscious until the swede, panting with exertion, bounded through the arbor into the dim café.
the demarch ran to his wine barrels, and, pulling an empty one around parallel with the wall, smashed in its end with the butt of a musket, using the weapon as though it were a battering ram. michali was shoved into the barrel as tenderly as possible and the broken pieces were laid in beside him. then they pushed the tun back into place, with the open end against the wall.
"and you?" said lindbohm, turning to curtis, who was sitting upon the table where the shepherd had dropped him.
"save yourselves!" cried the american, pointing to the door. a shepherd, standing behind the platane tree, was aiming at something above him. he fired, and jerking the empty shell from his smoking piece, reloaded. three cretans darted to the rear of the café, trailing blue ropes of smoke from the muzzles of their guns. the man behind the tree started after them, but stopped at a crash of musketry and dropped his gun with a "ching" among the rocks. his legs broke at the knees as though some one had playfully jabbed them from behind. as he instinctively threw forward his arms to save himself from falling, his elbows collapsed and his hands fell flopping at the wrist, like penguin's wings. he was dead before his body reached the ground.
lindbohm snatched his musket from the table and ran from the café, followed by the demarch and the shepherd. curtis slipped into a corner, behind the huge oil crock. the sound of the firing continued, but no one came into the café. ten minutes, twenty minutes passed. they seemed hours to the american. occasionally he heard a sput, sput against the outside of the soft wall. once a "ftha," like the hissing of a cat, was followed by a humming sound, as a bullet, slightly flattened by the sand, sang in through the open door.
it did not occur to him that these things were dangerous.
"i must see what they are doing," he said. "it's a good fight! it's a good fight!"
he slid around the smooth, cool crock and leaned out from his hiding place. he could see nothing but a strip of the open door and a huge vine, sturdy as the trunk of a tree. he jumped back just in time to save himself. the café was poured full of turks, bringing panayota and her father. an officer, young, slender and very handsome, dropped into a chair and laid his unsheathed sword before him on the table. the soldiers fell respectfully back, leaving the girl and the priest standing facing the officer. ampates slunk in the background with panayota's cretan knife in his hand. it was he who had led the way to the women, by a round-about path.
a long conversation ensued, in which kostakes spoke with insinuating sweetness, smiling continually and occasionally twirling the ends of his small, dark mustache. his intentions with reference to panayota were honorable, he said. the priest began his reply in a pleading tone but ended with a fiery denunciation. once or twice a soldier stepped threateningly towards him, but kostakes waved the would-be murderer back with a slight gesture or an almost imperceptible movement of the head. panayota was magnificent. she seemed at no moment to have any doubt of herself. she stood erect, pale, calm, contemptuous, until near the end of the interview when, with an incredibly quick movement, she snatched the sword from the table, and, turning the hilt towards her father, threw back her head and closed her eyes. the officer with a loud cry sprang to his feet, tipping over the table, and a soldier knocked the weapon harmlessly into the air. all the turks in the room leaped upon papa-maleko, who fought like a cornered cat, wounding one, two, three of his assailants. the turks did not dare shoot, for fear of killing their officer or the girl. curtis came from his hiding place, crying hoarsely in english:
"panayota! for god's sake! for god's sake! panayota!" and then "don't shoot! don't shoot! you'll kill panayota!"
but it was no part of kostakes' plan to kill panayota's father in her presence. a turk, cooler than the rest, reaching over the heads of his comrades, dropped the butt of a rifle on the man's skull and he sank to the ground. panayota fell on her knees beside him, fumbling in his hair and sobbing, "papa! papa!"
the heart has a little vocabulary of its own, which it has spoken from the beginning of the world, the same for all peoples, unchanged in the confusion of tongues. curtis was not noticed in the tumult until he had forced his way into the officer's very presence, where he stood, shaking his fist and shouting, still in his own tongue:
"this is a shame! do you hear me? you're a scurvy blackguard to treat a girl in that way. if i had you alone about five minutes i'd show you what i think of you!"
two or three soldiers sprang forward, and a petty officer half drew his sword, but kostakes, astonished at hearing a language which he did not understand, but which he surmised to be either german or english, motioned them back.
"qui êtes vous, monsieur, et que faites vous ici?" he asked in the french which he had learned at the high school at canea.
"je suis américan, correspondant du--du-- new york age," replied curtis.
"ah, charmé! charmé! comment dites vous en anglais? welcome. je suis kostakes, capitaine de cavalerie, à votre service!"
a critical moment
curtis did not find it easy to express his feelings in french to this smiling officer with the straight, large nose, dazzling white teeth and cordial manner, who wore an inverted red flower pot for a hat. french is no language for a self-respecting man to swear in, any way. besides, one does not, in ollendorf, learn a vocabulary suitable to critical occasions. all curtis could think of was "lâche," "sacré bleu" and "caramba." the first did not seem appropriate, the second lost its force by translating itself in his mind into english and he was not certain whether the last was french, spanish or italian, so he asked:
"is this lady a prisoner of war?" and kostakes answered:
"monsieur is as gallant as he is brave. i give you my word of honor that neither the lady nor her father shall come to any harm. is that sufficient?"
it had to be, so curtis, being anything but a fool, replied:
"a gentleman's word of honor is always sufficient."
"and now," continued kostakes, "being a non-combatant, you are at perfect liberty to follow your own wishes. will you remain here or go with us? we shall be charmed, i assure you, charmed to have your society."
"how long will you stay here?"
"about an hour. just long enough to collect any spoils of war and burn the town."
"burn the town?"
"certainly, this is war, and war, even for a nation as highly civilized as turkey, consists in doing your enemy as much harm as possible."
curtis glanced uneasily at the row of barrels in the cave. here was a new dilemma. should he give up the brave cretan and appeal to kostakes' manliness and chivalry? he looked at the turk shrewdly. somehow he did not have confidence in him.
besides, michali could understand french. if he were conscious, he could call out and give himself up, if he thought it were safe.
"i would stay here," thought curtis, "and ask him to leave me the café as a shelter. but there's panayota, i mustn't desert her."
the firing had ceased and the looting had begun. turks darted by the door in the abandoned glee of destruction, or passed more slowly, dragging bedticks, doors, pieces of furniture and other inflammable articles, which they were casting upon a great bonfire in the square. a wave of ribald laughter, that started somewhere in the distance and ran nearer and louder, splashed into the open door. a soldier danced in with an eikon of the holy virgin, and held it up for the guard to spit upon. then he tossed it into the fire. the priest, who was sitting on the floor, supported by the kneeling panayota, covered his eyes with his hands and shuddered with horror. the trellis for the demarch's grape arbor came down with a crash and was wrenched loose from the grip of the despairing vines. the benches whereon the gossip shepherds had sat and sipped their coffee, bore company in the fire with the only rocking chair in the village, in which a very old lady used to sway to and fro and sing lullabies of her forgotten childhood. a soldier seized one of the tables within the café and tossed it through the open door. then he dragged out a long bench, that scraped and spluttered on the floor of hard beaten earth. two others braced themselves between the wall and the oil crock. an inspiration flashed through curtis' mind.
"stop! stop!" he shouted. "it is full of oil--the lady on the floor."
"mais, certainement," cried kostakes, and he sent the soldiers from the room.
"the same argument will apply to the wine barrels," reflected curtis. "they would have been at them in a minute more."
"does monsieur elect to stay with us, or with the greeks?" asked the captain. "we must leave here immediately, before the greeks return with reinforcement and seize the ravine."
"if i might be permitted to go with you? but i am lame; i have hurt my foot."
"i regret greatly to hear it. not seriously, i hope?"
"no, i stepped on a--a--thorn," he did not know the french word for sea urchin.
"i will give a horse--my own, if necessary. i shall be charmed, charmed. and now, perhaps you will excuse me one moment while i marshal the force? perhaps, also, you will look at the priest's head. i regret that our surgeon was killed in the attack."
rising, he said a few words in greek to panayota, bending deferentially with his hand on his heart. his tones were musical and earnest and curtis understood him almost perfectly. he spoke high greek very distinctly. he expressed regret for papa-maleko's hurt, and assured the girl of his undying love.
"you are the cause of all this ruin, fair creature," he murmured earnestly. "my love for you brought me here. have no fears. you shall be treated like a queen. not a hair of your head nor of your father's shall be harmed. all i ask is a little love in return."
the man in the barrel
curtis parted the long hair carefully on papa-maleko's head with his fingers and looked for the wound.
"i ought to have been a doctor," he said to panayota.
she smiled, a little, fleeting smile that was sadder than tears. her hair, that had been wound into a great coil at the back of her head, had slipped partly loose. even as she looked up at curtis, the glossy rope writhed like a living thing, and a massive loop dropped down upon her temple. though her cheeks were pale, her lips were still red--curtis had never noticed until now how red and velvety they were.
"is he badly hurt?" she asked.
papa-maleko's hair was clotted with blood, but curtis made absolutely sure that the skull was not fractured.
"no," he replied, "it is not broken."
"thank god! thank god!" cried panayota.
the priest put his hand on his daughter's shoulder and shuffled to his feet. he staggered a little and caught his head in his hands.
"o papa! papa!" cried the girl, throwing her arms about his neck.
"bah! i'm all right. i was a little dizzy, that's all."
"nothing broken. nothing broken," reiterated curtis. "the blood is from the--" he did not know the word for skin, so he lifted up a little tent on the back of his left hand with the finger and thumb of his right.
"nothing, nothing at all," said the priest. panayota turned her eyes toward the smoky and cobwebbed rafters and crossed herself. the steel cross in the door leaped to a parallel of presented muskets, and kostakes effendi reappeared. twirling his mustache, he gazed perplexedly at the group within the café, but recovered himself in a moment and advanced smiling.
"so his reverence is quite well again! i am glad to see it, very glad. i feared that his skull was fractured. a musket butt is no plaything."
the turk assisted curtis to the door, and into a cavalry saddle on the back of a respectable looking horse.
"it is the horse of my sous-lieutenant," explained kostakes, "who really prefers to walk--lieutenant gadben, monsieur--but i have not the honor of knowing your name."
"john curtis, american journalist."
half an inch of saber cut disfigured the lieutenant's left temple. curtis wondered at first glance how far it extended under the flower pot hat. the possessor of the cut was a grizzled man of fifty, with a short pointed beard and a mustache, into the left side of which cigarettes had burned a semicircular hole. the turkish troops were drawn up in marching order, dirty, dust-stained, faded, some of them shoeless, but there was something about them, something in the attitude of the bodies and the obedient expectancy of the countenances, that suggested the soldier.
curtis was amazed at the amount of desolation which had been accomplished in so short a time. the ruffian hand of war had wrecked the peaceful and idyllic town as a discontented child smites a playhouse of blocks. everything combustible had been set on fire, and even from the stone houses smoke was pouring. doors had been torn from the hinges, windows smashed in, arbors pulled down. the fire in the square filled the nostrils with the familiar odor of burning olive oil. the houses with their denuded window holes reminded curtis of men whose eyes had been ruthlessly gouged out.
lieutenant gadben brought the hilt of his sword to his forehead and said something to the captain in turkish. the latter glanced at his little army and curtis followed his eye. the men involuntarily straightened up, stiff as posts.
turning in his saddle curtis cast a furtive glance at panayota. she was sitting on a mule, looking sadly to earth. one white hand rested caressingly on the wrist of her father, who stood by, holding to the pommel of her high pack-saddle. she had tied a handkerchief about his wound. he was a manly and appealing, albeit extraordinary figure, as he stood there erect, his dark eyes flashing scorn and defiance. his billowy, spade-shaped beard covered his entire breast. he wore no coat and the enormous cretan breeches and yellow boots seemed to take on added proportions for that reason. an empty cartridge belt, passed under his right arm and over his left shoulder, bore strange comradeship with the cross that hung from his neck. his dark brown hair, that any woman might have envied, fell quite to his waist and rippled in the breeze. even as curtis looked, panayota gathered it in her hands and hastily twisted it into a knot. the captain said a few words to the lieutenant, who, turning to the ranks, pointed to four of the men nearest him and transmitted the order to them. they saluted, and stacking their muskets, ran into the café. instantly the huge oil crock fell across the door, and breaking, gave up its inoffensive golden contents.
"monsieur, you will destroy the café!" cried curtis in alarm.
over went the bar with a sound of smashing glass.
"it will take but a moment," replied the captain, apologetically. the tables and benches were now going into the pile in the middle of the floor.
"the rascals should have saved the oil to pour on their bonfire," remarked kostakes judicially. the sound of dull blows caused the captain to bend and look in at the door.
"hey! hey!" he shouted, and gave an order. "i told them not to spill the wine, but to roll the full barrels close to the fire," he explained to curtis. "there is sure to be one or two of them filled with brandy, and their loud explosion does more execution than half a dozen axes."
michali's barrel was fourth from this end.
"why the devil wasn't i born with some brains in my head?" groaned curtis, inwardly. "why can't you think of something, blockhead?" he was seized with an almost uncontrollable desire to butt his skull against the stone wall of the café. he knew that a happy thought would save poor michali, and he realized also that undue excitement on his part would betray everything. the picture of his friend being dragged from his hiding place by his broken leg and thrust through with bayonets, leaped before his imagination.
"monsieur," he said, "i beg grace for the café. stop the soldiers one moment and i will explain."
kostakes called to the four vandals and they desisted.
"i beg of you," he said inquiringly to curtis, "but pray be brief."
"i am the correspondent of the new york age. i am neither greek nor turk, i assure you. i wish to write glowing accounts of your heroism--and your magnanimity. i have a sentiment connected with the café. it is so beautiful. i have written a little poem about it. it begins thus:
"the assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, and his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold."
curtis beat off the waltz time of the meter with great energy.
"it sounds very beautiful. what a pity that i do not understand english! monsieur's sentiment shall be respected. he shall write for his paper that kostakes effendi is not only a magnanimous soldier, but a patron of letters."
the four vandals took their places again in the ranks. kostakes, waving his sword theatrically, gave the order to march, and they were off up the rocky, winding street, with the little army pattering behind. as they passed the parsonage curtis noticed that it was in ruins, but the festal wreath of yesterday hung brave and bright above the blackened door.
to no avail
the priest strode by his daughter's side, his hand still lying upon hers. as the cavalcade started he shuddered, and, looking at panayota, sobbed:
"oh, my daughter! would to god you were in your grave beside your mother!"
she put out her white arm, and laid it around his neck.
"i am my mother's child," she replied, piously, "i shall find death somehow sooner than dishonor."
an occasional corpse lay in their path. curtis observed with pleasure that red, woolen flower pots were beside two of the bodies, but a wave of indignation and pity passed over him as his horse shied from a corpulent body, bent horribly over a sharp backbone of rock. the head lolled downward, and the pupils of the eyes were rolled upward out of sight. there were two red pits beneath the eyes, that made the whites look doubly ghastly.
curtis lifted his hat.
"why do you do that?" asked the captain.
"because he died like a brave man," replied the american, shuddering as he thought of the jolly and hospitable demarch, who, like an heroic captain of a sinking ship, had remained at his post of duty until escape became impossible.
"i fear you like the greeks better than you do the turks," observed kostakes. "you do not know us yet. you will like us better when you have been with us a few days."
curtis was determined to be politic. only thus, he foresaw, could he hope to be of any help to panayota.
"he stayed behind to fight, when he might have escaped. had he been a turk, i should have taken off my hat just the same."
they were about to enter the ravine. from their elevated position the whole town was visible. the american turned in his saddle and cast a glance backward. the smoke from a score of fires tumbled heavenward until, commingling, it formed a somber roof above the town, supported by trembling and bending pillars. there was the distant sea--the very spot where the "holy mary" had been sunk. the little stream, whose course they had followed to the ill-fated town, looked no larger than a silver thread. there was the square, ending in the ledge upon which he had first seen panayota with the water jug upon her shoulder. it had been but a short time ago, a few hours comparatively, and here she was now, a captive being led away in all probability to a shameful fate. curtis seemed to have lived ages in the past few days, and yet their whole history flashed through his mind during the brief moment of this parting glance. there was the girl, beautiful, desolate, defiant, pure as snow; her hand rested on the shoulder of her father, in one of those pitiful, yet sublime feminine caresses that cry "courage" when, even god himself seems to fail. she was a christian, the father a christian priest, and this was the nineteenth century of our blessed lord, and there, but a few miles away, lay the great battleships of the christian powers of europe, defending the integrity of the turkish empire!
curtis gave such a violent start that he nearly fell out of his saddle. great heavens, was not that the café on fire? the café, where he had left hidden his comrade and friend, michali, the brave, the boyish, the noble-minded!
"monsieur!" he cried, "the café! it is burning!"
"oh, i think not," replied kostakes.
"but it is. i can see it plainly; you must send people back to put it out."
kostakes took a pair of field glasses from the hands of an orderly, and, calmly adjusting the focus, looked down the hill, while the little army, escorting panayota and her father, marched rapidly past, and were swallowed up in the ravine.
"you are right," he said, "it is indeed the café."
"but you are not sending anybody back to put it out!"
"monsieur could hardly ask me to do that much for sentiment. some of my rascals must have eluded my vigilance. they shall be punished."
curtis whirled his horse around, urging it with his fists and his sound foot, and started back toward the town. but the way was steep and rough, and the animal had not gone ten paces before two soldiers sprang to its head and seized the bridle on each side. curtis kicked and struck at them, and, suddenly overcome with a paroxysm of rage, swore at them, but all to no avail. they turned the horse around and led it back to kostakes.
"monsieur's sentiment must be very strong," said the captain, smiling sweetly.
"there's a wounded man in that building. a wounded man, i tell you, and he'll burn up alive!"
kostakes shrugged his shoulders.
"it cannot be helped," he replied, "in war, what is a man more or less? but we must not delay. allons, monsieur."
and he spurred his horse to a brisk walk, while a stout turk, throwing the bridle rein of curtis' animal over his shoulder, trotted along after.
the american looked back.
"i'll slip off and run to the café," he thought, "foot or no foot--damn the foot, anyway!" but another soldier with a loaded musket was following close behind. in his despair, the thought of his passport occurred to him. he pulled it from his pocket with feverish haste. it was badly damaged by water, but it held together and the big seal was still there. urging his horse forward, he flourished the document in kostakes' face and shouted:
"i am an american citizen. do you see that? voilà! if you do not let me go you suffer for it."
but all to no avail. he was hustled along by order of the smiling and affable kostakes, and the last thing his eyes rested upon as he plunged into the ravine was a cloud of smoke pouring from the front door of the demarch's café.
in the track of war
"i am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die."
panayota, her glorious eyes streaming with tears, her white hands clasped to her bosom, was looking to heaven and silently praying. curtis felt his soul uplifted. the narrow walls of the ravine changed to the dim aisle of a cathedral; he seemed to hear a grand organ pealing forth a funeral march.
"death is swallowed up in victory. o death, where is thy sting? o grave, where is thy victory?"
when he opened his eyes he found himself in hell. two or three turks, grinning with diabolical hate and derision, were spitting at the dead cretans. the soldier directly behind papa-maleko was jabbing him in the back viciously with the butt of his musket, while another touched him playfully between the shoulders with the point of a bayonet. the priest shrank from the steel with a gasp of pain, but turned back as he stumbled along chanting:
"thanks be to god, which giveth us the victory through jesus christ, our lord, amen!"
"i am the resurrection and the life," but the solemn chant was this time interrupted by a shriek from panayota. curtis, who had resolutely turned his face from the scene of fascinating horror, looked back quickly at the sound. a slender young girl had arisen upon her elbow, and was stretching her hand imploringly toward the priest. the hand was brown and chubby, but the arm from which the flowing sleeve had slipped away, was very white and shapely. she was dying even then, but the blessed words of her mother's faith and her mother's tongue had pierced her swooning ears and she had paused at the very threshold of death for the priest's benediction. a turkish soldier thrust her through the neck with his bayonet, and her head dropped softly upon the bosom of a dead fellow.
"but this is barbarous," cried curtis. "the civilized world shall know of this. barbarous, i say, uncivilized--you an officer? a gentleman? bah!"
"but monsieur is too violent and hasty," replied kostakes. "irregularities happen in all armies. the man shall be punished."
"if he is to be shot," said the american, "please put me in the firing squad!"
emerging from the pass, they came to a steep, wooded ravine, and their path led through an aisle of tall pine trees. the feet of the soldiers made no noise on the carpet of fallen spines. they found four more dead turks and picked up two that were wounded. after about an hour of forced marching the ravine spread out into a beautiful sunlit valley, whereon the new plowed ground lay in patches of rich brown, terra-cotta and black loam. the vines were just putting forth their pale green sprouts. the laborers had been surprised in the act of heaping conical mounds about the roots, and an occasional discarded mattock betokened hasty flight. poppies lifted everywhere their slender-stemmed, scarlet beakers--such glasses in shape as are fit to hold the vintage of the rhine. the little slopes were set thick with candelabras of the ghostly asphodel, whose clusters of pale-pinkish, waxen flowers seemed indeed to belong to regions where the dear sun is but a memory. scattering fruit trees, in the full revel and glory of their snowy bloom called to each other with perfume.
it was some time after noon now, but they stopped neither to eat nor rest. curtis' foot began to pain him fearfully, but he made no sign. in the midst of such desolation, he felt pain to be a trivial thing. the vines were here, but where were the toilers? the pear trees were in bloom, but where were the laughing children, the wives and maidens with wine and bread for the midday feast? once they passed a shock-headed boy of fourteen, or possibly younger, lying dead in a vineyard, with his mattock beside him, and later in the day they came upon a plow in the unfinished furrow. one of the oxen was dead, and the other great beast had struggled to his feet and stood patiently beside the body of his mate.
after that their path led for a way through a field of half-grown wheat. around nearly every shoot the sweet wild-pea had twined its graceful spiral, bravely lifting the pretty blue of the flowers among the pale green of the grain. when the wind swept over the field it looked like changeable silk.
toward sunset they came within seeing distance of a white village on a mountain side. a vast olive orchard surrounded it and a dozen or more dark green cypress trees pointed heavenward among the houses, like spires.
"voilà, monsieur," cried kostakes, gaily. "there we shall rest to-night, and shall find time to eat. are you hungry?"
a deserted town
an air of indescribable sadness hangs over a deserted town. any one who has ever passed through a shepherd village, from which the inhabitants have gone for the summer, expecting to return again when the first snows of autumn drive them down from the mountains, has experienced this feeling. here is the fountain, where the slender, merry maidens met at sundown, to gossip and fill their water jars; here is the café, where the old men gathered together under the platane tree and smoked and dreamed of the long ago; here is a secret nook, guarded by sweet poverty vines, where lovers held tryst in the fragrant twilight. but all is lonely, lonely.
the waters splash with a melancholy sound, the tables and chairs are gone from under the platane tree and the lovers--let us hope they are fled together. the spirit of loneliness dwells where man has been and is not--in a tenantless house, in the chamber of death, by the embers of a camp fire in a vast wilderness. as you follow the streets of a deserted town you hear nothing but the splash, splash of the waters of the fountain or the enquiring twitter of some little bird. perhaps a cat, tamed more by solitude than by hunger, tiptoes to meet you, purring with diplomatic fervor. but these sounds do not break the silence, they are its foil, its background.
galata was deserted because its inhabitants had fled two days before from the terrible turk. thanks to a timely warning, most of the people had succeeded in getting away, though an occasional corpse proved how narrow had been the escape of the entire population from sudden death.
kostakes and his little troop now marched through an olive orchard, whose gnarled and venerable trunks had perhaps witnessed the cruelties of the only oppressors worse than the turk--the haughty, treacherous and inhuman venetians; they climbed a flight of steps cut in the natural rock and followed a street paved with cobblestones from the walls of partly ruined houses to the village square.
here the men stacked arms and dispersed among the houses, looking for temporary quarters. curtis could not help admiring the soldierly way in which everything was done. in ten minutes after their arrival the square looked like a little indian village filled with wigwams of muskets, and sentries were pacing patiently up and down at all possible places of approach. this was evidently a town of considerable importance, as some of the houses facing the square were two-storied, and in one or two instances the projecting beams supporting the balconies were of carved marble. the fountain, too, that stood beneath a disheveled willow, whose roots drank at the overflowing waters, was of marble.
three carven swans, the successive wonder of as many generations of unkempt children, swam full-breasted from a square pedestal, each hissing a clear, thin stream into a circular stone basin. an inscription informed posterity that the marble hero who sat atop of the inevitable column was petros nikolaides, former mayor of galata,--an euergetes of imperishable memory. mr. nikolaides, with white goggle eyes, looked over the house tops, the olives and cypresses and away to the distant purple hills. his chin was small and cloven with a deep dimple and one side of his drooping mustache had been stoned away twenty years ago by mischievous boys.
panayota and her father were led to a respectable looking stone house facing the fountain and two sentries were stationed before the door.
"ah, well," said kostakes amiably to curtis, "we shall be quite comfortable here, eh? will you do me the honor to dine with me?"
"i shall be delighted," replied the american. "it is i who shall receive the honor."
"no, no! i protest, monsieur. it's quite the other way. we'll have a table set here under this tree. ah, we shall be very cozy. voilà! i shall be able to offer you some fresh cheese. if there's anything left, trust to my rascals for finding it!"
a soldier was dragging a stuffed goat-skin from the door of a grocery. at a sign from kostakes, he set it on end, and ripped open the top with his knife, disclosing the snowy contents.
"voilà, monsieur! and no doubt we shall be able to find you some excellent wine, though you must excuse me from joining you in that. mohammedans do not drink wine."
"does your foot pain you?" asked kostakes, with genuine solicitude. "if those barbarian greeks had not shot my surgeon--very cruel people the greeks, especially the cretan greeks. when you know them better you will find that they are not half-civilized."
"if you will let one of your men help me dismount," said curtis, "i will take a wash. i am glad to see that dinner is so nearly ready. i assure you i am half famished."
"one of my soldiers, monsieur! i would never permit such a thing. i will help you myself. so--so! ah! how is the foot?"
the american placed the wounded member on the ground and attempted to bear his weight upon it. to his surprise, it seemed much better. but a happy thought, an inspiration, took possession of him. he seized the leg tightly with his hands above the knee and sank upon the edge of the water basin.
"i--i believe it's worse!" he groaned.
"allah forbid!" cried the turk. "it is from the long ride. when you have rested it will be better. now let us wash and eat something--a soldier's frugal meal."
curtis attacked the repast with the zest of a ravenous appetite. the salt cheese, the brown bread and the country wine seemed to him viands fit for the gods. the orderly brought several heads of long italian lettuce, which he washed at the fountain and cut lengthwise. they ate it like asparagus or celery, dipping it in salt. the american thought it delicious, and rightly. he would never again be able to relish the pale, tasteless chips sold in america for lettuce at brigand prices. he saw that panayota and her father were also eating.
he touched glasses with kostakes, who was disposed to be convivial, albeit in water.
"do you know, monsieur le capitaine," curtis said, "i cannot decide which is the greater sensation--the pleasure of eating or the pain of my foot. do you think, if blood poisoning should set in, you have anybody here who could amputate it?"
"now, allah forbid!" cried the turk again. "by day after to-morrow we shall reach a mohammedan village, and there we shall find a doctor."
a blow in the dark
curtis shared the quarters of his amiable host, kostakes effendi, in the front room of the grocery. panayota and her father slept next door. the american's bed consisted of blankets laid upon two tables, placed side by side. as the blankets had been prodigally bestowed he found the couch sufficiently comfortable. he lay on his back with his arms under his head, gazing out into the moonlit square. despite the fatigue and excitement of the day, he was not in the least sleepy. the cretan night was too intense. the moonlight, wherever it fell, was passionately white, and the shadows of things were as black and distinct as though sketched in charcoal. rows of soldiers wrapped in their blankets were sleeping in the square. occasionally one sat up, looked about, and then lay down again. once, when he was about to drowse off, he was roused to consciousness by a faint mewing overhead, and called softly:
the mewing ceased, for oriental cats are summoned by means of a whistle between the teeth, similar to the sound made by a peanut roaster.
"that's the grocer's cat," mused curtis. "poor animal, she doesn't know what's happened. she was asking me as plain as day, 'do you know where my folks are?' now, the dog probably went with the old man, but cats are different--the cat and the mortgage stick to the old homestead. i must make a note of that. let's see. how do the greeks call their felines? 'ps-whs-whs.' that's it. ps-whs-whs!"
a scrambling overhead, and a bolder "meouw!" rewarded the effort. pussy was between the tile roof and a covering of reeds that, nailed to the rafters, answered the purpose of lath and plaster.
"meouw!" still more confidently, and the sound of cautious feet on dry reeds. kostakes sat up on his table and rubbed his eyes.
"are you awake, too, monsieur?"
"meouw!" said pussy again.
"ah, the cat keeps you awake. if i were a greek, now, i should order it killed, but we turks are very merciful. i will order the sentry to drive it away."
"no, no, i beg of you. i was holding a little conversation with it. i cannot sleep, my leg pains me so. i fear that gangrene is setting in."
"allah forbid! it is from the fatigue. we shall have a surgeon soon." kostakes was too good a soldier to keep awake.
"good night again, monsieur," he said, and turned over.
outside the nightingales were calling each other from far, tremulous distances. the waters of the fountain splashed and gurgled unceasingly. curtis' senses became more and more acute. sounds that he could not hear a moment ago became audible now, without growing louder. he heard the plying of axes, and once the sound of a hammer, followed by laughter.
"what the deuce are they up to?" he muttered. "are they building a fortification of any kind? i've got to do some tall thinking in the morning. somehow or other i must get away with that girl. but how? how? i'll make kostakes believe i'm lamer than i really am, and he won't watch me so close. but i must have an opportunity. no man can do anything without an opportunity--and that isn't so bad, either. i must make a note of that in the morning. let's see, what's that other thing i thought of? h'm--hang it, i've forgotten it."
"meouw!" said kitty.
"that's it, by jove! cats and mortgages."
for fully an hour the american invented and discarded schemes for escaping with panayota. he tried to think of passages in novels describing the rescue of captive maidens by heroes like himself, but fairy tales of enchanted carpets and wishing caps persisted in running through his head, to the exclusion of more practical methods.
"i must watch for an opportunity," he exclaimed, aloud, bringing his fist down upon the table. "if i can't do any better i'll stick to kostakes till we get to canea, and then i'll put the matter in the hands of the english consul. hello! what's that!"
he was sure he heard a dull, crushing blow, followed by a moan and the sound of some one falling. he listened for a long time, but heard nothing more, and yet he was conscious of a sense of horror, as though he had just awakened from a nightmare. he rubbed his eyes and pinched himself.
"i'm awake," he thought, "and yet i feel as though a murder had been committed. lord, but i'm all haired up! if this keeps on i shall turn spiritualistic medium. i wonder if i can see the folks at home?" and he shut his eyes and fixed his mind upon his father and mother.
"let's see, now, what time of day is it in boston?"
he was awakened from his reverie by the voice of panayota, violent and pleading, by turns; one moment mingled with sobs and the next angry. she was demanding "where is my father?" and asking for kostakes. the latter sat up and listened for a moment. then hastily buckling on his belt and throwing his cloak over his shoulders, he went out. curtis, who was not undressed, followed him. as he passed through the door, one of the guards seized him, but he struck viciously at the soldier and cried so angrily, "let go of me or i'll punch you!" that the captain looked around and spoke two or three words sharply to the guard, who released him. suddenly remembering that he was very lame, he sat down upon the edge of the fountain. panayota was standing in the door of her lodging, in the full moonlight. her attitude, her voice, her face, were eloquent of terror and despair. as soon as she saw kostakes she stretched her arms towards him and cried:
"don't let them kill my father. bring him back to me, please, please!"
"why, certainly, my own panayota, you know that i would not harm you nor any one belonging to you. but where is your father?"
"he asked the guard to bring him a drink of water, and the guard told him to come out and get it. and he hasn't come back, i tell you; he hasn't come back. o, mother of god, help! help! don't let them kill him."
"i see it all," cried kostakes; "he has escaped," and he questioned the bystanding soldiers in turkish.
"yes, my panayota. he has taken advantage of my kindness. i ordered that he be not bound and that he be treated with every consideration--for your sake, dear panayota!" here his voice became low and tender and he moved nearer. the turk was, indeed, a gallant figure in the moonlight, leaning gracefully on his sword, the cape of his long military cloak thrown back over his shoulder.
"you hear the men; they say that he darted away and that they ran after him, but could not catch him. had it been anybody else, they would have shot him down. but i had ordered them not to injure him under any circumstances. this i did for you, my panayota, because i love you. it is you who--"
"murderer!" screamed panayota, leaning toward him with a look of pale hate, the while she fixed him with a long accusing finger. "murderer--oh, don't deny it! coward! liar! you come to me red with my father's blood and talk to me of love. apostate! renegade! where is my father, eh? you perjured greek, where is my father?"
stepping down from the door, majestic as a goddess, she advanced toward kostakes with arm extended.
he shrank slightly from her and looked uneasily to right and left, to avoid her eye.
"but, my dear panayota, you shouldn't give way to your temper like that. you wrong me, really you do. i assure you, your good father has escaped."
she dropped her arm heavily to her side.
"yes," she replied, solemnly, "escaped from a world of murderers and liars. gone where there is no more killing and burning; where there are no turks and no renegades--gone, kostakes effendi, where you must meet him again, with the brand of cain upon your brow!"
turning, she walked back to the house, but stopped in the door and said:
"do you know how those are punished in hell who renounce the religion of christ and become turks? and what torture awaits you, renegade and murderer of a christian priest? kill, kill, give up your life to deeds of blood. never think of forgiveness. there is no forgiveness for such as you. your place in hell is already chosen. they are even now preparing the torments for you. o god," and she raised her hands as one praying, "may this man's deeds find him out, in this world and in the next. may he be haunted night and day for the rest of his life. may he die a violent and shameful death, and his memory be held in disgust. may his soul go to the place of torment, and be tortured forever. for he has renounced the son of god, and has slain his holy minister!"
she disappeared within the house, and curtis heard her sobbing in the darkness, "papa! papa!"
kostakes filled the cup which hung from the pillar of the fountain by a chain, and took a long drink. he was trembling so that the tin vessel rattled against his teeth.
"mon dieu!" he exclaimed, observing curtis. "did you ever see anything so unreasonable as a woman? here is her father run away, and she accuses me of killing him, and consigns me to eternal torment. really, she has made me quite nervous. if i were not innocent, i should really fear her curses." and he took another drink of the cool water.
curtis thought of the dull, crushing blow and the groan that he had heard, and he involuntarily moved a little away from the handsome and affable kostakes, who had sat down by him on the rim of the basin.
"what do you keep the girl for, anyway?" he made bold to ask. "you surely would not force her to join your--your harem, against her consent?"
"monsieur," he said, "is a poet. he will understand and sympathize with me. i love panayota. i would make her my sole wife in honorable marriage. i desire no other woman but her. bah! what are other women compared to her? is she not magnificent? i could not help loving her, even just now, when she was cursing me. it is true that i am part greek by extraction, and that i was baptized into the greek church, and that i have become a turk. but what is religion compared with love? panayota is all the heaven i want. i am willing to turn greek again and have a christian wedding, if she would take me."
"aren't you conducting your courtship in rather a violent manner?" asked the american. "in my country your conduct would be thought, to say the least, irregular."
"have you in english the proverb, 'all things are fair in love and war?'"
"well, you see this is both love and war. i have possession of panayota, and i mean to treat her so well that she shall love me. not a hair of her head shall be touched until she marries me of her own free will."
"but your wives?" asked curtis. "how many have you of them?"
the captain shrugged his shoulders.
"three," he replied. "dumpy, silly creatures. a mohammedan has not much difficulty in getting rid of his wives."
kostakes sprang to his feet.
"lean on my shoulder," he said. "so, so, how is the leg?"
"bad, very bad. i'm really worried about it. do i bear down on you too heavily?"
four against one
the sound of a reveille awoke curtis, and he looked out into the dim, dewy morning. the wigwams of muskets had disappeared, and the little army had already fallen in. several horses, saddled and bridled, stood by the village fountain. one, a young and sleek charger, was impatiently pawing the earth and another was drinking. kostakes was sitting at a table, giving some orders to his second in command, the veteran with the scar. a sword attached to a leather belt kept company on the cloth with a pile of eggs, a loaf of bread and a pot of steaming coffee.
"bon jour," cried the captain gaily, springing to his feet, as he espied the american. "how have you slept, and how is the foot?"
"i got a little sleep, despite the pain, but the foot seems no better. i am getting very anxious to see that doctor of yours."
"to-morrow, i promise you without fail. and now for breakfast, as we must be off."
the captain and his lieutenant ran to the american, who put an arm about the neck of each and hopped to the table, groaning ostentatiously. after the hurried breakfast, panayota was summoned. she came forth, pale as death, a beautiful, living statue of despair. kostakes offered to help her, but she repulsed him with loathing, and climbed into her saddle as a refuge from his attentions. there were dark circles under her swollen eyes. as she looked about her, as though in hopeless search for the missing dear one, her features trembled on the verge of tears. groaning:
"ach, my god!" she clasped her hands tightly in her lap and stared into vacancy. her beautiful hair was disheveled and her long white cuffs were wrinkled and soiled. the chivalry in curtis' nature prompted him to speak and comfort her, although the words sounded hollow and false to his own ear.
"take comfort," he said, "your father is surely alive. believe me, he has escaped."
she smiled sadly.
"you do not know the turks," she replied.
"did i not tell you, my darling?" cried kostakes eagerly, "of course he has escaped."
she did not even look at him, but murmured:
kostakes shrugged his shoulders, as who would say, "see!" and turning to curtis cried:
"but monsieur speaks greek famously!"
"only a few words and those with much difficulty."
"mais non! on the contrary i find your greek very perfect. and now allons!"
they pushed briskly up the narrow street, through a scene of utter desolation. the whirlwind of war had struck the town and wrecked it. as they turned a corner a long-legged, half-grown fowl broke for cover and tilted away, balancing its haste with awkward, half-fledged wings. they came unexpectedly upon a little orthodox church and a putrid odor assailed curtis' nostrils. their path led them around to the front door.
"my god!" he gasped. a sight had met his eyes that was destined to thrill him with sickness and horror to the latest day of his life, as often as the black phantom of its recollection should arise in his mind. the village priest, an old, gray-bearded man, had died about a month before and had been buried in his robes. there was the body, hanging to its own church door, like the skin of a great black bat. nails had been driven through the clothing at the shoulders, and the weight of the carcass, sinking down into the loose garment, had left it pulled up above the head into the semblance of joints in a vampire's wings.
from a bonfire of bones, half-decayed corpses and sacred eikons--the last named gathered from the houses and the church--a disgusting odor arose and filled the air. the turks broke forth in derisive laughter as their eyes fell upon the horrid spectacle.
"my rascals have eluded my vigilance, i see," observed kostakes, "and have been having a little fun in their own way."
"different nations have different ideas about a joke," gasped curtis through his handkerchief.
emerging from the town, they picked their way through a large patch of freshly felled olive trees. the sound of the nocturnal chopping was now explained. about eleven o'clock they stopped for dinner in a small, deserted hamlet. during the progress of the meal a wounded bashi bazouk rode into the town and up to the table where curtis and kostakes were sitting. the man wore a red turban, which gave to his pallid face a tint similar to that of the underside of a toadstool. his soft shirt had sagged into a little bagful of blood, that dripped out like the whey from a sack of cottage cheese, upon his yellow sash and blue breeches. he said a few words with mouth wide open, as though his under jaw had suddenly grown heavy, and then, reeling, was caught by two soldiers, dragged from the saddle and carried into a hut.
"i must ask you to excuse me for several hours," said kostakes, rising. "my bashi bazouks, whom i left with certain commissions to execute, are being defeated at reveni, about an hour's march from here. how fifty bashi bazouks can find any difficulty with a little place like reveni is more than i can understand! but i shall soon put a new face on affairs when i arrive!"
"god help the poor people," prayed curtis, inaudibly.
"i shall leave three of my men behind to look after your wants and those of the young lady. i shall explain to the one i leave with you that he is your servant--that he must bring you anything you ask for. he speaks greek, so you will be able to get along with him."
"au revoir, kostakes," he cried. "the devil confound you and your whole crew of cutthroats--i wonder if this beggar speaks english?"
he glanced suspiciously at the tall, sallow-faced turk who stood a short distance away, leaning upon his musket.
"no, i guess not. he'd give some sign if he did."
two other turks, with musket on shoulder, were pacing back and forth before the door of the hut where panayota was imprisoned. curtis could feel his heart thumping against his breast. he struck the place with his doubled fist.
"keep still, curse you," he muttered, "and let me think. here is the opportunity--but how? how?"
the army was crawling along a white road that streamed like a ribbon athwart the foot of a hill. the ribbon fluttered as the dust rose in the wind. the bayonets twinkled in a dun cloud.
"four against one," mused curtis. "four turks against one yankee trick--but how?"
kostakes plunged into the hill and disappeared, and the blazing bayonets, line after line, were extinguished in a billow of green thyme. the american looked back over his shoulder at the door of a stone hut--the one into which the wounded bashi bazouk had been carried.
"hey!" he called, "you there, hey!"
the turk left ostensibly as curtis' servant, but actually as his guard, stepped briskly forward, and, taking in his own the american's extended hand, pulled him to his feet.
"help me into the house," said curtis. "now bring me that bench."
the man complied, after which he went to the door, and, leaning against the jamb, looked wistfully at his fellows. at one end of the room was a fireplace, filled with ashes and charred pieces of log. it was a primitive concern, the only vent for smoke being a hole in the roof directly overhead. board platforms on each side the fireplace served as couches for the family. on one of these, flat on his back, lay the wounded man.
the man became quiet, and again curtis relapsed into thought, to be disturbed a second time by the sound of knocking on boards. looking around, his eyes fell directly upon the eyes of the bashi bazouk, and he felt as though he heard some one crying for help when no help was near. the man was resting upon his back and both elbows. for a moment those bloodshot, praying, awful eyes were fixed upon curtis; then they swept the dingy hut and went out like panes of glass when the light is extinguished in a room. the man fell backward, fluttered on the hard planks and was still. curtis shuddered.
"that wasn't nice," he muttered, "but this is no time for sentiment."
the other turk stood by the body of his dead comrade, looking down at the ghastly, upturned face. curtis pinched the muscles of his own right arm with the fingers and thumb of his left hand, and moved his doubled fist tentatively up and down.
"where shall i hit him?" he mused. "in the chin or back of the ear? he must never know what struck him."
bending over, he untied the long strip of cloth about his foot and unwound it. taking it in his hands he pulled several times on it, to test its strength.
"strong as a hemp rope. you could hang a man with that."
it was panayota's blue homespun.
"hey!" he called to the turk. "you there. say, look at this foot of mine, will you, and see what you think of it."
the man kneeled. curtis drew back his arm, but realized that he could not get sufficient swing in a sitting posture.
"o, hold on a minute. let me try the foot on the ground and see how it goes."
they rose to their feet together, and the unsuspecting soldier reeled backward, stunned by a vicious punch on the temple. but he did not fall, and curtis, maddened by a great fear lest he bungle his opportunity, sprang forward and delivered a swinging, sledgehammer-like blow upon his victim's ear, throwing into it the entire strength of his body. the turk dropped like an ox under the butcher's hammer. then curtis hastily bound him, hand and foot, with panayota's bandage, and, tearing the lining from the man's coat, stuffed it down his throat. pulling up a plank from the platform by the fireplace, he thrust the limp form out of sight and closed up the opening.
"i hope i didn't kill you," he muttered; "but, as old lindbohm says, 'you must yust take your chances!'"
he walked once or twice the length of the hut. the foot gave him considerable pain, but it was possible to step on it.
"what'll i do with the other two?" he mused.
he picked up the gun lying on the floor and examined it. it was a mauser and charged with five shells. he peeped cautiously through the doorway at panayota's prison, concealing his body. the two guards appeared at the corner and looked curiously in his direction.
"bah! what a fool i am!" he thought, and hopped boldly into sight, holding up his lame leg by passing his hand under it while he leaned against the jamb. the guards faced about and disappeared, putting the house between themselves and curtis on their backward march to the other end of their beat.
"i could pot one of them, and then--but no, i might miss, and then i'd be in a pretty mess. and even if i did hit one, the other would have me at a disadvantage."
there was a sound of kicking against the boards at the fireplace. he sprang to the spot, rifle in hand, and tore up the plank. the man was lying upon his back with his eyes open. a great light broke in upon curtis--an inspiration. he had thrust the turk out of sight through instinct.
"pshaw!" he exclaimed, "they can't both leave panayota. if i call to them, may be one will come out of curiosity, and i'll do this thing right over again. but what'll i tie him with?"
he cast his eyes about the room. the inevitable chest, studded with brass nails stood against the wall. he opened it.
"cleaned out, by jove!"
he went again to his victim, and taking a large jackknife from his pocket, deliberately opened it. the man turned as white as veal, his jaws worked convulsively on the gag as he made a vain effort to plead for mercy, and a pitiful noise, a sort of gurgling bleat, sounded in his throat.
"what the devil ails you?" asked curtis. "o--i see," and he added in greek:
"no kill. cut your clothes--see?"
and stooping, he slitted the turk's sleeve from wrist to shoulder. following the seam around with the blade, he pulled away the large rectangular piece of cloth. seizing the other sleeve, he was about to slash into it, when he thought he heard footsteps among the stones and gravel outside the hut.
"my god!" he cried, in a hoarse whisper, and jumped into the corner beside the door, just as one of the other two turks walked boldly into the room. without a moment's thought curtis brought the barrel of his rifle down upon the man's head, who dropped his own gun and pitched sprawling upon his face. for fully a minute, which seemed an hour, the american stood motionless, breathless, in the attitude which had followed the blow. every muscle was set to knotted hardness; he held the rifle in both hands, ready to throw it suddenly to his shoulder. he did not breathe, and he listened so intently that he could hear his own heart beating, and the breathing of the man at the fireplace. suddenly his muscles relaxed like an escaping spring, and he looked nervously about for the detached sleeve. picking it up, he stooped over the second turk, when the latter moved his left arm several times with the palm of the hand down, feebly suggesting an effort to rise. then the arm dropped and the hand beat a faint tattoo on the earthen floor. there was a great shiver of the whole body, a twitching of the muscles, a queer rattle in the throat, and--silence. curtis stared with open mouth and dilated eyes, and a great, inexplicable horror came over him. "ah!" he gasped, and, dropping upon his knees, he ran his fingers over the skull. the hair was matted with blood, and a deep, ragged-edged dent bore witness to the terrible force with which the rifle barrel had fallen.
"i've killed a man," he whispered, in an awestruck voice, rising to his feet. staring fixedly at the silent thing lying there before him, he repeated the sentence over and over again:
"i've killed a man--i've killed a man!"
then all at once a great change came over him, the joy and fierceness of the lust for blood, and he laughed hysterically, gloating over the dead man before him, as the victorious heroes used to do in the old barbaric ages.
he thought of the other turk, and looked out of the door just in time to see him turn at the hither corner and disappear as he walked back on his beat. curtis made a dash for an olive tree about eight rods distant, and, skulking behind it, peeped between the high gnarled roots. when the guard had again appeared and turned back, he ran to a rock and threw himself down behind it, instinctively using tactics by which he had sometimes crept up on a diving duck. he was now within listening distance. the next run brought him to the side of the house, and he had just time to throw his gun to his shoulder when the guard stepped into view. he might have taken him prisoner, but the thought did not occur to him. he had tasted blood. panayota came to the door and looked wonderingly out. the american ran to her with the smoking musket in his hand and seized her by the wrist. it was the natural act of the savage who has won his woman in fight.
"come, panayota!" he cried, "you are free. they are all dead!"
and he started down the hill, pulling the girl with him. she came without a word.
"my life, i love you"
tied to a tree was one of those large black and tan mules that are stronger than any horse and tough as steel. this one, a pack animal, had been left behind in charge of the three guards. curtis picked up the clumsy pack saddle which lay near and threw it upon the beast's back. in his excitement he bungled the unfamiliar straps, but panayota assisted with nimble and experienced fingers. he helped her to mount, and was about to climb up, when he happened to think of the dead turks' ammunition. bringing a supply from the hut, he climbed up behind the girl. so they rode away, the fair cretan sitting sidewise in the saddle, the american astride behind her. he passed an arm around her waist to steady them both, and accelerated the animal's speed by digging the butt of his musket into its side. he could not use his heels, because one foot was bare and still somewhat lame. panayota guided the mule by flipping in its eyes, first on one side of the head and then on the other, the end of the rope that was tied about its neck. as curtis felt beneath his arm the firm but yielding form; as the warm, strong heart throbbed against his hand, his madness became complete. he had killed two men for this girl, and she was worth it. he was ferociously happy. the very touch of her thrilled him. he knew now why he had killed the men--for the same reason that david had slain uriah. woman, gentle, refining, softening woman will, in an instant, blot two thousand years of civilization out of a man's nature and turn him back into a primitive savage. he held her very tight, and she made no resistance. what trifles shape our destinies! in the giddy happiness of the moment he could not have framed an original greek sentence to save his soul, but as he leaned forward with his lips close to the girl's ear, with his face partly buried in her hair, the refrain of byron's "maid of athens" sang itself in his brain, and he whispered again and again, "zoe mou, sas agapo, zoe mou, sas agapo." she shivered slightly the first time that he repeated the sentence, but she did not repulse him. at last, that first keen madness of contact with her passed away, and he chattered excitedly as he urged on the ambling mule: "don't be afraid, panayota; they'll never catch us. i've got you now, not kostakes. my life, i love you! go on, you dromedary, or i'll punch a rib out of you! they must kill me before they take you again."
after they had been about an hour on the road, they began to feel uneasy.
"they must have got back by this time," thought curtis. "i wish i had killed that other turk, then they would have thought we were rescued," and he looked anxiously back over his shoulder. the idea came to curtis of turning off sharply from the path and hiding in the hills, but the mountains that enclosed the long valley looked forbidding. they would certainly lose their way and perish of hunger. besides there were greeks ahead of them somewhere. as they began to ascend toward galata, they could see for a long distance over the lovely plain now stretched out before them in the rays of the afternoon sun.
"it'll be time to make a break for the woods," mused curtis, "when i see them coming." once a cloud of dust arose far behind and he caught panayota's arm.
"look!" he cried. "they're coming!" but she replied:
"no, 'tis a whirlwind."
curtis did not understand the word, but there was no mistaking the speaking gesture which accompanied it. the mule becoming tired, panayota slid to the ground, and, throwing the rope over her shoulder, trotted on ahead.
"there's galata!" she cried, pointing with level arm to the distant village.
"how many hours?" asked curtis.
"about two more."
"we shall get there after dark, then?"
the sun was just setting behind a mountain, as it always does in the interior of crete. curtis turned in the saddle and took one last long look. the white road lay very plain on the side of the low ridge over which they had come. it was in shape like a giant letter s, one end of which ended at the summit and the other among the green vineyards, climbing half way up the slope. the trees, and the deep water-ways and castles of rock on the side of the hill were indistinguishable at that distance, all blending into a general effect of soft color, but the top of the hill was sketched against the sky as distinctly as a crayon line, and on it every tree, nay, every shrub stood magnified in the parting light. there was something unnatural about this row of trees, rope-walking on a curved line swaying in the sky. as curtis gazed at the weird effect two giant horsemen balanced on the aerial rope for an instant, and then lunged headforemost into the purple glow on the hither side. they were followed by row after row of mounted men, four abreast, that appeared and disappeared in rapid succession.
"look, panayota," said curtis quietly. the girl went deadly white and crossed herself.
"my little virgin, help us," she prayed. "the bashi bazouks!"
"they haven't got us yet. how far away are they?"
"an hour, may be an hour and a half."
"we'll turn off into the hills when it's a little darker. can they see us?"
"i think not," replied panayota. "we are now among the trees. but we'd better wait a little before we turn."
the turkish troops had now become a long, dark quadrangle, sliding slowly down the giant s. the sun dropped behind the mountain, the white letter became black, and the quadrangle disappeared. the fleeing man and woman were in the world's amethyst shadow.
"shall we turn now, panayota?" asked curtis. "i care not where, so we go together."
for answer she turned and held up her hand. he listened, but heard nothing.
"voices," said the girl, "and footsteps. but i hear no more. they are moving stealthily."
"is it more turks, coming from in front?"
"god knows, but i think not."
she led the mule some distance to the side of the road into a clump of green oleander. curtis slid to the ground and looked carefully to his rifle.
"panayota," he whispered, hurriedly, "they shall not take us while i live. i love you. we may have but a few moments together. let me take one kiss, the first, perhaps the last."
he put his arm about her, but she placed her hand against his breast and pushed him from her, with a cautious "hist!"
the footsteps of many men could be heard plainly, not far up the road now.
"if they would only speak," she muttered.
the words were hardly out of her mouth ere some one uttered a sharp and hurried command in a suppressed tone.
"they are greeks!" exclaimed the girl. "now christ and the virgin--"
but curtis put his hand gently over her mouth, whispering:
"hush! perhaps it is a ruse."
the moon had not yet arisen, and the darkness was like ink. some one stumbled, and a musket fell "ching!" among the rocks.
"take care!" said an imperious voice in greek.
"that's kyrios lindbohm," whispered panayota. "i know his voice."
"lindbohm don't know any greek," replied her companion.
"he could not be in crete one day without learning the word for 'take care!' i tell you it's lindbohm. who that has ever heard that voice could forget it? i should know it," murmured the girl, "if i heard it in my grave."
curtis was too excited to take note of the singular remark.
the men were now passing them quite close and several of them were conversing in low tones. the girl leaned forward, listening. then suddenly she called in a loud voice:
"patriotai, where are you?"
utter silence for several moments, broken at last by an inquiring "eh?" and the clicking of rifle locks.
"curtis, by damn! it's all right; come out!"
the american sprang eagerly forward, but stepped on a stone. then he leaped on to the back of the mule and panayota led the animal out into the highway and into the midst of a goodly company of armed insurgents, who forgot all discipline, and broke forth into a volley of questions.
the american and the lieutenant were shaking each other by the hand through it all.
"i saved her!" cried curtis. "i killed two turks and did up another. then we ran away on this mule. i cracked one of 'em on the head and shot another. i smashed one with my fist and took his gun away from him. then i--"
"so you saved panayota?"
"yes, i saved her, i tell you. i--"
"thank god! thank god!" cried lindbohm, throwing his arms about curtis' neck.
"where is my father?" asked panayota, in a shrill voice that pierced the bubble of questions, suddenly, awkwardly.
"her father is dead," said the lieutenant huskily. "we found his body. she must not know. poor girl! poor girl!"
"i blew a hole right through the last one and then we departed. we got here just in time, old man, for they're right behind us--the whole shooting-match."
"all the bashi bazouks--about fifty of 'em."
"good," cried lindbohm, "we'll ambush 'em. we'll give 'em hell!"
"we'll settle 'em, lindbohm. we'll lick 'em out of their boots. how many men have you got?"
"why, it's a cinch. we sha'n't let one of them get away alive. we'll shoot down the bashi bazouks and ride away on their horses."
when, half an hour later, the great, tranquil, yellow moon looked down upon the town of galata from a neighboring mountain top, all was seemingly peaceful in its desolate streets. save the dreadful figure nailed to the church door, not a human form was to be seen. and yet death and hate crouched there in the shadows, for lindbohm and his thirty men lurked in the ruined houses that surrounded the square, and whosoever looked closely might have seen here and there the dull gleam of a rifle barrel; but even then he would have suspected nothing, for the moonlight plays strange and fantastic tricks. curtis and lindbohm kneeled side by side at the same window, and panayota sat on the floor in a dark corner, clasping her knees with her hands and moaning gently, "o, my father, my little father!"
interminably they waited, listening for the sound of galloping horses. curtis' extreme tension passed away, and the situation suddenly assumed an unreal aspect in his thoughts. his knees began to feel bruised on the hard floor. he was strongly tempted to rise up and ease them.
"pshaw!" he said to lindbohm, "i don't believe they're coming, after all. i guess i'll go out and take a look."
"keep still!" replied the swede. "don't you stir on your life, and don't you speak a word aloud," and a moment after he added more pleasantly:
"they may send scouts on foot."
"michali was burned alive," said curtis, in a low tone, after another stretch of waiting, during which his knees had become the most important portions of his entire anatomy.
"i tried to save him, but kostakes--"
lindbohm seized him impatiently by the arm and whispered:
"tst, be quiet, can't you? do you want to spoil the whole thing? no, we rescued michali."
curtis worked himself to his feet, and sat upon his heels. the nightingales were singing in full chorus, and he wondered how anybody could hear anything in that infernal racket. the water in the fountain of petros nikolaides hissed and gurgled, and crashed like the waters of lodore.
curtis' new attitude became more painful than a spiked chair, and he slid back on his knees again. he sat down for awhile, but the desire to peep over the window sill was irresistible. finally, just as his knees had become boils, the swede touched him upon the shoulder, and he forgot them. the screeching of the nightingales, the hurtling of the fountain, were swallowed up in the dull and distant pounding of horses' hoofs.
"they're yust coming right into it," said lindbohm, in his natural tone. "kostakes, he's too mad to be careful. have you got a bayonet?"
"no, i forgot to take it. he was wearing it for a sword."
"here, take this gras and give me the mauser. you'll yust get all tangled up with that. the gras is simpler, and the bayonet, in the hands of a man who doesn't know how to use it, is a terrible weapon. give me your ammunition. thanks. here's my cartridge belt."
lindbohm was gay, with the gaiety of a child. he was about to play his favorite game, to indulge the innocent impulse of boys and of untutored men. the clatter came nearer, grew louder.
"do you know the orders?" he asked.
"each man is to pick out his mark and aim, but nobody is to shoot until i do. i shall take kostakes."
"i, too, to make sure of him. he needs killing."
"all right--now, ready!"
the galloping changed into the chug! chug! chug! of men sitting upon trotting horses. the moon had risen and had filled the trees and about half of the square with its silver snow. the battered features of petros nikolaides, the benefactor, were those of a frozen corpse. the horses could now be heard plainly staggering through the narrow, stony street. now was the time when lindbohm was cool. no detail escaped him.
"your gun is already cocked," he whispered. "aim just above the saddle--shoot when i say 'three.'"
"i'll hit him," replied curtis. "i'm an old squirrel hunter, i am."
kostakes trotted into the square, and, jerking his horse nearly to its haunches, whirled about to face his lieutenant and the bashi bazouks who debouched from the mouth of the street in twos and threes--a wild, motley, terrible throng. curtis aimed first at the captain's breast and then at his head. the intended victim was evidently in a vile temper, for he kept twitching viciously at the bridle rein, causing his tired animal to rear and throw its head in the air. the american was one moment aiming at the horse's neck and then at the marble corpse of petros nikolaides.
"will lindbohm never shoot?" he asked himself every time that the turk's form swung squarely in line with his gun. the bashi bazouks continued to pour into the square, sitting very straight, resting their short guns over their shoulders or on the necks of their horses.
"hup!" cried kostakes, flourishing his sword in the moonlight, and giving an order in turkish. the men began to fall into line, eight abreast.
"one!" whispered lindbohm. curtis glued his cheek to the rifle barrel, and aimed full at the breast of kostakes, who was now sitting quietly upon his horse.
"i've got you, i've got you," he said in thought.
"two!" he tightened his finger on the trigger, when "bang!" went the gun of an impatient greek on the other side of the square, and one of the bashi bazouks pitched from his saddle. lindbohm sprang to his feet, with a roar of rage that was cut in two by the terrific clatter of the rifles that were now spitting fire from more than a dozen doors and windows. one sound had wailed out between the first shot and the volley, as vivid as a lightning flash between thunder claps,--panayota, fatigued beyond human endurance, had fallen asleep as soon as she found herself again in the hands of her friends, and the sound of the gun, breaking in upon her overwrought nerves, had drawn from her a long piercing shriek.
"bravo! panayota!" said curtis. "two to one frightened him away. but why didn't you shoot?"
"i wanted to get close and make sure," replied the girl, "and then, when he ran, you were in the way."
slipping a fresh shell into his gras, curtis picked his way through the stones toward a distant spot where he heard continued firing. panayota attempted to follow, but he stopped her with a wave of the hand.
"i'll be right back," he shouted, "as soon as i get another shot. you're safe here."
he left her standing in the deserted square, among the dead turks. the moon shone full upon her there, leaning toward him, holding her gun by the extreme muzzle, the butt trailing behind on the ground. her hair blew into her eyes, and she tossed a great brush of it over her shoulder. a wounded horse rose to its haunches near her and threw its fore feet dangerously about. then it pitched over on its side with a groan.
"my god! panayota!" it flashed over curtis in a moment. the greeks had scattered too much and the turks, getting together in small parties, were returning to the attack. while he was still in the crooked lane, making frantic haste toward panayota, he heard a shot in the square. his heart stood still for one moment with terror, which instantly gave way to fury. a woman's scream, mingled with brutal laughter, told him that the girl had again been made a prisoner. when he at last reached the square, the six bashi bazouks had gone, taking her with them.
a friend worth having
curtis sat down upon the edge of the fountain. there was a faint smell of powder in the air. he heard a shot now and again in the distance. a bugle sounded. fortunately no more of the bashi bazouks passed through the square.
"gone!" said curtis; "gone!"
the greeks began to come in, talking excitedly and gesticulating like madmen. they seemed to be in high spirits. they gathered about curtis, and, pointing at the dead bodies, all talked at once. they enraged him. he could hardly resist the desire to jump up and lay about among them with the butt of his musket. lindbohm pushed his way through the crowd. holding his gun in his left hand, he brought the right to his forehead, saluting gaily with the imaginary sword.
"well, my friend, we had a little fun with them, didn't we? the ambush, however, would have been more of a success had the men obeyed my orders. if i had my way i would yust shoot a soldier who disobeyed orders. still, we taught them a lesson. we have killed, let me see how many, one two, three--
"hell!" interrupted curtis, rising suddenly.
"what!" said lindbohm, turning upon him, "what's the matter?"
lindbohm clutched at the shoulder of a bystanding insurgent.
"panayota!" he gasped.
"huh! where were you? eh? where were you? here they came, six of 'em, right down here, and the girl and i all alone. what could i do, one against six? you're a healthy soldier, you are--scatter all over the country! lindbohm, you're to blame for this. you've got to answer to me--somebody's got to settle for this." flinging his rifle down among the stones, he turned his back contemptuously and limped toward one of the houses. a kindly insurgent sprang to his assistance.
"right up through there they went, carrying her with them. four men could have stopped 'em. where were you, damn you?" and, pushing the insurgent from him, he shook his fist in his face. "get out of my sight, get out!" he cried.
"they don't feel this thing about panayota as badly as lindbohm and i do," soliloquized curtis. "poor old lindbohm! i'll tell him i'm in love with panayota, and then he'll see how foolish it is for him to take on so. he ought to stand it if i can."
the insurgent detached the other boot and brought the pair to him.
"will those fit?" he asked. "good boots."
curtis took the boots and went over to the drinking fountain. he patted lindbohm on the back. "cheer up, old man," he said. "they can't get away from us. there's another day coming."
it was impossible to get the boot upon the sore foot, so one of the insurgents cut it off at the ankle and slit it down nearly to the toe. then he punched a number of holes, and curtis was able, by means of a string, to lace on this improvised shoe. as the leather was soft, it proved very comfortable. lindbohm staggered to his feet, stretched himself like a man awakening from sleep, and ran his finger through his blonde pompadour.
the swede started violently.
"you have made court to her?" he asked.
"why, i told her that i loved her--yes, yes, several times."
"and, pardon me, she said that she loved you?"
"now that you ask me, i don't believe she did. no, she didn't. but i didn't have much time, you see."
lindbohm held out his big, soft hand, and, as curtis grasped it, said:
"we will not turn back; we will find panayota. and if kostakes has insulted her we will punish him, though he flee to the ends of the earth."
"old man, you're a friend worth having," cried curtis, wringing the hand which he held. "i'll never forget this till the last day of my life."
one of the insurgents, a former resident of canea, spoke some french. it was through the medium of this man that lindbohm had communicated with his troop thus far. he called him now and told him to get the men together, as they must march. he feared lest kostakes, surmising the smallness of their numbers, might return to the attack.
a glittering esplanade
europeanism, that bubbles up in the tailor shops of regent street, and pours its thin coating of dull color on the heels of the ever advancing british musket, has not yet washed over the island of crete. the akoond of swat has donned a sack-coated suit of blue serge and a straw hat; the cousins of native princes go down to the government offices with brown linen on their backs and buddha in their hearts; fuzzy-wuzzy is cutting his hair--his samson locks--and buying cork helmets. and the missionary is picking his way through the corpses left in the trail of the machine gun, bringing christ and calico to the survivors. they are putting pantaloons on the bronze statues of the desert, and are sending the piquant apples of the tree of knowledge wrapped up in bundles of mother hubbards, to the naked maidens of the south sea isles.
but crete, beautiful crete, is the one corner of the globe which the dull, tame wave of european fashion has not yet touched and commonized. the esplanade of canea to-day, fronting the harbor, is the most picturesque, fantastic, kaleidoscopic spot on earth. here commingle, swarm, interweave, huddle, scatter, pass and repass, costumes from the greek islands, from the provinces of asia minor, from the oases and nomad tents of africa, from persia and the farthest east. the traveler's first view of canea, from the rowboat that takes him ashore, is a half moon of white houses, splashed with red, terra cotta, yellow and striped awnings, and beneath, a squirming, ever-changing mass of bright turbans and sashes, fluttering black and yellow robes, naked limbs and chests--and donkeys; moth-eaten donkeys laden with sacks, goatskins of honey and cheese, huge panniers of green vegetables. there on the right, in letters that can be read a mile away, is the name of a café dedicated "au concert européen." this is a bait for the foreigners attached to the half-dozen steel hulks floating out yonder in the sea, pointing ever shoreward their great guns that seem to whisper:
"be good. don't kill each other, or we'll kill you all."
all europeans are supposed to speak french. several of the cafés announce their business in more than one tongue: greek, turkish, english, italian. under the awning of one sits a group of elderly mohammedans, smoking their bubbling narghiles and reading the tiny local sheet; these are stout gentlemen in fezzes, pillars of islam, faithful husbands of harems. they have kindly faces and are really good-hearted men whom no provocation, save that of religion, could induce to cut your throat. you sit down and a bare-legged waiter, whose fez and braid-trimmed jacket are sadly faded, "zigzags" among the chairs, like a fly through raindrops, and stands at your side, the very incarnation of silent and respectful inquiry. you are tired and you say:
"some cognac and brown soda." the waiter looks distressed, puzzled.
"cognac," you repeat, "cognac and cold water, then."
he casts his eye over the group of pillars, and one of them, the fattest and most benevolent appearing, carefully wipes the mouthpiece of his narghile and hands the tube to his nearest neighbor. the latter accepts the trust with a grave bow; it is his duty now to give the pipe an occasional pull, that it may not go out during his friend's absence.
the proprietor of the café, for it is he, approaches you. he bends low, with a sign as though pressing his hand upon the earth, then, straightening, he touches his heart, his lips, his forehead. it is a most graceful and courteous salutation; it is the greeting of the very heart of the east--the salaam.
"we have no cognac nor any intoxicating liquor," he explains in tolerable french. "this is a mohammedan café. you can get spirituous drinks yonder at the greek café."
"ah, but we have no desire to change. we are thirsty. surely he has something to quench thirst?"
"certainly, many things, as for instance, cherry water, lemonade, almond water. a cup of turkish coffee or a piece of loukoumi with a glass of cold spring water, are also good things to quench the thirst."
you decide upon cherry water, an excellent drink made from stirring a quantity of preserved sour cherries into a glass of cold water, and mine host returns to his narghile.
a priest of islam passes; he, too, in a graceful robe that falls to the ground from his shoulders. a thick turban encircles his brow. he is tall and slender one moment, corpulent the next, according as the wind inflates his robe or escapes and allows it to collapse.
what a feast of color! and you notice that somehow these changing combinations always result in harmonies. one feels the same effect as though he were listening to a clash of barbarous instruments in a sweet, wild melody of the desert.
there goes a chocolate-colored nubian, in a terra cotta tunic, carrying a shining copper kettle under each arm. his glistening feet and legs are bare.
that bronze-skinned arab yonder in the white turban must be a very old man, for his beard and hair are as white as the wool on a sheep that is newly washed and ready for the shearer; yet he is straight and lithe as a figure on a french clock, and his skin is exactly the same color. he wears a bright red sash about his waist and walks with a staff as tall as himself. red fezzes everywhere and turbans of all bright hues.
but we must have another cherry water--vicinada--and move into the shade.
now, who are these somber-looking creatures, coming across the square? if there were any such thing on earth they would be agents of the spanish inquisition. but that horror does not exist even in turkey. through the warm yellow sun they move, slowly, silently, muffled all in black, with black umbrellas above their heads--shapeless, sepulchral figures. on the black veil that covers each face are painted white eyes, a nose and a mouth; or a palm tree or other device. they stroll by us talking in whispers, but a silvery girlish laugh, stifled almost in its birth, betrays them. ah, sweet demons, we know you now! these are nuns of love, houris of the harem. who knows what sweet faces, merry eyes, red lips, warm and yielding forms masquerade in those forbidding garments? we know you now; not all the disguises ever invented by fanaticism and jealousy can cover the roguish features of love. that one little, stifled laugh conjured up more poetry and romance than could be read in a summer's holiday--the arabian nights, don juan, and the vision of dudu; the song of the bulbul in old gardens, dangerous trystings in the shadow of the cypress trees; tom moore in a city office, dreaming of camel bells and the minarets of ispahan.
donkeys. out from under the low stone arches they come, or down the straggling narrow street, slipping and staggering over the greasy cobblestones, yet never falling. there is one driven by a cretan boy, another by a jet black nubian, with thick lips and shell-white teeth, another by a shuffling greek monk in dirty robe. each in his own outlandish way curses and threatens his animal, but the stick falls with the same rattling thwack on the bony ribs, whether wielded by christian or turk. look at the loads which the donkeys bear in their immense, squeaking baskets, and you will gain some idea of the fertility of this garden spot of the world, harried though it be by oppression and bloodshed. we see borne by or arranged in heaps yonder on the pavement, great quantities of cucumbers, artichokes, beans, cauliflower, garlic, tomatoes, courgets, eggplant, medlars, apricots, cherries, and those various wild greens which are so delicious, but which cannot be bought in the cities of america for love or money. if you ask the price of any of these crisp, tender vegetables or fruits dewy fresh, you will find that one penny will go as far as twenty-five would among the stale, withered and niggardly exhibits of chicago--the emporium of the great mississippi valley and the hub of a hundred railroads. but there is no cabbage trust in crete, and the donkey route has no board of directors to fix the price of freight.
it is evident that the sea is no less prodigal of her riches here than the land, for ragged urchins dart by every few moments carrying fine catches of fish, strung upon strands of tenacious reed; mullets that gleam like gold in the sun, silvery mackerel, still quivering with life and glittering with dripping brine, baskets of white-bait, leaping upon a bed of green sea-grass; echini and huge lobsters without claws.
such is canea, below its many colored awnings. cast your eye above them and you see the square white houses of a greek town. look higher up, and there is the grecian sky, the same sky that looked down upon the birth of jove and the giving of cretan law, upon the flitting sail that brought the yearly tribute of youths and maidens from athens, upon the knightly vengeance of theseus, striding down the labyrinth, all clad in ringing mail. centuries of oppression may drag their slow length along, the children of the desert may come and go as they will, but that chaste sweet sky is patiently waiting above. and beneath it is greece.
"whew!" she said, "it's hot." then, raising her head, she sniffed the air sharply, eagerly.
"allah be praised!" she exclaimed. "i believe that ayesha is roasting coffee."
the thought accelerated her footsteps to such an extent that the rapid sliding of her slippers on the path sounded like the preparatory steps of a jig dancer in the sand box.
"yes, that's from our court, surely. i do hope it's nearly ready to grind. what's so delicious as a cup of fresh coffee and a glass of cold water when one is hot and thirsty?"
the aroma certainly proceeded from a garden which the turkish woman was now approaching, and as she arrived at the massive gate in the high adobe wall the sound of a coffee roaster in motion could plainly be heard within. souleima gave the boy a penny, whereupon he set up such a loud and voluble protest that she was obliged to give him five paradhes more, with a threat to open the gate and let out an imaginary dog of fearful biting powers if he did not instantly depart. the boy out of the way, souleima knocked upon the gate and cried.
"ayesha, ferende! let me in!"
"go open the gate, it's souleima," said a voice within.
"go yourself. when did i become a door opener?"
"bah! don't you see i can't leave the coffee? it'll burn."
the sound of a rattling chain, and a woman peeped out, holding a black veil over the lower part of her face. souleima entered, shutting and locking the gate after her.
"whew!" she exclaimed, pulling off her veil with the finger and thumb of the hand that now held the sheaf of lettuce.
"it's hot outside. you two ought to be thankful to me, running around in the sun for you, while you sit here in the cool shade."
"very cool it is here by this fire," retorted ayesha. "it's ferende who is the lady these days. never mind, my girl, when panayota comes to her senses you will have to work like your betters. you're getting fat, too, and kostakes is tired of fat women. isn't she getting fat, my souleima?"
the lady appealed to made no reply, but, going over to the water faucet that projected from a marble slab built into one side of the wall, hung the string of fish from the iron cock, laid the lettuce in the stone basin beneath, and turned on a thin stream of cold water.
ayesha and souleima are about of an age--thirty. they are both fat, dark and greasy, with black eyes and black hair. their lips are thick and their teeth not too good. their complexions are muddy and their faces somewhat pimpled. ferende is a strapping albanian girl, about panayota's age, though of coarser build. like the beautiful greek who is under lock and key upstairs, she has soft brown hair and brown eyes, set wide apart in her head.
it is easy to see that things are not running smoothly in kostakes' harem, and the reason is this: until recently ferende has been the favorite, and the two elder wives have been little more than her servants. the appearance of panayota has led them to believe that a new mistress will soon be established in the household, and they are looking forward with great delight to the degradation of ferende. the latter, fearing her own downfall, has not openly declared war against her two associates, but is racking her brain night and day in search of some method by which to enlist them with her against panayota.
ayesha now sits with her bare feet crossed under her, upon a rug spread on the earthen floor of the court. before her is a charcoal fire, suspended over which on two crotches driven into the ground is a thing like a section of stove pipe, closed at the ends. an iron rod, running lengthwise of this contrivance, rests upon the crotches and is bent at one extremity into a crank.
souleima removes her outer garments and appears arrayed like her sisters, in baggy breeches drawn tight about the ankle, and a loose fitting shirt. she kicks off her slippers and walks in her stockinged feet to the coffee roaster.
"is it ready yet, ayesha?" she asks, opening a little door in one side of the cylinder, and letting out a black cloud of aroma.
"can i take out enough for one little cup?"
"you might find enough for two while you are about it."
"yes, even for three. poor ferende, she will soon have to grind her own coffee, and panayota's, too."
souleima produced a wooden spoon from the drawer of a pine table standing beneath the garden's one mulberry tree, and dipped a quantity of the brown smoking berries into one of those cylindrical brass mills which are sold by wandering gypsies to the housewives of the orient. sitting on the table's edge, she grasped the mill with her left hand and firmly embedded one end of it in the fat of her corpulent stomach, while she turned the tiny crank with her right.
the ladies of kostakes' household could converse or carry on their domestic vocations without fear of intruding eyes. the wall was very high, and the one house near enough to overlook it had no windows on that side. a pleasant place was that enclosure, albeit two long, shallow, rectangular tubs leaned against the wall of the house, taking the place of the legendary guitar. they were washtubs, and upon them ayesha and souleima from time to time played the stern music of necessity. a huge copper kettle, with a very black bottom, stood near, another adjunct of the home laundry. in the middle of the court was a stone basin, into which water ran through a tiny channel from the hydrant in the wall.
"na!" said souleima, unscrewing the top of the mill and looking inside, "that will be enough, i think. we'll have a cup of coffee first, and then some dinner, out here under the tree. look at those fish. did you ever see finer barbounia? what do you think i paid an oke for them?"
"ninety paradhes," suggested ayesha.
"only eighty. i bought them of a greek. ferende, clean them, that's a good girl, while i make a cup of coffee."
"clean them yourself. i shall tell the effendi of these insults when he comes, and he will make you suffer for them."
"poor ferende!" cackled souleima. "he will take off those silk trousers and put them on panayota. but you shouldn't complain now that your turn has come. better people than you have been through the same thing."
"if you ever went through it," snapped ferende, "it was so long ago you can't remember it," and rising disdainfully, she walked into the house. souleima raised the coffee mill as though to hurl it after her, and then thinking better of the act, let her hand fall to her side.
"maybe she'll be able to warm kostakes over again," she reflected aloud.
"i don't believe it," replied ayesha. "he's crazy about this greek. i never saw him like this before."
"then why does he----"
"i don't know. perhaps he wants the girl to love him."
"bah! she'll love him fast enough after he breaks her spirit."
souleima filled a long-handled brass dipper from the hydrant and put into the water the coffee, ground fine as dust, together with four teaspoonfuls of sugar. then, screening her face with her left hand, she kneeled in front of the fire and held the dipper in the coals until its contents boiled over. ayesha lifted the smoking cylinder from the crotches and, shaking it violently for a moment, set it up against the side of the house.
"shall i bring two cups or three?" she called from the door of the kitchen.
"only two. let ferende make her own coffee."
"hadn't i better call her?"
"you'll only get insulted if you do. the nasty cat!"
a hopeless prisoner
panayota was walking to and fro in a room whose one window looked straight against the blank wall of a house not ten feet distant. a grating of iron bars prevented her escape in that direction and the door was locked. she was very pale and there were deep circles under her eyes. she was muttering as one distracted. occasionally she raised her eyes and hands to heaven.
"dear little virgin, all holy one, save me from this infamy, from the pollution of the turk. save me in any way, help me to escape or to die!"
after each prayer she stood listening, as though waiting for an immediate response--some miraculous intervention in her behalf. often seized by utter despair, she sank her fingers deep into her thick brown locks, and cried:
"no help, no help, o god! o god!"
at every sound of a footstep without, or of any commotion in the court below, her pale face grew paler, and she trembled with fear and revulsion. she was expecting kostakes. for a week now the girl had been shut up in this manner. kostakes had left her in the care of his harem, with stern commands that she be kindly treated and all her wants supplied. ayesha and souleima had derived much pleasure from attending upon panayota, as though she were indeed a member of the harem and their lord's favorite; for thus they caused ferende, whom they cordially hated, much unhappiness. it seemed to panayota that she had been in captivity an age. for the first three or four days she had hoped for a rescue by lindbohm and curtis and their band of insurgents. time and again the wild scenes which she had witnessed passed through her mind as she stood with hands clasped and eyes half closed in the middle of the floor. she saw again the impetuous swede chasing ampates out of town because the scoundrel had wished to give her up; she saw curtis standing before her with his smoking rifle, while the fallen turk, his features still twitching in the death agony, lay at her feet.
but as the days passed and no help came, her keen hope faded into the blackness of despair.
"they cannot find me," she moaned; "perhaps they're dead. perhaps they think i have yielded to the turk, and they despise me. do they not know that i would die first?" whenever she thought of death, her mind involuntarily sought for some method by which she could accomplish it, if worst came to worst. to hold her breath, to plunge her head against the side of the wall, to strangle herself with a strip torn from her bed clothing,--all these ideas suggested themselves. and as often as she thought of self-destruction, there rose to memory a slender white shaft that had frequently been pointed out to her in childhood. for there had once been a suicide in her native village, and the body had been buried in a lonely place on a hill, far away from the holy comradeship, the blessed crosses and the benediction of god's acre. this isolated tomb had made a great impression on her childish mind. she and the other children had always crossed themselves when they saw it, and they never mentioned the dead man's name. it seemed a terrible thing not to be buried in consecrated ground.
a promise of help
"i wonder if that greek will come to her senses and supplant me?" mused ferende. "if she keeps on at her present rate kostakes will soon get over his infatuation. lord! but she's growing ugly, with that sallow complexion and those big black marks under her eyes. she never saw the day she was half as beautiful as i am."
going to panayota's room, she took down the key that was hanging outside the door and went in. locking the door on the inside she stood for a moment looking at the girl, who sat on the side of the bed, her face buried in her hands. panayota glanced up when ferende first entered and then took no further notice of her visitor. she knew that this was the favorite, although ferende, consulting her dignity, had had little to say to her.
"panayota," very sweetly, "i am your friend. i, too, am a greek, and was brought up in the greek religion, but the turks killed my father and mother and took me away when i was very young. i cannot help being what i am, but if i were in your place, i would let them kill me before they should turn me into a turk. and you a priest's daughter, too!"
a sudden wild hope thrilled panayota's bosom. she sprang to her feet and ran toward ferende with arms outstretched.
"the holy virgin bless you! so you have come to set me free?"
now ferende could not do this, however much she would have liked. could ayesha and souleima once fix upon her the blame of having disobeyed a command of their common husband, no subsequent wiles could save her from complete degradation.
"o, i dare not set you free now," she faltered, somewhat embarrassed by the suddenness of the demand, "but--"
"then save me, holy virgin!" cried panayota, the bright gleam of hope dying within her, leaving her soul darker than before. "there is no other help for me. aren't you ashamed, coming here to mock me? what else do i want except to get out of this place. you say you are a greek, and i believe you are. but what could i expect from you? you are worse than a turk, for their women believe at least that they are honestly married. but you--you are a common thing."
ferende winced under this torrent of abuse, but there was a certain point which she wished to make sure.
"you talk very bravely now, my lady," she replied. "many greek girls have talked like that before. it's easy for a girl to remain christian as long as she can save her honor, but after that is gone the christians are more cruel than the turks. then the only way to remain respectable is to turn turk."
"i swear to you by the soul of my father, whom kostakes murdered, that i will die before i will yield!" cried panayota.
ferende with difficulty suppressed an exclamation of joy. simulating sorrow, she laid her hand on panayota's shoulder and murmured:
"did kostakes kill your father? forgive me, panayota, for speaking so harshly, but you were very hard on me. now we can sympathize with each other, indeed. both my parents were murdered by the turks. i must go now, but remember i am your friend. hold out against kostakes and i will find some way to help you."
she turned to leave the room, but panayota caught her by the sleeve.
"help me to escape from here," she sobbed. "i beg of you in the name of your christian mother, and i will pray the virgin every night to bless you."
ferende locked the door behind her and hung up the key.
"kostakes will have a sorry time with her," she soliloquized, and she went down stairs humming a popular greek song.
finding ayesha and souleima still in the court, exchanging gallant confidences, she strolled up to them with the insolent air of a queen.
"get up, you women," she said, "and prepare dinner."
poor ayesha and souleima looked inquiringly into each other's eyes. thus was ferende wont to act after some special mark of kostakes' favor had inflated her confidence. they arose slowly. the favorite jerked away the rug and spread it in the shade of the mulberry tree. sitting upon it, she removed her gold embroidered slippers and crossed her stockinged feet beneath her. as the two older wives glanced at her, their hearts sank within them. she certainly did not have the appearance of a deposed queen. her eyes, recently treated with belladonna, had a melting, lustrous look. the little dash of henna under the lower fringe of lashes added a touch of abandon. her trousers of magenta silk, and her sleeveless purple jacket embroidered with gold thread, were immaculate, save for a loose hair or two, or a speck of dust, which she removed with dainty finger tips. twisted carelessly about her waist, with the knotted ends hanging loosely at one side, was a broad sash with yellow and magenta stripes. passing her hand beneath this, she extracted a silver cigarette case. putting a brown cigarette no larger in diameter than a slate pencil, into her mouth, she called out lazily between her closed teeth:
"ayesha, bring a match and light my cigarette," and ayesha, with a muttered moslem imprecation, obeyed.
pride and its fall
alas, for human greatness! a horseman trotting along the stony street drew up in front of the gate with a sudden cessation of the jingling of a saber and the rattling of trappings. two musket butts struck the ground simultaneously, as the two sentries at the gate finished their salute. ayesha dropped the fish which she was cleaning at the hydrant, wiped her hands upon her dirty apron and tore it from her waist. souleima set a little pile of dishes upon the table and tried to pat her straggling hair into place. a heavy hand, supplemented by a cavalry boot, shook the gate till the fastenings rattled.
"merciful allah, the effendi!" screamed ayesha and souleima under the breath, and they both rushed to the gate, but they were too good turks to open without inquiring sweetly:
"who is it?"
"it's i, kostakes. open the gate before i kick it down."
"he's angry!" whispered souleima, undoing the fastenings.
kostakes paid no attention to the low salaams of his two wives. he strode into the middle of the garden and, plucking off his sword, cried fiercely:
"here! some of you lazy women, take my sword. ayesha, bring me a chair. souleima, fetch my slippers."
he sank into the proffered chair with a sigh of satisfaction. the effendi had been riding hard and was evidently tired. he was uncomfortable too, and needed a bath and grooming. a prickly black beard had grown upon his square chin, and perspiration had made little water courses in the dust upon his dark brown cheeks. he laid his right foot upon his left knee, slapped his hands side by side upon the high boot tops, and swept the court with inquiring eye.
"barbounia, eh?" he inquired of ayesha, as his glance fell upon the string of half cleaned mullets.
"are they fresh, eh? are they fresh?"
"fresh, effendi? they are alive."
"brava, brava!" there was a softer note to his voice. "well, get 'em ready; i haven't had anything to eat in twelve hours."
"yes, effendi; immediately, effendi."
ayesha trotted over to the hydrant and began scaling the mullets with commendable zeal.
kostakes seized the heel and toe of his boot and gave an ineffectual tug. then he glanced about the court again. souleima had not yet returned with the slippers.
ayesha was scratching away at the fish as though she were trying to break a record. the effendi glanced sharply at ferende! from mere force of habit he had not ordered her to do anything. in the stress of fatigue and immediate necessity, he had turned naturally to the two old wheel-horses of his harem. ferende was holding her cigarette between two fingers of her left hand, and was gazing up into the mulberry tree with affected unconcern. her lips were slightly parted and a little red spot glowed angrily in each cheek. at another time kostakes might have thought her beautiful, but a new idol had been set up in his heart, crowding poor ferende into the stale limbo of ex-favorites.
"here, you," he called harshly, "come and pull off my boots."
ayesha glanced over her shoulder at her lord and master. he was plainly not looking at her. she turned her face to the wall and chuckled.
"do you hear?" shouted kostakes. "throw away that cigarette and come here."
ferende turned as pale as death, but called to ayesha, sweetly:
"don't you hear the effendi, ayesha? run!"
"none of that, you lazy drab! who is master in this house, you or i? come and pull off my boots or i'll cut blood out of you!"
ferende obeyed, with a half counterfeit of a smile upon her pale lips, and revenge in her heart.
"how long before dinner will be ready?" kostakes called to ayesha.
"about twenty minutes, effendi."
"call me as soon as it is ready. i shall be up in panayota's room."
then an idea came to ferende. she threw away her cigarette, crossed the court and disappeared in the house. souleima ran after, and hiding behind the wall, peeped within. she saw ferende step out of her slippers and tiptoe up the stairs towards the room into which kostakes had just disappeared. souleima waited until she was out of sight and then followed.
ayesha, overcome by woman's curiosity, that passion which fears neither death nor shame, clapped the fish, now ready for the pan, into a drawer of the table.
"i must know what's going on," she muttered, as she stole into the house.
against the common enemy
panayota was lying face down upon the bed, but when she heard heavy footsteps in the hall and the scratching of the key upon the door, as some one outside fumbled at the lock, she sprang to her feet and backed to the wall at the farther side of the room. she cast her eyes about the bare, dim room, as though there must be some way of escape, moaning, meanwhile:
"little virgin, save me! o, my god, what shall i do?"
when kostakes entered he found her thus, her fists clenched, her lips white. she was looking at him, with great eyes of fear and horror, and she scarcely seemed to breathe. there was in her attitude the alertness of a hunted cat, that hopes to make a sudden dash for liberty and to escape even at the last moment.
"in the name of allah, panayota," he said tenderly, "why are you so frightened? have i not told you i would not touch a hair of your head?"
she made no reply, but slid along the wall, with her eyes fixed on the open door. he turned with an exclamation of impatience, shut it with a slam, locked it and put the key in his pocket.
"na!" he said, "don't think of escaping. try to fix your mind on what i am going to say to you. in the first place, i swear to you by my hopes of salvation that i mean you no harm. now listen to me!--i love you, panayota."
"is that why you murdered my father?"
"why do you say that i murdered your father?"
"bring him to me alive, and then i shall know that you did not."
"you ask an impossible thing, panayota. he is probably among the sphakiote mountains by this time, and you know there aren't troops enough in all turkey to get him out."
"then i'll tell you what you do," cried panayota eagerly, advancing a step or two. "let me go and find him. i'll return here to canea with him. honestly i will, honestly--and you shall come and talk to me all you like."
kostakes gave his mustache an impatient twist.
"to let you go, after all the trouble i've had getting you? o, no, panayota. you're mine, by allah! and whoever takes you away from me must kill me first. you don't know how i love you, i could never tell you. listen. there isn't a drop of turkish blood in me. my grandfather became a turk because--because of circumstances, to save his life. i am the son of a greek mother and she used to sing greek lullabies to me in my cradle." he was talking very fast now. "i have always said i would turn christian some time, and when i saw you, i made up my mind to do it right away. i have heard great news. everybody says that the powers have decided to give the island to the king of greece. then there will be no more turks here. they will either go away or become orthodox. say you'll marry me, panayota, and i'll get rid of my harem, and we'll go before the priest--"
"o, you turk," she cried, "you cowardly turk! you needn't grind your teeth at me. i'm not afraid of death. it's only your vile love that i fear."
kostakes raised his doubled fists above his head and brought them down with such violence that an involuntary "ah!" escaped him.
"by god, girl, you would drive a saint crazy," he cried. "here i am offering to change my religion and put away my harem, and all for you, and i get nothing out of you but an insult. don't you know that you are in my power, and i can do with you what i please? no cursed foreigner will rescue you this time. he did not know enough to keep you when he had you, and i'll see that he doesn't get another chance. i want you to love me as i love you. panayota, i've made an honorable offer. i leave you to think it over. but make up your mind to this--you're mine, and i'll never give you up while i live."
when kostakes stepped into the court again, souleima was blowing up the coals in a little charcoal stove, home-made from an american petroleum can. ayesha, standing by the table, called out in a stage whisper, plainly audible throughout the enclosure:
"the effendi comes," and pulled the fish from the drawer.
"isn't dinner ready yet?" he snarled; "what have you lazy women been doing?"
"all ready, effendi," replied ayesha. "we couldn't fry the barbounia till you came. they are better hot. souleima, bring the olive oil and the salt. in two minutes, effendi."
"got any wine?" asked kostakes, as the platter of steaming fish was set before him.
"wine, effendi, in a turkish house?"
"yes, wine; if you've got any, bring it on, i am tired and thirsty."
"i think ferende has some," suggested souleima. "she drinks like a fish."
"umph! and i don't suppose you help her?"
"effendi, i swear--" commenced souleima.
"i don't even know the taste of it," protested ayesha.
"silence, silence! and bring me some. and look here," as the decanter was set before him, "if i ever hear a lisp about my wine drinking i'll wring the necks of both of you--cackling old hens that you are. and now send ferende to wait on me, and get out of my sight, the two of you. you take my appetite away. she at least is not a greasy old slattern."
after the effendi had eaten he betook himself to his chamber in search of much needed rest. ferende followed him, but he pushed her from him, saying in a querulous and disgusted tone:
"get away from me, can't you? darken the room and go. shut the door, and if any of you women make a noise--eh, there, listen!"
"yes, effendi." ferende had nearly closed the door, but she opened it a little way and thrust her face back into the room.
"don't take panayota up those cold fish. fry her some hot ones, and give her some wine."
the ex-favorite found the two elder wives whispering together in the garden.
she walked straight up to them.
"let's be friends," she said. "we're all in the same boat, and must work together. in fact, you are worse off than i am, for i am younger and better looking than either of you!"
this was not conciliatory language, but it accorded so well with what the two women had just been saying to each other, that they could make no reply. each looked inquiringly at the other for a moment, and then souleima asked:
"do you think he is in earnest?"
"absolutely. he would have no reason to parley with the girl, else. she is in his power."
"we shall all be turned into the street," said ayesha.
"he would never dare," cried souleima. "he has nothing against us. we are faithful, honest wives. it would make too great a scandal."
"he will find a way," replied ferende, coolly.
"what shall we do? o, what shall we do?" sobbed the two elder wives. poor things! they had no virgin to take refuge with.
"if she should fall ill and die!" suggested souleima.
ferende started violently and turned pale. "no!" she cried, so loud that all three of them glanced apprehensively at the windows. then lowering her voice:
"don't ever think of such a thing again. it's too dangerous. she must escape."
"but the effendi would kill us even for that."
"it must be done in such a way that he will never suspect us."
a hero and a six-inch shell
"we must yust take our chances," said lindbohm. "how far is it from here to the blockhouse?"
curtis was lying on his stomach behind a rock, with his rifle beside him.
"about sixty or seventy rods," he replied.
"rods? what is a rod?" asked lindbohm.
the yankee laughed.
"the fort is--let me see, between three hundred and four hundred yards from here."
there was a puff of smoke from a window of the square, gray building, followed a moment later by a distant report, and the humming of a guitar string in the air above their heads. curtis lay down again.
"damn bad shot," observed his companion. "makes me sick after being in south africa. if that had been a boer now, he would have hit you. but these turks cannot shoot. so we will make a rush. we will have our best shots crawl in close and fire on the doors and windows. then i take a detachment and run in. when the turks appear we drop down, and our men fire another volley. then we yump up and make another dash. so we take it."
"how many are there of 'em?" asked curtis. lindbohm smiled, and raising his big pink hand to his blonde mustache, gave it a playful pull.
"it takes yust one good, big battle to break a man of that," observed the lieutenant.
"looking after the bullets. they sing all sorts of tunes, and sometimes they only whisper, but they always say the same thing--death, death."
the attacking party spread out into a line with distances of ten feet or more between the men. lindbohm held out his hand to curtis.
"au revoir, my friend," he said, fixing his innocent blue eyes upon the american. "you better stay here. this is a little dangerous, and you got a mother, you know."
the men were lying upon their stomachs; lindbohm's left elbow rested upon the ground, his chin supported by the left hand. as he spoke, he pushed out his right arm toward curtis and the two men clasped hands. the american was thrilled by a great revelation of affection for the swede--his eyes were so childlike, his voice so tender, and his smile so sad and sweet; he had lost the handkerchief that had been tied about his head, and his pompadour had fallen down in spots, like a wheat field upon which fragments of wind have dropped here and there. he was very much in earnest now, as nervously he swept one end of his great blonde mustache between his teeth with the tip of his tongue, and inquired:
"eh? is it not so? we must remember the little mother."
"do you think i'd go back on a friend in a time like this?" asked curtis indignantly. "but, see here, lindbohm, since you're uneasy about me, you'll find my address in my pocket. if anything happens to me, write to my folks. and--and, about panayota--"
lindbohm dropped the hand that he was holding, and the color faded out from beneath the dust and grime upon his face.
"tell her i meant what i said to her that day, every word of it. i--i--, she'll understand."
lindbohm made no reply, but still resting upon his left elbow, he slid his face down into his great soft hand, and remained silent for so long a time that an italian called impatiently from a little distance:
then he looked up suddenly and again seized curtis by the hand.
"you are not going," he said sternly. "i am in command here, and i order you to stay back."
before the american had a chance to reply half a dozen guns roared from a covert near by, a dozen more followed as rapidly as the sound of a boy trailing a stick along a picket fence, and then for a full moment the firing continued as capriciously as the explosions of a bunch of fire crackers. it ceased, and lindbohm, bending low, was running toward the blockhouse. he had not got more than ten yards away before the others were darting after him.
"o, damn his orders!" muttered curtis and scrambling to his feet, he ran so rapidly forward that he passed two or three of the italians, and had nearly reached lindbohm's side when he heard a sound as though the man behind him had stepped on a bundle of dry twigs. turning, he saw the poor fellow lying upon his side, bent like a bow. he was clutching the calf of his left leg with both hands and grinning. his shin had been shattered by a ball. somebody fell upon curtis and bore him to earth, and immediately there was a crash and rattle of rifles behind and all around him. the man at his side took deliberate aim at somebody and fired. curtis followed his example and shot at one of the windows of the blockhouse. there was a lull and they dashed forward again. curtis kept his eye on lindbohm this time, and pitched forward upon his face when he saw the swede do likewise. they ran but a short distance each time, but the third spurt brought them half way to their destination. lindbohm now kept straight on, stopping every moment to aim and fire. the others followed his example and they were able thus to keep advancing, and none the less to maintain a fusillade against the doors and windows of the turkish stronghold. they were still ten or twelve rods away, when a white flag appeared on the roof. lindbohm turned and motioned to his companions, who gathered about him. they walked fearlessly through the open door, into the front room of a square stone building. a thin-faced, gray-haired officer in a faded fez, came forward to meet them. twenty turks in ragged uniforms were huddled together in a corner. the place was dim and sulphurous with smoke.
"to whom have i the honor of surrendering?" asked the turkish officer in french, unbuckling his sword.
"to me, monsieur," replied lindbohm, bringing his heels together with a "click," and saluting with great dignity.
"i surrender to save bloodshed," said the turk. "i see that you are not a cretan and i therefore, with perfect confidence, turn these men over to you as prisoners of war."
"they shall give up their arms and suffer no harm. monsieur will do me the honor of retaining his sword."
the remaining cretans were now come up and many of them had crowded into the room. lindbohm ordered them out and put two stout fellows at the door.
"now, monsieur, if you will kindly tell your men to give up their guns."
the officer said a few words to his little band, and one by one, as a sergeant called their names, they stepped forward and handed their weapons to curtis, who passed them to a man outside the door. the last gun had scarcely been given up when a sudden commotion broke out among the cretans and half a dozen burly insurgents, forcing their way past the guard, burst into the room. the commotion now swelled to a hoarse uproar, and curtis caught the words, "kill! kill!" and "no! no!" lindbohm did not realize the gravity of the situation. he was raging because his orders had been disobeyed, and thought that the whole band, actuated by curiosity, were about to swarm in. he therefore leaped to the door with leveled bayonet, and threatened the crowd so fiercely that they all shrank back. meanwhile a thing happened that fairly froze curtis with horror. the half dozen insurgents raised their guns to their shoulders and deliberately pointed them at the body of unarmed turks, who, seized with panic, assumed all the attitudes of fear. some crouched against the wall, as though they would shrink through it; some fell upon the earthen floor; others squatted and doubled their arms in front of their faces. several tried to seize their companions and hold them before their own bodies.
a dreadful laugh, mingled with foul and insulting words, broke from the insurgents' throats. the turkish officer stepped quietly in front of his men, and, crossing his arms over his chest, regarded the cretans with a look of high scorn. his thin face and gray beard added sublimity to the dauntless soul that spoke in his attitude. he had the beak and eyes of an eagle.
"what? what? what?"
the swede was standing on a little eminence, with one hand in his pocket; hair, face and clothing were dusted miller-white with powdered lime. he was gazing toward the sea, and there was the ghost of a smile in his childlike blue eyes.
"six-inch shell," he replied. curtis looked. there was a spurt of flame from one of the toy ships in the duck pond, followed by a muffled detonation, and a sound such as the wind sometimes makes at sea. an explosion threw up a great cloud of dust about thirty yards beyond the blockhouse--or what remained of it.
"french!" said lindbohm.
another flash, again the sound of the wind, again the explosion--this time about twenty yards short.
"german, i think. they lowered too much, because the others fired high."
the third shell from yet another ship clipped away the white flag that was still standing on the corner of the building.
"english! that's great work!" lindbohm's interest was entirely professional and impersonal.
a grateful major
men, still running, were disappearing into the distant hills. the swede and the american were entirely alone. the toy ships continued to launch their polyphemian missiles.
"are they firing at us?" gasped curtis.
"yudging from appearances, i should say they were," replied his companion.
four cretans had turned back and were running toward the ruined blockhouse. one was the color bearer of lindbohm's company, and he was carrying the greek flag. straight up to the house he ran, and, handing the standard to one of his companions, he climbed upon the wall. as he stood there a shell dropped so near that he was for a moment obscured in a cloud of dust. when the air became again clear he was jamming the flagpole into the soft mortar. then he jumped down and ran away, together with his comrades. another shell exploded thirty feet from the four cretans, and only three ran on.
"what killed him?" asked curtis.
"a flying piece of rock, probably," replied lindbohm. "when it is raining six-inch shells a man must yust take his chances."
the bombardment did not last much longer. the greek flag was also brought down by a shot which elicited unbounded admiration from the swede, a shell striking the corner of the house where it was planted.
curtis realized now for the first time the peculiar sensations of a soldier of fortune. he had been risking his life for that flag, yet he saw it fired upon without the thrill of horror and rage which would have surged through his heart had it been the american emblem.
"they are shooting at the flag!" he exclaimed, noticing that the ships in the bay had become silent.
"yust so," observed lindbohm; "and that is why they commenced in the first place. they mistook the turkish officer's shirt for the greek flag. but here he comes now."
hassan bey was powdered as white as a great moth. he advanced with a sprightly step, the scabbard of his sword jingling among the cobblestones. greeting lindbohm respectfully with a military salute, he turned to curtis and bowed low, his hand upon his heart. he spoke as one who had hastily prepared an address.
"monsieur, in my own behalf and in that of my little band, i thank you for saving our lives. your heroism and magnanimity do credit to the nation which you represent. i beg of you to accept this sword as a pledge of my undying gratitude." and he grasped with both hands his curved simitar in its richly mounted case and held it impulsively toward the american, who looked amazedly at lindbohm.
"better take it," said the latter. "needlessly offend a brave man if you don't."
"but what for? why the deuce should he give me his sword?"
"very graceful act, seeing you yumped in front of the cretan guns and saved his life."
"did i do that? i don't remember anything about it."
"better take it," repeated lindbohm. "he is beginning to feel embarrassed."
curtis accepted the simitar, but could not find appropriate words. the occasion seemed to demand a set speech.
"merci! merci!" he stammered. "my father will be glad to get this. he is fond of this sort of thing. he already has a pair of pistols and an old turkish gun."
and he fell to examining the hilt, which was embossed with silver, and the scabbard, adorned with flowers and various animals. an awkward silence ensued, broken at last by hassan bey, who addressed himself to lindbohm:
"and now, if monsieur does not consider me a prisoner of war, i will take my leave."
again saluting lindbohm and salaaming to curtis, he turned and walked away.
"what'll we do now?" asked curtis. "get the band together again?"
"to hell with the band!" exploded lindbohm. "i'm sick of them. they fight all right, but there's no way to enforce discipline. i think i'll go to america. there should be some beautiful fighting between the americans and spaniards," and he looked dreamily across the sea.
"we weren't fighting kostakes, after all," mused curtis.
lindbohm came to earth with a start and glanced sharply after the slender, erect figure of the departing turk, whose body was now cut off below the arms by a ledge of rock.
"monsieur!" shouted the swede, and started in pursuit. the turk turned slowly and waited.
"monsieur will pardon me," said lindbohm, when he had overtaken hassan bey. "i wish to ask a question on behalf of my friend here, which you will use your own discretion in answering."
hassan bowed gravely.
"my friend is interested in a young cretan girl, panayota nicolaides, whom kostakes effendi has abducted. we have been following kostakes, but he has disappeared. do you know anything of him or the girl?"
"i know it all. he and the bashi bazouks passed by here with the girl, who is now locked up in kostakes' harem at canea. he has gone wild over her. that is why he was not here to-day with his band to support the blockhouse as he promised. he cannot be depended on. he passes half his time laying siege to the affections of a girl who is already in his power. bah! kostakes is no good. he is only half a man--he is half greek."
hassan had grown suddenly voluble. kostakes, with his incomprehensible doings, was evidently a thorn in his flesh. rage, indignation, pity, swooped down upon curtis like a flood, now hot, now cold, as he thought of panayota, restrained in the house of that square-jawed, cruel, supercilious turk, subject to his vile solicitations.
"you do not think he would dare to do her violence?" he cried, as the thought that he knew where panayota was and might yet save her, seemed almost to lift him from the ground.
"and why not?" demanded hassan. "but, bah! it is the christian blood in him, i tell you. he wants her to love him--bah!"
"it is the cretan trumpeter," remarked the turk. "so, once more au revoir, and a thousand, thousand thanks."
"i am done with the troop," said lindbohm. "i cannot control them, and i am a soldier. i will not fight where discipline is impossible. my friend and i wish to go to canea. we--we--desire to take ship and leave the island."
"then, come with me," cried hassan gaily. "i will pass you through the lines, and i may be able in some way to prove my gratitude to this gentleman who has saved my life. voilà, we are comrades!" and, stepping between curtis and lindbohm, he grasped each by the arm. again the bugle sounded.
"they can fight," mused the swede sadly, stooping and looking back over his shoulder, "but no discipline, no discipline! allons, monsieur!"
a violent wooer
"you won't marry me, eh?" he said. "i'm not good enough for you, eh? i suppose i'm old or ugly or you prefer somebody else? is that it, eh? well, now i'm going to tame you. you wouldn't have me as a christian, you shall have me as a turk. there aren't going to be any more christians, do you hear? eh? do you hear? we're going to kill the whole cursed brood of them, english, french, italians, cretans! there won't be one left. islam is aroused. we'll cut their throats--" he shouted, flinging her wrist from him, and making an imaginary slash at his own neck. "the streets will run blood. every dog of an unbeliever in crete must die, men, women and children--except you."
the blood of the turkish father had prevailed, and kostakes was overwhelmed with that form of religious mania which cries for blood. he had joined a band of young turks, who had planned a grand coup, to save crete, and his christian love for panayota was fast turning into turkish love. it needed but a riot of blood and rapine to make the change complete.
"you would not have me as a christian," he repeated, with his hand on the door knob; "then you shall take me as a turk," and he went out.
panayota, being left alone again, was frightened, and it is proof of the girl's nobility of soul that she thought not of herself, but of her fellow christians, whom she believed to be in imminent danger. if she could only escape and give them warning! but she dismissed that thought, for she had tried every possible means again and again. she might stand at the window and scream, but she had already done that, with no effect. kostakes' house was right in the center of the turkish quarter, and the screams of an hysterical or angry woman attracted little attention. a girl shouting in greek for help was a time-honored legend of turkish rule; as old as islam and as natural as murder. so, as a last resort, she fell upon her knees and besought the virgin to help and save the people, to pity the mothers and the little children and to turn away from them this danger. now, while she was praying, a conflict had been taking place within the breast of kostakes, of which he felt the effects, but of which he was entirely unconscious. the blood of his greek mother had been making a last stand against that of his mohammedan father, and while he was even yet breathing out curses against the christians and muttering, "she shall have me as a turk," he turned about automatically, as it were, and retraced his steps to panayota's room. the girl rose from her knees.
"i am praying the holy virgin to save my people," she said in a solemn tone. her eyes were streaming with tears. kostakes shuddered, and involuntarily raised his arm, restraining himself with difficulty from making the sign of the cross. this virgin of his mother could be a very terrible being when angry.
"panayota," he said, "i--i--was too rough with you just now. but you are very obstinate. listen, i tell you the truth. the young turks have planned a grand coup, and i have joined them. but i would do anything for you if you would only let me. say that you will marry me, and i will give the foreign officers warning, and the christians will be saved. i will then turn christian--o, panayota, won't you marry me?"
but the virgin had comforted panayota and given her courage. she pointed superbly to the door.
"go," she cried, "god will save his people without that sacrifice."
the innocent onlooker
kostakes went to the bazaar of his friend mehemet effendi. mehemet was about of an age with the captain, and had attended school with him. he was young and handsome, with red cheeks, thin, large nose, and thick lips. he affected european costume, but, being a full-blooded turk, was a sincere worshiper of the prophet, and an enthusiastic member of that society of youths who believed that islam was about to be rejuvenated and purified, after which it would rise and overwhelm the unbeliever in a series of victories greater than when it swept asia and the isles of the sea with the besom of fanaticism and carried its one star to the gates of vienna. mehemet's partner was a black-bearded, pale-faced persian, forty years of age, who wore a blue vest, blue trousers that were full about the hips and tight at the ankles, carpet slippers and a red fez. hassan ben sabbath was a mohammedan by profession, but his belief was colored and weakened by the secret influence of an ancient religion. his soul was haunted by the unrecognizable ghosts of the dead gods of mardonis and masistius. he was prudent in business and mildly deprecatory in speech. the bazaar into which kostakes now walked was a tiny room, fronting upon the kaleidoscopic square. the greater portion of its stock was piled in the capacious windows,--brass candlesticks, cretan knives and revolvers, byzantine silver jewelry, antique earthenware, turkish and persian embroideries. the only furniture consisted of a round-topped wooden table, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, that stood in the middle of the floor; a divan and two chairs. side by side upon the wall, in cheap frames, hung the sad, cruel, blasé faces of abdul hamid and the latest successor of xerxes.
mehemet was standing under his awning watching the shifting throng, and occasionally casting expectant glances at the bay. his eyes were bright and his face was pale from nervousness.
"any news, kosta? any news?" he demanded in a cautious tone. kostakes made no reply, but flinging himself into one of the chairs, began to beat a lively tattoo with his riding whip on the top of his boot. ben sabbath, who had been pretending to sleep on the divan, rose to a sitting position and yawned.
"don't betray your feelings so," said mehemet; "the hour when the faithful shall triumph is almost at hand. be patient."
"i'm sick of the whole cursed spawning of christians," cried kostakes, making the whip crack on his boot top like a pistol shot. "i want to see the throats of the last one of them slit. i--"
"now, kosta, kosta, in the name of allah," protested ben sabbath, springing to the door and looking to right and left.
mehemet patted the excited man on the shoulder soothingly.
"he cannot help it," he explained. "it is islam rising. patience, kosta, but a little longer, and you shall have your fill of slitting. we shall spare no one, eh? no christian dogs to breed more litters of christians; no babes to grow up into christians!"
"merciful allah! if you should be heard!" whispered ben sabbath in an ague of fear.
"you can't make anything out of a christian, try how you will," continued kostakes. "they don't appreciate kindness. now, take that girl of mine, panayota--"
"you are not trifling with her yet?"
"i have treated her with the greatest kindness, i have humbled myself to her, but she despises me, she abhors me--me!"
and rising to his full height he smote his expanded chest.
"never mind, never mind," said mehemet.
"i've offered to make her the head of my harem, to--to--do everything in fact, but still she is obstinate. o, i am through with kindness now. this is a fine state of society when it is possible for a christian hussy to despise a turkish gentleman and an officer to boot!"
under ordinary circumstances some of mehemet's christian neighbors would have heard kostakes' raving from afar, and would have stolen near. at the present moment, however, the entire population of the square was surging down to the water's edge watching an english ship that was rapidly and noiselessly sliding into the harbor. evidently it had been expected, and its mission on this occasion was supposedly favorable to the christians, for they were noisily jubilant and addressed many facetious but insulting remarks to their mohammedan neighbors. the latter remained silent and gazed with scowling brows at the approaching vessel.
"here it comes!" cried ben sabbath from the door, as the masts and funnels of the "hazard" suddenly drifted into the background, above the heads of the throng. mehemet grabbed kostakes by the arm and dragged him to the door.
"but in the name of allah!" expostulated ben sabbath. "these english are our best customers. only yesterday i sold a piece of rhodes embroidery to an english lieutenant for four times its value. and we can't fight the english; they take the most terrible revenge. look at--"
"bah! look at nothing! look at our most glorious sultan, the light of the world and the defender of the faith. has he not been keeping all europe at bay for the last ten years? there is no god but god, and mohammed is his prophet!"
"we must not interfere with the english, i tell you," protested ben sabbath, in great alarm.
"a christian is a christian--all dogs--froth of the spittle of dogs. kostakes, they have come to install the new christian officials and to collect the tax. the money of the faithful goes into christian hands. your old enemy, platonides, is to be made deputy collector. how do you like that?"
"curse his virgin!" growled kostakes, again resorting to greek. "but he won't live long to enjoy it. i'll see to that--despise me!"
"now you're talking sensibly," interposed ben sabbath, admiringly. "there's a way and a time to do all things, of course. but to oppose the english by force--it's the veriest madness."
the metallic burr of the chain, paying out rapidly as the "hazard's" anchor plunged, came to their ears with startling distinctness. mehemet groaned.
"our slavery dates from this moment, unless we nip this tyranny in the bud, unless we strike a terrible blow. they will be coming into our houses next and taking our christian wives away from us."
"not into mine while i have two hundred bashi bazouks at my back!" cried kostakes. "curse the christians!"
"have they not given them the privilege of trading in the town? have they not denied to mohammedans the right to go out and visit their farms and gardens? you will see what their next move will be."
the sharp, clear tones of an english officer could be heard, and the rattle of oars as they were unshipped and boated by the crew of a man-of-war's boat. the crowd at the wharf surged back with groans and cheers. but the wharf was not destined to be the chief center of attraction. the scrannel drone of a bagpipe sounded faintly in the distance, and grew rapidly more distinct, a waving thread of sound that led the measured tread of many feet, marching to quickstep, out of the silence and nearer, nearer. the three mohammedans fixed their eyes upon the opening of a street that gave, not far away, into the square. the bagpipe turned the corner, and its defiant wail came straight to their ears. the throng at the wharf turned and looked, then turned back again, like the distracted spectator at a modern circus, where the prodigality of attractions prevents the enjoyment of any. but they were not long in doubt as to the principal attraction, for the street ejected from its mouth at that moment the most devil-may-care, picturesque, obstreperous, robust, business-like compound of wailing wind and true courage on earth--a scotch bagpiper. tamas macmillan flung across the square, looking neither to right nor left. his hair was red, and his face flamed in the tropic sun. every time that he puffed his cheeks full his head shook with the effort, and the streamers of his scotch cap leaped on the breeze. he was a tall, gaunt, awkward scot, whose projecting kneecaps played in front of the sinewy knees like round shields. on he fared, with chest thrust out and face thrust up, squeezing the bag beneath his brawny arm and letting out its protesting squeals in the notes of "bonnie prince charlie." behind him at a distance came a small body of seaforth highlanders and a few bluejackets, bound straight for the custom house. the throng scrambled out of the way to right and left, as though from a bayonet charge. in fact, the natives did not wait for the troops, but melted away before the flaming countenance of tamas macmillan.
one of kostakes' bashi bazouks, a great, splendid fellow, with a blue and yellow turban about his head and a gaudy sash about his waist, appeared beneath mehemet's awning and salaamed.
"your men are going up to the custom house," he said.
kostakes was fretting to and fro in the shop like a big lion in a small cage, gnawing his upper lip, twitching at his mustache. every moment his passion grew, and the snorts of indignation became more and more frequent.
"doesn't want me, eh? what does she want? wouldn't have me on any terms? ha, ha! we'll see about that!"
"effendi," said the man, in a louder voice.
the captain whirled about with a jerk and glared at the speaker.
"well, what do you want?"
"your men, i said, are going to the custom house."
"bah! tell them to go to the devil!"
the bashi bazouk salaamed and started away, but mehemet caught him by the arm.
"the effendi is in a terrible rage about platonides. tell the men to go up in twos and threes, and--and--to keep out of mischief."
"we are not armed, effendi," replied the man, smiling grimly, and laying his hand upon the butt of one of the large, old-fashioned pistols in his belt. besides these weapons, he carried a long cretan knife in a leathern sheath, tipped with silver.
"we are not armed," he repeated, "except for dress."
"there will surely be trouble," whined ben sabbath, "and these foreigners are our best customers."
"what are the christians doing now?" sneered kostakes, standing in the door. he had passed into one of those periods of calm which manifest themselves after violent ebullitions of rage, like the fearful silences between thunderclaps.
mehemet pointed. the british troops and the marines were drawn up in front of the custom house. red jackets and gleaming helmet tips on one side; bare knees in a row, kilts and little caps with frisking tails on the other. numerous bashi bazouks were seen standing among the throng, several of them upon its outer edge. kostakes caught sight of the hated platonides in company with a british officer. the guard saluted, and the cretan raised his hat, as though the military courtesy were intended for him.
"if there is a row," chuckled kostakes, "my men will attend to you. they'll install you!"
and he started briskly across the square, accompanied by mehemet.
ben sabbath retired into the shop, trembling with fear.
"our best customers," he muttered, "and they never forgive nor forget!" but he could not restrain his curiosity, and so, after another moment, he peeped from the door again. everything was proceeding quietly and in order.
"bah! there will be no trouble, with all those english there."
still with the army
kostakes himself had been the indirect cause of ben sabbath's death. this is what had happened: he and the impetuous mehemet were standing close to one end of the line of highlanders, making insulting remarks in greek for the benefit of platonides and their christian neighbors. stung beyond endurance, the excitable greek pulled the english officer's sleeve and pointed to his tormentors with raised arm. kostakes stepped boldly forward and shook his fist in the direction of his enemy, whereupon one of the statues in kilts came to life and dropped the butt of his musket on the turk's toe. the latter sprang back with a cry of pain and the exclamation in turkish:
"death to the christians!"
a bashi bazouk, enraged at the insult suffered by his commanding officer, and taking the exclamation for a command, drew his knife and plunged it to the handle into the highlander's back. as the unfortunate man fell his gun was discharged, causing the death of hassan ben sabbath and awakening the demon of massacre that now for many years had lurked in the towns and villages of crete, feverishly and fitfully sleeping. and what an inconceivably horrible demon it is! here is the sweetly wimpling sea, with the grecian sky above; here are vineyards and pastures on the hillsides and the ancient pipe of the shepherd boy; here are white villages that should hear no sound save such as harmonize with the vesper chime of some monastery bell, drifting across the waters, or the choiring of the cretan nightingales. and yet, nowhere on earth has hate, irresponsible and pitiless, found so congenial a home as among these idyllic scenes. mehemet whipped an english navy revolver from beneath his coat and shouting "allah il allah!" fired point blank at the lieutenant in charge of the guard, who sank to the earth, gasping:
"steady, boys, steady."
kostakes' bashi bazouks came plunging through the press from all directions, gathering about their master. knives twirled in the sun and flashed above the heads of the people--horrible knives with concave edges, made for the cutting of throats. and now, from windows and from the roofs of houses, commenced a sporadic sputtering of guns against that gallant body of men standing in front of the custom house, statues yet, save when now and then one sank to earth--brought to life by death. their officer lay dead at their feet, and his last words had been, "steady, boys, steady!"
the beardless boy who stood there now in command, a trifle pale, but firm as a stripling oak, was for one moment at his wit's end. he could not give the order to fire into the crowd, killing turk and christian alike. that certainly would not be obeying the last command of the man whom he had loved, who had been his model soldier and gentleman. at any rate, he could die bravely; he was not in doubt about that part of it for a single moment. but his hesitation did not last long. a gun boomed out in the bay louder than all the pandemonium on shore, and a shell dropped on the roof of a house from which several turks had been firing at the british. he would get his men to the wharf, as close under shelter of the guns as possible.
they arrived at the wharf just as the steam launch from the "hazard" drew up to take them off, and two sailors held her fast with grappling poles. other boats were creeping across the narrow strip of sea, their oars moving rapidly, like the legs of frightened centipedes. the little sub-lieutenant drew up his company facing the rioters. he then detached a squad to put the wounded into the launch. the fall of the first two or three shells had caused a momentary panic in the town, during which the british succeeded in getting into the boats, save one wounded man, who had been overlooked somehow in the excitement.
"shove off!" cried the little sub-lieutenant, standing in the stern of one of the boats, whither he had leapt last of all that gallant company.
"my god, sir, you're wounded!" almost sobbed a burly scot. but the sub-lieutenant was young and familiarity is the death of authority.
"be silent, ferguson!" he said, sternly, without deigning to look at the flesh wound in his side, which was beginning to smart like a great burn.
raphael, being one of the greatest modern painters, added to the beauty of this sort of decoration by the exquisite drawing and composition of the figures. some of the medallions at the loggias contain subjects said to be taken from antique gems, and scripture subjects are also introduced; the expulsion of adam and eve from paradise is balanced by one of omphale and hercules, the queen having the club.
when a cipher or a sign conveys to our minds an idea, or an association of ideas, we call it a “symbol,” particularly if the idea is connected with religion. the commonest form met with in symbolic art is the circle, as the symbol of eternity, from its having neither beginning nor ending; it often appears as a serpent with its tail in its mouth, for this, like many other pagan symbols, was adopted by the early christians. the circle in the shape of a wheel has perhaps had the widest signification in art. the wheel of fire, or sun-wheel, was an emblem of the teutonic sun-worshippers. the tchakra, or sacred wheel, is the emblem of the religion of brahma; it is the shield of brahma and vishnu, as a wheel of fire; it is to the siamese a type of universal dominion, a sign of disaster, and the symbol of eternity. (see fig. 168.) the wheel form at fig. 169 is the kikumon or badge of the empire of japan; it is derived, however, from the chrysanthemum.
christian art, from the beginning of the first century of our era to the fourth, consisted almost entirely of symbols. the first christians were fearful lest their new converts should relapse into paganism, and so avoided images; and being persecuted they used only a few symbols such as the fish, the dove, the lamb, and the monogram of christ. this last consisted of two greek letters x and p (chi and rho), the chi forming the cross as shown at a in fig. 170; another form of this is shown at b, in which a cross has the rho formed on the upright stem, and has the first and last letters of the greek alphabet (alpha and omega) written beneath the arms. this form sometimes appears on the nimbus over the head of a lamb; the latter sometimes stands on a round hill, at the bottom of which issue four streams, the whole symbol signifying “christ the first and the last, the lamb of god,” the streams “the four evangelists whose gospels are the water of life to the whole world.”
at c, fig 170, we have the monogram that the emperor constantine placed on the labarum, or
imperial standard, after his conversion; it was woven in gold on purple cloth. christ was sometimes represented as orpheus, with a lyre in his hand, amid the birds and beasts; the commonest personification of him was, however, as the good shepherd caring for his sheep, in which he was always represented young and beautiful. every allegorical representation of the founder of the christian religion was rendered pleasing to the eye of the new converts, and anything pertaining to the dreadful scene of the crucifixion was avoided. the christian church was symbolized under the form of a ship, with our lord as the pilot and the congregation as the passengers; whence we may have the word nave (of a church), from navis, a ship; naus, a ship, was also the greek name for the inner part of a temple.
the dove in christian art is the emblem of fidelity and of the holy spirit, the pelican of the atonement, and the phœnix of the resurrection. one of the symbols of our lord is a fish, because its greek name ἰχθύς (ichthus) contains the initials of “jesus christ, the son of god, the saviour.” it was also used as the symbol of a christian passing through the world without being sullied by it, as the fish is sweet, in spite of its living in salt water; it is found engraved in the soft stone of the roman catacombs (where the early christians took refuge), with the monogram and other inscriptions. the vesica piscis, or fish form, often encloses the virgin and child, and is the common form of the seals of religious houses, abbeys, colleges, &c. the four evangelists are represented respectively as a lion, a calf, a man, and an eagle,--st. mark being the lion, the calf st. luke, the man st. matthew, and the eagle st. john.
many plants are used as symbols in christian art: the vine, as typical of christ, during byzantine times and the middle ages. in scripture we find frequent allusions to the vine and grapes; the wine-press is typical of the “passion,” as we read in isaiah. the passion-flower, as its name denotes, was, and is, used as an emblem of the death of christ. the lily is the emblem of purity, and has always been used as the attribute of the virgin mary in pictures of the annunciation. we find this plant often engraved on the tombs of early christian virgins. from the iris, formerly called a lily, is derived the flower de luce, or fleur-de-lis, one of the finest conventional renderings of any flower; it was much used as a decoration in sculpture, painting, and weaving during the thirteenth and following centuries. it was the royal insignia of france; mediæval florence bore it on her shield and on her coin, the fiorino; and it was used in the crowns of many sovereigns, from king solomon down to our own queen. the trefoil is an emblem of the trinity, and is a common form in gothic decoration.
the symbolic and mnemonic classes have now been described, and the æsthetic alone remains. æsthetic form we owe to the clearness and directness of the greek mind. the greeks were contented with the simple solution of the problem before them, which was to beautify what they had in hand. if they wanted allegorical subjects they confined them to their figure subjects, and being thus freed from other disturbing elements, they concentrated their whole attention on perfecting floral form. they attained perfection in this as they did in their figures, by correcting the peculiarities of the individual by a study of the best specimens of a whole class; and thus succeeded in making the most perfect type of radiating ornament, and of adapting it to sculpture and painting, on flat and curved surfaces. this ornament has perfect fitness, for you can neither add to it nor take away from it without spoiling its perfection. the same may be said, only in a minor degree, of the colour applied to the carved patterns of the saracens and moors: they are both æsthetic works, solely created for their beauty. a symphony in music is a composition of harmonious sounds; it has little subject-matter, and is analogous to æsthetic ornament, only the ear is charmed by the former, as the eye is by the latter.
on the orders of architecture
it seemed to me that a short chapter on the orders would be useful to students, not only because so much ornament is used as an enrichment to architecture itself, but also because a very much larger proportion of it is used in conjunction with architecture, and without some slight knowledge of the subject, the ornament and the architecture, instead of setting off each other’s characteristic beauties, are apt to spoil one another. the rigid lines of architecture should act as a foil to the graceful curves of ornament, and the plain faces should not only set off fretted surfaces, but make the undulations of carved ornament precious. when i speak of ornament, i include the highest form of it, the human figure, and i may point to the doric frieze of the greeks as a brilliant example of success. this conjunction of ornament and architecture, however, demands high qualities in the ornament, and insight in the artists as to what is wanted for mutual contrast or emphasis; and if this be successfully accomplished, i think it must be conceded that the combined work gives a finer result than the uncombined excellence of each.
mean ornament, whether of figures or plants, tends to degrade the architecture with which it is associated, and may spoil it by the main lines not properly contrasting with the adjacent architectural forms, or by the ornament being on too large a scale. i have seen in modern work, the stately dignity of a grand room utterly destroyed by colossal figures. michelangelo, in his superb ceiling at the sistine chapel, has by use of gigantic figures dwarfed the vast chapel into a doll’s house. i may add that there is monumental colouring as well as monumental form: the finest examples of such colouring may be seen in many of the grand buildings in italy and at constantinople, notably at st. mark’s and at sta. sophia; but you may also see magnificent halls and churches, coloured to look like french plum-boxes.
the elaborate system of proportioning parts to one another and to the whole, which is so important in architecture as to be its main characteristic, is equally valuable for the division of spaces for ornament.
mouldings which form so great a feature in architecture as to have given rise to the saying that “mouldings are architecture,” give lessons in elegance of shape, and in the proper contrast of forms, that are useful to the ornamentalist who has to design the shapes of small objects; while the corinthian capital has been the prototype of most of the floral capitals up to the present day.
it is admitted that in those periods of history when architecture, sculpture, and painting attained their highest excellence, the painter, sculptor, and architect have not only sympathized with one another, but each one has been no mean judge of the sister arts. at the renaissance, and immediately before it, artists are to be found who were goldsmiths, sculptors, painters, and architects, and some few who were poets, musicians, and engineers as well.
the origin of the orders was probably in the verandah of the greek wooden hut. in some of the paintings on the greek vases may be seen the processes by which the doric and ionic capitals were evolved; but for our purpose, which is not archæology, only some of the best examples need be referred to, after the wooden hut had been converted into a marble temple.
an order consists of a column supporting an architrave, frieze, and cornice, which is called the entablature. the column generally consists of a shaft, a capital, and a base, except in the doric columns of the greeks and early romans, which were baseless. the capital was the capping-piece which you now see put on the tops of story-posts by carpenters to shorten the bearing of the bressummer. the architrave was what we now call a bressummer, and bore the trusses of the roof; the fascias of the architrave show that in some instances this bressummer was composed of three balks of timber, each projecting slightly over the one below. the frieze was the wide band immediately above the architrave and below the cornice, comprising the triglyphs or ends of the trusses, and the filling in between them, which is called the metope. the metopes were left open in early greek temples, but were eventually filled with sculpture. the cornice was the projecting boarded caves; while the slanting
undersides of the mutules were copied from the slanting timbers of the roof.
i will speak first of the greek orders, not only because they were the earliest, but because the greeks showed the greatest artistic sensibility in their choice of forms, in the composition of lines, and in their arrangements for light and shade. i begin with the doric. the shaft is conical, and fluted with twenty shallow segmental flutes that finished under the capital, which consists of a thick square cap called the abacus, with a circular echinus under it, finished at the bottom with rings called annulets, and a little below them is a deep narrow sunk chase called the necking, and the shaft has no base.
the greeks were a seafaring people, mainly inhabiting the sea-shore, the islands of the archipelago, and the edges of asia minor, and were thus acquainted with the forms of the sea and of shells. the echinus of the doric capital resembles the shell of the sea-urchin, or echinus, when it has lost its spines, and was probably called after it. the ovolo moulding that was most used was called the cyma or wave. at the parthenon, the finest example of the doric, the architrave is plain, and was once adorned with golden shields and inscriptions; it is capped by a square moulding called the tænia or band; the frieze, with its square cymatium, is capped with a carved astragal, and is divided longitudinally by the triglyphs, projecting pieces, ornamented with two whole and two half vertical channels, from which the word triglyph takes its name; below the tænia is a narrower square moulding the width of the triglyph, and beneath it, ornamented with drops called guttæ. i may point to this as a most artistic device both to relieve the monotony of the tænia and to weld the architrave with the frieze. the triglyphs begin at the angles of the frieze, and range centrally over all the rest of the columns, with an additional triglyph between each, though in the frieze over the larger central opening of the propylæum there are two intermediate triglyphs; the nearly-square metopes between the triglyphs are filled with figure-sculpture. the cornice consists of the square mutule band, from which the mutules project, whose slanting underside is enriched with drops; and above the mutules is their capping, a narrow fascia under the corona; the corona or main projecting member of the cornice is throated at the bottom, and its capping consists of a wide fillet, deeply-throated, with a hawk’s-bill moulding under it. these together form the most superb piece of architectural work that exists, and has called forth the rapturous admiration of all the tasteful in the world, from the time it was built to the time of ernest renan, one of its latest distinguished admirers.
i have lingered over this order because it is a masterpiece for all time. those who have seen it in england alone are possibly convinced that this praise has been ill-bestowed; yet even these would change their opinion if they saw it when perfectly white on a clear day in bright sunshine; but in london, even at its best, the clear air and fierce sun of athens is wanting, as well as the pentelic marble, and the chances are that the sculpture in the metopes has been left out. this doric of the greeks is true architecture, fitted to the climate, and made by men of genius to charm the most gifted race the world has seen. to the greek architect no thought and no labour was too great in designing his building, to form it so that the sun would play melodies on it from dawn to dusk. such truly national architecture cannot be imported into a different climate without losing most of its effect, nor can it be transferred to a coarse and opaque material without losing much of its charm; while its sculpture, the finest the world has yet seen, portrayed national traditions or events connected with its faith. but even here in london, if you see paraphrases of greek architecture just painted white on a clear sunshiny day, you will see a faint reflex of its pristine glory. the rising moon that the sun makes on the echinus, contrasted with soft graduated warm shades and sharp blue shadows, is the finest thing an architect has ever compassed. the splendid sculpture that adorned its metopes may be seen in the elgin room of the british museum. this one example is a model for those who seek perfection in exquisite simplicity, for almost all the mouldings are square ones, and there is no enrichment beyond the highest figure-sculpture, and one little carved astragal; and i may add, that the perfection of the whole composition of the temple is as great as that of this part.
the example, given on account of its simplicity, is from the temple on the river ilissus. the column differs from that of the doric by being of slenderer proportions, by having twenty-four deep elliptical flutes with fillets in its shaft, by having a cushioned capital inserted between the thin moulded
in this case the architrave is deep and without fascias, though the ionic order has mostly three fascias; its capping (cymatium) consists of a fillet with a plain cyma and astragal beneath. the frieze, which has no triglyphs, is supposed to have been sculptured with figures; its cymatium consists of an ogee and astragal, to admit which the underside of the corona is deeply hollowed out; the cymatium of the corona consists of a narrow fillet and a cyma. the crowning member probably only existed on the raking sides of the pediment.
as this is not a treatise for architects, but a sketch of the subject for ornamentalists, one example is enough to show the difference between the doric and ionic, but the capital of the most ornate example, that of the erechtheum, is given; its main differences from the former one being these, that the ornaments on the mouldings are carved instead of only being painted, that in the entablature there are three fascias to the architrave, that the column has a neck carved with floral ornaments and a carved necking, and the sweeps of the capital as well as the spirals of the volutes are more numerous.
side elevation. plan.
i have given too the capital of the internal ionic columns of apollo epicurius at bassæ, to show how much it is improved by making the top of the capital curved instead of straight. the ionic is more graceful and as a rule more ornate than the doric, but is not so majestic. capitals from the
erechtheum, from the temple at bassæ, from the last temple of diana at ephesus, and from the mausoleum are at the british museum.
callimachus, according to vitruvius, invented this capital, and is supposed to have lived about 396 b.c., forty years before alexander the great was born. besides the beauty of this order of the choragic monument of lysikrates, it is the only undoubted and complete greek specimen that we have in europe. the main importance of the invention, besides its intrinsic beauty, is its being adopted by the romans as their favourite order and used throughout their dominions. i give you here the story vitruvius tells of its invention. besides the prettiness of the story, it serves as an incitement to the reflection, that if those whose hand and eye are trained will only observe what they see, they may get notions for inventions.
a corinthian capital was found by professor cockerell in the temple at bassæ, supposed by him to have been used there. another was found at athens by inwood, and there is a graceful capital of one of the engaged corinthian columns at the temple of apollo didymæus, at branchidæ, near miletus, of unknown date.
i do not look on work as greek that was done after the second century b.c., when greece became a roman province.
the corinthian capital of the monument of lysikrates is more than one and a half times as high as the lower diameter of the column, while the doric capital of the parthenon is only about half a diameter to the necking, and the ionic capital of the erechtheum about eight-tenths.
the abacus of the capital is deep and moulded, is hollowed out horizontally on the four sides in plan, and has the sharp angles of the abacus cut off. the floral cap consists of a bottom range of sixteen plain water leaves, about half the height of the eight acanthus leaves of the upper row; these have a blossom between each pair of leaves.
above the top, and at the sides of the centre leaf, on each of the four sides of the capital, spring two acanthus sheaths, out of each sheath spring three cauliculi; the one most distant from the centre forms a volute under one side of the angle of the abacus, and is supported by the turned-over top leaf of the sheath; the lowest cauliculi form two volutes touching one another at the centre. the third cauliculus comes from between the two former, and forms much smaller volutes than those immediately below them, touching
at the centre, but turning the reverse way to those beneath; from the middle of these springs a honeysuckle, whose top is as high as the top of the abacus, and there is a little floral sprig between the angle volutes and the honeysuckle, to relieve the bareness of the basket or bell. the foliage of this capital is exquisitely graceful, but the outline of the capital is not happy. the entablature is ionic, to leave the frieze clear for the sculptured history of bacchus, turning some pirates into dolphins. the architrave is deep with three equal fascias, the face of each one inclined inwards, and a cymatium. above the cymatium of the frieze is a cornice with a heavy dentilled bed mould.
the greeks were consummate artists, who bore in mind the adage that “rules are good for those who can do without them,” and adapted every part of their buildings to produce the effect of light and shade they wanted. the profiles of their mouldings were mostly slightly different in every example we have, and mostly approximate to conic sections, so as to have the shade less uniform, segments of circles being rarely used; and there was in athens an affluence of excellent figure sculptors.
it has always seemed to me that the slight variations the greeks made in their profiles to get perfection, and their passion for simplicity, were greatly due to their intimate knowledge of the nude human figure. all their recruits were exercised naked, and they must have noticed that the perfecting of the human shape by training was brought about by slight variations.
the roman orders.
the romans, great people as they were in subjugating, governing, and civilizing so great a portion of the world, and possibly on that very account, were
not artistic in the sense that the greeks were. the romans were slaves to easy rules and methods; most, if not all, the profiles of their mouldings were struck with compasses, and they were almost destitute of good figure sculptors. they had, however, a passion for magnificence, and for ornate stateliness and dignity, and they rarely failed to get these in their public monuments.
besides the three orders which were taken from the debased greek examples of their own time, the romans added two, the order of the tuscans, and an invention of their own called the composite.
the roman doric.
one of the earliest examples, with the exception of that at cora, which is rather debased greek than roman, is the example on the theatre of marcellus at rome, finished by augustus. the column is not fluted, and has no base, and the capital has been greatly altered from that of the best greek examples. the abacus has a cymatium; the echinus has been reduced in depth, and is an ovolo, and the annulets are merely three plain fillets; the column too has a neck and a necking. in the entablature the architrave is
shallower than in the greek examples. in the frieze the triglyphs are over the centres of the angle columns; the guttæ are the frustums of cones, while those of the greeks were cylinders or with hollowed sides; the cornice has a dentilled bed mould; and the mutules have disappeared, but their edge runs through and the soffit is slanting, and ornamented alternately with coffers and small guttæ, six on face and three deep; and besides, the cymatium of the corona is capped by a large cavetto; this in the greek examples was only the crowning member of the slanting sides of the pediment. there are roman doric columns at the colosseum, at diocletian’s baths at rome, and elsewhere. the doric, best known to us, was elaborated by the italian architects of the renaissance.
the roman ionic.
the ionic was not much more to the taste of the romans than the doric, for, with the exception of the examples in tall buildings, where the orders were piled up one over the other, the temple of fortuna virilis is the only good example, although there is a very debased one at the temple of concord. the columns of the temple of fortuna virilis somewhat resemble the greco-roman ones of the temple of bacchus at teos; they have similar paltry capitals, and an attic base, but their truly roman entablature is very notably worse than that at teos, in fact, it might be used as an example of what to avoid in profiling. the cornice is crushingly heavy for the frieze and architrave, the parts are disproportionate, the corona having almost disappeared to make room for the
extra crowning member, and the floral ornaments on some of the mouldings are gigantic. its main importance to us is from the use made of it by the renaissance architects, some of whom, however, greatly improved its appearance, by making it a four-faced capital, by adding a necking and putting festoons from the eyes, thus giving the capital greater depth and importance.
the roman corinthian.
the magnificence of this capital took the romans, so that good examples of the other orders, except of the composite, are rare. as i said before, the only undoubted greek corinthian order that has come down to us is that of the lysikrates monument, though we have many greco-roman examples. the best roman example i can give you is that of the pantheon; the existing portico is believed by m. chedanne to be a copy of agrippa’s, made in the days of septimius severus. at any rate, it has the comparative simplicity that characterized some of the buildings just before our era. the capital has two rows of eight leaves, the upper row not rising to quite so great a height above the lower ones as these do above the necking, and there is space between the upper leaves to show the stalks of the sheaths of the cauliculi; the inner ones finish under the rim of the basket, the outer ones form the volutes under the angles of the abacus, and above these a curled leaf masks the overhanging of the angles of the abacus. from some foliage on the top of the upper
middle leaf, a stalk runs up behind the cauliculi, and blossoms in the abacus.
it may be observed that the cauliculi of the centre and of the volute have lost the floral character and become stony. the shafts are unfluted, being of granite, and have the favourite roman base, a plain upper and a lower torus, with two scotias separated by double astragals and fillets. the entablature consists of an architrave of three fascias, the bottom edge of whose projections are moulded, the whole architrave is capped with a cymatium consisting of a wide fillet and an ogee with an astragal beneath. the frieze is slightly shallower than the architrave, and has nothing on it but the inscription, and its cymatium is the counterpart of that of the architrave on a smaller scale. the cornice is heavy, and its bed mould consists of an uncut dentil band, an ovolo carved with the egg and tongue, and an astragal carved with the bead and reel, a modilion band with carved modilions, a shallow corona, and a deep cyma-recta-cymatium with fillets.
i have added the fine and gigantic capital of mars ultor and the entablature of jupiter tonans, which is overladen with ornament, as a contrast to the almost stern simplicity of that of the pantheon.
i shall only draw your attention to two points in this ornamentation, the omission of the tongues between the eggs, leaving only the upright line, and the attempt to turn the egg and tongue into a foliated form. the egg itself is covered with ornament, and is set in the centre of acanthus leaves. we must praise the boldness of the author, who has given us a new ornament, but deplore his want of tasteful invention which has forced him to give a bad one.
the varieties of leaves used in capitals have been mentioned in the body of the book.
the roman composite.
this order has been called the composite, from the mixture of ionic and corinthian motives in its capital. the example given is from the arch of titus, erected to celebrate the taking of jerusalem in 70 a.d. the main thing to be remarked is the capital; for the entablature is corinthian, less ornate than that of jupiter tonans or jupiter stator, and very inferior to the latter in its proportions. it may be imagined that all the foliage above the upper row of leaves in a corinthian capital has been removed, that a carved ionic echinus has been put in at the level of the bottom of the corinthian cauliculi, that on the centre of the echinus there is a calix, from which a flower runs up above the top of the abacus, and from each side of the calix spring curved bands running into the hollow of the abacus and ending in heavy volutes coming down to the tops of the upper row of leaves, the lower parts of the bands and the spaces between the spirals being filled with foliage. the parts of the bell thus left bare by the omission of the sheaths of the cauliculi have two little scrolls of foliage to cover them. the worst fault of the capital is, that the upper part has no artistic connection with the lower, and taken merely as an isolated capital, its volutes are too ponderous for the rest. we must, however, give the romans credit for the merits of the invention. they
saw that in tall columns, and in this case the columns are on pedestals, the volutes of corinthian columns
were too insignificant. this capital when once invented took the romans, and was applied everywhere.
it was the practical solution for a practical people of a want that was felt. artistically speaking, it was no solution, and we can imagine that if such a solution had been offered to the athenians in their palmy days, the author would have been howled at, and hunted out of the city.
i may mention that the orders that have passed through the hands of the italian masters and been altered by them are not classical, but renaissance.
those who wish to study this subject will find the greek examples in stuart and rivett’s antiquities of athens; in mr. penrose’s principles of athenian architecture; in the books published by the dilettanti society; in cockerell’s temple of jupiter panhellenius at ægina; in inwood’s erectheion; and in wilkins’ antiquities of magna græcia. j. pennethorne’s elements and mathematical principles of the greek architects gives many examples of profiles: “the roman,” in les édifices antiques de rome, by desgodetz; cresy and taylor’s architectural antiquities of rome; normand’s parallel of the orders; and mr. phené spiers’ orders of architecture.
a chapter on the construction of some figures and curves in practical plane geometry useful in ornament.
definitions and names of figures from 1 to 13.
an equilateral triangle is a triangle which has three equal sides. (fig. 1.)
an isosceles triangle is that which has only two sides equal. (fig. 2.)
a scalene triangle is that which has three unequal sides. (fig. 3.)
a right-angled triangle is that which has a right angle. (fig. 4.)
an acute-angled triangle is that which has three acute angles. (fig. 5.)
a parallelogram is a four-sided figure which has its opposite sides parallel. (fig. 6.)
a rhombus is a four-sided figure which has all its sides equal, but its angles are not right angles. (fig. 7.)
a lozenge is a square set angle-wise. (fig. 8.)
note.--a square, an oblong, a rhombus, and a rhomboid are all species of parallelograms.
a diamond is composed of two equilateral triangles set back to back. (fig. 9.)
all other four-sided figures are called trapeziums. if one opposite pair of sides be parallel, and the other pair not, the figure is called a trapezoid. (fig. 10.)
polygons.--a polygon is a plane rectilineal figure contained by more than four straight lines.
a regular polygon is that which has its sides equal, and its angles also are equal.
an irregular polygon may have unequal sides and unequal angles, or unequal sides and equal angles, or equal sides and unequal angles. in this chapter regular polygons are only treated of.
polygons are named according to the number of sides or angles they may have. a polygon having
figs. 11, 12, and 13 are self-explanatory.
fig. 14. from a given point d without to draw tangents to a given circle a b c.
join e the centre of the circle d.
bisect d e in f. with f as centre and f e radius describe the circle d b e cutting the given circle in a and b. draw the required tangents from d to touch the given circle at a and b. n.b.--a tangent to a circle or arc is always at right angles to a radius drawn to the point of contact.
fig. 15. to draw an exterior tangent to two given circles a b and c d k.
join the centres e and f cutting the circumference of the larger circle at k. bisect e f in g. from k in the line k f cut off a part k p equal to the radius of the smaller circle e b.
with centre g and radius k f describe a semicircle; with f as centre and radius f p describe a circle. the semicircle cuts this circle at h. join f h, and produce it to c. at e draw e a parallel to f c. join a c, which is the exterior tangent required.
fig. 16. to draw an interior tangent to two given circles b e and f d.
join the centres e and f. bisect e f in g, and describe a semicircle on e f. from k on the larger circle mark off k j and e f equal to the radius of the smaller circle, and with f as centre and f j as radius describe an arc passing through semicircle at h. join f h cutting the larger circle at c, and draw e a parallel to f h. the points of contact are a and c, through which the interior tangent is drawn.
fig. 17. within a given circle to describe any regular polygon--say a pentagon.
draw the diameter a f and divide it into the same number of parts as the required polygon is to have sides--in this case it will be five parts. to divide the diameter into the number of equal parts, draw a line a x any angle to a f. set off any convenient measurement five times on this line. join point 5 to f, and draw the lines 4, 4´, 3, 3´, &c., parallel to 5 f to meet the diameter. with a and f as centre and a f as radius describe arcs intersecting at l. from
l draw a line through the second division on a f at point 2´ cutting the circumference at b. join a b. this is the length of the side of the required polygon. set off the length of the side a b around the circumference at c, d, and e. join the points a, b, c, d, e to complete the required pentagon.
n.b.--a regular hexagon may be inscribed in a circle by setting off the length of its radius six times round the circumference, and joining the points.
fig. 18. on a given line to construct any regular polygon,--say a pentagon.
produce the given line a b to r, and with b as centre and a b as radius describe a semicircle a c r. divide the semicircle into as many parts as the polygon is to have sides--in this case five. draw a line from point b to the second division point q c. bisect a b and b c to find p, which will be the centre of a circle passing through the points a b c. mark off the points d and e, making the distances c d, d e, and e a each equal to a b. join c d, d e, and e a to complete the required polygon.
fig. 19. special method of drawing an octagon in a given circle.
draw two diameters b f and h d at right angles to each other. bisect angles h k b and b k d in the lines k a and k c. produce the lines k a, k c, to meet the circumference at g and e. the eight points thus found on the circumference are joined to make the required octagon.
fig. 20. to inscribe an octagon in a given square.
with each corner of the square as centres, and half the diagonal of the square as radius, describe arcs
cutting the sides of the square at f, g, h, k, &c. join these points to complete the required octagon.
fig. 21. to describe a circle to touch two given straight lines a b and a c, one point of contact being given.
bisect the angle b a c in a d. at c draw a perpendicular to a c, meeting a d at d. with d as centre and d c as radius describe the required circle.
fig. 22. to inscribe a circle in a given triangle a b c.
bisect any two of the angles as at b and c. the lines of bisection intersect at d. produce b d to e. with centre d and distance d e inscribe the required circle.
fig. 23. a square being given, to inscribe four equal circles each touching two others and two sides of the square.
draw the diagonals and two lines parallel to the sides through the centre of the given square. join the extremities of the latter lines to obtain the points 1, 2, 3, and 4. with these points as centres, and 1 e drawn perpendicular to c a as radius, inscribe the four required circles.
fig. 24. a square being given, to inscribe four equal circles each touching two other and one side of the square.
draw the diagonals and two lines through the centre parallel to the sides of the given square a b c d. bisect any one of the angles made by a diagonal and one of the sides of the square, as at d. produce the line of bisection until it meets the vertical centre line at point 1. with the central point o as centre
and o 1 as radius, describe a circle to obtain the points 1, 2, 3, 4. these are the centres of the required circles.
n.b.--if the central portion made by the meeting of the four circles were removed, the remaining parts of the circles would form a figure known as the quatrefoil, a form common in architecture.
fig. 25. to inscribe six equal circles in a given equilateral triangle a b c.
bisect the angles of the given equilateral triangle as at e, and draw the bisection lines through to meet the centre of each side. bisect the angle a b j to obtain the point d on c k. through d draw g f parallel to a b, also f h and h g parallel to the sides of the triangle. with d as centre and d k as radius inscribe one of the required circles, and with the same radius and f, 2, h, 1, and g as centres inscribe the remaining circles.
fig. 26. (1) within a given circle to inscribe a hexagon. (2) without the same circle to describe a hexagon. (3) within the inner hexagon to inscribe three equal circles each touching each other and two sides of the hexagon.
join the latter points to produce the required hexagon without the given circle. (3) join the points g, e, a. this will obtain the points 1, 2, 3 on the diameters. draw 1, 4 perpendicular to g b. with 1, 4 as radius and 1 as centre describe one of the required circles. 3 and 2 are the centres of the other two required circles.
fig. 27. within a given circle to inscribe any number of equal circles, each touching the circumference and two other circles.
divide the circle in the same number of parts as the number of circles required--in this case five. draw the five radii. bisect the angles b d a and a d c. draw e f perpendicular to d a. d e f is a triangle any two angles of which bisect as at d and e. from point 1 thus obtained on d a and radius 1 a inscribe a circle. from d as centre and d 1 as radius describe a circle cutting the five radii in points 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. with the latter points as centres and 1 a as radius describe the remaining required circles.
fig. 28. this problem is worked in the same manner as fig. 27, seven circles being inscribed instead of five in a given circle.
fig. 29. to inscribe a trefoil, or three equal semicircles having adjacent diameters in a given circle.
divide the given circle into six equal parts by marking off the length of the radius six times on the circumference. from the centre d to these six points draw radii. bisect any of the six sectors as at e. draw e c obtaining f on one of the radials. on either side of f draw lines from it to meet the alternate radials perpendicular to b d and d c, and
join their extremities, thus making the equilateral triangle 1, 2, 3. on the sides of this triangle describe the three semicircles required by using points 1, 2, and 3 as centres, and 2 f as radius. the completed figure is the trefoil, and the inscribed three semicircles have their diameters adjacent.
fig. 30. to describe an equilateral triangle within and without a given circle.
draw six radii dividing the given circle into six equal parts. join their alternate extremities as at l m n. this makes the required equilateral triangle within the circle. draw tangents to the circle at l m and n, or lines at right angles to l o, m o, and n o. produce the latter radii to meet the tangents at a b c. a b c is the equilateral triangle without the circle.
n.b.--it will be seen that the triangle b a c is made up of four similar triangles each equal to l m n. also, if six of the smaller triangles, as a l m, were placed around points a b and c a hexagon would be formed. this figure is very useful in designing geometrical and other repeating all over patterns in ornament.
the figures known as the conic sections are the ellipse, the parabola, and the hyperbola.
the cone may have other sections in addition to these, such as the section through any point below the apex, on the axis, and taken parallel to the base; this would be a circle, and a section through the apex perpendicular to the base would be an isosceles triangle.
the ellipse is the curve of the section made by a plane passing obliquely through a cone from side to side.
the parabola is the curve of the section made by a plane passing through a cone parallel to one of its sides.
the hyperbola is the curve of a section made by a plane passing through a cone parallel to its axis, or inclined at a greater angle to its base than its side, but not through its apex.
fig. 31. the elevation of a cone is shown at a b c. a section through point x at right angles to the axis of the cone is a circle. a section passing through and across the cone from point x, but not at right angles to the axis, is an ellipse, as at x 1. a section through x parallel to the opposite side a c is a parabola, as at x 2. a section through x parallel to the axis, as at x 3, or a section through x at any other angle greater than the angle made by the side and base, as at x 4, is a hyperbola.
figs. 32, 33, and 34 show the actual shape of the sections x 1, x 2, and x 3 respectively.
fig. 32. in this figure the major or transverse axis of the ellipse is equal to x 1. to find the minor or conjugate axis bisect x 1 (fig. 31) in h, draw through it f g parallel to a b, drop a perpendicular from f to f, and describe the semicircle f h g. from h drop a perpendicular to a b, and produce it to h to meet the semicircle, k h is then half the length of the minor axis of the ellipse, as c d. divide a e into any number of equal parts, and a g into the same number. draw from c lines through the divisions as 1, 2, 3 &c., and from d lines to 1´ 2´ 3´ &c. the curve of the required ellipse will pass through the intersections of these lines, as at 1´´ 3´´ 5´´ &c.
fig. 33. in this figure, the parabola, the line c d is equal to x 2 (fig. 31), while a b is twice the length of d 2 (fig. 31). divide g b into any number of equal parts, and join the points of the divisions to c. divide d b into the same number of equal parts, and draw lines from the points of division parallel to d c to meet the similar numbered lines drawn from b g; through these meeting points the curve of the parabola will be drawn.
fig. 34. the only difference between the working of this figure--the hyperbola--and the parabola is that the lines which in the parabola were drawn parallel to g b, are here drawn to a point e on c d produced, c d being equal to x 3 (fig. 31). this point e is found by drawing the line from 7 on d b to e on c d produced, where c e equals twice x o (fig. 31).
fig. 35. to describe an archimedean spiral of any number of revolutions--say three, the longest radius a b being given.
divide the radius a b into three equal parts for the three revolutions. with b as centre and b a as radius describe a circle, and divide it into any number of equal parts--say eight, by drawing four diameters. each of the three divisions on a b is divided into eight equal parts. with centre b and the point of each succeeding division as radius, describe arcs, meeting in following order the next nearest diameter as shown at arcs 1 1´´, 2 2´´, 3 3´´, &c. through point 8 with radius b 8, the second division, describe a circle, and through point 16 with centre b describe a circle. in these two divisions arcs are drawn as described above for the division a 8, &c., to the next nearest diameter. the spiral is then drawn through the points thus formed on the diameters, which mark its path as at 1´, 2´, 3´, &c., until it ends in its centre at b.
fig. 36. to draw goldman’s volute, the cathetus c f being given.
divide c f into 15 equal parts. with c as centre describe a circle a e b to form the eye of the volute, making the diameter 3⅓ of these parts. bisect a c and c b in 1 and 4. on 1 4 draw a square, 1, 2, 3, 4. produce the sides 1 2, 2 3, and 3 4 to g, h, and i respectively.
divide 1 c into three equal parts. draw lines parallel to 1 g through the points of division to p and l, which cut the line c 2 in the points 6 and 10. through these points (6 and 10) draw lines to m and q parallel to e h, cutting c 3 in 7 and 11. in the same way draw lines parallel to 3 i from 7 and 11 to n and r. the points 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, &c., will then form the centres of the series of quadrants which are to form the outer spiral that begins with the radius 1 f. to describe the inner spiral. a´ f´ in fig. 36 (a) is equal to a f (fig. 36). f´ s´ is made equal to the breadth of the fillet at the top f s. v´ f´ is drawn at right angles to f´ a´ and equal to c 1. by joining v´ a´ and drawing t´ s´ parallel to v´ f´, then t´ s´ is obtained which will be the length of half the side of the square for drawing the inner spiral. the method for obtaining the inner spiral is the same as for the outer.
fig. 37. there is no geometric means of drawing a perfect catenary curve; at best we can only obtain it by an approximation in geometry. the curve is formed by suspending a chain from two points and pricking points along the curve of the chain. these
points will mark the path of the catenary. in the accompanying figure three catenary curves are drawn from a chain suspended from points a and b.
fig. 38.--to draw a cycloid curve when the generating circle is given. in order to find the length of the line a b on which the circle rolls, and which must be the length of the circumference of the given circle, we must first find approximately that length by
glossary of terms used in ornament
many of the terms which appear in this glossary have been explained in the previous chapters. the reader should refer back to the text when any of the terms are inadequately described here.
æsthetics, the science of the beautiful.
æsthetic, when applied to ornament, not only means “beautiful,” hut that beauty was the sole aim of its production, and distinguishes it from symbolic and mnemonic ornament. see page 143.
allegory, the representation of one thing under the image of another. it was mostly confined to human figures, but to aid its comprehension attributes were added. among the pagans strength was shown as hercules with his club; health as a woman with a serpent; rivers were represented as gods with crowns of sedge or rushes; towns as gods or goddesses with mural crowns. among the christians, a man holding a lamb, or a shepherd with his flock, was an allegorical representation of christ the good shepherd; the seven cardinal virtues and the seven deadly sins were represented by allegorical figures, and each had its proper attributes.
alternation, two different forms in succession, or alternating with each other. figs. 67, 75, and 76.
anthemion, a radiating ornament with a palmate outline; the honeysuckle ornament of the greeks.
attributes, the things assigned to any one. amongst the pagans the eagle and thunderbolt to jupiter, the trident to neptune, the peacock to juno, &c. amongst the christians the nimbus was the attribute of divinity, saintship, or martyrdom, the lily of chastity, &c.
balance, equilibrium or counterpoise. in compositions that are not symmetrical the weight of the masses must be alike on either side of a central axis; in those of symmetrical outline with different fillings there must be equality of weight in the fillings. renaissance ornament affords many admirable examples of balance. see page 46, and figs. 126 and 131.
banding, decorating by means of horizontal stripes, mostly filled with ornament. figs. 116 and 117.
catenary, the curve formed by a chain hanging from two points. fig. 27.
cauliculus, the shoot or stem of a plant forming the volutes under the angles of the abacus, and those in the centre of each face of a corinthian capital; in modern works this name is mostly confined to the central spirals, the outer ones being called volutes. figs. 180, 181, 185, 187, and 188.
checkering, covering a surface with a square pattern like a chess-board, in which the colour or the ornament alternates. the outline is formed by equidistant vertical and horizontal lines crossing one another. figs. 98 and 99.
colour, apart from the literal meaning of the word, is a vague technical term to express character and contrast in ornament.
complexity, interweaving or intricacy; the opposite of simplicity. ornament in which the leading forms are not apparent, is mainly to be found in celtic, saracenic, moresque, and gothic ornament. it is also characteristic of the decadent periods of all historic styles.
contrast, the opposition of dissimilar figures or positions, by which one contributes to the effect of the other; e. g. the straight line with the circle, vertical and horizontal lines alternating; in colour black with white, &c.; ornamental forms where flat and sharp curves contrast with one another; a plain space alternating with an ornamented one, or an enriched moulding round a plain panel, or vice versâ, &c. see page 43.
conventional. this is a word of great elasticity. in early decoration natural objects were highly conventionalized through the want of skill in the artists, who could not copy, but only portray their impressions, thus the egyptians and early greeks represented water by the zig-zag. these early conventionalized forms were sometimes perpetuated through religious conservatism, after the artists had become skilful. all ornament is more or less conventional, but the term is usually applied to designate that ornament in which the most beautiful and characteristic floral forms have been abstracted and adapted to the material employed and the effect wanted. the styles most characterized by conventional ornament are the greek and the early gothic; they are equally effective as ornament in their respective countries, but the greek has all the grace and vigour of the highest plant form, while gothic has mostly only the vigour. figs. 49-54. the romans and the renaissance architects also successfully conventionalized. figs. 91 and 129. convention now too often means leaving out all grace and vigour. saracenic-persian ornament is perhaps the least conventionalized of fairly good ornament. figs. 49, 53, 54, 118, and 119. conventional is also used in opposition to realistic ornament.
counterchange, a pattern in which the ornament and ground are mostly similar in shape but different in colour and alternate with each other. see figs. 171 and 172.
cymatium, the capping to a vertical member, as the cymatium of the abacus of the roman doric, of the architrave, of the frieze, of the corona. see appendix on the orders.
diaper, derived from jasper, originally employed to designate those coloured patterns on stuffs that suggested the flowerings of jasper; subsequently a pattern enclosed in repealing geometrical forms not composed of straight lines; but unhappily employed of late years to designate any repeating patterns enclosed in geometric forms, including checkers and net-work. figs. 101, 107, 109, and 110.
emblem, in latin, means embossed ornament on vessels, inlaid work, and mosaic. in modern english it is a device, and was the animal or thing that was painted on a shield to show the temper or striking quality or achievement of the warrior. it is also used as an allegorical representation of some virtue or quality. we say the cock is an emblem of watchfulness; the lion, of courage; the scales, of justice; the lily, of purity; but the latter may be used as a symbol of the virgin mary.
equilibrium. see balance. also figs. 130 and 160.
enlargement of subject, e. g. the figure of bacchus is wanted for a given space which it does not fill; the due filling of the space may sometimes be attained by the addition of his attributes, as a leopard, a thyrsus, a vine and grapes; accessories even may be wanted, as a satyr, mænad, rocks, trees, &c.
eurythmy, harmony or elegance in ornament; a quality obtained by the use of contrasted but harmonious and dignified forms, expressed in a measured or proportionate quantity.
even distribution, the plain space and ornament proportionately arranged; indian ornament gives the most mechanical instance of this, while good roman and cinque cento pilaster panels give the most artistic examples of this arrangement. it is sometimes improperly used to designate the balancing of masses in a design. figs. 101, 102, 143, &c.
expression, the method of representing ornament by various means, as in outline by the pencil, pen, or point; in painting, by the brush; and in relief or sunk work by modelling. in another sense expression is giving the proper treatment and character to ornament.
fanciful, a term sometimes applied to grotesque creations, for example, to the hybrid animals, and the figures ending in foliage, met with in pompeian and other decorations. figs. 122, 131, 134, and 135.
fitness, absolute propriety; beautiful ornament adapted to its purpose and not interfering with the use of the object ornamented. see page 48.
flexibility, a quality derived from the appearance of plants of free growth; the freedom and elasticity found in natural forms when converted into ornament give a look of flexibility, in opposition to rigid and angular lines which produce a look of inflexibility. see fig. 54.
fluted, channelled in hollows, semi-circular, segmental, or elliptical in section; like those on some of the shafts of greek and roman columns. see also figs. 75 and 76.
geometric, or “geometrical arrangement,” the setting out of all good ornament; also the bounding lines for ornament constructed on a basis of geometry, as in diapers, &c.; the triangle, square, lozenge, diamond, the circle, the hexagon, octagon, and other polygons, are the chief geometrical forms for patterns in ornament. saracenic decorations are pre-eminently geometric in construction. see figs. 101, 102, 106, 107, 110, and 172.
grotesque, from the word grot or grotto. when the fantastic arabesques of ancient roman decoration were discovered under the baths and in grottoes, they were originally called grotesque, and were imitated in the vatican. (see figs. 122 and 128.) the word is mainly used now to describe the coarse and humorous carvings of heads, satyrs, &c., originally used to decorate the built grottoes of the late renaissance, which gradually overspread all buildings. the word is also used to denote the quaint class of gothic sculptured creations (fig. 131), such as winged dragons, grinning monsters, &c., that serve to decorate the ends of dripstone mouldings; gargoyles, bosses, and finials, &c.
growth is a concise expression for those forms which denote the special vigour shown by plants at certain epochs of their growth, the twist of the stem of creeping plants to get light to the flowers, the bursting of the bud from a capsule, or the clasp of a tendril. examples are to be met with in the volutes of greek corinthian capitals, in the base of the tripod on the choragic monument of lysikrates, in renaissance sculpture, and in early gothic.
guilloche, snare-work; an ornament composed of parallel curved lines flowing and crossing each other; these forms may best be illustrated by the bending of ropes round circular pins so as to cross one another. see figs. 37, 38, 39, and 40.
hieroglyphic, sacred carving, mostly applied to egyptian picture and symbolic writing. see fig. 162.
idealistic, used by some writers as equivalent to conventional, in opposition to “realistic”.
imbrication, overlapping scale-like ornaments; as seen in fir-cones, the hop, and curved tiles on roofs, are examples of imbrication. the bark of the chili pine is a peculiar instance of horizontal imbrication which is something like that of a roman roof. it is used as decoration on roofs, torus mouldings, and small columns, and is a common way of filling certain spaces on italian majolica. see fig. 26, a, b, c.
inappropriate ornament, that which is improperly applied, so as to spoil the appearance, or interfere with the use of an object; is false, out of scale, or redundant. see page 21.
independent ornaments. things that are beautiful, quaint, or curious, that may be attached to a wall or surface, as festoons, shields, medallions, trophies, &c. see page 21, also fig. 133.
interchange is when running vertical or horizontal patterns are divided by a vertical or horizontal axis, the colour of the ground on either side of it being different, the ornament on each side of the axis being of the colour of the opposite ground. see figs. 173, 174.
interlacing, ornament composed of bands, ribbons, ropes, rushes, osiers, &c., woven together, or crossing at intervals, as seen in celtic, byzantine, and saracenic ornament; among examples of interlaced work may be mentioned braided, trellis, basket, and woven work. figs. 22, 23.
intersection, the points at which lines or other forms cut one another.
monotony, sameness of tone; often shown in excessive repetition; a very undesirable feature in ornament: patterns within diapers without contrasting elements; mouldings coming together whose widths and profiles are nearly equal; panelling without sufficient variety in size; carved ornament of nearly equal relief--in short, any lack of variety in the composition, modelling, or colour of ornament produces monotony.
mnemonic, ornament in which written signs or other elements are used for the purpose of aiding the memory. see page 130. figs. 162, 163.
naturalistic, those forms that are used for decoration, that resemble the spots and eyes on butterflies’ wings, or the markings on the skins of reptiles and quadrupeds, or on the feathers of birds; mostly found in the ornament of savage tribes.
network, as opposed to checkers, are squares set lozengewise or forming diamonds; but the word is commonly applied to any figures in outline, rectilinear or otherwise, covering a surface. see fig. 102.
order, regular disposition; a pleasing sequence in the arrangement of opposed forms. order is of such vital importance in a design that ornament can scarcely have any existence without it.
proportion, the harmonic spacing of lines and surfaces; of the length, width, and projection of solids; the ratio between succeeding units in flowing ornament, and the relation between the spaces occupied by the ornament and its ground.
radiation, the divergence from a point of straight or curved lines. radiating ornament is improved by the point being below the straight or curved line from which the radiation starts. explained at page 44. see figs. 49, 50, and 51.
realistic, a style of decoration in which forms are applied without alteration from natural forms or objects, or without apparent alteration; it is opposed to the “conventional,” and is rarely found in the best periods of good historic styles. see figs. 1 and 146.
repetition, a succession of the same decorative unit. for explanation see pages 40-43. and figs. 3, 9, and 32.
reeded, convex forms applied to a flat or curved surface, producing the reverse effect of “fluting”; some of the columns in egyptian architecture are reeded, being sculptured to represent a bundle of reeds tied together. see figs. 76a and 76b.
repose, rest; the absence of apparent movement in ornament; this apparent movement may be seen in some flamboyant tracery and saracenic work, and in some bad paper-hangings, &c.; also the absence of spottiness. see page 45.
scale, the relative proportion of the different parts of a decorative composition to each other, to the whole, and to the thing ornamented. if a design is composed of different organic forms, they should, as a rule, keep their natural proportion to each other. attributes are, however, often made to a much larger scale in greek coins and engraved gems. equality in scale need not be used when parts are cut off from each other by inclosing mouldings, as in isolated panels, pilasters, medallions, spandrels, &c.; the inclosed spaces may be filled with other subjects of smaller or larger scale, as with landscapes, heads, or inscriptions; the frieze of a room, from its greater importance, may have its decoration larger in scale than the panels of the door or shutters. the scale employed in the decoration of rooms, of floors, or of pieces of furniture, may increase or destroy their importance; hence, except in rare instances, the human figure should not exceed its natural size, and may want to be much smaller. and this precaution is equally important in the use of plants; if the flowers or leaves in ornament are made gigantic, they destroy the scale of the room or floor; though it may be known that leaves four feet in diameter or six feet long actually exist.
scalloping or scolloping, forming an edge with semi-circles or segments, the convex side being outwards.
scroll, a roll of paper or parchment. as a unit in ornament, it is usually applied to two spirals, each attached to the opposite ends of a curved stem, each spiral coiling the reverse way, but the word is often applied to ornament composed of a meander with spirals.
setting out, the planning of a scheme of decoration; the first constructive lines or marking-out of the ornament; the skeleton lines of a design. see pages 26, 40, and 68.
soffit, an architectural term applied to the under side of any fixed portion, as the soffit of a beam, an architrave, a cornice, an arch, or a vault.
spacing, the marking of widths in mouldings, panels, stiles and rails, borders, &c. equality of division in decoration is, in most cases, ineffective, and should be guarded against; harmonious variety in such widths and distances is desirable for getting a good effect. see pages 42, 62, 65, and 68-71. also figs. c, d, 88 and 89.
spiral, the elevation of a wire continuously twisted round a cylinder, or cone, also the plan of one twisted round a cone; in ornament the word spiral, when used as a substantive, mostly means the latter form. the curved line forming a volute (as in the ionic capital) and the outline of the wave ornament; the line of construction in univalve shells. see figs. 24, 41, 42, 43, 178, &c.
style, originally meant handwriting. in historic styles it means the expression of the taste and skill of the people who produced the work of art, whether it be architecture, sculpture, or painting. bygone styles are useful for study, and may be copied or paraphrased, but can never be re-created, because the genius, knowledge, opportunities, and surroundings of any later period are unlikely to be the same. we classify them under the head of conventional (sometimes called idealistic), realistic, and naturalistic. it is also used to express good drawing or modelling, which conveys the elegance, grace, or vigour of the best natural forms. sometimes it is applied to a composition in which those qualities arc expressed, in contradistinction to the ill-drawn, flabby, or commonplace.
spotting. this word has nearly the same meaning as “powdering,” the only difference being that the units of form in such decoration have a geometrical basis and are mostly equidistant, the ground occupying much larger space than the ornament. see fig. 80.
stripe, usually applied in ornament to narrow bands.
suitability, æsthetic and practical fitness; the great thing to remember is the nature, surface, and shape of the object to be decorated, and to design the ornament accordingly, for it is evident that what would be a good ornament for one object or position might be bad for another.
superimposed or superposed, an ornament which is laid on the surface of another, such as a large flowing pattern on a ground covered with a smaller pattern, either geometric or floral; or a broad, ribbon-like ornament laid on a pattern formed of narrow and fine lines. this sort of ornamentation is mostly seen in the decoration of the saracens, but occasionally in that of the renaissance artists. in the wall-patterns of the alhambra, we often find two, three, and sometimes four different designs superimposed on each other, the judicious use of different colours and gold preventing confusion in the pattern; the complexity is sometimes of a well-ordered kind. see figs. 101, 102, and 104.
subordination. a regular gradation from the most important feature to the least important. see the central panel of ceiling, fig. 89.
symbol originally meant a token or a ticket among the greeks; by the romans it meant the same, and also a signet. in modern english it means a sign, emblem, or figurative representation. in ornamental art it is mostly used to express some beautiful thing that by knowledge or association brings to the mind some power or dignity connected with religion. attributes are often used as symbols of the divinity to which they belong--the bow of diana, the thyrsus of bacchus (fig. 167), and the trident of neptune, &c. in christian ornament the fish and lamb are mostly symbols of the saviour. it is sometimes difficult to determine when anything should be called a symbol, an emblem, or an allegorical representation; for instance, whether the apocalyptic calf is a symbol, an emblem, or an allegorical representation of st. luke.
symmetry, equality of form and mass on either side of a central line; absolute sameness in the two sides of a piece of ornament. see figs. 127 and 130.
uniformity, being of one shape; the square and circle are uniform figures; it is one of the main causes of grandeur and dignity, but if absolute, results in monotony. the greek temples had apparently uniform columns placed at uniform distances, and monotony was avoided by delicate variations in the size and spacing of the columns.
unit, the smallest or simplest complete expression of ornament in any scheme of decoration.
unity, perfect accord in all the parts of a design. unity is often a characteristic of designs that are very monotonous, so by itself it will scarcely render a design pleasing.
unsymmetrical, without symmetry, such as the volute. see the word balance.
variety, the absence of similarity; a word embracing an infinity of differences, from two things that are not absolutely alike, to two things that are absolutely unlike. the judicious use of variety gives interest to ornament, but uniformity with slight variety gives the most dignity.
richard clay & sons, limited, london & bungay.
“eve’s tempter thus the rabbins have express’d, a cherub’s face, a reptile all the rest.”--pope.
canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net
books by rupert hughes
harper & brothers. new york
clipped wings published serially as “the barge of dreams”
author of “what will people say?” “empty pockets” etc.
harper & brothers publishers new york and london
to robert h. davis with affectionate admiration
the proud lady in the new runabout was homeward bound from a shopping raid. it was her first voyage down-town alone with the thing. she guided the old family horse up to her curb in a graceful sweep, but, like a new elevator-boy, could not come to a stop at the stopping-place.
she could go forward or back, but she could not exactly negotiate her own stepping-block. as she blushingly struggled for it she heard the scream of a child in desperate terror. it inspired an equal terror, for it came from her own house.
she had left her two children at home, expecting playmate guests. she had extracted from them every imaginable promise to be good and to abstain from danger. but she knew how easily they romped into perils. she heard the cry again, and clutched her breast in a little death of fear as she half leaped, half toppled from her carriage and ran up the walk, leaving the horse to his own devices.
the poor woman was wondering which of her beloved had fallen on the shears or into the fire. which of the dogs had gone mad, and bitten whom. while she stumbled up the steps she heard the outcry repeated and she paused.
that voice was the voice of neither of her own children. the thought that a neighbor’s child might have perished in her home was almost more fearful still. as she fumbled at the door-knob she heard the thud of a little falling body. then there was a most dreadful silence.
she hastened to the big living-room. she thrust back the somber hanging, and stepped on the arm of her own son.
he was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. he did not move, though his wrist rolled under her foot.
she flinched away, sickened, only to behold a yet ghastlier spectacle: her daughter hung across the arm of a couch, her hair over her face, and one limp hand touching the floor. at her feet was a young nephew in a contorted huddle with his head under the table. the son of a neighbor was stretched out on a chair, his face flung far back and his eyes staring.
and on the panther-skin by the fireplace a young girl whom mrs. vickery had never seen before lay sidelong, singularly beautiful in death.
before this vision of inconceivable horror the mother stood petrified, her throat in the grip of such fright that she could not utter a sound. then her knees yielded and she sank to the side of her boy, clutched him to her breast, and cried:
“eugene! my little ’gene!”
she pressed her palsied lips to his cheek. thank god, it was still warm. he moved, he thrust her arms away, and mumbled. she bent to catch the words:
“lea’ me alone! i’m dead!”
with a sigh of infinite relief she spilled him back to the rug, where he lay motionless. she called sharply to the girl on the couch:
half angry, half ecstatic, mrs. vickery rose and moved among the littered corpses, like edith looking for king harold’s body on hastings field. she passed by her nephew, tommy jerrems, and mrs. burbage’s boy, clyde, and proceeded to the eerie stranger on the panther-skin.
this child would have looked deader if she had not been breathing so hard, and if her exquisite face had not been so scarlet in the tangle of her hair, which was curiously adorned with bottle-straw and excelsior from a packing-case in the cellar and with artificial flowers from a last-summer’s hat of mrs. vickery’s in the attic.
mrs. vickery bent above the panting ruins, lifted one relaxed hand, and inquired, “and who are you, little girl?”
“don’t touch me, please; i’m all wet!”
mrs. vickery forgot her imagination long enough to expostulate, “why, no, you’re not, my dear!”
and now the eyes opened with the answer: “oh yes, i am, if you please. i’ve just drownded myself in the pool here—if you please.”
“oh!” mrs. vickery assented. “well, hadn’t you better get up before you catch cold?”
the answer to this question was another—a poser.
“but how can i get up, if you please, until you lower the curtain?”
mrs. vickery had been a parent often enough and long enough to obey the solemn behests of children without impertinent whys. she could not imagine what incantational power might reside in the roller window-shade, but she hurried to it and pulled it down.
the little girl scrambled to her feet with a smile of brave regret: “thank you ever so much! that’s not a ’maginary curtain, but only a real one. still, it will have to do, i s’pose.” then she addressed the other victims of fate, all of whom were craning their necks to peek: “now, ladies and gent’men, take your curtain calls.”
the reaction from her terror had rendered mrs. vickery almost hysterical, but she managed to keep her face straight and her hands busy while the line bowed and bowed.
once more the directress whispered to mrs. vickery, “pull the curtain down a minute, please, and let it go up again.” when this was done she said, “if you got any flowers handy, they’d be nice.”
mrs. vickery unpinned a small bouquet of violets she had presented herself with at the florist’s and tossed it at the foot of the swaying line.
the directress hissed from the other side of her mouth, “pick ’em up, ’gene, and give ’em to me.”
eugene stooped so hastily and with such rigidity of knee that an over-tried button at the back of his knickers shot across the room. dorothy, who had not ceased to giggle, whooped with joy at this, and received a glare of rebuke from the star. this did not silence dorothy. but then her parents had tried for nine years to find some way of making her stop laughing without making her begin to cry.
eugene was solemn enough and blushed to his ears as he bestowed the flowers upon the stranger, who first motioned the others back and then acknowledged the tribute alone with profound courtesies to mrs. vickery and to unseen and unheard plauditors at the right and left. her smile was the bizarre parody of innocence imitating sophistication. then she threw off the mien of artifice and became informal and a child again. the game was evidently over.
mrs. vickery, realizing now that she was the belated audience at a tragedy, assumed her most lion-hunting manner and pleaded, meekly, “won’t somebody please introduce me to mrs. siddons!”
dorothy gasped with amazement and gulped with amusement at her mother’s stupidity. but before she could make the presentation the stranger cried:
“oh, how did you know?”
“know what, my dear?”
“that my name was siddons!”
“is it, really? but i was referring to the famous actress. she’s been dead for a hundred years, i think.”
“oh yes, but i’m named after her. my middle name is mrs. siddons—of course i mean just siddons. i’m a linyural descender from her.”
dorothy broke in, seriously enough now: “why, sheila kemble, how you talk! you know you’re no such thing. your name is kemble. isn’t it, clyde?”
clyde nodded and dorothy exclaimed, “yah!”
dorothy had not the faintest idea who mrs. siddons might be, save that she was evidently a person of distinction, but dorothy had a child’s ferocious resentment at seeing any one else obtaining prestige under false pretenses. sheila regarded her with a grandmotherly pity and answered:
“my name is kemble, yes; but if you know so much, miss smarty-cat, you ought to know that mrs. siddons’s name was miss kemble before she married mr. siddons.” and now in her turn she added the deadly “yah!”
mrs. vickery, in the office of peacemaker, tried to change the subject: “‘sheila’—what a beautiful name!” she cried. “it’s irish, isn’t it?”
“oh yes, ma’am. my papa says that if you’re a great actor you have to have a streak of either irish or jew in you!”
“indeed! and is your father a great actor?”
“is he? ask him!”
mrs. vickery was tormented with an intuitional suspicion that she was in the presence of a stage-child. she had never met one on the hither side of the footlights. it was uncanny to stumble upon it dressed like other children and playing among them as a child. there was a kind of weirdness about the encounter as if she had found a goblin or a pixie in the living-room, or a waif suspected of scarlet fever.
it was she and not the pixie that felt the embarrassment! the first defense of a person in confusion is usually a series of questions, and mrs. vickery was reduced to asking:
“what sort of plays does your father play?”
“draw’n-room commerdies mostly. people call ’em roger kemble parts.”
mrs. vickery spoke with a sudden increase of respect:
“so your father is the great roger kemble! and is your mother an actress, too?”
“is my mother an actress? why, mrs. vickery, didn’t you ever hear of miss polly farren?”
it would have been hard indeed to escape the name of miss polly farren. it was incessantly visible in newspapers and magazines, and on bill-boards in letters a yard high, with colossal portraits attached. mrs. vickery had seen polly farren act. a girlish, hoydenish thing she was, who made even the women laugh and love her. mrs. vickery felt at first a pride in meeting any relative of hers. then a chill struck her. she lowered her voice lest the children hear:
“but miss farren isn’t your mother?”
“indeed and she is! and i’m her daughter.”
“and roger kemble is your father?”
“yes, indeedy. we’re all each other’s.”
mrs. vickery turned dizzy; the room began to roll like a merry-go-round—without the merriment. sheila, never realizing the whirl she had started, brought it to a sudden and gratifying stop by her next chatter.
“you see, when mamma married papa” (mrs. vickery’s relief was audible) “they wanted to travel as mr. and mrs. kemble, but the wicked old manager objected. he said mamma’s name was a household word, and she was worth five hunderd a week as polly farren and she wasn’t worth seventy-five as mrs. kemble.”
mrs. vickery, whose husband was proud of his hundred a week, was awestruck at the thought of a woman who earned five hundred.
of course it was wicked money, but wasn’t there a lot of it? she was reassured wonderfully, and, though a trifle tinged with shame for her curiosity, she baited the child with another question:
“and have you been on the stage, too?”
mrs. vickery shook her head over her in pity and sighed, “you poor child!”
sheila gasped, “oh, mrs. vickery!” her eyes were enlarged with wonder and protest as if she had been struck in the face.
mrs. vickery hastened to explain: “to be kept up so late, i mean: and—and—weren’t you frightened to death of all those people?”
“frightened? why, they wouldn’t hurt me. they always applauded me and said, ‘oh, isn’t she sweet!’”
mrs. vickery had read much about the woes of factory children and of the little wretches who toil in the coal-mines, and she had heard of the agitation to forbid the appearance of children on the stage. the tradition of misery was so strong that she was blinded for the moment to the extraordinary beauty, vigor, and vivacity of this example. she felt sorry for her.
sheila had encountered such mysterious pity once or twice before and she flamed to resent it. but even as eloquence rushed to her lips she remembered her mother’s last words as she kissed her good-by—they had been an injunction to be polite at all costs.
the struggle to defend her mother’s glory and to obey her mother’s self-denying ordinance was so bitter that it squeezed a big tear out of each big eye.
mrs. vickery, seeming to divine the secret of her plight, cuddled her to her breast with a gush of affectionate homage. reassured by this surrender, sheila became again a child.
“and now what was this wonderful game where so many people got killed? was it a war or a shipwreck or—or what?”
sheila forgot her tears in the luxury of instructing an elder. with unmitigated patronage, as who in her turn should say, “you poor thing, you!” she exclaimed: “why, don’t you know? it’s the last ack of ‘hamlet!’”
“oh, i see! of course! how perfectly stupid of me!”
sheila endeavored to comfort her: “oh no, it wasn’t stupid a tall, mrs. vickery, if you’ll pardon me for cont’adictin’, but—well, you see, we got no real paduction, no costumes or scenery or anything.”
mrs. vickery said: “that doesn’t matter; but who was who? you see, i got in so late the usher didn’t give me a program.”
sheila was rejoiced at this collaboration in the game. she explained: “oh, the p’ograms didn’t arrive in time from the pwinter, and so we had a ’nouncement made before the curtain. he’s a most un’liable pwinter and i sent the usher for the p’ograms and he never came back. ’gene was hamlet and he was awful good. he read the silloloquy out of the book there. he reads very well. and dorothy was his mother, the queen, and she was awful good, too—very good, indeed, ’ceptin’ for gigglin’ in the serious parts, and after she was dead.”
dorothy giggled and wriggled again, to show how it was done. after this interruption was quelled sheila went on:
“tommy jerrems was laertes and he was awful good. the duel with ’gene was terrible. i’m afraid one of your umbrellas was bent—the poisoned one. tommy didn’t want to die and i had to hit him with a hassock, and then he was so long dyin’, he held up the whole paformance. but he was very good. and cousin clyde he was the wicked king, and he was awful good, but then, o’ course, he comes of our family, and you’d naturally expeck him to be good.”
mrs. vickery suppressed a gasp of protest from dorothy, who was intolerant of self-advertisement, and said: “but you were dead, too, sheila. who were you?”
“why, i was ophelia, o’ course!”
“oh! but i thought ophelia died long before the rest, and was buried, and hamlet and laertes fought in her grave, and—”
“oh, i see,” said mrs. vickery. “that sounds ever so much better.”
“well,” said sheila, shrugging her impudent little shoulders like any other jackanapes of a reviser, “as my papa says, ‘it sort of knits things together better and bolsters up the finish.’ you know it’s kind of bad to leave the leading lady out of the last ack. it makes the audience mad, you know.”
“yes, i know! and was it you who screamed so at the end of the play?”
sheila hung her head and tugged at a button on mrs. vickery’s waist as she confessed: “well, i did my best. o’ course i’m not very good—yet.”
dorothy was so matter-of-fact that she would not tolerate even self-depreciation. she exploded:
“why, sheila kemble, you are so! she was wonderful, mamma! and she was so mad crazy she gave me the creeps. and when finally she plounced down and died, all us other deaders sat up and felt so scared we fell over again. she went mad simply lovely.”
and tommy jerrems added his posy: “i bet you could ’a’ heard her holler for three blocks.”
“i bet i did!” mrs. vickery sighed, remembering the fright she had had from that edged cry.
the other children fell into a wrangle celebrating sheila as a person of amazing learning, powers of make-believe and command, and sheila, throned on mrs. vickery’s lap, sat twisting her fingers in the pleasant confusion of one who is too truthful to deny and too modest to confess a splendid achievement. now and then she heaved the big lids from her eyes and mrs. vickery read there rapture, deprecation, appeal for applause, superiority to flattery, self-confidence, and meekness. and mrs. vickery felt that those eyes were born to persuade, to charm, to thrill and compel.
at last mrs. vickery said, mainly for politeness’ sake, “i wish i could have seen the performance.”
the hint threw a bombshell of energy into the troupe. the mummers all began to dance and stamp and shriek, “oh, let’s do it again! let’s! oh, let’s!”
every one shouted but sheila. her silence silenced the others at last. she already knew enough to be silent when others were noisy and to shriek when others were silent. then like a leaderless army the children urged her to take the crown.
sheila thought earnestly, but shook her head: “it isn’t diggenafied to play two a day.” this evoked such a tomblike sigh that she relented a trifle: “we might call this other one a matinée, though, and call the other one a evening paformance.”
with the humming-bird instinct, the children stood tremulously poised before one flower only a moment, then flashed to another. it was a proposal by tommy jerrems that called them away now.
tommy jerrems had frequently revealed little glints of financial promise. he had been a notorious keeper of lemonade-stands, a frequent bankrupt, a getter-up of circuses, and a zealous impresario of baseball games in which he did all the work and got none of the play. he was of a useful but unenviable type and would undoubtedly become in later life a dozen or more unsalaried treasurers and secretaries to various organizations.
tommy jerrems proposed that the play of “hamlet” should be enacted at his mother’s house as a regular entertainment with a fixed price of admission. this project was hailed with riotous enthusiasm, and king claudius turned a cart-wheel in the general direction of a potted palm—and potted it.
there was some excitement over the restoration of this alien verdure, and mrs. vickery was glad that her own home had not been re-elected as playhouse. she made a mild protest on behalf of mrs. jerrems, but she was assailed with so frenzied a horde of suppliants that she capitulated; at least she gave her consent that dorothy and eugene might take part.
there was a strenuous austrian parliament now upon a number of matters. somehow, out of the chaos, it was gradually agreed that there should be real costumes as well as what sheila called “props.” she explained that this included gold crowns, scepters, thrones, swords, helmets, spears, and what not.
suddenly sheila let out another of those heart-stopping shrieks of hers. she had been struck by a very lightning of inspiration. she seized tommy as if she would rend him in pieces and howled: “oh, tommy, tommy, tommy! you ask your mother to have the bath-tub brought down to the back parlor and filled up and then i can drownd myself in real water.”
a pack of wolves could not have fallen more noisily on a wounded brother than the children fell on this.
tommy alone was dubious. he was afraid that the bath-tub was too securely fastened to the bath-room to be uprooted. but he promised to ask his mother. sheila, the resourceful, had an alternative ready:
“well, anyway, she could have a wash-boiler brought in from the kitchen, couldn’t she?”
tommy thought mebbe she could, but would she?
mrs. vickery did not interfere. she had an idea that mrs. jerrems could be trusted to see to it that ophelia had an extra-dry drowning. mrs. jerrems was rather fond of her furniture.
money to buy gold paper for the crowns, and silver paper to make canes look like swords and curtain-poles like spears, nearly wrecked the project. but tommy thought that by patience and assiduity he could shake out of the patent savings-bank his father had given him enough dimes to subsidize the institution, on condition that he might reimburse himself out of the first moneys that were bound to flood the box-office.
there was earnest debate over the price of admission. clyde burbage suggested five pins, but sheila turned up her nose at this; it sounded amateurish. she said that her father and mother would never play in any but two-dollar theaters—or “fe-aters,” as she still called them. still, she supposed that since the comp’ny was all juveniles they’d better not charge more than a dollar for seats, and fifty cents for the nigger-heaven.
tommy jerrems, who had some bitter acquaintance with the ductile qualities of that community, emitted a long, low “whew!” he said that they would be lucky to get five cents a head in that town, and not many heads at that. this sum was reluctantly accepted by sheila, and the syndicate moved to adjourn.
sheila put her hand in mrs. vickery’s and ducked one knee respectfully. but mrs. vickery, with an impulse of curious subservience, knelt down and embraced the child and kissed her.
she had an odd feeling that some day she would say, “sheila kemble? oh yes, i knew her when she was a tiny child. i always said she would startle the world.”
she seemed even now to hear her own voice echoing faintly back from the future.
the house seemed still to quiver after the neighbors’ young had left. mrs. vickery moved about restoring order. and dorothy bustled after her, full of talk and snickers. but eugene curled up in a chair by a window as solemn as sophokles.
mrs. vickery was still thinking of sheila. she asked first of her, “how did you come to meet this little kemble girl?”
dorothy explained: “oh, i telephoned clyde burbage to come over and play, and he said he couldn’t, ’cause they had comp’ny; and i said, ‘bring comp’ny along,’ and he did, and she’s his cousin; her grandma lives at his house, and her papa and mamma are going to visit there at clyde’s for a week. isn’t sheila a case, mamma? she says the funniest things. i wish i could ’member some of ’em.”
mrs. vickery smiled and stared at dorothy. in the grand lottery of children she had drawn dorothy. she saw in the child many of her own traits, many of the father’s traits. she loved dorothy, of course, and had much good reason for her instinctive devotion, and many rewards for it. and yet the child was singularly talentless, as her father was, as mrs. vickery confessed herself to be.
she wondered at the strange distribution of human gifts—some dowered from their cradles with the workaday virtues and commonplace vices, and some mysteriously flecked with a kind of wildness that is both less and more than virtue, an oddity that gives every speech or gesture an unusual emphasis, a rememberable differentness.
dorothy was a safe child to have; she would make a reliable, admirable, good woman. but mrs. vickery felt that if sheila had been her child she would have been incessantly afraid of the girl and for her, incessantly uncertain of the future. yet, she would have watched her, and the neighbors would have watched her, with a breathless fascination as one watches a tight-rope walker who moves on a hazardous path, yet moves above the heads of the crowd and engages all its eyes.
little eugene vickery had a quirk of the unusual, but it was not conspicuous; he was a burrower, who emerged like a mole in unexpected places, and led a silent, inconspicuous life gnawing at the roots of things.
his mother found him now, as so often, taciturn, brooding, thinking long thoughts—the solemnest thing there is, a solemn child.
“why are you so silent, eugene?” she said.
he smiled sedately and shook his head with evasion. but dorothy pointed the finger of scorn at him; she even whittled one finger with another and taunted him, shrilly:
“’gene’s in love with sheila! ’gene’s in love with sheila!”
“am not!” he growled with a puppy’s growl.
“are so!” cried dorothy, jubilantly.
“well, s’posin’ i am?” he answered, sullenly. “she’s a durned sight smarter and prettier than—some folks.”
this sobered dorothy and crumpled her chin with distress. like her mother, she had long ago recognized with helpless regret that she was not brilliant.
mrs. vickery, amazed at hearing the somber eugene accused of so frivolous a thing as a love-affair, stared at him and murmured, “why, ’gene!”
feeling a storm sultry in the air, she warned dorothy that it was time to practise her piano-lesson. dorothy, whose other name was dutiful, made no protest, but began to trudge up and down the scales with a perfect accuracy that was somehow perfectly musicless and almost unendurable.
mrs. vickery knew that eugene would speak when he was ready, and not before. she pretended to ignore him, but her heart was beating high with the thrill of that new era in a mother’s soul when she sees the first of her children smitten with the love-dart and becomes a sort of painfully amused niobe, wondering always where the next arrow will come from and which it will hit next.
after a long while eugene spoke, though not at all as she expected him to speak. but then he never spoke as she expected him to speak. he murmured:
“do you s’pose i could write a play as good as that old shakespeare did?”
“why—why, yes, i’m sure you could—if you tried.”
mrs. vickery had always understood the rarely comprehended truth that praise creates less conceit than the withholding of it, as food builds strength and slays the hunger that cries for it.
“i guess i’ll write a play.”
“fine!” she said.
mrs. vickery cast up her eyes and stole out, not knowing what to say. already the child was turning his affections away from home and her.
an hour later she almost stepped on him again. he was lying on the rug by the twilight-glimmering window of the dining-room, whither dorothy’s relentless scales had driven him. he was lying on his stomach with his nose almost touching his composition-book, and he was scrawling large words laboriously with a nub of pencil so stubby that he seemed to be writing with his own forefinger bent like a grasshopper’s leg.
william shakespeare, gent., sleeping in avon church, had no knowledge of what conspiracy was hatching against his long-enough prestige. and if he had known, that very human mind of his might have suspected the truth, that the inspiration of his new rival was less a desire to crowd an old gentleman from the top shelf of fame than to supplant him in the esteem of a certain very young woman.
shakespeare himself in that same kidnapped play of his called “hamlet” complained of the children’s theater that rivaled his own.
there was complaint now of the new children’s theater in the minor city of braywood. three homes were topsy-turvied by the insatiable, irrepressible mummers.
it was less than an hour after sheila had left mrs. vickery’s when mrs. jerrems was on the telephone, plaintively demanding, “who on earth is this kemble child?”
mrs. vickery told her what she knew, and mrs. jerrems sighed: “a stage-child! that explains everything. she’s got tommy simply bewitched.”
besides the requisition for costumes and accessories that turned every attic trunk inside out there was an uneasy social complication.
mrs. jerrems and mrs. burbage knew each other only slightly and liked each other something less than that. yet tommy and sheila had arranged that mrs. burbage and her husband and her mother and the strangers within their gates should all descend upon mrs. jerrems and pay five cents apiece for the privilege of entering her drawing-room.
only one thing could have been more intolerable than obeying the children’s embarrassing demand, and that would have been breaking the children’s hearts by refusing it. so sheila’s mother and father, her grandmother and her aunt, were all browbeaten into accepting the invitations that mrs. jerrems had been browbeaten into extending.
sheila assumed that mrs. jerrems was as much interested in mr. shakespeare’s success as she was. and she rather took control of the house, saying a great many “pleases,” but uprooting the furniture from the places it had occupied till they had become almost sacred. she had half of the drawing-room cleared of chairs and the other half packed with rows of them. she commandeered two of mrs. jerrems’s guest-room sheets (the ones with the deep hemstitching and the swollen initials). these she pinned upon a rope stretched from two nails driven into the walls, with conspicuous damage to the plaster, since the first places chosen did not hold the nails—and came out with them. the rope was the clothes-line, which was needed in the yard, but which tommy had calmly cut down at sheila’s requisition. he had cut his own finger incidentally and it bled copiously on the dining-room drugget. he had later nailed the bandage to the wall and gone overboard with the stepladder, carrying with him what he could clutch from the mantelpiece en passant.
this was not the only damage; item, a wonderful imitation cut-glass celery-jar used during rehearsals to represent the chalice of poison; item, several gouges in furniture, which mrs. jerrems would almost rather have had in her own flesh than in her mahogany.
but eventually the evening came and the guests went shyly into the rows of chairs that made mrs. jerrems’s drawing-room look like a funeral. mrs. jerrems was worried, too, by the thought of entertaining not only the child of stage people, but an actor and an actress too famous to be disguised.
she wondered what her preacher would say of it.
and she could not feel easy about the spectacle of her son standing in her hallway and collecting money from callers before they were admitted.
the performance was a torment. the strutting children were so pompous that it was impossible to watch them without laughter, yet laughter would have been heinously cruel. the usual relations were reversed: the children comported themselves with vast reverence for a great work of art, and the naughty parents sat smothering their snickers.
the voice of the prompter was loud in the wings (the dining-room and hall), and the action was suspended occasionally while the actors quarreled with the prompter as to whose turn it was to speak. the sheila-ized shakespeare had not been written down, and, though the play was greatly compressed, the company forgot a good deal of what was left. in her innocence, the editress had also neglected to omit certain phrases that polite grown-ups suppress. these came forth with appalling effect.
then sheila entered as the late-returning ophelia and sobered them somehow on the instant.
sheila won an indisputable triumph. the others were at best children, and peculiarly childish in the rôles that have swamped all but the largest hulls. but sheila, for all her shortcomings and far-goings, had an uncanny power. even when she doubled as the ghost and tripped over the sheet in which she squeaked and gibbered nobody laughed. her girlish treble, trying to be orotund, had moments of gruesome influence. her ophelia was pathetically winsome in the earlier scenes, and in the mania she struck notes that put sudden ice into the blood. there was no denying her a dreadful intuition of things she could not know, and a gift for interpreting what she had never felt.
the other parents were ashamed of the contrast. as mrs. jerrems whispered to mrs. vickery, “one thing is certain, your dorothy and my boy tom will never know how to act.”
“but,” mrs. vickery whispered back, “that doesn’t prove that they won’t go on the stage.”
after the final curtain and innumerable curtain calls the play was ended and the audience filed back of the sheet to lavish its homage on the troupe.
mrs. jerrems had resolved to make the best of it, once she was in for it; and tried to take the curse off the profanation of collecting money from her guests by entertaining them and the actors at a little supper. her son tommy, always the financier, felt a greater profanation in the idea of charging five cents admission and then throwing in a supper that cost fifty cents a head. but mrs. jerrems told tommy to take care of his end of the enterprise and she would take care of hers. and she reminded him that the supper would cost him nothing. he consoled himself with the reflection that “women got no head for business.”
the juvenile tragedians ate at a small side-table, and so completely relaxed the solemnity they had revealed on the boards that the elder laity chiefly listened and smiled among themselves.
mrs. jerrems studied roger kemble and his wife, “miss” farren, surreptitiously, as one would study a thibetan or a martian. knowing in advance that they were actors, she felt sure that she found in them odd and characteristic mannerisms, for it is easy to find proofs when we have the facts. and once a man is known to be an actor it is easy to see the marks of the grease-paint, though, not knowing it, one is as likely to think him a preacher or a prize-fighter or whatever else he may suggest. the talk of mr. kemble and miss farren was normal; their manners polished, as became a class with so much leisure and culture. but mrs. jerrems felt that she could see the glamour of the footlights in everything they said or did.
she had seen them both in some of their plays. on her excursions to new york, a visit to their theater was hardly less important, and much more likely to be accomplished, than a visit to the metropolitan museum of art. when “farren and kemble,” as they were apt to be called, left new york for a tour they rarely visited braywood, or if they did the prices at the opera-house were sure to be advanced and all braywood put on its best clothes.
for one thing, polly farren and roger kemble were pre-eminently fashionable. their plays dealt with the fashionable people of europe and america. they were generally english, and roger kemble was likely to be lord somebody, and polly farren at least an honorable miss this-or-that. or, if they appeared in an american manuscript, they usually owned country houses and yachts and had titles for guests. their clothes were sure to be a sort of prospectus of the next season’s modes. roger kemble was never a fop, and always kept on the safe side of ostentation, yet he was always scrupulously a pace ahead of the style and groomed to flawlessness. he represented piccadilly patterns and his clock was about five hours ahead of new york time. polly was a little braver. she was beautiful, lithe, and dashing, and she was not afraid of anything that french taste and caprice might prophesy.
everybody knew, too, that polly farren and roger kemble “went with” the smartest people. those who knew they were married knew that their summer cottage was among the handsomest in the long island groups. their manners were smart, too, with just the right flippancy and just the right restraint. it was a school of etiquette to see them enter a drawing-room or sip tea importantly, or tear a passion to embroidery.
polly had made her first sensation in a play in which she was supposed to have imbibed more champagne than her pretty head could carry. the critics raved over her demonstration of the fine art of being tipsy in a ladylike manner. roger kemble’s rôles frequently compelled him to be “as drunk as a lord,” and young men of bibulosity tried to remember him in their cups.
so now mrs. jerrems, watching the husband and wife at the homely task of stowing away a small-city supper, seemed to be watching a scene on the stage. she dreaded them, yet she tried to copy them. faithful church-member that she was, she abhorred the stage theoretically, and practically followed its influence more than the church’s. she kept taking notes on polly farren’s costume and carriage, and her husband would later be admonished that many, many things he did were pitiably below the standard of roger kemble.
the kembles were not unaware of the inspection they underwent. they were used enough to it, yet it irked them in this small community whither they had retired during the holy week closing of their company. they were glad to be gone as soon as they could decently take their leave and carry off their wonder-child.
sheila was so exhausted by her labors as editress, directress, and actress that she had yawned even in the midst of her prettiest thank-yous for the praise she battened on. on the way she clung to her father’s hand in a sleep-walking drowse, and lurched into him until he caught her into his bosom and carried her home and up the stairs to her bed. she slept while her mother undressed her, and there was no waking her to her prayers. even in her heavy slumbers she fell into an attitude of such grace that it seemed almost conscious.
roger and polly looked at her and smiled; and shook their heads over her.
kemble was in his bath-robe in the bath-room before his wife, who had not moved from her posture of contemplation, suddenly thought aloud:
“after all, why not?”
kemble paused with the tooth-paste tube above his tooth-brush to query, “why not what?”
“what better chance is there for a woman?”
kemble moved close enough to her to nudge her out of her muse and demand again, “what woman are you talking about?”
“that one,” said polly. “that little understudy of life. you say we sha’n’t be able to keep her off the stage. why should we try to?”
“well, knowing what we do of the stage, my dear,—it isn’t exactly the ideal place for a girl, now is it?”
“no, of course not. but where is the ideal place for a girl? is there such a thing? we know all too well how much suffering and anxiety and disappointment and wickedness there is on the stage; but where will you go to escape it? look at the society wives and daughters we know, in town and out in the country. look at the poor girls in the shops and factories.”
“that’s so,” kemble spluttered across his shuttling tooth-brush. “i rather fancy a smaller city is better.”
his wife laughed softly: “you ought to have heard what i’ve been hearing about this town! you’d think it was the home of all villainy. there’s enough scandal and tragedy here to fill a hundred volumes. there are problem-plays here—among busy church-members, too—that make ibsen read like a copy of st. nicholas.”
she put out the light in sheila’s room and went into her own, lighted herself a cigarette from the cigar her husband had left in her hair-pin tray, and sat down before the cold radiator as before a fireplace to talk about life. people were all rôles to her and their histories were scenarios that interested her more or less as she saw herself playing them.
“when i look around at my old school friends and relatives off the stage,” she said, “i can’t see that they’ve found any recipe for happiness. clara gaines is a domestic soul and her husband is a druggist, but he leaves her to be domestic all by herself, and she tells me he never spends a minute at home that he can spend outside. ella westover has divorced two husbands in terre haute already. marjorie cranford tells me that her home town out in—in the middle west somewhere—has a fast set that makes the tenderloin look stupid. clarice—what’s her name now?—well, she has married an awfully good man, but she has to wheedle every cent she gets out of him or cheat him out of it, and she says she wants to scream at his hypocrisy. she thinks she’ll run off and leave him any day now.”
kemble drew a chair to her side and put his feet on the radiator alongside hers. he found his cigar out, and relighted it with difficulty from her cigarette as he laughed:
“polly is a bit of a pessimist to-night, eh? is it the quietness of this little burg? i was rather enjoying the peace and repose and all that sort of thing.”
“so was i. but that’s because it’s a change for us to have an evening off. think of the women who never have anything else. they’re not happy, roger. you can’t find one of them that will say she is.”
“you don’t fancy small-town respectability for your daughter, then?”
“i hope she’ll be respectable. but there’s so little real respectability in being just dull and bored to death, in just sitting round and waiting for some man to come home, in having nothing to spend except what you can steal out of his trousers or squeeze out of an allowance. i’d rather have sheila an actress than a toadstool or a parasite on some man. she has one of those wild-bird natures that i had. the safest thing for her is the freedom and a lot of work and admiration, and a chance to act. the stage is no paradise, the lord knows, but the first woman that ever knew freedom was the actress. these votes-for-women rebels are all clamoring now for what we actresses have always had. would it break your heart, roger, if our little sheila went on the stage?”
kemble followed a slow cloud of smoke with the soft words:
“my mother was an actress.”
he drew in more smoke and let it curl forth luxuriously as he murmured, “and my wife is an actress.”
it would have surprised the farren-kemble following to see those flippant comedians so domesticated and holding a solemn ante-vitam inquest over the future of their child. but a father is a father and a mother a mother the world over.
polly put out her hand and squeezed roger’s, and he lifted hers and touched it to his lips with an old comedy grace. she drew the two hands back across the little gulf between them and returned the compliment, then rested her cheek on their conjoined fingers and pondered:
“we could save sheila the hardest part of it. she wouldn’t have to hang round the agencies or bribe any brute with herself, or barnstorm with any cheap company. and she wouldn’t have to go on the stage by way of any scandal.”
roger growled comfortably: “that’s so. she could step right into the old-established firm of farren & kemble. the main thing for us to see is that she is a good actress—as her mother was and her two grandmothers and three of her four great-grandmothers, and so on back.”
polly amended: “she mustn’t go on the stage too soon, though—or too late; and she must have a good education—french and german, and travel abroad and all that.”
“then that’s settled,” kemble laughed. “and as soon as we’ve got her all prepared and established and on the way to big success, she’ll fall in love with some blamed cub who’ll drag her to his home in skaneateles.”
“probably; but she’ll come back.”
“all right. and now, having written sheila’s life for her to rewrite, let’s go to bed. there’ll be no sleeping in this noisy house in the morning.”
that was a tremendous week for the children of braywood. as some quiet bayou harbors for a time a few birds of passage restlessly resting before they fly on into the sky, so the domestic poultry of braywood was stirred by the kemble wild fowl.
four generations were gathered at the burbage home. sheila’s great-grandmother was always there at the home of clyde burbage, senior, who had fallen out of the line of strollers, and become a merchant. his wife’s mother, who was polly farren’s mother, too, was there for a visit. the old lady and the older lady had left the stage and now spent their hours in regretting the decadence of earlier glories, as their elders had done before them, and as their children would do in their turn.
the kembles and farrens and burbages were all peers in the aristocracy of the theater, which, like every other world, has its princes and peasants, its merchants and vagabonds, saints and sinners.
none of this line dated back, however, to the time when holy week was a period of industry for the churchly actors who prepared their miracles and moralities for the edification of the people. nowadays holy week is a time when most of the theaters close, and the others entertain diminished audiences and troupes whose enthusiasm is diminished by the halving of their salaries.
it is a period when so many people desire to be seen in church or fear to be seen in the playhouse, that the receipts drop off amazingly, though the same people feel it no sin to crowd the same theater the week before or the week after the passion sennight.
sometimes a play is strong enough in draught to pack the theater in spite of the anniversary. this year the farren-kemble play was not quite successful enough to justify the risk of half-filled auditoriums. so they “rested.”
but to the children, as to the other animals, there are no holy days, or rather no unholy days. the children of braywood made a theatrical week of it, and sheila reveled in her opportunity. she had an audience everywhere she went.
the other children stood about her and wondered. she fascinated them, and they were eager to do as she bade, though they felt a certain uneasiness; as if they had wished for a fairy queen to play with and had got their wish.
the other children commanded in their own specialties and in their turns. at outdoor romps and sports clyde burbage led the way, and endangered future limbs or present lives by his fearless banter. at household games with dolls and diseases dorothy had a matronly authority and sheila was like a novice. in hospital games, dorothy, the head nurse, must show her how babies should be handled, punished, and medicined.
it should be set down to sheila’s credit that she was meek as moses in the presence of domestic genius. but it must be added that the things she learned from dorothy were likely to be exploited later in some drama where sheila took full sway. in dorothy’s games the dolls always recovered when dr. eugene was called in with his grandmother’s spectacles on. in sheila’s dramas the dolls almost always perished in agony, while the desperate mother clung to the embarrassed doctor, at the same time screaming to him to save the child and whispering him to pronounce it dead.
roger kemble happened to be passing mrs. vickery’s front yard during one of these tragedies, and paused to watch it across the fence while mrs. vickery attended from the porch. one of those startling unconscious scandals in which children’s plays abound was suddenly developed, and roger moved on rapidly while mrs. vickery vanished into the house.
all the while the young shakespeare of braywood wrought upon his play for sheila. but the moment he thought he had it perfected, he would hear her toss off one of the dramatic principles that she had overheard her father and mother discussing after some rehearsal. then eugene would blush to realize that his drama had violated this dictum and was unworthy of the great actress. and he would steal away to unravel his fabric and knit it up again.
at last it began to shape itself according to her ideals as he had gleaned them. he sat up finishing it until he was sent to bed for the fourth time, then he worked in his room till his mother knocked on his door and ordered his light out and forbade him to leave his bed again.
he put out the light and worked till breakfast and his play were ready. after he had spooned up his porridge and chewed down his second glass of milk he made haste toward clyde burbage’s house. he hesitated at the nearest corner till he found courage to proceed. he mounted the steps with his precious manuscript buttoned against his swinging heart. he rang the bell. mrs. burbage came to the door, and he peeled his cap from his burning head:
“is—is clyde at home, mis’ burbage?”
mrs. burbage was surprised at the formality of the visit. boys usually stood outside and whistled for clyde or called “hoo-oo!” or “hay, clyde—oh, cly-ud!” till he answered. in fact, he had only recently answered just such a signal from another boy and slammed the door after him.
when eugene learned that clyde was abroad he made as if to depart, then paused and, with a violent carelessness, mumbled, “i don’t suppose sheila is home, either?”
“sheila? oh no! she and her father and mother left on the midnight train.”
“is that so?” said eugene as casually as if he had just learned that all his relatives were dead or that he had overslept christmas.
he tried to make a brave exit, but he was so forlorn that mrs. burbage forgot to smile as grown-ups smile at the big tragedies of the little folk. she watched him struggling overlong at the gate-latch. she saw him break into a frantic run for home as soon as he had gained the sidewalk. then she went inside, shaking her head and thinking the same words that were clamoring in the boy’s sick heart:
“oh, sheila! sheila!”
the big young man with the shoulders of a bureau would never have been taken for a student if he had not been crossing the campus with a too small cap precariously perched on his too much hair, and if he had not been swinging a strapful of those thin, weary-worn volumes that look to be text-books and not novels. the eye-glasses set on his young nose mainly accented his youth. if he had not depended on them he would have made a splendid center rush. instead, he was driven to the ’varsity crew, where he won more glory than in the class-room. he paused before a ground-floor window of the oldest of the old dormitories. that window-seat as usual displayed the slim and gangling form of a young man who was usually to be found there stretched out on his stomach and reading or writing with solemn absorption. it was necessary to call him repeatedly before he came back from the mist he surrounded himself with:
“hay! ’gene! oh, vick! ’gene vickery! hay you!”
“hay yourself! oh, hey-o, bret winfield, h’are you?”
“rotten! say—you going to the theater to-night?”
“i usually do. what’s the play?”
“‘a friend in need.’ ran six months in new york.”
“all right, i’ll go.”
“better get a seat under cover of the balcony.”
“looks like a big night to-night. the freshmen are going to bust up the show.”
vickery was only a post-graduate, in his first year at leroy university. he had gone through the home-town schools and a preparatory school and a smaller college, before he had moved on to leroy to earn a ph.d. he had long ago given up his ambitions to replace shakespeare. so now he asked in his ignorance why the freshmen of leroy must break up the play. and winfield answered from his knowledge:
“because about this time of year the freshman class always busts up a show. it’s one of the sacredest traditions of our dear old alum mater. last year’s freshies put a big musical comedy on the blink. kidnapped half the chorus girls. this year there’s no burlesque in view, so the cubs are reduced to pulling down a high comedy.”
“won’t the faculty do anything about it?”
“faculty won’t know anything about it till the morning papers tell how many policemen were lost and how much damage was done to the theater. if you’re going, either take an umbrella or sit under the balcony, for there will be doings.”
“i’ll be there, bret.”
“i wish i could have you with me, but a gang of us seniors have taken a front box together. s’long!”
vickery went back to his text-book. he was to be a professor of greek. he had almost forgotten that he had ever fallen in love with an actress. he had kept no track of stage history.
his acquaintance with bret winfield had been casual until his sister dorothy came on to spend a few days near her brother. dorothy had grown up to be the sort of woman her childhood prophesied—big, beautiful, placid, very noble at her best and stupid at her worst. her big eyes were the homeric “ox-eyes,” and eugene in the first flush of his first greek had called her thence bo-opis, which he shortened later to “bo.”
the bo-optic dorothy made a profound impression on bret winfield, and he cultivated eugene thereafter on her account. he had a rival in the scientific school, jim greeley, a fellow-townsman of winfield’s. greeley’s matter-of-fact soul was completely congenial to dorothy, but the two young men hated each other with great dignity, and dorothy reveled in their rivalry. she was quite forgotten, however, when matters of real college moment were under way—such as the freshman assault on the drama.
the news of the riot-to-be percolated through the two thousand students without a word reaching the ears of the faculty or the officers of the theater. there was no reason to expect trouble on this occasion. there had been no football or baseball or other contest to excite the students. they made a boisterous audience before the curtain rose—but then they always did. they called to each other from crag to crag. they whistled and stamped in unison when the curtain was a moment late; but that was to be expected in college towns. strangely, students have been always and everywhere rioters.
the first warning the audience had of unusual purposes came when a round of uproarious applause greeted a comedian’s delivery of a bit of very cheap wit which had been left in because the author declined to waste time polishing the seat-banging part of his first act. in this country an audience that is extremely displeased does not hiss or boo; it applauds sarcastically and persistently. the poor actor who had aimed to hurry past the line found himself held up by the ironic hand-clapping. when he tried to go on, it broke out anew.
an actor cannot disclaim or apologize for the lines he has to speak, however his own prosperities are involved in them. so poor mr. tuell had now to stand and perspire while the line he had begged the author to delete provoked the tempest.
whenever the fuming comedian opened his mouth to speak the applause drowned him. it soon fell into a rhythm of one-two, one-two-three, one-two, one-two-three. tuell could only wait till the claque had grown weary of its own reproof. then he went on to his next feeble witticism, another play upon words so childish that it brought forth cries of, “naughty, naughty!”
the other members of the company gathered in the wings, as uncomfortable as a band of early martyrs waiting their turns to appear before the lions. to most of them this was their first encounter with a mutinous audience.
audiences are usually a chaos of warring tastes and motives which must somehow be given focus and unity by the actors. that was the hardest part of the day’s work—to get the house together. to-night they must face a ready-made audience with a mind of its own—and that hostile.
the actors watched the famous “first old woman,” mrs. john vining, sail out with the bravery of a captive empress marching down a roman street in chains. she was greeted with harsh cries of, “grandma!” and, “oh, boys, granny’s came!”
mrs. vining smiled indulgently and went on with her lines. the applause broke out and continued while she and mr. tuell conducted a dumb-show. then an abrupt silence fell just in time to emphasize the banality of her next speech.
“you ask of claribel? speaking of angels, here she comes now.”
at the sound of her name the actress summoned clutched the cross-piece of the flat that hid her from the audience. she longed for courage to run away. but actors do not run away, and she made ready to dance out on the stage and gush her brilliant first line: “oh, auntie, there you are. i’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
sheila had always hated the entrance because of its bustling unimportance. it was exciting enough to-night. no sooner had mrs. vining announced her name than there was a salvo of joy from the mob.
“oh, girls, here comes claribel!”
some one stood up and yelped, “three hearty cheers and a tigress for claribel.”
sheila fell back into the wings as the clamor smote her. but she had been seen and admired. there was a hurricane of protest against her retreat:
“come on in, claribel; the water’s fine!” “don’t leave the old farm, claribel; we need you!” “peekaboo! i see you hiding behind the chair.”
each of the mutineers shrieked something that he thought was funny, and laughed at it without heeding what else was shouted. the result was deafening.
eugene vickery’s heart was set aswing at the glimpse of sheila kemble. the sight of her name on the program had revived his boyhood memories of her. he rose to protest against the hazing of a young girl, especially one whose tradition was so sweet in his remembrance, but he was in the back of the house and his cry of “shame!” was lost in the uproar, merely adding to it instead of quelling it.
bret winfield in a stage box had seen sheila in the wings for some minutes before her entrance. he knew nothing of her except that her beauty pleased him thoroughly and that he was sorry to see how scared she was when she retreated.
he saw also how plucky she was, for, angered by the boorish unchivalry of the mob, she marched forth again like a young amazon. at the full sight of her the freshmen united in a huge noise of kisses and murmurs of, “yum-yum!” and cries of, “me for claribel!” “say, that’s some gal!” “name and address, please!” “i saw her first!” “second havers!” “mamma, buy me that!” she was called a peach, a peacherino, a pippin, a tangerine, a swell skirt—anything that occurred to the uninspired.
sheila felt as if she were struck by a billow. her own color swept past the bounds of the stationary blushes she had painted on her cheeks. she came out again and began her line: “oh, auntie—”
it was as if echo had gone into hysterics. two hundred voices mocked her: “oh, auntie!” “oh, auntie!” “oh, auntie!”
she wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, she wanted to run, she wanted to fight. she wished that the whole throng had but one ear, that she might box it.
the stage-manager was shrieking from the wings: “go on! don’t stop for anything!”
she continued her words with an effect of pantomime. the responses were made against a surf of noise.
then eric folwell, who played the hero, came on. he was handsome, and knew it. he was a trifle over-graceful, and his evening coat fitted his perfect figure almost too perfectly. he was met with pitiless implications of effeminacy. “oh, clarice!” “say, lizzie, are you busy?” “won’t somebody slap the brute on the wrist?” “my gawd! ain’t he primeval?” “oh, you cave-girl!”
as if this were not shattering enough, some of the students had provided themselves with bags of those little torpedoes that children throw on the fourth of july. one of these exploded at folwell’s feet. at the utterly unexpected noise he jumped, as a far braver man might have done, taken thus unawares.
this simply enraptured the young mob, and showers of torpedoes fell about the stage. it fairly snowed explosives. the gravel scattered in all directions. a pebble struck sheila on the cheek. it smarted only a trifle, but the pain was as nothing to the sacrilege.
somehow the play struggled on to the cue for the entrance of the heroine of the play. miss zelma griffen was the leading woman. she was supposed to arrive in a taxicab, and the warning “honk” of it delighted the audience. she was followed on by a red-headed chauffeur who asked for his fare, which she borrowed from the hero, then passed to the chauffeur, who thanked her and made his exit.
this was a false note. it was resented as a familiarity and a presumption. this same college had rotten-egged an actor some years before for wearing a ’varsity sweater on the stage. it greeted miss griffen with a storm of angry protest, together with a volley of torpedoes.
with all her wits askew, she soon had herself snarled up in a tangle of syntax in which she floundered hopelessly. the student body railed at her:
“oh, you grammar! ’rah, ’rah, ’rah, night school!”
this insult was too much for the girl. she lost every trace of self-control.
all this time bret winfield had grown angrier and angrier. bear-baiting was one thing; but dove-baiting was too cowardly even for mob-action, too unfair even for a night of sports, unpardonable even in freshmen. he was thrilled with a chivalrous impulse to rush to the defense of sheila, whose angry beauty had inflamed him further.
he stood up in the proscenium box and tried to call for fair play. he was unheard and unseen; all eyes were fastened on the stage where the fluttering actress besought the howling stage-manager to throw her the line louder.
winfield determined to make himself both seen and heard. fellow seniors in the box caught at his coat-tails, but he wrenched loose and, putting a foot over the rail, stepped to the apron of the stage. in his struggle he lost his eye-glasses. they fell into the footlight trough, and he was nearly blind.
sheila, who stood close at hand, recoiled in panic at the sight of this unheard-of intrusion. the rampart of the footlights had always stood as a barrier between sheila and the audience, an impassable parapet. to-night she saw it overpassed, and she watched the invader with much the same horror that a nun would experience at seeing a soldier enter a convent window.
winfield advanced with hesitant valor and frowned fiercely at the dazzling glare that beat upward from the footlights.
he was recognized at once as the famous stroke-oar of the crew that had defeated the historic rivals of grantham university. he was hailed with tempest.
sheila knew neither his fame nor his mission. she felt that he was about to lay hands on her; all things were possible from such barbarians. her knees weakened. she turned to retreat and clung to a table for support.
suddenly she had a defender. from the wings the big actor who had played the taxicab-driver dashed forward with a roar of anger and let drive at winfield’s face. winfield heard the onset, turned and saw the fist coming. there was no time to explain his chivalric motive. he ducked and the blow grazed his cheek, but the actor’s impetus caught him off his balance and hustled him on backward till one foot slid down among the footlights. three electric bulbs were smashed as he went overboard into the orchestra.
by the time he had gathered himself together the curtain had been lowered and the whole house was in a typhoon.
a dozen policemen who had been hastily summoned and impatiently awaited by the manager charged down the aisles and seized each a double arm-load of the nearest rioters. the foremost policeman received winfield as he clambered, shamefaced, over the orchestra rail.
winfield started to explain: “i went up there to ask the fellows to be quiet.”
the officer, indignant as he was, let out a guffaw of contemptuous laughter: “lord love you, kid, if that’s the best lie you can tell, what’s the use of education?”
winfield realized the hopelessness of such self-defense. it was less shameful to confess the misdemeanor than to be ridiculed for so impotent a pretext. he suffered himself to be jostled up the aisle and tossed into the patrol-wagon with the first van-load of prisoners. he counted on a brief stay there, for it was a custom of the college to tip over the patrol-wagon and rescue the victims of the police.
this year’s freshmen, however, lacked the necessary initiative and leadership, and before the lost opportunity could be regained the wagon had rolled away, leaving the class to eternal ignominy.
deprived of its ringleaders, the mob fell into such disarray that it was ready to be cowed by the manager of the theater. he had waited for the police to remove the chief pirates, and now he addressed the audience with the one speech that could have had success:
“ladies and gentlemen, i’ve lowered the curtain and i’m going to keep it lowered till the hoodlums settle down or get thrown out. the majority of people here to-night have paid good money to see this show. it is a good show and played by a company of ladies and gentlemen from one of the best theaters in new york, and i propose to have them treated as such while they are in our city. we are going to begin the play all over again, but if there is any further disturbance i’ll ring down the asbestos and put out the house lights. and no money will be returned at the box-office.”
this last argument converted the mob into a sheriff’s posse. the house-manager received a round of applause and the first freshman who rose in his place was subdued by his own fellow-classmen.
bret winfield spent the night in a cell. he slept little, because the freshmen hardly ceased to sing the night long; they were solacing themselves with doleful glees. winfield could not help smiling at his imprisonment. don quixote was tasting the reward of misapplied chivalry.
the next morning he made no defense before the glowering judge who had played just such pranks in his college days and felt, therefore, a double duty to repress it in the later generation. he excoriated bret winfield especially, and winfield kept silence, knowing that the truth would gain him no credence and only added contempt. the judge fined the young miscreants five dollars each and left their further punishment to the faculty.
on his way back to his rooms after his release, winfield met eugene vickery, and said, with a wry smile, “hello, ’gene! i’ve just escaped from the penitentiary.”
to his astonishment, vickery snapped back, “i’m sorry to hear it.”
winfield, seeing that he was in earnest, fumbled for words: “what the—why the—well, say!”
the slight and spindling youth confronted the bureau-chested giant and shook his finger in his face: “if you weren’t so much bigger than i am i’d give you worse than that actor gave you. to think that a great big hulk like you should try to attack a little girl like that! don’t you ever dare speak to me or my sister again.”
winfield gave an excellent imitation of incipient apoplexy. he seized vickery by the lapels to demand: “good lord, ’gene, you don’t think i—say, what do you think i am, anyway? why—well, can you beat it? i ask you? ah, you can all go plumb to—ah, what’s the good!”
winfield never was an explainer. he lacked language; he lacked the ambition to be understood. it made him an excellent sportsman. when he lost he wasted no time in explaining why he had not won. to him the martyrdom of being misunderstood was less bitter than the martyrdom of justifying himself. he was so dazed now by the outcome of his knight-errantry that he resolved to leave the college to its own verdict of him. eugene vickery’s ruling passion, however, was a frenzy to understand and to be understood. he caught the meaning in winfield’s incoherence and seized him by the lapel:
“you mean that you didn’t go out on the stage to scare the girl, but to—well, that’s more like you! i’m a lunkhead not to have known it from the first. why, a copper collared me, too, and accused me of being one of the freshmen! i talked him out of it and proved i was a post-graduate, or i’d have spent the night in a dungeon, too. well, well! and to think i got you so wrong! you write a statement to the papers right away.”
“ah, what’s the good?”
“then i will.”
“just as much obliged, but no, you won’t.”
“you ought to square yourself with the people who—”
“there’s just two people i want to square myself with—that little actress who didn’t realize what i was there for, and that damned actor who knocked me through the bass-drum. who were they, anyway? i didn’t get a program.”
“i didn’t see the man’s name; but the girl—i used to know her.”
“you did! say!”
“she was only a kid then, and so was i. she could act then, too,—for a kid, but now—you missed the rest of the show, though, didn’t you?”
“yes. i was called away.”
“after you left, the audience was as good as a congregation. sheila kemble—that’s the girl—was wonderful. she didn’t have much to do, but, golly! how she did it! she had that thing they call ‘authority,’ you know. i wrote a play for her as a kid.”
“you did! say! did she like it?”
“she never saw it. but i’m going to write her another. i planned to be a professor of greek—but not now—ump-umm! i’m going to be a playwright. and i’m going to make a star out of sheila kemble, and hitch my wagon to her.”
“well, say, give me a ride in that wagon, will you? do you suppose i could meet her? i’ve got to square myself with her.”
eugene looked a trifle pained at bret’s interest in another girl than dorothy, but he said: “i’m on my way to the theater now to find out where she’s stopping and leave this note for her. i don’t suppose she’ll remember me; but she might.”
“do you mind if i tag after you? i might get a swipe at that actor, too.”
“oh, well, come along.”
they marched to the theater, stepping high and hoping higher. the stage door-keeper brought them to ground with the information that the company had left on a midnight train after the performance. he had no idea where they had gone.
the two youths, ignorant of the simple means of following theatrical routes, went back to their dismal university with a bland trust that fate would somehow arrange a rencounter for them.
winfield was soon called before the faculty. he had rehearsed a speech written for him by eugene vickery. he forgot most of it and ruined its eloquence by his mumbling delivery.
the faculty had dealt harshly with the freshmen, several of whom it had sent home to the mercy of their fathers. but winfield’s explanation was accepted. in the first place, he was a senior and not likely to have stooped to the atrocity of abetting a freshman enterprise. in the second place, he would be needed in the next rowing-contest at new london. in the third place, his millionaire father was trembling on the verge of donating to the university a second liberal endowment.
winfield and vickery returned to their daily chores and put in camphor their various ambitions. winfield endured the multitudinous jests of the university on his record-breaking backward dive across the footlights, but he made it his business to find out the name of the actor who brought him his ignominy. in time he learned it and enshrined “floyd eldon” and “sheila kemble” in prominent niches for future attention. somehow his loneliness for dorothy seemed less poignant than before.
eugene vickery could have been seen at almost any hour, lying on his stomach and changing an improbable novel into an impossible play.
it was sheila kemble’s destiny to pass like a magnet through a world largely composed of iron filings, though it was her destiny also to meet a number of silver chums on whom her powers exerted no drag whatever. her father had been greatly troubled by her growth through the various strata of her personality. he had noted with pain that she had a company smile which was not the smile that illumined her face when she was simply happy. he had begun a course of education. he kept taking her down a peg or two, mimicking her, satirizing her. her mother protested.
“let the child alone. it will wear off. she has to go through it, but she’ll molt and take on a new set of feathers in due time.”
“she’s got to,” kemble groaned. “i’d rather have her deformed than affected. if she’s going to be conscious of something, let her be conscious of her faults.”
sheila had been schooled at school as well as at home. with both father and mother earning large sums, the family was prosperous enough to give its only child the most expensive forms of education—and did. in school she tormented and charmed her teachers; she was so endlessly eager for attention. it was true that she always tried to earn it and deserve it, but the effort irritated the instructors, whose ideal for a girl was that she should be as inconspicuous as possible. that was not sheila’s ideal. not at all!
she had soon tired of her classes. she was by nature quick at study. she learned her lessons by a sort of mental photography, as she learned her rôles later. the grind of her lessons irked her, not because she wanted to be out at play like other children, but because she wanted to be in at work. as ambitious young men chafe to run away from school and begin their destinies, so young women are beginning to fret for their own careers.
but sheila’s father and mother were eager for her to stay a baby. polly farren especially was not unwilling to postpone acknowledging herself the mother of a grown-up daughter.
“you must have your childhood,” roger had said.
“but i’ve had it,” sheila declared.
“oh, you have, have you?” her father laughed. “why, you little upstart kid, you’re only a baby.”
sheila protested: “juliet was only thirteen years old when she married romeo, and eleonora duse was only fourteen when she played the part, and here i’m sixteen and i haven’t started yet.”
“help! help!” cried roger, with a sickish smile. “but you must prepare yourself for your career by first educating yourself as a lady.”
this argument had convinced her. she consented to play one more season at miss neely’s school. she came forth more zealous than ever to be an actress. polly and roger had wheedled her along as best they could, tried to interest her in literature, water-colors, needlework, golf, tennis, european travel. but her cry for “work” could not be silenced.
when the autumn drew on they had urged her to try one year more at school, pleaded that there was no opening for her in their company. she was too young, too inexperienced.
she murmured “yes?” with an impudent uptilt of inflection.
she left the house, and came home that afternoon bringing a contract. she handed it to her father with another of those rising inflections, “no?”
he looked at the paper, gulped, called, “polly!”
they looked it over together. the party of the first part was j. j. cassard.
“and who is j. j. cassard?” said polly, trying not to breathe fast. roger growled:
“one of those pacific-coast managers trying to jimmy a way into new york.”
hoping to escape the vital question by attacking the details, roger glanced through the various clauses. it was a splendid contract—for sheila. the hateful “two-weeks’ clause” by which she could be dismissed at a fortnight’s notice was omitted and in its place was an agreement to pay for her costumes and a maid.
“do you mean to say,” kemble blustered, “that cassard handed you a document like that right off the reel?”
“oh no,” perked sheila; “he gave me a regular white-slave mortgage at first.”
“where does she learn such language!” gasped polly.
sheila went on, “but i whipped him out on every point.”
“it looks almost suspicious,” said kemble, and polly protested.
“i was ten years on the stage before i got my modern costumes and a maid.”
“well,” said sheila, as blandly as if she were a traveling saleswoman describing her wares, “cassard said i was pretty, and i reminded him that i had the immense advertising value of the great roger kemble’s name, and i told him i had probably inherited some of the wonderful dramatic ability of polly farren. i told him i might take that for my stage name—farren kemble.”
father and mother cast their eyes up and shook their heads, but they could not help being pleased by the flattery implied and applied.
roger said: “well, if all that is true, we’d better keep it in the family. you’ll go with us.”
“but you said there was no part for me to play.”
“there’s the chambermaid.”
“no, you don’t!” said sheila. “you don’t hide me in any of those ‘did you rings?’ and ‘won’t you sit down, ma’ams?”’
“we’ll have the author build up the part a little, and there’s a bit in the third act that’s really quite interesting.”
sheila refused flatly. but her mother cried all that night, and her father looked so glum the next morning that she consented to chaperon them for one more year.
she revealed a genuine gift for the stage, and she had a carrying personality. when she entered as the chambermaid and said, “did you ring?” the audience felt a strangely vivid spark of reality at once. she needed nothing to say. she just was. like some of the curiously alive figures in the paintings of the little dutch masters, she was perfectly in and of the picture, and yet she was rounded and complete. she was felt when she entered and missed when she left.
two or three times when her mother fell ill sheila played her part—that of a young widow. she did not look it yet, of course, but there was that same uncanny actuality that had stirred the people who watched her as an infantile ophelia.
seeing that she meant to be a star and was meant to be one, her parents gave her the best of their wisdom, taught her little tricks of make-up, and gesture, and economy of gesture; of emphasis by force and of emphasis by restraint; the art of underlining important words and of seeming not to have memorized her speeches, but to be improvising them from the previous speech or from the situation. they taught her what can be taught of the intricate technique of comedy—waiting for the laugh while seeming to hurry past it; making speed, yet scoring points; the great art of listening; the delicate science of when to move and when not to move, and the tremendous power of a turn of the eyes. and, above all, they hammered into her head the importance of sincerity—sincerity.
“there are hundreds of right ways to read any line,” roger would say, “and only one way that’s wrong—the insincere way. insincerity can be shown as much by exaggeration as by indifference. let your character express what you feel, and the audience will understand you, if it’s only a slow closing of the eyes once or a little shift of the weight. be sincere!”
two seasons later, roger’s manager brought over from europe a well-tried success that suited roger and polly to a t, but included no rôle at all for sheila. she simply could not play the fat old dowager, and she simply would not play the laconic housemaid. the time had come for the family to part.
fathers are always frightened to death of their daughters’ welfares in this risky, woman-trapping world. roger kemble knew well enough what dangers sheila ran. whether they were greater than they would have been in any other walk of life or in the most secluded shelter, he did not know. he knew only that his child’s honor and honesty were infinitely dear to him, and that he could not keep her from running along the primrose path of public admiration. he could not be with her always.
he managed to get sheila an engagement with the production called “a friend in need.” the part was not important, but she could travel with her great-aunt, mrs. vining, who could serve as her guardian and teach her a vast deal about acting as an art and a business. also polly decided to give sheila her own maid, nettie pennock, a slim, prim, grim old spinster whose very presence advertised respectability. pennock had spent most of her life in the theater, and looked as if she had never seen a play. polly said that she “looked like all the hard-shell baptist ministers’ wives in the world rolled into one.”
but pennock was broad-hearted and reticent, and as tolerant as ministers’ wives ought to be. she was efficient as a machine, and as tireless. she could be a tyrant, and her faultfindings were sparse and sharp as drops of vinegar from a cruet. polly was more afraid of them than of all the thumps of the bladder-swatting critics.
yet that frosty face could smile with the sudden sweetness of sunlight on snow, and sheila’s arms about her melted her at once, except when she had done some mischief or malice. and then pennock could be thawed only by a genuine and lengthy penance.
roger urged polly to fill sheila’s ears with good counsel, but polly farren knew how little impression advice makes on those whom no inner instinct impels to do the right thing anyway.
after the usual rehearsals in new york, “a friend in need” had the usual preliminary weeks on the road before it was submitted to new york.
when the time came for sheila to leave home and strike out for herself, it fell to roger to take her to the train. polly was suffering from one of those sick headaches of hers which prostrated her when she was not at work, though they never kept her from giving a sparkling performance. indeed, kemble used to say that if the angel gabriel wanted to raise polly from the grave on judgment morning, all the trumpets of the apocalypse would fail to rouse the late sleeper. but if he murmured “overture!” she would be there in costume with all her make-up on.
on the way to the station with sheila, who was as excited as a boy going to sea, roger was mightily troubled over her. she was indeed going to sea, and in a leaky boat, the frail barge of dreams. he felt that he must speak to her on the importance of being good. the frivolous comedian suffered anguishes of stage-fright, but finally mustered the courage to deliver himself as polonius might have done if it had been ophelia instead of laertes who was setting out for foreign travel.
it was a task to daunt a preachier parent than roger kemble, and it was not easy to talk first principles of behavior to a sophisticated young woman who knew as much about things as sheila did.
roger made a dozen false starts and ended in gulps, till sheila finally said: “what’s the matter, old boy? you’re trying to say something, but i can’t make out what it is. tell me, and i may be able to throw you the line.”
“it’s about you, honey. i’m—that is, polly is—at least your mother and i—well, anyway—”
“yes, and then?” said sheila.
roger got the bit in his teeth and bolted. “the fact is, young woman, you are all the daughters of your father’s and mother’s house. we’re awfully proud of you, of course. and we know you’re going to be a big actress. but we’d rather have you just a good girl than all the stars in the milky way squeezed into one. do you still say your prayers at night, honey?”
“sometimes,” she sighed, “when i’m not too sleepy.”
“i’m pretty sleepy, then, too.”
“well, for heaven’s sake, say ’em sometimes.”
“all right, daddy, i promise. was that all?”
“yes! no! that is—you see, sheila, you’re starting out by yourself and you’re awfully pretty, and you’re pretty young, and the men are always after a pretty girl, especially on the stage. and being on the stage, you’re sure to be misjudged, and men will attempt—will say things they wouldn’t dare try on a nice girl elsewhere. and you must be very much on your guard.”
“i’ll try to be, daddy, thank you. don’t you worry.”
“you know you’ll have to go to hotels and wait in railroad stations and take cabs and go about alone at all hours, and you must be twice as cautious as you’d be otherwise.”
“i understand, dear.”
that little “i know” alarmed him more than ever. he went on with redoubled zeal.
“i want you to remember one thing always, sheila—you’ve got only one life to live and one soul to take care of and only one body to keep it in. and it’s entirely up to you what you make of yourself. education and good breeding and all that sort of thing help, but they don’t guarantee anything. even religion doesn’t always protect a girl; sometimes it seems to make her more emotional and—well, i don’t know what can protect a girl unless it’s a kind of—er—well, a sort of a—conceitedness. call it self-respect if you want to or anything. but it seems to me that if i were a girl the thing that would keep me straightest would be just that. i shouldn’t want to sell myself cheap, or give myself away forever for a few minutes of—excitement, or throw the most precious pearl on earth before any swine of a man. that’s it, sheila—keep yourself precious.”
“i’ll try to, dad. don’t worry!” she murmured, timidly.
such discussions are among the most terrifying of human experiences. roger kemble was trembling as he went on: “some day, you know, you’ll meet the man that belongs to you, and that you belong to. save yourself for him, eh?”
then the modern woman spoke sternly: “seems to me, daddy, that a girl ought to have some better reason for taking care of herself than just because she’s saving herself for some man.”
“of course. you’re quite right, my dear. but i only meant—”
“i understand. i’ll try to save myself for myself. i don’t belong to any man. i belong just to me; and i’m all i’ve got.”
“that’s a much better way to put it. much better.” and he sighed with immense relief.
the idea of the man that should make his daughter his own was an odious idea to the father. it was odious now to the girl, too, for she was not yet ready for that stormy crisis when she would make a pride of humility and a rapture of surrender.
the play that sheila was surrendered to, “a friend in need,” proved a success and raised its young author to such heights of pride and elation that when his next work, an ambitious drama, was produced, he had a long distance to fall. and fell hard.
young trivett had tossed off “a friend in need” and had won from it the highest praise as a craftsman. he had worked five years on his drama, only to be accused of being “so spoiled by success as to think that the public would endure anything he tossed off.”
but the miserable collapse of his chef-d’œuvre did not even check the triumph of his hors-d’œuvre. “a friend in need” ran on “to capacity” until the summer weather turned the theater into a chafing-dish. then the company was disbanded.
in the early autumn following it was reorganized for a road tour. of the original company only four or five members were re-engaged—sheila, mrs. vining, miss griffen, and tuell.
during the rehearsals sheila had paid little attention to the new people. she was doomed to be in their company for thirty or forty weeks and she was in no hurry to know them. she was gracious enough to those she met, but she made no advances to the others, nor they to her. she had noticed that a new man played the taxicab-driver, but she neither knew nor cared about his name, his aim, or his previous condition of servitude.
the freshmen of leroy university brought him to her attention with a spectacular suddenness in the guise of a hero. the blow he struck in her supposed defense served as an ideal letter of introduction.
as soon as the curtain had fallen on the riot, cutting off the view of the battle between the police and the students, sheila looked about for the hero who had rescued her from heaven alone knew what outrage.
the neglected member of the troupe had leaped into the star rôle, the superstar rôle of a man who wages a battle in a woman’s defense. she ran to him and, seizing his hands, cried:
“how can i ever, ever, ever thank you, mr.—mr.—i’m so excited i can’t remember your name.”
“eldon—floyd eldon, miss kemble.”
“you were wonderful, wonderful!”
“why, thank you, miss kemble. i’m glad if you—if—to have been of service to you is—is—”
when the play was over eldon was not to be found, and sheila went with her aunt to the train. at the hour when winfield was being released from his cell the special sleeping-car that carried the “friend in need” company was three hundred miles or more away and fleeing farther.
when sheila raised the curtain of her berth and looked out upon the reeling landscape the morning was nearly noon. yet when she hobbled down the aisle in unbuttoned shoes and the costume of a woman making a hasty exit from a burning building, there were not many of the troupe awake to observe her. her aunt, however, was among these, for old age was robbing mrs. vining of her lifelong habit of forenoon slumber. like many another of her age, she berated as weak or shiftless what she could no longer enjoy.
but sheila was used to her and her rubber-stamp approval of the past and rubber-stamp reproval of the present. they went into the dining-car together, sheila making the usual theatrical combination of breakfast and lunch. as she took her place at a table she caught sight of her rescuer of the night before.
he was gouging an orange when sheila surprised him with one of her best smiles. his startled spoon shot a geyser of juice into his eye, but he smiled back in spite of that, and made a desperate effort not to wink. sheila noted the stoicism and thought to herself, “a hero, on and off.”
later in the afternoon when she had read such morning papers as were brought aboard the train, and found them deadly dull since there was nothing about her in them, and when she had read into her novel till she discovered the familiar framework of it, and when from sheer boredom she was wishing that it were a matinée day so that she might be at her work, she saw floyd eldon coming down the aisle of the car.
he had sat in the smoking-room until he had wearied of the amusing reminiscences of old jaffer, who was always reminiscent, and of the grim silence of crumb, who was always taciturn, and of the half-smothered groans of tuell, who was always aching somewhere. at length eldon had resolved to be alone, that he might ride herd about the drove of his own thoughts. he made his face ready for a restrained smile that should not betray to sheila in one passing glance all that she meant to him.
to his ecstatic horror she stopped him with a gesture and overwhelmed him by the delightful observation that it was a beautiful day. he freely admitted that it was and would have moved on, but she checked him again to present him to mrs. vining.
mrs. vining was pleased with the distinguished bow he gave her. it was a sort of old-comedy bow. she studied him freely as he turned in response to sheila’s next confusing words:
“i want to thank you again for coming to my rescue from that horrible brute.”
eldon looked as guilty as if she had accused him of being himself the brute he had saved her from. he threw off his disgusting embarrassment with an effort at a careless shrug:
“it was nothing—nothing at all, i am sure.”
“it was wonderful,” sheila insisted. “how powerful you must be to have lifted that monster clear over the apron of the stage into the lap of the orchestra!”
a man never likes to deny his infinite strength, but eldon was honest enough to protest: “i caught him off his balance, i am afraid. and, besides, it comes rather natural to me to slug a man from leroy.”
“i am a grantham man myself. i was on our ’varsity eleven a couple of years.”
“oh!” said sheila. “sit down, won’t you?”
she felt that she had managed this rather crassly. it would have been more delicate to express less surprise and to delay the invitation to a later point. but it was too late now. he had already dropped into the place beside her, not noticing until too late that he sat upon a novel and a magazine or two and an embroidery hoop on which she had intended to work. but he was on so many pins and needles that he hardly heeded one more.
college men are increasingly frequent on the stage, but not yet frequent enough to escape a little prestige or a little prejudice, according to the point of view. in sheila’s case eldon gained prestige and a touch of majesty that put her wits to some embarrassment for conversation. it was one thing to be gracious to a starveling actor with a two-line rôle; it was quite another to be gracious to a football hero full of fame and learning.
mrs. vining, however, had played grandes dames too long to look up to anybody. she felt at ease even in the presence of this big third-baseman, or coxswain, or whatever he had been on his football nine. she said, “been on the stage long, mr. eldon?”
eldon grinned meekly, looked up and down the aisle with mock anxiety, and answered: “the stage-manager isn’t listening? this is my first engagement.”
“really?” was the only comment sheila could think of.
after his long silence in the company, and under the warming influence of sheila’s presence, the snows of pent-up reminiscence came down in a flood of confession:
“i don’t really belong on the stage, you know. i haven’t a big enough part to show how bad an actor i really could be if i had the chance. but i set my mind on going on the stage, and go i went.”
“did you find it hard to get a position?”
“well, when i left college and the question of my profession came up, dad and i had several hot-and-heavies. finally he swore that if i didn’t accept a job in his office i need never darken his door again. business of turning out of house. father shaking fist. son exit center, swearing he will never come back again. sound of door slamming heard off.”
sheila still loved life in theatrical terms. “but what did your poor mother do?” she said.
a film seemed to veil eldon’s eyes as he mumbled: “she wasn’t there. she was spared that.” then he gulped down his private grief and went on with his more congenial self-derision: “i left home, feeling like columbus going to discover america. i didn’t expect to star the first year, but i thought i could get some kind of a job. i went to new york and called on all the managers. i was such an ignoramus that i hadn’t heard of the agencies. i got to know several office-boys very well before one of them told me about the employment bureaus. well, you know all about that agency game.”
he told of the hardships he encountered and the siege he laid to the theater before he found a breach in its walls to crawl through. constantly he paused to apologize for his garrulity, but sheila urged him on. she had been born within the walls and she knew almost nothing of the struggles that others met except from hearsay. and she had never heard say from just such a man with just such a determination. so she coaxed him on and on with his history, as desdemona persuaded othello to talk. with a greedy ear she devoured up his discourse and made him dilate all his pilgrimage. only, eldon was not a blackmoor, and it was of his defeats and not his victories that he told. which made him perhaps all the more attractive, seeing that he was well born and well made.
he laughed at his own ignorance, and felt none of the pity for himself that sheila felt for him. when she praised his determination, he sneered at himself:
mrs. vining moved uneasily. “if you’d had common sense you wouldn’t have tried to get on the stage.”
“auntie!” sheila gasped. but she put up her old hand like a decayed czarina:
“and if you have common sense you’ll never succeed, now that you’re here.”
when this bewildered eldon, she added, with the dignity of a priestess: “acting is an art, not a business; and people come to see artists, not business men. half of the actors are just drummers traveling about; but the real successes are made by geniuses who have charm and individuality and insight and uncommon sense. i think you’re probably just fool enough to succeed. but go on.”
eldon felt both flattered and dismayed by this pronouncement. he began to talk to hide his confusion.
“i’m a fool, all right. whether i’m just the right sort of a fool—well, anyway—my money didn’t last long, and i owed everybody that would trust me for a meal or a room. the office-boys gave me impudence until i wore that out too, and then they treated me like any old bench-warmer in the park. the agents grew sick of the sight of me. they sent me to the managers until they had instructions not to send me again. but still i stuck at it, the lord knows why.
“one day i went the rounds of the agencies as usual. when i came to the last one i was so nauseated with the idiocy of asking the same old grocery-boy’s question, ‘anything to-day?’ i just put my head in at the door, gave one hungry look around, and started away again. the agent—mrs. sanchez, it was—beckoned to me, but i didn’t see; she called after me, but i didn’t hear; she sent an office-boy to bring me back.
“when i squeezed through the crowd in the office it was like being called out of my place in the bread-line to get the last loaf of the day. i felt ashamed of my success and i was afraid that i was going to be asked to take the place of some broadway star who had suddenly fallen ill.
“mrs. sanchez swung open the gate in the rail and said: ‘young man, can you sing?’
“my heart fell to the floor and i stepped on it. i heard myself saying, ‘is caruso sick?’
“mrs. sanchez explained: ‘it’s not so bad as all that. but can you carry a tune?’
“i told her that i used to growl as loud a bass as the rest of them when we sang on the college fence.
“‘that’s enough,’ said mrs. sanchez. ‘they’re putting on a civil war play and they want a man to be one of a crowd of soldiers who sing at the camp-fire in one of the acts. the part isn’t big enough to pay a singer and there is nothing else to do but get shot and play dead in the battle scene.’
“i told her i thought i could play dead to the satisfaction of any reasonable manager and she gave me a card to the producer.
“then she said, ‘you’ve never been on the stage, have you?’
“i shook my head. she told me to tell the producer that i had just come in from the road with a play that had closed after a six months’ run. i took the card and dashed out of the office so fast i nearly knocked over a poor old thing with a head of hair like a bushel of excelsior. it took me two days to get to the producer, and then he told me that it had been decided not to send the play out, since the theatrical conditions were so bad.”
mrs. vining interpolated, “theatrical conditions are like the weather—always dangerous for people with poor circulation.”
“i went back to the office,” said eldon, “and told mrs. sanchez the situation. the other members of the company had beaten me there. the poor old soul was broken-hearted, and i don’t believe she regretted her lost commissions as much as the disappointment of the actors.
“a lot of people have told me she was heartless. she was always good to me, and if she was a little hard in her manner it was because she would have died if she hadn’t been. agents are like doctors, they’ve got to grow callous or quit. her office was a shop where she bought and sold hopes and heartbreaks, and if she had squandered her sympathy on everybody she wouldn’t have lasted a week. but for some reason or other she made a kind of pet of me.”
mrs. vining murmured, “i rather fancy that she was not the first, and won’t be the last, woman to do that.”
eldon flushed like a young boy who has been told that he is pretty. he realized also that he had been talking about himself to a most unusual extent with most unusual frankness, and he relapsed into silence until sheila urged him on.
it was a stupid sunday afternoon in the train and he was like a traveler telling of strange lands, under the insatiable expectancy of a fair listener. there are few industries easier to persuade a human being toward than the industry of autobiography. eldon described the dreary sahara of idleness that he crossed before his next opportunity appeared.
as a castaway sits in the cabin of a ship that has rescued him and smiles while he recounts the straits he has escaped from, and never dreams of the storms that are gathering in his future skies, so eldon in the pullman car chuckled over the history of his past and fretted not a whit over the miseries he was hurrying to.
the only thing that could have completed his luxury was added to him when he saw that sheila, instead of laughing with him, was staring at him through half-closed eyelids on whose lashes there was more than a suspicion of dew. there was pity in her eyes, but in her words only admiration:
“and you didn’t give up even then!”
“no,” said eldon; “it is mighty hard knocking intelligence into as thick a skull as mine. i went back to the garage where i had worked as a helper. i had learned something about automobiles when i ran the one my father bought me. but i kept nagging the agencies. awful idiot, eh?”
to his great surprise the cynical mrs. vining put in a word of implied approval:
“we are always reading about the splendid perseverance of men who become leading dry-goods merchants of their towns or prominent politicians or great painters, but the actors know as well as anybody what real perseverance is. and nobody gives them credit for being anything but a lot of dissipated loafers.”
sheila was not interested in generalizations. she wanted to know about the immediate young man before her. she was still child enough to feel tremendous suspense over a situation, however well she knew that it must have a happy ending. when she had been littler the story of jack the giant-killer had enjoyed an unbroken run of forty nights in the bedtime repertoire of her mother. and never once had she failed to shiver with delicious fright and suffer anguishes of anxiety for poor jack whenever she heard the ogre’s voice. at the first sound of his leit motiv, “fee, fi, fo, fum—” her little hands would clutch her mother’s arm and her eyes would pop with terror. yet, without losing at all the thrill of the drama, she would correct the least deviation from the sacred text and rebuke the least effort at interpolation.
it was this weird combination of childish credulity, fierce imagination, and exact intelligence that made up her gift of pretending. so long as she could keep that without outgrowing it, as the vast majority do, she would be set apart from the herd as one who could dream with the eyes wide open.
when she looked at eldon she saw him as the ragged, hungry beggar at the stage door. she saw him turned away and she feared that he might die, though she knew that he still lived. there was genuine anxiety in her voice when she demanded, “how on earth did you ever manage to succeed?”
“i haven’t succeeded yet,” said eldon, “or even begun to, but i am still alive. it’s hard to get food and employment in new york, but somehow it’s harder still to starve there. one way or another i kept at work and hounded the managers. and one day i happened in at a manager’s office just as he was firing an actor who thought he had some rights in the world. he snapped me up with an offer of twenty-five dollars a week. if he had offered me a million it wouldn’t have seemed any bigger.”
mrs. vining had listened with unwonted interest and with some difficulty, for sleep had been tugging at her heavy old eyelids. as soon as she heard that eldon had arrived in haven at last she felt no further necessity of attention and fell asleep on the instant.
sheila sighed with relief, too. and the train had purred along contentedly for half a mile before she realized that after all eldon was not with that company, but with this. seeing that her aunt was no longer with them in spirit, she lowered her voice to comment:
“but if you went with the other troupe, what are you doing here?”
“well, you see, i thought i ought to tell mrs. sanchez the good news. i thought she would be glad to hear it, and i was going to offer her the commission for all the work she had done and all the time she had spent on me. she looked disappointed when i told her, and she warned me that the manager was unreliable and the play a gamble. she had just found me a position with a company taking an assured success to the road. it was this play of yours. the part was small and the pay was smaller still, but it was good for forty weeks.
“but i was ambitious, and i told her i would take the other. i wanted to create—that was the big word i used—i wanted to ‘create’ a new part. she told me that the first thing for an actor to do was to connect with a steady job, but i wouldn’t listen to her till finally she happened to mention something that changed my mind.”
he flushed with an excitement that roused sheila’s curiosity. when he did not go on, she said:
“but what was it that changed your mind?”
eldon smiled comfortably, and, emboldened by the long attention of his audience, ventured to murmur the truth: “i had seen you act—in new york—in this play, and i—i thought that you were a wonderful actress, and more than that—the most—the most—well, anyway, mrs. sanchez happened to mention that you would be with this company, so i took the part of the taxicab-driver. but i found i was farther away from you than ever—till—till last night.”
and then eldon was as startled at the sound of his words and their immense import as sheila was. the little word “you” resounded softly like warning torpedoes on a railroad track signaling: “down brakes! danger ahead!”
as eldon’s words echoed back through his ears he knew that he had said too much and too soon. sheila was afraid to speak at all; she could not improvise the exquisitely nice phrase that should say neither more nor less than enough. indeed, she could not imagine just what she wanted to say, what she really felt or ought to feel.
the woman was never born, probably, who could find a declaration of devotion entirely unwelcome, no matter from whom. and yet sheila felt any number of inconveniences in being loved by this man who was a total stranger yesterday and an old acquaintance to-day. it would be endlessly embarrassing to have a member of the company, especially so humble a member, infatuated with her. it would be infinitely difficult to be ordinarily polite to him without either wounding him or seeming to encourage him. she had the theatric gift for carrying on a situation into its future developments. she was silent, but busily silent, dramatizing to-morrows, and the to-morrows of to-morrows.
eldon’s thoughts also were speeding noisily through his brain while his lips were uncomfortably idle. he felt that he had been guilty of a gross indiscretion and he wanted to remove himself from the discomfort he had created, but he could not find the courage to get himself to his feet, or the wit to continue or even to take up some other subject.
it was probably their silence that finally wakened mrs. vining. she opened her drowsy eyes, wondering how long she had slept and hoping that they had not missed her. she realized at once that they were both laboring under some confusion. she was going to ask what it was.
sheila resented the situation. already she was a fellow-culprit with this troublesome young man. an unwitting rescuer appeared in the person of the stage-manager who dawdled along the aisle in the boredom of a stage-manager, who can never quite forget his position of authority and is never allowed to forget that his flock are proud individuals who feel that they know more than he does.
sheila was impelled to appeal to batterson on eldon’s behalf, but she and the stage-manager had been in a state of armed truce since a clash that occurred at rehearsals. batterson was not the original producer of the play, but he put out the road company and kept with it.
a reading of sheila’s had always jarred him. he tried to change it. she tried to oblige him, but simply could not grasp what he was driving at. one of those peculiar struggles ensued in which two people are mutually astounded and outraged at their inability to explain or understand.
but if mr. batterson was hostile to sheila, he was afraid of mrs. vining, both because he revered her and because she had known him when he was one of the most unpromising beginners that ever attempted the stage. he had never succeeded as an actor, which was no proof of his inability to tell others how to act, but always seemed so to them.
as he would have passed, mrs. vining, quite as if sheila had prompted her, made a gesture of detention:
“oh, mr. batterson, will you do me a great favor?” he bowed meekly, and she said, “be a good boy and give mr. eldon here a chance to do some real work the first opportunity you get.”
batterson sighed. “good lord! has he been pestering you, too?”
“he has been telling me of his struggles and his ambitions,” mrs. vining answered, with reproving dignity, “and i can see that he has ability. he is a gentleman, at least, and that is more than can be said of some of the people who are given some of the rôles.”
batterson did not relish this. he had had one or two battles with mrs. vining over some of her stage business and had been withered by her comments on his knowledge of what really went on in real drawing-rooms. she had told him that they were as different as possible from stage drawing-rooms, and he had lacked information to answer. all he said now was:
“i’ve promised eldon a dozen times that he should have a try at the first vacancy. but you know this old guard; they never surrender and they never die.”
“except when they get a cue,” was mrs. vining’s drop of acid.
batterson renewed his pledge and moved on, with a glance in which eldon felt more threat than promise. but he thanked mrs. vining profusely and apologized to sheila for taking so much of her time talking about himself. this made a good exit speech and he retired to his cell, carrying with him a load of new anxieties and ambitions.
triply happy was eldon now. he had been commended to the stage-manager and promised the first opportunity. he was getting somewhere. he had established himself in the good graces of the old duchess of the troupe. he had put his idol, sheila, under obligations to him. he had ventured to let her know that he had joined the company on her account, and she had not rebuked him. this in itself was a thousand miles on his journey.
the meter of the train had hitherto been but a dry, monotonous clickety-click like the rattle bones of a dolorous negro minstrel. now it was a jig, a wedding jig. the wheels and the rails fairly sang to him time after tune. the amiable hippety-hop fitted itself to any joyful thought that cantered through his heart.
by and by a town came sliding to the windows—milton, a typical smallish city with a shabby station, a stupid hotel, no history, and no sights; it had reached the gawky age and stopped growing. but eldon bade it welcome. he liked anybody and any place. he set out for the hotel, swinging his suit-case as if it were the harp of a troubadour. he walked with two or three other men of the company.
old jaffer had said: “the mansion house is the only hotel. it’s three blocks to the right from the station and then two blocks to the left.” jaffer knew the least bad hotel and just how to find it in hundreds of towns. he was a living gazetteer. “i’ve been to every burg in the country, i think,” he would say, “and i’ve never seen one yet that had anything to see.” the highest praise he could give a place was, “it’s a good hotel town.”
but they were all paradises to eldon. he had fed so dismally and so sparsely, as a man out of a job, that even the mid-westem coffee tasted good to him. besides, to-day he had fed on honey dew and drunk the milk of paradise.
he was so jubilant that he offered to carry the hand-bag of vincent tuell, who labored along at his side, groaning. eldon’s offer offended tuell, who was just old enough to resent his age. it had already begun to lop dollars off his salary and to cut him out of the line of parts he had once commanded.
tuell had never reached high—but he had always hoped high. now he had closed the books of hope. he was on the down grade. his career had not been a peak, but a foot-hill, and he was on the wrong side of that. he received eldon’s proffer as an accusation of years. he answered with a bitter negative, “no, thank you, damn you!”
eldon apologized with a laugh. he felt as hilariously contented and sportive as a young pup whom no rebuff can offend. as he strode along he glanced back and saw that sheila and mrs. vining were footing it, too, and carrying such luggage as pennock could not accommodate. eldon was amazed. he had supposed that they would ride. he dropped back to sheila’s elbow and pleaded:
“won’t you let me take a cab and ride you to the hotel?”
sheila thanked him no, and mrs. vining finished him off:
“young man, if you’re going to be an actor you must learn to practise small economies—especially in small towns where you gain nothing by extravagance. you never know how short your season may be. the actor who wastes money on cabs in the winter will be borrowing car fare in the summer.”
eldon accepted the repulse as if it were a bouquet. “i see; but at least you must let me carry your suit-cases.”
mrs. vining threw him much the same answer as tuell: “i’m not so old as i look, and i travel light.”
he turned to sheila, whose big carry-all was so heavy that it dragged one shoulder down. she looked like the picture of somebody or other carrying a bucket from the well—or was it from a cow? he put out his hand. she turned aside to dodge him. he followed her closely and finally wrested the suit-case from her. seeing his success, mrs. vining yielded him hers also. he let pennock trudge with hers. and so they walked to the hotel and marched up to the desk.
jaffer and tuell had already registered. eldon thought they might at least have waited till the ladies had had first choice. he was surprised to hear sheila and mrs. vining haggling over the prices of lodging and choosing rooms of moderate cost.
he had no chance to speak to them at the performance or after it, but the next morning he hung about the lobby till train-time. he pretended much surprise at seeing sheila,—as if he had not been waiting for her! he was a bad actor. again he secured the carry-all in spite of her protests. if he had known more he would have seen that she gave up to avoid a battle. but she dropped back with pennock and left him to walk with mrs. vining, who did not hesitate to assail him with her usual directness:
“young man, you’re very nice and you mean very well, but you’ve got a lot to learn. have you noticed that when the company gets into a train or a public dining-room, everybody settles as far away as possible from everybody else?”
eldon had noticed it. it had shocked him. mrs. vining went on:
“and no doubt you’ve seen a big, husky actor let a poor, tired actress drag her own baggage to a far-off hotel.”
eldon had noted that, too, with deep regret. he was astounded when mrs. vining said:
“well, that actor is showing that actress the finest courtesy he can. when men and women are traveling this way on business, the man who is attentive to a woman is doing her a very dubious kindness, unless they’re married or expect to be.”
“why?” said eldon. “can’t he pay her ordinary human courtesy?”
“he’d better not,” said mrs. vining, “or he’ll start the other members of the company and the gaping crowd of outsiders to whispering: ‘oh, he’s carrying her valise now! it’s a sketch!’”
“a ‘sketch’?” eldon murmured.
“yes, a—an alliance, an affair. a theatrical troupe is like a little village on wheels. everybody gossips. everybody imagines—builds a big play out of a little scenario. and so the actor who is a true gentleman has to keep forgetting that he is one. it’s a penalty we women must pay for earning our livings. you see now, don’t you, mr. eldon?”
he bowed and blushed to realize that it was all meant as a rebuke to his forwardness. he had been treated with consideration, and had immediately proceeded to make a nuisance of himself. he had no right to carry sheila’s burdens, and his insistence had been only an embarrassment to her. he had behaved like a greedy porter at a railroad station to whom one surrenders with wrath in order to silence his demands.
the towns that followed milton were as stupid as jaffer had said they were. the people who lived there seemed to love them, or at least they did not leave them, but they were dry oases for the lonely traveler. few of the towns had even a statue, and most of those that had statues would have been the richer for their absence.
of one thing eldon made sure—that he would never inflict another of his compromising politenesses on miss sheila kemble. he avoided her so ostentatiously that the other members of the company noticed it. those who had instantly said when he carried her valise, “aha! he is carrying her valise now!” were presently saying, “oh, he’s not carrying her valise now!”
gradually the company worked a zigzag passage to chicago, where it was booked for an indefinite stay. if the “business” were good, it would be announced that, “owing to the unprecedented success, it has been found necessary to extend the run originally contemplated.” if the business were not so good, it would be announced that, “owing to previous bookings, it would unfortunately be impossible to extend the run beyond the next two weeks.”
jaffer was saying as they rolled in: “there’s no telling in advance what chicago’s going to do to us. new york stood for this rotten show for a whole season; chicago may be too wise for us. i hope so. it’s a ghastly town. the lake winds are death to a delicate throat. i always lose my voice control in chicago.”
with jaffer the success he was in was always a proof of the stupidity of the public. in his unending reminiscences, which he ran serially in the smoking-room like another arabian nights, the various failures he had met were variously described. those in which he had had a good part were “over the heads of the swine”; those in which he had shone dimly were “absolutely the worst plays ever concocted, my boy—hopeless from the start. how even a manager could fail to see it in the script i can’t for the life of me imagine.”
old jim crumb said: “chicago is a far better judge of a play than new york is. chicago’s got a mind of her own. she’s the real metropolis. the critics have got a heart; they appreciate honest effort. if they don’t like you they say so fairly, without any of the brutality of new york.” crumb’s last appearance in chicago had been in a highly successful play.
eldon felt little interest in the matter one way or another. he had been snubbed in his romance. the other rôle he played would never be dignified even by a tap of the critical bludgeon. he was tired of the stage.
and then the opportunity he had prayed for fell at his feet, after he had ceased to pray for it.
sheila was picked out for especial praise. the leading woman, miss zelma griffen, was slighted. she was very snappy to sheila, which added the final touch to sheila’s rapture.
old jaffer was complimented and remembered, and now he was loud in the praises of the town, the inspiring, bracing ozone from the lake, and his splendid hotel. jim crumb’s bit as a farmer was mentioned, and his previous appearance recalled with “regret that he had not more opportunity to reveal his remarkable gifts of characterization.”
this was too much for poor crumb. he went about town renewing former acquaintances with the fervor of a far voyager who has come home to stay. when he appeared at the second performance his speech was glucose and his gait rippling. in his one scene it was his duty to bring in a lantern and hold it over an automobile map on which sheila and mrs. vining were trying to trace a lost road. it was a passage of some dramatic moment, but crumb in his cups made unexpected farce of it by swinging the lantern like a switchman.
no comic genius from aristophanes via molière to hoyt has ever yet devised a scene that will convulse an audience like the mistake or mishap of an actor. poor, befuddled crumb’s wabbly lantern was the laughing hit of the piece. he was too thick to be rebuked that night. friends took him to his hotel and left him to sleep it off.
when the next morning he realized what he had done, what sacrilege he had committed, he sought relief from insanity in a hair of the dog that bit him. he was soon mellow enough to fall a victim to an hallucination that tuesday was a matinée day. he appeared at the theater at half-past one, and made up to go on. he fell asleep waiting for his cue, and was discovered when his dressing-room mate arrived at seven o’clock. then he insisted on descending to report for duty. he was still so befogged that batterson did not dare let him ruin another performance. he addressed to crumb that simple phrase which is the theatrical death-warrant:
“hand me back your part.”
with the automatic heroism of a soldier sentenced to execution, crumb staggered to his room and, fetching the brochure from his trunk, surrendered it to the higher power, revealing a somewhat shaky majesty of despair.
eldon was standing in the wings, and batterson thrust the document at him and growled: “you say you’re a great actor. i’m from missouri. get up in that and show me, to-night.”
if he had placed a spluttering bomb in eldon’s hands, and told him to blow up a czar with it, eldon could hardly have felt more terrified.
eldon climbed the three flights of iron stairway to his cubby-hole more drunkenly than crumb. the opportunity he had counted on was his and he was afraid of it. this was the sort of chance that had given great geniuses their start, according to countless legends. and he had been waiting for it, making ready for it.
weeks before during the rehearsals and during the first performances he had hung about in the offing, memorizing every part, till he had found himself able to reel off whole scenes with a perfection and a vigor that thrilled him—when he was alone. crumb’s rôle had been one of the first that he had memorized. but now, when he propped the little blue book against his make-up box and tried to read the dancing lines, they seemed to have no connection whatsoever with the play. he would have sworn he had never heard them. he had been told that the best method for quickly memorizing a part was to photograph each page or “side.” but the lines danced before him at an intoxicated speed that would have defied a moving-picture camera.
he mumbled good counsels to himself, however, as if he were undertaking the rescue of a drowning heroine, and at length the letters came to a focus, the words resumed their familiarity.
the character he was to impersonate did not appear until the third act, but eldon was in the wings made up and on tiptoe with readiness when the first curtain rose. his heart went up with it and lodged in his pharynx, where it throbbed chokingly.
the property-man had been recruited to replace eldon as the taxicab-driver, but eldon was on such tenterhooks that when his old cue came for entrance he started to walk on as usual. only a hasty backward shove from the arm of the property-man saved him from a public blunder.
the rest of the play seemed to unfold itself with an unendurable slowness. the severer critics had remarked on this.
as eldon watched, the lines he heard kept jostling the lines he was trying to remember and he fell into a panic of uncertainty. at times he forgot where he was and interfered with the entrances and exits of the other actors, yet hardly heard the rebukes they flung at him.
sheila, following one of her cues to “exit laughing l 2 e,” ran plump into eldon’s arms. he was as startled as a sleep-walker suddenly awakened, and clung to her to keep from falling. his stupor was pleasingly troubled by a vivid sense of how soft and round her shoulders were when he caught them in his hands.
as he fell back out of her way he trod upon mrs. vining’s favorite toe and she swore at him with an old-comedy vigor. she would have none of his apology, and the stage-manager with another oath ordered him to his room.
once there, he fell to studying his lines anew. the more he whispered them to himself the more they eluded him. the vital problem of positions began to harass him. he began to wonder just where crumb had stood.
he had learned from watching the rehearsals that few things upset or confuse actors like a shift of position. they learned their lines with reference to the geography of the stage and seemed curiously bewildered if the actor whom they had addressed on the right side appeared on the left.
eldon foresaw himself throwing sheila and mrs. vining out of their stride by standing up-stage when he should stand down, or right when he should stand left. he knew there was an etiquette about “giving the stage” to the superior characters. he remembered one rather heated argument in which batterson had insinuated that old mrs. vining had been craftily “stealing the stage” from one young woman who was selfish enough in all conscience, but who had foolishly imagined that the closer she was to the audience the more she commanded it.
the more he pondered his brief rôle the more intricate it grew. it began to take on the importance of hamlet. he repeated it over and over until he fell into a panic of aphasia.
suddenly he heard the third act called and ran down the steps to secure his lantern. it was not to be found. the property-man was not to be found. when both were discovered, the lighting of the lantern proved too intricate for eldon’s bethumbed fingers. the disgusted property-man performed it for him. he took his place in the wings.
agues and fevers made a hippodrome of his frame. he saw his time approaching. he saw sheila unfolding the road-map, scanning it closely. she was going to see the farmer approaching with a lantern. she was going to call to him to lend her the light of it. now she saw him. she called to him. but he must not start yet, for he was supposed to be at a distance. she called again. she spoke to her aunt.
now is the time! no, not yet! now! not yet!
“why, here you are!” said sheila.
but he was not there. he was a cigar indian riveted to the floor. she beckoned to him, and summoned him in a stage whisper, but he did not move. batterson dashed from his position near the curtain and shoved him forward, with a husky comment, “go on, you—”
eldon never knew what batterson called him, but he was sure that he deserved it. he started like a man who has fallen out of bed. he tripped, dropped to one knee, recovered himself with the lurch of a stumbling horse, and plunged into the scene.
eldon was unaware that his light was out. he was unaware of almost everything important. he forgot his opening lines and marched across the stage with the granite tread of the statue that visited don juan.
sheila improvised at once a line to supply what eldon forgot. but she could not improvise a flame on a wick. indeed, she had not noticed that the flame was missing. even when eldon, with the grace of a scarecrow, held out the cold black lantern, she went on studying the map and cheerily recited:
“oh, that’s better! now we can see just where we are.”
the earthquake of joy that smote the audience caught her unaware. the instant enormity of the bolt of laughter almost shook her from her feet. they do well to call it “bringing down the house.” there was a sound as of splitting timbers and din upon din as the gallery emptied its howls into the orchestra and the orchestra sent up shrieks of its own. the sound was like the sound that samson must have heard when he pulled the temple in upon him.
sheila and mrs. vining were struck with the panic that such unexpected laughter brings to the actor. they clutched at their garments to make sure that none of them had slipped their moorings. they looked at each other for news. then they saw the dreadfully solemn eldon holding aloft the fireless lantern.
the audience was now a whirlpool. eldon might have been one of the cast-iron effigies that hold up lanterns on gate-posts; he could not have been more rigid or more unreal. his own brain was in a whirlpool, too, but not of mirth. out of the eddies emerged a line. he seized it as a hope of safety and some desperate impulse led him to shout it above the clamor:
“it ain’t a very big lantern, ma’am, but it gives a heap o’ light.”
sheila’s answer was lost in the renewed hubbub, but it received no further response from eldon. his memory was quite paralyzed; he couldn’t have told his own name. he heard sheila murmuring to comfort him:
“can’t you light the lantern again? don’t be afraid. just light it. haven’t you a match? don’t be afraid!”
if eldon had carried the stolen fire of prometheus in his hand he could not have kindled tinder with it. he heard mrs. vining growling:
“get off, you damned fool, get off!”
but the line between his brain and his legs had also blown out a fuse.
the audience was almost seasick with laughter. ribs were aching and cheeks were dripping with tears. people were suffering with their mirth and the reinfection of laughter that a large audience sets up in itself. eldon’s glazed eyes and stunned ears somehow realized the activity of batterson, who was epileptic in the wings and howling in a strangled voice:
“come off, you—! come off, or—i’ll come and kick you off!”
and now eldon was more afraid of leaving than of staying.
in desperation sheila took him by the elbow and started him on his way. just as the hydrophobic batterson was about to shout, “ring!” eldon slipped slowly from the stage.
little batterson met the blinded cyclops and was only restrained from knocking him down by a fear that he might knock him back into the scene. as he brandished his arms about the giant he resembled an infuriated spider attacking a helpless caterpillar.
batterson’s oration was plentifully interlarded with simple old anglo-saxon terms that can only be answered with a blow. but eldon was incapable of resentment. he understood little of what was said except the reiterated line, “if you ever ask me again to let you play a part i’ll—”
whatever he threatened left eldon languid; the furthest thing from his thoughts was a continuance upon the abominable career he had insanely attempted.
he stalked with iron feet up the iron stairs to his dressing-room, put on his street clothes, and went to his hotel. he had forgotten to remove his greast-paint, the black on his eyebrows and under his eyes, or the rouge upon his mouth. a number of passers-by gave him the entire sidewalk and stared after him, wondering whether he were on his way to the madhouse or the hospital.
the immensity of the disaster to the play was its salvation. the audience had laughed itself to a state of exhaustion. the yelps of hilarity ended in sobs of fatigue. the well-bred were ashamed of their misbehavior and the intelligent were disgusted to realize that they had abused the glorious privilege of laughter and debauched themselves with mirth over an unimportant mishap to an unfortunate actor who had done nothing intrinsically humorous.
sheila and mrs. vining went on with the scene, making up what was necessary and receiving the abjectly submissive audience’s complete sympathy for their plight and extra approval for their ingenuity in extricating themselves from it. when the curtain fell upon the act there was unusual applause.
to an actor the agony of “going up” in the lines, or “fading,” is not much funnier after the first surprise than the death or wounding of a soldier is to his comrade. the warrior in the excitement of battle may laugh hysterically when a friend or enemy is ludicrously maimed, when he crumples up and grimaces sardonically, or is sent heels over head by the impact of a shell. but there is little comfort in the laughter since the same fate may come to himself.
the actor has this grinning form of death always at his elbow. he may forget his lines because they are unfamiliar or because they are old, because another actor gives a slightly different cue, some one person laughs too loudly in the audience, or coughs, or a baby cries, or for any one of a hundred reasons. that fear is never absent from the stage. it makes every performance a fresh ordeal. and the actor who has faltered meets more sympathy than blame.
if eldon had not sneaked out of the theater and had remained until the end of the play he would have found that he had more friends than before in the company. even batterson, after his tirade was over, regretted its violence, and blamed himself. he had sent a green actor out on the stage without rehearsal. batterson was almost tempted to apologize—almost.
but eldon was not to be found. he was immured in the shabby room of his cheap hotel sick with nausea and feverish with shame.
somehow he lived the long night out. he read the morning papers fiercely through. there were no head-lines on the front page describing his ruinous incapacity. there was not even a word of allusion to him or his tragedy in the theatrical notices. he was profoundly glad of his obscurity and profoundly convinced that obscurity was where he belonged. he wrote out a note of humble apology and resignation. he resolved to send it by messenger and never to go near that theater again, or any other after he had removed his trunk.
eldon mounted to his dressing-room and stared with a rueful eye at the make-up box which he had bought with all the pride a boy feels in his first chest of tools. he tried to tell himself that he was glad to be quit of the business of staining his face with these unmanly colors and of rubbing off the stains with effeminate cold-creams. he threw aside the soiled and multicolored towel with a gesture of disdain. but he was too honest to deceive himself. the more he denounced the actor’s calling the more he denounced himself for having been incompetent in it. he writhed at the memory of the hardships he had undergone in gaining a foothold on the stage and at the poltroonery of leaping overboard to avoid being thrown overboard.
as he left the theater to find an expressman to call for his trunk he looked into the letter-box where there was almost never a letter for him. to his surprise he found his name on a graceful envelope gracefully indited. he opened it and read the signature first. it was a note from sheila.
eldon’s eyes fairly bulged out of his head with amazed enchantment. his heart ached with joy. he went back to his dressing-room to read the letter over and over.
heartily, sheila kemble.
had she not already made a new soul of him, scattering his fright with a few words and recalling him to his duty and his opportunity? he would redeem himself to-night. to-night there should be no stumbling, no gloom in the lantern, no gaiety in the audience during his scene. to-night he would show batterson how little old crumb had really made of the part, drunk or sober.
he placed the letter as close to his heart as he could get it, and it warmed him like a poultice. he would go shave himself again and brush up a bit for sheila’s tea-fête.
as he groped slowly down the dark stairway he heard voices on the stage. he recognized crumb’s husky tones:
“if you’ll give me one more chance, val, i swear i’ll never disappoint you again. i’m on the water-mobile for good this time.”
eldon felt sorry for the poor old man. he paused to hear batterson’s epitaph on him:
“well, jim, i’ll give you another try. but it’s against my will.”
“oh, thank you, thank you, val!”
“don’t thank me. thank that dub, eldon. if he hadn’t thrown the scene last night you’d never get another look-in. no more would you if i could pick up anybody here. so you can go on to-night, but if your foot slips again, jim, so help me, you’ll never put your head in another of our theaters.”
as crumb’s heart went up, eldon’s followed the see-saw law. all his hopes and plans were collapsed. he would not go to sheila’s tea with this disgrace upon him and sit like a death’s-head in her presence.
and how could he present himself at her hotel in the shabby clothes he wore? she and her aunt were living expensively in chicago. it was good advertisement to live well there; at least it was a bad advertisement not to. it was a bad advertisement for eldon to appear anywhere. he was under the buffets of fortune. but he tore up his resignation.
now of all times he needed the comfort of her cheer. now of all times he could not ask it or accept it. he wrote her a note of devout gratitude, and said that a previous engagement with an old college friend prevented his accepting her gracious hospitality. his old college friend was himself, and they sat in his boarding-house cell and called each other names.
eldon resumed the livery of the taxicab-driver and spoke his two lines each night with his accustomed grace, and received his accustomed tribute of silence. he arrived on the stage just before his cue, and he went to his room just after his exit.
he avoided sheila, and she, feeling repulsed, turned her attention from him. friends of her father and mother and friends of her school days besieged her with entertainment. people who took pride in saying they knew somebody on the stage sought introductions. rich or handsome young men were presented to her at every turn. they poured their praises and their prayers into her pretty ears, but got no receipt for them nor any merchandise of favor. she was not quite out of the hilarious stage of girlhood. she said with more philosophy than she realized that she “had no use for men.” but they were all the more excited by her evasive charms. her prettiness was ripening into beauty and the glow of youth from within gave her a more shining aureole than even the ingenuities of stage make-up and lighting. homes of wealth were open to her and her growing clientèle frequented the theater. miss griffen was voted common, and left to the adulation of the fast young men.
the traveling-manager of the company was not slow to notice this. he saw that sheila had not only the rare gifts of dramatic instinct and appeal, but that she had the power of attracting the approval of distinguished people as well as of the general. men of all ages delighted in her; and this was still more important—women of all ages liked her, paid to see her. women who gave great receptions in brand-new palaces bought up all the boxes or several rows in the orchestra in honor of sheila kemble. school-girls clambered to the balcony and shop-girls to the gallery to see sheila kemble.
the listening manager heard the outgoing voices again and again saying such things as, “it’s the third time i’ve seen this. it’s not much of a play, but sheila kemble—isn’t she sweet?”
the company-manager and the house-manager and the press agent all wrote to reben, the manager-in-chief:
“keep your eye on kemble. she’s got draught. she makes ’em come again.”
and reben, who had made himself a plutocrat with twenty companies on the road, and a dozen theaters, owned or leased—reben who had grown rich by studying his public, planned to make another fortune by exploiting sheila kemble. he kept the secret to himself, but he set on foot a still hunt for the play that should make her while she seemed to be making it. he schemed how to get her signature to a five-year contract without exciting her cupidity to a duel with his own. he gave orders to play her up gradually in the publicity. the thoughts of managers are long, long thoughts.
he gave out an interview to the effect that what the public wanted was “youth—youth, that beautiful flower which is the dearest memory of the old, and the golden delight of the young.”
his chief publicity man, starr coleman, a reformed dramatic critic, wrote the interview for reben, explained it to him, and was proud of it with the vicarious pride of those strange scribes whose lives are devoted to getting for others what they deny to themselves.
reben had told coleman to play up strong his belief in the american dramatist, particularly the young dramatist. reben always did this just before he set out on his annual european shopping-tour among the foreign play-bazars. over there he could inspect the finished products of expert craftsmen; he could see their machines in operation, in lieu of buying pigs in pokes from ambitious yankees who learned their trade at the managers’ expense.
“there’s a play here with a kind of an idea in it. it’s hopeless as it stands, of course, but it might be worked over a little. it’s written by a man named vicksburg, or vickery, or something like that. funny thing—he suggests that sheila kemble would be the ideal woman for the principal part. and, do you know, i’ve been thinking she has the makings of a star some day. had you ever thought of that?”
“no,” said reben, craftily.
“well, i believe she’ll bear watching.”
in after-years this play-returner used to say, “i put reben on to the idea that there was star material in kemble, before he ever thought of it himself.”
but long before either of them thought of sheila kemble as a star, that destiny had been dreamed and planned for her by sheila kemble.
frivolous as she appeared on the stage and off, her pretty head was full of sonorous ambitions. that head was not turned by the whirlwinds of adulation, or drugged by the bouquets of flattery, because it was full of self-criticism. she was struggling for expressions that she could not get; she was groping, listening, studying, trying, discarding, replacing.
she thought she was free from any nonsense of love. nonsense should not thwart her progress and make a fool of her, as it had of so many others. it should not interrupt her career or ruin it as it had so many others. she would make friends with men, oh yes. they were so much more sensible, as a rule, than women, except when they grew sentimental. and that was a mere form of preliminary sparring with most of them. once a girl made a fellow understand that she was not interested in spoony nonsense, he became himself and gave his mind a chance. and all the while nature was rendering her more ready to command love from without, less ready to withstand love from within. she was becoming more and more of an actress. but still faster and still more was she becoming a woman.
while sheila was drafting herself a future, eldon was gnashing his teeth in a pillory of inaction. he could make no step forward and he could not back out. he had taken cheap and nasty lodgings in the same boarding-house with vincent tuell, who added to his depression by his constant distress. tuell could not sleep nights or days; he filled eldon’s ears with endless denunciations of the stage and with cynical advice to chuck it while he could. eldon would probably have taken tuell’s advice if tuell had not urged it so tyrannically. in self-defense eldon would protest:
“why don’t you leave it yourself, man? you ought to be in the hospital or at home being nursed.”
and tuell would snarl: “oh, i’d chuck it quick enough if i could. but i’ve got no other trade, and there’s the pair of kiddies in school—and the wife. she’s sick, too, and i’m here. god! what a business! it wouldn’t be so bad if i were getting anywhere except older. but i’ve got a rotten part and i’m rotten in it. every night i have to breeze in and breeze out and fight like the devil to keep from dying on the job. and never a laugh do i get. it’s one of those parts that reads funny and rehearses the company into convulsions and then plays like a column from the telephone-book. i’ve done everything i could. i put in all the old sure-fire business. i never lie down. i trip over rugs, i make funny faces, i wear funny clothes, but does anybody smile?—nagh! i can’t even fool the critics. i haven’t had a clipping i could send home to the wife since i left the big town.”
eldon had been as puzzled as tuell was. he had watched the expert actor using an encyclopedia of tricks, and never achieving success. tuell usually came off dripping with sweat. the moment he reached the wings his grin fell from him like a cheap comic mask over a tragic grimace of real pain and despair. in addition to his mental distress, his physical torment was incessant. in his boarding-house tuell gave himself up to lamentations without end. eldon begged him to see a doctor, but tuell did not believe in doctors.
“they always want to get their knives into you,” he would growl. “they’re worse than the critics.”
one day eldon made the acquaintance of a young physician named edie, who had recently hung a sign in the front window and used the parlor as an office during certain morning hours. patients came rarely, and the physician berated his profession as violently as tuell his. eldon persuaded the doctor to employ some of his leisure in examining tuell. he persuaded tuell to submit, and the doctor’s verdict came without hesitation or delicacy:
“appendicitis, old man. the quicker you’re operated on the better for you.”
“what did i tell you?” tuell snarled. “didn’t i say they were like critics? their only interest in you is to knife you.”
the young doctor laughed. “perhaps the critics turn up the truth now and then, too.”
but tuell answered, bitterly: “well, i’ve got to stand them. i haven’t got to stand for you other butchers.”
eldon apologized for his friend’s rudeness, but the doctor took no offense: “it’s his pain that’s talking,” he said. “he’s a sick man. he doesn’t know how sick he is.”
“you’ve got to have a doctor, old man.”
“i guess so,” tuell sighed. “get that young fellow, edie. he won’t rob me much. and he’ll wait for his fee.”
eldon made all haste to fetch edie from the boarding-house. they returned to find tuell on the floor of his room, writhing and moaning, unheeded in the deserted theater. the doctor gave eldon a telephone number and told him to demand an ambulance at once.
tuell heard the word, and broke out in such fierce protest that the doctor countermanded the order.
“i can’t go to any hospital now,” tuell raged. “haven’t you any sense? you know there’s an evening performance. get me through to-night, and i can rest all day to-morrow. i’ve got to play to-night. i’ve got to! there’s no understudy ready.”
he played. they set a chair for him in the wings and the physician waited there for him, piercing his skin with pain-deadening drugs every time he left the stage. there was sympathy enough from the company. even batterson was gentle, his fierce eyes fiercer with the cruelty of the situation. the house was packed, and “ringing down on capacity” is not done.
tuell sat in a stupor, breathing hard like a groggy prize-fighter. but whenever his cue came it woke him as if a ringside gong had shrilled. he flung off his suffering and marched out to his punishment. only, than anything in the world, but i find it so awfully difficult to say."
now that was odd too, for inexplicably enough it touched her; he wasn't really cold, of course, it was his manner that was unfortunate: she liked him at that moment better than she had ever liked him before. doris was to be married in november. he would be on his way to china then and if she married him she would be with him. it wouldn't be very nice to be a bridesmaid at doris's wedding. she would be glad to escape that. and then doris as a married woman and herself still single! every one knew how young doris was and it would make her seem older. it would put her on the shelf. it wouldn't be a very good marriage for her, but it was a marriage, and the fact that she would live in china made it easier. she was afraid of her mother's bitter tongue. why, all the girls who had come out with her were married long ago and most of them had children; she was tired of going to see them and gushing over their babies. walter fane offered her a new life. she turned to him with a smile which she well knew the effect of.
"if i were so rash as to say i'd marry you when would you want to marry me?"
he gave a sudden gasp of delight, and his white cheeks flushed.
"now. at once. as soon as possible. we'd go to italy for our honeymoon. august and september."
that would save her from spending the summer in a country vicarage, hired at five guineas a week, with her father and mother. in a flash she saw in her mind's eye the announcement in the morning post that, the bridegroom having to return to the east, the wedding would take place at once. she knew her mother well enough, she could be counted on to make a splash; for the moment at least doris would be in the background and when doris's much grander wedding took place she would be far away.
she stretched out her hand.
"i think i like you very much. you must give me time to get used to you."
"then it's yes?" he interrupted.
"i suppose so."
she knew him very little then, and now, though they had been married for nearly two years, she knew him but little more. at first she had been touched by his kindness and flattered, though surprised, by his passion. he was extremely considerate; he was very attentive to her comfort; she never expressed the slightest wish without his hastening to gratify it. he was constantly giving her little presents. when she happened to feel ill no one could have been kinder or more thoughtful. she seemed to do him a favour when she gave him the opportunity of doing something tiresome for her. and he was always exceedingly polite. he rose to his feet when she entered a room, he gave her his hand to help her out of a car, if he chanced to meet her in the street he took off his hat, he was solicitous to open the door for her when she left a room, he never came into her bedroom or her boudoir without a knock. he treated her not as kitty had seen most men treat their wives, but as though she were a fellow-guest in a country house. it was pleasing and yet a trifle comic. she would have felt more at home with him if he had been more casual. nor did their conjugal relations draw her closer to him. he was passionate then, fierce, oddly hysterical too, and sentimental.
it disconcerted her to realise how emotional he really was. his self-control was due to shyness or to long training, she did not know which; it seemed to her faintly contemptible that when she lay in his arms, his desire appeased, he who was so timid of saying absurd things, who so feared to be ridiculous, should use baby talk. she had offended him bitterly once by laughing and telling him that he was talking the most fearful slush. she had felt his arms grow limp about her, he remained quite silent for a little while, and then without a word released her and went into his own room. she didn't want to hurt his feelings and a day or two later she said to him:
"you silly old thing, i don't mind what nonsense you talk to me."
he had laughed in a shamefaced way. she had discovered very soon that he had an unhappy disability to lose himself. he was self-conscious. when there was a party and every one started singing walter could never bring himself to join in. he sat there smiling to show that he was pleased and amused, but his smile was forced; it was more like a sarcastic smirk, and you could not help feeling that he thought all those people enjoying themselves a pack of fools. he could not bring himself to play the round games which kitty with her high spirits found such a lark. on their journey out to china he had absolutely refused to put on fancy dress when every one else was wearing it. it disturbed her pleasure that he should so obviously think the whole thing a bore.
kitty was lively; she was willing to chatter all day long and she laughed easily. his silence disconcerted her. he had a way which exasperated her of returning no answer to some casual remark of hers. it was true that it needed no answer, but an answer all the same would have been pleasant. if it was raining and she said: "it's raining cats and dogs," she would have liked him to say: "yes, isn't it?" he remained silent. sometimes she would have liked to shake him.
"i said it was raining cats and dogs," she repeated.
"i heard you," he answered, with his affectionate smile.
it showed that he had not meant to be offensive. he did not speak because he had nothing to say. but if nobody spoke unless he had something to say, kitty reflected, with a smile, the human race would very soon lose the use of speech.
the fact was, of course, that he had no charm. that was why he was not popular, and she had not been long in tching-yen before she discovered that he was not. she remained very vague about his work. it was enough for her to realise, and she did this quite distinctly, that to be the government bacteriologist was no great fry. he seemed to have no desire to discuss that part of his life with her. because she was willing to be interested in anything at first she had asked him about it. he put her off with a jest.
"it's very dull and technical," he said on another occasion. "and it's grossly underpaid."
he was very reserved. all she knew about his antecedents, his birth, his education, and his life before he met her, she had elicited by direct questioning. it was odd, the only thing that seemed to annoy him was a question; and when, in her natural curiosity, she fired a string of them at him, his answers became at every one more abrupt. she had the wit to see that he did not care to reply because he had anything to hide from her, but merely from a natural secretiveness. it bored him to talk about himself. it made him shy and uncomfortable. he did not know how to be open. he was fond of reading, but he read books which seemed to kitty very dull. if he was not busy with some scientific treatise he would read books about china or historical works. he never relaxed. she did not think he could. he was fond of games: he played tennis and bridge.
she wondered why he had ever fallen in love with her. she could not imagine any one less suited than herself to this restrained, cold and self-possessed man. and yet it was quite certain that he loved her madly. he would do anything in the world to please her. he was like wax in her hands. when she thought of one side he showed her, a side which only she had seen, she a little despised him. she wondered whether his sarcastic manner, with its contemptuous tolerance for so many persons and things she admired, was merely a façade to conceal a profound weakness. she supposed he was clever, every one seemed to think he was, but except very occasionally when he was with two or three people he liked and was in the mood, she had never found him entertaining. he did not precisely bore her, he left her indifferent.
though kitty had met his wife at various tea-parties she had been some weeks in tching-yen before she saw charles townsend. she was introduced to him only when with her husband she went to dine at his house. kitty was on the defensive. charles townsend was assistant colonial secretary and she had no mind to allow him to use her with the condescension which, notwithstanding her good manners, she discerned in mrs. townsend. the room in which they were received was spacious. it was furnished as was every other drawing-room she had been in at tching-yen in a comfortable and homely style. it was a large party. they were the last to come and as they entered chinese servants in uniform were handing round cocktails and olives. mrs. townsend greeted them in her casual fashion and looking at a list told walter whom he was to take in to dinner.
kitty saw a tall and very handsome man bear down on them.
"this is my husband."
"i am to have the privilege of sitting next to you," he said.
she immediately felt at ease and the sense of hostility vanished from her bosom. though his eyes were smiling she had seen in them a quick look of surprise. she understood it perfectly and it made her inclined to laugh.
"i shan't be able to eat any dinner," he said, "and if i know dorothy the dinner's damned good."
"i ought to have been told. some one really ought to have warned me."
"no one said a word. how was i to know that i was going to meet a raging beauty?"
"now what am i to say to that?"
"nothing. leave me to do the talking. and i'll say it over and over again."
kitty, unmoved, wondered what exactly his wife had told him about her. he must have asked. and townsend, looking down on her with his laughing eyes, suddenly remembered.
"what is she like?" he had enquired when his wife told him she had met dr. fane's bride.
"oh, quite a nice little thing. actressy."
"was she on the stage?"
"oh, no, i don't think so. her father's a doctor or a lawyer or something. i suppose we shall have to ask them to dinner."
"there's no hurry, is there?"
when they were sitting side by side at table he told her that he had known walter fane ever since he came to the colony.
"we play bridge together. he's far and away the best bridge player at the club."
she told walter on the way home.
"that's not saying very much, you know."
"how does he play?"
"not badly. he plays a winning hand very well, but when he has bad cards he goes all to pieces."
"does he play as well as you?"
"i have no illusions about my play. i should describe myself as a very good player in the second class. townsend thinks he's in the first. he isn't."
"don't you like him?"
"i neither like him nor dislike him. i believe he's not bad at his job and every one says he's a good sportsman. he doesn't very much interest me."
it was not the first time that walter's moderation had exasperated her. she asked herself why it was necessary to be so prudent: you either liked people or you didn't. she had liked charles townsend very much. and she had not expected to. he was probably the most popular man in the colony. it was supposed that the colonial secretary would retire soon and every one hoped that townsend would succeed him. he played tennis and polo and golf. he kept racing ponies. he was always ready to do any one a good turn. he never let red tape interfere with him. he put on no airs. kitty did not know why she had resented hearing him so well spoken of, she could not help thinking he must be very conceited: she had been extremely silly; that was the last thing you could accuse him of.
she had enjoyed her evening. they had talked of the theatres in london, and of ascot and cowes, all the things she knew about, so that really she might have met him at some nice house in lennox gardens; and later, when the men came into the drawing-room after dinner, he had strolled over and sat beside her again. though he had not said anything very amusing, he had made her laugh; it must have been the way he said it: there was a caressing sound in his deep, rich voice, a delightful expression in his kind, shining blue eyes, which made you feel very much at home with him. of course he had charm. that was what made him so pleasant.
he was tall, six foot two at least, she thought, and he had a beautiful figure; he was evidently in very good condition and he had not a spare ounce of fat on him. he was well-dressed, the best-dressed man in the room, and he wore his clothes well. she liked a man to be smart. her eyes wandered to walter: he really should try to be a little better turned out. she noticed townsend's cuff-links and waistcoat buttons; she had seen similar ones at cartier's. of course the townsends had private means. his face was deeply sunburned, but the sun had not taken the healthy colour from his cheeks. she liked the little trim curly moustache which did not conceal his full red lips. he had black hair, short and brushed very sleek. but of course his eyes, under thick, bushy eyebrows, were his best feature: they were so very blue, and they had a laughing tenderness which persuaded you of the sweetness of his disposition. no man who had those blue eyes could bear to hurt any one.
she could not but know that she had made an impression on him. if he had not said charming things to her his eyes, warm with admiration, would have betrayed him. his ease was delightful. he had no self-consciousness. kitty was at home in these circumstances and she admired the way in which amid the banter which was the staple of their conversation he insinuated every now and then a pretty, flattering speech. when she shook hands with him on leaving he gave her hand a pressure that she could not mistake.
"i hope we shall see you again soon," he said casually but his eyes gave his words a meaning which she could not fail to see.
"tching-yen is very small, isn't it?" she said.
who would have thought then that within three months they would be on such terms? he had told her since that he was crazy about her on that first evening. she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. he remembered the dress she wore; it was her wedding dress, and he said she looked like a lily of the valley. she knew that he was in love with her before he told her, and a little frightened she kept him at a distance. he was impetuous and it was difficult. she was afraid to let him kiss her, for the thought of his arms about her made her heart beat so fast. she had never been in love before. it was wonderful. and now that she knew what love was she felt a sudden sympathy for the love that walter bore her. she teased him, playfully, and saw that he enjoyed it. she had been perhaps a little afraid of him, but now she had more confidence. she chaffed him and it amused her to see the slow smile with which at first he received her banter. he was surprised and pleased. one of these days, she thought, he would become quite human. now that she had learnt something of passion it diverted her to play lightly, like a harpist running his fingers across the strings of his harp, on his affections. she laughed when she saw how she bewildered and confused him.
and when charlie became her lover the situation between herself and walter seemed exquisitely absurd. she could hardly look at him, so grave and self-controlled, without laughing. she was too happy to feel unkindly towards him. except for him, after all, she would never have known charlie. she had hesitated some time before the final step, not because she did not want to yield to charlie's passion, her own was equal to his, but because her upbringing and all the conventions of her life intimidated her. she was amazed afterwards (and the final act was due to accident; neither of them had seen the opportunity till it was face to face with them) to discover that she felt in no way different from what she had before. she had expected that it would cause some, she hardly knew what, fantastic change in her so that she would feel like somebody else; and when she had a chance to look at herself in the glass she was bewildered to see the same woman she had seen the day before.
"are you angry with me?" he asked her.
"i adore you," she whispered.
"don't you think you were very silly to waste so much time?"
"a perfect fool."
her happiness, sometimes almost more than she could bear, renewed her beauty. just before she married, beginning to lose her first freshness, she had looked tired and drawn. the uncharitable said that she was going off. but there is all the difference between a girl of twenty-five and a married woman of that age. she was like a rosebud that is beginning to turn yellow at the edges of the petals, and then suddenly she was a rose in full bloom. her starry eyes gained a more significant expression; her skin (that feature which had always been her greatest pride and most anxious care) was dazzling: it could not be compared to the peach or to the flower; it was they that demanded comparison with it. she looked eighteen once more. she was at the height of her glowing loveliness. it was impossible not to remark it and her women friends asked her in little friendly asides if she was going to have a baby. the indifferent who had said she was just a very pretty woman with a long nose admitted that they had misjudged her. she was what charlie had called her the first time he saw her, a raging beauty.
they managed their intrigue with skill. he had a broad back, he told her ("i will not have you swank about your figure," she interrupted lightly), and it did not matter about him; but for her sake they mustn't take the smallest risk. they could not meet often alone, not half often enough for him, but he had to think of her first, sometimes in the curio shop, now and then after luncheon in her house when no one was about; but she saw him a good deal here and there. it amused her then to see the formal way he spoke to her, jovial, for he was always that, with the same manner he used with every one. who could imagine when they heard him chaff her with that charming humour of his that so lately he had held her in his passionate arms?
"i believe it's all bluff and you're really twenty-five."
he laughed. he was well pleased.
"oh, my dear, i have a boy of fifteen. i'm a middle-aged gent. in another two or three years i shall just be a fat old party."
"you'll be adorable when you're a hundred."
she liked his black, bushy eyebrows. she wondered whether it was they that gave his blue eyes their disturbing expression.
he was full of accomplishments. he could play the piano quite well, rag-time, of course, and he could sing a comic song with a rich voice and good humour. she did not believe there was anything he could not do. he was very clever at his work too and she shared his pleasure when he told her that the governor had particularly congratulated him on the way he had done some difficult job.
"although it's i as says it," he laughed, his eyes charming with the love he bore her, "there's not a fellow in the service who could have done it better."
oh, how she wished that she were his wife rather than walter's!
of course it was not certain yet that walter knew the truth, and if he didn't it was better perhaps to leave well alone; but if he did, well, in the end it would be the best thing for all of them. at first she had been, if not satisfied, at least resigned to seeing charlie only by stealth; but time had increased her passion and for some while now she had been increasingly impatient of the obstacles which prevented them from being always together. he had told her so often that he cursed his position which forced him to be so discreet, the ties which bound him, and the ties which bound her: how marvellous it would have been, he said, if they were both free! she saw his point of view; no one wanted a scandal, and of course it required a good deal of thinking over before you changed the course of your life; but if freedom were thrust upon them, ah, then, how simple everything would be!
it was not as though any one would suffer very much. she knew exactly what his relations were with his wife. she was a cold woman and there had been no love between them for years. it was habit that held them together, convenience, and of course the children. it was easier for charlie than for her: walter loved her; but after all, he was absorbed in his work; and a man always had his club, he might be upset at first, but he would get over it; there was no reason why he should not marry somebody else. charlie had told her that he could not make out how she came to throw herself away on walter fane.
she wondered, half smiling, why a little while before she had been terrified at the thought that walter had caught them. of course it was startling to see the handle of the door slowly turn. but after all they knew the worst that walter could do, and they were ready for it. charlie would feel as great a relief as she that what they both desired more than anything in the world should be thus forced upon them.
walter was a gentleman, she would do him the justice to acknowledge that, and he loved her; he would do the right thing and allow her to divorce him. they had made a mistake and the lucky thing was that they had found it out before it was too late. she made up her mind exactly what she was going to say to him and how she would treat him. she would be kind, smiling, and firm. there was no need for them to quarrel. later on she would always be glad to see him. she hoped honestly that the two years they had spent together would remain with him as a priceless memory.
"i don't suppose dorothy townsend will mind divorcing charlie a bit," she thought. "now the youngest boy is going back to england it will be much nicer for her to be in england too. there's absolutely nothing for her to do in tching-yen. she'll be able to spend all the holidays with her boys. and then she's got her father and mother in england."
it was all very simple and everything could be managed without scandal or ill-feeling. and then she and charlie could marry. kitty drew a long sigh. they would be very happy. it was worth going through a certain amount of bother to achieve that. confusedly, one picture jostling another, she thought of the life they would lead together, of the fun they would have and the little journeys they would take together, the house they would live in, the positions he would rise to and the help she would be to him. he would be very proud of her and she, she adored him.
but through all these day-dreams ran a current of apprehension. it was funny: it was as though the wood and the strings of an orchestra played arcadian melodies and in the bass the drums, softly but with foreboding, beat a grim tattoo. sooner or later walter must come home and her heart beat fast at the thought of meeting him. it was strange that he had gone away that afternoon without saying a word to her. of course she was not frightened of him; after all what could he do, she repeated to herself; but she could not quite allay her uneasiness. once more she repeated what she would say to him. what was the good of making a scene? she was very sorry, heaven knew she didn't want to cause him pain, but she couldn't help it if she didn't love him. it was no good pretending and it was always better to tell the truth. she hoped he wouldn't be unhappy, but they had made a mistake and the only sensible thing was to acknowledge it. she would always think kindly of him.
but even as she said this to herself a sudden gust of fear made the sweat start out in the palms of her hands. and because she was frightened she grew angry with him. if he wanted to make a scene, that was his lookout; he must not be surprised if he got more than he bargained for. she would tell him that she had never cared two pins for him and that not a day had passed since their marriage without her regretting it. he was dull. oh, how he'd bored her, bored her, bored her! he thought himself so much better than anyone else, it was laughable; he had no sense of humour; she hated his supercilious air, his coldness, and his self-control. it was easy to be self-controlled when you were interested in nothing and nobody but yourself. he was repulsive to her. she hated to let him kiss her. what had he to be so conceited about? he danced rottenly, he was a wet blanket at a party, he couldn't play or sing, he couldn't play polo and his tennis was no better than anybody else's. bridge? who cared about bridge?
"fed up," she repeated aloud, trembling with anger. "fed up! fed up!"
she heard the car draw up to the gate of their garden. he was coming up the stairs.
he came into the room. her heart was beating wildly and her hands were shaking; it was lucky that she lay on the sofa. she was holding an open book as though she had been reading. he stood for an instant on the threshold and their eyes met. her heart sank; she felt on a sudden a cold chill pass through her limbs and she shivered. she had that feeling which you describe by saying that someone was walking over your grave. his face was deathly pale; she had seen it like that once before, when they sat together in the park and he asked her to marry him. his dark eyes, immobile and inscrutable, seemed preternaturally large. he knew everything.
"you're back early," she remarked.
her lips trembled so that she could hardly frame the words. she was terrified. she was afraid she would faint.
"i think it's about the usual time."
his voice sounded strange to her. it was raised on the last word in order to give his remark a casual air, but it was forced. she wondered if he saw that she was shaking in every limb. it was only by an effort that she did not scream. he dropped his eyes.
"i'm just going to dress."
he left the room. she was shattered. for two or three minutes she could not stir, but at last, raising herself from the sofa with difficulty, as though she had had an illness and were still weak, she found her feet. she did not know if her legs would support her. she felt her way by means of chairs and tables to the veranda and then with one hand on the wall went to her room. she put on a tea-gown and when she went back into her boudoir (they only used the drawing-room when there was a party) he was standing at a table looking at the pictures of the sketch. she had to force herself to enter.
"shall we go down? dinner is ready."
"have i kept you waiting?"
it was dreadful that she could not control the trembling of her lips.
when was he going to speak?
they sat down and for a moment there was silence between them. then he made a remark and because it was so commonplace it had a sinister air.
"the empress didn't come in to-day," he said. "i wonder if she's been delayed by a storm."
"was she due to-day?"
she looked at him now and saw that his eyes were fixed on his plate. he made another observation, equally trivial, about a tennis tournament that was about to be played, and he spoke at length. his voice as a rule was agreeable, with a variety of tone, but now he spoke on one note. it was strangely unnatural. it gave kitty the impression that he was speaking from a long way off. and all the time his eyes were directed to his plate, or the table, or to a picture on the wall. he would not meet hers. she realised that he could not bear to look at her.
"shall we go upstairs?" he said when dinner was finished.
"if you like."
she rose and he held open the door for her. his eyes were cast down as she passed him. when they reached the sitting-room he took up the illustrated paper once more.
"is this a new sketch? i don't think i've seen it."
"i don't know. i haven't noticed."
it had been lying about for a fortnight and she knew that he had looked it through and through. he took it and sat down. she lay again on the sofa and took her book. as a rule in the evening, when they were alone, they played coon-can or patience. he was leaning back in an arm-chair, in a comfortable attitude, and his attention seemed absorbed by the illustration he was looking at. he did not turn the page. she tried to read, but she could not see the print before her eyes. the words were blurred. her head began to ache violently.
when would he speak?
they sat in silence for an hour. she gave up the pretence of reading, and letting her novel fall on her lap, gazed into space. she was afraid to make the smallest gesture or the smallest sound. he sat quite still, in that same easy attitude, and stared with those wide, immobile eyes of his at the picture. his stillness was strangely menacing. it gave kitty the feeling of a wild beast prepared to spring.
when suddenly he stood up she started. she clenched her hands and she felt herself grow pale. now!
"i have some work to do," he said in that quiet, toneless voice, his eyes averted. "if you don't mind i'll go into my study. i daresay you'll have gone to bed by the time i've finished."
"i am rather tired to-night."
"well, good night."
he left the room.
as soon as she could next morning she rang townsend up at his office.
"yes, what is it?"
"i want to see you."
"my dear, i'm awfully busy. i'm a working man."
"it's very important. can i come down to the office?"
"oh, no, i wouldn't do that if i were you."
"well, come here then."
"i can't possibly get away. what about this afternoon? and don't you think it would be better if i didn't come to your house?"
"i must see you at once."
there was a pause and she was afraid that she had been cut off.
"are you there?" she asked anxiously.
"yes, i was thinking. has anything happened?"
"i can't tell you over the telephone."
there was another silence before he spoke again.
"well, look here, i can manage to see you for ten minutes at one if that'll do. you'd better go to ku-chou's and i'll come along as soon as i can."
"the curio shop?" she asked in dismay.
"well, we can't meet in the lounge at the tching yen hotel very well," he answered.
she noticed a trace of irritation in his voice.
"very well. i'll go to ku-chou's."
"mr. townsend no come yet. you go top-side, yes?"
she went to the back of the shop and walked up the rickety, dark stairs. the chinese followed her and unlocked the door that led into the bedroom. it was stuffy and there was an acrid smell of opium. she sat down on a sandalwood chest.
in a moment she heard a heavy step on the creaking stairs. townsend came in and shut the door behind him. his face bore a sullen look, but as he saw her it vanished, and he smiled in that charming way of his. he took her quickly in his arms and kissed her lips.
"now what's the trouble?"
"it makes me feel better just to see you," she smiled.
he sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette.
"you look rather washed out this morning."
"i don't wonder," she answered. "i don't think i closed my eyes all night."
he gave her a look. he was smiling still, but his smile was a little set and unnatural. she thought there was a shade of anxiety in his eyes.
"he knows," she said.
there was an instant's pause before he answered.
"what did he say?"
"he hasn't said anything."
"what!" he looked at her sharply. "what makes you think he knows then?"
"everything. his look. the way he talked at dinner."
"was he disagreeable?"
"no, on the contrary, he was scrupulously polite. for the first time since we married he didn't kiss me good night."
she dropped her eyes. she was not sure if charlie understood. as a rule walter took her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers and would not let them go. his whole body grew tender and passionate with his kiss.
"why do you imagine he didn't say anything?"
"i don't know."
there was a pause. kitty sat very still on the sandalwood box and looked with anxious attention at townsend. his face once more was sullen and there was a frown between his brows. his mouth drooped a little at the corners. but all at once he looked up and a gleam of malicious amusement came into his eyes.
"i wonder if he is going to say anything."
she did not answer. she did not know what he meant.
"after all, he wouldn't be the first man who's shut his eyes in a case of this sort. what has he to gain by making a row? if he'd wanted to make a row he would have insisted on coming into your room." his eyes twinkled and his lips broke into a broad smile. "we should have looked a pair of damned fools."
"i wish you could have seen his face last night."
"i expect he was upset. it was naturally a shock. it's a damned humiliating position for any man. he always looks a fool. walter doesn't give me the impression of a fellow who'd care to wash a lot of dirty linen in public."
"i don't think he would," she answered reflectively. "he's very sensitive, i've discovered that."
"that's all to the good as far as we're concerned. you know, it's a very good plan to put yourself in somebody else's shoes and ask yourself how you would act in his place. there's only one way in which a man can save his face when he's in that sort of position and that is to pretend he knows nothing. i bet you anything you like that that is exactly what he's going to do."
the more townsend talked the more buoyant he became. his blue eyes sparkled and he was once more his gay and jovial self. he irradiated an encouraging confidence.
"heaven knows, i don't want to say anything disagreeable about him, but when you come down to brass tacks a bacteriologist is no great shakes. the chances are that i shall be colonial secretary when simmons goes home, and it's to walter's interest to keep on the right side of me. he's got his bread and butter to think of, like the rest of us: do you think the colonial office are going to do much for a fellow who makes a scandal? believe me, he's got everything to gain by holding his tongue and everything to lose by kicking up a row."
kitty moved uneasily. she knew how shy walter was and she could believe that the fear of a scene, and the dread of public attention, might have influence upon him; but she could not believe that he would be affected by the thought of a material advantage. perhaps she didn't know him very well, but charlie didn't know him at all.
"has it occurred to you that he's madly in love with me?"
he did not answer, but he smiled at her with roguish eyes. she knew and loved that charming look of his.
"well, what is it? i know you're going to say something awful."
"well, you know, women are often under the impression that men are much more madly in love with them than they really are."
for the first time she laughed. his confidence was catching.
"what a monstrous thing to say!"
"i put it to you that you haven't been bothering much about your husband lately. perhaps he isn't quite so much in love with you as he was."
"at all events i shall never delude myself that you are madly in love with me," she retorted.
"that's where you're wrong."
ah, how good it was to hear him say that! she knew it and her belief in his passion warmed her heart. as he spoke he rose from the bed and came and sat down beside her on the sandalwood box. he put his arm round her waist.
"don't worry your silly little head a moment longer," he said. "i promise you there's nothing to fear. i'm as certain as i am of anything that he's going to pretend he knows nothing. you know, this sort of thing is awfully difficult to prove. you say he's in love with you; perhaps he doesn't want to lose you altogether. i swear i'd accept anything rather than that if you were my wife."
she leaned towards him. her body became limp and yielding against his arm. the love she felt for him was almost torture. his last words had struck her: perhaps walter loved her so passionately that he was prepared to accept any humiliation if sometimes she would let him love her. she could understand that; for that was how she felt towards charlie. a thrill of pride passed through her, and at the same time a faint sensation of contempt for a man who could love so slavishly.
she put her arm lovingly round charlie's neck.
"you're simply wonderful. i was shaking like a leaf when i came here and you've made everything all right."
he took her face in his hand and kissed her lips.
"you're such a comfort to me," she sighed.
"i'm sure you need not be nervous. and you know i'll stand by you. i won't let you down."
she put away her fears, but for an instant unreasonably she regretted that her plans for the future were shattered. now that all danger was past she almost wished that walter were going to insist on a divorce.
"i knew i could count on you," she said.
"so i should hope."
"oughtn't you to go and have your tiffin?"
"oh, damn my tiffin."
he drew her more closely to him and now she was held tight in his arms. his mouth sought hers.
"oh, charlie, you must let me go."
she gave a little laugh, a laugh of happy love and of triumph; his eyes were heavy with desire. he lifted her to her feet and not letting her go but holding her close to his breast he locked the door.
all through the afternoon she thought of what charlie had said about walter. they were dining out that evening and when he came back from the club she was dressing. he knocked at her door.
he did not open.
"i'm going straight along to dress. how long will you be?"
he said nothing more, but went to his own room. his voice had that constrained note which she had heard in it the night before. she felt fairly sure of herself now. she was ready before he was and when he came downstairs she was already seated in the car.
"i'm afraid i've kept you waiting," he said.
"i shall survive it," she replied, and she was able to smile as she spoke.
she made an observation or two as they drove down the hill, but he answered curtly. she shrugged her shoulders; she was growing a trifle impatient: if he wanted to sulk, let him, she didn't care. they drove in silence till they reached their destination. it was a large dinner party. there were too many people and too many courses. while kitty chatted gaily with her neighbours she watched walter. he was deathly pale and his face was pinched.
"your husband is looking rather washed out. i thought he didn't mind the heat. has he been working very hard?"
"he always works hard."
"i suppose you're going away soon?"
"oh, yes, i think i shall go to japan as i did last year," she said. "the doctor says i must get out of the heat if i don't want to go all to pieces."
walter did not as usual when they were dining out give her a little smiling glance now and then. he never looked at her. she had noticed that when he came down to the car he kept his eyes averted, and he did the same when, with his usual politeness, he gave her his hand to alight. now, talking with the women on either side of him, he did not smile, but looked at them with steady and unblinking eyes; and really his eyes looked enormous and in that pale face coal black. his face was set and stern.
"he must be an agreeable companion," thought kitty ironically.
the idea of those unfortunate ladies trying to indulge in small talk with that grim mask not a little diverted her.
of course he knew; there was no doubt about that, and he was furious with her. why hadn't he said anything? was it really because, though angry and hurt, he loved her as much that he was afraid she would leave him. the thought made her ever so slightly despise him, but good-naturedly: after all, he was her husband and he provided her with board and lodging; so long as he didn't interfere with her and let her do as she liked she would be quite nice to him. on the other hand, perhaps his silence was due merely to a morbid timidity. charlie was right when he said that no one would hate a scandal more than walter. he never made a speech if he could help it. he had told her once that when he was subpœnaed as a witness on a case where he was to give expert evidence he had hardly slept for a week before. his shyness was a disease.
it happened that just then the women on either side of him were talking with their neighbours and he was left alone. he was staring straight in front of him, forgetful of the party, and his eyes were filled with a mortal sadness. it gave kitty a shock.
next day when she was lying down after luncheon dozing, she was aroused by a knock at her door.
"who is it?" she cried irritably.
at that hour she was unaccustomed to be disturbed.
she recognized her husband's voice and she sat up quickly.
"did i wake you?" he asked as he entered.
"in point of fact you did," she answered in the natural tone she had adopted with him for the last two days.
"will you come into the next room? i want to have a little talk with you."
her heart gave a sudden beat against her ribs.
"i'll put on a dressing-gown."
he left her. she slipped her bare feet into mules and wrapped herself in a kimono. she looked in the glass; she was very pale and she put on some rouge. she stood at the door for a moment, nerving herself for the interview, and then with a bold face joined him.
"how did you manage to get away from the laboratory at this hour?" she said. "i don't often see you at this sort of time."
"won't you sit down?"
he did not look at her. he spoke gravely. she was glad to do as he asked: her knees were a little shaky, and unable to continue in that jocular tone she kept silent. he sat also and lit a cigarette. his eyes wandered restlessly about the room. he seemed to have some difficulty in starting.
suddenly he looked full at her; and because he had held his eyes so long averted, his direct gaze gave her such a fright that she smothered a cry.
"have you ever heard of mei-tan-fu?" he asked. "there's been a good deal about it in the papers lately."
she stared at him in astonishment. she hesitated.
"is that the place where there's cholera? mr. arbuthnot was talking about it last night."
"there's an epidemic. i believe it's the worst they've had for years. there was a medical missionary there. he died of cholera three days ago. there's a french convent there and of course there's the customs man. everyone else has got out."
his eyes were still fixed on her and she could not lower hers. she tried to read his expression, but she was nervous, and she could only discern a strange watchfulness. how could he look so steadily? he did not even blink.
"the french nuns are doing what they can. they've turned the orphanage into a hospital. but the people are dying like flies. i've offered to go and take charge."
she started violently. her first thought was that if he went she would be free and without let or hindrance could see charlie. but the thought shocked her. she felt herself go scarlet. why did he watch her like that? she looked away in embarrassment.
"is that necessary?" she faltered.
"there's not a foreign doctor in the place."
"but you're not a doctor, you're a bacteriologist."
"i am an m.d., you know, and before i specialised i did a good deal of general work in a hospital. the fact that i'm first and foremost a bacteriologist is all to the good. it will be an admirable chance for research work."
he spoke almost flippantly and when she glanced at him she was surprised to see in his eyes a gleam of mockery. she could not understand.
"but won't it be awfully dangerous?"
he smiled. it was a derisive grimace. she leaned her forehead on her hand. suicide. it was nothing short of that. dreadful! she had not thought he would take it like that. she couldn't let him do that. it was cruel. it was not her fault if she did not love him. she couldn't bear the thought that he should kill himself for her sake. tears flowed softly down her cheeks.
"what are you crying for?"
his voice was cold.
"you're not obliged to go, are you?"
"no, i go of my own free will."
"please don't, walter. it would be too awful if something happened. supposing you died?"
though his face remained impassive the shadow of a smile once more crossed his eyes. he did not answer.
"where is this place?" she asked after a pause.
"mei-tan-fu? it's on a tributary of the western river. we should go up the western river and then by chair."
"who is we?"
"you and i."
she looked at him quickly. she thought she had heard amiss. but now the smile in his eyes had travelled to his lips. his dark eyes were fixed on her.
"are you expecting me to come too?"
"i thought you'd like to."
her breath began to come very fast. a shudder passed through her.
"there are five french nuns there."
panic seized her.
"i don't know what you mean. it would be madness for me to go. you know how delicate i am. dr. hayward said i must get out of tching-yen on account of the heat. i could never stand the heat up there. and cholera. i should be frightened out of my wits. it's just asking for trouble. there's no reason for me to go. i should die."
he did not answer. she looked at him in her desperation and she could hardly restrain a cry. his face had a sort of black pallor which suddenly terrified her. she saw in it a look of hatred. was it possible that he wanted her to die? she answered her own outrageous thought.
"it's absurd. if you think you ought to go it's your own lookout. but really you can't expect me to. i hate illness. a cholera epidemic. i don't pretend to be very brave and i don't mind telling you that i haven't pluck for that. i shall stay here until it's time for me to go to japan."
"i should have thought that you would want to accompany me when i am about to set out on a dangerous expedition."
he was openly mocking her now. she was confused. she did not quite know whether he meant what he said or was merely trying to frighten her.
"i don't think anyone could reasonably blame me for refusing to go to a dangerous place where i had no business or where i could be of no use."
"you could be of the greatest use; you could cheer and comfort me."
she grew even a little paler.
"i don't understand what you're talking about."
"i shouldn't have thought it needed more than average intelligence."
"i'm not going, walter. it's monstrous to ask me."
"then i shall not go either. i shall immediately file my petition."
she looked at him blankly. what he said was so unexpected that at the first moment she could hardly gather its sense.
"what on earth are you talking about?" she faltered.
even to herself her reply rang false, and she saw the look of disdain which it called forth on walter's stern face.
"i'm afraid you've thought me a bigger fool than i am."
she did not quite know what to say. she was undecided whether indignantly to assert her innocence or to break out into angry reproaches. he seemed to read her thoughts.
"i've got all the proof necessary."
she began to cry. the tears flowed from her eyes without any particular anguish and she did not dry them: to weep gave her a little time to collect herself. but her mind was blank. he watched her without concern, and his calmness frightened her. he grew impatient.
"you're not going to do much good by crying, you know."
his voice, so cold and hard, had the effect of exciting in her a certain indignation. she was recovering her nerve.
"i don't care. i suppose you have no objection to my divorcing you. it means nothing to a man."
"will you allow me to ask why i should put myself to the smallest inconvenience on your account?"
"it can't make any difference to you. it's not much to ask you to behave like a gentleman."
"i have much too great a regard for your welfare."
she sat up now and dried her eyes.
"what do you mean?" she asked him.
"townsend will marry you only if he is correspondent and the case is so shameless that his wife is forced to divorce him."
"you don't know what you're talking about," she cried.
"you stupid fool."
his tone was so contemptuous that she flushed with anger. and perhaps her anger was greater because she had never before heard him say to her any but sweet, flattering and delightful things. she had been accustomed to find him subservient to all her whims.
"if you want the truth you can have it. he's only too anxious to marry me. dorothy townsend is perfectly willing to divorce him and we shall be married the moment we're free."
"did he tell you that in so many words or is that the impression you have gained from his manner?"
walter's eyes shone with bitter mockery. they made kitty a trifle uneasy. she was not quite sure that charlie had ever said exactly that in so many words.
"he's said it over and over again."
"that's a lie and you know it's a lie."
"he loves me with all his heart and soul. he loves me as passionately as i love him. you've found out. i'm not going to deny anything. why should i? we've been lovers for a year and i'm proud of it. he means everything in the world to me and i'm glad that you know at last. we're sick to death of secrecy and compromise and all the rest of it. it was a mistake that i ever married you, i never should have done it, i was a fool. i never cared for you. we never had anything in common. i don't like the people you like and i'm bored by the things that interest you. i'm thankful it's finished."
he watched her without a gesture and without a movement of his face. he listened attentively and no change in his expression showed that what she said affected him.
"do you know why i married you?"
"because you wanted to be married before your sister doris."
it was true, but it gave her a funny little turn to realise that he knew it. oddly enough, even in that moment of fear and anger, it excited her compassion. he faintly smiled.
"i had no illusions about you," he said. "i knew you were silly and frivolous and empty-headed. but i loved you. i knew that your aims and ideals were vulgar and commonplace. but i loved you. i knew that you were second-rate. but i loved you. it's comic when i think how hard i tried to be amused by the things that amused you and how anxious i was to hide from you that i wasn't ignorant and vulgar and scandal-mongering and stupid. i knew how frightened you were of intelligence and i did everything i could to make you think me as big a fool as the rest of the men you knew. i knew that you'd only married me for convenience. i loved you so much, i didn't care. most people, as far as i can see, when they're in love with someone and the love isn't returned feel that they have a grievance. they grow angry and bitter. i wasn't like that. i never expected you to love me, i didn't see any reason that you should, i never thought myself very lovable. i was thankful to be allowed to love you and i was enraptured when now and then i thought you were pleased with me or when i noticed in your eyes a gleam of good-humoured affection. i tried not to bore you with my love; i knew i couldn't afford to do that and i was always on the lookout for the first sign that you were impatient with my affection. what most husbands expect as a right i was prepared to receive as a favour."
kitty, accustomed to flattery all her life, had never heard such things said to her before. blind wrath, driving out fear, arose in her heart: it seemed to choke her, and she felt the blood-vessels in her temples swell and throb. wounded vanity can make a woman more vindictive than a lioness robbed of her cubs. kitty's jaw, always a little too square, protruded with an apish hideousness and her beautiful eyes were black with malice. but she kept her temper in check.
"if a man hasn't what's necessary to make a woman love him, it's his fault, not hers."
his derisive tone increased her irritation. she felt that she could wound him more by maintaining her calm.
"i'm not very well educated and i'm not very clever. i'm just a perfectly ordinary young woman. i like the things that the people like among whom i've lived all my life. i like dancing and tennis and theatres and i like the men who play games. it's quite true that i've always been bored by you and by the things you like. they mean nothing to me and i don't want them to. you dragged me round those interminable galleries in venice: i should have enjoyed myself much more playing golf at sandwich."
"i'm sorry if i haven't been all that you expected me to be. unfortunately i always found you physically repulsive. you can hardly blame me for that."
kitty could more easily have coped with the situation if he had raved and stormed. she could have met violence with violence. his self-control was inhuman and she hated him now as she had never hated him before.
"i don't think you're a man at all. why didn't you break into the room when you knew i was there with charlie? you might at least have tried to thrash him. were you afraid?"
but the moment she had said this she flushed, for she was ashamed. he did not answer, but in his eyes she read an icy disdain. the shadow of a smile flickered on his lips.
"it may be that, like a historical character, i am too proud to fight."
kitty, unable to think of anything to answer, shrugged her shoulders. for a moment longer he held her in his immobile gaze.
"i think i've said all i had to say: if you refuse to come to mei-tan-fu i shall file my petition."
"why won't you consent to let me divorce you?"
he took his eyes off her at last. he leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. he smoked it to the end without saying a word. then, throwing away the butt, he gave a little smile. he looked at her once more.
"if mrs. townsend will give me her assurance that she will divorce her husband and if he will give me his written promise to marry you within a week of the two decrees being made absolute, i will do that."
there was something in the way he spoke which disconcerted her. but her self-respect obliged her to accept his offer in the grand manner.
"that is very generous of you, walter."
to her astonishment he burst suddenly into a shout of laughter. she flushed angrily.
"what are you laughing at? i see nothing to laugh at."
"i beg your pardon. i daresay my sense of humour is peculiar."
she looked at him, frowning. she would have liked to say something bitter and wounding, but no rejoinder occurred to her. he looked at his watch.
"you had better look sharp if you want to catch townsend at his office. if you decide to come with me to mei-tan-fu it would be necessary to start the day after to-morrow."
"do you want me to tell him to-day?"
"they say there is no time like the present."
her heart began to beat a little faster. it was not uneasiness that she felt, it was, she didn't quite know what it was. she wished she could have had a little longer; she would have liked to prepare charlie. but she had the fullest confidence in him, he loved her as much as she loved him, and it was treacherous even to let the thought cross her mind that he would not welcome the necessity that was forced upon them. she turned to walter gravely.
"i don't think you know what love is. you can have no conception how desperately in love charlie and i are with one another. it really is the only thing that matters and every sacrifice that our love calls for will be as easy as falling off a log."
he gave a little bow, but said nothing, and his eyes followed her as she walked with measured step from the room.
she sent in a little note to charlie on which she had written: "please see me. it is urgent." a chinese boy asked her to wait and brought the answer that mr. townsend would see her in five minutes. she was unaccountably nervous. when at last she was ushered into his room charlie came forward to shake hands with her, but the moment the boy, having closed the door, left them alone he dropped the affable formality of his manner.
she gave him a long look with those beautiful eyes of hers and tried to smile, but her lips were stiff and she could not.
"i wouldn't have come unless it was necessary."
he smiled and took her arm.
"well, since you're here come and sit down."
it was a long bare room, narrow, with a high ceiling; its walls were painted in two shades of terra cotta. the only furniture consisted of a large desk, a revolving chair for townsend to sit in and a leather arm-chair for visitors. it intimidated kitty to sit in this. he sat at the desk. she had never seen him in spectacles before; she did not know that he used them. when he noticed that her eyes were on them he took them off.
"i only use them for reading," he said.
her tears came easily and now, she hardly knew why, she began to cry. she had no deliberate intention of deceiving, but rather an instinctive desire to excite his sympathy. he looked at her blankly.
"is anything the matter? oh, my dear, don't cry."
she took out her handkerchief and tried to check her sobs. he rang the bell and when the boy came to the door went to it.
"if anyone asks for me say i'm out."
"very good, sir."
the boy closed the door. charlie sat on the arm of the chair and put his arm round kitty's shoulders.
"now, kitty dear, tell me all about it."
"walter wants a divorce," she said.
she felt the pressure of his arm on her shoulder cease. his body stiffened. there was a moment's silence, then townsend rose from her chair and sat down once more in his.
"what exactly do you mean?" he said.
she looked at him quickly, for his voice was hoarse, and she saw that his face was dully red.
"i've had a talk with him. i've come straight from the house now. he says he has all the proof he wants."
"you didn't commit yourself, did you? you didn't acknowledge anything?"
her heart sank.
"no," she answered.
"are you quite sure?" he asked, looking at her sharply.
"quite sure," she lied again.
he leaned back in his chair and stared vacantly at the map of china which was hanging on the wall in front of him. she watched him anxiously. she was somewhat disconcerted at the manner in which he had received the news. she had expected him to take her in his arms and tell her he was thankful, for now they could be together always; but of course men were funny. she was crying softly, not now to arouse sympathy, but because it seemed the natural thing to do.
"this is a bloody mess we've got into," he said at length. "but it's no good losing our heads. crying isn't going to do us any good, you know."
she noticed the irritation in his voice and dried her eyes.
"it's not my fault, charlie. i couldn't help it."
"of course you couldn't. it was just damned bad luck. i was just as much to blame as you were. the thing to do now is to see how we're going to get out of it. i don't suppose you want to be divorced any more than i do."
"i wonder what his proofs really are. i don't know how he can actually prove that we were together in that room. on the whole we've been about as careful as anyone could be. i'm sure that old fellow at the curio shop wouldn't have given us away. even if he'd seen us go in there's no reason why we shouldn't hunt curios together."
he was talking to himself rather than to her.
"it's easy enough to bring charges, but it's damned difficult to prove them; any lawyer will tell you that. our line is to deny everything, and if he threatens to bring an action we'll tell him to go to hell and we'll fight it."
"i couldn't go into court, charlie."
"why on earth not? i'm afraid you'll have to. god knows, i don't want a row, but we can't take it lying down."
"why need we defend it?"
"what a question to ask! after all, it's not only you that are concerned, i'm concerned too. but as a matter of fact i don't think you need be afraid of that. we shall be able to square your husband somehow. the only thing that worries me is the best way to set about it."
it looked as though an idea occurred to him, for he turned towards her with his charming smile and his tone, a moment before abrupt and business-like, became ingratiating.
"i'm afraid you've been awfully upset, poor little woman. it's too bad." he stretched out his hand and took hers. "it's a scrape we've got into, but we shall get out of it. it's not . . ." he stopped and kitty had a suspicion that he had been about to say that it was not the first he had got out of. "the great thing is to keep our heads. you know i shall never let you down."
"i'm not frightened. i don't care what he does."
he smiled still, but perhaps his smile was a trifle forced.
"if the worst comes to the worst i shall have to tell the governor. he'll curse me like hell, but he's a good fellow and a man of the world. he'll fix it up somehow. it wouldn't do him any good if there was a scandal."
"what can he do?" asked kitty.
"he can bring pressure to bear on walter. if he can't get at him through his ambition he'll get at him through his sense of duty."
kitty was a little chilled. she did not seem able to make charlie see how desperately grave the situation was. his airiness made her impatient. she was sorry that she had come to see him in his office. the surroundings intimidated her. it would have been much easier to say what she wanted if she could have been in his arms with hers round his neck.
"you don't know walter," she said.
"i know that every man has his price."
she loved charlie with all her heart, but his reply disconcerted her; for such a clever man it was a stupid thing to say.
"i don't think you realise how angry walter is. you haven't seen his face and the look of his eyes."
he did not reply for a moment, but looked at her with a slight smile. she knew what he was thinking. walter was the bacteriologist and occupied a subordinate position; he would hardly have the impudence to make himself a nuisance to the upper officials of the colony.
"it's no good deceiving yourself, charlie," she said earnestly. "if walter has made up his mind to bring an action nothing that you or anybody else can say will have the slightest influence."
his face once more grew heavy and sulky.
"is it his idea to make me co-respondent?"
"at first it was. at last i managed to get him to consent to let me divorce him."
"oh, well, that's not so terrible." his manner relaxed again and she saw the relief in his eyes. "that seems to me a very good way out. after all, it's the least a man can do, it's the only decent thing."
"but he makes a condition."
he gave her an inquiring glance and he seemed to reflect.
"of course i'm not a very rich man, but i'll do anything in my power."
kitty was silent. charlie was saying things which she would never have expected him to say. and they made it difficult for her to speak. she had expected to blurt it out in one breath, held in his loving arms, with her burning face hid on his breast.
"he agrees to my divorcing him if your wife will give him the assurance that she will divorce you."
kitty could hardly find her voice.
"and--it's awfully hard to say, charlie, it sounds dreadful--if you'll promise to marry me within a week of the decrees being made absolute."
for a moment he was silent. then he took her hand again and pressed it gently.
"you know, darling," he said, "whatever happens we must keep dorothy out of this."
she looked at him blankly.
"but i don't understand. how can we?"
"well, we can't only think of ourselves in this world. you know, other things being equal, there's nothing in the world i'd love more than to marry you. but it's quite out of the question. i know dorothy: nothing would induce her to divorce me."
kitty was becoming horribly frightened. she began to cry again. he got up and sat down beside her with his arm round her waist.
"try not to upset yourself, darling. we must keep our heads."
"i thought you loved me . . ."
"of course i love you," he said tenderly. "you surely can't have any doubt of that now."
"if she won't divorce you walter will make you co-respondent."
he took an appreciable time to answer. his tone was dry.
"of course that would ruin my career, but i'm afraid it wouldn't do you much good. if the worst came to the worst i should make a clean breast of it to dorothy; she'd be dreadfully hurt and wretched, but she'd forgive me." he had an idea. "i'm not sure if the best plan wouldn't be to make a clean breast of it anyhow. if she went to your husband i daresay she could persuade him to hold his tongue."
"does that mean you don't want her to divorce you?"
"well, i have got my boys to think of, haven't i? and naturally i don't want to make her unhappy. we've always got on very well together. she's been an awfully good wife to me, you know."
"why did you tell me that she meant nothing to you?"
"i never did. i said i wasn't in love with her. we haven't slept together for years except now and then, on christmas day for instance, or the day before she was going home or the day she came back. she isn't a woman who cares for that sort of thing. but we've always been excellent friends. i don't mind telling you that i depend on her more than anyone has any idea of."
"don't you think it would have been better to leave me alone then?"
she found it strange that with terror catching her breath she could speak so calmly.
"you were the loveliest little thing i'd seen for years. i just fell madly in love with you. you can't blame me for that."
"after all, you said you'd never let me down."
"but, good god, i'm not going to let you down. we've got in an awful scrape and i'm going to do everything that's humanly possible to get you out of it."
"except the one obvious and natural thing."
he stood up and returned to his own chair.
"my dear, you must be reasonable. we'd much better face the situation frankly. i don't want to hurt your feelings, but really i must tell you the truth. i'm very keen on my career. there's no reason why i shouldn't be a governor one of these days, and it's a damned soft job to be a colonial governor. unless we can hush this up i don't stand a dog's chance. i may not have to leave the service, but there'll always be a black mark against me. if i do have to leave the service then i must go into business in china, where i know people. in either case my only chance is for dorothy to stick to me."
"was it necessary to tell me that you wanted nothing in the world but me?"
the corners of his mouth drooped peevishly.
"oh, my dear, it's rather hard to take quite literally the things a man says when he's in love with you."
"didn't you mean them?"
"at the moment."
"and what's to happen to me if walter divorces me?"
"if we really haven't a leg to stand on of course we won't defend. there shouldn't be any publicity and people are pretty broad-minded nowadays."
for the first time kitty thought of her mother. she shivered. she looked again at townsend. her pain now was tinged with resentment.
"i'm sure you'd have no difficulty in bearing any inconvenience that i had to suffer," she said.
"we're not going to get much further by saying disagreeable things to one another," he answered.
she gave a cry of despair. it was dreadful that she should love him so devotedly and yet feel such bitterness towards him. it was not possible that he understood how much he meant to her.
"oh, charlie, don't you know how i love you?"
"but, my dear, i love you. only we're not living in a desert island and we've got to make the best we can out of the circumstances that are forced upon us. you really must be reasonable."
"how can i be reasonable? to me our love was everything and you were my whole life. it is not very pleasant to realise that to you it was only an episode."
"of course it wasn't an episode. but you know, when you ask me to get my wife, to whom i'm very much attached, to divorce me, and ruin my career by marrying you, you're asking a good deal."
"no more than i'm willing to do for you."
"the circumstances are rather different."
"the only difference is that you don't love me."
"one can be very much in love with a woman without wishing to spend the rest of one's life with her."
she gave him a quick look and despair seized her. heavy tears rolled down her cheeks.
"oh, how cruel! how can you be so heartless?"
she began to sob hysterically. he gave an anxious glance at the door.
"my dear, do try and control yourself."
"you don't know how i love you," she gasped. "i can't live without you. have you no pity for me?"
she could not speak any more. she wept without restraint.
"i don't want to be unkind and, heaven knows, i don't want to hurt your feelings, but i must tell you the truth."
"it's the ruin of my whole life. why couldn't you leave me alone? what harm had i ever done you?"
"of course if it does you any good to put all the blame on me you may."
kitty blazed with sudden anger.
"i suppose i threw myself at your head. i suppose i gave you no peace till you yielded to my entreaties."
"i don't say that. but i certainly should never have thought of making love to you if you hadn't made it perfectly clear that you were ready to be made love to."
oh, the shame of it! she knew that what he said was true. his face now was sullen and worried and his hands moved uneasily. every now and then he gave her a little glance of exasperation.
"won't your husband forgive you?" he said after a while.
"i never asked him."
instinctively he clenched his hands. she saw him suppress the exclamation of annoyance which came to his lips.
"why don't you go to him and throw yourself on his mercy? if he's as much in love with you as you say he's bound to forgive you."
"how little you know him!"
she wiped her eyes. she tried to pull herself together.
"charlie, if you desert me i shall die."
she was driven now to appeal to his compassion. she ought to have told him at once. when he knew the horrible alternative that was placed before her his generosity, his sense of justice, his manliness, would be so vehemently aroused that he would think of nothing but her danger. oh, how passionately she desired to feel his dear, protecting arms around her!
"walter wants me to go to mei-tan-fu."
"oh, but that's the place where the cholera is. they've got the worst epidemic that they've had for fifty years. it's no place for a woman. you can't possibly go there."
"if you let me down i shall have to."
"what do you mean? i don't understand."
"walter is taking the place of the missionary doctor who died. he wants me to go with him."
"now. at once."
townsend pushed back his chair and looked at her with puzzled eyes.
"i may be very stupid, but i can't make head or tail out of what you're saying. if he wants you to go to this place with him, what about a divorce?"
"he's given me my choice. i must either go to mei-tan-fu or else he'll bring an action."
"oh, i see." townsend's tone changed ever so slightly. "i think that's rather decent of him, don't you?"
"well, it's a damned sporting thing of him to go there. it's not a thing i'd fancy. of course he'll get a c.m.g. for it when he comes back."
"but me, charlie?" she cried, with anguish in her voice.
"well, i think if he wants you to go, under the circumstances i don't see how you can very well refuse."
"it means death. absolutely certain death."
"oh, damn it all, that's rather an exaggeration. he would hardly take you if he thought that. it's no more risk for you than for him. in point of fact there's no great risk if you're careful. i've been here when there's been cholera and i haven't turned a hair. the great thing is not to eat anything uncooked, no raw fruit or salads, or anything like that, and see that your drinking water is boiled." he was gaining confidence as he proceeded, and his speech was fluent; he was even becoming less sullen and more alert; he was almost breezy. "after all, it's his job, isn't it? he's interested in bugs. it's rather a chance for him if you come to think of it."
"but me, charlie?" she repeated, not with anguish now, but with consternation.
"well, the best way to understand a man is to put yourself in his shoes. from his point of view you've been rather a naughty little thing and he wants to get you out of harm's way. i always thought he never wanted to divorce you, he doesn't strike me as that sort of chap; but he made what he thought was a very generous offer and you put his back up by turning it down. i don't want to blame you, but really for all our sakes i think you ought to have given it a little consideration."
"but don't you see it'll kill me? don't you know that he's taking me there because he knows it'll kill me."
"oh, my dear, don't talk like that. we're in a damned awkward position and really it's no time to be melodramatic."
"you've made up your mind not to understand." oh, the pain in her heart, and the fear! she could have screamed. "you can't send me to certain death. if you have no love or pity for me you must have just ordinary human feeling."
"i think it's rather hard on me to put it like that. as far as i can make out your husband is behaving very generously. he's willing to forgive you if you'll let him. he wants to get you away and this opportunity has presented itself to take you to some place where for a few months you'll be out of harm's way. i don't pretend that mei-tan-fu is a health resort, i never knew a chinese city that was, but there's no reason to get the wind up about it. in fact that's the worst thing you can do. i believe as many people die from sheer fright in an epidemic as because they get infected."
"but i'm frightened now. when walter spoke of it i almost fainted."
"at the first moment i can quite believe it was a shock, but when you come to look at it calmly you'll be all right. it'll be the sort of experience that not everyone has had."
"i thought, i thought . . ."
she rocked to and fro in an agony. he did not speak, and once more his face wore that sullen look which till lately she had never known. kitty was not crying now. she was dry-eyed, calm, and though her voice was low it was steady.
"do you want me to go?"
"it's hobson's choice, isn't it?"
"it's only fair to you to tell you that if your husband brought an action for divorce and won it i should not be in a position to marry you."
it must have seemed an age to him before she answered. she rose slowly to her feet.
"i don't think that my husband ever thought of bringing an action."
"then why in god's name have you been frightening me out of my wits?" he asked.
she looked at him coolly.
"he knew that you'd let me down."
she was silent. vaguely, as when you are studying a foreign language and read a page which at first you can make nothing of, till a word or a sentence gives you a clue; and on a sudden a suspicion, as it were, of the sense flashes across your troubled wits, vaguely she gained an inkling into the workings of walter's mind. it was like a dark and ominous landscape seen by a flash of lightning and in a moment hidden again by the night. she shuddered at what she saw.
"he made that threat only because he knew that you'd crumple up at it, charlie. it's strange that he should have judged you so accurately. it was just like him to expose me to such a cruel disillusion."
charlie looked down at the sheet of blotting paper in front of him. he was frowning a little and his mouth was sulky. but he did not reply.
"he knew that you were vain, cowardly and self-seeking. he wanted me to see it with my own eyes. he knew that you'd run like a hare at the approach of danger. he knew how grossly deceived i was in thinking that you were in love with me, because he knew that you were incapable of loving anyone but yourself. he knew you'd sacrifice me without a pang to save your own skin."
"if it really gives you any satisfaction to say beastly things to me i suppose i've got no right to complain. women always are unfair and they generally manage to put a man in the wrong. but there is something to be said on the other side."
she took no notice of his interruption.
"and now i know all that he knew. i know that you're callous and heartless. i know that you're selfish, selfish beyond words, and i know that you haven't the nerve of a rabbit, i know you're a liar and a humbug, i know that you're utterly contemptible. and the tragic part is"--her face was on a sudden distraught with pain--"the tragic part is that notwithstanding i love you with all my heart."
she gave a bitter laugh. he had spoken her name in that melting, rich tone of his which came to him so naturally and meant so little.
"you fool," she said.
he drew back quickly, flushing and offended; he could not make her out. she gave him a look in which there was a glint of amusement.
"you're beginning to dislike me, aren't you? well, dislike me. it doesn't make any difference to me now."
she began to put on her gloves.
"what are you going to do?" he asked.
"oh, don't be afraid, you'll come to no harm. you'll be quite safe."
"for god's sake, don't talk like that, kitty," he answered and his deep voice rang with anxiety. "you must know that everything that concerns you concerns me. i shall be frightfully anxious to know what happens. what are you going to say to your husband?"
"i'm going to tell him that i'm prepared to go to mei-tan-fu with him."
"perhaps when you consent he won't insist."
he could not have known why, when he said this, she looked at him so strangely.
"you're not really frightened?" he asked her.
"no," she said. "you've inspired me with courage. to go into the midst of a cholera epidemic will be a unique experience and if i die of it--well, i die."
"i was trying to be as kind to you as i could."
she looked at him again. tears sprang into her eyes once more and her heart was very full. the impulse was almost irresistible to fling herself on his breast and crush her lips against his. it was no use.
"if you want to know," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, "i go with death in my heart and fear. i do not know what walter has in that dark, twisted mind of his, but i'm shaking with terror. i think it may be that death will be really a release."
she felt that she could not hold on to her self control for another moment. she walked swiftly to the door and let herself out before he had time to move from his chair. townsend gave a long sigh of relief. he badly wanted a brandy and soda.
walter was in when she got home. she would have liked to go straight to her room, but he was downstairs, in the hall, giving instructions to one of the boys. she was so wretched that she welcomed the humiliation to which she must expose herself. she stopped and faced him.
"i'm coming with you to that place," she said.
"when do you want me to be ready?"
she did not know what spirit of bravado entered into her. his indifference was like the prick of a spear. she said a thing that surprised herself.
"i suppose i needn't take more than a few summer things and a shroud, need i?"
she was watching his face and knew that her flippancy angered him.
"i've already told your amah what you'll want."
she nodded and went up to her room. she was very pale.
they were reaching their destination at last. they were borne in chairs, day after day, along a narrow causeway between interminable rice-fields. they set out at dawn and travelled till the heat of the day forced them to take shelter in a wayside inn and then went on again till they reached the town where they had arranged to spend the night. kitty's chair headed the procession and walter followed her; then in a straggling line came the coolies that bore their bedding, stores and equipment. kitty passed through the country with unseeing eyes. all through the long hours, the silence broken only by an occasional remark from one of the bearers or a snatch of uncouth song, she turned over in her tortured mind the details of that heart-rending scene in charlie's office. recalling what he had said to her and what she had said to him, she was dismayed to see what an arid and business-like turn their conversation had taken. she had not said what she wanted to say and she had not spoken in the tone she intended. had she been able to make him see her boundless love, the passion in her heart, and her helplessness, he could never have been so inhuman as to leave her to her fate. she had been taken unawares. she could hardly believe her ears when he told her, more clearly than with words, that he cared nothing for her. that was why she had not even cried very much, she had been so dazed. she had wept since, wept miserably.
at night in the inns, sharing the principal guest chamber with her husband and conscious that walter, lying on his camp bed, a few feet away from her, lay awake, she dug her teeth in the pillow so that no sound might escape her. but in the daytime, protected by the curtains of her chair, she allowed herself to give way. her pain was so great that she could have screamed at the top of her voice; she had never known that one could suffer so much; and she asked herself desperately what she had done to deserve it. she could not make out why charlie did not love her: it was her fault, she supposed, but she had done everything she knew to make him fond of her. they had always got on so well, they laughed all the time they were together, they were not only lovers but good friends. she could not understand; she was broken. she told herself that she hated and despised him; but she had no idea how she was going to live if she was never to see him again. if walter was taking her to mei-tan-fu as a punishment he was making a fool of himself, for what did she care now what became of her? she had nothing to live for any more. it was rather hard to be finished with life at twenty-seven.
on the steamer that took them up the western river walter read incessantly, but at meal-times he endeavoured to make some kind of conversation. he talked to her as though she were a stranger with whom he happened to be making the journey, of indifferent things, from politeness, kitty imagined, or because so he could render more marked the gulf that separated them.
in a flash of insight she had told charlie that walter had sent her to him with the threat of divorce as the alternative to her accompanying him to the stricken city in order that she might see for herself how indifferent, cowardly and selfish he was. it was true. it was a trick which accorded very well with his sardonic humour. he knew exactly what would happen and he had given her amah necessary instructions before her return. she had caught in his eyes a disdain which seemed to include her lover as well as herself. he said to himself, perhaps, that if he had been in townsend's place nothing in the world would have hindered him from making any sacrifice to gratify her smallest whim. she knew that was true also. but then, when her eyes were opened, how could he make her do something which was so dangerous, and which he must know frightened her so terribly? at first she thought he was only playing with her and till they actually started, no, later, till they left the river and took to the chairs for the journey across country, she thought he would give that little laugh of his and tell her that she need not come. she had no inkling what was in his mind. he could not really desire her death. he had loved her so desperately. she knew what love was now and she remembered a thousand signs of his adoration. for him really, in the french phrase, she did make fine weather and foul. it was impossible that he did not love her still. did you cease to love a person because you had been treated cruelly? she had not made him suffer as charlie had made her suffer and yet, if charlie made a sign, notwithstanding everything, even though she knew him now, she would abandon all the world had to offer and fly to his arms. even though he had sacrificed her and cared nothing for her, even though he was callous and unkind, she loved him.
at first she thought that she had only to bide her time, and sooner or later walter would forgive her. she had been too confident of her power over him to believe that it was gone for ever. many waters could not quench love. he was weak if he loved her, and she felt that love her he must. but now she was not quite sure. when in the evening he sat reading in the straight-backed blackwood chair of the inn with the light of a hurricane lamp on his face she was able to watch him at her ease. she lay on the pallet on which her bed presently would be set and she was in shadow. those straight, regular features of his made his face look very severe. you could hardly believe that it was possible for them on occasion to be changed by so sweet a smile. he was able to read as calmly as though she were a thousand miles away; she saw him turn the pages and she saw his eyes move regularly as they travelled from line to line. he was not thinking of her. and when, the table being set and dinner brought in, he put aside his book and gave her a glance (not knowing how the light on his face threw into distinctness his expression), she was startled to see in his eyes a look of physical distaste. yes, it startled her. was it possible that his love had left him entirely? was it possible that he really designed her death? it was absurd. that would be the act of a madman. it was odd, the little shiver that ran through her as the thought occurred to her that perhaps walter was not quite sane.
suddenly her bearers, long silent, began to speak and one of them, turning round, with words she could not understand and with a gesture, sought to attract her attention. she looked in the direction he pointed and there, on the top of a hill, saw an archway; she knew by now that it was a memorial in compliment of a fortunate scholar or a virtuous widow, she had passed many of them since they left the river; but this one, silhouetted against the westering sun, was more fantastic and beautiful than any she had seen. yet, she knew not why, it made her uneasy; it had a significance which she felt but could not put into words: was it a menace that she vaguely discerned or was it derision? she was passing a grove of bamboos and they leaned over the causeway strangely as if they would detain her; though the summer evening was windless their narrow green leaves shivered a little. it gave her the sensation that someone hidden among them was watching her as she passed. now they came to the foot of the hill and the rice-fields ceased. the bearers took it with a swinging stride. the hill was covered close with little green mounds, close, close to one another, so that the ground was ribbed like the sea-sand when the tide has gone out; and this she knew too, for she had passed just such a spot as they approached each populous city and left it. it was the graveyard. now she knew why the bearers had called her attention to the archway that stood on the crest of the hill: they had reached the end of their journey.
they passed through the archway and the chair-bearers paused to change the pole from shoulder to shoulder. one of them wiped his sweating face with a dirty rag. the causeway wound down. there were bedraggled houses on each side. now the night was falling. but the bearers on a sudden broke into excited talk and with a jump that shook her ranged themselves as near as they could to the wall. in a moment she knew what had startled them, for as they stood there, chattering to one another, four peasants passed, quick and silent, bearing a new coffin, unpainted, and its fresh wood gleamed white in the approaching darkness. kitty felt her heart beat in terror against her ribs. the coffin passed, but the bearers stood still; it seemed as though they could not summon up the will to go on. but there was a shout from behind and they started. they did not speak now.
they walked for a few minutes longer and then turned sharply into an open gateway. the chair was set down. she had arrived.
it was a bungalow and she entered the sitting-room. she sat down while the coolies, straggling in one by one, brought in their loads. walter in the courtyard gave directions where this or that was to be placed. she was very tired. she was startled to hear an unknown voice.
"may i come in?"
she flushed and grew pale. she was overwrought and it made her nervous to meet a stranger. a man came out of the darkness, for the long low room was lit only by a shaded lamp, and held out his hand.
"my name is waddington. i am the deputy commissioner."
"oh, the customs. i know. i heard that you were here."
in that dim light she could see only that he was a little thin man, no taller than she, with a bald head and a small, bare face.
"i live just at the bottom of the hill, but coming in this way you wouldn't have seen my house. i thought you'd be too fagged to come and dine with me, so i've ordered your dinner here and i've invited myself."
"i'm delighted to hear it."
"you'll find the cook's not bad. i kept on watson's boys for you."
"watson was the missionary who was here?"
"yes. very nice fellow. i'll show you his grave to-morrow if you like."
"how kind you are," said kitty, with a smile.
at that moment walter came in. waddington had introduced himself to him before coming in to see kitty and now he said:
"i've just been breaking it to your missus that i'm dining with you. since watson died i haven't had anybody much to talk to but the nuns, and i can never do myself justice in french. besides, there is only a limited number of subjects you can talk to them about."
"i've just told the boy to bring in some drinks," said walter.
the servant brought whisky and soda and kitty noticed that waddington helped himself generously. his manner of speaking and his easy chuckle had suggested to her when he came in that he was not quite sober.
"here's luck," he said. then, turning to walter: "you've got your work cut out for you here. they're dying like flies. the magistrate's lost his head and colonel yü, the officer commanding the troops, is having a devil of a job to prevent them from looting. if something doesn't happen soon we shall all be murdered in our beds. i tried to get the nuns to go, but of course they wouldn't. they all want to be martyrs, damn them."
he spoke lightly and there was in his voice a sort of ghostly laughter so that you could not listen to him without smiling.
"why haven't you gone?" asked walter.
"well, i've lost half my staff and the others are ready to lie down and die at any minute. somebody's got to stay and keep things together."
"have you been inoculated?"
"yes. watson did me. but he did himself too, and it didn't do him much good, poor blighter." he turned to kitty and his funny little face was gaily puckered. "i don't think there's any great risk if you take proper precautions. have your milk and water boiled and don't eat fresh fruit or uncooked vegetables. have you brought any gramophone records with you?"
"no, i don't think so," said kitty.
"i'm sorry for that. i was hoping you would. i haven't had any for a long time and i'm sick of my old ones."
the boy came in to ask if they would have dinner.
"you won't dress to-night, will you?" asked waddington. "my boy died last week and the boy i have now is a fool, so i haven't been dressing in the evening."
"i'll go and take off my hat," said kitty.
her room was next door to that in which they sat. it was barely furnished. an amah was kneeling on the floor, the lamp beside her, unpacking kitty's things.
the dining-room was small and the greater part of it was filled by an immense table. on the walls were engravings of scenes from the bible and illuminated texts.
"missionaries always have large dining-tables," waddington explained. "they get so much a year more for every child they have and they buy their tables when they marry so that there shall be plenty of room for little strangers."
from the ceiling hung a large paraffin lamp, so that kitty was able to see better what sort of a man waddington was. his baldness had deceived her into thinking him no longer young, but she saw now that he must be well under forty. his face, small under a high, rounded forehead, was unlined and fresh-coloured; it was ugly like a monkey's, but with an ugliness that was not without charm; it was an amusing face. his features, his nose and his mouth, were hardly larger than a child's, and he had small, very bright blue eyes. his eyebrows were fair and scanty. he looked like a funny little old boy. he helped himself constantly to liquor and as dinner proceeded it became evident that he was far from sober. but if he was drunk it was without offensiveness, gaily, as a satyr might be who had stolen a wine-skin from a sleeping shepherd.
he talked of tching-yen; he had many friends there and he wanted to know about them. he had been down for the races a year before and he talked of ponies and their owners.
"by the way, what about townsend?" he asked suddenly. "is he going to become colonial secretary?"
kitty felt herself flush, but her husband did not look at her.
"i shouldn't wonder," he answered.
"he's the sort that gets on."
"do you know him?" asked walter.
"yes, i know him pretty well. we travelled out from home together once."
from the other side of the river they heard the beating of gongs and the clatter of fire-crackers. there, so short a way from them, the great city lay in terror; and death, sudden and ruthless, hurried through its tortuous streets. but waddington began to speak of london. he talked of the theatres. he knew everything that was being played at the moment and he told them what pieces he had seen when he was last home on leave. he laughed as he recollected the humour of this low comedian and sighed as he reflected on the beauty of that star of musical comedy. he was pleased to be able to boast that a cousin of his had married one of the most celebrated. he had lunched with her and she had given him her photograph. he would show it to them when they came and dined with him at the customs.
walter looked at his guest with a cold and ironic gaze, but he was evidently not a little amused by him, and he made an effort to show a civil interest in topics of which kitty was well aware he knew nothing. a faint smile lingered on his lips. but kitty, she knew not why, was filled with awe. in the house of that dead missionary, over against the stricken city, they seemed immeasurably apart from all the world. three solitary creatures and strangers to each other.
dinner was finished and she rose from the table.
"do you mind if i say good-night to you? i'm going to bed."
"i'll take myself off, i expect the doctor wants to go to bed, too," answered waddington. "we must be out early to-morrow."
he shook hands with kitty. he was quite steady on his feet, but his eyes were shining more than ever.
"i'll come and fetch you," he told walter, "and take you to see the magistrate and colonel yü, and then we'll go along to the convent. you've got your work cut out, i can tell you."
her night was tortured with strange dreams. she seemed to be carried in her chair and she felt the swaying motion as the bearers marched with their long, uneven stride. she entered cities, vast and dim, where the multitude thronged about her with curious eyes. the streets were narrow and tortuous and in the open shops, with their strange wares, all traffic stopped as she went by and those who bought and those who sold, paused. then she came to the memorial arch and its fantastic outline seemed on a sudden to gain a monstrous life; its capricious contours were like the waving arms of a hindu god, and, as she passed under it, she heard the echo of mocking laughter. but then charlie townsend came towards her and took her in his arms, lifting her out of the chair, and said it was all a mistake, he had never meant to treat her as he had, for he loved her and he couldn't live without her. she felt his kisses on her mouth and she wept with joy, asking him why he had been so cruel, but though she asked she knew it did not matter. and then there was a hoarse, abrupt cry and they were separated and between, hurrying silently, coolies passed in their ragged blue and they bore a coffin.
she awoke with a start.
the bungalow stood half way down a steep hill and from her window she saw the narrow river below her and opposite, the city. the dawn had just broken and from the river rose a white mist shrouding the junks that lay moored close to one another like peas in a pod. there were hundreds of them, and they were silent, mysterious in that ghostly light, and you had a feeling that their crews lay under an enchantment, for it seemed that it was not sleep, but something strange and terrible, that held them so still and mute.
the morning drew on and the sun touched the mist so that it shone whitely like the ghost of snow on a dying star. though on the river it was light so that you could discern palely the lines of the crowded junks and the thick forest of their masts, in front it was a shining wall the eye could not pierce. but suddenly from that white cloud a tall, grim and massive bastion emerged. it seemed not merely to be made visible by the all-discovering sun but rather to rise out of nothing at the touch of a magic wand. it towered, the stronghold of a cruel and barbaric race, over the river. but the magician who built worked swiftly and now a fragment of coloured wall crowned the bastion; in a moment, out of the mist, looming vastly and touched here and there by a yellow ray of sun, there was seen a cluster of green and yellow roofs. huge they seemed and you could make out no pattern; the order, if order there was, escaped you; wayward and extravagant, but of an unimaginable richness. this was no fortress, nor a temple, but the magic palace of some emperor of the gods where no man might enter. it was too airy, fantastic and unsubstantial to be the work of human hands; it was the fabric of a dream.
the tears ran down kitty's face and she gazed, her hands clasped to her breast and her mouth, for she was breathless, open a little. she had never felt so light of heart and it seemed to her as though her body were a shell that lay at her feet and she pure spirit. here was beauty. she took it as the believer takes in his mouth the wafer which is god.
since walter went out early in the morning, came back at tiffin only for half an hour, and did not then return till dinner was just ready, kitty found herself much alone. for some days she did not stir from the bungalow. it was very hot and for the most part she lay in a long chair by the open window, trying to read. the hard light of midday had robbed the magic palace of its mystery and now it was no more than a temple on the city wall, garish and shabby, but because she had seen it once in such an ecstasy it was never again quite commonplace; and often at dawn or at dusk, and again at night, she found herself able to recapture something of that beauty. what had seemed to her a mighty bastion was but the city wall and on this, massive and dark, her eyes rested continually. behind its crenellations lay the city in the dread grip of the pestilence.
vaguely she knew that terrible things were happening there, not from walter who when she questioned him (for otherwise he rarely spoke to her) answered with a humorous nonchalance which sent a shiver down her spine; but from waddington and from the amah. the people were dying at the rate of a hundred a day, and hardly any of those who were attacked by the disease recovered from it; the gods had been brought out from the abandoned temples and placed in the streets; offerings were laid before them and sacrifices made, but they did not stay the plague. the people died so fast that it was hardly possible to bury them. in some houses the whole family had been swept away and there was none to perform the funeral rights. the officer commanding the troops was a masterful man and if the city was not given over to riot and arson it was due to his determination. he forced his soldiers to bury such as there was no one else to bury and he had shot with his own hand an officer who demurred at entering a stricken house.
kitty sometimes was so frightened that her heart sank within her and she would tremble in every limb. it was very well to say that the risk was small if you took reasonable precautions: she was panic-stricken. she turned over in her mind crazy plans of escape. to get away, just to get away, she was prepared to set out as she was and make her way alone, without anything but what she stood up in, to some place of safety. she thought of throwing herself on the mercy of waddington, telling him everything and beseeching him to help her to get back to tching-yen. if she flung herself on her knees before her husband, and admitted that she was frightened, frightened, even though he hated her now he must have enough human feeling in him to pity her.
it was out of the question. if she went, where could she go? not to her mother; her mother would make her see very plainly that, having married her off, she counted on being rid of her; and besides she did not want to go to her mother. she wanted to go to charlie, and he did not want her. she knew what he would say if she suddenly appeared before him. she saw the sullen look of his face and the shrewd hardness behind his charming eyes. it would be difficult for him to find words that sounded well. she clenched her hands. she would have given anything to humiliate him as he had humiliated her. sometimes she was seized with such a frenzy that she wished she had let walter divorce her, ruining herself if only she could have ruined him too. certain things he had said to her made her blush with shame when she recalled them.
the first time she was alone with waddington she brought the conversation round to charlie. waddington had spoken of him on the evening of their arrival. she pretended that he was no more than an acquaintance of her husband.
"i never much cared for him," said waddington. "i've always thought him a bore."
"you must be very hard to please," returned kitty, in the bright, chaffing way she could assume so easily. "i suppose he's far and away the most popular man in tching-yen."
"i know. that is his stock in trade. he's made a science of popularity. he has the gift of making every one he meets feel that he is the one person in the world he wants to see. he's always ready to do a service that isn't any trouble to himself, and even if he doesn't do what you want he manages to give you the impression that it's only because it's not humanly possible."
"that is surely an attractive trait."
"charm and nothing but charm at last grows a little tiresome, i think. it's a relief then to deal with a man who isn't quite so delightful but a little more sincere. i've known charlie townsend for a good many years and once or twice i've caught him with the mask off--you see, i never mattered, just a subordinate official in the customs--and i know that he doesn't in his heart give a damn for any one in the world but himself."
kitty, lounging easily in her chair, looked at him with smiling eyes. she turned her wedding-ring round and round her finger.
"of course he'll get on. he knows all the official ropes. before i die i have every belief that i shall address him as your excellency and stand up when he enters the room."
"most people think he deserves to get on. he's generally supposed to have a great deal of ability."
"ability? what nonsense! he's a very stupid man. he gives you the impression that he dashes off his work and gets it through from sheer brilliancy. nothing of the kind. he's as industrious as a eurasian clerk."
"how has he got the reputation of being so clever?"
"there are many foolish people in the world and when a man in a rather high position puts on no frills, slaps them on the back, and tells them he'll do anything in the world for them, they are very likely to think him clever. and then of course, there's his wife. there's an able woman if you like. she has a good sound head and her advice is always worth taking. as long as charlie townsend's got her to depend on he's pretty safe never to do a foolish thing, and that's the first thing necessary for a man to get on in government service. they don't want clever men; clever men have ideas, and ideas cause trouble; they want men who have charm and tact and who can be counted on never to make a blunder. oh, yes, charlie townsend will get to the top of the tree all right."
"i wonder why you dislike him?"
"i don't dislike him."
"but you like his wife better?" smiled kitty.
"i'm an old-fashioned little man and i like a well-bred woman."
"i wish she were well-dressed as well as well-bred."
"doesn't she dress well? i never noticed."
"i've always heard that they were a devoted couple," said kitty, watching him through her eyelashes.
"he's very fond of her: i will give him that credit. i think that is the most decent thing about him."
"he has his little flirtations, but they're not serious. he's much too cunning to let them go to such lengths as might cause him inconvenience. and of course he isn't a passionate man; he's only a vain one. he likes admiration. he's fat and forty now, he does himself too well, but he was very good-looking when he first came to the colony. i've often heard his wife chaff him about his conquests."
"she doesn't take his flirtations very seriously?"
"oh, no, she knows they don't go very far. she says she'd like to be able to make friends of the poor little things who fall to charlie; but they're always so common. she says it's really not very flattering to her that the women who fall in love with her husband are so uncommonly second-rate."
when waddington left her kitty thought over what he had so carelessly said. it hadn't been very pleasant to hear and she had had to make something of an effort not to show how much it touched her. it was bitter to think that all he said was true. she knew that charlie was stupid and vain, hungry for flattery, and she remembered the complacency with which he had told her little stories to prove his cleverness. he was proud of a low cunning. how worthless must she be if she had given her heart so passionately to such a man because--because he had nice eyes and a good figure! she wished to despise him, because so long as she only hated him she knew that she was very near loving him. the way he had treated her should have opened her eyes. walter had always held him in contempt. oh, if she could only get him out of her mind altogether! and had his wife chaffed him about her obvious infatuation for him? dorothy would have liked to make a friend of her, but that she found her second-rate. kitty smiled a little: how indignant her mother would be to know that her daughter was considered that!
but at night she dreamt of him again. she felt his arms pressing her close and the hot passion of his kisses on her lips. what did it matter if he was fat and forty? she laughed with soft affection because he minded so much; she loved him all the more for his childlike vanity and she could be sorry for him and comfort him. when she awoke tears were streaming from her eyes.
she saw waddington every day, for he strolled up the hill to the fanes' bungalow when his day's work was done; and so after a week they had arrived at an intimacy which under other circumstances they could scarcely have achieved in a year. once when kitty told him she didn't know what she would do there without him he answered, laughing:
"you see, you and i are the only people here who walk quite quietly and peaceably on solid ground. the nuns walk in heaven and your husband--in darkness."
though she gave a careless laugh she wondered what he meant. she felt that his merry little blue eyes were scanning her face with an amiable, but disconcerting attention. she had discovered already that he was shrewd and she had a feeling that the relations between herself and walter excited his cynical curiosity. she found a certain amusement in baffling him. she liked him and she knew that he was kindly disposed towards her. he was not witty nor brilliant, but he had a dry and incisive way of putting things which was diverting, and his funny, boyish face under that bald skull, all screwed up with laughter, made his remarks sometimes extremely droll. he had lived for many years in outports, often with no man of his own colour to talk to, and his personality had developed in eccentric freedom. he was full of fads and oddities. his frankness was refreshing. he seemed to look upon life in a spirit of banter, and his ridicule of the colony at tching-yen was acid; but he laughed also at the chinese officials in mei-tan-fu and at the cholera which decimated the city. he could not tell a tragic story or one of heroism without making it faintly absurd. he had many anecdotes of his adventures during twenty years in china, and you concluded from them that the earth was a very grotesque, bizarre and ludicrous place.
though he denied that he was a chinese scholar (he swore that the sinologues were as mad as march hares) he spoke the language with ease. he read little and what he knew he had learned from conversation. but he often told kitty stories from the chinese novels and from chinese history and though he told them with that airy badinage which was natural to him it was good-humoured and even tender. it seemed to her that, perhaps unconsciously, he had adopted the chinese view that the europeans were barbarians and their life a folly: in china alone was it so led that a sensible man might discern in it a sort of reality. here was food for reflection: kitty had never heard the chinese spoken of as anything but decadent, dirty and unspeakable. it was as though the corner of a curtain were lifted for a moment, and she caught a glimpse of a world rich with a colour and significance she had not dreamt of.
he sat there, talking, laughing and drinking.
"don't you think you drink too much," said kitty to him boldly.
"it's my great pleasure in life," he answered. "besides, it keeps the cholera out."
when he left her he was generally drunk, but he carried his liquor well. it made him hilarious, but not disagreeable.
one evening walter, coming back earlier than usual, asked him to stay to dinner. a curious incident happened. they had their soup and their fish and then with the chicken a fresh green salad was handed to kitty by the boy.
"good god, you're not going to eat that," cried waddington, as he saw kitty take some.
"yes, we have it every night."
"my wife likes it," said walter.
the dish was handed to waddington, but he shook his head.
"thank you very much, but i'm not thinking of committing suicide just yet."
walter smiled grimly and helped himself. waddington said nothing more, in fact he became strangely taciturn, and soon after dinner he left them.
it was true that they ate salad every night. two days after their arrival the cook, with the unconcern of the chinese, had sent it in and kitty, without thinking, took some. walter leaned forward quickly.
"you oughtn't to eat that. the boy's crazy to serve it."
"why not?" asked kitty, looking at him full in the face.
"it's always dangerous, it's madness now. you'll kill yourself."
"i thought that was the idea," said kitty.
she began to eat it coolly. she was seized with she knew not what spirit of bravado. she watched walter with mocking eyes. she thought that he grew a trifle pale, but when the salad was handed to him he helped himself. the cook, finding they did not refuse it, sent them some in every day and every day, courting death, they ate it. it was grotesque to take such a risk. kitty, in terror of the disease, took it with the feeling not only that she was thus maliciously avenging herself on walter, but that she was flouting her own desperate fears.
it was the day after this that waddington, coming to the bungalow in the afternoon, when he had sat a little asked kitty if she would not go for a stroll with him. she had not been out of the compound since her arrival. she was glad enough.
"there are not many walks, i'm afraid," he said. "but we'll go to the top of the hill."
"oh, yes, where the archway is. i've seen it often from the terrace."
one of the boys opened the heavy doorway for them and they stepped out into the dusty lane. they walked a few yards and then kitty seizing waddington's arm in fright, gave a startled cry.
"what's the matter?"
at the foot of the wall that surrounded the compound a man lay on his back with his legs stretched out and his arms thrown over his head. he wore the patched blue rags and the wild mop of hair of the chinese beggar.
"he looks as if he were dead," kitty gasped.
"he is dead. come along; you'd better look the other way. i'll have him moved when we come back."
but kitty was trembling so violently that she could not stir.
"i've never seen anyone dead before."
"you'd better hurry up and get used to it then, because you'll see a good many before you've done with this cheerful spot."
he took her hand and drew it in his arm. they walked for a little in silence.
"did he die of cholera?" she said at last.
"i suppose so."
they walked up the hill till they came to the archway. it was richly carved. fantastic and ironical it stood like a landmark in the surrounding country. they sat down on the pedestal and faced the wide plain. the hill was sown close with the little green mounds of the dead, not in lines but disorderly, so that you felt that beneath the surface they must strangely jostle one another. the narrow causeway meandered sinuously among the green rice fields. a small boy seated on the neck of a water-buffalo drove it slowly home, and three peasants in wide straw hats lolloped with sidelong gait under their heavy loads. after the heat of the day it was pleasant in that spot to catch the faint breeze of the evening and the wide expanse of country brought a sense of restful melancholy to the tortured heart. but kitty could not rid her mind of the dead beggar.
"how can you talk and laugh and drink whisky when people are dying all around you?" she asked suddenly.
waddington did not answer. he turned round and looked at her, then he put his hand on her arm.
"you know, this is no place for a woman," he said gravely. "why don't you go?"
she gave him a sidelong glance from beneath her long lashes and there was the shadow of a smile on her lips.
"i should have thought under the circumstances a wife's place was by her husband's side."
"when they telegraphed to me that you were coming with fane i was astonished. but then it occurred to me that perhaps you'd been a nurse and all this sort of thing was in the day's work. i expected you to be one of those grim-visaged females who lead you a dog's life when you're ill in hospital. you could have knocked me down with a feather when i came into the bungalow and saw you sitting down and resting. you looked very frail and white and tired."
"you couldn't expect me to look my best after nine days on the road."
"you look frail and white and tired now, and if you'll allow me to say so, desperately unhappy."
kitty flushed because she could not help it, but she was able to give a laugh that sounded merry enough.
"i'm sorry you don't like my expression. the only reason i have for looking unhappy is that since i was twelve i've known that my nose was a little too long. but to cherish a secret sorrow is a most effective pose: you can't think how many sweet young men have wanted to console me."
waddington's blue and shining eyes rested on her and she knew that he did not believe a word she said. she did not care so long as he pretended to.
"i knew that you hadn't been married very long and i came to the conclusion that you and your husband were madly in love with each other. i couldn't believe that he had wished you to come, but perhaps you had absolutely refused to stay behind."
"that's a very reasonable explanation," she said lightly.
"yes, but it isn't the right one."
she waited for him to go on, fearful of what he was about to say, for she had a pretty good idea of his shrewdness and was aware that he never hesitated to speak his mind, but unable to resist the desire to hear him talk about herself.
"i don't think for a moment that you're in love with your husband. i think you dislike him, i shouldn't be surprised if you hated him. but i'm quite sure you're afraid of him."
for a moment she looked away. she did not mean to let waddington see that anything he said affected her.
"i have a suspicion that you don't very much like my husband," she said with cool irony.
"i respect him. he has brains and character; and that, i may tell you, is a very unusual combination. i don't suppose you know what he is doing here, because i don't think he's very expansive with you. if any man single-handed can put a stop to this frightful epidemic he's going to do it. he's doctoring the sick, cleaning the city up, trying to get the drinking water pure. he doesn't mind where he goes nor what he does. he's risking his life twenty times a day. he's got colonel yü in his pocket and he's induced him to put the troops at his disposal. he's even put a little pluck into the magistrate and the old man is really trying to do something. and the nuns at the convent swear by him. they think he's a hero."
"after all this isn't his job, is it? he's a bacteriologist. there was no call for him to come here. he doesn't give me the impression that he's moved by compassion for all these dying chinamen. watson was different. he loved the human race. though he was a missionary it didn't make any difference to him if they were christian, buddhist or confucian; they were just human beings. your husband isn't here because he cares a damn if a hundred thousand chinese die of cholera; he isn't here either in the interests of science. why is he here?"
"you'd better ask him."
"it interests me to see you together. i sometimes wonder how you behave when you're alone. when i'm there you're acting, both of you, and acting damned badly, by george. you'd neither of you get thirty bob a week in a touring company if that's the best you can do."
"i don't know what you mean," smiled kitty, keeping up a pretence of frivolity which she knew did not deceive.
"you're a very pretty woman. it's funny that your husband should never look at you. when he speaks to you it sounds as though it were not his voice but somebody's else's."
"do you think he doesn't love me?" asked kitty in a low voice, hoarsely, putting aside suddenly her lightness.
"i don't know. i don't know if you fill him with such a repulsion that it gives him goose-flesh to be near you or if he's burning with a love that for some reason he will not allow himself to show. i've asked myself if you're both here to commit suicide."
kitty had seen the startled glance and then the scrutinising look waddington gave them when the incident of the salad took place.
"i think you're attaching too much importance to a few lettuce leaves," she said flippantly. she rose. "shall we go home? i'm sure you want a whisky and soda."
"you're not a heroine at all events. you're frightened to death. are you sure you don't want to go away?"
"what has it got to do with you?"
"i'll help you."
"are you going to fall to my look of secret sorrow? look at my profile and tell me if my nose isn't a trifle too long."
he gazed at her reflectively, that malicious, ironical look in his bright eyes, but mingled with it, a shadow, like a tree standing at a river's edge and its reflection in the water, was an expression of singular kindliness. it brought sudden tears to kitty's eyes.
"must you stay?"
they passed under the flamboyant archway and walked down the hill. when they came to the compound they saw the body of the dead beggar. he took her arm, but she released herself. she stood still.
"it's dreadful, isn't it?"
"yes. it makes everything else seem so horribly trivial. he doesn't look human. when you look at him you can hardly persuade yourself that he's ever been alive. it's hard to think that not so very many years ago he was just a little boy tearing down the hill and flying a kite."
she could not hold back the sob that choked her.
a few days later waddington, sitting with kitty, a long glass of whisky and soda in his hand, began to speak to her of the convent.
"the mother superior is a very remarkable woman," he said. "the sisters tell me that she belongs to one of the greatest families in france, but they won't tell me which; the mother superior, they say, doesn't wish it to be talked of."
"why don't you ask her if it interests you?" smiled kitty.
"if you knew her you'd know it was impossible to ask her an indiscreet question."
"she must certainly be very remarkable if she can impress you with awe."
"i am the bearer of a message from her to you. she has asked me to say that, though of course you may not wish to adventure into the very centre of the epidemic, if you do not mind that it will give her great pleasure to show you the convent."
"it's very kind of her. i shouldn't have thought she was aware of my existence."
"i've spoken about you; i go there two or three times a week just now to see if there's anything i can do; and i daresay your husband has told them about you. you must be prepared to find that they have an unbounded admiration for him."
"are you a catholic?"
his malicious eyes twinkled and his funny little face was puckered with laughter.
"why are you grinning at me?" asked kitty.
"can any good come out of galilee? no, i'm not a catholic. i describe myself as a member of the church of england, which, i suppose, is an inoffensive way of saying that you don't believe in anything very much. . . . when the mother superior came here ten years ago she brought seven nuns with her and of those all but three are dead. you see, at the best of times, mei-tan-fu is not a health resort. they live in the very middle of the city, in the poorest district, they work very hard and they never have a holiday."
"but are there only three and the mother superior now?"
"oh, no, more have taken their places. there are six of them now. when one of them died of cholera at the beginning of the epidemic two others came up from canton."
kitty shivered a little.
"are you cold?"
"no, it was only some one walking over my grave."
"when they leave france they leave it for ever. they're not like the protestant missionaries who have a year's leave every now and then. i always think that must be the hardest thing of all. we english have no very strong attachment to the soil, we can make ourselves at home in any part of the world, but the french, i think, have an attachment to their country which is almost a physical bond. they're never really at ease when they're out of it. it always seems to me very moving that these women should make just that sacrifice. i suppose if i were a catholic it would seem very natural to me."
kitty looked at him coolly. she could not quite understand the emotion with which the little man spoke and she asked herself whether it was a pose. he had drunk a good deal of whisky and perhaps he was not quite sober.
"come and see for yourself," he said, with his bantering smile, quickly reading her thought. "it's not nearly so risky as eating a tomato."
"if you're not frightened there's no reason why i should be."
"i think it'll amuse you. it's like a little bit of france."
they crossed the river in a sampan. a chair was waiting for kitty at the landing-stage and she was carried up the hill to the water-gate. it was through this that the coolies came to fetch water from the river and they hurried to and fro with huge buckets hanging from the yoke on their shoulder, splashing the causeway so that it was as wet as though it had heavily rained. kitty's bearers gave short, sharp cries to urge them to make way.
"of course all business is at a standstill," said waddington, walking by her side. "under normal circumstances you have to fight your way through the coolies carrying loads up and down to the junks."
the street was narrow and winding so that kitty lost all sense of the direction in which she was going. many of the shops were closed. she had grown used on the journey up to the untidiness of a chinese street, but here was the litter of weeks, garbage and refuse; and the stench was so horrible that she had to put her handkerchief to her face. passing through chinese cities she had been incommoded by the staring of the crowd, but now she noticed that no more than an indifferent glance was thrown at her. the passers-by, scattered rather than as usual thronging, seemed intent on their own affairs. they were cowed and listless. now and then as they went by a house they heard the beating of gongs and the shrill, sustained lament of unknown instruments. behind those closed doors one was lying dead.
"here we are," said waddington at last.
the chair was set down at a small doorway, surmounted by a cross, in a long white wall, and kitty stepped out. he rang the bell.
"you mustn't expect anything very grand, you know. they're miserably poor."
the door was opened by a chinese girl, and after a word or two from waddington she led them into a little room on the side of the corridor. it contained a large table covered with a chequered oilcloth and round the walls was a set of stiff chairs. at one end of the room was a statue, in plaster, of the blessed virgin. in a moment a nun came in, short and plump, with a homely face, red cheeks and merry eyes. waddington, introducing kitty to her, called her sœur st. joseph.
"c'est la dame du docteur?" she asked, beaming, and then added that the mother superior would join them directly.
sister st. joseph could speak no english and kitty's french was halting; but waddington, fluent, voluble and inaccurate, maintained a stream of facetious comment, which convulsed the good-humoured nun. her cheerful, easy laughter not a little astonished kitty. she had an idea that the religious were always grave and this sweet and childlike merriment touched her.
the door opened, to kitty's fancy not quite naturally, but as though it swung back of itself on its hinges, and the mother superior entered the little room. she stood for an instant on the threshold and a grave smile hovered upon her lips as she looked at the laughing sister and waddington's puckered, clownish face. then she came forward and held out her hand to kitty.
"mrs. fane?" she spoke in english with a good deal of accent, but with a correct pronunciation, and she gave the shadow of a bow. "it is a great pleasure to me to make the acquaintance of the wife of our good and brave doctor."
kitty felt that the superior's eyes held her in a long and unembarrassed look of appraisal. it was so frank that it was not uncivil; you felt that here was a woman whose business it was to form an opinion of others and to whom it never occurred that subterfuge was necessary. with a dignified affability she motioned to her visitors to take chairs and herself sat down. sister st. joseph, smiling still but silent, stood at the side but a little behind the superior.
"i know you english like tea," said the mother superior, "and i have ordered some. but i must make my excuses if it is served in the chinese fashion. i know that mr. waddington prefers whisky, but that i am afraid i cannot offer him."
she smiled and there was a hint of malice in her grave eyes.
"oh, come, ma mère, you speak as if i were a confirmed drunkard."
"i wish you could say that you never drink, mr. waddington."
"i can at all events say that i never drink except to excess."
the mother superior laughed and translated into french for sister st. joseph the flippant remark. she looked at him with lingering, friendly eyes.
"we must make allowances for mr. waddington because two or three times when we had no money at all and did not know how we were to feed our orphans mr. waddington came to our rescue."
the convert who had opened the door for them now came in with a tray on which were chinese cups, a tea-pot and a little plate of the french cakes called madeleines.
"you must eat the madeleines," said the mother superior, "because sister st. joseph made them for you herself this morning."
they talked of commonplace things. the mother superior asked kitty how long she had been in china and if the journey from tching-yen had greatly tired her. she asked her if she had been in france and if she did not find the climate of tching-yen trying. it was a conversation, trivial but friendly, which gained a peculiar savour from the circumstances. the parlour was very quiet, so that you could hardly believe that you were in the midst of a populous city. peace dwelt there. and yet all round about the epidemic was raging and the people, terrified and restless, were kept in check but by the strong will of a soldier who was more than half a brigand. within the convent walls the infirmary was crowded with sick and dying soldiers, and of the orphans in the nuns' charge a quarter were dead.
kitty, impressed she hardly knew why, observed the grave lady who asked her these amiable questions. she was dressed in white and the only colour on her habit was the red heart that burned on her breast. she was a woman of middle age, she might have been forty or fifty, it was impossible to say, for there were few wrinkles on her smooth, pale face, and you received the impression that she was far from young chiefly from the dignity of her bearing, her assurance, and the emaciation of her strong and beautiful hands. the face was long with a large mouth and large, even teeth; the nose though not small, was delicate and sensitive; but it was the eyes, under their thin black brows, which gave her face its intense and tragic character. they were very large, black, and though not exactly cold, by their calm steadiness strangely compelling. your first thought when you looked at the mother superior was that as a girl she must have been beautiful, but in a moment you realised that this was a woman whose beauty, depending on character, had grown with advancing years. her voice was deep, low and controlled, and whether she spoke in english or in french she spoke slowly. but the most striking thing about her was the air she had of authority tempered by christian charity; you felt in her the habit of command. to be obeyed was natural to her, but she accepted obedience with humility. you could not fail to see that she was deeply conscious of the authority of the church which upheld her. but kitty had a surmise that notwithstanding her austere demeanour she had for human frailty a human tolerance and it was impossible to look at her grave smile when she listened to waddington, unabashed, talking nonsense, without being sure that she had a lively sense of the ridiculous.
but there was some other quality in her which kitty vaguely felt, but could not put a name to. it was something that notwithstanding the mother superior's cordiality and the exquisite manners which made kitty feel like an awkward school-girl, held her at a distance.
"monsieur ne mange rien," said sister st. joseph.
"monsieur's palate is ruined by manchu cooking," replied the mother superior.
the smile left sister st. joseph's face and she assumed an expression of some primness. waddington, a roguish glance in his eyes, took another cake. kitty did not understand the incident.
"to prove to you how unjust you are, ma mère, i will ruin the excellent dinner that awaits me."
"if mrs. fane would like to see over the convent i shall be glad to show her." the mother superior turned to kitty with a deprecating smile. "i am sorry you should see it just now when everything is in disorder. we have so much work and not enough sisters to do it. colonel yü has insisted on our putting our infirmary at the disposal of sick soldiers and we have had to make the réfectoire into an infirmary for our orphans."
she stood at the door to allow kitty to pass and together, followed by sister st. joseph and waddington, they walked along cool white corridors. they went first into a large, bare room where a number of chinese girls were working at elaborate embroideries. they stood up when the visitors entered and the mother superior showed kitty specimens of the work.
"we go on with it notwithstanding the epidemic because it takes their minds off the danger."
they went to a second room in which younger girls were doing plain sewing, hemming and stitching, and then into a third where there were only tiny children under the charge of a chinese convert. they were playing noisily and when the mother superior came in they crowded round her, mites of two and three, with their black chinese eyes and their black hair; and they seized her hands and hid themselves in her great skirts. an enchanting smile lit up her grave face, and she fondled them; she spoke little chaffing words which kitty, ignorant though she was of chinese, could tell were like caresses. she shuddered a little, for in their uniform dress, sallow-skinned, stunted, with their flat noses, they looked to her hardly human. they were repulsive. but the mother superior stood among them like charity itself. when she wished to leave the room they would not let her go, but clung to her, so that, with smiling expostulations, she had to use a gentle force to free herself. they at all events found nothing terrifying in this great lady.
"you know of course," she said, as they walked along another corridor, "that they are only orphans in the sense that their parents have wished to be rid of them. we give them a few cash for every child that is brought in, otherwise they will not take the trouble, but do away with them." she turned to the sister. "have any come to-day?" she asked.
"now, with the cholera, they are more than ever anxious not to be burdened with useless girls."
she showed kitty the dormitories and then they passed a door on which was painted the word infirmerie. kitty heard groans and loud cries and sounds as though beings not human were in pain.
"i will not show you the infirmary," said the mother superior in her placid tones. "it is not a sight that one would wish to see." a thought struck her. "i wonder if dr. fane is there?"
she looked interrogatively at the sister and she, with her merry smile, opened the door and slipped in. kitty shrank back as the open door allowed her to hear more horribly the tumult within. sister st. joseph came back.
"no, he has been and will not be back again till later."
"what about number six?"
"pauvre garçon, he's dead."
the mother superior crossed herself and her lips moved in a short and silent prayer.
they passed by a courtyard and kitty's eyes fell upon two long shapes that lay side by side on the ground covered with a piece of blue cotton. the superior turned to waddington.
"we are so short of beds that we have to put two patients in one and the moment a sick man dies he must be bundled out in order to make room for another." but she gave kitty a smile. "now we will show you our chapel. we are very proud of it. one of our friends in france sent us a little while ago a life-size statue of the blessed virgin."
the chapel was no more than a long low room with white-washed walls and rows of deal benches; at the end was the altar on which stood the image; it was in plaster of paris painted in crude colours; it was very bright and new and garish. behind it was a picture in oils of the crucifixion with the two maries at the foot of the cross in extravagant attitudes of grief. the drawing was bad and the dark pigments were put on with an eye that knew nothing of the beauty of colour. around the walls were the stations of the cross painted by the same unfortunate hand. the chapel was hideous and vulgar.
the two nuns on entering knelt down to say a prayer and then, rising, the mother superior began once more to chat with kitty.
waddington's malicious eyes gleamed, but he held his tongue.
"the altarpiece and the stations of the cross were painted by one of our sisters, sœur st. anselme." the mother superior crossed herself. "she was a real artist. unfortunately, she fell a victim to the epidemic. do you not think that they are very beautiful?"
kitty faltered an affirmative. on the altar were bunches of paper flowers and the candlesticks were distractingly ornate.
"we have the privilege of keeping here the blessed sacrament."
"yes?" said kitty, not understanding.
"it has been a great comfort to us during this time of so terrible trouble."
they left the chapel and retraced their steps to the parlour in which they had first sat.
"would you like to see the babies that came in this morning before you go?"
"very much," said kitty.
the mother superior led them into a tiny room on the other side of the passage. on a table, under a cloth, there was a singular wriggling. the sister drew back the cloth and displayed four tiny, naked infants. they were very red and they made funny restless movements with their arms and legs; their quaint little chinese faces were screwed up into strange grimaces. they looked hardly human; queer animals of an unknown species, and yet there was something singularly moving in the sight. the mother superior looked at them with an amused smile.
"they seem very lively. sometimes they are brought in only to die. of course we baptize them the moment they come."
"the lady's husband will be pleased with them," said sister st. joseph. "i think he could play by the hour with the babies. when they cry he has only to take them up, and he makes them comfortable in the crook of his arm, so that they laugh with delight."
then kitty and waddington found themselves at the door. kitty gravely thanked the mother superior for the trouble she had taken. the nun bowed with a condescension that was at once dignified and affable.
"it has been a great pleasure. you do not know how kind and helpful your husband has been to us. he has been sent to us by heaven. i am glad that you came with him. when he goes home it must be a great comfort to him to have you there with your love and your--your sweet face. you must take care of him and not let him work too hard. you must look after him for all our sakes."
kitty flushed. she did not know what to say. the mother superior held out her hand and while she held it kitty was conscious of those cool, thoughtful eyes which rested on her with detachment and yet with something that looked like a profound understanding.
sister st. joseph closed the door behind them and kitty got into her chair. they went back through the narrow, winding streets. waddington made a casual remark; kitty did not answer. he looked round, but the side curtains of the chair were drawn and he could not see her. he walked on in silence. but when they reached the river and she stepped out to his surprise he saw that her eyes were streaming with tears.
"what is the matter?" he asked, his face puckered into an expression of dismay.
"nothing." she tried to smile. "only foolishness."
alone once more in the sordid parlour of the dead missionary, lying on the long chair that faced the window, her abstracted eyes on the temple across the river (now again at the approach of evening aerial and lovely), kitty tried to set in order the feelings in her heart. she would never have believed that this visit to the convent could so have moved her. she had gone from curiosity. she had nothing else to do and after looking for so many days at the walled city across the water she was not unwilling to have at least a glimpse of its mysterious streets.
but once within the convent it had seemed to her that she was transported into another world situated strangely neither in space nor time. those bare rooms and the white corridors, austere and simple, seemed to possess the spirit of something remote and mystical. the little chapel, so ugly and vulgar, in its very crudeness was pathetic; it had something which was wanting in the greatness of a cathedral, with its stained glass and its pictures it was very humble; and the faith which had adorned it, the affection which cherished it, had endued it with a delicate beauty of the soul. the methodical way in which the convent's work was carried on in the midst of the pestilence showed a coolness in the face of danger and a practical sense, almost ironical it was so matter of fact, which were deeply impressive. in kitty's ears rang still the ghastly sounds she heard when for a moment sister st. joseph opened the infirmary door.
it was unexpected the way they had spoken of walter. first the sister and then the mother superior herself, and the tone of her voice had been very gentle when she praised him. oddly enough it gave her a little thrill of pride to know that they thought so well of him. waddington also had told something of what walter was doing; but it was not only his competence that the nuns praised (in tching-yen she had known that he was thought clever), they spoke of his thoughtfulness and his tenderness. of course he could be very tender. he was at his best when you were ill; he was too intelligent to exasperate, and his touch was pleasant, cool and soothing. by some magic he seemed able by his mere presence to relieve your suffering. she knew that she would never see again in his eyes the look of affection which she had once been so used to that she found it merely exasperating. she knew now how immense was his capacity for loving; in some odd way he was pouring it out on these wretched sick who had only him to look to. she did not feel jealousy, but a sense of emptiness; it was as though a support that she had grown so accustomed to as not to realise its presence were suddenly withdrawn from her so that she swayed this way and that like a thing that was top-heavy.
she had only contempt for herself because once she had felt contempt for walter. he must have known how she regarded him and he had accepted her estimate without bitterness. she was a fool and he knew it and because he loved her it had made no difference to him. she did not hate him now, nor feel resentment of him, but fear rather and perplexity. she could not but admit that he had remarkable qualities, sometimes she thought that there was even in him a strange and unattractive greatness; it was curious then that she could not love him, but loved still a man whose worthlessness was now so clear to her. after thinking, thinking, all through those long days she rated accurately charles townsend's value; he was a common fellow and his qualities were second-rate. if she could only tear from her heart the love that still lingered there! she tried not to think of him.
waddington too thought highly of walter. she alone had been blind to his merit. why? because he loved her and she did not love him. what was it in the human heart that made you despise a man because he loved you? but waddington had confessed that he did not like walter. men didn't. it was easy to see that those two nuns had for him a feeling which was very like affection. he was different with women; notwithstanding his shyness you felt in him an exquisite kindliness.
but after all it was the nuns that had most deeply touched her. sister st. joseph, with her merry face and apple red cheeks; she had been one of the little band that came out to china with the mother superior ten years before and she had seen one after another of her companions die of disease, privation and homesickness; and yet she remained cheerful and happy. what was it that gave her that naïve and charming humour? and the mother superior. kitty in fancy stood again in her presence and once more she felt humble and ashamed. though she was so simple and unaffected she had a native dignity which inspired awe, and you could not imagine that any one could treat her without respect. sister st. joseph by the way she stood, by every small gesture and the intonation of her answers, had shown the deep submission in which she held herself; and waddington, frivolous and impertinent, had shown by his tone that he was not quite at his ease. kitty thought it unnecessary to have told her that the mother superior belonged to one of the great families of france; there was that in her bearing which suggested ancient race; and she had the authority of one who has never known that it is possible to be disobeyed. she had the condescension of a great lady and the humility of a saint. there was in her strong, handsome and ravaged face an austerity that was passionate; and at the same time she had a solicitude and a gentleness which permitted those little children to cluster, noisy and unafraid, in the assurance of her deep affection. when she had looked at the four new-born babies she had worn a smile that was sweet and yet profound: it was like a ray of sunshine on a wild and desolate heath. what sister st. joseph had said so carelessly of walter moved kitty strangely; she knew that he had desperately wanted her to bear a child, but she had never suspected from his reticence that he was capable with a baby of showing without embarrassment a charming and playful tenderness. most men were silly and awkward with babies. how strange he was!
but to all that moving experience there had been a shadow (a dark lining to the silver cloud), insistent and plain, which disconcerted her. in the sober gaiety of sister st. joseph, and much more in the beautiful courtesy of the mother superior, she had felt an aloofness which oppressed her. they were friendly and even cordial, but at the same time they held something back, she knew not what, so that she was conscious that she was nothing but a casual stranger. there was a barrier between her and them. they spoke a different language not only of the tongue but of the heart. and when the door was closed upon her she felt that they had put her out of their minds so completely, going about their neglected work again without delay, that for them she might never have existed. she felt shut out not only from that poor little convent, but from some mysterious garden of the spirit after which with all her soul she hankered. she felt on a sudden alone as she had never felt alone before. that was why she had wept.
and now, throwing back her head wearily, she sighed: "oh, i'm so worthless."
that evening walter came back to the bungalow a little earlier than usual. kitty was lying on the long chair by the open window. it was nearly dark.
"don't you want a lamp?" he asked.
"they'll bring it when dinner is ready."
he talked to her always quite casually, of trifling things, as though they were friendly acquaintances, and there was never anything in his manner to suggest that he harboured malice in his heart. he never met her eyes and he never smiled. he was scrupulously polite.
"walter, what do you propose we should do if we get through the epidemic?" she asked.
he waited for a moment before answering. she could not see his face.
"i haven't thought."
in the old days she said carelessly whatever came into her head; it never occurred to her to think before she spoke; but now she was afraid of him; she felt her lips tremble and her heart beat painfully.
"i went to the convent this afternoon."
"so i heard."
she forced herself to speak though she could hardly frame the words.
"did you really want me to die when you brought me here?"
"if i were you i'd leave well alone, kitty. i don't think any good will come of talking about what we should do much better to forget."
"but you don't forget; neither do i. i've been thinking a great deal since i came here. won't you listen to what i have to say?"
"i treated you very badly. i was unfaithful to you."
he stood stock still. his immobility was strangely terrifying.
"what have they got to do with it?" he interrupted.
"i can't quite explain. i had such a singular feeling when i went there to-day. it all seems to mean so much. it's all so terrible and their self-sacrifice is so wonderful; i can't help feeling it's absurd and disproportionate, if you understand what i mean, to distress yourself because a foolish woman has been unfaithful to you. i'm much too worthless and insignificant for you to give me a thought."
he did not answer, but he did not move away; he seemed to be waiting for her to continue.
"mr. waddington and the nuns have told me such wonderful things about you. i'm very proud of you, walter."
"you used not to be; you used to feel contempt for me. don't you still?"
"don't you know that i'm afraid of you?"
again he was silent.
"i don't understand you," he said at last. "i don't know what it is you want."
"nothing for myself. i only want you to be a little less unhappy."
she felt him stiffen and his voice was very cold when he answered.
"you're mistaken in thinking i'm unhappy. i have a great deal too much to do to think of you very often."
"i have wondered if the nuns would allow me to go and work at the convent. they are very short handed and if i could be of any help i should be grateful to them."
"it is not easy work or pleasant work. i doubt if it would amuse you long."
"do you absolutely despise me, walter?"
"no." he hesitated and his voice was strange. "i despise myself."
it was after dinner. as usual walter sat by the lamp and read. he read every evening till kitty went to bed and then went into a laboratory which he had fitted up in one of the bungalow's empty rooms. here he worked late into the night. he slept little. he was occupied with she knew not what experiments. he told her nothing of his work; but even in the old days he had been reticent on this: he was not by nature expansive. she thought deeply of what he had just said to her: the conversation had led to nothing. she knew him so little that she could not be sure if he was speaking the truth or not. was it possible that, whereas he now existed so ominously for her, she had entirely ceased to exist for him? her conversation which had entertained him once because he loved her, now that he loved her no longer might be merely tedious to him. it mortified her.
she looked at him. the light of the lamp displayed his profile as though it were a cameo. with his regular and finely-cut features it was very distinguished, but it was more than severe, it was grim: that immobility of his, only his eyes moving as he perused each page, was vaguely terrifying. who would have thought that this hard face could be melted by passion to such a tenderness of expression? she knew and it excited in her a little shiver of distaste. it was strange that though he was good-looking as well as honest, reliable and talented, it had been so impossible for her to love him. it was a relief that she need never again submit to his caresses.
he would not answer when she had asked him whether in forcing her to come here he had really wished to kill her. the mystery of this fascinated and horrified her. he was so extraordinarily kind; it was incredible that he could have had such a devilish intention. he must have suggested it only to frighten her and to get back on charlie (that would be like his sardonic humour) and then from obstinacy or from fear of looking foolish insisted on her going through with it.
yes, he said he despised himself. what did he mean by that? once again kitty looked at his calm cool face. she might not even be in the room, he was so unconscious of her.
"why do you despise yourself?" she asked, hardly knowing that she spoke, as though she were continuing without a break the earlier conversation.
he put down his book and observed her reflectively. he seemed to gather his thoughts from a remote distance.
"because i loved you."
she flushed and looked away. she could not bear his cold, steady and appraising gaze. she understood what he meant. it was a little while before she answered.
"i think you do me an injustice," she said. "it's not fair to blame me because i was silly and frivolous and vulgar. i was brought up like that. all the girls i know are like that. . . . it's like reproaching someone who has no ear for music because he's bored at a symphony concert. is it fair to blame me because you ascribed to me qualities i hadn't got? i never tried to deceive you by pretending i was anything i wasn't. i was just pretty and gay. you don't ask for a pearl necklace or a sable coat at a booth in a fair; you ask for a tin trumpet and a toy balloon."
"i don't blame you."
his voice was weary. she was beginning to feel a trifle impatient with him. why could he not realise, what suddenly had become so clear to her, that beside all the terror of death under whose shadow they lay and beside the awe of the beauty which she had caught a glimpse of that day, their own affairs were trivial? what did it really matter if a silly woman had committed adultery and why should her husband, face to face with the sublime, give it a thought? it was strange that walter with all his cleverness should have so little sense of proportion. because he had dressed a doll in gorgeous robes and set her in a sanctuary to worship her, and then discovered that the doll was filled with sawdust he could neither forgive himself nor her. his soul was lacerated. it was all make-believe that he had lived on, and when the truth shattered it he thought reality itself was shattered. it was true enough, he would not forgive her because he could not forgive himself.
she thought that she heard him give a faint sigh and she shot a rapid glance at him. a sudden thought struck her and it took her breath away. she only just refrained from giving a cry.
was it what they called--a broken heart--that he suffered from?
all the next day kitty thought of the convent; and the morning after, early, soon after walter had gone, taking the amah with her to get chairs, she crossed the river. it was barely day and the chinese crowding the ferry boat, some in the blue cotton of the peasant, others in the black robes of respectability, had a strange look of the dead being borne over the water to the land of shadow. and when they stepped ashore they stood for a little at the landing-place uncertainly as though they did not quite know where to go, before desultorily, in twos and threes, they wandered up the hill.
at that hour the streets of the city were very empty so that more than ever it seemed a city of the dead. the passers-by had an abstracted air so that you might almost have thought them ghosts. the sky was unclouded and the early sun shed a heavenly mildness on the scene; it was difficult to imagine, on that blithe, fresh and smiling morn, that the city lay gasping, like a man whose life is being throttled out of him by a maniac's hands, in the dark clutch of the pestilence. it was incredible that nature (the blue of the sky was clear like a child's heart) should be so indifferent when men were writhing in agony and going to their death in fear. when the chairs were set down at the convent door a beggar arose from the ground and asked kitty for alms. he was clad in faded and shapeless rags that looked as though he had raked them out of a muck-heap, and through their rents you saw his skin hard and rough and tanned like the hide of a goat; his bare legs were emaciated, and his head, with its shock of coarse grey hair (the cheeks hollow, the eyes wild), was the head of a madman. kitty turned from him in frightened horror, and the chair-bearers in gruff tones bade him begone, but he was importunate, and to be rid of him, shuddering, kitty gave him a few cash.
the door was opened and the amah explained that kitty wished to see the mother superior. she was taken once more into the stiff parlour in which it seemed a window had never been opened, and here she sat so long that she began to think her message had not been delivered. at last the mother superior came in.
"i must ask you to excuse me for keeping you waiting," she said. "i did not expect you and i was occupied."
"forgive me for troubling you. i am afraid i have come at an inconvenient moment."
the mother superior gave her a smile, austere but sweet, and begged her to sit down. but kitty saw that her eyes were swollen. she had been weeping. kitty was startled, for she had received from the mother superior the impression that she was a woman whom earthly troubles could not greatly move.
"i am afraid something has happened," she faltered. "would you like me to go away? i can come another time."
"no, no. tell me what i can do for you. it is only--only that one of our sisters died last night." her voice lost its even tone and her eyes filled with tears. "it is wicked of me to grieve, for i know that her good and simple soul has flown straight to heaven; she was a saint; but it is difficult always to control one's weakness. i am afraid i am not always very reasonable."
"i'm so sorry, i'm so dreadfully sorry," said kitty.
her ready sympathy brought a sob into her voice.
"she was one of the sisters who came out from france with me ten years ago. there are only three of us left now. i remember, we stood in a little group at the end of the boat (what do you call it, the bow?) and as we steamed out of the harbour at marseilles and we saw the golden figure of saint-marie la grace, we said a prayer together. it had been my greatest wish since i entered religion to be allowed to come to china, but when i saw the land grow distant i could not prevent myself from weeping. i was their superior; it was not a very good example i was giving my daughters. and then sister st. francis xavier--that is the name of the sister who died last night--took my hand and told me not to grieve; for wherever we were, she said, there was france and there was god."
that severe and handsome face was distorted by the grief which human nature wrung from her and by the effort to restrain the tears which her reason and her faith refused. kitty looked away. she felt that it was indecent to peer into that struggle.
"i have been writing to her father. she, like me, was her mother's only daughter. they were fisher folk in brittany, and it will be hard for them. oh, when will this terrible epidemic cease? two of our girls have been attacked this morning and nothing but a miracle can save them. these chinese have no resistance. the loss of sister st. francis is very severe. there is so much to do and now fewer than ever to do it. we have sisters at our other houses in china who are eager to come, all our order, i think, would give anything in the world (only they have nothing) to come here; but it is almost certain death; and so long as we can manage with the sisters we have i am unwilling that others should be sacrificed."
"that encourages me, ma mère," said kitty. "i have been feeling that i had come at a very unfortunate moment. you said the other day that there was more work than the sisters could do, and i was wondering if you would allow me to come and help them. i do not mind what i do if i can only be useful. i should be thankful if you just set me to scrub the floors."
the mother superior gave an amused smile and kitty was astonished at the mobile temperament which could so easily pass from mood to mood.
"there is no need to scrub the floors. that is done after a fashion by the orphans." she paused and looked kindly at kitty. "my dear child, do you not think that you have done enough in coming with your husband here? that is more than many wives would have had the courage to do, and for the rest how can you be better occupied than in giving him peace and comfort when he comes home to you after the day's work? believe me, he needs then all your love and all your consideration."
kitty could not easily meet the eyes which rested on her with a detached scrutiny and with an ironical kindliness.
"i have nothing whatever to do from morning till night," said kitty. "i feel that there is so much to be done that i cannot bear to think that i am idle. i don't want to make a nuisance of myself, and i know that i have no claim either on your kindness or on your time, but i mean what i say and it would be a charity that you were doing me if you would let me be of some help to you."
"you do not look very strong. when you did us the pleasure of coming to see us the day before yesterday it seemed to me that you were very pale. sister st. joseph thought that perhaps you were going to have a baby."
"no, no," cried kitty, flushing to the roots of her hair.
the mother superior gave a little, silvery laugh.
"it is nothing to be ashamed of, my dear child, nor is there anything improbable in the supposition. how long have you been married?"
"i am pale because i am naturally pale, but i am very strong, and i promise you i am not afraid of work."
now the superior was complete mistress of herself. she assumed unconsciously the air of authority which was habitual to her and she held kitty in an appraising scrutiny. kitty felt unaccountably nervous.
"can you speak chinese?"
"i'm afraid not," answered kitty.
"ah, that is a pity. i could have put you in charge of the elder girls. it is very difficult just now, and i am afraid they will get--what do you call? out of hand?" she concluded with a tentative sound.
"could i not be of help to the sisters in nursing? i am not at all afraid of the cholera. i could nurse the girls or the soldiers."
the mother superior, unsmiling now, a reflective look on her face, shook her head.
"you do not know what the cholera is. it is a dreadful thing to see. the work in the infirmary is done by soldiers and we need a sister only to supervise. and so far as the girls are concerned . . . no, no, i am sure your husband would not wish it; it is a terrible and frightening sight."
"i should grow used to it."
"no, it is out of the question. it is our business and our privilege to do such things, but there is no call for you to do so."
"you make me feel very useless and very helpless. it seems incredible that there should be nothing that i can do."
"have you spoken to your husband of your wish?"
the mother superior looked at her as though she were delving into the secrets of her heart, but when she saw kitty's anxious and appealing look she gave a smile.
"of course you are a protestant?" she asked.
"it doesn't matter. dr. watson, the missionary who died, was a protestant and it made no difference. he was all that was most charming to us. we owe him a deep debt of gratitude."
now the flicker of a smile passed over kitty's face, but she did not say anything. the mother superior seemed to reflect. she rose to her feet.
"it is very good of you. i think i can find something for you to do. it is true that now sister st. francis has been taken from us, it is impossible for us to cope with the work. when will you be ready to start?"
"à la bonne heure. i am content to hear you say that."
"i promise you i will do my best. i am very grateful to you for the opportunity that you are giving me."
the mother superior opened the parlour door, but as she was going out she hesitated. once more she gave kitty a long, searching and sagacious look. then she laid her hand gently on her arm.
"you know, my dear child, that one cannot find peace in work or in pleasure, in the world or in a convent, but only in one's soul."
kitty gave a little start, but the mother superior passed swiftly out.
kitty found the work a refreshment to her spirit. she went to the convent every morning soon after sunrise and did not return to the bungalow till the westering sun flooded the narrow river and its crowded junks with gold. the mother superior gave into her case the smaller children. kitty's mother had brought to london from her native liverpool a practical sense of housewifery and kitty, notwithstanding her air of frivolity, had always had certain gifts to which she referred only in bantering tones. thus she could cook quite well and she sewed beautifully. when she disclosed this talent she was set to supervise the stitching and hemming of the younger girls. they knew a little french and every day she picked up a few words of chinese so that it was not difficult for her to manage. at other times she had to see that the smallest children did not get into mischief; she had to dress and undress them and take care that they rested when rest was needed. there were a good many babies and these were in charge of amahs, but she was bidden to keep an eye on them. none of the work was very important and she would have liked to do something which was more arduous; but the mother superior paid no attention to her entreaties and kitty stood sufficiently in awe of her not to be importunate.
for the first few days she had to make something of an effort to overcome the faint distaste she felt for these little girls, in their ugly uniforms, with their stiff black hair, their round yellow faces, and their staring, sloe-black eyes. but she remembered the soft look which had transfigured so beautifully the countenance of the mother superior when on kitty's first visit to the convent she had stood surrounded by those ugly little things, and she would not allow herself to surrender to her instinct. and presently, taking in her arms one or other of the tiny creatures, crying because of a fall or a cutting tooth, when kitty found that a few soft words, though in a language the child could not understand, the pressure of her arms and the softness of her cheek against the weeping yellow face, could comfort and console, she began to lose all her feeling of strangeness. the small children, without any fear of her, came to her in their childish troubles and it gave her a peculiar happiness to discern their confidence. it was the same with the older girls, those to whom she taught sewing; their bright, clever smiles and the pleasure she could give them by a word of praise, touched her. she felt that they liked her and, flattered and proud, she liked them in return.
but there was one child that she could not grow used to. it was a little girl of six, an idiot with a huge hydrocephalic head that swayed top-heavily on a small, squat body, large vacant eyes and a drooling mouth; the creature spoke hoarsely a few mumbled words; it was revolting and horrible; and for some reason it conceived an idiot attachment for kitty so that it followed her about as she changed her place from one part of the large room to another. it clung to her skirt and rubbed its face against her knees. it sought to fondle her hands. she shivered with disgust. she knew it yearned for caresses and she could not bring herself to touch it.
once, speaking of it to sister st. joseph, she said that it was a pity it lived. sister st. joseph smiled and stretched out her hand to the misformed thing. it came and rubbed its bulging forehead against it.
"poor little mite," said the nun. "she was brought here positively dying. by the mercy of providence i was at the door just as she came. i thought there was not a moment to lose, so i baptized her at once. you would not believe what trouble we have had to keep her with us. three or four times we thought that her little soul would escape to heaven."
kitty was silent. sister st. joseph in her loquacious way began to gossip of other things. and next day when the idiot child came to her and touched her hand kitty nerved herself to place it in a caress on the great bare skull. she forced her lips into a smile. but suddenly the child, with an idiot perversity, left her; it seemed to lose interest in her, and that day and the following days paid her no attention. kitty did not know what she had done and tried to lure it to her with smiles and gestures, but it turned away and pretended not to see her.
since the nuns were busy from morning till night with a hundred duties kitty saw little of them but at the services in the bare, humble chapel. on her first day the mother superior, catching sight of her seated at the back behind the girls on the benches according to their ages, stopped and spoke to her.
"you must not think it necessary for you to come to the chapel when we do," she said. "you are a protestant and you have your own convictions."
"but i like to come, mother. i find that it rests me."
the mother superior gave her a moment's glance and slightly inclined her grave head.
"of course you will do exactly as you choose. i merely wanted you to understand that you are under no obligation."
"i used to keep the cows when i was little," she said, "like st. joan of arc. but i was too wicked to have visions. it was fortunate, i think, for my father would certainly have whipped me if i had. he used often to whip me, the good old man, for i was a very naughty little girl. i am ashamed sometimes when i think now of the pranks i used to play."
kitty laughed at the thought that this corpulent, middle-aged nun could ever have been a wayward child. and yet there was something childlike in her still so that your heart went out to her: she seemed to have about her an aroma of the countryside in autumn when the apple trees are laden with fruit and the crops are in and safely housed. she had not the tragic and austere saintliness of the mother superior, but a gaiety that was simple and happy.
"do you never wish to go home again, ma sœur?" asked kitty.
"oh, no. it would be too hard to come back. i love to be here and i am never so happy as when i am among the orphans. they're so good, they're so grateful. but it is all very well to be a nun (on a beau être religieuse) still one has a mother and one cannot forget that one drank the milk of her breasts. she is old, my mother, and it is hard never to see her again; but then she is fond of her daughter-in-law, and my brother is good to her. his son is growing up now, i should think they will be glad of an extra pair of strong arms on the farm; he was only a child when i left france, but he promised to have a fist that you could fell an ox with."
it was almost impossible in that quiet room, listening to the nun, to realise that on the other side of these four walls cholera was raging. sister st. joseph had an unconcern which conveyed itself to kitty.
she had a naïve curiosity about the world and its inhabitants. she asked kitty all kinds of questions about london and england, a country, she thought, where so thick was the fog that you could not see your hand at midday, and she wanted to know if kitty went to balls and whether she lived in a grand house and how many brothers and sisters she had. she spoke often of walter. the mother superior said he was wonderful and every day they prayed for him. how lucky kitty was to have a husband who was so good and so brave and so clever.
but sooner or later sister st. joseph returned to the subject of the mother superior. kitty had been conscious from the beginning that the personality of this woman dominated the convent. she was regarded by all that dwelt there with love certainly and with admiration, but also with awe and not a little dread. notwithstanding her kindliness kitty herself felt like a schoolgirl in her presence. she was never quite at her ease with her, for she was filled with a sentiment which was so strange that it embarrassed her: reverence. sister st. joseph with an ingenious desire to impress, told kitty how great the family was to which the mother superior belonged; she had among her ancestors persons of historic importance and she was un peu cousine with half the kings in europe: alphonso of spain had hunted at her father's, and they had châteaux all over france. it must have been hard to leave so much grandeur. kitty listened smilingly, but not a little impressed.
"du reste, you have only to look at her," said the sister, "to see that, comme famille, c'est le dessus du panier."
"she has the most beautiful hands that i have ever seen," said kitty.
"ah, but if you only knew how she had used them. she is not afraid of work, notre bonne mère."
when they had come to this city there had been nothing. they had built the convent. the mother superior had made the plans and supervised the work. the moment they arrived they began to save the poor little unwanted girls from the baby-tower and the cruel hands of the midwife. at first they had had no beds to sleep in and no glass to keep out the night air ("and there is nothing," said sister st. joseph, "which is more unwholesome"); and often they had no money left, not only to pay the builders, but even to buy their simple fare; they lived like peasants, what was she saying? the peasants in france, tenez, the men who worked for her father, would have thrown to the pigs the food they ate. and then the mother superior would collect her daughters round her and they would kneel and pray; and the blessed virgin would send money. a thousand francs would arrive by post next day, or a stranger, an englishman (a protestant, if you please) or even a chinaman would knock at the door while they were actually on their knees and bring them a present. once they were in such straits that they all made a vow to the blessed virgin that they would recite a neuvaine in her honour if she succoured them, and, would you believe it? that funny mr. waddington came to see us next day and saying that we looked as though we all wanted a good plate of roast beef gave us a hundred dollars.
what a comic little man he was, with his bald head and his little shrewd eyes (ses petits yeux malins) and his jokes. mon dieu, how he murdered the french language, and yet you could not help laughing at him. he was always in a good humour. all through this terrible epidemic he carried himself as if he were enjoying a holiday. he had a heart quite french and a wit so that you would hardly believe he was english. except for his accent. but sometimes sister st. joseph thought he spoke badly on purpose to make you laugh. of course his morals were not all one could wish; but still that was his business (with a sigh, a shrug and a shake of the head) and he was a bachelor and a young man.
"what is wrong with his morals, ma sœur?" asked kitty smiling.
"is it possible that you do not know? it is a sin for me to tell you. i have no business to say such things. he lives with a chinese woman, that is to say, not a chinese woman, but a manchu. a princess, it appears, and she loves him to distraction."
"that sounds quite impossible," cried kitty.
"no, no, i promise you, it is everything that is most true. it is very wicked of him. those things are not done. did you not hear, when you first came to the convent and he would not eat the madeleines that i had made expressly, that notre bonne mère said his stomach was deranged by manchu cooking? that was what she meant and you should have seen the head that he made. it is a story altogether curious. it appears that he was stationed at hankow during the revolution when they were massacring the manchus and this good little waddington saved the lives of one of their great families. they are related to the imperial family. the girl fell violently in love with him and--well, the rest you can imagine. and then when he left hankow she ran away and followed him and now she follows him everywhere, and he has had to resign himself to keep her, poor fellow, and i daresay he is very fond of her; they are quite charming sometimes, these manchu women. but what am i thinking of? i have a thousand things to do and i sit here. i am a bad religious. i am ashamed of myself."
kitty had a queer feeling that she was growing. the constant occupation distracted her mind and the glimpses she had of other lives and other outlooks awakened her imagination. she began to regain her spirits; she felt better and stronger. it had seemed to her that she could do nothing now but weep; but to her surprise, and not a little to her confusion, she caught herself laughing at this and that. it began to seem quite natural to live in the midst of a terrible epidemic. she knew that people were dying to the right and left of her, but she ceased very much to think of it. the mother superior had forbidden her to go into the infirmaries and the closed doors excited her curiosity. she would have liked to peep in, but could not do so without being seen, and she did not know what punishment the mother superior would inflict upon her. it would be dreadful to be sent away. she was devoted to the children now and they would miss her if she went; in fact she did not know what they would do without her.
and one day it occurred to her that she had neither thought of charles townsend nor dreamt of him for a week. her heart gave a sudden thud against her ribs: she was cured. she could think of him now with indifference. she loved him no longer. oh, the relief and the sense of liberation! it was strange to look back and remember how passionately she had yearned for him; she thought she would die when he failed her; she thought life thenceforward had nothing to offer but misery. and now already she was laughing. a worthless creature. what a fool she had made of herself! and now, considering him calmly, she wondered what on earth she had seen in him. it was lucky that waddington knew nothing, she could never have endured his malicious eyeing and his ironical innuendoes. she was free, free at last, free! she could hardly prevent herself from laughing aloud.
the children were playing some romping game and it was her habit to look on with an indulgent smile, restraining them when they made too much noise and taking care that in their boisterousness none was hurt; but now in her high spirits, feeling as young as any of them, she joined in the game. the little girls received her with delight. they chased up and down the room, shouting at the top of their shrill voices, with fantastic and almost barbarous glee. they grew so excited that they leaped into the air with joy. the noise was terrific.
suddenly the door opened and the mother superior stood on the threshold. kitty, abashed, extricated herself from the clutches of a dozen little girls who with wild shrieks had seized her.
"is this how you keep these children good and quiet?" asked the mother superior, a smile on her lips.
"we were having a game, mother. they got excited. it is my fault, i led them on."
the mother superior came forward and as usual the children clustered about her. she put her hands round their narrow shoulders and playfully pulled their little yellow ears. she looked at kitty with a long, soft look. kitty was flushed and she was breathing quickly. her liquid eyes were shining and her lovely hair, disarranged in all the struggling and the laughter, was in adorable confusion.
"que vous êtes belle, ma chère enfant," said the mother superior. "it does the heart good to look at you. no wonder these children adore you."
kitty blushed deeply and, she knew not why, tears suddenly filled her eyes. she covered her face with her hands.
"oh, mother, you make me ashamed."
"come, do not be silly. beauty is also a gift of god, one of the most rare and precious, and we should be thankful if we are happy enough to possess it and thankful, if we are not, that others possess it for our pleasure."
she smiled again and as though kitty were a child too gently patted her soft cheek.
since she had been working at the convent kitty had seen less of waddington. two or three times he had come down to the river bank to meet her and they had walked up the hill together. he came in to drink a whisky and soda, but he would seldom stay to dinner. one sunday, however, he suggested that they should take their luncheon with them and go in chairs to a buddhist monastery. it was situated ten miles from the city and had some reputation as a place of pilgrimage. the mother superior, insisting that kitty must have a day's rest, would not let her work on sundays and walter of course was as busy then as usual.
they started early in order to arrive before the heat of the day and were carried along a narrow causeway between the rice fields. now and then they passed comfortable farm-houses nestling with friendly intimacy in a grove of bamboos. kitty enjoyed the idleness; it was pleasant after being cooped up in the city to see about her the wide country. they came to the monastery, straggling low buildings by the side of the river, agreeably shaded by trees, and were led by smiling monks through courtyards, empty with a solemn emptiness, and shown temples with grimacing gods. in the sanctuary sat the buddha, remote and sad, wistful, abstracted and faintly smiling. there was about everything a sense of dejection; the magnificence was shoddy and ruined; the gods were dusty and the faith that had made them was dying. the monks seemed to stay on sufference, as though they awaited a notice to quit; and in the smile of the abbot, with his beautiful politeness, was the irony of resignation. one of these days the monks would wander away from the shady, pleasant wood, and the buildings, crumbling and neglected, would be battered by fierce storms and besieged by the surrounding nature. wild creepers would twine themselves about the dead images and trees would grow in the courtyards. then the gods would dwell there no longer, but evil spirits of darkness.
they sat on the steps of a little building (four lacquered columns and a high, tiled roof under which stood a great bronze bell) and watched the river flow sluggish and with many a bend towards the stricken city. they could see its crenellated walls. the heat hung over it like a pall. but the river, though it flowed so slowly, had still a sense of movement and it gave one a melancholy feeling of the transitoriness of things. everything passed, and what trace of its passage remained? it seemed to kitty that they were all, the human race, like the drops of water in that river and they flowed on, each so close to the other and yet so far apart, a nameless flood, to the sea. when all things lasted so short a time and nothing mattered very much, it seemed pitiful that men, attaching an absurd importance to trivial objects, should make themselves and one another so unhappy.
"do you know harrington gardens?" she asked waddington, with a smile in her beautiful eyes.
"nothing; only it's a long way from here. it's where my people live."
"are you thinking of going home?"
"i suppose you'll be leaving here in a couple of months. the epidemic seems to be abating and the cool weather should see the end of it."
"i almost think i shall be sorry to go."
for a moment she thought of the future. she did not know what plans walter had in mind. he told her nothing. he was cool, polite, silent and inscrutable. two little drops in that river that flowed silently towards the unknown; two little drops that to themselves had so much individuality and to the onlooker were but an undistinguishable part of the water.
"take care the nuns don't start converting you," said waddington, with his malicious little smile.
"they're much too busy. nor do they care. they're wonderful and so kind; and yet--i hardly know how to explain it--there is a wall between them and me. i don't know what it is. it is as though they possessed a secret which made all the difference in their lives and which i was unworthy to share. it is not faith; it is something deeper and more--more significant: they walk in a different world from ours and we shall always be strangers to them. each day when the convent door closes behind me i feel that for them i have ceased to exist."
"i can understand that it is something of a blow to your vanity," he returned mockingly.
kitty shrugged her shoulders. then, smiling once more, she turned to him lazily.
"why did you never tell me that you lived with a manchu princess?"
"what have those gossiping old women been telling you? i am sure that it is a sin for nuns to discuss the private affairs of the customs officials."
"why should you be so sensitive?"
waddington glanced down, sideways, so that it gave him an air of shyness. he faintly shrugged his shoulders.
"it's not a thing to advertise. i do not know that it would greatly add to my chances of promotion in the service."
"are you very fond of her?"
he looked up now and his ugly little face had the look of a naughty schoolboy's.
"she's abandoned everything for my sake, home, family, security and self-respect. it's a good many years now since she threw everything to the winds to be with me. i've sent her away two or three times, but she's always come back; i've run away from her myself, but she's always followed me. and now i've given it up as a bad job; i think i've got to put up with her for the rest of my life."
"she must really love you to distraction."
"it's a rather funny sensation, you know," he answered, wrinkling a perplexed forehead. "i haven't the smallest doubt that if i really left her, definitely, she would commit suicide. not with any ill-feeling towards me, but quite naturally, because she was unwilling to live without me. it is a curious feeling it gives one to know that. it can't help meaning something to you."
"but it's loving that's the important thing, not being loved. one's not even grateful to the people who love one; if one doesn't love them, they only bore one."
"i have no experience of the plural," he replied. "mine is only in the singular."
"is she really an imperial princess?"
"no, that is a romantic exaggeration of the nuns. she belongs to one of the great families of the manchus, but they have, of course, been ruined by the revolution. she is all the same a very great lady."
he said it in a tone of pride, so that a smile flickered in kitty's eyes.
"are you going to stay here for the rest of your life then?"
"in china? yes. what would she do elsewhere? when i retire i shall take a little chinese house in peking and spend the rest of my days there."
"have you any children?"
she looked at him curiously. it was strange that this little bald-headed man with his monkey face should have aroused in the alien woman so devastating a passion. she could not tell why the way he spoke of her, notwithstanding his casual manner and his flippant phrases, gave her the impression so strongly of the woman's intense and unique devotion. it troubled her a little.
"it does seem a long way to harrington gardens," she smiled.
"why do you say that?"
"i don't understand anything. life is so strange. i feel like someone who's lived all his life by a duck-pond and suddenly is shown the sea. it makes me a little breathless, and yet it fills me with elation. i don't want to die, i want to live. i'm beginning to feel a new courage. i feel like one of those old sailors who set sail for undiscovered seas and i think my soul hankers for the unknown."
waddington looked at her reflectively. her abstracted gaze rested on the smoothness of the river. two little drops that flowed silently, silently towards the dark, eternal sea.
"may i come and see the manchu lady?" asked kitty, suddenly raising her head.
"she can't speak a word of english."
"you've been very kind to me, you've done a great deal for me, perhaps i could show her by my manner that i had a friendly feeling towards her."
waddington gave a thin, mocking little smile, but he answered with good humour.
"i will come and fetch you one day and she shall give you a cup of jasmine tea."
she would not tell him that this story of an alien love had from the first moment strangely intrigued her fancy, and the manchu princess stood now as the symbol of something that vaguely, but insistently, beckoned to her. she pointed enigmatically to a mystic land of the spirit.
but a day or two later kitty made an unforeseen discovery.
she went to the convent as usual and set about her first work of seeing that the children were washed and dressed. since the nuns held firmly that the night air was harmful, the atmosphere in the dormitory was close and fetid. after the freshness of the morning it always made kitty a little uncomfortable and she hastened to open such windows as would. but to-day she felt on a sudden desperately sick and with her head swimming she stood at a window trying to compose herself. it had never been as bad as this before. then nausea overwhelmed her and she vomited. she gave a cry so that the children were frightened, and the older girl who was helping her ran up and, seeing kitty white and trembling, stopped short with an exclamation. cholera! the thought flashed through kitty's mind and then a deathlike feeling came over her; she was seized with terror, she struggled for a moment against the night that seemed agonisingly to run through her veins; she felt horribly ill; and then darkness.
when she opened her eyes she did not at first know where she was. she seemed to be lying on the floor and, moving her head slightly, she thought that there was a pillow under it. she could not remember. the mother superior was kneeling by her side, holding smelling salts to her nose, and sister st. joseph stood looking at her. then it came back. cholera! she saw the consternation on the nuns' faces. sister st. joseph looked huge and her outline was blurred. once more terror overwhelmed her.
"oh, mother, mother," she sobbed. "am i going to die? i don't want to die."
"of course you're not going to die," said the mother superior.
she was quite composed and there was even amusement in her eyes.
"but it's cholera. where's walter? has he been sent for? oh, mother, mother."
she burst into a flood of tears. the mother superior gave her hand and kitty seized it as though it were a hold upon the life she feared to lose.
"come, come, my dear child, you mustn't be so silly. it's not cholera or anything of the kind."
"your husband is much too busy to be troubled. in five minutes you'll be perfectly well."
kitty looked at her with staring, harassed eyes. why did she take it so calmly? it was cruel.
"keep perfectly quiet for a minute," said the mother superior. "there is nothing to alarm yourself about."
kitty felt her heart beat madly. she had grown so used to the thought of cholera that it had ceased to seem possible that she could catch it. oh, the fool she had been! she knew she was going to die. she was frightened. the girls brought in a long rattan chair and placed it by the window.
"come, let us lift you," said the mother superior. "you will be more comfortable on the chaise longue. do you think you can stand?"
she put her hands under kitty's arms and sister st. joseph helped her to her feet. she sank exhausted into the chair.
"i had better shut the window," said sister st. joseph. "the early morning air cannot be good for her."
"no, no," said kitty. "please leave it open."
it gave her confidence to see the blue sky. she was shaken, but certainly she began to feel better. the two nuns looked at her for a moment in silence, and sister st. joseph said something to the mother superior which she could not understand. then the mother superior sat on the side of the chair and took her hand.
"listen, ma chère enfant . . ."
she asked her one or two questions. kitty answered them without knowing what they meant. her lips were trembling so that she could hardly frame the words.
"there is no doubt about it," said sister st. joseph. "i am not one to be deceived in such a matter."
she gave a little laugh in which kitty seemed to discern a certain excitement and not a little affection. the mother superior, still holding kitty's hand, smiled with soft tenderness.
"sister st. joseph has more experience of these things than i have, dear child, and she said at once what was the matter with you. she was evidently quite right."
"what do you mean?" asked kitty anxiously.
"it is quite evident. did the possibility of such a thing never occur to you? you are with child, my dear."
"lie still, lie still," said the mother superior.
kitty felt herself blush furiously and she put her hands to her breasts.
"it's impossible. it isn't true."
"qu'est ce qu'elle dit?" asked sister st. joseph.
the mother superior translated. sister st. joseph's broad simple face, with its red cheeks, was beaming.
"no mistake is possible. i give you my word of honour."
"how long have you been married, my child?" asked the mother superior. "why, when my sister-in-law had been married as long as you she had already two babies."
kitty sank back into the chair. there was death in her heart.
"i'm so ashamed," she whispered.
"because you are going to have a baby? why, what can be more natural?"
"quelle joie pour le docteur," said sister st. joseph.
"yes, think what a happiness for your husband. he will be overwhelmed with joy. you have only to see him with babies, and the look on his face when he plays with them, to see how enchanted he will be to have one of his own."
for a little while kitty was silent. the two nuns looked at her with tender interest and the mother superior stroked her hand.
"it was silly of me not to have suspected it before," said kitty. "at all events i'm glad it's not cholera. i feel very much better. i will get back to my work."
"not to-day, my dear child. you have had a shock, you had much better go home and rest yourself."
"no, no, i would much rather stay and work."
"i insist. what would our good doctor say if i let you be imprudent? come to-morrow, if you like, or the day after, but to-day you must be quiet. i will send for a chair. would you like me to let one of our young girls go with you?"
"oh, no, i shall be all right alone."
kitty was lying on her bed and the shutters were closed. it was after luncheon and the servants slept. what she had learnt that morning (and now she was certain that it was true) filled her with consternation. ever since she came home she had been trying to think; but her mind was a blank, and she could not collect her thoughts. suddenly she heard a step, the feet were booted so that it could not be one of the boys; with a gasp of apprehension she realised that it could only be her husband. he was in the sitting-room and she heard herself called. she did not reply. there was a moment's silence and then a knock on her door.
"may i come in?"
kitty rose from her bed and slipped into a dressing-gown.
he entered. she was glad that the closed shutters shadowed her face.
"i hope i didn't wake you. i knocked very, very gently."
he went to one of the windows and threw open the shutter. a flood of warm light streamed into the room.
"what is it?" she asked. "why are you back so early?"
"the sisters said that you weren't very well. i thought i had better come and see what was the matter."
a flash of anger passed through her.
"what would you have said if it had been cholera?"
"if it had been you certainly couldn't have made your way home this morning."
she went to the dressing-table and passed the comb through her shingled hair. she wanted to gain time. then, sitting down, she lit a cigarette.
"i wasn't very well this morning and the mother superior thought i'd better come back here. but i'm perfectly all right again. i shall go to the convent as usual to-morrow."
"what was the matter with you?"
"didn't they tell you?"
"no. the mother superior said that you must tell me yourself."
he did now what he did seldom; he looked her full in the face; his professional instincts were stronger than his personal. she hesitated. then she forced herself to meet his eyes.
"i'm going to have a baby," she said.
she was accustomed to his habit of meeting with silence a statement which you would naturally expect to evoke an exclamation, but never had it seemed to her more devastating. he said nothing; he made no gesture; no movement on his face nor change of expression in his dark eyes indicated that he had heard. she felt suddenly inclined to cry. if a man loved his wife and his wife loved him, at such a moment they were drawn together by a poignant emotion. the silence was intolerable and she broke it.
"i don't know why it never occurred to me before. it was stupid of me, but . . . what with one thing and another . . ."
"how long have you . . . when do you expect to be confined?"
the words seemed to issue from his lips with difficulty. she felt that his throat was as dry as hers. it was a nuisance that her lips trembled so when she spoke; if he was not of stone it must excite his pity.
"i suppose i've been like this between two and three months."
"am i the father?"
she clasped her hands. she knew that if she could say yes it would mean everything in the world to him. he would believe her, of course he would believe her, because he wanted to; and then he would forgive. she knew how deep was his tenderness and how ready he was, for all his shyness, to expend it. she knew that he was not vindictive; he would forgive her if she could but give him an excuse to, an excuse that touched his heart, and he would forgive completely. she could count on him never to throw the past in her teeth. cruel he might be, cold and morbid, but he was neither mean nor petty. it would alter everything if she said yes.
and she had an urgent need for sympathy. the unexpected knowledge that she was with child had overwhelmed her with strange hopes and unforeseen desires. she felt weak, frightened a little, alone and very far from any friends. that morning, though she cared little for her mother, she had had a sudden craving to be with her. she needed help and consolation. she did not love walter, she knew that she never could, but at this moment she longed with all her heart for him to take her in his arms so that she could lay her head on his breast; clinging to him she could have cried happily; she wanted him to kiss her and she wanted to twine her arms around his neck.
"i don't know," she said.
he gave the ghost of a chuckle. it made kitty shudder.
"it's a bit awkward, isn't it?"
his answer was characteristic, it was exactly what she would have expected him to say, but it made her heart sink. she wondered if he realised how hard it had been for her to tell the truth (at the same moment she recognised that it had not been in the least hard, but inevitable) and if he gave her credit for it. her answer, i don't know, i don't know, hammered away in her head. it was impossible now to take it back. she got her handkerchief from her bag and dried her eyes. they did not speak. there was a syphon on the table by her bed and he got her a glass of water. he brought it to her and held the glass while she drank. she noticed how thin his hand was, it was a fine hand, slender, with long fingers, but now it was nothing but skin and bone; it trembled a little: he could control his face, but his hand betrayed him.
"don't mind my crying," she said. "it's nothing really; it's only that i can't help the water running out of my eyes."
she drank the water and he put the glass back. he sat down on a chair and lit a cigarette. he gave a little sigh. once or twice before she had heard him sigh like that and it always gave her a catch at the heart. looking at him now, for he was staring with abstracted gaze out of the window, she was surprised that she had not noticed before how terribly thin he had grown during the last weeks. his temples were sunken and the bones of his face showed through the skin. his clothes hung on him loosely as though they had been made for a larger man. through his sunburn his face had a greenish pallor. he looked exhausted. he was working too hard, sleeping little and eating nothing. in her own grief and perturbation she found room to pity him. it was cruel to think that she could do nothing for him.
he put his hand over his forehead, as though his head were aching, and she had a feeling that in his brain too those words hammered madly: i don't know, i don't know. it was strange that this moody, cold and shy man should have such a natural affection for very little babies; most men didn't care much even for their own, but the nuns, touched and a little amused, had more than once spoken of it. if he felt like that about those funny little chinese babies what would he have felt about his own? kitty bit her lips in order to prevent herself from crying again.
he looked at his watch.
"i'm afraid i must go back to the city. i have a great deal to do to-day. . . . shall you be all right?"
"oh, yes. don't bother about me."
"i think you'd better not wait for me this evening. i may be very late and i'll get something to eat from colonel yü."
"if i were you, i wouldn't try to do anything to-day. you'd better take it easy. is there anything you want before i go?"
"no, thanks. i shall be quite all right."
he paused for an instant, as though he were undecided, and then, abruptly and without looking at her, took his hat and walked out of the room. she heard him go through the compound. she felt terribly alone. there was no need for self-restraint now and she gave herself up to a passion of tears.
the night was sultry and kitty sat at the window looking at the fantastic roofs, dark against the starlight, of the chinese temple, when at last walter came in. her eyes were heavy with weeping, but she was composed. notwithstanding all there was to harass her she felt, perhaps only from exhaustion, strangely at peace.
"i thought you'd be already in bed," said walter as he came in.
"all i want."
he walked up and down the long room and she saw that he had something to say to her. she knew that he was embarrassed. without concern she waited for him to summon up his resolution. he began abruptly.
"i've been thinking about what you told me this afternoon. it seems to me that it would be better if you went away. i have spoken to colonel yü and he will give you an escort. you could take the amah with you. you will be quite safe."
"where is there for me to go?"
"you can go to your mother's."
"do you think she would be pleased to see me?"
he paused for a moment, hesitating, as though for reflection.
"then you can go to tching-yen."
"what should i do there?"
"you will need a good deal of care and attention. i don't think it's fair to ask you to stay here."
she could not prevent the smile, not only of bitterness but of frank amusement, that crossed her face. she gave him a glance and very nearly laughed.
"i don't know why you should be so anxious about my health."
he came over to the window and stood looking out at the night. there had never been so many stars in the unclouded sky.
"this isn't the place for a woman in your condition."
she looked at him, white in his thin clothes against the darkness; there was something sinister in his fine profile, and yet oddly enough at this moment it excited in her no fear.
"when you insisted on my coming here did you want it to kill me?" she asked suddenly.
he was so long answering that she thought he had refused to hear.
she gave a little shudder, for it was the first time he had admitted his intention. but she bore him no ill will for it. her feeling surprised herself; there was a certain admiration in it and a faint amusement. she did not quite know why, but suddenly thinking of charlie townsend he seemed to her an abject fool.
"it was a terrible risk you were taking," she answered. "with your sensitive conscience i wonder if you could ever have forgiven yourself if i had died."
"well, you haven't. you've thrived on it."
"i've never felt better in my life."
he stood very still and the lamplight made the pallor of his impassive face startling. she did not trust him; if she said the wrong thing he would turn upon her with such an icy sternness. she knew by now his extreme sensitiveness, for which his acid irony was a protection, and how quickly he could close his heart if his feelings were hurt. she had a moment's irritation at his stupidity. surely what troubled him most was the wound to his vanity: she vaguely realised that this is the hardest of all wounds to heal. it was singular that men attached so much importance to their wives' faithfulness; when first she had gone with charlie she had expected to feel quite different, a changed woman; but she had seemed to herself exactly the same, she had experienced only wellbeing and a greater vitality. she wished now that she had been able to tell walter that the child was his; the lie would have meant so little to her, and the assurance would have been so great a comfort to him. and after all it might not be a lie; it was funny, that something in her heart which had prevented her from giving herself the benefit of the doubt. how silly men were! their part in procreation was so unimportant; it was the woman who carried the child through long months of uneasiness and bore it with pain, and yet a man because of his momentary connection made such preposterous claims. why should that make any difference to him in his feeling towards the child? then kitty's thoughts wandered to the child which she herself would bear; she thought of it not with emotion nor with a passion of maternity, but with an idle curiosity.
"i daresay you'd like to think it over a little," said walter, breaking the long silence.
he turned a little as if he were surprised.
"about when you want to go?"
"but i don't want to go."
"i like my work at the convent. i think i'm making myself useful. i should prefer to stay as long as you do."
"i think i should tell you that in your present condition you are probably more liable to catch any infection that happens to be about."
"i like the discreet way you put it," she smiled ironically.
"you're not staying for my sake?"
she hesitated. he little knew that now the strongest emotion he excited in her, and the most unexpected, was pity.
"no. you don't love me. i often think i rather bore you."
"i shouldn't have thought you were the sort of person to put yourself out for a few stuffy nuns and a parcel of chinese brats."
her lips outlined a smile.
"i think it's rather unfair to despise me so much because you made such a mistake in your judgment of me. it's not my fault that you were such an ass."
"if you're determined to stay you are of course at liberty to do so."
"i'm sorry i can't give you the opportunity of being magnanimous." she found it strangely hard to be quite serious with him. "as a matter of fact you're quite right, it's not only for the orphans that i'm staying: you see, i'm in the peculiar position that i haven't got a soul in the world that i can go to. i know no one who wouldn't think me a nuisance. i know no one who cares a row of pins if i'm alive or dead."
he frowned. but he did not frown in anger.
"we have made a dreadful hash of things, haven't we?" he said.
"do you still want to divorce me? i don't think i care any more."
"you must know that by bringing you here i've condoned the offence."
"i didn't know. you see, i haven't made a study of infidelity. what are we going to do then when we leave here? are we going on living together?"
"oh, don't you think we can let the future take care of itself?"
there was the weariness of death in his voice.
two or three days later waddington fetched kitty from the convent (for her restlessness had induced her immediately to resume her work) and took her to drink the promised cup of tea with his mistress. kitty had on more than one occasion dined at waddington's house. it was a square, white and pretentious building, such as the customs build for their officials all over china; and the dining-room in which they ate, the drawing-room in which they sat, were furnished with prim and solid furniture. they had the appearance of being partly offices and partly hotel; there was nothing homelike in them and you understood that these houses were merely places of haphazard sojourn to their successive occupants. it would never have occurred to you that on an upper floor mystery and perhaps romance dwelt shrouded. they ascended a flight of stairs and waddington opened a door. kitty went into a large, bare room with white-washed walls on which hung scrolls in various calligraphies. at a square table, on a stiff armchair, both of blackwood and heavily carved, sat the manchu. she rose as kitty and waddington entered, but made no step forward.
"here she is," said waddington, and added something in chinese.
kitty shook hands with her. she was slim in her long embroidered gown and somewhat taller than kitty, used to the southern people, had expected. she wore a jacket of pale green silk with tight sleeves that came over her wrists and on her black hair, elaborately dressed, was the head-dress of the manchu women. her face was coated with powder and her cheeks from the eyes to the mouth heavily rouged; her plucked eyebrows were a thin dark line and her mouth was scarlet. from this mask her black, slightly slanting, large eyes burned like lakes of liquid jet. she seemed more like an idol than a woman. her movements were slow and assured. kitty had the impression that she was slightly shy but very curious. she nodded her head two or three times, looking at kitty, while waddington spoke of her. kitty noticed her hands; they were preternaturally long, very slender, of the colour of ivory; and the exquisite nails were painted. kitty thought she had never seen anything so lovely as those languid and elegant hands. they suggested the breeding of uncounted centuries.
she spoke a little, in a high voice, like the twittering of birds in an orchard, and waddington, translating, told kitty that she was glad to neurotic fantasies, poetical myth structures, and certain forms of mental disease and crime lie close together, although far apart as to their causes and dynamic forces. we resist the temptation to follow one of these divergent paths which lead to altogether different realms, but which are as yet unblazed trails in the wilderness.
jesus, 47, 48, 49, et seq.
innumerable fairy tales, stories, and poems of all times, up to the most recent dramatic and novelistic literature, show very distinct individual main motives of this myth. the exposure-romance is known to appear in the following literary productions: the late greek pastorals, as told in heliodor’s “aethiopika,” in eustathius’ “ismenias and ismene,” and in the story of the two exposed children, daphnis and chloe. the more recent italian pastorals are likewise very frequently based upon the exposure of children, who are raised as shepherds by their foster-parents, but are later recognized by the true parents, through identifying marks which they received at the time of their exposure. to the same set belong the family history in grimmelshausen’s “limplizissimus” (1665), in jean paul’s “titan” (1800), as well as certain forms of the robinson stories and cavalier romances (compare würzbach’s introduction to the edition of “don quichote” in hesse’s edition).
the author has endeavored to explain the psychological relations between the exposure-myth, the flood legend, and the devouring myth, in his article on the “overlying symbols in dream awakening, and their recurrence in mythical ideation” (“die symbolschichtung in wecktraum und ihre wiederkehr im mythischen denken” jahrbuch für psychoanalyse, v, 1912).
the reader is referred to rank’s paper, “das inzest motiv in dichtung und sage” (“the incest motive in fiction and legend”), in which the incest theme, which is here merely mentioned, is discussed in detail, picking up the many threads which lead to this theme, but which have been dropped at the present time.
the female type of the family romance, as it confronts us in this case from the a-social side, has also been transmitted as a hero myth in isolated instances. the story goes of the later queen semiramis (in diodos, ii, 4) that her mother, the goddess derketo, being ashamed of her, exposed the child in a barren and rocky land, where she was fed by doves and found by shepherds, who gave the infant to the overseer of the royal flocks, the childless simmas, who raised her as his own daughter. he named her semiramis, which means dove in the syrian language. her further career, up to her autocratic rulership, thanks to her masculine energy, is a matter of history.
the phantom rider; or, the giant chief’s fate.
a tale of the old dahcotah country.
by maro o. rolfe, author of pocket novel no. 47, “the man hunter.”
new york. beadle and adams, publishers, 98 william street.
entered according to act of congress, in the year 1872, by frank starr & co., in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington.
the phantom rider; or, the giant chief’s fate.
chapter i. vinnie’s peril.
the scene of our story is laid in the great north-west.
it was a bleak, windy day in november. the shrill blasts wailed through the forest trees like the last despairing cry of a lost spirit, and gust after gust beat and roared around the little log cabin standing so silent and lonely, half buried in the midst of the titanic oaks that spread their long branches protectingly over its low roof, and whose sturdy trunks environed it, seeming to keep silent and untiring guard over its four rough walls.
the scene within the cabin was in striking contrast with the wild aspect without.
it was a rude but homelike place, and despite the chinked walls and rough furniture, there was such an air of plain comfort as one might expect to see in the abode of the sturdy western pioneer.
a young girl sat by a table engaged in embroidering a broad strip of dressed deer-skin with fancifully colored beads and quills—a blue-eyed, slender-looking little woman with shining masses of golden-brown hair falling unconfined about her small, shapely head, and down over her shoulders until it reached the waist of her dress, which fitted her willowy form to perfection, and whose ample folds half concealed, half disclosed a small, neatly-clad foot and well-turned ankle.
her sunny blue eyes held a soft, loving light, and a bright smile played continually upon her dainty face and around her rosy little mouth, with its ripe lips half parted from the rows of small white teeth.
but the azure eyes could flash with courage and determination, and the pretty mouth could be hard and stern with its strawberry lips tightly drawn and its tiny, gleaming teeth hard-set.
the settler’s daughter was very lovely, and she possessed a nerve and courage far beyond her sex.
a tall, powerfully-made man of fifty stood near the great wide-mouthed fire-place, in which a ruddy blaze leapt and glowed fantastically, shedding a pleasant radiance over the homely place that could not but be grateful to one who, like emmett darke, was preparing to leave it and go out into the wind and cold of the chill november day. but the settler, long used to the perils of border life, thought little of this.
his sharp gray eye and firm through pleasant mouth bespoke indomitable courage and strength of will; and as he stood there in the red glow of the dancing firelight, buckling on his deer-skin belt in which he thrust the borderman’s trusty companion, a long, keen-edged hunting-knife, with a brace of heavy pistols, he looked the personification of the ideal hunter of the far western wilds.
a huge blood-hound lay on the floor at his feet—a large, red-eyed creature with white, gleaming teeth—a brute that might be a true and faithful friend, but could not but be a terribly dangerous enemy.
the object in the room most likely to attract the attention of a casual observer was a small square box of polished wood, standing on the table.
besides the tall clock ticking in a corner, this casket was the only visible thing that bore evidence of having been made by hands more skilled than those of the settler, or with tools other than those common implements ever ready at the pioneer’s grasp, the ax and the auger.
what this curious little box contained, will appear hereafter.
soon the hunter’s preparations were completed, and slinging a long rifle, which he had taken down from its place on three pegs in the wall, across his shoulders, he turned to his daughter who had wound the soft deer-skin belt, upon which she had wrought innumerable fancy devices, gracefully about her waist and shoulders, and stood regarding him with a merry light sparkling in her blue eyes.
“how do i look, papa?” she asked. “like some dusky forest princess?”
and she finished by placing a jaunty turban in which were fastened several bright-colored plumes, which drooped down until they touched her beautiful golden hair, coquettishly on her head.
“more like a regular angel, wings and all!” he exclaimed, admiringly: for emmett darke loved his beautiful motherless child more than his life. “that hair and those eyes of yours don’t look very injiny. wouldn’t that red lover of yours go wild if he saw you now? i don’t wonder he’s half-crazy and calls you ‘sun-hair!’ how about that youngster, clancy vere, eh, vinnie? has he an eye to beauty?”
the maiden blushed rosy red; but the laughing eyes became thoughtful in a moment.
“do you know, papa, that i often think of him—the indian? oh, if he should come some day when you are gone! he is wild and bloodthirsty and his passions are ungovernable. he has taken a solemn vow to make me his wife!”
“he shall never fulfill that vow!” cried the old man, with a dangerous light in his cold gray eyes. “i’ll have his life, first! if he comes here again i’ll give him a free pass to the happy hunting-grounds!”
emmett darke’s face was almost white with rage, and he brought the heavy stock of his long rifle down on the floor with a sharp bang.
“just so sure as that red devil has the misfortune to be caught anywhere near my cabin, i will shoot him down like the coward he is! my daughter is never to become a squaw, eh, vinnie?”
“never, father! never will i become the indian’s wife! i would sooner shed my own heart’s blood!”
she spoke so calmly and yet determinedly that her father half-shuddered. he knew that she meant every word, and he breathed an inward prayer that god would watch over his lonely child and guard her from all peril during his absence.
the hunter stood silent and motionless for a few moments, thinking intently. arousing himself at length, he said, turning to the blood-hound, who was on his feet in an instant, running around him and licking his hands:
“come, death! we must go.”
in a few minutes they had passed out, and were walking rapidly and silently through the forest.
as darke went away, a face appeared among the thick bushes close by the cabin—a red face, hideously daubed with black and yellow paint, with long, coarse black hair, hanging down the sunken jaws, and fierce black eyes flashing triumph and exultation as the hunter disappeared from view. darke did not see this face, and the bushes closed over it in a moment, concealing it as suddenly as it had appeared.
after her father was gone, vinnie went and stood before the fireplace, looking down into the red mass of leaping flames.
she was deeply buried in thought, and she heard no sound save the hissing of the fire and the wailing of the wind around the corners of the cabin, and through the bare branches of the great oaks outside.
she little thought what a lovely picture she made as she stood thus, silent and motionless—one might almost imagine breathless—with a dreamy, far-off look in her soft eyes, and the glancing blaze lighting up her fair face till she looked, in fantastic guise, like some beautified fairy queen, some incomparable silvan goddess.
rarely, radiantly lovely she appeared, strangely out of place in that homely room.
she was unconscious of this—unconscious, also, of another presence in the cabin until the back-log fell suddenly with a dull thud, throwing out a shower of red sparks and arousing her on the instant from the fit of abstraction into which she had fallen.
with a quick start, she turned her head and saw a tall form close behind her—so near that it might easily have touched her.
it was the form of an indian, powerful and massive. the face was the same that had peered through the shrubbery at emmett darke a few minutes before.
there was a strange light glowing in the fierce eyes fixed so steadily on the lovely face before him—a look of wild passion as dangerous as it was intense.
the savage did not speak nor even stir; but the hard, cruel lines on his forehead and about his mouth relaxed a little as he tried to twist his ugly visage into the semblance of a smile—a semblance that was even more loathsome than its habitual scowl—that was nearer the leer of an exultant fiend than the smile of a human being.
vinnie’s face was deathly pale, and her heart seemed for a moment to lay still in her bosom; but she tried to meet the gaze of those devilish eyes calmly. she stood quite still, looking into the cruel face, but she dared not trust her voice.
the indian spoke at length, in a tone harsh and rasping, like the snarl of some wild animal:
“ku-nan-gu-no-nah has come for his squaw. sun-hair is very beautiful. ku-nan-gu-no-nah is a mighty warrior. he has always loved the white maiden since he met her in the forest many moons ago. the great chief’s heart has been burning for sun-hair. he has prepared his wigwam. it is hung around with the scalps of his slain foes. sun-hair will be a queen. the indian women will bow down their heads in shame before the beautiful sun-hair! is she ready? will she go with the great chief? his warriors are waiting to see their queen!”
for a moment vinnie did not speak, then the words came clear and sharp from her white lips:
“no! i will never go!”
the chief’s face was fairly demoniac in an instant—the sickish leer was gone, and the savage teeth shone through the drawn lips in two white, gleaming rows. he advanced with a quick motion, and laid his hand roughly on her arm.
“come!” said the harsh voice, “sun-hair must go!”
chapter ii. clancy vere and his trouble.
“here i am!”
it was a young man who spoke, standing on the bank of a small stream that had its course through the forest at a point about two miles distant, as a bird flies, from emmett darke’s cabin.
he was tall and well-formed, with hazel eyes and dark-brown hair. his face was clear-cut and handsome, open and frank in its expression, while it indicated a goodly stock of firmness and courage.
this is clancy vere, the young hunter, an allusion to whom had brought the rich blood to vinnie’s face that very afternoon.
he was clad in a complete suit of dressed deer-skin, elaborately ornamented about the shoulders with bright-colored beads and quills, his hunting-shirt being gathered about his waist with a wide belt from which protruded the stock of a heavy revolver and the silver-mounted hilt of a long bowie-knife, while a powder-horn and bullet-pouch were slung by a leathern cord under his left arm.
as he spoke, he dropped the butt of his rifle, a trim, beautifully-mounted weapon, until it rested on the turf at his feet; then he stood leaning on it for a long time, looking intently down into the depths of the eddying stream before him.
he was thinking—of a girl with blue eyes and golden brown hair—of emmett darke’s beautiful daughter, vinnie.
clancy vere loved vinnie devotedly, and not hopelessly, she had led him to think; though, as yet, he had never made any formal declaration of his passion.
still, as a look is oftentimes fraught with more meaning than the most high-sounding speech, and the pioneer’s daughter had not, upon certain occasions which he could recall, been chary of these looks, vere was very far from being despondent.
he lived at a small settlement a half-dozen miles away, and had set out that morning to visit the cabin of the hunter. his errand there may be easily surmised.
he had proceeded thus far on his way without adventure worthy of note, and intended to cross the stream in a canoe that he knew darke kept concealed in the undergrowth at a place a hundred yards below the spot where he now stood.
so intent was he upon his musings, that he heard no sound save the rippling of the water and the roar of the wind through the trees.
he did not see the bushes part close behind him and a dusky form emerge from its concealment, to be followed by another, then another, until six indians had entered the little grassy space in which he was standing, and began stealthily to take different positions around him until his chances of escape were cut off on all sides.
he was brought to realize his situation in a moment.
a chorus of shrill, exultant yells rung out on every hand.
he turned on the instant, and his quick eye measured the strength of his savage foes. they were too near at hand for him to bring his rifle to bear; but gripping it firmly around the barrel, he brought the ponderous stock down on his nearest assailant, crushing in his skull like an egg-shell.
there was a muffled thud as the deadly weight fell a second time, and another savage sunk over on the ground without a groan.
an indian was creeping up stealthily behind him. as vere raised his clubbed rifle a third time, throwing it high above his head, in order that the blow might be more effective, the savage, who had been crouching down on the ground a moment close beside him, sprung high in the air, and clutching the gun-barrel near the lock, wrenched it from the young hunter’s hands just as it began to descend.
this quick, hard pull upon the weapon, which he gripped with all his strength, caused him to stagger a trifle, and before he could regain his footing and draw his bowie-knife, the three remaining indians sprung upon him and bore him to the ground.
in a moment his elbows were pinioned behind his back, and his weapons were transferred from his belt to those of his captors.
they pulled him roughly to his feet, and an indian took his place on either side, leading him along by the arms. the brave who had disarmed him walked behind, while the remaining savage, who was evidently a warrior of some importance, to judge from the number of eagle’s feathers which ornamented his head and the many trophies of the war-path and the chase which were hung about his neck and secured to his belt, led the way up the stream, pausing ever and anon to give some guttural command in his native dialect to his followers, who clutched their captive’s arms firmly, as if they feared that, bound and almost helpless as he was, he would attempt to escape.
they had seen evidence of his prowess, and wisely concluded that he was a safer prisoner well guarded than when allowed to walk alone.
for an hour they kept on, over fallen trees and heaps of rock, through tangled masses of undergrowth, now bearing a little to the right, then to the left; but always keeping within hearing of the stream, whose monotonous murmurings seemed to grow louder and hoarser as they proceeded, until they changed to a wild, sullen roar, like the impetuous rushing and dashing of a cataract.
at length, after a long silence, the leader of the party turned toward vere and said, impressively:
“does the pale-face hear the song of the waterfall? it is chanting his death-song! the black waters laugh because they will swallow up the pale-face!”
soon the sun appeared through an opening in the leaden gray clouds that had drifted lazily through the sky until they were gathered together in a dark, lowering mass overhead, and its bright rays trembled for a moment upon the surface of the water.
“see!” continued the indian, pointing to the falls just visible through the trees. “see the waters smile! they laugh because the red men will give them a pale-face victim! let the white man hear them sing! ‘ha! ha!’ they say, ‘the pale-face must die!’ it is his death chant! the great manitou is speaking through the laughing waters. he is happy with his red children when a pale-face dies. the white hunter is brave. he is not afraid to fight. but his heart will grow small within his bosom when he must go down into the black waters—the river of death! will he be brave when he meets the unknown dangers of the dark valley? he will find it hard to die now. he is young and the world looks bright to his eyes. perhaps a white woman will weep when he is dead. the indian women have mourned for their husbands and brothers when they have gone out to fight the long-knives and never returned. the laughing waters are crying aloud for their victim. the white man must die!”
“we all must die,” said vere, calmly, not caring to show the concern he really felt. “men have died before, why should i fear death?”
an expression of surprise flitted over the indian’s painted face.
few men could meet death so calmly.
the young hunter had resolved not to die without a desperate struggle; but he preferred that his captors should think him resigned to his fate—the horrible fate which seemed inevitable.
a few rods above the falls a tree grew far out over the water, rushing madly to the cataract below.
the bank at this point was rough and jagged, its steep and rocky sides jutting out full twenty feet above the black, roaring mass underneath.
the party halted here.
“the pale-face hunter’s feet must be tied,” said the indian who had spoken before. “he must not fight with the laughing waters.”
producing a stout leathern thong, about twelve feet in length, one of the savages advanced to coil it around the captive’s ankles.
as he stooped, vere drew his foot back suddenly and planted it with tremendous force squarely in his face, flattening his long nose and knocking out several of his sharp white teeth.
the indian rolled over on the ground with a wild screech.
the pain was terrible, and he lay for a moment, pressing his disfigured face and giving utterance to a series of hoarse, agonized groans.
then he sprung up suddenly with a wild yell of rage and vengeance.
he was upon vere in an instant, his long fingers entwined in his hair and his scalping-knife circling with lightning rapidity around his head.
the young hunter’s arms were securely pinioned.
he was utterly powerless in the red fiend’s hands.
death—sudden and terrible—seemed certain; but he did not flinch.
his fearless eye was fixed on the indian’s face, and his own did not change when he felt the keen knife-point pricking the skin upon the crown of his head.
he was not afraid to die.
he thought of the terrible, because unknown life beyond the grave—and of vinnie!
would she weep when he was gone?
he trusted so, and stood calmly awaiting the great change.
chapter iii. vinnie’s stratagem.
vinnie’s face was very pale, but she did not cry out. a wild fear, an awful terror, was tugging at her heart, but she would not give way to it. she knew she would need all her native courage and coolness in the ordeal which she foresaw she must endure.
ku-nan-gu-no-nah’s hand retained its rough grip on her arm, and his harsh voice repeated:
“come. sun-hair must go!”
resistance would, she knew, be of no avail. it would only serve to arouse the indian’s passions to a still higher pitch of intensity—to make him, if possible, still more demoniac, and still more determined than ever to fulfill his vow, and carry out his intention to abduct and bear her away to his wigwam.
she must have recourse to stratagem.
so, to gain time, she said as calmly as possible, but with a wild throbbing at her heart which she tried in vain to still:
“so the great chief loves the pale-face maiden? he would make her a queen? he would spend his whole life to make her happy? is it not so?”
“and my life shall be like one long day in the bright spring-time?” she said, as bravely as she could, smiling through all her fear.
“yes,” again said the chief, with a searching look in her white face.
he had expected tears and opposition, and he received instead, smiles, and apparent acquiescence, and he was surprised and partially thrown off his guard.
“may be the white maiden will go with her indian lover,” said vinnie. “give her time to think. it is very hard for her to leave her home and her kind old father. does the chief think he can make sun-hair happier than she has been here? can he make her forget her father and her home?”
“did not ku-nan-gu-no-nah tell the beautiful sun-hair that she should be a queen? she shall wear robes as dazzling as the light of the sun. she need not work like the indian women. she need do nothing but sit and sing like a bird all day long. the red-women will bow their heads in shame before her bright face, and the warriors will sing songs about her beauty. they will think of their beautiful queen when they go on the war-path, and they will always return with the scalps of their dead enemies hanging in their belts. what more can sun-hair wish?”
“i think i will go,” said the girl, slowly. “only give me time to think.”
“ugh! it is well!” grunted ku-nan-gu-no-nah, with another of his sickish smiles. then frowning darkly, and with a significant tap on the handle of his tomahawk:
“but sun-hair no fool the chief! if she does he will kill her! she can’t get away. take care!”
the indian let her free now; and he sat down on a low stool near the door, as if half fearing some treachery on vinnie’s part, but he was pretty well assured, after all, that she would go with him without much resistance. vinnie stood for some time, striving to think of some plan by which she might escape the indian, who watched her every motion from under his heavy, overhanging brows, as closely as a cat watches a mouse.
there was such a look of half-suspicious triumph on his dark face and in his cruel eyes as is sometimes seen in the eyes of the panther, as it sits quietly by, watching its prey, and suffering it to live and exult in a few moments more of life that the moment of its annihilation, when it comes suddenly and unlooked for, may be the harder to bear.
but the poor girl rejected plan after plan as impracticable. at one time she thought of making some excuse to enter an adjoining apartment and secure a pistol which she knew her father kept there; but she feared that the savage would discover her intention and tomahawk her at once. then she contemplated making a rush for the door at the cabin and escaping into the forest; but her reason told her that the chief would overtake her before she was fairly outside the door.
at last, when she had nearly given up in despair, a thought suggested itself to her brain—how, she never knew, it was so wild and strange—that made her heart leap with a newborn hope—a hope that she might yet outwit her captor and gain time until something—she know not what—should intervene to save her from the fate he had marked out for her.
she sat down by the table and opened the small box of polished wood, of which mention was made in our first chapter, the indian watching her the while from his place near the door.
this casket, on being opened, prove to be a small galvanic battery; and vinnie was but a moment preparing it for action.
when all was in readiness, she took a pair of electric slippers from a drawer in the table and placed them beside the battery.
then, knowing the superstition of the indian race, she arose, and waving her hands several times very slowly around her head, seemed to be invoking a charm. her eyes were fixed apparently on vacancy, and she stood motionless for several minutes; then smiling sweetly, she turned to ku-nan-gu-no-nah, who had advanced to the center of the room, and stood regarding her mystic performance with a sort of awed wonder, she said in a low, soft voice, that sounded to him like the murmuring of a distant brooklet:
“does the chief know that the great manitou has given the white maiden a mysterious power, greater than is possessed by any of the indian medicine-men? would ku-nan-gu-no-nah like to see evidence of the white maiden’s power?”
the indian stood quite still while she was speaking, with a look of mingled doubt and awe on his face. at last he said in his harsh voice:
“ugh! let ku-nan-gu-no-nah see what sun-hair can do. she is not a great medicine-woman. there is but one who has a mighty power from the great spirit, and that is yon-da-do, the great conjuror of my tribe. sun-hair can’t get away. the chief will kill her if she tries. let ku-nan-gu-no-nah see!”
“let the chief look and be convinced!”
vinnie attached the slippers to the conductors leading from the battery, and set them side by side on the cabin floor.
then, taking up her position behind the table, she commenced to operate the machine slowly at first, then faster, until the slippers began to skip about, dancing a sort of shuffle, which caused the indian’s face to take on a look of still greater wonder.
“see,” she said, turning the little crank faster, causing the magic slippers to jump higher and oftener than before. “do you longer doubt my power? you, ku-nan-gu-no-nah, strong brave though you are, can not hold those dancing moccasins when i command them to move!”
the chief’s face lighted up in an instant with a look of scorn and contempt. no one had ever doubted his strength before. surely he could hold those skipping bits of leather.
“look!” he said. “let sun-hair see the chief hold them so fast they can not tremble.”
he stooped down and raised them from the floor, holding one in each hand.
he clutched them firmly, and then went on:
“see the chief hold them. a pappoose could do it. see—”
his words were cut short suddenly, the slippers dropped from his hands, and with a wild shriek of terror, he ran to the further side of the room.
he stood motionless several minutes, his dusky face the picture of blank amazement, looking at the palms of his hands as if he would see what had acted upon them with such powerful effect. he could not conceal his chagrin as vinnie said, tauntingly;
“ku-nan-gu-no-nah is a great brave. he is very strong. he can not hold a pair of moccasins. they jump out of his hands, and he runs away like a whipped dog! the big chief is very strong. what a warrior he must be!”
“it is a lie!” yelled the indian, almost beside himself with rage and mortification. “i can hold the dancing moccasins!”
“try it,” said the beautiful magician, sententiously. ku-nan-gu-no-nah advanced timidly, and took the slippers up daintily between his thumbs and fore-fingers.
“get a firm hold,” said vinnie. “you will need all of your boasted strength. ku-nan-gu-no-nah, a great chief and a brave warrior, has said that a pappoose could hold the dancing moccasins. let us see if he can do what a pappoose could do. he says that sun-hair has no mysterious power, more terrible than that of the indian medicine-man, yon-da-do. he will see. is he ready?”
the savage gripped the magic slippers with all his strength, seeming determined that this time he would give the fair conjuror no opportunity to taunt him with lack of success.
“ugh!” he grunted, “ku-nan-gu-no-nah is ready.”
“you have them fast now, have you?”
vinnie could not repress a smile as he answered, clutching the electric slippers tighter than before:
“yes; they not stir now.”
she muttered a few words in a low tone, passing her hands backward and forward before her face, and commanded the slippers to dance.
at the same instant she set the battery in action, and the chief’s hands, acted upon by the electricity, which she had made more powerful than before, seemed to clutch the slippers like a vise.
a horrible expression of mingled rage and pain crossed his distorted face, and he gave utterance to a shrill scream of fear and agony that might have been heard, so loud and resonant was it, fully a mile away.
at last vinnie ceased to turn the machine, and ku-nan-gu-no-nah reeled back and sunk down in a corner of the cabin almost exhausted.
his eyes rolled wildly in their sockets, his mouth twitched nervously, his long, coarse black hair stood half-erect, and he trembled with an awful, superstitious fear in every fiber of his being.
“what does the chief think now of the white maiden’s power?” asked vinnie. “what does he think of the little box and the dancing moccasins? where now is his vaunted strength? can the great brave do what a pappoose can do? does he want to try again?”
“no! no!” panted ku-nan-gu-no-nah, with chattering teeth. “sun-hair is a great conjuror. she has a power from the great spirit! she has a devil-box, and moccasins such as are worn where the long-knives go when they die—where there is fire always! hell, they call it. the white maiden is a greater conjuror than yon-da-do. she has a devil-box and hell-moccasins!”
at this moment there were sounds of footfalls outside the door. the noise came nearer, and there was a sharp, scratching sound on the door like that produced by some keen-pointed instrument.
vinnie felt a terrible fear forcing its way to her heart.
“my god!” she thought. “what if it should be some of ku-nan-gu-no-nah’s warriors? would they show me any mercy after the trick i have played on their chief?”
the scratching noise was repeated, louder than before, and she could see the heavy door tremble. with a white face, she stood awaiting—she knew not what!
the indian still cowered down in the corner, apparently heedless of what was passing around him.
but it was not fated that clancy vere should die by the scalping-knife.
the indian who had acted as the leader of the party leaped forward with a sharp cry, and with a quick blow of his powerful hand, sent the knife flying from the maddened brave’s grasp into the water tossing and roaring twenty feet below.
“what would bear-killer do?” he said, giving the baffled savage a sudden push that sent him staggering back against the tree. “has he forgotten the laws of our nation? does he forget that the great chiefs have said that when a number of warriors take a captive all shall have a share in putting him to death?”
bear-killer was cowed; but he stood with lowering brows, glowering upon the young hunter with a look of fierce hatred that made him appear, with his dark face bruised and bleeding, absolutely diabolical.
“wy-an-da is right,” he said, at length. “bear-killer forgot. the pale-face must die hard! bear-killer must be avenged!”
“we will give the white hunter to the laughing waters,” said wy-an-da. “he must die!”
“he must die!”
the four indians repeated these three ominous words in a hoarse chorus, and began to circle slowly around the captive, brandishing their tomahawks and knives furiously and screaming the wild scalp-halloo of their tribe.
several minutes passed thus, vere standing in the circle of screeching braves calm and unmoved; then all became suddenly silent, standing still and dropping their hands by their sides as if moved by a common impulse.
“is the pale-face ready to die?” asked wy-an-da.
“i have said that i do not fear death!” replied the young hunter, calmly. “i am ready!”
the last faint ray of hope was extinguished now. he was bound and helpless—they could do with him as they would; and as calmly as possible he resigned himself to his fate—the horrible fate that seemed inevitable!
“wy-an-da will tell the pale-face hunter how he must die,” said the chief. “it is not a pleasant death. he will be afraid. his heart will grow small within his bosom and his face will be white as the snow in winter. he will not like to die so. will he be brave at the last moment?”
“i tell you i am ready to die!” shouted vere.
he knew that the savage was trying to torture him, and he would not let him see what pain it really gave him—the anticipation of this sudden and terrible departure from the life that had just begun to seem so happy to him.
“why do you wait?” he added, stolidly. “i tell you i am ready!”
“it is well,” said wy-an-da. “the white hunter is a brave man. he shall die thus: he will be hung by a lasso, head downward, from the branch of that tree there that reaches out over the laughing waters. then the indian that can throw his tomahawk the truest will cut the lasso, and the white man will fall down and the laughing waters will sweep him over the rocks. then his body will be dashed to pieces on the sharp stones below! is it pleasant to think of? will the pale-face be brave?”
this speech was greeted by a chorus of satisfied grunts from the savages.
a shudder ran through vere’s frame and his spirits sunk as he heard the chief pronounce his fearful doom; but it was only for a moment. then he appeared calm and apparently unmoved.
a more diabolical torture could not well be conceived.
it was terrible—this standing face to face with death; but the young hunter showed no signs of fear.
five minutes later he was swinging, head downward, over that black flood hastening on with a wild roar to the precipice below.
the chill autumn wind, wailing in fitful gusts through the forest trees, his body gave an oscillating motion, and it seemed, as he swayed at that dizzy height, as if every vibration would precipitate him into the water below.
after the lasso was securely fastened to the protruding branch, the indians drew back about twenty paces from their swinging victim and prepared for their trial of skill in hurling the tomahawk.
each was anxious to have the first throw.
at length it was decided that wy-an-da should have the precedence.
he took his place with a confident air, like one who is assured of success.
carefully noting the distance, he drew his tomahawk back, and, taking deliberate aim, gave it a quick jerk; and it went whirling out of his hand.
they watched its flight eagerly.
it missed the lasso by six inches.
the swaying hunter was saved thus far.
he had been watching wy-an-da as he only could look whose life hung on the issue.
he closed his eyes as he saw the weapon whizzing through the air, and awaited the end.
a tall indian of massive frame stepped forward.
“o-wan-ton try,” he said.
he measured the space accurately with his keen eye; but his tomahawk flew wide of its mark, burying itself to the eye in the limb to which the lasso was secured.
the victim of the laughing waters was saved again.
next came wolf-nail.
the young hunter watched him with a white face and a heart wild with despair.
he stepped forward slowly, and hurled his tomahawk without much care.
the swinging cord was a difficult target.
vere felt the lasso jerk, and thought the end had come.
but he was saved again.
the handle of the tomahawk struck the lasso, and the weapon glanced off and fell with a muffled splash into the water.
bear-killer was the last to try.
he was yet half-wild with rage; and with the blood still streaming from his disfigured face, he made ready to hurl his tomahawk, hoping to sate his vengeance and send the young hunter to eternity.
vere was looking at him, and his heart seemed for a moment to stop its pulsations.
this time death seemed certain.
he saw that the red demon did not intend to throw at the cord.
he was taking deliberate aim at his head!
the young hunter saw him draw back his weapon, and closed his eyes.
there was a moment of terrible agony to the man vibrating, as it were, between earth and eternity—and then all became dark!
he seemed to be shooting down—down—and he knew no more.
he had fainted.
those few terrible moments of suspense—ages they seemed to him—had been more than he could bear. the constantly tightening noose around his ankles was excruciatingly painful, and the position in which he hung caused the blood to flow to his head. none but a man young and strong like vere could have retained his consciousness so long as he had done.
bear-killer was exultant. a moment more, and his fiend-like longing for vengeance would be satisfied.
he noted the distance carefully with his practiced eye, and with a grim smile of triumph on his blood-streaked face, raised his tomahawk and prepared to make the fatal throw.
suddenly a wild, unearthly cry, like a prolonged wail, rung out on the wind, sounding strangely ghastly above its moanings.
bear-killer’s tomahawk slipped from his grasp, and a sickly pallor overspread his face, and those of his companions blanched to an ashen hue.
the four indians gave utterance to wild cries of fear and consternation.
“the spirit warrior! the spirit warrior!”
a white steed was flying across a small opening in the forest directly toward them, and mounted upon its bare back, guiding it with neither bridle nor reins, rode a ghastly human skeleton of gigantic proportions.
with cries of terror, the stricken little band of savages turned to fly.
on came the terrible phantom rider with the speed of the wind!
as it drew near, it sprung up suddenly, and standing upright on the back of its flying steed, threw something round and black high in the air; then, with another unearthly scream, rode on and disappeared in the forest.
the thing went up with a hissing noise, a broad, brilliant streak of flame marking its course, and then fell with a terrific explosion in the very midst of the indians.
then there came a chorus of agonized shrieks, and three of the savages were laid dead on the ground.
bear-killer escaped, and fled with a loud, terrified howl into the forest.
the dead indians were horribly mangled, and wy-an-da’s head was blown a rod from his body.
then all was silent save the roaring cataract and soughing wind.
not a being was in sight, save the unconscious one who swung by a small cord between this life and the one beyond the grave!
emmett darke went into the forest in search of game; and he was successful, for in an hour’s time he had shot and dressed a large buck.
he only took the choicest portions of the deer, which he rolled carefully up in the skin, leaving the remainder to the wolves, panthers, and other beasts of prey that infested the forest. he bound the pelt around the meat he had selected by means of deer-skin thongs through a firmly tied loop, in which he thrust his gun-barrel; and throwing his burden across his shoulder, set out for home.
he was very anxious to reach the cabin; for he could not keep his mind from dwelling on his conversation with vinnie that afternoon, and he did not like to leave her alone longer than was necessary.
the blood-hound, death, who had rendered his master valuable service in securing the deer, trotted along after him, as if pleased with the idea of returning to the cabin so soon.
the hunter had proceeded but a short distance, however, when he met with an accident that nearly cost him his life.
as the afternoon advanced, the chill november wind blew harder and colder, till its moanings changed to a fierce roar, and it was evident, even to eyes less accustomed to weather signs than darke’s, that a fearful storm was approaching—one of those cold, gusty rains peculiar to the north-west.
as he was passing a dead oak, whose barkless, decayed trunk and bare, broken branches bore marks of the storms and winds of a hundred years, he was startled by a loud crash overhead.
looking up, he saw that a fearful gust of wind that just then swept through the wood, blowing the dried leaves and twigs hither and thither and everywhere in wild confusion, had broken off a massive limb, which was falling with lightning velocity directly toward him. dropping his burden, he sprung aside, but though the movement saved his life, he did not escape the full force of the blow.
the ponderous mass came whirling down, one end of it striking him on the back of the head.
he reeled and staggered two or three steps, and then sunk down insensible among the fallen leaves.
after surveying his fallen master a minute or two, the blood-hound advanced and lay down by his side, as if to keep guard over him. for several minutes he remained in this position, then probably not noting any signs of vitality in the unconscious man, he arose, and, after whining several times in a low key, the sagacious creature took the sleeve of his hunting-shirt between his teeth and pulled it gently. this action was repeated several times; and at last, receiving no reply from his master, the faithful dog set out as fast as his feet would carry him for the cabin.
had he forsaken his master, or gone after assistance?
how long darke remained unconscious, he knew not.
when consciousness returned, he found himself in a sort of cavern fitted up as a hunter’s lodge, apparently, for great piles of skins were to be seen in different parts of the place, and a couple of rifles leaned against the rocky wall at one side, while a small keg, that evidently contained powder, stood near by, half concealed by a deer-skin hunting-shirt, which was thrown carelessly over it, with a bullet-pouch and powder-horn secured to the belt.
he noticed also that the cave was divided into apartments, for a curtain made of the skins of various wild animals was suspended from a cord overhead.
a dull, hard pain in his head caused him to think of himself, and he now saw, for the first time, that it was bandaged, and he was reclining on a bed made of the pelts of the bear and the panther at one side of the place.
if any further evidence was required to satisfy the hunter that the place was inhabited, it was forthcoming in the shape of a savory odor of broiling venison that was wafted from the inner apartment.
“where was he? who had brought him to this place?”
these and many other questions he asked himself, but after five minutes had been consumed in vain conjecture, he was as far from the solution of the mystery as at the moment when he first awoke to consciousness. he remembered the circumstance of the falling limb in the forest, and after that, all was blank. he did not know when he came, or who had brought him to this place. he was familiar with the country for miles around, he thought, and yet he did not know that there was such a cavern in the vicinity of his cabin.
of one thing, however, he was assured.
the people who occupied the place must be friendly, else why had they brought him here and cared for him so tenderly?
soon he heard a voice in the other part of the cave—a coarse, heavy voice, evidently that of a man. it said:
“give us the whis’, ’lon. i guess he’s comin’ round all correct. a good pull at this’ll fetch his idees back, i reckon.”
a corner of the curtain was raised, and a man appeared, carrying a small bottle of liquor—so darke inferred from the words he had just heard.
darke took the flask, drank some of its contents, and handed it back to the man, whom he had been regarding attentively from head to foot all the while he had been speaking.
he was very tall—nearer seven feet than six—and his frame was massive in proportion. he was, to judge from his face, which was partially obscured by a thin growth of sandy beard, thirty-five years of age, though one might easily have called him five years older or five years younger. he had pale watery-blue eyes; a capacious mouth, from which projected the points of a few large, scraggy teeth; very high and sharp cheek-bones; enormous ears; long, sunken jaws, with hollow cheeks, and a high, sloping forehead, blowing about which, and streaming down his back, were a few long, thin locks of red hair, escaping from beneath the rim of a battered and dirty old silk hat that had once been white, though evidently a good while since.
this ancient tile was secured to the giant’s great head by means of a light strap of deer-skin, which was lost to view under his chin among his sparse, bristling whiskers.
he was dressed in a fur garment, part coat, part pantaloons, that enveloped his entire person from his chin to his feet, which were enormously large, and incased in a pair of cowhide boots that looked, so extensive were they, and at the same time so old, as if they might have seen service, in the removal of the baggage of the patriarchal noah and his sons and daughters from the family mansion to the ark, when they were compelled to pull up stakes and emigrate at the time of the universal deluge.
“where am i? who are you?”
this darke asked after the “natural talker” had stopped to take breath.
“why, stranger, or mr. darke, i might say—for i’ve known you by sight this four year—you’re right here, and safe, i reckon. i’ve lived here six years, and i’ve never seen any r’al ginewine ghosts yet. i’m leander maybob, formerly of maybob center, down in old massachusetts. if i was real up in etiquette, i s’pose i’d ’a’ introduced myself afore; but i ain’t polite. now my uncle peter was a master polite man. i remember once, when he went down to bosting to sell his wool—wool was ’way down that season, he lost on that wool awful—and got kinder turned ’round like. well, he kept wanderin’ all over for a right smart of a while, but he couldn’t nohow see his way clear back to the ‘full bottle inn’—he was a-puttin’ up there. my uncle peter was a master polite man, and didn’t consider it proper to speak to folks as hadn’t been introducted to him, and so he kept right on wanderin’ about without inquirin’ the way till late in the afternoon, when he begun to experience the gnawin’ pangs of an empty stummick; and he made up his mind as ’twould be better to be guilty of a breach of politeness than to starve. but he wasn’t quite certain, and so he took out his etiquette book—he always carried one, my uncle peter did, deacon checkerfield’s, i believe—and looked to see if there was any rules touchin’ this very peculiar case o’ his’n. well, he set down on a bar’l in a shed, for ’twas a-rainin’ hard by this time, and studied his book till it got so dark he couldn’t see to read any longer, and then he concluded to break etiquette or bu’st. etiquette was a master fine thing, he argu’d, the very foundation o’ society; but ’twasn’t hardly the thing for an empty stummick. so he got up and went into a big house right across the way. here he see a feller as looked kinder nat’ral. ‘pardin,’ sez he, ‘your countenance looks f’miliar.’ he made a master bow as he spoke. ‘will you be so kind as to tell me the way to go to the full bottle inn?’ ‘’tain’t no way in p’tickler’, sez the feller. ‘beg pardon,’ sez my uncle peter. he was a master polite man. ‘but i want to know how fur ’tis to the full bottle inn.’ ‘’tain’t no distance at all,’ sez the feller, ‘it’s right here.’ my uncle give in and begged the feller’s pardon—he was a master polite man, my uncle peter was. he’d been settin’ right in front of the inn for hours studyin’ his etiquette book, cause he didn’t know nobody to ask. he didn’t tell of it for five years afterward.”
at this moment the curtain which divided the cavern was pushed back at one side, and another person advanced toward darke and his titanic companion.
he came and stood by leander maybob, and the hunter looked from one to the other in astonishment.
he was scarcely four feet in hight, the top of his head barely reaching the giant’s waist.
his apparel resembled that of his more portly companion, with the exception of the covering for the head and feet.
the dwarf’s round little pate was surmounted by a grotesquely broad-brimmed wool hat, and he appeared, as his small keen eyes flashed quick, nervous glances about, not unlike the traditional “toad under a cabbage-leaf,” while his lower extremities were adorned by a pair of nicely-fitting deer-skin moccasins.
“he’s my little brother,” the giant said, by way of introduction. “we’re the maybob twins. we ain’t much alike you see. he’s a little mite of a feller, and i’m big enough to be his daddy; he’s dumb—can’t speak a word—and i’m a nat’ral talker. now uncle peter said as how he thought ’twasn’t hardly fair, makin’ me so big and so complete in every way, and him so little and scarce; but says daddy, says he—and he was a univarsal smart man daddy was—says he it’s all in the family, and they’ll both together make a couple of middlin’ good-sized men—they’ll about average, and it’s all in the family. my little brother’s name’s alonphilus. but if we’re different in sich respects, we’re alike as fur as the one great principle of our lives goes. ain’t we, ’lon?”
there was a scintillant glow in the dwarf’s little black eyes as he nodded assent.
chapter vi. out in the storm.
trembling herself with a fear all the more terrible because of its vagueness and uncertainty, and with her beautiful face pale as death, vinnie stood and watched the trembling of the heavy cabin door, as the scratching noise was repeated for a third time.
the sound was louder, more imperative than before.
the chief seemed suddenly to arouse from the state of frightened inactivity into which he had fallen, and rising on his feet, walked, or rather staggered, toward the shaking door.
he seemed to have lost all his strength, for he reeled across the floor like a drunken man.
for two or three minutes the sound was not repeated, and vinnie and the savage stood waiting with bated breath.
they had not long to wait.
again came that harsh, grating sound, as though some one was digging the point of a knife, or some other hard, sharp instrument into the door.
almost simultaneously with this noise, came a long, low whine, evidently that of a brute.
the look of wild fear left her face, and she advanced toward the door, while the low wail was repeated in a louder key and more prolonged than before.
she gave utterance to a glad exclamation.
“it is death!”
it was evident in a moment that ku-nan-gu-no-nah, also, had discovered the cause of the strange sounds.
he seemed to gain new strength.
“it is the dog!” he said harshly, laying hold of the girl’s hand, just as she was about to open the door to admit death.
“he is large and strong,” continued the chief, “and his teeth are like the points of knives!”
she knew her power over his untutored, superstitious mind, and she was no longer afraid.
she nodded again and said:
“yes, he is very strong, and his teeth are like needles. if he sets them into an indian’s flesh he will die. shall i let him in to you? his name is death!”
the savage gripped her hand tighter.
“no,” he said, with evident alarm. “sun-hair must not let the dog in.”
giving her a quick, sudden pull, he drew her across the room and through the other apartment to a rear door.
her face changed color and she tried to release herself from his hold, but without avail.
here he unhanded her, and went back and closed the door between the two rooms. barring it securely he returned, and laying his heavy hand on her shoulder, he bent over till his dark face almost touched hers, and fairly hissed through his set teeth:
“sun-hair has a mighty power from the great manitou. she has escaped ku-nan-gu-no-nah this time, with her devil-box; but let her beware! if the dog could get at the chief he would kill him, but ku-nan-gu-no-nah is safe. before sun-hair can open both doors he will be away in the forest. let the pale-face medicine-woman beware!”
vinnie did not try to detain him. she could not. all the time he had been speaking, his hard, bony fingers were closed on her shoulder like an iron vise.
he let go his hold suddenly, and an instant later was running across the little open space at the rear of the cabin.
vinnie saw him disappear among the trees, and then turned and opened the door that led into the other apartment.
in a moment she had undone the fastenings of the other one, and the blood-hound sprung into the cabin.
he stopped before vinnie, and looking up into her face, gave utterance to a long, low whine.
she patted his head and caressed him, but he would not be satisfied.
still whining piteously he turned, and with his red eyes fixed on her face walked toward the door.
she did not heed this mute appeal.
he turned again and going up to her, took hold of her dress with his teeth and pulled it quietly.
“why, death, old fellow!” she said, caressing the sagacious brute again. “what is the matter? where is your master?”
when she mentioned her father the dog pulled harder at her dress, almost pulling her along toward the door.
a wild fear seemed suddenly to force its way to her heart. there was only one way in which she could account for the strange demeanor of the dog.
surely something must have happened to her father!
she was sure of this when she remembered a story that he had told her once, about the blood-hound’s saving her life when she was a child of five or six.
the chill wind was blowing harder than when the hunter set out from the cabin, and the black, angry clouds, hanging low in the sky, threatened momentarily to open and shower down the cold, half-frozen november rain over the earth.
suddenly, while vinnie looked out, there came a fierce gust of wind tearing through the great oaks and rattling their heavy leafless branches against the walls of the cabin.
twigs and leaves were flying in wild confusion through the air, and it was growing darker every moment.
“a wild and fearful storm is approaching,” said the girl, shudderingly; “but i must not hesitate. my father is in danger—may be he is—”
she paused a breath, as if fearful to say the word; and then went on: “maybe he is dead!”
the dog was tugging at her dress again.
“yes,” she said, in reply to his dumb, eager look. “yes, i am going. come!”
and shutting the door after her, she followed her brute guide out into the storm, which had now begun to fall, and away through the forest till they arrived at the place where the hunter had met with the accident from the falling limb a short time before.
here the dog stopped, and after sniffing about for a moment, readily found the trail which the giant hunter had made as he carried darke away to the cavern, where we left him at the close of our last chapter.
then he turned, and pulling again at vinnie’s dress, trotted slowly away on the track he had just discovered.
the storm had been steadily increasing, and it had been growing darker all the time, till the forest was indescribably somber and gloomy.
the brave girl did not shrink; but drawing a blanket she had thrown around her on leaving the cabin closer about her slender form, to shield her in a measure from the sleet that dashed against her person, cutting almost like a knife, she pushed on after the blood-hound, increasing her speed to keep up with him.
by and by death stopped suddenly at the foot of a steep, rocky acclivity.
he seemed, all at once, to have lost the trail.
vinnie drew her blanket closer about her face and shoulders, and crouching close up against the trunk of a large tree, watched him eagerly.
he ran back and forth several times along the base of the acclivity, searching for the lost trail; then paused at last, with a quick, glad yelp, before a large rock that, almost hidden by the thick overhanging shrubbery along the hillside, seemed to be firmly imbedded in the earth. then for several minutes he made no sign.
had he lost the trail again?
he whined, and began to scratch away at the earth about the bottom of the bowlder.
vinnie, at a loss to account for his strange behavior, drew the blanket up over her head, and creeping closer up under the friendly shelter of the great tree-trunk, looked on in wonder.
it did not occur to her that the flat stone might conceal the entrance to the cavern beyond—for she was indeed at the opening that led into the place where leander maybob, the giant hunter, had carried her father but a little while before.
soon the blood-hound stopped digging, and sat down, with another long, low whine, keeping his red eyes fixed immovably on the dark surface of the rock before him.
“what can it mean?” vinnie asked herself. “he does not search for the trail any longer. why does he stop here? what is there about that rock? i wonder if it is immovable. perhaps it covers the trail some way. i am going to attempt to move it. it looks very ponderous. it must be very heavy.”
she examined the bowlder closely, but could see nothing to indicate that it had ever been stirred from the place where it seemed so firmly imbedded into the earth.
she laid hold of a corner that appeared to project more than any other portion of the rock, and pulled with all her strength.
the stone remained immovable. of what avail were her weak little hands?
“i can not stir it,” she said. “it is as firmly fixed as masonry. i am not strong enough.”
when the dog saw that she was trying to remove the bowlder, he recommenced scratching at the dirt at its base, giving utterance ever and anon to quick, glad yelps.
she tried once more; but her second efforts were as unavailing as her first.
“it is no use,” she said, half to herself and half to the blood-hound. “i can not stir it. but what does it mean? in what manner does it cover the trail? it does, somehow; or death would surely pick it up and follow on. what a fearful storm! i never saw one like it before. how the sleet cuts my face and hands!”
and she shrunk back into her old shelter.
the dog kept his place before the bowlder, from which he never removed his eyes till his quick ear caught a strange sound, which even vinnie heard plainly above the roar of the storm.
following the direction of the brute’s gaze, the girl saw a sudden and unexpected sight.
some one was approaching on a white horse.
she cowered down out of sight behind the tree-trunk and watched. the storm half blinded her; but she could see that it was a man, and that something, wrapped in a thick, black cloth, hung limp and helpless across the horse before him. it was like a human being. was it alive or dead?
chapter vii. over the precipice!
the minutes—ten—thirty—sixty, dragged slowly by, and clancy vere knew naught of them. all this time he had hung by a cord between this life and the next; but he comprehended it not. he was still insensible.
the wind increased in force until it swayed the great tree from which he was suspended, and swung him backward and forward, pendulum-like, over the turbid, roaring flood below.
still he knew it not.
by and by a lithe, dark form, with great fiery eyes and ravenous jaws drew its dark length out of the cover of a thicket near by, and creeping stealthily along the ground, ascended the tree, and crouched menacingly on a branch directly above him.
it was a panther.
for ten minutes the terrible brute eyed him with its red, fiery eyes, and then, settling further back on its haunches, prepared to pounce upon him.
still he knew not his peril!
closer down on the branch of the tree crouched the panther, its great red eyes seeming fairly to blaze, while its long tail waved to and fro, lashing first one of its sleek, shining sides and then the other.
it was all ready to spring—in an instant it would dart from its perch on the limb and shoot like an arrow down upon its swaying prey; every muscle of its lithe body was contracted. one breath—and then?
there was a dull, cutting sound, as a tense-drawn bow-string was jerked straight, and a long, slender arrow came whizzing out of a copse near at hand, and, pierced to the heart, the panther rolled off of the limb and fell quivering to the ground at the very moment when its victim seemed so secure and its triumph so complete. its powerful limbs straightened out, and the ravenous brute was dead.
in a moment a form emerged stealthily from the thicket and crept across the opening to the foot of the tree.
it was bear-killer!
his ugly face still bled from the effects of the kick he had received from the young hunter a couple of hours before. his purpose in returning so soon to the scene of his late discomfiture and the death of his companions, is easily surmised when the reader remembers that he was as vindictive and vengeful as a fiend.
he gave the panther a kick with the toe of his moccasin, and saw at once that it was quite dead.
“the panther would cheat the red-man out of his revenge,” he said, savagely. “it must not be so. nothing can save him now. he must die! the revenge of bear-killer is near at hand. the white hunter’s time has come.”
as the indian ceased speaking, he drew his tomahawk, and stepped back a few paces where his aim at the head of the swinging and senseless young hunter would be true and certain.
he noted the distance accurately with his practiced eye, and poised his weapon.
“how quick he will die!” he muttered. “how easy bear-killer will slay him!”
“bear-killer will not slay him!” said a deep voice, close at his side; and a heavy hand was laid on his arm, so suddenly and with such force that the tomahawk fell from his grasp and half buried itself among the leaves at his feet.
bear-killer turned with a sharp grunt of rage and surprise. his mutilated face expressed nothing, but his small, baleful eyes scintillated like those of a cowed and baffled wolf.
the hand on his arm tightened its hold, and the deep, stern voice repeated authoritatively:
“bear-killer will not slay him!”
the speaker was an indian, tall and massive in build, and manifestly the superior of bear-killer in strength.
his dress and equipments indicated him to be a chief. bear killer seemed to recognize his superiority, either of rank or strength, or both.
it was ku-nan-gu-no-nah, who had but just now made his escape from the cabin of emmett darke, and the terrible power which he believed vinnie possessed; and he was making his way back through the forest toward the indian village, when he discovered bear-killer in the act of consummating his dreadful vengeance on the unconscious white man.
ku-nan-gu-no-nah recognized this white man at a glance.
he knew it was clancy vere.
and he had particular reasons for not wishing bear-killer to become his slayer.
perhaps his chief reason was that he wanted to put the young hunter to death himself.
he was aware that clancy vere was his successful rival in the affections of vinnie darke, or sun-hair, as he was wont to call her.
jealous and vindictive as he was, this was sufficient to make him hunt his pale-faced rival to the ends of the earth, if he could not compass his death without.
many times when he had seen clancy go to the hunter’s cabin, had he vowed in his fierce, jealous rage to kill him, but something had heretofore always intervened to baffle him; but now he was exultant. the time for which he had so long waited had come. the young hunter was bound and insensible in his power. he asked nothing more. his triumph seemed almost complete. his discomfitures and rebuffs at vinnie’s hands that afternoon had more than ever determined him to wreak vengeance on her lover, since he stood in too wholesome awe of the lovely magician to think for a moment of again attempting to obtain forcible possession of her person—at least not at present.
with a sudden movement, bear-killer wrenched himself free from the chief’s grasp, and faced him half angrily, at the same time picking up the tomahawk out of the leaves at his feet.
“why does the chief interfere?” he asked.
“because,” said ku-nan-gu-no-nah, “he would slay the pale-face hunter himself. he has cause for revenge!”
“and has not bear-killer cause for revenge?” the indian almost yelled. “look at his face! yonder white man did this. the pain is like a thousand tortures. what says the chief? has he greater cause for revenge than bear-killer?”
“the chief has greater cause for revenge than bear-killer,” said ku-nan-gu-no-nah.
“he has not!” said the indian, decisively. “bear-killer will not be cheated out his vengeance! he saved the pale-face from the panther that he might kill him himself!”
“and the chief has saved him from the vengeance of bear-killer that he might have his revenge!” said ku-nan-gu-no-nah, with a grim, devilish smile. “let the warrior wait, and he shall see the vengeance of a chief.”
he advanced toward the tree; and, as he neared it, his gaze fell on the dead and horribly mangled bodies of the savages who had fallen before the terrible charge of the phantom rider.
the undergrowth had concealed them from his view until now.
he started back with a loud cry of surprise and wonder.
“did he do it?” he asked, pointing toward the swaying white man.
“who then?” interrogated the chief, in an awed whisper.
“the spirit warrior.”
“the spirit warrior!”
the chief reiterated the words in a dazed sort of way, like one under some subtle spell, while for an instant a shudder seemed to convulse his massive frame, causing it to shake like an aspen.
“yes,” said bear-killer, “it was the spirit warrior—the spirit of the outcast chief, meno. when will meno’s vengeance be complete?“
“when ku-nan-gu-no-nah and all his braves are no more! when the sons of the red-men who tortured their own chief to death are all numbered with the dead! then, and not before, will the vengeance of the outcast and murdered sachem, meno, be complete. every day brings it nearer the end!”
the two indians started as though a keen-edged knife had pierced their vitals. then they stood transfixed with fear, staring into each other’s eyes as if to inquire the source of the answer that had come to bear-killer’s question almost before it had left his lips.
the tones of the voice that had spoken the words were hollow, and the weird and terrible menace seemed to be borne to them on the winds from afar off, in a wild, ghastly chant that thrilled every fiber of their superstitious beings with a vague horror that they could not shake off.
the dismal wailing of the wind through the forest trees, the sullen roar of the storm which had set in a little while before, and the monotonous dashing of the cataract below, all combined to inspire them with a sort of awed dread, that the spirit voice, crying out to them above the crash of the wind and storm, augmented into a wild, ungovernable fear.
for several moments, the two indians stood silent and motionless, neither daring to speak or stir.
for a few seconds the wind was hushed and the dashing storm seemed to have spent its fury.
then in an instant it seemed as if the storm demon had sent forth all his forces of wind and sleet. trees were blown over, limbs were flying hither and thither, and the wind increased to a perfect tornado, wailing and shrieking like a regiment of fiends. the indians saw that the white man was swinging to and fro at a fearful rate. it seemed as though the lasso must break at every oscillation. he vibrated backward through a space of fully twenty feet. they could not keep their footing, and were obliged to throw themselves prostrate on the ground.
high above the fearful roar, and crashing of uprooted trees and fallen limbs, loud and clear above the shrieking of the wind, was borne to them again the voice of meno, the spirit warrior:
“let ku-nan-gu-no-nah beware! meno’s vengeance will overtake him. he will die a more horrible death than even his devilish mind can comprehend! let him beware!”
the two indians remained motionless upon the earth, trembling at every joint. although giant trees were being uprooted on every hand and massive limbs were falling all around them, they were unharmed.
clancy vere’s peril was imminent.
the tree, from a branch of which he was suspended, groaned and cracked under the force of the storm, threatening momentarily to break loose from its place in the bank and go crashing over the precipice.
even if the stout roots remained firm in their hold on the earth, the cord by which he hung was liable to be jerked asunder at any oscillation of his body; and he would shoot headlong down into the seething flood underneath and be swept to destruction over the waterfall below.
a quarter of an hour passed, during which the two savages did not arise from their recumbent position and the spirit voice did not again speak.
the tree remained firm and the lasso seemed to deride all attempts on the part of the tempest to break it. it would crack, but it would not part.
thus far, clancy vere had been saved; but he was still unconscious, and had not realized the terrible danger that had menaced him.
soon the storm began to abate somewhat.
ku-nan-gu-no-nah and bear-killer got upon their feet by-and-by, when the fury of the storm was in a measure spent.
their sharp sense of bearing had been keenly alert to catch any further words from the spirit warrior. but they did not hear the terrible, menacing voice again.
“it has gone,” said the chief.
“yes,” assented bear-killer, in a tone of relief. “we shall hear it no more to-day. it went away on the storm.”
“the vengeance of meno is terrible!” said the chief, with a shudder. “but we are safe now. now for my revenge!”
“stop,” said bear-killer. “we will draw lots. i, too have come here for vengeance on the white hunter.”
the chief grunted a guttural and very unwilling compliance to this proposition.
“we must hurry,” he said, “or he will be dead. he is almost dead now.”
bear-killer made a very small mark on the trunk of the tree.
“the one that throws his tomahawk the nearest to the mark wins,” said he.
they took their places almost on the verge of the high bluff on which they were standing.
ku-nan-gu-no-nah threw first.
his tomahawk buried itself in the tree-trunk, within half an inch of the mark.
there was a baleful glow in bear-killer’s wolfish eyes as he poised his weapon, a treacherous glitter that the chief did not fail to notice. just as the handle of the tomahawk was slipping out of his grasp, the chief dealt him a powerful blow on the side of the head. he staggered a moment and his body swayed to and fro as he tried to regain his balance on the very edge of the bank. the next instant his wild death-yell came up from below!
chapter viii. the giant’s story.
darke noted the angry flash in the dwarf’s little black eyes, as he nodded an eager assent to his brother’s strange question, and wondered not a little what the “one great purpose” of this queerly assorted pair’s lives was; but he forbore to question the giant, not doubting that, if it was not some secret that they did not wish to disclose, he would explain himself in good time. and this belief was not far from correct, as the giant hunter’s next words attested. he sat down on a stool near at hand; and as alonphilus came and stood at his side, he said:
“yes; wer’e livin’ for some purpose. we have given our lives up to revenge! wer’e a-gittin’ revenge every day, hain’t we, ’lon?”
the dwarf’s round little pate was bent forward again until darke just caught the glitter of the dusky eye under the broad rim of his slouch hat; and this he interpreted to be a token of assent to the giant’s question. as his face was raised to view again, he thought he saw the dwarf’s mute lips move, as if in an attempt to speak, and he imagined that volumes of vindictive, vengeful words were struggling for utterance. but the dumb tongue was incapable of expressing even a tithe of the dark passion that was written on every lineament of the pigmy’s face.
“and we’ve anuff to be revenged for, god knows!” leander maybob went on. “we can’t never wipe out of our memories our old father and mother that the red devils murdered in cool blood; we can’t never forgit the awful sight our eyes rested onto, when we came home from a hunt one morning; we can’t never wipe this out of our minds. but, the just god helpin’ us, we’ll wipe every one of their murderers off o’ the earth before we die! the devil that led them shall die a more horrible death than even his own hellish mind has planned for his poor helpless victims! we’ve done a deal t’ward fulfillin’ our vow in the past six years; eh, ’lon? we’ve made many a savage bite the dust in that time!”
the dwarf’s hand darted into the bosom of his hairy vestment; it came out again in an instant, and he held up to darke’s view a deer-skin string about four feet in length, which was knotted almost from one end to the other.
he touched each knot in succession with the forefinger of his right hand, accompanying every motion with a nod of the head.
“there’s just a hundred an’ forty-eight knots,” said the big hunter; “and every one on ’em is a red-skin’s eppytoph!”
that slender strip of deer-skin, simple and harmless as it appeared, told a ghastly story of conflict and of death and of half-sated vengeance!
“we’ll git our hands on him yet,” the big hunter went on. “we’ve had chances to kill him of’en enough; but jest a common death ain’t enough fer him. he desarves more; an’ i want to give him his jest desarts. he must die an awful death! our vengeance’ll overhaul him yet, ’lon. then you may tie a double knot! we’ll give him two varses to his eppytoph; eh, ’lon?”
the dwarf nodded, touched the hilt of his hunting-knife significantly, and made motions as if to tie a knot in the string which he still held in his hand.
“of whom do you speak?” queried darke, as he supported himself on his elbow.
“the red fiend that led the attack on our cabin! the devil that shot my mother and carried my old father’s white scalp away in his belt! hain’t we got reason plenty fer vengeance? do ye wonder that we hunt, and kill indians as you would kill serpints? do ye think it’s strange that we don’t want to let that red imp die a common way?”
the big hunter had arisen while he spoke, drawing his titanic form up to its full hight. the expression on his face was terrible to look upon. as he finished, he brought his ponderous clenched fist down, striking it in the horny palm of his other hand.
drake half shuddered.
“no—no!” he cried. “no death—no torture on earth is horrible enough to be meet punishment for the atrocities of such a fiend incarnate! is he an indian chief?”
the giant nodded. his ungovernable rage seemed to have entirely spent itself, and he did not speak; but stood with folded arms and downcast eyes, his massive frame as motionless as though carved out of the solid rock around them.
alonphilus seemed to partake keenly of this feeling of undying, inveterate hatred of the indians. his face wore a hard, implacable look, and he kept drawing the record of their vengeance slowly through his fingers from one hand to the other, as if he longed to tie the short end of it that was yet unmarked by the little death register into one great hard knot, that could never be entangled, in commemoration of the passage from this life to the next of the murderer of his parents and the triumphant consummation of their terrible work of vengeance.
the spell that was on the big hunter was only momentary, and it was but a minute or two before he was himself again; and he signified his willingness to resume the conversation by saying, as he reseated himself on the stool at the side of the couch of skins on which darke reclined:
“well, i heerd elder fugwoller say onc’t—and he was college l’arnt—‘it’s a long tow-path, or cow-path, or suthin’, as hasn’t got no turns into ’em;’ and i believe it’s true as gospil.”
the dwarf turned and walked across the cavern, and, pushing aside the dividing curtain, disappeared within the inner apartment, replacing the death record in his bosom as he did so.
“the day of retribution is sure to come at last. it is not often that the guilty escape punishment,” said darke. “it is sure to overtake them sooner or later. god’s justice is certain!”
“i’m a-thinkin’,” returned leander maybob, “as how ku-nan-gu-no-nah’s tow path or cow-path’ll take a mighty unexpected turn some day!”
the big hunter seemed surprised at darke’s sudden exclamation.
“yes,” he said, “that’s the devil’s name. do you know him? have you got an account ag’in’ him?”
“yes,” cried darke, sitting bolt upright on the couch, while a hard, stern look settled on his face. “yes; i believe i have. and i am going to present it for settlement the very first time i see him!”
“what do you mean?” the other asked, evincing no small degree of interest in the words and actions of darke. “has he ever—”
“i’ll tell you,” interrupted darke. “then you’ll understand how it is. we—i mean vinnie, my motherless daughter, and myself—live alone in our little cabin. there is no one to keep us company and no one that i can leave with her when, as i am often compelled to do, i go in search of game out into the woods. sometimes i am absent a whole day together; but i never stay away over night. some time last summer, while vinnie was wandering through the edge of wood that skirts our little clearing, ku-nan-gu-no-nah saw her and conceived the idea of making her his wife. always choosing times when i was away, he has several times come to my cabin; trying to persuade vinnie to go with him to his wigwam and become his squaw. he has never offered her violence, but the last time, failing to induce her to do as he wished, he threatened to abduct her and bear her away to the indian village. i have left her a pistol to be used as a protector, and she has not been brought up on the frontier without learning how to handle it. i am staying away to-day, i fear, longer than i ought to. i hope i shall be able to go home soon. how long is it since you brought me here? i begin to feel stronger, as if i could walk easily enough now. have i been here long, did you say?”
“i lugged ye in here som’eres about the middle of the a’ternoon,” replied the other, “and it’s purty near night now. ’lon’s comin’ back with the glims now. you’ve b’en here som’ere’s about three or four hours. d’ye b’lieve yer fit to travel now?”
“yes,” said darke. “i think all my strength has come back. i do not feel weak or faint; but my head aches terribly—that’s all. i must go.”
the dwarf entered at this juncture, bearing four or five pitch-pine torches, which he lighted and stuck into niches in the rocky walls of the cavern.
“i s’pose ye calkilate to shoot him?” said leander maybob, eagerly. “i s’pose ye’ll kill him. ’twould only jest be in the natur’ of things fer ye to do so; but i wish ye wouldn’t. i wish ye wouldn’t harm a hair of his head. ye see he can’t die only onc’t; and if you kill him he won’t suffer only one death. if we wipe him out, he’ll hev to die a hundred deaths in one! if ye jest load a gun in the common way and fire it off, that’s all there is of it; but if ye puts in a good many loads and rams ’em down good till ye’ve got it chuck full cl’ar to the muzzle, and then manage some way to git out of danger and gives the trigger a leetle jerk, why then ye’ll bu’st the ’tarnal thing. ye see when we tech ku-nan-gu-no-nah off, we calkilates to bu’st him. i wish ye’d jest let us pay it all off together—your score and our own. what d’ye say?”
“you know a man always feels better for taking his own revenge,” said darke. “it’s more satisfactory.”
“yes, i know ’tis,” replied the big hunter. “i know ’tis, and i wouldn’t nohow let any man take our job outen our hands; but when i tell ye our story, i b’lieve ye’ll agree as we’re the ones that ought to have the prime chance at ku-nan-gu-no-nah. if i’ll tell it to ye, ye’ll jest give the subjick a few minutes thort, won’t ye?”
“i should like very much to hear your story,” said darke; “and i’ll consider what you have proposed.”
it is unnecessary that we should follow leander maybob through the somewhat tedious length of recital, during which he made many pauses and numerous repetitions; but we will give the reader the substance of his sad story.
the giant hunter had, with his dwarf brother and his parents, considerably advanced in life, come from the east seven years before, and erected a pioneer’s cabin at a place down the river twenty or twenty-five miles from their cavern lodge. they commenced making a little clearing, and for several months all went well; although the indians made almost daily visits to their forest home, they never molested any thing or offered any violence. the days went by and they began to fancy themselves secure from any harm from the savages. but they put too much faith in their treacherous natures. when darke heard how a band of the dusky fiends, led by ku-nan-gu-no-nah, attacked the old settler’s cabin one dark, stormy night in the absence of his sons—when he heard how the stout-hearted, gray-haired old man and his feeble wife had been driven out, after defending their cabin and their lives gallantly for nearly two hours, by the flames which were devouring their little log home, whose rough walls had warded off the indians’ bullets, which had rallied harmlessly from their sides; how they had been butchered as they came out from the roaring, crackling mass—when the giant avenger told him with a moisture suffusing his eyes of the return next morning of himself and alonphilus and the heart-sickening sight they beheld; when he heard all this, he could not wonder that these strange brothers had taken a solemn and fearful vow to avenge their parents’ death. he knew that their claim on the life of the chief was greater than his; so he said, as he arose from the couch—for he was much stronger now:
“i will promise you this. unless i find it absolutely necessary to protect myself or mine, i will try to forego my revenge on ku-nan-gu-no-nah and leave him to your disposal. is this satisfactory? i believe you have a better right to kill him than i.”
“thank ye!” said the big hunter, grasping darke’s hand and squeezing it almost painfully in his bony fingers. “thank ye, mr. darke. it seems as how i can’t thank ye enough!”
“never mind the thanks,” said darke. “i am your debtor. you took me in when—”
“there! that’ll do,” interrupted leander. “come.”
as he ceased speaking, he turned and led the way into the inner apartment of the cavern.
darke felt quite well now, with the exception of an acute pain in his head, and he followed his strange entertainer with no difficulty whatever.
the place where he now found himself resembled the outer cavern a good deal, only it was much smaller and contained a sort of rude fireplace, on the hearth of which a bright fire was blazing merrily, sending showers of sparks up a narrow fissure that served as an outlet for the smoke; in short, it was a natural chimney, and could not have answered its purpose better had it been built up of stone and mortar in the usual way. another small apartment was curtained off from this in the same manner that the two larger apartments of the cavern were separated from each other, only the curtain of pelts was closely drawn, as if special pains had been taken to shut out the interior from the view of any one in the other part of the cave.
the big hunter motioned darke to a seat on the stool near the fire, and then, followed by the dwarf, passed into this smaller room, if such it might be called, carefully closing the curtain behind him. soon darke heard him say something in a subdued tone that he could not understand. a moment later he caught a few words that caused him to wonder greatly. evidently there was a mystery connected with the little apartment. he heard the rough voice of the big hunter say:
“does he show any signs of life yet? can’t be he’s dead!”
the next moment they returned, but the giant offered no explanation of the mystery, whatever it was, and darke thought best to act as though he had not overheard the strange words quoted above. a large oaken chest stood nearly in the center of the place; and on its lid alonphilus had arranged a savory supper of broiled venison.
the brothers each drew a stool up by the side of this strange table, and leander invited darke cordially to do the same.
after he had partaken of the food so hospitably proffered by his new-found friends, he announced his intention to depart at once for home. the big hunter told him that it was already growing dark outside, and he knew that he must have been away from vinnie at least five hours, now; and he feared that she would grow uneasy if he did not return soon.
he thanked the twin avengers for their kindness and was about to go, when he saw alonphilus raise one end of the chest as if to carry it to some other part of the cavern. he stood close at hand, and he laid hold of the other handle to assist the dwarf in its removal.
white and terrible at his feet, lay a grinning, horrible skeleton of gigantic proportions!
“our secret! our secret!” cried the big hunter, hoarsely. “you hev diskivered our secret!”
chapter ix. lost in the forest.
still crouching down by the great tree-trunk at the entrance of the cavern lodge of the maybob twins, in whose care her father, of whom the reader recollects she came out in search, was at that very moment, though she knew it not, and had no knowledge of the cave itself, vinnie watched, as best she might, through the blinding storm, the approach of the rider of the white horse and his mysterious burden. death, desisting for a moment from his persistent pawing of the earth at the base of the rock that had defied the girl’s weak attempts at removal a few minutes before, came, and standing close beside her, poked his sharp nose out through the bushes that grew thick around the foot of the tree, and watched with his keen eyes the horseman, who was coming nearer every moment.
she could not see the man’s face very distinctly, for he wore a wide, slouch hat that, when he bent far forward on his horse, to prevent the sleet from beating into his eyes and mouth, almost entirely concealed it from view.
but the mysterious burden that he carried before him was plainly visible, and seemed, perhaps because of its very mystery, to have a sort of weird fascination for her.
she could not see the object, itself; it was so closely rolled in and so carefully protected from the driving storm by the heavy black wrap that entirely enveloped it from head to foot—for she had firmly determined that it was a human form. only one question remained unsolved in her mind now.
“was it alive or dead?”
she uttered a little cry of consternation. then she rubbed her eyes and looked again.
but there was nothing there, where the man and the horse and that other thing had been, only the falling storm, still raging with all its fury.
what could it mean?
she asked herself this question shudderingly, while, in her fear, she clung around the neck of her great brute companion, glad in the terror that possessed her of the company which he, dumb animal though he was, could be to her.
the blood-hound had never, for an instant, removed his gaze from the place where the mysterious horseman, with his black burden, had so unaccountably disappeared a few moments before; and while vinnie’s arms were yet around his neck he tore himself from her embrace and darted out of sight among the shrubbery that grew dense and heavy about the spot.
vinnie called to him repeatedly, but he did not come back. she waited, then called again and again with a like result. the dog did not come; nor could she hear him beating about the undergrowth.
had he deserted her?
she would not believe it; and she cried again, her voice almost losing itself in the roar of the storm:
“death! death! death, come back! here, death—good old fellow! come back!”
again she waited and listened.
the wind and storm were all the sounds she heard.
then it seemed to come to her all at once that she was alone. even her brute protector had deserted her.
all alone in the tempest that was raging through the forest like a thousand furies!
“he has gone!” she quavered, hugging the tree-trunk closer, as a gust of wind wilder than any before swept through the forest, uprooting a large sycamore not far away, and blowing the covering off from her head; letting the sleet dash in its sharp, cutting way into her face. “he is gone,” she repeated with slow iteration, “and i am all alone!”
she thought of returning to the cabin; but she dared not face the storm. it was almost certain death to attempt to make her way home with the storm at its hight and while trees were falling almost constantly, and branches flying hither and thither all the time, crashing through the tree-tops and whirling in mid-air as though they had been but feathers instead of massive pieces of wood.
she dared not venture out of her shelter. so she shrunk back as far as possible and waited. perhaps the storm would abate somewhat after a while. she hoped it would; and this was her one bit of comfort.
in an hour’s time the tempest seemed to have spent its fury. the wild roar of the wind had dwindled to a low, mournful moaning, and the sleet had ceased to fall; but the rain fell in a slow, monotonous drizzle that seemed likely to continue through the night.
the afternoon was now very far advanced, but it lacked more than an hour of nightfall.
vinnie arose to her feet now, and walked slowly back, as nearly as she could find her way, over the trail she had come. she followed it without much difficulty for a short distance, but by and by when she lost sight of the indistinct pathway that led away from the cavern, she was obliged to be guided solely by her judgment of what direction she ought to take to reach her father’s cabin.
for nearly an hour she kept on, picking her way through the thick undergrowth, and climbing over fallen trees and heaps of the debris of the storm which was scattered through the length and breadth of the forest. it was beginning to grow dark, and the cold november rain kept falling slowly and steadily. the sky was overcast with black clouds. vinnie felt that she made but slow progress, hasten as she might. the night, when it came, would be very dark, and she dreaded lest it might overtake her before she reached home.
with wildly beating heart she pressed on; and soon the landmarks began to grow familiar to her. she was weary and almost heartsick; but she began to feel more hopeful. things along her way looked more and more as though she had seen them before every minute. was she nearing the cabin? she thought so.
she had kept a sharp look-out for the clearing that her father had made around their forest-home, but she could see nothing to remind her of it.
she kept on bravely, though, never doubting one minute that she would catch a glimpse of the cabin through the trees the next.
the trees on either hand appeared familiar. she was feeling really hopeful now.
“i’ll be there in a few moments, i’m sure,” she said to herself as cheerily as she could. “that old crooked sycamore there looks like an old acquaintance! the clearing must be just ahead!”
she pressed onward quite hopefully now; and, five minutes later, she found herself—just where she had started from an hour before. there was the rock that she had tried in vain to move, and the great tree behind whose sturdy trunk she had found a partial shelter from the storm!
she staggered back, clutching at a bush for support.
“my god!” she moaned, “i am lost!”
she sunk down on the wet earth almost despairfully.
then her old brave spirit reasserted itself.
“what a poor miserable little coward i am!” she exclaimed, almost angry with herself. “what can i do that is more likely to get me out of my trouble than to try again?”
it was growing dark very fast now and the cold rain was falling as slowly and monotonously as ever; but she would not allow herself to think of either the coming night or the drizzling rain—and she set out for home a second time quite bravely.
it was no desirable task that she had before her, and she did not look upon her weary walk as a mere pleasure trip, by any means. still that bold, hopeful spirit that had borne her up through her adventures with the chief that afternoon was with her now; and she was far from being despondent.
“if i try, and keep trying,” she mused, as she hurried on, “i may reach home in safety by-and-by; and if i am really lost and must stay in the forest, i suppose there is very little choice in sleeping-places. so, upon the whole, i think i had better keep traveling about as long as i can. i will try and not get faint-hearted again, anyway.”
in twenty minutes it was dark as erebus!
still the girl pressed bravely forward through the night. she could no longer see with any certainty. keeping any specific course was out of the question; and it was with great difficulty that she kept her feet, at times, among the fallen trees and tangled undergrowth. but she tried to keep a bold heart.
glancing ahead, through the blackness, to a dense thicket just in advance, she saw something that made her pause in terror. it was a pair of eyes!
vinnie stood quite still, too much frightened to stir or cry out. that pair of fixed, fiery eyes had a sort of weird fascination for her.
all at once, while she yet looked at them, she felt the blood leaving her heart, and an awful terror took possession of her whole being.
the eyes were slowly and unmistakably advancing toward her!
she tottered back a step or two with a low cry. just then there was a loud report near at hand. an unearthly screech, half-human, rung out on the night-air. the eyes seemed to shoot up a few feet and then they disappeared.
a man came dashing through the undergrowth, and in a moment he stood beside her.
“don’t be afraid, little one,” darke said, reassuringly. “it was a panther; but it is dead now. it is a fearful night. let us hurry home. when we get there, you must tell me how you came here.”
he took her hand in his and they hastened on through the night.
chapter x. a baffled vengeance.
ku-nan-gu-no-nah had not intended to push bear-killer over the bluff. he knew that treachery was one of his strongest characteristics, and fearful lest in some manner he should lose his revenge, or rather his chance for revenge, on his white rival, he watched him narrowly as he made ready to hurl his tomahawk in the trial of skill he had proposed to determine which of the two should put the unconscious young hunter to death; and he detected almost instantly the intention of bear-killer to act in accordance with this his most prominent trait of character.
he saw that the treacherous brave was poising his tomahawk to throw, not at the mark on the tree-trunk, but at the head of their victim!
all the quick, wild passion of his fierce nature was aroused in an instant.
he was not one to brook treachery.
with a cry of rage, he struck bear-killer a sudden powerful blow with his fist.
the doomed savage lost his balance and toppled over the precipice.
while yet his wild death yell rung out on the storm, ku-nan-gu-no-nah threw himself flat on the ground, and craning his neck out over the bank, looked down into the foaming water below.
at first he saw nothing but the jagged rocks and the tossing flood. then, a little down-stream, the dusky face of his victim was visible for an instant amid the eddying waters, then it sunk from sight forever.
“he will be carried over the waterfall,” said the chief. “he will lodge on the rocks below. i will send the pale-face after him, and he can take his revenge down there. he will not dispute my right to the first chance. i will take my revenge now. he can have his afterward—all he can get!”
there was no place in the red fiend’s heart, for remorse for any evil deed. he had looked upon the whole affair as a fortunate accident that had rid him of one who stood in his way—nothing more!
he arose from the ground and turned his gaze upon his hated and senseless rival.
it would be impossible to depict the fierce rage and triumph that flashed from the chief’s eyes, as he regarded his victim.
clancy was still swaying slowly backward and forward over the whirling, roaring waters far below, that seemed to be filled with hoarse, clamorous voices, crying aloud for his life.
the motion of his body was more gentle now that the wind had died down. the lasso no longer jerked and cracked, threatening to break and let him down into the jaws of death, gaping wide below.
he hung pulseless and heavy, like a man that was dead—there was neither a tremor nor a pulsation to tell if he lived or not.
a hand placed on his heart would have felt the faintest kind of a flutter; that was all!
he was alive, but for how long?
it was impossible for ku-nan-gu-no-nah to touch him from the bank.
he was uncertain whether he was yet alive.
but if he clove his head with his tomahawk, he would be sure that he was dead.
was he going to wreak vengeance for a fancied wrong, on his vital, breathing rival, or on his soulless body?
he did not know. he knew that the soul would leave the body before his vengeance was accomplished! if the form swaying before him was alive now he would leave it dead.
was he going to tomahawk a man or a corpse?
he did not know, and he did not care!
with an expression of fiendish exultation on his dark, evil face, he took a position not more than twenty feet distant from vere, and drew his tomahawk.
long practice had made him an adept in the use of his favorite weapon, and he poised it instantly, without any apparent care. he was sure of his aim at such close range, and in a second the tomahawk went whirling out of his hand.
but it missed its human mark by six inches, and fell with a dull splash into the water.
the wind and the swinging motion of the young hunter had baffled him!
he uttered a deep curse, and drew a small pistol from his belt.
to cock it and bring the sights to a level with his eye was but the work of a moment. he pulled the trigger. there was a click as the hammer came down—that was all.
it was not loaded!
clancy vere remained unharmed.
the hand of providence was in it!
with a low cry of baffled rage, he set about loading the pistol. he had accomplished it in a minute. would any thing baffle him now?
he cocked it, put on a cap, and took careful aim at clancy’s head.
there was a flash and a sharp report.
he ran to the edge of the bank and examined his intended victim’s face critically; and there was nothing to indicate that the shot had been effective. surely it had not touched his face, and there was nothing that looked like a bullet-hole in any part of the young hunter’s deer-skin clothing.
ku-nan-gu-no-nah was almost frantic with impotent rage.
in his ungovernable passion, before, at being twice baffled, he had neglected to put a ball in the pistol!
this explained why he had, as he thought, although he had taken accurate aim, missed his mark.
ku-nan-gu-no-nah was a great warrior in his tribe. when he went on the war-path he always returned laden with scalps and other ghastly trophies of rapine and murder. besides this he was looked upon as the best shot among all the braves who acknowledged his authority as chief and leader.
now he seemed to have lost his skill, and his rage and chagrin were unbounded.
with a snarl like that of a caged tiger, he threw the pistol over the bluff.
“maybe it will go down to bear-killer,” he said. “it’s good enough for him! he won’t do much fine shooting now, i guess! maybe he will have his revenge on the pale-face with it. i’m going to cut the lasso and send him down, too, now. i think sun-hair, the squaw magician, has saved him to-day with her devil-box, some way. i’ll cut the lasso, and see if she can keep him from falling into the water! a tomahawk won’t kill him, and a pistol is just as powerless to do him harm!” as he ceased speaking, he drew his hunting-knife and ran his finger along its edge.
“i don’t believe she can hold him up in the air after the lasso is cut,” he muttered.
replacing the hunting-knife in his belt, he advanced to the root of the tree, and began climbing up its trunk.
in two or three minutes he had gained the limb to which the end of the lasso was secured.
crawling slowly along it—for it was not large, and the waters pitching and tossing underneath made his head swim just a trifle—he worked his way out to the place where the lasso was tied. how the water roared and rung in his ears!
he swung himself astride of the limb, clutching it with his left hand to make his position more secure, while with his right he disengaged his knife and dropped its keen edge on the lasso where it was passed several times around the projecting branch.
just then a sudden gust of wind swept past, causing the tree to sway a little.
quick as thought he placed the end of the horn handle of his knife between his teeth and with both hands clung to the branch on which he sat. it swung from side to side two or three times, and the chief reeled for a moment as if he had lost his balance, he gripped the branch with the energy of desperation, his sharp nails sinking into the rough bark, and his swarthy face turned to an ashen hue.
in a minute or two the branch became motionless and he was once more securely seated, with one hand clinging to the limb and one foot twisted in the lasso in such a manner that he could disengage it at the instant of cutting the knot.
his situation was a perilous one, but his mind was so intent on the hellish work he was braving so much to accomplish that he heeded it not.
the least motion of the tree—a sudden gust of wind—a false movement on his part—the merest trifle would bring upon him the death he had planned for the man swinging below, who, until the lasso should be severed, was more secure than he. again he clutched the keen-edged hunting-knife, and was about to draw it across the coils of the lariat.
a strange sound arrested his attention.
it was the voice of a man.
steadying himself in his seat, he turned his head.
he beheld a sight so startling that he almost loosened his grip on the limb. the knife slipped from his grasp and he held on with both hands.
a white man stood on the bank not ten yards distant, with a rifle leveled at his head.
he was a very tall and very massive man, of very grotesque appearance; and when the reader is told that it was leander maybob, the giant hunter, and no one else, a personal description is unnecessary. the muzzle of his rifle pointed steadily at the indian’s head, and he said in a rough tone of command that the chief was afraid to disobey, and, at the same time fearful to obey:
ku-nan-gu-no-nah realized that the time occupied in the passage of a bullet from the big hunter’s unerring rifle to his brain would be very short.
he attempted to hitch backward along the limb and came near losing his hold and shooting down into the roaring water below.
he looked at the giant in a half despairful way, which he only noticed by saying:
“come down, or i’ll shoot!”
again he essayed to move himself backward along the limb. it was a perilous undertaking, but death stared him grimly in the face, let him look whichever way he would.
once more. this time he swayed so far to one side that it was with the greatest difficulty that he regained his equipoise on top of the branch.
now he turned his gaze for an instant again to the man on the bank who held his rifle in his hands—the man whose father and mother he had murdered, though he knew it not.
if he had known the terrible oath of vengeance that the giant hunter had registered against him, he would have chosen to strangle in the stream underneath rather than to fall into his hands.
he paused a moment, shuddering as he half lost his hold on the limb.
again that stern command rung in his ears:
his efforts at moving along the branch toward the body of the tree were attended with better success, now that the limb began to grow larger and his seat more secure. still his progress was very slow. he could have moved forward easily enough, but he dared not turn around.
when he paused to take breath a moment, he heard the big hunter say in his implacable voice:
“come! d’ye want ter be shot?”
he exerted himself to the utmost, and five minutes later slid down the trunk of the tree and stood doggedly before his captor.
he drew his rifle to his face and kept it aimed at the indian’s head till he had gone out of sight.
chapter xi. a welcome visitor.
hand in hand vinnie and her father hurried on through the storm and darkness. the way was intricate and difficult to travel; but a good half-hour’s walk brought them to the edge of the clearing, and the weary girl greeted the sight of the cabin, which looked like a large square patch of blackness, through the gloom, with feelings of grateful satisfaction.
it was the work of but a few moments for darke, while vinnie lighted a candle, to rekindle the fire that had burned out during their absence. the girl set the light on the table, and almost exhausted with the vicissitudes of the past few hours, threw herself upon a seat. the fire was now crackling merrily on the hearth, sending showers of sparks up the wide chimney, and darke, divesting himself of his hunting-shirt and belt, stood before its genial blaze to dry the water that adhered to his deer-skin apparel. when he took off his wide-rimmed hat and, after shaking off the rain, tossed it into a corner, vinnie noticed for the first time that his head was bandaged about with a white cloth. the hat had concealed it before, and he had not spoken of it, or asked her any questions as they came home; his mind being filled with the mystery of the oaken chest and its horrible contents and the strange words of the giant hunter in regard to his discovery of their “secret.” he had made no reply to these words. he could make none except to regret the accident that had brought to his notice any thing that the twin avengers did not wish him to see; and thanking them again for the kindness they had extended to him, he came away.
vinnie arose and coming over to where he was standing put her hand on his arm, saying, anxiously:
“you are hurt, papa! i knew something had happened to you, or death would never have acted so strangely. tell me about it, won’t you? does it pain you much? what can i do for you?”
“nothing, little one. it is well enough now. the pain is very slight, and it is well cared for already. i don’t think of any thing that would make it any better. but where is the dog? i don’t see him here. i know he came here after i was hurt. did he go out with you into the forest?”
“yes,” she replied with a smile. “or i went with him, rather. i would not have gone if it had not been for him.”
“tell me about it, child,” said the woodman, eagerly. then noticing for the first time, the electric machine on the table which vinnie had left open just as she had used it that afternoon, and the magic slippers still attached to the battery and lying on the floor near by, he went on. “have you been taking a private shock or enjoying an electric jig all by yourself?”
“no,” she replied, coolly enough, as though it was the most trivial of incidents she was speaking of, instead of a struggle for more than life with a bloodthirsty savage. “i have not been electrizing myself; but ku-nan-gu-no-nah called here this afternoon while you were gone and i guess i shocked him considerably. he seemed to be not a little affected by the experiments of which he was the subject. i think he entertains quite an exalted idea of my attainments as an electrician.”
“what do you mean, girl?” he asked, excitedly, placing a hand on either shoulder and looking down into her face in a curious, half-startled way. “i don’t understand you. has that bloody-hearted devil been here to-day? explain yourself! tell me what you mean!”
seating herself before the fire, while her father listened eagerly, interrupting her often with exclamations of surprise and anger, she told him the story of the afternoon’s adventures from the time of his departure from the cabin to the moment when he came to her deliverance in the forest as she recoiled in terror before the approach of that pair of lurid eyes, not omitting the mysterious disappearance of the white horse and its rider, and the limp, helpless burden that, rolled in the pall-like cloth, he carried before him across his saddle, and her subsequent unaccountable desertion by the blood-hound.
darke was convinced from her description of the place, that she had witnessed this strange scene somewhere in the vicinity of the twin avengers’ cavern lodge; and he recalled to mind the words that he had overheard the big hunter speak in the small, closely-curtained apartment of the cave.
he seemed to hear them again, so vividly were they impressed on his mind:
“does he show any signs of life yet? can’t be he’s dead!”
was there any connection between these unexplained words and the mystery of the white horse and its rider? were they in any way identified?
darke thought so.
he stood leaning against the rude mantelpiece over the fireplace for several minutes, his mind busy with conjectures. but no satisfactory explanation came to the relief of his mystified mind; and the mystery of the oaken chest, the secret of the maybob twins, the strange words of the giant hunter, and the disappearing horse and man, persisted in remaining as deep a mystery as ever.
vinnie, who was naturally anxious to learn the particulars of her father’s accident and subsequent protracted absence and fortunate though unlooked-for appearance in the forest at the very moment when he could be instrumental in saving her life, had been regarding him attentively for a while, waiting for him to speak and not wishing to break in on his musings.
“strange!” he said, at last, looking up suddenly. “what can have become of the dog? i never knew him to behave so before! it must be that—”
he was interrupted by a slight noise at the door. he listened intently; and a moment later the blood-hound’s well-known appeal for admittance greeted his ear.
“it is death!” said vinnie, hastening to open the door. “he’s come back!”
the next moment he sprung into the room, shaking the water in a little shower from his dripping coat, and leaping gladly against his master, who returned his tokens of regard with a pat on the head.
“you deserve a good whipping, you ungallant fellow,” vinnie said, half in earnest and half playfully, “for running off and leaving me to get lost in the woods!” the dog paid little heed to her rebuke, and she continued, addressing her father: “maybe if death could only talk, he would have a story to tell, too. perhaps he has discovered the mystery of the disappearing horseman! but you have not told your story yet. i am very anxious to hear about your accident, and every thing else that has happened to you since you went away. you’ll tell me all about it now, won’t you?”
and she unclosed his lips with a kiss; and he began at the beginning, and related his adventures to her, leaving out only that portion which bore directly on the mysterious secret of which the big hunter had spoken. he had blundered into a partial knowledge of the private affairs of his newly-found friends and entertainers, and his rigid ideas of honor forbade him to make so questionable a return for their disinterested hospitality as the disclosure of their privacy even to vinnie, whom he would not have hesitated to intrust with the keeping of a life-and-death secret, had it been his own.
“it has been an eventful afternoon to us both,” said vinnie, after she had heard him through, “and as far as i am concerned, i do not know that i am very much the worse for my share of its trials. if you are not severely injured, i think we may thank our stars for having escaped as well as we have.”
“i think so too,” replied her father. “but, my child, you look upon the perils through which you have passed too lightly. it is no trivial matter. i shudder when i think of what might have been the ending of either of your adventures. i believe, of the two, the ravenous, half-famished panther and that fiend incarnate, ku-nan-gu-no-nah, the latter was much more to be dreaded. to the ferocity and blood-thirstiness of the beast of prey, is added the treachery and vindictiveness of a devil, and the reasoning powers of the human mind; and, in his hellishness and subtlety, the chief falls but little short of lucifer himself! do you realize what you have escaped, vinnie? what should i have done, little one, if i had lost you to-day? and, vinnie, there is another who, i am sure, would find life very void and destitute of joy did he not dream that some day you might consent to share it with him. i allude to clancy vere. he is a true man in every sense of the word, and i know of no one to whose loving care i would rather resign you than his.”
he had no need to ask her if clancy vere’s suit would be successful. he could read it in her blushes.
it was growing late now, and as they were somewhat rested, vinnie set about the preparation of the evening meal, singing in a low voice, and building rosy air-castles as she worked, while her father busied himself with cleaning and reloading his trusty rifle, of which he felt justly proud; for a truer or more unerring weapon was not to be found for many a long mile, travel which way soever one might.
after they had partaken of the supper which vinnie’s deft hands had spread neatly upon the table in an incredibly short space of time, darke fastened the cabin doors and windows securely for the night. as he barred the rear door he noticed that it was even darker than when they came home, and the chill rain was falling yet in a slow, persistent drizzle. the wind had died down.
the next morning the storm had ceased, but the sky was overcast, and every thing as far as the eye could reach bore witness to the fury of the tempest of the night before.
nothing unusual transpired at the cabin during the day; and its inmates seemed very little worse for having endured the vicissitudes of the previous afternoon. vinnie had got up in the morning completely refreshed by her night’s sleep, and the pain was entirely gone from her father’s head, leaving nothing to remind him of the injury it had sustained but a slight bruise on his temple that would go away in a day or two.
toward the middle of the afternoon, as they were seated cosily by their fire of hickory wood, recounting little incidents of their adventures that had escaped them the night before, they were startled by a loud rap on the cabin door. darke hastened to open it, and was no less surprised than gratified to meet clancy vere.
“welcome, boy!” he exclaimed, giving the youth a handshake and a greeting smile in which there was no conventionality, and which was as heartily returned by clancy, whose eye wandered over the old man’s shoulder in quest of vinnie.
the vivid blush that mantled cheek and brow, as her eyes met his, in no way deteriorated from the prettiness of her face, clancy thought; and when she stepped forward half-shyly and put her trembling little hand in his for a moment, i think he may be pardoned for allowing his heart to look out of his eyes and wishing, as he choked back words that struggled for utterance now harder than they had ever done before, that just a little while his old friend darke was in china, or jericho, or anywhere but there, witnessing and, in his quiet way, enjoying the young people’s happy confusion. i am sure any of my readers who may ever have been placed in a similar situation will exonerate him from all blame.
the young hunter looked pale and worn, and darke noticed that when he came forward to take the seat vinnie had placed for him before the fire he walked with considerable difficulty.
in reply to the woodman’s inquiries in regard to his jaded appearance and the manifest trouble he experienced in walking, clancy told the story of his capture by the indians the day before very substantially as it has already been told the reader in the preceding pages of our story.
it is not necessary that we should weary the reader with a recapitulation of what has already been stated; but taking up clancy’s narrative at the point where consciousness returned, we will follow it to its close.
“when my senses came back,” said he, “i found myself reclining on a couch of skins and blankets in what appeared to be a very small apartment of a cave. i was watched over by a dwarf, who was not much more than four feet high and as dumb as a door nail. this diminutive watcher strengthened me by a liberal use of spirits, and as soon as i was able to speak, summoned his giant brother, who, unlike himself, was gifted with a ready tongue and introduced himself to me as leander maybob, of maybob center down in old massachusetts. he said he was a ‘natural talker,’ and proceeded to substantiate the statement by a very wordy account of the sayings and doings of his uncle peter and an old massachusetts minister named tugwoller, interspersed with snatches of an old love affair between elder tugwoller’s niece, sally niver, and himself. it seems that the young couple, who were, of a verity, true lovers, were separated for life in consequence of a ludicrous blunder on the part of my giant host.
“after awhile i gathered from his voluble flow of words that he had rescued me from my perilous situation and brought me to his cavern lodge. when i had sufficiently recovered from the effects of my swing, i partook of some strengthening food that my new-found friends prepared for me. that was early this morning. as the day advanced, i found myself rapidly gaining strength; and an hour or more ago i felt myself strong enough to come on here, and, thanking my strange entertainers for their kindness, i took my departure. as i passed out through the cavern i saw that it was also divided into two larger apartments, one of which was used as a sort of home by the two strangely contrasted twin brothers, and the other was fitted up as a kind of store-room for trophies of the chase, for it was well supplied with arms and ammunition, while the skins and pelts of various animals were deposited in piles about the place.”
“how much the latter part of clancy’s story is like yours!” exclaimed vinnie to darke when he had finished. “he was rescued by the same strange person and taken to the same place and nursed back to life in the same manner!”
“yes,” assented darke, “it is a singular coincidence.” then turning quickly toward the young hunter he said, “you must have lain insensible in the smallest part of the place while i was there—i think you did. they did not tell you that i had been there before you came away, did they?”
“no,” said clancy, who had been wondering all along at the strange words of the woodman, “they did not tell any thing of the kind. i never knew it till now.”
“strange!” replied the other. “and although i am sure i was there for quite a length of time while you lay unconscious in the little place curtained off at the back end of the cavern, the giant did not tell me of your presence. it can not be that there was any cause for this concealment; and concealment does not seem to be a predominant trait of the big hunter’s.”
“i do not understand you,” said vere wonderingly. “do you mean to say that we were both at the cave at the same time? please explain yourself.”
and darke told clancy the story of his accident the day before, and how leander maybob had carried him to the cavern lodge of his brother alonphilus and himself, cared for him till he was able to come home, carefully guarding against any allusion to the oaken chest and its ghastly contents, but telling him of the strange episode of the little apartment, and repeating the mysterious words of the giant hunter, whose meaning he had until now vainly tried to discover. they held no hidden portent now. he knew instinctively that the words he had so vainly wondered at, “does he show any signs of life yet? can’t be he is dead!” referred to clancy vere.
one mystery was solved!
for several minutes both men remained silent. darke was ruminating over the discovery he had just made and clancy was thinking what a lovely picture vinnie made as she leaned carelessly against the mantle, looking intently into the dancing blaze of the fire, whose red glow lit up her fair face till it seemed fairly radiant in its fresh young beauty.
was she building air-castles again?
raising her long lashes suddenly, she met his ardent, passionate, yet respectful gaze.
both pair of eyes sought the floor simultaneously; and it would have been no easy task for one to have determined which face flushed the deepest—the maiden’s or her lover’s; for clancy vere knew he did love vinnie darke with all his heart.
darke had not noticed this little by-play, and he asked, suddenly, as the pretty air-castles both had been rearing up vanished as air castles are wont to do when they are rudely jarred:
“how long do you think you were at the cavern before your consciousness returned?”
“i am not quite certain—two or three hours i guess.”
“and it was leander maybob that rescued you?”
“yes; but he did not himself carry me to the cave. it was more than a mile away that he found me; and although he is very strong, he could not lug me on his back all that distance. when consciousness returned he told me about it. alonphilus the dwarf conveyed me to the cave.”
“how?” asked darke.
“oh, leander told me all about that, too. i was brought on a horse—”
“what color was the horse?” interrupted vinnie.
“on a white horse!” pursued the woodman.
“you were rolled up from head to foot in a heavy black cloth, were you not?” darke went on, eagerly.
“i do not know,” said clancy, surprised at so many questions. “but he carried me before him across the saddle.”
father and daughter uttered simultaneous cries of surprise.
another mystery was solved!
chapter xii. the forest rose.
ku-nan-gu-no-nah walked swiftly away with the deadly rifle of leander maybob, the giant hunter, still leveled at his head, fairly demoniac with wild and impotent rage. the workings of his dark face were fearfully suggestive of the denizens of the bottomless pit.
had he been armed he would not have left the vicinity without first attempting the life of the man who had him in his power and who held his very life at his disposal; but he was powerless, having no weapons except a short, sharp-pointed knife which he always carried in addition to his hunting-knife, and this would be useless, except in a hand-to-hand conflict, which even in his wild passion he had not the hardihood to dare.
in an hour’s time he came to the boundary of the wilderness and the broad prairie stretched its level surface before him as far as he could see. not a tree or a bush was there visible in all this vast plain; only the tall grasses, beat down and tangled by the fearful tempest that had raged through the afternoon.
turning from the nearly direct course he had been pursuing, the chief made his way, with long, rapid strides, to the place where, in the midst of a dense growth of bushes in the center of which there was a little plat of smooth, grassy ground, destitute of undergrowth, he had tethered his horse early in the afternoon. in less time than it takes to tell it, he was mounted and galloping away over the plain.
in a little while he struck an indistinct, scarcely worn road, or rather broad track—one of the emigrant routes of the north-west. he followed the track for an hour or more and then making a gradual detour to the left, kept on at a swift rolling gallop which he never slackened till he reached the indian encampment, situated at the foot of a steep, rocky hill that loomed up through the storm and darkness, in dull relief against the leaden sky. throwing himself hastily from his horse, he stalked rapidly along and entered a wigwam at the further end of the encampment. an aged indian sat on a roll of skins at one side of the place, in an attitude of deep grief or despondency. he simply glanced up as the chief entered, then dropping his face again into his hands, sitting silent and apparently in great agony of mind.
“how is the forest rose to-night?” the chief asked, glancing toward a couch of skins and blankets on the opposite side of the lodge, on which he could see the form of a female reclining by the dim fire-light that illuminated the wigwam. she lay silent and motionless as though life had fled.
“the forest rose is very ill,” replied the old indian, mournfully, “and she will die! yon-da-do, the great medicine man, has said so. he has made use of all his ceremonies and mystic arts, but he can not save her. the lovely forest rose must die!”
as he ceased speaking he arose, and lighting a small pitch-pine torch in the fire, went over to the side of the couch. throwing aside the covering from her face, he allowed the light to fall upon it for a moment. it was a beautiful face, darkly lovely—the face of an indian maiden in the first flush of womanhood. she was rather light for one of her dusky race, with heavy masses of raven-black hair falling in lovely confusion about her statuesque face, in whose contour the hard angularity of the indian type was not discernible, and down upon her perfectly-shaped neck, and softly-rounded shoulders. her long, heavy lashes lay upon her cheeks, which were very pale, hiding her dark lustrous eyes, which, when lighted up with health, added not a little to her almost bewildering beauty. but now the lovely forest rose lay like one dead.
“let my father look up and be happy!” said the chief. “ku-nan-gu-no-nah has seen a medicine-woman to-day, that can surely bring back life to the forest rose. the medicine-woman that i saw was a mighty conjuror. the great spirit has given her greater power than that of yon-da-do!”
“who is this mighty magician?”
“she is a pale-face maiden, as beautiful as the forest rose,” replied the chief.
“would she come?” asked the old indian, while a hopeful light flashed out of his aged eyes, undimmed by the flight of time. “would a white medicine-woman come to give life back to an indian girl!”
“she would not come willingly,” said the crafty chief, “but she must be brought! if she is not, the forest rose will die!”
“then she must be brought!” said the old indian, decisively. “i will call a council of braves in the morning, and a party shall be sent to bring the white magician. the forest rose must be saved!”
the aged indian was the real chief of the tribe—that is, although he was too old to go on the war-path, leaving the active fighting to the younger and more warlike ku-nan-gu-no-nah, he was the real moving spirit, always planning and ordering all important movements of the band. the languishing forest rose was his daughter.
“it is well,” said ku-nan-gu-no-nah, as he went away.
“the great medicine-woman will save the forest rose, and again she will sing like the birds in the trees to gladden the heart of her father, the great chief.”
wild buffalo, the aged sachem, called a council of braves early in the morning, and at midday, the subtle ku-nan-gu-no-nah, at the head of a dozen picked warriors, was riding over the prairie in quest of “sun-hair,” the beautiful magician.
chapter xiii. the face at the window.
“so the mystery of the disappearing horseman is explained very satisfactorily at last, vinnie,” said darke, after their surprise had subsided somewhat.
“yes,” she replied, “all but the mystery of his disappearance.”
“true,” said her father; “we are still in the dark concerning that. how could it have been accomplished?”
“i know not. it vanished before my very eyes!”
“it was doubtless owing to some peculiar turn of the path he was following, or something of that sort,” reasoned the woodman. “a very sudden turn among the dense growth of shrubbery that is so thick about the place might have concealed the white horse and his rider from view almost instantly.”
“i think very likely it was owing to that or a similar cause,” returned vinnie. “i suppose we shall have to accept that explanation till a better one presents itself. it is strange that i should have allowed myself to be alarmed at so trivial a matter. i do not think i am superstitious. but that limp, helpless-looking black thing did appear ghastly through the storm!”
it will be remembered that clancy had not heard of vinnie’s adventures and perils of the day before; and he did not understand the conversation that the others had kept up for the past few minutes. noting the questioning look on his face, the woodman said:
“there is still another story of peril and escape that you are yet to hear. i believe i will take a short bout in the forest in search of a turkey; and if i am successful we’ll have a supper fit for the president. vinnie can tell you the story while i am gone. be sure you don’t leave out any of the important points, and don’t forget to mention your lover’s visit yesterday. a truthful account of the shocking manner in which you treated him ought to be a caution to sparks! if i was a young fellow, now—”
“there now! stop!” said vinnie, with a vivid blush. “i think you’re really too bad! and besides, you are not fit to go out to-day, after your hurt, and—”
“that will do,” interrupted darke, banteringly, examining the lock of his rifle the while. “i am well enough for any thing now, and i mean to take just this one more hunt while i’ve an opportunity. i dare not leave you here any more alone, you know, and i’m going while i’ve got clancy here to keep guard over you! so good-by, and don’t think of my coming back for two hours at the very soonest!”
she went up to him for her customary kiss.
“there,” said he, as he bent and pressed his lips to hers. “good-by, little one. and, clancy, i want you to see that no one repeats this operation during my absence. she’s all i’ve got, and i leave her in your care. don’t forget the story, vinnie!” and a moment later he passed out, closely followed by the blood-hound. vinnie seized hold of one of the great brute’s long ears, and bending low over him, to hide her flushed face from clancy’s view, said, playfully:
“there, death, don’t run away from him as you did from me yesterday!”
then, while the young hunter thought she was putting herself to a great deal of useless trouble, considering that the room was very warm already, she went and busied herself at the hearth, for what seemed to him a very long time, stirring the fire and putting on more wood.
“what story does your father mean?” he asked, when she had at last finished. “i thought from what you said that you saw the dwarf when he was carrying me to the cave. it can not be that you were out in that terrible storm?”
“but i was,” said vinnie, with a smile, “and i half think i was the victim of almost as serious a series of accidents as yourself. papa told me to tell you the story, and i suppose i must obey. are you sure it will be of interest to you?”
“yes,” he replied, eagerly. “i know it will be of interest to me. tell it, please.”
and, half shyly at first, vinnie complied with his request. he interrupted her many times during her recital, with exclamations of surprise and wonder; and when she had finished, and sat demurely before him, with her little hands folded in her lap, and her lovely face sober and thoughtful, he said:
“heaven be praised for your deliverance! what if you had not escaped?”
“why, then, i suppose—” she began, surprised at his excited manner. but he cut short what she would have said, by saying, vehemently:
“if you had not, i would not now account my life worth as much as a burnt charge of powder!”
vinnie glanced up at him quickly, but her long lashes drooped as she met his ardent look.
he arose to his feet, and standing up before her, went on in rapid, eager tones:
“i love you, vinnie darke, as i can never love another woman in the whole world! i ask for your love in return. can you—will you give it to me, vinnie darling?”
she sat silent a moment—a moment that seemed interminable to the anxious young hunter—with flushed face and downcast eyes. the next, she was clasped in his strong arms, and he pressed a tender kiss on her brow, as he said, in a low voice:
“do you love me, vinnie?”
the lovely, golden-brown head bent down until it was pillowed on his bosom, the red, full lips were pressed half timidly to his, the deep, loving blue eyes looked trustfully up into his own, and clancy knew that she was his till death!
“my own darling vinnie!” said he, proudly.
“yes,” she whispered, “yours always!”
i am afraid if the woodman could have seen the little episode that was taking place in the cabin then, he would have thought clancy just the least bit forgetful of the injunction he had put upon him when he went away—of course he would not willfully ignore it!
there was a slight, almost imperceptible sound outside the cabin, that escaped the young hunter’s usually quick ear, and a dark face was pressed for an instant against one of the lower panes of the little window at the side of the door. it was withdrawn almost as soon as it appeared.
“and you will be my wife, vinnie—mine to love and cherish always?” clancy went on.
“and your father? what will he say?”
“i do not think he will oppose us very strongly,” she said, remembering his words to her that afternoon.
“we will ask him and see, when he comes back.”
again that dark face peered into the room a moment and then vanished as it had done before.
but so engrossed were they with each other—their minds so filled with their new-found happiness—that they had no time to think of any thing else.
“how hard i shall try to be worthy of your priceless love, and to make your life happy!” said the young hunter, as she released herself from his embrace. as she stood up, her eyes were turned toward the window.
the face was flattened against the glass again!
“merciful heaven!” she cried, “there is ku-nan-gu-no-nah! oh, clancy, save me!”
darke had been gone but a little while from the cabin, before he was startled by the report of fire-arms, and the shrill war-whoop of the band of indians who, under the leadership of the wily ku-nan-gu-no-nah, had been sent out to capture vinnie and bring her to the relief of the suffering forest rose, who, although they knew it not, was dead, having dropped quietly and peacefully away soon after they left the encampment.
these sounds came from the direction of the cabin, and by a kind of intuitive perception, he knew in an instant what was taking place there.
he had just discharged his rifle at a fine turkey that the blood-hound had come upon in a dense thicket; and reloading it as he ran, he dashed with his utmost speed through the tangled undergrowth and over fallen trees and heaps of half-decayed brushwood back toward the scene of the conflict, which still continued, as the sharp, oft-repeated reports of guns and the appalling screeches of the indians attested.
the terrible suspense and agony of mind that he suffered in the few minutes that passed before he reached the edge of the clearing, it would be impossible to depict. he knew that the young hunter was as brave as a lion, and would not give up while life lasted; but he judged from the steady and rapid fire kept up by the savages that the odds against him were fearful.
“my god!” he gasped, as he bounded forward, holding his long rifle ready for use at an instant’s warning, “the bloody fiends will butcher them both! if i could only be there to help them!”
suddenly, as he ceased speaking, the firing, which for two or three minutes past had been almost incessant, stopped. there was a moment of awful silence to the listening woodman, then there came a loud crash.
darke knew what this was.
“heavens!” he cried, “the devils have forced the door! nothing can save them now! their doom is sealed! oh, vinnie! vinnie!”
his agony was terrible.
he had reached the boundary of the clearing. it was rapidly growing dark now, and he had little fear of discovery. he paused a moment to reconnoiter. only two indians were visible outside the cabin. he raised his rifle to his face; his aim was quick and sure; and an instant later one of the savages threw up his arms, and with an ear-splitting screech of agony, fell on his face, dead.
almost simultaneously with the report of the woodman’s trusty weapon, another rung out inside the cabin.
“it is vinnie’s revolver!” muttered darke as he stepped quickly out of sight behind a clump of bushes and proceeded to reload. “thank god she yet lives!”
peering out, he discovered that the remaining indian had set fire to the cabin and was skulking around the other side, probably to get out of range of his unerring rifle.
it was nearly dark now, but the settler fired again, and a bullet went crashing through the savage’s brain, just as he had almost gained the coveted shelter.
vinnie’s revolver cracked again inside the cabin as darke rammed home another load; and he uttered another fervent “thank god!” as he thought that she had been saved thus far. at his request, she had placed it upon her person that morning, and he had reason to think that it was being fired by her own hands. he could not distinguish the sound of clancy’s weapon from the indians’; but he knew him well enough to be certain that he would not yield except with his life.
the fire was creeping up the side of the cabin, gaining ground rapidly in the dry timber of which it was constructed. in a few moments the whole building would be in a light blaze. an attempt to extinguish the flames would, darke saw, be fruitless.
there was no one to oppose his advance across the clearing since he had slain the two savages left on the outside to fire the cabin and guard against a surprise by any one from without, and closely followed by death, he dashed over the intervening space to the open door of the cabin.
looking within he saw, by the light of the fire blazing on the hearth, that clancy vere was engaged in a desperate, hand-to-hand struggle with three indians. his back was against the wall, and with an almost superhuman effort he forced them back and kept them at bay with his clubbed rifle. their guns were not loaded; but the young hunter detected one of the trio in the act of charging his rifle, while the two others vainly tried to get at him with their knives, and, quickly whipping out his six-shooter, one chamber of which held a leaden bullet that soon proved a quietus to this most dangerous of his assailants, he discharged it and had only two enemies to contend with.
the next moment the young hunter’s clubbed weapon fell with deadly force upon the head of one of the indians, crushing it like an egg-shell, while at the same instant the other fell, pierced through the brain by a ball from darke’s unerring rifle.
clancy had fought like a tiger, and though he had not been dangerously wounded, he had not escaped unscathed. a bullet fired through the window, before the indians had forced an entrance through the battered-down door of the cabin, had grazed his temple, making an ugly though not dangerous furrow, and carrying away a portion of his ear. the blood was trickling down his face, and dropping upon the floor at his feet.
darke sprung into the room at a single bound.
“vinnie!” he cried. “where is vinnie?”
“gone!” gasped clancy.
“gone! my god! what do you mean?”
“the indians made her a prisoner!”
“vinnie! my vinnie a prisoner in the hands of those devils! and you let them take her?”
“stop!” exclaimed the young man, while an expression of keen pain swept across his face. “i could not help it! i would gladly have laid down my life to save hers! for a time we fought them side by side. there are five dead indians here on the floor. she killed two of them. only two of the chambers of her revolver were loaded; and after they were emptied i fought them alone, shielding her form with mine. then i was set upon from all sides at once, and she was snatched away from me. i did all i could. she was my vinnie, too, mr. darke, and i will wrest her from the power of that red demon or die in the attempt! you do me injustice!”
“pardon me, boy,” said the woodman, extending his hand, which was readily taken by clancy. “i was mad! i did not mean what i said—please forget it if you can. if we can not get her back, i believe i shall go crazy!”
“oh, we can get her back—we must!” cried the young hunter. “we must get help and follow them and take her out of their hands or die!”
“how many are there in the party?” asked darke.
“i am not certain. at the beginning i think there were about a dozen or fifteen—i do not know exactly. five are dead.”
“there are seven dead!” replied darke. “i shot two outside!”
“then there must be a half-dozen, more or less, that have escaped, taking vinnie with them.”
“they have been gone twenty minutes,” said the woodman; “and we must act at once!”
“we can not follow them to-night,” said clancy.
“not to-night! why?” and darke evinced disappointment.
“because they are mounted. they left their horses at the edge of the forest. it is scarcely three miles away. before we could overtake them they would be miles out on the prairie, riding at their horses’ best speed. we can do nothing alone, and horses are indispensable—we must have them.”
“where can we get them?” darke asked, admitting to himself the truth of clancy’s reasoning.
“at the settlement. we can have every thing ready to-night and start before daybreak.”
“who do you think we had better get to go with us?” asked darke. “we must have good men.”
“i think we can do no better than to have pete wimple for one,” said clancy. “a truer and braver man can not be found in the north-west.”
“true,” said the woodman. “and the big hunter for another!”
“if we could only get him!” exclaimed clancy.
“i’m sure he will go. he hates the indians with an undying hatred, and is glad of any opportunity to wreak his terrible vengeance on them for the cold-blooded butchery of his aged parents.”
“yes,” said the young hunter, “he told me his story. what a fiend incarnate the chief is!”
“you mean ku-nan-gu-no-nah. was he with the party?”
“he led them,” said clancy. “i think he instigated the attack to get possession of vinnie.”
the youth shuddered as he thought what might be her fate in such hands. how he longed for the morning.
darke remembered the promise he had made to leander maybob the day before, and wondered if he could restrain himself from shooting the red demon at sight.
“do you think we will need any one else?” he asked.
“i think not. there will be four of us; and pete wimple and the giant hunter will be a host in themselves.”
“we must make all our preparations to-night,” said darke, “so as to be far on our way at daylight.”
“yes. we must— what’s that? it sounds like fire!”
a strange sound had arrested his attention.
“it is fire!” replied darke. “i saw one of the devils fire the cabin. it must be all in a light blaze before this time!”
“then it was fired before you came in?”
“yes. it was set at the rear, and that is the reason you have not seen or heard it till now. the flames were climbing the roof as i crossed the clearing. but we must not stay here. one of us must go to the settlement and the other to the cavern to-night. do you think you can walk well enough to undertake to get to the settlement? your ankles must be—”
“yes,” and the look on his face confirmed what he said, “i could do any thing—brave any thing for her! there is nothing that i would not attempt to save her from pain—nothing that i would not dare, to make her happy! vinnie is more to me than my life, mr. darke! to-day, before those red devils came to tear her away from me, she promised to become my wife.”
“i believe you, boy!” exclaimed darke. “i could not intrust her to the protecting love of a better man. if we can only save her she shall be yours!”
“thank you,” said the young man, earnestly. “we must save her from that demon’s power! the thought that she is in his hands is maddening! but we must act. i will go to the settlement and obtain horses and enlist pete wimple in our cause, while you proceed to the cave to secure the services of the big hunter. i’m sure he will not refuse us his aid.”
“right,” assented darke. “where shall be our place of rendezvous?”
“near the big pine tree at the edge of the forest. we must be mounted and on our way before daylight.”
the fire had caught in the great oak trees that had been left close up by the walls of the woodman’s home as a partial protection against wind and storm, and the flames, shooting heavenward, cast a lurid glow over the dark forest for quite a distance in every direction.
the two men hastened away, the burning cabin lighting their way through the wood, death, the blood-hound keeping close to darke and manifesting his sense of the calamity that had overtaken them by giving utterance ever and anon to low, sorrowful whines.
when the sun rose the next morning—for the day broke clear and cloudless with a keen, frosty atmosphere—its rays fell on a heap of smoldering ruins, encircled by a dozen charred trees burnt and blackened to their very tops. this was all that remained of emmett darke’s cabin home.
the four men, darke, clancy vere, leander maybob, the giant hunter, and pete wimple, a tried and trusty scout and indian-fighter, were at the appointed place of rendezvous at a very early hour, and, well mounted on four fleet, strong horses that clancy and the scout had obtained at the settlement, they were at daybreak dashing over the smooth, level prairie in pursuit of ku-nan-gu-no-nah and his party.
for hours they kept on at a rapid, even gallop, which they neither quickened nor slackened. clancy and the scout, riding side by side and keeping a sharp look-out ahead for any signs of the enemy, while darke and the giant hunter were ever on the alert to guard against the approach of any hostile party from the rear.
none of the four had spoken more than a few words since they left the big pine, hours before, even leander maybob, usually so loquacious, maintaining a thoughtful and unbroken silence.
the day continued as it had dawned, clear and sun-shiny, the pure, bracing air inspiring the little band to more than common vigilance and alertness, while it added fresh vigor to their steeds, and they kept on at the same quick, regular rate of speed until mid-day without meeting with adventure of any kind.
then pete wimple drew his horse up suddenly, and in obedience to his low-spoken command, the three others reined in their horses.
“what is it, pete?” asked clancy.
“i don’t know for sartin,” and the scout, shading his eyes with his hand, looked long and earnestly across the wide, grassy plain before them. following the direction of his gaze, the others saw dimly in the distance a thin blue cloud of smoke rising from the surface of the prairie.
“it’s a fire!” said darke.
“that it are!” confirmed the big hunter.
“can it be a camp-fire?” asked clancy.
“very likely,” said the scout. “i think as how it’s some-’eres ’long the line of the emigrant trail. we’ll strike it purty quick—it’s jist ahead thar—and we’ve got to foller it for severil hours. we’ve got to pass that fire, and afore we get too cluss, i want to know what it means!”
“it mought be whites, an’ ag’in it mought be reds!” said leander maybob, riding to the front and examining the thin, vapory cloud for a moment or two. “it mought be emigrants takin’ thar grub and it moughtn’t, ye see. prob’ly ’tis and prob’ly ’tain’t, as my uncle peter said when elder tugwoller axed him if his youngest-born son war a boy or a gal!”
the others could not restrain a laugh at this; and when their merriment had subsided darke asked:
“what do you think is best to be done, wimple? you and leander are learned in every department of prairie life and warfare, while clancy and i are the merest novices. we shall trust ourselves and our enterprise in your hands.”
“i think, as it’s about grub time, you and me had better ride ahead and diskiver, if we can, whether there’s white men or injuns or suthin’ else around that are smudge, or whether its jest a muskeeter smoke, while low-lander, as you calls him, and the boy busies ’emselves about gittin’ suthin’ for our appetites ag’in’ our return.”
“i agree with ye thar!” said the giant, “as elder tugwoller remarked to my daddy when he expressed his opinion as how donations was a good institution; but my name ain’t low-lander.”
“what’s in a name?” laughed darke as he and the scout rode away.
by the time they had prepared the noon-day meal, clancy saw darke and wimple coming back; and in less than ten minutes they threw themselves from their horses a few rods away, and after tethering them, came up with rapid strides.
“what did you find?” asked clancy eagerly; “any signs of vinnie or her captors?”
“we found some of the devil’s own handiwork!” answered the scout, a dark, fierce look on his usually pleasant face that the young hunter never saw there before.
“the smoke we saw arises from two burning emigrant wagons that the indians have plundered and then set fire to!” said darke. “one man, evidently the guide, lay dead and scalped, his body, with those of three savages who had been shot in the affray, half burned up in the fire! the remainder of the party, which i should judge was not very large, have either escaped or been made prisoners.”
“it is ku-nan-gu-no-nah’s work!” said clancy.
“i’ve made up my mind to settle with him purty soon!” said leander maybob, sternly. “his time’s most up!”
chapter xvi. the phantom rider!
five minutes later the little party was on the move again.
about the middle of the afternoon they halted for a moment’s consultation. darke was not surprised when the scout informed him that the indian encampment was not more than a half-dozen miles distant. he had long been anxious to reach the village. the suspense was growing to be almost unendurable to him.
at first, leander maybob took little part in the conversation and bent his gaze anxiously every few minutes upon the horizon in the direction whence they had come.
“would you advise a bold charge through the indian encampment?” asked clancy. “do you think we would be likely to accomplish our object in that way?”
the scout thought not. the savages might be on the look-out for some such movement as that, as they would probably expect that an attempt would be made to rescue vinnie, in which case they would run great risk of falling into some trap set for them by the indians, if they approached the encampment boldly and in the full glare of the sunlight. their party was too small to hazard being taken at so great a disadvantage. they dared not show themselves openly in the camp of their enemies. the odds would be too great against them.
darke agreed with the scout that nothing could be done by daylight, but he was getting very impatient.
“i think,” said the big hunter, “as how ye’re partly right in yer calkerlations and mayhap partly wrong. i don’t believe as how us four rushing into the imps’ nest would do much good. we’d be very likely to git our little lump of lead, every one on us, and that’d be the end on’t all; but instid o’ climbin’ the hill, if ye’ll jist take the advice of one who has fit injins some, and stop in the border of the wood, down level with the edge of the prairie, and wait and see what happens, i b’lieve we can do suthin’ as ’ll amount to suthin’. i’ve knowed some of the best kind of jobs to be did in gittin’ away prisoners from the reds, jist by watchin’ and takin’ advantage of accidents and the like. if you’ll all do jist as i say and not git flustered or go to gittin’ away up there on top of the hill, i’ll promise that every prisoner in the indian camp shall be safe before sundown—yes, in less than two hours. you don’t know what amazin’ helps accidents is sometimes, in sich cases as this one!”
“can you do it?” asked darke, eagerly.
“what do you mean by accidents?” inquired pete wimple. “what d’ye expect’s goin’ to happen to-day?”
“thar’s no tellin’ exactly,” replied the big hunter. “a feller can’t most always tell what is goin’ to take place. but i’m safe in guaranteein’ thirty or forty of them reds one of the tallest accidents in a little while—’bout as soon as we can git to their camp—they ever had any ijee of!”
“do you expect to kill as many as that?” asked clancy, in some wonderment.
“i calkerlate as how, if yer a mind to foller my lead, we can e’en a’most clean out the nest and git yer gal and the rest of the prisoners away safe, besides! what do ye say? shall i go ahead?”
“yes,” cried all three with one voice. “you shall lead us!”
“i believe you can do what you say!” added darke. “but remember that a mistake on our part might prove fatal to vinnie and the others!”
and tightening their reins, the quartette dashed away.
there was a plain trail, left by ku-nan-gu-no-nah’s band, leading directly to the encampment of the savages. the little party followed this for a while at a swift gallop, and then in obedience to a low, tersely-spoken command from their leader, left it suddenly, and bearing still further to the left, dashed for a few minutes through the edge of a broad belt of timber lying along the base of a range of low hills, halting at last in a chapparal not more than a hundred yards distant from the indian village.
“here we are,” said leander maybob, throwing himself off his horse. “jist git off yer nags and stretch yerselves a little, while i take a look outside. make the most outen your restin’-spell, for i can tell yer that ye won’t have long to lay idle. i’m expectin’ an accident soon!”
and with these strange words which the three men were assured held more meaning than they expressed, the giant strode away and disappeared from view among the shrubbery. in less than five minutes he came back, and his face showed that the result of his reconnoissance was satisfactory.
“there’ll be an accident soon,” said he.
“how soon?” queried the scout.
“inside of a quarter of an hour.”
“will it assist us in any manner?” inquired darke.
“yes; it’ll be the makin’ of our job.”
“how?” asked clancy.
“it’s onsartin,” replied the big hunter. “accidents is onsartin things; but this one ’ll be sartin to help us if we’re ready to help ourselves. i’ve noticed as how the same accident don’t happen twice, any more’n a boy takes his fust chaw of terbacker twice. ’tain’t anyways likely this ’ere accident we’ve been waitin’ for ’ll happen more’n onc’t. so we must be ready to take advantage of it jest at the right minit! now then, how many shots have we got altogether?”
“i’ve got a six-shooter and a rifle, both loaded,” said the scout.
“seven,” said leander, counting.
“and i’ve got six,” said clancy.
“thirteen,” counted the big hunter.
“and i’ve got two revolvers and a rifle,” said the scout.
“twenty-six,” said the giant, “and i’ve got seven more—thirty-three in all. if there ain’t any of ’em wasted, we can shoot jist thirty-three injuns without stopping to load! now git on yer horses and stick yer pistols in yer belts and hold yer rifles ready for instant use. i want to take one more look-out, and i’ll be with ye in a minit.”
the big hunter’s prompt manner and cool, baffling way of talking had inspired the three men with the utmost confidence in himself and his power to bring their enterprise to a successful termination, and they obeyed his orders implicitly. in a moment they were mounted, their unerring rifles ready for use at a moment’s warning.
“are we going to dash into the encampment?” asked clancy, examining the lock of his revolver.
“it looks like it,” answered the scout, sententiously.
“what can the accident be?” questioned darke.
“that’s a riddle!” said wimple.
“and a hard one to guess!” added the young hunter.
just then the giant came running through the chapparal, and hastily seizing his ride, which he had left standing against a tree, threw himself upon the back of his horse and rode to the head of the little band of wondering, anxious men.
“wait a minit!” he half whispered.
there was a moment of dead silence, the four men almost holding their breath in their suspense.
then a shriek rung out on the air—a shriek that was half a wail, half a curse—so weird and so unearthly that for a moment the blood seemed to stand still in the veins of the three startled men.
“my god! what is that?” cried darke.
“it’s the accident we’ve bin waitin’ for,” said the big hunter, calmly. “it’s purty near time for us to take advantage of it. git ready.”
at that moment there came from the direction of the indian encampment an almost deafening report, followed instantly by cries of agony and fear.
“now’s our time!” cried the big hunter. “shoot down every red-skin you see! but don’t harm a hair of ku-nan-gu-no-nah’s head if you can help it! take him alive!!”
as they cleared the chapparal, they saw a sight for which even the terrible cry of a moment before had not prepared them.
it was a gigantic human skeleton, standing upright on the back of a milk-white horse that moved with more than the speed of the wind. in the bony, grisly arms of the phantom rider was vinnie darke!
chapter xvii. a reunion of hearts.
“it is vinnie!” cried darke, wildly. “oh god, save my child!”
“heavens!” exclaimed the young hunter, in the same breath. “what is that? oh! my darling! she is lost! lost!” and he reeled in his saddle.